Katrina Morrison lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma. A tenth grade English teacher, she is a firm believer in the frequent use of mentor texts whether written by her, one of her students, or someone from the world outside. Her students know she is passionate about poetry too. She sneaks it in whenever she gets the chance. April’s #VerseLove has been a refuge for her since the most difficult days of the pandemic in 2020.
Inspiration
In the introduction to A House on Mango Street, Sandra Cisneros describes “A House of My Own.” “The young woman fills her “office” with things she drags home from the flea market at Maxwell Street. Antique typewriters, alphabet blocks, asparagus ferns, bookshelves, ceramic figurines from Occupied Japan, wicker baskets, birdcages, hand-painted photos. Things she likes to look at. It’s important to have this space to look and think.”
Cisneros, Sandra. The House on Mango Street (p. 2). Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.
Cisneros’s space to “look and think” looks nothing like my place to “look and think,” but I can relate to the attachment she feels to a place separate from the rest of the world. I can imagine the symbolism of each of the items.
Process
If you are in your “space to look and think,” mentally snap an image of each object you see. Now create a list.
If you are not in your “space to look and think,” imagine what would make up such a space. Describe in detail the ideal space to “look and think.”
OR
Like I did, branch off and create a list of items that make you look back and think.
Katrina’s Poem
The contents of
The cabinet
A Gumby but not a Pokey
A red, plastic Captain Kangaroo cup with
those eyes that seem to change
Direction when you move
the cup back and forth
Cat-eye marbles
Jacks and a red rubber ball
A miniature wooden gavel from
a high school
Service organization
A neglected cribbage board
Baoding balls from
A once-in-a-lifetime trip to
San Francisco
A tiny windmill in Delft blue
Memories
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Still catching up and grateful for this prompt, Katrina. Thank you!
A Room of One’s Own
I often think that Virginia Woolf
Only got it partially right.
Because, I have a room of my own
But children don’t recognize
Or acknowledge
The invisible borders.
I’ve got a room.
What I need are doors that shut
And lock
And that don’t have glass doors.
My room needs that sound-proofing
Stuff they used in the quietest room
On earth
On whatever university campus that was
So that I can’t hear the wails
When Papa is capable
But only
Mama
Will do.
My room has a white board and itemized
To-do lists
That contain everything
But the projects of
My heart.
It has bookshelves of the Ikea variety
That are uncomfortably full
With knowledge that I haven’t
Had time to soak up.
My room contains two large dog crates
Where my dogs retreat with me
For a little “alone” time
Of their own.
The chair isn’t very comfortable
But it makes due.
The desk isn’t the right height for
My keyboard
But my shoulders shrug to type anyway.
And despite all of its imperfections
It’s still my favorite room
At 4 AM
When
The doors
The lock
The sound-proofing
Are all unnecessary
And the quiet
Hugs me and my thoughts
To the light tapping of my
Imperfect keyboard.
A Space To Look and Think
A medium-sized box tucked away in a desk cabinet
Labelled Western Paper Company
Containing so much more than paper
Acquired in Nebraska from a job I’d prefer to forget
But whose contents are unforgettable
Letters from my beloved grandmother,
Postcards from Fr Ronnie sent while in Guam,
Cathy’s cards documenting college life in VA,
Boyfriends’ sweet-nothings that seemed like everything,
Encouraging notes from Dr Bob, a WSC legend,
The Panther Post middle school yearbook signed by old pals,
A letter from my ex-husband trying to save a marriage,
My father’s words of wisdom to his “googie,”
Poems of teenage angst,
Life remembered
A space to look and think,
Feel and reflect,
Breathe in deeply all the love
Contained herein.
My Space
I have a space
that’s mostly mine
filled with things
kept over time
shelves with books
cups of pens
drawers of junk
baskets and bins
a printer and paper
awards and degrees
a cabinet for filing
sports trophies
glass-paned french doors
that open wide
so, from the others
I cannot hide
My ideal space
to think and look
would still contain
shelves with books
cups of pens
covered french doors
a futon and lamp
don’t need much more
I have a space
that’s mostly mine
but my planned conversions
will take some time
Donnetta,
This poem flows like you are in such a welcoming space!
Love the ending! I’m curious about planned conversions. 🤔
Wow! Katrina, what a fantastic mentor text for a jumping point to write poetry. I really like this idea and appreciate the opportunity to look for these kinds of inspiration in the future. I also teach 10th grade English in Oklahoma. How fun it would be to collaborate with each other and our students at some point. amharrison at ridgerunners dot net
I needed some extra structure to help me form this, so I’m stealing from The Cowsills.
Title: The Yarn, The Swing and Other Things
I see me sitting in the swing
Sunshine warms all of me
My knitting beside me
Red, yellow, blue, and green
Who then knew
Sticks would bring me peace
Colors in my hands
Colors everywhere
I love the fiber arts
All the mohair, cotton, silk, alpaca, linen
I love the fiber arts
Yarn so soft and squishy, gliding through my fingers
Sit and knit
Amber,
Gorgeous words and images come through your poem! Love the comparison of sticks to knitting needles!
Katrina, the moment I read the prompt I began picturing what my ideal workspace would look like – such a daydream! Thank you for this prompt!
A Home Office Of My Own
I would fill it with material things;
A Mac to type my stories on,
A mahogany writing desk to put it on,
A swivel chair for the desk,
An armchair against the window,
A mini fridge and snack bar,
Bookshelves lining the walls.
Eventually the immaterial would come and settle,
The pesky dust that embeds itself in keyboards,
An assortment of colored Post-its hanging on the computer screen,
A coffee ring on the table because I forgot to use a coaster,
The notebooks filling the drawers – the pretty ones & the practical ones,
A cup full of my favorite pens and metallic bookmarks,
The books piled high to one side hoping to be shelved,
The open book(s) on the table beside the armchair – waiting for me,
The steaming mug of cinnamon tea next to them,
The soft throw left bundled on the ottoman,
Bookshelves, filled to the brim, lining the walls.
What a beautiful refuge this would be! I think ALL of us have stacks/piles of books surrounding us in some way shape or form. I love the idea of ‘bookshelves brimming’ – tho as of late, I’m trying to release more books into the wild. It’s not easy! I also have NUMEROUS mug rings on just about every surface despite the million coasters strewn about. But isn’t that what makes a space a cosy haven? All those “immaterials” that settle in? Lovely. Lovely. I’ll be dreaming of my own space today, Saba!
Katrina–I love A House on Mango Street–haven’t visited it in a long time! My mind wandered outdoors as I considered a space to look and think.
Give me sharp pine needles
and tall trunks that scratch the sky
Skies that bloom into oranges
so juicy you can taste them
and pinks that shyly blush
Birdsong and wind that whispers
rushing water and creaking branches
a kind of silence that isn’t silent at all
but leaves space for thoughts to roam
Give me unpaved trails
where my feed connect me
building pathways in my brain
a salve to my soul
Blog post with photograph: https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2023/04/20/a-space-to-look-and-think-npm23-day-20/
Katrina, your space is similar to mine in that I love the sky, tree, the sunsets, birdsongs and a kind of silence that leaves space for thoughts to roam. Good poem!
I love the “Give me” start line to spark the imagination but also see what is right in front of you – it also sounds both demanding but appreciated by observation – recognizing what we have is a great and simple source of gratitude. I LOVE the lines “where my feet connect me / building pathways in my brain / to salve my soul.” I can just envision that connecting, inward path of reflection and – again – gratitude. So sweet, Kim!
Katrina, this prompt delivered so many vivid sharings of our private cherished spaces! Wonderful. Thank you.
Thank you, Allison!
Katrina, thanks for the invitation to meditate on and rejoice in the space that I feel most at peace. A good reminder to get back there more often than I doZ
“A perch with a view”
My eyes trace
branches reaching
from trunk towards—
my mind formulates,
decomposes,
reimagines.
My imagination
unfurls
cell by cell
grows boundless
as the edgeless
leaves uncurl
creating canopy.
Sun rays
splash
explode
dart across
window framed
infinity.
Laura, thank you for this image of the “edgeless leaves uncurling.” Each day of spring is the further creation of that beautiful canopy.
“leaves uncurl creating canopy” Beautiful!
My Estate Sale
a mobile, globes of the world
a bear rug draped over the back of a sofa
small ceramic creatures
all playing accordions
the unicycling moose hanging by a spring
bees on the welcome mat
handprints in the cement
and books
Allison, this title. Oof. I love your selection of tchotchkes along with the handprints that I imagine wouldn’t be practical estate sale items. Thanks for the peek!
Allison, I love that your final line is dedicated to “and books”! And I’m intrigued by the “small ceramic creatures / all playing accordions.” There feels like a story there!
Allison, I like the title “MY estate sale” and the understatement “and books.”
What a comfy place to be and browse!
Perfect title, Allison! Each of these bits has indeed surfaced, I think, in the poems over the last three years. I love thinking about how your space… is your estate sale… is you. You accomplish so much in such succinct poems. I continue to wish I were better at doing what you do…get so much out of a delicate lacing of so few words. It’s always a lesson to read your pieces. Thank you. Susie
Your generous words keep me writing. Thank you, poet friend.
a space to look and think
my fingers scroll the computer pad as I read today’s poems
my hands rest on the blanket I washed last night draped across the table
the wooden and leather tray bought years ago in Peru sits in the middle of the table
a blue and brown pitcher filled with white chrysanthemums sits on the tray
the light fixture bought more than half my life time ago
hangs above the table
hope it travels with me to my next home
beyond the door my gaze catches the wrought iron porch furniture
donations from friends and family
dark out tonight as the sound of rain provides a background to Little Feat playing Sailin’ Shoes
inside I sit on the wooden chair bought last year tough enough to handle the rowdiest
puzzle pieces of my life provide the back drop for a poem
Jamie – Little Feat dates us, and I thank you :-)!
Your poem pulled me right into your space–how personal and welcoming. Your last line of the first stanza is haunting: my next home?
The alliteration in the final line pulls this together in satisfaction. Bravo.
I can’t help but read the last lines as both: chairs that handle the rowdiest and the rowdiest puzzle pieces 😂
That last line is really beautiful though. And I love this angle of home.
It is fun, Jamie, to hear about the blanket you are holding while you type this poem. Its dryer-fresh scent puts us there with you.
Jamie — The way you went at this, putting yourself to writing right in the middle of the description sets me in your lap… and I suddenly realize that its more than a “back drop” is IS the poem. Genius. I love the whole feel of this poem. Susie
Katrina, thank you for hosting today. I have tucked this sweet prompt away for another time because today I just couldn’t. Your poem gave me so many memories of Gumby and Pokey, marbles and jacks and Captain Kangaroo. I like how the list progressed through later years, and ended with that perfect final line: memories.
——————————————-
Delirious with fear. Now even a six-year-old can’tretrieve her ball from next door.
I meant it like this.
Delirious with fear. Now,
even a six-year-old can’t
retrieve her ball from next door.
Oh, Denise, your poem sends a chill down my spine. Our world has changed so drastically from the time when I was a kid running everywhere all day long across neighbors’ yards and into any little cranny space I could find to hide and seek, etc. Your focus on this image adds such power. Hugs.
Denise,
Im sorry you had a “today I just couldn’t” kind of day. This has been a shitty week. As I was practicing yoga tonight I thought about today’s prompt and how I would approach it were I to write on it again. In an odd way your haiku works as a metaphor for me. It makes me think about what I wish I could retrieve and ways certain fears have actually served to protect me. I could have used that this week, in January, and certainly back in 2020. Anyway, I hope you don’t have another “I couldn’t” day tomorrow.
Katrina, oh how I love House on Mango Street and your prompt! I recently drove past my chiidhood home because we heard the new owners painted it dark blue. Appalling! I had to see for myself and I was so hurt. I still can’t let go of the longing to return to “home” and be inside with all the memories. I wrote about the garage, a space I never thought I would miss.
A Space Missing
Cracks in the driveway
But not from the tree roots
Wooden garage door
Creaking with every heavy lift
Its metal parts clanking
Waiting for the latch to catch
Light switch on the right
Not far from the old water heater
Antique chairs from Nana’s house
And three leather bowling bags
With balls for all but one of us
One mud-brown dusty box
Labeled “Gloria’s Bills”
Ping-Pong table against the wall
Blocking two rusty bicycle wheels
And Papa’s special cloths for Armor All
Christmas storage bins atop the outdoor fridge
Where Mom hid leftovers, Easter ham
And cases of champagne
Tennis ball hanging from a cord
To mark Mom’s parking point
Because she wasn’t as able
To see where to go or stop
Tarnished trophies peeked from under
Lids of tubs filled with triumphant mementos
And a 40-year old prison-grey file cabinet
I never thought to look inside
Is that where all my old journals died?
ⓒStacey L. Joy, 4/20/23
Stacey, this is great! It’s filled with such vivid details! The “hid[den] leftovers” and the “Tennis ball hanging from a cord” are two of my favorite. Thank you for this!
Stacey, I love this. I’m sorry the new owners are turning your home into something that it isn’t. But you have poetry! That home gets to live on and come alive even through your words. I love the details, especially the tennis ball for your mother’s parking accuracy. 🙂
Stacey, I feel like I know that wooden garage door and would reach to the right for the light switch. Such wonderful imagery. I don’t know if it’s worse to have a house turn on you or leave you altogether. I can only point and say that’s where my house used to be.
Stacey — The poem carries both a nostalgic tone and a keen reverence for what was so personal, so part of identity. Going back is a task that takes real grit, because it leaves you with so many unanswered questions… what ifs and half-told stories. I loved the variety of champagne, Easter, and the exact placement of the light switch. A rich poem with details to make it sing! Finally, the “old journals died” pulls a “oh daaaang” response from me. The old journals are every bit as precious as all the trophies…bittersweet.
Love this poem. Hugs, Susie
Katrina, I love how exploring a place can reveal so much about a person. Thanks for giving us the opportunity to look and think. The reflections of your cabinet and the mementos found in it like the “neglected cribbage board” remind me of all the memories that *stuff* brings back.
My Space to Look and Think
We named it the “Reflecting Pond”
because calling it a swamp
would be too disrespectful.
Looking westward,
as the sun sets on the
South Dakotan horizon,
you might see how the
trees that create a V
along the marshy banks
look like an X mirrored
through water. Green algae
muck partially covers the surface
which gets cut through by
the busy muskrat swimming
home after a long day’s
work. A dragonfly
might kiss the glass
and turtles, now cold,
plop off sunbathing
logs. The wind whispers
gently through the cattails.
There’s not much
talking at the “Reflecting
Pond” but there is oh,
so much going on.
Oh Rachelle,
This is lovely! I want to go! This line: “A dragonfly / might kiss the glass / and turtles, now cold, / plop off sunbathing / logs” put me right there. Beautiful imagery. Thank you for the escape!
I smiled with “calling it a swamp would be too disrespectful”–so much voice in this phrase.
Rachelle, your tone from the opening lines is so personable and inviting. (Let’s not call it a swamp–) The dragonfly kissing the glass, the cold turtles–you pulled me into the experience with rich imagery. I love your reflection on this (maybe)reflection pond!
Rachelle,
Your reflecting ponds sounds like the perfect place to sit and ponder poetry. I really enjoyed these lines:
Rachelle, your pond is so full of those beautiful reflections.
Rachelle — This is just beautiful. The details are perfect…the dragonfly does indeed “kiss” as she flits over the water. I get the sense, because you arranged the sequence of details so well, of the distance in the look across to the horizon–creating depth perception is super. And of course, there is “so much going on,” INDEED! Beautiful. Susie
My desk at home is nothing special–a place to do the bills and grade papers. But my classroom is near to my heart and inspires me to be me in my classroom.
Student art hanging on wires
both crisscrossing the room
and along the top of the walls.
Butterfly fans, six word biographies,
graphic novels pages of No Exit,
potential autobiography covers,
and poems on pears on a giant tree
on the wall behind the desk.
Artwork from years past covers
the bulletin boards to each side
of the rarely used whiteboard–
a brilliant black and red portrait
of Lucifer himself from The Inferno,
originally a full white board drawing,
curled paper flowers and
an origami vase and flowers
from an integrated art class,
intermixed with a rainbow wreath
made of little hearts and hand drawn
pictures of varying skill and age
patchwork the boards between
calendars, lists, “Invictus,”
assorted left wing bumper stickers,
mottos for living a good life and
cartoons inspired by novels I teach.
Fabric covers my file cabinets
and small tables, cushioning
my tea kettle, mugs, and
endless stacks of books.
This is where my mind soars
in both the physical presence
and memory of my students–
my inspiration for what I do
and how I choose to do it.
Welcome to my classroom,
everyone is welcome here.
Cara, your classroom is very inviting!! I love how you created a space to bring you joy and show cases your current and former students’ talens. But seriously, did one of my birthday gifts she show up in a poem???
Perfect ending to this poem. All are welcome in your classroom–you create such an inviting space with all the student work hanging everywhere! All of the artwork that embraces the literature you teach just shows how much your students value you and the things you introduce them to through literature. Thanks for sharing!
Cara, I feel like I KNOW your classroom! Your poem makes me feel like I, too, am invited into your space. I also read your poem as a mirror of my own classroom, and what you/I/we hope to express through our choices: welcome, everyone.
This afternoon I asked one of my 8th grade classes to imagine where I read. I used their ideas for my first poem, then I wrote a response to it for me second poem. I enjoyed seeing what they thought my reading area would look like.
She Reads in a Room: Crowdsourced from 8th Period
By Mo Daley 4/20/23
She reads in a room,
maybe a living room,
maybe an office with bookshelves—
big bookshelves
It’s a tech filled blue and black room with plush carpet
It’s small and comfy, you might even say booky
yet it’s cozy, with a fireplace
and four chairs
and a couch
The ceiling is high
and she can record book recommendations there
I read in a Room
By Mo Daley 4/20/23
I read in my living room
in an overstuffed floral chair
in front of the window of a tastefully neutral room
It’s a race to get my feet on the ottoman
before the dogs jump in my lap
My sky-scraping to-be-read stack looms precariously
on the glass and metal elephant table
I catch my breath and marvel at
the hundreds of books that line the shelves
welcoming me to my domain
And I wonder why I even bothered with
the other two chairs and couch
Mo — Isn’t that something. Your students know you…that in itself is a testament to the positivity that lives in your student/teacher connection. I, of course, smiled at racing the dog to the ottoman…same thing here. I surrendered, she owns the ottoman. When I moved to the couch…ha…she moved to the couch. I swore “no dog on the furniture”; well, you see how effective that was. LOL! I loved the “booky” ness of the room. You whole idea of tossing this to the students is brilliant, as conveyed in the response poem. Cool! Susie
Wow! I love both of these rooms to read in. The “booky” description is spot on from the first poem to the second poem’s “sky-scraping to-be-read stack” and “hundreds of books that line the shelves”. I love this idea! Thanks for sharing.
Mo, I love that you “crowdsourced” this. “[T]he hundreds of books that line the shelves / welcoming [you] to [your] domain” make me so happy!
I sit alone
breathing hard
only my legs are moving
as I peer into my neighbor’s yard.
Looking through the trees
I watch lizards chasing,
hear the birds chirping
near a hive of bees.
There is green all around
except where I recently hoed.
Chimes are blowing in the wind.
I watch traffic on the lower road.
I smell the fresh air
and wonder if I should paint the shed.
It’s a time of peace on my back porch
and even time for prayer.
I prefer this to a long hike.
Breathing hard
only my legs are moving
on the stationary bike.
Susan ~ this is lovely! You’ve captured all the peace fresh air and possibility brings. Green all around, lizards, birds…my favorite line— I smell the fresh air and wonder if I should paint the shed. Nature is most beautiful when she invites us to join in!
I didn’t expect you to be on your stationary bike due to the vivid outdoor picture you painted!
Hi Mo. My stationary bike is outdoors.
Susan, I like how you were able to take us somewhere even if we were “stationary” on the bike. The descriptions of everything you see, hear, and smell helps place us there with you at your place to look and think. My favorite line is “chimes are blowing in the wind” because I can just imagine the peacefulness.
Susan,
What an unexpected ending! I kept thinking, why are only her legs moving as she’s seeing all these things? Well, look at you, springing that surprise finish on me. It sounds like a wonderful view.
I love the surprise at the end–and the wonderful images–chimes blowing, traffic on the lower road.
Thank you for the prompt, Katrina! I like that your place to write and think is full of little mementos. It makes it warm and special. I don’t know if I have a special place to write. Often I work and write in my home office or in a comfy armchair in the living room, but I’ve written in the car, on a plane, at the airport, in the classroom, etc.
The poem is about my writing today. I hastily scribbled it within five minutes while my students were completing the journal prompt.
Does the writing space matter
When it’t Tuesday, 11 a. m.,
and I am on campus in a classroom?
The room is almost bare,
No fancy decor or flare,
Desks arranged in a closed square,
Whiteboard, projector, and teacher’s chair.
I see Quinn and Mary,
Sami, Shelby, and Lainie,
Richard, Robert, and Joey,
Morgan, Kaitlyn, and Chloe,
Martin, Madi, and Grace
(Well, Grace is out of today’s maze).
They look thoughtful and focused
Writing response to a question posed.
I write too, but check around
To see if each has a topic found.
We do it an old style—
Pen to paper, not an e-file.
In a minute we will share.
With respect, open mind, and care.
Leiyla, I love how you do it in an old style- I bet your students do, too. I really like how you took your “ordinary” topic and can turn it into such a sweet poem.
Leilya, your classroom is exactly the kind of place I want to be writing. The rhythm and rhyme of your poem adds another layer of musicality and inspiration! Really lovely poem! Your last line says it all.
Leilya — The attention to the students and their names speaks loudly about you… I love that you’ve focused on the connection to their names. And “old style” just seems so fitting…the “focused” sets a lovely tone. Susie
This classroom seems to have little distraction and is a lovely space to be thinking and writing. I love that you are using pen to paper and having a peaceful time of sharing these new responses.
Thank you for the thought-provoking inspiration today, Katrina. We read two chapters of that brilliant book on class!
As usual, I’m wordy.
My Space
I am a looker and a thinker all the time.
But my preferred space to do those life-sustaining activities
is on the screened-in porch of the family condo
overlooking the beach on Sanibel Island in Florida.
However, I don’t have the luxury of being there often.
And, I’ve always wanted to rework a space in our home
called “Susan’s Space,”
a space devoted to me and my pursuits
replete with all my favorite things and
things that inspire me.
Instead, I have the big library chair and ottoman
in our living room and the quiet of the mornings
to think and look.
Draped over me is a Vera Bradley fleece throw blanket
and on the side table on a St. Louis Cardinals coaster sits
a coffee mug with “All Is Well with My Soul” on it.
Depending on the day, it’s either filled with
hazelnut coffee with a splash of half and half
and a few drops of local honey
or
hot chocolate with extra mini marshmallows.
A little ylang ylang essential oil
wafts from the diffuser
Within reach are usually
a black Uni-ball pen,
a fuschia Paper Mate medium flare felt tip pen,
and a purple marbled composition notebook or,
in homage to my father,
a yellow legal pad.
Most of my writing these days, however,
is done by clacking the keys of my school-issued
HP ProBook.
Sometimes I write.
Sometimes I just think.
Through early morning haze eyes,
I tend to look around.
Our home is filled with photos, keepsakes,
antiques, knick-knacks, and countless mementos
of times past.
I find much comfort in looking at my surroundings
in our home
Some would call it clutter.
I call it comfort.
I am a homebody.
If I am not at home,
I have to transform the space I am in
into a homey nook lest
anxiety seizes hold.
looking
thinking
writing
reading
being . . .
I need–or I create–
the space for these
to happen as easily
and naturally
as breathing.
~Susan Ahlbrand
20 April 2023
Hi, Susan! I like your detailed description of the place where you think and write. I can imagine you sitting in your library chair draped in a fleece throw with a cup of coffee or hot chocolate looking around with “early morning haze eyes.” It just seems like a perfect place and space. Thank you for writing!
Susan — It felt like going to a spa to read of this environment and you in it “looking/thinking/…” I smiled at clutter vs comfort … I think all of us understand that fine line. I need that kind of cozy feeling right now! Aaaahhhhh, exxxxxhaaaaaale. Thank you. Susie
For me, the ideal place to “look and think” is not a room at all. I get some of my best ideas while walking/hiking on a trail through the trees. Often, I will capture the thoughts in a recording on my phone so they are not forgotten before my steps bring me back home.
Thinking Along the Way
a wood-chipped trail
meandering through the woods
releases free spaces in my mind
to fill with creative vibes,
a large boulder blanketed with moss
marooned by the end of a stream
is the perfect place to perch
and let my thoughts
be carried by the current of my brain waves,
the sunbeams
dappling across my lap
brighten the ideas scrawled
in the pages on my journal
waiting to be ignited later.
CM. these lines are ideas that should inspire our students to “get it written, then get it right”
brighten the ideas scrawled
in the pages on my journal
waiting to be ignited later.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts that inspire mine.
I love the beginning lines of your poem. They sound beautiful, and I can relate because I, too, love to walk and think. The phone’s recorder is a great tool during such walks. Thank you for sharing!
CM,
This is nature bathing at its best. Your imagery is so calming, you take me right there. No wonder you find it inspirational!
Lovely! “…let my thoughts be carried by the current of my brain waves…” I can feel the sun, the energy, the peace.
Beautiful imagery here! I almost chose to write something similar as I do love to write poetry when admiring nature. Loved “be carried by the current of my brain waves” and the “dappling across my lap”. Gorgeous poem!
Katrina – thank you for today’s prompt. Your poem leave me with questions, like where is Pokey, was there even a Pokey to begin with, what are baoding balls, and what service organization did you get your gavel from???? Some day I’ll have an actual craft room instead my bedroom closet.
Nearly hidden chest
With wicker drawers
Where you’ll find
Sewing patterns for
Dresses, wallets
Even a quilt
Spools of thread
Extra bobbins
Fat quarters
Charm quilt squares
My special yarn
Wanting to be knitted
Needed that perfect pattern
Nearly hidden chest
Full of only part of my crafting treasures
Nearly hidden chest…
DeAnna, your “nearly hidden chest” sounds like a real treasure to me. You compiled a list that tells a lot about your hobbies and artsy side. Thank you for sharing!
DeAnna,
Having been the recipient of multiple creations from this chest, I am glad you chose this spot. Your source of solace in needles and thread/yarn is so clearly expressed here.
DeAnna, “treasures” is the perfect way to describe your craft closet/chest. It makes me imagine the way you show your creativity through the things craft. I would love to know more about your “special yarn”!
I love the intro and close – Nearly hidden chest – I try to imagine it wondering what causes it to be nearly hidden. Filled with sewing materials and yarn. And I wonder where your other crafting treasures lie.
DeAnna, your closet sounds exactly like something I would love to have. I really enjoyed the words you chose in this poem to describe items such as “Fat quarters” and “Charm quilt squares”. Although I do not sew, I like to cross stitch. It’s fun to have your hands creating things. Lovely poem!
Thanks for the prompt Katrina! I have a poster in my space that I have described. It’s one of my most favorite things I own.
A Poster of Connection
Molotov cocktail
turned flower
Van Gogh-
Banksy remix
Cats
loving on a bicycle
doodles
hope
An inspirational quote
A favorite mug
A favorite book:
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
A plant that I can keep alive?
If the clock melts, will time stop, please?
Contour art which reminds me
of the “wire sculpture” poem
I wrote last year on 4/18
-Fluid art class
-Find evil eye tree pic on old phone
-Try paint chip poetry
Lists
Lists
More
Lists
Sylvia,
I hope
you found a way
out of your mind
and into another world-
my Dhaka home
something about
sky, cloud, heart,
where I found
this unexpected gift.
meant to attach this
Angie, I love how your poem is filled with literary and poetic allusions. The flow of your poem is magnificent, and I am mesmerized by all of the specific images. Your end is jaw-dropping. Love, love, love “where I found/this unexpected gift”. Brilliant poem!
What an amazing poster! I am sure that it fills you with inspiration, instigation of thought.
Sylvia, the lines you wrote that struck me
Sylvia,
I hope
you found a way
out of your mind
and into another world-
remind me that writing can take us away as writers and take our readers away as well.
The first couple of stanzas of your poem did just that for me.
Thanks. I’d needed a momentary vacation. 🙂
Katrina, I started writing this morning, but had to leave it behind. My working place is grand central station. It’s no escape. I returned this afternoon as my phone alerts me to another warning, another storm. Although the basement is worse than the dining room table. I started writing all the things that are covering the table, but it became too embarrassing to include. Thanks for hosting today. I loved the images your poem created like the cat-eye marbles. I have a few of those in my pocket right now.
Dreaming of a She Shed and a Maid as SpaceX Giant Rocket Explodes
a clean uncluttered
space to write
would be nice—
rather than the dining room table
covered in debris
Barb Edler
20 April 2023
What a title! So many poems I am reading today were definitely inspired by yesterday’s prompt it seems. “Debris” is a fitting word for what you are experiencing. What in the world? I’m just learning about this SpaceX thing. Space in your title is fitting for this prompt too! Hope all is well.
Totally understand this thought. Short poem but certainly makes the point with direct words.
Barb,
I’ve been asking for a She Shed for the three years. Your poem brought a smile to my face. I too long for a clean uncluttered space to write when I’m at home. My husband made me a lovely desk during distance learning, but he has now taken it over…
What an awesome title, Barb! Such a fascinating combination, the dream of a calmer, clean space and this rocket explosion – $ going up in flames. I hope you find many treasures when (if!) you make your way through the debris on the dining room table. I’m great at slamming crap behind cabinet and closet doors, lol!
Barb — I just read that headline about Space X and think that your title and the poem are a perfect match. Perspective. It’s all in perspective. Love it. Susie
Barb,
I love the title here and it’s integration into the poem. The play on “space” is brilliant. Of course, a she shed is perfect. Why didn’t I think of that? The Space X metaphor for dining table debris is fabulous. Phenomenal poem.
Your title is a poem itself, Barb! I would be just happy with it. Maybe, a clean, uncluttered space won’t be as inspiring, who knows. By the way, they called this morning SpaceX explosion a success since it took off and exploded in the air, not on the launch pad. Go figure!
Barb, this is a magical poem! I’m delighted with that title, and I smiled to see you were embarrassed to list everything covering the table. I hope your dreams come true!
A Mom’s Paradise
Let’s be honest – when I need to think
the best place to go is my shower.
I lock the door and pull the curtain closed
ensuring 10 minutes all to myself.
The jets pound on my head, jostling my thoughts
so they can present themselves from different angles.
Then as I mindlessly scrub and stare
they conglomerate into pictures, ideas, beginnings.
In due course the foggy air spreads through
some kind of osmotic process into my brain –
so I turn off the water & scribble my thoughts
before they dissipate.
Rachel, I love how you connect the steamy water images with your scribbling thoughts. Bathrooms are definitely a great place to escape.
As a mom, I can appreciate how the shower is the only place for some “me” time. The last line- “scribble my thoughts before the dissipate” matches so well with how easily the steam disappears at the end of a shower.
This is the life of a Mom with young children, no doubt about it. Do you keep a writing pad in the bathroom? Love that you
Rachel, an uninterrupted ten minute shower would have been a gift when a children were little. Sadly we only had one bathroom, no locking a door during potty training. I really liked how you equate the foggy air to helping you form your thoughts.
Rachel, I am certain all the moms here in this community can relate to your poem.
You captured the 10 minutes of peace and quiet in the shower beautifully.
😊
I decide what I will wear to school every morning. Sometimes I move to adjustments to the day’s plans. I repeat my ideas to myself til I have time to act on them.
The Photo Wall in my Living Room
There’s Mommy on her wedding day in 1960
full of hope and love
Daddy, still having hair, young and handsome
staring back at me with MY eyes
My husband at 10, not aware of the
family tragedy that is heading his way
A loving postcard, from him, of an
adorable boy with a huge hat,
floppy shoes and a hopeful smile.
There are two Boy Scout Troop pictures,
my never-met in-laws with love
and devotion in their faces.
Inspirational artwork by Charles Bibbs,
a gift from Mommy.
A poem that reminds me
we will all
get to soar again someday
with our spiritual ancestors
There is a much sought-after picture
of Jimi Hendrix
his hair conked, curled and fine
Lastly there are two adorable photos of myself
as a child
taken at a studio when Mommy
thought I should be in commercials.
Thank goodness no one else agreed.
Seana Hurd Wright
This is so neat. It makes me want to start a photo wall like this in my house! It also reminds me of a part in the book “The Lincoln Highway” (by Amor Towles) where a character is staring at a similar photo wall & noticing all the “un” things – the things the people in the photos didn’t know were about to happen – things unanticipated, unintended, unreversible. Especially this line:
“My husband at 10, not aware of the
family tragedy that is heading his way.”
Thank you for sharing this little window into your family!
Seana, I love how your poem reveals so much about yourself and family. Thanks for sharing the image. I love photographs and yours seem extra special. I sure would enjoy having a Jimi Hendrix picture. Your ending is really fun.
What an extraordinary photo wall, just filled with love and inspiration for writing. I love that the wall includes this special ode to hope,
Seana, your poem re-sparked an idea in my mind to definitely include a scene like this in my upcoming novel about a family experiencing major challenges because of what the father revealed to them.
Email me at ajroseboro@comcast.net and I’ll share the title with you.
Seana, gorgeous!
I want those words framed and on my wall also! Thank you for sharing such a beautiful treasure.
IMAGINE MY PERFECT SPACE
My perfect space
unfolds, wide open
to creativity
with the world teeming,
jangling the senses
with a mind
that takes it all in,
sorts it all out,
lets me remember
when the clock ticks
it seemingly away.
My perfect space,
soldiers the senses
strums the sweet spots,
touches to ignite, heal,
tastes to wake, gratify the palate;
caroms color that invents sunrises over water;
smells drawing us
to lilacs, gardenias.
When I write that space,
I threaten to freeze it in time –
the opposite of creativity it seems –
so, wake-up breezes shove the senses
in my face, through my hair,
against my skin;
my words caress the page,
matter differently,
bending
over time.
When I paint that space,
it may have to be watercolor
so I can change its value,
adding and shifting water
as the moment demands,
my feet wet with
letting images
run in fluid
possibility.
When I sing the space,
coat the windows with sound,
pull harmonies from the chords,
tones from strings and hammers,
melodies float around and away
and I’m left with only the memory
of notes gone,
so I’m wont to carry on,
note after note.
If I cook the space,
I’d be salivating, sated, fat
with satisfaction,
replete,
yet tantalized
to stir up a perfumed manna
that would nourish
your mind,
your body
on a timeless
tongue.
by Susie Morice, April 20, 2023©
Susie, wow, you’ve imagined so much here, and I love how you create it differently in each stanza. I especially enjoyed the last two stanzas because I can hear your voice singing melodies, and the lines “that would nourish/your mind, your body/ on a timeless/tongue” is superb. Love the watercolor imagery, too, and the ethereal appeal of your poem. Beautiful!
The range of your creativity is really wonderful…how I enjoyed each stanza, feeling your joy. Your poem sent me to the dictionary with “caroms” and that line “caroms color that invents sunrises over water” is now my favorite. Absolutely love that!
Susie, you sweet sensation you!!!! There’s something deeply appealing and alluring throughout your entire poem. It gives so much honor to all that you are and ever dream to be.
The last stanza is mouthwatering!! 😋😋
Billy Collins has a wonderful
bit about how you know a poet
is at work if he or she has
a cup of coffee in hand and
is staring out a window.
Michael Crichton, on the other
hand, remarked that he stopped
practicing medicine to become
a full-time writer because
he started seeing his
patients as possible
storylines
I find myself somewhere
sandwiched between
these two philosophies
I can compose at home
in the office, pen in hand,
open Moleskine before me
or I can compose
elsewhere
Take today, for instance,
I’m standing in the staff
bathroom, trying to dry
my hands with this
ridiculously thin “two-ply”
bathroom tissue,
rubbing the paper to
shreds on the back
of my hands, making
a complete mess,
the tissue like peeling
skin from a bad sunburn
wondering if I could
get away with the
wiping-the-hands-
on-the-pants move
but quickly rejecting
this because I’m
wearing gray dress
slacks and it’ll look
like I just had an accident
wondering how hard
is it to restock the
facilities with paper
towels, thinking about
that line from Richard III
“a horse, a horse, my
kingdom for a horse,”
thinking that I bet
Richard III probably
had a stocked bathroom
walking down the hall,
dodging students,
flapping my hands wildly
like some flightless bird
wearing gray dress slacks
And I think
This.
This could be
a poem
(not, granted,
a Billy Collins
caliber
poem
but a poem
nonetheless
and some days
that’ll need
to be
enough.)
__________________________________________________
Katrina, thank you for this prompt today, for having us take a moment to ponder our “look and think” spaces. I find myself more and more these days (especially during April’s #VerseLove) thinking, oh, this event/situation should be a poem, which means my place of “looking and thinking” has become everywhere and all the time it seems. (Oh, and a “blotting technique” works if you find yourself in a position without actual paper towels and the need to dry your hands with terribly inexpensive toilet paper.:) )
HAHAHAHAHA! Scott! Wiping your hands on your pants…”accident”… AGAIN, I burst out laughing. Billy only WISHES he were as funny a poet as you are. (and I love BC) And the best part is that your hilarious poems are rife with allusions and images of important dudes thinking about the stuff of your poems. And the Crichton medical background and wanting to use his patients in his poems… holy cow…that’s a doozie bit of lore. Just a total treat of a poem! Thank you. Susie
Scott, I couldn’t even summon the giggles for
because I have been there, done that, and share the same frustration – how come it is so hard to keep paper towels in staff bathrooms? Oh my. That was a flashback. I appreciate your levity, turning this lemon of a moment into a poetic lemonade.
Scott, haha, loved his and the image of you dodging students and flapping your hands. Life is beautiful.
I love your fluid process and the thinking that leads to your sharing. Followed by your musing driven by a paper towel, I smiled listening to your ramble. As you land on a poem.
A long time ago, which was this morning, I could tell time by my cars. This morning, there might not be one. The cost to repair the breaks on my 2014 Kia is more than that it’s worth, more than a month’s pay. Yesterday was a decade, the little break-squealer with manual windows rolled me to class, its glove compartment holding notes from kids, emergency duct tape, floss, and flair pens. Its eighty thousand miles carries hundreds of poems.
I am writing this now on a walk, waving to recumbent-bike santa with his two goldens; I’m listening to roofers shingle my sister’s new house a hundred feet down the road. I’m leaning into the Oklahoma wind and writing a poem. Sometimes I convince myself that I don’t need a car, but most of the time I am dreaming of life beach-side or vineyard-viewed, wondering what kind of poems I’d make there.
Long before, sometime last week, cars became my metaphor. I was living on empty with racing strips on the hood — thought I loved that Cooper. Most of the time scone crumbs lived in the coin dish. I daydreamed the highway listening to NPR wondering how I got to school. Most of the time, I wished for my more humble automotive beginning; I am no mini. Just a few thousand miles on that one, but it’s when students taught me poetry.
The beginning was a CRX, manual trans, AC-free. On hot days, I’d arrive to work early for a poor-girl’s shower in the jail public bathroom. I didn’t write poetry then. Not one verse in hundred thousand miles. But I listened to a lot of stories and wrote notes with flair pens and wondered about life on a beach or vineyard-side.
So I am gathering the cars that have carried me these past decades, tracing the miles in poems, this poem, too — not so much because tomorrow the Rio will return to me to carry the next year’s but because I need to fill-her up, put on the breaks, and coast a bit today.
Sarah,
This is a wonderful meditative reflection. It has me thinking back to the cars that have carried me through life, too.
I love these lines, especially:
Sarah — Ever since the car prompt from last year, I’ve been thinking about cars too…how huge a role they play in my life and my routines. This piece has a wistfulness…”wondered about life on a beach…” YES! I particularly like the “not one verse in hundred thousand mile.” I have to think now about when happened in the 129,000 I currently have on the CRV…that’s almost like a new car in Susie-car-life. But since 2020, my car and I have been idling a lot. I love all the car metaphors…:-)
Fill-er-up! Susie
I love pose poems but often don’t think of writing them. I am with you along this car ride. I always know it’s time to get rid of a car when the expenses are higher than a car note. I understand “yesterday was a decade.” My time seems to disappear but each day feels forever. I’m driving a 2014 Prius with 130,000 miles. I should write about where we have been together.
*prose
Sarah, the car imagery/metaphors are brilliant in your meditative poem. I can just imagine you trying to freshen up in a jail bathroom. I can totally visualize your car filled with scraps of special notes from students and see you walking today while dreaming of a beach or vineyard where the world would seem far more peaceful and conducive to creativity. I could relate to your listening to NPR and then wondering how you got to work. Hope you are getting the time you need to coast.
Sarah, I am so smitten with every single line of this. It is reflective and wistful and the most beautiful kind of storytelling, I think…how much we learn about you through the focus on cars. I am so sorry the Kia repair is “more than a month’s pay,” I am so intrigued by the image of you at “work early for a poor-girl’s shower in the jail public bathroom” and need to know so much more…and that you weren’t writing poetry then, I find that amazing. Of course “notes with flair pens and wondered about life on a beach or vineyard-side” is a kind of poetry, I think. This is lovely. Thank you! (Oh, and – your sister’s new house is 100 yards away!!!!)
Maureen, I was a social worker in the county jail for 7 years before I returned to grad school to become a teacher. And, yes, my sister and her family moved to Oklahoma for her grad school and are building a new, huge house blocks away. A 10 and 12 year old come with the house, so I am thrilled to be a more involved auntie!
Sarah, you could write about a snail trail and it would be magical. I am always pulled in and able to visualize your experiences. I am in awe at these lines because that’s what I would hope to see in my future!
I love that you returned to it again because I sense the beach or vineyard-side living is bound to come:
💚
Katrina, hello! I loved, loved this prompt and your beautiful, vivid poem! Here is my offering for today:
Myspace
The skies a sharpened shade of blue
The grass, Crayola kind of hue
A field where cows did used to roam
(but now they call my tummy home)
Some geese like lil’ old ladies bobbing
heads, their honks like folks hobnobbing,
Some hyacinths that smell divine
Some daffodils, all in a line –
Yellow, white and even orange
(and why does nothing rhyme with orange?)
Some doves in homespun dovecote coo
Some rolling hills and peepers, too
(But only when it’s dark do they
come creeping, peeping out to say)
that they, too, love this place I live
A gift that nature loves to give
to kids and me, my husband, too:
I sit here daily, think things through
in chair of Adirondack plastic
and feel just flipping plain fantastic.
Wendy, I am a big fan of rhythm and rhyme. I like the playfulness of your poem. Lines like “The grass, Crayola kind of hue” fit perfectly.
Wow, your space sounds like a paradise – the flowers, the colors, the sounds. You’ve painted it beautiful. And your lighthearted poem, I’m guessing, matches the way you feel there.
My favorite lines:
“(but now they call my tummy home)”
“(and why does nothing rhyme with orange?)”
“and feel just flipping plain fantastic.”
Fantastic last line- ” in chair of Adirondack plastic and feel just flipping plain fantastic”. I wanted to cheer at this ending because surrounded by nature is where I do my best thinking. Love the rhyming and humor throughout the poem.
The happy rhyming throughout this charm of a poem adds such joy – it is so perfect to end with “and feel just flipping plain fantastic.” I would love to visit here and write. This, especially, had me smiling –
This is a perfect space! I love the description and beauty of the field where cows used to roam, the geese, the hyacinths, daffodils and the colors. I want to sit in that Adirondack chair next to you.
Katrina, thank you for this prompt! I love getting a glimpse of everyone’s creative space. I am smiling at those ‘cat-eye marbles’ of yours.
alongside a window
this cozy chair
soft ottoman for my feet
lap quilt in red olive brown
thrift store end table
with pilot precise v5
rolling ball black pens
spiral notebooks
a floral treasure box
with motley markers
books of poetry by
Lucille, Ada, Ross, more
pop up picture book
600 Black Dots
basket of notecards
field guide to birds
1981 postcard
St. Basil’s Cathedral
seaglass and stones
Frida Kahlo in clay
wild feast of a philodendron
atop a tower
of houseplants
pastel drawing of a door to
somewhere
unknown
Maureen,
I love the specificity of books and the contrast between the black pens and “motley markers.” That lovely image of
“pastel drawing of a door to
somewhere
unknown”
is a perfect metaphor for what happens in the pages of your notebooks and for me reading your poem and through your words walking into this “somewhere unknown” yet familiar from your words. Beautiful poem. I so want to be in your creative space.
Maureen,
Your list stanzas are a delight to read! Such specific detail and musicality in the way you structure them. And the ending stanza is so full of possibility!
Maureen, I too have a door to somewhere unknown at the top of my staircase. Oh, wow! I often wonder what is behind that door in the picture. Your basket of notecards appeals for short notes and – HAIKUs! – and of course the field guide to birds is an absolutely essential page-turner for every hour of every day being near any window whatsoever. Have you tried the Merlin Bird ID and used the sound feature?
Maureen, your poem begins “alongside a window” and ends with “a door to somewhere unknown.” Thank you for giving us this tour. It flows so freely without punctuation. Of course, I am always curious about what others read. Is that Lucille Clifton, Ada Limon, and Ross Gay I see?
Maureen — You have super fertile ground here! I love the details…and Frida Kahlo…yeah! And I think it’s not accident that we end on “a door…unknown.” I’m stepping in! Susie
Maureen, I need your space. I love all the lovely imagery from your pilot precise v5 to the floral treasure box. I’d love to see your Frida Kahlo in clay. I’m currently working on an ekphrastic poem of one of her self-portraits. Your ending sounds like a trip into the secret garden or something. Really lovely poem. Your title is also perfect!
Maureen, I love the metaphor of the drawing of a door to “somewhere / unknown” Beautiful! I’m also resonating with the exact pen here:
So important to have the right pen.
Katrina, I started writing one poem, and another one came out of my fingers. So, I guess that’s the poem for together. Glad we have options.
WAVES OF THOUGHT
Walking along the water’s edge
Watching the waves roll in
Remind me of phenomenal power.
But power under control
Even if they lap over the edge
The waves lose their power to harm.
But never their power to charm.
Walking down a busy city street
Watching crushing crowds wave by.
This person weaves to the left, another to the right,
Nodding sometimes and even smiling,
Perhaps to avoid a fight.
Walking down the street where I live
Dog walkers waddle along
With mushy plastic bags in hand.
I wonder about the plucky dogs. Oh sheesh.
They’d much rather be chasing the turkeys
Who flounce by, uncontrolled by a leash.
Waves of thought tumble through my mind
Wondering what leashes me.
Is it a natural edge like a seashore
Or the politeness of folks in the crowd
That keeps me from speaking out loud.
Is it laws I don’t like, or the people I love
What helps keep my waves in control?
What really keeps me from being more bold?
Ah, it’s to avoid dear Gramma’s scold.
Love that line, “Wondering what leashes me.” It’s always fascinating to me how the mind meanders – especially in these gorgeous nature locations.
Anna,
I really like how you begin and end with the waves and subtly weave in the imagery from the other stanzas into the final stanza.
The stanza that most resonates with me is that 2nd one. I can clearly picture the weaving and bobbing, almost a dance, that is required of city walking.
Anna, your poem has perfect timing for me. Yesterday, as I was walking my dog, I rounded a corner on my left and met a couple (who were walking to their right). The woman let me know I was on the wrong side of the pedestrian path. Mind you there are no “walk to the right” signs anywhere. I was not trying to be a scofflaw, but I realized just how controlled we are by unwritten rules, how much we do to “avoid dear Gramma’s scold.”
Anna – I really, really love the picture you chose & the way it works with your first stanza: “Watching the waves roll in / Remind me of phenomenal power.” And then leading into the end “What helps keep my waves in control?” Such a good question. And I laughed at your answer!!
I’m giggling Rachel. You’ve been around this group for a while and know that my siblings and I lived with my grandmother because our mother was hospitalized for several years. This, loving lady that she was, was also toughy! We had to do right or else! And furthermore, I’m her namesake! Yikes. What a burden …but a loving one that keeps me going…most days.:-)
Our temperatures are below freezing this morning. I am missing spring and longing for its green, so I’m channeling my ideal conditions for playing in the dirt where I love to daydream and think.
Planting Season
Burpee packet of
onomatopoeic language
gurgling burbling in
Sunnydaze* raised beds
incubating inspiration &
germinating ideas under
WonderSoil organic mix with
fertile flexible castings for
burrowing ideas toward
Soul-Solutions* light
illuminating, sparking
sprouting brainseeds &
Bees abuzz: All we need in
our secret garden of genius.
—Glenda Funk
April 20, 2023
*Sunnydaze raised garden bed
*Soltech Grow Light
I adore how you made writing and creativity your garden today! I’m particularly smitten with the WonderSoil and its
I had a worm farm with my preschoolers…castings are great stuff. So many great metaphors for all of us today, Glenda. Thank you!
Glenda, I want that green thumb and the knowledge of how to care for flowers and plants as you do. This is lovely – – I took a look at a Grow Light the other day and thought for half a second about it. But I put it back, scared that whatever I plant will surely die…..I wish I had the magic you can work over green.
And you have the “genius,” my friend. Your garden is rich…even the bees to pollinate that thinking. I loved the planting details, and it’s close to my heart as I’ve been at it all week with planting, watering, transplanting, fertilizing… Now, of course, the weather threatens to be near freezing Saturday night. Grrr. I enjoyed this poem and thinking of planting and creating. Susie
Glenda, your poem provides the perfect recipe for a beautiful garden. Now for the onomatopoeic “bees abuzz.” Best wishes for a bountiful harvest!
Oh my goodness, Glenda, your poem is a total delight. Your word play is phenomenal. I was immediately drawn in by your first lines. Imagine ordering a Burpee packet of onomatopoeic language. OMG! I think you could start a new small business on Etsy with this idea. Your ending is also fantastic, with the bees buzzing and your “secret garden of genius”. You are the genius! What a perfect poem and title. Deeply inspiring poem!
“gurgling burbling” – I hear the wheels clicking and the magic created with words in your poem. Your word choice is show stopping, and you made a haiku sonnet, didn’t you? I like how each stanza begins with a proper noun and “Bees abuzz”
Thanks Katrina for this morning reflection. I liked your list and tried, really tried to keep mine simple and evocative as your is. My thoughts got in the way, but we ended up in the same place. Your last line says it all.
I carry my writing space with me—
in every room jars
of rescued pencils —
so many rescued pencils,
I could open a school—
and on a nearby table,
some paper
and a toppling stack of books.
This morning, I sit on a comfy
leather chair, but upstairs,
there’s a worn wooden one
that belonged to my father
and reminds me of his work space
when we took the subway
to his office in the city:
his cluttered desk set between
disordered stacks of photographs
and cardboard,
and a small square window
the same color as the many jars
of cloudy,
slate-colored water
used to airbrush photos
for glossy magazines
in the time
before computer keys and filters.
Upstairs, I’ve my own clutter,
a desk in the corner
of my daughter’s old bedroom,
nearby, a jar of pencils,
some topped with forgotten
finger puppets—
a raccoon, a bear, a spotted dog
looking out a clear glass window;
on the wall, antique t-squares
that belonged to my father;
and behind me, another table
a cross, a clock, a candle,
a music box from my husband,
more photos, more books
and I think of my father’s retort
when I was old enough to comment
at his messy work space:
If a cluttered desk
is the sign of a cluttered mind,
he asked,
what’s an empty desk the sign of?
Hey Dad! Are you watching?
Do you know?
I’d toss it all away
for another subway ride with you.
So sweet, Ann. I love how you “desk melded” with memories of your father here, but also included your own husband and daughter – family. This brought back memories of my own father’s work desk at home and how he kept a work desk long after he had retired. The antique t-squares now preserved on the wall is the detail I most remembered. Sweet. Sweet.
I love, “Hey Dad! Are you watching?” thinking about apples, trees, and how they fall. And I believe I need to start using pencils, Ann.
I adore your father’s retort! I have long thought a good bit of clutter goes along creativity. We keep treasures close. I love how your poem weaves in so much of your father, almost introducing us to him, while also sharing your creative world. I know that feeling of ‘carrying your writing space’ with you…I have pens and markers and writing pads throughout this house. Thank you for this poem, Ann!
Katrina, thanks for this prompt, somehow it took me more towards the creative process so I interpreted space and looking liberally.
ROOM 222
not so much
a space
as a vibe
start with a song
to make a song
‘dr. feelgood’ at the fillmore
‘song cry’ unplugged,
ugh, that zone out moment, ugh
people get ready, there’s a train
a-comin’..
never quiet, always conversation
argument, even
the cosmos was created in chaos
so who am i to crave quiet
life is a maelstrom, mine it
…it was a space though,
killing us as we created
mold and toxins in air ducts
you can hear the rasp in the
vocals, not just from the multiple
takes, somehow making magic.
I love where you went with this – and where you land, “somehow making magic.”
I am squeezing in writing where I can as we are in our semester crunch time. I WISH I were sitting at home writing this – Katrina I adore all your tchotchke, and as much as I keep trying to “clear the clutter,” I have too many bits and pieces that, like yours, story themselves in my life. Thank you for this great prompt. I’d love to have students do this in their own space to allow us to share intimacies.
The Furthest Corner
Circulating Collection
PA 4010 – PN 6790
a wide open space
where books used to live
EMERGENCY EXIT
fluorescent lights
whooshing vents above
a librarian patrols past
a couple worn chairs
a coffee stained side table
intermittent coughs
stapler “ker-chunk”
a break from students
sniffling through allergies
complaining that citations
are so hard
a respite in the stacks
from the stacks that will
consume my entire weekend
the promise of finals so near
take a deep breath
tap out a poem
hit the Enter key
to return
You are near the end, Denise! Best of luck getting through the semester crunch. Your line, “stapler “ker-chunk” is awesome – I feel as if I am in the stacks, too, all the teacher’s work, to get across the finish line.
Denise, I’ve missed you the last few days! Great idea for squeezing in a poem today, and I’m glad you added the photo. Clever double meaning of stacks here. Good luck with the grading!
I love this prompt. I’ve missed the last few prompts, so I was bound and determined to write today. I am in my classroom and my eyes were drawn to a painting one of my former students painted and gave to me.
I remember Emily.
In 4th grade, she lost her mother.
Suddenly, a motherless 10-year-old.
How could I help her?
I handed her a book–
A Handful of Stars
opened a connection of author to student.
Emily and Cynthia became special friends.
Emily is a senior now.
Her grief is not mine to hold.
I hold her memory in a painting of blueberries
in all colors, swirls of blue,
stars shine like an orb of planets.
A handful of sweet dots
connecting our hearts.
OMG Margaret this is so beautiful, the stories, the memories, the keepsake kept for 8 year and probably forever, and you, what a wonderful person and guidance for Emily. I love the “handful” repeated from the title you handed her <3
Margaret, what a beautiful poem and story. I once had had a student, Anne, who lost her mother and I remember taking Anne to lunch on a half day and so she gave a picture with a red ball floating at the top near the sun. Only it wasn’t floating. Anne told me that her mother was holding the ball but we just couldn’t see her. Your poem made me cry, seeing the blueberries, remembering Anne’s and her picture, the “handful of sweet dots/connecting our hearts.” Beautiful, Just beautiful.
“Her grief is not mine to hold.” So incredibly beautiful that you were there to support her. What a precious painting,
Margaret, I am stuck on the line “her grief is not mine to hold.” Sometimes I get too carried away in the sorrow of others, and this is a great line to remember, even to substitute the word grief at times…..to let things go and be. Lovely sentiment.
I know. My empathy can be so difficult for me. I’ve had to let her go. She’s 18 now and training to be a EMT. I keep up with her through others.
Margaret, there was once a twelve-year-old boy whose father died suddenly; his 6th grade teacher gave him a Bible signed by every other student along with this verse, written by the teacher: “The Lord is close to those whose hearts are breaking” (Psalm 34:18). The boy treasured it and holds it dear almost fifty years later…for he’s my husband. When he went into the ministry at age 25 he looked up his teacher to share the news, to the teacher’s great delight. I tell this story to say the acts and gifts of love at such times have an impact greater and farther than we can imagine… sometimes opening doors, like in Emily’s case, connecting to Lord through the book. Now at this milestone in her life, when her grief is not yours to hold (a line that I WILL hold), you can rock her memory gently, looking at her painting… for she has made it. Endured. And you played a part in it. This piece of your heart today beats so strong.
Fran, this is so beautiful!
Margaret, I’m so happy to see that Emily’s gorgeous painting inspired this thoughtful poem today. How wonderful that Emily and Cynthia became friends. I’m glad you were there for her.
The Product of My Imagination
I have a Secret (deodorant, coconut scent)
And I Shout (stain remover) this from the rooftops
I need words like the Ayr (saline nasal mist) I breathe
I admit, the Total (toothpaste) of my poetry knowledge is miniscule
I’m being honest; I have nothing to Gain (laundry detergent)
The mystery is a certain Intuition (sensitive care razor)
That forms the products of my imagination
What a great way to turn the prompt into something introspective!
It was a really cool experience to read this poem in full the first time then look back and read without the text in parentheses. It’s like two poems in one – then I looked back at the title and noticed the word “product” – I think this fits for both today and yesterday’s prompts! Nice work!
This is awesome! Clever focus for this prompt – and that fabulous summation of a last line,
Jennifer,
This is so cool. I read the bolded words first like a poem and then read the poem. The parentheses add a textual detail here alongside the bold! I am smiling at “Intuition (sensitive care razor)” in this context!
Sarah
How fun! Your brands works so well into this poem. Or, should I say YOU works the names of the brands in so well.
Katrina, It’s the time of year where all my spaces feel cluttered, but sitting down to kick-off the day, I looked up and knew where a poem might go. Thank you for focusing our souls in immediate spaces. These lines from your poem made me smile,
Not only his cup, but the eyes of the ol’ captain always seemed to follow you. I forgot all about that show!
Of Us Hours – 115 Canisius Hall
~b.r.crandall
Under a paint-splotched,
short-bodied Anura
I sometimes find it hard
to be camouflaged.
I’ve been sculpted
outside of any box
by Brown School ponds
& Muhammad Ali.
(sometimes I understand daemons,
although, Man, His Dark Materials,
pulled the covers over my head).
My Potter patronus prefers lily pads:
a watershed of generations, birth,
and fertile personifications
(she’s one Hekt of a goddess for sure)
Ribbit Ribbit.
I understand the way the yin
matches the male yang thang
especially while looking to the moon.,
Enki grabs me by the hand every time.
Of course it’s about the water – I’m Aquarian.
As I wait for a day of meetings,,
I see how we’re both spectacles in trifocals
(trying to focus on the cat-tales
and dog-daze waiting to be written).
Until they arrive, it’s this montage,
the memories of yesterday
that saves my sanity & screen for another day:
photos of family, graduations, & Ubuntu —
the collage of digital smiles
that harmonizes my day with fuel.
This has always been Us
As the Mandalorian understands.
(Season 3. Episode 8).
This is the way.
“The collage of digital smiles” leading to “This has always been us” is a poetic way to turn my eye to your space. You open your doors to everyone.
Bryan,
This stanza is beautiful:
“Until they arrive, it’s this montage,
the memories of yesterday
that saves my sanity & screen for another day:
photos of family, graduations, & Ubuntu —
the collage of digital smiles
that harmonizes my day with fuel.”
I love the blend of past and present with “screen” and “digital smiles” that keeps you going! Thanks for sharing!
Brian,
I so enjoy reading your poetry. I value the glimpse into your mind, way of being, life, and this seen of what is around and within carries the “us” so well.
These lines:
the collage of digital smiles
that harmonizes my day with fuel.
Love how the smiles nurture and sustain you/ the speaker!
Sarah
…fuel for this ol’ junker. My frog and the boys! Inspiration for today’s poem.
from the of-us, this morning.
Bryan, this poem is a dazzling montage of the fantastic (I almost typed “phantastic”!) which I suspect holds much deep meaning in the code of the “us.” True re: the daemons/the inner self, although Pantalaimon was so enchanting. Your Patronus is a frog? Mine is a white mare, a verified psychopomp (with ties to a special childhood game my father taught me). Such a celebratory post…for all the rich symbolism and imagery that have me marveling, my favorite lines are “As I wait for a day of meetings/I see how we are both spectacles in trifocals.” Metaphor and maybe literal… in the words of Browning: “Grow old with me! The best is yet to be.” This is the way, yes… again, dazzling.
Great prompt for a spring day and spring cleaning of heart and mind, and kitchen drawer. Thank you!
Junk Drawer
Old rusted key
To something I’ve
Forgotten how to open,
I’ve forgotten,
I cannot remember.
It is locked in my memory
And I know it was terrible,
I can feel it
And I want to run,
I want to Hide my eyes,
I want to forget.
I collect things:
Keys, bottle tops,
bits Of paper,
broken pens,
Little boxes of
Assorted sizes,
Buttons, marbles,
Anything small
I can store away,
Safe and protected,
Safe and unnoticed,
Safe and forgotten
Until I open the drawer
And see those things
With new eyes.
Those old things I carry,
Those forgotten
And rusted things
Useless to everyone,
But me.
You and me are they same with keeping things and forgetting. I swear I have a tin with old movie tickets in them and I don’t even know why I keep them. Seeing “those things with new eyes” is beautiful and I guess that’s maybe why I keep them. Thanks for sharing!
We are kindred spirits, Joanne ~ I too am a collector of “forgotten and rusted things, Useless to everyone but me.” Thank you for helping me feel I’m not so alone!
Many kindred spirits here, Joanne! I love little bitty things to “save” in my junk drawer – cannot bear to leave them homeless wherever the were. The key is intriguing, and I love how you tie that into your memory – or forgotten memory – and the darkness surrounding that. It’s ominous, but don’t we all have such “keys” and “locks”? I just read A Fire Story and keys were a focus – the keys people have to houses and cars that were totally destroyed in a fire, and how they still carry them. Sad. I’ll bet we all have a “key story” poem in us.
Katrina, thank you for hosting today. I think Cisnero’s Name Chapter from this book is often used, so it is nice to see how you’ve pulled out a less-used piece of her work. I like how you’ve revisted an old cabinet to give us a hint into your life. Somehow your stating that there was no Pokey, resonated with me, so I went with that to guide me this morning.
three flavored Chapsticks no lipsticks
one pink pen, one fine black Sharpie,
one black ballpoint no blue roller pens
CBD muscle balm no stinky IcyHot
Mint Extra, Listerine tongue strips
no candies, no BubbleYum
ginger essential oil no Tums
lists, multiple lists, on various papers
oversized monitor, cords, backlight
no pictures of family, no limits on music genres
a view of nature, behind the monitor
no interruptions
Stefani, I want to know more about ginger essential oil! Middle aged tummy hasn’t always been my friend, although I read almonds should be eaten with most meals (and that has been working). Ha!
Beautiful. Such a calm listing of words.
Stefani, I love the “no BubbleYum.” Am I mistaken in guessing that BubbleYum was once a part of your life? It’s a shame we have to grow up and into Listerine tongue strips.
Amid this list poem’s very visual assortment of necessities (and ones missing) I note this: “lists, multiple lists, on various papers.” This, this, is the minutiae of my own life. Lists within lists. The necessary ephemera of life. And that view nature behind the monitor makes me happy!
Stefani,
I am struck by the contrast of natural balms to the mechanized “monitor, cords, backlight”. I am struck by what is and what is not or “no” and this space as cultivating possibilities when there are “no interruptions” and also a welcomed break when it is time to Chapstick or CBD or essential oil!
Sarah
You had me at three flavored Chapsticks and no lipsticks. I also was upset about the no Pokey (where is he??) and it gave me pause for concern. Like you, I believe in Chapstick. There are 5 in front of me on my desk as I type this. I won a basket with all sorts of goodies at a drawing – gift cards, foods, socks, school supplies, etc. I reached in, pulled ou the Chapstick, and handed the basket back to be re-drawn for someone else. All I wanted was the Chapstick – – so I’m uncapping mine right now in solidarity with you, Stef. Chapstick Chaps, we are.
I love this list. It provides such a snapshot of your preferences.
I like your detailed list, including what’s not there, Stef. My favorite are the final lines:
“a view of nature, behind the monitor
no interruptions”
Thank you!
Katrina, what a welcoming prompt. It is like going on a tour; what I can I learn about this place? What can I learn about this person, through the objects collected and arrayed? That last line of your poem ties it all so perfectly. Memories. The stories behind the keeping of these particular objects, every one holding deep meaning.Thank you for the gift of it and for hosting today.
My poem is a rather detailed list…but…welcome to my little sanctum:
Sanctum
Heavy table
of creamy Italian marble
cool against the wrists
clear glass jar
a gathering of silk peonies
pale faces open wide
faintly blushing
white ceramic rabbit
lounging in repose
with its light pink ribbon
and light pink nose
new high chair
waiting in the corner
wooden deacon’s bench
adorned with
twin cyclamen plants
and floppy straw hats
square glass ornament
sitting upright
bearing tiny black script:
and beyond the horizon
there lay infinite possibility
above a watercolor chickadee
on a twig
bay window
facing east
where the morning comes
atop its high frame
a little brown sign
scrolled in white vinyl:
Amazing Grace
window blinds
open wide
hummingbird feeder
on the other side
and hummingbird
ruby-fire at his neck
coming to drink
gone in a wink
I’m leaning in to read the words on the ornament:
and beyond the horizon
there lay infinite possibility
Kevin
Fran, thank you for the detail here. I am visualizing the rabbit in repose and wondering how often you make eye contact with it as you ponder and brainstorm. I think I would dialogue with it often:)
Fran, a place of wonder, filled with the promises of spring and the infinite possibilities beyond the horizon 🙂 and always birds. Always birds, coming and going, nurturing themselves at your door, your window, your feet. Beautiful, and I love the bench with the floppy hats. Like the bunny ears I see close by.
Cool against the wrist! Fran, you captured it (I thought I was the only one that loved the sensation as I work). And I love
We all need hummingbirds in our personal spaces.
Fran, it is difficult to incorporate tactile imagery into writing. “Cool against the wrists” is perfect! It makes me want to come sit at your table.
My hummingbird feeder is feeding a female ruby these days. I love this picture of your space. I grew up with a bay window that captured morning. I’ve always wanted to have one in a house I own.
Fran, such beauty in your sanctum, with the flowers and “cool against the wrists” marble table. Lovely. My favorite part just may be outside the open blinds “ruby fire at his neck” and “gone in a wink” Such masterful phrases there.
oooooh, this is such a delightful prompt. I am going to go to school and list things in my space. Thank you for the idea!
Katrina, thank you for hosting us today with an invitation to share our favorite writing spaces or objects that make us think. I love learning about where people enjoy writing! Your list of memories is precious – – I call one of my dogs Gumby sometimes because of the way his feet flare out when he stands – – and the marbles bring such memories for me too. Normally, I write in my favorite chair in the living room, but my favorite place to write is on a campground in the quiet of morning. Thanks for investing in us as writers today and inspiring us to kick off the day with beautiful thoughts.
I appreciate how the objects here are more than things — they are the landscape of ideas
Kevin
Kim, I love your last two lines…materializing ideas above the rim plus hide & seek with words, lovely!
Your poem reminds me of Amy Van DerWater. I watched some of her videos from a camper during the height of the pandemic. I think you are right about perspective, “perspective sharpens/moments come into focus/small spaces do that.”
Are you still camping? Less is more. I love how we follow the process of words percolating and getting caught right here, right now, for me to read.
Love the paradox of “the max” and “minimalist writing” in this camping paradise percolating with ideas. So much to drink in. Drumming fingers to think, to express. The chase of slippery words… I am right there with you, experiencing it all – so vibrantly real, this verse of living the writerly life!
Beautiful, Kim. I am particularly appreciative of this lovely reminder,
I feel this, too. How lovely to be camping, and enjoying writing, as well. And, wow, you are queen of haikus – this was very special. Thank you!
Kim,
This scene is so inviting. I am imagining a few seconds here slowing down, zooming in to each smaller scene, dimensions of this writer’s being. The teardrop gave me pause. And I am feeling that again now as I sit with this phrase just long enough for the “strumming” and the “words percolating” to heal.
Sarah
OMgosh, I looked at one of these Little Guy campers last year when I went fishing and there was one in the campground. It looked soooo cool. And you have one! I loved “camping” with you through this poem. What a perfect spot for all that creativity! Love it! Susie
Please send me directions to this lovely place. I am completely charmed by all of your images and sounds. I can see your cup rim full of steam, and your end is marvelicious!!!
Love it!
Kim,
I’m so glad I waited until this evening to read your poem. When the day began I did not know I’d need these gentle words to remind me why I write and what I need when writing. They truly are a balm to my troubled soul. I’m particularly drawn to paradoxes, such as
“Little Guy Max..,”
”familiar words / I had forgotten”
”less is truly more /dogs” That one’s my favorite.
Thsnk you got being here, for being my friend.
What, she wonders,
are these scribbles
and these scratch-outs
in this mess of paper
and lined pages
of your notebook
left upon the table
in the mornings?
Songs, I reply, or
the seeds of something
to maybe becoming
music, if I can only
find the rhythm again
when strumming
the guitar in my mind
Kevin
Kevin, those seeds of something – – scattered thoughts…. to maybe becoming music…..and with the right nurturing, the watering, the careful crafting and pruning…..they will!
Kevin, the seeds of songs and trying to explain your scribbles to others welcomes us into your space of music creation. Thank you for sharing.
Kevin, you must wake with the birds to “strum the guitar in your mind.” I like the image of lines on the paper and the music created there.
Many of my seeds are scribbles. Strumming the guitar in your mind is the creative juice of a songwriter.
Love this, Kevin…the little clutter of creativity on the table, the scratchings as seeds, the hope of finding the rhythm again…music being born. I watch a baby bird struggling to get our of its egg yesterday. Exhausting work. I sense it here, again. It’s trying to Be.
Kevin,
Thanks for this scene and bringing in “she” to help us wonder with her and hear your reply “seeds of something” and “maybe becoming”. Perfection.
Sarah
Aah, Kevin… I’ve been there and feel that “if I can only/find the rhythm again” moment. The scrambled papers and scribbles we leave behind… This is just right. It’s like you left the door cracked open to your early morning poems. I love it! Susie
Keep putting those scribbles to paper. They serve many purposes. Seeds . . . you just never know when the will sprout!
Great poem!