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Flee From the Kitchen
Flee from the kitchen, live on the porch;
August is glowing hot as a torch.
Cover yourself with rags or with strips,
Drink from a bucket, smacking your lips.
Dream of crisp apples, cinnamon toast,
A knife too dull to carve Sunday’s roast.
As the Earth turns and takes you along,
Make up a ditty, sing a new song!
Poem © 2020 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More The Whirligig #280
More Writers’ Pantry #34 at Poets and Storytellers United
Six Aphorisms
No true patriot is petty.
Yesterday’s cauldrons are not meant for today’s soup.
She who broods lives only to hate.
The dust will endure long after you are gone.
It is clear that no one will miss the sarcastic person.
Athwart is a word seldom used, for obvious reasons.
Whirling with Amy
Each vignette begins with a phrase culled from “The Kingfisher,” by Amy Clampitt.
~~ 1 ~~
poetry is gone—
the miner and the farmer
clench their teeth with toil
~~ 2 ~~
a downtown churchyard
where old women holding court
leer at three old men
~~ 3 ~~
A dazzled pub crawl—
what shall we give the barkeeps
for their jollity?
~~ 4 ~~
pastoral nightfall
under the crossed oak branches
a tryst by moonlight
~~ 5 ~~
ruined nunnery
celibates used to live here
now skittering mice
~~ 6 ~~
on Fifty-fifth Street
threading the intersection
with thundering heart
~~ 7 ~~
a Sunday morning
somewhere across the ocean
where no church bells toll
~~ 8 ~~
some grizzled spruce bog
where creatures keep to themselves
and no one sees them
~~ 9 ~~
seeing how his hands
go searching through the haystack
for missing needles
~~ 10 ~~
stunning tapestry
woven with thread of gold and
the blood of martyrs
~~ 11 ~~
Through the long evening
one expression recurring—
“You don’t understand.”
~~ 12 ~~
among its headstones
one in the cemetery
bringing you to mind
© 2014 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Poetry Pantry #219
More The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 179
