The Cinnamon Beetle 2

Below are an additional five poems from our recent Twitter poetry party. All of the prompts came from Harvesting Fog: Poems by Luci Shaw. And there are more to come.

The Cinnamon Beetle 2

By @memoriaarts, @mdgoodyear, @llbarkat, @EricSwalberg, @luci_shaw, @gyoung9751, @RuminateMag, @mrsmetaphor, @doallas, @LoveLifeLitGod, @nmdr_, @KathleenOverby, @Sand_RAD, @mxings, @mmerubies, @charsingleton, @CherylSmith999, @lauraboggess, and @VinaMist. Cameo appearances by @LuvStomp, @poemblaze and @annkroeker. Edited by @gyoung9751. 

I open every window

I open every window to entice air,
draw in the scent of orange and lemon;
air flows in, wafted on beetle wings.
I open windows, cracked and splintered
like paltry words that can’t remember.
Air flows, a summertime breeze
cleansing a past of pain, the air hot
on skin, the spice of clove and cinnamon
pregnant with wishing, a fragrant peel,
bitter pith, promised sweetness
midst green leaves.
And when the window opened,
the winged bug flew out and up
through the scented air, pulling
the scented air after him,
through the window
into night.

Tattoo my soul

Tattoo my soul
with a love that never fades,
with a mark that never grays,
with an ink that forever prays.
The tattoo burns for but a moment,
while the artist speaks of Christ’s blood.
Tissue paper skin the tattoo won’t tolerate
no matter how thick the resolve.

I desire a coaster
to hold the glass
to hold the blue tattoo;
the blue tattoo
I had of you
has turned an angry red.
No tattoo can hide
the hand print bruise,
the cinnamon stroke,
the bloodstream broke.
I desire beetles tatooed
emerald against the glass.

My lover’s name

Lemon, orange, paprika,
my lover’s name is every spice.
They say cats hate the smell
of oranges so I line my garden
with them, damn cats. they circle
my porch, shifty eyes, soft paws,
strays as if I am the interloper;
perhaps I am.

We sit by the open window
and speak of oranges and
the scent of black tea,
of jasmine rice and the exhaust
of tired cars. Carve me angels
and bull dogs and my lover’s name.
The talk turns to food because
it always does.

Christmas in July heat

Christmas in July heat,
Santas stuffed in plastic,
attics full of tissue and
tolerance and mangers
without stars. Who can
remember stars when
cinnamon distracts
at every open window?
In time, in time, when
the children arrive
coming on a Christmas morn
hungry, hungry
for cinnamon buns,
cinnamon buns
cinnamon buns
when will I bake my
cinnamon buns?
Cloves and cinnamon
cinnamon and cloves
Christmas in warm fragrance.

The Word in the stars

The Word was the stars
the stars our desire
constellation of life lived.
Desire itself is a constellation,
low in the sky on winter mornings.
Stars entice, invite my soul
to wonder, and speaking of stars,
what fortune do they hold
this morning, rent as I
from long sleep rise.
I heard the stars tasted
of raspberry sweet, lips
enfolding Word made universe.
The word desire itself is written
on a beetle’s back, so small.