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.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.81


I’m running out of dreams in days of thoughts
thoughts that take me to the reaches of space
to a blue bigger on the inside box
to everything that will be, is and was once
to every possible me, no mater how farfetched,
to every impossible me, far too farfetched
and foreign to the maps I’ve so long depended on.

I’ve blundered, in my thoughts, a disappearing act
of time and space, those wild concepts
between the synapses and regions of that vast map
that charts our souls and logs the latitudes of dreams
into what dangerous depths, so strange
are the longitudes of young and old and linear,
I pushed to the edges of the big flat world
sailing, myself, in wood or metal or air
on something old, new, borrowed, and blue
something evading my thoughts anew.

Coffee Cup Poem no.76

Words of Wisdom

Sometimes I feel as though I’m a raving lunatic
Simply hiding behind a facade
of compound sentences
neatly arranged words
that sometimes transform
into something coherent.

The pen moves sturdy and even
across the page, making clear
the thoughts raging and banging.
Is the page an outlet
or a lined cage?

Words some may call wise
are sometimes thoughts of madness
merely packaged and sold
to a wantingaudience.

Life lessons from the Mad Hatter,
what a confused philosophy.

Coffee Cup Poem no.64

Definitely a work in progress, but for now:

Reading Musings of Childhood Nostalgia

My hands linger on these pages
as if trying to take back
my childhood
even if just one word, one word
of something I know is gone.
I want these words to look as they did,
promise the same enchantment,
as I stay longing on this page
am I looking for answers?

Could I still make friends
with a Black Stallion,
when shipwrecked after raiding
a hooked captain’s ship
deep in the Wonderland
I found hidden in a wardrobe
or was it Platform nine and three quarters?
 As I take a magic carpet into the sunset
not with a prince,
but with a friendly giant,
will animals guide me anywhere, anymore?

Magic, I miss
magic is what leaps into my mind
from these words, childhood’s words
but I no longer believe it
the way I did ten years ago or five.
Nostalgia is the word I find,

for the places this story
used to transport me
the first time,the second time,
the times I believed.

No, no.
I don’t think so,
My imagination has grown up
and these are no longer beliefs
but wistful musings.
Still, I’d rather let them take me
far away to lands un-inhibited
by thoughts of politics, economics…
Wendy returned from Neverland.

A smile returns to my face
hoping to travel away
as I turn the final page.

Coffee Cup Poem no.32

Sorry about the terrible handwriting, but I scribbled the first draft on the cup. Another poem of Wonderland thinking brought by a lovely cup of tea, as one can see.

Playing Checkers

I play hop-scotch on a checkerboard,
ruling the world under my feet
a Queen with no regrets,
lightly tiptoeing through her kingdom.

I move from redto white to black,
rejecting the suits of theold,
watching the Queen ofHearts
stir in her bed.

The one I made her, of roses,
painted the colour of her lust
now deep in the underground of silence
in the mysteries of dreams.

Her birds, they roam until they are only figures on a ceiling,
while I play hop-scotch ona checkerboard floor,
loving the game, both asleep and waking,
in dreams of black and white.