I long to be craved for
in the wee hours before
darkness melts into dawn;
I long to be the first thought
that enters your mind each day…
I long to be savored,
sweet and moist upon your lips
as morning rays slip the blinds
casting stripes on linen sheets.
I long to feel your soft breath
as you inhale the scent of me;
feel your pulse quicken
as my warmth teases your tongue
I long to arouse your senses
satisfy your thirst…
I long to be …
GINNY BRANNAN (Inside Out Poetry) resides in Massachusetts with her husband, son and three cats. Drawing inspiration from life, nature, and the human condition, her poetry has been published in four poetry collections including The d’Verse Anthology: Voices of Contemporary World Poetry, and three anthologies from Journey of the Heart: Women’s Spiritual Poetry.
Over My Morning Coffee
Over my morning coffee I read
About love between john and a red
Haired lady. I saw the pleas for
World peace and love between jamie
And all who follow her. And the names of
Frank, Linda, and those who travel and explore
food bloggers, bloaters, poets, dragons, two eyed kings
without any cards. And more for the readers who search
for the keys and treasures that rust and stay hidden and wait to be bidden
to search beyond the stars. Over my morning coffee I saw the world in a new light.
I saw a world of promise for those who are willing to stand up and fight.
I’m not a king who has the power
To tweet insults every hour
Nor do I desire to be heard
And claim the truth is in all my words.
If the king were to treat me nice
Or ask for my advice
I would not take a chance
Under any circumstance
To believe him as he raves and rants.
He’s not the kind of guy
Who’ll even try to see eye to eye.
He does what he wants to do,
No matter what might ensue.
He’s a doer, not a thinker,
I won’t swallow his yarns
Hook, line, and sinker.
He’s a king without social skill,
Bullying, badgering, from the Hill.
Rather than a model of decorum
For all the world to see,
He seems bent on dragging down,
The office that represents you and me.
To exchange barbed words from the throne,
Destroys the boundaries between right and wrong.
Those in power have offices to represent,
Not used to get even with those they resent.
My Morning Coffee ( added @ 04/04/2017, 4:14 p.m.)
On a crisp morning before the sun wakes,
Wanting to become instantly awake
I have my first cup of coffee,
I consider very important questions,
How much cream will it take?
Will coffee bring out the best of me?
I soon decide the world is in slow motion,
As i wake, one eye at a time,
All atrocities are to be dealt with later,
I enter my quiet moments of meditation,
Sipping slowly, shaking away yesterday,
Thinking about the beauty of today.
But not all is right with the world.
Russia and china are partnering,
Telling the United States to calm down,
Hold off on defensive missiles, wait until dark
When the world can sleep and dream
Of the perfect cup of coffee.
DAN ROBERTSON (My Blog) didn’t send me a bio and photo (or, maybe I forgot ask for one) but I’ve known him long enough to write a little something off the top of my head. Dan is a former teacher (high school I believe) and a father. One daughter is an accomplished artist. He’s a natural-born storyteller with one – maybe two – collections of short stories that were published some time ago. Dan’s been sharing stories and poetry on WordPress since November 2010. He is also the former owner of an online shop. Dan’s gentle spirit and strong intuitive sense is revealed in all his work. He studied journalism and communication at Cal State Sacramento. J.D.
Over My Morning Coffee
A sweetner and a hearty dose of creamer
await in a favorite mug,
for the hot medium roast,
not too strong.
The purple porch swing awaits
in the cool morning air
as the eastern sun flickers through
the tops of distant trees.
I swing gently, cradling the mug,
enjoying the warmth and
the ritual a bit more
than the coffee.
Contemplating the miracle of
the flow and ebb of life
as flowers bloom and die
in the perennial bed below.
PAT BAILEY, mulitalented and in retirement, publishes stunning photographs on her site, mainly of discoveries made on travel adventures with her husband. These are accompanied with savvy reflections and keen observations on life, relationships and aging. Pat worked at Spring Arbor University before her retirement. She studied psychology at Fielding Institute of Graduate Studies. She has an MSW (social work) and a Ph.D. (clinical psychology), which led to professional employment that she appears to have found gratifying. The meditations Pat posts on her blog reveal the perspectives gained from her work and the insights of a truly decent person. J.D.
::coffee::
can you make coffee, make
it last two hours? can you
talk?
when there is solitary, when
thoughts are enough to blend,
when all you thought you needed
was supplied, it takes encouragement
to talk.
hear yourself chat on and on
about nothing in particular,
or is it something, i can’t remember.
Morning coffee reminds her of years gone by
when she hustled to clean & tidy up the house
so untidy with five children running about
so she would be in readiness for parents
knowing that several pots would brew of a day
to give her the energy to persevere, strength
to be patient while her mother scrutinized,
criticized and ultimately laughed with her
but she knew as their car left the driveway
she would settle into a comfy spot dozing as
her caffeine high evaporated, energy waned
leaving her thinking of only the one cup
setting before her swirling, inviting to
remind her the pots of coffee that brewed
are but a memory no longer required, no
longer needed to get through parents visits
Over his morning coffee he sat,
dreaming of yesterday’s spring
and the hill country of his youth,
remembering summers of peace
and autumn days when he thought
life a forever thing. The world lay before
him then, a ripe field awaiting harvest.
Now beside this sad cup, a winter hand,
so withered and so gray, an old man’s
hand he barely recognized as his own.
Then his gaze found her playful smile.
In the hazel warmth of her eyes he
felt like spring again, the rich loam of
her love yielding a gentle harvest of joy
So, what about your morning coffee – or tea? Tells us …
If you feel comfortable leaving your work or a link to it in the comments section, please do. All work shared will be published on this site next Tuesday.
THE LAST WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT June 21: Times and places of peace leave no scars to jog our memories and stoke the fires of our hope. Remember peace or imagine it: What would a world at peace look like?
My own poem that accompanied the prompt was about re-imagining a war torn place – Syria – into peace. Some have taken the prompt and pointed it at inner peace or the personal experience of a peaceful moment, both of which would be the everyday norms of a peaceful world. S.E. Ingram writes about explaining peace to a child … and it is peace to that child when he and his brother stop hitting one another. And so it is with the world at large.
Thanks to all who came out to play.
EXPLAINING A PEACE-SIGN TO A TODDLER
It never occurred to me how impossible
it might be to describe a concept to a child
An innocent whose frame of reference
doesn’t yet extend to encompass such
atrocities as war
So how to explain the need for peace
I give him a teddy-bear that is tie-dyed,
a souvenir from a trip to New Orleans;
I don’t notice until he’s holding it that
the bear is sporting a peace sign on its
miniature T-shirt, and naturally the 2 year
old wants to know what it “says”
He understands the hexagonal red road
signs mean “stop”, and the inverted yellow
triangles mean “wait” (yield actually, but
it’s a word still beyond him)
But peace? I try to explain about fighting
and then no fighting
He nods wisely, asks me if it’s like when he
and his brother “hit” and then get into
trouble
Is it “peace” when they both stop hitting
In a way, I tell him, in a way…
above a bay containing a quiet sea
not quite knowing
so many years ago
the drift of my soul
or the even more alien drift of the soul
of that other now just
a sometimes voice on the telephone—
this single event
comes back to me now
when I could very well do without it:
it was a moment before going back for hotel teatime
on a hill complete with sensation of slipping down & off
above a bay containing such a quiet sea
such a long remorseful soul-drift
between then & now
and that is all you’ll know of it
except that you’ll compare it
with that small event that drifts
in & out of your own recollection
particle & wave depending on your angle
(both together when you look away
from what’s held in place
by time & space maybe something like
a hill… a bay… a sea quietly moving there
stuck like a tune on an old record)
my self the zero coordinate
(emergent uprising)
held in place momentarily by
the elements that constitute
a State of Being:
walker & path walked;
dreamer & dream-journey;
thinker & web of thought
*
This was a moment of peace that may seem like some kind of scar but my own quiet state now is a ‘zero coordinate’, unifying all, which is a rather larger moment of peace still warmly linked to that hill above a bay… I feel myself there right now nearly sixty years ago!
The poem comes from my The Recovery of Wonder (Hub Editions, 2013)
In a time primordial when first life began
unimaginative of the harsh realities of wars
when sunrises and sunsets were ethereal
she can only imagine stepping into dreams
of discovering an unblemished world of those
dreams made of translucent skies so that
much like Peter all she has to do is to go
to the star second to the right and straight
on till morning or perhaps like Alice she
should eat but a small bit of cake to become
just the right size to enter the garden
there upon discovering a different world
for in seeing forever is the powerful force
where oceans teeming with life are no longer
a graveyard of war ships but only coral reefs
a delightful dance of colors and creatures
and where gardens floral are wondrous delights
for children playing for hate is not a word
so cannot invade her dreams that will always
be pristine as newly fallen snow in Winter
with skies so clear she can revel to see them all
from anywhere to blissfully fly to the star second
to the right and straight on till morning
“Fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity.”
― George Carlin
white
a ghostly memory
of damask roses
night-booming jasmine
olive trees, heavy with fruit
black
reimagined into white and
gone the fear of bombs
gone the crumbled buildings and crushed hearts
the abandoned cities, the empty streets
now the children play, they study
the houses stand and the gardens grow
hope towers, a moral high-ground
the ghost is the dove
and the hawk has flown
Times and places of peace leave no scars to jog our memories and stoke the fires of our hope. Remember peace or imagine it: What would a world at peace look like?
If you feel comfortable, leave your poetry or prose or a link to it in the comments section below. All work shared in response to this prompt will be published in a post here next Tuesday.
Jamie Dedes' THE POET BY DAY Webzine 