We’ve had a break in postings, and for that I apologize. A few things happened this past week – my daughter-in-law had a baby, my son passed out as the process started and hit his head hard enough to require surgery. Anyway, the surgery was successful, the baby was born, and all are doing well.

This posting from our most recent poetry jam on Twitter includes three poems. And there are still more to come.

Poems from the House of Memory – 5

By @KathleenOverby, @doallas, @llbarkat, @mmerubies, @mdgoodyear, @TchrEric, @PoemsPrayers, @monicasharman, @mxings, and @togetherforgood; edited by @gyoung9751.

Call Them Back

Call them
back from the river, the river
slowly stirring, focusing on the swirl.
Smiling at seeing you
churning words
as you would butter
the softness of the butter
like a baby’s head.
Smiling, swirling, it gurgles as
it flows down.

My Edges Are Sharp

My edges are sharp from
years of shattering. Who am I to
fit more properly inside of you?
The edges of my words are sharp
because in poems I can spit out the things
that would hurt to say
out loud.

I speed and I miss God,
hiding behind the
stained-glass windows
and within the wooden panes
I could have stopped
to touch. Take hold of Him;
taste and see

Hanging, in Mist

Hanging in the early morning
mist, waiting for you to
take and hold,
waiting for your notice,
yet you see not.
The peach be other,
the pine something else.
What is it will make you see?
You have eyes,
yet the beggar sees more.

The fuzz will tickle;
he does have sense of humor.
The beggar sees life
hanging sweetly from the tree.
I see only a snack, an ingredient
for pie. Fill it full of words like
butter fills the churn, like
echoes from a song left
hanging, almost breaking into
two pieces of a heart left behind.