Poetry Is Like Bread Ghazal #1
If, as Neruda thought, poetry is like bread,
Then let it leaven this dark time and be my bread.
No one waits to forgive the dead, don’t pardon the dirt, nor the psalm palms, this celebration of bread.
"All this lost time," she complained, "I'm bored dead."
"That one response," he answered. Kneading dough for bread.
But Love waits in the green, where olive trees bend. Love formed you from oil, mud, & rib. You began as bread
While the pantry grows empty, the imagination is fed, 
Savoring the flavor of last week’s bread.
Our bodies are prayers thrusted open as these streets are fed, knead light into frontline manna, bones of bread.
The floors are unswept, the gutters are clogged, my eyes are red—
Things I think I need but don’t, and won’t get: hummus, paper towels, chai latte, multigrain bread.
The urge to knead until the need is shed 
for human touch brings forth the softest bread.
Are you a citizen of everywhere or stuck inside your head? Consume a diet of sky, no more prison bread.
Masked and gloved, our neighbor kneads the dough, watches loaves rise, and bikes them fresh to his mother’s door.
She waves from the window, his love, her bread.
Avoid buying tasty bits of shy and endangered Pangolin to reduce the viral spread,
and keep an eye out for bat infested scientist who poisoned our daily bread.
Ancient grain persists in the dead air of new centuries, it reaches ever upward to offer its lasting bread.
El mundo estaba muriendo why are we  mourning it's passing? Voices muted at birth.
Millions died for a piece of bread. Hunger in our souls.
Now at the crucible we take time to make bread.
My children sit and ask what will happen next and I tell them we will set the table, slice the bread.
I'm glad am not of Covid 19, dead.
So I can drink my liquid bread.
World awry. A rye starter in the window, silent charm against dread. Fold the sourdough: slow time, my bread.
police fire / body drop / protest / fame distracts
bright light / fool's gold / souls sold / crumbs mold / never worth the bread
A simple scent snakes its way into my head.
A seductive memory.
Call me by your bread.
Struggling (and losing) in this Antipoem, ghosted thread,
Spreading cool butter, sweet jam on homemade toasted bread.
