Thursday night’s Twitter Poetry Party was about conversation – specifically, overheard conversations, including a few lines from tweets (some of which I recognized when the prompts arrived from @tspoetry).

We had five primary participants, and then a few poor souls wandered in accidentally and found themselves incorporated into the poetry jam (this happens) (more than you might think). And then, right at the end, the possibility of a new baby (which turned out to be one of those false alarm things that babies like to do).

In Conversation

By @llbarkat, @doallas, @poemsandprayers, @MonicaSharman, and @gyoung9751.
With unexpected contributions by @mhsteger, @audrajennings, @sarahmsalter, @TheBonnieGray and @lauraboggess (who concludes the entire poem).
And almost a new baby by @arestlessheart.

I Met You 30 Years Ago

When I met you 30 years ago,
I did not know
we would meet again
over oatmeal brulee
roasted potatoes
talk of bible and fire.

Telling words of loss remembered,
of moving on,
of prayers answered.

Two lifetimes ago.

The faces that have passed,
the names that have changed.

Restless heart,
restless baby
on an asphalt playground
but you didn’t pick me.

Restless is the heart
that remembers asphalt,
fire, and the art
of words long drifted,
long missing,

long caught up in memory webs,
catching me up
when your face appears.

With that I am afraid
I must run and eat my dinner
which is losing heat
as I tap on these cold keys.
Apologies…

When I sue you

When I sue you,
don’t purr that sweet
purr, don’t be demure.
I mean to take you
for all you’ve got,
she said, as she smiled
a cheshire smile.

Dues due.
You are after
the devil you are.
Just when I think
prey is taken,
long claw-marks line
my back.

I venture to say that
there is no sound worse than
that of a screeching cat.

Thirty years is
a long time to forget
your face and how
we used to trace the
claw marks on my back.

Dazed,
delirious,
demonized,
she got what she came for.

Let’s go searching for fire bushes

Facing roadblocks this season,
Lanes,
searching for fire bushes,
for fingers burning,
fingers pricked,
fingers burning.

Where were you
these 30 years,
somewhere across the Pacific perhaps,
while I sat beneath
the leaning bushes, hiding
tears,
tracing patterns
of hearts
aflame.
I face it head on to keep myself in check.

Do I dare taste the fire,
pick from its ripeness?
Did leave your imprint
not on my heart
but there
for all the world to see?

Hearts set afire
like burning bushes
in sacred sand.

I could sue you,
I suppose, for tears and fire
burning in my heart,
I could. But would
you even notice, stoic
that you are?

When I look at the stars, I feel like myself,
the trees afire, with stars alight,
stars and trees, scars and fingers burnt
like a Scarlet Letter,
but no Hester Prynne be;
I remember that day in court.

Christmas tree shopping

Scarlet is as good
a color as any
for Christmas, for the ribboned
tree hushed beneath
a burning star.

Tears wear me down;
no matter
each one dropped,
taken up by sand,
consumed.

And the now sands aflame
echo the fire bushes.
Star once burned out
and now renewed,
its light a haloed crown.

Light a candle on each branch.
Keep the scent of spice in the air.
And under the weight of the tree
the gift.

Freelance writer has published tips in Better Homes

Better than tips in Worse Homes,
Better Homes
for Better Poetry.

Sue me if you must; later
you can publish tips
on how to burn a heart,
make a better home.

Bring out your very best wine,
from Sineann in Oregon,
making any home better.
Your kisses deliver.

Freelance writer
seeking Better Homes
for Better Poetry
ISO free style.
No meter,
no rhymes,
low overhead,
punctuation if you like
or not.

(OK, so that was a commercial plug.)

On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria

On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria,
Guiness paid every employee
an extra week’s salary.

If you sue me,
could you wait
to do it during
Jubilee, then decide
in haste to fulfill your
obligation, free me.

Hi, I’m the wine taster;
perhaps you have not
met me yet, but
I assure you, I am
better than kisses.

Such a Jubilee did employees
make of
extra pounds and shillings.
Wine did flow freely
as though were water
and many a chap
did swear at morning’s light.

Do you deliver?
I love the plug for the wine yet
only a glass plug and not cork.

I’m slow. I just got it (laughing she is).

Zombie girl chapbook up

Call me Zombie Girl,
I can twirl ’til
my feet turn scarlet,
I can whirl.
Check out those fangs.
Zombie Girl
has a knack
for snacks
at midnight.

Dang,
she said, as she looked at the New Moon in Twilight.
Cannot wait
to sink
my teeth
into that.

And chicken, see
Zombie Girl likes chicken,
oh, and that, too,
Chicken without fangs and wine with no corks.

Howls went up;
biting into dry cork
left her mouth
dry.

Zombie Girl
does a good Valley Girl
impression.
Where oh where is that full moon?
I cannot find a candle for the branch.

Did you notice?
Full moon tonight
and wine
do mix.
Aaaaaaooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Very stylish,
but Zombie girl fails to notice;
she’s looking at full moon.

He keeps checking the time on his two wrist watches

Why does he keep on watching his watches?
Is it absolutely
necessary to have two,
wrists if one has
two wrist watches,
just inquiring.

8 tips to know if you are boring

Sorry to tweet and run.
Husband needs the phone line
to call about used cars.
We need a car, bad.

Will the writer
who has published tips
for better homes
please also advise
on how to know
if you are boring.

Tip 1: Find someone you knew 30 years ago.
He lets out a cry!
Are you saying I am boring?

No. That’s Tip 1 if you are
boring — and learning how not
to be boring.

Just checking, see,
to know if I should
sue you for liveliness
discrimination.

(That sounds like @Katdish.)

Tip #2: The watches have to go.
Quite out of style.
Boring tips.

I’m a beginner

Looking in your face
30 years late, I find
I know not
how to begin.
Thirty years and you
look very familiar.

This is my 8th winter in Colorado
Tips of evergreen
bore me now. It’s
been 8 long years
since I made
my home in
this tree,
Candles and stars.

Conversation on education about to start

Dear @jwessner,
do not be alarmed.
You have stepped into
a poem party. Or
been abducted, as the
case may be.
And just became a part of the poem.

Better Bores Begin Best.
Very alarming to be a
bore in the poem of
better homes.

I’m thinking that
a conversation
on education
could be salvaged
with a little wine,
and perhaps
a candle-tipped evergreen.

I’m dying of coldness
Eight years I have
lived in these Colorado,
mountains, eight years it has
been since your kiss
and I am dying
of coldness.
Tip the candle
Light a flame,
a fire in my heart.

Be quick!
Fire bushes
will take away
your chill,
though kisses
they promise not.

The fire of the burning sands,
the flaming tree.
the mountain afire
burn away the memory
of the owl. and the pussy cat
howling at the moon.
No boring
men do live
in mountains.
Pray tell, why so few kisses?
Perhaps your coldness
be the tip off.
Thirty years cold,
the faces of old men
tip, pray for kisses
once again burning.

Lecturing on modern art at a nursing home

You might think
lecturing on modern
art at a nursing home
could be boring.
No. The tipped chins
of the residents
splay like Pollack.

You are like a museum,
full of faceless paintings.
Abstract kisses,
Picasso twists and turns;
the residents have art down cold.

Errata/Finis

Quietest night EVER
on Twitter!

You just entered a poetry jam.

It takes me weeks to write a good poem.
I don’t “jam” well.

You did tonight – right at the end.

Ah sweet night,
delight to word with you,
to verse, to play.
A playful mood, with fire bushes,
flaming mountains,
fine wine,
all turned InsideOut.

That’s my sweet publicity friend,
veering words towards InsideOut!

Department of Shameless Promotion.
That’s me.
Read InsideOut while drinking Sineann wine.

Is it a prerequisite?
The wine for the reading,
or the reading for the wine?

But it give me an idea.

And InsideOut
from run-in with Zombie Girl.
I bid good night,
dreaming of full moons,
fire bushes,
quiet.

Thinking this is probably it.
Going to get some rest
while we still can.
Looks like baby’s comin’,
from Kelly.
I’m thinking that @restlessheart
will be obligated
to name the new one
T.S.
A baby!
As we tweet! How much cooler does it get?

Alarmed, post-pasta
abducted, into the warmth
of poets, wine and tweetspeak,
kidnapped by friendly poets.

I yield to abduction gladly.
So exciting! This T.S. be the
night for Kelly?
A (poetic) star may be born!

You jam very well…
Even better, I have all of the tweets in a Word doc.
Good night to all;
writing awaits me
after my first @tspoetry party.
Neato.

Total of 139 tweets
in tonight’s tweet party.
Candles,
30 year memories,
a baby’s time to be born,
stars and evergreen branches,
What were the chances?

Ugh! I missed it again!