Writer C

The sugar, the flour
Poured down like a blizzard
On top of the
Semi-sweet morsel who shivered

The other chips in the bowl,
All unassuming
Of their imminent end
From the beaters now looming

And had she a mouth
She thought, with a shudder,
She’d at least give a
Sobering farewell to the cupboard

Oh the cupboard! Her home!
The “Cool and Dry Place”
Now the irony! Shameful irony
Of yoke in her face

Did the Baker not know?
Chocolate chips come in last!
They’re the grand finale:
The recipe’s climax

But to her soul’s great agony,
It was too late
Down came the beaters
Down came her fate

They beat up the butter
Mixed in the extract
They shaved off the tip
Of her tiny chip hat

Like the final swing
of the Grim Reaper’s scythe
The mixer slowed down;
She clung to her life

Bruised, part melted
And (literally) battered
She tried to make sense
Of the whole disastrous matter

In the end she was scooped
From her dizzy delirium
And laid to rest on her grave
Of non-stick aluminum

Writer D

Flour dusts the windowsill
Mirroring the snow outside
It dances like a schoolgirl
The wind has no manners
On the cold, open plains
A shiver runs up, not down
From my toes
Which try to curl against the
Cold wood floor
From my toes to my bare knees
Knocking under all the skirts
That cannot hide me from the wind
From my knees to my waist
Where flour dusts my apron
Like an animal in the snow
From my waist to my chest
Bare like the plains
Nothing womanly adorns me
Though my dancing schooldays
Have flown away on the wind
From my chest to my cheeks
Tears slide down them
Like schoolboys sledding
For I have no one to bake for
Save the rude wind
Lonely as I

Writer A

Every day outside our house
Someone stands with a megaphone
“It’s time to wake, it’s time to wake!”
Says who? Who cares? Leave me alone!

“It’s time to wake!” shouts the megaphone
I cover my ears and bury my head,
But the noise, it does not ever STOP
Til the kids and I get out of bed

   I’d rather be home with the oven on
   Flour mixed with butter
   I’d rather be home with the oven on

Then another person marches up.
Just outside, by our front steps
And the megaphone gets lifted up
“It’s time to dress, it’s time to dress!”

The words mean more than just our clothes
We have to wear our daytime selves
We have to dress as mom and kids
The roles we keep up on the shelves

The megaphone is shouting, so,
We put on pant and shirt and mask
The megaphone drowns out all sounds
Except the sound of our next task

   I’d rather be home with the oven on
   Flour, butter, sugar
   I’d rather be home with the oven on

I wish I could ignore the thing
Or silence it by saying No
Especially the next command:
“It’s time to go, it’s time to GO!”

We have to put on shoes and coats
Though we may whine and we may groan
We have to go outside and shiver
We MUST obey the megaphone.

I’d rather be home with the oven on
   Flour mixed with butter
   I’d rather be home with the oven on

Writer B

She’s a backwards storm
Raging in the eye
While the world serenely swirls around her

She’s a bugle in a handbell choir
Loud and brassy
Out of place

She’s fire on a hot day
Wind in the cold
Dryness in the desert
And moisture where there’s mold

Where she goes
Is where she doesn’t want to be

And even the greener grass
Seems to have a twinge of brown
And loses its luster
As she loses her resolve

Others see the raging storm
the bugle
fire
wind
drought
mold

Discontent

She moves through life
Like a window shopper
Seeing lives that aren’t hers
Like a child seeing toys on display

She’s on the outside looking in
And the knowledge of her outsideness
Makes her shiver

The world is sometimes so hot she could cry for the shade
So parched that the dust settles around her
Like flour bursting from a broken bag

But…
There are some who see her
Really see her
And offer her a drink, a meal, a hug, a home

And sometimes she sees them
Really sees them
And knows that’s what she’s searching for

To find a place where love grows in the desert
Where warmth is found in the winter
Where calm is created in the storm
Where rest is given beside cool waters

Home

This was our prompt:

Write a poem using both of these words:

• Shiver
• Flour

20 minute challenge