coffeeshop poems and whatnot

Sometimes, I like to call myself a poet. Not of shakespearean sonnets or ababcc rhyme schemes, but of thoughts that fall into place and make something like a song. My moleskine is filled with scribbled thoughts, jotted down journal entries, lists (some crossed out, others not), quickly done sketches, and a plethora of poetry. Many that are just one line, others, spanning several pages.

I love flipping through the many pages and stumbling across a poem or sloppily scrawled (my penmanship is atrocious) thought that makes me smile. Some letters that fit together just right where I somehow found the words to express them. More than that though, I love finding a gem where I remember how the world was when I wrote it.

I have several books of poetry and perusing the pages and savoring the words like sipping tea is one of my favorite things. I'll sometimes sit at the coffee shop, people watch, and write. There's something about coffee shops that lend to an inspiring atmosphere. So alive, bustling, full of energy, and artsy. Just my kind of place.

Straight from my moleskine, here are some words and whatnot.

Coffee Shop Poems

We sip coffee with chapped lips
(at least I, from winter winds)
that steal words from
my mouth -- how are you doing?
I try to ask in thehustle
white chocolate mocha!
they cry, and I wish I could tell
you that I know you're sad, even
while drinking hazelnut, smiling,
your eyes are licked
with the winter wind.

home

quiet is a word almost never heard
in our house --
with someone (or many)always shouting or
running,
noisy isn't a strong enough word to describe
the chaos.
Don't tell anyone, but sometimes,
I like the noise better than silence,
because it means home.

starlight

it was dark and rain fell like stars
from the heavens, dropping silver on
theparched ground.
we drank it up as if we had never seen sky
before -- or even light
and perhaps, we hadn't.

waltz of the flowers

There it is -- the magic begins
I remember the beating of my
heart, faster than a whirlwind,
my fingers clenched tight
(I could not unclench them -- it was
as if I was holding onto something)
flowers unfold, feet point, and they jump,
while I sit and watch the ballet begin
and remember what it was like
to dance with my feet flying in pink
ribbons.



Do you write poetry?
xo
Hannah