Heavy Cream

In hot water,

into the grind,

the grounds

of black semantic

overture.

 

Simple strain,

drips, rip, tip

my conscience

awake,

then steal time

 

to brim the rim.

Steam lifting,

Cream diving,

touch bottom,

to rise as a dream,

 

spreading like an

early morning kiss

of fog, dulling the

pain, easing

the tension

 

between the dark

night

and singed

light.

A sip of silence.

White Ceramic Cup

 

April Fools Eve

I don’t mind the snow.

April’s fool arrives tomorrow,

but today each flake waifs down

in its own personal space.

 

A small squadron of geese

honk by, swirling the snow

in their wake.

They kept flying northeasterly.

 

Their laying bets spring

hasn’t gone anywhere.

It’s just an Indian winter,

flaps down.

 

So, to the white freckles on the wind

I say, “Enjoy your visit.”

Then I honk at them, “Get out of the way!”

And lean into spring again.

I Love Peanut Butter

Like spiraling a spatula

round the bottom of a

peanut butter jar,

 

so am I each morning

in a futile attempt of

scraping in hopes of a

 

slather of meaning on a Monday.

Why is the wholeness

divided into seven daze?

 

Does a heart beat me, ever?

Are there breaths beneath me?

When do steps become strides?

 

I lick the spatula with gratitude,

wave it like a wand,

and pray for grace and mercy.

 

For every day is Monday, really.

Monday Morning

Monday Morning

 

Coffee and creamed,

truth and grace,

or so it seemed.

 

That mixture of

strong and soft,

and how oft

 

I wanted to slip

into a week,

geeked and tweaked.

 

But it’s Monday.

A do over day,

to pray, play, slay.

 

Another new mercy say.

although nothing new,

but everything.

 

“I’ll never forget the trouble, the utter lostness,

            the taste of ashes, the poison I’ve swallowed.

I remember it all—oh, how well I remember—

            the feeling of hitting the bottom.

But there’s one other thing I remember,

            And remembering, I keep a grip on hope:

 

God’s loyal love couldn’t have run out,

            his merciful love couldn’t have dried up.

They’re created new every morning. (Even Monday morning)

            How great your faithfulness!

I’m sticking with God (I say it over and over).

            He’s all I’ve got left.

                        Lamentations 3

Poor Over

Always early morning,

when the quiet nudges me awake.

Then the fridge hums,

and the computer fan whisper syncs.

In a trance, I hope the kettle

cooperates for my mandatory

pour over.

 

Pour over coffee…

On what grounds?

Might I incriminate myself?

The process gives me pause, literally.

Have you ever prepared a pour over?

It’s like being in the Army…

Hurry up, then wait.

 

The weight of it all

while I wake is what grinds me.

On a good day I’ll distract,

watch the weather report between pours,

fiddle with my phone etc.

On a better day I will look and listen.

I observe the brown noise falling.

 

They say the two inches of oxygen

between the cone of milled beans

and the awaiting mug

enhances the flavor.

If I close my eyes and open

my imagination I hear the trickle

of a brook, and the mending of my mind.

 

A prayer of sorts, as I sort through

yesterday, and prepare for today.

I thank God for coffee,

then poor over the humanity,

mine, yours, the world’s.

I grab my mug of brew,

and cream it with “Lord have mercy.”

 

Damage

These creaking bones,

Whose support go

Unappreciated

All these years.

 

These spots fleck

My skin like dandelions.

My face requited

Their affections.

 

This knob on my foot

Offends me;

By days end,

Expresses its disdain.

 

Those unseen organs

Play their stanzas.

Lungs like bagpipes.

Heart, a kettle drum.

 

Ah, for the age of grace-

The grace of age.

Life’s stage,

Curtains.

 

Damn age.

 

(It’s not that bad, really.)