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

Be gentle  a soft touch  can do so much  more than a harsh one.  But such is mistaken  not as strength  but as weakness  in a world of false power  They say we need  to toughen ourselves  to survive through life  no indulgences  So soft rain  on our cheek  feels like the lash  of pure scorn. The wind smashes through the rigid buildings of the mind while the plum blossoms bend and survive the hurricane.

Inspired by a #MPPrompt on Bluesky (Thanks, Malachy!) I guess poetry  doesn't have to rhyme?  So all I have to do  is just break up  lines  just like  this  word salad  indubitably  unerringly  without a doubt  my heartburn  sounds so smart  the cows  ate dad's keys anyone can do it, it's easy But hey  no one says  it has to make sense  right?

Tucked away  in buried grovefolds where ash and oak trees  used to grow in the wild  the bones of the old ones  the druids and the wise women  who knew this ancient land  sleep calm and undisturbed  no stones to mark them  only flowers for pillows their blood still runs through the loamy soil the birds sing their songs because nature still remembers

Pressure on my shoulders  I cannot breathe as  the gravity of life  crushes my will  and causes my bones  to crack in tiny places  this is not only encouraged it is accepted as the way it has always been they teach me a trick  to accept the burden  and carry it lightly  for the willow bends  and does not break even as gale-force winds rip the ground away all around it.

What do you do when you realize you're not enjoying  what  you do? I love to write. I've been writing since I was eight years old. Words gave me a way to express how I felt as a girl who was leaving friends behind. Forty-four years later, I still put my thoughts on paper or the screen. It's more than just a way of life. It  is  my life. I post my writing on my social media accounts. I have poetry blogs on Blogger and Wordpress. Over the years, I've met so many good friends and fellow writers through sharing my words. I appreciate every one who I've met. The support we give each other has carried me through some dark times of my life. For those who don't know, two of my three children are high-support autistic. Terminology and descriptors have changed in two decades, but my kids are unique in their own special ways. Although I love them, their care can be complicated and stressful, especially without outside help. That stress as a caregiver can bleed into other a...

Build a bridge over the crevasse  between us  Every attempt  the bricks too brittle  the mortar falls apart  The iron rusts quickly  the foundation crumbles  the joints wear away  Renovation plans hastily made all fail in their complexity Sometimes it takes a simple bamboo path  to span this gap

A whirlwind of obsession:  raw and uninhibited  feral and untamed  the pursuit, the chase  is what pushes you higher  the thrill of the forbidden  makes your heart pound faster  The goal comes closer then seems to drift away farther As long as the goal is unreachable  you fingers will always strive to touch.

In my dream house  so many books on tables and  scattered on the carpet hard backed and soft covers a rainbow of colors and cream colored pages that whisper the secrets hidden in their letters  and a secret lever  on the shelf leads to a secret nook  where I can read  in heavenly quiet and in blissful pleasure

unalloyed emotions  simple and pure  no complications raw and unvarnished Anger without regret  sorrow without guilt  happiness without fear such unfettered reactions without interference from other's opinions oh, to be a child  and experience that again! 

forgiveness is a fickle thing:  they all said I should  but they equate that with  "forget that it ever happened"  forgive and forget  because life goes on  and grudges only  poison your future  just bury it and go on leave the past in the past it has no effect  on whatever comes next but they never forget  they always remind me

Due diligence paperwork all settled  research all done  computations calculated  strategies codified  witnesses gathered arguments written up  she just forgot  to bribe the right people  for a favorable result all that hard work  all for naught  what a shame indeed.

shoe on the other foot  the change makes people so uncomfortable  the fit feels wrong it pinches your toes bunions and callouses they can't stop thinking about how it's inconvenient but if you've always worn  it on that familiar foot  you don't find it strange at all

Memories are fleeting brief cracks of time sometimes so clear  other times so muddled  she does not remember  my face or my voice  I live so far away like a short story in only one printed volume until I am there in person  and somehow suddenly  it produces a spark  of prior knowledge

They say  the place is haunted  by the ghosts  of ages past  who do not know  they are dead  or who want to know  just why  no one  can see them cry or no one  can remember  their names if you listen  very closely  you might hear  their whispers  though they  cannot be understood.

An egg for breakfast  with shell so fragile  yet that is a blank canvas  for all hues of color a pinhole in the top the yolk for a tasty omelette from wax relief  stark white lines scratched in the surface for those Easter hunts where the bunny hides surprises for the children. to the priceless pieces  favored by emperors tiny jewels attached with the greatest of care a masterpiece of delicacy unmatched by modern means.

dewdrop in the morning  trembles at the edge  of a budding flower  not knowing  if it will fall over or linger for just  a while longer a razor's edge of possibility one or the other will gravity win or will it cling long enough for  the sun's drying touch

Bathe in a bright moonbeam feel the forest all around  the power of pristine perfection  the peace of a profound soul.  Look up into the light show the hidden halves within the truth tells the tale all the lies soon lie bare. See the stark reminder  of fate that fuels the universe  the goddess grants a lovely boon  that sends shadows through the night

After the rain on stone  droplets linger  waiting for their turn  to go back to the sky The clouds part the storm moves on the sun returns in all its glory Too short an existence but long enough from water to vapor each drop rises again.

Enhanced vision  from a tertiary eye unseen by mortals  but granted by heaven a knowledge beyond knowing a fate beyond feeling  they called her lucky  her words prophetic  but her sight is cursed  to see what could have been  what should have been  instead of what it is now

I am a phantom  of who I was meant to be  She stands mute  and shakes her head  She wonders how  I chose the life I did  She does not criticize She does not judge She takes my hands  "There is still hope."

Walk through the meadow  full of honey-thick clover breathe in the scent  of flowers and greenery  in its most natural state  feel the power of the earth  right beneath your feet  the lines that run through every bit of land carry life wherever if flows it thrums with vitality  that is muted in the city  in a cage of brick and steel and concrete  but it strongly exists here

Good memories written in  hard-bound journals fill so many boxes in the attic left to gather dust as the years go by a time long ago a world so different from the one the children and grandchildren and great grandchildren take for granted sixty years  in black ink  with certain days  outlined in red

Power in lightning: a brief flash  but in that single  moment in time  there is enough  to level a mountain at just the right height there is enough to light up a thousand lamps there is enough to make the night look like daytime but only if it is harnessed  to its greatest potential