I beseech the sun to undress the stars
In the same manner you disrobe hearts
Inspiring indigo pulse to dance runaway
Carrying cranberry cries yellow yesterday
Exposed by charm your whimsical words
I’m like a feather in your arms like birds
Riding romantic breeze unlimited heights
Purple passion coloring days and nights
High as a red kite I’m destined to swoon
Emerald eyes hypnotized by light of moon
As a night flower power in your blue bloom
I lay with you hours as we cradle and spoon
As hot as lava you stir me from within
I am white paper ready to receive black pen
Words fall like rain despite night or day
Forever promising you’ll never go away
Partaking of the gifts of grace,
where each indulgence we release,
leaving no trace of love’s embrace,
we flow thus with nonchalant ease.
We have an unfair advantage,
being charged with bliss magnetism,
so we are free though in this cage,
of illumined mind-body prism.
As God’s child, each wish is fulfilled,
provided of course heart be pure
and the fertile soul of love tilled.
Our vibrant persona demure,
we seek nothing and yet we know,
divine entwined we are secure.
I found it buried in Grandma’s drawer,
the blasted wooden spoon with the burn mark
and the hairline crack God knows what from.
She snatched it from my hand like it was alive.
“That thing’s seen more trouble than you,” she said,
and the air in the kitchen shifted,
as if the spoon remembered something
and was waiting to see if I did too.
It wasn’t for stirring beans.
It wasn’t for tasting stew.
that spoon was for pointing ... slow, deliberate
at any child that had forgotten their manners.
My father swore he could hear it hum
before it struck the table.
My mother said it twitched in the drawer
when someone lied in the next room.
By the time it came for my generation,
we didn’t need the smack,
just the lift of Grandma’s hand toward the drawer,
the shadow of the spoon rising like judgment.
And years later, when my own children tested me,
I reached for it not in a drawer, but in its own crock
felt its weight settle into my palm,
felt every ancestor nod in approval.
The spoon never touched them.
It didn’t have to.
Some objects carry their own history,
and this one still waits in the crock,
quiet as a predator stalking its prey.
Cutting out a paper moon,
now in April not in June.
Eating ice cream with a spoon,
seeing TV moon at noon.
Now gluing it will dry soon,
to make a funny cartoon.
Paper moon is a balloon.
He has a forked tongue
He shoots words like a gun
I only wished to cuddle and spoon
Found Prince Charming really a goon
To make a limerick oatcake
Five spoonful of wheat flour it`ll take,
The first, second and fifth spoons of 7-10 syllables must chime
With a rhyme that flows smoothly through all times.
The third and the fourth spoons of 5-7 syllables are bound,
To hold to the same sweet final sound
To each other with the same air,
Though quite shorter they surely are.
Then one adds a cup of powdered milk grand,
One cup of rolled oat of a noble brand,
Half a cup of sugar one must weave,
With a pinch of salt as joke that readers shall believe.
Let `s not omit drops of vanilla, a spoonful of baking powder,
And half a cup of butter before bringing to a knead proper
By adding a cup of liquid milk, a little at a time,
Leaving the knead for a while to shine.
The knead is checked for correctness,
Rolled in little balls, flattened with sharpness,
Then placed on a preheated buttered pan
And set in the oven, eight minutes each side, to turn grand.
the fork thought the knife and spoon were against her
A conspiracy was in the works, their mission impure
She used her ring finger and accused them of a conspiracy
The spoon pointedly ignored her and stirred up his green tea
The knife was not as wise as the spoon and argued most of the day
It seemed to give them satisfaction said the spoon named Gray.
They are used to arguing, it is their way to be romantic he thought.
He had heard his parents scraping and hissing since he was a tot.
Is there a 'you'
in the middle --- the center?
Reality is always shuffling the center.
in order to seem
it is consistently hard-wired.
Short answer – nothing is happening.
When we look at the convex back
of a silver teaspoon,
the image seems to be more than we can see
through a flat reflection.
When you consider
what the mind is showing you,
you have already lost your place
in the so-called center.
This is yet one more thing
not to think about.
Speak of the devil incarnate
to give the devil his due
not to play devil's advocate
tho' devil-may-care
the devil is in the details
and while we're there
to state so now would be opportune
he who sups devil's food cake
or devilled eggs with the devil
should have a very long spoon
but if we don't the devil you say
better the silver-tongued devil you know
or there'll be the devil to pay
and we may go to the devil and be
between the devil and the deep blue sea
but it's the devil in me
as for the devil I have no sympathy
Your back, a velvet crescent,
draws my chest like gravity.
I map the slope of you slowly,
each breath a question my hands almost ask.
Flesh hums between folds of cotton,
heat slipping into heat —
a kind of friction language forgets,
where fingertips write what mouths resist.
You arch, slightly —
a sigh or a signal,
and my pulse answers before I do.
This hush is not silence —
it’s a storm paused,
a fuse lit beneath restraint.
Even the moon blushes,
half-hidden behind clouds,
as my thigh cups yours
and the bed tilts toward temptation.
We are a poem unfinished,
lines unwritten but implied,
rhyming in rhythm,
spooned in syntax,
where meaning dares the margin.
Your back, a shoreline my breath returns to,
warm as tidewater held past midnight.
I trace the hush between your shoulder blades —
a silence taught to speak in skin.
The room forgets its corners.
Only the curve of us remains:
two commas curling into a sentence
neither of us dares to end.
My knee behind yours,
a lock finding its key.
Even the sheets have stopped pretending
they’re not listening.
Outside, the moon lingers —
a voyeur of our stillness.
Inside, your exhale folds into mine
like verses learning their rhyme.
Two spoons
You can keep one
I do not intend to share
I have not had a hot fudge sundae in forever
My tongue salivates like a starving dog when she is ready
Perfect with whipped cream and cherry
Tasty
existence be
h/our time
mind-body flight...
as winged...
up and down
periods of
waiting...
for some
real-at-tea
but in...
a pressed-sense
of thought
now...
it means
i forgot
...cold cup...microwave!...
len
(Sponsor : Kai Michael Newmann)
MOON ON A SPOON
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
Oh ? Really !
you ballyhoo coon
you make me swoon
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
Why not bring me
a chocolate cocoon
I will wriggle out
festooned !
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
We will eat it at noon
in our magical room
then to our doom !
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
My goon, so goop !
Where are you from ?
a souk goof ?
If I could I would
fetch you the moon
on a spoon
How ?
Lo ! I do not know !
My spoon has
sailed with a
monsoon
And the moon
has fallen into
a true blue
lagoon too
soon !
What a meal it would be…
moon on a spoon
stars on a fork
planets poked with knives
You’d have the most celestial dish
because I love you
I would play divine creator
to soothe your soul
and to make you mine
Your eyes would sparkle
as you dine of such heavenly items
And I would be there with you
eating in unison
You must understand my love
that I love you more than life
So eat
find pleasure in the galactic soup
that will bind us together for all eternity
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