Coffee Cup Poem no.92

Dear Mosquito, Please Die Off Soon

You little blood-sucking bitch;
from  family Culicidae: midge
gnat red cell robber; an itch,
gnawing microscopic carnage.
You always drink and drive.

CCP 92

Cunning and swift and ruthless
you mark my body in red blotches
that swell mounds; nemesis;
as your body victory sweet bulges;
you leave without a care.

It’s almost sinister: your small
brown-womanly-shell designed to take
and mark your territory on a wall
of my precious skin; smooth cake,
at an all you can eat buffet.

It would be one thing if I didn’t serve
as breakfast and dinner and dessert;
desease free life I am trying to preserve;
Hard when you treat me like sherbet.
I feel victimized by dimming light.

I’m sure you must serve some purpose
in the grand scheme of the animal kingdom
but if it were up to me I would act callous
and rid the world of your kind; venom;
just for a summer nights’ sleep.

But the ones who keep you producing
are the ones who keep consuming;
if only creating didn’t deem
the whole reproduction thing
be only the plight of us ladies.

Coffee Cup Poem no.83

On the radio I hear
cries of war, a distant
story of the gory results
of a bomb, far away,
and close in the speakers
of my car. I learn
of pots and pans
and water, still simmering,
on the stove. A family gathered
around for dinner,
a scene now eerily compressed
in radio waves.

The family’s clean house
now painted with dust and
fallen chunks of construction,
mixed with plasma echoes
in the reporter’s voice
over chatter of the clean up crew
shaking in a home, strangely quite,
I imagine. And still. How still
it must be now, life has gone,
and the only movement is
that water on the stove.

The bombs keep falling and
stories keep coming over
air waves and televisions.
The world is slowly quieting
as all over water boils over,
turns ichor and thick
and the stove is left burning.

Coffee Cup Poem no.75

*I had a lot of form problems with this. It was originally in four quatrains, but it seemed a bit too prose like. Not sure how much this has improved it form-wise, but it’s a start I suppose.

I Wonder…

I wonder when I will stop counting
the constellations and galaxies between us
since you left earth
and took to the stars,
looking back, looking down
at the life you counted down until take off.

I wonder if you’ll glance, now and then,
from the moon and miss the earth,
its infinite color, and wish
for rainbows instead of black holes,
those yellow roses you left in the garden.
Your white picket fence.

I wonder if the constllations and galaxies
are everything you thought they’d be from earth
hanging in the sky
so silent, so hot, so burning
calling you to the skies,
calling for take off.

I wonder, looking up at the great expanse,
blinking in white hot light
blurring edges between dippers and belts
if you see the same black burning
the great expanse, growing, glowing
and you wonder, keep wondering, too.

Coffee Cup Poem no.68

Come With Me, Little Girl, Dusk is Drawing Near

The world I know is burning away
Beams of sunlight fall with ashen tips,
On fire and lost in the surges of gray.

My heart sinks, lost in the searing fray
As light fades black behind an eclipse
The world I know is burning away.

And yet I drag my feet, stumbling astray
As songbirds sing for me. Mute, my lips
On fire and lost in the surges of gray.

Someone’s voice is telling me to stay
But I do not want to hear, lost, my mind slips.
The world I know is burning away.

Before my eyes, the town ignites, a bouquet
Of ashen coals and sunset singed tips
On fire and lost in the surges of gray.

I force a breath, thick with cinders, melee
Has taken over and I search for a grip–
The world I know is burning away

I fall in front of a charred alter, pray,
But its all so overwhelming and I see it slip
The world I know is slowly burning away
On fire and lost in the surges of gray.

Coffee Cup Poem no.69

Theories On the Nature of Tragedy: A Working Mule

The devil likes to keep a mule,
And nudge it with a stick
Or lash it with a whip.

When it stumbles, this mule,
Loses its balance, and trips
It becomes the devil’s trick

For it does not strike, but runs into
And that is how tragedy begins,
The sneaky little thing it is.

This mule, tragedy, has no life of its own,
A devil’s slave with poor falling aim
Moving when a red beast yanks its chain

With no real motivation to harm
It unsuspectingly causes pain,
A sad creature with tight reins.

But when god uses it as his muscle
The mule becomes a weapon, carefully aimed–
Two sides of the very same coin.

Coffee Cup Poem no.54

Mrs. Ramsey, A Moment of Thought…

There it was before her–life
swelling in the tips of her fingers
and pouring out of her–
the essence of her being, rising
in a flame of exhalation.

Suddenly everything is reversed–life
a single eyelet of water
hanging–in this moment everything–
the instant held in a sunburst petal,
the whole of the world held in suspense.

There it was before her–life
dangling in the cracks and cobwebs
collecting dust in the corners,
my heart, lying, waiting for this
the sum of everything hanging on a moment.

Suddenly everything just is–life
the world in an instant, waiting
for this realisation and the essence,
the essence of my being swelling up
raising in a flush and suddenly this is it

I am whole.