The Poem That is a Mirror

This poem is more symbolic of my life today, than when I wrote the first draft in the late 1980's.

I am a coffee drinker.... and just as I rarely finish the full cup before it gets cold, I have other bone piles of unfinished proposals and plans that remain in my vision but have little energy or enthusiasm left.

Even though my cup of choice is now stainless steel, which holds the heat longer, I still have quarter filled cups of cold coffee on my desk almost everyday.

I re-find this from time to time- I have quite a few handwritten versions of this in many places.

I know poetry is not in vogue, but this has been a fun project for me over many decades.

There are a lot of hints in here regarding my authentic disposition... he who has ears.....

As always, thankful for my readers!

Quarter - filled Cups of Coffee

”I have measured my life in coffee spoons” -Prufrock

"A hideous throng rush out forever, And laugh—but smile no more." - Poe

“Vanity of vanities! All is vanity. What advantage does a man have in all his work which he does under the sun.” Ecclesiastes 1: 2-3

Quarter-filled cups of coffee,
Shadowed stains beneath the rim.

Cooled liquid, thick and grim,
Etched foam, a mark of whim.

Signs of progress, fleeting, frail,
Concrete traces of time's trail.

Piles of paper, crumpled, torn,
Calendars of dreams forlorn.

What reward for hours spent?
Riches, honor—are they lent?

What state does watched time make?
Unused potential, dreams opaque.

Three-quarters empty cups of coffee,
Symbols of ambition, incomplete.

Epochs wasted on early schemes,
Laps too short, unfulfilled dreams.

Unrequited desire’s depth,
Anger hidden, scarcely left.

Action churning, perception's pile,
Steps uncloser to the next mile.

Will minutes always drag on slow?
What price for the effort we sow?

When activity feels profane,
Success a mere shade of gray.

The trap is set, inescapable,
Suction stronger than will’s appeal.

No one to loose or to care,
Effort fractioned, moments rare.

Dreams remain marathons away,
No tunnel light, no guiding ray.

Only a wasteland of idealistic dreams,
Naive ambitions and their silent screams.

I laugh at myself—such a fool,
Caught in the mirage of my own rule.

Update (2024)- I turned this poem into a song: 

https://suno.com/song/aa75d622-3160-4523-bfc3-65e1641d3628

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1wEZLQTXJEs5gDIB2mubOVlYm1uetp3N3/view?usp=sharing

Verse 1

Quarter-filled cups of coffee,

Shadowed stains beneath the rim.

Cooled liquid, thick and grim,

Foam that fades on a careless whim.

Chorus

Signs of progress, fleeting, frail,

Time's trail etched, like a worn-out tale.

Piles of paper, dreams torn apart,

The weight of hours, heavy on my heart.

Verse 2

What reward for hours spent?

Riches, honor—just fragments lent?

Watched time fades, potential lost,

Dreams turned opaque, at such a cost.

Chorus

Three-quarters empty, ambitions incomplete,

Symbols of plans we can't defeat.

Epochs wasted, schemes so small,

Unfulfilled dreams—they stand too tall.

Bridge

Unrequited desire’s depth,

Anger buried, no passion left.

Actions churn, but stay so still,

The road ahead bends against my will.

Verse 3

Will minutes always drag on slow?

What's the price for the seeds we sow?

When success fades to a shade of gray,

The trap of life won't go away.

Chorus

Three-quarters empty, ambitions incomplete,

Symbols of plans we can't defeat.

Epochs wasted, schemes so small,

Unfulfilled dreams—they stand too tall.

Outro

I laugh at myself, such a fool,

Caught in the mirage of my own rule.

A wasteland of naive dreams,

Silent ambition, stifled screams.