Posts tagged ‘coffee’

September 17, 2015

Morning Light

An occurrence of light
sparking at sepia clouds,

this September storm was
dismantling a short night;

crashing, breaking, flashing,
calling all to bolt upright–

that proof was so strong,
becoming our new day.

August 25, 2015


Life out of Stanley
Life out of truck
Life out of city
Life with sandwich lunch

Life out of control
Life stuck inside
Life without aversions
Life between lines

And then,
Life out of time.

August 12, 2015

College Park in the Past

Shades of the trees toward western skies rest a cool shadow

on a once brilliant face,

where the lacquer for paint

had peeled.

Smack of fuzzed tennis balls hurled in the wind,

zipping with bugs in

a St. Paul end-summer August warm.

Reflections and shadows hung on until it was time

to go back home—

just after supper and just before

candlelight vigils and auto headlamps scans rushed

into closed windows and about vacant streets.

Sitting, watching

the world come to close another day,

morning would be the same except reverse

on those tired night dweller’s eyes.

A can was crushed and we biked back

to SE through mosquitoes.

July 21, 2015

Transformative Tea (Ireland Abroad)

like switching drinks,
not from one hand to another,
but the beverage entirely.

Finding a new drink…

How could one come so set in their ways
that they don’t find the nerve to change?

Standing there, waiting,
watching the water boil,
face turned red,
ego on high alert—ready?

This sergeant don’t take no lip,
unless it’s yours,
and he will eat the entire thing…

And those herbs will turn to taste,
and you can bet your ass on it.

There is no need for filter or mug,
no need for a full pot or the caffeine shakes,
just one cup to get me by.

Life in moderation, and we fumble at the keys.

And it was pure fate,
the Irish black tea beckoned
as if to take me back—

far away, into distant lands,
as if I missed Dublin
and the 5th floor flat at Staycity.

I could see most of The Liberties
from the number 43 balcony—

on walks aside double-decker buses,
smooth euros in my pockets,
along the river Liffey.

And everyone watched as we drank whiskey
and fresh Guinness, and read books,
and they pronounced three as “tree”,
and we were slagged as “yanks”.

As we sat on cross-country excursions
thru endless rolling green hills
and stone walls and winding roads
and puffy sheep.

As we saw things some of us hadn’t seen before,
with a drink in hand and our feet on the ground.

And I sip.
And I recall.

It will be awhile before I get back around.
But it was good to try something new.

June 24, 2015

Adjusted Advantage

The world can seem so small
when assessed from the confines
of a one bedroom apartment.
A space tight, sticky, stuffy,
and near unbearably drab.
For a person to go outside and look,
to see all there is to see—to expand the expanse,
to imagine what one might attain
in the span of a lifetime,
at the change of a thought,
on the prospect of a whim, at the drop of a dime.
A perspective can be released
from its rigid boxy cage to stretch sore wings
and to grasp the once unthinkable,
for merely a chance thought,
and for adjusted sight, mercy!

June 2, 2015

At the Back of Hodson Hall

At the enormous back windows of Hodson Hall, looking east towards Falcon Heights’ standing homes, over an expanse of grooved fields—carefully worked, a person can gleam breaking light caught on cement sidewalks, red bricked structures, and shined square glass low in the early day haze.

Outside seagulls float, calling, in caressing morning brilliance at you, asking “caw?”

What does that mean??? I wonder.

Their questions as ambivalent as a cloud’s shape and meaning to curious children…

I wondered, how did they get here, there is no sea in Minnesota (smh).

These worldly reflections begged, knocked, and retained sharp attention of waking eyes, pupils pulled tight at the warming occurrence, such nature for a sparking mind to ponder, as if synapse was crackling, as if creation was tore in two.

Supple ears held the bird’s sound in their netted web of up and down—their inquiry, as they danced, above, gliding, laughing high pitched at you.

Only to stand and watch, only inside what is inside.

The sun had begun its orbital voyage, those with white feathers and all life in tow, infinite unending, and all the connections of connections exposed.

It paint as an artist’s brush over lands, trees and grass, overhead, above polo shirts and homeless ragged men, showing.

Leaving for a moment its mark; then as fleeting as it appears it vanishes to dark.

The warmth was there to stay—so ephemeral, as a Mayfly’s life, in a moment’s hesitation lost; shadows draw long in the absence, as flowers quick bend their praise.

A day we have, then not.
It is here, then it is gone.

This colorful set constantly changing, to the chagrin of progress, to the luck of fickle nature, and to the impromptu dialogue of the local theatre company.

Another tomorrow awaits at the end of coming dusk, with quizzical seagulls, with fascist sunlight, with worldly reflections in tow, with fired synapse and buttoned polos and people begging for change, anything you could spare will do, until they take their bow.

And the light caught it all at the back of Hodson Hall.

(End Scene.)

May 1, 2015


a day, a day,

a day, a day,
culture contained.

a day, a day,
the same.

a day, a day

April 25, 2015

wake up.

I had
wake up
to see

April 22, 2015

the beauty of writing

To the Workshop Gods, to the Weekend Artists, to the Loud Talkers, to the Local Name Droppers, and to those who say they do important things for the art without taking action. Good Job. TS_


The beauty of writing
is sharing your words,
spreading your ideas,
whether it is
unique or not.

It is touching keys
with love,
fucking them,
forgetting the edit,
and doing what you want
just because.

Writing is either part of your life fully,
or great distances far away,
or in between;
it can come back at any moment,
and it can sit there and stay.

Writing is expressing yourself
not for those around you to critique,
it is for you,
it is with you,
it is by you,
in all the experience that you’ve seen.

Your everyday trivial
is more poignant than
yesterday’s raved about
new modern messiah.

Writing can be a target,
with a big bright red mark on your back to attack,
it can show humor
and sadness
and fun
and inspiration to act.

The beauty of writing
is it is actually you,
no matter how weird,
how rough,
how edited,
how wrong,
how the labels others choose to use,
or who it will prove to confuse.

Writing is religion, Allah, Christ, Academia, Professors, and God,
it is verses out of rhyme,
it is punctuation out of time,
and it is of topics trite,
and themes grotesquely odd.

The beauty of writing
can be called flawed by all,
but when it comes time to write,
to share,
to express,
to give,
the loudest have nothing at all.

April 17, 2015

A Good Day

A good day
starts with
a good morning,

starts with clear sight,
of yesterday,
and an open mind,

starts with a coffee in hand,
ripened fruit,
and reconnecting
loved ones,

starts with movement
a crowded
Midwestern city’s

a good day starts with starting,
a good day starts with you.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 2,143 other followers