Archive for the November 2009 Category

He Writes Love Poetry Now

Posted in November 2009, Poetry on November 30, 2009 by Black Coffee Press LIMITED

He writes love poetry now,
instead of deep dark secrets
and liquor deep incisions
and it kind of stings a bit
because love poetry can
burn so much deeper
going down than
palliative elixirs.

She has become the fingernails
that scratches his soul out of that
deep dark hell of a damn well,
and I hope she understands
the task she’s been given
because it’s this type of
love that leaves you
beaten so much
worse than

I don’t know either of them
all that well, but you know
the burn when you see it
and you hope to god
they make it across
the waters of wells
and miles of stones
and that the sweet
nothings they speak
mean a whole lot
of something.

He writes love poetry now,
because sweet nothings
in ears mean a whole
lot of everything to
everyone even
when they
say they

Nicola is a poet from Southern California. She has been a Featured Writer on Black Coffee Press ( and can be found daily at


Hand Me The Drum

Posted in November 2009, Poetry on November 29, 2009 by Black Coffee Press LIMITED

hand me the drum
and howl as I play

scream your voice out
and harbor it like reeds

when finished, dry out the remains
and hang them from your fingers

an equal space apart like tired ribbons
from a torn package, a present abandoned

a future remaining.

hand me the world
and subside as I deny:

a thousand requests from one girl
who stayed to watch this

dim light die all around her and along with it
my art that riots, the circles of infinity

going around our eyes; watch and glare into me
watch as time breaks like a glass poet

please watch, stay seated

Kevin Richard White was born and raised in Pennsylvania. The Handprint on the Windshield forthcoming from Black Coffee Press LLC is his first book.

Quiet, hers is quiet as the shoreline

Posted in November 2009, Poetry on November 24, 2009 by Black Coffee Press LIMITED

Quiet, hers is quiet as the shoreline when the sea
is drowsy as a well-fed infant, cradled in the arms of its
deep-bellied Mother.

Mine, mine is coarse as working hands with
their imperfect calluses that bleed and puss, gauzed over
with yellowed bandages.

There, in the night, with the sky outside alive
with silver dancers in their crystal dresses striking on
my windowpane, she hums.

On my heart is the grief of her mourning,
the weight of the casket bearing her bereavements
heavy in the dunes of this organ.

She is as a child, a child of the stars, of the treetops,
a child of the sunlit daydreams you were forced to give up
long ago in your own innocence.

Still quiet, quiet as the shoreline when the sea
falls asleep, still, but for the snores rippling its surface
as her sounds disturb her lips.

And mine, still coarse, coarse as frozen soil in winter
that someone somewhere dug up out of boredom or violence
or that old friend, sadness.

They merge, merge as seasons fall into one another,
summer’s heat tripping into the sustained leaves of autumn
that later fall to winter’s path.

Together–one quiet, one coarse, a complimentary duet,
hers settling my own, mine fondling hers, and out, out
go our whispers, exchanged.

Lenore is a poet who resides in the United Kingdom. You can find more of her work at


Posted in November 2009, Poetry on November 23, 2009 by Black Coffee Press LIMITED


stuffed into worn shoes, selling

yesterday’s newspaper for

a penny, providing for his

mother or lack

thereof, had the smack of


urchin about him

perhaps too young

tad too innocent

catching my gaze

paper for a penny mister?

sure why not thanks here’s


kid took them and ran

before I could change my

mind, showing the

soles of his

little worn shoes


John Glaze writes from his home on the plains of Northwestern Oklahoma.  Writing mainly about nature and human nature, he is influenced by the expansive quality of the land, skies, and people of the Great Plains, where he brings grassroots poetry to the street through live poetry readings.  More of his work can be found at 


They were only 5 when we lost her

Posted in November 2009, Poetry on November 22, 2009 by Black Coffee Press LIMITED

my memories escape

and flee like convicts

from prisons

and I can’t blame them

cause they were only 5

when we lost her


her face is so far away

it’s blurred

like all the photos I took

before I learned how to

capture life

when I try to reach her

to give shape

to the shadows she became

my memories commit suicide

and I can’t catch their hands

before falling


only two fragments stay

with me

both not sufficient enough

to call themselves memories


I see her, the one

of the many shadows she became

rummaging in her room

the one that then was mine

and then a kitchen

she opens drawers, closets


finding every child’s treasure

the chocolate she only kept

for me


the other shadow she became

is a coin, just a piece of metal

now old, worthless

as they told us once to change

currency for a greater good

and I don’t know

where this coin went

I just hope some collector

saved it from death

through machines and melting


she gave me this coin

told me to buy myself something

cause she couldn’t

I didn’t know then

that something was already

eating away on her

I kept this coin, didn’t dare

to spend it


until one day when my mother

told me

that she was gone

and all I understood was

that people leave for hospitals

and crabs are murderers

growing inside bodies


Stefanie Eham is a poet and a student. She is German-born but prefers to write English poetry. She currently lives near Nuernberg. More of her work can be found at

“i could spend forever”

Posted in November 2009, Poetry on November 21, 2009 by Black Coffee Press LIMITED

i could spend forever
in your thighs

the subtle wet perfection
of all things

given to passion
given to love
given to movement

as my tongue
and lips
make motion

seem obsolete
seem desirable
seem as if

all things
fade to black

heated sufferings
perfect moans
rising spirits

and the soft shallow kisses
that roll on

like thunder
across a valley

of sequential darkness
and heavenly cravings
that keep you


Thomas Michael is the author of she and is one of the mentally deranged behind Black Coffee Press.
His work can be found at or

“i sat outside”

Posted in November 2009, Poetry on November 20, 2009 by Black Coffee Press LIMITED

i sat outside 
his apartment
as the nine o’clock sun
beat down on my

my knocks
my phone calls
my shouts


i sat outside and wrote.

there is something about
the morning after
a night of things

emotion caught in a throat
coated with

i’ve risen above it before
but something
tells me,
whispers in my ear
gives me butterflies in my tummy

that this won’t be easy
that i’ll make this messy
that he’ll never let me in.

his apartment
seems like a haven now
after feeling this cold.

Jessica Taylor is a poet and writer.  She lives just a skeetch outside of her means under the vast skies of New Mexico with her adoring husband and black cat that fetches almost anything.  She is addicted to green chile and Robot Chicken.