Our Host

Barb Edler has taught English for the last forty years in Iowa, the last thirty in Keokuk where she encouraged students to find their own voice while taking risks, coaching speech participants, and supporting NHD competitors.  Although retiring from teaching at Keokuk in 2020, she remains active instructing college composition courses. Barb enjoys watching the Mississippi roll by, reading, writing, playing cards, watching birds, and appreciating the simple things in life. 

Inspiration: Things I Didn’t Know I Loved

Throughout our lives, we all experience change. Some are more significant than others such as the pandemic or a personal loss or tragedy. Some changes occur more gradually or happen because we choose to take a new direction in life. Whatever the change may be, these personal alterations can impact one’s perspective too. Perhaps we begin to appreciate things differently, too.  

Today’s mentor poem is by Jamila Woods, a Chicago poet and songwriter. Her poem “Day 29 (2020)” was inspired by Nazim Hikmet’s poem, “Things I Didn’t Know I Loved,” which can be found here: https://poets.org/poem/things-i-didnt-know-i-loved

Jamila Woods’ audio recording and poem can be located at the following link: https://poets.org/poem/day-29-2020

Day 29 (2020) 

Jamila Woods

after Nazim Hikmet

it’s April 13th 2020, my mother’s 60th birthday
and i’m sitting on the couch from my old apartment
in my new apartment, and Pidgeon’s wind chimes are loud
outside my window

i never knew i liked wind chimes

i think Mom used to have some outside her office
she had tabletop fountains and hunks of amethyst
crystals the size of my face

i used to hate how she made us meditate
learn reiki on the weekends
now i’m calling her every other day
for the new old remedy

i hate how much i cared about being cool
when i was younger, carrying mom’s tupperware
in brown paper bags wishing for a lunchable
something disposable with a subtler scent

now i am ecstatic to see tupperware
stacked in my fridge, the luxury
of leftovers instead of chopping
another onion

i used to lie in bed on Sunday evenings wishing
for a whole week of weekends
now i forget what day it is
and still feel i’m running out of time

i never knew i hated washing my hands this much
i sing “Love On Top” while scrubbing
to make sure i hit twenty seconds

my sister hears me singing and asks
if i am happy. no, i say
i’m just counting

Process

“Things I Didn’t Know I Loved” is the theme I want to explore today. Consider the challenges you’ve overcome, the celebrations you can rejoice, the way you may miss something that you never realized you missed. Woods and Hikmet’s poems focus on specific visual details that are brilliant and emotional. Consider jotting down the things you see today and examine the way they connect you to things you may miss or value. Of course, feel free to write about anything that you wish to share. It’s your voice we want to hear. 

Barb’s Poem

Breastfeeding

Today a cardinal blazes by
Lands at the table feeder;
begins to eat most happily

I never knew I loved the birds

Until the birds
Were all that were
Left to see

I never knew how much I’d miss

Raising children
until my sons
were grown and gone

I never knew how much I’d miss

The games they played
The songs they sang
The way they called me mom

I remember the chores
The laundry, the exhaustion, the squabbles
The constant feedings

I never knew how much I loved

Their hungry mouths feeding
nestled like precious gems
against my beating heart

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Tarshana Kimbrough

Dear Barb, your poem was very touching in more ways than one. I was moved with every word I read by you! Thank you

I never forget being woken up by a person I valued most

Grandma

Your soft gentle touch and the aggressive voice of saying my name
never escapes my mind
when
I now awake to the sound of my alarm clock.

I never knew I valued being awakened by my grandma so much until I came to college
I now have the rude awakening of a sound that nearly gives me a heart attack!

I miss her hugs and simply her presence
and most importantly the food that was always ready

Grandma, ill sees you soon.
I know a big hug will be waiting

Britt

Thank you for this inspiration. With a toddler and another due in May, your last stanza made me incredibly emotional. Thank you for inspiring this draft!

I’m watching my son dance to salsa music –
the only beat he accepts listening to –
wondering who gave him permission to shuffle his feet that way

I never knew I’d miss his helplessness

I’m watching my son demand help with
putting on his shoes –
wondering when this need for
independence developed so quickly

I never knew I’d miss his helplessness

I’m watching my son fall asleep
with a smile and his conejo –
wondering when he stopped
needing cuddles and nuzzles

I never knew I’d miss his helplessness

My abdomen swells as it stretches
to make room for a second human:
his tumbling body signaling this space
is already not enough to contain him

I never knew I could love this fiercely;
two boys at one time.

Denise Krebs

OK, Barb’s sweet poem really did inspire you to write your own beautiful verse! Oh, my, I love this. I’m so glad I came back to read the latest. Even before you have two boys, you have captured so much motherly truth in your ability to fiercely love two at once!

And what an amazing poetic way to describe the ephemeral nature of pregnancy:

My abdomen swells as it stretches
to make room for a second human:
his tumbling body signaling this space
is already not enough to contain him

Beautiful poem, Britt!

Donnetta D Norris

Britt, you write so beautifully. I have been impressed, and awestruck by many of the pieces (poems, Slices) you have penned. I am so glad I get to experience your life through your words. This poem is so beautiful, and I can foresee many more sentiments about your boys in the years to come. I hope we are still connected in some way so I can enjoy them.

Barbara Edler

Britt, ahhhh, your end brought tears to my eyes it is so fierce with love. Imagine the joy your sons will experience reading this poem one day. You pulled me completely into this scene to witness your son’s new independence and the impending birth. Thank you for your gorgeous, lovely poem!

Julieanne Harmatz

Barb,
Thank you for these wonderful poems. It just happened to fit what I wanted to write about today.
it’s postmarked December 18 2020, the last day of school
i sit in the living room the sun streaming in
even though it is winter,
i open the letter
handwritten on thick paper

i never knew i liked stationery

i remember reading old letters my mother
wrote home when she was in Europe marked
airmail

i used to hate the flimsiness of the paper
and the tininess of her cursive
that was difficult to decipher

now i’m grateful for the physical record
of time long ago
tied up in a box
holding other memories

i used to hate the slowness of the mail
it lacked immediate payback
now i cherish the thrill of finding
a letter addressed to me in my mailbox

i never realized how voices are
amplified when i touch the paper
the ink

i never knew how much i loved
to read a letter
written on beautiful stationery
scrawled in black ink

Denise Krebs

What a lovely tribute to old-fashioned mail. I wqill look forward to writing letters on beautiful stationery again someday!
I like how you talked about before, when you didn’t appreciate your mom’s letters because of the thin paper and tiny cursive, compared to now…

now i’m grateful for the physical record
of time long ago
tied up in a box
holding other memories

I’ve been missing snail mail too, as my country of residence has not kept regular mail during the pandemic.

Barbara Edler

Julieanne, wow, what a gorgeous poem! Your words evoke such a loving and tender tone. It is clear that these letters on stationery are precious. The voices amplified, the setting, the black ink all are vivid and striking. The joy of finding real mail is a joy. Thank you!

Laura Langley

Third Trimester Trials

Sitting up in bed
propped on pillows
one, maybe two
I pull my knees up
to form an easel for
my notebook
a bedside book
the latest Bon Appetit.

I never knew I loved the
simplicity of lounging in bed.

Hopping out of the car to
grab the bag I left just inside the door;
leaping out of a yoga pose,
running to the stove to
turn off the heat under the
pot of rice I meant to check
15 minutes ago;
popping out of bed for
urgent bladder emptying.

I never knew I loved
my body’s sudden movements.

Britt

I’m finishing up my second trimester (my second son). Yes and yes. I love this so much! Our bodies are amazing, aren’t they?

Denise Krebs

Laura, beautiful juxtaposition of these two expressions–lounging lazily and the quick movements possible, even in your third trimester state! You have succeeded in putting us in your position for a few moments with your beautiful sensory images.

Barbara Edler

Oh, Laura, I love your poem and the way you show your situation immediately. All the things you wish you were able to do now is easy to visualize. Your poem brought a smile to my face. Good luck with your baby and thanks for sharing such a beautiful and accessible poem!

Allison Berryhill

Things I Didn’t Know I Loved

it’s 2021 April 8th
I’m legs-up in my life’s favorite chair
the only sound is the click of the keys
this rainy night.

I never knew I loved
this time.

oh, that’s such a lie!

what I never knew
was how much I craved time alone.

oh, that’s such a lie!

I’ve always melted into
journal writing
long drives without passengers
the company of my own thoughts.

What I never knew
was that I could love so much
and so many
contradictions:

the rubbery bathbubbly arms and legs at night
and the glorious school bus that
whisked them away each morning.

the full to bursting
busyness that soldered fragmented days
and saved me from raw terror

and the blessed
empty hours that now hum
in silent welcome
to me to me.

can I have lived both lives
can I have loved both lives

if this is this betrayal
it feels so right

April 9, 2021

Barb Edler

Allison, your poem shares such an emotional pull that is easy to access. To enjoy the quiet, the me time, the time to indulge in your own musings and writings….no, I do not think it is a betrayal. Perhaps it is life, a reward for all the time spent tending to others. I surely do not know the answer. But I recognize that sense of feeling guilty about “me” time…and is that our society or culture’s influence…not sure, but something to ponder. I love your honest and direct voice here. I could visual the bubble bath arms and of course, the bus whisking away. Thanks for sharing this perspective….rich, honest, and personal. Loved it! Thank you!

Britt

“oh, that’s such a lie!” I love the honesty in your own. And I love the tension; the true uncertainty of feeling guilt, but also…not. Thank you for sharing.

Denise Krebs

Allison, my how you strike chords in our heart with your poetry. This betrayal is not a betrayal, it is right–your poem has convinced me. I love the beginning as you toy with what it is you really love, “oh, that’s such a lie”

This double love is expressed with such joy and truth, I just want to keep reading this over and over…

the rubbery bathbubbly arms and legs at night
and the glorious school bus that
whisked them away each morning.

Linda S.

Allison, I love your poem contradictions because it feels a part of me, except I have not had those quiet moments alone until after story time at which point, I can’t stay awake long enough to do anything. I believe it is possible to love both!

Susan O

I regret that I have not thanked all the people giving us poetry prompts this past week. This group of writers and listeners is a force of creativity and friendship. Thanks so much!

Mo Daley

Amen, Susan! This is an amazing group!

Jamie Langley

I never knew

it was February 23, 2014
I’m sitting at my desk facing the window in my classroom
in a matter of seconds a cardinal flies into the window,
falls and a hawk swoops from the tree towards the fallen bird
then returns to the tree

at my desk I sit eyes glued to the hawk in the tree

I never knew I liked hawks

last summer we watched a hawk in a tree over by the church
each morning as we entered the parking lot we looked for the hawk
if we were lucky we watched it swoop from one tree over to another
and we stood watching it in that tree, watching it do, what hawks do

I never knew I liked hawks

this week I noticed a hawk on the power pole just beyond our backyard
the first evening I noticed it swoop in and land, as I sat on my bed
doing exercises I watched, and admired the hawk
it was back the next evening and the next,
I admired its red color in the setting sun
and this morning the hawk was back joined by two smaller birds

I never knew I liked hawks

Barb Edler

Jamie, I really enjoy the repetition with “I never knew I liked hawks”…We have several hawks that fly around our home as we live near the river and a bit out in the country. I love the way they float through the air, and there literal size is fascinating. I think that is why your poem really spoke to me. I could totally relate to “we stood watching it in that tree, watching it do, what hawks do’. It’s like you just can’t stop looking at them. Thank you for sharing!

Mo Daley

Jamie, hawks are SUCH a force of nature. I love watching them so much. I was so surprised when you watched the hawk go for the cardinal, then admitted you like hawks. It doesn’t seem right, but it is how nature works, and I get it.

Allison Berryhill

A story: My son as a toddler rode in the combine with my husband one fall day. They were harvesting corn, and from time to time the machine routed rabbits from their nests. “Hop Hop!” my son shouted in delight as the rabbits scurried across the field.

But then a hawk swooped down and did what hawks are meant to do. My son was likely traumatized. My husband was mortified. But we tell this family storytime and again!

I never knew how much I loved hawks. And hops.

Allison Berryhill

Jamie,
One of my favorite things about this group is seeing the prompts burst out in so many unexpected directions. Your hawk poem is extraordinary. You have used your poet’s eye (observing the hawk) to bring us all into your experience.
Thank you.

Donnetta D Norris

Princey-Poo-Poo

Floppy puppy ears,
Fluffy puppy face,
Bushy puppy tail.
In my heart he stole a place.

I never knew how much joy a fur-baby brings.

Mo Daley

Truer words have never been spoken, Donetta. I can’t imagine what my life would be like without dogs.

Barb Edler

Donnetta, I love the alliteration of your poem and the title of your poem is priceless! “Princey-Poo-Poo”…love it! I used to say “Pumpkin Poo Poo” to my kids. The line “In my heart he stole a place.” says it all! Fur babies are so precious, and yes, they do steal our hearts. Thank you for sharing such a delightfully warm poem! Loved it!

Denise Krebs

Donnetta, your sweet word choice here is delightful. I love Princey-Poo-Poo from your description. Short but packed with so much love and playfulness, just like your puppy.

Wendy Everard

Love this prompt, and I plan to write to it tomorrow. But after experiencing a hard loss today, this was the poem I needed to write today (I skipped this prompt earlier in the rotation):

We wear the mask that hides our grief,
Stolen from us like a thief
steals gold or silver, precious gems —
We long to cry, but just for them
We wear the mask.

We wear the mask, its silent lies
disguise the worst from prying eyes
The pain that we can hardly bear
Concealed from fluorescent glare
We wear the mask

Hearts overflow and yearn to tell
tales to help us break the spell
of grief and mourning, like a pall,
It covers heart, brain, being, all.
We wear the mask.

Mo Daley

Wendy, I’m so sorry to hear about your loss. I’m glad that writing is helping you. Your last stanza particularly effective in demonstrating your grief. Every word of your poem rings true to me.

Barb Edler

Wendy, I am so deeply moved by your poem and I am so sorry for your loss. Yes, this is a time we do wear masks. That unwillingness to break down in front of others’ prying eyes…I can so relate to this truth!. “grief and mourning, like a pall” I feel the grim heaviness of this line. I’m glad you were able to share this poem today! Tears and hugs!

Denise Krebs

Wendy, I’m glad you took time to write this needed poem. It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it? “yearn to tell tales to help us break the spell of grief and mourning” Yes.

And this…

We wear the mask, its silent lies
disguise the worst from prying eyes
The pain that we can hardly bear
Concealed from fluorescent glare

The pain that we can hardly bear…heartbreaking. Ending come soon, please!

Rachelle

Thank you, Barb, for this prompt. I grew up in Iowa, so I considered writing about that. I did a lot of brainstorming for this one, so the product here is just what came of that. I think it’s just the beginning of something that will become more significant.

Morning Commute:

I hated waking up at 5:30. The sky remained pitch
black though I was awake. And despite living in a busy apartment
complex, there was hardly a sign of life besides the little
spiders forming beautiful, glistening,
complex webs between vehicles.

Everything was unbelievably still. I didn’t know I loved that.

Warming up my frost-covered Forester to prepare her
for a 45-minute drive north was a task I most despised.
She and I would arrive at our destination before most people stirred.
In fact we would be parking just as the sun’s rays
poked up behind the Cascades, piercing the stars
with magnificent light–setting the backdrop as
I walked through the school’s doors to begin my day.

I didn’t know how much I loved this cyclical spectacle.

Cara

Oh Rachelle,
I can just picture your drive to work. I miss the view from my room (just a few doors down from you)–the perfect way the sun rose just beyond the school’s stadium. Early mornings, though I am not a morning person, were beautiful from that vantage point. I love the visuals you word paint and appreciate the “cyclical spectacle” very much.

Barb Edler

Rachelle, what a gorgeous poem filled with striking images. I was particularly moved by the details you shared of the spider webs. Spiders abound in my river town. Your final line is so moving and shows your passion about the school where you teach. Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem!

Allison Berryhill

Rachelle, Reading your poems here is a double pleasure: the poems themselves, and hearing the voice of a wonderful young teacher-friend who now lives half a continent away. I love the poet who notices the little spiders’ glistening webs.

Jamie Langley

two things you love in an early morning drive to work – from the love of the still to the cyclical spectacle; I’m reminded of mornings arriving at school early to see morning’s light stream in the windows and light up the hall

DeAnna

Rachelle,
Watching the sun rise from Cara’s “other” classroom just a few doors down from yours is something I truly have missed this past year. Beautiful poem.

Mo Daley

And Maybe Even Boy Farts
By Mo Daley 4-8-21

gingerbread
new book
garlic
petrichor
hyacinths
wet dog
chocolate chip cookies
freshly cut grass
tacos
Shalimar
new car
eucalyptus
a freshly bathed baby
sparklers
popcorn
skunk

(Personal note- I lost my sense of smell permanently in 2012 as a result of a surgery gone awry. SOmetimes I think about all the things I’ll never smell again.)

Rachelle

The title of the poem intrigued me, and so did this list poem. I’m glad you included the personal note at end. I’m currently sitting outside, with a dog who ran through the sprinkler, so that line particularly stood out to me. Thanks for this piece today, Mo.

Susie Morice

Oh my goodness, Mo — You lost your sense of smell!!! Gee whiz. These are each such vivid smells… I am amazed that you have had to experience this loss. That’s just such a big darn loss. Dang. I want to loan you my nose… it is so much better than most of my other senses. Your poem makes me grateful but it also really hammers. I think the choice to put the skunk as the final word seems good… a smell that puts you in the catbird seat. What a poem! I so did not expect this one. Thank you for sharing such a personal loss. Susie

Mo Daley

Thanks, Susie. It seems like a minor loss, considering what could have happened. The loan of your nose reminds me of how my great niece used to tell me to form my hands like a cup under my nose and try really hard to trap a smell. She was always disappointed when it didn’t work. LOL

Barb Edler

Oh, Mo, I am so sorry to read your personal note. Your catalog of scents carries a whole new meaning after reading that. I love the specificity of your poem. To end with skunk seems especially striking. There is something very stirring about skunk smell. You share a wide range here of precious smells to the ones that are definitely more rank. Thank you for sharing the fact that we do need to appreciate the scents of our daily lives. Bless you!

Allison Berryhill

Mo,
Your poem is visceral: I smelled each item. Funny that you mentioned petrichor! I didn’t know this word until David Duer chose it as his 2021 word in our Iowa Council of Teachers of English community! This morning, rainy, I smelled the worms. It wasn’t quite petrichor, but it brought the word to mind. Here it is again this evening!
Thank you for including a freshly bathed baby. My grandbaby was born in NZ last July. I love facetiming and hearing him squawk, but I long to feel his fat thighs and nibble his neck and smell smell smell him.
I didn’t mean to hijack your poem and make it all about me, but you know? A good poem does that to a reader.
Hugs, Allison

DeAnna

Mo,
As the mom of three sons, the title of your poem pulled me in. Wonderful list poem. Sad to read you lost you sense of smell.

Cara

On this grading day where I have sat in one spot with few breaks for nearly 10 hours, I desperately want to walk. It won’t happen today, but definitely tomorrow. I need a reset.

On those days when all seems to be closing in,
there is nothing like a long walk to reset the world.

The farther I get from my house in my steps,
the pulls of the day become tenuous at best.

With each footfall, I breathe in air that hasn’t
been cycled through a forced air furnace.

The neighborhoods I walk through are quiet,
only a few stalwart gardeners out in yards.

Eventually, the sidewalks end and I am walking
on barkdust beside an expansive wetlands.

Ducks, geese, nutria, squirrels, frogs, and hawks
all contribute to the natural symphony in the air.

By the time I have rounded the curve to the
back of the trail, my anxiety has dissipated.

Five miles I go in total, accompanied by a happy
Goldendoodle with little shoes on her feet.

Even walking up the steep hill to get home, I
feel better, fresher, more able to fully inhale.

I didn’t know how necessary it was to bathe in
the beauty of nature until it restored my soul.

Rachelle

Cara, thank you for allowing us a glimpse into a walk. Though you don’t have time for a walk today, I hope that this poem acted as a meditative experience for you — reconstructing the sounds of the frogs and the smell of the cherry blossoms blooming isn’t quite the same as doing the act of walking, but perhaps this is second-best. 🙂

PS: the first time I read the poem, I read “breathe in / the beauty of nature..” but I realized you wrote “BATHE in / the beauty of nature…”, and I like that word choice so much more for this poem!

Barb Edler

Cara, what a gorgeous poem. I love the focus on your neighborhood, the walk itself, and the beautiful nature details as well as your companion, the Goldendoodle. Loved the line “natural symphony in the air” . Yes, a good walk does help us open up our souls so that we can fully inhale! Thank you for sharing such a wonderful poem, and I hope you will have plenty of time to walk this weekend. I remember those endless days of grading.

DeAnna

Cara,
I know how much you count on your walks to help reset you. Sorry you were not able to fit one in today. I enjoyed my virtual walk through your poem.

Tammi

Barb –I loved the nostalgia you evoked in your poem. I remember those exhausting days well and also have been feeling a little nostalgic for those days as my oldest has graduated from college and official moved out.

My Consummate Scientist

It’s past midnight, I lie awake listening to silence,
light from the gibbous moon slipping through the curtains
and I’m waiting for the rattle of the key in the lock
the click of the light, the creak of the oak floorboards

I never knew I loved the creak & the sound of you coming home

I used to sigh and fret over your untied shoes, skinned knees & torn jeans
you threw yourself into play like your life depended on it
tumbling into the house after a long summer day of misadventure
trailing dust and dirt

I never knew how much I loved the dirt

I cringed at your collections, the consummate scientist,
examining bugs and rocks, collector of trinkets — worn pennies
rusty bottle caps and sea glass

I never knew how much I loved the rusty bottle caps & sea glass

now you’ve grown into a man, intelligent and kind
and I’m thrilled when you call from a state away
and tell me about your day in the lab
dissecting, experimenting, extrapolating data

I used to lie awake and worry, worry that your impulsivity and curiosity would be your undoing

I never knew how much I loved
your impulsivity and curiosity
your zeal for learning

I no longer listen for the creaking floorboards, just gaze at the moon and sleep well knowing you are just perfect

Susie Morice

Tammi — The nostalgic tone of those days with your son is so strong and so loving. I love the looking back and embracing the frets and “trailing dust” and telltale signs of a young one learning. (such visual evidence of a boy growing…bottlecaps, dirt, dissecting… How lovely to think of the creaking floorboards and being rested and happy with the gibbous moon! I remember my own Mama not resting well until she heard me come in at night after being out with friends…she never failed to open the bedroom door to check that I was there and safe. I loved the comfort of that and the comfort in your poem. Beautiful. Thank you. Susie

Cara

As a mother of two boys–one who is moving out late this coming summer–I felt your poem in my heart. I am trying, very diligently, to quietly celebrate the moments we still have together knowing they are numbered. Thank you for so eloquently capturing the feeling.

Barb Edler

Tammi, oh my goodness, I could definitely relate to the opening of your poem. Lying in wait, just wanting to hear the child come home, worrying myself half to death. Plus, the wonderful joy of receiving a real phone call, not just a text! Loved how you connected all of the scientific words to help craft this heart-felt and poignant poem! Loved it! Thank you!

Heather Morris

Barb, your poem is beautiful, and it spoke to me as I get ready to send my youngest to college. I have been thinking about this prompt all day. I thought I would pick something I saw while I was walking today, but I think the reading we are doing in class about Anne Frank resonated with me.

Every morning before the sunrise,
I get up with the alarm
without the snoozes
just to write words.

I never knew how much
I would need
to write
my joys,
my worries,
my hopes,
my disappointments,
my accomplishments,
my plans,
my mistakes,
my sorrow,
my thoughts big and small
into a notebook
full of empty lines
waiting for me.

I hate missing a morning.

I never knew
how much I had to say.

I never knew
how liberating it would feel
to play with words
on a blank page,
to pour my heart out
through a pencil
onto nonjudgmental paper,
to achieve closure.

I did not know
I loved writing
until July 2020
when I sat down
with a group of
writers over Zoom.

Rachelle

Heather, this poem really resonated with me. This line perfectly captures my thoughts that I’ve had as I’ve reflected on my writing practices and how I’ve grown as a writer,

“I never knew
how much I had to say.”

Another reason why that line stood out to me is because I’m usually shy and quiet in groups, but my journal knows that I have a lot to say, haha!

Barb Edler

Heather, wow, I love how you can connect Anne Frank with your own actions of writing. The use of cataloguing all the ways we communicate on paper is particularly effective. I love the emotions shared of feeling liberated and of finding closure. Gorgeous poem! Thank you!

Katrina Morrison

I never knew the sustenance of sky.

The 25 miles
On Highway 20 and
Over Keetonville Hill-
a tour of early April’s
First offerings
Of chartreuse
And fuchsia
And ivory
Blooms
Against the
Cerulean sky.

I never knew the sustenance of sky.

The sky reached through
The floor to ceiling window
To hold my hand
While the dentist
Pulled and tugged
And removed
Two dear teeth.
“There, there, you’ll be OK.”
And I drew a deep draft
Of nitrous oxide.

I never knew the sustenance of sky.

But the sky is fickle.
Some farmer played a
Part, perhaps burning a field,
Preparing too soon for summer.
A smoky haze was
Faint comfort
Compared to
The glorious earlier.
I bit down hard
On the oozy gauze.

Susan Osborn

Ooh Katrina! This is a poem full of contrasts, color and a bit of pain. I really like the way it progresses and the visuals of the sky colors and what I imagine to be on the oozy gauze.

Tammi

Katrina — I absolutely love the beautiful images in your poem: “First offerings/Of chartreuse/
And fuchsia/And ivory/Blooms/Against the/Cerulean sky.” I can totally visualize this. And your juxtaposition with the burning field and pain of the dentist chair was really well crafted.

Barb Edler

Katrina, I love the imagery and layers of your poem. The end was particularly striking for me. I spent an hour today at the dentist where I felt completely tortured as he tried to locate exactly which tooth was causing the most pain….I think that is why I so appreciated those final lines of biting down hard on “oozy gauze”…Love the way you describe the sky throughout this. The language is rich, specific, and accessible. “The sky is fickle” indeed! Glorious poem! Thank you!

Linda S.

This is my first year participating in #verselove, and I imagine not my last. What started off as a suggestion in taking part of, has made me grow, appreciate and enjoy what writing poetry can do to a soul.

My Therapy
imagery
mood
rhythm
flow
language
unstructured
form
words
personal
voice
emotion
beauty
fear
memories
new
old
space
growing
learning
releasing
therapy
me
I never knew I loved poetry.

Glenda Funk

Linda,
This is a wonderful list w/ a delightful surprise at the end. I’m reminded of so many students who’d enter my class claiming they didn’t like poetry. I’d say, “Of course you love poetry. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

DeAnna

Linda,
My love of poetry was renewed this year working in a Creative Writing class. Poetry is so good for the soul. Thanks for sharing.

Heather Morris

I love this. I recently learned how much I love to write poetry. My poem is about writing, too. I call writing my therapy.

Tammi

Linda — Yes, all those things about poetry make me love it too. You’ve captured the essence of writing poetry perfectly.

Stacey Joy

Oh Linda, you are a poet whose voice we need! I’m grateful you discovered this love of peotry. It loves you right back!
?

Barb Edler

Linda, I could not agree more with the sentiment of your poem. I love how you lead to the revealing detail about loving poetry until the end. I’m so glad you’re here to share your voice. #verselove is a truly beautiful place to share! Absolutely loved your poem! Thank you!

Susan Osborn

Love During a Pandemic

I never thought I would:
learn to love the things mundane.
Yes, I never thought I would.
These things were chores –
needed jobs to be done and should.

I never thought I would:
learn to love the time being alone.
It’s been kind of a “plus.”
This working in solitude –
doing without much fuss.

I never thought I would:
learn to love not showing my face
in meetings on Zoom
where I can hide behind a screen
yet see faces in the room.

I never thought I would:
learn to love when the phone doesn’t ring.
Rarely use a comb,
wear makeup or get dressed up.
Drive in my car just to roam.

I never thought I would:
learn to love silence, no chatter I hear.
Love to watch growing weeds
only to pull them out
and replace them with seeds.

I never thought I would:
learn to savor idle time to dream
and be happy to be so secluded.
Will I ever want to reenter the crowd
when this scourge is concluded?

Susan,
I think every line in your poem speaks to me. I have been thinking a great deal about loneliness and solitude and also about what my preference for solitude means about me and my relationships. Your poems shows this tension from “I never” to learning and some discovery. The “time to dream” shifts into this final line, which is so powerful and just profound:

Will I ever want to reenter the crowd
when this scourge is concluded?

What if? Right? What if we don’t?

Sarah

Tammi

Susan — You’ve really hit upon a lot of feelings I’ve been experiencing.
These lines really spoke to me: I never thought I would:/learn to love silence, no chatter I hear.
During this pandemic I discovered I am much more of an introvert than I thought. Even though I miss seeing family and friends, I really enjoy my time alone. The silence has been peaceful. I might be with you staying in seclusion.

Stacey Joy

Susan, I wish we could all go back to the beginning and listen to ourselves. I imagine you were not thinking this would become something you’d learn to love. I know I definitely had some tantrums and fits and now I sure as hell don’t want to put on makeup and cute clothes and schmooze with folks.
I loved the last stanza because I really don’t want to lose this secluded peaceful time to dream either.

I never thought I would:
learn to savor idle time to dream
and be happy to be so secluded.
Will I ever want to reenter the crowd
when this scourge is concluded?

Barb Edler

Susan, “to savor idle time to dream”….what a gorgeous line and one I can fully relate to. I so agree that I am more unwilling now to join a crowd. I love how you focus on all the mundane things that became a normal part of your day during the pandemic. I think the detail that stirred me the most though was the idea of appreciating the silence. Outstanding poem! Thank you!

Maureen Young Ingram

Barb, what a gorgeous poem you wrote! I went back in time, thinking about my boys as babies. Thank you for introducing me to Jamila Woods – that was lovely!

I really thought I’d write about the pandemic and my noticings – but for some reason, this is where I landed: going to therapy. I still look back on this time wistfully, and wouldn’t hesitate to go again should the need arise. But, I sure didn’t feel that way when my world was crashing in.

The Therapist

I never thought I’d miss
how every visit
you found
the pulsating hurting raw
shattered parts of me
how you would hone in
cutting me open
digging down deep

I never thought I’d miss
being alert and uncomfortable
on that rickety wicker couch
feeling off-balance
being off-balance
living off-balance
a fragile eggshell, exposed, empty

I never thought I’d miss
the microscope you held for me to see
my own wounds
all that was wrong
never allowing me to look away
I never thought I’d miss
the work of you

you helped me
heal

Maureen,
Thank you for your poem today. The title struck me right away — as the literal but also the figurative and what/who the therapist is or can be for each of us. I am thinking about this line especially:

the microscope you held for me to see

This line makes me think about how I need help, how I need someone to help me see, to invite me to see, and there is something about not doing it alone or not being able to see the same way without someone alongside us.

“heal” — one word for the last line is everything

Sarah

Katrina Morrison

Maureen, the singular detail of the “rickety wicker couch” illustrates so perfectly the fragility you felt. Wow!

Glenda Funk

Maureen,
You’ve shared a fragile moment in your life in such an accepting way that I believe can/will help others. What I notice most is the discomfort, “ the pulsating hurting raw / shattered parts,” the “hurting…cutting” so necessary for those final two lines: “ you helped me / heal.” Beautiful poem.

Susan Ahlbrand

Maureen, boy have you ever created a wonderfully relatable poem here about the delicate topic of therapy. One almost every line, I nodded my head and said, “Yep.” Your images so perfectly paint the scene. I especially love

a fragile eggshell, exposed, empty.

Susie Morice

Maureen — This is such a gorgeous description of a woman healing in the hands of “the therapist.” It is such a challenge to navigate “hurting raw/shattered parts of me,” and then it becomes such a testament to the strength that was there under all that. Sometimes I think therapists are like miners, who know the vein of ore is there and are willing to climb down inside the shaft of your heart to drag it back to the surface. The repetition of “off-balance” lines really work. This is a strong and very personal piece that I respect so deeply. I’ve had my time in “the big chair” (couch), and it was a miraculous experience. You ought to send this to the APA Journal… a document of healing. I truly appreciate your sharing this. Susie

Heather Morris

I felt like every line of your poem was walking us into the healing light. Thank you for sharing this. Others need to hear your words.

Stacey Joy

Wow, this is a testimony to a great therapist and you for being healed and whole. I’ve heard so many say this is the time, if ever there was, for people to find good therapists. I am glad you had such a positive experience. I loved my therapist and have considered finding another one and getting back for some patchwork repairs. LOL.

Powerful lines:

you found
the pulsating hurting raw
shattered parts of me

?

Barb Edler

Maureen, what a wonderful poem full of tactile sensory appeal and incredible emotion. “a fragile eggshell, exposed, empty” what an incredibly revealing line. I love how you show the process of healing was painful, but in the end, one that was beneficial. Thank you for sharing such an intimate insight into the power of therapy. I love your poem so much, and I really hope you are able to share this with your therapist. What a gift this poem would be! Thank you for sharing such a poignant, revealing, and powerful poem with us today! Tears and hugs!

Susan Ahlbrand

Barb,
This inspiration is wonderful. I may write multiple poems inspired by this prompt.

And, yours . . . I can’t even. The tears keep coming.

I rushed this and look forward to revising it, but here it is . . .

Miss Being the Taxi

I never did like to drive.

Being the sole provider of transportation
for four kids put me in the role of taxi driver a lot.
A lot.

Tight hips from hours upon hours
of sitting behind the wheel

Driving in short spurts
Lots of right turns

Masterful reaching back with my right arm
to hand something,
take something,
give a corrective swat to the knee
while keeping it between the lines with the left hand.

French fries and M&Ms in the nooks and crannies,
drink-stained carpet,
travel TV strapped to the headrests.

The time in the car,
complete with the Star of the Week
occupying the prized seat,
is often chaotic . . .
loud voices, random Happy Meal toys being chucked,
whines and tattles bouncing off the smudged windows.

Dings dot the doors
dents and scratches from strollers and bikes
pock the bumpers and body.

Raffi’s The Corner Grocery Store and Beatles for Babies cassette
tapes dominate the speakers,
the mirror velcroed to the seat
hangs in a tilt
with the back-facing baby’s face
partially spied.

The cargo space jam-packed with
strollers, blankets, toys, snack boxes.

Little voices asking “Why?’
Little voices singing “Frere Jacques”
Little voices whining “Mommy” about the tiniest of things.

Older voices moodily grumbling on the way to school.
Older voices complaining after practice.
Older voices confiding about a budding relationship.

The Birds and the Bees talk.
The “Why did you lie to me about Santa” talk.
The “What on earth happened on the science test?” talk.

The passengers are captive and at my mercy
doing and going where I will,
tough talks with no escape.

All four with driver’s licenses now.

Oh, how I miss those days
that I complained about constantly.

I guess I did kind of like to drive
that precious cargo everywhere.

~Susan Ahlbrand
8 April 2021

Maureen Young Ingram

Oh, yes! The time in the car! It truly felt that it would never end, and who knew it would be something I miss? There is so much less clutter – and I miss it, too. I loved these adolescent years so much even in the midst of the doing, though:

Older voices moodily grumbling on the way to school.
Older voices complaining after practice.
Older voices confiding about a budding relationship.

because the car was virtually the only place I’d hear their voices, manage some semblance of a conversation. Thank you for this poem!

Tammi

Susan –i so remember those days. Love these lines: “The passengers are captive and at my mercy/doing and going where I will,/tough talks with no escape.” Our car drives with our kids yielded some of our best conversations especially on our college tour drives.

Stacey Joy

Where do I begin? So much to love and appreciate, to reflect on, and to giggle over. This is a tribute to the strength and passion of a mom of FOUR! Whew! For starters, I am the one who got the swats so that made me giggle. Then I pictured all the food stuck in every crevice. You captured so much in this poem that it seems like I’ve watched a movie of your life. We do spend a huge portion of our lives on the road as their drivers though, don’t we?
And once they get their licenses, we begin the long haul of praying for their safety. Jeesh, we don’t get a break.

Great poem and phenomenal woman!

Barb Edler

Oh my gosh, Susan, you nailed it here. I know exactly what this feeling is like, and now wishing I had never ever complained about running to pick one of my kids up from one practice to another, etc. Your poem makes my heart ache. Anytime, I needed to try to get one of my sons to tell me something, I knew it would have to be in a car, a longer trip to get them to talk so I could listen and try to understand what was going on in their heads. I so enjoyed the details about the types of talks you had in the car and especially loved the lines:

The time in the car,
complete with the Star of the Week
occupying the prized seat,

What a cool idea! Thank you, thank you for sharing this poignant poem! Loved it!

DeAnna C

Thank you for this prompt today. I know I love knitting, however last February I would have told you I hated the space we meet in. Now, I’ve give anything to be able to sit in a space with my knitting friends for two to three hours. Knitting, laughing, swapping ideas, stories and most of all LOVE!

Knitting

I didn’t know I loved
The Fstop bar with its
Lack of parking
No street lights to guide my path

I didn’t know I loved
Sitting on lumpy, bumpy low couches
How they hurt my lower back
Overcrowded when extras join

I didn’t know I loved
Comfort of sitting silently together
Knowing help was just a friend or two over
Option to have a hard cider or hot tea

I didn’t know I loved
Sounds of conversations drifting in
Strangers stopping to ask what we’re working on
Offering to teach those who want to learn

Maureen Young Ingram

Your poem took me back in time. I was part of a knitting circle years ago and I remember a similar kind of dissonance before every get together – why was I doing this? I suppose it is me as introvert; I particularly disliked “Overcrowded when extras join”! I can totally see how your perspective entirely flipped on this knitting group through these endless months of being apart. Love your poem!

Susan Osborn

This is so true! During this last year we have learned to love many things we took for granted. Strange how one can miss what was complained about earlier in life. You’ll smile at this one…I am even missing the bumpy trolley that stinks of sweat from crowded workers. Wouldn’t mind bumping along with them again.

Cara

This is so you, my extremely extroverted friend. I know how those evenings provided escape and renewal for you and you captured that poignantly here. Nice!

Tammi

DeAnna — I don’t knit but feel your longing to return to PreCovid days in your lines: “Comfort of sitting silently together/knowing help was just a friend or two over.”

Rachelle

DeAnna, I can just picture the scene you paint here. I feel like I can smell (FStop Bar), feel (lumpy, bumpy couches… there is not a better line in any other poem), and hear (overcrowded, silent, conversation) it as well. I love that you wrote about knitting, which I know is a hobby that really comforts you. Thanks for sharing that sacred space with us today!

Barb Edler

DeAnna, wow, I love how you pulled me right into your knitting group. I could visualize the lumpy couch filled with knitters, sharing advice. The love and communion of your group radiates. I especially enjoyed the detail about tea or hard cider, and I can’t even tell you why, it just spoke to me. What a wonderful opportunity to share a craft and to learn from others. I want to be part of this group! I can understand why you miss it. Thank you for sharing this touching poem!

Lauryl Bennington

Things I Didn’t Know I Loved
Being self-aware is a strength
Until you begin to surprise even yourself
Then it becomes a tool for self-discovery instead
I didn’t know I loved suffocating group hugs with tear-soaked t-shirts
I didn’t know I loved exhausted, irritated voices on a family road trip
I didn’t know I loved waking up early with somewhere to be
I didn’t know I loved black coffee instead of creamer
I didn’t know I Ioved being in the company of others
I didn’t know I loved the feeling of a gentle hand in mine
I didn’t know any of these things
Until I spent enough time with myself

Maureen Young Ingram

This is a precious poem – everything has its limits, yes? Loved this line, especially:
“I didn’t know I loved exhausted, irritated voices on a family road trip”
Yes, this is something that is so painful and now, all this time alone, and we are all missing this!

Ki

Lauryl,
Your final line is so reflective of you and all you have learned about yourself!
I didn’t know any of these things
Until I spent enough time with myself?

Heather Morris

Time by ourselves makes us look at every little thing so differently. I think about all the things in the classroom I miss now that annoyed me then. This time will have changed our perspective on many things.

Barb Edler

Lauryl, you sure nailed it here! I agree that being self-aware is a strength, but then you twist the opening with that perfectly delivered second line “Until you begin to surprise yourself!” Yes, I feel that emotion to my toes. The catalog of things you did not know you love stacked together create a powerful emotion. I love how you focused on things that are in our daily routine, and easy to relate to such as an uncomfortable road trip. Your final line is perfectly timed! Thanks for sharing this incredible poem! Beautiful!

Stacey Joy

Yessss, this is exactly what I feel too! Wow, it’s crazy how so many of your “didn’t knows” are spot on with me.
I love the opening and ending.

Being self-aware is a strength…
I didn’t know any of these things
Until I spent enough time with myself

??????

Susie Morice

Hands

I used to marvel at the strength in a hand,
how a hand could take charge,
lead and signal,
deal and direct;

I wondered at the thin skin of Mama’s hands,
knowing mine would someday be her hands at my sleeves,
my skin now grown bloodless,
my fingers achy with contracture;

what I did not know was how I loved
the touch of fingers
between my fingers,
the warmth of a palm in a palm,

the assured exploration of fingers cupped
round my breast in a spooning knowing,
on a sleepy night with Prine songs
tickling my lashes;

I did not know until the world tilted
lives into unwanted, uninvited
calibrations of isolation
just how empty my hands were.

by Susie Morice, April 8, 2021©

Scott M

Susie, thank you for writing this and sharing it! I love the lines “what I did not know was how I loved / the touch of fingers / between my fingers, / the warmth of a palm in a palm.” (As a side note, I didn’t know who Prine was so I googled him and — after several videos, including his NPR Tiny Desk Concert, where I found out he had fairly recently passed away because of someone’s comment about losing his dog, which, in conjunction with Prine’s melody and soothing voice coming through my headphones, my eyes started leaking — I’m not crying. You’re crying. — I was reminded and led back to the loss in your final stanza: “I did not know until the world tilted / lives into unwanted, uninvited / calibrations of isolation / just how empty my hands were.”)

Susie,
I took a note from Scott and listened to Prine’s “I Remember Everything” as I read your poem a second time. And I held my palms together. And I looked at my hands to see if I saw my mother’s yet — not yet. And I wondered how my hands used to do so many other things as a teacher — now they are nearly always on this keyboard or guiding the mouse. What I didn’t know was all of this…

what I did not know was how I loved
the touch of fingers

I am deeply moved. Thank you! (And I want to throw this keyboard against the wall- where did that come from?)

Hugs,
Sarah

Glenda Funk

Susie,
I want to put my arms around you and hug until we both feel as though we could never feel the aches you describe in this gorgeous lament. My hands (and hips) hurt constantly, but it’s the tenderness in the desire to be touched that sticks in my heart most:

the assured exploration of fingers cupped
round my breast in a spooning knowing,
on a sleepy night with Prine songs
tickling my lashes;

I wish I could remember who in this space first took the chance to write so openly about these ways we feel. That you are here offering these words is more important to me than I could ever say. I am not a very open person, so I count on you and a few others to channel these feelings in your words for me. I’m going to go wipe my tears now,

Maureen Young Ingram

Susie, this is magical. Love love love this. Oh, how we ache to be touched:

what I did not know was how I loved
the touch of fingers
between my fingers,
the warmth of a palm in a palm,

I got misty-eyed with the John Prine reference, such an extraordinary musician/song writer.

Linda Mitchell

What loss. What grief. There is nothing like what you describe. I’m so sorry for these losses. This poem makes me ache with sorry.

Barb Edler

Susie, wow, I love the intimacy of your poem, the spooning, the Prine songs, and the ways hands can mean so much to us in life. One thing I find unsettling is how hands do change. They are always in the open, easy to see the signs of age, the loss of flexibility, etc. The end of your poem is an emotional drop! I feel that tilt and the “uninvited/calibrations of isolation” …..sheer brilliance! Thanks for sharing this incredible poem! Loved it!

Tammi

Susie — This is so beautiful and so, so heart wrenching. The whole poem is so lyrical just like a Prine song. Really struck by these lines: ” I did not know until the world tilted/lives into unwanted, uninvited/calibrations of isolation/
just how empty my hands were” — just so powerful.

Stacey Joy

Tear-jerker!!!! My goodness. It’s simple, to the point, and raw. I saw my Mom’s hands as I copied your lines:

I wondered at the thin skin of Mama’s hands,
knowing mine would someday be her hands at my sleeves,

You will have a hand to hold again. God wouldn’t have it any other way.

Love you, Susie! ❣️

Linda S.

Susie, your words bring warmth, comfort and love in memories and yet a sorrow. I can feel your loss and with that my heart goes out to you. Thank you for sharing such an intimate poem.

Rachel S

Barb, I love your poem so much! The last stanza spoke so deeply to me. I’m still breastfeeding my little one, and though it definitely seems rough at times, I’m sure I’ll miss when it is over!!
_______________
Lounging on the grass today
a bee buzzes next to my ear
and instead of shying away

I sit still, eyes tracking the pest,
then open my hand
offering a place for the imp to rest

Anticipating his sting
which I know will be smaller
than other pains I’ve come to know

In fact, it might distract from those pains.

I didn’t know I missed the
feeling of being scared by a bee.

DeAnna C.

Wow

I didn’t know I missed the
feeling of being scared by a bee.

This really hit home. I too miss being scared of being stung by a bee.

Maureen Young Ingram

This is powerful: “In fact, it might distract from those pains.” How time gives us such perspective!

Susan Osborn

Yes! I will add another “WOW!” I hope this past year has taught us to sit in silence more often and look and be open to what comes. I hope I don’t close my doors in fear anymore and accept the smaller pains with grace.

Heather Morris

I love the picture you create in the beginning. My favorite line – “in fact, it might distract from those pains.” How things have changed.

Barb Edler

Rachel, what a fascinating poem. I fear for the bees and I think that your desire for the bee to land shows that they are more unique than they once were. It also reminds me of a silly song from my childhood about a child who gets stung by a bee. So glad to hear you have a little one to feed. Enjoy! It does go by so fast! Thanks for sharing such an interesting perspective through your poem!

Jamie Langley

such a small moment magnified from description, to action, a bit of tension, maybe to remind us we’re alive

Linda S.

I know my response follows the same as Deanna, but your final line is powerful. For a bee sting to be missed to cover over the pains felt. So heartfelt!

Stacey Joy

Hello Barb! This was fun reading and writing this morning. I had not read Woods’ poem before and it’s a real gem! I wrote a list poem today because my mind had so many ideas.
Your poem reveals such tenderness and love and almost made me miss when mine were babies.

I Never Imagined Until March of 2020

I never imagined…
1. Google Jamboard for teaching math

2. Teaching with Canva for creative assignments

3. Assigning students to breakout rooms for me to get a break too

4. Breaking the monotony by doing laundry mid-week

5. Mid-week cocktail when wine won’t cut it

6. Cutting planning on weekends for planning on Wednesdays

7. Wednesday evening webinars from Teachers College Reading & Writing Project

8. Being in a writing project to document oral histories through poetry

9. Poetry readings by Woodson, Reynolds, and Alexander in virtual events

10. Virtual events about cultivating genius and joy

11. Joy in learning to love new ways of being

12. Being at peace throughout a world-wide pandemic.

© Stacey L. Joy, 4-8-21

Susie Morice

Stacey — This is a whole evolution in this poem…a whole new way of being indeed! Whew! The list is actually exhausting in the amount of shifting, readjusting, and new imaginings. This poem truly captures what a whirlwind of change and challenge this has been. And I’m so glad you are still here and still a powerhouse poet. #5 made me laugh out loud. #8…I felt the same thing! and AMEN for #12! Thank you! Susie

Stacey Joy

LOL, thanks my friend! And too bad today is Thursday and not Wednesday. It’s sure feeling like one hell of a hump day already! ?

Glenda Funk

Stacey,
Remember when breakout rooms were a way of literally being in the same physical space? This detail in your poem boggles my mind as I think of the myriad ways the teaching-learning narrative has shifted the past 13 months. Indeed, who knew. You’d be last item is my favorite because it’s cathartic and necessary. I can’t think of anyone who has embraced these changes w/ more grace than you. I see all the ways you engage both here and on Twitter. It’s truly inspiring.

Stacey Joy

Thank you, Glenda. I am shocked at myself for ultimately deciding to make this mess work! Otherwise, early retirement would’ve been too easy of an out and I would’ve really been bored. LOL.
❤️

Stacey,
What a chronicle of the year and from a perspective of someone looking for the “being at peace”. My eyes went to and hovered at 11. I will always, forever associate Joy (capital Joy) with you!
Sarah

Stacey Joy

Joy forever, Sarah! For us both!
?

DeAnna C

Stacey Joy,

So many lines from your list home are on point with how I’ve felt throughout this year.

3. Assigning students to breakout rooms for me to get a break too

As an IA I’m not the one setting up breakout rooms, but I can totally see the need for a break

5. Mid-week cocktail when wine won’t cut it

My son had become my personal bartender this year. (Not Joking)

Maureen Young Ingram

This is a truly a pandemic artifact! What a breadth of novel experiences you have shared. I adore that it ends with “12. Being at peace throughout a world-wide pandemic.” – that is so beautiful!

Kim Johnson

Stacey, this whole list is exciting, and you found some true blessings – of all of these, I love #11 best!
11. Joy in learning to love new ways of being

This is so uplifting!

Katrina Morrison

Stacey, I wonder, would you have had time to enjoy the readings and projects you benefited from under normal circumstances?

Somehow, this unprecedented year has been rich with opportunities for personal and professional growth.

I love your #9!

Stacey Joy

Katrina, no I definitely would not because I believe the pandemic created space for people who never would’ve had free webinars to finally share their gifts without charge. I made a few lasting connections with people that I have never physically met but now we are communicating and collaborating as if we’ve been friends for years. It’s unprecedented for sure.

Linda Mitchell

I love this! A dozen silver linings…and each one a winner. This poem gives me energy.

Barb Edler

Stacey, I love how your lists show your passion and interest in education, and also how teaching virtually changed our modes of teaching and impacted our daily lives. What I love the most though is how you brought the poem to such a beautiful close.

Joy in learning to love new ways of being

12. Being at peace throughout a world-wide pandemic.

Beautiful and powerful! Loved it! Thank you!!

Scott M

Barb, thank you for this prompt, your tender poem, and the introduction (for me) to Jamila Woods’s and Nazim Hikmet’s poetry!
__________________________________

At the start
of each class
I ask my students
some random
question. Sometimes
it’s of the “one of these
must go” variety and
at other times it’s a
“would you rather.”

Now, we can discuss
the merit of this SET
activity in terms of SEL
or use some other
educational jargon, use
whatever curricular
mumbo-jumbo we need
to fill out the Formal
Observation’s Danielson
Rubric about how this
helps build and foster
a community of learners
in this most uncertain
time of ours.

Whatever. I just like it
because it’s fun. And
funny.

Last week, I asked them
“What is the opposite
of a penguin?”

If I had not asked that
question, posed that
simply query, I never would
have received the
following responses:

an ostrich,
a turkey,
a lion.

I never would have
received Sam’s take
on the question:

What is the opposite
of a penguin?

A pengout.

or Ryan’s masterful
response:

“It isn’t. ‘What’ is not
the opposite of a ‘A
penguin.’ The true
opposite would be an
Emil Carlsen 1910
Oil painting.”

So, yeah, that
was a good
pandemic day.

Glenda Funk

Scott,
This is hilarious. I love it so much I read it to my husband so we could laugh together. He’s heard me complain about Charlotte Danielson and her nonsense numerous times. I actually attended a conference of hers years ago, and it was the most boring PD ever. I thought I’d been sent to Sartre’s hell. Anyway, your students are clever: “a pengout…/ Emil Carlsen 1910 /Oil painting.” So glad I wasn’t drinking coffee when I read this, I would have spewed. ? Five star poem here.

Susie Morice

Oh my gosh, Scott — Only a killer provocative, inventive question can yield those responses. Sam’s made me laugh out loud. Ryan…holy mackerel… is that whiz-kid thinker or what… A Penguin vs AN Emil Carlson…Geez…I was here scratching my head and then read it out loud to hear what Ryan said… LOL! Very sharp dude! A perfect ending “a good/pandemic day” INDEED! I always chuckle at your snark with the pedagogical jargon…it really is an eye-roll… it made me roll my eyes when I was still in the game…heaven knows I dished a fair bit myself…but geez is it an overload… OH YES! Keep up the finely tuned snark! HA! Susie

Scott,
I love this commentary in verse about what really happens in a classroom and the place of joy and laughter which never made it into the Danielson framework and is rarely (ever) part of the post-observation discussion, is it ever part of the objectives? Your use of quotes is a great way of bringing students’ own words into this space, and that shift to what it isn’t is. I just Googled Emil Carlsen on the World Wide Web. Thanks for that, too.

Peace,
Sarah

Maureen Young Ingram

Your poem made me nostalgic for the classroom – how joyful and awesome (how precious!) students are! What thinkers you have!! Wow. It is clear that they reflect back to you the openness and joy you share, they know they are in the presence of a teacher who is truly fond of them, and – oh, let’s add some mumbo jumbo – “cultivating student voice”! Loved your poem.

Katrina Morrison

Scott, you are speaking our language here with your references to “curricular mumbo-jumbo.” I love how you wove in your students responses. I Instantly put a face to your Sam.

Long live the “random question!”

Barb Edler

Scott, I love how you lead to your students’ amazing responses to your question. Oh boy, do I understand the mumbo jumbo of education. Love your creative questioning! Awesome poem and thanks for sharing this moment from your classroom!

Nancy White

Ahh Barb. Poignant memories. I was just thinking about captured moments in time. How there are certain little snippets that come only once and are gone forever. I’m going to try to put some into words.

Two Snapshots
By Nancy White

Click
Your tongue is sticking out
As you pull the corners of your chocolate-stained mouth into an exaggerated oval.
You and your sister are sitting together
On the wooden planter out front
You have a yellow plastic bow and arrow
You remind me of a mischievous Cupid.
Your sister is ready for school in a blue calico dress.
Click
You’re giving me a dirty look.
I forgot you don’t like your picture taken.
“Mom!”
No more silly faces or poses allowed once you’re a teen.
Lord, what I’d give to see you roll your eyes at me again.

Ann M.

Nancy, I feel so silly for not catching sooner that the “click” was for a camera! Reading back through it, I can just hear the sound so vividly. The imagery you include paints such a warm, personal picture that I feel happy to be invited into.

Rachel S

You have captured this picture in words so beautifully! I feel like I can SEE the two little kids in the planter, with all the detail right down to the chocolate stained mouth. But you’ve also captured the emotion of the moment, which is pretty neat. I love the “click” too!

Maureen Young Ingram

Oh my goodness, this poem took me back in time – “Lord, what I’d give to see you roll your eyes at me again.” So many horrid photos once they were too cool for me! Loved this, Nancy

Susan Osborn

This is a wonderfully nostalgic poem, Nancy. Even more for me because I know those kids who were sitting together. Well done with expression of longing.

Barb Edler

Oh, Nancy, tears. I can feel your pain here. Yes, even the moments that were not as great, just to have them back again would be amazing. I appreciate the specific details here that show your children together, the yellow plastic bow and arrow, the blue calico dress, the mischievous look, all paint a vivid picture. Love the tenderness of this poem! Hugs! Barb

Eric Essick

This is a narrative I am working on…more to come.

I fell in love with you
when I was so young
even though you were used
a bit rusty
and dirty
we instantly connected
and you were my source
of freedom
of expression

as I grew
you grew with me
I began to pay attention
to your every detail
I needed you to have
all the best
things that you (I…) wanted
and people noticed!
…and talked.

season after season
we faced uphill battles
and floated like angels
but I grew tired
hungry
thin

the day grew late
and I grew weak
and we had to say
goodbye

Rachel S

This is so beautiful and so sad. It made me think about the complexities of relationships, and how they can really all be boiled down to a few words, looking back.

Glenda Funk

Eric,
There’s something g about that first real “source
of freedom / of expression” and what it symbolizes, it’s rhetorical power, even when it’s “a bit rusty / and dirty.” Still, as youth passes our eyes roam to those shiny , new ones. The temptation eventually becomes too much, so we succumb. This is a fickle kind of love w/ ever-changing allegiances. Now I’m thinking about my first one, too. It was a ‘75 Ford Pinto. Yes, the exploding gas can car.

Barb Edler

Eric, your poem is so poignant. I am fascinated by its complexity. The changes are striking, and the end is heart-breaking. I can hear that final goodbye like an echo. Thanks for sharing such a beautiful poem!

Denise Krebs

Bryan, I love that the love and the father in the family you were escorting influenced your relationship with your father. And that snowblowing and mowing hyperbole is magical! I knew a man like that too. I love the photo of Makagbeh; she does look royal!

What I Never Knew I Loved, a Ghazal

Amid echoes of trucks bouncing on country roads I love
into tree branches recovering from ice storms budding love.

Shady home hovers heavily over dormant grass, dandelions
swaying in windy calls of a year’s worth of isolated love.

Mockingbirds sing in beaks tapping windows of seclusion,
profoundly shielding a way of being once the only love.

More than a touch, more than breath in shared space,
seeing into rooms beyond walls and borders my new love

I never knew I’d love in this solitude afforded by time
once spent in cars, hallways, classrooms now here with you, my loves.

* I am in the National Association for Poetry Therapy conference today. We wrote a communal ghazal, so I thought I would try that form with Barb’s inspiration. I am not sure that I love teaching online. Maybe I am afraid I have forgotten how to do it in person, but I am trying to love this space I am in today.

Denise Krebs

Sarah, I like that you are willing that love for the space you find yourself these days! That “time
once spent in cars, hallways, classrooms now here with you, my loves” is really a powerful way to see your position and the mental health of your students, I think. I believe you assure that they know you are there for them and their well-being. That line in your ghazal really touches me. Beautiful! (I was revisiting the ghazal form because of your poem; Mo introduced me to this form last July. )

Maureen Young Ingram

Sarah, this is a gorgeous poem! It reads like love, each couplet so tender. This line, “swaying in windy calls of a year’s worth of isolated love” – strikes me as particularly romantic. Beautiful!

Barb Edler

Sarah, I now need to check out ghazal. I’m learning so much from you today! Your poem is gorgeous with amazing images so easy to visualize. I thought “into tree branches recovering from ice storms budding love.” was particularly striking and complex. I also adored the lines:

More than a touch, more than breath in shared space,
seeing into rooms beyond walls and borders my new love

There is a universal connection here that the world wide web provides and you share so beautifully. I can feel the satisfaction of “this solitude afforded by time,” however, I do understand the frustration of teaching online. It’s far easier to make a connection with another person in a room with just a glance, nod, affirming noise, etc. Loved your poem! Thank you so much for sharing!

Stacey Joy

Sarah, your poem hugs my heart. I love that you chose love for your ending word. This resonated with me:

More than a touch, more than breath in shared space,
seeing into rooms beyond walls and borders my new love

And you most definitely have not forgotten how to teach in person. What I believe will happen for all of us is we will combine the beauty of the digital tools with the joy of our spirits and be the next best versions of who we are meant to be as educators. YOU, my friend, are a BADASS. Never forget it.
?

Melanie White

Barb this prompt stirred up so many ideas and brought me to a place that I was unaware of. Thank you for this.

Listening

I didn’t know I’d miss the daily newspaper
his face behind it,
silent – engrossed,
as one in deep study,
something important to read.

And I didn’t know I’d miss the daily radio
his ear to it,
hushing me – consumed,
as one singular of purpose,
something important to hear,
but not from me.

I didn’t know I’d miss his strength and stamina,
now nodding off while watching television,
as he asks me to repeat what I have said,
again and again,
his hearing loss nearing deafness – permanence.

I didn’t know that I loved my father listening to me.

Denise Krebs

Melanie, these poignant losses of what your father used to do is touching me. I like that this poem took you to a place you were unaware of before it came. That is a beautiful place to end up in your writing, isn’t it?

Such a powerful description here of aging:

I didn’t know I’d miss his strength and stamina,
now nodding off while watching television,

Nancy White

That’s a profound memory, Melanie. It makes me realize there is so much I miss about my parents that I haven’t thought of. I’m going to spend time just remembering the small things. Thanks for inspiring me.

Glenda Funk

Melanie,
WOW, that last line is a brilliant reversal. So often as children we don’t feel as though anyone is listening. Truth is we feel that way as adults, too. I love the way the radio and newspaper symbolize your father as listener.

Jennifer Jowett

Oh, Melanie, how beautiful. The ending caught me off guard as I suspected it was about someone else, and knowing it’s your father gave me yet another reason to go back into the words. Sharing three separate ways of communication emphasizes that lack of communicating significantly. So powerful.

Barb Edler

Melanie, your poem radiates with emotion. I love the scenes where you show your father behind the paper and with the radio. I understand the problem with being deaf and how the whole level of communication changes. Your last line is heart-wrenching! Loved it! Thanks so much for sharing this touching, personal poem!

Glenda M. Funk

Barb,
I love both the inspiration poem and your haunting poem of motherhood. Today is my youngest son’s birthday. He was not an easy child, but I miss those days fiercely. Your bird metaphor is so tender, a reminder to be gentle with mothers and children.

Marking

For thirty-eight years I
mourned the incoming
stacks building mountains
on my desk, hobbling
my body as I walked
to my car toting three or
four, sometimes five bags
separating high school from college,
speech from English classes. I
played musical marking
with the burgeoning pile,
moving easy to hard,
favorite to least favorite
in a seismic shifting of
tectonic papers, my
San Andreas fault: delay,
procrastination, until impending
doom—grading deadlines—
forced me to summit the stack.

I did not know I’d long for the
thrill of reading a teen write
“You can have it all, but you
can’t have it all right now”
in a slam poem.
I did not know I’d miss
marking teen musings celebrating
Gatsby’s green light, Daisy’s
white girlhood.
I miss couch Bingo and the scent of
Chipotle lunch as I observe intense,
silent minds search the air for a
poem’s insights and hear black
ballpoints scratching epiphanies
onto blue-lined pages I’d later
add to the paper hill
I’d climb and descend,
awed by the view,
the promise of
generation next.
—Glenda Funk

Denise Krebs

Glenda, what a perfect topic for a poem about something you didn’t think you’d miss. You have captured the dichotomy perfectly–

On the one hand of glad to leave that all behind…

in a seismic shifting of
tectonic papers,

and

…hobbling / my body as I walked / to my car…

To the other sweet side of missing it…

thrill of reading a teen write

and

awed by the view,
the promise of
generation next.

Oh, such beautiful lines and images. You have convinced us with your powerful poem.

Scott M

Glenda, I love this! (It gives me hope that I’ll eventually get to the second stanza because I’m currently mired in the first. Lol. There is so much truth in the lines “hobbling / my body as I walked / to my car toting three or / four, sometimes five bags / separating high school from college.” Many a time (pre-pandemic and pre-Google Drive), I would leave the school building weighed down slogging stacks and stacks of papers watching the math teachers, hands in pockets, sauntering to their cars, whistling some damn tune or other. The math teachers not the cars. Although, who knows, they probably did have fancy cars that could whistle, too.)

Susie Morice

Scott — I used to think the same thing… I still think they ought to pay English teachers twice what they pay math and p.e. teachers… pay English teachers with some formula for “paper page x student” … there is no comparison. And all that paper was filled with the lives of those students…so English teachers by virtue of the kind of interactions they had with students knew their kids way the heck better than anyone else did. Of course, I’m shamelessly biased. And I coached as well… what a walk in the park compared to the load English teachers carried. For what it’s worth, the head of the math department drove a Jag. Geez. [eyeroll] Susie

Jennifer Jowett

Glenda! I LOVE this! (as much as I hate it at the same time for sending that rush of ugh into my belly and brain). You have captured the overwhelming mountainous “paper hill” we perpetually climb – our Sisyphus. These lines struck me as I have shifted them too many times:

moving easy to hard,
favorite to least favorite
in a seismic shifting of
tectonic papers, my
San Andreas fault:

Susie Morice

Whew, you sure did capture the life of an English teacher, Glenda! I seriously don’t think any teacher devotes more time to paper than English language arts teachers. I admire that your voice held it as both a challenge and as a love. That daunting mountain of paper could be such constant nightmare …way too much of my life was wading in paper. You are a warrior! I was perpetually exhausted. Once I quit grading in favor of “marking” as you point out… suggesting, querying, and encouraging, it all shifted for me. Geez, I loathed with a passion my early years of grading. Your final lines are the prize: “the promise of/ generation next.” Those students were so so so lucky to have you as a teacher. Hugs, Susie

Maureen Young Ingram

It is very strange to be on the other side of teaching, to be retired and looking back on those years. I laughed at this image:

I
played musical marking
with the burgeoning pile,

and
adored this image
“I miss couch Bingo and the scent of
Chipotle lunch” –
such memories of teens!

Barb Edler

Glenda, You are the master of the literary allusions. Absolutely love the last line! I can relate to the overwhelming stack of papers and also of sorting them when I was preparing to respond depending on my mood and level of energy. I adored your line:

silent minds search the air for a
poem’s insights and hear black
ballpoints scratching epiphanies

I must hear more of couch bingo. Sounds fascinating! Loved your poem! Your English instructor spirit shines in this poem. Thank you!

Linda Mitchell

Awwww. I love that you miss it. But, the workload of reading is so crushing. I wish there was a way to ease out of teaching. The summit of the papers pile made me smile.

Stacey Joy

Glenda, what a tender poem honoring your hard work and passion before retirement and your honest missing of things I currently despise, mainly the lines below:

…delay,
procrastination, until impending
doom—grading deadlines—
forced me to summit the stack.

I know you made your MARK on the multitudes of scholars who were in your classes. You keep doing what you do, even if it’s not in the familiar ways, because we need more educators like you. Teach the teachers, teach the students, and how about teaching a poetry workshop for teachers like me who would love to learn from you.

Much love and respect!?

Julieanne Harmatz

Glenda,
You speak to all English teachers with the “seismic shifting of tectonic papers”. Those bags full of papers. the sorting of papers, class by class, high to low. And all of the things that we don’t realize we love, till we are gone. Oh, the longings of a retired teacher. I’m not there quite yet and every so often when the bags get too heavy, I try to remember the things my kiddos write. lovely!

Donnetta D Norris

Glenda, I agree with every comment. I am currently living a HYBRID (pun intended) of both of your stanzas. With so much virtual instruction happening, I miss the piles of paper and journal entries and original creations. But, with assigning 7 Seesaw activities per day to 11 Scholars, I am still spending quite a bit of time “submitting.” Thank you for sharing this poem.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Makes Me Wanna Holla!

I never knew how much I’d miss
The circle of huggers during family time
When we, the family of God, gather on this earthly sod.
I took it for granted at church. Oh, it was sublime!

I never knew how much I’d miss
The whiff of perfume off a buxom friend
The gentle hug and a wee one’s kiss.
Oh, tell me. Will this pandemic ever end!

I never knew how much I’d miss
Being able to fly. It makes me want to cry!
When not traveling is something I just can’t dis.
And all you reading surely know why.

It’s not having a choice, but still a voice,
That makes me want to holla,
“Let me out! Let me out!” I want to shout.
But love holds me back by the colla.

Stay in my friends just a little longer.
Things are getting better. You’re getting stronger.
You may miss it now, but you’ll be glad
You masked up and distanced. Ah, it wasn’t so bad.

Denise Krebs

Anna, what a poem to give us strength and courage for another chapter of this living. You know, my favorite line that set me to thinking is the very last phrase…

Ah, it wasn’t so bad.

I hadn’t thought about the end of this, until I read that line, really. Though, so many families have been through hell, I think that someday we will look back with some belief in a version of that last line. It’s hard to imagine now, but it gives me hope. Here’s to hugs and flying, sooner than later.

Nancy White

Anna, I’ve had two hugs from friends over the past two weeks. We all had our vaccinations. I must confess I felt a little nervous! I had the realization that hugging didn’t feel normal anymore! I think it will take time for me. But, I do miss the hugs from family and friends. I have happy memories of warm hugs from everyone at church. How much freedom we had! Like you I want to scream, “Let me out!” Love held us back and love will restore us!

Barbara Edler

Anna, your poem is a wonderful reminder to have patience. Loved the church family description! Your voice is so strong, I can hear you hollering! Thank you!

Jennifer Jowett

Anna, hugs and kisses from wee ones – who could have imagined a world where this couldn’t happen? And yet, here we still are. I love the concept of “circle of huggers.” What a beautiful way to visualize this action. I’m hoping that “wasn’t so bad” is coming soon!

Stacey Joy

Hi Anna,
I think you are such a social butterfly that when this pandemic is over, we won’t be able to find you. I loved this stanza, the smells and feels are beautiful!

I never knew how much I’d miss
The whiff of perfume off a buxom friend
The gentle hug and a wee one’s kiss.
Oh, tell me. Will this pandemic ever end!

Thank God things are getting better! ?

Barb,

I love this inspiration for today as it gives us permission to name the things we love and hate but with an openness and a willingness to revise our thinking, maybe to admit we changed our mind, maybe to say we “get” something we didn’t another time, another place, another lifetime ago. I think this is much more than that “growth mindset” stuff in teacher ed. I also love this exercise for students for the same reasons! Thank you.

In class last night, one of the students presented on asyndeton. Now I am of the eye noticing this, and I see how it works to create rhythm and pace in your poem, especially here: “The laundry, the exhaustion, the squabbles” – lists! Without the conjunction, we don’t have a “last” item, just a series. Love this.

Sarah

Barbara Edler

Thank you, Sarah. I’ve never heard of asyndeton so I will be checking it out. I love how this group opens new perspectives and knowledge.

Kim Johnson

Barb, I adore this prompt – and those wind chimes, I can hear them and love their sound! This prompt is perfect for counting blessings and thinking of all that we might forget to appreciate.
I kept the form of a list poem with a repeating word but changed it up a bit to describe my feelings. Thank you for hosting us today!

Fear of Flying

Flying solo to Nashville
Boarding pass in hand
Concourse train to A Gates
People everywhere!

Feeling alone in the crowd

Going through security
Shoes off, feet apart, hands up, scanned
Surrounded by strangers
Standing way too close

Feeling insecure in security

Watching green-winged Covids
Swarming throngs of folks
Like a swatted beehive….
Am I really “safe?”

Feeling vulnerably vaccinated

Feeling the real fear of flying….

Glenda Funk

Kim,
This paradox captures my fears these days: “Feeling insecure in security.” I trust the vaccine, but still find myself anxious about Covid. Love the alliteration in “vulnerably vaccinated.”

Julieanne Harmatz

Kim,
It is going to take a very long time before we feel safe. The “feeling insecure in security” makes me wonder, have we been kidding ourselves for a long time, or is this a new thing. Going on, being “vulnerably vaccinated” fingers crossed!

Denise Krebs

Kim, what a great ending to a fear of flying I hadn’t seen coming. On a second read, I caught more of this fear. I love the line “Feeling insecure in security” — that says so much in a few words.

Barbara Edler

Kim, I enjoyed the way you showed the new reality of flying which brought a new perspective through your title. The metaphor for travelers was brilliant! I could feel the fear, the sense of something getting too close that threatens and feels alarming. “Feeling vulnerable vaccinated” is haunting. Thank you!

Susie Morice

Holy crimany — You are waaaay stronger than I, my dear. Getting on a plane with the “green-winged Covids” (PERFECT description) sends me screaming for the airport parking lot and my car. LOL! He’p me! He’p me! I’m being swarmed by the Covids! 🙂 I’m vaxxed, but I’m still not hopping a plane. My niece is flying in (we’re all vexed) next month, and I’ve got the newbie-jeebies about her walking in my front door after being on a plane! Great poem, my friend. I totally get it! Hugs, Susie

Fran Haley

This list poem works perfectly to communicate the feelings of horrors of flying…not of the machine but WITHIN it. You do amazing things with language, Kim! “Like a swatted beehive” – I shudder at these visuals. Feeling'”vulnerably vaccinated” (wow) has the sense of a temporary spell, not to be jinxed…ongoing safety and wellness to you.

Christine DeStefano

Good morning everyone! Barb, thank you for sharing this inspiration to tap into my nostalgia! I love all the details in your poem and the careful word choices ~ “the laundry, the exhaustion, the squabbles” really captured that feeling for me. I was inspired to write about the things I didn’t realized I’d miss about living in New York City.

This morning
the birds are singing their songs of springtime,
mixing with the distant sound of the expressway.
I didn’t realize I’d miss
the screeching of the aboveground train
down the block from my apartment in Brooklyn,
or the way I had to travel all the way to Central Park
just to remember what nature felt like.
I didn’t know I’d miss the subway
as I’m dodging endless potholes in my car
on the way to work.
I didn’t know I’d long for my old fire escape
on the day I’m searching for my dream backyard,
an open canvas,
a place to call a home.
I didn’t know I could miss
hauling grocery bags ten blocks home
as I put off going to the store yet again
because being around any sort of crowd these days
feels dangerous.
I didn’t know I loved
all those regular trips to the dive bar
with the friends I hardly speak to anymore,
the way we took for granted
being able to gather at all.
We never knew the fear we’d live with
now that congregating
is a thing of the past.
I didn’t know I loved
that feeling of endless possibility
that tugged at the wings of my heart
each time I stepped outside the door,
the trusting belief of youthful hope
that’s so hard to muster these days.

Glenda Funk

Christine,
Before reading your poem I was thinking about the little corner of Missouri where I grew up and what I miss about it. Seeing Tulsa in your location, I can imagine what a change it is from New York and why you’d miss the Big Apple so much, but what I really love is the way you sneak in the subtle notes about the pandemic keeping you from gathering, the fear of grocery shopping, etc. These lines encapsulat for me the essence of your poem:

I didn’t know I loved
that feeling of endless possibility
that tugged at the wings of my heart
each time I stepped outside the door,

Barb Edler

Christine, wow, I love the specific details in your poem it is like a tapestry of images and sounds. I could hear the aboveground train and expressway. I could visualize the long walk home with bags of groceries. All the details are accessible and immediate. I am struck though how well you captured the emotion of youthful longing. I would love to be a young person enjoying a dive bar with friends, to feel the sense that every day something great might happen, that possibilities are endless. Hmmmmm…you nailed this emotion so powerfully! Thank you!

Denise Krebs

Christine, I love so much how this poem makes me think “we don’t know what we’ve got ’til it’s gone.” I like how you remember something that wasn’t perfect about NYC (subway, fire escape) and then comparing it to something not perfect about your new space (dodging endless potholes, searching for your dream backyard). And like Glenda mentions, that ending beautifully summarizes what you truly miss about NYC.

Jennifer Jowett

Christine, what a perfect look at today’s prompt! As I sit listening to birds and distant traffic, I am pulled back and forth between your description of big city life and the place where you are now. Your sounds and actions make me yearn for things I didn’t even know.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Christine, how well your poem describes the old folks’ saying, “You won’t miss it till it’s gone!” While your specifics are a little different from mine, when you see my poem, you’ll see why I can identify so well with the message of yours.
Thanks for sharing.

Jamie Langley

I love the movement in your poem – you begin with the mundane things you miss of urban life, and then you move to the big idea “of endless possibility” recently as I have learned to maintain a more limited life but fear looking forward to possibility.

Julieanne Harmatz

Christine,
“…that feeling of endless possibility” oh you nailed it. That is so much of what has been lost. I loved the images you created with your memories of living in Brooklyn. Who’d think we’d miss what was drudgery. The energy of a crowd, who knows when we’ll feel that again.

Allison Berryhill

Good morning, Barb! What a wonderful prompt. I did not know Nazim Hikmet’s poem, so first indulged in that, then listened to/read Woods’ beautiful piece. Your poem spoke my truth. Your final stanza left me with longing. Thank you, friend. I will write this evening.

Barbara Edler

Allison, thank you! My day is crazy. I look forward to this evening when I can spend quality time enjoying everyone’s poems. Hope your day is pleasant!

Jennifer A Jowett

Barb, what a meaningful piece you’ve shared with us this morning. I can’t help but think between “until the birds were all that were left” and “their hungry mouths feeding” as you begin with the elders returning to the feeder and end with the fledglings, just starting. And these words – “nestled like precious gems against my beating heart” – what an incredibly moving way to show this nurturing!

From Things I Didn’t Know I Missed:
The Muse

Inspiring goddess,
I have been deceived.
My work in words
escapes me.
The mosaic
of sounds
carefully placed,
the inlay of pattern
and color,
the muse-eum
of collection and display,
my repository,
an a-muse bouche
for the tongue,
one bite,
quickly tasted
and then gone,
the 12th century nose
lifted in air,
absorbed by thought
and dreamy abstraction.
I sniff about
like a dog
who has lost the scent.
If poetry is muse-ic,
I have been muzzled.

Christine DeStefano

Wow, Jennifer, I love how you used the word muse and kept playing with it throughout this poem! I, too, feel that “my work in words/escapes me” and this poem reminded me of how much pressure we place on ourselves as writers to feel a certain way when we’re writing. Judging by this poem, though, I don’t believe you’re truly “muzzled” at all! Thank you for sharing this!

Angie Braaten

I love all the “muse”s added in words especially:

an a-muse bouche
for the tongue,
one bite,
quickly tasted
and then gone,

Barb Edler

Jennifer, wow, I love the intricacy of your poem. It is like the mosaic tile you reference. I so enjoy the juxtaposition between the twelfth century art to the sniffing around like a dog. From what I can tell, your poetry is vibrant and alive, not muzzled. I love the tactile appeal throughout this. Wonderful poem! Thank you!

Glenda Funk

Jennifer,
I’m going to echo Christine’s comment. The clever forms of “muse” amaze me: muse-eum, a-muse, muse-ic.” I’ve felt the loss of the muse all month, like that “fog shot has lost the scent” and the joy of the hunt.

Melanie White

Your imagery is sensuous and my favourite image in this poem is “one bite, quickly tasted and then gone”. Thank for this expansive version of that elusive creative spark!

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Jennifer, when I re-read your poem and got to these words
the muse-eum

I “heard” “Muse, eh um, where are you?”

I smiled as I recalled the times I wondered what you wondered “out loud” in this poem. Thanks for reminding us that we are not alone. The Muse is staying sequestered, too. 🙂

Fran Haley

So many wonderful wordplays and images! Love the comparison of crafting poetry to the perfect inlay of patterns in mosiac – and captivated my that 12th century nose lifted in air. Fascinating! Methinks thou art not so muzzled as thou believest…(would write that more in Middle English but…I can’t!).

Linda Mitchell

My brain is happy-happy with the play on words in this. This looks like you had fun writing today!

Margaret Simon

This is a wonderful prompt. Barb, I relate so well to your poem, that longing for the time when things were so hard, laundry, the constant feeding. My daughters tease me because I still have a let down sensation when I hear a baby cry.

Rhyme

I sat next to Mom in her small apartment
listening to Leonard Cohen sing raspy
deep voice melody.

I never knew I loved rhyme

But seeing the charm on her face, those squinting eyes,
the hard won smile returning, I agreed
to love the mastery.

Holding his small body on my lap
together we clap,
my knees bounce him up and down.

I never knew I loved rhyme

Until I read aloud to toddlers
anticipating the next word
that rhymes with goatherd.

Lay ee odl lay ee odl lay

Angie Braaten

Love the melody in this poem! I especially love this line:

my knees bounce him up and down

Barb Edler

Margaret, what a precious poem. I love how you share the way you learned to love rhyme through your mother’s expression and a toddler’s anticipation. I had to smile at the yodeling at the end…I could hear this perfectly! Yes, rhyme is wonderful and I wish I could do it better! Thank you for sharing this exquisite poem!

Denise Krebs

Margaret, what a fun way to show evidence of the joy and importance of rhyme. Oh, my! A foundation of literacy, and the memory of the joy of rhyme that stays with us a long lifetime. I stopped to listen to The Lonely Goatherd thanks to your poem. “the hard won smile returning” – Yes, I’m sure that right there was a sweet sight.

Fran Haley

That joyful goatherd-yodel is is exactly the light note to balance the loss from the earlier stanza – all knit together with love and thyme. Sweet, clever, rich, deep, Margaret. Like layers of chocolate!

Linda Mitchell

Sweet, sweet, sweet. Those precious toddler joys. We are so lucky you share generously.

Angie Braaten

Oh, thank you for this prompt today, Barb! I can definitely relate to the ecstatic feeling of seeing leftovers in my fridge but hating not getting lunchables when I was younger! HA! And in your poem, these lines are most beautiful: “until the birds/were all that were/left to see” and “nestled like precious gems/against my beating heart” such a lovely, meaningful image 🙂

Things You Taught Me To Love

It’s April 8, 2021 and
this apartment is a mess
it’s filled with a bunch of
stuff I’ll probably never use

I never knew I hated clutter
until I spent months with you
like a mostly empty space can
clear my stuffed up, messy brain

I stayed in bed until 11:11
today because you aren’t here.

I always hated waking up
lounging in bed was too
comfortable, too easy
to cocoon in a warm nest.

Now I miss being an early bird
the excitement of waking up
and simply staring at you.

I never knew how much I loved
leaning on someone until you
were there every day. Thought I
was always this solitary being
not needing anyone or anything.

But I miss you.
Solitude is not that great.

Margaret Simon

I love how clutter turns in this poem to the presence of a person to love.

Barb Edler

Angie, oh my gosh, your end is so striking and I love how you lead up to it. My favorite line is “Now I miss being an early bird”….I always was, but not not so much anymore, so I could totally relate. The emotion is this poem is palpable. “Solitude is not that great”…how true it is! Thank you, Angie!

Glenda Funk

Angie,
The contrast between clutter and the emptiness present from missing someone is palatable. It reminds me of how alone we can be among many. It seems to me cocooning in bed is symbolic of seeking comfort during an absence. Beautiful image.

Denise Krebs

Angie, your poem reminds me of how I have different routines when I am alone and when I’m with others. I see your time to rise–early or late–dependent on the presence of another. You expressed this so well when you said,

Thought I
was always this solitary being
not needing anyone or anything.

But then the ending “Solitude is not that great.” Well done.

Jennifer Jowett

Angie, that contrast between clutter and emptiness mimicked through a person is an astounding image. I love the lines, “I never knew I hated clutter until I spent months with you like a mostly empty space can clear my stuffed up, messy brain.” The loss is so visual.

Stacey Joy

This is “next level” poetry right here. I read it 4 times and kept thinking is this a person, is it a thing, what is it? Then I realized you personified solitude and clutter. Wow. I love it.

But I miss you.
Solitude is not that great.

I have one question. What’s stopping you from re-claiming your clutter? ??

Fran Haley

I feel the aching and longing in your poem, Angie – funny how we think we don’t need “anyone or anything” only to realize how much we do. Such a powerful ending line!

Linda Mitchell

awwww. Truth! Solitude is not that great. What a love poem.

Denise Krebs

Oh Barb, your poem is a delight to me, and a perfect mentor for the poem you asked us to write today. That you saw birds out your window and it brought you to thinking of the quiet and warmth of breastfeeding your boys was touching and poignant. I love that you titled it that, so I was watching for it in every line. Absolutely riveting and beautiful. Thank you. That you could write such a poem reminded me of this community that has nurtured me over the past year, so that became the motivation for my poem.

On Noticing

Today I noticed details–
Like the smell of the cardamom
And saffron in my milky tea,
And the way the young mother
Stooped over again to retrieve
The blue binky for the
delighted warm baby,
who was the clear leader
in this game of fetch.

I didn’t notice how much
I didn’t like to wear lipstick,
Until I was able to stop
And put on a mask instead.
My one lipstick, already years old,
may last another decade at this rate.

I was never able to notice how much I liked to cook,
until I moved into my home last March.
It’s the same flat I had slept in for six years,
but I finally began to live here.
Now I cook, I plan, I write, I read,
I smile, I laugh, I listen, and I pray
in this place.
I’m no longer a whirlwind of anxiety
about the next
Appointment,
Meeting,
Service, or
Responsibility,
For which I need to run out the door.
I never knew how much
I needed more peace in my living,
But now I know.

I never knew how much I appreciated
noticing these things until I joined
other teacher-poets in this
#verselove community
in the April of Covid, 2020.
I didn’t know how much
I loved poetry,
But now I know.
Thank you, friends.

Angie Braaten

I didn’t know how much
I loved poetry,

YES! I am glad we are back here with some familiar and new names. I also love the comparison of living in your apartment and now living in your apartment. I feel that too.

Margaret Simon

You share the good side of pandemic shut down, the time to notice, to be aware that there is joy in every day.

Christine DeStefano

Denise, I love the noticing that you’re doing in this poem, and how you draw on how mindful we’ve become as a result of being forced to slow down! This line really spoke to me: “I never knew how much/I needed more peace in my living,/but now I know.” Thank you for sharing this with us!

Barb Edler

Denise, wow, I love this poem. What a wonderful tribute to #verselove at the end. I have to whole-heartedly agree that this group was seriously life-saving for me last year. What I love the most though is how you show the way you were able to find peace and reconnect to other joys in life. “I’m no longer a whirlwind of anxiety”…yes, I understand this line. You spoke my heart in this poem, Denise. Thank you!

Stacey Joy

I am in total love with your poem! I really connected with the noticings, especially the lipstick and the living! Brilliant, beautiful, and sums up so much of our experiences.
My favorite lines:

I was never able to notice how much I liked to cook,
until I moved into my home last March.
It’s the same flat I had slept in for six years,
but I finally began to live here.

?

Susie Morice

Denise — This is lovely and what a kindness to both yourself and to the whole community here. My favorite bits are

smell of the cardamom
And saffron in my milky tea,

and the lipstick and the mask — made me giggle…so true.

Mostly, I LOVED that you are nestling into Manama and our poet community without the “whirlwind of anxiety.” I so agree…this is a wonderful space. Thank you. Susie

Maureen Young Ingram

Denise, this is beautiful! I am noticing how much more noticing I am doing – through writing poetry together, lol. These lines jumped out at me – did you hear me shout “ISN”T THAT THE TRUTH?”:

It’s the same flat I had slept in for six years,
but I finally began to live here.

It’s as if I was just visiting my home, stopping for a quick overnight again and again and again.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Denise, your poem articulates for many of us the difference between “occupying a domicile” and “living in a home”. As we reflect on the past year and all the changes that have occurred, it’s a blessing to see the good that has occurred, too.

Thanks for the reminder to take note of the good. (The vanity make-up for me is “nails”. I feel sorry, a bit, for the young ladies who have done my nails every two weeks for the past fifteen years, but…alas…I don’t see vinyl nails as a necessity anymore. I no longer am working with an overhead projector that magnified my hands and showed even hangnailes and rough cuticles. That’s one of the good things about virtual meetings. Don’t have to dress to the “nines”. Just to the waist. 🙂 )

Fran Haley

Denise, I am smiling about the lipstick – you are so right, so not conducive with a mask and a tube may last forever now! I, too, have paused to appreciate the slower pace COVID brought, despite its many shadows – and I rejoice with you on this love of poetry and community. Your words resonate deeply with me – thank you.

Linda Mitchell

Wow. Amen. I love that you are living in your home now…this has so many specific details that all of us know, intimately. Gorgeous piece.

Jamie Langley

such beautiful noticings – truly finding a silver lining – My one lipstick, already years old,/may last another decade at this rate, I’m no longer a whirlwind of anxiety and then you land with us – I didn’t know how much I loved poetry. Nice link to the mentor poems.

Fran Haley

Barb – this is so very rich – from the birds to the precious gems nestled against your beating heart. A song of life and motherhood; utterly lovely. How well you capture the passage of time and a mother’s longing – so poignant and beautiful.

I wrote of my fourth-grade teacher…

For Mrs. Cooley

You terrified me, you know
looming large
an immovable mountain
in pearls and heels
casting your dark shadow
over my fourth-grade days

The topography of your years
etched deep on your face
your eagle eyes
piercing my very existence

The fear and trembling of
math drills—
Dear Lord
save me
from subtraction!—
I look up
and there it is
in your expression:
You can’t squeeze blood
from a turnip

I did not know
that many years later
when I’d be asked to write
of my most memorable teacher
that you’d spring to mind
clear as day
overshadowing all others

and that what I’d recall
is how you read
Charlotte’s Web to the class

I did not know
I could love a spider so

and then how you read us
Old Yeller

My God my God
I almost died with
that dog

I did not know
that you were the one
who made me love reading
for there is a difference
in being able to
and it being the air you breathe

I could not believe
how worried you were
when I fell on the playground that day
how you cradled my distorted left arm
all the way to the office
and waited with me
‘til Daddy came

I never dreamed
you’d come see me at home
when I had to stay in bed
propped with pillows
ice bag on my cast

I saw you
and the tears came
I am missing the last two weeks of school
I won’t pass the fourth grade

I did not know you could CHUCKLE
that your sharp blue eyes
could go so soft
and watery
and I never heard that phrase before:
flying colors
you pass with flying colors

Would you believe
I am a teacher now
it isn’t what I planned
but here I am

I never knew until Daddy told me
years ago
that you’d passed
how much I’d long
to see you again
to ask you a thousand things
maybe even to laugh

but more than anything
to thank you
with all my heart

so I do that now
in hopes that you
and Charlotte
and Old Yeller
know that
my love
lives on

Angie Braaten

My God, Fran. This is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever read. What great memories of a wonderful teacher. I’m glad you do what you do today.

I did not know you could CHUCKLE
that your sharp blue eyes
could go so soft
and watery
and I never heard that phrase before:
flying colors
you pass with flying colors

I might have watery eyes as well after reading this, and what a great way to end.

Denise Krebs

Waaaaah! Oh, my eyes too, Fran. What a tribute to this dear Mrs. Cooley! My, this is beautiful. That she came to your house and chuckled and said you passed with flying colors. Oh, my, my, my.

to thank you
with all my heart
so I do that now
in hopes that you
and Charlotte
and Old Yeller
know that
my love
lives on

And now your poem has given Mrs. Cooley more fans! I love her too.

Margaret Simon

A lovely ode to your fourth grade teacher full of memoir details.

Christine DeStefano

Fran, your poem is incredible! It brought up so many emotions for me in hearing the story of your fourth grade teacher, and remembering mine as well. I got a little teary when you wrote “Would you believe/I am a teacher now/it isn’t what I planned/but here I am” — thank you for sharing your words with us!

Barb Edler

Fran, your poem is an amazing and beautiful tribute to a teacher. You show Mrs. Cooley so well. Your poem reminded me of the wonderful time spent listening to a teacher read aloud, especially Charlotte’s Web. I sure hope our poems are spirited on to our loved ones. Beautiful poem! Thank you, Fran!

Glenda Funk

Fran,
This is a gorgeous, haunting poem. Do others think about their teachers the way teachers recall those who nurtured our learning? Old Yeller and Charlotte’s web are books that taught me to feel. I love the way you celebrate them. These lines say what’s so important about this work:

for there is a difference
in being able to
and it being the air you breathe

Gorgeous truth.

Jennifer Jowett

“My God, my God I almost died with that dog” puts every feeling I have about your writing today into one succinct, full-on emotional, fall in love with and mourn for line. This is so beautiful. What a tribute.

Susie Morice

Fran — I so love this tribute to Mrs. Cooley. You painted her in such a full-bodied way…at once scary and oversized and then the person who opened the love of books to you… an awesome recognition. You need to find this woman and send this poem to her! It would be such an important thing to do! Hugs, Susie

Linda Mitchell

This poem needs to come with a tear-warning. What a tribute. What a relationship. Oh, my gosh, I can’t wait to get to school to teach tomorrow. This is what it’s all about.

Linda Mitchell

Good Morning writers! Barb, thank you for such a great prompt. It’s a wonderful exercise in appreciation. My goodness–the last lines of your poem. Those little gems against your breast. That brought back some intense and sweet memories for me. Thank you. I’m playing around with prose poetry today.

For Bryan

When your childhood home burned down I grieved. Even though it’s been decades since I’ve seen you there, and the pool filled in with weeds and trees. The sound of the dogs barking in the kennel out back. It was a tragedy that house for that quiet boy in high school–that boy who was voted best dressed and drove that groovy blue van was gone. It was the marker I remembered you by.

When I read your obituary I crumbled like that old house missing its roof and windows. There’s no marker for you now and no you. I didn’t know I loved you so much.

Barb Edler

Linda, I am so moved by your prose poem, which I think works perfectly to share your story of Bryan. I had to shed some tears before I could respond. I love how your first line immediately sets the tone of the poem. Losing a childhood home would be devastating. Then the specific details that show us a part of Bryan and the “groovy blue van” he drove. The vehicle detail was striking for me because I think cars, trucks, vans are strong reminders of times and people. Your final stanza is incredibly powerful. I loved the simile to connect the prose poem’s opening with its end, but the missing marker slayed me on a very personal level. Thank you for beginning this Verse Love Day with such an incredibly moving poem. Thank you!

Fran Haley

Oh, Linda – so sad, the layers of loss in your words. It reminds me of reading about the spirit of place. What a loving remembrance. Beautifully rendered in this form.

Angie Braaten

Thank you for sharing these memories with us, Linda. This is beautiful.

I crumbled like that old house missing its roof and windows

This is such an emotional image. *hugs*

Margaret Simon

Your poem is heartbreaking and points to how death can point to what we didn’t know, how much we loved. So sorry for the loss.

Glenda Funk

Linda,
A prose poem is perfect for these parallel ideas of a decaying house and boy so long gone. Your poem evokes a memory of a boy I knew who banged himself when we were in seventh grade. I’m feeling the pain and longing in your words this morning. Beautifully haunting.

Denise Krebs

Linda, what a beautiful and sad poem about Bryan. Poetry is a gift that brought a new marker for you to remember this high school friend. So moving.

Jennifer Jowett

Linda, this is incredibly heart-felt and works so well for this prompt. I felt for Bryan. I felt for you. The loss you feel, first for the house and the sounds (that pool filling with weeds and trees is so visual) and then for the boy who drove a groovy blue van reflected in the house – wow! So, so much wow here.

Stacey Joy

Whew, what a whammy! I felt the angst and grief as if it were my poem and my classmate.

When I read your obituary I crumbled like that old house missing its roof and windows.

You are an awesome prose poet! Totally impressed with all you packed into this piece.

Thank you! In awe.

Susie Morice

Linda — This is truly a moving and heartbreaking piece. I can’t imagine how losing Bryan would feel, but your “crumbled like that old house” captures it and just brings the reader to her knees. “No marker”… oh geez…what a gut-punch. The rawness of this and the honesty of feeling is really powerful. Putting it in the block form of a prose-poem somehow feels like the proper “marker”… its own sort of tombstone. Thank you for opening this wound and letting us feel this with you. Susie