patron saint of cooking

the patron saint of cooking

stands in my kitchen now

with the pantry doors wide open

sweat upon her brow

 

stands in my kitchen now

the counter filled with harvest

sweat upon her brow

a fresh loaf of bread also now rests

 

the counter filled with harvest

the tomatoes this year abundant

a fresh loaf of bread also now rests

basil is the ultimate accompaniment

 

the tomatoes this year abundant

the patron cooks her food poems

basil is the ultimate accompaniment

there’s drooling from the garden gnomes

 

the patron cooks her food poems

every stanza is now complete

there’s drooling from the garden gnomes

and everyone else on Maggie Street

 

(Prompt for Hour Eight!!!!

The dreaded form prompt! This year I scheduled it a lot earlier in the marathon. This year the prompt has to do with my favorite form, the pantoum.

The pantoum is a form of poetry similar to a villanelle in that there are repeating lines throughout the poem. It is composed of a series of quatrains; the second and fourth lines of each stanza are repeated as the first and third lines of the next.

Now in case that all was a little much for you, here is a link to a pantoum generator Jacob made: http://jacobjans.com/pantoum.html

The key to writing a pantoum is to write about something that either obsesses you, or something that automatically requires some sort of repetition (ie cooking).

If you want to the repeated lines can include some new words, but they should still be recognizable.

Here are two good example pantoums:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/56284

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/parents-pantoum  )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

what rhymes with angst?

I keep my angst in my pants

not in the pockets

but sewn into the lining

 

oh, I have it with me

I can get it out if I need it

clip some of the stitches

and pull it out so I can hold it

let it do its angsty thing

but it cannot get out on its own

 

mostly, it is enough to know that it is near

resting on my right hip

the emphasis here on resting

it will be rested up if I need it

 

I don’t remember ever needing it

but I need my pants

and my right hip comes with me where-ever I go

so, my angst is nearby

waiting

waiting

waiting

resting and angsty

 

 

 

 



 

the death tender

her home was outside the village

near the stables

quiet, restful, separate

she spent her time reading, or writing, or tending to her flowers

she had a cat that liked to nap

 

she was the death tender

summoned when necessary

needed

tucked away otherwise

 

she arrived smelling of star anise

that left a taste on your tongue even after she left

from breathing in, and breathing out

the anointed scent of journey

beyond

 

her breathing whispered Pachelbel’s canon

the one in D

the parade dirge

keeping everything moving along as it should, as it would

 

the death tender shook out the thin veil

that wrapped itself around the room

so instead of haunting it was inviting

silvery wisps of blessed light peaking through

 

she prayed in ancient prose to ancient ones who had long ago

slipped into the light

an ancient light growing brighter

never extinguishing

bringing ancient and present together in one star,

the return home

 

after death

the death tender returned

to her own home

outside the village

near the stables

for now

knowing one day the ancient would pull her through

to return to being

stardust scented anise

 

 

 

 

#twitterpated

twitter me a story,

yours,

I want to twitter you mine

140 characters, it’s complicated

 

girl, born poet, first memory is scent of donut; craved motherhood, made choices accordingly, now loves these three, a girl, God – all poets

 

 

(prompt was write a poem about technology)

 

 

 

 

 

49 and 11/12ths

I was born with a full head of hair

and I have worn it long

always

at 49 and 11/12ths years old

my hair is exactly the same

as when I was 4 and 11/12ths years old

long

straggly

splittish ends

brushed only in the morning

a day’s worth of adventures captured in my hair

at 4 or 49 my hair looks best braided

two braids

nothing fancy, no French braids or fishtail braids

two braids, one on the left and one on the right, three strands each

you can sleep in them and wake up the next day

and do nothing to your hair

but go out for new adventures

at 4 I added ribbons of all the colors

at 49 I add a bandanna of all the colors

but since the day I was born

I have waited

and wanted

and wished

for my hair to turn gray

not above my ears like it is now

but the full full head of gray hair that others want to wash out

I’m ready to wash in

was born ready

to begin

my moonlight soliloquy

before darkness

he put on the beekeeper’s suit

pulled the netting over his face

and headed out to the back of the garden

gathering caps in his non-descript pail

and bringing them inside

 

in the kitchen he setup the caps

to drain of their sweet nectar on the counter

capturing the golden flow

emptying what he wanted most

 

eventually, the caps emptied

he washed them

and washed them again

then placed them on the stove in a pot and melted them

straining the melted wax through the cheesecloth he kept in the pantry

being careful not to burn himself

 

wax, pliable imagination

wet and wondering

he poured into the old canning jars

after tacking a wick inside on the bottom

and stretching the wick over a pencil laying across the open top

like a serpent jumping out of the warm wax bath he had made

 

after the wax dried

he removed the pencil

and lit wick

you think he has created a candle

or light

but not exactly

 

the light brushes up against the darkness

making the darkness visible

finally

giving the darkness meaning

darkness, a womb for light

darkness, waiting for light

 

before darkness there was darkness

waiting for its name

 

 

blue

she couldn’t remember not being the midwife

for the goats, sheep, llamas

cows seemed to go off too far on their own for the birthings

she, totem to the totems

wore a green apron at the birthing

with a pocket for all her colors

and another pocket for the jar of molasses she gave the mommas as a final reward

sometimes a final sendoff

leaving a licorice scent on momma’s final breath

then, she would take the momma’s babies

clean them herself with the green apron

then find another momma

squeeze some of that momma’s milk into what was left in the molasses jar

and put that mixture on the new babies’ heads

the lure of molasses and familiar scent of self securing the adoption

only then could she bury the breathless momma

deep into the Momma’s dirt, earth

she’d sprinkle lilacs on top

because lilacs and babies come together

and lilacs and breathless momma’s float off into the wind together

then she’d sit on the hill over the lake

watching the sky

and realize

that she had just midwifed blue into the world,

the world needed blue

for the deepest parts

and the highest parts

and the lonely parts

and the birthday parts

so she put blue in the pocket of her apron with the other colors

and cried

 

 

the first hour, a marathon

tell me a story,

yours

I want to tell you mine

 

let’s start at the beginnings

that point where we are indistinguishable from each other

that point, one

where we begin to untangle

unravel

like a braid

someone’s laundry clothesline

someone’s fishing line

a long telephone wire stretching from the past

a vessel’s standard rigging

a kite string

a guitar string

the ribbon in her hair

a shoelace that no one has learned to tie yet

the thread in a quilt

the stitches in a soccer ball

a yo-yo, down and up again

down

and up again

 

tell me a story,

yours

I want to tell you mine

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