This is the Open Write, a place for educators to nurture their writing lives and to advocate for writing poetry in community. We gather every month and daily in April — no sign-ups, no fees, no commitments. Come and go as you please. All that we ask is that if you write, you respond to others to mirror to them your readerly experiences — beautiful lines, phrase that resonate, ideas stirred. Enjoy. (Learn more here.)
Our Host
Britt lives in Houston, Texas where she spent 10 years writing, reading, laughing, and learning alongside 10th graders, and now writes, reads, laughs, and learns alongside brilliant 7th graders!! She began participating in writing communities in 2020 and has discovered the powerhouse poets of the monthly Open Writes. When Britt isn’t in the classroom or writing in her notebook, you can find her drinking black coffee and discussing educational inequities with her husband while wrangling her three boys (aged 1, 3, and 5 years old).
Inspiration
When my son noticed a scab forming on his knee, he was wildly confused thinking he had hurt himself again but couldn’t remember when. My mom described the healing process to him in a way only grandmas can (meanwhile, I was still figuring out how to turn my cursory Google search – “Scabs are a natural part of the body’s healing process and form to protect wounds from infection” – kid friendly). It was fascinating to watch my son making sense of this new “pain” (did his scab really hurt…?) that was allegedly a marker of healing.
I started thinking about how the things that heal and hurt, at the same time, get more complicated as we get older. For example, the decade old friendship I let go of a few years ago; it hurt to lose the familiarity, but my healing from the toxicity positively impacted my other relationships almost immediately.
Process
Write a poem in any form you’d like that considers a moment, object, process, relationship, or anything else, that has simultaneously acted as a healing and hurting agent.
Britt’s Poem
*Full disclosure: My poem is an offering to a family member who experienced this loss very recently.
The obgyn presses closely
around the entire incision
as she winces, unable to see
but a little worried that
the doctor’s fingers will
poke right through the sutures.
“You’re healing well!
the doctor proclaims, a pitiful
smile plastered on her face.
There is no incision site to
assess the hurt of losing
her angel one day after
birth.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
Better late than never?!? Thanks for the prompt and your heartbreakingly beautiful poem, Britt. Spring has been a time of loss for me: my mother died in April of ‘94 and my brother in law in the final days of last March. Whomever said the etheree was addictive was correct— so here’s another. (This post pasted wonky last time and then got labeled spam when I tried to edit. I’m going to let this one sit however it lands! TGIF.)
—
April Elegy
2/21/2025
Spring-
It splits
Open earth,
Forget-me-nots,
Blood red poppies stab
Green daggers though scabbed soil
Still webbed with winter’s death shroud.
Eliot warned us of April’s
Two-faced cruelty- wind soft as baby’s Breath as the sky weeps life into waste land.
There’s supposed to be a break after “baby’s”— c’est la vie!
No Pain No Gain
No pain, no gain!
Why does change / growth have to hurt?
Pain is a way of life even when it feels like death.
Physical pain
Emotional pain
Trauma
Trauma
Trauma
So, does no gain mean there was no pain?
Could it be that the pain just halted us in our tracks…
Until we could catch our breath
regain our composure,
stand
and
heal.
Grief by grief by KP
Journal open
I remember what I should have said
what I should have done
Regret and tears
Purge my grief
Drop by drop
Anger takes over the stage
I accuse
I rant
Lashing out at what didn’t work
What hurt
What was missing
Asking why
Days and ink expended with each leaf
eventually
Gratitude,
fond memories,
and increased love
replace sorrow
melancholy joy remains
peace fills my pages
Time got away from me yesterday, but I had plenty of it this morning. I didn’t know the angle I wanted to take, so I began writing. Thank you Britt for hosting yesterday. I know too many moms who have experienced this, some suffering in silence. “You’re healing well!” seems out of place, but what else can someone say to try to heal the hurt? This line resonates with me because how often do we miss the mark with our words when we’re trying to help? I know this is not purposeful, but sometimes, it’s best just to be silent.
Pain is usually something I try to avoid, but since writing for me is therapy….
But Pain is a Part of Life
How do you move forward
after being knocked
three humongous steps
back?
When words aren’t valid enough
and chocolate just won’t
do.
“It’ll be ok.”
Or
“I feel your pain.”
Do you really?
Can you
hold my hand
while I wince at memories bursting
through the seams of my heart.
“If you need anything, let me know.”
Can I hold you to that?
I don’t want
you to walk in my shoes.
I really want you
to burn the shoes
that I walked in
so no one else can live
this experience.
But pain is a part of life.
Clean the wound, watch it fizz.
Blow blow blow
until it no longer hurts.
But pain is a part of life.
Hot wax on
unwanted hairs,
Quickly ripping off
the sticky strip;
Maybe skin
too?
repeat.
Breathe in,
breathe out,
holding back
choice words.
But pain is a part of life
Watching someone
take their last breath.
Seeing them one last time and not
knowing it.
New life arrives and departs on the same day,
in the same minute-hour.
But pain is a part of life.
When that feeling overwhelms,
making your world stop
exhale that breath that’s been
trapped,
hidden behind
“I’m fine.”
How do you move forward
after being knocked
three humongous steps
back?
You take it one…step…at…a…time.
Pain brings healing.
Lovely, painful, and hopeful all at the same time.
Thank you, Kelley. So many feelings and emotions-two positives sandwiched between the negative.
Thanks, Britt, for the opportunity to reflect on some positive affirmation. Very healing!
A
turning
point as I
return to home,
leaving behind, here,
the pain of knowing that
I can’t return again to
the life and lie I left behind.
Saving the future from the past, I
step into the present, hopeful, ready.
This is lovely, Wendy. The first three line breaks really work to let us know what to expect. The last four lines are really powerful.
Healing and hurting
What hurts?
Embarrassment
Rejection
You didn’t laugh at my joke.
You saw my weakness.
What heals?
Affirmation
Acceptance
You heard my voice.
You loved my weakness.
saw vs loved my weakness.. wow, this gave me chills. Thank you for offering this poem, Allison.
Allison, I like reading and rereading this, thinking of the juxtaposition of each line in the first and second stanzas–embarrassment – affirmation, rejection – affirmation, and so on. It makes me realize how it is not that difficult to give the four things in the healing stanza to others. Thank you for this.
Allison, loved these sentiments and your use of alliteration and parallelism to make your words memorable. Beautiful and true sentiments!
Allison, “You loved my weakness”. This is healing. I love how you compared the two with different levels of experience. As quickly as I read it, it leaves a profound impact! Thank you for sharing.
This is wonderful. May I use it for my public speaking class?
Yes, friend! By all means
Britt, I will now try to write a poem. But let me first acknowledge the power of your poem in honoring the small life and the world of pain. Thank you.
Britt, thank you for this prompt. It has been on my mind all day.
Some people’s scars are thin white lines,
precisely straight or ruggedly jagged,
Barely visible, easily overlooked.
Then, there are those of us whose
Scars reveal an injury for
Everyone to see.
Past the trauma and unbearable pain,
The scar is layer upon layer of
Granular tissue on otherwise clear skin.
No balm will lighten or smooth it.
It is a constant reminder,
“I survived.”
Katrina, I love the contrasts you present in your poem. Those layered scars sound tough. Your ending is great.
Our scars tell such stories, don’t they? Thank you for offering your vulnerability in this poem, Katrina.
Katrina, so much truth in your words. I’m reminded of the many physical scars we bear, but also those internal hurts that surface daily in our words and action, for better or worse.
Wow Katrina, your last few lines,
“It is a constant reminder,
I survived.”
is empowering. Pain hurts, but there is also healing in knowing that because of our scars, we have a story to be able to tell because we lived it! Thank you for sharing.
A Short Season
By Mo Daley 2/17/25
When a six-year-old is trying to hold the line
at his second football game,
and his cocky opponent stares him down and says,
“You’ll never be good enough to catch me!”
The pain makes him unlace his cleats
and declare he never wants to play again.
The pain makes his grandmother want to cry,
because his self-worth still depends on others’ opinions.
She’d trade places with him in a heartbeat,
knowing that she likely would have tripped the brat
or told his coach/dad about the unsportsmanlike conduct.
Instead, they finish watching the game together,
then retreat to the safety of home,
where they can eat cookies and read books
and know that love will always show pain the door.
Mo,
Absolutely love your last line:
I can feel both the pain and the love in your poem, but, for me, the balance tips to the coziness and togetherness of the last stanza:
Mo,
As the last kid picked for every sport, I feel the pain for grandma and grandson. Yes, “love will always show pain the door.” Cookies and books give an assist.
Cookies and books – nothing better. Beautiful poem, Mo.
Mo, loved this vignette. Gramma for the win, every time. That last line!
Mo, this is beautiful. Even though those hateful words are embedded within, the ACTIONS of a loving grandmother, helps ease the hurt and make joy return.
“and know that love will always show pain the door.” is a line that I need to hold to my heart. Thank you!
Britt,
Those last few lines in your poem are a gut punch. I’m so sorry for her loss. My DIL had a miscarriage right before Christmas, so I’ve been thinking about baby loss often these days. Some losses never heal.
My poem is in response to something that happened around 1986 and the open wound left in the wake.
death cure
you introduced them as your kids
you wrapped octopus tentacles around their waists
i stood to the side—alone, asking,
what does that make me?
dementia—time’s incurable disease—
took your memory first, then your life &
i wonder when you forgot them, too. your
forgetfulness is not a Billy Collins verse
i lost the chance to tell you
i forgive your cruelty—for myself—
now that you’re many years dead
i still long to say i regret calling you mom
only time soothes some hurts.
only a confessional poem heals pain
Glenda Funk
2-17-24
Glenda — Wow! This poem is so raw and these lines
“now that you’re many years dead
i still long to say i regret calling you mom” — really packsa punch. I feel your pain. I hope your confessional poem brings your “confessional poem” brings you peace.
Those octopus tentacles are such a strong image- no wonder this memory has stayed with you so long. You are so right. Some losses are nearly impossible to heal from. I love that your confessional poem is a way of healing.
Glenda, “death cure” is quite a powerful title. I’m glad you were able to write this confessional poem today. I know we both believe in the healing power of poetry. It’s so important. That first stanza brings questions that really show the aloneness and sadness of the relationship.
Glenda, the feeling of pain comes through in your heartfelt yet sorrowful poem. Thank you for your honesty. This line really touched me, “i lost the chance to tell you
i forgive your cruelty—for myself—” that spoke to me and reminded me of my uncle. Hopeful that time is blessing you.
Glenda, absolutely stunning poem. The title, the tentacles, the confessional…
“I forgive your cruelty – for myself” is a line I’ll be thinking about for awhile.
What a powerful poem and what a powerful moment you captured. There really is no incision site…but I will keep your family in my prayers. Thanks for this reminder that hurt does bring healing…or as I let my mind wander, never quite as much healing as I thought.
Well, I must say, the first time
it took a long time,
a very long time,
for the wound to heal.
Those days, I blamed myself.
The surrounding tissue
was pink and tender
and my self-made stitches
(a twist of shock and sorrow)
kept ripping. Fresh blood
kept seeping through.
But time and the child did their thing—
lullabies and lazy days, storybooks
and weed bouquets soothe a broken heart.
Sometimes I’d feel a stabbing, a pulling,
a prickle, but these (I thought) were phantom pains.
Even now, I sometimes feel them,
pulsing red beads of blood
that squeeze through homemade stitches.
They say a broken bone grows back stronger.
Must be different with a heart.
Oh, Ann, the images here are so visceral, embodied. Just such a reminder that we are all made of this tissue and that our skin holds it in unless we need these “self-made stitches” — those “red beads of blood” do remind us of our humanity.
Sarah
Simply stunning. Thank you for offering this poem. This line…
“was pink and tender
and my self-made stitches
(a twist of shock and sorrow)
kept ripping”
Wow. Thank you for your vulnerability.
Ann,
You know that meme showing arms wrapped around a heart? Thats what I’m sending you. These last two lines make the point:
“They say a broken bone grows back stronger.
Must be different with a heart.”
I don’t know if a broken heart ever completely heals. It’s that question the Bee Gees ask: “How do you mend a broken heart?”
Ann,
I like how you show both the pain — the extended metaphor of the surgical stitches is brilliant—and the balm of
And then leave us with a final raw, gut punch:
Ann, what a beautiful and heartbreaking poem. Thank you for sharing this pain. These lines sound like lyrics to a bittersweet ballad: “lullabies and lazy days, storybooks / and weed bouquets” I’m going to share your poem with my grieving daughter.
Powerfully said. I love the part in penultimate stanza “Lullabies and lazy days . . . weed bouquets soothe a broken heart” So well said and so heartfelt. Thank you for sharing.
Britt, this was a timely ask for me. I am extremely moved by your poem. Your words were descriptive and gave that painful but relieving effect. There can be recovery from pain – hope.
That Ache
Soothed by
pressure of warmth
Gargling of warm salty water
Tablets and respite for an hour or so
Then that
Sharp indescribable pain
Sets in and settles
Stretching and digging deep till
Standing
Feels like the only solution
Motionless but really meaning
to soothe the pain by just being present
Hopefully
This will all cease
When more pain is administered
In the name of treatment
Waiting to see the dentist asap!
Juliette, what an incredible and powerful reminder “to soothe the pain by just being present.” I am holding onto this.
Sarah
Oh, Juliette, how relatable! “When more pain is administered/In the name of treatment” – isn’t this so wildly ironic? I love how this line speaks precisely to healing that hurts. Thank you for sharing your poem.
Nothing is worse than tooth pain! You’ve captured the essence of it well. And of course we must receive more pain to dull the pain! Brilliant.
Juliette,
Yikes! The pain of a tooth ache combined with/ the pain of sitting in a dentist’s chair equals two unpleasant experiences. Bring on the gas! LOL! I really like the way you built to a climax in the poem. At first I thought you were talking about tonsillitis. I love the surprise at the end.
Britt, thank you for your poem. I’m so sorry for your family member’s and the whole family’s loss. I wanted to write about my Phoebe, a granddaughter who we lost last September after less than a month. I find it very difficult still to think of healing with that hurt. You have explained that so well with the comparison of the physical wound to the great loss of losing this precious one.
Thank you, Denise, for your words. And I, too, am so sorry for your family’s loss. This is such a tender, tremendous loss for our family. Here’s to both our families and the journey toward healing.
I wanted to write about my granddaughter too . . . she was 5 1/2 when she died, but I’m not ready to go there today.
Britt, I loved your little story about your son’s healing woes. The Googling about scabs and your appreciation of Grandma’s response.
I may have lost the through line of healing hurts in my poem. I got the idea for my poem because last fall I made an effort to see a sister after being on opposite sides of the world/country for 14 years. I spoke up at times, we were civil, but it is so difficult to find healing with a sister who has such opposite views of life.
Magatrocious
A lifetime of sisterhood
so fragile now in old age
with your inimical, hateful beliefs.
Do you also find my beliefs to be
destructive? Hmm…
Not to the planet,
not to the poor,
the cold,
the hungry,
the oppressed,
the marginalized.
Perhaps you are worried
only that my beliefs may be
destructive to my chance
for an eternal reward.
I think I’ll take my chances.
This poem really spoke to me as I’ve not heard from one of my siblings in about ten years. I tried to include him in today’s reflection, but it was too hard. My break with him had nothing to do with beliefs on a grand scale but something much smaller and getting smaller as the years pass. There is so much pain in the loss of someone who’s known us all our lives, and yet, I feel your strength, and agree that caring for the planet, for the poor, cold, hungry, oppressed and marginalized could never be wrong. You’ve actually sent me a kind of “buckle up” dose of courage!
Denise,
Your words, written for a specific and collective reader, hit home (and remind me of a conversation with a sister-in-law years ago). The question of “destructive” and to whom is at the heart of this — the collective of humanity or /and “my chance/for an eternal reward.” And this word “chance” is holding layers of meaning fo me here, too. Lots to ponder and consider. Thank you so much and especially for that last line where you made me smile “I think I’ll take my chances.” Yes.
Sarah
Whew. Denise, you nailed it. Thank you for sharing with us the vulnerable relationship with your sister. This stanza…
“Perhaps you are worried
only that my beliefs may be
destructive to my chance
for an eternal reward.”
I find it so ironic who the recipient of the eternal reward will actually be…
I’m taking my chances with you, friend.
Denise, my friend, what I love so much about you is that you stand firm in your beliefs and it’s unfortunate that she doesn’t join you on the side of what’s right. I know you’ll receive your “eternal reward” and for that I’m deeply grateful.
Denise,
Bravo and preach. My relationship with my sister is tenuous at best and hostile at times. I love the list of who is not harmed by your positions. If I were a betting girl, I’d take the odds you’ll be in heaven before your sister.
Choir Blues
Singing in the chorus is a joy to me.
Sang in the children’s chorale at school, church, and in college.
Harmonizing and holding the note can be challenging
but being with a team of singers is reassuring.
A gospel choir was initiated at my traditional Christian church.
At the time, my daughters were young,
rehearsals were on Wednesdays and ended at
8:30, then 8:45, then 9:00, then 9:15.
“I need you to pick up my Granddaughters on
time because you and I have to get up and teach tomorrow,”
my mom would sternly tell me in her
exasperating voice.
After a few months and my growing irritation
with the disrespect of my time,
I decided to leave the group and just enjoy them on
Sundays from my pew.
My heart hurt, I longed to rejoin them, my alto
voice was questioning my decision, and I missed
the women in my section.
I listened and nodded when they complained
about the dismissal time yet I stuck with my decision
and was content.
I rejoined the choir two years ago, am now singing
soprano, which is challenging sometimes, and
the best part is that our rehearsals are on zoom.
Seana, I can feel your passion for singing here. Sometimes you have to wait for the right time.
Seana,
I am loving this closing stanza and the “now singing/soprano”– yes, keep singing.
Sarah
Ahhhh, how I wish I could sing!! God didn’t give me your special gift. Enjoy it! Embrace it! Shout it from the mountaintops!
I love this poem and completely identify with it. I’m a choir person too. I struggle with dress rehearsals . . . my feet going numb as I stand and stand and stand . . . soon my hips even go numb, then the next day, or that evening, is the performance and it nearly cripples me. But I keep singing. What it gives me is far more than how much it hurts.
Britt, Maybe it’s because it’s Valentine’s Day month that I chose to write about this incident. And, those of you who know German will note the word play in the closing stanza. Since so many here comment on my rhyming, I’ve decided to try to include other poetic devices, just to stay up to date.
Whose Surprise?
Wanna go with us?
It’ll be a nice surprise.
Gals like ’em and so do guys.
Sure. What weekend?
Oh, we’ll get back with you.
And they did.
We sat in the audience of that college game
Wondering if he’d go on to fame
Maybe I soon would share his name
But no! After the game,
We knocked on his door.
He opened, saw me, and said
What are you here for?
Tears rolled from my eyes
So much for a surprise
My pain I couldn’t disguise
But alas, that was years ago
But maybe due faith or maybe fater
We reunited a few months later
We married right after college
But the pain, I can still acknowledge.
Anna! I wasn’t expecting that ending and can honestly say I felt your pain. I also felt your joy!!! Happy for the happy ending!
Wow, the ending sure surprised me!! What heartache, but what a happy ending. What a tender kindness to ourselves when we can acknowledge the pain.
Britt, hi and thank you for today’s prompt. Your poem speaks to the depth of sorrow so many women experience in losing babies. I am so sorry and send my condolences to your family. I kept thinking about “hurt people hurt people, and healed people heal people.” This is what I ended up writing, a 4 x 4 poem on healing hurting.
Healing Hurting
Healing hurting
a lifetime choice
one day it’s gone
next night it’s back
Don’t look for it
healing hurting
living inside
our bones’ marrow
Released or not
we must go on
healing hurting
until we’re free
This life needs us
well, loved, and whole
we never stop
healing hurting
© Stacey L. Joy, 2/17/25
Stacey, I love how you wrote this 4×4. With your permission, I look forward to sharing it with the family members who inspired my poem….sometime further in the future, of course, but I’d love to share it with her.
“This life needs us/
well, loved, and whole”
Whew, amen and amen.
Thanks, Britt! Share away!!
Stacey,
This is so true! The human condition is certainly one of pain and healing. As much discomfort as the pain causes us, it lets us know we are alive.
Stacey,
This is all true, the deepest hurts take a lifetime of “healing hurting.” Sometimes it’s exhausting.
Oh, Stacey, what a beauty! “healing hurting” is a perfect refrain. And that last stanza. Like Britt said, Amen and amen!
Needling
Long story short,
I hurt my neck.
Thankfully nothing serious.
Just the side-effect of diving into my friend’s too-shallow-for-diving pool.
The doctor suggested physical therapy to work out the lingering sting of my stupidity.
Squatting against walls, pulling chunks of iron on pulleys, delivering buzzing jolts of electricity – nothing seemed to diminish the error of my ways.
“Let’s try needling,” the Dr. suggests.
Think acupuncture without the magic or mystique. No incense. No windchimes.
The idea is to insert very thin needles into the aggravated muscle tissue, thereby causing it to relax. Sure, I’ll buy that. Stab it with a needle to make it relax. Makes perfect sense. Let the needling begin.
Without researching the concept, without consulting other experts on the subject,
I trusted the process.
One by one, he inserted fine long needles deep into my neck.
I couldn’t feel them. I couldn’t see them.
Maybe it was all a ruse? For all I know, he was pushing his finger into my neck while winking at the other therapists.
I like to believe that the needles worked, and the pain diminished due to scientific principles.
Yes, that’s what happened.
The winking at other therapists!! I’ve wondered too many times about this very same image, ha!
Whether a mind trick or not, here’s to you feeling better!
Winking is one of my favorite (Shakespearean) verbs! Love this.
Shaun,
Love the humor in your last lines. Glad the needling, whether a placebo effect or true medicine, worked for you.
Shaun, I’m glad you found some relief and “trusted the process”! “[R]use” or not; it worked! (And I really enjoyed the humor in your final lines.)
Shaun, You never disappoint. Thank you for threading the needle between hurting and healing. I love your willingness – verve — to push humor against pain. Bravo.
Okay, let me just
rip off the band-aid
on this one:
Josephine Knight
Dickson’s husband
gets credit for inventing
The Band-Aid®
because his wife “was
always getting minor
nicks and burns while
working in the kitchen.”
This was in 1920,
before antibiotics
before portable,
flexible bandages
for tiny injuries
were available.
A few years later,
Johnson & Johnson
marketed these
to great success,
and the husband
was promoted
to Vice President
of the company.
And Josephine? No idea.
I assume she went back
into the kitchen, where she
continued to cook and
clean and cut herself
for the benefit of her
family.
(Odd, you know, but I don’t
remember seeing images
of Betty Crocker with
her fingers bandaged
like an MMA cage fighter,
but then again, she was
just a fiction anyways:
a “brainchild of an
advertising campaign”
probably, undoubtedly,
made up only of men.)
And what, ultimately, came
of Josephine’s husband?
Fifty years after his death,
he was inducted into the
National Inventors Hall
of Fame®.
__________________________________________________
Thank you, Britt, for your prompt and your mentor poem today! My heart goes out to you and your family members after this tremendous loss. For my offering today, I was playing with the idiom – rip off the band-aid – and stumbled on the history of the band-aid, and with a heavy dose of speculation – maybe they really did invent the idea together and she just didn’t really want the fame or recognition – and zero further research on my part (for info from stanzas two, three, four, and nine go here and for stanza seven go here), I crafted my poem.
Great poem, Scott – or is it Great Scott, a poem? I love the deep dive into the inventor’s wife’s kitchen where she “continued to cook and clean and cut herself” – the alliteration and polysyndeton made me chuckle!
I absolutely love the rabbit hole this took you down and really need to practice doing that to see how I might be inspired to write poems! I will now go on a Google search adventure to learn more about the band-aid, by the way… Ha! Excellent poem!!
Scott, thank you for shedding light on Josephine’s role in the development of modern medicine. I think she deserves her own poem.
Scott, first: I can relate to going down the endless rabbit hole of research, one thing leading to another, ideas morphing. This poem is FASCINATING. I kinda question why Josephine had so many nicks and burns while working in the kitchen, so much so that sterile bandages were needed that regularly. Hmmm. I mean, yeah, I have given myself an inadvertent slice or two and have blistered a finger or arm once or twice across the decades, but I generally learn to NOT do the thing that way again. Granted, I wasn’t a 1920s house wife who maybe had to kill and carve her own chickens, but still. I wonder. It was good of Mr. to come up with something to keep her from bleeding into the meals and such (picture the faces of the judges on Chopped: pure horror). The stanza about Josephine slipping into obscurity in the kitchen “where she continued to cook and clean and cut herself for the benefit of her family” is PRICELESS. What craftsmanship and artistry you possess – conveying the underlying message of roles, recognition, and fairness with wit as sharp as Jo’s cutlery. Touche, friend – point so well made, in such humorous vein! (Ok – I will stop with the puns, but I really am serious). I also love your confession of doing zero further research after your initial stumble onto this captivating history. Just fabulous – every bit.
Britt,
Thank you for your prompt and poem. These lines are heartwrenching:
“There is no incision site to
assess the hurt of losing
her angel one day after
birth.”
Years ago, my cousin lost her baby during birth and that pain still lingers in our family. Sending my condolences to you and your family.
(Note: I really like my father’s girl friend and happy that he has found joy)
A Father’s Healing and Daughter’s Sorrow
She cuddles beside him,
lies in bed next to him.
They hold hands and laugh,
your vacant spot filled.
She is kind and generous,
fills the emptiness and loneliness of dad’s many widowed years.
I am happy he is healing, happy for him.
But her presence
is a knife twisting into my heart,
carving your absence into a ragged gulf of sorrow.
For my father, I welcome her, give her a hug,
harbor no ill will towards her.
Yet, I yearn for you, yearn to hear your voice, see your smile, feel the warmth of your guidance.
I miss, miss, miss the sweetness of your mother’s love.
I’m not too old to need you.
I wonder,
how can growing fondness and grief exist in the same space?
As she nestle beside him
Tammi, thank you, thank you. I have a friend experiencing this similar circumstance..
“how can growing fondness and grief exist in the same space?/
As she nestle beside him”
So bittersweet. Thank you for this offering.
Tammi,
I’m glad you like your father’s girlfriend, and I guess that helps. Still, the pain is real. After my father died it wasn’t long before my stepmother remarried and upended my brother’s life and left me w/ out a home to return to after my freshman year in college. It’s okay to be happy for your father while feeling the pain of that twisting knife. Sending hugs to you.
You ever think something is wrong with you
that you no longer cry during commercials, like
how a snowstorm zips through your backyard
and the cedar tree just shakes it off like nothing?
I’ve lived in written scenes of atrocities, looked
the literary gorgon in the eyes and maybe she
has turned me to stone. Most days my melancholy
waits for reports like sleet to wipe away,
expects orders like a blizzard to shovel
all the while not feeling the cold at all.
Maybe my past tears are a frozen pond, and I am
skating across sunken wounds now. Maybe cries echo
in other ways these days, not in waters but in
breath. Yes, breath. I do find myself exhaling
more these days.
Sarah.
These lines —
“Maybe cries echo
in other ways these days, not in waters but in
breath. Yes, breath. I do find myself exhaling
more these days.” — really ring true. I understand this feeling of numbness. I feel like it is the only way for us to protect ourselves because the atrocities seem so ovewhelming.
This poem is so powerful, Sarah. I actually put tears into my eyes! “Turned me to stone”, past tears as a frozen pond! The imagery and the connection to nature evokes powerful emotion here. Wow.
I love the last line, Sarah! To lose the inspiration, but recognize that there is more exhaling these days. The inspiration an afterthought, and the exhaling easily noted. I am not expressing it well…We skate on our tears and it is beautifully creative, but it is a different melody as songs go. I used to empathize with the man who built the fire, now it is more the Old Timer from Sulphur Creek. Great value and worthy of listening to, just not as much swagger.
Still not making much sense…
Sarah,
You always find the perfect words, comparisons, poems!! Doggone it, this is incredible:
Then the frozen pond and breath! So much to enjoy while also feeling deeply for your emotions. Honoring them whether they’re cold or not.
Warm hugs!
Sarah,
“I’ve lived in written scenes of atrocities” and “Maybe my past tears are a frozen pond, and I am / skating across sunken wounds now.” These are some of the breathtaking lines in your poem. Your poem makes me sad and weepy. The words are matter-of-fact yet visceral.
Sarah, I understand completely. I come close to tears at times. I am rereading your line, “Maybe my past tears are a frozen pond, and I am / skating across sunken wounds…” Sometimes, we just need a good cry rather than this numbness.
Britt, what a searing poem. The pain of sutures, the fear of the doctor’s fingers pressing right through – so visceral an image, leading to the eviscerating loss of a baby. Healing and hurting all wrapped up together, inextricably. Your poem hits me hard. In response, I find myself writing about what has hit me hardest in life thus far. I’ll summarize by saying that we all live and die by the choices we make. I has to make a hard one, and now that all parties are dead, I can’t truthfully say I wish there had been reconciliation. What I do wish was one chance to have said thank you for the good things along the way.
And – thank you for this prompt! It is a good thing!
Lesson from the Grass
When it is cut, grass
secretes a chemical to
repair its own wounds.
The fresh green fragrance
is also a warning to
other grass: Look out
—danger Is coming.
Yet the grass cannot uproot
itself to escape.
What is grass to do
with such communication?
I am not the grass.
I pulled up my roots
when the mower took Daddy
(he couldn’t escape).
I made my green salve
from distance, out of harm’s way.
Memories are sharp
as razors. They hurt.
I grieve. I mourn. I live here
in the long, long wake,
remembering my
mother before she became
the mower. Green salve
for wholeness, before
the unholiness. I breathe
that sweet scent, and heal.
Fran — I feel your pain through your words.
“I made my green salve
from distance, out of harm’s way.
Memories are sharp
as razors. They hurt.
I grieve. I mourn. I live here
in the long, long wake,”
The metaphor of cut grass works really well to convey your message of grief, regret and healing.
I hope you continue to find healing in the “green salve for wholeness”
Fran,
This is a beautiful extended metaphor. I’d forgotten this detail about grass. The complications about your mom are painful and so in need of the salve distance brings, whether physical distance or mental distance.
Fran, this is very powerful! I love the crafting here: the short clipped sentences after the line break of “Memories are sharp / as razors. They hurt. / I grieve. I mourn.” And the use of “Daddy” vs “mother.” Thank you for writing and sharing with us.
Fran, there is beauty in this poem, in lines like, “Green salve / for wholeness, before / the unholiness, I breathe / the sweet scent, and heal.” Your words remind me of our capacity to find beauty.
using his chainsaw at the IRS today
thou shall not
read the headlines
before writing poetry
i forgot this basic tenet
of my writing practice
now i stare at the page
gutted
some pain is so raw
devastating ongoing
it is hard to imagine
ever healing
we are in such a time as this
here in Washington, D.C.
watching this administration
break apart
desecrate
everything
that is so precious
power corrupted
history rewritten
careers and livelihoods
erased
everyone hurting
when will the bloodbath
reach those in other states?
when will we cry
STOP!
how will we heal?
Maureen, this vow to not read the headlines before writing poetry is worthy, indeed. I, too, have had to be extremely mindful about what I read in these polarizing days. I appreciate that bit of humor in your poem’s opening, a good hook for the progression to all the pain and the cry for healing…which really will be found when our need for each other outweighs our hatred. Someday.
Maureen,
Yes! Writing poetry is hard these days when our country is in chaos. I agree with these lines –“some pain is so raw/devastating ongoing/it is hard to imagine/ever healing” — hope that we can some how find a way to get through this difficult time.
Maureen,
I assure you the bloodbath has reached every state. Here in the west we feel the pain of NPS hutu g freezes, which means no summer staff at Yellowstone NP, and elsewhere. We rely on forest service workers for our public lands. Many in our community work for the Idaho National Laboratory. I saw the IRS headline and am numb. I don’t know if there will be healing from the destruction taking place in D.C. The entire country is shrouded by a dark cloud.
Maureen,
This is so surreal. I don’t see the understanding from my students, and I feel sadness knowing the fullness of their teen years will be muted by so many different attacks on our already struggling town. Ironically, it’ll be a “we” suffering, made up of red and blue, and the 99.9 percent of our nation. Ending with a question is honest.
Growing Pains
You should have known I would always change,
Getting stabbed in the back by friends,
Good people are hard to find,
Drinking has no appeal,
Want to be alone,
Stalked by best friend,
Moving on,
Healing,
Growth.
M.W., moving on from destructive relationships may be a theme for many of us today. I find your final lines absolutely triumphant. And “Good people are hard to find”… I hear you. Good people are trustworthy…that’s what I find myself longing for, so often.
“Moving on” is an enormous part of healing; this is a poem of strength.
M.W, I agree relationships can be complicated. These two lines are so meaningful, Healing /Growth.
So much of the healing is about the fewer words, doing what is simple and difficult, but rewarding in the end. I like how you progress to that.
Britt,
Thanks for the prompt. I have been trying to do a haiku (or something that shares similar syllable counts) every day, with the goal of getting a whole year. This is from yesterday driving home from Iowa City.
Bitter environs,
driving through bright Iowa cold:
Life allegory.
Whoa, Rex. So much said in so few words! So true, too.
I feel the rawness of this – both the world and your immediate surrounds. Indeed, “Life allegory.”
Rex, somehow the apparent oxymoron bright cold strikes a chord with me today. It’s bright outside, but below freezing cold. Where’d the sun leave its heat?
Britt,
Thanks for the prompt and your poem. It can be so hard when our physical wounds are easier to see and comment on then our emotional ones. Storrytelling trumping science in your inspiration made me chuckle.
Parallel Paths
My injury does not resolve itself
within the three days as the ER paperwork
advises is typical
I apply pain patches
swallow ibuprofen and muscle relaxers
press into my acupressure mat
wrap myself in a heating pad
that my husband buys me
I wait the recommended three weeks
before seeking further medical attention
I go to PT on Tuesdays and Thursdays
I lie on the floor to do my exercises
three times a day
I try and avoid stress
but can’t skip my seventh period
I’m discouraged
at times the pain and mobility seem worse
finally I gradually feel improvement
my muscles start to relax
but where’s the PT and RX for my grief
I’ve slipped past the point of counting
the days I don’t cry
but I have cried with raw abandon
these last three days
it’s no longer my routine
to call you every morning
but my brain still signals me
to call you at random times
I’m sidelined from my usual boosts
of biking, climbing and swimming
so I seem out the balm of birding
slowing to watch the hopping yellow
Sharon, I love how your title sets the stage for the glimpses of physical and emotional healing..with relapses. These lines really gripped me:
but where’s the PT and RX for my grief
I’ve slipped past the point of counting
the days I don’t cry
but I have cried with raw abandon
these last three days
…I remember a similar time in my life, counting days I didn’t cry. Strength will come, though. And oh – the balm of birding! You and I are of a feather here. I also love how you end with “yellow” – here, such a hopeful color..
The pain within these lines is excruciating.
The line, “but where’s the PT and RX for my grief” – we have physical remedies, can take ‘action’ – but how to soothe that innermost cry for healing?
The trajectory of your poem makes me think about the ‘generic’ timeline for healing – your “cried with raw abandon
these last three days”
I wonder if we are able to soak into grief (and healing) only after we go through the motions of alleviating physical pain?
Sharon,
I appreciate the mentioning of stress, balanced with having to go to seventh hour. Such a teacher predicament. There is a strange balance to the abandonment of not counting the days not crying to also being sidelined from usual routine. It captures a mental strain well, the melting of time.
I hope things are better.
Britt, thank you for hosting us today! Your poem opens the hurt and reveals its layers, raw and painful on so many levels. Healing of the body and mind are such different processes. My apologies to all this week for not being able to participate as energetically- – we are going on 30 hours now without power following severe storms on our winter break, so I’m having to get to places with wifi to post. I look forward to catching up when we return to some level of normalcy.
Forgiveness
depths of forgiveness
understood, finally, as
she welcomed her child
eeeeek! I wish I could send you power. There’s thousands without power in my area as well. So sorry to see this. The words that hit home with me in your lines, “depths” and, “welcomed.” Such distances between the two brought together.
Kim – yes. A thousand times yes. Love cannot be love without forgiveness. I see your child in your arms. And – although it didn’t happen in this life, my mother and I will someday embrace one another, all the hurt forgotten, all the healing complete. Your haiku sting my heart and my eyes. And – I am so sorry about the storm aftermath you’re living through; I hope restoration is underway. My thoughts and prayers are with you, friend.
Babies! The healing balm of this world.
Children definitely change perspectives! Thank you for crafting this! (And I’m sorry to hear about your loss of power. I hope it returns soon, Kim!)
I hit send too soon without adding in my poem inspired by your words.
Eleven years
Almost twelve
One would think
It would be better
by now
Yet there are times
when the loss
feels fresh again…
it happened a few days ago
as an elderly couple
ambled by
she with a walker
he with slow legs
yet there they were
taking their time
holding on to each other
shuffling over to the
Valentine’s scene
to pose for a
couple picture
holding hands and smiling
as my tears flowed
thinking
it will never be us
Christine, I feel the ache at the end – the time cut all too short, with the hurt re-opening on seeing others still going but fading in their own time. Hugs to you, friend. It always makes me sad on holidays like Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and Valentine’s Day that don’t play equitably and seem to throw salt on the wounds of absence.
ooof. The sharpness of the pain at the end…that hits hard. And, the beauty of recognizing what the other couple has in spite of the walker and the slow legs also sharp. Both beautiful and so much a part of each other.
I can feel your hurt in this poem. How can true love be so beautiful and so cruel?
Oh, Christine. As some have written in these posts today, maybe time doesn’t quite heal all pains and hurts… Sending hugs and love. Thank you for your offering today.
Hurt to Heal
you have to feel it–
that heartache,
that achy stomach
like a gut-punch mixed
with indigestion–
in order to heal.
you have to feel it–
that how-can-I-move-on
brain worm that won’t cease,
the how-can-I-live-without-her
sung on repeat–
in order to heal.
you have to feel it–
the burning anger
that she left
coursing through your veins,
the bile of resentment
rising in your throat–
in order to heal.
you have to feel it–
the relief of no longer
juggling two lives,
not having to check
your watch, your phone
for a maybe message–
in order to heal.
you have to feel it–
the budding hope
that something else,
someone else,
awaits to fill your heart
and soul and calendar
with unconditional,
available love–
in order to heal.
hurting . . . feeling . . . healing.
~Susan Ahlbrand
17 February 2025
Susan, oh – – how I feel this from the depths of my soul today. You reach in, all knowing, and those of us who have been there feel so seen. Nothing eases that pain. I love your repeating line. You have to feel it – the wrestling and grappling and sleepless nights. Yes.
To me, this is grief described perfectly…you have to feel it to be able to overcome and move past. Wow. Great writing.
Oh the gut punch – I can feel the emotion in this!! Excellent work!!
Susan, your poem captures many of the emotions expressed in our poems today. Repeating the same line … as the refrain… drives home the truth that one must hurt to heal. In fact, come to think of it, if there is no hurting, there is no need for healing. Hmmm. Well, we know hurt comes. It’s good to know from your poem and others that “trouble don’t last always “.
Britt, as a grandmother I appreciate the note of confidence that we can heal without the power of google
Your poem was moving and unfathomable for many, reminding me that healing takes on so many forms.
Grandmothers are the absolute most magical humans!!
Worse than silence,
the tenor sax sounds
wounded, like an old cat
in the corner of a room –
out of tune and out of
sorts – my breath, of course,
out of sync with its notes:
it’s broke but can be fixed;
it’s this I think about
in the days it lays open
on the workshop table,
the technician like surgeon
taking my Martin apart –
reduced to pads and keys
and levers and springs –
things just scattered about –
piece by piece by piece,
until that moment
of re-connection,
when repairs
have been complete
— Kevin
PS — Martin is the brand of my saxophone, which was recently in the shop
A great description of hurting to heal. All those pieces that need fixing and cleaning. It’s not a cheap thing to do! But, you’ll be so happy when that Martin comes home.
Kevin, seeing your beloved instrument with pieces splayed on the table must have required great trust. I feel the relief when “that moment of re-connection” occurs. Brilliant
Kevin, I hear the pause in the music as you wait on the saxophone surgeon to finish operating. And then the joy returns.
I really enjoyed how this shows that to heal you must take the time to individually fix and clean all of your pieces.
Wilson’s Way
It was 1982,
I crashed right into,
his big wheel,
All my Star Wars men scattered,
we were both bruised
And tattered.
We were mad and laughing,
As we laid there from the crashing.
We became best friends that day,
on the corner of Howell
And Wilson’s Way.
Climbing trees
and building huts,
stick bows
and Tonka Trucks.
Time was free,
We had all day,
to create, live,
And play.
We competed
in all sports in school,
wore Panama Jack,
We were cool.
We hunted and fished,
Everything was
as we wished.
in 1990
Our antics took new levels,
we drank and smoked,
Like little devils.
I called him my best friend,
We were brothers to the end.
He tried crack at fifteen,
Which splintered in between,
a bond tightened by blood,
I was below,
he rose above.
Trust that I clung to,
slowly rusted a hole through,
boyhood sayings
did not mean as much,
Our addictions
became our crutch.
He served time in jail,
I dealt with my own hell.
Somehow,
our brotherhood was lost,
Egos exploded
at all cost.
What I did to him
and he did to me,
we created our own
dispiarity.
My hate for him
exist today,
as I have
traveled miles from
Wilson’s way.
Though, childhood memories,
I do not regret,
I am glad
my path was set,
with strength to battle through,
Best friends,
I thought were true.
His addiction and ego,
ruined a lifetime
of being bros.
And
I am glad,
I to accept
the nothing we had.
Our crash,
Crashes on,
With opposing life tones
Was it a waste
or a lesson?
No,it was Hell,
before,
My blessings…….
Oh, Boxer…this is such an incredible ballad. The growing sadness and tension I feel as I read your written lines is real.I love how it starts with the Big Wheel. I loved those things. They are such a great memory of childhood. And, this stanza:
“Climbing trees
and building huts,
stick bows
and Tonka Trucks.”
This stanza brings me right back to days spent with a cousin who I adore. Thank you for this poem. The question at the end, the foreshadowing of the crash…all so good.
Powerful, and full of deep, deep emotion and nostalgia (friendship, addiction, regret, hate, reflection) and more. Thank you for sharing your words.
Kevin
Boxer, thank you for these words, simple and complex, emotional and heart-rendering. I’m stuck on the crash that brought you together and tore you apart, a living hell until your blessing. Thank you for these vulnerable words.
Wow, Boxer . . .this is so powerful. You tell quite a history here, leaving me yearning to know more. The rhythm is captivating and the content haunting.
Clayton, I’ve always heard it said that when we write from the place of deepest pain, it’s the best writing we do. And it’s true – – from Star Wars men and Big Wheels to addiction and jail, the crashes are real. The force is with us in good ways and bad, and I’m so thankful that you chose to heal, to accept the blessings.
This was powerful. We are so often hurt through growing up, losing out childhood friends, and changing completely.
Oooooh. What a great prompt. I love how the Mom in your inspiration googles and the Grandma tells a story. My Grandma was such a good storyteller and comforter. Your poem is such a painfully exquisite example of the hurt of healing. I gasped at the last line. Thank you for sharing it.
Physical Therapy
Tuesday morning
Thursday morning
Stretch
Ice
Tuesday morning
Thursday morning
Stetch
Ice
Tuesday morning
It doesn’t hurt so much but tears flow
soaking my cheeks
soaking the paper sheet protector on the table
so many tears without explanation
I don’t know why I’m crying, I say
Where is your happy place? My therapist asks.
There’s no thought or choosing. It just comes out:
The pond, up on the hill.
Stretch
Ice
Healing.
Linda,
the repetition of phrasing fits perfectly here, and then the image: the pond on the hill.
Lovely.
Kevin
Linda, that pain of PT brings the tears even as I read your lines and remember the weight on a broken ankle. Happy places indeed, so far from the pain of the moments that cause us angst. I’m glad you have the pond on the hill!
Linda, the repetitions here are music as well as a device for the cycle of PT and its pain. How I love that place was invoked as a motivator to keep stretching for healing beyond the hurt.
Hey Linda,
I’m also on a T-Th PT schedule. I’ll be thinking of your poem and your
“pond, up on the hill” when I go to my session tomorrow morning before work.
Love how that images leads right to
Sending healing thoughts your way.