Coffee Cup Poem no.90

Dear Kesha,

Do you really wake up in the morning
feelin’ like P.Diddy?
Because I wake up in the morning
feelin’ like I’ve been
hit by multiple freight trains
while sleeping in a sauna,
stuck in the same positionCCP 90
on a daily basis.
My hungover from sleep,
wishing I actually had been drunk,
is somehow worse than your
true hungover.
How does that work out?

I think I wake up feelin’ like
Lindsey Lohan,
crawling out of bed,
blinds drawn and body decrepit
from years of abuse from
god knows what and still feeling
last nights binges, oh how
my stompach is shot and
my head is burning
and my eyes puffy and hot
and all the while wishing
I was still asleep.
I suppose Lindsey Lohan could
wake up feeling more like
P.Diddy on a good day.

Sometimes I feel like P.Diddy,
but never until around 10.30,
after I’ve had my morning coffee,
but I imagine you, Kesha,
don’t usually wake up until then anyways.
Is that so?

Coffee Cup Poem no.50

Storm clouds gather over fields of lush green
as wet edges of sky soak into the fields,
blurring as I drive. O’Children hums,
and a dark, bottomless voice surrounds me,
the chorus of children rising as it begins to pour.
Twilight breaks and torrents sweep
lift up your voice, lift up your voice…
red poppies bounce under god’s drums
the train that goes to the kingdom…
and hoard life given,
have you left a seat for me?
life erased by dust and wind
is it such a stretch of the imagination?
I clutch the wheel as sky blurs into field
it’s beyond my wildest expectation
something in me feels the seeds breathing
we’re all weeping now, weeping because…
breathing in salvation
forgive us now for what we’ve done
salvation that comes in short measure
there ain’t nothing we can do to protect you.

Coffee Cup Poem no.10

Spectrum Song

Walking in the November air,
I passed a small bird, blue
as Crayola’s Cosmic Cobalt,
and I swore he was whistling
a soundtrack to my day.

He whistled a sharp rendition
Of a Jazzberry Jam, and I couldn’t help dancing
to his vibrant performance
and anticipating the crescendo of
his Indian summer day’s song.

My step arched with each raised note
and fell in harmony with the diminuendo,
and soon I turned to Cosmic Cobalt—
my musical partner, and together we
danced and sang that Jazzberry Jam

until it was winter and the boughs
froze over, and his whistle grew softer,
and became only a whisper. And I,
I faded with him, into winter’s Lilac luster,
as he became hushed and sheltered under
blanketed branches, all silent as Silver Ice.