Here are another group of eight poems from our poetry jam on Twitter last Tuesday. The contributions started getting playful – you could tell it was getting late in the hour.
Poems from the Cupboard – 3
By @llbarkat, @doallas, @mxings, @PoemsPrayers, @TchrEric, @togetherforgood, @monicasharman, @mmerubies, @KathleenOverby, @lauraboggess and @gyoung9751; cameo appearance by @Lorrie58; edited by @gyoung9751.
How does one harvest salt
by hand? With calloused hands,
skin as leather,
gently sifting, picking, plucking
from the ground
this necessary mineral
I’d like to go to the
ocean and let the salty sea
wash out my wound.
Grandma’s cold remedy
says slide salt to the back of
your throat; watch you don’t
Three times a day, so perfect a
Prescription; try it, too, topped
with sea salt. Reach your hands
into the waves and pull out the
salt with all of the pain in your
heart. I like course ground salt on
Words or Chocolate
No words taste as good to
me as chocolate,
although some may come close.
Oh, words are so much better
than chocolate or sex or
even shopping in my book.
1-800-free trip that is not so free;
no one ever phones offering
Words taste sweeter than
Boston Cream Pie but are never
ever warmer than Mother’s
Poetry words make me
want to let the music keep
flowing. Afraid my words
are too many.
So I must leave the perfect
to help three babes heading for
dark, salt in their tears.
The Baker’s Love
Baking, yes. Turn oven on.
Turn lights off.
Wait ,no. Oh, the phone…
Dost the baker
blush? Powder his
nose with a little flour
both of you.
The baker heats the oven.
Beats the batter.
Cooks the cake.
Makes me sweet.
(Honeybees know best, you know.)
I have never met a shy man in
the kitchen, only those who
shy from dishes.
Ah, these shy men; really,
I don’t believe them. Yet
I fell in love with my not-so-shy
man in a kitchen.
He dumped ice on my head
and the rest is history.
Why did man of romance
words duck and run? Pity the one
who can’t stand the heat; won’t
call back, he who can’t touch fire.
I laugh, laugh before leaving
the side effects of joy
coming from all of you. I long
to be harvested so carefully,
as one necessary to life.
And yet the harvesting had
occurred by one so gentle,
careful, from beyond the veil.
He came back to life with
that prompt, and so we make
up and go on.
Leila saw the first bee of spring
while we were on the phone today;
her voice is full of peace
and bears the hope of May.
My, what interesting cupboards
you have, my dear. What
continent comes next?
Nutty flavors there be
plenty of on plates tonight;
signature dish: duck and run.
Jerusalem is far away
and oh my how this heart aches
to place my feet upon her soil
and sing her songs.
I want to serenade Jerusalem
and also shed its tears.
I want to splash along the shore of
the Sea of Galilee and rebaptize my
soul in the Jordan.
My heart knows this but the rest of
me forgets often, I fear.
Jerusalem Artichoke flour
I can’t get at Trader Joe’s
and Whole Foods is beyond my
budget. What might I get in lieu
I am praying for the poet:
roasted acorns, artichokes in
Jerusalem, asparagus in
Antioch, antioxidants in Alexandria.
We peel the leaves through the
Years, yearning to touch, taste the
heart of the artichoke.
tap and shudder;
Swinging and Flinging
Swing partner round the May pole,
sticky texture none to mar
the chance to be. Flinging these
words and dancing these verses is
more fun than I have had in ages.
Dancing in May, that slows the jumble
a bit for a while, a little while.
Dancing in m\May, that shows the bumble
a bee for a smile, a little smile.
May bears the first bee of spring. Come,
let’s swing. I am eating steak and
reading, flinging words.
No, no, no – no flinging, no
catching on the way down; it’s not
Dance with me in May. Ten years
together and still pulling back leaves,
discovering new and hidden.
Pick acorns from the ground; boil
out the bitterness; grind into flour,
natural bliss. One leaf after another
is work, like marriage; getting to
the heart of it the sweetest pleasure.
A recipe she offers for bliss au
naturel (pardon poor French). Be pure;
concentrate, peel poetry from
the knee down.
Pray for the Poet
Keep praying for the poet;
the poet needs the prayer.
Pray for the poet; fling her to
God, catch her on the way down.
Open the poem slow
and lick the insides of the box to
get out all the juice. Slice pineapple
lengthwise; carve out the flesh; jolt in
the juicer. No concentrate can
match the freshness. Catch the juice
uncontained, too much for
such a little one.
Pray for the poet. He does a right
smart move, collecting bits and pieces,
alliterating. He’s well liked.
If only Advil cured broken hearts
and upside down misunderstandings