hungry for poetry

Fresh Meat: Dueling Ovens

In Fresh Meat, Original Poetry, Poetry, Writing on April 15, 2013 at 5:28 AM

“Dueling Ovens”

I

Every sunrise,

she gets out of bed

to bake bread.

Studies and stirs

an oven that isn’t hers.

Sure to bubble and hum

along with a song that

sounds happy.

 

Walnut, banana, cinnamon-encrusted,

Served with a needy smile

In a house of strangers,

to the mouths of students

countries away from their mothers.

Suppressing their jovial judgment

just long enough for poppyseed,

warm with honey-ed hypocrisy.

 

II

On occasion,

he is awakened

by the bustle of bread-making.

Startles and sprays

a garage that isn’t his.

Sure to brace and hiss

out a shout that

sounds harmful.

 

Cherry nut, zucchini, pumpkin, and skunk.

Scent with a jealous force.

To those eyed-loaves

to those idle-lobes,

Going along with everything they read.

It’s context and doctrine!

Had they played together as babies,

Impressions could have been sweeter.

 

III

Most days, mornings in the kitchen

smell of sweet science.

Housemates wait for warm slices,

Slide butter and inhale

the reality of unpleasantries

living just under their noses.

 

 

Ms. Pokenword’s Poetry Plate: Sinner Poet

In Ms. Pokenword's Poetry Plate, Original Poetry, Poetry, Writing on April 9, 2013 at 5:38 PM

You give it away, Sinner Poet.

Claiming mutual meditation;

symbiotic relation – a perked

ear for a verse falling in the forest.

Arriving when she glances,

her half-animal spirit open

to a moment of your meter.

breath, breath, breeaath

Touching the fur of her ear

for a minute or two or ten.

these moments I feel like a woman

Leaving the restful breathing

with maybe a penny or two or ten.

these moments I feel like a poet

 

Messaging misfire that inspired this poem: “sinner poet” –  a spacing accident in the phrase “person’s inner poet.”  Additional inspiration came from a surprising “volunteer” opportunity a friend told me about.

Fresh Meat: A Confusing Season

In Fresh Meat, Original Poetry, Poetry, Writing on April 8, 2013 at 10:12 PM

“A Confusing Season”

Laughing weatherman reports

a nip in the Valley air. But I swear

the house dropped to a Canadian chill

when we realized her legs

will no longer work.

Blowing breeze registers warm

on the bedside flesh, trying to rest

her blood frozen with tumors glowing

under the failed heavens of her

knowing icicle skin.

Bumbling bee transports song

to the Catholic church and we daughters perch

in skirts from last May’s

navy blue wedding craze –

all say Silent Night.

Mother dies even in warm December

with the prize-winning hands of desert housewives

clipping winter lawns and honeysuckle

blooms her final word.

The title of this poem is also the working title of my WIP collection of winter-themed desert poetry. However, I think the pressure of being the title poem has given this piece some stage fright or something. A lot of it was working for me, but now it seems overworked and stuck in a rut. I’m setting it free to the wild of the Internet, hoping it comes back to me some day.

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