#blackberries - Hello Poetry

(**~for Stella Marie, a newly arrived poet here at HP" who asks, "when does a poem truly end?"~**) She's off, to a fancy, long gown, dinner dance, with her dancing partner, a relationship that predates my arrival, my tired song reminder, "but don't forget who's taking you home" has aged out from repetition, and now she slips in beside me 'round midnight, and more often than not so smooth, so silently, I wake up to early morn poetry writing time and there she is, a Britbox ****** mystery dissolving on the tv screen, earpoded and still miraculously, deeply asleep before she departs, poses for a final inspection, demonstrating my wonderful ability to adorn her gorgeous jewlery, and sardonically modest, critique her with, an "as expected, you looking gorgeous" which evokes her soft smile, at my soft edged compliment but earlier, whine like a grown man on a diet (so pathetic). there is nothing sweet to eat for my apres dinner just(ice) dessert, and leaving me chicken soup salty and aggravated...she in a neutral tone, a child practiced tone, "go check the fresh fruit drawer, there is fresh fruit aplenty," and I, mentally comparing my desire for a raisin scone, or vanilla butterscotch swirl, to the taste bud reaction unfufilled, find the clear plastic box of fresh blackberries, like Leornard's tea, that comes all the way from Mexique, and inelegantly stuff my face... been writin poetry since early morn, pre~sunrise, through first daylight, and now eventide, she's off, the apartment gone quiet, as I munch on twelve blackberries I have extracted to ease my sweetness lacking but blackberries are **** ****** that won't quell my inner needs, of course, the notion of twelve blackberries, says, mmmm, could be a poem in there somewhere, and the muses whisper asides, clues, hints and apparitions of trite not quite ripe lines and verses that might be apropos to a poem so ilked and milked (sorry), AND that word hits me tween and behind my blue gray eyes, T A R T ---------- with its mulivariable shades of meaning, which amuse. and I love, but also accuse me of possibly be distracted intowriting bad poetry, and wonder how the tongue disassembles our food, separating their essence into the varieties of taste sensations, sweet, sour, salty, bitter and savory and reflect how wise these tiny tatse buds know just how we humans sort people into categories that mimic just how knowing, assess, categorize, our fellows humans along the same principles, how can there not be a supreme intelligence, that designed our bodies so similarly and yet so differently, and efficiently? something if we thought about more, might make us less inclined to blow each other up with such genteel aplomb. apologize for dragging you through this rambling essay, **but it came about when Stella Marie asks, "when does a poem truly end?"** it ends here, when you captures the flows of the living currents we surround ourselves with, reaching out to capture their flowing parfume essences, the sweet, the sour, the savory, and connecting them to a larger envisioning, which how we operate, why we do not ignore spectacular sunrises, sunsets, the "curve of a wrist" how an ankle turns a leg into a finished sentence, how tears confess true emotion and clarify, even though they actually intefere with seeing, and now its time to depart, end this long rhyme about longing, for something sweet and the short answer is, jumbling and humbling, "you just know" for she's back and read this poem, and tartly replies directly, and answers your question nml

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Apr 8, 2025

Apr 8, 2025 at 10:00 PM UTC

nat-lipstadt

she's off (twelve blackberries)

(**~for Stella Marie, a newly arrived poet here at HP" who asks, "when does a poem truly end?"~**) She's off, to a fancy, long gown, dinner dance, with her dancing partner, a relationship that predates my arrival, my tired song reminder, "but don't forget who's taking you home" has aged out from repetition, and now she slips in beside me 'round midnight, and more often than not so smooth, so silently, I wake up to early morn poetry writing time and there she is, a Britbox ****** mystery dissolving on the tv screen, earpoded and still miraculously, deeply asleep before she departs, poses for a final inspection, demonstrating my wonderful ability to adorn her gorgeous jewlery, and sardonically modest, critique her with, an "as expected, you looking gorgeous" which evokes her soft smile, at my soft edged compliment but earlier, whine like a grown man on a diet (so pathetic). there is nothing sweet to eat for my apres dinner just(ice) dessert, and leaving me chicken soup salty and aggravated...she in a neutral tone, a child practiced tone, "go check the fresh fruit drawer, there is fresh fruit aplenty," and I, mentally comparing my desire for a raisin scone, or vanilla butterscotch swirl, to the taste bud reaction unfufilled, find the clear plastic box of fresh blackberries, like Leornard's tea, that comes all the way from Mexique, and inelegantly stuff my face... been writin poetry since early morn, pre~sunrise, through first daylight, and now eventide, she's off, the apartment gone quiet, as I munch on twelve blackberries I have extracted to ease my sweetness lacking but blackberries are **** ****** that won't quell my inner needs, of course, the notion of twelve blackberries, says, mmmm, could be a poem in there somewhere, and the muses whisper asides, clues, hints and apparitions of trite not quite ripe lines and verses that might be apropos to a poem so ilked and milked (sorry), AND that word hits me tween and behind my blue gray eyes, T A R T ---------- with its mulivariable shades of meaning, which amuse. and I love, but also accuse me of possibly be distracted intowriting bad poetry, and wonder how the tongue disassembles our food, separating their essence into the varieties of taste sensations, sweet, sour, salty, bitter and savory and reflect how wise these tiny tatse buds know just how we humans sort people into categories that mimic just how knowing, assess, categorize, our fellows humans along the same principles, how can there not be a supreme intelligence, that designed our bodies so similarly and yet so differently, and efficiently? something if we thought about more, might make us less inclined to blow each other up with such genteel aplomb. apologize for dragging you through this rambling essay, **but it came about when Stella Marie asks, "when does a poem truly end?"** it ends here, when you captures the flows of the living currents we surround ourselves with, reaching out to capture their flowing parfume essences, the sweet, the sour, the savory, and connecting them to a larger envisioning, which how we operate, why we do not ignore spectacular sunrises, sunsets, the "curve of a wrist" how an ankle turns a leg into a finished sentence, how tears confess true emotion and clarify, even though they actually intefere with seeing, and now its time to depart, end this long rhyme about longing, for something sweet and the short answer is, jumbling and humbling, "you just know" for she's back and read this poem, and tartly replies directly, and answers your question nml