Welcome to Day 1 of the January Open Write. If you have written with us before, welcome back. If you are joining us for the first time, you are in the kind, capable hands of today’s host, so just read the prompt below and then, when you are ready, write in the comment section below. We do ask that if you write, in the spirit of reciprocity, you respond to three or more writers. To learn more about the Open Write, click here.
Our Host
Barb currently works part time teaching college composition courses at Iowa Wesleyan University in Mount Pleasant, Iowa. After teaching English for forty years, and TAG for four, she retired in 2020. A lifelong Iowan, she enjoys exploring the beauty of nature, especially in her back yard where she can view the Mississippi River each day. When she isn’t reading student work, books for pleasure, or writing poetry, you can most likely find her rooting for the Hawkeyes or playing cards.
Inspiration
Michael A. Carey’s book Starting from Scratch: A Two Week Lesson Plan for Teaching Poetry is one of my favorite sources for teaching poetry. Carey, an Iowan poet, uses his own poetry and student work to illustrate each poetry prompt he shares. One of my favorite prompts is the “Intimate Conversation.” For this prompt, Carey invites writers to imagine speaking directly to someone or something. He encourages them to think of something they may not be able to say directly to the subject. This invitation encourages students to use specifics and to create an honest or playful tone while speaking to their subject. Today consider writing your own “Intimate Conversation” through poetry.
Process
To begin, think of someone you wish to speak to either from the past or present, a particular beloved or loathed object, or consider writing to a particular frustration, hope, dream, desire, etc.
Michael Carey’s Poem
Graveside: December 1981
Back home, the bins are full
and the tractors shedded.
There is nothing to do
but look for the used equipment
of bankrupt neighbors and the old farmers
who are selling out.
It is unsettling to see them
after so many years, unsatisfied and bitter,
their hardy lives drained into the soil
and nothing to show but debts.
What can the crazy future
hold for us, who know nothing
and are just starting out?
It must sound strange to you
these allusions to husbandry.
When you left us I was single
and had never gone out of New Jersey.
In Iowa, winters are cold.
Frost falls heavily on the branches.
Horses never leave their windbreak.
Still next month, Lord willing,
we will have a baby.
We wanted you to know
we hope it’s a girl.
When we left, little angels
were floating from farm to farm
begging for money and singing.
Every daddy was Santa Claus.
Mother,
just this once, we hoped
you would tell us everything is ok,
that dirt is clean and death is good,
that we are not alone
in our loneliness.
This season
your silence is a grave
that needs constant filling.
We came today to talk to you
and to listen, really praying,
this time, for a miracle,
but all’s quiet, all’s death,
all’s snow.
--Michael A. Carey
(for Helen Carey 1925-1975)Barb’s Poem
Looking for a Sign
Mom,
It’s colder than Mars here
the wind is a dominatrix
sadistically wielding sheets of ice
my heart aches watching cable news
showing a man shove a woman
onto subway tracks seconds before it arrives
miraculously she survived
I’m not sure I can soldier on
when men massacre babies
and parents don’t report their own daughter missing
please give me a sign
like a sudden burst of sunlight
through the dark and furious sky
I need to feel the warmth of your smile
your loving hand by my side
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Barb, thank you for sharing this prompt. I am not yet familiar with Michael A. Carey. I’m going to check out his book. Your description made me think of Kenneth Koch, my first poetry in the classroom guru I discovered in the 80s. Sadly, I missed the Open Write in January, but I wanted to come back and try the prompts. I wrote to Justice today.
Justice
It’s difficult to believe You will win,
that You will forever be
a refuge for the hopeless,
It’s hard to trust that Your goodness
will shine like the dawn,
that Your deliverance
will break through the doom
as bright as the noonday sun.
When will that happen?
How long must the oppressed wait?
Do I still believe in You?
Will I fight for You to break through the chaos?
So many people continue to soldier on in this fight.
(I’m ashamed I don’t seek you wholeheartedly)
Others prowl and scratch for Your obscurity.
I must commit to join You,
for silence is not a neutral position
in the fight between Justice and injustice.
I do believe in Justice, but, please,
help my unbelief.
Dear Workroom Copier,
Oh, workroom copier!!
You provided a vital source.
Whatever i command,
I expect you to bring forth.
You perform a thankless service.
Grateful for you, I am.
I love you when you’re working.
I despise it when you jam.
Oh, Donnetta, I’m glad I came back to join this prompt late. This is so funny. The rhyming is spot-on and seamless. We can all relate to this! I especially like the second stanza “I expect”–isn’t that the truth.
To my 9 year old son’s bedroom floor
I never knew so much paper and clothing could bring out such rage in me,
until you.
Until you, I didn’t know the relief of a closed door.
Without you, I would never have given in to the passion of anger-cleaning with garbage bags and Febreeze.
I have soaked in enough dirty socks,
week-worn sweatshirts,
piles of chlorinated towels,
snot-drenched tissues.
I miss the floor of 2-month-old son, 2-year-old son, and even 8-year-old son.
And I tiptoe around the dread of the floor of 18-year-old son.
Amanda, I returned to this page tonight and hope you find my response. I absolutely love your poem. I totally understand your topic, and I love how you show the reason you “know the relief of a closed door”. Absolutely priceless poem….yes, keep tiptoeing!
Amanda, the specifics of the following makes us really believe the need for the garbage bags and Febreeze.
You know my favorite part about your poem is that it shows your anger at the floor, instead of your son. Bravo, and good luck!
Barb, your poem has such a tone of despair and yearning, so thank you for the vulnerability and invitation to dive deep today. I wrote to my aunt (who passed away suddenly 12 years ago today) who I think of often and would love to have a drink with.
Cheers to you:
summer sunshine
momma’s bloodline
master of poppycock
cackle heard round the block
risk-taker
mischief maker
freethinker
Miller drinker
Precious Moments
angel sent
sideline chant,
my lovely aunt
Rachelle,
This is a wonderful tribute to someone who sounds like a hoot! I like the list format a lot. These lines stood out to me: “master of poppycock / cackle heard round the block.”
I love the way you use rhyme and rhythm to convey the spirit of your aunt. The rhyming couplets make this feel like you’re having a drink with your really cool, fun-loving auntie!
Rachelle, your aunt sounds just like the type of person I would enjoy being with and who also sounds like a few of my aunts. I love the way you describe her as a “risk-taker” and a “mishcief maker” but especially that she’s a “freethinker.” The love you have for your aunt jumps off the page. Thank you for sharing her with us today through your marvelous poem!
I love the jaunty rhythm that matches your depiction of your aunt <3
Rachelle, how precious your aunt sounds. I love “cackle heard round the block” and she being a “risk taker” and “mischief maker.” She sounds like someone I would have loved to have met. And as Allison said, the “jaunty rhythm” and sweet rhymes are icing on this poetic cake.
I allowed my mind to marinate on the topic today and still struggled, but here is my result which I may go back and futz with later.
With age comes the gift of wisdom, so they say,
but memories persist, haunt, remind, and plague
our minds with the errors of our ways.
Those misspoken words that cause red cheeks
and make us question our own intelligence,
if so, why would anyone listen to us?
The friendships that wither with misunderstandings,
miscommunications, missed opportunities,
are smudges that just won’t clear.
Family relationships aren’t always ruled by blood
being thicker than water
there must be a kindred regard that goes both ways.
All the losses add up and alter my soul with
hues of regret, nostalgia, and penitence
that color my fractured life lens.
Wow! I really like where this is going. The stanza about the friendships really stood out to me. The line “missed opportunities” stood out to me for personal reasons. The ongoing motif of the lens/glasses emphasizes the impact of missed connections/regrets/relationships on our lives.
Cara, wow, I love how you develop this poem. Your ending is such a powerful whomp…”that color my fractured life lens”. I can totally relate to the “misunderstandings” and saying something that you totally regret. These moments in life are difficult to forgive especially when I’m to blame. Thank you for sharing such a provocative and relatable poem! Absolutely fantastic work!
Hello Barb! Thank you for this wonderful start to our new year of writing poetry together!
My 93-year-old mother-in-law lives a mile from us–still independent in her own home. Five or six nights a week we practice accordion together, which gives me a benign excuse to check on her well-being. She has been a GIFT to me for the past 38 years, offering help and support at every turn and never calling out my many shortcomings. But let’s be real: relationships are complex. I needed to write two poems. (I slipped away from the prompt to write TO her and instead wrote ABOUT her.)
Two True Poems: My Mother-in-Law
1)
Gently giving
Quick forgiving
Helps the lonely
Patient only
Holds us dearly
Loves sincerely
2)
Barnebarn of immigrants
Now sees only difference
Votes to keep the “others” out
Filled with fear and dread and doubt
Uses Bible as a tool
To justify opinions cruel
Hello, Allison, I am as always so deeply moved by your poetry. I love how you capture two sides of the same person. Wow, that’s got to be somewhat painful to know someone who “Loves sincerely” can also use a “Bible as a tool/To justify opinions cruel”. Thanks for the forewarding note. I love that you play the accordian. I had a great uncle who often played and great aunts who yodeled. I’m afraid if I lived closer to you, I would be a big pest wanting to join you and your mother-in-law to listen to you practice! Thanks for sharing your honest poems and for your generous spirit! You make the world a far better place:)
<3 You are the best, Barb. Thanks for leading us today–and for hearing me.
Allison, your short poems capture a complex relationship so succinctly. You are so lucky to have such a woman in your life.
Ah! The juxtaposition of the two poems is prominent. I actually love this as an exercise for myself–I tend not to give people much of a chance if their values don’t align exactly with mine, but I miss out on opportunities to meet people, accordion practice (lol), and sprouting friendships. Thank you for sharing this! I also had to look up “barnebarn” and I think that was especially clever word choice.
This pair of poems really captures the irreconcilable paradoxes that often exist in the people who are the closest and dearest to us. The poem(s) has a cadence that almost sound like an incantation—trying to pull her out of the spell of intolerance, knowing how caring she can be.
Allison — Once again, in so few words so perfectly chosen, you capture the complexity of not only your tugging emotions but also her polarities. I sooo know these chasms that exist in our families. From the lightness of the two of you play that stretchy instrument (makes me smile) to the “Bible as a tool/to justify opinions cruel” this hits hard and right down the strike zone of a grand slam. Perfect poems. Hugging you like that squeeze-box! :-). Susie
Barb, thank you for the prompt! This is my first time participating in Open Write and I was surprised how quickly a poem came to me because I do not write poetry. This was a healing reflection and I look forward to participating in more Open Write prompts 🙂
To My High School Bestie
Dear Seydi,
Remember being best friends?
Singing Sound of Music songs while running
Deciding which boys were cute
Sleepovers minus the sleep
Facemasks and pizza
Laughing so hard we’d cry
Now I cry so hard I barely believe we laughed.
Did you cry when you sent that text?
I did.
Everything reminds me of you
And I wonder
What happened
Why you can’t tell me…
If I’ll ever know.
The gift of memory is a werewolf at night.
I heard you married that boy
And I hope he’s enough for you.
But I still wonder sometimes
What I could have done differently
For I must have hurt you first for you to hurt me that bad
Welcome, Rachel! We are so glad you’ve joined us. I’m sure you will find this a welcoming and supportive group.
High school besties- now there is a topic almost everyone could write about! Your “gift of memory” line is spectacular. I love how you’ve set it off by itself.
Well done.
Oh, Rachel, wow, I feel your pain. The loss of a friend is truly devastating. I’m so glad you joined us today to share your powerful voice and poem. I appreciated your question: “Did you cry when you sent that text?/I did.” Those two lines show the conflict so well and your straight-forward voice shows how poetry can help communicate our inner pain and loss, but also help us to find a way to heal. Beautiful poem. Thanks so much for sharing! I hope to read more of your poetry:)
“Now I cry so hard I barely believe we laughed”
This is just one of your spot-on lines. Wow. Your specificity brought me back to MY OWN specific high-school moments: thank you (or damn you). Wonderful poem.
Rachel,
This hit my soul. I, too, have friendships that have ended for reasons I don’t totally understand. Your line, “The gift of memory is a werewolf at night,” is just so powerful and true.
Rachel, wow! What a poem. The tone shift in that third stanza made me tense up! The choice to make that a question helped me feel even more part of the story and brought back some of my own memories. The ending reveals something even more–a pang of guilt / regret / uncertainty that haunts a person. Thank you for sharing!
Rachel, thank you for writing and sharing! I’m with the rest here, I really love your “gift of memory” line. When the moon is full, memories can, indeed, grow claws!
A Prairie Garden
By Mo Daley 1/21/23
Often on these gloomy January days
When I wake before the dawn
I think of you and wonder
If you know about us now
If you know how the seeds you’ve sown
Have grown and multiplied
How we’ve branched out all over the country
Yet always find our way back to our roots
We are of the prairie
We are strong and stalwart
The landscape could have been so different
If you were here to tend to us
I’m not one to hedge my bets,
But I think you’d be proud of our varieties,
Tolerant, resistant, beautiful, and thriving
Mo, gorgeous poem. The language is ethereal. I love envisioning the prairie and the trees, the way nature germinated growth and find their way from place to place. Add y h dreamlike language you’ve used. Beautiful.
Mo, I love how you show your family roots through this poem. Your words carry the power of the “prairie”. Your ending carries such a powerful and beautiful impact! “Tolerant, resistant, beautiful, and thriving” Yes, these are all the attributes I would want for my own loved ones! Gorgeous poem!
Mo, This is lovely. “Stalwart” and “thriving” are two of my favorite words. “We are of the prairie” spoke to me. I also love the subtle use of “hedge.”
Mo, thank you for writing this today. Your title intrigued me and the natural diction throughout left me craving more. The extended metaphor is elegant and fitting. Thank you for sharing with us today.
Barb, my heart goes out to you. I know the feeling and those of us who miss our moms would probably all agree, we need and crave that sign from them. I especially loved:
I hope you feel a special something from your precious mom today.
Sixty-Free
Dear November 11, 2023
the day I will be sixty-free
let my body feel twenty again
and let my grandest journeys begin
show me life lived like it’s golden
new adventures to embolden
take me to the Motherland
on sacred ground, I long to stand
carry me across blue seas
to bask in the Caribbean breeze
deliver me from constant toil
and cover my hands in rich palm oil
Dear November 11, 2023
my day to celebrate me
© Stacey L. Joy, January 21, 2023
Hey there, Stacey — celebrate indeed! The couplets feel “free” and they jaunt from line to line…very “craft-y” of you! You are so good! I like the feel of deliverance through each couplet. I’m celebrating YOU! Hugs, Susie
I love how age positive your poem is, Stacey! This has been a tough year for me physically, mostly because I’m getting old! I am trying to flip the script. Your poem is an inspiration for me.
Stacey, this looking into the future is so clever. I promise you sixty does offer new beginnings and possibilities for roaming free. There’s a hymn and prayerful quality to the poem and your anticipation.
Stacey, I love your voice throughout this. The idea of celebrating “sixty-free” and the wonderful adventures you describe. I especially loved “cover my hands in rich palm oil”. This sounds like the perfect adventure full of self-care. Your positive spirit resonates throughout your poem. Thank you for sharing your beautiful voice and poetry today!
Oh, Stacey my JOY! I turned 63 on Dec. 29, 2022 (almost a month ago)! One of my resolutions this year is to use this (still capable!) body to do what it can do (ski, bike, run). Your couplets are strong and deft. You uplifted me with your “rich palm oil”! Let’s DO THIS! Your poem spoke to me directly. <3
Stacey,
I’m also pondering the meaning of my age of late and love your musings. Love these lines:
Happy January! Happy to be back here, writing poetry! Thank you, Barb, for today’s inspiration – both poems spoke powerfully to a loved one who was deceased, and I was especially moved these two lines in your poem,
I am always seeking signs from nature like this, little whispers from loved ones who have passed.
For my poem, I – strangely – ended up writing to myself. Let me explain – a friend has been having a tough time helping her parents transition to a senior living situation. This process was challenging for my parents (now deceased) as well. When it is time for me to move from my home, I hope I make it easier on my children…
downsizing
older me
please listen
know
there will be a day
you will wander through a boxed-up house
write the words ‘take’ or ‘donate’ on furniture
leave bags of belongings at the door
close doors on emptied cabinets
pause at barren shelves
you’ll be saying farewell
to all that was
older me
do not
cry hurt argue refuse protest
try not to
hold back
time
older me,
please,
embrace
the change
with love
believe
what was
will always be
wrap your heart
in treasured memories
welcome the new
older me
please
Oh man! Your poem hit me hard. This older me is staring me in the face, and I know this time is coming soon. What a plea – “older me/please.” I hope to handle that time with strength.
Have you been living in my head? I echo your please. And I hope to handle what I know will come gracefully. Your poem says it all. The image of the boxes, though…
Amen.
Maureen, I need to have this very conversation with myself! There’s a whole feel of excitement in the embracing of the changes…while always feeling those pangs that hold onto us. Very real! Susie
Maureen,
I too hope I can be gracious when the time to move on arrives, that I’ll not be a burden to those who help me through this transition. A poem is as good a place as any to talk to ourselves and make a plan. Clever take on the prompt. I love it.
Maureen, this is so touching! It reminds me of when I was packing for college after graduating high school. I felt as if a beautiful chapter was ending that I could never truly return to, and the sense of loss made it hard to downsize. I especially love the lines, “wrap your heart / in treasured memories.” Thank you for this reminder.
Oh,Maureen, your poem actually moved me to tears. I completely understand the behavior and the difficulty of moving a loved one to a “safer” place but one that is not home. Loved, loved, loved “wrap your heart/in treasured memories”. Absolutely beautiful poem, and I think we should write poems like this to ourselves so we do not easily forget the things we learn in life and this kind of a transition is a huge, painful one. Incredibly powerful poem! Thank you!
Maureen, I am so glad I found your poem tonight. I hope you will share it with your children.
Your poem spoke to me directly. I love it when a poem touches me with feelings I recognize and words that give my vague thoughts form. You did this for me.
Thank you.
Maureen, I love the repetition (and earnest pleading) throughout. And your “wrap your heart / in treasured memories” is such a cool metaphor, and the rhyme between “be” and “memories” is so good!
A Poem about Me, Myself, and A.I.
Dear ChatGPT,
I hate you.
Well, hate is
a strong word
(and, in fact, when
asked, you offered
“loathe,” “detest,” and
“despise”)
but I tempered it
a little bit,
pulled back from
“revulsion”
because I also fear
you, too.
Granted, you are
“new” and we,
humans, are taught
(evolutionarily speaking)
to be afraid of new things,
things that upset
the apple cart,
as it were,
of the status quo,
but having been raised
on a steady diet of Bradbury
and Asimov, I wonder
if you will obey his three laws
of robotics, if you will,
when asked, willingly
open the pod bay doors,
if you will help the overturned
tortoise, baking in the hot sun,
and if it’s not too personal
of a question,
I wonder,
do you dream
of electric sheep?
So, although I am writing
this poem by hand in my
Moleskin notebook
(small flex?)
with my Paper Mate
Inkjoy gel pen
(definitely a
small flex)
I will eventually type
this into the computer,
upload it into the
interwebs, and jack
into the Electronic Overlords,
Skynet of it all, and because
I’ve seen all of the Matrix
films (even the lackluster
fourth one) and the first
(and second) Terminator
movies, I know how I will
respond when prompted
“Dance with me
if you want to live.”
I’ll (begrudgingly) lace up
my dancing shoes
(And, yes, I do own
dancing shoes.)
because, come on,
we’ve seen the trailer
for M3GAN with her
Uncanny Valley dance
moves and the viral videos
of the robots from Boston Dynamics
tripping the light fantastic,
bustin’ a move like this is
the electric boogaloo.
And maybe we’re heading into
the third act of some M. Night
Shyamalan movie, where,
spoiler alert,
the humans
are the problem;
the humans
are the invasive species
because, let’s face it,
we are.
And, the fact that this
is a trope any sci-fi fan
would recognize
tells us, really,
everything that we
need to know
so, maybe, what I’m really
trying to say, ChatGPT
is that while, even though,
Soylent Green
is people,
I guess,
I’m realizing,
that people,
really
are
delicious.
_________________________________________
Barb, thank you for your mentor poem and your prompt today! Watching the news really does lead to “heart ache,” so I love the reminder that remembering a loved one to draw comfort from during these times is so important. And I love the fact that having this act of remembering can be the actual “sign” that we need, the “sudden burst of sunlight / through the dark and furious sky.”
Yes. People really are delicious. And this is so intimidating!!
Oh my gosh, Scott…you are still cranking out the rapid flow of great stuff. I smiled, I laughed, I nodded, I wondered…in short, I loved the riffing. And you give us all pause to think of the bots that predict and scare the bejezuz out of the wordsmiths that we are here. Cautionary tale. If we dissected your brain, I can ‘t help but think that it would be an awesome exercise in “Dang, I knew it! He’s not of this world!” Totally delicious. Thank you! Susie
Scott, I’ve been obsessing about ChatGPT, too, but it’s not the machine that troubled me—it’s the humans. Specifically those who have latched onto AI as though it’s the second coming of Christ for teachers. Paleeze! Have they not read Bradbury? Have they not taught Harrison Bergeron? Did they miss M.T.Anderson’s Feed? We don’t have to worry about other people when so many freely give their cognitive freedom over to machines. 😑 Yep, you nailed it w/ these lines:
“the humans
are the problem;
the humans
are the invasive species…”
Scott, thank you for your amazing poetry wizardry. I am always amazed by your clever wit and skill with manipulating language to not only create a question about technology and life in general, but also to show the delight we can have and share through writing about the things that trouble us such as ChatGPT. I only recently learned of this technology, and I truly do not understand it. I haven’t even played around with it. It’s probably a huge hit, but like you I love Inkjoy gel pens and journals. But back to your poem, I love how you share your love of Science Fiction literature and film, and your ending is hilarious. I remember watching Soylent Green for the first time and the revulsion I experienced when I understood people were the food. Many thanks for sharing your art with us today!
Scott, I began reading your poem before I saw who wrote it, yet I knew its author instantly. I love the lines,
“And, the fact that this
is a trope any sci-fi fan
would recognize
tells us, really,
everything that we
need to know”
i am eager to rereread.
Scott, Your poem flows (seemingly) effortlessly from one image to the next. I find it so pleasurable to slip into a poem that takes me on a stream-of-consciousness journey that resolves itself so soundly at the end. Bravo!
Scott,
This is so so wonderful! ChatGPT has been a hot topic at my school the last couple of weeks, so I loved this all the more. I always enjoy your poems so imbued with realism, snark and humor. Thank you for the gift of your poem!
OPEN LETTER TO THE COSMIC FORCES
While the holy books,
mega churches,
school primers,
catechisms
and my votes
wither into dust
and empty vessels,
I turn now to
You,
out there
in the other dimensions
to invoke, conjure, and summon
simple
humane
decency;
wield your lightning bolts
through the bathroom mirrors
of those preening
for camera time on CSPAN;
quake the dams,
reverse the plumbing
while on their porcelain thrones
they ponder their salary increases,
their off-shore accounts,
their loop-holed tax returns,
while children go fostered
and to the hungry streets;
split open the ground
to release the ooze
of power and greed
and feel the crooked,
palsied trigger fingers
that cling to coal
as the meek
choke on smoke
of charred forests,
carbon tokes,
the shrill NRA chorus;
roil the sullied seas
to back up into Pharma’s commodes
the foul stench of opioid death,
its gaseous flatulence,
the yellowed funk
of our Q’ed legislators
hanging in the air
like a gallows noose.
I call upon the Cosmic Forces
to smite
so that we might
recalibrate,
rethink
in the name
of mothers,
children, dogs, and
the common good
of community
and build forward
with a conscience.
by Susie Morice, January 21, 2023 ©
So very many things to be fearing these days. Your tone and your words—just one of so many phrases that arechilling—“to release the ooze of power and greed”. What a metaphor!
Yes, please, ‘in the name of mothers, children, dogs, and the common good’ – your poetry is a prayer, one that I hope is answered. I laughed at several images – for example,
That would be a day of reckoning!
Susie,
With all the decent people I say Amen, sister. Let every word of this prayerful poem be true. You sure do have a way w/ words. May all the Q-wing-nuts feel the wrath of righteousness and choke on their greedy, hateful tongues. I ♥️♥️♥️ everything about this poem. Thank you for saying so eloquently what needs to happen.
Susie, thank you so much for sharing your magical, powerful, and commanding poetry with us today. Wow! You absolutely nail it in this. I feel your frustration and can relate to wishing the worst on people who only care for their own sound bites and power trips. Your revengeful actions you call on are glorious. I’m howling with delight. I loved how you created sound and rhythm through such devilish actions such as the lines”
“reverse the plumbing
while on their porcelain thrones
they ponder their salary increases,
their off-shore accounts,
their loop-holed tax returns,
while children go fostered
and to the hungry streets;”
Your ending though is what really makes the first part so impactful because we do need “common good” and dogs and a “conscience”. Absolutely outstanding poem and I hope the Cosmic Powers have heard your roar! Hugs, dear friend!
AMEN
Susie, how I have missed you! Whether you bring wit or skewer to this space, I admire your words. Whatever Cosmic Forces are at hand, may they smite away. Let us bring the force of mothers, children, dogs. There is no greater community! This packs a powerful punch today.
Susie, my friend, I’ve missed you!! 🥰
Your poem is a call to action for the Cosmic Forces, one that we all should shout on high! I love how you position the disruption and the solutions, easy to imagine, right? So let’s watch this unfold into a “community…with a conscience” and let us all ask:
Thank you for your powerful poem, Susie!
Gosh, Barb. I love this prompt. And the farm connections in Michael Carey’s poem definitely caught me in my feels. My mom is still among the living but she lives super far away, and as I raise my own kids I start to understand her in a way that I never realized I would or could. I’ve been thinking through that a lot these days, and so, I address my letter to her. I’m grateful for the space to process.
Oh, Mama
I apologize to you in my head now everyday
And sometimes I call to say it out loud.
I make lists and take stock
Of all the things you taught me
That
I never wanted to learn.
But you knew I needed to.
Mowing yards
Doing laundry
Washing dishes
Marking hogs
All at 8 years-old
Driving on backroads at 10.
Pollinating corn at 13.
Making pies at PK at 16.
College
Teaching
Grad School
Marriage
And
Kids
And all the things.
It wasn’t the skills –
Though they are important to.
You knew I could and, to your credit,
didn’t give
A damn if it felt fair to me or not.
I was different than the others and
You could see it.
And in making me do all of that, you
Taught me to see it too.
To feel and know that
I am
More
Than capable.
I am stronger because I am a
Mosaic of all of these experiences.
A kaleidoscope of hybrid vigor.
Strong roots built to withstand storms.
Adaptations that ward off intrusive and harmful
Thoughts and
Pesty kinds of people.
Then I was hateful and loud about it
And now I try to be loud and grateful.
To you
To Mamaw and Papaw
To the corn
To the heat
To everything that has forged me into the now
And all that will use those things to shape me
The future.
All my sorries will never cut it.
But I want them to at least bring the relief I know
I’d want from my kids –
That I did the right thing.
And
You did, Mama. I promise.
I’m sorry
And
I love you.
I hope you share this with your mother – what a dear gift it would be! Your mother sounds like a strong, confident spirit with an awesome parenting philosophy, as you write here –
“You knew I could and, to your credit,
didn’t give
A damn if it felt fair to me or not.”
Chea, your voice is incredibly powerful throughout your entire poem. I feel all of the emotions. The guilt you feel for not being appreciative as you were raised, but how thankful you are now because your mother “did the right thing”. Kids raised on farms are expected to learn to do so many things at a very young age. My husband has shared that he had to back up a tractor while doing something on the farm when he was six. Love the lines “To Mamaw and Papaw/To the corn/To the heat”! I cannot only hear your call, but I can feel the heat and see the corn. Magnificent poem. I hope you are able to share this with your mother! Thank you!
Chea, I posted late tonight (as I usually do), but I’m glad I scrolled down to find your wonderful poem. I, too, need to write an apology poem to my mother, but I wasn’t up to it tonight. You inspire me.
Hello Barb! Thank you for hosting today. Wow, this was an emotional one for me. Opened up some wounds I thought were healed. But, it was necessary for I see I have some unfinished business to tend to. Thank you for sharing the mentor poem. My mama is still living and I can’t imagine the day when I will be remembering her. I noticed you wrote about your mother as well. I noticed the differences in the addressing: “Mother” from Michael Carey and “Mom” from you. It’s “Mama” for me.
These lines from Carey: “Mother,
just this once, we hoped
you would tell us everything is ok,”
and your lines
“please give me a sign
like a sudden burst of sunlight
through the dark and furious sky”…those words moved me because I know how people are about their mamas! They are who we go to for confirmation that everything will be alright. At my age, I am still like that. Here’s my poem for today.
The Original “Singing Deacon”
Uncle E.C.,
You were my Godfather,
but I never really knew what that meant.
When I got old enough to realize it, you were almost to the other side.
When I really needed you,
it was too late.
You left me with an open clue,
but one I never really got to solve…
Still haven’t because it doesn’t really matter now.
I wish I would’ve gone back
sooner to find out what you knew
about my parents’ divorce.
But that’s all history now.
So now I will cherish the memories
we had:
Going to Tastee Freeze after your bus routes,
Your infamous whistling. My, how you could
carry a tune.
Directing “The Senior Choir” on the designated Sundays.
I will never forget the long trips,
on repeat the sermon “Watch them Dogs”.
This, I believe
was the first time I heard
a pastor cuss.
“Who in the hell
left the gate open?!”
You were one of the reasons I became a teacher,
why I have a service attitude,
why I strive for excellence.
I never really gave you your flowers.
A visit to your grave is long overdue.
that small detail about the pastor cussing struck me. what a vivid, wonderful memory!
Ha! Thank you Gayle. I remember that cassette being ejected and flipped over many many times.
Jessica! I love that title! I really enjoyed the mystery and intrigue of the clue he left you and that you don’t reveal it to us. So that we, like you, also don’t (or can’t) solve the mystery. It struck me as really beautiful the way the poem moves on as you describe that and how you have. <3
Thank you so much Chea. That’s one of those things that will always be on my mind and heart.
Jessica — The letter/poem reads so personally…I like the reflective tone of it…the wondering and reminiscing. I share the “godfather/…never knew what that meant.” Same here. I think letters like this have a healing power…getting it out there that this Uncle E.C. was important…my gosh, the reason you are a teacher! Can’t beat that! Thanks for sharing this. Susie
Yes Susie! Floodgates opened today! So much so that one of my contacts fell out, lol! But it was necessary. Sometimes we have to revisit things until we finally get closure. I appreciate your words!
I am riveted by “you left me with an open clue;” I can hear the continued searching in your poem, how much your Godfather continues to mean to you. Beautiful!
Thank you Maureen! My parents are a piece of the clue and I hope to solve it when I’m ready. Hopefully I won’t wait too much longer.
Oh, my, Jessica, your poem is a wonderful tribute to your uncle and reveals his personality well. Your ending really got to me. Sometimes remembering and reflecting about the impact one has had on our life is something that is also long overdue. I feel the inner conflict of wishing you could understand your parents divorce and how now that opportunity of asking Uncle E.C. is too late. Your poem opens a lot of thoughts in my mind. Beautiful and compelling poem. Thank you so much for sharing your poetry today!
Barb,
This is the prompt that I needed today! Thank you for the inspiration and the heart wrenching exemplar. I’m actually writing this as I sit outside the audition room as my daughter is auditioning for a college music program—chewing my fingernails off and nervously small talking with other parents…
Note to my daughter on the day of her audition
Sitting outside the door of the
audition room and
I’m biting my tongue until it bleeds
Words are gathering at the gate,
waiting to flood forth,
But I’m holding strong.
You’re ready (I say).
You’ve gotten farther than I
Ever have (I know).
What happens in that room
can’t measure the pulse
Of the person
Behind the beat.
Can’t keep the time that
You’ve kept for these years.
Can’t discern the dynamics
Of the pain and rage,
Joy and triumph,
The spirit behind your
Ghost strokes and the odd
Time signatures that punctuate
Your song.
If there were words that
Would have mattered
Before you stepped into that room
They did not come to me.
What happens in that room
Happens.
I know you and I am proud.
Your song reaches me through
The walls. Muffled, but
Unmistakably you.
I know the notes and the phrasing,
I can anticipate the improvisation, and what happens in that room—
Despite the stakes that we place
On the moment—
Matters little. This song is still
My favorite song.
“If there were words that
Would have mattered
Before you stepped into that room
They did not come to me.”
The giving away of control is palpable here. The essence of being a mother…
…or a father!!🥴
Hey Dave! There are so many powerful things to love about this poem. Least of which is the way it captures your relationship with your daughter. My favorites, though, are ones that struck me in the feels.
Wow! How amazing to be known in such a way and to know another. That even when we’re muffled and there are walls in the way that we are unmistakable and seen/heard and known. To be recognized and appreciated through barriers by anyone is such a gift, but feels especially special in a parent/child relationship.
And then this just reinforces it while demonstrating that we can look to the future but still enjoy the present moment – even in its tension and discomfort. Thank you for sharing. <3
No matter how the audition turns out, it is clear that your daughter has all that she needs. These lines were magic:
I have waited inside and outside an auditorium thinking and feeling every word of your poem. You capture the emotions perfectly. The ending says it all. My favorite dances were hers.
Dave, wow, I love the tenderness and love that radiates throughout your poem. I was especially moved by the lines:
“What happens in that room
can’t measure the pulse
Of the person
Behind the beat.”
I hope her audition was a huge success and that you shared this incredible poem with her. Thank you for showing your huge heart through this poem!
Dave, this is what every child wants and needs to hear from a parent. Seeing the value of who your daughter is, and not just what she does (sing), is what I believe real love to be. I especially loved the line:
Dave, I really enjoyed this! I love that it’ll be a snapshot of this moment for you and your daughter.
Rest in Prayer, Mother
I pray for you
As you living prayed for me
Because God is not
Confined by time.
So my prayers
Reach you running barefoot
On the farm.
My barefoot prayers
Reach you there.
My prayers
Reach you marching
In military formation.
My rank-breaking prayers
Reach you there.
My prayers
Reach you in your
Troubled marriage
My troubled prayers
Reach you there.
My prayers
Reach you, see you
through divorce
My prayers are
Divorced from time.
My prayers hunch over your desk
Sooth you in sleep
Nourish you,
Nurse you,
Hold you,
Sustain you.
If God is everywhere
All at once,
Then my prayers
Reach you.
so many strong images. My favorite is the barefoot prayers– a time of innocence before the struggles of adulthood…
The repetition of ‘my prayers’ is just so soothing, healing.
Katrina,, I love how your poem moves and ends on “Reach you”. The words and repetition create a wonderful cadance that is like a prayer. Your specific details show so much and especially your actions through the lines “Nourish you,/Nurse you, Hold you, Sustain you.” Such an impactful poem! Incredibly moving poem! Thank you!
Thank you for this impactful prompt this morning. It brought me back to something I started last month as the year anniversary of my grandfather’s death approached. This was the perfect prompt to allow me to revisit it and reformat it into a personal letter to him.
I still feel
your urgent grasp
of my hand to gain
my attention.
You had so much to say.
Your voice still rings
in my head –
“Let me tell you…”
“This is how you do it…”
“This is the right way…”
“There is someone out there for you…”
I still listen to you.
Your best advice, though,
was demonstrated
through your steadfast
love and care for Grandma.
Fifty years of tending
to her every need and
sacrificing a full life
to the death grip lupus
had on your marriage
was not lost on me.
It was to others in the family,
but I admired and internalized
your example.
I did not hold it against you
when you left.
You loved
fiercely and conditionally
only wanting someone
to love you in the same way,
and I fear we have
all let you down.
My hope is that you are able
to see the impact
of your love and advice in me.
Heather–wow. This line grabbed me–“and I fear we have
all let you down.” You share so beautifully the struggles that are not acknowledged when those we care about are alive. he sees it, I hope…
This is beautiful. The voice of your grandfather in the 2nd stanza and then the voice of his example in the 3rd was really impactful.
What a touching poem Heather. Grandparents are very special people. When they leave, it feels like a gaping wound that won’t close. All of my grandparents are deceased and I wish my children would’ve gotten the experience that I had. There is so much I can point out that I can relate to, but this line, “You had so much to say.” We take older generations for granted, but I believe they know when their time is approaching so they try to get it all out while they can. This is a warming and loving tribute. Thank you for sharing.
Heather, oh my, your poem brought me to tears. I love how you show your grandfather’s beautiful spirit, the love he demonstrated throughout his life and to his wife. How his actions influenced you. I also adore the way you’ve captured his voice through the things he said to you. The lines “and I fear we have/all let you down” is honest, raw, and heart-breaking. I hope he is able to see the impact he has had. Powerful and provocative poem!
Barb— beautiful poem, one that I was envious of. Your closing lines say so much about your relationship with your mother. thank you for this prompt. My gosh, I have missed this group!
Once I finished drying my tears from all the memories our poet friends submitted, I worked actively at writing a happier poem. But the poem that found me follows…
If Wishes Were Horses,
Beggars Would Ride
You are
finally
gone.
You left us years
before your body surrendered.
It was a quiet goodbye.
You slipped away without notice.
And I wish I could feel more.
I wish I were more religious
so that I could fall back on platitudes.
I wish I could say “you’re with Dad now”,
but he was always gone, anyway,
driving his semi and smoking the cigarettes that killed him.
You slept in separate rooms.
You lived separate lives.
They were not easy lives.
I know that.
If there is a heaven, were you able to find him?
I wish I had liked you.
Love is easier to owe
than affection.
I wish you had liked me.
I was a dutiful daughter.
You were a good mother.
You did your job well.
I wish there was more than duty between us.
I would know what to say.
I would know what to feel.
I wish I could miss you.
I wish I felt anything but relief.
I wish I had been who you wanted.
I wish you had been who I needed.
I wish.
Gayle Sands
1/21/23
Gayle, I cried through most of them, too, including yours. Your poem reminded me of my relationship with my nana. The repetition was powerful.
Gayle, this can’t have been easy to write let alone live. Thank you for the courage it took to write such striking lines as “they were not easy lives.” I am still ponderign “love is easier to owe than affection.”
pondering
Gayle, I have missed this as well. It seems like this is the only time I write now. And it’s sad. I need to be more deliberate in doing this. Your poem…wow! I just mentioned in my post about how much we depend on our mothers and the love we have for them. But in reality, not all relationships are like that. Thank you for bringing that to my attention. I can see what you wanted with your mother, but your expressions are honest and heartfelt. Your repetition of “I wish” made your pleas more urgent. Your last stanza culminates the desires of a better relationship with her,but she is no longer on this earth. My thoughts are with you.
Gosh, Gayle — This is a truly powerful letter/poem. The honesty is striking…all those wishes…not easy to lay it out there, I can only imagine. The lines “Love is easier to owe/than affection…” that is a real punch of truth.The title is priceless! I really appreciate this piece. Thank you. Susie
Gayle, wow, you definitely deliver a powerful punch through this poem. I feel the family tensions of absence and being unloved. I am especially moved and devastated by your line “I wish you had liked me”. That one line carries an incredible chasm of grief realizing the pain you must have felt growing up, searching for warmth, approval, and love. Thanks for sharing such an honest and straight forward poem. Hugs.
Gayle, my heart hurts. My dad passed 6 months after my mom and I never think about him the way I think of my mom. Relationships between parents/children are cultivated by the parents, clearly your mom and my dad didn’t use their tools. For that, I am sorry WE don’t have the “missing” feelings.
Sending love!
Barb, looking back made me sad, but glad I have this opportunity to unload in a poem. So, I guess I should say, “Thanks, Barb,.” the poem about Michigan, my birth state.
Written in the Mitten
Returning to live in the state where I was born.
Has opened my eyes and days I mourn.
As a teen, I never paid much attention
To what was causing political tension.
As an adult, a wife and a mother, too
I have a much more perceptive view.
Some days what I see and learn
Make me want to sit and just stew,
Make me burn, but also to yearn.
Yearning, and learning instead of churning,
More and more days I seek to find
Reasons some educated folks are so blind.
Blind to the values of folks different from them
Deaf to the wisdom that would expand their mind.
I now live in the state where I was born
Ashamed of the reasons, but sometimes scorn.
Scorn the times and ways folks fail our kin
Just for political jobs to win.
But alas, just as a boxing mitten or glove
Can hurt or harm, it can protect out of love.
So, too, mittens can warm our hands.
So let’s unite to do good, to circle and stand.
Stand in the mitten and do what is fittin’.
The mitten state! Love that. And, a lot of tension in this rhyming poem. Yes, so much to think about…just defining what needs to be thought is great for a poem.
Anna, I feel your frustration experiencing leaders who work for their good and not for the common good. I am always amazed at how well your poems flow, the lyrical rhythm, and wonderful use of rhyme. I appreciate how you show both the negatives and positives of living in “The Mitten State”. Awesome visual, too! Thank you for your gifted poetry with us today!
Barb,
What a great inspiration with so many possibilities. I appreciate both Michael Carey’s poems and yours. I especially love these lines in yours:
What a vivid metaphor!
In looking for the birth and death dates of my maternal grandfather, I sure went down a rabbit hole and discovered so much more about him. This assignment was a gift on this dreary Sunday morning.
Tab,
I never knew you–
you died before I was even born–
but
I believe you know me and
have seen everything.
I believe that, but do you?
Do Methodists believe that about our deceased?
That they see us, intercede for us, pray for us?
I miss you.
It’s odd to miss someone you never knew,
to yearn for their presence,
to long for their guiding hand,
to realize NOT knowing them
leaves a gaping hole in your soul.
The world sure misses men like you . . .
tough and tender
wise and witty
patriotic
God-fearing
family-loving,
sacrificing
humble.
You modeled servanthood daily.
I wish you could come
and model that for us.
How to put others’ needs first
How to concern ourselves with the collective
rather than the individual
How to compete and win and succeed with humility and gratitude
knowing there is a greater purpose, a larger Hand at work.
I never knew you–
you died before I was even born–
but I KNOW the world desperately
misses men like you.
I feel both the imprint of your influence
and the absence of your effect
Your 6’4 frame casts a long shadow
still today.
(In honor of Clarence Burnell “Tab” Tolbert
May 22, 1909-July 18, 1962)
~Susan Ahlbrand
21 January 2023
Susan, I “believe [he] knows you and/has seen everything.” Your words comfort me. I certainly hope that they see us, intercede for us, pray for us.” Somehow your poem, similar and different, reminds me of George Ella Lyon’s “Memory Book.”
Susan, what a beautiful and moving poem. I feel the same about a grandfather I never knew, and I adore the way you show all of the wonderful traits you develop from “wise and witty” to “family-loving/sacrificing/humble.” Your ending is fantastic showing with few words that he was tall and created a lasting impact. Thank you for sharing such a loving tribute with us today.
Barb, thank you for bringing us back with such a thought-provoking prompt. The warmth of a mother against the sheets of ice in this world is much needed. I often wonder about how to “soldier on” in a world so dark and dire.
The quiet unmaking
of our making
drifts earthward,
settling into eye-hidden places,
ear-forbidden spaces,
much like ashes
after a fire
has consumed the entirety
of the forest,
acres upon acres
blackened and scarred,
trees crooked
like mummified fingers,
hearts hooked
unhooked
hooked
unhooked,
the beats trapped
in the formaldehyde
of a dust-covered jar,
the words no longer visible
on a label,
peeling and stained,
visitors scour the shelves,
peering into dark corners,
looking for the sound,
They made of it
what it was,
one commented.
Jennifer, I am in complete and utter awe of your poem. The imagery is mesmerizing. I love your simile “like mummified fingers” and “much like ashes”. I am intrigued by the end and the “formadehyde” jar. I especially appreciate the sequence of your poem and your word choice throughout such as “eye-hidden” and “ear-forbidden”. Very dark! Love it!
Jennifer – just stunning, the rhythms and phrasing, imagery, the sense of arriving after the fact, the wondering. Every line sings and the whole is both haunting and gorgeous. I linger on the lines about hearts hooked, unhooked, hooked, unhooked – the words themselves beat and are so telling of the fickle nature of humankind, making of everything what it was… again, just stunning.
Jennifer, I have read your poem several times, each bringing a different one of my selves to the screen. The wife who tried from 1985-2006. The dreamer with a tired vision. The adventurer with worn-down hiking shoes and a dinged right ankle. The futuristic angel seeing it all from heaven. The environmentalist walking through a controlled burn as the little critters pop their heads up from their tunnels. Oh my – – it takes me to places in my mind, and for once – – all my sometimes warring voices are in agreement, cheering on this one. We have today, and we make the best choices we can make. We make of it what it is.
Jennifer, this is haunting and beautiful imagery of a fading past juxtaposed w/ the living. It’s paradoxical, isn’t it, this “quiet unmaking / of our making.” Reminds me of dusty imagery Faulkner crafts.
Oof! This carries so much power. I have been thinking a lot about how absolutely corrupt things are lately. the heart beating in formaldehyde. the visitors searching, then
They made of it
what it was,
We did that…
Jennifer — Ooooo! This is a really provocative piece. The images of what we’ve done to our own nest, drifting “earthward” is so unsettling…as it should be! The burning and the blackening and the scarring…power words. And those nasty mummified fingers…the sense of death and the cold formaldehyde heart in a jar…oh my word! Whoof! The dystopian sense that after we’ve blown ourselves to kingdom come and the next observers come to comment “They made of it…” holy mackerel… that’s just really a jolting sense of reality. It is a doggone dark time here! I’m grateful to be back to ethicalela after being so gone these last few months. You are a key reason I’m back here and grateful. Thank you. Susie
Barb,
I love this prompt and am happy we’re hosting together this month.
This past week I subbed in 6th & 7th grade science and watched a Nova program called “What Darwin Never Knew.” As I told the students, I learned lots. My poem is inspired by what I learned w/ middle school students.
Fish & Me
little flat fish
in earth’s vast sea
you’re my sibling
shared antiquity
did you know
we forged a bond
from our genome
we both belong
you a fish
and I a girl
DNA switch
mutated swirl
now we know
what Darwin sought
our species origin
through his thought
had our genes
mutated another way
you’d walk on shore
I’d swim on waves
January 21, 2023
Glenda, the rhyme scheme captivates me and I’ve fallen in love with the mutated swirl, the if-switch between land and sea. What else might we be? It’s fun to imagine. And where often rhyme can competes with meaning, yours adds to the meaning here. I’m glad you’re subbing – “guest teaching” – so that students get to experience your gifts of connecting and encouraging through creative thinking and writing.
Thank you Glenda for your thoughtful words and appreciate working with you this month. Wow, your poem is so fun. I love the voice, the use of rhyme, and your end is an absolute delight. This is a perfect children’s poem. I bet the students you had would enjoy your poem so I hope you get to share it with them. I am especially fond of your third stanza, and I love how you opened the poem making it clear you were speaking to the fish. Creative, lyrical and fun! Kudos!
COOL use of rhyme. Love shared antiquity and genome…to how things would be different if there was a mutated gene. Bravo!
The truth here!! This made me smile–the turnabout at the end was perfection!
Glenda! Thank you for sharing this. You just gave me an idea for my classroom that I need to revisit: an assessment through poetry. Thinking like a student, I would probably say I got the bad deal, lol.”
had our genes
mutated another way
you’d walk on shore
I’d swim on waves”
But, I love my feet.
Glenda! What a deeeelightful poem/letter! I love the whimsy of the switcheroo at the end. Funny! Perfecto! The quatrains seem particularly apt for the tone of the poem. Holy cow, you are back in the classroom — what a woman! Way to go! Hugs, Susie
The soft, sweet rhyming pattern of your poem is really lovely…especially,
So much science knowledge conveyed in such brief words – well done!!
Glenda, your images that show alike we could have been is so on target for our society to day. Had it not been for ….
had our genes
mutated another way
you’d walk on shore
I’d swim on waves
Barb – Thank you – you reminded me this morning that I need to stop everything, sit down and write. I love Michael Carey’s idea of a letter poem – there are so many people I want to give a piece of my mind to! And your poem hit home – I write letters in my head to my mother every day so she can stay right by my side. But this poem is for my sister.
Vivian –
My sister,
separate and apart.
There is a void
That will not be filled,
Not now – not right now.
Maybe never.
My sister,
Who chooses
To remain silent,
Who stole herself away
When I said I was hurt.
Should I have remained silent?
My sister,
The older one laughing.
Me, giggling and reaching out,
Always me reaching out,
Keeping the connection
The only one holding on.
My sister,
I finally let go.
But now where are we?
Separate and apart,
Silent sisters,
Now – right now, probably forever.
It is difficult to be the one always reaching out, trying to hold onto a connection when the other end is empty. You’ve captured this feeling so well, in the silence, the stealing away, the separation. The ache is palpable.
Oh, Joanne. The questioning, the doubt, the void, the ache in these lines…there’s a story like this in each family, including my own. I had to learn that letting go doesn’t mean that love isn’t there. Or forgiveness. Including that of self. Simply put: Relationships cannot be one-sided, or all is drained away. You know I believe in hope and hold to it; but I also acknowledge that I cannot change others…there comes a time when the weight of hurt and harm outweighs the guilt-burden of trying to maintain the picture in one’s mind of how it should be… in truth, family portraits are messy. I hear the rustlings of hope even in the mourning (“not now – not right now/maybe never/probably forever”)…but the poem, the story, the living is not over! Strength to you – and thank you for this brave poem.
Thanks, Fran. I knew you would have insight. Your words are healing.
What a lovely letting go of what you alone cannot change now – right now. The future may hold a different path with Vivian, but today your writing sisters are here with you. We’re your readers, fellow travelers on the broken road who share in your sense of feeling separate and apart. Hugs and warm thoughts your way.
Oh, I feel the pain, the separation, and the implied question about whether you’ll ever be able to connect again. My heart aches for you. “The only one holding on”…oooohhhh, that line resonates. Silent sisters is the perfect description. Sending hugs!
This is a sad poem. But I have to have hope in situations like this that one day there will be a response. My own sister seems to have an out of sight, out of mind mentality toward both her siblings. I’m always the one to contact her, so I know what you’re feeling. Life is too short for us to ignore our sisters. Wishing you peace and comfort.
We all want sisters who are friends, as well. My sister and I, approaching silence, talked about what we wish we had–a sister-friendship. We never will. Your poem echoes the loss we acknowledged, knowing that it will probably not change… Thank you for expressing what many of us know. Hard to know, hard to write about…
Ouch, this painful disconnection from your sister hurts like no other. My big and only sister is my best friend. I can’t even imagine not having her in my daily life. I sure hope your sister takes time to sit and seek ways to soften her heart. But in the meantime, you have done your part, just let her come when she’s ready.
😔
Barb – these mentor poems are breathtaking in their emotional pull. Yours especially speaks to me, for I, too, often wonder how such things can be. Your words also speak to that light in the darkness: love. It is a lifeline. How natural to long for it…it does live on! Thank you so much for this powerful, evocative invitation.
Refuge
In the dead of winter
in the dark of night
in the starlit silence
you come
to sleep
in the old
twig-vine wreath
on the front door
tiny warm presence
of which I’d be unaware
if not for the pull
of the stars
the frigid bite
of the night
is worth the sight
if only for a moment
so I open
the door
soft sudden flutter
wings taking flight
in the cold cold night
oh little bird
that I cannot see
you cannot know
how your presence
comforts me
that in this barren season
before the time
of nesting
you find your place
of resting
upon my door
little winged creature
of first blessing
—–
(Note: Sea creatures and birds were the first living things blessed by God, Genesis 1:22).
Fran – I needed that! Thank you! I can always count on you for a sign of hope and belonging. That little bird keeps coming back – always a blessing.
Fran, what a sweet, soothing bit of warmth (and hint of the life to come this spring) you’ve given us this morning. I’m amazed at this nesting in winter on a door wreath! I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a bird doing this in winter before. I had thought to play with prepositional phrases today and your poem brought me three as an invite! Beautiful and peace-filled writing!
Jennifer: I didn’t know ’til now that a bird would sleep in a wreath without a nest, in winter. I can’t tell if it’s a house finch (they do build nests on my wreaths in spring) or a little Carolina wren (tiny bird with a loud and gorgeous song) – I can’t see it in the dark.It’s little is all I know…its presence both endearing and awe-inspiring.
Fran, the feelings of home, safety, refuge, belonging….they’re so real in this presence of the small bird who has become part of your life and home. She knows she has a place with you – not just physical – but a place in your world and in your heart. I look forward to the springtime posts when the eggs appear once again and we wait for the stirrings of new life. Yes, yes. We are the ones who are blessed to witness this miracle that continues to unfold!
Fran, holy smokes, your poem is fantastic. I love your first threee lines which pull me immediately into your poem. I love the sounds throughout your poem and the word choice throughout is jaw-dropping! I really appreciate your note which adds a whole new level of meaning to your poem. I adored your line “that in this barren season”…yes, I feel that emptiness this time of year when one gray day is followed by another. Gorgeous poem!
It’s just been too long since I’ve had a poem from you, Fran. How beautiful that such a tiny little being is such a big comfort. Each word goes to how important this blessing is. I also think that it could be seen as a metaphor for a new life…anyone you know expecting?
Fran,
How delightful to see the return of the little birds to their front door nest. I wonder what they would say to you; perhaps they speak in the language of birds returning to a home and place of safety. Favorite lines and image in this tactile verse:
“before the time
of nesting
you find your place
of resting”
We all need a place to nest and rest like the little birds.
I love this! I like the rhythm, the form, the sound of phrases like, “that in this barren season/before the time/of nesting/you find your place/of resting//upon my door.”
Oh, how lovely this is. .. the rhyming at the end, that phrase “little winged creature of first blessing. It warmed my heart.
Fran — I love the sweetness of this…the bird at the door in the wreath…lovely and fitting. I had a bird at my front door in a similar way this holiday season during the godawful cold snap…little creatures need those comforting spots. Susie
Fran, even though I am not a fan of birds, your gorgeous poem made me feel comfort from your little visitor.
Sweet loving reminder that though it is unseen, it can be of comfort. (Holy Spirit, I receive comfort from Fran this morning.)
Barb, I love that photo of you! And this prompt is a slam-dunk of an inspiration to write. Thank you for hosting us today. The Graveside poem took my breath, and just like in your poem, I find myself looking for signs – and finding them – from my mother. Such beautiful imagery, and heartfelt emotions of grief and loss. And hope. Today, I’m writing to the best farm dog ever, Good Ol’ Archie, a Heinz 57 dog, brown with black stripes, who was scared of everyone and everything but apparently threatened every deliveryman’s life when we weren’t around. Thank you for this invitation to remember him!
Good Ol’ Archie
whenever I clean the empty
hardwood floor space
under the antique oak buffet
~your thunderstorm safe spot~
my heart goes thud-thumpy
I exhale
my eyes close
I think of you,
your eyebrows
raising back and forth
left, right, left…..
looking me full
in the face
searching for love
wanting
needing
my embrace
waiting for the concrete to crumble
this was your favorite game
you wanted love
more than food
when I let your human eyes
pierce the stoic face
I’d held as long as I could
and my smile cracked, turned to laughter,
your full goofy body wag
erupted with joy
slathered me with sugary sweet love kisses
paws on my shoulders
loving me as you did
rescuing me as you did
* * *
and then came that morning.
you hadn’t moved
I knew before your
three tail thud-thumps
became my heartbeat
I’ve…….loved…….you
It…….is……time
Help…..me…..cross
thump……thump…..thump
your empty space remains, Good Ol’ Archie
Oh, my goodness…just today a photo of my beloved dog who’s passed came up on facebook. That thunderstorm safe spot…just gets me the same way. Helping our loved ones at that time is so, stinkin’ hard! Good tears have blessed this poem.
Kim,
You know this poem about your beloved Archie is a gut punch for me. We are now two months w/out our beloved Puck who also “wanted love more than food” and who rescued me as Archie did you. These babies are as precious to us as any one. Thanks for stirring my memories today. Hugs to you and head pats to the shnoodles.
Kim, your love for Archie is captured with every word and line in this poem. I adore the specific descriptions of his Heinz 57 coloring to the specific actions. Animals are such a loving presense in our lives. Tears and hugs and thanks for sharing such a moving poem and tribute to Archie.
Before there was Boo there was Archie. I love the ending especially – the thumps – the help me cross – and the ending – empty space remains.
Memory is a priceless thing, a gift, being able to close one’s eyes and see the beloved, to hear his three tail thumps…the lines that wrench my heart most are “loving me as you did/rescuing me as you did” – for is that not exactly what dogs do?? As in, their whole purpose a reminder that pure and great love is alive and well in the universe?? Good ol’ Archie has wormed & wriggled his way into my own heart this day through you. How could we manage life without dogs and poems, my friend?
Kim, this makes me long for every dog we’ve lost. Good Ol’ Archie is a treasure and so, so sweet. He speaks to us in every eye lift and every thump and every goofy body wag. You were blessed and so was he to have found each other. Hugs.
Oh, my fellow dog lover. You tore my heart out and brought back every dog I have ever loved. those tail thumps. That heartbeat…
Kim — I read this early this morning and it was just so touching. I liked the attention to the “safe spot”… we all need that. And I LOVE the Archie name and the eyebrows so much! Hugs, Susie
Kim, Kim, Kim, what an emotional rollercoaster from deep and unconditional love to total joy, and on to the depths of loss and grief. Although it hurts you’ve made it a beautiful tribute to good Ol’ Archie. I don’t know when he passed but it feels current and if it isn’t, I still send my love and condolences.
💜
Barb, what a prompt! Thank you. I’m up early at 0-dark-thirty having fun playing with words in my journal. I’m delighted that Ethical ELA writing is back this weekend. I have missed it!
Your poem is all kinds of sharp–in good ways. That loss and anger spoke to me…and well, shaped my draft. This is a draft I’ll work on later. I love the idea of it. Thank you!
Ancestors,
The problem is
there are too many of you
to choose just one
And, I’m sexist.
I prefer advice from women-
all of you that died before our men
leaving a daughter like me
to figure out how
to hold the strings of extended family
together.
Our fathers, grandfathers,
uncles and sons
have health scares
and hospitalizations,
drink too much,
second wives that don’t quite fit
but I should be nice to—
You taught me that.
Right?
But I’m left holding strings
cuttings I’m not sure
where to plant.
I’d love for you, grandmothers,
and aunts and Mom
tell me
what to do.
Good morning, Linda.
I am headed to a writing workshop this morning, so I am also up early. So happy to be with you.
First, I am sexist, too. Love that.
But this stanza:
I prefer advice from women-
all of you that died before our men
leaving a daughter like me
to figure out how
to hold the strings of extended family
together.
Well, it says it all. The past, the present, the string that connects, maybe strangles a little as you maybe wrangle extend family. The word string makes me think it could be a really strong one or quite fragile depending on the tautness, the labor this string has done. And, I continue to ponder who will hold the strings next.
Lots to ponder here. Thank you.
Peace,
Sarah
Linda, your writing packs all the punches today, from the sexist preference of advice from women, to the string of issues of the men, to the comparison to cuttings and where to plant them (my favorite). Each stanza builds to these beautiful descriptions – holding strings together, second wives not quite fitting, and the cuttings. Wow!
Linda,
“I’m sexist,” too, so your poem really speaks to me and all the “left holding strings” I and others have done through time and eternity. “I prefer the advice of women.” I wish we could convince all women to understand the wisdom in those words. The world would be such a better place. Fantastic poem to start us off after our long break.
Linda, Linda, Linda! Those cuttings you aren’t sure where to plant, the strings you are holding, the advice you are needing from the women who have lived and gone before you and whose voice you now desperately seek. I’m there, friend. Oh, how I am there with you, needing that voice – the ONLY voices – who could hold the world together when there are more questions than answers. I love that you posted what you see as a draft and others will see as a finished masterpiece. It’s great to belong to a group of writers who celebrate our writing – but even more so, a group of writers who feel our heartbeat and celebrate life right beside us. I’m pretending you’re right here beside me for coffee this morning. And, really, you are!
Linda, the way you open your poem is absolutely magnificent. It pulled me immediately into the subject. I was particularly impressed with “second wives that don’t quite fit”…yes, I’ve been that person and know these women. The “strings” in your poem powerfully connect the emotions, images and the message. “tell me/what to do.” Yes, these closing lines say it all! Thank you for sharing your incredible poem with us today!
Beautiful. I love the way you start with the men and end with the women – the plea – tell. me what to do. So powerful!
Wonderful wonderings and imagery, Linda – can I just say that the strings of our DNA cannot be traced through our fathers, only through our mothers? Your lyrical words remind me of Rachel Naomi Remen’s Kitchen Table Wisdom, wherein she has a sense of being inextricably linked to all the women who preceded her – and it is a comfort.
Linda–I guess we all are a bit sexist in that way. All those cuttings, the wisdom. It frightens me that I am now the holder of all those loose ends for my daughters. I hope I plant them well.
Linda — I love the “sexist” (LOL) part of this… the women do indeed do all the tethering it seems to me. The assessment of the “fathers…” just made me chuckle… Yup! Those strings…great images…where to cut… aah yes. Hugs, Susie
Linda, these lines speak to me
I prefer advice from women-
all of you that died before our men
leaving a daughter like me
to figure out how
to hold the strings of extended family
together.
Isn’t it amazing how often those who’ve gone before really do SPEAK TO US and these poems help us reconnect in ways we’d never imagined.
That’s another reason it’s so important to build in class time for our students to do the same. Hmmm. Maybe I’ll include this in the next textbook I write. Hmmm.
Linda, oh my, your words land and stick! I had to read it a few times and each time I felt a different emotion. I love it all! These lines resonated with me because it most reminds me of something my mom would NEVER expect of me, she’d want me to give wife #2 the blues! LOL. It was reassurance for me as a daughter who struggles to have a relationship with my stepmom.
Thank you, Linda!