The Unsung Poet
WELCOME TO THE MILLIE NOE, VOL LINDSEY, COFFEE JAMBOURI POETRY FACE OFF
A NEW DAY
My alarm rings.
I reach over and slap it.
I pull the sheets over my head.
Slow sip of steam and bitter brown.
Out here in what’s left of the country,
Out here in the garden she planted for me,
it is still quiet enough
for memories and fantasies
to glint like arctic ice
in the fire of an early sun.
My lips on the hot rim,
breathe the vapor,
Those red gladiolas across the pond
flicker a distant passion,
their pink centers pierced by the
tongue of a flirtatious hummingbird.
He flits down and perches to rest
from his exertions
on one of the stemsbelow the bed.
The cluster of daises
whispers an old rock and roll tune
as a little corner in the smoky
recesses of my head
dances like I used to do,
I reach again for my cup and the movement
startles two of the nearby doves
who flutter up and then back.
Off to the left one of the little frogs
who lives beneath the bridge
I built under the weeping willow
croaks a loss or two I like to revisit
in moments like these.
when the things I have yet to do
no longer matter as much as the cooling
last swallows in the red mug
on the arm of my white chair.
Remember when you were that little girl, afraid of nothing
more than the monsters under your bed?
When you could pick up a spider,
You could touch a snake,
You could cup a frog in your hands
and pet his bumpy forehead with a tiny finger?
An article on the internet
a recent review of roughly 100 studies
notes that while caffeine enhances
physical, cognitive and motor performance,
boosts short-term memory,
decision making and
it eliminates a key portion
of the creative process.
Caffeine gives a coffee
drinker pinpoint focus,
but it doesn’t allow the
mind to wander.
And a recent study showed
helps inspire creative
It impedes the ability to go
into deep sleep,
constructive thinking and
the ability to cope with
It blunts the ability to solve
and draw connections
Hold on a minute, while I
refill my cup and think of
I want to go with the rest
of this poem….sip, ahhh!
Roll my eyes a little….
Nope, it ain’t happening….
Sven made a bedframe with drawers underneath.
No room for the boogey-man
Waiting for my foot to hit the floor.
My cat once sprang out of one
like a pissed-off-jack-in-the-box.
I was just looking for socks.
Screams were heard,
both of us.
In the tight confluence of Tennessee
Ridges the sky above the tor out front
Diffuses from gray to dusty azure because
I am up before the sun . The coffee lays
Quiet in the bottom of the antique store,
Navajo cup I bought in Flagstaff that time,
Yellow with eleven blue runs down the
spider web cracks in the glaze,
Corn pollen, Táádidíín, the source of the sacred
Unifying theory of non-relativity.
Corn pollen, morning ritual, tossed
In the rising sun to bless the day.
Coffee in my corn pollen cup
Works a divergent magic.
A caterpillar could make it’s way up my arm
Because he was sweet and furry.
I could string a worm onto a hook
And I believed my dad when he said,
“It’s okay, Millie. They don’t have feelings.”
Charismatic, Iwo Jima blond god.
Opinionated, impatient Superman.
Said, “You old enough for coffee?
Drink it straight. Black. No fru fru.
Don’t water down life, son.”
So, now I’m almost seventy,
I don’t want anything on anything.
If it ain’t good enough on it’s own,
“You old enough to smoke?
I don’t use filters, no menthol.”
Neither did I. Bought papers,
Rolled my own.
“You wanna drink? Just don’t stay
drunk. Kentucky straight bourbon is good.
Neat. One sip at a time.”
Four Roses is my favorite.
He’s dead now. 12 years.
And sometimes I break the rules,
I’ll put some eggs in my hot sauce,
French fries in my catsup, and enjoy
fried chicken in my honey.
He was his own man, and, well,
I try to be. So, when I want some
Butterscotch toffee coffee, I make
A big ol’ pot……
and drink it black.
The only part of that
fearless little girl with her spiders
and snakes, left inside
Is the one who is afraid of
Monsters under her bed.
VOL – 100
MILLIE – 0
It appears that the panel was bought.
I don’t even get a point for effort.
I can’t write a poem anymore than I can boil an egg.
That is why I let my friend write the poetry.
Why my life is enriched.
And why the egg I just peeled is runny.
World, meet Vol Lindsey.
The Unsung Poet.
Vol Lindsey, meet world.
I hope you like each other.