Updated: Mar 8
Any of of my graduate school classmates will tell you that I was either writing about coffee, having it, or both. Here's one of my early poems...
The Keurig is not all that bad,
i prefer the motion of baristas
adding that special touch of personality –
selecting a size waiting.
Appreciating the aroma of coffee beans
swelling within me hearing
the clank of mugs to spoons,
the machine’s sizzling release of steam,
wondering where it all happens.
Winnowing in the flat fields of Ethiopia, Arabica, or Brazil –
the green and red cherries dry in the sun,
their crumbly skins peeled by hands brown like mine
supple, or cracked in age.
Wet grinding in Sumatra, the slick mucilage
is carefully removed, as fingernails would
shells from thickened albus around yokes –
polished to mahogany and then sorted into piles of jute bags.
Their tilling leads to the filling of cups awakening
inviting their lives into our mugs,
making me consciously aware, as i sit – as i sip
peering beyond the bricks & street lamps of Tower Grove
becoming consciously aware of what I’m doing.
Enjoying a cup of coffee after knowing where it comes from, makes it more than a cup of coffee, but something more. My dad was an avid coffee drinker and one of the memories that stayed with me is it's smell as he brewed it early in the morning. They say we become our parents, and in my own way I suppose I am keeping his tradition alive. I was fortunate enough to have Cameroonian coffee, thanks to The African Coffee Club!!!
I am happy to have found the African Coffee Club, because it allows me to taste coffee not only from my ancestral home, but from other parts of Africa as well. What's better than good coffee, having it at a discounted price. Subscribers to my website enjoy 10% off their purchase. I look forward to helping to support another small business that are trying to support those that, like writers, take time out to cultivate. Here's to poetry and coffee.