Bare-handed, I hand the combs.
The man in white smiles, bare-handed,
Our cheesecloth gauntlets neat and sweet,
The throats of our wrists brave lilies.
He and I

Have a thousand clean cells between us,
Eight combs of yellow cups,
And the hive itself a teacup,
White with pink flowers on it,
With excessive love I enameled it

Thinking 'Sweetness, sweetness.'
Brood cells gray as the fossils of shells
Terrify me, they seem so old.
What am I buying, wormy mahogany?
Is there any queen at all in it?

If there is, she is old,
Her wings torn shawls, her long body
Rubbed of its plush ----
Poor and bare and unqueenly and even shameful.
I stand in a column

Of winged, unmiraculous women,
Honey-drudgers.
I am no drudge
Though for years I have eaten dust
And dried plates with my dense hair.

And seen my strangeness evaporate,
Blue dew from dangerous skin.
Will they hate me,
These women who only scurry,
Whose news is the open cherry, the open clover?

It is almost over.
I am in control.
Here is my honey-machine,
It will work without thinking,
Opening, in spring, like an industrious ******

To scour the creaming crests
As the moon, for its ivory powders, scours the sea.
A third person is watching.
He has nothing to do with the bee-seller or with me.
Now he is gone

In eight great bounds, a great scapegoat.
Here is his slipper, here is another,
And here the square of white linen
He wore instead of a hat.
He was sweet,

The sweat of his efforts a rain
Tugging the world to fruit.
The bees found him out,
Molding onto his lips like lies,
Complicating his features.

They thought death was worth it, but I
Have a self to recover, a queen.
Is she dead, is she sleeping?
Where has she been,
With her lion-red body, her wings of glass?

Now she is flying
More terrible than she ever was, red
Scar in the sky, red comet
Over the engine that killed her ----
The mausoleum, the wax house.

My nutritionist told me I need to increase my caloric intake and eat more carbs. I asked my nutritionist, “aren’t carbs bad for you?”
She said, “No. Carbs are not bad for you, carbs are an immediate energy source for your body to use, what’s bad for you is not eating enough and passing out at the end of the day like some ***** *****. Now eat some carbs and get some meat on those bones before I order you a ******* pizza myself.”

I should mention that my nutritionist is also my best friend. I call her Lady Reptar, because she is one. A lady, not a reptar, even though she’s twenty times more awesome than a dinosaur and fifty times nicer. She’s beautiful like a ******* daisy in the woods and she’s sharp and wittier than her cooking knives and she’s warmer than her father’s woodstove.

"So, do poppy seeds count as protein?"

The happy medium tea astrologer
Her tea leaves Google her anytime
Tea leaves of her poems

Another divine tea party just ask
Her lady of the Queen-dom
The fee for fun I'm in with
the mad crowd tea on the run
The tea party is getting loud
Eating those bonbons dreams
start to steep and stir he had his
overflow the house of Bel Air
Meet the Prince passionate
purple rain

Your cake and tea lips became a pain
You couldn't get a wink of the full
body flavor sleep

She’s the Subrosa tea worshipper

TEA TOUCH HER
TEACUP 1/2 TEARS
Her power not to push her moving
away from all the fears and years
Did the cat get your tongue?

He watches her in her sleep
He sees her tea eyes awake
All women stalk and tea talk
So much to write with tea poem

In France dark roast coffee
the secret competition was
my tea blend the winner raffle
It is au fond to be gratefully
Please don’t bottle Snapple
Remember you have the potential all
green money
but your eyes doorway he walks out
with your money? ahh

“Alltheformores” Tea tree lady calories
O-MY-God!

Mr.Tea toucher agent man
He keeps his right-hand
driving and the other hands Mmm…
Eyes ahead and hands on my tea
The green Emmy with poison ivy
She is the cherry pie of the black
cherry tea lie

How sneakily she buttered our cups that
butterscotch
How the seducer reducer tea she ******
up to him.

That secret’s its written in junk
buy one exotic hot-shot blend of
tea has her wits and
character and *****
So you don't stink like a rat pack
Eyes like an old tea bag
On a plane getting jet lag
smelling like a skunk

The green bull-eyes  army combat
trained always complains when
tea attention no baby blues
the green envy eyes
twice a week
tantalizing tea flavor vanilla
Godiva
On the Orient Express
Her tough exterior like a boss
not to cross
get involved with her assistant

She never brings the secret
flavor coffee on time and my tea is
Like a fortune cookie in rhymes
what tea business show business
homes ((Madhouse Paparazzi))
Eating hot sauce Ronzoni  half- Gothic
Sensual tea blend **** Bill ******
wouldn’t want to be anywhere
close to her dreams twice
Like a flower the subject Rosa
a petal of her tea

How can anyone see
through her spectrum
of colors scaring her face?
  That Madonna rebel heart of teas
Papa starts to
preach our teas
confessions
How did we touch tea leaf nerve?

Heres exactly what you deserve

Don’t we have an hour?
Tea demonstration of women's
hot boiling teas how the men
go down on their knees
When she wiped the steam off
she could see his face tea leaves

MADLY TEA PARTY OF SECRETS

Like those Rebel of Robin bird hearts
teacup of more tears
Going to the Spa that sauna
really drenched her
she was thinking of him.

How many secrets can we reveal?
Let’s not worry how we see through
peoples face as they stir their spicy tea
We all get a chance to take our last sip
of your lover’s tea

Tea Victorian could flower petal anyone's
thoughts hot-headed or over
Her iced ways or flaming her name
Ginger honey bear deeper the love affair
Her spiritual awakening transformation
Teavana or tea mint just another secret

TEA TOUCH HER TEACUP

1/2 hearts new start
She got mad but kept her cool to blush
her moving away from all the fears
who cares when we have the tea
forming to tears
it shows how we really are

She loved the shades of Japanese garden
So green suited her tree-lined block
Her pink sofa with such greenery
as her visions came strong he was there
All the time in her musical blend song

Whats in my drink, see her face
anxiously, what awaits, see her
through an ****** painting,
how it drips in a
Native-land Naples Italy
Those teacup puppies and French skirt
She narrow's anyone street you cannot
get anyone
To taste her tea for the couple beat
The museum addictions like an art
Colesium  the built for speed of teas
/Medium Astrologers/**** sipping
Watching the beauty of the statue's
Micheal Angelo, the musician playing
his Cello at least her teas weren't that
wiggly green jello

So Iced Queen tea spice
Romeo
Hello-Poetry
The exotic tiger Bengal teas
she roars in her jungle
poet clean mint tea
healthy gals
antioxidant
Green planet rocker leather
how his pants spread to the tip of
the shining armor book
she kept tight-lipped on you

She felt dragged how you were tied
secretly fit into her teacup
engraved ankle

Lips got damped tea flavors all limited
needed to give him
my special pampering all tramps
and tea thieves green shimmering
blend her best teas
Chai teas cinnamon girly

And the others Green 50+++ shades
deeper body vibe
Became mermaid blowfish tribe
Where like the Italian made
leash warriors
Roman empire ordered
a death wish

Tea secrets now or present
too smitten kitten tea gloves
and he was saying
I must have an heir,

Could fool anyone’s millionaire *** plan
became the butler’s on the deep-end
Madly tea taking the bad stick
such a plea
another scorching Porshe wrong coffee
tongue those mermaids turned the darkness
Grunge black side of their tea

Madly have eyes for you wilderness of
hearts deliciously
exposed
The pinball got caught too many sticky buns
they bit into___?

Those butler quarters was he going
to improve
all her secret’s wave of tiredness,
too much nickel and dime tea shops
She tried to subdue her situation
Barhops tea sips and she had away
by stirring her lips
Would she pay for her sins later?

Surfing the computer emailed or tea for two
mailed in a compromising tea imported love
what about tomorrow tea tears of sorrow

Let’s not focus too much on secrets
of forgotten yesterday

All her troubles so far away from Ireland
Or Liverpool London every tea bag
went nowhere
Yesterday song went everywhere imported
like her foreign exchange trade of teas
a mad tea party
no Alice Odd Moms invited


Tea Toucher ruling the world with magic

What’s really ringing, on the surface,
those terrible two teenagers? Something they
lost became tragic
Sage Tea-lady of Mount Fiji spice
Those greener then life mountain
tops to climb

How she opened his horizon to fan him on

over the media tea seduction escorted

Impression’s of intoxicating herbs imported
mermaids too many tails to slam
Strawberry field black tea forever with Beatles
Robin Bird of “ROOBUS, she was red devil blend
let’s trade  or swap some ****** teas for a tease

That madly kind of seduction
She has it all in her, patch sachet smells,
of ****** pleasure spices up words.
What is the reason for all this?
We never beg they gave
her a poem with a tea hug

He loved his teacup.
A souvenir; one of a kind.
He treated it with such respect; for a minute it almost had peace of mind.

He loved his teacup.
He admired it every day.
Making sure it knew how special it was, with all the words he could say.

He loved his teacup.
Showed it off to the world.
The little teacup finally felt important, more than just a container where tea was swirled.

Then again, maybe he didn't love his teacup,
Because, one day, he dropped it.
He left it on the floor, where all the broken pieces still sit.

But the world was in his favor,
There was something more special somewhere close!
And the broken teacup piece started to wither like a rose.

Don't fret though, don't be sad for the teacup.
A passerby saw it there, broken and confused.
A sweet person really; and back together the pieces were glued.

The first time
you said you loved
me, it was as if
I had been pulled aboard
a life raft after being
lost at sea. But
I see now that this
raft is littered with
holes and
we are sinking, but
you are convinced
that your love is a
teacup to scoop out
the water pooling around
my ankles and you will save
us, but the teacup has a crack
down one side and
do you see where I
am going with this?
A tablespoon of water
will never put out
a forest fire; I am burning
through acres.

Teacup, you probably don't know this but I'm fighting
trying to find a way to make you happy, to brighten your day,
but the lighting is out of place, and I've been facing demons alone.
Teacup, home is everything that's by your side, so don't try to hide,
please don't say goodbye because I'm running out of answers,
the question dances in my mind, how much more can I take
was I one of your mistakes, did I misjudge the situation I'm in.

Teacup, you probably don't know this but I'm fighting
trying to find a way to make you smile, even if it's just for a while
I would survive the wild just with the thought of your smile.
Everything positive I have felt, has started with meeting you,
so renew the starting hand we've been dealt and find a new way
to overcome the lightning, the clouds and the thunder.
Bring us closer under the spell of love.

Teacup, you probably don't know this but I'm fighting
but I'm losing you and it's scaring me...
I'm fighting but I'm losing you...

The fingernail moon illuminates the inky black evening
while barren tree branches scratch and poke at the windowpanes.
The letter he wrote for you neatly sealed in its envelope in the dark
of your room, in the corner mostly, where wind
and spooky spirits congregate and flow
in grand swirls like the divine milk (it tells things to you) in your teacup.

It would seem that the whimsy and love letters that appear in your teacup
are insufficient in relaying your message, instead your voice gets lost in the evening.
You try to stutter out how you haven’t opened it, how words don’t just flow
from your pen like they flow from his, how the paper-airplanes he’s tossed you just clunk on the windowpanes
and they do not enter inside, although you sort of wish they did, but the wind
is not strong enough to compel you to throw him a paper-airplane response in the dark.

It is too much to talk to him, too much to throw your worries into his dark
heart and have them go from vibrant to stone cold in his grasp, and the prospect of it all makes your teacup
shake and tremble in your pale weak hands, pale like paper, paper that can just blow away in the wind
like it was nothing. You reminisce of warmer days in the summer, with the sunset in the evening
and his hand clasped around yours in the lavender field, like you were a flower to treasure and display along the kitchen windowpanes,
And you would beam and spill yourself everywhere and your leaves would flow

onto the countertop, because you are this all-pervasive and growing creature in tune with the flow
of the universe. You are bigger than the secrets and things that stay in the dark,
and it’s perfectly okay that the windowpanes
have shutters, the okayness of it all was shocking when you first realized it, when the trembling of the teacup
finally ceased. The warm brushstrokes of evening
align themselves and coat you in secret invisible paint so that you can blend in with the wind



and let it carry you somewhere fresh and clean and terrible, where the wind
sweeps through alleyways like a madman chasing you down with a dagger in hand, chasing you with the flow
and the torrent of words you refuse to hear. When you finally found your resting place, it was evening
and you were in your grandmother’s rocking chair, the old creaking thing; you were wrapped in a blanket of dark
and comfortable, the whispers of undesired contact spinning in your head, swirling in your teacup.
But you’ve come to the conclusion that you can just leave it alone, leave him out of view, because your windowpanes

are frosted over, and you haven’t had much interest lately in clean glass, much less clean windowpanes.
You reach for his letter, not to break the seal, but instead to toss it to the wind.
You pour a brew of uncried tears and a sprinkle of cinnamon into your teacup,
and your thoughts flow
like the gutter outside that’s gushing with heavenly rain, but they’re all pure and good and dark
just how you like them. This has become your evening.

You have no interest in the world beyond the windowpanes. Your pen was not meant to flow

with godly ink, all those thoughts were best left to fly in the wind with the birds and the crawling things that might care to listen to his sermon in the dark.

Fill his glass with holy red wine and lamb’s blood (pick your poison), sure, but not for you and the china teacup….the tranquility of unsealed letters pairs well with your brew in the evening.

Colonial mansion, in an ocean of grass,
windows aglow as I walk past.
Funeral service now used of verandah,
But I hear music, not mournful stanza.
French doors open to a reminisce,
With boyhood heart of vitreous.

Footfalls on parquet floors,
Tux and gown past crown moulded doors.
Captured ambiance of a setting sun,
Shown from chandeliers highly hung,
Day I was born, born the day of prom,
I smiled cordially, and my date fawned.

Girls betrothed by corsage on wrist,
Rare french curls--a lunar eclipse.
Bedraggled boys now dapper and genteel,
Vest and bow-tie, a knightly feel.
Chapperesses smiling at maidenly gait,
Happy drowse in  mansion estate.

Cuff-links, silk gloves, nail polish of gloss,
Beheld tonics and sweets, carefully aloft.
Opening cord, an arrow from cupid's bow,
Striking coquettes to their tippy toes.
They sprang to dance,I stepped back,
Invisible in shadow with tux of black.

Shoulders, lake ripples easing to shore,
Hips, gentle waves, right before they pour.
Boys stiff, as if waists beheld sabers,
Legs, sweeping brooms of on shore waiters.
"Your too handsome to stay here unseen,"
Said rivaling chaperess, past semblance of queen.

"You should dance ,"said glittered lips of pink,
Bent like sparrow wings, during teacup drink.
Privy to why in shadow I hid my blush,
Her class my crush, that crushed me so much.

She strained me, even the shadows she gave,
Black silk, stretching,--convex and concave.
Crude metal and wood classroom seat,
Clasped her waist of slender physique.
She was guarded by a window in curtain mail,
And tended to by servants of light and gale.
Light loved her skin of Mediterranean sand,
And wind enthralled by each and every brown strand.

Light penetrated strands, blondly hot,
Wind would blow, cooling pony tail off.
Her shadow curtsied under my desk,
Long legs danced in irritableness.
Mourning class is abuzz with scent of prom,
Flower not frost, rules the school's dawn.

I gave my consent, to an earlier invite,
Then on, suitor blinded me with light.
And Great Gatsy, and looming prom night,
Subjects of sparrow wings pressed tight.
" Show of hands, who do not have a date?"
Slender wrist arises, from an arm curvate.

Alone, she shown that no one asked her,
This stone of Rome amongst boys of plaster.
Hand fell with boy of teachers match,
Wind shrouded her,from the window sash
Rays gave discomfort,to gaze her way,
But I looked through burning ray--

To see a trace of a tear,in eyes ovate,
A goddess unsought, with sadful face.
I, poor, fatherless, could not possibly go,
To prom with princess of arched portico?
I could not interweave my hands to dance,
Or know where I could place my glance.

Wind blew a scrap from her desk, indiscreet,
It was pierced by light at my feet.
"Will" and "with" were dotted with a heart,
"Prom" and "me" before most painful part.
My name in her beautiful free hand,
The color red from hearts inkstand.

(Class bell rings) I travel over star lit lawn,
The music gets louder as I return to prom,
Eyes turn to cotton, in shadow as I ponder,
As pain was forgotten, I came upon her.
Invisible hands, lifted my chin to a red shape,
Our eyes met, her's smiling, mine agape.

Only a glass-maker could imagine my sight,
Seeing hot curves form in dance floor light.
Only a wax-wing could have rivaled her eyes,
Waves gently broke to gown down her thighs.
"Will you dance with me,"she softly entreated,
" I don't know how,"a coward repeated.

A princess which tournaments were held,
For which every timber of mansion were felled.
Not for Rome the mansion's Corinthian column--
--For her--from quarry prom did befall them.
I could not tarnish this feminine form,
With my lineage in crown she adorned.

I turned from beauty, to dark acres tread,
Under willow, I play the last thing she said--
My name--as I shunned from last chance,
Now back under willow, a cane marks my stance.
I have preserved her forever, shying fate,
Even if it was with my own heart-break.

I still see her--in the most beautiful prom poses--
--Still, as lights flicker out and a coffin closes.