Faces

just before sleep
drags me down to dreams,
the faces form from nothing
of everyone
I never knew

The Great Coffee Throw Down

It is one of my great privileges as a poet to have opportunities to share the love of poetry and the joy of spontaneous bursts of writing with like-minded friends.  Last weekend I issued a challenge – “throw down” – to a group of fearless and fun-loving artists. The topic was coffee (or tea) and the form was personal choice. With their permission, I share the results below:

Marilyn Leider

Caffeine shot
Uncalms us-speeds the clock-spins faster-
But might the mug,
The pouring and the rising of steam,

Unchug our chugging

And what once was rushing forth

Might be a libation for the sake of the soul.

Then let come the calming

And the savoring.

Morning made morning,

Makes mourning of

Souls arushing elsewhere 

Speeding

Spun

Shot out.

Now slow

For the goodness

Of the soul.

Prerna Katare Tonk

The innocent cream
rifling up the caffeine
almost a cacophonous assault
on the olfactory nerves

cajoling the paused rush

in a tumultuous avalanche

of morning sanity d rush
in a tumultuous avalanche
of morning sanity

Mary Scott Sayre

Waiting

By her

cold cup of coffee

With its

Melted whip cream top

I sensed

Her long anxious wait

for me

To approach, and begin

Holly Ordway

On countless childhood mornings (folded now
Into a single moment): slowly drifting
Out of sleep into a quiet waking,
The morning light not quite yet edging round
The curtain, I can hear the day begin
In kitchen sounds: the burbling coffee pot,
The clunk and swish of coffee poured, the clink
Of spoon in mug. Yes, soon the day begins,
But not just yet.

Today I rise (the light

Has just awakened too) and set the pot
To brew. I spoon the sugar in the cup,
And pour, and stir, and add my half and half
And watch the color swirl and change. I sit
And curl my hands around the cup, and feel
The heat through flesh and bone. Yes, soon
The day begins, but not just yet.

Mary Mueller

Morning Mercies

Making me human,
Waking me up, the Spirit
Must flow in each cup.

Kelly Belmonte

coffee percolates
while sun dances
on last night's party
glasses drying
in the sink

Rebekah Choat

Magic Potion

As I sit here staring into the dark depths
Of the cup that I cradle between my cold hands,
The swirling together of steam and my breath
spins a thread that trails off towards fairy-tale lands.

My fancy goes floating away on the mist
To somewhere off the map and somewhen outside time;
I stand among trees that the first snow has kissed,
In silence unboken except for the chime

Of a faraway bell I can only just hear

As it tolls out – what is it? – a welcome, a warning?
The feeling it stirs is more worship than fear;
Perhaps it is only a herald of morning.

But I cannot stay – my elixer is gone

And back in the “real” world, the day’s getting on.

Kevin Belmonte

Lines about Coffee

(inspired by Ogden Nash)

O flavorful bean – grace in a cup,

Do your good work – please pick me up.
Bliss in the air – fond smell of morning,
‘til I’ve had a cup – all others take warning!
Still there’s a kinder side, I trow,
And of that, I’ll sing –
The smile that she shows
for the first cup I bring…

Kelly Belmonte

cafe mit schlag and
conversation, waiting on
time in Traiskirchen

(senryu, memory of summer in Austria, 1988)

·        Jean Matson     

     

      Saturday Morning

Yesterday's coffee,
Starbucks no matter,
Promises much

But is foul to
The palate;
    
So get up
And get at it
And brew the elixir
That keeps its promises. But is foul to
the palate;

So get up
And get at it
And brew the elixir
That keeps its promises.

The morning light not quite yet edging round
The curtain, I can hear the day begin
In kitchen sounds: the burbling coffee pot,
The clunk and swish of coffee poured, the clink
Of spoon in mug. Yes, soon the day begins,
But not just yet.

Today I rise (the light
Has just awakened too) and set the pot
To brew. I spoon the sugar in the cup,
And pour, and stir, and add my half and half
And watch the color swirl and change. I sit
And curl my hands around the cup, and feel
The heat through flesh and bone. Yes, soon
The day begins, but not just yet.The pouring and the rising of steamThe pouring and the rising of steam,
Unchug our chugging
And what once was rushing forth
Might be a libation for the sake of the soul.
Then let come the calming
And the savoring.

Morning made morning,
Makes mourning of
Souls arushing elsewhere
Speeding
Spun
Shot out.

Now slow
For the goodness
Of the soul.

unapologetic

rose, still refusing
to apologize
for thorns

after the storm

after the storm, sky
the color of a bruise
fading

Work

the work
always the work
until it's done
and lying there
like a spring uncoiled

Blame it on the Muse

my muse sleeps, floating
on the backs of a thousand
haiku gone by

night language

empty into night
the sky pours language
we cannot hear

the hum of silenced

tv;  the muffled scream of
yesterday's nightmare

five miles away

by the ocean
a cricket

between land and sky,

resonating within
a yawning echo

baking bread

molasses memories
pour slowly over the lip;
doughy thoughts rising

I am

I wrote the series of gogyohka below over the course of the past few weeks as separate tweets originally posted on Twitter.  In reviewing my Twitter stream, I saw an interesting (to me) thread and thought I'd capture as one blog post.

 

***

I am a wild horse

snout to the wind

beating sand;

and now I stop

to nibble grass

***

I am a warrior

fighting the darkness

with dark dark coffee

and chocolate

darker still

***

I am

this moss covered

weather beaten

unmoveable rock:

please, stand beside me.

***

I am a chalkboard

iconic

and envious

of my multi-media

replacements

***

I am

looking in the mirror

wondering

who

I am

Miracles

How do we know
this dry river bed
this poem
this Saturday night bean supper
is not a miracle?

Japan

I see a boat
on a house
half a world away
and hug my son
tighter to my chest

(I wrote this back in March, after the tsunami disaster in Japan. Let's not forget our friends a half a world away.)

Belonging

You belong here.
Each brick a story.
You lay them one on top the other.
The neighbors nod knowingly.
I watch with alien eyes.

I belong
to a commune of misfits:
sitting in half circles
we laugh nervously and scratch
invisible itches on our foreheads

All nine

All nine muses
in concert,
the view
from my
back porch

Listen

When you're not listening
I speak slowly,
softly,
as if in a dream
to myself.

When you're not listening
I talk about my obsession
with organizing my closet
before the shoes
mutiny.

When you're not listening
I tell you about the lightning
during the last snow storm
how exciting it was,
and how frightening.

When you stop to listen
turning to look at me
and say, "What did you say?"
I mumble incoherently,
"Oh, nothing."

Talking

If you knew how often
I talk to you
you would stop listening.
But you don't.
Never do.

Small

the smallness
between big people
can be
a very deep
valley

Glass

If my heart was glass
I'd fill it with water
so you could tap it
with a spoon
and make music

Love waits

Love
waits 
for that one step 
forward 
then comes running

memorial

The children danced
and we shared
jars of chile sauce
after her funeral:
I feel Grandma laughing

sunflower

face to face

my son sees

each sunflower

has a different

face