Inspiration
Today’s inspiration for writing comes from Teach Living Poets (Illich & Smith) and the many living poets they celebrate in their book.
There is this moment that happens in poems when the poet or speaker suddenly captures a shimmer of being alive that is followed by an explicit declaration of existence along the lines of “I am alive” or some exclamation of existence like “Amen.”
What did the poet capture that prompted such a declaration? What sudden shimmer of being alive prompted existential awareness in the words of I am or I feel or I know or yes, indeed?
Poets can find shimmers of discovering in a moment by slowing down and noticing. Poets help readers to also look for shimmers in their surroundings, shimmers that just might lead them to declare their existence in a “Hallelujah” or a “F**k”! (No judgment here on what words come to mind.)
Process
Today, I invite you to take heart in the moment you are cuddling with your pup, pushing a stroller, sipping a cocktail, tripping on a curb, watching traffic, almost jumping across a puddle, and perhaps exhaling after receiving some good news.
Look at Hieu Minh Nguyen’s “Heavy” and notice the line “I am alive. I know this. Alive now/ to see the world, to see the river/ rupture everything with its light.”
Look at Donika Kelly’s poem, “The moon rose over the bay. I had a lot of feelings.” What did the speaker see there and what led her to declare “I am in love” three times?
Sarah’s Poem
Today, a stack of books waited
On the corner of my campus desk
One on identity, one on commas,
One on mentors, all on writing identity
And the teaching of
I did not touch them.
Today, a bottle of water waited
On the other corner of my campus desk
Nozzle open, lip tint remains on the mouth
Little beads of black stuck on the rim
And the condensation around
I did not sip it.
I imagine all that I let wait
While what will not pours from
My fingers reading my mind in double time
Hydrating my body by beating my heart
Exhilarating strokes, calming breaths of doubt
To the future late fees, I say charge me.
To the future kidney stones, I say rock on.
I am alive when I write.
I am.
(Note: I washed my water bottle.)
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.
Our Host
Sarah J. Donovan is an assistant professor of secondary English education at Oklahoma State University. Check out her latest poetry anthology publications featuring some of our open-writers: Rhyme and Rhythm: Poems for Student Athletes and Teacher-Poets Writing to Bridge the Distance.
Overwhelmed
Weekly Lesson Plans
Guided Reading Groups
Small Group Math
WIN Time (What I Need)
T-TESS Professional Goals
Student Learning Objectives
Feeling Like a Jack of All Trades and a Master of None.
I feel the same way, Donnetta! Hang in there, friend. We got this!
Checklists
Meet Sandra, DONE.
Buy groceries, DONE.
Call the tailor, DONE.
Fold the laundry, DONE.
Put in more laundry, DONE.
Change the sheets, DONE.
Drop off goodies to Patricia, DONE.
Stuck in traffic, I rest my foot
on the brake.
Poker faced, I
sit and
let out a sigh…
My eyes wander with my
mind, searching for what’s
left to finish.
I see a kitten on the
side of the road,
rolling around,
playing with another
kitten.
I sigh, again.
heart moved.
a smile breaks out
on
my face.
I remember.
I thank God,
for the abundant life.
I am alive. I should be alive.
Traffic clears up.
I take my foot of
the brake.
I head towards life.
At the end of this Monday, I have a lot of tiny images and not too many transitions to connect them. Nevertheless, I am glad to have written!
chai tea sips
fog draping vineyards
sneaking forbidden chocolate
(this thrill reminds me of the
excitement it is to be alive)
connecting Jasmine to a book
consoling a colleague
(tears remind me most
that I am alive)
hummingbird’s visit
sunset-lit running path
(gasping for air reminds me
what I need to be alive)
pizza being delivered
sleeping dog begins to dream
(of chasing a ball, I presume,
what it means to be alive)
reflecting on the day
writing a poem
reminding me that
I am alive.
Rachelle,
What a lovely collection of wonderful things! It’s a scrapbook in a poem! I like, too, that it is also a list a gratitudes. Nice!
Rachelle,
I love how you talk about reflecting on your day and writing your poems reminds you that you are alive. Along with the little different items throughout your day. The sneaking of chocolate is a great way to be alive!!!
This poem feels to me like sitting down and sifting through the thoughts of the day. I love your use of little commentary in parentheses throughout the poem. I enjoyed this, thank you!
Just Write
So much doubt and darkness
swirls through my confidence
and to-do’s
That’s probably why I procrastinate
hold my breath or lose myself
in a low-risk task
Like lesson planning and
finding the perfect image for
a presentation slide
Instead of reaching out
to that teacher I know
to work with one of my students
Like cleaning the kitchen
or rearranging the junk drawer
Instead of revising that consent form
one more time and pressing “submit”
Like checking my emails and making
another list of priorities
because I cannot fine the last one
Instead of posting this poem
or draft or whatever it is
So much doubt and darkness until
I breathe in, breathe out,
and write.
Shelly, on this Monday I really needed to read a poem. They say poems/books can be mirrors or windows, and this poem is a mirror to me. Thanks for reminding me that I am not alone (and neither are you!)
Shelly,
Oh you’ve given me something to think about regarding the reasons for my procrastination!
The progression of thought, the various examples of procrastination build on each very well. This poem seems nicely, tightly put together. Thank you, I enjoyed reading it!
Deep breathe in
Slowly releasing it
Focus on the next stitch
Watching the yarn take shape
Becoming a gift for family or a friend
Once that gift is open
I hope to see the spark of joy in their eyes
Knowing my skill has put it there
Deep breath in
Slowly releasing it
Time to cast on again
DeAnna,
As a relatively frequent recipient of your gifts, I love how you tell the thought behind the pieces. They do indeed cause sparks of joy. 🙂
Beautiful. My daughter taught herself to knit and tried to teach me. I imagine joy and satisfaction in your breathing with the in and out of your stitching.
Oh, what a beautiful life-affirming gift of knitting that you describe DeAnna. I have a daughter who also knits like this. I love the repetition in your poem of the breathing and release as begin and end the projects (and maybe all the way through the knitting process)
DeAnna, I really like how you slowed down time here to even capture the breaths. It made me, the reader, breathe in and out slowly which made ME feel more relaxed.
DeAnna,
I love how you’ve begun and ended with the same two lines of breathing in and exhaling. It gives your poem such a rhythmic, relaxing feeling. Well done!
Sometimes, in the middle of the day,
Talking to class after class, it happens.
There is a light that comes on in a face
That hadn’t lit before–where confusion had prevailed.
But this wink in time, this instant, is when suddenly
Enlightenment has struck and the concepts that
We’d been discussing suddenly make sense.
That is the moment I am reminded why I am here.
I am here for the spark of interest,
The flare of fire in eyes when a mind ignites and
Then you have them–the investment in growing
And learning and soaking up everything they can.
Oh Cara, you make me miss teaching! I have been retired quite awhile and remember that “light that comes on in a face.” I miss that.
Cara,
Those are the best moments in a classroom. I really enjoyed your poem. Thanks for sharing.
Cara — You have truly captured the joy in teaching. Those moments when “you have them” are truly the best!
Cara, I love this zoomed in moment. This is one of the biggest WHYs behind teaching, of course. I’ve had more of these moments because I’m teaching quite a few students I used to have as freshmen–their growth (in maturity and skill) has been rewarding for me to witness.
Yes, this is definitely the why of teaching, so beautifully expressed. I especially like “wink in time,” and also your first two lines, situating this moment in the midst of the day – I read that as in the midst of hard work or a lot of time put in. Thank you for this!
Sun, now sinking fast angles
through the kitchen window and
the blue Swarovski crystal Aunt Debby
gave us when we married – rainbows
splay across the pile of chopped spinach.
She loops into the kitchen,
”Mom, I’m a fire fighting dog
right now, what would a fire fighting
dog be doing?”
You, you my love pause in the door way
to check my progress and wrinkle
your nose at the garlic I’m crushing.
And I, I am mixing the brown rice in now
to complete this Spinach Rice Tian –
do you remember, mom, how I contributed this, my favorite recipe, to the Montessori
Mother’s Day cookbook when I was 4?
My feet ache but students from the day
sift through my mind: the freshman
who chattered with me in small group when before she’d been so sulky,
or (as I press the crushed garlic
into one half only of the tian),
the sophomore in ISS who emailed
me asking for help – they mingle with the reporter on the radio issuing vaccine hopes for my 7 year old.
And yes, this is it-
my life. It just keeps rolling: students and daughter, husband and aunts, spinach, rainbows, and mom, past and present.
Thank you.
This is lovely, Emily. We are a bit on the same wavelength (and schedule!). I really like the interweaving of the recipe and the “ingredients” of your day.
Emily,
I loved how you wrote about your day, intertwined with making dinner. This really is a shimmer of life poem.
Thanks for sharing.
Emily — the lives of teachers are so very busy. I love the way preparing dinner, family and school are all mingled in your poem. This was so relatable because I never feel like school stays at school. It comes home with us.
Beautifully done, Emily. I love these little snippets into your life and the meaning each image holds. I love how your poem blends all the elements together–one cannot separate all these moments. Thank you for sharing!
Whew! I started out with one idea and ended up in a totally different place with my poem today.
Here’s to all the Black and Brown mamas out there!
Stretched and Marked
Rubbing my protruding belly
With Mother’s cream and cocoa butter
Because the gradual and natural stretching
Would create a road map of marks
From under the bridge of fuller breasts
To the border of my pelvic bone
All pregnant women don’t have them
But Black women always do
Was it an ancestral thing
Or another permanent tag
Like our vaccination marks
And dark brown marble-sized splotches
From chicken pox and mosquitos
Chomping up our shins
The scar from my C-section
Eventually faded into
A creamy, smooth, waxing crescent
That was only visible if I waxed
But the linea nigra never completely faded
Because melanin is persistent
And it comes to stay
My stretched and marked belly
Shows me how life formed inside
The womb that cocooned
Their first kicks and punches
And became the warm landing place
For a lonely hand at midnight
©Stacey L. Joy, September 20, 2021
Stacey, first thanks for enlightening me. I can truly say I’ve never thought about how stretch marks always affect women of color. What I really love is how you’ve taken something that most women are embarassed about or resentful of and turned it into something to be proud of and treasured. That’s no small feat! Well done!
Stacey,
This is so full of rich descriptions that I can totally picture each and every detail. I love when my mind is opened to things that I was ignorant to. I love these lines:
Stacey — Love this whole poem but especially these lines:
The womb that cocooned/
Their first kicks and punches/
And became the warm landing place/
For a lonely hand at midnight
Stacey, I love your celebration of your body and the bodies of so many powerful women. That last two lines really get me. The life within that changes life on the outside in so many seen and unseen ways! <3
gorgeous. simply gorgeous. ‘the womb that cocooned their first kicks and punches’ – the entire thing. gorgeous.
Monday Tired
My forehead is heavy.
My left eye aches even
more than the right.
My tender finger
–smashed in a drawer–
pips a reminder
each time it clicks a letter.
The trunk of my neck
Strains the roots across my shoulders.
Even my coccyx is weary.
My feet, elevated,
want to think their day is done.
But in a minute I will
shake these bones
stack them precariously
on the tarsals
and metatarsals
and hobble off to bed.
Bone tired, I’d say, Allison. You’ve captured it perfectly. Your Monday mood is similar to mmine. I sure hope your coccyx gets some well deserved rest tonight!
Love how you incorporate anatomy terms and make them all sound very poetic.
A fun poem!
Allison,
I really connected with your poem today, lately I really have felt more tired at the end of my work day than I have in the past. Not just physically tired but mentally as well.
Allison — I feel this way today, too. Monday’s are the worst!
Allison, I feel this poem. I love the imagery of your neck and shoulders as a tree; there is strength for the stress and tired to rest upon. I hope there is a massage in your future!
Allison, the draft of my poem looked a lot like this one actually! We’re definitely on the same wavelength this Monday. I’ll be hobbling off to bed here shortly–thanks for this piece!
I don’t remember a time
when I didn’t fear it.
As a young kid, it would be
an electric fire that trapped me in my home,
a random serial killer roaming my suburban street,
or maybe a car crash.
As an older kid, would be
a random act of violence,
or a fatal illness,
or maybe a car crash.
The anxiety has never been paralyzing.
I still leave the house.
I still go to sleep at night.
I still drive my car.
Today, nursing my son,
I notice the now evolved anxiety—
similar genetic code but presents as a new creature.
While the possibilities are still devastating,
I can finally skip over the rumination
and land straight on the crux:
be here now.
Yay, Laura, congratulations on your baby boy! I don’t think I ever heard when you had him but I know you were pregnant when we last talked.
Your poem took me on a wild ride. I’m sure many of us have had and still have these imaginings. I love the way you shifted from your ruminations to the “now evolved anxiety” once your baby came. It’s all so very real and normal. I hope you are enjoying him and staying in the now.
??❤️
Thanks, Stacey! Townes was born May 13 and we’ve been farming more in love with him every moment since! I hope you had a restful and rejuvenating summer!!
Oh, the spectacular Now! Nothing will root a person in it like holding, especially nursing, their baby.
You pulled off the shimmer of being alive perfectly!
Laura — Congratulations on the birth of your baby boy! Your poem is very relatable. I was one of those kids too who used to entertain all sorts of strange fears.
I’m happy to hear that you are able to be in the now with your son. Enjoy every moment.
So beautiful! Thank you for sharing this tender poem with us today. Congratulations on growing your family!
Breathing Room
By Mo Daley 9/20/21
Honestly, it’s been the day from hell
Upset stomach this Monday morning
(Coincidence? I think not!)
making me late for work
Students who can’t stop touching each other
about to send me right over the edge
A sixth-grade story of a trans cousin
who got stabbed on a date
but still managed to win the fight
Lunch shoveled in while working at the computer
Gotta write the agenda for tomorrow’s meeting
Newspaper Club after school
Followed by a union meeting—
don’t get me started!
A call from my daughter-in-law
sobbing because her superintendent
doesn’t feel he needs to follow our governor’s mandate
A true cry for help
Consoling my son and his fiancée
because there’s no way their wedding will be
what they want it to be
Then the breeze blows in,
surrounding me, hugging me
reminding
me
to
just
breathe
slow
down
and
breathe
Oof, my shoulders shrug up as I read through the first stanza. I’m right there with you with the layers of stress. And then I exhale with your final stanza. I love the way you’ve visually organized your words to direct the reader. I hope you have more life-affirming breezes in your future!
Mo, Your poem was a mirror for me.
“Students who can’t stop touching each other.”
I have a son getting married in two weeks; even though the wedding is outdoors, they decided to un-invite their non-vaccinated guests. It was hard.
My 24-minute lunch was cut in half today because I had to track down the kid who deviously licked my pencil sharpener.
Breathe, friend.
My son is getting married in two weeks, too! We can do this! But the pencil sharpener? Oh, my!
Goodness gracious what a day! I sure felt the intensity of every event. I wonder sometimes why the weekend can be pain-free, then Monday suddenly things hurt, ache, or cramp.
The pace of your poem almost made me pant. Thank God you let the breeze blow in…
?Rest well!
Mo — Wow! You have had a Monday from Hell! Thank goodness for that breeze. Hope tomorrow is a better day.
Thank you for sharing this poem with us! I really needed to hear the last stanza with you today. I love the way the whole poem slowed down in just a few well poised words.
Oh, Mo, I understand a bad Monday. I love how you are able to talk yourself into remembering to breathe. Hope the wedding is everything thing it needs to be.
Mr. Moonbeam
On a rug made of
threaded A, B, C’s
& the pitter-patter of
1, 2, 3’s and reading buddies,
we sat in anticipation of a book –
these little stars entering the tradition
of bureaucracies before the tests,
who squirmed like kittens and puppy dogs
in a pen just waiting to be picked up,
taught how to hold a pencil
and to color a world of possibilities.
He looked up at me,
this gigantic
man squatting upon
a kindergarten chair
wondering exactly who
I was supposed to be.
“We know who we are,”
he said behind folded arms
and puckered lips,
“But who are you?”
I didn’t know.
I had 17- and 18-year olds
kicking and screaming from 3 floors up,
wanting to gossip, sleep, and hate
everything they knew as school.
We were mentors, I suppose.
Traditions.
Goliaths
with sweaty armpits
and lip liner
trying to be
older than we were.
“I don’t know who we are”
I responded, tucking a book
under an arm and trying to be coy
in a playful adulting voice.
“I’m guess I’m a teacher.”
He knew otherwise.
He seemed to understand
the frogs, dragonflies,
turtles, fish, rabbits & ducks,
& knew the power of words,
letters, story-telling and hope…
the insecurity and the guessing…
the pretending and the performance.
“No you’re not,” he attested,
quickly becomeing a mayor of 5-year olds,
and president of political empires
“They are the Moonbeams.
And you…
You are Mr. Moonbeam.”
Sometimes it’s funny
how light trickles
from nightly stars
and sheds illuminated drizzle
on ponds and lily-pads.
The cattails really
are spectacular
when electrified
by the magic
of dreams.
“Well, I guess I am,”
I admitted,
returning to the book.
And that was a phase
where I felt full,
like a crescendo
blaring the obvious.
“Yes, that is exactly who I am.
Mr. Moonbeam.”
Mr. Moonbeam,
What a delightful poem–and what a wise little mayor of 5-year-olds! I like the various perspectives in this. We see the kindergarten point of view, then hear the teenager’s “playful adulting voice.” I like how the moonbeam colors everything in the “Sometimes it’s funny…” stanza.
You are making me jealous! Is there a Ms. Moonbeam that I could be? What a wonderful compliment!
This is a wonderful story. How full of magic and light you must have felt.
I get off the plane and
see all the cars
rushing, weaving, living.
Initially I am overwhelmed, but
after I leave the airport,
the craziness subsides.
There are trees all around,
bushes too,
a breathtakingly blue sky–
such a relief after the smokey one I left–
delicious bread,
humidity,
porches,
old buildings
There are no mountains here, but
the endless sea of green keeps me centered.
There are still many cars, but
the stillness of my sphere keeps me safe.
I have never stepped here before, yet
the land embraces me and feels familiar.
I found home.
I long to stay.
I yearn to return there.
My soul knows it.
I want to go home.
Mekinzie, these lines strike me, “I have never stepped here before, yet the land embraces me and feels familiar.” I appreciate the power home has and how it’s embedded in you so much that your “soul knows it.” I love the contrast between what you’ve left and what you’ve found.
Mekinzie, your poem speaks to my heart!
I am appreciating not knowing the exact location. This image is gorgeous:
Beautiful! One day, I hope to travel to the Motherland and embrace a welcoming feeling like yours!
One letter
By: Emily Yamasaki
A small child
against
the phonics assessment
26 make-it-or-break-it moments
Can you tell me the name of this letter?
What about the sound?
A head shake
A “dunno”
A shoulder shrug
t
“Jesus” en espanol
He knows this
I smile and nod
He smiles behind his mask
This he knows
Oh, Emily! Those “26 make-it-or-break-it moments” hold so much power (the small child against the assessment feels like so much here and it is). As does what the small child recognizes (and the importance this revelation offers). I love this connection found in this exchange.
Emily,
There’s so much hiding in this poem and so much everyone in education should know.
Thankful that you and he can smile and “know” this!
Sarah, thank you for today and prompt. I couldn’t agree more with your poem’s message. I love how you set off the lines: “I did not touch it” and “I did not sip it”….such fun. My experiences in corn fields is indescribable, but I always felt incredibly alive there so I guess that’s why I turned to the ripe green cornfields in July.
Hot July Dreams and the Detasseler
I am embraced by early morning corn
drenched with dew, grateful for its coolness
and move steadily along the hard packed earth
feeling the damp slip through my long sleeved shirt
protecting me from corn rash and sunburn
My hands automatically reach for hangers,
brush them to the ground; always counting silk
Sunbeams flit between clouds fanned above
vainly trying to pierce the deep gloom
to reach past its golden dancing heads
I finally reach the far corner where a strange
bird roosts in ground cover—-this quiet corner
is like the lonely edge of the Earth
silent, isolated, wild, abandoned—-
no one knows I’m here, an undetected spy
whispering impossible prayers; I
fancy finding your eyes searching for mine,
and a triumphant tide of green
swelling and devouring our limbs
twined like passionate vines; and I rise
Shouting crazily, “I’m alive! I’m alive!”
shedding the past; all the regret
Then I wake bathed in humidity and
steadily trudge onward; unafraid
through the thick emerald canopy
Barb Edler
20 September 2021
Barb, your language choices are beautiful (embraced, drenched, slip, protect) in creating the sensory details. I love your quiet corner and the contrast between the silence and the wild. You, the undetected spy whispering has its own peacefulness.
Barb, I am gripped your stanza “whispering impossible prayers; I fancy finding your eyes searching for mine.” As well as your ability to capture images that put me right there. Well done.
This took me back to my youth on my grandparents farm where they raised feed corn. Each of your details describing the stalks and that walk through the field – the solitude – felt like my own visions! That closing line is utterly priceless. I would never have thought “thick emerald canopy” – but that is so precise and also so dreamy to me. Farm life ain’t for everyone, but I hold those memories dear. Thank you so much!
Very special inspiration, Sarah – I felt pulled in several directions for writing! I have one idea that I will work on a bit more, perhaps share another day…today, I will share the ‘immediate one’ – the little ditty of a poem that just appeared, as I swung on a hammock.
Also, let me say, I love these lines from your poem so much:
The View From the Hammock
back and forth
to and fro
so I go
slight gentle wiggle
clear blue sky above
puffy white cloud
leaves of green
rustling in the breeze
little bird on the branch above
back and forth
to and fro
so I go
hear the cicada buzz
the splash of fish
the lapping water
against the rocky shore
hear the quiet
so quiet
back and forth
to and fro
so I go
see the twinkle glisten light
across the tips of the water
bright shadows on the lawn
breeze jostles the grass
lifts my bangs
this gem of a day
I am alive
back and forth
to and fro
so I go
so I go
Maureen, your poem is heavenly. I love the way you create the hammock’s movement and the beauty surrounding you. Loved “see the twinkle glisten light”. Truly lovely poem and a real “gem”.
Maureen, I love the lilt and sway of each line and the way lounging in a hammock allows a view of the world that brings a sense of life. The repetition pulsates like a heartbeat. Lovely, rhythmic poem.
Maureen, your poem made me sing “Calgon, take me away!” Oh, what a dream to be in that hammock! Thank you for sharing this delightful day with us. I think I need to repeat these lines as I drive to work everyday fighting the stress of working in a pandemic.
Your poem creates a comforting, relaxing lull with its words
Love it!
Maureen, the descriptions of the scene are perfect, and make me right there with you. That sky! And the breeze gentle, but strong enough to “lift my bangs” I know just that breeze.
“so I go / so I go” Beautiful
Sarah, your poems often remind me to take time for me. No matter what the challenges of work and family are, self-care is key. These are the lines that speak to me
I imagine all that I let wait
While what will not pours from
My fingers reading my mind in double time
Hydrating my body by beating my heart
Exhilarating strokes, calming breaths of doubt
To the future late fees, I say charge me.
To the future kidney stones, I say rock on.
I am alive when I write.
I am.
Of course, this OpenWrite space that you create and invite us to share provide a place for us to express such feelings, too.
Thanks you.
Have we talked
about this, yet?
That earworm jingle
from about
forty years ago
about how “the best
part of wakin’ up
is Folgers
in your cup.”
How sad is that?
I would think
That the waking up,
The actual
not sleeping,
would be
the best part.
Now, I’m a big fan
of coffee, don’t
get me wrong, and
I love a good nap,
(and according to
Daniel Pink, the
Perfect Nap
involves caffeinated
coffee just before
you tumble into sleep),
but it’s just kinda sad
to me when you say
the only thing worth
your entire day
is what’s in the
bottom of that mug.
But, hey, who am I
to say what should
or should not be in
your cup of Joie
De Vivre?
You do you.
For me, it’s the little
things, like not
having to sub on
my planning period
or finding a new word
(like “impasto” for instance)
in a poem by a skilled
poet or listening to
the insistent thrum
of the Brood X cicadas
or having a wonderful
conversation with
my students about
poetry or drama or
just about anything
that gets them (or me)
excited about
life
and living
and breathing
in this complicated
and nuanced world of ours.
(Ok, that last one isn’t
a little thing, and it sure
doesn’t happen every day,
but when it does,
Boy Howdy! Life is good!)
Scott, you have such skill of cutting to the chase…even in the middle of a longer poem. It’s almost like you write teeter-totter poetry. Look at the issue from one side or the other, you’ll get the picture.
But, hey, who am I
to say what should
or should not be in
your cup of Joie
De Vivre?
You do you.
Do you recall hearing the expressions “Like it or lump it” or “Lump it or leave it”? You state your peace and leave us to take it or leave it. But, you say it with such grace, we know you wish us well. Thanks.
You’ve got me thinking about the best part of waking up! Yes, it is def not Folger’s – lol. I adore your ideas:
not
having to sub on
my planning period
or finding a new word
Scott,
Your poems embody voice so much! I love how this moves from the earworm jingle that every single person of a certain age knows to super important BIG things about life.
“Boy Howdy! Life is good!” Indeed.
And what makes it good, so beautifully scripted and visually here:
And I am happy I found impasto in your poem. What an honor!
I love each of these mentor poems. It’s that kind of writing that makes me wish I had written it! This would be a great process to have students write after an observation walk where they can intentionally witness the world around them. How I would love to know how they it and themselves. Lovely!
my neighborhood
at 5am
is a frightening solitude
darkened edges
empty streets
unlit windows
yet it is precisely
in this void
I find comfort
standing sentry
while my dog sniffs
a lingering rodent trail
I look up into
the star scattered sky
imagine I can read
the constellations
can hear the warning
of ancients
wind rifling through
the brown-edged leaves
soon they will come
showering down
but for now
it is just us
our shades stepping
along concrete sidewalks
looking both ways
for nothing coming
before we cross
out of the streetlight
melding into shadows
I would love such a walk, too, Denise. These words – oh, I can really relate:
Denise, wow, this is such an incredible poem. I love the subtle movement, the quiet dawn world you transport us to. I felt like I was pulled into a Edward Hopper painting. Loved “looking both ways/ for nothing coming” and then that final glorious line “melting into shadows.” Love the “frightening solitude” you’ve created. Magnificent!
Yes, your shimmer of being aiive here is powerful.
I really liked the above about the leaves joining you soon enough on an early morning walk. But for now, it really shows the quietness around you.
Thanks for the suggestion for the Poetry Foundation poem spinner app. I will try it.
Hi, Sarah! It’s always a special treat to read your poems. I am always in awe!
I’m loving this reality of the things that wait for us (water and books) and yet we so often make other choices. But to choose writing over all of it, that’s a win!
Outstanding!
??????
(Hopefully, I can write this afternoon after work and not at the edge of bedtime.)
The Itch
I have an itch
an itch so strong
that it interrupts my doings
and makes me find a corner in the room
where I can rub my back side to side
on the hard angle.
I have an itch
an itch so strong
that it propels me into
the studio to create
an image
of something
just to scratch that itch.
I have an itch
an itch so strong
that I must drive myself
to the beach shore
and stick my feet
in the warm sand
then wade in the salty sea.
It’s this itch that reminds
me of body and mind
so functioning and alive.
It’s this itch needs to be scratched
and satisfied
calming those nerves
that urge me on with energy and ideas.
It’s this itch that brings a big smile on my face
because I know that itchy irritation
tells me I am alive.
Susan, I appreciate all of these emotions you bring to the experience of itching–especially the last piece that irritatingly reminds you that you are alive. Thank you for sharing.
This creative itch of yours – I love that it is “an itch so strong.” Yes, it must be scratched! You are so right:
Susan, My sister travels w/ one of those back scratcher sticks w/ a hand. Your poem makes me think of her and our recent road trip. I love the positive ending. I’m not sure I’d greet such an itch w/ a good attitude!
I love this ode to the itch and the many kinds of itches moving you into different directions.
Susan,
I love the three itches you describe here, knowing there are more in your life (and mine). It invites us to pay attention to and scratch those itches. Lovely!
Sarah,
Thank you for the links to two new mentor poems. Beautiful.
I’m glad you listened to what would not wait and wrote this poem. There are better things than water:
Your poem is a perfect example of the shimmer of being alive. I’m glad you washed your water bottle!
Authors
1861
Anne Abbot created a game
that I was still playing
over a hundred years later.
“Go Fish” it was,
only with authors–
Tennyson, Poe, Longfellow
(a poet whose feet showed it)
Stevenson, Dickens, Irving,
Shakespeare, more white men,
and one white woman–
Louisa May Alcott–
somewhat of a mirror for me,
white girl
from southern California,
who matched authors
with siblings
and cousins.
93% of the authors were white men
with funny hair and clothes.
Conspicuously missing–
Frederick Douglass,
Phyllis Wheatley,
Elizabeth Hobbs Keckley
and many more.
Heck, even Anne herself
was an author.
The system, though,
wasn’t interested in being inclusive,
wasn’t interested in giving voice
to others less powerful,
wasn’t interested in giving
little girls and little boys
different mirrors
to reflect possibilities.
They were selling a card game.
Yesterday at our family Bible study
“We are having problems
with this book. We’re trying to have
an open mind and keep reading, but
there are some racist things,
like Peter’s scary hair.
What’s with that?”
Today
What she said, this young woman
who is teaching her parents,
lead me to go back and review the authors
of the books I’ve read this summer:
White male authors: 5
Black male authors: 1
Black female authors: 1
White female authors: 1
I am not making and selling a card game,
I am choosing what books to read.
I chose 63% white male authors.
Well, more accurately, my partner
(another white male)
chose two of my five books
for our family studies.
Today I came back to notice,
and, praise God,
I am still alive,
with at least
a little time to
become a better ancestor.
(Note: Katie is choosing the next book.)
Denise, I love the implicit grace of the final stanza. We are victims of our histories but we don’t need to remain victimized or continue the trend, and this is clear in your beautiful poem.
I am impressed with the sectioning of this poem, how each of those separate parts are pulled together in the arc, that overall narrative that is not just your own, but one of our nation’s. Also interesting since I enjoy using the Poetry Foundation poem spinner app (try it if you haven’t already!), and with every selection, I skim through and look for female authors or names that “sound more foreign,” hoping to hit on a greater diversity of content. My favorite line in this is “Today I came back to notice.” I think that would make a fantastic mantra – followed up by what we consciously choose to change/improve about ourselves and our world. Thanks Denise!
So reflective, Denise… that idea of becoming a better ancestor strikes me deeply. I also love that you have family Bible studies – I look forward to what is to come!
Denise, Your poem is so poignant and truthful about our culture, our choices, and how something as simple as a card game can parallel our fragile reading lives. That the game is “Go Fish” resonates as a metaphor for me. You’re “fishing” for more inclusive books so seeking a new line to cast.
It is as if we are allowing ourselves to be stuck in a predictable game…yay, you, challenging the system, reflecting, deciding differently, opening up to new perspectives!
Sarah, “I imagine all that I let wait / while what will not …” I love the compelling tone of “what will not.” We have all felt that. But the twist in your poem is that “what will not” is NOT those obligatory chores we usually give in to, but that need inside you to write. Wonderful.
And wonderful prompt. Many topics bubbled up, but I decided to describe a typical morning walk.
Walking the Lake
The sandy path winds narrowly beneath pines
Into a clearing, a windswept grassy bluff, and then
The beach stretches before us
Strewn with seaweed, broken shells, branches and twigs
The debris from last night’s storm.
Pippa leaps ahead, pulls leash from my hand
And pauses, knee-deep in water
(do golden retrievers have knees?)
As I pick my way carefully to lake’s edge
Still submerged in my musings,
The debris from last night’s dreams.
I trudge along as Pippa bounds forward and back,
Races around me
Dips in and out of the water,
Chasing waves.
I finally stop to watch
And, sensing my attention,
She turns to me
Smiling her inimitable golden grin,
Tail swirling,
Eyes bright.
Her meaning is clear:
“Let’s play!”
I swing a sand-covered stick overhead and fling it.
As it sails over waves
A glint of golden dives in
Every ounce intent on her object.
There is such joy in her being,
Such exuberance in sheer movement,
Such single-minded attention.
I shrug off my earlier muddled obsessions
And smile.
“You’re right,” I say. “Let’s play.”
Kathleen, what a joyful, fully-present moment. I love your poem, and I am there waling with you and Pippa. I love how her playfulness can take you out of these “muddled obsessions”:
I love “golden grin” and “glint of golden” Wow~
Oh, Kathleen! The opening lines of your point paint such a distinctive picture of peace when we look out and storm when we look down!
The sandy path winds narrowly beneath pines
Into a clearing, a windswept grassy bluff, and then
The beach stretches before us
Strewn with seaweed, broken shells, branches and twigs
The debris from last night’s storm.
I was ready to talk a walk on the beach with you! Then by the final line of the stanza, “Yuck! debris.
However, your closing lines brought back the smile, ““You’re right,” I say. “Let’s play.”
Thanks for the walk…anyway…now, let’s play.
Kathleen, you’ve fully embraced everything a dog is in that final stanza – the joy and in the moment/living for the moment way of life. You invite us into the scene in much the same way Pippa invites you to play – and we want to be there too. Thanks for this fun today.
“A glint of golden dives in
Every ounce intent on her object.”—the visual is so pure. Dogs bring us back to the best parts of ourselves, don’t they?
Sarah, yes and amen! How dare the intrusion of the mundane interrupt when the muse is calling! Love your poem and today’s prompt. Here’s a true story.
I’m Breathing
By Nancy White
I fell in the night,
A crash was heard.
My husband came running,
I heard nothing.
I woke up slowly.
Yes, I’m breathing.
I heard my name,
But it was far away.
I struggled to find myself.
Why is my cheek on the cold tile floor?
“You fainted,” he said,
I couldn’t remember why.
He kept saying my name
But I wanted to sleep.
Yes, I’m breathing.
I needed to move
off the cold wet tiles
To get back to bed—
All I wanted was sleep.
It was dark and I slowly crawled,
Inched my way back to bed
Aware of pain in my neck and head.
It’s OK. No need to call for help—
I’m breathing!
Hours later, the pain intense
A trip to the ER in an ambulance
“Always call after a fall!” they said.
“Don’t wait, don’t go back to bed.
And by the way, you have a broken neck.”
I think, “I could have been found dead.”
Wow. I’m breathing.
Lucky to be alive and I’m breathing!
Nancy! Was this recent? Oh, my! Yes, I’m thankful, too, that you are still breathing. A broken neck! You told quite a story with not that many words.
Thanks, Denise. It happened two summers ago. Fractured two vertebrae, the ones that control breathing and heartbeat!
Argh! No wonder you are so thankful that you were breathing. A miracle.
Holy crap! That was terrifying to read! But so REAL in the denial and “I’m fine” scenario. None of us wants a trip to the ER! The line “I heard nothing.” is the stunner here. That is where the reader immediately knows something has gone terribly wrong. The rest is confusion – what caused this – and the reader gets no more information than the speaker seems to have at that time. Even though it could be revealed, I like the choice to keep the reason hidden. Nice repetition of ‘breathing’ also. With Covid in our collective narratives now, any kind of medical incident like this takes on new gravity.
Nancy, All I can say is, Holy Cow! I did not see the ending coming. I love the dialogue here and the way it intermingles w/ your thoughts. The passive voice is poignant in “A crash was heard.” It’s amazing what we can ask poetry to do.
Sarah-
-“To the future late fees, I say charge me.
To the future kidney stones, I say rock on.
I am alive when I write.
I am.”
Responsibilities be damned! I love the close–the build up, the “fingers reading your mind in double time”–you know your priorities and I approve. Thanks for a wonderful prompt, and a magnificent mentor poem!
Sizzle
Light creeps through the edges of our curtains
The blanket is cozy and warm.
So am I.
I stir, just barely, eyes tight shut.
Sleep, a precious commodity.
Preserving those Last. Few. Seconds.
And then…
It begins.
It begins with a rustle, an emergence from the covers.
an ear shake (morning applause).
A whine. A snuffle..
I stay shut tight in my cocoon.
Maybe it will pass.
But, no.
The pressure builds.
One paw, then two, moving up alongside.
I can feel her tail wagging
I hunker further down–
Maybe I can win this time.
Slow the momentum.
And then…
Doggy sighs on my cheek.
I open one eye, surrendering to fate
and my future appears before me–
a nose and two eyes
boring into my very soul.
Time is up.
The battle is lost..
The joy bomb explodes
and the dog wins again.
GJS 9/20/21
Gayle,
This, too, is my every morning! I so love this–you capture it perfectly! My dog is wonderful at being quiet and still when I am asleep, but she senses the millisecond I begin to wake and all is then lost. Time to snuggle the pup. It’s not a bad way to wake up at all. <3
Gayle,
My heart is warmed reading about your pup. “my future appears before me–
a nose and two eyes
boring into my very soul.” is a fate we dog-lovers long to experience. I’m going to snuggle w/ Snug now. Your poem creates a longing in my soul.
Gayle,
It seems dogs were on our minds today! I love the term “joy bomb” — it perfectly describes that explosion of canine affection. And the image of those “two eyes boring into my very soul” — oh yes, been there, too.
Precious and fun moment – ritual, probably! – with your dear dog! I am partial to these sweet lines in the beginning:
Morning sleep is so luscious!
Gayle, that one open eye and the nose and eyes…..once that eye opens it’s the invitation to be wide awake— ready or not. Oh, I love how you capture the morning moment!
Sarah, today’s prompt and your poem reminded me of one I wrote during my early years of retirement. Stopping to pay attention to what is different, but equally important. Please accept this contribution. Though, it’s not brand new, it still is true.
The Man with the Holes in His Socks
Sitting across from him on the sun porch
Noticing those holes
in the bottom of his socks,
Listening to the birds chirping their evening
reports to their parents,
Hearing the squawk of the ducks as they teach their ducklings to swim upstream,
I wonder what it would be like.
What would it be like to have no one to talk to,
no one to report to,
no one to tease about the holes in the bottoms of his socks;
no one to interrupt my reading with,
“Hon. You’ve gotta listen to this.” or “Just a minute. Have you heard this one?”
Listening to the roiling of the steam just outside the sunroom window,
Hearing the water tumble down the man-made rock cropping,
Pausing as the mourning doves coo across the way,
I wonder what it would be like.
What would it be like to be able to finish a chapter
without being interrupted,
without learning something new about something I never knew was important,
something I’d never even thought about before,
without realizing how fortunate I am to hear
from the man with the holes in the bottom of his socks,
“Babe. This won’t take long?” or “Betcha never you hear this anymore.”
Sitting across from him, I watch the sunbeams streaming through the blinds,
Slipping over his shoulder and
Warming my toes,
Signaling that day is ending,
I wonder what it would be like.
Then, I smile to myself,
not having to wonder,
glad I don’t have to wonder,
thrilled I don’t have to wonder
What life would be like without the man with the holes in the bottom of his socks!
Anna J. Small Roseboro, Summer, 2011
Anna–I love this so much. This warmed my heart. I can’t even choose a favorite part, except, maybe the ending. You captured what a good, normal, hole-y relationship is all about. I’m still smiling…
Anna, this is simple and lovely in its tribute to those little, seemingly insignificant things about a loved one and how they touch our hearts. Like you, I sometimes find my mind wandering to those dreaded “what ifs” and I wonder why I do it. Living in the moment is not as easy as it seems, as your poem makes clear.
Anna, I love how this makes us notice and appreciate the little things. I wonder now about the absence of the little grey whiskers I find on the bathroom counter after he trims his beard. I wonder about the silence with no snores to hear. I think I feel a new poem coming on! ??
As you know, this poem is not new to me but I have always loved it and the description of the sun porch. Well, of course the description of two loving and comfortable people sharing a day together. That is the life!
That’s right! We talked about illustrations for the poem. In a way, I’m glad we just left it for the reader to illustrate. Thanks for the memory.
Anna,
What a wonderful homage to partnership in the later years! You zero in on the simple things and help all of us lucky enough to read this to do the same. Gratitude. Pure gratitude. I love the entire poem, but this stanza is what made my heart sigh:
Sarah,
Thank you for the opportunity to grow today. This prompt is both light and heavy and I know that I will revisit it.
I love the realness of your poem, especially these lines:
Often . . . Today
Often, mass feels heavy and old
Surrounded by centuries-old statues
and stained-glass windows
Hearing scripture from long ago and
prayers written before writing
Often, I take in the host
hoping for the goodness
and forgiveness
to course through my body
as His body melts on my tongue
and enters my system
BUT
guilt and sadness and Not Enough
trample down the pieces of Him.
Often, I walk out feeling weighed down
full of reflection, wanting more.
Today,
Luke tells us
“No one who lights a lamp conceals it with
a vessel
or sets it under the bed.”
Today,
I realize that faith is meant to be lived
through time, talent, and treasure.
Halos can’t shine under a hat or a hood or a cloud of gloom.
Today,
I know that my lampstand light (and
those of others like me)
has to shine in the world or
evil continues its crusade
successfully.
Today,
I chose to live my faith which
includes accepting forgiveness
from Him and from myself
so that I can allow
my light to illuminate the path
for others
and me.
~Susan Ahlbrand
20 September 2021
Susan–you make me wish I was still attending church… “guilt and sadness and Not Enough trample down the pieces of Him”. This is so true–eating up our faith and our joy, hmmm?
Wow, Susan, great reflection on the ups and downs of who we believe and what tries to steal that belief. So many great images, and I love the hope-filled ending.
Susan, I reread this and the the connection of heaviness and forgiveness are sticking with me. Thank you for sharing this experience with us today.
And So I Cut Wildflowers
I am taken by the little blooms
that peek from weeds
the ones on the side of the road
and want to carry them home
though I have nothing to cut them with
and frankly worry I will look like
a thief, a landscape destroyer, hoarder. Yet
the store is open, so I rush in,
buy kitchen shears, the kind for de-boning
a chicken–I will debone flowers
touch them with my soft hands
hold them in a nest
where scent to scent
pollen on pollen
the warmth of sunlight
still in their faces…
I’ll cut wildflowers
place them in the Mason jar with residue
of coffee grounds, leave them
on your kitchen counter
without a note that says
I love you
You will know
Margaret, the sweetness of this, the little blooms peeking, the desire to share of them, the nesting within hands, and the final note – it has captured me. I want to be in this narrative, spotting joy along the road and leaving it for someone else. Thank you for leaving us joy today.
Oh, Margaret–so gentle, so loving. “You will know”–that says volumes.
Margaret, so many beautiful images here. Wow. I learn a lot from my poet friends. I love:
And more too. Sweet gesture for someone so special that they will know right away.
Margaret, these images convey such care and kindness. It’s these little things that are the big things. Thanks for this!
This is so lovely and alive! Yes can almost feel the “touch them with my soft hands” and holding them up to smell the scent. I can see them in the jar bringing joy and sharing the scent with another.
Margaret, I love the visual imagery of cutting wildflowers with chicken deboning shears to go in a coffee-residue mason jar. It’s stunning and simple and there is a sense of urgency to enjoy the beauty and share the gift.
A heart-touching tenderness here, even with the stark contrast of “deboning,” “soft hands,” and “nest.” – I find this line especially touching: “the warmth of sunlight still in their faces.” Love is so woven through.
Margaret–
This poem makes my heart happy: “without a note that says/ I love you/ You will know.” It is so sweet and tender.
I also really appreciate the details about the kitchen shears, the chicken, the Mason jar, and coffee grounds. These details help the poem to come alive and feel very real.
Hello, I wrote in response to your note Sarah, thank for introducing us to this text and these living poets.
“In Between Meetings”
Note: I landed late last night
It’s early and it’s Monday
I rushed to get my kids to school
Showered the travel germs off
packed my bags for the day
Mondays are my long days
Teaching grad students until
The tiredness of Monday hides
Note: I had no groceries at home
It’s a case of the Mondays
I was in CST all weekend and
Was ready and rushed to be prompt
To a meeting at 9, I almost busted in
Into the college bigwigs, disheveled
They were no doubt solving the
world’s problems without me
I already feel hangry, meeting is 10EST
In the early light of Monday
Note: I am wearing sandals
100 percent thunderstorms
Loom over the first day of this week
I have to walk across campus
Multiple times
Based on my morning, I predict
Slipping, near the big college rock
The one that gets painted over
And over again; just like how Mondays
Continue to shock, over and
Over again
Note: It feels good to type this out
Knowing it’s a draft, a contemplative response
To my morning, through a shimmering
Prompt, but it could be funnier, figurative-ier
Maybe tomorrow I’ll note how
My attempt at verse was painful
But this release of words
This was a reset for my day today
Thank you SJD for this space
Stefani,
First, I love the structure, the labeling of each verse as “Note.” That image of the rock painted over and over resonates as a trope repeated year after year on campus after campus. When did campus rock painting begin? It’s this sense of redundancy, the repetition of routine that does shimmer w/ life, the way a heart beats the same w/ each pulse. Your poem captures both the ordinary and extraordinary rhythm of being.
Stefani, so awesome! I too used a note like Sarah in my poem today. I love the theme of Mondays, and the importance of the release of words in this space today. It’s a poem a lot like Sarah’s, perhaps.
I smiled when I saw this: “it could be funnier, figurative-ier” I have been feeling the same this week. Just telling, telling, telling more words, not a lot of showing.
Sarah, I love this prompt and the distinct structures in all three poems. We won’t notice if you don’t wash your water bottle!
Sag Harbor
Wrinkles recede, create an illusion
of lost time, returned youth when
I recline my body in the chair.
I touch my face, recall its taught
smooth past, peer up into a mirror
I hold, pretend the reflection reflects
reality. “If I ever win the lottery
I’m getting a facelift, but I still
look good in a bathing suit,” my
mother’s first words to the man
lying with me force a smile, parentheses
framing my mouth, my mother’s hands
smoothing her face, following the slight
curve of her breasts, her waist, her hips.
I inhale the memory as another pulsates,
sparked by the shimmer of my new
smile greeting me in a hand-held mirror.
—Glenda Funk
Wow, what a lovely poem of aging and generational progress. I sometimes do a double take in the mirror seeing my own mother, and even the hands of my grandmother. I am always surprised. I love the image of the “parentheses framing my mouth”
Glenda, this reminds of Nora Ephron’s book I Feel Bad About My Neck… It is older and I read it when it first came out but this is drawing me to it. I like thinking about your “new smile” and wonder, has it really changed to others or just in our reflection:) Thank you for sharing today.
Ooooh, so sensual – that bathing suit body and the showcasing of it! Aging is that thing we all have trouble greeting with a smile – but I’m smiling big at your poem today!
Glenda, we see ourselves in the past generations and see what we will be as they move forward before us. I full expected to be reading about a destination in New York based on the title, but I love the play on words there.
Glenda, your self-reflection is easily understood. I loved your final two lines, and especially the “smile greeting me in a hand-held mirror”. P.S. I heard face lifts hurt…you don’t need to go there!
Very special poem, Glenda! Love how memories of your mother are intertwined with your reflection in the mirror…bet her words about facelift & bathing suit were a little awkward when first heard, years back, and yet, they bring smiles now…love these ending lines:
Feeling Alive
With short lets I trudge
up that endless hill
one foot in front of another
it seems an endless chore
but once I reach the top
I am queen of the hill
and all that surrounds me
with arms flayed out I swirl around
and laugh at my accomplishment
I fall to the ground
all tightly bound
for the trip down
the hill
and down I roll
over and over
alive in the pure
joy it gives me
This is such a child’s strong voice. I loved rolling down hills as a child and have memories of taking kids on a field trip to a place where they could slide down on cardboard sleds on grass. Thanks for conjuring this memory today. It brings me joy on an otherwise normal Monday.
Judi,
Oh, to be young and rolling down hills again. I’m smiling at the recollection. As w/ Kim’s poem, you tricked me. I didn’t expect the roll! Maybe that’s because an uphill climb in my old age is itself a thrill!
Judy, the visual lines on the page seem to mimic the movement, up and down the hill. I was particularly struck by “with arms flayed out I swirl around / and laugh at my accomplishment.” The laughter seems borne both from joy and from seeing the futility of striving to be “queen.” After all, the joy comes in the climbing up AND the tumbling down. Nice work here.
Change Found Me
Change found me
on a five-mile span of road.
A dense day of gray clouds
ushered me onto the drive.
A right turn and around the corner,
and a torrent of rain–
like a heavy theater curtain closing
at the end of a show– draped all around,
lasting for a mile,
creating those raging rivulets of water
on the asphalt.
Only sprinkles now–I switched off the rear wipers.
And blinked into the gray skies again,
now smeared with streaks
of construction-paper blue.
Right turn and rain again–wipers back on,
all around.
A deep left and a pocket of sunshine–
glowing through the tall oaks on each side–
a slight wave of heat passes through me,
a portal of energy between the clouds.
Change found me
on a five-mile span of road
on a dense, cloudy day.
I love this journey through the rain, packed with imagery. And the sunshine glowing through tall oaks is an image I love.
Dixie,
I love the framing and repetition in your poem. We don’t get much rain here, certainly not the deluges in other parts of the country, so I found myself startled and somewhat afraid last week when my sister and I encountered the type of rain you describe during our recent road trip. “Change found me” is certainly true.
The shimmer of being alive is illustrated here, Dixie. I love the meticulous detail of this five-mile stretch with all the turns and different views of the rain and sky. I like how you described the streaks of blue coming into the gray.
I love the phrase “change found me”. It makes sense as you are not in control of the erratic forces of nature. I like the feeling of passivity as you observe the wide range of changes in such a short span of time. I felt like I was right there with you!
Dixie–
I love how you take the reader on a journey while you recount a journey. I especially appreciate how you begin and end the poem with the same lines; this lends the poem a feeling of completeness. Thank you for sharing!
Sarah, what a revelation to think about shimmers of being! The intensity of feeling in considering points of what makes us tick is a morning brain workout! Now I will go through the day more aware of shimmers when they happen. I especially love your final words – the pun in the kidney stones had me chuckling! I’m absolutely sure I will fill up at the water cooler more frequently now with more consideration of my heart. Thank you for stretching us today! I, too, feel alive with you when I’m not “penned down” and can spend time writing (? a wink for Glenda).
The Boxing Ring
I watch him
from my chair
as he saunters
through the room
in no hurry
he stops
his eyes lock
on his brother
lying in his path
it’s a stare down
until one blinks
he chins the floor
front legs flat
backside straight up
tail wagging
ready!
he pounces forward
raises up
like a Lippizanner
brother leaps sideways
nips at his heels
oh, it’s on!
they tackle
roll
tussle
growl
oomph
freeze again
stand up
on their back legs
like two boxing hares
two-foot hopping left and right
front paws scrapping
in a full-force show
until they hear the crinkle
of the treat bag
because Dad is leaving for work
they come to attention
straighten their haloes
sit like perfect angels
by their better-behaved brother
until rewarded
treats in mouth
they head off
to three separate corners
of the ring
because
when it comes to treats
they don’t play
“when it comes to treats…they don’t play” This resonates well with me as I have recently had time with more than one dog in my house. Wonderful description and visual.
Ahhh! I miss those days of dog play, butt up, tail wagging, pouncing. The angelic behavior (while quieter) is not nearly as fun. And you’ve captured it all. Love those last three lines!
Kim,
That last line made me chuckle! Love the title. You tricked me! Of course you’re describing the dogos! This is a perfect metaphor for their romping in the ring. Such a fun poem. And thank you for that nod. ?
So fun, so vivid, Kim – I could see all of these antics, the pouncing like a Lipizzaner. But oh – the crinkle of the treat bag causing the sitting like angels-! That is EXACTLY what dogs do – and the retreat to separate corners, too. Treats are serious business and so is dog-love, which is I why I adore this poem.
Sarah, thank you for this invitation to live within a moment. I am in awe of the capturings you’ve made, in the minute details of the rim of the water bottle, bringing it to being so that we are present with it. (And thank you for the smile for the washing.)
I move in slow swells,
in tidal pushes and pulls,
within the circadian rhythms
of breath.
I pause in punctuations
and punctuate in pauses.
I leave graphite etchings
embedded deep,
visible ancient pathways
traversed in desert
and prairie fields
and cotton linens.
I come to be
in becoming.
Jen,
I am reading this over and over, also recognizing the lyrical poetry you’ve contributed the past few days — so stunning in their reflections (and mystery).This space of slumber in the circadian rhythms and cotton lines is of intimacy but with such activity in the “punctuate in pauses” and “traversed in desert/and prairie fields.” And those last words– wow.
Sarah
Jen, you have me envisioning those Gain
commercials with fresh sheets and linens drying in the outdoor breeze – fresh breaths for sheets! I love this line best because I could chew on it for hours:
I pause in punctuations
and punctuate in pauses.
That’s deep! It will
have me thinking about all the ways we do this!
Jen,
Your poetry this month has been spectacular. This poem is gorgeous and alive. Favorite parts:
“I pause in punctuations
and punctuate in pauses.”
and…
”I come to be
in becoming.”
I love these paradoxes, these inversions. Simply a wonderful poem pulsating w/ life.
Gorgeous imagery and lines and sounds. This is a perfect poem.
Jen, I love the gorgeous imagery throughout your poem from the graphite etchings to “I pause in punctuations/and punctuate in pauses”. Your final two lines are sheer perfection: “I come to be/in becoming” Ain’t it the truth!
Jen–
This is beautiful! I love how the rhythm of your poem echoes the words. Also, the line “I pause in punctuations and punctuate in pauses” will be repeating in my mind for the next few days. Thank you for sharing!
I am mesmerized by this beautiful poem. I love the images that flooded my brain each time I read it. Thanks for sharing!
Sarah: First I must celebrate the sense of aliveness when writing. The very blood in my veins sings at this! And the best-laid plans, good intentions, the mundane things that get shifted – the sacrifice, really, that writing takes. Worth it. Always. Also thank you for the humorous revelation that you did, in fact, wash your water bottle!
Here’s what came to heart today, with the gift of your compelling, inspiring prompt.Thank you-
Late September
across the street
the first few spots
of yellow dot the lush green
abundance of trees
despite the searing blueness of sky
and bathwater-saturated
Carolina air
lingering summer
yet in it I feel a tinge
the tiniest tinge
almost imperceptible
coolness
deep in the wooded shadows
from a sun-patched limb, no doubt,
a lone cicada takes up his rattle
crescendo, decrescendo
they were late arriving this year
but still here
driving to work
along the winding backroads
a darting from the left
two gray squirrels,
scampering in tandem
right out in front of me
on the double yellow lines
I stop for them
they stop for me
after a moment
of squirrel contemplation
one continues on across
but the other, the other
turns back
with something in its mouth
not a nut, something hanging
pale-colored
I’ve never seen the likes
but instinctively know:
that’s a baby squirrel
and on I drive, thinking
of the old squirrel twins book
my grandmother read to me
so long ago
and how I shall read it
to my own granddaughter
arriving in a few short weeks
the morning September sun shimmers
rose-gold in my rearview mirror
like promises steeped in time
I no longer dream of dying
like I did when I was nine
now, in my first tinge of autumn
I dream of new babies born
every night
Fran, I look forward to reading your poems every day of free-write. You are masterful at bringing several ideas together…you knit them so delicately. The turn of season, baby squirrel, story and new generation…love how all of that is a moment for the reader in this poem.
That last stanza just knocked me off my feet (or, eh, seat). Lovely.
Kevin
Fran,
This is a glorious shimmer of being on the drive to work with such a stream of consciousness that makes perfect sense in its reflection from present (the drive) to past (reading and the “tinge”) to future (new babies- plural!– and this new “tinge”). Gorgeous!
Sarah
Fran, that tinge of almost imperceptible coolness grabbed me. It held me for a minute and after thinking, “this is why I decorated for fall already,” I now have the words to explain to those who say it’s too early. I’ll say, “No! Because there is an almost imperceptible tinge of coolness!” And I’ll say it boldly. I remember the Squirrel Twins! A Little Golden Book! Yes! That baby squirrel visual on the yellow lines is so real. This, though, caught my breath:
the morning September sun shimmers
rose-gold in my rearview mirror
like promises steeped in time
I think my heart skipped a beat. Your writing always does that.
I love sitting beside you in this writing time today. That last stanza is one to cling to in the coming weeks. While the birth is so full of expectation, I am finding the real joy is the living daily as a grandmother. Always joy.
Fran, what a treasure. The arrival of autumn literally this week, and in our lives metaphorically too. I had my autumn in mind when I wrote today too. I love so much your generational poetry. Enjoy those new babies and old. (You even used the word shimmer.)
Fran,
Beautiful. Simply Beautiful.
The lines that stick out to me the most (a hard choice for sure):
Good Morning Writers,
I love this prompt. I’ve been thinking about times that I’m alive in the moment…not trying to capture it on camera or to write about it. I try to resist falling into writing long poems. For me, the more words, the more tell not show. But, I do love how Sarah shows a lot with that little bit of lip tint on the mouth of the water bottle (your note about having washed the bottle since made me laugh). I challenged myself to haiku this prompt.
fireflies shimmer-flash
I have no paper, ink, brush
yet I am alive
“Less is more” – so true, Linda, and you illustrate that here with the fireflies and being in the moment, responding to that electric flash of aliveness. I so love haiku. I’m also reminded that in today’s social media obsessed world true living is in the moments, recording in the heart… although I am soon itching for paper to capture!
Haikus do magic … three lines but so powerful
Kevin
Linda,
What a stunning reflection. To witness the fireflies is the art of life — yet this poem preserves it! “no paper, ink, brush/yet I am alive” Indeed!
Sarah
Linda, there is magic in your haiku! When there are fireflies we are in the moment – alive in a way like no other! Electric and gorgeous!
I love this haiku, so very much the glimmer of a magical moment of noticing.
Linda,
Your poem is a shining celebration of nature and the flickering light it brings into our eyes. I miss fireflies.
Linda,
Thanks for the reminder: “the more words, the more tell not show” Guilty!
I love your sweet haiku, and you did capture the prompt. Thank you for your take on the prompt too. I need to pay attention to “times that I’m alive.”
Who’s this odd stranger
sitting inside this poem,
the one who pauses
only at
th…e
/
br…eak…in…g
/
poi….nt…s
the one whose mornings open
with invented verse,
with hope each day’s words
might forestall the coming
of something worse?
I am such fan of meta poems. Your play with spacing and the idea of being alive in the poem is brilliant!
Kevin,
Love the use of punctuation and space here to show the partial and the hesitation and the becoming of a poem. Indeed, “with hope each day’s words” – and you have me pondering the last word “worse” and the implications there.
Sarah
Kevin, I have had some family issues lately that put me on edge and your poem has struck me in my heart, the one who dreads more bad news.
A haunting little invented verse…sitting inside the poem/inside of life…finding, I hope, some peace.