Best Teapots Poems
Teapots that whistle on chilled Winter morns
Calling the day to begin as it scorns
Wake up you sleepy head, make room for love
Walking to work as the sun shines above
Thinking of happy and thinking of you
I think I’ll paint it and skies will be blue
Tipping my hat to the songbird that sings
Feeling so blessed for so many sweet things
Hot dogs with mustard and friends who stand by
Watching new parents with babies that cry
Stoplights that muster the traffic that flows
Bakeries that summon to follow my nose
Dinners with Mama, then home to my pet
Help me remember and never forget
Life is a blessing though sometimes a pain
Just like a flower, we sometimes need rain
Cuddles and kisses and good books to read
Pillows for dreaming, ideas that are freed
Grateful for love and the goodness it brings
Feeling so blessed for so many sweet things
I brew sunsets in teapots
I drink the dawn from a mug
and in my bicycle basket I have seduction in a jug
so now and then I take someone clean shaven home to my obliging bed
when I guess I should sit quietly pristine,
with my legs crossed instead
but each day is so fragile
they black out every evening in the west
and all I got is these frail minutes
and I only want to live them, as if they were a fest.
© Gry W Christensen
I opened the door that morning to a knock,
And four women, holding seven teapots.
I had to laugh, surprise and then understanding hitting me at once.
I welcomed them in and cleared a place on the kitchen counter.
There they sat. Seven teapots, quirky and colourful.
Every shape and size. Some plain. Some themed.
One shaped like a cottage. Another polka-dot and round.
I thought to myself
“we are so British.”
Because what else? One this of all days.
What else would we need to get us through?
They wouldn’t be needed yet. Not for hours.
Not until later when the ceremony was done
and the tears were shed.
When the last goodbyes were said and we could retreat to the house renewed.
Ready to swap stories and memories and look back with smiles.
Mugs warm in our hands.
I don’t remember what I wore.
I don’t remember who spoke.
Who couldn’t speak.
I don’t remember what hymns were sung.
Or what parts of your life were plucked from the highlight reel.
Listed off to those who knew you best as a pale reflection of all you were.
I don’t remember most of that day.
But I will always remember you.
And I will always remember opening that door,
To those seven teapots.
Tic Toc
Tell tale signs
Dead angels counting time
The ballerina dancing inside
Her snow flake orb of light
Childhood dreams
Dancing in circles while screaming
Shatter me
Fragile notes upon the strings of life
Fragile hopes shattered on shores remote
Inside dead dreams does a childhood float
Take me to the mountain tops
Let me reach to the skies
My shattered dreams seeks the heavens
to escape this worldly globe where I dance
In desperation
Shattered dreams
Pretty silhouettes
Cracked pottery all around
Teapots in pieces
Hopes become only shattered dreams
So it seems
"The Kitchen"
Good old fashioned witchery in the kitchen
Casting spells to allure one's nose with manipulative spices
Sniffing the air with special interest,
People stop what they're doing
The toaster let's off a melodious chime in the background
Offering the crisp smell of lightly browned perfection
Doughy goodness never done haphazardly
This is what homemade bread is all about
The dinner bell sings with a ring-a ding-ding
Drawing people into her dining room from everywhere
With preparation that went into stirring a wonderful mix
Good recipes are those made for gathering the family
To fill a grumbling tummy instigated by culinary magic
The love that is put into the dish will never be fully appreciated
But the chef can see the company around the table is her gift returned
For performing a social stew, even if enjoyment lasts but a few minutes
She will dine on togetherness feeding her soul more than her stomach
There is only one moment each day when love fills her plate
A couple of whistling teapots start a chorus of piping hot hymns
Holy loving care for a lightly flavored fantasy
It is music to their ears
Such is the ultimate compliment, while serving to impatience
As good cooking gets eaten by faces over packed
Napkins are forgotten with the manners put aside
The final course of the meal and she can see her incantation working
All eyes are on her as she enters the dining room once more
For her last dish of sweetness, there is sweetness returned
By a sort of thankful yet quiet anticipation and in it enough is said
To be remembered later when hearing the discordant clanking of dishes
Dear Caregiver…
You told me to stand alone
so I stood there in shoes I’ve outgrown.
You said many things
and need I not forget how you would sing
in those car rides with the windows down.
Late at night listening to the tires scale the ground.
I always knew when you felt some kind of way
by how red your eyes got and how lame your head would lay.
Needless to say your moods were episodic.
You’d say yes and mean no, but eventually I got it.
I couldn’t wait for mornings when the nights were too dark.
I would lie alert staring at the stars that sparked.
The stars that gave me life also gave me a mellow sorrow.
Something about the way they breathed light into rooms so hollow.
Bright sun rays started my days
and the heat was enough to set fires ablaze.
Hot with rage the teapots blew.
You said it was the cure to your
blistering headaches after you had a few.
A kid like I, I wasn't a pesky thing
I dressed myself and even answered the doorbell when it would ring.
My dog Rex was never too far behind.
Whenever I needed help he was all I could find.
Down the street I would spot my school bus.
It was always reliable, stable, and a savior for both of us.
Before you knew it I was gone.
Day after day holding on to clothes I’ve outgrown.
I think I missed the teapots the most.
Pouring cups in the mornings is what brought us close.
After looking at photo albums I had to spare,
I removed the one picture I had of you.
as if you wasn’t even there.
When ladies doll up for fun
Over afternoon tea,
My rosy pots brew of laughter
Cups sipping flavored gabs,
When ladies doll up for fun.
A Prized Refrain Contest of nette onclaud
3 August 2015 , Carly Lalion
No. 2--Teapot
My collection of teapots is growing! The best
one is a set from Grams, 1910 English porcelain
edition.
After The Storm, Rebirth
Storm has torn the majestic forested scene
as ravaged are the shrubs on high hills
Surviving birds yet sing and calmly preen
unmindful of last night's ripping thrills
Trees now broken, toppled at Nature's behest
all forested tranquility yet to be restored
Nature shook violently and did its very best
lakes many boats sunk where they moored
From this destruction new life shall reign
savage death brings on creation's birth
Beauty shall come with all that we see plain
earth renews the landscape for all its worth
I see with these renewing things a greater plan
All teaches life's lessons to the heart of man
Robert J. Lindley, 11-17-2014
Inspired by Gry's Christensen's poem , Brewing Sunsets In Teapots
that I read early this morn.
There is no ‘you’ or ‘I’
Except that you choose
to call the fat clouds a name
and make them feel like overlords upon the others.
And, there is neither ‘you’ nor ‘I’
when we collect in droplets into rain
and percolate the crevices between rocks and questions.
The free flowing water you rinse your feet in
Collects the geography of the places you’ve been to
That the same water you now wash your hands with, is what
You once called ‘dirty’ and fed to the gutters of nevermore.
There is no ‘you’ or ‘I’, save ‘we’
We, driblets of water
Garnering into puddles,
Some, redeemed in pots of human bellies.
And, there is neither ‘you’ nor ‘I’
Little dribs charged with pain, break out
As saline rain, bouncing off troubled eyes,
A cesspool of wails in the offing.
And some others, not ‘you’, not ‘I’
Distraught to meet this uncertain world
Are lagged in rocks, trapped prisoners.
We are all waters, variously hued
To boil in teapots and warm the mien of takers
And a few, crystallized into heart-shaped cubes,
Are nursed between the parched tongues of lovers.
Loin waters all! Congealed over time
Sneaked into places like shy rivers
Collecting genetic snapshots of their bearers
Then those ones frozen by fear, iceberg-solid
Make the routes of our ideas unpassable
A few, like calm ponds
Unperturbed by gravity and noise
Undress before the caress of the setting sun
We all are waters,
Not you, not I, but we; streaming
In endless pursuit on the surface
While selfsame dispatch, gather like roots undersea.
**previously published in Sentinel Quarterly Review
Tonight, tables took teapots
"Lumiere Lights" lit
Pleasantly, people pondered
Plates placed
Across appetites awaiting anxiously
To try the Top Ten
Delicious Dishes
Penny dropped circular clocks on carved out emblematic wisdom cones. Be careful if it rains coal dust as radioactive drones, mobile phones, and teapots too could all gather to form lines of imperialism. How rather interesting it is to count the snot flung out of the window. It often lands in a rather interesting pattern do you not think? And waiting for parcels is akin to waiting for a slug or a snail to travel sixteen times down and up a highway. Ok then. Great. Floors fathom first flinging fleeces. And the traditionalism is always at the number two position on a compass compressed clock canister. And one hour forty-five minutes in a pressure cooker is quite often akin to racing up a right angled hill. A salted mist is a skiing zone. Where lots of whales and dolphins play and make snowmen. And a snow go e is neither a pickled onion nor a jester playing a harpsichord. Ok then. That is the latest from the p y q. Z
Exercising belief about unknowns.
Makes sense to take your best guess.
Using history, numbers, extrapolation.
Getting the trajectory right for re-entry.
Few dissenters left for climate change, evolution.
Nuclear power brings a process to earth
that occurs only in space. Dangerous
but necessary? Not a risk-averse weasel.
One among many mammals is the weasel,
not known for its consideration of unknowns
but, for its extreme caloric needs, considered dangerous.
My wife says in England violent gusts
forced a locomotive off its tracks. One interpretation
might reasonably be that the mother, earth,
has stopped mothering man. We're entering
a period of unknowns and must evolve.
What might this involve
and what adjustments are possibly feasible?
Walking rather than riding to the subway entrance,
using less electricity until more is known,
preserving agricultural soils and forest land,
buying fewer plastic contraptions.
My brother's washing his pajamas less often.
None of this may make the slightest difference
in how the earth and the sun and universe revolve.
But we are human and addicted to action,
the probable less attractive than the possible.
Also, there's no percentage in respecting death
unless it's imminent. Better to remain centered,
focused on food, child-bearing, war and the poem.
All driveways plowed, all lawns mowed.
Just in time before the first snow, I raked our leaves.
Two eight hour days. What percent of all time is that?
Draw a ray with point A the first pile of leaves
extending to the extrapolating end of universe.
.01 of Aaron. Zero of Zach.
Hawks playing, hunting, mating, canaries in the mine.
Having been too many places to count.
Sex bars, infant formulas, fire crews, last rites, permanent jobs, traffic
tickets, judges' chambers, out houses, wedding banquets, boiling
teapots, frantic centuries, facial tissues, presumed innocent, clear
intentions, stainless steel.
Spiderweb glove. Deerfly earring. Daddylonglegs seeingeyedog.
Memorized songs. Privatized loans.
You cannot know what you're doing until you've done it.
Erudite sweep the floor. Articulate make the bed.
Infrared town hall. Crab nebula. Your last crap.
Eye of the tropical January sun. Slouching toward temperate zone.
a walnut waltzing with a willow tree
A molecule is neither a destitute mop without a bucket house. Nor is it a seven acre field that is very cold due to having no grass. Even the most prepared of ground is a haven for a gloved concrete whose acidic greedy greyness freezes the earth allowing for no breath from the ground. It is located between the purple mountain and hawks head valley. Where the hypotenuse causes a massive erosion and lesion in the wild vibrant landscape. Birds sigh at the chaos. Trees cry for their home. And the dark eyed mystics shaking rattles speak of prophesy that was spoken and handed through time through pictorial evidence, speech, story and song. Moving a large display of teapots in a shop is imperative to create a nice display for consumers. They might buy one so always make sure spouts are facing an easterly direction for this will ensure sales and sales are salivating selfish sea lions with suits. When placing the money. When digging for liquid gold. When leaning on graves. When balancing on a breadstick over a precipice. Exert no power. Exert no pollen. Exert no excretion. And always move to the sounds omitting from a nine mile moon in a cereal packet. Harnessed by wire but untamed. Pockets picketing players. And a nice big soup causing chaos at a roadside. Yachtsman yawning yay. And the gang members are swimming in tutus. Up the mountain down the mountain. Peeling the spoken steely grey suits. Lucid suits. Sinkhole weapons of underworld. Chat chat chat. And an operatic gold star warbling on a shelf or a door. Put into a cake tin then and bake at 800 degrees. Thus ensuring leverage is even. Events equalling extraction. Then boom boom boom. All gone fishing. Xxxxx formulations Z Z Z Z
Incense hung in the evening air
like the mist and the chains of prayer cranes.
Ferocious gilded guardian framed the gate
through the aged arched travelers trooped
Pilgrims all.
Monks diminutive in form,
draped in square clothes
of sacred orange, bow.
Prayer hands copped over beating hearts.
Business begins.
The business of lodging and lodgers.
The entrance holds the footwear of the prayerful;
worn, unkempt, yet colorful.
Inside the shrine futons fly to ta tami floors.
Teapots boil whistling in the mist soaked wind.
Coins clink into altar boxes before smiling Buddha’s.
Courtyards filled with fall blossoms of crimson mums.
Persimmon colored koi swim in small prayer ponds.
The bustle of the small alpine city does not intrude,
nor follow the faithful as into the moss covered
cemetery with its red cedar groves;
they walk.
Night of the full moon
Whale fish are most adept at swimming around in a shot glass but glass goblets are preferred by dolphins whose long dorsal fin opts for wide open rimmed spaces. Stingrays desire to be seen in the most finest crystal glasses but the flat fish is only ever seen in a tumbler. Often tumbling. And giggling with pure delight. But what of ambition from all these creatures. Would they not want to swap? Are they ever content with their locations? Omnipresent octopi often offer octagonal orifices. The vertical verb of a naughty little variegated platy can vary a variant victoriously. How rather marvellous that is isn't it?
Instinct ink can inform. But ink that is mislaid, misinformed and generally mundane is confused and confusion can offer creations canopies of catastrophic chasms. Mingle in a mangle then. Up and down the threads. Obviously a straight ironed trousers. Hemmed. Could see straight through 27 pairs of skirts in rows and point out the pin marks.
Awkward antelope answering apostle ants?How quite amazing! Well it is isn't it? And the gathering of the buds upon the washing line can hang out in all weathers. Thus ensuring an even radius of elements to dry, wet then dry again. Broad shoulders of a bean. Big bloated buffalo's beating banging bongo's. Baboon laughs and laughs and laughs and lingers on leaves no more for the beat is too amazing to place himself in such a confined positional place but heated propositions from a piglet often sway the breezes. And the backwards running tap always laughs at the dandelion in flight. Because it is very very very funny indeed!
WOW
Running ruining radii ravish radishes ridiculing realities. Such reduction in a nylon beaded glove. And gloves of a geranium are often glowing and glowering at the same time. Such a simultaneous display of floral fragrant feats.
WOW
Fiddle fathoms fish fetching forks finely.
Z at the X lauwiliwilinukunuku?oi?oi Z to X
At 46 mealworms chatting over a nice cup of tea at a garden fete to 19 cackling teapots dressed in wintry jumpers smoking.
X