Nothing arrives whole.
Everything comes folded~
creased at the edges,
tucked into itself
like a secret that forgot
how long it has been carried.
To be unpacked
is to let the day exhale,
to open the small, stubborn corners
where memory hides
like lint in a pocket.
I lift each moment
from its hiding place~
a peach warm in my palm,
a kitchen light trembling
on the rim of a glass,
a childhood street
still smelling faintly
of percolator coffee
and women laughing
in their housecoats.
Unpacked,
the world softens.
It stops pretending
to be tidy.
It spills~
slow, honest,
like a drawer finally opened
after years of silence.
And I stand there
my hands full of the past
realizing none of it
was ever lost.
It was only waiting
for me
to unfold it.
If eyes open too soon
then a few mornings go missing,
but they are catching up
they will fly in backwards
tumbling out of windswept decades.
Eyes that open too late have to wait,
have to stare at a future blankness
while ears gatecrash the present.
Will the thrown newspaper
land on the lower or upper step?
It matters,
a quantifying arithmetic is essential
to determine next steps.
The percolator has mixed together
a thousand morning.
Dawn gathers enough gravity
to sink easily into an evening sunset.
We find ourselves on the verge
of all previous verges,
swinging one delving leg
to touch a floor
that rises up to meet us.
and its normal - too normal.
Will the thrown newspaper
land on the lower or upper step?
The odds are forever even.
The percolator has mixed together.
a thousand mornings
yet it arrives in normal time,
as one brew.
Outside, twiggy beds creak in the treetops.
leafy blankets unroll.
The dawn gathers enough weight,
to fluff up pillows of sunlight.
We find ourselves on the verge,
of all previous awakenings,
swinging one tentative leg,
to touch a floor
that rises up to meet us.
Quote: I don't want a perfect life I want a happy life
Children tumbling out of bed
coffee dripping from my old faded percolator
Stockings hanging from the shower curtain
mother's laughter from across the miles
Husband's wet kisses and the shuffle of feet
scraped toast, slamming front doors
The smell of mulched leaves
the way the sun slants over my kitchen window
I don't want a perfect life, just a happy one
Empty cafes and smokescreen writes
pulp fiction and doggie smiles and treats
eggs over easy and difficult puzzles to solve
hugs and kisses and fun between the sheets
tea for two, I love Lucy, and more dreams
then I can ever dream of, ...just a happy life,
nothing more
An unreflective bodhisattva
nods to the unwashed dishes.
Once again I seek a daily liberation
from a chore long boondoggled.
Next a phlegmy mantra
gummed through spongy lips.
I sleep, I wake. I sleep, I wake.
The mug is perfunctorily rinsed,
I am aware of not being aware.
Sweetness comes in pink packets.
The sacraments are torn open
two at a time with habitual practice.
The ceremony proceeds.
The percolator bubbles a last breath.
Maya burps its body-dreams,
I pour black oozing bliss
into my cup
where it settles like mud
beneath
a lotus bloom of aroma.
It came out of the box all shiny and new
washed it in soapy water so I could brew
Hot pipping coffee so robust and full
the old fashion steel pot ever cool
The water simmers and boils hot
watching it explode up into the glass top
The liquid is clear than splashes to amber
the smell of hot coffee a favorite remembered
When the coffee shows rich and dark
fresh brew coffee for the day starts
Rich in flavor smells so good
drink cup after cup like I knew I would
No fancy machine of plastic anymore
my stovetop percolator my coffee I pour
Made mostly of steel with a button of glass
this percolator was made to last
Previous dawns flock together,
gather.
The hedgerows accumulate
with old and new. Sprigs and twigs
bend under the weight of
heaping feathers.
If eyes open too soon
then a few mornings go missing,
some are still catching up
they will fly in backwards
tumbling out
of windswept decades.
Eyes that open too late have to wait,
have to stare at a future blankness
while ears gatecrash the present.
Will the thrown newspaper
land on the lower or upper step?
Such collective collections
determine next steps.
The percolator has mixed together
a thousand morning
yet it arrives in normal time
as one brew.
Outside, beds creak in the tree tops.
blankets unroll.
We find ourselves on the verge
of all previous verges,
swing legs to touch a floor
that rises
to show up once more.
My percolator lost its balance
While it was a’bubble,
Spilling all the coffee grounds
And causing lots of trouble.
Below the burners there’s a space
For storing pots and covers,
A perk (no pun intended)
For apartment-living lovers.
Well, coffee grounds were everywhere
As well as brew half-finished
And suddenly my leisure time
For breakfast was diminished.
An hour later, all was clean.
Still, though I wasn’t shirking,
I noticed only 3 of 4
Gas burners now were working.
I made another pot of joe,
My morning meal much later
And took no chances, using
A much bigger percolator.
The stubborn burner got in gear
And soon was back on fire.
I’m glad my stove (from 1951)
Need not retire.
Every morning at close to four
She made the coffee, percolated
Poured it into cups with saucers
And they each would have a cup
Pouring the potent black liquid
Into the saucers before drinking
The cooling solution from them
This was only one more glimpse
Into the heart of Appalachian living
A day by day extravaganza of insights
Carried down from the Irish ancestors
Who’d come to this land in America
Realizing it reminded them of the
Wonders that were once their Ireland
As the coffee moved from the percolator
To a Mr. Coffee that sat on the sink
The children began to drink from their cups
But Granny and Pa still used their saucers
A reminder of all that had come before
And the things that were past that would
Forever remain ingrained in their hearts
An unreflective Bodhisattva
nods to the unwashed dishes.
Once again I seek my morning
liberation by ways of a dark libation
Next a phlegmy mantra
gummed through spongy lips.
“I sleep, I wake. I sleep, I wake”
The mug is perfunctorily rinsed,
the stains of past desires
ring the rim like hungry ghosts.
I am aware of not being aware.
Ipso facto: I am aware,
but only in the cracks
between random thoughts.
Sweetness comes in pink packets.
The sacraments are torn open
two at a time with habitual practice.
A Zen-like work,
by rote and thought-free.
The percolator bubbles a last breath.
Like the Tathagata, I am truly gone.
An arm pours black oozing bliss
Into my mug.
A beatific smile
escapes from grungy features.
I perk my Joe old-fashioned style
In a pot atop the stove,
My percolator ancient,
Like a pirate’s treasure trove.
I measure out the coffee
And a timer lets me know
When 8 minutes have elapsed and then
My brew’s all set to go.
It’s French roast, strong and most important,
It is really hot,
The only way that it should be
So it will hit the spot.
I toyed with going modern –
The Nespresso had appeal,
But to change what’s tried and true seemed
Like too much of a big deal.
So I’ll stick with perking coffee
Like the dinosaur I am
For each morning sip allows me
To be happy as a clam.
A sense of holidays!
Blueberry pie hot out of the oven with buttery toppings
popcorn popping in the pot with oil on the stove
Lemon and lime are the sour balls used for drinks or garnish
Take that hot pan out of the oven with your glove.
Coffee is served with a biscotti, black coffee, strong, steamy
Fresh coffee beans ground and gurgling through the percolator
Unsweetened coffee, hot, burns your lips, bitter to the tongue
Cold ice in the freezer and the glass shelf in the refrigerator.
Uncle Joe’s gas problem and Aunt Emma’s feet
As Grandfather breathes and snores through his nose.
The last crumbs of cinnamon, the last glob of whipped cream
Take Grandma’s hand when you walk out, she hates to impose.
It was a Wednesday;
a day woven
into prison blankets and dish towels.
A day to assess hours unnoticed.
A time of trivial hungers.
The hard heft of earlier times: -
not fitting into anything,
teenage fluff and huff. Heartbreak,
rearing and loss. The fallow traipse of age.
The clinical clunk of clay feet.
Making room in a grave-yard moon,
for faces mislaid.
Those hard rows were all well hoed.
Washing a closed face in a misty mirror.
Listening to the coffee percolator.
trying to shave before its last burble,
ears catching the dark drops of a winter rain,
he creeps again too close
to a hole in his mind.
He should not be doing this still,
but the hole keeps tugging him.
He must keep throwing raw meat
into that roaring silence.
The hole is deep, and the end of it, is no end.
He wishes he could at least,
install an elevator.
for his ghosts to ride up and down on.
It would give him time
to drink more coffee, and write
some polite, well-adjusted poetry.
You’ve been percolating
Just for me,
While I imitate life.
When I’m weary and afflicted
From a fitful sleep, fears reoccurred,
You’re waiting for me.
Epitome of bittersweet,
Bitter enough I need you,
Sweet enough I want you.
Electrify my mind,
Like soul adrenaline
I’ll dance if you ask.
Could we be like before?
When I’d stay up all night,
Just to be with you?
Nowadays more like a crutch,
Keeping weariness at bay
And I hate that.
I want the excitement again
Of first love’s
First sip.
But coffee my dear,
How ever far you stray
You still make my day.
1/13/16
Waking up bright and early, and allready using the percolator
Figure out what is and isn't worth the labor
Learn what's greater
Before a possible outcome is determined later
Don't ever try to put people, animals or the Earth in danger
Otherwise I'll take you out faster than the terminators
Above the dirt and craters
Always loved to work in nature
And to earn that paper
With no intentions to ever curse a neighbor
Because I'll handle it myself, an will not be the first to waiver
Never be an impersonator
Or try to excuse mistakes on having the worst behavior
Put the pieces together, instead of trying to ruin major amounts of ferns and acres
On both sides of the equator a fire burned several layers
Some of the ash and leftover residue turned into vapors
Lost and got back some bulk
As a kid and adult
Ran into many cults
Doing things that harmed innocent folks
So the result was a revolt and me turning into the hulk
Before beginning to catapult above a gulch full of mulch
By: Dalton Ogletree
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