Katherine's Coffeehouse

Poetry in Progress. Take a sip.

Wishful Thinking

I’m in awe of chaos and how easily it erupts, how fragile the audience of everything: one wrong word an unexpected May wind, unseasonal cold front, and the world falls to petals. Or maybe it’s more like the button push, gif or emoji from someone who’s had a bad day, the discord of sticking a …

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Speaking of…

You’ve come to grips with it: no one’s in the audience. Every day, you hear yourself, reverberating in the mic, saying the same things in different ways, repeating your truths like mantras, your words like they came from the mountain. You must be doing something wrong, though. Nothing is happening. Nothing is changing. Nothing nods …

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Reminder #3

Open your notebook. Log the times you think you failed. Read it to the wind. -Katherine Gotthardt

On Aging

Go to the double mirror. See how age is perfecting you, every memory creased


This is my advice: slice the morning. Make wedges out of hours, minutes where you could be writing poetry. Carve the fleshy part of day, the time when words mean exactly what you think, exactly what you want, exact like a sharp, expensive tool you bring out for the big jobs. Poetry was made for …

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5 a.m. on a Sunday and I accidentally wake my husband. “Poetry piled up overnight,” I explain. He murmurs, “Death by poetry,” and rolls over. But I am here thinking how Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, and great poets I don’t know enough about have carried me through the night— this most recent night, one that …

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On the sidewalk lone white feather in the wind Angel in the world -Katherine Gotthardt

If it wasn’t for

If it wasn’t for the way early light met me on the street that morning, or the way April rain’s fingers tapped lightly on my shoulder, or how that warm mist and sudden sense seeped through to my very skin. If it wasn’t for a voice familiar to my better self, the one that snuck …

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Evening Haiku

hook of the moon dangling over a star bait of brighter light -Katherine Gotthardt


Today, in the battlefield's forest, Manassas gave us gifts: a stream for our dog to swim in, a wooden bridge for us to cross, a path for hikers and horses. Through trees reached the arms of the sun, resting its hands on the back of our necks. Not even a hint of soldiers or Civil …

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