Coffee Ceremony

coffeepeasant

Water splashes
into a glass pot,
its markings long worn off
so I count breaths

one, two, three
four, five, six

seven

eight

cups.

Sumatra, ground and
as dark as this morning’s sky,
smells of earth and heaven

heaven!

one,

two,

three,

four

Then to the
final ritual—

patience.


©2015, Jen Payne, #21 National Poetry Month
Image: Peasant girl drinking her coffee, Camille Pissarro

Commitment

committment41915

 

Who am I

to make such

promises?

Just a whisper.

A moment.

Just a sentence

in a story

so fully written.

But we are

no longer

invincible, love;

there is no time

for reservations.

That would be

the foolish thing.


©2015, Jen Payne, #19 National Poetry Month

Image: Lovers in the Bibliothek, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner

 

Bully Pulpit

anger418

You forget I am a writer,

a decipherer of words —

word, and their intentions.

Sarcasm, for example,

finds its roots in Greek.

Sarkasmos: to tear flesh, bite the lip in rage.

And rage has its roots in fear.

 

Is fear what makes a bully

hide behind keystrokes and keywords?


©2015, Jen Payne, #18 National Poetry Month
Image: The Seven Deadly Sins, Anger, Erte