Coffee With

Dr. Judy

Kitchen Table Poetry

by Judy Richardson | Published March 23, 2021

I have been writing poetry for many years. It is not in the tradition of Longfellow or Frost, but a sort of free the way I feel at the time. Just a piling on of words. I have an entire book of it, added to over the years, that I have mostly shared with a few friends and family. There is really not a big audience for poetry. When I taught American Literature to my adult evening classes, I tried to demystify it so they would at least give it some thought.

Carrol Coleman, a master printer, printed many beautifully designed poetry books, but they appealed to a small audience. When my husband, Chuck Wendel, purchased the Prairie Press after Coleman’s death, he has the entire selection produced by Colman. I even discovered one by an English Professor, Dr. Mayo, who taught at Drake University.

From time to time I will post some of my favorite creations on my website. If you choose to comment, please be kind. I will also share one or two I saved from the Coleman Collection.

Kitchen Table Poetry

Early in the morning
In the silent house
Except for distant snoring
From my ever- loving spouse
I sit at kitchen table
To scribble, while I’m able
Silly bits and secrets
Of my sweet and simple days
As mother, sister, daughter
Artist, teacher, lover
So I may ever savor
The wonder of life’s ways.

I write from odd compulsion
And thoughtful deep emotion
In hopes that sometime someone might
Find joy in these my small insights
As she sits at kitchen table
And reads my fits and fables
While sipping from a steaming cup
Before her quiet house wakes up.

I hate poetry

A simple verse
It could be worse.
It could be Keats or Tennyson.
It could be Yeats, or E. A. Poe
Of Raven voice and denizen.

It could be Em, the white recluse,
Or Whitman crude, crass and footloose,
Or why not Sandburg, small, intense,
Or Elliott dry, obtuse, and dense?

It could be Plath
Of tortured past,
Or Edna’s dark confessions.

It could be Pound
Or Blake profound
Or e e cummings
Unpunctuated humming.

The froth of Frost
The fright of Wright
Bryant’s death
Rosette’s breath
Angelou’s joy
Browning’s boy

Oh chill,
It’s only me.

This poem is dedicated to all my students who cringe when the word poetry is mentioned,

Also posted in Kitchen Table Poetry