Governments of Tea 5

Here are five more poems from our recent Twitter poetry party, with the prompts taken from The Republic of Tea.

Governments of Tea 5

By @mdgoodyear, @llbarkat, @SandraHeskaKing, @arestlessheart, @doallas, @cfraser83, @jezamama, @mattpriour, @togetherforgood, @MeganWillcome, @charsingleton, @TchrEric, @JennyTiner, @gyoung9751, @ThinkArtWorks, @thegypsymama, @PensieveRobin, @ElizabethEsther, @mxings, and @moondustwriter. Edited by @gyoung9751.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Photograph by L.L. Barkat)

The Music of Tea

Found three sips of
morning’s tea.
So cold,
like last night’s jazz.
Kettle starts whistling
to the beat; slow sax
background
while tea slowly steeps.
Jazz goes down
like so much sweet tea
brewed at boiling point ,
sipped slowly,
double dark, oversteeped
like a
beat not in sync.
try another tune, peppermint,
perhaps, or chamomile.
Gulp it down. Go to bed.

Drunk on Tea, Drunk on You

I got drunk on you,
drunk on you,
I did, yes I did.
I turned to tea, got
drunk on your tea
or the memory of our
making tea together
and all that we brewed
and steeped and
sipped and
swallowed;
you and me,
whispered secrets
between sips

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Photograph by Sandra Heska King)

The Flavors of Tea and Love

Lemon swirl with chocolate,
dreams of past love,
in a cup, the mixing of teas,
of me with a mint
of you with an orange blossom
of me.
Last night was a decanter
removed too soon, like
you from me.
Last night was restless,
real life invading dreams.
Sip the tea down,
soothing away the day,
green on green and
white on white, lemon rest,
less bite.
She sipped her tea, softly;
she tasted her tea, gently.

Tea and Africa

Rooibos brews love and Africa
and goes down warm, tastes
like home; add honey for comfort.
Rooibos, it’s called, skin, teeth,
bone enriched with every sip.
Rooibos, red bush, your leaves
bring a blush to my homesick
cheeks;
astringent leaf for sale on
bleached market shelves.

The Naughtiness of Tea

The naughtiness of tea:
now there’s something I
never thought about
before, I must confess.
I dream of a peaceful
peninsula, steeped in
true confession.
I secretly love the fear of
a screaming pot calling
me home to this,
to our rendezvous of
heat and water.

Restless, too, yes, I know
Restless, the naughtiness
in me graying the edges
around the day.
Restless was the night;
tea spiked, drinkers too
steeped.
Does naughty tea
stay out too late at night?
Does it dream of you
dancing near rivers,
under stars?

Naughty tea grows into trees,
never subdued or pruned at
the waist. Naughty tea streaked
through the trees; it needs
wringing, a confession like water
out of a tea bag.
Who put the spike in my cup?
Why am I drunk on tea?
This business, its naughtiness,
is what keeps it in business.
I reach for the cup,
I reach for the calm I need.

Chant to me in words
of apricot, peach, cranberry.
Chant to me like the
slow unwinding of Orion’s belt.