As Easy as Pie 2

Below are seven more poems from our recent poetry jam (or was it poetry pie?) on Twitter.

All prompts were taken from the book Pie: 300 Tried and True Recipes for Delicious Homemade Pie.

As Easy as Pie

By @memoriaarts, @llbarkat, @mattpriour, @SandraHeskaKing, @TchrEric, @mdgoodyear, @JoulesE, @KathleenOverby, @Jezamama, @gyoung9751, @arestlessheart, @moondustwriter, @MAXIDUS, @monicasharman and @portabellaprinc; edited by @gyoung9751.

With occasional retweets or comments by @Corbie77, @PoeticHeart34, @DarkHaikuMoon, @PurplePenning, @mxings, @omewan and @LawyerMommy

Heirloom Pie

She washed the pie pans, the ones
from her grandmother, darkened
metal, long smudged, stained
with juice, wiped with butter,
floured lightly, loved dearly.

She stood in the kitchen,
her longish dress shielded
by a white apron bought
years before at Lookout
Mountain.

She made pies of legend.
The best pies in memory
were the fried pies, with
recipes lost because none
existed.

Her daughter stood on a chair,
hands covered in flour, as I did
next to my grandmother and
mother. Aprons were for daughters
learning the craft of flour crust bliss.

Out from the oven, fried pies
fragranced of apple and peach
remind me of freezer fruit.
Winter needs pies to comfort,
children to sprinkle crusts with spice.

Crimp the crust and glaze with milk
bake with love until golden brown.
Pies are sliced to be shared,
to enjoy, given in love
to the ones around.

Following tradition dusted with
memories, I have upended pies
and brothers of pies and sisters
of pies in search of my
grandmother’s last touch.

The Purposes of Pie

It has been said cinnamon
pumpkin pie holds a man
prisoner.
Hold me prisoner in your
pumpkin arms, smother me
with whipped cream dreams
with apple, cinnamon warm,
swimming in vanilla cream
puddles.
A red night needs a red light
with heavy cream whipped,
blinking lights, low music soft,
red lights, warm pie.

Dancing in Pie Dust

Dust my lips with flour; it will
be a film between me and you
and our last kiss.
I bite my thumb for the pain,
flour flying, mixed red with remorse.
We can dance in the kitchen while
the children sleep, eating pie from
one fork. Or the children dusted the
kitchen with flour and sugar and I
could bite my lip and kiss instead.
With the rug beneath our feet and
the bad lighting overhead, we shift
our weight and hold hands.
Sweetie, there is no way to prepare
for this kind of romp, so
forget the fork. Use your fingers.
Eating pie is sexy. Dessert lingers.

I’ll take two bites for your one.
Eating pie from one fork, I steal
the last cherry before you nip it,
but the last cherry was not stolen;
it was joyful, loving, sweetness given.
We’ll laugh and whisper sweet
nothings across coconut cream swirl,
juice spilling over the rim of the pan
and raising a bubble on my thumb.
Too sad to think it will all come to
an end, savoring the taste.
He shared the fork, the pie, the kiss.
Upended the world spun.
He knew its trouble and dug
fork into crust, ignoring the steam.
All good pies come to an end, but
we all crave a piece of the pie.
Sweetness overdone leads only to
pains.

Misplaced Pie Minstrel

I thought you said pi, dangit,
and I came all prepared with
brilliant mathmatical equations
and rhymes and other heady stuff.
I could top each pie with a weather
balloon tie, let it rise twenty five
feet per second.
If you wear a weather balloon
to eat your pie it will raise you
before the last bite like a bird in
negligee flight.
Is wearing a negligee to eat pie
wrong? Maybe a flannel nightgown?

Nursery Rhyme Pie

My father used to tell me a rhyme,
something about birds and pie?
Or was that thumb and plum?
what is a pie bird? I haven’t a clue.
I just eat the pie and pray there’s no
bird inside, or four and twenty
blackbirds baked in a pie.
The birds fly high over field while
low pans are lined on windowsill,
heart and dreams baked true. Or
was it five and twenty blackbirds
flour dusted and sugar crusted?
And the birds, do they understand
what it is to empty a crust down to
its crumbs to die?

A Fly on My Pie

There’s a fly on my pie.
Shoo, fly, shoo.
etter a fly on your pie
than baked in your pie.
Flies on cow pies or
was that patty?
an a pie fly?
And a sorrowful pie,
what is that?
Can a pie laugh?
Or cry?
Guys, flies in pies
is not too wise.

Sexy and Sorrowful Pies

The failure of a crust means
more berries, red bursting from
seams unstuck. You may cheat
the crust but you cannot cheat
the cherries and the berries
sweet. Berries make juice from
sugar and heat, nip the drip from
tasting kisses.

What is a sexy pie? Lemon in
white dress, cherry bleeding,
blueberry bursting.
A sexy pie dances the taste buds.
A sexy pie doesn’t care what you
Wear.
A sorrow pie meets you in your
grief as the tears spill and drip,
mixing sweet with salt.
A sorrow pie sits in the pain.

I dig deep into your chocolaty
goodness, looking for crust.
A sorrow pie has overworked
crust, fruit unripe dry without
sweet juice.
Sexy pie is peanut butter kissing
chocolate. And the two becomes
one.

• Author
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Glynn Young

Editor and Twitter-Party-Cool-Poem-Weaver at Tweetspeak Poetry

Glynn Young lives in St. Louis where he retired as the team leader for Online Strategy & Communications for a Fortune 500 company. Glynn writes poetry, short stories and fiction, and he loves to bike. He is the author of the Civil War romance Brookhaven, as well as Poetry at Work and the Dancing Priest Series. Find Glynn at Faith, Fiction, Friends.

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