Poetry: "Coffeehouse Cantina"
"Coffeehouse Cantina" by Captain Chambers
Copyright 2003-5 Adam Shea Chambers
Painted bricks of broken color
fragments of time on an abandoned wall
caffeine stains on
polyester cuffs
the dreamer...never sleeps.
Fires of the mental plains
frustration and ambition
dividing the mind when
the frailties of reality
have revealed an ugly truth
somehow, we persevere
the divisions of thought offer unto us
a balance
so long as our imaginative state
reigns as the majority.
Within our grasp we could
master night and day by
simply closing our eyes!
We define our dimensions;
climate is self-inflicted.
The smoke fills the air
is it the nicotine fires, or
is it the burning of inspiration?
Every day is the dawn of our awakening.
Velvet Java
encased in froth amidst
pirouettes of sprinkled Heaven atop
fluffy white clouds that
float
above a steam-laden surface;
the foundation of thought.
I begin with the quest
for picturesque words
the hunger
for what did not exist moments before
I ache inside for this
it swells, and consumes
and either pen, or brush
or fingers upon strings or keys, or
a voice painted on a canvas of air
the quest continues
never-ending, and
my last breathe
will be that of creation
and I sit
here
in this Cantina
with unruly characters
of shady and questionable origin
diversity is the key
and all is serene
in the minds of the infant creaters.
We spell doom for all
for ourselves
or we relish the victory within reach
it is a tale that is told by the singular
the constant
in infinite visions
the one is strong
and wise.
The clock taunts us with youth
the promise it could not keep
so in its defeat
we find our youth from our souls
and it begins
waking from dream after dream
only to find that
we are nothing more than a dream
and dreamers surround all that they touch
with immeasurable wisdom
the destiny of the Ancients.
Kiss the daylight away with your vision
make the light fade
and roll the film.
It is picture time.
Pictures in motion
Rolling…
the flicker never ends.
Copyright 2003-5 Adam Shea Chambers
Painted bricks of broken color
fragments of time on an abandoned wall
caffeine stains on
polyester cuffs
the dreamer...never sleeps.
Fires of the mental plains
frustration and ambition
dividing the mind when
the frailties of reality
have revealed an ugly truth
somehow, we persevere
the divisions of thought offer unto us
a balance
so long as our imaginative state
reigns as the majority.
Within our grasp we could
master night and day by
simply closing our eyes!
We define our dimensions;
climate is self-inflicted.
The smoke fills the air
is it the nicotine fires, or
is it the burning of inspiration?
Every day is the dawn of our awakening.
Velvet Java
encased in froth amidst
pirouettes of sprinkled Heaven atop
fluffy white clouds that
float
above a steam-laden surface;
the foundation of thought.
I begin with the quest
for picturesque words
the hunger
for what did not exist moments before
I ache inside for this
it swells, and consumes
and either pen, or brush
or fingers upon strings or keys, or
a voice painted on a canvas of air
the quest continues
never-ending, and
my last breathe
will be that of creation
and I sit
here
in this Cantina
with unruly characters
of shady and questionable origin
diversity is the key
and all is serene
in the minds of the infant creaters.
We spell doom for all
for ourselves
or we relish the victory within reach
it is a tale that is told by the singular
the constant
in infinite visions
the one is strong
and wise.
The clock taunts us with youth
the promise it could not keep
so in its defeat
we find our youth from our souls
and it begins
waking from dream after dream
only to find that
we are nothing more than a dream
and dreamers surround all that they touch
with immeasurable wisdom
the destiny of the Ancients.
Kiss the daylight away with your vision
make the light fade
and roll the film.
It is picture time.
Pictures in motion
Rolling…
the flicker never ends.
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