This summer I took a little road trip to Seattle with my friend Dan. We rode in a green Honda Civic from my parents’ house in Indiana to the place where the artsy portion of my soul calls home. Seattle. (I just made this trip sound short and simple. It was neither of these things. It was, however, one of the best trips of my life.)

This poem is a product of my favorite cafe in Seattle, Espresso Vivace. It has 3 different locations around the city, and I was sure to make it to all of them while I was there. This poem is a compilation of my random thoughts and observations while sitting in the cafe one afternoon sipping an americano and observing life going on around me.

Mary Brown, my Creative Writing prof in undergrad, instilled in my head 3 rules of poetry. One of these was that “sound is sense.” Another was that “words are rich and reach.” I tried to put both of these to use in this piece. I hope that if she were ever to read it, she would at least appreciate the fact that I still remember some of the principles of poetry that she taught me.


Black curves inked on
White arms tightly grip the gears
Of the espresso machine.
Gold bangles hanging on
Olive wrists loosely grasp a tea cup
With delicate letters scrolled on its side.

Mustard tables flanked
By chocolate and cherry chairs
Seat the eclectic guests while
Caramel crema curls
From the spout of the espresso machine
Into the ivory porcelain
Of my demitasse.


My first real post

I wrote this about a month ago when I first started to contemplate the idea of dabbling again with poetry and writing as a whole.  I realized that sometimes I am so scared that whatever I write won’t be perfect that I stop after I’ve written a couple lines.   Having made this discovery, I made the requirement for myself that editing will be kept at a minimum.  If I come up with a line of poetry that I like, I’ll write it down…then I’ll write down a line after it.  Instead of waiting for the perfect line, I will forge forth with whatever words come next.  For me poetry isn’t perfection, it’s taking a risk.

I Will Write
I will start to write again
Regularly, but not well.
Hell, what do I write?

I’ve been told that meter and form
are not my forte
Which suits me just fine, for they
Bore me.
With their constraints and limitations,
My results are always vague imitations
Of Shakespeare, Frost, or Mary Brown.

With all I read, one would think I’d be inspired.
But birth and bugs,
Microbes and microns,
Diseases and death,
Don’t feed the soul as much as one would hope.
But that’s to be expected I suppose.

I will start to write again,
But I will write for me.
I can’t just write for anybody.
Some of my work may have valid worth.
Some of it may be shit for earthworms
To feed upon.
I’ll write for pleasure and joy.

I will write.