The final eight poems from last week’s poetry jam on Twitter are below.
Poems of Complication 4
By @mdgoodyear, @llbarkat, @PoemsPrayers, @mxings, @togetherforgood, @cascheller, @mmerubies, @MonicaSharman, @DancinButterfly, @thegypsymama, @TchrEric and @KathleenOverby. Not to mention @shrinkingcamel. Edited by @glynn_poet.
My tears are tattooed to me; I wear
them well, flex for all to see my
mother’s passing. I am sitting by
the shut gate, and you are in there
somewhere. Come out and play with me.
Cushion your grief with lavender; the
scent of it weighs purple in the garden,
drifts your loss over the stones.
This is play, the sound of you breathing
beyond the wall.
Or tucked, yes, in one’s garden beneath
earth, bricks and stone. stones don’t leave;
they filter tears running a river.
I hear you breathing beyond the wall.
(I hear you breathing beyond the wall.)
I am a glutton for good words. I gobble
them and would hoard for later but there
are rarely leftovers .
What I love about eating words is there is
always more to eat, and I cannot become
fat with poetry.
Good words smell of lavender. Good truths
taste of bitter ale and make a hectic path for
a runaway heart, fat with love.
Poetry is good for the heart, much like
South African wine. I treat my homesickness
I didn’t know you were from South Africa.
It is my home, my compass, my true South.
I am gypsy.
Not poet but form, the gypsy’s life is in the street.
Gypsies sell poetry to the highest bidder, shill tales
of foreign lands for food.
He cannot hear, seeking food from gypsies
who’ve taken his senses, in return for honey
mead or ale to sip in secret.
Call me troubadour and I will happily sing for you
the love song of my motherland, homesick for
the street of dreams.
Which Poet Was It?
Shoot. Who said that? Keats. No. Someone else.
The lavender has stolen my mind.
No, Keats! It was Keats.
Who eulogized him? Shelly. Shelley?
Percy, tells us the secrets of this night,
secrets stuffed in pockets and bags,
between my toes and my teeth.
I will taste the truths between your teeth,
but the ones in your toes are all yours.
You may be poor; I am poorer, never having
guessed the poet.
It was Keats.
No, Lowell. But I know not the form.
What is an Ode?
Odes. Odes? What is an ode?
I once wrote a poem about an urn,
non-Grecian, but was it an ode?
I do not know.
I know this non-Grecian urn of
which you speak. They said it was
gold, but the gold is a myth.
Leaden lies need space.
Space, punctuate me with your
Breath that would be enough
One That Almost Rhymes
Will you write a pretty ode for me,
take it and give it by the sea?
Do we write for those we cannot see?
In a swell of words, we’re lost at sea.
Is it not Ode? Why do you tease me?
If you please sir, write an ode to me.
Speak your thoughts; write them all over me.
It’s Ode, it’s Ode. I wait the finis.
For truth, my prompt is stuck in the sea, .
beautiful life boat stuck in the sea.
Your cushion will float an awkward boat
In the event of catastrophe.
Walking in Beauty
I have always wanted to walk in beauty,
like the night. I walk in the night, but what
beauty there might be cannot be seen.
is it so for thee?
And I went, seeking food, seeking sight,
seeking youth, seeking night,
completely turned around, surrounded
by trees and the dark,
finding only colors of cloud blue and black,
bruised with blood red.
We are but poor players, strutting our
colors for the egos of others.
Lost Rosary Beads
With this surge of words, these traveling words
to make music and lyrics, I mourn the three beads
of the rosary poem lost. Yet romantics show up in
the most common places, or the strangest;
you never can tell.
Others can reach, they can and do, the political and
societal implications of capitalism and landfills and
bulk shopping. Not one blotch is ever overlooked.
It is easier to be poor than it is to be middle class,
some days. Poor is a state of mind; just look at the rich.
My friend said, today, that money doesn’t matter.
What matters is strength. Am I strong enough to let
this wash over me?
Here are my shoes. Walk a mile in the ones that gave
me blisters .
A friend gave me mint lotion to rub behind my ears
today, like God had kissed me there. It might work
for blisters, too. If it does, then gobbets of penitents
will find their way.
What did I say? Which untruth do you speak of?
- Taking a Scottish Road Trip with Jorge Luis Borges - September 22, 2020
- “30 Poems to Memorize (Before It’s Too Late)” by David Kern - September 15, 2020
- Poets and Poems: John Balaban and “Empires” - September 8, 2020