Susan Ahlbrand is in her 35th year of teaching 8th grade English/language arts in the small southern Indiana town of Jasper. When not preparing lessons or grading papers, she enjoys reading and writing, binge-watching shows with her husband, attending sporting events, and heading off to visit one of their four kids who are scattered across the Midwest and South. April is her favorite month since it’s filled with daily poetry-writing challenges prepared by the most incredible community of humans.
Inspiration
One of the most painful parts of growing up is the childhood friendships that don’t stick for wherever reason. One kid develops new interests and casts a friend aside. A family moves from the neighborhood and the lack of proximity affects the interaction with a friend. A girl hits middle school and decides that her friend is no longer cool enough. High school graduation took two boys on drastically different paths, never to really connect again.
Sometimes the betrayal cuts like a knife. Other times, we are left more with a wistful longing. Still others, we are filled with relief that the toxic relationship is no longer a part of our lives.
Process
Revisit friendships from your past. Focus in on one that didn’t last. Brainstorm details from the years of friendship. Reminisce the things that made it go south. Craft a poem that both honors the memories and laments the loss.
Susan’s Poem
Shared Experiences
We had a club.
There was an initiation . . .
you had to walk through the culvert
under the overpass on South Main Street.
It had streaming water rushing through it
and God knows what creatures lived in there
or crawling through the muck.
My childhood chum’s mom
grabbed me as I ran through the backyard
and scolded me,
“Judy isn’t going to do something dangerous
just to be in your silly club.”
That was the end of that.
We played in her room,
listening to Donny Osmond croon “Puppy Love.”
We played the board game Mousetrap,
building the elaborate Rube Goldberg-type
contraption
in her living room
while the Dinah Shore Show played in the background
as her mom folded laundry.
When bored with that,
it was on to The Miss America Pageant board game.
We walked to my house–a whole three houses down–
and sat down on my bed talking about the boys in
class that we felt puppy love for.
I grabbed the key to my diary,
unlocked it,
and shared my deepest secrets with her.
Our eyes were drawn across the room to my sister’s side
where the Tiger Beat covers were hanging
featuring Leif Garrett and Shaun Cassidy.
We made our First Communion together,
hands folded in prayer,
proud of our white dresses with veils
and ruffle socks and white patent leather shoes.
Our babysitter was a former nun
who taught the prep classes.
My dad would call her Half Pint, knowing
her love for the nickname Charles Ingalls used for Laura
in the Little House on the Prairie books.
We would walk to school together,
I with my Jaime Sommers Bionic Woman lunch box
and she with her Holly Hobbie one.
Some days, when our older sisters clued us in
that an ABC After-School Special was on,
we’d sprint home so we could spy in on them
watching and
learn from all the things teens did in
those dramas.
Often, we would meet up on Saturday mornings
to watch Josie and the Pussycats or The Monkees or HR Pufnstuf
or Land of the Lost or Hair Bear Bunch.
When American Bandstand came on (“I give that song an 8”),
it was time to go our separate ways for the rest of the day.
I have so many memories of Judy.
Or do I really?
Looking back,
it seems like what I remember about Judy
are the things I
watched with her,
played with her,
saw with her.
did with her.
But, I don’t really remember her.
~Susan Ahlbrand
10 March 2023
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.
Susan! I had no idea you were a Hoosier! I’m from a tiny town called Gaston in east central Indiana. Glad to meet you in this space. Thanks for this lovely prompt and allowing the space for those of us behind to catch up.
We said we’d be friends forever
It seemed plausible
since we’d known each other
since kindergarten.
We played ball and nursed knee injuries
We played instruments in all the bands
our tiny school had.
Everyone knew we could be found
in the stands on Friday night
at any time of year
football in fall
boys basketball in spring
We stood next to each other on stage for
choir concerts
band concerts
honor society induction
talent shows
sports banquets
and awards.
We joined math/science club just so we could
go to Chicago
to the Museum of Science and Industry.
Well, at least that’s why I joined
at least
We stayed out late
watching movies and eating popcorn.
We
by all accounts
were the
good
girls.
I was valedictorian
You were salutatorian
and honestly,
I think that’s where it all went a bit
sideways.
We were preparing to leave.
To get out of our one stoplight town.
Our future blinked ahead of us
You in Indianapolis
Me in West Lafayette
And our worlds got bigger
and different then.
I imagine us, though,
in an alternate universe
still singing
and laughing
and shooting hoops together.
Being friends forever.
Hey Susan. It took me a long time to come back to this prompt, sorry about that. I played around with the idea a lot and in the end, I decided to write not about the friends I miss but rather about the friends I don’t, the ones I wish I had never even met.
“Friends” I Wish I Never Had
We stepped into 5th grade together,
You more alone than I was,
I extended an olive branch for you to grab onto.
Over time, you whittled that olive branch into a fine point
To prick me with over and over,
But no more.
We met in the first week of our undergrad,
You bound yourself to me and no matter how I tried,
I couldn’t shake you. You tried to isolate me from everyone
I liked. You wanted it to be just you and me.
You tried to buy me with favors and lies,
But no more.
We were in the same class in grad school,
We became “friends” after I threatened to punch you in the face
Because you tried to impose your opinion on me. You still tried
In ways more subtle but always toxic. In the end, you made up
A grievance in your head. You tried to make me feel small,
But no more.
No more will I be a home
For those who would rather
Make me a doormat to
Wipe their shoes on.
Thanks for the fun prompt. I’m still playing catch up from missing a few days when not feeling well. For my friend Heidi, I hope all is will with you, where ever you are!
Elementary school when fast friendships are made
Over games of tetherball at recess
Swapping goodies from lunch boxes
Weekend sleepovers pizza and giggles
Coming over when my sister babysits
Then poof you’re gone…
Years ago I knew where you went
Was it Montata to live with your dad?
Or was it a local move but different school??
I wonder if we would have remained close had you not moved?
Would we grab coffee before we sit and visit?
Or margaritas, chips, and salsa and dance the night away??
Would our kids be best friends?
Or only just get along when forced together??
Elementary school where fast friendships are lost…
DeAnna,
Yes, there are so many people I think back and wonder where they are. I like how you imagine what would have happened if you’d stayed in touch. Nicely done.
DeAnna, you really capture that phenomena of fast friendships especially in elementary school. The rhetorical questions about what it would be like to hang out as an adult has me thinking about my own lost friends and what we’d have in common now if we were to “grab coffee before we sit and visit”.
It was you and me against the world
Walking to the beach at the end of your road
We were the sisters we never had
Yelling cheers on the elementary blacktop at recess
“Firecracker, Firecracker, Boom, Boom, Boom!”
Middle school brought open classrooms
Writing for the Panther Post magazine
Adding new friends to the mix
But always keeping our secrets for each other
In high school we listened to Andy Gibb on cassette
Choreographing your dance for Junior Miss
Which you won, of course
Your father so proud he could burst
College found us in different states
Writing letters about boyfriends
Missing the sleepovers
It was harder without each other
There were marriages
(Yours lasted, mine didn’t)
I became Godmother to your first child
And the distance started to grow
And then there was the email
Cathy has pancreatic cancer
And my world turned upside down
Nothing was ever the same again
It’s been 5 years and I still miss you every day.
Heidi, what a lovely tribute to a very dear friend. Sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing.
Susan, I appreciate your prompt and the opportunity to unpack some childhood memories. I really liked your poem. That last stanza really resonated about remembering the things but not necessarily the person. There’s a real loss there, it seems and you really capture that sentiment.
On the run
The worst part wasn’t that I hurt you..
We were kids and accidents happen
I don’t remember swinging the bat
but I remember the thud
and the tears and the blood
I remember the terror and the fear
and I remember running and running
and you were my friend…
I should have made sure you were okay
but instead I ran,
and I never stayed in one place long
enough to make friends as good as you
and I fear that I’ve spent my whole life
running
like I ran from you that day at the playground
as you bled…
I told my mom and she made me go to your apartment
and say I was sorry and I was,
sorry and scared
and your mom gave me an apple–
it tasted like sawdust and regret
and I ate it, fearing that it might
be poisoned, but it was the least I could do
after hurting you and running
and looking at your swollen, busted lip
I knew you stopped trusting me
and that it wasn’t okay to leave
my friend bleeding and hurt,
and I still live in fear of running away,
of hurting the people I care about most
and then disappearing
I’ve never stayed in one place long enough
to root that fear away.
Dave,
This is so powerful. This moment certainly left a massive impression on you as you continue to connect your overall life to it with the repeated idea of
It’s so hard to forgive ourselves for things . . . even complete accidents. And then when we run and don’t face the music, it lingers more permanently. But you DID face the music . . . by telling your mom. The bravery to share with her certainly helped and led to you going to your friend’s house to apologize.
Forgive yourself.
Thanks for being so honest in this space.
I didn’t see this poem yesterday, but I love it so much I am going to borrow a phrase for my poem today…childhood roots run deep.
Oh how this made me cry. It is honest and raw as if it just happened recently.
“and your mom gave me an apple–
it tasted like sawdust and regret
and I ate it, fearing that it might
be poisoned, but it was the least I could do”
Please forgive yourself. Easier said than done, I know.
I wasn’t thrilled to explore this topic but
I am so glad that I did! Thank you for today’s prompt—it felt good to honor a friendship even if it’s missed.
It began in fourth grade—I think.
You already had a best friend
you became mine quickly.
We’d walk home from school together
your mom would fix plates of sliced apples and cheese—I only ate the apples.
We’d take turns at the soda fridge (!!!)
selecting our afternoon treat.
We’d spend our requisite outside time
with one of your golden retrievers—
there were a few over the years.
We’d take turns with Nintendo:
Wave Racer or Yoshi’s Story.
We’d make malts when I spent the night.
Your home was my second.
You taught me to shoot pool,
so I’ve always played as a lefty.
You taught me HORSE
on the street in front of your house.
Your brother burned me CDs
that burned soundtracks onto our memories.
Middle schools came and
led us down comfier paths.
The parts of you that never quite fit
with me were just right
in your new environment,
with new friends.
The parts of me that were missing buttons or threadbare were mended by new friends.
Near the end of high school,
I invited you to a party.
You brought some of my old friends—
including your best friend,
the same one from when we were eight.
We had nothing to talk about.
Maybe we never did
but the child’s mind
didn’t need to talk,
just play.
And, at seventeen,
we were all talk.
Nice to be reminded of Robin. We walked by their house yesterday. I like your comfier paths and references to missing buttons and threadbare. The idea of your being mended by new friends. I’d never thought of play being replaced by talk even though I know that play is rehearsal for life.
Laura,
This entire poem is wonderful and captures such a sweet time . . . childhood, but I audibly gasped when I reached the end, for you offered me such an epiphany in those lines.
Thank you for hosting today, Susan, and for sharing your story about Judy. I have read dozens of poems about lost friendships today, and I am grateful to all who contributed.
Today I didn’t want to tell stories of former friends who are standing on the other side of the fence justifying the russian invasion. They don’t deserve it.
The only friend I truly miss is my best friend, my first love and husband, the father of my children, who was taken away from us too early, almost thirty years ago. That’s why, just a haiku this evening:
***
Missing you and me
together in this world hurts
more than words can say.
Leilya,
Sometimes fewer words are more effective than many. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Your grief feels so raw and fresh – even after 30 years. I’m so sorry. He must have been a good man.
Oh, Leilya, I’m so sorry. He was taken way too early. I love “missing you and me together” Peace, my friend.
Leilya,
I am so sorry you experienced such a profound loss, and that your children have missed so many experiences w/ their father. I am also deeply sorry for the hurt those who rationalize Putin’s invasion of Ukraine have caused you. Shame on them. They are morally bankrupt. A haiku is appropriate in the wake of so much loss. Its spare language says what the heart needs to share. Peace and hugs to you.
Leilya,
I feared that the prompt would present challenges to people who had a friendship that was too painful to write about. I’m sorry that you had to address multiple . . . those who are on the wrong side of history and that of your husband. The haiku was indeed a very succinct and powerful way to honor your love and friendship. Thank you for participating through the pain.
Friends for life
When my students leave Ann Richards
Sad to leave their friends behind
I always tell them about you two
The three of us.
Laura and Tori friends for life.
Senior year we had our first apartment.
Nothing to brag about.
I could hear people ordering Krystal burgers
from my bedroom window.
The place was ours.
Fleming helped pack all that was important
into our rental car. Tiki, too.
The drive to Nashville felt like the beginning of something big.
Our first place.
Tori joined us sometime first semester.
Roommates fell through and the solution was perfect.
The three of us with our serious boyfriends shared the space.
School was not always a priority, even for Tori.
Somehow we each ended up
walking the stage and collecting our diplomas
that May morning.
Our parents raised eyebrows after seeing our apartment.
Oh, well; it had been perfect for us.
After that May morning we ended up in three different locations.
Two years later I was living with Tori again.
Laura visited us for a Dead weekend at Manor Downs.
We always found familiar easily.
Before long we were cast in different locations again,
but managed to find each other.
Tori and Jim joined us in Peru
to hike the Inca Trail.
We were part of each others’ wedding parties.
Tori’s mom sewed a skirt for me I wore in her wedding.
And I managed to step on Laura’s veil as she turned to walk out of the church.
We ended up giving our daughters each others’ names.
My Laura is named for my friend, Laura.
Tori’s daughter is Jamie.
Laura’s daughter is Tori.
No, we didn’t plan it.
Our children laugh and love it.
A few summers ago, we all danced at Tori and Jim’s daughter, Anna’s wedding.
Anna’s friends hoped they would be us one day, when their daughters married.
Our story continues to grow with our daughters’ babies.
In 2021 Laura had a baby boy in May.
Anna had a baby boy in September.
And Keelan had a baby boy in January.
In less than a year we all became grandmothers.
And this isn’t even the half of it!
We remain in three different locations and friends for life.
I really thought there was a sacred ritual that culminated with you three cowing to name yours daughters after each other 😀
I love the little glimpses the books of your friendship like “even for Tori” and Manor Downs.
What a wonderful friendship story, Jamie! Thank you so much for sharing. I needed this today. Being “friends for life” is awesome. You’ve got enough stories to tell you children and grandchildren.
Jamie,
What a beautiful homage to a very special friendship. I hope you share it with Tori and Laura. What a gift!
I absolutely LOVE the following line and plan to refer to it due to its simple wisdom:
Susan–what a trip down memory lane! My own poem took a different direction as I thought about friendship lost.
You lightly caress my cheek
I’ve come to depend on the warmth
of your embrace
then you vanish
hidden
leaving me in the cold
in the gray
while you play hide and seek
in the thick marine layer
your reach diminished
no longer within reach
of my cloud cooled skin
leaving me bereft
pining for your healing rays
Come back to me spring sun!
With a photo on my blog
https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2023/04/16/friendship-lost-npm23-day-16/
Kim,
Great idea to personify the sun. I could feel the speaker’s “cloud cooled skin” after feeling “the warmth of your embrace” – very effective!
Kim,
I sure like that different direction. It will be a cool prompt to choose different things to compare friendship to as you did here. I really like these lines . . .
Kim, this is a beautiful poem. The first line fooled me, but I didn’t mind. Some amazing word choices and phrases here beginning with the first line, “You lightly caress my cheek,” then onto “cloud cooled skin,” and “healing rays.” Thank you for your poem!
Kim, I really enjoyed your response to the prompt today! The “twist” that you were personifying the sun was truly a delight (oh, and I really enjoyed your photo, too!)
A huge thank you to those who took the time on this Sunday to write something in response to the prompt I provided. I was so touched by all of the words you crafted. I am blessed with so many rich friendships, some that have lasted for 50 years, but the lost ones still hurt. Friendships are so rooted in shared experiences and sometimes the people stay in the background unfortunately.
I value the friendships that have been forged through this space. They are invaluable to me.
Susan,
Your poem has so much truth in it. Friendships fade or are lost for so many different reasons, but little is written about the losses. Thank you for your poem!
This is for my friend Andrea…she was my bestie from 1st grade ’til high school, when she went the popular party-girl route and I went the geeky band need route. We’ve sorta stayed in touch on Facebook, and we’re going to get together to see “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret” when it comes out later this month…so exciting!
Tomatohead and Juliet
“Ha, ha! Your knee’s ticklish! You are
SO boy-crazy!” “If I am, you
are too!” For all of the crazy
adventures, you were there—
The double-daring, pretend-flirting,
God
and-death-defying, secret-telling, it’s–
your-boyfriend-teasing, it was you
and me.
Until it wasn’t any longer.
Ugh…that was supposed to say “geeky band nerd”.
It’s sure nice that you are still getting together with someone who you were tight with but yet went in different directions.
And, it’s flat awesome that you worked the book/movie title into your poem.
Julie, I love your hyphenates and that you’re going to see that movie with her soon! I have a similar relationship that I’m writing about today although we don’t keep at all and haven’t spoken since high school.
Susan, thank you. I so wanted to write so much more, but I think my MUSE is as tired as I am. (LOL)
Friendship
faithful Friends with
sinceRe intentions
makIng precIous memories.
selflEssly generous,
uNderstanding, and
Determined to love.
Supportive, encouraging,
trutH and honesty abound.
FrIendship is most
Precious.
Your muse may be tired but YOUR output is so sweet. I love how you weave the key word of friendship throughout words and phrases that capture its essence so well. Thank you so much for fighting your fatigue and posting a poem today.
Donnetta, how clever! I agree that your poem sums up the sincere gift that friendship is!
Linda
In 7th grade I became the score keeper
for the girl’s and boy’s basketball teams.
I was a lousy team athlete, I could run,
but flinched at balls coming at my face.
She was a star player, both of us shy,
with few close friends from elementary.
We bonded, giggling, in the back of the
bus, finding a soul sister in each other.
For two years we were practically
inseparable–at school and after,
spending time at each other’s houses
whenever we possibly could.
But her family moved across town
when freshman year started and
though we tried to keep in touch,
we grew into different priorities
(some of which I blessedly grew out of)
and eventually lost track of each other.
She’s the one friend I think of when
I regret choices made in my youth.
I hope she’s doing well and knows
that I think of her more often than not.
Cara,
I imagine it’s not too late to try to find Linda and renew your friendship.
But, at the least you’ve taken a beautiful trip back in time to reflect on a connection that was rare and special.
I really like how you ended this poem with that sense of longing and understanding of the importance of friends in certain times of our lives.
Cara,
Your friendship sounds amazing even if it ended too soon. I’m glad you found someone you could be close to in middle school as that can be a difficult time for many kids. I’m sorry you still feel regret for life choices that played a part in this friendship ending.
I have lost
friendships/
solid ones
ice hard
held tight
in warm hands
then slippery
thinning
gone
Allison– Your poem, in its brevity, speaks to the sense that POOF, a friendship can slip so quickly away…and “gone.” Even though you held it “in warm hands”… Ahhh…alas. Hugs, Susie
Allison,
Warm hands holding tight to ice . . . the meltaway of a friendship. Such a keen image.
I love the play on ice–hard, held tight…slippery. Devastating, beautiful.
I love and break my heart to your imagery. That juxtaposition between warm and cold speaks to the natural course these friendships run but it doesn’t make them any less painful.
Allison,
I love the imagery in this. The ice held tight, slippery and thinning is the perfect description of a fading friendship that you long to hold on to.
Allison, I love how you show the physical difficult to maintain a friendship. The slippery, warm hands, the thinning and then gone all work so effectively to show how quickly things can change from solid ice to a lost hold. Powerful and impactful poem!
Those were Gatsby days
when the summer sun
glittered on the Long Island Sound
we were cottage dwellers
who scoffed at the glitter
and smiled at our off brand shoes
no dream was too big
nothing was out of reach.
Now, I write to you
after the parties and
after the pool
somewhere, out there
you call to me, green light
like Jay I have
always been good at dreaming
but could never dare to reach out.
waiting on the dock
has been the greatest tragedy of all.
Oh, Savannah! I love this and my students would too! This stanza says so much:
we were cottage dwellers
who scoffed at the glitter
and smiled at our off brand shoes
!!!
Savannah . . .
pure genius! I especially appreciate these lines:
Savannah,
I wish we could all behold this idea of dreaming!
Like the quote that says, “If your dreams aren’t scaring you, they’re too small.” (something like that)
I love this!
I love your Gatsby references – the cottage, the glitter, and such a sad final line. I hope the carelessness is not something you shared.
Savannah, there is real sorrow here at the end: that green light and the longing and hope associated with it, the big “dream[s],” and the “never dar[ing] to reach out” only to remain “waiting on the dock.” I love this!
Memories of Lynn
By Mo Daley 4/16/23
In third grade, Lynn Stoor moved down the street.
She was exotic-
a redhead with a smattering of freckles
across the bridge of her nose
and a wily smile.
Her little brother tagged along everywhere.
Her mother was, if you can believe this, divorced.
Her mom may have been in her twenties,
and even went on dates.
Everything about Lynn and her family was foreign
and enticing to me.
She lived life on the edge.
She stole candy from the Trick Shop.
She didn’t do her homework.
She didn’t go home the first time her mom called down the block.
She told me in detail how babies were made.
I was so confused that I ran home and asked,
“Mom, what’s a magina, anyway?”
My mother, Saint Loretta, never quashed this blooming friendship.
She must have known that Lynn’s tenure in suburbia
would not be long lived.
Mo,
This is great! I remember when I had a neighbor move across the street . . . a divorced woman and her daughter. It was life-changing for me, too.
How brave of Saint Loretta to let it run its course.
is the greatest line–taken from reality–ever.
Oh my gosh, Mo, this is wonderful. I laughed out loud on “magina,” of course. LOL! Those details of Lynn S are priceless… back then, “the wild child”… so exciting. Fun to think of your mom knowing not to worry…”tenure…would not be long lived.” Made me smile. You made me think of a somewhat parallel girl who rode my bus to 7th grade. Oh, wow! Cool poem! Susie
Mo, you reminded me of Becky Manley! Her parents weren’t divorced, but they smoked cigarettes! And Becky had big brothers (scary angry brothers!) I moved after second grade–Thank you for reminding me. (We called MY mother Saint Meredith, btw.)
Omg, we both have loved a Lyn or Lynn and I’m captivated by yours! She sounds like the exact type of friend I would have kept forever. LOL, gotta love the wild ones who make life fun!
I’m cracking up at Saint Loretta and “what’s a magina, anyway?”
😂
Fun memories!
[Note: Tides cradle back and forth to/from the shore. A flood current moves toward shore. As the tide recedes, the waters move away from shore, an ebb current.]
FLOOD CURRENTS AND EBB CURRENTS
We’d read each other’s minds,
could finish each other’s sentences
as teenagers.
When she left for college up north,
a long Greyhound ride away,
I was so proud of her,
she was, after all,
valedictorian,
had big plans
and private school money.
I went to the local U
and missed her.
Our friendship hit a riptide in college
after I’d bussed north to spend a weekend;
looked at her handsome boyfriend
the wrong way,
a friendship-severing way.
Apologies and tears of regret
could not wash away
the steel door she slammed,
I was wrong, damned,
said so,
pleaded,
but that was that.
After our graduations
she took on high powered positions,
used her math,
made political connections
out in the Rockies.
I taught English close to home.
I never stopped writing
letter after unanswered letter,
for twenty years.
Middle age saw us
living busy lives,
shoveling up mistakes,
flashing careers to admire,
but we missed each other.
A high school reunion,
set the stage for the flood current
to carry her back into my life.
Long, intense conversations,
restored laughter,
filling in the blanks
of where she’d been,
what she was going after.
And for twenty more years
we renewed the bond,
but something was off keel;
her personal stories,
strange, hard to believe,
her friends elusive,
her life isolated,
phantasmagoric;
hiring a sherpa, climbing Himalayan mountains,
long stretches of unnamed illness, silence,
trips, geothermal muds to “heal,”
hikes into wilderness.
Fifteen years ago,
she bought a property on an island
off the coast of British Columbia,
and we agreed to meet there.
Multiple ferry rides later,
we reunited.
She was wildly excited;
me too;
our friendship finding its way
out of the stormy ocean
and onto dry sand.
But the sands were retreating
and pulling her right back into the depths
of something I finally
could put my finger on.
Stories of how her brother, her son,
her husband, had all pulled away from her
did not add up
until it did.
After a long hike around a snake-infested lake,
we trekked back to her cottage;
she retreated into her tiny bedroom
and did not pull herself
out of bed for three days.
She read huge library books,
swaddled herself in flannel and blankets,
ate nothing, and didn’t speak,
except to say she’d be okay in the morning.
That did not happen.
Something had snapped.
She talked of “a friend who was bi-polar.”
“A friend” who rejected “conventional doctors”
and believed that “healers” were the answer…
and “what [did] I think of that?”
“I think I should go home.”
Contacting her brother,
contacting a mutual decades-old friend,
indicated that, indeed, bi-polar
and defiant to yield to medical care
was what I backed away from,
quit writing letters that went unanswered,
and gave up
a friendship,
swallowed by the maelstrom
of bi-polar demons.
by Susie Morice, April 16, 2023©
Wow, Susie. What a srory! Dealing with a loved one with mental illness has to be one of the hardest things to live through. What I like most about this poem, though, is what it says about you as a friend and as a person. I so admire how you kept trying theough the years. I sure hope your friend has found some kind of peace.
Susie,
This story mesmerized me, pulled me in w/ its currents of details and quickening pace. When I read your confession—
“looked at her handsome boyfriend
the wrong way,
a friendship-severing way.”
I thought, oh, snap! That for sure is a friendship ending move. The humble tone and your perseverance in twenty years of letter writing offered hope, but the tide ebbed, and I read in anticipation. Damn mental illness. Damn quackery that cons people into rejecting help. What a shame a reunion at first so beautiful could not survive the ravages of one woman’s mind. Heartbreaking poem, friend.
Susie, I’m so glad you figured out what was going on. All those years of wondering, of writing, of keeping up and trying to sort things out. And then there was perspective – – the cloud of bipolar depression that puts it all into place, helps us understand – -it wasn’t anything you did. And while that’s comforting, I’m sure, I know there is pain still there for your friend. I hope she got the help she needed. I’m glad you saw the truth and the exit door but also took the time to reach out for answers. You are a true friend to care enough to make an attempt to be sure that someone in her family knew what had happened.
So tragic, Susie. You pull the reader right into your life and the decades-long struggle to revive a friendship. Discovering the bi-polarism while off on a trip had to have been scary. I’m so sorry that your friend suffers so and isn’t getting the necessary help.
Such a poignant poem. Thanks for trusting this space to share it.
Susie, you are such a storyteller! You drip details like bread crumbs I scramble to gobble up, and your pacing–balance of telling/not telling– kept me rushing forward to understand your friend. Wow. This is so hard–yet beautifully felt and told. Thank you.
Oooh my gosh, how sad! Susie, I admire your tenacity though. But of course when time is up, it is up. This stanza gave me so much hope.
However, what can we do when someone we care about is not willing to seek medical help? I’m sad for her because she lost YOU!
Oh, Susie, I just feel a terrible ache after reading your poem. I feel so badly that you made this huge trip to be with your friend to see her swallowed up by her demons and your fruitless attempts to connect with her throughout the years after being pushed away because of a look you gave her boyfriend! I appreciate your honest and brave poetry today. It’s often really difficult to share these painful moments. Hugs to you, Susie!
Susie, this retelling was amazing — you had me hooked the whole way through!
Thanks for this prompt, Susan…thinking back, I’ve had lots of friends like your friend Judy, people with whom I did things, shared moments, played Mousetrap…but I can honestly say I never had a friend like Marcia…I knew her only one short season, but I’ve missed her much longer.
For Marcia, Forever
She had short, wavy, brown hair
and a space between the two front teeth
that protruded a little when she smiled.
Her name was Marcia and we were
destined to be best friends forever,
or so it seemed when she moved
into our neighborhood early one summer.
That was the summer of our operatic
masterpiece
which we rehearsed day after day
in Marcia’s woodsy backyard
where the leaves were deep green,
the stream ran full,
and our sneakered feet gamboled
through crabgrass and white clover,
two eight year old Maria’s frolicking
in a field alive with the sound of music.
There was no script for our opera
and just two characters—
just two young hearts with one
melody between them,
making up words as they danced
through the weeds.
But before summer was over
Marcia moved back to the city.
How could she be moving away
when she just moved in?
My father got a new job,
Marcia said,
and though the leaves were still green,
the white clover was silent as snow.
Nancy from across-the-street
said something different.
I bet it’s because she’s Jewish.
So what?
So I can’t believe you were friends
with her.
I said something in Marcia’s defense,
something about her being my best friend,
something about living in America
where we could be friends with anyone
we liked,
but Nancy’s slapped me hard on my face
and my words—
my world—
shattered.
If we had only been a few years older
and better at writing letters,
Marcia and I would still be friends,
I’m sure of it.
Certainly I never sang and danced
as freely and innocently as I did that summer,
when I lost not only my best forever friend,
but another piece of my childhood.
Ann,
Get your online sleuthing hat on and go find Marcia! Right now!
Ann- the loss of innocence is the greater of the two losses. The picture you paint is full of joy—“where the leaves were deep green,
the stream ran full,
and our sneakered feet gamboled…”
Nancy makes me so mad! She was just one of countless people raised to be bigots. Sweet Marcia was a friend who brought so much joy into your young life. I love the allusion
I sure hope that you seek out and find Marcia and renew your friendship.
Oh, Susan. This one got me! As you’ll read … on multiple levels.
Friends, Nah!
We were best friends until we weren’t.
She knew all my secrets. I wished she hadn’t learnt.
We liked the same guy, but he liked her back.
That was the end of us. Now what did I lack?
We were best friends until we weren’t
She left that guy, but he didn’t turn to me.
When I learned she liked my cousin, I thought that would mean
She and I’d be friends like we once had been.
We were best friends until we weren’t
She left the church and I stayed.
She couldn’t be convinced to return
She never, never swayed.
Until she got shot! Oh no, was it too late?
God knows my heart hurt when I learned her fate.
How I prayed she’d turned back to God.
So, she wouldn’t stay buried in the sod.
Our church teaches if you accept forgiveness in Christ
Even if you haven’t been all that nice,
He’ll forgive you and eventually, I learned to do the same.
Now, after all this time, she’s the best friend I can name.
Anna, these friendship stories are amazing, yours included! Your poem is like Susie’s to me. I think it says volumes about you and the kind of ffiend and person you are.
Oh, Anna, I am glad she survived! Since you two have shared so much over time, I’m sure she adores you as much as you adore her.
Anna,
This is an amazing story of the ebb and flow of friendship. It really does seem like divine intervention that you’ve travelled full circle in this friendship.
I became best friends with 2 girls in first grade. We’ve gone through some ups & downs, but are such good friends today. It’s cool to have people around that know all your history & still love you!!
We
three we
best of friends
we jump ropers
we make believers
we sleepover gigglers
we stuffed animal bringers
we crazy dancer youtubers
we not quite on the same levelers
we dramatic hormonal teenagers
we three separated: one, one, one
dances, concerts, graduation
college, travels, marriages
hey, let’s be friends again
we diaper baggers
we mom venters
we brunchers
we three
friends
Rachel,
The repetition of “we” is very effective, especially against the lines w/ out “we.” Wonderful list of things you do w/ friends.
Rachel!
Fantastic concrete poem feature here to show the flow of friendship in this trio. The “we” in repetition sounds like a roller coaster or swing exhale of joy. And I see lots of fun in the noun-ing of so many words. Makes me think of Jennifer’s prompt early in #verselove of grammatically ungrammatical. Love this.
Sarah
Absolutely adore how this three-way friendship is portrayed in a triangle! Love the fun repetition of ‘we’ and all the wonderful ways you have enjoyed each other. Great poem!!
Rachel, I love all the “we” “…ers” and the middle section that changes where you were separate for a while. The shape of your poem is perfect. I love that you are still together. And this is such a truth: “It’s cool to have people around that know all your history & still love you!!” I’m fortunate to live in the same town and have my brother and sister as friends, so I feel that too.
Rachel- this is such a wonderful poem about friends coming back together. The adjectives you create are so descriptive, so light. So glad for you!
The flow of this is so perfect!
It’s catchy and clever and traces friendship so wonderfully.
I love that your form accentuates the rhythm, most especially in the first three lines. Moreover, the symmetry makes me smile: again reminding the ear of lines said earlier and what has changed over time in the poem and in life.
Rachel — I admire that you pushed so much into the form and made every word work. Seems so fitting for a friendship that scaled from jumping rope to the present day. It’s so uplifting. Susie
I love this – the repetition of we, the growing then ebbing pattern. I hear Lucille Clifton in your lines.
RACHEL! Phenomenal poem! I hope you share this with your friends. Love the shape of it and the repetition, but I especially enjoyed these lines because they show us the strength of friendship:
Susan,
I enjoyed reading about your friendship, and I recall a friend whose mom accused me of being a bad influence on her. The opposite was true. That friend died, as have many from my high school graduating class, but last summer I realized many of my high school friends are still very good friends when I attended my 45th reunion. My poem today is about a friend I kept in touch with until a few months ago. Our friendship started in second grade.
Schism
Swinging skinny legs to
touch bluesky cumulus cloud
puffs, we pinky swore forever
friends & tied clover chain
necklaces to adorn our decalogues
in delicate summer jewels. We
vowed to save ourselves in
Jesus’s name & voted our bond
most likely to endure time’s schisms,
but…
your world shrank like machine-
washed wool while
my epistemological sphere
stretched to distant shores;
when…
your conspiracy-sourced
scripted manifesto arrived to
proclaim my grandchildren’s
teachers brainwashed them, I
learned…
Time bleeds through friendship-flow
& pierces our skin like a broken hymen.
—Glenda Funk
April 16, 2023
Glenda, this poem begins with such love and happiness. I adore every word of that opening couplet,
and it is wonderful how the line continues in the next couplet with ‘puffs’ – giving this airy happiness of young and dear friends together. As the poem builds, I feel your pain. (I absolutely love the ‘shrank like machine-washed wool.’) These past few years have been so hard on us all! There is such an explosion of false information, and so many people unable to discern – and unbudging with any discussions/thinking differently. Your stark metaphor of the last line echoes the loss of this lifelong friendship.There is real grief in losing a dear friend; I am so sorry for your loss.
Oh, Glenda, the couplets here with enjambment work so well, supporting this parting of ways in the “when…” and then the italics for evidence, in case the reader had doubts of the “machine-/washed”! Then, this final image of woman is striking.
Sarah
Glenda,
Wow, what a way to show how you and your friend have diverged in your philosophies:
Oh, my goodness. Your language here and enjambment (thanks for the reminder, Sarah, of what that is called) is so effective.
And what you learned, such poetic language and the metaphor is so powerful. I saw some echoes of your poem in Katrina’s today.
Wow, Glenda, that broken hymen at the end of your poem is a definite final punch. I can understand when you get to the “scripted manifesto” arriving that it is time to end the friendship, but your imagery shows the piercing pain well. I loved “your world shrank like machine-/washed wool while”…stunning and creative simile to show the chasm of beliefs between the two of you. Your opening was such a gentle, loving bond that when the shift occurs, the break feels harsh but necessary. Powerful poem!
Holy cow, Glenda, that ending! The entire poem is just powerful as can be, but the lines
Time bleeds through friendship-flow
& pierces our skin like a broken hymen.
are so brilliant that I am simply envious of your genius.
Your transition words followed by the ellipses really show the change over time. The two of you just became vastly different people due to life experiences and sometimes that simply hard to reconcile. I love the image here:
Glenda—“your world shrank like machine-washed wool” is such an apt description of her changing as you expanded. Belief systems have the power to mend, but also to destroy…
Glenda, I remember those pictures from your class reunion. It’s so mind-numbing as we think of all the friends we’ve lost along the way. I’m sorry that the scripted manifesto arrived this way and gave such a jolt. Sometimes I see such pluses in being somewhat introverted, and this is one of those times that makes me count it a blessing – because often we just don’t know which way the ball is coming from people. Love that ending.
Thank you for this poem, Glenda! It seems that your friendship stumbled on the ideology clash, which stronger than other disagreements and differences friends may have. I can relate to these sentiments and the situation. I, too, have lost a couple of friends who justify the Russian invasion. In your poem, I love how you described your friendship in the beginning with “swinging skinny legs,” pinky promises, and friendship bracelets, until the “but…” signaling the turn in your relationships. The final two lines seem to be full of grief and pain.
OOOo! Ouch…killa final image, Glenda! It is SUCH a complex thing how friendships that are eons old have split right down the spine of conspiracy theory, whack-a-doodle thinking. It blows me away, but your description is now somewhat universal to this messed up country. The line that just sent my hackles up: “my grandchildren’s/teachers brainwash them”…DAMN, that just makes me insane…it is happening here in STL in the Rockwood School District and out in St. Charles County… that continues to make national news for its loud-mouthed ill-informed and utterly racist M Taylor-Green-loving posterior-kissers. It hurts me to the bone that these people spew venomous lies about their versions of what schools are doing. And banning books like they did decades ago. Heaven help the teachers trying to actually educate children. Missouri is in a terrible pit. Your poem really riled me up. :-0 Hugs to you and your strong voice of reason! Susie
Glenda,
My girlfriends and I always text “DAAAAAAAYUMMMMMMM” when we have no more words and that’s enough to get the point across.
DAAAAAAAYUMMMMMMM!!!
I hope she knows to stay far away from you. I get the feeling that would not go well. Sorry she’s a fool.
Menin Dosum*
We met on the other side of the world
under the cool shade of the Tien Shan.
Together we shouldered through the crowded bazaar,
Laughing and aware of our incongruity,
Learning from each other’s mistakes.
Together we haggled and negotiated,
Splitting pennies, not for the bargain but the principle,
exchanging knowing glances after flexing our linguistic muscles.
Each day tightening the bonds of friendship.
Summer nights sharing each cultural discovery,
Every star in the galaxy beaming down,
Sometimes reminiscing about past lives,
Sometimes looking ahead to the next adventure.
Always together in the future book of we.
It’s no surprise that distance and time
Made space for new friendships and families;
Moving across continents and time zones,
Our shared wanderlust
Left several chapters of our friendship unwritten,
With open pages, blank, the rest of the story remains untold.
*Kyrgyz for “my friend”
Beautiful tribute to this friendship from another time and place! Your poem feels mystical, magical. I love “flexing our linguistic muscles.” I hope that you can add to your friendship story book again someday.
Shaun,
The title and first line hooked me. I traveled w/ you and recalled friendships forged across geographies as I read about your friendship bond. Excellent poem.
Shaun,
Thank you for letting us witness this travel journey of friendship. I so appreciate this line “Left several chapters of our friendship unwritten,”!
Sarah
I love the diversity and friendship rooted in world travel that you bring to this prompt. Because your life experience is soooo much different than mine, I appreciate this poem more than you could know.
Susan, thank you for this prompt and for your very relatable poem. Here it goes…
I am a horrible friend,
No, really, I am no good at friendship.
What kind of person lets
Politics dictate the limits
Of a relationship?
But, when someone I have known for
Over 45 years surprises my
Progressive, social justice-seeking self
With talk of
Rigged voting machines,
A stolen election,
And an overarching
Conspiracy, I run
Like my hair is on fire.
I take my toys and go home.
I can outpout the best pouter.
I suck.
“I can outpout the best pouter.” This had me giggling. You do not suck! It’s been such a deafening time, these past years, with all these crazy conspiracy theories and one-sided listening. I think we are well-advised to separate, give space. Just breathe! It is a real loss, though – I am so sorry!
Ooh, Katrina! I am seeing some echos in your’s and Glenda’s and Kim’s as principles diverge in friendships, the fracturing is really enough to make us “run/like my hair is on fire” when you know there is not logic left, no hope.
Sarah
Katrina, I love the tone you take in your poem! The beginning and end make me smile, but when one finds out why the rift, it is understandable. I love the “run / like my hair is on fire.” And yes, you need to read Glenda’s poem today too! They are a nice pairing.
Katrina,
I know losing a friend is no laughing matter, but I read your opening and closing as hyperbolic, as a magnifying source for the hyperbole of conspiracy theories and rigged elections. I love the casual, forthright tone, the “look, if you’re gonna be that way, we’re done” candor. Fantastic poem.
Katrina, I love how you open with such an honest, straight-forward statement about your ability to be a friend. I can totally understand why you took your toys and ran. I love your line “Like my hair is on fire”. LOL! Yes, run! Sometimes it’s important to end a friendship rather than pretend to be one when your beliefs are so widely different.
I, too, have found it very hard to maintain relationships with people who feel very differently from me, Katrina. My parents always said that there are three things you should never discuss publicly . . . politics, religion, and Knox County basketball. In our day, I had no idea how anyone felt about anything. We simply didn’t talk of things of such depth and we certainly didn’t have social media shouting it at us. But it’s hard when those we “love” hold such different viewpoints. You capture the feeling of realization so well especially with the lines (that brought a little chuckle):
But how do you really feel?? The tone in this is just right. Glenda’s experience and yours parallel the situations this crazy world we live in. I will pout with you. Bring your toys to my house…
I love your honesty. And I know you’re not alone in your situation. I wish I had an answer to division. Beliefs are big things.
Run, Forrest, Run!!!!!!!!!! 🔥🔥🔥
She’s not the friend for you! I’m glad you know to run, Katrina!
💙
You took me down memory lane, Susan! Love this prompt, love your last line so much:
But, I don’t really remember her.
Tenth grade
I don’t remember exactly when or how
we became friends
there she was, next to me
all the time
my locker, the library, offering me a ride
to and from school
invited me to go to the mall
all of sudden, we were tight
she was so C.O.O.L.
(something I, without a doubt, was not)
she was popular
she was a cheerleader
she wore the best clothes
she lived in a huge house
she had money, lots of money
on her 16th birthday,
her parents bought her a brand new Miata
(which awed my brothers, when she would pick me up)
when I think back
this friendship was an afterschool special
sudden
intense
out of my league
do you hear the foreshadowing, dramatic theme music?
SCENE: THE BATHROOM
she comes in
talking giggling laughing
with a couple other cool girls
putting on makeup at the mirror
me, I’m locked away unseen
in the bathroom stall
He’s super cute! I just have to date him!
He knows me now, ‘cause I’m hanging
with Maureen
Gawd, she’s so boring!
But it’s worth it, cause her brother
is going to ask me out,
I just know it.
____
THE END
____
Wait, doesn’t every afterschool special
have some sort of a follow-up?
AFTERWORD
Enough years have gone by
I am able to tell the story
without tears
Now I see
I received so many gifts
from her friendship
One,
realizing my brother loved me
when he heard my story
he never gave her the time of day
(even with that Miata)
Two,
always look out for those left out
(this is where I find my best friends)
Three
don’t get caught up in what’s popular,
what money can buy
Four,
listen to my gut
that intuitive sensation
telling me
something’s wrong with this relationship.
This gift has saved me
many times over.
Five,
always make sure
the bathroom is empty
if I have something private
to share aloud
Oh boy. Some people!!! I love the 5 gifts you listed at the end & especially number five!!
Maureen,
Wowza! What a story. Love the After School Special metaphor/framing. I’m mortified by what that girl did. Ugh! But I love the lessons you shared and how you turned an awful experience into a goldmine of wisdom. It’s so like you to find the positive and still see the good in an awful situation.
Maureen,
I love the format of this poem with the scenes so perfectly crafted letting us experience the full arc of “this friendship was an afterschool special” — except it was true and it was you, and sorry for the sucky friend but love that brother of yours. And indeed, that gut is everything.
Hugs,
Sarah
OMGoodness, Maureen, I’m glad that enough years have gone by for you to be able to share this story, plus all the valuables you’ve learned. Wow. I’m loving how you talk to your reader, and the capitalized stage directions. AND YOUR BROTHER! WHAT A GEM!
What a well told tale Maureen!I am so glad you didn’t leave us in the bathroom where my heart was breaking, but instead brought us to the beauty of the brother who loved your more than a Miata…that in itself cheered me, thoughI am also appreciative of your last lines of wisdoml. Glad you can’t tell the story without tears because you’ve given us all a gift!
Oh, Maureen, I can feel your shock and horror and the pain you must have felt when you heard this supposed “friend” saying these things while you were in the stall. My heart goes out to you because although you were better off without her those memories pierce. I love how you share all that you’ve learned, and I couldn’t agree more with your five main points. Hugs to you!
Maureen,
So dang perfect to frame this within the ever-so-appropriate After-School Special. I hate, hate, hate that you experienced this and had to sit on that commode and listen to that user, but I love what you learned from it.
Our hardest experiences often teach us the most. And, I see today’s parents (including myself) trying to shield their kids from those tough experiences.
I love how you land on the wisest of things you learned with #5!
Maureen!! What a wonderful After School tale (and what an apt metaphor). The gifts you received were certainly worth more than the friendship. (And number five is a biggie!) bravo to your brother…
Maureen, I love number 2 and 3. Those places are where the real people are, the ones who know what matters. I’m so sorry that this happened to you. But I’m also glad it did. You learned lessons about people that some folks still haven’t learned, and you are more sincere and discerning today because of Miss Miata. Funny even her car had ME in it – Me Ata. Miata. Hmmmmm……it was all about her. And you turned the tables.
Maureen — Indeed, you are the better kid by far…but dang, what a painful earful or nasty that girl dished out. Oh man! BAD! Snotty girls really are dragons. I LOVE the “Afterword.” You bet! My heart just pounded out of my chest when that conversation in the bathroom occurred…just heartbreaking meanness. Thank you for sharing such a personal and difficult moment. From your friend here on ethicalela, you ROCK! Hugs, Susie
I love this! It could’ve easily happened to me too, Maureen.
I adore your brother and the lessons this bad friend taught you. You are the winner here. She’s the real LOSER!
Susan, your poem reminded me so much of my own childhood friendship. The imagery of the first communion veils, the Tiger Beat posters, and the “clubs” created all helped this friendship to come alive. Thanks for the inspiration!
At the end of a romantic
relationship, there’s a final
conversation. A plan
for separation:
“We need to talk”
“It’s not you. It’s me”
“I’m just not that into you”
whatever it may be.
And maybe that’s why
there’s so much pain
when a friendship
status becomes nebulous.
It’s a finite gas,
spreading thin among all
the years since our last
shared memories. Its
aroma becoming
less and less potent.
We used to whisper secrets
in the dark
and now we trade
Christmas cards.
We used to spin imaginary,
silly tales
now we “like” a picture when
the other sets sail.
We used to sneak out on
humid Iowa nights,
now we wouldn’t even
send a wedding invite.
There was no moment
when this friendship was
set free. In a way, it’s still
dangling there, waiting to
once again be.
And maybe this is
the way our friendship
was meant to evolve,
but it surely doesn’t feel
like what I thought it would
at all.
Wow, Rachelle, that image of nebulous friendship status is so powerful. I love these:
I have friendships like this over the years, and it “doesn’t feel / like what I thought it would / at all” Thank you for sharing these emotions that help me process.
I agree, there’s a special agony with the ending of friendship, this lack of clarity that makes one year for a broken romantic heart, some sort of absolute. Your lines,
This idea of the other setting sail…this moving apart, slowly, lost in the wind…that’s what I thought of. Thanks for this poem!
Rachel,
Your opening salvo nails the nature of friendship while the contrasting moments drive home the point that time and life change relationships. Lots of wisdom in your poem today.
Rachelle,
Thank you for this story of friendship evolving and your reflection. These lines…
…so specific and yet so many of us, I think, can relate to that used to alongside the now — noting that the dimensions of “we” are flat (picture) rather than vibrant (spin). There is grief here with acceptance, I think.
Thanks for offering me this space to reflect, too.
Sarah
Rachelle,
Jeesh, you capture so much in these lines. I never really thought about it, but some of these details are dead-on in regard to the fading of some of my friendships. We think they are so vital at the time–and they are–but it’s hard to imagine that it is
I wonder what it would be like with the person in the friendship you are referring to if you got together and shared space? Would the years and distance disappear? I had the epiphany a few weeks ago that a good friend of mine is certainly still treasured, but we haven’t made a NEW memory in multiple years. We connect and reminisce, but nothing NEW every happens. My mind, thanks to your poem, is really spinning about what role experiences play in friendship.
Rachelle,
This is a beautiful, relatable, melancholy poem. That second stanza is perfect–the imagery and the sentiment that you capture. But the rhythm and the juxtaposition of the then and the now that carries your poem through to the end is just as powerful!
Wow Rachelle. Such a strong imagery. I enjoyed these lines:
It does sometimes feel like old friendships are just waiting to be rekindled.
Susan, the details of the experiences you had with your friend are so vivid for me, as many of them I can relate to–Saturday morning cartoons, music and pop stars of the era. And you were so clever in conjuring up your detailed descriptions, e.g. “Dinah Shore Show”, “Holly Hobbie,” and “The American Beauty Pageant board game.” It made it so much more real for me.
Thank you for this challenging prompt. That is two days in a row of big feels coming to the surface. I could have written about so many painful lost friendships, as I have moved to a lot of different places throughout my life. However, I chose to write an easier one about a lost one-year long friendship.
Cathy
Kim, Tammy, Lisa, and Denise–we were a faction
of friends who dominated our fifth grade class.
The teacher thought he knew best, so we each
were placed in a different sixth grade room.
I find my way into Mr. Hargrove’s class.
My new friend here is Cathy L.
Cathy is a wild girl, popular and pretty,
Mean, sharp-tongued, and savvy.
It is not long before Cathy and I are one;
I cleave and comply under her authority.
We are mean to the same people,
We avoid trouble with dishonest charm,
We play softball during lunch recesses,
The only girls (it is a boys’ league, after all.)
We hold our own against would-be bullies,
and we are bountiful bully-ers, ourselves.
I don’t mind when she’s absent because
Albert likes me instead of her those days.
We never go to each other’s houses, and I do
wonder what kind of trouble she gets in there.
When junior high comes,
we end up in different classes
(did someone arrange that, I wonder?)
We each find new friends to hang out with
and I find myself not mourning
that my “best” friend is no more.
Denise, wow! I kept copying lines as “my favorite” to post in the comment, but there’s too many to choose from. This poem explores the concept that “you are who you hang out with.” As much fun as Cathy seems, it appears like you (or the narrator of the poem) did things that weren’t necessarily things YOU wanted to do, “we are mean to the same people / we avoid through with dishonest charm”. How easily children can mold to their surroundings. Thanks for sharing!
Denise! Hard to imagine you a part of this –
“and we are bountiful bully-ers, ourselves”
It’s something about growing up, child development – we have to try on these other personalities, almost like trying on new shoes. Glad the fates put you in different classes in junior high!
Denise,
Hard to imagine you as the mean girl. Yikes! I’m glad I wasn’t in your sixth grade class. I fear I would have been a target. What your poem illustrates best for me is the power of influence one person can wield over another.
“I cleave and comply under her authority.
We are mean to the same people,
We avoid trouble with dishonest charm,”
These lines are brutally honest, my friend.
Denise, it is amazing what we remember from childhood and how influential some people can be based on proximity. I appreciate the way you describe Cathy “Cathy is a wild girl, popular and pretty,
Mean, sharp-tongued, and savvy.”
It would be easy to follow her lead, and if a teacher did have something to do with your separation, it’s a blessing you escaped her. Powerful poem and easy to relate to. I felt myself drawn into that 6th grade classroom.
Denise,
I had such a similar experience. When a tribe of girls was busted up in my elementary years, the one girl told me “You got Mr. Williams (the lone male teacher) because you need discipline.” I still laugh at her boldness when she was the wild, untamed one.
I marvel at your honesty in this poem. You take a very very honest look at yourself and what life was like for you during this time.
Isn’t it funny how at the time you likely knew she wasn’t good for you, but in retrospect, you definitely know she wasn’t.
Thanks for sharing this beauty with us today.
Denise— the last two lines are perfect. Even back then, you realized that the friend you had bonded with was not worth mourning the loss of. I loved your wonder at whether this separation, too was arranged. If so, the teacher was pretty savvy. My favorite phrase may be “ I cleave and comply under her authority” and “bountiful bulliers”. Great insight in this poem!
Denise, your brave honesty in revealing these days of not so great influence on you remind us that it only takes one bad apple. Her badness didn’t spoil you, thank God, but I’m sure it left a bad taste for a year. Divine intervention, perhaps, but this kept you out of harm’s way and got your feet back on the right path when you ended up not together in junior high. I’m glad. It’s hard to imagine you being mean to anyone, but I’m glad you got it out of your system and it ran its course.
Susan, thank you for today’s prompt and for your poem. Wow, my family nicknamed our adopted sister Half Pint! So funny to see that in your poem. I hadn’t thought about her nickname in years. The ending lines of your poem remind us to focus on our human connections. I love it.
I remain friends with my closest girlfriends from 7th grade. I don’t have any memories of a friendship I lost that matters now so I chose to write in honor of my friend, Lyn, who passed on this day 4 years ago. I love how the Verselove prompts on April 16th have given me the chance to write for her.
In Soft Stillness
When raindrops kiss us
And rainbows paint hopeful skies
We know Lyn is here
When cool winds touch us
And sun shines to soothe our skin
We feel Lyn nearby
When music moves us
And butterflies dance around
We hear Lyn’s voice
When April tears fall
And memories keep us up
Lyn has not left us
Her loving presence draws nearer
To hold us in soft stillness
©Stacey L. Joy, April 16, 2023
Oh, Stacey, a haiku sonnet is a perfect form for this precious poem about Lyn. The love in your friendship with Lyn is evident here, oh my. Such soft and tender words and sweetness. I love the idea of April showers being April tears in this anniversary month of her death.
and that closing line:
Peace to you and all who loved her.
Stacey, what a serene tribute to Lyn. Now all those that read this poem can all be reminded of her, through raindrop kisses and butterfly dances. Your memories and writing of her keep her present. Thank you for sharing this beautiful, beautiful poem today for a beautiful, beautiful friendship. Sending you love.
So precious and dear, Stacey! Yes, this is a beautiful prompt for you to explore this dear friendship; I am so sorry for your loss. Love the haiku stanzas – and those last two lines are simply amazing,
Your words are so beautiful – I’m glad that you have poetry as a way to capture memories of your dear friend, to remember her. Your image is beautiful, too. I love the last line and title – “in soft stillness.” I think separation from loved ones can often feel like that, a soft stillness. Their presence there, but not there. Sending love <3
Stacey,
This is a touching tribute to Lyn. I love how all good things in nature bring her memory to you and that you’ve chosen a haiku sonnet w/ it’s spare structure and concise language to share and honor Lyn. It is fitting and beautiful.
Stacey,
I, too, am still deeply connected to five friends from childhood. I haven’t lost them. I need to write and honor them.
I’m glad you chose to write honoring Lyn today. Honor her, you did. This is lovely. The descriptions of things from nature and then landing back on a line about Lyn’s presence . . . expert craft. I hope you feel mainly JOY remembering your sweet friend today. Thank you for taking the time to write in our space about her.
Stacey— your entire poem radiates love and soft stillness. A beautiful tribute to your friend…
Stacey, this form is perfect – it concentrates the words and keeps the focus on Lyn’s presence and when she is felt and known. There is something about those we love who go before us but reassure us that they are still near. I feel it in the most random times, I’ll see a hawk on a wire as I’m thinking of something and know my mother is with me. I’m so sorry about your friend Lyn – – I know that when those memories keep you up, it is her – – stirring the stories in your mind, reminding you of times you shared. This is a lovely tribute to her.
Such a heartfelt tribute to your friend, Stacey! Your love and fond memories of Lyn sift through each word of your poem. I, too, find haiku a well-fitting form for a poem like this. Thank you for sharing your memory of a dear friend with us today!
Awww, Stacey — You wrote a beautiful tribute here. So loving. It says a great deal about you that you chose to honor Lyn today. You are strong in your voice and in your loyalty to a dear friend. I love thinking of Lyn in the rainbows and raindrops and butterflies dancing. Lovely. Hugs, Susie
Look,
I know
this is
complicated.
I can
appreciate
that,
I mean,
listen
I read
three
and a half
books
in his first series
and was
profoundly
moved to tears
(of joy)
when
I read that
first one;
this was
the first time
I had ever cried
while reading
a book and
I was amazed
that these
words on
a page could
move me so.
So, yes, I know
that this is
complicated.
I know that
you want me
to judge the
work on the
merits of
“The Work”
because
every artist
says or does
bad things,
things that I
wouldn’t agree
with, so should
we just stop
enjoying all art?
Sure, fine,
I know,
all people
do bad things
blah blah blah
whatever
I’m just letting
you know
that if you
were a raging
homophobe,
I wouldn’t
buy your
books either.
____________________________________________________________
Susan, thank you for this prompt! It proved quite challenging. I thought of the “friendships” we have with books and characters and authors, which brought to mind various discussions I’ve had with colleagues about censorship and cancel culture and Ender and a certain boy wizard and a comedian who has a bit about chocolate cake and going to the dentist and…and…and…the list just keeps getting longer and longer as time goes on. (And, quite frankly, I didn’t have the “bandwidth” to make this a longer poem, so I tried to focus it a bit.)
Scott, Your linear, poetic approach continues to grab my attention as if reading a grocery list for some sort of irony and punch at the bottom (and it is there every time).
I’m sure many of us could build on these words from narratives in our own lives. I’m still mad the boy wizard wasn’t killed in the end.
Scott, you’re tackling such a complicated phenomena. This poem reminds me that poems themselves aren’t here to provide answers, but rather a place to expand and experiment with questions. Thanks for showing us a way to do that.
Excellent! Your short sentences are a drumbeat, with a wham of a final beat.
Scott, “I know, all people do bad things” gives words to the inner struggle I face when it comes to my reading choices. When reading, discussing, giving air to works I love, I struggle when the author betrays their own work. Writers are such a weird lot. See Mary and Charles Lamb, Edith Nesbit, etc.
And focus you did.
I love that you chose to tweak the inspiration a smidge and went into our friendships with books, etc. I love the freedom we have in this space.
The way you typically format your poems always fits so perfectly with your content. And you never fail to wow us at the end.
Scott,
I appreciate where you start and stop your stanzas. The first stanza starts with a punch to the gut that means even more by the end. However, each break feels like where I would breath in a rant of passion before continuing on, which made me hear you as I read it. Punctuating with whatevers is exactly how I feel when I am speaking what is on my mind that is contrary to others.
Scott,
This is such a poignant poem. The speaker expresses so well the internal conflict when faced with this situation. Sometimes I wish I could just read a book without knowing so much about the writer or their bad choices. I remember encountering texts in college and not knowing a thing about the writer (or having a digital profile at my fingertips). Very thought-provoking.
Susan, thank you for hosting today. Your poem ends with such a sad but common experience, we remember things/experiences often more than the humans we interact with.
We met when call waiting was a thing
Still connected to walls or constrained to our couch
When new tech increased ways to communicate
Laughed through our teens and caller ID on
Landlines…he called you, but didn’t leave a message?
With pagers we sent clandestine numbers
AOL dial-up connecting sound, eeeee-oooooo
IM (instant messaging) was such a cool way
To communicate with our new friends
Using calling cards as we traveled abroad
The portable cell phones that fit into our purses
Planning our social lives in a new way
Text acronyms, emojis via smartphones
Social media, apps, immediate interaction
Eventually separated by ten states
The most advanced digital tools didn’t
Keep us connected in the same ways
But then you showed up at my grandmother’s memorial
Decades after our friendship catalyzed from mobile ways
A reminder of the senses felt during in-person communication
Sentiments that cannot be replaced by any device
Stefani,
Thank you for this reflection on evolution of digital ways of being with friends. The landlines made me feel nostalgic for the effort it takes to be, sit still, and communicate. The tethering now feels kinder than the cordless ways somehow. And then your gentle turn towards/away from the flaw/truth of digital tools — that they need users on both ends for there to be a nurturing of friendship. And then connected in another way for another reason “grandmother’s memorial” — in-person “Sentiments that cannot be replaced by any device.” That’s it. That. Lovely.
Sarah
“The most advanced digital tools didn’t
Keep us connected in the same ways”
So true!! It’s hard to explain why this is so, and yet your poem does so beautifully. What a gift of friendship to show up at your grandmother’s memorial – just lovely. A true friendship, despite all the variations through time.
Stefani,
Not only have you given us a reminder of how important a friendship can be and how communication sustains it, you’ve taken us on a marvelous journey through the history of communication technology. I love it and feel memories sparked as I read your poem. These lines are a perfect ending:
“A reminder of the senses felt during in-person communication
Sentiments that cannot be replaced by any device”
Fantastic poem.
Oh, Stefani, you take us through such a time travel of devices! I love things that help to show evolution. I’m so happy she came to honor your grandmother and connect with you!
I love how you address that there are simply things that devices can’t accomplish. The most captivating line to me is
Stefani, I enjoyed the progress of your poem’s narrative to show the shifting ways in which one could communicate. I could easily hear the AOL dial-up sound and completely understand how distance would make it more difficult to keep the friendship going. The fact that your friend arrives at your grandmother’s memorial says so much about the bond you shared. Your friendship did matter. Powerful poem!
Thank you so much, Susan, for this invitation to meditate on friendship, being a friend. I tried a pantoum.
friend, words flutter her mind
she settles whispers hushed
with firm ties to her fingers
you cannot hope to hold her
she settles whispers hushed
she trails from your threads
you cannot hope to hold her
she’s crafting a wandering
she trails from your threads
yet hears your whispers still
she’s crafting a wandering
soon she’ll stitch your strands
yet hears your whispers still
friend, words flutter her mind
soon she’ll stitch your strands
with firm ties to her fingers
Sarah, your use of this form with words of threads, stitch, and wandering really ties it all together in a weave of memories. Thank you for sharing.
Wow, Sarah, you have used peaceful sounds and words to “stitch” together and “craft” this ethereal poem. I just love reading it, and without the distraction of punctuation and capitalization, it flows more beautifully.
“you cannot hope to hold her” – how I love this line! How I love your poem!
Sarah,
The repetition and formal structure of this pantoum create a firm foundation for friendship and your closing lines with the gorgeous image of being tethered to a friend in a bond that cannot be broken:
“soon she’ll stitch your strands
with firm ties to her fingers.” Lovely
Sarah,
How on earth do you make the pantoum seem so dang easy. The flow and sounds here fit so perfectly with the theme. I’d love to know more of the backstory; I’m intrigued. But I love the declaration of “you cannot hope to hold her” contrasted with the last two lines . . .
Sarah, love the way you weave the images in this pantoum. I can feel the movement and hear the sounds, especially the hushed whispers. I admire how you show friendship to be a physical act that keeps a bond tightly woven. I was particularly drawn to your line “she’s crafting a wandering/soon she’ll stitch your strands.” Mesmerizing imagery!
Sarah, love these lines, especially
she’s crafting a wandering –
the elusiveness of SHE is felt so strongly here, in her trailing, her fluttering, her crafting.
Oh, Susan! You have brought back so many memories! Because this is your prompt…I wrote about you! And it is definitely a draft! A fun tidbit for readers–Susan and I were doubles partners in high school. I found out she wrote poetry here a couple of years ago.
I was a senior
you were a sophomore,
together we were
number one doubles.
I don’t remember
our wins or losses,
but I remember
your infectious laughter,
on and off the court.
Graduation came
I left our small town
for the bigger world.
Forty years have passed
and we meet again
not on the court
but on the page
where
game
set
match
become
words
poems
verse love.
Leigh, wow, how cool is it that you two know each other and reconnected here at Ethical ELA. I love how you share your story and relationship with Susan and end with tennis words to establish the whole connection between the two of you. Wonderful celebration of a relationship that ended, but certainly changed due to place and time.
Leigh Anne, how magical your poem is, especially that ending! Wow! What fun to read that you and Susan were doubles partners–and number 1 to boot. Beautiful poem.
Leigh Anne, I love the connection of this most of all, just thinking about how digital settings can bring people back together is heart-warming, cool? I can’t think of the right word but had a lot of feels thinking about you two here. Thank you for writing with us today.
What a match! As an avid doubles player I loved the poem and your relationship with your doubles partner and great friend!
What a wonderful synchronistic event – to meet on the page! That is so fabulous.
Leigh Anne, I love the way you weave the origin story of your friendship into your poem, “Game/set/match/become/words/poems/verse love.”
Leigh,
Thank you so much for taking the time to enter this space. I know you do here and there, but I appreciate that you took the time to create based on our experiences together. You capture our time, and blend it with this place, so effectively!
We need to get together in real time sometime! I was in our hometown today for my niece’s birthday. I felt a lot of nostalgia.
Beautiful! I love the connections between tennis and poetry–and your reconnection with a long lost doubles partner!
Susan, thank you for hosting today. Your prompt has me thinking about a lot of things from long ago. Your poem is provocative, especially the end. Trying to understand why a friendship ends can be difficult, but that’s not the case for my subject today.
Wild Riding
we were wildfire
flickering flames
dancing under
disco ball lights
camping; cruising
freebirds
soaring high
charting backroads
moonlight lakes
secret coves
until our fiery hot affair
fizzled
forever iced
when I found you
with her
Barb Edler
16 April 2023
Barb, wow, in such a few words you have captured such a wildfire relationship and then betrayal. Your word choice does heavy lifting in this short poem–fiery, fizzled, forever iced…Wow!
Wow! I was just moving along with the snappy beats of the poem until — what? a cheater? Punch last line “with her”! That “flickering flame” was snuffed out.
Sarah
Barb, your “forever iced” line is a powerful punch to the ending of this relationship–especially after the use of “fiery” a few lines before. Thank you for sharing today.
And Barb brings the disco ball crashing to the dance floor. Boom! What a punch with this one. A poem-poem to melt ice of those heated moments in our lives. Congratulations on channeling the muses to bring this to page.
Slam! Love this, Barb! Love the fire and ice words throughout. It is truly easier to end a romantic relationship, I think…friendships seem to peter out.
Barb, thank you for the vulnerability you share here. You take us with you from the “wildfire flickering flames” of a romance to its death “forever iced.” Wow.
Barb,
Hy smokes! I did not see that betrayal coming. I was soaring along on the wings of those soaring flames. Until. Wowza! Certainly such a betrayal would douse any relationship. Who was the “her”? I hope it wasn’t a friend. Powerful poem.
Barb,
My mind went instantly to allusions to songs (wildfire and freebirds), but I had to wipe my brain of that and read it again differently. I am in awe of how you accomplished so much in so few words. Everyone on here knows what trouble I have with economy. We feel the young love full of fire and then the ice (what a perfect antithesis you set up) that fizzles the fire. Bravo!
Barb, wow! That ending…I was so happy with all your adventures, going places, the togetherness and then BLAM! As dead as a mosquito smacked mid-gorging. A perfect ending – ice that cheater!
First, before anything about craft I must say: what an ending. My stomach dropped.
Second, your choice to go with without capital letters and nearly no punctuation made this poem feel unbound from time despite being in past tense. It gave me space to think and imagine first and then read for direction and meaning next. Often when I write, I consider how I am trying to get my audience to read my poem. However, inviting me into the narration and story creating with your choices on capital letters and punctuation makes me what to reconsider how I write and try writing poems that are built for the reader to make meaning first instead of the author giving meaning first.
Yeow! Ouch! What a kick in the shorts! Dang! I was cruising right along with this “freebird” and then BAM…”her” — perfect that “her” is nameless. Really cool poem…packs a heck of a punch at the end. Excellent title! My favorite word in the poem: “iced.” Hugs, Susie
Barb, I’m with everyone here, this is great! The surprise of “her” at the end is so well crafted!
Barb, I concur with other comments about the way friendships can end so abruptly! So many French it’s the SPECIAL ones the hurt the most and take years to understand.
I’m not sue THANKS is the best word. Unless, it’s thanks for confirming that what many of have felt is a common end to some friendships…long or fiery ones that fizzle. Yes, I appreciate your alliteration, too. 🙂
Thank you, Susan for giving us time to reflect on this. I have a high school friendship that haunts me to this day. I wrote a poem about it many years ago. I revised it here:
To Safety
I spent my senior year of high school
Trying to rescue you
Trying to save myself
Dodging cars on Route 17,
Climbing the concrete median
To stand with you
Between the flow of traffic,
I’d reach out,
Grab the folds of your jacket,
Pull you to me, to safety –
To the other side of the road,
We’d sit in the Howard Johnson’s for hours,
I’d have a hot fudge sundae,
You’d order coffee black,
Open six packets of sugar,
Which you’d pour in slowly
And stir deliberately.
Your hands were pale as plates,
Your sleeve slipped back on your wrist
To reveal several thin scars,
Your eyes were as black as the coffee –
No gleam, no hint of brightness.
You’d begin to talk,
Wanting to escape your family,
Run west to Colorado.
I’d sit listening, helpless –
Wondering,
Wondering how I could keep on saving you
And not lose myself completely,
Now, thirty years later I wonder
If you survived.
I imagine you pushing
A cart at a Boulder grocery,
Your dark-eyed daughter
Sitting before you ,
As you push the cart faster and faster,
Speeding down the gleaming aisles,
Making her head tilt back
With laughter.
Joanne, your poem completely pulled me into your friendship and all its dangers. The desire to save someone can be all-consuming and I think you capture this well. I can easily relate to the desperateness of wanting to escape a home life, and the imagery of your friend’s dark eyes is haunting. I love how you end with such an interesting action. Marvelous poem!
Thank you!
Joanne, what a memory of that year trying to save your friend and yourself. Your wishes for her future with her dark-eyed daughter are precious. I hope she made it. Your title is very effective too.
I actually tried to find her again today and had success. She’s alive and well and living in New Jersey. I’m not sure I’ll reach out to her, but I’m happy she is safe.
Joanne, Today’s prompt is bringing out incredible language. Wow.
I’m sure many of us reading you today know that individual: New York, London, Florida, Seattle…the universal truth of some light finding the way to the moths that are drawn to them (your poem his triggered a short story written many years ago that needs to be revisited). Thank you.
Thank you. I love the image of moths to the flame. There may be another poem brewing…
“Wondering,
Wondering how I could keep on saving you
And not lose myself completely,”
We feel so strong, as teenagers, I think. I had a friend in a similar depressed state, that I wanted to save so much. This is an achingly beautiful poem. I want to believe she’s somewhere laughing, too…
Oh, gosh, Joanne. This poem has such sadness and concern in it, yet the last lines bring hope that your friend is happy and adjusted with a child . . . a life.
You describe her so well; I was especially struck by the description of the eyes. That darkness and lack of brightness are familiar to me and tell a lot.
So many of us have tried to save others and risked losing ourselves. Thanks for acknowledging that so we can too.
Such a haunting poem, Joanne – the lines that really get me are “Wondering how I could keep on saving you/And not lose myself completely”…for often a person does not want to be saved. Lots and lots of layers here. I, too, wonder what the rest of your friend’s story is, if a gleam of brightness ever came to her dark eyes…and it sears my heart to the core that you wish her a dark-eyed daughter, head tilted back in laughter. So poignant and so lovingly crafted. That is characteristic of you, with the doors of your beautiful heart wide open!
Susan, I wonder if others felt the hot wire of the prompt as much as I did this morning. It’s a good one, though, and I’ve spent more time than I usually do trying to capture words for a decision made when the roads were splitting into too (phew. is there frost around my heart?). I loved how you wrote,
Beyond the Miss America game (they really had that) and Sean Cassidy posters, these lines helped me see the core of this friendship. I’m thankful for this opportunity, although triggered a bit by the best decision I ever made (which is still hard to admit 33 years later.
On That Summer Night in 1990
~b.r.crandall
I have this thing for trash
an attraction to it …
even when I know it’s just garbage:
notes, photos, folded memories
& other light things that dazzling
to the moth.
Perhaps that’s why I stuffed
my adolescence in a cinch sac,
& stored it in the attic for 10 years.
I wanted to leave the heftiness behind…
The rituals remain the same, however,
since days of bicycles & skateboards,
wiffleballs & end-of-the-driveway constellations.
I know the nest better since flying from it,
and on visits, I still run by homes
once central to the universe.
(even if we’ve been replaced for generations)
I’m just not sure, though, how I sensed it the —
why I knew stories are better written elsewhere,
instead of getting trapped by a narrative of sitting still.
I only remember the fireflies
fluttering around my heart —
the shooting star zipping across the moon
as met to say goodbye that night.
I only remember the streetlight
becoming jealous of my smile
when I turned to walk away,
forever —
finally free
from you.
Bryan, the imagery of your poem is dazzling. I love the way you capture particular objects to show your childhood, and the way you open with being attracted to trash, and then keeping mementoes in a cinch sac which is both striking and compelling. The ending image of the streetlight being jealous and your feelings of finally being free is riveting. I am haunted by your line: “why I knew stories are better written elsewhere,”. Fantastic poem with so many layers and subtext to relish.
You had me at I have this thing for trash and then the beautiful details that follow.Haunting, this poem will stay with me for a while…
Wow, Bryan this is so strong and stings. I love so many lines, but my favorite is: I know the nest better since flying from it. And the image of the jealous streetlight is so powerful. It is stuck, you are free. Something to celebrate.
Beautiful poem. One wonders why our ‘good decisions’ come to us so clearly at times (and not at all, at others). Love these words,
Bryan,
You did it again . . . created something that makes me want to read and re-read and re-read. So much depth.
I really connect to this lines:
I recently went through the ‘hood I left 40 years ago and so many memories came rushing back, yet maybe two families remain. It was definitely once “central to the universe”
Wow Bryan ~ there is so much about this poem that I love and that pulls at my heart…why I knew stories were better written elsewhere…fire flies and shooting stars… and the streetlight…the stationary streetlight becoming jealous of your smile as you turn away…I love this poem!
Brian—“I know the nest better since flying from it”. Among so many truths you have given us, this is my favorite.
Susan,
Great prompt!
Your poem really took me back, and the myriad allusions made me smile with recognition more than once.
You inspired me to remember my friend Jen, from high school, and how we honed our writing together which cemented our friendship: Miss her.
Sestina to Jen
It’s easy to tell
diamond from zirconia. One gleams
with gaudy, false light:
the other sharper, truer,
the rainbow’s colors,
captured.
Moments captured:
The ways we could tell
with simply a side-eyed look, cheeks colored
or eyes gleaming
with mischief. True,
there were thoughts not brought to light.
But she was my light
in dark days. She captured
the moment perfectly with wit, truth-
teller who cut to the bone, telling
me not what I wanted or needed, but truth’s gleam
in a vein of seeming ore. Color-
full inside, while outside black and grey, colored
by her sadness, pervasiveness, but lightened
when we were together: a gleam
of wit that shone through in our shared writing that captured
all of our friends’ tells;
fatal flaws – including our own – told true
proved fodder for our communal stories, told “true”
in writing while supposedly note-taking; old Mr. Hay’s color
would rise as he lectured, while we told
each other stories, lightened
our school-day load of facts, math, capturing
our friendship and cementing it, with a pen’s gleam:
ambitious authoresses before the gleam
of a plot began to elude me. What’s she doing now? Telling skewed truth,
stories, to a child – one who listens, captured
by the animated color
of her telling? One who finds themself lightened
at the tales their mother tells and retells?
My cheeks color,
animated, and I find myself lightened
by rainbow memories of our telling.
Wendy, so much of friendship, I think, begins with the eyes. This:
Moments captured:
The ways we could tell
with simply a side-eyed look, cheeks colored
or eyes gleaming
with mischief. True,
there were thoughts not brought to light.
This friendship with your fellow writer ~ tells of sometimes knowing a plot, sometimes not. It makes us stop and think about the bigger picture, and the knots and ties that bind us.
Wendy,
Thank you for this sestina of memories and wonderings. I can see how the remembering is an honoring of the formative friendships in life. Love these lines and how the truth stands alone and then extends meaning in the next line, too.
Fun to think of these early shared joys of writing! These lines capture the draw of the best of friendships, I think –
I love how you broke the word “color-full” over two stanzas – I feel the pull of a lasting friendship…What is she doing now? I want to know!
I do, too!
Wendy,
Such rich descriptions! I guess typically the final lines or stanza of a poem should be the strongest, but yours surely are. “Rainbow memories” is just perfect.
Susan, your story is my story, kissing Donny Osmond album covers, fighting over who was better Donny or Shawn? We also loved Davy of the Monkeys. Posters plastered on the walls. Playing the records over and over until they were scratched. I was touched by the end of your poem, how the memories are clouded and during such a self-centered time of life, how can we truly remember our friends?
You made me think of my dear friend whose daughter died suddenly in January. I’ve reached out in a few ways but get little response. I suppose she is still not ready to talk or maybe she doesn’t have the energy (capacity) for friendship now.
I texted you a picture of her butterfly garden
soaking up spring rain and growing wildly.
“Your angel child has blessed me with new life.”
You tapped a green heart emoji. No words.
Your voice silenced by grief. Kindling a friendship
is beyond your grasp, so you touch, not talk.
I want to give you the space you need,
the time to renew yourself, find your way
without her, without obligations to me.
Maybe I’ve lost you already.
It’s been years since we talked.
How to I find you, replant the seed of friendship
darkened by loss?
Margaret—this rings so true. How do you get past the loss, and rebuild a friendship? I wishI knew…
Margaret, one of the most beautiful things anybody ever did for me when I lost my mother was release a butterfly named Miriam and sent me the video. Judy Royal Glenn, a photographer in Tennessee who grew up with me in Georgia, releases butterflies every year for those who have lost loved ones. She also released one for my sister in law when she lost her mother. My mom was a butterfly gardener and birdwatcher extraordinaire, and the offer to release a butterfly for her was like a voice from the other side: all is well, watch me fly! I think it’s just lovely that you did this, and your poem today speaks volumes about who you are as a friend – and honoring her need for space. I think you are right in that the grief has removed all color from her world, and thrust it into darkness. My hope is that she will reach out when she is ready and will rekindle the warmth that she will need when she does. That green heart emoji says a lot about where she is. Keep the butterfly garden alive and thriving.
Kim,
I swear you are one of the most interesting people that I know!
Margaret, this broke my heart a little this morning. Beautiful structure, I loved the tercets and the final quatrain. I hope that she finds her way back to you.
Margaret,
My heart aches in the phrase “beyond your grasp, so you touch, not talk” and how the emoji offers space for some recognition though for the speaker, it seems insufficient, a knowing partial-ness. And the word “obligations” stirs something else for me — makes me ponder the dynamics of the “we” that the loss. Can the “seed” be replanted, or is that the problem — the seed can’t grow?
Sending comfort,
Sarah
Oh, Margaret, you have created a sweet and sad moment of friendship, and hope for future hope of “replanting” the friendship. Peace to your friend in her loss.
Margaret – all I can say is – keep trying. The green heart emoji is a signal. Keep trying in little ways – I know you can and will. She knows you are there and when she is ready is will reach back out to you.
Awww, shoot, this hurts. I think it’s good that you try but you definitely can’t force it. Maybe, in time, something will bring her to you and your friendship can begin anew. Sending love to you both.
How to love and support a grief that never heals? I feel your heartache in this poem.
Margaret,
My heart aches for your friend and for you. How helpless you must feel! Just continue to occasional outreach so she feels your love and support. They will hopefully be of comfort to her at the time, and hopefully, she will eventually let those seeds grow again into something lovely.
Susan— thank you for this prompt, and for your poem. I think we might have been friends, had we lived in the same town! I have had trouble writing this week. I’ve been trying to write positive poems, and they just aren’t there. My mother passed this year, and my sister and I have finally “broken up” over funeral arrangements. Even in her death, we can’t get along. Hopefully, this poem will sweep out the cobwebs and I can participate in the month more fully.
The Sister I Never Knew
We grew up together
in a tiny house,
barely big enough
to hold our family of four.
You were only two years younger.
We should have been close.
We should have.
How did we grow up
so separately
in that tiny house?
There are a thousand photographs
of us together,
but I don’t remember you.
Where were you when we were growing up?
Where was I?
We lived separate lives.
I was reading; you were outdoors.
I was studying; you were riding your horse.
I was working; you were dating.
I was smart; you were cute.
I was the “good” daughter; you were the rebel.
We found sisterhood outside our home.
We each left that tiny house at 18,
never to move back,
communicating occasionally,
meeting infrequently,
our mother sharing tidbits
that drove us even further apart.
We tried to build a bridge
over the chasm of resentment.
We failed,
again and again.
Now that she is gone,
our last connection’s broken
and all I feel is relief
that we don’t have to pretend
that we are sisters anymore.
We never knew each other.
Gayle Sands
4/16/23
Thank you for sharing your story, Gayle!
Oof, Gayle. The last line. And these lines,
The poem is both telling and intriguing. The prompt had a way to send your pen on a journey.
Gayle, first I want to say that your poem hits home. I believe it is a universal truth that death of family members is, in many cases, a curtain call for families. I saw it in my husband’s family a couple of years ago when what had been on the verge for years finally just tumbled off the cliff and shattered for good. It all comes down to these lines in the truth I see and know:
We tried to build a bridge
over the chasm of resentment.
I think that the most toxic ingredient is resentment. I’ve said it before, and your poem echoes what I have felt all along. In many ways, I think resentment is the root of all the obstacles and that once it sets in, there is little chance of the restoration of relationship as it once was, but I don’t believe that forgiveness is impossible, and I do still hold hope for miracles.
I don’t know your sister, but I believe that you are the smart one and the pretty one, and I know you’re a responsible one – one who works. I like YOU, and there’s only one of YOU, and I’m glad you’re our friend.
Oof, Gayle: This packed a punch. What a sad retelling of your relationship; I don’t have a sister, but I can recognize some of the dynamics in these lines, for sure. Beautifully rendered, with lines like:
“We tried to build a bridge
over the chasm of resentment.”
and the separation reinforced by the semicolons in these lines:
“We lived separate lives.
I was reading; you were outdoors.
I was studying; you were riding your horse.
I was working; you were dating.
I was smart; you were cute.
I was the “good” daughter; you were the rebel.”
Beautiful poem!
Oh, Gayle. I feel this. The relationship between siblings is often nothing more than a “relation”ship. Because siblings can be so very different from one another, it makes siblingship a challenge and leaves one to wonder about what connects them at all or if parents know how much they contribute to the divide from the tidbits they share. Your bridge seeking is important (to avoid being left to wonder what if). Those last three lines are impactful. Thank you for opening up on this today and I hope it allows you the refocus you want. Hugs.
Gayle,
I feel for the speaker here in the lines
That in youth there was space for both sisters to do their thing but always separately — maybe even deliberately to contrast to carve space for self.
Those final line “all I feel is relief” is something very real and true. So appreciate that candid, maybe confession. There is always this ought about family having to resolve past, be so close — but I don’t think that is true or fair.
Thanks for this today,
Sarah
Oh my gosh – Gayle, I could have written the exact same poem about my sister except we are 4 years apart – but really lifetimes apart. Thank you for this – I feel less alone.
Oh, Gayle! It’s as if you are experiencing two deaths at once. This is a lot of grief.
Gayle,
Thank you for sharing such raw emotions/experiences with us. I had/have a very similar experience with my sister. It’s amazing and very sad what sometimes (often?) happens when the matriarch and patriarch are gone, leaving, sadly, very little glue for some. Kim’s very insightful words in her comment about resentment really resonate. It’s not an emotion I have ever felt and I don’t understand my sister being so eaten up with it, as I am sure your sister is as well. I have decided that the Avett Brothers’ “No Hard Feelings” is going to be playing at the meal after my funeral; give it a listen.
I think this poem captures your emotion so well, but I think it also has a very universal feel to it. Soooo many can relate. Thank you for giving us such a gift.
Gayle…My heart goes out to you in the loss of your mom. That last stanza, about the relief od no longer pretending…I understand it so, so well. There comes a time when a person realizes the family portrait wasn’t pretty and can’t be made to look that way. Sometimes we must mourn deaths are not physical. Relationships die. Ideals die. Someday I will have the courage(?) desire (?) to write about my mother and sister, for they although they are still living, they are lost to me now…but that time is not yet. I write much more of my father, gone for twenty years. Closure, I suppose. It is so true that people can live in the same house for years, even have the same parents, and never know one another. I have to give you a giant shout-out for writing ANYWAY, for pressing on when the struggle is hardest and the words don’t feel like the ones you wish for. They may be the ones you need. It is the act of writing that will bring comfort and healing and light in the dark corners…those cobwebs WILL be swept away and until then, poems spun from the cobwebs will help others, too. I am one of them. There’s great strength in your poem – thank you for this.
Wow, Gayle — This is a poem that definitely resonates with me. I have a similarly complex family… sisters that I do not understand, do not know… not anymore…by choice. It is still hard to read about it in your poem…we have that mythical thing that hangs there and says…”but you are sisters”… blah, blah, blah. My “connection’s broken”… I still haven’t hit the “relief” button but I certainly understand it. I really appreciate your poem a lot! Thank you. Susie
Gayle, wow, you have told this story with such candidness and honesty. With five sisters in my family, we have some stories too. It is difficult to read, but healing for you and us who read.
Susan! I have gone back to my own childhood with this poem! Half-Pint/Little House-! I wore my hair in long brown braids as a child and my mother made me sunbonnets because I so loved Laura. Tiger Beat! Josie and the Pussycats, The Monkees, HR Pufnstuf! Shaun Cassidy, yes, but my crush (the first of many) was his brother David in The Partridge Family. My sister would add Barry Manilow…but: What fascinates me here in the poem – besides the excitement of reliving the retro fun – is that this friendship turned out to be a mostly parallel experience. You have many memories of Judy…then the twist, the question: Or do I really? Memory is one of my favorite topics to explore. I know the lens changes from childhood to later in life but still…your poem strikes deep. It probes foundations of relationships…why some are built to last and others only for a time. So. That thinking leads me to my poem today. I have to reveal that it was originally my first draft of the recent “Something You Should Know” prompt on VerseLove until I changed my mind and wrote a completely different poem. Today I return to it and rework it just a little as a tribute to my first friends…begging a very different question. THANK YOU for this today <3
First Friends
Sometimes I think
my first friends
were ghosts
beginning with
the little white house
my parents moved into
when I was a baby
it belonged to Pa-Pa
my step-grandfather
who lived in the big house
next door
when Pa-Pa died
his family told mine
we had to go
I was three
it would be many years
before my father told me
the little house had been
a world war Army hospital
morgue
that explains
my early familiarity
with ghosts
which did not follow us
to the apartment
it would have been
too busy a place for them
anyway
with so many children
running and playing
like a boy named Paul
in the apartment just above us
who never, ever took off
his cowboy boots
which made Daddy cuss
because he was trying to sleep
in the daytime
to work the graveyard shift
at night
and the Martinez family
in the next unit
with three kids
Adrian, the boy,
became my first best friend
his father would tease us
by putting rubber vomit
on the coffee table
demanding to know,
fake-angry,
which of us
had puked
and then he would pull
quarters from my ears
(I have never been able
to get any money for myself
out of my ears)
and then there were
the Bryants across the hall:
a tall man, a soldier
home between tours
of duty in Vietnam
and his wife, who
said he always slept
with his eyes open
which terrified me
but she just laughed
about it, standing there
with her new baby
in her arms
talking to my mother
which is how
I learned about
breastfeeding
and then there was
Barnabas, the happy
big brown dog
belonging to one of these
families or maybe
to all of us
then one day
a thing happened,
and we all went outside
in the parking lot
to see it:
the sky grew dark
a sharp black shape
slid over the sun
round as quarters
Mr. Martinez
pulled from my ear
the sun disappeared
only a little white rim remained
in this sudden night
—don’t stare at it!
whispered a familiar voice
in my ear
pretty sure it was
Grandma’s
but it might have been
a ghost, after all
for they know all about
transitions
comings and goings
going and comings
and dwelling-places
and what a struggle it is,
being alive
for a time
so soon eclipsed
even at four
standing in the shadows
with my first friends
I could see
the rim
*******
Note: When my husband and I were planning to marry, he asked if we could name a son, if we had one, after his father. My husband-to-be was just twelve when his father died. Our firstborn accordingly has his grandfather’s name. The middle one: Adrian…same as my first long-ago friend. Don’t know whatever became of that Adrian. My family moved out of the apartment when I was five, over fifty years ago. Wonder if my friend is still living, if he remembers me, what he’d think of his name being my son’s. Another poem for another day, perhaps…
Fran—what a glorious tumble of memories you gave us! The cowboy boots making your dad cuss, the feast-feeding neighbor, living in a morgue, your friend, the eclipse… a novel contained in a poem. This made me smile, and made me envious of the rollicking time you must have had! Thank you for this memory lane journey…
Fran, I am always completely engaged from the beginning to the end of your poems. Your first friends were ghosts just draws a reader in and sticks us to the words. My son never took off his cowboy boots except for baths as he was growing up, and now he rarely wears shoes except to work. I like how you go through the apartment building person by person and describe what you took from them, and the prankish behavior of parents with kids which gives us a sense of humor at an early age. It reminds me a little of Seed Folks – the sheer characterization of how people have a force in shaping us. I knew about the oldest Partridge boy being Shirley’s son, but it never clicked that she was Shaun’s mama also. We were probably reading the same issues of Tiger Beat at the same time. Magazines were so big in those days. And speaking of the shifting of the lens, I went to my old elementary school cafeteria that had been as big as a carpet warehouse, only to find that it wasn’t much bigger than half a basketball court. Funny how time and age does those things. I also love the way you used eclipse.
Fran, I love the storytelling of your poems, how the ghosts are present, only to disappear and arrive again later, how we know so many characters (and their subplots) and get to know the narrator through what she reveals (eyes wide sleeping terrifies). I’m especially enamored with Barnabas because, well, there’s nothing better than a dog and he sounds like a perfect apartment companion to all. But your thoughts on ghosts remind me of why I’m drawn to them (the reveal of why they might be present at the start and their comings and goings and how a crowded apartment would be too crowded for them).
Oh my gosh – I love this, Fran! Images of Jem and Scout walking down mist covered streets trying to avoid “the haints,” but there is no escaping them. When you feel deeply, you are prone to talk to shadows. They know so very much. I love your ending: I could see the rim. Brilliant!
Fran,
I love the journey you take us on, introducing us to the “characters” of your childhood. Each person is introduced so uniquely and with such specificity. The idea of living among ghosts and having that connect to the netherworld draws us in from the start.
I hope writing this and recalling Adrian sends you on a mission to find out what happened to him. He must have been special.
Fran — Your poem is captivating… the recollection of all the names and little snippets that stuck with your over the years. Isn’t that an amazing thing? I love that. I laughed at Adrian’s father and the “rubber vomit.” Oh my gosh. So goofy. You offered such visual detail in the images. Really fun to read this. And the note at the end…sweet. Susie
High School
He always came back to the party because she didn’t have a curfew.
They would skip school and take polaroids of the interior of Hungry Charlie’s
Sipping sea-breezes and air drumming to Jackson Brown’s Disco Apocalypse
He loved the way she ate with her mouth open
He’d pass her notes while she sat in pre-calc
He, waiting for a response, maybe a slight chuckle or ruddy cheeks
No touching was her rule
She was hopeless, hopeful
They were reading The Age of Innocence in AP
It was their story
She forced herself to stay up all night
To find out how it ended
No one was told, not a soul knew
How they would talk hours, after hours
Their secret
Eating at her, her mouth open
Jennifer, I enjoy the cliffhanger endings of poems – I had to go and look up the ending of The Age of Innocence and since I’ve never read it. That’s a perfect novel to reference for today! I like that you left the ending for the reader to wonder, decide. I had a literature professor when I was at Cambridge College in Boston who always said, “The reader writes the story.” And you have created a lovely poem where we can, even if we don’t know the book.
Jennifer,
This was just a great snapshot. I loved the recurrence of this image:
“Eating at her, her mouth open”
and how you reframed it when you revisited it.
Beautiful poem!
Jennifer, there’s so much layering here – what we might read into a girl without a curfew who has a no touching rule, the exploration of The Age of Innocence, and the unknown of the secret (their secret) and what that might be. Of course, the symbolism of the mouth open and its connection to eating leaves this all the more intriguing!
Jennifer,
I want to know more!! This is such a thought-provoking poem. A secret relationship has such appeal, doesn’t it? I wonder why she was “hopeless, hopeful”?
The dual reference to eating/eating at her, her mouth open really ups the appeal.
Jennifer, the illicit feeling is palpable throughout – especially with the Age of Innocence allusions. Powerful and enthralling poem!
Susan, your poem brings back the memories of my childhood friendships, along with ABC After School specials, Half Pint, and Shaun Cassidy (it’s been so long since I thought on any of this). Thinking about the items circling a friendship rather than the person is interesting. I’m wondering how many people we really do this with.
FRiEndSHip
something happens
between the beginning of a beautiful friendship
and its end
FriENDship
Jennifer- love this play on friendship and your discovery of the words within. What does happen in between?
Wow, Jennifer, this is brilliant! How precise and wise it is to find the “End” happening “between the beginning of a beautiful friendship and its end.” Thank you!
Jennifer, your capitalization of the letters from fresh to end is such a clever way to use a visual technique in your poem. I love what you’ve done here. And I do wonder, have wondered also, what happens from beginning to where the end or the distance occurs. You raise an interesting pondering thought today.
Jennifer,
I loved the words that crouched within your poem, framing it and enriching the meaning; clever. 🙂
Jennifer,
Just perfect, this short poem using the letters and shift keys to craft the story of friendship from fresh to end. Love it.
Sarah
Jennifer,
Gosh, you nailed this in so few words! The “something happens” is just that! Something happens! I love this!
Jennifer,
How on earth did you think of this? So clever to see the words within the word. And the short lines between FRESH and END encapsulate a lot in few lines.
My husband and I were talking about how many people we share experiences with who really aren’t a lasting part of our lives.
Fresh at the beginning… the end, so clear. This is a fascinating encapsulation of what happens all too often with (once) beautiful friendships. Your clever caps and concise lines tell a mighty story, Jennifer!
Jennifer — Your mind went to the creative and deep zones today. I loved the playfulness with the words. And I particularly like your comment about the things that cycle around a friendship that bring it all into focus…maybe it sort of funnels us into the friendship…we see those things and then we find ourselves in the relationship.
Happy Sunday! Susie
Clever way to be truly poetic…capturing big ideas so concisely with carefully selected words and layout. Sad, too, that this encapsulates my poem today. The END….
Susan, what a great prompt! I’m enjoying some very rich journal time this morning. No poem yet. But, the memories are fabulous. Thank you.
Susan, thank you for a compelling post that invites us to step back in time and celebrate friendship – all that it was and all that it wasn’t. Your poem captures all those flashes of memories of childhood chums, right down to the lunchboxes. Just the other day, I was thinking about my own lunchbox (Snoopy’s doghouse, thermos was in the lid part that opened) and how I can still conjure the memory of the smell of that lunchbox and the feelings it brought, especially when there was pudding in there. Ooooh, and The Land of the Lost with Will and Holly and Dad and the Sleestacks that my brother always called the Slysticks. So many great memories – I was right there with you, me and my pals. My poem focuses on an adult friendship. The harder kind of severance.
Blind Ewe
so you’re holier.
new pastor said NO WOMEN
his blind sheep believed
not one stood with me
not one challenged his iron fist
not one saw the wolf
wife who rarely spoke
children white as untanned lambs
always in the house
I took a firm stand
when I saw the truth. I left
that mutton pasture
one by one others
did too, down to a dozen
“disciples” who stayed
brainwashed radicals
worshipping legalism
no grace, mercy, love
so you’re holier?
is that what you call yourself?
guess again, girlfriend.
Ewe blind
Kim,
Powerful, brilliant poem. Love the short lines, the clipped structure that emphasizes the cutting off and rejection of the “new pastor.” Ugh, “no women.” This echoes the legalism and tradition that now divides the SBC. My favorite part is the title echoed and flipped in the final line that gives us that phenomenal play on words from “blind ewe” to “ewe blind.”
Kim-the title, the title flip at the end, the emotion, the word choice throughout. (Mutton pasture-wow) I felt the anger, the hurt—amazing.
These short, clipped lines give a rhythm to this poem that reflects your decision to stand up for yourself and not blindly follow someone you cannot and will not abide. It’s so hard when we leave behind friends in the process of honoring ourselves and our own beliefs.
Kim, your poem is strong. I understand how losing an adult friend is more painful; it’s the disappointment in someone who used to be close that is painful and chips one’s world. I admire your strength when you “took a firm stand” and “left mutton pasture.” I cannot imagine you in a place or among people who lack “grace, mercy, love.” Thank you for your words today!
Kim, love this series of haiku! The short and imagistic lines really give a punch to the tone and the sentiments…and that last one!
“so you’re holier?
is that what you call yourself?
guess again, girlfriend.
Loved it!
Kim, I’d be escaping that pasture too. Your word play here is so good and the twist from Blind Ewe to Ewe blind at the end even better! I can’t help but think of blind eye (since my hands kept wanting me to type this) and how this isn’t a blind eye turning situation. You’ve placed a biblical lesson right inside the symbolism of religion and that worshipping legalism! You nailed it.
Wow, Kim. This poem has tone! The Ewe and the sheep and the lambs all leading to the stand! The speaker’s voice is so strong and resolute — I want to be her with the strong voice saying “so you’re holier“/is that what you call yourself?/guess gain, girlfriend.” That’s the stuff of principles with just the right amount of sass!
Sarah
Kim, I love how you show the reason you needed to end this friendship. The uncomfortable feelings of being brainwashed by radicals is striking, but I love how you tie in the “lamb” imagery and end with “Ewe blind”. Wow! Sensational poem!
Kim,
Standing and clapping!!! Rich and vivid images come through along with all the emotions! You knocked this one out of the ballpark!
👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽
Oh, Kim, I’m so glad to read this poem today. What an extended metaphor you have created here. I love so much–“children white as untanned lambs”, “I left / that mutton pasture” and “Ewe blind”
Wow….your use of haiku is so very powerful!
A gut-punching haiku story, Kim, a cup running over with courage against legalism. How often I wonder about voices raised in judgment, which is not the calling; grace and mercy are. I feel the burn of anger, the ripping of heartstrings, but also the vindication in leaving that “mutton pasture.” Self-righteousness is not righteousness – how I LOVE LOVE LOVE your powerful word choices throughout, and none more than “Ewe blind.” It is the crown jewel of this haiku!
Oh my, Kim. That title and opening:
I hear your hurt and anger and disgust. Absolutely love the interchanging of you and ewe.
Kim,
Your poems continue to amaze me in their structure, their sound, their meaning. The way you succinctly address this scary situation makes it all the more powerful. And, the use of the sheep and wolf allusion really works, especially with how you flip the title and ending. So good. I fear for these people, btw.
Oh, Kim — This is terrific! I love the voice…it is so on-target, so strong. I so admire that you “saw the truth” and acted on that. Measuring “hold[ness]” really is something I understand… makes me shake my head and the “blind[ness]” that’s out there. Terrific poem! Susie
The first song I ever shared
with anyone was the song
shared with Murph –
my best friend
from childhood
from the old
apartment turf –
a drummer
with impeccable time
to compliment my rhyme,
and when we were teens,
we got down to work:
setting up microphones,
and a borrowed Tascam
four-track recorder,
spending hours like a puzzle
putting down sounds
in just the right order
And now? I don’t know,
we lost track in the years;
I moved into writing and
then into teaching,
and he started a studio,
or so I hear
But his beat still provides me
with sonic echos of the past,
reverberations of Murph
and memories that last
Kevin
I love this. There is a wistfulness in the question, “And now?” for me. The last stanza, “But his beat still provides me…” is a tribute. Just wonderful.
Kevin, the beat goes on – still echoing in your own mind, still warm memories of friendship rhythms. I like this nod to Murph today.
Kevin—what a lovely memory. I can almost hear the music- I certainly feel the nostalgia.—reverberations and memories that last. I’m glad you and Murph found each other…
It’s inevitable that we lose friends along our path, by distance, choices, time. You honor those beginning days of your love of music in this poem.
Thank you for sharing, Kevin! I especially like the ending because while your ways parted, you keep “memories that last ” It’s important and beautiful.
Kevin, You triggered similar memories for me. Getting together with feathered hair, tube socks, our K-mart boom boxes, and making music in my dad’s garage. I know my best friend from the time has the cassettes we made. We’ve never lost touch…we both teach…I know this is luck.
I love this term and it left me wondering, wondering, wondering.
I have a box of old Tascam Master Tapes that are prob worthless in terms of audio fidelity but priceless in terms of the memories they evoke.
Apartment reference: we grew up in same apartment complex, the lower middle class/struggling families in a wealthy town (You prob know Cheshire). So I was trying to connect myself back to that place.
Kevin, loved the rhythm and the rhyme of this that flowed so beautifully. A sweet, fond recollection of Murph!
Kevin,
Thank you for sharing some of your beginnings of music with Murph. I really like these lines
I think every friendship creates a transformative beat for us on our path to becoming, and this poem honors Murph’s.
Sarah
Kevin,
There’s a soft missing here in your memories of Murph. I find the metaphor here just perfect for the musical relationship you two shared:
What a nice memory of Murph. Shared experiences are typically the basis of our friendships, and I know I found that it was more about those than the person. I think the rhyme you employ in the last stanza makes those lines especially powerful.
“sonic echoes of the past
. . .
and memories that last”
with Murph and his skill sandwiched between those rhyming lines.
Thanks for sharing this beauty, Kevin.
Kevin– I liked learning about this early part of your life and your music. I’d say Murph is definitely still part of you and your talent with words and music. Susie