Core Memories with Emily Yamasaki

Welcome to Day 2 of Verselove. We are so happy you are here, however you choose to be present. If you know what to do, carry on; if you are not sure, begin by reading the inspiration and mentor poem, then scroll to the comment section to post your poem. Please respond to at least three other poets in celebration of words, phrases, ideas, and craft that speak to you. All educators – authors, librarians, teachers, teacher educators, coaches, consultants, preservice, retired–are welcome. It’s free. No commitment is needed. Please invite a teacher-friend to join you one or more days because poetry heals. Click here for more information on the Verselove. Click here for the PD tracker if you’d like PD credits.

Emily Yamasaki

Emily lives in San Diego, California where she teaches at San Diego Global Vision Academy. She serves as a teacher leader and instructional coach at her site, creating and presenting professional development for the teaching team. Emily is also a fellow and teacher consultant with the San Diego Area Writing Project under the National Writing Project. As a teacher consultant, she is honored to work with a diverse teacher and student population across San Diego. Emily believes in teachers teaching teachers and strives to perpetuate that model. She spends her free time with her husband, 2 year old son, and rescue dog.

Inspiration

There are some details that we hold in our hearts and minds, never to be forgotten. Whether it was carved into our memory in joy or distress, they are always there. Join me in giving those core memories a space to live openly today. I stumbled across this mentor text:

things I have memorized
by Maria Giesbrecht

my high school boyfriend’s bank pin
the smell of black crayola crayons
our favourite salad dressing recipe
how to say goodbye and not mean it
which steps creaked in my parent’s old farmhouse
Air France flight times from Toronto to Paris
the perfect margarita ratio
the exact shade of blue
my childhood best friend’s middle name, how close it
is to mine
how many days it’s been

Process

Make a list of small or big details you have memorized in your life. Use Maria’s poem as an inspiration or choose a memory to focus on.

Emily’s Poem

Things I Know

the scratchy feel of the yellow and white pom poms
how many steps from the driveway to the front door
the smell of the Taipei hospital lobby
how to be happy but not mean it
the path I walked everyday between 4th and 5th period to see you
the first line of the acceptance letter
my wedding dance
the exact ingredients for mom’s beef noodle soup

Your Turn

Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. . Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming.

Respond to 3

Respond to 3 teachers today. Writing educator Peter Elbow said, “To improve your writing you don’t need advice about what changes to make; you don’t need theories of what is good and bad writing. You need movies of people’s minds while they read your words” (Writing Without Teachers, 1973, p. 77). Please offer a mirror to our writers by sharing what you noticed, what moved you, and what you learned. Responding to one another is a way of saying “I see you” and “thank you for writing” and “I carry your words.” Responses create a much needed space of reciprocity in a teacher’s life. Here are a few sentence stems that may be helpful for you and your students.

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Macy Hollingsworth

The towering oak tree’s in my backyard 
Sports being played in our neighborhood
The very first time I had a play date
Singing to James Taylor in the backseat of my mom’s car
The smell of my Grandparent’s house in Arizona
The dent in my very first car
The drive from my childhood home to my high school
Football games at Forest Hills Eastern 
Walking through the halls as if it would never end

Ella Wright

The smell of summer breezing through screendoors
Water we say feels god chills our bones
Engine smoke settled in laughter
River turns to lake and day turns to night

Sounds of sitcoms blaring from the television
Siblings sitting in each other’s silent presence
Friends and family gather to share stories
The smells of homecooked meals act as aroma

Old classics blaring through the speakers
Deck turns into dancefloor as the sun falls
Boats are covered and tied up in a rushing panic
The storm approaching leaving us all uncovered

Tracei

What I Remember…

By Tracei Willis

How to find my way to Sesame Street
That the Tardis is bigger on the inside
Wrestling WWF style with my imaginary friends on my parents’ bed

The smell of chicken shit on chicken shoes
The weight of my baby brother’s head on my shoulder
The look of wonder in my little sister’s eyes

Baby Alexys dancing to the dum-dum Law & Order’s theme song
The day Maya saw the lines in the parking lot clearly for the very first time with her new glasses

The way James could make smoked meat and sweat smell like cologne 
The smoothness of his freshly shaved head
The fear of losing him to Covid-19

Daddy’s stories that end with booming laughter
Mama’s cream of wheat topped with wheat germ, brown sugar, and butter
The way cancer, renal failure, dementia, and stroke make them smaller and smaller
Shrinking them more and more each day…

Ella Wright

These are touching memories that you have brought forward. I can sense all of the emotions being felt. Well done.

Freddy Cavazos

This poem is dedicated to my lovely mother

Maria Castro
Author Freddy Cavazos

Maria Castro
Maria oh how I truly miss you, mommy
Abundant love I have for you
Remembering those times you made my smile
Itching for the day we will be meet
Again with hopes of feeling your warmth

Captivating my heart over and over
Again with the hope of seeing you  
Smile from ear to ear
Truly loved but never forgotten
Realizing how much you
Overcame and how much strength you possessed 

Ella Wright

I love how you took today’s prompt and created your poem through an acronym! Very creative and a beautiful poem!

Emma U.

Freddy, thank you for sharing this poem – it is clear you cared deeply for your mother.

Macy Hollingsworth

Freddy, I really enjoyed how you took the core memories prompt and incorporated an acronym style to it. This was very deep, impactful, and impressive of you!

Stephenos

Waves and the jellyfish between them
Shells above / Shells below
Your thumb in ice cream
And a plastic pirate ship

Waves that pulse with those who coast on top of them
Sand above / Sand below
Your thumb across from your pinky
And a recreated pirate ship

Ella Wright

Amazing repetition use to tie your poem together! Precious memory!

Macy Hollingsworth

This was such a creative idea to use the same format in the first section as well as the second!

DeAnna C

Emily, thank you for this fun prompt. I have so many random memories that feel like they will never go away. Both good and bad.

I tried to focus on the good, but my poem had a mind of it’s own.

Things I can’t forget

Visit to my father and step-monster’s house
Not feeling wanted
Forcibly having my hair cut, now I look like a boy
Getting a baby brother
Oh how I loved him
He wanted me

Getting the strength to tell my truth
My mom, believed me
No more visits
No more baby brother

Punished for doing the right thing.

Cara Fortey

DeAnna,
This is powerful–the first stanza really captures the innocence of childhood and then the second hits all the harder. Great job.

Rachelle

Incredibly visceral and honest. I can feel this poem—the tension, the upset, the hope, the confusion. Thanks for sharing this ❤️

Freddy Cavazos

This should beauty and strength. Having the courage to write this speaks volumes about you. I applaud you for sharing this.

Julie E Meiklejohn

80s Baby

Spicy hot sauce on my tongue
Your dad laughing quietly in the corner as I clawed at my mouth

DeeDee pushing me off the bed
every time I slept over

Being madly in love with Barry Manilow…and Mark Hamill…and Shawn Cassidy…

Soap operas and “The Lasagna”

Crawling over the suspension bridge because Sean had walked over it when there was water in the ditch below

Oatmeal squirting out of wounds in “The Walking Dead”

Loverland dreams–spinning on the swingset with powdered-sugar doughnuts

Baby oil on skin at the pool–you and your mom and aunt golden-brown, me a deep lobster red

“Time, oh give me time,” in the back seat of the Gremlin

Jamming to the Monkees through oversized headphones in Mr. Miller’s room

“Are You There, God…?”

Easy friendship shifting, soon overtaken by boys, parties, drinking…

Never forgotten

Charlene Doland

I’ve really enjoyed the many delightful, positive memories posted here. I have some of those too, but what came most strongly to mind were the hurts, the dysfunction I grew up with. I understand that my parents did the best they could with the tools they had. As an adult, I also know they love me, they just are extremely crippled in their ability to express it.

things that still hold me

being afraid to lie
being afraid to not lie
caution, secrecy
never reveal too much
the flush of shame
without even knowing why

trying harder to be loved
never succeeding
vowing to show my own children
with words and hugs
unconditional acceptance
and non-stop love

DeAnna C

Charlene,
Wow, such a powerful poem. Sadly, not everyone had a happy healthy childhood. However as adults we can learn to do better than out parents did. Your last two lines really spoke to me, because I see many students who need that now.

unconditional acceptance

and non-stop love

Allison Berryhill

things I had to learn

how to thread a film projector
explain lay and lie
apply the state rules for competitive story-telling
know who to trust

Gilgamesh, Hamlet
In Cold Blood
how to quiet a room
redirect; say no; let go

parents need to hear nice things about their kids
all writing holds words
deserving praise
no one cares about lay and lie

there is a balance
to care and not to care
to give my heart 
–with a fence around it–

I am not the therapist
the parent
the parole officer
physician or priest

how to walk out of the room
and close the door.

Charlene Doland

Like you, I have a hard time find the right balance, Allison! And, I still care about lay and lie. 🙂

Scott M

Allison, this is spot-on! I am nodding my head at so many of these, too. “Gilgamesh, Hamlet,” yep, “how to quiet a room,” yep, “parents need to hear nice things about their kids,” yep, and on and on. I haven’t quite learned (yet) the work/life balance ones, though. And I love the idea that “all writing holds words.” So, thank you for that one!

DeAnna C

Allison,
Yet another wonderful poem from you. I totally chuckled at the line “no one cares about lay and lie.” It sees so true, well except the amazing English teachers I work/ed with.

Cara Fortey

Allison,
Your last two stanzas hit me really hard. These last two years have really been hard on students and there just aren’t enough resources for them and teachers like us are picking up the slack. I dearly wish I could leave it all in the classroom.

Susie Morice

Allison- the title itself sent me to my internal list… you chose such a reflective angle here… universal and one I want to steal for sure. If ever there were a list that bears common ground, it is your poem. While “lay and lie” make me smile, The “who to trust” is an oh yeah. And the fixers in the 2nd to last stanza are still a hard lesson for me but so critical as we help our charges build personal agency. And you left the real kicker for the last 2 lines. In fact, the first song I every wrote for the guitar is one I titled “Close the Door.” When I drive thru IA again I’d love to share it with you. Your poem is brilliant… I love it when reading a poem has me experiencing a check in the mirror and recognizing we might just be seeing others and ourselves as one… two people in very different lives and places who are helixed into a common dna. Maybe this is what draws us here in this space each day, laying our words onto the white space. You are a gift. Thank you. Susie

Lisa Noble

Allison,
Whew! You got it so very right here, for so many of us. “with a fence around it”. It’s such a hard, hard, thing to learn. Your transition from what we thought was important at the beginning of our careers to what we know matters now is what really shines through here. Thank you so much for sharing.

Emma Gould

Things I will never forget: Summer as a kid

The feeling of pruned pool fingers

The grittiness of dirt-filled toes

The sun never sets

My older brothers lifting me up to the basket

Dancing through the neighbor’s sprinklers

Ding dong ditching

Peaking through the windows of an empty home

Making a fort out of twigs

Laughing, endless.

Cares, nonexistent.

Chiara Hemsley

Emma, your poem captures the carefree nature of summer so well. “The sun never sets” was my experience as well. Oh, to be a child (in summer) again!

Donnetta D Norris

Most of your poem reminds me of Summers as a child. The last line, “Cares, nonexistent.” are how I try to spend my summers as an educator. Great memories.

Freddy Cavazos

Loved this playful poem. It brought me many memories I had growing up. Good job!

Emma U.

Your poem makes me crave summer — oh to be a kid again, carefree when summer hits. 

Macy Hollingsworth

Emma, I loved reading your poem! You shared such a descriptive poem about your summer growing up! Makes me hope someday I can have such a great summer like you!

Donnetta D Norris

Lingering Memories – At Nan~Nan’s House

Fried Eggs, Bacon, and Toast
A little Tea with my Sugar

Fried Chicken or Popcorn
Late Friday Nights

Choosing the Shade of Green
To Paint the House

Cutting the Lawn
Driving the Riding Mower
$35 per Week

Red Carpet
White Furniture
Formal Living Room

Classical Music
Granddaddy Working in His Office

Being terrified of the Basement
Huge, Dark, and Creepy

Sliding down the Front Steps
Sweeping the Back Steps
Start at the top

“Keep Your Hands Off the Walls!
Are You Going To Wash Them?”

Christmas Gatherings
Summer Barbecues

Running through the Sprinklers
Avoiding the Neighbor’s Dog

These memories are only the tip of the iceberg when I think about my experiences at my grandparents’ house…the big green house in the center of the block.

Rachel S.

I can feel the nostalgia in this poem; I love getting to see all the little glimpses. My favorite stanza is “Sliding down the Front Steps / Sweeping the Back Steps / Start at the top.” And this totally brought me back to my own Grandma’s house & being terrified of her creepy basement!!

Allison Berryhill

Donnetta, your poem brought me right into your grandparents’ home while inviting me to connect with my similar experiences! I was intrigued by your heavy use of capital letters: Proper Nouns! Each line felt like a title, honoring the importance of the memory. (You tapped for me a core memory of my Aunt Marian’s house: The Basement!)

Elizabeth

“Keep Your Hands Off the Walls! Are You Going To Wash Them?” is a phrase that I am so completely familiar with. This piece was beautiful!

Stacey Joy

Donnetta,
I read your poem on your blog and forgot to return here to comment. I apologize! I wanted to share how fun and memorable this poem is. I felt like I was visiting your Nan-Nan’s house and my Nana’s at the same time! I hear her reprimands wrapped in love:

“Keep Your Hands Off the Walls!

Are You Going To Wash Them?”

Gotta love the Christmas gatherings and summer barbecues too! So much fun!
?

Maureen Y Ingram

I love that you honed in on times with your grandparents! Many of your memories meshed with ones I have, as well – I can hear the adult reprimand (strict, insistent, and yet loving, I think) –

“Keep Your Hands Off the Walls!
Are You Going To Wash Them?”

And the basement – yikes!

Alexis Ennis

I am currently writing a book in verse and am using these prompts to further my progress

I enjoy lost poems and this one could be used in so many ways! It’s very therapeutic.

Here is my poem that takes place after a fight with a friend:

Things I know 

How many steps to your locker.
Your favorite color.
How many crushes you’ve had.
What clothes I’ve borrowed.

But now I’ve learned

How to be jealous.
How to not be a friend.
How it feels to hurt.
How to hurt you.
How to be alone.

Will I always know what it feels like to lose you?
Will I forget your favorite color? 
Will I ever count the steps to your locker or borrow a shirt? 

Can what we learn to be true change? 

Rachel S.

Oh the teenage life. This captures it perfectly. I love your last question: “Can what we learn to be true change?”

Chiara Hemsley

Alexis, this poem brought me right back to high school and the sometimes tumultuous friendship I had with my best friend. I thought about writing about those feelings after reading today’s prompt, too. Thank you for your poem.

Allison Berryhill

You’ve got this, Alexis. You sent me immediately back to a core memory of “my breakup” with my best friend in 9th grade–almost 50 years ago!

I remember our crushes
and clothes we wore
how she plucked my eyebrows
and pierced my ears
holding an ice cube behind the lobe

I have forgotten her favorite color

but I have not forgotten
how it feels to be hurt.

Thank you for a wonderful poem.

I will watch for your book!

Elizabeth

“Will I always know what it feels like to lose you?”

Oof. This line is a good one and it captures the experience of losing a friend perfectly.

Kim Douillard

Emily! I love your prompt and I love finding you here! My favorite line: how to be happy but not mean it.

Here’s my attempt:

Things I Know by Heart

The sleek curve of the egret’s neck
in the tidepool at low tide

The smells of love that fill our home
emanating from the kitchen

The silence of his last breath
matching the empty space in our family

My daily commute, etched in the recesses of my mind
requiring no conscious thought

My childhood phone number
but not my passwords, they continue to elude me

The sweetness of little boys
now into the second generation

Fear of fire, seared into my memory
brought back by ashes that rain down like snowflakes

Fog’s gray blanket
indicating spring has arrived

Each of the traffic spots on the 5 between our house and theirs
no matter how long it takes, every trip is worth it

Sunset’s fiery sky painting
celebrating endings and promising new beginnings

Emma Gould

Hi Kim! I really enjoyed your poem. I can especially relate to the smells that fill our home as my dad is an avid cooker and my mom burns every candle possible. Thanks for sharing!

Chiara Hemsley

Kim, I loved your lines about the phone numbers and the passwords–so true! The imagery in your poem was so vivid–I can see the sunset and the ashes raining down. Thanks for sharing.

Charlene Doland

I love all these vignettes, Kim! You create such beautiful imagery.

Ashley

How to turn a chain
Lyrics written and heard
The beginning lines
It was a pleasure to burn

The green sky warnings
Damp cold cement walls
The smell of snow
School closure calls

A walkman skipping
The stink of the bus
Firefly evenings
The story of us

Alexis Ennis

Your last stanza is my fav!

Rachel S.

This is beautiful. All of your little images are so intriguing & make me want to know the full “story of us”! The repetition of sounds at the end of your second stanza is very satisfying. And I appreciate the Ray Bradbury reference!

Maureen Y Ingram

Each of these lines could be a start to a whole new poem, I think. I found myself thinking about the connection of lines within each stanza – so intriguing! The second stanza seemed almost ominous –

The green sky warnings
Damp cold cement walls
The smell of snow
School closure calls

Laura Langley

Kasey, your memories tell so many stories. I particularly love the way food comes to mirror the different seasons of your life. My mouth waters thinking of maple doughnuts and strawberry milk, and then my stomach aches reading about the Vienna sausages and macaroni salad. Thank you for sharing.

Laura Langley

“In the backyard”
Purple lantana scrawling below my bathroom window
Allegedly poisonous persimmons scattered below the branches
Brindle cat hunting the mouse from our perch in the play scape
Conversations on late-nineties political scandals from the mouths of swinging  8-year olds 
Fuzzy, vibrant leaves and petals poking through cinder block voids 

Ashley

Your poem’s imagery paints so many different experiences in these five lines. When you ended on “cinder block voids”, it shaped the mood as a reminder to not forget the beautiful images you described prior.

Alex Berkley

Stories

There are the kids splashing in the dirty creek water
Moms talking and watching leaves shift in a slow yet restless wind
The sound of laughter overtaking the flow of the dwarfed waterfall
Summer droughts keeping us coming back to less and less

Spilled drinks on picnic tables covered in corn on the cobb
Veggie burgers and real burgers and sliced peaches
You don’t remember the taste of anything
A backyard junkyard; a discarded stage prop playground

A bedroom with a floor laid out with action figures
CDs spinning the songs you’d hear on the radio
Telling your stories behind closed doors
Stories telling you who you would become

Ashley

“CDs spinning the songs you’d hear on the radio” reminds me of the endless rows of CD collections as Hastings, and the exploration and scavenger hunt peopled embarked on to find a longed for copy. Thank you for this line which brought a feeling of warmth and nostalgia to me.

Lisa Noble

Kasey:
You got me from minute 1 with your title. And the splintering of your poem into two pieces makes it even more powerful. Your descriptions are so strong, and so sensory, you pulled me right in. I’m hoping those new memories keep coming.

Britt

I’m in love with this prompt. Desperately. It was an overcast day here, and I was incredibly nostalgic. I thought about this prompt all day long. I’m overwhelmed by the memories that came up that I want to write about. I feel I’m settling a bit, but I’m posting or I never will…. I cannot wait to keep working on this poem, as well as variations of it. Thank you.

I remember

being too embarrassed to raise my hand,
the warmth sopping my jeans at the end of the day just before dismissal

I remember

the same laugh that invited
“You laugh like a hyena!!!” in 1st grade,
now my source of pride 

I remember 

manipulating letters into words
into QUETZAL for 150 points,
crowned Scrabble queen 

I remember 

flying in my first car,
red Mustang liberating me,
windows down, music blaring

Ashley

Your stanzas reflect the many different emotions that seem to stick to us from childhood. I can relate to so many of this, and I think writing it out really helps.

Alexis Ennis

This poem has such imagery and the repetition of I remember is really great.

Lisa Noble

I really appreciated the transition here, from things that made you feel outside, to things that made you feel strong. And that final stanza with freedom. Beautifully put together.

Cara Fortey

Thank you for a really thoughtful prompt today.

Pink and blue blankets with bonneted girls
quilted by a grandmother who rarely sewed.
A long private road with our house at the end,
horse corrals and spiny cactus marked the way.
Things change, and people move,
so we spent time in new houses, 
with new people, and attended new schools.
There were forest vistas, memorized from a window.
Rosemary growing wild out of raised beds,
and a short walk in three different directions 
to elementary, middle, and high school.
With each move, a new cache of memories 
is filled in my mind–some locked away and
some are open and frequently referenced.
I read that each time you access a memory,
it is modified slightly and never again accurate.
The only truly pure and safe memories are the 
ones we lock away or forget in our busy minds. 

Rachelle

what a powerful and paradoxical end to this poem, Cara! I love the specificity at the beginning and the insight throughout. Thanks for sharing this with us!

DeAnna C

Cara, what a strong ending. I marine putting that memory in a vault locking it tight and walking away, never looking back. So, not what you wrote but still how I imagine it. Thank you for sharing.

Lisa Noble

As I played around with this, I realized that what was really coming through for me were things my body knew by heart, rather than particular memories. So I went with it.

What My Body Remembers

The precise counterbalance of drop-up, drop-up, swirl clockwise,
pivoting to present a perfect soft-serve cone;
Clutch in, shift, clutch out, smooth acceleration, your quiet voice coaching;
Fingers, climbing endlessly up and down Hanon octaves,
marching to the metronome’s tick,tick,tick;
Perfect rhythm of slide, pinch, slide,pinch, as the spindle twists in the air;
Curling my small spoon into your warm,waiting large spoon,
exhaling the day.

Laura Langley

Lisa, your mini lists within the list and choice of verbs so precisely captures your kinesthetic memories. They’re so effective that I can feel my own body remembering the feel of getting a car into gear or sliding into bed. Thanks for sharing.

Kim Douillard

Yes! Clutch in, shift, clutch out… I can still feel those learning to drive days with my dad at my side. “Exhaling the day” another favorite line,

Sherri Spelic

There’s a comforting beauty to these lines which are at once distinct, yet together create a harmonious composition. “drop up, drop up,” “clutch in, shift, clutch out,” “tick, tick, tick,” “slide, pinch slide, pinch,” – all of these have a musicality of their own.

Lisa Noble

thanks so much, Sherri – that was what ended up being the reason why I went with the actions, because it felt rhythmic and musical.

Seana Wright

Things I Will Never Forget about Him

His bottom row four front teeth were slightly crooked
while the top row four were perfectly straight
He loved westerns, Bob Hope, The Big Valley,
and Sanford and Son.
For a few years, he was a mail carrier
while also being a 6th grade teacher

He shaved in the back bathroom
and let me put the shaving cream on him
I shaved him with a popsicle stick and
shaved myself with one too sometimes.
He loved to play tennis on Saturday mornings and
insisted we use bleach on his tennis clothes
so the whites weren’t dingy, which he hated.

He taught me fourth and fifth grade math in the garage
because he brought home a chalk board
and I cherished our time together.
I was elated to see that he was thrilled I learned
so quickly in our “math school. He would say,
Wow, Sea, you’ve got my brain!

He was incredibly selfish and gave my mom too many
challenges which eventually led to a necessary divorce
He refused to eat vegetables most of the time,
didn’t want company over too much unless it was his friends
and would go to bed at 8:00pm no matter who was there
or what event might have been going on at our home.
He called friends and arranged jobs for many young people
in his capacity as an Educator, Truant officer, Principal.
He paid for my wedding, walked me down the aisle, and showed
up at the hospital, although reluctantly, both times
when my girls were born.

I’m grateful I was with him at the end.

Glenda M. Funk

Seana,
I can’t help but notice the tone shift when you begin describing how he interacted w/ your mom, and I wonder if this created distance between you and him. I love the details about shaving, about things he brought home, about how he spiny time. I remember Sanford and Son. I loved that show.

Sherri Spelic

I appreciate the both/and capacity of this tribute to treasure the the person and also acknowledge flaws. That’s not an easy thing to do especially when we are making our loved ones legible for others. With each line you make it possible for outsiders to comprehend why these memories will stay.

Stacey Joy

Seana,
Girl! This could’ve been about my stepfather:

didn’t want company over too much unless it was his friends

and would go to bed at 8:00pm no matter who was there

or what event might have been going on at our home.

Crazy how selfish our dads could’ve been, right? I sensed admiration, love, and sweet father/daughter fun between the two of you. I’m glad you had that and the time you were able to spend with him at the end.

Hugs, my friend!?

Rachel S.

Jaipoersindweg 
the grimy tile floor and cobwebbed wardrobes
two machetes left sitting by the door
a baseball bat under the bed, bedecked with signatures
my tiny mattress, indented in the middle, swallowing me
the smell of my purple sheets, the lavender pine sol
bars, behind the musty curtains, securing the windows
the view each morning: mist, cows grazing, small white birds following along 
small reminders of home: a daily dove chocolate, the neighbor blasting Josh Groban, a box of letters
the faded picture of Jesus, looking at me, eyes proud

Glenda M. Funk

Rachel,
Is your title a name? I looked it up but couldn’t find a definition. I didn’t want to miss something in your poem. I’m struck by the opening lines w/ images suggesting worn and used things. Then you give us a gorgeous pastoral image, and that closing line suggesting being watched over, surviving and thriving in the midst of want. A very complicated poem mirroring life’s complications.

Heidi

Things I’ll Remember Forever

The bellhop at the Bermudiana Hotel,

Mu ailing grandmother asking “How will I ever leave you, Heidi?”

Staring out at Lake Winipasaukee atop the mountain at Jules’s house in NH,

Cathy’s face from Kindergarten until cancer took her too soon,

Mom and dad adopting me at 6 wks old, sight unseen,

My first classrooms as a student and teacher,

Love, Laughter, and Forgiveness.

Seana Wright

Heidi,
Your poem is beautiful and filled with so many beautiful thought provoking images-My ailing grandmother asking “How will I ever leave you, Heidi? and Cathy’s face from Kindergarten until cancer took her too soon, and My first classrooms as a student and teacher. All of those can make you want to cry and also notice the beauty of loved ones.
My favorite line though is LOVE LAUGHTER, and Forgiveness. Those are some of the most important things in life.

Emma Gould

Hi Heidi! Love, Laughter, and Forgiveness is so simple yet so profound. Thank you for sharing!

Maureen Y Ingram

Emily, I thoroughly enjoyed this prompt, and how the list might vary depending on the mood I wanted to explore more deeply (I kept this list “happy” – what a different set of memories, if I think about the things that hurt…I decided not to capture these in a poem.) I am captivated by your line, “the path I walked everyday between 4th and 5th period to see you,” wondering if this person is still someone dear in your life or if this was a student from a particular year…I love the mystery…



I hold in my heart

I hold in my heart
the smell of geraniums
the words of the Hail Mary
my childhood street address
the quiet magic of cedar trees dipped in snow and bent over the path
my husband’s irrepressible laugh during favorite movies
the feel of his hand in mine
bushes swaying with hummingbirds at our balcony in Costa Rica
the warmth of my babies feeding at my breast
how my granddaughter searches for my thumb and gently strokes it, when she’s tired
the way the sun broke through the clouds, letting me know 
I am loved

Cara Fortey

Maureen,
This is really beautiful, Maureen. I love the images that paint such a vivid picture of a life well lived.

Emma Gould

Hi Maureen! I love how you mentioned your husband’s laugh. Laughs are something that I also notice and adore. Nothing sweeter than someone you love being happy.

Elizabeth

I love the line about your granddaughter searching for your thumb. The imagery is absolutely beautiful!

Chiara Hemsley

Emily, I tried all day to focus on the happy core memories of my childhood, but I was continually drawn back to one of the hardest times of my life.  I don’t talk about this often, but the feeling I needed to write about it today just wouldn’t go away. Thank you for your prompt.

Tears for Samuel

The moment we knew
the anticipation and trepidation
all at once
the tears of elation
the first flutter from deep within
the long awaited day, 20 weeks in, 
when we would see you.
 
The subtle change in the young technician’s voice
the many, many clicks and few words
the amniocentesis, terrifying but necessary
the terrible news, Trisomy 13
the uncertainty
the tears of bitter disappointment
the decision to continue, come what may
 
The day in church your name was given to us
through song and scripture, a gift
Samuel Lewis
the not knowing what to say to friends
the kicks–so strong–maybe it’s all a mistake
the tears of resignation
the fear of our inevitable heartbreak
the peace that came like winter snow
the oneness with God and each other
 
The last day
no flutters, no kicks
knowing but not saying
the confirmation
the tears of hopelessness
the waiting for you to come
 
The moment you came
the quiet way the nurses spoke
the dark, silent room
the precious moments we held you
your tiny hands and feet, 10 fingers and 10 toes
the flood of despair when they took you away
the tears of nurses
It’s for the best.
 
Leaving, empty handed and
empty, but knowing
you were safe and warm until your end
your perfect end
the tears of joy
the peace that came like spring rain

Mo Daley

Chaira, I’m sitting here crying and feeling your pain. There are so many emotions in this poem, which clearly are felt throughout the pregnancy. The poem shows your grace, strength, and wisdom. I can see why you had to write this poem today. I wish you peace.

Katrina Morrison

Chiara, thank you for sharing this beautiful tribute to Samuel Lewis. You capture the full range of emotions from joy to despair. It must have been hard to write, but it spoke to me.

Maureen Y Ingram

Chiara, I am weeping with sadness at your heartbreaking poem; I have no doubt that every moment of your precious baby’s life is seared into your memory, and you have beautifully captured this here. I am especially touched by the words “you were safe and warm until your end,” and reminded of the powerful gift of motherhood, how we hold life within us, providing shelter. What a sad and beautiful poem, thank you for sharing it with us.

Jennifer

My Best Friend Hooey

Making the varsity tennis team in eigth grade
Warming my freezing body in your sleeping bag during our middle school camping trip
Memorizing George Carlin’s seven words you can’t say on tv
Repeating them over and over and over
Creating a musical note rocking chair and winning an award
Dressing up in your mother’s clothing and “streetwalking” in the sleepy neighborhood
Singing “Whenever I Call You Friend” in the hotel room before you left for prep school
Getting a FB messenger notification from you forty years later
Catching up
Laughing about the memories…
Making the varsity tennis team in eigth grade

Maureen Y Ingram

I am laughing at the image of you and your bestie repeating George Carlin’s naughty words over and over – such a perfect image of youthful rebellion/”challenging authority.” I love that you focused on this one subject, your best friend – such a clever approach to this prompt (one I wish I had thought of!!)

Denise Hill

I love this prompt, Emily, and plan to revisit it in so many ways! As per usual, I got stuck on ONE item in my memory. Thank you!

Royal FP Vintage Typewriter

You were a beautiful
semi-gloss two-tone gray
with thick round ebony keys
that demanded fingers pounding
each letter of elite typeface

ker-chunk ker-chunk ker-chunk

At 16 pounds we joked
when you quit working
we’d use you as a boat anchor
but the day to submerge you
never came

ker-chunk ker-chunk ker-chunk

I can still see my mother
teaching herself to touch-type
landing a secretarial job
when the last kid started school

ker-chunk ker-chunk ker-chunk

You old battleship
saw eight kids through high school
and their first years of college
That seemingly endlessly
inked black ribbon

ker-chunk ker-chunk ker-chunk

I remember so many
all-nighter final papers
smoking Camel cigarettes
cussing each mistake
reaching for the wite-out

ker-chunk ker-chunk ker-chunk

Where are you now?
maybe the back of sister’s closet
waiting to be rediscovered
a collectible an antique
a throwback prized possession
worth hundreds nowadays

ker-chunk ker-chunk ker-chunk

For me the greatest prize
is just the memory
the joy of discovering
words and language
and the exertion of
what it felt like
to make them real.

ker-chunk ker-chunk ker-chunk

Ding!

Vintage Royal Typewriter.jpg
gayle

Denise—oh, the memories you brought back! Your onomatopoeic insertions brought it all home. The exertion of what is felt like to make [those words] real. This generation will never understand…

Wendy Everard

Denise, I LOVE this!
Brought back memories of my mom’s typewriter (it even had a carrying case for it). I can feel everything about that typewriter, thanks for the memories evoked by your words (and the playful “ker-chunk”s!). Thank you!

Maureen Y Ingram

Oh, I hope it is in the back of your sister’s closet! Wouldn’t it be wonderful to pull it out again and tap away? I particularly like your use of the typewriter sound (“ker-chunk ker-chunk ker-chunk”) as a break between your stanzas – I felt as if I was sitting there typing along with the poem. Loved this! Really brought back memories.

Scott M

Denise, this was fun! I’ve only composed on word processors, but can relate to writing “all-nighter final papers” and can totally imagine the “cussing each mistake” because of the “permanency” of the “mistakes.” And I love the onomatopoeia throughout — especially the “Ding!” at the end!

Seana Wright

Oh my, you brought back memories of my senior year and typing class. The beauty of walking into a classroom and seeing 35 typewriters sitting on tables! Your words

“I remember so many
all-nighter final papers
smoking Camel cigarettes
cussing each mistake
reaching for the wite-out”

perfectly described the angst I went through
in college. Thanks for the beautiful reminder. Your lines are so clever !

Katrina Morrison

I love the boat anchor comparison. Your poem takes me back. I can remember unclasping the lid and sliding it off and also the smell of the ink. Thank you.

Susie Morice

Denise — A terrific focus this! I knew those sounds, the weight of that Royal, the site out (I still have a crusty old bottle of it in my desk drawer). But mostly I loved seeing you pounding away with the Camels and cussing…. I LOVE the reality of that. Super engaging poem… Thanks, Susie

Tammi Belko

Emily — Your prompt sparked so many memories both happy and sad. I decided to settle on happy childhood memories today.

Summer in the 70’s

The aftermath of summer thunderstorms,
mud squelching between bare toes
bloated worms floating in puddles
muddy clothes discarded in a heap on the laundry room floor

The swing set in the backyard
the thump of cherry bumps 
pulling the metal poles from the ground
swinging from monkey bars
until our hands burned

Turning blue in the kiddie pool 
filled with ice cube cold water
quenching our thirst straight from the hose

Homemade ice pops formed in Tupperware molds
Baseball in the street
Kick the Can in the yards
Hide and Seek until dark
Mosquito bites galore

A dinner bell ringing to bring us home

Denise Hill

This is MY memory, Tammi! OMG! Those metal swingsets that were never properly anchored. Goodness! What a danger those were, but half the fun was getting that bumping rhythm going. And those Tupperware molds – my mouth is watering to remember orange juice pops and Kool-aid pops. You really got this one good!

Chiara Hemsley

Tammi,

This brought me back to my childhood, and I wondered if we were neighbors! You eloquently and perfectly described my summers in the 80’s. “Mosquito bites galore” made me laugh! Thank you for sharing!

Nancy White

Things I Will Never Forget
By Nancy White

The major and minor scales up and down
Your laugh, kind of a husky staccato-guffaw
My favorite Crayola crayon color, midnight blue
The time you laughed so hard you pee’d your pants
The peanut butter fight
How Mrs. Goon threw chairs in class when she got mad
The day JFK died and we wrote it on the fence post
The smell of freshly mimeographed worksheets 
The agony/ecstasy of giving birth
Your laugh lines
My faded and well-loved teddy bear, Pinky
Scratchy petticoat and patent leather Mary Janes 
FRontier 4-6907
Being told my neck was broken 
THAT early morning phone call in Venice

Margaret Simon

So many memories that are indelible and some that are very personal (your laugh lines). The combination is relatable. “The smell of mimeographed worksheets.” I would always hold them to my nose and breathe. The smell was enticing. I am left curious about the morning phone call.

Denise Hill

“THAT early morning phone call in Venice.” I have no idea what it was, but by the time I hit that line, tears welled up in my eyes. These two “How Mrs. Goon threw chairs in class when she got mad / The day JFK died and we wrote it on the fence post” – first I was laughing but also a bit aghast, then right into sadness. What an emotional roller coaster you took me through here, Nancy. Wow.

katighe

Emily, what a great prompt to pull us all in. So many great memories in the poems shared.

Summers of My Childhood

Morning walks to the library before it gets too hot
and reading for hours on the back porch steps.
Bike rides ’round the block,
Jiggling the coins in my pocket, waiting
for the tinkly bell of the Good Humor truck.
Late afternoon thunderstorms,
“The Edge of Night” on the TV.
Chasing lightning bugs at dusk
Collecting them in jars to be released in the morning.
“Green Light! Red Light!” and
“Olly olly oxen free!”
Mr. Charlie’s steps were always home base,
under the old chestnut tree.
An annual neighborhood display of fireworks
as immigrant families celebrated the 4th of July,
then a shared birthday party with my sister,
nearly always the hottest day of the year.
Sleeping on sheets before a window fan
Laughing at our voices in the wavering breeze.
And just as it began to get boring,
A week at the Shore,
Crabbing at the pier with Dad and my brothers,
Body surfing in the waves
and games of chance on the boardwalk.
Burning before tanning and oh those blisters on my nose!
Flip flops and baby oil and tinny tunes from a transistor radio
Sifting through shells as the sun set.
The long ride home signaling the turning of the season
Long before the leaves would change color.

Margaret Simon

You take me back to the summers of my youth. “Flip flops and baby oil!”

Tammi Belko

Katighe,

You and I were on similar wavelengths with our summer memories. I remember summer thunderstorms and “Good Humor” trucks too and the “burning before tanning”.
Your last two lines:
“The long ride home signaling the turning of the season/Long before the leaves would change color” really capture the essence of the end of summer and childhood.

Jinan

Thank you, Emily, for a wonderful way of thinking about core memories in different forms. I thought I would get additional inspiration from other folks and was happy to see the variety of ways to interpret this prompt. I chose more of a narrative focus on the ways my memories flowed and about whom:

Like a scrapbook, my mind wanders and flips the pages of
Sibling antics lead to laughter, crying, silly games, and accidentally broken toys
Fast forward to teenagers, self-conscious braces, glasses to contacts to glasses, clothing never fitting “right” and an endless reel of “embarrassing” moments.
We are in college, while a few years apart, we have begun to explore our world within the lenses of our new intellectual homes.
We work, we play, we sing, we dance, we cry, we laugh, our core memories are emotional, raw, comforting, contradictory
And utterly human. 

Tammi Belko

Jinan,

I love the way you narrate this poem through a scrapbook. The images are so authentic and that last two lines:“our core memories are emotional, raw, comforting, contradictory/And utterly human” — so true!

Denise Hill

Ohh, I like the movement from youth to teens – oh, those “moments” so well captured here (and still, I feel like nothing ever fits “right”!). The repetition with ‘glasses to contacts’ and then ‘within the lenses’ – not sure it was intentional, but I enjoyed the repetition of different ways of seeing based on stages in life. I also appreciate the scrapbook metaphor and the idea of flipping the pages. I can visually see these memories ‘flipping’ past, trying to catch whole glimpses. Just like how our recollections work. Fleeting, but we can definitely feel them. Lovely, Jinan.

Jinan

Thank you both so much for your kind words! 🙂

Scott M

things I must remember

to check the pilot light 
before I shower,
my blind spots 
before changing lanes,
my assumptions and biases 
when asking, why was the 
assignment late? 
I need to remember that this
assignment, in the grand scheme 
of things, is not that important, 
it is not life or love, food or warmth 
(although Edna St. Vincent Millay’s 
poetry can be all of that), it is not 
“the end of all things” if this poetry 
explication is turned in tomorrow 
or the next day or not at all
the wheel keeps on spinning and the
earth will keep turning and we will
keep growing as people who (should)
strive to care for one another just
a little bit better

Mo Daley

Scott, so much of your poem rings true to me. I love the sense of growth and progression in your poem. I sometimes look back and cringe at some of the rules and policies I had in place as a young teacher. I hope I’m doing better now!

Margaret Simon

I hear you loud and clear about the late assignment. No, it isn’t earth shattering, and yes, we should strive to care for each other more. It’s hard to remember that with kids.

Tammi Belko

Scott — Truth! These lines really speak to me “in the grand scheme/ of things, is not that important,/it is not life or love, food or warmth”. It seems like these basic needs are lacking are not being met in some many of our students today. I’m trying to be better about remembering this as well. 

gayle

Scott—as always, your words ring true. (And, obviously, you are not a math teacher :/) I always fell on the side of “just turn it in”. The kids are more important than an assignment’s due date. Your students have a wonderful teacher (and you are a wordsmith)

Katrina Morrison

Juxtaposing the importance of checking the pilot light and looking for oncoming traffic against our need to be understanding of students is profound. I love the power of the imagery you use.

Kim Douillard

my blind spots before changing lanes… I love the twists of things I must remember–I want to try this version out too.

Shaun

Scott,
YES, to everything in your poem. It is so freeing to see the “big picture” and remember that we are all people. As my grandma Atha used to say, “You only have to remember two rules. Rule #1: Don’t sweat the small sh%t, and Rule #2: it’s all small sh%t!”

Jessica Wiley

Thank for your prompt today Emily. I love how your memories utilize many senses. When you wrote the line “how many steps from the driveway to the front door” it reminded me of something I would think of when my life is going awry to bring back normalcy. I always say I can never remember anything, and then I go and do this…

Life Happenings

My kindergarten classmate, bringing a dead sea animal in his backpack for “Show and Tell”.

Me getting blamed for killing the class pet after the cage was not closed properly and he escaped.

Falling into a black hole on the school playground, ripping my jeans, and scarring my leg.

Playing kickball and getting whacked in the face, briefly losing consciousness, but still hearing my “teammates” score runs as I lay in the way.

Watching a man through the window, whose daughter left him not even an hour before, code suddenly and then pass.

That eventful Senior Day, riding home after seeing a classmate in the hospital, getting in a wreck, and turning in horror to see a body flailing out of the window.

My senior prom with my then-boyfriend in his shrunken uniform.

Figuring out my parents were divorced well before they told me.

Standing nervously in the parking lot at my mother’s job, telling her we were pregnant.

Saying “I do” and then at the reception hearing my now brother-in-law go on about his failed marriage. 

Calling me on the phone to tell my Grandmother had passed, after I saw it on Facebook.

The delayed honeymoon to Puerto Rico in 2019, still recovering after Hurricane Maria.

The exact weight of my newborn children, 5lb, 3.8 oz. and 7 lbs., 1 oz.

Angie

Many core memories here, Jessica. This one hit me: “Figuring out my parents were divorced well before they told me.” Same. Thanks for sharing and kinda inspiring me to maybe write about that day I figured that out someday.

Jessica Wiley

You’re very welcome Angie. And I hope you do! That’s something I still don’t talk about much. Only because they don’t talk about it and I’m too scared to bring it up. I was in high school when I found out, a Senior in fact. But it’s still something I don’t like to bring up because I was snooping when I wasn’t supposed to. Teenagers, huh?!

Dixie K Keyes

Hi Jessica, All you shared here so distinctly reminds us of how poetry opens spaces in our lives to embrace ALL the moments in discovery of what is really important. Such beautiful words and memories you shared—thank you!

Jessica Wiley

Yes Dixie you are so right! It was tough bringing up all of those memories, but when I remembered, they flooded the screen!

Tammi Belko

Jessica — This line”Playing kickball and getting whacked in the face, briefly losing consciousness, but still hearing my “teammates” score runs as I lay in the way” really struck me because I could see this happening in a silly Charlie Brown kind of way, but then it made me really sad that your teammates were so oblivious. Kids can be so mean.

I really love the way you balanced the heartbreaking moments with the birth weight of your babies, ending on a joyous note.

Jessica Wiley

Yes, I didn’t have a terrible childhood, but I had some difficult experiences. I couldn’t even tell you who they were now, but it definitely hurt back then, literally and metaphorically! Now that you pointed it out, I didn’t even realize how I ended it. I was thinking chronologically. Lookie there, life can get better with age! Thank you for letting me see another view.

Cathy

Just as REAL 33 years later….

As I rounded the corner
my heart began to pound, poUNd, POUND
as I saw a traffic jam of flashing lights in front of my house.

I bolted out of the car in a full out sprint
but the houses, driveways and trees
played by in slow, slOW, SLOW motion.

Until my godfather and neighbor stopped me
placed his hands on my shoulders and
said, “Slow down! Its too late, laTE, LATE.”

I couldn’t absorb those words
as I swerved around him
scaled the steps, opened the door to 

SILENCE

I stood there starting at my mom
all eyes turned to me, mE, ME
as she enfolded me in a hug.

I remained stiff as a board.
Then the whisper-
“Your dad has died, diED, DIED.”

SILENCE
BEWILDERMENT
INCOMPREHENSION

Until I looked from face to face
full of tears, sadness and heartbreak, heartBREAK, HEARTBREAK
then the truth registered deep in my being

But not in my brain
I didn’t know what to do next- cry, sit down, talk, run….
How does a 17 year old go on without her dad, dAD, DAD?

Angie

Oh I’m so sorry about your father, Cathy. But what a powerful poem. The capitalization/repetition is so, so effective and emphasizes the shock/pain/memory. Nice writing.

Tammi Belko

Cathy,

This is heartbreaking. I feel this poem, and I understand that feeling of not knowing how to move forward. I lost my mother almost three years ago, and it I still feel the sting of loss everyday. I’m sorry you lost your father at such a young age.

gayle

How does she go on? This poem is incredibly powerful. The subject, of course, but the repetition and building of the story—wonderful. I hope your 17 year old self found her way.

Cathy

Just as REAL 33 years later….

As I rounded the corner
my heart began to pound, poUNd, POUND
as I saw a traffic jam of flashing lights in front of my house.

I bolted out of the car in a full out sprint
but the houses, driveways and trees
played by in slow, slOW, SLOW motion.

Until my godfather and neighbor stopped me
placed his hands on my shoulders and
said, “Slow down! Its too late, laTE, LATE.”

I couldn’t absorb those words
as I swerved around him
scaled the steps, opened the door to

SILENCE

I stood there starting at my mom
all eyes turned to me, mE, ME
as she enfolded me in a hug.

I remained stiff as a board.
Then the whisper-
“Your dad has died, diED, DIED.”

SILENCE
BEWILDERMENT
INCOMPREHENSION

Until I looked from face to face
full of tears, sadness and heartbreak, heartBREAK, HEARTBREAK
then the truth registered deep in my being

But not in my brain
I didn’t know what to do next- cry, sit down, talk, run….
How does a 17 year old go on with her dad, dAD, DAD?

Mo Daley

Oh, Cathy. This poem is heartbreaking! The pain from so long ago is still visceral. You’ve really created drama with the repetition and capitalization. Hugs to you!

Jessica Wiley

Cathy, this is deep with many emotions here and I am truly sorry for what you had to endure at such a young age. I am a Daddy’s girl and I don’t know how I will face when that day comes for him. I noticed toward the end of your stanzas the capitalization of some of the letters in your words. It is a very emotional tug as I can feel your anguish and exclamation about this unfortunate event in your life.

Margaret Simon

Heart-wrenching. The way you manipulate capital letters make this poem wrench even more. Incomprehensible.

Sherri Spelic

You create these crescendos with the capital letters that convey the shock and shift at each turn of this unfolding story with astounding immediacy. It feels like a dosing of the emotion as the situation becomes clearer and also more painful. Thank you for your incredible vulnerability in capturing such a difficult pivotal moment.

Maureen Y Ingram

You have truly captured the raw pain of this loss, and it is not surprising that you still feel it so powerfully all these years later. I, too, really like your technique with capitalization, how the repetition of words with increasing capitalization serves to increase the painful emotion you are expressing. Very moving poem.

Mo Daley

Memories of a Carefree Childhood
By Mo Daley 4-2-22

Linda’s phone number
Waking early to be alone with Dad
Blanketing myself burrito style to watch Saturday morning wrestling with my brothers
Working my way through the SRA box, determined to get to the end
Flying Saucer candies from the Trick Shop
The vile scent of fried liver and onions filling the house as Mom prepared to donate blood
Being squished on the bench since there were no more chairs at the table
Pinochle and popcorn on a Saturday night

Angie

Hi Mo! Ohhh this sounds soooo comforting “Blanketing myself burrito style to watch Saturday morning wrestling with my brothers”. I would watch Saturday morning cartoons like this 🙂

Tammi Belko

Mo — What beautiful and happy memories! Your vivid memories of “The vile scent of fried liver and onions” made my nose shrivel.

gayle

Mo—amazing how certain phone numbers are welded into our memory. Your details are so real—Flying Saucer candy from the Trick Shop (I preferred red hot dollars—which weren’t hot at all). Fried liver and onions (the one food I refused to eat). The bench seat. Wow.

Cara Fortey

Mo,
This just evokes a wonderful childhood (okay, maybe not the liver and onions…). Now I want to burrito blanket myself and snuggle with my sons (too bad they wouldn’t cooperate at 19 and 16).

Emma U.

Your memories are so clear and paint the picture of such carefree moments. Thanks for sharing. 

Angie

Thanks for the prompt Emily, and introducing me to a new poem. It’s lovely as is yours. I like “the first line of the acceptance letter” definitely. What I did is end up writing a bunch of lists that turned into different kinds of lists that has a bunch of food in them. foods I missed, or foods I knew, or certainties in life that were mostly food and ended up with this.

Food and Other Things

Chocolate Positrims from Amway in the morning before school 

Strawberry Passion Fruitopia, where are you?

Philadelphia RASPBERRY cream cheese because nothing else cuts it.

Carlin’s crawfish, juicy, spicy, lemony, mushroomy, potato-y, garlicky; I’ll take the lingering residue on my fingers any day 

Panaderias, cheap conchas dipped in coffee and pumpkin empanadas, the consistency of them.

TCBY grapefruit sorbet swirled with white chocolate vanilla

Grandpa’s grilled steak, bloody (or I mean oozing myoglobin) and rare, better than any four star restaurant 

Eating all this stuff and not gaining an ounce. 
And while we are at it,
I miss my metabolism
or balanced hormones
or ease of exercise
or all of this.

Susan O

Angie, you got me going with the first word of chocolate. Then I read all those delicious edible flavors and names and wondered what many of them were. Strawberry Passion Fruitopia? Carlin’s crawfish? Panaderias? I would love to visit you and taste these new things. Yes, let’s not gain an ounce.

Mo Daley

Angie, doesn’t food bring back the best memories? Your list is great. But of course, your last stanza speaks to me. I mean REALLY speaks to me! Hope you are well.

Meredith

You made me chuckle when you got to your missed metabolism and balanced hormones. So true!

Tammi Belko

Angie — Your food list sounds scrumptious! I’m right there with you, though. My metabolism is not what it used to be either.

Jennifer

This poem is making me hungry for all the foods of my past. I miss my metabolism too.

Rachelle

Emily — thank you for this prompt! Your example poem gave me such intimate details of your life and it left me wanting more. What a great prompts for day #2, and I’m already thinking of ways this prompt can be used in my own class.

Things I can never remember:

directions to my advisor’s office
ingredient ratios for Julia Child’s biscuit recipe
the amount of miles between here and home
my credit card’s 3-digit security number
all the lyrics to Cough Syrup
Spanish’s subjunctive conjugations
our bizarre professor’s name
your exact coffee order
but oh, how
I remember
you

Susan Osborn

I love your structure of this as each line seems to get smaller and ends with the most important thing to remember…you.

gayle

Oh, yes. The details grow shorter…but, oh, how I remember you. This is so heartwarming.

Cara Fortey

Rachelle,
I love how you turn the prompt from what your core memories are to what you can’t remember. It has such a soft yearning to the images and in your tone. Really nice!

Jennifer

Love the structure! And you have me at the last word.

DeAnna C

Rachelle,
I love how you flipped the prompt to write about what you can never remember. But the end the one thing you do remember, so powerful. Thank you for sharing today.

Freddy Cavazos

Your poem was so fluid great job!

Robyn Spires

Sweet Berlinetta
The day I met my freedom
She was blue gray like a stormy morning
With golden ground effects she dragged
that little strip from the Missile Drive in to the railroad tracks

Her headlight lights blinked as she honked out to her friends 
In the yellow Volkswagen bug, T-Top Camaro, and old farm trucks.
The street lights shimmered off her skin as she chased her dreams 
Against the asphalt she hummed and rocked to Bon-Jovi, AC/ DC, Journey,
and ZZ Top.

The night buzzed fast against the clock
Curfew lurked as paced changed 
 a little Don Williams then George Strait
Coasting on fumes to The Dance

I pulled into the drive on 11th street
Wondering what the future will bring
When I was sixteen. 

Rachelle

Robyn – I love the imagery in this poem. I really felt like I could see and hear everything about this poem. What a wonderful core memory! Thank you for sharing

Kevin Leander

this one

the scratchy feel of the green tweedy couch on my legs
you and Dad in the kitchen far away
heavy Sears catalogue
SSSSHHHHHHH
riding lawnmowers on my lap, good better best
telling you what I want
this mower is big
want a divorce SSSHHHHH
another page, other mowers. focus
want a divorce have wanted it told you before
this one with a bag, big bag. big seat too
my back is scratchy sweat
ever since Joanie was born wanted it
SSSHHHH
this one red. another yellow one
this is enough I said enough enough  
this one is huge, this one
cuts everything
this one.  

Kevin,

This poem formed chill-bumps on my arms as I imagined the speaker listening in and between the pages of Sears and the pages of a marriage ending. I think of all the times I heard but did not listen to the fissures of relationships in my life. As for the writing, this is really a masterful poem, Kevin. I think the voices threaded and simultaneous scenes are seamless, leading to the the “enough enough/this one is huge”. “Enough” is layered with meaning!

Peace,
Sarah

Kevin Leander

Thanks so much, Sarah, and nice to “meet” you. Brian has said wonderful things about you. Thanks for all your work on this and for bringing art in these ways. (I just invited my daughter, too, who teaches English in RI.) Thanks for your personal and detailed responses to my poem. I’m excited to get some drafty things during the month to go back to, and to read a lot of writing too.

Rachelle

Kevin, what a powerful poem. The use of “you” and “I” in this poem makes it an even more visceral narration. Thank you for sharing and writing this today. This line stuck out to me: “this is enough I said enough enough”

Kevin Leander

Thanks for your kind and specific comments, Rachelle. I really appreciate it.

Margaret Simon

The form you’ve used here with interweaving of the overheard conversation and the young boy’s interest in lawn mowers makes my heart so heavy for my grandson whose parents are divorcing. There is no easy way. Ever.

Kevin Leander

I’m really sorry about that, Margaret–truly. There’s a lot of pain in these things all around. But a lot of growth too.

brcrandall

Kevin, I first read it as riding lawn mowers ON you lap and thought about a tragic story of one of my students. Eeks. I read this poem four or five times, simply because it sounds incredible when read out loud, voices interwoven, echoing, moving…..the repetition of ‘this one’ – phew. Gorgeous poem, Leander. Gorgeous.

Kevin Leander

Thanks so much Brian–I really appreciate your kind comments here. (When I was a kid I remember looking at catalogues quite a lot–like Sears and Wards. I guess it was our foray into consumerism in the 60’s and 70’s as kids.) Thanks for reading out loud–I often have to do that with poetry, or maybe just want to–the part where we try to find some music.

Sherri Spelic

Whoa! “this one is huge, this one
cuts everything
this one.”
It’s the “cuts everything” that lays me flat here. I’m marveling and how masterfully you place us in your position: young, trying to distract yourself from the difficult truth. The layering of inner dialogue on lawnmowers in between overheard bits of conversation is used to stunning effect.

Kevin Leander

Thanks so much Sherri, for your kind words. It was interesting to try and experiment with entering into the moment with my five year old ways of thinking–even trying to match words that I might have. Thanks for your specific comments and encouragement.

Maureen Y Ingram

I am spellbound by this, the interplay of a young boy leafing through the catalogue, hearing his parents argue/discuss divorce – and this extraordinary two word line near the very end:

“cuts everything”

Wow. Thank you for this!

Mom’s Outfit

orange polyester slacks creased
perfectly, vertical line hip to
ankle; ancient nude pumps the
corned pinky toe in its leather sack;
fuscia Mary Kay lipstick pressed
an S of wax for a stained pucker;
tissues carrying past blots and
double mint gum foils scenting
the purse pockets where we sifted
for a butterscotch treat

Kevin Leander

I definitely met her, at least once. The line “double mint gum foils” is wonderful and sensory and true.

Rachelle

This poem brought back memories of my own mother’s outfits (scrubs) and more specifically her purse. I haven’t thought about her purse in years–but this poem really brought those memories to surface: “and / double mint gum foils scenting / the purse pockets” was especially powerful to me. Thank you!

Susan O

Oh my gosh! Thank for these memories. I had forgotten all these things in my mom’s purse pockets. Love the memory of the pumps with the corned pinky toe.

Margaret Simon

I love how the specific scents drive this poem. A sensual memory of your mother.

brcrandall

Sifting for treats…I remember doing that (and loving the smell of spearmint)(that didn’t really go with the foundation and cigarette smoke). I like how sack, line 4, and S of wax, line 6 create a nice, woven sound….and I’m curious about butterscotch treats (Walt Whitman’s Civil War secret).

Sherri Spelic

“corned pinky toe in its leather sack;” “tissues carrying past blots” – In these details, I see my own 70s clad mother and her purse, that treasure chest of ancient candy for use in emergencies. Thank you for taking me back with these swift, precise strokes of the poetic brush.

Susie Morice

Sarah – The nostalgia is powerful in these details. The crease in the slacks, that wrapped toe, MK fuscia, … all of it is like a bite of candy… loved the ending image especially! Thank you for this sliver of your memory! Susie

Stacey Joy

Sarah! It’s so hard to get all the posts read each day and not comment on all of them LOL. I need to be off work the month of April just for reading our community’s poems and responding.

Your mom’s orange polyester slacks creased perfectly brought back a vivid image of my mom’s dark green polyester slacks creased perfectly! Wow, I love holding that image in my heart.

Your mom sounds like the mom everyone wanted and envied. And every sophisticated and classy mom endured…

corned pinky toe in its leather sack;

All love, Sarah!
?

Katrina Morrison

Letters etched on stone
spell out the name mother
amid bright spring blooms.

Kevin Leander

I love the meditative quality of this. As a teacher I often find it possible to get the shape of the short forms like haiku conveyed, but the meditative quality is yet another challenge. Your poem also made me think of my own mother and how much she loved lilacs.

Katrina,
Thank you for this lovely poem of economy yet rich in images. I am so looking forward to blooms!

Sarah

katighe

Katrina, your tiny poem touched my heart. My mother passed at the end of March some years ago, just as a bitterly cold winter gave way to spring, and I remember feeling the betrayed by spring blossoms that year.

Dave Wooley

I love this haiku. The blooming of Spring is poignant.

Dave Wooley

Thank you Emily for this prompt and for the mentor poem. This got me thinking about my dad…

Episodes

Dad’s leaving, a week’s worth of clothes in a brown paper bag
I hang on his leg as he leaves and later I cry myself to sleep
I still feel the knot in my throat.

With him at the firehouse, too scared to slide the pole,
But not too scared to turn on the siren in the rig.
The scream echoes through quarters, I hear it still.

He sits with me and tries to talk me out of my mistakes,
Like him I have to learn the hard way. 
Just do the right thing, he eventually says,
Words I still live by.

“Get tough!” he tells my oldest,
Still a toddler who looks up at his 
Towering grandpa.
He won’t make it home from work that day
That we relive still.

There was so much we still had left to do, my mom laments,
I don’t know what to say, but I still feel the weight of the moment
Falling on me,
Like towers falling on a constant loop.

Rachelle

Thank you for sharing this poem, Dave. This line speaks to me: “Just do the right thing, he eventually says”. The title “Episodes” intrigues me as well. Sending peace to you today.

brcrandall

Dave, I got to the last line and the waterworks came. I have heard so many stories of your father, and the ups and downs of parents and parenting, and of course the bravery, the grandfathering, and the tragedy we’ll never heal from. Like yesterday’s poem, I love that I’m reading a new voice, new game-play, and wonderful wordsmithing….he sits with me and tries to talk me out of my mistakes. Phew.

Sherri Spelic

Still not sure how I feel about what emerged here. Which is part of the allure, I suppose: not knowing, or not being able to predict which poem will choose to show itself on any given day.

The way I imitated Elvis better than anyone around.
Listening to James Brown sing Pop That Thang
And wondering what music could possibly come after
Watching Sanford and Son and finding it hilarious.
Watching Petticoat Junction, Beverly Hillbillies,
Green Acres, and Gilligan’s Island where no Black people existed.
Watching Flip Wilson become Geraldine.
Watching Roots and learning about slavery.
Watching Carol Burnett and Bob Newhart on Saturday nights.
Discovering my brother’s soundtrack album to Superfly.
Listening to my brother play his Cheech and Chong records.
Watching the Sound of Music year after year.
Becoming the Sound of Music in my Viennese kitchen
singing ‘what a fool believes’.

Rita DiCarne

Sherri, this could have been my post! Thank you for jogging memories I haven’t thought about in forever. I still watch the Sound of Music whenever it appears on TV.

Kevin Hodgson

Each line transported me to either my record player or our old television …

Sherri!

TV — yes, the window to the world of all these images, people, sounds, and — yes, the scene of “imitated Elvis better than anyone around” is a perfect glimpse into the way you were physically moved to imagine. Love this.

Sarah

Kevin Leander

We must have been on the same wavelength because this morning I was thinking of how all these old TV shows fill my head and memories. Something emerging here for me are all these critical reflections (now) about racial and cultural constructions then. Very cool to keep writing about.

katighe

Oh my goodness, yes! Flip Wilson, Roots, Carol Burnett — the landscape of my childhood living room! Thank you for these memories!

Stacey Joy

Hi Emily,
Great choice for today’s prompt. I appreciate easing into this month of writing with prompts like yours and Bryan’s yesterday. I instantly remembered the “scratchy feel of the yellow and white pom poms” as soon as i finished that line. ?

Etched in Stone

Felicia’s overbite – and how she bucked and bit holes and into my safety like a Pitt Bull

Mommie’s pointy nails – and how she tapped them on the kitchen table at homework time

Cousin Donna’s infectious laugh – and how laughter lived longer than she did

My ex’s foul breath and temper – and how they disintegrated my love like acid

Winston’s morning radio at 6 a.m. – and how the KNX weatherman knew what I didn’t

543 KAM, ZUV 022 – and how license plates of my parents’ old fancy cars last forever 

ASDF JKL; QWERT YUIOP – and how much pressure the typewriter took from teen tips

Red Door perfume, Aretha Franklin, and Cook’s Champagne – and how the little things 
Mommie loved went away with her

©Stacey L. Joy, 4/2/22

Rita DiCarne

Stacy, the “and how” part of your poem gave life to your memories making them very pointed and specific. Your last line really hit home. I like to think all the little things my mom loved live on in my memories, in my heart, and in the stories we continue to tell about her.

Stacey Joy

Hi Rita,

Yes, I agree that the little things my mom loved live in my memories too. I refer to them going away with her because they’re no longer part of my daily experiences.

Oh, but when I hear Aretha singing “Natural Woman” my Mom is right here! I pass the aisle with Cook’s champagne at the store, and instantly I think of her. I never smell Red Door perfume so that’s one that I really miss. I guess I could’ve worded that last line a little differently but I just let it flow. ?

Rita DiCarne

I understand what you mean about the daily experiences. I think letting it flow is the best thing about poetry. ?

Kevin Hodgson

I loved the ebb and flow of the lines here
Kevin

Stacey!

I love the possessives at the beginning of each line — the belonging to and the association with that you’ve memorized. And then the pronouns of “my” to show the way each brought shaped your being in some way. The not-so- little lessons of love and loss. I am struck by how you carry the “little things” in this poem for us and how we now carry what was “etched in stone” for you. Thank you for this honor.

Peace,
Sarah

Kevin Leander

I loved the hodgepodge-yness of the lines here–this and that, but very specific. The ways memories come jumbled up with no forced them, setting up a time period. Reminded me of watching Licorice Pizza.

Jessica Wiley

Stacey, this line resonated with me: “Winston’s morning radio at 6 a.m. – and how the KNX weatherman knew what I didn’t” As a teen, I would wake up to the alarm clock and my favorite station at the time, 92.3 would buzz in my ear. Right before school, I would have to listen to the “Power People Poll” question. It was a must before praying with the family. All of these memories have a specific emotion tied to them. It’s the little things they always say, and some never appreciate it until they are past tense.

Meredith

How they disintegrated my love like acid. So clear, direct, straight to the heart. Beautiful, poignant poem.

brcrandall

The first line…that’s what does it for me…loving the alliteration here.

Susie Morice

Oh, Stacey ! Each couplet cuts into the stone of memories. The long nails… oo, yeah! The “laughter that lived long than she did”… perfectly put. The “breath and temper”… oh geez, that disintegrating… Whoof? Yes! The perfume… oh gosh… you are hitting on all cylinders with each detail… poignant threads of memory… so rich. Hugs, Susie

Seana Wright

Stacey, Yes its amazing how smells linger and stay with us- they wonderful ones and the foul ones. Thanks for challenging me with the typing line. Its amazing to me that you can still remember license plates from your childhood. thanks for this !

Rita DiCarne

Emily, thank you for this prompt. There were so many choices of where to go with this. I drew inspiration from reading some of the other posts.

Outdoor Memories of My Childhood Home

Reading on the sun-warmed concrete front steps
Delicate lily-of-the-valley flowers that lived beside those steps
The birch trees on the front lawn whose bark I liked to peel off
Fragrant lilac bushes that grew “on the side of the house”

A big backyard that was separated by a cement walkway – 
The larger half a vegetable garden for many years
Fruit trees – cherry, apple, peach – both yellow and white

The “dirt pile” beside the Bilco cellar doors –
Where John spent hours playing with drab green plastic army men
A slate and cement patio that hosted many summertime “cookouts”
And where we would jump from slate to slate trying not to fall into the “ocean”

The dog’s fenced in yard with the shingled dog house 
Next to the two plus car garage
A basketball “court” with a metal backboard and chain “net”
Where Connie practiced free-throws long enough to win the K of C contest
A long driveway with two cement strips for the tires 
Matthew practiced “driving” up and down long before he was 16.

The sun-warmed front steps I descended as a bride. 

Sherri Spelic

There’s a lovely cadence to these groups of images from the plants to how you used the spaces and how those spaces were brought to life through imaginary play, then bringing the circle of memories to a close with those same ‘sun-warmed front steps’.

Rita DiCarne

Thank you.

gayle

Your last line makes all the other memories even more precious…

Rita,

I am in awe of how each of these stanzas– lines– sit comfortably here and yet could also be their own poem or story. I want to hear a poem about this: “Where Connie practiced free-throws long enough to win the K of C contest”! Also, I am struck by the last line — the word “descended” is sort of haunting me at the end…

Sarah

Rita DiCarne

Thank you. As I was making my list, I realized that I could find so many stories in those memories. I may need to start a notebook just for them!

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Emily, you got to me suggesting that we consider sensory memories to relate core memories. Clever way to stay focused while our minds ramble around for just the right memory to share.

Hot and Cool
 
Sensory memories keep me afloat
Especially when mean things get my goat.
I recall the aroma of collard greens
Knowing it’s Saturday and what that means.
Laying out clothes for Sunday School
Looking neat, but never real cool.
Hearing the hymns and gospel songs
Wanting to be with him, my heart just longs
Not Him. Not that Him with a capital H
But the guy whose absence makes my heart ache
The handsome him I met at camp
Who made my armpits feel and smell damp
How long before I’ll feel his firm hand?
Staying cool will need more than a colorful church fan.
His kisses were cool. Now I’m really not.
Thoughts of his love are making me hot.
New sensory memories won’t’ let me forget even the day we met.

SENSORY MEMORIES.jpg
Susan O

Given my insight to your story with him, I really enjoyed reading this poem. You have been devoted to both him and Him. The line “How long before I’ll feel his firm hand?” can be taken as the physical longing for his hand but also the spiritual longing for His hand.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Thanks for that insight/reading of the poem. You remind me of the joy we educators feel when students as readers show us something new or fresh in the poems we write of the texts we’ve been teaching for years!

Yes, His hand is a firm one, too!

Sherri Spelic

Thank you for taking me back with this rich memory! I’m reminded of my own in-church crushes (especially on the pastor’s son) and how that probably did more for my regular attendance than my spiritual thirst. And yes the church clothes, “looking neat but never real cool” – how true!

Cathy

The rhyme in your poem stood out to me. When I try to rhyme it doesn’t pan out for me you do it so well.

katighe

Anna, the rhyme scheme and the use of contrasts in your poem are wonderful and clever and so evocative of a similar period in my life — coming of age, church going, wanting to be devout yet compelled to glance around the church to see if anyone of interest was there! Thanks for reminding me!

Robyn

Anna, your poem triggered my own love at Church camp. I love the line “staying cool will need more than a colorful church fan.” This makes me think of hot Oklahoma days under the Tabernacle at Falls Creek. Thank you for sharing your poem!

Dee

Hi Emily,
Thank you for sharing as I read your poem I reflected on my own life and how much things have changed.

My memory

I reminisce about my childhood days, when living was carefree
I remember the painful experience of loosing my first child
The anxiety of trying to conceived for years until….
God gave me HOPE.
Precious, miraculous tiny human being that is a true reflection of myself
I remember my first day of teaching and the excitement I saw on my students face
Oh how I long for these good old days.
Times have changed.
Global warming, senseless violence and the pandemic.
We have lost so much.
Some lost family members, others lost employment, and others lost their mental stability.
Oh how I long for the good old days.
Days when we were truly free.

Rita DiCarne

Dee, Life was so carefree in my childhood as well. I too long for the good old days sometimes. Thank you for the reminder that God always give HOPE.

Jessica Wiley

Hi Dee, our memories are full of love, lost, pain, and joy. And how we react to them is definitely true to our character. I believe in HOPE too. It’s hope that keeps up going, keeps us dreaming, keeps us living. This line, “Oh how I long for these good old days.” I can connect with. I am not that old, but I am wise beyond my years and I find myself telling my daughter about those good old days. Thank you for sharing.

Susan O

Thank you to all who are giving prompts this month. It will be a challenge and welcomed. Today got me really thinking down memory lane.

Life Lines

You would hold my hand next to yours 
giggle at my pink wrinkly palm
gaze in wonder at our different life lines.

I would be comforted 
sleeping at your house
and using my asthma inhaler 
while you laughed at the little pinging sound it made.

After filling a whole shoebox with snails 
we squealed with twisted delight 
when a car rolled over the box.

In Haight-Ashbury you cried in my arms 
because drugs and free love
ripped away your belief in people and God.

You coaxed me into taking off my clothes
laying by your naked side 
while we bathed in the sun on a rooftop.
 
You faded for years into Germany 
while we both had children and wrote 
monthly letters to each other. 

Back in America 
you lived in a house nearby
and studied to become a nurse
who worked in a cancer ward
looking at the life lines of others.

Weekends were spent together
enjoying home tours, shopping, joking 
drinking wine together
with our live lines now parallel.

Then you hid yourself again 
only connecting by telephone 
as you lay at home dying of cancer 
and not telling anyone.  

Our life lines had branched and one ended.

Kim Johnson

Susie, you wrote straight to the bone today, friend. Those life lines of palms and the life lines branching out at the end give your poem such an innocent start and such a somber end. Your friend would be so touched by these warm memories, and somehow I believe s/he knows that you hold them close in your heart and visit them with tenderness, joy, and love. I’m mourning with you, because loss leaves us with grief, pain, and holes in our hearts.

Kim Johnson

Oops….Susan, not Susie

gayle

One line stands out—“and not telling anyone”. The hole that opens up is huge and sorrowful…

Cathy

Your last line is only a few words but is so powerful.

Nancy White

The life line carrying through from birth to death is a powerful symbol. I can feel your memories so vividly. The sadness of having to go separate ways hits me so hard. This poem shines light on your eternal friendship.

Shaun

Emily, thank you for your inspiration today. The floodgates of memory were opened.

Sanctuary Still Life
By Shaun Ingalls

I will always remember
the way the sound echoes through the pews,
amplifying the sound of one page turning in the hymnbook.
The smell of old wood, older than time itself.
The kaleidoscope of colors cast by sunlight
burning through pastoral scenes
and grim punishments.
The perpetual flicker of candles in the corner,
rivers of red wax pooling undisturbed.
The rood towering, high overhead,
pulling people to their knees.

Dave Wooley

Thanks for this vivid, beautiful poem. I felt my senses engaged throughout—the sound of turning pages and the smell of wooden pews. Really powerful and so space specific.

Rita DiCarne

Shaun, what a beautifully vivid list. “The kaleidoscope of colors” and the “perpetual flicker of candles” brought me back to my childhood church. What a wonderful juxtaposition of the towering roof and pulling people to their knees!

Shaun

Thank you! It’s interesting that you read “roof” instead of rood. It felt like the roof sometimes.

Susan Ahlbrand

Oh, does this ever perfectly capture the details and images and even emotions of church as a child. So appealing to the senses! I especially love

The kaleidoscope of colors cast by sunlight

burning through pastoral scenes

and grim punishments.

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Shaun, thought the space you describe is not one I experienced personally, it is now one I can add to my list because of your soft, yet vivid descriptions. I could feel the ambiance and smell the burning candles. Thanks for the moments to share the sanctuary with you.

Cathy

Your poem brought me right back to my childhood church. I was transported there and your line “the small of old wood, older than time itself” hit upon a one of the most vivid memories I have – the smell of my church.

Susie Morice

Shaun – You brought the stained glass right back to me. I had not thought of those “pastoral scenes /and grim punishments” in a very long time. So vivid! I especially loved the pooling wax. Terrific word choices. Beautiful. Susie

Denise Krebs

Emily, what a sweet poem by Maria Giesbrecht. Thank you for introducing us to it. Your poem brought so many memories for me–the lines about being happy, but not meaning it, the path you walked between 4th and 5th periods, and the first line of the acceptance letter. Some informed my poem today. Thank you for the great inspiration.

“Things I Have Memorized”

the recipe for the best chocolate chip cookies
the place my head fits on your chest
the way the hummingbirds whip the air as they drink
the sound of the mourning doves in the evening
the smell of the books in the old library in Hollydale
the “indeed you were a finalist” in my rejection letter
the love and mercy and grace God pours out
the scent of plumerias on a hot humid evening
the long limbs of the Joshua trees pointing to hope

Leilya Pitre

Love it, Denise! You got me at “the place my head fits on your chest;” that would be enough for me right there.

Kim Johnson

Denise, the smell of old books is just simply unforgettable – – but that love and grace and mercy of God is simply divine, and the one thing we cannot live without!

gayle

So many moments here. I fell in love at “the place my head fits on your chest” and winced at “the indeed you were a finalist”. memorable moments, indeed…

Glenda M. Funk

Denise, I know you included the zJoshua Trees just for me. I love them so much. And that “indeed you were a finalist” rejection is something I wonder about in terms of how you feel now looking back on it now. I’m just gonna take a moment and let all the other lovely memories you’ve shared hug me a little more.

Robyn

Denise, Your poem is beautiful. I love the use of the word rejection in the line just above love and mercy and grace of God. How amazing God is to turn all rejection into love, mercy, and grace! Love this poem!

Kim Douillard

I love the line: the way the hummingbirds whip the air as they drink Each line of your poem suggests something important as I read it and evokes my own memories as well. Thanks!

Susie Morice

Denise – I really liked thinking about each choice on your list. As I reread the poem, taking in each image slowly, I found myself really connected to them and feeling specific words that made that happen: “whip” —so precise; “indeed” —it Carrie’s the tone of that letter; and “grace” — a reflection of the whole poem. Lovely! Susie

Maureen Y Ingram

I love the sound of mourning doves in the evening! Love this list, Denise!

Ann

Surprised by this ~ a lovely list formed while I swiffered the floor, then when I sat down to write, I got stuck in this one moment.

Sitting on the top stair watching,
stunned when the words shut,
and the door closed;
the blankness, the silence,
the sudden stoppage—
a paralysis of the world;
the small sweet voice,
un-napped,
that pulled me from my stupor,
her curl-framed face smiling,
her plump fingers gripping
the rail of her crib, 
while at the same time,
cranking 
the world back into motion;
my first post-terror breath.

Glenda M. Funk

Ann,
Okay, I’m stealing “un-napped” and thinking of all the ways I’ll use it. Your words create a lovely image of a curled up baby in a crib, such a lovely sight.

Sarah J. Donovan, PhD (s/her)

Ann!

The image of swiffering and poeming is glorious! I find that Verselove helps me find a poem in just about everything.

a paralysis of the world;
the small sweet voice,
un-napped,
that pulled me from my stupor,
her curl-framed face smiling,

“un-napped” is just a perfect word and image, and then the “curl-framed face” is just lovely.

Thank you,
Sarah

brcrandall

It’s un-napped for me, and curl-framed face…plump fingers gripping the rail of her crib….and I will be thinking about post-terror breaths….it is a perfect set of words and I need to recall how I feel the next time shock comes my way. Love it.

Emily Cohn

Emily – I really like this concept of core memories – it reminds me of the movie Inside Out. I enjoyed a little trip down memory lane here, and veered off the tracks a bit to one specific place – my aunt and uncle’s basement which I loved.

What your youngest niece remembers about your exotic, suburban basement

A smell of rice, brisket, a hint of curry
hubbub of adult talk muffled upstairs.
The carpeted stairs are watched over
by a beautiful, golden goddess with many arms.
Cocker spaniels bounding up and downstairs to catch the action
A failed homemade paper experiment glued to the floor
Bright echo of a ping-pong bounce, cousins smack-talking, cackling.
A zebra skin tacked to the wall – it was really real
I touch its rough fur, sad that it’s here.
Playing pool by myself, rolling the satisfying weight,
muted thud of stripes and solids on soft green walls.
The swinging door bathroom with the cartoon wallpaper I got lost in
– an escape from loud family gatherings.

Susie Morice

Emily- this was like a jaunt down the stairs with you! What vivid details. The goddess with the arms made me smile… so familiar and it seemed to preside over the whole entrance to this wonderland.

Glenda M. Funk

Emily,
I also recall safe, comfortable family basements that evoke memories of escape. Some of the decor you describe has me creating some interesting images in my mind. Love the dog imagery.

Allison Berryhill

Emily, This is gorgeous. I became the child–
Your honesty in remembering is powerful. The child playing pool by herself–the swinging door. <3 <3 <3

Heather Morris

This prompt has had me thinking all morning about what to write. I finally settled on my grandfather who passed away in January. I think I will be coming back to this prompt as I feel I have some other memories to work through. Thank you, Emily, for this space to continue to process this loss.

Things I Memorized and Carried Away

Watching you cook 
cider donuts, a ham dinner,
meatballs and sauce
anything in the kitchen.

Your strong hand
with a fingertip cut off,
an emerald ring
holding mine tightly.

How you filled your time
woodburning, carving, 
baking, experimenting  
but mostly caring for the women you loved.

Cooking together
Pasta Fagioli
in the crockpot
one of your last coherent days with me.

Walking into your bedroom
Silence, Aunt Sally’s eyes
looking at me wildly
as you took your last breath.

Now, all I have left are
handwritten recipes
wine glasses
silverware 
a side table
whistle
workbench 
treasures that you once held.

Wendy Everard

Heather, this was really touching. Thank you for sharing it.

Erica J

Food is very important in my family and so I connected with this poem a lot, Heather. I almost teared up at your final stanza where you list off these objects that now hold so much meaning to you even though they aren’t anything expensive or grand — but they are what carry the memories of what you had with your grandfather.

Stacy

Heather, thank you for sharing these treasures memories with us. I hope the writing of this was healing for you.

Susan Ahlbrand

Heather, I love this so much. You capture the subtle ways–and huge ways–that your grandfather impacted. He sounds like such a well-rounded, incredible man.
I especially love this gut-punch stanza:

Walking into your bedroom

Silence, Aunt Sally’s eyes

looking at me wildly

as you took your last breath.

Heather,
I was moved so deeply by your poem. With each stanza, I was settling into this life lived with such a keen memory of the details of place, person. Each setting perfectly situated with so few words. I also feel like each stanza is a story told perfectly here but also– maybe wanting its own poem. In short, I feel a memoir coming on.

These lines were especially vivid for me because of of the way the past is present in the finger and the emerald:

Your strong hand
with a fingertip cut off,
an emerald ring
holding mine tightly.

Peace,
Sarah

Susie Morice

TWISTER

At the low rumble arguing with the southwestern horizon,
the jagged scars of heat lightning cutting in the distance,
I trained my eyes on the clouds, slate grey and almost mossy green,  
starting to roil with the weight of their burden.

I steeled myself for the cracking thunderstorm
rolling toward the century-worn clapboards of the farmhouse.

I didn’t really understand wicked storms back then,
just the sudden cooling of the humid shroud
hanging over the farm
when days and nights of too hot and still
collided with the rush of relief;
I’d never clambered into the cellar,
wasn’t sure what it was for;
didn’t understand about Dorothy’s ruby slippers
and getting sucked to Oz.

But I did know the first hits
of ice cold rain on my arms and face,
the shock of ice pellets wreaking havoc
with the young leaves on the maples,
the immediate dousing of dust on the rutted road,
the rise of the pond over its banks.

Only later, after we crawled back up those rickety stairs,
later when newspapers finally made their way
to the lonely farms northwest of the Big Muddy
did I know that our stint sitting there 
in the spiderwebs and the dank dark,
Mama, my sisters, and brother,
only then did I know we’d found our yellow brick road to safety,

as St. Louis looked the ’59 twister in the eye.

by Susie Morice, April 2, 2022©

Wendy Everard

Susie, this was arresting from the first line. A beautifully-told narrative with vivid sensory detail, Thank you!

Barb Edler

Susie, once again your poetic skill leaves me feeling completely awe-struck! I loved your allusions to The Wizard of Oz and how you reconnected the “yellow brick road to safety” at the end. I know this sudden change and dark forces of a storm brewing. Your images pulled me completely into the scene, the dank basement, the devastation, and the feeling of relief that you survived the ’59 twister. Kudos, Susie, kudos!

Glenda M. Funk

Susie,
Immediately I thought about Oz, and then it was there in your poem. We Missourians know both the thrill s as bad the fear of those twisting gyres. I returned to Joplin after the 2011 F5 tornado. Talk about scorched earth. My aunt lost her home. A high school friend died. Too much destruction to wrap my mind around, and do this image of a dank, mossy cellar speaks to me as a perfect yellow brick toad image. Hugs.

gayle

Susie—again, you tell a huge story with words that carry us into the scene.
“But I did know the first hits
of ice cold rain on my arms and face,
the shock of ice pellets wreaking havoc
with the young leaves on the maples,
the immediate dousing of dust on the rutted road,
the rise of the pond over its banks.”

I was there.

Susie,

This is a masterful narrative poem. Wow! (Friends, let’s use this as a mentor text when we write personal narratives with students!)

First, I should say how grateful I am that you and your family survived so that you could be here with us, Susie! (I know, I am making it about me.)

But, really, the images of “almost mossy green” and “ruby slippers” and “lonely farms” and “dank dark” all leading toward “our yellow brick road to safety” is a narrative of images that is personal and yet a collective in that last like “as St. Louis looked the ’59 twister in the eye.”

Wow,
Sarah

Allison Berryhill

Oh, Susie! I am so glad I found your poem! This was the first line I highlighted: ‘the sudden cooling of the humid shroud” before I was tugged into the story with a force that made me forget to highlight. Your final line is everything. Beautiful. I am so glad I’ve found you as a poet/mentor/friend.

Stacey Joy

My friend, Susie, your master class in poetry awaits with me in line ready to enroll! I loved experiencing all of these vivid images (city girl here) and immediately held my breath here:

I steeled myself for the cracking thunderstorm

rolling toward the century-worn clapboards of the farmhouse.

Thunder scares the daylights out of me. I can’t imagine all the stormy living you’ve had in your life. Just wows me! Thank God I believe in clicking ruby red heels three times to get back to safety!

Truly brilliant! ?

Erica J

Thank you for this prompt and poem today Emily. I’ve found that a lot of my poetry when it comes to memories and my past often take me back to my grandparents who are no longer here. It’s almost like a chance to get to visit them all over again in my mind. I enjoyed in both versions the use of sensory details beyond just sight — you tried to hit everything from textures to smells and I like seeing that work in a poem.

I remember the way to Grandma’s house
the sloping hills and sharp turn
skipping up the three concrete steps
tumbling over the lumpy couch near the door
avoiding the side that was pawpaw’s spot

grandma’s sneeze echoing from room to room
fresh laundry and the edge of a cookie jar
pawpaw placing the cold milk glass
and two Oreos on a crisp paper towel

dashing outside to rattled wire fence
lost under feet of honeysuckle
how the knobby green apples bounce
when kicked just right

the sound of quarters and nickels
clicking down on a counter top
the cost of an Icee at the gas station
on the way to Grandma’s house.

Heather Morris

Erica, I, too, am drawn to write about my grandparents. I love the allusion to Red Riding Hood. Your imagery is powerful and brings alive all of the senses.

gayle

This detail—two Oreos on a crisp paper towel—so vivid, so specific. So visual and comforting.

Dani

Thank you for the prompt! I used it as inspiration but I have two core memories tied up together, so I ended up pursuing that. This was a tough assignment, as I just couldn’t keep emotion out of it!

Gorilla glue 
And yellow paint in little glass jars

A box sitting open,
Plastic parts scattered across
The table in tablets.

The paintbrushes
And your open bottle of wine,
Striped glass swaying with full gusto.

I don’t remember what we talked about.

I remember your hair
Your glasses
A phone call 

I remember you arguing with me and
Biting words, but always an I love you and a goodnight.

You, in white briefs and a Kansas City Chiefs shirt that I stole away from your closet.

A glance back from the door frame as you watched me gluing parts onto our model. I like to think you smiled.

That was the last time I saw you. 

Then it was a knock on the door,
A moan that was almost inhuman
And disbelief and anger.

The two officers had set jaws and the black-haired one sucked his teeth.

She still follows me in my dreams, that howling cry when grief struck and all we knew was loss. That glance back from the doorframe, burned there with your gray eyes watching me from somewhere a week before.

Wendy Everard

Dani, thank you for this moving memory. The second half of your poem was so imagistic, a gut-punch, the memories so vivid.

Glenda M. Funk

Dani,
As I read your intro I thought about the way poetry forces me to feel emotions I often struggle to experience, specifically empathy derived from the lived experiences of others, so I thank you for this poem and the way it squeezes my heart. The image of glue makes me think about how we try to put together what is broken or what we perceive to be broken. That’s a powerful thing.

Sarah J. Donovan, PhD (s/her)

Dani,

Beginning with glue is masterful, Dani. The way memories stick — especially ones tied up with such life-shifting complexity. Each scene is haunting especially with the concrete objects coming into focus — “glasses” and “white briefs” and “door”–coming before “watching me from somewhere a week before.” So much is stirring for me, Dani.

Thank you for trusting us with this memory,
Sarah

Barb Edler

Emily, thanks so much for hosting today and providing such an inviting prompt. I loved writing this although I had to stop myself from writing an epic poem!

All in the Heartland

I have memorized─
the way you said my name
the taste of ripe mulberries
and dirt roads on a summer day
the smell of fresh cut hay
453 Hilltop Road; all its hiding places
our bedroom attic; how we arranged our beds
Mother’s face before MS
Father’s gleaming hair; the deck of cards in his hands
Pam’s freckles, Dave’s laugh
the moment the ace of spades was forced into my hand
its special message passed from the other side on a train from Chicago
and how to say goodbye 

Barb Edler
2 April 2022

Susie Morice

Barb — These are each such poignant images. I can smell the hay, for sure. The title is perfect and conjures the importance of each of these images. You have brought such a sense of touching sensitivity to that final line. The sweet details and the heartbreakers are perfectly juxtaposed. PS. I loved your piece yesterday too. Hugs, Susie

Wendy Everard

Barb, love the sensory detail. You really brought this poem to life and made each moment distinct and memorable, yet beautifully cohesive.

Leilya Pitre

You reminded me of my memories too, especially “the taste of ripe mulberries” brings me right back to my childhood. Thank you, Barb!

Glenda M. Funk

Barb, as I read poems today I keep thinking about the specificity and universality of words snd phrases. That last line is an example of something we all learn, and that’s a drama hard lesson. I feel transported to 453 Hilltop Toad through your poem. It’s a beautiful journey.

Susan Ahlbrand

Emily . . . thank you for the wonderful, open inspiration today. I think I could revisit this over and over and over again, pulling up wonderful memories that are buried deep.

The succinctness of your poem is its power.

Memory Senses 

The seven digits of friends and boyfriends
    spinning the rotary then punching the buttons
    to chat, to make plans, to see if they were home
    hours and hours with the receiver up to my ear and mouth
    twisting the cord between my fingers.

The smell and sounds of the Coliseum
    sweat-drenched uniforms 
    the squeak of rubber souls on the freshly sealed floor
    coach’s southern drawl echoing off the brick walls and rafters
    popcorn being popped on game nights 
    frenzied crowds cheering
    the loud pop of an empty inverted waxy paper cup being stomped by a kid 

The taste of a perfectly grilled filet mignon
    marinated for hours with Andria’s 
    tended expertly by Dad on the built-in grill
    the flavor and texture as it lands on my tongue . . . 
    eating like royalty in our middle-class house.

The sight of those wrinkled, age-spotted hands
    as we held them on their journey from here
    to the place they wanted but resisted going
    strong grips, transparent skin over bones
    wedding rings no longer fit.

~Susan Ahlbrand
2 April 2022

gayle

Susan—your last lines—“transparent skin over bones wedding rings no longer fit”— so poignant, so inevitable. My goodness, Susan…

Wendy Everard

Susan, love the chronology and sensory organization here and how you deftly handled both at once. I very much related to a lot of these vignettes. <3

Wendy Everard

Thanks, Emily, for this cool and thought-provoking prompt! And thanks, to the author of “What I can’t forget, the early years,” too, for inspiring me this morning.

“Still Water”

My brain can’t forget

The never have or maybe have

lived in house.

Dirty.  A disaster.

Stairs, sinister.  Walls dark.

Clutter and trash.

Confronted with the door.

The key?  A mystery.  

Do I have it?  Does someone?

Deep breaths.

The ever-growing rooms.  

Endless White Space

Haunted by something

That I fear

And wish not to see.

Bathrooms with 

Missing tiles

Holes in brick facades

Lead to dark spaces

With something waiting

While

Endless possibility

Beckons:

You may reclaim this

And make it your own.

Build.

There is more

There is always more.

Barb Edler

Wendy, wow, your poem is haunting and chilling with its specific dark images. “Holes in brick facades” is provocative and the movement of your poem is compelling. Love the repetition of “more” at the end of your poem. The word and your poem “beckons” a wide range of emotions and interpretations. Powerful!

Angie

Oh my, Wendy. The details, the language, the questions. All hauntingly beautiful and lasting. I wouldn’t forget either, like I won’t forget this poem even though those aren’t my memories. I’m lingering on “bathrooms with missing tiles” imagery and of course the last line. Thank you for sharing.

Denise Krebs

Wow, Wendy. The short succinct lines really move this along. I read it several times. Seeing so much each time. It causes me to long to hear your story and inspires me to have hope in restoration and rebuilding.

Glenda M. Funk

Wendy,
The first thing I noticed is your use of “house” instead of “home.” This speaks to me for many reasons. I’m honing in on “possibility beckons” as a sign of hope for what can be build from a structure—both literal and metaphorical—needing so much work. I’ve been thinking a lot about houses in literature these days and just started reading “The High House” yesterday. It’s a climate-focused novel.

Scott M

Wendy, I really loved your short clipped lines and the gradual “turn” your poem took. The beginning is quite suspenseful: “Haunted by something / That I fear / And wish not to see.” And by the end, you have “You may reclaim this / And make it your own. / Build. / There is more / There is always more.” Thank you for writing and sharing this!

Leilya Pitre

Thank you, Emily, for such an inspiration today allowing us to remember things close to our hearts. I love the things you know and can relate to several of them. I have decided to use this opportunity to remember and brag about the most important people in my life, with three of them crossing over to the eternity by now..

My Dearest VIPs
Mom signing and smiling while sawing a new outfit for me
Dad bringing me the first cucumber of the season from our garden
Two brothers fighting at home, but protecting each other at school
Five sisters, each taking turns to care for me when I was little
A husband—romantic with flowers on Mondays just because
One and only oldest daughter, Dilyara, a beautiful night flower
One and only baby-girl, Gul’Jana, a flower of my soul
A six-year-old granddaughter, Polina, fluent in two languages already,
A four-year-old grandson, Mikhail, handsome, funny, and curious
Students who come to class willing to listen, learn, and teach me
Cathy and David, closest neighbors and friends, who are always there for us

Erica J

When you wrote about your dad bringing in the first cucumber, I instantly remembered my own who would grow all kinds of things in our backyard. I also like how you threaded the flower imagery from your husband to your own children. I like that use of connection in the poem.

Leilya Pitre

Thank you, Erica! I am glad I brought up the memories of your Dad too. I didn’t even think about threading with flowers. These are what the names of my daughters mean, but i guess subconsciousness works its wonders 🙂

Barb Edler

Leilya, I love how you capture the most important people in your life. The love you feel for them jumps off the page. Loved your students line…yes, the ones who come engage and teach us so many life lessons! Tender and lovely poem!

Leilya Pitre

Thank you! You are right, students are my biggest fans and best teachers. What would I do without my students so far away from my family?

Glenda M. Funk

Leilya,
Your poem is a gorgeous celebration of family. I’m a bit weepy reading it because it feels so idyllic and rare. The title is perfect, a reminder about who really are the very important people in our lives. Beautiful.

Leilya Pitre

Thank you, Glenda! I miss every single one of them so much! My childhood was filled with warmest memories regardless of some difficulties my family endured in Crimea.

cmargocs

I envy the brevity of both the mentor text and your response, Emily. I was going to follow along, but this prompt got a lot more out of me than I expected, and I was half-surprised by what flowed. The perfectionist and rule-follower in me wants to go back and pare down to match the mentor, but I can’t bear to, at the moment. So here’s my verbose offering:

What I can’t forget, the early years

a recurring childhood dream (nightmare?)
  sitting on the edge of a bottomless pit, legs dangling
  in the backyard of a red brick house
my parents calling me “Tina”
  and the chorus line of a 45 rpm 
  “Tina, the ballerina, the belle of gay Paree”
the feel of a mini dachshund sleeping 
  in the curve of my legs, undercover
  snoring and refusing to let me roll over
the tree that grew sideways in the scrubby forest
  secluded, a place to share secrets
  and the freedom we had to explore
the feeling of being the odd one out
  always the new girl
  always knowing we’d move again
wearing polyester pants
  when everyone else was wearing jeans
  and being shoved against a locker for breaking the curve
my hair turning orange from Sun-In
  getting my first contacts
  that first kiss, ever–I was worthy?
my mother, masterful negotiator
  as my father and I fought before leaving
  his tears as my mother drove me to college.

Emily Cohn

Hello! Thanks for this story-line of growing up. I’m glad you expanded it to meet your mood today. These core memories are true – the fearful ones, the solace of the sideways tree – I absolutely love that and it reminded me of my own hideaway spots. My heart broke and my stomach clenched when you were shoved against the locker in polyester pants. The transformation with the Sun-in (yes!) and the contacts to the kiss… just lots of appreciation to you for sharing these moments.

Christine Baldiga

This line caught my attention: “wearing polyester pants when everyone else was wearing jeans”
you were writing about my childhood with clothes made by family members that I judged weren’t so cool.

Heather Morris

Wow! I connected to many of your memories. The imagery you used put me right into your scenes. I can see, hear, and feel each stanza as if it is a movie.

Glenda M. Funk

I don’t think this is verbose at all. I think it’s what it needs to be. The ending and beginning create somewhat of a circularity in my mind, perhaps because both focus on defining moments that have a feeling of detachment. Your dachshund image makes me want to cuddle my dogs.

Fran Haley

What I love best about writing is sitting down with intent and seeing what actually happens – the words take on a life of their own. Every wonderful image here is attached to emotion: fear, lightheartedness, love, wonder, doubt, anger, nostalgia…a true coming-of-age poem and in that respect, quite concise! You know that stubborn dachshund grabs my heart, as do your dad’s tears on your leaving. And oh – the polyester pants – how I hated the “itchiness” of them!

Wendy Everard

Loved this poem. The imagery and experiences? So relatable. (Oh, the broken promises of Sun-In!). Lots of potential vs. reality tension in here. Love it.

Meredith

the feeling of being the odd one out
always the new girl
always knowing we’d move again

Yes! This seems to hold all of the other parts together.

And this line speaks volumes: that first kiss, ever–I was worthy?

I can relate. ❤️

Thanks for sharing this.

gayle

Things I Know

Sitting cross-legged with my grandfather in a card table teepee near the fire
Reciting “The Song of Hiawatha” with him. 
        (By the shores of Gitche Gume, by the shining big sea-waters)
The cowboy hat and string tie he wore
      To honor his youth as a cowboy
       Though now he was a mailman in a rural New York county
Catching fish 
        through a tiny hole in the ice
Walking the beaver traps
       Snow shoes on deep snow
       Our breath making clouds in the cold
Fishing for frogs
Dowsing for water
Knowing I was his special one

Watching him drink
Watching him stumble
Watching him grow older
      And bitter
      And more sad
Watching him grow smaller
Lifting him from the ground
Helping him into his bed
Remembering who he was before.
Saying goodbye to that man.

GJ Sands 4-2-2022

Emily Cohn

Gayle – this image of you as a watchful, admiring child, seeing our grandfather in all his glory in nature is so beautiful. I love the “breath making clouds” and the string tie. All these incredible adventures – I would have followed him, too! I love that you also shared the second verse, which is another kind of growing up, seeing someone you love in a different light and saying goodbye. You really captured his portrait so beautifully here. Thanks for sharing.

Glenda M. Funk

Gayle,
I felt such nostalgia as I read and thought about the longing poems crack open, but toward the end I felt grief and sadness for your grandfather and for you and for all he and you lost as he deteriorated into that last goodbye.

Erica J

Oh Gayle what a beautiful tribute to your grandfather. While your experiences are very different from mine, I could honestly relate to the fondness you clearly have for your childhood with your grandfather. It makes the final stanza that much more heart breaking.

Margaret Simon

I love how your poem grows from childhood to adulthood, the scale of a life with a special grandfather. You have captured it.

Margaret Simon

Things I have Memorized Randomly ordered

The smell of coffee and pancakes on Saturday morning
How many turns and stop signs in the circle drive from Beechcrest to Sedgewick
Hum-buzz of a hummer at the feeder
First words
Stench of our house after the flood
Sparkle of diamond
Scent of his cheek on the pillow
Honeysuckle, Sweet olive, and Aunt Alabel’s perfume
Recipe for cornbread dressing
My childhood phone number (956-2526)
The Lord’s Prayer, My Country ‘Tis of Thee, and Itsy Bitsy Spider

Emily Cohn

Margaret – I adore this list for the multi-sensory feel. I love the smells – someone once told me that smell and memory are closely placed in the brain, so this memorization of both the pancakes and coffee, the flood stench, and the perfumes, I was right there with you. I also love the memorized bits of recipes and prayers.
Thank you sharing this beautiful slice of memory!

Barb Edler

Margaret, first of all I love your title. The specific smells and sounds of your poem are striking and relatable. I’ve smelled the aftermath of floods and see that sparkle of diamond anytime the sun beams on the river. I almost included the smell of honeysuckle in my own poem, there is just something about that scent that is unforgettable. My favorite line though was “First words”…ahhhh, yes! Gorgeous poem!

Dee

Hi Margaret,
Thank you for sharing your poem made me realize how long it has been since I had pancakes and coffee. I only get to eat pancakes when my daughter would make it. The stench of the house after the flood brought back memories of when Belize was hit by a hurricane and the entire house was under water.

Laura Langley

Margaret, your list of vivid details spark my own sensory memories. Even though this is your life represented it transports me to places in my own with similar or contrasting moments. Thanks for sharing!

gayle

Margaret-first the title grabbed me, then the list delighted me! Sparkle of diamond-what a beautiful phrase. And the quirk of “Itsy Bitsy Spider—I’m singing it now!

Kim Douillard

Ah…those first words!

Dixie K Keyes

Emily, when I read your prompt, my mind and heart sighed. It’s going to be a good day. Thank you.

Things I have memorized…

The Arkansas pines–the way the spring winds
lift needled branches into whispers and sighs.

The sound of an apology from Mother, decades late,
laden with regret.

The sound of the surf inside my heart after yoga
in Costa Rica, the wide ocean wind
wiping away the sweat of fear and worry.

The wings of the Great Blue Heron mastering the wind,
flying to me, its image on the clear lake
water penetrating my soul.

The pain of a needle in my eye, vision leaves.
Yet, sound and touch and heart remain.

cmargocs

The pairing of description and emotion round out these memories for all of us, Dixie. You’ve shown us awe, and connection, relief and regret in just a few lines.

Glenda M. Funk

Dixie, I’m here for this celebration of nature. I can hear those Arkansas pines and smell them, too. We visited Costa Rica last summer, and now I’m wishing I’d written about sea turtles laying their eggs, one of the most spiritual experiences of my life. Thank you for the inspiration.

Leilya Pitre

Such a beautiful tribute to your memories, Dixie! love each line with a vivid imagery, especially:”The wings of the Great Blue Heron mastering the wind.” Thank you!

Wendy Everard

Dixie, the polysyndeton in your final line is just beautiful. <3. Beautiful, moving poem.

brcrandall

Phew, Dixie. I’m trying to pinpoint the lines that stick out to me the most. They all do…those first four lines, however. Dang. I’ve never been to Arkansas and now I’m intrigued….and the sound of a mother’s apology decades later. Dank. You nailed this assignment.

Heidi

I love the unanticipated twist of the last 2 lines which made every previous line all the more seen to me. Thank you.

Jennifer Guyor Jowett

Emily, as someone who loves making lists (and crossing things off even more), this is a perfect invitation to write. And I’m hoping you’ll share the recipe for “mom’s beef noodle soup” which sounds like perfect comfort food for a spring that hasn’t quite sprung yet.

It Used To Be That Words Came Easily:

the spelling of them
(now I travel backwards 
along neural pathways 
just to find them)

The reading of them
(somewhere I lost 
track of the story
in seeing the craft)

the writing of them
(I find myself 
measuring their weight
in pounds of worth
shedding and shredding
dissecting and vivisecting
pruning even before thoughts
have fully formed)

The sound of them
(I’m sorry, I love you 
what happened?)

*my first poem landed here and wouldn’t move (the brevity of words felt like a cop out):

Things I Thought I Knew

myself

cmargocs

Jennifer, I was whirling and twirling down your neural pathways in your writer’s brain! And then BAM! that punchline of your response to the prompt. It had me smiling and shaking my head in agreement.

Glenda M. Funk

Jennifer,
Im constantly amazed by your unique approach to each prompt, and today I’m once again in awe of your brilliance. We get in the way of words, I think, instead of simply letting them have their way w/ us.

Angie

This definitely needs to be a spoken word poem, Jennifer! That’s my challenge for you hehe. Love it, the parentheses, the ending <3

Shaun

Jennifer,
Your image of “measuring their weight” resonated with me. Sometimes I feel like writing is like cooking without a recipe, and the measuring and sampling process can be overwhelming. Second-guessing. Discarding. Regretting, and “pruning even before thoughts have fully formed” – reminders that we need to let the words flow and give in to the act of expression.

gayle

Jennifer—your poem about the life of words captures so much. The ending-“I’m sorry, I love you/what happened?” opened a door I didn’t expect. And your postscript? Perfection! Y could have stopped there and I would have loved it!

brcrandall

This is a writer’s poem….one that can be used with students, discussed in groups, and set on the desk as a reminder. Thank you, Jennifer.

Susie Morice

Jennifer- I truly love the focus on our play with words… how perfect. And I certainly get the “used to be…” Darn it. Too real. This struck a chord deep to my bones:

find myself 

measuring their weight

in pounds of worth

shedding and shredding

dissecting and vivisecting

pruning even before thoughts

have fully formed)

You are magic with words, Jennifer. Every poem you write gives us a slice of that mojo. Thank you! Susie

Alexis Ennis

Oh my goodness I enjoyed this! The use of parenthesis as an aside and everything about words-I found myself nodding along!

Stacey Joy

Wow, Jennifer, you must have a peephole into my brain! I relate to ALL of this! Super guilty of

The reading of them

(somewhere I lost 

track of the story

in seeing the craft)

It’s the over-thinking that kills it for me. I love this and I feel comforted and validated ?!


Christine Baldiga

Thank you for this mentor text. I started writing about some childhood memories but along the way found myself reflecting on memories made with my husband, gone too soon.

Things I Miss

The scent of his subtle and spicy aftershave
His love of the outdoors
The desire to climb every mountain
His gentle way with words
Faith that moved mountains
Knowledge of all things construction
The sound of the garage door opening
His ability to fix all things broken
The rumble of his diesel truck heard throughout the neighborhood
His crazy ideas that turned into memories I’ll never forget
His ever present wanderlust
Hot off the griddle egg sandwiches and fluffy pancakes
His desire to retire early and see the world
The warmth of his body next to mine

Fran Haley

Oh, Christine – this pierces my heart, the missing. I think when we have a prompt like this that sparks us, what really needs to be written finds its way onto the page. So beautiful, friend.

cmargocs

Christine, your response to the prompt makes perfect sense–we build so many memories with the life partner we choose–and there is so much to miss when they are gone. I imagine this was easy to write, but hard to read once the words flowed…

Glenda M. Funk

Christine,
Your poem lists both familiar (to me) and specific (to you) details. This is gorgeous ambiguity. You’ve reminded me of Joan Didion this morning. Beautiful.

gayle

I am wiping away tears as I read this.

Nancy White

Christine, this is beautiful. Ohhh the beloved little things that are the essence of a wonderful and shared life together. I love this and how it appeals to all the senses.

Lisa Noble

Christine:
Oh, hell. That last line. And the things that never were, and the things that were and aren’t, now. Thank you so much for this. And thank you for sharing where this took you. I love that you shared your experiences of your beloved with us.

Stacey Joy

Christine, this is raw and hard to take in without shedding tears. I am sorry you lost your husband and I pray that you have many memories to cherish forever.

His gentle way with words

Faith that moved mountains

Beautiful descriptions of a man that deserves to be remembered forever. I have never known such a man. ?

Saba T.

Thank you for the mentor text and your poem, Emily. The “not mean it” lines in both are stuck in my brain and I think they’ll show up in one of the poems I write this month. The prompt for me could only be about one person, my Nani (maternal grandmother). Here goes.

Things I Must Forget

That unexpected phone calls always bring bad news.
That egg sandwiches have a perfect taste that only she could make.
That the brown glass bowls in the kitchen cabinet were once hers.
That she was learning to write when I was learning to write.
That she used to call every day on the landline and I raced to pick up.
That I broke her crystal cupcake stand, only it wasn’t hers anymore.
That I could’ve been there that morning, stayed the night before,
That it was a school night and I had a test to study for.

Dixie K Keyes

Dear Saba, this piece rings of regret, of love, of respect. It makes us feel. Thank you!

Jennifer Guyor Jowett

Saba, the loss you feel is palpable as is the regret for not being there – that second guessing that comes when we now know the outcome. This pulls at me to recall the times that I wasn’t there as much as I should have been. It makes me wonder how can to forget what must not be forgotten? This line carries all: “That I broke her crystal cupcake stand, only it wasn’t heres anymore.” Thank you for sharing the significance of your Nani – grandmothers are everything.

Saba T.

The second guessing takes up so much energy but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to let it go. That cupcake stand was gorgeous. Thank you for reading!

Glenda M. Funk

Saba,
I notice first the way your title speaks to grief and is a paradox to all you remember. That first line is a gut punch in its truth. Lovely lamentation.

Heather Morris

Saba, this is a poem full of feelings that I share about my grandfather. I feel the love and have some of the same objects in my cabinets that I take out to be close to him. I have been going back and forth about what to write about this morning. Your poem helped me decide.

Angie

Thank you for sharing this lovely poem about your grandma, Saba. I am stuck on “that she was learning to write while I was learning to write” so interesting. Thinking about this line makes me think about my own grandma for many reasons.

Ann

You had me at unexpected phone call and brought me all the last line. That last line will stay with me. How many tests pull us away from what means the most to us? I was thinking too, of my mother— I’ve all her recipes, but nothing ever turns out quite as perfect.

Wendy Everard

Saba, this was so lovely. It just broke my heart.

brcrandall

Emily, I loved the prompt for day two and the listing of memories to deliver readers to the ‘exact ingredients of mom’s beef noodle soup’ – in 8 lines, I know this moment in time…this detailing of someone else’s world, and it was delicious.

I swirled the roulette and thought about the last 5 decades and landed upon the year I studied abroad in London as a 19 year-old. I was invited to wake up that year (although I didn’t know it at the time). I set out to write a poem about my flatmates, but another draft arrived.

Wigmore Place – 1992

I didn’t know we were young,
dancing to Blues Traveler on cobbled brick roads 
and overlooking London lights 
from Primrose Hill.

I didn’t mind the hash-wagging 
or pint-pumping of pubs
or the smelling of sweat in clubs
as IRA dropped bombs to welcome 
a counterstory for colonial rule
(& plays written by William,
became intellectual spears 
to shake me up).

Give the lion the pen, 
and you’ll read more about the hunt.

I didn’t know about civil wars in
Liberia, Sudan, Congo, or Somalia, 
or how scattered blood
lies and flows
in shadows of sovereign rule 
and history.

What I knew was Literature of Exile, 
Carol Boyce Davies,
afternoon tea with Beryl Gilroy
and a diaspora of dreams –
the magic
of teaching Caliban
another language.

Kevin Hodgson

This dance between what one doesn’t know and what one thought they knew, the moments of living inside of it all with contradictions coming later, via memory and poetry, is powerful, Bryan.

Kevin

Saba T.

The entire poem is beautiful but the starting line is brilliant.
a diaspora of dreams” – I love the phrasing here.

Jennifer Guyor Jowett

Bryan, the contrast of the living of youth inside (alongside) a world aged by counterstories and scattered blood in history that repeats is stark. It lies in the aged cobbled streets against the energy of clubbing. If only what we know now hadn’t ever lived.

Glenda M. Funk

Bryan,
Im immediately drawn into your poem w/ the first line: “I didn’t know we were young” and think about the universality of that line and the significance of a nineteen-year-old’s experiences to define and shape the future. I love the line “counter story for colonial rule.” Have you seen “Belfast”? Travel forces use to know what we don’t know about, and that second to the last stanza is a harsh commentary of isolation. “Diaspora of dreams” is another amazing line. In its totality, your poem reminds me of Malcolm Copley’s “Exile’s Return,” and I’m not sure why.

cmargocs

There is a blessing in the smallness of the world when we are young, the blissful ignorance and privilege of living in our heads instead of our hearts…or maybe it’s the other way around.

Emily Cohn

Bryan – there’s so much I love about this poem. I love the start of it – I was thinking it would be a personal romp around London, but then you mixed in this discovery of what was happening around you behind the scenes. I saw the layering on of awareness, the Shakespeare mixing in with it all. I am glad you included links (hyperlinked poetry, what a fabulous idea) so I could learn and get context. Your last four lines are magic – tying all of these themes together. Thanks for sharing this!

Ann

Love this poem— I didn’t know we were young so perfectly captures not only youth, but the opposite too…for once the glass breaks (the crystal cupcake stand from Saba’s poem is still in my mind) it is impossible to un-know about war and the diaspora of dreams. Diaspora of dreams, such a beautiful phrase.

Shaun

Bryan,
I love how your memory of one place sends ripples to other places and events. The allusion to Caliban and the “magic” of awareness is very powerful. Well done!

Dave Wooley

I love the move of taking the hyper specific moment and expanding. “Counterstory for colonial rule” is a really intellectually fertile way of thinking about this. There’s so much here.

Charlene Doland

Bryan, you capture perfectly that cusp of adulthood, in your case charging off to London, and how as we experience life, many of our preconceived notions are shattered or at least altered.

Stacy

Thank you for the mentor text and this writing experience.

Things I Remember

The crack of the yellow bat on a whiffle ball 
Pulling the laces tight on my roller skates
The way the night sky looked when I was snuggled in a sleep bag in the back yard
The year we had snow days on 8 consecutive Mondays
How we were friends one day 
and then slowly, some how we just weren’t 
The way he leaned against my car 
How far I could stretch the cord to get a little privacy 
The not-quite-a-whistle sound grandpa made
The clanging of sap buckets 
The way he drove in reverse and how he made me laugh
How I learned I got the job from the janitor
How 30 years seemed like an eternity
The way each of your tiny hands wrapped around my finger
The way she tugged my ear when she was nervous
How he called himself Batman and grandpa was his Robin
The dance moves, the dimples, and the joy 

The way I expected everything to be different

Emily Cohn

Stacy – I got lots of cozy New England feelings reading this poem. I love the snowy Mondays – I was celebrating those bonus, three-day weekends with you! The friendships that “some how we just weren’t” – yes it’s true – that feeling is so bittersweet. I also love the teenager stretching the cord for privacy! Relatable. You have picked specific moments of joy and warmth that conveyed it in such a lovely way. Thanks for sharing these moments with us!

Fran Haley

Stacy, first: how far to stretch the cord to get a little privacy – was the phone avocado green?? Mine was, and I stretched it to at least twice its original length! So many beautiful images of life and love here in your lines. Fascinating how you learned you got the job from the janitor (the holders of secret power and authority beyond imaginings). The truth of that last line is absolutely striking.

Kevin Hodgson

How far I could stretch the cord to get a little privacy”
A reference no kid today would get, but which immediately gave me an image of the curly phone cord stretched around the door corner …
Kevin

Saba T.

How far I could stretch the cord to get a little privacy” The struggles of our teenage!

Christine Baldiga

I felt winter warmth reading these words referring to snow days and sap buckets and night skies. Such a stirring list of memories bringing me joy and unveiling a variety of memories of my own.

Jennifer Guyor Jowett

Stacy, so many of your memories pair up with mine – and I love that I’m remembering them because of your words here today. The cord stretch and sap buckets and the crack of the yellow bat are pulled right from my childhood, and I thank you for that!

Ann

Amazing, Stacy, how your snapshot moments have captured so many memories. I happily recall the snow days, the friends one day and not the next, the stretched out phone cord in the kitchen, the thought that 30 years was forever, the tiny hands, the dance moves and the joy. Your last line closes the poem like an elastic band around a bulging photo album. Just perfect.

Lisa Noble

Stacy. There is so very much here. You took me back to both my own childhood roller skates and sleeping bags, and also to my children’s, who gathered sap with their grandfather (and now I’m in tears, as we lost him last July). I am amazed by how much you packed into these lines. And then asked all of us to reflect on that last one. Didn’t we all? Thank you.

Glenda M. Funk

Emily,
Thank you for tapping into hidden memories in this seemingly simple but complicated mentor poem.

the way my father…

read The Amplified Bible with a magnifying glass
tapped his white, red-tipped cane
jutted his upper falsie at babies
sang  “This is My Father’s World” off key 
ran away from Arkansas School for the Blind
sat in the theater for my line in “The Sound of Music”
asked me not to leave the hospital the last night
died without me the next morning 
missed all my vital life events

Susie Morice

Oh wow, Glenda. These are real jolts. At first I smiled at the teeth… and the sweetness of his being there for the one line….and then the last three lines: wowza. “Vital”… perfect word choice. Your poem has my head spinning with my own recollections… I will likely find your poem as a mentor to my own effort later today when I get a chance to write. Thank you. Susie

Stacy

Glenda,
Your words and memories moved me. You captured so much in these few lines. Thank you for sharing.

Fran Haley

Glenda, I remember a previous poem you wrote about your father and the girlhood you. This one is is just as piercing and poignant, with the specific details about your dad- singing the hymn off-key and coming to see the play for your one line… there are things here that remind me of my own father. He died suddenly; this year makes twenty that he’s been gone. A kindergartener happened to ask me this week, out of the blue: “Do you have a dad?” I had to explain yes, I do, but he’s not living anymore. She asked if I miss him… oh, the searing, mystical insight of little ones. I often think about how much he’s missed and all the things I wish I could tell him – and ask him. Your poem has moved me so, this morning – thank you.

Emily Cohn

Glenda – this portrait of your father captures moments big and small … but they’re all big. I feel like I learned so much in a few lines and I want to learn more about running away. I feel your closeness, your love, your admiration, your loss in this piece. I liked your form, too.

Saba T.

You weaved so many emotions into this poem. Your father sounds like a wonderful man. Thank you for sharing these memories of him with us.

Dixie K Keyes

Hi Glenda, I love how poetry offers us such a space to re-image our loved ones now gone–a way to rise them up like the story of Lazarus.

Christine Baldiga

You captured such feeling in so few of words. I feel heart ache and pain as I read your thoughts. Thank you for sharing this vulnerable piece.

Jennifer Guyor Jowett

Glenda! each of your tightly placed sensory details takes a snapshot of your father and turns it into a video (the movement of the magnifying glass, the tapping cane, the jutting falsies). And that word – vital – placed against a last night and the ask, even as he missed all of yours. That’s a punch.

Barb Edler

Glenda, wow, your poem strikes a deep resounding haunting chord for me. The specific images of your father are indelible. I am overcome by the way you are able to build such a strong emotional pull– “missed all my vital life events” What an incredibly powerful closing line! Hugs!

Kim Johnson

Glenda, I had a Sunday School teacher who played the piano and sang “This is My Father’s World” off key, too. I can still hear the lyrics of Mrs. Flexer singing the first verse at the end of the full group Sunday School kickoff before we went into breakout groups. Some things stay with you forever, and that’s one of them. I love reading your lines of your poem today – the images of each line come fully into vision as I imagine those moments that you share. You managed to pull on the ol’ heartstrings here today at the end…..

gayle

Glenda-yet another poem bringing me to tears. So many moments of love and sorrow and regret.

brcrandall

Glenda, It’s these three lines for me: “sat in the theater for my line in “The Sound of Music” / asked me not to leave the hospital the last night / died without me the next morning … so much in these three lines….and I love the title.

Heidi

I want to hug you. What a beautiful, heart-wrenching, poignant piece of love.

Stacey Joy

Glenda, my friend, I felt this poem in my core.

died without me the next morning 

missed all my vital life events

I had that same experience but it was my mom who died as soon as my sister and I left the house. Something about that is always hard to grasp.

The jutting of your dad’s upper falsies is hilarious. He must’ve been a real hoot!

Thank you, Glenda, for these precious memories.

Charlene Doland

This poem tugged at my heart in each line, Glenda. “sat in the theater for my line in ‘The Sound of Music’” is such an understated, poignant description of his love for you.

Maureen Y Ingram

I like the way you honed in on memories of one beloved person for this poem (I wish I had thought to do the same!); I feel as if I have been given a precious glimpse of your Dad. Loved “jutted his upper falsie at babies” and his singing off key…oh what a heartbreaking ending to your poem, what a loss to carry all your life.

Fran Haley

Emily, thank you for such inspiration this morning. Your poem and Maria’s stirred so many of my own core memories. This carries a real zap: “How to be happy and not mean it.”

I tried not to overthink, just to capture what rose to the surface…

random core memories

the cadence of my grandmother’s voice, reading
fat pencils in kindergarten
the smell of struck kitchen matches
having to throw myself against the stubborn front door
  of my childhood home, to get it open
ironing my father’s uniforms
the smell of his shoe polish
the vaporizer sputtering in my room at night
the rattling crescendo, decrescendo of cicadas
saying it’s going to be all right without knowing how
finding sharks’ teeth in the new gravel of an old country road
lines from dialogues in my 7th grade French textbook
soft-petal satin of new baby skin
that one wonky piano key (is it D or E?)
the mustiness of my grandparents’ tiny old church
the weight of the study Bible in my hands
seeing you for the first time, across the crowded room
the cadence of our granddaughter’s voice, reading

Glenda M. Funk

Fran, your memories are so textured. I can see each one becoming more than a line but a poem each it’s own.

Stacy

“Saying it’s going to be alright without knowing how” *This line stopped me. I read it multiple times.
I love the way you tied the first and last line together. Just beautiful!

Kevin Hodgson

that one wonky piano key (is it D or E?)”
Ha
Probably Eb, and I can hear the wobble of it in the poem
🙂
Kevin

cmargocs

Fran, you nearly had me in tears, especially with the return to the cadence of reading. The sputtering of the vaporizer, how could I forget? And I’m glad to see I’m not the only one who couldn’t stick to the same number of lines as the mentor text. A sign of our (graceful) age, with an arsenal of memories, maybe?

Kim Johnson

Fran, that circular ending loops generations of readers in such a sweet way. A reading legacy! The wonky key and shark’s teeth and mustiness of an old church – – the way you weave these all together with smell and sound and other sensory delights is so uniquely you! This is beautifully captured.

Linda Mitchell

I am there…such rich memories. Each line takes me to a place I feel like I know.

Paul W. Hankins

“The One-Time, Next-Time Onions”

I remember:

one time

the seed packet tucked inside
the plastic wrapping of the loaf
of bread we used to make toast

a prize inside the package, 
a packet of onion seeds for planting
and we did, he and i, plant

i was old enough to know
that the onions would not grow
overnight, but the next morning
i walked to the patch and considered
the ground and what was just beneath

in the dirt by the old tool shed
he set to work creating a space
removing grass, creating rows

and he said, “the next time
you come onions will be here; 
they just need a little time.”

i was old enough to know
it would be the next holiday,
the next summer, the next time
i might be brought here,
if there was a next time

next time

the green shoots grew in season
and grandmother cursed the onions
but he would never pull them

i missed many onion seasons
as the years passed; but i knew
he would tend to and keep them

i did not attend his funeral
when he died of a heart attack
about ten years later to the day, 
a decade, i’m told, in onion years

now:

The thing I have come to know
in the passing of time is limited
to that which I put into the ground.

And the tender shoot of a hosta
as it presents, purple and pointed,
is a response to due care given.

That my hands, older now, were his hands.
A moment tending to this season’s flower bed
a communion of dusty souls, with water enough

from eyes for which I make excuses: 
one-time, next-time onions tears
and I curse them, but I will not pull them
as I let one or two drop onto earth turned.

Glenda M. Funk

Paul, this is simply amazing. I notice the symbolic seeds become so much more than onions for you. Repeating “next time,” the interior thoughts set in italics, the images of growth are all tender and effective. Love it.

Fran Haley

Stunningly symbolic, this story-poem. So many beautiful phrases. An early line that caught me: considering “the ground and what was just beneath.” So full of expectation. The whole poem has layers wrapped around layers…like an onion, like life.

Kevin Hodgson

This line … it struck me in the heart …

a decade, i’m told, in onion years”

Kevin

Lisa Noble

that was the one that got me, too, Kevin!

Wendy Everatd

Paul, I just loved every bit of this.

Jennifer Guyor Jowett

Paul, this is everything. The title (weighty and whimsical at once), the passage of time In onion years and through onion seasons), the symbolism (what is put into the ground in both life and death), the lowercase i (and its shift to I). So, so much to love here.

cmargocs

“and I curse them, but I will not pull them”…this poem strums the heartstrings loudly but tenderly.

Dave Wooley

There’s so much to love here from the unity of the imagery and your phrasing. But I think the thing I love the most is the rhythm that you create as you move us through time in this and point us toward the future at the end of the poem.

Scott M

Paul, this is so good! Thank you for writing and sharing this. There are so many wonderful nuances here: the lowercase “i” of the past, the reflection of “the passing of time is limited / to that which I put into the ground,’ and the realization “That my hands, older now, were his hands.” So good!

Lisa Noble

I don’t even know where to start. There is so much here. So much beauty, so much pain, so much growth. The image of your grandmother railing about the onions, and your grandfather knowing that they needed to stay, for you. That’s the one that is staying in my head. And the whole now section takes me to my own grandmother, who died last month at 101. I think of her whenever I work in my garden, because she was the person in my life who shared her garden with me.

Linda Mitchell

Good Morning Poets,
Happy Poetry Month. I will likely only write drafts here on the weekends as my school life has become busy. But, I’ll keep commenting when I can. Emily, what a great prompt! All the sensory details in Geisbrecth’s poem and yours are wonderful…that line about not meaning it. Wow. We all have at least one of those in us. Thank you for leading today.

This is a few lines of a draft strictly following Geisbrect’s pattern:

His face in the window looking for me
the scent of a bushel of tomatoes warm in the sun
how many jars a canning shelf holds
how to mention Mother but not the hurts
rules of the road in a sedan with no heat

Kim Johnson

Linda, oh the face in the window! A beloved pet I envision…..how wonderful that the face shows the heart. And the mention of loved ones without the hurt – it’s hard to do!

Susie Morice

Linda – i love how each one of these lines is so evocative. Each has a poem attached to that — when you get time—- will be killa poems on their own. You know how to pack a line to take us with you to that snapshot… to that feeling, that moment. I loved these. So rich. Susie

Fran Haley

Goodness, Linda, so much story packed in these few lines! I can smell those tomatoes and see the jars as clearly as if I were there.

Glenda M. Funk

Linda,
How ever you choose to be here this month I’m just glad you’re here. That first line touches the heart of this dog lover, or is the line about a child? Makes no difference. I love it.

Kevin Hodgson

how to mention Mother but not the hurts”
Wow. Yeah.
Kevin

Barb Edler

Linda, after reading your poem, I want to start over. Love how you created such strong images in this poem that appeal to touch. Your final two lines reverberate a whole bucket full of emotions. Powerful poem!

Kevin Hodgson

Remembering

shadows in a concrete corner
of the abandoned apartment pool,
the water as green as sludge,
thicker than mud

broken nails hammered wrong
uneven boards wiggling slats
as stairs on the tree to a sky fort,
a children’s’ court

jumping bogs in rainy seasons, 
slipping feet squishing and sticking
in the rich dark peaty wonder,
each move, a blunder

the grove of small pines,
perfectly protected from sight,
the places we wandered to,
without knowing it; we knew

— Kevin

Linda Mitchell

What a wonderful journey into these places of the past. Wonderful sensory details of that sludge, squishing, pines–I always recall the scent at just the word.

Susie Morice

Kevin – This is such a clear reminiscing that took me right back in time. The sludge goo—- ew yes. The boards to the treehouse instantly had me at the big ol’ maple where my brother built his hideaway just out of reach of my pesky little sister reach— so effective! The feel of your feet in that boggy, “dark peat” — perfect sensory choice. And the tenderness of the “we” in the last stanza brings a wave of intimacy to the whole poem. Lovely. Susie

Kevin Hodgson

I always love how one poem can make a connection with another (memory or poem or story). Thanks, Susie
Kevin

Fran Haley

So rich, vivid, and real…early love of the outdoors, spawning. Children DO know without knowing. And oh, the power of place.

Kevin Hodgson

Place is what I was after, for sure, Fran.
Kevin

Kim Johnson

Kevin, such memories! It reminds me of some of my own places of the past like tree swings and paths that grew over with algae and bogginess. You take us there with you today!

Shaun

Kevin,
Your poem transported me to all of those “secret” outdoor places where the neighborhood kids would congregate and explore. I could see each space and how much fun they were.

Charlene Doland

“a children’s court” indeed! Your poem reminded me of my own childhood!

Kim Johnson

Emily, I love a list poem! The wedding dance is precious – always remember! Your mentor poem is a great inspiration. In the mornings on my way to work, I don’t listen to the radio. About five years ago, I declared my car my prayer chamber for my work commute so that I pray for my children by name every day. I pray my way to work with a fairly memorized order of prayer, adding and rearranging along a basic prayer list. I like the ACTS method – Adoration, Confession, Thanksgiving, Supplication, and some days I use that as a guide when I’m in between meetings or feeling the need for a quick prayer hug. And thought I shouldn’t be, I am continually amazed at the peace that this brings to my heart. 

My Prayer

Thank you, Lord, for this day – for our health, for our blessings, for our family, for your love.
Forgive us of our sins and all those bad thoughts I sometimes think and words I mumble. 
Be with our MAMA children – with Mallory, Marshall, Ansley, Andrew and the ones who love them – the other Andrew, and Selena and any you are preparing to join our family. 
Be with our BRASS Grandchildren – Beckham, River, Aidan, Saylor, and Sawyer, and keep them healthy and safe. Help them grow in Your love and wisdom. 
Be with Dad and Ken, help them to make good choices, and be with Briar, too Lord, helping us to love and be patient and kind to one another. Help us all to stay healthy and safe and always be loving. And knowing how to respond to others and to situations. 
Be with all those who are sick and suffering, who have lost their way. Bring them peace. 
Guide us in our work that we will be good servants and good stewards. 
Guide us with lights along the path to keep things clear in the purposes you have planned for us. 
Stay close by us and hear us as we pray throughout the day. 
In your name I pray, Amen. 

1 Thessalonians 5:17 Pray without ceasing,

Linda Mitchell

How beautiful and sacred…what a gift this would be for loved ones on Easter Morning. Amen.

Fran Haley

Kim, I love and honor the idea of a “prayer chamber.” I think it is right to be amazed at the peace prayer brings (for grace and mercy never cease to be amazing). Just reading your prayer brings me peace – I’ve a sense of a child cloaked in love, wrapped in a parent’s embrace, whispering the words against a strong shoulder.

Glenda M. Funk

Kim,
Thank you for the context and for sharing that prayer methodology. Your prayerful poem touches my heart and like your many other family-focused poems let’s us know you in a personal, and spiritual way for which I’m grateful. You are such a caregiver. Like you, I did not tune into the radio or other broadcasts while on the way to work. The time was for reflection, running through the day, and prayer. I’ve always loved that verse and the way we are to always have a prayerful mindset, even though I fail miserably. Beautiful poem.

Britt

Stunning prayer poem. I love the idea of the car as your prayer chamber. Thank you for offering this tender, vulnerable piece.

Barb Edler

Kim, I am completely moved by your prayer poem! What an amazing gift you’ve shared through your powerful poem! Loved the verse you include at the end! Bless you!

Stacey Joy

Kim, I adore this prayer with my whole heart. I love reading prayers, writing prayers, and speaking them. So much power in all forms. I especially appreciate how much your prayer is for OTHERS. I remember learning that the more I pray for others, the more God will automatically take care of me.

I don’t know if you had a chance to watch the recording from The Write Time, but I read your Golden Shovel from Rhythm and Rhyme. I meant to reach out and completely forgot. You are such an inspiration!

Thanking God right now for YOU!! ?