Due to a last minute technical glitch, we moved the most recent poetry jam from our TweetSpeak site to TweetChat. It was similar but (for me, anyway) slower, then they came in batches, and it was one wild poetic free-for-all.

The topic was pie; all prompts were taken from the book Pie: 300 Tried and True Recipes for Delicious Homemade Pie. Here are the first seven poems from the pie-fest.

As Easy as Pie

By @memoriaarts, @llbarkat, @mattpriour, @SandraHeskaKing, @TchrEric, @mdgoodyear, @JoulesE, @KathleenOverby, @Jezamama, @gyoung9751, @arestlessheart, @moondustwriter, @MAXIDUS, @monicasharman and @portabellaprinc; edited by @gyoung9751.

With occasional retweets or comments by @Corbie77, @PoeticHeart34, @DarkHaikuMoon, @PurplePenning, @mxings, @omewan and @LawyerMommy

The Poetry Pie Snob

I’m a pie snob.
Unrepentant.
Unapologetic.
Unremorseful.
Un-pielike, in fact.
Pie poetry, poetry pie,
pick a peck of pickled
pentameter.
If a passion is pickled,
does it crunch
like a cherry pie with pits?
No, like a persimmon pie
That passions me not but
pickled pentameter
portends poetry, portends
passion, poetry, taste.
But pie is not for the refined,
and the baby has a knife
to cut the pickled pentameter.
There is poetry in pie and
money in every good thing.

Making Passion Pie

Whip me up some thick cream
until the peaks stiffen and curl.
Whip me up some passion,
cherry sweet;
whip me up a treat of you,
a passion of fruit mixed with
sugar, tart and sweet,
a pickled passion with
lemon zest. White
coconut flesh shaves in
the grater, toasts brown in
the toaster, a white curl
weighted, drooping over
a dark berry, like a
pit of cherry, core of apple,
tart of lemon, peel of banana:
pickled passion is more
like a cherry pie with no sugar.
Passionate cherry,
passionate berry,
passionate lemon:
tart lemon tarts
make for puckering;
puckered passion crust
zinged with vinegar lust;
fruits of passion heat up
the night, topped with ice cream,
like frozen heat unfreezing.
The whipped cream touched
her nose and she laughed,
cherry lips tasting life.

A Pie Pastoral

Give me life at pie’s pace,
slow pie, slice it slow,
savor its snow-like coconut,
a pastoral, a peaceful fork
stuck through to the crust.

Give me slow tines to rake
a golden crust, to find berry
sweet promise in a tin pan.
Excellent is flaky; thin is crusty;
The crust is everything, the flake
and bite at the bottom of cream.

You say the things
you needed to say,
the things hidden
beneath an opaque crust,
the dream congealed like
sweet meringue crusted golden.

The Season for Pie

It’s fall. Pumpkins abound,
a little spice, a little cream,
with the colored leaves.
Flakes of crust fall in piles
of crumbs, leading to that
quiet, silent, season.
And pie for a birthday instead
of cake, candles flickering
atop a crumbled crust.

Loving All Kinds of Pie

I like all sorts:
pies with nuts nut on top ,
apples with…
I love so much, I always
want something sweet,
licking the last crumb,
only done in private,
off the plate to my heart.
It’s been too long since
I’ve shared my pies.
Quick, give me a cherry pie;
I am in need of a sweet
and sour red night.

A Pie to Throw

And the shaving cream pie,
not to be forgotten, leaves
the clown’s face fresh and clean.
Yet wasting a pie in someone’s
face is criminal. The Boy Scout
throws pie with no crust except
its aluminum foil pan, a
pie-sized bullet casing, and
whipped cream tosoften the edges.
Take the store-bought crust out
of the freezer. No one will know
if you hide the wrapper.

I Have the Pie-Making Tools

What, do you think I have no
vocabulary of my own?
I have tines, and knives, and
a pastry cutter too. I can
expand and moisten all crack,
chipped dreams, rub tarnished
silverware as pie pans clutter
together on the shelf,
litter of art long forgotten.

Photograph: Small Pumpkin Pie by Peter Griffith, via Public Domain Pictures.