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.94

Happy Birthday Visit for July

I went to celebrate your birthday
armed with beer and a heavy heart,
drove to the sunny cemetery,
and found men mowing the lawn.

I waited.

And kept waiting for thirty minutes
ccp94 alone in my car, until finally
I had to open up the beer.
Had no opener, so I fought with my keys
which took about ten minutes
so I guess that passed the time.

They werestill mowing and I know
they saw me sitting in my car
waiting and yet they kept driving
on those tiny golf cart mowers
up and down, up and down
to feed my anxiety.

I finished my beer and felt
at a loss of what came next.
I opened another, because, after all,
that’s what one does when at a loss.

Still they mowed until finally I got out,
walked to the grave, small steel plaque
flat in the ground. The bastards probably
mowed over the damn thing.
They gave me judgmental looks,
so I quickly prayed and left.

All the while I was wondering
how the dead feel, up in heaven
or down in hell, about being
mowed over with a heavy machine
on a weekly basis.

I suppose some are just happy
for the visit.

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.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.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.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.

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.

“Year of Magical Thinking”

Joan called it her year of magical thinking
and I cannot help but be anything
but captivated by her words, so true
in their applications.

I still seem to muddle through
not noticing the illogical holes in my view
of what happened, and where you’ve gone
as if you are anything but.

I get stuck on the details, even ones
that I can’t remember clearly, they’ve gone
from view and I am motionless
in thought.

It has been a year, my year
of magical thought and I fear
that it will go on somewhat longer
than simply one year.

It seems these thoughts have been put off
and I struggle to place them in any logical
context of time and space.
Instead they float, elusive as I have made them
waiting, patiently, to be addressed.

A Thought Continued

I was recently upset by the Gun Control initiative recently died in the Senate. I remembered the poem I wrote previously about my fear of guns and how strongly I dislike them. I decided to write a continuation of that thought and wrote past the first three stanzas of this poem. It works well as slam poetry, but I think it also translates on paper. This is not a condemnation of other viewpoints, but an expansion of my own.

Shooting Games

Somebody asked if I would like to shoot a gun
just for sport, a hobby out in the woods,
I froze.

I could barely muster up a No,
torn between feeling as though it were silly
to feel so antagonistic
but still the feeling in my stomach argued
with logic and I couldn’t bring myself to hold it
the cold barrel, heavy and metallic
and easily deadly, in my cold hands.
I could not imagine the feeling of power
and suffering and far too often
contained in something so small and toy like.

So I collected my words, uncomfortable,
waiting at the depth of my mouth, but stirring
in the pit of my heart and very calmly and politely said
“No, thank you. I’d rather not.”

You see, guns to me are not a sport,
but a family tragedy
where there is only a memory
of imagined gore
and unimagined fear.
An empty bench,
and a premature goodbye.

You see this week a gun control law failed,
and flailed in the arms of the senate
begging for the smallest of cautions
met with great resistance
and I can only cringe and ask
isn’t it worth the tiniest of measures
if just one time a shot
is stopped.

You see, this to me is not a great roadblock,
or even a steeping block to something bigger
but an almost meaningless precaution
taken to ease the pain of those of us
who have lost at the hands of those
wielding guns—see I am not naïve enough
to blame the gun, but I can blame it’s
overwhelming presence, and think
that maybe that small allowance
would give me small comfort when I think
of my father.

Because 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 not naïve enough to believe
that it’s the fault of the gun—I am all too aware
that the fault lies with the man holding it
thinking about ending life, isolated by
hatred, self-doubt, or unjustified motive.
I see a gun in the hands of someone giving up
on life and taking it by force
never mistaking a deadly weapon for
a water-filled harmless action.

So until then I will kindly decline to hold a gun,
something toy like and tragic in one
so often sold and easily bought and politely say
“No thank you, I’d rather not.”