The babble bustle of the Morning:

The babble bustle of the Morning-

As I wake up I move so

slow, and my mind does wander

on if I wish to write Today

and where my mind should

go?

 

The babble bustle of my Morning,

my Mother in Law is already

loudly screaming.

As often She tends to do

whenever our dogs are barking

She flips the heck out.

 

If I could talk to her

rationally, I would explain that

Dogs do bark and its silly

to get angry.

In fact my husband & myself

prefer that our dogs bark naturally-

as that was in the job they were

hired on for, to guard our house

sincerely.

 

But with Her,

there is no rationality.

So I do not waste my breath.

I let her morning screaming

go on and simply fade into

my morning background,

I ignore the unrest.

 

With Morning comes,

slow inspiration

it drips as slow

as my dripped coffee

which my body requires neatly,

just as a car requires

gasoline.

 

So I go downstairs to

face the barking dogs

to face the screaming Widow too

I go downstairs to make my

coffee & then I will bring

a cup filled with dark blackness

and crawl back into my liar

my dragons den

of a bedroom.

 

Here I will drink my coffee

and allow my thoughts

to percolate

I will try my best to tune out

all the noise, and find a place of mind,

to meditate.

 

Then I will write.

I will

babble

bustle

burst

with words, images,& poetry

which will make total sense

to almost Nobody.

 

Yet it pleases me

to do so.

To write, to mold the words like clay

into something solid

like ideas, creativity and all the junk

that comes with the art

of writing simple poetry.

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Cold Coffee

Cold Coffee-5/23/14

Coffee’s getting cold.
As I sit here,
thinking
Bold…
Color combinations upon
a broken painter’s palette.

Coffee’s getting cold.
As I sit here,
feeling old…
nothing is so fleeting
as Life is Stealing
years and years from Us All,

beginning each and everyday
the thief of time
steals of years away.

but I regress…
Coffee’s getting cold.
Black liquid velvet dripping
into a cup, a cup that holds
love.

This coffee cup
from which I sip
once belong to my long-dead
Mother.

I treasure it because
it was once hers.

But Coffee’s getting cold,
as I just sit here
thinking
drinking black coffee
thinking my life away

piece by piece
word by word
poem by poem

a whisper in
the wind
lies unheard.

but…

Coffee’s getting cold.

My Mama when she was young

My Mama when she was young

stuff

i awoke again,
at five am.
which is not
the ideal,
when you have,
bipolar disorder.
i woke up sick,
coughing, felt
a throw up taste,
in the background
of my mouth.
when i went to the
bathroom,i blew my nose
and coughed up pleglm.
totally disgusting,,
but i could deal, right?
wound up not going back to bed,
which equates a nap later,
on today.living on th edge,
of everything, does have,
a price to pay,
and many words
to say, which lie,
somewhere between my feet and my ankles.
the unspoken words,
i will trip upon them,
if i am not careful.
getting sleep is a great
piece of remaining well.
but it aint always easy.

beneath a cup of coffee

beneath a cup of coffee,

you will find me,

as i stare off into space,

with that same dizzy distortion

on my face

which signals that i am thinking,

as i am drinking,

beneath a cup of black coffee,

that’s where you’ll find me,

hiding in a crowd

alone

twisted into a day-dream,

drifting off upon my randomness

of thought, caught up spider-web style

into my thinking again.

beneath a hot cup of black coffee.