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.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?

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.

Inaugural Address

Today is history
in the making, I saw
eons of hate and injustice and judgment
and pain wrapped in a cage–
still banging wildly on the bars
but locked and tightly knit
with hope.

Hanging on the words of a man
hoisted by desire for change
despite voices calling for a fall
and a nation holding its breath
in the storm of what is to come
and the wreckage of what has been
our story.

For so long–shrinking pockets
and a war waged from fear and
inequality for people like me and
people different from me but
in ways so slight and immeasurable
when it comes to life and
the news ringing with gunfire
every night at eight.

Today I teared up listening
as a nation came together
and whispered a prayer of hope.

Coffee Cup Poem no.82

Some days I feel lucky,
floating, almost, and I
forget to feel all those things
that plague me on the other days
When I feel lost, and I
turn to the thing–that person–
that makes me feel the luckiest
and all is confusion–blurred–
those days, lucky and lost,
lucky or lost, are the best
and make the most sense.
The other days are days of nothing
and nothing, as everyone knows,
or whoever has had love or loss
(as sayings wisely go)
is the worst feeling, or absence of
because there is no point to nothing.
No gain, no loss to be for
there is no be in nothing days
just the absenteeism of is
or there or were or was or here.
In nothing only blackness is found
maybe not even that for
nothing is simply nothing, and if
you’ve ever known it, you know
this to be true, no whole in hole.
Those are the days I live to avoid
and dodge if I can–for if I live
in days filled with anything but
nothing, then there is always something
something to be lucky or even to be lost.

*This poem is intended to have a different format, but for some reason unknown to me, wordpress refuses to allow me to indent lines.

Coffee Cup Poem no.70

I Live Life By the King of Words (Jorge Luis Borges Was Right)

I chose to see the world through my eyes
and through blank pages
letters scrawled across empty spaces
and connected by seas of ink.

I seek to go many places
see them, The Word, experience…
life sometimes forces it into dreams
and out onto the pages, my pages.

The pages of history & romance,
the pages of drama & violence,
Fables collected by time’s scribes
to be retold over and over
and find a resting place
in the ears of childhood
and in the dormant consciousness
of adulthood.

Sun blankets the midnight seas
of the penned words of lives
that glare in the peak of days
and dim in evening’s goodbyes.

There is one word I look for,
always, The Word,
that attatches to memory
vividly evading a lifespan.

(Can you guess it?)

Coffee Cup Poem no.62

Jolly Holiday

We rode our dreams
on a carousel
and let it carry us into dusk
where our eyes fluttered
with the blurring colours
of kaleidoscope horses
until dew tipped the panes
and pryed open our hearts
letting in the grey light
of dawn.

My mind goes to the darby though
with dusk’s spinning horses
across now distant thoughts
I close the shutters
and welcome the night’s races.

Coffee Cup Poem no.58

A first draft on the cup, so bare with me.

Before Madness Became a Poetic Gift to Women, A Letter

In every flower, every mundane twig
You saw what others only dreamed.
The entire life of women
The dark beneath their everyday
Her dreams hidden under her frock
And the love she contemplates
While knitting under a mans roof
You saw and you wrote
Her life
In a lighthouse, a window, a party
And in it, an eternity.
Their lives, hanging in mist bound trees,
You realized their despair
Ophelia drowning amongst the flowers.
And it came to life in signs and symbols
Printed on old, discolored pages.

Beauty becomes you, through the fog
That is what the world saw,
Peaceful, in the river’s heart.

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.