Lace Under the Stars


It was another Twitter poetry party, and the poetic lines just glistened. Here are the first seven poems of our recent TweetSpeak Poetry-sponsored meet-up/mash-up poetry slam.

Lace Under the Stars

By @llbarkat, @ericswalberg, @Doallas, @lauraboggess, @jejpoet, @mmerubies, @monicasharman, @SandraHeskaKing, @kellysauer, @dukeslee, @pathoftreasure, and @chrisyokel. Lurking by @monicabrand (who guessed the source for the prompts – Macbeth by William Shakespeare). Edited by @gyoung9751.

Liquid color in my arms

Gin, wine, vodka, what’s your
liquid color in my arms,
distilling drops of warm light?
I listen to a voice sing whiskey
and gin, thinking about you
growing up back then.
Warm light, warm gin,
warm voice at the window,
the sun gins his reflection
his high-frequency color pours
through into a silvered net,
its liquid heat and red translucence
warms the belly through.
The moon shines
beyond the sunset.

Eternal questions

What’s your splicing frequency?
Can you separate a seed
as small as thyme’s?
The seeds of thyme spark regret.
We plant these seeds and they grow
into children and who are we then?
Them or us? Is the farmer his farm?
The singer his song?
The farmer borne to the wind
rides on an evening gin,
a tonic to regret.

The moon shines always

The moon shines always,
when I’m in your arms.
We spin our rhymes
on the world wide web
of verse and song,
typing and singing
all night long. What
fruit is borne in every
second wind?
Regret we drown in gin.

The last sober leaf

We spin to the last sober leaf as
the leaf’s shadow turns in the sun.
I turn the leaf, a finger unfurled,
stretching to touch what has withdrawn.
Tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll turn over
a new leaf. Or instead I’ll prop up
the old one and hide in the weeds.

The leaf is browning

The leaf is browning, not budding,
forgotten the unfurling, forgotten
the stretch, forgotten the bud.
The leaves shed their green dresses,
dawned red ones, then yellow,
then they dried up and danced away.
Left with cold and empty trees,
I wonder if spring will really come.
Am I waiting on nothing?
The forgotten things turn, the
browning leaves fall, the leaf turns
and for a moment, we remember.

The first spring

The ecstasy of that first spring
into your embrace shadowed
my bud while I shed my green dress.
Our breath gold-rimmed and gold
running through our veins,
we stand no chance to catch time
as a breath, shallowing, things forgotten.

You have forgotten more than I will
ever experience. Your brain spins
webs I can only imagine. You are
high above me, and I dream that I am
waiting on the forgotten. I step light
into brown falling. Am I nothing
in waiting, in leaving behind
my origin? You could love me,
a skirt blowing in the breeze.

Under the cool surface

We slip under the cool surface.
I don’t like the taste of alcohol,
but I like the sounds of the names.
I like saying Mimosa and Tall
Gin Fizz
and Sex on the Beach.

Withdraw me.
Tilt the glass.
Empty our yesterdays.

Photo by Kelly Sauer. Used with permission.


  1. L. L. Barkat says

    These have an air of intoxication in them, and not just because of the vodka. Really like.

    Oh, that Macbeth did start something :)

  2. L. L. Barkat says

    Jody, I see seven. Maybe they are so close together that it doesn’t look like seven? :) The last one is “Under the Cool Surface.”

  3. says

    LL–got it……..the theme was so similar throughout, I thought it was all one poem. I liked ‘Eternal Questions’–
    “We plant these seeds and they grow
    into children and who are we then?
    Them or us? Is the farmer his farm?
    The singer his song?”

  4. L. L. Barkat says

    Jody, yes. :) The Twitter parties definitely provide our Grand Poem Weaver grist which has running themes, as we weave and reweave each other’s words throughout our hour of writing together. A bit like Jazz :)


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