Today’s Blue Plate Poetry Special

Today’s Blue Plate Poetry Special!

Ingredients: Comment under this post with a phrase you want in a poem, and I will write the poem for you and post it in your comment.

Price: Absolutely free of charge

Nutritional Value: Nil

Emotional/Intellectual Value: Priceless

Get your order in before we run out!

24 thoughts on “Today’s Blue Plate Poetry Special”

  1. I thought I left a phrase for you, but something must have intervened! How about I try again with: “something must have intervened.”

    1. Patchwork quilt on the clothesline, fading sun like denim
      hung time and time: She reaches for the material without
      knowing why, without need of the touch, the pattern
      of her days sifting moonlight into juniper berries into dust
      into the warmth of the lower left hand page of the margin
      in the book unclosed. Something must have intervened.

  2. I can only say… I am sorry to have missed out on this one. What a great thing to do Shaun and you are so very clever. were you to be so inspired. My phrase: Very Light her fingertips..

    1. The envelope of the afternoon lay there
      in the room, a question to the light on the carpet,
      the curve of her shoulder the only shape
      that made sense. What is the correspondence
      between how very light her fingertips tapped
      the minutes into a melody and how very sure
      I was that we would forever be delivered?

  3. no longer a participant in your worm exchange
    artificial love is a sad lifeless bait

    You left the fishing pole on the bank,
    felt the mud swallow it, felt the lake before you
    shrug, its waters a sure sign that it was
    no longer a participant in your worm exchange,
    spleen, blood, bile, and rectification of water
    moccasin shooting beneath the willows,
    into snake lines of loss and memory.
    Artificial love is a sad lifeless bait.

  4. He set the espresso before her on the kitchen table (for Jen)

    Each room of the house was a pattern in the lace
    of the morning. The bedroom was almost a rose,
    and the bathroom could be a leaf, the living room
    a thorn, the dining room the stem that disappears
    into itself and into the rose, the leaf, the thorn.
    The kitchen felt faded like the handiwork
    in her grandmother’s shawl, yet his hands
    were a warm reality of their art. When
    he set the espresso before her on the kitchen table,
    she wondered at the strength of its delicacy.

  5. alizarian crimson and French ultramarine (for Arden)

    We follow the trail that is not a trail to the edge
    of the pasture and then climb a tree that is not a tree
    to the tip of the sky. We swing over to a cloud that is not
    a cloud and catch the tip of a red-tailed hawk song,
    a mixture of alizarian crimson and French ultramarine,
    the chorus a rainbow of lugnuts and bronze hands,
    the feathers of the day like the time I made lentil soup
    and you found your way back to me by its taste.

  6. the smell of browned butter

    In the side street, he parked next to
    a shuttered shop, the sign faded into
    some robot language of IG AC EGA, origins
    becoming unknown with time, like a memory
    he treasures until he’s unsure it really
    happened. In the alley, a paraulata ojo de candil
    showers like a homeless man in the running faucet.
    Overhead the plane he missed mocks him.
    He walks up two flights of stairs
    to a place still alive in the neighborhood,
    the smell of browned butter the only clue
    that he actually knows where he is going.

  7. I twitched twice and then was still.

    I twitched twice and then was still.
    Around me, the smell of burnt rye grass
    wrote a letter to the day that would never
    be answered. I noticed a fallen branch
    of the wild dogwood, white berries crushed
    beneath my knees, white light of this time
    like no other, when I am going to create
    a story with no words and write it with no
    alphabet and send it without moving at all.

  8. Because there are times in everyone’s life that are sad and just a little bit lonely.

    The heron will warn you that it is flying overhead,
    or is it a warning? Maybe it is a recognition
    that you are on similar paths and all you need
    to do is look up because maybe you don’t very much,
    because there are times in everyone’s life
    that are sad and just a little bit lonely,
    and no path through welcoming meadow and lush wood
    will mean anything if that were not true.

  9. “We planted most of them right-side up.” (for Tony)

    The lightning claimed the darkness
    so that it was no longer ours. We wondered
    about the end of spring and the length
    of days. We ate grilled cheese sandwiches
    on Sunday afternoon, when it stopped raining.
    I have found you one more time We will
    straighten the clouds together. We planted
    most of them right-side up, because in this way
    we can find them in the blackest of days.

  10. the ole Angus barn harboring dust covered relics

    Leaves curl up like the tips of your fingers
    toward morning, still lost in sleep, the dream
    of the past becoming the daybreak, smelling
    of dust wanting to be less contained, like people
    want to be, like the horses have learned to be,
    like love at the end of our days shimmering
    through our children gone into the world,
    beyond our house where they are never beyond,
    the old Angus barn harboring dust covered relics
    contains us all and even more . . . to come.

    1. Shaun, as we remove layer after layer of dust, cobwebs, and rusted nails we are aware of the strength and importance of this old barn. I love this poem. When restoration is finished it will hang there until another generation or owner decides to remove it.
      As a girl the Angus barn was my most favorite place in the entire world for within I could close my eyes and see Daddy smoking a cigar as the cow kicked the milk bucket, smell the freshly baled alfalfa in the loft, and hear the deep sigh of my horse as he relaxed beneath my soft bristle brush. As a woman its still a mystical place feeding my soul.

  11. “a work in progress” (for Deb)

    In the camera’s eye, in the eye
    of the storm, she views the place
    of secrets with a subtle knowing,
    like the wren sensing catspeed,
    the flood retreating at no human
    wish, a work in progress, going
    at the pace only she can know.

    1. I just love it! Shawn, you poet you, are a wonderful wordsmith. Let’s stay in touch. Thank you for your woven words, Deb

  12. Ok Cool The phrase: “like the black on that little black dress”

    We came around the building, ten steps
    from the door, ten steps from the other
    side of a town I never thought I would return
    to, and there I was knee-deep in history,
    in yellow flowers in the ditch, scattering
    gravel with my boots, until you said,
    “Remember that night at the football field
    and the sky before the storm.” Oh yeah.
    Like the black on that little black dress
    you were wearing, I thought, and I opened
    the door back in town and you were inside.

  13. 4 am musings

    Sweet immediate fingers of October scuttle
    across your shoulders like a spider
    frightened by your sudden movement, like
    a dream that wants to awaken in your body
    without letting your mind know, without
    the chill of 4 am musings, without
    the restraint of of a life no longer
    circling you with its cagey lease.

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