Pumpkin Spice

Pumpkin Spice

First, I feel the need to say that everything on my site is copyrighted and of my intellectual property, belonging to myself and Phlare Physiques, LLC. I once discovered someone (I didn’t personally know her) had stolen my work and put it up online as her own. I ripped her a new one and got her to take it down. If you doubt whether I can tap into my angry, stern side, just remember these three things about me: 1) I am a Scorpio; 2) I was a high school English teacher; we tend to the meanest, toughest, but still some of the coolest teachers you’ll have in your high school career, and 3) I’ve deadlifted 330 pounds after weighing in at 114.5 pounds the day before. It takes some kind of emotion  (crazy?) to pick up that kind of weight.

Anywho, now that we got those unpleasantries out of the way, let us move into my typical method of writing poetry because this particular blog post is actually a poem and not just an act of threatening legal action against any nitwits who steal my work. My poetry often forms out of fragments, sentences, and paragraphs I’ve jotted down in the spur of a moment. There typically isn’t much I can do with said formation of words in terms of inserting it into a short story or an essay, but the flow of words and the imagery within leave enough of a handprint on my heart that I feel the need to rearrange and change the format, turning it into poetry with my magic wand. I guess it’s about the closest I’ll become to being a fairy godmother. Yet other times, my poetry forms out of a particular sense that takes my spotlight that day. Sight, touch, smell, sound, taste. This little diddy below actually started when I was using “butterscotch” to describe something that I won’t divulge just yet, and from there the thought of cinnamon wafted through my mind. The strength of such a spice. Then, an image and feel of biting into a cookie (and not just because I am in contest prep and want a cookie). Then how I felt in the moment, how I think I am sometimes perceived, how I don’t mind being perceived as such and am still troubled by it all the same. Voila! The poem below was born.

And this leads me to one last thought before I allow you (yes…”allow”) to read my poem. Writers open themselves to the public, like a man wearing a trench coat and flashing the goods before covering up and scurrying away into the shadows. The sight never leaves your eyes. My words should burn a memory, like a cigarette leaving its mark on a cotton sleeve. Not everything I write that is on the creative side of things is pure fiction; neither is it true truth. But every great writer takes some aspect of the real world, of things experienced, of loves lost, heartaches gained, happiness stolen, and morning rains that eventually clear to allow sunshine through before the moon pulls it all away. So is this poem the real me? Who knows. You surely won’t. What of Cinderella is real? The glass slipper? The pumpkin? Both? Neither? Does it matter? Did it entertain you? Do I entertain you? If you answer yes, then read on. What do you have to lose…besides a touch of sanity and a little reality?


Do not call me nice.
For I have a little spice.
It seeps through my pores
And travels along my skin
Crawling on all fours
I am cinnamon…
With a bite.
I crunch in your teeth
Chew as you may
Chew all day
You won’t spit me out.
Stuck in the bony crevices
I stay
So bite down
Bite hard
Bite through
But don’t bite more than you can chew
For I am tart
I am tang
I shall sting
And you will cling
All the while wanting to fling my crumbs to the floor
One swipe of the hand
One beat of the heart
Don’t start
Not with me
For I have spice
And I am not nice

Copyright 2017, Jodi Leigh Miller