Another Coffee Poem

I sit, just me and my coffee mug.

I don’t have much to say,

to the owls on my mug, or to you.

But we keep each other company.


I really don’t have much to say,

although, there is so much I could say.

But at least I have company,

while I silently mock my mute tongue.


There is so much I should say,

not to the owls on my mug but to you.

I silently mock my bitter tongue, while

I sit, just me and my coffee mug.


A Coffee Stained Sestina

I was taking a drink of coffee,
when it spilled onto the page,
I wasn’t planning on keeping that book.
Who wants something that’s stained?
Who wants something that’s damaged?
Just another thing to keep.

I’m always looking for things to keep,
taking another sip of coffee,
no matter how damaged.
I stare at the drying page
and admire the way it looks, stained
and used. I quietly set aside the book.

What is it about a book
that makes me want to keep
it. This one is now  stained
with rings and splashes of coffee,
next will be rumpled pages.
Why do I want something damaged?

When it comes to things damaged,
I could probably write a book.
I could spill it all out on the page
but some secrets you’re meant to keep.
I would tell you over coffee
but I don’t like admitting how stained

I am. Because I am stained
and possibly even a little damaged.
Somedays, I wish I drank stronger than coffee.
If you could read my book
you’d know why. Should I  keep
the secrets written on my pages?

I could write page after page,
on the things that have stained
my life’s journal. I struggle to keep
hidden how much I’m damaged.
But then again, we all have a book.
Some do drink stronger than coffee.

I look at it again, stained with coffee,
this thing I keep guarded, my own book.
I think I prefer my pages a little damaged.