It was a classic poetry jam Tuesday night, and the number of participants continued to swell. I’ve decided to break the contributions into at least two posts, possibly three. This is the first.
Adam and Eve by the Narrow Lake
By @doallas, @llbarkat, @MonicaSharman, @memoriaarts, @TchrEric, @katdish, @redclaydiaries, @poemsandprayers, @lauraboggess, @kathleenoverby, @mdgoodyear, @gyoung9751, @BridgetChumbley, @sarammsalter, @mxings, @nitewrit, @mmerubies, @jamesrls, @togetherforgood, and @lorrie58, and a little #smooch of editing by @gyoung9751.
And a special nod of grace to @moondustwriter, who, missing the party, was brokenhearted.
Such bright fruit
did Adam want
yet Eve denied.
Showy birds in boughs
did turn the landscape
red and blue,
like a basket of flowers.
I am a soft bird
nesting near your heart
in narrow hopes of
discerning the beat.
Eve would sit by narrow pond,
mostly wondering
as Adam wandered
amidst grass and black leaves,
looking for temptation.
Air in the pond
and inverted trees reaching
out for clouds.
Come closer, Eve bid,
and Adam,
as he dared,
bent an ear
to hear the music on high.
Into pools of deep
she would
gaze long.
Light the lamp;
I will cast a shadow
in its golden slant.
At water’s edge, Eve,
Lying,
hair flowing
lit by lamps as gold shines.
And the water of his word covered me;
I am the fallen branches,
lost in thought,
shuffle stomp,
blue gaze and yellow eye
searching deep within.
Adam had not patience
for Eve’s gazing, seeking
to be the
source of a reflection;
she so soft
heard his heart beat not.
Knock against tin,
hear the hollow beat
of hope
for her,
not for her. She looked to
sun for solace,
to sky so bright as tin,
hoping to read the clouds.
Hushed whispers looking on
at edge of word of world
all tin;
the hollow beat of two hearts
once one with one
but for the bright fruit
that separated.
Out of league only if
thee cannot swim;
just jump in, she said.
Hope
rises;
hope falls
as a heart beat heard not
by one not loved.
Just jump in the water and
Swim.
Eve
hangs her head
in the shame of
not being poetic.
Fragments of tin
cut by time’s warp;
fragments of words
that sound as tin to her ear
break a heart
that once held hope,
break a part that
once was whole.
Hanging head and
wounded heart.
If my heart were
transparent,
you might
see the ice forming,
breaking, floating away
on raveled waves.
Warp of time
did distort
her reasoning,
leaving he
no good words
on which to fall
back in love.
No more
taste fruit;
let breath
fall on
empty sighs.
“Cut by time’s warp:”
slivers of silver
reflect across time,
offering glimpses of sacred
to those who dare
to gaze.
She of wounded heart
still could not give up;
once more she looked
to see him,
translucent hope
hovering upon the waters.
Eve hath no need to be poetic
when heart is broke. Words make
haste from mouth and
sometimes shame.
Songs of old
Faint
slither sings,
and teeth grate.
Ice torn
like bright tin
urged against
the wind.
Her heart did turn
to ice
but for that membrane
where it cleft,
forming black as her feeling,
like ice over a flame.
Sun burns
No more.
Will it rise?
Tap against my skin;
feel the sorrow
sealed within
like fish silver
silent lined.
The flame splits the
membrane of ice;
sealed stone never
to be rolled back.
Urged back,
moving once toward and
then against the wind,
Adam realized his great mistake
too late,
for by evening
the lake there
had sealed itself over,
and dare he think his love
lie below.
And rainbow rays
reflected upon surfaces
shone hope to those who witnessed.
Wretched hand
no longer grasps
chaos;
blackened spins,
hope undone,
whispers on shore,
night not over yet.
Those who witnessed
saw how Adam
turned his back,
and back against the wind,
did venture onto lake,
his love grown cold.
And skin burns,
darkened sun
folds;
fringe tangles the talk.
Heat of ice
shards
left behind
breadcrumbs.
Ice breaker,
he was
no indolent talker;
he would pleat her hem
with his fingers,
ply the fringe
about her eyes,
sometimes.
And in the tangled
nonsense, one voice
cried out,
“That’s what she said!”
Knit knowledge pummeled them
but He promised
hope’s questioning swirl.
Browse poets and poems
Browse more love poems
Browse more Twitter poems
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- Poets and Poems: Kelly Belmonte and “The Mother of All Words” - May 6, 2025
- An Anthology on Reading and Writing Poetry - May 1, 2025
katdish says
You know, over the past 8 or 9 months I have a new found appreciation for the editing process. But never so much as after reading this. You even managed to work in my TWSS. Great job!
nAncY says
thanks glynn!
Lorrie says
Wow! Amazing….
Maureen Doallas says
Word knitter that you be
ply thy trade once more
for all the world to see.
Great job, Glynn. You’ve inspired me to go back to my own tweets of the night.
Kathleen says
HOW do you do this? My confession; I almost wet my pants laughing that night.
Nimble brains on steroids, conditioned by yoga, drunk on words. It felt like we
were all playing deeply. Thank you so much.
laura says
This is so awesome. Glynn, you are such a gem!