Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. With a masters degree in gifted education and National Boards certification in early literacy, Margaret teaches gifted students in Iberia Parish. Her first book of children’s poetry, Bayou Song: Creative Explorations of the South Louisiana Landscape was published in 2018 by UL Press. Margaret writes a blog regularly at http://reflectionsontheteche.com.
Inspiration
I have listened to Sara Bareilles’s memoir Sounds Like Me twice, and I’m drawn in by her honesty, her love of music, and her lyrical language. (Bonus: She sings some of her songs acapella on the audiobook.) In one of her essays, she quotes Martha Graham. I found the full quote on The Marginalian:
“There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware of the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open.”
Process
What are your major blocks to creativity? Mary Oliver says “You do not have to be good” in her poem Wild Geese. This line carries me, allows me to accept what comes and be open to it. We all have an energy inside us waiting to be released in some creative way, but we also have that other bird, the one on the right shoulder that pecks and pecks and pecks. How do you let the annoying pecker go? For me, it’s free writing. No form, no instructions, just pick up the pen, open to a clean page, place the date in the top left corner, and flow. Just write for ten minutes and if you find you have a speck of courage left, share what you wrote in the comments.
My poem is one I spoke into my Notes app while walking. Who says you have to write sitting down? Forget the rules today and flow, flow, flow.
Margaret’s Poem
Notes from a Walk
I want to pick up a pile of oak leaves
the pile of leaves blown from the curb,
rejected into the street.
I want to hold
a gathering of leaves in my hands,
carry them home, make mulch.
Mulch that will feed the soil.
I want to pick up all the gumballs
those countless gumballs that fall
from the sweetgum tree. We could
create art together.
I could give you
supplies:
leaves and gumballs,
a cardboard tube.
You can make it yourself.
You can make a masterpiece.
We can be a masterpiece, you and me.
©Margaret Simon
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Still working on catching up. I love this prompt and Mary Oliver. Thank you, Margaret for this invitation.
Making Time
You do not have to
Make time
Which is good because you couldn’t
Even if you wanted to.
You only have to
Take the time
Available to you
Which, let’s be honest,
might only be
Seconds.
Let your synapses
Connect in bright blue flames
Of creative electricity.
Let them tell you of their magic.
And
Listen
Meanwhile a baby needs nursing
Meanwhile a toddler needs a diaper change
And another is hollering for your help,
While the wind amplifies the song
Of the peach trees
Accompanied by the percussion
Of the flapping laundry room vent.
Meanwhile you contemplate changing your name
But they’d just chant whatever you changed it
To anyway
And maybe that creative magic
Wouldn’t be able to find you
Anymore.
Whoever you are, no matter how busy,
Creativity offers you its energy,
Sends up flares for rescue –
Repeatedly, with the same fervor of the children,
It begs for your attention
Announcing that it will find you
In the quiet and the loud
In solitude and the crowd
With invitation and
Ready for whatever time
You’ve got.
I think too much.
Even as I eat,
Even as I sleep,
I mull over the things I said and did throughout the day, the week,
Five years ago.
“Could I have said it better?”
“Why did I make that face?”
“What was I doing with my hands?”
There is so much I could have said better or not at all,
So much I could’ve done better or not at all.
But then I think how this thinking is robbing me
Of the joy of right now.
And then I think what bliss it would be
To have said and done and forgotten.
But then I think… I think too much.
To Write or To Print and Paste
To write or to print and paste?
Now that is the real question.
Collecting my final words published to blog
While remaining roughly drafted in notebook.
How can I possibly share myself with the world,
If I can’t read through all my scratch-outs?
This poems is inspired my free write idea of my need and desire to put all the poems in my notebook that I have written and published in this space and on my blog for VERSELOVE / National Poetry Month.
Margaret, I had a day of travel and family yesterday and didn’t get a chance to draft your prompt. I am determined to poem-everyday this month, so I’ve added mine a bit late.
tongue
twisted
sitting in the back
of my throat
feeling the words
in my heart
contemplations
masterful imagery
clever heartfelts
but they won’t
emerge, they stay
gargling near
my tonsils
or fisted in
my palms
un-typed
un-formed
figurative
moments in life
Stefani,
Your metaphors couldn’t have been more perfect for how we sometimes get stuck in our writing!
Love this!
Margaret, thank you for the freedom afforded by a free wrie approach to today’s poem! Amen to creating art together!
(Almost) Spring
Today, finally,
we had a glimpse of spring.
The sun shone bright,
and even though
the temperature was brisk,
the prelude to summer’s heat
was in the air.
Ran into a neighbor
at the plant nursery
whom I’ve not seen for months.
Her cart laden with pots and plants,
sunglasses shielding her eyes.
We chatted for the longest time.
As I headed out on an early evening walk,
I encountered another neighbor.
For the first time this year,
we stood and shot the breeze in shirt sleeves,
instead of huddled in jackets and hats.
Although tomorrow (well, actually Sunday)
we will be back to gloom and drizzle,
today was spectacular.
I’m thinking you and I must live in the same area, Charlene. I’m in Michigan – where are you? This is not only exactly our weather, but how we know one another here – seasonally! That last line, “today was spectacular” I take to mean also not just about the weather, but about when we can (finally) reconnect with people whom we haven’t seen all hibernation long. We catch up on how so-and-so is doing, and – now that we’re aging – doctor and ER visits. The cycle of life in seasonal habitats. Nicely captured here – and enjoy the sunshine today!
Charlene, thank you for sharing, I too love the emergence of spring. This reminds us of life and growth and I particularly love hearing bird songs in the wee mornings.
Lost things
It’s always the glasses.
I was reading on the couch.
Can you get up so I can check the cushions?
They’re not in the couch.
Last night I was looking for your glasses.
And checked the floor under the couch.
Guess what was there?
The remote control that had been missing since I went away for spring break.
Four weeks ago.
And today it was the dog.
You’d washed him and trimmed him.
The gate left open.
His collar left off.
I found him in the compost.
Looks like you’ve got your glasses tonight.
Hilarious at the first two lines! Somewhat bittersweet as that kind of ‘aging’ thing, but then again, I think we do these small ‘misses’ our whole lives. Though I did worry about the dog at first, and would much rather find him in the compost than not to find him at all, so THAT is a happy ending!
Jamie, I love this unexpected twist of lost and a bit of humor. I am sure the clean pup in the compost was not immediately funny thought. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for the invitation to write freely. I’m excited to do more with what I wrote but for tonight here is this:
Daiyenu
Would have been enough:
Every day of this damn week.
Every miracle.
Laura, what a great poem. I would love to hear more about your week. Why was it a “damn week” and what about those miracles? Your poem invites me to wonder and yet it is complete and stands alone. “Would have been enough” Yes.
Sending you kind thoughts, Laura! Your poem is enough. Thank you for finding energy and just the right words for today.
I hope there was a miracle or two among the days of the damn week.
Laura, thank you for sharing. Your short verse packs a strong punch in three lines. I hope the weekend is enough for a bit of a reset.
I am a bit late today, but thank you so much, Margaret, for hosting and allowing us to free write today. I love your poem that flows easily. I can see the leaves, piles of them “rejected into the street” and imagine a masterpiece created by you with leave and gum balls.
I live in Ponchatoula, LA, which is the Strawberry Capital of the World, or so they say. This weekend is our annual Strawberry Festival. Here is my poem:
Everything Strawberry in Ponchatoula
Do you know about the Strawberry Capital?
They have their own festival.
Today is the day to celebrate,
To play, walk, compete, and eat.
Everything strawberry is here
Whether it’s far, midway, or near.
If you come at 10 a.m.
Or make it by 5 p.m.
You’ll see strawberry hats,
Dresses, tops, shorts, or pants,
Ribbons, balloons, balls,
Berries in streets, shops, and halls.
Strawberry treats: fresh and candied,
Chocolate-covered, jammed, and jellied.
Strawberry donuts, pies, cakes, cookies,
Tea, wine, smoothies, and daiquiris.
To end the day with the happy note,
Enjoy the ride in a parade float
Or jump on a local trolley,
It will make you feel pretty jolly.
Leilya, what fun! A strawberry festival. It’s better than the two festivals that have been part of my life–the Garlic Festival and Tulip Festival. I could eat strawberries all day, every day, and love festivals that involve eating. Your rhyming is fun today. Enjoy the festival!
Leilya, what a sweet ode to the festival. My favorite surprise every year is when the local strawberries arrive in the grocery stores, and your poem mirrora my excitement. The rhythm and rhyme is just right!
Here are some fresh strawberries for you 🙂
Shout out to Ponchatoula, Leilya! I lived in Slidell for many years and my mom still does. Love the strawberry fest and your descriptions, especially stanza 4, make me want to be there!! Yum!
Leilya,
Hace you read Richard Iii and the famous strawberry reference? Anyway, Inlove strawberries and love your catalogue of all things strawberry, especially all the food. I’ve never thought of Louisiana as a strawberry producer. Our strawberries come from California or Mexico. Reading your poem makes me smile. I’m feeling the jolly in your last line.
I’m not the cool cat
Lying lazily on a porch
I’m the scared, screeching
Hairs on the back of my
Neck salute my fears
Suspecting danger
Is always lurking near
I’m not the cool teacher
Effortlessly brilliant and kind
I’m the it makes sense to me
I just want you to break free
Stop following all
The rules caging you
A hopeful generation
I’m not the cool mom
Adorned in designers
I’m the working hard to
Make something better
Mom pulling all nighters
Spinning plates every minute
Threatening to fall
I’m not the great student
Learning on the first go
I’m the let’s unpack and react
Let me take this slow
I need time to woo, dance,
Play around with information
A safe place to wonder
I’m the youngest child
Living through everyone’s lives
I’m the married twice but happy
Overwhelmed with love
Fitting anxiety, imposter syndrome
A boxer in a ring I created
An opponent of myself.
Ashley, your poem of I’ms and I’m nots is clever and really helps us get to know you. I love the description of the kind of teacher you are:
A much cooler teacher, I’d say! And that mom spinning plates threatening to fall is very well written. I’m again feeling those plates from years past.
Ashley, just about everything in your poem makes me want to get o know you better. I love that you need time to woo, dance.
Ashley, I love how you structured your poem beginning each stanza with “I’m not,” and then leading us into your world, in which you are who you are – true to yourself, “ A boxer in a ring I created / An opponent of myself.” Thank you for writing and sharing today!
Ashley, with each subsequent stanza I found myself relating more and more with you. The stanza on the teacher “you” is exactly how I feel most days in front of the room—I’m no well-oiled machine but I am excited to show you how I figured it out and can’t wait to learn more ways to share. I really love the balance of your poem.
Margaret–thank you, thank you! It was serendipity that today’s prompt coincided with an exploration of “Tiny Perfect Things” in my classroom today. We read the book by the same name and then picked a tiny perfect thing as the subject of our poetry today. Students wrote some wonderful pieces–I wish I had jotted down some of their wonderful line to share with you all! That will have to be another post.
My own poem was inspired by a photo a took earlier this week–of a dandelion growing in a crack in the road.
Road cracked
dandelion rooted
roared
riotous
yellow blossom
bloomed
Take note:
live in possibility
turn lemons
into lemonade
find the silver lining
Inhale deeply
exhale a wish
for generations
seeds floating
whose dreams will come true?
What can we learn from a dandelion?
https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2023/04/14/free-write-npm23-day-14/
Kim, lovely for you and your students to be reading and writing poetry together. It would be nice to read some of your students poems.
The word choice here is magical:
“What can we learn from a dandelion” indeed, Kim! I appreciate how you work with your young students to look at things from many differen perspectives.
Thank you, Kim! Your poem’s message is what our students and we need most of the day: go on, act, face obstacle, withstand hardships. Beautiful and powerful word choices!
Wow, on a Friday evening after dinner and a cocktail, I sat down and forced myself to compose freely and it felt divine! Thank you, Margaret!
Don’t Stop, Keep Writing
Motivation is tricky
Like the fables’ tricksters kind of tricky
It comes like a thief on the page
To steal, kill and destroy
My daily agendas and to-do lists
Sometimes motivation is fleeting
Like the hours on the clock
That tick away my intentions
To work, produce, be creative
In poetry, prose, or plans
My urges deceive me
Like the mirage on Interstate 15
They make me scroll into the abyss
Reels, stories, life hacks
To improve who I am or seek to be
What if I stop succumbing
To the external teasing and baiting
And sit down with pen to paper
A prompt and a community
And compose reality inside a poem
©Stacey L. Joy, April 14, 2023
Like the hours on the clock
That tick away my intentions
To work, produce, be creative
These likes stood out to me because of the imagery and rhythm. It really conveys the steady tick of a clock.
Stacey, oh, I vote yes! I love the last lines, especially sitting not just with “pen to paper,” but with “a prompt and a community.” This community! “And compose reality inside a poem” Wow. I’m so glad you enjoyed this free writing; it felt divine! That’s quite a testimonial.
These lines are great too:
Stacey—the verbs in your poem really popped for me. And that last line—a bullseye. I know it wouldn’t be special if it was every month but halfway through and I feel so much empowerment from the daily ritual of writing my truths with others.
I am right there with you, Stacey! Trying to “stop succumbing/ To the external teasing and baiting!” Like you, I write my poems “with pen to paper” first. Thank you for another great poem that’s real. 🤗
Stacey,
Thinking about motivation, I often return to Elizabeth Gilbert’s book Big Magic and her insights about seizing inspiration as it arrives, as well as Daniel Pink’s book Drive in which he says people are motivated by three things: autonomy, mastery, and purpose. I suppose purpose is at the heart of writing poetry for me, and in your poem the words “compose reality inside a poem” hone in on purpose. Still, all the other things necessitating motivation are indeed like “the mirage on interstate 15.”
Ha, Stacey – I know what that feels like. Writing our poems is such an elixir, and yet, some days I can barely get myself to the “pen to paper.” Last night, I fell asleep with my iPhone in my hand… too beat to get back to the page. I loved your “thief on the page” … resonates, resonates!! And I’ve yet to make it to the prompt for today. Oh dear! Love, Susie
Negotiate
Clemencia Acevedo
The unexpected constantly lurks
Present and invisible
A moment of joy
At the snap of fingers
Can turn into bitterness
That’s the nature of life
But what then?
How to balance beauty and vileness?
Smile, laugh, ha-ha
Busy yourself with sports
For every muscle movement
Can release happy hormones
Reach and feed the brain
Devour delicious food
Pleasure the heart
With full spices and colors
Gently cooked with loving hands
Aromas smooch the nostrils
Drink a delicious sweet cocktail
Warm the cold throat
Ease the stressed back
Rub the strained eyelids
So then, the unexpected is greeted
When it shows its face
4-14-23
Clemencies, your poem spoke to and for me today. The sensory images you evoked made me smile. I particularly appreciate the sections about movement and eating delicious food with full spices/Gently cooked with loving hands
Sometimes spice comes from the one with loving hands!
You captured so many elements that bring joy to people. As a fellow gym enthusiast, I felt tickled by the “happy hormones” line.
Clemencia, wonderful thoughts here and I love the long list of how to balance the beauty and vileness of life. So many verbs that command us to do healthy and happy things–drink, devour, ease, rub, reach, pleasure…You have appealed to all the senses.
Hard to find words today.
I want to keep writing
But life keeps getting in the way.
A friend’s mom died this morning;
She was only seventy-six.
The April air felt like August,
The sky was the bluest blue,
Trees blossomed pink and white,
And suddenly she’s gone,
Just like that.
No more mother,
No more wife,
No more nurse.
Just an empty space in the blue
Where once she held her daughter,
Where once she smiled,
Where once she laughed.
Oh Joanne! How sad to lose a loved one! Glad, though that she has you to share this time of loss, Listening probably will be what she needs most. You seem like the friend for this. Take care…
Your poem feels like arms reaching out for an embrace, and the repetition of the end really highlights the finality and heaviness of today. There are not suitable words for grief. I’m sorry for your loss never seems right.
Joanne, I’m sorry for you and especially your friend. You can tell from your poem that she was close to you too. The sentences about the air, the sky, and the trees, followed by “And suddenly she’s gone” is so powerful. Your poem is heartfelt and sad.
Sorry for your and your friend’s loss, Joanne! It is so sad. Your poem’s tone is coloured in those deep blue color of grief and loss. Sending you and your friend kind thoughts.
Such a beautiful reflection on life. And the empty spaces when it’s gone. Your words reflect the freshness of the loss. A colleague just shared the loss of a friend’s husband with me this afternoon. And how she had to make the time to attend the funeral in Houston next week. It’s life we celebrate. Just like the words you share as you make sense of the loss. Thanks for sharing your words which all of us ca connect to at some place.
Joanne,
How can opposites exist in the same space? Yet they do in the blue spring sky and blooming trees, signs of life in the midst of death, amidst a mournful tone. Your opening lines are in conversation w/ Stacey’s poem, both speaking of motivation and desire and the myriad disrupters to these. We are aging, and I think often about the empty space that will remain for one of us when the other passes. Your poem reminds me of this and of the good things left to notice when that time comes.
Margaret, thank you for this invitation. I love the suggestions, even taking out the notes app during a walk. Physical movement generates thoughts for me, but I always think “I’ll remember this when I get home and write it down in my notebook” (I never do). Your poem itself is also so inviting.
While I wouldn’t say this is a masterpiece, it is a regret I have from today. Is it silly to dwell over the life of a bug?
Splayed out on my car
was a giant, translucent
moth clinging
to the passenger side
window. I barely acknowledged
her presence.
The car’s engine groaned,
warming up for our
40-minute ride home.
I had to make
a right turn, and there
she was!
Her thin legs
desperately affixed
to the window. Wings
now tattered and torn.
At a stop sign,
I rolled the window down
gently, slowly, trying to
atone for my earlier sin,
coaxing her to join
me in the cab,
but she didn’t budge.
At the next stop,
the palm-sized moth
was gone. I spent
the rest of the commute
utterly alone.
I love how you took this poem for a ride with a moth-muse and landed on “utterly alone.” When we discover flow, the poem takes charge. You let this one take you to being alone which can be welcomed or not, depending on point of view. Thanks for writing.
Rachelle, today I discussed with my kids a recent study showing that bees experience emotion. They were astounded and immediately started imagining different scenarios- would a bee be scared if it saw your hand trying to swat it away? Would a bee be sad if his buddy died? How might a be act if he was trying to get with the queen? Anyway, this is all just to say I want to share your experience with them. I love your last stanza.
Rachelle,
You saved the moth ❤️
That is totally the sort of thing a care person would do.
“the rest of the commute utterly alone”. Oh those words…what a wonderful poem. Thanks so much for sharing!
Rachelle,
I love your gentle nature that shines so well in this poem. Silly bugs don’t get off when they should, there’s nothing you could’ve done. The last line is so poignant–odd how affecting such a seemingly little thing can be.
I love your relationship with the moth. So much more than a glance before thoughts move on to the day’s list. I love the details you share – “clinging to the passenger’s side” – “legs desperately affixed” – “wings now tattered and torn” Thanks for sharing all you noticed.
I Dream of Amalfi/Sogno di Amalfi
By Mo Daley 4/14/23
I am an enthusiastic learner of Italian
on the DuoLingo app
I complete daily challenges
earn and hoard all the XP I can
and spend at least
the recommended 15 minutes a day learning
so that when I go to the wedding
on the Amalfi coast in June,
I can try to work
Earlier there was an oil leak
(prima c’era una perdita d’olio),
I have no intention to speak further
(non ho intenzione di parlare oltre),
and
You have really bored me
(mi hai davvero annoiato)
into polite dinner conversation
Mo, thank you for this! I always do my Duolingo lesson after I post my poem. Those sentences might not be the most seamless in polite conversation, but at least you know the phrases! Enjoy that wedding!
Mo, I love the intertwining of the Italian into this poem. I wish I knew another language. I had a conversation today with a Pakistani student and he is working on learning Spanish, his fifth language, and he was probably not twenty yet. I missed out on learning when I was young. Thanks for writing.
Mo,
I love my Duolingo time. I am studying Spanish, I too try to hoard XP and finish each daily challenge. Enjoy the wedding and conversation.
Mo,
Another Duolingo user, here, too! I love that you’re learning for a trip. I started during the pandemic because I’d always wanted to learn Spanish and understand the most common second language my students speak. Ten un buen viaje!
This is more a venting than a free write, but it’s what happened when I sat down.
Sometimes,
when my brain gets full
it’s like I can’t quite fit another thing in
so I deflect–
I clean
(never a cleaner house than when there’s a pile of papers)
I mow the lawn
(it’s the first sunny day in weeks)
I binge a show on Netflix
(my son wanted to watch a show together–seize the moment)
I snuggle my dog
(she’s lonely at home all day by herself)
But the things I really need to do
get drowned out by the extras that pop up, too.
Can you write me a letter of rec, Ms. Fortey?
We need to restart the literary and art magazine,
you can do that, right?
Can you make and sell more of those cool t-shirts
(that totally swallowed your life last year)?
Can you have your students pre read novels
for a new class the district wants to have?
Oh, and can you design the curriculum
for that class, too?
Hey, you don’t mind if a couple of pre-service
teachers observe you today, right?
Uh oh, we’re running out of time to do your yearly review,
does tomorrow work for you to be observed?
Can you arrange a guest speaker?
Get their background checks done?
Get their presentation approved by school and district?
Send out an email letting parents know? Oops, reword that one again.
Now,
seriously,
why aren’t you caught up in your grading?
What are you doing with your time?
Cara,
I hear you loud and clear. All those professional things that pile up on top of personal life just suck, no other words. I do have faith you’ll be able to get back into your grading groove.
[standing and applauding at my Chromebook — which, granted, feels a little weird] Right on, Cara! I am right with you in this (and you’ll see that my mentor poem for my prompt later this month has such a similar vibe as this. We are on the same wavelength!) Thanks for “venting” and sharing this! (And, now, I have to stop reading these poems so I can continue to address my own “pile of papers”! lol)
Cara, you do so much for our school. I hope that you can honor time for rest, too. Thanks for all you do.
This is a poem about my daily life! I am not as involved as you seem to be at your school building, but today I was at a conference and traveling and wasn’t going to have time to respond to all these amazing poems. Thanks for writing. This was something that needed to be released. We’ve all been there. (Let’s hear it for seizing a moment for a Netflix binge with your offspring.)
Thank you for the prompt today! I recently finished my run as student teacher, and had the pleasure of returning to one of my former classes today. After the period wrapped up, I wrote this during lunch…
Ode to English 1
Dear students
to see you again!
Blessed note upon
which my week closes.
As if no time had passed,
connections were rebuilt
(maybe they had
simply remained intact).
Oh!
What fun we had
But please, study your
commas
semicolons
colons
Please? For me?
If not for me
do it for
yourself.
To learn is to demonstrate
an acceptance to growth
to change
The lessons you taught me
(yup – you read that right)
in our time,
far too short,
left me
irrevocably
altered.
For that, I cannot thank you enough.
But please, study you
conjunctions.
Subordinating
coordinating
Please? For me?
The repetition of “please” and “For me” is perfect. Sometimes I really feel like I’m begging my students to understand basic grammar–and I teach English 12! You got it right “If not for me / do it for/ yourself.” Well done!
James, what a sweet love note to this group of students you’ll never forget! I hope they heed your advice.
Oh my, yes! They teach us so much, but please learn your commas, conjunctions,,, What a wonderful ode to English teaching.
I’m smiling, James —- oh, those are familiar pleas. I love the reality that you have students in front of you, but it is also, and critical, that you are a student of those kids. So important to realize ! Susie
Margret,
I too struggle with free write. I chose to look around the library today and find the beauty in it. There are so many pieces of student artwork hanging on the walls, window, and sitting on or above book shelves. I’m lucky to get to enjoy these pieces throughout my day.
Artwork all around sculptures above the shelve
Mummy sitting on old encyclopedias
Wire formed dolphin floating on a stick
Mask of orange and red hangs near
Artwork all around hanging from the window
Paper and wire molded that look like stained glass
Black bordered see through designs that look like stained glass
Pears, hot-air balloon, and geometric shapes of stained glass
Artwork all around hanging on walls
Giant painted puzzle pieces
Pollock-esque painting of bold colors
Monet-esque water lily also near
Artwork all around
All day enjoying
Artwork all around…
I really enjoyed the repetition of “Artwork all around.” The line is all around in the poem, mirroring the way artwork is all around you. Your writing is such a great visual feast – thank you for sharing your joy with us!
Although I can literally picture this since its in our school library, I feel like I can mentally picture it from your perspective! Art is an inspiration for a lot of writing, and I like how you took us on a little art tour in your poem. I think my favorite is “Wire formed dolphin floating on a stick” (I’ll have to check that out more closely next time I’m in the library)
DeAnna,
You paint a vivid picture of our school library! I can spin in my mental chair and see the whole room. Well done!
So just went with the flow, flow, flow. I was relaxing in my backyard after work listening to the birds chirp away and soaking up some sun. This is a summer-like 80 degree day with pure sunshine. This is extraordinary for April in my part of New York. Then a Mourning Dove started cooing and the line ” mourning to their joy” popped into my head. It made me think that even though the weather is joyous right now, it will not be in 2 days- much colder. We will all be mourning the loss of this.
Constant twittering fills the air
glorifying this summerlike day of Spring,
a soprano aria floats over the top
twining through the rays of warmth
as a slow, low coo- coo-coo weaves reality
through the counted days of bliss-
the mourning to their joy.
I think your poem is exactly what I was experiencing in my back yard earlier today. I love the movement and sound of your poem, especially the coo-coo-coo weaves, and “the mourning to their joy” is priceless word play.
The sounds of your poem are beautiful. Thank you for sharing today.
Twining through the days of warmth…weaves reality…so many perfect lines. And, having grown up in Western New York, I know that the warmth is temporary this time of year!
Margaret, this line resonated most with me: “You have to keep yourself open and aware of the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open.”
I accused my mother of martyring
herself
me
us.
It was no accusation, not shame
at all
it was
a compliment.
A person who sacrifices
for others
but maybe for
self, too–is good, yes?
I understood the principle
as service
voluntarily
suffering, forgoing.
But mom’s martyring
has not served
others nor me
nor her
for
lessening my self
for others silenced
urges of joy
closed possibilities
so now
I ask if this serves me
serves you, too
doesn’t feel burdensome
yet a way to keep your
life channels open
but if it feels like
a sacrifice-for,
please,
don’t do it.
We don’t need
martyrs here,
just you.
And I grieve
for the you in
my mother
I never knew.
“We don’t need
martyrs here,
just you.”
My breath caught, reading these words. These sparse, direct words, reminding us to create, to keep those ‘life channels open.” Just beautiful.
Sarah, your poem is full of powerful emotions, and I can hear your voice throughout the entire poem. I can feel the angst, and perhaps, the underlying anger, too. The sense of loss and grieving of the missed opportunities is haunting. The thought that you may have never known your mother because of her behavior is especially painful. Hugs.
“but if it feels like
a sacrifice-for,
please,
don’t do it.”
This settled in my heart—I lived this. Thank you for putting it into words for me.
Sarah,
These words–
“We don’t need
martyrs here,”
stick and make me reflect on what it means to be a martyr, to be a mother martyr, to be a female forced to martyr herself. I’m conflicted about the idea that to martyr is “a compliment.” This is a paradox in my reading, one I will reflect on. I love poems that make me think, and this one does.
Thanks, Glenda. In my family, sacrificing self was seen as a something expected. There was no nuance or space to help me understand implications as a young girl.
“We don’t need
martyrs here,
just you.”
This line is so beautiful, poignant, and perfectly constructed. I felt an ache in my heart I have not felt in a long time as I read your poem. Your writing is something to absorb and reflect upon. Thank you…
That ending is a lesson to all of us would-be mother martyrs. My mother is no longer my mother, lost to Alzheimer’s daily, but I’m not sure now if I want the other mother back. Would she demand that I martyr myself for her? I’m struggling with that guilt. Thanks for stepping in today and writing.
Sarah – your poem strikes a chord for me. The martyr thing has been a conversation in my family as well.
These lines speak truth:
The grieving in the final lines say sooo much. Playing the martyr in a family just screams guilt and unnecessary burdens and conditions… the feeling that we have to earn love rather than experience a free flow of love in all directions. Geez, families are sooo complicated. The honesty here comes through in your voice, vulnerable but strong. Hugs, Susie
Sarah, whew, this speaks volumes!
I almost feel like this could’ve been my own poem talking to my mother. I appreciate the vulnerability here.
Thank you for being you!
Margaret, thank you so much for hosting today. The idea of being free inspired me today as I listened to a cacophony of bird song this afternoon.
Paradise Flight
carry me, yellow finch wings,
into gold skies, along mountain
icy streams, butterfly fields,
scorching deserts— then drop me quick
into a hellish fiery pit
to rise anew like phoenix
Barb Edler
14 April 2023
Barb,
I soard along these lovely bird images with the “yellow finch wings” and the “gold skies,” and past the mountains I love and call home; I looked down on the “icy streams” and marveled at butterflies in Costa Rica, and, of course, saw golden sand dunes in Death Valley before arriving at that surprise ending. Still, you gave me hope in your ethereal, lyrical verse with the ending image of a phoenix rising from the ashes. Gorgeous poem. I am in awe of your gift. Thank you.
Oh, Barb. That took a turn and then another turn like birds swirling in and out of view. The rebirth is most striking for me, thinking about ways we can keep our channels open (as Martha Graham suggested).
Barb, these tender sweet images, and then the surprising demand for where to be dropped – whoa! I hadn’t imagined paradise as a “hellish fiery pit,” but to soar anew like phoenix – my goodness, that makes that pit a part of the transformation, I think. I am reminded of Pema Chodron’s writings in “When Things Fall Apart” – how our breaking is our building…
Barb, I am so partial to finches…I was riding along these yellow wings into gold skies and those refreshing scenes when – whoa! The scorching desert was foreshadowing of that pit…I note the speaker’s dual requests, “carry me’ and ‘drop me quick,” which is fascinating. The why being the rising anew…such a compelling verse!
Barb, Maureen was listening to birdsong today, too. And my colleague left early to go birding with a group of students who are participating in a 24 hour birdathon to see how many species they can identify – – and I think it’s fabulous that right now, there are so many wonders of nature to love. Your butterfly fields make me smile. This makes me think of the movie Bambi when everyone is twitterpated. Itching for springtime delights.
Barb – You tapped into my inner bird, so of course I love that yellow finch… the idea of lifting up and away to drop and rise like the phoenix… it’s a journey of hope that resonates with me. Taking flight feels so … well, elevating. Ha! But that fiery pit… yikes! That part is a strong struggle… I feel that ache… it’s real. Your voice is real. I hear it. Sending hugs, Susie
Barb, what a poem of bird flight and starting out with the gold skies and butterfly fields are so beautiful and light, then on to the scorching deserts and hellish fiery pit was surprising and took a turn. But, of course, the end made me happy again. A poem of life.
Hello Margaret! I love that you speak to your notes while walking. I often do the same when poetry just flows into my head. Thanks for the prompt today. I am actually posting something I wrote last month but it just came into my head while doing what the poem describes. I knew I and to sit down and write it.
Before I Throw the Flowers Out
Before I throw the flowers out I remember that
I can see you through the store window
leaning against your walker with a boquet on the seat
waiting to pay the cashier
for your gift to me
Before I throw the flowers out, I remember that
it was Valentine’s Day
and you bought me sunflowers of life
but I didn’t know that you would be gone from me
in a short, few days
Before I throw the flowers out, I remember that
your love for me and my memories
will last beyond the flowers
and your gift of love
is larger that all the flowers can provide.
Oh my, Susan. Your poem is full of love and grief. I enjoy how you have created this vivid imagery and memory to lead to the larger concept, the gift of love. Yes, more than flowers can provide. Truly lovely, heart-wrenching poem.
Oh my gosh, this is so, so beautiful. I don’t think I will ever again through flowers out without pausing a moment to remember the love that gave them to me— or thinking of the very special someone leaning against a walker, bouquet on the seat. Just lovely. thank you for sharing!
Oh this poem is so tender and true, especially your line – ” your love for me and my memories will last beyond the flowers.”
There is such heartbreak in these two lines, this sad juxtaposition of sunflowers of life and the death of someone dear. Very poignant poem.
Susan,
My heart breaks and then it fills with awe and appreciation for the tender, loving care that you were shown. Your poem seems like it should be a mentor poem for us someday. I love the refrain.
💖
Susan. I am in tears. I can picture them in the flower shop. And then gone.
This is really beautiful, Susan! I love your last stanza: “your love for me and my memories / will last beyond the flowers / and your gift of love / is larger than all the flowers can provide.” Thank you for sharing this!
Thanks for the freedom prompt. I used gumball words 🙂
Lotus Wolf
The insanity of the world,
Is what drives us sane?
But the insanity of one person,
Is what drives the world sane?
The never-ending wheel of a wicked society is acceptable,
But the wickedness of one person,
Halts the wheel, forcing the arrow to puncture righteousness.
The death of civilization is the conformity of greed.
Wanting is a forsaken venom that flushes through the veins of capitalism.
Regret is abundant to the people who search for wants and neglect needs.
As I regret wants and rely on needs, the world slowly stares holes through my intellect.
The more I withstand the norms of wanting, the faster the knife of reality pierces my flesh.
I stand in rags on a corner of the most luxurious street in America, I draw attention from the fabulous in life, they not in the giving but in the wanting, stab me with their eyes and cut me with their tongues. I refute their system but am labeled insane. I have millions of prayers to match their dollars. I suffer from the manifestations of materialistic block heads. Though what is deemed important to the oligarchies, is bestowed upon the workers.
“A wretched crown of useless waste,
Sits upon graves, of the dead master’s place.
Statues above dirt,
Reminded the masses of hurt.
Gold, Silver abundant and adorned,
Maggots were eaten and they did not morn.
Peasants fell with feeble bones,
As a Fat king’s belly groans.
Of the lands of his – is Not,
Laughing- as his people choke and rot.
Countrymen of the misbelief – work to be free,
But they are free to work, and that’s all they will ever BE!
Spread the wealth and regenerate workman’s loss,
Never! He used it for the Castle’s Cost.
Cost of lives in the depth of Poverty,
Is never envisioned by the prince’s sovereignty.
You got yours and You got mine,
Divinity is not in your blood, None of us are divine.
Say whatever to justify your materialistic course,
I speak of Cherokee freedom in my voice.
Spirit in wood and all around,
I’ll be here empowering the ground.
With my tongue you will notice,
Empowering peace like the Lotus.
I speak for the poor and neglected,
The ones left out and rejected.
With teeth of a bear and heart of a lion,
Not afraid to fight, and don’t care ‘bout dying!
So, king as you sit upon your throne,
The peasants are hungry, and you are alone.
Packs of wolves are howling throughout your lands,
They are hungry, hungry for the Fat man.”
The nice stranger gave the homeless man a bowl of Kellogg’s and a sprite.
· I left it, there…..
– Boxer
Boxer, this seems to have poured out of you in what I hope was a cathartic way. The images of America of humanity are striking and so precise…Kellogg’s and a sprite. Corporate America in this human transaction. Wow. So many tensions throughout.
I feel your tension building in every line, this feeling of overwhelm plus horror at the travesty of this world, the ‘wickedness’ (your word) of so many. When I spin like this, I am greatly comforted by noticing small beauties, like your last line, “The nice stranger gave the homeless man a bowl of Kellogg’s and a sprite.” – this is precious.
Boxer, your poem is so full of timely social problems. I was especially attracted to your line: “ I suffer from the manifestations of materialistic block heads. ” We need more peace and not crazy people howling for their own bloody power. Your end was surprising. I like how it is separated and focuses on an action.
Boxer—“The nice stranger gave the homeless man a bowl of Kellogg’s and a sprite.” A small gift for the hungry peasant…wow.
[Margaret – I had fun free-thinking about this prompt. Loved it. Thank you. Susie]
AT THE BOTTOM OF THE POT
I am, indeed, the only me
that will ever be
and you the only you,
which, I guess, makes me and thee
vessels of unique possibility
or perhaps cauldrons brewing with the soup of we —
eyes of newts and toes of frogs
or maybe ambrosia and otherworldly grogs.
But, back to me,
here writing freely,
what is it I can offer?
Clearly there is much,
the palatable
and unsavory,
the good, the bad,
the in-between to profer.
If I decant all my flaws,
let those bubble away,
will there be enough
of the less flawed me,
a fond not yet deglazed,
to forward flavors that ease and please?
No doubt you’ll ladle
some blights and dings
served up as caution –
what not to do,
what not to say,
when to curb unwanted voices.
Examine awhile, make choices;
find the you that is not me.
And if at the bottom
of the pot
you find a spoonful
of what’s left,
may that last morsel,
last drop,
release your smile,
pluck the note,
and let you sing.
by Susie Morice, April 14, 2023©
Susie,
I’ll gladly take a helping of all you’re serving from the vessel, the pot, the cauldron that is you and your poetry, and, of course, your generous, kind words in the comments. Of course, I love the allusion to the Scottish play, the title we shall not say, like
“what not to say,
when to curb unwanted voices.”
and the challenge (struggle) to heed the “some things are better left unsaid” mantra that rings in my ears.
I promise, I will always see you as a muse, a mentor who always has “something to offer.” Thank you.
Susie, your poem sings off the page, and I can hear your voice singing this lovely poem. I am totally enchanted with your “brew pot” word play and the way your poem flows so easily to the finale. I especially enjoyed the lines:
“served up as caution –
what not to do,
what not to say,
when to curb unwanted voices.”
Hmmmmm…that’s thought-provoking and relatable. I’m glad that the end provides hope and the plucking note that allows the reader to “sing”. Fantastic poem, Susie. I love it. Hugs, Barb
Susie, I this free verse, the voice is liberated to circle out and back in, to talk to and through. The soup is an apt image of comfort and a device that nicely threads, no stirs, no nourishes the self.
Susie! Incredible metaphor, imagery, and language here at the bottom of the pot! I love it all but that opening (cauldron brewing with the soup of we and the rhyming allusion to the three weyward sisters) is sheer fun! The whole line of questioning what one has to offer, perhaps a cautionary tale, and then letting “you” sing – yes! All in all, a delightful embracing of freedom and word-love.
Susie— oh, YES!!
“or perhaps cauldrons brewing with the soup of we —
eyes of newts and toes of frogs
or maybe ambrosia and otherworldly grogs.”
and then all the rest of this glorious poem! I will certainly take that last spoonful!!
Susie, Susie, you always delight with your words and thoughts. I hear that guitar right there at the end – and I love that you bring music to the verse today!
Susie,
Sorry, school is schooling me and I’m late responding. I want any bits and pieces, whole or halves that you have to offer us. You’re a gem! You make me smile and sing! 🤗
Reflections on My Writing
In the beginning, and the beginning
is always safe, always childhood—
always Brooklyn,
always a beautiful mother
and a big green bus
that brought us to the library
to meet Little Ping
and find the great garden book
and the sick boy who lay in bed
with two pillows round his head
and the birdie with the yellow bill
that hopped upon the window sill,
and me, repeating sounds
in my head all day
because I loved them
and gathered them like precious,
iridescent drops of rain.
In school I learned to write the sounds
and then the words, such fun!
Like playing with water! Splashing!
Jumping in puddles! Laughing!
Until one day when we weren’t
in Brooklyn anymore—
and there wasn’t room for everyone
in the teacher’s recess writing club—
I had to choose the best, she said.
She nodded me outside
where I stood
against the red brick wall
until the bell rang
and when we went inside,
the words I wrote
were like springtime hail,
tiny and achromatic.
Luckily, childhood dreams are stubborn dreams
never wholly washed away—
I returned to the garden long, long ago
and I am here today!
Thank you again, Margaret for your lovely and prompt.
Ann,
This takes me through such a range of emotions–the joy at the beginning of the poem and especially the beginning of the 2nd stanza. I love the wonder and discovery that you express, and then the heart break at the turn of that stanza. That just seemed cruel and disheartening.
But my favorite line are
I love how you led me ever so gently, with all these happy memories, to the terrible appearance of the ‘negative writer’s voice’ – that teacher, who, dared to create a club where all were not welcome?! Aack.
Thank goodness for those beautiful early years and the ability to ‘return to the garden.”
Ann…my own beginning had a rhyming book about squirrel twins that I repeated in my head all day, like you with those lines about the sick boy. This poem brings back childhood word-joy and wordplay that came so naturally – but then, the knife-twist. It hurts to read of no room for everyone in the teacher’s writing club and being shooed outside. It could have killed your love of words but it didn’t…thank heaven! Those seeds have deep roots! And your own verse-garden flourishes – it is wondrous. I love this poem so much.
Ann— from the joyous to the left out. I am so very glad you returned to that garden. Your first stanza…and the beginning is always safe. Childhood encapsulated.
Thank you for the prompt today! I had a hard conversation with my husband yesterday, and your prompt got me thinking of the creativity block I’ve been dealing with for the last ten years or so.
Self-Sabotage
A white page before me echoes
Glazed snowcaps of mountains:
Beautiful to step upon, to leave
A print, but what danger could
Unfold with one imperfect step?
Safer to view the summit from
The ground. Better yet, a picture-
Perfect postcard, Wish we were
There from safe distances.
Easier to admire others’ journeys,
Prints and pictures they leave behind.
Easy to forget their climb is filled
With slips, tumbles, less-than-graceful
Pants and breaths, tainted with
Frustration of challenge, of failure.
Easier to admire the ink of
Others’ stories, to forget failed
Characters, deleted chapters,
Endless edits. Easier to wonder
What might be instead of try.
Jordan, your lovely images depict the plight of not trying yet admiring the accomplishments of others without getting burned yourself. I am taken with the steps on snow because we don’t know what is underneath each step. It can make a step forward or lead to danger. Good poem.
Lovely. Indeed – as of late – I have been all the more understanding of that adage about not really knowing other’s troubles as well as our own. How we can look at someone and never really know what it is they are going through. Like on social media – how we really only see the good and not all it took to get there or even keep it going. Still – Jordan – I say go after that great white mountain yourself. I have long given up on thinking the product is the thing I’m after. I have loads of unfinished this-thats. I LOVE the PROCESS so much, I don’t care what it actually produces for anyone other than me. I’m in the middle of a story now that every time I go to it, I surprise myself with what comes out of me. Nothing I had planned. It’s delightful. And when I’m away from it, it gives me something to turn to in my imagination, characters to hang out with in my head, lives to explore. It serves a great purpose for me just in being ‘in process.’ I hope you tackle that block!
This is for my daughter – who picked out an all yellow outfit today. Her middle name is “Rae,” and I’ve always said I gave her that name because she is my ray of sunshine. She is. 🙂
Yellow Girl
Yellow clothes, yellow hair, yellow smile.
You’ve been bright since the moment you were born
on a warm June evening as the sun was setting –
you came into the world yellow
and spread your yellow soul as far as it could reach.
Your first laugh was infectious, unending
like you’d been holding it back for some time
waiting till you had our full attention, till it was summer;
then you let loose, let your yellow laugh ring out and
flood into our apartment, into our hearts.
Your first steps were yellow, too:
not on accident, but BIG and on purpose
in a sparkling moment when you
were ready to glow and we were ready
to cheer for you, to bathe in your yellow.
Now you dance and sing yellow
you play and chatter yellow
give yellow hugs and kisses
skip across the floor with yellow feet
pull me outside on a blue day
so I can feel the yellow sun.
This is so lovely, Rachel! I’ve a yellow girl too. Though she is all grown up with a child of her own, her dandelion bouquet still brightens my heart!
I love that she is your YELLOW girl. What a joy she must be with that infectious laugh and color.
Rachel,
This is such a joyful poem!
The opening is stunning–
and this couplet–
really captures and celebrates the spirit of your daughter.
Beautiful!
Rachel, I needed some yellow in my life today. Your joy is infectious. Thank you!
Ooooh! I love this! All the ways your daughter is yellow is perfect. I’m already thinking about how my students might write color poems as a sort of self-portrait. “You came into the world yellow”. Perfect!
Beautiful ode to your little one! I love all the wonderful yellow ways of this poem, especially the line “to cheer for you, to bathe in your yellow.” What a gift of joy, every single day, not simply those blue days. Loved this!
Somewhere While
Somewhere a baby cries for the soothing balm of a new mother’s cooing while an aging woman weeps for the son she’ll no longer rock. * Somewhere an artist resurrects a memory of pink tinted tulips blooming on a fresh canvas while a casket adorned with white carnations awaits a mournful goodbye. * Somewhere a teacher dries a crying child’s tears while a professor guides a future educator into a dying profession. * Somewhere an inspiration greets a human walking her fur-babies along a snowy path while a politician proposes a new dystopian law designed to disenfranchise his constituents. In this five-act dramatic world of uncertainties * Somewhere dots geopolitical Everywhere while like an understudy awaiting the director’s nod All dwell in hope and possibility Somewhere *.
–Glenda Funk
April 14, 2023
Wow! Glenda — You were on a journey here and feeling the yin and yang or the up and the down or …. certainly the tugging in opposite directions. And SOMEWHERE, heaven help us, there is “hope and possibility.” Geez, I hope so. Cuz this world has some seriously wicked contradictions…makes it hard to sleep at night. I love the format of your piece today. And, of course, I love that you know who the bad guys are. Hugs, Susie
Glenda, holy smoke, your poem is a whirl of sound, imagery, and movement. I love how you italicized somewhere and other transitional words to emphasize the shifting images. I was immediately pulled into your poem with the baby’s cries and the aging woman weeping. Heady stuff! I can feel the tumultuous emotions, the mourning, the disbelief, and the uncertainty the future holds. I admire how well you weave the “stage” allusion at the end. Your stark imagery is immediate and striking which makes the poem incredibly powerful and provocative. Kudos!
Love the whirl of these musings…dare I wonder if you are the aging woman in the first line? I am often struck my emotional memories of my boys when I’m with my grandchildren. I love the italicized “Somewhere” that begins each line, giving this breathless quality to the thoughts.
A poignant poem of contrasts, Glenda – the adverbs work like curtains, lifted to reveal vignettes of existence. Many tears, much death and loss. Stunningly, powerfully crafted. So help me, the line about the dying profession struck me the deepest.
Glenda—this! “Somewhere a teacher dries a crying child’s tears while a professor guides a future educator into a dying profession. *”. This was my thinking in the poem I wrote earlier this week. We need those good teachers, but is it fair to them to encourage them? Am I doing the right thing?
What a title! What a poem! The thought that went into this and the gamut of distance from one somewhere to the while is sobering and true. The pink tulips and the dying profession are the ones that really pack a forceful punch that stay with me. And I’m also circling back to all the world’s a stage in here, too, so cleverly a theme that you develop so flawlessly.
Glenda, I love the title and the use of italics. Your use of language of the theater is always welcome! And yes, “All dwell in hope and possibility Somewhere.” (The Somewhere at the end takes the edge off the hope and possibility, but it’s very effective.)
This is deep, profound, and full of wisdom, Glenda! I am just going back and forth to reread every line, to take it in parts and as a whole. The situational images are skilful and prominent, but the final “All” unifies those who are somewhere and everywhere; they all need hope and possibility. Thank you for such a great poem today!
Glenda,
Late responding. School whipped my butt last week.
This may be one of my favorites of yours! I love the give and take, push/pull, love/loss, all of it!
Margaret, I loved your notes from your walk.
Thank you for the poetic inspiration.
Sore Eye, Hiss, Us.
~b.r.crandall
Put shorts on today
& let the legs glow
in the dark
after a
long
winter.
Perhaps i’s not so unusual
to be in Cindy Lauper skin,
scaled, blotched, and pink
like uncles, sisters,
and mother before me –
all those tubes
and creams
from childhood.
(And I saw you Charlotte
weaving That’s some Pig skin
in her silky signature
between the evergreen shrubs)
They’re mine now.
That’s what the dermatologist said
as he shook the wasp nest
and let their needles sting.
Genetics, I’m told. Stress-induced.
Needing to accept being poxed
like a chicken running
in a pair of fluorescent
Sauconys.
One more
yellow peg
to complete
this Lite-Brite
clown.
Head already
cut off.
That first stanza resonated with me hard. ¨Let the legs glow / in the dark / after a / long / winter. I love the way you allow the reader to pause on each of these lines. Especially winter. This word being on its own line really emphasizes how long winter can be and feel.
Bryan, wow, your imagery is electric to describe your legs and skin. I found your allusion to Charlotte’s pig rather surprising, but effective. Your end has me gasping. Edgy and powerful poem.
Oof! Pointed and strong and something that I will come back to!
So like, where on earth did you come up with a chicken running in a pair of flourescent Sauconys, because I want that part of my brain to be active and think things like that AND with a Lite Brite. My gosh. I need some deep brain massage or something because this is just brilliant.
Bryan, how does your mind create such incredible images? I want to know how!
Not Lite-Brite! OMG.
How I love that Martha Graham quote, Margaret! Thank you for today’s inspiration. I appreciate the permission to flow, which you do so beautifully in your poem.
My poem is from my early morning journaling, though I read it again, channeling ideas about creativity and writing – this is one of those rare ‘quiet’ days when I am free to think like a writer.
the writer
I am the writer
here in this meshed wonderland
listening to soft sounds of birdsong
expectantly
dear robin at the sill, surprising me
why are you here, dear friend?
here here here with me
looking in looking out looking about
wondering
grace of a day so open
filled with thoughts of the littles
sweet grandchildren
how their hummingbird energy
absorbs me
leaving me
today
curled on a cushion like a cat
a cat intently watching birds
though never chasing them down
seeking to capture with words
yes, a cat who journals
wanting to understand
these birds these trees this sky
to whom and with
they are speaking
tittering on joyfully
for this day
I am the writer
Mmmmm this is art!!! Your words flow, so nicely – starting & ending with “I am the writer.” I love how you turned yourself into a cat – catching the birds not physically, but with words! What a neat idea. Thank you for writing & sharing this beauty!
You are the writer and captured so perfectly a day of grace!
Maureen,
This is a lovely, lyrical look into the things that inspire your writing. I imagine you in your comfy chair, looking out the window at the robin, drawing inspiration from nature, from grandchildren Frog and Bird, channeling the things you love, the goodness of life, into each verse. “curled on a cushion like a cat” is simply a lovely image of relaxation and rest. I do love the framing and repetition of the portraiture you’ve painted with words: “I am the writer.”
Maureen, oh I absolutely love your bird allusions and the way birds add to your feelings as you journal in your special chair. I can hear that robin….here, here, here…very clever. Your ending is an incredible delight celebrating the joy of writing. Gorgeous poem! The birds are certainly alive today!
Maureen, the carefree relaxation of being able to enjoy birdsong – freely as the birds – on a morning shining with glorious nature all in sync, all speaking to one another joyfully, and I love the word tittering…..just having the harmony and peace of surroundings brings such tranquility. I feel a lack of deadlines and the ability to notice and spend time in nature in your poem today.
Maureen, how lovely. Here are just a few of the magical phrases. “hummingbird energy” “grace of a day” “for this day / I am the writer”
Yes, “here here here” you are sharing your magic with us in this space.
Margaret ~ I love, love, love this…not just the open write, but the leaves rejected into the street, the mulch that feeds the soil, the countless gumboils… and best of all, the very last line…thank you!
Margaret, thank you for this gift today! I love the ending lines in your mentor poem – and hold them to be true – “You can make it yourself. / You can make a masterpiece. / We can be a masterpiece, you and me.” Thank you!
___________________________________________________
[What follows is an exact transcript of my free write – save for the deletion of profanity and onomatopoeic mumblings]
Ok, good. This is good. I feel like this is the one this is THE POEM this is going to be my sonnet 18 my piece de resistance (check the spelling later) this is what? Going to be about tulips some kind of flower but can my POEM be about flowers? What do I know about tulips and hold on, I feel something, a slight tingling, this is it this is the moment of poetic inspiration, the moment the romantic poets all talked about this is my she walks in beauty moment this feeling that oddly is centered around my lips that’s not so odd I guess Heather did just kiss me before I sat down to free write, but it wasn’t this is now starting to tingle a bit more didn’t she say something about wanting to try some new lip plumper I can’t think about that now I have to focus on tulips and this poem this moment of oh my god this is starting to burn this is not good this is a burning sensation like my lips are on fire this is not a slow hello this is not good not not not good I can’t believe, wait that was less of a kiss and more of a pressing our faces together and smooshing our lips this is quite unpleasant is there a Scoville warning on that lip stuff oh my mind is full of scorpions dear wife is this what Macbeth meant except for mind he meant mouth or lips I think my gums are burning WHY ARE MY GUMS BURNING!!! This is not great have to focus focus on tulips on this poem on burning burning lava flesh peeling off my lips what is happening tulip tulips fire burning tulips
[the resulting poem]
our love
a poetic
bouquet
of flesh
two
lips
Haha so neat to see the contrast of your free write & the resulting poem. It makes me think about how much thought is behind each & every poem we write… we whittle it down to get to the heart of it, but there’s also beauty in the whole long story. Love the image of your “two lip” bouquet!
Oh my go%…. oooooh geez… lip plumper burning your lips off. I was dying through this … laughing out loud. Now I have to read this to my friends this afternoon — I’m off to go fishing for the first time this year….They will die laughing. I’m still laughing. Scott…I thought YOU were the funny one…and now I see that your sweet Heather is every bit a badass as well. HAHAHAHA! So darned funny…unexpected and FUNNY! Susie
The ADHD poet master!! What you started with…where you ended. Love this!!
Scott, I laughed out loud when reading your free write. It represents so well how our minds meander when we just let them go, and for me the comedy was in your daydreaming turning into a hyperfocus on the physical sensations resulting from “some new lip plumper.”
Margaret, I love your last line! You are a masterpiece…your poem created such a gorgeous look at creativity.
I wrote, then created sort of a blackout/found poem from what I’d written.
Believe (a nod to Ted Lasso)
Just let go.
Stop worrying about
doing it right,
letting fear and intimidation,
the twin bullies within,
keep you from the raw
essence, the core
of your being.
Keep mining for
nuggets to share–they’re
worthless if they’re
not shared.
Just keep spinning
that wheel of fortune
for prism-flavored rainbows
and you’ll find the
power and grace you admire
in others
within yourself.
Just do it.
Julie, I love Ted Lasso, and I love your poem!!
Julie,
Every once in a while there’s a television show that waxes philosophical and wise as does Ted Lasso. I haven’t watched the third season yet, but I do enjoy Ted’s folksy wisdom and enjoyed your poem, too.
I hope you’ll take a look at Jordan S.’s poem – these two together sound like they are having a conversation with one another! I loved Ted to start, but then got a bit disillusioned with the second season – should I stick with it? And, yeah, those twin bullies? I know them SOOOO well! But much prefer the ‘prism-flavored rainbows.’ – never would have thought of them as ‘flavored.’ How cool!
Margaret, what an awesome idea to write as we walk. I often speak of reading with my ears (audio books), but I never thought of writing with my mouth (speech to text). Thank you for this great idea of throwing out rules.
Knitting Voices
it’s in there
the ideas are in there
but I can’t seem to yank them out
they sit and fester
they fester and slowly
slowly they creep out
without me knowing it at times
I need a way
a way to get it together
these ideas
i know they’re brilliant
i know they’re worthy
i know they’re helpful
for others
to see
what i can see
to know
what i know
you matter
i know you matter
and i want the world to know
so can i take a piece of you
and share it with others
with my craft
can i be a voice
to help raise your voice
that the world needs to hear?
Amber, I really liked your playing with both the literal and figurative “knitting” in your poem! And the lowercase “i” is so interesting and, ultimately (perhaps), so telling next to the declarations — “they’re brilliant,” “they’re worthy,” “they’re helpful.” Thanks for writing and sharing this!
Amber, I love how your poem shifts from taming/organizing inner thoughts to taming/organizing ideas to amplify the voice of another. Amen to your declaration, “can i be a voice / to help raise your voice.”
Okay – stop! You’ve got to read Jordan S.’s poem and Julie E Meiklejohn’s poem – I swear you were all on the same brainwave for this prompt today – ! All about the writing process and what we find ourselves up against at times. I also read with my ears, Amber – and say it just like that! And I listen with my eyes, but writing with my mouth had not occurred to me! I’ll add that to the list. So, yes – you can be a voice that the world needs to hear! Yopp!
Hey Margaret, thank you for the freedom on this fine Friday! I think I was subconsciously channeling that when I suggested on a whim for my sheltered class to go outside and write a poem. Best decision ever!
Let’s go outside I say
let’s get away from rectangles–
doors and windows and ceiling
tiles and cinder block walls…
It’s too cold
(it’s not)
I didn’t turn in my…
(it can wait)
I won’t get wifi
…
…
So we go
Write a poem I say
3 lines
some detail about nature
make it relate to you
i say
Did I mention they don’t speak
English?
Doesn’t matter.
We understood each other
and soon we were outside
found baseballs were being
tossed about, sizzling a bit
tooclose
past my ear
and and
poems were being written
“April’s poppies” and
“the singing of crickets”
(I didn’t HEAR and crickets,
but still…)
“Birds singing sings,
maybe they are happy
with life like me”
one student wrote,
“Maybe that’s what
we have in common”
and then we walked back
to the rectangles.
I absolutely love that you wrote about an experience with your students. You are molding poets if they wrote this:
“‘Birds singing sings,
maybe they are happy
with life like me’
one student wrote,
‘Maybe that’s what
we have in common’”
I love this kid’s attitude – it seems to be all too uncommon these days 🙂
Dave, loved your recounting of your time out of the rectangles. 🙂 I’m sitting in a coffee shop with my seniors right now as we fled from our rectangles to enjoy some down time together. ❤️
This made me laugh and smile. I agree with Angie – what a neat attitude your student shared! “Maybe they are happy / with life like me.” Thank you for sharing it with us! I love the rectangles, too. (Makes me think – if rectangles are inside, what shape is outside? Hmm.)
Dave,
This is a wonderful poetic lesson plan. I sense echoes of Whitman’s “When I Heard the Learned Astronomer,” one of my favorite poems. You’re first stanza describing the boxed in learning environment is my favorite, especially as it contrasts w/ the voice you’ve given students. Returning to that place filled with rectangles is a perfect way to end the poem.
“…and then we walked back to the rectangles.” I have never used that description, and I always will, from now forward. Excellent poem, wonderful phrase!!
Margaret, thanks for the invite free write! Love how your poem gives community, collaboration, art from nature, and finding value in what may seem valueless at first blush. Artful and rich!
I love to use structures to write within, so that’s what I’m feeling today.
Increased attention to safety and vigilance this week had me reflecting on “what-if”s.
Blithely, blindly, we go about our days,
rushing to and fro, to classes, then home
Avoid the thought of what if, when, the way
it could happen any day. The unhoned
questions, unspoken, hang breathless in air:
Could we stay still and silent as the grave?
Would I be quick or bold enough to dare?
Would my feet propel me to the door, brave,
To roll a table, shove a cabinet, fast
Blocking hostile invader’s quick ingress?
How long would a makeshift barricade last?
Would we breathe our last breath (anyone’s guess)
Together, like this, with strangers to see
Our time together to end, breathlessly?
Wendy, this is so poignant – such a powerful reminder to be present in each moment, for we know not what the future holds. Where hopefully, hopefully, we would have time to react, with enough courage to do so and not be panic-stricken. Those words
the way it could happen any day
are sobering. Absolutely sobering.
Wendy – such a haunting poem of wondering, given our current realities. A few weeks ago I ran, horrified, to unprop a school door, remembering Uvalde. I have been thinking of wars, how civilians in towns prepare for and endure the onslaught, especially over time…and the whole psychological price of it. Oh, how these lines strike me: “Avoid the thought of what if, when, the way/it could happen any day. The unhoned/questions, unspoken, hang breathless in air:/Could we stay still and silent as the grave?” It is utterly terrible – utterly sad – to ponder. And to so hope that one could be so brave…this poem, itself, is brave.
Wow. This is so powerful. The back-of-the-mind “anybody’s guess”. Frightening and all too real. Wow.
I appreciate the ‘freeness’ of this, Margaret. So many days, I just spout out lines to myself – I really need to carry pen/paper with me at all times! I like how yours is about both wanting and giving, separate but ultimately together for a ‘greater good.’ Here’s what burst out of me today – !
Which Persephone Are You?
It’s hard to feel an anvil of weight lodged in my chest while birdsongs lilt so lightly around me.
Why, when winter backs into its cave and the sun prattles skyward, do I feel such heavy sorrow?
Is there an opposite SAD that craves the darkward deprivation of the light and lively?
Favors instead the bone-chilling cold and burrowing under layers that never keep their promise to warm?
My husband’s buoyantly joyous response to the turning seasons makes me wonder where he was hidden all winter long.
We seem to each embrace our own inner Persephone –
his the errant daughter happy to return to sky-filled days among flowers bursting open with beauty
mine the faithful wife saddened to leave her love who remains deeper than that place where roots take hold.
Denise,
Wow! Love the layers here and fact that I was compelled to reread, not for lack of clarity, but to appreciate the richness of this. It reminded me of a poem that I just read by Clint Smith in his latest collection (the poem was called “All at Once,” and my class of Creative Writers just watched him recite it at the link below, if you’re interested!): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r6xsiEdMPw0
Thank you, Wendy. That is a powerful poem – I’ll check out more of his work. (So many poets, so little time!)
Denise— this is wonderful! The warring Persephone! I had never really thought about the inverse of spring. And now I always will…
Free writing is always hard for me. Not sure why, but this time I was able to turn it into a poem!
Why is this so hard?
Writing without rules
without constraint.
It shouldn’t matter,
just
write.
But this is always the hardest.
I could literally write about anything.
Anyone.
Instead, I’m just stuck.
Stuck on the first line
the first word.
Maybe I’m afraid of what will come out
if I’m allowed to just
write.
There is a lot up there.
In my brain.
Some of it shouldn’t be allowed out.
Some of it is literally pounding
on the sides of my skull to be let
out.
I should just open the flood gates.
Let whatever comes out
come out.
Let it flood through the pen
and bleed into the pages.
But if I do,
will I be able to stop it?
Hope, I loved the structure and sentiments of your poem and could totally relate! I definitely appreciate the idea of chaos and a lack of control that writing invites, that inevitable sliding into uncharted territory that may be scary.
YES!!! Writing without that guiding nudge is so hard! And scary. probably as much about what it reveals to ourselves as what it reveals to others. I am vibing very deeply with this poem!
Happy Friday, Margaret, and much gratitude for this free write prompt today. Your poem evokes sweet tenderness that I needed to feel today.
Excited for time later to write! Have a wonderful day!💙
Ah, Margaret. I just took off the breaks and let it flow. Here’s what you get from me today. 🙂
Just Do It!
Years don’t matter
We still wonder
Can I do this? Shall I do this?
Will I do this?
Years don’t matter.
Kids will question
Can I do this? Shall I do this?
Is it okay with you?
Years don’t matter
If it’s compassionate and right, just do it.
It’ll be right for someone
And it might even be fun!
“If it’s compassionate and right, just do it.” A great motto to live by, Anna! And I love how you say “it might even be fun” as doing the right thing should be. Thanks for sharing!
Anna, I can hear your voice in this while in the classroom. “Just Do It!” is a motivator to get us over the block.
You would know. 🙂 Remember the year consented to be on each others evaluation team and sat in on each other’s classes, observing one another in that way. I LEARNED SOOOOOO MUCH about art and teaching by showing. Thanks again.
Anna, this very much reminded me of my “Type A” AP Lang students, always wanting permission to stray from the beaten path, to try something daring. My Creative Writers don’t struggle half as much!
Margaret,
Thank you so much for this open prompt that allowed me to just go.
Great Goodness
Jim Collins’ “Good is the enemy of great”
sure fights a lot with
Mary Oliver’s “You don’t have to be good.”
We won’t take a risk
in a classroom,
in a conversation,
in a clash
but we will
bare our breasts
our beliefs
our bad moments
for the world
via social media.
Put us in a room
with those we know
and live among
and we go mute.
It seems everyone works
to be noticed
recognized
liked
shared
awarded.
Everyone wants to be great.
Why not just work to be good?
In a quest for greatness,
what all do we compromise,
sacrifice,
in our pursuit?
What does greatness get us?
John F. Kennedy, Jr. said,
“People often tell me I could
be a great man;
I’d rather be a good man.”
Think about that.
And he never even got the chance
to see what his legacy was.
Google the topic and you’ll find
sites and videos by experts
and self-help gurus
telling us how to go from
good to great at something.
But . . .
Who touts how to be good?
Who focuses on that?
There is a sign in our home
above the stairway that
goes from our kids’ bedrooms
down to the main level.
It says,
“Go into the world and do well.
But more importantly,
go into the world and do good.”
The grammar alone makes a person
take pause and think
what it means.
I pray the years of seeing it
as they went about their days
helped it stick a little.
My main goal in life
was and is to give the world
good people.
If individuals are good
couldn’t society be great?
~Susan Ahlbrand
14 April 2023
Susan, what wonderful thoughts this morning. I love the juxtaposition of the two quotes to start your poem. Such a range of feelings comes from reading those two side-by-side, and then you take us on a journey of being good that makes so much sense. Thank you!
Yes, Susan, some powerful and important thoughts in this poem. This hits home for me:
“Put us in a room
with those we know
and live among
and we go mute.”
Sometimes it’s a sad fact, but I’m glad I have a space to be as honest as I need. I also love your last question: “If individuals are good / couldn’t society be great?” Yes, hopefully one day.
Susan, this was beautiful! Loved the sign outside your kids’ room, and your first stanza about our students’ willingness to wear their hearts on their sleeves online but not in a classroom is so poignant and true.
Susan, I think you’ve answered your question in your poem.
It seems everyone works
to be noticed
recognized
liked
shared
awarded.
Everyone wants to be great.
Why not just work to be good?
Too often GOOD is not viewed as GREAT, and therefore “do-gooders” often are not “rewarded” while here on earth. Still, let’s be do-gooders anyway. Right?
Susan— why NOT just work to be good? We are lacking in goodness these days, I think. You nailed it.
Susan, a much needed lesson for the world to learn! I totally love the sign in your home. I think I need that in my classroom. These lines resonated with me because I can’t fathom how families sit at restaurant tables and everyone is on a device. Breaks my heart.
What would I write if I opened the channel? Who am I as a poet? Like Angie, (maybe more than Angie), I don’t believe. But Margaret asked me to write for ten minutes, and I am sorely out of practice. What unique world do I inhabit that gives me permission to be? What poetic devices do I have and can use if no one prompts me to use them? Repetition? Repetition? Repetition? And what’s the difference between that and assonance? No, not assonance—anaphora. Rhyme? Time for rhyme.
I would never share this mess and I’ve only been writing for four minutes. Where is my channel? Dried up like the California aqueduct in a drought. Brittle petrified mud cakes line the mote bottom—no alligators. No loons, no moon to shine on the waters of creativity. No men in black swinging over on a rope to save me from myself. But that will do.
It’s my mote and I am enough.
——————————————–
Margaret, that was fun. I did write for 10 minutes, maybe a little less. I didn’t stop to google questions or synonyms or whatever I usually get distracted with. Enough is a shoutout to you and your 2022 word and this beautiful prompt. Thank you for the challenge. The quotes helped, as did your poem. I love the idea of writing through recording yourself while on a walk. I love the idea of making masterpieces, even before you start and doing it together.
Denise, the part where you say “no alligators. No loons, no moon to shine on the waters of creativity. No men in black swinging over on a rope to save me from myself” reminds me of a part in Leila Chatti’s “The Rules” – a poem I absolutely love and read over and over. So, kudos, I guess that means you’re one of my favorite poets, too. I admire your questioning then resolute tone of “but that will do” and “I am enough” – YES! 🙂
Denise, it is your mote. And that is enough. YOU are enough. Plus, it’s the similes of aqueducts in drought and petrified mud cakes and moonless waters. These images are beautiful. And honest. And don’t need to be saved by men in black. These poetic devices sing today too.
Denise,
I think opening the “prompt” today has given some of us pause. We’re acuostomed to seeing a specific direction, a defined inspiration, so I think many are asking the questions you asked here. That said, I think your poem is in these words: “ Where is my channel? Dried up like the California aqueduct in a drought. Brittle petrified mud cakes line the mote bottom—no alligators. No loons, no moon to shine on the waters of creativity. No men in black swinging over on a rope to save me from myself. But that will do.” Now as the poet you decide what form and shape they take. I recently finished Clint Smith’s latest poetry collection. He has many poems inspired by other poets. As writers we’re all in conversation. The problem I see is when that conversation breaks down either because some don’t converse; they talk at via their verse. This is on my mind constantly because in this space, like dirty laundry, it (meaning the conversations) all hang out. To find those who communicate with me I must by necessity pass by those who every day scroll past me as though I don’t exist.
Denise, I like this stream of consciousness writing and seeing the thought process you take when you just write. So much fun, so much voice and so many things to see. I feel like I’m right there with you, in your mote, enjoy your space alongside you.
Denise, I am really intrigued by your opening question. The thought of what might spill out like water if you open the channel. I love how you cleverly employ the figurative language you discuss. Thanks for sharing your process.
Denise, the line of free-write questioning is mighty. This is a prose-poem at its finest, with its sentences of varying lengths providing rhythm and with whimsical appeal in the repetition of “repetition” and the assonance/anaphora confusion. Those vivid images (petrified mud cakes, the absence of alligators, moon, and loon) are a paradox, for your words flow, the channel seems wide open, and we are all beneficiaries of your creativity…I DO see the moon shining, and the loon silhouetted! I savored every sentence – the last, most of all.
“It’s my mote and I am enough” – this is awesome, Denise. You dug into your sense of being empty and poured forth so beautifully. I love the idea of creativity inspired by loons and moon – it feels easier to write and create with these to inspire us, yes? But it is in the digging down, into your mote, that things really flourish I think. Love that you shared this mental wandering today.
I go to the Ithaca Farmers Market
I go to the Ithaca Farmers Market
On Saturdays starting in April
Fresh produce, farm raised meat,
Artwork, jewelry, boat tours
Heirloom apples with interesting names:
Bellflower, Black Twig ,Liberty, My Jewel
In winter they clear the space out for
Rutabaga bowling!
The place is full of College kids who have
Tattoos, birkenstocks, tees with logos and
Small stuffed animals attached to their backpacks
The market shut down because of COVID
Then they limited the number of people
Now everyone can enter
It feels like a special community!
We see friends, smile and hug
at the Ithaca Farmers Market
What a rite of spring!
Awesome poem shouting out Farmer’s Markets! I absolutely love the names of the heirloom apples, thanks for “producing” this gem 🙂
Jennifer, it is so nice to have the emergency of COVID soon to be declared finished, even nicer to be able to live the truth of “special community”
I love this! There’s a definite beauty to farmer’s markets and you captured Ithaca’s wonderfully! Makes me wish I could attend one day. Especially for the rutabaga bowling! I think farmer’s markets capture a lot of a city’s essence and it was definitely missed when Covid shut everything down.
Jennifer, this totally made me add the Ithaca Farmers Market to my list of must-visits! Loved the imagery and your enthusiastic tone here.
Jennifer, I want to go to this market with my Birkenstocks and go rutabaga bowling. Is that seriously a thing? It sounds like something so interesting that I’d love to know more about it. I want some of those apples and other fresh produce. This sounds like a lovely way to spend a Saturday morning.
“Rutabaga bowling!” I need to see this!!
Margaret- I have been blocked this week. So thank you for the freedom to free-write. I am, unfortunately, listening to the news as I write. Therefore, this is a grim thought process. Maybe I should have gone for a walk, to make a masterpiece like your comforting poem…
Frightened
I am frightened for my grandchildren.
On surveys, I check
the “and up” box.
Over 65 is just…over.
We are the boomer generation.
I look back at the changes
wrought as we moved through the years—
that monstrous group of post-war babies.
We broke so many barriers,
maybe because
there were so many of us.
The world changed around us
and because of us.
We were unstoppable
and arrogant in our strength.
But now we are “elder”.
We are complacent.
We have forgotten
what we didn’t have,
what we wanted
before we earned it,
what we fought for.
what we won.
We are so comfortable in our
and-up-ness
that the world we built
is eroding as we watch.
I am frightened for my grandchildren.
Gayle Sands
4/14/23
You created a poem of realness.
“We broke so many barriers,
maybe because
there were so many of us.
The world changed around us
and because of us.”
There are so many awesome people out there because of y’all too!
I lingered on “We have forgotten
what we didn’t have” also. A powerful phrase reminding us to never forget where we came from.
Gayle, wow. The beginning and ending are a telling set of bookends for this poem. Truth!
Wow, your poem is humbling in the arrogance of us, the elders.
Such insight! You are certainly NOT blocked.
These lines . . .
Gayle,
I can relate-my poem today also took a bit of a darker turn.
I loved
“we gave forgotten
what we didn’t have,
what we didn’t wanted
before we earned it.”
and that bit about 65 “and over” — brilliant wordplay!
Gayle,
Poetry is the perfect place to think through issues, I believe. I, too, worry about my grandchildren and the ways our generation is tearing down what we built up. These words resonate w/ me:
“The world changed around us
and because of us.”
Maybe the complacency about which you write results from a love for the status quo, a desire to protect our privilege.
I hear your fear, Gayle.
These words stand out –
“We are so comfortable in our
and-up-ness”
I’m up there and I ain’t comfortable, hahaha. I need to believe that our young folks are working hard to overcome the ugly, just as we did. (What gives me extreme discomfort is the repetition of some of the exact same work, to re-fight fights that we thought were settled.) I, too, am frightened for my grandchildren, but strangely comforted by our younger adults, the under 40 crowd.
Gayle! I’m even more frightened for mine because they haven’t even been conceived yet! What will the world be like by then? Gosh, this poem speaks to the masses! I don’t want to get comfy in my “and-up-ness” either.
🙏🏽
Margaret, thanks for telling us to free write and reminding us we “do not have to be good”. Your poem is an example of one of those beautiful ways of writing I reference, the imagery is simple but perfect and the phrases like “You can make it yourself.
You can make a masterpiece” so inspirational. Thank you for everything. I will also have to check out Sara Bareille’s memoir, sounds great!
On Free Writing
No, you are asking me to be
too vulnerable for comfort
too open
too true
Too…
I might never consider myself a poet,
I just like it
I wonder when I’ll be
as good as some of you.
Those beautiful ways of writing
honestly don’t come naturally to me.
I spend hours playing with most prompts
and would never share the unedited drafts of what I write.
People would think: what is this?
This, this is me,
my truest, purest form
without filters
without personified “prettiness”
of nimble limbs
And perfect neck
And collarbone that juts out just right
And tells me I’m beautiful through the mirror
And eyebrows that don’t need filler
And a symmetrical, even toned face
And no unruly baby hairs
And no muffin top or dimpled thighs.
Only dimples where they supposedly belong,
on both sides of my smile
(not just one)
Oh well, here goes
the real me, y’all,
flaws and all.
Angie – I love this for the courageous truths and coming to own that you ARE a poet. For the longest time I wasn’t comfortable calling myself a writer or poet. Why is this?? I have loved doing it all my life. The inner critic is merciless but it is rendered mute by the power of pressing on, and the purity in the act of creating. You are a poet and I love reading your work <3
Angie, wow, your poem inspired me today. Your description of the you without filters is gorgeous, and I love the “Only dimples” stanza and of course, that ending is what captures me the most, and made me brave enough to share my thoughts today.
Angie, placing your writing against the “prettiness” of nimble limbs and perfect necks – without all the filters and within all the honesty – is the purest form of writing, and that creates the beauty here. I’m so glad you allowed yourself to be vulnerable and open, flaws and all. That’s relatable. That’s where the poet is. And here you are!
Angie, the way we see ourselves in such pure form, without filters, is what amounts to our unique fingerprints right down to the word choice. I love that you are so honest, and let’s not talk about necks….mine is sagging and wrinkling worse than a turkey. I like the REAL YOU! In a room where we can all just be ourselves….
“Only dimples where they supposedly belong,” – poetry and writing as sweet dimples, how I love this. I love this writing/sharing space, because we are all here, flaws and all, as honest as we can be – proving that we are all beautiful. As is your poem!!
Margaret, the Graham quote is profound, and I believe it. This, especially: “You have to keep yourself open and aware of the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open.” Humans are creative beings. The longing to create is in our DNA. Just as with poems, there’s a unique rhythm to each of our lives…perhaps that’s what inspired my writing today. Free writing is what I love best, and I love how you tied it to overcoming writer’s block and pressing on without questioning if the work is “good”… we are conduits of ideas, languages, images; this is a gift, even when a lot of work and frustration goes into getting past all the superfluous wrapping and tape to find something of our own, within. You remind me of so many writers who were inspired on their daily walks. Movement stimulates the brain, and nature is bursting with treasures for taking to the page, such as your oak leaves and gumballs. The idea of the leaves blowing into the street, rejected, being gathered to bring new life…yes. Is is this not why we write? Why we create art from the images that come to us? Thank you for your own amazing artistry and this invitation today.
Gifts from the Limbic Sea
Before it is quite morning
the otherworld of dreams
begins to recede
the hippocampus
swimming in its own sea
of memory
is unable to hold onto
the waving grasses
ever how beautiful
or important these
may be
Try, I tell my twin seahorses
before I am quite awake
I would tighten
the ethereal reins
but I know I am
only dreaming
my hands cannot grasp
anything solid
images dissolve into foam
all I can feel
is a gentle current
ebbing away
or maybe
that strange and bright
otherworld remains
and I am what transitions
from there to here
borne away on
mystical tides
back to reality
and so I rise
in the darkness
before it is quite morning
to find my journal
and write
before the hippocampus
shakes off
the remaining residue
it’s not much
this grasping
but I do it
because
these last particles
of dream-dust
preserved on the page
mean something
and they
are mine
Wow, Fran, a wonderful poem about trying to remember dreams.
I love the personification at the beginning:
“the hippocampus
swimming in its own sea
of memory”
and this at the end:
“before the hippocampus
shakes off
the remaining residue”
showing our brains being their own thing.
Fran, super images here, just like a dream. I love the idea of preserving “these last particles / of dream-dust”
This is one example of the Sara Bareilles quote. How could anyone else capture your sweet dreams?
Fran, the timing of your piece, as we explore language acquisition and the brain in class today, hit exactly. Ask my students – they learned about the hippocampus just an hour ago. Adding having it swim (playing upon hippo perhaps) to personify it in memory and grasses is a beautiful way to unscience the word a bit. The etherealness and dreaminess of your poem (mystical tides and dream-dust {love!!}) mean something to all of us!
Fran, I loved this!! Great subject matter. And your imagery! The “twin seahorses,” the “ethereal tides” and “mystical reins”…beautiful rendering of this phenomenon. ❤️
Those twin seahorses are fabulously fantastical! I love the image of them, the dream divers into dream-dust and the particles – – yes, yes, those little particles floating on the air that we can see in the stream of light, fleeting like dreams. This is utterly perfect.
Fran, I adore your metaphors for the fleeting images of dreams, especially, this idea of them as some long flowing grass –
“unable to hold onto
the waving grasses”
I, too, work to write down my dreams first thing, to hold onto whatever slim vestige remains…I find it so fascinating how the mind turns while we sleep.
Fran,
I can’t think of as more apt or better description of the transition from sleep to waking. The image of seahorses has both a mystical and diving quality that feels spot on to the feeling one gets, as though underwater, during these early morning moments. I love the way you take ownership of the transitional moment through writing. That’s something I need to do more Loveky, ethereal language throughout.
Margaret, the masterpiece of nature’s art is real and ready, and I love this offering this morning – the natural flow of free from writing without bars and rules. Thank you for hosting us today!
Disco Fever
I opened my eyes
to a disco joint
missing the music
clearly needing The Bee Gees
or Yvonne Elliman
or the greatest ever: Abba
hundreds of tiny sunbeams
scattering light rays
in all directions
the kinds of rays
I could reach out and touch,
measure with a ruler
their armlengths’ reach
changing refractions
wondering how I would get home
in this overpowering light
too much, really
so much it hurt
I squinted, tilted my face up
propped my head on the backrest
closed my eyes
and sat silently
thinking, pondering
“Do you have sunglasses?”
a voice asked
I do
“You’re gonna need ‘em,” she assured me. “I have some if you can’t find yours.”
I reached in, fumbled blindly
through my backpack
fingers searching feverishly
wallet
keys
chapstick
Aleve
Kleenex
Sunglasses!
I put on these disco glasses,
ready to face the music
when I stepped out
into the bright sunlight
from the darkness
of the eye doctor’s office,
eyes dilated from the exam,
I had only two things on my mind:
John Travolta and a ride home
You really capture a time/era here .. I’ve got glitter and lights coming out of my screen via your cultural touchstones (and I am squinting in memory of eye doc appts)
Kevin
The best ever – ABBA! Oh, was I ever a preteen dancing queen, but only in the bedroom (too self-conscious otherwise). For a second I was actually back in my childhood bedroom with the Bee Gees poster taped right there on the wall. Incredible connection, the scattered disco-ball lights and your eye exam, even to stepping out and needing a ride home. Masterful, Kim – and I now am going to be walking all day to the beat of Stayin’ Alive.
So much great imagery, Kim.
“hundreds of tiny sunbeams
scattering light rays
in all directions
the kinds of rays
I could reach out and touch,
measure with a ruler
their armlengths’ reach
changing refractions”
I can totally see this and imagine myself seeing those crazy rays during an exam!
Kim, those sunglasses are great for dilated eyes. You have captured the need here, and that is so cute that you think of John Travolta’s sunglasses in the disco lights of eye dilation. Well played!
Kim, ha! You had me guessing til the end — clever, clever!
Kim,
Upon rereading your poem I noticed two key words: “without music.” They’re easy to miss for this disco fan. I got caught up in the atmospheric elements and the music. I love the Bee Gees and Abba and sometimes spin (bike) to their music. That last stanza surprised me. Of course you’re eyes are dilated, but as an image and a metaphor I see (pun intended) much more in the image of you in the cardboard sunglasses. This is a question of what we notice and remember, as well as the nostalgia for a bygone era.
Kim, what a clever poem to show your sensory pain and allusions to those good old disco days. Your ending is such a delight. I can easily see John Travolta in his glittering whites busting a disco move and your feelings of “just let me get home”.
Love the metaphor of disco ball! I know exactly these shards of light, how they attack after one’s eyes are dilated. I always pray for a cloudy day for eye doctor visits. I laughed at,
You had so many marvelous allusions to disco/music…I hope you played a few disco tunes when you got home.
Margaret, I am fascinated by the gumball, as I’m not sure I’ve ever seen one or know of their existence. And now I’m imagining what might be created from gumballs and leaves and cardboard tubes. I love that your poem captures the simplicity of artmaking, the childlike wonders that become masterpieces (much like you and me!).
Jotted on a Plane
My sons’ eyes are poets,
authors of the future
and writers of the past.
They script colorized polaroids
and plot tableaus.
They seek nebulas
and hold stormy aftermaths,
scrawling memories into granite
and tagging upon word-graffitied sand,
pebbles shifting within the present.
We exist,
moment by moment.
Wait .. you never had a gumball?
Huh
I love your opening here …
My sons’ eyes are poets
and then the ending
We exist,
moment by moment
and I am reminded by your phrasing of Annie Lamott, right? Bird by bird …
Kevin
Now I’m searching for this Annie Lamott piece. Apparently there’s so much I do not know.
Bird By Bird by Anne Lamott — a book about writing that I can’t recommend enough … (and I know others here will prob chime in, too)
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/12543.Bird_by_Bird
https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/841198-bird-by-bird-some-instructions-on-writing-and-life
Kevin
Ahhh! My ignorance is rampant today. And do Margaret’s gumball trees produce gum for gumballs?
Holy mackerel, Jennifer – Gorgeous poem! Seeing the potential in your son’s eyes!!!! You DO see that he sees the past and the future. There is something quite ethereal in this connection. Word choices are beautiful: “they script” and “plot tableaus” and “nebulas” … well, my fave is that you see him “tagging… in the sand”… dang, that just rich! The whole poem plays with time and how precious it is between the two of you. And unless you give him this poem, he may miss something very precious! I LOVE this poem … and I love Margaret’s prompt that sparked you to write it. Hugs, Susie
Jennifer, what a collection of moments, so beautifully, poetically preserved in a mother’s scrapbook. “We exist, moment by moment” – every one precious and mattering. That opening line is an unforgettable gem! Gumballs…girl, we will have to fix that!
Oh Jennifer, like others you got me with
“My sons’ eyes are poets,
authors of the future
and writers of the past.”
What an amazing metaphor for the power of your son’s eyes.
I also love the imagery of “word-graffitied sand” – you brought me back to the moments I have written in sand <3
Jennifer, your opening are always so amazing. There is live, pride, and hope in these lines: “My sons’ eyes are poets,/ authors of the future/ and writers of the past.” I love the next line too, and the ending, and everything in between. Thank you for your words this morning!
Jennifer, that is beautiful, my friend. After the first line, one can’t resist reading your whole poem. Magical.
I meant to add, my favorite line is:
Jennifer, these eyes as poets, authors of future and writers of the past on the polaroids – – it’s all filled with rich imagery and expressive story. Moment by moment…..absolutely beautiful!
Every line of this is fabulous. That opening, though! “My sons’ eyes are poets,” just breathtaking. I think your sons’ eyes are also poetic muse…
Where do I start with my praise of this poem! I relate to all of the creativity your son has and how you see it!
I am captivated by the choices you made:
I hope he knows how incredible he is! 💙
I had starlings on my mind
last night as I watched,
and then joined, a hundred
or so kids and adults storming
the gym floor, in motion,
traveling in tandem,
playful together,
a pulsating flock of bodies
on the move, three minutes
of relentless action,
and the fulcrum source,
a soft ball still in motion,
a fabric magnet that drew us
here, then there, then
everywhere
and when a goal scored,
the cheer from both sides
became deafening, a kind of
beautiful thunder no bird
ever could make,
but we could
for #verselove
(inspired by a student vs teacher event at my school)
Kevin, imagining this student/teacher event as a murmuration of birds in motion allows for a perfect visual, especially with the addition of the ball as a fulcrum. I’m not sure I’ve read a better metaphor. Brilliant!
🙂
Kevin—. Genius poem… it even looks like a murmuration and I can feel the movement. While starlings in murmuration always seem silent to me, you offer us the cacophony of kids instead… it’s like adding music notes to the staff. Just genius. Love this. Susie
Ah … murmuration was a word I knew I needed but never found it .. dang …
The movement and sound of this poem is so strong, Kevin.
I love “a fabric magnet that drew us
here, then there, then
everywhere”
and also love games like this – wish I was there.
Thank you for this morning delight, Kevin! Your poem brings back fond memories. I kove “a kind of beautiful thunder no bird ever could make, but we could “
What a fun activity! You have brought the magic of your evening into this poem. I love the “beautiful thunder no bird / ever could make” and you have surely captured the murmuration without using the word.
Kevin, the thunder of feet on bleacher floors will give extra heartbeats. I love the cheering and can feel it in my very core.
“beautiful thunder no bird
ever could make,” – love that!