Our Host
Mo Daley is a middle school reading specialist in Homewood, Illinois. She has taught many subjects at just about every grade level, but has found her passion helping tweens and teens fall in love with reading. Mo may be obsessed with Little Free LIbraries and getting books into peoples’ hands. She is a grandmother who dreams of retiring when she can find the time.
Inspiration, Bop
Poet Afaa Michael Weaver developed the Bop format, a new format for me. It’s simple! Here’s the format:
- 3 stanza poem
- Stanza 1 is 6 lines long and presents a problem
- Stanza 2 is 8 lines long and explores or expands the problem
- Stanza 3 is 6 lines long and presents the solution or shows the failed attempt at resolution
- Each stanza is followed by a refrain
Here is a link if you are interested in looking at more examples https://poets.org/glossary/bop
Process
What’s on your mind? What issues or problems are taking up head space right now? Jot a quick list. It doesn’t matter if the problems are big or small. They may be global or specific to you. Focus on one that you will try to find a solution for, or perhaps have already tried to resolve. Sit down and write! If the format doesn’t work for you, that’s ok. FInd a way to express yourself today.
This was my first attempt at a Bop, but I see lots of opportunities for classroom use. I’m thinking of incorporating this into a Problem/Solution lesson and writing a whole class Bop.
Mo’s Poem
I wrote this poem after my beloved companion Scruffy was diagnosed with a brain tumor.
Scruffy
By Mo Daley 2-3-21
Old age is hell
especially on those we love
the ones who can’t tell us how much pain they are in
if the world is too much with them
if they need us to make the impossible choice
the one we can’t bear to make too soon.
How close can we get to the line without crossing it?
The days of fall grow shorter,
so do our days together
the writing on the wall is there,
but I don’t want to read it
I’ve been given too much power—
the decision is too difficult
my heart is torn in two
is it time to say goodbye, or can I have just one more day?
How close can we get to the line without crossing it?
It’s agonizing
but as it turns out,
You know. I know.
All that is left is to tearfully say goodbye
and focus on the memories
that will remain long after my tears have dried.
How close can we come to the line without crossing it?
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.
The two phrases. “the writing on the wall is there-but I don’t want to read it” really got me thinking about myself and the issues I have had with my family throughout this year and how I have been in denial about a lot even though I know what the most likely outcome of it all will be, but I keep trying to just go on like nothing has happened. These two lines made me want to try out my own bop poem.
Inhumane conditions
sitting alone in a concrete room
stomach rumbling because he hasn’t eaten since yesterday mornings breakfast
he hasn’t had access to showers in a week
and his toilet in his cell has been backed up for days
mold growing on the food trays and walls
How can I make things better when I have no power?
just because someone made mistakes doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have basic rights
his commissary money always ending up missing
while the A/C always flocculates from Sahara desert to frozen tundra
violence popping off around him for different reasons
21 years old and all by him self
In a situation that wasn’t his fault and that he should have never been in
But does anyone really seem to care?
I have been to all the protests
posted all the hashtags on social media
and done my best sign all of the petitions
but nothing has gotten any better
I can’t help but shake the feeling
that nothing is going to change.
mo!
The phrase ” how close can we come to the line without crossing it?” got me thinking about other things in life that require us to have the desire to be curious and spontaneous about particular things because getting really close to the line without crossing can be difficult If guidance is not bestowed upon us. I really enjoyed your poem!
Mo! Your poem is so powerful! It really expressed your pain and dilemma. I grabbed onto the idea of focusing on the memories. Hugs to you.
Fourth quarter/third trimester
We’ve a book and a final exam
to tackle before 4:00 p.m., April 29.
As with any good school year,
time disappears
at an alarming clip.
Is there ever enough time?
11th and 12th grade means no tests
post-Spring Break, but this year
“ALL virtual” days are thrown around
like Super Bubble on October 31.
No one really wants them,
but they make a regular appearance.
Our ten remaining class periods
shrink to eight—then seven.
Is there ever enough time?
Trim the fat.
Modify the assignments.
Don’t lose sight
of what really matters—
who really matters.
These are your last moments together.
Is there ever enough time?
Laura, the answer is no. There is never enough time. But we still keep trying, don’t we? The pressure to trim the fat is very real this year!
Oh! Time! Our worst enemy and best friend, if only we could tame it to meet our needs. But time is fleeting and we need to use it as best we can rather than letting it take over us. And, is there ever enough time? Sadly, no and that’s why we need to really focus on what matters to us. Good luck!
I’ve avoided talking about, definitely writing about, the loss of this friendship for nearly four months. Thank you for this invite; it was the first time I felt compelled to finally write about this “loss.”
For over a decade we walked
on eggshells; this friendship
nothing more than to
test one another’s nerves; this friendship
nothing more than to
compete and criticize.
Why did I stick around for so long?
“You’re not good enough for him”
but I’d seek to prove it to you anyway
“You shouldn’t forgive your father”
allowing your words to influence my family
“You don’t share your true self”
ripping myself open, more than I already had
Your advice, always unsolicited,
always making me second guess
Why did I stick around for so long?
I eventually learned to love myself,
I eventually learned to care for myself;
it was not enough to put my foot down,
It was not enough to set boundaries;
the pandemic gifted us this grace
of floating a p a r t
Why did I stick around for so long?
Britt, I can see why this might have been a hard poem to write. I too, am guilty of hanging on to friendships for too long. It sounds a like you’ve made a good decision. I love how you can look at the pandemic as a gift of grave. Thanks for sharing.
Britt,
Good to see you here. Your poem is powerful. A friend who says, “You’re not good enough for him” isn’t much of a friend, but I understand the impulses that keep us tethered to such a person. I love the way you create a visual separation with “a p a r t.”
—Glenda
Britt, I’m glad you got the encouragement to capture this painful friendship and ending in verse. Your words are calming and mature. I love all the sentiments in your third stanza. Your “eventuallys” and some of the “not good enough attempts” Here is another one of those unintentional silver linings of the pandemic. I like how you word it: “the pandemic gifted us this grace” Beautiful!
Wow, Britt! This is so raw! To me it says that you are learning to take care of yourself. You are learning to figure out what’s important to you. The friendships that don’t support the path we are taking are most definitely not ones we want to keep around. This is a constant source of conversation in my house. Stay strong!
Thank you for the invite, Mo! I enjoyed the new form, though I really struggled with (I like the struggle)! I think once I try this again, I will be more successful!
Truce
The first thing Henry said to me was,
“I hate it when teachers try to be my friend”
He said this because he knew me
On that first day of school.
Of his freshman year.
I thought I knew him too.
but here is always something more.
Through our 6 semesters together,
Henry has shown me his linguistic abilities
By shouting choice words in both of his languages,
Rarely turned in homework,
And slept through lessons I designed for
His engagement.
Teachers don’t like him. For his
Appearance, swagger, and demeanor.
But there is always something more.
Today, Henry twists his fluffy hair
Curses in Spanish, sends a text,
And takes the #2 pencil I offered.
Like an olive branch indicating
He agrees to pretend to work on this test,
As long as he can listen to music.
But there is always something more.
That olive branch/pencil is an amazing image! I just love it, Rachelle. Thank you for the reminder that there is always something more.
Rachelle,
There are so many students who are a Henry but not giving up on them no matter how hard they try to push you can help chip away their wall. One chip at a time until their wall is gone.
I appreciate you sharing with me that this is about a student we’ve shared for several years. He is a conundrum and you capture that push and pull so wonderfully. We can’t reach or understand all of them, but I’m glad we can keep trying together. You very perfectly captured the inner struggle teachers feel with students like Henry.
March 2021
I felt a lifting
as the thread-thin needle entered my arm.
The body surged toward light.
Breaking the surface, it gasped for air,
stretched to grasp a future
that pulled us aboard.
And now what?
I can/not/will/not return to pre-COVID.
Baptized,
I light a candle
and begin.
This midlife year demands I
rest, assess,
unburden, opt-out,
undo.
And now what?
Before, I did not know it was Before.
During, I harnessed my all.
After?
A shift
and reckoning.
I ask:
Now what?
I love how you dive into a particular moment and explore the facets of it. I’ve been trying to do that in my own poetry because of your inspiration. I love the first stanza and a microscopic view of the shot.
Allison, I love your use of baptism as a new beginning here, especially at this time of year. Now what? is the question so many of us are struggling with right now.
Allison, I love that you cloak the amazing science that allows us to return to the “Before” with religious imagery. While I am not religious, I absolutely experienced a palpable shift in my body—that was greater than a reaction to the serum—after receiving the full vaccination that could only be compared to some type of unearthly faith in a better and sooner “After.” Needless to say, your lovely poem speaks so precisely to what I hope is a once in a lifetime experience!
Allison, I really love how this poem portrays your changing emotions during the COVID year we’ve had. Try as I might, even fully vaccinated, I can’t bring my mind back to pre-pandemic perspective. Your last few lines with “a shift / and reckoning” really were a perfect fit. Thank you for sharing.
The Week before Spring Break: Middle School Edition
No holiday or teacher workday since February 15
34 days without a half day, an in-service, or even a “Covid pause”
34 days of parent conferences, midyear observations, and report cards
34 days of bus duty and class changes and department meetings
34 days = 3 season changes (early Spring, bugs and humidity, late freeze) +
2 full moons + 1 tornado watch
As if by some cosmic phenomena,
The fewer the days and the fewer the f**ks,
The greater the fever pitch brought on by
warm days and close quarters:
Fights in the stairwell and on the buses
Deformed dicks drawn in the [girls’] bathroom
Vaping behind the gym
Surge in teacher sick days and reluctant subs
The dawn of the last day, the last eight hours
Tricks and barters and slight-of-hand lessons
Bribes for “free time” and cake
Anything to keep the kids’ attention
Anything to keep minds busy and hands off each other
Anything to keep our eyes of the clock
Betsy,
The math in that first stanza breaks my brain. What is wrong w/ those in control that they put teachers and students through such a grind. What I notice and like most and find very effective is the way stating factual information functions as effective argument. All we need know is the dystopian reality. Now, rest.
—Glenda
Betsy, stanza one had me nodding in agreement. Stanza two had me saying, “Oh my!” Stanza three had me smiling. We got this!
Whew, yes! I always feel the extra long, never ending days after the last April break. Excellent poem!
my state of wonder
This house I call my home
always in a state of wonder.
I wonder what we’ll do next –
paint the bedroom walls
now that the closet doors need paint.
One thing leads to another.
But that’s only one room.
Carpet came up in the living room
and bedroom.
Undecided what to cover the concrete.
The kitchen ceiling has been waiting
for a drywall repair found a new ceiling light.
While stains and uneven tape wait
til the final touches are added.
Outside so much easier to care for
the sun shines bright on bare arms.
A cleared bed a clean canvas
for flowers, a plant I’ve been wishing for.
Sweeping, raking, mowing,
my state of wonder.
Jamie, there’s always more to do, isn’t there? I love how you go outside in your last stanza. That state of wonder is terrific!
Always so much wondering! I’m experiencing constant wonder, but with our car… Do I really want to be a minivan owner?! Thank you for sharing.
Mo,
Your poem reached right into my heart. I’ve been in this place and almost wrote about it. In the middle of 2020, we had to say goodbye to our sweet pack leader, our 14 1/2 year old Boston Terrier boss, Lucy. Your question, “Is it time to say goodbye, or can I have just one more day?” is one that was the center of our struggle for the longest 48 hours in recent memory. Hugs to you.
My poem is written in response to, and to try to grapple with my thinking about a situation happening on the local college campus. I’m so disappointed by the direction the university seems to be taking, and tried to work through some of that thinking here. I’m not quite there yet…but this is one I know I’ll come back to and revise.
Patches and Performative Politeness
Paint and silence
May temporarily cover the images and silence the brewing storm of words
But they will never solve the problem
They will never get
To the root of the disease
That plagues us.
Why do you keep choosing comfort over courage?
It’s not so much that the tree and stone
Were painted over, under the cover of deep, dark night.
That’s how it’s always been.
It’s that the response to the words Black Lives Matter
Or that breathtaking mural created to depict and honor George Floyd
is always faux patriotic propaganda
USA in red, white, and blue
As if patriotism is the cure for the disease of racism
Why do you keep choosing comfort over courage?
It’s as if someone in that meeting (there’s always a meeting, after all)
Trusts fragility more than humanity
Believes that the work is too hard, the emotions too raw (because pain isn’t polite, right?)
That protecting whiteness (the perception of power) is more important
Than kicking wide open the door of diversity (the real power)
Instead of demanding that we recognize that we’re here because we keep painting over the past
Why do you keep choosing comfort over courage?
Erin, what an important question you’ve asked! I wish there was a resolution to your poem instead of more questions. I feel like you’ve really drilled down into the issue here about protecting whiteness.
Erin,
The phrase “painting over the past” gets to the heart of our national ailment. I like how this functions symbolically. You and I were on a similar wavelength today. Your poem reminds me of MLK’s admonition to white moderates in Letter from Birmingham Jail. How long must POC wait. Our institutions of higher learning aren’t really these bastions of enlightenment, are they?
—Glenda
I have been waiting all day to write this poem. I chose my topic first thing this morning, hoping there would be a resolution by the time I posted. Alas, there is not. I love Jack Johnson’s songs and this poem was inspired by what we have been waiting for today and his song “Sitting, Waiting, Wishing.” We are still waiting for my daughter’s last college decision, her top school.
She started so early –
early action applications to all.
And yet, she is still waiting
for her first choice –
the school that deferred
her in January.
“Sitting, Waiting Wishing”
for the decision that will determine her future.
She pulled out all the stops.
Pictures of Bucky the mascot’s travels around the world
were sent with a heartfelt letter,
more virtual tours,
updated grades and achievements and emails,
and then a hopeful heart
held on for two months –
until today.
“Sitting, Waiting Wishing”
for the decision that will determine her future.
Signs were found
sitting on shelves,
in dreams,
in a video shared in psych class.
This school surrounds her,
yet she’s still
“Sitting, Waiting Wishing”
for the decision that will determine her future.
A poem like this, especially reading as a teacher, is such an important reminder of the tension and anxiety our kids can feel about their next steps. I really love the image of the signs on the shelves, and the video in psych class…being surrounded in a way that is equal parts hopeful and tense. I often wonder if schools understand the level of investment that prospective students like your daughter make…not just in the process, but in the depth of emotion and hope.
What a stressful time for your family, Heather. Your – I ing words really reflect that. I hope it works out for your daughter!
Thank you Mo for introducing me to the Bob poetry style. Your piece it close to home. Sadly I lost a fur baby this year and almost lost another, I remember crying in the car not knowing what the right choice was.
Senior year has finally begun
Sitting in class everyone talking about their summer vacations
One day trip to the beach
The rest at my fast food job
So I can pay my sports fees
Will this be my whole life?
What do I want to be when I grow up?
Saxon plans to join the service and become a doctor
Zero desire to be a doctor
Kari knows she wants to be a teacher
Not sure I can handle other people’s kids
Timm wants to write and take pictures
No writer her my dyslexia gets in the way
Troy plans to be a Marine
Quit fast food, move to a sit down restaurant for my job
What do I want to be when I grow up?
One year of community college, marriage and babies
Back to fast food, flexible hours so my family comes first
Grocery store clerk, still flexible hours but not more greasy smelling hair
Volunteering at my kids school enjoying working with the kids, this could be a good job for me
Subbing for a few years to find my fit, where could it be
Reading classroom IA, for a girl who couldn’t read a chapter book until 6th grade
What do I want to be when I grow up?
I really responded to your refrain and the way you gave us the chance to listen in to the plans of your classmates and your thinking in response as you considered their choices as possibilities for you. It felt almost like you were trying on other possible futures…like senior year is a dressing room in a clothing store and your refrain the hopeful wish that the right fit will come.
Erin,
Yes, yes, yes. I often felt like my friends knew what they wanted to be/do when they were adults and I had no idea. Everyone asking what do you want to be when you grow up, only adds pressure to figure it out. But seriously I am not the same person I was at 18, I’ve grown and I’ll continue to grow.
DeAnna, don’t laugh, but I ask myself this question all the time! Yesterday when I saw a picture of 75 year-old Diane Keaton wearing high heeled snakeskin boots and an oversized white blouse, I thought, “I want to be her when I grow up!” At least I know I’ll be on to another great idea tomorrow. I choose to look at it as continuous evolution.
Mo,
I still ask myself what I want to be when I grow up often. I feel like as educators we continue to learn and grow, so I don’t have to be done growing up today.
DeAnna, thank you for this poem! I love the narrative style and you really walk us through life’s essential question: what do I want to be when I grow up? The choice, like it was my senior year, is overwhelming (but I like what I’m doing right now and where I am, so I won’t be changing any time soon hehe). I also appreciate the vulnerability of this poem; I learned more about you through it!
Rachelle, thank you. Yes, please don’t go any where.
I know you, so I know this story, but I’m always grateful you ended up as my amazing right hand. I love the poem, it speaks to the struggle most of go through in finding our path in life, no matter how many diversions there are. <3
Cara
???
Change
This poem is inspired by Charles Waters’ poem, “Wonder”, published in “Dictionary For a Better World (p.100).
I often daydream about what the future holds.
The now is so different than the what-was
What-was normal is all we ever knew.
The now normal can be placed on a spectrum:
“Yes! Let’s Keep That!” to
“Oh No! That Can Go Away!”
How I hope some things will change.
Will masks ever be a thing of the past?
Will ever hug another Scholar?
Will Scholars be able to work together?
Art should NOT be taught via LMS!
Zoom has served its purpose.
MS Teams has as well..
Both filled a need I don’t want to need much longer.
How I hope some things will change.
I would be able to endure wearing masks if it was absolutely necessary.
I could accept the need for taking precautions.
Technology integration wouldn’t have nothin’ on me.
However, I want to be able to teach a room filled with Scholars,
Writing on the whiteboard, Circling Up and Sharing Good News.
My Scholars and I both need face-to-face instruction.
How I hope some things will change.
I love this quote. In fact I say this to my friends all the time. The birthday parades that last twenty minutes instead of a party that last two to three hours, can we please keep.
Classes via Zoom can please go away.
Donetta, oh, how I love your refrain. I noticed you quoted one of the books from Kittle’s summer book club from last year. Did you participate? What great fun! I especially love these lines:
Will Scholars be able to work together?
Art should NOT be taught via LMS!
Zoom has served its purpose
Kim Johnson, thank you. I did not participate in Penny Kittle’s summer book club. To be honest, I only learned who she is last month. But, so many of my writing (and Twitter) friends spoke so highly of this book. My mother-in-love blessed me with it for my birthday. I plan to use it to support my poetry writing and reading efforts this month.
Oh Donnetta, I hope things will change, too. This year had been exhausting. Your second stanza, all of it, I feel so deeply. This was a perfect format for your topic.
Donetta, change cannot get here soon enough for me. This online teaching is definitely not good for my self esteem! I just want to be in my classroom reading and talking about books with kids. Your poem perfectly expresses how so many of us feel right now. Hopefully, soon!
Donnetta,
I love the phrase “mother-in-love.” It needs to be a thing. These lines speak to paradoxes:
I hope you’ll be w/ your scholars soon and wrap tg in your loving arms because “Art should NOT be taught via LMS!”
—Glenda
Mo,
Your poem hit me on so many levels. So hard when we love our sweet pets so much and have such power over them.
I love the form one I can’t wait to try. Thank you for sharing the form and your heart.
Juiieanne
Julieanne, I hope you will share your poem later!
Mo, thank you so much for your writing prompt. I’ve never heard of a Bop poem before. I enjoyed reading the samples and attempting this form today. Your poem was so poignant. I’ve lost one too many beloved pets and can totally relate to the emotions you share.
My Town
Peyton jumped off the Hamilton Bridge
He didn’t hit the water
Rob hung himself—Jared was found in the river
Charles may have taken a gun to his head
Lives lost too soon never come home
Shell-shocked, we howl, “Why?”
No answers are given
Our shattered hearts won’t mend
An appalling silence descends
Lives lost too soon never come home
What do we offer the lost
the lonely, the addicted?
A safe haven to heal, or
cold shoulders and rejection?
Lives lost too soon never come home
Barb Edler
2 April 2021
This is a gut-wrenching poem. I felt the grief and the frustration in how people who are lost internally are abandoned by society. The callousness of so many is a constant source of incomprehension from me. Your poem is a necessary (oh that it weren’t necessary) call to awareness and action for the deliberately forgotten.
After two dear friend’s child had failed attempts at suicided I want to be a safe haven to heal.
Thank you for sharing.
Barb, this poem brings tears to my eyes. This past group, a book club read a book in which eight of my poems appear. The group leader invited me to attend the week the group was reading. One of the poems is about my learning my youngest son, Bob, was found dead in his apartment in Sasebo, Japan, where he was stationed while his Navy ship was in port.
I used the words “never coming home” “He’s never coming home” and then at the end “He’s gone Home”. Your refrain, “Lives lost too soon never come home” hit that cord that released tears again.
Guess what? The woman who chose to read that poem was retired military. She had been on the team that visited home to tell family their son or daughter had died in uniform! We “cried together” as she read. Your refrain, “Lives lost too soon never come home” hit that cord that released tears again
Home is so special…especially when we want to be there and can’t get there for not fault of our own.
Still, tears don’t necessarily mean sadness. It’s memories…often pleasant ones…of events we know won’t happen again. Thankfully, some of the memories are good ones! 🙂
Oh my, this hit my heart. Your refrain is powerful. This issue is heavy in my heart right now. Thank you for sharing these important words.
Barb, your poem is gut wrenchingly sad. As I read the comments others havem ade about your poem, I am struck by how important our words can be. This group is so important in fostering our writing lives, but also so, so much more. Thank you for sharing your work today.
Barb, your words are acute and your questions stark. I appreciate the boldness of your poem and that you don’t shy away from that which plagues too many communities.
Hello everybody,
Here’s my first attempt at writing a bop, a completely new form for me!
I think I got it, but even if I didn’t I really loved writing today.
I don’t think I can do.
I try.
I pretend to try.
I tell others I’m trying
until no one believes me, least of all me.
I’m stuck, but I would do anything to get unstuck.
I want to finish my doctorate,
but the story I tell myself
keeps me on repeat and redo and remix
I want to write a book,
but doing the work will reveal who I am, but mostly who I am not.
Can pretending get me there?
Fake it till I make it?
How long till it breaks me?
I’m stuck, but I would do anything to get unstuck.
“The only way out is through,” said someone.
“We’re wired to do hard things.” says everyone.
“Face your fears to overcome them”. I said that.
I know the slogans.
I know the hacks.
And, I know me.
I’m stuck, still, but I would do anything to get unstuck.
Elisa, I love how poems take on their own being in the heart of a poet. Even though form poetry can feel restricting, it is also a suggestion for beginning and I like to think also open to suggestion. I appreciate how you allowed us to bear witness to you inner thinking and even pleading to be unstuck. I trust you will nudge that boulder out of the way and craft another stanza of what’s next. You got this.
Thank you for your comment, Sarah! I am still working on moving that boulder. I’m hoping to work on that a lot this month.
Elisa, you effectively share the emotions of not being able to move on or past or forward in your bop poem. I was thinking today of how the words “Think Positive” about drive me over the edge. I think that is why I so appreciated your final stanza. How to motivate one’s self is truly problematic. Your question “How long till it breaks me?” truly resonated! Thanks for sharing!
Thank you, Barb. I tried to be positive in the ending but I still have a long ways to go before figuring out my next steps. I know that working through my sense of insecurity is a big one for me. Thank for you the encouragement!
Elisa, I think you did a great job with this poem. Bop Poetry is new for me too. I hope you find the will and way to get unstuck, my friend.
Thank you, Donnetta! Working on this for sure!
I remember someone mentioning this form in Time to Write months ago. I was excited to try it today. Your poem speaks to me, and I am sure I am not the only one. There are many times I feel stuck or afraid. Thank you for sharing these feelings and thoughts.
Thank you for your comment, Heather. I know there’s a huge critic inside all of us and I see how others are trying to acknowledge it and still move on. That’s the journey I’m on right now.
Elisa, I’m so glad you wrote this poem today. I love the trepidation you expressed in the line, “but doing the work will reveal who I am, but mostly who I am not.” That seems so raw and true- I can relate to that line! Your ending about slogans and hacks is trumped by you knowing you. I get that, too. Good luck!
Thank you, Mo. I love these challenges and am looking forward to continue to explore the direction I want to take as a teacher AND as a writer. I think accepting who I am not is just as important as knowing and celebrating who I am. Getting there!
Elisa,
It sounds as though you have an affliction so many women share: imposter syndrome. But you are not an imposter. You’re authentic. I don’t know how to get you unstuck, but I do know you don’t want to look back and think: “could have, should have, would have.” One step at a time. That’s all you can take.
Glenda! You discovered my secret! LOL! Yep, that is me to the T and I am having such a hard time accepting this and dealing with it in productive ways. However, I feel this is my year to crack through that veneer and really create something I am proud to put out into the world. I agree: one step at a time. I think that might just be my mantra!
Misunderstanding (in a pandemic)
Six feet separates,
but this is more
than distance
measured across space
with clear plastic barriers
and multi-coloured masks.
A cartography of us
is more than inches,
and more than topographical
lines which cannot
be graphed simply
with statistics,
logics,
rationale.
What is the calculation
required to traverse
the space between
you
+
me?
Melanie,
There’s much to love in this poem, your use of + at the end, the mapping of distance. “This is more than distance.” Indeed, it is. Excellent poem.
—Glenda
Melanie! Love seeing verses from Ottawa and this poem so powerfully exploring geography and mapping as metaphor.
These lines are striking as I think about “us.”
Peace,
Sarah
Melanie, I love the language of your poem and the way you craft it with words that detail the physical dynamics of separation, but then end with such an incredibly powerful question. Loved it!
Such an amazing way to show how social distance is more than measured distance. Great Poem.
I can’t say it better than Donnetta, so I’ll say DITTO. Your metaphor is perfect.
I love the images you choose to document our time – clear plastic barriers and multi-coloured masks/a cartography of us . . . more than topographical lines – wonder if CDC imagined such a description, is there a calculation for this kind of space?
The whole middle stanza gets me over & over. Actually, the whole thing. The layers of meaning here change and deepen with each reading.
Mo — I’m so sorry for your loss. Your lines: “if they need us to make the impossible choice/the one we can’t bear to make too soon./How close can we get to the line without crossing it?” were especially moving. Having to make that decision is so difficult.
Love the Bop. I am pressed for time today, so cheated a little and tweaked an old poem that I had previously written.
The Difficulty
i see a world hardened,
deaf to our brother’s cries,
oblivious to our neighbor’s suffering
we hurl insults and there is only noise
behind platforms where we hide and destroy
each other in slow exsanguination
WE can be better
the difficulty i see is effusive hatred spilling from our souls,
polluted rivers slugging through cities, man mired in ignorance
and denial, beating down their brothers. Oppression is not vanquished,
but is reality for those the world sees as “other”. Guns and ropes
still persist, and the dominant unbelievers of our commonalities and connections,
those that feed on rampant “isms” prevail,
but WE are the same. WE are the SAME. Blood bleeds carmine
in US all
WE CAN BE better
in the world of tomorrow, “isms” must die, white boy with confederate flag,
look black boy in the eye, SEE your brother. Minister in the pulpit
recognize your LOVE for your wife is no purer than the LOVE between
those two women holding hands on the street. WE owe
it to the world to listen to those silenced, to be better
WE CAN BE BETTER
Tammi, your poem is riveting and shares the real horror and damage of hate, violence, of a world set on dividing and oppressing. Loved the lines:
Thanks for sharing!
Tammi, your word choice is so powerful here. Your words made me feel increasingly anxious with each line I read. I was glad for your positive refrain.
The Problem with Solving Problems
How do you solve
a problem like __________
How can you hold them
all in your head
in your hands?
How do you solve
a problem like __________
Do you file them
by category?
by alpha order?
What is the Dewey Decimal
situation here?
Or is it more like triage
and the most pressing and/or immediate
get the most attention.
How do you solve a
a problem like ____________
Does that mean that
kid-won’t-take-a-nap
comes before social-equity
and after I-need-to-find-a-job?
How do you
When do you
solve a problem like ____________
Chea,
I love the allusion to “The Sound of Music” and the way you leave a blank space to emphasize it’s not the “problem” that’s the problem but the one labeling. I think the juxtaposition of Dewey Decimal w/ social justice is brilliant. It seems I’ve read some criticism of the DD system recently. I need to find it. Boy, the way we categorize is the problem. Love this poem.
—Glenda
I really enjoyed this poem and the use of the fill-in-the-blank. I’m glad I’m not the only one who heard that song from The Sound of Music as I read this. It really does seem strange to boil a problem down to something that can fit on a single line — when problems are usually so complex and can be sorted in different ways. Thanks for sharing
I found myself singing the lines until I realized the meaning. I love the condemnation of labeling that is the problem in and of itself. So many kids, so many teachers, so many people, so many causes, are identified in a way meant to cage them in a category. Categories are just ways of limiting. Thank you for sharing your poem of dissension.
Love this! The openendedness of relevance to the way the reader reads it – and yes, I kept singing Maria for sure. I think it’s time to watch the movie on this Easter weekend.
Chea, your fill-in-the-blank approach is genius. I love everything about it!
in the bed of early love, lashes
offer precious butterfly kisses
connecting delicate protectors–
sight, filters of light
blurring vision
in loving trust
in later days, lashes
wake in the soft
song of opening eyes
on crisp pillow cases–
love in morning light
shows lines in eyes
until a butterfly kiss
blurs the past
today, lashes
resist–concrete wings
begging for a few more
moments of rest until
a delicate protector
kisses an aging cheek
[This started as a bop, but I lost the thread of the argument and am still thinking about a refrain line.]
Sarah,
I never understood aging love and the tenderness shared by two people growing old together until reaching that place myself. I notice lashes once again play a pivotal, symbolic role in your poem. I love the way this image speaks to noticing snd the way you e personified lashes as agents in control. Really beautiful, tender poem.
—Glenda
Sarah — I love your second stanza: “in later days, lashes/wake in the soft/ song of opening eyes/on crisp pillow cases –/love in morning light/shows lines in eyes/until a butterfly kiss/blurs the past ” and the way you beautiful way you depict aging in love. So romantic.
This is lovely and has so much potential for interpretation. My favourite lines “a delicate protector kisses an aging cheek”.
Sarah, I love the imagery here. You’ve created such a beautiful poem with loving tactile sensory appeal. I adored the softness: the lashes, filters of light, butterfly kiss, delicate, blurs….and then the end. I am deeply moved by the love that resonates here! Gorgeous poem! Loved it!
The passage of time and the preservation of those Las by butterfly kisses are precious here. I like the sound of the enjambment and how it emphasizes the lashes. The sleep and love create a cozy, protected feeling.
What a sweet poem honoring a long lasting love. Your lash images are beautiful.
Thinking about how our eyes are witness to love, all through the years…gentle, almost timid in the beginning – “offer precious butterfly kisses/connecting delicate protectors.” Then, with assurance of time, daring to resist,
Loved this! I feel as if I had a poetic window on soulmates.
12:30 am, she stirs in her crib
it’s dark and cold and
maybe she had a bad dream or
her arm is asleep or
she’s teething—in any case
she wants her mom
if you were in her place, wouldn’t you, too?
12:45 am, I lay awake
listening to her wails
and hearing other echoes:
“co-sleeping is a sin, let her cry it out,”
but I’ll sleep better cuddling her than
waiting for her to quiet and
really, I miss her—in any case
should I get her?
if you were in my place, what would you do?
2:00 am, my eyes flutter awake
I feel the warmth of
her little frame against mine and
I breathe in the joy that
such a perfect daughter is mine—
so I hold her, for just a little longer
if you were in my place, wouldn’t you, too?
Rachel — I did exactly what you did when my children were little. They are now 22, 20 and 13 and have not been damaged by co-sleeping. No one has room to judge. If your little one needs you, she needs you and lots of cultures co-sleep. I especially love the lines: ” her little frame against mine and/ I breathe in the joy that/such a perfect daughter is mine –” I can totally relate to this moment.
Wow, Rachel! This spoke so deeply to my Mama heart. I think you beautifully capture the complexity of solving problems and the way our solutions can be influenced by outside forces – social narratives. I have been in this very situation. The timeline, the questions, the warmth all came flooding back to me. What a precious problem to have. Thanks so much for sharing.
Rachel, oh gosh, I just love the beauty of this poem. The final stanza is the perfect solution. Yes, I would, too! Beautiful!
Oh, your process of surrendering to co-sleeping so resembled mine! I tried to do what everyone said I was supposed to, but fie on them–mothers know best. My sons are 18 and 15 and aren’t a bit scarred by having been loved so thoroughly. This line: “but I’ll sleep better cuddling her than / waiting for her to quiet and / really, I miss her” was so authentic. Thank you.
You have so eloquently described the new mama/newborn dilemma. But, we do what is best for our babies, and ourselves. I love the LOVE in your words. And, to answer your question, she would be right next to me. (Just saying!)
So lovely, Rachel! I sure hope you share this poem with your daughter. I know you have never regretted time spent with your children.
love your refrain – a tiny tug, a gentle stir in the early morn that tugs at you, the resolution of her in your arms – bliss
Mo, your poem hit close to home! Thank you for writing and sharing it. In my adult life, I’ve been faced with this decision twice, and it is so so hard. And your prompt, well, I’ll actually try the format another time, lol; for whatever reason, I just happened to fixate on the word BOP today.
_____________________________
Is this the dress
“Thing” again, the
Is-it-blue-and-black-
or-white-and-gold
thing, the what you
see is not necessarily
what you get, the
your own truth is
not, by the by, my
truth even though
they are both The
Truth thing?
When I see BOP
or BAP or POW
and KRONK, I don’t
hear those sounds.
I’ve been raised
on comics, see,
reading these sounds
splashed across
the page,
characters
retching them
into the gutters
between the
panels, but I still
can’t hear BOFF
or BIFF,
and when I
read WHAM
I hear Wham!
literally
(“Wake Me Up
Before You Go-Go”)
So, I guess, what
I’m saying is that,
at times, I’m
onomatopoeia
poetically
challenged. I can
hear an occasional
DRIP or SPLATT,
even a DING or
CLANK, but I have
a hard time
hearing (or believing)
that KABOOM
is the last thing
my malleus, incus,
and stapes
would vibrate
before being
disintegrated by
the bomb’s
explosion.
Scott — I love the playful direction you took with this poem and laughed out loud to your reference to Wham!
Scott, your poem is a song in itself and a wild reading ride, leading me on quite a trip, full of rich sounds. The end is particularly thought-provoking! I love how you showed your connection to reading comics! It reminded me of the old Batman and Robin show where when they fought, you would see the sound words on the screen. Very entertaining poem!
SO fun, Scott! Your poem made me laugh out loud. I love your novel approach. Thank you!
Mo,
My heart hurts for your family and for Scruffy. We will soon face this same awful decision for our Puck. It’s so hard to know the time, to avoid crossing the line. ?
About the bop form: I love poetry as argument and introduced the bop to both speech and English students several years ago. I hope others are inspired to share this form with students as an alternative to traditional argumentative essays.
—Glenda
good white christian women
they’re good white christian women
trying to do god’s will
going to church on sunday paying ten percent to serve the poor
they struggle raising children in this sodom & gomorrah ‘merica
why should they sacrifice family home country?
they’re good white christian women
they were born here raised here & want what’s best for this land of liberty
why should their children be taught
gender is fluid & choose your own bathroom?
they obey the law to protect &
serve their way of life &
vote to safeguard family values
let others come here legally
the american way in our law & order land.
they’re good white Christian women
let the poor come unto me
suffer the little children
lay down your life for a friend
pray without ceasing
love your neighbor as yourself
perhaps at a more convenient time for
good white christian women
—glenda funk
April 2, 2021
Inspiration for this poem is from “The Good White Christian Women of Nazi Germany.” Here’s a link to the article. https://www.christiancentury.org/article/critical-essay/good-white-christian-women-nazi-germany
Powerful problem, Glenda! Thank you, too, for the link to this fascinating article. I am struck that both sets of “good white christian women” are so insular, wanting to preserve their own way of life, convinced it is above reproach. These lines jumped out at me in your clever poem: “they obey the law to protect & serve their way of life” It is a very narrow vision, and ultimately, in my humble opinion, at odds with the Christian belief “love your neighbor as yourself.”
Wow, Glenda…this is powerful stuff. Good people sure do fail to see that there are so layers to so many things.
So many parallels with the article present in our world today. ?
Glenda — You really nailed the hypocrisy here. I feel the same frustration with “good white Christian women”.
I was especially struck by your line “why should their children be taught/gender is fluid and choose your own bathroom?” Such a relevant poem!
Wow, wow, wow – I have not come across this form, nor this article, and both together are such a force under your wisdom and wit! I noticed the absence of capital letters right away and the way this flattens the hierarchical structure – “perhaps at a more convenient time” = haunting.
Glenda, I’m always pushed into thinking further whenever I read your words, and it’s true again today. And then I saw the article! Your piece and the article would be great companion pieces for student exploration too.
Glenda, WOW! I love how you deliver the hypocrisy of “good white christian women” so accurately. Your end was especially striking
Thanks for your honest poem and for the article that inspired your poem! Awe-inspiring!
Glenda!!!!! I want you to share this out loud on a megaphone! You ALWAYS deliver in a way like no other. I’m sitting with this because it’s the epitome of privilege:
BOOM!
One day will we all be able to live, love, and be free to be?
Thank you, Glenda!
I agree with every comment here, and the pious ways truly smack of the hypocrisy of “serving their way of life.” Failing to engage with people and Building walls and throwing money in a plate do not serve the people and do not accomplish missions.
Glenda, I don’t know how you always manage to write about such important topics so eloquently. Your passion always comes through so clearly in your writing. I appreciate how you always give us something to ponder.
Glenda, what a poem, and I love your insight into the use of the bop form in argumentative writing. Thank you. This poem (and the article) are chilling. (I just scanned it, but will read it later!) The “good” women who don’t want to be bothered with the biblical mandates and solutions in your third stanza are ready to maintain their white supremacy:
So many dog whistles.
Wow!
I really like this form–thank you for introducing me to it. 🙂
Though I am coming to the end of online teaching–we return to in-person in another week–my frustration with teaching on Zoom persists. Blessedly, many of my students do turn on their cameras in most of my classes.
Hello?
The word echoes in the darkness.
Are you there?
The light from the screen reflects on my glasses.
Sometimes being in touch isn’t really contact of any kind.
Connection is promoted as necessary, essential, vital.
Is anybody out there?
But when communication is limited to seeing only names, no faces,
The rush of joy from interaction fades.
Black screens and blinking lights, no twinkling eyes or slanted smiles.
No amount of bouncing and enthusiasm from one can change the facts.
Communication is not communication without more than one participant.
The pressure of performance looms.
If I only do this, more will come.
If I only didn’t do that, more would come.
Is anybody out there?
But what the real fact is
Is that no one knows what is in another’s mind.
The moods, the fears, the resistance to come forward.
All I can do is keep trying.
Persisting through each day, hoping for a spark.
A little fuse to light a larger fire, a bonfire of caring.
Is anybody out there?
Cara – I felt this in my Zoom-teaching bones. I’ve had a rough couple classes and, man alive, did this resonate with me. I appreciate your acknowledgment of the challenge alongside the commitment to persistence. The refrain of “Is anybody out there?” is brilliant and masterfully highlights the message and theme of (attempted) connection of this piece. It also reminded me of the meme (or was it a tweet) that keeps circulating about Zoom classes being like seances, bringing some levity from that connection. Thank you so much for sharing!
Cara, I am right there with you. Although we return in two weeks with 50% or less in person, it’s a bizarre newness to experience. I love your determination to connect because that’s all we can hope for is that everyone keeps trying. Hang in there and I hope your return to class with students is safe and rewarding.
Cara,
Dang woman, you hit the nail on the head with this one. The repeated line “Is anybody out there?” resonates with me deeply. Sitting in a Zoom breakout room with one student who refuses to come off mute and only gives one word responses if any. I know you want to connect on a deeper level with your students as in past years, my hope is quarter four will give you some of that.
Cara, this is such an emotionally draining year for us, isn’t it? I’ve never felt so ineffective as an educator in my entire career. I have to hope that I am making a difference on some level. Your poem is encouraging to me. We can’t always know what’s going on behind the screens, but I’m hoping we are all making differences.
I enjoyed reading your poem, Cara, as always. The refrain you picked gave me a spelunking sort of vibe, and that’s kind of what Zoom teaching feels like–searching in a cave with your flashlight for some semblance of life. Your last lines always blow me away, and I really appreciated this reminder:
“All I can do is keep trying.
Persisting through each day, hoping for a spark.
A little fuse to light a larger fire, a bonfire of caring.”
Only four
Persons
Allowed.
Please
Stand
In corners.
Deep breath
Quick count.
Older man,
Mother
With boy,
And me
Makes
Four
In corners.
Held breath
Three?
No, two please.
Button pushed.
Held breath.
Ground left.
Door opens.
Deep breath
oooh! I like this concise but full of story poem. I can feel the stress of being so close to other people at this time.
Yessss, Katrina! I was on an elevator with 2 other people last week and thought how horrible this will be when no one is wearing masks! I wonder if we will ever feel safe without one. Loved the short lines and the feeling of holding my breath until…
Great poem for today’s normal!
Katrina,
I think you e captured the essence of why we’ll never again see the days of “how many bodies can we stuff in an elevator?” It’s the passing of a cultural moment into a new normal of one per corner. ?
—Glenda
Isn’t it strange that you couldn’t have written this poem a little over a year ago? But now it speaks to all of us with such emotion!! I love the short punchy lines and the brief dialogue in the third stanza.
Rachel’s thoughts are spot-on. You can look back on this poem years from now and know exactly when this was written. Your short lines and careful word choice help build the tension. Well done!
Katrina, I really enjoyed this! So succinct yet full of such tension. A great snapshot of our current unease with elevators at the moment.
Mo, that poem about Scruffy is so sweet and heartbreaking. The refrain is perfect for what you were trying to accomplish–spend as much time as possible with him, but not wait too long. What a difficult decision.
This says so much:
He couldn’t help you make the difficult decision.
I’ve taken a stab at a bop today, but I have a lot to do for an Easter online service, which of course is due soon so I will keep going.
Procrastination
It is my middle name.
How can I wait
to do the important
’til I’m a tizzied state?
It is my constant shame.
When will I learn?
Videos to make
Cakes to bake
Projects to grade
Bills to be paid
Bops to write
Fights to fight
Bees to crochet
May Day, May Day
When will I learn?
Probably never!
I need to embrace it,
Write the bop
and get on with
the first thing on the list
OK, here I go.
When will I learn?
Denise, this is perfect! It reads as if I’m in the same state of urgency as you. The flow matches your emotions. I’m so happy you were able to:
Eventually it’s all done and you can exhale!
Denise, procrastination I believe is an inherited gene! Some of us work best under the pressure. You’ve captured it perfectly, “’til I’m in a tizzied state,” I could feel my head whirling!
I love that you put poetry writing at the top of your list! And, artfully accomplished! I agree with the sentiment of this line, “I need to embrace it” – I find procrastination can do wonders for getting things done. hahaha Best of luck!
Denise,
I thought you were done w/ those videos? “When will I learn” needs to be emblazoned on a t-shirt. Jesus doesn’t want us overcomplicating his resurrection, my friend. I’m exhausted simply reading that list. I hope everything works out snd you get some much-deserved rest.
P.S. Glenda, thank you for this comment on my poem– “Jesus doesn’t want us overcomplicating his resurrection, my friend.” I took some liberty with the list, due to rhyming–there will be no caking baking or bill paying today. The video for Good Friday was finished, and now I’m working on Easter! It should be finished soon, and then I’ll celebrate! This position has outgrown me in a year; that has become clear this week.
That first thing on the list creates the momentum fir all the rest! I love the May Day, May Day! My day was a May Day day! And your refrain is so true for me too!
Denise, it’s as if you are peeking into my house right now! We are having the kids and in-laws over tomorrow for an Easter celebration. It’s the first time in about 15 months that we will all be together. I keep thinking I will have enough time to get it ALL done, but I’m fooling myself. I’m glad I’m not the only one. Happy Easter!
I spent way too much time trying to make this clear but not too wordy. I love the Bop form but my problem must be too big for it to flow in the form. Maybe I will have time to work on it later.
No One Knows
No hot water anywhere in the school
And the soap we don’t bring ourselves
A diluted, suds-less, skin-drying potion
No red “stand here” circles or blue taped lines
To give little humans six feet of safe distancing
No way to believe in this “Safe Return to Schools”
No one knows what no one knows.
Families informed that their children will be safe
Teachers advised to get fully vaccinated
and work 15 extra hours to prepare for a safe return
Union agreed to place desks six feet apart
But desks were placed THREE feet apart in rooms packed for summer
Desk shields back-ordered for staff only
My school has no plan for before or after school care
And one grab-n-go meal will be a child’s only meal for six hours
No one knows what no one knows.
It’s not about learning loss when so many are gaining
It’s not about social skills if the silenced are now seen and heard
It’s not about students not receiving what they need
It’s about wanting to return to buildings
It’s about teaching and learning in storage spaces
It’s never been about valuing knowledge.
No one knows what no one knows.
©Stacey L. Joy, April 2, 2021
Stacey,
Wow, so many teachers are feeling this way. I know I have be struggling your repeated line
“No one knows what no one knows”
Resonates with me. I feel this very strongly. I wish I knew…
Stacey, truer words were never spoken. We all have so much to think about. When I talk with non-educator friends about some of the concerns you’ve expressed, they are always surprised. I think they think we have it all figured out. Ha! You’ve expressed yourself beautifully, as always. Summer break will be here soon!
Stacey,
Preach it. I am so sick of talking heads spewing venom at teachers when “no one knows what no one knows.” There was s no safe way to return to buildings in this dumb-ass country when do many buildings have been in a state of neglect and disrepair for decades. Every word of your poem is true. Send this out to NCTE on Twitter. You’ve said what many think.
—Glenda
This is heartbreaking – and so bold and important for you to write about, and broadcast widely. What a refrain: “No one knows what no one knows.” We must make sure EVERYONE knows. The opening line is the very first gut punch, with many more to follow. I am so disturbed by the fake assurances that schools and administrations offer, when teachers know the truth.
Oh, I felt this one in my bones. I am so anxious about returning, too. The anxiety isn’t just about being back, it’s about leaving the safety of my home, my constant canine companion, and my sons who have been students from home. Add all of that to the worries catalogued in your poem and it is just overwhelming. We’re all there with you. I hope that your return is less fraught than the difficulties imply. Your refrain is perfect, “No one knows what no one knows,” such an apt phrase right now.
Ready, Get Set, Go!
The challenge of writing we all know.
Our fingers hit the keyboard and flying off they go!
We have so much we want to say.
We write it this and that’ta way
But it’s not right! It doesn’t invite,
So, we put it away for another day.
Are we ready for the challenge?
When ideas come to mind, I say, “Fine!”
But they’re jumbled, entwined, all stuck; won’t unwind.
Then I learn of an online writing group .
What a challenge to be with this talented troop.
Oh how well they write! They comment and do not tease.
Pointing out what works, makes me want to please.
But I also yearn to know.
Then I grow, then I glow, then I want to show!
Are I ready for the challenge?
I must remember my primary purpose.
It’s not pleasing; it’s not teasing,
It’s not even conscience easing.
The challenge is to tell the truth in ways that others will see.
So, in this group, I come to write and daily strive to be
The listener, the writer and the coach that others are to me.
Are you ready for the challenge?
Oh, Anna! What a sweet ode to EthicalELA! As always, I am n awe of your seemingly effortless rhyming skills. Do you have a side career as a rapper? I just love the line, “Then I grow, then I glow, then I want to show.!” You’ve done a beautiful job of showing how meaningful this group is for so many of us.
I also like how you show what the group has meant to you in the last stanza. So wonderful!
Anna,
Yes! ❤️ This line is my favorite:
and I’m striving to be a good listener.
—Glenda
Weaver’s Bop form opened up a way to explore a recent conversation with a friend. I have not come close to resolving the problem in the 3rd stanza, but it felt good to give it a try. I will admit to being a glass-half-full guy.
Future Bop
What epoch will this be?
Perhaps the darkening ages, the late ages.
We see it coming, ecological disaster,
The ten-car pileup in the road ahead,
But are transfixed, seemingly locked in,
Unable to steer or stop.
And this awareness only
Heightens our malaise, without a cause to
Speak to or speak for, we wallow in resignation
And follow the GPS directions,
Those signals bouncing off satellites.
Unable to muster a chorus, we raise
Singular hands in zoom rooms –
No one calls on us or listens.
But André 3000 told us that love
Is the exception that shakes us up.
So we wake up, plant trees, tend gardens,
Tenderly laying infinitesimal seeds in tilled soil
That grow like secrets, reddish-orange carrots
Grandpa’s leaf lettuce, Cherokee purple tomatoes,
These heirlooms, gifts from the past
To a stubborn, perennial future.
David, your description of a heightened sense of malaise really speaks to me. You’ve captured my mood perfectly. Following the GPS directions really made me smile. But I especially like your final stanza that looks to the past for hope for our future. Lovely!
David,
I thought about Cassandra warning Agamemnon as I read your poem. We’re a country good with platitudes and token gestures but not good at heeding warning signs.
How long have we been warned? Even Jimmy Carter understood environmental warning signs back in the 1970s. Still, we “plant trees” and “tend gardens.”
—Glenda
David, I love how you develop the problem in this poem…of the idea that we cannot seem to be able to stop ourselves from certain destruction. The imagery of your poem is particularly striking: the “ten call pile-up”, “unable to steer or stop” and then the beauty of “Cherokee purple tomatoes”. I feel the overwhelming sense of resignation and can relate to the hand in the zoom room where no one listens. Your final lines are especially provocative! Thanks for sharing such an incredible poem with us today!
David, these are the lines that speak to me:
These heirlooms, gifts from the past
To a stubborn, perennial future.
I particularly appreciate the craft of paradox – “perennial future”. It’s because we have faith, that we can deal with the annual wonder if things will be different this time. Your poetry reminds me to “Keet the Faith”.
Silence.
The silence,
it lingers as the thick fog
over the meadow in
the early spring morning,
as I wait for the sun to break through,
listening to the silent chirps of the birds return.
When will we break through?
The endless buzzing
that has swarmed
all around us
blinding a narrow escape.
When will we break through?
Where is the duct tape
to patch this cracked egg?
This shell that was to protect
but splinters,
roots spreading,
embedding.
When will we break through?
Such a big question, Linda! I like that you’ve set this against early spring. It somehow gives me a sense of hope. The egg imagery is particularly effective.
Mmmm I love the imagery here! I feel like I can see that early spring morning, the “thick fog over the meadow . . . as I wait for the sun to break through.” I also love the way you set “silence” and “endless buzzing” next to each other – isn’t that how it feels?? A loud silence. Great poem 🙂
Linda,
Your refrains reminds me of Spring and of caterpillars awaiting to become butterflies.
Then the lines,
roots spreading,
embedding.
It’s the pressure that keeps the roots in place. Remember how the lawncare guys come through with those big roller thingies.
Maybe we need both…the duct tape to keep us in a little longer or going out only wearing masks, but I do understand. Some of us are cracking under the stress.
But, we won’t. We have each other to keep us inside a little longer…writing. 🙂
Mo, I have so many agonizing memories of having to say goodbye to fur babies we loved. I know writing the poem brings it all back. Sending hugs. Excited to write my Bop poem today.
Thanks for the cool format, Mo. This is about my struggle working in a different city from my wife and family coupled with the stress associated with seeking tenure and promotion.
Success, perhaps
Maybe yes
But oh that loneliness
One hundred and eighty markers
Pass by
Every distant Sunday
Is there no place like home?
Nose to the grindstone
Making strides
I appreciate that recommendation!
I’ll add that to my narrative
But never on a Friday afternoon
Fighting the five pm fight
We can meet for late dinner
To tired, let’s call it a night
Is there no place like home?
We wait another year
But enough is too much
Is it really a sacrifice?
Well surely a risk
We can have a Sunday Funday
Now I am with my heart.
Is there no place like home…!
Eric, you’ve done a great job capturing the stress of those hard decisions we make. My favorite line? Now I am with my heart. I hope everything works out for you!
“But oh that loneliness
One hundred and eighty markers”
Eric, these lines really hit home to me. About fifteen years ago my husband was working in another state. He would be gone for three weeks at a time. He would get home very late on Friday night and have to leave super early Monday mornings. It was so hard on all of us, but we did are best to fill those weekends he was home with family time.
Eric, I can empathize with your words and emotions, sharing in some of the same reflections, “Is it really a sacrifice? Well surely a risk.” I can say for me, the sacrifice is the sad part, the depth of the risk has yet to be determined.
Mo — Oh man, this poem just … it just … you know … I’m here in a puddle of sad. Love your heart. Susie
Thank you, friend. Jennifer is in the same boat!
Such heavy losses found here today. Puddle of sad – so well said.
Mo, thank you for sharing this poem and this format. I appreciated the invitation to tackle anything from personal to more global issues. One concern I’ve had lately has been with the terrible legislation coming out of my own state in regards to trans lives and healthcare. As a teacher, it especially hits home how some of these decisions being made my our lawmakers are essentially sending the message to our students that they are unwanted and unloved here and that is simply not true. So I wrote this poem in response to some of the anti-trans legislation being passed.
What actually surprised me most in the process of writing this was that I went and did some research for this poem so I could capture what was actually being said — so snippets of this were pulled from articles and information. I love the idea of bringing that into the classroom: that poetry can also be created from research just like argumentative papers!
In Response to a Series of Poor Legislation
The issue, they say, is based on a hypothetical:
“What if a boy pretends to be a girl
To gain access, to cheat, to win?”
They say what about the women
the girls, the children?
Yes, what about the children?
They reduce the issue to a simple equation:
one man, one woman, two genders.
Forgetting the infinite decimals and fractions
between one and two, between male and female.
Forgetting that two percent is 306,000 trans children reading
between the lines that they aren’t wanted here
they aren’t needed, aren’t loved, go away
Die.
Yes, what about the children?
It’s not protection, but policing. It’s not support, but suicide.
Because that’s the real issue:
solving a problem that doesn’t actually exist.
a hypothetical
woven into a law that no one asked you to make.
Wow, Erica! What a terrific topic for this format. I love your idea of using the form to respond to research. You have officially blown my mind this morning. Thanks you so much!
Thanks for sharing this, Erica. You’re addressing concerns many of us have right now as our state legislatures are pushing us in directions that so many of us do not want to go, as you effectively state in the final stanza. Weaver’s bop form challenges us to think through these issues, trying to pare them down to their essence, the fear and self-interest underlying such laws. You have done that here.
Erica, your words are so relevant, and powerful to the ignorance that has occurred in politics. Your line I appreciate most is, “the infinite decimals and fractions between one and two, between male and female.” This should not be ignored and your words help to support those children that are the decimals and fractions in between. Wow, thank you for sharing.
This is phenomenal! Yes, I think this bop style would be perfect form for students to present arguments, as you show right here. So many great facts woven in:
Erica, it is tragic, the heartlessness of seeing everything as black and white with no greys. The rigid thinking that makes only allows for whatever they deem “normal” and to hell with anyone who varies from that standard. You summed it up perfectly:
Erica, this is dynamite. I know a few who need to read this and I may just have to share it with them!
Mo, your poem stirred up so many emotions and memories of my parents aging, their poor health during their final years. I suspect your poem was about a beloved pet (simply because of these two lines: I’ve been given too much power—/the decision is too difficult), but it hits powerfully about grief of loved humans as well: “All that is left is to tearfully say goodbye.”
Here’s my poem
The Gremlin
I am
all alone
forgotten and fragile
spinning, sputtering, simmering
my mind the knotted mess of a six year old’s shoelaces
surrounded by situations at once unsolvable and essential to fix
step back, look away, go run and play
when so many alarm bells ring
what am I going to do?
what did they mean by that?
will they be okay? will they be alright?
can this even be fixed?
why did it have to be this way?
everything exaggerated exasperating exacting
the gremlin is anxiety
step back, look away, go run and play
take a deep cleansing breath and say her name
Anxious Annie, you’re visiting again!
I’m going to head out
by myself
awhile
ok?
step back, look away, go run and play
Maureen, I love the visual look of your poem. The build up and release is so clear. The idea of saying herr name is terrific. It feels like you are taking away Anxious Annie’s power by naming her. My favorite image is the knotted mess of a six-year-old’s shoelaces.
Maureen, the structure of your poem caught my eye. The anxiety builds. Then as you deal with it, it diminishes. In particular, that you name your anxiety is key to your dealing with it. I can relate.
Maureen,
I love when you write about these “visitors” who squat in your mind. I think: yes, that’s how I feel. I love the alliteration snd the metaphor in the opening stanza:
and the way you turned the refrain into a command as you abandoned “Anxious Annie.” She’s a naughty girl.
—Glenda
Maureen,
Oh, Anxious Annie, get lost. Maureen is not interested in your visit today. Glad you got to clear your head for awhile. I love the refrain!
You are a master of alliteration:
Mo, thank you for this very versatile poetry form that has endless uses!
Your poem captures a situation that so many of us have had to endure in various ways. The line “I’ve been given too much power” is such a key line.
My poem feels a little hopeless, I suppose. But it was a discouraging day at school yesterday when way too many kids had no idea why we had a four-day weekend. (I apologize to those who might be bothered by the religious undertones of my poetry these last two days . . . my heart is overwhelmed during this Holy Week).
They Need
Every year, hell . . . every day,
the number of kids in my classroom
struggling with mental health issues grows.
Eyes glazed over in fear, zombies.
Bodies itching to flee the danger.
in fear of what? They don’t even know.
They have to get out of their own heads
Absurd sleep hours prevent good rest
Too many self-absorbed activites, too much homework
and way too much time staring at a screen.
Social media screams out at them:
“You aren’t good enough”
“You don’t have enough”
throughout the day and all night long
they are bogged down by their own earthly, self-indulgent concerns and desires.
They have to get out of their own heads.
They need community.
They need to feel REAL connection.
They need to know the world is bigger than their iphones, their game systems.
They need a purpose beyond their own worries and interests.
They need saving . . . the whole generation of them.
They need [God] unconditional love and a sense of servanthood.
They have to get out of their own heads.
~Susan Ahlbrand
2 April 2021
Hi Susan. I don’t find the tome of your poem hopeless at all. I think you hit the nail on the head. I was just thinking about our students and their mental health this morning. Your last stanza offers so many wonderful solutions that educators can help with, especially those connections. These kids will get it, sooner or later, I’m sure. They are going to need a lot of help getting there, though.
Happy Easter!
Susan, I can feel your tremendous love and concern for your students. There is so much hard truth within these poetic lines. What a world these kids are moving through! If only – “They need a purpose beyond their own worries and interests.” I’m so glad they have you as their teacher.
Susan — This is such a genuine reaction to what so many of us are witnessing. The middle verse has my own worries rapped up in it as well, seeing the broken sense of caring structures that protect kids…the infernal media trolling that sends nasty messages of self-worth (so stinking manipulative and heartless)… and the kids can’t seem to turn away, as if watching a bloody accident. The need for community, real connection, and a sense of giving instead of getting…those are big, whether embedded in anything religious or not….those are real for every being. I feel your voice and the hurt that comes in your worry. Thank you for the caring. Susie
Oh, Susan, this resonates. As teachers, we love our kids, we love learning about and understanding their lives, but with that understanding and insight come these fears and concerns. I struggled with a good refrain line for my bop poem, but yours works so well. It takes a somewhat cliched phrase and challenges us to break it down, to think about it as an image.
Susan,
You don’t need to apologize for the religious tones in your poem. Your faith is important to you, and that makes it important to us because we’re in this space together, albeit sometimes alone in our togetherness. I feel the pain in your poem and the love you have for your students. We live in a me-centered world, and no one group has a corner market on that. This stanza makes an important point:
Lots of folks haven’t learned to serve is a way to feel better about their lives. I hope today is better for you.
—Glenda
Susan, this fog of preoccupation with self in our younger generation is definitely concerning! I love your repeating line and the admonition that a refocusing is in order. Yes, yes, yes! We must begin to build awareness of the importance of service and reaching out beyond our own fingertips.
Susan, you have identified and expanded on the problem so richly and sadly here. It breaks my heart thinking about the young people. You have captured it well, and your prayer solution at the end is needed.
Mo, your poem resonates and is so sad when anyone, even a pet, is met with a diagnosis. My head has been on my body and a festering infection that is resisting antibiotics. Frustration flowed through this form. Thanks. But honestly, no one needs to read this. It’s my own processing.
Another Prescription
My body doesn’t want to participate
in a resolution,
a medical solution to invasive infection.
Bacteria builds, rages as I soldier on
facing each new day
with resolve…drink more water.
As if it was as easy as 8 ounces 8 times a day,
then say so
on the constant go, go, go,
who has the time?
Maybe if I slow down, settle in,
breathe in fresh air.
The nurse calls, “Let’s try this”
as if she is here in my body
directing this medicinal parade.
Prescription rejected by knowledgeable pharmacist,
I have to call the doctor, the mysterious doc
who answers no calls, refers all nasty business to Claire.
More meds on meds-anti-nausea to keep the pill down
and build immunity up, boost the system to fight.
Her threat, “Next up, a hospital IV.”
Margaret, I’m so sorry to hear you are going through this struggle. But honestly, I’m blown away that you can write so beautifully while infection rages through your body. Water, fresh air, slow down- they all sound great- such easy directions to follow, right? Our bodies have wills of their own. I hope you get resolution and start to feel better soon. Now go back to bed!
I’m saying prayers that this infection turns around, responds to this latest medical invasion! Oh, I know this is hard. Especially, the cold removed interventions – “The nurse calls, “Let’s try this” – UGH!
Holy cow, Margaret — This is a burden you are carrying, a gut-punch of a burden. The title carries a real sense of trudging through the mud of this…”anoooooother prescription.” The tone of frustration is so strong. Even the drinking of all that 8 ozs of water… that’s even labored and so so not easy. The “mysterious doc/who answers no calls” — dang! That sucks! Is that doctor a woman…for some reason I’m guessing not. Your poem makes me angry for you, frustrated for you, scared for you — this is a powerful poem to induce such strong reactions in the reader. Sending a healing hug, Susie
Margaret,
OMG, you are one strong, impressive woman to crank out this amazing poem while suffering so much pain. I am so sorry you are going through this. Thank you for writing it, for trusting us with your hurt. I’m going to say a prayer for you. I know your faith is strong. This stanza hits hard:
Why are patients, especially female patients, especially older female patients treated as objects so often by medical professionals? These gatekeepers upset me more than I can say. Peace and comfort to you.
—Glenda
Margaret, I hope you feel better! Your words are still working just fine as we listen with our stethoscopes to the steady pulse of your poetry, so there is a clean bill of health flowing from your fingers! This rhythm and lilt at the beginning is genius:
My body doesn’t want to participate
in a resolution,
a medical solution to invasive infection
Never Give Up
By Nancy White
The problem is she’s lying there
Day after day
Afterdayafterday
Asleep with her eyes open
Mostly vacant
And she eats through a tube
Still. Never Give Up.
No one knows if she’ll wake up,
If she does
Will she know who she is
Or who we are?
She’s been sleeping
For three years!
Through the death of her dad,
All the protests, and COVID.
Still. Never Give Up.
Her husband ever hoping
For healing of her brain
He was there when her heart stopped
And the EMTs came
Maybe too late
Her family faithfully waits.
Still. Never Give Up.
This was heartbreaking and beautiful. Loved the perspective provided by “Through the death…and COVID.” The imagery in here was so striking.
Nancy, your sparse words help to show what a difficult situation this is. The enjambment works so well here to show how time passes. Most of all, I appreciate your hopefull attitude throughout such a difficult time. Sending healing thoughts.
This is so sad and poignant; I feel the weight and endlessness of the days in the way you wrote “Afterdayafterday” There is so much hope in the refrain, Still. Never Give Up. A beautiful yet heartbreaking poem.
Nancy, this is powerful! I like it when writers take liberties with words themselves to make a point. For example, “Day after day//afterdayafterday.” Again, such a powerful poem!
Wow, Nancy, this is so powerful. And dang sad.
The way you capture succinctly all that has happened in the three years…wow.
I love the “afterdayafterday”
It uniquely tells so much.
Nancy,
I sense the futility in the refrain, “Never give up.” The enjambment in “Afterdayafterday” hints at the monotony of waiting. This is painful.
—Glenda
Nancy, this edge of life is hope! The boundless spirit of love is so evident in the feelings of those she loved.
Mo, I felt every word of your struggle deeply. We just said good-bye to our own Ripley two weeks ago. I’m not sure enough distance has passed to express my thoughts as beautifully as you did, but your writing pushed me to capture some of what I’m feeling. Thank you for that.
From Ripley
Listen to the love
that was my boy to share,
the thwump, thwump echoes of a tail,
our noses pressed together,
a hand upon my ear,
a finger across my heart.
Your heart was mine.
Listen to the joy
that was my boy to share,
laughter wagging in a tail,
mud-mucked spring puddles,
snow-bound unschool days,
sleeping atop the dunes,
a bear
and his cub.
Your heart was mine.
Listen to the dream
that was my boy to share,
a tale stilled,
a final walk,
hear my being,
let it fly away.
Your heart was mine.
Beautiful offering, Jennifer! I’m so sorry about Ripley. We have a Corgi, and this poem had me in tears, so, very effective! The pacing and the repetition were terrific.
Jennifer, you, Susie, and I have had a rough year losing our beloved pets. Truth be told, I started my poem and had to let it sit for a while before finishing it. You have written such a lovely tribute to Ripley. That refrain has me puddling up this morning! Hugs.
Aw, Jennifer — this is so real and so beautifully said…”listen…joy, love, dream” … the love of our li’l buddies is a bedrock for so many of us. The loss shakes us to the bone. All the little images of joy and love…they seem small but the are foundational. And the “final walk” … oh man, you and Mo have me here feeling that hole, the void, and loss of my ol’ Watty Boy’s head on my foot while I play the piano. I think Ripley’s heart and yours is touching many of us today. Thank you, Susie
So very sorry, Susie. It’s the biggest of holes. Hugs to you and everyone who loved Watty Boy.
Jennifer,
You and Mo have me in a pile of tears today. I love the tenderness in this poem, the call to “listen to my boy,” the way you two become one. My poor heartstrings are being tugged in so many directions.
—Glenda
Oh my word, the beauty you have captured! This repeating line and the finger across your heart – I am so sad about the losses of pets today but so happy about the love that they brought. There is simply nothing like the love of a dog – a dog who loves us when everyone else in the world may have second thoughts. Jennifer, my heart goes out to you, to Mo, and all who have lost sweet furry family members who gave us every bit of the best of themselves!
Good morning, everyone! I’m sharing a poem that I wrote yesterday for a local poetry contest: We had to write about “trees” (in honor of April and Earth Day), and I wrote a sestina. Eager to get some feedback!
Inner Bark
Sneakers scrape wood.
You heft yourself, hands on limbs,
Up into the crook of the Y.
Bark crumbles beneath feet.
Sneakers scrabble, gain traction, and get hold.
One gigantic hoist, and you’re in the catbird seat at last.
You’re a giant, a hero, a queen on her throne. Your last
foray invited defeat. Would
you ever make it? Failure sat in the hold
of your stomach, your shaky limbs
aching from the trying. It seemed an impossible feat,
and you asked yourself: Why?
Why try? And you answered yourself: Why
not? At ten, defeat doesn’t last.
The other kids, the sometimes friends, would like defeat
to mow you down. The cruelty of ten would
like nothing better than to witness failure, head down, limbs
limp, as you gave up and abandoned your hold.
But not today. You survey your kingdom, hold
the neighborhood in your burning gaze–perched in your Y
and clutching the trunk to your fast-beating heart, dangling limbs,
wishing that this moment could last.
Oh, that it would.
Oh, that this moment could eclipse the other defeats:
Outstretched feet
Waiting in aisles like snakes, as you hold
your books tightly, stiff as wood.
A trip; a fall; wide eyes that lie, “Why,
I’m sorry.” From the first day of school to the last,
these moments, among minor triumphs, are limned.
But here, here is your triumph: Out on a limb.
Slowly unsheath from your shorts the paperknife you’ve smuggled (no small feat)
out of the house. And make your moment last.
The dull blade penetrates bark. You smell the green before you see it (hold
the trunk–don’t let go), and you call this tree your own, arms tense until the last “Y”
of your name sinks into the soft flesh of the wood.
Your fame, this old, limbed friend will hold:
The feat, itself, more weighty than the why
Your triumph ensconced, til the last, in the wood.
Hello Wendy! I’ve tried to write a sestina and it ain’t no easy thing. I never finished. There is so much in this poem! It’s wonderful. I love all the different “whYs”, especially the breaking up of “Why/not?” and “Why,/I’m sorry”. I love the focal image of a person in the Y of the tree. Well done. Thanks for sharing 🙂
Wendy, you may be the new Queen of Wordplay with this poem! I love so much abuot it. Thanks for teaching me the word “limn” today. Your poem needs to be read aloud. It would be a great mentor text for learning about homophones.
You had me at the catbird seat, as I just noticed catbirds in my back tree last year for the first time. Realy well done!
Wendy, your use of verbs propels the action throughout (scrape, heft, scrabble, hoist, ensconced). You’ve captured the defeats from outstretched feet in a way that makes me feel this with you. Love the use of “limned” here, as well, and this: “The feat, itself, more weighty than the why.” Wow!
Wendy,
This poem brings back memories of my sister climbing an old oak in our back yard. I watched. I think your tree helped the climber, welcomed the “tattoo” carving. Such a lovely memory.
—Glenda
Wendy, this moment in time in the Y of the tree and carving a y- ending name in the tree gives me great hope that the crossroad has been met and the straight line of happy days ahead will truly last. This is rich with imagery and feeling!
Hi Mo! Thank you for introducing me to the Bop poem! I’m sorry about Scruffy but thank you for sharing this cathartic poem about your tough decision.
Some are living the dream
of complete invisibility
hiding behind a screen.
They understand the routine
solace in not being seen;
Life has become serene.
But there is no win-win here.
Some cannot handle this distance
The disconnect constantly resisted
They grow through coexistence
Their need to be seen is insistent.
Some are learning, some are thriving,
Others are somewhere in between.
Some have not learned a single thing,
In need of more physical connecting.
There is no win-win here.
Some day all will be seen again
Life behind a screen will end
The lovers of attention will ascend
like birds freed from caged torment.
But the unseen seekers,
what will become of them?
There is no win-win here.
Promise? I so look forward to getting back to a safe, in-person, mask-less life. I like how focused this poem is.
Angie, I loved this poem. The rhythm of it was great, enhanced by all the near-rhyme, which made it seem lyrical, almost like a song or a rap. I could so relate to the subject, being a teacher and a parent, and I’m thinking you might be one or the other, too! And I loved your acknowledgement of the conflict between the introverts and extroverts, underscored by your refrain. 🙂
No win win here is the perfect refrain for this poem and our times. I am worried about the long term effects of all of this screen time. Connections are important. I appreciate your rhyme as well because it’s a challenge for me and you’ve made it look seamless.
I’m so glad you wrote today, Angie! You really nailed it with the rhythm and rhyme, which I think echoes and reinforces the dualities of the pandemic experience. Like you, I’m so ready to get off this roller coaster ride, though.
Well done!
I really enjoyed reading this poem, because even without saying it explicitly I knew exactly what you were talking about. I especially liked how you repeated and yet riffed on the line “no win-win here” because really that’s been the problem all along. Others are working really well with the way things are now, while others aren’t and there doesn’t seem to be a way to satisfy or support both parties. I hope we can all some day be seen.
Angie, you’re spot-on about the catharsis. How often our writing is simply (well, it’s not simple) about that, whether we are journaling or writing poetry or any other form. You’re grappling with an issue on all our minds, I think. The pandemic shutdown/quarantine has only exacerbated problems already in existence. The simile in your third section does a lovely job of offering another perspective or way of looking at the argument.
Angie,
It makes my heart ache to think there are students who do not feel seen from behind the screen. Your poem makes me wonder how this problem can be solved. I like the way rhyme and rhythm function to replicate a heartbeat in your poem.
—Glenda
That last haunting question just lingers and lingers. And it makes me sad to think about all the ripple effects of this pandemic.
But the unseen seekers,
what will become of them?
I agree – there is no win win, although there are some silver linings to some aspects of the pandemic – like more family time. Your question makes us think!
Mo, I love the Bop form and I love the painful honesty of your poem today. Looking at the end of life and knowing that it is a train we can’t stop is sobering and terrifying and such a perfect place for poetry! I followed your lead and took inspiration from you as I thought ahead too! Thank you for hosting today!
Fix-it Bop
this Bop is too small
to hold all my problems
20 lines and one refrain –
which problem to choose?
family issues?
health and aging?
: DRAMATIC organ music :
mama died, daddy won’t listen
mom in law died, everyone fought
thyroid quit, clothes got smaller
arthritis plagues, I limp along
IBD flares, applesauce sucks!
Covid takes hostages, Zoom ain’t the same
work is exhausting, no time to read
spring cleaning is backlogged, I just want to write!
: Pitiful violin :
my spirit needs writing
Bop, Bop, Bop,
: dun, dun, dunnnn:
when earth’s axis is tilted off kilter
it’s our hope in this space
that’s the key!
: soulful jazz saxophone :
Ha! A Country song I know well. Sing it sista!
I love your title Kim, and of course your SO creative refrains. Love the humorous spin on problems!
So funny! Clever and creative–loved how you used the colons, very cool. Made me laugh out loud–great job.
I appreciate this so much. I love the way you tackle the poem and the problems with a little humor.
I love how you used the refrain to place music in and with : punctuation. Clever! I am giving over my spirit to writing this morning as I have a day off. It feels good and necessary for some reason today more than others.
Kim, you are such a beautiful writer! I love the effect of your refrain choices, and the changes at the end of each stanza (and so wish I’d thought of that). This line, “my spirit needs writing” – oh, oh, oh!
Kim, how you manage to take some very serious topics, make them seem lighthearted, add a touch of creativity, AND do it all before 7:00 a.m. astounds me. You remind me that we all have “stuff,” but the keep is to keep moving forward, smoothly, with jazz.
Kim, so dang clever and fun!
Kim,
Boy did I feel the pull of so many choices for today’s prompt. I’m envisioning a book of bops. Maybe I’ll call it “My Book of Bops.” But you solved my conundrum w/ that list in the se one stanza. Way to catalogue like Walt Whitman. I love the way you use musical genes to reinforce the tone along the way. I need to stop being so literal in my reading of prompts.
—Glenda
Kim, you’d poem captures the frustrations of lack of time and space to create, the health problems we face, the family interactions and major events of death or debilitating illness, lack of communication, loss… it’s all so overwhelming at times. All compounded by COVID. It all resonates and makes me want to scream (which I have done!) and I must, we must remind ourselves to give ourselves extra kindness, breathe deeply, and find our way through it all.
I am appreciated the ontamontapoeia (spelling?!) in here – so fun, I feel as if I am listening to a friend singing the blues. Love the instrumental bops!
Good morning everyone and thanks for the great prompt! I thought about my Father-in-law’s funeral last week and the sadness I felt for his best friend who was there but wasn’t. This is the first stanza and refrain.
He doesn’t remember who I am
or, anyone else in the family.
He follows us to waiting cars
scans the sky for clouds and planes
He doesn’t remember his best friend
that we are burying today.
Hold a shell to your ear–
can you still hear the sea?
Aww Linda I’m sorry for your loss and I’m sorry for his friend. Loss of memory is so sad 🙁 This is a beautiful stanza and refrain. Your words have captured the images of someone who suffers from dementia very poignantly. That refrain/question, so much possible meaning. It’s lovely. Thanks for sharing!
Linda, so sorry for your loss. I thought that the subject matter was so poignant. I love the line break before your final two lines, and I thought the dash between them was a really effective punctuation choice. Also loved the anaphora of “He doesn’t remember…he doesn’t remember.” Haunting.
I realize reading your poem that I forgot a refrain. I love the refrain you chose. I want to see the full poem when you get it done. The loss of someone living is so hard to watch.
LInda, my eyes are welling up as I read your tender poem. Your refrain is haunting, making me think that your father-in-law’s friend may be a shell of his former self, but he is still there at his core. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Linda,
This is so heartbreaking. The healing power of nature breaks through in that final couplet:
Peace to you.
—Glenda
I absolutely love:
Maybe this is what matters. Our connection to the simple and organic. When the complexities of friendships and memories fade away, we can have our senses, at least for a time. I’m so sorry for the loss of your father-in-law and the sadness of his friend not know.
This is beautiful, Linda. That she’ll at the end – the connection to the sea from anywhere- is like a transport to connect back to the memories of the past and the places of the future. I can hear the ocean waves and feel the salt spray!