True Love of Coffee

The old oak tree

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Creative Writing, Love, Romantic

I whispered her name under my breath, as if I was saying good-bye to a lover who would never realize how I felt. For once in my life I thought about that moment not like I had done before, but finally like I was alive. I could feel so much more than the denial I had carried through my past. While I cared beyond words for her, she would simply turn from me as I quietly said a good-bye she would never understand.

I dared not believe in such trivial thoughts of love. Yet I did. Somewhere within me was a defiant heart that would never back down from my own emotions. They could perhaps define part of me, and they would always inspire me to be something greater than I was. I was just a man, a man with a hope that sat idle in my dreams as I tried to make them reality. My life wasn’t a place I could hope to rationalize, and my heart may never again be brave enough to feel this way twice. For all my faith in love, a tragic flaw in the equation reminded me that I was wonderfully alone. That was how destiny decided to declare love in a true story of heartfelt feeling.

Yet was destiny breaking itself or was it merely defining the path of a romantic locked in purgatory? Hell is not a prison unless you choose it to be.

Two days later the answer to that question, one simple phrase- was detailed by the inquisitive insights of an old man who was writing prose under an old oak tree in the park. I saw him sitting there; he was probably in his mid seventies, dressed in a proper brown suit and an old leather hat. He was sitting on his jacket, slowly scribbling away in a weathered journal that reminded me of my own.

Without asking I sat down next to him against the tree. He paused for a moment and I could tell from his eyes that his thoughts were more meaningful than my own. I thought it was pretty ironic that two romantic souls could choose the same old oak tree.

I took a thermos from my bag, sat two cups in front of me, and slowly poured a cup of coffee for each of us. I looked at him as I smiled and said “I believe that one romantic poet sitting beneath an oak tree is cliche’, but two romantic poets sharing a cup of coffee under an old oak tree makes us brothers.

He chuckled and took the coffee from my hand. As the aroma of the Irish Creame peaked his interest, he replied “how do you know I’m a romantic?

“No one writes about themselves like that in such a journal. The way you glanced at the clouds, the way you hold the pages in your hands, even the way you sat there gazing at each letter as it formed a word in your mind defined you as a lover. I don’t know if you only love the words you write or if you love the subject that lives on the page, but whatever it is: I can tell you that your heart cares for every phrase as you read it.

I paused, took a sip of my coffee, and added “besides, any man who takes the time to write with such love in his thoughts is most definitely a romantic. Any romantic, by mere necessity, deserves a cup of hot coffee to remind themselves of the flavours we experience in life.”

Young man, you are quite right. I am a romantic. I was writing about my wife, god bless her

I could tell by the way his words came with yearning, that his wife, the love of his heart, was gone from this life. Yet he was just like me, the love he felt for a woman was still with him, long after destiny had changed the way we found ourselves wandering through life.

He looked at me and chuckled again- “You know its easier if you let yourself fall all the way. You can’t fly forever; eventually one day you realize that you’ve lost your wings.”

I pondered for a moment as the sharp taste in my mouth reminded me of why I was there. “You know sir, I can admit to falling. I can also admit to never flying again. Yet I can’t say that I ever figured out which came first. I think that falling is how I learned how to fly. Without loving, without the dreams I shared, I would never have known that right now I am on the ground.”

“Two poets abused, is that what we are?” he inquired as he sipped from his cup.

“No, we are two men who choose how to fly, knowing that while we may sit here beneath a tree, writing in our journals of meandering thoughts- that we may inspire someone to fall in love again. It is our words sir, that define how perfectly human we are.”

He laughed “Are we human? I would sometimes argue that with my wife.”

“I think we are. I think my heart is. I care to live fully; to feel my life. Should I fall, again and again, I will gladly suffer the consequences of my actions. I will hold myself to a dream of living alone if need be, because in my own way, to the way that I can love- I will never be alone.”

“Son, you sound too much like me when I was younger.”

“Sir, perhaps both of us just accept how we live. You can’t dream without feeling’, and the testament of us sitting here and sharing our thoughts only gives me the hope that forty years from now, I sit down under an old oak tree and find myself talking with some young man who is inspired by how I lived my life, or the fact that I still love the woman who destiny took out of my life. I can only hope sir, that I find someone who inspires my heart like your wife did for you, so that I can one day lend that inspiration to someone like me.”

“Son, why do you think what I write is so inspirational?”

“I apologize sir. I’m younger than you, when I walked by I heard you mutter a phrase under your breath as you finished the page before I sat down.”

“You heard that?” He was perplexed by the ability of youthful ears.

“Yes sir.” I said with a smile. “Anyone who has the urge to say ‘I love you’ as he writes it- is definitely someone who understands what the feeling is all about.”

Posted by Barry Hurd in Author's Favorites, Coffee - Volume Two, Loss, Love, Survival

I remember the day very clearly, there was a fine mist in the air and the morning dew formed droplets of water on the brim of my hat as I bowed my head. I was doing everything I could to remember a better place, trying to forget the memories that caused the tears on my face to fall into the puddle of rainwater at my feet.

I thought to myself as I asked so many questions, trying to comprehend the way the way everything except me seemed so vibrant. Even the grass seemed so beautiful and green, so lavish in texture that the voice in my head wanted to talk about anything but what I felt inside. I heard voices in the background, the soft tone of an older man trying to comfort the people around me.

I heard so many words that were simply absorbed by the grief my heart felt. The words “I’m so sorry” must have been uttered so many times that I questioned if the truth I was holding onto inside my chest was simply insanity.

I would ask myself, could love prevail? Standing amongst a crowd of compassionate strangers reminded me that I was now alone more than ever. I was the lost love, the sweet soul who gambled his heart away on trying to adore a child that would never breathe again.

My words at the time made little coherent sense. I tried to convey the way a man should care for his life, his family. Yet I cried. The fateful act of death had taught me a lesson that I never cared to learn:

That one should love, not for the expectation of love, but to feel something that can only be experienced alone as you accept how much it truly meant to you.

Life as a Turkey

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Humor

Okay. I must be bored off my rocker. I figure that I’ll torture you with funny holiday poetry that I wrote up.

Yet it was I,
for whatever reason I don’t know why
that those stupid puritans wanted to find
Me, the ugly bird who couldn’t even fly
Why choose today, as the day I should die?

In a dream

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Daily thoughts, Romantic

I dreamdt with slow tangible thoughts
taking each breath with desire,
the smell, the fragrant hope of passion,
as your eyes look into me,
and as I lovingly surrender to what I feel.

My mind, every simple simple thought,
is perfectly ignored, as I can only focus on you.
The way you make me live, the way you make me feel,
the peace that you give my soul,
and the ache I felt when you are not in my arms.

If I could think clearly, with just a moment of thought,
perhaps I would realize exactly what you mean to me.
One would think that I may see flaws,
or that I am not good enough for you,
and that for some reason, we will never know.

Yet every time I try, I lose myself in romantic appreciation
wondering if roses or chocolates would be more appropriate,
or if I will comically accept that I’ll probably do both.
I think without thinking- with you it comes so naturally,
to be someone good enough that deserves someone so amazing.

In this dream, my eyes tell me I’m not sleeping.
I pinch myself and am happy to feel it, and yet,
I do not know how my life became a dream.
What is in my life, what is so perfect I must be dreaming?
and my only answer, is you.

The Coloring Book

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Dedicated Poems

Such peaceful thoughts are strangely whimsical,
knowing that life is not an empty white page
nor does it have boundaries that define everything.

Each line, dotted or whole, leads somewhere.
Touching as if they were spirited children on a playground
and forming something of anyone’s imagination.

Yet white would be the preferred starting color of any masterpiece
eagerly begging to have colour thrown upon it with youthful vigor
or even tossing itself on each part of life like a wandering crayon.

My hands touch the paper, asking if I cannot create something better
and my fingers leave smudges of humourous intention
that only a gleeful heart such as mine can make

If I could detail my life by drawing outside of the lines,
would I begin to draw myself in such an abstract would of joy?
If not now, perhaps when no one else is looking.

A Bitter Year

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Inquisitive, Loss

LoL, It really isn’t a bitter year! This is just poetry for the day. I’m laughing I wrote this when I’m having such a good morning!

************************************
A Bitter Year   *************************

Crimson wine I ask, as my hands tremble,
Trying to feverishly hold to delicate thoughts,
As my body grows cold and my heart numb
I hear whispers against the chime of the church bell.
I simply realize that my faith transcends the flavour.

The spirit of the effort I think, a pale offering of such struggle.
I wonder if the taste is that of oak, or weak like flawed timber.
The kind of misunderstood growth one finds when struck with despair,
the entropy we all find when our lives begin to dissolve,
yet the reflection of my eyes is lost as my hope spills on the floor.

I try to hold onto my failing, rather than accept that I have changed.
Somewhere within life, my heart has turned black, something went wrong.
The poisoned grape that tarnished such a wonderful vintage.
Yet the bitter aroma of which I breathe seems desecrated,
a reminder that perfect things can often turn sour if uncared for

I reach for another bottle, slowly pulling it from amongst its brethren.
Fumbling my words, if not my thoughts, again and again,
as I harshly lecture myself and every action I have ever taken.
Such a fool, such an idiot you are, how naive can one person be…
Why would I ever believe that I could share such a taste with anyone?

Dying of Thirst

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Inquisitive, Loss

I tried forgetting myself
deep within the well of desire
mostly lost in discarded passion
and fruitless isolation

Yet I knew, more than I care to admit
that my lips would never again thirst,
nor accept the tender compassion that I once dreamt,
and only yearn for sweet memory as I succumb

Magical Garden

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Dedicated Poems, Romantic, Spiritual

One would remember this time of year, not as a time of brilliant imagery

but of lucid memory falling fragrantly into moments of sight

As my eyes would look upon the sun high above, as it touched heaven

and as my eyes looked upon a field of nature’s bloom

I would not be able to detail my vision, my heart’s search

or the way the faint wind beckoned my spirit to wander

Yet I would stop, for a moment as I settled my lucid fantasy

and kneel down to caress the body of a rose so perfect.

I would feel it’s thorns, the silk sensuality of it’s every petal,

my spirit would transcend mere footsteps

and find itself looking into a dreaming lilac.

The blades of inspiration reaching towards the dreaming sky unseen

and after falling back to the earth holding the seeds of a lifetime,

discover that the sunflowers caused karmic resurrection of my childhood.

I should wonder, if a moment of time lost in a place of fantasy,

in a figment filled with a hope only I could know,

be ever transcribed, or gifted to another.

Yet as I left my place of casual destiny, flowers in hand,

would one person know that nothing in my dreams,

compared to the realization of the beauty they possessed?

Dreaming in the park

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Dedicated Poems, Love, Romantic

There was a moment,
when I was younger.
A second that I remember
as if it was right now.
I was laying in a park
in a lush green field,
surrounded by daisies.
My eyes were closed,
yet I was so sure that I wasn’t alone.
Having been perfectly lost
in daylight dreaming.
I was pondering the feeling
of being me,
living my life as I needed to be
I could hear the gentle breeze,
the way it flowed over the grass
and danced across my face.
Yet I was not alone,
finding someone special
was easy in my fantasy
No, in my dreams
My heart was never by itself.

Yet I wonder,
as the footsteps approach
and I hear a sigh of relief near me,
as I  feel a hand in my own,
that is passionate and strong;
do I disbelieve in everything I need?
As fingers slowly move across the back of my hand
caressing the sensation of my vulnerability,
my eyes still closed.
I think for a moment,
briefly falling prey to my hopeful nature
as her lips find mine
and I know, that someone
without rhyme or reason
loves me