Katherine's Coffeehouse

Sunrise Haiku poem by Katherine Gotthardt


This orange morning, sunrise writes a memo: “For your eyes only.”


The irony of language: it’s a gorgeous word. Say it out loud: language. Say it for the sake of linguistics. Say it for the sake of auld lang syne. Say it for the sake of now, celebrating it daily, hourly, prefix, suffix, present participle, all that was and is and still could be. Let your …

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poetry about the pandemic coronavirus COVID19 by Katherine Gotthardt


Turn off the morning news. Go to the old stereo. Turn on the blues. Because if anyone knows the trouble you feel it’s the songwriters, musicians, making it real, telling us what it is to be alive, how every thought has a place, how every pain has brought us closer to where we need to …

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poetry about the pandemic coronavirus COVID19 by Katherine Gotthardt


Every day is fear now, blocking out potential, masking the possible, making it hard to breathe. That’s how sickness works. That’s how blame works. That’s how the world stands: silently, in the rain.

Interview Tips for Artists and Writers

Yesterday, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting with the National League of American Pen Women, D.C. Chapter. They asked me to present some tips for artists who are being interviewed for magazine and journal articles. (I was asked to do this because I’ve interviewed quite a few artists representing themselves, as well as groups.) …

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Sorry, Emily

Because I could not stop for death, he kindly passed me by – he, dark winged and disappointed. Me, content with my busy pen – writing away mortality.


That time in the Mexican mountains, I said I was being followed. It wasn’t so much that you listened (though I loved you for capturing that pic, casually on the hiking trail, then later in the cantina – your face when you saw, yes, it was the same blond woman tagging along like a bad …

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leaves of grass

Every Atom

That day you hummed the song of myself – I assume you assumed I’d fallen for it. I did. Have you felt so proud since, every atom belonging to me belonging to you? Well? Have you? Apologies to Walt Whitman


Lighting the lavender votive, I remember you and me, vitamins, mood stabilizers, coffee. And that little tin of scones, blue with sketches of Victorian women, hoop-dressed, press-on rhinestones. How much fun we had sticking those gems on. The Queen would be horrified, we said. Is she?


Paper sheets the floor, tossed with two red pens, caps, White-Out, and angst. Another manuscript salad gone wrong.

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