These eight poems are the last from Tuesday’s poetry jam on Twitter. I’m not sure if the last one, “The Poets Recite, ” is a poem or not; our jamming poets didn’t know that their causal concluding remarks and comments were being recorded for posterity.
This will bring the total number of poems created to 30.
Poems from the Cupboard – 4
By @llbarkat, @doallas, @mxings, @PoemsPrayers, @TchrEric, @togetherforgood, @monicasharman, @mmerubies, @KathleenOverby, @lauraboggess and @gyoung9751; cameo appearance by @Lorrie58; edited by @gyoung9751.
Postmarks on Envelopes
Do I roast the envelope
before I stamp it,
should it smoke
before I send it off to you?
I’ll write your address on
my belly and my own upon
my hands then I’ll stamp my
eager lips and send me home.
If I could find an envelope, or
a stamp, or a pen, and remember
my address; if I cooked your letter in
the oven of my belly and tossed it
up with vomit on the floor, then
your letter would leave left me
sore and all alone.
Stamped maker’s (post) mark
brands me forever.
Stamped maker’s (post) mark
The maker put his (post) mark
on me. Want to see?
It’s tatooed in ink. I flung it down
past my knee. I’ll let you see.
Roasted envelope with a side of
stamps, stuffed with your thoughts,
dreams shared with one so close.
When You Fall
They do not always catch you when
you fall, even if they say they will.
Muse be not amused to be flung so
unless He be near to catch.
He is always near to catch
even when we fling ourselves so
carelessly upon foolish wind.
Poetry isn’t always made of
pretty words; add prayer into
your poetry and you will
Prayer bot? Okely dokely.
Flinging Words from the Pantry
I am eating steak and reading, flinging words
from the pantry. Every dollar I spend on health
is one saved for food of the gods, fruits of the
poets, this and that, no dollar spent more well.
Then I would write you the note that makes you
okay, wondering where you be; steaks grilled;
poets left alone to fend among the fruits, full
shelves in heart pantry.
Poets peel the fruits to let you taste in images.
She makes soup and grows hair long all for her
prince charming. Fling words into the soup,
sprinkle with a little pepper; you’ll feel better.
Fairy Tale Romance
Aye, he’s back with more romance words,
good ones he seeks to share. I prefer my
words in a pie. So raise your skirt, love stomp
a dance. You will be better than okay. You will
be good. 3 and 20 poems baked in a pie.
Rapunzel, do up thy golden hair so long;
soups and savory sauces do best without.
The internet hath eaten my quip about the
one growing hair and making soup for her
prince charming. Internet finds delicious
fruit pies for knight bring to woo his
Such fairy tales become too mixed in
kitchen lore. Let down your blueberries,
strawberries, plums? And then a giant
Poets peel the fruits to let you taste in
images. Poetry is always/edible.
I selected the black peppercorns
because they matched
Do you think they match
I tried to make my heart
I never counted on your hand,
stronger than my heart when
both are beating.
Take the peppercorns; grind and
crush; create flavor.
He handpicked me, crushed already;
made me whole.
Sea salt preserves forever.
This poem book:
eat with word juices
just have seat at
the table; enjoy the
fruits; leftovers here
as good (if not better)
than firsts. Poems should
be eaten cold like plums
from an old-fashion icebox
or hot and sweet
straight from the oven.
My belly is full
of such comestible
Late for the feast?
In time for dessert?
The Test of Time
To stand the test of time, more soup,
he demands, and creamy soups be
brought. More sauces, he bellows, and
savory lass does…
Sweet words and savory
heal and hurt, bring laughter and
tears and make hungry.
Eat my words with or without salt and
pepper. I promise…
Sometimes poetry chokes as it goes
down but I force myself to swallow.
Oh, soul, preserve my name; words have
sharp edges, and burn the roof of
my mouth and sometimes I forget to
remove the cardboard first.
Is poetry always edible, even
if it has floated in on Pacific seaweed?
Sea grasses sway, dancing waves, a game of
roll me like sushi into a California girl.
Let us dance near the ocean,
the Pacific tide.
The Poets Recite
Can there be only 5 minutes left in this night?
The hour is over too fast; our baking
only begun; no time for contests: best of the
best fare set all in window for to cool.
Time of year matter not.
So good to see you arrive in time to
partake of weird things we cooked up tonight.
And no dessert; knight be not known to favor
that. But another hour passes, lick lips, pat
belly full of delicious words.
This night slid too fast; would that the
honey had slowed us, slowed time.
Now missing courses two at a time.
Slow food, slow poet too late again!
Enjoyed watching the last few minutes though;
at least cupboard be not emptied and poets go on.
Is there a regular schedule? I’ll mark it down…
Nope, we are highly irregular.
Regular?? If there is anyone here who is
Regular, he/she needs to be beaten with a
wet noodle. Ommagoodness, you guys were so
funny tonight when you weren’t being so romantic.
This was definitely a varied one!
Part of poetry jam. Blushing cut-and-paster
now has to pick up all the peelings and
make something nice of the fruits we ate.
I just enjoyed my evening with my wife;
fun to scan what you’ve been up to!
Sorry I missed the most.
Good luck, blushing cut-and-paster,
returning for finale. Can’t wait to see the
polish on this one.
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