Coffee. 

Beans. 

Roasted.

​

Big cup, little cup, fat lip cup, skinny lip cup, paper, ceramic, Yeti or knock off--coffee is good all day long. Get roasted. 

​

As I sit and drink my morning coffee, I wonder if I can count it as a serving of vegetables. Coffee is a brewed bean, after all. I think I will have another cup--just in case. Mhmmm. 

​

For years, my family's go-to-joe was Folger's. We've all kind of morphed our palates, but I've returned to the nostalgia of my youth. I used to get up in the morning the smell of coffee and tobacco. Yes, the odors of a good morning. The 1970s haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air, as each family member picked a mug from the tree and poured a cuppa. When the pot ran out, grandma piled a hefty scoop onto the soggy filter and ran through. Really lucky drinkers would get a nice strong cup from the third or fourth cup. Yep - the brew was so thick, you could practically stand a spoon up in it. Miss you, Grandma! <3

Sweet! When in Rome...flirt over a cup of coffee and steamed milk! That's amore'!

The Little Sequoia

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The little seedling that could...grow, baby, grow!

(Olympic Peninsula, Washington)

Dash: A limerick

​

There once was a Dachshund named Dash

Who liked to eat socks in a flash

He shredded to threads

The socks left for dead

In heaps of slobbery mash.

Silo Sunset

​

Silver crowns of royalty flash reflections of   

The orange and purple sunset. 

Spires standing majestically in the center of town 

Await harvest homage from their subjects. 

Iron carts stand mounted on parallel rails like 

Knights in armor waiting to charge down the tracks, 

Halted on the gravelly main street.

By starting up their cacophonous symphony

Cicadas chirp their song, their crescendo

Winding down at the end of their mating call like 

The end of a hard day’s work.

Soon the crickets join in.

An occasional ribbit sets a steady  rhythm. 

By the light of the fireflies I sit

Like a courtesan sipping fresh lemonade 

On the back-porch swing  

Watching the festivities of nature begin 

Twilight's commencement.

A Doctoral Student's Lament

(Or Ode to Dissertation Writing)

​

Betwixt my pen and addled brain 
Am I to write a sentence;
Ideas cease to produce fain
No wit my minds' eye reference.

​

Tho' foggy be my brain thus far
My fingers type ideas;
My prof his pen my paper mar
The errors most egregious.

​

For my brain hath wrought in twain,
Mushed be the words of research;
I can no longer bear the bain 
My words critics must besmirch.

"I find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving: To reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it - but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor."

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., The Autocrat at the Breakfast Table, p. 93.

A stray dandelion seed danced across the air, just out of my reach. Mesmerized, I watched the single tiny dancer pirouette through the air, waving its plumage at me. I looked around the yard, wondering where the seed came from, and just as the little ballerina danced out of sight, I realized it was a dream I didn't reach out to catch. 

Be Still

​

In the morning

I like to sit

in the cool dewy air

watching the sun

break the darkness

with orange rays

as the fiery orb

rising from the horizon

hinting of warmth

cuts a silver lining

out of the clouds

spreading light and color

across the Earth's landscape

like slowly pushing 

the blanket of sleep away

before the world

makes the sounds

that drown 

the beauty of this peace

full moment. 

Sliver

​

I watched the moon slice an arc

through the sky curtain 

a bright sliver

-almost painfully beautiful to look at-

cut a smooth comma into the evening

a pause, a transition into night

...but not a full stop;

a separating of todays from tomorrows

reminding people to slow down for a bit

but not to quit.

How many moments do I miss

watching time pass me by

when I do not pause 

to look up at the sky?

In Between

​

Above the clouds the sun shone bright

Alighting  the westward sky, 

But underneath them shadows lurked

Casting  a dim reply. 

Yet as we climb up in the air

In between the atmospheres

Sits a calm repose; 

The sun shows dimly setting here

Causing me to marvel at the sight. 

The clouds could no more keep us down

Than shadows walking by. 

Through the window now I gaze 

Watching their amorphous shapes 

Cut roughly into the sky

Wond'ring if they'd feel so course or

Cotton on my cheek, 

So many times in life 
The easy route I seek

But often something looks like comfort

Ends up tricking me 

Instead of falling for deceit

I choose my lot in life. 

For after all these years

I've found my way through strife.

Now I sit here contemplating why

I find comfort in these clouds

Just appreciating God's vast views 

Before touch down.