Welcome to Verselove, a place for educators to nurture their writing lives and to advocate for writing poetry in community. We are gathering every day in April to write– 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, phrases that resonate, ideas stirred. Enjoy. (Learn more here.)
Our Host: Kim Johnson
Linda Reif (left) and Kim Johnson at the NCTE Convention, November 2024
Kim Johnson lives on a farm and is the District Literacy Specialist for Pike County Schools in Georgia. She is the author of Father, Forgive Me: Confessions of a Southern Baptist Preacher’s Kid (Tate Publishing, 2012); and a contributing author of Words that Mend: The Transformative Power of Writing Poetry for Teachers, Students, and Community Wellbeing (Seela Books, 2024) and two other books written with EthicalELA writers. She blogs daily at www.kimhaynesjohnson.com.
Inspiration
I’m using a prompt from 90 Ways of Community (p. 140) for today’s inspiration. You can download a free copy here. In the book, I describe Joe Brainard’s I Remember strategy. When members of EthicalELA attended the National Council of Teachers of English conference in Boston, Massachusetts, I combined the I Remember approach with Linda Reif’s Quick Write model to inspire attendees to create random poems in a short time frame. The most heartfelt poems came out of that session. Imagine my surprise when I realized that Linda Reif herself was in that session as we shared her Quick Write model!
Process
● Reminisce on a time and place in your life that you want to revisit, or
● Ruminate on a time and place in your life that you want to re-imagine
with new eyes and perspective, or
● Imagine the future and predict what you will remember.
Give yourself two minutes to list whatever comes to mind, keeping your pen moving the entire time. Circle one idea, then write for two more minutes on your chosen idea. Repeat the process as many times as you like to unearth the specifics. Your poem can be as short or as long as you’d like, and take any form your prefer (see here for a list of form suggestions). Accept that whatever you write is good enough. Give yourself permission to reject this idea and instead write whatever the universe calls you to write today.
Kim’s Poem
I remember clutching
her warm hand
as the death rattle beat the drum
of her final march
deferring to my brother,
“I picked the spot.
You pick the plot”
I remember pleading,
“Lord, I need a sign
she can rest in peace”
confessing I’d prayed for a sign:
a majestic bird in flight, wings outstretched,
assuring peace
I remember fighting tears,
wanting to shoot three birds circling overhead
resisting the urge to punch my brother,
who was fighting his own tears
wait……of laughter?
I remember eyeing him,
raising one questioning brow,
tightening my lips,
muttering obscenities
wondering if he was drunk
as he whispered sideways,
“She showed up! With her parents!”
I remember feeling the full force of her humor,
her sign: sending buzzards in place of an eagle
I remember my animal-loving mother –
prankish and ever-present.
Even now.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
I went with “Reminisce on a time and place in your life that you want to revisit.” Mine being when I lived in California with my mom and my dad.
Dad
You told me I was special,
because I was your only one.
You told me that you loved me,
that I was your only love.
You used to spend time with me,
at the McDonald’s and the park.
You used to draw and color with me,
pretending it was tattoo art.
I wish I knew why you left,
Because it hurts from time to time.
I know it’s not my fault,
But I was too young to realize.
Now I’m all grown up,
I know I wasn’t bad,
You’re the one missing out,
You never were a REAL dad.
I Remember
That night
That drive
Your eyes
It was unexpected
The way your gaze stayed glued to me
Like if you looked away, I’d disappear
Be a figment of your imagination
You assumed you were being overlooked
But you weren’t
For which every movement you made
I noticed
I could tell you cared
Yearning to be loved
With no clue how to say it
But actions speak louder than words
Your gaze; fixated on anything else but the road
With your touch lingering longer
That is when I realized
That maybe
I wasn’t ready for this night to just be
Something I remember
I Remember Everything
The way the left corner of your
mouth twitched when you were
bein’ ornery.
The way your right pant leg
never quite met your boot.
The way you propped me up
on pillows in
the middle of the night
to help my cough.
The scrape of peach fuzz
against my skin
when you planted a Papaw
kiss on my cheek.
That your pants were Dickies and
your coat was Berne.
That you had a saying for everything.
That hell had no fury like a Papaw
who saw elbows on his table
or who saw tears in his babies’ eyes.
I remember your calm.
That you parted with the tips
of a number of your fingers
and your left leg
That you reunited with your fingers
but not your leg.
And that you didn’t let it stop you
from causing mischief
from smiling
from being glad to be alive.
I remember everything
most of all
everything you did to show
you loved
me.
Curse words
Hell. Mom told me
to go there.
She didn’t even pray
for me to get out.
It’s hot in hell, Mom.
Would you really stuff
me in an oven?
Agony flies out,
mouth agape into a
pillow
Mom, do you agape me?
But I get it, Mom:
Out of the abundance of the heart…
So, I spread my arms and imagine
I’m flying. I spread my arms for you.
Out on the kitchen floor,
shattered bowl still
sleeps so soundly.
I can feel the emotions you had while writing this. This is a very powerful poem <3
I remember sulking
around the confines
of a cold ICU waiting room
biding time for my turn
that time did come
and it vanished before me
I spoke to you
and you spoke to me
Neither of us thought
that it was one of the last
your kind eyes
told me it wasn’t
Not a year passed
back here again
a new and worse worry
these times were the last
I crept into your dark room
your kind eyes
did not greet me
your breathing labored
I spoke of my passion
any dream I had
reminisced upon
our many fishing trips
One last time
but this time
I felt called
it was time
Your last day
before hospice
my last wandering
into your now bright room
I gave you one last look
spoke my last few words
and then you were leaving
suddenly gone
Not 24 hours later
I receive the news
that really was
the last time
The story you tell in this poem is really powerful. We never know when a moment with a loved one truly is the last time we see them. I find the “kind eyes” of the addressee of this poem very evocative; they are hopeful eyes.
I’ve been struggling to write about this for years. Thanks, Kim, for making an iteration possible that finds its way a step closer to truth.
“Jen”
Between classes, Jen and I
would pass our notebooks back and forth:
Spiral bound, red and blue,
Paper covers, tales within.
We’d spend our time
in boring class
constructing tales of friends and foes:
Each one would start, the other carry on
And this is how we filled our days.
Mr. Hay would drone and drone
in monotone, his bald head shone,
about the history of the world,
battles, warfare, allies, foes,
while I’d continue mystery tales.
Jen had a favorite character:
His name was Trench, she’d made him up,
a crush of sorts,
hard boiled-p.i. she ‘shipped herself with
in her head.
We roasted peers
in lit-girl way, titling our stories after
schoolmates’ names who held our ire,
who broke our hearts and stole our boys
and called us out and made us feel we were
who we really were.
Revenge: a story titled with
their name and which exposed their fatal flaw,
judge and jury, we.
My boyfriend never understood
why we were friends: “She’s just
so weird,” he mused when I would choose
her company instead of his.
College came. Jen drifted toward
another friend and working life,
a flower shop,
I drifted toward another boy,
and college life, and parties held
in stinking frats and bars with ground-
glass littered floors that crunched beneath
our cool boots.
And just like that, our tether broke.
I don’t remember why it came or when it did,
but do remember
feelings hurt on Jen’s part more than mine.
There was a dumpster back behind the mall
I drove there in my car,
the notebooks like a stone
in my cooled heart
and threw them in the dumpster
one by one.
(I’m still not sure
what I thought
I had thrown away.)
Oh! This story poem is so good and sad! You threw them away. It reminds me of old stories I threw away and all those notes my friends and I passed in class. It also makes me think of old friends. I have one that I lost in a similar way. I love your last parenthesis lines even though they are sad. And these- the notebooks like a stone
in my cooled heart!
A painfully relatable piece that you have shared with us Wendy. I sometimes wonder just how I would feel if I still kept some of those notes around, or even a few little trinkets that I used to use daily, or even if I kept certain people around. Then, I am always reminded that people come and go throughout our lives for a reason. Thank you for writing!
I think your recollection of the past is super evocative. I love the rhyming of “drone” and “shone.” It makes me think that students generally thought of him as boring and also bald. I wholeheartedly relate to your experience with Jen. In high school, I also thought my friends were friends for life. The tether does break without our knowing it.
First Date
Where do you go
on your first
first date in
15 years?
On the rebound
like Dennis Rodman…
Movies? Kinda creepy.
Ice skating? Rocky vibes.
Fancy restaurant? Try hard.
How about Pepe’s?
Best pizza in America,
caszh but classic,
Plenty of talk time
in a corner booth,
time melts like
mozzerella over
local pepperoni,
red wine and Peroni
and a kiss at the end
of the night…
“Where’d you take mom
on your first date?”
our little guy asks,
“Pepe’s,” I tell him.
“WHY?!? She hates pizza!!!”
Hey Kim, thanks for this prompt! I’m pretty sure I was at that session at NCTE! I love your poem— there’s so much love evident in your remembrance—between siblings, for your mom—thank you for sharing that with us!
Are you from Illinois? Rodman? Pepe’s? Maybe not IL as it is Mexican. We had plenty of margaritas there after softball games for years. Love how your remembering has stirred some of my own while offering me a lovely glimpse to witness a scene from your life.
I am most assuredly a New Yorker, although Illinois is great and Chicago has amazing energy! I’ve always liked Rodman, his Pistons days, through Chicago and LA, even as a Knicks fan. The Pepe’s I’m talking about is the New Haven spot (although the date was in its Bridgeport location). But now I’ll have to look up Pepe’s Mexican when I’m in that part of the country!
Funny how little guys always tell the truth – – and they can know as youngsters what it takes us years to figure out. Hey, if she hates pizza but stuck around AND there was a kiss, there was clearly something that sparked. Great poem!
Wish I Could Forget
I remember you reaching for me
And I cracked open
There was nothing left to lose
Warm hands rising and falling
On my ribs
Sleepy soft breath on my neck
How you were clinging to me
Like a chrysalis on a blade
How when you broke out
Broke down
Broke free
You went back to your side
Of the bed
And I became the shell
The glue and
held myself
Kasey,
There’s so much meaning packed into these lines. That last stanza strikes me as both empowering and profoundly sad. And I keep running over the “chrysalis on a blade” metaphor that is full of multiple meanings.
Kasey, the intimacy is this poem reflects the power of poetry to reach into all scenes of our lives and serves as a reminder to us teachers that we are full human beings. Your poem reminded me why we made this space foe teachers–so that we can explore all the ways poetry welcomes all and the whole of self.
Kasey, there is so much to love here. Even in togetherness, there is alone-ness. Sarah wrote a book about it – – and I love that title and love this poem. It’s like wax in the ocean sometimes – – water, water everywhere but some things don’t absorb.
Kasey, the metaphor of being both the shell and the glue is so powerful. I feel as if it enhances the sharpness of your message, making it a deeply personal read. Thank you for sharing with us in the space.
If I close my eyes
The first generation
Crosses the line
I remember
“Every adventure begins
With a first step”
Adorns my cap
I remember
Filing in rows
Randomly ending up
Where I once began
I remember
Gallagher Iba
SHS class of ’10
OSU class of ’17
I remember
Scanning the crowd
My two reasons why
2 and 1, we link eyes
I remember
You’re okay, I whisper
Relieved at earlier news
Spaced out in Boone’s
I remember
My three musketeers
Will watch on as I
Am adorned with satin and velvet
Will they remember?
I feel Stillwater in these lines and the in between. The- What next? What now?
excellent poem!
They will remember! This is so good. The beats in your lines, the near rhymes, and refrains of “I remember” and then how you trouble the line at the end.
The inspiration – – yes, your musketeers will remember. How could they forget? This is poignant and touching.
Kim! It’s so great to see you on here. Your poem reminds me how, even in the midst of grief, the universe (or perhaps our loved ones) will send signs to remind me that I don’t have to be in complete despair. The sign of your mother – bringing company! – as a buzzard made me smile.
And I did try to list ideas for today, but knew the memory sparked by your poem was my only true choice. And I didn’t want to write this poem, but I knew I’d regret ignoring the inspiration. Here goes:
The Last Photo of My Mother, Alive
Was taken four days before she died,
when she had ceased talking,
ceased eating.
It seems fitting I should remember
how
I heard my mom use the F-word
for the first time,
and liberally,
at her mother-in-law’s 90th
(two days after
lecturing me about
which bad words were safe
and which were forbidden)
and
It seems fitting I should remember
how
honest
our relationship became
once we both decided
it was fine
to be colorful
and
It seems fitting I should remember
how
we were free enough together
in the midst of the multiple
indignities of being
an aging human,
she could flick me off
without reservation
or consequence,
so
It seems fitting that the last photo
of her, alive,
Isn’t her
laid out in the hospital
bed, it’s her –
or her hand, actually,
curled into a fist,
save
one choice finger.
Lainie— I think I would have liked your mother. Your poem gives us an honest, vibrant, loving mother. Your final image of her made smile. What a wonderful tribute!
I am so glad to wake this morning to the reading of this poem that brings such truth of sharing reactions in a way that we feel safe with each other, knowing the love, sharing the reactions, understanding that the bond is strong enough to give a hilarious finger there at the end – – something to remember with a smile. I hope that you frame this for future generations of her family so that they can smile too. I’d have loved your mom!
I love how you memorialize your mother in this poem. The image of the middle finger presents me with, first humor, then a sense of celebration of her long life. It takes a deep love to appreciate a person’s entire being, even their middle fingers.
Thanks Kim for a great prompt. I found myself turning it on its head as I hiked a lovely trail through vibrant wildflowers today. And I couldn’t resist turning it into a photo essay.
I Don’t Remember
I don’t remember when I fell in love with wildflowers
Maybe it was when
I danced to the music of wild mustard
forehead to forehead
with great blue heron clapping the beat
Maybe it was when
the chorale of poppies
sang out the orange
a song I can’t help
but sing along
Maybe it was when she told me
I’d find globe lilies
at the second bench
and they bounced in the breezes
of Mt Diablo valley
I don’t remember when I fell in love with wildflowers
but today
I fell in love
all over again
Kim Douillard
4/11/25
https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2025/04/11/i-dont-remember-a-photo-essay-npm25-day-11/
Kim, what a great name – – :). A fellow Kim who loves wildflowers here! Your poem is fun to read with all the different names of the flowers built in like mesmerizing words with alternate meanings that keep it so intriguing = the wild mustard and great blue heron….goodness, the poem is fun both ways with names and nouns.
Kim, this is the kind of poem I wish I could have written today! I don’t have a favorite line. I love them all!
Kim, thank you for this heartfelt poem. I love wildflowers. Every line is full of imagery, and this one makes me sing too:
“Maybe it was when
the chorale of poppies
sang out the orange
a song I can’t help
but sing along.”
Beautiful!
Kim,
what a stunning poem! And it’s even more beautiful paired with your pictures. The “great blue heron clapping the beat” is my favorite line!
I remember counting the drawer
while Mr. Gin and Tonic barked for
another and the roomservice phone
rang for the third time. Discovery Bay.
We closed at 10. I said, but it wasn’t
a pizza order, it was a delivery.
It’s a boy. I announce handing off
the cash, emptying the glass, un-
tying my apron for a quick stop
at the Bell for a bean burrito, the
7-11 for a Budlight.
Welcome to our world, Jake. I am
your auntie. I held this precious
peanut in my palms while she
ate and he sipped on the first night
they became parents.
We were all just kids.
Geesh. Taco Bell and Bud Light.
Sarah,
The movement from “Mr. Gin and Tonic,” who resonates as older it me, to a newborn, and then to the final epiphany of
“We were all just kids.
Geesh. Taco Bell and Bud Light.”
speaks to my soul in myriad ways. Looking back, I was so young (25) when my first was born and felt old, and I was a 15 year old kid when my sister had a baby at 16. Yes, “We were all just kids” and now we’re close to our metaphorical “We closed at 10.” Where did the time go?
Thanks for getting this, Glenda.
Sarah—as always, you share a snippet of your life that says so much about you. That last line, “We were all just kids.
Geesh. Taco Bell and Bud Light.” What a truth. What a slice of your life. Love this!
but it wasn’t a pizza order, it was a delivery. That is the line for me! Such a wonderful memory–we were all just kids!
Sarah, such a sweet memory of holding your nephew in your arms while the new parents nourished themselves with Taco Bell and Bud Light. Beans and Beer are a great way to celebrate a baby. Got all the B’s going on – – including a beautiful aunt.
Sarah, I love how you discover the real-life delivery, and the descriptor for the customer as “Mr. Gin and Tonic” is priceless. It’s funny how the everyday food and drinks from a particular time can stand out in our memories. Loved “Welcome to our world, Jake. I am
your auntie. I held this precious
peanut in my palms while she
ate and he sipped on the first night
they became parents.”
Precious memory indeed!
What a precious memory, Sarah! This lime os so masterfully weaved in: “it wasn’t / a pizza order, it was a delivery.” That sacred moment of holding a newborn baby in your arms makes the best kind of memory. Thank you for sharing.
Memory
By Mo Daley 4/11/25
When I was a young lass, I had an excellent memory
In fact, my teachers said mine was exemplary
But now I’m distraught
With all I’ve forgot
These days my brain is like an EV with no battery!
Mo, so clever and true . The form choice is perfect, and the middle line anchors the shift in remembering so well making me wonder why remembering is the default. Maybe our batteries are meant to clear out for some reason. Ha….you got me thinking.
What a fun limerick, Mo! What is it with memory? Remember when we drove without a GPS and had to dial every phone number keeping them in our heads?
Limericks are too much fun! I definitely share the same sentiment about memory, too much useless information eclipsing what I should be remmebering. All part of being human. Thank you for sharing!
How I love a limerick! What a great rhyme scheme and such fun humor, too. I am feeling it myself, this forgetfulness…….after all the years of remembering everything……it’s a little scary. I’m glad I have a friend who understands.
Mo, you’ve got me reflecting really hard on the process of retaining memory. Do we learn so much in our lives and experience so many things that it causes us to lose some of those memories? Is the modern world in an overly innovative and informational overloaded mindset? I am sitting here wondering about what might cause us to slip in memory as we age, even if we still feel pretty bright and spry!
Kim, thanks for hosting. Fabulous photo of you and Linda. Your poem is bittersweet. That image of laughter through tears and remembering your mom’s sense of humor is pure gold. I’m gonna need to revisit this prompt and share poems about my mom’s sense of humor, but for today, I’m revisiting one of my recent blog posts and the playlist I wrote for Leigh Anne Eck’s party playlist.
Playlist for the After Party
on that day
i hope arrives
sooner rather than
later we’ll party
in the usa,
dance in the street,
celebrate good times.
i pray
i’m still standing,
that i will survive,
to sing another
one bites the
dust.
Glenda Funk
4-11-25
Here’s my original post: https://glendafunk.wordpress.com/2025/03/31/after-party-sol25/
Yes. Just yes.
Clever allusions throughout, Glenda, signaling my memory to hum on queue at your prompting. That final word carries layers of meaning in the context of “after.” Clever.
Glenda, I share the same sentiments! Love your clever use of music and your ending line is spot on! Your title is magnificent! Rock on!
Songs are so closely tied in with memory, I can’t help but separate songs from the decade in which I first heard them. I love the wordplay, thank you for sharing!
Glenda — I wanna be there dancing and singing with you! Love, Susie
Love the references to the dance songs right in the context of the poem that makes sense both ways – with titles and even if they were not song titles. What a fun party that was, hosted by Leigh Anne Eck.
Glenda, it took me a second to get your final reference. Lol. We will survive!
Glenda, I love the songs and the whole context! I’m here for it! (And thanks for the link to your longer post!)
I absolutely adore this! I love the allusions to music, and the hopeful undertone within it. I also hope that someday we will begin to party once more!
Thank you, Kim, for hosting and providing this wonderful prompt and mentor poem. I love everything about your gorgeous, loving poem and how you separate the very last line which adds such a special emphasis.
Take me back to a bleak November day
the chilled delivery room,
screaming with fluorescent lights
my back labor pain
blood loss
shock
a doctor’s concerned face—
let me hear again, “It’s a boy!”
then embrace your extra sweet weight
nuzzling against my breast
so I can coo, “I’m your mother,
Little Bird, and
I love you!”
over and over
until the world spins right again
Barb Edler
11 April 2025
Barb,
Your experience w/ labor is so similar to mine w/ my first boy. They were both big babies. I love hearing your “coo” and whisper to your “little bird.” The physical look of your poem is perfect in its similarity to wings.
Oh, so sweet, Barbara. This is a precious memory of the first nesting that drew and image for me in the coo and “Little Bird.” And I feel the world spinning again hoping it get close to something that looks like right.
Barb — I love that you have this precious memory …”Little Bird…” What a lot you have been through… I am sending my love, Susie
Barb, sounds like you had a scary moment or two, and then a world that was all right once the Little Bird was right where he belonged. I love the sweetness of this memory. Somehow, even under the fluorescent lights of delivery, the warmth is there with little ones.
-Joy! Many women told me I’d forget the pain because the baby would be worth it. I do not forget the pain…but yes.. that “extra sweet weight” nuzzled in your arms IS worth it. Such a precious scene. Your poetry helps the world spin right again, Barb. I am grateful that you write!
Oh, Barb, what a moment – meeting your “Little Bird.” You know, I actually had moments of grieving after having my second child because I knew I wouldn’t have another child. So I want to chant with you: “Take me back…”
So beautiful, Barb. Just so beautiful. Full. of. Love.
Kim, Thank you for your prompt. I loved the sadness and the joy of your poem. It made me think about my grandmother and a habit I’ve had lately of walking through her house in my mind on nights I can’t sleep.
On nights I can’t sleep,
I muscle through my mind
To pull out memories
Sticky
like Grandma Harker’s chocolate caramels.
Always wondering if this time I’ll get them right.
(Not too runny
Nor like a rock.)
It’s on those sleepless nights, they seem to turn out
As they should
And I walk through Grandma’s house
In my mind.
Pass the mirrored entry into the living room
With the 70’s green and yellow couch
Stuffed with Yahtzee dice and faded voices
Of Aunt K and Uncle Doug teasing each other and laughing
Of Uncle Andy and his boyfriend
Discussing fabrics and pattern and all the talk of Hollywood designers.
Grandma is standing somewhere nearby
Holding a camera in one hand and collecting moments in the other
To be handed down when her time comes.
I’m still not asleep so
I walk the short portion of hallway
To the kitchen and the round oak table with the Lazy Susan spinning
Stories of Thanksgivings past, (pass the) marsh-mellowed yams and gravy.
Grandma wasn’t much into food so I don’t stay long there except to see the small spoon collection which maybe at one time inspired my childhood desire for buying spoons every where I traveled which now
I think old-fashioned and silly but then
Trusted to bring a piece of each place back with me
To pile heap upon heap
Stacked places
Of times past.
I live too much in the past- going into room after room of my mind.
I’m in the family room now where Grandma’s little brother looks down with his young eyes that never grew older
After dipping beneath water and falling asleep.
He watches as I walk to the window out back and see the little strip of cement that in the summer you could fry an egg on
I don’t know that yard well because of the heat
To the hallway my mind wanders
There is something about the hallway. When I enter either grandparents’ houses
Or my childhood home
It’s in the hallway I long to linger
I walk slower there. Sometimes I see pictures hanging.
Maybe it’s the tightness of it, the enclosure
The safety
And the squeaks of the floor board
(I still remember where they are.)
An indication of a well-worn home
And a well-worn life.
If I’m lucky, I’ll make it to Grandma’s bedroom
The graduation pictures of her kids still lining the dressers
Her bathroom a purple ball of fuzz
Beneath my feet and on toilet seat.
I step back into her room and climb onto the purple bedspread, curl beside
The memory of her
And sleep.
Emily, what a marvelous poem that weaves your not quite asleep memories. I appreciate how you are able to capture precise details as you move through your grandmother’s house including the colors and actions. I loved the idea of her taking pictures and passing down memories, the sense of comfort curling up on the purple bedspread, and the fun spent playing Yahtzee. Gorgeous poem full of love and peaceful feelings.
Emily,
This is such an evocative poem. I’m drawn to
“Stacked places
Of times past.”
as I walk through your grandparents’ home via your words. I’m an insomniac and often take similar journeys in my mind.
Emily, I felt like I was sleeping walking beside the speaker here in a dream state we with the something and the or’s and sometimes. The uncertainty in the it’s. Lovely.
Oh my gosh! This one brings back so much to me! It started with the couch stuffed with Yahtzee dice and then the voices of your aunt and uncles teasing each other. Yes, I remember the silver spoon collections and we had an uncle dipping beneath the water and falling asleep. Your Grandma’s bedroom was just like my grandma’s. Such bitter sweet memories you have evoked. It is beautiful.
Oh, I was smitten right at Grandma Harker’s chocolate caramels. That sounds like a chocolate legacy to me……what a great way to relax, thinking of the memories of your grandmother’s house. I will have to try that. I had two very different grandmothers – one with a house with nothing out of place, one with a house with nothing where it belonged. I loved to plunder through both. In the one with the messy house, there was such randomness in all the drawers, but what I loved most was sleeping with the window open. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was poverty. The train ran through town right nearby. I’m going to try this strategy to relax. Thanks for the tip!
Emily, you’ve captured what I wish I could do when my brain won’t rest at night.
I love how I felt like I was sleepwalking through this poem and state of consciousness.
Hallways always appear in my dreams. Love what you did with them here.
So much to love and appreciate here. Thank you.
[Kim, I loved your memory poem…you do your mom proud. I can’t help but think that she’d chuckle at your humor and beam at your finesse with words. Susie]
THE ONE
In 1973,
with my first teacher paycheck
I bought my first piano,
a used ebony spinet,
Story and Clark,
and taught myself to play —
worth every nickel.
Drop a dime
in the time machine,
smack the spinner
thirty years,
in my first year
without marking student papers,
I changed things up.
Some thirty acoustic guitars
hung sister to sister on the wall,
violins on another wall,
electric guitars showcased in a corner,
in-between,
the Loudboxes, stands, microphones
in old cloudy glass display cases,
mandolins, hammered dulcimers,
you name it,
Music Folk, the right place
to launch Susie 2.0.
The staff,
multigenerational,
all comfortable with one instrument
to another in their hands,
tuning,
restringing,
testing, tinkering
heads turning, smiling,
all ready to help me with my journey.
I knew what I wanted.
Acoustic.
Martin.
And I had ideas about mahogany.
Guitar by guitar
we dismounted
instruments from the wall.
“Would you play the same tune for me?”
I asked, as I listened to men
who’d cradled guitars for years
play on one curved, satin beauty after the next,
until
the mahogany Martin
000-15S.
Her twenty rosewood frets,
hosted steel strings,
and a tone
that spoke to me
in a low register
that murmured,
The one.
Smaller than others,
soft-spoken
and perfect.
She wears a particular patina
now in her undulating body,
like old folks
who start to look like each other;
a couple decades added,
muscle memory;
my fingers ache
despite years of steroids,
contracture gnawing at my knuckles,
she heals me,
extracts my voice
in notes that fit
songs to ease,
still shaping my story,
I wouldn’t change a thing.
by Susie Morice, April 11, 2025©
Susie, you have a gift for all things art – music, poetry, painting. And probably more. You’ve got amazing talent, and I sure wish I had stuck with piano. I like your narrative poem here that takes us on the journey from the first piano to the guitar that called to you and murmured (I love that word) to you she was the one. How satisfying and fulfilling to find just the right instrument that fits – and to be able to play it and hear the music you make. Just wow!
Susie, what a phenomenal poem. I love the way you show exactly what happened and the music that draws you to the perfect instrument. I also love the simile “She wears a particular patina
now in her undulating body,
like old folks
who start to look like each other;”
But I especially love the way you show your affinity with the line “she heals me” and your final line is marvelous. Hugs, friend. You are always delighting me with your beautiful poetry!
Susie— you are so lucky. Your poem pulled me through from the first piano to that just -right guitar.
Susie,
You are an amazing, gifted artist: piano, guitar, watercolor, and of course poetry. I have a feeling there’s more that Susie 2.0 to know. There’s a movie in my head that I’m watching as you choose a guitar. Of course, your poem evokes that Picasso painting from the blue period of the old man bent over his guitar and one of my favorite poems, “The Guitar” by Garcia-Lorca.
So many folks today spoke about music of some kind, myself included; I’m glad so many share the reminiscent power of playing or listening. Your poem made me reminice of buying my own Martin about a year ago, searching for the one that just felt right amongst a wall of forty, fifty guitars. Such a fun and unique experience, thanks for sharing and making me remember!
Susie, I am so impressed by your artistic talents that I just want to oh and ah.
Love how you talk about instruments so easily and naturally. Your personification of the Martin guitar is so fitting here. Then, you note that “she heals you,” and I see that healing power through your evolving story.
Kim, friend, what a fun experience for you to teach a method with Linda Reif right there without your knowing. That’s incredible. I imagine one day teaching Golden Shovels and Nikki Grimes being a surprise guest
!!
You hit me hard when I read this because it’s soooo familiar even after 14 years since my mom passed:
I love that you and your brother can share this sweet moment. But the buzzards!! OMG.
Imagining What Seems Impossible
A principal candidate enters
smile brightens the room
she greets her panel, Good afternoon.
Three teachers, three parents, two administrators
return simple greetings
a few more sterile than others
After eight questions answered well
she poses one to the panel:
How will I be supported as a first year principal?
The room now an empty chamber
one administrator looks at the other
a teacher reads the room:
The district may not support you
but our staff will do everything in our power if…
The candidate carefully interrupts:
If I lead with love?
The room and the panel exhale
Yes, if you lead with love
and build relationships
before building your ego.
© Stacey L. Joy, 4/11/25
Disclaimer: I am longing for the days of principals who lead with love and leave their egos at the door. I am not going to have the honor of being led by such a soul unless someone shows up next year before I retire. I’ve only had 2 leaders in 39 years who seemed to understand the assignment.
Oh, Stacey – That is priceless. Brutal that is seems so doggone impossible to get the message through that leadership is NEVER good steeped in ego. Geez! You captured that tension in the room sooo well. The silence. I wish for you ALL the loving leadership that can give you a perfect swan song. Love and hugs, Susie
Thank you, but unfortunately, we’re not even interviewing for a new candidate. This was my hope for the future, but it’s bleak.
Stacey, what Susie said. Priceless. Every bit real. 2 leaders in 39 years might be par for the course from what I’ve compared. And what is so sad is the feeling that happens when you’ve known good and then that one leaves. I love that you told the story of the interview….and of leading with love. I hope the principal who will lead with love is the one who got the job.
Nope! I was wishing on a star.
Amen, Stacey! I have had my share of disappointments when it comes to administrators. This would be the perfect interview scenario, and it would be wonderful to experience a leader building relationships through love. Powerful poem!
Stacey,
WTF? How will that principal candidate be supported? I’d say GTFO. It takes a big fat ego to expect the staff a principal is supposed to lead to walk into a room and make the interview about them.
Lmao! I think you misunderstood my point. Principals don’t get support in my district and they need it. So when we have a leader without ego, we support them!
We don’t have that person now. She wants no help and leads with intimidation and bullying.
You’re Only 61
“I love rock and roll,
put another dime in the jukebox,
baby,” you’re dressed in black
playing air guitar
doing your Joan Jett imitation
both of us new to DC
we hung out together
oh the fun we had!
remember
how we’d get duded up
(that 80s blown out hair!)
Dupont Circle, Georgetown,
that southeast warehouse disco?
nights of dancing, laughter,
drinks, more drinks, more laughter
a couple years later
married with kids
farewell to clubbing
we did sanity runs, remember?
meeting up for five miles
through the park
how I loved your stories
wild moments at work
something silly at home
funny things said
your quick wit
that big smile
you moved way
life took us separate paths
I still smile
remembering
and now
I feel a such a chill
the diagnosis
so cruel
rapidly
progressive
dementia
only one of us
to hold
the memories
Maureen, those last three stanzas took me by surprise. Life has a way of ripping the rug out from under our feet. If air guitar can put the music out there, I send an air hug for all the love. You’re in my prayers, sweet friend, and your poem today shares the sweet times. A cruel diagnosis needs the loving arms of a partner who can do the remembering.
Oh, Maureen, I am so sorry to hear about your close friend. It is painful to watch our loved ones’ fading memories. That final stanza is heart wrenching. this stanza is such a great mirror of the time:
remember
how we’d get duded up
(that 80s blown out hair!)
Dupont Circle, Georgetown,
that southeast warehouse disco?
nights of dancing, laughter,
drinks, more drinks, more laughter.
Thank you for sharing and hugs to you, the memory keeper.
Oh that ending. Heartbreaking. Only one of us to hold the memories shattered me after the lovely story of friends! Thank you for sharing this brave piece.
OHHH GEEeeez, Mo. This is just a kick in the pants…good but awful… poem. I loved the reverie and happiness in the those early stanzas and literally made an audible OMG at the “dementia”…one of the cruelest exits ever in this already crazo world. I am so so so sorry for this loss. And I am so glad that you have such a vivid memory of the terrific girl-time you two shared…there in your mind forever. Hugs and love, Susie
Oh Maureen,
I was not expecting that gut-punch of an ending. So sorry to hear this news about your friend. Sending love and hugs.
Your poem had me singing along to Joan Jett and chuckling about this shift:
Thank you for sharing these fun memories of your friendship and the raw pain of the diagnosis.
Ooof, Maureen, your ending is stark. I love the upbeat opening and how I could relate to this music since I’m a huge Joan Jett fan. The relationship is lively and fun and those memories precious. Hugs!
What Shall I Name You?
I remember that double-wide trailer in Oldtown
And how empty it felt.
First teaching job in a town of 1500.
One stoplight.
I knew no one.
I drove around, looking for a “free kittens” sign—
There’s one! Yes!!
A box of 4-week-old tabbies;
How will I tell them apart?
I grabbed the one who came up to me– she was the runt–
And grabbed a second one who at least had longer fur.
Welcome to the family, kids.
I remember putting them in a Xerox box on the back seat of my Honda Accord,
then driving down the highway.
I remember hearing kitten cries under my gas pedal.
Somehow, SOMEHOW that two-pound runt got out of the box,
climbed over the back seat,
and the front seat,
and got under the gas pedal to say hello.
“C’mere kitty . . .”
I remember hoping I wouldn’t crash while coaxing her on my lap.
“You’re bold. But not too bold.
I will name you Britomart.”
She lived 18 years (as did her sister).
I still remember.
This was such a fun prompt! It’s amazing what popped into my head after the quickwrite.
That frisky kitten! I am right there with you, in this storytelling, fearful of your foot on the gas pedal. Great trip down memory lane!
Can you imagine their life without you as a rescue? I shudder to think about the rescues that do not happen, or the ones that do not land sweet pets into the right homes. Everything about this is hopeful, especially that you went seeking them. And put them in a Xerox box…..and one escaped…..and that the next 18 years were filled with cat joy. Is there anything better than the love of a pet?
What a great story, Sheila! I followed you on your ride alone that little town looking for the sign of kittens, then held my breath when one of the kittens got under the gas pedal.
Lucky them, lucky you, great story, great poem!
You are a cat lover like me! I find them the best companions.
Kind of like this video, but with only two kittens.
Kim…You’ve captured both a tender bedside scene and tender moment between siblings. Thank you for this sketch of life from the perspective of both sadness and remembered joy.
I went over the process a few times and not quite sure why I landed on this moment, but nonetheless, I did.
We were standing three feet apart
but I remember the force
of his blows,
surprised that words
could have such force,
such a physical force
that I would lose my breath
and struggle to breathe,
to stand,
to hope he wouldn’t wake her.
How could he?
He was only hissing, not shouting.
Then where was the crashing force
coming from?
Spittle gathered in the corners
of his mouth as he listed my sins,
each word hurled against me
like a heavy rock.
NO GOOD.
NO GOOD.
NO GOOD
SOMEDAY THE WORLD WILL FIND OUT.
YOU ARE NO GOOD. NO GOOD. NO GOOD.
YOU WILL NEVER BE GOOD ENOUGH.
When all the venom
had been poured out,
and he finally left,
I went upstairs.
I sat in the white wicker rocker
watching her sleep
and letting my tears fall.
After a long while, she stirred,
stood in the crib and smiled.
Sleep-sweated curls framed her face
and she reached for me.
I took her in my arms, kissed her,
and was good enough.
Ann, I’m hanging on the word venom and the vitriol that I imagine with that targeted language. This brings us right into the moment with you to bear witness to what was surely a heartstopping moment. And then, the tenderest of moments in a full 180 degree turnaround – – the love of a child, reaching…..and the knowing that the world is right, despite what others may think or say. I know there are many others who need to read this poem, and I hope it finds its way to them.
What a nightmarish scene, Ann. I hope he left for good. Your description here
is phenomenal – I feel as if I am in the room, too, seeing this loose, angry cannon of a man. I am so glad you were able to lean into that little cherub, with the “sleep-sweated curls.” So precious. What a juxtaposition with the earlier scene.
Ann, last night a spider bit me in my dream. I blame it on your previous poem )))
Today though your poem tell us about such a horrible experience I cannot imagine. Like Maureen, I hope that person left for good and can no longer terrorize you. I find comfort in your final stanza, especially in the concluding lines:
“I took her in my arms, kissed her,
and was good enough.”
It is so brave of you to share this poem today with us. Thank you!
Words have incredible impact as captured here in many ways. Thanks for sharing this brave piece. There’s a reason you needed to write it today.
I too have had a snake in my life. We are good, we are more than good. I love this so much especially the kiss at the end.
This prompt was a strange circle of brain waves for me. I started out with memories of my trip to Nepal and ended up with this romantic bit. The only connection being the shortness of breath. Thanks for this prompt and way of creating, Kim.
Shortness of breath
It happens when I exercise
or climbing a hill
I push my body, aim for the prize
then comes a cold chill,
shortness of breath.
It happens with a brisk dive
into water, cold ocean
I gasp, I’m alive!
Need deep breath motion,
shortness of breath.
It happens when you grab me
a surprise from behind.
Wasn’t expecting the jab, glee,
kiss and hug entwined,
shortness of breath.
Your repeating line is effective and drives home the breathlessness. I like your parallel structure with your stanzas and the repeats at the start of each one. I love it all, but especially this line that made me chuckle: I gasp, I’m alive! I”m glad you are – – you are on fire and your writing proves it!
This is lovely, absolutely lovely. That “cold chill, shortness of breath,” how it captivates in so many marvelous ways.
Susan, I love how your structured your poem with “shortness of breath” as a repeating line. While we can interpret it as all possible ways to cause shortness of breath, we can also think of metaphorical emotional occurrences which leave the speaker breathless. Marvelous!
I liked the “it happens when” as a refrain to bring back multiple memories tied to the experience. Thanks for sharing.
Susan, nice surprise at the end! Oooweee!!
Lovely! I love the shortness of breath refrain…and the delight of the last stanza.
Susan, while I’m to understand shortness of breath times describes si vibrantly in your poem, the final stanza reminds me of Bill! Still, silly Bill!
Hi Kim, thanks for stoking our memories. Mine went to a sorta good time!
Scrabble, No Babble
We had to be quiet; we couldn’t babble.
Each was thinking of just the right word.
Only deep breathing could be heard.
While waiting, my mind would wander.
Often, I d just ponder. What book will I read later
I’d learn new words, then my scores would be greater.
During the game, I’d watch and compute.
No need to be contrary. Check the dictionary.
At the end of the game
To avoid a fuss-fight I take flight to my room
Scurrying upstairs in a zoom,
Thinking maybe next time I’ll win.
For now, I have a great book to begin.
What I read may get my mind off the loss
Next time I’ll win, and then I’ll be the boss!
Fun, Anna. I love Scrabble and used to play it on-line. I am competitive like you and hate to lose. I wrote today about shortness of breath and I think your example of deep breathing would fit right into my poem.
I wish I liked Scrabble . . . every time I play, my brain empties of all vocabulary. Your poem captures how competitive it gets so well!
Anna, all the best family competition and fun, I’m pretty sure, begins with board games. And Scrabble is one that all three of my children enjoy playing. We love contesting words. I love this part:
At the end of the game
To avoid a fuss-fight I take flight to my room
Scurrying upstairs in a zoom,
Thinking maybe next time I’ll win.
Occasionally we have a stair stormer…..who takes to the room.
I hear the frustrating tension of sibling rivalry in this – and I love how you provide both the action and the thinking –
My goodness, what a good student /teaching philosophy – how to gain the skills I need? That final stanza had me chuckling; love the rhyme of loss & boss.
Anna, you reminded me about this game. We, too, play it in the evening when I go to visit my daughter’s family in Ohio. The kids play with us too, and guess what? – Yes, they usually win. I think a new book is certainly better than a victory. Lol.
Sweet. I have many scrabble related memories. Thanks for sharing this fun and playful game and piece
Ruminations on a Graduate Recital 4/11/2025
That auditorium, nearly insidious
in its silent hunger, waiting.
Collective breaths anticipating
wooden soles on a wooden stage,
wooden men, wooden instruments.
He walked out, alone,
forty-two and grey, wrinkled
hands and manicured nails.
Even the silence held its
breath, awaiting the first note.
His steel gaze,
with tendons engaged,
as if he would glare
the notes themselves into a
brief, if perfect existence.
A melody running afraid,
two guitars fighting for
the voice of one,
intertwining, fearfully
complex and submitted.
I remember rapture, envy.
I remember beauty, strain.
I remember the silence after.
I remember a collective awe,
and wishing I was on stage instead.
James, so much to love in this graduate recital. All the “wooden” adjectives, so interesting. The description of the musician. And then the surprising last line, wishing you were there tells so much about you.
I loved the surprise ending– I had been reading the whole poem assuming you were the soloist and thinking, “Good for you for doing this as an adult student!” The ending shifted everything.
James, I love the backdrop of music for the graduation – – and the inspiration to be the one on stage. This part holds me:
two guitars fighting for
the voice of one
intertwining, fearfully
That is lyrical and mysterious, and I like the wondering of the exact song.
I love how you took the perspective of the room itself at the opening – wow!:
It conveys perfectly the frightful tension of a recital. And your repetition of “I remember” in the final stanza, it ratchets up the emotion and I can feel your zeal, your excitement. Sounds like a phenomenal guitar piece.
I’m a big fan of intentional, effective repetition, and you do a very good job with it. I especially like the repeated “wooden” in the first stanza.
So vivid in this description and memories you called on. Thanks for sharing this
This is such a captivating piece! I feel like I was there myself.
James, your poem captures well the experience in the audience AND on stage. My experience was in orchestra as one of four fiddle players. We often carried the rhythm, not the melody, and we two were expected to play as one instrument, not fighting for a chance to be on the #1 stool. Thanks for memories of being in the audience, of wishing I were on stage playing cello, instead. They often got to play melody!
James,
My big takeaway from this poem is twofold: We’re never too old for school; young people think 42 is old: “forty-two and grey, wrinkled
hands.” I’m fascinated by the personification of the auditorium as “insidious” and with “hunger.” There’s ambiguity here that complicates the occasion. I want to know why the guitars are fighting and not harmonizing. The repetition of “remember” works well to highlight the binary elements in these parallel structures.
Kim, thank you for this prompt. I took an extra breath when your brother’s tears were “wait…of laughter?” So fun! And I’m sure your mom appreciated the choice, her “prankish and ever-present” Beautiful!
Sorry for my anti-poem here. After a campaign meeting for a young progressive candidate in my district to oust our multimillionaire representative, I have been only remembering a better time in our nation’s history regarding wealth inequality.
I Remember
I took pride in being the first of seven children
to go to a four-year university. It took me 6.5 years,
but I did it. I took pride in my first apartment
and paid my share of the rent. I was 22 and
worked 16 hours a week in a hospital.
I earned union wages with health care,
and at the same time I was enrolled fulltime
in a tuition-free state university.
I remember a decade late
when they decided to
apply a “trickle down” of wealth–
huge tax breaks for the richest–
Reaganomics, they called it.
I had finished school by then,
and I was working. I wasn’t paying close
attention to what trickled down: poverty,
hopelessness, and lower wages;
broken unions, no benefits for
part-time work, and no more
tuition-free education.
I remember they gave
the abundance to the rich,
instead of offering
the next generation of poor kids
a leverage out of poverty.
What used to be common millionaires
are now common billionaires, competing
to see who will be the first trillionaire.
Forty years of this economic injustice,
and we are now doubling down on it.
We need to remember.
Denise, I am right there with you. Like you I wasn’t paying close attention to what trickled down. I am wondering why we never learn… We do need to remember.
Denise, I can stand in solidarity with you and echo that final line: we need to remember. Amen, sister. And I love the way your final line uses the remember collectively.
A strong poem of protest, advocacy, resistance – love it. Your recitation of “what trickled down: poverty,/hopelessness, and lower wages;/…” Tell it like it is, Denise! So very, very true. And “we are now doubling down on” this injustice. Terrifying for the world.
Denise, your poem is a great reminder. I can’t agree more with you about “offering / the next generation of poor kids /
a leverage out of poverty” instead enriching the already rich. The history repeats itself today more than ever. Let’s make sure our kids and grandkids remember.
Something so enticing about the millionaire billionaire trillionaire part. A call to remember and never forget. Thanks for sharing this reality.
Oh Denise — I hear this LOUD and CLEAR. We teachers, in general, have been trickled down to the point of a crappo leaky faucet. Makes me furious. Education spending in my state — MISERY…missouri — is second to last in the nation. Teachers here get dumped on in every way possible…disrespected, paid so far below their value that I can see what is sadly coming next. Public schools here being defunded in huge proportions. Our kids in poverty (BIG numbers) are being left under the bus. I appreciate every single line of this piece. Thank you. Hugs, Susie.
Denise,
Hear, hear! If you every want to run for office, you’ll have my vote.
It is so upsetting to see billionaires setting economic policies that help them and not the generation we are teaching.
Denise, yes, we do need to remember. I love how you show your personal history. I, too, was able to attend college due to a Pell grant, worked part time jobs, and appreciated the help I got to make a future for myself. The tickle down of poverty is the truth, and the doubling down on it now is frightening. Thank you for sharing an insightful poem that shares an important moment in history that continues on.
Oof. Remember, indeed!
Denise,
Amen! We need to remember. I remember w/ you. In terms of labor and economics, there’s not much difference between Reagan and Trump. You are so right:
“what trickled down: poverty,
hopelessness, and lower wages;
broken unions, no benefits for
part-time work, and no more
tuition-free education.”
I remember when the tuition went away in California. I’m so tired of the greed-mongers. Great poem.
We absolutely need to remember! I love that your poem is a call to action for the economical injustice we’ve seen and lived through! As someone who didn’t live through reaganomics, your poem made me feel like I did. Amazing work!
Oh wow, Kim…your final line gave me shivers. This is a beautifully evocative poem…thank you for sharing it with us!
My poem is not of a memory I want to revisit, but it’s one that came back to me, full force, when my little school lost a student last weekend to a shooting accident. I’ve been reading Elizabeth Barrett Browning, so I chose to use blank verse to tell this story.
#39
“But we can’t go in there; his desk will be
empty…” Their hesitant voices struck fear
in my chest. Nothing in my training had
prepared me to face this bottomless pit
of grief and fear and pain, no perspective
to help temper such a raw, difficult
moment. Their classmate, with whom they had shared
sandwiches and arguments and girlfriends
since preschool had been struck down, ripped away
by the dark fingers of fate.
We stood, clumped
together in the hall outside my room–
I had to break through this impasse, because
I (however reluctantly) was the
adult, who they looked to for direction.
I looked around at their forlorn faces,
my stomach churning…then inspiration struck–
“Let’s all sit on the floor. Then ALL of the desks
will be empty.”
A beat…I could see them teetering
between blind compliance and resistance,
their social conditioning at war with
adolescent impulses. Then, Joe said,
“Let’s go, guys” and they all herded into the room,
heads down, casting quick glances toward the desk
that would be forever empty. We gathered
in a clump on the floor, among scattered
desks. All eyes looked at me expectantly.
Now what? I had not considered what came
next in this moment of shared humanity,
all artificial boundaries between us gone.
Eyes met eyes in silence around the room.
Then, “Hey, guys! Look what I found last night!”
Sam’s joyfulsorrowful voice turned our eyes
toward the stack of photos she held outstretched–
a stack of moments, of memories, they
had all shared with Stephen. Suddenly,
the thick air in the room changed from darkness
and pain and fear to a breeze of joyful
sharing. “Oh my gosh, do you remember…?”
“Oh, we loved that trampoline!” The hour
went on, until the bell interrupted
the reminiscing. Smiles faded, pain
tucked away again safely behind
shuttered faces as they trudged to their next
classes, hopefully feeling a tiny
bit lighter through their shared grief and joy.
Oh, my gosh, Julie. I’m so sorry. Poor Stephen. I hate that our children have to experience death by guns, and the aftermath. What else could you have written today? This is beautiful and tragic, and yet this: “hopefully feeling a tiny / bit lighter through their shared grief and joy”
Julie, I had goosebumps reading this. I don’t know if I would have thought to sit on the floor, so I commend you on your quick thinking despite your bottomless pit of grief and fear and pain. Sometimes it’s hard to be the grown-up.
Wow, that was a heavy moment, and I’m so sorry for the loss of your student. But what a perfect way to gather – on the floor – to honor the emptiness not only of the desk but of the hearts who knew and loved him. You empowered this group to take the next steps, which is a hard thing to do after such a loss. Thank you for sharing this today.
I am so sad for you and your students, but I love how you all came together to celebrate Stephen. This poem is beautiful. Might you share it with Stephen’s family?
Oh this hurts so deeply. I love the move to the floor, also brings back the childlike innocence of sitting on the rug with the teacher. Looking up to you for guidance in such a moment of pain. Beautiful and moving piece. Thank you for sharing this fresh wound so bravely. Hugs.
Oh, Julie. Your were brave and brilliant. Let’s sit on the floor… wow.
The dust-lined diamond, sun-bleached green,
A memory’s echo, sharp and keen.
Not future’s gleam, nor past’s soft haze,
But reminisce of “good-ol” days.
The metal clang, a sweet, bright sound,
As bat met ball, on hallowed ground.
My teammates smiles, all my friends,
Whose loyalty would never end.
The pitcher’s mound, a tiny hill,
Where dreams took flight, but yet still.
No more cheers, a changing tide,
Where youthful joy has gone to hide.
A torn labrum, a shoulder brace,
The tears roll down my face.
The taste of sweat, the grass-stained knee,
A forever lost ecstasy.
I see it now, with clearer sight,
The simple joy, the pure, clean light.
A career ended with God’s grace,
A forever missed place.
Oh, the pain of this torn labrum and the tears…..I can only imagine the heartbreak and the pain of the injury. Love what you have done here with the stanza breaks and rhymes. And I will hang on that last line……knowing that this door closed and another will open.
M.W. – I love the lyrical sense of the poem. The ball diamond is so clear and the expectation of a kiddo is so evident. Through a kid’s eye, that loss hurt right down to the tears. In the last stanza, though, the “clearer sight.” And here you are pitching a wonderful poem right down the strike zone. Way to go! Susie
M.W.,
Your poem is so vivid that I too can
Your last stanza is so bittersweet:
I like how you are able to show both your appreciation for your place in the game and your loss.
As a lifelong baseball lover, I appreciate how well you captured the sport and the emotions associated with an injury. And your rhyme really works to propel the poem forward.
I love your rhyming pattern here! Adds such a great element of sound to your storytelling. The tone shift is excellent too, hopeful, happy, to sad, almost remorseful, but I love that you come at this poem with, as you say, “clearer sight.” Amazing work!
I love this so so much, Kim: “I remember feeling the full force of her humor, / her sign: sending buzzards in place of an eagle / I remember my animal-loving mother – / prankish and ever-present / Even now.” Thank you for your mentor poem and this prompt!
__________________________________________
An Imagined Conversation with My Wife
I remember seeing the
Folgers Blonde Silk coffee
on my mother-in-law’s
counter and asked if
she liked it and she said
she did and she gave it to
us to try; the next day
I added some boiling water
and had a cup. I mentioned
to Heather that it was ok,
a bit gritty, though, and she
smiled and replied, You
thought it was instant,
didn’t you?
I did.
_______________________________________
For my offering, the conversation didn’t happen quite like that because I knew immediately that it wasn’t instant the moment of the first gulp, and, hey, it’s not weird, right?, that I’m over a half century, and I’ve never actually used a coffee maker? My folks had instant when I was growing up and in college I just bought my coffee, and, now, as an adult we don’t have a lot of counter space so I still just drink instant. I mean, we have a cold brew thingee and a french press thingee, but I would have to dig them out of the cupboard, and besides, I thought it was instant (because the current instant that I’m drinking is also Folgers) so anyways…this is all just to say, yeah, I’m dumb sometimes, lol.
Okay, this is hilarious. A bit gritty – – ’cause it wasn’t instant. I hope Heather is the kind of wife that doubled over and laughed from the mid gut. Not to condone a blonde joke, but this is so ironic. Just sayin. It’s a fun story, and I will remember this.
Oh she is, and she did.
I can’t believe it, Scott! )) It is such a fun poem today. Thank you for delivering smiles as usual.
Still a fun and playful memory to share! Thank you for bringing some laughter into the memories posted today.
AHAHAHAHA, Scott, you are such a piece o’ work! This is priceless. Ya know, when I sit down to read poems in this community, I always get to yours and never know what is going to barrel down that runway. This one had me laughing loudly out loud…my dog just looked up and surely though, “Oh, she’s reading Scott’s!” You and your wife have got to be one crazy-pants funny household. Love it. Love you, Susie
This is wonderful!!! I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it now— I wish I were your neighbor!
Self-deprecating in the best of ways! Love both the poem and the back story…fun!
Kim,
Thanks for this great prompt and for your superb mentor poem.
Just scroll on past, fellow poets! This is really just a written capture of an event that I take entirely too long to tell about.
Against All Odds
I remember the cell phone ringing
then the blood-curdling scream
from Mallory emerging from chaos:
“You idiot . . . I have state this weekend!”
I think my brain canceled out the details.
I remember meeting Brad at the ER;
Grant sitting slumped in the front seat,
his right shoulder sunken down,
his tear-stained face with
that faraway look of shock in his eyes.
I remember the doctors quiet
collaboration, murmurs of gravity,
the IV pumping painkillers and
the EKG monitoring his heart,
the darkness of the room.
I remember PK having an ER doc
look at the chart . . .
“He probably won’t throw a baseball again
or maybe even be able to hold his baby.”
I remember how dire it felt.
I remember the insistence to go to Ruxer
for the sectional . . . the sling, the painkillers leading to vomiting under the right field tree,
lots of questions and people offering advice,
the unavailability of doctors on Memorial Day
but the one being a baseball fan and sharing his cell number.
I remember the cold reception when I told the local
ortho the night before the scheduled surgery
“We are going to head to Indy and see
a specialist,” his arrogance saying, “Do what you want,
but I’ve got this and have consulted with a pediatric ortho
friend in San Diego.”
I remember feeling bad, but thinking,
“This guy were going to treats Peyton Manning”
I mean why would you not seek the best care possible,
one who deals with shoulders all day every day.
I remember the doc whose walls were littered
with signed photos of professional athletes
saying, “You don’t mess around . . .
I’ve seen thousands of shoulders and only 1%
are of this kind, this severe.”
He then humbly, quietly, kindly pointed out details
on the x-ray, then confidently saying,
“Surgery is not the best path. Too much required
hardware and too many complications. We are
going to let your young, undeveloped bones
work for you.”
I remember the grunt of pain as he tightened
the immobilizing sling until everything was in place,
rolling him back to x-ray to check proper positioning.
Every Friday, we journeyed to the north side of Indy
to check placement.
I remember an entire summer of him sleeping sitting up,
no baseball, no swimming, no real activity,
just a recliner and rabbit holes of the TV . . .
Band of Brothers and The Man in the High Castle,
and a trip to Atlantis with nothing to do.
I remember weeks of rehab to regain strength
and an entire winter of baseball
gradually working to regain skill.
I remember the two years of stellar varsity play
at second base . . .
not bad for a guy who was projected
to never throw a ball again.
***************************************
I learned to advocate for my child
I enjoyed watching him excel after a huge roadblock
and
I hope to relish in watching him hold his baby
against all odds.
~Susan Ahlbrand
11 April 2025
Susan, thank you for sharing this with us! I love the vivid details you’ve captured: “the blood-curdling scream,” “the right shoulder sunken down,” the “murmurs of gravity,” “vomiting under the right field tree.” I could continue! (And I also love how you’ve depicted so well the smugness, the arrogance of that first ortho compared with the new doctor who “humbly, quietly, kindly pointed out details / on the x-ray.”)
Susan, what a scary experience – – and it’s so much worse when it’s your child. Advocating for a second opinion is most always a good thing, and I’m glad he got to see you do that so that he was part of that experience of learning to question – – even good doctors. Love the way you wrote a narrative poem that preserves a memory. I love poetry that helps us know where all we’ve been.
Ouch. Lots of pain in your child and in your own voice sharing the story. Thank you for sharing this as a moment of advocacy. And healing properly!
Oh Susan,
I was so happy to reach the good news at the end:
I like the understated way that you delivered it and all the detailed images leading up to it.
Wow.what a powerful story. I’m glad you were strong enough to advocate for him! Against all odds…
Kim, Thank you for this prompt! I loved your poem and how it was both sad and also funny- the buzzards. It made me think about my brother dying. I chose to write today instead about the memory of my grandma’s house.
On nights I can’t sleep,
I muscle through my mind
To pull out memories
Sticky
like Grandma Harker’s chocolate caramels.
Always wondering if this time I’ll get them right.
(Not too runny
Nor like a rock.)
It’s on those sleepless nights, they seem to turn out
As they should
And I walk through Grandma’s house
In my mind.
Pass the mirrored entry into the living room
With the 60’s green and yellow couch
Stuffed with Yahtzee dice and faded voices
Of Aunt K and Uncle Doug teasing each other and laughing
Of Uncle Andy and his boyfriend
Discussing fabrics and pattern and all the talk of Hollywood designers.
Grandma is standing somewhere nearby
Holding a camera in one hand and collecting moments in the other
To be handed down when her time comes.
I’m still not asleep so
I walk the short portion of hallway
To the kitchen and the round oak table with the Lazy Susan spinning
Stories of Thanksgivings passed, marsh-mellowed yams and gravy.
Grandma wasn’t much into food so I don’t stay long there except to see the small spoon collection which maybe at one time inspired my childhood desire for buying spoons every where I traveled which now
I think old-fashioned and silly but then
Trusted to bring a piece of each place back with me
To pile heap upon heap
Stacked places
Of times past.
I live too much in the past- going into room after room of my mind.
I’m in the family room now where Grandma’s little brother looks down with his young eyes that never grew older
After dipping beneath water and falling asleep.
He watches as I walk to the window out back and see the little strip of cement that in the summer you could fry an egg on
I don’t know that yard well because of the heat
To the hallway my mind wanders
There is something about the hallway.
It’s in the hallway I long to linger
I walk slower there. Sometimes I see pictures hanging.
Maybe it’s the tightness of it, the enclosure
The safety
And the squeaks of the floor board
(I still remember where they are.)
An indication of a well-worn home
And a well-worn life.
If I’m lucky, I’ll make it to Grandma’s bedroom
The graduation pictures of her kids still lining the dressers
Her bathroom a purple ball of fuzz
Beneath my feet and on toilet seat.
I step back into her room and climb onto the purple bedspread, curl beside
The memory of her
And sleep.
I Remember
I remember holding your hand, warm, wrinkled, strong,
Safe. I remember your voice, honey thick and drawling
Dark and dangerous things happen at the Crossroads
you said as we walked towards the intersections of
Old Number One and Sardis Church Road
My fingers tightened on yours as you said don’t talk to strangers
especially ones you meet at the Crossroads, Even then I could hear
the capital letter at the beginning, the importance placed. Even then.
Robert Johnson, you said, one of them Blues musicians your grandpa
loves, he sold his soul to a stranger he met at the Crossroads.
Oh, no. I thought, didn’t he listen to his Granny? You said, that stranger,
he tuned Robert Johnson’s guitar and that musician sold his soul for
musical talent and a dangerous talent for wooing women. Our feet continued
toward the Crossroads, passing farm after farm. Why, I wondered,
are we going this way if the Crossroads are so scary? You said, look at that
field and I saw row after row of yellow sunflowers turning their faces to the sky
and you said, there is magic in sunflowers and legend has it that they bring
luck and love to the family that grows them. I marveled at the happy flowers smiling…
You said, look, your Aunt Ida has a full garden this year, and I saw row after row
of peas and beans and corn. You said, Ida was my favorite sister and did I ever tell
you about the time she walked six miles in the rain to bring me dinner because
I was fevered and sick and not able to cook? I shook my head no even though
it was a story that I heard before a hundred times. You held my hand and
told me about your sister, pausing to point out fields and flowers and birds and
a church that was having a Sing come the first of July. I walked with you
past the scary Crossroads listening to your stories, remembering
the heat of the day, the beat of our feet on the dirt road, the sound of your
voice, liquid with drawling rhythm of south Georgia, the magic of the stories that
surrounded us, the safety of my hand in yours. You said there are stories every where and
you, my baby girl, just have to learn to look and listen. I remember.
Well, my heart is singing the beat of these Georgia rhythms from my feet in the red Georgia clay. You are a master storyteller. The crops, the farms, the dirt roads, the Sing come the first of July, the heat of the day….you capture the essence of place, row after row…..of the crossroads – – of roads and of life as the generational stories are told of other times way back when. And I love that you end your poem with today’s prompt title. Sometime it would be fun to take a prompt and all add a page for a YA book on a theme like this one, just to see what things would emerge, much like a progressive poem only a progressive book. Wouldn’t it be fun to see how your poem would inspire the next scene, and the next and the next? You have the start of a book right here.
What a fabulous story poem. I can almost hear some of the dialogue as song lyrics. I love all the details here. I felt the anticipation of where you were going and the safety you felt with someone you loved in going there. Happy flowers smiling! I love that.
Wow! I love how the tone subtly shifted throughout the poem. Stories are everywhere, and they’re powerful.
I faintly remember the way the sky looked
and the way the air felt different in my lungs
jostled memories from a few photographs
the deep, clear blue of the waters
Colorado > Indiana
The rocks we tried to figure out how to get the tent stakes to take hold
the rain that unrelented our first night
the long trek back home
The sun triumphing over the clouds
lessons we tried to remember to take hold
or at least something
something other than the familiar
mother and brothers
but no father ever joining for our family vacations
he stayed back home
Luke, your poem resonates deeply with me because I only remember a few vacations where my father wasn’t called home for a church issue where he was the pastor. I used to really believe that people waited to die until we left on vacation. The one time I really remember him staying was the time we went out of the country. I’m glad your mother took you and your brothers on these trips- – these memories of togetherness are some of the richest, and I know you treasure them. The sun triumphing over the clouds – – spectacular!
A new baby
It was July 6
I remember 3:34am
I remember 19in
I remember 6ibs 9oz
I remember her name
Her name
Stella
Her eyes
Blue
Her tiny toes
Fingers
Nose
I remember the day I first got to see my beautiful daughter and it’s a day I’ll never forget
Katelyn, a July baby makes my spirits soar! I’m the 8th, and our fellow writer Jennifer Jowett is the 4th, so we can sandwich Stella right between us and hold her hands and be her writing aunts in this family of writers at ethicalela.com. I love her name – Stella – our fellow writer Margaret has a granddaughter with that name. Blue eyes, tiny toes and fingers and nose – – we are standing here admiring this precious young lady, knowing she has a village, too, because her mama has one in this community. We love precious babies who will come to know the stories of their lives through the pens of their family members. You have so many memories to make!
I love the way in which you layered times first and then details about Stella. I love the lines that repeat I remember and then the spareness of the lines that have one word…beautiful work!
Beautiful memory, Katelyn. I like your use of numbers in the first stanza.
Katelyn, Thank you for sharing this sweet remembrance with us! I love the rhyme at the end: “Her tiny toes / Fingers / Nose”!
Your poem tugs the heart while being such a sensory delight! I love how you associate peace with the “majestic bird in flight, wings outstretched”.
At two I’m tossed out of bed
like a seed out of a pod.
At two I think of my life,
Memories washed ashore
on foamy waves after foamy waves.
I remember father coming home
after night duty
redolent of the forest,
eucalyptus mingled with pine.
I remember queuing up at school
wielding an aluminium mug
to be filled with milk
by Tambi the caretaker.
Was it the smell or was it the taste
that put us off?
Both.
The milk smelled like the gutter
and tasted like an apothecary’s concoction.
Few brave souls dared to gulp it down.
Most of us edged away
from our teacher’s stern gaze
and silently tipped it
wherever we could.
Then we triumphantly took our loaf of bread
and triangular slice of cheese
and filed back into class.
Oh, the cheese?
That’s another story!
I remember being taught to ride
my father’s old Raleigh bicycle
by my younger brother.
I rejoiced when I could keep my balance
and ride downhill in a straight line.
Once I ended in a bamboo hedge
with the back wheel spinning wildly.
Another time I sped down a hill
and a dog was lying right there
In the middle of the road.
Poor dog thought I would swerve
like riders always did..
I couldn’t.
I didn’t.
So many stories, so many clues in so few words. Yet we were there for all the scenes! Excellent!
I’m hoping you and the dog were both okay, and for some reason a chuckle escaped me as I thought of what that poor dog must have thought as he realized there would be no swerve…..at least it was a bike and not a car, so hopefully all ended well enough. That said, the sensory details are rich with the pleasant scents of the forest and then go straight to the pungent smell of the dairy products. The spin of the back wheel of the bike in the bamboo hedge turns and spins just as the poem does, with movement that carries us from scene to scene here in the memory of the joys like freedom on a bike to the not-so-joys like the food we didn’t get to choose. Love these flashbacks.
The last few lines! Oh, my! What a fun ending to your poem! (Even though I want to know what happened.) The image of ending in a bamboo hedge with the back wheel spinning is vivid. I can see it!
TW// grief, death of a loved one
i find so much of my poetry is becoming very cathartic and i love that.
grandma’s house
for my grandma
i remember
the small, black
rectangular tv
cartoons, PBS kids,
snack plates, cups with lids,
or without,
depending on my age.
and i remember
her warmth as she’d hug me,
her maroon, lipsticked lips
on my cheek,
goodbye,
and i love you,
whispered against my skin.
i remember the cracking white
walls, the mysterious stains
of a house from the 60s,
barbie dolls strewn over brown carpet,
discarded, with 80s dresses,
bionic woman, million dollar man,
figments of my mother’s childhood.
i remember high school prom pictures,
white siding a backdrop for my red, or black,
or maroon dress, your frigid hand at home on my back.
even at 18, you still kissed me goodbye.
i remember when we moved the bed into the living room to make it easier for the nurses to reach you,
warm hands on your cold skin,
you slept,
a lot,
and as i sank into the floral orange couch,
or the tattered recliner,
we let you rest,
but this time, i kissed you goodbye.
i remember the black car parking out front,
as i counted tiles in the kitchen,
staring at yellow cabinets, listening
only to the sound of my own breath
instead of the timid wheels on the carpet as
mama held my hand,
and dad spoke with the coroner.
but what i remember the most
is how tight you held me,
how much you loved me,
and how much i love you too.
Oh, Molly. The love in this poem radiates. A beautiful tribute…
Molly, the first year I participated in VerseLove, I was dealing with the anger part of grief over my mother’s death, and I too found the writing to be cathartic. I’m so glad that you are finding the writing to be the same – – because somewhere in the healing part of writing is where I am convinced the anchor takes hold and we realize that we must have poetry. In the joys, in the pain. I like that you mentioned how your grandmother kissed you goodbye, and then came the shift in the poem – – you kissed her goodbye. And the world stood still for a time. Beautiful!
I love the details here–the orange couch, maroon lipstick, barbies scattered. So many rich, rich details to create a scene. My heart was breaking for you at the end and still I marveled at the details you shared. So much love in the lines. Beautiful work here.
I loved reading this. It inspired me to write the poem I did today as I was waffling over what to write about. I can relate to so many of these things- the house from the 60’s, barbies, and grandma. Your poem made me cry as I thought about the last time I saw my grandma.
Molly,
Ypur grandmother sounds like a very special person. I see the parallels between her house and her body aging together as though they are one and the same in your memory.
Kim, your poem brings so many many memories. I, too, remember a similar moment sitting by my Mom’s bed jus a moment before she drew her last breath. These lines made me shiver:
“as the death rattle beat the drum
of her final march “
Thank you for inviting us to take a walk down the memory lane. I wanted to focus on life today.
I Remember
I remember
that May in 2015,
when my heart almost stopped—
the doctor said, Cut the cord.
Hands trembling, I did.
The room erupted in cheers.
I remember
the day before,
my daughter asking me
to be there—
trusting me to catch
what she could no longer hold.
I remember
a tiny hand wrapping
around my finger—
a wave of love
I had never known
flooding me whole.
I remember
singing to you,
your restless body
cradled in mine.
Mom, can you stay with her for a bit?
my daughter whispered, fading to sleep.
I remember
your first steps,
your first words.
At two, you told me
koalas live in Australia,
kiwi birds in New Zealand.
How do you know that? I wondered.
I remember
you didn’t speak English at five.
At seven, your scores soared—
ninety-ninth percentile.
My heart, again,
could hardly contain itself.
And I see now—
almost ten, kind, sweet, determined,
a district champion in gymnastics.
Your spirit’s strong, and dreams climb high,
but you still pause to send me a note:
Have a good day, Grandma.
Leilya, focusing on living works beautifully today – – here in your poem, there is so much of this. The birth, the growing, the learning, the gymnastic cartwheeling, and still the moment to write a note to a grandmother whose hands cut the cord and then held on tight. So much to love here in your poem today.
Leilya, oh, this poem made my heart sing. Just sing. The utter beauty of the moments you describe, the joy, the intensity, the pride. The moments you chose captured both the growth of a child and also the growth of such love. Wow.
Oh Leilya, what a ten-year ride this has been. You have captured this sweet girl in so many tender moments. I had to stop and realize what you were saying here in these lines:
Oh, my, that is so powerful and could have so many different meanings, but this meaning–perfection.
Leilya — This is so loving. Totally sweet poem. What a smart little booger. No surprise there, my friend! Hugs, Susie
Leilya, oh, your poem reaches into my chest and completely pulls my heart out. I love every detail to show your precious grandchild’s birth and accomplishments. Ican hear in every word your prideful joy and love. Thank you for sharing such a lovely poem with us today!
Leilya,
Ooo! Such clever wording here:
“trusting me to catch
what she could no longer hold.”
The beginning of memories growing. Wonderful!
Kim, your poem brings me back to my own family drama around end-of-life emotions that are powerful but not always what you might expect. I thought about writing a poem about the craziness after my mother passed when my sister threw out ALL the food and ALL the medicines even before the funeral parlor had arrived. Yet, I decided to go down a different road with a long ago happy memory of a first apartment that also appeared on my list. THANK you for the strategy as well as spurring thinking this dreary morning.
Most people went up the stairs
Sunlight fueled their journeys.
We went below ground into a dark basement,
Where coin-operated washers hummed into the night
Where we never saw the sun rise or set,
Where we slept on the floor,
Yet, we learned to work together
Cooking, cleaning, loving,
In that first-to-us-place.
Anita, I’m so glad you are writing with us this month, I so enjoyed your blogs throughout March, and sharing the joys of writing with you for another month is a treat. Your interplay of direction and light here are compelling. That you never saw the sunrise or sunset tells me that you all were focused on each other in those early days, working together to share the joys and the work of life. I love that the coin-operated washers give a sense of sound in the poem……and sleeping on the floor shows the degree of love and sacrifice to make life work in the early days when it isn’t always easy getting things off the ground.
Oh, Anita, that “first-to-us-place” feeling sounds familiar. I like to learn about people, and your poem does just that allowing me to peek into your basement. This line is strikingly sobering: “we never saw the sun rise or set,” and I can read it as you went straight to your place after the work, or you worked such long hours that you could see neither sunset nor sunrise. Skillfully crafted. Thank you!
The last line really struck me–the first-to-us place. I resonated with that image and with the stories embedded in that idea, that feeling, that accomplishment. Thank you for the story that you created here. I really apreciate the way that you used sensory details–sunlight fueled (sight) and washers hummed (sound) and slept on the floor (touch) to create these images. Such a warm sense of connection created in the memory.
Anita, your poem brings back so many memories to me about various houses and apartments I loved in long ago. I appreciate how your poem shows the economic status based on the details, but how you still learned to cook, clean and love! Wonderful poem!
Anita,
Your poem is so important because it magnifies what we educators understand about what makes life happy. You reminded me of that old song “The Hungry Years.”
I remember…
When I got to meet my first brother
I was so excited about a new family member,
but not to be alone anymore in a military family.
I didn’t get to see much family,
and had to deal with a great loss of my grandmother,
never got to say goodbye,
never got to spend another summer with her.
I moved back to Michigan after some years,
got to meet my other new brother,
I was finally glad that I would have friends who wouldn’t leave me,
but I also got to be around my family.
After years of being so far all my childhood,
The relationships of my outer family have changed,
I felt like an outcast; all my cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents didn’t know me much,
but seemed like they didn’t have an interest in to getting to me know,
but just judged.
Now, I am a person who chooses people to be a part of my life,
I hated military life because of what it has done to my relationship with other family members, but the adventures I got to see no one else got to experience,
I remember being upset about being a military family,
but you know what, it wasn’t so bad,
it created the person who I am now,
A strong, independent woman who can make her dreams come true with hard work,
and a person who stands up for what is right,
and to love everyone because everyone deserves love.
Hailey, THIS RIGHT HERE: Now, I am a person who chooses people to be a part of my life. The final stanza takes something that had some regret and downsides and turns it all inside out to show the silver lining. You, my friend, have realized something that takes a lot of folks a lifetime to figure out, if they ever do – – the power of choice is everything, and you are who you are now because you made good ones. Keep choosing well, and keep writing!
Your poem speaks to all of the children who grow up without cousins, aunts and uncles. They can be powerful sources of support for children during the trials of growing up. Yet, if you live far away or if your parents were only children or if you move a lot, it just is not an option. I also choose people to be in my life and celebrate the strength that comes from reinventing yourself in different cities again and again. Powerful
Hailey, I agree, all your life experiences shaped you into who you are today. and your final line is the most important “because everyone deserves love.” Thank you for sharing your story.
Kim, I’ve read, and reread your poem several times, loving the humor (as only a tight family can create it), the arrival of birds, and the way all of it pulled together to make the moment extra special. “With her parents!” is the best comedic punch to an otherwise difficult memory, only to be made lighter with raw, sibling joy of an individual they love. It’s all so precious. Thank you. I went in another direction today…youth, when naïveté & hope were omnipresent (I still wonder what happened to this beautiful girl). Ah, time.
Scrum
you,
were always
the one,
she said.
but it
was easy
for me
to be
lured
at 22
on a night
when other moths
were flying toward
the flames.
for a while we wrote letters
& believed bottles could be thrown
into any midnight sky to find a way
from river to ocean, sea to land,
(as if little notes scribbled in time capsules
meant anything at all).
This is how we played sardines,
before being grilled, pickled, smoked,
and preserved in the tin cans
adults keep in their cupboards.
But on that night we were
streamlined with our fins
up against one another,
two bodies trying
to go unnoticed
from their trolling
nets, because
we knew
it was our last
time
&
we didn’t know
how easy
it was to forget
those games
we used to play.
Wow! All of this! What a beautiful poem of this memory. The stanza about sardines is striking to me, because the imagery of how true this does feel at times. I am trying to preserve the freshness and “magic” of playfulness and youth by seeking out ways to shake off the grilling, pickling, and smoking. Thank you for leaning into this memory and sharing this. I can connect and your words bring happy memories back for me, and that feels good even if just for a moment before I return to my tin can in the cupboard.
You drove it home today, friend! Young love at its finest, with all the full fire of love and hormones a’raging! Sardines! Ha – I love the name for that game! Your metaphors are full of feeling and we can all summon our own memories of this last time and the “all in” feelings as time for moving on arrives. I’m glad this poem is in the world – – and I can see it in a page of a YA bestseller for all the symbolism in a world that wants to ban every literal word we write. Love all your stories.
I read your poem several times and even stopped to think before responding because there is such powerful imagery about the joy and challenges of youthful romance. Your imagery about the endless hope of represented by bottles thrown into to sea is met with the realism that you someday would forget some (but not all) of what you had together. Beautiful
Bryan, as I read your poem and this stanza:
“for a while we wrote letters
& believed bottles could be thrown
into any midnight sky to find a way
from river to ocean, sea to land,
(as if little notes scribbled in time capsules
meant anything at all), “
I noticed that your poem was shaped as that bottle, a memory capsule. I wonder if that was an intent or your subconsciousness formed the poem this way. I love how you acknowledge inevitable change when people “grow up” and select what to remember. Thank you for this beautiful recollection!
I love the sounds and images created here! I LOVED the shape of this poem–like a bottle! Wow!
Ok Bryan, how many favorites can I have? I was happily following along your bobbling journey…loving the sardine stanza most of all and then I got to the end…we didn’t know/ how easy/ it was to forget/ those games/ we used to play. Oh those trolling nets! Those tin cans in our cupboards. I love this poem.
Bryan — The innocence in this poem is delicately parsed into a sort of sardine structure, which I think is brilliant. There is a wistful reverie in the tone…like all those fleeting, early encounters with affection or love or friendship. It reminds me of playing “sardines” with a little band of kids when I was young…similarities with your “two bodies trying/to go unnotices” — I haven’t thought of that in a very long time. Thank. you. Susie
Oh, the whimsy, the enchantment, the belief in the fantastical (we…”believed bottles could be thrown/ into any midnight sky to find a way/ from river to ocean, sea to land…). Your imagery is always completely captivating, Bryan. I feel like I want to say “Poor little creatures streamlined with their fins up against one another,” because of all the naive hopefulness, the believing in a magic that cannot stay. Sigh!
Thank you for the prompt, Kim. I love that your mom showed up as a buzzard with her parents. My mother showed up as a flock of geese in the form of the letter V, her name was Vivian. I truly believe beloved ones come back and show us signs. I’m glad she made you and your brother laugh. Now, that’s love.
Not sure what’s going to come out when I write today. I think I want to remember something happy.
I remember…
I came around the back
of your brick house
because you didn’t answer
the brass doorbell.
I stepped through
the frosted grass
up your back porch,
turned the handle
and stepped into your kitchen.
Classical music was playing.
You had something warm and sweet
cooling on top of the stove.
It was a week before Christmas
and a month since your surgery.
You were standing in you kitchen swaying,
Tears rolling down your cheeks.
I ran to you and we embraced:
standing, swaying with the music
and you said, “I just want to stay alive
to see my grandbabies born.
I sobbed and hugged you,
promised that you would.
Ten years later the promise has stood.
You have seen your children marry,
give you a grandbaby and now two.
Though the cancer’s returned
I can still hear hope
in that kitchen music
as we embrace again.
Joanne, I am right with you swaying to the music and grasping onto the hope you express so vividly with “I sobbed and hugged you,
promised that you would.” I’m sorry to read that the cancer has returned.
Wow. I am so glad your promise came true. Beautiful poem!
Joanne! The imagery hear is captivating for me. My grandmother died from a remission into cancer. And my mother fought cancer when I was in 7th grade. The human connection of just being there with the perso is powerful. This one makes me tear up, but remember the love…grief lasts as long as love lasts, so it’s been a journey learning that many feelings coexist at the same time. Your poem captures that for me in words I cannot often find.
Joanne, I’m literally choking back tears here. This moment. This memory. This hope that stood the test of time and still remains. I hear the music of Jean Valjean, his line hanging on “Now you are here. Again beside me. Now I can die in peace. For now my life is blessed….” and moving on to one of my favorite lines in the whole musical….”to love another person is to see the face of God.” This scene in your kitchen is tearful and filled with love and promise, the lives intermingling in the way that they begin to fray at the edges as the younger, stronger ropes hold on and carry life forward until their strands, too, give way in time. It’s all so magnificent against the backdrop of the music of life.
Joanne, I felt like I walked with you into that kitchen and my hips are swaying as I pray along side you for more time amid gratefulness for the time you have been given. I hope the prayers and love can help keep cancer at bay.
Kim,
thanks for hosting. Love the story of Londa Reif in the audience while you were teaching her quickwrite! And love the raw poem of all the emotions of grief. Thank you for sharing such a personal moment.
——————————————————
The Bridge
I remember
The shock of cold
On our feet
Pants rolled up
The smoothness of rocks
As we cousins waded in the brook
Between the culvert and red log bridge
That Grandpa built with his large, flat hands
I remember Grandpa singing
Pennies from Heaven
His hands tucked in his suspenders
When the flood washed away our bridge
and the water rose in the basement
Sharon, your memories of barefoot creek wading with a grandpa in suspenders is something that I would imagine in a Norman Rockwell painting – – so vivid, so endearing, such visions etched in memory forever. This is beautiful, and I am glad you have it now in writing to share the moment with us, too. Thank you for taking me to the cold water of the creek and inviting me to take off my shoes, too.
Your poem is so vivid with your senses and s sounds, “smoothness, shock of cold, suspenders.”
What a great way to preserve a memory. I wonder if your cousins would love to read this. Thank you for sharing this. It reminds me, too, of family adventures with cousins and grandparents.
Your poem starts with such a happy memory of childhood where carefree cousins waded in the cold water and then ends with great hope even as the bridge washes away. Every time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven. Your Grandpa certainly knew how to build memories.
Sharon, your entire poem is full of imagery. I can’t help but pause at “Grandpa singing / Pennies from Heaven / His hands tucked in his suspenders. ” This description is like a shared collective memory of grandpas in my mind, simple yet infinitely beautiful. Thank you!
Kim, I miss you as I sit alone in the little house and write “I remember”. This prompt works well to draw out the deep memories that we hide inside. Today I woke up at 4:44 AM remembering that my father said he’d always wake up at 4:44. Today is 4/11, three years from the day he dropped his coffee mug having a stroke. The number 11 was significant because his birthday was 11/11/33. Double numbers meant something. He died on 4/22/22.
I Remember
I remember
the phone call
in the middle of class.
I answered it.
I remember thinking something bad had happened.
I remember I packed a bag
for 3 nights max (I stayed 2 weeks).
I remember the gruff hospitalist
rattling the bed with her pronouncement
of no hope. You stared after her
with anger and fear.
I remember the long days
as you fought, grabbing tubes,
glaring helplessly,
speech stolen by the stroke.
I remember tears and singing,
prayers whispering, silently longing
to bring you back to us.
I remember someone said
the deepest grief comes from the deepest love.
I wasn’t ready to remember.
This tugged my heart. Thanks for sharing this tough and brave memory. Hugs.
Margaret, we are remembering with you…recalling, too…the stories of loss, the chaos arriving with them. The coincidences of numbers, dates, & memories are the spiritual logic to making sense of the sadness. This was a heart-felt contribution today, and I’m nodding my head with respect for your writing.
Margaret, this remembrance is real and palpable. Even as a diehard realist, I feel anger toward the hospitalist who squelched all hope. I’m glad that through it all, you remember the prayers and the singing. That last stanza just brings it all home – – right into the light where we can all stand in truth and assurance that deep love was a part of your dad’s life right to his final days, and even now. I missed being there, and of course we are on the road again because when family needs us, we go…..even when we had other plans. I would love to attend this festival again next year!
Oh, Margaret. Tears…
Thank you for sharing a feeling like this and a tough moment, especially hearing it during class and not knowing what to expect and getting the unexpected.
As always, you writing is powerful. Yes, deep grief comes after great love. I will be thinking of this all day.
Oh, Margaret, this strikes so close to home. Like you, “I wasn’t ready to remember.” These lines are lingering with me today:
“I remember tears and singing,
prayers whispering, silently longing
to bring you back to us.”
Thank you for sharing!
Margaret, what else could you write on this significant date. This is touching and beautiful–full of memories of his last days. Each stanza, “I remember” and then that last poignant line. Peace and continued comfort to you.
Margaret – what a searing poem. The deepest grief does come from the deepest love. I so appreciate not being ready to remember. I have lived that. I can feel the three nights turning into to weeks and the utter exhaustion and helplessness as well as the grief. Your capturing of this time here – it’s just profound. As are the number patterns. They are like code.
Kim–your poem, your memory–the laughter and the tears–so real. I loved the story for its emotion, but your telling of it is masterful–a punch line of love. Wow. It brought my grandmother to mind–she lived next door to me and was a part of every stage of my life. I was going to tell a story of when she was about 104 and had lost much of her memory. She asked my sister and me how her mom was doing. I answered “About the same”, looked at my sister, and whispered quietly, “Still dead…” But then I had so many other stories… Thank you for opening the vault for me!
I Remember–for Frances Holmes
Which story do I want to tell
about my grandmother?
Which rich, detail-full moment is worthy?
That Grandma Sancie lived to 106 and that at 103,
she just wanted it to be easy,
like she when she was 100?
That 350 people attended her
100th birthday party,
and she had taught most of them?
That she was 5’2”,
wore her hair in a silver upsweep from the 40’s
and ruled her 4tn grade classroom
with high expectations and laughter?
That I once screamed “YOU LIAR!”
because she decided to make me
a chocolate sundae at home
instead of taking me to the Sweet Shop?
(I was only 5–but I still remember the shock on her face.)
That she sat at the tiny dining table
in a pool of lamplight,
night after night, grading papers
in her meticulous Palmer script?
That when one of her house shoes was damaged,
she saved it until she had a mate
and wore unmatched house shoes
because nobody would see them and why waste them?
That her most prized (size 4 ½) teaching shoes
were red patent leather heels,
because the principal had complimented her on them?
(We placed them in her casket
So she would always have them with her.)
Then I realize that this tiny woman,
this force of nature,
was so many stories
that I can’t choose just one to tell,
that I carry this tiny, stubborn woman with me,
that she is woven into my very being.
And I know how lucky I am.
GJ Sands
4/11/25
Love, love, love this, Gayle. You’ve offered with words the mighty being she was as a grandmother, teacher, and human being. I’m picturing the face she made over the sundae scenario, knowing it was part shock, but also contentment on an ‘out of the mouths of youth’ moments. The shoes…the shoes share so much with all of us. Thank you.
Gayle, I laughed out loud at the YOU LIAR scream. I can only imagine her face at that shock that her sweet little Gayle would be so full of spunk and sass. Surely she knew right then that there was a lot of her in you. This are such lovely memories – – and those shoes in the casket will stay with me. Red patent leather shoes to walk straight into heaven with must be a way to make quite an entrance through the pearly gates. St. Peter surely sounded the alarm through Heaven: “Y’all, here comes a teacher!”
What a wonderful tribute to a force of a woman! It is the stubborn ones who live long lives. Wow! 106! Your memories are so fresh and funny and bittersweet.
Gayle, I love your poem and the fond memories you have of Grandma Sancie. She sounds like an amazing woman who taught with passion and who is remembered for this and a whole bunch of other special moments spent with her.
THIS is a great description of your AMAZING grandmother where the stories tell the reader who she was and how she would react. The image of her treasured red shoes for school as well as her mismatched house shoes is powerful and a reminder of Depression Era thinking. Beautiful
Gayle, what a glorious tribute to Frances Holmes. I love the start of each stanza “That…” because we got a lot of stories about her, and yes, you were lucky. It seems you could write a whole book about her.
Gayle, you’ve created a fantastic poem sharing amazing stories of your grandmother. I love that you put her favorite shoes into her casket and that so many people attended her 100th birthday celebration. The 5-year-old memory has me laughing aloud. My favorite lines: that I carry this tiny, stubborn woman with me,
that she is woven into my very being.
And I know how lucky I am.
Thanks for sharing such a special woman with us today!
A vibrant tribute, Gayle – what am amazing person your grandmother was! What an honor that she’s “woven into your very being.” I was captivated by the stories you shared – my favorite being the red shoes being placed in her casket. So poignant.
remember
“They may not remember what you said,
but they’ll remember how you made them feel.”
Oh, yeah?
That works both ways.
I remember what you said.
I remember how you made me feel.
I remember what I said,
and I remember how you
felt
nothing.
So perhaps the phrase should read-
“If they’re worth remembering,
you will.”
Wow! You took the words right out of my mouth. I’m sorry that there are people who hurt you (and me), our best choice is to move on. Thank for this.
Whew! There is intensity to this truth. The emotion and hurt is palpable. Wonderful poem.
Jump back, Catfish! Them’s words of truth and I LOVE IT!!! I adore the spunk and truth of poems that tell it like it is. This is cathartic when you can say what you want to say, write it down, keep it forever in your heart and move on to people who are worth remembering. High five, friend!
I love that landing! This is a surprise to read. I wasn’t sure where it was going. Oof!
I really like this, and I can connect it to my experience. It is a great statement for a poem.
C.O. — Whoof! POW! The voice in this is palpable and is packin’ pistolas! I love the final line! Well done! Susie
Kim…so much to say that I can hardly find words. I have been thinking so much lately about how we fear loss. In your poem – a huge loss, not lessened by knowing it’s imminent. Amid the anger and grief, perspective is everything. I would have expected the hawks, knowing how they’re your mother’s favorite, but buzzards are highly symbolic…they can represent spiritual transfomation from phase of life to the next…and healing. Here’s another meaning: “Historically, buzzards were sometimes considered female birds, with hawks and eagles as their male counterparts, leading to their association with a feminine, maternal principle” = your brother was onto something…
Your powerful, beautiful, intense capturing of these last moments with your mom sparked a memory for me. Thank you for everything, friend.
Nine-Year-Old Prayer
The preacher says
that when we die
we will have
everlasting life
but I am afraid
in my bed
in the night
and I don’t know
what else to do
except pray
God, please help me
to not be afraid
to die
please show me
what it’s like…
and I fall asleep
while I’m praying
and there, in a vivid dream
stands Grandma
by my bedside
holding out
a crocheted blanket
like the ones Mama makes
for new babies in the family
Grandma smiles
—It’s all right, honey
just hook your fingers
into the blanket
and hold on
and I do
because I sense
this is important
very important
and just when
I latch my fingers
into the woven yarn
it all begins to fade
into a grayness
and all goes dark
yet with a dawning
awareness of
the pillow under my head
the wall beside me…
I am waking
alive
in my bed
calm
comforted
amazed
by the answer
to my prayer
and ever after
I believe death
is an awakening
it will be
all right,
somehow
especially
if Grandma
is there.
Oh, Fran – – what a comforting presence is the appearance of loved ones in our dreams. I’ve had similar wonderings throughout my life about death. It isn’t death that scares me, it’s the dying part. The hooking your fingers in the blanket part of your poem is so symbolic here of the latching onto the web of heaven and those there ready to greet us – – like climbing Jacob’s ladder on a crochet blanket. It’s beautiful to see your grandmother in the dream. As always, you weave words of peace and assurance.
I enjoyed the detailed mystic feeling of this poem. Is death an awakening? Such a thought provoking question! Maybe this should be discussed at a coffee roundtable. Thank you for sharing
Fran, it’s the blanket for me…the comfort of familial love and knitted togetherness that you latch your fingers into…beautiful. Just beautiful.
Fran – this needs to be published all over the world! I LOVE this poem. I’m keeping it in my heart. Thank you, Thank you. I’m holding on tight!
—It’s all right, honey
just hook your fingers
into the blanket
Fran— this is beautiful and amazing. I remember those fears, but I did not have that reassurance. That blanket…
With your short lines, you capture me. I love the image of fingers latching to the blanket and holding on. “it will be all right, somehow” gives me comfort.
Oh, what a comforting dream/message from your Grandma. I love the intensity of the feeling in your dream–you are surprised to be “waking alive in [your] bed”. I’m taking “I believe death is an awakening” with me today. That’s a beautiful way to say it.
Fran, your poem reflects a powerful faith. Love the imagery of hanging on to the crocheted blanket, and your final stanza is sensationally sweet. The power of prayer is amazing, and I do hope that other side is a new awakening! Gorgeous poem!
Chipmunk Lesson
I remember,
Chipmunk Conversations,
Backyard meetings,
Always an
Open invitation.
In the heart of town,
A strip of oaks,
With a rock wall,
All around.
Housing my friends,
In tiny caves,
Scurrying for remnants,
Burying to save.
My companions,
on summer days,
I watched them work,
Their chipmunk highways.
And I would talk with them,
About my problems,
and they
Chip a way,
For me
to solve them.
Beautifully, they glowed,
In the summer heat,
Striped eloquently,
From their head to their feet.
They were always there,
From my baby face,
Until till my facial hair.
Listening to my ramble,
As I leaned against the oaks,
Wishing, crying, and
Making jokes.
I learned the worked,
Everyday,
regardless of the weather,
Or what the news had to say.
Scurrying,
and content,
Back and forth,
They came and went.
Similiar to what I do now,
Figuring out my patterns,
Even though,
I don’t know how.
And I remember…….
what the chipmunk said
“ If you scurry like us,
You will scurry,
till you’re dead.
Scurry your brain,
Bury knowledge
in your head.
Scurry your stories
So,
they will be read.
Scurry your prayers,
Every night,
Before bed.
Scurry to work,
So,
you will be fed.
Scurry your Savior,
So,
you will be led.
But,
Don’t hurry,
to scurry,
From what I said,
Patiently,
scurry,
Because
Worry scurry
Causes dread.”
So,
I heed the chipmunk’s logic,
I pattern, my patterns,
I embrace life without
Dodging it.
Though,
I scurry everyday,
I heed the advice,
Of a chipmunk’s way.
Boxer, this is wonderful! I love all the little life lessons and nuggets of wisdom tucked into this poem. This has to be my favorite: “And I would talk with them,
About my problems,
and they
Chip a way,
For me
to solve them.”
I think stanzas of this poem could be great with photographs of the animals. Thanks for this poem, this morning.
Boxer, the repeated lines of what to scurry and why are especially powerful for taking the lessons from these chipmunks and applying them to our own lives. So much can be learned just from watching what happens in nature. There are signs and lessons. I especially find this stanza so creative: (chip a way)
And I would talk with them,
About my problems,
and they
Chip a way,
For me
to solve them.
Boxer – your wordplay is extraordinary. Magical. Favorite line – “chip a way” to solve problems. Not to mention the rhyming, so this whole poem sings. This is a pure joy to read!
I love the humor in this story…death is such a part of life that there has to be humor sometimes, right? What a great memory of your mom. Thanks for giving us such a great prompt!
Today is My Sister’s Birthday and…
I remember thin cotton socks
from Olive Lee’s Five & Dime.
My sister and I could roll
those socks off our feet
toss them on the bank
of the creek–mid stride.
Barefoot.
It was important to be barefoot
toes in the loamy bed
of that cold rushing water.
We navigated mossy rocks
looking for guppies
or a hunk of blue clay
to press and roll
into coils to make cooking pots.
We’d come back home
wet and dirty
socks balled up
in our bike baskets.
Mom always sighed at the sight.
We’d probably get new socks
in our Easter baskets.
Linda, your poem is vivid with imagery and sensory details of this memory with your sister. It reminds me so much of a favorite chapter in Susan G. Wooldridge’s book Foolsgold: Making Something from Nothing and Feeling Your Creative Process, especially the part about finding a hunk of blue clay and making pots from it. Your poem makes me wish this for every child – a barefoot creek walk – instead of the screens that have replaced the creativity that comes from experiences in nature, like yours here shows. Love that final line, too – – yes, the things that appeared in Easter baskets…..
Linda-a vivid slice of your life! The socks, their origin, the process, the full circle to Easter. I felt the cold water, the creek’s bed. Beautiful!
Linda, happy birthday to your sister! What a great remembering story here. The blue clay for making cooking pots, rolling off those thin white socks (I had those too), and getting new socks in your Easter basket. So many tangible descriptions here. I feel I was there with you.
Hi Kim
Thanks for the memory tour
Kevin
I remember
the first night
in that apartment,
that old brick building,
the way the Mill River
roared just outside
the window, as if
life were suddenly
moving on
I love a roaring river. This sounds like a great introduction–I want to know more!
Kevin, I love the newness of place and the things to notice, as if my senses are on heightened awareness. This brings out the roar of a river in an apartment of brick….and the final lines get me wondering about all the ways life moves on.
Ah, Kevin…you paint a simple photograph…a moment…a memory with these words….content, concise, and moving….onward. Love it.
New noises in new homes. So powerful!
I love this short poem and how it juxtaposes life and a roaring river, both moving on relentlessly. After all, you never step in the same river twice.
it sounds like beautiful scenery, and I’m intrigued about what’s next in the story.
Kevin — I love the snapshot sense of this. Wish I were better at that. You did this in so few words, and it leaves me right there listening to the river and realizing “life…moving on.” Thank you. Susie