Welcome to day 2 of the November open write for educators! We are so glad you are here. Read the inspiration, process, and mentor poem below, and then scroll to the bottom to compose your poem. Please respond to at least three other poets.

Inspiration 

Taylor Mali created Metaphor Dice, a set of dice with 3 different colors, blue for object, red for concept and white for adjective. With my gifted students, metaphor dice have provided quick-write fun. We roll the three dice and all write to the metaphor. We each share our quick poems then “judge” which poem won that round. Taylor suggests using the phrase “which is the say” to artfully restate the metaphor. 

Process

 I am offering 2 metaphor dice rolls. You can select one of them to write to or in some way make a connection between the two. Most of all, have fun.

Check out Taylor’s website for ordering information and more inspiration. 

Margaret’s Poem

Aurum

My heart is a burning kiss,
burning like the fire inside
that makes bread rise,
the heat that helps babies grow,
the warmth that feeds the seed
which is to say
your tender kiss
melts my heart
into pure gold
that withstands
the test of time.

© Margaret Simon

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.

Our Host

Margaret Simon

Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana.  With a masters degree in gifted education and National Boards certification in early literacy, Margaret teaches gifted students in Iberia Parish.  Her first book of children’s poetry, Bayou Song: Creative Explorations of the South Louisiana Landscape was published in 2018 by UL Press. Margaret writes a blog regularly at http://reflectionsontheteche.com.. 

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Denise Krebs

Thank you, Margaret, for this. You have challenged me more than once with a roll of the metaphor dice. I was away from my computer all day yesterday, so I’m late. I’m looking forward to reading what others wrote now. Your sweet poem is a great mentor, and your use of a different metaphor helps us have fun with the new ones. My favorite line in yours today is that burning, “the heat that helps babies grow,”

Memory is a reluctant drum
and sometimes sporadic,
memories like Dad’s death
are regular beating bass drums
down to my foundation,
other sweet or sad memories
pop up irregularly like a
tiny tom tom,
which is to say
memory is no one’s
metronome.

Mary Lee Hahn

I love that unexpected ending!

Allison Berryhill

Denise, I think of drum as a steady beat…and you challenged that so well! LOVED the “memory is no one’s metronome.” Your fresh metaphor fed my poet heart. Thank you.

Grace Houston

Beats of Memory
 
Sometimes memories come in beats
Biking through vineyards
Sipping hot cocoa
Twirling in a borrowed dress
 
Reluctant beats of
Goodbyes and
Slammed doors and
Deleted texts
 
Pulling past the pain and petty parts
Drudging through the dreary bits
Pausing on the hopeful days
Where drumming hearts were full
 
As I go back through my memory
Sorting through what can be used
And shared and remade and
What to let go of
Albeit reluctantly
I pause on those golden beats
That make up me

gayle sands

So many things here! But especially the “reluctant beats…slammed doors and deleted texts”. And the alliteration in the next stanza. And drudging. What a great word!

Maureen Y Ingram

I love the alliteration in “Pulling past the pain and petty parts” – it feels percussive to say!

Anna J. Small ROSEBORO

Margaret, thanks for this prompt. Because I’ve been in sessions at NCTE all weekend, I’ve put off processing the loss of one of our “Mothers of the Church” as we call senior ladies in our church family. But this toss of the dice gave me this opportunity to write

MOM Marlene, We’ll Miss You

Sitting in the memorial chapel
Listening to the pianist play
I wonder why my friend, Marlene did not stay
Yes, she was ill, but she had so much love
Of family and friends ‘round her every day

Memories of Marlene planting flowers
Memories of Marlene fixing flowers
Making the altar area look neat
Hearing the drums in the sanctuary
My Sunday shoes keep the beat

How reluctant we were to let her go
We had more love we wanted to show
We wanted her here with us here below
Now, we’ll see Mom Marlene in the outdoor flowers
Watered by warm tears of springtime showers.

But, alas, the drumbeats of time
Were real this time, not a mime
We know she’s gone and since I’m
Confident she’s gone to her heavenly home
Reluctant we sit, our teeth we may grit
But we have fond memories to get us through this bit
She’s in her home above, but she’s left us with much love

Grace Houston

Thank you for your sweet memories of Marlene <3
This is a beautiful poem of grief that looks forward and focuses on the love you felt from her. I love how you focus on what she wanted for you and your congregation. If you haven’t shared this with them already, I think your church family would appreciate this poem.

Anna

Thank you, Grace. Now that I’ve got it out, I’ll take your advice and share this with her children. Mom also was our organist!

Mary Lee Hahn

I like the way you sprinkled the metaphor throughout the stanzas!

Allison Berryhill

Sunday Walk

Wafer leaves
crackle underfoot;
November air
tingles on my cheek;
slant of sun 
pulls me west.

But Sunday
is a weight around my neck,
a shroud behind my eyes,
a wordless sorrow 
hovering in my throat.

I move to the slow drum of
reluctant memory.

Barb Edler

Allison, I can feel this air, the sun, and the pull of a heavy invisible weight throughout your poem. “A wordless sorrow, hovering in my throat”…wow, that carries a lot of power. I am completely moved by this “slow drum of/reluctant memory”…Your poem is rich with sensory appeal, but the depressing emotion is truly all encompassing. Another incredible poem! Thank you!

Lauren Stephens

Well, shoot. If this isn’t exactly how I feel today… from the moment I sat down in a pew this morning to this moment waiting for my husband to bring home pizza. This is the kind of poem that lingers in my brain. Thank you, Allison.

Cara Fortey

Allison,
Like Lauren, this is so my mood today. Sundays are simultaneously delicious and dreadful. You captured it with delicate honesty.

Grace Houston

For many, including me, Sunday is a day of inner contradictions, and I love how you articulated those contradictions here. The crackle of leaves, tingling leaves, and westward sun set up so much hope, but the weight, shroud, and sorrow balance the nature imagery in a perfect paradox.

gayle sands

“Wafer leaves” you could have stopped right there, with that phrase! It put me right there with you!

Maureen Y Ingram

I am retired now, but this describes such the way I felt on Sundays as a teacher:

But Sunday

is a weight around my neck

Mary Lee Hahn

AGREE! I don’t miss it. At. All.

Stacey Joy

Allison, this poem is everything I DID NOT FEEL yesterday because of Fall Break beginning today. I can’t tell you how much I’ve said, “How is it already Sunday and 7p.m.?” It’s the worst moment of every Sunday during the school year.

I hope you get some down time soon and can relax and enjoy NOT thinking about the day you’re in.

Next Sunday will be my…

wordless sorrow 

hovering in my throat.

Cara Fortey

I inherited a set of metaphor dice and hadn’t ever played with them. You can bet I’ll be trying them out soon. 🙂

Love + divided + curse

Thoughtful actions 
that aren’t acknowledged
Words that can’t be 
reciprocated
Sometimes the best 
thing to do
is to lean into the divide 
and retreat
Love isn’t always 
fair or equal or devoted
When the love of another
makes you doubt 
your love for yourself
it is a curse
The only cure is to 
reclaim your independence
Love should never be 
a curse that divides
Let love sustain and inspire

Barb Edler

Cara, your poem speaks the truth! I am in awe of the direct voice and clarity of “When the love of another/makes you doubt/your love for yourself/it is a curse”! Reclaim independence is exactly the cure. Love the triumphant and positive final line.

Emily D

Love that sustains and inspires! That is a lovely line, and such a hopeful line to end on. Thank you for this poem!

Grace Houston

“Love should never be / a curse that divides” – gorgeous. I think your words speak out to all kinds of personal difficulties that we all face, and your poem presents a great reminder to us all to love ourselves and to remember why we love.

Anna

Cara, your poem echoes much of what we heard this weekend at the NCTE Annual convention where English educators from across the country meet online. From our opening session with Dr. Michelle Obama to the closing interview with Amanda Gorman and the majority of the speakers in between, . Love was the key refrain to attain unity, justice and equity. Thanks for your reminder.

Rachelle

Cara, thoughtfully worded! I really liked these lines: “When the love of another
makes you doubt 
your love for yourself”
Thanks for another insightful poem ?

DeAnna Caudillo

Cara-
This poem spoke to me today as a close friend was just told her husband wants a divorce, she is struggling now.

Barb Edler

Margaret, thanks for a wonderful weekend of writing prompts. I always love playing with words, found poems, and now I discovered through your post, metaphor dice. Cool!

Love Divided Curse

Memory is a reluctant drum
its dreadful cadence, 
a thrumming of guilt and regret

Memory’s a bitter nag, constantly harping
hunched like an evil bird 
on the door of November

Memory’s a mournful tune,
pregnant pauses; tearful chimes
on a chilled unforgiving wind

Memory is—
a constant reminder
of our love conquered

Barb Edler
21 November 2021

Cara Fortey

Barb,
Oh this is just so good. Memory is such a fraught thing–sometimes so wondrous and warm and welcome, other times fraught, uncomfortable and filled with regret. You paint it perfectly. Thank you.

Dixie K Keyes

I love how your poem progresses with different metaphors where we can resonate with each one!

gayle sands

Barb— that second stanza is amazing! The metaphor resonates. A bitter nag…on the door of November. Wow.

Maureen Y Ingram

I am fascinated at the coupling of one set of dice words as your title, and the use of the second set “Memory is a reluctant drum” as your opening line – wow, you connected these two as one combined poetic force! I particularly like the line, “hunched like an evil bird.”

Donnetta D Norris

Love Divided…A Curse

You say you love me, but
Love is what love does, and
What you do does not
Show love for me, only
For what you do.

That is to say,
Your love divided
Is vexing our love.

Stacey Joy

OUCH! This is raw truth and whoever needs to hear it, better listen!
??????

Barb Edler

Donetta, I love how you weave the feeling of a love divided. I feel someone’s inability to be generous with their love, and the feelings of angst and vexation is clear. Very thought provoking and completely relatable. Brilliant!

Katrina Morrison

Donetta, I love the complexity of the sentence which is your first stanza. I have read and reread it. It makes me wonder if the speaker is in a relationship with someone who allows their work to consume them.

Thank you for sharing!

Maureen Y Ingram

This is awesome! You forcefully, cleverly, poetically insist “Love is what love does” – yes!!

Tammi

Margaret — I simply love this prompt and am eager to try it with my students and my Power of the Pen Writing team. I tried one of those online metaphor spinners for my three words: Memory, small-town & dance.

Memory is a small-town dance
festooned with paper streamers and 
twinkling colored lights where 
everyone feels welcomed and loved
a small memory that lasts for years to come. 

Memory is a small-town dance
brimming with simple conversations 
spinning your favorite Carpenter tunes.
A baby of the 70’s, I still hear your voice 
singing “Rainy Days and Mondays”,
still see you dancing, dancing, dancing…

Until …
disease stole your simple love.

Memory is a small-town dance
that is larger than anticipated 
small memories which evoke 
a deluge of tears which I choke back
on still nights or silent car drives
because some small memories are too much 
to hold.

Memory is a small-town dance
remembered and cherished
small memories that seep into 
my dreams to remind me, Mom, 
you are near 
remind me you are dancing and singing
somewhere …

Which brings me to this realization.
There are no small memories.

Mo Daley

This line, “because some small memories are too much 
to hold” is sheer perfection. I truly love everything about this poem. Striking imagery!

Barb Edler

Tammi, your poem is absolutely full of movement and a tender dance of its own right up to the final line, “There are no small memories”. I was completely pulled in and felt as though I was there in a legion hall in a small town somewhere, feeling the connection of music and dance. Your words carried me to so many of my own memories as my family and parents loved to dance. I could hear the music and feel the “deluge of tears”. Love the line: “on still nights or silent car drives”…very powerful stuff!

Anna

Tammi, your closing line is so powerful. There are no small memories.
whether good or bad, happy or sad, they come and impact us with seeds of love or pricks of pain. Wow! How succinctly you summed them up

Denise Krebs

Oh, Tammi, what a sweet poem to your mom. I wonder if you thought of her right away when you saw that roll of the online metaphor dice. Such power in prompts. I loved this: “remind me you are dancing and singing
somewhere …” and that you remind us “there are no small memories.”

Emily D

Bodhran and beater
slow throb my temple
Penny whistle twists and turns,
these memories are a reluctant
drum.

That is to say
these mistakes still reverberate
through my veins,
but there is a rhythm of living
between the regrets.
My feet pick up the steps.

Tammi

Emily — love these lines: “but there is a rhythm of living/between the regrets. — so true!

Mo Daley

I want to echo Tammi’s comment. Just lovely and haunting.

Barb Edler

Emily, wow, I love this. The twisting, throbbing, and the mistakes the reverberate are all striking a chord with me. I absolutely adore the self-will and power exhibited at the end. “my feet pick up the steps.” Perfectly played and courageous, too.

Cara Fortey

Emily,
You recreate the rhythms of the dance of life really beautifully. The push and pull of regrets and determination forming the beat. Well done.

gayle sands

Emily— ooooh! This is wonderful. I could feel the throb, and that “rhythm of living between the regrets”. I hope my feet pick up the steps…

Rachelle

I really struggled including “that is to say” in my poem, but you did it here so gorgeously. You always give me just the right amount of information to set the scene and theme, yet enough ambiguity to leave me wanting more. I enjoy writing with you!

DeAnna Caudillo

Emily,
I enjoyed the rhythm of your poem. I can just feel the beat.

Emily Yamasaki

Beating a Taiko Drum
11/21/21

Don don don
Steady beats
Follow the temperament 
Of the shime

Don ka don
When the anxiety
Creeps through a crack
In your fortress wall

Don ka ka don
The mind of the
Lizard brain engages
Fight. Flight. Fight. Flight.

Ka ka ka
The heart beat
Picks up a little more track
Ka ka ka
Ka

Ka ka Don Don
A deep breath
Fills each
Of the cracks in the wall

Don Don Don
Slowing down
The blurs focus
Don

Don

Don.

Tammi

Emily — I love the way you have captured the beat of the drum and juxtaposed it with the anxiety and pressure of life. I can hear this and I know the feeling.

Barb Edler

Emily, wow, I love how you created such a powerful sound of a drum here. The fight/flight repetition adds a tenseness as does “the cracks in the wall”…and then the focus blurred adds a whole other layer. I’m curious about the final Don in bold print, which definitely adds a final drum beat.

Katrina Morrison

Emily, your use of onomatopoeia is striking (pardon the pun). I think I hear the fight/flight response of the drummer in your “ka’s,” or is it the response of the listener? So many questions.

Maureen Y Ingram

I love the drumming sounds, the percussive beat throughout – and the triumphant role of breathing deeply –

A deep breath

Fills each

Of the cracks in the wall

Donnetta D Norris

The use of the sound words for the drum beat makes this poem so much more impactful.

Rachelle Lipp

Margaret, I was inspired by the imagery of your poem. I really enjoyed brainstorming for this poem because I wrote down loads of fond memories I have with my Grandpa. Thank you for this prompt today!

Safeway Checkout

Fingers blindly dance
on a stage–the
bottom of this purse–
to caress a penny and a nickel
for exact change;
instead the ballerinas
bonk a beaded
rosary.

Memory is a reluctant drum
beating at this checkout
in Safeway.

Or am I watching
wrinkled, IV-infiltrated fingers
drift from one 
sparkling, blue gem 
to the next
decade after decade 
until Amen?

Tammi

Rachelle,
I love these images: “to caress a penny and a nickel for exact change” and “wrinkled, IV-infiltrated fingers

Allison Berryhill

Rachelle, fingers as ballerinas–lovely. And the memory stirred by the rosary, watching your grandfather’s fingers…”until Amen?” I love the ending. <3

Emily D

Rachelle, you remind me of memories I have of watch my grandma pray the rosary. In your poem I especially like the lines of “Memory is a reluctant drum beating at this check out in Safeway.” Contrasting mundane Safeway (sorry Safeway), with the intrigue of memories definitely hooks me!

Lauren Stephens

That ending! I have literal chills. You’ve blended concrete imagery seamlessly with emotion. This is the kind of writing where I can clearly see the writer balancing the “clouds” or writing while staying firmly grounded (if that makes sense). Thank you, Rachelle!

Cara Fortey

Rachelle,
Memories aren’t always ordered or sensical and you create a patchwork of visuals and feelings that work beautifully together. This is a lovely remembrance of your grandpa.

Maureen Y Ingram

Margaret, thank you for this prompt! I am new to metaphor dice, and can only imagine all the different places one’s writing would go with these to instigate thought. My mind wandered to my deceased mother’s dementia….

Washing Lettuce

She stood at the sink
filling it full
deep with water
right to the rim
nearly overflowing
then 
methodically
leafing the lettuce
floating each 
one at a time
in the water

watching
as a young child might 
a boat in the bathtub
a stick in the stream
or rain flowing away

Hi Mom, whatcha doin’?
I asked 
and received

a look of confusion

This was my first glimpse
of the elusive machinations
of her mind
of the agony of Alzheimer’s

Which is to say

Sometimes 
memory has
a reluctant
drumbeat

Wendy Everard

Maureen, this was such a beautiful, touching scene. I love the ending, and the dwindling feeling that it produced, as your story was honed to its point in the last stanza. Lovely. 🙂

Rachelle Lipp

Maureen, thank you for writing this today. I felt like I was invited into such a private scene and memory. These lines spoke to me, “This was my first glimpse /of the elusive machinations / of her mind”

Stacey Joy

Maureen, I was captivated from the start. I felt the punch in my gut with…

Hi Mom, whatcha doin’?

I asked 

and received

a look of confusion

I feel you, your mom, and this moment as if I’m in it with the “reluctant drumbeat” ringing in my ears.

?

Emily Cohn

Maureen, I was touched by the stanza about the lettuce looking like boats, and the interpretation of the reluctant drumbeat as a mind currently trying to find memory. Absolutely beautiful – thank you for sharing this slice!

Sarah

Maureen, I love this lesson in watching…

watching

as a young child might 

a boat in the bathtub

a stick in the stream

I want to watch more closely and with this awe in the places of my life.

Sarah

Tammi

Maureen,

This is such a heart-wrenching poem. The movement of your poem and these lines “watching/ as a young child might/ a boat in the bathtub
made me feel like I was with you reliving this moment. So poignant!

Scott M

Maureen, this is such a tender, poignant poem. Alzheimer’s can produce such a “reluctant / drumbeat,” and you captured that so well. Thank you for sharing with us!

Denise Krebs

Maureen, wow. What an amazing memory came to you with this prompt. This is an amazing metaphor for using those metaphor dice. I would love to hear the process that brought this beauty into being, (a blog post, maybe?)

Scott M

That Time I Used Taylor Mali’s Metaphor Dice (Trademarked, All Rights Reserved) to Write a 25-Year Anniversary Poem for My Wife

Yes, our love is
a  divided curse

(Wait, What?!)

which is to say

many several
curses (cursettes?)
comprise our love

a kind of Horcrux
of curses, if you will, 
and we know how well 
that turned out 
for The Boy Who Lived 
just before he died

(I swore off using
She-Who-Must-Not-
Be-Named-Because-
of-Her-TERFness
in my poetry, Mr.
Mali, thank you
very much,
so I will literally
roll your metaphoric
dice again)

which, of course, 
is to say 
that memory Is 
a reluctant drum

(Ok, now, we’re just
being silly, how can
a drum be reluctant,
be sentient, aware
of its being, its
presentness?  The
purpose of a drum
is to be beaten, and,

hold on,

isn’t that a sad
state of affairs.

Should anything exist
for the sole purpose
of being stretched
taut and struck for
the sake of someone
else’s pleasure?

Great, now, Mali,
you have me
contemplating the
philosophical and
psychological
underpinnings of
percussion instruments
and those who
wield the drumsticks
of power

and you also, for which 
you will never be forgiven, 
made me use the phrase 
“drumsticks of power”

while all I wanted to write
was a sweet, perhaps even 
endearing, love poem
(which is decidedly not
divided nor a curse nor a
drum, reluctant or otherwise) 
for my beautiful
and smart 
and funny
and extraordinary
wife of 25 years.)

Linda Mitchell

What a fun poem for today or any day. Happy Anniversry!

Scott M

Thanks, Linda! ?

Maureen Y Ingram

I am in love with the word “cursettes” ! So adorable. Yes, happy anniversary! These lines made me laugh out loud, and think, too, of my toddler grandchild playing her drum:

contemplating the
philosophical and
psychological
underpinnings of
percussion instruments

Perhaps there is much more going on than simple banging! Thank you for this gift of a poem!

Scott M

Thanks, Maureen! You’re undoubtedly right, of course, lol, “there is much more going on than simple banging!”

Wendy Everard

Scott, this was just great, made me grin many times. Happy Anniversary. 🙂

Scott M

Thank you, Wendy! (Full disclosure: the actual date isn’t until early December, but since my gift each year is a poem, I thought I’d try to use our November prompts to “help” if I could.)

Tammi

As always, your poems make me smile. I, like Maureen, was also drawn to these lines:
“contemplating the
philosophical and
psychological
underpinnings of
percussion instruments
and those who
wield the drumsticks
of power”

As a parent of a son who was on the drumline, I got a kick out of this because the drumline members really do take themselves very seriously, and really who doesn’t want to wield the drumsticks of power!

Scott M

LOL

Stacey Joy

Happy 25th anniversary to you and your “smart and funny and extraordinary wife” who is so fortunate to have a poet for a husband! Beautiful and fun!

??

Scott M

Thank you, Stacey! ?

gayle sands

Cursettes. Happy anniversary, and as always, you made me smile.

Scott M

? Thanks, Gayle! I’m glad you enjoyed it!

Lauren Stephens

I was eighteen and anxious,
drumming my fingers on the dash.

He was eighteen and angry,
slamming his door hard enough
to spiderweb a crack from
last year’s hailstorm.

Quiet words fell from my lips-
entitled
tantrum
should have known

I saw in him what I wanted to see
until the lines I was reading between
grew loud
grew bold
and screamed for me see him plainly.

I drove the well-worn route home
a dull ache pounding
in my head
and in my gut
for the last time.

Linda Mitchell

Wow. A lot of emotion packed brilliantly into a small space…small enough for spider webbing. Love how you turned that into a verb.

Maureen Y Ingram

Fascinating memory unlocked by these three dice! What a poem of fortitude and decisiveness, even in the face of such fierce anger … glad you broke up. I particularly like this description:

to spiderweb a crack from

last year’s hailstorm.



Wendy Everard

This was really arresting and powerful. Love the juxtaposition at the beginning, Thank you for sharing it!

Rachelle Lipp

Hello, friend! Thank you for this poem today. Not only could I picture this scene, but I could *feel* it too. You set the tone cleverly with your opening stanza. Thank you for writing this today!

Tammi

Lauren,

Wow! This poem was intense, especially this stanza:
“He was eighteen and angry,
slamming his door hard enough
to spiderweb a crack from
last year’s hailstorm”

I was worried for you and so glad you left him behind.

Stacey Joy

Lauren, wow, you’ve captured a range of emotions and these lines left me sitting in its image:

slamming his door hard enough

to spiderweb a crack from

last year’s hailstorm.

Always plenty to embrace when we begin to see what’s really between lines! Amazing poem!

Stacey Joy

Yay, this is a fun prompt! I love the line

the heat that helps babies grow

There’s something pure and sweet about that image. Thank you for this prompt and your mentor poem.

Love is Memory Divided

Love is 
memory divided
like grandmother’s peach cobbler
Everyone gets a piece
but yours has more fruit
and mine is all crust
Which is to say 
I revel in rough edges

Love is
memory divided
like month-old Halloween candy
You want the Smarties
but I scour for Skittles
and Tootsie Rolls
Which is to say
We remember what matters most

© Stacey L. Joy, 11/21/21

Lauren Stephens

“I revel in rough edges” I love this line so much. I feel like there is another poem within just this line!

Linda Mitchell

Oh, this must have been fun to write. I totally want all the crust of a cobbler. I get that stanza completely!

Maureen Y Ingram

You’ve captured all the division and differences that arise even in love…I especially love

but yours has more fruit

and mine is all crust

What a beautiful final line – We remember what matters most. Divine!

Wendy Everard

Stacey, I loved the first stanza especially and the “which is to say” that grew from it. “I revel in rough edges” made me smile with its thought-provoking, almost tongue-in-cheek-ness. Layers of meaning there.
But as thought-provoking was your lesson learned from Stanza #2. This was a great poem.

Emily Cohn

Stacey – memories as food… I love it, I love the crust and “revel in rough edges” – grandma’s peach cobbler. I love the very relatable search through the Halloween candy for “what matters most.” (JUST ate a Snickers!) Thanks for sharing this sweet poem.

Tammi

Stacey — love this image: “yours has more fruit/and mine is all crust” and the the message about “remembering what matters most”

Barb Edler

Stacey, I love the focus on food here and adored “I revel in rough edges”…Sheer genius through and through. Your final line is like a resounding echo! Awesome poem!

Denise Krebs

Stacey, what power you found in that metaphor. The lovely “divide” in your memory poem do not divide, but rather unite the poet and your loved one in those sweet memories.

Emma

Choose me! Choose me!
The options crowd my mind. 
To feel so divided between
people
places
things
that I love
is a curse.

Choose this, then that!
Create the needed space
to make order and meaning for
people
places
things
that I love. 
A blessing.

Lauren Stephens

This poem makes me think about how much I try to fit in during holiday breaks. This drive to go, go, go instead of slow down is certainly a familiar one.

Maureen Y Ingram

I really like how the physical layout of each stanza – with order and space – the perfect complement to the poem itself. It shows ‘tension’ to ‘calm,’ I think. Beautiful!

Emily Cohn

Emma – I feel this one! Especially around the holidays, we can feel our time divided by people we love – nice use of exclamation points add a sense of urgency. Thanks for sharing this!

Tammi

Emma — Yes, right there with you. So much to do, so little time and so hard to choose.

Scott M

Margaret, thank you for these fun prompts the past couple of days! (I loved the internal rhyme in your mentor poem for today: “inside” and “rise” as well as “feeds” and “seed.” They quickened my pace when reading your poem aloud to have me pause at your “which is to say” before slowing down for the last half of your text, for that powerful “tender kiss.”) And thank you for introducing me to Taylor Mali’s Metaphor Dice! I had fun using them today!

Mo Daley

Memory Is a Reluctant Drum Beat
By Mo Daley 11/21/21

Memory is a reluctant drum beat
People always say, “I think about him every day!”
But that isn’t true for me
And I’m happy about it
Because that reluctant drum beat of memory
Still creeps up on me
Keeps time for me
Marking the thirty years since you left us

I wish the song those drums played was always harmonious
Last night, though, it was a cacophony I couldn’t quiet
The song of your beautiful soul
Overpowered percussively
With thoughts of your T-cells dramatically
Dropping
Dropping
Dropping
Until they were almost nonexistent
I had to wipe my tears before they fell
Because who still feels such pain after thirty years?

Emma

Thank you for such a raw, honest poem. Your words encapsulate exactly how it feels to grieve, even as time passes.

Maureen Y Ingram

Mo, this is really amazing. Love how you incorporated the three words so beautifully and argue so well in favor of not remembering sometimes –

that reluctant drum beat of memory

Still creeps up on me

And then the second stanza! It reads like it could be accompanied by a beating drum, slowing on the repeated “Dropping” – yes, this is a honest poem filled with love and pain and loss. Thank you for sharing this!

Wendy Everard

Oh, this was so beautiful. Made me cry. Thanks, Mo.

Wendy Everard

Margaret, thank you for the wonderful prompt! I loved your poem. I used the sites “Picker Wheel” and “Wheel Decide” to chose three words. 🙂

Comfort is a full-bellied ripple
of laughter —
a guffaw, a bark, a peal
from the mouth of the one
who heals your soul, bears your weight,
props your legs, rubs your palm.

Comfort is a full-bellied ripple
of meaning
in a look —
across a desk, a table, a room.
Across a screen, a microscopic figure
hoists shoulders into the air,
palms upturned in support of despair.

Comfort is the full-bellied ripple
of a heart in rhythm,
a mind in sync,  
receiving the gift
of being understood,
sharing the curse of
understanding.

Mo Daley

Wendy, this poem is lovely and just what I needed on this gloomy Sunday. It reminds me of all the wonderful things in my life. Thank you!

Emma

Your poem uses beautiful imagery. It made me think of the value of simple things, and the need for connection. Thank you!

Dixie K Keyes

Drum It Out

The drum of memory, mostly unbeaten
harbored in the top of a distant closet,
beyond arm’s reach.
Reluctant, almost non-existent like the tree
that falls in the forest that you don’t hear.

Yet, in its box, the taut skin still tremors,
vibrations of conflict rubberbanding in a silent way.
It holds its own light, though shadowed in captivity.

Opening is inevitable.
Trauma will untangle
in every inevitable reverberation.

Find a stool to reach the reluctant drum of memory.
Let your hands caress its strength.
Equilibrium disturbed
Quivering motion
Pain shouting.

–Dixie K. Keyes

Emma

I was fascinated by your word choice, especially in the line “the taut skin still tremors.” I could visualize it so well, and it helped me feel. Thank you!

Mo Daley

Dixie, what wonderful word choice! I really like the last stanza that urges us on, even through pain and suffering.

Barb Edler

Dixie, wow, there are so many incredible lines in this poem. I love how the box full of memories becomes a reluctant drum. Your poem builds so well to its painful end…”quivering motion/Pain shouting”…ahhh…I can hear and feel this emotion radiate off your poem. I particularly enjoyed the line “It holds its own light, though shadowed in captivity.” Brilliant!

Emily Cohn

Margaret – I enjoyed your metaphor – especially the warm bread and the burning kiss that stands over time. I LOVE the inspiration for the dice. I’m thinking of using these with vocabulary words students like, I’m thinking of using the 3D printer to make some, or have students make some.
I went my own way… inspired by my breakfast this morning.

Marriage is a grilled cheese

A universal formula:
Bread + cheese + heat
Made your own:
cheddar, mayo, pickles –
Weird? Yes. It’s mine.

Check in on it often
But not obsessively.

Not always perfection
One side may be crisper,
Even burnt –
But we will will make it again
And again.

We sense its comforting presence
From a room away.
“Will you make me one, too?”
“Yup! Butter, not mayo, yes?”
“Yes! Thanks.”

You know the preferred recipe
But still, check in.
Be polite.
Be thankful.
I’ve seen some messed up grilled cheeses without that
…you know?

It is daily bread
made holy
with time
and melting.

Wendy Everard

Emily, this is gorgeous and so apt! This line:

It is daily bread
made holy
with time
and melting.”

Just. So. Perfect.

Scott M

Emily, I really enjoyed this! And you’re right, I, too, have “seen some messed up grilled cheeses” that didn’t follow your “preferred recipe.” Thank you for writing and sharing your poem!

Karen Halverson

She remembers holding babies
Packing lunches and attending graduations.
Remembers water skiing on lakes
and riding motorcycles through the Black Hills.
Remembers car accidents, bike crashes, and stair tumbles
The concussions too numerous to count.
These days, however,
Memory is a reluctant drum
Held in her aching swollen hands
This drum hesitates as she reaches
for the word “neurologist”
skips a beat as she stumbles 
over great-grandkids’ names
Asks again about your day
Forgets to call
Disrupts repeated patterns
Of taking vitamins and finding iphones
Drops the beat, asking
How do you write the letter “d”?
Syncopates details in translation
Scrambles recipe rhythms
Interrupts measured flow of speaking
Incorrect syllables stressed
Syllables lost  
The sequence no longer harmonious

Dixie K Keyes

Margaret, the metaphor works SO beautifully here: Memory is a reluctant drum
Held in her aching swollen hands. Such emotion, devastation and beauty in one line.

Wendy Everard

Karen, this was so sensitive, rich in imagery, and just touched my heart. As a 50-year-old someone who is seeing her beloved 70-year-old Someones struggle with just this, this really hit home with its truth and authenticity.

Crystal L Kelley

Margaret, I love how in your poem, love is as present and fleeting as fresh bread, yet can stand the test of time. Beautiful.

Love this activity–any random word play is my favorite to get into my notebook. Thank you.

Crystal L Kelley

memory is a reluctant curse
replaying next to itself
each inexact 
clip reframing once honest hues

we go string grasping

sometimes in knots
interlacing truths constricted by time

sometimes those strings come loose

memory extracts
drawing forth
gut of our inner music

Sarah

Love is a divided curse
a hateful remark
whispered in the silences
of a standoff–
an existence of (mis)
fortune engaged
before you were you–
a spell to abracadabra
into re-enchantment
conjuring the wizardry
to fall in love again.

Crystal L Kelley

the way you define love as divided—and then really paint its ability to transform once again after being hurt–love those last two lines.

Dixie K Keyes

Such ideal word choices that build this poem, kind of like adding a string of horses to a wagon: standoff, misfortune, abracadabra, re-enchantment, conjuring…The rocky road of love.

Emily Cohn

Sarah – I love how you’ve woven the imagery of magic and curses throughout these lines. How much magic is needed to undo a hateful remark? It’s a great question asked in this poem, and you’ve chosen powerful words – abracadabra, re-enchatment, and wizardry. You’ve captured some tough aspects of love here.

Allison Berryhill

Sarah, Thank you for this glimpse into the heat we know: love’s divided curse.
Then enjambed (mis) fortune embodied the divide/curse for me. (Then echoed in re-enchantment). Ah, the magic of finding a way back to each other. <3

Gayle

Oh, how I wish I had had these dice while I was teaching! Thank you Margaret, for the tool and the poem. This: “your tender kiss/melts my heart/into pure gold” is pure gold!

Tap 

And
a bubble of memory rises.
Snatching at it, I pull it to the surface.
What have I found?.
Ah! It is that one!. 
I snag the moment,
encourage it, ripen it, hatch it.
I am glad I took the time to look..
It is a worthy bubble…
 
An icy winter day, too cold to play outside,
dressed up in your mother’s finery, 
prom dresses retrieved from the closet..
We were glorious in our ill-fitting froth.
Innocent in our expectations.

Her memories; our hopes.
The cadence of her past, 
The pulse of our futures.
The thrum of possibility.

GJ Sands
11/21/21

Linda Mitchell

This is wonderful…bringing that memory up and turning into such a beautiful moment. Love the detail of the prom dresses.

Emily Cohn

Gayle, this poem brings to mind Harry Potter, and how memories were stored in glass spheres that the characters could break open and re-experience anew. The image of the girls “glorious in our ill-fitting froth” – I can just SEE girls in these dresses, having a joyful, silly moment, with the perspective of time added to it is so poignant. Love it!

Sarah

GJ, I love this metaphor of a bubble as an egg:

encourage it, ripen it, hatch it.
I am glad I took the time to look..
It is a worthy bubble…

And I so appreciate the patience to look for its worth.

Peace,
Sarah

Karen Halverson

The cadence of her past, 
The pulse of our futures.
The thrum of possibility.

Love the rhythm here–in structure and in word choice.

Maureen Y Ingram

Gayle, this is precious! Love how you describe your thought process – perhaps following the lead of the words on the dice, thinking about the memories they unleashed:

I snag the moment,

encourage it, ripen it, hatch it.

You offer this beautiful snapshot of a long-ago memory…just lovely!

Katrina Morrison

Margaret, it is always a joy to “see” you here. I will have to snag some of Taylor’s dice. Thank you for your prompts.

The Curse of Love

Can love divide us
As a warm knife divides
Cold butter?
Love of family,
Love of home,
Love of neighborhood,
Love of country,
Love of the the way things
Have always been done?
No, when we take a 
Warm knife to it, 
We are sharing it
And we go on to
Spread it like
Butter
On warm toast.

Linda Mitchell

How wonderful…not cutting, sharing. It’s a great take on perspective.

Emily Cohn

I like this metaphor of the knife as love, as a tool for sharing perspective, spreading and melting, rather than rigid, divided slices. Butter is a good metaphor, too…. thank you for sharing this hopeful poem this morning.

Margaret Simon

Thanks for being here! I am on a weekend trip with my daughters, so I will not be available to comment through the day as I would like. I love how this community works as we hold each other up. The metaphor dice above can be read many ways. The traditional way would be Memory is a reluctant drum and Love is a divided curse. You can muse on these or mix them up. And surely if you have your own set of dice, you can roll them for your own metaphor. Thanks for playing.

Julie Meiklejohn

Oh, I love Metaphor Dice! Mine are at school, so I found an online dice roller. I rolled “time,” “unruly,” and “curse.”

On the Cusp

Autumn leaves snagged in her tangled hair,
the hedge witch hums a tuneless song–
the power of her magic
woven in the air around her.
The unruly curse of time
stymies her, again and again–
at once memory, moment, and dream,
the eternal shapeshifter.

Margaret Simon

Oh, the unruly curse of time…I feel it every day. What an interesting place to take us, from the image of autumn leaves snagged in tangled air to the eternal shapeshifter. Who is this witch?

Emily Cohn

Julie – this autumn witchiness is really enchanting! In a few lines, you’ve made a story from this figure, cursed by time. I love the line, “at once memory, moment, and dream” – this made me feel wistful and magical.

Wendy Everard

Julie, loved this! I think of a wonderful picture of my friend’s three grandchildren when I read it — pixies, all of them. 🙂

Mary Lee Hahn

You early birds are inspiring! Kim, your poem spoke directly to me (I snuck some pre-breakfast Halloween!!). Kevin, that drum, the rhythm, the love! Linda, a golden shovel! Wowsers!

I rolled the make-your-own dice that Margaret sent me recently.

You stand at the edge for the longest time,
anticipating the shock,
knowing that it will be worse before it gets better.
But dedication
is a mighty swimming pool
and you’ve claimed your lane,
trained for the distance event rather than the sprint.
There are laps to go,
turns to make.
Dive in.

I wasn’t sure what this poem would be about before I started writing, but I’ll dedicate it to all my teacher friends. You’ve got this! Stay strong!

Linda Mitchell

As a recent swimmer for exercise (I’m the craziest and slowest in the pool) I love “claimed your lane” Such a great metaphor for life! Yes, dive in!

Kim Johnson

Mary Lee, this mighty swimming pool
could be so many things – that distance rather than the sprint reinforces the idea that it will require dedication to stay the course. Claiming the lane is the commitment to dive in – and swim! Love this!

Margaret Simon

We have claimed our lane and have laps to go, but this Thanksgiving break is a much needed breath of air. Thanks for playing this morning!

Sarah

Oh, so cool — dedication is a mighty swimming pool! And for any of us who have tried to swim laps, this is a perfect image “claimed your lane” and “distance event rather than a sprint.” So apt for thinking about the broader implications of dedication. Love, love this poem and where it took us all through your craft.

Scott M

Mary Lee, thank you for this! “[L]aps to go, / turns to make” is so true. The holiday breaks are just around the corner, so there’s that. But until then, though, it’s swim, swim, swim!

Kim Johnson

Go Ahead. Roll the Dice.

And so it unfolds ~
a tempting delicacy
on a glistening silver tray
sugar-laden phyllo 
luring the senses
beckoning one taste
of Eden’s secret

but 


cheating is 
a nutrient-rich 
harbinger
bolting shut 
home sweet home
and all its
familiar comforts 

Linda Mitchell

oooph! Holiday parties…the temptations! This made me smile.

Margaret Simon

My mouth was watering on that first stanza.

Barb Edler

Kim, now I am hungry. I feel the sense of self-denial. Love the line “sugar-laden phyllo”…I can see this sweet treat and its power to make one want to cheat. Loved it!

Kevin Hodgson

Never be reluctant
to rap the echo drum
against the skin
of this world,

for memory is love,
and love, a rhythm
we make music with
others, to

(I have my set of Metaphor Dice upstairs … at one point, he was offering them free to any educator for the cost of shipping but I am not sure if that is still the case.)
Kevin

Kevin Hodgson

Here is the link for FREE dice from Taylor for teachers in US
https://www.metaphordice.com/product/teacher-recipient/
🙂

Susie Morice

Thank you, Kevin! Susie

Linda Mitchell

Stunning use of the prompt, Kevin…that phrase, “skin of this world,” just beautiful. Memory IS love and rhytmn. Gorgeous short poem.

Kim Johnson

Kevin, rapping the echo drum against the skin of this world is a new thought – and you went straight to memory as a form of musical love. My thoughts will linger here as I toss this around and reflect on it for a while. It is most intriguing!

Susie Morice

Kevin – ooo… “echo drum/ against the skin of the world” – I like this sensory image. The heart in this little poem makes me feel good this morning. Thanks, Susie

Margaret Simon

“Memory is love” This line means a lot to me as facing a loved ones memory loss and we are called to love her through it. Thanks for sharing the link. Taylor is very generous.

Crystal L Kelley

your call to action from the beginning makes this poem stay with me. thank you.

Linda Mitchell

Oh, so much love from that burning kiss. A sweet, sweet poem with some grit to it too. Growing babies is no joke! Love those lines.

A Golden Shovel

November’s memory

clings — last leaves on the oaks. Goldleaf is 

wearing thin from feeding so long of the sun. A 

brisk breeze teases reluctant

pom poms to keep time with a pep band drum

Kevin Hodgson

Nice use of the Golden Shovel to plant the words as seeds
Kevin

Kim Johnson

Linda, the reluctant pop poms trying to keep time with the pep band in a brisk breeze just makes that drum so audible as each leaf turns loose the bough and falls to its autumn death to make way for winter frost. I absolutely love this vivid imagery of fall and the way you used your dice on different lines.

Margaret Simon

So clever of you to turn the metaphor into a golden shovel! “Feeding so ling on the sun” is a beautiful line. And the pom poms dancing is such a fun image.

Emily Cohn

Linda – this poem put me in a nostalgic mood – I can hear that pep band, because it has a different sound outside in the cold than it would earlier. You capture the waning mood of fall here beautifully!

Kim Johnson

Margaret, I love the way you used the Metaphor Dice as a seed to get the ball rolling today! Found these at the NCTE convention a few years ago and set them out in a table at Thanksgiving and they were such a hit with my family. There is an app version too, for the phone, which is a lot of fun and about $3.99 or so as I remember. The app picture is blue, with META and PHOR on the first two lines and DICE on the third. I can’t wait to roll the dice today and see what comes my way! Thank you for hosting us today!