We’ve now reached the finale of the poems created during last Tuesday’s poetry jam on Twitter. The jam produced some 24 poems in all, including the five below.

I’ve called this group “Poets at Home” for the first poem in the group, but actually they’re all about poetry. The fourth one, “Conversation in a Desert Caravan,” was inspired when our friend Bradley Moore, aka the Shrinking Camel, suddenly tweeted in the middle of the jam. We thought we he was joining us; actually, his tweet was one of those “auto-timed” things connected to a blog post. He sent a note later, proclaiming his innocence, but it was too late – the jam shifted and pursued the camel for a while. And we knew better: there’s a poet seeking to break free from the heart of the Shrinking Camel.

The five poems are “Poets at Home,” “Plumpness,” “What Poets’ Words Become,” “Conversation in the Desert Caravan,” and “Midwest Man.” I have no idea who the Midwest Man is, but the poets got carried away and he became the subject of the “end song.”

Poets at Home

By @lorrie58, @memoriaarts, @togetherforgood, @mmerubies, @llbarkat, @poemsandprayers, @doallas, @KathleenOverby, @TchrEric, and @lauraboggess, with a slight contribution from @gyoung9751. And dedicated to The Shrinking Camel.

Poets At Home

Saw the house,
thought of my family
in the house.
Felt like it could be
a home.

I am here
in my rented living room
with my orange-shirted husband
and the TV playing
in the background.

And I in black,
untying my sweater
to check the tag:
no wonder I am so
warm. It is cashmere!

Crime shows on TV,
where I learn about people who
almost got away with things
I cannot imagine
Horror.

Dog dances
Excitement;
thinks my husband’s
meal is made for
him. He spoils
all my meals
by eating while i read,
unable to separate
the filling of my belly
from the filling of my mind.

Until I think perhaps
even the basement cannot
protect me
from a word-tornado.
Tree knocked over,
sticks and branches
bloom again,
creating new hope.

Plumpness

What kind
of irony is that
to be shriveled
yet plump?
Plump again from
life giving water.

Starving invisible children
are shriveled with
swollen/bellies.
Plumped up lips
with words,
full-mouthed words,
or the brown
trace of cinnamon
on my lip,
shriveled raisins
plump.

Dark, smooth and rich,
too strong;
left me gasping,
lips shriveled in disgust,
plump with want of
something good.

What Poets’ Words Become

Poets’ words anchor
us in moments, become
memories, anchor us
yet cast us free
to drift among stardust,
Imagine God in cashmere.

I want to stop in the street
and write you poetry;
read my words while you
swerve your car
and hear me, who blows the
whistle to stop the occasion.

Words like cells
multiply, stepping on
scent, attracting the desert
creature with velvet green hands,
tendrils of spin,
creating birdhouses.

Poems recall
the place
the time
the occasion,
what we count for
meaning.

Please, take my words
Make me beautiful
by reading them.
Time be words
could stop us cold.

Conversation in the Desert Caravan

A camel lurks.
I climbed upon the
camel’s back, danced
upon the elephant, touched
noses with giraffe.

I went
into the night,
borrowed a camel
from my neighbor’s
dreams, sewed them into
lumpy words, from high
atop the camel’s back
where I might reach
for stars.

I would rush to your arms
but my camel was borrowed
and sewed into lumpy words.
Sorry. I will borrow
your words
light as lips,
brushing moonlight,
because you borrowed
my camel.

Refresh
like camel
with lumpy back.
Carries words,
this burden.
We’ll teach that camel
to lurk and dream
in crook
of moon
smiling down
toothy camel grin.

God laughed when He
made a giraffe.
Imagine how He
chuckled when He
made the platypus.

Mars, Venus,
giraffe, platypus, camel,
weeds, trees,
dresses, caresses,
all the stuff of poetry.
Circle of words
dance past
giraffe, tickle the calf
of hippo, camel
quiver.

Camel hair is rough
so clothe me instead
in rabbit fur
and sheep’s wool
and cashmere sweaters
you paid too much
money for.

Ruby woman, how did
you know I bought
cashmere, wore
it on a bitter Friday
night in New York City
but I paid/a fair price?

Can’t pay too much for
this circle of dancing words
of laughter and stardust and
afterglow.
The camel’s humps quiver in
a circle to
dance with words.

Midwest Man

Where went
the Midwest man,
spinning sentences? (He
is searching for poems who
lost their hashtags.)
Midwest man spinning
sentences of wheat
waits for new words
to rise to tongue.
Poets do sometimes make
hash of tags
when words get lost
in cyberspace.

Midwest Man is
copying and pasting like
a crazy person.
Midwest man
is purpled with
paste, crazy haste
bluing an innocent
Tuesday night.
Midwest man
becomes a whirling
dervish of words.
Cut, paste, copy;
poem passion flushes scarlet.

Midwest man
might open window,
let words out
onto his plains.
So many poems
in the making
must Midwest man devise
once words land
in his buckets.

Anticipation fills
the air as the words
spread and eaten
on toast
with poetry jam,
thick, red, sticky,
melting, sometimes
confusing jam.
No raspberries for this toast!

But always delicious
and good for
you! Another
hallelujah for
dumping the bucket,
dumping buckets
on the floor,
splashing in word puddles.

I fear that we have
this night
drowned him
with words red,
purple green
blue, deep
purple haze,
yes.

A poem becomes a
viral video.
Poetry goes viral;
it is catching,
contagious;
once bitten we bite. It
turn us
insideout
right side up
back to the beginning
before the end.