Heron; Coffee

C.N.P Poetry 

  • Cathexis Northwest Press

Heron; Coffee

By: James Constantine Hatzopoulos


Heron


What is the fate of my bow 

and six licks from my quiver?

Wired heron.  Twigs bridle her wings.

Her body crests like a wave on the shore. 


Loopy as my arrows were - four

miss - one does hit her beak below 

the nostril, another near the liver,

and so with lamp-white wings

dipping back, but not forth, things 

appear mixed-up for her.  No soar 

to the clouds and the heavens, no 

signs of good flying.  The river


where I am is bluish-silver, 

but when she crashes, limp, making 

a radiating central circle, red gore 

of her wounds begins to flow


around her, begins to grow

like branching veins in the river. 

Pulsating water in outward rings,

blood from where my arrows tore.  




Coffee


We are discussing nights.

Please, take a seat.  


Are you chic with your herbal choices?


Do you put it in a pot?  How do you carry 

them - both, or all at once?


Are you a rebrander, a non-sleeper?


Are you a loser with

your lager?


We are discussing losing 

life for a cup of coffee or tea.


We are discussing coffee beans, 

and whether to grind them

the night before 

or the morning of -

Please, take a seat - do they break?


We are discussing espresso 

after dinner, ginger-mint before -

What’s that taste?


What do you drink in desperation?

What do you have when you 

are panicked?

What is it when you want 

both?  Do you 

excuse yourself to creak into the

corners and guzzle down 

a lukewarm cup, sipping on 

old brew from a 

small porcelain cup?




James Constantine Hatzopoulos lives, writes, and teaches in Northern California. He holds a B.A. in Philosophy and an Ed.M. in Secondary Education.

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