I have two poems today because I forgot to put up this first one from September 24. It was another mimic poem, this one of "This is Just to Say."

‘THIS IS JUST TO SAY’

I thought you

Should know,

You’ve moved out

Of the

Apartment.  Your

Boxes are

In the kitchen and

Your cat

In her crate.

Forgive me

But it turns out,

It’s time for you to go.

This next poem is crazy long, unintentionally. We were suppose to write a poem in the form of a recipe and wrote mine about how to make a blackberry pie.

BLACKBERRY PIE

                       

Mom said you can’t make blackberry pie

without a little luck, so I guess that’s

where you start.

You get yourself some luck, put it in a

container so it doesn’t slip away,

and stick it in the fridge for when we need it.

Because, mom said, you always need a little.

Then you put your cornstarch in a bowl,

add all that sugar and the 6 cups of blackberries.

Before touching this mess, you’ve got

to wash your hands because

blackberries don’t like to get sick either.

Now you push up your sleeves,

hold out your hands like a grizzly ready to attack,

and start mushing the stuff together.

Once they’ve all become such good friends

that you can’t tell one from the other,

you stick it in the fridge next to the luck.

Now, mom said, it’s time for the tricky part:

The crust.

Mom said the crust is like a hospital.

Everything has to be cold before you begin

and everything is crème colored.

Your flour, nearly too cold to cut butter,

a pinch of salt and little sugar and

some water that mom said if you poured

on a baboon's behind it would fall straight off.

Then go ahead and mix all of that together.

Now, before you get all cocky and lay down

your dough, thinking you know what you’re doing.

Stop.

Go to the fridge, take out your container of luck

and pour the whole thing in, because, like mom said,

you’re going to need it all, not just a little.

Okay, now you can lay it all out and take the rolling pin

and spread it into a circle, nine inches wide and this much thick.

Mom shows me by nearly pinching her fingers tips together.

Now because you’ve got all your luck weaving

throughout all that dough, it’s perfect and you can

lay it over your red ceramic pie dish.

Pinch the sides of the crust like mom does it.

Go to the fridge, take out the insides and pour

them all into your perfect pie shell.

Once the pie is out of the oven, all that

goodness and happiness and momness

will seep into your pores and you’ll know that,

with a little bit of luck, you did it just like mom.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and the Bullshit