The final six poems from our recent poetry jam on Twitter are below. I believe this sets a record for the number of poems from a one-hour jam session – a total of 32 prompted by lines from The Republic of Tea.

Thanks to all of our 20 participants (including a couple who wandered in by accident).

Governments of Tea 7

By @mdgoodyear, @llbarkat, @SandraHeskaKing, @arestlessheart, @doallas, @cfraser83, @jezamama, @mattpriour, @togetherforgood, @MeganWillcome, @charsingleton, @TchrEric, @JennyTiner, @gyoung9751, @ThinkArtWorks, @thegypsymama, @PensieveRobin, @ElizabethEsther, @mxings, and @moondustwriter. Edited by @gyoung9751.

Tea Leaves Clues

If Miss Scarlett has a cup it’s
filled with coffee and she
drinks that by candlestick light.
She’ll forget her crush on
Professor Plum, which might
get him murdered.
Professor Plum took his tea in
the library, while Mrs. Peacock
took hers in the conservatory
with the lead pipe, or was it the
rope? No, the revolver.
Tea meant murder, turning the
harbor red; fragrant or not, the
victim’s destiny was manifest.
Murder would be more fragrant
under plum of cinnamon night.

Miss Scarlett and Professor Plum
were gone with the wind; Miss
White wore a uniform too short
for my taste but Colonel Mustard
did not seem to mind.
We lost the game but won the tea;
maybe next year.
I haven’t a clue how to play,
I haven’t a clue how to write,
I haven’t a clue where I am.
She read the tea leaves,
and called it fate.
He read the tea leaves,
and called it love.
Could any of us have a clue
without tea?

Dreams of Tea and Empire

Tea has always civilized
the untameable continents
on the surface of the cup.
With colonial boilers cooling,
and machinery intact, no crisis
was available to avert. Time for tea.
What is in the machinery
of destiny? Leaves, or simply strategy?
Now he sits, alone, cup in hand,
dreaming of empires that are no more.
But still he dreams.
And because he dreams,
he hopes, he lives,
he starts the journey new.

It all comes true in tea dreams

Hold me, cup your hands,
and I will dream, whispering
words of bliss, lips to ear,
lips to cup, warm to warm.

Hold me, cup in hands, and I
will dream. We will watch the
dream come true in enchantment
white, vanilla dreams.

Recipe: make this thing more
than a dream. Liven it up with tea,
any kind will do; imagination is,
too, essential.

I would climb into your cup,
if you would drink me down,
heartache and all,
heartache and dreams.

We have hidden behind leaves
since that first garden. Put a bag
of black tea in your hand;
carry it a thousand miles for me.

But now they comfort;
the leaves are modestly calm
when dreams are tired;
call it confession and leaves win.

Say it was for me,
say it was for you.
It all comes true
in tea dreams.

I spilled cinnamon tea

I spilled cinnamon tea and slept in fragrance;
I dreamed oceans of rest. Over my head,
cultivation, weeds like trees, sickle blades,
twenty one lost, gone while voices rise.
I swam in lychee blossom, green-leaf
wrapped against the currents.
I loved in warmth; I spread my fingers and
took hold of a blushing cup of you.
The tea twists my tongue and torques my mind.
How soon the cup is emptied,and the night.

The universe in a teacup

Someday, I will drink the universe
in a teacup and I will remember, yes
remember that a teacup large as the
universe holds all our dreams.

I would like to have tea with God,
our table set on top of the stars,
a cup filled to the brim,
a conversation face to face.

He would ask what I thought of
the story He had written
and I’d try not to edit His words.
Come back to me, one sip at a time.

A cup, a change of scenery, and
all the voices quiet down.
Now what was that you said?
A single sip; the restless busy fades.

Raspberry currants lapping upon
the sea of what used to be;
never again my sweet tea. A time
to discard, leaving the leaves cold.

Below are six more poems edited from our recent poetry jam on Twitter, all inspired and prompted by The Republic of Tea.

Governments of Tea 6

By @mdgoodyear, @llbarkat, @SandraHeskaKing, @arestlessheart, @doallas, @cfraser83, @jezamama, @mattpriour, @togetherforgood, @MeganWillcome, @charsingleton, @TchrEric, @JennyTiner, @gyoung9751, @ThinkArtWorks, @thegypsymama, @PensieveRobin, @ElizabethEsther, @mxings, and @moondustwriter. Edited by @gyoung9751.

                                                     (Photograph by Jessica McGuire)

What’s found in the cup

I wanted to play but was
restlessly checking the boiler
and gauges.
Must keep the steam contained.
Containing the steam retains the
flavor:
honey,
sugar,
milk,
mint,
lemon.
Can a cup be found that holds
only tea?

My cup holds only tea,
Unhoneyed,
Unsugared,
Unmilked,
Unminted,
Unlemoned.
Tea holds its place
in the space
given up
by the cup.
Tea only matters in so much as
what it stands for -the pausing – to
celebrate the ordinary.

A leaf floats

A leaf aloof floats on the surface
tension of a steaming cup,
memorializing the laziness of
apple-scented dreams.

Could the cup hold more,
could it brim with spice,
could it overflow with honey
and swirling leaves?

Brimming with love, dancing with
memories honey sweet, the water
is only tense about the edges. Dip
your finger below; find its serenity.

Swimming in Tea

The naughty leaf warms the palms,
swirl sthe juice and reads the news
while we catch glimpses of our
memories swirled in the bottom of
empty cups.
I swam in that lake of tea, a warm
lake, brimming with fragrance of
the East. Now the
teacups are washed and dried,
stacked neatly on the shelves
until we meet again to share a cup
of life. I drank in a lake of warm tea,
I loved in a warmth of thee.

Tea Deum

He take a name in vain
for the love of tea.
Father forgive me, for I am tea:
the pause, the confession, the
party that is joy in the morning,
repentance and mercy, secret grace
whispered, forgiveness given.
I wash my hands at this cup and
around your words.
Tea culpa.

The Commerce of Tea

Sell me your tea by the ship load and
I will love you a year’s worth of memories.
Fortunes like yours were sold down the river.
How much tea can we sell in our cabinet colony,
crammed like a psyche, soothed with cream?
How much tea can we sell, asked the business man?
How much tea can we sell in a year? Calculate that
not once but twice, walking up the side of our mountain.

For a ride up our mountain I would wait, silvered
Cup in hand. Tea leaves and tender hearts met
on the mountain. How much tea can we tax,
asked the tax man?
How much tea can we drink, was the reply.
The tax man grinned.
There was tea for sale under the ship’s sail
until taxed too much; then the taste was lost
and with it, the empire.

Empire, Tea and Destiny

The East Indian Trading Company
brought spices, tea and despair
to the Cape of Good Hope
and beyond.
The colonies opened their arms
to tea, that taste from home.
The colonies brewed their tea
in a harbor of revolt, a revolt
contained, at first, within a
bone china tea cup, so
impossibly light and elegant.
The Trading Company and all
these tea leaves had a history
of blood.
For tea, you see, was an empire,
a colony, a republic.
Servants brought tender cups
of indentured time hot to their
masters beneath the jacarandas
who toasted themselves
with tea and croquet, which
gave way to tea and crumpet.
But when tea is hot it carries me
across the continent like sultry
jasmine opening up like a flower.
At the end of my journey to find
the true, the mountain was my destiny
our destiny is tea, cinnamon spiced,
a destiny written in the stars of the
Southern Cross; from the cross to
the cape; from the cape to the port,
the great tea port called London.
I rode with destiny, a teacup in his hands,
destiny, told in the stars or the bottom
of a cup, swirling leaves in silver cups,
fragrant.

Here are three more poems from our recent poetry jam on “The Republic of Tea.”

Governments of Tea 4

By @mdgoodyear, @llbarkat, @SandraHeskaKing, @arestlessheart, @doallas, @cfraser83, @jezamama, @mattpriour, @togetherforgood, @MeganWillcome, @charsingleton, @TchrEric, @JennyTiner, @gyoung9751, @ThinkArtWorks, @thegypsymama, @PensieveRobin, @ElizabethEsther, @mxings, and @moondustwriter. Edited by @gyoung9751.

The Orphans and Rebels of Tea

Who are the orphans of the families of
tea, the homeless tea, the teas alone,
the teas abused, the teas raised in
catholic schools by hard nuns doing
their best; the teas with rulers smashed
across their knuckles?
Homeless teas, he asks; no brands dare
we say. Are there black sheep among the
tea families? A rebellious blue tea or a
tea of vibrant orange standing out?

Not the rebels but
it is those orphans and widows of
tea for which we are to care. Do the
tea orphans wish they could be dried,
crushed,
steeped,
drunk
deep?
Is that the crowning achievement of
tea leaves?

A Universe of Tea, Diverse

Tea so good for earth, green it is.
Tea so good for the sky, white light
brews me the arm of Orion, the arm of
Perseus.
Did Orion clip leaves, send them through
time, to the water, to me?
Alone, Orion lays his head on a star, puts
jazz on Andromeda and spins his dreams.
Does Orion drink tea, or only Betelguese?
Orion uses a dipper, large, to sip his tea, but
drinks his Betelgeuse straight up.

Tea Like Jazz

How do I tweet tea? Let me steep the ways.
Call me any time; just not yesterday or
Tomorrow. I’ll hear your voice, taste your lips
Today, gather you into my tea drawer.
Would a tea by any other name steam as sweet?

Tweet me any time, steep me, play me
like a keyboard sax. Jazz and sweet tea: play
me all the way into the arms of the South.
The arms of the South call me like jazz
on an opal-blue morning.

Tea of white with scent of cherry, very light;
Steep the cherries in white of morning: scent
your dreams in dew of me, the ways of mothers
with babes who don’t sleep, lacking rest they seek
solace in a cup filled with leaves and dreams.

I will steep you.
Can you stand the steam rising like
mournful jazz?
Rising, rising, this steam, this tonic, this
chug-chug-gulp, this Louie in a cup.

I love this jazz, this buzz, from tea strong like
Irish Breakfast. African Red has its own beat
and dance, rising and mourning and singing
and weeping, the steam undulating with the
music, breaking her heart.

The mixing of teas, green with black, mint with
Orange, a recipe of improvisation, big, strong,
from the western cape of South Africa, Zululand,
perhaps, black tea on bass, green tea on the horn
and red tea on drums.

Louie met Mary Lou over a cup of tea,
their hands brushed past as she took the cup.
They danced to jazz, of course: Oversteeped,
understeeped, unsweet, sweet, the room swirls
among the steaming cups of leafed intoxication.

Those last sips go down like a melody ending.
The song of tea becomes a chant, a dirge,
a funeral march.
Impressario of jazz, what take you with your tea?
Who ever got drunk on tea? But we did, yes, we did.

Is it tea and jazz or tea and sympathy?
I’ll have whatever she’s having.