Coffee Cup Poem no.96

November, 2013

I woke up to the first frostccp 95
tipped morning of November
with a shiver in my step,
crawling out of bed with
a whisper of a yawn.

This week was whirling gone,
as briskly as winter came.
I move nomadically from task
to task, underwater with desperate
and muffled hope that
I have failed no one this day.

I shall sleep through the season
to be wakened when the crocus stretch
their limbs from their benumbed slumber
and we shall greet life together.

Coffee Cup Poem no.95

Imprint

I used to want to be something
bigger than myself,
timeless and known, permanent
and eternal. The light green burning
endlessly at the end of a dock.

ccp 95

I chose instead to quietly place
delicate fingerprints on those I meet,
invisible, microscopic, yet traceable.
That is surely enough
to leave an imprint.
The tiny peaks of roots above the grass,
leaving so much unknown but steady.

I desire only as much,
no bright flashes or bangs,
only the solitude of my soul,
patient and unwavering,
and the satisfaction
that I was my best self.

Coffee Cup Poem no.93

When Women Write about Death

Roxanne Roberts wrote about how the Grieving
“never ends,” how suicide stays with you,
her father, dead, like mine—two events
so singular and so unique, but then again not.

I feel more like Joan Didion at the death of her husband,
a cool customer, unable to formulate thoughts,Coffee Cup Poem no.93
wasting brain on the fly on the wall, waiting
for the panic to hit—the frenzy to begin.

I am still young in my writing—
without the luxury of looking back, years later,
and putting this in perspective, if possible.
No, it never goes away, but lingers

sometimes in the front of consciousness,
but sometimes just as that fly on the wall,
the monster in the closet that no bedtime story
can eradicate. I am no cool customer, and no

statistics citer—I will never be either,
I am a mad woman in the attic, biding time
until I feel better and some days I do and
that nightmare under the bed goes quiet.

Some days I sleep peacefully and restfully
without waking in a sweat, without seeing violence
under my eyelids, without cringing at images,
once indifferent but now unsettling.

Some days things are alright, but other days
I hold back the frenzy, like a shadow it follows me
sewn to my toes and mockingly dancing with pain
as it pokes at the back of my neck trying to get a rise.

No, I am no cool customer and no trodden advocate—
I will never be either; instead I am a mad frenzy
of pent up energy and love that bangs on the edges—
knock, knock, knocking—at my head continuously.

Coffee Cup Poem no.91

Overgrowth

My mother has glasses of ivy
that overflow their bottles and
stretch into a bundled, green
mass of chaos. I joke that theyCCP 91
will claim most of the kitchen and
pummel over the sink and
weave through the fridge and
sneak into the cabinets,
stealing space for food. They
sit by a large window
selfishly stealing sunlight
from the dim world
of our house. She stares out
at the unholy union as
her hands rasin in the
soap water, not yet raided
by the ivy. But I don’t
cut it, or at least not
to trim or tame. Instead
I cut a piece to begin
my own ivy fortress–
a distant connection to
my mother’s kitchen. To
my home.

Coffee Cup Poem no.88

Sixteen Breaths of Fresh Air 

There is nothing magical to death.
It simply is.
Death whispers us out of the worldccp88
in a breath as silent as the breath
that breathed us into it.

The magic in this world
sits in another place.
Joy and Exhalation,
Patient and Wonderful,
waiting in the nooks and crannies
of everyday.
Silent like death,
and the footsteps of mice,
and the sweet songs of lovers,
and the swaying of tall grass
and the secrets of children.

Coffee Cup Poem no.87

Mowing the Lawn

The summer grass is,
somehow
,still in abundance
in verdancy as
stretches of foot-high
stalks blow in the wind
carelessly tossing
their rebellious hair
and flaunting theirCCP 87
slender limbs to taunt
the neighboring yards.

It is as ifthey stretch for miles
“OOOKlahoma, where
the wind comes sweeping
down the plains,” or rather
my backyard.

I know I should mow,
perhaps HOA will come knocking,
the weeds may launch an attack
or cat may lose herself,
a lion stalking prey,
but the view
from a house-cage,
artificially cool is made
so much wilder by overgrown
stretches that bend light
with a gust of wind and
darker when still.

“OOOKlahoma, the wavin’
wheat sure smells sweet
when the wind comes
right behind the rain,”
in this marvel of a spring.

My backyard is Oklahoma,
wild and untamed by man and nature
my overgrown grass
stretches yards in breezes,
not yet yellow
and wilting under summer,
but still green
under tornado wake rain.
My grass waves its foot
long arms goodbye to
the season and
greeting summer.

I may as well let it run
wild in the last few weeks
of freedom.

Chart Your Soul

When I was young I liked escaping.
I took up a pen and set out to discover what
I was so mad about and it worked in jumbled,
scribbled, and thankfully illegible pages of a journal.
To this day I write to discover and to chart my soul
and I think I’ve figured something out—although it is
a work in progress, as all things are and should always be.

You see, I think it is a human strength that we
cannot fully understand our own existence,
grasp our own motives, and know our own emotions.
It is our vast complexity and trek for discovery
that really keep us going.

It is our infinite weakness and confusion
that keep things interesting—a contradiction,
I know, but our obsession is with the quest
and not with the reward we claim to seek.
Knowledge is power, but wonder and intrigue
stem from its discovery and its journey.

Our lives would be empty if every map thought up—
the mountains of our inner thoughts, the plains
of a smile and a frown, the seas fraught with
kind eyes and cruel words churning erratically
because the tide is unknown…

When there remains nothing to chart,
every bookcase full, every
computer chip stored up with our so-called
omnipotence, we will slowly start to wilt
and fold in on ourselves; a flower quietly
closing it’s petals and saying goodbye to the day.
The swoop of a shut door and the silence behind it.

Once you believe you have all the answers
life ceases to interest you—time
becomes a constraint sent to bind you
in infinite boredom, but you are bored
not because you have all the answers,
but because you have ceased to look.

And to stop looking is to stop living
So do not allow the compass to stay
or your pen to still, because you,
You are the cartographer of your own life
and you have the tools to chart it,
Never stop charting your own soul
or trying to understand the souls of others.

Coffee Cup Poem no.81

Daydreams

I’m running out of dreams in days of thoughts
thoughts that take me to the reaches of space
to a blue bigger on the inside box
to everything that will be, is and was once
to every possible me, no mater how farfetched,
to every impossible me, far too farfetched
and foreign to the maps I’ve so long depended on.

I’ve blundered, in my thoughts, a disappearing act
of time and space, those wild concepts
between the synapses and regions of that vast map
that charts our souls and logs the latitudes of dreams
into what dangerous depths, so strange
are the longitudes of young and old and linear,
I pushed to the edges of the big flat world
sailing, myself, in wood or metal or air
on something old, new, borrowed, and blue
something evading my thoughts anew.

Coffee Cup Poem no.77

Life Line

Imagination sinks into its seat
finally beaten(O!so beat)
by life and all its worries

dealt a blow(crashing, it has)
lonely innocence,gone and passed
flails its arms drown,drowning

it breaks away(I wish I could)
let go of life-stale,I would I would
if it would come back,afloat

andfloat into the air,into the sky
I look into the sun,moon,so high
,so high and capture dandelion hope

whispering to air,so wanting
wanting to find a dreamer’s wishings
mind,imagination,bide time

together sinking,washing(the moon-tide)
swinging backandforth,sidetoside
trying to catch hopes,       unawares

(the dandelion floats above
,catching on to the oceanwind shrug
falling in love,in love, in love)