Our #OpenWrite Host
Barb Edler has taught English for the last forty years in Iowa, the last thirty in Keokuk where she encouraged students to find their own voice while taking risks, coaching speech participants, and supporting NHD competitors. During the last few years of teaching, Barb worked with talented and gifted students and honed her technology and engineering skills. Keokuk iis located in the very southeast tip of the state where she enjoys watching the Mississippi roll by, reading, writing, playing cards, watching birds, and basically appreciating the simple things in life.
Inspiration
Nikki Giovanni’s poetry has always inspired me. Her rich and honest language creates strong images and impressions. One of her poems “Ego Tripping” explores identity with the use of hyperbole. You can find it at the following link: https://poets.org/poem/ego-tripping-there-may-be-reason-why
Or consider paying homage to a particular trait you possess as Lucille Clifton does in her poem “Homage to My Hips” which can be found with the following link: https://poets.org/poem/ego-tripping-there-may-be-reason-why
This type of writing activity might be meaningful for students to reflect on their own identities, but as an alternative, it can be a useful character exploration activity if students write an “ego” or “homage” poem based on literary figures.
Consider exploring your own uniqueness and use hyperbole to share your strength, wisdom, beauty, talent, etc. For my poem, I celebrated the color of my eyes while incorporating some allusion.
Barb’s Poem
My Green Eyes
My green eyes
Are darker than
The emerald sea
As piercing as
The summer’s sun
Stronger than Odysseus;
Patient as his
Poor wife Penelope;
Sexy as the
Sirens’ hypnotic songs
Divining the truth
Of ancient mysteries
And tantalizing as
A jazzy tune
Your Turn
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.
An Oral History: COVID-19 Teacher-Poets Writing to Bridge the Distance
Did you write poetry during the first days of COVID-19 school closings? Would you like to be interview for our oral history project? Click here to learn more.
Homage to my Nose
Rubbed like a Buddha’s belly by my brother and sister
when she was just a baby nose.
Now, she’s a regal eagle princess.
A sharp mountain at the top with rounded foothills.
Barbra taps the side of hers and winks, “I see you.”
She gets a whiff of Dove soap, sun, and Tide and knows it’s Mom.
Old Spice, popcorn, and newsprint to know Dad’s home.
She smells when the bottoms of potatoes have caramelized
When Brendan’s bread is almost done
And floats me into the kitchen like a cartoon bear for a warm slice.
She breathes in woodsmoke
and I can tell if its
the cozy kind of Maine evening
or if sirens will sound.
She notices winter’s arrival with it’s wet wool smell
and the sharp ozone funk after a summer storm.
She holds up my mask,
Guarding herself and others.
She is the faithful protector of my breath.
She doesn’t have time
to listen to your jokes and slurs.
She is too busy inhaling
Pollen of wildflowers that blossom
inside me.
She inhaled the fear and pain around me
And I said a prayer as I held it
And when she breathed out
It was hope and kindness.
Did you know that a nose never stops growing in a person’s lifetime?
I can breathe in more
And breath out more love
The older I get.
Sweet.
Emily, what a lovely tribute to your nose. I absolutely adore all the pleasant smells you share. I did know about noses always growing and I adore the way you share how this is truly a blessing! Thanks for sharing!
You’d think
I’d know
what to write
when I sit
down to write
but that isn’t
nearly ever the case –
All I know
is that the space
before me
should be filled
with something,
and so here
I go again,
wondering how
I found my way
to the
end.
I feel you! Some days, it doesn’t flow and you gotta honor those days, too. It’ll flow again!
Kevin, I love the progress of your poem. Very funny!
A Habit
By: Emily Yamasaki
Chewed up
Cuticles torn
Shorter than
Most nails
An embarrassment
But proof
And evidence
Of a work
Session so
Successfully thorough
So accomplished
But still
Don’t look
At these
Finger nails
please
Good morning my friend! Thank you for giving me the selfish satisfaction of knowing I’m not alone! I must confess. When my nail salon closed 6 months ago, I was forced into the captivity of my childhood habit of nail biting! My nails had been hidden in acrylic or gel since the 80’s. It was a perfect way to deter biting. However, I would sometimes bite my cuticles because my nails were hidden safely under acrylic. Now, I’ve left my nails alone except for one. I’ve torn my cuticles to shreds. Back to school magnified the problem. Never proud of my hands anymore. ?
Your poem is for both of us. There’s got to be a way out. HELP!
No session is worth our pain.
Love you Emily!
freckles
brown sugar sprinkled on my skin
lighter ‘n darker spots
large some smaller
spread across the bridge of my nose
arms and shoulders
hands and legs
come from my mama
shared with my daughters
faint in the winter
brightened by the summer sun
add warmth to pale skin
and a dimension of memory
a distinction of my skin tone
a highlight against a pale shade
brown sugar sprinkled on my skin
Jamie, your poem is rich with love and acceptance of these spots of brown sugar. Some of the words–warmth, distinction, highlight, brightened, shared with–really show that these are badges of honor. I love the first and last line, repeated. Brown sugar–yummy! And your freckles sound lovely!
these hands
pulse with purple veins.
they announce my pumping
intention.
nothing about these veins
says submit.
i feel fascination, power, revulsion
all at once.
i see my father’s hands,
the power of O-negative blood.
an incalculable
measure of urgency
springs from these my veins,
delivered by my
frittering
fingertips.
my veins pound
to connect
to a spinning top
and a jazzy tune.
Your poem is giving me chills! The good kind! Nothing about these veins says submit… woooowwwweee!
Allison – Your hands are strategic connectors here. At first they are yours and when your unveil their strength they become so much more: they become your father’s, threading you so effectively to him. And they leave us with music powered by that O-negative. I particularly like that sequence…moving me from visual to emotional to beauty in a jazzy tune. Once again, you do so much with so few words! I keep learning from you, and I appreciate that. Susie
Gorgeous! I love the science moment of connecting to your father – it breaks things up nicely.
What We Don’t Talk About
The advent marks woman & absence fashions mother
Arrival ushers disquiet & ill-humor,
a visitor both dreaded & welcomed,
a celebration of youth & fertility,
passage & wisdom
Decades advance with wrinkles &
restless nights &
blush of color and heat
An infrequent visitor & ragged emotion
nature’s tipping point, brings nostalgia
& longing for youth
Tammi, you’ve opened the box to talk about maturing and the tipping point when one can no longer ignore that the years have caught up with us! No problem. We may long for youth, but the nostalgia of warm memories also warm our crackling joints!
The “visitor!” I remember calling nature’s way the visitor, dreaded when inconvenient, when wishing for fruit, and when waiting for autumn’s change. Thanks for the reminder of my childhood nickname for a natural process.
I love the riddle-like nature of this poem and how you reframe something I don’t personally enjoy and find beauty in it. Beautifully said!
Zoe’s Heart
My Telling spirit
Burns brighter than
Apollo’s blazing offering
As Sirius as
The rising sun
Stronger than the endless sky;
Fragile as Persephone
Caught in seasons
Of the heart
String the bow
Release the pain
Athena know now
How to heal
My feisty spirit
Jolie,
I really enjoyed all of the allusions you offer in this poem. Especially the one about Persephone. She is such an interesting character to me and so I loved reading that! Thank you for sharing 🙂
“My Grey Hairs”
My grey hairs spring from underneath
My mane of brown, of golden brown
They shine of silver in the light
And sometimes they even look white
My grey hairs swim in chestnut lakes
They sing in perfect harmony
They raise their arms into the sky
To wave to every passerby
My grey hairs curl from time to time
They dance around on starlit nights
They streak across my youthful crown
My grey hairs are of great renown
My grey hairs are my father’s too
He gave them too me some years back
He still has plenty, don’t you fret
I doubt he’ll lose them all just yet
He taught me to embrace my greys
To love each one and live with it
To lift my head of greys just so
That everyone will see their glow
My grey hairs are a work of art
A mark of time, a sign of life
Don’t tell me I should dye them brown
I’ll never let my grey hairs down.
Annie — I love the tone of celebration and rhythm in this poem! Especially love the line “my grey hairs are a work of art.”
Barb – Such a fun prompt! I especially loved how you pulled Greek mythology into your green eye poem with Odysseus (known for being an eloquent speaker and yet also known as a ‘cunning trickster’. Love that!
My head is huge
If we were to roll it across the plains
It would be seen across the flatten fields
From space
Like the corn fields in Iowa after the derecho
My head is round
It would roll well across the plains
It would roll swiftly like a boulder
In a cartoon with the Roadrunner
and the flattened Coyote below
It’s large like that
Too large to roll easy
but large enough to gain momentum
Like a hurricane in Iowa
where we have no waves
My head is huge
Don’t let that fool you
It is not housing a brainiac
But merely a fortress of words
That dance and sing in time to my amusement
Renee C
Renee, I love this! I am totally laughing after knowing what you said about your selfie! I could relate to so many connections in this poem from the road runner to flattened cornfields. I especially like how you pulled in the hurricane in Iowa, and the ending is delightful and superb! Thanks for sharing your writing today! Love ya!
Renee — this was so fun to read. Loved the images of head rolling well across the plains. So much fun hyperbole here.
This was a hard poem to write. It is not complete, but I am challenging myself to be vulnerable and share despite how I feel…
My hair
short and smooth as golf course green
perfectly edged like manicured lawns
My shoulders
broad and strong for holding up the world
al least my own little one
My hips
swinging and swaying
left then right then left then right with every step I take
Donnetta, I really enjoy the opening of your poem and how you share how well manicured your hair is….it gives me the impression that you are a careful individual. This comes through at the end as you describe your hips moving left then right…as though you are moving with certainty while taking stock of your surroundings. Very thought-provoking poem! Thanks for sharing!
Donnetta,
I really enjoyed your poem. Especially the second stanza where you depict your shoulders carrying your own little world! Such a sweet sentiment. Thank you for sharing.
Donnetta — I love the movement in this piece, from your hair to shoulders to your hips. It felt like you were assessing yourself. I love the stanza about your shoulders “strong for holding up the world” — like Atlas.
What joy of body is here! I love the hair, the shoulders, the hips. I really connected to this.
Barb, I love this prompt!
My mouth is small.
My voice is soft.
I’m often shy and quiet.
But give me time
To write my thoughts;
I’m big
and bold
and GIANT!
This little poem describes the smallness of ones physical mouth but the words are bold and giant! So clever! I can understand this because it is hard for me to articulate in a group. I sure can write it down! Writing saves us from being bottled up. It is a wonderful way to express.
This is a spoken joy, Katrina! Love the message and the rhythm and the rhyme!
Katrina, I love your poem! It surely celebrates the power of a voice through writing! Excellent job of manipulating the text to also show the emotions behind the words! Awesome!
Oh I love how you end with GIANT! And capitalize the letters of the words to add volume! Very NICE
Katrina,
This short poem really packs a strong punch just like how you describe your own writing. I love it! Thank you for sharing.
Katrina — this poem is perfect! What a great homage to the power of your thoughts & words. Words really are powerful!
Writing an make us more confident as our ideas flow into the page! I love your simplistic yet profound descriptions!
I want to share this with my students. You have said something true for some of my strongest writers.
Betrayal of the Face
My face gives me away
It says the things I will never say
Permanent lines from scrunched looks
Directed towards others or to books
My eyes fill with clouds of emotion
Almost like I drank a potion
Waves etched into my forehead
That I try to smooth out every night before bed
The luggage beneath my blue eyes
Have been overpacked with stress that makes me cry
My lips are scarred and torn
From the years that my heart continues to mourn
But it isn’t all so bad
These blue orbs shimmer with delight
When I see someone else shining their own light
Those lines get deeper every day
When a friend is bursting with exciting news to say
The furrowed brows show my deep compassion
In listening to stories of lives crashing in
These lips peel open into a smile
To release an explosion of laughter for miles
This face may may give me away
But sometimes it means more than words can say
It isn’t all so bad
Gracie, I like that you incorporated the pros and cons of your face betraying your emotions. The rhyme scheme also feels very natural, which is always what you want if you choose to have rhyme in your poems. It made me smile at the end. Thank you for sharing your poem.
Gracie
I love the rhyming words ! You’ve done an amazing job of creating a vivid image of facial expressions. My favorite lines were ” The luggage beneath my blue eyes have been over packed with stress that makes me cry” Those two sentences really speak to me. Thank you for this. I love your poem. ??
I really love the use of ‘luggage’ in your poem – “The luggage beneath my blue eyes
Have been overpacked with stress that makes me cry”. I was also struck by the opening where I feel as if you are in movement (saying things you would never say – as if blurting things out you would never want to and then running away from that – but then you use the word ‘permanent’ in the 3rd line! I am immediately stopped. Stopped to look and to listen. I love that.
Gracie — I love the way you have described the emotions described through your facial expressions. “Everything from the worry etched into your forehead to the blue orbs shimmer with delight” — you convey the emotional roller coaster of life so well.
Hi, Gracie! I love how you light up “ when [you] see someone else shining their own light.” The blue orbs shimmering is definitely a nice touch. You mention waved etched into your forehead, reminding me of my own! Thanks for sharing your heart through your words.
Homage to My Old Hands
Old hands–
That’s what they are. Yes. Older than the rest of me–
(CERTAINLY more mature…) exposed to the world
no matter how much I hid the best of me.
Old hands–
When they were young, they protruded from skinny arms;
sleeves rolled up to disguise the lack of fabric at the end…
I still roll them up that way, exposed to the world.
Every day.
Old hands–
Veins like trees sprout from my wrists,
blue-black and strong.
Age-spot leaves adorn the branches.
Riplets of skin move below.
Old hands–
Spindle-shanked fingers boast knuckles growing knobby–
a sign of respect for all those years,
all that lifting,
all that sun,
all that life,
all those beautiful days.
Old hands–
My mother and my grandmother
gaze back at me from my hands,
saying welcome home.
Hello, old hands…
GJ Sands
September 2020
I love hands and your poem about your hands is beautiful. Your last lines about your grandmother and mother speaking back to you took my breath away. I also see my mother in my hands.
Love the grace and acceptance in these lines,
We earned our old hands!!
What beautiful imagery of the life your hands have lived! It is so fascinating to think about just how much our hands have been through. Your words, “exposed to the world no matter how much I hid of the best of me” stopped me in my tracks. I read those two lines over and over again with tears welling up in my eyes. No matter how much we hid ourselves, those exposed hands continue to tell a piece of our stories. Thank you for sharing your piece 🙂
Gayle, I love how you pay tribute to your mother and grandmother at the end of this poem. I so appreciated the loving tone and the celebration of all the ways your hands have enjoyed and accomplished. Thanks for sharing!
This prompt was great! And your green eyes…
Gayle — I love those old hands you’ve described so vividly here. Loved “spindle-shakes fingers” and those veins…yes…all those aging details and the beauty that they are part of your connection to “mother and grandmother.” Quite beautiful. I’ve written about my hands and my mama’s hands in the past…the images you share here are very akin to my own. I love your hands, love our mothers’ hands. Sweet poem! Lovely tribute. Thank you, Susie
I relate to this poem so much! I too have old hands. Your descriptions are rich and the depiction of leaves and trees was especially strong for me! Very rich in images.
I love the idea of hands being old, older than the rest of me; I love the idea of your mother and grandmother seen in your hands – a looking glass – beautiful images
My arms,
once the bane of my existence,
thick, solid, and far too masculine,
preferably hidden from view,
over time,
have carried their weight,
pulling, throwing, bending,
stretching, lifting, pushing, prying,
moving, herding,
soothing, tending, caring,
holding, embracing,
cherishing,
even,
briefly,
holding up the whole world when it is falling apart.
I see now
they are strong, protective, rock-solid
just like my Dad’s,
and that’s okay.
I am well-armed.
Maureen—my hands follow your arms! I love the ending—the comfort and pride in the strength they have given you!
“Well-armed” was a perfect ending!
What a beautiful ending to a beautiful piece. As I read this, I could envision your strength in being ‘well-armed’ building up. Thank you for sharing 🙂
Maureen,
I love it. I really enjoyed the various words yu used describing what our arms do on a daily basis- pulling, throwing, bending,
stretching, lifting, pushing, prying,
moving, herding,
soothing, tending, caring,
holding, embracing,
cherishing,”
Thank you for this! I’m already looking forward to your next one.
Beautiful. Direct, strong, and the ending “I am well-armed’ …. such a nice play on words.
Oh, my, Maureen, this is a masterpiece. I love all that your arms can do! As well as:
So beautiful! Yes, arms need to be strong and nurturing when they are mother’s, grandmother’s, teacher’s arms.
And , of course, that last line is an instant classic–“I am well-armed.” Wow!
Those last three lines are leaving me smiling. Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem. So much joy!
I felt a little weird writing a poem about myself, so I tried to make a comparison to Athens or Athena.
Pallas Athene
Wisdom personified, it is no shock
my council is more sought after than gold.
My marble city called the people in
with reverence within their mind and eyes.
Philosophers of old would walk my streets
and listen to my guidance, sharing what
they learned with people from all over. Art
flourished while what was possible was re-
defined. I pushed my people to their limits.
But being Greece’s pride and joy was hard
to keep up. With such wisdom in our hands,
we should have seen it coming. Thinking of
ourselves invincible, our pride got in
the way, and thus, our fate was sealed. I made
my people choose and found them fallen when
I saw them in the morn’. Mortality
and wisdom are not friends of fools’ dreams of
invincibility. Alas, if I
had only known this then and not just now.
Grace—this is wonderful. Were you thinking of today’s situation in the second stanza? I loved the intro to it—but being Greece’s pride and joy was hard to keep up with—so very true! Loved moving into Athena’s head…
This is fabulous! Love the ego and self-love of the first two lines:
Very thought-provoking about pride – I got chills with the phrasing “I made my people choose and found them fallen” Thank you for this!
Grace, I, too, see this as a pattern poem we could assign to students, say, studying history or geography. Prompt: Read the poem by Grace Cosby. Consider what you’ve learned about a town where a significant event occurred in history or a place on the map with interesting topography. If that town or place could speak, what would it say about itself. Use evidence from our study to support your claims as you pattern the syntax and layout of Ms. Cosby’s poem.
This is a 2nd edit of a Poem I submitted here 6 months ago with added hyperbole.
Beautiful Breasts
My mom told me to wear a bra
daily but at 21 years old,
I thought I was smarter than her.
In my twenties
elasticity and muscle mass were
in abundance but once I
had my daughters
MY priority was feeding them and
providing natural nourishment.
My breasts grew to the sizes of honeydews
I cried, was hormonal, and wondered why
they didn’t look like that in high school.
When I turned forty, they began
their turtle-paced southern journey.
I purchased one of those Oprah recommended
$150 brassieres that promised they would
sit up like soldiers
and I slept in sports bras.
Now that my fifties are here,
I see they’re perky-less
and just don’t sit up and
salute like they used to.
They are middle aged now
and in a race to see which one
can get to my knees first.
Seana,
I am so with you and love every word. You had me smiling with this imagery:
I love how you talk about “them”!
Peace,
Sarah
Hello Seana, growing up is such a weird sensation, and I like that you brought it up here. Our bodies completely change, and I like that you kind of approached the topic with some humor.
Seana—I chuckled with your images, and your last stanza made me laugh aloud! I wish i had enough breast material to have a race! (I was called acorns in high school)
You have told the story of women’s aging through our breasts! Love this. Oh my, the seasons of these! This line “I thought I was smarter than her” – oh, I can relate! We thought we knew so much when we were young…and then the learning comes.
Oh Seana! This made me giggle and think of Maya Angelou’s poem about aging. She, too, used the image of her breasts traveling south. Just for fun, I’ve posted her words here to show you how well you compare to one of our renowned sisters and wordsmiths.
And then there are my breasts, which are not so small. And they are determined to join the race of Maya’s boobs. Not sure if I’d want to compete with hers but mine seem to be determined to have their own plunge at the slow pace that gravity tugs at them. At least they are not at the velocity of a bungee jump. thank god. That would scare me to wake up one morning and discover they tried to plummet to the bellybutton zone overnight. ;~) And no, even though Bungee Jumping was something created by the Kiwi’s in New Zealand, neither myself or my boobs will be doing any jumping on that scale. I like terra firma, thank you very much. ;~) (https://marecromwell.wordpress.com/2009/11/13/maya-angelou-on-growing-older-and-sagging-boobs/)
Oh, Seana, brava! This poem had me laughing and smiling the whole way through. But that last image made me guffaw. “They are middle aged now and in a race…” Oh, my! My morning tea almost came out my nose!
It’s already day 2 and I don’t want this to end! Thank you, Barb for your wonderful prompts and examples. For me, each day is a challenge but I savor it.
Generations
She – was a force to be reckoned with
Just over 5 feet of wounds that never healed
So powerful they reached out an cut down a generation
Her love encompassed and drowned
Her hands hurt and soothed
She was calm in crisis
Port in storm
For everyone but me
I – am over-eager to please
Half a foot more of heart-deep lacerations
So powerful they became scars on my wrist
I love expansively and warm
My hands build and comfort
I am calm in crisis
Port in storm
For everyone but me
She – is a force of nature
Just over five feet of fiery confidence
So powerful her wounds have become weapons
Her love is measured and true
Her hands create art and beauty
She is calm in crisis
Calmer of storm
For everyone, even for me
Loved the repetition and the movement. And so glad for “even me”. Lovely!
There is such clarity and power in this line: “Just over 5 feet of wounds that never healed” – I felt as if I could SEE her. How many people walk through life this way? This poem beautifully describes, I think, the different ways we can be affected by trauma: “So powerful her wounds have become weapons.” Wow. Thank you for this.
Patricia, what a beautiful and thought-provoking poem. I felt especially drawn to the size and wounds described. I was glad the end was full of acceptance! Thanks for sharing!
These measurements and numbers are really striking a purposeful and precise tone in your poem. I love the repetition – each line turning the poem into a powerful wave!
Better a witty fool than a foolish wit
Before beauty or kindness
The two cardinal and admirable traits for women
My quick, witty humor is the most recognizable.
Life feels like an SNL skit without the live studio audience
Only me patting my own back, elbow worn from congratulations
Cracking jokes and passing smiles as the funny one
Always the funny one.
Never the serious, smart, or serene one
Maybe I could be the cute one for a change?
This is no laughing matter as a matter of fact
But of course, being the funny one has its perks
Or more so subjective well-being.
Making other people laugh is simple, elementary to me
After all, it is easy being the comedian until there is no one left to make you laugh
Lauryl, I spent the entire poem being envious of your quick, witty humor. It’s a skill that requires great intelligence, and my serious side often prevents me from finding the humor. And then you delivered the “punch” line. Oh, that ending!
I love the transition that you made from being the funny friend to wanting to try on a different identity. It may be simple, but you should the deeper element of the expectation you have from the people around you. Thank you for sharing your piece 🙂
Lauryl, I so enjoy people with a great sense of humor! Your end is so powerful! It’s kind of like the moment you think you are being funny, but realize your audience does not think you’re funny at all. It makes you pause and ponder. Thanks for sharing this very insightful poem!
Barb, what fun this was to read and write! Love Nikki and Lucille with all my heart and soul, and appreciate the videos to inspire us more today. Your poem and your eyes are beautiful! I wonder if any dark brown-eyed girls like me ever write about the color of our eyes. Oh well, not today! I went with a little humor, honesty, and all of my heart!
Homage to My Heart
©Stacey L. Joy
I wish I could pay homage
To sexy firm legs
Or a perfect butt
Or how my hips sway
To the rhythm
Of my stride
And the glow
Of my eyes
And the sparkle
Of my smile
To the stretch
Of my spine
And the strength
Of lean muscles
And the ease
Of bending or being
But I would be remiss
If I didn’t speak truth
My legs, vein stained
My butt, just a butt
My hips, never hip
And my stride doesn’t glide
Oh, but my heart
My hard-working
Predictable pumper
Doesn’t falter
Weaken or clog
It skips a beat
From time to time
To remind me
To breathe, deeper
Reminds me
One less cup
And one more mile
Home to this divine soul
Limitless emotions
Never-ending memories
Keeper of my deepest
Secrets
I love you
Whole-heartedly
Stacey,
This is great! Im glad that you know your heart is something worthy of homage.
I love the line “predictable pumper.”
Stacey,
I love the lead with the wishes that I , too, share
And then the way your wish comes true in the way you need it to…in your heart, where it has always been whole.
Sarah
Stacey—love this!! Favorite parts—my stride doesn’t glide (nor mine!) and your hard working predictable pumper—the image and the alliteration made me smile!
Stacey, loving your heart whole heartedly makes me smile! It’s what’s on the inside that matters, and you have a winner. You ARE a winner!
Stacey,
And what a truly divine soul you have! Thank you for paying homage to your beauty and for knowing you are GORGEOUS just the way you are. These are my favorite words-
“My hard-working
Predictable pumper
Doesn’t falter
Weaken or clog”
You know I look forward to reading your daily words of wisdom. ??????
Stacey, whether one’s eyes are green or brown, I think a huge heart like yours is what really matters! I feel fortunate every time I read your beautiful poetry! Thanks for sharing another outstanding poem!
Stacey– Right down to the last word…another gem… and I mean that “whole-heartedly”!! Each of the short, snapping descriptors deliver so big an image in so few words…that’s gold. The power of your voice, though, remains what moves me most. The acknowledgment of what some butts and legs look like and that what really matters in that heart, that keeps the memories and the secrets… Just dandy! Maybe heart and voice are the same thing. You’ve got it, my friend! Thank you for sharing a piece of the pumper! Hugs, Susie
What excellent inspiration, Barb! I very well may write about both prompts today.
My Belly
by Mo Daley 9/20/20
Not too long ago, my stomach was flat
even though I birthed THREE giant babies
and am a fifty-something year-old-woman
(I’m still not ready to reveal that number!)
It was a source of pride
that secretly gave me a kick out of being
the envy of even younger women
But now, my belly has succumbed to sheltering in place
I’ve settled in, and so has my gut
It is a symbol for all to see
(virtually, of course)
that I’ve had a little too much cheese
and maybe an extra glass of wine here and there
while totally embracing this anti-social lifestyle
No longer do I race from class to meeting to home to party
No longer do I get 10,000 steps while supervising, coaching, and encouraging
My sacrifice for all of you
Is the 19 pounds that have settled in to my front porch
My jiggly wish for you to stay healthy
Mo — oh my, this line!
It is just perfect, and the “jiggly wish for you to say healthy” — perfect. We just want to be healthy!
Sarah
LOL, Mo! While my stomach was never flat, I still have not made peace with my age yet, and I miss the walking too even though I also “embrace this anti-social lifestyle.”
I am right there with you!!!!!!! Sing it! Let’s get our front porches together someday!
Yes! Covid relative and funny too. “But now, my belly has succumbed to sheltering in place” my favorite line! and then bam – “I’ve settled in and so has my gut.” Love this poem!
Hallelujah Mo!! I adore your poem because it’s REAL! As much as I walk, I would think I would be much more fit, but yeah, the wine, cheese, chips, sitting on the butt all damn day! Oh how I love that you’ve exposed it for us, showing us that it’s okay to be as we are! Thank you for the “jiggly wish” and for your sacrifices for everyone! God bless you. ?
She
The force of my presence is felt when I stand upwind
and the masses pause in anticipation
A single word from my mouth causes
ears to perk up and attention spans to lengthen
The sound of my voice
rivals the thunder of a thousand tempests
My feet cut a mark so deep
that men have drowned in my footprints when it rains
The mere whisper of my name
renders the patriarchy impotent
My bravery is legend and
my persistence ruthless
I will not be silenced
Right away I though this could be a tribute to our dearly lost RBG. All the words resonate with her strength, power and bravery. I hope the force of her presence will be felt for generations to come.
Sharon, the hyperbole in this poem works so well! I particularly enjoyed: “The mere whisper of my name
renders the patriarchy impotent”. The final line is superb! Yes, let’s not be silent; let’s roar! Thanks for sharing!
Ohhhh Sharon, this is powerful. I sense the inspiration from Nikki. I love it!
Every woman’s anthem! Standing and clapping! ??????
[Note: I had fun messing with a bit of French… those pronouns… she, my nose, this nose, she knows… I like thinking of my nose as the Ms in charge. LOL! Oh well.]
Nez, le Ms.
Mon nez is in charge
of my sense abilities;
elle works a bit like the talons of a red-tail hawk —
once locked into the flesh of a target,
holds fast,
mining that moment for the sinews
of meaty memories,
reminding me what hunger feels like;
mon nez can smell a cigarette at two car lengths
behind the fool at the stop sign
who just blew his second-hand out the window,
or the lazy waft of tobacco
from the neighbor’s back porch two houses down,
bringing back Dad and Mama in the kitchen;
ce nez can slice through two fists of years
to the field of just-cut alfalfa,
draining tear ducts of nostalgia,
and I taste the salt stream down my face;
mon nez knows
that nasty hot tar in July,
mopped onto the flat roof
of the Pierce Arrow Building on Olive Street
that seared my sweet baby blues
to never erase all the butt-cracking roofers
who slogged it from their buckets,
sweating into the goo;
mon nez feels the heavy malt shroud
that paints the Southside when the scant breeze
leaves the Anheuser-Busch brew
hanging thick at the open window;
mon nez disclosed my mood
when blood from my body just kept pulsing
dank and sickening for seven straight days every month —
one fourth of my life for forty years –
in a body that would not bear children;
mon nez knows old lilacs,
deep, rich, and purple,
insisting on an April face-plant in the bush;
ce nez pushes me to reinvent
bread twenty different ways
just to retrieve the fecund rise
from the Pillsbury factory on Shreve Avenue,
a wonder in itself;
mon nez,
elle connait.
by Susie Morice©
Susie, at first I thought your poem was going to be silly, but I should have known better! So many of the smells you mentioned made me smile. Memory and smell are so closely related. Even though I lost my sense of smell, when I read about others’ scent memories it pokes at something inside me. J’adore how you’ve played with language here, too!
Susie, that was super-fun! As another very scent-sensitive person, I could ‘smell’ those scents as I read. Lovely!
As one April face-planter to another, this was so fun! And the French, especially those last two lines, is perfect – adds a bit of an elevation to the functional body part.
I like how the smells were linked to memory in this poem. It was so vivid, and I like the addition of French. Usually French is a more nasal language when spoken, so I think it was a nice touch in paying homage to your nose in this way.
Susie—I, too, have a very good “nez”. So many smells, so many memories, good and not-so… this poem brought back memories!
Wow, Susie, your nose does know. What a beautiful poem. And, as usual, your few prompts before we started, about the French words, helped us translate ourselves perfectly. (You provided scaffolding, but you let us be part of the solution. A master teacher move there!) Thank you also for writing that beautiful stanza about your menstrual cycle. I can smell your vulnerability and I too smell the “dank and sickening” smell through your words. It is heart-wrenching. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you, Sarah Donovan, for the links to the videos!
Dog barking softly,
announcing the day,
my arms are heavy.
I pull open the heavy sliding door.
I am greeted by,
soft knickers,
rustling of shavings,
wagging tails.
It’s feeding time,
rip open the bag of grain,
the barn explodes,
into a chorus of neighs:
high pitched ponies,
low, deep stallions
mellow mares.
I say hello to each,
as I feed their bellies,
and they feed my soul.
Hello, Ella.
Hello, Lex.
Hello, Petey.
Hello, Beau.
Hello, Liberty.
Were you born in a barn?
Yes
and I am so thankful.
What a beautiful picture you’ve painted, Katie! It seems like that wonderful explosion of sounds just takes that heaviness right away. I live how you’ve named each animal, giving each one importance.
A beautiful moment. Thank you.
Such gentle images of early morning at the barn. I could hear the “soft knickers.”
I conceived
a moon raker
a sea scraper
a builder of worlds
movies flickered in his brain
while his lips formed words.
I forged
a mountain surfer
a sky leaper
a commander of lands
pulses jived along his synapses
while his feet kept beat.
I had a hand in
the universe of you
constellations sparked
and suns exploded
from cosmic dust you came
to cosmic dust you will return.
Jennifer, I absolutely adore this poem and am now inspired to write my own version. The rhythm of your poem is incredible. I especially enjoyed the words you used to describe your subjects: “moon raker” “sea scraper” and “sky leaper”! Thanks for sharing such a wonderful poem!
I wonder how many of us wrote about our children or lack thereof with this prompt? I’m with Barb…the rhythm here is wonderful and the imagery with which you described your boys is expansive. Well done!
Jennifer, the imagery in this poem is really breathtaking! I especially love the ending, “from cosmic dust you came, to cosmic dust you will return.” I think this is a beautiful take on the prompt!
These Hands
These hands are ten stick-like appendages at the end of my arms.
I use them to grab and hold a pen to write these words.
Fingers wrapping ‘round with an ability to trace designs in the clouds.
These hands can clap in wonder and thanks,
wave to a friend or fold in prayer.
They can feel the smoothness of a baby’s skin and a soft kitten’s fur.
These hands are not large nor small.
Once wrinkled and pink, now boney and thin.
They are covered with dark speckles and veins sun-kissed over time.
These hands use paint, clay and pencil to describe God’s creation.
My fingernails are brittle, never able to grow but I work with these hands.
People remark at how strong they look.
These hands can scratch an itch, play in the mud or splash in the sea.
They get warmed on my coffee mug after feeling the chill
of snow and the dampness of dew.
These hands can play out a tune on piano or uke,
prune plants and trees,
draw a straight line,
push the vacuum,
massage a lover,
feel the roughness of tree bark,
dig in the warm beach sand.
Oh, what would I do without these hands?
They carry out my intentions, point out directions and answers.
They are my tools of life.
Susan, what a wonderful reminder of how blessed we are to have capable hands to not only create but to also soothe another. The catalog of accomplishments really adds the weight of how valuable hands are! Thanks for sharing this wonderful tribute!
Barb, thank you for another great prompt. I loved listening to Nicki Giovanni and Lucille Clifton. I love the words you used to describe your eyes. The allusions are powerful. My favorite section: “Sexy as the / Sirens’ hypnotic song / Divining the truth / Of ancient mysteries” I did an homage to a mostly forgotten part of me.
“Homage to My Birthmark”
This birthmark is a badge of mystery.
I was initiated into a mostly girls’ club
in my mama’s womb, some secret shared by
Just .3% of all babies born.
This birthmark is a beautiful color of fuchsias
Or red wine depending on the air temperature.
A port wine stain is the official name;
Dry ice was the 20th century treatment.
Because we didn’t burn it off with the ice
And I rarely opted for cosmetic camouflage
This birthmark inspired nicknames by mean kids–
Patch Eye and Pirate–but they didn’t know.
This birthmark is the shape of Australia
For a map lover and Down Under fan like me.
But it is located on my left temple rather than
Situated between the Indian and Pacific Oceans
This birthmark is becoming cobblestoned.
Exaggerated vascular activity paving
A thoroughfare across the pink plot.
I never even saw the masons at work.
This birthmark is invisible most of the time.
My hubby and children look puzzled every
Time new folks ask me about it,
‘Oh, yeah,’ they say.
Funny – since I responded to you yesterday, I thought I would skip you over today – but no! From one birthmarked sister to another! Starting with the Australia stanza, this really picked up steam and had me rollicking and smiling through the metaphors. I always worry that metaphors will come off as being too easy, but then, I love these! And how you built on each one, bringing in the “masons at work.” The hardest line to read was “This birthmark inspired nicknames by mean kids–” Ugh. Who with a birthmark hasn’t been taunted – ? The turnaround to that is where the poem really picks up and runs – the speaker has her strength from that little characteristic and is going to own it! And, oh yeah, we do forget about them until someone points them out.
Denise, your words gather beauty today. The initial captivating entrance, the many rich shades (fuchsias!), the handcraftedness of cobblestones, and most especially its invisibility to your husband and children. The line, “I never even saw the masons at work” holds such truth to how parts of us change without our really noticing.
Denise, what a touching poem! I love the end with your family’s reaction to someone asking you about your birthmark. I was most impressed with how you described it in relation to Australia and how this also led to sharing you personal interests in maps and Australia. The opening stanza is truly beautiful and shows how unique your birthmark is. Truly beautiful poem! Thanks for sharing, and I am looking forward to tomorrow’s prompt!
Love your positive approach to your birthmark, as exemplified through these lines,
and its ultimate invisibility to all who love you closely. So funny what people notice about us!
I love how you own your birthmark and even cherish it! Your describe it beautifully and endearingly.
“This birthmark is a beautiful color of fuchsias
Or red wine depending on the air temperature”
“ This birthmark is the shape of Australia
For a map lover and Down Under fan like me.
But it is located on my left temple rather than
Situated between the Indian and Pacific Oceans”
I have a birthmark on the front of my thigh. It’s brown and freckled and as large as my hand. I used to call it “my coffee cake “ when I was little. Now, I tend to want to hide it to avoid questions. Someone once asked if it was dirt.
You have given me inspiration to love and accept it. Thank you!
Isn’t it funny how people are when we see something outside of our schema? My sister has a dark brown egg-sized birthmark on one of her feet, on the front, by the toe area. She’d be rich if she had a dollar for all the people who have said to her, “You have a leaf on your foot” when she was wearing sandals.
Barb,
Thanks again for using notable poets’ work to inspire us and for giving us options so our brains and hearts could go where they needed to. I especially appreciate the videos so we could hear these two brilliant poets’ voices share their words.
I love how you pay homage to the color of your eyes. You’re lucky to have startling green eyes!
Notorious RBG
Sometimes I’m late to the party,
but when I show up,
I show up.
And when I dig in,
I dig in.
When my thoughts, my brain,
get focused on something,
I’m relentless, tireless,
indefatigable in my
pursuit of information.
My husband calls it fixation.
My therapist calls it ruminating.
I prefer curiosity.
For three days,
I’ve gobbled up movies,
websites, articles, posts,
documentaries about
Ruth Bader Ginsberg.
Sure, I knew who she was
and I had a faint clue
of her influence.
“She’s that liberal, feminist
Supreme Court Justice
with the slicked-back hair,
the severe countenance,
the notable collar.”
I have never wanted to
wear a label.
It scares me to own one.
Liberal
Feminist.
Thus, why I never really
paid much attention to
the Notorious RBG.
Until now.
I’m wrapping up this poem
so that I can pursue more
tidbits and anecdotes and quotes
about a woman
who changed the landscape for all women.
So I can be a liberal feminist
Even if I don’t wear the label.
~Susan Ahlbrand
20 September 2020
Susan, just a side note….I was using hyperbole., but thanks for the compliment. I love how your poem shows your curiosity and desire to learn and how you also connected this to RBG. She definitely “changed the landscape for all women”. Thanks for sharing!
Susan, thank you for writing this! There are times I, too, have felt “late to the party” on something or other. And sometimes, I find, that it’s just a “slow burn” sort of thing, where I need to process — or as your therapist would say — “to ruminate” — on something. My colleagues will all be fired up about something that just happened or was “mandated” or whatnot, and they’ll say, why aren’t you upset?! what do you think about this? and I’ll be, like, I’m not sure yet, ask me tomorrow. And, after I let the thing “percolate” for a while, I’m — like you — in. “Indefatigable” and all the rest!
Scott,
Thank you for helping me to feel less alone in the way I navigate!
This is not so much a poem as an homage to my Dad
A Story of Love
I’ve always appreciated quick wit,
in myself and in others.
As a young woman in the early 70’s out having drinks.
One over-eager and rather funny man told me,
“Treat me like a sex-object”, he bantered
“Where do I put the batteries?”, I responded
I wondered why smart-assed retorts came so easily to me
and I enjoyed this in myself
all my life
Often I was the butt of the retort,
which made me laugh all the harder
“You have such beautiful breasts!”
Glad you like foam rubber!
But then I listened to my Dad the last time
he would be taken home from the hospital
He was dying and knew it,
The nurse, fulfilling her duties, engaged
to give him his “at home instructions”
There he sat, all 6’3″ of him between the nurse and me
Shrunken down, hunkered into the chair
The nurse proceeded,
“You must not climb any stairs.”
“WHAT?”, Daddy shouted, looking at me with an impish look on his face
“What did she say, I can’t hear!”, so I repeated it loudly,
knowing all the while his hearing was perfectly sound.
I looked into Daddy’s face and saw he was up to something
The nurse continued, “You cannot walk more than 50 feet at a time”
“WHAT?”, Daddy again repeated
So I repeated it again to him loudly, wondering what he was going to pull
“You can’t lift anything heavier than 5 pounds”
“WHAT?”, he shouted
When I repeated it yet again he responded,
“Well then, I guess I have to squat to pee”.
It turns out I am my father’s daughter.
Judi Opager
September 20, 2020
I too am my father’s daughter. I love the picture of your relationship with your father. I found myself running through my emotions with this piece. Thank you for sharing!
Oh, Judi, this is absolutely delightful! To have this humorous ability is truly a gift. I’m so glad you have this special memory of your dad. I hope the nurse laughed although she seems a bit humorless in this scene. Thanks for sharing this very special homage! I am still smiling!
Muse – (Spoiler Alert)
It started with some simple stories,
some meant to teach,
Some meant to entertain.
Examples of choices and their consequences.
For example, when I created King Midas
The story wrote itself.
Of course he would greet his daughter with a big hug.
That was me.
Remember that moment in Macbeth
When Macduff says he was not of a woman born,
at least not in the traditional sense?
Man, the look on Macbeth’s face.
That was me.
I’m proud of that one.
Or that moment
When Ebenezer Scrooge wakes up
and hollers out the window,
“Hallo, my fine fellow!”
And proceeds to throw money around the town.
That was me too.
I’m not finished.
In fact, I’ve just begun.
That moment when every muscle in your body tenses up,
And you can’t stop reading, or watching, or listening
Until it ends.
I did that,
And you can too.
Shaun, I love that you end this with an invitation to writers. That moment of inspiration, just enough uplift to make me take a breath and say, yeah, I can too!
Shaun,
I just love the pace of this…I am hustling to keep up, devouring every line, waiting for what’s next if you’ve “only just begun.”
Sarah
Who am I?
It’s interesting to consider who I am
In today’s social turmoil as it relates to race.
Is it the skin I’m in or the smile on my face?
Is it my semi-sweet chocolate skin that determines my place?
While reading the news and viewing the post
Is what I see what counts the most?
Is it that my name was Small, though I’ve always been tall?
Does intellect or physique matter at all?
Is it what I read and what I need
To stay alert in life to battle the strife?
Is it what I’ve learned and temptations I’ve spurned?
What’s the right combination in this nation?
What’s your race? What’s your name?
Are they different? Are they the same?
Who’s to know what the show?
I can’t hide my race, so what do I know?
I know that God created us all!
Amongst the protests and thrall
If I treat you right, though I’m not white
I still may not be invited to the ball.
But that’s okay. Here’s what I say,
“It’s the care of you, my friend.
That’s all that matters in the end.”
Well, let me start with the hardest hitting lines: “If I treat you right, though I’m not white / I still may not be invited to the ball.” That “ball” is fantasy, and yet, the reality is how much “shutting out” of dreams has and will continue to happen. That was a one-ton image for me. And this line as well, “What’s the right combination in this nation?” because it almost seems like the right combination is constantly in motion. Listing off or naming what it could be – as if constantly seeking for that ever-elusive approval. The end lines are beautiful, in answer to all the questions, it comes down to how we treat one another. How the speaker, regardless of how she has been treated and continues to struggle, will put the treatment of others first in her mind. Poignant. And something I would wish we all take with us. Thank you.
Anna, your final stanza says it all! Thanks for sharing this important reminder! I could really see this poem being reformatted as a children’s book. Thanks for sharing such a brilliantly crafted poem and message about what really matters in this world!
Anna — your poem is a beautiful lesson. The questions are poignant and important. You’ve lyrically given us all your lovely voice about race and place and what “matters in the end.” Lovely, Susie
Barb, I so enjoyed spending time with your green eyes, and thank you for linking me to Nikki Giovanni’s “Ego Tripping (there may be a reason why).” I am really tuning into lines, spacing, and punctuation today as I see how Giovanni used no punctuation until the end with the ellipses. This has me thinking about how poetry is a so much better way of “teaching” grammar than packets.
I conjured a ruby
on my forehead
from pink to blood-red
a priceless hexagonal gem
that celebrates imperfections
I cultivated the second rarest blossom
on earth
from unfertile clay and
brow born hot tears,
perfect lavender hydrangeas
scented a poem
that saved a life
I consumed the scar
on my lover’s hip
and with a cup of coffee
and Walmart tank top
traced a path to everlasting love
in seven minutes
I got lost
then crafted an algorithm
in Google maps
that sent me
to self-acceptance forever
My heart built a sentence
and I stood on the dash
that connects to yours–
Sarah! I was literally holding my breath as I got to that last stanza. This writing today is amazing! The language – conjured, blood-red, unfertile. The action of it – scented a poem, consumed a scar (oh, that stanza!). And that final three lines which are most beautifully crafted! I want those final three lines. I want to let them reverberate in my heart and thoughts. I want to stand upon the dash. Wow!
This part right here: and with a cup of coffee
and Walmart tank top
traced a path to everlasting love
in seven minutes
I didn’t need any more than that, although the rest was wonderful, too. Adn then there was the last stanza==so maybe I needed both! Standing ovation…
Sarah, thank you for sharing this today. It is beautiful and leaves me with a lot of questions and hope. I love your lines: “I consumed the scar on my lover’s hip” and “My heart built a sentence.” Both are so engaging and unique.
Sarah, Oh my gosh, this is absolutely brilliant. You are a master of hyperbole! I loved the third stanza…it has a lot of room for interpretation! I can just see you in the Walmart tank top! Your final lines are so powerful and clever. I am truly in awe! P.S. thanks for providing the video links!
Yes, that third stanza is absolutely mesmerizing! I love that seven minute mystery. It’s perplexing and could go many different directions but I mostly love standing on the dash the best!
Sarah — the beauty in this poem is exquisite. Oooo. I love the remarkable acts you selected… crafting an algorithm (wow…great notion) to map your way to self-acceptance … we could all use some of that! I don’t even know how you thought of something so beautiful as “lavender hydrangeas/scented a poem/that save a life.” Extraordinary images/ideas.
My fave is
A wordie’s delight, these lines! Thank you, Susie
When I looked up
the definition of
self-deprecating,
I saw a picture of
myself.
This was odd, but
not, you know,
impossible to
imagine, not
“inconceivable,”
as he says in
that movie.
I’ve been known
to disparage myself,
to condemn,
to belittle or
undervalue myself
(But we all like a
good underdog
story, don’t we?
No? It’s prolly just
me then). Yes, I’ve
been known to act
as if my mere
existence were an
accident (And when
pressed my folks would
call it a “happy” one).
But I never gave
Google permission
to use my photo (which,
of course, is probably
not true, I mean, who
reads ALL of the terms
and conditions before
clicking “I Accept”?
Ok, alright, just me
then, great.)
So, I spent some time
scrolling through the
definition and it seemed
to check-out. It linked
to Dictionary.com and
Merriam-Webster, and
It looked like even
Encarta and Funk &
Wagnalls came back from
the dead to “get in on
the act.”
There was even a whole
page on Wikipedia devoted
to me, but, rest assured,
I’m sure it wasn’t a very
good one. I mean, it’s
not like I’m famous or
anything, not an influencer,
not someone who can move
the world with his
thoughts or ideas (I mean,
I had trouble “re-stringing”
the cord on the weed
wacker last week. True
story. It kept getting
too long and catching on
the edge of the guard.
Now we have a ring of dirt
circling our yard.)
So, I, to be honest,
didn’t read the entire page,
just scrolled down
and down and
down — it was a long
list of my various screw-
ups and faux pas,
my misadventures
and flat-out mea culpas,
it was like some epic
list from the Iliad, some
cataloguing of ships, or
some Bible story with a
lengthy list of genealogies,
so-and-so begat
so-and-so, you know,
the lists no one actually reads,
unless, of course, you
do, and that’s ok, too.
But I didn’t. It was
TL;DR.
So, not overly surprised,
just mostly underwhelmed,
I clicked away from
the page
to start
my day.
Scott, I appreciate the approach you took to writing about ego immensely. The under-valuing. You manage to stay self-deprecating throughout. Applause on the cleverness here.
Scott,
It seems to me you’ve flipped a common trope—self-deprecation—which I generally assign to women, w/ the exception of male comedians like Seinfeld or Gary Shandling, or Roger Dangerfield, or Jim Gaffigan. The list is long, but you get my point, I’m sure. Is the subtext of self-deprecation a longing for verbalized approval? Is self-deprecation really an ironic celebration of human imperfection? Something hyperbolic and understated? It’s a paradox of sorts, and yours is an approach I considered and appreciate as I contemplated the prompt and came up short thinking about my “strength, wisdom, beauty, talent.” My Leviticus is a short volume. Carry on we must. Thank you. I feel seen through your verse.
—Glenda
Scott, this poem is so brilliantly crafted. I can hear your deprecating tone throughout the entire poem and enjoyed every line. Your wit is truly brilliant! Thanks for sharing! I’m still laughing!
Scott — this is brilliant crafting…the whole self-deprecating litany on self-deprecating. Funny. You understated the whole thing in such a delightful way, skirting through all the screw-ups that make us human. I totally love this guy, this REAL guy. The weed whacker “brown ring of dirt” was priceless…laughed out loud. So real. LOL! Wonderful poem. Thank you! Susie
Barb, I love all the poems you’ve selected as our mentors, including your wonderful poem about your eyes.
I think this is the second poem I’ve written about boobs. ?♀️ What can I say, mine have always been a big deal. I dedicate this to my niece Samantha. She’s a flaunter, much to my prudish brother’s dismay.
Grandma Young said, “If you got it,
Flaunt it.” But I’ve never been much of a
Flaunter of my bosom buddies,
These triple-D, mammary,
Life-sustaining, eye-popping, pillowy
Protrusions. Forced to hide my assets
Under cheap cotton. “No sweaters
Clinging to curvy orbs,” second mother
Commanded, as though by some fluke of nature
I designed my body to tease & taunt
Pedophiles and prepubescent penis sacks.
Tucking my boobs into wide-strapped Playtex slings from Victorian chastity,
Rounding shoulders, bowing head, I hid
My shame, allowed no frontal crack to
Peek through round, Square, turtle, or V-Necks.
Admitting no side-eye onto my skin.
Far past days of cat-calls & downward gazes,
I hear forked-tongued church-lady
Judgments & chastisement of young women.
They cast dispersions like wind
Tossing leaves into the abyss, and
Twerk their tongues in a
Vile dance thrusting nasty words on
Proud black & brown women like Cardi B.
They disdain white women fighting body dystopia
Wearing Spanx, cropped tops, & string bikinis.
Young women who hug their skin close &
Adorn it with tattoos, piercings, and silk,
Proud phenomenal women who own their bodies
“You go, girl,” I cheer from my front porch rocker.
“Grandma would be proud.
She always said, if you got it
Flaunt it.”
—Glenda Funk
Glenda, you have me laughing and cheering this morning! I am loving these twerking tongues – oh, what an image;
Glenda, I was smiling (even through my blushing) as I read this poem! This is great! I loved the word play of the church-lady’s “twerk[ing]””forked-tongued” and its “vile dance.” And, of course, the body-positive message of this! And, I’ll be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever read the phrase “prepubescent penis sacks” before. Lol.
Glenda, what Scott said. For sure.
Glenda, thank you for sharing this poem. I appreciate how you’ve crossed social issues, generations, and so much more in one poem. You are a word genius.
Glenda, you got this one!!!! Funny how those who didn’t have big boobs wanted them, and those with big ones didn’t like them. But wow, how you’ve used the power of your poetry to show us both what’s funny and what’s important from any woman’s point of view. Be proud! Be phenomenal! You’ve crafted an image here that I see and feel:
My bestie in school had DDD boobs and truly flaunted them, much to my barely B’s dismay. I appreciate your poem more than I can explain.
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Glenda, I so enjoyed your poem; especially the image you created at the end! It is wonderful to see “Proud phenomenal women” own their bodies! Thanks for such a delightful read!
Oh, this is fun! I love how many gals I see who’ve “got it, and flaunt it” – I am so happy that it is more the norm…I think…to be at peace in one’s body. It almost feels generational to me. There is such insight in these words,
THAT is definitely how I was “raised” – that my body was somehow MY PROBLEM to keep men from messing with. I absolutely adore the alliteration of “Pedophiles and prepubescent penis sacks.” Ha!
Glenda — I just has such fun reading this. My cousin read it as well and also loved it. Those bodacious ta-tas as they are fondly termed in my home. I know those sistas well. So many of those descriptors are my own mirror images…the “triple D” and “pillowy protrusions” and bras that are “slings” – indeed. Oh my. The grandma who reminds us to be around…gotta love that. You had such fun writing this, I can tell. Sort of like unhooking those sistas after a long day in the sling… aaaaaahhhhhh. 🙂 Idaho has a proud sister in you! Thank you for the loud voice of this. Susie
Love the videos! Amazing poets and what a fun prompt! Talk about hyperbole!
Ever since I was a child,
I wanted Nene’s hair–
white as snow
soft as silk.
Now, a crown of silver
waves above my forehead
announcing a queen’s arrival.
Curls like ancient ferns
in a forest
under first frost
In the wind of a tropical storm,
strands pirouette
like Degas’ dancers.
Grey is a new trend,
according to Allure magazine.
Look no further
for your Grey Goddess.
She’s standing
here–glowing
like the Statue of Liberty
above the New York skyline!
Margaret, such imagery of beauty – the Statue of Liberty – liberty to have beautiful gray hair and be proud of it! I needed these words of reassurance today!
BEautiful (be you!).
Your poem made me smile, Margaret! I love the comparisons – the crown of silver and the ancient ferns. I’m using the pandemic to find out what my real hair color is, and I’m a little disappointed that I don’t see as much gray as I expected.
A loving hyperbolic poem for my big sweet daughter.
Mandy the Giantess
By Nancy White
I’m as tall as Shaquille,
But don’t make me play sweaty sports that include running.
Though my hands easily palm basketballs
There are made for turning pages
Of a million well-loved stories,
Or I use them for paddles
When I effortlessly swim across Olympic-sized pools.
No ocean for me, thank you—
That’s where creepy things live.
Just give me my safe place, my lair
Full of pillows, giant fluffy things
And soft billows of Queen-sized velvety blankets
To cover my big baby-soft skin.
And don’t ask me about playing ball
Or I’ll stand and glare with my eyes of deep steel blue
And probably throw a book at you
And now I rest my redwood thighs and size 22 sleepy body
Upon my pillow-top mattress
I dream sweet dreams of a land of big reclining loungers and lofty mansions
Where I never have to stoop or bump my head.
Where I walk into a shoe store and they say,
“Why yes, we have these in size 13!”
And next door to that is a store where I buy pants
That cover my ankles and don’t rip me in two!
And a top with sleeves that cover my wrist bones
And my behind, my loyal subcontinent that so lovingly follows me and longs to hide in luxurious folds of comfort.
Nancy, your daughter will surely cherish these loving words and hugs of who she is. My favorite line: “and probably throw a book at you,” because the pun is so effective here and creates vivid imagery of a cop with some threatening open handcuffs ready to take someone into custody. I adore the hyperbole and the tribute to your reader!
Nancy, what a lovely poem to celebrate your daughter’s uniqueness. I know it is annoying when someone assumes you’re supposed to be a basketball player due to your size, etc. The soft and comfortable images enhances the loving tone! Beautiful!
Nancy,
Yes! Tall girls unite. I love that this is for your daughter. I have reread your last line multiple times, I just adore the use of words to describe this…”my loyal subcontinent that so lovingly follows me”–very creative.
Thank you for sharing.
Barb,
Your green eyes are captivating today – as is your prompt! I enjoyed hearing the poets read their poems in the links and actually took a little of the innuendo of those hips and added it to my poem today and blended it into my writing weekend habit! Thank you for investing in us as writers today.
Wild Weekend Warriors
we get away some Fridays
exit town
my weekend travel warrior and I
two mid-century moderns
kindred spirits
readers
writers
lovers of wine
and food
……and silence
we leave the husbands
home
and book a room
with stacks of magazines
piles of novels, anthologies, verse
journals, pens, laptops
two mysterious mavens,
travelers
who raise eyebrows
at split-bill/shared-key
check-ins
then hustle like honeymooners
to our hiatal haven:
a voluminous Vesuvius
in the North Georgia mountains
erupting with
the soul-renewing tranquility
of words
of reflection
of inner growth
advenure vitamins
of pages devoured
journeys, quests shared
ginko biloba
of stories spread across pages
with liberally flowing ink
like cinnamon pear preserves –
experiences, moments captured
so that when we are too old
to travel
we can re-scale this mountain
we pack up our literary luggage
and return the shared key on Sundays-
allowing the raised-eyebrow wonderers
to be mind writers who
weave their own denouement
modeling perfectly
the language teacher’s strength and mantra:
“the reader writes the story”
Kim, what a wonderful ride I took while reading your poem. I can just imagine the hotel clerk’s expression. I appreciated how you let this end derive from his or her own imagination. The part that impressed me the most was how this time of writing, reading, and celebration would be remembered forever:
“so that when we are too old
to travel
we can re-scale this mountain”
Such a joyful poem! Thank you for letting me vicariously experience this wonderful adventure!
Good morning! Kim, I enjoyed your poem so much because I felt like I was there! OMG, fun times that I am sure you “weekend warriors” will always cherish. Aside from the fact that you’re getting away to do YOU, you’re also in a writer’s paradise! My favorite lines:
What a brilliant way to practice self-care, writing habits, and be able to come home all the better for it. I’m in awe!
Kim,
You’ve painted an idyllic picture of what it means to be a writer. I envy this gift of friendship you have enabling you to get away and write in a shared space accompanied by silence and others’ whispering as they “write the story.” I have many favorite phrases from your poem, including this:
Thank you for this inspiring verse. I love it.
—Glenda
I was a little jealous reading your poem, Kim. I haven’t had a BEST friend in a long time, and I’ve been pretty solitary during this pandemic. I could picture your adventure so clearly, and it sounds wonderful. My favorite lines:
so that when we are too old
to travel
we can re-scale this mountain
Kim — The celebratory tone of this …the downright bold rejoicing in two women with the power of the pen at hand doing what they will to engage in the life of the mind and spirit…it’s just marvelous, and a lesson to us all. We need the space and time to let ourselves flourish as writers. I loved the humor in checking into the hotel/inn with those “raised eyebrows”…ahahaha… gotta love that. The detailed accouterments of the writer and thinker… I love all those bits of two women owning their time together to write and read and think and share. Totally powerhouse women! Love that! Thank you for this permission to own your moments! Susie
Homage to my…
Gazelle, giraffe, mommy long legs
How’s the weather up there?
Volleyball, basketball, model
Colossal stereotypes
Inseams, sleeves, high waters
Don’t wear high heels
Head hitting, tripping, thoracic weakness
Taking up extra space in this world
Able-ness to reach higher places
Physical, emotional tower of positivity
Longer arms equal bigger hugs
Creative couture needed
Privilege to see above crowds, safety
Zenith of self-agency
Owning the extra space and given body
A homage to my height
Barb, thank you for this prompt today. I love your use of the allusion in your example, what a great idea in the classroom.
Stefani, I so enjoyed how you set up the stereotypical comments about being tall and then celebrated this unique trait in the second stanza. What a wonderful way to explore perspective. I loved the line: “Longer arms equal bigger hugs”! How truly delightful! Thanks for sharing this awesome poem of self-expression!
I love this! Being a tall woman, I can relate. My favorite lines: Able-ness to reach higher places
Physical, emotional tower of positivity
Longer arms equal bigger hugs
Creative couture needed
Privilege to see above crowds, safety
Zenith of self-agency
Amen, sister!
Stefani,
What a beautiful way to embrace height and make it a proud strength. “Longer arms equal bigger hugs” is a beautiful image. Longer fingers have writing endurance to write more beautiful poems, clearly!
Hi Stefani,
I’m grateful that you wrote your homage to your height. It seems I’ve only ever heard girls complaining when they’re taller than average because of all the taunts and teasing (your first stanza’s message.) Then you give us the gifts in the second stanza of your poem, and that makes my heart happy.
This is beautiful:
Thank you!
I have two daughters at 6 feet each. Your homage is to them as well. The words said to those that are tall, “don’t wear high heels,” and dealing with high waters, head hitting, and colossal stereotypes are so familiar. “Longer arms equal bigger hugs” is a new and gentler one to me. I will need to use it. Thanks.
I love this prompt because, like many women, we’ve been programmed to hate pretty much everything about our bodies. It would be great to have students choose something they dislike about their bodies and write a kind of love poem to it, which is what this feels like. I actually did say this to my doctor, and I find it funny it found a home here in this poem. Great prompt!
I’ve Got
my father’s feet
I tell the doctor
as she presses
her soft fingertip pads
against my hardened bunion
I used to make fun
of his cracked yellow
toenails and
thickly calloused heels
but now I know
these feet carried me
all these fifty years
and more
ran marathons
climbed mountains swam oceans
these feet met
grass and sand and rock
asphalt and concrete
with me upright above
all the way
these feet
my father’s feet
have paced the classroom
a hundred million times
and more
have led me to
and taken me from
so many lives
so many homes
so many heartaches
they are calloused
cracked at the heel
nails yellow and thick
that bunion
solid as a rock
I don’t know
if these feet lead me
or if they follow
it’s not something
we’ve ever discussed
these feet
my father’s feet
just as dependable
as he was
silent determined worn
I love how the repetition here creates a rhythm that feels like a love song. Your last line says it all (silent determined worn) Our feet are symbolic of who we are. thanks.
Wow! I love
“ they are calloused/cracked at the heel/nails yellow and thick/that bunion:solid as a rock”
Reminds me of my own dad’s feet.
And your last stanza gave me an idea about your dad’s strong, silent, perseverance. ???
Denise how I loved your poem – it’s such a glorious love song to your Dad and I love your use of metaphors throughout. The end result was that it left me smiling and thinking about my own dad and my own feet. I loved your reference early to your hardened bunion and again, later in the poem, to “that bunion solid as a rock”. Just a great piece of wordsmithing!!
Denise, I definitely like your idea about writing what you might be least fond of.; it inspires me! I truly love this tribute to your feet. It surely shows how much you have accomplished. The final lines were so beautiful and so powerful! I can imagine the last three words as footsteps that make a true difference! I bet your students will love reading this one! Thanks for sharing!
Denise, this tribute to feet that have carried you across the miles and the years, spanning time and distance, is beautiful! What a thought-provoking snapshot of all the places you have been, moments you have lived. Feet are wondrous vessels for the voyage!
Denise, I love this! The celebration of the “flaws” — “calloused / cracked” heel, “nails yellow and thick” and “that bunion / solid as a rock” — is wonderful because we realize they aren’t “flaws’ at all. They are the result of a life well-lived, a life that has seen both triumphs and heartache, a life that has seen many “miles.” Thank you for writing this!