Cathy Hollister is the author of Seasoned Women, A Collection of Poems published by Poet’s Choice and a forthcoming chapbook Sole Mates that celebrates traditional dancing. A Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has been in Eclectica Magazine, Burningword Literary Journal, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, and others. She lives in middle Tennessee; find her online at www.cathyhollister.com

Waste

It has almost finished brewing
the gurgling pot tells me.
I carelessly spill
the stained filter with gritty and bitter grounds
into the trash
never noticing that those ugly, useless dregs
Still steam, giving up the last of their essence, they whisper
be mindful of what you discard

Should I ponder their journey
hot sun, hand harvested, roasted,
pummeled into broken pieces, used and used up
abrasive and spent
slight inconvenience, removed with no regret
in my morning need
be mindful of what you discard

Faded sundress, old blouse, out of style
useless, too worn, too ugly, too wrinkled
to be seen in public, embarrassing
purged and trashed even as they boast
of patches colorful and whole
quilt worthy, willing to give warmth and comfort they murmur
be mindful of what you discard

Retired and relegated to the back of the restaurant
inconvenient, invisible, worn, and wrinkled
out of style
memories of spent tears, mistakes she regrets, first dates, and steamy kisses
spill from her lips only when someone cares to hear
though ground down
by brewing looks that say too old, abrasive, useless, embarrassing
she holds no bitterness, her mind regards the slights
through a filter of her essence
though it might whimper
be mindful of what you discard

I’m Not A Very Good Story Teller

I go on and on like a lonely expanse of beach that stretches to the horizon with no discernable endpoint. Sometimes there is a surprise. Like a little wave of laughter that tickles my toes just as a breaker catches me daydreaming and gushes up over my knees. There may be a small purple seashell of interest. Even redemptive moments like the wicked shard of glass that is worn down by salt, sand, and tide only to be reborn as a lovely jewel. My stories never reach the pinnacle of the majestic palm tree, bent low by wind and driving rain, forced to bow under the heaviness of life.
Good tales have plot and direction. Mine flicker like a lazy beach campfire lulling me to sleep. They are as annoying as the pesky smoke that follows me no matter where I move my camp chair. Occasionally a landscape of distant mountains formed by the orange and yellow peaks of flame appear, but soon fade as the dark night yawns under moon and stars. My yarns never really capture the magic of little girls’ giggles, burnt marshmallows, and chocolate smeared on freckled cheeks.
With prose as endless as an evening breeze and meaningless as a meteor shower on a clear summer night, I think I’ll just stick to writing poetry.

Awareness

begins with a germ
an infant notion floating in primal broth
snatching amino acids of kindness, humiliation, neglect, caresses, rage, abuse, gunfire,
generosity, pain, birdsong, apathy, wildflowers—
to grow to a fully formed philosophy

snakes slither in hunger,
fire floods the heart
tiny hands grasp

cold oceans
sapphire seas pool the rage
calms the waves
ripples a stream conscious
of the opening
offered

in the beginning
when light was new
fish schooled in harmony
opportunity ribboned with promise
to encoil higher order
or spontaneously abort in gloom

Deep Illusion

There must be comfort in being cold blooded, swimming in a sea of ease, salt water flowing through gills, oxygen streaming through cells, tides and currents welling up, around, over stabling sea horse daddies giving birth, prehensile tails that grip gold staghorn, red bull’s blood coral coursing through sandy plains and rich green kelp forest stretching toward the surface above. As I float in the choppy surf, threatened by approaching rains, waves gowned in white caps, I wonder at the natural marine beauty, and dream to live in the illusive harmony that I see under me, slightly out of reach.

Dunnet Head

Pink veins course through soft curves
seeking shelter under white fairy fingers
marsh orchids flinch in cruel winds
honey scent snatched away
fierce gusts disguise breakers below as silent foam
sweep off jagged craigs and flint-faced cliffs of the North Sea
salt air stings
red campion hide in fisted stones
white bog cotton walks the wetland
sweet heather sings low and slow, deep purple
strains swell Highland hope
summer solstice light feeds ox-eye daisy
that resist the biting gale to watch over tiny bairns

Black oyster catcher and screaming grey gull
comfort the lone traveler
fortunate to find boulder sentry
protects a soft bed of calm
an inviting expanse of wild
uncivilized
untouched
unspoiled