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.

Sometimes Wednesdays are Weird

Somethings in life are so addicting that they call for an ode. One of those things is SVU, with an extra helping of B.D. Wong. This is co-written with a lovely friend and blogger, Meghan, who I dearly miss due to her ongoing adventures in Europe. (

The Law and Order: SVU Poem

Whoever thought these New York streets
would see a crime like this, so topical
so especially heinous. How many ways
can someone be raped?

A pithy remark– cut
black– chung chung.

Ideology and sexual tension in squad room
debates. Did you see that innocent
bystander, boyfriend, mother, coworker?
A familiar face– perhaps a Tony
nominee– chung chung.

The interrogation goes too far. How
does Stabler still have a job? Nearly
kills the suspect. It’s personal.
He has five kids.
First suspect didn’t do it– we have forty
minutes left– chung chung.

Coffee Cup Poem no.69

Theories On the Nature of Tragedy: A Working Mule

The devil likes to keep a mule,
And nudge it with a stick
Or lash it with a whip.

When it stumbles, this mule,
Loses its balance, and trips
It becomes the devil’s trick

For it does not strike, but runs into
And that is how tragedy begins,
The sneaky little thing it is.

This mule, tragedy, has no life of its own,
A devil’s slave with poor falling aim
Moving when a red beast yanks its chain

With no real motivation to harm
It unsuspectingly causes pain,
A sad creature with tight reins.

But when god uses it as his muscle
The mule becomes a weapon, carefully aimed–
Two sides of the very same coin.

Coffee Cup Poem no.59

A Woman’s Complaint 

Damn woman’s body
how you betray me
once a month…
at least you’re on schedule.

I love my woman’s
but blood?
I think I can do without.
My blood is now a public figure
to be prodded at and regulated
and I now see why Miss Sexton
cursed most our womb
despite her lust
for destruction
So much responsibility we did not ask for.
Life itself, human existance…
isn’t that what men seek to control?
Oh, how they try.
I know.
This hurt
I know
Could it ever attempt
to bother me without
so much pain… the headaches… simply less?

At least I used to know
where they were coming from,
from inside me.
Now, I’m not so sure.

Coffee Cup Poem no.57

I realize the irony in posting this on a blog, however it is the first poem after the switch!

To People Who Love the Sound of Their Own Voice: You’re the Only One

Sweet melodies you sing in the spring air
Oh to us you do sing with so much care,
As you impart much wisdom as such truths
And the trials of your life forsooth!
What plagues your heart today, are you so down?
For now, say you, we all too must frown.
Oh, when you speak great words of happiness
The whole world is full of your hearts goodness.

For your words ring sincere in every ear
Whom shall we love, whom shall we prosecute?
Whilst jealous of your eloquence, so astute.
Oh, the trials of your life we wait to hear.
For what’d the world be without your speeches?
The utter divineness of your preaches
To our lowly, empty souls so wanting…
I’ll tell you what, we’d damn sure be—
Oh, yet again I’m cut off by your voice
The endless yapping for which none rejoice.
Be careful, I warn, you may lose your song
For one day, someone may cut out your tongue!

Coffee Cup Poem no.51

The Crow

ka-caw! ka-caw!
cries the crow over the songbirds
drowning out their whistles and hums
for the harsh crack of his caw.
Do their colorful coats irk him so,
so much so that his heart turns dark
and distant to their melodies?
no, none of this bothers the crow,
his cawing is the song of pride
a pride that masks his blackened eyes
to the colors of the larks,
his darting eyes follow the truths they foretell.

ka-caw! ka-caw!
cries the crow over the songbirds
drowning out their whistles and hums
for the harsh crack of his caw.

Coffee Cup Poem no.22

I found this little critter when I went to throw my trash away, so I decided to dedicate a goofy poem to him. An original by D.P.

The Adventures of Sir Percival, Explorer of the Great Pit and Destroyer of All That is Unwanted

Fear not, good Sir
when white sacks rain upon you
dig in–
for they are your dragons to slay.
Your bravery in the face
of all that is foul and cast out
is admirable.

Live well, noble scavenger.

Do not burry your head in shame,
but burry it in treasures,
for it is you who
lives in the filth of others
and thrives on all that is unwanted.
Yes, it is a grimy affair,
but it is you who does it
with honor.

Feast tonight, noble scavenger.

Coffee Cup Poem no.21

These are just some of today’s random observations. Less poem and more statements. Can’t win them all. Sometimes everyday things just get you thinking and I’m sure there will be more random observations in the future. College is a strange and wonderful place.


So here are some Tidbits


People speaking on phones in public places
should not be offended

by strange looks
and whispers
when yelling or crying.
The bus is no place for
break ups, and
the cafe is no place for
life crises.

Though I understand
sometimes life happens where it happens.

People who like to catcall unsuspecting women
should not be offended
when they get flipped off.
Sometimes it’s appropriate to forget manners
and respond withinappropriateness.
It is best not to dishthat which you cannot take, boys.

People wearing shorts with boots in 40 degree weather
should not be offended
if they receive little to no sympathy
when they complain
of being cold.
Pants were invented for a reason,
perhaps it’s time
you embrace them.

Weather may happen when it happens,
but there are forecasts, and
chances are there is an app for that.

People who are offended by this
should not be offended
I’m sure you hold your own judgements,
or if that is not why you are offended,
then perhaps it is best
that you take some free advice.

Have a wonderful day.

Gobble Gobble! Happy Thanksgiving, Readers.

I hope everyone is having a great day cooking, watching the parade, and being with family! Here’s a poem to take your mind off the stress of cooking.

Gobble Gobble! 

The delicious smell from the kitchen
after hours of stuffing,
preparing the perfect meal,
is calling my name.
I think it’s time to listen.

Hopefully your kitchen tastes as wonderful as mine,
your family together, loving and living,
so have a happy Thanksgiving
for now it is time to dine!

Love, D.P.

Coffee Cup Poem no.19

A poem short, sweet and somewhat of a joke. I made do with a starbucks brand cup today, but their holiday spirit makes a terribly poor canvas. All the better for a terribly poor poem? Seeing as Oklahoma has finally decided to resemble fall, I chose to talk about the wilting of my favorite tree, the weeping willow. Enjoy and giggle if you will at this ode by D.P. 
Wilting Willow.

Oh why, oh why, oh willful willow,
do you so weakly weep?
You see all hills across the meadow,
your shadow they doth keep.
Such life and love sprout from your branches
and vitality and faith flow through your roots,
your leaves so graceful yet violent in dances
as the whipping wind wraps around your braids.
Oh bear be your sadness oh tearful tree,
the weeping of the willow must cease to be.