Flabbergasting Me (My quick jump into poetry today)

Best Accessible Free-Verse Poems

I did this quickly without thinking too much

I’m Here
by Cheryl Kurtz

He’s always happy to find me in the morning
like I’m a newly discovered treat in bed beside him.
Surprise!

He has the delight as if surprised to find me not a dream,
and he will jump up and sing to me because
I sing back

Yesterday we played well, and had our games;
today needs only breakfast, the egg yoke
and morning joke, because
laughter is a miracle.

Sometimes he has a nightmare, and
I cry for him, but if it’s bizarre
he’ll say it’s from childhood, and
he’ll remind me that I’m still
the silliest adult he knows
how to play with, and
he’ll turn around and cry
and turn back with a smile

In the morning
he’s surprised to find me not a dream,
and I hug him so hard because
I’m surprised too.

View original post 68 more words

When a Story Bleeds Into Poetry

Can a chapter of a book be summarized by Poetry?

    Poetry can allude to books or movies or wars, but it’s a quandary to consider how much the casual reader can know (it’s a running joke in science and math that when one doesn’t want to have to explain an assumption or premise to say, “… as is obvious to the casual observer.” Oh geez, I see now trying to find that expression that I remember it wrong, and they even have an acronym for it: IOTTMCO [Intuitively Obvious To the Most Casual Observer] ).”
    So, anyway, I’ve been looking through the poetry archives and notice a few poems I wrote alluding to “The Blog That Would Destroy the World.* ” Some seem obscure to me now but one of them I think can stand alone. Spoiler alert: I’m going to give a chapter excerpt to show where it came from, but if you want to have an unbiased opinion about whether the poem can stand alone, you can skip it.
    After I was given the honorary title “Kvizee” (Royal Magic Poet), I rode in a limousine with Her Majesty to visit a wheat farm before heading back to the Palace (Kmpamew)

 CHAPTER NINETEEN: Driving Back to the Kmpamew

    by Douglas Gilbert
A Gavicte is like a “Chief-of-staff” or a senior advisor. Aipnijtku is a military rank like “lieutenant”.
    Entry 215: It should have been a relaxing ride but assassins were waiting to attack.

In the morning at the Cottage, Zawmb’yee was all excited, because at the last moment she had invited Naztko to come to the Kmpamew with her for a visit. She was going to ask Naztko to be her Gavicte to replace Gavicte Yenkoi who she no longer trusts — she was sure she’d get a unanimous vote by the Grand Council to appoint him. This way, the two palaces would work together. We had gone in a convoy destined for the Kmpamew. There’s a new secret tunnel that could get us there. But along the way we were going to visit a wheat farm.

    The Jicnie packed up all our things in the first car that we usually take, and Naztko would be in one of the back-up cars. He said he’d talk to us at the farm. He told us that we should enjoy the ride and he’d talk to us then.
    Zawmb’yee and I got all comfortable in the back of the limousine, and off we went.
We passed through the forest on a road that meandered past stands of London Planetree, Black Locust, Black Cherry, and Pin Oak trees, with gentle brooks and creeks speaking in ripples. But we passed them by gracefully around gentle curves and while in the forest were never up a creek, and we brooked no wild things at all like would be done in a forest of dreams.
    In an hour we came into a clearing of meadows and of farm land on a straight road. The clouds had run away and the sun illuminated clearly every blade of grass, every speck in the road.
    Zawmb’yee said, “What a perfect day,” and she looked out on both sides. She pulled down the divider so she could look out the front. “Good morning,” she called out to the driver, “Aipnijtku Yathyaz, how are you?”
Yathyaz said, “I’m fine Your Majesty. Isn’t it a great day?”

“Yes, Aipnijtku Yathyaz, it’s a very clear day — um excellent visibility for driving…”

“Fevepo, pcapdyntpa!”

“Yes,” said Zawmb’yee.

I turned towards Zawmb’yee and said, “What’s that about?”

“Something needs his urgent attention so he asked permission to abruptly end the conversation,” Zawmb’yee whispered to me.

The driver was looking around in all directions. “Tpa!” he shouted.

“What’s that?” I whispered to Zawmb’yee.

“He’s telling the car’s sensors to send out as much data as it can,” whispered Zawmb’yee.

Zawmb’yee looked out the front windshield, “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“Up ahead, it looks like a porcupine crossing the road.. except that… um”

“Except what?”

“It’s moving robotically and oh-geez-hell-Kievifwa. Watch out!”

What looked like sharp quills or spikes shot out of the creature like missiles and punctured the tires. The car spun out of control, and there were big explosions. The doors of the car were blown off and we were thrown out onto the road. I landed on my knee, Zawmb’yee on her side. Twenty men appeared out of a field of Sunflowers and grabbed Zawmb’yee.

“Let go,” she screamed, “you vgnamo. Help Yathyaz! Help let go, let go!”

    Yathyaz tried to help, but they knocked him down. Zawmb’yee continued to scream and kick. They dragged and carried Zawmb’yee one hundred feet down the road, tied her to a fence, gagged her, and pulled out knives. I limped after them as fast as I could go but kept falling and I was still too far away to help her when they started shouting. The back-up cars had been hit with explosions too. “Kill her,” I heard the tall one say. “Righteous tyranny of the Gods can NOT be malice. Let the least of us wound, the greatest stab her through the heart and the fearful give the coup de grâce.”

“Halt!” I screamed.

    They gathered in a circle and continued speaking faster, louder. A frenzied one: “Zawmb’yee would fawn to the Council. She would banish our sister Zusoiti who champions the Gods, this Fevepo impostor usurper; she would kneel before the Council and not before the Gods. She, our inferior, would deny Zusoiti her enfranchisement with the Gods who’d paint her with the light of Love and make her Star brighter than the day of this puny planet’s sun. Hasten us all lest we’d be interfered with in our noble cause to stab out the usurper. Draw now the blood of the false High Priestess, each of you in turn with your knife, stab out this blotch… You, Sazrgk, Begin!”
    I crawled closer, picked up rocks to throw. “Sazrgk no! You of the least do not now promote yourself to fiend. Let them have their honors. Sazrgk, take your mercy and go…”
    Sazrgk stabbed her in the shoulder.
    I screamed the ancient kinesis: “T’ukmpuxogt!”
I became splattered in red screams drowning in oceans of slaughter that pulled me out of my mind with a fury that engulfed the sun and made it set in vomit.
    The sunflowers were decapitated by exploding shards of skull, and the headless bodies were strewn across the highway and onto the hoods of the back-up cars.

ENTRY 216

Zawmb’yee Saved From Death

Thus was the High Priestess saved from death, but I had been covered in blood and pieces of flesh. I had felt weak and dizzy. As I was crawling towards Zawmb’yee, Aipnijtku Yathyaz finally came running up the road. I couldn’t go any farther.

“Kvizee Doug,” he said, “are you all right?”

“I could do with a shower…Just a scraped knee, but Zawmb’yee has been stabbed.”

“Argh. Lie here, I’ll get to Her.”

 THE POEM DERIVED

The Knives On the Table

We’d gone in a convoy,
the doors of her car were blown off

An evil twenty swarmed out
from fields of Sunflowers tall
knives redoubtable

They tied Her Sacredness to a fence
gagged her that She’d not reproach them:
their scabbards empty of their treachery

Such evil drawn out
upon the dastardly ceremony
that hides a scoundrel from a conscience

“Kill her,” I heard the tall one bade.
“Righteous tyranny of the Gods
“can not be malice when obeyed

“Let the least of us wound,
“the greatest stab Her in the heart,
“the fearful give the coup de grâce.

Villains, villains, I shouted.

Halt at once this vileness,
these sneezed speeches
a phlegm of your diseased souls

A frenzied one spoke:
Her Sacredness
would fawn to the Council
and not to the Gods

She would banish our Sister
who champions the Gods

This impostor usurper
who takes the crown
would deny our true Priestess
her enfranchisement with the Gods

Let the Gods rightly
paint our true Priestess in
the light of Their Love, and
make her star brighter than
the day of this puny planet’s sun.

Hasten us all
lest we’d be interfered with
in our noble cause to
stab out the usurper

Draw now the blood of Her Falseness,
each of you in turn do act:
stab out this blotch

Sazrgk, begin!

But I crawled closer,
picked up rocks to throw

Thus I:
Sazrgk no! You of the least
do not now promote yourself to fiend

Let them have their honors.
Sazrgk, if you’d save your soul
take your mercy and go

But Sazrgk stabbed her in the shoulder.
’tis true: of weakness cold-hearted, he
did indeed plunge his dagger.

I screamed the ancient kinesis:
“T’ukmpuxogt!”

I became splattered in red screams
drowning in oceans of slaughter that
pulled me out of my mind with
a fury that engulfed the sun, and
made it set in vomit

By T’ukmpuxogt bold
the sunflowers were decapitated
in exploding shards of skull, and
headless bodies were
strewn across the road.

Thus I protect my Love
the only true Priestess.

*Douglas Gilbert, ebook: The Blog That Would Destroy the World,(Amazon: ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08L1CR3Z4 ), 2016, CHAPTER NINETEEN, Entry 215, ISBN 978-1-329-90425-5

My Love Poems Don’t Work To Cast a Spell On You 05

Love Poems

 Poems Loosely about Love

    by Douglas Gilbert
Loving enough for her to stay in a war zone can get her killed. Sometimes she stays too long when leaving is best. Flowers are ugly when they serve no purpose.
    War is like a Great Horned Owl. Not wise. Not kind.

Tragic things happen in love and war.

Why Did You Plant Flowers

Why did you not go
when I told you
the tanks are coming.

Why did you go
into the garden, when
I told you there are
never flowers.

I wanted to send you away
but I was too weak when
you wanted to stay with me

and I said hide, but
you wanted to plant.

Why did you not go
when I told you
the tanks are coming.

Why did you go
into the garden
where there is no rain

and a bomb
fell on you.

Douglas Gilbert, ebook: Back Door Poetry,(Amazon: ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08LQX3ZF7 ), 2019, ISBN 978-0-359-90524-9

My Love Poems Don’t Work To Cast a Spell On You 04

Love Poems

 Poems Loosely about Love

    by Douglas Gilbert
Deep, deep. Cheap deep. Somebody’s beem telling boys that girls like poems. Secret: mostly it’s a pun-moan except as a gesture from someone they already like, and like a classic line, and classic manipulation, those boys are like stinging insects hiding on a flower. That boy’s “all hat and no cattle.”
    What about cute Nature? Revelations: bees who sting are not charming; about the prettiness of birds: Great Horned Owls break the spine of a fox and eat it alive. Plus, once in a while (once upon a time): Sharks, wolves, lions, and other creatures who have publicists extolling their virtues, actually do attack or eat people.

A tsunami of love makes waves

Vision

I have found one ripple in the ocean that
catches my focus, and
something stays in my eye
like a whirlpool in the tea cup
where I saw a vision of you once
and a prophesy.

I stare unfocused into this dark
sea patch of blue water imagining

you in a silver spiral
and in my mind I travel
through its tunnel, until
I reach into your mind, and

I seem to have captured the
chosen ripple of the sea
where clearly I see you.

I release a thought to you
for the wave to carry, and

under it forms a tsunami of love.

When it arrives
it will drown you
for a moment

but you will laugh
until a boat can bring you
the rest of me.

Douglas Gilbert, ebook: Back Door Poetry,(Amazon: ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08LQX3ZF7 ), 2019, ISBN 978-0-359-90524-9

My Love Poems Don’t Work To Cast a Spell On You 03

Love Poems

 Poems Loosely about Love

    by Douglas Gilbert
Deep, deep. Cheap deep. Somebody’s beem telling boys that girls like poems. Secret: mostly it’s a pun-moan except as a gesture from someone they already like, and like a classic line, and classic manipulation, those boys are like stinging insects hiding on a flower. That boy’s “all hat and no cattle.”
    What about cute Nature? Revelations: bees who sting are not charming; about the prettiness of birds: Great Horned Owls break the spine of a fox and eat it alive. Plus, once in a while (once upon a time): Sharks, wolves, lions, and other creatures who have publicists extolling their virtues, actually do attack or eat people.

    Sharing a business or common interests can be tricky.
Buttercup Babe

Visiting America, I met her
in a field of renoncules that
locals call butter cups

She’s my darling Buttercup
a compatriot

She wanted to offer me a partnership
in her business and to share business.

But much ado about love in the dew
and then onward afield ’til

we were back for a romp
under and around
the Arc de Triomphe
to play like tourists and
then marched to her home,
palace of the cuisinière
at the bakery de l’Étoile near Paris.

We homed in on her nest
over the bakery with zest, and
she was hot because the
spice of the day made for
joy and frolic at home

We chilled with a wine
she recommended for the night
and a tête-à-tête with an intimacy

and as our voices modulated to a purr
we unrolled a cloth like a sheet of dough
and my Buttercup
melted in the bed.

We kneaded in layers of joy
to be crisp and flaky like a croissant

In the morning, I left early to buy butter and
I had wondered: what is a croissant
if to do it is not to have it?

I came back uncertain.

I proposed:
My darling Buttercup,
let me keep this butter,
have the bakery, and
I will make you a croissant with love.

Well, she said:
You want the butter and
the money from the butter
and le cul de la crémière…
So you my love, must bring me
a buttercup of the field and I will
peer into your eyes until I decide
if you’re flaky enough to cook.
  — Douglas Gilbert, ebook: Back Door Poetry,(Amazon: ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08LQX3ZF7 ), 2019, ISBN 978-0-359-90524-9

My Love Poems Don’t Work To Cast a Spell On You 02

Love Poems

 Poems Loosely about Love

    by Douglas Gilbert
Deep, deep. Cheap deep. Somebody’s been telling boys that girls like poems. Secret: mostly it’s a pun-moan except as a gesture from someone they already like, and like a classic line, and classic manipulation, those boys are like stinging insects hiding on a flower. That boy’s “all hat and no cattle.”
    What about cute Nature? Revelations: bees who sting are not charming; about the prettiness of birds: Great Horned Owls break the spine of a fox and eat it alive. Plus, once in a while (once upon a time): Sharks, wolves, lions, and other creatures who have publicists extolling their virtues, actually do attack or eat people.

Free Verse Versus Classic

Free verse poetry has its flaws but it generally is more forgiving and giving than any of the rigid classic forms. Here are two, one free and one slave to stifling formality:

Riding

I imagine you drifting
in thoughts on the bus
by the window with
a mystery package

Hear me honk
see me as the bird
that flaps a clap
applauding your reverie

On your way, squealing
with the wheeling of the bus
I am the squeaky brakes
squawking to see you; I am
the roar of the engine

Wake up. Don’t
miss your stop
don’t drop your
precious package

Arrive soon, because
I can’t wait to
open you up
to ride with me

The Lip of Music

The romp of love beguiles, a playful horse
my heart a rider gripping spirit’s trip,
a bit of banter falls from saddled lips.
A candor canters, musical in source
a clip-clop hoofing it, my fruit is tossed.
Her lust like cantaloupes so sweetly quipped
yet love’s a cherry deeply red of lip
outspoken rips in bound’ries’ gorgeous loss

I know you love me mole and mountain bluff.
I show my cards, won’t raise to bluff a love.
It’s real this deal of sharing zeal, a bliss.
No gamble oneness riding thought enough
to join two souls, a coup by doves
who fly with coos to play the music’s kiss

My Love Poems Don’t Work To Cast a Spell On You 01

Love Poems

 Poems Loosely about Love

    by Douglas Gilbert
It’s been some time since somebody told boys that girls like poems. But they hate them except as a gesture from someone they already like, and like a classic line, and classic manipulation, those boys are like stinging insects hiding on a flower.
    What about the “birds and the bees and other clichés”? There’s shocking news: bees who sting are not charming; about the prettiness of birds: Great Horned Owls break the spine of a fox and eat it alive. About charming “Nature” and ecology: Once in a while(once upon a time): Sharks, wolves, lions, and other creatures who have publicists extolling their virtues, actually do attack or eat people.

 “ ‘ove’ ”
There don’t seem to be good synonyms for “love” in English and it’s been diluted. “I love ice cream and you too,” doesn’t really work. Single words for “romantic love,” or “empathic love,” or “hot passionate love,” infatuation, etc. are not to be found. No word for “I want the best for you… what makes you happy makes me happy etc.” Is it a canard that Eskimos have 200 words for snow, and the French 200 for duck? Well, a little hyperbole, but the word must be somewhere between the brain and the private parts, and certainly doesn’t seem located in the heart though it is a long-lasting and pervasive metaphor. After all, fear is “heart felt” too but it’s not the approved metaphor

Coin a Word for Me


Once a gem,
the word’s been scrubbed
like a pejorative stone
in a teary creek, an
old river gone shallow


Oh let us coin, my lucidove,
our ever word, because
we’ve a tender ‘ove of us effusive
an edgyove, a ludelove
a kissove missive:
folded paper plane that soars


but gems can be dreamed of again.


In the journeyove dream
I awoke happy, enveloped in you
under’ove covers


Enraptured in the blankets
of home
with you
of you


Our embrace is
the brightness
of us
with us


We are
the morning together
together lovidove


An awakening
is here to be
for real
at home


peaceful passion
satisfaction day


not dreaming
but being


in the lightness
of us
with us


we are warm
being the morning sun,
like banners waving
playfully above
the river of ‘ove


extremely rippling,
our streaming
child to the river


Ripples of the day
we stream
like banners waving
playfully above
a gentle brook
child to the stream


The child’s babble
joyful enough
to be a gurgle
in a float-along morning


We splash along
embraced
by immersion
and the kiss of the day
fantastic
better than a dream,
my lucidove

Star Power (She’s Sleeping Around [Draft 2] ) Poetry Edit

She’s said she’s busy ’cause
she’s seeing stars and applauding.

I think she’s seeing
someone named James Webb
but I’ve never seen that actor on the web, or
in the Cannes film festival, and now on edge
I’ve overheard her say she’s sleeping with the stars

I thought it was a clear fact that
she had given up her acting career.

Yeah, before she became an astronomer
she preferred to be an actress, and had a few parts
but didn’t want to sleep with any bartering directors

Now she says she’s in love with the stars.
I think we have to break up now
because she says this James Webb guy
is giving her the big bang

If she comes back
I’ll give her the big bang

*The James Webb Space Telescope is at the L2 point in space orbiting in synchrony with the Earth. It has recorded light from near the beginning of the creation of the Universe, called the “Big Bang”. “Bang” is also slang for having sex.

She’s Sleeping Around (Draft 1)

She’s said she’s busy ’cause
she’s seeing stars and applauding.

I think she’s seeing
someone named James Webb
but I’ve never seen that actor on the web, or
in the Cannes film festival, and now I’ve
overheard her say she’s sleeping with the stars

I thought she gave up her acting career.

Yeah, before she became an astronomer
she was an actress, and had a few parts
but didn’t want to sleep with any directors

Now she says she’s in love with the stars.
I think we have to break up now
because she says this James Webb guy
is giving her the big bang

If she comes back
I’ll give her the big bang

Broken Things In Poetry

When the Earth Moves Things Break

Feeling the Earth move can be metaphorical or actual. (Poems by Douglas Gilbert, ebook: Back Door Poetry,(Amazon: ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08LQX3ZF7 ), 2019)

Earthquake

There are emotional earthquakes and ones from the ground.

Tectonic

In the earthquake, the favorite
cup of you, my love, was broken,
your urn broken on the mantel too;
you, angel, have returned to the wind,
fires have broken out and
the ashes of you are mixed with
the ashes of disaster, yet I
join the march of broken people
soon to die like a crevice
widens with dawn.

My child cries:
Why is the world broken?

An abyssal bottom slides
deep within me as
plates of fate touch
head to head to break

A Car Can Break Down or a Person

Throbbing In Crevices

Though there’s little food in Sugar Ditch
the rabbit hoped to hop from me
a foolish-stewing-hopeless creature,
who’d let luck go where
fecal creeks don’t drown
perfumed hope

Broken down in Sugar Ditch
waiting for a scholarship
I was wheeling like
lightning struck me down

The documentary camera came
just before a thunder wash,
saw the open sewer
that’s home to family shame

I pulled out my crying rag
time moaning sack of clothes
and the man heard me sing
while driving lightning roads

Honking horns daring me
to dream away from poverty,
I bent my trumpets to heaven’s ears

But no one told me
evil flies to me
every place I go, and
King Sorrow would reign
over sovereign hopes

I reached the skyscrapers
a tourist of bad timing
had to be the highest
place to see heaven
aside from you

After lightning struck this New York
I was lying under debris,
my quilted sorrow bristling
with cast off bricks

Mortar thoughts around me
being so damn mortal, I
could be thundered away
to the heavenly scene

But a steam pipe was hissing
while lifted stones flew away
like missiles whistling
choruses of dusty blues

Jaws of life jacking time
they slid my body out in time
let the building collapse on through

Thought I heard,
old Joplin singin’
more on Earth
will be slapping you
if you
dodge more bullets
from another fool

And when I sang right out
across the clapping crowds,
my best laid blues
went right to you,
New York girl
in a rabbit hat

Oh magical girl,
my new love,
you kissed the breeze
made illusions
fondle my wishes

Now I dream of you deeply:
my salvation laughing everywhere

To whinny, my dream horse gallops, your
giggling  jiggling in my cortex,
cerebral fondness hunting for you
in pulsing fibers
embedded in desire
throbbing in crevices
of nerve-cell books,
passions hiding in no man’s nook.

You journey through my mind,
scampering mind dancer,
doing wild animal tangos. I embrace

your beauty in the hunt
to capture your essence;
my dogs sense your scent,
a presence so foxy,
they transcend all knowing
rockin’ and rollin’ in serotonin.

I have traveled into you–
touch me there
where thoughts are real
and lightning tingles fine:
hats off to
everlasting good times

When I awake to you
I am in heaven

Relationships Break

Broken Dark Things

I know you’ve been seeing
that flashy vile thing:
he’s a rag on the road, and I’ve
got a fine ramming car.

Fast, fast, fast.
Dead, dead, dead.
Yeah, over the edge, woman.

Oh you dirty down broken woman
you betrayed me so bad
made me cry so hard, oh damn

hell I broke my only hope cup
smashed it in shaving mirror
’cause I’m looking at ugly

gonna get that vile thing
you’ve been seeing, even
if it’s fine looking to you

oh hell breaking, can’t be braking
for no cliff

and I’ll be racing to throw that
dead damn bloody rag over the edge

Hell broke my only hope cup
dark whisker shadows
looking ugly, and gonna
ram it ugly, uh, you know what

it must be hell’s whisker shadows
if you’d laugh with another damn
broken down vile thing

it’s gonna die, broken woman…hey;
know what I mean?

Oh you pretty bitty broken woman
you betrayed me so badly
made me cry so hard, oh damn

hell I broke my only hope cup

hell you don’t know no better
than be broken and so am I
broken and betrayed many times

Gonna get that vile handsome rag
you patch on yourself
all hot and dirty

Oh you dirty down broken woman
you betrayed me so bad
made cry so hard, oh damn

yeah, OK, broken woman
go fix yourself
with that vile thing

yeah if that’s your thing
OK

Hell I’m going to Shardsville,
know a woman who’ll
put me in stitches
knows the joke
about being broke

oh broken hearted woman
go fix yourself

I’m going away
to mend myself in Shardsville
where crying is beautiful
and a cup of love is free

Broken Trees and Broken Hearts

Tea

Climbing away to a mist beyond foliage
where leaves leave peaks alone
naked at the top
no tea leaves to read

Wandering up
lost from you, climbing
away to a mist, I had hoped
something would
move me like you did a day
looking up, window listening
to true katydids play forelegs
at tops of oak trees, when I
seemed home, as if from the kitchen
you were coming to a boil with
true approval and encouragement tea.

Mountain climbing where
leaves leave peaks, I had hoped
to let spirits of you sanctify
meanders in the cold with gracious thoughts,
those hot dreams of you that infuse the stew

I carry in my backpack, mostly filled with
drudge stuff, but your precious memorandear
was tucked into the rear pocket made for
precious notes like gems amen, something
to hold for incantations against pebbles
in the shoes and grace for stumble stones
that haunt the winding up mountain path

Broken trees below the snow line
broken hearts above
misty mountain hawks
splintered memories clawing

Blue skies and fluff at the mountain top.
In a cloud I saw your face, a
tea cup and a dove, but

I heard myself scream and
saw the grief of my breath
form wispy puffs that fly away

But those sorrows are not of you,
though you do embrace every sparrow,
and when you’d not know
the name of the bird, you’d
christen it cute and lovely like you are

Winding down
there are birds in the sky
and no stumble stones, but
only the scent of tea up my nose
the feel of a memorandear in my pocket
There is sweetness to the air
your valley is near,
could be I’ll stumble
by your house to leave a note
or ring where I learned that
fresh tea is sweet when brewed
for an occasion where eyes meet

and blinks become flutters
a stuttered word divine, because
what would be affirmed in the steep
is the scent of wafting play where
seeping things flow out into
the rivers in two cups
fragrant with cinnamon
and swirly with a word
whispered in the mists
before silence goes to bed

I’ve seen it in a memo.

Ding dong.

(Poems by Douglas Gilbert, ebook: Back Door Poetry,(Amazon: ASIN ‏ : ‎ B08LQX3ZF7 ), 2019)