This section of contributions from last Tuesday’s poetry jam on Twitter has been, by far, the most difficult to edit. It appears that there were three or four poems going on simultaneously, and some of the participants were using Twub, which had an unanticipated delay in the posts, so that contributions and response contributions were happening at different points. That problem (our first ever with the technology) really hit hard, beginning in this section. The next section to come looks like it has a similar problem.
This is why they pay the editor the big bucks.
Tin Cans We Took
Grandma saved the cans for us.
We carried them in bags to be remade,
bought candy with their nickels.
Tin cans we took, full
to the river, where nothing spilled, for
I protected every word.
Tin cans we tipped,
to let run our lives.
Now the tin cans
hold only memories
Your car became a tin can, that
somehow still protected you; as
you were pulled from it, you
were still alive.
I Like My Pie, With Cream Whipped
The farmer’s wife made pie,
sticks of saltless butter
folded in and baked.
I like my pie, with cream whipped,
whipped full of tender memories.
Real cream whipped,
a lovely thing unless you’re under
the whisk instead of holding it,
trembling, as fingers hesitant
to dip in cream.
I remember cream, real, whipped
for a restless heart.
I would be content with
coffee and pie, you and me and
a fluttering breeze.
Among Stones, Rebuilding
Among stones, we rebuild each time.
It is time to rebuild. You will rebuild
new, and you will rebuild better, than
you ever could before.
There will be dialogue in your room, where
before it was absent. You will speak again.
I know the words are coming from deep,
carried on a song, not stagnant but in
the disturbance made into another that is richer.
Measure its worth by your work.
Shop for meaning; sing words of disturbance.
Do my poems make you work? Fine, I like the
sweat beading on your upper lip.
Andi and Sherry: Family Relations
I could, perhaps, fall into this. It is the
letting go that doesn’t quite let go.
Did Grandma fight with Grandpa? Did
she cry on the times she let him
down? Did he even tell her why?
Oh, Andi-Girl, you are so beautiful
Already, and your wings are not
even strong enough to fly.
There you are, Andi, there you are,
right where you’ve always been, inside
your body, waiting for us, to catch up.
What a treat to sit back and watch the
show that God has sketched for us, the
blossoming of rose and thorns
in Sherry’s soul.
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