Poems from the House of Memory – 8

Finally, at last, we have the remaining poems from our poetry jam on Twitter. There are five, and you’ll see that the jam was winding down. Thanks again to all who participated.

Poems from the House of Memory – 8

By @KathleenOverby, @doallas, @llbarkat, @mmerubies, @mdgoodyear, @TchrEric, @PoemsPrayers, @monicasharman, @mxings, and @togetherforgood; edited by @gyoung9751.

Knitting

Again, knit back into one;
knit one, purl two,
my grandmother knew
what to do
with yarn scarlet, purple, blue,
blood of scarlet, purple royal hue
and true as blue.
So well she knew
to make the thing most needed.

Tell me, what can be knit of tears?
There is a place in my heart, knit of tears,
scarred and strong from the weeping.
The color in the tears,
will it blend, will it knit?
Sing the longer songs, sing of tears and
yarn and butter, of your house and
colors and skies spun of beauty.
Sing and do not stop.

When I Cry

I am ugly when I cry, streaky face and
puffy eyes. My head blows up when
the sobs come on and I spend the
day in pain. Tears stain a feeling heart,
a life, a love, or maybe two; a time,
young, lies not too close to heart .
How can I ever know if I can?
I get lost too easily, forget my compass,
wander off alone, forget that someone
might care where I go.

And yet the sweet melody of
the drawn out song of love, of
pain of joy pulls me closer to
who you are(even when I’m hard to please).
Will it stain my past, our now, the time we seek?
But I love the colours, and the view. Feeling like
butter in the churn. I feel churned. But I do not feel
like butter. Like the churn somehow soured the milk.
Winding back to you, without your compass.
Be it yours? Perhaps we can strike a deal.

Find your breath moist upon the
windows of my heart. Feel your heart
lose its patterned tic. Catch the light in eyes deep.
Have you seen beauty before a breath of spring?
I have been breathless
before beauty of skin brand new or
old and papery, of eyes fresh and
sparkling or dulled with age. I cried
at the sight of what you hold too dear.

Breathless

I have been breathless before beauty
of lips and cheeks, beauty to lose as
morning its light, as night its moon’s shadow.
I have been breathless, too, because
I forgot my inhaler.
I saw the skin-ridges of age and could not breathe.
I already ache. There is nothing left to do.
I ache for the violin, breathlessly thin upon air,
in sweetness. I have memories of you
with the sure hand of touch,
the single sigh of beauty before it faded.
Without the ache I know I have no more to do.
I ache for the promise of advil and bed, my joints
despising life – the weather—themselves.
Make the jest you do and fools be glad.
It would feel like that.

Knickers

Goodnight; put your knickers on
the side table. I will hold them to
my face, fold them near my heart,
inhaler of her scent, of knickers in a knot.
The days are getting longer as
my life grows short with
a goodnight jest, no promise of song.
My grandmother wore knickers; her soul
flew some time ago.
And her courting was all chaperones and
lanterns.

Goodnight Poems

Enough said; song done.
Pull up the covers, turn off the light.
Goodnight poems in a box,
goodnight poems with a fox,
goodnight poems here and there,
goodnight poems everywhere!
A shorter blanket this night?
Can you gather it into one chair?
How much nonsense can one get with
one gold coin?
How much nonsense can one get with
one gold poem?