A Caffeinated Ode

Ode poetry sometimes sings the praises of the everyday. Write an ode about a favorite coffee or tea shop. What makes it yours? Write about the atmosphere, or the people who craft the beverages that make your day bright.

~ TweetSpeak Poetry serves up an ode to a coffee shop poetical prompt. You in?

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Blue and white boxes of incense, two stacks of

books, several CDs, and some business cards, brochures,

pile on a re-purposed kitchen hutch, rough edges, painted

wood displays local wares.

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Toast and coffee compete for space in the uppermost places of scent-thick air.

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Spicy orange tea, stone-ground whole wheat, bagged

chips and canned drinks, organic, line the left side

shelf along the same wall as the couch,

leather and brown.

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A duo tends the till, a wide, stainless galley kitchen, and a drive-thru window.

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What’s that smell? my husband asks as we wait

for her to run the card. Driven by olfactory, I record,

and hold places, times. College I say. The food co-op; granola

girls with hairy legs and bare toes; brown farm eggs; hot drinks;

and garden foods.

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Turkey with pickles times two, a veggie  sandwich, extra mustard. Coffee, black.

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Bright light blinds - a stranger pullsblue mug

the cloth shades, casting rays slant

down. Patrons talk, read free

newspapers, some even hold hands.

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Thick-cut, salty chips and sparkling raspberry juice make us drool – we call it dessert.

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Thanks we say to the bearded man

behind the counter. My husband chews a toothpick,

our son burrows in a book, and outside, on the sunny

sidewalk I hold my coat in one hand and a

new box of incense in the other.

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Oso

Just pray, please, for the family and friends of those who perished, as well as for those who have been unaccounted for, in the recent Oso, WA mudslide. The devastation is alarming and the loss is incomprehensible, even so, God is in it.

Someday God’s children will know the why’s and how’s, but for now, let us lean upon our collective faith, dip into His storehouse of love, and garner strength — storm all from our Heavenly Father’s outstretched and merciful hands.

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you kindly.

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Table to Table

It’d been a long day but she moved easy from table to table, clearing other people’s dirty dishes and wiping the tabletops with cloth that had been soaked in bleach water. Even though she was in the middle of an uptown crowd of manicured people in linen suits and silk shirts, nobody noticed her.

Until now.

blue mugHer back was to him as she grabbed the last plate off of a nearby table. As the longhaired girl walked away, she hoisted the tray to chin-level, exposing her wrist as her shirtsleeve cuff slid down. When he saw the strange tattoo, he flinched, inhaled sharp, and knocked over his coffee cup, ruining his law school notes. The twenty-two year old man apologized to his study partners. Desperate to see her face, he looked up, but she was gone.

 

  1. Which character are you?
  2. Why?

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Back to the bigCity – again. Yikes.

If you recall, two summers ago I went with my husband to the bigCity for a work-related event that involved bigWigs from his company. I even shaved my legs, wore a red lacy shirt, and a black, somewhat shiny skirt — albeit, I wore the schmooze-worthy outfit with cowboy boots. Cowboy boots that my husband polished, because really, I am not a car-washer, boot-polisher sorta gal. I drive it and I wear it and if it gets dirty, I don’t give a rip, toot, snot, or snort. I don’t have time for buffing and scrubbing – apparently I’m too busy whittling words out here in BlogLand.

Well, buckaroos, those two years have whiz-banged right on by, and today, Lord willing and the creeks don’t rise, I’m going to the bigCity again. For two nights. Not just the one.

SuperYikes x2.

And again, all manner of nervous, freaking out, fright-filled emotions have clamped their claws and jaws smack-dab onto places between my buttocks, back, and brain. Yeah, that’s right. I can feel razor-sharp pangs of pain.

Who: Some (so-called) friends of mine chewed my ear, harangued, and harassed me until I relented. They’re gonna have hell to pay if I have one of my hissy-fits, err, panic attacks. Hell. To. Pay.

What: A writer’s conference. One and a half daZe of being in a facility with more than a handful of people. Most of them strangers. Beware!

When: Soon, very soon, Grasshopper.

Where: Uh, the bigCity. Near a big freeway. No doubt, there will be lots of cars and people who lurk and speed and press into my personal bubble space. I’ve seen movies, I know.

And get this – by the time I succumbed to the peer pressure to attend the conference, there was not a single hotel-motel-bed & breakfast room to be had within a 40-minute drive of the venue. I live 90 minutes from it and I’m sure as shooting not gonna pay to stay closer to my house than to he blasted conference. (If you read along, you shall see a variation to this statement.) I was ready to email the gals to tell them it was a no-go for me when I thought about campgrounds. Uh, yep, as it turned out, there’s one 10 minutes from the conference with cabins available for rent.

So now, I’ve booked a “deluxe” cabin and I’ve paid the deposit. And yes, I paid extra for four walls with an indoor toilet. Apparently the toilet is what hoists it up a notch to the “deluxe” model. The cabin is a shell, the camp host said… a very bare-bones, minimalistic place with plastic-covered mattresses. FunTimes. I’m brining my homemade anti-viral-fungal-bacterial-germ spray.

Just this morning, my husband laughed and snickered that the pot probably is in the corner of the one-room cabin. “Ha ha ha. I bet there aren’t any walls around the toilet. All the girls will have to leave the cabin every single time someone has to uh, you know, go.” Oh ha ha ha yourself, tallGuy.

Some other womenfolk, from up here in the wildWood boondocks, couldn’t find sleeping arrangement either, so five of us will share the cabin. Five women. One toilet. One shower. I’m pretty low-maintenance so I’ll huddle in my sleeping bag and wrap my husband’s scratchy wool blanket about my wet-haired head — because I’ll do my personal hygiene prep work the night before. (I’m sure you needed to know that.)

Why: I have no idea.

Last night, to no avail, I searched for a comfortable, cozy, furniture-laden, linens provided, well-stocked pantry sort of cabin nearby – as in just a few miles from home – so’s that I could feign illness, avoid the city, get most of my conference money refunded, and sneak off to a cabin in the woods. Heck, my husband arranged his schedule to be off tomorrow so he can be with the boyChild and the critters. I might as well not let him down. I could pretend to go to the bigCity, and instead, I could go off by my introverted self and sleep-in, read books, write books, watch movies, pace the floor, and eat meals without having to fetch anyone ketchup or water or meat.

driveHomeSDHow: By the grace of God and a handful of horse tranquilizers. Kidding. Well, partly. Prayer, I need prayer, people. This agoraphobic country gal doesn’t fancy the bigCity. It’s like clowns on steroids carrying dolls laden with door handle germs. Gah! There are a lot of reasons why I live in the woods at the end of a dirt road in the woods in solitude in the woods. The woods!

* As a noteworthy side note, this will be the first time in over a decade (deca – as in 10, yep, 10 years) that I have slept away from home without my husband and/or my son. I like my home. I like being home. I like the woods. Oh, sure, my son and husband have galavanted about the state without me, but not I, without them. (insert buttock to brain shivers)

* * Also, my mom (gee, thanks) pointed out that she’s nevah, evah heard of anyone staying in that particular campground in the wintertime (because ya know, it’s still winter here with temps in the 20′s at night). “Does the cabin even have heat?” she asked last night on the phone.

I reckon if it doesn’t, my mason jars filled with homemade, turbo coffee drinks will be popsicles in glass, my head will sport frozen strands of matted, braided brown hair, and that darn-blasted scratchy wool blanket will be appreciated, even if it’s still despised for its itchy qualities.

 My son just walked in and asked if I was really gonna go to the city.

“I think so, buddy,” I said.

“Oh ga-reat. What am I supposed to do with daddy for two days?”

“Let him out to pee after he eats, drinks, and plays.”

“No, I mean daddy, not your puppy.”

“Son, I meant daddy and my puppy.”

In case you’re wondering, I’m not wearing a skirt or even my cowboy boots this time. I’m gonna sport my Carharrt jeans and my big, black Danner boots. A country girl’s gotta be ready to flee the scene in case the bigCity tries to swallow her. Run, run, run, as fast as you can – back home to your wooded wonderland.