An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

Halloween  It's time for  trick or treating bobbing for apples  ghosts and goblins  spiders and ghouls  Skeletons and phantoms all dressed in their darkest best the witch's cauldron bubbles with a tasty concoction The one night of the year  where ghosts and demons  can join the party and no one will distinguish the living from the dead we are all the same.

Ride the wave until it reaches the shore and it crashes in a mess of foam all its energy spent It needs to retreat  to gather its energy yet again to make another attempt to inch farther inland. The moon's pull helps it to encroach inch by inch and rise towards the sky Then it recedes back to where it came reveals the secrets that lie within their unfathomable deeps. The cycle of energy ride the surplus of ideas until it crashes against the rocks then retreat and refill your reserve to try again.

Seen yet unseen Used to be resentful but there are advantages if I stay in the shadows and watch from outside None of the glory all of the work dirt and blood under my fingernails My hands are broken. I know how it works the intricacies of what it takes the secrets and the lies the honest and the good I see it all. Let them take the credit I know where the truth is nothing lasts forever and when the consequences come I just walk away.

I roll for my stats but no one has ever told me why they ended up so low Last on the initiative list Every time. I would have liked to go out on adventures and not just kill rats in a tavern basement in a small town. Then I thought if I cannot go out on adventures maybe I can have them come to me. That's why I have too many dice but so many characters who are all a part of me.

Fresh out of worries or cares I can't remember the last time I felt like this Relax for once let everyone else take up the slack enjoy the sunny day Don't worry I got this he said you go and  do what you want to do It was a nice dream but I know reality is nowhere close to this At least it's a nice thought.

Soft rain dense fog howling wind fire crackles in hearth a cheery glow bulwark against the cold wrapped in blankets cat on lap a mug of spiced rum A comfortable peace even as bad weather thunders outside. This is the kind of being alone that recharges the soul.

There are only so many ways to explain what I think and feel only so many words that I can use to describe my innermost thoughts. Flowery and poetic allusions to ideas familiar to you I hoped to make a connection so you understand Straightforward is best on the one hand you tell me you appreciate nothing but the truth but my words only serve to make you angry So which one shall it be? Do I need to tell you just what you want to hear or what is necessary to save whatever we have that is left?

Pink bag sits on the floor half empty hair ties pointe shoes lipstick blush a tall water bottle A memorial to childhood dreams and idyllic carefree years.

Syllables every part of a word rolls off the tongue loud and clear or muffled  blended into speech everyone understands Tone rises and falls directs all ears to the melody and the rhythm of a poetic meter of a voice's song Silence echoes loud the pauses in chaos a stream of information it speaks its truth between the lies of their story.

 My stories take me away from here transport me to a place unbound by the chains of practicality If my horses fly and my wizards powerful I write it and it becomes true. A position of strength where I make the rules and I speak my truth dressed in fantastic clothes. They cannot muffle the voice that sings about adventure passion romance justice a world that makes sense where chaos and evil exist but my characters fight the good fight and even if they do not  claim complete victory at least their journey is worth the undertaking.

I am tired of screaming into the void. Words branded red hot as I write them then burn to ashes. The only one who reads them is me. Write for yourself they say  that's all that matters. But when crickets chirp when I tell others the silence is loud. Perhaps my voice your worlds, your characters really don't exist. And so for a while all my pen will write is windswept ash. 

Raw emotion gives voice to unvarnished truth the reason why they strive to break our pens Words sound flat and static leached of all known fact When life is messy and complicated with its twists and turns Half lies still count as lies even if technically correct The human heart not reduced to mere simulacrums The human soul can't fathom a fake carbon copy

What you don't have looks better than what you hold in your hands The other side the yearning for more than what your life gives you are not content Wealth and prestige a large circle of friends than a quiet night in isolation Travel and adventure like in the old days than stuck in a house fussy children and husband So you take up your pen and create the world you want than be satisfied with what fate has given you.

Incense smoke wafts upwards in a great cloud obscures the view organ music echoes in the space notes ring with every pomp and circumstance sonorous voice chants the words in Latin: Gloria in excelsis Deo Pax hominibus eius in terra. Ritual steeped in mystery centuries old appeals to an ache in ancient souls no one even questions why it just is

Sometimes words dry up and get stuck in my throat I cannot speak or describe the images I see within my mind cannot form the sounds I am not heard though I wave my arms in desperation no one sees me at all. It would be so easy to put down my pen stare at the ink in complete blankness. Who cares if no one sees Just do it for yourself But words by themselves just echo in my mind. I can write them down and shut them up in a drawer or I can bare my soul to an unseeing, uncaring world. Perhaps it is better for them to read them long after the fact but at that point... will I be around to care? 

#VSS365 prompt of Bluesky, "deluxe". A tribute to an old friend. A deluxe bento box  of all the goodies  he liked to eat  during the last days. It really goes well  with a nice bottle  of warm  rice sake.  No crowds or witnesses He always took his meals in contemplative silence. A focus on the experience notice tastes and textures you never felt before. Slow down always be mindful of your surroundings. Feel the sun on your face hear every piece of gossip life is fleeting one moment gone. A celebration  of life and memory  As long as I speak his name  He will always be there.

A poem made of subject lines from my Spam folder. They are not edited, but arranged in a way to try to make sense.  A weekend full of revelry Attunement activating the Timeline of Holy Light WOW! OMG Personal Numerology Codes A little piece of history A message from your past self. His wealth would be yours You truly deserve this... You cannot ignore this message You are one of ten (10) people chosen Don't miss the final hours of our SALE! Your chance to win $1,000,000 USD NOW! This privilege  marks a turning point in your life! Your fortune is written.

Another #firewords280 prompt on Bluesky. The words are "maniacal" and "laughter". This is the longer version of the poetry piece I posted there. The sound of maniacal laughter echoes from the old Victorian sanitarium the rooms are empty but heavy footsteps drag down the halls singsong crooning just out of hearing range the foundation is crumbling the rats made their homes generational their neighbors  the bats in the rafters chains and restraints on the bed frames they're for safety, you see this hurts me far worse than it does you a wretched life away from the sun the windows boarded up against the cold how many lost souls wander the corridors How many dark secrets hide in the corners?

Posted for #firewords280 on Bluesky. The prompt words were "vacant" and "sockets". This is the longer version of the poem (I had to fit it into 300 characters for a Bluesky post). vacant stare  from empty  eye sockets cracks deep set across white bone pieces missing like a jigsaw puzzle shattered by time buried by ignorance mouth in a  perpetual grin  as if humoring the other unfortunates scattered around in unmarked piles jumbled together with no rhyme or reason no dignity or shame at the end it could have been any one at any time past or present what happened to you  sword or sickness treachery or plague where did you  meet your end  on the battlefield breath rattling out in a bed the whisper of an axe whistles on the scaffold what stories can you tell  Take your time  to form your words  without a voice.  I can wait.

Chasing sunsets As light shifts colors from cloudless blue to fiery red and purple touches the horizon. Birds sing farewell to yet another day the robin prepares its nest yet the owl sharpens its claws for the upcoming hunt. The day fades the last shreds of light dies but a new brilliance rises to take its place the moon becomes the sentinel and the stars its witnesses.

Sleep that refuge from life where body lies in repose not dead but dormant as cells repair and mind wanders in dreams. Denied overwrought nerves that fire refuses to calm not peaceful yet warlike as pain tears and mind chases in circles. Thoughts muddled waters where clarity swallowed in fog not clear but scrambled as day wears on and patience plunges in frustration.

I didn't mean  to ruin your fun he said. That is the way he means sorry, he said. You aren't a child and I know that he said. But if I can't be a part of it then you shouldn't either he said. It's for your own good and my comfort, he said.

Sharp arrows that pierce the skin if they aren't removed the poison festers. Small stilettos out of the darkness you don't realize the cuts till you bleed. Cutting words out of nowhere they sound like a joke you just laugh along Jagged pieces ripped and torn your ghost stare mournfully with shattered eyes.

Prayers in every stitch words of protection thoughts of warmth and comfort. Scraps of fabric scrounged from dresses outgrown this one is familiar a child's apron she doesn't need it anymore. One of a kind to seal away the winter's chill wrap yourself up in front of the fireplace dream good dreams.

This needs to change but to talk of it and all the way around it analyze all the steps argue about who is responsible for  cost time labor where is the oversight how can we be sure that what they do what they say they do within the budget but still as fast as possible So much talk but no one is willing to take the risk of the first step so it is all circular over and over.

A quiet corner slow and steady wins the race they say not to stand out don't follow the trends write from your heart and success will come your way. Do it for exposure get your name out there hope that someone, somewhere will see how talented you are in a faceless, nameless sea just one of a flood of nobodies Idealism gets you nowhere in a reality that is against you the realization hands you bitterness in the guise of that is how the real world works. It's everyone for themselves. But is that what they want you to believe? Yes, there is disappointment to be had The triumphs are high, the defeats are low Lessons are learned in adversity Platitudes pale next to action The drive to see and do better. Not everyone is out to get you Find your tribe, your people band together, the pen  is mightier than the sword For a quiet whisper can turn into the thunder of gods.

(Picture of me strumming a small lyre (6 string+ drone string) at the Carolina Renaissance Faire) Strum the strings invoke the singers of long ago the weight of history all condensed into song an epic tale  told in front of the fire and let the audience sit there, mesmerized by stories of brave warriors and wise wizards who stand in the shadow of the darkness of a cold, cruel world. Let the melody take you on a path where the righteous have already trod and inspire you  to forge your own path where the bards can sing of your legacy.

Reading books on how to do  a certain project does not compare to actually doing it yourself. Having friends of a certain group does not qualify  to your expertise of an upbringing that is not yours. Watching videos on the woes of history does not make you a true witness to those who are  really living it.

A broken needle makes the record skip and it blocks the music. It repeats the very same tune over and over again. And scratches a groove deeper in the same place. It is not the music's fault rather the blockage in its way.

The veil between worlds becomes thinner as the days pass and the chill settles into the bones. The darkness falls sooner Sun dips below the horizon as leaves swirl and the wind's harsh fingers touch your skin. The whispers grow louder Moon rises higher in the sky as the dead wake and their voices shout into your ears. The righteous tremble the candle of purity diminishes as the hypocrisy laughs and their madness spreads into your mind.