Who are you?
What is your sound/vision?
What guides your call?
Deep gulps of morning coffee
Flickering sounds
An empty wall
With little splash marks
Years of service gone by.
This pen fades
The more I write,
Like fallen leaves
Into enrichened soil
Rhythms have lost my voice
Telling me of better days.
I’m hijacking emotional waves
Leaving the strong winds
For cracked nuts
And a fire, unattended.
My teeth hurt
And my coffee’s gone cold
– Toxic lush
Even when hot.
A game, I’m gone
Struck me on the shoulder
But hoping for an open minded Lady
Who gave a wrinkled
Promiscuously acquired
Five dollar bill
To a tourist fear trap
Like a Merry Christmas card
Unsigned.
But I’m gone
With hotel room vibes
Blinking lethargically
Stuck in deeper thoughts
That have taken me
Deep inside
This unattended fire,
Waiting for a spark to arise
Within me
Like Cupid’s golden arrow.
Slow drawl of a morning
Crinkling paper
And ever building list
Of tasks I wanted to remember
Last night
Trickling in
As my coffee
Trickles down
Bamboo lined pour over
Where my awaiting mug,
Earth tones of pottery,
Catches the mud
My memory unearths.
In the early morning hour
Wind seems to lay down
Rising sun sets out to warm
Every frosty blade of grass
And when my horse is saddled up
I mount my trusty steed to roam
Every bit of our home range
To find my cows and learn the land
For my life I’m setting out
Warm coffee in the morning
Another day to go about
In this early morning hour.
Butterfly moments
Give the Gossip Queen
Her alibi
Restlessly involving
Carnations
Eavesdropping on
Clouded repercussions
That lay awaiting
In a warm cup of coffee
Steaming
She ran away to be
Lost in another land
For there she could always get
Coffee in a little cup
The foreign men whistled
In a sweet way
That always made her blush
And in her wallet
My once dear photo
Faded away to dust
And as she ordered
Another coffee
She asked in her foreign tongue
“Have you seen
Any good plays
Any thing going on?”
To which the kind man
Smiled at her
Asked her twice her name.
I am not the innocence you thought me to be
I’m scarred and torn from the inside out
Been held down and held out and held you in my hand
And I’m not sorry I ever let you in.
See, I’m a Tuesday in a Wednesday dress
Walking slowly with an elegant step
That sings songs of bygone;
A ministry of typewriters click-clacking away,
Mindfully absent, worrying about another day
That’s long past the next Prime Minister’s term.
I spill coffee in my hands to smell the beans,
Leaving a thorough understanding
Of what you do to me.
Though I leave my open door ajar,
I walk past and sing my song.
My window looks out
Lost deep into thought.
Two strings I had to pull
Let go their fray
Unwind I went along the walk
River and then back
Which brought me to a stranger who
Said I had two letters of mail
Being symbolic of my thoughts,
Left me on the precipice
Until my coffee had arrived
And aroma filled the air.
Life is lonely
There’s no getting around this fact;
There’s no bluer sky,
Or cloudless forever horizon;
There’s no cup of coffee
That can satisfy longer than it takes
To sign your name to a bill.
And when you feel you’re getting caught
In a wirlwind of unlonely,
A ghastly calm shall succeed
Like a dance that ended
When your eyes were closed,
Lost in sweet reverie.
Life is lonely
And the birds are really singing to you,
Or they’re not because they do go silent too;
Sun will inevitably say goodnight
Or hide behind a thick backlit veil,
Looking the other way
As the day passes by,
And you wont reach out
Because you are silently alerted
To your own lonliness
And it feels better, for some reason,
To speak without an audible sound
And inevitably pretending
That your next cup of coffee
Will solve all of these reflecting mirrors.
It was late, early as the birds wake. The sun making it’s trajectory project through blind slits that tickled my nose and ruffled pure white sheets that smelled of everything I had ever dreamed. I wished I had worn my own button up so she could wear it, cotton thoughts underneath the purest thoughts I could believe, her ear lobe dangerously close to my sanity I buried deep into the sleepy eyes she wiped away.
She was business and I was coffee on Sunday morning. Her ancient wooden bowls with carved and stained mosaics sat on bare shelves between three curiously new vinyl records I had yet to identify or spin, so my bare feet sadly ripped spaces beside this cocoon to leave invisible heat scores on a treasure hunt around pieces of clothing that each had still alive memories attached, each a little puddle of our reserve that began as we stepped towards our island.
As the needle scratched dangerously towards the first note, it was the crackling that trumped even her cigarette into casual, I spotted her pinstripe skirt, now draped across the wicker chair underneath a baby blue Fender Telecaster she had plugged into a tiny hand held amplifier to show me what she knew of blues.
I propped myself up with her pillow and through the patio window I saw she was looking at me.
