Posted in Poetry

Sharp Objects

jitter shake and tremble, cold cold coffee
don’t slurp
is it cold or shock
(it’s both)
the copper stars break
jump and jerk in the fan reflection
prince is still on my desk waiting to be ripped he rips
it like none other
only raul gets that too bad he o.d.’d on the cuban
coffee last year back before he almost burned
his place down with that dog with the broken ear too
bad about the coffee i could use some jitter shake and tremble
so i could bludgeon the fears of never seeing god in action
only the neglect that causes the jitter shake and tremble
the shock part coffee brake emergency brake fire break
if you drop it does it break like my
yellow coffee cup on the garage floor
i am too dangerous to be given sharp objects
like anger and despair black and white on the floor of the italian deli
with a splash of red or maybe blue
as we all keep gazing out over the sod and don’t give in to
soccer the devo game according to coach k let’s just load up the bases
raw and pure like that canker sore on my right cheek raw
pure and painful do we stop feeling if we don’t have pain?


© Jilly’s  All Rights Reserved

Posted in Poetry


There is a special store where we travel many miles to stock up.  The filter, whole beans, water carefully poured and the timer set for 5.  Buzzing grinder erupts one flight below just 10 minutes before the alarm so that when showers are complete there is a freshly brewed yellow cup to the brim waiting on the bathroom sink where you have slipped it through the steam and tea tree shampoo aroma cloud that I might sip and makeup and hair all at once.  Another one is topped of the travel variety, squeezing out the final drop just after the third period bell and the last one that we share after dinner while we write and laugh and have a cookie with it.  From time to time there are rumors of shortages and rising prices and I wonder what

I would sacrifice

If coffee were priced like gold

Between the Tropics

© Jilly’s Poem & Photo


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Posted in Poetry

Ever at Fernwood

Three alarms, one ironic, one aromatic and a third that is only essential if we talk very late into the night and are found sleep-deprived at 5:30.  Brubeck, Desmond, Morello induce us to Take Five at five fifteen, a jazzy irony not lost on our sleepy heads.  Ten minutes later the ritual of filter, water, beans and timer launches into a jet engine grind one flight down, set each evening before.  Your hand reaches for mine, or some days, the other way around; the perfection of another day with you.  Your feet hit the floor as you reach for the blat, blat, blat clock that would be; insult averted. And you bring coffee, not a mystery, except that of which cup you choose – yellow sunshine, blue cobalt, or the I Love You / I Love You More set.  Fifteen stolen minutes with the curtains drawn back to face east and see the sun rising or the rain falling, the hawk and jays in combat, and you and I, harmony of souls.

The rhythm of days

Seasons play out before us

Perennial are we


© Jilly’s 2016

June 8, 2005 Fernwood Botanical Gardens
For C

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