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.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.89

Midnight Warrior

Midnight Warrior, Tiny Gustav the Patient,CCP 89
you soon may burn in the light
of day as you sit on our porch
laying in wait–have you been struck
from the night’s red heat sky?

I’ve never seen your kind so close,
but how small you look balled up
as if just biding time for dusk
so you can strike into the sky
and take up the hunt.

Because you, Tiny Gustav the Patient,
would not take the moth handout I gave
was it pride or exhaustion that
prevented your noon time snack?
How foreign daytime must look to open eyes.

I wish I could ease the hours until
night, when you will spread
paper-thin arms, stretch your thumbs,
and look to the stars.

In the morning I shall see you’ve gone.

*Coffee Cup Poem in spirit–I was drinking coffee when we found Gustav, the Eastern Red Bat, on our porch.

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.

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.

It’s Allergy Time

Please pardon my lack of coffee cups, for it seems I have not been getting Starbucks for the three bucks out of pocket.

Being Ill

Sometimes getting out of bed
is like fighting Caesar’s army
when my nose is the Hoover Damn
and my ears filled with cotton
the head aching with anvil weight
pressing in full force on my temple’s gate.

Whoa is me, I dare say
when sickness strikes on holiday
work seems such a frightening fate
too far away and too rigorous to make
me rise from my goose-downed tomb
a curse much like exiting the womb

and yet I persist to put on pants
and a shirt in a rather clumsy dance
from horizontal to vertical is quite the task
as I make it to the chair and desk
and back to bed for it is far too much
and life is short and unjust and plain rough.

I think I will go back to bed
to hibernate allergy season to its grave
perhaps I shall wake when my stomach growls
and calls for me to fill it’s empty pit
but then that, I think, is asking quite a lot
from yours truly, Miss Allergy Fraught.

Coffee Cup Poem no.78

A Brief Respite

It rained for the first time this summer,
really rained, and I
went outside to catch a raindrop
heavy in the morning heat
just to make sure it was real
and caught twenty as I
stood under the dark sky,
the one that pushed away
the 100 degree heat that had stayed
itself for months, just to pour out
in celebration for the end,
the end of tyrant heat and the start of
something new, a welcomed something
to let me know the world–after everything,
my mind dark clouds and summer contradicting–
is still turning.