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.

Thursday night’s Tweet Party was about conversation – specifically, overheard conversations, including a few lines from Twitter tweets (some of which I recognized when the prompts arrived from @tspoetry).

We had five primary participants, and then a few poor souls wandered in accidentally and found themselves incorporated into the poetry jam (this happens) (more than you might think). And then, right at the end, the possibility of a new baby (which turned out to be one of those false alarm things that babies like to do).

In Conversation

By @llbarkat, @doallas, @poemsandprayers, @MonicaSharman, and @gyoung9751.
With unexpected contributions by @mhsteger, @audrajennings, @sarahmsalter, @TheBonnieGray and @lauraboggess (who concludes the entire poem).
And almost a new baby by @arestlessheart.

I Met You 30 Years Ago

When I met you 30 years ago,
I did not know
we would meet again
over oatmeal brulee
roasted potatoes
talk of bible and fire.

Telling words of loss remembered,
of moving on,
of prayers answered.

Two lifetimes ago.

The faces that have passed,
the names that have changed.

Restless heart,
restless baby
on an asphalt playground
but you didn’t pick me.

Restless is the heart
that remembers asphalt,
fire, and the art
of words long drifted,
long missing,

long caught up in memory webs,
catching me up
when your face appears.

With that I am afraid
I must run and eat my dinner
which is losing heat
as I tap on these cold keys.
Apologies…

When I sue you

When I sue you,
don’t purr that sweet
purr, don’t be demure.
I mean to take you
for all you’ve got,
she said, as she smiled
a cheshire smile.

Dues due.
You are after
the devil you are.
Just when I think
prey is taken,
long claw-marks line
my back.

I venture to say that
there is no sound worse than
that of a screeching cat.

Thirty years is
a long time to forget
your face and how
we used to trace the
claw marks on my back.

Dazed,
delirious,
demonized,
she got what she came for.

Let’s go searching for fire bushes

Facing roadblocks this season,
Lanes,
searching for fire bushes,
for fingers burning,
fingers pricked,
fingers burning.

Where were you
these 30 years,
somewhere across the Pacific perhaps,
while I sat beneath
the leaning bushes, hiding
tears,
tracing patterns
of hearts
aflame.
I face it head on to keep myself in check.

Do I dare taste the fire,
pick from its ripeness?
Did leave your imprint
not on my heart
but there
for all the world to see?

Hearts set afire
like burning bushes
in sacred sand.

I could sue you,
I suppose, for tears and fire
burning in my heart,
I could. But would
you even notice, stoic
that you are?

When I look at the stars, I feel like myself,
the trees afire, with stars alight,
stars and trees, scars and fingers burnt
like a Scarlet Letter,
but no Hester Prynne be;
I remember that day in court.

Christmas tree shopping

Scarlet is as good
a color as any
for Christmas, for the ribboned
tree hushed beneath
a burning star.

Tears wear me down;
no matter
each one dropped,
taken up by sand,
consumed.

And the now sands aflame
echo the fire bushes.
Star once burned out
and now renewed,
its light a haloed crown.

Light a candle on each branch.
Keep the scent of spice in the air.
And under the weight of the tree
the gift.

Freelance writer has published tips in Better Homes

Better than tips in Worse Homes,
Better Homes
for Better Poetry.

Sue me if you must; later
you can publish tips
on how to burn a heart,
make a better home.

Bring out your very best wine,
from Sineann in Oregon,
making any home better.
Your kisses deliver.

Freelance writer
seeking Better Homes
for Better Poetry
ISO free style.
No meter,
no rhymes,
low overhead,
punctuation if you like
or not.

(OK, so that was a commercial plug.)

On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria

On the Jubilee of Queen Victoria,
Guiness paid every employee
an extra week’s salary.

If you sue me,
could you wait
to do it during
Jubilee, then decide
in haste to fulfill your
obligation, free me.

Hi, I’m the wine taster;
perhaps you have not
met me yet, but
I assure you, I am
better than kisses.

Such a Jubilee did employees
make of
extra pounds and shillings.
Wine did flow freely
as though were water
and many a chap
did swear at morning’s light.

Do you deliver?
I love the plug for the wine yet
only a glass plug and not cork.

I’m slow. I just got it (laughing she is).

Zombie girl chapbook up

Call me Zombie Girl,
I can twirl ’til
my feet turn scarlet,
I can whirl.
Check out those fangs.
Zombie Girl
has a knack
for snacks
at midnight.

Dang,
she said, as she looked at the New Moon in Twilight.
Cannot wait
to sink
my teeth
into that.

And chicken, see
Zombie Girl likes chicken,
oh, and that, too,
Chicken without fangs and wine with no corks.

Howls went up;
biting into dry cork
left her mouth
dry.

Zombie Girl
does a good Valley Girl
impression.
Where oh where is that full moon?
I cannot find a candle for the branch.

Did you notice?
Full moon tonight
and wine
do mix.
Aaaaaaooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Very stylish,
but Zombie girl fails to notice;
she’s looking at full moon.

He keeps checking the time on his two wrist watches

Why does he keep on watching his watches?
Is it absolutely
necessary to have two,
wrists if one has
two wrist watches,
just inquiring.

8 tips to know if you are boring

Sorry to tweet and run.
Husband needs the phone line
to call about used cars.
We need a car, bad.

Will the writer
who has published tips
for better homes
please also advise
on how to know
if you are boring.

Tip 1: Find someone you knew 30 years ago.
He lets out a cry!
Are you saying I am boring?

No. That’s Tip 1 if you are
boring — and learning how not
to be boring.

Just checking, see,
to know if I should
sue you for liveliness
discrimination.

(That sounds like @Katdish.)

Tip #2: The watches have to go.
Quite out of style.
Boring tips.

I’m a beginner

Looking in your face
30 years late, I find
I know not
how to begin.
Thirty years and you
look very familiar.

This is my 8th winter in Colorado
Tips of evergreen
bore me now. It’s
been 8 long years
since I made
my home in
this tree,
Candles and stars.

Conversation on education about to start

Dear @jwessner,
do not be alarmed.
You have stepped into
a poem party. Or
been abducted, as the
case may be.
And just became a part of the poem.

Better Bores Begin Best.
Very alarming to be a
bore in the poem of
better homes.

I’m thinking that
a conversation
on education
could be salvaged
with a little wine,
and perhaps
a candle-tipped evergreen.

I’m dying of coldness
Eight years I have
lived in these Colorado,
mountains, eight years it has
been since your kiss
and I am dying
of coldness.
Tip the candle
Light a flame,
a fire in my heart.

Be quick!
Fire bushes
will take away
your chill,
though kisses
they promise not.

The fire of the burning sands,
the flaming tree.
the mountain afire
burn away the memory
of the owl. and the pussy cat
howling at the moon.
No boring
men do live
in mountains.
Pray tell, why so few kisses?
Perhaps your coldness
be the tip off.
Thirty years cold,
the faces of old men
tip, pray for kisses
once again burning.

Lecturing on modern art at a nursing home

You might think
lecturing on modern
art at a nursing home
could be boring.
No. The tipped chins
of the residents
splay like Pollack.

You are like a museum,
full of faceless paintings.
Abstract kisses,
Picasso twists and turns;
the residents have art down cold.

Errata/Finis

Quietest night EVER
on Twitter!

You just entered a poetry jam.

It takes me weeks to write a good poem.
I don’t “jam” well.

You did tonight – right at the end.

Ah sweet night,
delight to word with you,
to verse, to play.
A playful mood, with fire bushes,
flaming mountains,
fine wine,
all turned InsideOut.

That’s my sweet publicity friend,
veering words towards InsideOut!

Department of Shameless Promotion.
That’s me.
Read InsideOut while drinking Sineann wine.

Is it a prerequisite?
The wine for the reading,
or the reading for the wine?

But it give me an idea.

And InsideOut
from run-in with Zombie Girl.
I bid good night,
dreaming of full moons,
fire bushes,
quiet.

Thinking this is probably it.
Going to get some rest
while we still can.
Looks like baby’s comin’,
from Kelly.
I’m thinking that @restlessheart
will be obligated
to name the new one
T.S.
A baby!
As we tweet! How much cooler does it get?

Alarmed, post-pasta
abducted, into the warmth
of poets, wine and tweetspeak,
kidnapped by friendly poets.

I yield to abduction gladly.
So exciting! This T.S. be the
night for Kelly?
A (poetic) star may be born!

You jam very well…
Even better, I have all of the tweets in a Word doc.
Good night to all;
writing awaits me
after my first @tspoetry party.
Neato.

Total of 139 tweets
in tonight’s tweet party.
Candles,
30 year memories,
a baby’s time to be born,
stars and evergreen branches,
What were the chances?

Ugh! I missed it again!

Yes, we had a tweet party on Twitter last night. Five or six of us participated, and we also had a few unexpected guests who tripped into the poetry jam. We’ll be posting the poem — or series of poems — shortly.

The next Tweet Party (poetry jam on Twitter) is scheduled for Thursday, Dec. 3 from 9:30 to 10:30 p.m. Eastern time. Just sign on to Twitter, make sure you’re following @tspoetry, and wait for the prompt. And don’t forget to use the #tsp hashtag on your tweets.

For past parties, see The Walled Garden of Herbs and Spices, Love at the Masquerade Ball, Poems of the Ruby Moon, The Orchards of Desire, A Tabloidian Twepic, and At the Oasis, the Camel on Caravan.

Maureen Doallas joined our Tweet Party group, and jumped right in. This is one of her poems that she’s published in her blog, and it’s aboutt remembering New Orleans. This is part of our new feature to share poems by our Tweet Party contributors.

Maureen Doallas

www.twitter.com/doallas

http://writingwithoutpaper.blogspot.com/2009/11/we-can-remember-poem.html

We Can Remember

We can remember

wafting roasting chicory root
steam-driven cafe au lait
beignets by fistfuls
on a randy French corner.

We can remember

serendipity’s tune
getting loose from back pockets
in a Bourbon Street dive

and Jean Lafitte look-alikes
making the rounds
as day broke day
by day.

We can remember

a jumble of shrimps and crabs
oysters and crawfish
curried and bisqued
for a magician’s pittance
— or a dreamy pirate’s scowl.

We can remember

white columns stretching
to hold the shade for
southern belles’ beauty
on morns too-bright
with hissing Bayou heat.

We can remember

the storm coming
the water rising
the levees crumbling
the refinery leaking
the wondering squall
of need

for everything
worth having.

We can remember
watching eyes watching
for hope
getting lost in hope
never arriving

early enough
or at all.

We can remember

loss
granting no claim
on those who
could forget
would still forget
do forget

a city
a ward
a block
a house
a home
troubled by mud
mold-stormed and mucked
stuck in the caw of
some southern politician’s memories.

We can remember

it was a place to be
once

where po’ boys
might speak
some lazy approximation
of French

and delicate young ladies
wave triangles
of fine lace hankies
to their suitors’ sway.

We can remember
New Orleans
yet

as it never will be
again

where a river channeled
gained its own control
over man’s made things

and not even bleach
could recover
what water rinsed
what water washed
what water wasted
in

a city
a ward
a block
a house
a home

left behind

for the asking.

Copyright 2009 Maureen E. Doallas. All Rights Reserved. Used with Permission.

Our next Tweet Party (poetry jam) is set for 9:30 p.m. (Eastern time) on Tuesday, Nov. 10 on Twitter. Just show up, wait for the prompt, and jump in. Don’t forget to use the #tsp hashtag and follow @tspoetry.

Tuesday night, it was a Tweet Poetry (poetry jam) utterly unlike its predecessors, a kind of romp through the worlds of fiction and history through the eyes of famous couples.

The instructions from @tspoetry: Tonight, a party challenge: ‘Love in Character.’ All quotes from Julia Cameron’s poetry in ‘The Right To Write.’ Try to write poems in character. Famous couples (include indicator somewhere in poem). Pocahontas & John Smith, Jane Eyre & Rochester, Cleopatra & Mark Antony, Cyrano & Roxanne, Lancelot & Guinevere. Shah Jahan & Mumtaz Mahal of the Taj Mahal, Elizabeth Bennett & Darcy, Scarlett & Rhett, Romeo & Juliet, Samson & Delilah, Owl & Pussycat.

The owl and the pussycat?

The participants: @llbarkat, @doallas, @poemsandprayers, @mdgoodyear, @mixings, @calebjseeling and @gyoung9751. We also had three unexpected cameo appearances. One was @AnnVoskamp, who wandered into the middle of the poetry tweets (without realizing it) and posted a line that, oddly enough, actually fit the section. @PeterPollock did exactly the same thing. I don’t think either intended to do this, but we adopted them into it anyway. And then @publiceyestl retweeted one of my own contributions and used the #tsp hashtag. If you use the hashtag, you’re in.

Love at the Masquerade Ball

First prompt by @tspoetry: “Misery, I remember you before the hemlock,/I remember you proud and fierce…”

With kohl did Cleo paint almond eyes,
Marking time till Mark arrived to bid her well.
Antony: I remember you before the asp.
Cleo: I remember you before the sword.
[Timeless RT: Antony: I remember you before the asp. Cleo: I remember you before the sword.]
Asp did leave a mark
Greater than mine own mark on Mark.
Forgive me, Mark,
Your ship arrived;
My almond eyes
Could never let
You go.
Mine eyes hold you, Cleo,
As sun holds light.
We danced in the sand
Under the light of the pyramid moon.
On honey and bread we dined.
Mark’s ship goes out on sands of time
Cleo an uncontent to show
In kohl-burned eyes.

And yet the glint of thine own eyes, Mark
Leave me stunned.
Who said love was
Softer than the asp?
It bites the heart.
Does yet one bite of asp
Leave you for loss of tongue, dear Mark?

Interesting shapes
Do our sands foretell if there be
Pyramid moon.
She turned to fortunetellers
To see the lines of the sand.
Such be the Sphinx;
Enigmas be all we have.
Quick sand does pull us in,
Honey gives of too much that’s sweet
And on pea green boat do we wreak such havoc.
Mark’s ship goes out on sands of time
Cleo an uncontent to show
In kohl-burned eyes

Second prompt by @tspoetry: “Dreaming the dark places,/Caves and the back of stars…”

The caves of Ali Baba,
The stars of Jasmine’s eyes.
Vault of marble
Cave, emerald-studded
Calligraphy holds my love
For whom, at death
I plucked out
Artists’ eyes.
You strum on the strings of my heart.
Flying carpets,
Threads aflutter,
Magic lamps to rub and wish.
Mumtaz, would that
You could echo voice
Over this dry river
Through this dark tomb
Light my heart once more
Like stars.
Jasmine’s sweetest smell of all,
Turning heads.
Magic is one wish yet granted.
Honey drips from cave walls,
Leaving Ali and his thieves in sticky situation.
In all of India
No heart cries more
Than mine for thee.

Third prompt by @tspoetry: “The stars at night were someone’s baby teeth.”

The baby teeth of the angels
Swirling through the desert sand.
Teeth lie unfound in sand,
Covering a thousand lost wishes.

Fourth prompt by @tspoetry: “Our every slip of tongue is graceful./Our best syllables are silent.”

When you stepped
Under the Eastern Hemlocks,
John, I still had
A few stray baby
Teeth. You licked
Them sober, tall;
I left the shores.
My native ground
Scarce left behind,
I traveled to England,
John’s country.
A curiosity, they found me there,
Though John did soothe
My longing.
In John’s England did I
Find myself
A proper lady.
I still remember
How your bangles,
Whispered glass,
Love through the halls,
Your hair coconut fragrant,
Hands henna red.
in a boat of dreams we sail the indigo waters
Heart hears silence
As its call.
They said I was spectacle,
Eye-catching of courtiers
[@PeterPollock That's right... blame the English guy. Everyone else does!]
My skin be red yet soft.
John saw the difference,
Made of it a dream.
We dreamed together.
The redness of mine,
The whiteness of John’s,
Our skins peeled together
The curry leaf
Floats, curls
‘Midst black onion
Seeds, brown sauce
And I think once again
I taste your love
Upon my tongue.
I need not ask their courtesies.
My John saw to that,
Defended me.
The courtesies of courtiers
Were like sharpened knives at the table.

Fifth prompt by @tspoetry: “I am missing you./My ‘I’ stands like a lonely tree./This landscape is denuded.”

I watched them
shave your head
clean, strip your strength
In fallen locks.
Now I am missing
You, your hair like rope
Around my wrists,
Said Delilah, she of the Philistines.

Sixth prompt by @tspoetry: “I am lying about that./Lilacs are blooming./Apple trees froth with lace.”

Samson’s strength,
Shorn as a heart
In love might be shorn
Of dreams
When cut in two.
There is a love that binds and a love that frees,
He wanted stars
But was blinded by pokers of light.
Love that binds
And frees
‘Tis woman’s ways to find the means,
A single lock,
Its strength
Enclosed
In memory

I am missing you,
Rhett, the lilacs are in
Bloom beside the house
Like purple flame
Of pain,
Recalled
By light.
Frankly, my dear,
I wish for hand of lilac scent
To touch my brow.
Darcy, you too
Could know purple,
Could lie amidst the heather,
Let your eyes
But look on me,
Lost on Moors
From tower ramparts.
Do I wish to fling myself
If your love be denied?

Dear Rhett,
This is Juliet
Speaking. What
Kind of fool are you
To spurn love?
I would die for
My lover’s touch.
[AnnVoskamp Galaxies spin & stars, they swirl, and in the heavens there is a pillar of Words that never shifts, axis of the world.]
Will you remember me, tomorrow, Rhett?
Another tomorrow, another day.
With pride, with prejudice, perhaps with love.
Scarlet’s heart a scarlet tear
So rent by Rhett,
Cast-off,
Unlaced.

Seventh prompt by @tspoetry: “For what it’s worth,/I loved you.”

[gyoung9751 Ok, L.L, how difficult are we going to make the editing here?]
[llbarkat @gyoung9751 oh, now, there'll be less tweets Mr. Young! ]
[@doallas: Juliet might yet speak up, @gyoung9751,/showing you the way of words.]
[goodwordediting @llbarkat @gyoung9751 @doallas he is the east/ she is the sun/ stressed on both ends]

Shadows in heather
Do gather
The truth universal
Begins every love
Story worth reading.
(Sorry I’m late.)
Roxane, don’t ever doubt
It, for what it’s worth
I loved you
silent as the
stars.
A silly friar’s potion
Was all she needed
To test Romeo’s true love.

Eighth prompt by @tspoetry: “You were my green earth.”

I will love you today,
I will love
You tomorrow,
Happily
Ever after,
As long a nose
No lie might tell
Ever did my heart yearn for Roxane.
My green earth,
My good earth,
The soil of my love.
One’s own true love,
If she know it,
May be luckiest of all.
Lancelot, you were my green
Earth, the round table
Upon which my
Heart spun,
As the sun fair doth rise in the east
As the moon most pale doth set in the west.
Compare me to soil,
To dirt,
Wherein grows love
Like so many blooms unseen.
Just means
My secrets yet
Await you.
Guinny waited for her knight
All night,
Their story to retell.

Ninth Prompt by @tspoetry: “The air is silk./There is milk in the looks/That come from strangers.”

Strangers when they met,
Bonded souls when they parted.
The wind gnaws at our necks
And we wonder if this night
Will be as cold as the last.
And too soon did grow weary
Of spinning
Tales of Camelot.
Mumtaz, the air is silk,
Morning raises
Yet again its
Veil of longing.
Cold not,
If fire
We do build
To scorching.
In the cold mist did
Yuri touch
The pale cheek of Lara.
Who be left
On whom we cast
Such spells
As love might make?
Now tell me, who
is Yuri?
Yuri Zhivago.
The reds and the whites
He thought
Were no longer wines but soldiers.
Veil of longing
Dropped quietly,
For love steps softly
In moon’s light
And shadow.
Russian boots
Do stamp
Love out
Too quick.
Lara, I watched you through
The window,
Choked on the scent
Of goodbye.
The trees,
All aspens,
Sang of love and Russian nights
Or Gagarin who loved
The dark and cold
Of space where he said
He saw no God.
Soldiers’ whines
Of loves lost
Never to be recovered
In snow dreams.
Cold long nights
In Russia
Leave little else but time.
Was Lara the Russian Guinevere?

Tenth prompt by @tspoetry: “The wind like kisses,/The music in the soup,/The group of trees laughing.”

Too many questions
Do make of love
A bitter ending,
Camelot,
Lost to darkness,
To a time gone by.
Stop asking
Questions, Mr. Darcy,
With your dark brown
Eyes. Kisses need
No answers.
Goodbye,
All lovers
Bid
Sooner or later.
Before goodbyes
Leave us all
To other dreams
So cold the stars,
So white the snow,
So still the sleigh,
So goes the day.
Loves and lovers sail away and love,
Yes, love is here to stay.
You remember now,
Don’t you, Ronny,
Me and our time
Together in blue and white
Forever?
Enough
To know somewhere my love by heart
And nothing more.

Of all the famous loves I’ve known
Across the pages of imagination,
None surpasses my own true love.

Concluding prompt by @tspoetry et al

@tspoetry Parting is such sweet sorrow! Thank you all for playing along with this challenge.
@gyoung9751 Applause all around! (this is the part where we stand around and congratulate each other.)
@Doallas Tis difficult/and yet/methinks we did/quite well./Evening ends in Lara’s song/of knights/and nights/and Jasmine/Juliet’s sorrow at end.
@llbarkat  And they danced/by the light/of the moon, the moon/and they danced by/the light of the moon. (Goodnight all.) Great one! Good luck Mr Y.
@Doallas Applause to all. Goodnight on this note.
@poemsandprayers parting is such sweet sorrow…loved it.
@gyoung9751 I’ve captured all the tweets in a Word doc. Now for editing. If anyone wants the unedited tweet-doc, let me know and I’ll email it.
@goodwordediting HURRY UP PLEASE IT’S TIME Goonight @calebjseeling. Goonight @llbarkat. Goonight @gyoung9751. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
@gyoung9751 And thanks to @goodwordediting, too!
@poemsandprayers goodnight owl and pussycat.
@Doallas Advance thanks to @gyoung9751 for magic you’ll be working on our words. Looking forward to seeing lines shaped by hand.
@llbarkat Goodnight, Mr. @goodwordediting.
@Doallas Buena sera @llbarkat @poemsandprayers @goodwordediting @tspoetry @gyoung9751.
@Mixings Good night dish, good night spoon.
@llbarkat @AnnVoskamp timely, for our poetry party! Maybe you didn’t know you’d come?
@Calebjseeling: @llbarkat I found out about #tsp just in time and had to think of a quickie. Um, Reagan–famous couple, right? Thanks for letting me play.

Updates:

See also L.L. Barkat’s Ticket to Party.

Glynn’s Reflection on a Tweet Party.

Maureen’s Tweets of Love at the Masquerade Ball.

Our next Tweet Party (poetry jam) is set for 9:30 p.m. (Eastern time) on Tuesday. Oct. 27 on Twitter. Just show up, wait for the prompt, and jump in. Don’t forget to use the #tsp hashtag and follow @tspoetry.

For the first Tweet-Party on Sept. 9, three of us assembled via Twitter (turned out @shrinkingcamel couldn’t make it). Laura and Eric started, while I was wolfing down dinner. You’ll see the point at which I enter the party and the point where Eric leaves (he had to grade papers). This is how the Tweet-Party developed, in chronological order. I’ve removed the hashtags (we used a different one the first time). If you then look at the posting after this one, you’ll see how the individual tweets were edited into one “twoem.” We won’t do this listing of chronological tweets for every Tweet-Party (the one on Sept. 22 generated more than 100 tweets), but this should give you some idea of how these unfold.

Each one of the tweets could almost be a poem in and of itself.

llbarkat: @gyoung9751 @TchrEric @shrinkingcamel Questions, from Poemcrazy: “Who were you in my dream? What were you eating, wearing, etc?”

llbarkat: I was the mermaid/afraid of ship’s shadows/seining the shallows/for seaweed red/drinking black ink/ the octopus bled.

llbarkat: I was the tears/trailing white/taking flight from/clown apple/cheeks/afraid of living.

TchrEric: Snow white hart/leaping just out of reach/as rivers of tears/streaked frost bitten cheeks/that desired my touch
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