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Anna J. Small Roseboro is a wife and mother, poet and writing coach, and National Board Certified Teacher with over forty years of experience teaching students in middle school, high school, and in college, in public, parochial, and private schools in five states. She now coaches new writers and mentors early career classroom teachers and professors. She has self-published books in various genres. Rowman Littlefield Education has published ten of Anna’s textbooks for teachers.

The Inspiration

Compost is decomposed organic material, such as leaves, grass clippings, and kitchen waste. It provides many essential nutrients for plant growth and therefore is often used as fertilizer. I’m using the term metaphorically to refer to poems we have drafted in the past that may just be sitting around. Often what we have written in the past can provide nutrients or seeds for future writing.

Process

Create a GOLDEN SHOVEL poem from one or more of the poems you read or wrote this week or in the past. Maybe there is something in your notebook or a a Google doc you’ve been meaning to revisit.

For the Golden Shovel poem, choose a line from something you’ve written and use that line as the last words in a stanza of poetry, or as a refrain between lines of poetry.

In the challenge today, write a poem that reflects what you found as a recurring theme in your reading or writing. Select seeds (lines) from poems you read or wrote and let them blossom in a poem this month. After all, it’s JUNE, summertime in the USA!

As always, feel free to write on a topic or form of your choice.

Anna’s Poem

April proved an enlightening time
We often wrote poems with rhythm and rhyme
We often spoke of family and friends
Of the need to forgive and make amends

April found me fighting inside
Not liking the feelings I felt abide
When I didn’t stand up, but went along for the ride
Not resisting the wrong and swam with the tide

But, I also recall the times we would write
About the need to refocus our sight
That even when scared, we still can be light
We can fight the fright and fight for what’s right.

Enjoy!

Anna J. Small Roseboro

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Leilya Pitre

Anna, thank you so much for mentoring today’s writing! I like the flexibility and freedom of choice you allow for the task. I especially like your line “even when scared, we still can be light” because as I like to say “even when we hurt, we find hope.”

Today, I’d like to share a a poem born from a line in poem I’ve written in the past:

“If” Never Matters

If I could go back to that day,
I’d sing, and dance, and play
For no one knows what’s to come
And no one’s here to stay.

“If” doesn’t matter anyway
For can’t we go back.
There’s one and only chance
Of any given day.

Thus, I will try to live it up
With joy and no regrets,
So no “ifs” will come to mind
When it is time to part.

Cara Fortey

Leilya,
Oh! This is so true and necessary to hear. Thank you for the reminder not to dwell in the inbetween of doubts.

If doesn’t matter anyway

For can’t we go back.

Denise Krebs

Leilya,
Those last two lines speak volumes about the joy of not living with regrets. What a blessing to be able to live life never having to say, “If only I would have…” It’s true we can’t go back, so let’s make the most of this day.

Thank you!

Rachelle

I’m grateful for this community of writers to help me push through a rough writing day. Thank you, Emily D, for you inspired this one with your line: “I believe we are becoming a thing of beauty.”

I Do Too

The piano keys all look the same, and I 
often believe
I’m hitting the right note, when we
can both hear that I am not. Are
you going to try that again? Becoming
a pianist is a
painful experience; it’s a thing
I only want to remember the best parts of, 
but, the truth is, the wrong notes are described as beauty
too.

Denise Krebs

Rachelle, lovely poem. I see the truth in the notes of the music, as well as hitting “wrong” notes in life at times. Emily was part of my poem for this prompt too.

Susie Morice

Rachelle — You’ve expressed those same doubts that have rattled in my head too…I love the strength in “becoming”… that sense of growth, the aspiration of working at something and grinding through when it is feeling like a never-ending plateau. When I play the piano, I finally made up my mind that I would play notes that sounded good to me…ha! I’ll never be that grand pianist (ha…I just misspelled it “pain-ist”…and it autocorrected me…LOL!), but I will always love the beauty in sounds that please me when I quit fussing at myself. And I play my heart out every single day. “I Do Too”… wonderful. Susie

DeAnna C

Rachelle,
I am glad you finally found inspiration to write, as you have helped me through a few rough writing days.

the wrong notes are described as beauty

too.

This line is so true. Reminds me if that old saying, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Cara Fortey

Rachelle,
I’m sorry you struggled with writer’s block, but this is lovely and a fabulous message applicable to so much of life. Perfection is great, but the real beauty lies in the flaws.

Emily D

Oh, I do like this piano keys metaphor. They do all look the same, don’t they! “..the wrong notes are described as beauty too.” Nicely said, Rachelle! Thank you for this poem.

Allison Berryhill

I love this piano metaphor, and your golden shovel is seamless! I’m so glad I came back and found this poem!

Emily Yamasaki

6/22/2021

Love What’s Little

Wise words from a teacher

Written words are like bits of Love
Sharing the scribble is What’s
Most terrifying. Be gentle with ones that are Little

Denise Krebs

Emily, I just read Judi’s poem about black dancing shoes, and this reminded me of it. “Be gentle with ones that are Little.” Yes, indeed. Thank you!

Susie Morice

Emily — You have supremely wise advice here. Thank you! Susie

Leilya Pitre

Emily, thank you for sharing! I just love your words:
Be gentle with ones that are Little.” So often we disregard “little” ones.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

As the sun sets here in Michigan, I will say, though our town had a rotating band of silver, gray, and charcoal clouds threatening rain all day, your poems took me on a trip across the country. The sunshine of your poems and/notes sent expressing thanks for being sent to the compost piles made me smile and less sad that I missed my walk outdoors.

You’re digging deep, you’re rehashing some lines, creating new ones, and composing poems that will grow and blossom in our hearts as we consider the good times and challenging times we’ve shared in our community garden. The compost heap has produced heaps of good writing.

Sleep well. See you tomorrow for our closing Open Write poetry prompt for this month.

Allison Berryhill

<3 <3 <3

Allison Berryhill

Anna (and Denise),
I love you yesterday’s and today’s prompts invite us to deeper connections with our fellow Open Writers! Yesterday Emily Yamasaki used one of my poems as her mentor text, so tonight I am using one of HER lines I loved for my Golden Shovel! My poem ended up sounding more depressing than I intended. (I will NOT go gently into that good night! 🙂 Regardless, this was a fun exercise in pushing thoughts against constraints! It really forces a person to think and consider words, intent.

At 61, My Body

The creep of age is
scary. Even the smallest
thing–a tender Achilles tendon–
is a warning flare: beware the next step
to decomposition! As my foundation crumbles, I
jump my own shark: unicycle
before balance slips the surly bonds of youth. I am
seeing desperation in each daily run, asking
What will slow my exit, pursued by this bear of time? The final curtain 
awaits.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Allison, your line “The creep of age is scary.” struck me this birthday week. I keep wondering what will be the next SIGN of aging. Meeting online this past year, with the myriad colleagues with whom I’ve taught across the country, I keeping wondering, how many years now show! At least you’re honest.
Like you, I plan to wear out not rust out by riding my cycle daily….well most days. I’ll be honest, too. 🙂

Mo Daley

Allison, I so admire your running ability! But your words about aging are hitting too close to home tonight. Your word choice is so perfect- and scary!

Scott M

Allison, “exit, pursued by this bear of time” Lol. I haven’t thought of that stage direction in a while, so thank you! I loved all the allusions — Dylan Thomas, Shakespeare, Happy Days, Magee.

Britt

Wow, excellent piece on the reality of aging. Daily runs? I want to be like you when I grow up! 🙂

Susie Morice

Allison — Again, you’ve captured those inner queries and phrased the aging in ways that are so real. “Even the smallest/thing…” – oh man, do I know that feeling…little “nothings” are no longer nothing…doggone it! The phrases “foundation crumbles” and “surly bonds of youth” and “bear of time” — brilliant. Plus, it’s a clean GShovel…aaah, you are a force here, my friend! Susie

Mo Daley

Grandmothers
By Mo Daley 6/22/2021

My grandma was nice enough,
but rather proper.
We knew only to take one piece of hard candy
from the leaded crystal dish on the coffee table.
We knew not to chase one another around her apartment,
but to sit on the couch and wait to speak until spoken to.

My husband’s grandmother
gave him Christmas gifts of recycled Vegas playing cards
on a good year.

I want to be the grandma
who gets lots of snuggles,
who reads beautiful picture books to my grandkids,
who has so many fun sleepovers,
who takes monthly trips to the zoo,
and who lets the kids eat ice cream for breakfast if they want.

And I think I am.
But what I did not expect
was that I’d be the grandma
who gets a FaceTime call saying,
“Mamo! I did a medium pee on the potty!”
followed closely by a
poop in the potty pic.
I never expected that to make me cackle with glee.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Mo, I’m giggling with you! Thanks for sharing, too, the variety of grandmothering styles and letting us know things definitely are different nowadays!

Britt

LOL, this is awesome. I love seeing my mom in her grandma role with my two sons – the snuggles, the picture books, the adventures. While mine can’t quite brag about their bathroom endeavors yet, I just know my mom will soak it up, ha!

Susie Morice

Hi, Mo — This is just too sweet and hilarious. You gave me a huge chuckle this morning. I have no doubts whatsoever that you are every bit the very “Mamo” that you would ever hope to be. I wish I’d had a “Mamo” like you! Hugs, Susie (Posting that pic would’ve been a stitch!)

Maureen Young Ingram

Anna, I love this prompt . . . and truly feel as if I am composing from absolutely nothing today, nothing and everything … I’m just posting what I can.

I’ve got nothin’

eight o’clock in the evening
no poem in my head
rainy day with grandkids
that’s what I did instead

I’ve got nothin’

pen to paper, fingers to keyboard
around and around I go
thinking how busy full fast this day 
their smiles their antics echo

I’ve got nothin’

oh, the older one’s outgrown the crib
the younger is learning to crawl
there were bottles snacks books 
gymnastics and baby dolls

I’ve got nothin’

I am so blessed.

Glenda M. Funk

Maureen,
Im right there w/ you. I’ve read and written and see blah w/ every word. Honestly, this week has been like that. I don’t feel at all connected this month. Yet I love the ironic twist in “I’ve got nothing.” It’s simply everything.

Seana Wright

Maureen, your poem is delightful and reminds me of when I was a young mother. The lines, “the older one’s outgrown the crib
the younger is learning to crawl..” took me back to my daughters and the hectic-ness of that time. Your last line though is perfection. Yes we’re blessed.
thank you!

Scott M

Maureen, I really enjoyed this! The repetition of “I’ve got nothin'” (to write) throughout your day leading up to the reversal and the real appreciation of all of the “poetry of life” stuff that you participated in today was very cool. Thanks!

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

You are truly blessed, Maureen, and the first stanza of your poem says it loud and clear. The kids are there and you something to write about. Them ain’t nothin’. 🙂

Britt

Oh what joy! This is so encouraging to me as a toddler and newborn mom right now. Some days just a quick shower feels like a win. But i am so blessed indeed. Yes, we are!

Denise Krebs

Maureen, I love the refrain of “I’ve got nothin” while simultaneously showing us and your memory with the rich blessings of this day. So many fun, yet exhausting, rainy day activities described.

Susie Morice

Hey there, Maureen — It’s Wednesday morning and I have a zillion things on my list today…and I am TOTALLY in the “I’ve got nothin'” mode. I needed your poem in a big way today. Not sure what the heck I’ll do with a mandala.

jesstwrites

Anna, thank you for your poem and this prompt! I thought this was going to be difficult for me as most of my poems are fertile, lol. But I found a line to use and ended up expressing my sentiments about schoolin’ during 2020. My original line has NOTHING to do with education, lol! Enjoy!

Society won’t let 
Us teachers be free, but as for me
I will remain vocal so please let me be.
The praises of our dedication was an ode to the
Teachers during 2020, but the pay is missing.
Remix the verse, but some don’t want to hear these lyrics
On issues still mucky. So what is the world coming to 
Glorify our chaos knowing our jobs are not complete.
Don’t let these befuddled bureaucrats get under your 
Skin, so instead of cussing them out, write a ballad.

Maureen Young Ingram

Oh, I love that your golden shovel line took you a whole new direction. I am savoring this line in particular, “Remix the verse, but some don’t want to hear these lyrics.”

jesstwrites

Just something quick I thought of. I’ve been writing poetry and listening to some music, lol. Thank you!

DeAnna C

I have now read your poem for a third time. I have such big feelings on the topic and your poem helped share them.

Don’t let these befuddled bureaucrats get under your 

Skin, so instead of cussing them out, write a ballad.

If only I new how to write a ballad.

jesstwrites

Ha, I think many of us express these very ideas. And I’m not much of a music writer, I’m too wordy, lol!

Stacey Joy

Jess (hope that’s your name, forgive me if not), you capture so much of the sentiments and frustrations we educators experienced. I think I love it even more because the original line DOESN’T relate to your topic. That’s the fun of Golden Shovels.

I am with you 100% here:

I will remain vocal so please let me be.

Clapping over here! ??????

Jessica Wiley

Stacey Joy, it’s Jessica on my birth certificate, but Jess or J has become my nicknames and I’m okay with that. ? And I think I took some vibes from Eddie B and just said to heck with it! I thought it was really going to be hard, but somehow it all came together.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

You can sing with me anytime!

jesstwrites

Let’s go!!!!

DeAnna C

Anna, thank you for this prompt. Funny how I just learned about this poetry style yesterday from the poem my friend wrote.
Today I decided to stick with my Tupac line from yesterday.
I only follow my voice inside

Coming to a fork in the road, I
stop one only
a moment to decide which path to follow.
Knowing either can lead me to my
destination. As long as I listen to my voice,
I will safely make it back inside.

Cara Fortey

DeAnna,
Nice how the same line can produce two very different poems. Great job!

jesstwrites

Wow DeAnna, I had to go back and find your poem from yesterday so I could put it in context with today. It’s interesting you mentioned Tupac. I am intrigued by him and was inspired by Angie Thomas to look at some of his writings. I bought The Rose that grew from Concrete a few weeks ago and am hoping to read it very soon! This part of your poem stood out to me: Coming to a fork in the road, I stop one only a moment to decide which path to follow…this is so me right now as I try to decide what I wanna be when I grow up!

Maureen Young Ingram

Love the line from Tupac, and now this line in your new poem today – “a moment to decide which path to follow”

susanosborn182

I too most often come to a fork in the road and am so happy to have the option of taking either one that in most cases will lead to the same place, safely. Thanks for sharing this thought.

Rachelle

DeAnna, I always love the images you create in your poems. I really like the overall message of the poem, too. It’s advice I need to listen to more often–follow my true heart and voice.

Emily D

“…I stop only a moment to decide…” I like this! Also, “As long as I listen to my voice…” I like the simple confidence.

Heather Morris

Thank you for this prompt. I enjoyed strolling through my poetry notebook. I saw so many recurring themes. I almost didn’t post today because I think my poem should stay in the compost pile, but I wrote it and wanted to post it. I used a line that reflects my feelings about my soon-to-be empty nest.

The moment is coming when I will
have to say goodbye to my
daughter, holding back tears
and wondering if my life will ever
feel complete again. Will watching them run
after their dreams allow my eyes to dry?

Donnetta D Norris

Definitely not deserving of the compost…beautiful, Mama Bear!!

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Heather, your poem created a teary, but a poignant moment for me as I reflected on this past week when my two adult children came from their out-of-state homes to visit for the first time since Christmas 2019! No, your tears will NOT RUN DRY, they will just run for different reasons. Often joy at seeing your children succeed, often joy that they WANT to come home again, but not to live at home :-), but you enjoy being with you and to get a hug!

Cara Fortey

Heather,
I really feel this one with you. Though I still have two more years (theoretically) with my 16 year old, my 19 year old just moved out and I am definitely trying to find the reset button on my reality. Hugs! We can do this!

DeAnna C

Heather,
I have experienced this emotion three times now. I still have two more to leave the nest. I know having my bonus child eased the blow when the first one moved out. The joy of watching them chase their dreams also helped ease that pain.

Maureen Young Ingram

Oh, Heather – the last line is so gorgeous, it really speaks to what parents endure “Will watching them run after their dreams allow my eyes to dry?” – so poignant. We are happy when we see them so happy.

jesstwrites

Heather, I don’t want to experience that moment, but I know it will come. “holding back tears and wondering if my life will ever feel complete again. Will watching them run after their dreams allow my eyes to dry?”- I love these lines, but they truly heart and are hopeful at the same time. Thank you for sharing.

Seana Wright

Heather, thanks for this. I too will have an empty nest in 3 months. The lines that especially resonated with me were “The moment is coming when I will
have to say goodbye to my
daughter, holding back tears
and wondering if my life will ever
feel complete again.”
I now know its alright to cry when they leave (one daughter moved across the country already) and it is a time to rediscover yourself. And you can wear whatever you want around the house. You really captured the essence of a parent’s feelings.

Margaret Simon

So heartfelt! Take some advice from this mother, now grandmother, they never leave you. Roots, then wings, then you are the nest they fly back to.

Britt

Beautiful and tender, Heather!! As Margaret wrote, we most certainly do fly back! 😉 I don’t know how I’d be doing this mom thing without her.

This has me thinking of what my mom was experiencing once her nest became empty; from this point of view, I never thought to consider it because I was so eager about my endeavors. But even throughout every step, I contacted my mom for everything!!

Hugs to you.

Donnetta D Norris

I am participating in the Chippewa River Writing Project, and the “write out” prompt for the day required that I write a “Story Only I Can Tell.” I my response I used the line “Only I can tell the story of…”. So, I have decided to use that line in my Golden Shovel here today.

There are stories that need to be told and the ONLY
one who can tell them is you, or I.
Words inside of us that would, will, CAN
penetrate the reader’s mind and soul and TELL
of joys and pain, and heartache, and triumph…THE
lines of the perfectly-crafted STORY
that only you, or I, possess the words OF.

Heather Morris

I love this, Donnetta. This is inspirational. I wrote the prompt down to write some stories only I can tell.

DeAnna C

Donnetta,
I enjoyed your poem today. I like that you combined both of your prompts from today to come up with this piece.

Cara Fortey

Donetta,
Your integration of the quote into your lines is seamless. If you hadn’t capitalized the words or if I hadn’t known the prompt, I would never have noticed (to my detriment). I think this would be a beautiful prompt for students–the stories only they can tell. Thank you for sharing!

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Donetta, You are so right. We each have our own story, but one of the joys of this group is sharing those “ONLY I” stories only to find there is someone who has a story enough like it to appreciate the way you tell it, or to harmonize with you as you sing your song together. They know the melody, but not the descant that you sing.

jesstwrites

Donnetta, this is so good! There is so much meat in this poem, but the phrase that resonated with me most was “CAN penetrate the reader’s mind and soul and TELL of joys and pain, and heartache, and triumph”. The word “penetrate” takes the line to a higher level of expression. As a line in a gospel line says “You can’t tell it, let me tell it!” Thank you!

Stacey Joy

Hi Donnetta,
This is a fantastic poem for the phrase you selected. I’m in awe of its flawlessness in capturing a complete message in so few lines. I love the prompt from your other group asking you to write a story only you can tell. I’m guessing that brought out some very intriguing stories.

Denise Krebs

Donnetta, I love how you broaden the scope of your poem with the You of I, and the the tenses of the stories–“Words inside of us that would, will, CAN / penetrate…”

Nice work!

Cara Fortey

I didn’t reuse something I previously wrote because my mind has been preoccupied with my son fighting wildfires. I used two slogans from the Forest Service as a pair of Golden Shovels.

“Smokey the Bears”

I don’t have to remind myself that my son is only
nineteen. Think of yourself at that age, you
might have been in school or working, but can
you imagine chasing two bears to prevent
them from coming closer while you eat lunch in the forest
The bears were only there because they were spooked by the fires

The land his twenty man crew is working to protect
is in a canyon on the Crow Reservation in Montana. What
a lightning strike started, burns through the parched land. You
will see devastation wrought on a land you love 
until the chronic climate abuses end. Only then can we prevent
the epidemic of circumstances that ignite into endless wildfires.

Stacey Joy

Ohhhh, Cara, there’s so much to grapple with in the realities of our children growing up and doing what they’re called to do, and our letting go and watching them along the journey. Your son is a hero! That speaks volumes even though you have a lot to think about when he’s out there being heroic.

Your Golden Shovel poem brings us close to the bear, the land, the fire, our abused world, and to you. The ending is leaving me wondering when will this ever happen. Fantastic poem Cara! Praying for the safety of your son and his crew.

Only then can we prevent

the epidemic of circumstances that ignite into endless wildfires.

Susie Morice

Oh, Cara — I was feeling the burn in this. My most beloved girls live in the West and the fires scare the holy bejeezus out of me. Last summer was just a nightmare. I can feel that in every line of your poem. I am so impressed that atop the visceral scare of having your son in harm’s way, you mastered the GShovel, which I couldn’t even begin to do today. The bears, the scares, the fires, the vastness of Montana big sky…big forests. Holy cow. This is a gorgeous poem. The “chronic climate abuses” scare me as well… and being a thousand miles from the burn, I can smell the smoke and feel the heat of your poem. Keep writing about this, as it is soooooo important! Thank you! Susie

DeAnna C

Cara,
Yet again you blow me away with your writing. Those slogans are both true and after last fall I know I need to be more mindful when I camp this summer.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Cara, first you’re in our prayers as is your son! It was men like him who probably saved our home in California, in 2003 when the Scripps Ranch fires raged in our town! Please let him know that we appreciate his service and pray for his safety.

Your poem also revives memories of visiting Alaska’s Admiralty Island, a brown bear preserve, and seeing the mama bears cavorting in the shallow waters with their cubs as we viewed them from observation spaces.

We share this planet and your poem reminds us of the danger to both man, bears, and plant life. We gotta be careful!

jesstwrites

Cara, I will never look at Smokey the Bear the same again! Prayers for your son and the other firefighters! “You will see devastation wrought on a land you love  until the chronic climate abuses end. Only then can we prevent the epidemic of circumstances that ignite into endless wildfires.” These lines are the lifeline and the answer to one of many problems.

Denise Krebs

Cara, you are taking the compost in your heart–nurturing love and aching worry–and forming it into beautiful pieces of writing. Thank you for this. Keep praying and keep writing. I can’t imagine the scene you write about chasing the bears while eating lunch, but you have helped me to do so, and I become more aware of the work and sacrifice of our forest fire fighters.

Rachelle

Cara, my friend, this poem. Thank you for writing it today. Last night I stayed up way too late looking at the predicted forecast and trying to determine what I need to do to stay safe this summer here in the Willamette Valley. The plea in the last two lines are what I try to reiterate.
PS: You are a good mom 🙂

Emily D

Cara, you tackle such issues with your poems! Embedded honors and now climate change! I do like how this poem starts with a funny/interesting story that also touches on your concerns for your son, and then pivots to climate change. Well written and well said.

Emily D

This was a fun prompt! I enjoyed trying it out.

sunlight filters through this canopy of green leaving scars
of shade and light which fade and are
forgotten by noon unlike these enduring marks
carved with our love, irritation, stubborn fears. The soreness of
rising, trying again, pervades, but I believe we are becoming a thing of beauty.

Sarah

Oh, Emily, I read the bolded words first and was struck. Wow. Then, the “filters” of words in the stanza offer such powerful contextualizing and texture– “sunlight…through this canopy” and “carved with our love…”

Thank you!

Sarah

Cara Fortey

Emily,
I loved this line in your previous poem–I’m so glad you used it as your Golden Shovel. This is a wonderful recycling into a hopeful poem with beautiful images. I particularly liked:
scars
of shade and light which fade and are
forgotten by noon

Stacey Joy

Emily, yes!! I love a poem that brings sunlight into the room and yours does exactly that. Gorgeous choices for your Golden Shovel! The ending couldn’t have been any more perfect!

The soreness of

rising, trying again, pervades, but I believe we are becoming a thing of beauty.

DeAnna C

Emily,
Like Cara I too enjoyed this line from your previous poem. You worked it so beautifully into your Golden Shovel poem.

Donnetta D Norris

I love how your poem flows. This is a great Golden Shovel. I love “leaving scars of shade and light”. This is so beautiful.

Allison Berryhill

Oh my! Gasp! I, like other readers, read your bolded line first. As I read your poem this line grabbed me: “canopy of green leaving scars of shade and light” (LOVELY to consider shade/light as scars.) And then your brilliant turn: looking at how “scars” of loving through what life delivers can in fact result in something beautiful. Married 37 years, I couldn’t agree more!

Rachelle

Emily, you are such a gorgeous writer. Normally I write my poem before reading others’ but today I totally was lacking inspiration. I think I am going to steal your line “but I believe we are becoming a thing of beauty” as inspiration for my poem. Thank you for writing this piece today!

Katrina Morrison

I love the Golden Shovel. Thank you, Anna!

Listening to Annie Dillard’s An American Childhood on this morning’s walk, the line “I learned at intervals…” struck home with me. In different times and different places, I have been blessed by flowers/plants that would become forever friends. Here are my earliest memories incorporating the words of Annie Dillard.

Daffodils and irises in the rain. I
Would hunger for more. Honeysuckle woke
Desire. Heirloom roses opening at
Last. Each in their own time, in intervals.

Sarah

Katrina,

Thank you for this exploration of flowers and the sensations that emerge in the words like “honeysuckel” and “heirloom roses” which made me think of tomatos for some reason — juice roses? Not sure why my mind went there. But the last words following the comma, “in intervals” is lovely.

Sarah

susanosborn182

Katrina, I really like the beginning words of each sentence. “Daffodils would desire, last.” I can feel the rhythm of interval. Very pretty.

Heather Morris

I enjoyed the pictures you created in your poem and how you connected it to the line “I woke at intervals.”

Allison Berryhill

So much to love here, Katrina.
First, I am a diehard Annie Dillard fan, after first reading “Singing with the Fundamentalists” in college. The Living remains one of my favorite novels.

Next, I love your turn to “I WOKE at intervals.” My learning and my “woking” have both occurred at intervals. I love this concept and want to share it with my students.

Finally, your poem’s burst of flora is the perfect companion for a theme of awakening.

Lovely.

Jennifer Jowett

Anna, thank you for such a wonderful way to upcycle our own words and for the beautiful poem you shared! I borrowed a first line from a WIP I had going awhile ago: The scream built from deep inside her.

Much like THE
buried beast, a silent SCREAM
clawed its way out, BUILT
from kiln-fired stones, FROM
broken china, deep down, belly DEEP
one piece INSIDE
the next, fragments of HER

Stacey Joy

Jennifer, wow!!! This packs a punch! I want to know more, read more, get the whole story. So much mystery and intrigue here:

clawed its way out, BUILT

from kiln-fired stones, FROM

broken china, deep down, belly DEEP

Is this a poem you’re continuing to write now that you’ve crafted this incredible Golden Shovel?

Jennifer Jowett

Thanks, Stacey! The line came from a novel I was working on awhile back.

Sarah

Jennifer,
I love this word “upcycle”– way better than recycle or maybe just as good but different. I read the last words first and was floored and haunted, and then this oxymoron threw me “silent SCREAM” and the clawing was fierce here. I don’t know what to do with “fragments of HER.” This sits with me for now.

Cara Fortey

Jennifer,
Wow! From the first line this really hits hard. Really well done–I particularly liked the second half:
FROM
broken china, deep down, belly DEEP
one piece INSIDE
the next, fragments of HER

Susie Morice

Jennifer — I want to know if the “her” is Jennifer? I can feel a “buried beast” and heaven knows I know a “silent SCREAM/claw[ing]”… I want to know more of the “fragments of HER.” You have a deep well going here, my friend! Hugs, Susie

Barb Edler

Jennifer, your poem is rich with emotion and explodes off the page! Your end is chilling and visceral. I loved: “BUILT
from kiln-fired stones,”
This poem carries a knock-out punch! Fantastic!

Heather Morris

This is so powerful. “A silent scream clawed its way out.” I can feel this line.

Barb Edler

Anna, thank you so much for your inspiration today. I loved the invite to review our own work, but it was kind of difficult to pick a line…I just felt like I was reading a lot of bad poetry….ugh! Anyway, I chose a line from a poem I wrote about a childhood memory. It perfectly shares the beautiful weather I’m so lucky to be able to enjoy today.

Serenity

slightly cool breeze—Serenity Is
between the sun shadows and  a
patio—smiling brilliant blooms–golden 
sunshine—a heavenly caress

Barb Edler
June 22, 2021

Jennifer Jowett

Barb, this is the place I want to be right now. Serenity – the sound of it, your imagery, between sun shadows – it’s all so lovely. I can relate to feeling as if you’re borrowing from bad poetry (I had the same thought), but you created something so beautiful!

Susie Morice

Barb – and here lies a gem. I’m always fascinated by the “between” spaces… “between the sun shadows” is a rich image that has its own layers. That is the fun with poetry… so much can play between the words, between the lines. Serenity is always so elusive, and yet you capture it here like a fluttering butterfly in a net… and immediately let go. Lovely! Susie

Stacey Joy

Glorious!

Serenity Is

between the sun shadows and  a

patio…

I, too, am soaking up all the serenity and sunshine of this beautiful day in Los Angeles! Your poem became just what it was meant to become, a gift of serenity to us.

☀️

susanosborn182

This is one truly out of the compost pile and fermenting a bit. Don’t know if it is quite finished yet. Thanks, Anna, for getting me to work on it a bit more.

Two Roofs

One roof is the house over my head.
In it my belongings, including my bed.
Comfy I am under the rafters and beams
Caring for the inside, safe and serene.

There’s another roof called my skull
what goes on under is never dull.
An organ with nerves and electrodes intact
and synapses which serve my body’s OS, in fact. 

Under these roofs where I gather my strength
I compose my thoughts at any length.

Two roofs towering over my body
covering my brain and what’s inside.
My skull the protects just like the housetop 
guarding all where I abide.

One guards my spirit, creation and thoughts.
The other covers my belongings, clothes, chairs and pots.

The ceiling atop windows that let in light
reflect shadows dancing through the night.
Under is a place where I can sit, read a book
and don’t have to worry about how I look.

Inside the skull is a highway of thought
going at warp speed, designing a plot, 
telling my body where to move, 
my heart when to beat, 
my mouth what to eat.
What ideas to approve.

I sit comfort and cozy under these two roofs
knowing I have my survival secured.
Two roofs nurturing the love inside
with security, dreaming and safety ensured.

Barb Edler

Susan, your poem moves so effortlessly. The positive tone and affirmation of your two roofs is particularly moving. Loved your descriptors for your brain!

Jennifer Jowett

Susan, what a delightful last stanza – getting the comfort from the two roofs. I love that one houses the spirit and thoughts and the other protects the body. That second to last stanza certainly demonstrates the busyness of the brain – I feel on warp speed so often.

Susie Morice

Anna — thanks for the permission to dig back in our notes and re-invent some ideas. I failed the GShovel part, but I sure enjoyed your poem and appreciated the inner conflict in the second stanza. I like the idea of writing as a chance at refocusing. Susie

Britt

I’m new to the Golden Shovel form – I think I did it correctly?! I used a line from a poem I wrote in April (Titles Poem on 4/15).

Motherhood is filled with abundant shame;
hesitant to cash in on “let me know if you need anything” when
it was likely said out of obligation. I 
just don’t have the confidence, didn’t
expect to have to make the first move, say
“I need help, a shower, a meal, a nap, anything
Because prideful independence as a badge of honor is to
ignore the need for community which never helped anybody

Barb Edler

Britt, oooh, I really love your poem. I keep rereading it. Your ending line just gives me chills, and I think your poem adds a lot of depth to the line that structures your poem. Very thought-provoking piece! “ignore the need for community which never helped anybody” Truth!

Jennifer Jowett

Oh, Britt, I hear you! This needs to be shouted – from rooftops, loudspeakers, and bullhorns! I remember reading somewhere that relatives in Asian cultures take care of the mother for at least a month after a baby is born so that her only responsibility is taking care of the baby. I love this. Think about how that first month would look and feel so different if we adopted that idea. Darn our independent nature. So much truth here. Hugs.

Stacey Joy

Hi Britt,
You crafted a brilliant Golden Shovel and it captures the essence and raw truth of being a new mom. I remember calling my mother and crying into the phone, “Mommie, I’ll never sleep ever again because the baby never ever stops crying!” She came over immediately to let me sleep. Along with sleep deprivation, the hormones are completely insane. I hope you take time to cry for help, ask for help, beg! Do whatever you have to do to get rest because that’s what your body and mind need.

No shame, not blame, just do what you need to do. Those who love you and reach out to offer help are giving you the gifts you need. Take them.

Sorry for not commenting on the actual poem. My fingers just started tapping away as soon as I finished reading because I know your feelings all too well.

?

Cara Fortey

Britt,
Yes, yes, yes! You captured the guilt/shame/reluctance that new moms feel SO well. Unfortunately, this could be applicable to moms of all stages–we’re just so hesitant to ask for help despite being told it’s a mark of strength to do so.

Seana Wright

Britt, your first line, “Motherhood is filled with abundant shame” is one of the not talked about truths of parenting. You eloquently told the precise secret longing that new mothers often have but can’t always articulate. Thank you for reminding me to help a new mother the next time I encounter one.

Scott M

Thank you, Anna, for giving us the space today to revisit some of our old writings, our lost or forgotten — or, perish the thought, lol — our abandoned snatches of “things.”  I found this note on an index card stuffed between the pages of an old writing journal: At Oak Ridge National Laboratory in eastern Tennessee, a physicist Leah Broussand is trying to open a portal to a parallel universe — NBC News — June 30, 2019.

Just four days after
reading an article
about a physicist
blasting sub atomic
particles trying to
open a portal to
a parallel universe,
the third season
premiered of the hit
Netflix series
Stranger Things.

Now, two years later,
I eagerly anticipate
season four, and I still
haven’t read about
any demogorgon
sightings in my local
newspaper, so I’m still
left to ponder the age-
old question of whether
life imitates art 
or, you know,
the other way.

Susie Morice

Scott — that index card sent you reeling… love it. You make a strong case for art and life being a bit too gooey to separate….all the better. I’ve added a new word to my lexicon: demogorgon… holy cow ….LOL! Susie

Jennifer Jowett

Ahhh! We await the demogorgon together! At least on Netflix – pretty sure I’d be happy not to see one in real life. This was so fun. I love the combination of real life and those sci-fi shows that just muddle the two together.

Susie Morice

JOEY WAS A CUT ABOVE

[USDA prime is delightfully tender and juicy with a buttery flavor which makes it distinctively superior to any other steak. Of all the beef produced in the US, less than 2% is certified as USDA Prime. Typically, you will not find USDA Prime in the supermarkets since its limited supply is gobbled up by fine meat purveyors that retail it to upscale restaurants and affluent consumers.]

Joey was always meant to be prime.
Did he know he was prime?
Born in the 7thmonth 
on the 7thday
in the 43rdyear of the century,
divisible only by himself and one.

The one, the lucky divisor, 
his creativity — 
music, words, story –
could get to the center of him.

To pry into his carapace of bluster and bs
revealed
a tender heart on his sleeve,
his intrigue with juicy tales,
his sway with words.

Yet, wiping his nose on that sleeve,
he blurred his view,
saw not his self-worth, his quality, 
his 2%, 
better than all the rest.

The louder he bellowed,
the more we felt his brokenness 
in every torn and shredded tissue,
the more we knew 
he saw only the tougher cut,
confusing it with higher grade.

So he cut himself off,
sliced himself to the bone of loneliness,
living behind the stone fences of his keyboard,
camouflaging the simplicity 
of just being himself,
without the bombast,
without the angry calculations,
the pointless comparisons 
to the ground meat
that became his life —
lost in the prime of his cut.

            [My brother, Joey, passed just shy of seven years ago.]

by Susie Morice, June 22, 2021©

Kim Johnson

Susie, I’m so sorry about the loss of your brother. This prime cut comparison just proves that primeness is a mere concept,
changing from each perspective, with each taste bud, and even from the perspective of the prime subject. I love your use of prime as a superlative and a mathematical divisibility factor. Your question Did he knows he was prime? is haunting. Hugs!

Barb Edler

Susie, your poem is incredibly moving…your line “lost in the prim of his cut.” is heart-wrenching. I’m so sorry for your loss and some months and days can really bring back the pain. The words throughout your poem are visceral and raw as the meat described. Your line “sliced himself to the bone of loneliness,” reverberates like a powerful echo of pain. Incredible poem. Thanks for sharing this! Hugs! Barb

Denise Krebs

That meat metaphor is painful and so effective here to describe the hurt and pain that Joey went through. Destined to be prime, but

in every torn and shredded tissue,

the more we knew 

he saw only the tougher cut,

confusing it with higher grade.

The cutting himself off and slicing to the bone of loneliness–such stark images. Your description of how he died in these painful situations is riveting and sad. Peace to you and your family.

Jennifer Jowett

Susie, so very sorry for your loss. I appreciated the wordplay on USDA prime throughout and was admiring your cleverness and then those last words hit (not reducing your cleverness a wit, but it caused me to read and re-read to see this through the eyes of a sister honoring her brother, which you do so well). I can feel your loss, your pain, and his. A beautiful tribute.

Stacey Joy

Hi, my friend, sending hugs first!?
I can’t imagine this kind of loss nor his suffering. I didn’t know what to expect with the beef info so you definitely took me by surprise. “Did he know he was prime?” How did it feel to write this poem even after 7 years passed? Wondering since he was born on the 7-7 and it’s been almost 7 years if he’s been nudging your spirit more.

I held every word and image as I always do with your writing. This one just really stabs at the heart. Sending another hug! ?

Cara Fortey

Susie,
This extended metaphor really works beautifully! I am so very sorry for your loss. You express in detail the difficulty of seeing ourselves the way others see us–we are blind to our own value. This bit really says it for me:
the more we knew 
he saw only the tougher cut,
confusing it with higher grade.

Scott M

Susie, this is so well-written and multilayered, a wonderful tribute. I’m very sorry for your loss.

Nancy White

Alive
(Noticing the beauty in everyday things.)

By Nancy White

I can’t help noticing.
When I’m out walking there’s always the

  • birdsong and the hum of a faraway plane tickling my ears and
  • breezes that gently make the palms sway, swishing in a dance of sensual beauty.

No matter what mood I’m in,
These small signs are signaling that everyday
I can take in what surrounds and hear music in all things.

Stacey Joy

Nancy, totally in love with your poem! I do mindful walks and it was life-changing/saving during the pandemic. I had to find time to notice the beautiful reminders in nature that all is well and we would eventually be fine. Your poem speaks to my heart to keep doing it, don’t stop just because we are less restrained now, go out and dance with the “sensual beauty” of the palms.

Lovely!

Mo Daley

Nancy, I’m an observer, too. I adore the quiet simplicity of your poem.

Emily

Hi there. Love your poem, and love the concept of compost! I saw an article today about the crafts people made during the pandemic, which seemed like another blossoming from compost.

Pandemic Crafting

I have a coffee mug that reads:
Life Isn’t About Finding Yourself,
Life Is About
Creating Yourself.
A little preachy, but I think about it every time I use it.

In the pandemic, some were imperfectly creating –
Sprawling sweaters without a pattern
A quilt for the cat
Watercoloring Zoom meetings and Zoom therapy sessions
Crop tops crocheted for their newly-out nonbinary friend 
Amazing!

Transforming
Pasta boxes into paintings of favorite stores, now closed
A beautiful meal into a miniature meal on a cracker table
Plastic bags crocheted into coral, kept from the ocean
Paper and glow sticks into an ethereal mushroom garden
Vermont maple syrup jugs into lamps
Toilet paper tubes papier mache’d into whales
Salt dough into prayer beads of deep color
Weeds into mandalas
Old sheets into a spiral rug, mimicking the arms of the galaxy 
that now your dog sleeps on!

Did I miss this
While, being “essential”
Grinding away time
To dream and create?

If all essential workers had this time
What other creations would we see?
Or is it on us to carve out time?

What if all we did was survive?

Delight tinged,
recognizing the privilege behind whimsy.

Then again,
Everyone needs hope.
So
I will create my time 
Create some poems
Create myself.
Take up space.
Gratitude for each 
moment to stitch words.

Susie Morice

OOoo, hi there, Emily! So good to “see” you here again. And your composting is terrific. A perfect title…pandemic crafting… a “whimsical” idea indeed. I love that you call into question the “tinge” of “privileged whimsy” in the whole idea…and yet I loved the goofy stuff people did. Juxtaposed with your clawing through a year and a half of being “essential” really does bring some deep consideration to the table….even a “cracker table.” The pasta box thing was truly screwy. LOL! The “essential” question, “is it on us to carve out time” really hangs meat on the bones of compost here. You stitched some rich words today, my friend! Hugs, Susie

Denise Krebs

Emily, I was mesmerized by all the images of crafting and whimsy that people made over the pandemic. I even searched for a few to see if I could find pics. (I could–maybe not the same ones, but others!) I love your conclusion. “I will create my time…” Yes, good for you, here to make some poems and “stitch words” Wow! Beautiful!

Emily

The article is here, and thank YOU 🙂

Denise Krebs

Ah, thanks, Emily. Your words really gave life to the ideas. It was fun to see the photos later. Thank you for sharing!

susanosborn182

Thank you, Emily for this. I found that during the pandemic I became more creative than ever grinding out over 30 paintings while being isolated. I wonder the same thing your poem questions “If all essential workers had this time what other creations would we see?” and “What if all we did was survive?” Many of my artist friends were stifled and haven’t been able to create at all during the last 15 months. This pandemic has done strange things.

Scott M

Emily, I really liked your first stanza (the rest of the poem, too, especially the notion of the need to “create” time, poetry, and self), but it was your first stanza that had me smiling broadly. I thought it so funny the idea of you reaching for your coffee mug each morning, reading that inscription, and rolling your eyes, thinking “you’re not the boss of me” as you take a drink. The three words “a little preachy” just struck me as very funny, so thank you for that!

Seana Wright

Thank you Anna for the Compost idea. My inspiration is your Golden shovel from last December.

Rosewood, Tulsa, Detroit, and Watts where EVERYONE
is living, creating, loving, faithful, and thriving. But there IS
someone who’s not thrilled with our progress, our serenity, and is LOOKING
for a way to halt the forward motion. Educators, bankers, and entrepreneurs work AT
educating and uniting everyone, but the underlying rage and jealousy ignite SOMETHING
ugly to happen. Cities are burned, children are orphaned, people are massacred, A
family flees. What happens when dreams are extinguished? What do you tell a CHILD
when their reality is so disturbing that they CAN’T
feel hope and imagine a future they can SEE?

Emily

Seana, your powerful poem raises powerful questions. The imagery around fires and dreams extinguished were particularly powerful to me. Thanks for sharing this.

Susie Morice

Seana — Your poem is strong and holds a powerful voice. I love the conscience here…the genuine understanding that dreams are being extinguished all around us…and it is truly godawful. I so appreciate this poem and your voice that is loud and clear. Thank you, Susie

Stacey Joy

Yesssss!!!! This is a message for the world! You’re giving us truth and forcing us to question the systems in place that extinguish dreams. Outstanding poem, Sis! ??????????

Stacey Joy

Thank you, Anna, for this opportunity to write a Golden Shovel! I happen to LOVE this form and wrote two yesterday so my mind was not rebellious when I began writing this morning. I appreciate the honesty of your poem. I particularly needed to remember this line:

That even when scared, we still can be light

Thank you for that reminder!

Before writing today, I read Sarah’s poem giving us much needed advice to heal during summer. Then listened to my Daily Calm app and the message ended with words from Albert Einstein. Serendipity would have me write from his words after taking Sarah’s advice.

Albert Einstein: I stop thinking and swim in silence and the truth comes to me. (I included the image in case anyone else needs to swim in silence with me.)

Pondering how I or maybe will I
sleep well and awaken, pause and stop
the endless train of random thinking
to find refreshment, joy, and
cool blue water to swim
In 
Summer’s mornings dawning in silence
for writing, reading, meditation and
a place to stop the
train. Honoring the essential truth
that I need rest because August comes
with all the stress of school to
propel the train and disrupt the peace of me

©Stacey L. Joy, June 22, 2021

Calm.jpg
Emily

Stacey, this is so very true – I relate to the thoughts that are calmed by literal swimming, but also the need to stop and rest. You wove in the golden shovel part so beautifully. Thanks for lovely reminder to rest before August – I wish you a very refreshing summer!

Susie Morice

Stacey — You sure do justice to the GShovel. I should follow your lead, but alas…no shovel digging for me today. I love the whole feel of self-healing going on in your GS. You have your head on straight and is see not only the calm, but the peace that “honor” here. August will come soon enough, and you, my friend will be the summer-nourished queen of autumn. Hugs, Susie

Nancy White

I love the idea of “swimming in silence”. I think of lying on the beach, feeling the warmth, just turning off my brain, maybe falling asleep. We all need time to just be still and know, “honoring the essential truth that I need rest.” Amen.

Denise Krebs

Oh, Stacey, it sounds like a perfectly composting preparation for this poem today. Yes, August comes all to soon, so I am glad you are “honoring the essential truth
that I need rest” Good for you. I hope you find that “cool blue water to swim in” this summer and let the truth come to you. Have a great one.

Denise Krebs

Anna, thank you for your prompt and the nice idea that invited reflection on our own writing. “Often what we have written in the past can provide nutrients or seeds for future writing.” Thank you for this. I am intrigued by your poem, and I would love to hear more about the feeling of the second stanza. I love this line: “That even when scared, we still can be light” I add it to my compost for today’s poem.

What fun this was. I feel like a gardener today! I went to my own compost bin and dug around. I found a poem I wrote at the end of April 2020, a ode to the verse love community after writing with them for my first month. It’s the second poem in this post. My Golden Shovel below is made with these lines from that poem:

Your poems are cathartic

for the arctic

sea in me

reminding me of open wounds

yet to be restored when

given your remedy

I also took from the compost and planted an idea from Emily D’s dream poem this week in her lines:

I dream a world healed / where your scars are beauty marks.

Another thing that I added was something my Arab friend translated for a speech I was helping her edit: “bouquets of prayers” From what I’ve learned, the Arabic language is filled with beautiful figurative language, poetry and beautiful images like these. I keep thinking of bouquets of prayers, so you will see it here too.

A Letter to the Open Write Community
 
Your writing nurtures me. Your
poems bring healing. They
are catalysts of change and
cathartic for the hurts we have endured.
For bringing hope,
the poems are warmth that thaws the
arctic of my soul, this
sea of iced-over emotions. Investing
in each other takes time, a gift to
me, and mine to you–
reminding me of family.
Me, the one who only wrote for the audience
of my students, but now I am
open to writing in this space and beyond. My
wounds become shared. The scars
yet to become beauty marks, multiplied  
to become divided. They will
be claimed as victories, life
restored and filled with joy.  
When ideas have dimmed, and I have
given up out of fear, the fragrance of
your poems, these bouquets of prayers, will be the
remedy and light for my heart and pen.

Stacey Joy

Denise, YOU are a bouquet of prayers, love, light, poetry, and beauty! I adore your poem. It covers the vastness of this space we have with one another in such a vivid and gorgeous way.

This is a special gift from you that I’ll cherish:

The scars

yet to become beauty marks, multiplied 

to become divided. They will

be claimed as victories, life

restored and filled with joy.  

I love this poem and the gift you’re giving to us today.
???

Emily

Denise – this is wonderful! You wove in that gorgeous line masterfully. I love the “scars yet to become beauty marks” and the last few lines are so beautiful – they capture the hope that this community provides! So glad to be back and thank you for sharing this.

Margaret Simon

Your poem feels so personal and such a testament to our writing community. I love how you used “bouquets of prayers”, a golden line. Always, “your writing nurtures me.”

Susie Morice

Wow, Denise! You have a dandy here. The whole Open Write community is better for your being here. This is beautiful. I like thinking that “scars/yet to become beauty marks, multiplied/to become divided.” Writing together is a powerful thing! Lovely! Susie

Sarah

Denise,
Thank you so, so much for taking good care of our hearts and minds the past few days. You are a treasure, and I so appreciate you. This poem — my good ness. The bolded words apart from and then part of — stunning. “open…wounds…yet..to …be..restored” and then “wounds become shared” and “life/restored and filled with joy.” Such beauty in every word. I am filled up.

Sarah

Julie E Meiklejohn

Oh, I love the idea of compost! This is such a great prompt, Anna! I’m kind of combining yesterday’s prompt with today’s, because I didn’t finish my poem yesterday. So, there was one line from Gayle Sands’ poem “I Dream a World” from June 20 that really just grabbed me and wouldn’t let go…that was the line “holy roar of possibility.” It took me, immediately, to my sometime pursuit of seminary and becoming a pastor. I have been a teacher for 20 years, but much earlier in my life, I felt called to be a pastor. It was (and is) a calling I pursued, then life set in. Then I’d feel the call again…and then I’d be pulled away. It makes me wonder if now is the time.

Called to Fly (with thanks to Mary Chapin Carpenter)

Watching the laying on of hands
at the ordination of elders
Feeling the wistful tug of inevitability

Exploring Scripture in a way that felt
deeper, unfamiliar, yet completely home
with my friend and confirmation mentor

Noticed and invited by a “famous” author, whose seeing
of my heart pulled me forward
Tugged me along the path of the call

Communing with the like-minded,
other young souls who had been
captivated by the holy roar of possibility

Knowing God’s presence in a very real way
“Peace, my child”–words cutting through the darkness
of deep pain

Feeling holiness rise up and bubble out of my mouth
speaking words not my own, yet the perfect words
to soothe, calm, and convict a seeking soul

Learning so much I had never even heard of before
Liberation theology and exegesis
Just a little taste of higher learning in a Manhattan brownstone

I’ve sometimes run from the call
Sometimes limped away,
sometimes just turned my back
But…it’s never left
And now, it tugs insistently at my sleeve
Like a needy toddler
Is now the time to answer?

Susan Ahlbrand

Julie,
I love how you trace your faith journey and the multiple callings you have heard.
Perhaps NOW is the time! But, if not, keep hearing the call . . . and writing about it. I love the entire poem, but this line sticks out:

captivated by the holy roar of possibility

Nancy White

And now, it tugs insistently at my sleeve
Like a needy toddler
Is now the time to answer?”

i like how honest you are as you explore this call on your heart. My advice would be to pay attention to that persistent toddler. Get some people to pray and listen with you. Expect an answer. ?

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Julie, the lines that keep standing out and prove to be a loving challenge, tugging like a needy toddler

Communing with the like-minded,
other young souls who had been
captivated by the holy roar of possibility

The holy roar of possibility seems to resonate and echo on and on!

Thank you for this invitation to revisit past poems and scribbles to make something new or to revision it. This is from March 16th and Katrina’s license plate poetry: http://www.ethicalela.com/license-plate-poetry/#comment-32427.

There is this myth of summers off–
is this myth of a simple switch:
no more papers to grade, lessons to plan;
rest for hearts squeezed, depleted; time
for rejuvenation, replenishment. But
the PD -LC summer retreats are
teacher deeds without time
to grieve, heal so that they can again
dream.

Judi Opager

Sarah, simply brilliant! So much in so few lines that pack a powerful punch ‘There is no rest for the teacher to dream’ – there is not a single spare word – each word is perfectly placed. Great poem! I want to share it with all of my colleagues.

Stefani B

Sarah, your use of “heal” in relation to summers for teachers is a painful reality that is often ignored…and especially needed for many after this academic year. Thank you for bringing this to us in your poetry today.

Stacey Joy

Sarah, my friend, I completely agree! I am taking your poem as a dose of sage advice to heal. I, too, have spent many a summers for PD-LC, reading for work not for pleasure, and planning the new school year well before I needed to. But after a year like the one we just endured, all I want to do is what I want to do! I’m flipping the “simple switch” to OFF and turning it ON when I doggone well please.

I love your poem. I’ve already taken two doses! ?

Susan Ahlbrand

Sarah,
This is wonderful! I plan to share it with my team if you are okay with that.

the line

is this myth of a simple switch

hit me perfectly. If only there were a switch.

Susie Morice

You speak big truth here, Sarah. I know these sentiments way too well. “Deeds without time” is something non-teachers seem never to understand…at least, it feels misunderstood. Time to heal turns those nightmares into dreams, for sure. I want to plaster your poem on billboards from one end of I-70 to the other. It sure beats the anti-everything signage that pollutes that byway. 🙂 Sending you healing time: poof! Susie

Nancy White

Sarah, I found that teaching was so depleting. I never felt I could get enough rest. And as time has moved on, teachers are given more and more hoops to jump through. I found it much of it becoming more and more paperwork and record keeping. My creativity suffered terribly. I’m hoping for ways to help teachers with the problem of burnout.

Kim Johnson

Sarah, the poem parallels the golden shovel line – such truth in the need for full rest to charge batteries back into full swing!

Judi Opager

The Black Dancing Shoes
 
 
I find a pair of dress-up black heels.
So beautiful.
They belong to my Aunt Lorraine
I can’t help myself
I must try them on.
 
They are too big for my
six-year-old feet
but oh, how they make me feel
like dancing!
 
I test them and the sound the
heel makes
as it strikes the wooden floor
is so satisfying,
and all at once
I am a great dancer
like the lady on TV.
 
My feet have a life of their own
as the magic shoes tap loudly
to the music playing in my imagination.
 
I swirl and turn,
my feet and body moving
free and joyously
TAP – TAP – TAP – TAP – TAP
across the wood boards,
and I am swept away in the
magic of my dance.
 
Who is making all the stomping noise??”,
my mother askes from the doorway,
You can’t hear yourself think downstairs!“.
My brothers and sister are crowded
around her, laughing.
 
I stop, but for a few moments
I was flying with pure joy!

Judi Opager

Stefani B

Judi,
Thank you for sharing this memory with us today. Your line, “flying with pure joy” is a fantastic ending line to wrap up this experience.

Susie Morice

Judi– this is a totally delightful image…I was there clicking and dancing with you. Amen for Aunt Lorraine’s fancy shoes and a little girl’s joy at stepping into the dance. Just totally lovely. I can just hear your mom…”who’s making all that racket put there…” same thing in my house…except it was me banging through “Let the Cassons Go Rolling Along” on the old upright piano. LOL…you made me laugh. Love it. Susie

Denise Krebs

Judi, this is a sweet story for showing how children remember certain scenes. Oh, how often have I been the adult in the room (or the older siblings laughing). I feel hope that your poem will make me more empathetic.

Margaret Simon

Anna,
Thanks for this prompt. Your poem resonates with me. Writing in this community holds me together “we write…need to refocus our sight.”
I found in my notebook a golden shovel that I wrote last week while participating in the NWP #Write Across America. There is another stop today if anyone is interested in joining.
https://lead.nwp.org/writeacrossamerica-a-virtual-writing-marathon/

Frederick Douglas
Golden Shovel “Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will.” 

When the power

of discontent concedes

nothing

and questions the status quo without

rhetorical mumbo jumbo, a 

democrat, diplomat, or doormat may demand

resistance. It

will never

be ours. This earth did

not evolve for you and

me to destroy it. 

Funereal wreaths never

hold up in this heat. Only love will. 

Linda Mitchell

These lines are the best!
“democrat, diplomat, or doormat may demand
resistance. It”
What a voice in this…very strong.

Judi Opager

“Funereal wreaths never hold up in this heat. Only love will.” – Beautiful words perfectly blended and lovely summation. This is a very dynamic poem from beginning to end! Thank you for sharing it with us.

Stefani B

Margaret, I love the line variations with this golden shovel. It draws in a deeper focus to your words. I also love your use of “rhetorical mumbo jumbo.” Thank you for sharing today.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Margaret, thanks for reminding us that it how we treat folks, not what we give them that matters:

Funereal wreaths never
hold up in this heat. Only love will. 

And, funereal wreaths after the fact need not be the pattern of our responses. More love may mean less need for ceremonial laying of wreaths like this. Hmmm.

Denise Krebs

Margaret,
Wow, you added more power to even the tiniest of words in this powerful quote.

This earth did

not evolve for you and

me to destroy it. 

Your poem could be a paired text with Glenda’s Slice of Life today, Parched.

Barb Edler

Margaret, Your closing message speaks the truth! Boom! Love it!

Kim Johnson

Anna, I love the Golden Shovel form you bring us today! Your April feelings in your poem are heartfelt and shared! Sometimes we all go along for the ride on things and feel the regrets.

My Golden Shovel uses last lines of Billy Collins’ “A Terrible Beauty” and “Irish Spider.” 

Irish Spider Buries Terrible Beauty With a Golden Shovel 

I hear the swoosh of her 
text, click to see the latest 
manipulative photo: a dripping 
bowl of juicy watermelon, silvery
veined, picnic crown 
of the sultry beaches of 
Florida – now pure ice 

on the screen – but 
I’m not swooned by memories, not 
stirred by her fooling 
manner to lure me 
to be wooed by 
this narcissistic bully, not a 
puppet in her show one more minute

Linda Mitchell

Oh, that temptress…I’m lured into the rhythm of these stanzas anyway even if not by “her.”

Stefani B

Kim, Love your imagery here today and the narcissistic bully, yes! Thank you for sharing today.

Susie Morice

Kim — You sure do take this bully to task…and it needed doing! You paint such a vivid picture… “the swoosh of her/text” and “manipulative photo” (oh man, do I get that!) and “ice/on the screen” … that best part of all is that you are in the catbird seat, you hold the power to click her away…bam! I like that strong voice…that attitude. Wowza! Love that! Susie

Donna Russ

I love the rhythmic flow of this, lovely, poem. The topic was intriguing and kept me wanting more. Kudos, Anna!

Susan Ahlbrand

Anna,
Thank you so much for guiding us back to previous pieces that were perhaps unfinished. I found one that was titled “Becoming Me” and talked of events that shaped me. Our town is having a big Pride event this weekend and with that in mind, I decided to focus the Becoming Me on the people and events that led me to having such an open mind and heart. I’m thankful the world is coming around.

Becoming 

An uncle
a fun uncle
who was “different”
who spoke big with his hands and entire body
who left small-town Indiana for San Francisco
who loved with a heart the size of Texas
who died a lingering death of a taboo disease in the 80s.

A high school teacher
an English teacher who helped me find my voice
who always looked like a model on a runway
who tried over and over to love men
who hid in rooms to kiss women
who held covert parties that felt wrong
who gradually became who she was in the 90s.

A beloved student
a girl who babysat for our kids
who played football in middle school
who wore t-shirts and gym shorts and backward hats
who looked gorgeous dressed up for the prom
who went to college on a softball scholarship
who “came out” as a sophomore, in love with a teammate in 2012.

He only lived authentically behind closed doors and in underground gay bars,
dying without dignity never owning out loud who he was.

She fought it and hid it and tried to assimilate into the expectation of small-town, middle America, finally quietly living with the love of her life and spending (to date) 35 years with her.

And she boldly lived the life she was meant to, two brides in gorgeous white dresses in a church full of family and friends, now pregnant, living a “typical” married life.

From closeted
To subtle
To bold

Over time, society allowed
them to be who they are
and people were raised with hearts
to live with authenticity.

For my entire life, 
I bore witness 
to same-sex attraction
and watched the gradual
shift of those owning it.

As they have become,
so have I.

And I thank the good Lord
that my mind and heart 
have always been open 
to knowing that 
love is love.

~Susan Ahlbrand 
22 June 2021

Linda Mitchell

What a poem of thankfulness. I’ve lived through all the phases the poem paints. And, honesty is by far the phase that makes the most sense to me. Thank YOU for writing this.

Susie Morice

Susan — Amen! The folks you honor here deserve the beauty of this poem… I love the “have always been open/to knowing that/love is love.” I will never understand why ANYONE would feign to deny the dignity of love. Love is love. Strong voice, poignant and humane. Thank you! Susie

Denise Krebs

Thank you, Susan. A lifetime of relationships has helped you to write this poem. We are in a better place than we were for your uncle, sadly. Your storytelling is very effective in this piece. I love these lines:

As they have become, / so have I.

Stefani B

Good morning Anna, Thank you for guiding us to revisit some of drafts. I hope you are enjoying our MI summer frost;)

my poetic
fingers dance
among letters 
often fashioning
non-sensibles
in a doc, hackable 
not under captcha 
or protection
I made up a word 
at some point:
techoetry
is it obvious? 
this blend
a portmanteau
pushes, ignites
an interest
an access to
a world of poetry
to read it
to write it
to invite it
into my life
through wifi
portals

Margaret Simon

“through wifi portals” we connect and keep each poem afloat on rough seas. Here’s to writing in a community of writers!

Linda Mitchell

I love that word, “portmanteau.” I want to find a way to work it into my writing today. I heard a phrase not too long ago, “portmanteau tales.” I had never heard of it…but the blending of stories is as old as time. Love how blending is a part of this as well.

Judi Opager

“techoetry” – what a great new word! I really enjoyed your poem – it evokes so much thought about the whole process — you are a terrific poet!

Linda Mitchell

Good Morning, Writers. Anna, I love this prompt! My journal is full of “clunkers.” Lines that just clunked in a piece and never got anywhere. I didn’t go looking too far…there was a line ready and waiting for me.

Here’s my line: This poem is you scanning a line left to right.

I have often wondered — this 

question of art. Is a poem 

for the writer or a reader? is 

   poetry something you

can be scanning 

with academic eyes? Or, is it more a 

ball of yarn crocheted with a pen line by line?

 tied into granny squares of left 

over wool shorn from sheep late to 

School? Sometimes wrong but more times right?

Wendy Everard

Linda, I love this. The first line reminds me so of Charles Bukowski’s “Splash”–one of my favorites of all time. Love the way that you compared poetry to a ball of yarn crocheted with a pen.

Margaret Simon

As a crocheter and not a knitter, I appreciate the metaphor of crocheting with a pen. “Is a poem for the writer or a reader?” Great question. Sometimes I have to write and not worry about the reader, but isn’t it nice when someone reads?

Judi Opager

Linda, I loved your poem – especially the line “Or, is it more a ball of yarn crocheted with a pen line by line?” Your entire poem speaks of what a poet goes through in the writing process and it is on-point! I really enjoyed the read and re-read!!!!

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Linda, your extended metaphor makes the poem sing with blended harmonized images we can hear!

susanosborn182

These words create a visual to me that got me smiling. I like this question of scanning the lines of a poem with academic eyes or crocheting a line into tied squares. I can see lines of yarn-words woven together to create a poem that looks like my knitting. It finally gets done with lots of mistakes imbedded within it yet so personal and right.

Kevin Hodgson

Come grab your chair
I’m over here
These days we write
won’t disappear

We sit to watch the stories grow

I’ve traveled your stories
You rest in my poems
We share the shade
of leaning, home

We sit to watch the stories grow

When you’re the leaves
and I’m the stem,
we root together
and wait for Spring

We sit to watch the stories grow

And next year’s harvest
starts with this year’s seeds
We gather our words
on this fragile belief

We sit to watch the stories grow

(Note: the repeating stanza comes from a collaborative poem now underway with some National Writing Project friends as an experiment in a new online networking space)

Linda Mitchell

How cool that you have a collaborative project going. I love the idea of watching stories grow. They are fragile at first.

Margaret Simon

Love the repeated line. That last stanza gets to me. “We gather our words on this fragile belief.” We keep planting and hoping and planting and hoping…

Susie Morice

Kevin — You selected such a perfect line to repeat. Lines I really loved: “share the shade/of leaning, home” and the images of stem and leaves and rooting them together (oooo, dandy) and seeds and words gathered “on this fragile belief” (lines to savor and reread… I love reading them out loud and slowly). The collaborative poem writing…marvelous! I’m a huge fan of NWP, and you truly do them justice. Susie

Kim Johnson

Kevin, fabulous! Love the repeating line and the words chosen to weave the story and watch it grow!

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Kevin, your chosen line
“We sit to watch the stories grow”
almost summarizes what we are experiencing here in OPEN WRITE. As we share our “stories” and become more and more comfortable with one another, we are seeing ways that your chosen lines are true for us.

More important is that our stories are expanding to include others. Today several of our participants have pulled lines from the writing others. That’s what makes this a group I so enjoy. The participants inspire, encourage, and nudge me to try new ways of writing and new ways of seeing. Thanks for the reminder of other power of story writing.