Katherine's Coffeehouse

Purple was accidental. I like how it looked on my website. So I started out with a logo, a two-tone purple half-arrow, pointing up towards something, whatever it was for the day. Then I moved on to business cards. And purple brochures. And pens. Hues and tones of purple, blueberry in between, purple scarves, plum …

Moving On Read More »

*Ogni pensiero vola How many poems love Mondays? Do any of them laud the week’s overlord, strum a bard’s mandolin, raise a tenor tone up towards a stony window where, instead of a maiden with perfumed tresses, leans out an old ogre? “I’m Monday,” the ogre says. “And you are a goofy bard.” He tosses …

Ogni pensiero vola Read More »

I’ve never been good at either/or, always been a “both” person, really. Explains a lot – the extensive collection of conditioner in the shower, five different bars of soap, two razors (one is dull), and an extra roll of toilet paper just outside the stall. You never know when you’ll need a tissue. If you …

Introspect Read More »

This early morning, patio stones under my naked feet, then up the deck stairs, then the humid air, the sudden inhalation of spring honeysuckle. I don’t hurt anymore. #KatherinesCoffeehouse

Now I’m thinking of sellouts – two or three suits in office chairs, afraid to spin or roll, even on waxed, white floors that beg for it. There’s a man with several chins, bound by tight collar and tie, squeezing everything up, like temperature or blood pressure. How he doesn’t choke is a freaking miracle. …

For Sale by Owner Read More »

In all seriousness, I love ants. Not in the house, per se, but on a sidewalk or grass blade, or how about a dandelion stem? Just an ant, carrying, what? Ten times its weight? Eighty times? Eight hundred times? Who cares. Look at the beaded thing, an ambulatory speck of necklace, shred of leaf in …

Ant Read More »

Lovers are two noses, tips touching in the cold, “Eskimo kisses,” (as the Inuit roll their eyes). But follow me here. Skin meeting skin, the heat of breath exchanged, the winged smoke that flies from sighs in January air – those are the things that turn your belly inside out. Until you’ve rubbed each other …

Harsh Winter Read More »

Where is poetry, if not in soft snow, slipping slowly from a crying sky, releasing its babies, like we do, when they’re ready to fly? #KatherineCoffeehouse

Have you ever stepped out on that wide first step, the landing, the top one, looked down like you were on a ledge and said, “That’s a long, steep way. Better hold the railing”? That’s called getting old. We used to slide down the stairs, butts bumping against the edges, turning carpet into a slide, …

Stepping Out Read More »