Poems from the Cupboard – 2

Some strange things can happen when you start reading labels in on packages in the kitchen, which were our prompts for the poetry jam last Tuesday on Twitter. Here are eight poems that resulted, and more are coming.

Poems from the Cupboard  – 2

By @llbarkat, @doallas, @mxings, @PoemsPrayers, @TchrEric, @togetherforgood, @monicasharman,  @mmerubies, @KathleenOverby, @lauraboggess and @gyoung9751; cameo appearance by @Lorrie58; edited by @gyoung9751.

I Will Dance

My mind cannot keep
too much in the dark. You
ask much. I will dance but make
no promise.
We can dance. I know you
don’t believe that we can
dance, but we can. We can
dance on our toes and we
can even fly.
Take care along the stair. Climb
Slowly, turn left then pause at
the window; catch moonlight for
my room.
Enter quietly.

Refrigerated Words

Put my words in the fridge;
trace them along the ridge of
the egg tray, slip away if you
slowly create life.
Refrigerate after opening but
you left me to grow warm,
forgotten on the kitchen counter,
unmade.
The asparagus is now off the
grille, tender juicy green sprouts
draining on a paper towel.
If I refrigerate asparagus, will
the spears do battle with
cabbages, piercing their hearts?
You cannot woo me away with
asparagus or cabbages, even cranky
ones with lots of spunk, cabbage
hearts laid open

Let us leave the cabbages and spears,
the lemons, the cheese,
and make another kind of music
in the kitchen.
Holding each curved cold egg,
I think of wombs and women
whose bodies blush and quiver; and
two weeks be not so long to
test the taste of throat’s refreshment.
Keep it cool as a breeze in night
keeps cool the place…
Honey, if I am in Key West, warm
and dark,
I am not thinking about a refrigerator;
I cannot bear both cold and dark.
If we must have winter snow,
send us also sunshine; if I must sleep in
darkness, give me down and warmth.

You Know He is Gone

You know he is gone when you
find her eating cheese with crackers
and slices of pepperoni pepper
everything. Crackers leave my bed
covered in crumbs or antioxidant
activity, and I am not ready for crackers,
crumbs of memory, crumbs of time,
crumbs of all things present
and few things past.

Your steps resound as crackers
crushed, their sea salt topping scattering
little jewels on floor. He sweeps the
crumbs away with one hand and glares
because he knows I left them there.
Did you leave them there
when you were eating and reading
and not thinking at all about me?
Crumbs, salt, are all I have left of you.

Wine, Cheese, Words

Stubbornly, remaining at the beach with
the honey; here I will stay.
Bring wine, a nice Sancerre;
select the cheese with care
as you might your words
to me.

You have come to me, flavoring and
preserving the food of our souls as
the salt crystal does for the food of
the body. I want you to come to me with
your own flavor but also
willingly awaiting the taste of mine.

At last he enters with
words of romance, for I have the
beach, the wine, the pear laced with
honey.
For now a discrete pair but
soon they will merge.

Tonight I think the height of
romance would be sweeping
in to take the kids and
clean the house and
sending me
away to breathe again.

Feverish

Feverish, reduced to this
waiting. Did you ask the
doctor about seeing me,
is he worried about the
side effects of…
Taking pain to hide from me
the serious side effects of
wanting not a kitchen romance.

Feverish because the anger only
Festers when it is stuck beneath the
Blister of gnawing past experience.
The puss is poison and the
scars will bleed again.
Wine? Well, maybe… perhaps.
Tell me more but not too quickly
I come with my own warning label.
I am wearing my yellow caution sign
like a dress and you are ignoring
all these warnings;
you will not look away.

Beware: I may cause your heart to
skip a beat.
Hey, we’re partying. Didn’t you cry last
time you missed us?
I would rather have the burn of
fever reducing what does not belong.
Ask a doctor, I beg him. Romance is
best of all relievers.

A Kitchen Romance

I may cause breath to catch in
your throat and your fingers to
fidget in your lap while you try to
pretend you’re not wanting me.
I would accept a kitchen romance,
dancing with moonlight through
steamed panes, dinner forgotten on
the stove.

And let us not lose through time
our flavor, our taste; let the light
distill and strengthen it,
for the palate of our love reduces the
pain a kitchen has. open the spices,
shake the dust of cinnamon.
Some say chocolate is the best
reliever of pain from love gone wrong.

All natural, sweet, might 16 oz net weight
do for need so…
Cinnamon, chocolate, let me not forget
some side effects are all natural,
sweet ground like cocoa. Oh, no…
Cocoa in its natural state – have you seen it,
tasted it,
this elixir of the gods?

One cocoa bean.
Two cocoa beans.
Three cocoa beans,
spinning on ceramic tile,
waiting.
Chocolate pain reliever;
that’s medicine I could
take 3 times a day.

Side Effects

I am at high tide with side
effects of you. one is not safe
anywhere in this house or
any other.
My bottle top is popped and
you are prepared to swallow, as
word pills fly out,
scatter on linoleum.
You stare at your toes,
trembling hands, thinking that
you almost/took me and I am
not yours to take.
Put the honey on the shelf and
walk away. You almost did but you
didn’t and now you are saved.

Thoughts Falling

Let me not forget sweet and
spice, warm steam, thick honey,
moonlight elixir in this safe
place dancing.
It’s spreadable, too, when melted.
By the time you hear my thoughts,
they have been alkalized, and I
hardly even know, they are my own.

Thoughts falling to the
ground, like coffee spilling, the
effect of the bitter chocolate.
Antioxidant activity,
alkalization, alliteration and the
estrogen floweth with talk of
chocolate. And yet I better duck and
run. I already blushed, ducked and ran.

Cocoa dice, you needn’t ask
me twice. A-lit-ter-ate tastes like
chocolate on my tongue. What process
must the Dutch do to render such
perfect product , bake it,
drink it, melt it,
let it slide to the
back of the throat…

Dead sister woke her in the night
to tell her a poem
that she cannot even
remember.