Farm to Cup

Walking The Farm

I make an early rise to check on the trees, inherited from father four years ago.
The rains were heavy early in the year, a good sign.
The last trees father chose should be ready for their first harvest.
His influence still covers the hillside, encouraging and intimidating me.
The workers will be arriving soon, ready to pick the bright red fruit.
Many of them knew father, mourned with us.
I wonder if they have confidence in my abilities or worry as much about the future as I do.
Then comes a few weeks of stirring, rotating, and hoping for strong sun,
until the batches are the perfect parchment.
Father had a knack for knowing when it was time.
He'd get out of bed one morning and announce,
"Ready the hulling machines."
As a child, I loved to help with the manual sorting.
I think father liked giving me a small task near so many adults,
even if my work needed checking over.
Now, my favorite part is the sisal bags stacked up and ready to go.
It feels like an end to the hard part,
but in some ways the planning between seasons is the most difficult.
That's when I wish I could still ask for father's advice.


Cupper

Nose, roast, crack, rest.
Nose, slurp, repeat.
100 tastes a day
To find the perfect blend.
Every seed has a story
Of rainfall, sun, and wind.
The attitude and altitude
Of the farmer and the land
Influence the flavors
Of the beans in my hands.
Floral, chocolate, toasty,
Tangy, acidic, sweet.


Conversation of Questions
Heya!
How are you doing?
What can I get ya?
Big or small?
Extra shot?
Room for cream?
Anything else?
Here or to go?
Do you have a punch card?
Need a reciept?
Thanks!


Cup of Clouds

Swirling clouds of cream push to the bottom,
Half settling and half mixing,
A visual for the science behind density and solutions.

Rippled edges like afternoon tide pools.
Little peaks of color fighting to find equilibrium
Between layers of mahogany, burlap, and fresh cut pine.

Take a sip or give it a spin
To see more blending, more gradations.
Until it's all one,
Or all gone.


There are a steps left out, but four poems felt like enough for a series.

Overheard

He was hot... H.A.W.T.

     You're almost as tall as him.

That is not allowed,
I'm married.
I don't think we should be going to a bar.
     I tell you what,
     Go in for a practice round.
...
     No, you don't have to stop.
     That's the last thing you want to do.
Meet you on the other side.

I recorded a few lines while waiting in the airport security line, then rearranged them into a story. This is what I got.

Afternoon Rest

The tree leaned down
and said to me,
"The sun's quite bright today.
How about you sit in shade?"

The grass looked up
and said to me,
"Your feet seem quite tired.
How about you sit awhile?"

The breeze whispered
into my ear,
"It is quite hot just now.
How about I cool your face?"

Thank you, tall tree.
Thank you, soft grass.
Thank you, sweet breeze.
Same time tomorrow?

The Apple & The Knife

The apple says to the knife,
"Oh, what strife
to be cut by you this way."
"Well, you must be sliced,"
says the knife,
"for apples are snack today."

Death of a Twin

Today's prompt/form idea came from dVerse: Craft prose to poetry There are three steps.
1. Find a prose passage that seems poetic. You know you read some stuff that just sounds cool.
2. Break it up into more poetic lines and stanzas. Reformat it, basically.
3. Alter it to better fit your definition of poetry. A few options: even out rhyme, meter; more flowery words; clearer images.

I used a passage from Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese, which I copied below the poem. I loved reading that book. It's about a pair of twins born in Ethiopia, Shiva and Marion. Their parents were an Indian nun (who died in labor) and an English surgeon (who fled shortly after their birth). They were raised by two Indian doctors at a mission hospital. Very interesting story about love, medicine and family both chosen and natural.


Death of a Twin

His body was warm. 

He never took a breath 

after. 

His expression never changed. 

I felt his pulse,

regular for a full minute.

Then it paused,

as if the heart had just realized 

the lungs had quit. 

With a final throb, he was gone. 

Of all the pulse types, 

this was both the rarest 

and the most common.

Every pulse possesses

the potential to be absent. 

I closed my eyes and cradled him, 

his skull buttressed against mine.

I felt physically vulnerable

lying here next to him

in a way I hadn't known

when we were a continent apart.

With his death 

my biology was altered.

The heat was rapidly leaving his body. 

I lay there, my head against Shiva's, a finger resting on his carotid pulse. His body was warm. He never took a breath after the tube came out. His facial expression never changed. His pulse stayed regular for almost a minute, then it paused, as if it had just realized its lifelong partner-the lungs-had quit. His heart sped up, became faint, and then, with a final throb under my fingers, it was gone. I thought of Ghosh. Of all the pulse types, this was both the rarest and the most common, a Janus quality that every pulse possesses: the potential to be absent.
I closed my eyes and clung to Shiva. I cradled him, his skull buttressed against mine and now wet with my tears. I felt physically vulnerable in a way I'd never felt when we were a continent apart, as if with his death my own biology was now altered. The heat was rapidly leaving his body.
Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese

Quagmire

Questing for health

I met a quack.

I had qualms 

about his quaintness,

but I quelled them.

With a short quip

about quibbling

my query was

quite quickly dismissed.

I should have known.

In night's quiet,

I quiver to

have discovered:

qualifications,

that man has none!

For more Q themed poems, stories, photos, and posts of all kinds:

ABC Wednesday Round 9 Letter Q

Getting Blood Drawn

The puncture

jerked me from daydream.

Do not look.

I hate blood.

Movies with lots of carnage

often make me faint.


Saw the form at Poetic Bloomings
Shadorma: a syllable count of 3/5/3/3/7/5.

Got some wordly inspiration from Three Word Wednesday
3WW CCLXV (265): carnage, jerk, puncture

Gravity Gave Up On Me

Earlier this morning,
I fell into the sky.
It started without warning,
and I can't figure why
gravity
gave up on me.

I swerved around a tree limb
and nearly hit a bird.
Clouds were all around me
when suddenly I heard,
"Hey there, you!
You're floating too?!"

Just as I came to a stop,
I saw a smiling face.
"We're kids gravity forgot.
You'll get used to this place.
My name's Sly,
let's share this sky."

And so I settled in
to live atop the clouds.
The air is a bit thin,
but at least it isn't loud.
Gravity
gave up on me.


Inspired by Shel Silverstein's "Falling Up".
A new book of his poems came out recently, and I'm excited to read it!
Every Thing On It

Answers: Two Truths and One Lie

The three sentences:
1. I like mustard.
2. I enjoy going to car shows.
3. Daisies are my favorite flower.

References:
1. Evil Twin
2. Flying Umbrella
3. Asteraceae

The first one is false. I like ketchup, not mustard.
I love going to car shows with my Dad. Despite cars not being the best thing for the environment, they can be beautiful. Amy, I appreciate your thoughtfulness on this one.
Daisies are such a happy flower! Asteraceae is the family of flowers, and I love the whole family!

Thanks for playing along!

Two Truths and One Lie

Today's prompt on NaBloPoMo is to tell two truths and a lie. I often get so into thinking about truths people won't believe that I can't come up with a matching lie. This time, I chose three things which have been included in previous posts. This means regular readers have an advantage, or you could do some treasure hunting by back-reading.

1. I like mustard.
2. I enjoy going to car shows.
3. Daisies are my favorite flower.

I'll post the answer in 24 hours (with the reference poems).

I'd love if you would play along, so please leave a comment. Guess which 1 sentence of mine is a lie and leave  three sentences for me to guess.

Love Lost: Philip Levine Cento

She remembered or yearned.

“I found you whole.

I find you in these tears,

and it would do no good.

I will never make it"

Now she shakes her head,

shakes him away,

and she's herself.

Something began here

and nothing comes back.

This poem is a cento: a poem created by rearranging another writer's verses or lines. I greatly enjoyed reading many of Philip Levine's poems in order to find this poem. The lines came from the following poems:

In the New Sun (1, 5)

Father (2,3)

Heaven (4)

A Woman Waking (6,7)

Late Moon (8)

My Fathers, The Baltic (9,10)

Prompted by The Found Poetry Review

Poems found via the plaigarist.com poetry archive

Dew

Dew clings to the window screen,

blurring my view. Not that I care.

The only thing that interests me

is wallowing in my despair.

The new day only serves to remind:

my best friend died last night.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Quartz

I
numberless clear crystals
arranged to opacity
and varrying whites

II
Sorry I'm late.
A small bump in the path
tripped me up.

III
This small rock
(the length of my pinky)
was once part of something larger:
a mountain.
We are all small,
and yet part of the whole
of humanity.

IV
A glint caught by
the corner of my eye
Then lost in the dirt
until a short wind
revealed it to me.
A happy discovery.

V
Without its own locomotion
it travelled quite far,
no quartz sources nearby.
A few minor forces
combined,
water trickling,
a short kick,
but it made it here.

VI
Small beauties in life
like this bit of quartz
are often surprises.
Appreciate them.

VII
Straight edges
softened with time.
Half rough and
half smooth sides.
Some parts got more wear.

VIII
Cracks & crevices
too small to notice
but for the dirt
clinging in them.
Oh, the dirty details.

IX
looks to be a puzzle
with pieces carefully put together
and not easily pried apart

X
a rock hurled
a face cut
a crystal reddened
a scar formed

XI
Chance made it cloudy,
imperfect.
But not unbeautiful.

XII
Random gifts of
beauty are proof
the universe loves us.

XIII
“I found this shiny rock
just for you, Mommy.”
A little girl's
I love you.


Inspired by Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird by Wallace Stevens
We Write Poems Prompt #68
Poetry Pantry #63

Witnesses

Keep it a secret!

It was not their fault.
They could not see his face.

The winter snow
found him wishing
he could explain.
He never was given admittance. 



Found on page 121 of Camber of Culdi by Katherine Kurtz

Viable

My wife gasped.

The doctor kept talking, 

but,

my world was on mute.

I drove home on auto-pilot.

Sitting on the couch,

it finally sank in:

the embryo wasn't viable.


Three Word Wednesday CCLLV
gasp, mute, viable

Earn Eternity

Ephemeral though life is,
this seems an early end.
I cannot evade death.
Ejected from my body,
my essence ebbs away.

Please, return me to earth.
I'll return enhanced and
aim to erase my errors,
or ease their ill effects.
Let me earn eternal embrace.

ABC Wednesday Letter E

Death of a Queen

The Vengeful King

"An eye for eye!"

the great king cried.

My queen has died.

Now, how shall I

punish this crime?

None can compare

to my lady fair

whose lustrous hair

fluttered in air.

Who would have dared

to leave her there?

Killers beware

I'll find your lair

and have you snared.

Revenge, I swear.

Killing the guy

who did the crime

will satisfy

my wish to find

justice this time.

The Peaceful King

I know that an eye for an eye,

will only make the whole world blind.

Revenge will not help me to find

relief or any peace of mind.

No one will ever replace

her gentle, sweet, smiling face.

But now I must show some grace

and refuse to become base.

I can show others the way

if I correctly display

how to handle this sad day.

May her soul find peace, I pray.

I felt like writing on both sides of the prompt. Personally, I hope for the second outcome.
Part of Carry on Tuesday #118.

An eye for an eye will make the whole world go blind. - Mahatma Gandhi

Evil Twin

Hello fabulous morning.
I enjoy winter here
in my mountain home.
Make some coffee, 
feed the cat.

Sit at my wonderful desk.
It's square and metallic.
All my furniture
is nicely square.
What to do?

I've made no plans for today;
they only get in the way.


For lunch I can jump in my
sexy hummer, and drive
to get a burger:
mustard, onions,
tomatoes.

Probably they'll be lacking
something I want to eat.
Always say, "Sorry,
sir, we are out."
Bunch of jerks.

Maybe instead I will try 
the trendy cafe on Dry.



The idea of the prompt was to write a poem from someone with opposite preferences. The twin's not really evil, but he certainly isn't very much like me.
Thanks to this week's Poetry Tow Truck for the prompt.

Sirens' Song

No man is immune
to the sirens' song.
While love seems to
radiate from the shore,
hearts and ships are
dashed on the rocks and
drenched in the sea.


Three Word Wednesday CCLIII

Dream Dancing

Down into a 
deep sleep in the 
dark of night.


Daily doings forgotten:
door hinge creaking,
dripping faucet,
dumb jokes,
dog's mess.


Desires revealed:


Dropped into 
drums beating a
delightful rhythm.
Drinks all around.
Dancing begins.
Deemed worthy, I 
dance with them.


Dipping in the ocean.
Daring to 
dive for
dollars of sand.


Dawn arrives,
drawing me awake.
Dear, sweet dreams,
done for now.
Don't forget me.


ABC Wednesday Round 9 D