Here is the next group of six poems taken from our recent Twitter poetry party. Somehow the contributions moved from love to an apocalypse of weather to the planets and then to Hamlet’s voicemail. And it makes a kind of odd sense.

Of Parasols and Scorpions 2

By @llbarkat, @doallas, @jejpoet, @mattpriour, @ERBKs, @mdgoodyear and @gyoung9751; a late entry or two by @SandraHeskaKing; a few retweets by @moondustwriter, @Laura_The_Wise, @TinaNguyen, @jesskristie, @CirclesRoundSun, @Julia_Hensley, @GPWriter, @rasmithii, @roseasho, @Sahrazad528 and @PoeticHeart34; two plaintive cries at having missed the jam by @meilbheag and @vnesdoly; and edited by @gyoung9751. (It takes a whole village to write a poem.)

First Things, Love

Make light of love -
it comes
it goes.
In the night there is you,
in the day there is you.
Love spins, a supernova
separating dark from light;
then weaving them
together in vibrant cloth.
Supernova love
makes music,
galaxy,
universe.
Lost, lonely covered
in dew and grass, I found
you at the morning light.

Recounting, Counting Love

Day light, too night
to call the lost;
daylight recounts
what’s past,
the pleasure of a moment.
And there is me
spinning through the hours
and being spun together
with you
in a joyful reel.

Recount stars, count tombs,
the assassins of my love
reeling now
through lost stars,
a galactic phonograph
spinning light and
day and night,
each spin an echo
of a night spent
in your arms.

And we dance and dance,
the grace of glowing stars.
In your arms,
my arms;
in your echo;
my voice,
in your dance,
my hands,
searching faces,
eyes, lips, mouths.

An Aria: Apocalypse of the Grave

In the night there is you,
in the daylight, too,
I search,
I call gravediggers,
I call assassins
I fill the air with arias,
arias of wind
arias of rain
arias of souls
in the funnels of the night
in the center of the hurricane,
me in the center of the tornado,
you, in the center of the aria,
us, spinning out of time.

I call thieves
I call harlots
called, into the dance
clutching hands
whirling round
the motion
the hands
spinning thieves
through galaxies.
All those digging
their own graves and
harvesting souls swirl
around you attempting
to shatter your resolve.
A storm, a tumult,
power beyond any human control
yet orchestrated
by that ancient song of the earth
and the sky.
I call back the motion,
too soon spent.

Drinking the Desert

I forget you in the desert,
I forget you in my arms.
I’m drinking desert and glass.
I drink glass and the sound
of your memory, of your hand
shatters in the silicon of the sand.
It’s the desert, I’m drinking: nothing.
She waited, thirsty for desert,
thirsty for him.
In my glass slipper, she said,
my toes slip, rub sweat against
the smooth sand,
melted clear.

The Planets Misalign

Jupiter shines behind the sun,
a spot of storm on its chin,
but the sun, she
always remembers,
a sun spot always reminds.

Does Mars drink the Mediterranean?
Does Jupiter drink the Seine?
Does Venus drink anything at all?
Twirling her galaxy,
she forgot she was waiting.

Neptune raises the Strait of Gibralter,
raises it straight, in toast.
Mars: his face is red with the heat
of the sun, and too much vodka.
Saturn has a Shirley Temple.

Neptune has his Ariel,
hair long and flowing. She
falls, floating past the shadow
of Pluto’s love, while he spins
ashamed into oblivion.

And for Lady Luna,
some wine and cheese.
The planet X is a comet
of ice and dark with no pull
for moons of its own.

And X is the door
marked with my memories
of you. Does Neptune
twirl a parasol
in the face of Pluto?

The Prince of Denmark is Not Available

And always there is the voicemail.
You have reached Poor Yorick.
Leave a message after the beep, alas.
Press one
to leave a message for the assassins.
Press two
to leave a message on my grave.
Press three
to know him well, Horatio.