After a brief hiatus, we’re resuming with the poems from TweetSpeak’s recent Twitter poetry party – that had 29 people participating and one lurker. The prompts were taken from Caduceus: Poems by Sorina Higgins. The poet herself (@IambicAdmonit) was at the party.

And here are the next seven poems.

Tell Me More

By @lwlindquist, @memoriaarts, @VinaMist, @llbarkat, @EscapeIntoLife, @SimplyDarWrites, @renokingstweet, @PatriciaSpreng, @annkroeker, @IambicAdmonit, @chrisyokel, @RadBeliever, @jejpoet, @DianaBridge, @Doallas, @SandraHeskaKing, @matthewkreider, @dorphlthewise, @sethhaines, @mjpaulusjr, @leximagines, @LoveLifeLitGod, @ArelyStdenis, @shortcake0369, @kconwayireton, @lauralynn_brown, @secarey, @mmerubies, and @monicasharman. Lurking by @monicabrand. Edited by @gyoung9751.

A Grecian page

Is that us upon
a Grecian page?
Wise men retell tales
of nights long upon
a Grecian page.
I lick the page with fury
and fang. I bite the page
with all the darkness.
I spill it out, gashed
across the page,
repeated and repeated
and repeated, like
a perpetual beginning.

Warm to whispers

Lilac lips warm to whispers
like mist on morning blossoms,
shouting to be heard over
the din of bursting blooms.
Mist sugar coats my tongue
with memories of your bloom,
a virgin arch of bending pink,
hugging foot-long blossoms
and mirrored beginnings.
The mirrors line up an infinite march.
Vases, repeated. Faces, repeated.

Spun sugar

Hades has not reached his zenith
and the sugar spun blossoms
continue to live and melt our mouths
with sugar, each other. Oh how warm
your story makes me:
I am a stir stick, a sip, a sugar packet.
Every page, every again, every sugar
moment, I keep turning back to you.

Our ears turned deaf

No one can hear the rest; our ears turned
deaf and our hearts to frigid stone beneath
our chests. Dream the tips, spring the wheels,
open the curlers. I am here, a cycle, a story,
a line on the land.
Don’t let your heart fall heavy:
granite, rock, marble, stone. Pick it up.
Give it a throw. Break it over real things,
needful things.

She called my name

She called my name over the ages
and the stories told but never heard
the metaphor of my existence,
this uncurling bud of once-again.
Everyone loves with a different hand:
some with feathers, others with stone.

Madrona trees

Vancouver saw madrona trees
and mistook them for magnolias.
Every year, the same.
Every opening, once-upon-a-time.
Again.

Feathers

you drew your finger in sand,
cracking rock hard truths
with pink feather touches
upon quartz. Leap on the stage,
gather the flowers, shred
all the feathers to paper-thin blades.
Little pink feathers laying one
upon another make me smile.

Photograph by Joel Olives. Creative commons, via Flickr. Post by Glynn Young, author of Dancing Priest: A Novel

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