Welcome to day 2 of the September Open Write! Below is your writing inspiration, some ideas for getting started, and a sample poem. When you are ready, post your poem in the comment section below.
Join us tonight at 5pm CT to meet other Open-Writers and share a poem (or just listen). Sign up here to get the meeting link.
Inspiration
While teaching creative writing, I enjoyed encouraging my students to imagine what it would be like to be totally absorbed into a substance or to imagine immersing oneself into another creature, etc. I would begin by having them list as many substances as they could in a few minutes, and then choose some of their top choices. After their selection, I had them explore words and sensory details connected with their topic. This writing prompt invites students to do a little research about their chosen topic in order to include some facts about their subject. We would read “The Kitchen Sill” by Renee Moenk, one of my favorite poems, today’s mentor poet, and my sister.
Kitchen Sill
I made jello today
The window was open and my gingham jars
Filled with baking delights
Enticed me to make something green,
Lime—royal style.
It was just beginning to gel
When I slipped my bare foot, then my nose
Inside.
I giggled in its freedom
And its resounding echoes jiggled my body
Into outstretched limbs that
Have never felt so light.
The phone rang…………………………
I still had time to get out
There was still a smoothness of gel
I knew I was capable of getting through
But the world in lime-light
Was too beautiful to lose.
I remained and watched
As the shield of protective skin embalmed me to eternal
Jello
Now I live in a world where I never fear
Of falling off the edge.
renee moenk
Process
For my poem, I chose to be a bee as BE are my initials. I recalled an old song we used to sing that had the line “I’m bringing home a baby bumble bee” …perhaps some of you know this tune. Anyway, the challenge is finding a way to get into your topic and to explore the physicality of the experience. My device is not so clever, but students will often find extremely clever and hilarious ways to get inside their subjects. I also did a little research about bees and inserted a few facts into the poem. Please have fun with this or choose a favorite poem of a friend or sibling to inspire your writing today. Enjoy!
Barb’s Poem
BE
swaying in a hammock
beneath a canopy of trees
I feel a cool summer breeze
tickle my buzzing head
enticing me into a magical
dream of becoming me, a BE—
a black-gold bumbling bee,
with two wings; five eyes; six legs,
dive bombing black-eyed susans;
purple coneflowers
striving to provide a half teaspoon of honey for my hive
until my translucent wings between
two pudgy hands, fully possess my stinger;
ignite a cacophony of firecracker cries;
bird flight—
softly,
silently,
I drift past sunbeam dreams
into an infinite slumber—
no more buzz
no more BE—
my pollen,
a golden dusty reminder
of a honeyed life denied
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
About Our Open Write Host
Barb Edler lives in Keokuk, Iowa and teaches English Composition part-time at Iowa Wesleyan University in Mt. Pleasant, Iowa. Barb has been a participant of the Iowa Writing project and loves to inspire students to take risks and to find their own writer’s voice. She enjoys spending time with her family, watching the Mississippi River roll by, reading, and being inspired by the wonderful writers of the Ethical ELA writing community.
I love to see the night sky:
twinkling lights set against the deepest of black.
The stars inset in a river of darkness
reach out their arms, their jaws, their formlessness
and swallow me whole.
Racing along the starry currents
my cares begin to slip
I escape from the world
and dance around in the sky
Mekinzie, your poem is gorgeous. I love the personification imagining the sky swallowing you and then the wonderful, exuberant race and dance across the sky. Delightful poem. I’m glad I came back to this page to find your starry poem!
Not well polished but definitely a fun piece to write tonight! I’m desperately hanging onto summer flavors.
Galette dough hardly needs kneading
though it ought to be cool and moist,
so into the fridge it goes–
besides, I need time to harvest just-about-ripe
sun gold tomatoes and overgrown basil.
All the while, I soak in a rare patch of sunshine on this
rainy, Oregon day and toss a tiny tomato to a good dog.
Time is of no importance as I wash the dirt
off each leaf with care,
and relish in the smell of
freshly cut mozzarella.
As the oven preheats, I roll the dough
and deliberately place each topping
before placing the humble masterpiece
on the warmed racks.
The finish product was as delicious
as the process.
What is the point of a good meal
if not to immerse yourself in all of it?
Rachelle,
I like your take on today’s prompt.
You galette process sounds fun. I lime how you harvested your own ingredients.
Oh, my mouth is watering. Beautiful, Rachelle. And it gives us such a sweet glimpse of your day, and your homegrown goodness. One of my favorite lines is, “and toss a tiny tomato to a good dog.”
Rachelle, I was completely immersed in your kitchen. Your first line with “needs kneading” was fun and inviting, and the description of tomatoes and basil had me smelling and savoring the beauty. Your final line says it all. I bet every bite was glorious! Thank you!
Rachelle,
So much sensory delight in this poem. Its delicious to read! I particularly enjoy “toss a tiny tomato to a good dog,” and “The finished product was as delicious as the process.”
Rachelle,
I love your take on this. There is so much joy in creating a delicious meal—especially when you grew many of the ingredients! I want a piece!
Rainbow Fish
By: Emily Yamasaki
I gave away
each one of my
perfect, rainbow scales
I smile
when I see them smile
at these beautiful gifts
But
Did I have to give
all of myself
away to feel
happy?
Emily, what a poem, and a perfect pairing to read with the book Rainbow Fish. I, and I’m sure children, have wondered the same question. Wouldn’t your poem make a great conversation starter?
Oh, Emily, your question at the end is haunting. Your poem reminds me of The Giving Tree. Loved the lines “I smile/when I see them smile/ at these beautiful gifts”. Poignant, tender, and beautiful poem!
I just ‘awwwed’ out loud at the end of that. Sadly – I don’t know the book – ! But I know of it, and I like Denise K’s suggestion about using that as a conversation starter. It also reminds me of using poems to have students write about a book they have read or about a character in a story. Indeed, brevity sometimes has the greatest impact.
Barb — This was a fun prompt! I loved the way you captured the essence of the bee.
Especially loved these line:
“striving to provide a half teaspoon of honey for my hive
until my translucent wings between
two pudgy hands, fully possess my stinger;
ignite a cacophony of firecracker cries;”
Evolution of Wine
Sipping on a glass of
Cabernet
I muse about
the process of ancient winemaking,
not
because I have any burning deserve to make wine
but
only because I am interested
in the evolution
of those grapes …
Purpled feet stomping
and trodding me
into must,
a harvest dance transformation,
magical and romantic.
I am clusters of fruit
turning to wine,
clinging to skin (I’ll not be separated),
to garner color
flavor, tannins
remaining red,
soaking in yeast,
fermenting,
sugar siphoning away
alcohol remains
10% to 15%
depending on the climate,
filtering dead yeast cells,
allowing me to age
awhile and age awhile more
before bottling me,
before pouring me,
into
a long stemmed goblet
so you can muse
over my bold flavor
my evolution …
while sipping on a glass
of Cabernet
Tammi, what a great intro to then writing a fact-filled poem about making wine. I love seeing it through the eyes of the grapes. I love the transition from being the sipper of the wine to being the grapes here:
Smooth process and beautiful result~
Tammi, I love the shift here from yourself to the wine and back again. Rich wine making details to show this long process and the grape’s resistance was clear. I so enjoyed “so you can muse/over my bold flavor”. Your entire poem has me longing for a long savoring sip of wine. Brilliant!
Barb, thank you for another fun and challenging prompt! I enjoyed the inspirational pieces from you and your sister.
Salutations
a sisterhood of
spiny orb-weaver spiders
swiftly build not-so-delicate webs
sticky and strong
stretched wide across the lawn
railing to roofline
silken strands cling to leaves and limbs
invisible in the early morning light
except for the black and white shell
centered in the masterpiece
inches from my face
Betsy — As soon as you started describing the “sticky and strong” web “stretched wide across the lawn” I started to get the creepy crawly feeling. That spider inches from your face! Yuck! Every morning I run into webs on the way to my garage. I think I would totally lose my —-if I ran into the spider.
Betsy, what a cringeworthy spidery poem. I love the way you used images to describe the scene of a yard full of these “not-so-delicate” and “sticky and strong” traps. Well done!
The “inches from my face” gave me the shivers. It reminded me of another poem about the Orb Weaver I read on Mary Lee Hahn post last Friday. “Tanka for the Orb Weaver,” with similar results. You can read it here: https://ayearofreading.org/2021/09/16/poetry-friday-a-trio-of-tankas/
Betsy, I love how you build such beautiful imagery of the spider webs, and lead us to that heart-stopping end! I giggled out loud totally recognizing how I would react to seeing that black and white shell. Loved “railing to roofline” and “spiny orb-weavers”. Really gorgeous and fun poem!
Betsy–
I love the sounds you chose to use in your poem! The repetition of “s” sounds mimics the spider webs you are describing and catches the reader in the web.
Hovering
It’s a thing I do outside the window
in the evening and dark, so I can
see clearly the lights and everyone
I love at this family gathering
Just like before, I’ve slipped away
without notice and like a spy or
the wisp of a spirit I take in
the cacophony of laughter and
voices vying to be heard
Tears gather at the welling place
my heart is full and I take in
this moment amid so many moments
My daughters are the sisters now,
like Mama and Aunty Monty back then
and they have taken the place where
Nana and Aunty Bill once towered
And as I hover, eyes glassy,
I imagine a soft touch and
whisper, tethering me
between so much love
Shelly, Wow, this poem is so moving and thought-provoking. The eyes being glassy and imagining a soft touch to tether it is complex and inviting. I love the sense of absorbing the love, and the hovering becomes an emotion as well as an action. I especially enjoyed your second stanza, the whole “wisp of a spirit” and the sense of being a spy but the desire to take in the cacophony of laughter is magnificent. I am not completely sure about the perspective here, who the sisters are, etc. but that does not take away from your poem’s appeal. Truly wonderful! Thank you!
Shelly — This narrator feels a bit like Charlotte from Charlotte’s Web. I imagine a spider wishing to be included in the family. Beautiful poem.
Wow, Shelly, what a beauty. I thought of my own grandmother, Aunt Thelma, and later my mom and Aunt Aileen. And now my own nieces setting the agenda and creating family. I wonder who is watching from the dark into the light in your poem?
We got our first big rain of the season here in Oregon this weekend, so I decided to become one with a raindrop.
Perhaps if I wasn’t sunbathing on the surface of the ocean,
I would not have evaporated and risen into the air.
It is fun, however, to ride the winds, traveling
hither and yon without a care in the sky.
But now I’m over land and it is definitely warming up–
and the heat is lifting me higher and higher
until it is very very cold and I freeze into a crystal.
I wonder if I’ll be a snowflake, landing on a child’s tongue?
All of my frozen friends and I have latched onto
particles of dust and smoke from the earth below
and now we’re dancing together in a cloud-whee!
Perhaps we shouldn’t dance so close,
we’re merging and beginning to fall, warming as we go.
This is lovely, I’m falling over a yard, it’s so nice–
but wait! I’m not slowing down! I’m going to–SPLAT!
I’ve landed on the red roof of a hummingbird feeder.
Sliding down the side I’m falling again to the ground.
Ah. Nice. The soil is damp and warm and full of friends.
Cara,
I love the idea that you pose from the start . . .
Cara, what a terrific ride you’ve created here through the voice of a raindrop. I especially like the sense of tough that stands out throughout the entire piece from sunbathing to freezing to falling into warm, damp soil “full of friends” Simply delightful! Thank you!
What a journey, Cara! Thanks for taking us along with you!
Cara,
I love the lighthearted vibes going on in your poem. I still love catching snowflakes on my tongue.
Cara, I really enjoyed this first-“person”-perspective of the water cycle! Very fun!
Cara, I enjoyed the journey of your rain drop in all of its forms and permutations. I think your poem would be a great inspiration for my students. Thank you for sharing!
Cara — I really enjoyed this raindrop narrator. I felt like I was a part of this water cycle, evaporating into the clouds and then falling back to earth. “The soil is damp and warm and full of friends ” is the perfect ending.
Cara, this was really fun! Definitely different than your normal poetry, and I really like the range you show! It’s hard to diverge from normal. I really like the SPLAT (the drama!) and the image of the hummingbird feeder, of course. Lastly, you taught me another vocabulary word through your poetry. Yon.
Cara,
It’s a science lesson in a poem! I enjoyed reading this, especially “the soil is damp and warm and full of friends.” Thank you for sharing!
I flop down
Onto my favorite spot.
The well-worn cushion
Welcomes me without complaint
As I sink into and
Become its comfort.
It is not long before
I feel the weight of my pup
Hopping up on me to cuddle
In his designated spot.
I selfishly hope others will
Choose a different seat in the room.
Donnetta, I had to look around my family room to see if you were lurking around, watching my life! I love how you become your cushion’s comfort.
Oh, Donnetta, what a funny, clever poem. You had me laughing out loud. Sinking into a chair and the feeling of comfort, is such a beautiful experience anyone can relate to. How do our pets know when we are feeling just right and want to experience the same thing? Thank you so much for this delightful poem and the laughter you brought to me today.
Love this vivid description and a pillow welcoming you “without complaint.” I see what you did there. I bet your pillow secretly hoped others would choose differently as well. Very clever and sweet!
Donnetta — This poem just exudes relaxation. Love these lines: As I sink into and/Become its comfort.
Morning Glory
By Mo Daley 9/18/21
I sip my tepid tea
on the patio
and watch as
the chickadee
the nuthatch
and the titmouse
feast together at the feeder
and I am in awe of the Almighty
who knew how those glorious shades of gray
would bring me such delight
Amen!!!
Mo, I enjoy how you move from tepid tea to shades of gray here. Enjoying the sweet serenity of a moment on the patio is perfectly stated in your poem. I love the specific birds catalogued and pictured feasting together. Gorgeous poem! Thank you for sharing!
Beautiful. I appreciate the movement from specific to “glorious shades of gray” and can almost see the fluttering of wings. You have captured an indelible moment. Well done.
Mo — Nature and its creatures really are beautiful and amazing!
Pressure from below
Pushes my pointy green tip
up through rich
Iowa dirt
where the sun
93.364 million miles away
then tugs me magnetically
toward her.
I stretch inches
in mere hours
resting only
briefly in the night
before another day of
push and
tug.
I am a lithe
and crisp
taper,
the tender spear
reclining beneath
soft eggs and warm hollandaise.
Allison, I love how you reveal your subject for what it truly is at the end of this poem. At first I thought you were a blade of grass. I can feel the stretching the pull and the tugging. Love the combination of words to describe; especially “taper,/the tender spear”. Marvelous poem! Thank you!
I love the lifecycle that you show, but I found these lines to be especially clever:
Allison, this is so well crafted! I love your alliteration (and consonance) throughout: “Pressure” and “pushes,” “taper” and “tender,” “crisp” and “reclining.” Thanks for writing and sharing this!
Allison, the reveal is such a nice surprise! I love the blend of science and narrative, the first person POV. I am struck by your use of consonance in the final stanza, the soft “s” and “sp” contrasting with the pops of “t” and “p.”
Wow, I never knew how fast asparagus could grow. I love the beauty in this teaching us about the sun’s work on this delicious little gem.
Barb, I loved your prompt today. Your sister’s jello poem was delightful. I’ve always wanted to dive into jello and I could feel it’s cool jiggly-ness. Your “BE” poem took me by surprise—a honeyed life denied made me so sad. I thought of the unexpectedness of death and all the things left undone. My poem is more about nurturing and growth, something I long for.
I Am a Tree
By Nancy White
I am a tree
By a brook bubbling in the wild;
My arms are wide open as the sky above me
Welcoming all who come my way.
My branches stretch and twist upward each day
My hands in a dance or sweet surrender,
I sway
To the sweet sounds of new life within:
Eggs hatching in baby birds’ nests
And the scurrying pitter-pat of squirrels’ feet
All proclaiming Spring is here.
Come, take shelter from the rain.
My leafy boughs are a green cape
Keeping you safe, sheltered.
Smell the spongy moss on my bark,
The woodsy scent which makes faeries perch
On my gnarled roots to bask in the moonlight.
Nancy, nurturing and growth are very present in your poem, as is a sense of celebration. I adore these lines also:
The woodsy scent which makes faeries perch
On my gnarled roots to bask in the moonlight.
–oh, how that paints a scene in my mind!
Nancy, what a gorgeous poem. Love the line “My hands in a dance or sweet surrender,/I sway”. The sensory appeal to smell, sight and touch are intoxicating here. Then your final line pulls it all together so well: “On my gnarled roots to bask in the moonlight.” Yes, perfect and lovely! You’ve definitely captured the sense of growth and nurturing in this poem. Thank you!
Barb, this prompt took me back, then brought me to today, and forced me to look forward. I guess, I should say thanks for making me see that even if we get out of the body for a short time in a poem, we eventually have to come home…to reality. I returned with an attitude. Thanks…I guess. 🙂
Maybe Not a Goat
In college, I ran track
With a number on my back
I wanted to be a panther
Just as swift, but maybe not black.
You see, too many women and men
Have been like the panther
Swift, and streamline and black
And have been shot and killed
Targeted as though they had numbers on their back.
For some, when they tried to run
Hooded folks followed as though it were fun
To keep track of the black as with numbers on their back.
Some blacks have been in prison
Wearing a number on their front
But when they get out, folks still would shout
“You can’t vote; you ain’t no GOAT
The greatest of all times.
You’re black, get back! That black’s not a coat.
That’s black skin you’re in and you can’t win.”
Today, thinking of them, I holler back
“Watch my smoke
I’m gonna win
And that’s no joke!
I’ll run like a pantha
“Cause I can and just ‘cause I wantta
Be swift. Like a pantha, I’m black.
I’ll raise that gold trophy in my hand
While you watch jealously in the stand.”
????Anna!! This is POWERFUL!! Yes!
All of your poem shouts loud and proud! I love it for its raw truth and boldness!
Anna, I love your powerful voice in the last stanza. I’m always impressed with how you can show an ugly truth or a triumph through rhythm and rhyme. The use of dialogue is extremely effective in your poem. I pray your voice and poem along with others I have read in this space can help shape a new tomorrow, but in the meantime I can see the black and gold here shining triumphantly, and I applaud your voice and poem! Thank you!
I have missed this space! At the end of this week, baby *Gabriel* will turn four months 🙂 It’s much more difficult to commit to writing these days – particularly, rewriting and discovering and drafting. I’m glad to be here anyway!
Nod to the Notebook
lined, dotted, graphed
I hold the words –
the sacred stories and
honest confessions and
wondrous curiosities
the bleary-eyed mom,
the angst-filled teen,
the self-conscious poet
they fill my pages with
their dreams, their hopes,
their truths, their musings
brave, tender, bold
Britt, so glad you found time to write in between all the baby demands (I honestly thought I’d write a novel during that time I stayed home with a newborn – pffft!). I love the line “I hold the words” as it allows me to think of the notebook as a vessel, a container, rather than an active work related verb. I cheer on the bleary-eyed mom, angst-filled teen, and self-conscious poet for stashing all their importances away within that vessel!
Britt, thanks for taking the time to write. I think writing helps us find our way during busy days, dark days, golden days, and just plain life. Your final line is golden: “brave, tender, bold” Awesome poem! Thank you, and give Gabriel an extra cuddle from me.
Spoken like a true writer…miss you in out shared spaces.
Oh how true! Makes me really appreciate the notebook that holds all of life’s musings.
Britt, your “nod to the notebook” honors the medium and the message…the place that holds the words and worries and ideas. I loved the balance created in your poem through your use of tricolon and anaphora. The structure elevates what may seem like a simple subject to a level of honor and reverence. Thank you for sharing!
Thank you, Barb, for these inspirational prompts. So fun!
From the Tube
Dark and quiet in my house,
then the walls are squeezed,
collapsing. I’m not at ease
and escape through the top.
I land in a plop.
Without my walls
my form is now loose.
As if sent down a sluice
I spew onto a surface
and rest a bit
before my edges spreading
feeling fluid and mellow
Behold, I am yellow!
Then I’m attacked
by fibers that lift
up and spread me.
My shape’s made a shift,
now brushed
upon bright white, artsy.
Next to kin of blue and red
I reach out to touch.
Our arms overlapping
we can do so much!
Dancing around them, I spread
making edges of green, orange
and purple, too.
Swirling around
not much more to do
but give up my motion.
That’s a new notion.
I’ll stick in this place.
and show off my color
to curious eyes and a face.
Susan, I enjoyed this riddle poem! I’m pretty sure I got it! I especially liked the “dark and quiet inside my house” and your playful use of rhyme.
Susan, I love the sense of art coming alive here. The swirling and dancing the new form and beauty it creates. Loved the ending line “I’ll stick in this place./ and show off my color”.
Very fun poem! Thank you!
I love this! It took me awhile to guess what it was! My favorite parts are: “I land in a plop”, “Then I’m attacked
by fibers that lift
up and spread me.”
I love the dancing and swirling of the colors. So fun and whimsical!
Susan, this stanza is so powerful! The strong word, “attacked”, the being lifted by what attacked. This could be a metaphor for our lives as a canvas…being lifted by the events that attack us. Wow!
Then I’m attacked
by fibers that lift
up and spread me.
My shape’s made a shift,
now brushed
upon bright white, artsy.
HI Susan! So much fun…you full embodied the paint, allowing the personification to drive the poem, and using voice to bring us fully into the paint’s experiences!
Delightful inspiration, Barb! How wonderful that both you and your sister write poetry; I enjoyed her jello imaginings – such a clever, wise ending to never again fear falling off the edge! Your poem as “BE” was equally clever; I especially loved these lines –
Here is my poem –
Magical Kayak
a kayak waits at water’s edge
with a soft, insistent wave
I had to slip in, slip away
each ripple of water
each dip of the oar
each flip smack sound of scurrying fish
set in motion memories excursions
too few and far between and I became lost within
resolving not to let so much time pass again
without this peaceful escape
somewhere around the bending coves
the subtle wakes from distant sailboats
the shadowy flights of ospreys overhead
I could no longer feel my legs
there was one brief sighting – half me, half boat
when the hard sleek surface from bow to stern
ensconced me within and I became
one with the surrounds of the kayak shell
finding
strength and power in my weight
surprising vigor in my balance
subtle pleasure in my openness to adventure
each slosh of water along my hull
each slender breeze across my deck
each sliver of light along my keel
cleansing me
I am gently held by the soft blue river
Oh, this was lovely! I love how you moved into becoming one with the kayak: “half me, half boat
when the hard sleek surface from bow to stern
ensconced me within and I became
one with the surrounds of the kayak shell.”
Your poem reminded me of how I felt “one” with my bicycle after a week of riding it across Iowa. I felt like it was an extension of my body.
Thank you for this beautiful poem!
Maureen, wow, what a gorgeous poem. I want to be inside this poem because I love being on the water, and your poem exquisitely shows the beauty of this escape. The ending lines captured the whole experience so well, and I enjoyed the parallelism you used to build on the sound, movement, and color. The feeling of being cleansed in the “soft blue river’ is serene and transformational. Sensational poem. Thank you!
Maureen,
I was thinking about the way we become one w/ the boat when I read these lines:
“there was one brief sighting – half me, half boat
when the hard sleek surface from bow to stern
ensconced me within and I became
one with the surrounds of the kayak shell”
Theres something about a kayak feels part of a landscape, part of nature. When I see a line of colorful kayaks along the shore it’s like glimpsing a rainbow in the water.
Your poem gives me a feeling of peace snd serenity.
Maureen, your word choice and this prompt put us in that kayak trip with you, “gently held”
It was really a lovely read, and a wonderful piece for a kayaking publication.
I loved this transition to when you become one with the craft. “Ensconced” is the perfect word…
An Abuelito Who inspired poem about doubt and faith.
Coexistence
Doubt abides with trust
But blears hope
Doubt is unanswered questions
Whose name is hard
Like the broken-hearted
Who is uncertainty lurking
Who taunts in whispers
As this poet writes
But faith drops ink
Onto the page
Bold blue letters transform
Empty journal lines
Like a worship song
Offering up praise and conviction
That move mountains unseen
And compose verses in victory
©Stacey L. Joy, September 19, 2021
Stacey, I really love how you write into how powerful it is simply to write – “move mountains unseen”.
I have been considering and finding solace in the relationship between faith and writing. Love, love, love your poem – it is a balm for me today. Thank you for sharing.
Stacy, what a beautiful reflection to share any day, but especially on Sunday, a sabbath day for many, when in songs and sermons we’re reminded of faith and hope.
These are the lines that moved me,
But faith drops ink
Onto the page
Bold blue letters transform
Empty journal lines
Like a worship song
Thanks for the poem and for the reminder.
Stacey, faith and doubt DO coexist – for doubt is not an absence of faith; it is an opportunity for faith to shine through, as it does here in your lovely, mighty lines. On empty pages, ink; out of nothing, a worship song … hope blears, maybe, but is not erased! How my heart sings at this! Thank you-
Oh, Stacey, you have captured the difference between doubt and hope so perfectly here. Doubt whose name is hard and taunts whereas faith transforms and becomes a “worship song”. Conviction is such a powerful word and I think it calls for one to move forward even when they don’t want to, but surely does move one to victory. Outstanding poem, Stacey, thank you!
Stacey, what a good idea to use Abuelita Who as a mentor text personifying doubt and faith, instead of a live person. That second stanza, I can barely pick out my favorite lines. I love it all–dropping faith onto the page to transform the blue lines “like a worship song / Offering up praise and conviction” Wow. Lovely!
“But faith drops ink
Onto the page
Bold blue letters transform
Empty journal lines
Like a worship song
Offering up praise and conviction”
ink is faith – I love it.
Thank you, Barb, for today’s prompt and your beautiful poem! The sensory images in these lines made me fall in love with BE!
I had never read Kitchen Sill and thoroughly enjoyed it. It reminded me of a childhood odd fear I had of fruity jello. I don’t know what it was called but I’d see the fruit suspended in the jello and it freaked me out. LOL, go figure, I don’t eat jello to this day! Totally enjoyed this mentor poem though.
Finishing my poem up. Posting shortly. Thank you for these 2 days of peaceful writing time. Can’t wait to see those who can join us at the Open Mic!
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Thank you, Stacey. I have to laugh about your remark about Jello because I never would eat any with fruit in it. After being forced on a diet of broth, Jello and tea, I’m still not a huge fan.
Of Paint
On the artist’s color wheel I begin,
A dollop of white, dotted
among the scarlet to become
a swath of sunrise on the canvas.
Or, as black, blended with purple on the tips
of the darkest iris in the garden.
Round and round by the brush,
my black swirled with gray-ish-green,
unveiling the roar of a storm
riding on a wall of cumulonimbus gods.
Then blue mingles the white paint that is me,
and I live in a spring sky,
overlooking a valley
where lambs graze
and gentlepeople
ease into their day.
Beautiful ode to possibilities of paint! I particularly like the results of black with gray-ish green –
unveiling the roar of a storm
riding on a wall of cumulonimbus gods.
Hi Dixie, I just posted my poem above and started reading below. I see you wrote about being paint as well. Yours is beautiful as it describes all the beautiful things that paint can do. I can visualize the “black swirled with gray-ish-green, unveiling the roar of a storm.” Lucious!
“unveiling the roar of a storm”
I love the colors and the beauty – I felt I was on a ride of sorts. How peaceful and beautiful.
Dixie, what a gorgeous poem. I love the way you create the colors throughout this poem, but the ending metaphor is stunning. Love the idea of this peaceful, pastoral place where “gentlepeople/ease into their day”…Yes, I want to be there! Lovely!
Barb,
Thank you for this inspiration; I was definitely in need of something lighter today.
I loved this line:
Transformation
I plop the pad of butter
into the hot skillet.
As it gradually transforms
into a swirl of yellow liquid,
my mind wants to melt with it.
How I yearn to give myself
to the heat and be transformed
from the heap of tightly-bound togetherness
into a smoothly-flowing,
loose and languid body of substance.
Still me
but changed
capable of more
and different
things.
19 September 2021
Susan, this speaks to my soul. I’ve been soooo exhausted and tightly wound up that I’ve yearned to transform. You’re giving words to my emotions and I thank you!
This is a delicious imagining! One that I can really relate to. I love these lines –
from the heap of tightly-bound togetherness
into a smoothly-flowing,
loose and languid body of substance.
from the heap of tightly-bound togetherness
into a smoothly-flowing,
At brunch today, my mom commented on my posture and how tight my shoulders look – “I’m worried about your neck.” Your poem has given me the very words – I have been feeling so tightly-bound. I’m looking for the smoothly-flowing looseness <3 Thank you for sharing.
Susan, I think your last stanza is really thought-provoking. I love thinking about the ability to change, to be different and capable, especially from something that is “tightly-bound” into something smoothly-flowing” Love it!
Susan–
I love how your poem is formatted! The progression from the butter, to the hypothetical experience, to the result was very smooth and provided a transformative experience for your readers.
I’m basically
the enemy
of Inbox Zero.
(What is that,
anyway, the
Marie Kondo
of electronic
email? “Does
this email
spark joy?”
nonsense.)
Sure, I’m
generally
only used
(inappropriately)
in office settings,
people clicking
on me by accident
and then sending
another missive
apologizing as if
they’ve made
some grievous
effrontery.
Hey, I just like
to spread
the wealth (to
everyone in the
address line).
Knowledge is
power, right?
You should be
thanking me.
I’m making you
smarter every time
someone clicks
on me.
I’m keeping you
“in the loop,”
“on the same
page,” abreast
of the current
situation.
I’m essentially
keeping you
relevant.
In your face,
FOMO.
And I’m not
going away,
leaving,
vamoosing,
or decamping
(If you’re having
trouble catching
my drift, look
those words up
with my good friend
the “Look up”
feature — it’s not
Merriam-Webster,
but it’ll get the job
done — just don’t
look up “catch my
drift” or “get the
job done” because
it’ll have no idea
what you’re talking
about.)
I’m here to stay.
I even have TWO
places for you to
click when you
want to
(inadvertently)
send back a
Reply (to everyone).
I’m not going the
way of that washed-
up mascot Clippy,
who, I hear, is now
hawking his wares
at some discount office
supply company,
nuh-uh, I’m part
of your Outlook,
your disposition,
if you will, how you
see and experience
the world around you.
I’m an integral part
of the Microsoft
Suite.
That’s right.
We’re a suite.
Because we’re
fancy.
This is great, Scott! Finding the humor in this relentless scourge! Love the lines about “your Outlook” and this simple stanza made me laugh aloud:
In your face,
FOMO.
I love this! The humor, the fun, the TRUTH.
Scott, I adore your ability to create such a strong voice in this poem. Very funny..but I have to say that end “Because we’re/fancy.” was the cherry on top of the ice cream. Thank you for the belly laugh!
Oh, my! I’ve spent some time with this sweet poem replying to ALL!
So many laughing aloud places…
I also got a little lost in researching tips for Inbox Zero.
Haha! Thanks!
The was an interesting experience. Thank you for the great prompt.
I stretch out my six long metal arms,
and my colorful cape expands.
While I bask in the hot rays of the floating sun,
a human sits below next to my tall thin leg,
enjoying the coolness of my shadows.
We sit together.
one offering protections and
the other companionship,
witnessing the wonders
of the earth.
(I am sitting under an umbrella outside enjoying the glorious day and all that surrounds me.)
“We sit together.
one offering protections and
the other companionship,”
Powerful, Heather. Even though this depicts an umbrella, I am transported to a place of gratitude for the different blessings that I am surrounded by that gives me comfort.
Heather, what a beautiful poem encouraging me to consider the umbrella’s perspective during use. How fun and tender. Thank you for sharing!
Heather, I love to feel the sun and that experience is communicated so effectively here. The protection and companionship makes your poem so inviting. I’m glad you were able to enjoy the day! Thank you for sharing this experience through your poem today.
What a great description of the umbrella. Never gave tribute or thought to the six long metal arms and the tall thin leg before. Now I will always feel the personality of my umbrella as a companion and protector.
Heather–
I love how you took the prompt and actually became the umbrella instead of discussing the potential or longing to transform into something else. It was so fun to hear from an umbrella 🙂 yet it didn’t seem forced or awkward.
Thank you, Barb. This was a Sunday, fun day. I enjoyed reading your sister Renee’s poem, How sweet that you have her for inspiration and you used her poem with your class. What a lovely experience.
I like your sweet BE poem, Barb, with its teaching us more about bees. Who knew–five eyes and more? I really loved seeing these eastern Iowa flowers jump into my sight in your poem…
Finger Painting
I reach for my tubes of paint,
Nervous as usual,
to try my hand at art.
I squeeze the tentative
joy–plop, drop–
onto the canvas.
I stick my finger in as
I laugh and ask myself,
Are these finger paints?
Yes, indeed. They are
finger paints–
My fingers! Paint!
Then my forearms,
My elbows, up to my pits, I am paint
Wow, I exclaim, and
Dive into creating,
All the tubes are squeezed out
All of me now cool, smooth,
shivering onto the surface.
All of me impasto-ed in
Shades of hope and honey,
Fearlessness and fuchsias,
Brilliance and blueberries,
And the delicious reds of earth and fire.
I relish the moment of freedom
To let go and let the paints.
For a moment I’m in a world where I hear,
“You are lovable, capable, and creative,
You are enough.”
Oh, Denise, to be all of this would be bliss! I love it! Something about “shades of hope and honey” really resonate with me today. It all feels like freedom! Gorgeous! And even without being paint, YOU ARE ENOUGH! GOTTA LOVE YOU!
???
Ahhh, Denise, the closing lines “You are lovable, capable, and creative, You are enough” really pulled at my heartstrings. I love how you show the joy of finger painting. The physicality of this type of painting really struck me. Loved the colors so vibrant and rich: fuchsias, and blueberries”…truly delicious. Thank you for sharing this gorgeous poem!
There is so much joy in paint and creativity and being up t your elbow and pits in the process. I love the letting go and letting the paints, an immersion into creativity and being!
Denise, I love the message/theme here. “You are lovable, capable, and creative, / You are enough.” Art — to which I’ll include, of course, writing — really does this for us, doesn’t it? Thank you for this! (And thank you for the word “impasto”!)
Denise,
I too recall feeling “lovable, capable, and creative” when finger painting. I think that comes from the no rules paradigm, which adds a layer of meaning to your poem for me.
Thank you, Barb, for this prompt! I had some fun thinking about it and decided I would be my cat, Tiana.
Teasing Tiana
*yawn*
what can I possibly
do today to make
hooman go… “no! tiana!”
Oh! look! it’s a string.
oh wait… it’s a plastic bag.
let me get into this bag,
mmm… I love this sound.
louder.
LOUDER…
I love this sound, let me rejoice!
*meeeoooowwwwwwwww*
Oh! I have hooman’s attention.
Hmm, let me go say hello.
But first, I need to stretch my paws out…
…(00)…(00)…
… yeah, that feels good.
I am the queen of this house.
Hear me roa…
oh, look! the plastic bag!
Let me go in!
I see hooman approaching.
Oh, my goodness! How fun is that? I love that you do such a plausible embodying of Tiana. And “hooman” is the best word for the people in the house, that she doesn’t even know the names of.
She has quite an objective in life:
And I guess that she accomplishes thinking of something each day!
Christine, yesss! My cat, Tootsie, would agree you’ve captured the essence and spirit of our little fur babies! I love the attraction too of the bag. Our cats love those bags. So adorable!
?
This made me smile! I definitely felt I was living through Tiana’s eyes and the distraction of the toys (the bag) was perfect, especially against her claim of being “queen of this house.”
Christine, I love the sound effects you created through your words, and the formatting is superior to share the speaker’s voice. Loved “hooman” and “Hear me roa….”. Sensational poem and so witty. Thank you!
Okay, so is it just me, but now that I wrote this, it makes me think of Jim Belushi in Animal House – the cafeteria scene where he ends with, “I’m a zit. Get it?” If you don’t know that scene, it’s gross, but hilarious. These poems can be kind of a mystery that is fun to figure out what the element/substance is if the writer does not openly reveal it. Totally fun, Barb. Thank you!
psssshhht
the aluminum cracks open
releasing a fizzy foam of captured gas
like the curls atop my head
free flowing and untamed
I pour the hazy golden liquid
into the clear tulip glass
feel my bones soften in anticipation
as I effortlessly slide along the stream
cascading in a bubbly swirl
then rising to the top
where I settle and await
the first draught
I am the tonic to soothe
the most hard-worn days
the elixir of letting it go
the muscle relaxant for every
taught moment of stress
I promise separation between
what has been and knowing
tomorrow is another chance
Just don’t abuse me
or you’ll pay the price
Honor the effervescence
enjoy a hoppy ending
to the day
[My favorite beer: Boss Tweed, a hazy IPA from Old Nation Brewing in Michigan – and my stand-by buddy at 5:00 each day.]
I agree. As I read yours, I was trying to solve the “mystery.” There are so many lines I love, but your warning was effective “Just don’t abuse me/ or you’ll pay the price/ honor the effervescence.”
I love your poems with lessons incorporated. Promises of separation between today and tomorrow, with warnings of abuse. Of course, this is a sweet end “enjoy a hoppy ending / to the day”
Hey Denise, I did enjoy moving through the verses to the “reveal” — great take on this prompt. “Hoppy ending” — hah!
Denise, What a great sound effect to open your poem. I am a beer lover so I can totally relate to your poem and now after reading your final note, I feel like having a beer myself. I so enjoyed the lines:
“I promise separation between
what has been and knowing
tomorrow is another chance”
and “enjoy a hoppy ending”
Great fun throughout this poem! I agree with your note about Animal House, gross but funny. Thank you for sharing such a delightful poem.
Orthoptera
order of insects
suborder Caelifera
family Acrididae
hatching
from eggs
nymphs shedding skin
growing
wings
short-horns
hind legs
Choctaw
shakinli
bird
spur
band
slant
Indigenous grasshoppers.
You, my friend, are the visitor
on this patio.
Sarah, I love how you pulled in all of the scientific words here to help show the grasshopper and its arrival. The sound and play on words is very fun. The tone I hear at the end makes this especially fun “You, my friend, are the visitor/on this patio” although I am still wondering if this is you speaking or the grasshopper. What a fun poem! Thank you!
Sarah,
I also love the scientific lingo in your poem. But those grasshoppers are not friend. They are invaders! Still, their form mesmerizes me. Just keep those critters off the crops!
Friends!
Looking forward to meeting/seeing you in online-person tonight @5-6PM (CT):
Barb
Kim
Erica
Mo
Stacey
Denise
Kathleen
Sarah
Who else can join us to talk about writing, reading a poem (maybe), listen to poems (yes!)?
Sign up here to receive the zoom link to meet other open-writers tonight: https://forms.gle/uquRuUphognq4RH8A
My writing group is meeting late afternoon. If we finish early, I will join!
Shhh. On Parenting.
…it happens, shhh,
I whispered into a Mic
(several years ago)
while commencing tassels.
I anticipated the emails
about my tact & sense of humor –
the evidence was very clear.
The fresh bird droppings
drooped-dry across my tuxedo jacket
as I walked into the school.
shhhhh, it happens,
I told them…
it’s the only advice I could give.
But that was then.
Today is Sunday
& I’m done playing
ring around the toilet bowl
with a bristled baton –
the lawn is already mowed.
Karal’s friend spent the night –
a wedding…the mother- of-the-bride
needed a dog-sitter,
so I volunteered my home.
They’ve both been fed.
Glamis died unexpectedly in April.
Here stomach full of puss & blood.
A Good dog,
habitual at doing business
on morning and evening walks
so I became a pro at sanitizing
the neighborhood with plastic bags…
…tossing 3-pointers
into green, town-sponsored canisters
I memorized for deposit.
I’ll be 50 soon.
I’ve already been told about the aliens
that are coming my way to probe at my health,
and I’ve spent a lifetime at pondering colons,
semi-colons, and ellipses…
…I’m halfway there
with Bon Jovi…
It happens…shhhh. I know.
But Karal’s her own dog,
prissy & vocally self-conscious.
She thinks she’s on special duty
not meant for public business,
and leaves her droppings
across the backyard
as if it’s a cookie tray..
My sneakers know her recipe well,
as do the flies, grubs, and gnats…
…part of Sunday’s plumbing;
a day for reflecting on empty nests,
& umbilical chords
cut like the grass…
Shhh. It happens.
Love this, Bryan. Of course, the play on “shhh” throughout and the image of droppings threaded through the places a parent navigates and the “shhh” that gets stuck on our physical and on our cognitive ways of being.
I so appreciate the line breaks and punctuation that made my eyes and mind travel with you…I see the ellipses as the droppings:)
Sarah
Bryan, I love how you create the “dirty” side of things and create them as something more appealing such as throwing the bags like 3 pointers, and the droppings are like cookies dropped across a tray. I especially loved the humor in the line “My sneakers know her recipe well”. I so enjoyed the clever way you weaved so many ideas into this poem. Thank you!
Barb, thanks for another great prompt today. Love seeing your sister as inspiration!
Slow Stitchery
I travel
across landscapes
create my own destinies
in and out of time
petal pressed
sun colored
nature steeped
trailing threads
behind.
Jennifer,
I’m taking this poem personally and telling myself you wrote it just for me. Every line, every word is perfect. I’ll be embarking on a New England road trip in October and taking your poem as inspiration.
Love the parallelism here, Jen, and the consonance of the s and d pulling through the lines into “behind”:
Just a lovely way to embody the travel.
Sarah
Jennifer,
I traveled with the thread to its different destinations. I love the way you bring out the sewing pattern in the way you’ve structured your poem.
I love this imagery, Jen. My mother was a seamstress and I see threads as such powerful metaphor. Here I focus on “create my own destinies/in and out of time” and these threads of thought beckon me to follow them for a while, as in meditation. A real sense of treasuring and careful preservation here. So beguiling!
Jen, I love the movement in your poem. I can see the thread weaving “destinies” and “landscapes”. “Trailing threads/behind” is such a perfect end. I love to cross-stitch so this really spoke to that part of me. Thank you!
Out there I see,
way beyond is me.
Beyond the pine mountain
farther than a stream fountain.
Above the cloud that’s blue,
Far from ever, without two.
One to be
two to see.
Beyond is beyond,
that is all it will ever be.
I see my body from spirit,
listen to beyond
everyone will hear it.
Beyond creeps through the day
and waits in the night.
Beyond is there, posted
just out of sight.
Patiently, waiting for our call,
Beyond welcomes us all.
As far as beyond can be,
No admission,
Beyond is free.
Beyond is not a journey,
it’s our destiny.
I love the spirituality of this poem and how it shows an interconnectedness, as well as a timelessness – as if past/present/future are all one but infinite simultaneously.
Boxer Moon,
This is a lovely manifestation of Beyond in physical form. I love how you show us what/who Beyond is “beyond” and “welcomes” and “free” — and what it is not “a journey.” This has me thinking hard on that. The difference between journey and destiny and what overlaps here (for me).
Sarah
Thank you ?
Boxer, I love the way you personify the word “Beyond” especially the creeping through the day, and the line “Patiently, waiting for our call.” Your end is the perfect definition of Beyond. Sensational poem!
Barb,
Thanks do much for the prompt yesterday and today. I love your bee poem and the clever wordplay. I wanted to title my poem “My Pillow,” but that asshat Mike Lindell has ruined that phrase. ?
Pillow Poem
fluffy orbed
head cradle
neck nester,
cumulus bed cloud
tucked up top—
i’ve missed snuggling
your cotton candy billow,
feeling your satiny
threads stroke my cheeks,
hugging your squishy crown
to my breast &
dreaming of my
next trip.
—Glenda Funk
Glenda: Yesterday I heard an old, old song that my grandmother loved, entitled “Send Me the Pillow That You Dream On” – your poem speaks to the great physical AND spiritual comfort of pillows. Thinking now of all the dreams pillows absorb and perhaps inspire…
You get props for “asshat” today! This was the perfect poem for a Sunday – the ONE DAY I let myself sleep in (until 5:30, mind you). This reads as deliciously and decadently as that act of hitting the snooze and settling in for another ten minutes. I love “neck nester”! I never would have thought of that combination of words.
Glenda, those trips of yours are certainly experiences to dream about! I love the cumulus bed cloud – – a dream in the clouds, so comforting and so hygge. Words like cradle and nester and cloud and billow and fluffy have me feeling relaxed on this overcast Sunday morning in rural Georgia!
Glenda,
I love the title. Ever since Stefani Boutlier’s prompt about titles, I am slowing my reading to think on the title before diving into the poem, so I lingered there for a bit (while also wanting to climb back into bed). Such a lovely way of showing what feels like a longing for home and the way our pillows really symbolize home/rest. And the intimacy of this is rather sensual with “to my breast &”! That ampersand is clever right there! Nice!
Sarah
Glenda,
I love the intimacy the pillow feels. The details of who I am when I rest on the pillow made me feel comfort and a deep sense of rest. Thank you for sharing on this Sunday, Glenda!
I spend extra time with my pillow today chasing a dream I so wanted to continue. A perfect object to write about on a Sunday.
Glenda, I love the soft senses through “cotton candy billow” and the “cumulus bed cloud.” A pillow is such a lovely device to let it all drift away. The “dreaming of my/next trip” is such a perfect end! Thank you!
Glenda, there’s just something about our own pillows. And we love them even more when we return to them. Cumulus bed cloud is the best!
Ah, I love this love poem from your pillow. Beautiful!
Barb, how fun that your initials sound like bee and are a state of being verb! I love the “drifting past sunbeam dreams” – so vividly picturesque, but the showstopper is the last two lines – “a golden dusty reminder of a honeyed life denied.” Oh, that wake up call……what a beautiful way to start the day!
Soap-Bubble-Other-Worldly OBE Haiku
I pinched my forearm
when the world became surreal
but I was still here
experiencing
moments from my soap-bubble-
other-worldly view
pressing on its walls
floating lightly through the room
Heaven – All Aboard!
wanting to follow
the spirit of my mother
through the pearly gates
her death-rattle breaths
like an elephant stampede
drummed her procession
and then she was gone
we held hands around her bed
and Dad said a prayer
“thank you for the gift
of Miriam ~ we have loved
this angel on earth”
when my soap bubble
burst I plunged downward, a one-
winged insect spinning
Kim,
I hear “Calgon, take me away” to those sweet memories. Love the soap bubble image that transforms into the insect cascading down a silky thread. Clever poem.
Dear Kim: How ethereal and fragile is that iridescent, soap-bubble existence…your Dad’s prayer of thanksgiving for your mother pierces straight through my heart as I simultaneously imagine her reaching out for her spiraling, one-winged, wounded-insect daughter, her hand a proffered soft landing-place… you wield the haiku like no one else, my friend. Slices through the soul.
Kim, what a beautiful moment of connection with your mom (your dad’s prayer of thanks, your desire to travel with her,) even as she separated from you. And the one-winged insect spinning and plunging acknowledges that loss significantly. Hugs.
Kim, your poem is such an emotional ride. I loved the triumphant “Heaven – All Aboard!”, but then the move to “her death-rattle breaths/like an elephant stampede” is a momentous change which you highlight effectively by setting off the line: “and then she was gone” The spiral action at the end, plunging downward and spinning is mesmerizing. Is this also the sound of the water going down the drain? I love the complexity of life and death elements here. Truly remarkable poem! Thank you!
The Poplar
I awake to the warmth
of the rising sun on my back
and a chirruping near my ear
as the lives I shelter arise.
It is summer still
but the morning air has a certain … crispness
it lacked just days ago.
My leaves are less supple.
I know they will soon transition
turn yellow
and fall.
Each day I stand beside my brother
and trace the sun’s path overhead.
We reach our arms out and up,
Paying homage to its goodness.
We dig our feet more deeply into the sandy soil below
seeking greater depths to help
withstand the coming winter wind.
I am the younger of us.
I grew up in my brother’s shadow.
It was not certain I would make it —
he demanded so much sunlight —
But I reached out, sideways,
and bent my will toward the sun,
and found my own way to grow.
Today I am mighty.
The human knows we are brothers —
we remind him of his children.
The younger there also had to find his own path.
The neighbor calls us “weeds” —
“You should cut them down,” he says.
“They only block the view.”
It’s true, we are plentiful here.
We are an indigenous people.
But we enhance the view, not block it.
Rays of light dance upon our leaves,
cast shadows here and there,
like candlelight in a church.
We offer shade and shelter,
a landing place for cardinals,
bluejays, finches, all,
even, sometimes, an owl.
A sudden tickle on my spine —
a squirrel runs up my bark and chitters.
His mate flirts back from my brother’s arm.
A breeze blows across the bay
and through my limbs,
and I whisper to my brother,
Today will be a good day.
Kathleen, this is such a lovely way to show independence in blooming where we are planted:
I am the younger of us.
I grew up in my brother’s shadow.
It was not certain I would make it —
he demanded so much sunlight —
But I reached out, sideways,
and bent my will toward the sun,
and found my own way to grow.
These lines speak volumes, and it reminds me as an educator that all of the apple trees are different – – and should be enjoyed as such. Some powerful words here, and what a super message this morning.
How lovely, Kathleen – I am drawn to the experience of trees and the interconnectedness of things, to the idea that plants have memory and feel pain, that they do indeed communicate. Trees in particular strike me as being okay with transitions (much as your poplar indicates) since they know the big sleep is coming, but they’ll wake again on the other side of it. These lines especially speak to me of the sacredness or sanctuary of nature:
But we enhance the view, not block it.
Rays of light dance upon our leaves,
cast shadows here and there,
like candlelight in a church.
-So beautiful.
Hi Kathy! Great to see you here this month! This reminds me so much of the science writing out there now on how trees communicate with one another. I was completely taken up into this “life” of the tree, and even felt myself flinch at “A sudden tickle on my spine – ” at the thought of a squirrel running up my back! And the lovely alliteration here, “A breeze blows across the bay / and through my limbs” – the way the b sound starts those words as though it is a breeze blowing across the line, and then ends with the ending b in the next line. Genius.
Kathleen,
I love the mystery of the speaker that unfolds and kept me pondering/figuring until these lines:
And when I look at the couple here with the dashes, I see the pair of brothers so clearly. And then further along, you illuminate for readers the ways of being, the physicality of the brothers and their purpose and use. Love the “tickle on my spine” and the “squirrel runs up my bark and chitters”!
Thank you for this joy,
Sarah
Kathleen, wow, what a gorgeous poem. I love the way you describe the beauty of the trees in the lines: “Rays of light dance upon our leaves,
cast shadows here and there,
like candlelight in a church.”
Your end is especially moving “Today will be a good day.” Your tone throughout is so tender and loving. Thank you for sharing such beauty!
Barb,
How fun! Now I feel the need to open up my pantry and hunt around for a box of lime jello and some gingham jars. I love that your sister has a poem you see as mentor text. That’s fantastic! And, “BE” is a great mentor text for me. The narrative until chubby hands …full possession of stinger…denied.” Great story weaving.
Thank you, Linda!
Barb and your amazing poet-sister, Renee: The great joy of reading is being able to immerse in another’s world, mind, spirit…and in this case, substance. What I love about your poems is your awareness of self and the sense of transfiguring into that bee for the very real realization of “a honeyed life denied,” the intentional slipping into the jello for “a shield of protective skin” – love that. I have reread, and will reread, both of your beguiling, magic realism-esque verses again, for the savoring.
I think writing, imagining such experience, is exponential immersion…
Q: Is it “cheating” if I adapt a bit of a short story I wrote some years ago? There’s quite a bit of backstory to but I think – I hope – it can stand on its own here. Many thanks for this Sunday, fun-day write.
Vine Memory
I perceived it before she did.
Something stealthily growing,
snaking its way through her inside parts,
bit by bit.
The terrible truth:
This Thing is like me.
Powerful in the way it grows and takes over.
I hadn’t known my own power
until my new shoots,
innocent, so tender,
spiraled through the garden lattice.
As I grew, my tendrils tightened.
I began to pull the lattice into myself,
out of control, until Jennie Jay had Tom
cut that part of me away.
They left me an arbor
where I might extend myself and luxuriate,
but no more trellises.
I would only destroy them.
I sensed nothing good in the Thing
that slowly choked the life
out of Jennie Jay.
It wanted to live.
She wanted to live.
I wanted to live,
but I could not desire to live
if my living was at the expense of hers.
The arbor allowed me to peer
through the bedroom window.
There lay Jennie Jay, small and colorless, on the bed.
Tom’s cane remained in the corner.
He seldom left her side
even when the neighbors came to relieve him,
or when the children came
to say good-bye.
He held her whenever she screamed,
when the Thing took, bent, consumed, destroyed.
He was holding her on that last morning.
The sun had just risen;
dew sparkled like seeds of fiery rainbows
scattered throughout the green, green grass.
Her eyes opened, looked through the window at me.
It’s morning, Tom. Time to get going.
I’ll wait for you under the wisteria—
oh, just smell that sweet perfume!
Come on whenever you’re ready, Dearest.
Humans say envy is green.
I am green.
I know envy.
I envied the pine tree given for her casket.
I wanted to be the one,
would have sacrificed myself,
to hold her forever and ever.
Of course he knew.
After her placed her inside
he hobbled out to me with a pair of shears.
He clipped a little sprig of my purple flowers.
He placed them under Jennie Jay’s thin fingers,
kissed her hands, her face,
one last time
and nailed the lid.
He planted her beside their first baby,
a wise distance away from the first Mrs. G.
In his grief I was powerless.
I could offer no condolence,
could not weep,
could not acknowledge our loss in any way
other than shedding my blossoms,
borne by the breeze,
to collect on the mound where she lay.
I lost track of time then.
So did Tom.
He didn’t come to me again.
He went quickly after her,
his existence too intertwined with hers
to adapt to a world
without Jennie Jay in it.
She was his world.
By then the garden was no more.
The yard went wild.
Grasses and weeds grew tall;
the pecan tree rotted away.
The children, their grandchildren,
their great-grandchildren,
came back from time to time,
always in a hurry,
visiting the graves,
showing the land to potential buyers.
No one wanted it.
The barns collapsed.
The house and I kept standing,
even as saplings grew into trees around us.
My arbor couldn’t bear my weight.
I crushed it.
I latched onto a sturdy oak,
where I climbed and climbed
above the darkness of the woods
which claimed for itself
what was once the productive farm
of a kind man.
I reached the house, at last.
All traces of the whitewash, long gone.
I wove myself through the bare clapboards
and window frames, up the narrow staircase,
back out between the cypress shingles.
She lived here.
She was happy here.
Her babies were born here.
The walls and I were the last testaments
to their love, that peculiar human gift.
My tendrils tasted it all, absorbed it, took every bit,
stored it deep within myself.
My twisted trunk attained the girth of a man.
Parts of my vine grew larger
than Tom’s muscular arms
when they first wrapped around Jennie Jay.
I am all that remains.
The house caved in from the ravages of time,
weather, and me,
but I am compelled ever onward and upward.
Trees do not grow fast enough to suit me.
My goal is to reach the sun,
that life-giving, golden orb beckoning
from the periwinkle sky—
I sense that something of Jennie Jay is there,
just on the other side.
Until then, I draw from her essence
deep within myself,
where every sensation is preserved,
where she lives on.
Her first and last words were of me.
She was the first child
I ever knew.
First and last,
first and last.
My images of her keep circling, circling,
ever-circling,
as sunward
I climb.
Fran, wow, your poem is mesmerizing! I can literally feel the tenacity of the wisteria circling, crushing, and its longing to reach the sun. I love how you revealed the relationship between Jennie Jay and the wisteria near the end, and I absolutely adored “to their love, that peculiar human gift”. Your poem shows the hungry power of love and its ability to devour. Stunning narrative full of action, color and emotion! Thank you, Fran, for sharing your poetry with us today!
Fran, there’s such intensity and beauty in your words today. The connection between Jennie Jay and the wisteria is powerful, as is that between she and Tom. The love they shared (I lost track of time then. So did Tom. He didn’t come to me again. He went quickly after her) reminds me of my great-grandparents. She died first and he followed just a few months later – it was said he died of heartbreak. Thank you for sharing such a beautiful narrative.
Cheating? Um….I don’t think this is cheating. I think this is a narrative poem you should submit to…?
“Humans say envy is green.
I am green.
I know envy.
I envied the pine tree given for her casket.
I wanted to be the one,
would have sacrificed myself,
to hold her forever and ever.”
So incredible.
I love when words illustrate movement, and I feel your poem does this. The verses weave and circle round as I imagine the wisteria does, in a meandering way that also represents the loss depicted here. It’s beautiful.
Fran, what a tear-jerking and deeply touching verse – – and one with your own unique legacy and generational footprints of love, like vines, running through it. The visual imagery is stunning here – the trellis, the flowers, the fallen-in barn – – it’s a rural rustic slice of heaven – quite literally. I like that the vine is both a thing of beauty in the flowers, and the Thing that overtakes her like a cancer in the end. In these lines I am reminded of the epilogue in Eugenia Price’s The Beloved Invader, in which the story of the order of the Anson Dodge family graves (which can be visited at Christ Church on St. Simons Island, Ga) will bring visitors who have read the book to tears:
He planted her beside their first baby,
a wise distance away from the first Mrs. G
I love, love, love what you have shared today!
Now I am going to need these books you reference, Kim! <3
Fran, I could feel this wisteria vine, it love and its possessive hold on Jenny Jay and the house itself. Beautiful and captivating poem.
It’s when the strings
kick in that I find
myself stuck,
an immovable object
with listening ears
and weighted feet,
for when the violin
settles in with the cello
and the two become one,
I’m always undone
I believe that blending of violin and cello are solely meant for the undoing, Kevin…we become “other” with that fusion of sound to heartstrings. Simply beautiful.
Kevin, what a beautiful poem of music and its ability to move the soul or to be trapped in its very essence! Gorgeous! Thank you!
“settles in with the cello”
“two become one”
perfection of lines
Perfect! Simple and evocative of subject, every word the exact right note.
Those strings are my favorite instruments – – I agree that the undoing is there when the strains join and separate across the clefs, like ice skaters dancing on the ice.
I find myself closing my eyes and feeling this music you created with your poem.