Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. Margaret has been an elementary school teacher for 32 years, most recently gifted ELA. She renewed her National Board Certification in 2019. Her first book of children’s poetry, Bayou Song: Creative Explorations of the South Louisiana Landscape, was published by UL Press in 2018. Margaret writes a blog regularly at http://reflectionsontheteche.com.
Inspiration
Nikki Grimes wrote a memoir in verse, Ordinary Hazards. Within the memoir, she wrote occasional verses titled “The Mystery of Memory.” This inspiration comes from “The Mystery of Memory #3” used by permission from Boyds Mills & Kane.
The Mystery of Memory #3
Think food,
and nourishment
comes to mind,
but we all know
it’s so much more.
One bite of baked pineapple,
and my tongue sticks
to the roof of memory,
gluing me to the last moment
I savored a slice of
pineapple upside-down cake
at my grandmother’s kitchen table.
Each tangy morsel
transports me,
and I am thirteen again,
relishing a culinary treat
sweet with the hours
it took Grandma to make
this Maraschino cherry-topped,
gooey offering of love.
Process
The power of a good mentor text is that it may be all you need to jump into writing something you want to write. I read this poem aloud to my second grade student, and she opened her notebook and wrote this.
I asked an older student (4th grader) to talk to Rylee about how she makes line breaks, Chloe said, “I usually just put three words on a line.” Not quite what I was hoping for, but Rylee typed her poem with newfound line breaks which resulted in a poem-ish piece.
Example from Margaret’s student, Rylee (2nd grade)
Think
of you
buying a cake saver
for your mom,
and she’s going to open it,
then she knows what it is.
She likes it,
then she is so happy
that she bakes
a cake.
Using Nikki Grimes’ poem as a mentor text, write a memory poem. Use sensory images.
Margaret’s poem
Think dirt,
piles of grainy
mucky mud
crawling with
earthworms.
The dirt that soils
your nails.
Digging, slapping
sloshy slush makes memory
smell as ripe as a tomato,
taking me back
and I am ten again
making a mud pie
with my brother
before Mom calls
from the kitchen door,
“Supper’s ready!”
We didn’t know
about love or loss.
We only knew how
to play life
in mud.
© Margaret Simon
Write
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.
Summer Memories for My Children
I do not give them
the green water algae-covered pond
in Illinois
or the cicada July.
I give them the Sierras on a road trip,
a moth-clouded cabin and
fishing for indifferent trout
in glacial bowls.
I do not give them sun
pressing down on bare shoulders
or glistening off of golden prairie grasses, swaying white and yellow wild flowers
or the hum of unseen insects
buzzing in my bones.
I give them trees
wider than their beds at home,
taller than they spend time to see
and older than the wi-fi router we replaced last week.
I do not give them winding walks,
humidity that sits on chests
awaiting thunderstorm relief.
I do not give them the burnt-orange fox bounding through the meadow.
I give them uphill climbs
and mountain vistas.
Rocks to scramble past,
tiny purple butterflies
and sage smells
to pulse under their psyches.
I give them wide.
They give me deep.
Nora, your poem is beautiful in all the ways you want to gift your children with the wonder of nature. I love the contrasts you share. Gifting your children with uphill climbs and mountain vistas rather than humidity and winding walks. As a Midwesterner, I understand the weight of humidity. Your ending is particularly moving which reminds me of the song “River Deep Mountain High”. Gorgeous poem!
Saturday morning
The two of us set out
in early morning.
Bare feet on the beach
then step from pier to pier
as the ocean rushes
through the piers,
splashes on the rocks
and our legs and ankles.
Bare feet leap from pier to pier
daring each move
as the tide comes in.
At home for breakfast
our legs swing against
the chair while wiping
bites of pancakes in puddles
of syrup.
Sticky legs and lips.
Jamie, what images. First, I pictured large piers at the ocean, but you’d be giants, so that didn’t work. Now I’m thinking of maybe abandoned pier pillars. Anyway, I can see your playful jumps! What I love so much are your legs sticky with salt water and your lips sticky with syrup. It is a perfect happy memory moment that you came home for “pancakes in puddles of syrup.” Such a rich poem. Thanks for sharing your sweet memory.
The ‘bare feet on the pier’ repetition was very effective …
Kevin
It was so, so many years ago,
but I remember it as if it were yesterday.
As a child, I woke up early
to spend those precious moments with my dad
before he went to work
to provide for his nine babies and wife.
But THAT Thursday morning,
the one when I was seven,
was different.
I had gotten used to dad going in and out of the hospital,
though I really didn’t understand
what leukemia was way back then.
But I remember
not wanting to get out of bed that day.
I remember mom carrying me from my bed to hers.
I remember the voices—
so many voices,
choking back sobs,
holding in tears,
whispering softly,
speaking their sympathies.
I remember slamming my eyes shut
whenever an old aunt, cool cousin, or brave brother
came in to check on me.
I feigned sleep
as if I were Snow White.
I wasn’t going to get out of bed, no matter what.
Because if I did,
what I knew in my seven-year-old heart would be true.
Tears are running down my face, Mo. I felt such hope when I began reading – a special time spent with dad, a big family. And then reality hit. That last line “what I knew in my seven-year-old heart would be true.” Children know so much more than they are given credit for. (I’m still crying.)
Oh, Mo. My seven-year-old heart is crying this morning as I read your poem. That is the same year I lost my dad. Your thinking about this vivid moment is so rich in detail. I hear the hurt and pain you are trying so desperately to avoid here:
and feigning sleep and trying to stay in bed so you didn’t have to believe it was true. Thank you for entrusting your sad memory here with us.
Some memories are more difficult to write about than others, and yours is powerful here.
These lines stood out to me:
“I feigned sleep
as if I were Snow White.”
There was a time in our family where I remember doing the same thing.
Kevin
Your poem made me cry as well. So much pain wrapped in the memory of that one morning, prefaced by so much love an all the previous ones.
Think bed
and sleeping
comes to mind,
but it is something more.
A crisp cotton
envelope holds
our weary
folded pages.
The day’s effort now
inked and addressed
stamped
bagged
sent.
Dispatched
into tomorrow
where we
will stretch
and break the seal
special
delivery.
This made me sleepy. I must be tired. I love “a crisp cotton envelope” and “where we will stretch and break the seal”. Wow. You have a way with words. I love this poem.
Wonderful extended metaphor!
Hi, Allison — This is a fascinating image… you have such a creative mind… the envelope…LOVE that! It fits my sense of a bed’s “crisp cotton” appeal. To have our day “inked and addressed/stamped/bagged/sent” is so real at the end of my days. It is almost as if the poem exhales in a long sigh that transports us to “tomorrow.” You have a magical mind, my friend. Thank you, Susie
Allison, I feel like you are reading my mind and body! Your metaphor captures exactly how I’m feeling right now!
Allison, what a beautiful bedtime poem. I just stretched and broke the seal, as it’s morning in Bahrain. The special delivery of a new day dawning always gives me hope, as your poem does today. Thank you for it. Now I’m off to write a new letter in honor of today.
Denise, What fun to read your extension of my poem in your response. You’re a dear. Enjoy the day!
Think of happiness and what comes to mind is time,
not long ago, when getting up at 4am was the normal routine,
because getting a heart-pumping, muscle-shredding workout in
before work was a non-negotiable.
Making the 40-minute commute gave you time to yourself;
to think; to sing praises to God along with the contemporary Christian artists
being played on your favorite radio station.
Being one of the first cars in the parking lot,
one of the first teachers in the building,
greeting the cafeteria staff as they prepare a nutritious breakfast for 500 Scholars.
Walking in your classroom, Room 106, and preparing for the day…
cuing an educational video, selecting the read-aloud text,
updating the morning message that helps your Scholars get settled to learn.
Greeting each Scholar at the door,
“Good Morning! I am so glad you are here today!”, with a handshake, and eye-contact
which was usually followed by a waist hug from most.
Being in the classroom with my Scholars made me so happy.
Donetta, your poem makes me want to give you a hug and tell you not to worry! Soon enough, we will be back in the classroom and be able to hug our students again. Also, 4 am? wow! I’m impressed!
Donnetta, I like your thinking today. It is a good prompt for teachers. I want to think again about what life was like last February. I have forgotten, so I am going to write this today, inspired by you. I may write two versions, the memories that I don’t miss vs. the sweet memories that made life as a teacher such a joy. I wonder if your workout happens a little later these days? Blessings to you. I hope you can see the scholars in person soon!
Ah, yes, those quiet hours before school, getting the classroom ready and then, the bustle of kids …. those days seem far away right now.
Kevin
Think my classroom
on March 12, 2020.
Friends had called and asked if we were going on
hiatus. I kept telling them I hoped
so because I was slightly scared of
the virus. The news terrified me but
I was like the people on the freeway when there’s
an accident-I couldn’t stop watching.
I was fascinated with Dr. Fauci
and Gov. Cuomo who were so
factual, matter of fact, and handsome.
Fear crawled inside and sat on my stomach.
Honestly, I also wanted a brief break from Boy A
and Boy B who were personally trying to
recruit the other 10 yr. old boys in my class to
join their “get suspended” club.
That night I couldn’t sleep soundly because I was
fixated on all the germs in my classroom, my visually
handicapped custodian, and the fact that Spring Break
was 2 full weeks away.
The next day, the staff text thread was aglow with
messages. I found out at 10am that we were leaving
that day and would be off temporarily for two weeks.
I felt relief and a thrill. I imagined myself sleeping in until
9am (which never happens) and imagined Boy A’s mother
having to watch him all day. By 2:00pm as I delivered the news
to my students, an air of melancholy surrounded me
and I realized I might never see some of these children
again. After school, after I cleaned the tables and put all
those heavy chairs up, I sat and whimpered a little.
Seana, this is deeply moving on so many levels. One thing we shared was the first thought of relief, an unexpected break from the stress. Then you take me inside your classroom, your school, and into the love of your heart-space. I felt your anguish. This was my favorite part:
I hope you feel the peace that summer usually brings although I know it’s different. Hugs.
Seana,
We were already on Spring Break. I didn’t even know that the last day I saw my Scholars would be the last day I would see my Scholars. Your poem makes me whimper a bit (maybe a lot), because this was hard. I’m not sure I’m quite over it. Great poem.
Misunderstood
I already knew
You were gone
When the doctor
Confirmed the news
On the way to Atlanta
You kicked so hard
My blouse moved
But now all your movement
Turned into
A silent tomb
I cautiously carried
Heartbroken and unable
To convince others
Of the truth
So I didn’t cry
When they told me the news
Because it was simply
A confirmation of the truth
I carried for weeks
A date was arranged
And you were born
One and a half pounds
The doctors stared
Impassively
Believing I did not care
But my grief
Was a tsunami wave
Silently burning inside
Erupting unexpectedly
In a blistering heat
Searing my faith
Obliterating my world
Because I hadn’t cried
They didn’t think I cared
But every year
I remember
My only baby girl
Oh, Barb. I am crying, too. Such heartbreak. I hope writing this helped. “My grief was a tsunami wave” describes that kind of grief, the kind that knocks you to your knees. I’m so sorry for this loss.
Barb, I am so sorry about your baby. Thank you for sharing this with the group. It takes a lot of courage to walk paths of grief again.
I wish I could hug you, it’s all I want right now. I believe in the therapeutic power of sharing our deepest pain through poetry. I hope you feel loved and supported by us all. God, give our friend Barb a comforting touch. ?
Please accept this hug!
Barb,
I am so sorry for your loss. I am equally sorry that others didn’t understand your grief.
Barb, thank you for turning an impossible grief into a beautiful poem. Your daughter’s kick (so hard the blouse moves) is a key and perfect detail.
“a blistering heat
Searing my faith”
is the honesty that turns “poems I like” into “poems I love.”
I felt this one in my heart.
Hugs,
Allison
Such a beautiful telling of such a painful experience from ‘you kicked so hard’ to ‘a silent tomb’ in only a few lines – I love the interchange of time your poem has no secrets from the first line to ‘but every year/I remember’ – you share your pain with your reader sparsely
Wow. Your poem is stunning.
The way you foreshadow the result from the opening lines “I already knew you were gone,” but reveal to us the subject, “You kicked so hard/ My blouse moved,” made me grieve with you.
The stunning effect also mirrors how your emotions (and the doctors) were stunned.
Lastly, the way you capture the complexity of grief that cannot be shown or seen is heart wrenching, and clinched in the end by the words “my only baby girl.”
THIN Slices
Think apple pie!
Not any pie. No, sir!
A German apple pie,
Made by a German mother.
Christmas Eve morning,
Seven little kids
Gather around the table
anxious to help,
patiently waiting
for the heavenly pie.
Two, not one-
We are too many,
One won’t do!
Mom makes the crust.
Her secret recipe.
We peel and slice
the apples.
THIN slices-
Nothing else will do.
It’s part of the deliciousness.
The spicy smell of cinnamon,
the citrusy smell of limes, the
raisins soaked in rum.
Yum!Mouths watering-
They are ready…
But we have to wait.
A few years later,
siblings spread
around the globe,
carry on the tradition.
After all, in my family
there is no Christmas
without THE apple pie!
Mothers, fathers, and children
peel, slice,
make the filling,
prepare the crust, and
bake it
We share the memories.
We laugh.
We reminisce.
We bond.
And… we wait!
And so it goes
Nieces and nephews
sons and daughters
grandsons and granddaughters
peel, slice,
make the filling,
prepare the crust, and
bake it
We share the memories.
We laugh.
We reminisce.
We bond.
And… we wait!
Every Christmas now,
as my daughter and I
make THE apple pie,
I stop and wonder if
she, like me, will
pause for a brief moment,
smell my perfume,
and for just one second
forget that I’m gone.
She will smile and know.
It was never about
the apple pie. Never.
It was about so much more.
Monica—this warmed my heart. The image of gathering to bake THE apple pie is wonderful. (For my family, it’s Rhubarb custard pie—made as soon as the rhubarb comes in, in three different cities.)
What a wonderful tradition to bind your family and your memories. I like your repetition of “We laugh, we reminisce, we bond.”
These kinds of traditions are heartwarming and special. The bonds built by a simple apple pie are never about the pie.
Monica, what a wonderfully precious tradition you’ve captured so well in this poem. Your ending says it all!
This is a great poem that speaks of family and tradition and “so much more. You make me want some of the pie, though. Great writing.
Think Tiny Fingers
trailing plastic cars
through sifting sand,
castles molded with
red buckets,
trenches
dug deep with wet sticks,
rivulets of pooled water
to form a moat
My lovelies collected
sea glass,
kaleidoscope colored edges
weathered smooth
by the ebb and flow of Lake Erie,
rinsed then stuffed in
tiny Osh Kosh pockets
I remember my little loved ones
knee deep in joy,
lake water lapping
against toddler ankles,
smiles broad across
sweaty sun kissed faces
and the sunsets eclipsed
into years and decades
as I blinked
Kaleidoscope is the perfect word to help us see the many colors of sea glass. Also the ending takes such a quick turn to mark the passage of time.
I loved “tiny OshKosh pockets.” I know those pockets. My grandsons have them now. I can’t wait to go to the beach with them and gather memories.
Tammi, the precious moments with our children are captured perfectly in this lovely poem. I so appreciated your line “knee deep in joy” and the poignant end is so powerful. If we could only go back and relive those tender moments.
Think Christmas Morning
Rising early
Before the sun
Sneaking down the hallway
Not to wake anyone
Creeping into the living room
Have I been good enough?
This is the moment of truth
Will there be any stuff?
Oh my it is true!
My first Barbie is there!
What I had dreamed of…
Just like me with brown hair!
Accompanied by her own case
Adorned with daisies,
Bright colors, black checks and white lace
The excitement bubbles inside me!
Squealing with joy!
I can not resist
Shrilly awakening everyone
So much for the BLISS!
Susan,
As I read your poem, I was transported back to when my daughter was little and could not wait to open her gifts on Christmas day. Thank you for reminding me how magical Christmas is for children.
Love the building excitement and joy in this piece. Great images “adorned with daises/bright colors/black checks and white lace”.
Susan,
The question, “am I good enough” hit my heart –hard. Not only do I love the Barbie, as I recall having a similar wish, but I love the brown hair! I had always hope my Barbie would also be a little more tomboy-ish, but that’s me. So glad you had the joy and bliss so that we could share it alongside you in this poem.
Peace,
Sarah
You placed us right there with you on that special Christmas morning.
Susan
You reminded me of several Christmases when I was hoping for/looking for Barbie. Thanks for the walk down memory lane. I love your word choices- squealing, adorned, creeping…
Fantastic!
Ah, there is such pleasure in mud! I love the concluding lines of your poem, “We didn’t know/about love or loss./We only knew how/to play life/in mud.” There is much wisdom in these lines!
Thank you for today’s prompt! Here’s my memory poem; a certain setting always takes me back some 40 years:
Bends Just So
The wooded path bends just so,
softly descending, curving,
meandering through the trees, and
I am back in Durham, New Hampshire,
the wilderness shortcut in the heart of campus,
leading me onward,
daring me to hope and explore.
The natural medley of seed,
blossom, growth, and wither,
branches stretching and interlacing above,
diffused light and precious breeze,
I am both set and set in motion.
The wooded path bends just so,
beckoning,
reminding,
inviting me towards,
whispering,
there’s more ahead,
there’s more to seek,
there’s more.
There is a special calling in a “wooden path [that] bends just so.” I have an image of that path through your words. My favorite line is “I am both set and set in motion” and the paradox of this line. Lovely poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
I love the way you lead the reader down your path with “the wooded path bends just so”. I could identify with your moment because it reminds me of the wooded college campus I attended years ago. I also love that this poem is more than just a walk in the woods it is a journey towards knowledge.
Maureen,
I noticed the slant, italics in the title that work so nicely with the “bends.” These lines, I found so magical: “The natural medley of seed/blossom, growth, and wither,/branches stretching and interlacing above” — wow, the movement and even more so the acceptance of movement to be alive and to wither, to stretch and to interlace. Gosh, I wish we could do more mental interlacing in our world (of course the physical interlacing, too, but not yet).
Peace,
Sarah
I like the repeated word at the end, and how it leads us forward on the path with you.
Your title draws us in, and then the path takes over leading us through the poem. I never heard of college woods before. You made me want to be there.
That imagery of the world “bending just so” is wonderfully evocative
Kevin
Some lines that spoke to me were, “ The natural medley of seed,
blossom, growth, and wither,
branches stretching and interlacing above,
diffused light and precious breeze,”
It is beautiful to picture and I especially like the choice of “precious breeze.” So true.
Margaret, my husband and I had a great conversation today about playing in the mud. We both had stories, and we have stories of our daughters in the mud too. This was a delightful memory for you and your readers. Thank you for sharing it! I too was inspired by a memory related to dirt.
Rylee’s poem is so sweet. I love imagining her hopeful gift of a cake saver and knowing it will be put to use right away. So sweet. Thank you for the prompt and the memories today.
Spanish Lesson
Several years ago
I was taking a Spanish class
in Mexico
Ever the good student
I sat in my rented room one night
diligently completing my homework assignment
answering every question
taking care with conjugations
and pronouns and tense
Then I read that question
the one that stopped me in my tracks
the one I couldn’t answer
Describe a happy memory from your childhood.
I paused
confused
I read it again
Describe a happy memory from your childhood.
Describe a happy memory from your childhood.
DESCRIBE A HAPPY MEMORY FROM YOUR CHILDHOOD.
It took me about a year to think of an answer.
Sharon, wow! What a powerful poem. There is some mystery. The title of “Spanish Lesson” is interesting. It seems it might be more about lessons beyond the Spanish. I have so many questions I want to listen to you tell me more. Maybe we’ll get to read another poem about this memory. The repetition of the question you were to answer is very powerful. Thank you.
Oh my! What a surprise of a memory poem. Now, I really want to know the memory that you unearthed. Also, how on earth did you answer the question? Did you make up a happy memory? Oh my. This really makes me think about questions we ask students, what might trigger some very sad or painful thoughts. There is such heartbreak in these lines, “the one that stopped me in my tracks/the one I couldn’t answer.”
Wow powerful! Your use of repetition and capitalization punctuates the feelings! Thank you!
Sharon, your poem teaches a powerful lesson that many teachers don’t ever learn. Not everyone has a happy memory of childhood, a fun summer, the best Christmas, the favorite birthday, etc. Wow, you hit hard with this one. I love it and I appreciate the raw and honest ending.
Wow! This is really powerful. The ending is a incredible emotional punch. It certainly made me think about what I take for granted. Thank you for sharing.
Woah, Sharon! First, I feel like some condolences are in order if not a virtual hug. I hear you. I see you. I am holding space for you right now. The scene was so vivid with the interrogation of language or interpreting of learning to speak, and yet, silence in the end. your use of all caps says it all — that maybe (how I am reading it) you moved from realizing it to being angry about it. It sucks and is not fair — this is what I learned to say to myself. Sorry to be projecting. Thank you for this moment. Hugs.
Peace,
Sarah
I love a good surprise—and this is one. The beginning of your poem was a red herring, and the ending-wow. Nicely done, detail and phrasing. The repetition was perfect…
Your use of repetition is effective in giving us this experience echoing in your brain. Where are the happy memories stored? Why is it the sad ones or tragic ones stay?
Sharon, you ripped my heart out here! The repetition is so powerful; the end an extra punch.
oh, I’m so sorry, such a lively beginning stopped by what most of consider a simple question – your turn is clean, clear – and I’m glad you thought of one
Sharon,
WOW, just WOW. Thank you for your words and for reminding me that everything isn’t always easy for every one. I’m realizing this could be written for someone very close to me. This reminds me to treat him gently. Hopefully, if this was written about you, someone treats you with love and gentleness. Also I’m hoping you have hundreds of happy memories from adulthood.
Think playing house–
but maybe not that kind–
now come to the
eucalyptus grove
at Grove Avenue Elementary School
a hundred trees planted so close
they barely have elbow room
aromatherapy for us
minty, herbal with a touch
of honey and lemon
no sun rays make it to the floor
so nothing grows
tamped-down, hardened clay
becomes our earthen tile
pencil-like leaves fall and gather
the floors swept with our hands
construction materials
readied for the building
we mound the leafy walls
zig-zagging willy-nilly
throughout the grove
the bell rings for us to go back to class
play as long as possible
before running to avoid being late
immediately start watching the clock
when is our next recess?
finally…run to the grove
choose our favorite spot and build again–
living room, den, bathrooms and
bedrooms, lavish and profuse
this forest is our mansion
gladness gleaned from the grove
What a magical place! I would love the experience of a eucalyptus grove…it sounds heavenly, “minty, herbal with a touch/of honey and lemon/no sun rays make it to the floor.” What beautiful sensory details!
Love the joy that this memory exudes! Your poem made me smile as I recalled a weeping willow tree that my friends and I made our play home when we were growing up. Children are so inventive and carefree! If we could only just harness that energy and creativity to hold as we age.
Wow, Denise! This is just gorgeous!
“tamped-down, hardened clay
becomes our earthen tile
pencil-like leaves fall and gather
the floors swept with our hands”
I can’t get the image of that last line out of my mind. I want to rest there for a bit.
Peace,
Sarah
How cool that you had a grove to play in! Every child should have a recess complete with nature to explore and design. I have memories of playing make-believe in the woods near my childhood home.
“A hundred trees planted so close
they barely have elbow room” – is my favorite image.
Your poem takes me back to childhood times of making houses out of nature.
You really captured the sense of place.
This made me smile:
“zig-zagging willy-nilly
throughout the grove”
but it was this that gave the poem another layer:
“this forest is our mansion
gladness gleaned from the grove”
Kevin
Your poem is a powerful argument for #RECESS! Look at the creative energy, thinking, and joy in the grove. Beautiful.
The night you were born
I froze the blackberries
Given to us by
Ruby Woods
Who could recite
Poems learned
In childhood
At the Dane School House
In Major County.
Ruby would live
Past 100
Almost as
Sharp at the end
As when she bested
Alvin Ford
At ciphering matches
Sometime during the
Great Depression.
Ruby would teach
In a one room schoolhouse.
Oh, what lessons she
Must have provided.
A quirk that
Made us laugh
Was her way
Of hanging up
Without saying goodbye.
Upon seeing
You the first time,
She would
Declare, “It’s a shame
Those looks are wasted
On a boy.”
Later she would applaud
Your scratches on
The tiny Suzuki violin.
Ruby passed from
This world on July 3, 2015
She would repeat
Psalm 23
Into eternity.
Tomorrow you
Will be 20 years old.
One thing, I ask,
Never say goodbye to Ruby.
Katrina, what a lovely tribute to Ruby’s memory. I’m glad you are keeping her alive for your son. She sounds like a treasure. Beautiful poem.
Ruby sounds like a beautiful person. What a love! It sounds as if so many possibilities exist for “never say goodbye to Ruby,” because she was such a treasure.
Katrina: Your dual tribute is a reminder of how we are all connected, in many ways we never even know. Here it’s so beautifully obvious – the essence of Ruby’s life intermingled with your boy’s. Like a sort of astral conjunction. And her legacy, in which you play a vital part. Love the humor of “It’s a shame those looks are wasted on a boy” and that she never said goodbye before hanging up. Your timing with these lines is perfect. Happy Birthday to your son, and joy in your remembrance of Ruby (that was my beloved grandmother’s name; she never feels far away). I wonder if some blackberries will appear …
A beautiful tribute to Ruby.
Not a Soup
By: Emily Yamasaki
Think salty,
and sour
and a little bit sweet
Steam billows from
the pot – like a cauldron
A petite woman
so fragile
squatting down
to stir
She made this
from nothing but
bamboo shoots
enoki mushrooms
water chestnut
tied together with
ribbons of egg
To call it just a
“soup”
would be an insult
But grandma’s meal
comes at a price
Each bite a
promise you make
to be “good”
to be the
“right” kind of girl
And try as you might
you can’t resist
bite after bite
like the Asian
Hansel and Gretel
It’s just
too
damn
good.
Emily — Aah, soup! Soup really is the soup of a great poem. I love the bargain…soup and being “good.” Made me smile. The Hansel and Gretel analogy is really dandy as well. Mmmmm-mmm. Alluring poem! Thank you! Susie
I would love to try this soup! And yet, so much responsibility – “Each bite a/promise you make” – wow! Clever grandma to stir so much into the soup!!
Emily, again I marvel at the way your create a story with your poems and fill it with such rich ingredients to nourish my soul. You have quite an interesting life and I appreciate learning more about you and your family through your poems. I’d love a bowl of “Not a Soup” but I would break those promises before the spoon could touch my lips. ?
I love how your poem builds a new experience for me. This is not the kind of soup of my childhood, but your sensory images make me wish it were.
“…tied together with
ribbons of egg”
When I read that line, I knew I had to respond! It’s wonderful.
I sensed the turn in your poem at “But Grandma’s meal…” and felt myself being tugged into a memory far more complicated than good soup, exploring the demands and expectations of family.
Wow.
Margaret, thank you for this prompt today! I love memories – they’re all that can eclipse sadness. Your last line brings the innocence of childhood play roaring back: “We only knew how to play life in mud.” I love the sensory feel of the good earth mixed with water. It’s the best of both worlds!
Tractor Supply Red Poly Shovel
Think chicken coop cleaning
and a giant red poly shovel
with a flashy red jumbo bow
under a twinkling Christmas tree
comes to mind,
the one you bought
when you were out shopping
from our Christmas Lists
(that you start asking for
every October),
unsteady on your feet,
the day before you fell out of bed,
prompting an MRI that
swept you into surgery that
revealed a Stage 4 Glioblastoma
that stopped the world –
a red shovel that can
clean coops,
spread fertilizer,
break ground.
If only it could
move this mountain.
“If only it could move this mountain…” I remember a prompt once long ago that asked the writer to start with a sensory image right before the tragic event. The red shovel is that image that releases the memory.
Kim, your vivid visual descriptions prepare us for joy, then we learn that the beautiful red shovel received for Christmas reminds you of a loss and we’re ready to weep with you. On the other hand, the poem reflects such love…that you appreciate the possibilities of the red shovel, but also recognize it is unable to “move this mountain.” that arises with the memory of loss.
Even though we may feel your loss, we also admire your skill at evoking such emotion.
Kim, this one hits me hard. I really enjoyed feeling your eager excitement of the Christmas season bringing in toys from your lists. Then the slow movement into the “unsteady on your feet, the day before you fell out of bed…” leaving me gripping my hands. I clearly recall the day the world stopped for me too with my mom’s brain tumor and later with her ovarian cancer. The small memories like a red shovel that carry sooooo much weight, truly soul-wrenching moments. Hugs and I love your poem and completely understand the pain I know you felt.
?
Kim, this is amazing. I certainly agree with Anna’s comment, the fear and gut punch are so powerful and difficult, and at the same time we marvel at the skill you used to do that in your poem. The abrupt change at “unsteady on your feet” made me sad and then you laid out the bad news without holding back. It was hard to read, but effective.
Oh, Kim, what a beautiful and wrenching poem. I love how your poem begins with the innocence of the excited child on Christmas, then links us to your heavy loss: this mountain.
Stench of HimStacey L. Joy, © June 22, 2020
Think halitosis
and my ex-husband
comes to mind,
but let me tell you
there is so much more.
Cozying my head and cheek
against a freshly washed pillowcase
feigning sleep
breathing in and out
before the sudden waft
of stale meat
jarred my senses
as he plopped his heaviness
still in dirty work clothes
on top of my cool cotton duvet.
Think rancid
and his cooking
comes to mind,
I don’t need to tell you
he was no chef.
Frozen french fries
Crinkled/Steak/Shoestring
cheap weiners and beans
deep fried everything.
Greasy splotches stained
my kitchen walls
coppery pearls dotting
tile and metal
left behind after
an occasional Ajaxy
wipe over.
Think suffocating
and riding in a car with him
comes to mind.
I confess
even my kids suffered.
Mixtures of sweet vanilla stench-fighters
mildewy man messiness
and his sneeze
or mouth-breathing
required windows down
head hanging out
doggie style
to survive the ride
from Point A to B.
Thinking why?
I will never know.
Oh wow, Stacey! You ripped this baby into shards…how totally perfect you have shredded the nasty here. When you have that voice revved, you just hammer the images! Wowza! The contrast of your “freshly washed…” against that “stale meat,” is just oh-boy ripe! Messin’ up the kitchen…grrrrr… “fried everything”… HA! And trapped in a car with the sense of suffocation… oh yeah…I am choking…the image the “doggie style” hanging your head out the window made me laugh out loud. I’m so glad that this is a memory PASSED and not the “today” of your life. You could write a whole collection on the ex — call it BAD NEWS, and let ‘er rip! Terrific! Thanks for pouring this baby out there! Susie
Stacy, this is marvelous! You just hit those olfactory senses perfectly! To have a distaste for someone–especially an ex–is such an emotional thing, but you sure hit on the physical attributes. I love every bit of this. So powerful! And, I’m filled with such compassion that you have to feel this way about someone you once loved.
Stacey, what a way to grab a rotten memory and squeeze the ever-loving daylights out of it like a bad lemon and show us the truth of the situation. I’m so glad those days are over for you. This is my favorite line:
cheap weiners and beans
The imagery is rich! I am laughing…….my…….head……off……
Hahaaa!! Right! Kim, I’m so grateful I can laugh and share it in a way that no longer hurts. Have a blessed day!
But tell us how you REALLY feel—don’t sugar coat it!!! The detail is both nauseating and wonderful.
How your memory of the smells of him show very clearly your thoughts. I’m effectively grossed out.
WHOOOO! My nose got more and more scrunched up as I read each line of your amazing writing today. I love each stark comparison – freshly washed pillowcase/dirty work clothes; Ajaxy wipe over/greasy splotches; vanilla stench-fighters/mildewy man messiness. I love the way you played with the lines and tied in my senses in such a way that snatches me right from the screen. OOF!
Ditto, Stacey! The other comments about the power of olfactory memories! Your poem reminds us as educators to encourage students to consider all five senses when they’re writing descriptions in any genre. When they start reflecting and including aroma, fragrance, and “smell” words their writing will rise to another level. Or, in your case, make the scene sink to depths of memories we just like to to bury!
Thanks for sharing a poem that demonstrates that power of poetry.
I was literally cringing as I read this, Stacey. I could smell it. I could see it. I’m still shivering.
Yikes! So glad all that is behind you! You painted quite the pictures! Love “head hanging out doggie style”! I clearly know why you are not there now!!!
I don’t know if you wanted this reaction, but I did laugh out loud at your final lines, “Thinking why? I will never know.” Ha! There is clearly no love loss with memories of this man, and you shared the most amazing sensory clues in your re-telling. My favorite may be “mildewy man messiness” – this gets right into my nostrils!
Stacey,
I confess, I had to reread the first lines because I thought, “Is she really going down that road?” Yes, you are and I love it. Your vivid imagery made me laugh so hard and the ending is so thought provoking. Those of us who are divorced, I’m sure, at one point or another have thought why we married that person and are still searching for the answer. Although, some of us might still be married and thinking the same thing : )
Haha Monica, yes, I tend to go down those roads when it comes to icky memories. Glad you enjoyed it. I can only say that I did what I did because God needed me to have my son and daughter and a lifetime of memories to teach me lessons hard learned! Hugs!
Oh, my, Stacey! You used this form just as it needed to be. The stanzas of the “think” paint a portrait that we have come to recognize in your ex over these months — fragments of his being that sometimes linger like the odors here and other times you extract him totally. You reclaim so much in these words now here for us to gaze and question with you. I agree with Susie that you poured this out there, and now it is in the wind. Hope you are breathing in some fresh cotton duvet tonight!
your words awaken the olfactory and not in the most pleasant way – it almost adds of bit humor to your description of this man – so strong and so prevalent
Stacey, Stacey Stacey…..I don’t know where to begin. I feel I want to apologize from the universe for all you went through. Your story was so revealing and I respect and admire your truthfulness. Thank you for this and for letting it be food for thought for anyone in a bleak situation. I’m so thankful you are away from this relationship and that you’ve been able to flourish and soar despite the horror. Your memories were clear, vivid and heartbreaking. Perfect title and I’m glad you’re on the other side.
Crossing Lines
Think blue jeans,
ubiquitous on my body for decades,
yet NEVER graced Mama’s legs;
faded cotton house dresses
layered with a Kenmore-stitched apron,
brick-a-brac sewn at the hem,
tied around her waist
all the sixty-five years of her life,
and I said, “Mama let’s go to Seattle;
I’ll drive you, and we can visit Uncle Herman,”
her beloved little brother —
little, perhaps not,
at 6’4” he towered a full foot over Mama
like the Alaskan lumberjack he was during the CCC years.
Just that quick,
Mama bussed to the department store,
bought her first-ever pair of jeans;
my epiphany: all she needed was my asking.
We camped in Yellowstone,
marveled at moose,
meandered through mud pots, geysers, thermal pools —
the colors of an unrestrained imagination —
stared long at the chiseled faces, stony eyes
of Abe and Teddy and George and Thomas
through a golden sunset in the lands that were anything but Bad,
posed for pics at the continental divide sign,
evidence we’d crossed a line.
We teetered in the reality
of 9000-foot majesty,
mountains layering cool air
on Mama’s face —
a skin that had only felt Missouri,
had never crossed the state line.
Fascinated by aspens and their frenetic, nervous leaves,
watched rodeo bull riders heaved into the air,
smelled the sulphurous Great Salt Lake
while avocets and oystercatchers and stilts
pecked and poked and tilted in the sandy shallows,
wondered about the mystery of Mormon men and mothers,
Mama asked questions —
why this, why that, how… —
she wanted to know
so much.
We wandered through Yakima orchards,
eating apples,
saddened and stunned
at how Yakamas suffered jaw-dropping poverty
in such a fertile place,
knowing there was a deeper story
than the soil under our feet.
And each day she pulled on her new blues,
tickled at how they made her feel young, new,
as she rolled up the legs and cooled her feet
in icy mountain water,
knowing she would forever be different,
having crossed lines that redefined a mind,
a July as foreign and comfortable as the denim.
by Susie Morice©
Susie, your memory placed me there with you and your mother. The connection to her first pair of jeans having freed her in some way to experience that trip in a joyful, childlike way.
Susie,
Your juxtaposition of blue jeans w/ iconic scenes of the west echoes the physical freedom one experiences past the Rocky Mountains. Your description “aspens and their frenetic, nervous leaves,” is perfect. We have aspens in our yard, and I’ve spent many hours staring at their shimmering foliage. Thanks for this travel memory.
—Glenda
Susie, so much to love and see in your poem today. The image of your mom wearing blue jeans for the first time makes my heart all warm and fuzzy.
But this was a movie playing in my mind:
If only every mom could have moments and memories like these to cherish.
And this made me think about the sadness and loss of “land stories” our nation’s indigenous people may have never told.
“knowing there was a deeper story
than the soil under our feet.”
As always, your poems are stories/movies/books meant to be shared and read and watched over and over. Simply gorgeous work.
Susie, I love the change of mindset, the change of geography, and the intersections of these places. The relationship factor is so rich between you and your mother. I particularly like this part:
marveled at moose,
meandered through mud pots
The alliteration sounds lovely, but the marveling and meandering show the WOW factor and the time to enjoy it. What a blessing this trip was for mother and daughter!
So many favorite lines here—the Kenmore-sewn apron, a skin that had only felt Missouri, the lines you crossed—physically and emotionally. What a beautiful memory!
What a beautiful memory! Thank you for sharing the journey with us! I enjoyed your alliteration and loved all the images you created! Your own little version of “Travelling Pants”!
Susie,
What an amazing memory of this special once-in-a-lifetime trip with your Mama. Beautiful. I love the image of her rolling up her new jeans and cooling her feet in icy mountain water. I am from the west and all those places are familiar, so it brought back beautiful memories of my mama introducing me to these places when I was a girl. Memories are a delightful part of our lives, aren’t they? Thank you. I love that she crossed that line!
So much beauty and freedom in this celebration-of-life poem – for me it’s fundamentally about courage. The jeans, the travel, crossing so many lines besides state, the deeper story of the Yakamas and suffering … it is almost like a coming-of-age story except that it’s encapsulating a mature person with a mature spirit. “Redefined a mind” – how perfect a description – as is the concept of something being both “as foreign and comfortable as the denim.” Incredibly powerful – all.
Susie, wow! I so love this poem. Your specific details are so rich and layered and the sheer joy your mother is experiencing throughout is so clearly conveyed. The last line is so gracefully written, and I can imagine your mother’s sheer awe at all she saw on this wonderful trip; surely a one of a kind life-time gift. Thanks for sharing such a beautiful and tenderly written poem.
As always, you create such a picture with your words. So vivid and beautiful. And the emotion captured!!
Love these lines:
“ knowing she would forever be different,
having crossed lines that redefined a mind,”
Memory poems.
How come when I read the prompt something bad comes to mind?
Why do unhappy thoughts pop before all those that are so sweet?
Why do I have to think harder about finding the warm memories?
There are so many.
Memory poems.
It’s work to organize memories just like it is my office.
(My office is a disaster)
There is much that is important.
There is much that I need to do my job well.
There is much that will help me learn and grow.
Shutting the door?
All that mess is still in there.
Memory poems.
How good does it feel to create order out of chaos?
(My office is still a disaster)
Maybe getting my memories sorted out,
Pulling the many that are happy to the front,
Will push me to create order out of the chaos in my brain.
Can a poem do that?
I love how the prompt led to a rumination about your own grappling with memories. I know in my own life, the bad memories override the good and come to mind easily. Writing in general, be it poetry or not, can help clear out the brain chaos.
I feel like it came out so negative. I’m working on focusing on positive over negative in all aspects of my life. I actually had a great childhood for the most part. My kids are doing well, I’m married to an AMAZING man. Those feelings caught me off guard, but I just went with it.
Thank you for sharing your poem, PRC. “Can a poem do that?” Lately, I’ve been asking this question a lot about a lot of things. You captured such delicate ponderings in such a concise and relatable way. I wonder if I can sort my memories out, too and create order out of the choas.
This resonates with me so much. I too deal with many negative memories. There are good ones too, but the bad ones like the attention. (My office is a disaster too.)
I love your metacognitive poem! It’s good for us sometimes to ask all those questions. Good for you. You can write about your sweet memories next time with more gusto and conviction because you went here today.
Your poem resonates with me so much. I, too, always think of the bad memories first. I have to dig deep to find good ones, and I agree with Margaret when she says that the bad memories override the good ones. I think those are the memories that most impact our identity.
Margaret, I love prompts that “force” me into the past. Both your student’s and your output are so sweet. I love how yours has a tinge of wistfulness with the last lines
“We didn’t know
about love or loss.
We only knew how
to play life
in mud.”
Miracle Grow
The sound of a baby crying
takes me back
to when I knew that sound meant something . . .
hunger, in need of a diaper change, overly tired.
In the middle of the night,
my ears piqued to hear
the first rustle of the sheets
then the intermittent mews.
When crying went full-blown,
with the goop of sleep heavy in my eyes,
my body would go on autopilot
climbing from bed
trudging down the hall
peeking in and beholding beauty
saying hi.
Reaching down to pull her up
barely able to see her sweet, smiling face
that shines with relief.
Out in the glider in the living room,
the latch on followed by the
sensation of letdown
that was both relieving to me
and lifegiving to her.
I’d often get overcome with emotion
at the pure magnitude of the miracle.
As the months would pass,
my vigilant attention
would fade to a slumbersome
zombie walk, grab, and feed,
the perfunctory act of a mom
rather than a loving act of a mother
filled with awe.
Life-giving
Life-sustaining . . .
a miracle
that should never become
mundane.
Decades later,
I wish for being a mother
with the acute focus on
the miracle of life
rather than the constant
blurry wistfulness
of being a mom.
~Susan Ahlbrand
22 June 2020
Susan, my daughters are having children now and I am brought back to the early years with them. That feeling of let down in my chest comes back when I cradle their little ones. I feel your longing for that feeling again, like new love.
Susan, you bring back those nights – trudging down the hall, barely awake – to eye-opening beauty of motherhood. How sweet! Yes, that glider – – the rocking of dreams!
Susan, I’m holding your poem so tightly in my heart today. My baby and I are going through weaning now, and I’m trying to see past the “blurry wistfulness” of everyday and focus on the miracle that is before me and is me. Thank you for writing this and sharing.
test
HopScotch
Hop Scotch
Playing hopscotch out in the blazing sun
We used coal ‘cause we seldom had chalk.
We play on the concrete where folks also walk.
All summer long, we have so much fun.
“Shall I draw ten boxes or eight big triangles?
“Come on, Silly! It’s your turn to choose.
“It won’t matter, cause you’re gonna loose!”
Roll a rock to square number one.
Hop, hop, hop, on what fun!
Roll the ball and hope we don’t fall
As we hop, hop, hop to the number we call.
Backwards and forwards. I have two more chances.
Playing outside with jumps, skips, and prances.
Hoping I stay on my feet and not fall.
Can’t step on a line or out run the ball.
Hopscotch on the sidewalk
And lots of trash talk
Outside in the sun,
Was our summer long fun.
What a wonderful memory you brought back! The rhyme is so perfect—a sunnier time…
Good morning Anna,
Thank you for this fun memory. I might remind my kids of this game when the words, “I’m bored” come out this summer. I am laughing thinking about trash talk during hopscotch, I love the toughness of that sentiment.
Thank you for sharing.
Anna,
I so love the image of using coal rather than chalk and imagining the pale sidewalk with the markings of boxes and triangles. I can also see the hopscotch creators with their coal marked fingers. I can just hear your parents tell you to wash your hands — I’d probably find a hose to wash them before going in the house. You have stirred such a scene for me.
And I love the sound of trash talk — such life in this poem.
Sarah
Hi, Anna — You have me hopping here! I love the image of playing hopscotch. My sisters and I did a whole lot of that when we were little. The rhythmics of your lines feels like hopscotch (“hop, hop hop, oh what fun” — those short little pops really work) — there’s a sense of joy. Thanks for taking me along! Susie
The Beloved Blue Schwin
Think bicycle,
blue, girls’ bicycle,
blue, girls’ bicycle with no brakes.
See the hill that’s 2 miles long,
or so it seems,
but it’s only 2 blocks.
What to do on a beautiful summer day,
with five kids,
and only one bike.
Trudging up the hill,
taking turns pushing the bike,
we reach the top.
The air is cooler, the wind picks up
cooling out hot faces.
Laughing like loons
we pile helter-skelter onto the bike.
I’m steering,
except my brother’s butt is sitting on the handlebars,
so steering is challenging,
and actually seeing the road only a memory.
Ready, set, GO!!
Away we went.
Ploddingly at first, but quickly picking up speed.
The gravel on the road determined to wipe us out.
Flying like the wind now.
Gravity, momentum, and weight
causing us to go even faster.
A rocket ship doesn’t go any faster
then five small kids on a brakeless blue bike.
No one saw the pothole
Blam!!!! Wipe-Out!!!!
Small bodies strewn all over the gravel covered street.
Moaning and laughing.
A few ripped pants and a little blood, but
no broken bones
YIPPEE, let’s do it again!
Judi—My anxiety (mother-ism) rose from the begging to the logical conclusion! Your words, an the pace increased Lists
Lists are wishes.
Hopes.
Theories.
Hypotheticals.
Lists think they have something Important to say.
Lists shout out “shoulds” and “wills”.
Lists whisper “musts” or ‘want-to’s”
Lists believe they are giving orders.
Lists want to be obeyed.
Lists enjoy their power.
Lists can be ignored, though.
Try it. Rebel.
Crumple up the list and see where the day takes you.
Toss the list—go where life leads.
Erase the list. Talk back to it.
Destroy its power over you.
Become your list, whatever comes your way.
Move forward.
Your list will write itself as you go,
Trailing behind you, longer and longer.
Lists
My grandmother lived by her lists:
Christmas lists, grocery lists, to-do lists
Lists of travel expenses
Lists of celebrations
Lists of births
Lists of deaths.
My grandmother had unwritten lists:
Old hurts
Harsh thoughts
Gifts given
Debts owed
Resentments
Losses
I inherited those lists
The written and the unwritten.
They are a burden—
So much is carried in those lists.
I am throwing them away.
Burning them up.
They were my burden for so many years, but no more.
But I wonder…
What lists have I passed on to my children?
What will THEY need to burn?
Lists carry power.
Sorry-I accidentally pasted other poems and couldn’t edit them out!! Judi—your words built tension perfectly, stringing me along until the end. So glad you weren’t hurt (much)!
Wow, Judy,
The image of your brother on the handle bars brings me back. Such foreshadowing for the final stanza of moaning and laughing — the ripped pants and blood. All we can heal from and such is the stuff of poetry.
Sarah
Oh those were the days! I could feel the excitement and cringed with anticipation of the outcome! Love the childlike…”YIPPEE, let’s do it again!” Excellent job!
Judi,
I have a very similar memory to this one you shared. I love the way you described every single detail and how in the end you were all ready to do it again. That’s the beauty of being young, isn’t it? We think ourselves indestructible. We persist.
Margaret,
I love how you use this form to bring us into this sensory life in mud and how it is one way of doing life. I am sitting here wondering how we can do more of that — finding other ways of doing life or of valuing life in seemingly mundane, not so mundane ways. That, maybe, playing in the mud should be celebrate much like writing a poem or traveling to Rome.
Sarah
Think monkey bars
and broken necks
come to mind,
but we all know
there were agile
kids doing penny-drops
and skin-the-cat
with fierce grips
callused by steel.
One whiff of that metal,
one crunch of the wood-chip landing pad,
and I am ten again,
and my raspberried scars ache,
and the bump I hid from my mom throbs.
Each failed attempt logged
in the dirt where I practiced
before the kids would come out to play.
I never did stick the landing.
Sarah,
What lovely imagery here in this memory that we can all connect with. I love the phrases, “raspberried scars ache” and “callused by steel.”
Thank you for sharing.
Sarah—I always envied those kids—the brave ones who stuck the landing. My favorite line—the bump I hid from my mom throbs—you were tougher and gutsiest than I was! I watched and wished…
This makes me think of what kind of mom I was when me boys were young. I was the mom who kept the worries inside and let my boys have those raspberry scars. Broken arms, knocked out teeth- they were maniacs (in a good sense). This view of childhood makes me think of boys who grow to be strong, independent men. Men whose memories are of outdoors and rough and tumble, NOT of how many hours they played video games. Men like mine.
I can smell the monkey bars and feel the tension as you try to conquer them. This could become a whole series of memories about playground equipment experiences.
Sarah, those calloused hands and hidden bumps bring back memories for sure! What a great way to go back to the playground and remember…….those carefree days……..
callused….not calloused….sorry. That changed the entire meaning.
Sarah: That whiff of metal — the calluses — I am ten again and going “round the world” on the clothesline pole (one of them was better and higher than the other, go figure; good thing both were well-cemented). I can see those raspberried scars, can feel the ache of that bump ow – and alas to that landing! The things we carry with us … but love how you practiced before the other kids came out to play. A memory so well and poetically told.
Think
Think maple syrup.
Tap the trees flanking your driveway.
Simmer sap for hours on the basement stove.
Bottle the amber sun for another day.
Wait for a winter day with
fresh snowfall.
Pure white snow awaits your miracle.
Bring the sun to a boil again.
When it is justright, carry it
(Oh, so carefully—it’s hot!)
outside, steaming,
in anticipation of magic.
Pick the perfect drift for your canvas.
Gently, gently…
Tilt the pot just so…
to write your name in the snow.
Glowing amber script…
Gayle Denise Johnson
(You MUST include your middle name)
Admire its perfection.
Lift your gleaming name into the air.
Then, fold it carefully into your mouth.
Snow candy.
Glorious sweetness.
Gayle Sands
June 2020
Gayle, I must have my kids try this in the winter! I like how you’ve turned this into a narrative with detail and beautiful sensory (and middle names are important). Thank you for sharing.
“Bottle the amber sun for another day.” Love this and your sweet ending, snow candy.
Gayle, the opposites you describe give power to this poem: Hot and cold, but then you have us “boiling the sun”. Hmmm. How does one do that? You get our imagine flowing and our jealousy greening because we can only share this experience vicariously.
Thanks a lot! (she said indignantly!) I can’t imagine folding snow and then eating one’s name! Wow!
Good morning Margaret! I will have fun writing today because I ADORED Ordinary Hazards and especially the memory poems. Congratulations on your NBC renewal last year. This was my year to do my second/final renewal before retiring, but had to get the extension due to COVID-19. I will renew 2021. Anyway, I digress. Wonderful sweetheart Rylee, let her know she’s a second grade sensation! I think if she bought me a cake saver I’d gladly bake her a cake too. Precious beyond words.
I willingly went back into your memory with you to play in the mud. This is savory goodness:
I can feel it, smell it, hear it, see it and savor the freshness of your muddy fun times. Did you ever add berries or dried leaves for effect? ?? Oh to be ten again! Thank you for a fun prompt and delicious mentor texts today.
First, apologies for being less engaged in commenting this week. I’m spending time w/ my sister, whom I rarely see. My poem is inspired by a conversation we had yesterday. Margaret, I love your student’s poem and Nikki Grimes’s book Ordinary Hazards.
Sister Memory
We didn’t have much
Growing up you say
Thinking back to those
‘60s years living in
Great grandma’s house
As we defend our respective corners
Opposite the current political spectrum.
We see through memory’s prism from
Opposite hues on the color wheel.
Except we did have more than
Many in our defined white world I say
Thinking back to those same
Tumultuous times of social unrest
I as a child knew nothing about,
Had no reason to know or understand in
Our world, color-washed, separated by
Unpigmented, social dyes,
Lines invisible to our white girlhood.
—Glenda Funk
“Lines invisible to our white girlhood” rings so true for me growing up in Jackson, MS. I was shielded from so much of the unrest. I do remember desegregation when I was in 4th grade, but otherwise, our world was far removed. Thanks for writing today and stirring up my own memory.
Glenda—once again, you pulled me in and defined a time in history. We were so removed from the world outside growing up—unaware of the hurt around us. Thank you, again!
Glenda — I love how you push me to examine the “white world” of our growing up…”knowing nothing” and “color-washed” and “social dyes” — such good phrasings. I appreciate the honesty of where you were and where you are now…a woman in a perpetual state of examining and learning. May we all do a hefty dose of this! One of the things I love about the poetry we write here is the conversation that is generated through our images and poetics. This writing matters. Thank you, Susie
Glenda: I always admire your poetic power. For me you capture so much in these lines: “Had no reason to know or understand in/Our world, color-washed, separated by/Unpigmented, social dyes” … as children our world is what it is, we trust, we can’t know that a shielded reality isn’t everyone’s … until those lines finally become visible, and we see.
“Stand Up”
Think saline,
lick of the lips
rolling ebbs and flows
choreographed white caps
silver glitter
Grandmother’s hair
reflecting in the sun
who capsized
inflatable inner tube
feet waving high
death-defying pierce of
“helllllpppp”
thirteen-year-old heroes yell
“stannnnddd uppppp”
liberated, two-feet depth of the sea
five-feet from the tide’s climax
over the crashing white noise
saved their Oma
who never learned to swim
but was braving enough
to enter the Pacific’s
relentless wrath
This is a wonderful memory surrounded by sensory imagery and the funny image of your Oma in the ocean. I love how the extension of letters in the words help us hear the sound of yelling, “helllllppp”!
Hi Stefani,
Oma must’ve been the best grandmother ever! I’m captivated by her courage and lost in the images of her capsizing in 2 feet of water. Too cute. What I also found especially inviting was the opening, like a canvas of color for a painting and background music from the waves:
rolling ebbs and flows
choreographed white caps
silver glitter
Grandmother’s hair
reflecting in the sun
Magnificent memory poem. Thank you for taking me there this morning.
Stefani,
Im both mortified by the image of grandma capsized in the tube and amused by that image. You’ve captured many competing emotions with your word-craft. Cheers to the thirteen-year-old heroes. Thank you.
—Glenda
I am laughing and sighing. What a story you tell!! “Staannnddd upppp!” perfect!
Margaret – I love this prompt, the mentor lines from Nikki Grimes, the sweetness of a child wanting to make her mom happy with the gift of a cake-saver, and your own vivid mud-memory. Writing about memory is one of my absolute favorite things – stepping back to times before we knew “love and loss” and how we “played life.” We were learning with every simple medium surrounding us … to which your last lines so poignantly testify.
Here’s mine. I am calling it “Pier”:
Think pier
and danger comes to mind.
Weathered gray boards
armed with splinters
meant for tender young feet
encased in sneakers
that Grandma said to wear.
Sneakers stepping deliberately
from slat to solid slat
avoiding intervals of nothingness
where water laps dark and green
below, moving and moving
until it seems the whole pier
is floating out to sea
with me.
Summer sun beating down
casting our squatty silhouettes
on grainy gray wood-canvas.
Grandma’s sunhat fluttering
in the river’s breath
brine in my nose, my mouth
endless expanse of silver-green water
glinting, beckoning,
reckoning—
there are no rails.
There are nails.
Tie the string to the raw chicken neck
toss it over—plop—
and wait.
Let the string rest on your fingers
until it moves with strange little jerks
then pull so so slowly
so carefully.
Use both hands but
have your net ready
for the greedy green-brown crab
with fierce orange pinchers
—keep your fingers away!—
and legs painted bright watercolor blue
soon scuttling around in
Grandma’s galvanized tub.
Think pier
and she’s right there again
between me and danger
showing me how to navigate.
P.S. For the record – the use of “pinchers” vs. “pincers” here is deliberate.
Fran, I love hanging out on the dangerous pier with you and your grandmother. So many sensory images, the incidental rhyme of nails and rails, and your conclusion are all wonderfully woven into the memory poem.
Margaret,
Ypur poem reminds me of how evocative a single thing can be in our memories. I love the textural qualities in your poem: “weathered gray boards, armed with splinters” are two of many. Adding the crab catching gives both a sense of adventure and creates a relationship w/ your grandmother. All the layers are wonderful. I’m at the beach this week and will walk the pier thinking about your poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Fran — As someone who loves the notion of fishing…or in this case crabbing… I particularly loved this. The sense of caution was strong, the pier offering some edgy moments (“slat to slat/intervals of nothingness” and “no rail” and “nails” … the grandma images with the “galvanized tub” and “right there again/between me and danger/showing me how to navigate.” Quite touching. Your precision took me right along on the venture. Thank you! Susie
Think chords
finger acrobatics
on the fretboard
strange unusual
configurations
calling for left
hand dexterity
as the right hand
hits the down
beat with the
foot-stomp
on the concrete
yet the left struggles
to remember
that working
together makes
something close
to music
My mother is a pianist. She taught piano for years. She’s left-handed. So is my brother who is a professional musician. Me? I can sing and follow a line of music, but that darned left hand never could keep up. Your poem ends with such wisdom, “working together makes something close to music.”
Kevin,
Love the phrase “finger acrobatics” and can almost hear the cacophony of your early piano lessons in your poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Kevin — Another lovely poem…the music blending with all the coordinated elements is quite amazing, isn’t it!? Because I play guitar as well, this resonated with me in a very connected way. My favorites:
Thank you for “finger acrobatics” … you struck a chord. Susie