Coffee, Strong and Slightly Bitter, Mellowed

I like my coffee strong, usually a dark roast, a French roast, strong and slightly bitter, but mellowed with a little cream, not milk, cream, just enough to cut the bitterness but not mask the taste of a strong coffee.

Now there are those folks who swear by their coffee to wake them up in the morning or to keep them going when they start to drag, the late-night workers trying to stay awake or the students cramming for a big exam the next day. Me? Not so much. I drink it because I like the taste, mornings perhaps out of habit, too, but I don’t warn people to leave me alone until I’ve had my first two cups of coffee – I’m no bear without it. And it really doesn’t wake me up in the morning; I wake up, get myself together to start my day, and then go for the coffee as part of my breakfast, to compliment my bowl of honey-nut cheerios and the morning news. Coffee is a slow drink, and I linger over it mornings, stretching out the morning; perhaps, too, it’s a reason to linger and not begin working or starting some project. But I don’t like being disturbed over breakfast and the news; it’s my time, a time of quiet before the rush of the day ahead. If I’m a bear, it’s not the lack of coffee, but the being disturbed.

And the afternoon cup is to slow down the day, a break, a time to retreat into myself, to quiet the world around me, an excuse to pull away and reflect, a reflection guided by a slow mug of coffee lingered over, not because I need it, but because I like it, that dark, slightly bitter taste, mellowed by cream, washing down a chocolate chip cookie or a sugary donut, a time to recharge, alone with my thoughts, and perhaps a pen and a clean sheet of paper.

As for it keeping me awake on those late nights, forcing myself to stay awake and finish some movie, or a good book, or some project I’m engrossed in? Doesn’t work for me. When I’m tired, I’m tired, and no amount of caffeine will keep me awake. I’ve even been known to linger over a cup of coffee before bed, slowing life down and falling asleep, sleeping the night away and waking refreshed, ready for … well, ready for the morning coffee, honey-nut Cheerios, and the news, the start of a new day, once again, undisturbed.

Christmas Poem, 2020 - A Letter to Santa

 Dear Santa, St. Nicholas, Father Christmas, Père Noel,

and the myriad of names you’re called, dressed in red

or green or blue, a white beard on your chin and a pack

on your back, a sleigh reindeer-pulled, or a staff to guide

your Christmas walk, leaving behind presents under the tree

and filling our stockings, hung with care on the mantel

or the bedpost, while we sleep and dream of the morrow,

of Christmas Day, I’m writing you now as I used to, long ago

in childhood, a practice I abandoned as I aged, though never,

not ever, losing my belief in you, a child’s fantasy not easily

forgotten, safely hidden in the façade of adulthood, remembering.

And, as then, I’ve tried to be good this year, failed some,

my heart in the right place, mostly, but it’s been

a rough year, this year, much to upset me, get me down,

make me mad, and I’ve lashed out at times, very unlike me

to do that, even said some things in anger and fear, sulked and pouted,

but you know that, you know if I’ve been bad or good, or perhaps

you’re still trying to decide on which list I belong, not too bad, yet

not good enough, but then … so as I’ve promised every year in the darkness

of my bed, I promise to try harder, or maybe there’s a better year ahead,

less to upset me, get me down, a new year to believe in the goodness

of mankind, in peace on earth again, quicker to forgive, to love

patiently, less fearful and angry, more trusting and trustworthy,

forgiving first myself, loving first myself and my neighbors as myself,

a force for good, more compassionate, more helpful, more human.

If you could look past my behaviors of this year, my heart in the right

place and a year where even the best of us have struggled and a year

of change ahead because we’ve struggled, because we’ve survived,

perhaps you could consider my Christmas list and maybe not load

my stocking with much deserved coal, just one thing, something small,

if you could. I would be forever grateful. So first,

as has been on my list since I was six, that farm set

with the barn and some cows, and a tractor, some hay bales,

back when I thought this my ideal career, country-born that I was,

and though I long ago abandoned that dream, I’d still like the farm,

something to play with in my retirement, a reminder of childhood’s simplicity,

the dreams I had that brought me to where I am now, here, writing to you;

socks even, for the snow and cold we get here in this northern clime,

to keep my aging toes warm in the winter chores outside, bundled up,

you who would know the need, the kind of socks you might wear

on Christmas Eve; and coloring books and crayons, pens and pencils

and paper; a new light to help me find my way in the darkness of night

when I can’t sleep, and a coffee mug to replace the one I dropped last week

and broke, functional things to keep me functioning, useful things; of course,

I could ask for World Peace and an end to wars and hunger and sickness --

always on my list, too, just below the farm set I haven’t gotten yet --

but I know that can’t be wrapped with a shiny bow or carried in your sack

around the globe and placed under my tree, something even Father Christmas

can’t bring us, the elves can’t make in their cheery factory, nor the reindeer deliver,

for we must create it ourselves, humbling ourselves, each of us, seeking it

in the why and the wherefore of this holiday season, the birth of the Christ-child,

the shining star of Bethlehem guiding us, and perhaps someday … well, perhaps,

like a little farm with a barn and cows, a tractor and bales of hay, something to hope for,

waking up some Christmas morning to open this new gift, this gift of the manger,

angel announced, the gift of the Most High, exalted, the gift of Peace.

Thin Ice

The lake this morning is frozen solid,

though I suspect not thick enough yet

to support us gliding across its surface,

but I’m reminded of you, long ago, of us

trudging through the woods to the river

beyond, donning our skates and holding hands,

to support each other, a long blue scarf trailing behind.

Here, at the Lake

 Yesterday, the wind blew hard and the trees swayed

and toppled unseen, muffled, under the weight of heavy

snow, water laden; the sky turned the color of smoke, whites

and grays, and the lake grew dark, black and cold, white caps

rising up to lap the shore as an ocean would do, sending a spray

to where I stood bundled warm against the wind, here, far inland,

by this landlocked lake, small and ringed with forest and ridge.

 

But this morning, the water was calm and still, barely a ripple;

a thin layer of ice had formed, thick at the shore, thinning

to open water a few yards out. The tinkling of ice breaking

against itself in that thin border between water and ice newly formed

rings out clearly, tinkling like the voices of winter pixies, whimsical 

and magic, brought to life, shaking loose their wings and taking flight, 

blown by the wind, proclaiming their season of ice and snow, 

here, at the lake.

The Hush of a Soft Rain

The coffee this morning was strong,

dark and bitter, mellowed with a little cream,

and tempered, rising early, by the morning's 

stillness, and the hush of a soft rain softly sung, 

a hymn for this new day’s new beginning.

Reclamation

That which the Earth calls its own,

the Earth will reclaim, with fire

and flood, with the shaking

of the earth and our wills, and drought,

pestilence and war, and the strong winds set free;

we who earthbound walk on two legs, despite

our dominion, science, intellect, and faith, are not exempt,

reclaimed, too, for Earth’s own greater being,

for harmony and balance, for sustaining itself:

this one Earth, a gift to those who know their province,

a charge to wait upon the earth, the King’s bride,

who sustains us all, of one accord, an affinity of one spirit.

Middle Street, Portland, Me 1909 ** for my grandmother **

In 1909, when you’re nine years old, Portland

is a lifetime away when Papa loads

up his wagon for the long trip south,

a rare trip rarely taken from the farm

and she too young to go, her excitement

squashed by a firm hug and a gentle voice

saying, “no,” but amid her tears and the fears

of the slow miles and days ahead of him,

she wonders what he’ll bring her,

new yellow hair-ribbons as he promised,

or the doll she’s dreamed of forever

in the Sears and Roebuck catalog.

Unprepared

 A cold wind winds its way

down the lake, bringing snow

in its wake, a cold this soon

too cold for my comfort zone, even

as winter approaches quickly, the months

ahead of snow and cold and ice, a season

I’m not ready for, yet again. I prefer

the gradual dropping of the sun’s warmth,

barely perceptible, creeping slowly upon me,

a time to adjust and prepare, getting

ready for the change of seasons; so too,

the changes of living, time and age advancing on us.

We often fail to see this coming, adjusting

as we go along, it approaching in the aches

and pains and slowing down of our lives,

unprepared as we are for growing older.

 

Perhaps, though, it is best that way, unprepared,

delighting in ourselves, old friends,

old memories and new ways of seeing the world,

remembering who we are and drinking in

the moments, the hours, the days and weeks, fearless

as winter approaches and the months

of snow and cold and ice, the seasons

of our own lives changing.

The World is Flat

 The world is flat, I declared,

unrolling a long-rolled map

out onto a table to find direction,

securing its corners with books

and such, to keep it from rolling

back up into itself and falling, 

perhaps, off the edge of its world.

The Children's Laughter

In these days of uncertainty and confusion,

shaking our heads in wonder over the morning news,

our coffee cooling too quickly in our favorite mug

just out of reach, it’s good to hear the children’s laughter

and their noise, giving voice to their enthusiasm and dreams,

hopeful about the crack of a bat against a baseball

and the sound it makes caught in a soft leather glove.

Autumn Darkens into Fall

 Autumn darkens into fall

as the days grow shorter into night

and the air turns cold against the sky,

morning’s sun and evening’s rising moon

and starlight set in darkness shining. Our spirits

turn inward now toward our hearts and souls

seeking the self, hidden, too, by the dark and cold,

rapt as we are by the change of the seasons, one

into the next, a transformation done in darkness

and a trial by the fires that burn within us

to weather the changes, hardened as steel,

unyielding, yielding only to that which we are,

and are becoming, a metamorphosis into ourselves,

made perfect in the cycle of the seasons changing.

Heading Down the Long Road South to Home

Heading down the long road south to home,

highway driving, cruise control and auto pilot,

to visit with my brother, to ask some questions,

get some answers I can’t find, for he would know

what to do. He always did, growing up, whether

I asked or not, whether I listened or not, took his advice

or not, and well into adult life he’s been there for my own

troubled life with advice, assurances, and answers.

So I’m headed home to where he lies in state now

in an ancient cemetery, among the like-minded,

common men whose strength lay in themselves,

without fanfare, laurel leaves, or crowns atop their heads,

settled among the gravestones where we seek them,

shed our tears and feed our grief and leave wondering

still, but buoyed up by their strength, by the answers

they leave us with, found only in these visits home,

heading down the long road south to home.

August Images

 — 1 —

A strong wind carpets my yard

with fallen leaves, autumn’s brilliance

faded now and brittle, the trees’

limbs, the skeletons of autumn.

 — 2 —

There’s a silence on the lake,

the last of the loons leaving

and taking with them their echoing calls

reverberating in the clear autumn air.

 — 3 —

From my home, sauntering

an autumn trail through the woods,

the acrid smell of a wood fire burning

leads me back in time and memory.

 — 4 —

Autumn’s early morning, and the frost lingers

on the grass and fallen leaves, lingering,

too, and the stone fence bordering my yard,

a foretelling of the winter snows ahead.

 — 5 —

A dark night, cool but not cold,

“sweater weather,” we claim, pulling a wrap

around us, looking to the stars, awaiting Orion

to begin his winter walk across the night sky.

Peepers

With the melting snow and the days lengthening,

the return of leaves and buds beginning, life’s renewal,

we await their song in the early evening, unannounced,

announcing themselves and the return of spring

with the shrill peeping of their chorus among the trees,

so tiny as to be invisible, filling the evening air with sound

lingering through the summer months, hardly aware

when the music stops and the days grow shorter.

Likewise, in autumn’s approach, the flowers withering,

faded remnants of color still atop their stalks and stems,

and the leaves fading, too, transforming to brighter shades

of red and orange and yellow, and hanging on tight, they

drop singly to the ground, succumbing to the season,

floating, drifting to the ground, blown dryly, scratching

along the garden path to gather along the stone wall,

and again, the peepers return, announced in long

lines of cars from away streaming north, the roar

of engines and the steady whine of tires, these autumn  

peepers come to watch the season change

and the beauty unveiled in its passing.

The Garden

 The creation story says on the sixth day

the beasts of the field were made, after their kind,

and with them, in His own likeness, to rule

over the fish of the sea and the birds of the sky

and the earth, was man made, and woman, 

from dust and bone, and behold, it was good,

a good day creating; and he built for them

a garden, a thing of beauty, a joy forever, charging

them to cultivate it and keep it, and naked and unashamed,

they did, cultivating and flourishing themselves, equally.

Today, the garden lies in ruin and waste, gone 

fallow, over-harvested, dry and unfruitful, scorched 

and burned, torn down, turned under to plant 

instead riches for men to hoard, claiming now dominion

over each other, other men, as animals herded and

vegetation cut down to harvest, to feed not ourselves

but the fat among us; in time, the earth responds in famine

and drought and fire, plagues and pestilence, and our cries

fall on deaf ears as the earth, this garden, reclaims itself, fighting

back, and we again, like Adam and Eve, are cast out and banished,

cursed once again, scrabbling for ourselves, yet tasting perhaps

the tree of life’s sweet fruit and setting ourselves up

as gods, forgetting now as then, who we are, why we are.

Shall we ever learn the art of love and life and balance,

cultivating the garden of the world as we once were charged,

cultivating and flourishing, equally, returning again to Eden’s garden?

Nighttime’s Silence

 The sky’s last vermillion, setting, dissolves 

the dusk into darkness, and nighttime’s

silence echoes the loons’ late calling, low

and mournful across the lake; among the trees, 

an owl hoots out its greeting to the night.

Calling Home

Only

...

silence on an old phone line -

Hello? Hello,

Mom? Are you there?

I know the

number

still.

I need

to talk to you, Mom. Are you there?

Season's Changing

With the nights now colder

the leaves become tinged

with September, signaling

change and the almanac’s

predictions of cold and snow,

those wise old farmers forecasting,

forcing us inside and into ourselves,

preparing us for the autumn

of our lives and the winter

months beyond, dark and alone,

readying us for the cycle of our lives

and our own seasons’ changing. 

One Body

Whether we ascribe to Adam and Eve

created on the 6^th day before God took a break

or some other creation story creating “us,” in other images,

even to Darwin’s theory, from single cell swimming

to crawling from the water onto land, from ape

to man, adapting, evolving, moving up the food chain,

it doesn’t matter, for regardless, we are here, all of us,

arms and legs and heads with brains, fingers

and toes, dexterity to grasp and lift, to make tools

and fire as we move freely about, bi-pedal and mobile,

searching for ourselves to sustain us and family, youth

born to perpetuate us, and continue, advancing, resembling us

and perhaps our maker, too, poised well above us, something

greater for us to seek, to worship and adore, and never fully understand,

but something there beyond ourselves and our flawed humanity,

some unattainable perfection, some morality that we strive for,

and fail, yet we devote our lives to finding it, absolving some original

sin or achieving the pinnacle of our evolutionary selves, always reaching,

though not alone, left to flounder and stumble and to die a cruel death,

but striving with our own kind, seeking together, united by our humanity,

in kindness, sympathy and mercy, unselfish courage and integrity and value,

self-aware and wholehearted, rational and free to choose rightly,

one body of humanity, holy, blessed, passionate: one body;

hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions,

fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject

to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed

and cooled by the same winter and summer; and the questions asked,

          If you prick us, do we not bleed?

                    If you tickle us, do we not laugh?

                              If you poison us, do we not die?

yes, one body, one humanity, in search of nothing more

than life’s ending and its final reward, a resting place

with the universe of mankind, as one body, one humanity.

August Heat

 August heat here lies

sweltering, leaden’d

on a layer of sodden air;

and wraps itself in flannel

by the season’s end.

Education

 

Growing up, we had our own emergency drills,

shuffling to the halls and curling into little balls

with our hands over our heads against

some distant people we knew little about,

but it was a part of being in school,

like math and science and art, and recess;

and the President was shot, and I couldn’t

understand why my sister was crying

because I was only nine and “the President”

was foreign to me, some unknown person

in a city I’d never visited, couldn’t find on a map,

though I’d heard its name and his;

and Carol Savage moved away in the 2^nd grade,

love gone forever, save for my parents and a stuffed

elephant I’d been born with who would never leave me,

but I found love again in Junior High, or perhaps

what passed for love in Junior High, a new vocabulary,

only to finally figure it out much later, and the pain

that goes with it, and the loneliness of lost love

learned and new love found carried forward to adulthood,

wondering, always wondering, the whats and the whys of life

and love; and a war raged on, brought to us live

into our living rooms on a small black and white

screen showing the carnage and the protests

decrying the loss of life and liberties, freedoms

taken away, perhaps even lost forever in another land

on the other side of the world, a land

of rice paddies and names we couldn’t pronounce,

and what remained was sent home in a box

to be buried, a name etched on a wall,

so we joined the crowds and marched, sat in,

tuned out, and raised our signs, resisted, spent a night

in jail or a lifetime in Vietnam, changed,

chained even by memories that never go away,

even as we retire to our front porches, remembering

“the good old days,” and Carol Savage, love lost

in the second grade and the silly drills of school,

little human balls fearing what we didn’t know;

but now we know …;

and the knowing isn’t easier to understand,

easier to face unafraid, any easier than it was before

when we covered our heads or cried ourselves to sleep,

when things didn’t make sense but we rose up against them

or picked up a gun and lay down our lives,

all for naught, for what we learned was fear,

what we learned was to be afraid.

Store Front

I had just passed by that same spot,

and looking back, saw a man staring

intently into a store front window,

the exact spot where all I saw,

walking fast on my way somewhere,

too busy to stop, as I have now, though,

delayed by stopping, was my own face

reflected at a glance, a warped image

of myself, darkly detailed, just that

and nothing more, myself flat

against a warped street and the bank

warped across the way, darkly

detailed, too, barely distinguished

from the warped images reflected there.

But he stared so intently, looking

beyond the glass at something, and waved,

his elbow a pivot point, his hand wavering

back and forth, ecstatic, and pointing

with his other hand, tapping the glass,

leaving behind his fingerprints smeared

and smudged, a tell-tale sign of lingering,

stopped and looking, me, too, now

standing here intently watching him, wondering

what had stopped him there, what had I missed

in rushing past, passing by in my haste.

Perhaps, it was myself I missed, a younger self

peering in, clearly reflected, seeing someone I knew,

old friends, new friends lost, or something

I’d always wanted, the train set I never got,

the wind-up toy that whirled and whirred,

whimsy, or the simple beauty found in a smile,

the play of light and dark on a canvas painted,

or perhaps it was a child waving first, the funny man

rushing by, the funny man waving back, stopping.

Purple Finch

The purple finch is not purple,

not the ones at my feeder feeding,

more of a red than purple, but not

like cardinals’ or red-breasted robins’

red, too bright or a rusted breastplate;

maroon perhaps, which is

a purple of sorts, sort of, though not

the purple of lilacs or the grapes

crushed to wine, nor the Merlot

or Cabernet they become, fermented,

dry wines made better with the passing

of age and shared with friends,

as I share this finch with you now,

a finch of its own color, this purple finch

feeding at my feeder, sharing himself,

and leading me away from the dull

matte of my summer days winding down

and the approaching autumn of life,

to take wing and fly away,

and return.

Sometimes

Sometimes, all we can do

is share our small voice

in a world that perhaps

is not listening,

and that is enough

as we move forward

through that same world

at our own speed,

in our own time,

feeling the sunshine,

looking up, on our face,

and below our feet,

the solid ground

of grace and wonder.

First Date

We were to race together

down the hill, bundled

warm against the winter cold,

on a toboggan, us two and three,

maybe four, other kids

holding tight to one another

to keep from falling off,

to stay together to the finish line

where the hill flattened out,

a final glide for the win

across a frozen bog

and winning you.

I would have held you tighter

to keep us somehow closer,

bundled warm and holding on

to each other, as we trudged

back up the hill, holding

hands and hearts, forever, but it

rained that day and the hill

turned a slushy mush,

a sled bogging down

and going nowhere,

ending too soon.

Lullaby

Nights,

lying in bed

awaiting sleep

and the sweet dreams

to follow,

the loons

begin their lullaby

calling out, a sharp cry

and warbling echo;

from a distance,

an owl hoots, “who-who

hoot,” that question,

who?

Wondering, drifting off,

 “it is me, here,

dreaming the night.”

The Children's Table

Christmas dinner at Gram’s the dining room

extended across the house to the far

wall where sat the youngest cousins

around the children’s table devoid

of the fine China and cut glass of the adults,

too fragile for our clumsy hands and manners.

There, we were served by our mothers

and aunts, our paper plates piled high

with potatoes, white and sweet orange,

green beans and peas and carrots,

turkey and dressing smothered in gravy,

cranberry sauce, and for dessert, pudding

and pie and molasses cookies freshly made,

retrieved from the cookie jar on the sideboard,

always well within grandchildren’s easy reach.

Although we didn’t mind our place

away from the adult conversations

that kept us hushed and ignored, safe

there among the myriad of young cousins,

we dreamed of moving, each in turn, up

to the adult table, assuming a rightful

place with the big people, even as we stole

the nuts and mints from the little paper cups

placed before the cousins around us and spilled

our lunch, crumbs and gravy, on ourselves

and the floor below, anticipating the Christmas

tree to come where we’d seen a package

bearing our name and a bright red bow

pushed far to the back, hidden

and out of sight, awaiting us.

Summer Night Music

Beethoven’s Ode

            swells the summer night,

                        loud and forceful, stirring the soul;

and a night-bird sings

            outside our open window,

                        an obligato improvised, unrehearsed,

reminding us

            of the music

                        of an evening’s stillness.