Motorcycle Journey to Coffee Collective collab by John and Dan
Motorcycle Journey to Coffee Collective
Going There by John:
The windblown scent of agave
reminds me of the half-drunk tequila bottle.
As the stars gather in the New Mexican sky, I say,
“Dan, Pegasus is high in the bowl of night.
This bodes well for a fortunate venture.
What do you say we skip town
and head south of the border?”
Our Harleys have gathered dust
for many a moon
but with some tuning are ready
for our bat out of hell ride
under the black hat night.
Mexico turns into a golden cloud
from desert to jungle
where pyramid power emanates
from Palenque ruins in the epicenters
of a dream within a dream.
But Dan points south
where Costa Rican cloud forests
are mystic mists.
There, monkeys howl in boughs born of legend.
And our wheels roll under the Panamanian moon
to cross the Puente Centenario.
We are bound for the Incan holy land
where a Puma Punku ley line
deepens harmonic convergence
to my cry, “This is it!”
Coffee Harvest Dance:
We gather native wisdom like lucky beans.
We put our hands to the harvest
just like our workers
whose pay is equal to ours.
And the aroma of the bean sacks
marks the end of the day
when we collect ourselves
to find romance with earthen maidens.
With a new footstep stomp
we honor the women
of the Peruvian revolution
while giving our old hearts a workout.
The senorita magic is as black
as the ace of spades
but as inviting as love in the Andes.
When time stands as still as midnight
we partake of the crop
whose organic fusion
is sun-ripened Arabica
brewed into a love potion
for ladies and gents.
We float in the spirit of the Urubamba River
that lies in the sacred valley,
in the Andean highlands
whose celestial counterpart
is known in Quechua as the Willka Mayu
or heavenly river
that gives life in the lean season.
The Ride Home by Dan:
We are always riding with the stars,
The scent of coffee fills our nostrils by morning,
The sounds of senoritas dancing by night,
Even as trail dust covers our bandanas by day.
The rumble of the engines has carried us on,
Past the Coffee Triangle and white arabica flowers of Clumbia,
Around the pyramids of the ancients,
High into the Andes and on to Puma Punkhu,
Ruins older than the fall of Atlantis greet us,
And there are so many stars out that I believe we can see old poets,
Dancing in the sky and whispering lost verses,
I could not have made this ride alone.
Now is the time for a campfire,
Because in the cold light of dawn,
We must both begin the long journey home.
The Amazon makes the Rubicon look tiny,
And we must treasure each friend found along the way,
To places we once knew,
Yet never remain the same.
I have old episodes of Art Bell replaying in my mind,
For out here we could find any mystery in the universe,
This place is wild and untamed.
If anything strange were to cross this night sky so dark,
We would never miss it,
I've seen at least three falling stars and four floating satellites,
Up where the Milky Way is bright.
Tomorrow we'll rattle the old percolator,
Right before the engines rumble,
Coffee made from the waters of the highest lake of the South.