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.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.91


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.87

Mowing the Lawn

The summer grass is,
,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.

Coffee Cup Poem no.86

My Cat, the Killer

It appears that she is floating,
not a limb pressing down on the coolCCP 86
grass beneath four feather-paws
as she tenses her entire body, pulling
with stored energy and killing motive
as the butterfly is in her sights.

Her golden tuffs of fur
are the only part visibly moving,
as she imperceptibly shifts weight
and twitches with anticipation–
her victim flutters unknowingly, absent
minded and innocent to the threat.

In a second she pounces entrapping
the butterfly in an instant
but she does not kill it–not then,
because it is far more amusing as a toy.
To watch it flutter inches and fall,
all within her control, never going too far
and all the while the butterfly
is suffering as silently as its life
passed, too quiet for the human ear,
beating its wings, trying to
catch the last of the summer wind.

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)

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.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.34

Another first draft on the cup, so it’s a bit shaky. Also a bit romantic for me, but perhaps I’m ready for spring.

Wishing on Dandelions

Small florets float in summer
fraying in the warm breeze
as she tries to steal them from the sun
and covet their secrets.

Melody turns her back to the seeds,
whirling wind rips wishes from her hands
and the tiny flutes flutter away
with the distant song of Meadowlarks.

She makes a wish on her snowflake weed
and welcomes the change of summer to fall
beckoned by the songs of Meadowlarks,
as they too are carried away with the wind.

Her dandelion travels with a promise
singing her secrets to the Meadowlarks.