Ode to morning coffee cup

ode to you

generous cup of clay and paint

gift from elizabeth, traci, jessica, self

you come to me

on early mornings

and not so early week-end days

with your dark liquid manna of heaven

awakeness now

and up

quietly encouraging me to arise and seize the day

my very own

carpe diem cheerleader

I choose you to set the color of my day

exact enthusiasm, mood, and theme

the literary merits of your outside

in glazes purple, red, rust, and yellow

I think of what the day should bring

and bring you to my palm to lips to soul

your delicious contents

of tea and coffee and soymilk

bring me back into myself

you soothe the rough outside edges

of my world

and internal self of poorly sewn together broken bits

in you melancholy finds home and heals

and joy bursts forth in butterfly wings from caterpillar nocturne slumber

I thank you

coffee cup

your humble presence

constant loyalty

reassure me that when the world is falling down

which is the truth of the headlines—

last night’s gun death

and this morning’s newest country in political chaos and

dictatorial genocide—

in between the realities of this ever always turmoil world

you are there

morning coffee cup

holding me as I hold you.

Kaleidoscope

In the kitchen a kaleidoscope

gift from giver of words and borrower of hands

its bits of broken glass

are promises of color and surprise

hints of worlds unknown and secret

words to look between,

under, over, around, through

a poet lives in there

(I know this to be true)

in between the painted on lines and made up imagery of picture

and I talk to her

when night stretches long and near

and the sun of tomorrow and hope are temporary absentees

I make her coffee in the not at all dead of midnight hours

we drink it black

–or sometimes whiskey, neat–

and speak of long ago words

and forgotten worlds found in the bulb of a poppy flower

Oh Dorothy

Oh Horton

Oh Holy Land

we sit and murmur our voices out over the sleeping tops of houses

apartment buildings, cracked sidewalk, and potholes of pavement

we confer on the latest failed treatise of

peace of war of nuclear armed this and that of such and such

the geography of this known world

so utterly foreign

to our footsteps and finger trips

idly tripping through atlas and globe of old continents

and remember when

we sailed across the world

in letters carried close to body and smoke signal

and wordofmouth

and remember when

to write was precious

because although we had imagination and curiosity

(something to say, perhaps)

we lacked paper

scroll papyrus stone paint ink

all these canvasses stretch out before us now

digital photographable forgettable

and do we inspire ourselves to art?

what happened to the philosophers

the poets the painters the writers the thoughtful ones

where are you?

we?

(here, here, here)

a faint cry

distant

coming from within

my kaleidoscope

proof of a world in which many worlds are

together combined in colorful exaggerations of all that was is will be

here, she says

I’m here.

we’re here.

a chorus of voices

tiny, and fragments like broken glass turned ocean smooth

here here here

innumerable forever and never

all the words we’ve ever needed

known

and kept close

in pockets, memory like smoke, tongues like ash

here

broken and burning and scattered

and

importantly

here.

gratefully.

and now it is time

for arms open wide

a deep, grand breath

exhale so big and so deep I can feel it

in my toes coccyx larynx scapula

all over

a giant and wide

gesture

so slight

so enormous

it is everything

I say

I yawlp

bellow, even

thankyouthankyou THANKyouthankYOU

THANKYOU

you you you you you you you

grateful big and wonderful

all over.

 

[ ]

Please.

 

please please please.

 

please,

and please,

oh please.

 

on knees

—bended

and clasped hands so tightly

 

full supplication

& intonation

of only breath

and that one

big something of a word

 

all encompassing

 

oh, oh, OH

please

 

childish desperation

into grown up everything

 

to beg

deep down and dig

for this

and only this

and all the other these

 

please.

bottle.

it is in these exact moments

when the world proves itself to be more than I can

handle, take

and I know that I am all I have

and that is not enough.

and you

you created me to be this monster

of pride stuffs and bullshit

and the only

poetry

i imagine

is something

i can’t yet do.

I’ll not ask

hot pink wig, long

fountain pen

“La Boheme;” on cd

freeze dried backpacker meals

journals, used

 

 

 

(17 october 2011)

this is for my desert voice

that silent self of midnight dreams

portent full

this is for the inner world

I’ve too long neglected,

the gardens have grown wild

and a hearty, rageful tempest

roars through,

she claims my spirit now

but this is for the self I was,

the self I crawled to

on knees of bloodied flesh

palms scraped and forehead torn

this is for the self I was,

the self I crawled to

on knees of bloodied flesh

palms scraped and forehead torn

this for the self I was

when I had time

to be

to embrace my inner roiling turmoil

to exist inside

this is for the self of

legs outstretched and wandering

for eyes that gazed beyond

and fell lost into blue and white and grey

into slow creeping dusk

and bright emerging dawn

this is for the self

myself

I lost

let go

and miss.

come home.