Katherine's Coffeehouse

Decisions

By Katherine Gotthardt Somewhere, there’s what I should be doing, somewhere between the smudged edges of you and me, between the places where time and things collect, and I become a bit overwrought. I look around this room, this one room, and I am breathless – not because it is beautiful, not with appreciation, not …

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Trust Me

I tell you trust isn't something I lend like a new book you know damn well will never be returned. It isn't something I save on my shelf, waiting to give away. It's more like a person I don't want to introduce. You could try to find and kidnap him, but that's not how trust …

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Prayer of the Fields

In withering arms of darkness, dew trying to pass for rainwater, beaten terrain attempts to rise,

Comfort Seeking

Seeking comfort in success

Storefront

By Katherine Gotthardt In the dream, my bed is cemented in a storefront, and I, no control over window treatments or shades, curl in the corner of strangers’ eyes, try to sleep. When I wake, I wonder what that was all about. Was it because I furniture shopped with my adult daughter last week? Checked …

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Light Discussion

Freedom means choosing your light, picking which part of the day means most, rising with mourning doves and dew, or celebrating the moon’s evolution.   What becomes of the sunrise, you writers already know: Daytime. Clockwork. Clouds and showers, temperatures based on the Earth’s hot moods.   Evening feels so much smoother, starlight beaming you …

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Fourth of July

Today, the hate of the world weighs heavy, and I must remain a poet,

Errand Days

Saturdays were errand days, shopping and banking,

3 a.m.

By Katherine Gotthardt   Often now, I think about death, usually at 3 a.m. when I wake to the thin skin of all that separates us. They say that’s when the dead speak, spirits and the living reside in one world, and anyone you miss is a but a pinpoint’s distance to your fingertips.   …

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Cardinal

By Katherine Gotthardt   Mornings, I want to write deeply, delve into the beak of the cardinal by my window, pull his routine song into my poem, make something more beautiful than myself. But it doesn’t happen.   Instead, the day gets swallowed, sits in a full belly where hours and years swell into reminders …

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