If you are looking for a supportive community, you’ve come to the right place. We are gathering daily this April — no sign-ups, no fees, no commitments–to practice writing and share poetry writing ideas for our classrooms. Come and go as you please. Enjoy. (Learn more here.)
Our Host: Darius Phelps
Darius Phelps is a PhD Candidate at Teachers College, Columbia University, Anaphora Arts Fellow, and 2023 Recipient of the NCTE Early Career Educator of Color Award. He is the Assistant Director of Programs under The Center for Publishing, Writing & Media (PWM) department at NYU. An educator, poet, spoken word artist, and activist, Darius writes poems about grief, liberation, emancipation, reflection through the lens of a teacher of color and experiencing Black boy joy. He serves as Poetry co- editor for Matter and an Associate Editor for Tupelo Quarterly. His work and poems have appeared in the School Library Journal, NY English Record, NCTE English Journal, English Quarterly, Pearl Press Magazine, ëëN Magazine, and many more. Recently, he was featured on WCBS and highlighted the importance of Black male educators in the classroom
Inspiration
This poem is in conversation with Kyle Liang’s Good Son, a collection that has stayed with me, not just in its language, but in its weight, its hunger, its ache. Kyle is one of my biggest inspirations on my poetic journey, where often we have found ourselves in conversation—weaving our voices through themes of family, inheritance, and the quiet, complicated ways love shows up. His work has taught me to pay attention to the things left unsaid, the lessons buried in a mother’s hands, a father’s silence, the rituals of survival we inherit without question.
In Good Son, Kyle captures the delicate balance between belonging and distance, between holding on and letting go. His lines remind me that lineage is not just about blood—it’s about what lingers, what clings to bone, what we are taught to swallow whole. That tension found its way into my response poem, where the act of eating becomes more than just sustenance; it becomes an inheritance, a performance of understanding, a quiet offering of love.
Kyle and I have, during our time in community, challenged each other to write deeper, to peel back the layers of our stories, to embrace the discomfort that comes with writing truth. This poem is as much a reflection of that bond as it is a response to the work that first brought us together. It is a meditation on hunger—on what we take in, what we resist, and what it means to be someone’s child, searching for a way to belong.
Kyle’s Poem:
GOOD SON
You’ll wind up housing a skeleton of fish
in your stomach if you don’t slow down
she preaches from beside her teeth-cleaned bones.
And I’ll be the one who must remove them.
I watch her spit what can’t be eaten,
which isn’t much. I try to recreate the motion
of her cheeks and lips, deconstruct the instinct
of finding food as if I’ve gone hungry before
too. A pair of my checkered underwear hanging
outside fights the wind. As if I need reminding,
she tells me to drink the soup she made.
Like a good son, I don’t hesitate to sip
loudly, searching the bottom of the bowl for more
gǒu qǐ zi. She isn’t looking, so I sip louder.
The pile of bones in front of me hopelessly small—
flesh still clinging to the carcass, unwilling to be gnawed off
by my American mouth. I wonder how much
I’ve even swallowed. My mother opens her throat
again, whiplashes of wind surround the house,
summoning all things in its direction.
Darius’ Poem
What I Cannot Swallow
She says my stomach is not built for waste,
but I have been fed silence,
learned to chew around the things
that lodge themselves in my throat.
I watch her—bones clean,
instinct stitched into her hands,
her knowing, older than hunger itself.
She tells me to drink. I do.
My mother prays
when she thinks I am sleeping,
and I wonder if prayers sound the same
in every mother’s mouth—soft, desperate,
a lullaby for what cannot be undone.
I sip louder, as if volume
could replace knowing,
as if my mouth could rewrite the story
of who learned hunger first.
Outside, my battered denim jacket fights the wind,
like my mother’s voice against the walls,
like all the ways we carry their love—
in soup, in whispered pleas, in the quiet
offerings they hope we will accept.
The taste of gumbo lingers,
sweet at the back of my throat.
I do not tell her it is enough.
I let her think I am still hungry.
Process
This poem emerged from the tension between hunger and inheritance, between what is given and what is left unsaid. As I sat with the original poem, I kept returning to the image of bones—what is stripped clean, what is left behind, what we learn to take in. I thought about the ways we inherit not just habits but histories, about the quiet negotiations between survival and comfort.
Both the idea and reminder of my mother’s prayers stayed with me. The way she prayed when she thought I was sleeping, how love often arrives in forms we don’t always recognize—through soup, through command, through the unwavering persistence of care. That kind of love, weighty and complex, sits at the heart of this poem.
I found myself writing toward the space between knowing and longing. The speaker watching, mimicking, searching for proof of belonging. I wanted to capture that ache, the way something as simple as sipping louder can become an offering, a reaching. The wind, like a voice, threads through the poem, summoning memory, summoning a reckoning. As I wrote, I asked myself: What is it that I have been given, even when I did not ask for it? What stories, habits, prayers, and expectations have shaped the way I move through the world? How do I honor what remains while acknowledging what I must leave behind?
Your Turn
Write a poem that explores an inherited gesture, belief, or ritual—something passed down from a parent, grandparent, or elder in your life. Maybe it’s the way they prepare a meal, fold clothes, or speak to the sky when they think no one is listening. Maybe it’s a lesson you resisted, only to find yourself living it years later.
Start with an image, something tangible: a bowl, a song, a pair of hands. Let that object carry the weight of history. Use sensory details (taste, sound, touch) to ground the reader in the moment. If there’s tension, lean into it. If there’s love, let it bloom in the smallest of actions.
Inheritance
My daddy sings.
the notes emanate from every pore
each muscle a taut guitar string
vibrating with every movement.
Our eyes are closed
Our breath is deep
His fingers brush our hair
He thinks we are asleep
as he tells us we are sunshine
and on his shoulders
we make him happy.
My mama cooks.
the ingredients materialize
out of nothing from nowhere
melding together with salt, fat, acid, and heat
Our tummies growl
Our hunger is rife
Her fingers graze our hands
She thinks we are life
and she tells us we are worthy
and prays that she can
nourish our bodies.
My Papaw works.
My Mamaw sews.
My Grandpa works.
My Grandma gambles.
Together
across place
across time
they sing the songs
they cook the meals
they walk the fields
they risk it all
my inheritance.
this poem is dedicated to my mom, who i love so so so so so deeply. this one was cathartic to write.
i have my mother’s hands
trinkets
delicately and precisely placed
on wooden shelves,
ordered, and ordered, and ordered,
until they are perfectly splayed,
small in the front, big in the back,
christmas, halloween, holidays,
all spread across the cracking wood,
fingers dancing with frail agility.
i have my mother’s hands.
pot filled to the brim with noodles,
butter, milk, cheese,
rising, and rising, to the boil,
the aroma of family swirling through
my tiny kitchen.
i had never boiled water before,
but she told me to
twirl the spoon and
wait for the bubbles.
i have my mother’s hands.
sweat pooling on my palms,
shaking, shivering in the winter air
pushing in on me,
shoved in pockets,
clenched in fists,
energy racing and racing and racing
through my body until they erupt in my palms
like the simmering water,
up, and up, and up,
exploding–
i have my mother’s hands.
wrapped around flowers,
or my girlfriend or boyfriend or best friend’s fingers,
skin that burns, that cools
that heals, that fuels,
ignites with the fire that spins
instead of the flame that singes my mind–
the overwhelming feeling of love.
becuase i have my mother’s hands.
i have hands that cook, and clean, and, mend.
i have hands that shake, and clench, and bend.
i have hands that have healed themselves as they’re falling apart.
i have hands that have ripped things to parts only to gently, delicately,
piece them back together.
because when you inherit anxiety, you inherit more than hands.
you inherit love for your mother who is doing the best she can,
who’s kind,
and smart,
and supportive,
and hugs you like she’s hugging the world,
holds your fingers as if they’ll disintegrate into dust.
i have my mother’s hands, and i never want to let them go.
“because when you inherit anxiety/ you inherit more than hands.” and “i have my mother’s hands, and i never want to let them go.” — whew, this is so poignant and powerful. Thank you for being vulnerable and sharing your truth.
Biscuits
in her morning chair
between stone fireplace and cracked
window, grandma as
rapunzel lets down
silver hair—long brush strokes part
and lift and shine while
drunken dawn tilts the
world into light—fingers slink
from lazy darkness
to rise with each sweep
of brush to hair—the sun prince
climbs silver ladder
after waking the
sun, she stands barefoot—at the
glass to greet the day
kitchen duties call
she feeds the stove stick and stalk
waking fire to heat
water for bitter
black coffee—she mixes flour,
fresh milk, brown eggs, salt
in the cracked blue bowl
mix-turn-tilt-squish-mix—squeezing,
oozing the mix through
strong fingers—choking
dough into a round, black pan—
feeds the pan to the
now hot wood stove
soon the warm smell of baking
will tease my dreams and
pull me from the warm
quilt-covered, iron-framed feather bed
to brave the rugless
wood floor to crack the
ice on the water bucket
to wash-splash my face
to pull up my chair
to the long plank table—to
drink down a mason
jar of thick cold milk,
to kick and swing my feet—bare
like hers—against the chair
she knows the drawing
power of fresh baked biscuits—
hot from the belly
of the big black stove—
slathered with homemade butter,
huckleberry jam
or thick cane syrup—
with grits and redeye gravy,
fried eggs and fatback
these things call forth the
family—barefoot to the
table—she greets them
I read this and was back in the hush of morning, where memory and ritual blur into something holy. Where her hair wasn’t just hair—it was a psalm, unwinding in silver threads, each brushstroke a benediction.
Where fire wasn’t just heat—it was resurrection, flickering beneath calloused hands that knew how to turn hunger into hymn.
And those biscuits—Lord.
Not just food but an altar.
A way to summon us barefoot and blinking,
still dreaming of stories we hadn’t yet lived.
I’m caught in the way this piece climbs—like light, like love—
from sleep into scent, from solitude into shared space.
From the cracked bowl to the long plank table—
she fed more than our bellies.
She fed our becoming.
This is a love poem dressed in flour.
This is the theology of grandmothers.
& I feel seen in it. Held.
Thank you for this.
a love with fairness and sacrifice
giving and taking, in equal exchange
I saw it every single day
in ways that I could easily understand
I wanted to emulate it
embody a love shared between two
which is willingly shared among a body of many
shared through the soft plucks of a pianists hands
and through the loud clacks of a photographers camera
You shared your love
in ways that I could easily understand
by touch and by sound
by smell and by taste
but, I saw it every single day
So, dear Mother and Father
I emulated it
Such a beautiful tribute to your mom and dad, and their beautiful example – that opening line says it all: “A love in fairness and sacrifice.” Love being a selfless act, ultimately.
Carson, this is a beautifully written tribute. “a love with fairness and sacrifice” a great hook.
This is a hymn of love to your parents, Carson.
I like all the ways you notice it :
“by touch and by sound
by smell and by taste
but, I saw it every single day.”
Beautiful!
great poem Carson. I really liked the pianists hands and photographers camera. it really captures to what I’m assuming are aspects of your parents.
So, dear Mother and Father/ I emulated it
Ugh, those last two lines left me breathless! I love this and felt every word, every stanza in my veins. Thank you for being both vulnerable and brave with sharing your truth,
This is such a gorgeous poem! I love how much emotion you encapsulate within it, i especially love the line “shared through the soft plucks of a pianists hands/and through the loud clacks of a photgraphers camera” !! So vivid!
i will cut you–
it’s something i’ve been
working on;
keeping the blade
sheathed
it’s a family practice
learned at crowded
dinner tables
or when bills gathered
at months end
and cast long shadows
there was a sharpening stone
or a fine leather strop
in every dark corner
of the house
where tongues were whetted
to a razor’s edge
and quick
like snapping turtles
the mean could flash and cut
through soft tissue and
nick the bone…
sticks and stones can break
but words devastate
root in memories
and grow tendrils
like weeds that
choke
so allow me
the silences
as i pull my hand
back from my rapier’s
wit,
some things are best left
unsaid.
Darius, I am fairly awestruck by both the mentor poem that you shared and your own poem, especially taking them in conversation with one another. This is such a thoughtful prompt, inviting us to remember the things that we carry with us from our formative years. I promise I have many happy memories to share, but something compelled me to explore a less happy, carefree series of thoughts today and I leaned into it!
Dave,
”I will cut you” foreshadows what follows as cutting goes from the innocuous act at a table to the cutting words. I know both the temptation to cut in these ways and the experience of receiving such cutting. Prompts like today’s bring out the idyllic childhoods many among us experience, something I did not have. You capture it in this line:
“sticks and stones can break
but words devastate”
Ain’t thst the truth.
Dave – that opening line is so alarming! It sets the stage for what is to come, the longterm wounds of words, even when empathetically balanced with understanding factors like “bills gathered at month’s end.” In thinking about DNA & inherited traits, maybe impatience/quick-tempers can partly be attributed to it…however, much is learned behavior. Nurture vs. nature. It takes true self-awareness (so lacking in the world today-?) and sometimes Herculean effort to sheath the blade. DNA cannot be denied…but patterns CAN be disrupted. Thank heaven! Your poem offers evidence and hope. Like you, I am also “awestruck” by the mentor poems.
Dave — From the opening line to the end, this is compelling and poignant. The structure of chunking those images pulled me from one to the next as if I were feeling each cut and could not look away. Dang, you are a word master, an image jefe.
“keeping the blade sheathed”… yes! Not easy to do when you have the capacity… but have and hold that knife from its brutal purpose. The “sharpening stone “ and “tongues … whetted” and “nick the bone”… holy smokes, this is so visceral. So real. This rings so real for me. The beauty here is that you keep that blade for a killer poem and use your words to make things razor clear, and you know how much power that is instead of slicing those you actually love to ribbons. Thank you for sharing this corner of your mind. Susie
Mic drop poem, Dave. ‘Nuff said.
Dave,
Please don’t apologize for where the poem took you. That’s the sacred work. That’s the marrow.There’s something so arresting in your lines—like the blade itself, it glints. Cuts quick. But not without purpose. You carry the tension between silence and survival with such clarity here, and I felt it in my chest: the weight of words unsaid, the inheritance of sharp tongues, the echoes of dinner tables where peace was never promised.
The image of “tongues whetted to a razor’s edge” stopped me. So much history folded into that one line. The way language becomes armor. The way silence becomes refuge. You name the kind of hurt that lingers—tendrils that choke—but you also model restraint. That final gesture, of pulling back, of choosing quiet over cruelty… it’s tender. It’s powerful.
This poem doesn’t just speak. It listens. It breathes. It bears witness.
Thank you for trusting us with this moment. I’m honored to read it—and to feel less alone in the remembering. Much love and appreciation!
Darius – Thank you for this prompt. Family, food, nourishment is something I have been thinking about the last month and a half. It’s been a long hard day (a long hard winter) – but I finally got around to posting.
Nourishment
You showed your love
by making food:
pasta and sauce,
sesame cookies,
intricate fruit plates.
I grew up thinking
food was love,
and it was.
But I wanted more
than spaghetti.
I wanted more than
roast beef and turkey,
more than risotto
and Parmesan sauce,
I wanted your approval
I learned to write poems,
I learned to cook well,
I sampled and tasted
everything exotic,
but did not find your love.
You were not capable,
You were not equipped
to love one so sweet
and kind and forgiving
as your youngest daughter.
Joanne – you know that I know the pain behind your words. I get the sense of trying to gain approval by appreciating foods your father loved and prepared, and in replicating them – as well as the great longing for his love and approval. We do not expect there to be a brokenness in our parents, a barometer that’s faulty, so that they cannot function as a parent should. But you know and I know it happens, and that it can be beyond our ability to fix. Here in your lines I find simple, poignant acceptance – “You were not capable/You were not equipped” – and I so understand it. This knowledge does help some of the edge off of the loss of, if not the longing for, approval, love, and relationship. Brave poem, friend. Peace to you, and peace to him, now beyond the reach of whatever hindered him from giving you what you needed.
Joanne, your poem tells a story. Shares so much in one poem. These lines held me, ” I grew up thinking/ food was love”. The innocence in the poem shares a sad but true story. It made me think about how parenting is many. When what we give is not what is needed. Thanks for sharing this delicate poem.
Joanne, wow. The title “Nourishment” is ironic, such good nourishing food, but it didn’t nourish you. With each stanza, the progression continues of the disappointment and resignation: “I wanted more than”, “I wanted your approval”, “did not find your love” “You were not capable…” Such a powerful and honest poem.
Book pages turn, new worlds emerge
As authors we create worlds
Shape the character’s path
Will you get lost in the eyes
Of a stranger? Or embrace a call
Find courage in the face of danger?
So many stories wait for you
Please keep writing-keep going
Sometimes paperbacks don’t last
They weaken over time, the spine breaks
The pages may tear and loose leafs fall
Then you take what you learned
Maybe reuse and create art from the piece
Or perhaps give it new life by letting it go
A hardback is only for the great loves
The one’s who will watch over you from their shelves
When taken through a storm, don’t worry
The hardback protects the pages and stories within
When the thunder strikes and the rain pelts
The dust cover will wipe down, it’s strong enough
Those hardbacks–they last for years
They’re worth reading again and again
Your one and true loyal friend
Ashley,
Wow! This is such a great metaphor that you stretch and pull through this poem. I love the concept of the paperbacks and the falling pages that can be reused and made into something new. What a great way to express the experiences and connections that we make that, while temporary, still help to make us who we are!
Ashley, I love the images you give for the paperbacks, “they weaken over time, the spine breaks” and the strength of the hardback in the storms “it’s strong enough” and the importance, “A hardback is only for the great loves” Such powerful images of more than books.
I am in awe of this prompt and these poems. I sat with this all day. Here is the first draft of what I am still working out.
For Mam
if I let it be imagined
lye lingers light as motes
in the thickening Texas dust
a bowl is laid on the unclean table
soft thinning fingers
thick hot bean soup
later an empty bowl of dust
and now I swallow each bite
of box made cornbread
choke on all that went unsaid
I long for our usual beans
Jiffy cornbread
and if there was time
fried potatoes draining on paper towels
and if now there was time
I would offer you more clean-licked bowls
somehow
Kasey,
Your poem has a devastating beauty to it. Loss and longing are so palpable in this. The imagery of empty bowls and thick dust and past meals create a sense of space and a void that longs to be filled.
This is the stanza that really grabs me and won’t let go:
Oh, Kasey, this is a beautiful offering. I love that you have put so much thought and heart into this draft, and you are still working on it. The sparseness of the words on the page remind me of the sparse meal shared in the dusty land. And that last stanza, especially the last line, “somehow” adds so much to the story and yet keeps it mysterious.
Kasey this is a great poem. I’m in love with your last line, or I guess last word. “somehow” it hits like a punch. fantastic work.
Darius, hello! Thank you for pushing me in a new direction today. I adore these lines from your poem and instantly wondered if there is a book of mother’s prayers somewhere.
And gumbo just happens to be on my top 5 favorite foods. Love all the stories that can come from your prompt today.
Passed Down
a Herbert Tareyton filterless cigarette
poised between two wrinkled fingers
her other hand guided
the old wooden spoon
through holiday oatmeal cookie dough
a Silva Thins cigarette
resting between thin lips
wine and a red ballpoint pen
in her other hand
rollbook to mark on her lap
Benson & Hedges menthol lights
opened, hiding in my dresser drawer
pink and purple flair pens
hooked on my notebook cover labeled “PRIVATE”
and cradled in my arm
two generations of maternal lessons
on love and bad choices
no more smoking but
I write and teach
I bake and ask my Nana
to anoint my wooden spoon
© Stacey L. Joy, 4/8/25
I love this tribute to love and its addictions and triumphs. Thank you for sharing.
I like your poignant and evocative poem exploring the generational traits from grandmother, to mother, to a speaker. It is interesting to see “bad” choices along with the nurturing ones. The speaker seems to break the cycle:
“no more smoking but
I write and teach
I bake and ask my Nana
to anoint my wooden spoon.”
You do great things, Stacey Joy!
Oh, those generational traits! I love your last stanza, especially your last two lines.
Stacey,
This poem evokes my own childhood where cigarettes were a fixture in our household. I avoided that generational curse, others not so much, but I also learned some wonderful lessons that were simultaneously passed down from those smokers and drinkers and perfectly flawed people who raised me. I love how your poem looks straight into those complexities.
Stacey,
You paint such a clear picture of smoking, especially in the Silva Thins section, which reminded me of some mentors I admired, especially the department head responsible for my hiring on my first job. It’s hard to imagine you smoking. My mom smoked until I was in college. She quit, gained ten pounds, and called me to ask if she should start smoking again. My mom was a size five and tiny. Thanks for a poem that evokes so many memories for me and offers a surprise about you. I love it.
Stacey, wow, the three generations of cigarette brands made me smile. That you remember them and start each paragraph with them, shows the power of the lesson. I’m glad you were able to give them up! But you kept the important lessons of teaching and baking, and your maternal teachers remain with you. Lovely!
Stacey—wow.
First, thank you. Your words are a gift, and the way you received mine, with such tenderness and curiosity, means the world. Is there a book of mother’s prayers?—I think you just started one. Then “Passed Down”—goodness. This poem sings and smolders at the same time. There’s so much texture here, so much life in the small, specific moments: the cigarettes, the spoons, the pens, the lap-marked rollbook. You draw lineage with smoke and ink, with scent and memory, and I was right there beside you. I could see her. Feel her.
That last stanza—“two generations of maternal lessons / on love and bad choices”—is devastating in the best way. Honest. Tender. You trace the ache and the inheritance with such grace. Whew, that final image—asking your Nana to anoint your spoon—stopped me. It’s sacred. It’s reclamation. It’s your own quiet prayer.
You carry their stories, and you’re shaping your own.This is what it means to write from the marrow. This is legacy work.
Thank you for letting me walk with you through it.
Thank you for the inspiration, your and Kyle’s poems, Darius. I like that you walked us through your writing process and asked yourself difficult questions. I am a bit late with my poem today, but here it goes.
I attached a picture to show you how our traditional Crimean Tatar chebureki look like.
Of Bread and Belonging
Mom sang
as if no worry could touch her—
her voice rising with the dough
she kneaded into memory,
folding and pressing
until it softened beneath her palms,
ready to become more
than just bread.
We knew the steps by heart.
Two sisters rolled,
one tucked seasoned meat
into circles warm with flour.
Another sealed them
in a shape of half-moons.
The youngest arranged them
in neat rows on a board,
offering them to Dad,
keeper of the flame.
He dropped each one into oil,
watched them puff and crisp,
then broke the first
into ten small pieces.
“Try it,” he said,
passing the warmth
from hand to hand.
Chebureki meant celebration—
meat wrapped in memory,
bread that stretched
as far as only love could go.
When the last one sizzled,
we gathered—tea steaming,
compote sweet with summer fruit—
At the round table
our voices rose like steam—
laughter, family jokes,
the stories and troubles of the day.
It was that table that held us
through silence and laughter,
through what we shared
and what we couldn’t—
A home built of hands,
of bread, of belonging.
These moments – you’ve captured them so beautifully, Leilya. I can picture myself in your kitchen, with the warmth and the smells and the company and the love.
And I couldn’t help but connect to your lines “bread that stretched / as far as only love could go.” It reminded my of my grandmother, who would make apple strudel, stretching the dough across a table thinner, thinner, thinner until we could see through it. Food is love, and your poetry proves it.
What a beautiful poem and tradition and memory. I am at once hungry for food and the love that was shared. Such lovely imagery. This is exquisite.
Wow! You’ve captured so much in this poem, Leilya. I love how you started it with, “Mom sang.” The whole process is amazing and really shows your family relationships. It’s just lovely. And it sounds delicious, too!
Leiyla, you’ve done a wonderful job of capturing such a precious connection that surrounds community and food in ways that I can really connect with. I am immediately taken to 18 person family gatherings in a home far too small for 3 different generations to fit into all pitching in to make huge lasagna to feed all of us. The smells, the laughter, a shared family recipe. That is what is captured. Those moments are brought together around the goal to break bread together, and I really appreciate your poem.
Leilya,
This is another spectacular poem from you. I am learning so much from you about your life in Ukraine and the beautiful home and family who shared love and traditions. Thank you for taking us through each step and role of each family member. Your ending is a perfect distillation of tradition and family dynamic.
Oh, Leilya, this is what love is made of. I so loved reading about these meat pies. “meat wrapped in memory,” and “bread that stretched / as far as only love could go.” are such beautiful lines, and then the description of you all around the table belonging together and eating these confirms the words you said. Beautiful!
Baby Hogs
By Mo Daley 4/8/25
Somehow, she knew, even before I did,
that although I was just twenty-four,
I needed a break.
My infant son was a delight, but exhausting.
She encouraged me to sub in a morning bowling league,
of all things.
She would watch the baby.
I barely remember the people in the league
and certainly not my scores,
but I remember walking in her house one fall morning,
three hours after I dropped him off
in her arms
to find him in the exact same position
in her arms.
She whispered, “Take him, please.
He fell asleep and I couldn’t bear to move him,
but I really have to go to the bathroom.”
That day I laughed more at her than with her,
but now I wonder if my “Baby Hog” moniker
is my inheritance.
Of course, she knew, Mo! Moms know these things. I also think that most of us become “Baby Hogs” when we are grandmas. At least, I am. ))
This one hid behind a corner and tricked me! I love the “baby hog” reference in the title and in your poem. I certainly wasn’t expecting it, but you gave me a smile.
And oh! to remember those dazed, early times of parenthood. Babies are sweet, but I don’t think I’d go back to them, thank you very much…
Grandmas are “baby Hogs” for sure. I would stay up all night with my granddaughter in my arms rocking in the chair. It was the best moment.
Your poem shares a sweetness.
OMG, Mo, this is so cute and funny. I can imagine how she must have felt because we all know how the baby must not be awakened, especially while being watched by grandma! Too cute. I think being a “Baby Hog” is lovely.
Mo, I am really struck by your first three lines of this poem. As I sit here, I am in my 20’s and thinking about how life can only go up from here in terms of craziness. I know there is a lot I have yet to go through as I traverse adulthood, and when I think back to some of my hardest moments my mom was always there to help me or give me the right advice. This poem reminded me of the advice from my mom that I sometimes need to be selfish in order to take care of myself. Or sometimes I just need to seek some guidance from people like her and my dad. Thank you for helping me go through this reflection Mo.
Mo,
The thing about being a “baby hog” is it’s a gift to mom. Fun title and a surprising poem given the title. Great dialogue. I appreciate the humor tonight.
Oh, this is so precious. “Baby Hog” is a great moniker to own. I love the story you tell, and that you don’t identify who the person is who held your baby for three hours. I love this poem and the sweet details that make it so much better. A mentor of a poem of describing a moment to illustrate a larger truth.
Darius, It’s GREAT to see you here! Welcome aboard. And, to see the prompt for the day. Wow! A time for me to write about my sons. The younger, alas, has passed.
Together or Apart
Sons are the ones
Who make your heart thunder
As you pray and wonder
And watch the clock.
Will they get home on time
Will they slip in the back
Or smack the bell chime.
Will they have their key or knock?
Sons are the ones who bring you joy
Recalling the grown man who was once a little boy
Who learned to walk before table high
The first one to say family, “Good bye”
When he moved out of the house when he got “grown”.
Then, all too soon, he went to his home in the sky.
Sons are the ones whose love lingers on
Whether scrambling upstairs or calling on the phone
Whether up on stage, flipping or hip-hopping,
One was a gymnast and hot cheerleader
The other played ball, was a cool rep leader
Sons are the ones
Who make my heart thunder
Just to see them coming
Doing splits and flips or just humming.
Together or apart
It really doesn’t matter
They’ll always be stuck in my heart.
My older son is grown and out of the house, and yes. I completely can relate to the joy of spending time with him, adult to adult. You peg it just right: “Sons are the ones /Who make my heart thunder / Just to see them coming /Doing splits and flips or just humming.” You capture it so well!
Anna, hi! Your poem beginning reveals all the worries a mother can have about her child, son in your case. This line breaks my heart: “Then, all too soon, he went to his home in the sky.” Children shouldn’t go before parents do. I am so sorry for your loss. Your ending lines show your strong connection with your son whether you are “[t]ogether or apart.” Sending peace to your heart.
Anna, I love my son more than I ever could have imagined. He is exactly this:
You nailed the mother-son relationship in this beautiful poem.
Anna, this is my third poem I have resonated with this evening. I just want to say that yours has me wishing it wasn’t so late in the evening so I could call and talk to my mom. I am an eldest son, I gave my mom a ton of headaches and worries that she probably despises me for. But, your poem captures that essence of motherhood where love for your children shines through the things that worry you to death as a mother. You just want to make sure they come back to you in one piece, and I have felt that sentiment from my own mother often in my childhood. Thank you!
Anna,
as a preservice teacher I loved this poem in that it possesses something that I want to instill in my future students, emotion in writing. this is a great poem in that I can feel the emotion and that it invokes emotions in me the reader. I also love the repetition of “sons are the one who make my/your heart thunder” the changing of your to my is heart wrenching. Seriously great poem Anna.
Darius,
Thank you for your prompt and your beautiful poem. I loved all the beautiful images and especially this stanza — “my battered denim jacket fights the wind,
like my mother’s voice against the walls,
like all the ways we carry their love—
in soup, in whispered pleas, in the quiet
offerings they hope we will accept.
My poem took a less serious turn today.
Pepper Steak
This story begins with a meal,
The earthy scent, the pungent feel
Of peppers cooked with savory steak—
And then—revulsion!
You see, my five-year-old self knew dread
Each time those slimy greens were fed.
I couldn’t — just couldn’t
stomach the thought
of mushy green peppers
slip,
slip,
slipping
down my throat.
My situation was truly grim,
So I concocted a plan on a clever whim.
While my parents laughed, deep in chat,
I reached for a paper napkin.
No four legged friend to lend a paw,
No dog to chomp with eager jaw.
The swollen pepper filled napkin had to do instead,
But my parents, sharpened by years
Of hotdogs, coupons, and budget fears,
Believed no food should ever be tossed,
No veggie abandoned, no dinner lost.
Green-handed they caught me
And there was no where for me to flee
My father said, “You aren’t so clever.
You will sit and eat every last pepper!”
So I
choke
choke
choked
each green pepper down my throat.
This story began with a meal, you see—
And it ends with one… haunting me.
LOL, Tammi! “Green-handed they caught me” is such a great line! And I love the mirroring and contrasting of the “slip, / slip, / slipping / down [your] throat” with the “choke / choke / choked / each green pepper down [your] throat.” (Purely rhetorical question, but I wonder if you have changed your tune as you’ve grown older? I wonder if you eat green peppers now?)
Oh, Tammi, the rhyming in your story helps it unfold with some playfulness. I loved this. I can so relate. I was always the last one at the table when we had food I couldn’t stomach. I tried all the tricks too–the napkin, the four-legged friends, the excusing myself to the bathroom, so I could spit out at least a mouthful. “Green-handed” is hilarious!
Tammi, I enjoyed reading your poem! And yes, some meals were/are torturous. For you, it was green peppers, for me – anything pumpkin. This is a gem: “Green-handed they caught me.” I like the lighthearted tone in your poem, and the rhyming helped to keep nice pacing. Thank you for sharing!
Tammi, I didn’t think I was hungry till I read your poem. The memories of cooking together made me hunger for those days, but this the story got hot … not with food but with feelings. Well, good writing does that doesn’t it… It evokes sensory and emotional memories. Thans, I guess.
Tammi,
I was raised in the Clean Your Plate Club, too. It is no fun when faced with/ being forced to eat
“mushy green peppers
slip,
slip,
slipping
down my throat.”
as you eloquently put it. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to eat pepper steak again after reading this delightful poem. Love the rhyme and the cadence. Well done!
Expected
Work ethic
instilled at an early age
Good grades
bumped me up a grade
Resumes in mailboxes
Babysitter for Hire
Waiting tables at 6 a.m..
even after a late night out
Spring break
was an extra week of work
As soon as possible,
I was earning
An ethic to work
instilled so deep
I can’t seem
to do anything
Unexpected
Heather,
I can totally relate to your poem. My father is a CPA who owns his own practice. He is 78 and still working full time. For as long as I can remember all he has every done is work and I find myself falling into the same pattern. Always checking my email, always working. Work ethic is a good thing, as long as we don’t become workaholics!
Ooof that last stanza hits me. I feel the hustle culture here and how it was built. Thank you for sharing. And hoping you give yourself breaks and grace. We don’t have to earn rest. Thanks for sharing
Heather, it’s exhausting to have such work ethic, and I can relate. It seems all we do is work, work, work, run, run, and still catch up with things to do. “I can’t seem / to do anything / Unexpected” sounds like a life sentence. Thank you for sharing!
Hi Heather,
Whew, I am tired of working just from reading how hard you’ve worked! Kudos to you for being that worker bee that most parents want. I am just wondering if you are able to pause and take care of yourself as needed now. We all work too dang hard and for what…so that we can check boxes.
Take a break. Like my mom always said, “Rest your eyes.”
Thank you for sharing this, Heather.
Oh I see what you did there. This is so clever with the expected and then unexpected. You really have me thinking about this way of being that resonates with me.
Thank you for an inspiring prompt.
Biscuits
in her morning chair
between stone fireplace and cracked
window, granny as
rapunzel lets down
silver hair–long brush strokes part
and lift and shine while
drunken dawn tilts the
world into light–fingers slink
from lazy darkness
to rise with each sweep
of brush to hair–the sun prince
climbs silver ladder
after waking the
sun, she stands barefoot–at the
glass to greet the day
kitchen duties call
she feeds the stove stick and stalk
waking fire to heat
water for bitter
black coffee–she mixes flour,
fresh milk, brown eggs, salt
in the cracked blue bowl
mix-turn-tilt-squish-mix–squeezing,
oozing the mix through
strong fingers–choking
dough into a round, black pan–
feeds the pan to the
now hot wood stove and
soon the warm smell of baking
will tease my dreams and
pull me from the warm
quilt-draped, iron, feather bed
to brave the rugless
wood floor to crack the
ice on the water bucket,
to wash-splash my face,
to pull up my chair
to the long plank table–to
drink down a mason
jar of thick, cold milk,
to kick and swing my feed–bare
like hers–against the chair
she knows the drawing
power of fresh-baked biscuits–
hot from the belly
of the big black stove–
slathered with homemade butter,
huckleberry jam
or thick cane syrup–
with grits and redeye gravy,
fried eggs and fastback
these things call forth the
family–barefoot to the
table–she greets them
slipping
he walked so fast
down the shopping aisles
shuffle tap, shuffle tap, shuffle tap
never tarrying, no wasted time,
knowing exactly
what he was looking for
he’d be wearing his undershirt
and worn out khakis
(the ones that were
no longer uniform quality,
the ones he slipped on
when he got home from work
on Friday afternoon and lived in
for the rest of the weekend)
chewed cigar
between his thumb and forefinger
every now and again
drawing a big puff with
cloud of earthy smoke
to follow
(wild to think
everyone smoked back then,
in and out of stores)
somehow, it was always
Dad and I doing errands
running to drugstore or
picking up a gallon of milk
and those feet of his
oh my, they were the
height of embarrassment
I remember praying
I would not run into a classmate
shuffle tap, yes,
he’s in his house slippers
he was always in his house slippers
I’d keep several steps behind and
he’d be barking at me to keep up
many, many years later,
recently, really,
I rushed from the house
late to pick up my son
as I backed the car
down the driveway
my foot fumbled on the gas pedal
and I realized, whoops
I was still wearing
my house slippers
something
I was never going to do
ever
at least
I have never smoked a cigar
I can relate to the embarrassment and the smoking while I was growing up. I sometimes find myself doing some of the things my mom or dad did, except for the smoking. Thanks for the sounds and memories that came from your words.
Maureen — Oh my gosh, this is just a stitch. I loved the images of your dad… the shirt, the cigar, the slippers…the relaxed dad after work. And seeing you in the car with slipper, well, that’s perfect. Great poem! Susie
Maureen,
Love the image of you dragging behind your father in embarrassent. We’ve all been there and in the end, as much as we dread it, we all pick up some habits from our parents! LOL!
This builds to such a great ending! Love the humor and all the sweet deteil
along the way.
Maureen, after reading your poem, I laughed at the title you chose. Absolute perfection! This is so fun. The description of your childhood self with your dad’s slippers, and then adult you doing what you promised to never do. So funny! And those last two lines made me laugh again. So clever.
Maureen, this is such a vivid sketch of your Dad! I can “see” him “wearing his undershirt
and worn out khakis” and chewing that cigar. I, too, once left the house in slippers. Good think I wasn’t heading to campus. Lol.
This is such an excellent poem! I loved the details you used to describe your dad. Great poem!
Wow, what a prompt! What rich poetry as exemplars as well. I am struck by the richness of the language. I read them out loud multiple times.
As I was thinking about this prompt, I kept remembering waking up with Granny and watching her unroll her hair and brush it out before putting it up again. She would then go barefoot to the kitchen to make biscuits from scratch. So many of my cooking rituals are wrapped in memories of my Granny.
Biscuits
in her morning chair
between stone fireplace and cracked
window, grandma as
rapunzel lets down
silver hair—long brush strokes part
and lift and shine while
drunken dawn tilts the
world into light—fingers slink
from lazy darkness
to rise with each sweep
of brush to hair—the sun prince
climbs silver ladder
after waking the
sun, she stands barefoot—at the
glass to greet the day
kitchen duties call
she feeds the stove stick and stalk
waking fire to heat
water for bitter
black coffee—she mixes flour,
fresh milk, brown eggs, salt
in the cracked blue bowl
mix-turn-tilt-squish-mix—squeezing,
oozing the mix through
strong fingers—choking
dough into a round, black pan—
feeds the pan to the
now hot wood stove
soon the warm smell of baking
will tease my dreams and
pull me from the
the quilt-covered feather bed
to brave the rugless
wood floor to crack the
ice on the water bucket
to wash-splash my face
to pull up my chair
to the long plank table—to
drink down a mason
jar of thick cold milk,
to kick and swing my feet—bare
like hers—against the chair
she knows the drawing
power of fresh baked biscuits—
hot from the belly
of the big black stove—
slathered with homemade butter,
huckleberry jam
or thick cane syrup—
with grits and redeye gravy,
fried eggs and fastback
these things call forth the
family—barefoot by the
table—she greets them
AT WHAT COST
People got slapped around in my family,
some horsing and goofing was fun,
part of five siblings
tumbling, chasing, always on the run,
but where to draw the line
‘tween amusing
and bruising,
when is it abusing?
Piercing words, a sword
in the powerful hands,
with the wrong hand,
from an angry tongue,
and bitter seeds,
it lays waste to possibilities,
bends the will.
Learning to duck, dodge,
grow still, fade,
that’s more than a lesson
in resilience,
twisted prices paid.
The plus of being at the tail end
of too many sibs,
I was able to discern
what I did not want to do,
did not want to earn.
The specter of repeating itself,
physicality and snark,
a heavy load
to shake off that shroud
and leave
no lasting mark.
in a family where people get slapped around;
who takes the brunt,
what is lost,
who decides,
where’s the power,
what comes next,
at what cost?
by Susie Morice, April 8, 2025©
Susie,
You bookended this perfectly. I see that “people get slapped around as both a first impression and lasting impression. I’ve had to unlearn so much said under the guise of teasing, and I’m still working on it. Your poem reminds me these childhood experience last a lifetime.
Susie, oh your poem resonated with me today. Wow. I am overwhelmed with your closing stanza. It is provocative and brilliantly written. I loved your lines: “Learning to duck, dodge,
grow still, fade,
that’s more than a lesson
in resilience,”
I understand that “fade” and learning resilience. Oh boy! Hugs, friend!
Things definitely were harsher when I was growing up. Your ending question is powerful and makes me pause and think.
I admire the questions you ask here, the thoughtfulness – where is the line between abuse and good fun? I relate to your words in this stanza –
I wasn’t the youngest, but I was the only girl – that and some combination with my more introspective personality helped me keep back /away from a lot of the hurtful nonsense that was labeled ‘play’ and ‘harmless.’ The fact that we still think about it this many years later, I think is proof that it wasn’t so innocent. Great poem!
Susie,
I was the oldest of two, so I never have experienced what you describe. Your makes me think about family dynamics from a different perspective. Thank you for giving me a glimpse into your childhood.
Wow. Amusing bruising abusing. So powerful. Thank you for sharing this brave piece.
Sprinkling and Ironing: Two Loving Gifts
a cool spring breeze lifts
the lightweight kitchen curtain.
Mother irons
inside the humid kitchen
I remember helping her
sprinkling clothes
rolling them into balls
placing them inside a plastic bag that was
stuffed into the refrigerator.
at seven, learning how to press clothes
removing wrinkles, adding a crease
for a pant line
spitting on my finger
tapping it to the iron’s plate
its incredible weight
sizzling across the damp clothes—
embracing my mother’s loving smile
as warm as her iron
Barb Edler
8 April 2025
Barb,
This poem honors those really hard tasks women do to little fanfare. I love the way you treat each thing your mother did w/ tenderness: “tapping the finger,” “sprinkling clothes,” every detail is perfect right down to the spring breeze blowing this memory to you and to us. You make ironing sound pleasurable, and it’s not.
You awakened so many senses in this poem. I love the simile at the end.
BARB — Oh, the “loving smile’as warm as her iron”…gorgeous ending. The details of the ironing experience…omgosh, I was right there…same darned stuff (almost — we didn’t put ’em in the fridge). The breeze in the kitchen window, lifting those billowy curtains…aaah… It’s amazing, isn’t it, how we can be hundres of miles apart and live in each other’s experiences. Maybe we made it through all the craziness BECAUSE our DNA was somehow mixing in the cosmos and BOOM, here we are. LOL! Okay…I’m nuts, I know. Loved how your poem resonated with me. Hugs, Susie
That hard task could easily have gone the other way, been a memory that made you burn inside…I love your sweet conclusion,
There is such tenderness in these words. You loved being alongside her for this hard work. Very sweet poem.
Barb, the finger on the iron to test the readiness with a sizzle is something I remember my grandmother doing too. She ironed during As the World Turns…..and when I saw the spinning globe, I knew it was nap time. So many memories just from the iron.
Barb — I love all the details –“sprinkling clothes/ rolling them into balls, spitting on my finger/tapping it to the iron’s plate”
What beautiful and warm memories!
Oh, Barb, your warm memory of this event is precious. It seems too much for a seven-year-old, and yet you took it in stride, helping the family. The sensory details of touching the iron with a wet finger, the humid kitchen, and especially “my mother’s loving smile” are beautiful.
Barb, such a fitting title of your poem! I like how you narrated this ironing scene and things you had to learn as a 7-year-old under the loving mother’s watch. Beautiful!
Ohhh, how I love freshly ironed clothes. It amazes me how so many children’s parents don’t iron clothes anymore. We had promotion photos today and I saw the most wrinkled nonsense ever!! What has happened to the world?
Yes, I am a fan of the crease!
Little seven year-old Barb was just too adorable.
Barb, I felt I was in there in the moment, with the breeze lifting the curtain, testing their iron, hearing the sizzle and even smelling the heated fabric…I used to iron my father’s blue uniform shirts for work. I did that alone, however; what captures my heart in this scene you’ve brought to life for us is the love in the act of caring for family, and in the mother-daughter relationship. It is real and alive. So beautiful.
Here’s a Quarter
First, mid-liturgy, he reaches deep
into his trousers for a handful of
change. He passes nickles and dimes,
a few quarters from the oldest to
the youngest.
Somehow I manage to grasp the
twenty-five cent-er. I palm it,
imagining a candy bar at Budny’s
though I’d need another cent for tax.
The collectors are making their way
down the pews. No passing the hat,
they have a pole the size for cleaning
pools with a basket that nearly
scratches our noses, waiting for coin.
I wonder if I can pretend, if I can hold
on just as the basket jingles to seem as
if, as if I donating this no-so-spare change,
and then sister leans over to remind me
it’s the first Sunday, so there will be
donuts in the rectory, and so I let it go.
Sarah, your poem drew me completely into your memory, the longing to have a little money to buy a treat. To get the twenty-five cents must have been thrilling, and I love how your sister knows exactly what you’re thinking. The focus on your actions and thought is striking. It resonated so strongly for me and brought several church offering memories to my mind. Loved it!
Sarah — You have so loaded the sensory details, the movements, the pole coming to summon your beloved coin (dang!). I’m sorry you gave up the coin but happy for the donuts! LOL! Great poem, truly vivid and real, as would make sense in a church where being quiet and watching every single move is the theater of it all for a kid. Cool! Hugs, Susie. PS Were the donuts good?
Sarah, you tickle me with the “stories” that ring so true so often. Should we do the right thing … for us or for whom! Love the poem about the temptation to hoard, and the reason not being what one would think. But, what knows because one has done it!
Oh, Sarah, I felt that temptation to keep the change! You built up the tension so expertly and then the ending was just perfect! Thank you for sharing this memory.
Not my fond ones, but I do have a lot of memories from church. We had a basket to pass ourselves, not the pool cleaning net you describe which made me laugh. Thanks for sharing this relatable imagery.
Oh, Sarah, did your sister know the conflict going on in your sweet soul that morning? This is such an amazing story, one I can relate to because I know I would have been thinking the same exact thing. The “not-so-spare change” is a great way to describe the value of what you had in your hand. A powerful poem of this experience.
Darius, thank you for sharing Kyle Liang with us and your poem about your mother and gumbo and enough. You’ve encapsulated a quiet moment with beauty allowing us to see you two.
Words
never ask a question that will cause your child to lie to you
his words fall along side me
shedding his wisdom
but why now?
when I’m never met with more than elementary school transgressions
together we stand beside the dining room table
my shoulder nearly reaching his
and I think back to another such moment
at the table in a different home
papers spread out before us
no one will hire you for a job you can’t do
I’m only a few months out of college
days before we are off to DC where I will begin the next leg of my journey
Dad, know your words are held close, even now as you rest beyond my reach
Oh, this turn toward Dad made me gasp. The naming so personal and yet a collective name that made me yearn for my own. Thank you for these scenes.
Jamie, your ending is so poignant. I feel tears spring to my eyes. Are we ever really prepared to teach? I find your father’s advice particularly provocative. I will ponder that for some time. Gorgeous poem! Thank you!
“know your words are held close,” – isn’t it wild how we sift through these words all our lives?
Oh this last line touched my heart. I love how you quote your dad as the lessons and memories you carry on. Special. Thanks for sharing.
He would take off his navy blue stocking cap that he wore outside (and usually inside) all winter, except that he was increasingly more and more self-conscious of his receding hairline
he was a little warm today
walking down the sidewalk, attempting to travel under the shade of the paltry trees
as much as possible without appearing shady by not walking in a straight line
the air was still filled with an early spring chill
the cloudless sky welcomed the bright sun’s rays with the end result of his forehead, eyebrows, and behind his ears beginning to perspire
his baldness grew and grew every day
as if his hairline was a battalion of retreating soldiers, defeated, having lost the battle of the top of his noggin
and how unfair! Only 26 years old! A man should not be going bald at an age before he could ever imagine his father even existing
a mild annoyance yet nonetheless something he would have to return to someday after kicking the can down the road a bit for now
It was inevitable
his hat-wearing couldn’t continue much longer
his current state of baldness was about ready for its social debut
Or could he wear his hat all summer long? All year long?
Well, no.
But maybe he could switch it up to something like a ball cap or a fedora?
As he was contemplating his lacking follicles he surprised himself by quickly checking his left pocket
his daydreaming prevented him from fully paying attention to his exact coordinates
another mild annoyance
it was not there
he was sure he had put it in his jeans right before he left his apartment
or was it still in his zippered jacket pocket?
Ugh, 26?!
His friends sometimes joked when they were playing cards and teased him for his inattention to detail and forgetfulness
but wasn’t short-term memory something that declined in advanced age? Not the unadvanced age of 26?
he was beginning to be even more upset with himself, thinking that normally he would have been wearing that same jacket that he must have left that faded, old junk in
but as he put on his unflattering, ill-fitting, white, Hanes crew neck tee shirt this morning, he decided to wear that red and black, long sleeve, button-down flannel shirt over his tee instead of his go-to jacket
he was too tired to start a load of laundry when he got home last night
his wardrobe choices now seemed to snowball into more and more of a problem
how many other dudes, he wondered, let this many body insecurities dictate their daily comings and goings? Wasn’t that more broadly a female concern?
“I hate my father” kept rolling around every other thought in his head
Luke, I was struck by the formatting here, by the his and he and the questions with short and longer lines, making my eyes draw down and my heart draw out toward the quoted words at the end. And end that makes me think this could go on, and will.
Luke, I’ve read your poem a few times gathering clues. Loss of hair and memory(?), and then your final line linking his father to his condition. You have created a portrait of this 26 year old, who for some reason I imagine is your brother. I wonder about his other body insecurities. I love the illusive nature of the portrait you created.
Jamie
Luke, your poem is rich with sensory detail, and I love the way you show the poet’s voice and final thoughts. The uncomfortable feelings are striking and the motivation clear throughout this narrative poem. Hair loss is definitely a concern for both genders. Loved the question “could he wear his hat all summer long? All year long?”
All of the men in my life are “follicly-challenged” and I enjoyed your poem very much. Love especially the phrase “under the shade of the paltry trees” – that adjective ‘paltry’ made me feel the hot sun!
Darius, Wow, what a prompt and what two amazing poems as inspiration. I so appreciate the richness of the word choice in both. Wow. I read them both aloud several times and got lost in the language.
For me, my focus is on my grandmother and food. I have so many memories of her standing barefoot in her kitchen cooking. My days with her began watching her take down her hair and brush it out and then move to the kitchen to make biscuits.
Biscuits
in her morning chair
between stone fireplace and cracked
window, grandma as
rapunzel lets down
silver hair—long brush strokes part
and lift and shine while
drunken dawn tilts the
world into light—fingers slink
from lazy darkness
to rise with each sweep
of brush to hair—the sun prince
climbs silver ladder
after waking the
sun, she stands barefoot—at the
glass to greet the day
kitchen duties call
she feeds the stove stick and stalk
waking fire to heat
water for bitter
black coffee—she mixes flour,
fresh milk, brown eggs, salt
in the cracked blue bowl
mix-turn-tilt-squish-mix—squeezing,
oozing the mix through
strong fingers—choking
dough into a round, black pan—
feeds the pan to the
now hot wood stove
soon the warm smell of baking
will tease my dreams and
pull me from the
the quilt-covered feather bed
to brave the rugless
wood floor to crack the
ice on the water bucket
to wash-splash my face
to pull up my chair
to the long plank table—to
drink down a mason
jar of thick cold milk,
to kick and swing my feet—bare
like hers—against the chair
she knows the drawing
power of fresh baked biscuits—
hot from the belly
of the big black stove—
slathered with homemade butter,
huckleberry jam
or thick cane syrup—
with grits and redeye gravy,
fried eggs and fatback
these things call forth the
family—barefoot by the
table—she greets them
Grandpa’s Words
“Look around you” grandpa said to me
Sounding as if it was a plea
“In this place there is joy in the air.
“It is important, it is rare”
“Not every family does this, son,
Some drift apart as the years roll on.
But yet we gather multiple times a year
To remember why we hold family so dear”
“In these moments we finally understand,
why being together is a matter at hand.
these moments when our time aligns
it is more then a tradition but a lifeline”
I was too young for his words to ring true
After his death they’re something I try and live to
Gleaming, this reflection is lovely and profound in the words quoted and the consideration of the now, of the present trying to gather the meanings for now.
I love how you use your grandpa’s words to build your poem. Over the four stanzas your interpretation shifts beginning with a plea to gather and remember to lifeline and finally live to. Your stanzas create clear shifts.
Fantastic advice! Your rhyme scheme works well to showcase a grandfather’s loving voice. Your end is poignant.
Wonderful poem; those family reunions increase in meaning, I have found, as we age. Love your rhyming pattern.
Words to live by for sure. I wish I wrote down more of what my grandfather said to me.
Destiny
As I stand here with my two legs,
A windy storm emerges, blowing me around in directions,
leading me somewhere far, but should I follow or resist?
I have two legs that can walk me anywhere,
but one direction seems to pull me.
The sound of the howling wind makes my mind go crazy,
I try and resist these winds,
but it seems like it wants me to follow,
but should I follow, or should I look the other way?
I have all these other options, but they don’t seem like me.
My mother and father, I see in different directions in the storm,
but should I follow them,
or follow the path the wind is blowing me towards,
My mother is my biggest supporter and is brilliant,
I want to be like her,
My father is strong and undefeatable through his hardships,
I want to be as strong as he is.
But I know this is the time to know who I am,
Maybe this wind is pushing me to a new direction,
a new destiny maybe.
With my two legs, I follow the direction the wind is carrying me,
and I see hope. I see something new, something scary,
but I’m scared to let go of my family.
but I know that if I go, I will be who I want to be,
I can be someone’s biggest supporter,
I can be as strong as my father and as undefeated as him.
Maybe this is my destiny
Even if the windstorm pushes me to something new,
its ok to be scared,
I know I can go to my parents, who are my supporters,
but I know it’s time to find my destiny.
Hailey, I love how you use the winds metaphorically. A powerful way to shape a moment where you are standing at a crossroads. Trying to find what seems like you. You share your parents best qualities and different perspectives. And those best qualities are reiterated in the last stanza with your words – I know I can go to my parents, who are my supporters. Nice poem.
Destiny, your poem shares a universal theme of finding one’s own way. I really enjoyed the internal monologue and the final conclusion. Having supportive parents is the best blessing.
The pull and push of the wind is a wonderful complement to the internal voices of your parents, helping to illustrate the struggle and excitement of this stage in your life.
I love Kyle’s poem and I really love your poem also Darius. I hope to come back later and share a response poem of my own. Right now just let me take a breath and read that again.
When we cleaned out my parents’ house after my dad’s death,
I found a log cabin quilt top, plus coordinating backing fabric.
“Mom, what’s this for?”
“It’s for you. I pieced the top. You can finish the quilt.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Does she remember that I don’t quilt?
It’s not that I don’t know how–
I technically know how:
Somehow cram four, five, maybe even six teeny tiny stitches
on a teeny tiny needle,
then pull the thread through and repeat.
Hand quilting is gorgeous. I have several from both grandmas to prove it.
But my needlework is NOT gorgeous.
I have the badly embroidered pillowcases to prove it.
As a little girl, Mom embroidered every dish cloth she could get her hands on.
As a little girl, I embroidered Dumbo on one pillowcase– very badly.
Bambi, too– also very badly.
Mom has given away pillowcases with delicate crocheted lace edges for countless wedding gifts.
I think I can crochet a single chain and make a bookmark. Maybe.
But I want to finish this quilt.
I NEED to finish this quilt.
I love the heritage in this quilt.
I will just need to find someone to show me how to use a quilting machine.
Shh . . . don’t tell Mom.
How are you with the sewing machine? I use that. Of course you need to have batting in between the top and the bottom.
I like the mother/daughter connection in this poem.
Not so great with the sewing machine, either. . . but I can knit.
I have such a strong connection to this poem. My mother spent hours trying to teach me to sew and I spent hours trying not to learn how to sew. My granny taught me to quilt or rather tried to teach me, Mostly, I learned to iron her seams for her for quilts. I learned to tell stories to entertain her quilting circle. My stitches were never tiny or straight enough. But, that connection that threads through your poem, that relationship built by the quilt in your poem, by the story in your poem is so rich and powerful. I lover the last stanza and the repetition of “this quilt.”
Sheila — As a person who quilted as a little kid at quilting bees, I am chuckling at this whole poem. It is dear what your mama left for you, but also just a total mess…oh my gosh… i LOVE the “quilting machine” at the end. You betcha! It’s a wonderful familial squabble, this bit of endowing stuff from one generation to the next. Cool poem! Susie
Sheila, oh my, I love the running thoughts throughout your poem. Love the humor and the final decision to find a quilt machine. We do not always possess our ancestors’ gifts:)
I hear the affection for, the ‘weight’ of, this gift –
“I want to finish this quilt.
I NEED to finish this quilt.
I love the heritage in this quilt.”
I think your solution is fine – the finished quilt (no matter how accomplished) will always make your remember your mother’s beautiful handicraft.
Woodshop – 4/8/2025
I have my fathers bones,
piled sawdust whirling
in the sunbeams of the woodshop.
The scream of a circular saw,
table saw, or chop saw, and
the discard pile of unwanted remnants.
Too small to be worthwhile.
I am him in the scent
of oak, ceder, padauk.
The burn barrel after.
I have my father’s hands,
his scars, gnarled fingers and
bitten down nails.
Swift and exacting, the
scrape of graphite on a
blank beam, a ¼ inch amputated.
The remnants are discarded,
Pushed aside into the bin and
maybe I am too, maybe–
too small to be worthwhile,
but able to build anew.
I love how this poem is both celebratory and self-deprecating. I love the idea of building new, beautiful things even from the smallest remnants.
I love the visual of the workshop and the discarded pieces. Yes, they can be used in some way. Think sculpture rather than utilitarian.
The memories in your eyes and hands will get you doing it.
James, I loved how you added smell to your poem. “I am him in the scent of oak, ceder, padauk. The burn barrel after.”
I really like how you used your father’s workshop to build your view. when I read this, I could see that when you do woodwork, you want to be precise and that all those small bits that don’t get used get pushed to the side, thrown away, or put in a pile. but those discards can create something new It may not be worthwhile, but it can create something new and Beautiful.
James — Such an poem! I love the connection of your dad’s wood working stuff to your own finesse with the tools and wood. The details are rich: “bitten down nails” and “graphite on a/blank beam” and “scent/ of oak and cedar”… all of these details make such a rich read. I can’t help but believe that you will continue to “build anew.” Susie
“I am him in the scent
of oak, ceder, padauk.” – love this so much!
James, I love all of the specific sensory details throughout: the smells, the “scars” and “gnarled fingers,” “the / scrape of graphite on a / blank beam.” And I love the repetition, the hesitation, of the “maybe I am too, maybe–” that lead to the final understanding, the affirmation of sorts: “too small to be worthwhile, / but able to build anew.” Thank you for crafting and sharing this with us!
Oh, wow, James. This is such a great poem. The discard and remnants repeated in two different stanzas is significant. Especially “maybe I am too” And the building theme, with the powerful last line of building you anew is so rich and hopeful.
James, you have drawn such a close bond between you and your father in this poem. I like how first, you set off “unwanted remnants” as “[t]oo small to be worthwhile,” then then bring this idea a full circle comparing your self to the pile, but making a clear distinction; you are “able to build anew.” Beautifully done! Welcome to this space!
Dr. Darius, congratulations on completing your PhD! (Julie Hoffman shouted you out the other day in the ethicalela space.) I loved the intimacy in your poem’s response to Kyle’s, and the reflective way you remember your relationship with your mother through eating.
On Faith and Popovers
In her old age, Grandma’s
“church” moved onto
the television—Jim and Tammy
Faye Bakker, Pat Robertson,
Oral Roberts and more.
Words of fear and
“send us your money” formed my
early faith journey–
for endless Sunday mornings
when we visited Grandma’s place.
At least there was time for her
to make popovers while she listened in
to her shows. We devoured the golden-orbed
puff pastry muffins, steaming hot,
filled with butter and jam.
My mother, years earlier, had rejected
the fear of fundamentalism that
infused her own childhood
and adolescence. She rejected
the faithful (for my dad), disrupting
the religion of her home and lineage.
Now, I’m thankful.
My mom rejected my grandma’s fear,
and she let me choose faith
with minimal nudges.
A God who isn’t afraid chose me;
a God who is patient and
uses evolution to create;
a God who made us thinkers;
a God who ushers in diversity,
equity and inclusion;
a Jesus God who values
humility,
empathy,
and Love.
Always Love.
I chose to bake popovers,
with my grandma’s recipe
and using her ceramic ramekins.
I really like the way you wove both your Grandmother and your Mother’s stories into you faith-journey-poem which really does describe the journey of those of us who question, while valuing, faith and family. We are not our grandparents, nor our parents, but we carry parts of their journeys into our own. Powerful.
Denise,
You and I are drinking from the same poetry inspiration well today, but you’ve tied your memory to both a lovely tradition—baking popovers—and an ugly moment in evangelicalism, one that remains. I’m glad you listed all these ideals that still give me faith, which you know isn’t always easy to have. I know you’re sticking to the teachers like Ben Cremer and not the Bakers and Swaggarts of the world.
Denise, your narrative is an insightful look into your own personal faith. I love how you set the stage with the details of visiting your grandmother and the many spiritual leaders she listened to. Iconic figures who I can easily visualize. I appreciate how you then show your mother’s break, and how you found your God who possesses everything I believe like humility, empathy, and Love. Powerful poem! Thank you!
The popovers are a wonderful connection to your grandma – and what a beautiful gift from your mother, to be instilled with a different, kinder faith. I love these lines, Denise –
Amen and Amen and Amen to the grace of a merciful God who made a world of different people and loves us all. Too much human error on the send me your money plea. I’m glad your. mother was a free thinker too.
Denise, I love the powerful contrast between what you chose to inherit from your grandmother, and what you chose not to. This poem is an ode to that power of choice, and nowhere is it stronger for me in those lines: “she let me choose faith / with minimal nudges. / A God who isn’t afraid chose me;”
That release from FEAR. How liberating. Well-done today!
Denise, I remember one of your poems last year about popovers. This one reminded me of it. You weave in eating popovers with the “church moved to television” in the background. I like how you show the generational change toward religion from your grandmother, to your mother, and then you being able to “choose faith / with minimal nudges.” I, too, am for “Love. / Always Love.” Thank you for sharing!
Love always, love…indeed; how 1 John 4:7-8 comes back to me, reading your lines. I recall how many people – many elderly – were so captivated and taken in by televangelists. The theme of injustice rings loud and clear throughout your poem – and God is infinitely bigger than what humans make of him. Your title is so intriguing; those last lines a summary of legacy and inheritance, on your own terms!
Darius, I felt this one deeply, both as a mother and as a child, how so much is communicated but left unsaid: “but I have been fed silence / learned to chew around the things / that lodge themselves in my throat.” Wow. This set of lines hit me hard. I’m the youngest of four, so my survival has been based on leaving things unsaid more often than not – especially where my parents are concerned. And, I confess, with my own children.
My post today was a matter of overcoming imposter syndrome around all this astounding writing. Here goes:
Birthright
In poker and chess,
It’s called a tell:
Worlds revealed
In a flick, a blink, a twitch
For me,
It’s my father’s response
To frustration, impatience, annoyance:
The double-palmed face rub,
Followed by fingertips
Pressed to the eyes
Subtle, right?
What I’d give to
Deny my patterning:
I’ve tried
Sitting on hands
Taking deep breaths
Folding my arms
But what can be done?
It’s a dubious inheritance,
Just like
Oddly-shaped fingers
The knack for trivia
My wiry, curly hair
The nasty habit of punnery
A tendency to burst into song
The shadow of dementia
Your line of a “dubious inheritance” is a powerful that strikes memories in all of us as we become our parents and worry about the family traits we cannot change!
Oh, that last line . . . it shot right into my heart.
Lanie, you share such a wonderful catalog of traits inherited that I am stunned by that final line. Wow, that really left a punch. Loved the humor with your line “Subtle, right?” Powerful poem. I loved it!
The rich details.…wonderful.
Lainie, that final list of other “dubious inheritance” traits cracked me up. I love this. I’m trying the “double-palmed face rub” with the fingers on the eyes, and I feel like I can nail it with your so good description. I love your poem today, and I feel like I’ve gotten to know you (and your dad) more as a result.
“A dubious inheritance”…and that last line, utterly haunting, Lainie. The older I get the more I am startled by my catching father’s face in the mirror. I will say that the knack for trivia and “nasty” habit of punnery and tendency to burst into song are great tools handed down for coping with this thing called life! I am slo struck by the attempt to “deny my patterning” – that may be the most haunting line of all. DNA cannot be denied..be it blessing, or curse…
The Garden Loppers
belonged to my father
handles worn
color faded
covered in ages of dirt
a long handled pair of loppers
lost
then a big search
found
with celebration
used now today
to cut back the growth
weeds, limbs
dry and dead
some growing and green
promise stopped
he cut
our bushes
and shrubbery
of owners willing
to pay him
so little
to have their greenery
under control
then chopped
the living managed
as now I attempt to contain
with the clippers.
I was working all day in our yard and today’s prompt brought this out of me. What a surprise! Thanks Darius for that.
Susan, your poem shares an important tool which is obviously been around awhile based on your description. I still have a butcher knife of my father’s that I cherish, but I don’t use it. These gifts are weighty things, and I love that you can appreciate the garden loppers!
I love your topic, Susan. I sure didn’t expect a poem about loopers today, but you did a great job showing us how important they are.
bedtime story
every night you read the Jonah &
the Whale bible story at bedtime.
i didn’t understand why you let Steve choose that story every night &
never gave us girls a chance to pick a
story we wanted to hear.
in time we stopped asking. we’d learned
boys get first pick, first privilege.
every night the same narrative rerun spoon-fed in chunks we’d chew, swallow, & remember.
our nighttime medicine gave me nightmares & feelings of entrapment.
that was my first lesson in allegory, but i
didn’t realize then no one really thinks
Jonah lived three days inside a big fish that vomited him to spare his life.
i didn’t know then you were teaching me to spit, to spew their words that make me sick.
Glenda Funk
4-8-25
~~~~
I have a love-hate relationship with book recommendations but think I need Good Son. It sounds too delish to resist. Thank you, Darius, and congratulations on finishing the PhD.
Ugh! I forgot to check lines to make sure they copied correctly. They did not.
Glenda,
I liked your poem. My favorite line is “that was my first lesson in allegory, but i
didn’t realize then no one really thinks.” Thank you for sharing.
Dam, Glenda, you rocked it with this one. I adore your final line: i didn’t know then you were teaching me to spit, to spew their words that make me sick. You show well in this poem why you resent the patriarchal behaviors some still wield. Fantastic poem, and that is a gross story. So glad you know how to spit:)
I think that may be the best alliteration in a last line ever – spit, spew, sick. Ha!
Cheers to spitting and spewing words! I love this. A lovely story and message you discovered. Thanks for sharing.
Glenda,
Wow, your “first lesson in allegory” and you weren’t able to be taught the whole lesson. I wish I could redo Bible stories for my children.
Glenda, the couples got ne visually at first, and then I started nothing the “&” as a visual conjunction intentionally placed in this narrative. I love the voice, the direct address to “you” with such intimacy toward the aha “to spit, to spew their words.” Resistance.
Glenda, everyone commented already on your “first lesson in allegory” – so clever! You tapped into the male privilege even within the family. The alliteration in “chunks we’d chew” and “to spit, to spew … sick” add the sound tension to your message. I see now how Denise and you are reflecting on the similar experiences.
Darius, thank you for this excellent prompt and beautiful examples. I will be revisiting both of the poems you provided. I love the last stanza of your poem.
“The taste of gumbo lingers,
sweet at the back of my throat.
I do not tell her it is enough.
I let her think I am still hungry.”
You make a mama’s heart happy.
Live Like Lucy
She always saved the crisp new
dollar bills to put into birthday cards.
So I, too, search for the newest, cleanest
paper money to use as presents.
There always needed to be “something to open,”
even if the real gift was money or a gift card.
So I, too, always give something to open when giving gifts.
Her osteoporosis made her
the incredible shrinking grandmom
whose grandchildren took pride
in growing taller than her.
I, too, am losing inches and only have
an inch and a half on my tallest grandchild.
Her superpower was listening
not housekeeping.
And from the looks of my home office
it’s not mine either, but I am
always ready to listen.
She was the model of faith and loyalty.
I’d like to think that is how people
will think of me, too.
“Live Like Lucy” is on my leather keychain,
and I am trying my best.
Rita,
Lovely tribute to Lucy. Fabulous idea to have a keychain as a reminder. From your poem, I can see Lucy had her priorities straight and taught you well.
Oh, this poem is lovely. The first stanza reminds me of the $2 bills my aunt always sent in birthday cards and Christmas cards. I also love the line “the incredible shrinking grandmom”– it is so poignant and visual.
I like how you talked about your role model and how Lucy taught you to be the best you are.
Rita, I want to live like Lucy too. “faith and loyalty,” “listening not housekeeping” sounds like wonderful attributes. It sounds like you are keeping up with her.
If more people had the “superpower of listening,” what a different world it would be! How I love that you have “Live Like Lucy” on your keychain, as a reminder to strive for faithfulness and loyalty. What a lovely tribute – and life.
Mother always made fudge wrong,
or so I thought.
Stirring butter, sugar, cream, and cocoa
with a wooden spoon
on an electric stove.
Served on a cracked porcelain tray.
The crumbly, crystallized sugar
melted in my mouth but
never satisfied my
cravings for a smooth, rich texture.
She made fudge like her mother
back and back until the why
floated away among the clouds
and only habits remained.
Mother always made fudge wrong,
or so I thought.
British traditions run deep
pushing through new world ideas
and living in a sugary cube of fudge.
Oh! I know that sugary cube of fudge. I have tried forever to get it right and am told it depends on the weather.
I like the way you built your background in this poem when connecting to your mother’s fudge; even when you thought she was making it wrong, you brought it back to your traditions.
Melissa,
I recognize this fudge you describe. My stepmother made it the same way. It was not good. I don’t have any idea where she learned. My favorite part of your poem is the attention you pay to losing the why of things we do in the lines
”back and back until the why
floated away among the clouds
and only habits remained.”
One of the argument fallacies I taught is appeal to tradition, and I like how your poem critiques a tradition.
I have been following Ethical ELA, but have yet to comment or post until today. Your poem has had me thinking and reflecting for hours. You have spoken to my heart. Here is my own memory of the smells and feel of my grandmother who had little left for her 10th child’s children. Yet, she did what she could/
You knew it was coming
As you traveled the parkway,
As you passed the never-moving
Mack Truck,
As you
Paused in the elevator
Yet, it would hit you
As you stepped into the hallway.
The smell.
Carefully selected,
Cooked for hours,
Sliced paper thin,
With repugnant mint jelly.
After a lifetime of birthing,
Raising her gaggle,
Struggling to survive farm-life,
Watching them disperse,
It was all she had left for
The last grandchildren.
I think of her now
As I share Crayola & Gerald,
Embrace Pokeman & Minecraft,
Grateful that I have something left.
Someday, I hope,
I will leave mine
With memories
Not of leg-of-lamb,
But of my presence.
Nice, Anita. Beautiful. Love all of this…”not a leg-of-lamb, / but of my presence.” Phew. Gorgeous contribution today.
I enjoyed reading your poem. Thank you!
wonderful job, thank you for sharing!
Anita, I love that you chose a leg of lamb memory so close to Easter – – the mint jelly smell could be a bit overpowering, but oh – – the love that went into those roasts. And presence over presents any day! You and I share that perspective on the importance of memories and moments.
I’m glad you felt comfortable enough and inspired to post! Yay! I hope it becomes a habit. That last line…that’s more important than anything else.
Anita, wow! So good. “repugnant mint jelly” made me suspect this was lamb. Yuck. I don’t know why that is the way to serve lamb. (I’ve rarely had a lamb dish I liked.) Those last lines–with memories…of my presence.” I love that. What could be better than being present for your grandkids. Beautiful!
Darius,
Your prompt and poem are powerful! Your first stanza! And then this line, “a lullaby for what cannot be undone” reminds me of what it feels like to pray for my own kids which I do a lot of!
My attempt is super rough but I appreciate the opportunity to create something and the memories it brought up.
They made it all this way.
The Avery China
Pink and white
With little blue flowers.
Across the Atlantic
By boat from England
Generations ago
Handcarted
Across plains
By pioneers.
Found their
Way to my parents
Always used at Easter
The rest of the year
Stored high on the top shelf of
Glass cabinets
A witness to the pet snakes, pollywogs,
tarantulas that lay beneath them on the counter.
Mom washed them by hand.
“They made it all this way,”
she’d say
As if she was hoping to make it too.
Eventually each plate and bowl and tea cup found their
Way to my home
No one else wanted them.
I try to bring them out more often than just Easter.
I don’t think my ancestors
Brought them all this way
To sit idle
Yet often still
They stand witness
From the glass window.
I’ve given them a view
Too
Of Great Grandma’s chocolate caramels,
Mom’s cinnamon rolls, Grandpy Pete’s tourtons.
They made it all this way.
A witness to all those
Who held them
Ate from their surface
My ancestors
Who endured.
I saved two plates that broke
Wrapped them in paper and placed
Them in a plastic bag
They made it all this way.
They that broke
To be mended.
They made it all this way.
So I can too.
Wow, Emily. Your poem shares just how incredible an everyday dish or piece of China can have with a family. I love that these dishes are able to witness your own life and the foods that connect you to your family. Your ending is especially sweet and adds a terrific ending note. Gorgeous!
This is lovely, Emily. I love the thought of the China traveling all this way. It also makes me a little sad that no one else wanted it, but I see that with my own children. They don’t want our “stuff.” I’m so glad you have the China and treasure it.
I could write about
seeing you in your
chair, legs kicked up
5:30 in the morning
(or earlier) grading
papers as we kids
were getting ready
for school.
I could write about
all the students,
grown now, adults,
who would stop
our family while we
were eating or shopping
or standing in line,
students you had in
class who wanted to
say hi and thank you
and reminisce about
“That time in class”
(years later, Heather
would say, Christ,
It’s like going out
with a celebrity,
when it would happen
to us, about me).
I could write about
all the people at
the visitation from
different walks of life,
teachers, students,
friends, actors, family,
all who couldn’t believe
that it happened so fast
or at all,
but I won’t, not yet,
never, maybe.
What I’d like to
write about, now,
here, in this moment,
is this slight gesture
that you would do
while driving:
your right hand,
still holding the wheel,
still steering, between
twelve and one and
your thumb would
lift up and then back down
and it wasn’t
until years later
after I could drive
(after this was long
forgotten) I found
myself driving along
and lifting my thumb
to see the speedometer
and I remembered you
and it made me smile.
______________________________________________________
Darius, thank you for your mentor poem and your prompt, for giving me space for my rememberings today! This is such a powerful image in your first stanza: “I have been fed silence, / learned to chew around the things / that lodge themselves in my throat.”
Stunning, Scott. Just stunning. And perfect…the celebrity part, classic. The thumb gesture too true to make up. I find myself driving with the same habits of my father, especially his hands and I always wonder, “Is it genetic or was it learned behavior?” I love how you took on today’s task.
I find the most beautiful and profound poetry often centers around a fascination with what would, in other circumstances, be considered mundane. Something as small as a lifted thumb carrying the weight of another’s memory is intimately human and moving. Incredible work!
Scott,
I think I lived your childhood…of people always raving about my father’s influence on them. I was in awe of it yet I normalized it.
And the fingers on the steering wheel…such a small but significant thing you luckily inherited.
Scott, I see what you did there. Your writing-not-writing about your parent. I love the early morning grading and stops from former students. And that gesture–what a sweet subject for a poem. Yeah, that was definitely inherited somehow!
Wow. I’ll be returning to these poems again and again. Learned to chew around the things that lodge in my throat. That line alone feels like it could launch a whole book of poems! I didn’t expect the poem I wrote, but it’s the poem that I wrote when I conjured an image that spoke to me of inheritance.
Inheritance
Say a Hail Mary.
A Hail Mary.
My mother’s answer to everything.
Everything.
School jitters. Work jitters.
Bloody knees. Broken bones.
Broken vows.
Lots of broken
ride on my Hail Mary’s.
I got it from both sides.
How long a walk to the bus stop?
a neighbor asked my father once.
We were telling stories at my father’s wake.
About a rosary and a half, my father answered.
My father’s rosary.
Even hidden, I could see them.
As if to match his buoyant steps,
black beads in his pocket slip
hurriedly
through his fingers as he walked,
his lips moving silently in prayer.
And my mother? When she finished
cooking and cleaning, she’d sit
with a fat historical biography,
a slim book of prayer,
or clear glass beads that caught the sun
making rainbows,
and stealthily slipping across clasped hands.
My mother would die for her faith,
she often told me.
I don’t say the rosary much,
but my days are sprinkled with Hail Mary’s.
You don’t easily forget the faith
that cradled you.
You don’t easily give away
what your grandmother would die for.
Ann, what a beauty of a poem this is! The imagery evolves much like the story read in a stained glass window–identifying who and what and then finding the details. Your connection between your mother’s words, “My mother would die for her faith,” and that last line is perfection. I love everything about this!
Ooooooh . . . that ending, Ann. Love it.
As a cradle Catholic, I appreciate the details of your poem.
Do we?
Ann, your perfect poem is what inspired mine today, although I love yours so much and the importance of family faith it conveys. “You don’t easily give away / what your grandmother would die for.” That is amazing.
Truly a lovely idea. The model poem and your own are so well written.
Here’s mine.
Tripoli, Chinese checkers, Gin,
Bunko– all the neighbor ladies cheering,
Laughing,
Shouting into the night
Long after I was supposed to be asleep
Mom the loudest
And funniest
And the most competitive of them all–
Scrabble was reserved for family:
Grandma Dora, Great Aunt Mabel, Uncle Dick, Aunt Beverly . . .
Eventually, I was old enough to take a seat at the table.
Rules were strictly enforced.
Mom challenged any word that seemed off to her
Like Wadi.
“A Wadi,” I explained, “Is like an Arroyo.”
“But that’s a foreign word,” she said, “Cheat!”
“Both Wadi and Arroyo are borrowed words,
and both are in the dictionary, Mom.”
One by one,
The Scrabble circle grew smaller as people died.
My children were invited to join.
I was looser with the rules:
(I helped them and made suggestions,
something Mom wasn’t okay with)
“But I’m teaching them, Mom.”
When Mom died, I took her Scrabble set,
The one that had the bite mark on the back of the Z.
My kids played with me for a while,
But gradually they moved away
And the one who lives closest has too many demands.
My husband won’t play games with me anymore.
He says it’s no fun because I always win.
Ah! I love this! I’m so glad you have you have your mother’s “Scrabble set, the one that had the bite mark on the back of the z.”
So much gets revealed about interpersonal relationships through the playing of games.
Kelly,
Your poem made me cry.
These are the lines that really got me:
Darius, thanks for sharing your poem and the original one. I was hooked from the first line. Parts of yours really resonates with me,
“and I wonder if prayers sound the same
in every mother’s mouth—soft, desperate,”.
I know I will be back to read the two poems again. Thanks for the prompt.
Your Words
The veins in her hands protrude like streams and speak loudly
I am my mother’s daughter, I hear her voice, it echoes
with reminders of what should be, can be, will be
I remember years away from home
I confess how I rarely called, how she must have felt
the everlasting silence. that needed to be broken
Her words of advice, penciled on wafer thin , almost transparent
paper that flew miles to reach us, her joint script that I can still see
and recognize, she wrote as if standing beside me, talking to me
She wrote as if she could see deep down inside my heart
penciling those feelings that baffled me, but she was right
now I know she was, and I thank God for them
I appreciate your hands Mama
Your script and those words, so timely, so needed
You were present although far from me, from us
Those veins knew exactly what we were going through
you were far but present, just like you are now
your words still guide and soothe everything within me, us
We are blessed with memories, your words are still breathing.
Juliette, wow, you’ve painted a poignant picture of your mother’s hands and her wonderful love. I adored the lines: “She wrote as if she could see deep down inside my heart
penciling those feelings that baffled me, but she was right”. Your closing line is like a precious heartbeat: “We are blessed with memories, your words are still breathing.” Absolutely gorgeous poem full of love and gratitude.
Juliette, this is beautiful. The switch to direct address in the second to last and last stanzas is so poignant and lovely. “your words are still breathing” is a powerful way to show you are still learning from her.
Darius, I love it when metaphor works throughout a poem to lead to a deeper meaning as both Kyle and you have achieved well in your respective poems. I feel my poem is a really rough draft, but I went with the inspiration of food. Thanks!
Macaroni & Cheese
Our first fight was over macaroni & cheese
which ingredients should be added
at what temperature
to achieve the creamiest bowl.
Kraft is the only brand we’d buy,
but you argued that I poured the little flakes
of fake cheese too fast, didn’t stir enough
to fully achieve the milk to cheese ratio.
You don’t have to be good, according to Mary Oliver,
you just have to love what you love.
So we loved each other well.
After long marriage, I wait for you
to offer the spoon to taste your gumbo.
You tell me my spaghetti is always good–
Our edges smoothed like macaroni & cheese.
What a uniquely sweet love poem, Margaret! I love the waiting for him to offer the spoon. Awwww. “edges smoothed like mac & cheese” – so good.
I adore this poem, Margaret. I hung on every line because the first two lines had me hooked. Fighting over ‘Mac n Cheese’ – ooooh. Tell me more. This is a precious poem and response to today’s prompt…you just have to love what you love.
Arguing over the right way to make Kraft Mac and Cheese to now tasting each other’s gumbo and spaghetti and praising it. What a great metaphor for marriage. Well done.
I love this! Your last stanza is perfect! There is something so familiar that in these crazy times, waiting for the spoon to taste the gumbo, knowing your spaghetti is always good was as comforting as the smoothed edge of Mac ‘n cheese!
“Our edges smoothed like macaroni & cheese.” Isn’t that the truth when it comes to longevity in marriage? I love everything about your poem. Thanks for sharing.
Margaret, such a fun first fight! I can’t imagine a better fight than a Mac and Cheese disagreement over creaminess. I hope you tested it often to settle the score – – by then, the cheese gods would be smiling down and blessing the love, edges smoothed. Such fun to write about food and table togetherness.
Candy Drawer
Kitchen cabinet,
Right side, second one down —
Grandma always had a treat.
Orange circus peanuts,
Brach’s butterscotch disks,
Caramelly Royals — raspberry my fave.
Never disappointed.
Circulation desk,
Left side, third one down
I always have a treat.
Crunchy peanut mix,
Jolly Rancher originals — watermelon my fave,
Creamy chocolate Kisses.
Never disappoint.
©️Jennifer Kowaczek April 2025
Darius, thank you for leading our poetry journey today. I always have some candy or nuts, granola bars, etc. in my desk drawer. Thinking through your prompt made me realize this just might be an inherited gesture.
Grandma’s was Whether’s! Lovely poem!
The parallelism in this is very well done. I love how you are more like your grandma than you probably expected as a child. My grandma always had Chiclets gum.
great poem, all the treats, I want to just reach in and grab a handful. Nice work!
My grandmother used to save me all of the black dollar-store jellybeans–I always think of her when I have them around. I love the exacting tone you chose, precise and parallel. Beautiful work!
I love this sweet connection and tribute. My gramma has the same candies getting stale in a dish on her coffee table. Just the way we like em. Thanks for sharing
D to the A to the R to the I to the U to the S, thank you for this prompt, as I’ve revisited the two models several times this morning to get a groove for launching a poem from dialogue, coupling it with food where I could (not the bones), and paid attention to Kyle’s coupled lines and your lengthier stanzas. Both poems are gorgeous for how they twist meaning and deliver a larger point at the end. Passed-down gestures. Phew. So many possibilities.
1985
b.r.crandall
If you have one good friend in life, he told Peter-boy & me,
you’ll be a lucky son of a …
Butch, I corrected him. You’re name is Butch
& I’m your son, so that makes me lucky.
Strike. Always placed a line on that scoresheet
when my sisters and I guttered the ball,
& I would watch him slice the butterball turkeys
each year with electric carving knives he plugged in.
Only one good friend? we laughed. It was stab,
as we headed away on ten-speed bikes with plastic
combs in our back pocket to feather our hair.
There were mountains of kids with
baseball gloves awaiting us at the park,
blue jeans full of Big League chew & Starbursts
rarely seen from overcast skies & rain
which didn’t stop him from grilling chicken or pork. His routine
outside. Mom inside, raising kids. There’s no rulebook for that,
he’d say blowing smoke into a handkerchief to deter us from
inhaling addiction. Don’t start, because you’ll never stop,
two young men on the go, go, go, not knowing first jobs & kisses
were months away and Truth or Dare, beer cans, &
staying out late would arrive with the awkwardness of school dances.
I wiggled as a wallflower in new khakis & a thinly-studded leather tie
to match the dress of a girl I brought with me because I was cool,
not hot like I am now with whatever this man-o-pause thing is…
Moons. Moths. Circles. Cycles of fathers. Peter said goodbye
to his dad this year…he teaches, now, like me…reading specialist in a district
close to where we grew up…guiding elementary students to make meaning
of text. Perhaps he thinks about what my father said, too,
about friendship. Might it be true? Or just one of those parental things…
being a lucky son of a Butch
raised by good friends, who happened to be our fathers.
Sheesh, Bryan. The flow of this, the continuation of one thought to another. The multiple meanings…it’s so good. I lingered on this
“blowing smoke into a handkerchief to deter us from
inhaling addiction” WOW.
There is depth and humor.
“because I was cool,
not hot like I am now with whatever this man-o-pause thing is…”
Thank you for sharing!
Bryan you amaze me with how your poems always find their heart early but grab so many unexpected wildflowers along the way…ps…you will always be cool…
You are so clever to put the turkey carving on the heels of the strikes in bowling – – – a double entendre? So fun, and the play on words of Butch is fun too. You have other jewels all along the way throughout the poem, and of course I’m smiling as I read.
Bryan, such beautiful and masterful flow of connected imagery to pull us along this journey. The bowling to turkey, the seats to combs, the candy to constellations, all links on the chain connecting you to Peter (and your fathers, too). So well crafted. Funny and tender and clever. You really are one “lucky son of a Butch” (but also a highly accomplished and humane poet, lol).
Bryan, you paint images so clearly that I feel I’m watching a “short” vs. reading words. You brought 1985 back, plain as day. Back-pocket combs, feathered hair..being “cool” and then that magnificent transiition to “not hot like I am now with whatever this man-o-pause thing is” – brilliant. As is capturing the passage of time with “Moons. Moths. Circles. Cycles of fathers.” – poignant, piercing, beautiful.
Darius, I appreciated your invitation and mentor poem today. It was amazing how you could see it so clearly as a response to the poem by Kyle. I was surprised where my writing took me today:
“He Will Come Get It When He’s Ready”
by Erica J
He leaves the coffee on the counter
its steam curling in a feeble motion
to tempt him back into the room
but he’s already gone,
there are lawns to mow
garages to organize
sheds to build
and project
after project
after project…
Thank you for your service,
they say, but you’ll never stay
still long enough to hear it.
Isn’t he retired?
I breathe in the bitter aroma
already beginning to fade
and I remember sweeter times—
your hand in mine and
an amused grin or
parried puns or
clacking Scrabble tiles
all shared between
a daddy and his girl.
I wish I could remember
when it all grew stale—
Scrabble scrapped and
swapped politics for puns and
now you grimace instead of grin.
There are heavy silences
to hold the peace.
His coffee continues to cool
waiting patiently with me.
You pour too much of yourself
into one thing and served
yourself dry —
What else have you left behind?
Who is there left to serve?
And if you did stop and join me
coffee cup to coffee cup at the counter
What would we even talk about now?
Oof, makes me want to give your dad a shake. I know the kind of man you speak of, who pours himself into projects for others without holding onto the relationships most dear. I love how you used the coffee to set the tone of the poem.
So many of us lament the shifting of the dynamic of our key relationships. You describe it so well here.
Erica, I think we might be in the same place. Happy dads who age into grumpy versions of their younger selves…..losing themselves and us as they do. I’m feeling your sadness, friend. I’m right there with you.
Erica, thank you for sharing this truth. The way the cup of coffee tells the story is perfect. It is not easy to deal with parents who disappoint. “I breathe in the bitter aroma” seems to have a double meaning here.
Thanks for making me think about my inheritances in a new way, Darius. We’ve all got the stories we tell about what our elders have handed down. I was about to write one of those old stories but made myself search for something new. Thanks again.
Following Suit
My mom held cards
like power,
like a fan of cash
she could keep.
She taught me
to play cards, too—
Bridge, Hearts, Rummy—
when I was small,
on steamy summer nights
at the kitchen table,
windows all wide.
I don’t play anymore.
My husband said
I was no fun:
a card bully
who won too loud.
My mom doesn’t play
anymore either,
can’t remember yesterday
much less count cards.
But she played all day
back in college,
even when she was
supposed to be in class,
sticking it to the man
who was her father,
who was her twin brother
who could go to school
wherever he wanted.
And here she was
stuck at the school
down the block,
studying philosophy
when she went to class
at all, but mostly here
at the card table
winning all her friends’
fathers’ cash.
I really connected to this poem Kate — my family used to play cards all the time and now we rarely do and I feel that loss and desire to play sometimes myself.
Kate,
Thank you for giving us such a striking and specific picture of your mom, now and in her youth.
I admire how you show so much through a simple game of cards–you’re Mom’s anger, her family’s and society’s gender inequity and her memory loss.
Love the symbolism of your opening:
And the sweetness of
You reveal so much depth and personality in your descriptions of these card games.
Cards. Wow, didn’t even think about how integral it was in my family. Thanks for the idea!
Same, same.
Thanks for the prompt Darius. The poems are powerful mentors but the questions in your process make me wonder, definitely. Not for myself or the children I don’t have but for my niece and nephew.
“Alexa play
‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ by the Ramones”
It was their thing,
after school,
after work,
on his days with the kids,
after dinner,
plates with food scraps
still left on the table,
relax, play a song, and dance.
I am looking at the video now,
he’s in the background and
Jack is on the floor shaking to
”hey ho, let’s go!”
and I hum the tune and laugh
behind the camera because
I don’t know the rest of the lyrics
I thought we were pretty okay growing up
We escaped being kids with divorced parents
We did alright, but they didn’t
I can barely think about his absence
during the big moments but especially
every
single
small
one.
Because it’s the little things that matter most, right?
What if they think he doesn’t care?
How is it fair that a person
who doesn’t even know any of them
made a decision that he is not
allowed to see them anymore?
That he has to miss
every meal,
every car ride,
every bike ride,
every bath time,
every dance party,
every bedtime story,
every playing outside,
every conversation,
every competition,
every vacation,
every laugh,
every tear.
Someone who doesn’t
even know them has
shaped every
second,
minute,
hour,
day,
week,
month,
year
of their life.
What are they missing?
How will they be different?
And what will they uninherit?
That opening scene is so powerful, Angie—its intimacy, its energy, its warmth. I can see those dinner scraps on the plate, feel the music vibrate! What a powerful contrast to the emptiness later in the poem.
Angie,
Your poem is heartbreaking. I agree that
I feel your frustration in the way you used space to slow us down and emphasize
I feel the gut punch of your last line
I’m sorry that your family is in this painful situation.
There is so much pain in places where children are missing parents at the decision of others. I’m so sorry ~ this affects some in my family as well, and it’s downright unfair and anger-provoking. I hope that as they grow, things will change and become better and that healing can happen over time. Those last three lines are so drenched in truth and wonder. Powerful poetry to the bone!
Nostalgia turns to grief, at the pointed jab of injustice, the unfair turns of life, the suffering. I am struck by the questioning at the end of the poem, for the children’s sake. This one really haunts me; “And what will they uninherit?” – that is an incredible, devastating thought.
Thank you for the prompt you have offered today, Darius. That image of “bones clean” carries so much weight in this inheritance you describe. Thank you for bringing me to the few items I have inherited and the stories behind them.
Mom’s open jewelry box meant dress-up.
Nestled into crooks of velvet, a silver heart—
My favorite—harbored its own secret
Between the halves: two department-
Store baby photos of chubby rolls
Draped in pink. Me and my sister.
I never noticed the intricate whorls
Engraved into the silver, the chain
That dangled this heart at my navel,
Now grown would press near my own,
That though you gave this to me still
Earth-side because on either side of
Five years, I carry my two daughters,
just the same.
Jordan, this poem brought back such memories—because indeed, “Mom’s open jewelry box meant dress-up.” I’m almost 50 now and my mom has dementia, and sometimes I go open her jewelry box and search around for a little feeling of that past.
I love this idea. I used to play with my grandmother’s jewelry and makeup. Never my mom’s, although I did inherit it after she passed. It’s probably why I have so much of both now, even though I wear a minimum of makeup and only a few pieces of jewelry–it keeps me close to Grandma Dora. I love that your mom had her two daughters in the locket and now you use it the same way. The intricate whorls echo the many threads, often far from linear, that bind mothers and daughters. Nicely done.
Thank you Darius for your offering today. I was moved by your words, leaving me feeling soft and nostalgic. I was especially struck with your verse about a mother’s prayer, bringing back a flood of memories of my mom and prayers, helping me draft these words
Her hand clutched the beads
the ones that glowed in the dark
reciting the prayers
sorrowful mysteries
dedicated to Our Mother
our voices droning on
gathered round the bed
hardwood floors pressing in
our knees screaming in pain
counting on and on
and on
Christine,
your poem reminds me of my mother’s dedication to her prayers for us:
I can feel your mother’s powerful determination.
Thank you for sharing.
Christine! Your poem put me back in the car of my childhood, where my dad would pray—and try to teach me——the Rosary on evening drives!
This is a powerful image! I love these lines-
“reciting the prayers
sorrowful mysteries”
Using the verb “clutched” helps me see her intensity.
Christine, I can so relate to your poem. My mom was devout in her saying of the rosary. We didn’t say it with her, but I bet she wished we did.
Christine, rich imagery of the reverence of prayer and a family that is gathered to do so. I love that you gather around the bed – – even though those floors will tear some knees slap up.
The devoutness and the pain of the children’s knees are striking, Christine – especially as the young ones must also have been counting down the minutes to the prayer’s end, for relief! There’s also such poignance in this image of mother teaching her children to pray and the discomfort of it – linked to sacrifice and spiritual strength.
Darius,
Thank you for hosting and for your poem. I like seeing how it echoes your mentor text. The stanza I’ll be thinking about for a while is:
It makes me picture the ways my mother and grandmothers prayed.
—————————————————
When you died
Aunt Marge
Who everyone else called Maggie
And you called Margaret
Asked me
After I came into the stillness of your kitchen
If there was anything of yours I wanted
Your rolling pin
And now
Decades later
I admire daily its red handles
Worn by your hands
I picture you
In a green wraparound skirt
A flowered silk blouse
A tissue tucked into your right sleeve
And the thousands of pies
You made and stored in the wide freezer in the basement
Always ready for our visits
A few times a year
On holidays and birthdays
I hold your rolling pin at an angle and rub the flour onto the wood’s smooth surface
I roll the dough
Doing my best to keep it
As even as you did
I remember
How you placed your hands
On mine
Helping me to find the right pressure
And how we stood
Side be side
As I rolled out my first pie crust
On your oil-clothed kitchen table
I echo your fingers
Pressing holes with a fork into the bottom crust
Piling in the strawberries and rhubarb
Blanketing them with a second crust
Fluting the edges
Cutting vents
Finding connection in these small rituals
And each time I think
I should make more pies
That first stanza is so unique. I like how you set it up focusing on not just the “you” but Aunt Marge also. As someone who makes a pecan pie everyone is obsessed with, I really appreciate the description of making pies. Never tried one with the upper crust. I need to. Thanks for sharing!
Sharon, “I echo your fingers” is such a wonderful line. There’s so much appreciation, love, and respect in this poem…the rolling pin of Aunt Marge…the respect for “small rituals.”
I love the thought of using your aunt’s rolling on still… I can feel her hands on yours guiding you to make those strawberry rhubarb pies! Who wouldn’t want more of those? You’ve got me drooling
I love how you capture the memories and love in the details. I think my favorite though is that ending line — because isn’t that always the case!
Oh my goodness, “the tissue tucked into your right sleeve”—what a hallmark of a generation! I’m so glad you got Aunt Marge’s rolling pin.
And I love the careful verbs in the poems final scene: “pressing…piling…blanketing…fluting…cutting…finding.”
I love the images here of the rolling pin and how that one thing unlocks so many memories. It makes me really want to eat pie! Make it too. I like all your little details like the flowered print blouse and the tissue. What a lovely aunt you had!
How lovely, Sharon. The rolling pin taken “from the stillness” of your grandmother’s kitchen after her passing becomes a ritual of remembrance – motions of memory, and a connection unbroken by time and death. That last line is perfect. It sums up the value of remembering, the love that went into the act of backing together, and celebrating life and its good things.
Susan Moon
Momma, what cha’ doin’?
Momma see yo grandkids…
They walking yo path..
the rocks you laid are firm,
Dey teaching dem to learn.
All dem lessons you taught,
Are steady and firm..
Can you see um’ Momma?
Dey trying to be you, Momma..
Can ya come back for a day,
And listen to dem say…..
“ Sue-Sue, we miss you,
We are teachers, through and through,
Even marrying um’ too..
Working to stay true ”
Momma shine yo soul,
In their hearts,
Bless dem
As they do their part.
Momma we gotta school of um’,
You taught um,
Cause you loved um’.
Your mark is in their blood,
Dey teachers, full of love,
though we down here and you above,
We rollin’ Momma, sending hugs.
I love the slang-sling of this poem. It lightens the tone. Teachers in their blood, a tribute to Momma!
I’m seeing the faces behind the poem – – yes, I know the children and I have heard stories of your mom – – who kept the book in the attic….the peanut butter one.
Congratulations, Dr. Phelps! I saw your recent post on completing your doctoral program. Tip of the hat and a smile and a nod to you! Thank you for hosting us today. Your poem brings all the feels of comfort food. I’m about to be near a place with gumbo today, and I might just have a bowl. It sounds delicious. I was thinking of something I carry from those before me. I never knew there was a word for this thing, but I asked The Google, and it told me.
Cricketing
I cricket.
I rub my feet together
to relax.
My father did it
and his mother, too.
It scares me
these repetitive motions
the oldness of it all.
I cricket.
Love it , Cricketing
, the twine of relaxation- listening to crickets – cricketing- napping 
…
I cricket TOOOO!!!
omg. I think everyone in my family does. It is so comforting. Maybe that’s why I am such a good sleeper. The other cricket is on my mind (sport) so I was surprised to see the title 
Kim, I love the repetition of “I cricket” to begin and end a poem…and I was intrigued by the use as a verb, only to read further to find it a family trait. Love your noticing and the act that we are those apples that fell from familiar trees.
“I cricket!” Love this! Except for me rubbing my feet together if dry or covered in sand can give me shivers
I love that you begin and end with the “I cricket.” Line and with just a few details clearly illustrate what it is!
Isn’t it amazing how we pass down little things like cricketing? (which honestly, I’ve never heard of). I know my daughter does this relaxing motion that my husband does of rubbing his upper lip with his thumb.
So perfect how you bookend the poem with “I cricket.”
I love how doing so makes you feel old. So many things passed down through the generations make us feel old. Or wise. Or both.
Kim, your poem is framed perfectly. I love the opening line “I cricket” and then your description of exactly what this means. I also appreciate how you emphasized the oldness of it all.” You’ve packed a lot of thought into this learned behavior.
One of the things I love best about writing is the required learning: I look up stuff all the time. I didn’t know this term applied to humans rubbing their feet together, either – but isn’t it perfect? The repetition of your poem’s simple first and last lines is so pleasing, almost like lively cricket chirps in themselves. Being scared by “the oldness of it all” – is a fascinating line, and sensation… DNA is a fascinating and terrifying thing! That you “cricket” suits you, From-the-Meadow-of-the-Royal-Fortress.
Darius, your poem is breathtaking. I have read it – and Kyle’s stunning mentor poem – several times. I will need more time to savor the images and the turns of words and the pathways of phrases. I will also need more time to craft my own poem from these models… here is the skeleton I have so far. Thank you for this profoundly rich offering today.
Provision
He clasps his workworn hands
and bows his silver head:
Dear Lord do bless us
bless what is provided before us
In your name we humbly beg
amen
I eat
slices of juicy ham
carved by his old knife
and the fish
I watched him descale
and gut
with his knife
on a bloodstained
wooden shelf
outside the old henhouse
(Grandma’s fingers
tear the meat,
feeling for every
hairlike bone
before placing
the morsels
on the plate before me
as mothers should not
choke their children)
His hands raise
every vegetable before us
His hands pick
the peaches, pears, figs
from his orchard
and the scuppernong grapes
from his vine
and the pecans from
the tree studded
with woodpecker holes
In the evening
he butters a flaky biscuit
still warm from the oven
and hands it to me
we sop our molasses
from saucers before us
and when it is time
for the offering on Sunday
his hands slip me a dollar
to put in the plate
It will be a long, long time
before I realize
that the great bounty
I knew from his hands
and at his table
was small
by the world’s standards
but this I know:
when the morning comes
I like my eggs
just like his
fried, with yolks a’ running
like the suns of all our years
melting together
nourishing me
still
Fran, this was beautiful. What a tribute!
These memories of growing in a family of a farmer are rich, and colorful too – – from the yellow of the eggs to the bloodstained shelf to the vegetables I see in various hues. It will not surprise you to know that my grandfather was a farmer, too – with pecan trees. He grew Vidalia onions in the radius to be titled as such, and he ate eggs every morning. Another common thread. May the nourishment of our family continue to remain, and may all our eggs remind us that they are right here. With us, still.
Wow! Vivid tribute, and this takes me back to “the country” – no matter what we always had good food.
Thank you
Ughhhh Fran. You’re amazing. Especially this:
I like ‘em “a’running” too. And that comparison with the sun. Wow, so luxurious and meaningful. Also. The. Biscuits. If I’m gonna get any where I am, I’m gonna have to make em.
Phew, Fran. Stunning. I’m loving how Darius’s model texts have woven food imagery in all the writing today. The line, “His hands raise / every vegetable before us” hooked me with prayer-like cadence….but then the eggs, ‘melting together,’ nourishing you, still. Just wow. In all ways, Wow.
Fran,
Your poem is so lovely. Reading it I feel so much abundant love. I, too, wrote about food and baking with my grandmother. Food can be such a comforting connection across time.
Your ending is pure goodness.
Thank you for sharing this testament to your grandparents’ love and care and your on-going connection to them.
What a childhood you had, surrounded by such a rich environment! You describe it all so very well. I love how his hands are such a key part of it all. As a dippy egg eater, I love these lines with such a wonderful simile:
Fran, what a beautiful and powerful poem. “Like the suns of all our years
melting together.” This line is incredible. We didn’t have a farm, but we did have an extensive home backyard garden, and I didn’t realize until I was older how much work went into that and how much money it saved my parents. Thank you for sparking that memory for me.
Fran, what a phenomenal poem. I love the focus on food and how it is carefully prepared so it can be enjoyed, and then how you move to the ending emotions “nourishing me/still” Such a powerful poem full of rich imagery. Thank you for sharing this gift with us today!
Fran, I can’t wait to read your poetic memoir all in one volume. This is so lovely. I see what you did there in the parenthetical with your grandma’s fingers tearing the meat, and then your message that “as mothers should not / choke their children”. So beautiful, and those last lines “nourishing me / still” is a gift, isn’t it?
Your description of his hands. It’s such a tender, moving tribute to a man who provided so very much for you. Knowing previous posts you’ve written, I also had to smile at the line about your grandmother preparing the fish for you: “as mothers should not / choke their children)”
As I read the second-to-last stanza, I couldn’t help but think of Byrd Baylor’s The Table Where Rich People Sit. Give it a read, if you haven’t before. =)
When thinking of inheritance and food, I could only think of one thing in my parent’s kitchen, and this is true! Not just made up for poetry’s sake. thanks for sharing this prompt!
the blue ladle
The blue ladle is in the will.
It goes to me. I claimed it long ago.
I claimed it when gluey, gray gravy glopped onto biscuits because my brother was home from school.
That meal was worth pennies, a meal from his own mother.
The blue ladle is in the will.
It goes to me. I claimed it long ago.
I claimed it when scarlet, seafood soup spilled into old bisque mugs because there were more mugs than bowls for parties.
That meal was worth millions, a meal only allowed once a year for holidays.
The blue ladle is in the will.
It goes to me. I claimed it long ago.
I claimed it when it served comfort, nostalgia, and closeness.
I’ll let him use it for now, I can use mine from the Dollar Store.
But that ladle is priceless, a vessel for special memories that belong to me, which is why
The blue ladle is in the will.
Mine eventually.
C.O., loved your use of the refrain in this piece. Your food imagery was so striking—made me hungry.
Your repeated beginning of each stanza is a powerful reminder to all readers about where it goes – and why. Those shared meals scooped with that ladle will continue to be honored with ancestral spirits present at each and every meal where it is used to serve future generations. Sweet memories of such a timeless piece.
I would want that blue ladle too!! Lovely poem!
This really resonated with me and made me think about the pink china I always ate off for special occasions and eventually was handed down to me. This line, “I claimed it when it served comfort.” That is why I have the pink china too!
Ah, I love that the blue ladle will be yours, filled with memories of simple meals and the luxurious one too. I like how you repeated “the blue ladle” and “is in the will” so many times, showing the importance of this artifact of inheritance and food.
This reminds me of a green dish my grandmother gave me and that I thought someone had broken a while back. Knowing the color of the ladle makes the object unique. It’s not what one sees these days. The alliteration and repetition emphasize the importance you place on the karl, which matters when we’re talking about how extraordinary an ordinary object can be.
Darius,
Thank you for the introduction to Kyle Liang and for your response to poem. The tension in your poem is so evident and the use of sensory language really paints a scene.
An Invitation
He always sat
with his legs
crossed lady-style
top leg draping over
foot popped out
like a checkmark.
His hands lay gently
motionless in his lap
his shoulders rounded
shell-like
leaning over
toward
An invitation…
a quiet magnet
drawing me in
to be seen, heard
a shrinking of self
taking up less space
to allow plenty
of room for me.
~Susan Ahlbrand
8 March 20
What a visual. Thanks for giving me a picture of this person and how you both filled the space.
Susan, your writing pulls me to know more about the he in the poem and which of you is inviting the other or are both of you? I can’t pull away from the foot popped out like a checkmark (so good) and the shell-like shoulders rounding. It’s exacting and visceral and so evocative of the shrinking of self into space.
The foot like a checkmark and the crossed legs – – I see a thin man, hunched and aging. The kind that are the best listeners in the world – – those who lean in. Your words paint the perfect picture. I want to hear all of his stories.
I can totally picture your description. So good. And “a shrinking of self / taking up less space / to allow plenty / of room for me” is amazing characterization!
This is lovely Susan…foot popped out like a checkmark…what a perfect metaphor…and what a lovely way to frame the space he carved for you.
What a vivid description of legs, foot, hand, lap….shell-like.
Susan, this is such a well-crafted snapshot. I love it! This “invitation,” this “shrinking of self / taking up less space / [so as] to allow plenty / of room for [you]” is such an empathetic way to look at this posture, for knowing what he was doing and being able to appreciate it (and then being able to so artfully describe it — your poetic EQ is off the charts, lol!).
So moving, Susan: “to allow plenty of room for me.” that is what love does!
Darius, what a beautiful prompt, what a beautiful poem. The whole idea of inheritance is such a great source of inspiration. The way you take the idea of the mentor poem and tailor it to your experience is smooth…the denim jacket and gumbo are perfect markers. I so enjoyed reading both.
I wrote longer than I meant to this morning! I love that. Below is a part of a longer draft. It was so fun to live in memory for a bit.
Across the picnic table,
my silent mother says quietly to Dad,
just like your mother. And,
Dad says, yes in a quiet sort of way. And,
I feel the inheritance grow in me.
strengthening me along my spine and
my arms around my sweaty, sniffling son who
has stopped crying but is kicking at the mulch
with the toe of his sneaker.
I look at the playground of children and
I sigh trying to think of what the next part
of the story could possibly be when my son says,
The boy could tell the slide and the swings and
the whirligigs that have to take turns…that they can’t
hold all the children at the same time…they could break.
Ooooh, that’s right. The play equipment must stay safe.
Or, it could all end up broken.
My son, the little boy, sighs and leans into me
as I peek at my watch. There’s not much time left before
we need to go.
Mommy, I’ll tell the slide first.
That’s a good idea, my boy. Be gentle. Slides are very
excitable. They get angry quickly.
I’ll tell the slide a story, says my boy. And,
I smile. Just like your mother.
Linda, I am drawn to the “ands” at the end of so many lines, as if the story continues without breaking (between generations), as if the life is building, as if growing and knowing and finding all add on and find their way. I love the idea of telling stories to playground equipment and keeping it safe. So lovely.
Linda, I’m so intrigued by this and the dialogue in italics draws me in. A story. A narrative poem that holds family lore and inheritance of traits. There’s a strong feeling of legacy here in the generations present in this park. I love seeing family resemblances.
Darius,
Wow, what a complex and beautiful path you are inviting us on.
Your last stanza sings so sweetly in my ears:
The taste of gumbo lingers,
sweet at the back of my throat.
I do not tell her it is enough.
I let her think I am still hungry.
Thanks, Darius, for the prompt and poems. My dad is a drummer, but I never could get the rhythm of percussion down. So I became a saxophone player, instead.
Kevin
You might have liked me
to be a child of sticks,
of snare shots, sizzle,
and coordinated drum kicks
Instead, you had me,
a curious kid with fingers
on the keys, a tongue
on mouthpiece and reed
We all find our way in
“of snare” is delicious…multiple meanings there. We all find our way…and yet inherit too. Well done.
Kevin,
I love your last line:
It makes me think of the different ways we find acceptance and find our own places within our families.
I’ve always loved the menagerie of terms for drum imagery–shots, sizzles, snaps. The auditory imagery in this is very well done!
Darius, thank you for this thought-provoking prompt (and pair of poems). I keep returning to these words–I have been fed silence–thinking on all the meanings that exist in those 5 words. They resonate more in light of everything happening in today’s world. Both the bones and wind spoke to me in the pair of poems. I let them guide me today.
Grave Goods
This pile of bones
left behind
after the pyre
burned fully
shifts
Winds chant
through the crevices,
whispered voices
of the past
filling the tumulus
You’ll never reach
the afterlife
if you don’t
speak to the dead,
She reminds me.
I listen louder
My goodness…listen louder is wonderful!
Jennifer, the inspiration of the wind is felt here in your poem, and I love listening louder. I need to speak to the dead more myself – – those conversations with the ancestors that bring the wisdom of their voices across the span of years through the veil of heaven. I’m listening louder today.
Love the listening, loudly, as the last line, Jennifer. Tumulus is a good word, too…with the double meaning and all. It made me return back to the title, “Grave Goods.” Nice.