Welcome. All are welcome to participate in the 5-day Open Write — from one day to all days, depending on your schedule. There are no set rules for the length of a poem, and you are free to modify or reject the prompts as you wish, allowing you to write whatever is on your mind or in your heart. We firmly believe that the best writing instructors are actual writers, and this platform offers a supportive environment for you to nurture your writing journey. Just scroll down to share your poem in the comment section. For more information about the Open Writes click here.
Our Host: Britt Decker
Britt lives in Houston, Texas where she writes, reads, laughs, and learns alongside brilliant 10th graders. She began participating in writing communities in 2020 and has discovered the powerhouse poets of the monthly Open Writes. When Britt isn’t in the classroom or writing in her notebook, you can find her drinking black coffee and discussing educational inequities with her husband while wrangling her three boys (aged 2 months to 4 years old).
Inspiration
One of the first pieces we are required to read during summer school in English I is NBA Hall of Famer David Robinson’s “Letter to My Younger Self.” We study Robinson’s writing craft: the way he uses short sentences, his use of italics and repetition and rhetorical questions. We consider how Robinson takes defining life moments – failing his swim test at the U.S. Naval Academy, being drafted No. 1 overall by the Spurs, receiving a $1 million signing bonus – and reflects on them from the perspective of who he has become in the present.
Robinson writes the letter to his 18-year old self. He warns his younger self not to give up, to remember his why. He advises his younger self to remain humble, despite the money and fame and accolades. Robinson reminds his younger self that all his struggles serve a purpose for later events in life.
Process
Write a letter (epistolary poem) to your younger self with the knowledge and wisdom you have of your present.
The poem can be broad advice, or, like David Robinson, you can focus on particular moments that shaped you at a specific age. Consider what you wish you would have known back then. In my mentor poem below, I focus on one mortifying moment that shaped my relationship with money, as well as with my grandmother.
Consider:
- Core memories (2-3) that have shaped your life
- A time you wish you would’ve shown yourself more grace
- Pick an age from your life that stands out to you, that was significant in some way – what do you want that version of you to know?
Britt’s Poem
Dear 19 year old Britt –
You will open your email
at noon to discover you
owe the university 900
dollars within five hours
You do not have 900 dollars
You will panic and attempt to
craft a confession to mami,
hoping she ignores your carelessness,
knowing you are in a world of trouble
You do not tell mami
You will speed to Tita’s house
and you will stammer your way
through the facts, the excuses,
the request for 900 dollars
You do not leave without a lecture
You will be instructed to pay back the debt
by learning from the mistake,
by doing well in your studies –
and you are relieved
You do thank God for grandparents
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Dear Younger me,
The TV show Once Upon a Time
is not a reason to make life decisions.
Before you act on the tears
and fears
that Captain Hook’s death caused,
you need to stop.
Breathe.
Process.
Talk through your fears.
Anxiety is in control.
Remember the seed
planted in February.
That seed was covered
by the weeds of worries.
So it grew…
and grew…
and became a part of the landscape,
taking over your garden without you knowing.
It’s time to notice what anxiety has grown.
Don’t act on it until, you know.
This matters too much to throw away.
It’s not as messy as you think.
Love,
The Older, Present, you who wish you had waited
But, Younger me, you didn’t get this letter.
Present me didn’t know I should write it until far too late.
So I hope that one day a new note
will be left for me
from Future me.
This new letter will be full of love and good news
that the choices Younger me made driven by anxiety
did not ruin everything
and Present me’s wish to take back the past
was replaced by the beauty
of redemption.
It will say:
I am now home.
What a great letter-to-my-younger-self by David Robinson. I also find the website to be fascinating and a way to bring reading and writing into reality for the athletes in my classroom. Thank you for that shared resource.
David’s letter moved me and brought perception to things I didn’t ever consider about his generational difference to those of younger generations.
Recently I wrote myself a postcard, but sent it to a friend. I was going through a “junk drawer” and found a couple of postcards I bought from a KOA in Kansas when my two sons and I were road tripping to the west coast.
Postcard from a Kansas KOA
Dear self,
It seems so random and
unimportant.
Why do you have these?
Two, not even
just only one.
Why two?
Was it because
of who was
with you?
I finally got it. XD
Dear Younger Me
And still
if you don’t
know
by now what
your worth is, (and I
know you don’t, cuz you was
me), then, I would ask you to stop waitin‘
for
whoever you think it is will give it to you and
give it to yourself – you see, my
life has proven (over time)
that waiting for others to give you something was
futile, like runnin’
around in a circle. Instead, here’s a wild
thought: Love yourself. Don’t miss a
single chance to make the most of life – make a million
chances yourself because waiting for anyone else is like a dead
letter, received by no one; in the end
you make your own destiny and create your own streets
to where you want to go – and
if I convince you of nothing else, every
atom of my being, now, will take the time
to convince you that I,
you, should ignore naysayers, doubters, and thought
police and that you’d (I’d)
be, perhaps, better off if you got
on that plane with Randy to Florida and took it –
the chance – and made
a radical change in your life – but you know what? It
seemed
that things worked out just the
way you wanted, anyway, with you, here, taste –
Ing life one sweet spoonful at a time, which was
your dream in the first place, was it not?
So
sweet.
Wendy–just checking in here. I love this poem! I read it first as narrative, then the end-of-lines poem. One sweet spoonful at a time…
Wow! I really like how you have almost a poem in a poem with the last words of each line. I also relate to the first part of your sentence, “give it to yourself — you see” because I have learned the power in this, too.
You are connected
Dear 10 year old me,
standing by the tidepool
staring at the candy dish of life inside
know that if you are patient
and live by the sea
all the things that elude you before will come.
all the disappointing, fruitless wandering
on flat land and mountains
for money, for love
will be washed into your little dimple of rock
if you can give them sunshine,
shelter, and solidity,
they will not be washed away so soon.
and when you feel that your world is small
no bigger than this postage stamp pool
remember the water
has been around the world
dripped from a glacier
rose to cloud
exhaled through the spout of a whale
flung herself from the sky
and surged into that tidepool
to touch your hand today.
get to the sea.
love,
me
Oof. Emily, this was just inspired! My favorite single line:
“staring at the candy dish of life inside”
…but so much to love in this poem — rich and thought-provoking. Loved it.
Emily,
I love the images you share in your poem! It takes me to the sea.
I especially appreciate how the beautiful journey through your first three stanzas is summed up in the simplest of statements: “get to the sea” at the end of your poem.
Thanks for sharing!
Britt, thank you for hosting today. I was a little apprehensive about this prompt, but decided to grow up and have it. Mistakes were made and I lived and learned. I appreciate your important thoughts in italics, especially the line, “You do thank God for grandparents” because they were the ones who saved us. I miss mine and I wonder what they would think of me now. Here is my poem.
Dear 23-year-old Jessica,
You almost blew it!
You gnawed what you should’ve bit.
Grace and favor should be your middle name.
Someone saw the good in you and realized you needed that diploma to frame.
You said you were stressed and you probably were,
Working less, still had bills, family, boyfriend, Internship II was a blur.
Who knew turning in a scrapbook was the kick I needed,
A reality check, and thank God, you succeeded.
Never again you must do,
“Finding yourself” when you’re so close to being through.
Oh Jessica, if I’m reading this right, it sounds like some crafting with bad timing? I resonate very strongly with that concept, just hope to put the world on hold for a minute to collect yourself. That last line- yup. Yup, yup, yup. Thanks for this!
Ha Emily, I was very vague. I wish it was something as simple as a craft. I almost didn’t graduate from undergrad. I was apart of a pre service teacher organization and I was in charge of the scrapbook. It took a stern talking to by my advisor (who I had do turn the scrapbook in to)and turning in “said craft-scrapbook” to turn it all around.
Jessica, I loved the flow and rhythm of this — loved the lilt of the rhymed couplets, and my curiosity is piqued about that scrapbook!
Oh, Britt, your poem is a reminder of the grace our elders extend. I was in the same boat many a times, and if it weren’t for my elders lending a helping hand (or money), I don’t know how I would have made it. Thank you for sharing your story and for trusting us. I’m writing to my formerly-married self who married too young and married the wrong dude!
Dear Miss Johnson,
The cute guy at the pool party
will be your husband for 29 years, 11 months.
But he was not sent to be your soulmate.
You will birth a son and a daughter
who will be your most treasured gifts.
You will make a ton of mistakes,
but you will never leave them
the way their father will.
You will grow into a strong woman
and you will divorce that “man”
because an abusive marriage
was not your destiny.
Suffering would last for many nights
but joy will come every morning
after your divorce!
©Stacey L. Joy, 2/20/24
Your last line is just perfect, Stacey. I’m so glad you are where you are today.
A happy ending for a strong woman. Yea!
Stacey,
I love the triumph of your last two lines.
I also like how these four lines reveal your essential character and priorities:
Thank you for sharing.
Oh, Stacey, you are such a strong woman and a wonderful mother! I know many women who say looking at the others that they would leave an abusive relationship in a heartbeat without recognizing they are in a similar situation themselves. I am so happy to know that you found your joy. 🙂
I’m agreeing with the choir Stacey Joy with a resounding yes to joy coming in the morning. The last stanza is the most impactful moment for me: “Suffering would last for many nights
but joy will come every morning
after your divorce!”
I’m still married to my husband and hope to be for a long time, but my parents and sisters are all divorced. I’m hanging on to hope! Thank you for sharing this with us!
Love the last few lines- was there a nod to your own name in the second to last line? Agreed, perfect last line.
Stacey, loved the bittersweet feel of this — hit me as both empowering/empowered and mournful of time lost. So glad you found your path forward. <3
Absence
By Mo Daley 2/20/24
When memory leaves
What is left for us, and those
Who loved us before?
Goodness, Mo, your question is so timely as we consider aging parents and how we follow in their footsteps, forgetting. Each of your lines begins with a question…..when, what, who….leading to the ultimate question.
Mo, so appreciate when the title so clearly belongs to the poem. I am reading this in a couple ways with the comma showing me how what’s left for the self and that it means something else for others. Hmmmm.
Mo, a friend of mine recently lost her mom after a long battle with dementia. She keeps wondering what happens if she also loses her memory. It’s heartbreaking.
Thank you, Mo. We must keep loving our loved ones through EVERYTHING.
Oh, Mo, this is such a painful subject. Your question hits so close to home for many of us. Hugs!
Mo, I always find your writings intriguing. What so many put into many words you can sum up in a few and leave your readers pondering. When memory leaves, I hope someone recorded the moments. This is what I miss most about my grandparents-those memorable moments. Thank you for sharing.
This brings to mind being in the presence of people who have lost their memories, and it is so tough for those who “loved before.” You eloquently voiced this ache.
Mo, loved this question. Supporting an aging mom right now has me asking this a lot.
Hi, Mo! Thank you for leaving this haiku here. I particularly also like the thoughtfulness it provokes in me and my memories…the ones that might have left me.
Dear 50 year old Sarah,
You have 90 days until 51
not the milestone you anticipated
without a beach day with the gals
without a sister celebration
Being defies measurement
You have 90 days until 51
too much time looking for
for gray hairs at the crown
for lbs on the scale
Being defies measurement
You have 90 days until 51
time to reframe the days
with poetry beyond the body
with love between bodies
Being defies measurement,
Sarah, so stop counting,
and when others tick-tock
your existence, resist
with a poem
Sarah,
I like the irony of your pep talk at the end matched with the 90 day countdown. It is a nice back and forth with the being defies measurement winning, I hope/think. I like the idea of resist with a poem, and applying it to so many of life’s stresses.
Sarah, I cheer your repeating line – – being defies measurement. For pounds, for time, for gray hairs, for no hair, for dress size, for friends and family and money and animals and all those things we count as wanted or not, you are so right – – the living is not in the measurement but in the moments.
My favorite part of your poem is the urging to resist with a poem. Love it!
The tenderness of self-love and acceptance while also striving to remain present! This poem is everything!
I still can’t believe you’re 50! Beautiful soul, beautiful human!
Sarah, I applaud to “[b]eing defies measurement” and “stop counting.” I wish we could forget all kinds of numbers/measurements because they don’t define us; we define them.
“when others tick-tock
your existence, resist
with a poem”
Such a powerful lasting impression Sarah! I think we feel bound by the measure of time where we lose the ability to just exist! Our words have power and your words made a resounding noise “tick-tock”. Thank you for sharing.
Hey, in the wise words of Aaliyah: “Age ain’t nothin’ but a number”!
Truer words were rarely spoken!
Sarah, love the refrain of your poem and the wisdom in those words — and I loved your take on the letter to your younger self!
My favorite lines:
“and when others tick-tock
your existence, resist
with a poem”
Sarah! YEEESSSS!!!! “stop counting” … “resist”. Keep drowning out those who come ticking and tocking. I appreciate this poem because I am just a few short days away from turning 41 and became sad that I have to still wait 9 more years until I get to be 50. So, I too, need that reminder to ignore the counting and just be.
Britt, I absolutely loved your poem! <3. Hooray for sainted titas, grandmas, and supportive parientes. And thanks for introducing me to David Robinson’s wonderful letter.
Your prompt spurred me to write a multi-page letter to myself a la Robinson. Tomorrow is my 53rd birthday, and the occasion was perfect to reflect on what I might tell my younger self.
I never got to my poem. But I might try later tonight or tomorrow. But thanks so much for inspiring my reflections. 🙂
Happy Birthday, Wendy! I, too, didn’t write a poem today. Decided to respond to the poems instead.
Britt–I love this prompt. I look back on all my mistakes and realize that FOMO was taken care of long ago. Your story of Tita’s rescue and life lesson is wonderful.
A Dear You Haiku–
You do not believe
Contentment will find you. You
are wrong. It will come.
Don’t give up.
Don’t give up.
Gayle Sands
2/20/24
Oh, Gayle, what a sweet haiku. I love the message you send to your younger self. Especially the “Don’t give up. / Don’t give up.” Yes!
So few words, Gayle, but just the perfect amount to give the younger you the reassurance you would need. Knowing contentment is ahead would sure do a younger heart a lot of good!
Gayle,
Oh, just the message I needed today. Don’t give up. I won’t today. Though I thought about it a lot.
Sarah
Gayle,
what a sweet message of believing in one’s worth and happiness.
Thank you for sharing these encouraging, reassuring words.
Thank you, Gayle! We all need this “don’t give up” mantra from time to time.
Love this, Gayle! “Don’t give up. / Don’t give up.” 🙂
Gayle, loved the firmness of this little piece! Inspiring.
Gayle,
Thanks for your poem! I especially like how you pair the haiku with the final repeated two lines of “don’t give up.” It is powerful in its simplicity.
Britt,
I enjoyed reading the letter David Robinson wrote to his younger self. And your sweet poem about the help your Tita gave you when you needed it is precious. My poem went into a dark place. Oh, well. I guess I needed this today. Thank you.
Dear Second Grade Me,
You didn’t know.
You crouched outside
beneath the window,
eavesdropped and wondered who
they were talking about.
Was it Scotty?
“He was so young,” they said.
Scotty was young.
And sick,
still in the hospital,
a rubella baby,
just two months old.
Was it your first nephew, Scotty?
No, you learn, it wasn’t Scotty.
He will live 20 more years.
You will find out who died
from someone you hardly know.
She’ll drive you home from Grandma’s
after telling you and your sister that
it was Dad this time.
You will be quiet and wonder
if this is your chance for a
Great Perhaps.
Hugs to the second grade you, Denise. How tragic and what a dreadful way to find out.
Denise,
This is so well-crafted as a story, a narrative with mystery making me want to turn the page. The beginning of a verse novel or memoir, I think.
The pronouns are so powerful in the “He will live…” and then “someone you hardly know” and “this” in “This is your chance. I read and reread this multiple times. So good.
Sarah
Denise, my heart goes out to you – – I want to step back into the past and just be there. Your narrative poem tells the story and takes us along with you. I’m so sorry for your loss, and so in awe of your poem’s power to capture the moments.
Denise—you tell this story with the wisdom of years. The pain, however, is still so fresh.
Denise, thank you for this story. It must have been painful to revisit that day. For a second grader to “be quiet and wonder” is probably somewhat normal response. I know that was the case with my children when they lost their dad. Your poem reminded me about our tragic loss.
Denise, thank you for writing this, for sharing “this dark place” with us. My heart goes out to the second grade you!
Oh, Denise, I’m so sorry. This was a beautiful and heartbreaking poem. It brought back memories for me of my young years and losing relatives and the quiet talk that circles around the experience for the sake of young ears.
Dear Younger Me,
I know you feel you have
a lot to prove,
Not everything was perfect
in your “formative years”
and you need to show your mother
you deserve her
Let me tell you right now:
You Matter
You are Enough
You have nothing to prove
Your grades are good enough
because you work as hard as you can
and that’s what makes dreams come true
Your dreams are valid and achievable
You will be the elementary teacher you’ve dreamed of
since playing school with your dolls
and anyone that tries to tell you different
just doesn’t understand
what dreams are made of
Perfection is highly overrated
and leads to illness
Instead work on those communication skills
I know you tend to keep everything in
because that’s what you were taught
So you write it all down in those journals
Keep writing
It is how you make sense of the world
and someday your words will be read
by people who need to hear
your wisdom
My dear Heidi,
You are Everything you need to be
Sensitive, empathetic, hard-working
and I love you
Now get out there
Love Yourself
The world is waiting for you
to make a difference
Love,
Older and Slightly Wiser You
Ah, Heidi, how lovely! I love how you signed it “Older and Slightly Wiser You” Perfect! You have given yourself so much good advice, and obviously you have achieved many of those dreams you write about.
I smiled at this:
That is a memory I have too.
Rings so true, I like the lines “anyone that tries to tell you different
just doesn’t understand what dreams are made of” because it is those dreams that make the artist.
Heidi, I love each piece of advice you give yourself. It seems like you have everything figured out!
Dear Heidi, many of us could easily “adopt” your poem. It is so relatable. Thank you to an “Older and Slightly Wiser You.”
Heidi, loved this. There was a lot in here that I could relate to. Love your positive attitude and how that young girl turned into confident, older you.
Thank you for this prompt, Britt. It took me awhile to be okay with writing about the topic that kept pushing its way into my mind. So I went with it and it went a little differently than I expected but I know these were the biggest impacts of my younger life.
Dear Younger Me,
Yes, your innocent belief in forever
was shattered
at the age of 17
with the unexpected passing of your father.
Yes, your sense of home and security
disintegrated
at the age of 36
with your mother passing away without warning leaving you an orphan.
Yes, your confidence
crumbled
at the age of 39
when cancer stole your strongest cheerleader and confidante, your big sis.
Yes, you had many
great losses in your life
before the age of 40,
Yes, you WILL have many
blessings come your way
as your life continues on.
Yes, your heart overflows with love
for the man you met
at 18
and is now your husband of almost 30 years.
Yes, you rebuild a solid
sense of home and family
in your 30’s and beyond
for your 2 children.
Yes, you bolster
your inner strength and courage
by 50
and are more adventurous than ever before.
Yes, life has devastating lows
and grand high peaks.
You will traverse them all
carrying your backpack of survivorship.
Yes, you know you can walk
through a tumultuous valley
and rise again.
Yes, you will cherish the moments of ordinary life,
let those you love know it
and find as much joy as possible in this world.
Yes, you will be happy.
Yes, you will live with laughter and light.
Yes, you will have a life that you love.
Trust me, it happens. Have faith!
Lovingly,
Your Middle Aged Self
This is beautiful. I find these lines so amazing, speaking to your resilience:
I love the confidence of that last line there, and it bears repeating: ‘you will traverse them all.’ You learned about loss at so young an age.
Cathy, I so love all the “Yes, you will…” lines here. “Trust me, it happens. Have faith!” Amen!
What a wonderfully encouraging letter to yourself. You certainly acknowledge the challenges, but you remain focused on sending a message of hope!
Cathy, wow! You have shared so much here and I feel deep inside my soul that you were meant to be …
and we all were meant to learn from you!
Your faith is unwavering! 👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽
Cathy,
I admire the structure of your poem. You catalogue your losses and let us see you dealing with them at specific ages. Then you how those loves and losses have shaped you and led to your philosophy of life.
Love the repetition of all the stanzas but the last starting with yes and ending in a crescendo of three yes lines in the penultimate stanza.
A powerful poem. Thank you for sharing.
Cathy, loved this! I’m sorry that you experienced so much loss at such a young age. Beautiful poem!
Cathy,
Thank you for sharing with your poem! I really like how you tie your poem together through the repeated use of the word “yes.” Your poem takes the reader on a beautiful journey through hardship and sorrow and joy, hope, and resilience.
It may be a letter to younger you, but the message you share in it give me hope.
Thanks, Britt, for encouraging us t reflect on our younger selves, considering not just what we wish we had known, or who we had listened to, but also what advice we would give to that younger us. While I believe I have “good advice” to share, I doubt that I would have listened, 🙂
Move If You Must
Sometimes you’ll have a choice
Other times, you’ll have no voice.
You’ll have words to say
But they’ll reply “No way!”
Move if you must.
Sometimes you just have to trust
The person who gives you advice,
Especially when you haven’t been nice.
”Get out of the room
Go read a book and don’t give me that look!”
Learning about others, not just your sisters and brothers
Will help you understand the command!”
Other times you’ll see
Why I say “Listen to me!”
Sometimes you’ll just have to move in your mind
Realizing it’s okay to be kind.
When holding your peace,
Resistance need not cease.
But keep in mind what’s important.
Pay attention to Who you trust,
And be ready to move if you must.
Love this, Anna. I love the ‘metacognitive’ spirit of “Sometimes you’ll just have to move in your mind” – thinking through your best approach/response, choosing for yourself. You made me laugh with your quip in the introduction – “I doubt that I would have listened.”
I love the lesson and the reflective nature of your poem. It could easily be interpreted as YOU talking to children today. If only young people were able to be kind NO MATTER WHAT.
The world needs kindness more today than ever. Praying for it to come to pass.
💜
Britt,
It seems appropriate that the one day I decide to return to EthicalELA that you are the host! That gave me a bit of added motivation to actually post today. I appreciated this invitation and chance to dive back into poetry once more.
—
Dear 10-ish year old Erica,
Don’t cry.
That is not your trauma dumped on a once pristine floor–
the debris of lives lived long before
your decades long life, your value
is not reflected in the junk piled high.
Don’t cry.
As they are raking you over the coals,
as they rake out toys from beneath the bed
or feel the need to come clean,
as they clean out your collection instead.
Why do you think you are the one responsible
for expelling the clutter clinging to prior generations
upon generations of trauma that comes
from the inclination towards purity, towards perfections!
The purging of this pile should instead
be a purging of the parental notion that tidy
is the same as pristine
and that to be empty
is the only way you can be seen.
Don’t cry.
You will eventually appreciate the hidden alcoves,
the junk drawers and beneath the bed spaces.
You will eventually appreciate perfection
for the enemy that it is and will always be.
You will eventually appreciate that being clean
is not the same as being good. And which ultimately matters more.
Don’t cry because one day that pile in the middle of your room
is going to be the least of the messes you will have to sort out.
I hear such childhood pain, and such powerful reflection about that pain, in your words. The couplet,
gave me chills down my neck; for a moment, I was back in my own childhood home. Thank you, Erica, for this poem.
Erica, I’m so glad to see you back here today. I just said a huge, Wow, to these lines:
You created some magic there. The way you wrote “prior generations” and “generations upon generations of trauma…” is so powerful. You have really written a wonderful wise letter to your younger self.
First Love
You are in love
the first time at sixteen
and I must tell you that I remember the intense attraction and longing you had,
you thinking he was your future
as you walked hand in hand at the beach.
You are delighted that the two of you are chosen
to be the couple united in the future,
together and printed on the cover of your high school annual
for all to remember.
But wait! Things will change.
I will tell you that when you both start college
your world will open up and give you independence
and there will be someone else
taking notice.
It will be hard to stay so close to your love,
both of you taking different classes,
going to different schools,
discovering new worlds.
He will move away
and find another girl named Susan.
You will be heartbroken
and there will be someone else
talking notice.
Someone else in the sidelines
that you met when your father
took you on a jeep outing.
He will take you for a ride on the beach
in his dune buggy.
Little do you know that he will stop
the dune buggy ride
and the two of you will kiss on the beach,
a memorable kiss that will change your future.
It will bring lots of adventure
and sharing of his love of camping,
his love of family,
both his and yours.
Soon your head will turn
and your heart will heal
by that someone who was taking notice.
After two years you will remember the power of that kiss
and realize the one waiting for you,
someone taking notice,
will be the right choice.
A perfect choice lasting over fifty years of your future.
Oh, what great memories this has brought to me. Thanks, Britt, for this prompt.
This is a beautiful love story! I love your words – someone taking notice, will be the right choice.
So sweet! The line “your world will open up and give you independence” – this feels true to me throughout my life, how time on earth seems to equate to more and more acceptance, gratitude, and understanding…a maturing ‘independence’…something we simply cannot see when we are young.
Oh, Susan, what a precious poem. I’m so glad you had a chance to write it today. I love the “someone taking notice” throughout, he off on the sidelines waiting for you to be ready. Beautiful.
Lovely!
I was going to say, “Those dang Susans!” But most of us are a good lot!
I bet you did enjoy this trip down memory lane about the budding of your life-long love.
Yes, the Susan’s were very popular then and still are. I have learned to use my middle initial or the letter of my last name to keep them all sorted. Hee!
Britt, there’s nothing worse than being suddenly hit with a financial crisis. Thank goodness for generous and loving grandparents! I decided not to reveal much today, but I’m being completely honest with the message I would send to my much younger self.
Note to Self, Age 18
listen,
I’m going
to keep
this
short and sweet–
start running
every day
RUN!
Barb Edler
20 February 2024
Unfortunately, my formatting did not show up. The last three lines should all be indented a little further away from each other. Just saying.
Barb,
Run! Love this advice. It’s a multipurpose word: Run to, run from, etc. I wish I had the energy to run my lazy hiney. Fantastic alliteration in “short, sweet, start.” The sound of whizzing runners passing by.
Your poem is short put of so powerful with your ending word of RUN! It made me stop and think about the different ways to run through life each day.
Fabulous, Barb! There are so many meanings of RUN!! I can think of multiple ways this is sage advice for me.
A piece of advice with so many meanings!!
Barb, I love this poem. I can read it in several different ways! Well done.
Barb,
I hear you in the last three lines, especially the last one. It’d play out nicely with the staggered lines. The bold makes the shout really come to life as well.
Barb, I can second that on a literal and metaphorical level. I slept so much better, ate so much better, and felt so much better when I ran ran. And when I ran, I was glad I had run. Great advice to any age self.
don’t do it
oh my dear
bride-to-be
do not burn that journal
precious reflections on
love’s highs and hurts
the steamy and the weeping
you wrote courageously
sharing openly
writing deeply
knowing yourself better
do not burn that journal
you say you’d never
want to hurt him
or others
that these words are past
no need to hold
trust me, in time
your perspective will change
do not burn that journal
in years to come
you will welcome
the anthropological dig
into your younger self
to consider afresh
all those fools and the folly
imagine the fodder for
new writing
do not burn that journal
ah, but you did.
names and stories lost
forever
Love this:
“in years to come
you will welcome
the anthropological dig
into your younger self”
so true. I wish I could keep everything. Wish I kept everything.
Oh, Maureen, I feel so sad at the end, but I felt the journal burning was bound to happen. I wish I could find all the excerpts I wrote to myself throughout the years, but at this time in my life, I might want to burn them. Love the “steamy and the weeping” Powerful poem! The loss at the end is truly felt.
Ohhh no! I love this advice to your younger self of a very specific act. I’ve considered the amount of space my notebooks will take up as I continue to write, even considered burning them someday, but I think you’ve helped me decide… Reading your poem made me sad for words that’ll never be read. However, you still have the memories! Maybe writing can bring some back to life.
Maureen–what a sad ending… I have my journal from my teens. It is both embarrassing and full of love…
Oh, Maureen, I would have given my younger self that advice too. I hadn’t thought of this before: “imagine the fodder for / new writing” But that is so true! Wish we had gotten that message before the burning.
Awww, Maureen . . . if you only had that journal! What insight and wisdom and fodder it would provide. I think many of us have gotten rid of things from our past to show we had moved beyond, but we needed to have been strong and independent enough to hold onto ourselves. This poem captures that so, so perfectly.
Maureen,
I like how so much surrounds the poignancy of learning the ups and downs of love in journaling. But I like the little bit of struggle that comes across when it feels like you may not be forgiving yourself as much as you should at the end. There is a whole category of our developing that falls into the “ah, but you did” actions we thought were best at the time.
Maureen, one of my greatest losses is the journal I kept from my firstborn’s first years – – it was lost in a move, and I grieve it still. I agree so fully with your repeating line – – do not burn that journal.
If only you could go back in time to
2012 and console your brother and his girlfriend when they had a miscarriage
they got married, had a baby, your niece
2016 and help more, even though you were there when he had chemo, she was pregnant again, with a four month old.
drop nothing you are doing and help more.
2020 and talk them through anything
before brother is broken, she becomes ex sister in law, niece and nephew you no longer know
do something different because anything would be better than what exists.
Oh, Angie, I feel the pain of your situation so well. Sometimes too much stress has ugly consequences. I’m so sorry you’ve lost contact with your niece and nephew. Your final line is moving and poignant.
Angie, Your poems bring tears to my eyes and I sense the regret you experienced and is now revived as you write this poem. While that means you’re writing evocatively, it also means you’re hurting. Please accept a hug.
Your lines “do something different because anything would be better than what exists” ring so true for most of us. Our challenge today is to share with those who will listen the “standards” for determining what is “good” advice.
Ugh, Angie, I’m so sorry. I love how your story is marked with the years. I’m sorry for the lost contact; I hope there’s a future where you can be reconciled to them. <3
Angie, this is so painful. And, so beyond your control, beyond anyone’s control, but these two dear souls. I hear such a plaintive pleading in the “If only you could go back in time.”
This is a sad “kettle of things” to have a broken brother and bits of your family lost through divorce. Yes, Angie, I am hoping the future dissolves the regrets and heals.
Angie, I can feel the pain of regret clearly in your lines, and I felt that way when my mother was sick six hours from me and I was teaching full time. There were not enough hours in the day, the week, the month to do justice to spending time. Perhaps your niece and nephew will find their way back in time, to know their aunt. We can hold hope.
Britt,
Thanks for the chance to help one of my oldest friends! I like this prompt, though I don’t know if he will listen.
Younger me,
The things that you’re allergic to
you‘re allergic to…
sometimes unrequited love
is a histamine reaction in the heart.
Don’t hacky sack so much
that you become good at it,
and stay away from Nicotine…
she never really loved you.
I’ve got your back,
I’ve always got your back,
you just need to take care of the little boulders
that lie in the path ahead.
Call if you need me,
Rex
Rex, I really like your lines: “sometimes unrequited love
is a histamine reaction in the heart. ” Taking care of life’s boulders is not always easy, but I appreciate the metaphor. Very light-hearted touch at the end.
Rex, wouldn’t it be more than a fantasy to be able to call ahead to our older selves when we are younger. Think of the “movies’ that would be made! We so many “back in time” or returning to the olden days. What if we could peak into the future days?
Well, maybe our younger selves won’t listen to our sage advice, but perhaps some younger readers will avoid the boulders because your poem is written in YELLOW terms, cautioning them of what’s ahead that can be avoided.
Thanks for sharing your poem.
“Thanks for the chance to help one of my oldest friends!” – what a fabulous statement of how important it is to befriend oneself. Love that intro thank you! And then you repeat your love and constancy –
Wonderful!
I love this advice, Rex. It is a wise saying that unrequited love is a histamine in the heart heart. “I’ve got your back” is good too and I am happy that the future boulders are little.
I love this, Rex! Some good humor mixed in with true wisdom:
I particularly enjoy these lines:
Britt,
This prompt is wonderful. As always, I love the code switching. I love your poem. You earned that lecture and the love in that loan. Bravo! My poem is a reference to my first husband, whom my grandpa later told me “didn’t like to work much.” That guy definitely was not Kennough! I was married to his lazy ass 12 years.
You Should Have
You should have been
a runaway bride
an I don’t not
an I do.
You should have trusted
your instincts
listened to
your heart
You should have ignored
church voices
religious dogma
& Aunt Fern
You should have said
hell no
no way
forget about it
You already knew
that man
was not
your plan
—Glenda Funk
Glenda, Love your opening comments. Sorry you lost twelve years with a “lazy ass”. Thank goodness your Ken is such a blessing. I can completely understand your feelings here. Trusting one’s instinct is so important, and I almost added that in my poem today although I avoided anything personal in mine. I really appreciate your voice italicized saying “hell no/no way/forget about it”. Wow, wouldn’t it be great to be able to go back and revise some things, but then a whole new horror would probably unfold. Absolutely love the end! Yes, “that man/was not/your plan”. Perfectly stated! Very fun poem:)
Glenda, thank you for your comments and this oh so fun poem! Can I just say, I want to hear Aunt Fern’s side of this story?? LOL. Love the pattern of one liners and then three.
Aunt Fern has selective memory problems where this story is concerned. She told me “I think he’s the one.” Because I was so steeped in religion at the time I listened to her, thought she knew better than I, caved to the pressure to get married. I’ve talked to Fern about this and she denies it. I get why she forgot. I did not.
I love the sound of these lines so much, the way they roll on my tongue –
I hear such a delightful ‘goodbye, good riddance’ in this poem that makes me smile. That last stanza – perhaps a marvelous nod to #FaniWillis and ‘a man is not a plan’? Love, love, love!
Glenda,
I like the choice you made to write “a runaway bride / an I don’t not / an I do.” I like the sound of “don’t not” together on the same line. And it requires a careful reading. The “You…” lines are very effective too, set off by themselves. Honest poem.
ok,
I probably
shouldn’t
waste
this,
this
opportunity
to talk
to my
past
self
my
younger
self
but
I can’t
help it
I realize
I should
tell you
(me)
the lottery
numbers
or how to stop
some horrific
tragedy – take
your pick – that
happened
in the distant
past
but instead
I want
to implore
you,
past
self,
self from
this morning,
in fact,
self from
roughly
three class
periods ago,
please,
please,
please,
start up
your pear
decks
before
school starts
because
they aren’t
loading now
and you’re
floundering
here in
fourth
hour
______________________________________________
Hi, Britt! Thank you for your mentor poem – I love the humor (and surprise for the reader) in the line “You do not have 900 dollars”! And thank you for this opportunity for me to vent a bit this morning. I had “big plans” for this prompt, but Pear Deck and its cursed “Oh No! We’re Having a Connection Issue” message had other plans for me! Maybe I’ll revisit this idea at a later date and provide myself with some pearls of wisdom, but, I fear, I’d have to have some “pearls of wisdom” first, lol.
I have to say when I saw your name, I was really looking forward to seeing what you impart to your younger self. Of course, you went in a different direction, but you sure did not disappoint! Your chat with your earlier-that-morning self is witty as usual. I do hope to read one to a you deeper into the past at some point!
Haha! Scott, good advice. I especially like the shout out to lottery numbers or how to stop some horrific tragedy. It made me think of Back to the Future, and I’m thankful that we can’t really deliver what we write to our younger selves.
Thank you, Britt, for the wonderful prompt. I had never seen the David Robinson piece before. It’s great.
As you will see, I went down a hole that was very difficult for me to go down.
Dear Younger Self Who Couldn’t Sense Trouble and Find the Nerve to Say No,
When asked,
“Wanna see the treehouse we built?”
while riding your blue Schwinn down the street
in front of their houses,
don’t say, “Sure. Is it cool?”
Instead, get those little 10-year-old legs
a-peddling away rather than
climbing up with those three
boys whose hormones led to no good.
When asked,
“Have you seen the really cool tar pits back behind field 3?’
don’t say, “No! Let’s check ‘em out” and grab the arm of your bestie,
and follow the four guys
under the 9:00 p.m sky through the woods on an adventure.
Instead, skip those 12-year-old scuffed up legs
over to concession stand and get a Laffy Taffy and Mountain Dew
rather than deal with groping hands under the guise of explorers.
You aren’t good at avoiding
You aren’t good at being straightforward
You aren’t good at seeing evil intent.
You are a tomboy who has no clue
that being playmates meant much more
to them.
Maybe you should try venomously
showing disdain
and let them know your body is not
a playground.
So that when you are older
and the stakes are much higher
and the predators men . . .
you will have the nerve to walk–
or run–
away
and put up a 10-foot-high fence
with barbed wire along the top
around your playground
preventing any unwelcomed
playmates from
gaining entrance.
So then,
when asked,
“Wanna stop by tonight? The wife and kids are out of town,”
You won’t just say, “Ummmm . . . not such a good idea”
and stop by anyway.
Instead, maybe you will look at him with disgust in your naive 19-year-old eyes
and hiss,
“What the hell?
Who do you think I am?”
Learn to not trust sooner
so you can know when to run for your life.
Susan,
I felt a similar sense of falling short in the growing up years, not in the same way, but the you aren’t good at was something I was good at. There is interesting imagery with the venom and the hissing, and the need for the defensive posture against predator threats. I am sorry things were as they were.
Susan, I admire your courage in sharing your experiences. We had some young teenage island boys like that who ran in packs on the beaches every summer. They’d look for tourist girls especially so the truth would leave when their vacation ended. I agree so much with your final lines – – learn not to trust sooner. Such a powerful lesson for all of us.
I was skimming down this page and I kept stopping at your poem, Susan. Then I jumped to some lesson planning for tomorrow — nothing like “the last minute,” lol — and came across this phrase from W.H. Auden’s speaker in “In Memory of W.B. Yeats”: “For poetry makes nothing happen.” And I had to come back here to this page — to your poem — and say that Auden’s line is simply not true. I’ve read so many of your offerings these past few years and can unwaveringly say that your poetry speaks and sings and is most effective and affecting. Thank you.
Britt,
thanks for this great prompt,
the wonderful David Robinson mentor text, and your poem. I admire how Robinson shared his struggles and his family values. I love how in your poem the sense of relief overtakes the discomfort of the lecture. I’m guessing the lecture stuck though, molding your choices.
The prompt brought me right back to seventh grade.
Dear Seventh Grade Sharon,
In fourth, fifth and sixth grades, you will be best friends with Martha S.
you’ll always be together on the playground
you’ll ride your bikes to the park
and to seven eleven to buy candy
you’ll celebrate your birthdays together
on the last day of sixth grade you’ll spend the night at her house
you’ll disagree on whether to braid each others hair or play a game
you won’t see each other over the summer
At the beginning of seventh grade
Martha will change her name to Marti
she’ll say mean things to you in science class
in front of the popular kids
who she now wants to be friends with
you’ll be paralyzed
not knowing what to say
not understanding the shift from friendship
to something you can’t name
you’ll be hurt
but will not want to hurt your friend
you’ll never know why she rejected you
seventh grade will be a hard year
but you’ll grow up
make and keep lifelong friends
and after two decades of teaching eighth grade—an easier year for you
sandwiched between two hard years socially
you’ll switch to an all girls school
and teach seventh grade
you’ll feel the sting as some girls,
as your husband says,
try on being mean
you’ll strive to help them become their best selves
you’ll remind yourself that
seventh grade is a hard year
you’ll remind yourself
that they are struggling to figure out
if they will be Martha or Marti
I love how you move from your own life back in the day to how it connects today. Gives me A LOT to think about. I always had an attitude (still do) so I’m definitely understanding of my students who act like that. Haven’t been reflective of it in a while though. So thank you for sharing this.
I have chills, Sharon. Middle school is so hard, isn’t it? I love how you came full circle in your life. What a healing joy to be able to love seventh grade Sharon in this poem, but also on a daily basis in the classroom.
I’ve gotta steal your husband’s phrase. 😉 thank you for offering this poem today.
Sharon,
This is such a deep dive into a 7th grade scenario that happens way too often. You capture details so well, and the hurt just reverberates. I love your husbands words . . .
they “try on being mean.”
And taking the Martha/Marti plot into your present life is simply a great way to end!
Britt, what a reflective way to begin a Tuesday morning with cerebral energy. Your poem prompted some thinking on promises unkept and advice about life. I love that your grandparents gave you great wisdom and that you learned and were relieved. Thank you for investing in us as writers today. Fabulous prompt!
When anyone with human flesh
gives you advice
look them straight in the eyes
and say ~firmly~
I’ll take it into consideration.
Do not take it as gospel.
Guard yourself.
Do your own research.
They aren’t experts.
Live your own life
not the one they choose for you.
Notice more,
especially the
hands
in photos (it’s the unseen key
that will slap you
~hard in the face~
like a wet whaletail
when you finally see).
Don’t believe a single promise.
Above all,
practice your mother’s discernment.
She knew.
She knew.
I’m not sure what’s going on with the hands in photos but I want to know. Very profound thoughts here – living your own life because it’s yours not anyone else’s. Thanks for sharing 🙂
Thank you for your kind words, Kim, and for your beautiful poem. In my slice of life blog post today, I think about my grandfather’s hands. You are right – always notice the hands. I’m fascinated by the stories hands tell.
Of course, you are right, but of course, I’m still learning.. my mother does know. Why do I resist it still? <3
Kim, your voice is so strong throughout this. I feel the need to protect and the stinging hard slap when reality sets in. I think your letter is very wise. “Live your own life” is truly important. Your final stanza is so moving. Sometimes our parents do see things far more clearly than we can even begin to understand. Bravo to sharing your courage to share this advice with us today!
Such wisdom in learning at a young age to say,
“I’ll take it into consideration.”
And such sadness in
“Don’t believe a single promise.”
This old poem that I’ve revised calls out to me this morning. Thank you for the prompt, Britt. It got me to think about a wonderful man – my Grandpa Tony.
Forgiveness
As I turn to leave, you stop me
“A minute,” you say –
Opening the refrigerator door,
Taking coins from the butter dish,
Pressing silver dollars in my hand.
For you, you say –
Fold my fingers around the cold coins,
I kiss you on the cheek and leave.
I return an hour later,
Call out your name,
You’re not listening,
Your raspy breath comes as a warning,
I do not enter the room
Where you are lying.
I know what is happening,
But cannot face it.
I pace around minutes like hours
Till my father, your son, arrives
To rescue you.
“Didn’t you notice your grandfather?
Call 911,” he says.
I stand frozen before the phone,
He pushes me out of the way.
Moments later the ambulance comes,
Takes you away silently,
Red lights flashing – too late.
At your funeral
I tuck a poem – rough words
An apology
Into the pocket of your suit.
You’re wearing a gray suit,
Starched white shirt, a dark tie.
Had I ever seen you in a suit before?
I look down on your weatherworn face
For some sign of forgiveness.
Three days later, I’m in the den reading,
Suddenly, I look up –
Glimpse your blue bathrobe
Trailing around the corner,
I rise and follow to see you
Standing at the stove making tea,
Your eyes meet mine and you smile,
I turn away and look again,
But you are already gone.
Joanne, you’ve preserved a moment of time in such vivid details, right down to the color of things – red, gray, blue, silver. I believe sometimes emotions prevent swift action like the dialing for an ambulance, and I hope your grandfather’s return to let you know he forgave you assures you that he knew this. I love the three days, too…..it brings to mind Easter Sunday. Rising. Living on in a better place. The stone is rolled away, the heaviness is removed. I can’t think of a better place to smile at someone than standing at the stove making tea….a perpetual invitation to have tea with grandpa and talk about life.
Joanne,
This is heartbreaking and heavy. What a burden to carry. The poem is beautiful and haunting. I feel the fear you must have felt in that moment all those years ago. Thank you for sharing this tender, personal story. Peace and love to you.
Joanne, your poem is deeply moving and incredibly powerful. You illustrate clearly the pain of loss; the shock one can experience during a traumatic event. I feel, see, and hear so much throughout your poem. The red lights, desire to be forgiven, the grandfather’s funeral clothes, and the sudden image after he’s passed. Hugs!
I wrote a letter to my younger self in Laura Shovan’s February Challenge. I’m posting a revision here. This feels like the I Am From poem which I have written a number of times and never feel like it hits the mark.
Letter to my 14 year old self
You matter to me–
your intense brown eyes penetrate my soul
and pierce my compassionate heart.
Why didn’t I love you better?
You noticed things
and wrote them all in a diary
I keep hidden still. The cardinal
that sang at your window comes
daily to my feeder. We’ve made it a long time
watching his bright red feathers
and how he confidently takes control.
We will be here a bit longer. Don’t worry
so much. You are loved well.
So beautiful and so true. Wish I could go back and hug my 14 year old self. Your ending line is perfect – You are loved well. Then and now! Thank you, Margaret.
Margaret, the thread of redbird through the years is like a ribbon, winding time together and relieving worry. I love that you started with You Matter to me and ended with You are loved well. This is reassurance that what matters most is love.
Ughh “Why didn’t I love you better?” Wish it wasn’t relatable. How I wish I could go back in time and appreciate things about myself more. Thank you for sharing a beautiful poem.
Margaret, there is a deep bond of love you have for your inner self. I really like the way you have used toe cardinal to bridge the passing of time.
I love how well you show that we often don’t love ourselves in the way we should and need to.
Well, that was a cathartic 40 minutes. Whew! Thank you, Britt for the amazing prompt and mentor text. Your poem is full of the kind of reflection I want to teach my children to have–but at the same time protect them from. I hope I can be the Tita my nieces and nephews need me to be when the time comes. I am a better person for writing today. Thank you!
I’m only going to paste one line from my letter to myself. It’s in the conclusion and very short.
“Walk into today with the love of your decades.”
I love that line … thanks for sharing.
Kevin
Linda, I came to a similar conclusion. Isn’t it true that love is all that matters?
Linda, that’s a great way to get down to the heart of what matters most. Love. And decades of experience say something, too.
I love this line and I’m glad you shared it while using this as a moment of reflection! I hope it helped (and healed) you.
This was a hard one to write, Britt … but therapeutic.
Kevin
How old are you
when you receive
this poem?
I am sixteen
years old
You’re wide awake,
now, I remember,
the home shaken
by that midnight call
on the phone
I am sixteen
years old
Your parents,
woken, rushed out,
in their panic –
they’ve left
you alone
I am sixteen
years old
You know,
in this moment
of pounding heart
and uncertainty,
without being told
I am sixteen
years old
that the world’s
been splintered,
like the tree you’ll see,
down the bend
in the road
I am sixteen
years old
And he was
nineteen years old
oh, my goodness…what is unsaid/unwritten is so large here. Wow.
Thanks. Some nights last forever … I sorta wished I had a more upbeat moment in time to write back to you … but this one called out, and what’s a writer to do but listen, right?
Kevin
Oh geez, Kevin … no age, not sixteen, not nineteen, no age can set right the sadness and loss of such a moment. You build the tension with each repetition of “…sixteen…,” and it is crushing. I am so sorry. Such a weight. This loss will stick with me for a very long time. Sending love, Susie
Thank you.
The anticipation when you know (but don’t know) something terrible has happened. I feel it intensely in your words.
Yeah, that loneliness of not knowing … that’s the lingering emotion. Thanks for your words, Margaret
Don’t know what to say, Kevin. The world’s been splintered. I hope time, love, and memories heal the gaping loss. The repetition of your age, shows the immensity of your loss and feelings. Nothing else needs to be said.
Writing is a form of remembering, but also perspective, too. Thank you for commenting, Joanne.
Kevin, sometimes there are no words to express the way your heart goes out to a fellow writer. This is one of those times. Your repeating line and your final line and the use of splintered simply echo. And echo. And echo. I remember one other time that you wrote about this loss. I’m so sorry. Your poem reaches inside and wrings the soul.
I appreciate the kind words, Kim.
Thank you
For me, the thing I linger on is the first stanza in the form of a question – feels like the beginning of a recorded interview but also like an out of body experience or something. A powerful poem. Sorry for your loss.
Oh, the suspense and then the sad, shocking ending. I am so sorry for this heart breaking loss.
Kevin,
This is one of those moments when one crosses from childhood to adulthood. Nothing prepares us for that heartache, but poetry helps.
I agree with Linda — there is so much unsaid/unwritten here! I appreciate the way you bring us into the moment, making it feel like a phone call more so than a letter. The imagery in the final stanza especially had me re-reading the poem again!
Oh, Kevin. I have goosebumps.
The details you so subtlely share tell a huge story.
Hugs to you!