The Goddess, A poem

The Goddess
By: Klive Mercer

Wake up and make a fresh pot of coffee. As I make this soon to be delicious brew, the aroma fills my empty soul. Now I can start my day, one cup at a time. With the caffeine entering my bloodstream I am infused with the one, the only, java goddess.


Cup to my lips I can taste the bitter-sweet taste of heaven in my mouth. Sip after sip; feeling it course through my body, beginning to wake up, finding my composure. "Thank you sir, may I have another?" Thinking to myself as I finish the first cup, by now I was about ready to seize the day. Had to close tonight; working as a Barista I needed this so called edge coffee offers. See it not about just the coffee in itself, but the aura of it. The atmosphere one could say, the jazzy music, hustle and bustle of coffee frenzied humanoids. We weren’t called ‘coffee slingers’ for nothing.

Back to the origins of love for this goddess. I was twelve wanting thirty, computers just coming around. Of course father being the savvy tech guy he was, our family had one. I can remember my father drinking coffee as an art. Pot after pot, more or less I watched him drink in amazement. As if some super human power. Watching my father studying his art, months I did this. Waking up early on some random Saturday I met my father in the kitchen. I finally mustered up the courage to ask for some, “dad; May I?” Looking at me as I stood there waiting for his approval. With the slight grin father was known for he replies “surely.”

Since then coffee and I have be best friends for years. Have it be in the working environment or at home or school I had my coffee. Not to say I can’t handle not having my goddess, but I do love its powers.

In the social aspect coffee is the most fun, friends, family or some early morning sunrise. Sitting around drinking the fine, talking about old times, or events to come. After the pot is gone, refill and start again. “Cream and sugar?” No thanks not for me. I dig it black or dash of flavor, to raise taste buds. Mouth watering, waiting for next gulp, I embrace the warmth, taking in the glory. I can see myself at fifty, doing the same as my family has in the past .Exchanging stories, laughing and smiles all over. More or less coffee is a culture of its own. Ask yourself who doesn’t drink coffee in some way or another. Bet it’s harder than we think, it’s not just the act of drinking, but what java entails.
I leave now with the image of that morning brew being made first thing in the morning. The smell of roasted beans trickling down to the glass coffee pot, waiting to pour that first glass. Grasping softly upon our hands, sipping on the fine roast that has been bestowed.