Drinking October All Year Long

“You have no seasons in that small island of yours,” she says, with a smile that stinks of nurtured ignorance and mirth-rich malice. “That’s why you people flee to our lands, searching for more, wanting better, needing our green springs and the vivid oranges of our falls. So sad.” 

For a fiery moment, her nasty thoughts threaten to shroud my tongue. But I magic the flames into a knowing grin--I won’t let your rot poison my words--and I speak my truth, instead: “In my small island, autumn sleeps in the reds of the coffee cherry. We stir it awake with our fingers, berry by berry, until our baskets are full of warming cups. We drink October all year long. And so could you. But the taste buds of your spirit are dead, and you fail to notice. So very sad.”

photo by Café Gato-Mourisco, on Unsplash

 
photo by Ante Samarzija, on Unsplash

- one of my favorite things about October, while growing up in the Dominican Republic, was the beginning of the coffee harvest. Most of my relatives and some hired hands would come home, to my grandmother’s house, and pick coffee beans. The work was exhausting, but the songs, the food, and the company made it wonderful.

 - for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #97: October!

Coffee and Gardening and Such…

not-quite Journaling, 43

 If
your mind
falls rather fast
towards the gutter, I
understand.

9/20/2022: Yep, I have the sense of humor of a hormonal teenager; it’s either that, or the top of that tomato looks like a hugely male star to you too.

 

artfully,
she shows me her heart
in color

9/28/2022: I love art birthed by good friends. So, when my sore flesh and bones got home from physical therapy to find “Gold Earrings” (the painting behind the poem), I was all delighted smirks. Knowing friends are keeping us in their thoughts is always warming.

 

sun kiss me
wild all summer long,
then fall rains

10/1/2022: October has arrived with rain and fog. Perfect for the season. I’m predicting hot coffee and citrus tea, dark writings and readings, bringing my wee garden inside, and so much more…

 

10/6/2022: I was going to say something about drinking coffee from the skull of my enemies, but that sounds disturbingly unsanitary. Seriously, most of the people I truly dislike have shit for brains--eeewww! So, I shall just sip my hot, dark and sweet brew quietly, while listening to Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and returning my coffee cup’s creepy grin.

 

Be a witch: think, and do right.

10/8/2022: Yep, that’s pretty much it; real witches’ strongest magic consists in thinking, learning, doing what’s right, and taking responsibility for their own actions (when things don’t go ‘right’).

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #47: Hobby Time.

Rice and Coffee Poesy

“What are you doing, love?”
“Brewing coffee, cooking rice
thanking geese that venture into dreams
loud and early,
banishing nightmares out of city skies,
plotting ways to make it up to my heart; you, baby?”

“Wandering through the woods with my eyes closed,
wondering how to adorn my handwritten thoughts…
I have been thrilling on the idea of easel poetry,
wee bits of written life leaning on upcycled tripods.
Still, no garnishing for my words’ canvases.”

“Kiss them with coffee rings
real ones. From a bit of dark and sweet
liquid that slow-dances over the edges
of your morning cup, kissed and tasted,
made real by living lips, my baby’s
hot lips.” 

“That’s perfect, love,
living poetry written on coffee filters and rice paper,
garnished—what a pretty word that is, garnished—
with kissed hot and sweet coffee.
Your nightmare, love, what was it about?”                                                             

“I let some guy borrow my bike, my perfect bike;
brown framed, silked in green paint,
ready for life’s wars. In my dreams, I knew
I’d ridden others, but none like my chosen bike.
I went to the place where the guy was keeping it,
I kicked all I saw. I wanted my bike back,
but nothing there was mine.”

“You let him. You let the guy borrow your bike.”

“I know. I knew. The guy took care of my bike, too,
but never like I would.
No one can treat my baby like I do.”

“It wasn’t the guy’s fault.”

“No. And I wasn’t mad at the guy.
I destroyed the place
because I was the one to let the guy in.”

“Did you find your bike?
In your dreams,
did you get your perfect bike back?”

“I did.”

“Now what, love? What will you—?”

“I’ll spend days and nights taking care of my baby,
making it up to us, showing love with heart and hands.
And you, what will you do, baby?”

“I will write rice and coffee poesy.”

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #42: Choices, where Rosemary invites us to consider a choice we made (large or small) and write of what followed.