Today’s writing inspiration comes from Kimberly Johnson, Ed.D. She is a literacy coach and media specialist in a public school in rural Georgia. She enjoys writing as a guest blogger for www.writerswhocare.com and counts down the days between monthly 5-Day Writing Challenges. She is the author of Father, Forgive Me: Confessions of a Southern Baptist Preacher’s Kid. Follow her on Twitter at @kimjohnson66.
Inspiration
In The Last Avant-Garde: The Making of the New York School of Poets by David Lehman, readers learn that Joe Brainard went to spend the summer of 1969 in Vermont, where he began writing short anaphoristic snippets of memories, all beginning with the words, “I Remember,” thus defining a new poetic form.
Process
Raise a Glass to the Literary Avant-Garde by writing an “I Remember” verse today. Ponder! Unearth! Ruminate! Reminisce!
Reminisce: This can be a time and place in your life that you want to revisit, that will bring you joy or comfort in these unprecedented times.
Ponder! Unearth! Ruminate! Or this can be a time and place in your life that you want to re-imagine with new eyes and perspective. Maybe you will write this from another’s point of view.
Imagine: Spring into the future and imagine what you will or want to remember. Or go for fiction — write something sci-fi, fantasy, or fairy tale-ish.
Your poem can be as short or as long as you need it to be today. A few lines will do. Give yourself permission for “good enough.” And give yourself permission to reject this idea all together and write whatever you need today.
Kim’s Poem
I remember clutching her warm hand as the death rattle beat the drum of her final march
deferring to my brother, “I picked the spot. You pick the plot”
I remember pleading, “Lord, I need a sign she can rest in peace”
confessing I’d prayed for a sign: a majestic bird in flight, wings outstretched, assuring peace
I remember fighting tears, wanting to shoot three birds circling overhead
resisting the urge to punch my brother, who was fighting his own tears……of laughter?
I remember eyeing him, raising one questioning brow, tightening my lips, muttering obscenities
wondering if he was drunk as he whispered sideways, “She showed up! With her parents!”
I remember feeling the full force of her humor, her sign: sending buzzards in place of an eagle
I remember my animal-loving mother – prankish and ever-present. Even now.
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.
I’m sorry but I cannot read anyone else’s submissions – What do I do
Judi,
We are using May to reflect and plan for the 2021-22 open writes. We will resume in June. Also, can you read the comments/poems from last month below? I am asking to make sure there isn’t a glitch in the commenting again. I have added a new comment box here so people can insert images if they want — making sure it works.
Here are the dates for the year: http://www.ethicalela.com/openwrite/
We have a few days remaining that need hosts. Let me know if you’d like to host an open write this year. sarah.j.donovan@okstate.edu.
Peace,
Sarah
Thank you for responding Sarah — I was terribly confused. I will just have to use the poem I wrote for “today” at another time! Yikes! Yes, I can see the comments from earlier poems – and it would be great to be able to include an image! Thank you for the dates – I calendar them because they are so important to me. I’m not sure what’s involved in hosting – I’m just a simple poet who loves to create new canvases in people’s minds – and love to pass on the love of writing poetry to my kiddos. I’ve never been published, so I’m sure you have other more awesome selections (for hosting) available. Having said all that, it certainly would be an honor.
Through the Eyes of My Mother
I remember laying on the olive green carpet
listening to The Beatles on the phonograph.
I remember “Hey Jude”, and how the words washed through me
like easing your way into a hot bath,
“take a sad song and make it better”
I remember Revolution, “Don’t you know it’s gonna be all right”
Calming me in my destruction
I remember my daughter coming in and asking if I’m all right,
wanting to scream “NO”, I’m not all right – I’m trapped!”
I remember that my mind was fractured into
what has been,
what is now,
what needs to be
I remember thinking how this would affect my five kids,
but they were better off without a Mom who was broken
I remember how desperately I needed space to think,
feeling like I was in a cage with no door
and my skin was too tight
I remember that I had already made my decision
to leave and was mourning the loss
I remember the flickering hope of freedom
entrancing, enticing, inevitable
lighting up my soul
I remember the moment I shed my skin
standing raw and new
I remember moving into the future
with my old blue suitcase
I remember the confusion on my children’s faces
as I quietly shut the door after me.
Judi Opager
May 16, 2021
My Tapestry
My tapestry that I wear
like a queen wears her cape,
is made up of all the threads of my life.
I remember the dark threads so well, they made me weep.
I can remember the gold threads also, so proud,
And the green ones, that made me grow
And the blue ones, that made me think
Especially the yellow ones that made me wonder
When I look back on the tapestry that I wear
Every day of my life
I am happy to remember
All the threads that are woven together
I can’t change any of them
But I can remember
I love the idea of the events of your life as threads of a tapestry. I found myself wondering what made you choose the colors you did for the emotions evoked by those events, especially the yellow for wonder. I don’t think I’ve ever made the association between yellow and wonder before.
Thank you for sharing your words and ideas!
Yellow because it was so . . . . . . yellow . . . . . no other reason
Chris, I have revisited my poem and the color yellow just doesn’t work —- I re-wrote it with silver
My Tapestry
My tapestry that I wear
like a queen wears her cape,
is made up of all the threads of my life.
I remember the dark threads so well,
they made me weep.
I can remember the gold threads also,
so proud,
And the green ones, that made me grow
And the blue ones, that made me think
Especially the silver ones that made me wonder
When I look back on the tapestry that I wear
Every day of my life
I am happy to remember
All the threads that are woven together
I can’t change any of them
But I can remember
Judi Opager
May 17, 2020
Judi, you’ve done a really nice job with this extended metaphor. The line that really jumped out at me was, “I remember the dark threads so well, they made me weep.” Maybe I liked the idea of the dark moments being threads in our lives, but necessary ones. Thank you!
I remember the picture of the dough boy
Posed proudly before he left her
Alone, pregnant with my grandmother.
The flu took him before the war ever could.
I remember counting pennies from my jar
Great-grandmother was coming to visit
She always won at penny poker.
When did her luck come back?
I remember following my grandmother’s flowered hat,
The one we bought her so we could find her in the casino.
My great-grandmother’s daughter paid for trips
From nickel slots and the luck she inherited from her mother.
On the day of her mother’s funeral, three generations of women
Stopped at a gas station and bought scratch-offs in her honor.
I remember thinking I finally inherited a piece of her luck
When I walked out with $50, the only time I’ve ever won that much.
Hi Chris, this is beautiful and so visually appealing to me. I can see the dough boy, the flowered hat and the slots like I was right there with you. The end made my heart happy to know you won that $50 and “inherited a piece of her luck.” Sweet!!
Chris what a beautifully evocative poem! I can “feel” what you are trying to convey. Beautiful talent.
I remember
brushes on snare,
his foot on the pedals
of the big bass drum held
in anchor with concrete bricks –
the pounding of rhythm
through the rooms of the house
I remember
fingers on mallets,
the soft fabric covering,
the way we’d move from down low
to up high, the metallic rectangular
notes vibrating with such soft touch
I still remember
my father, the accountant,
who still plays those drums,
who still listens for the vibraphone,
who sought and found his own rhythm,
and kept on rolling it forward
Kevin,
our daughter played percussion, so the detail in this hit me right away. But, I was taken aback when it was your dad who’s the drummer. I love how you waited to share that part.
“Who sought and found his own rhythm” is a great line!
I love the juxtaposition of artist and accountant here, Kevin. I was also really struck by (I couldn’t resist) the shift to “we” in the second stanza. I could see a father and son, learning together. Thanks for this moving tribute to the parts of what made this father so wonderfully human and connected to this son.
Sweet Memories
By Stacey L. Joy, © May 16, 2020
I remember when I tied the string around my tooth
Wrapped the other end around the doorknob
And slammed the door but my tooth was still intact.
I remember when my son lost a tooth
Placed it under his pillow for the tooth fairy
And I forgot so I woke him in the morning
While slipping the dollar under his pillow.
I remember riding my bicycle
Along the beach bike path, last in line
Wondering why my sister’s bike was bigger than mine
And why my cousin talked to her and not me.
I remember the baby seat on the back of my bicycle
My son strapped in and ready to ride all day
Just the two of us because that’s how we rolled
And the one time when his dad came we argued.
I remember baking refrigerator cookies for Christmas
My Nana never let me stir the dough
She needed to put grandmother’s strength on that wooden spoon
Making me wonder if I would ever stir or have strength.
I remember baking holiday cookies, cakes, and bread
My son and daughter licking the bowl, spoon, and fingers
Something to please every palate for the holidays
I hope one day they’ll remember.
I am near to tears over this line: “Making me wonder if I would ever stir or have strength.” This writing examines the questioning and doubt we grow up with, answered by each adult experience that parallels youth. I love this style of back and forth, childhood – adulthood. There is innocence imbued throughout – the innocent questioning and observation of a child, and the innocence of the mother as she learns and plays her role as adult to a child. Why that line makes me want to cry is because, for all the uncertainty or wavering in the lives shown here, I feel an incredibly silent strength throughout the poem. I just wanted to shout, “You have strength!” And you do!
Oh, Stacey . . . I love this. I crashed and burned yesterday, so I didn’t get a chance to see many of these. I am so glad I circled back today.
I love how you chose these key happenings in life and showed them through two different time lenses, landing on the “I hope one day they’ll remember.”
Perfect.
This assignment has me wondering/hoping/praying about what my own kids will hold of me when they are adults.
What a gorgeous poem – a trip down memory lane. You take me in and demand that I feel things — I love that!
Stacey, I love how the questioning child and the sometimes wiser and sometimes more confident mother both have their place in this poem. I can see what you want to give your children here and how that relates to what the child you were experienced. That back and forth is so lovely.
Kim, what a great choice for today. I am late writing because I had a busy day and decided to give my morning to grading UGGGHHH. So here it is, late evening, and I’m just getting started.
I know we’ve shared our compassion before for the loss of our moms. Your poem is filled with a range of emotions. The sadness of “death rattle beat the drum of her final march”
Then the calm peace: “a majestic bird in flight, wings outstretched, assuring peace”
Then the angst: “resisting the urge to punch my brother”
And I adored the smile this brought: “sending buzzards in place of an eagle”
Not only does this capture the rollercoaster ride our emotions and grief bring, but it’s also beautiful, real, and honest.
I remember your eyes
sift through the cafeteria lobby
like you’re looking for the other gold seashell earring in your jewelry bowl
A few hundred teachers go through the familiar August motions:
Recapping summer’s highlights
Snatching vendor swag
Dreading the overpaid motivational speaker
Your eyebrows narrow, a dispatch for help
My own vision ping-pongs between your eyes and your targets
A wild path without relief for either of us
What’s wrong?
is what I do not ask
I have asked it too many times the past five years–a daughter’s job
Too many times you’ve dutifully smiled the lie Nothing, I’m fine.
Today I choose ignorance.
The continental breakfast line moves forward
I size up the cream cheese variety
while you size up some mystery
“Oh”
The kind of Oh that is equal parts surprise and solace
I turn from slathering my cinnamon crunch bagel
Ready to know
Like I’m holding the puzzle pieces
But can’t begin
until you reveal the picture on the box you’re hiding behind your back
“Her hair is as short as mine.”
I see the her
I see you
I remember the twist in my stomach
the moment I realize you,
my mother,
My hero
Pillar of faith
Champion of every bout with cancer
Teacher of teachers
With a joy and peace that was the envy of all
Who wore a Marge Simpson wig to church
Who showed me how to love every curve and pimple
Who was scheduled for chemo tomorrow
but would be back in the classroom the next day
can feel insecure
in your own beautiful, alive body.
I remember how I untied
the twist in my stomach:
realizing your subtle declaration
“Her hair is as short as mine”
gave me permission to feel
insecure
about myself
too.
There are so many great one-liners throughout this poem: Your eyebrows narrow, a dispatch for help; Like I’m holding the puzzle pieces; I remember how I untied . . . Each of these where they are ‘planted’ connect the flow of thought and image. I’m along for the ride in this poem, but also trying to understand its “mystery” and the relationship between the speaker and the other. It comes together beautifully at the close, in a sad but “it’s okay to be sad” sort of way.
Thank you for taking the time to comment! I’m writing a spiritual memoir about my mom who passed away six years ago. I was working on writing the scene where this occurs. Drafting it as a poem has helped me envision it as a prose scene a little better. But it was tough! I’ll definitely find a way to keep in the memoir those one-liners you cited. Thank you!
Amber,
This poem sits in my stomach. It creates an ache.
It’s filled with beautiful, unique descriptions. My favorites:
“Like I’m holding the puzzle pieces
But can’t begin
until you reveal the picture on the box you’re hiding behind your back”
and
“The kind of Oh that is equal parts surprise and solace”
and
“My own vision ping-pongs between your eyes and your targets”
If I’m understanding this correctly, you and your mom are both teachers as are my daughter and I. And I think that’s why the emotional reaction to this is so great.
Susan, Thank you! Thank you! Yes, my mother and I had the rare privilege of teaching at the same school together for 5 years before she passed away of breast cancer. She hung in there in the classroom until just a few weeks before she died. It was my first teaching job (besides my first 2 years overseas), so all I knew was what it was like to teach with her just a hallway away. This experience was adapted from a scene in a spiritual memoir I’m writing about her.
I remember hope welling,
A fullness of place,
of purpose.
That spring
of my senior year,
camping with friends,
punk rock nation,
polyester pants and
concert t-shirts.
I remember feeling
a part of a movement,
a voice for good.
Connected,
Free.
Michelle, the memories you have brought back! Camping, concerts, connections…you’ve really made me smile!
Michelle, sweetest of times! I feel for the seniors of 2020.
I absolutely can relate to your poem. I love how you draw me into it.
Summers spent in swimming pools
Summers spent in swimming pools
with bright turquoise sides and bottoms.
Legs dangling treading water
while we girls moved about in circles
Heads bobbing and voices laughing
there was nothing more to do
Standing at the snack bar we choose
candy – Sugar Babies, Necco Wafers in sherbert colors
Skin felt parched from sun and chlorine
feet puckered soft against concrete surfaces
Summers spent in swimming pools
nothing more to do
Jamie,
Oh my gosh, I went directly back to this place with you oh so many years ago in my past as well. It was Willow Knolls Country Club in Peoria, Illinois for me. I could feel my feet “puckered soft against concrete surfaces.” I LOVE Sugar Babies, the outer coating like sucking on brown sugar and the inside like a caramel. Thank you for sharing your memory that brought one up for me as well!
Julie
Childhood Summer
I remember
heat radiating from
the sidewalk
through the soles
of my bare feet
I remember
zinnia seeds
feathery light
as garden hopes
I remember
splatters of color
across blueblack Iowa sky
followed by echoing
booms and
crackling sparklers
Allison, I love the imagery in your poem. I know that blublack sky. “Splatters of color” is such an excellent line! I love the sensory appeal throughout. Beautiful!
Allison,
Your poem made me feel that childhood feeling of the summer stretching on and on forever, punctuated by familiar rhythms – playing barefoot, gardening, celebrating the 4th of July, and I’m sure many more. Your line, “zinnia seeds, feathery light as garden hopes” … so beautiful.
Julie
Wow! What a sensory rich experience this is! I love the feelings your poem bring to me. Summer and childhood are magical for me.
Allison, this is beautiful…you make me remember these things too. Those zinnia seeds.
Allison,
So beautiful. I am so impressed with how efficiently you capture moments and feelings.
I remember a time
When we
Flew around the backseat
As grandpa took a quick, hairpin turn.
I remember a time
When we
Coughed in our hands
As we touched everything in sight.
I remember a time
When we
Pedaled our bikes like mad,
As our baseball caps took flight.
I remember a time
When we
Desired the Coppertone tan
As we slathered on baby oil instead.
I remember a time
When we
Were shocked that we survived our own folly
As we learned to look out for ourselves and others.
Katrina—these “remembers” resonate with me. Did you add iodine to your baby oil like we did? Your final statement says it all—we survived our own folly. Perfect analysis…
Truth is, the baby oil was my cousin’s idea, whose tan I envied. I just burned.
Katrina, I love how you captured the joy in our dangerous/ignorant behaviors! Your memories draw forth such crystal images from my own childhood, we must be the same age!
I also appreciate how you wove our COVID learning into a larger story. Powerful.
Allison, I was mad when I started writing this poem. We had just been to Sam’s, where so many people were not wearing masks. I wanted to make a statement without beating everyone over the head with it. I am glad the message came through.
Katrina, I can definitely relate to your poem…the hairpin turns, coughing I. our hands, and wondering how I survived my youth! I lived the structure of your poem. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you, Barb. I just love how cathartic the poetry-writing experience is.
Katrina, I love how you reminded me of my own childhood. As I look back, I’m not sure how I survived some of my own antics. God was surely watching over me.
Alisa, I am thankful for God’s mercy and the mercy of the humans in my life.
I absolutely loved this poem, Katrina! It brought back such memories. Your words caused me to “go there” which I love!!!!
Thank you, I love this opportunity to share joy and inspiration with one another.
I Remember…
the hot summer days
warm breezes snaking around my feet
chlorinated splashes warping the pages of my book
the two young girls
fast hands slapping at the water
glowing smiles pulling the strings of my heart
Amour, what resonates with me most in this poem is the chlorinated splashes warping the pages of my book – – why I never take library books to the beach or the pool. But I also noticed that though your pages were being splashed, your heartstrings were being pulled. 🙂
Amour,
I loved the detail of the chlorinated splashes on the pages of your book. Your poem brings together sensations of touch, sight, and sound for a visceral reading moment. Lovely.
Thank you for your prompt and beautiful poem today, Kim. I relate to this on a very visceral level because I lost my mother a year ago today. Your words “I remember pleading, “Lord, I need a sign she can rest in peace”/confessing I’d prayed for a sign: a majestic bird in flight, wings outstretched, assuring peace” resonated with me the most because I also remember looking for signs after my mother past.
I remember
summer strolls
and mother daughter chatter
as we ambled along
suburban neighborhood streets,
treading on the edges of dew covered,
dandelion dabbled lawns,
never anticipating the day eclipsing
when your legs would no longer carry you
along hot asphalt roads and dewy lawns
never anticipating the day eclipsing when
your words would be merely
muted puffs of air as I strain
to read your cracked lips
and decipher the silence
Tammi, I love the dew covered, dandelion dabbled lawns! The green of life that thrives is a contrast to the weakening legs when those greener moments become memories that help us carry on. I’m so sorry you lost your mother, but I’m thankful that you are able to share these emotions and the love you shared! Thank you.
The shift from the happiness of your summer strolls, “never anticipating the day eclipsing…” is powerful in its simplicity. We never know when that moment may come.
“Decipher the silence.” Again, the simplicity amplifies the pain.
Tammi,
Your poem is filled with beautiful sound and gut-wrenching emotion.
I remember,,,,
The discussions, The resistance, The not needing another one to take care og,
The questions on can we? Should we? Will we?
Whys of expense, the responsibility, the loss of freedom
The concern, the worry and ifs of adequacy
The need of the promise to be kept & the assurance
Then we met. – It was not the end of the story or a beginning
Just being.
Welcome home Buddy (the) Bandit, our Houndini
https://www.instagram.com/p/B_Y2xITA91m/
“Then we met. – It was not the end of the story or a beginning ” love this line! You so capture the anxiety and joy of owning a pet.
Purviben, a surprise ending! I wasn’t expecting a pet, but I love the way you built up all the love and responsibility for Buddy as a new family member.
Your houndini (love the name!) is lucky, I think. Your surprise ending made it all the more delightful!
Purviben,
I had so much angst reading your poem wondering what the fretting and worry was all about. Such a joy to find out that Buddy the Bandit made it into your home!
Julie
Oh, what a delightful telling of the new little Buddy in your family. I went to see him on Instagram. So precious! I like that it took eight lines of all the important questions and anticipated responsibilities to get close to knowing exactly what you were talking about. Then the cute last line which helped us know even before viewing his photos. “Welcome home Buddy (the Bandit) our Houdini” You say so much about him in that one line. Maybe there is another poem in your future about him post adoption.
My favorite contemplations are here:
You demonstrate your responsible pet care values in your poem.
~Denise
The Mansion
I remember the plush, red carpet and brown paneling on the walls.
I remember the white, downstairs living room furniture with no plastic covers.
I remember the yellow kitchen and the dishwasher that had to be connected to the kitchen faucet.
I remember the family room upstairs…an entire other living room.
I remember sliding down the front steps on my bottom and sweeping/dusting the back steps (top to bottom).
I remember the fairy-tale flooring the small, back bedroom.
I remember the circular, gravel driveway that later got paved with tar.
I remember being asked, “Netta, what color should we paint the house?”
I remember answering, “A light or sea-foam green.”
I remember being shocked when I saw the new color, and it was perfect.
I remember so many things about the house my grandparents raised their children and me in.
I remember thinking I would someday buy that house and live in it.
The Mansion (what my friends called it) is the source of a plethora of memories
I remember from my childhood to early adult years.
I hope I always remember.
Donnetta,
What a beautiful memory 🙂 The sliding of the banister, the fun at Grandparents are irreplaceable. So glad you had grandparents who asked for and listened to your choices.
Did you ever bought that home? Do you live near them?
Best wishes.
Purviben
@TrivediZiemba
https://trivediziemba.edublogs.org/
I did not buy the Mansion in Ohio, and I live in Texas now.
Love this image: “I remember sliding down the front steps on my bottom and sweeping/dusting the back steps (top to bottom)” What beautiful and fun memories you have of your grandparents home. I felt like I was right there with you.
Donnetta, The Mansion sounds like a beautiful place filled with memories of a loving family. I love that you got to choose the color!
Donnetta, there is something so special about a house that brings memories like yours. I loved my childhood home and if only I could’ve had the opportunity to have it as my own in adulthood. I love your poem because it reminds me of love, fun, freedom, and HOME! My childhood home had plush carpet and wood paneled walls too, so I was immediately captivated.
Donnetta,
Oh, the details you pull up that really make this poem memorable. I can perfectly picture the scene through your imagery. I feel like I’m reading a poem about my own childhood home.
You nailed it. And, you’ll always remember now that you’ve put it to paper!!
I Always Remember You, Dad
I still remember you holding me in your arms,
While “I” tried to fly that enormous colorful kite.
I felt like a princess.
Do you remember it too?
I still remember you coming outside in your blue pajamas.
Calling me to go inside.
I was not very happy.
Do you remember it too?
I still remember when you became too ill
to keep playing with us.
I was sad but hopeful.
Do you remember it too?
I still remember waking up late at night
because I could hear you pacing.
I worried about you.
Do you remember it too?
I still remember visiting you in the hospital
and you no longer knew who we were.
I felt lost and confused.
Do you remember me now?
I still remember wearing a light blue dress
and my mother holding me as they lowered your coffin.
I felt empty.
Do you remember it too?
I was almost five years old
when you died.
And after 48 years,
I still remember you
every
single
day
Dad
Do you still remember me?
Monica, this is so beautiful! I love the kite at the beginning – – the parent showing what success feels like in a moment, when years later we realize it was only because they “helped” us. What a touching tribute to your dad! And the questions at the end show he lives on in your conversations.
Monica — Your beautiful memories of the time spent with your father brought tears to my eyes. The loss of a parent has such a profound impact on a person, something that I can relate to. The repetition of your lines “Do you remember it to? and Do you still remember me?” were so powerful!
The refrain, “Do you remember, too?”, adds poignancy to a poem filled with love. Beautiful.
I love the subtle switch you make from “Do you remember it too” to “Do you remember me now.” I also love the image of your father coming out in blue pajamas to make you come in. That evokes fond memories.
I wonder if you shouldn’t change the title or leave out the word “father.” I did not see your title and read the whole poem thinking it was your mom, then maybe your grandma, only to learn it was your dad. That element of mystery along with his death in your early life resulted in a powerful ending to your poem.
Thank you, Katrina. I love and agree with your suggestion.
Monica,
Tears welled up in my eyes ;as I read your poem. What a great dad you had. To have these precious memories even though you were only five when he passed away, is such a gift. Yet it is so heartbreaking to me that you have lived so many years without him. Your poem touched my heart today.
Julie
Monica,
Gosh, you capture the emotions perfectly.
This poem is a treasure!
“40 feet to the surface”
I remember jumping
on the count of 10?…20?…30?
Alice didn’t, but I did.
We were the only girls there
and now I was alone–
falling off a cliff.
I remember dreading
the surface.
The water-womb held
my muscles, bones, and skin with ease
and I was wary of gravity’s effects.
I remember concerning
looks from the boys in the water.
How did my
falling
body
look?
limp?
rigid?
contorted?
I remember learning
that “mind over matter”
is all good and well
but may leave my body
screaming to be heard.
Laura,
I found myself reading this as an extended metaphor for some reason — as if the cliff and the jumping were symbolic of a more figurative jump, and then on second reading the phrase “water-womb: resonated so deeply with me literally and, again, figuratively. Thank you for the words to swim in — glad you survived and that you had witnesses of your bravery.
Peace,
Sarah
Thank you for sharing. This reminds me of the sense of flying from a swing or a tree limb. It is such a pleasant memory to share. I also like the way you create a story with such an economy of words.
Laura,
What a jump!
Reading your poem, I can see a young girl jumping off a cliff into cool, calm water beneath and her hair flying behind her as the boys inn water looking up – both to admire the courage of a girl(!!!) and so she does not fall on them. Thanks for taking me to that azure water and fun summer days.
Did Kim jump after all?
Did you all continue to jump for rest of the summer?
Best wishes.
Purviben
Laura — I love the way this poem reads like narrative. It structure is very much like a novel in verse. I love yoru adventurous spirit. Your lines –“Alice didn’t, but I did./We were the only girls there/and now I was alone–/ falling off a cliff.” — were so intriguing and found myself wishing I could read more of your story.
Laura, 40 feet is a long way down! I’m so glad you lived! I was scared for you, even though you are here today writing the poem.
Laura,
One of my dictums to my children was “listen to your body.” I told them this to guide them through decisions about how high to climb in the tree, or whether to come in and grab a jacket. I thought of this as I read your powerful closing stanza. “Mind over matter” denies that all-important “body screaming to be heard.”
Thank you for this. Powerful, meaningful.
Laura, oh my! I was holding my breath for you! I was risky as a young girl and would’ve loved being with you on this jump! Man, it seemed like an eternity before you landed in the “water womb.” WHAT A GREAT METAPHOR!
Thanks! I love this and want to jump too!
I Remember
I remember being thin, when curves were in
My blushing walnuts became even smaller when confronted with
Jan’s apples and Karen’s cantaloupes.
I remember whip-thin legs that stretched longer than they should have
My arms went on for days, it seemed.
To this day, I roll my sleeves so that no one knows my sleeves are too short,
even when they aren’t.
I remember thick horn rim glasses when glasses were verboten.
(no one makes passes at girls who wear glasses)
and big feet. and no coordination. I was team-picked after the smelly girls
(even though I didn’t smell at all).
I remember the stairs down to the locker room, and the weight that descended upon me with every cold, grey cement step, anticipating
the change into my too-short blue canvas gym uniform that only served to exaggerate
too-tall, too-thin and too-clumsy.
I remember wanting to be anyone but myself. I wanted to be Julie or Debbie or Sandy or anyone at all with a “Y” at the end of their cute name.
Cute names that led cheers and know how to flirt.
You couldn’t add a “y” to Gayle.
It wouldn’t have suited me, anyway.
But I wanted the cute name and I wanted to belong within its cuteness,.
I wanted to replace the “Gayle” whose name brooked no friendly moniker,
suitable for the bookworm I was.
And then
I remember Mr. Clute, an English teacher
who saw in that awkward, skinny-tall girl
(with contact lenses instead of coke-bottle bottoms)
someone worth knowing. Someone worth pushing and challenging.
Someone whose ideas were worthy of attention.
And I remember the earth shifting around me.
I remember waking up to a world that my small town hadn’t revealed yet.
One in which a strong, bright, tall female could take her place at a table
she hadn’t even known was there,
With an empty seat waiting just for her.
I walked in and took that seat,
because of one man who noticed.
That is what a good teacher does.
That is the difference one person can make.
I remember Merrill Clute.
Gayle, this is a fabulous tribute to a teacher who meant so much. I have to say, though, that I felt you were writing about me for most of the poem! I sat here nodding my head and chuckling at the memories of myself you brought up for me. #awkward
Thank you!
Gayle, you represent all those adolescent insecurities in such powerful ways – from body image to one’s own name. I love the transformation that occurs when the “strong, bright, tall female could take her place at a table she hadn’t even known was there” – wonderfully expressed!
Gayle, as I read your poem I thought to myself, “yes, that’s exactly how I felt too.” I love the line “And I remember the earth shifting around me.” Making it a single separate line and using shifting and earth is extremely effective in showing how big of a difference your teacher made.
Gayle,
As I read your frustrations and growing pains that are so relatable, I feel like I’m right there with you descending those steps to the locker room. Your specific language about the body and your name makes me as an adult feel adolescent all-over: it may not make any sense, but those feelings of being not ____ enough are still painful and real. Thank goodness for teachers!!
Gayle,
It is so amazing that we have connected in this virtual space, that our words and worlds shared in verse have nurtured a friendship. In physical spaces, I be we would have connected as two tall girls — we never would have known we shared this trait without our poetry. I can so connect to being tall and clumsy with coke bottle glasses and both wanting to be seen and wanting to be invisible.
Love this story of one person making all the difference,
Sarah
Gayle,
Thanks for sharing the story of that thin, slim girl who needed to be challenged to find the confident woman in her.
Your poem is the affirmation that good, caring teachers touches lives, one student at a time.
I hope Mr. Clute knows how he impacted you and in turn many more.
Best wishes.
Purviben.
@TrivediZiemba
Powerful, Gayle! “I walked in and took that seat”–what a beautiful line of ownership. Merrill Clute was a powerful catalyst, but you are a powerful force!
Gayle, I am laughing so hard at
I remember being thin, when curves were in
My blushing walnuts became even smaller when confronted with
Jan’s apples and Karen’s cantaloupes.
The irony of being thin when curves were in and the imagery of the walnuts and apples and cantaloupes – – perfect! I love that you chose to remember a teacher, too!
Gayle — Wow! You have certainly captured adolescence! Those years are the ones I’ve blocked out because I felt the same as you way back then, except I was short and thin! LOl! Your whole poem really resonates with me because I also remember an English teacher who inspired me. When I read about others who have been inspired and uplifted by good, caring teacher, I am reminded what important work we all do as teachers not just in educating our students but the connections we forge and in the manner in which we touch their hearts.
Gayle,
This poignant celebration of your teacher is just as much a celebration of you and your identity. How you manufactured both tributes, each with its own emotions, made for the perfect combination of feelings. You left me with a longing to be that teacher.
I love your poem, Gayle. What a beautiful tribute!
Gayle,
I’m reading your poem right after watching “Graduate Together” and listening to the tributes not just to students but also to teachers, so while I nodded knowingly at the awakened ness you describe in the girl you were, my heart, already tender in this moment, feels so touched my your memory of Mr. Clute. I think most teachers had a Mr. Clute, and I hope I was that teacher for at least one student each year. Thank you for honoring your Mr. Clute w/ your words. In this world that often gives little thought to teachers, I suspect others who read your words will feel honored, too.
—Glenda
Oh, Gayle,
I am crying as I write you and thank God for the innumerable Merrill Clutes in the world. This is so amazing. The metaphors of walnuts, apples and cantaloupes are funny and show exactly the hierarchy of acceptance in the world. Your neverending arms and whip-thin legs, oh my goodness. Thank you for this, and for describing the beauty of your joining the table. What a beautiful poetic story.
I remember the hustle and bustle of Saturdays.
I remember running-
Running errands,
Running laundry,
Running to the grocery store,
Running to Kohl’s for “just a few things,”
Running to pick up dry cleaning and giggling at Shin’s crazy quilt ensemble of the day
Running in circles, really.
I remember grading papers, perusing projects, and designing engaging lessons.
I remember the infinite To Do lists.
I will remember this quiet calm.
I will remember having nowhere to go and so little that had to be done.
I will remember
The red bellied woodpecker joyfully attacking the berry suet put out just for him
The hummingbirds still fleetly flitting as if they were behind schedule
The Baltimore Orioles chittering at me when I sit too close to their jelly
The breathlessness of seeing an indigo bunting forage at the feeder for the first time
Is it wrong to savor these moments
While others suffer in the same moments?
I wonder if this was the bunting’s first visit to my yard
Or simply the first time I have been able to see him.
Yes, Mo. Your repetition of all the running emphasizes the constant rush that was our lives. And I am coming to appreciate the same quiet calm, and the guilt at the pleasure. And I absolutely love your last lines:
I wonder if this was the bunting’s first visit to my yard
Or simply the first time I have been able to see him.
How many things have we missed as we hurried through life?
Mo, the organization of your poem so perfectly fits a thought-pattern I’ve melted into at least daily over these last two months. It’s hard to get away from the constant speed that comes with the school year (even during breaks it feels imperative to “make the most out of the time off” and “take care of all of the chores/tasks/fun”). And, from talking to friends across the country, one thing we can always rely on for conversation is the current bird-state of our lives.
Thank you, Mo, for the reminder of some of the blessings of this time. I love your charge to yourself that you will remember these things!
Mo, I am loving the format…..I remember, I will remember, I wonder. How much of what we are noticing now has been there all along, like the bunting? And how blessed to have the normalcy of bird life against the backdrop of the pandemic. I think we are soul twins with the savoring of the moments. How fortunate we are to be able to read and write and see the beauty in the world around us through this time.
Mo — Love, love, love the vivid images of nature your backyard. “The red bellied woodpecker joyfully attacking the berry suet put out just for him” — beautiful! Your last two lines really hit home: “I wonder if this was the bunting’s first visit to my yard/Or simply the first time I have been able to see him.
Mo!! Thank you for the warning earlier today about the birds. Honestly, I love it! It’s funny because I have become quite aware of my feathered “friends” around me more than ever. Lately, I’ve noticed them mating (I guess, I have no idea what that looks like but why flip and flitter on top of the other??) and I try not to turn away in total fright. I’m able to watch hummingbirds and capture a few on video when they don’t know I’m sitting closeby. But Lord knows, if they come near, I’m a goner.
I really enjoyed your poem because I also wonder if my appreciation of the slowed pace will be something to be disgusted by later. Oh well, let’s enjoy it. Let’s take it all in and soak up the newness of slow.
My favorite line:
Or simply the first time I have been able to see him.
I’m learning to see for the first time many things that I’ve always had right in front of me.
Momsleep
I remember
waking up at the first rustle
of the crib sheets,
the first smack of her lips
indicating her hunger,
her emergence
from Sleepytown.
I sludged my way
down the hall
not wanting her to have
to wait a minute and
so eager to see her.
I remember
hearing little whimpers
and rolling back over
hoping she could self soothe
allowing me to stay in bed
and snooze some more.
I remember
being nudged as her cries
evolved into
the frantic machine-gun sounds
desperate for comfort or
nourishment.
I remember
feeding her
either by my side in bed
or in the living room
as the glider see-sawed
us both to sleep.
I remember
the baths and the brushing
and the books,
the rituals before bedtime.
After a few hours it felt lonely
without her but the solitude and silence
were salve.
I remember
lying on the couch
reading a book
fighting off sleep
waiting for her to come home
from a date or a night
with friends.
Always eager to have her
safe under our roof
back in her bed.
I remember rolling over
in the middle of the night
to grab my phone
and check her location
75 miles away,
praying she was at her apartment.
I remember popping up
in bed, realizing she’s not upstairs
and wondering if she had
a good day,
hoping she’s safe and sound
in her bed
across town.
Momsleep is
contingent on
the well-being of
the baby.
the toddler,
the teen,
the woman.
~Susan Ahlbrand
16 May 2020
Susan, what a range of memories your poem evokes. My favorite images are is in these lines, “hoping she could self soothe”.
Do they ever?
Momsleep is
contingent on
the well-being of
Aren’t they ever?
Thanks for sharing!
Susan, this is a lovely tribute to your daughter and moms everywhere. How did you do that? I’m not sure how old your daughter is, but I think this would be a beautiful wedding gift for her. But then again, maybe not. If it were me, I’d have balled my eyes out!
Susan—you have caught it all—all the stages, all the wonder, all the love.
Your words “ I remember/the baths and the brushing/and the books” were my favorite parts of childhood, encapsulated in your alliteration. And the summary—Momsleep depends on our children’s happiness, still. Thank you!
Susan, these memories are priceless. The stages of baby, toddler, teen, and woman…..each requiring a bit more of a gradual and reluctant release…..are filled with love and pride for your daughter. Beautiful!
Susan,
So many poems are pulling at my heartstrings today and yours is one of them. I’m in the “Momsleep” stage of having a 17-year-old who doesn’t go to sleep until the wee hours of the morning… especially now that e-learning is winding down and AP tests are finished! Your lines, waking at the “first rustle of crib sheets” and “the smacking of her lips”, brought me right back to the middle of the night with my own infant child so many years ago. Momsleep. I love your new coined term. So fitting.
Kim, the image of the majestic bird being replaced with three buzzards gets right to the heart of your mother’s humor. I appreciate the line “the death rattle beat the drum of her final march” immensely – there’s no other sound like it and you give it strength by making it the subject of that beating verb while connecting it to the visual “march.” Thanks for hosting us today and for sharing such a powerful memory.
A Gathering
I remember your hand
tucking into mine,
my steps double fast
to keep pace with yours
on the wide path
into the woods.
I clutched a small woven basket,
a red kerchief
nestled into its bottom.
My eyes widened,
my breath anticipated
what we sought that day.
That first time.
We reached the brown coop,
shanty shaped,
door latched hook and eye.
You swung it wide
and I stepped inside,
the darkness cool,
light slanting through the darkness,
straw motes filling the light,
brown eggs resting in the straw
red kerchief gently holding brown
and my hand tucking back into yours.
Jennifer,
I enjoyed holding hands w/ this poem and walking the path through the woods through your words. I love the framing of “your hand tucking into mine” as beginning and ending, “my hand tucking back into yours.”
What a beautiful memory, Jennifer! I feel the childlike anticipation building as you get closer and closer to the coop. I love how you began and ended with the hands tucked into each other.
Jennifer—I felt like I was in a fairytale with a wonderful ending! The imagery of the door swinging open into the coop made me melt just a little. What a gift you gave me today!
Jennifer,
This is so beautiful! At first, I thought you were writing your spin of Red-Riding Hood with the red kerchief, but then a line or two later, I realized I was reliving a special moment with you within a fairy tale setting. What a beautiful moment that you had here. I love the image of you holding hands with someone very special to you in the beginning and the end. I love that you took an ordinary moment of visiting the chicken coop and showed the magic that happens in simplicity and those seemingly small moments with those we love that truly are the biggest moments of all. Thanks so much for sharing this memory with us.
Jennifer, those hands holding tight and the quickening steps to keep pace – and then your discovery of the eggs! What a fascinating moment of wonder to gather eggs for the first time. I’m so glad you shared this feeling – – because even gathering eggs as an adult, I still love the miracle of eggs resting in the nesting boxes of the coop.
Jennifer, I’m drawn to your vivid word choice and attention to sound and form! “Shanty shaped…light slanting, motes filling, eggs resting…” and on. Lovely to read!
There are the townhouses, with their
shared walls,
faded parking lines,
children kicking balls
on the blacktopped lots.
There are the villas, with their
attached garages,
private porches where
gates creek and lawns
are plush for tumbling.
There is the neighborhood pool, where
kick-ballers and tumblers
play shark in the summer sun and
eat freezy pops during adult swims.
Look! There is a game forming,
red rover or catch one catch all,
maybe plans for ghosts
in the graveyard at dusk.
And there is Mrs. Moretti,
mending neighborhood trousers,
smiling at the bride
twirling on the stoop.
Can we swing a bit longer?
Sarah, I like the snapshots of neighborhoods your stanzas capture. Each has a vivid detail I can see and is true to that socio-economic level that those homes are in….but that Mrs. Moretti steals the show with her mending, smiling. I know she says yes, we can swing a bit longer. What a lovely journey this was for me. Thank you.
Sarah, I love the doors and windows that these types of prompts create. I see so much of you in these “glimpses” into your past. Always fun to see how our childhood compares. We had great games we would play in our neighborhood, too so I loved the line “Look! There’s a game forming” as a memory of our baseball games we would play in our streets. I miss that time of neighbors and friends that were always there on a slow summer day.
Sarah, I feel as if I’m strolling through neighborhoods with you, taking me back to childhood memories of freezy pops and red rover. While there are specifics in each that draw us into your images, Mrs. Moretti holds out as our main character. She makes me want to spend time with her even as I wonder about her prominence.
Sarah,
I love that this memory omits the words “remember” and “memory.” I have a vision of the school playground surrounded by homes tended by caregivers and at the center we find the playground watched over by Mrs. Moretti. I love the way you capture a neighborhood in which folks care for one another. The lines “ mending neighborhood trousers, / smiling at the bride / twirling on the stoop” have a Billy Collins sensibility about them. I’m thinking of two poems: “Forgetfulness” and “Schoolsville.” Both express the simple complications of life.
Sarah, your nostalgic poem is even more poignant during this time of physical distancing. I imagine if I were seated with you on the porch, we’d have to have on masks and unable to swing together unless it was a mighty long swing!
But, we swang with you today … separated physically, nearby socially.
Thanks.
Sarah, I walked through your neighborhood with you. My favorite stops were the freeze pops during adult swim, and the wonderful Mrs. Moretti—I think it was the mending of the neighborhood’s trousers that made that image so real. You should swing a little longer, and then join the game…
Sarah, this journey through the neighborhood and the pulse of life there is like a movie playing in my mind. I can see each place – and then the twirl on the stoop at the end is just perfect, with the question to stay a bit longer. There’s more life to see!
Good Morning, Kim…it’s not morning. It’s 2:16 pm here. But, I’m am just up after taking meds for what really happened this morning and became my ‘I Remember’ poem below. I so appreciate the laughter in the grief of what you wrote for us today. The older I get, the less afraid I am of death and more open to the layers of personality in it. I love that your mother found a way to prank you and your brother. What a gal! And, you found a way to share that bitter-sweet moment with us. What a writer!
I remember the first clouds
remember the first clouds darkening
the first clouds darkening vision, barometer plunging
first clouds darkening vision, barometer plunging
clouds of pain – thunder bolts of migraine storming in today
Linda, so glad you were able to work through the migraine. The repetition of your words and lines feels like the pulsing of the pain you felt, perhaps, or the nudging that it was coming on. Your use of “storming in today” in connection with the thunder bolts of a migraine helps to describe that sensation.
Linda,
I’m so sorry to learn the migraine storm rain on your morning. I really like the way you build the poem, and by extension the migraine, through repetition. It captures the experience.
Linda, sorry you are suffering today, but wow! Your images are concise and powerful. You clearly show what a migraine is to anyone who has never suffered from one.
Wow. This leaves me just a bit speechless!! I could feel the migraine moving in on you.
Teh repetition of the first clouds and the darkening sky. The storm. My goodness. Hope the storm has passed, Linda.
Linda, I’m so sorry that you suffer from migraines. That repetition that builds definitely magnifies the migraine the way it rolls in and intensifies, like that storm. I hope you are feeling better. You, my friend, are no mere fair-weather writer – – you write even through the storms!
Linda, I am so sorry your suffer from migraines. I love the style in which you wrote about it. I could feel the intensity as I read each line. I hope you are feeling better. Thank you for sharing.
I remember
Standing at the rear door of the tabernacle
That’s the way it was back then.
If you’re late, you have to wait.
I remember
Wondering where I would sit that night
I peaked around the usher all dressed in white.
The choir’s still singing, but then there’s the prayer.
The usher won’t seat me now. But, I can check where.
Where will I sit? It’s crowded tonight.
There are only two free seats in sight.
I remember
Thinking. Hmmm. There’s a handsome guy head over there.
A nice trim quo vadis, not hip Afro bush hair.
I’m here for worship, so why should I care!
I remember
Weighing my options. Could I decide if or whether?
Where will I see him best? Where will he see me better?
I pat my hair and then straighten my sweater.
I remember
Choosing the seat in front, not the seat next to him.
How was I to know what would come of that whim?
It turned out right. I was in his line of sight.
Well, fifty-six years later, we’re still together.
Was it his neat hair or my snug sweater?
I couldn’t love this more…what a beautiful memory. I love that you noticed his look and knew so much from the cut of his hair and you sat in front. Fifty – six years. What a beautiful story.
Anna… what an awesome moment to bring us into your life! What a terrific memory! I love the lines “How was I to know what would come of that whim” speaks so true to fate in life. Sometimes we are just in the right place at the right time. Lovely!
Anna, what a fun way to introduce us to your guy. I wondered right along with you about where to sit and then the reveal that a guy was involved! That last line (neat hair of snug sweater) has me smiling. I had to wait only once to go into church (we were visiting another parish) and I had to take my son out for a diaper change during the homily and they wouldn’t let me back in! I kept thinking that they wouldn’t have wanted me to sit through the entire thing with him in a stinky diaper and I was so offended that we never went back. I’m glad your waiting had a better outcome!
Anna—I have the broadest smile on my face right now. All of it is perfect, but your last two lines are the cherry on top. What a precious, joyous memory.
I really loved this because I could connect to all your lovely lines!!
Anna, I’m so glad you were late! And the last line – – that question! God winked on love for you two – what a blessing!
Anna–oh, those final two lines make me smile! What a great memory and use of questions through your poem!
Kim — I really grabbed this prompt with several directions I wanted to go… it is just the kind of prompt that gets me going…remembering. Your mentor poem…that scene with your brother… oh man, it hit me hard…. “wanting to shoot” – indeed. That the sadness of the moment was lifted to the realization that your mother would be “prankish” right to that moment was such a strong finish to the poem. Losing a mama… such a bone-crusher… I felt it all over again with the image of your “fighting tears” and “tightening…lips”… standing there, facing that reality. I appreciate that this prompt put my mind so quickly into gear.
Falling
By: Emily Yamasaki
I remember inhaling the chlorine, smells like home
echoing voices of the indoor pool press in my ears
I remember stretching each limb long like
donning invisible armor before entering battle
I remember gripping the ladder, each rung a promise
rising with every reach never looking down
I remember planting each toe on the board
flushing my soles with each prickly bit of the platform
I remember nodding my head at the coach, its movement
syncing with the slight gentle bounce of the board
I remember exhaling through my open mouth before
tumbling through air,
eyes wide open,
flexing each part of me until
I break water
Oh, Emily,
I am right there with you in this gorgeous sequence of entering the water — the preparation, the physical and mental framing of the moments — so beautiful. I love this line, “donning invisible armor before entering battle” because we see that this is so much more than a swim. We see the art of it all.
Peace,
Sarah
Emily – I love so much about your poem — I feel as though I’m right there with you, accompanying you through each moment, each precise word helping us fully engage your experience through our senses, from the distinctly familiar smell of the chlorine to the prickly bits of the diving board. I like how you structure the poem in couplets until you break the form in the final stanza when you let go and dive into the water, “eyes wide open.”
Emily, every bit of your remembering leads us up to that final plunge, the main action, the climax of the scene, the breaking of the water. I love “each rung a promise” and the nodding head syncing with the bounce – such a visual (it made me nod along as I envisioned it).
Emily—I hope you can share this with other divers. What a celebration of the physicality of the dive. Your choice of words is wonderful—I liked “each rung a promise” the best. I am jealous of your joy in diving.
I love how each movement is almost in slow motion as we experience every sense the diver feels! I’m kind of afraid of heights, so this reminded me of those nervous moments standing at the edge of the high dive, but with the kind of confidence I wish I’d had.
I could never do this, too afraid! But, I could see every moment of this in my mind as I read your poem.
Emily, I feel the strong sense of a breakthrough in your poem – the climbing, the flexing, the breaking through water. What a thrill! The grittiness of the platform on your feet, too, seems part of the journey, and the feeling of risk or dare before the plunge makes the entry into the water so gratifying.
I remember….
When I first stepped foot into the house that would be our new home
Walking in that front door and immediately seeing the room on the right –
You calling out to me as if you’d always known I would come
Claiming you immediately as my own
And already picturing exactly how I would decorate you
I remember…
Lovingly changing the color of your walls
To a beautiful, yet subtle yellow shade
Welcoming in the sunlight
That already shown through the gorgeous window
Overlooking a beautiful rose garden
And choosing my new beautiful flowery bedspread to match
I remember…
The newfound feeling of joy and freedom, finally having my own private space,
Not having to share with sisters, or trip over their clutter, and
Waking up each morning as if I was still dreaming –
Thanking God and my lucky stars
I will never forget you, my room that was my best friend
Sharing all my hopes, dreams, and secrets
And helping me become a better version of myself.
Judy,
This is such a lovely ode of gratitude to the physical and almost spiritual essence of the spaces that bring us safety and comfort because, let’s face it, there are so many spaces that cause pain or alienate. It is amazing how a sense of ownership can help us “become a better version” — that autonomy and agency that comes from not being a guest or visitor.
Love,
Sarah
Judy, thank you for bringing us into this very special place with you, a place that I would love to spend time in. The love you felt for it is evident in the welcome you provided to all of us through your words. I especially love the image of the sunlight through the window overlooking the rose garden.
Judy, this space of your very own is so inviting. The newness, the fresh light of warm sunshine and flowers that are so uniquely YOUR choices to reflect you. I enjoy the feel of walking through new doors, and space to move about without clutter or things in the way. Open airiness in a clean, fresh space is good for the soul, and your poem feels refreshing!
I think I started this poem last summer for July 2019’s 5-Day Writing Challenge, but I left it unfinished. Today was a perfect day to revisit the first few verses I had started. Glad “I remembered” it was somewhere in a Google file!
I Remember
I remember when you were little
moments frozen in time
resurrected in my mind.
Happy thought bubbles
capture little slices of your life with me,
my life with you.
I remember looking down at your newborn self,
soft profile outlined
with corn-silk threads of hair,
bundled body warm against my skin
gently nursing from my breast.
Amazed I could keep you alive
in this way.
I remember my eyes honed in
on your chubby two-year-old fingers
tugging at the brightly colored foil wrapper
of a Fannie Mae chocolate Easter egg.
Handing it to me to be unwrapped,
your sweet small giggles erupted
seeing the chocolate revealed.
I remember you at three,
walking home hand in hand
from the little brick preschool building at the park.
Spring rains had created a giant puddle
on the sidewalk at the corner of our block.
Water droplets caught the sunlight
as sneaker stomping turned to splashing
and then belly flopping in that pool.
I remember you at four.
I sat in the bleachers of the gym
You, so far away from me,
in a line with the other four-year-olds
“Miss Molly” your instructor in the lead
at the park district gymnastics “show”.
You took your turn
tumbled and stood, jumped and rolled.
And I sat there, tears in my eyes
so proud to watch you grow.
And now, you’re seventeen.
With scruffy facial hair,
a body twice my size
and a gravely deep voice.
But when you call me “Mommy”
as you so often do,
my mind flashes back in time
to that little boy
and I remember your life with me,
my life with you.
Oh, Julie,
I love that we can visit in this space when we can come back to it and reciprocate words and ideas — always welcome and welcoming.
The “happy thought bubbles” just give me such joy and you offer these thoughts bubbles in each stanza as we bear witness to the life or lives that are within this being you nurtured form infancy to the scruffy facial hair.
Thank you — I so appreciate the mother and friend in you that have so lifted my heart the past two years,
Sarah
Hello, Sarah! I challenged Ruth P. to write as well this month! We are both committed to one day at least and then we said we’d celebrate any extra days we add on from there! Always nice to visit here and be nourished by words!
Julie
Julie, this poem brought tears to my eyes! Thank you for sharing a precious glimpse of these memories with your child.
These words hit me right in the heart. Thank you for sharing.
Julie — These explicit memory moments carried me along as if I were floating above you watching. From the “bundled body warm against my skin” to “giggles erupting seeing chocolate” to “belly flopping in that pool” to the seeming suddenness of “seventeen with scruffy facial hair..” … that shift made me well up. You did this with artistry in letting the images speak and without being sentimental…the images carried me… so lovely. I’m glad you went back to find this file and give full cycle today! Thank you, Susie
I so enjoyed your poem, Julie! The jump from four to seventeen is so symbolic of how fast time flies when you have kids. The line, “But when you call me mommy” resonates with me because I can see my almost fourteen-year-old using these words still as a way of remembering his precious childhood memories with me as well. Thank you!
Julie—I love this trip through your son’s life. The contrast between that little boy and the scruffy seventeen year old is beautiful. And your last lines— my mind flashes back in time
to that little boy
and I remember your life with me,
my life with you.
I am right there with you.
Julie, this is so touching. Those snapshots through time that bring us to the present allow us to pull up the memories and enjoy all the gifts of moments we have shared. One of my favorite songs is by Abba – “Slipping Through My Fingers,” and your poem could be the mother/son version of that mother/daughter song. I’m smiling as I read your words “my mind flashes back in time to that little boy.” Life is beautiful!
Julie–this is a lovely walk through time! My boys are 8 and 11 & love it when I show them past memories that pop up in my newsfeed…things they’ve said, little videos, memories. I think about the time between now and when they, too, will be older and ready to spread their wings, with “gravely deep voice(s).” As a teacher who wasn’t able to stay home with them when they were little, I am thankful for this time home. Love your flashes of time and how you end with an echo!
I Remember poem May 15, 2020
I remember our little base house in Florida and the doorbell I broke because my sister wouldn’t let me in. We both blamed the other for our immaturity. My mother holding a broken doorbell in one hand looked at us in awe of our stubbornness.
I remember the first time I saw a snake. It was hiding in our flowerbed strawberries. Believing it was a worm, I went for help. I didn’t want to share strawberries. After my dad explained the difference worms and snakes, I was still relieved I didn’t have to share snacks.
I remember the leaf boats I made when it rained. They sailed down the curb and gutters delivering gum wrappers to friends. The rain was my favorite. We spend the summer days waiting for the rain because it rained everyday at 3 pm.
I remember just the other day a nurse said she regretted her son being an Air Force brat. She lamented all the moments he missed and friends he didn’t make. Astonished, I replied, “Don’t regret it. I had an amazing life.” My friends are scattered like dandelions, but my memories are uniquely mine and formed me into me.
I know there is more to life than just roots. There are wings.
Wow, Laura — “My friends are scattered like dandelions” is so powerful. I love dandelions — their freedom, their ability to grow anywhere and resist all weather.
Peace,
Sarah
Laura, what perfectly preserved moments of life! That doorbell – – and the strawberries and leaf boats and friends scattered like dandelions. I love the multi-layered glimpses that take us back to childhood summers. Your ending is divine – not just roots, but wings.
I like your format on this one. I am more and more enamored with it after reading one of Penny Kittle’s summer book club selections entitled You are No Longer in Trouble by Nicole Stellon O’ Donnell, which is memoir/flash essay/poetry all rolled into one. You have this same style, and it’s a gift.
Laura — Oooo, this is really a dandy. Your descriptions are keenly specific and take me right to the moment. Yea! The stubbornness of sisters…Ha… welcome to my family! And the leaf boats…I could just see you doing that. But the big clincher is the “roots” versus “wings”! SLAM-DUNK! Totally perfect! Just LOVE that! Thank you, Susie
Laura,
“My friends are scattered like dandelions, but my memories are uniquely mine and formed me into me.
I know there is more to life than just roots. There are wings.” These lines are probably the most beautiful lines I have read in a long time. It’s like the memories are actually a physical part of you. When you wrote “… there is more to life than just roots. There are wings”, there is so much truth in that and you made me question my strong belief that roots are vital. Maybe, wings are far more important.
Laura, I love the lines about the strawberries, and I’m glad you went for help. I thought you were going to say you reached for it-I held my breath for a second. I absolutely love your wisdom in the last stanza, “My friends are scattered like dandelions, but my memories are uniquely mine and formed me into me.” There is more to life than deep roots. Blessings to you.
I love the juxtaposition of the leaf boats and the gum wrappers. Natural transporting the manmade. Even in the poem, you manage to bring disparate memories from different locations together while still firmly rooted each in their own place.
Kim, I can relate to the part “I remember fighting tears, wanting to shoot three birds circling overhead
resisting the urge to punch my brother, who was fighting his own tears……of laughter?” because I’ve sat with you and your brother. I’ve glimpsed that love and friendship between you two. When you wrote “feeling the full force of her humor, her sign: sending buzzards in place of an eagle” I felt I understood your brother just a little more. His humor is your mom’s humor. You’re words – “I remember clutching her warm hand as the death rattle beat the drum of her final march” moved me because I knew this was about your mother. I know what she means to you and how much you miss her. XOXO Laura
Thank you, Laura! I do miss her, but you are right – – I see her all the time in Ken.
Kim,
Thank you for hosting. Your poem captures so many conflicting emotions common to grief. The desire to “shoot three birds circling overhead” and “sending buzzards in place of an eagle” are my favorite images here. They force me to think about the way grief hovers over our lives for a long time and seem prescient in this moment. Thank you.
I decided to eschew a personal memory and focus on an ongoing national memory problem after learning about Bronna Taylor’s tragic death this week.
“ Remember Breonna Taylor”
Who will etch her name on our memory?
Lying in her bed sleeping,
Covered in a false sense of home security,
Louisville’s protect & serve uniformed mob slaughtered her,
Executing her body with a botched search warrant.
When will lady justice value a black body, too?
Echoing Bull Connor’s southern armed overseers,
Denying life support to this first responder,
Louisville’s finest pumped Eight rounds into her prone body and
Pierced her castle with bullet holes.
Who will show mercy to a black man who stood his ground?
They Arrested her prince on a trumped up
Attempted murder indictment and
Forced her story into a creased file,
Hoping our shallow, pandemic-addled memories will soon forget.
—Glenda Funk
May 16, 2020
Oh, dear Breonna. If enough people keep listening to her and not allowing the system to file away her story, I suppose we can all remember Breonna Taylor. Thank you, Glenda, for writing this. It causes people to talk about things that sometimes white people would rather be silent about.
Absolutely enough of this, though! Why can’t black people jog, sleep, or eat ice cream while they watch TV? What will it take to stop this insanity? Thank you so much for this poem. “When will lady justice value a black body, too?” speaks volumes.
Oh, Glenda! You honor Breona and also call us to action in these lines that help us and others bear witness to her life and the continued injustice and inequity. You pull this story from the “creased file” and make it so that we don’t forget.
Peace,
Sarah
Wouldn’t it be an extraordinary world, if everyone knew Breonna Taylor’s name? It is devastating how long it has taken for this murder to have just a little bit of light, more evidence of “the value of a black body” in this sick world of ours. I got chills at the words, “Echoing Bull Connor’s southern armed overseers;” truly this story is all too familiar, for far too many years of our history. Thank you for this, Glenda.
Oh, damn, Glenda — You and I were screaming this poem… you hammered in that strong voice of yours the scream that I gave out when I read about Breonna this week as well. Your respectful recreation of the image of what happened to her in her own home in the night is critical here… and serves to insure that our memories are not bleached of the horror, the bloodletting that continues in 2020 to stain the country and ruin valuable, productive, loving lives. Dang. Thank you for insuring we remember, helping us not whitewash this with “condolences and prayers” that for far too many seems to be enough. This is an important poem, Glenda. Really important. Susie
Glenda, thank you. I so appreciate the call to, “say his/her name” that we see today. When I am surrounded by people that do not care to see or know details, I can say her name. I can know. I can care. You help do just that….justice in your poetry. I wish it was more. We need more. We can begin with saying….writing the names.
Glenda, Thank you for honoring Breonna here. I cannot believe we have so much work still left to do. I hurt for all of us but especially those who lose someone. You give a voice here. You remind us. You push us to never forget. And to keep open that creased file.
How many more names will we need to scream before this changes? I have never been so aware of my white privilege as I am today. “Hoping our shallow, pandemic addled memories will soon forget.” The sad thin is, we will, because she will be replaced by yet another horror.
Glenda, what a beautiful tribute to Breonna Taylor and her prince. The questions you pose are powerful and important to consider always. I love the way that you weave in familiar phrases that so many of us get to take for granted (home security, protect & serve, lady justice, stand your ground) because we are white to shed light on the despicable inequities and injustices that are everlasting in our country.
Glenda, I keep coming back to poems today and reading and rereading, and yours is one that just ignites such fire in the soul for justice. These situations are so prevalent in our nation today, and it is far more unsettling than this pandemic because it involves hate and acting on hate. I attended middle school at Glynn Middle School in Brunswick, GA – a few miles from where Ahmaud Arbery was gunned down in February. My elderly father texted this morning that he was leaving to go to the courthouse in Brunswick to join forces with those who showed up in droves to protest the DA actions and join forces for seeking justice. This afternoon he texted he couldn’t even get close to the courthouse – – there were so many people there protesting. I texted back, “That’s probably best, Dad. You don’t need to go joining any riots or mobs.” I’m thankful for his spirit, but concerned for his physical safety at his age when he doesn’t walk that well anymore. Kentucky and Georgia are places on the map where these things happened, but it is in the hearts and minds of people where the dangers begin. Poems like yours sprout seeds of change and hope.
Glenda,
Way to honor Breonna Taylor with us here! It is so sad, and you captured the story and the need to bring attention to this story and the issues that we must face right on! Way to give her a voice!
Glenda, shaking my head and saying her name… Breonna Taylor.
Say her name.
Thank you. I can’t write more.
My friend and mentor invited me to take part in this experience. I’ve never really composed poetry; it’s a bit terrifying to put this forward, but I know growth comes through trying new things, uncomfortable as they are. I look forward to reading other’s works and absorbing this wonderful creative spirit!
My Hughes’ Harlem
I remember the first open conversation:
dreams once imagined now spoken to existence.
I remember the implicit ease of it all. Try, test, gestate, deliver, rejoice.
I remember the first negative,
and the next,
and the next,
and the next thirty-six monthly failures, disappointments, involuntary inabilities.
I remember losing. Sagging self– confidence, optimism, intimacy, impulsivity, only ephemeral figments of a past life.
I remember a realization: purpose, passion, love marrow deep, and self-efficacy in a life full of eye-upward possibility, chasing a horizon of dreams,
once again.
Kale,
I’m so happy to see you here and am not surprised you have written a beautiful poem celebrating your dreams of motherhood. I love the title and the way you both honor and make new the poetry of Langston Hughes. I remember a professor teaching me the power of subtle allusions, and this take on a deferred dream honors that idea. Some favorite words, phrases, images: “ Try, test, gestate, deliver, rejoice.” and “ ephemeral figments.” Lovely poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Wow what an awesome first try at poetry… you nailed it! I love the last line “in a life full of eye-upward possibility…” It really shows that when we have been beaten down, or our dreams haven’t been realized, there is always a new path to discover and follow. Never give up! Very nice.
Kale,
That repetition “and the next” over and over moving into “thirty-six monthly failures” and then the imagery of “sagging self” and “ephemeral figments — wow, just wow! I know we keep going because of the hope and possibilities — we have to hold onto the possibility of once again — yes, we do.
Sarah
Kale, powerful poem that you have written. I’m glad you are here and daring to share your writing. I’m also glad your dreams have not been deferred, just a rough beginning.
Some of my favorite lines are
And some great phrases “love marrow deep” and then these:
I loved reading the end with chasing dreams on the horizon again.
~Denise
Welcome! OK—I have to tell you that this line “ Try, test, gestate, deliver, rejoice.” blew me away. Your word choice was just so specific, so perfect. And “love marrow deep.” You have a gift. Thank you!
Kale, welcome to you! I’m so glad you wrote with us today and hope you’ll keep coming back. Your message is beautiful – to keep chasing dreams, even though it can seem like a long uphill climb at times. Thank you for sharing with us today.
Kim,
Thank you for sharing your mom’s story. The heartache, the tears, the exacerbation, the laughter. It is all so believable. Thank you for sharing all these emotions, confusion, and release with us this day. “She showed up! With her parents!” made me smile. I think your brother has learned well from your beloved mom.
Thank you so much for the prompt. I’ve been on memory lane today. I have a page of memories in my journal for another day. Nothing seemed to click for me, but then I clicked on the link to the Avant Garde book and read Joe Brainard’s poem about what he remembered about BUnny Van Valkenburg. It made me smile and remember so much from my own childhood, so I had my idea right away and my other list can wait. (Just an aside…I had never heard of the book you linked to, but I saw Kenneth Koch’s name. I have been using his Wishes, Lies and Dreams with students since I first became a teacher in 1985. I love that book.) So, Brainard’s poem inspired my own today.
I remember when my newly-married sister brought home hippie gifts.
I remember the year was 1965, tumultuous and troubled. I was seven. I jumped for joy when she presented her gifts.
I remember the gifts were only something I had longed for.
I remember never thinking I would really own my own. They were more stylish than anything I had ever worn before.
I remember the granny sunglasses and maxi dresses for my ten-year-old sister and me
I remember them as if I were holding them in my hands now.
I remember mine was sunny yellow with small white designs. My sister’s was identical to mine, except it was sky blue.
I remember racing in to put on our dresses.
I remember slicking my straight pixie hairdo to my head so I looked like Twiggy.
I remember my sister with her longer unruly waves, opted to be more Janis Joplin.
I remember standing on the sidewalk, pretending to smoke cigarettes, head tilted to peer over my glasses.
I remember watching over many rooftops and across the river as the smoke rose over Watts.
I remember vaguely wondering if the world was going to end.
Denise,
You had me at “hippie.” Oh, and hearts sprung from my chest and I melted as I read the words that bring back those days of platform shoes and wavy hair and macrame purses and Volkswagens and daisy and mushroom stickers all over my notebooks. This is perfect – – a great walk down memory lane! Twiggy! I haven’t thought about her in a long, long time.
I can see that fabric – ” sunny yellow with small white designs”…you have captured such a period piece…I can feel the wild surprise of “hippie gifts”…to think, there you and your sisters are, lost and absorbed in this fun dress up, “as the smoke rose over Watts.” WOW. Such an extraordinary contrast, the gift-giving, the riots. Two such different worlds. Thank you for sharing this memory!
Denise — You walked me back in time. The unfolding of the gifts and how rapt you were with them is so real. “…holding them in my hands now.” The fun of the “granny sunglasses” and “maxi dresses” and “Twiggy” pixie and “Janis”…. but when you get to Watts…dang…that just nailed the poem. That pretend cigarette smoke turned into Watts, and I literally gasped at the reality of that memory. Holy cow. This is a reckoning poem. Wonderful poem! Thank you so much! Susie
Denise—obviously we are of the same era. Each one of your memories evoked one of my own. And then that ending. Pow! Wonderful!
This line: “I remember standing on the sidewalk, pretending to smoke cigarettes, head tilted to peer over my glasses.”
So much love for this line! I can see you and feel your personality. You really draw the reader into your world. Makes me go back and think, is she peering over her glasses at a camera? A sibling? To herself, trying it out?
Fishing with Grandpa
I remember a sweltering July day on the banks of the Green River.
I remember the anticipation of catching trout hiding in the rocky shadows.
I remember you expertly preparing each leader and cartoonish orange strike indicator.
I remember thousands of grasshoppers chirping and buzzing as they crashed into reeds and weeds and our faces.
I remember catching them and wiping their sticky yellow spit off my hands.
I remember your telling me that we weren’t supposed to use them as bait, so keep an eye out for game wardens.
I remember the slight thrill of breaking the rules.
I remember the instant jerk and pull on almost every cast.
I remember fishing with you on that glorious day.
I love the simplistic memories like you write about here. This is my style as well. I really love the lines “I remember the slight thrill of breaking the rules” as it evokes memories for me as well of being “slightly daring, but not too much.” What a wonderful memory that brings joy to you as you remember fishing with your grandpa. Love it!
Shaun, your poem is a nice photo of words of you and your grandpa fishing together. The thrill of “breaking the rules” and “keeping an eye out for game wardens” was very exciting for a boy, I’m sure. My favorite part is when you say “you” to your grandpa in the poem. “You expertly preparing…, your telling me…, fishing with you on that glorious day.”
It’s like we get to be spectators on this glorious day, and for that your readers feel special and honored. Thanks for letting us in on your memories.
~Denise
Shaun — Your poem took me through decades and decades of fishing… I’ve been there with you since I was about 5 years old …. your images are as real as if I’d been sitting in the weeds with you. I especially likes the grasshoppers… the “sticky yellow” and the “jerk and pull” of the cast. Lovely! Thank you for the journey back. Susie
Shaun, thanks for sharing these warm memories of “Grandpa”. Such experiences cushion us through troubling times….even if the experiences are not ours. Others recreate them in poems as you have today. What’s yours is now ours.
Thanks.
Shaun, what a precious memory of fishing with your grandfather! I love the “slight thrill of breaking the rules.” That’s just a great fisherman teaching his grandson the trick to the instant jerks and pulls – – and I can see the pride on his face as he molded in you the secrets of great fishing.
I like the mention of doing what you weren’t supposed to do and the thrill of breaking the rules
I Remember
I remember when my legs felt infinite.
I was the invincible runner
There was no field big enough to run out my energy
Rarely any others who could tag me or break away with the ball from me
Still humble, still aiming higher
I remember being unaware of a place made just for us invincible runners
I remember becoming aware of a place made just for us invincible runners and
Hating myself
Learning what a breakdown is
Challenging myself
Loving myself
I remember kinesthetically learning the word “perseverance”
I remember finally understanding the difference between mental and physical stamina
I told myself I clearly can’t be left alone with my thoughts for too long
Weird shit happens
My solution was to ditch the invincibility, persevere elsewhere
My body broke down anyway.
I remember trying to make a comeback, digging deep down for the invincibility and perseverance.
Summer, I love your poem. The power in your lines creates a blanket of emotions. The tone and free verse flow really matches the internal dialogue of your piece.
These lines were beautiful next to each other. Thank you for sharing!
Thank you for your thoughts!
Summer,
The lines with “myself” and the pace and rhythm like a run, taking strides to hate, challenge, love — to persevere. Yes, we need to keep putting one foot in front of the next, but it is not always the same path, and you show us that it not without grief that we find understanding and reimagine what is possible, what we want, and what we need “digging deep down.”
So moving (pun intended),
Sarah
I didn’t think about the pacing of the poem with my running like you and Emily pointed out. If I were to continue drafting this piece, I would definitely focus on that. Thank you for your thoughts!
Summer, the idea of persevering and making a comeback is an idea that many of us need to know is possible right now. This is a beautiful message for today – – sometimes, we break down. But we get back up and try again – whether it’s running or working or people-ing in with society.
Kim, thank you for your thoughts and if that was your piece in the original post, thank you for sharing that as well and encouraging me to write today.
I love “people-ing,” I laughed out loud because I almost added “adulting” in my piece.
I also like that you (and Sarah) related my piece to today for everyone, it gives my poem purpose, so it’s not just about me which makes me feel better about it and writing in general.
Summer, your poem is so interesting and makes me want to learn even more about this invincibility and perseverance of which you speak. I have never been a runner like you describe. Just a dawdler in jogging for me. But you give us an idea of what it is like–“hating myself…loving myself.” Thank you for sharing and “digging deep down” for these memories.
~Denise
Thank you for sharing, Denise. We sometimes go through some of the most extreme emotions when persevering, and in my explicit running example, all within a two mile run! It can be a lot to handle but with a solid support team, the finish line is possible and totally worth persevering for.
No better adverb than “kinesthetically” for how you describe learning the word “perseverance.” How often can a poet conjure an image of someone learning something. But YOU did!
I remember lunch
at Grandma’s house
the wooden backed chairs
crammed side by side to
accommodate the brood
of eight and parents and grands
How we tucked in to
china and silver and linen napkins
Grandma hefting platters and bowls
kielbasa, sauerkraut, cheese potatoes, beets
slices of white bread, butter and a relish tray
always something pickled
always from her garden
wafts of steam trailed her
from kitchen to table
until finally, no room even left for elbows
we bowed our heads
(sneaking peeks)
and gave thanks
This moment is so full – – just a single moment of gathering around a table laden with food – and the chairs, the napkins, the love. I love this line: sneaking peeks. I love that it follows bowing heads. There is reverence for the giver of the food, and reverence for the hands that prepared it – – and too-good-to-resist mouth-watering anticipation for its delights!
D.,
I am right there with the white bread and relish tray — always something pickled. But here you show us your grandmother’s table, and welcome us to sit alongside you “sneaking peeks” and elbow to elbow with you. This is how we witness one another’s lives here — thank you!
Peace,
Sarah
D. – Now I’m hungry for sauerkraut! You’ve launched my supper plans! 🙂 Thank you! Susie
You painted a picture so vivid that I feel I am in the room with you. And, believe me, I want to be there!!
D. Hill, your sensory images help us crowd in and share the moments awaiting the food to appear. Of course, my favorite lines are
we bowed our heads
(sneaking peeks)
and gave thanks
because they have such varied meanings for each of us. We bow our heads and give thanks for your taking the time to recreate a memory many of us experienced (with different aromas from different veggies and spices), but the sneak peeks… yeah you caught us.
Thanks.
Oh, what a peek into this beautiful meal together. More poignant today, as it might not be happening in this era. I love the image of your grandma hefting the platters. Such great word choice that you have managed to say much in a relatively short poem. The menu too was striking for me, and gives a taste of family heritage. It sounds delicious! I think my favorite line that really pops a picture into my head is…”until finally, no room even left for elbows” Who wouldn’t give thanks for such a beautiful family memory. Thanks for sharing.
~Denise
Thank you, Kim, for this prompt, and for your beautiful, poignant poem – how I love that you and your brother found the gift of a laugh in these final moments – “I remember feeling the full force of her humor, her sign: sending buzzards in place of an eagle;” this line makes it clear she would have loved giving you this laugh!
No Longer Yours
I remember
your words of wisdom,
“When you’re working hard, and enjoying it at the same time,
it’s wonderful, there’s no better feeling, I think.”
I remember
encouraging you to share
stories of your work.
I remember
you could not recall.
I remember
offering threads,
“you rode your bicycle to the waterfront, to check on the shipbuilding,”
“you shipped out to sea for six months, the day before Mark was born,”
“you served in Saigon, as the war drew to a close.”
I remember
the wonder in your eyes,
your gentle response,
“That’s pretty interesting, what’s going on in that head of yours.”
I remember thinking
these are no longer your memories,
yet,
somehow,
mine.
Maureen,
I love the way your poem honors stories through shared memories. The dialogue is very effective in centering the poem in both you and your father’s lives and in inviting readers to be part of the stories you shared w/ your father and now share w/ us. There’s a subtle sadness reinforced by a matter-if-fact calm throughout. It’s a bit paradoxical that the loss of memory can both create living memories and a sense of peace. Thank you.
—Glenda
Maureen, what a sweetly sad poem. You are the keeper of memories now, and that’s a good thing. Thank you for sharing.
Maureen, I love the lines: the wonder in your eyes, your gentle response, “That’s pretty interesting, what’s going on in that head of yours.” You showed that he knew you were so interested in his life and had taken careful notes and were curious about more stories – but yet those were the stories he couldn’t share. I love this interchange against the backdrop of enjoying our work. Love is wanting for you what he didn’t have for himself.
Like Glenda, I am in awe of your ability to craft so poignantly a story within a story. Now your poem is the repository of your father’s memories. How cool is that?
I love the shift in your remembrances, as I too later referred to myself as the keeper of my mother’s memories and I guess I still am.
Maureen, this is the second time this week that I got to read about your sweet father. What a wise man. And a wise daughter who takes the stories for her own. Thank you for sharing.
Maureen,
You last lines really struck me; it’s silly, but I got goosebumps. The transfer of memories from one generation to the next is such a beautiful process and, yet, you also render how heartbreaking this process can be. Thank you for sharing your memory. The position of the responder as curious to these memories is beautiful.
Sarah
To Forget Never
I remember …
we held these truths to be self-evident,
matters of fact —
it was like this.
Certainty. Bold and bent with conviction,
declared, trusted that our house was built
with stones of exacting might,
treasured trusses of truth —
“I saw it with my own two eyes!
Counted with my own ten fingers!”
Our house shifted, suddenly sagged,
drafty, cleft in the corners,
window panes smeared
with a heavy impasto
of doubt,
a trompe l’oeil,
a sleight of hand,
rendering a different truth,
countering logic, papered in toxins,
dripping pathogens down the wavering walls.
Now when I remember —
the text in my left hand,
my other on my heart —
the mere act of recollection,
carries a new weight,
a sacred rite,
as if having been there,
as if bearing witness,
as if forgetting
promises the house will crumble.
I write to forget never.
by Susie Morice©
I love all the “as if” lines at that end with the powerhouse “promises.” Wow. I seriously FELT that as I read it. The weight of that ‘promise’ after having imagined that crumbling house from the earlier lines. I also appreciate the way you examine our country’s own promise: “we held these truths to be self-evident.” The past tense “held” here is subtle but powerfully mysterious in drawing me into the poem.
Susie,
I always appreciate your creativity and modeling. Your line, “the house will crumble” is a powerful and perfect in that location and your last declaration to never forget adds to that power. Thank you for this.
Susie, these words are so powerful: “the text in my left hand, my other on my heart – ” You have provided such a powerful reason for writing! Thank you for this!
Susie,
This morning during his briefing Andrew Cuomo read a bible verse from Mark: “A house divided against itself cannot stand.” In thinking about our prompt today, I also wanted to write about our national memory, so your poem comes as a welcome echo of my mindset. I love the alliteration in “treasured trusses of truth” and your use of “we held these truths to be self-evident” with that subtle, past tense change that makes me grieve for our nation. “I write to never forget” is a fitting ending and purpose. Thank you.
—Glenda
Susie, your last line of your poem is so powerful – – I write to forget never. As we think of the frustrations we feel in a time of gaslighting, what could be more important than remembering our nation’s history and preserving our nation’s today for future generations to know the truth in all this garbled fog that folks will be shaking their heads about a hundred years from now? That’s what I think when I read this: “the mere act of recollection, carries a new weight.”
The sadness and truth of “held” in the past tense and, “it was like this.” Thank you for bearing witness in your poetry. Some days, I feel that’s the best I can do and it’s still tough.
Susie, so powerful. Your switch to “held” from hold – just wow! Those first and last lines carry it all. Thank you for bringing a punch today.
Kim, Thank you for hosting this month and for sharing the beautiful remembrances of your mother.
“Normal Space”
I remember I thought I knew normalcy
Relative, personal
I remember I yearned to plan our next travel adventure
Exploring novelty
I remember I wanted to host her going away party
Distanced goodbyes
I remember the games, end of year traditions, celebrations
Dinging notifications
I remember the closeness of hugs of hello, shoulder taps of laughter
No more touching
I remember my privileges of then and now
Safety, choice, health
I remember this is bigger than me and my nuanced normalcies
Spacing will not stay
Stefani,
The word that stands out to me the most is “touching,” and I think that, before, touching meant personal intimacy, but your poem illuminates social intimacy and the touching in spaces where people move to and across, alongside and beside. The touch is subtle (shoulder tap) and sometimes bigger (a party), but possibility of it all — knowing that we are our minds but also our bodies — is what makes this “spacing” so difficult.
Peace,
Sarah
So relatable! I hang on to your last line! “Spacing will not stay” We all long for what you remember! Thank you for writing “Normal Spaces!”!
The line that jumps out at me is “I remember my privileges of then and now”. It is clear that this is a hard, challenging time, bereft of so many milestones, and, yet, you have good perspective. It is temporary, it will pass. Thank you for this!
Stefani, the abrupt short phrases in every other line bring a halting stop to these “normal” things we used to have. The ending is a wonderful perspective
and I also try to hold onto this thought when I feel my “normal” being pulled from right under me. Thank you.
Thank you Emily, did I miss a tutorial on emphasizing words through coding??? I see others doing it, please enlighten me!
Stefani – So moving in so many ways! The line “privileges of then and now” really struck a cord with me. I am still not wanting to acknowledge all the ways life will change. I am truly hoping that spacing will not stay.
Spacing will not stay.
That final line signifies triumph over the forces that drive us apart, and we can all look forward to that!
Distant Dirt Roads
My heart lingers
Along a jagged river bank
My toes easing into cool water
Offering up cotton candy clouds
Feeling moss tickle my toes
Fishing for chubs
Drinking in flickering sun shadows
Hearing the call of a turtle’s splash
Wondering about the future
My heart lingers
On distant dirt roads
Inside the valleys of Jones county
Searching for morels
In the deep spring woods
Losing myself to violets
Delicate daffodils
Brilliant blue jays
A meadowlark’s striking v-neck
My heart lingers
In endless corn fields
Heavy with morning dew
Soaked to the skin
Counting silk
All the while thinking of you
Remembering simple pleasures
Innocence and gentle words
Aching to return to
The hillside of Grandpa’s farm
Where the redolent smell of hay
Eased through every pore and
The lonely car driving by called out,
“Toot toot!”
Barb Edler
May 16, 2020
Barb,
The textures in this poem are so striking to me. I think I just yearn to be in new places so desperately, and your poem today is a gift of that for me — sorry to make it about me. I want to be in this hillside with the smell of hay and call from the driver. I want to feel the morning dew!
Thank you,
Sarah
You really took me there! Thank you for creating such beautiful visualizations. I can relate to your depiction of country living on Grandpa’s farm!
Barb, I felt as if I with you on this journey. I love the “cotton candy clouds” and “moss in toes” imagery and sensations. I was talking about morels this morning with a friend who is an avid morel hunter–I’d like to try this one day. Thank you for sharing this.
You have offered so many beautiful, magical words about nature…I love, especially, “flickering sun shadows,” “moss tickle my toes,” and “redolent smell of hay,” each of these calling back to that special place, your Grandpa’s farm. Lovely! Thank you for this.
Barb,
I can relate to your words, “distant dirt roads,” “endless corn fields,” “morning dew” because it reminds me of one of my safe getaway spaces- a family friend’s farm I used to escape to in Arkansas any chance I had since the beginning of college. Nature does us good. I really like your word choice, I hope to be able to write poems like you one day, then maybe I’d have the courage to write more!
This poem is beautiful. This could be all my childhood moments at my grandparents’ house. Thank you for allowing me to glimpse your memories.
Your images are beautiful and I like how your body slips among them. You share the small things.
Barb, I’m so happy to see you here again this month!
I have lived on a gravel road (Audubon County) for the past 36 years. I can vouch for the authenticity of the rural Iowa imagery you “lingering heart” captured in this poem.
A few of my favorite word combinations:
flickering sun shadows
the call of a turtle’s splash
Losing myself to violets
gentle words aching
Favorite memory:
fishing for chubs!
See you tomorrow!
Allison
I remember playing catch,
diving for the ball,
to be bodily buffered by blankets of soft, sepia sand.
I remember walking,
within the fringes,
where dry sand meets wet ocean,
in that place where tiny waves roll in and retreat,
that place called the shore.
I remember laying on a belly,
lower half atop a towel,
upper half resting in warm sand,
as I let particles of long ago rock fall through fingers,
squinting,
as each handful of sand contained beauty,
as the history of millennia.
I remember the terror of the ocean,
I remember the belle of the beach.
Kim, I love the humor in capturing the presence of buzzards and the relationship with a brother who was able to shed light that might not have otherwise been seen. What a beautiful poem! I love how the presence of the mother’s spirit informs the relationship between siblings.
Wow, Sarah! You have such a sense of place here, and so many of the movements of the body “half atop a towel” and “resting in the sand” are familiar to me, but then there is this very lyrical, almost ethereal feeling in this memory of “the belle” — and I find myself reading into the lines for more meaning.
Love,
Sarah
Sarah,
I like the juxtaposition of your last two lines, “terror” and “belle”–they really sum up your experience. I also think sepia sand is a great description of the color. Thank you for sharing this memory with us.
Love the image of “I let particles of long ago rock fall through fingers.” Such an ode to the timeless beauty of being on a beach!
Sarah,
I love everything about this. The phrase “I remember the terror of the ocean…belle of the beach” got me thinking about all the extreme and opposite feelings one can have at the beach. I love your poem because you acknowledge the terror of the ocean and I hope to one day be able to express the deepest feelings of the good (which you did amazingly, making me feel like I’m there) and the scary of the beach.
Sarah, the warmth of a beach with breezy sunshine and basking without stress, admiring the beauty of sand and wondering about its foreverness is simply stunning. Oh, to be there! Thank you for taking us with you on this journey of time and place today.
Kim,
Thanks so much for this awesome opportunity to remember and reminisce! Your poem was so beautiful. There were so many emotions- a mixture of anger, sadness, but then what seemed to be peace in the end as your received the sign you were longing for. Death can be so difficult, but remembering it in this way can also be therapeutic. Thanks for sharing such a difficult time with us.
Joy by jenny sykes
I remember palm fronds waving to us as we landed
Hazy waves of humidity hovered over the wet tarmac.
I remember my daughters’ excitement, barely containing the questions-“Can we go to the beach today? How many days until Disney? What kind of car are we getting?”
I remember the smiles on my in-laws’ faces when we headed out of the terminal- a mixture of joy and tears filled my mother-in-law’s eyes.
I remember the salty smell of the ocean and the soft white sand filling the spaces between my toes.
I remember the sun caressing my dying winter worn skin back to life
as I ponder: Why do we live in Michigan?
The ocean waves flow upon the sand as the girls tiptoe through the chilly waters
Shoulders up to their ears and tiny screeches fill the air.
I remember sunsets that I thought only existed in paintings.
Fish tacos from Frenchy’s and Drunken Shrimp from the rickety little bait house.
I remember morning coffee on the patio-whistles blow from the aquarium down the street as the dolphins practice fluke flops, flips and leaps.
I remember feeling pure happiness and joy for the first time in forever.
I remember forgetting everything work related,
experiencing every single major and minor moment with my family.
I remember the freedom I felt-
When can we go back?
Jenny, thank you for the kind words. I love this form – it brings out the most cherished memories and experiences in vibrant 4D words! That sunset – – and my favorite line: “fluke flops, flips and leaps.” Fluke flops has alliteration and rich imagery of dolphins at play, and it’s so fun to say. Your feeling of freedom and wanting to travel again has me leaning toward my own suitcase. But until then…….there are our memories!
Oh, Jenny, this poem is so fun. I love the sound of the dolphin’s “fluke flops, flips and leaps.” It is so fun to read aloud. What a joy-filled relaxing vacation you had. The last question, italicized says it all…”When can we go back?”
I just came here for a little more inspiration, as I have started a list of memories in my journal but nothing was jumping out at me yet. After reading your poem I added to my list, going to the Florida Keys in winter 1993. I had two daughters, ages 2 & 4. I might write a poem about our trip–leaving 15 inches of snow on the ground in west Michigan and flying into Miami, driving to the Keys and swimming in the 80+ degree water–my first time ever being a snowbird, and I finally realized what all the talk was about. Who wouldn’t want to be a snowbird? I thought. That will be a poem for another day, but thank you for the memory, and for helping me vicariously relive it through your beautiful poem.
There are so many wonderfully precise images here: “Hazy waves of humidity hovered over the wet tarmac.” Although this is a visual detail, it’s also visceral – I can feel the muggy heat and hear the rumble and roar of planes. “. . . caressing my dying winter worn skin back to life” is something only people who transverse climates can attest to and truly understand in reading it. What a beautifully strange experience we share! “Shoulders up to their ears” was an image that took me a moment, and then it fully hit what was happening – again, a shared experience for anyone who has tip-toed into chilly waters. Your use of “memory-soaked words” adds to the depth of place in this poem, without the reader even needing to know those experiences (like Frenchy’s and Drunken Shrimp), but it triggers parallel memories for the reader of their own favorite vacation food experiences. The end line is especially poignant now. Imagine that line outside of C19, and it’s a more bubbly chant. Now, with stay-at-home orders and restricted travel, that is a much more ominous, unanswerable question.
Jenny, what a wonderful celebration of this special family time. I love the sensory appeal throughout your poem. I had to laugh at your question about living in Michigan as I often question the same thing about living in Iowa. Thanks for sharing such a lovely experience! I hope you can return soon.
Jenny,
This form really welcomes our minds to go where they need to, and this poem is one of escape through memory as you bring us right into the place where there was joy and discovery. Just sipping coffee in a new setting — patio-whistles blow — brings senses and fresh perspectives. We all get to go back there with you as we witness this memory because, well, you wrote it. Ah, the power of poetry.
Peace,
Sarah
Jenny, you know I’m right there with you on this trip! This line made me feel the experience right with you:
I think it was the sound that you captured so well! I can’t tell you how much this makes me yearn to be there.
It Escapes Me
I remember….that I used to know everyone’s name
I remember…I used to know why I walked into a room
I remember… I did not lose my sense of direction
Now I fear how quickly it escapes me and I can no longer say…
I remember…
Take Two…additional thoughts
It Escapes Me
I remember….that I used to know everyone’s name
I remember…I used to know why I walked into a room
I remember… I did not lose my sense of direction
I remember…where I placed my keys and phone
I remember…my ability planning soirees and multi tasking
I remember…the faux pas inquiring about someone that passed years ago
I remember…the conversation that I was in the middle of…
Now I fear how quickly it escapes me and I can no longer say…
I remember…
So glad to be back!
Kim, great inspiration, and what a series of snapshots you create.
I love the unique metaphor you build to start:
“I remember clutching her warm hand as the death rattle beat the drum of her final march”
I’m loving your use of repetition here….and that you have a Take Two. The word “Escapes” is excellent in your title. And, the last line is perfectly incomplete.
Susan, I like how you start and repeat to emphasize the forgetting, and your circular ending with two different meanings of the words “I remember” works so cleverly here. I can relate to all of these “I (wanted to be able to) remember” moments you share today – especially knowing why I walked into a room. I have gotten to the point I have to retrace steps to try to remember what sparked the reasons for things. Thank you for showing me today that I am not the only one……. 🙂
Kim thank you for sharing your poem and your mother’s humor! I can imagine, that oh too soon, that will be me with my siblings dealing with those final choices and worries for our loved ones. I will reflect on your words when that time comes and look for the humor! Thanks for hosting!
Oh Susan, I have done all of the above. The most cringe-producing though is the faux pas of asking about someone who has died. Oh, I have done that, and it makes this too real! “Now I fear how quickly it escapes me and I can no longer say…I remember…” Wow. Powerful and very relatable today.
One of the things I love about this place is knowing I am not alone—this is exactly how I feel! The last line on Take 2–the fear…. And then my kids remind me that I NEVER remembered names and they have always had to finish sentences for me. Nevertheless, I wish I remembered1
Susan,
I love how you used the form to demonstrate the delicate, impermanence of memory. The fear, though, it strikes me as something that isn’t forgotten. Somehow we hold onto that when fragments and figments escape.
Peace,
Sarah
Susan,
I like how fitting the structure is to the subject of your poem. It made me reflect on how I was attempting my own poem, I started the same way but it didn’t make sense for my topic and thought I was “doing this wrong.” Your poem made me remember this is a place for trying new things with writing. Thank you.
Susan, I feel this poem. I feel it deeply. However through this pandemic I’ve been reminded of Wordsworth’s words “The world is too much with us,” and I’ve decided my busy life accounts for so much of my forgetfulness.
Your poem seems to touch a harsher loss of memory, and I enjoyed reading it. Thank you.
Susan,
Wow. The repetition makes the loss of memory that much more painful. Ever since I turned 50, I have started forgetting so many things, and I too share the fear of no longer being able to “. . . say I remember.” And choosing “escapes” makes the struggle to remember so real. Thank you so much for your beautiful poem.
Susan! I love this! You absolutely nailed my experiences… boy oh boy, each lines resonates. Walking into a room and wondering what the heck I was going to do. Every one of these is real… the keys, the phone, names… Oh boy, you sure captured this one! Way to go!!! Glad you are here writing! Hugs, Susie