Day 1, January’s Open Write for Educators with Susie Morice
Susie Morice spent 30 years in the public school classrooms in the St. Louis, Missouri area. Long a Gateway Writing Project and Missouri Writing Project veteran, Susie loves what the National Writing Project has done for ELA teachers. Since retiring, Susie worked with professional development in writing, taught education classes at University of Missouri-St. Louis, Fontbonne University, and St. Louis University. She currently is a writer and editor for the Santa Fe Center for Transformational School Leadership, which partners with Washington University and publishes her writings and others writings on transformation in our schools. Between all that serious monkey-business, Susie plays guitar, sings, writes music and poetry, and reads (of course!) … certainly where her heart is these days.
Inspiration
Perhaps it is the isolation of Covid that has me decoding the power of conversation. I miss being face-to-face with my loved ones so much, that I have turned to Nature and have found meaningful conversations there. So often we buzz past and through the huge slices of nature that are all around us as if they were just stage scenery for Beckett’s Godot, rather than our experiencing the intricate, enormous, endless, breathing, living environments that we take for granted. The tree when we look closely bends to reach out and capture rays, muscling its way through the crowd to rise above the din of humanity at its feet. I can’t help but think that nature is in conversation with its “brothers” and “sisters” and “ancestors,” and they have so much to say to each other. Just listening in can be transcending.
Process
Take yourself to nature…think back to a moment when you stood quiet in the grace of Nature. Or grab a coat/jacket/sweater and walk outside to stand in your own tiny piece of Nature, a tree by the sidewalk perhaps. I know that our teacher poet friend Stacey walks mindfully there in LA and shares pictures of incredible flowers along her path. Were you to have a conversation, as you stand there, who is listening? What questions might you ask? Conversations are ways we connect, ways we find common ground, ways we sort out our thinking, ways we thread ourselves together, ways we lean into each other. Perhaps make this poem a conversation with that entity in nature.
And again, writing a poem is a gift to we who are reading them aloud in our January cocoons in these strange days of C-19… so write whatever moves you.
Ada Limón’s Poem, “Sparrow, What Did You Say?“
A whole day without speaking,
rain, then sun, then rain again,
a few plants in the ground, newbie
leaves tucked in black soil, and I think
I’m good at this, this being alone
in the world, the watching of things
growing, this older me, the she
in comfortable shoes and no time
for dishes, the she who spent
an hour trying to figure out that the bird
with a three-note descending call
is just a sparrow. What would I
do with a kid here? Teach her
to plant, watch her like I do
the lettuce leaves, tenderly, place
her palms in the earth, part her
black hair like planting a seed? Or
would I selfishly demand this day
back, a full untethered day trying
to figure out what bird was calling
to me and why.
Susie’s Poem, “Petrel Conversations at Sea“
I held a tiny petrel once in my hands,
her heart aflutter
as if she were speaking,
asking questions.
Off the coast of Maine,
on a rock really, not quite an island,
in the night
she’d come so far,
from Antarctica
gliding over the seas
thousands and thousands of miles,
along her invisible liquid pathway,
soaring and dipping
plankton creatures,
even smaller, off the misty water
while her fragile feet,
like rudders,
kept her airborne keel.
Her journey so long,
what did she say
to the Atlantic with its rolling waves,
vast grey, unmeasured might,
offering her no nest?
Did she ask,
Where do you lay your head
waters to rest;
you are so restless, roiling;
are your thoughts always churning?
Could you offer up an isle
or the back of a Blue or a Right or a Humpback
just a moment where I might
hitch a ride for a mile or two
so we might compare notes,
you,
so much bigger
than I?
Then, I opened my hands
and she carried on
o’er the swales
to chatter
with the whales.
by Susie Morice©
Your Turn to Write & Respond
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. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. See the image for commenting with care. 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, share this invitation form.
I was inspired to write this poem after reading a poem had written about Spring during #VerseLove in April 2020.
This is Winter
The trees in the yard have brown
where green once was
The birds…I hear no birds
not one lovely song
The wasps and other insects slumber
although ants still get in my house
The days are cold and the wind is crisp
The sun takes its time making an appearance
This is Winter
Donetta – I like that the Versekive poems continue to inspire. Your winter here surely taps what so many of us are experiencing right now. I had to chuckle at the ants persistence! The sun taking its time might be most wintery of the feelings that come over me. I’m sorry I missed your piem yesterday and glad I returned to find it! Thank you! Susie
Beneath the Boughs
Leaves crunch beneath my feet
Crumbling into silence as I stop
Naked boughs stare down into my eyes
Speak of the owl perched high
A jotting crimson cardinal darts from branch to branch
As if searching for the best coffee shop
I feel myself consumed by nature’s play
the dry grass prickly beneath my cotton grey sweatpants
reminds me that I am spoiling it’s view
The chilly wind blows a solo
As my checkered yellow jacket applauds the show
A skein of geese open the next act
As they glide across a blue gray stage
Signaling a red-bellied woodpecker
RAP TAP TAP – RAP TAP TAP
Silence breaks through loudly
But still…
I sit….. wait…
Breathing in the unspoken conversation
Beneath the boughs
Robyn – Thank you for these rich images beneath the boughs. I’m a real lover of birds and enjoyed thinking of the woodpecker’s cacophony. Live any kind of owl. It’s good to know I have another birder out there paying attention! Thank you! Sorry I missed your piem last night but glad I returned to find it! Susie
Beautiful mentor poems. Both unique and encouraging different styles. While I commune with nature regularly, capturing those moments as conversation is challenging! I was slow on the uptake for this prompt, and finally, it was a past experience that surfaced. Thank you, Susie! [Note: Incorrectly compounded words are intentional.]
When I Ran
Shoes pounding pavement
propel me forward
each step downtoward
earth’s steady open palms
securely grounded
my eyes’ mind slowly unveils
tree horizon fringed sky
her endless expanse
draws me to her
Be with me
rhythmic footbeats
fall away
I sense only
a shadowy self
lifted into heaven
no fear
I might never return
Denise, I love coming back to the previous day’s prompt to see what I missed before beginning the new prompt. Your poem is a perfect morning poem for me today. I love the image of “earth’s steady open palms” especially now when so many are longing to be held. Imagining earth’s palms holding us is a relief in times of stress. Then your ending takes me right there with you, “lifted into heaven/no fear/I might never return” ?
So glad I came back and read your poem this morning.
Denise – I’m sorry I missed your poem from Saturday night, but I’m so glad I came back to find your footsteps. The gait, the rhythm of the poem takes me with you on this run. It feels like the cadence of a run. That’s a satisfying experience. The sensation of “flow” seems to lift you. Running can do that and your poem carries that sensation with an “endless expanse” to a “shadowy self.” So glad I returned to find your poem ! Thank you! Susie
Three dots…
“Wedging my way through the blues”
With accompanying
self-portrait.
The picture’s corners
Cannot take the
Edge off the chill.
Before a blue
So crystal true
Your halo shines
The sun a crown above.
I feel the smooth
Beneath your feet
Softened by others
Speeding down.
The lodgepole pines
On either side dwarf
Your 6’3” frame.
If mountains can be
Metaphors for mother’s love,
If such a thing is possible,
Listen to her gentle
Whispers, “”I love you.”
Katrina – The tone of mother’s love is so strong here. It carries both a somber blue and a saddened “edge” of chill. I can feel that. Yet, there’s such strength in the live, the “lodge pole pines” and the voice of love. A very touchy ng piem! Thank you fir the intimacy of this conversation. Hugs, Susie
I just awwwed out loud as I finished this. Love these lines: “The picture’s corners / Cannot take the / Edge off the chill.” I just looked at photos from a nephew who is building his own cabin in “the middle of nowhere,” and I cannot believe how timely to read this poem and connect with some of these images and feelings. The hard, gigantic feeling of “If mountains can be metaphors” is brilliantly juxtaposed with the cuddling whisper of love. Awwww again!
A certain predictability
There’s a certain predictability of a tree outside
the window where I sit most days.
This morning I sit, study the bark’s
pattern of greys some nearly white
with deeper, black lines etched against
the trunk which shifts slightly from straight.
Memories of fallen limbs and branches
disrupt the regular bark pattern.
Near circles radiate amid
the tessellating pattern share a little of your story.
Were I to drag my fingers against your surface
I’d find your uneven texture soft and dry.
But like most mornings I sit inside
the smooth pane of glass between us.
Jamie – This is a beautiful poem. The tight focus of detail makes the tree so much more. The tessellated bark is exquisite. The tree comes to life with its history of broken limbs and “black lines etched.” So tactile! Yet, the glass belies the perfect connection, separating you. Maybe that’s the price of “predictability.” I like that provocative touch of smooth glass a bit at odds with the breathing life of the tree’s actual skin/bark. Quite a poem! Glad you’re here tonight’s get! Thank you, Susie
Love. Love. Love. I also sit and stare at a tree outside my window every. single. day. I never would have considered looking at the scars as “Memories of fallen limbs and branches” – how beautiful to think that, just like human scars each have story, so, too, does that tree. Did I cause the story? Did a storm? The city during its annual trimming? What stories tree would have to tell. The contrast between the texture of the tree and the pane of glass is well detailed, and the idea of separation makes me think of how we are indeed surrounded by nature, but through our own design, keep ourselves apart from it. “Were I to” is a great start line for a student/writer to consider a what-if situation. I’m sure I’ll be borrowing that rhetoric! Lovely.
Jamie, this is exactly how an artist “sees” a tree when drawing all the descriptive detail. I can really relate to this because many times I have sat and drawn a similar tree. I am fortunate to not have the pane of glass between because I live in such a warn climate and can get outside daily.
Hi Jamie,
I like the idea of “a certain predictability” gained by viewing the same “tree outside/
the window where I sit most days.”
Love the contrast and textures of your last two stanzas:
Next time I’m over I’ll have to take a closer look at your tree, seeing it in a new light.
Thank you for sharing and for inviting me to write here.
Conversations with Nature on Eagle Avenue
Good morning, Sky. Why so gray?
–I’m in mourning, at least until 10 a.m. ‘Twas a rough night. Democracy hung in the balance, and no one paused to look up to see my dome of hope.
———————–
Hello, Fog. I feel you.
–I’ve sunk low to touch you, to brush your face and remind you there is nothing between us. I’m lifting now, but I’ll be watching.
———————–
Gravel under my feet, greetings this day!
–Same to you. Same we are. Both dust, eventually.
That’s rough. I didn’t expect you to respond so early in the day. Why the attitude?
–Why is truth considered attitude?
———————-
Ah, World, let’s link arms and step into this day together.
–We’re always here, Allison. Join us any time.
Hi, Allison – Glad to see you here tonight. I could have been there talking with the fog with you. The gray seemed so fitting, as “democracy hung in the balance.” The gravel… both of us dust… this adds to the cloud of voices. I felt the somber tone, and was ready to join arms and needed to feel elbow to elbow… the wold is going to need us with joined arms of hope and hard work. The ending evokes the much needed hope of solidarity in the face of the terrible gray of these last sad days. I was glad to eavesdrop on your conversations. Thank you, Susie
Who knew all the wisdom to be found from the sky, fog, and gravel. This is beautifully matter-of-fact and truthful. Thank you for your poem today, Allison. (Half a world away I woke up to fog this morning too.)
Hi Allison,
Oh my, what a beautiful conversation of truth and mourning between you and nature. I am marveling at how seamlessly it flows almost as if I should have always known these feelings between us, gray skies, fog, and gravel. I absolutely wanted to hug the ending because the truth can be rough but it doesn’t have to be “attitude” LOL love that. And yes, this brings me joy:
Gorgeous poem for me to enjoy this Sunday morning. Sorry I missed it last night.
I love this conversation. Each one has its own personality. This is brilliantly written.
A house sparrow from afar calls out to you, wondering the same.
I read your poem.
Befuddled, I rubbed my eyes and thought I was looking into a mirror.
How did the words in my my head,
The days of my life,
End up in your verses?
You and I,
We are connected by the song of that sparrow,
Drifting through time, trees, hearts, and raindrops,
Asking the same questions of ourselves – foolishly thinking we are alone –
Yet, someone in another nest,
Contemplates the same dichotomies and choices of her own life.
The only way we will ever meet – though poem, through page, through wind, through birdsong.
Annie – I live the sense of connection in your poem. The sparrow though a simple bird seemingly is a shared being. I like that idea… “just in another nest.” We’re all out there making choices and getting by. So glad you joined in tonight! Thank you! Susie
This poem was written in response to Ada Limón’s Poem, “Sparrow, What Did You Say?“. 🙂
Poems are mirrors – that’s perfect. As are the connective threads you intertwine here so artfully, while we all contemplate our own life’s dichotomies and choices. Truth. I sense both gratitude and longing in these lovely, lovely, lines.
Welcome, my friend!! This poem is just as I would expect from you!
The only way we will ever meet – though poem, through page, through wind, through birdsong.”—it sums up the joy of the connection and the wistfulness of impossibility.
Welcome, Annie! This is a treasure. Your last line gave me chills: The only way we will ever meet – though poem, through page, through wind, through birdsong.
Thank you for this conversation-with-nature prompt, Susie. I adored your petrel poem; I could feel its little heart and its wonderings. My poem is sparked by the field at the end of my street. We know each other well, although it’s a rather one-sided relationship at the moment…
To the Fallow Field
Are you enjoying
your wintering
letting loose your long
browngold hair
I mean, grasses
Is it the color of dying
I don’t think so
your tress-grasses
the brightest thing I see
against the iron-gray
fog-obscured trees
holding up the empty
oyster ceiling
I mean, sky
Do you dream
in green
flecked pink-purple-white
with your glory-garland
made new every morning
when within you moved
myriad tiny things
unseen orchestra in wings
singing to the sun, the light
the shade, the night
Now only silence, stillness
feels like ill-willness
although I know
you’re only sleeping
wintering
deep in barren browngold gray
and fog, which doesn’t speak
I mean
the view from here is bleak
Fran – that space at the end of your street is so rich in sensory images. I can see the “brown gold hair” and feel the “stillness” and wonde about the dreamy “green.” I really like what you’ve chosen. Winter ‘scapes seem to demand the ponderings and conversation. Beautifully done! Thank you! Susie
Fran,
Your imagery is palpable!
“fog-obscured trees
holding up the empty
oyster ceiling” — Wow!
I also appreciate your contrast between the dim world above against the wildness and free tresses blowing as well as the seemingly dead landscape against the possibilities of the same field dreaming in bursts of full color.
Thank you!
Oh my. So many beautiful word combinations here:
browngold hair
I mean, grasses
the color of dying
deep in barren browngold gray
and fog, which doesn’t speak
Wonderful language.
Thanks for the prompt and this space to share and to my friend Jamie who invited me to participate this morning. Been a while since I’ve written a poem.
Riding for Beauty
Riding for beauty
A habit begun in the spring—
Which just this morning
My friend Jamie
During our Saturday morning
Zoom visit
Referred to as
“An earlier period of the pandemic,”
A phrase both humorous and jarring
How long will this last?
Riding my bike
Looking for beauty
And a different type
Of strangeness
Stopping
To snap photos
To add to the text chains
Of family and friends,
Cutoff yet connected
Overhead shots of circular succulents,
Narrow needles arrayed at attention
Thin prickly pear pads waving soft yellow blooms
Stuffed dolphins stapled to telephone poles
Yard signs for graduationless seniors
Photos floating on our phones
Abutting the daily covid case numbers,
The reposted Trump memes,
The photos of what we were all cooking
And eating at home
All spring I rode and searched for beauty
Untethered from commuting
Nowhere to go
But still needing the ease
And release of riding
How many impossibly orange flowers
Did I pedal past
See past
In past springs?
Pedaling fast
To avoid being late
My mind falling back to
Replay the problems
Of the previous day
And traveling ahead
To think about
What I needed to do
When I arrived
How well you capture the feeling and the scenery of the pandemic itself. I love the “different kind of strangeness” of stopping to take the pictures, and the connective power of photos, more than ever. I so understand the need for movement and “pedaling past” so much natural beauty because a tired mind just can’t stop grinding gears. Reminds me of life being about the journey… there’s such wistfulness in your lovely poem.
Sharon – I’m glad Jamie urged you to join in and write. I’m an avid biker as well, and I so enjoyed the idea of your pedaling to see what Nature had to offer. I too stop to snap photos to share with loved ones. But you really capture the change in our Covidlandia lives. Thank you for sharing! Susie
I loved the “impossibly orange flowers” so familiar from your shared photos; an advantage of these times, the time to be open to things we’ve not taken the time for; glad your writing with us.
Sharon, welcome to this creative space. I immediately sunk into your poem. You took me back to the early of the pandemic. Your litany of all the ways we tried to connect was both ACCURATE and poetically moving. Thank you.
My grandmother, Peggy Jones, used to talk to her flowers when planting, watering, gleaning. I think of her often when I’m caring for my meager potted plants and herbs.
Nature Conversations
Who were you talking to out there?
My flowers.
Your flowers? Do they ever talk back?
Sometimes.
Petunias: We need the sun in our face and more water…you do too, drink another glass.
Geraniums: We have survived several winters and still flourish. You have seen plenty of winters, and you will continue to thrive. You will be okay.
Azaleas: Appreciate our color and blooms while you can.
Aloe: When this pot gets too small, we need more space so that we can grow. You know what that’s like…don’t stifle yourself.
Basil and Rosemary: Summers here are too hot; we are going to need more shade, please, perhaps some cooler nights. (Don’t you remember how happy we all were in California?)
Pencil Cactus and Jade: Don’t forget to cover up in the frost. We need the warmth of neighboring plants and shelter from the storm.
Christmas Cactus: See? Even in the coldest months we are beautiful.
Daffodils: Remember us?!? We were always here. Don’t fret…Spring is coming soon.
Betsy,
Your poem reminds me of my grandmother who planted and tended beautiful flowers. I think this would have made her smile, as it did me. I like the whimsy of the different voices of the plants. Thank you for sharing and reminding me of my grandmother and her flowers.
I believe this is exactly what these flowers and plants have to say. We would be wise to listen. I love that your grandmother inspired this.
Gosh, Betsy— I’m jealous of those cacti and warm weather bits of nature… “pencil cactus.” Each of these beauties do, indeed, have something to say. I like the playful structure on the conversation. Thank you! Susie
I can just see the grandma talking to her garden… I see this as a little cartoon or play with the punctuation you have chosen. I definitely appreciate the words of wisdom these plants offer about space, honoring our needs, and hope for better days ahead. Beautiful!!
What a brilliant choice for your writing! I’m so in love with watching what comes and goes in nature’s cycles. Never ever would’ve thought to link their cycles to advice for us mere humans. Pure genius. I laughed at the Aloe’s advice. Recently stuffed my tummy in some jeans and couldn’t tie my shoes so there went the jeans and in came the yoga pants. LOL. Such a fun poem with a hope-filled ending.
Susie – thanks for the thought-provoking prompt. I can so picture that Maine rock! I love the image of that petrel trading stories with a whale while hitchhiking…. we need these conversations with nature to make it through this world of many challenges at the moment.
Breaking the Mold
When I walk in the woods my eyes
are always scouring the ground for
candy and cupcake colors against green and brown.
I can’t not pay attention to you, outrageous beings!
Red Russula caps with a chalky stem
Orange witches’ butter dripping from logs
White destroying angel on a green mossy mound
Toasted marshmallow puffball
Jade velvet staircase encircling an oak trunk
Day-glo orange shelf that tastes like chicken
Goldenrod umbrellas with white meringue specks and delicate skirts
Lucky, lavender parasols in a ring
A whirling, funky, chanterelle trumpet quintet
Lemony Earth’s tongue shoots up to taste the world above.
Peachy coral on damp land.
You treat my eyes, zap my curiosity.
Mushrooms – fruit of hidden trees.
Dig deeper and reveal white mycelial mats
The forest’s Internet, neurons, memory nets
Communicating underfoot
What messages are you sending?
Here’s what those who listen have found out you are capable of:
You are combining and creating genders that are entirely new.
You might be aliens whose electron dense, UV-resistant baby spores
are suited to the harsh assaults of space travel.
You munch on toxic sludge like a salad bar, leaving waters pure.
You form a light, tough matrix – perfect to rebuild after earthquakes,
while trees need more time to heal and regrow.
We can bury ourselves in a bag infused with your spores to
return to the earth just a bit faster.
Like a mysterious, benevolent witch
You are feared, reviled, desired,
ever-present, scrubbed off clean places
You poison, hide, feed, intoxicate, talk, cure,
delight, recycle, build, destroy, purify
Offering up your services in exchange for a meal of waste.
I just have one question for you –
How do you keep
giving
day after day
to a planet that fears you?
The names of the mushrooms alone are poetry! And candy and cupcake colors—the alliteration and th eye imagery. Love this!
Gosh darn, Emily, this is a beautiful lesson in fungi and mushrooms. I love this! I love the science of it. And the conversation that maps the details of what we perceive and what is reality…that’s great stuff. You can use this in your science classes as well as your ELA classes. It’s sort of a poetic essay on what is right under our feet. We are so quick to discount what may look different or odd when, in fact, it is our tomorrow! Well done, my friend! Well done! I love the detail…love, love, love it! “Benevolent witch” and the acknowledgement that we need to know our neighbors underfoot much better than we do; they will save us someday. This reminds me of the learning I’m doing with the book Entangled Life: How Fungi Make Our Worlds, Change Our Minds, and Shape Our Futures by Merlin Sheldrake. Great book! Thank you, Em! Hugs, Susie
Fascinating – so many vivid descriptions and images, beginning with the search for candy-colors to the witchery and wondering what messages the mushrooms “full of hidden” trees are sending. What I love best – beyond the magnificent turns of phrases (so many! “Orange witches’ butter dripping from logs/
White destroying angel on a green mossy mound”) is your focus on “listening” to discover the benevolent, healing power of the shrooms. Just fabulous,
Emily,
Your poem is magical. It’s like taking a tour throw a forest one might find in Lord of the Rings. This image makes me think of Bavaria-Switzerland National Park where I saw orange “mushroom-like” growths:
“Red Russula caps with a chalky stem
Orange witches’ butter dripping from logs”
The middle section in which you describe the communication system begs the question: Who are the superior beings. I love the way you honor nature with your words. I learned a lot reading your poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Susie,
‘Preciate you, my friend. These days nature feels like the only place of respite, so thank you for this beautiful prompt and your wonderful poem.
Were I to translate the trees
Were I to translate the trees’
Whispers through rustling leaves,
I wonder if they would weep like
The Willow by a pond,
Her fingers cascading into
Glassy water, breaking its surface the
Way democracy cracked
On the sixth day of a new year.
I hear earth’s cries, her muted,
Wailing absorbed into inky stars
Light years away, safe from
Insurrection and the dispossessed.
Through Aspen branches
Reaching heavenward
Nature claws its way to safe space
Not of this world but in it.
She bears witness to truths,
Our world translatable and broken.
—Glenda Funk
Glenda, such gorgeous images of nature grieving, helping us grieve. It does feel as if our world is broken. I love these lines,
I am in love with trees at this time of year, bare and cold – they do reflect grief, I feel. Nature has helped me so much this entire year, and especially since “the sixth day of a new year.” Thank you for this!
I love how you capture this emotion I’ve felt, that maybe nature can’t absorb all of the hurt we have, but it’s still there. Your personification of these trees as mirrors of how we feel is just beautiful.
Oh,
Glenda—cascading into the glassy water, breaking its surface the way democracy cracked on the sixth day… wow. As always, you bring the world to your poetry. Our world, translatable and broken…
Glenda — Oh, how I feel the ache from last week in your poem. It did feel like a willow weeping into the pond, breaking our veneer of democracy. I love that you reached for the Aspen branches. Nature does have a way of “claw[ing]…to safe space.” Your poem really did capture how disrupted we are, how broken. Wonderful poem! Thank you, Susie
Oh, Glenda, I’m getting shivers. The graceful fingers dipping into the glassy water, “breaking its surface the
Way democracy cracked” is at once beautiful and troubling. I wanted to disagree because willow branches over and in water are beautiful, and what happened was surely not. However, the more I think about the comparison, it is more and more true. The ease at which democracy cracked on the 6th seemed to happen as easily as the willow branches dipping into the water. Democracy slipping into the water without a fight, like a drowning victim.
The earth is bearing witness to truths. Yes, indeed, and democracy will survive. Thank you for this beautiful translation and conversation.
Glenda, my friend, BRAVOOOOOOO!!! Wow. I would just copy/paste the whole darn poem and block quote it and frame it with hearts and hands, but I’ll share these golden nuggets:
Then this:
Okay, I’m about to copy/paste it all. What’s not to love? Thank you, Glenda. ????????????
I am so happy that it is time again for the 5-day Open Write! Susie, I love how your poem imagines the extraordinary journey of the tiny petrel – the poem reads like a meditation, so peaceful and calming, a true ‘letting go.’
For my poem, I was immediately reminded of this amazing scene that my husband and I witnessed, coming home from a walk recently.
Watching
a bold, dark, sudden
flash of movement
above our heads
as we walked home
drawing our eyes upward
here we were
watching
that treacherous hawk again
every day for days on end
here is the hawk
separate, soaring, and stealth
right here where we live
intent on capturing
hurting
devouring
the most vulnerable
today though, a twist to the plot
suddenly
a crowd of crows
common, ordinary, ubiquitous crows
encircle and confront the hawk
defending
such a wild scene ensued
high above the bare winter trees
a fierce fight, out in the open
these courageous crows
screeching and cawing
darting every which way
nipping at the hawk
pecking at its wings
all the while, insisting
get away from our home!
what have you done to our young?!
move along! we do not want you here!
we’ve put up with you long enough!
far below
the two of us stood in suspense
useless bystanders
watching
this angry confrontation
in the vast grey cold sky
watching
the crows
raucously yet triumphantly
chase the hawk
away
Maureen,
Your poem reads like an allegory w/ the crowd confronting the hawk. This confrontation, this challenge to the powerful hawk feels so prescient. I love the spoken conversation and all the repeated sounds, too.
Maureen,
I love the action and movement in your poem. So suspenseful and tense. Nicely done.
I like this allegory (intentional or not!) of the crows finding the backbone to stand up to a bully. You capture the movement and drama of the scene in this stanza: these courageous crows
screeching and cawing
darting every which way
nipping at the hawk
pecking at its wings
This one is inspiring – common crows finding courage.
I was SO rooting for the crows!!!!!!!! You put me there on the scene, waiting for the conclusion. Wow.
Maureen — I love that you and your hubby had a moment there… watching the confrontation of a murder of crows (that crowd of crows (nice alliteration) is called a “murder of crows ” and it really stands up to that term in your images… powerful suggestion of will and nature finding her balance. Heaven knows, we need a balance in this world. You took me right along on this walk… I love that your stopped and waited at first and then the hawk and crows appear… quite a vision! Your title does perfect justice to the poem…the watching and learning from the watching…that is great stuff! Thank you! Susie
Maureen – your poem is so vivid and flows so that I could see it all happening. I am cheering for the crows – there’s power in community. 🙂
Maureen,
I like the quick unfolding of the action with strong vivid verbs:
I also like the alliteration.
Thank you for sharing.
Maureen, what a great event you witnessed. I’m glad the crows sent him packing. Oh, their babies…
Common, ordinary, ubiquitous, and courageous crows. It must have been quite an experience to witness their conversation.
The Jetty
The boats head out
they’re often in a race
to see which one can get to
the Pacific first.
I’ve been on one of those
and you can you feel the sense of
urgency and joy in the pit of your stomach.
You have to steer left or right though,
when you see the short breakwater
wall of rocks.
Who built that, I often wonder and
how do you keep still while doing it?
In the early morning, you might
see the Crew team, in sync,
from a nearby university
practicing their rowing.
In the afternoon, kayaks, paddle boards, canoes, and
pedal boats all make their way in the harbor.
Some are just there to meander without a destination
not wanting to enter the ocean but just
to feel the movement of the water.
At night, its supposed to be empty
but sometimes, there are swimmers in snorkel gear
and wet suits and larger yachts returning
from a day at sea.
If the jetty could speak, would it embrace the
vessels and humans or would it ask
only for the ocean animals and fowl?
Great question – you’ve captured the joy that humans take in the ocean playground, and you take it deeper in the last bit by wondering about our impact on nature. I love the structure of dawn to dusk of the second stanza – a day in fast-motion on the water.
Seana — I love that you have brought me a scene that is so different from my life here in Missouri. You made the “urgency” real and the lure of the Pacific…not to be too recklessly IN it, but carefully at its edges…that’s a neat image. The movement of the water… I love that…it’s alluring…that tidal pull perhaps. I like the question for the jetty…not sure what the jetty would say…I’m betting on the ocean animals and fowl. Thank you! Susie
Seena,
Your poem took me on a vacation and brought back good memories of trips we’re I’ve paddleboarded, kayaked and canoed. I identified with your lines
Beautiful.
Love the shift in the last three lines from observing to analyzing. Thought-provoking ending. Thank you for sharing and taking me on a little vacation as well as giving me a philosophical question to ponder.
Good morning, Seana! I am sorry to have missed your post yesterday. But what a fun read this morning. I think I’m right there where you were. Is this the Marina? That used to be one of my morning walks a few summers ago and I’d love seeing the paddle boarders, rowing teams, and random wandering boats. But I’ve never questioned it this way. Wow, I love the ending:
Thank you for taking me back where I clearly need to visit again soon!
Susie, thank you for this prompt! And I really enjoyed the expansiveness in your mentor poem! The lines “gliding over the seas / thousands and thousands of miles, / along her invisible liquid pathway” were also just very cool. I love the repetition of the “s”s and the “g”s.
Commune with nature
is such an interesting
phrase. It calls to mind —
for me — Romantic poets
crafting poems outdoors,
backs pressed against
trees under the protective
branches of some Weeping
Willow or some such, waiting
for divine inspiration to
fill their souls and spill
out onto the page.
Bullshit.
Writing is hard work.
You can’t wait for
inspiration; you, like,
Jack London said,
have to go after it
with a club.
But Wordsworth (that
really is a great name,
by the way) would
have you believe
that he is but a vessel
communing with nature
above Tintern Abbey.
And, again, I call
shenanigans.
Have you ever tried to
write outside against
the cold, scratchy
bark of some tree, tried
to “commune with
nature,” and by that
I mean spend an otherwise
splendid afternoon to only
communicate with bugs?
I can see outside my
window just fine.
To wit you will undoubtedly
explain — rather patiently
as if to a small child — that
there is, indeed, a difference
between experiential knowledge
and that which you can only
glean from some secondary source.
Sure.
But bugs, I’ll say,
and besides, isn’t that what
imagination is for? I mean,
has Bradbury really been
to Mars, has Dostoevsky
really killed two people with
an axe to “know’ what Raskolnikov
went through, has Hunter S.
Thompson really consumed so
many drugs to be able…yeah,
that one’s probably a bad
example,
but, I’m just saying, I’ve
been to picnics before,
I’ve had perfectly good
Saturdays ruined by bee
stings and EpiPens,
so, I’ll do my communing
right here, if you don’t mind,
in the comfort of my own home
at the safety of this writing desk.
OMG, Scott, you never cease to put me in stitches. This is hilarious…once again! I just read an incredibly tender poem and now I come to your admonishment that writing outside with the bugs is BS. LOL! Just too funny. Call it a point of intense contrast. I’ll say this, you make a very valid point that you don’t have to axe someone before you can actually write about it believably. And Hunter S. Thompson…ahahahaha. So, it’s okay to keep your EpiPen in the drawer and write from your window in the warmth of your home. Hugs to you, dude! Susie (BTW, I’m sitting in my comfy red chair by the blazing (albeit gas) fireplace.)
Ha! Scott. I love your snarky view of nature. You sound exactly like my daughter who would do all reading and writing from her bed in a perfect world. She and nature are not friends. If there is a mosquito, it will find her. Her skin will burn to a crisp in minutes, and the ocean invokes terror of jellyfish. Yes, nature is very fickle!
I love the humor that you embed within these lines, especially –
Scott,
I love the natural and conversational tone of your poem. It’s what I aspire to do, but fail most times. The line about Hunter S. Thompson would have caused a spit take had I been drinking at the time. Hilarious!
Heheehe, as a daughter of the world’s “great indoors man” I could relate a bit to this one. You made me laugh with your pesky bugs, interrupting great writing on this iconoclastic take!
Scott—you are my spirit animal!! Again, your conversations amuse and engage! And we do NOT need to go outside!!
“But bugs, I’ll say,
and besides, isn’t that what
imagination is for?”
This poem was a joy to read!
Questions for Cardinals
Spring, summer, fall
The two of you visit
Delighting me with your regal appearances.
At the first hint of scarlet
I am compelled to declare,
“A cardinal!”
Though you don’t need me to announce your presence.
Then, with childlike anticipation,
I scan the yard,
Looking for your pale brown princess.
But what I really want to know is
What happens in winter?
Who takes that first tentative step toward community?
Does one of you reach out a claw
As if to say, “It’s okay. You can join us”?
Do you send them a Tweet?
Do you make the others beg you?
Or do you, King of the Yard and Feeders,
Force a slight bow, acknowledging
You are willing to share your wealth?
Or is it something more primal?
Perhaps an understanding
That those who have
Should share, even if only in these harsh winter months.
And when spring comes,
Who must tell the feathered flock to disperse?
Hey there, Mo! Good to “see” you again! I love that you chose cardinals as your focus…I am, after all, a St. Louis girl! 🙂 I laughed at your pronouncing “A cardinal!” Ha, I do that very thing every time as well, as if I didn’t see them almost every single day. They are a brilliant wonder. I really loved your conversation…”the first tentative step…” Yes! Ha! You really brought this to life… bird talk… these questions are wonderful! Thank you! Susie
What a wonderful, thought-provoking questions for birds and all of us, I think:
Who takes that first tentative step toward community?
Great poem, Susie! I often imagine the journeys of animals such as Canadian Geese and wonder what they could say about what they’ve seen. And I love the last line about chattering with whales.
The Rain in January
The rain in January
Ought to know
We’re known for our snow
And out the window
I can see just one measly pile
Left over from the 2 feet we got
On Christmas Eve
Thank you rain
For coloring all the lawns and parks
That delightful mix
Of green and brown and gray
“You’re very welcome,” says the Rain
“You know, I understand
And we have sarcasm also in the sky
And weather has feelings too”
“You know,” says the Rain
“You’re not so god damn pretty yourselves
And I have a right to be here too
Same as Snow and Sunshine”
“I, er, wasn’t expecting a response”
I say lamely
But the Elements
Have already turned their backs
Alex — Oh, you are so creative here… the conversation is just sassy and delightful. Snow in Buffalo…oh yes, there’s a lot of that! I absolutely loved the competition among the elements and the bit of sass about getting an unexpected retort. LOL! Cool! “You’re not so god damn pretty yourselves” just made me laugh out loud. The ending image of “Elements/Have already turned their backs” was priceless! Loved your poem! Thank you, Susie
Alex, I love the unexpected sassiness of the rain! The cursing made me chuckle and envision this being sid with hands on hips, but hten I thought, “Wait, the rain has hips?” Oh well, you get my meaning. Love it!
Alex, I enjoyed this, and I wasn’t expecting your fourth stanza! When I was reading your third, I was, like, alright, this feels (like it could be) ironic, but, maybe the speaker really does like…and then I smiled broadly when I read the Rain’s response. Very funny. And the Elements dismissive “turn[ing]” away at the end? Yep. That sounds about right!
I absolutely love the idea of the rain feeling sarcastic!! “And we have sarcasm also in the sky/and weather has feelings, too.” Such a wonderful imagining!
I love the open conversation between you and the rain. “I, er, wasn’t expecting a response” Are we humans so single sided we don’t listen to what’s before us? Balance.
In the early morning hours
before the sun has even gotten out of bed
when only the dog is eager to step outside, we catch them—
the familiar tree limbs wrapped in the arms of freshly fallen snow,
snuggling,
stealing kisses, and
whispering like new lovers.
The sweetest conversation.
I want to wrap myself up in this poem and be as in love as those snow-covered tree limbs. This is one of those kinds of poems that I read and cannot even begin to fathom how someone can perceive the world around them in this way. It’s like a poetry superpower or something.
Stacy — Beautiful poem! You have to read Susan A’s poem …she too wrote of “first snow.” I like that your poem halts time in the first lines… you “froze” the moment, so to speak…pun intended, that we we captured the trees “wrapped in the arms of …snow” — Like peeking when we shouldn’t perhaps…we catch snow’s indiscreet moment of “stealing kisses…whispering…” So beautiful. Terrific poem! Thank you, Susie
Stacy, This is the perfect description for when you open the curtains and see the snow covered trees outside and think one word: beautiful. (And I realize that I’ll need to keep this poem in mind when I’m actually outside struggling with the shovel and snow blower to clear the snow off the driveway. My mind is usually, at that time, in a less “serene” place. Lol.) Thank you for writing and sharing this!
Oh how precious and beautiful, to imagine trees conversing with freshly fallen snow – love this!
Whispering like new lovers/the sweetest conversation— perfection!
Stacy,
Love the personification:
And as someone with a dog, I identified with:
. Our dog is not interested in waiting until we think it’s warm enough to go for a walk.
Beautiful ending:
Thank you for sharing this gentle poem.
Stacy, I adore this sweet love poem! How did I miss it yesterday? Darn. I love:
And the ending is pure bliss. Glad I came back to read this.
Thank you, Susie, for the wonderful prompt. It’s good to be back with all of you. Nature is a subject very close to me. It’s tied in to life-changing experiences I had in Venice and in Cinque Terre, where we were traveling when we got shocking news no parent wants to receive. I hope this poem isn’t too depressing. But, even though it’s sad, I tried to portray the role of nature as it held me and lifted me up during this time.
Ever Since
By Nancy White
We were asleep in Venice when we got the call.
It was our daughter’s voice in the middle of the night so unreal, with words of terrible dread.
There had been a car and his bicycle…
Her brother, our son, was killed.
No, it can’t be true, it cannot be.
Mind numbing shock enfolded me.
The morning was a jolt to the senses
But I lugged my suitcases to the water taxi
And stopped in awe of color and light,
the teal blue canals and the cerulean sky
held me in quiet cocoon,
and I heard you say, “Mom! It’s so good here!”
And I knew you were OK.
We waited and I sat on a wall
I remember the colors of cobblestone and brick,
and I just couldn’t stop looking at clouds.
They called to me from the glory of the heavens:
“Look up! Look up!” and then I said out loud,
“The veil between is so thin!”
I could almost touch you.
We spent a day in the cliffs of Cinque Terre
with its multi-colored jewels of shops and hotels, nestled gems of orange, pink, gold, and blue.
Atop a cliff we took in all in,
the Ligurian Sea like sapphires splayed before us.
We climbed and climbed
steep stairs
up and up even higher, arriving at an ancient cemetery.
Bright colored flowers were decorating, respecting,
and honoring the many loved ones, dead.
By chance, I looked down by my feet
and discovered in the dusty terra cotta trail
a whole conch shell way above the sea,
so far up and like me,
away from its home.
I had to marvel at the randomness of nature.
My friend found a yellow dandelion and we set it on the wall along with the shell.
We all said a prayer and together sang a song of praise.
Further up the narrow road
We found a bar and rested,
We sat in bistro chairs on the edge of the rock.
There were olive trees
and glasses of Pinot Grigio,
ahhh…fresh pesto and bread,
the sun shining down on our heads—
everything below us sparkling.
I was safe in a bubble
with the love of my husband and friends like family.
We were even able to laugh,
and I’ll never forget that all of heaven and the goodness of nature held us
and followed us home.
Ever since that fateful night
and the next morning light
I’ve felt your presence
and the clouds remind me you’re here and there.
Ever since, the colors shine brighter
every hue more intense
every sunset or wispy cloud
draws me in.
Every flower, every weed, every shade of green,
a prelude of what will be.
You are here and there in the stillness, in the air.
Ever since.
This is a powerful poem. You describe this blur of days and the meaning that nature had for you. The part that stands out to me is the conch “far from home” and the thin veil. Wow. May his memory be a blessing for you.
Nancy — Your words are so intimate and strong with the understanding of your son’s presence. i can’t even begin to know this loss, but you have made the remarkable connection of your son’s spirit, your spirit, and the Nature that holds us all in its incredibly powerful hands. This is heartbreaking and beautiful at the same time. What feels so real to me is that the “colors shine brighter/every hue more intense/every sunset or wispy cloud/draws me in/….every shade of green/a prelude.” A child is always “there in the stillness, in the air.” Gosh, Nancy, my heart is made stronger by your poem… somehow I think maybe that is the connection of your son and you and now me. For that I am truly grateful. Thank you. Susie
Nancy, what a horrific loss. I’m so sorry to hear about this. I love how you have found comfort in nature, and that you can write about this so tenderly and lovingly. There are so many beautiful and heartfelt images in this poem that I can’t single one out. I also love how you are able to hear and see the messages that nature sends you. Hugs!
Heartbreaking and exquisite. I can imagine how beautiful nature’s colors are to you now. These words sent chills down my neck, tingling, imagining your sadness and love:
Nancy—this is one of those “no words” moments. Your loos, your strength, your words…
Nancy,
Thank you for sharing your grief and the solace you found in the beauty of Venice and Cinqe Terra.
Powerful and beautiful.
A beautiful poem about a horrific loss. I keep dwelling on the title and last line, Ever since. Those words hang open. My brother lost a young child and so many moments around that time remain as clear to me as if it were yesterday, more than 20 years ago. The almighty power of emotion.
This is my first time participating. Thank you for the open invitation. This prompt was a perfect one for me. These days so many of my conversations seem to be with nature.
My garden’s
cactus sit
soaking up winter sun
Spikes extended
I brush by
past the lounging cat
envious
of their solitary spaces
Self contained
they house secrets of survival
Julianne—welcome! There is a peace to your poem—welcome in these times. Your last stanza is beautiful—“solitary spaces/Self-contained/they house secrets of survival”
It’s funny, but the idea of spikes didn’t even dawn on me as “uninviting” in this poem as they might usually when I think of cactus. Perhaps it was all the other soft and comforting imagery surrounding it. The alliteration of all those s sounds is a kind of gentle, lulling as well. “secrets of survival” is my favorite phrasing. Aren’t we all “housing” this kind of secret, ourselves stowed away in our houses so much right now. What a lot to unpack in these few lines. Lovely.
Julieanne — So glad to have you join in to share your poem and comments today. Your poem reminded me so much of my sister who lived most of her adult life in Arizona. Cacti in the windowsills and her cat were a given when I went to visit her. I loved thinking of “their solitary spaces/Self contained…” Especially during these isolating times, I really appreciate the feeling of being “envious” of any creature who seems so content with this kind of “soaking up winter sun.” Your poem helped me think of the good warmth in this moment. Thank you! Susie
Julieanne – I love this comparison of cats and cactus – two famously spiky creatures, as having discovered the secrets of survival. You made me think about these domestic bits of nature in a new way – one of the reasons we love them is that they can “take care of themselves” in lots of ways. Thanks for a new perspective!
JulieAnne, welcome! Glad you’re here. I love the simple beauty of you poem. I love “self-contained” and “secrets of survival” not only for the alliteration, but for the stillness and independence of both the cactus and the cat. There’s much to be learned from them!
What an honor to write with you this month, Sooze! As I’ve already told you a million times, your writing is remarkable. I still can’t fathom holding a petrel!! As fearful as it is, I loved the sweetness of the petrel:
This almost makes me want to be closer to see it in action!
Hugs my friend! ?
Aah, thank you, Stacey Dear! It’s fun to think how close we’ve become these last two years on ethicalela.com . Maybe it’s a closeness like having a petrel in my hands. There’s a preciousness in that! Love, Sooze
My poem recounts a dreadful day in 1985 when my neighborhood (Baldwin Hills) went in flames from an arsenist. I can see that day like it was yesterday. I had no intentions on writing about it but when I spent time thinking about nature, for some reason I went to my past. I miss the good old days of being in my mom’s house.
The Will of the Wind
© Stacey Joy, 2021
July 2, 1985
Staring at the screen
“Fiery inferno takes hillside
And homes in Baldwin Hills…”
Disbelief disabling my movement
The enormous white house
Behind the news anchor
Its old shake roof
Fringed in orange flames
I know its occupants
Its neighbors, its home
Now ablaze
My body takes flight
Fleeing from 20 minutes away
Speeding in and out
Of slow street traffic
Witnessing black smoke
Billow and metastasize
Sun’s light
Questioning fire’s mind
Its intentions, its path
Is my house next?
My family?
LAFD and LAPD
Blocking traffic at the foot
Of the hill
Consumed in wild dancing flames
I park and run
Run with the roaring
Of fire and of love
Run to save someone
Something, anything
“Miss, you can’t go up there,
it’s too dangerous.”
I hear but keep running
Until I round the corner
Where neighbors gather
Around parked cars
Onyx soldiers holding
Precious treasures
And each other
Searching through noxious
Smoke and fumes and heat
For my mother
Where she clutched
Me in shock and fear
Watching the will of the wind
Who and what dies next?
“Pray the wind changes direction
and our house won’t burn.”
Oh, Stacey, nature has many faces. Fire and wind in this poem are ruthless and a matter of life and death. I can’t imagine that 20-minute drive to your mother’s home to check on her and your neighborhood. What an awful experience. I was just reading about it–more than 50 homes destroyed.
This really captures for me the intensity of the situation for you at that moment:
I’m sure it wasn’t easy, but it is good you documented this distressing time in verse.
Run with the roaring
Of fire and of love
Run to save someone
Something, anything“
The fear is palpable in these tight, anxious lines. Of fire and of love… I must know—was your house saved?
Yes, thank God. However, I’ve written other poems here in the past about the memories of the house because my stepdad lost it after my mom passed. He let it go without giving me or my sister a chance to keep it. That was more devastating than if it had burned in 1985. May have to write another poem about that again in the coming weeks.
Thanks Gayle. ?
Zow! There are so many couplets in here with such abrupt imagery and language that respond to one another as action upon action. It makes me feel a sense of anxiety/panic just reading them. I think this could almost stop at “Something, anything” if you wanted to leave the reader not knowing fully what the ‘happened next’ is, and also to leave the direction of the narrator unclear – running toward? running away? But, of course, the rest is just as tightly complex, with this stunning enjambment “Where she clutched / Me in shock and fear.” Limón’s poem had similar breaks: ‘things / growing’ and ‘place / her palms’ – and yours in that moment reminded me of hers. Reading these out loud, the options for pacing are fun to play around with for different effect.
Wow, Stacey! This is visceral in its intensity…the heat of the fire carried by wind and ugly intent are palpable. The sequence from the unreal on a tv screen to the real, your running directly to the flames carries us right into the destruction. Destruction of a home, and neighborhood, a family’s known touchstones is brutal. This poem really rocks, my friend….rocks us off our balance. That wind carries it all is genius…wind is so elusive, uncontrollable, yet mighty. You chose the right words to take us into and through the wind. These worked the most for me: inferno, disabling, fringed in..flames, metastasize (killer word), consumed…wild dancing, onyx soldiers, noxious, burn. Woof…what a nightmare. I hate that your family faced this. I so appreciate that you preserved the memory of this shocking loss in such a poignant poem. You are a woman of powerful words. Thank you and love,. Susie
Thank God the wind shifted directions. The houses behind us and to the side of us that we shared fences with all burned down. Truly divine intervention. It’s unforgettable.
“Consumed in wild dancing flames
I park and run
Run with the roaring
Of fire and of love
Run to save someone
Something, anything”
Such a powerful image- I love how you crafted these lines.
Stacy, the flames, the fear, the loss, your mom clutching on to you… such images and feelings will never go away. The first stanza made me feel panicked as I felt you run amidst the black smoke and nearby flames, wondering. Fires do have a mind of their own. You have made me feel I was in your shoes as you conveyed this experience of fear and unknown.
Oh, my goodness. Just today, my husband and I walked by a house on fire. It was awful hearing trucks from four districts pulling up and seeing the ladder extend to the chimney that was on fire. I cannot imagine the recovery involved in this kind of disaster….and from an arsonist for you! Your poem has tension in it. I read it faster and faster until the end!
Stacey,
I, too, remember that day. You perfectly captured the anxiousness and dread of that day, of those moments. I love have you ended it with a beautifully written yet tragic cliffhanger. I know a family who lost their home that day. They’ve rebuilt in the same space. I pray you didn’t lose yours……..
Hello, Susie, it is great to see you here sharing your beautiful, musical delights. Thank you for the great prompt, and the petrel poem was a delight. I’ve been enjoying looking at pictures of petrels. I took a walk this evening to the supermarket. There wasn’t a great deal of nature, but there was a beautiful moon I enjoyed speaking to.
Wisdom
The moon held me in her gaze tonight
as I walked through the city.
She asked me why I didn’t
pay closer attention to her
(sometimes I don’t notice her at all)
but here she was
on full display
even amid the screaming
glare and clutter of the city lights.
Her heart was full, and her
body was a sweet smiling sliver.
She spoke to me kindly, and
asked if I had any questions for her.
Yes, I did, and right there
in the busy street,
she answered me,
indulging me with her serene replies.
Luna, you’re just a toddler today,
so do your cheeks tire with that ear-to-ear beam?
How do you keep track of all your phases?
Which one is your favorite?
Did you have ears to hear the spoken Word
that made you ruler of the night sky?
Do you give quick comebacks for
jumping cow and green cheese jokes?
When Jesus was born, how did you feel
being subordinate to that bright star?
How powerful is it to ripple the oceans
with your constant pull on the earth?
How many wars have you had to see?
How many rapes have your eyes endured?
Do you wish you had wind?
Have you ever seen an alien?
How many night skies have you lit up?
How many skinny dippers have made you blush?
Did you weep when the astronauts
left their footprint on you?
How did we ever elect that man?
He’s made such a…
That’s enough, dear, she interrupted,
Get along now.
“The moon held me in her gaze tonight
as I walked through the city.
She asked me why I didn’t
pay closer attention to her”
I am in love with this!! YOur questions, and th eanswer she gave you. I could hear this read out loud. “That’s enough dear–get along now.” (and it took me a moment to remember why you were writing at night!0
Holy cow, Denise — This is such fun to read. Your conversation, your questions to the moon… the SHE of the moon… I love this. You made me want to make a list of all my wish-upon=a-moon ponderings. Personifying the Moon to give her the power that she deserves is brilliant. Thinking of the moon as a sliver…a toddler… that is fun. Thinking of her and cow jumping over the moon…hahahaha. Thinking of her being tainted by the footsteps of astronauts…dang, I love that! And your ending just made me giggle… I’ve asked her just that…more than once! Wonderful whimsy here, Denise. Well done! Thank you, Susie
I love seeing the photo. I’m so intrigued by what other people I know only online see in their daily lives, my own view so limited in the mundane. Folk singer Claudia Schmidt calls the crescent moon the banana moon in one of her songs, and I can’t ever look at it without laughing now. I love the way the narrator sets up the relationship with the moon here. The questions are thought provoking, funny, and powerful, all at once because of the way they are layered: the narrator asking about war and rape and the moon (her)self being stepped on, but then also acknowledging the blush at watching naked people and the word “toddler” and joking about moon jokes. And just as the rambling is getting too rambling – it’s the ancient wisdom (perhaps from the dark) of that “toddler” grinning moon that interrupts and redirects the narrator. A lovely role reversal.
Your imagined conversation with the moon reminds me of when we ‘nudge’ that quiet student in just the right way, only to have a waterfall of questions and conversation in response! You had so many great questions for the moon…though I am sad that her response was “get along now”!
Hi Maureen, I’m so glad for your comment. I went back and edited my poem here with a more accurate recounting of our conversation. I like this better: https://mrsdkrebs.edublogs.org/2021/01/16/january-open-write/ Thanks for your comment about being sad about the moon’s response.
Denise,
I love both the tongue-in-cheek trite ness of your conversation with the moon and her implied responses. Can’t wait until Wednesday when we can “get along now.” Fun poem.
“Conversations in nature”
The trees stretch upward, outward, toward.
Winter took their leaves
left space for light beams.
The pond’s surface absorbs, collects, refracts.
Like the open-air forest
we escape to for our daily
rejuvenation
respite
recharge
we aim to fill ourselves
with lightness.
…and this is my favorite part–Winter took their leaves/left space for light beams. A new way of viewing trees. thank you!
Like Gayle, I like the light beams finding a way now that their leaves have been taken. I also find those trees stretching “upward, outward, toward” so interesting. It makes me feel like the trees have a plan and purpose they are working hard at making happen.
Nice connection to the lightness people get from rejuvenating in the forest, as well. Nice poem, Laura.
laura — I love how you captured the sense of what isn’t there as being a way to fill ourselves with lightness. The trees without leaves “left space for light…” We so often think of Nature as replete and stoked with abundance, and you have turned that on its head to appreciate that absence that gives us a chance to “recharge” and “fill ourselves.” How terrific is that! Wonderful! Thank you, Susie
Susie, I love the lyrical ending to your poem – it reminds me of an old sea shanty. I usually remember my quiet moments with nature as silent and meditative. It was nice to shift to a conversational moment with those memories. Thanks for such an inspirational prompt!
Converse with Nature
While watering the roses,
I heard the buzzing hum,
I saw the red-orange flash,
Stopping and starting with magical precision
Around the arc of water
Coming from the hose,
Sometimes stopping in front of me
Eye-to-eye
As if to say
Thank you! What a relief!
The feeder is empty.
You should probably check on that.
Oh, and if it’s not too much trouble,
Keep spraying a bit longer
While I wash up a bit.
Of course, I replied.
Early morning sun sent warming rays
Over the garden wall.
My new friend rested for a moment,
Preening and shaking droplets of water
That glistened in the light.
https://drive.google.com/file/d/11uoEaPLr0WO7u1F9vBV64Le2nUQZ-Us0/view?usp=sharing
What a wonderful conversation to have with your new friend. Great job capturing the photo of it too! That is not easy, but I love how it looked eye-to-eye with you and told you a few things! I like how it politely asked to keep spraying so it could wash up a bit. So sweet! I’m looking at nature through new eyes after today’s prompt. Thank you, Shaun!
This really speaks to the relationship many of us believe we have with nature as we tend to our gardens and feeders and baths. What conversations we all must imagine that motivate us to expend time, energy – and money – to offer our support to nature. This reminds me a bit of the Disney bits of Mary Poppins or Cinderella interacting with the birds. “Stopping and starting with magical precision” describes those little hummingbirds’ movements so well. And I love the photo! Thanks for that addition. That the bird then ends up emitting water droplets itself is a fun twist – the reader can follow the water all the way through this poem
Shaun — Thank you for this wonderful nature moment. I’m so glad that you pulled this from your Nature memories. The hummer! Super! I absolutely was drawn in by the beauty of the tiny bird, but then the conversation just made it so delightful… I am certain the hummer said all of this! So accurate to think of the “magical precision” and “stopping in front of me” (the stop in mid air and seem to look us over), and the playfulness with water. Hummers do indeed “glisten.” Just a wonderful sensory burst! Cool! Thank you, Susie
Shaun,
Your words capture those unforgettable garden moments so perfectly. I could see the hummingbird in my mind (before I saw the picture) and he really came to life with his request to keep the hose running. What a charming little creature. It was also a nice surprise to see your photograph and how well you captured the scene with perfect words. Thank you! Now, I can’t wait for spring!
Susie, thank you so much for the wonderfully inspiring challenge this morning. The timing was perfect here in Indiana as I work up to our first snowfall of the year.
First Snow
Blanketing the ground in the cold spots
The places too warm melting away
Outlining the pines and evergreens
Coating each limb and branch of the cold, naked trees
Etching their outline into new beauty
Infinite flakes of supposedly no-two-alike shapes
Softly fuse together to form a blanket
over the grey, lifeless land
Delighting our eyes
Newness in a world of need.
Snow, we haven’t seen you since our world was flipped on its axis
Ten months of very little wonder, enticement, thrill
We’ve been cocooned in fear, loneliness, and misery
You now cover our landscape softly and warmly
Until the sun’s rays awaken and melt you away
Leaving a barren, grey, dead mess of cold mush.
While you are here, we stare out in wonder
The younger of us bundle up and play.
Snow, you are often misperceived
You can be inconvenient and messy and dangerous
But the breathtaking beauty you create of a land
That’s been stripped of its lush and life
Renews our hearts and fills us with childish hope
If only for a short time
All that is old is new again.
Snow, we want that renewal
the emergence from the Covid cocoon.
We need that
It will come
And its beauty will bring serenity
If only for a short time.
You gave us that this morning
If only for a short time.
~Susan Ahlbrand
16 January 2021
Ah Susan, your connection of this gift of snow with renewal and serenity is touching. You are practicing gratitude in a difficult year. You have painted a warm tribute to this first snow. I love how you describe the snow this morning:
And then the great difference after it melts:
Lovely!
Susan — This is beautiful. You captured exactly what snow does for me… that blanketing and redefining the colors into something precious… I love that. That snow is listening just seems totally right. The contrast between white and grey…old and new… age and youth… cocoon and rebirth… fleeting and long cocooned… you managed all that in 33 lines. Wonderful! What I truly loved the most was the snow outlining the pines…that’s an image that I watched here in my yard last night… loving that and this poem. Thank you, Susie
A Hopseed
By: Emily Yamasaki
A new commitment
To the garden
Daily watering and pruning
Stroking the leaves
Picking the weeds
Rosemary
Hopseed
Lavender
Sage
Resiliency
Hope
Love
Survival
Each leaf
Each root
Each stem
A shield to the
Chaos
Conflict
Death
Of the outside
Your words and your pacing are calming–and this part settled me in to what you were saying:
Rosemary
Hopseed
Lavender
Sage
Resiliency
Hope
Love
Survival
Thank you!
Emily, what a strong shield you are protecting yourself with. Rosemary, Hopseed, Lavender and Sage sound like some interesting things to grow. I would love to hear how you chose them. I also love the alliterative words that accompany them. Yes, keep committed to the garden, a place of healing.
Emily — I felt like I was tiptoeing in your garden. I’d never heard of hopseed, so I had to look that up. Interesting new plant for me (thank you for that). I really found resonance in the idea of herbs and hopseed redirecting me to “shield” me from what is so toxic out there in the “outside.” I love the whole idea of that. Thank you! Susie
The form of your poem, like the method of caring and planting is like a ritual, a prayer. The short, one-word lines are like a mantra…one to keep the goodness in and the chaos out. It is a beautiful offering. Thank you for sharing it with us!
And a whole day watching a bird
peck, then fly, then peck again,
a few nibbles on the red berries
ignoring the glossy green of
Nellie Stevens for a dance in
her reflection, and I think
I wish I had an ounce of this
energy, a flutter in my flirt, a
symphony in my nest, a song
to call joy. This watcher of birds,
this lost me, the she perched
on a windowsill, the she who
spent hours clipping video
for the book of faces to see her bird,
the she in her knit hat and spoon of
Nutella waiting for another to name
the white-banded wings and steel-coated
beak scribbling her words on glass–
mocking bird, mocking her. And how
will I reclaim my words from
this bird you ask? With a poem.
There. F-ing, mockingbird. Take that.
The ending is so fun, Sarah! I had a little laugh at that one. It’s not often that I see poems that start out so serenely turn into an ‘F’ you to nature. My favorite phrase, however, was towards the beginning with “a flutter in my flirt” — because it feels like it captures the way birds seem to tease us when they are at feeders or nibbling at berries as you write.
Thanks for sharing!
HA, here I am cruising down the poem with the love of birds that flirt and flutter, peck at the holly in that hop-peck-fly-peck (just like a mockingbird)…loving the symphony and all the birdie talk…. and then I see you…a “lost me” watching and scribbling words… and get to the hilarity of “There. f-ing, mockingbird. Take that.” LOL! The whole interaction is fun, seeing the “she” there working while the bird puts on a show right in front of you in its mocking way. Love that play with mocking. Thank you, Sarah. You always write such provocative stuff. Love it. Susie
Sarah, I love your juxtaposition of the carefree bird and the frustrated woman. I also resonate with the line, “I wish I had…a flutter in my flirt.” Particularly relatable as our school days become heavier with the weight of our worlds piling up. Thanks for sharing your flutter of flirt!
I love the picture you paint in the beginning and how you play with words. My favorite – “a flutter in my flirt.” The simple repetition of “the she” was powerful for me. Thank you for the chuckle in the end.
Sarah, your last line steals the show, but that bird, for all her trying, can’t match your steam and spunk! You have outflitted her. All the words that start with F seem to form a great group of progression throughout the poem for a fun flow.
I also love:
I wish I had an ounce of this
energy, a flutter in my flirt, a
symphony in my nest, a song
to call joy.
I enjoy the humanizing of Miss Mockingbird – – thinking she’s scribbling words on the window.
She’s got flutter, she’s got flirt, she’s persistent and confident. But you have all that and sooooo much more – she’s no match for you! Take that.
–so I’m getting all serene and impressed with the alliteration and the gracious words and the imagery–and then hit the F-you!!! I laughed out loud! Love the turn of events here!
Delightful! Always “with a poem”. Gah, I love poetry. Thank you for this!
Oh, I do love “flutter in my flirt.” Ha!
This is my first time participating in the open write. This poem brought me back to a special weekend with close friends. We visited the beach on a cold fall day and watched the plovers. Thank you for the invitation to write.
Plovers skitter
along the shore
moving together.
One seems to hop
above the others,
a little slower
but not by much.
As the plovers
dart forward
the hopper falls
a bit behind,
revealing the secret
to its hop –
one leg propelling it
up and forward.
“Poor little plover!”
I blurt out.
I feel bad,
thinking the others
will leave it behind,
leave it out.
As if they have heard me,
a few plovers
circle back
as if to say,
“We do not exclude
those that are different.”
The one-legged plover
leaps away
to catch up
with the rest
as if to say,
“Don’t pity me.
I am just as capable
as my friends.”
I watch them
go about their business
thinking,
there is a lot to learn
from plovers.
Beautiful. And I agree — we humans can learn a lot from our animal neighbours.
Welcome to the group, Heather! We welcome all plovers here and love each other dearly – we are a lot like them! Your words have me ready to skitter, to hopper, to plover today. Yes – plenty of lessons here from your observations and ability to paint a shared picture for us!
” a little slower, but not by much”–how many people do we know that fit that lovely description–and are we as thoughtful as those plovers? Welcome, Heather!
I didn’t know the name for those birds, but I knew immediately what kind of bird you were describing! You did a great job of capturing the movements of these little beach birds! I love the earnestness and sweet nature of these birds and I think you did a great job of depicting the kind of conversation they would have. Thank you for posting!
Heather — You do such a terrific job of decoding the whole behavior. I love plovers…I rarely get to see them here in this landlocked place, but at the coast, I can just see you watching these delicate birds. And the lesson…what a lesson… birds in flocking tell us a very great deal. Wonderful! It’s interesting that you speak to the birds, yet the plovers actually say so much more to you through their actions. Quite sweet. Thank you for your keen eye! We are so glad to have you here with us this fine day! Susie
Welcome, Heather (and your plovers)! I love poems for all they do — and this narrative snapshot of a group of plovers moving along has just layers of meaning for me. On the personal level, global level, and then just what it may be — nature in action. The use of dialogue is so brilliant here, offering insight from the birds and then the interpretation of the speaker. Love this theme of conversation today!
Peace,
Sarah
I so enjoyed your poem, Heather! I especially loved the verb choices you made here.
A few months ago I had the pleasure of taking a hike at the Bridal Veil falls in Heber Springs, Arkansas. It was beautiful and since then it’s been sitting with me. So when I saw this particular invitation I knew immediately what aspect of nature I wanted to capture my conversation with — because that’s how it felt when I visited the falls. Like the water and cliff face were speaking with me. Thank you for finally giving me an excuse to write about it.
—-
The Child of Dust Visits Her Mother
by Erica Johnson
At your feet I stand,
I am a child again,
awed by both age and size
Although you loom before me,
your presence is comforting.
A gentle kiss of mist placed on my brow:
‘Welcome back’ you seem to say.
Like any mother — the first mother —
you invite me to come closer,
to caress your cool face
and curl up against you.
I explore your features:
smoothed, but not soft,
exposed, but not vulnerable.
You are earth and water.
You are speckled moss and streaked stones.
And if I stay still long enough —
I hear your bubbly laugh
and spot the crinkle of your crevassed smile.
You invite me closer still,
a space left just for me,
a glimpse behind your veil.
A secret space for us —
and every child of dust before —
who sought you for shelter and solace.
I lean against you,
a place cool and calm,
while your water patters down
and I know it’s your way of patting my head:
refreshing reassurance.
You whisper:
Go forth and play
I will be here, as always.
And with that you take my heaviness,
washing it down stream
or perhaps added to your heavy embrace.
Awed by both size and age,
I am a child to you still,
and from your feet I stride.
This is so wondrous. I loved every syllable,
Whew, this absolutely takes my breath away. Erica, it’s almost chilling because it speaks to me more like my mother in her last days. I am in awe. I had to force my heart to take it in again as Bridal Veil Falls and nothing else. Your descriptions and images leave vivid pictures in my mind, as if I were there witnessing this gorgeous place. My favorite lines and also my favorite sound “s” in poetry:
A secret space for us —
and every child of dust before —
who sought you for shelter and solace.
Thank you for this poem, your experience, and for sharing it so beautifully.
Whew. from the very first stanza, you owned me. “A gentle kiss of mist placed on my brow”, “A secret space for us —
and every child of dust before —
who sought you for shelter and solace”
I think my heartbeat slowed with this poem!
Erica — This clearly struck a chord with you, as you’ve recaptured that majesty of that moment when you found yourself interacting with the falls, the water, the mist, the moss and stones. This is a beautiful moment, and I love that you got “still long enough” to hold a memory over time and into words. Conversations like this are transformational…they make us different, better. I love that. My favorite part might be that the water washes heaviness downstream… that is a power image… water… what a force, in that it looks so serene and clean and innocent, yet it has the power to cleanse our minds and open our hearts. Lovely. Thank you! Susie
Erica, I haven’t yet made it to Bridal Veil, but your words transport me to the falls that I have visited around our state–I’m in Little Rock! I especially love this line: “And if I stay still long enough —/I hear your bubbly laugh/and spot the crinkle of your crevassed smile.” You’ve captured so eloquently those fleeting moments that feel strangely “human” between us and the natural world; where we feel someone recognized by something to grand, or maybe we simply see our reflection. Thanks for the trip!
I used to visit various falls around CT when I got out of college. I, too, felt so comforting in its presence. Thank you for putting words to such a special moment. It makes me long for a visit. It has been too long since, and I want to feel it “take your heaviness, washing it downstream…”
Oof! I’ve read this three times over already. It gives me chills every time. These lines are resounding in my heart.
This is just beautiful!
Erica, I loved this poem…the playfulness between the “child of dust” and the river, the discovery and inquisitiveness. First I love the title and idea of a “child of dust” and the juxtaposition it creates with the mother, the water. This was my favorite stanza:
.
Oh, Susie! I want to be that petrel resting in safe hands with a Humpback to follow my journey in case I need a break. There is something so wonderful about asking for support and companionship that your petrel does in the italicized stanza. I love the agency here, and then how you offer us, dear teacher-writers, an opportunity for agency in our poem-ing today!
Hugs,
Sarah
Susie, thanks for sharing such an inspirational prompt and beautiful poem. I am struck with the line from your poem “along her invisible liquid pathway”. Plus, I adore the lyrical closing.
After Leaving the Nursing Home in January
Endless gray swallows the horizon
Stubbled corn fields iced in white
Line the gravel roads
We follow to the farm, abandoned now
Our hearts as spiritless as the skies
Sink beneath the endless metallic sea
But then to the east I see
A bit of sun fighting valiantly to rise
Lightening one patch of gray—
An artist’s fan brush
Daubs the sky with intricate
Clouds, creating a semi-circle brocade
Below the tender blue sky
Breathing a bit of life through the soulless skies
Still struggling to rise above the bleak landscape
Like the hearts battling to leave us
On this cold miserable day
Barb Edler
January 16, 2021
Barb,
I am struck by the agency in the sun “fighting valiantly to rise” and keep reflecting on the title, wondering if the sun is a metaphor for whomever you visited or met at the nursing home. I am intrigued by the sense of place and the struggle in “the bleak landscape.”
Sarah
Gosh, Barb, this is so poignant an image for sunrise and the cold Iowa landscape (“stubbled cornfields” is an iconic Iowa winter ‘scape), a backdrop for a seemingly “miserable day.” You’ve given us gorgeous lines…ooooo! The gray is so present… I can feel it like a weight and the light piercing that gray… beautiful and it gives a sense of newness that breaks that “bleak landscape.” The “artist’s fan brush” fits so perfectly, as these ‘scapes are always almost surreal…capturing the color and the weight of color is so other-worldly. It is hard to think about the “hearts battling to leave us,” yet it is real, that battle. So on this Saturday morning, I am sending you a warm hand of sunshine and the hope of light to lift your day beyond the cold. Hugs, Susie
Barb, these first five lines set the tone and create the reader’s mood of somber spirit.
Endless gray swallows the horizon
Stubbled corn fields iced in white
Line the gravel roads
We follow to the farm, abandoned now
Our hearts as spiritless as the skies
Your words are deeply stirring today – the sobering realization that we, too, shall someday face those gray clouds and the struggles to find the bright patches on the canvas will increase. I watched this in my mother before she left us – she was ready long before we were! Tender moments here in your words today!
Barb–OK–first tears of the morning! “We follow to the farm, abandoned now/Our hearts as spiritless as the skies” How many of us have been there, “struggling to rise above the bleak landscape”?
Barb, you are again a poet who speaks to me on many levels.
Leaving the Nursing Home
—
Our hearts as spiritless as the skies
Sink beneath the endless metallic sea
—
lighting one patch of gray
—
like the hearts battling to leave us.
This was moving and meaningful. Thank you.
Barb, this poem captures so much sweetness and sadness. Even across the country in another world, I’ve been driving under the same drab and oppressive winter sun and gray days. I hope the sun—both literal and proverbial—shines on you soon. This image was my favorite (and it made me smirk…I thought of Bob Ross and his “happy little clouds”…was this accidental or intentional?):
Susie—your mentor poem is beautiful, and your poem made me envious. I woke this morning, grabbed my IPad while still in bed to get to Ethical ELA, and tried to set my mind to a peaceful moment. Then my 12 week old (holy terrier) puppy woke up. This poem is all I had left in me. I tried. Really, I tried…
Morning
Morning light filters gently through the curtains
I emerge from slumber slowly, sampling those first few moments
Between dream and reality
And then…
A puppy eruption
Eight hours rest—a
ten pound spring
Wound too tight
Explodes—
Dervishing
Dancing
Dashing
Darting
Careening
Whirling
Leaping
Pleading
Yipping
Imploring
Coercing
Compelling
Canine
Joy tornado
Unleashed.
Cats scatter
Protesting
Scurrying
Scuttling
Hissing
spitting
growling.
Dissenting.
Seeking
higher ground.
I am awake.
Peaceful morns
No more.
Gayle, now I’m jealous. Not only of your words and the ability to give us a full video
A puppy eruption
Eight hours rest—a
ten pound spring
Wound too tight
Explodes—
But I’m now wanting a puppy and we’ve reached the doable dog limit.
Doesn’t that sweet lump of sheer love just heal the entire world???!
Puppy Eruption in the perfect term … and it happens here, too.
Kevin
Oh, Gayle, your poem is so delightful. I love all the action words and the joy you share through this crazy awakening! “Peaceful morns/No more.” Ah, this says it all!
Gayle — You made me chuckle at the reality of puppy-dom. I’m so jealous… I miss my old boy. I need to borrow your puppy — “joy tornado.” I want to share this with my niece who texted yesterday …she also has a new puppy and was exhausted from all the antics that you describe so aptly here. I love the “-ing” action that lets us feel that “explod[ing].” The poem pops with each of the visual verbs that fits the momentum of the puppy and what that energy does to your morning. Ha! Happy Saturday! Thank you. Susie
I am smiling so big. What a lucky poet you are! That puppy explosion…that energy. Such a great list poem!
Gayle, your poem is my every morning. I try to harness the energy of our “puppy” (who is at least three by now) but it doesn’t seem to take. I’m more like the cat: “growling. Dissenting. Seeking higher ground.” Your list of verbs gives me all 45-pounds of our dog plodding over me while I transition out of slumber.
Wow! What a great scene you created. I can see and hear it clearly.
I was laughing and giggling through every beautiful verb. A puppy eruption! You captured the puppy essence perfectly.
What fun!!! I know it must have been a real doozie for the cats though. LOL I want to see a picture of your new baby.
Your poem matches what I imagine it must be like to have a new puppy. I’m not ready but I’m sure in a few years I’ll consider it.
Gayle, thanks for this fun poem with your “Joy tornado” who I love just because it’s a Joy! ?
This is a lovely poem to be read aloud poem, and yes, as Kim said, it is like a video of that puppy explosion. I love the playful way the words work in my mouth as a say them. I see the cats Hissing, spitting, growling, Dissenting. So fun! It’s a great conversation you had this morning, and a fun poem for us to read!
Hi Mrs. Sands,
Gayle, this is great! I love the juxtaposition of the “Canine / Joy tornado” (what a great phrase!) with the “Protesting” and “Hissing” cats, who, undoubtedly, would consider your Holy Terrier to be a Holy Terror!
Gayle,
You are not alone in having your quiet morn intruded upon by yapping fur-babies. Over here my husband is the one trained as though in a reverse-Pavlovian experiment. ? Love the list of verbs. They replicate the frenetic morning cacophony. Thank you!
—Glenda
Susie,
This prompt today took me to all the places I love! Your ability to reach right into the heart and ask all the right questions in a time that we so need it is balm for the weary soul. Thank you, friend, for coaxing us out of the chaos and into the calm.
My poem is a tribute to the greatest animal whisperer I’ve ever known- Emmy Minor-
who exudes joy and hope where it isn’t.
https://www.google.com/amp/s/grist.org/article/it1/amp/
Oh, Emmy!
Oh, to speak eagle,
broken-winged eagle
who returns majestically
to the skies!
There on the banks
of Sapelo’s flow
a lifespring well
of thanks
Oh, to lisp otter,
motor-legged otter,
who happily limps
back up the dock
and ….wait….
this can’t be…..
playfully romps
with the dog?
Oh, to gab with the goat-
a miracle save-
who now firmly believes
he’s a man?
To hum a sad song
that turns upbeat again
and sparks life anew
at her hands
She speaks to them all
and calls them by name
“Helmet”
“Ootie”
“William”
and coaches them back
to their game
and still they return
from release to the wild
grateful homecomings
to the sanctuary
to thank her
to whisper
“I love you”
in animalese
Oh, what can you
teach us
about loving those
not just like us
Emmy,
before all hope is lost?
-Kim Johnson
love this for its alliteration and imagery: “Oh, to gab with the goat”
🙂
Kevin
Oh gosh, Kim, this is so touching. When I read the Emmy sanctuary story you linked, I thought I was primed for your poem. Yet, your conversational hopes in your poem put me in tears. I wanted to see the connections of each of the critters…the otter with the dog (love that) and the goat who thinks he’s a man, but most of all the thought that the creatures return to thank Emmy for her loving help. Gosh, this is beautiful. May the creatures and people like Emmy (an you, my friend) teach us about loving …”those not like us.” It is so easy to spend all your energy on like minds, but it takes something very special to touch what is different and make a difference in their lives. You have a very loaded, powerful poem this morning, and I thank you for that! Hugs, Susie
Thank you, Susie! If you do want to “see” those critter connections and the otter with the dog, there are a few pictures on my blog post today. Stay well and keep inspiring us to dig deep!
http://drjohnsonscommonthreads.blogspot.com/2021/01/oh-emmy.html?m=1
Wow, Kim, what a beautifully written poem and so incredibly thought-provoking. Your last stanza will echo for me throughout the day, weeks, and months to come. If only people could find a way to come together and be at peace, playful and happy. I think our world needs “a miracle save”. Thanks, too, for sharing the link!
What a wonderful human being…there is so much love in our world. I hope we can get back to recognizing and sharing it more than we have. Cheers for Emmy who champions animals that need a bit of love.
Driveling this morning…here goes…
Wind Worries
What’s the matter?
What does it matter?
Who of us matters?
I blow my worthless worries
to the winter wind
that cuts through
this knit cap
from a far away friend.
(She knows me, how I walk
most mornings without protection
rambling through
my self-chatter.)
Is the wind listening?
Busy with its business
of joining cold fronts
pushing through
leaving me
exhausted
disheveled
hair-a-mess
answer-less.
Margaret,
You take us right beside you to feel the wind on its way past, about its business, and I love that word….answerless.
I, too, feel my hair blown out of sorts!
Those last lines are nearly perfect to my ears (under my winter hat)
Kevin
Margaret — I love the idea of your voice mingling with the wind’s voice. Super idea. A conversation not unlike my own at times when I’m wandering around outside. My favorite images are a busy wind “joining cold fronts/pushing through” and seeing you with your knitted hat and worries. Walking with worries in the wind…yes, I’m there, and I can feel that. No “driveling” here, my friend… you took me right along with you. Love it. Thank you! Susie
Oh, that wind doesn’t really care as much does it? Who could possibly teach wind a lesson? I don’t know. I’m sorry that wind left you answerless. That was rude. At least the wind could have said good morning.
Margaret,
I really enjoyed reading this poem. The title makes it seem like it’s the wind that worries, but then once I read it I realized it was more about the speaker’s worries as they walk through a winter wind. I loved the way you used the word ‘blow’ early on to further this conversation between you and the wind. I especially enjoyed your ending rhyme, it’s playful but also captures the cold, nature of the winter wind I think.
Hello friend! So good to read your lovely words. You capture that state that we must live in these days — answer-less. Grateful to stumble through this world together.
And that hat…you know the one!
What a beautiful tribute to the wind. I felt like I was walking right alongside of you.
Susie, your poem was a wonderful mentor text for me this morning. I love how the bird was the sounding board for your questions and conversation. Even with all that bird has to do to get where she is going — she still takes time, energy and inclination to be in conversation. Wow. I think it speaks to your energy and inclination to be as well.
How Did You Know?
Today in my morning pages
that place where I let my pen
race ahead of thinking
that place where purple ink
is more than acceptable,
it is right–
That this morning, “The Truth of Things”
would flow onto the paper?
And,
after meandering scribbles
of cat cuddles and doggie kisses
and various memories that
came to mind
I would write the word “leaves.”
I’ve had many conversations
with my friends, the trees
that in my mind it was easy
to ask them even in winter sleep
what becomes of these
memories after a life–
after many lives pass?
Do they bud and unfurl
to talk? Witness?
If so, this spring
should be gloriously
full of testimony of lives
lived
And the fall–
Fall, my friends
we will hold a story festival
like no other
in any of our
histories.
Hi there, Linda — I feel like I’m there with you and your pages with the critters keeping you company. There’s a warmth there that feels good. I’m moved by the depth of your questions and how pages and leaves and trees pull together this idea of conversations that maybe seem to pass … those lost this year… yet still the sense that the conversations will find rebirth in stories to come. This is a beautiful journey. I love it. The hope of autumn being a chance for change and festival. So lovely! Thank you, Linda! Susie
I love how you begin with morning pages. There’s a nod to them in my poem as well. But the conclusion of the spring blooming with our testimony and the fall being a story festival gives me great hope. We need that hope.
Linda, the words flow beautifully today, my friend! That story festival among the falling leaves brings the image of words falling and hearts changed for the better at every listen!
Linda, what a heart-breaking poem! I love how you connect leaves to the passing of lives. I am awestruck by your lines: “what becomes of these
memories after a life–” And then your powerful closing lines: “we will hold a story festival/like no other/in any of our/histories.” Brilliant and beautiful!
Hello Linda! Wow, thank you for this poem today, it’s truly a treat and testimony! I, too, find myself in love and conversing with trees and leaves, wanting to know the stories they hold and tell. You made me want to have a fall celebration when I read:
That would be some festival!! Imagining sitting in a forest, quietly waiting for the festival to begin. Magical.
Thank you, Linda!?
Linda,
It feels like your morning pages flowed towards this poem. The idea of memories budding and blooming, connecting to the seasons is beautiful. Here’s to that festival in the fall
Winter rain is barely listening
as I stumble over words
of darkness and the dogs,
the coyotes we just heard
Though the storm is ever present
and even crawling down my ear,
Winter rain is barely listening
I’m nothing it cares to hear
Still, I’m talking to the falling sky,
to leafless trees and slippery ground;
I’m gifting rain a piece of mind,
my voice, something to be found
– Kevin
The personification in your poem is stunning. The “coldness” of winter, not listening…the falling sky that you talk to and helps to find your voice. Beautiful.
Oh, Kevin – You are always our early bird. So glad to see your gorgeous rain lines here this morning. The structure is lyrically beautiful, the meter and rhyme feel like a cleansing rain that washes over us in this conversation. Winter rain itself is a sensory rich image. I particularly loved the “storm…crawling down my ear” and the whole idea of talking to the rain. Somehow I think the winter rain is listening. Really wonderful start to this day. Thank you, Susie
Thanks, Susie, and thanks for another NWP connection … (I am part of Western Mass Writing Project)
Kevin
Thank you, Kevin. Now, along with Limón’s and Susie’s beautiful poems, I have three mentors. These lines are so beautiful…
They are strong and humble at the same time, and they are going with me today, as I go for a walk to listen to and have conversations with nature.
Love the gentle rhyming in your poem. “Gifting rain a piece of mind” and its homophone to peace is effective/affective.
Gifting started as giving (more common phrasing) but at the last minute, a few letters changed to re-orientate the line. Thanks, Margaret!
Kevin
Coyotes we just heard….the storm is ever present …wow, just WOW, Kevin! That feeling of danger that we can’t get past sometimes – and is even crawling down your ear – you simply have a way of reaching into us and helping us see we aren’t the only ones.
But honestly – those coyotes just a football field from my door most nights really do freak me out.
Your words ring all too true!
Yeah, we hear them in the early mornings here, packs in the woods … the dogs get spooked.
Kevin
Ohhhh yes, Kevin! I love everything about your poem. This speaks to me:
I’m gifting rain a piece of mind,
my voice, something to be found
I’m not sure if it’s the sheer beauty of wanting rain to listen to you or if it’s the “gifting rain a piece of mind” but I absolutely love it. What a treat to read this and imagine winter rain. In California, it seems rain has taken a vacation. I would love to have a morning to sit and watch the rain. Today it’ll be almost 80 with clear blue skies. ?
I keep going back and reading it again. So much to savor!
Kevin,
I connected with your morning stumble with darkness and dogs. While mine, with a cat, lacks the alliteration!
You made me chuckle at the end. The weather is impervious to our tiny human rage.
Kevin, I love the wordplay, “piece of mind” instead of peace. Also, I could feel the rain “crawling down my ear” – an unexpected portrayal of rain that is usually so revered. Great job!