Tag Archives: creativity

With Coffee

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I reached for a cup with stripes in the cupboard,

setting among the ivory porcelain others,

and after putting it down on the marbled counter

I waited for the coffee to spit and sputter.

I poured from the carafe to the cup with the stripes

and added sweetener from a yellow packet, twice.

I stirred with a long-stemmed spoon, and thus

the coffee swirled and swirled.

 I confess among the rivers in my mind

I counted the swirls encompassing time.

Somewhere there adding some milk in a dollop,

I came up with this veiled verse of codswallop.

If you’ve read this far thinking I’ve something to say,

maybe it’s just that I like my coffee this way.

Or perhaps my own struggles in crafting aright

this poem’s distraction is less of a fight.

The coffee in the striped cup has a caramel hue,

is sweetened with a bitterness aftertaste too,

Like many poems that I’ve already done,

it’s finished, and the cup sits in the sink in the sun.

Outlier

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I stared into a pitch-black midnight
to write of emptiness in the dark.
A space of nothingness and naught
from which creation sprung in might.
In the void just out of sight
a moment not content, embarked.
The single flower in the pot,
a point, a speckling shared its light.
The space surrounding it recites
in motionless time when a moment harks.
A melody repeating on the spot,
a verse then opens with a different plight.
This thing with hopes that will ignite
and focus the poet on its spark,
and in the notion we see, besot –
the outlier is neither shy nor contrite.

****

A poem of inspiration to bring in 2022. I wish everyone a safe and happy new year. May it be everything you want and need.

Once, in a blue moon

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I see a full moon lighting up the road ahead, the sound of B.B. King’s blues are knocking in my head.

Behind me, morning peeks and skies tint gold, as I drive toward the night – it’s bright and bold.

Yesterday, I cleaned the leaves from my front yard, blowing up a cloud of amber shards.

Leaves of yellow, gold and brown and red, coated under foot and seeming dead.

Clearing out the old then seeing green, the grass looked more healthy than it’s ever been.

Everyday – as B.B. sings his full lament- I have the blues – but sadness isn’t what he meant.

There is beauty in this world of loss. What we carry through we layer or emboss

on the surface of our daily works of art. We make from aches and pain a stronger beating heart.

I’m still driving west to chase the moon, but daylight will arrive and overtake me soon.

And as the song from B.B. King is done, the opening picking strain of Here Comes the Sun.

Spoken

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My words disappeared under the moonlight,
The sounds of dissipation fading fast
to quiet in a cavernous depiction,
a blank homage to the universal past.

Then, vibrations denigrated all the darkness
setting into motion light set free –
like a word spoken among the silence
resonating shift and change and deed.

The silhouetted shapes that give perspective,
colored vivid depth to pangs and shine,
a pulsing heart, a growing hunger
that extends from shadows unconfined.

To this, we owe our debts of salutation
the creative source we poets grace-
in the beginning there was nothing
but a word from which our imaginations trace.

 

Prima(l)

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From 2015…..

^#^#^#^#^#^#^#^

They wander, and yonder they go in the dark
with glow sticks, beyond
them the moonlight, and barks
the taffeta, heavy-set makeup and screams-
the night of the beggar, of horrors and dreams.

The rustle of paper, the rattle of chains-
Billy and Molly fight over the brains.
The princess and pirate, too shy to speak up
the conjuring words while Dad just drinks up.

A drop in the bucket-a thump in the night
the blood of the ghoulish departed from sight.
The clown with the paste face, the witch all in black
the ogres and goblins all stomp and attack.

The flapping of ravens, the quiet of stares
at once-a-year play acting- acute and with scares.
Then beating the pavement and swarming the lawns
the tidal rush crushes, and then they are gone.
All manner of monsters and bold super-kids
Just listen for drumbeats, like Gene Krupa did.

*************
Soundtrack prior to writing/reading this poem: Sing, Sing, Sing.

the last

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As it happens, I get lost in the sky
where sunsets stroll away.

A peaking light around a corner
beyond the frontier of yesterday

I look to the last remains
even when the shadows begin
and wrapped from behind in covers
I gaze toward a fading din.

I dream of passion reds
that trail to orange, bleed to pink.
Turning around in silent awe
to indigo in a wink.

And there the fire ignites upon
this early autumn eve,
a lover of the colored sky
embraced without reprieve.

the creation of a rain storm

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Beyond the clouds
the red flame torrent ranged
from feature to embellishment.
The recall of a wind stroke
in the waning moments of August.
The resonance of a rain drop
after impact, with cause
to wipe it away – like tears.
Then to bring them
all to bear, in congregation
that wears and chases the dirt and seed alike.
That moment, ignites
the clean and growing rhythm
in the foreground.
All created without a sound.

Notions

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In a gift for someone that I once knew-
A few moments wrapped
in crisp paper with string.
each one a mating of calm and called.

Intent on these penetrating emotions-
they are patterns of poetry from memories
underneath the neat taped corners.

They could be jumbled and incoherent,
but I prefer them pressed and bound
and self-contained.
Thumb-pressure creased,
Holding the pieces
firmly together.

Notions of affection
convened for her disposal
will be mailed
in the morning.

***********
A reworking of a poem that I first wrote in 2006.

present perfect

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I do not wish to know
tomorrow’s faint and slow
ascent, nor do I care to see
if yesterday was lithe with glee –
Wasn’t last year so obsessed
and burdensome?
We can attest.
And back ten years, if sighted, could
we not have worried where we stood?

To keeping in the ‘now on scene’,
I hope that all my words are keen
and opening new each day
-as morning glories say –

that past affronts have gone to sour
and I embrace a blooming flower
that opens with the sun.

And here I have begun.

I find it in the feet of bell tones

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I find it in the feet of bell tones,
after sorbing the sound as struck and deep.

I see the auric crest at the tip of leaves
in the moments of late summer’s wanton eve.

I feel the arc that bows in honor
of poetry heard, and hopes that won’t cease.

I hear it in the intake of calm
from the instant of lighting, the droning that sleeps.

It caresses the silence just beyond music,
and lingers on fingertips framed in release.

It walks in the tawny remembrance of noon-tide,
and ploys in the finish of our masterpiece.

And sounding the whisper of midnight and morning,
the tolling of hours when time passes, sweeps

away the cache of conflagration
leaving morsels we should keep.

I find it in the feet of bell tones,
with sounds that amble soft and sweet.