The coffee shop I’m writing from today
Is my favorite kind of place.
Stained oak tables and battered counters, arabica brown,
Employee-owned, comfortably crowded,
Angsty barista sporting a shiny nose ring,
And snappy smile under chai-mocha eyes.
Hand-sprawled menu, simple drink descriptions
In dusty blue sidewalk chalk,
Cup capacities plainly listed in the language of the locals,
No need for hasty Italian translations,
Sonos speakers pouring a perfectly brewed soundscape
Somehow seamless from Dylan to Pavement,
Mazzy Star to Miles Davis,
Melodies landing lightly
Amongst the scattered conversation
Of eclectically caffeinated customers.
Category: Poems
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Chai-Mocha Eyes
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In-Between Chill
Winter rain etching erratic paths down window panes,
Blurring the world into a watercolor dream,
Painted with a palette of grays,
Slow, rhythmic tap-tapping on the rooftop,
Drumming a steady soundtrack of solitude on cold tin,
Not the up-tempo swing of a welcome summer shower,
Nor the hushed All Blues brushing stillness of winter snowfall –
But that in-between chill,
Too brisk for comfort under the open sky,
Not quite cold enough for the hearth's hot glow,
A damp, dark slate-tinged groove calling you
Back to the bed's blanketed embrace.
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Traveller
Sometimes, a trivial fact bayonets into your mind
And resides there for a lifetime,
Even though its utility seems nonexistent.
Like knowing the name of Bob Lee’s horse.General Robert E. Lee,
Confederate commander,
A man entwined in complexities:
West Point graduate, proud American,
Son of a Revolutionary War hero,
Yet leading an army against that same nation,
Choosing his native Virginia over union.He rode into battle atop a 16-hand gray Saddlebred,
A horse as grand as his reputation,
Named aptly, Traveller.
This steed, tall and majestic,
Lent stature to Lee,
A man of ordinary height,
With proportionately short legs,
Making him seem a towering figure upon his mount.I can’t pinpoint when this detail,
The name of Lee’s horse,
Galvanized in my memory,
Nor why my brain hoards it so close to the surface,
While more practical knowledge
Fades into the subconscious depths.Perhaps, one day, I’ll stand as a contestant on Jeopardy
Ready to press the buzzer and confidently say,
“I’ll take ‘Confederate War Horses’ for $1,000,”
My eagerness clear, my voice full of assurance.
And the host, with a knowing nod,
Will await my response,
Already certain of its correctness.
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The Last Time
Most endings slip past unnoticed.
The last swim in the ocean,
the final bike ride home.
One day, you lift your child
without knowing it’s the last time,
their smallness slipping from your arms
before you realize it’s gone.A final bedtime story,
a last school drop-off,
a closing conversation with a friend—
all ordinary until they aren’t.We mark the big endings,
but life is a quiet unraveling,
a series of goodbyes we never think to say
until we’re looking back,
wishing we had paid closer attention.
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Acta Non Verba
True transformation rarely stems
from words alone.
A sermon means nothing
from an untouched hand,
a lesson fades when not lived.
To inspire change in others,
we must first let it settle
into our bones.
Actions whisper truths
that words could never scream.
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Red Friday
Compelled by my usual procrastination,
and needing a jacket and tie for a Saturday wedding,
I wandered into a mall—
a relic, still hanging on in the Amazon era.Heading toward Macy’s, that familiar anchor,
its bright red star against the dark,
I was struck by how easily
it passed for a communist emblem.My mind drifted.
I imagined the door guards
as soldiers from the People’s Liberation Army.
Che Guevara, wispy beard and black beret intact,
manned the perfume counter.
Erich Mielke watched shoppers
through the unblinking eyes of security cameras.Lenin stood at customer service,
accepting returns.
Mao Zedong stocked shelves, methodical as ever.
Trotsky advised men on suits,
not revolutions.The spell broke as I stepped inside
the Temple of Late Stage Capitalism,
greeted by smiling employees
and shoppers slowed
by Thursday’s feast,
drawn by victory sales
and giant inflatables.
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Idle Dreams, a Villanelle
Dreams lacking action leave nothing to show,
Time carefully marked till the moment feels right,
Plot for too long and you never will go.Talk of adventure, in whispers kept low,
Not daring today to step into the fight,
Dreams lacking action leave nothing to show.Knowledge left idle, allowed just to flow,
Endless planning delays any flight,
Plot for too long and you never will go.Brave souls stalled inside familiar comfort move slow,
Excuses built tall, chance slipping from sight,
Dreams lacking action leave nothing to show.Falter and wait as opportunities blow,
Visions once sharp now fade into night,
Plot for too long and you never will go.As the day closes its last soft glow,
The sun and the earth circling toward night,
Dreams lacking action leave nothing to show,
Plot for too long and you never will go.
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Stardance; or, Geminids’ Return
Helios’ chariot scatters stardust,
From Phaethon’s fateful ride,
As Zeus’ bolt sends splinters,
Over the cold December sky.Fragments burn like torches,
Blaze trails across the sphere,
As Earth twirls blindly through,
Her final stardance of the year.
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Just Write
Sometimes, while staring at a blank page,
the mind wanders,
stretching to absurd lengths
to dodge the task at hand.Asinine thoughts swirl—
out of place in a coffee shop
at 7 a.m. on a Tuesday,
and probably just as much anywhere else,
at any other time,
on any other day.Should I reignite my old cigarette habit?
Would a third espresso unleash creativity?
Is a hermit’s beard and mountain seclusion the key?“Stop it,” I tell myself,
forcefully,
aloud,
likely sounding insane
to anyone within earshot.There might be merit
in one of those musings—
just not now.Now the instruction is to
Just
Write.To splatter mind matter on the blank page
and see if, amid the mess,
something worth keeping
shows up.
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Ghosts and Lawyers
It’s become common to see
lawyers on TV flashing phone numbers,
the same digit repeated,
rows of fours, strings of sevens,
easy to remember
when you’re standing in a police station
or pacing a hospital hallway.Not so long ago
we carried dozens of numbers in our heads,
dialed them cleanly
on rotary phones.Now the phones remember for us.
Still, I know the number
of the house I grew up in,
though I couldn’t tell you
who lives there now,
and my grandfather’s landline too,
our last conversation
long over.Sometimes it strikes me as funny
that the numbers I still carry
belong only to ghosts
or lawyers.People I want to call
but can’t,
and others
I hope I never need.
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Casual Chit Chat
When you choose the big community table
at the coffee shop—
the tall one with long-legged chairs
and enough outlets to power
a small battalion of laptops—
you’re quietly saying,
It’s okay, stranger, you can talk to me,
if you need to.But if you’re at that same table,
headphones snug over both ears,
laptop open like a small barricade,
the message is different:I’m here to work.
Or write.
Or read.Not looking for casual chit-chat.
But still—
I’d rather not be
completely alone.
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Gentle Reminder
Starlight dances softly upon rooftops,
Gliding through barren branches
To play on fallen leaves,
Reminding us gently
Of our own star’s
Promised return.
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Mind Mutiny
Pencil poised over clean paper,
ready for orders.It waits.
The command never comes.
Somewhere behind the eyes,
a small mutiny breaks out—
nothing dramatic,
just everyone deciding
to sit down at once.What used to be a war room
is suddenly quiet.
Maps still on the table.
Coffee going cold.At ease, Number Two.
We’ll regroup,
and like the French and the Indians,
mount our attack at dawn.
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Spring Cleaning
Mild winter has left the backyard
in a kind of limbo.
Too much shade,
last fall’s rain still pooled
in the cracks of the stone patio.Without enough sun to argue back,
the moss moves in,
slow and confident,
turning the stones a patient green
that feels permanent.I make a note: late spring.
When the pressure washer comes out
and does what it does best—
a loud, indiscriminate erasing,
as if nothing ever lived there at all.
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The Secret to Swatting Houseflies
The secret
to swatting houseflies
is patience.Don’t rush about,
swatter in hand,
like a frantic midfielder chasing a football
passed just out of reach—
again and again,
always a moment too late.Instead, sit like a sniper,
devoted to the science of stillness.
The weapon nearby,
not the focus,
just a quiet companion.Let the winged annoyances come to you.
Then strike—
quickly—
before they slip away
into the ether of your kitchen.Coincidentally,
this is also how you catch poems.
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Moonlight Society
If you are lucky enough
to live near a 24-hour grocery store
and haven’t yet wandered in at 3 a.m.,
I warmly invite you to join us
one quiet night.Prime parking spots ripe for the taking,
aisles wide and open as parade grounds,
freshly stocked shelves encouraging
a leisurely reading of labels,
checkout lines empty
as forgotten dreams.Among the sparse pre-dawn crowd,
polite, conspiratorial nods are exchanged,
binding us as silent members
of a secret moonlight society
of insomniacs
and solitude-seekers.
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Unmeasured Worth
A wealthy friend once told me
there’s no money in poetry,
no money in art,
as if profit were the point of a pulse,
as if value only counts
once it can be tallied.It may be a cliché to say
art is the freedom
to spill what’s inside
without stopping to ask
if it’s worth the mess—
but clichés tend to survive
for a reason.If money vanished tomorrow,
would you still do what you do?
That feels like the only question
that matters.If the answer is yes,
keep going—
not for approval,
not for the outcome,
but because making the thing
is already enough.
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Easy Way Out
Driving through the quiet north
of a crowded southern swing state,
I pass the sign—
a Virgin Mary, pale as porcelain,
cradling an even paler child.Do you think she didn’t have other plans?
it asks, the bold print righteous,
as if divinity erases doubt.Below, the punchline:
She didn’t take the easy way out,
and neither should you.A sentence unmistakably written
by a man who has never held
a choice heavy enough
to break him.
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Jim Hall and Django
Unprepared ears,
under siege from top-forty pop,
I retreat to my Sennheisers—
a small sanctuary—
where Jim Hall and Django
quiet things down.It’s a Universal Truth, really,
that jazz guitar belongs in winter cafés,
where cups stay warm in both hands
and no one raises their voice.Nothing flashy.
Nothing in a hurry.
Just enough space
for conversation to breathe,
thoughts to wander,
and coffee to cool
at its own pace.
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Red Oak
Leaves, once emerald, now ablaze in a fiery red,
Vibrant under the caress of morning light.
Proudly, it flaunts to the world,
The secret of its name,
Concealed across seasons, only to
Burst forth onto nature’s grand stage,
As our hemisphere gently tilts from the sun’s embrace.
The Truth About Tigers 