Tweetspeak Poetry

Photo Play: Bread, Pastries, and Pies

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Instagram remains a popular app for visual storytelling and from what we’ve seen, much of the plot is based on breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Although “foodstagramming” has its critics, there are many who celebrate the picture-perfect plate and keep right on dishing out foodie photographs to share with the world.

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. We can’t get enough of our favorite pastries, and it shows (in our poetry, of course)!  Here is a poem from Robbie we enjoyed:

The pastries rest in placidity
Placed sophisticatedly
And enshrined in glass
Inaccessible
Mocking our simplicity
Invoking insecurity
We leave for donuts

—by Robbie Pruitt

PHOTO PLAY PROMPT: Check out these helpful tips on how to make your food photographs look their best. Before you dive into that crusty loaf of artisan bread or slice of homemade cherry pie, take a moment to capture an artfully arranged photo. Share it with us by linking it in the comments. Hungry yet?

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NOTE TO POETS: Looking for your Monday poetry prompt? On Photo Play weeks, it’s right here. Find inspiration from the photo in the post and respond with a poem. Leave your poem in the comment box. We’ll be reading. :)

Photo by Robert S. Donovan. Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Heather Eure.

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Sometimes we feature your poems in Every Day Poems, with your permission of course. Thanks for writing with us!

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Comments

  1. Robbie Pruitt says

    Thank you for featuring my poem “Pastries of Sophistication” here. So glad you all liked it enough to re-post. I am overwhelmed and humbled considering all the wonderful poems posted on last week’s prompt. Thank you!

    Reply

  4. Sandra Wirfel says

    Sorry behind the times here, no instagram’s from me, although I am enjoying seeing what others have contributed for the few that open on my computer. So great being a part of this poetic community.

    Reply

  5. Richard Maxson says

    The Secret To Good Crust

    The recipe of life—
    soft and moist dark surfaces,
    pounding sounds and air round
    and varied, aloft somewhere.

    A force then, a motion outward bent
    toward the light and spaces rent,
    a swelling of the world, and faces,
    loving, strange and harsh to make a crust.

    From recipe to the cooling rack,
    this is it—the yeast breathing
    and budding, making pockets
    for the dough and those apples,

    lace them over well, like delicious
    chain mail, until cooled, then eat,
    but always remember the first one,
    unnamed, and all the weight since.

    Reply

  6. Marcy Terwilliger says

    “It’s all about that Crust”

    Yes, that crust
    The trim
    What’s leftover
    Fell from the rim
    Not needed
    For that pie
    Take those pieces
    Pile them up high
    Roll out with the pen
    Spread that butter
    With your hand
    Sprinkle sugar
    Then cinnamon too
    Bake at 400 degrees
    That’s what you do
    It’s all about that crust
    Crisp and hot
    Just take a bite
    Who needs the pie
    It’s about that crust
    Let’s get that right.

    Reply

    • Sandra Wirfel says

      I loved this. I love making pie crust, my great grandmother had a melt in your mouth crust, the recipe is over a hundred years old, and the secret ingrediant was a tablespoon of milk, I will have to see if I can find the recipe and post it.

      Reply

  7. Richard Maxson says

    Crusts

    I.

    From my windows the mountains
    are a pie when I was small,
    fingers on the table’s edge,
    a warning shouted down the hall.

    I see my Mother’s fingers nip
    the dough, two different window panes,
    one dusty with neglect, one ever fair
    that time has tried to steal in vain.

    II.

    Sometimes the snow was stiff,
    it melted in your mouth (not sweet),
    like clouds, not lofty ones,
    but like the clouds I used to eat.

    Or off the curb in great plowed piles,
    like meringue four buckles on my boot,
    mud-water brown along the top,
    trouble lurking in the soot.

    III.

    Awakened to fix my tray and seat,
    in spite of what I try to hold,
    these dreams abated by the bell,
    while I obey what I am told.

    As if in a poem with miles to go,
    I feel the plane begin to slow,
    the wing my side is dipping low,
    for mountains filling up with snow.

    Reply

  8. Marcy Terwilliger says

    Without the Crust, No Pie!

    Crust, so flaky like me,
    Tender, like my heart
    Not puffed up you see.
    This is deep,
    Pricking and re-pricking is involved
    Am I the only one?
    Sometimes I have difficulty,
    Not puffed up
    I’m level headed you see.
    Be accurate
    I’m seeing variables in this,
    Thin with age
    Chilling cold.
    Be a pleasure to be successful
    Skill and practice
    Stretching my tears.
    Pin in hand, my fingers crimp with age,
    Pinch, push, toss.
    Is this the slice of my life?

    Reply

  12. Elizabeth Marshall says

    When The Lights Go Out

    I trace tan edges of your silhouette
    Spy your profile, in the dim lit room
    Decide how deep I’ll go
    In search of your forbidden
    Fruit
    Hot with heat of
    Cheeries open
    Running
    Like hot lava
    Seeping into every bite
    My
    Tongue tip
    Tip toes up and down the tines
    Of silver dessert
    Fork

    I dig deep into the freezer
    Vanilla ice cream
    Needed now
    To cool the heat
    Rising from deep within

    I sit
    Alone
    Savoring the memory of you
    And I

    Woman and her slice of pie
    Stolen moments
    In the dark

    There is nothing left
    But sweet moments of
    the last bite
    I took

    After the lights went out
    Last night

    Until I bake again
    Sweet
    Tart

    Reply

  13. Magdalena Ball says

    Probably a bit late now to be posting on this one, right? But I’m a late starter – and poetry never go stale (unlike pastries). Will go do fortune cookie now and try to keep to schedule – thanks for the prompts!

    Ascetic Stitch

    There’s an ascetic stitch
    here, at the arctic centre of my chest
    something old, withered,
    graceless
    but still throbbing.

    It’s hard to trace the origin
    but I know it has to do with
    those once crisp, flaky croissants
    neglected, with the carefully placed
    jam, butter, chocolate spread
    left for no one
    on the kitchen table.

    We share our affliction
    most keenly
    in the kitchen.

    All the licking and hording
    counting the chews
    checking for preservatives, GMOs and other poisons
    passing down guilt
    feeding and failing
    blurring the lines between parent
    and child.

    I keep trying to pretend I’m different.

    In the end you became so thin
    the skin was hanging.

    Fear fashioned itself into
    a well-stocked fridge
    a cupboard loaded with uneaten food
    in the event of
    the unseen, anticipated
    bogyman
    finally arriving.

    He arrived all right
    but by then
    you had no appetite.

    Reply

    • Donna says

      Magdalena, I am so glad you did…

      You had me right from the beginning… from “the arctic centre of my chest” I get a frantic, groundless feeling from your poem.

      “Fear fashioned itself into
      a well-stocked fridge”
      and
      “by then
      you had no appetite.”

      Oh my goodness, there is so much here, from beginning to end. Thank you for sharing your words with us. Please come often, because, as you said, poetry never goes stale.

      Reply

    • Elizabeth W. Marshall says

      Welcome to Tweetspeak. What a gift to have you writing poetry here.
      Your words here leave me hungry for more of your poetry. Going back for a second read. This is rich indeed.
      P.S. you arrived righton time 🙂

      Reply

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