The editing of Tuesday nights poetry jam on Twitter continues apace. Three more poems are below: “Breadcrumbs Leaving a Trail, ” “I Wake Up in the Morning, ” and “”Breakfast at the Greasy Spoon at 3 a.m. with Eve the Waitress.”
And something else as emerged as well — several side conversations (and editorial comments) fashioned themselves into a kind of poetry, all on their own.
There will be one or two more poems after these three, and then the poem of Twitter conversation.
Breadcrumbs, Coffee, Butter and Love Poems
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.
Breadcrumbs, Leaving a Trail
Breadcrumbs leaving a trail,
a circle trail.
That’s what she said,
having known a thousand ways
to circle round him
and his ice-breaking ways.
What words she said,
the words swirling around.
Circle me
with silver waves,
pleat my mind
with fingers
fringed promise.
Hold auburn strands
between fingers;
let them
fall like rain on
his knees.
She’d give but breadcrumbs
to hear him speak
once more,
so annoyed she was.
Birds and words
swirled with promises.
breadcrumbs leaving a trail,
a circle for her eyes to follow
I caught red clay
between my fingers,
smeared my knees
with earth’s trail.
And then the
quaking hunger
sheds him.
His words swirling around,
she began to sing,
a song it was
of tender bread and jelly tart
as she herself might be.
Bread upon water,
walking still,
to satisfy his quaking hunger.
Ravenous,
he was anchovy?
Petals fell in silent procession,
striking the keys,
playing silent melodies
to the season.
And some she left there,
particles of house mingling
with the crumbs, ashes, dust;
sprayed kisses
like perfume
and wished
her friends
adieu:
cool tea and cloves remind me,
thread generation to tilting generation,
standing outside of time.
Black keys spun their own dark song;
the Chinese jar beckoned.
I like the black keys;
they dance
on my knees in Georgia with you
that old sweet song,
dance to dark songs,
the black keys dance
though flat and sharp.
Open the Chinese
jar, smell cinnamon, clove,
rose, cinnamon;
roses
I beg of you.
Ashes, dust, roses, crumbs,
cool tea and cloves,
red ribbons curl
and black keys play
and one then another falls to knees.
Find Melo’s words;
they are in the jar,
swimming with cinnamon,
pressing sharp against
porcelain.
Melo’s word float to top,
their cinnamon scent
reminding of days
spent on knees,
begging please, please, please.
Yes, I beg you
not forget,
gaze upon the sea,
remember me.
Five serene years for her;
Maybe
Adam and Eve
had their own trials to deal with.
I Wake Up in the Morning
I wake up in the morning,
forgetting all
yet forgetting not.
They gather begging
and I find you gone.
Found time, lost time,
given, taken, offered, carried, loved.
Remember what my grandmother forgets,
forget what she
should never have
forgotten.
All I can do is cry.
Words do twist the tongue at times,
and words sometimes doth twist
the fingers, too.
Petal-clothes gone,
shivering into quick
ice façade.
Wonder and gaze at the trial now gone,
find you gone,
like a whisper
never heard.
f you must, cry then,
but cry not for him.
Twist your fingers
in the curl of my
dark hair;
lick my lips
like sweet butter,
twist the whisper in the dark.
Who is it
that is doing the twisting,
the curling,
the licking
of lips?
A song,
a song of a yellow bird.
Breakfast at the Greasy Spoon at 3 a.m. with Eve the Waitress
Eve they did beat
with their words
of wanting.
Eve, she thought
of Adam,
how he left
her to deal
with three.
Cry, the coffee
is too dark
and the morning
came without
sugar.
Sylvie, Helen, and Molly three
Coffee
Toast
no butter.
I wanted to yell,
ain’t no restaurant we got here.
Sipping coffee, buttering toast,
forgetting sustenance.
…no short order cook to answer three…
Yell the order:
coffee, toast, two lumps;
the waitress bumps,
into the counter,
slaps the mug down.
And then the customer doth say,
Can I get fries with that shake?
Out spills more than coffee,
butter slides
and toast
burned black,
she makes her point.
Into shake she pours
from Chinese jar,
remembering how to fix ’em good.
Fries went south with shake
of fist.
Eve had had enough.
Hey!
What about my order of fries?
- A History of Children’s Stories: “The Haunted Wood” by Sam Leith - May 20, 2025
- World War II Had Its Poets, Too - May 15, 2025
- Czeslaw Milosz, 1946-1953: “Poet in the New World” - May 13, 2025
Kathleen says
Wow. Words swimming in a jar indeed. Glynn the maestro.
Erin says
that’s just so cool. 🙂
Maureen Doallas says
These make me smile. Reading them is like being in the middle of that film Eternal Sunshine with all its ceaselessly unfolding sequences that stick someplace in the mind the way dreams do.
Deep within a jar
filled to the brim
with dream-streams
clues surface
he knows the secret’s
in finding the words
just right to fit
what’s in his mind
nAncY says
i just have to say one excited, wonderful yet contented gaaaa!
that word is growing on me.
laura says
brilliant.