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

Sometimes I wonder: does anyone read what I put on the page? do my words ever make a difference? Am I wasting my time as I tap on my keyboard my fingers cramp up every hour, every day? I have a voice  that must be heard my characters have stories but what if the audience is Just me? Will I be one of those  whose words make an impact only after I am dead? At that point, I wouldn't give a damn. Should I scream louder Defy the algorithm Be bold and obnoxious Scatter my energy? Or should I just write let my ideas tell the tale And my truth ring true even if no one cares? My writer's heart wonders.  

She wants the keys to the car but I still see her as she sits at the table with her plushies all around and asks me to pour tea into tiny plastic cups as she plays hostess in a princess dress and wears a crown upon her head.  

Children are  meant to dream of a better world  and a brighter  tomorrow a life free from conflict that is not of their own making a home not torn by hunger  and confusion a future in harmony with those around them instead of  being shackled  to their elders'  obsession  with the past.

For all that you have and all that lie at your fingertips the breath in your lungs the wind in your hair the sight in your eyes the song in your ears the beat of your heart the laughter in your soul the smile of your loved ones the fight in your spirit Love and loss triumph and defeat life and death

It's still warm Nature's thermostat is definitely broken a White Christmas with no snow a blazing summer with cold rain Hibernating bears wake up grumpy Confused snowbirds head back early The storms happen earlier and more intense The calendar no longer makes sense.

Eighty years old She lives in the past She thinks they all have eyes on her judge her by  her past sins. All of her secrets are known by now Those are the details circulated decades ago and scandals dead  and buried and forgotten. In her mind they are like albatrosses that weigh her down A scarlet letter that all see and remember though it is old and withered and tattered. The problem with  clinging to the lies  when everyone  long knows the truth  it makes you look  like a deluded fool.

When your body tells you to rest you can ignore at your own risk And it is advantageous to take a break when you have a chance instead at an awkward time that you cannot afford to lose. Learn from my mistakes don't believe that you are invincible because sooner or later fate will override your ego.

Expectations broken apart the foundations of a world shift and shake and sink just like sand in the hourglass nothing is what is used to be smiling faces become sinister quiet voices become loud the old ways do not work anymore but the new ways have no room to breathe

Soft and sweet kitty feet I miss the sound Twenty years past falling leaves eyes trained on its flight purr on my lap cures the world's ills force me to consider times have changed years have gone by these old bones are heavy when the rainbow bridge appears at my feet you're in the other side

A response to a Bluesky writing prompt. The word is "mercurial". This is the longer version . mercurial  temper  always walked on eggshells  don't know what  will set it off  I tried to avoid her whenever I could but she came to me whenever I did anything wrong. Did not get straight A's or I wasn't like her coworker's daughter. I once described  her anger is like a volcano she laughed it off but it an uncomfortable truth was it my fault  just for existing? no it was not  just because she made a mistake  did not justify  her treatment  but it took me years to learn that.

Tides of change: what was once light fades into darkness and was considered good dismissed as evil. No light without shadow No harmony with chaos It follows the course of nature but it cannot be captured in words and platitudes and stories of morality thought by human minds No power without weakness No sunlight without rain What reaches its zenith will undoubtedly fall the downtrodden will find justice and the righteous will be humbled

Paint slathered thick on the canvas Ink brushed soft on the silk Needle and colorful thread on the fabric Strings vibrate loud with the bow Soul sings joyous with great wings

Bright autumn sunlight all is quiet outside my window dead leaves in a pile the bags are all full it will take some time until I see dead grass again No one walks alone in the morning always in pairs  they greet each other cheerfully and with smiles Solidarity in numbers Wreaths adorn windows fifteen foot Santa  in the neighbor's front yard with his hand raised up in a gesture of welcome his reindeer don't mind Lights from Diwali past double up as holiday cheer as the weeks fly by and hurtle quickly to the end of a tumultuous year.

Pure butter rich and decadent feast for the senses and the stomach delicious concoction that only comes once in a lifetime if you are lucky and are favored by the will of God Life's mortal pleasures reserved for the chosen You can't take it with you and if you overindulge confess your sins with a handful of silver to wash away the guilt.

The soft silk from a caterpillar in its cocoon the rough canvas from the sack of potatoes the shiny oilskin which still stays dry from the rain the crunchy crinoline from a hoop skirt of a young belle the simple linen that covers them all at the end like a shroud

A soft light falls on frail features the camera still a long exposure captures every detail remember that  thou art mortal from dust thou began to dust thou shalt return such thunderous words grow quite soft in this moment of quiet remembrance.

A haiga is a haiku paired with visual drawing. It's usually a painting or a drawing, but it can also be a photograph, collage or digital image. pastel on black paper, 2019 Faithful companion you have crossed the rainbow bridge wave from other side

Coffee and cake a tea time  that is long overdue laughter as we reminisce over memories so very long ago but they come alive as we tell the stories. reconnect after long years away time slips backwards it's as if we never left  

The longer version of a #poetryprompt on Bluesky. I couldn't fit it within the character count, so this is the original version. The challenge was to write an aubade.  "Write an Aubade! "The aubade is a dawn song that greets the morning while lamenting the end of the night, often concerning the parting of lovers." My lover walks between walls  between the night sky  and the dawn's light  As the sun peeks  over the horizon and the birds greet  the coming day  It streams through my curtains illuminates the shadows that protect my poor aching heart the pillow next to me grows cold though his scent still  clings to the fabric I lie in the fading warmth  tears stream down my cheeks  as he is gone yet again  but my life goes on

language is  a funny thing different ways to express oneself an innocuous word in one is a grave insult  in another a whole way of  thinking  feeling  experiencing  it is an unspoken  agreement  among a group  of people  on what is important  and what is not  and the social rules  that govern them yours is not superior it's what you're used to.

It's hard being friendly when everyone just wants to be left alone Just smile and accept what their comfort level is no need to force cheer. The problem becomes when no one relates to others it becomes "every man is an island." And while that's good for some it doesn't help us while the world goes to hell And you feel alone in a different way alienated by your own nature. 

Long ago  in those days filial piety  dictated what you thought how you acted who you loved honor to the family put your heart in a box Age conferred wisdom and youth was always folly "Hardship builds character"  or so the saying goes  but it's just an excuse  for the elders to tell you  that you should suffer  just like they did. Even now and in some ways  that mindset  never really left. All from a good place a desire to see you do well but the bottom line is about control.

Fire and brimstone an image of torment for the transgressions against a whimsical god oh how their words thunder and the audience listens in awe and fear stray from the narrow path fall over the cliffs into a darkness too deep and horrible to fathom or escape such punishment literal in the afterlife made manifest in their sermons in the present life. The words are absolute to police the actions of the one  to secure the eternal life of the many The horror is now not in some imagined purgatory

The longer version of a poem I wrote for the Emoetry prompt on Bluesky. The word is "idealistic" What happens  when the idealistic ones run into reality  and that youthful hope becomes tarnished  by corruption?  A new generation rises up  to accomplish  what they failed to do. As one who sits between the elders who protested a war and the sons and daughters who defend a way of life I have faith that the future is filled with promise. The kids will save us all.

This is the longer version of a vss365 prompt on Bluesky. The prompt word is "domestic" He's gone domestic:  cultivated a garden painted the walls  washed the windows renovated the kitchen  changed air filters  and the batteries  of the smoke alarms  cooked dinner  took out the trash told the kids a bedtime story did the dishes although he'd always talked about it instead of just pontificating he actually did it. his wife wondered  if he'd been taken over  by some sort of  alien

Tell the editor to be quiet hold that red pen until the last word is written and the last thought is completed They won't have a job unless the letters are on the page And they can't complain if they're the ones in the way of progress.

The chatter of the  typewriter goes silent as the years pass by Replaced by the quiet taps of the desktop keyboard Or the silent touch of fingers on virtual letters The scritch scratch of a pen on scraps of note paper Or the sound of a voice transcribed on a screen Whichever way it is done words still speak to be heard in the world.