Choices We Make with Gayle Sands
Welcome to Day 17 of Verselove. We are so happy you are here, however you choose to be present. If you know what to do, carry on; if you are not sure, begin by reading the inspiration and mentor poem, then scroll to the comment section to post your poem. Please respond to at least three other poets in celebration of words, phrases, ideas, and craft that speak to you. Click here for more information on the Verselove. Share a highlight from your experiences thus far here.
Gayle retired unwillingly from the classroom as Covid entered the world after 27 years as a Middle School English teacher in central Maryland. Her students either “couldn’t read or didn’t behave”–and if both were true, they ended up in her classroom (where she loved them–mostly). She currently supervises student teachers for McDaniel College. Gayle has four cats, two ill-behaved dogs, and more books than she needs. She recently became a grandmother and is buying even more books to be ready for bedtime stories.
Inspiration
“Regrets, I have a few, but then again, too few to mention…”–Paul Anka
“Tears and loss and broken dreams
May find your heart at dusk”
–Carl Sandburg
Life is about choices, small and large, intended and unintended, well-thought-out and impulsive. What choices make you sit back and wonder “if only”? I had a conversation with my grandmother years ago, about one of her “if onlies”. (Sadly, I never saw her dance, although she possessed a joy for life and wonderful laugh. I bet she was a great dancer.)
Process
Consider something that you (or someone else) had a passion for that is no longer part of your/their life. Consider:
- What was it that made it so special? What do you/they miss about it?
- Did it change the trajectory of a life?
- Go back to that choice, that moment, and recreate the experience.
- Reflect on where that choice led. It may be a positive result, or something that is longed for today.
- Think about the “what-ifs” in life, and explore what you–or they– have gained…or lost.
The form is up to you.
Check out the links below for inspiration.
Links to Poems about Choice:
- Lost, One Soul: http://lostonesoul.blogspot.com/2005/04/lost-one-soul.html
- “Sadie and Maud”: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43311/sadie-and-maud
- “Dreams in the Dusk” http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/carl_sandburg/poems/1228.html
- “I Worried” https://apoemaday.tumblr.com/post/175408809725/i-worried
- (and just for fun–”Should I Stay or Should I Go”); https://youtu.be/yW8mF2be0I0
Gayle’s Poem
Dancing the Reel (for Frances at 103)
Gayle Sands
I asked her…
“What was the happiest time of your life?
What do you remember best?”
She sighed,
and the years slipped away.
“Oh, my…I suppose I should say
It was when I married your grandfather.
But there was this boy…his name was Fred…and we danced.
Oh, how we danced!
I was just a skinny little 16 year old girl…not a serious thought in my head.
My sister called me a dancing fool.
I’d wait for him on the porch…could hear him coming,
and I’d watch from the hill.
We’d climb in his buggy and find the right barn—
they advertised them in the paper, you know.
And we would go dancing.
We would dance, and dance and dance…
Fred wasn’t good for marrying, really.
He couldn’t hold a job.
But oh, how Fred could dance.
Your grandfather never did learn,
though I know he tried…
but after a while,
I just stopped dancing…”
She settled back into her 103 years.
Rocking in her chair.
Dancing with her memories.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. 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.
Also, in the spirit of reciprocity, please respond to at least three other poets today.
All my life I have been a reader
From picture books to chapter books to novels
I’ve loved them all
In my free time, I turned to books
When life was going as planned, I read to escape reality
But when college started I found myself reading less and less
Reading started to become a chore rather than an escape
Maybe one day
When all this homework and stress is behind me
I’ll find my way back to books
She could cook all day
For everyone, for anything
She was a chef of her own
You wonder, how did she learn?
It was her heart, it grew and grew
A heart of gold
But when she left us
We mourned and grieved
For not only was she gone
But her heart too
For if I would have cooked too
We can cook together soon
Soon I will cook
With your heart too
Whenever I felt lost
I danced
When days turned from good to bad
I danced
Through all of my emotions
I danced
I never felt more at home when
I danced
As I began to make hard decisions
I didn’t dance
I had to choose between passion and career
I didn’t dance
I hold regret because
I didn’t dance
I hope for the future because
I will dance again
Ella, this is beautiful and speaks volumes about what you’re passionate about. Keep dancing! Don’t let anyone or anything stop you!
Ella, this is a wonderful poem. I hope you pick up dancing again!
Hi Gayle, wow your poem really had me thinking what if? I also loved dancing it brightens my day.
What if life was not so complicated.
After experiencing hurt and betrayal
How can one love again
What happens when you give more than you receive
There is no trust
Always wondering
Am I with the right person
Do I hold on or
simply walk away and let go
I ponder but I need to be wise
I must choose happiness
so what if I just walk away
Dee, beautiful piece you wrote. I love how it relates so much to people’s actual thoughts throughout their lives. Deciphering between what ifs and questioning yourself, do you just walk away or stay? A common question.
She once was the caregiver
Awakening all with
A joke and warm embrace
Tidying up rooms
Passing out pills
Checking vitals on the hour
She cared for all like her own
With ears eager to listen
And a compassionate heart
A debilitating disease
Sparked the reversal of roles
At the age of 53
Hi Emma that caregiver was a speical person because she cared about her patients. I hope in return she gets someone to care for her humanely.
This poem is absolutely beautiful! I can’t help but hope this person has care reciprocated. Amazing job!
Emma, your poem leads such a striking story. We never know where our lives will take us, which is why we need to live in the moment and always be kind.
Hi Emma, she must have been a very special person according to your poem!
This prompt had me thinking all day. I considered writing about the choice of waiting until bedtime to write my poems.
Then I had the idea of turning the prompt around a bit to focus on a regret. So often, people will ask, “if you could go back and change things, what would you change?”
For me, there is one thing I would change about high school.
High School Regret
Freshman year PE class
Badminton was the unit
Teacher, also coach, saw some talent.
Lucy and I, he said, had doubles talent.
Would we consider bringing it out of class?
Tryouts soon, we could be a unit.
I really loved that badminton unit.
Tryout day — do I really have talent?
Best if I leave sports in class.
Talent in that class unit — wasted.
©Jennifer Kowaczek April 2022
Form: Tritina
Your poem has inspired me to write about one of my hidden talents. You did such a great job adding questions and dashes to invite for reflection. Great poem!
Beautiful poem! I love your use of questioning!
Jennifer your poem is very inspiring!
Gayle, I love your poem, and the photos of “then and now.” I think it is easy when we are young to look at someone who is 103 and categorize them as “old.” The picture of your grandmother as a young girl reminds me (us) that even the oldest people experienced youth and all its possibilities.
Motherhood
Once upon a time…
the beginning to every great fairytale
once upon a time…
I was a solid corporate climber
middle management, respected
even admired by some
comfortable lifestyle
the world was my oyster
once upon a time…
I left that corporate world
to become a stay-at-home mom
by choice, with enthusiasm
once upon a time…
“what do you do [career]?”
“ummm, raise my children”
dead silence
once upon a time…
I lived the ego-diminishing
reality that no one
respected what I chose to do
once upon a time…
I was a mother to young children
who depended on me for everything
who thought I was all-knowing
once upon a time…
those children grew up
now live independent lives
my love and care undiminished
today…
I hope my influence
is felt and appreciated,
that once upon a time…
was the right choice.
Charlene, I love your poem! My motherhood story is the opposite — my family needed me to return to my teaching job when our daughter was 7 months old. I can relate to feeling like others did not respect my decision. As mothers, we have to make tough choices and we can only do the very best we can for our family.
I love how you used repetition in your poem! The contrast between “once upon a time” and “today” is so powerful along with your last line “was the right choice.” I’m not a mom yet, but I could definitely relate this poem to my personal decisions. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you for sharing your choice. Women are scrutinized for choosing to stay home to raise kids or to continue their career, a choice that is hard to make with or without criticism.
Hi Charlene,
I liked the use of the repetition of once upon a time…oh how great sacrifices we make for our children. We can only hope that they appreciate the choices we make to always put them first.
Thank you for sharing this piece! I love how you used repetition throughout the whole poem.
The words of the wise woman who gave me life
When she says, “en vez de preocuparte, ocúpate”
It’s true, I could get busy instead of worrying
but, in my mind looks different
I’ve progressed more than I thought I would
And I guess… That’s something
It’s a decision made
A decision that seems to control me,
even though I’m the only one in charge
It is wonderful advice, but I think lots of us know it’s easier said than done. I love the alliteration in your first line.
Poem 4/17
“Oh how I miss him”
Oh how I miss him
I miss him pushing me on the swing
Or throwing a ball at me to catch
I miss him taking me to McDonalds and letting me play in the play area
The only one besides my mom who pushed me to do my best in school
Oh how I miss the smell of his new colognes or the smell of his jheri curl juice
The sound of his laughter could be heard throughout an amusement park
My long talks will never be the same
Life will never be the same
Holidays will never be the same
My phone will never ring with him on the other end
What if I had just one more time to talk to you
What would I say
DesC — your poem brought forth strong emotions for me. I’ve been missing my dad for almost four years and your words could me my own.
Hugs to you!
Wow. Your words create such a vivid picture!
So touching to me and tears flow as I read it.
Des, thanks for sharing. The lost of a loved one is never easy to accept. We just have to pray and ask God for the grace to continue and cling to the memories.
love-scorned greasy-haired Z is tipsy this Tuesday night.
just what if, what if he thinks, what if I could pull the photos
down from different houses
and guys could vote on which chick is better looking,
like put them side by side on the screen,
and then you just write code to make rankings and hell you
could even compare girls to animals that would be
insane and not really that hard if you think about it.
sixteen years and many billions of dollars later, Jair Bolsanaro
runs for the Presidency of Brazil and Z will become his
ally, because deep inside this thing that Z made
you get binaries, levers and switches that set ablaze the
outrageous, the angry, the divisive,
you get moves that
compare people to animals.
Jair wins with hate and voters chant
“Facebook! Facebook! Facebook!”
so what if, Z, getting back to you and your tipsy Tuesday,
what if you backed away from the keyboard and PBR,
backed away from power and binaries and control,
backed away from drunken cynical narcissism?
what if you disconnected from the big platform to see the bigger picture?
what if you shined all alone, remembering that a face
is a thing of beauty
a soul
a thing of beauty?
It took a couple of reads to figure out who Z is, and then the poem just rolled for me! The pace was quick and urgent, and all that Zuckerman has given us, and then that ending:
“what if you shined all alone, remembering that a face
is a thing of beauty
a soul
a thing of beauty?”
wow.
Eviscerating, Kevin. Bravo.
Woofty, Kevin. This is a brick for me today. Hea-vy. “Insane and not really that hard if you think about it.” Well, that about sums up every man-made disaster and downfall, now doesn’t it? Such simple derivatives for what become some of the most heinous acts of man – and I do believe future generations will look back on our social media platforms and say they were indeed most heinous for all the negative impacts we allowed to go unchecked. Women are especially hard hit by these platforms and is no surprise given the roots of so many of these. I remember one site, anyone? – the name escapes me, but it allowed people to anonymously post “hotties” on campus. That was the whole point to the site. Tell me that doesn’t stem from misogyny. I just can’t imagine the longer-term impacts, but we reap what we sow, eh?
This was exactly the prompt I needed today, except it hurt to read and think of all of the times I regretted doing or not doing something. Your poem of your grandmother is wonderful-and not often do we hear of our parents or grandparents dating others!
I wrote a poem about two friends drifting apart. I tried some rhyming, then gave up, so any feedback is well appreciated!
If only
If only I had turned to you
Instead of turning away.
If only I had listened to you
Instead of demanding my way.
If only I had understood you
Instead of looking away.
Because if I had turned to you
I would have seen your struggles.
Because if I had listened to you
I would have told you I was sorry.
Because if I had understood you
We would still be best friends.
If only we knew before what would be at the end
Then life would have less regrets
And I would have my friend.
Hi Alexis. I struggled with this prompt today. I like how you approached it with rhyming at first, but then just wrote what you felt. Since you asked for advice, might I suggest giving up on the rhymes? For me the unrhymed stanzas really rang true. I feel your emotions in them.
Sometimes it is hardest to write what you feel. You did that today— thank you for your honesty.
This poem speaks so much truth, Alexis, in identifying how relationships go sour – when they don’t really have to. But, then, I think sometimes people just need to grow apart, and maybe they will grow back together one day. I am not a rhymer myself, but in a way, the rhyme/non-rhyme structure works because the rhymed stanzas use “If only” starters, which is “wishful thinking” or suppositions, fairy tale language, so rhymes seem to respond to that. The non-rhymed stanzas take a harder, more reality, “would’a dones” in response to those wishes. They are more cause/effect statements. Still suppositions, but just differently poised. Then the final stanza, breaking the pattern with three lines instead of two, returns to the rhyme scheme, but broken, so melds the two forms together. See. You were actually quite brilliant here!
Hi Alexis, thank you for sharing. We all have regrets in our lives because we are human and sad that some of us don’t get second chases…but if you to its wise to mend fences.
I love this, Kasey. I love “her souls spreading slow like honey”. The whole tone of this poem feels dreamlike and is filled with wonder and hope.
Gayle,
I simply wish to take the hand of this delightful woman you’ve presented in both photos and twirl her to a tune. I must say, I’ve avoided this poem for hours today, countless “what-if’s” haunting the past two decades of my life. But, in the spirit of poetic grace and self-compassion, I have chosen the lighter, playful topic, but one that has completely changed the course of my life. For the record, I still adore physics.
“Please Write About Why You are Passionate About Entering The Field of Science.”
Dear sir or madam,
As I type upon these keys
In the library rather than
Lethargically drag through
Another AP Economics lecture,
I have come to realize that
I owe you,
And my fellow finalists,
An apology.
I regretfully inform you that
I am not passionate about
Entering the field of science.
Yes, I have carved and
Followed this path
Since the seventh grade.
My acceptance letters
Are signed, but nothing
Accepted is ever concrete.
[Rudolf Clausius’s
Discovery of entropy
Promises that.]
With three weeks left
In my high school years,
I choose to pursue a
Career in the subject
Which most haunted me
But suddenly allows
Me to see.
You see,
I have walked out and
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars
Rather than calculate their configurations
Or ponder their distances.
I have laid with my head in
the lap of my camerado
And discussed the breath of
A fire rather than the
Laws of combustion.
[I shed a tear at the perfect chirp
Of a cricket rather than measure
Its sound waves, simply because it
So perfectly matched the shiver
Of a leaf.]
When a child asks, what is grass?
I much prefer to say it
Must be the flag of my disposition,
Out of hopeful green stuff woven
Rather than “it is a member of
The Poaceae family.”
But, if no one else
Submits an application,
I will still happily accept this
Scholarship for women
Entering the field of science.
Thank you.
P.S.
It isn’t so much that
Whitman is my favorite;
It’s just that I stole a book
Of poetry from my teacher,
And I just finished the W’s.
Rhiannon,
Having done a poem with a line semi-borrowed from Whitman a few days ago, I love this! If only we didn’t have to hide our true motivations for making the choices we make, no? This stanza, in particular, struck me:
With three weeks left
In my high school years,
I choose to pursue a
Career in the subject
Which most haunted me
But suddenly allows
Me to see.
Beautiful and so engaging!
Rhiannon,
I love how you narrate the realization of a choice and path to that choice.
“I just finished the W’s” says so much and it’s so economical. Great poem!
I was really happy you took us into this moment–thank you! I love your images here, and one of my favorites is “I shed a tear at the perfect chirp/of a cricket.” Beautiful!
But, if no one else
Submits an application,
I will still happily accept this
Scholarship for women
Entering the field of science.
Thank you.
I. Love. This. I love so many things— the science vs. poetry, the willfulness, the context. All of it!
What If…
by Nancy White
What if I’d never had gifted was in music?
I never would have been in that music theory class
where I sat by your best friend Bill
and started hanging out with him
to do our music homework,
and walk all around town holding hands,
We’d love to ride bikes everywhere,
sit and talk and kiss.
And you had the car so we’d go out, we three
Good friends skating around schoolyards at night
driving through Hollywood Hills
cruising Westwood, me squished in the back of your Baja Bug,
and we’d go wherever, maybe take in a movie
Till one day Bill and I grew tired of each other
and just wanted to move on.
What if you’d never called me
and invited me on that trip
with a bunch of your friends?
It was a little awkward all squished in a tiny cabin
more like a shed and Bill was there, too.
We were packed like sardines
freezing cold in the snow in December.
Little did I know you more than liked me
(you later said you actually knew you were going to marry me.)
I had no clue. Just thought you were so nice,
A gentle soul, who was caring and polite.
A week later you called and came over to watch TV,
Johnny Carson on New Years Eve.
At maybe 1 a.m. you put on your red down jacket
and got ready to leave.
We had our first kiss.
What if I hadn’t liked your kiss?
What if that was goodbye?
Three years later we were making wedding plans.
Fast forward 42 years.
Together we celebrate Easter by playing baseball,
enjoying our six year old grandson.
Oh, and this week we are visiting Bill and his wife!
What if I’d been born without the gift of music and never sat in that music class?
Nancy, your poem took my breath away, but for an interesting reason. My husband, and his roommate- Bill – asked me out on the same night. We have all been friends for too many years to count. My husband and I will celebrate our 36th anniversary this year. Parallel lives much?!?
???
This is so sweet! Tracing back your love story to one simple thing: being born with the gift of music. Makes me wonder what I could trace my own love story back to… Maybe a writing prompt for a different day!! My favorite part of your poem is the first kiss moment 🙂 thanks for sharing!!
What a profoundly romantic love story! It’s the kind of story in the movies and romance novels. I’m so happy that you and your hubby found each other!
That line is my favorite because it speaks to the power of ONE choice, ONE moment in time that can set the course for the rest of your life.
?
I love how your poem creates this storyline of three friends together and the match changes–a classic life story. The really specific images of friends together around Hollywood are rich (the Baja Bug–ha!)
So many wonderful things here, in addition to a great story. The rush of words in the lengthy stanzas built anticipation and excitement; the short stanzas at the end provide the punch. All because of music! Wonderful!
Ooops! First line should have read:
What if I’d never been born gifted in music?
Gayle, what a lovely prompt that inspired me more than I had bandwidth to write today. Your poem about your grandmother and Fred was so visual, I could imagine it like a home video. Thank you for sharing.
Choices We Make
Trees do not regret
shedding their leaves in autumn
for springtime blossoms
Rachelle,
I just audibly yelled to an empty room, “Ah! LOVE this!” I am ever in awe of the wisdom of trees and the unapologetic essence of nature. I just adore how much power is in your haiku — why regret release when it leaves space for renewal? A lovely end to my evening. Thank you.
Same wavelength, yes, but I love you extending this metaphor to the tree’s behavior. This is sublime!
Rachelle,
What a lovely, short, sweet ode to choices! I wish I had been as concise. Awesome and like a little motto to live by.
This is just kinda brilliant!
Wow. I love this simple image so much. Thank you for sharing. I’m drawn to the word “shedding,” like it’s an intentional choice the tree makes to drop its leaves.
Such power and hope in these three lines!
Rachelle! This is so profound! To me it speaks of the goodbyes we must say for future growth. ?
Rachelle- I really like this bit of wisdom. So perfect. Susie
Amen, Rachelle. Wow, a lesson from the trees today. I love this so, so much. The title is the icing on the cake. Thank you for the reminder.
Perhaps they are wiser than we are!? This haiku is so on point. Thank you!
Short and sweet. A million images went into my mind about trees while reading this.
Regret
By Mo Daley 4-17-22
since I fear regret
an unapologetic
life is how I live
Mo—short, sweet, and oh, so practical!! An unapologetic life is something I have attained only recently. Age has its privileges… what a perfect statement of a life goal.
Mo, we are on the same wavelength today with the haiku structure. I need to take a lesson from you and live life unapologetically.
Mo,
Indeed! Live in the now! Your haiku captures this perfectly!
Mo,
Such an important lesson for all to learn! I’m still working on it but I am getting there! Thank you!
I love this, Mo. you name a fear and choose to not live with it. I thought of the phrase “it is what it is”. Practical with the ability to move forward.
YES! Living unapologetically in a society that want us to apologize. Love this.
A lesson I must remind myself often – thanks for sharing!
Gayle, thanks for this prompt that led me to this reminiscence about the early days of meeting my partner and starting our journey together.
I really loved your poem about your Grandmother, the turn and then the turn again (Fred wasn’t good for marrying really). It captured the twists and turns of a life well lived.
No Pressure, no worries
“No pressure, no worries” was
our sign off line, at the end of
a text, a phone call or a date–
dates that required the coordination
and confluence of babysitters,
good weather, overlapping pockets of freedom
(occurring at the frequency of lunar eclipses)
and tactical countermeasures taken to avoid
hostile sabotage from the ghosts of our past.
No pressure, no worries.
We both carried the weight
of fraught choices;
both fragile and
carrying the delicate cargo
of our past relationships,
both with tiny toddlers,
whose trust was too precious and innocent
to risk miscalculation.
No pressure no worries belied
a truth that lurked in our shadows.
We were a bad bet, fool’s gold,
an email from a Nigerian Prince
promising riches in exchange. And yet..
We chose hope. We chose to believe,
in the face of immeasurable odds,
in the possibility of each other. Of us.
We choose tomorrow over yesterday.
No pressure. No worries.
“No pressure no worries belied
a truth that lurked in our shadows.
We were a bad bet, fool’s gold,
an email from a Nigerian Prince
promising riches in exchange. And yet..
We chose hope.”
Love this tale of working things out, from the confluence of babysitters and trying not to make the same (or new) mistakes. Choosing tomorrow is what we all need to do more of. Hope is what it is al about.
Ah, Dave, I you cleverly intertwined the anaphora throughout the poem and its implications. Thank you for this piece tonight.
Dave,
I’m smiling. Your last stanza is it. “We chose.” How often we must choose, and how often it is easier to believe we are “a bad bet, fool’s gold, an email from a Nigerian Prince” (that last one took me by surprise — what a great metaphor. Brilliant.)
And yet, here you two are, living with hope, existing in possibility. “No pressure. No worries.” I need that on my next coffee mug.
The strength behind no pressure no worries can be felt while reading it and allowing those words to penetrate my heart.
Gayle, thank you for the prompt. And Happy Easter, a blessed Passover, and/or Ramadan Kareem to all those who celebrate. I loved reading about your sweet grandma, especially how she rocked in her chair. Beautiful, and the photos made it all the better.
My Mom
She was born a century too soon
to have the right to an education
without a serious fight for it–
working class and female worked
against her dreams
She wasn’t a scrappy seizer of opportunities
or she may have had a different life following
her passions–drafting class in high school,
she was the only girl,
college and a degree in architecture
(No, how could I?)
She followed culture’s expectations
“I always only wanted to be a wife and mother,”
she said many times,
trying to believe it for herself.
So many women of her generation made that choice, and tried to convince themselves that they were happy with it. Working class and female worked against her dreams, certainly…
Denise, the things we convince ourselves into believing is mighty mystical. Your poem is moving considering what your mother did because she believed it was the right thing to do. The love for your mother reverberates off this page. Incredible poem! Thank you!
Denise,
That ending us a gut punch. I live in a place where this idea if “only wanted to be a wife and mother” is drilled into the majority of young women, and my heart aches for them and their narrow vision of themselves. It took me a long time to understand how important it is not to foist current ideals on past generations, but I’m so grateful for your mother’s and my mother’s generation of women who helped forge paths I would not know has I been born in another time or place, and so I honor your mom and her memory, as I know you do, too.
Denise, what a powerful last few lines. The poem reflects how my life would likely look differently if had I been born a century earlier.
This report rings true of the age and even continued through the sixties and seventies. I remember sitting in a calculus class at the community college and being the only woman there. Yes, I was intimidated. Even though I had high expectations, I had to compromise.
Denise,
This is so powerful. Women of “a certain generation” didn’t buck expectations and either adjusted to expectations for stomped them down inside themselves. Certain careers were acceptable, but certainly not those “meant” for men. Your last three lines pack a punch. Excellent poem.
Denise – The melancholy here is so fitting, given the “against her dreams” line. And those blasted “expectations” surely did limits our Moms’ chances. My mom too comes to mind. A generation that was sent to work rather than finishing school. Heartbreaking really. Touching poem. Thank you for sharing… it’s always a treasure when we find common threads here at ethicalela. Susie
Denise, ironically, I wrote about my choice to leave the paid-work world to be a stay-at-home mom. At the same time, I totally “get” your poem. My own stay-at-home mom should have been a corporate VP or similar because of her temperament, but didn’t do so because of societal norms.
Thank you for sharing your mother’s story – the last line is so powerful and sends shivers down my spine.
The opening is beautiful, but I most love “her sunshine hair” and “her soul spreading like slow honey”. What a lovely, sweet, blessing-filled poem…
Choices made
more than a singular
moment in time
answer
inaction.
A destination and
a starting point.
How do we
Strike a balance
between:
A shimmering aura
of overly congratulatory
bliss blindness—
Torrential shame
acid rain cascading
from self-flagellation.
Wow, those descriptions, Laura, at the end–such a great juxtaposition “shimmering aura” “bliss blindness” versus “torrential shame” “self-flagellation” Wow! Such powerful words make palpable images.
Ooooh, Laura! Is there a balance? What a contrast between bliss blindness (amazing phrase) and torrential shame (also amazing)? Some serious food for thought here…
Laura, your poem is provocative and shares the awkward feelings between tooting one’s own horn and punishing one’s self. The shift between “overly congratulatory” to “acid rain cascading/from self-flagellation” is striking. I know society seems to encourage people to toot their own horns which is a difficult thing for me to wrap my head around….beating myself up for mistakes, no problem. Excellent poem! Thank you!
Ah, yes, Laura, balance, always the quest(ion).
Kasey, I love the way you open with the line “us is beyond a dream.” There’s something poignantly jarring about the syntax. The golden wheat against the blue sky too—lovely. Thanks for sharing. I have a little boy and plans for a second and am so curious who is to come. So much to imagine!
Thanks for the thought provoking prompt Gayle. I’m afraid my choice went in a bit of a different direction. I did some “writing with light” and composed a small poem (Haiku-ish) to go with one of the images.
Photography
Today I write with light
images speak my words
exposing sea treasures
(Tried to get the image to upload…no success. It’s on my blog at http://www.writingthroughmylens.com if you want a peek.)
Kim, I couldn’t get your link to work, but your words alone gave me a sense of shells and sea glass…sand and maybe a glowing fishbone <3
Kim, lovely words! “I write with light” is such a wonderful phrase. I found the photo. You got the link a little wrong, it looks like: https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2022/04/17/photography-npm22-day-17/
Thanks for providing the correct link. Who knows where that link came from!
Thank you, Denise! KIM—- a gorgeous photo… truly stunning! And the haiku was just right. I so loved the colors! Ooo! Susie
I went to the link Denise provided. “Today I write with light”is an absolutely beautiful (and accurate) line. Your poem gave me peace today.
Cool poem, Kim! (And it pairs nicely with your (also) cool photo!) Thanks for sharing tonight.
“I write with light.” You certainly do, Kim! Your students, and the world at large benefit from the awesome photos you take.
“Images speak my words” – so powerful and makes me ponder the photos I take and am drawn to.
I distinctly remember getting my first mp3 player and loading it with my favorite songs. Everything from Fergie to DragonForce
My friends and I would parade around the playground in fourth grade at recess with our earbuds in
singing along to songs that we were far too young to be hearing.
I remember hearing the rock song “Black Betty”
for the first time while I was still riding in a car seat.
The sound lighting up my senses.
I had spent hours in the basement, shredding along to songs like
“Slow Ride” & “Paint it Black”
on the plastic, fake guitar that came with the Guitar Hero game.
My older sister had taken guitar lessons
that turned out the be a fruitless venture
resulting in an acoustic guitar that sat
in the corner of the basement gathering dust.
One night after listening the Guns ‘n Roses “Paradise City”
on repeat for the last three days,
I asked my parents to take music lessons.
Anything.
Guitar, drums, piano, fucking violin.
Anything.
They shook their heads no and said my sister didn’t follow through,
so neither would I.
I had to show them that I was dedicated to it.
Fair enough.
For the next week I would sit perched on my bed,
drumming along to my favorite rock songs on my pillows.
Eventually this petered out
and my obsessed wandered away for a while.
I regret this decision everyday though.
I regret not having the drive to keep going.
Music is one of the most important parts of my life,
without even knowing how to play it.
I often imagine what would have happened
if I had given myself to music.
Oh this is a difficult story. You have music in your veins but didn’t get the chance to show that your were dedicated to it. Now is still the time to pick up something. Self teach on ukelele. It’s easy!
Oh Shaye, there is so much STORY here! Your poem pulled me right into your music-heart. I can see the little ear-budded fourth-graders…and that plastic fake guitar! Your images are strong, but they date you as not nearly old enough to be giving up on playing an instrument. I wonder if writing this poem today could re-open a door you thought was permanently closed…(I picked up the accordion at 58!)
Allison—and I started tap dance lessons at 65, although I don’t think I will make it a second career…
Shaye, thanks for sharing your story! I love the image of you diligently drumming your pillows each night. And I agree with Allison, it’s still not too late!
First of all, Black Betty is one of my all-time favorites. The music you loved had power, and I am sorry that you didn’t have the chance to pursue it. I felt the same about dance, and started taking tap lessons at 65. It really is never too late. Also (taking Susan O’s idea)—check out https://youtu.be/yW8mF2be0I0 for some ukulele inspiration. First steps are choices, too!
CHOICE SCHMOICE
I hate it when I write preachy crapola
…and preachy on a holiday, on a Sunday,
oh pullleeese;
yet, here I am yammering
on the shrink’s poetic couch,
with the sword of Damocles
teetering over my head.
You see, it’s not about the choices;
I could take the road less traveled,
door number two,
pick all the right Powerball numbers
or all the wrong ones —
there is no silver bullet;
instead, it’s how I navigate,
be it yes or no,
how I pull on my big-girl pants
get through the moment
with some modicum
of honesty, grace, ownership.
That choice didn’t happen
all by itself;
I either let it happen
or I reached for it,
even if by default
or ennui or inattention,
by blind moments of hubris –
all that falls moot.
What matters is how I handle it.
Did I own my mistakes,
my gains, my losses?
Am I complicit? If so,
what do I do first to set right
a life akimbo?
What action does contrition demand?
How do I hold a dove in my hand?
Though choice – the act of picking –
is a power-rush,
the act of navigating is the powerseat,
the crowned throne.
All the sorrys and
all the cheers
in the world
don’t make right
a bad choice that cuts others
and myself
or a win that lasts
but for a moment.
Somehow the choice
to write this on Easter
seems a bad idea
from start to finish.
I’ll start with a vow
to end the poem.
by Susie Morice, April 17, 2022©
Susie, from the line “the shrink’s poetic couch” I knew we were in for a ride. Your precise diction throughout offers is such a nice meditation on our free will and responsibility of owning our choices however they were made.
Susie—this right here—
“That choice didn’t happen
all by itself;
I either let it happen
or I reached for it,
even if by default
or ennui or inattention,
by blind moments of hubris –
all that falls moot.”
I am so glad you made the (faculty?) choice to write today. We needed a note of curmudgeon! And, truth be told, I totally agree with everything you preached to us—on this Sunday—even though you don’t believe in it!
So, thank you—and the ending is perfection!!
(Faulty, not faculty. Although, we are teachers, so…)
Susie, I want to echo Laura’s line: “I knew we were in for a ride”! “In for a ride” is a great way to describe your poetic style. I love how your poems pull me in, swing me around, bounce me cleanly from one idea/image/allusion to the next…and I wind up thinking, feeling, and seeing in new ways. Fantastic! I also love the grin of an ending! (Favorite line: a life akimbo) Hugs!
Susie,
I much prefer “the shrink’s poetic couch” to all others, and as I read your poem I thought about all the choices made through not making a choice, ostensibly, that is. There’s so much truth in these words:
“All the sorrys and
all the cheers
in the world
don’t make right
a bad choice that cuts others”
and too often some folks misconstrue such choices as *mistakes,* which I see as abdication of responsibility for choice. I so agree that how we handle our choices matters so much more than the choice itself, and this group, where we spend so much time on “the shrink’s poetic couch” has helped me be a better person in that way, although I sure gave a long way to go.
Susie, I knew from your very first line that you were going to share some nugget of gold. I believe its “the act of navigating is the powerseat”. I couldn’t agree more. Hindsight as it is may share some new perspective about a decision we have made so if it’s one that the greatest, how “what do I do first to set right” is the difficult question. Your end had me laughing. I cannot imagine you without your big girl pants on, Susie. You rock! Thank you for sharing your brilliant wisdom today!
YES, Susie! It’s all about “honesty, grace, [and] ownership.” “What matters [most] is how [we] handle it.” I really enjoyed this! (And I smiled at your self-deprecating, metafictional ending: “Somehow the choice / to write this on Easter / seems a bad idea / from start to finish. / I’ll start with a vow to end the poem.”) Thank you for spending some time “on the shrink’s poetic couch” this evening!
Gosh, Susie, this is what the world needs!
I so appreciate this self-reflective poem. It’s incredible how you started on the “shrink’s poetic couch” and literally held a therapy session for ALL!
I adore you, inside and out!
I hear the blessing and joy you feel for your dear family in this sweet poem – “just perfect, just 4” and the ‘what if’ of an imaginary daughter…you are wise; preeclampsia is not a condition to mess with/tempt fate with, I think. I am the mother of three sons, so it might not have been the little girl you imagine, just the same, hahaha – and, as you suggest here so eloquently, I do now have granddaughters –
I adore those words – spreading slow like honey …lovely!
As I finally get a chance to sit down and read today’s topic and prepare to write, I stall. Oh Gayle! Thank you for hosting today and it’s very interesting that you share this topic. Last night, I reposted a post I made on Facebook 5 years ago about the memories of Easter. In this post, I shared a dream I had the previous night about my deceased grandmother (who died in 2016) and she told me to cast my cares on the Lord. Your poem brought back many memories of her and all the other family members I have lost over the years. So if there are any errors or if something doesn’t make sense, I apologize, because I couldn’t go back to read because it was a little tough. But anyway, here it is…
Silent Snooper
I used to sit in corners,
hidden in plain sight,
listening to the stories,
the gossip only for grown folk.
In the sitting room with extended
mama’s family, hearing about the good ol’ days, what my mama
and her siblings did. How they used to act, and me wide-eyed
thinking, “Oh really? They did that?!”
At my Aunt’s home in Wabbaseka, playing outside with the neighbor
boy Jonathan and looking at the old Cutlass
in the backyard. I saw him last September, (but didn’t speak)
at my Aunt’s funeral. Bittersweet memories.
In Ms. Thelma’s and Mr. Berry’s kitchen, smothered
by cigarette smoke, hoping not to get lung cancer
only because I wanted to hear about what Sis. So and So did…or said. Juicy!
Ms. Thelma and Mr. Berry are now gone, only faded memories.
I had a passion for being nosey, but now I retreat in myself, lonely now
but still seeking the warmth
of talk. Now I just talk to myself,
with my writing.
Now I sit in the cluster of muted memories,
only reminiscing about what if, what could have been.
But sitting still is no longer a choice;
I get up and find a new corner, ready to digest newfound narratives.
Thank you Kasey I would never share this outside of this open space, so it feels free to release!
Jessica, I’m so sorry for all your loss and for how tough it was to write these precious memories for us…but, wow, what a writer you are! You have, in just a few short stanzas, introduced us to very special people – I love the image of you hiding
“In Ms. Thelma’s and Mr. Berry’s kitchen, smothered
by cigarette smoke” – just listening, and now carrying forth the memories. Write on!
Thank you Maureen! I’m not one to bring up my past, because this happens…yikes!
Jessica—I, too have a “cluster of muted memories”—one which my children will never have, as we live far away from the family I grew up in. I have thought about their loss of family-ness, and regretted it. I relate, too to your decision to find that new corner, to make that new narrative… I hope we both have some good corners to listen in.
Thank you so much Gayle. As our families have gotten older, we don’t gather as much as we used to, so I fear our children will have very few memories to share. I’m hoping we will meet up soon…for joyous occasions!
Gayle,
I love the prompt and your poem even more. Fred’s imprint on your grandma’s life was permanent, but she knew that your grandfather was the better person for her. But, that dancing . . . It likely gave her a feeling of freedom like no other. I love seeing those pictures of her. What a sweet face!
At This Moment
A classmate’s wedding reception.
Billy Vera pipes over the speaker.
One of the first dates
with my new guy.
My ex asks me to dance as Billy’s
resonant voice bellows,
“What did you think I would
do at this moment?” . . .
the lyrics so appropriate
I say yes.
I mean, what was I supposed to say?
I loved him for the bulk
of my life.
I was convinced we
would find our way back
together and get married.
He was that person,
he occupied so many
of my thoughts,
my comings and goings.
As we danced
(and I received hate glares
from my friends),
he says,
“It’s time.”
Uncertain of what he means,
I ask: “Time for what?”
“To get back together.”
Sitting here 38 years later,
I don’t remember my response
or his response
or how we broke from the dance.
I do remember my best friend
charging me and calling me a fool.
I’m not sure I had a choice to make.
In that moment,
I knew I didn’t want that.
I just remember the feeling
of him admitting he loved me
and wanted life with me.
I had been waiting on that
for years.
Yearning and dreaming and picturing.
It felt good to hear,
affirming to know.
But I knew I didn’t want it.
I went on to marry the date
I took to that wedding,
the one who sat at a table
and drank draft beer
and fiddled with the crepe paper
table cloth
knowing no one
while I danced with a guy that
he had no idea how relevant he was,
what a threat he was.
Little did he know that at that moment
I realized
that the life I thought I wanted wasn’t
what I wanted
opening my heart
my mind
my life
for him.
~Susan Ahlbrand
17 April 2022
This poem beautifully captures a moment of transition – really, you had ‘a foot in two places’ and shifted completely into one, listening to the wisdom of your heart. Loved the denouement coming during a dance, with your date/new/forever love watching and not knowing; feels like a tv romance!! I love the clarity of “But I knew I didn’t want it.”
Wow, Susan, That’s a heckuva story! I loved reading this. What a pivotal moment. Your poem holds a sense of fulcrum…that day, that dance, those two guys. Wow! I’m so happy that you made a choice that gave you this lovely poem! Hugs, Susie
Susan, the suspense was building throughout; I was pulling for you all the way, for your magic moment and heart’s desire…what an unexpected gift for it to be that guy sitting at the table fiddling with the crepe paper while you danced with your ex! What a moment of realization and celebration.This was a delight to read; story-poeming at its best!
Susan—what a story, told so beautifully and with a surprise (happy) ending. I was with you as you danced, and the moment when you got what you had wanted for so long, and realized that it was no longer what you needed. And then you ended up with the man who was already there. Glad he was there, with the crepe paper and the beer. Thank you for letting us listen in!
Susan, this is so good! I read it straight through, then went back up to the top and read it again, and then again. This is so well done. I love the (seemingly) incidental details — the “hate glares / from [your] friends” and the “fiddl[ing] with the crepe paper — and that moment in the middle of the poem where you are “38 years” in the future remembering this moment. So good and so well crafted!
Medic
Now, I’ve learned bits and pieces about our famous war
I wish now I had asked you more
Then, you didn’t want to tell it and I didn’t want to listen
and you wanted to forget the horrible past,
I wish now I had asked you more
about being a Medic. Seemed a safe thing to be.
But you wanted to forget the horrible past.
How much was hidden and how much did you see?
About being a Medic. Seemed a safe thing to be.
You were saving those that were downed by the shrapnel.
How much was hidden and how much did you see?
You never said a word about it but one night you told.
You were saving those that were downed by the shrapnel.
Told to a chaplain, then you broke down and cried.
You never said a word about it but one night you told
of the sights of blood and terror that you witnessed.
Told to a chaplain, then you broke down and cried.
Then, you didn’t want to tell it and I didn’t want to listen
of the sights of blood and terror that you witnessed.
Now, I’ve learned bits and pieces about our famous war.
Lots of memories hit me this morning. I enjoyed the prompt. Thanks.
The images we carry in our souls – you have captured the pain of this. What a traumatic experience, to be/feel responsible for ‘healing’ in the midst of war; I can see why this memory of someone you knew and loved is so much on your mind right now. I can see why they never felt that they could share aloud about it. These words repeated serve to emphasize the weight/the pain of the experience:
Susan—first of all, the form you took cascaded through the poem, pulling us with it without any seeming effort. Bravo. And then the truth that you heard, and didn’t want to hear, that he wanted to forget. There are so many things that I wish I had taken time to listen to, but didn’t. Strong words…thank you.
Such a cool form for this poem. I’m most drawn to the line: “told to a chaplain, then you broke down and cried.” The image of a strong soldier falling apart is so vivid. I also relate with wishing I had asked more… My grandpas served in the wars, & they never wanted to talk much about their experiences. And now it’s too late to ask more :/
Susan, I’m glad you could write this pantoum today. The memories are heartbreaking aren’t they, especially for those who experienced the war–oh, the things they carry. The repetition in your poem really helps us appreciate the horror and his reluctance.
I’m not usually one to delve into the past, but this is one of my most enduring “choice” reflections.
so many of my life choices
have been because of what
I was trying to avoid
the same mistakes that every
woman in my family had made
with multiple marriages and divorces
the result being upheaval and anger
repeated over and over
through the generations before me
I tried to choose wisely
but my confidence wasn’t fully
mature and developed
and in the end, I chose poorly
and subjected myself to twenty one
years of one-sided trying
I would never ever take back
my sons or the life I have now,
but better choices sometimes haunt
understanding now is a source of
reflection and perspective that I
wouldn’t exchange for a different life
perhaps that is why I prefer
to live in the now and look only
just slightly into the future
each choice is a lesson waiting
to be learned and wishing we’d
chosen another is a pointless game
Cara—you are so very wise…generational patterns are so powerful. We each do what we can with what we have been given, even if we don’t understand it fully. Thank you for the words you ended with:
“each choice is a lesson waiting
to be learned and wishing we’d
chosen another is a pointless game”
Cara — There is a boatload of truth in this poem. You have been a mighty navigator. I so so so understand every bit of this! Thank you for posting such a deeply felt and intimate examination of marriage. I really appreciate it! Susie
I like how you explore your life choices in this poem, and I am particularly drawn to the three line stanzas, which add such a beautiful flow to your thoughtful reflections. That final stanza is pure “Bravo!,” spot on:
There is only the life we have…to imagine a ‘do over’ is really a fool’s game (or fodder for a novel!! hahaha)
Cara, beautiful reflection on how the choices shape the life we have now. It doesn’t have to be “I wish I had done X differently”, it can be “what am I doing now?” Thank you for this thoughtful reflection.
Cara, wow, good poem today to deal with those choices. This stanza seems to be a turning point for me:
Of course, your sons, but that haunting is there in the background. I like the conclusion too. An important poem for all of us today. Thank you, Cara.
I got to visit with my aunt last night. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen her, and she’s had a lot of health challenges (including a bad stroke) during that time… So this poem is about her.
Once a Seamstress
she spent her life
arranging scraps into patchworks
creating order from chaos
when I saw her again
I asked, “what have you been quilting lately?”
the light zapped from her eyes
“I have lost the ability to quilt.
I can put A and B together
but adding C is too much
after 2 years of practice, I am finally able
to turn on the machine
and thread the needle
but then I have to stop.”
Some paths are forced upon us
but oh, when her body and mind are restored
she will spin heavenly threads into
worlds of color
My heart sank with “the light zapped from her eyes”, knowing what would be coming. There are paths about which we have no choice. Your last stanza is so beautiful—the spinning of heavenly threads into worlds of colors. (And now I will wipe my tears…)
Rachel, I enjoyed your poem today. I wish I was able to sit and visit with my grandmother. I used to sit in the kitchen, listen to the gossip, and bask in her pleasant array of knickknacks. I wish I had learned how to quilt and make her awesome peach cobbler!
These lines resonated with me:
“but oh, when her body and mind are restored
she will spin heavenly threads into
worlds of color”
We don’t want our loved ones to go when it is time, but we need to remember that their bodies, minds, and souls will be fully restored! I bet her blankets will be gorgeous and tell the best stories! Thank you for sharing.
I am awed by her fortitude, her perseverance, as revealed here:
She sounds determined to recover. Thank you for sharing her story with us; you are so right that some paths aren’t choices at all…
This is a touching poem. You express the frustration of aging and the disappointment one has when one can’t do what they are used to doing. I love your last stanza and the hint of heaven. Of course all will be made right then – in color!
I have to admit, I don’t like going through my past. I’m a very ‘now and let’s move forward’ kind of gal. But, alas, Gayle, this is something I’ve been let bubble under for a while, and well, here goes.
Aren’t We Happy?
The judge pointed to the line
where I needed to sign my name
my parents stood behind me
I try to imagine
what my seventeen-year-old self
must have looked like in that moment
but I cannot see her clearly
No one else came to court that day
not her father, not his parents
though they had threatened
to fight for full custody
“You’re doing a very brave thing”
the judge said as I put the pen down
but it didn’t feel that way
watching my inked name dry
into a permanent record
relinquishing all parental rights
I can only know the path I chose
and why I believe I did it
“For us both,” I said.
Some twenty years later
she sought me out
emailing a photograph
How caught off guard I was
to see her face – so much like mine
but also someone I did not know at all
“You could have at least tried to keep me”
she told me once
But what does that even mean?
Looking back on all those years
who I had become
who she had become
Weren’t we both happy with our lives?
There is no going back and
sometimes there is no trying
I have to believe it was better this way
No regrets.
Denise—you were strong then, to do what you did. And I admire your honesty and strength in sharing this with us, your fellow poets. You each became the person you were meant to be, when it was meant to be. No regrets. Thank you.
Denise,
Your live-in-the-now approach to life has served you very well. It’s very brave of you to use this time to dig back into your past and write this raw poem. Thank you for sharing it with us.
Denise, I just want to say that I admire you. I don’t like to revisit the past, no matter how many good memories I had. I always end up thinking of the ones I want to forget. Your poem just shows that we share our passions and our feelings in our words, whether we share them or not. I believe you are at peace with your decision, with “no regrets.” Sometimes we just do things because we think that what is best. Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t, but it’s a choice we had to make.
Wow! Denise — this is a powerful piece. I love the strength in this…watching the ink “dry/into…permanent record”… so poignant. This was an amazing story. Looking back is a very compelling drug and I can’t help but agree that it does not change things. We do the best we can with the tools we have at the moment. I so appreciate the honesty of this piece. You are a strong woman. Hugs, Susie
I really like how you open the poem with the scene in the courtroom – standing in front of the judge. I was spellbound, wondering what was happening. And, wow, the loving and brave decision you made! I am truly awed. You are absolutely right:
Thank you for being vulnerable. This is a wonderful poem.
Too Many What Ifs
Mama said you’re too young
To regret a life yet unlived
But I keep thinking
What if, what if, what if.
What if I’d majored in…
What if I’d moved to…
What if I’d said yes to…
What if, what if, what if.
What if I’d majored in
English? Journalism?
Emerging Media?
Creative Writing?
What if I’d moved to
Oslo? New York?
Boston? Dubai?
Reykjavik, Iceland?
What if I’d said yes to
The boy who was my best friend?
The job that paid well but cost my soul?
The call of a lifetime on the wrong day?
Too many variables,
Too many possibilities,
Too many chances lost.
What if, what if, what if.
__________________________________________________________________
Thank you for the prompt, Gayle. Your poem is heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time. The comparison between Fred and your grandpa in the 4th and 5th stanzas is so touching. “but after a while, I just stopped dancing…” hit me so hard. I tried to emulate that sense of bittersweetness, but I think my poem turned out only bitter, lol.
Not bitter at all, Saba. Real and true, but not bitter. There are so many what-ifs in our lives that trying to parse the value of each one is futile, for each one would have taken us down a different path. Each what-if in your poem laid out a different set of possibilities. We can only pick one at any given time. And here you are with us, today… and your poem expresses what each of us goes through at some point. What if…
“We can only pick one at any given time. And here you are with us, today…” I needed these words today, Gayle. Thank you!
Ok Saba T., that about sums it up. So many questions!!! We never know if we ever made the right decisions because of all of this: “Too many variables,
Too many possibilities,
Too many chances lost.
What if, what if, what if.”
But it is a risk that we must take and take the outcome as a lesson or a blessing. Thank you for sharing.
Never knowing what choice is the correct one is the worst! But it’s part of the adventure, right?
Saba,
Your mama is wise in speaking these words:
“Mama said you’re too young
To regret a life yet unlived”
We could spend our lives bogged down in second-guessing our choices, but in the end we can’t have it all all at once, so we must do the best we can to make good our choices where we are as we can.
I’m working on fighting out of the bog.
Oh, Gayle. Thank you so much for this poem of “we would dance, and dance and dance.” I feel so grateful to listen to Frances in your poem, to witness her memories of Fred. And I appreciate how Fred can have his place in Frances’s memory while not diminishing a life with your grandfather. My heart does ache, though, for “I just stopped dancing.”
And so I begin my poem with Frances and a little help from Mary Oliver…
I worried I’d lose myself before
I knew who I was.
Will there be stamps in my passport, will
mountains offer a path to ascend, will
skycrapers reveal views that keep
me grounded, and will I be free
to accept?
I don’t know if I was right to
choose a life never imagined
even if partially so, for ripples of
inner passages & landscaped tours
brought me here.
Have there been more stamps
this way, have I found grounding
on this co- cultivated path, did I lose
myself before–after?
I see now that She stirs in spaces
between us and me and you, shaped
by being alongside, yet still free
to accept…
Sarah-the stamps—wow. Mary Oliver’s poem is one I have always loved, and you honor it beautifully. The stamps I have collected are so certainly not the ones I had planned on. Your poem brings all the what-ifs that I have, as well. I hope that we all have enough stamps in our lives to make the ones we didn’t find inconsequential. But did I lose myself? (By the way—my husband doesn’t dance either—my grandmother and I have that in common. I guess that’s a stamp I didn’t keep.)
Sarah, what an amazing, provacative poem. The question of whether one loses a part of themselves due to the decisions they make is relatable and haunting. I adore the allusion to travel, the places that could have been perhaps possible if we traveled a different way. Your end carries such a punch…still free to accept. Powerful and beautifully crafted poem!
Sarah,
I keep returning to these lines:
“I don’t know if I was right to
choose a life never imagined”
Ive come to believe the life imagined is one of privilege. Without that privilege, we can only imagine so much. I did not know the possibilities as a young girl of woman and must often correct my thinking about what was possible back when. Those stamps take so many forms, and a literal passport expires, requiring renewal and the arrival of a new passport w/ no stamps, only memories stamped on the traveler’s mind. I’m contemplating those eclipses and how they signify what remans left “to accept.”
I revisited/revised a poem from September 2020. The biggest disappointment in my life was when my stepdad lost our family home after my mom passed.
All The Things Left Behind
We saw the mail
Piling on the entry hall table
Like if it didn’t
Make it into dad’s hands
It didn’t exist
We knew he couldn’t manage
Living in the emptiness
Where memories of Mom floated
On dust particles caught
On sun rays
That never touched his skin again
We waited for that day
Like waiting for
The elevator light to blink
Then doors open and people
Trample over us
Because the mail piles spoke
Behind gluey seals
On certified warnings
That people were coming
To take over the house forever
They gave him two days
(Or so he said)
To pack 40 years of family
Without enough boxes
Strength or help
We called our crews
Our village of warriors
Who moved fast
With fury and frustration
Until every car and truck
Filled to capacity
They made sure
We didn’t leave anything
Important behind
Like mom’s jewelry and coins
Her letters from our father
Her photo albums of us, them
Her artwork, statues, and ashtrays
Crystal punch bowls
And the abacus
From one of our father’s
Many faraway travels
But what about the cement handprint
And our initials in the backyard tree
And the hopscotch painting outside
Under my bedroom window
And holiday boxes in the garage
And the smell of Christmas trees
And the burning embers
In the fireplace
What about the splashing and laughing
From summers in the pool
Music playing in earbuds
While sunbathing and daydreaming
And all the poems I wrote
In notebooks
On the backs of binders
That were hidden from hands and hearts
Other than mine
All left behind.
© Stacey L. Joy, 4/17/22
Stacey, your poem is absolutely heartbreaking. I am moved to tears. You eloquently show the grief of not only losing your mother but also your father’s inability to deal with life’s demands. The details of all that is left behind show the memories of a beloved family home. Bless you for sharing such an exquisite poem of loss and love. Sending positive healing vibes your way! Barb
Oh Stacey, thank you for sharing this time in your family history. The places we write and the places of our memories have such hold on our current places and choices in life.
Oh, Stacey. I feel the anguish in this story—the regrets, the anger, the hurt, the loss, the sorrow. All those strangers taking your past away. I am sure people will try to comfort with, “but you’ll still have your memories”. But to have it happen so abruptly, and to have to leave so much behind. Oh, Stacey…what about those small important things?
This is a beautiful poem. So many feelings captured – I guess most powerful is that no matter what we choose, what we want to keep more than anything else can’t be boxed.
Gorgeous, Stacey. Just gorgeous.
Stacey,
You capture this challening life situation that so many of us have dealt with so well. I especially connect to these lines
Dear Stacey,
Your poem is a love letter to home, to place, to memory. We leave so much behind even as we take so much w/ us when we move, but the circumstances of this move hurt. All the what about moments and memories, the intangibles of place, of being grounded and then unmoored. The images are strong, but for me the most beautiful and haunting one is this:
“memories of Mom floated
On dust particles caught
On sun rays
That never touched his skin again”
Thisvus the language of grief only a poem can capture. ? Sending hugs.
Stacey – I feel the losses here and how deep seemingly small things are … they’re actually huge. So much “left behind” is heartbreaking. The flurry of packing… the stepdad losing so much that connected you to your mom… damn, it just is a throat punch. I really felt the loss as you detailed the sensory images so clearly in the 2nd to last stanza. Love you, Susie
Gayle, what a powerful prompt for this Resurrection Sunday when Christians are celebrating the sacrifice Christ has made. As I sit and reflect on what He did that was scary, I think about times I’ve had the opportunity, but did not act for reasons of ego or fear. So, today, I’m confessing for many of us
Reasons for Regret
Regret is such a sad word
“Cause it means a missed opportunity
Missed because we didn’t make the move
When we had the time, we got stuck in the groove
Regret that we didn’t apologize
When we let our ego outsize
The issue more important that day
“I’m sorry” is all we had to say
Regret that we didn’t smile
Until we’d passed on a mile
Then we’re sad for a while
Regret is a sad word
We can drop from our vocabulary
When we stop and do what’s right
Even when doing so feels scary
Anna—as always, you take me to a more thoughtful place. You are so right—if we act, do what is right, we will not need to regret…
Anna, my favorite line is “we can drop from our vocabulary” as this brings so much action, a new habit maybe to move away from this action? Thank you for sharing today.
Oh, so true in so many ways, Anna. The stanza you hit on for me was “Regret that we didn’t smile” – I mean, the pandemic took that away from us and has made many of us (I hope) appreciate all the more such a simple and free gesture to give away. But I remember ONE time, I was in such a rush to get to a work meeting, that I didn’t stop to talk with a neighbor. I just gave a quick hello and kept going, but he stood there a moment, and I just brushed him off. The work meeting was stupid, anyway, and I should have just been late for it. Looking back, that meeting mattered so little, and I would have actually liked to talk with my neighbor for just a few minutes. So – just as you noted, it has stayed with me this whole time, and I WON’T be doing that again! Thank you – knowing someone else understands this helps me settle it in my head.
Look, do I sometimes bemoan
the fact that I lost a bundle
believing that MySpace would
burn bright as the noon day sun?
(Do I feel bad about all of those
alliterative Bs in the first stanza?)
No.
Irregardless that irregardless
is not a “standard” word do I still
use it in polite company?
Have I, despite being “hacked”
four times, kept the same
password – 123456 – for all
of my online information
(in addition to the alarm codes
for my home security system
and bedroom safe, which is
located in the bottom of my
closet under a rumpled blanket
that I would use in the car
whenever I went to drive-in
movies by myself, watching
the stars above instead of
whatever schlock was playing
on the screen)?
Yes.
“No regerts” is my motto
as my face tattoo
explains
or rather
proclaims,
“Streger on” (because
I wanted to be able
to read it in the mirror
when I brushed
my teeth every
morning).
The point is
there is no sense
in crying over spilled
milk (2 percent or otherwise);
what’s done is done.
Move on
(but don’t forget to
wipe up that milk,
leaving it all over
the counter would
just be gross).
_______________________________________
Gayle, thank you for your lovely poem today. I loved the reminiscence of it, the “But oh, how Fred could dance” of it. There was also a twinge of sadness, too, of course: “but after a while, / I just stopped dancing…” Simply beautiful. In terms of your prompt, I took off in a silly direction and just followed where it led me. (And like my speaker, I have no regrets…or regerts. Lol.)
Scott, the humor and wit in your poetry have been consistent and intriguing across the month. Your side notes are also a creative use of words and placement. Thank you for sharing.
My son (who has much to regret/terger) was getting an unfortunately large tattoo in Tennessee. Luckily, his friend can spell, and noticed that the tattoo artist had sharpied “Tommorow is mine” in preparation for the tattoo. An even more unfortunate tattoo was avoided. Your regerts made me laugh aloud, and brought back a story I hadn’t thought of for a while. And I’m coming for your bedroom safe soon. 123456 it is!!
Oh, Scott, your poetry always makes me smile. I agree clean up spilled milk and try not to spill it again. Great piece! I miss the drive in movies.
Scott, your poem is such a fun read. Love the comments in paranthesis.
Scott,
Does your face tattoo really say “No Regerts”? My inquiring mind wants to know after reading about misspelled/typoish tattoos in Daniel Pink’s book “The Power of Regret.”
This section really made me laugh:
“No regerts” is my motto
as my face tattoo
explains
or rather
proclaims,
“Streger on” (because
I wanted to be able
to read it in the mirror
when I brushed
my teeth every
morning).”
As always, a fun poem. Do keep those passwords the same for when I visit. ?
Scott— So sassy! Again, I’m here laughing out loud at you brushing your teeth and the “streger” LOL! And your password.. omg… you’re a casé! And I love the word “schlock”… haven’t heard it in a long time. And MySpace…poof! It’s all gone! Ha! Maybe that was a blessing. Totally fun poem. Susie
Thanks, Gayle, for your morning prompt (it’s the only gift in my basket this year). I loved everything about your ‘dance’ with Frances and how ‘Fred wasn’t good for marrying.’ You offered us one of those questions that might occupy us for days (and I love it). I had to think a bit on how to write on this one, and realize I needed the comfort of form (a sestina) to harness my thoughts.
So beautiful.
The Sunlight of Summer
~b.r.crandall
I still look from my childhood window in want of summer,
that rectangular view of life, fenced with elm trees & a pool
that became my zen garden, the chlorinated car wash for my ten-mile runs,
the Carrier Dome for splashing and jumping into silly aquatic games,
the spur-of-the-moment picnics, always with great company,
and Dad luring strangers out back, to look at his lawn.
Now, there are variants of stitched-green where he rides his lawnmower –
new shades of fern have moved to hunter, forest and army – summering
is no longer the liquid obstacle course it once was with neighbors and good company.
Blades of grass wave with winds and memories for their pool…
the grilled chicken, hotdogs, burgers…the vegetables snapped from the garden game
of glory and the gatherings that kept them going, loving, being. All of us, then, on the run
in humid traditions. The first somersault was best — the way those butterflies ran
across the stomach before popping toward the blue sky like a sea-lion, toward the lawn.
We were in our twenties, older, when they built it. We still played Loch Lebanon games,
though, as if eternal children holding out for childhood….forever summers.
We traded sunfish, ducks, and seaweed for volleyball and the rejuvenation of a pool.
My sisters and I, older now, who brought home friends and children, sharing company
with mom and dad on the back patio, their umbrella of love and companionship.
Water will always be respite for Aquarians like me on the run –
A hiatus, the teaching truce…the restoration of oxygen that comes from a pool –
a mini-vacation from Kentucky where toes stretched deep across a CNY lawn
and where I could wrap myself in youth once again. The innocence of summer
with family, inflatable toys, and invention for childish games.
Bonnie and her lasagna. Dad and his Karl. Mokie with her tennis ball game
of doing laps in hopes we’d join her – wanting company
as a testimony to the dog days of summer….
foam noodles, blow-up spirals — the weightlessness of it all. Who’d run
to Price Chopper for more Labatts Blue? Corn hole. spreading towels across the lawn…
A watershed of wonder. Our ecosystem of existence. All around a pool.
Four years ago they called. “We need your help taking down the pool,”
I always knew a giant hole would one day need to be filled. It’s the game.
I drove from Connecticut and pulled rocks from fill that was dumped on the lawn.
Mom thinks like I do. “Remember when we used to have company?”
she asks when I visit now. The salads. The fruit. The mojitos. All that running
up and down stairs for something forgotten. The rituals of summer.
I remember them. How days pulled us together with good company…
how we taught grandchildren our games. There’s not much running
any more….just dad mowing the lawn. The sunlight of summer.
Oh, this memory. So joyful and so full of longing. The filling of the pool, and all those wonderful times. Perhaps my favorite line is “all that running up and down the stairs for something forgotten”—a small and telling detail that says so much. The sunlight of summer with such a glory of memory…
Wow!Your poem is rich with memories of the most pleasant days growing up, having a pool and great company to enjoy. Your last line works pefectly, haunting and beautiful! Exquisite poem!
Bryan,
What a beautiful tribute to a space that was so much more than simply water held within walls. There’s something haunting in your final lines: “There’s not much running
any more….just dad mowing the lawn.” It just feels so empty, and the sense of loss hits home in a very real way. I am brought back to our own filled in patch of grass in my parents’ backyard.
“I always knew a giant hole would one day need to be filled. It’s the game.”
Phew. And what a game it is.
The ache of these memories, Bryan. Part nostalgia, part wistfulness, part “where does time go?” Beautiful.
Good morning, Gayle! Thank you for hosting today. Also, thank you for a thought provoking prompt. I am not sure where it’ll take me this morning but I’m excited to see what comes.
You have a beautiful story here of Frances and Fred…the ring in their names is unbelievable. I can’t imagine the feeling of marrying someone but having so many fond and loving memories of someone I didn’t marry. It sounds like she married a good man but just didn’t get to dance with him the way she longed to do with Fred. Awwww.
I love the ending because she can still dance with her memories. What a gift!
Gayle,
Your poem and inspiration are wonderful. My grandmother recently passed at 103 as well, and I wish I had asked her the same question. I love the details of finding the right barn and the sound of the buggy. Beautiful memories!
Playing Piano
By Shaun
It’s a familiar story.
A seven-year-old boy walks a few blocks once a week
For his piano lesson with Mrs. —-
Then breaks his wrist,
And never plays the piano again.
Okay, maybe it’s not that familiar.
The passion for music never goes away.
Singing in choirs in malls in churches in museums
Replaces hours sitting on a piano bench.
What if he had resumed his lessons?
What if he could accompany his friends while
Singing hits from Hair or Pippin?
The music is still important,
And the keyboard awaits his return.
Shaun, I was thinking of piano lessons, too. You captured this perfectly…the longing for the could-of-been…this wonder for ‘what if’? “It’s a familiar story…then breaks his wrist.” I love that these lines are together, because I doubt the familiarity of broken bones and ivory keys. Wonder to think about.
Shaun,
I really like the third person here as we sit alongside the speaker remembering Hair or Pippin and the piano bench. The what-ifs leave space for possibilities and yet the memories seem sufficient maybe satisfying at the same time. That last line is perfect—there is agency in that poem closing.
Sarah
I always wanted to play piano—my (other) grandmother played by ear, and we used to have true old-fashioned sing-alongs around the piano—but I never did learn. Perhaps this “what-if” is in both our futures. The music is, after all, still important. And electronic keyboards are easy to move…
Shaun,
These “what ifs” are tough. But the hopeful note at the end tells me you haven’t given up on the idea of learning piano, and w/ technology we have now, you will turn “what if” into “now that”!
Shaun this makes me think of how many of us let our music playing pasts drop off–I haven’t touched the piano in decades, but still remember songs played at the elbow of my own Mrs. __ who lived around the corner.
Gayle, your grandmother is as beautiful as your poem. Considering all the bad decisions I’ve made in life, I tried to focus on something I felt was a little bit more wise. Thank you for hosting today:) Happy Easter to all!
Silence’s Heavy Weight
I’ve always had an overbite
crooked teeth
once I was supposed to go to a dentist
to see if I needed braces
I convinced them my younger sister
was the one to see
everyone kept the ruse
understanding vanity and poverty
did not compute equality
for years I listened to my dentist
If only you’d get braces
one wanted to break my jaw-
hell no
finally last summer they
pulled three teeth
I wear plastic trays in my mouth
only take them out when I eat
my smile is improving─
but my mouth is still ugly
because of the secrets that
I keep
Barb Edler
17 April 2022
Barb—your last stanza takes the poem to a whole new level—those secrets left to keep. So many points that I recognized personally—I should have had braces, but our poverty precluded my vanity. So my cross-bite is what it is. And so are the secrets I, too, keep.
Barb,
When poems take narrative shape, I settling in for a story, and so appreciate learning more about your in this ways. The shift in tone from “I wear plastic trays” to “but my mouth is still ugly” hits me so hard. I think about the appearance of things that we can change and then the secrets that seem so much harder to uncover/make visible/appear. Sending comfort but also empathy — I have a history of crooked teeth and secrets!
Hugs,
Sarah
Barb, this poem spoke to me on a personal level. The last lines are haunting and true.
Barb,
I feel this stress over teeth. I did not get braces until after my children and then only because their orthodontist, whose children I’d taught, talked me into it and gave me a lovely discount. I have a small mouth (literally, not figuratively), so my teeth are crowded and were crooked. The line here that strikes me most is
“vanity and poverty
did not compute equality”
This is life being so unfair.
Barb,
I am wanting to know more! You left me hanging. So many people suffered in anguish with teeth teasing or experiences with dentists. My daughter once had a horrible experience at a bad dentist and she has never forgotten that day.
Powerful punch!
Barb, I can relate to your poem, especially these lines:
“understanding vanity and poverty
did not compute equality”
In my story, I was the younger sister.
Those last lines are so haunting.
Ah, Barb – Fascinating narrative that I didn’t expect at all. It’s funny how our personal “stuff” (teeth, weight, … whatever) badgers us our whole lives. Heck, I didn’t even see teeth when we met. Ha! I loved the image of the plastic trays. My whole life I have thought I should get my front tooth aligned. Still haven’t made the move. Your mouth is NOT ugly. But I get how hard we can be on ourselves. Hugs, Susie
Gayle, your poem is exquisite. Rocking in her chair, dancing with memories. What a beautiful image! This is as far as I got with my poem which I thought would be a radical decision to not follow your prompt and then I realize that not following the prompt is always a given, so this wasn’t a radical decision after all (though for me not following directions is radical). Anyway this is far as I got before the bunny brigade arrived.
I had already decided to be radical—
to not follow directions
because I wrote the paragraph first
and thought I had time
to chisel and perfect.
and make the lumpy paragraph sing:
I’d gather the most perfect chips
and make a memory mosaic.
I’d find the perfect statue hidden
in the stone,
which is not quite my way,
my way is cotton candy
gathered in wisps—
still, I always follow directions;
it’s a flaw of mine
that left me with a bulky
narrative,
which never transformed into poetry
and led to this morning’s radical decision
to abandon the young woman
on her way to the cenacle
for a meeting with Mother Superior
and the promise of a life
devoted to God.
except, on the bus a mother sat
with her child—
and it hurt the young woman
to think of life without a child,
she’d taken care of so many
nieces and nephews,
and now, now, now…
I’m brought again to the child
in the shoe store,
betrayed by the weight
of so many words
when it was really the spirit
I wanted to capture
and led me to abandon,
my mother on the bus,
and chip at the stone
in the single hour I have
before the bunny brigade
crashes through the door
and now…now…now…
a car door slams—
laughing voices,
stomping feet
shout my time is up—
and I’ve neither rescued the child
nor honored my mother—
Ann, your voice is urgent and striking here. I can feel you pounding out the words in a rush, knowing that your time is limited. The imagery of the child and mother at the end is haunting and provocative. Truly powerful poem!
Ann—first of all, I love the phrase, “cotton candy, gathered in wisps”—the imagery is beautiful. And then you tell this amazing story filled with contrasts and decisions and choices, ending with the joyous turbulence of the bunny brigade. Wow.
Here are the lines for me…the one that resonate
to chisel…to perfect…to make meaning to our stories. The more I reread this poem, Ann, the better it gets…so many surprises and curiosities.
Ann,
One of the things I love about this spaces is that a blank text box welcome us all to poem, and there is always the possibility that a poem will not reveal itself, but somehow it always does in the most unexpected ways, and it this all feels like a miracle to me. All these miracles happening every day this month.
And this poem… is an emerging of this miracle of the fragments and fissures of life and verse and mother and child and shoe store and the bus — and the cenacle (I have so many of those memories) all in this…and then the bunny brigade. Just so invigorating. Thank you.
Sarah
Gayle – your poem hit me so hard. I had such deep empathy for your dancing grandmother. I could see the barn, the boy, and hear the music. There is a full-blown story in this. My poem came out – right off the top of my head – all in one piece this morning. It is something I keep inside and let slip out.
What Might Have Been
I had a list of names,
For years and years,
Male and female,
Bright, cheerful names,
Names that meant something,
Names that would suit their
Own unique personalities:
Jonas
Geoffrey
Phillip
Jeremy
Cassandra
Olivia
Annabella
Names with lots of vowels
That rolled off your tongue,
Pretty names for never-to-come
Bundles of joy.
Oh, how I would like to sit
And imagine the perfect name
For my perfect child.
Undoubtedly, my perfect
Well-behaved, brilliant child
Would grow-up happy,
Celebrate spectacular birthdays,
And cinema-worthy holidays.
They would be honest, loyal,
Heroic, and trustworthy:
Penelope
Samara
Clarissa
Delphine
Alexander
Aiden
Owen
Benjamin
An army of sweet children
To protect me in my later years
Valiant and brave,
Kind and caring,
Magnificent sons and daughters
I created and fostered,
That I labored over and loved.
The lists slipped away
Like brittle leaves
And broken petals,
Just names to be whispered
Every so often,
To remember
What might have been.
Oh, Word Dancer…there are some poems that are too right and too raw for words—poems that are created out of whole cloth, out of our souls. This is one.
The lists slipped away
Like brittle leaves
And broken petals,
Just names to be whispered
Every so often,
To remember
What might have been.
Oh, all the might have been here…. A beautiful, beautiful poem, my friend.
Word Dancer, the pain within this poem radiates off the screen. The imagined children, the list of names becoming brittle leaves and broken petals is deeply heart-breaking. Your final two lines: “To remember/What might have been” is haunting. Tears!
Oh, there is a delicate beauty in this regret and so, so much emotion. Those last lines of lists slipping like brittle leaves and broken petals, of names to be whispered broke me. Thank you for sharing such feeling today. Hugs.
I feel your heartbreak and ache for you. The last stanza, esp. “The lists slipped away like brittle leaves and broken petals” really spoke to me. The losses we feel for what we never had….ah…..
Wow, Word Dancer, you’ve taken my heart on a ride and captured so many deep emotions in this poem. It’s no wonder that sometimes this kind of poem slips out. It needed to be released, someone here today is waiting for it and needs it.
Thank you for trusting us with your precious truth and your emotions,
I’m with Gayle, here. That last stanza is powerful…the slipping away of brittle leaves is the perfect metaphor….and I love this poem. Love it.
Such a beautiful poem liars slipped away. Broken petals. That I labored over and over…this poem moves me beyond words.
Oops – typing in a moving car- not liars but like brittle leaves…and I thought I already posted my apology but maybe I forgot to hit post.
Word Dancer, thank you for writing the poem that I just couldn’t today.
Word Dancer,
You have honored and humbled us w/ these truths you keep to yourself. Your poem reminds me of Billy Collins’s “The Names.” The listing of names you’ve chosen prick my heart as I know your heart has been pricked by not being able to use the names. I know it is impossible to understand completely this grief and loss pouring from your heart today. Peace and hugs to you.
I have no words. Raw and heart-wrenching.
Dear Joanne… an utterly heartrending poem. I can feel the energy of the dreaming, the bright and cheerful hopes represented by the names. The unfolding of this is absolutely lovely even though the words pierce. There’s a sense of time here… the leaves having turned brittle, the petals broken… in some way, in each of our lives, we experience this broken-edged wondering about what might have been. I am at the same time awed by your strength and all the beauty you put forth in the world… thank you for your courageous spirit and for letting your soul slip out on the page today in this profound way.
Easter blessing, my friend!
Oh, my dear. Each sweet name is a stream of tears today. Thank you for sharing your story here in this place and trusting us to hold it, my friend.
Gayle, thank you for this prompt. It took me to a choice I did not want to write about in this space, but after several false starts I gave into it. I love the photos of your grandmother and hearing her story,
Friends, if organized religion is important in your life, you’ll likely want to scroll past my poem today.
Goodbye, Church
I said “I do” to
organized religion,
followed childhood
preaching
but
years passed,
marriage collapsed,
religion’s veneer
peeled to reveal
paradigm shifts
antithetical to
Christ’s teaching.
One Sunday sermon
I said, “No more”
listening to men
berate women.
I bid adieu to
church that day,
walked out and
never looked
back.
These days
I attend church
in my mind,
find peace
sublime
in books
I read,
nature’s choir
I hear sing,
contemplation,
meditation,
reflection.
I’ve kept faith
all along
in Christ’s
salvation,
resurrection, &
redemption.
My theology’s
strong without
others’ judgmental
condemnation.
—Glenda Funk
April 17, 2022
Glenda—we belong to the same (dis)organized congregation! I fell out of organized religion when we moved to a small, extremely conservative town. After “church-shopping for a year or so, I gave up and have never looked back. The “tions” in the close are powerful, as is your last callout…
My theology’s
strong without
others’ judgmental
condemnation.
Glenda, your poem reflects my feelings to a tee. It is so difficult to attend a place of worship rife with condemnation, bigotry, and misogyny. Loved “nature’s choir/I hear sing”. Thanks for sharing your poem and decision with us today! Your poem reflects your strength and inner beauty!
I love how you came to your own conclusions over time…very important and well-stated in this poem. I esp. love “My theology’s strong without others’ judgmental condemnation.” Something a loving God would certainly understand.
Amen, sister. I agree with you 100% – my theology’s strong without others’ judgmental condemnation. I too attend church in my mind. Thank you for sharing. You are not alone.
Glenda, I really appreciate that you found the fortitude to write about this today and share it. I think that this is a space where we should feel comfortable sharing our truths, and you did a beautiful job! Love the musicality of:
“in my mind,
find peace
sublime
in books”
and I loved this string of description:
“nature’s choir
I hear sing,
contemplation,
meditation,
reflection.”
Lovely language!
Glenda!
Oh, how wonderful to pull my eyes through the the brief lines stretching down each stanza toward and through your decision to these final powerful lines:
My theology’s
strong without
others’ judgmental
condemnation.
The pronoun is everything here “my”!
Sarah
If organized religion is put off by your thoughtful poem, I want no part of that! I dare suggest that there are many progressive churches supporting a more open, inclusive faith, and this poem could be a sales pitch for such. (And I believe there is tremendous beauty to be gained from contemplative practice at home/in nature/other; it is enough.) However, I am not here to proselytize hahaha but to comment on your poetry! I loved the gorgeous rhyming throughout this thoughtful poem – I am captivated by
“religion’s veneer
peeled to reveal”
and
“in my mind,
find peace
sublime”
You have embedded several more rhymes, and it just makes this poem roll off the tongue, which is lovely. I also admire the short line structure.Thank you, Glenda!
Glenda — I salute you, bow to you… I almost wrote about the same thing, but you did this soooo much better than I could have done. I love the strength in the voice and the reality that “church in my mind” is every bit as meaningful as that steepled building and the judgments of those in that other pew. My vow to move to my own brand of “church” came much as yours did: through the wicked words of preachers who were stepping sooooo far from decency that I just couldn’t bear it…. a fundamentalist preacher who berated Jewish people “taking the Christmas out of Christmas” and LGBTQ (though that acronym wasn’t used back then) as “an abomination”… omg… Suffice it to say, this is not my way of viewing my neighbors. I could go on an on…I’m biting my tongue. I appreciate your poem and I appreciate YOU! Love, Susie
Yes, Glenda! I believe it’s up to each soul here on earth to find their power inside and be able to LOVE all that brings us peace. I hate all the judging and condemnation associated with religions. Aren’t we all called to love with grace and mercy? Beautiful!
Imagine if everyone took the time to reflect.
Thank you for sharing your truth!
???
Glenda, your thoughts, reflect here so much that supports the value of having a personal relationship with God based on our understanding of Scripture. It was living across the country that opened my eyes to the fact that religion and relationship are not the same. So, I encourage you to nurture your relationship with our Creator in ways that keep that vertical connection open. The horizontal will take care of itself, whether or not you ever “join” another congregation of practitioners.
Glenda, thank you for the warning to scroll past today – I decided I needed to read your always-powerful words. You’re right that’s it not humanity’s place to judge (lest we be judged) or condemned (even Christ came not to condemn, but to save). Organized religion has been problematic since the start…Moses and his frustrations to mind. When my husband told me, two years into our marriage, that he was called to preach, I said, Well, you have to try or be miserable. Church ministry hasn’t been misery-free(!)…I can say, however, after thirty-five years in the pastorate, and with two sons now serving, there are no regrets except our own shortcomings. So many stories for another day… God is merciful. I just wanted to say thank you for your courageous poem and happy Easter…oh, and your mention of nature’s choir: it was especially exultant around here today, as our four finch eggs hatched! We also discovered bluebirds have nested in a birdhouse church on our back deck – saw the parents carrying away bits of eggshell this afternoon. I’ve been awed, watching and listening. The birdsong and chatter is glorious.
Glenda, a beautiful poem of truth on this day of resurrection. I love the way you describe “religion’s veneer
peeled to reveal
paradigm shifts
antithetical to
Christ’s teaching”
Amen and amen!
Gayle, what a precious memory your grandmother shared with you, and you captured here! I hear understanding love and acceptance in her words you poetically and beautifully offer –
Thank you for sharing this memory today! I also loved the two photos you offer, such a testament to time! What a treasure that she lived to be 103 years old.
I remember my mother wearing a very similar blouse as your more recent photo of your grandmother… perhaps that is what triggered this not so happy “what if” memory of my childhood, a temporary separation that my mother made from my father…they had been “happily” married 64 years when she died back in 2018.
circa 1974
I recognized it as seedy, this motel
a busy strip of highway
almost to Virginia Beach
no waves or sand or umbrellas
our room every room opened to
parked cars and highway
a small pool right in the middle
of the lot at the edge of the traffic
that’s where my brother and I sat and fumed
it was all we could do
no words spoken
I know
one moment
we were a family of seven
Dad, Mom, four brothers, me
family dinners, Sunday Mass, neighborhood games
and next
she was shut within
the motel room
he and I in our winter coats
sitting on sticky
webbed chairs distant and apart
blinded by the reality of now
I don’t remember if she packed suitcases for us.
I don’t remember the story she shared when she
picked us up at school that day.
I don’t remember anything but cold and
desolate
no words spoken
her broken heart exposed
three days later
we returned home
We were a family of seven
Dad, Mom, four brothers, me.
Maureen, I have such emotion reading this poem. Your words left me with ache and wondering what if too. Thank you for this vulnerable piece.
Maureen, this poem hits like the memories of childhood–in vivid flashes of detail that illuminate larger, incomprehensible stories. Thank you for sharing this. The image of you and your brother sitting in your winter coats is memorable and the linkages between the stanzas are so powerful.
Maureen,
This is heartbreaking, leaving me at a loss for words other than I’m sorry your family went through this, that these are memories filled w/ heartache. The framing is so good: “we were a family of seven
Dad, Mom, four brothers, me”
I notice these lines twice but not at the beginning, which gives that opening a sense of detachment while there’s more emotion in the rest. Thank you for sharing something so vulnerable. I think a poem adds to the tenderness more than prose does.
Maureen – this is so powerful. The repetition of “no words spoken” is haunting. And the resolution is left a mystery – her broken heart exposed. You needn’t say more. Absolutely magnificent!
Maureen—no words spoken. This memory is so intense; so personal. The last stanza reads so differently than the first, after you share the moment her heart broke. Interestingly, Grandma and Al (my grandfather) devolved into a very long, very unhappy—no words spoken—relationship. So many families live that life. That made her memory all the more powerful for me. Thank you for your honesty…
Maureen-the “webbed chairs/distant and apart” paints such a vivid picture…
Maureen, the pain of leaving a relationship is weaved throughout this poem. I can feel this place of cold and desolation. The silence is powerful. I cannot imagine how difficult this decision might have been for your mother to not only leave, but to also return especially with five children. I appreciate your preceding note about being “happily” married. Your poem is provocative and resonates on a very personal level for me. Powerful poem!
Maureen, you create such a vivid and moving picture here. I loved how you acknowledge the way that these memories from our childhood are so impressionistic sometimes, with the details blurring at the edges:
“I don’t remember if she packed suitcases for us.
I don’t remember the story she shared when she
picked us up at school that day.
I don’t remember anything but cold and
desolate
no words spoken”
Really just rings with truth. Beautiful job!
I read this poem over and over again, finding it familiar, and questioning my own history as to why…the moments where what was/is, changes for a while, only to return to what is/was/always been. I am thinking of the days of disappearance without us, the kids, and appreciate the vulnerability you shared her triggering my own stories tucked away and forgotten.
This was the line for me.
Maureen — Oh wow… this description of a very torn moment is almost identical to something similar in my own parents’ marriage and our family “trip” to a motel to sort things out… that long drive in silence, the weirdness of being in a motel (which was a total first for me)…a big family broken at that moment. And yet… my parents were married for 52 years. I am so rapt with your story. We were a family of 7 as well…though when this moment happened my eldest sister was already married and gone….even so….it’d be amazing to know how each sib would tell this story! Hugs, Susie
Maureen, wow, what a memory. I love the repetition of “We were a family of seven…” You were just a child, with a child’s memory. Perhaps you never heard any more about it as an adult, but I think I would have been curious. These masterful lines brought me to that small hotel without a view; I picture my brother and I sitting there:
In the end giving up the house
Was more difficult than ending
my life with him,
The house was always there after all
While he was off chasing dreams
that did not include me.
We built that house,
Hosted parties there,
Planted gardens that took root
Far longer than our love story
Until his final choice
was intolerable.
The house sold quickly,
I packed up my life,
Making the most important
Choice of all
I chose me.
Heidi, the coupling of your poem with mine just left me breathless – there are moments in relationships that really sever, making the path ahead so clear. I am riveted by this line “The house was always there after all” – the constancy of the object, only. Not the human. You have shared a powerful piece – I hear your wisdom and strength, “I chose me.” Bravo!
Agreed! I read them one after the other, and both stories were just arresting, with such different endings — both were just great!
You began with such power words that drew me in to your poem urging me to read and know more. And the ending had me cheering for you and making that right decision for you. I feel pain and relief reading this and appreciate your openness to share these words
Heidi,
I loved how your poem begins “in medias res.” Loved these lines:
“Planted gardens that took root
Far longer than our love story”
…and how the lines in the middle of this stanza begin with verbs — for me, it emphasized the work and togetherness that you experienced while there.
Love the affirming ending!
Every, single time – CHOOSE YOU! Well-done and heart-mending. Powerful. Thank you.
Heidi—the pairing of your poem with Maureen’s was a coincidence-but what a coincidence! The brevity of the final stanza contrasts with the preceding stanzas—a powerful and forward looking proclamation—
The house sold quickly,
I packed up my life,
Making the most important
Choice of all
I chose me.
I am so glad you were able to act on choosing yourself.
Heidi,
I had a similar experience but stayed in the house almost four more years until Ken and I built our own home. So much happens w/in our walks, the literal and figurative. Symbols of home are strong. and I hope you’ve been able to build new memories w/in new walls.
Lost and Found
After seventeen years
Had to go to the Lost and Found
Where sneakers, water bottles, vulnerabilities lay
In a public place
Not finding you…in tears
You didn’t give me a sound
I began to pray
You said you needed more space
Alone, I had many fears
That would resound
A while until I heard someone say
You have such a lovely face
Hard, but I switched gears
My feet on the ground
He asked me to stay
Life can be full of grace
What a poignant poetic image, to seek the Lost and Found,
“Where sneakers, water bottles, vulnerabilities lay” –
you have beautifully described how one regroups, how one finds oneself. I am in awe of your rhyming throughout, all four lines from stanza to stanza; none of these feel forced, and, I think, they feel as “steps,” moving forward, stanza to stanza.
Jennifer,
Love the way you built this metaphor! And love the idea that you can find something new while seeking what you lost. 🙂
Jennifer, you construct this poem so solidly – After seventeen years, along, hard. The line that struck me the most – “where sneakers, water bottles, vulnerabilities lay in a public place.” I can feel the devastation in that line. And then the redeeming end line – Life can be full of grace. Such strong and powerful poem.
“Where sneakers, water bottles, vulnerabilities lay/In a public place”—a magical metaphor . The shift from “you” to “I” to “he” was so subtle, but so meaningful. I’m glad you switched gears.
Gayle, thank you for the inspiring, thought-provoking prompt for today! I loved your wonderful poem about your grandmother and the pictures that accompanied it. <3
Your poem made me think about my mom, who had a sharp legal mind and a career as a legal secretary and who could’ve gone much farther if she hadn’t made many sacrifices for us, her family. I wrote a sestina, my favorite form to play with:
“Lifer”
I wonder: Just what was the appeal
when she accepted his courting?
(her mother, sly judge
of character, eyeing the binding
with mistrust,
responding in clipped sentences).
My mother sentenced
herself – without thought of appeal –
to: Housework. Children. Trusting
that someday she would court
her real life once again and bind
herself to true passions. Judging
herself wanting without husband, she aped judge,
jury and executioner: end of sentence.
She lived, ignorant of what she missed, of the binds
she’d tied herself to. Convinced of its appeal,
she embraced her life furiously and held court
in her new kingdom. But mistrust
grew. And, mistrusting,
her judging
eye aped her mother’s: astute, courting
doubt as she grew older, her sentence
one that she longed to appeal
as she grew restless in its bonds.
But they held fast. And though her heart bound
her to us all – every one – she no longer trusted
that life would rescue her. Unable to appeal
to a higher court, she judged
and found herself wanting. Sentences
grew terse as life chafed inside her, courting
regrets. Her life, full, yet wanting, a court-
yard that penned her as she watched us, bound
for sentences
of our own, yet cheering us on and trusting
that we, the unteachable, would be able to judge
wisely, for ourselves: a mute appeal.
Wendy, you have masterfully woven legal terms and metaphors throughout your poem, such an ode to your mother’s resilience and strength, I think. I found this line truly sobering:
Such a painful understanding, such a hard ending to her life – surrounded, yet, by such beauty…her love for family, your love for her, it is so clear here!
WOW – Wendy! This blew me away – the subject and the play of words. So incredibly powerful – court/courting, bound, bind, sentences, trusting – and then the end – a mute appeal. This is riveting. I’m reading it over and over again. Thank you!
Wendy-you were an observer in a life that revolved around your mother “could have” done more You have woven her work life and her love for her family so skillfully. I hope her mute appeal allowed you and your siblings to judge wisely—that was her gift to you. it made her sacrifice worthwhile, I believe.
Gayle, thank you for sharing your photos, I love imagining the experience of the moment in old black & white photos.
—-
spoon scooping bubbles of emotions
from my midsection, gut-filled,
glorious gasps, convulsions
pressure building
hiccup induced
release
knock
knock
release
from embarrassment
inappropriate witticisms
someone else’s ungraceful pain
jovial guffaws of retelling memories
a spoonful of chortles–who is there?
Stefani, there is nothing like a walk down the memory lane of photographs to inspire laughter and questions of who is who, when and what was happening and where it was in the timeline of life events. I love the expressions and the camera angles of old black and whites. They sure bring the past alive, and your words – chortles, guffaws – these reactions are seen and heard in the lines!
So many lines describe the laughter so well…..
A spoonful of chortles has to be the best metaphor I have read in a long time! I have boxes of old black and white photos, and my favorites are those caught in moments of laughter. A spoonful of chortles…
Friends— when I chose the 17th of April for my “day”, I had no idea that it would be Easter Sunday— calendars have always been a bit like realistic fiction to me—I notice the details in arrears and am surprised by their significance. Please feel free to override my suggestion and write about today, if you choose. (You always had the power, my dears…)
Gayle – your prompt was perfect for today. A time for reflection – we can remember – regret – and still be grateful. I am truly grateful for you and your prompt. It made me write down what I had been feeling for years, but didn’t want to say. It was such a release. I don’t have to hold it in anymore. Truly – I’m thankful.
Gayle, I love everything about this! The rocking/dancing, the “settling back into 103 years,” her regret, the “suppose I should say,” the “skinny little 16 year old girl” (both the photo – delightful – and the word image), who your grandmother was then and later – I see the beauty in both. Thank you, thank you, for sharing this today. There’s a resurrection here for Easter Sunday.
Sown
I have left parts of myself
scattered like bread crumbs,
hoping one day to follow them back
but tiny creatures found them first,
swiping the crumbs
out from beneath my feet,
consuming each morsel
in a frenzy of need, want,
curiosity, carelessness.
In desperation
I searched
for myself
but I was lost to time,
weathered and faded,
memory-wrinkled.
I wandered for eternities,
each eternity a second,
in a re-discovery,
a me-discovery,
a tracing of ovule ancestors,
in a re-gathering of limbs and fingerwhorls,
a re-collection to inception,
stitching molecular Eves to atoms
before finding myself
for real.
Oh, my gosh—I can’t choose which bit to talk about here! Your words swirl around the reader with such power. The last—sticking molecular Eves to atoms (did you intend the allusion to Adam there?)—before finding myself for real—finally let me set my feet back on the ground. Wow.
Yes on Adam/atom. It didn’t feel right to put him in there and so wordplay it was.
Wow Jennifer, what a beautiful poem…the lines “me-discovery/a tracing of ovule ancestors” stick out with power and connection. Thank you for sharing today.
Jennifer, these metaphorical breadcrumbs and hungry critters leading to wandering in the woods speak to all of us who have wandered out there sending hootyhoos to someone, anyone who might hear us and hootyhoo back to help us find our way. This is a beautiful testament to the determination to find self, and you prove it can be done. Your new book is a fine example of a woman who sets her mind to a task and succeeds. And I really love who you are – the scars of all the nibble, nibbles along the way included!
Jennifer,
I am in awe of this idea of the bread crumbs. It’s pure genius. What a metaphor! Your details are so rich and full of insight. I really love these cleverly built line:
Jennifer,
Epic poem.
Your wordplay? Wow. This:
“a tracing of ovule ancestors,
in a re-gathering of limbs and fingerwhorls,
a re-collection to inception,
stitching molecular Eves to atoms
before finding myself
for real.”
I just love the meta “search[ing] for myself” idea that dominates the piece. This feels powerful and triumphant!
Jennifer – You grabbed me at the first line –
I have left parts of myself
scattered like bread crumbs,
hoping one day to follow them back
And then the ending –
a tracing of ovule ancestors,
in a re-gathering of limbs and fingerwhorls,
a re-collection to inception,
stitching molecular Eves to atoms
before finding myself
for real.
I love the sound of it – it is like a song to yourself – for real!
Thank you for this. Just wonderful!
Jennifer, I wanted to quote my favorite lines, but realized I was ending up with the entire poem…so I have to compliment this ^^^^^^^^ (e) All the Above. I love the idea of being scattered like bread crumbs.
Jennifer,
I echo all the previous comments and think about the words, “I’m a part of you, and you’re a part of me” as I contemplate your poem and our search for meaning in the past and present and future. I have resisted genealogical research because of cultural implications here, which is illogical, I know. I’m drawn to these lines:
“I searched
for myself
but I was lost to time,”
and find myself needing to know more as you have also found necessary in
“finding myself.”
We really are connected and interconnected in so many ways. Your gift really shines in this poem. Bravo.
Holy cow, Jennifer — This is amazing! The images of losing yourself crumb by crumb…oh wow…how’d you think of that image? It is so perfect! You so adeptly capture how we lose ourselves over time and in tiny specks of ourselves. I’m loving that “re-gathering of limbs and fingerwhorls” that pull use back into an understanding of our
molecular Eves to atoms”… brilliant! Just really wowza! Love this! Susie
Oh, Gayle – your poem, your grandmother’s story, the amazing photos – is that not the goal, at the end of our years, to “settle into” them, rocking, dancing with the memories and the gift of it all? Thank you for the gift of your words and your grandmother’s today – and for this contemplative prompt…
Starstruck
Nineteen.
Stars in my eyes.
I traveled
to New York City by train
for an audition.
Acting school took precedence
over relationships
and having to trust
someone—anyone—to keep
their word.
Done with that.
I will make
my own way.
The letter arrives
in the dead of winter:
Congratulations!
My hands shake.
Do I really
have what it takes?
This isn’t high school
anymore…
I must work hard
(note to self:
Remember this).
Community theater audition.
Walked in the door
never imagining
the closing
or the opening
only that the handsomest man
I ever saw
was sitting across the room
—he says when I walked through,
he knew.
Six months later
I do…
Thirty-eight years later
still do
(wonder now
how many people lost bets
on our having what it takes?).
Well, no.
I never made it
on the stage
of my young dreams
the stars above winked,
it seems
they knew all along
the rest of my life
was waiting there
in the wings.
Fran, I loved reading this today especially: “the stars above winked”
What we think are choices sometimes are of a greater hand. Sounds like this one was certainly true for you here. I also love that commentary in the middle of your wondering of how many people placed bets…
Fran— what a beautiful love story. Beginning with “Done with that./I will make/my own way.” Isn’t that all of us at 19? And then the serendipity of the moment you walked in. That phrase, “the stars above winked, it seems” is what every life story is about— stars, winking…
Oh, Fran! I love perfect endings and you have found it, even in the midst of losing the stage of young dreams. I adore this ending – the stars winking in their knowing, and especially your life waiting in the wings. You’ve woven magic here today.
I’m always blown away by the totally captivating Fran words, and never more than today. Your rhyme scheme, your word choice, your form – all perfection. Being done with that, making your own way – taking a chance, a risk – and finding a mate who knew, who picked you because God winked on love. Waiting in the wings, the nod to the theater beginnings – oh, it all just flows and thrills the soul! God is good. Every time! It has all the makings of a Hallmark Christmas love story
with a happily ever after!
Fran,
We thought we were going to hear of disappointment over NOT making it big. Instead, we get a precious love story when
Incredible poem.
Fran,
The title was s perfect. “Starstruck” for the stage, starstruck for your love at first sight, the embodiment of two worlds meeting and diverging sets the stage for the complication of choice and that climactic ending. I notice the poem really has a play-like structure. the last verse is my favorite. “Waiting in the wings” is a perfect theatrical ending.
Fran, a beautiful tribute! Loved the flow of it, the structure, that made it so smooth and readable. My favorite part:
“the stars above winked,
it seems
they knew all along
the rest of my life
was waiting there
in the wings.”
I couldn’t help thinking of the literary “McGuffin” as you ended up finding what you hadn’t expected to. 🙂
All the world’s a stage, and there are wonderful stages to this poem! “.The stars above winked.” Love this!
What a lovely poem, Fran. God has a greater plan, doesn’t he? So glad Mr. Handsome was waiting in the wings and still is. Happy Easter!
Something tells me the stars above are still winking, Fran. The stage is still before you. Wonderful.
“But there was this boy…his name was Fred…and we danced.” I love these words signaling something wistful, a longing perhaps… Thank you for this inspiration. I wish I had asked more questions of my long departed parents.
Today I write about my choice to leave the house my husband and I built – with wood and memories.
I didn’t want to move here
Leave the house of many years
Gardens planted everywhere
Built with wood and even tears
I didn’t want to move here
Leave the house where children reared
Painted walls of memories dear
Laughter ringing clear
I found it in a letter
He wrote before he passed
“Moving here would be splendid”
And signed it with his love
I didn’t want to move here
A change was filled with fear
Leave behind what I held dear
And start anew with drear
So now that I do live here
I wake with sunny cheer
Blessings wrap me everywhere
I feel him oh so near
Oh, Christine. The depths of love, life, loss pour forth from your verse, with its lovely light rhyme flickering against the shadows. We humans are creatures of habit and place – it is hard to leave a home so built with love, “wood and even tears” – yet the love follows you, wraps around you in that blanket of blessing. I feel the rejoicing and the gratitude in it – thank you for this blessing today. <3
Thanks you Fran. The words readily tumbled on the page. Blessed Easter blessings to you
Christine, I’m reminded that the decisions are the hardest, where we spend most of our energy, and once that decisions made, everything settles. Leaving a house with so many memories, of gardens and children planted, is so, so difficult. I love that your transitioning (the letter signed with his love) is offset from the rest of your stanzas – a visual marker of the shift in thought.
Christine…leaving the family home will be painful for me someday in the not-so-far future. Your opening reflects what I feel each day as I look around my clutter. The turning point of your poem—
“ I found it in a letter
He wrote before he passed
“Moving here would be splendid”
And signed it with his love”— is filled with so much of your life and your love. I am so glad for you that the blessings wrap you today, and that his spirit is beside you.
Christine, living and growing and being together in a place for a lifetime of togetherness keeps those who dwell or dwelled in that space close –
wrapped in blessings of happy memories, their presence still alive as they make themselves known to us. I’m so glad you wrote this today. Building together makes that place even more special.
Christine,
The rhythm and rhyme throughout and repetition of “I didn’t want to move here” works splendidly in leading us to that last stanza when a regret—moving—turns into a blessing. And I’m reminded a house is more than four walls. Beautiful poem.
Christine,
I love how deftly you used rhyme here! And your poem was so touching; I’m glad that your move ended up providing you with happiness; it’s amazing how places can become so profoundly imbued with feeling. 🙂
A brave, brave poem. A brave, brave woman.
I found it in a letter
He wrote before he passed
“Moving here would be splendid”
And signed it with his love
You are right where you should be.
With him always – in a new place.
Thank you.
Christine, of the many lines that “speak to me”, these are the ones that “speak for me”.
I didn’t want to move here
Leave the house where children reared
Painted walls of memories dear
Laughter ringing clear
Before we settled here in GR, my husband and I have lived in four other states. Each time, I wondered, how long here? I didn’t always want to move, especially from our first home which we built and in which we bore two of our three children.
But, fifty-five years, I’m glad I moved! What adventures we’ve had and none that I now regret. Thanks for the evocative stanzas that speak to and for me.
It was over a delayed
cup of coffee
and a how-we-write chat,
after you left
the newspaper job
I was still miserably at,
that I followed you
to your attic
to find a loaned book,
and had an eye-opening look
at a ramshackle room
of guitars amplifiers
microphones speakers —
neither knew the other
played music; we were
wordsmith creatures —
and I made a choice
to take a chance
and blurted out
the fact – that I had
once played tenor sax;
thirty years later,
we’re still rocking in a band,
that day a coincidence or
collision I can’t
quite understand
— Kevin
Kevin, I’m convinced the key to world peace and everything else we need most is hidden in an attic. Those treasures! Im
so glad you found your melodies! The former name of my blog subtitle was Literary Life Collisions, but I changed it because it had a negative connotation for some – when actually, it was the sometimes coincidental, sometimes intentional intersection of random moments where layered knowing happened for me – a mirrored hand pressing another palm, finding the common threads of being. I’m glad you used the word collision as a positive force today!
Indeed, Kim. The random moments, and then the noticing of those moments, and the possibilities, too.
Kevin
“A coincidence or collision I can’t quite understand” – therein lies one of the most wondrous parts of life, how the meant-to-beingness finds us.
“That day a coincidence or collision” I chuckled at these words but oh how it rings true for most of our life’s bests.
Kevin, how those tiniest moments change us, redirect our pathways. I notice the “delayed” before cup of coffee, as if the music was always a part of you but other choices deferred what brought you life. We need to say yes more. I’m glad you did.
Kevin—so many lovely things—the job you were “miserably at” says volumes. The luck of that attic visit—a “coincidence or collision” is a pure example of how the best things in life often begin. Keep on rocking!
Kevin,
Loved the sentiment at the end of this:
“that day a coincidence or
collision I can’t
quite understand”
and the deft revelation of autobiographical detail in this.
Kevin – this is so hope-filled. A coincidence or collision? I think divine intervention – with musical benefits! Thank you!
Kevin, I love the narrative ability to poetically share story in couplets!
An Easter morning scat!
Kevin,
The ways of fate and the stars aligning in harmony to create a life in music is what I see in your poem. BTW, I’m listening to “Music is History” by QuestLoveHave you read or heard it? I’m enjoying it very much.
Kevin — What a wonderful narrative of a chance moment! So romantic, so lovely. And you made the poem so rhythmically delightful. Keep on jammin’! Susie
Kevin, I love this autobiographical sketch. I knew both that you worked at a newspaper before becoming a teacher and that you play in a band, but I certainly didn’t know about the “coincidence or collision” that brought these two pieces together. Thanks for sharing.
Gayle, the memory you preserve here today in this poem is a gift that will transcend time for future generations.
The memory of dancing says life should be fun. But the message that knowing some men are for marrying and some are not is powerful – Frances knew the difference and made the right choice – and
you are proof of that! The pictures are absolutely touching – I am so glad you included them. This is all so frameworthy! Thanks for hosting us today! Fabulous prompt! And Happy Easter!
Eggs
we blew insides out
whites and yolks through tiny holes
all those years ago
painted them, hung them
in the kitchen sink window
with clear fishing line
together, just us
today these eggs are treasures
memories cherished
Something about the clear fishing line that anchors your poem for me
Kevin
Memories cherished makes these eggs treasures! I love thinking about the importance of holding on to memories, for they are indeed what brings us the joy! Thank you for making me think about that
Kim – eggs are so symbolic, one of my own treasured symbols, so representative of life and awe (and ideas). These are gorgeous; that they remain intact – fragile as they are – makes them a perfect metaphor for the memories of having made them long ago, I am going to guess, with your mom. All the joy of Easter to you this day, my friend!
Kim, I think it’s the blowing of the insides out, as if you are turning yourselves inside out in a finding, that intrigues me most. And then we hang onto ourselves (with clear fishing line threading through time). Gathering eggs. This is a beautiful image for today, Easter Sunday.
Kim—I remember doing just that—blowing the insides out of eggs—I wonder where they ended up… what a wonderful memory, and keepsake. Hanging them with fishing line together—memories to be so cherished.
Kim,
Thank you for taking the time to attach the picture. This poem evoked such memories for me of doing this exact same thing…except those eggs were not preserved. The blowing out of the insides…that was so impactful then and now.
Beautifully constructed poem.
Kim,
What a treasure you have in those eggs. They are gorgeous. The choices we make to spend time w/ our children has a lovely way of returning the way these eggs have become “memories cherished.”
Brings me back to PAAS eggs and coloring them with my mother and neighborhood friends. Thanks for the great memory.
Beautiful. I treasure my collection like it’s gold – because it is! Happy Easter, Kim!
Kim — That is so beautiful! I love the whole egg decorating thing…it might be goofy, but I’ve loved it since I was a little kid. Love this nostalgia. Susie