Here are three more poems from our recent Twitter poetry party on “The Republic of Tea.”

Governments of Tea 4

By @mdgoodyear, @llbarkat, @SandraHeskaKing, @arestlessheart, @doallas, @cfraser83, @jezamama, @mattpriour, @togetherforgood, @MeganWillcome, @charsingleton, @TchrEric, @JennyTiner, @gyoung9751, @ThinkArtWorks, @thegypsymama, @PensieveRobin, @ElizabethEsther, @mxings, and @moondustwriter. Edited by @gyoung9751.

The Orphans and Rebels of Tea

Who are the orphans of the families of
tea, the homeless tea, the teas alone,
the teas abused, the teas raised in
catholic schools by hard nuns doing
their best; the teas with rulers smashed
across their knuckles?
Homeless teas, he asks; no brands dare
we say. Are there black sheep among the
tea families? A rebellious blue tea or a
tea of vibrant orange standing out?

Not the rebels but
it is those orphans and widows of
tea for which we are to care. Do the
tea orphans wish they could be dried,
crushed,
steeped,
drunk
deep?
Is that the crowning achievement of
tea leaves?

A Universe of Tea, Diverse

Tea so good for earth, green it is.
Tea so good for the sky, white light
brews me the arm of Orion, the arm of
Perseus.
Did Orion clip leaves, send them through
time, to the water, to me?
Alone, Orion lays his head on a star, puts
jazz on Andromeda and spins his dreams.
Does Orion drink tea, or only Betelguese?
Orion uses a dipper, large, to sip his tea, but
drinks his Betelgeuse straight up.

Tea Like Jazz

How do I tweet tea? Let me steep the ways.
Call me any time; just not yesterday or
Tomorrow. I’ll hear your voice, taste your lips
Today, gather you into my tea drawer.
Would a tea by any other name steam as sweet?

Tweet me any time, steep me, play me
like a keyboard sax. Jazz and sweet tea: play
me all the way into the arms of the South.
The arms of the South call me like jazz
on an opal-blue morning.

Tea of white with scent of cherry, very light;
Steep the cherries in white of morning: scent
your dreams in dew of me, the ways of mothers
with babes who don’t sleep, lacking rest they seek
solace in a cup filled with leaves and dreams.

I will steep you.
Can you stand the steam rising like
mournful jazz?
Rising, rising, this steam, this tonic, this
chug-chug-gulp, this Louie in a cup.

I love this jazz, this buzz, from tea strong like
Irish Breakfast. African Red has its own beat
and dance, rising and mourning and singing
and weeping, the steam undulating with the
music, breaking her heart.

The mixing of teas, green with black, mint with
Orange, a recipe of improvisation, big, strong,
from the western cape of South Africa, Zululand,
perhaps, black tea on bass, green tea on the horn
and red tea on drums.

Louie met Mary Lou over a cup of tea,
their hands brushed past as she took the cup.
They danced to jazz, of course: Oversteeped,
understeeped, unsweet, sweet, the room swirls
among the steaming cups of leafed intoxication.

Those last sips go down like a melody ending.
The song of tea becomes a chant, a dirge,
a funeral march.
Impressario of jazz, what take you with your tea?
Who ever got drunk on tea? But we did, yes, we did.

Is it tea and jazz or tea and sympathy?
I’ll have whatever she’s having.