A poem is written about coffee
After a poet's insomniac night
Full of stained ceramic mugs
And crumpled ***** of paper
Filled with poems
They wish they didn't write

these nights are the nights
that I wish I had:

a cup of coffee
a view of the stars
a comfy blanket
a knitted sweater
a sleeping kitten

things that you savor
things that give live flavor
things that you live for
things that you love for

things that will whisper
in your ear to say

"today was bad,
but tomorrow will be better"

sure, I don't have
a cup of coffee

and I can't see
the stars from my window

my blanket is rough

and I don't own a sweater.

...

I'm allergic to kittens.

but I know you're out there
and one day
you'll whisper in my ear

"today was bad,
but tomorrow will be better"

The library smells
like ginger and coffee
and books that haven't seen the light of day since they were published

the sour scent of unopened pages
and the bittersweet commercialized coffee
diffuse throughout the building,

procrastination,
this is the smell of procrastination.

the air is swirling,
whipped along by the passers-by
its cool embrace is welcoming
gently blowing through me, onwards

cooling my mind as i brace
for the swell of tests and
tests and
tests

The coffee scent relinquishes,
as well as the task at hand,
and my dorm is calling me

I Don't Like Guns...But

they make my husband feel
like a man and help him bond
with our sons.  

I don't like them or how he
describes the way they feel in
his hand:  "Better than a ***",  
I heard him confide to his pal, Joey...

but something has to protect  us.  
I mean it's our right to be on guard.  
It's our right.

My husband spends all his
time with his guns:  cleaning them,
polishing the barrels, studying their
details.  And talking...talking about
his gun rights, about his next NRA
meeting or  what happened at the
last or that he can't believe how
good the right gun in his hand feels.  

I don't like guns...they made me                   disappear.


Written for GUNS DON'T SAVE PEOPLE POETS DO:  DUELING WITH WORDS TO STOP GUN VIOLENCE. ..a Facebook group

My first love was the moon.

In my darkest hours, he bled through my curtains.
He was quiet, never really having to say anything,
only gently bathing me in his light.

He replaced my tears with stars,
arranging them in constellations that told of our future,
proving to me I'd live long enough to even have a future.

Even when I refused to let him in,
even as I'd shut my windows and bundle under the covers,
I'd peek outside after some time and he'd still be there,
Night after night.
Waiting.
Patient.
Forgiving.
Loving.

Perhaps I had taken my moon for granted.
Perhaps one wasn't designed to wait forever.
Perhaps a moon can only share its light for so long.

Tonight I open my windows,
and for the first time,
the night has never been darker.

There's no silver linings
No light at the end of the road
And I've been searching
...all on my own

The trees are losing thier leaves
Much like I am losing my hair
And the grass is growing it's weeds
And I'm seeing things that aren't there

Its these chemicals balanaced in my mind
That prompts me to find
Such sad little beings
Who love and live
As thoughts in my mind

I'm seeing faces in the shadows
Love in darkness
And happiness with the smoke in my lungs

And I'm done

So done with this constant ache
This soreness in my head
This brutal awakening
That I am dead

Not physically so because I still breathe
But inside of me, I bleed

I look in the mirror
And hate what I see
"Well change yourself!"
But that isn't me

And now I'm slumped on the couch
Listening to slow songs
Watching the room spin
Out of control

Wishing these thoughts weren't there