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.