Our Host: Padma Venkatraman
Photo by Connecticut Head Shots
Padma Venkatraman is the author of The Bridge Home, Born Behind Bars, A Time to Dance, Island’s End and Climbing the Stairs. Her books have sold over ¼ million copies, received over 20 starred reviews, and won numerous awards: Walter Dean Myers Award, South Asia Book Award, Golden Kite, ALA Notable etc. Her poetry has appeared in Poetry Magazine and been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. “An exquisite novel in verse by one of my favorite poets,” says Newbery honor winner, Margarita Engle, about Padma’s upcoming novel, Safe Harbor, which School Library Journal called a “must read” in a starred review. Inspired by Padma’s doctorate in oceanography, Safe Harbor features a girl who rescues a stranded seal.When she’s not writing, Padma loves teaching and sharing her love for reading, writing and science. Visit Padma’s website to download free teacher and writer resources (www.padmavenkatraman.com) and arrange an event via her speaking agency, The Author Village (https://theauthorvillage.com/presenters/padma-venkatraman/).
Inspiration
My latest novel, SAFE HARBOR, is about two children (an Indian immigrant girl and a Mexican-American boy) who become friends when they find a seal pup strangled in plastic trash on a New England beach. As they attempt to save it and help rehabilitate it so it can return to the ocean, they reach out to create community.
But at first, Geetha, the Indian girl, is very lonely, and she finds refuge in nature, music and words. She writes poetry, like I did as a child (Safe Harbor is my second novel in verse). And she misses many things about India – among them the books that she couldn’t bring with her.
When she enters the public library in her hometown, she is as overjoyed as I felt when I first walked into a free library and realized I could access any book I wanted, without having to pay a cent. That building filled with books was a bastion of democracy. Little wonder that Geetha, in Safe Harbor, loves slipping into the library.
Although the main arc of the story of Safe Harbor has to do with the environment and rescuing the seal, there are many threads woven into the fabric of the story, as with all my novels. And one of the threads is of how we find Safe Harbor in different ways.
Sometimes, we “build hope with our hands” as Geetha does when she restores sand dunes on the beach. Sometimes we search for safe spaces where we write poetry.
Process
Below is the poem entitled Safe Spaces from SAFE HARBOR. Read it and then think about a place that feels like a safe harbor to you – and bring that space alive in a poem.
And once you are finished with your poem, please consider visiting www.diverseverse.com to check out the wealth of poetry resources and encourage your students to submit their work this April to our annual call for poetry by young people.
Padma’s Poem
SAFE SPACES
I go to the public library after school
as often as I can.
I love how opening a book is like opening a door,
taking me to a different time and place,
into someone else’s head and heart.
I love the silence of libraries,
broken only by the leafy-breeze sound
of someone turning the page of a book.
If Library was a kind of perfume,
I’d want to spray it on my hands:
the scent of words
preserved and passed down,
sometimes from an author who lives ages ago
to a reader who exists here and now.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
Brave Space
I breathe in
the world has never been safe
I breathe out.
A screen worthy montage of places
flashes through my mind.
I felt safe enough
to be brave
even if there were a hundred ways I could’ve died.
The south field at the farm.
The woods on Bethel.
My room on Boots Street.
The hill in Hagerstown.
The upstairs on Woodley.
Mrs. Meier-Fisher’s room at the end of the hall.
Papaw’s recliner.
Mama’s kitchen table.
Daddy’s stage.
The barn.
On a blanket under the oak tree out front.
So many places
to be
to grow
to (maybe someday but hopefully not today) die.
The Safest Place
No place like home,
my mother always said.
I didn’t believe her at first.
Long sleepovers.
nights missing home,
first trips without my parents.
All the places, the things, the journeys, the people, the spaces
none of them where like home.
Nothing like the laughter that occurs
under our roof.
The food that is enjoyed around our table.
The tears and embraces shared within the living room.
And the room that embodies me. Everything I’ve loved since I was a girl. Like a time capsule. Forever reflecting a little girls room.
The warmth of home is not valuable
until it becomes invaluable.
And how does one replicate that feeling of home,
once they leave?
Victoria,
I love your description of your OG home as a safe space and how other “homes” don’t feel like one’s first home.
Victoria, I loved this distinction:
“The warmth of home is not valuable
until it becomes invaluable.”
And your last question — I loved how it leaves it up to us to consider the answers to this.
Great poem!
Padma, I’m late to the game, but thank you for this lovely prompt! I loved your poem — especially the line about wanting to “spray…on [your] hands” that scent of books! Me, too. Your poem prompted me to write an ode to my daughter, Allie, who is studying to be a librarian right now.
Oh, the Places We’ve Been! (to Allie)
At the far end of town,
where Sharon’s Rose grows,
while I booped on your nose,
and tickled your toes,
where you I exposed
to your first bit of prose
you memorized The Lorax.
Young you still were,
(Though I don’t know your age),
But your small voice rang sure
As I turned every page –
We were far from the angst
Of adolescent rage
You remembered and read The Lorax.
Sunny days on the floor
As we turned lazy pages
And you clamor for more
As The Doc, he engages
Sunlight and strawberries
(one still stains the pages)
You recited The Lifted Lorax.
Now, you’re studying your lessons
To become a librarian
In marathon sessions
The call you heard, clarion
“Make more money!” some say
But not you, you contrarian
Who chooses to read –
To young ears who still need,
Little kids who still breathe
Bookish air, their dire need –
The tale of the Lifted Lorax.
I hope your daughter enjoys her future role. She has chosen a beautiful path. You explain and illustrate her so beautifully. Allie has a fantastic mom. I have no doubt you will continue travel places together, and find great words to share them with.
Safe Harbor
Libraries are safe —
Hubs for diverse, inclusive
programs for us all.
Thank you, Padma, for your writing (I was fortunate enough to read an ARC of Safe Harbor from NetGalley). This was a great prompt and I kept trying to NOT write about libraries. I was unsuccessful. I will revisit this prompt at a later date.
What a relevant topic right now. Libraries are safe. They have always been a safe place for me. At least they SHOULD be safe. Literature is a gift for all ages and libraries help every gain access to that. They are truly safe places. I love it.
Tomorrow I’ll write a whimsical poem, but today…
If I’m being honest
there is no “safe harbor”
maybe there never was
we can cling to comfort
fall into routine
turn down the tv
or maybe turn it up loud
to drown out the chaos;
pulling down the shades
don’t mean whatever’s
out there is gone,
you just decided
not to see.
So i’ll pray prayers
With my boy so he
Can fall asleep,
I’ll say, “c’mon baby,
that’s never gonna
happen” and put my
forehead to hers
and make her believe,
and then lie awake
wishing for faith
hoping not to be a liar
conjuring a resolute
countenance, but
knowing, on the inside,
that we have become
unmoored.
I hear you, Dave! There’s so much that’s wrong with the world right now. It’s painful and definitely not whimsical. Your poem is right on.
Thank you for sharing it.
Gosh, I struggle with writing whimsical these days as well. I so appreciate the way you’ve captured the unmooring of us right now and the lack of safe harbor and the images in the second stanza of how you try to hold on to hope.
Dave, with two kids of my own…boy, I felt this. Loved this.
Padma, I loved your prompt–and your poem even more. My piece is feeling a bit cliche–spurred on a bit by the memoir I am currently reading about a couple undertaking a 600+ mile walk when faced by the loss of their home and a difficult medical diagnosis. While their hardships are not my experience, their relationship resonates.
My Safe Place
When clouds roll in
threatening storms and unsettled air
stirring troubling thoughts
When skies are clear
skin warmed
emotions sailing high above
like a kite on a string
Whether the weather
is calm or turbulent
there is only one place for me
A place of comfort
of support
A place to relax
and be myself
No judgement
no worries
no doubts
It’s my place
our place
nowhere but everywhere
all at once
It’s my safe place
It’s the only place for me
My place is with you
Kim Douillard
4/14/25
Ah, what a beautiful tribute to that special “you.” I love this stanza so much:
Kim, this was so sweet! I loved how it built suspense leading up to the end.
Thank you, Padma for this prompt. I loved Safe Harbor, by the way!
Safe Spaces
A book is my safe space.
The words inside its covers
wrap me
like a warm blanket
transporting me to other lives
with their imperfections,
loves, jealousies, wants and desires.
My family is my safe space.
even with the drama,
which happens often,
whenever we’re together,
I don’t feel alone or lonely.
Everyone is free
to be who they are
and who they’re not.
I want to be my own safe space
to wrap myself in warmth,
to be who I am
and who I’m not,
to feel that I’m
complete.
Whole.
Enough.
Elisa, beautiful. I love the description of family here:
What a sign of health! And to have it for you too. So important. “…complete. Whole. Enough.” Yes, you are.
Your safe spaces are some of my safest spaces too. You do a great job of illustrating the many aspects of safe that exist. And the natural human desire to feel like we can be our own heroes, wrap ourselves up, and keep ourselves safe.
My mind is
Usually chaos
Racing, running,
Tumbling, down
Up, and sideways
Thoughts of what
If? What then?
What next?
Did I…?
Overthinking
Over speaking
Understepping
Mess!
But, shhh
Finally I find–
quiet
Steel plates
or rubber bumpers
Breathe
Count
Down
Up
Rack
Calm
Ashley, this is perfect. the chaos tumbling down the page in short bursts. Then the bolded quiet. So important.
Okay, everyone! I have enjoyed reading all your poems so far – and tried to comment on all of them – I think I have done – if I missed any, please forgive me. I am now off to bed! Good night, all and thank you for making today so enjoyable!
I can’t wait to read your book, Padma! Thank you for this prompt. I was thinking about the summer in Gloucester, Massachusetts.
Garden Harbor
At the edge
Of the rocky harbor
Someone planted
A garden of bright flowers.
They sway in the summer breeze,
Which lifts their fragrance
Towards the sea.
The salty air is overcome
By their sweet scent.
Pink and yellow foxglove
Stand like soldiers at the border.
Black-eyed Susans and daisies
Gather in great golden bunches.
The alliums’ regal purple heads
Arise above all.
The pale green inchworm
Cinches its way up
The tall stem of the coneflower
In slow, rhythmic curves.
Bees are beckoned
To come, sip and savor.
Butterflies are called to linger
On each delicate petal.
The flowers greet each
Creature who enters
With colorful delight,
A welcome for the senses.
Someone planted a garden
At the edge of the rocky harbor.
Joanne
Thank you for this vacation in a poem!
Love all the flower and color imagery and the bookends of
Well, great, Joanne! Now I have to add another place to my vacation list. You make it sound so lovely and inviting.
Oh the inchworm inching up the stalk – what a wonderful image to capture! Love the close-up camera here.
P.S. And thanks for wanting to read SAFE HARBOR! Much appreciated
I looked at this prompt several hours ago but couldn’t find immediate inspiration, other than thinking my safe harbour happens between the pages of the book when I’m engrossed in it. I haven’t written in a week due to a spring break abroad with students that took up not only my time but my mental energy.
Then I got a text from my niece and decided that safe harbour doesn’t have to be only a place, and I found my inspiration in how I serve as a safe harbour for others. The incident in the poem is taken from today’s incident where my niece had already faced family judgment before she texted me the most beautiful engagement pictures taken in Switzerland today when her girlfriend proposed.
I’m not completely happy with the poem, but im completely in love with their engagement. And I’m still happier with the poem than I am with my family at the present moment.
Safe harbour isn’t always
a place
but more a person
a dependable mooring,
like the aunt you send
the engagement pictures to
because the rest of your family
are self-righteous and judgmental,
as if only heterosexual couples
are allowed into port.
Cheri,
Love this:
So true!
I like how you wove harbor symbolism and vocabulary throughout.
Congrats on your niece’s engagement!
Glad she can count on you!
What a lovely poem honoring your niece. I sure hope you sent it to her. And congratulations to all!
Gosh. You should be so happy with this poem! I am so glad you are there for them – what a gift that is. You are absolutely right, Safe Harbour isn’t always a place, it can indeed be a person. Also, though – I want to say – it’s easy to keep on tinkering with a piece – while revision is vital it is also vital to get a feel for when to stop! Not easy and I am not sure I always know!
Love the contrast to the ports. Family isn’t always the safest place, sadly. Thanks for sharing this piece and being that safety.
Very strong statement. So glad you have your aunt. Hopefully our world will become less judgmental. Congratulations on the engagement.
a dependable mooring… Lucky that she has a dependable mooring like you in her life. I like the port metaphor throughout.
Prayer Chain of Love
My aunt’s brain tumor,
the size of an orange,
must be removed.
Our family prays
hoping to create a harbor
of love to carry her through
the difficult eight-hour surgery.
Barb Edler
14 April 2025
This image of prayer as “hoping to create a harbor/of love” is so very beautiful. I will pray for her, too, Barb. This is terrifying. May she be well!
I am so sorry, Barb! I will add my prayers to help “create a harbor of love” for your aunt. This is truly a difficult time for you and the family. Hugs.
I am so sorry, Barb! I will add my prayers to help “create a harbor of love” for your aunt. This is truly a difficult time for you and the family. Hugs.
Oh my gosh, Barb – I’m sending a harbor full of love and healing.
Susie
Barb, I’m so sorry to hear this news about your aunt. I think you might have posted a photo of her on your blog in March at some point. Is this the same one? I know that this is an anxious time. I’m holding you in my prayers.
Thanks, Kim, but I don’t think so. She just got out of surgery. They couldn’t get the whole tumor but the prognosis seems favorable.
A safe harbor of love sounds perfect, Barb. Good luck to all of you!
My prayers join yours, dear Barb. Your simple and direct words made their way straight to my heart.
My prayers join your harbor of love seeking peace and comfort for your Aunt and your family. A harbor of love is an amazing image of hope and support.
Barb,
The tone here is perfect. The first three lines are objective, reportorial, and the paradox is delivering tragic news in this way has a subjective effect. We understand the sadness and the family desire to be a safe harbor for someone y’all love. “harbor of love” is a gorgeous metaphor. I’m so sorry your aunt is facing this scary surgery and wish her safe passage through the ordeal.
Beautiful poem, Barb. I see the update below that she came through the surgery and has a good prognosis. Here’s to that! Praying!
Barb – I can’t imagine what your aunt is enduring. I have an image of the family in my head, metaphorically holding hands across miles, every which way, a whole network of love and prayer to buoy your aunt and carry her through. I pray for best possible outcomes, too. Your poem strikes straight and deep into the heart.
Hi Barb,
I missed your poem yesterday and I’m just now reading it. Sending lots of love and prayers for your aunt‘s successful brain surgery. My mom had a brain tumor and pulled through the surgery like a champ so I believe the same for your aunt. Brain surgeons are special people. I’m sending an extra prayer up for the surgeon and the care team. Warm hugs my friend.,
safe place – promises, promises
this is you, I have you
you and I
inside outside whining laughing
busy calm together apart
you and I, on repeat
always
yes, you are my safe place
is it possible
you might break my heart?
well, then
I’d be in the woods
surrounded by trees
their loving embrace
listening
how dangerous it is
to trust so fully
another human being
I see the hollow of her eyes
at the collapse
of their love, his lies
years upon years of joys,
frustrations, the messy mix
of a marriage
all delivered in deception
he’s been living
another life
too
is it possible
you might break my heart
this way?
well, then
I’d be in the mountains
resting on the rocky outcropping
feeling the cold
listening
you and I, so long, so right
what signs did she miss
am I missing signs
well, then
I’d be sitting quietly
with my pen and notebook
listening
knowing
my safe place
lies within
Maureen,
I love the journey of this poem from the certainty of togetherness to questioning heartbreak to the repetition of conditional solaces in different natural settings. Love that the poem ends with the narrator finding solace in writing and listening to herself.
Powerful ending!
I love both the fact that there is a safe harbor here in someone else’s love as well as the safe harbor of one’s own strength – a beautiful acknowledgement of both
What a gorgeous poem, Maureen. I love the listening a places you’ll be. The trusting is indeed difficult especially when one has caused harm. Your poem reminds me of The Runaway Bunny since the mother becomes different things to always be there for her little one.
When I step through the door
The same smell greets me.
The faint scent of cleaning supplies
And fresh-baked pastries.
The house is small
But cozy.
It feels like a blanket
Of warmth
When I step inside.
My safe place
Away from the stress of school and work.
My parents’ smiles shine at me.
It reminds me that
I will always be welcome here.
I do not need to
Hide who I am.
I am home.
Precious poem! I hope you’ll share this with your parents. I know no better gift than
Glad there is safety in home for you here. Beautiful and lovely piece.
As a parent, I have to ask you to please share this with your parents. My daughter wrote a song once that she sang to us and I can still hear her voice. I love the love in this poem!
Hannah, I’m with the others; you definitely need to share this wonderful poem with your folks. And I love your last lines: “I will always be welcome here. / I do not need to / Hide who I am. / I am home.”
A blanket of warmth…I do not need to hide who I am… Yes! This is home! What a beautiful tribute to the people who make it so.
How lovely that you have a place of escape from the outside stressors. I love the scents that you included.
Padma, I love The Bridge Home and have taught it to my students. What a treat to have you lead the prompt today. I can’t believe I’m just hearing of your new book. It sounds like a book after my heart. I wish I had more time to work on a poem with this prompt today. I thought of so many things I could write about.
Safe Harbor (for a night)
After slipping the lines
It’s the cold I remember
And the anticipation of my first multi-day
Voyage
Charleston to St Martin the goal
Aboard a 51-foot catamaran
We cross the Gulf Stream
Goodbye to land and our stomachs.
Lost Breakfast not far in.
Swells building
Like towers as we ride twenty-foot swells
Like a surfboard.
By midnight
On a moonless night, day three
On no food or sleep
Gale-force winds threaten.
Main sail must lower
In the black night
Coast Guard buzzing on the radio
Commanding lookout for a person gone overboard on a cruise ship.
I look to surging swells surrounding us
No hope or chance tonight.
Only one tether to attach to a PDF
Captain climbs out of the safety of the cockpit
Wrestles with sail
The halyard a whip
Wrestles free.
I kneel on cockpit bench
Clutch the foredeck
Pray as
Cousin Jay tightens his PDF
Steps to foredeck
Untethered.
Please don’t let me lose him
On this dark night.
Please let him be alright.
Finally they return
Jay sits beside me
Tears trailing from my eyes.
And he laughs,
“I was born for this!”
And I laugh too.
Not because it’s funny
But because he is there.
In the morning,
Pink skies bloom
Not a sailor’s delight.
By afternoon,
Water funnels,
Lightning,
Downpours of rain
Entering cell range
The dinging of alarms.
Tornado Warning!
But we make it
Dock up and off boat
Now land sick.
Warm showers and sleep
Safe harbor for the night.
In the morning,
We head back to
Sea.
This is absolutely terrifying!
After all that, only one night of safe harbor? I simply could not. Bravo to you!
Thank you so very very much for your super kind words about The Bridge Home – and Safe Harbor! Do you know, btw that one of the kids in THE BRIDGE HOME shows up as an adult in BORN BEHIND BARS? IF you didn’t before, now you know. And I am so excited because BORN BEHIND BARS is on Kirkus Reviews Best Books of the Century list!
Enough about me.
I love your attention to detail and your vivid description. Like one of the other poems I read today, yours takes me right back to my oceanography days! I especially love the “now land sick” – so true – and its facts like that that help ground a poem and make us feel like we’re in the hands of someone who knows what they’re writing about!
Padma,
Thanks for hosting and for your lovely poem about libraries.
This was my favorite image:
I saw that Kim mentioned Margaret had introduced her to a Shadorma and since that’s a new-to-me form, I decided to try it out.
_________________________________________
Barton Springs
I notice
the light — different
every time
pause on each
step — slooooooooowing into the cold
to swim free and alone
Formatting didn’t work out. I meant for there to be large spaces between the words on the second- and third-to the last lines.
This poem format is new to me, and I think you’ve shown it to be delightful. I love that your safe space combines alone time and light, beautiful light – “different/every time.”
Never mind the format, what fun to see another Shadorma! I have to try it out too!
What a wonderful close-up camera we experience here in your poem! Lovely!!!
Formatting I meant to say
And thanks for your kind words about my poem! Much appreciated
Barton Spring sounds like a great place to be, Sharon! I am “sloooooowing” down with you as I read that line. Brrr! I am hesitant to step into a cold water though. Thank you for sharing your safe place with its changing light.
My Safe Harbor
after my head realizes sleep has passed
I’m out of bed, dressing for a walk
and I find myself
a few blocks from home
along a trail cradled by branches
just beyond the parking lot
I step onto the limb shaded trail
sound is muffled by the trees and branches
into the world inhabited by local, nearly urban wildlife
this morning I spotted a cardinal perched on a branch
that sat for me til I was noticed
a perch so familiar as a pose captured in hundreds of paintings
and Saturday I noticed a fox in the woods at my right
mostly grey, with light red hairs
it crossed the trail ahead of me
and as I walked on and turned a corner
I saw it hunched beside an ashe juniper
and again as I moved closer, it moved on
before I reach the end of the trail out to the street
I notice I’ve found ease
This kind of place, “along a trail cradled by branches,” is one of my most favorite places to be; definitely a safe space for me. I love all the nature you notice – this is true for me, as well. Just lovely.
Jamie,
thanks for bringing us along on your trail walk.
How thrilling to see a fox!
Love that the final thing you observe is the ease that your time in nature has brought you.
Gosh. This makes me want to visit the place you describe. We feel the closeness to wildlife and a sense of what a gift this wildness is to us – and your awe and awesome love of nature comes through so clearly
Does it count as running if I’m enjoying myself?
I joined the group sort of on a whim,
Sort of because friends begged me,
Sort of because I wanted to learn the dirt trails.
Dirt Divas.
Who knew there was a magical fairyland right in my neighborhood?
I sure didn’t.
Huggy Bear.
Wonderland.
BLT.
Fast Times.
Hiker’s.
My favorite: the loop from Fast Times to Fisherman’s to Joe’s Trail to Huggy Bear.
(Sometimes with Hiker’s thrown in if I need a bit more distance.)
I have run through a bluebell corridor,
Startled baby raccoons (umm, where’s the mama? Am I in danger?),
Been paced by a pileated woodpecker,
Watched trumpeter swans swim by on the river,
Said hello to an otter,
And turned around because a GIANT snapping turtle was on the trail (I named him Tyrone).
I am not fast.
I trip over roots more than I care to admit.
And I am at peace in the woods.
Oh! This reminds me of my trail running days back when my knees were good. I love that you found a magic fairyland in your neighborhood! I especially love the visuals in this whole stanza:
I have run through a bluebell corridor,
Startled baby raccoons (umm, where’s the mama? Am I in danger?),
Been paced by a pileated woodpecker,
Watched trumpeter swans swim by on the river,
Said hello to an otter,
And turned around because a GIANT snapping turtle was on the trail (I named him Tyrone).
I love trail running- and your location seems truly magical. “Been paced by a pileated woodpecker, Watched trumpeter swans swim by on the river,” – wow! I love the name “Dirt Divas”. You have written a joyful poem, so many beautiful images.
Dirt Divas. Bluebell corridor. Startled baby raccoons. Wow. Such great phrases. So evocative.
Thank you for the great prompt. I can totally relate to the library as it is where I learned the magic of books even if I went only rarely, after dentist or doctor visits! Today I started to write about safe places for me like the beach where the waves lull me into peace or my front porch where life seems to be peaceful; but, the truth of the matter is that I really find peace and safety inside books. It’s been a lifelong place I return to during stressful times and after stressful days.
After a harrowing dentist visit,
The door opened,
The delicious reward,
They sat waiting patiently,
I escaped.
We moved again,
The emptiness, overwhelming,
The fears, plentiful,
Nancy Drew, Cherry Ames, The Bobbsey Twins
Were waiting,
I rejoined my friends.
As a mom
The Lorax called,
The Little House on the Prairie cried out,
The Pitcher with the Glass Arm beckoned,
They were waiting for us,
I savored every word.
As a Meme (pronounced me-me)
The Little Blue Truck never fails,
Fancy Nancy has a lot to say,
Charlotte’s Web, one more time.
So many books, so little time,
I know it will not last.
When the news is too much to bear,
The Women and Boat Baby,
Something Lost and Something Gained
Remind me that the tide will turn.
I slide under the covers and escape.
I relate to so many of these loves! I especially love your line about Charlotte’s Web–Yes to one more time. Also, “when the news it too much to bear” (I’ve been doing a lot of middle grade reading for fun lately!)
So now, I have to add a FEW books to my TBR list! I am with you about books and I too escape into books “when the news is too much to bear” – and I love what you say about how there are friends waiting for you in books and also about how there is hope in them that inspires you and keeps you trusting that the tide will turn. Thanks for keeping such positivity and joy alive in your life and in this poem which was a joy to read.
Padma, nice to see that you are still publishing and inspiring writing. I recall when you accompanied Sarah and her students at the NCTE convention and you all presented on “THE BRIDGE HOME”! Now, you’re serving as a bridge to our writing!
Thanks for that memory!!! It was such a wonderful event! I think it was also the same conference at which I presented the opening keynote to the NCTE/ALAN (?) A highlight of my career – and of course doing the keynote for Sarah’s presentation was also such an tremendous honor!
My Safe Place
Always on the beach
near the ocean
never riding the waves
but near the water’s reach.
A place to get peace near vast water
I can sit until it gets hotter.
A timeless existence
an eternal distance
forces of life
away from strife.
Hear the gulls cry as they fly around!
Smell the salty brine.
Sitting without a towel on the sand
my toes buried in warm ground.
I’m getting tanned
heat’s just enough,
pants rolled at the cuff
uncovering my toes and fingers.
I’ll stay ’til the sun barely lingers.
Growing up near the surf
always a place of seclusion
away from home turf and inclusion
of rules and chores
away from political bores.
Where I find peace.
I totally get the peace that prevails on the edge of the waves and where the surf breaks but does not hurt. I rarely get to the beach, but when I do, it is love at first sight. Your last line takes the reader from mundane chores to an avoidance of political woes.
This California girl thanks you for your wonderful poem, Susan! I love the description of being near the water but not in it– that’s my favorite, too. Now I want to go to the beach . . .
Susan, you’ve shared so many familiar elements of the beach near the ocean – the smell of salty bring, the gulls cry, vast water, A timeless existence / an eternal distance / forces of life. I always feel like I really did crawl out of the ocean generations ago. Such peace watching the waves lap at the shore.
I thought about writing about the beach too. I live very close to it and when I’m stressed I walk or bike there to find an alone spot and sit. I love these lines: A timeless existence/ an eternal distance That IS the sea! (Also, I also love sitting without the towel!
I will never get tired of beach and ocean poems. Love how you incorporate not only sights but also sounds of gulls and smell of salty brine and the feel of warmth!
SAFE HARBOR
It wasn’t under the bed,
that’s where Bloodybones lurked,
Sandy’s favorite game;
it wasn’t down the wagon road,
where tigers chased and clawed
till the nightmares fled.
Safe harbor,
a shaky illusion for a little kid;
under the covers with the hall light on
to keep the dark-demons away;
in the back of the closet with the old rubber boots
till he quit yelling, no more to say;
in the first seat behind the driver, Mr. McGee,
till he swung open the bus door and I could run
the quarter mile to Mama and Mike and tuxedo Kitty
in what was left of afternoon sun;
in the barn with ol’ Silver,
next to Judy’s stool
while she hummed and milked her
every afternoon;
on the cellar stairs in the dark,
when the sky, too still, turned green
the ’59 tornado staging;
in the library before school, re-shelving books
where I could be invisible
till first hour for all of 7th grade;
up in the wide-spread arms of Mrs. B’s sycamore
in the night
till Dad waylaid his violent raging.
Safe harbor,
really only one place:
in Mama’s lap,
her warm apron pockets
and her books.
by Susie Morice, April 14, 2025©
This is wonderful! I love the perspective from a child; the fun, the fantasy, the fears and the rhyming.
I felt an undertone of deep sadness from the child voice as she/he avoided “his” rage and violence. I also felt that extra strong angst of going into school as well as coming home. Yet, there is a real sense of comfort and strength that comes for the Mama’s lap and the warmth of her apron pockets that certainly hold the heart of this child/voice. Powerful voice in the piece.
Susie, oh my, your poem is a full of imagery, sound, and action. I love the details that show the fine moments: shelving the books, enjoying the barn, the wide-open sycamore tree. My siblings introduced me to Bloody Bones, and boy, do I remember those stories well. I love how you opened with the scary things to contrast the good. I’m so glad you had your Mama’s lap, her warm apron pockets, and her books. Beautiful poem!
Susie, Mama’s lap is truly the safest of harbor in the world. I like how you introduce us to different harbors depending on circumstances and showing us safety as “a shaky illusion for a little kid.” This one is scary: “in the back of the closet with the old rubber boots / till he quit yelling, no more to say.” I want to hide that kid in my home. Thank you for sharing!
Susie— that last stanza— so much is said there…
Powerful stuff here! Feeling the child’s fear – and dad’s violent raging – leaves me feeling so anxious – and then in that last verse, I am comforted – knowing that Mama is strong and will keep the child safe although clearly they are going through so much that they shouldn’t have to undergo. What a strong child and strong mamma
Susie,
Of course you lead us on a journey to
“Mama’s lap,
her warm apron pockets
and her books.”
I felt a familiarity in your poem, except it was my mom who raged, but in truth my dad had a temper, too, although I have no memory of the alcoholic one. I read the “tornado raging” as a metaphor and literal storm. I know those school ones and literal ones well. And reading this brought me to an understanding of something about myself. Thank you for that.
Hi,
Padma, your poem left me wanting to go sit quietly in a library to take in all the quiet and soft sounds I’ve clearly missed. I haven’t been inside a library in years. Uggh, how sad. Thank you for this prompt to think about safe harbors.
Safe House
If my childhood home
could be transported
to the mid 1800’s
in the Deep South
it would have been
a Safe House
It wouldn’t matter
if you were familiar
you would be welcomed
you’d be fed well
and your body could rest
If it were Christmas
you and your family
would celebrate with us
everyone received gifts
and joy would fill your heart
If it were summertime
the pool would be warm
and you’d learn to swim
or you would relax with a book
on a lounge in the shade
My childhood home
was the safe harbor
for countless children needing love
for friends of friends who became family
for me to hold forever in my heart
© Stacey L. Joy, 4/14/25
Stacey — So beautiful, this safe home. Your childhood home had to be a Mecca for so many kids. I love the goodness of all that. Wonderful. Susie
This is so beautiful, Stacey. I feel like I’m a neighbor child showing up for snacks and swimming.
This Safe Home is truly a Safe Haven, Stacey! Your childhood home sounds welcoming and generous. I know many kids found their safe place there because:
“It wouldn’t matter
if you were familiar
you would be welcomed
you’d be fed well
and your body could rest”
Thank you for this beautiful poem today!
Stacey— a beautiful story of a wonderful childhood…
What a lovely memory of being “that home” for all those in need. Safety for you and others. Lovely.
How wonderful that your childhood home was a sanctuary for so many. What a joy to travel with you through the seasons and visit your home through this comforting poem which radiates a sense of security and warmth.
The sense of belonging and being valued is palpable in your words, Stacey. We are here on this earth such a short while in the scheme of things – to offer safe harbor to others in love is the best of humanity.
All it really is is vibrations
sound waves
yet it lifts the eyes of my heart upward
breathing in the deep notes of the bass through my nostils
filling my lungs
the melodies spiraling round and round around my being
deep breaths
memories mixed into dream mixed into deja vu mixed into visions of the future
all with the tambor and the tension
release and repeat
again and again,
neverending musical possibilities coloring every second
Luke, your poem about music captured so many feelings for me. To me a way of making an unfamiliar place feel welcome. I like how you begin by saying – All it really is is vibrations
sound waves. How can that be all? melodies spiraling round and round – and love your lat line – neverending musical possibilities coloring every second
What a great first line – and how beautifully that leads on and then on, flowing, like music, right on into the last line – and how perfect that there is no punctuation here, just line breaks – that totally fits the words and feel of this poem
Luke, thank you for crafting and sharing this! I really enjoyed “it lifts the eyes of my heart upward” and “melodies spiraling round and round around my being.” Music is truly wonderful, isn’t it?
Stories as Safe Harbor
I am from a long line of storytellers;
liars to some folks, entertainers to others.
my grandpa had the most amazing voice.
His words flowed like a river of cane syrup in a drawling, musical cadence;
he could mesmerize with his stories and his voice.
I remember sitting on the ground
next to the rough wood of the porch steps
on summer nights and listening to the adults tell stories.
My grandpa sat in the place of power—
a high-backed rocking throne on the center of porch.
The rhythm of the rocking matched the pacing of his words.
We would breathe in air heavy with humidity and honeysuckle
and feeling surrounded by stories.
The stories would last long into the night—
the up-and-down fluidity of the words
would flow from man to man,
from man to wife,
from mother to child.
The words would blend and merge
with the sounds of the breeze
rustling the green-black leaves of the trees
and the melancholy chirp of the crickets.
When I was tired, I could crawl into a lap
and be rocked to sleep
surrounded by the rumble of sound and story.
My grandpa overshadowed my granny in the nighttime storytellings;
she would rock and shell peas or beans
and listen the way that I did.
In the mornings, she would tell stories to hungry little girls
who watched as she rolled out made-from-scratch biscuits.
Her stories were about her family
and growing up poor in the deep South of the twenties.
It is her voice that I hear when I read O’Connor and Faulkner;
it is her family that I see in the characters.
I grew up so surrounded by stories
that I don’t remember the first one I told or
quite when I was allowed to join in the storytelling on the porch—
I was a storyteller long before I was a writer.
Simple events like tying my shoes,
jumping on the trampoline,
or playing in the park became
glorious adventures in the retelling.
The more I told the stories,
the more epic they became.
Simply cleaning my room became
something akin to one of the labors of Hercules
I battled
the dreaded closet monster
who lived to pull clean clothes from the hangers
and tangle them with shoes and toys.
I fought with the vengeful fairies
who loved to scatter dolls, books, and art supplies.
It amazed my mother that the same fairies who could pull the toys out couldn’t manage to put them back.
I explained that the troll
who lived in the clutter under my bed
scared the fairies—
he didn’t bother them when they were making the mess
but when they tried to clean it up, he jumped out at them
and did all sorts of other bad things.
Little girls were just as scared of the troll
as the fairies;
adults were the only ones not afraid of the troll—
so they were the only ones who could clean my room.
My mother said it was an entertaining argument but I still had to clean my room.
Stories were my safe space, a way of
reimagining the world. Taking the truth of a thing
and putting on the porch to share, whether it is in the
bright glare of the daytime sun or in the softness of the night.
What matters is the story, the teller, and
the words that hold us close, that shine the light,
that entertain, that reveal, that show us
who we are, who we can be.
Melanie, the room-messing-up fairies made me laugh. I love your explanation for why they couldn’t clean up, either. Those trolls, man . . .
You are a storyteller, Melanie! Your narrative poems are so rich with these storytelling traditions: settings, vivid descriptions, characters, and a plotline. I would love to listen to the stories of your grandfather too. Everything works in this poem, your grandfather, the troll, the fairies, little girls, adults (who could clean your room), and your sound argument to your mom )) Stories are a safe space indeed. Thank you!
Melanie— a wonderful story of storytellers and a great stanza
I battled
the dreaded closet monster
who lived to pull clean clothes from the hangers
and tangle them with shoes and toys.
I fought with the vengeful fairies
who loved to scatter dolls, books, and art supplies.
i think I fought —and lost — the battle against those monsters and those fairies!
What an excellent portrait of your grandpa you have painted with these words! There are the stories, but also the people. And your mother – and the fairies and the troll! All your characters leap off this page! Great job!
Summer’s Shaded Harbor
Into the shadows of
Summertime shade,
Hand in hand,
with a breeze,
that slowly fades.
My thoughts encircle,
Mineral springs,
Over stone,
As the songbird sings.
Mother tightens
her grip,
Whispering lullabies,
With wild rose tips,
Luscious lavender,
And,
Black eyed sips,
Drenched in honey,
On sunflower slips.
Dirt,
a rich black,
Filling the holes,
In my canvass back,
Mulberries crushed,
Beneath a velvet rack.
Strips of green and yellow,
Melting into the dawn,
I nestle
into the long needle,
Mirroring a spotted fawn.
Unrested,
For here is where I truly belong ,
Drifting to sleep
Under the cicada’s song.
Harbored,
by her serenity,
unknown,
With
camouflaged identity,
a second with her,
pauses,
infinity.
Vital,
As the salamander
In the stream,
Gritted,
Through a bobcat’s scream.
Entering
Awareness with
A summertime dream.
Drift,
As the moth,
From spider lilies,
To cattails,
Around dogwoods,
down honeysuckle
rails,
Over the cedars,
Alongside.
The Red Tail.
From the east,
Floating,
In a upstream sail.
Protecting me,
In all her grand,
Hardwood to deadwood,
a regenerative land,
she holds me close,
with arbor hands.
Dogwoodblossoms,
shed into
Spinning fans.
And I,
Harbor
In her cover,
Hand in land,
As,
Fallen leaves smother,
the love
BbbbbI have for her,
for Fall is her,
Forthcoming brother.
– Boxer
I appreciate the interesting and playful form and all your warm evocative images of the harbor that Nature can be. We just finished our Transcendentalism unit, and nature’s healing powers have been on my mind.
This looks so beautiful on the page. The effort you put into formatting paid off; it adds to the poem for sure. Expert rhyme also!
Boxer—this—
Mother tightens
her grip,
Whispering lullabies,
With wild rose tips,
Luscious lavender,
And,
Black eyed sips,
Drenched in honey,
On sunflower slips.
is incredible!!
Great the way you play with the space on the page here! Such a creative play! And unusual, too. Then there are the images – like dogwood blossoms shed into spinning fans – wow! great stuff!
laughter
The smile it brings to my face,
A feeling I’m always trying to chase.
It echoes softly down the halls,
Makes me want to leap over walls.
Sometimes it’s small, so soft, so shy,
Other times, it’s wide as the painted sky.
Like a window with sunlight spilling in,
It makes me crave to hear it again and again.
it wraps quietly in the air
a music that clears despair
it finds me when I’m low
a spark in the worlds dark glow
its a sound so real, so bright, so true
it turns the grayest day blue
Laughter- what a creative approach to this prompt. The healing safety of laughing is not something I considered. The rhythm of this is like a laugh- and I appreciate that too.
Love the sense of a feeling echoing down the halls – and the way music cheers us up – and the way you move from an image – a smile – to something that fills our ears and our hearts!
They say laughter is the best medicine, don’t they? (Aside from, you know, like, actual medicine, that is, lol.) I love the lines “a music that clears despair” and “a spark in the worlds dark glow.” Thank you for riffing on the wonders of laughter and for sharing this with us today!
Padma,
Thank you for your quiet poem honoring libraries and the safety books bring children. You have lots of lovely imagery, alliterative sounds, and figurative language in the poem, all inviting exploration. Thank you for inviting us to share places where we find safety.
Thought Bubble
Inside my brain
thought bubbles
(parenthetical inter-
ruptions//asides
to myself) hover
—silence—to
those out-side
my space—
Above&beyond
in-crim-i-nat-ing
letters long to
escape their
graycoiled
safe space &
venture into the
DANGER ZONE!
Ponderings hide—
“snug as a bug”
in my cranial
panic room: they
play private
peekaboo
from hostile
worldwords
Glenda Funk
4-14-25
Oh, Glenda, I walk around my town to process my thought bubbles and, I’m afraid, I say them out loud. I’m pretty sure I’m a village idiot/eccetric because I’m always talking to myself. Doesn’t help when I wear frog or moose costumes, either. LOVE LOVE LOVE all the play here. This is a perfect poem to share with students and ask, “Why is the poet making the decisions that she does?”
Glenda, wow, I can imagine what some of those thought bubbles are saying especially when someone has been particularly aggravating and hurtful. I get it. The DANGER ZONE! Sometime silence carries a weight. When to speak up and when to be mum can be difficult. I really like how you’ve played with the language formatting in this poem, especially “Above&beyond
in-crim-i-nat-ing”
I also love the image you’ve created of yourself considering the asides, etc. Your poem as always is provocative and powerful. Hugs, Barb.
Oh, Glenda — YES, this is just great. I can just see those thought bubbles blipping up and spouting stuff that needs saying….and probably some that we might all be saying. I like those thought “snug and a bug”… I wonder sometimes if I THINK they are snug as a bug and really they’re just right out there plain as day, because I’m thinking them so vociferously. LOL! Very witty poem. Love it. Susie
I’m loving the thought bubbles. These spaces of conversation with texts and books that are there just inviting us to ponder on them in peace for a while. The safe space here in the library is a dream.Lovely thoughts today!
Glenda, These thought bubbles are something. I like parenthetical interruptions/asides though. They are the true disruptors. Like you, I don’t always say what I think and the way I think about certain things; otherwise: “DANGER ZONE!” might be imminent. Thank you for another poem that shows how to manipulate language to deliver a message “above&beyond / in-crim-i-nat-ing.”
Glenda— I have always been so glad my thought bubbles aren’t visible!! Love that last stanza—the alliteration and those hostile world words.
Such a joy to see you play with poetry! Such a lot of fun – you made me smile and smile – thank you so much for sharing this awesome piece!
Keeping those thoughts inside is safer these days, isn’t it? That second stanza is so fun. “in-crim-i-nat-ing / letters long to / escape” “DANGER ZONE” Perfect topic for a poem!
Thank you for this prompt. I thought about it and surrendered, and I let it take me out to sea, so to speak.
Liar
Lately. I have been lying
with my cheeks to the earth
the cool ground presses
into me like a mother
should.
I let myself be held;
lie on bare earth.
You are safe.
You are safe.
I let my weight be
an anchor and
pretend to harbor
true enough words.
I lie still like enough,
like poetry.
Kasey, so beautiful. “Cheeks to the earth” and “be held”—and yes, it is like poetry. Brilliant.
Kasey,
Gorgeous poem. You honor Mother Nature w/ imagery. Today is a day for the stillness of poetry. Superb phrasing in those last two lines.
I love your title and try to notice where it’s not the physical state of lying but the behavior of not speaking the truth – your first stanza speaks of the physical state agains mother earth. As does the second stanza. At the end of the 3rd stanza you write – pretend to harbor
true enough words. Hmm. And your final stanza captures my curiosity – still like enough. A word I’ve thought a lot about recently. may sound funny. like poetry. The perfect end to a gentle poem.
Oh, Kasey, wow, so beautiful. The images “presses / into me like a mother / should” and letting yourself “be held” and “I lie still” The repetition of “You are safe” is so comforting.
Padma, I’m excited to read Safe Harbor. What a great prompt you have given us today based on the title of your latest verse novel. These lines made me gasp, as I was immediately transported to the old library in my town. I would recognize that old friendly scent if I smelled it now. And I would spray it on my hands.
I made a list of safe harbors for me, and as I am ready to go out on my daily walk this morning, I chose that walking harbor. I learned about a loop poem this morning, so I’m throwing that in too.
Bighorn Corridor Loop Trail
A Loop Poem
Just shy of two miles
Miles of quiet peace
Peace in being alone
Alone stressors cease
Cease your strivings
Strivings of forgetting
Forgetting I belong
Belong in this setting
Setting into this place
I know each long stride
Stride of hope and belonging
Belonging to Love as my guide
Love the loop for the rhythm, emphasis, and sound. I found myself drawing on images of you hiking literally and figuratively striding. You certainly cultivate belonging everywhere you go.
Thanks for sharing the loop form. I have never written one, but I noted it for future use. Your poem made me long for the days I could walk long distances. The rhythm of your words had me walking along in my mind.
I love that you used a loop form, it mimics so many of my hikes! Hiking truly is a harbor. I love the way- it repeats in an empowering tone. Thank you.
Denise,
The repetition anchors your poem to a place you love and invites us to explore with you. I need this hike and the quiet beauty of nature. Lovely looping of ideas as we walk the trail with you.
Denise, I love this loop poem. I understand the need to be away from stress and the wonderful embrace of feeling like you belong.
Denise, thank you about introducing the loop poem. In some ways, it reminds me an echo poem, but I like how the ending word of the previous line begins the following line, as to secure the loop and move it onward to another one. These lines are stuck with me today:
“Forgetting I belong
Belong in this setting”
Loop poems are NOT easy to write – and you’re doing such a great job here – and I love your courage and desire to experiment with this form! Fabulous!
And huge thanks for your love for Safe Harbor!
Hi Padma, each of us needs a safe space, to love, to grow and to give. Since I was a boy, I used to ride my bicycle to a lake a couple of miles from home, one of my safe places..
Lake Valetta dries up in winter.
The reedy rim becomes parched
The shore gradually recedes.
A large expanse of dark-brown mud
now surrounds the lake.
Soil-coated pebbles abound,
ready to be picked.
Go on – ricochet them on the rippled surface.
Most take the plunge almost immediately.
The more energetic ones bounce
once, twice and ……. on rare occasions three times.
Stumps of old endemic trees
Jut out of the mud,
jagged cylinders like rotting teeth
in an almost bare gum.
The imported planted pine trees
Border the lake.
High above the embankments
their serrated tops rise into the blue sky.
Their needles and acorns carpet the floor,
Their smell sweetens the air.
Their branches sway wildly to the wintry gusts.
This summer has seen an abundance of rain
rare for the months of December and January.
Lightning after lightning lit the moonless nights,
ripping the sky which poured fat drops of swirling rain
everywhere,
flooding houses, fields and roads.
The lake quickly filled up.
The stumps have disappeared
under muddy brown water.
Ducks wing above the surface
and gracefully touch the water.
More ducks join them
Soon a whole flock can be seen
bobbing up and down on the waves,
An old man drops his cane
scatters ripped pieces of bread
close to the ducks.
The ducks float to the bread.
One belligerent duck,
wings spread,
webbed feet splashing the water,
quacks angrily.
Intimidated, the other ducks swim away
Tilapias gobble up the soaked and swelling pieces.
Krish, I am loving this poem that feels of the pebble ricochet, sending ripples of images out toward the tilapias gobbling up the swells.
Kristi,
Your poem sends ripples into cyberspace to replicate your lake adventures, reminding me of places close to home I love and the explorations my boys ventured on, their secret safe spaces in our mountain home. If I were to see a photo of the lake, I’d call this an ekphrastic poem.
*Krish* Sorry about the phone typo.
I truly enjoyed delving deep into this poem, this slice of your life, captured and shared with us. I can see and hear the ducks, the rain, the trees, the lake – your words are like photographs!
Hello Padma! Thanks for this lovely prompt ~ I agree with Geetha that every book is like opening a door to someone else’s head and heart… thank you for this reminder.
At my age, one would think my outer shell
would be as tough as a limpet’s or maybe a tortoise.
One would think, I’d finally learned
that sticks and stones could break my bones
but words could never hurt me.
But even at my age, there are times, when a lie, a snark,
a snub, a quiet betrayal will crush me,
when recurring verbiage like starvation, suffering,
struggle, deportation, war, shatter my soul
and I retreat to my safe harbor.
Not a place. Not a person, but a book
or a poem read, written, or remembered.
Inside hearts, where letters are rearranged,
and words reshaped, and transformed
into the fibrous crystals of the limpet shell
or the patterned plates of the tortoise.
Inside gentle hearts, where I’m reminded
of all the hidden spaces that love, kindness
and peace endure and the world is wrapped in hope.
Ann, I am not sure where that sully myth began. Words do hurt. They always have. And they can heal, if you know where to look. How lovely for you to carry readers with you to letters inside the heart, inviting us to rearrange letters alongside you for us, for the words we need that love. Ah.
Ann, your extended metaphor of the tortoise and shell reiterate for us how invasive books can be. Sometime them help defend sometimes they invade and offend. But each time, we grow wiser and stronger, able to relax in hidden places, as your poem says,
where love, kindness/and peace endure.
Thanks for sharing the multiple powers of reading.
Yes, Ann, word hurt. They hurt at 15, at 25, and 55+. I love that you find your safe harbor:
“Inside gentle hearts, where I’m reminded
of all the hidden spaces that love, kindness
and peace endure and the world is wrapped in hope. ”
I think we can be each other’s safe harbors if we take time to listen, to embrace, to stop for a minute. Thank you for your heartfelt words today!
So moving – and what imagery – love the fibrous crystals of the limpet shell and the patterned plates of the tortoise. Love the way this poem wraps up with hope and keeps hope wrapped up in it. Lovely! I love the thought of enduring peace – it is a balm to soothe our troubled souls. Thank you! And Thank you for your kind words on my poem.
203’s Window 4/14/2025
Smudged with fingerprints, scratches, and bug splats;
I’ve learned a clearer picture lies in a window left open.
My feet kicked up on a beaten and flat bean-bag,
I’m slouched lazily on a cheap university-issue couch
whose cushions annoyingly slide forward when you re-adjust.
That open window has become my refuge this year,
the sounds of vicious leaf blowers, distant sirens,
gunned engines, chatter, laughter, and maybe just the wind.
That open window and university-issue couch
isn’t much, but yet it has become my space of retreat.
I’ve adjusted myself to meet its demands,
a sweater, blankets to fight the chill of January,
tissues and Claratin for the allergies of late march,
overhead lights to read in the coming dusk,
reluctant closure with the sideways rain.
Sometimes I’ll perch in the sill instead,
back against the harsh corner of the wall,
picking out melodies on a sunlit worn guitar
and watch the world go by, the leaves change,
slowly budding and blocking the view.
The squirrel in the tree must know my name by now,
or at least the laughs of my friends and I,
The echoes of conversations, jokes, stories.
The echoes of melodies, the clack of a keyboard.
The echoes of me, when I graduate, leaving for good.
For the safest spaces are often cruelly fleeting.
Oh. This is good, James. A window left open. Feels like the title of a memoir, too. There is so much agency in the choice to open, to adjust, to perch.
James,
Those first two lines are the perfect metaphor for life: Leave the window open to get a clearer view. Leave the heart open is good advice for educators. Your poem brings back memories of my own dorm life and campus apartment living.
”slouched lazily on a cheap university-issue couch” is a line that reminds me of furniture horror stories. Are you at Oklahoma State? My brother, SIL, and a niece all graduated from there. My brother and his three roomies named their dorm room “The Aloha Suite” and decorated it, including installing a hammock, accordingly.
Gut punch in that last line. Still reeling! Powerful. So much to unpack here!
Thank you, Padma, for this incredible prompt. As I read each poem this morning, I wanted to agree with everyone, finding their safe space to be mine.
I composed a found poem from the lines of 10 poems that follow mine and included a line from Padma. The final lines are my safe spaces.
Looking for a Safe Harbor,
or Safe Places from Friends
Where can I find a safe harbor today?
Maybe, it’s in “a library that was a shelter” (Gayle S.)
“where opening a book is like opening a door” (Padma),
“All over the world, I could roam” (Anna R.)
“In the words of others. And humor, too (“Scott).
In “a writer’s notebook” with “silken ribbon bookmark” (Rita D.),
Or “maybe, it’s who sweeps away the glass” (C.O.),
Or “the night we built a fire together in my backyard” (Bryan),
Maybe, “it’s the bed as if this square-ish mattress is a raft” (Sarah),
Or “in the walk to Purple Creek” (Margaret S.)
When “Gazing, I absorb the gospel of the artist’s vision” (Linda M.)
Or maybe it’s in a memory carefully tucked into my soul
that brings my Mom’s songs, my Dad’s warm morning bread,
my childhood home with its interlacing grapevines,
and my children smiles when they are at home.
Leilya, You honor us and our words today in your cento poem. I am happy you added your own safe place, too. Your father’s bread is a scent I can hold onto today for comfort. Thank you!
Nice to see the way you quoted each of us – thanks for reading so closely and sharing your words. I can smell Dad’s warm morning bread in the oven!
Hi Leyla, this is a fitting tribute to all the poets in this amazing community. Your poem, like leavened dough, rises with the beautiful images carefully culled from other poems. I love the cosy feeling from “my Mom’s songs, my Dad’s warm morning bread’.
What a clever idea! Thank you for including a line from my poem. The interlacing grapevines seem to symbolize the interlacing memories of your childhood home and your children.
Ah Leila! or maybe its in a memory carefully tucked into my soul…another beautiful poem that offers safe harbor in this troubled world…
Leilya, such a lovely collage of friends here, more than a gesture of safe harbor in your care for their words. Then the turn to maybe and memory with some scenes I’ve held on to from your poems, the grapevine especially. Embrace possibilities of safe harbor.
Leilya, look at you giving it back to our writers! Your poem embodies all that EthicalELA is–the harbor, the nurturing, the care… I love that you recognized our members and their beautiful words. AND that you added the memories tucked into your soul (wow–isn’t that the place where we want them to nestle?!), especially sharing those songs and warm bread, grapevines and smiles. What a beautiful spot to find yourself.
I love your second stanza, Leilya, because of the family memories like your Dad’s warm bread. I do appreciate the lovely nods to the community poets today, too. Lovely poem!
I love how you mined the other poems to find nuggets of refuge.
I love a Cento, and you cleverly wove in the lines of this community and found a safe space. Oh, what a sweet place to be, Leilya. Your creativity shines.
Oh, Leilya! What a honor to be quotes with these fine folks!
I, too, find that reading reminds me of others writings, and of my children’s smiles when they are at home. Two plan to come for EASTER! Maybe they’ll inspire a poem for me! We have two more weeks of VerseLove!
Bless you, my sister. I can feel you like family.
Thank you so much, Anna! I’d like to be your sister. I have five, so one more older sister is a blessing!
I shared some of my poems with my children, and this morning my daughter said that they read my poem about Polina, my granddaughter (for the I Remember prompt) together and loved the memories.
Leilha— love this cento poem— and love this final stanza. It feels like a hug.
What a clever take on the prompt using the safety we have all found around each other in this space. Very clever. And happy to be a line! Lovely poem
This is such a wonderful tribute to this community, this fellowship, and to the powers of the written word, Leilya! There is so much to love in these lines. Thank you for this!
Leilya, beautiful. I like the title and the crafting of this beauty. The paragraph of yours with the memories of those safe childhood harbors is so peaceful.
Thanks for a great prompt, Padma.
Safe Harbor
By Mo Daley 4/14/25
After
a long day
a stubborn headache
a bit of bad news
a troublesome worry
a crushing disappointment
a deep doubt
a paralyzing fear
a traumatizing death
it all
You are my safe harbor
Mo, Thank God for those you(s) in our lives who offer a safe place when all the world seems to be against us. I hope you gift this poem to your you.
I am so glad you enjoyed the prompt, Mo! I was just in Maine visiting with school children who had read Safe Harbor and I did a writing workshop with them, with a child-relevant way to introduce this prompt!
I love how you make a person your safe harbor!
Mo, you capture the most important harbor of all, a person(s) who is(are) always there for us regardless of how our day was. Love it! Thank you.
I like how you build your poem to a crescendo, starting with the minor niggles and then moving inexorably to the more “traumatizing” tragedies. The last line is such a refreshing twist..
Mo, I can relate to this list of things we encounter. I am thankful for the safe harbor I return to each day. I am glad you have one of your own.
Mo, the look of your poem is a comfort to my readerly eyes, knowing I can follow the a down the lines toward some answer. And I will take up your “you” as a collective pronoun, reming me that I just might be able to be that for someone else after any “a.”
Mo,
This is a fantastic list poem leading to “You are my safe harbor.” I thought about writing about my person, so I’m glad to see you also had that idea.
Mo—I love this bit of comfort so much…
Mo, I love this skinny poem and all the weight of experiencing one bad thing after another, but still having that special someone to feel safe.
Yes, I love that there is a “you” for that safe harbor. Each thing on the list really requires safe harbor. Your poem reminds me to examine just where that safe harbor is for me. I found myself writing about a kid’s safe harbor…I think my safe harbor now that there isn’t a physical “you” means I understand better why I write and paint and play music and study español and why friends are so important to me…safe harbor. I hadn’t really thought about it till I read your poem. Hmmm. Your little poem had a big impact on me today. Thank you. Hugs, Susie
I like my feet dangling the best
how they rest in this liminal space
like floating weightless balloons,
a choose your own adventure.
I like the almost of it all, before
jumping. You can do it, girl. Or
maybe Not today. But let’s face it,
and to be honest, I like that it is a bed.
As if this square-ish mattress is a raft
that can take me away or maybe keep
me from, as if this synthetic cushion
is part of me, the part that files demands,
dreams wishes, crafts plots living
in the fissures of imaginings while
cradling my body. Don’t you want to
come down to earth? Don’t you want to
dive into the waters, swim in my dreams?
Not yet. In the moments before touch
down, I pull my knees to chest and try
to revisit the last place it carried me.
Oh, Sarah . . . how lucky you are that your bed is a safe haven! Mine is a place of frustration . . . hot flashes, discomfort stemming from the dog and my husband taking up too much space, aggravation from not getting good sleep.
I love these lines . . .
Sarah, I like your harboring in a bed “As if this square-ish mattress is a raft / that can take me away or maybe keep me from.” I also want to find the place that would “keep me from” while it seems almost impossible at times. As I read the final lines, I think about the places I get “carried away” before getting up and returning to reality. Thank you for this reminder!
I am marveling at how you wove this safe place with the sounds of rest…honest, mattress, knees to chest… I’d love to know your process. Did you choose the words first or did it just happen organically as you drafted? My bed is both a safe place (when I can sleep) and a place of anxiety (when sleep doesn’t come).
I love how you move between the “you can do it all” expectation that too many of us face, that too many of us pretend to achieve, and how you contrast it with the reality – and also, how you end by empowering the speaker of the poem to REST and dream and remain in that “liminal space” where your feet are above the ground
Sarah,
This is so clever. I dangle my left foot off the side when I can’t fall asleep, which is often. Lots of metaphoric language to love:
“fissures of imaginings”
to name only one. I’m obsessed thinking about all my bed is for me, including my favorite poem writing space.
I love all of this, Sarah. I’m with you on the dangling feet…and I love that you made them ‘weightless balloons’. The image has triggered so many similar settings for me. I saw this winter guard performance recently (another research project) and I thought of it as I read your words.
Sarah, the actions within your poem are relatable. I really appreciate the questions, especially “Don’t you want to/come down to earth?” Plus, I love the “choose your own adventure”. It would be nice to escape into pleasant dreams.
Sarah — I thought hard about my bed this morning as well. I love your you made it so …poetic… the movement of feet down and diving into the day…and better yet, the “pull my knees to chest and try/to revisit the last place it carried me.” Aaah. Yes. Cool! Susie
Sarah! I almost wrote about my bed too. (Although it wouldn’t have been so poetic as you have made yours!) I love my bed. I especially love your lines: Don’t you want to
dive into the waters, swim in my dreams?
I love these lines—
“like the almost of it all, before
jumping. You can do it, girl. Or
maybe Not today.”
the almost of it all…
I love this place that is a part of you that
So peaceful and good.
Padma, thank you for the prompt and poem about one of my favorite places. I have not yet read Safe Harbor, but I look forward to it.
A Safe Place
As long as you are with me
I am safe and calm.
Your lined pages call to me
to unburden myself, to create.
Your silken ribbon bookmark
reminds me that you are
faithfully awaiting my return
when I am ready, never pushing.
Safety is always to be found
within your gentle embrace
at any hour, on any day
in you, my writer’s notebook.
Your writer’s notebook with its “silken ribbon bookmark” sounds like a perfect safe harbor, Rita! I have one too, although you remind me to turn to it more often. Thank you.
thanks so much! I hope you’ll love Safe Harbor – it’s an animal rescue story on the face of it – but beneath is has many many layers – which I always enjoy – weaving in many themes and threads seamlessly into a story.
Your poem will make me see the blank pages in a new way! At the moment I am a bit scared of the looming deadlines – but you are so right safety is indeed always to be found in a writer’s notebook. Thanks for that reminder!
Hi Rita, I love how your poem echoes my own feelings about keeping a writer’s notebook. A safe space indeed to unburden and to create.
Rita, this is the poem of someone who trusts what a page can do that only comes from writing enough to know what waits. And yet I also see the writer with agency, choosing when and how to engage.
What a lovely ode to your writer’s notebook. I love that it feels like a safe place for you. No judgment. Just ready when you are.
airbag
Safety is not just
avoiding the collision;
it’s who you call first,
it’s who sweeps away the glass,
repairs the broken pieces.
That’s so true! We are all lucky to have a person or two who can help us pick up the pieces. You have me thinking about those I am grateful for in myl ife.
Oh, my, C.O., this is so true:
“it’s who you call first,
it’s who sweeps away the glass,
repairs the broken pieces.”
Thank you for this gift of a safe harbor today!
Short, powerful punch of a poem!
I love this C.D. Your last two line are so lovely….not only one who sweeps away the glass but who repairs the broken pieces…beautiful!
Oh, apt reflection here on the physical and figurative safety. Great collision metaphor.
great poem. I like how you expand on what safety is. it’s a comfort thing, not only something that keeps us safe.
The title, to the poetic plot, is beautiful and poignant. My nephew is currently working for a funeral home, and I’m learning much is the same for him, too. Phew.
C.O. — Geez, yes! Excellent1. “…who sweeps away the glass….” gorgeous image. I really like this poem a LOT. Susie
Wow.
Thanks, Padma…a moment of poetic reflection before a trip to the dentist (always a joy. always). Wish there were more ‘leafy-breeze sounds’ while lying in those chairs. Wonderful prompt this morning.
We’re All Dust, Anyways.
I like to think about Woodson’s art room,
harboring space composed for
beautiful young people
needing to be heard / to share stories /
to gain vocal wings with
dis/abilities & superpowers.
Which makes me wonder about Laurie,
how she spoke and later shouted
poetically from under a stained glass
window to light her words in
upstate New York.
I’m a porch junkie, myself,
built it when the world was masked
and Kwame needed curriculum
for middle grade books he loved.
He sent sent All The Broken Pieces,
and from it, I rebuilt myself.
Which makes me think of Ger,
his walk towards a rising sun,
refugee camps & relocation. The night
we built a fire together in my backyard,
and looked to Connecticut trees
for new life, growth, & hope.
He introduced me to the universe, Hoaw.
I was sitting on my front porch writing,
where I compose this poem today.
Bryan, your poem revisits several places, but I remember your poem about that night when you build a fire with your father in your backyard. This sounds like an incredible place to revisit. Your front porch writing is a special place too. I loved All The Broken Pieces. Read it, wrote about it. Thank you!
Bryan – what fun to have a poem that was written right before a trip to the dentist! I will tell Kwame and Laurie that you honored them, whenever I cross paths with them again! Hope you have many moments of reflection awaiting you this spring and summer, when you can sit on your front porch and write!
Oh Bryan…the places you take us…so happy to have landed among Connecticut trees that offer life, growth and hope inside a gentle heart that leads all of us to a rising sun.
Bryan,
As a kid I was a front porch sitter. We had a porch swing, and my cat Cricket and I shared stories. I’ve always been a daydreamer, wondering about the experiences of famous historical people who shaped our country and how they would experience our now. This is to say I share the imaginings you have about JW, LHA, KA, et al. I imagine students studying their journals in a hundred years as we have Steinbeck’s. Some day I’ll have a porch again, I hope.
Bryan, there is such a community in the arts and art rooms of this world that does not exist in other spaces, other places. And the front porch writing just makes me feel right at home, like I’m right there on the porch with you. I sometimes go out on mine, but mostly my safe space is right in the living room.I like the imagery and energy you bring to your writing today. It’s inviting.
Bryan, Each one of these books are so good! And you put them together so beautifully. Your title is perfect.
Here’s one:
“Outside of a dog,
a book is man’s
best friend. Inside
of a dog, it’s too
dark to read.”
And another:
“Some cause
happiness wherever
they go; others,
whenever they go.”
Here is where I
find safety and
solace; here is
where I find
“safe space”: in
the words of
others. And
humor, too.
Words and humor,
and, especially, I
guess, in humorous
words, like Bandersnatch
or kerfuffle, oh, yeah,
that’s a good one,
lots of legroom and
head space in that
one, lots of room to
move around, don’t
you think?
_____________________________________________
Thank you, Padma, for your mentor poem and your prompt this morning! Libraries are such a wonder; they are one of my happy places! For my offering, I pulled quotes from Groucho Marx and Oscar Wilde, respectively (and respectfully, even reverently, lol).
Hi, Scott! this is my favorite takeaway from your poem today:
“in
the words of
others. And
humor, too.”
I should add “in your poems too” to this phrase. Thank you for your unique voice and words!
Thanks! I am so glad you loved my Safe Harbor poem and that we hare a love of libraries. I often say public libraries are the reason I became an American citizen – and I’m at least half serious about that. I love the words you chose – and how you haven’t forgotten the childlike delight we hopefully all once rejoiced in when we sounded out certain words – some words are just such fun to say, as you show us in your poem
Scott, your mix of humor and reflection is something I consistently look forward to each day. your inclusion of quotes was an excellent way to connect your ideas today, and I love what you did with the prompt. Thank you for sharing!
Scott — So good, so good! The dog…too dark…LOL! How you “pulled quotes from GM and OW…” and STILL they just roll into your poem. You’re a master. Susie
Scott—I love your plays on words, as always! And that legroom and head space in kerfuffle…
Padma—I resonated to your poem, and wish I had written these words—“If Library was a kind of perfume,/I’d want to spray it on my hands:”— they express so beautifully the way I feel. I look forward to getting and reading your book, fellow library-child. Thank you for the prompt that took me back to my first (but not my last ) library…
Safe Harbor
Every Wednesday, I would walk from my school,
high on the hill, to the tiny public library in town.
I was in third grade, a country kid.
My first library books came weekly from
the back of the mobile library truck.
(That truck felt like magic to me.)
But now I was big enough to walk
to the source of that magic.
Miss Hartmann was the librarian.
She was a tiny lady with an iron-grey bun
tucked behind a braided crown.
The library was silent. We spoke in whispers.
For one blessed hour, I was given the world.
I pored through fat encyclopedias,
ran my finger over novels I’d not yet read,
plucked three or four from the shelves to sample—
there was a limit, so they had to be just right—
and sat at the low table by the window to read
until my mother came to pick me up.
Miss Hartmann would save books
that she knew I would like
and pull them from below her counter.
(I knew I was special then.)
The library was a shelter
from being too tall
with thick glasses,
from being a country kid,
from feeling like I didn’t fit.
In the library, I felt free.
I had a place where I belonged—
A reader, a lover of words.
That was more than 60 years ago.
When I go home now,
I drive by that tiny library,
which seemed so huge.
I feel the silence,
the joy and the privilege
of all those hours
I spent with Miss Hartmann
in that little building full of the future.
And I thank her.
GJSands
4/14/25
This is so beautiful, Gayle. I think you should type this up using Canva or something and if you happen to have access to a picture of Miss Hartmann, work it in. Then, frame it and take it into that treasure of a place to be hung as a reminder of its importance.
Please you must share this with Miss Hartmann’s family if at all you can! What a lasting impact she made on you! Just as you ALL make deep and lasting impacts on those with whom you share classrooms! I admire you teachers and librarians and educators so very very much! Thank you for inviting us to travel with you, back in time, and to share with us that safe space of your very first library. What a wonderful tribute to the person who made that safe space for you.
wow, this is great Gayle. I really enjoyed your last stanza. the nostalgic feeling of going back to your home town and seeing the places that made you who you are is something I think everyone can relate to. fantastic poem
Gayle — This is so beautiful. The memory so clear and wide-eyed. That you still see that same library now these zillion years later is just quite special. Miss Hartmann, grey bun and all, was a treasure and you became a treasure because of this extra special experience…she LOVED you and loved books, clearly. Wonderful, wonderful memory. Thank you for shaping it so well..I was right there from the start to the thank you. Susie
Padma, congratulations on your publications, and thanks for this writing prompt about reading.
Strange but True
Reading helped me experience
What I’d read about.
Time and time again, I’d take another look.
Verification came
When I read another book.
Sometimes a series by the same author
More often a series on similar topics.
From nursery rhymes to picture books
To young adult novels to Christian fiction
To DEI writing across cultures, genders and ages.
If it was in the library, I read it.
Pages, and pages, and pages
Not so much for safety, but for exploration.
I could get out without leaving home.
All over the world, I could roam.
Reading opened my eyes. I learned to see
And then to speak out, with authority.
Don’t give me that look!
See! It’s right here in the book!
All of us, readers…so lucky.
Anna, this is what attracts me more than anything:
“I could get out without leaving home.
All over the world, I could roam.”
Than you for such a passion for books and explorations!
Love how your poem gives us another affirmation of those immortal images created by Dr. Rudine Simms Bishop of how books can serve as mirrors, windows and sliding glass doors. I love your unique experience of this and how you bring it alive here, as well as how it contains the resonance of what she was speaking about. May you have many opportunities this spring to speak out with authority!
Padma, I loved “Safe Harbor” and want to read it again. Such a beautiful, poetic story to find a safe place inside a book. Thanks for this prompt. I am visiting my childhood hometown which is for me a mixture of strong emotions, most of them grief; however, I took a walk yesterday that offered solace. I wrote a tanka.
Purple Creek
walk to Purple Creek
sunlight plays its birdsong tune
worries melt away
childhood dreams await my recall
symphony of safety blooms
I can understand those feelings of grief. I’m entering a season of anticipated grief. It’s a challenge for me to balance out. I love the idea of safety blooming. We need a word like personification for wildlife…like safety blooming.
Thank you so much for the wonderful words about my book! I am honored.
What a moving Tanka! Love the alliteration and imagery in symphony of safety
“Symphony of safety” is such an exellent way to describe nature, the indivudual parts forming a singular sense of refuge. I love the image you put forth today, thank you for sharing!
Margaret, the worries melting away – – that’s the line I’ll hang onto today…..these days when we can find the safe harbor as you have done today, even in the midst of so much going on. I’m so glad you shared this tanka today!
Margaret,
“symphony of safety blooms” is magical and offers hope and comfort. I, too, have strong emotions in my childhood neighborhood so I hope you can stay in a safe emotional space.
:If library were perfume” is such an incredible way of describing how much love the poet has for the safe space a library is for people. I love that more than I can say. Thank you for the tremendous prompt this morning.
The Painting
I travel home soon.
These few minutes
to linger, say goodbye
thank you to this piece
must last my lifetime.
Gazing, I absorb the gospel
of the artist’s vision.
If I dared, I would give
the canvas bises
on the left and right.
Kisses of farewell,
my inspiration.
my confidant
and now memory.
What a cool way to bring the art of poetry with the art of painting! Love it!
“I absorb the gospel/of the artist’s vision” great line!
Linda, art is moving and deeply stirring as you have crafted in your lines of verse today. A Safe harbor indeed.
Padma, thank you for hosting today and I look forward to reading Safe Harbor.
nesting hugs
layers of arms
pretzeled
in snuggles
settled into
tender cuddles
ensconced in
protection
warmth
love
How wonderful…what a great place to be in the middle of loved ones. What a great safe space.
Stefani, this is the best place and moment to be–“nesting hugs, layers of arms.” Thank you for this beautiful reminder!
What a cute image of someone pretzeled into a cuddle! I will never look at a pretzel the same way again!
I am seeing this knot of human togetherness and loving all of its pretzeled snuggles!
Stefani, this is one of those poems where I say I wish I’d thought of that! What a perfect nesting spot. The pretzeled snuggles and cuddles. Could there be anything better?
Stefani, this seems like the safest of harbors. Your imagery is enveloping, but the sounds that you use—the soft consonant sounds—make the poem FEEL warm. Really great!
Absolutely love pretzeled as a way to describe these warm hugs.
Stef,
I want it all!! Love how you crafted your poem in a snuggly way too.
Padma, thank you for the invitation to safe spaces. Your poem imparts a sense of calm and belonging, as well as an atmosphere of awe. I can recall an electrical undercurrent every time I went to the library as a child, a magnetic pull: What would I discover today? I savor your lines, “If Library were a perfume”… I can smell that fragrant timelessness and want to linger, always.
Here’s my safe place – thank you again for the beautiful inspiration.
Haven
I should convert
one of the boys’
old bedrooms
to a study
where I can write
with fewer
interruptions
but here
at the kitchen table
is my place
here
there are windows
all around
I open the blinds
while it is yet dark
inviting the light
before its return
bringing with it, birds
rippling with song
praise for the morning
and the new day
these colorful
feathered visitors
peer in my windows
from time to time
like curious, bright-eyed
Muses
—yes, I am here
—yes, I see you, too
and sometimes
when my husband
turns on the TV
in the living room
I grow weary
of the news
and sports
but when
he goes away
he leaves music playing
for the puppy
playing under my chair
little ball of golden fluff
having dragged every toy
he owns
to my feet
where he whimpers
just now
to be held
and so I pick him up
he curls in my lap
while I write
to the background song
a’rippling:
If my words did glow
with the gold of sunshine…
yeah, the Grateful Dead…
here in my place
my beloved space
I write
ever grateful, alive.
******
Lyrics: “Ripple,” Robert Hunter/Jerome Garcia, 1970.
I’m shouting “me too!” from here. I know the kitchen is community space…and yet, it’s mine! I wish I could have it all to myself just for writing. And yet, it wouldn’t be the same inspiration without all the wonderful hub bub of family to absorb. I’m going to an airport today. I love writing in airports!
Fran, your poem is full of love and content. Yes, kitchen is one of the places I, too, like to be to find peace. Your love for birds is so evident here. I love the imagery richness of this stanza:
“these colorful
feathered visitors
peer in my windows
from time to time
like curious, bright-eyed
Muses”
And then you bring in your playful puppy, and I am smiling again seeing that “little ball of golden fluff.”
Weaving int he song lyrics feels so fitting with a setting you created for us. Beautiful, just beautiful! Thank you.
Fran, this is what I love most (because I can see it, feel it, heart it). It’s beautiful.
I love this, Fran! Our couch or the kitchen counter are my creation spots. I’ve often wondered why I have three vacant bedrooms upstairs that could be converted to a sanctuary for me yet I haven’t. Maybe it’s the upstairs part. And the light and rhythms of my typical spaces that I don’t want to give up. I love how you work in lyrics from the music left playing . . . it makes this so real.
I can just see the feathered visitors and your puppy! And what an unexpected end with the contrast between the Grateful Dead and grateful to be alive – such a fun surprise packed into your poem!
Sometimes a desk is the worst place to try to write! I’m a fan of couches, windows, kitchen tables, picnic benches–anything other than my ‘dedicated’ writing space. I find it funny that we often gravitate towards what should be the most disruptive places for writing, but personally I often find the background noise and activity inspiring. Also, props for the Grateful Dead inclusion!
Fran, your poem clearly shows your “haven” and writing place. I appreciate how well your poem helps us to visualize the scene and share in the music and other sensory details. Your ending is especially beautiful
Fran, I love a narrative poem. It doesn’t get much safer in the harbor than a puppy with toys under your chair. I like the opening of the windows at dark to welcome the light too. I also have tried to move my “place” of writing, but I am anchored to my green chair in the living room with a lap desk – – before the light of day, just like you. Love the lyric references too! Glad Jesse is doing well.
Padma, your prompt is so inviting and so needed right now. Thank you for hosting us today! Libraries everywhere are portals to other worlds- – and you remind us that they transcend time, too – – they allow us to time travel and sit with writers of the past.
Margaret Simon, a writer here in this space and at Poetry Friday, introduced me to a Shadorma form. I’m a fan of the short forms, and this one contains six lines with this syllable pattern: 3-5-3-3-7-5. I’m trying this form for my safe space poem today.
Safe Harbor Shadorma
safe harbors
places we can breathe
without fear
but tell me ~
do they exist anymore
in this mess of now?
They do exist – if we carve them out and preserve them – once again, you are the queen of the short form, packing it full of meaning, my friend!
With this blog post and responses I am recommitting to providing safe harbor for others. I do need to remember that I need safe harbor myself to be able to do that–the whole oxygen mask notion. What a beautiful shadorma. I love poems that end on questions. It’s a good one.
Oh, Kim, you are striking that painful chord of doubt in me too with your question today. As hopeless and desperate as I feel today after yesterday’s atrocities of ruscism, I want to believe in safe spaces because if I don’t, how can the people who are in the midst of tragedy every single day? Let’s breathe, my friend!
Love the use of shadorma. Thank you for your words today.
“mess of now” – that, in itself, could be a poetry prompt. I’m currently pretending I’m an alien anthropologist sent to earth to study the stupidity of humanity, to better understand intergalactic species and their behaviors to undo one another (as if we’re in the very early Star Wars days….before any of those films took place). Is that a safe space?
what a great question to land on. It feels dang near impossible to seek refuge anywhere . . . as everywhere we turn there seems to be chaos. I need to make note of the Shadorma form so it will push me toward being more concise!
Oh Kim! I LOVE learning about new forms – and I had never read a Shadorma before! It’s so great to work creatively by choosing to impose the restriction of a form on ourselves. I am thrilled to be introduced to this new form by you. And the question you ask is indeed the question many of us are asking…
Kim,
”this mess of now” is a horrifying reality. I had the same thought this morning, every day, as you know.
Kim, this is exactly what I was thinking today. Your question is powerful, and I think your title is perfect for this concise reflection of our current state of affairs.
Kim, this is really speaking to me today, especially the “do they exist anymore” line. I think they may but the ones that do seem to be getting drained every day.
Kim,
Yay, a new form for me to try too! I love a syllable counting form. And “this mess of now” has got to change. But like someone said the other day, it’s not even been a full four months and we have FOUR YEARS of mess to manage.
Sorry, I don’t want to bring icky to your poem and to the hope for a better tomorrow.
Hugs, friend!
Padma, libraries and books are my first shelter too, for the reasons Geetha loves them–the scent of words, the quiet, the slipping into another time and place–so beautifully written of. And if it’s not books, then it’s dreaming of gardening that allows me to slip into that other world. Thank you for offering us safe harbors to explore today. I’m off to check out diverse verse!
when the sound of spring
fills the air
and the sun warms the earth
loosening the soil
just enough for emerging growth
to escape its lingering sleep
that is where you’ll find me
hand-deep in the soil
emerging from my own hibernation
planting the dreams I held onto
through the cold dark days
adding imaginings and possibilities
because when the world is full
of darkness
this little spot
with nurturing planted deep
and care pulled into existence
shelters the entire world
Jennifer, there’s something in our very core that desperately desires to live close to the earth. As a species, we tend to forget this…the healing and nurturing that nature offers. “Adding imaginings and possibilities” – yes! Literal and metaphorical spring, after the long, dark winter. We shall emerge
Beautiful, beautiful poem.
Jennifer, I am connecting to this experience with you–our “own hibernation” is a great image. I am loving the bird calls and buds of colors across Michigan. Thank you for sharing and enjoying the birthing of spring over the next month.
This makes me want to go outside and pull on my gardening gloves. Sigh. They will have to wait until I return from spring break. But, oh…what a wonderful place to be for me as well: earbuds in, hands in the dirt, plants getting healthy doses of soil, water, attention.
Soil therapy. Always. “Shelters the entire world.” These poems are starting to get me antsy for the weather to snap in the northeast. Kayaking. Gardening. I’m loving all of this.
great. I love this Jennifer
Thank you so much, for your kind words about Geetha! I think she would love your poem and would totally relate to it, especially because she digs into the sand while she replants grass on sand dunes.
Your poem nurtures us with its last lines and the way they move from one spot into the entire universe, embracing and pulling us all into that small safe space that is yet large enough to shelter our entirety.
Love this Jennifer! if only… this little spot/with nurturing planted deep/and care pulled into existence…if only this little spot could shelter the entire world. A beautiful poem…praying so hard for the dreams you’ve planted…
Jennifer, this is one of my favorite places, so next time you want to get “hand-deep in the soil / emerging from my own hibernation / planting the dreams,” give me a holler. I will happily join to plant some good seeds with you. Your entire poem should be quoted today because how can one omit these beautiful lines?
“because when the world is full
of darkness
this little spot
with nurturing planted deep
and care pulled into existence
shelters the entire world”
Love every single word of it!
I am in love with your safe harbor. There’s something magical about watching spring unfold. I hope you enjoy your special place away from the darkness.
Padma,
Thank you so much for taking the time to invest in us as writers. I look forward to reading Safe Harbor.
Safe Harbor
(a metaphor for pulling into our garage after a day at school)
In uncertain waters
with outdated navigation tools
torrents of waves crashing
in what used to be still
waters
A rickety vessel
that used to traverse
these waters with ease
the calmest of Neptune’s playground
seems like tempest-tossed
At journey’s end
destination in sight
slowly gliding in to the harbor
to nestle safely against
the pier.
Until tomorrow’s voyage.
~Susan Ahlbrand
14 April 2025
Susan, wow, love how you added the note about pulling into the garage–that moment when you can breathe out after a long day of teaching. The verse on its own takes us through this journey, thank you for sharing.
Love it. The safe harbor of getting to homebase…getting to the garage. I have sat in the car for a few extra minutes to savor that too. You describe that beautifully as gliding into the pier.
Susan, as I read your poem this morning I couldn’t help but look out to my garage, where my paddle boards and kayaks reside. Like you, I’m ready for tomorrow’s voyage. It’s getting warmer. Soon. Soon (and it’s never fun to be “tempest-tossed” on “Neptune’s playground.”
Boy, oh boy! Do I feel this (or should I say, Girl, oh girl?). The end in sight, the slow gliding, the nestling against the pier. What happened to those still waters? I relate to that rickety vessel (I am that rickety vessel many days more than even the year before- sigh). Love your metaphor building.
Thanks, Susan for investing time in Safe Harbor someday in the future! I appreciate that – in advance!
The way you bring alive the moment of a vessel returning literally to its safe space in a harbor reminds me of when I used to be an oceanographer – and we’d return after a day’s hard hard work (or more than a day of scientific research) – you capture that in a way that makes me reminisce and feel totally nostalgic. If I return to oceanography after all these years of being a writer, I will hold you responsible (LOL)!
Susan, I love that home is the safe harbor, and the added imagery is a garage door that closes and shuts the rest of the world out…..to seek solace and peace inside the home. This is lovely and so clever.
Susan, your title with a parenthetical note says it all. I’d add taking of heals too, but this might not be as relevant to you (I am short)
Love the consonance with all the “s” sounds in this stanza:
“A rickety vessel
that used to traverse
these waters with ease
the calmest of Neptune’s playground
seems like tempest-tossed “
This is a brilliant response to the prompt! I have had school years when it these lines describe the day-to-day perfectly:
I hope you rest and breathe while you’re in your safe harbor for the night.
Hi Padma
I hope we all have at least one place for retreat.
Kevin
There is a nook
inside a room
inside a house –
a small corner
of mess and light
with a guitar
on a stand
and pens and
paper at hand, and
the possibility
of songs of love
and fight – a retreat
in the maelstrom
of a mixed-up world
calling out to me
Kevin, this poem is begging to become a song. The word retreat is a powerful addition here. Thank you for sharing.
I love the idea of inside and inside and inside. There’s definitely the feeling of safety and protection from what’s on the outside. And, both “love” and “fight” together work well here. Yes, a mixed-up world needs us.
mixed-up maelstroms. love it. And I can see you doing what you do in such a space.
This poem, to me, captures the way in which our creativity allows us to escape from the “maelstrom” that surrounds us. I hope indeed that all of us visiting this page today will always have a safe space to retreat to. And I hope someday I will be able to hear one of your songs played on your guitar!
great poem Kevin. I really like the “songs of love and fight” and how its portrays the different emotions we feel in our safe places. I really enjoyed this.
Kevin, I long for a small corner like this. The possibilities you mention are endless. I want to be there.
Beautiful and serene.