Today’s writing inspiration comes from Mo Daley. Mo has taught preschool through high school, ELA, Spanish, and reading. She’s found her passion as a middle school reading specialist in Homewood, IL. She loves designing and making Little Free Libraries and is a strong supporter of the Literacy Empowerment Action Program #LEAPforGhana. Mo has presented on Engaging the Naysayers in Your Middle School Classroom at the Illinois Reading Conference and at nErDcampMI. She blogs sporadically at Mo’s Literacy Adventures.
Our next 5-day challenge begins on September 16th. Please invite friends and colleagues to join us by sharing this form. Thank you for sharing this writing space with us this month!
Inspiration
A Three Elements poem has just that- three elements that must appear in your poem. There are no other rules. It’s up to you to be creative with this prompt. Here are some elements from which to choose:
Chocolate, a relative, diploma
Computer, a secret box, the smell of roses
Raindrops, a blender, a stuffed animal
Step stool, a poncho, nail polish
Banjo, camera, barking dogs
Mo’s Poem
Mom’s closet was overflowing with junk-
newspaper clippings, letters from army friends,
even a pressed rose from God knows where.
“It’s going to take a month to clean this place up and get it ready to sell.
Bring me the step stool so I can reach the top shelf.”
Among my mother’s hats, box of receipts, and theater playbills
was the poncho.
My poncho.
The one I’d made when I was eleven and had just learned to crochet.
Mom taught me
She was patient
and understanding when I dropped stitches, which was often.
We sat together for hours
as she showed me how to finish off a stitch and weave the ends.
Teaching me
Guiding me
Encouraging me
Helping me
Loving me
I never knew she kept it all these years.
I have to catch my breath.
The pain of missing her so much is like a punch to my gut.
“Come on!” my brother yells.
“We have to do the bathroom closet next.
I don’t want to have to deal with all that makeup
and old nail polish by myself!”
Post your writing any time today. If the prompt does not work for you today, that is fine– make-up your own prompt or a twist on this one. All writing is welcome. Please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Below are some suggestions for commenting with care. Oh, and a note about edits: The comment feature of this blog (and many blogs) does not permit edits. Since we are writing in short bursts, we all are understanding (and even welcome) the typos that remind us we are human.
Mo, Thank you for bravely and joyfully leading us into our hearts and minds this week. Your prompts invited me to explore thoughts I hadn’t realized I needed to explore! This is my third month with the challenge. I feel I am beginning to be part of a writing community, recognizing returning members and excited about new ones. The poems are lovely and generously shared, and the thoughtful comments are themselves sweet poetry! Sarah, thank you for seeing a need I didn’t know I had and helping me find my way in.
Allison
Mo, Thank you for hosting our poetry community this week. Thank you for being ever-present throughout each day. I noticed you commented on nearly every poem. This had to have been challenging as you head back to school. For me, having poetry writing tasks has been a welcome diversion during my first week of retirement. ‘Preciate you. —glenda
Mo and all involved in this challenge,
Thank you for the opportunity to step out of my comfort zone and do some writing. I have not written in a long time, and I consider my best writing to be in prose…I tend to avoid poetry. The first night when I saw the prompt, I started to quit. Then I thought of all the students that I try and coach out of their fears of writing. I decided that I should put myself in their place for a change and remember how it feels. I have gone full circle from fear to completion and I am elated from the experience.
Thank you to all.
Carla
Glad you jumped in, Carla!!
Carla, You are not alone in your trepidation. Until March 2018 I’d written fewer than a dozen poems. Then I wrote a poem about my father and posted it on my blog during the TWT SOLSC. The poem received kind comments, so I decided to write a poem a day during NPM in April. I wrote maybe two poems between May 2018 and April 2019 when I joined Sarah’s merry band of poets. At 60 I’m a late bloomer, and I still don’t know how to assess my own poems. As Kim observed, I just kind of do my own thing. Like you, I think of myself as an essayist and not a creative writer. We’re all here finding our voices, honing our craft.
I found this challenging and I almost didn’t do it. Although I think my attempt less than perfect, I enjoyed trying.
3 Elements Poem
I stood on the step stool trying to reach the top shelf.
I’m not that short, but I had to get on my tippy toes nonetheless.
As I stepped down with the bowl in my hand (the reason I got on the step stool in the first place), I slipped a little and caught my left hand on the shelf.
The nail polish I’d painstakingly put on the day before had come off in two places. I cursed and assessed the damage.
Too bad ponchos don’t have a place to hide my hands; tomorrow is the big dance (the reason I’d done a self-manicure).
I had wanted to look perfect. Now I would be less so.
But that would be the real me: less than perfect.
Elisa, I think you’ve written a fine poem that lets us know you better. I see you on your tippy-toes and feel the anguish of that flawed manicure. You’ve given us a picture of someone for whom the details matter, someone who strives for perfection. And you can’t go wrong w/ vareative poetry.
Whoa. I can see myself in your poem. Keep on writing my friend.
Each month Leon read the National Geographic cover to cover.
He wrote multiple versions of his life-story,
Insisting Janette retype each revision.
Leon’s mother died of a brain tumor when he was 17.
The following year his father,
having lost the farm, including Tony the chocolate pony,
Shot himself in the deep red barn.
Yet Leon said the worst day of his life was when, at age 19,
the dentist pulled all his teeth
To prepare for the dentures that would
Fix his crooked smile.
After the war, where he served as a cook,
He worked as a hired hand,
Then farmer, cattleman.
When he died at 92 he owned 1000 acres free and clear.
I never saw him laugh.
His eighth-grade diploma hangs on our wall.
Allison – Oh my gosh, Leon is such a figure. You’ve brought to life such a complicated being. Your see-saw between the dear and the dreadfully sad keeps me in the swale between those waves—very effective. A reader of the NGs and a man who wrote to archive his own story… and losing a pony are so touching. Then the painful parts of loss (his mom) and the father’s brutal demise and yielding a full mouth of teeth — holy mackerel! Even the “deep red barn” – conjures the godawful scene of his father’s death—great details. I loved the 8th grade diploma on the wall with the list of his collective identies/accomplishments. What a man! In very few lines you’ve delivered a remarkable tribute to Leon. This really pulled me in. Thank you, Susie
Allison, What I love most about this poem is the reportorial tone w/ the speaker chronicling the facts of Leon’s life: he read NG, his mother’s death, his father’s suicide, the violence of having all his teeth pulled, and his various jobs. Despite all these obstacles, by any measure, Leon was a success. But like so many of his generation he lived life w/ out fanfare or drama. And it seems as though that’s how he died, too. Leon makes me think of my grandfather who also had an eight grade education but is one of the smartest men I’ve known.
Allison, this is a beautiful tribute to the man. Your writing is spare and each word carries the weight it deserves.
Everyone graduated from college
My village of educated relatives
Framed diplomas adorning our walls from
The UC’s, the Cal States, and the HBCUs
But no one talked about
the pain or the insanity
Of trying to fit into petite square boxes
With our plump chocolate hips
No one sat us in the family circle
To discuss how divisions
Destroyed mama and daddy
And how he never wanted her to work
So we walked on cat’s feet past the door
Where mama’s light began to dim
Where her song seemed shallow
And daddy always left at night.
…and daddy always left at night—you wrote an entire story with that one line.
Wow Stacey….this is deep. “So we walked on cat’s fee` indicates such a secretive existence.
Stacey, This is a powerful commentary on the duality you experienced. I love the way you describe your family as a village. My favorite lines are in the second and third stanzas with the image of “trying to fit into petite square boxes / with our plump, chocolate hips.” I just finished reading “How to Be an Antiracist,” and the issues you raise in your poem are some Xendi discusses in his book. Wonderful poem. Thank you.
Stacey, all week your poems have stunned me with their beauty and power. I loved “plump chocolate hips” and walking on cat’s feet (Carl Sandburg!). Each day you opened raw emotions and shared them with the tenderest selection of words. Wow. Thank you.
Mo, thanks for a great week of inspiration and fun writing challenges. You stretched us and connected us in new ways. I appreciate all that you did to encourage us!
Thank you so much! It’s been a blast! ❤️
Connecting
Empty journals –
new and blank,
for student writers
who need a fresh start,
a blank slate,
a chance
to begin anew.
A smile –
an opportunity
to connect with a student who doesn’t get many smiles.
A conversation –
a way
to encourage a student who feels
disconnected,
passive,
unmotivated,
an inspiration and a nudge to write
and be known
and heard
and loved.
Kim, I love the subtext here: The promise and possibilities of a new school year. Those last three lines say it all for me: writing let’s each writer be known, heard, and loved. I’m grateful for your presence here and look forward to next month when I’ll get to read more of your poems. ❤️
Kim – Big truths here. I love the connections that come when we take a few moments to smile, to write, to “be known…heard…loved.” You’ve touched the lives of your students and all of us here in this special writing forum. Thank you so much for that! Susie
Kim,
As a child or even a teen I would’ve loved a teacher who thinks like you about writing. “A blank slate, a chance to begin anew…” spoke to the young writer I was many years ago. Wishing for a teacher who would want me to feel this is a fresh start.
This was tough! I deliberately wrote this before I read all of yours, because I wanted to be neither intimidated by nor imitative of them. So I wrote mine, then read yours. And now I am intimidated!!
Chocolate, a relative, a diploma
When I embarked upon my family,
I was sure that I would be a skilled pilot,
That I would steer my nascent crew with skill
And purpose, and with an accurate compass
To maintain true north.
I had, after all, walked the stage more than once
Accepted my diplomas and adulation
Proved my mettle in management
Built that house to hold my plans.
What could go wrong?
Plenty.
Broken rudders, leaks in the bow,
Becalmed with no breeze in near sight
Children leap overboard when you’re not looking.
They grow too big for their bunks down below.
And they throw off your anchors
Float adrift in boats they make themselves.
(They don’t look completely seaworthy.)
The best you can do is throw lifelines
In hopes they can catch them
If they want to.
Their boats don’t look like the ones you imagined
Nor do the pilots follow the maps you drew..
But they stay afloat
Until finally you can relax
And sit back with a sigh,
Unwrap the Hershey’s kiss
tucked away for just such an occasion,
And savor the sweet pleasure.
Gayle— This is terrific. Your family and your journey to guide them is an incredible feat. I love the sense of how much you wanted to map and plan and guide, while reality that everything could go sideways is powerful. I love the metaphors… they throw off your anchors, their boats don’t look like the ones you imagined, they don’t look completely seaworthy. These really work. And ending with a kiss…we’ll, that’s just plain sweet. Well done!! Susie
Gayle, I love the extended metaphor, and let me tell you I’m right beside you in that boat. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Got me the image “children grow too big for their bunks gown below / And they throw off your anchors / Float adrift in boats they make for themselves” is the strongest. Wonderful job. Thank you.
Gayle, I am not prepared to write so I thought maybe if I read the posts I would have some inclination to do it. You’re funny, saying you’re intimidated. What??? This poem is beautiful and speaks like it’s been waiting to show up on a page. Now, I AM INTIMIDATED. Awesome!!! Thank you for motivating me to sip my drink and wait. ?
I went to buy a table and couch – used
And what a deal!
When he learned I was trying to furnish a whole house
He through in the secret box.
It had a little bit of everything
And a whole lot of nothing…
Picture frames, electrical tape, a broken blender,
spoons, pots, pans, and at the bottom….a poncho.
I joined my relatives at the river
where it rained for three days and three nights non-stop.
We would take turns covering ourselves with the poncho,
To slosh down and check the rising river levels.
And I thought the table and couch were the great find!
Carla —. So fun! That ending is a great punchline! I particularly liked the image of sloshing down to check the rising river levels. And the listing of the oddball things in the box. Funny. Thanks for this piece. It made me chuckle. Susie
Thank you, Susie. I am glad you enjoyed it..
Carla, what a story that poncho can tell. First discarded into the “secret box” and then put to the happy task of sheltering so many. I envision a children’s picture book in your poem w/ its theme the joy of hidden treasure we share w/ others.
Thank you Glenda, I can see how the story could easily go into a children’s book. Ironically, the trip to the river was an actual camp we had this summer at my aunt’s cabins on the Ouachita River. My aunt, my cousin, and I were there and had all our grandkids….we called it grandma’s camp. We had to keep a close eye on the river with all those treasures to protect.
This was a great tale, and a great way of implementing a tough prompt! I love the turnaround of the poncho being the valuable item after all. And the line–a little bit of everything, and a whole lot of nothing–I may need to steal this!
I am glad that you enjoyed it Gayle. It’s funny how little seemingly insignificant things can turn into treasures.
I love this poem, Carla! Something I visualized easily was that secret box and the poncho at the bottom. Lovely choice of descriptions for random things I never would think about.
Thank you Stacey, I am glad you enjoyed it.
Mo, thanks so much for inviting us to explore different ways to organize our thinking in concise, yet precise ways to tell our stories and share them with others here. You’ve set the tone by writing such clearly and compellingly about personal incidents that you’ve freed us to do the same.
It is my hope that teachers who are viewing and participating in these monthly writing challenges, recognize the value of this kind of writing to teach not just writing, but also living life to the fullest. Students will see how alike and different they are and that it doesn’t matter at all, especially when we support and encourage one another as writers…especially writing about very personal incidents we’ve experienced.
Muchas gracias!
This has been such a pleasure, Anna. I look forward to your prompts next month!
Blender
I sit at the kitchen table,
swinging my feet back and forth,
back and forth,
my too short legs not quite touching the floor
as I listen to the raindrops patter against the windows,
washing the color from the outside world.
It is an inside day.
But that’s just fine.
I’m creating color in my inside world.
I finger through the crayons arrayed across the tablecloth,
navy,
denim,
turquoise.
I touch each one,
examining the shade,
turning it every which way
before settling on a color dark as midnight and oh, so deeply blue.
I clench the crayon in my hand,
blending colors across the page,
back and forth,
back and forth,
my motor skills not quite adept enough to stay within the lines
as I hum a made up song
and chatter a made up story
to bunny bear,
his small stuffed self
my continuous companion.
Jennifer – I can just see you at the table with your crayons. Crisp images…those swinging little legs and examining the crayon colors, humming happily. A very sweet image. Susie
Jennifer, this is lovely. I love the rain “washing the color from the outside world,” and “I’m creating color in my inside world.” You are obviously a very creative person!
Jennifer, I am impressed with the creativity you used in the placement of the words. It gives the visual that is as artistic as the pictures and tunes you hummed. Good job also with your plamement of the simile, “dark as midnight.”
Jennifer, this evokes strong memories for me. I had a fascination w/ crayons and spent lots of time arranging them in the box, by color and by placing the names so they all faced front. I can see and hear you as I watch the “back and forth / back and forth.” The tone here is both contemplative and nostalgic, and my sense is you’re making an important comment on what children need to nurture their creativity.
A different direction for blender than I had considered. I love the creative bent here. This is a wonderful picture of childhood on a quiet rainy day. I felt at peace reading this.
Jennifer,
I see the little child – I hear her, and she is fun to watch and hear hum to her bunny. Somehow I see she’s still there – coloring her world with her songs and words!
Mo, this touches me. I can’t imagine the emotions of finding something your mother had saved as you are cleaning out her things after the losing her. The discovery is both a gift and a weight. But what a beautiful discovery! Thank you for sharing that with us.
Smelling like sunshine,
you cuddled a little green bear.
I snapped a million pictures with my camera,
refusing to let even one moment pass by.
You rolled over, stood, toddled, ran,
Spoke beautiful, slurry, imaginative words
You and Dora sang, “Bate, bate chocolate;
Swiper NOOO swiping; WE DID ITTTT!!”
Smelling like rust and dirt,
you played with John Deere tractors.
I took hours of video with my camcorder,
refusing to let even one moment pass by.
You rode your bike, skinned your knee,
played with farting slime, and Nintendo DS.
You sang anything that came to mind,
down the hall “I have to pee, I have to pee.”
Smelling like axe body spray and hair gel,
you waited for the school bus every day.
I made sure to post everything on Facebook,
refusing to let even one moment pass by.
You got taller, learned to drive, started dating,
grew the cutest (sorry I’m not allowed to say cute)
little goatee. This year you will graduate and I’m singing
about how it feels like I let every single moment pass me by.
NJ, the repetition of “refusing to let even one moment pass by” reinforces the irony in which you end the poem, realizing that no matter our efforts to capture each childhood moment, the reality is we can’t stop time, can’t repeat any moment in time. I love the specific details marking each passage of time: the bear, Dora, John Deere Tractors, Nintendo DS, axe body spray, and then the reference to driving, which, of course, evokes movement and this journey of raising a child.
Well, now I’m crying. This hits so closely to home. I love the beautiful, slurry, imaginative words. You have captured the speed with which life moves in these small snippets as they are quick flashes of the highlighted memories.
Wow. This prompt went in a way I never saw coming. I love the line “refusing to let even one moment slip by.” I feel that way about my young grandson. It’s hard for me to delete the out of focus shots I sometimes take!
Amazing, NJ, how you cleverly wrote an entire poem about olfactory memories. Hmmm. Another idea for challenging writers. Interesting, too, how certain smells and aroma evoke incidents at specific times in our lives. Good job!
NJ – It was fun to follow the growing up journey in your details…the singing anything, the Axe (LOL), and so quickly graduating….the fleeting pace comes across with just the right sense of it all slipping away too quickly. Touching. Lovely. Susie
This is beautiful. I watched your boy grow up through your words. I really loved the repetition of “smelling like”—an unexpectedly pleasant sense to focus on.
TRAVEL AND TRINKETS AND TRAUMA
Triples, the number three is supposed to be lucky, they say,
And writing about three today may not seem that way.
Travel and trinkets and trauma. About me, what do they have to say?
Our family has lived in five different states and traveled from coast to coast.
That trek from Massachusetts to California is one about which we still boast.
Living far from extended family made our nuclear family closer than most.
Living far from extended family made it hard to celebrate at holiday roasts.
My daughter’s job had her traveling all around the world.
Because of the bond we’d had, she invited me to go along – just us girls.
Tagging along with my daughter to Europe and South Africa, what a whirl!
What fun we had together, exploring and buying trinkets! They store up memories galore.
Travel took my sons away.
The elder lived abroad for tens years,
Seldom affording a trip to come home.
Travel took my baby to Japan. He died there.
And now he will never be coming home.
The other two still travel and roam, and but now often do come home.
Travel and trinkets and trauma have been the story to tell today.
All three have brought us together and we celebrate all…in a way.
Anna, The alliteration in “travel, trinket, trauma” snaps us into your lived reality. I sense the heartbreak of watching a son depart, never to return home. Still we travel on.
Anna, your rhyme is beautiful, but your story is so touching. I hadn’t thought about organizing my poem like this, so thanks for inspiring me to try something different next time.
I appreciate the repetition of your title at the end of the first stanza and the beginning of the last. It brings the journey full circle. This line has a nice rhythm. Your first line hints to the reader to be cautious while reading your tale as well. I can’t imagine having a son never return home. Thank you for the brave telling.
Wow. You pulled me into your story, and 5hen stopped me cold with those three words about your baby. You took a lovely story with a neat rhyme scheme and and then broke my heart for you.
Anna – When you got to the part with your sons and losing a son, I almost gasped. Trauma indeed. The sweetness of traveling with your daughter makes the loss of your son hit like a 2 x 4. Contrast is a powerful element. Thank you for sharing such a personal piece. Susie
Anna, I am so sorry for the loss of your son. I enjoy the idea of movement and seeing new places in your poem – and of reconnecting after an absence. Won’t it be awesome to reconnect with those we’ve loved and lost when we all get to Heaven? That’s the best hope and peace we have in a world full of heartache and pain.
Kim, it is this belief that extends this poem to one more travel incident when we transition from this world to the next and gather with family in our final destination.
“June 4, 1989”
White sky light
Unclips a memory:
Tiananmen Square protesters
June 1989
I unwrap the paper
Read headlines above the fold
Right justified, the story fills
My eyes with marchers.
Below the fold an index,
Western life: jump to the classifieds
Knowing and unknowing
Seeing and not wanting to see.
What have I to do with these
Borderlands? Oceans and continents
Pass through the square on their way to
The Forbidden City.
While students march for a
Taste of freedom, seeking safety in
Multitudes filling the square
All along Mao’s visage guards the east.
White sky light
Unclips a memory:
Tiananmen Square ghosts
March 2019
Now occupy the space,
Acknowledged only by gun-toting,
Black-clad soldiers perched along
Gray cement slab, this symbol where
Western Tourists and Chinese citizens
Pass through to the
Forbidden City. Most
Unaware of the June Fourth Incident.
We gather for a group photo—
Mao’s face over our shoulders—
Smile our American white-toothed smiles,
iPhones and selfie sticks poised to shoot,
Capturing an instagram moment
Erased from Chinese history.
No plaque honors these freedom fighters.
Our guide bristles when
I mention the student protests.
We’ve no time to greet the past.
Our guide knows only the script.
We cross the cement, hardened firm,
Sealed tight to keep out curiosity seekers.
We hurry on to our next stop: the
Forbidden City, palatial palace, what some call China’s heartbeat.
This transcendent square its graveyard.
Glenda – Your poem is the marker, the gravestone that I am so glad is in words now after all these years of remembering the horror of that day. You’ve so effectively captured the cleansing of the horror that happened to those young believers. (no plaque honors…no time to greet the past…guide knows only the script). It reminds me so much of Kent State and the pathetic job they did of marking that horror. When I went there some years ago, I was stunned at the cleansing of that place. You’ve reminded me that Tiananmen was yet another slate “erased.” You did “unclip” the memory. That looming visage of Mao, the “grey cement,” “black-clad soldiers…” oh my. The contrast between the hardness of old thinking and the hope of young fighters — this sharpens the edge of the poem’s power. This poem means a great deal to me, and I am so glad you wrote it! Thank you! Susie
Thank you for capturing this event and your visit years later. I can see the bristling guide, the hurrying to avoid greeting the past, the space sealed tight. Your last line is powerful.
Wow, Glenda. Your first stanza sets the stage perfectly, especially the sentiment, “What do I have to do with these Borderlands?” The descriptions in the second stanza are spot on. They make me feel like I’m right there. This is a very touching tribute.
Glenda, your snapshot of then and now and the shift in time is incredibly illustrated for us! You honor the freedom fighters in a poetic tribute that is always trademark Glenda FUNK-y, always a masterpiece that is uniquely in your own style! I like that you take social change events and put them squarely in the spotlight and make us think about their cost.
Glenda, I loved this.
“unclips a memory” hints at clips/gun cartridges
“iPhones and selfie sticks poised to shoot,
Capturing an instagram moment
Erased from Chinese history” was my favorite part, mixing multiple meanings with hard truths.
You took me back to my own Tiananmen Square visit–and also to the pro-democracy protests of today.
Thank you for this poem.
[raindrops, a blender, a stuffed animal]
the rain drops
shake walls
rattle blinds
stir my love’s
breath
the flashes clip
dream streams
restraining my run
muting my speech
splicing dormant
anxieties
the thunder, a blender
emulsifies words
as consciousness emerges
metal blades puree
once vivid images
Cubism, human-
stuffed animal
shakes me
awake
My love: “You were dreaming.”
My breath:
Oh, Sarah — You delivered a doozy! So many edgy images! This poem just screams “read me out loud!” It has a real thunder to it. Here are my favorite bits: “clip dream streams,” “splicing dormant anxieties,” “emulsifies words,” “blades puree once vivid images/Cubism…” (super image idea). The exacting word choices really drive this. And having the ending reveal the dreaming… great way to end… that truncated breath after the dreaming, stormy fits. Oooo! So good! Wowza! Susie
Sarah, There is both a softness and a hard edge to your poem, and this creates spectacular images of the weather inside your dream and it’s effect on the couple. “Emulsifies words” is my favorite phrase.
Sarah, the image of awakening from a dream is vivid and powerful,
“the thunder, a blender
emulsifies words
as consciousness emerges
metal blades puree”
How often is it possible to recall specific details in a nightmare?
Sarah, I really like the pacing of your poem. Your short lines make me feel how important each of your verbs are. The lines almost made me feel the rain and thunder. Love the ending!
This one is fabulously fun to read aloud! I love the sounds especially here:
the thunder, a blender
emulsifies words
Mo,
Thank you for sharing these moments with us. The old nailpolish and make-up line is a symbol of artifacts that are, I think, part of our identity. Makes me think what people will find among my things. But the memory of your poncho is the shaping of a relationship, the way of being with another. I love this and am so glad you had a wonderful mother who was capable of showing that love in finishing off a stick or weaving the ends. Maybe a poem is just that — weaving ends.
Peace,
Sarah
[3 Elements: chocolate, a relative, diploma]
OUR GRADUATION DAY
In late May of ’67, I was so
ready
to walk across that stage,
declare college ahead of me,
high school behind,
diploma in hand.
A whirlwind that week
of pressing my gown,
teetering back and forth in high heels
I’d only worn once before
and sure I’d trip in front of
the whole auditorium;
of fussing in the mirror,
practicing the right to left
tassel swish with that peculiar mortarboard,
and what to do with all that blond hair.
I hadn’t thought much about the logistics
of that night:
getting there,
nor who would come
till late that afternoon,
Dad still not home —
bad sign:
he’d stopped on the way home
“to have a few”
like every other Friday night,
like every night.
“Mama, we need to get to school.”
The look on her face,
framed in her thick chocolate brown hair,
was different,
a sense of calm when logically
that didn’t add up.
Mama didn’t drive,
there was no car –
cabs, what were they?
They cost money.
If Dad did get home in time,
he’d be…
well, he’d be like he always was
and not about to sit in an auditorium
for an hour and a half,
he needed to be vocal,
to vent and rage away
his disappointments.
I could not be in those
crosshairs,
I’d learned that
the hard way.
Pacing, I fretted,
“What are we going to do?”
No relative could come to the rescue:
Mama kept these moments
private and under the rug.
Changed
to her best dress and church heels,
always with a quietness.
Tears welling, I felt a sting of what was shaping up
to be a crushing disappointment
till Mama assured,
“Don’t worry, we have a ride.”
Moments later, an unfamiliar car
pulled up to the house and
Mr. Drake, my favorite teacher,
climbed out of the car
to open the passenger doors
for Mama and me.
Dumbfounded and I’m certain
mouth agape,
carrying my gown over my arm
to spare the wrinkles,
I sat in the back seat speechless
while Mama, pocketbook in her lap,
listened to my teacher make small talk
that washed over me
in the three miles to school.
Sitting on that stage
with a class that would do fine work in the world,
I located Mama sitting next to the empty seat
Dad never filled,
and I measured the moment
with a sense of relief
and pride that I would make the walk
Mama never got to do,
and she’d silently made damned sure
she got to see it happen.
by Susie Morice
Susie,
Love how so many of your poems are narrative; you take us right into a moment, provide just enough background, and move us through the tension to the resolution in so few words. And I love how you trust us with your stories, with your memories: “pride that I would make the walk/Mama never go to do.” In that pride also comes the carrying of Mama’s past that you weave in here with the “unfamiliar car,” “measured the moment,” “pocketbook in her lap,” and “silently made damned sure.” Mothers are resourceful, indeed.
Sarah
Susie, First the title says so much about the way you and your mother experienced this day. Looking back I see the way you’ve woven the ritual of preparing for graduation into the ritual you experience dealing w/your father’s drinking. Your mother is the embodiment of strength and dignity, the way she proclaims “we have a ride” and the way she holds her purse on her lap. I must also tell you how meaningful this poem is to me. My mother refused to attend my high school graduation because “she will be there.” “She” being my stepmother.
Oh, Glenda — I am so crushed for you to have had that absence at your graduation. “SHE will be there.” Damn! I know you are feeling the hurt of that still, and I am so sorry. Thank you so much for your support in this writing. I was lucky beyond words to have had my Mama and to have had her strength.
Susie, you always seem to draw us in so carefully and artfully before you drop a bomb on us. You say so much with your so few carefully chosen lines and words. I wasn’t expecting the full roller coaster of emotions you put me through with this one. So beautiful.
Susie, your story is beautiful, and your last stanza took it to a new level. I can see your mama sitting there, making damn sure for you. I’m so glad she did. Her strength has obviously flowed through you and your words.
Susie, those important moments of our lives are sometimes so many blurry shades of dissatisfaction and thrilling and disappointing and embarrassing and proud and calm and chaotic and ecstatic and……sometimes reveal truths that are hard. Your mother and your teacher were your heroes and cheerleaders on that graduation day. And you were the winner – you shifted a tassel and set about to change the world. And you have and still do!
Way to start the day out in tears, Mo. you had me at “The one I made at eleven…”. That one phrase set off a host of memories. It carried all that eleven is made up of…
Mo, This poem tells a lovely story of your mother’s love got you and you for her. I love the way we see that through the description of your mother’s patient teaching and your memory of “dropped stitches.” The dialogue provides a wonderful tone shift from nostalgia to the drudgery of cleaning and preparing the house for market. I wonder what memories the makeup will evoke for you.
Oh No, Mo! This looks hard to do! But you’ve done it so well with your closet cleaning and unearthing the poncho. So touching. I really like the shifting tones of perfunctory task to the heart-ripper (“gut punch”) of recognizing how closely your mom held onto you through those crocheted threads. And as a weaving…well, that’s just perfect. I am inspired to find a treasure in my closets of scattered memories. Hope this 3-element challenge yields some “dropped stitches” and “woven ends” for me. Neat prompt for a poem, Mo! Susie
Mo, what a tear jerker! That poncho – the only clothing I saved when my mother died was a black fringed poncho and a black velvet hat that I wear with red at Christmas. I’m your soul sister today. We are kindred spirits remembering our mothers and the cleanouts. Thank you for taking me to the closet – first hers, then mine to feel the fringe. Beautiful!