Thursday, August 20, 2015

Ode on a MaMaw's Mug

O' MeMaw, MaMaw,
Grandmother Jones,
felt your old new wind
chime my new old bones.

When distracted I was,
coffee ready to sip,
I slightly slurped hot
to knot burn my slip grip.

Then out rang my lava,
crying a potter-pang moan.
MaMaw chilling hotter,
screams of java - home groan.

“That's smart,” she'd say,
and she'd mean my tongue.
My cup she poured
before I was young.

War hot, coffee fought,
piping searing soldiers sung,
fills gills warm
to the holes in their bums.

Grasping chicory bubble comfort,
drinking beans like they're beer,
O' Nuclear Guts,
please ring the Rear Engineer.

This horizon tower cools now,
showing Row Z in my palm,
but silhouettes of Three-Mile Island
always make me calm.

Amusing births in basements,
bleeding colors hide the crack.
There’s mold on a table
by the freezer in the black.

She fires back upon
her red-faced mug.
Kiln a love burn lonely,
when your kin is lost in love?

MeMaw's swirling mug
ruddied bottom-silt drips,
glistening on beads
on bracelet stiff lips.

Ceramic dusting shores
lights her hair angelic.
Halo powders white
-- her sweet and low relic.

O' MeMaw, MaMaw,
Grandmother Jones,
this sin-cracked vessel
is the best that I own.

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