Here are the next six poems taken from our recent TweetSpeak Poetry jam on Twitter. All the prompts were lines from Kingdom Come: Poems by John Estes.
The Kingdom Comes II
By @llbarkat, @SandraHeskaKing, @gyoung9751, @jestes, @Doallas, @jejpoet, @CeliaNickel1, @togetherforgood, @PensieveRobin, @kellysauer, @sethhaines, @theeagleacademy, @mdgoodyear, and @elizabethesther. Edited by @gyoung9751.
I sailed a galleon, a tree
I sailed a galleon upon the sea,
I sailed a galleon, once a tree.
The tree’s the bed we’ll go to nest;
Its ancient wisdom offers rest .
We shall rest under ancient trees
to ponder the echoes that rise
over time, like those same ancient trees,
winding wisdom instead of lies.
The tree is the bed; that’s what she said.
We sit in our tree-bed, reaching for nests
of glass; when the wings are just right
and just ready, we break the nest
like hatching chicks.
This timber cannot be mined for wood;
This tree cannot be hollowed to float.
I try to keep up with moss
that grows too quickly, clouds
that change into three ships sailing.
Mad men like fools
I look for mad men who, like fools
rave and read the river, follow its clues.
Some rivers smile, and some weep,
but the best of them laugh at feet,
clues clinging to toes until we itch
inside river-wet socks.
The rocks rise, bald caps before
the river’s blade carves time
in sandstone, molding sandstone
nests to hold the river. Canyon walls
swallow tears while trees float
down the laughing river
A river flows new every time.
A river laughs new every time.
From stitched together stories
we weave a narrative. Stitches
and laughter bind up our wounds;
rivers of laughter bring healing.
Stitches, or itches, slide
between measured spaces
where the needle went down.
How do they tickle; how do we
laugh back? Oh and we laugh
and we laugh and we call it stitches.
We laugh until the pain pines away;
through the eye of the needle we pass.
The Northern Lights
The northern lights glow
like broken glow sticks;
the northern lights grow
like arainbow sky-glass.
We pass through
the northern lights.
We pass through.
Don’t peek between
the blinds, throw them
open, inhale the lights.
Oh don’t close the shade,
let the northern lights in,
let the northern lights come in.
Plastic we shape
Plastic we shape to fit our need:
the curve of an eye, the point of a nose.
Plastic is molded in stainless forms.
The potter molds the plastic, heats
and shapes the form of the rounded
hip of the sleek Cadillac. Infinity is
curved, and it may be plastic: mold me
with your plastic hand, and I will speak
nothing to the curve of your emptiness.
In your hand I take the shape of plastic.
Sharp is the edge of plastic bent and
broken, a shiv to finish the work.
Plastic cracks with laughter, splintering
percussion glass that never gets burned.
I hear the sound of plastic bursting,
plastic laughing, plastic melting.
If I water plastic seeds with plastic
water , will plastic sprout and grow?
The river’s voice
Faith finds me here, under a tree.
Along the river, I hear God.
Are we the camel then, finding
our faith not so rich as we thought
we might be? Is He laughing then,
with the river’s voice, asking us
to laugh along the river with Him?
He is speaking silently, wishing,
wanting for me to find Him.
I think perhaps He is a laughing
river and weeping waterfall
altogether laughing and weeping