True Love of Coffee

The Sword and the Stone

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Creative Writing

I find myself amongst scattered stones.
Fallen heroes and indifferent hearts.
The chaotic rush of defiant inhumanity,
And the deafening thunder of war.

When I live such things,
I no longer find my honor,
I find my soul to be untouchable,
The search for a king is over.

I hold onto a blade,
That once defended all I cared for,
By destroying the very thing,
That someone else needed so dearly.

No one, not even I, can define why.
There was a time when great cause,
Gave inspiration to a time of excellence.
But that moment is over, death comes to all.

What is this hope we seek;
is it the futile hope of everlasting love,
or the disdain we all have of our possession?
Covered by the tears of loss, we all find only want.

Day after day, year after year,
The very heart that held my world together,
became harder than the world around me,
and my only love was turned to stone.

The way people live

Posted by Barry Hurd in Author's Favorites, Creative Writing, Daily thoughts, Dreams, Friendship, Honor, Survival

I don’t get too much time these days to stop and smell the roses, sometimes however sweet they are. Rather I ask myself if I remember what roses smell like. Ironically, I find myself lacking that memory. People often fail to realize if they will miss the moments of life they love, and yet I look at things and find myself terrified of losing even my past, the warm scent of life that made me smile.

What does that mean? it means I actually miss the people I care about. I miss them a lot. Unlike many people who take moments of living for granted, I take every second as if it were a treasure… the kind you would covet as a child and hide away from all danger, both real and imaginary.

This is not something that passes, for me at least, part of who I am is locked in a moment of perfect clarity. In a fear of forgetting every perfect moment, I sometimes find them haunting. Yet I feel that strange desire of actually having something worth holding, something worth sacrifice and triumph. Something worth the very tears that remind me how my heart feels.

I find myself struggling on a daily basis to reach the goal of being triumphant… of feeling it… and when I try to succeed I am aware that my efforts were too late… that I failed. Realizing I have failed someone I cared about is brutal reminder that my duty is not something that I can ignore or that I can set aside. I am better than that.

Some people refer to me as a healer, a person of serendipitous nature and exact purpose. I am a catalyst of sorts, the person people interact with to produce a reaction of unusual results.

This leads me to a question that has been asked of me before, “what is my purpose in life?”

I seem to be a conduit. Something that is not a destination, but a place of action where one does not stop. My nature provokes people into moving from A to B, and there are no stops where I am. That has always been my life, a place where people never have time to smell the roses.

I feel like I am a rose. The kind of blossom that stands by itself against the horizon, waiting for the sun to rise and be embraced by a moment of warmth, only to acknowledge that the moon and stars will soon replace the vibrancy of life that keeps me warm.

Perfect little stars. The gemini in me realizes that duality better than most. Perfect and brilliant speckles of hope that keep me hoping that the sunrise will soon make me warm again, that the beautiful night sky is a place that feels too alone.

I promised my daughter a long time ago that I would never give up on people I care about. I do not let my dreams die so easily. That is a far more difficult realization than I care to admit. Failure is not an option. Allowing my dreams, my promises, and my hopes to fade away is simply something I will not let happen.

So I keep moving. I try to explain some things, and I leave some things without any explanation as I push myself harder and faster. The brutality of caring for people often leaves me left uncared for, but that is my life. I know what will or will not kill me. I am a survivor… a catalyst that serves a purposes for the things around me.

I will always care. Honestly and wholeheartedly. Even when I the world fails to give me time to say it, I will always remember and honor how I feel.

There was a day

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Creative Writing

I looked at the reflection of my life, ripples of thought pushing through my mind as my tears fell swift, yet with pause. Each drop of life that was lost pulled me farther and deeper into recollection and illusion, moments filled with nothing but figment and intangible dreaming. I cried, blinding myself in trying to feel, believing that each second was precious, and sacrificing everything I had to believe. Faith was not my strong trait, yet the wisp of cool air against my neck reminded me of being a child, it touched me as if the youth of yesterday was something I still possessed.

The water was cold, my warm breath glanced off the surface like misty fog embracing a rocky ocean shore. The voices in my head were so faint, like gulls talking against the rhythm of the waves, being drown out by the fury of the sea meeting the security of granite cliffs. These sturdy walls overlooking the sea of my life were simply perfect and unmovable. They were not obstacles to be overcome or destroyed, they were obelisk and icons. Simple representations of things in my life that could not be changed.

Yet the world, the shear power of the fluid emotions of the sea, tried again and again to crumble them into sand. My faith was not an abstract thought, but a rational acceptance of the beautiful view I had from such a strong vantage. The soil at my feet was moist and saturated with my love and adoration of life, the ground I stood upon felt soft and sensual, yet somewhere down within my being everything had solidified into hardened rock.

I wondered, as I looked at the sea, as the feelings tried to reach me, if I was not meant to leap from my place of solitude.

If the world hates, hate me

Posted by Barry Hurd in Creative Writing, Loss, Survival

I was cold, even though the warm summer wind was blowing across my neck. My hands were covered in blood and I looked at Ray for a moment as I tried to keep going. I could see desperation in his eyes, the acceptance that we had failed in our duty to save someone. I couldn’t feel my arms anymore. My hands felt like ice, the gash on my leg had lost a lot of blood over the past few hours yet I had found some strength to keep going through the motions of breathing for someone else. My chest gave me a feeling like I had broken a rib, but I knew that I was well. The pain wasn’t from my bones, it was from a conflicting spirit and a damned soul. I simply didn’t know who was being damned and who was being saved.

I remember the look in Ray’s eyes, and the look I saw in the man. I swear that there was a reflection there for a moment when I was lost. Circumstance and fate.

Some cafe writing

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Creative Writing

These are just two quick pieces of creative writing that I’m working on for one of my books.

If this prison of my life is not made of glass, I worry that the colors of a diamond hue will have invaded my paradise and destroyed the ways my life has become so articulate.

As the Rain Falls

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Creative Writing, Dreams

Today I arrived at a place, called home.
My son was in the car with his friend, laughing.
I was carrying my keys, holding his hand.
Telling him how wonderful life was, if only a moment to enjoy.
The sky was blue, with tender drops of cool rain falling down.
Yet we were happy, in peaceful seconds as father and son.
He does not wonder as I do, about how these days may pass.
But he teaches me more than I can learn, if only to be a child once more.

Into the Looking Glass- Chapter I

Posted by Barry Hurd in Creative Writing, The Looking Glass

I lost myself, if not for a brief moment of my life, the very thought of failing to fulfill the burden I had sworn to was daunting and inescapable.

The tapping of my fingers on the delicate carvings of the staircase left me wandering in ideas about right and wrong, good and evil, and exactly where I stood amongst the other pawns of this game I had been sucked into.

The noise of the crowd below was relaxing in the strangest of ways, it was almost loud enough that I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. Watching the ballroom from my vantage allowed me to see everyone trying to act casual in such a formal setting. The ladies were all beautifully adorned by lavish dresses, sparkling gems, and amazingly expressive attitudes. The men tried to compete with the ladies, wearing fine Italian tuxedoes and offering the most practiced responses that only a ivy-league graduate could hope to remember.

Yet I was here looking down on them, wearing a fine Italian suit and pretending to understand those same nuances. I’d rather be sitting in my jeans, spending time with my family surrounding a board game and sharing a few heartfelt jokes.

How I ended up here I didn’t know.

The waiter, butler, or guy carrying the food tapped me on the shoulder. I asked him what his title was as I grabbed something that looked like a shrimp of his tray. He said “Evening auxiliary, good sir” and walked away.

What the hell is an Evening Auxiliary?
I guess that I would never know.

The flavor of the shrimp was melting in my mouth, I didn’t dare question what a cracker with shrimp had cost tonight. It probably would have made me laugh uncontrollably or become sick to my stomach. I just had to accept this suit I was wearing was only a temporary requirement to surviving the evening.

As I sipped the last of the red wine from my glass, I saw Katherine walk into the ballroom. I wasn’t the only one who noticed. She had an amazing presence to her and she was comically poking me with sweet irony by wearing that red gown I had given her on our anniversary. She always knew how to dress the part and to attract attention to herself.

I should have remembered our connection was a strong one, she spotted me within seconds a hundred yards away. I don’t know how she always did that, but I couldn’t complain that a beautiful lady could find me in the crowd.

I just wish that I had some idea of what I going to tell her about what I did tonight. I hope she would forgive me, or at least understand that none of us have any choices anymore.

Walking Coffee

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Creative Writing, Daily thoughts

My hands were still trembling from the bitter cold outside. I carefully held onto the handle of the glass carafe as I breathed in a subtle sigh while pouring a fresh cup of hot coffee. I wondered if my thoughts of being honest were any different from the gentleman waiting patiently next to me, or if I was simply insane and the caffeine in my veins was the only reason my heart still seemed to function

I glanced over to the man through the corner of my eye, feverishly waiting for the aroma of the French blend to reach my nose as I stirred it with a single dash of sugar. He looked at me for a moment and I felt something inside, a brief connection to someone who shared my youthful nature.

I handed the carafe over, comically saying that “I saved some for him.”

His reply was simple, yet told me so much- “There is always more where that came from.”

I nodded with my agreement. He was right, there is always more where that came from. He calmly poured his cup with an almost artistic manner as I commented on the chilling rain coming down outside.

We both wandered to the front of the store and paid for our drinks as we both somewhat comically chatted with the clerk who was obviously bored and alone. When we were done talking, we both stood quietly at the glass doors looking at the dark midnight sky and the sparkling rain falling like glistening stars as the city light reflected off each drop.

With odd coincidence we both said the same words in unison; “Falling stars.”

We didn’t say anything else. We looked each other in the eye, smiled from the corner of our lip, and then shrugged our shoulder as we continued watching the water cascade from the clouds. For a moment we were two guys drinking the same coffee and pondering the same questions of life.

I thought- whenever you feel alone, someone else is there to prove you wrong.

I brushed my wet hair back and turned up the collar of my wool jacket. I sipped one last time off the rim of my coffee cup as I told him to enjoy the rest of his evening. My hands didn’t want to lose the warmth they were holding, so I pushed open the glass door as I backed through it in reverse, hoping to shield my face from the abrupt wind carrying the chilling rain.

Every step I took felt like one in search of something. The bright light of the little café seemed to fade almost as quickly as the warmth of my coffee. The freezing rain was an unkind reminder of how the sensation in my heart was different than that of my body, my face was numb within a minute of walking and my soul felt like it was looking for the same loss of sensation. My feet kept in motion, not missing a single step as my thoughts wandered aimlessly amongst the neighbourhood streets of long forgotten memories that didn’t seem so far away tonight.

The old oak tree

Posted by Barry Hurd in Coffee - Volume Two, Creative Writing, Love, Romantic

I whispered her name under my breath, as if I was saying good-bye to a lover who would never realize how I felt. For once in my life I thought about that moment not like I had done before, but finally like I was alive. I could feel so much more than the denial I had carried through my past. While I cared beyond words for her, she would simply turn from me as I quietly said a good-bye she would never understand.

I dared not believe in such trivial thoughts of love. Yet I did. Somewhere within me was a defiant heart that would never back down from my own emotions. They could perhaps define part of me, and they would always inspire me to be something greater than I was. I was just a man, a man with a hope that sat idle in my dreams as I tried to make them reality. My life wasn’t a place I could hope to rationalize, and my heart may never again be brave enough to feel this way twice. For all my faith in love, a tragic flaw in the equation reminded me that I was wonderfully alone. That was how destiny decided to declare love in a true story of heartfelt feeling.

Yet was destiny breaking itself or was it merely defining the path of a romantic locked in purgatory? Hell is not a prison unless you choose it to be.

Two days later the answer to that question, one simple phrase- was detailed by the inquisitive insights of an old man who was writing prose under an old oak tree in the park. I saw him sitting there; he was probably in his mid seventies, dressed in a proper brown suit and an old leather hat. He was sitting on his jacket, slowly scribbling away in a weathered journal that reminded me of my own.

Without asking I sat down next to him against the tree. He paused for a moment and I could tell from his eyes that his thoughts were more meaningful than my own. I thought it was pretty ironic that two romantic souls could choose the same old oak tree.

I took a thermos from my bag, sat two cups in front of me, and slowly poured a cup of coffee for each of us. I looked at him as I smiled and said “I believe that one romantic poet sitting beneath an oak tree is cliche’, but two romantic poets sharing a cup of coffee under an old oak tree makes us brothers.

He chuckled and took the coffee from my hand. As the aroma of the Irish Creame peaked his interest, he replied “how do you know I’m a romantic?

“No one writes about themselves like that in such a journal. The way you glanced at the clouds, the way you hold the pages in your hands, even the way you sat there gazing at each letter as it formed a word in your mind defined you as a lover. I don’t know if you only love the words you write or if you love the subject that lives on the page, but whatever it is: I can tell you that your heart cares for every phrase as you read it.

I paused, took a sip of my coffee, and added “besides, any man who takes the time to write with such love in his thoughts is most definitely a romantic. Any romantic, by mere necessity, deserves a cup of hot coffee to remind themselves of the flavours we experience in life.”

Young man, you are quite right. I am a romantic. I was writing about my wife, god bless her

I could tell by the way his words came with yearning, that his wife, the love of his heart, was gone from this life. Yet he was just like me, the love he felt for a woman was still with him, long after destiny had changed the way we found ourselves wandering through life.

He looked at me and chuckled again- “You know its easier if you let yourself fall all the way. You can’t fly forever; eventually one day you realize that you’ve lost your wings.”

I pondered for a moment as the sharp taste in my mouth reminded me of why I was there. “You know sir, I can admit to falling. I can also admit to never flying again. Yet I can’t say that I ever figured out which came first. I think that falling is how I learned how to fly. Without loving, without the dreams I shared, I would never have known that right now I am on the ground.”

“Two poets abused, is that what we are?” he inquired as he sipped from his cup.

“No, we are two men who choose how to fly, knowing that while we may sit here beneath a tree, writing in our journals of meandering thoughts- that we may inspire someone to fall in love again. It is our words sir, that define how perfectly human we are.”

He laughed “Are we human? I would sometimes argue that with my wife.”

“I think we are. I think my heart is. I care to live fully; to feel my life. Should I fall, again and again, I will gladly suffer the consequences of my actions. I will hold myself to a dream of living alone if need be, because in my own way, to the way that I can love- I will never be alone.”

“Son, you sound too much like me when I was younger.”

“Sir, perhaps both of us just accept how we live. You can’t dream without feeling’, and the testament of us sitting here and sharing our thoughts only gives me the hope that forty years from now, I sit down under an old oak tree and find myself talking with some young man who is inspired by how I lived my life, or the fact that I still love the woman who destiny took out of my life. I can only hope sir, that I find someone who inspires my heart like your wife did for you, so that I can one day lend that inspiration to someone like me.”

“Son, why do you think what I write is so inspirational?”

“I apologize sir. I’m younger than you, when I walked by I heard you mutter a phrase under your breath as you finished the page before I sat down.”

“You heard that?” He was perplexed by the ability of youthful ears.

“Yes sir.” I said with a smile. “Anyone who has the urge to say ‘I love you’ as he writes it- is definitely someone who understands what the feeling is all about.”

A nice letter to my friends

Posted by Barry Hurd in Creative Writing, Daily thoughts

There are moments when I think about telling people I care about them. I think about that phrase as I wander through the crowd of the street market, stroll in the park listening to the rustling of leaves, or when I’m just by myself, laying on my back and listening to songs that remind me of how life should be.

(and yes, I am crazy. In a good way, and I’m not afraid to share)