Last Tuesday evening, 11 of us gathered for an hour on Twitter and created what is turning out to be the coolest poetry jam yet. The prompts from @tspoetry were all taken from poemcrazy by Susan Wooldridge.
We had fewer interlopers and accidental contributors this time, except for a certain camel, whose auto-timed blog post popped into the middle of everything and actually moved the poetry jam in a different direction. Such things happen. He’ll show up in a later poem.
Meta-Poems
1.
There’s a poem
in my dishwasher, somewhere
between soggy spaghetti,
olive oil, the spoils of day.
There’s a poem swishing
its way.
Under the couch
a poem is crouching,
trying to stick
its tongue to my heels
and lick its way to
my heart.
In weeds and dirty dishwater;
is this where my poetry begins?
Magnetic breath,
metallic grate,
words on plate
serve it up fresh.
The venerable dogwood
stood alone,
branches held out.
Weeds, noisy,
fought for ground beneath
the dogwood’s shade,
hauntingly dark,
outstretched limbs.
Noisy weeds,
they would steal away
the words that press my heart,
hiding under couches,
in tiniest places.
2.
Where do poems hide?
Dogwood sweet,
shaded near my feet,
reaching dark-limbed
to serve up day.
They also hide until
people die,
kicking at the dirt,
biting bottom lips.
Words rise and grow
wheat from the tares
to fulfill prophecy
much needed.
A sea of weeds,
ready to be turned
by the wheels
or the heavy white van.
The doors open;
inside a hefty load
of small crabapple
and sassafras trees.
Alone in the shade,
tares hide,
hang out.
A poem held in hands
offers thanks
unspoken.
Poems hide
’til people die:
does that mean
a poem’s life hangs
on death?
Where life is
in all places secret and revealed,
under branching tree or
above or within,
this is where the poetry begins
3.
At day’s break,
words surface,
fall as light rises,
caress sound,
each plant a poem,
Each poem a plant,
music pulsing with every
push upward
into the light.
Each poem a seed,
words
etched on stone
telling stories of loss
where souls dwell.
Writing opens seeds.
Turn and see
the seeds,
the weeds, the tree,
the dishwater,
the van full of boxes,
the stone with words etched
deep.
Poems, too, rise
with new life,
a mother’s song,
a father’s heart.
Secret freedom begins
Inside.
A poem’s life hangs
on death
of self to awareness of
other;
turn and see ghost words
drifting through vapor
at day’s break
and night’s gentle fall.
The words are here,
there,
never bound by two dark covers.
4.
There’s a poem in my closet
somewhere between the
jeans I wear most often
and the skirts I plan to wear
when I buy them and imagine
the swish swish swish
against my legs.
Swish, swish,
a poem wishes itself
past legs, up thighs,
rising to ecstasy.
There are poems in my house,
under blankets,
behind chairs
on the plates I use for dinner
and the clothes my husband wears
What does a poem
need to come to birth—
a bit of earth, a fallen seed,
ghosts of lilies,
vapored night,
extinguishing a dying
light;
vapor stories
disappearing with
a breath.
Dark opens into words,
filling space,
holding refrains
held long,
seeking release,
shade tree
respite from
words of sorrow.
5.
The blossom pressed
between pages
of white;
vapor stories
now and again caught on
white paper.
Magnolia sweetly held
as memory,
finding its way
into song.
She plucked flowers from
my heart. I did not
know that they
were there.
Open dark covers:
aroma of poetry pours forth
song and scent and vapor;
words of sorrow split loss from
remembrance
as rosemary
scents
some mornings.
I am mist. I hang.
You may float and
fly and dream. But, I
hang, hover, wander.
I stay alone, a
song as blossom.
6.
Dream catcher,
what dost your net
reveal?
That a love song
be reaching forward
into the past.
The words rise
and shimmer in
the wind.
—Tweetspeak Poets
Original tweets by @lorrie58, @memoriaarts, @togetherforgood, @mmerubies, @llbarkat, @poemsandprayers, @doallas, @KathleenOverby, @TchrEric, and @lauraboggess, with a slight contribution from @gyoung9751 (final weaver of all the tweets).
Browse poets and poems
Browse more poems about Writing
Browse more short poems
- Poets and Poems: Bruce Lawder and “Breakwater Rock” - May 29, 2025
- Poets and Poems: Patricia Clark and “O Lucky Day” - May 27, 2025
- Poets and Poems: L.L. Barkat and “Beyond the Glass” - May 22, 2025
nAncY says
i am blown away
Lorrie says
Wow – this is terrific! The way you gather all the tweets, like flowers and bundle them for such beautiful display is really a gift!
Maureen Doallas says
What a wonder!
laura says
How do you do it? This may be my favorite yet…
Erin says
Wow. That turned out so cool! 🙂
L.L. Barkat says
I love these. Where poems come from, where they go to.
Heather says
Amazing. How do you do this? We toss out all sorts of junk and you cull beauty from the grain.
Glynn says
After I finish editing and posting this group, I’ll do a post on the process. Part is editorial, part is mechanical. But the mechanical part is critical for the editorial part. It starts during the jam itself.
Kathleen says
It is a bouquet, Lorrie.
nAncY says
words
sent sailing
gathered and shed
for others to take
stir and bake
reheat and eat
a feast
for sore eyes