Poems from a Twitter Poetry Party

Tuesday, January 15, was cause for a reunion of sorts when Tweetspeak Poetry, part of T.S. Poetry Press, sponsored one of its famed, fast-paced Twitter poetry parties. Following are a few of the small tiny poems and remixes I created from words found among the hour's tweets, including my own. (And yes, I took a wee bit of liberty for reasons of grammar and meaning.) My thanks to Prasanta Verma for all her retweets throughout the evening and to player-contributors L.L. Barkat, Laura Lynn Brown, Sonia Joie, Sandra Heska King, L.W. Willingham, and Glynn Young. Go to Tweetspeak Poetry on January 29 and February 5 to read what Glynn has done with the tweets.

I hear the silvery trill

north of cold,

feel the chill of moon,

the frost of maple.

Elms whisper,

and all the woods

shiver.

~ 

When a willow turns

red, it is time

to shed

what autumn foretells.

~ 

The fall of rain on moss 

is nearly silent. 

Not the voice of a mother,

keeper of small poems.

Her weeping — no song

that lights upon the lips

like a gift of strawberries —

tastes like the ash

of fires long gone cold.

~

The gift of returning

makes fair each day

of a husband's absence.

~

The gift of weeping 

clears to understanding.

~

Beyond some invisible boundary,

where still-bare branches

trace the grammar

of animacy, the mother

weaves her stories —

grown long

but well-balanced and -constructed —

while braiding sweetgrass

at the hems of twined moons.

Hand-over-hand,

like circles and circles and circles,

she braids, humming

her gratitude, her allegiance

strong as a pecan shell.

~

The mother sighs,

losing her way

through the stories,

asks:

Do you hear the willows,

how their sounds of being

whisper the consolation

of water lilies?

Let me settle you. 

Let me settle you.

~

When is it easy,

this searching of earth?

More north,

the pines yield no secrets —

not of the keepers of fires,

nor of time

that draws to night.

The answer lies

in the space between

whispers,

where light that shines

upon the asters and goldenrod

offers the secret

of happiness:

a way back home.