Day 3, February’s Open Write with Rex Muston
Rex Muston has taught language arts and coached a bit at Keokuk High School for 25+ years. During his undergraduate years at Iowa, he worked six summer seasons in Yellowstone, and a winter in Utah. He began teaching in Keokuk after receiving his MAT in Secondary English. He credits his asthmatic childhood, growing up in Iowa City, and his time out west as having the biggest impact on his continuing desire to communicate through poetry.
Inspiration
One of the first poems that really resonated with me was William Stafford’s “Traveling through the Dark.” I think there are so many instances, at least for me, where I am going somewhere purposeful, and then something happens that alters my perspective. Maybe it’d be considered a Road Trip form, or an Out and Back form. We are in a process going from point A to point B, and sometimes returning, when something asserts itself in a poetical sense. For me it has been weathered roadside memorials, a dead cat, the progression of road signs on a route, or the way the ice creates a glare on a rural stretch of Wisconsin highway in the darkness. It could be an out and back walk with the dogs on Sunday, or dropping off your son at the dorm.
Process
How are you different than when you started? How was the routine broken? What hyper specific thing jumped out for you to notice as a sensory trigger? How did figurative and literal sit side by side because of your changed way of looking at your journey? Could it be something as simple as walking slower, or the fact that your pupils were just dilated at the eye doctors? Do you tap into a memory of a past trip, and reprocess it? What do you see on your re-turning? Is it just seeing what is in the refrigerator, REALLY seeing what is in the refrigerator for the first time? Have fun with it, and come back to it when it has had time to fester/ferment/flower.
So much of the journey is…
The things I find when I re-turn…
I chart my forward momentum, I …
The voyage of my adolescence…
After Captain Nemo dropped me off…
Here’s a couple to chew on, or spit out:
MY UNCLE’S PRESENCE
The voyage of my secure childhood
sailed east and west through the heart of Indiana,
with safe passage ports like Avon,
Speedway, Plainfield and Brownsburg.
Each harbor synonymous with family
and ties to something deeper
that may one day be understood,
for now just heartbeat intrinsic.
My Father’s ancestry starboard,
rural and dusted by gravel,
Mother’s side my spiritual port,
Indy and tied to the Brickyard.
So much of the journey now is
a stoic reflection on bulletins,
flower arrangements, and meals
provided by a church.
But as I chart my forward momentum
and my children gauge the winds of change,
we set our course by the quilt of family
dotting the heavens of Central Indiana.
THE COROLLA’S BAD ALTERNATOR
I went driving with my daughter
in my truck to see the man
who drives a wrecker,
to see if he’d fix my car.
On the shiny black of Bank Street’s asphalt
we passed a medium mammal casualty
laying still as still, midroad dead,
recognized gone but not for sure discerned.
My daughter hurried out “a rabbit,”
as her life is so much in front of her, and
I in my graying lucidness lamented,
“Oh my, that was a cat.”
Pride was nipping at her,
curiosity was nibbling at me,
and in retracing our trek we slowed to look,
…a flattened calico with an eye bulged from a socket.
Neither felt to gloat right or wrong,
as we were unified in horror, aversion,
and the seared image in our collective memory,
a daddy daughter moment, all the same.
Your Turn to Write & Respond
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. See the image for commenting with care. 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.
The Social Security Office
(TW: racial slurs, harassment)
Wedding bells
And airplane rides
To places far away
Traveling together, grown and free
These memories hold as we come back home
We wash the sand out of our clothes and
You go to work as I begin the daunting task
Of changing my last name to yours
I drive my car to the social security office
Paperwork in hand
Ready to become a Mrs.
And park across the street
After waiting in line
Filling out more forms
And paying a fee
I begin the walk back to my car
A truck slows down beside me
A man holds out a card to me
“Do you want to be on the guest list,
Of this club I work for?”
My heartbeat quickens
As I shake my head, “no, thank you”
I fake a smile and face forward
Why didn’t I turn back and run?
“Look at my watch, my chain
Don’t you want a man with money?”
I remain silent, yet you grow louder
“What, you only f— n—s?”
Your taunts follow me
As I rush to the stoplight to cross the street
The tears burn my eyes
“Yeah, f—ing n—, that’s all you do”
Traffic halts
A busy intersection, lights red
For the first time in my life,
I’m speechless
As I reach my car, I turn to see that you’ve moved on
Green light, truck is gone
Two boys turn to me in the parking lot
“Are you okay?”
I fake a smile again
I nod, wave them off
Get in my car
And cry all the way home
His words mean nothing to me
But the hatred in his tone—
It’s something I’ve never heard before
And people believe racism is dead?
You come home to hear of the frightening scene
The racist words, the hatred, and the fear
You hold me close and ask the question I’ve asked myself all day,
“Why didn’t you turn back and run?”
Oh, Crystal, how awful. Ugh! Tears! This poem is so raw. You show the truth so well. I am appalled by the hated people seem so at ease spewing. It feels to me as though racism is rising, but I am more afraid that I’ve been incredibly naive. Either way, you capture the emotions so well with the line: “The racist words, the hatred, and the fear”. Finally, I am really sorry that something that should have been a happy occasion for you turned so ugly. Thanks for sharing this experience so expertly in your poem. Hugs!
I can feel that fight/flight response immediately when the speaker does – it’s a frozen moment so many of us can share for having been placed in similar situations, and yet – why does it continue to stun us so? The tone conveys a sense of confinement of the speaker from having gone from such a place of freedom of choice and expression of love (the name changing) to being caught in the degradation and objectification at the whim of stranger. The way in which the assailant just “vanishes” typifies exactly how people like that can also be so vile without a thought – any sense of their wrong does not register in other than fleeting fun – yet for the victim, such a brief exchange from someone so disconnected will remain for a lifetime. This is the work of poets – to help people see the humanity, from desecrated to celebrated. This IS reality and it IS ugly for ALL of us.
Out and Back
I usually make the loop instead of turning around
The view on the way back familiar, I’ve been before
More practical keeping eyes on the known path
No need to risk different light
I was already in bed when he walked in
His father brushing teeth, the nightly ritual
At the turnaround spot, he sat exhaling
On the bed’s edge, was he afraid?
No easy way to tell you this, I’m gay
From the bathroom came his father’s arms
That wrapped him in wet embrace, his eyes
Told me it was my turn
To hold and be held in that moment
This wasn’t your dream for me when you rocked me
As a baby, not your vision for your son
On the outbound, time to turn
Inward to pull, reveal unknown minutes
Of light that grasped the searching eyes
Clutched until we both knew the strength
Of truth unveiled, unconditional love
Everything had changed but nothing had moved
The path enlightened, more beautiful
Than I had imagined on the outbound
This view of valor
His fear unprovoked, yet not futile
To ask to turn unplanned in the midst of a loop
That’s my pain, his hesitance to ask or assume I’d see
What if I’d missed it?
He’s constant on the out and the back
It’s my view changed by the turn, somehow ready
For courage to sit on the edge of the bed
And run home beside me
Wow, Shannon. There are so many points of minutia in this poem – so many single tiny behaviors that alone or without context would go unnoticed. But that’s kind of the point, too, isn’t it? What goes unnoticed, unsaid? And what does it take to say it – and then notice it, acknowledge it, respect it. There’s a tone shift in this poem, from the beginning which seems ‘mundane’ but also building the anticipation. These lines turn the tone for me, “Clutched until we both knew the strength / Of truth unveiled, unconditional love,” with those proceeding it bringing the reader along to want to know what the outcome will be. I love this action line, “From the bathroom came his father’s arms / That wrapped him in wet embrace.” This would be a great poem to practice ‘anticipation’ reading, revealing only lines or stanzas at a time to see what the reader might guess would happen next, how the reader would feel/respond. And that action of sitting on the edge of the bed is utterly beautiful in its practicality and intimacy. I will never see sitting on the edge of the bed the same way again!
Thanks, Denise. I’ve never shared this experience with an audience, but this feels like a trusted place. I enjoy seeing what turned the tone for you. Thank you for coming with me on the journey.
WARNING: References to racist language in this poem.
I am late posting again today – but I’m doing my best to keep up this month!
Zoom Terrorists
I joined the zoom early
to chit-chat with Host
Snowy in Chicago.
Cold here in DC.
Sunny in Cali.
On the hour
she began the lecture
African American history in art
a song broke through
banjos and n— and sp–ks.
Then silence
then apologies
guests responding
stunned hurt angry
racist zoombombers.
“My heart is pounding”
one Black woman said.
“We could stop”
Host offered.
We urged her on.
We continued to study
the image and life
of Frederick Douglass &
his grandson Joseph Douglass
valued contributors to American culture.
Repeatedly the bombers entered
shouting n— n— n—
one posting porn
Host both presenting
and blockading.
By the time she finished
the attacks had stopped
several participants left
Host apologized again
and again and again.
The words and images
will haunt me to be sure
but not as much as knowing
those people
are always out there.
That while a group of teachers
committed to learning
African American culture
others breathing the same oxygen
felt just as accomplished
for their role that day.
Holy cow, Denise! This really happened!? How godawful is that?! Geez. I knew about the Zoom-bombers…but racist Zoombombers, now that’s a really insidious, nasty attack. We have some scary racist folks out there…but you are a
and you are far more powerful for your conviction to honesty, decency, truth, learning, and intelligent discourse. I commend you and deplore that this struggle is as ugly as it is in these days of trying so hard to learn and be better. Hang tough, my friend. Z-bombers are mean and ugly and hide in the crannies of our media, but I am convinced that civility will prevail. Thank you for sharing this and I hope others get back to yesterday’s posting to read this poem! Susie
Denise, I came back to read this page on Tuesday evening, knowing that I probably missed some wonderful work. I am so glad I did. This poem is haunting. I can’t even imagine people doing this or being the speaker who is trying to share information and being verbally attacked. I continually feel more and more stunned as all of these haters are rising up, feeling as you say that they are accomplishing something. How depressing and frightening! Thanks for sharing this horror so clearly in your poem!
Send-Off
At the end of spring
There was no field day or kickball, so
We decided to do an
8th grade Zoom Send-off Ceremony Spectacular!
We were a little giddy
Our teaching trio back together,
The fun fairies!
Not deliverers of content
We packed Gale’s truck
with little trinkets we made
carefully labelled in Manila envelopes –
Do not open til Thursday!
We zipped down dirt roads to deliver
to quiet doorsteps
a few kids popping out to wave for a moment,
a little changed: taller, wearier, bed-headed
One envelope left for Ava –
Intelligent, sullen, moon-faced, long, tangled dark hair
Sometimes bruises blossomed on her face and neck
She laughed or lashed out, and rarely studied
On a road I’d never been on
The mile down took our breath away
The rugged truck thrashed against each stone
Bumping, slamming, shaking us til we arrived
Ava’s mismatched walls were Swiss cheese
A ragged chimney jutted unevenly from the side
The yard had old decorations, flags, a plastic skull
But held the promise of a mossy green escape to the deep woods.
Mom came out to get the packet
Thanked us, baby bouncing on her hip
We smiled behind masks, gave the details (cheerful always, us teacher-ladies)
“Well, we better get going!”
We turned around at the end of the wooded road
Sober now, we traced Ava’s path back to school.
Emily,
You’ve written a poem reminding me of how important it is to know and understand students’ lives beyond the classroom. Indeed, we’re riding w/ you as
reminding us of the uneven paths students travel. And in my mind I’ve sitting on the kitchen floor of one student’s home, drinking Tecate beer and eating tamales w/ her father as my student translated. Thank you for jarring that memory to the surface of my mind.
Emily – This is such an important poem. The reality of Ava’s life played out in such specific details. First, I was smitten by the delightful act of this beautiful attention to each student, and then the real journey unfolded Ava’s world. What a powerful lesson for all of us. I’m so glad I awoke to read this tonight. You are a marvelous teacher. A dear friend. Hugs, Susie
This is both beautiful and painful in its imagery and message. This line in particular, “She laughed or lashed out, and rarely studied” because it follows this line, “Sometimes bruises blossomed on her face and neck,” makes me understand her ‘lashing out’ and and further layers sadness upon my perception when the description had started with “Intelligent.” The private lives of our students have been made so much more public to us all, even while they are further removed from us in their own homes. I have seen things on zoom chats that I cannot unsee, and it’s not as though we didn’t imagine these lives of our students, but the seeing their realities cements them in our understanding. What do we do with that? Just as these teachers do: we keep teaching and helping students as best we can on their life journeys. Oh, this poem sums up so many of those loose end feelings.
Because I was “poor”, I spent my
Saturday mornings scribbling scholarships.
Folgers smacks me awake—
Sending energy through the fingertips.
Weekend mornings were lazy
Siblings rising as the clock hands met in prayer at noon
Parents shuffled in slippers working
On house projects.
Today’s prompt stared at me through the screen:
Why do you deserve this award?
Elaborate by describing obstacles you’ve had to
overcome (in regards to race, gender, sexual orientation, disability, age, economic status etc).
“Because I’m white…”
“Because I’m a girl…”
“Because I’m straight…”
“Because I’m left handed…”
“Because I’m Catholic…”
“Because only one of my parents went to college…”
“Because I’m the oldest kid in my family…”
“Because I’m the poorest kid at the *private* school…”
“Because…”
Brainstorming broke the backspace button.
My obstacles were like ant hills compared to issues
I was learning in class.
Not having a left-handed desk
was nothing like
not having clean water.
Or the freedom to be my true self.
Or zip code dictating my future.
My neurons were reaching for adversity
That didn’t exist—
I recognized this privilege
Before I could truly define it.
“Please give this scholarship to someone who deserves it.”
Send.
Rachelle–this is so honest! So many are unable to ever identify their advantages. You may not have fully recognized it, but you got there. I really like
If only all our students took to heart our lessons the way you did. 😉 Lovely job!
I am trying to pin down what this poem makes me feel in terms of the scholarship process. That relationship between the applicant and the “readers” – though judges is more apt. The rhetorical skill of a student is as much on display as their lives that qualify them for consideration in the first place. And the ‘reader’ who sits in judgement of both – what a powerful position that is. There is also a sense of ‘self in the universe’ going on here – one that can lead people to that sense of futility: Who am I to ask? So by the end of this, I’m not sure if I feel the speaker is doing the right thing. That’s a good way to leave the reader – with something to ponder!
I LOVE William Stafford–a long-time Oregon resident just north of me in Portland–so what a wonderful prompt. My poem didn’t really end up being a traditional journey, but a journey of several lifetimes–my sons’.
My Sons
Life shifts and veers without fail
Every time you think that things have fallen into place
Something happens and then the pieces shift
And morph
And slide away
That’s really what being a parent is like
You can’t close your eyes and bask in the stasis of the present
Because the present is always running away
Zig-zagging just out of grasp
In a game of tag on the playground of life
Children grow from tiny helpless creatures
Who depend on you for all of their needs,
Grow into larger creatures who still need you
But vehemently deny it–”I can do it!”
Eventually, without really noticing
Suddenly conversations are deeper and more relevant
Voices change not just in pitch but in opinions
Keep up or get left behind!
In the blink of an eye, where once there was a tiny child
Yearning for connection and oneness
Now there is an adult, determined, capable, and tall
No longer dependent but independent and
All that you wanted for them
But you have to let them go
They’re no longer totally yours
The crux of being a mother is loving them enough
To let them be
Ooh, the last two lines are really beautiful, after clearly all that time and honoring of growth has happened. I like the bit about deeper voices and opinions – nice turn of phrase!
I really could “hear” you in your writing today. This line made me chuckle: “Keep up or get left behind!” Thanks for this journey. I really like reading poems written from a mother’s perspective.
I have never had the honor of parenting a child, but this encapsulates what I hear from so many parents about their experiences, as well as from my own mother who raised eight children. She made comments similar to wanting each of us to be “an adult, determined, capable, and tall / No longer dependent but independent and / All that you wanted for them.” I am intrigued by this line, which I hear so often repeated as well, “But you have to let them go” – and wonder for that moment at which parents recognize this. Is it repeated throughout a child’s life? These letting go moments? Does it happen gradually or suddenly? I try to imagine what my ‘growing away’ from my parents was like, but I can’t say as I have any one particular memory. Parents must sense this more and have more of a memory of it.
Shift, and morph, and slide away. I love how changes have changes as a process.
Rex, I love the voice in your invitation and the humanity in both of your poems. THANK you for this wonderful prompt. I really enjoyed writing this, even though I wish I’d worked on it earlier in the day to allow myself some time between drafting and posting to give it time to “fester/ferment/flower.” (That’s such a great way to consider wait time between drafting and polishing poetry.) Enough. Here are my Out and Back–mostly Back.
Spring Break 1981
Driving north on hwy 65 from Des Moines I saw my hand
resting against the Pontiac’s wheel.
Two fingers pursed the filter of
a slender Marlboro Light. I was 21.
In my rearview were six days in Ft. Lauderdale
with my wreck of a boyfriend, who’d moved there
for a job with an uncle and a 24-7 party scene.
My gills tightened with retch of regret.
Whose hand is this? I asked.
At what point does what you do
become who you are?
The devil’s eye glowed and winked.
The silver smoke snaked to the cracked window,
tugging at the center of my chest
while the road ahead–my metaphor–
demanded I grip the wheel.
My own hollow eyes met those in the rearview mirror.
I flicked the butt out the window and didn’t look back.
Allison,
I love the use of the rearview mirror to see hindsight, and I love how you saw your hand resting against the wheel, like an out of body experience/memory. It is very visual, like a movie scene where it would follow the butt out onto the highway as the car disappeared into the distance.
Thanks for getting me involved with this group. There are so many talented poets. It has really helped me reestablish my humility.
Allison,
Bravo for flicking that smoke out the window. Hindsight is 20/20. I love this question:
I’d say the moment when we do the thing. It’s a matter of character until we flick the butt out the window, metaphorically speaking.
Like Glenda, I also love the line, “At what point does what you do
become who you are?” as it feels very close to ruminations in my own heart many times in my life. I also love “the road ahead–my metaphor–
demanded I grip the wheel” as it so beautifully portrays how you were taking control of your direction.
This was raw and honest and beautiful. Thank you for sharing.
Ooh!! What a watershed moment you captured here, all told through the story of a cigarette. I like that moment of “whose hand is this?” and then the discarding of the boyfriend, the things that happened, and the cigarette with a flick. I really enjoyed this contemplative drive with you – felt like being 21, for sure.
What a pivotal moment, Allison! Dang! Strong stuff here! Each detail is magic. The smoke snaking to the window… perfect word choice… that asp …evil image. That it pulled on your chest is not lost on me here. The power in the eyes in the mirror, seeing backward , forward, and eyeball to eyeball… reckoning. Really a brilliant poem. You are a force in this community, Allison. Thank you for this watershed moment of a poem. Susie
Allison, I am so glad I came back to this page to see what I missed from yesterday. Your poem is incredibly moving. I love the specific details that paint this memory from your past. From the highway, to the color of the smoke, to the way you’re handling the wheel. All of these details bring this entire scene to life. I was especially moved by the mood you are able to establish with “My own hollow eyes”…followed by “I flicked the butt out the window and didn’t look back.” Wow, what a perfect end! And the metaphor for the cigarette butt “The devil’s eye glowed and winked” was striking and incredibly unique. Your poem is like a film being played for the audience to understand all of the actions, character, and emotions. Truly beautiful and brilliant poem! Loved, loved, loved it!
Stuck in Time
I cannot wait to turn
EIGHTEEN
Was the highlight of my teen
This was the moto
Of all the neighborhood children
Whenever something happens
That they did not like
You would hear
Wait until I turn 18
Everything will be different
Oh how I could not wait
To turn eighteen
The freedom
To live my best life
Was awaiting
The years I counted
They did not matter
Because one day
I would become an
AUDULT
The joy grew stronger
The closer I got
The excitement…
This girl could not wait any longer
Questions here, questions there
But no answer could satisfy
My curiosity
All the talk about what happens
When you turn 18
My older siblings
Seem to be enjoying
Their new life
All that partying
I did not care about
On the final hour of my beloved day
Heart racing
Not knowing what to expect
Then the countdown started
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
The room burst with excitement
Then
NOTHING
NOTHING AT ALL HAPPENED
I was still me
All this fuss was for nothing
Talking to friends and relatives
For nothing
Now 26 years later
The shock of turning 18 still lingers
Melissa, I love how the non-event of turning 18 turns into a shock that lingers 26 years later. I was pulled through your poem with the carrot of that all-precious birthday ahead! I, too, thought my world would burst open when I hit that magic age. Thank you for taking me there.
Excellent!! 18 as the demarcation point—never was what is seemed to be., was it? You have taken all of us back to that event/non-event! Thank you!
I love the build-up, the anticipated independence, and then “I was still me.” I think this is actually an interesting moment of adulthood you’ve captured, where you realize that watershed moments don’t come in a calendar! Nice use of counting, capitals, to capture your building excitement.
Out and Back
Moved out to Hawaii
Lived 3 years in paradise
Retirement ended it all
Moved back to the Mainland
The brevity of this poem adds to its power. We envision retirement as some sort of paradise, and here you leave “paradise” to retire.
There’s so much adventure packed in here – reminds me of the six word memoirs. Thanks for sharing the journey!
I’m all for short poems! What I find intriguing about this one is the kind of opposite move I would expect. I would think someone might retire to Hawai’i from the mainland, so that is a bit of a twist. Is Mainland generally capitalized? I like that but don’t know if it was your own rhetorical choice here, or if in Hawai’i and other island nations, it is generally capitalized.
Denise, mainland is not generally capitalized. I chose to capitalize it so the first and last lines mirrored (sort of).
Do you remember the
whipped coffee that made
its way around YouTube
a little while ago?
What I remember most
was that It was so “fluffy”;
It gave me a new
understanding
of the size and texture
of the word “dollop.”
It’s so good.
And I can’t make it
for the life of me.
I’ve watched the videos;
I’ve watched Heather,
and yet, I still can’t.
I’ve worked through
passages of Joyce’s
Ulysses; I’ve taken
graduate courses
on Chaucer. I even
have a Master’s degree
in English Literature, for
Christ’s sake. I should
be able to follow a
recipe.
And yet.
I mean, and this is not
a humble brag by any
means, I’ve been
speaking and writing
the English language
for my entire life and
following a recipe seems
straightforward enough,
Heather’s homemade
pizza crust recipe, the
one passed down from
generation to generation
is [Portions of this stanza
have been redacted by
order of the Management.]
So, you see, I should be
able to figure out how
to make this.
Maybe it’s a flick of the wrist,
the counter clockwise of
it all, or maybe it’s clockwise
for a bit and then some
number of revolutions later
you switch, making some
figure eights or zig zagging
“S” shapes.
Look, this is some kind of
sorcery to me, some ancient
alchemy.
She just does something to
it to make it taste so good.
Now, don’t say she makes
it with love because first,
what does that even mean?
and second, eewww, that
reminds me of a
Subaru commercial or
something.
And I guess I could
just ask her,
inquire about the
arcane and secret
Magicks she employs
when making my
coffee, but trying
different techniques
and ingredients seems
a bit more fun. It
makes me feel like
an adventurer or
pioneer or something.
So, tomorrow, I’ll try
something new, maybe
cumin or horseradish
with a wiggle flick of
the wrist from my non-
dominant hand. (Whatever
I choose can’t be worse
than today’s fiasco
of Folgers and Chinese
Five Spice mixed with
the handle of a butter
knife.)
Thank you for this, Scott. I love the humor and I can identify with the fiasco’s of cooking. Like the lines [Portions of this stanza
have been redacted by
order of the Management.]
Scott-in elementary school, were you the kid they put in th back so you couldn’t distract others? (Asking for a friend.) as always, you have taken a topic and gone running off into the wilderness with it Hard to pick a favorite bit, but this stands out…
— I’ve worked through
passages of Joyce’s
Ulysses; I’ve taken
graduate courses
on Chaucer. I even
have a Master’s degree
in English Literature, for
Christ’s sake. I should
be able to follow a
recipe.
And yet.
(And Scott takes off on yet another delightful rant!)
AGREE!
Scott,
Wonderful meandering thoughts here. I can’t help but think about how I must ask my husband how to make coffee when he’s not here to do it for me, so I understand the nuances of this “alchemy.” Maybe it’s the art of coffee, the way we enjoy another’s creation more than our own. After all, you did not write Ulysses or The Canterbury Tales but are but a sampler of their characters, ideas, and language. Seems to me that’s what you experience w/ coffee, too. Cheers!
Scott, I know this whipped coffee concoction. It is blissful, isn’t it? It’s funny to me as you ponder what new trick you will employ tomorrow:
Made me laugh to think of Folgers and Five Spice! ?
Scott,
This was such a fun poem to read with so many great images. My laugh out loud moments came in reading these lines: [Portions of this stanza/have been redacted by/order of the Management.] and”Now, don’t say she makes/it with love because first,/what does that even mean?/and second, eewww, that/reminds me of a/
Subaru commercial or something.”
I guess there truly is an art to cooking.
Scott, this is a delicious romp! The short lines pull me in with a rapidity that fits the frothing effort of your task! I, like others, loved the slowing of the poem as you explore why you can unlock obscure texts and yet pound, dismissed, at the door of a recipe. (I often feel this way when reading tax instructions or insurance documents.) Wonderful poem to close down my night!
This is such a fun poem! I love the almost conversation you have with your reader,
because, yes, that really does sound like something out of a Subaru commercial. Perhaps the real truth is, things just always seem to taste better when someone makes it for you. Thank you for making this poem to make me smile this evening. 🙂
Lots of genuine chuckles here – love the redacted family recipe, love the disastrous mixture du jour. I like that you are admiring of Heather’s recipe, not in a pandering way, but genuine enjoyment of the mystery. Here’s hoping tomorrow’s experiment is better, and thanks for sharing this one!
Three Uncles
Siblings of parents
bloodlines connect them
failures and shortcomings
are noticed
so……gotta “raise” their niece
Only children need attention.
Since she’s brilliant
let’s engage with her
her vocabulary is evolved and
appropriately adult-ish
so they co-parent sometimes because
dad is aloof, too cerebral, and chasing tail
and mom is clinging to a doomed union
they listen to her read
tell her jokes
sneak her a sip of
sumpin’ sumpin’ if she asks
fly her to the Midwest
drive her South
to meet cousins
and make those familial
connections that dad dismisses.
They protect her
inspire her
teach her
and when appropriate
reprimand her
support her and attend those
rites of passage events
always remember birthdays
supply dinners and recipes
and enlist her to keep mostly innocent secrets
She in turn adores and respects them
and as an adult misses them terribly
when madness and malady move them to the next realm.
Seana, this is beautiful. So poignant. I am so sorry for your losses.
But, I also snickered at points. I love
“sneak her a sip of
sumpin’ sumpin’ if she asks”
Seana,
I love your choice of third person here. It really adds to the omnipotence of the speakers knowledge. I had a couple aunts and uncles who “raised” me in a manner of speaking. I can sense the loss and grief commingled w/ nostalgia. Lovely poem.
Seana,
These are beautiful memories. Loved the lines “her vocabulary is evolved /and appropriately adult – ish”.
I’m sorry for your loss.
Oh, what a beautiful tribute. YOu have a way of saying so much with so few words.
“ dad is aloof, too cerebral, and chasing tail
and mom is clinging to a doomed union.”
Lordy you strike fast and deep! What an interesting life these men gave you, and what a loss. There is something so powerful about your use of third person here. Thank you fro this sharing of love.
Your poem reminds me of the stories my uncle told me about how they helped take care of me when I was a baby.
“They protect her
inspire her
teach her”
“She in turn adores and respects them”
Lines that resonate with me
This is a wonderful and intimate depiction of a family, their honor and loyalty to raise a child and also the disfunction that goes with it. She is blessed to have such caring uncles and aunts. Sorry yet understand: “as an adult misses them terribly when madness and malady move them to the next realm.” Relish their memory as I know you do.
Those of you who have read my stuff before know how much I struggle with economy. But when I decided to write about my first trip to therapy, I wanted to capture the little details. My dear therapist passed away unexpectedly two months ago, so I wanted to record as much as I could about that first day.
Leading Me out of the Dark
**in memory of Doug Hayworth**
I trudge from my car
into the facility
head down
the weight of the world–
my world–
on my shoulders.
Seeing a therapist
was not something
I anticipated.
I see others . . .
derelicts,
nut cases,
court-mandated losers,
lunatics . . .
sitting in the waiting room.
I feel like a criminal
when I check in.
My face flushes with embarrassment,
maybe even shame.
Oh, the stigma.
I sit without making eye contact
or acknowledging the others.
I would typically tap my foot,
pick up a magazine,
engage with someone.
But, I am a zombie
eaten up with anxiety
nerve endings protruding
out of my skin
leading me to feel
everything.
Helpless
Hopeless
Embarrassed
Shame-filled
Not wanting to live
But swearing I’m not suicidal.
A tall, lean man with gray hair approaches me
and asks if I’m Susan.
I wanted a woman with children
who could relate with my experiences.
I get a middle-aged childless man.
I would roll my eyes
if I had enough vigor to.
We stroll to his office,
him leading the way
with an amble of easy confidence
I didn’t know was possible.
I follow like a scolded child,
wanting to make eye contact
with no one,
carrying my own weight
a huge task.
He escorts me to a chair
sitting across from him
the room a little more spartan
than I expected.
Some fiddle objects and play toys
line the shelf and counter,
diplomas and certificates of completion
patchwork the wall,
a large window with a wooded area
to my right,
a gadget looking like a mini-billboard
sits on a stand to my left.
He summons me to
electronically sign the paperwork,
he even less tech-savvy than I.
After a few pleasantries,
including talk of baseball, Catholicism, and Terre Haute,
he poses some
open-ended questions to me for an hour
and he listens.
Listens
with no judgment
yet no trace of pity
on his face.
He listens as I unburden
things I haven’t been able to say
to others . . . friends, family, my priest.
No answers are provided,
No advice is given.
No attempts to solve me.
Through the unburdending,
I feel lighter.
A little.
He leads me back
to the lobby, telling me something on the way
about his wife.
He knew I needed that connection,
that similarity to my life.
The receptionist says (with the warmest smile),
“Are we scheduling another session, Doug?”
He looks at me, tilts his head a little, raises his left eyebrow
no words needed.
I look at the kind lady’s face then drop my
eyes to her tattooed wrist and mumble, “Sure.”
She responds with “I figured as much. This
guy gets them all back”
followed by a flirty chuckle.
As I walk out,
the judgment is gone,
replaced with an empathy
I knew I possessed in other ways
but never dreamed I would in this one.
I lift my eyes to look at the people in the chairs.
I smile slightly
knowing now that we are far more alike than
we are unalike.
I stroll to my car
A little less helpless
A little less hopeless
A little less embarrassed
A little less shame-filled
Wanting to live
and not suicidal.
~Susan Ahlbrand
15 February 2021
Susan, wow, this is such a powerful poem. I love how you share this experience so clearly, especially about how you were feeling. I am so sorry you’ve lost your counselor. Thank you for pulling me into this place and experience so I could also meet Doug. He clearly made a difference not only in your life, but also in others. Unburdening our pain, our suffering is so incredibly daunting, and I love how you showed the positive impact of being able to share your feelings because that experience made an important difference from how you felt to how you empathized with others. My truest and deepest thanks to you for sharing your experience through this incredible poem! Hugs and peace to you, Susan! Barb
Susan, thank you for this beautiful, open poem. I am again reminded what a gift this community is, such safe and caring sharing. I wonder if you could ever share this poem with this therapist’s family? He was truly doing great work, and your words might help them in their own healing from grief. You, too, are doing great work; this poem shows the tremendous work of taking care of ourselves in our darkest times – you are brave and strong! Thank you for sharing this.
Susan,
I like how there is a wanting to live that comes with the end of a stanza that put an emphasis on “a little less.” Leaving better but a little less seems like such a neat paradox to me.
This is such a beautiful portrayal of the difficulties of seeking help–and why so many do not. Those who are “Helpless
Hopeless
Embarrassed
Shame-filled
Not wanting to live
But swearing I’m not suicidal.”
Need to read this so they know they’re not alone. Isn’t that the beauty of poetry, after all? Showing bits of ourselves to offer connection to our readers? Thank you for your honesty, for making me remember my own demons and the warriors who helped me, and for the truth in your words.
Sorry, I am obsessed with wanting to travel!
Where I Must Go
By Nancy White
Transported while contorted in the narrow child-sized seat I tried to sleep
with Dramamine and books
I did whatever I could
to shut out the cry of the baby
whose mom was pacing, pacing
up and down the aisle for hours.
I tried to watch a movie.
Was occupied by worry
like marching ants on a mission anticipating the unknown—
what will it be like to drive on the left side of the road?
I finally reached the point of just not caring
Surrendering to sleep
through the piercing wailing,
I dreamt of getting lost, stuck in second gear,
waking up to hear we were flying over Iceland.
And then just shortly after, I spied through wispy clouds,
the great green patchwork quilt of Ireland—I gasped out loud.
Adrenaline kicking in
I felt the trip could now begin,
no baby crying, just a young steward smiling,
chatting about Dublin, his hometown.
He was going home, and it seemed that I was too,
to meet the land my forefathers had known.
So much of the journey, necessary shuttling,
hustling, bustling.
And so we rented our car
and off we went to travel afar
to adventures, explorations
find this birthplace, my relations
I found I was connected and at peace,
these kindred spirits were calling out to me.
Beginning with my first cold Guinness,
(one of the spirits I like best!)
And the early morning brown bread, scones and oats,
full stomach, happy and my body very toasty in layers of wool and coats.
The driving even with roundabouts seemed easy.
The rock-lined roads, the endless greens of every verdant shade:
Welcome to the Wild Atlantic Way,
The ocean and the cliffs and foamy spray.
We headed north to Donegal
We heard the cliffs of Slieve League calling
with fresh windy breeze and Gaelic melodies,
Lilting voices guiding us,
Lazy painted sheep blocking our roads, every turn more walls of stone.
And then too soon just one more night.
I didn’t want to leave.
I dreaded the long flight.
But home again I know there’s nothing that can keep me
From returning
to where my soul is longing,
every day the wait and yearning.
I cry because my heart was left behind
And not a day goes by when I don’t pine
for places like Kilkenny, and Killarney and Cobh.
I’ve learned that I’m a wanderer at heart.
And I must rove.
Nancy,
I’m right there w/you. I love to travel. We spent two weeks on a road trip to Ireland in 2018, and I long to return. There’s something about a Guinness in Ireland that’s much better than drinking one in Idaho. Did you visit Blarney Castle and kiss the stone? Such good times despite the long flights.
Ahh yes, I kissed the stone! I was also there in 2018! It was in September. Maybe we passed each other on the road. Yes, the Guinness here in Escondido falls short. And I can’t seem to replicate the Irish brown bread.
Nancy,
I have dreamed of returning to Ireland some day and cannot tell you how grateful I am for you, for this poem to take me on that visit in your lines in your moments. That cold Guinness and the cliffs and the melodies. I am wandering with you!
“I felt the trip could now begin,
no baby crying, just a young steward smiling,”
These words resonated with me!! I love traveling and airplanes and whether I’m going to Iowa or Ecuador, I get that same feeling before landing. The liminal space comes to an end and the trip comes to a beginning. Thanks for taking me to Ireland today!
A February date for a lecture at Fermilab–
he in a tie and jacket for the first time in–
how long since I’d seen him with a smile &
a shave?
“Ready to go?” I asked.
“How about some dessert in the
dining room?” he said.
Into the dining room we went for a
pre-lecture sweet. He selected a
table in the middle of the room,
announced his daughter and that
we’d be eating dessert first because
why not when you are so young and
hip like he.
Aha, he is showing off for his Seniors
I think. Yes, he is pointing out to me, to them
that they are old & he is not, telling
me that he does not belong
here, with them.
And weeks later he would, in fact,
show me, show us by
leaving the home, by
returning to his condemned
condo, where weeks later
we’d
find
him–
Sarah, wow, I am overwhelmed by the gripping and heart-breaking end of your poem. I love how clearly you show your father being clean-shaven, wearing a tie, and smiling to announcing that dessert will be eaten first, while also showing your reaction to his actions. I understand the feeling of not wanting to accept reality; wanting to look hip rather than old, and how we can try to make something look good on the surface when there is so much trouble brewing beneath the facades we try to create. Thanks for sharing such a personal, powerful poem. Hugs to you, Sarah. Peace, Barb
No words, Sarah.
It’s that good.
And, I am so sorry.
Oh man, Sarah… I didn’t sense that this would go where it ended! Oh man! The conflict in these lines:
That takes the poem to a whole new level. A complex person emerges who has deep-cut issues. We know something tough is coming, but whoof… “we’d find him.” Whew. This poem, indeed, took me on a journey… a tough journey. So much is unstated… you are quite masterful at that. Poems that are character analysis are always intriguing to me… it brings someone to mind for me… not a very pretty picture there either… the line “…so young and hip like he”… takes me on a journey of my own with someone who also conveyed this persona. Thanks! Susie
And weeks later, he would shoe me, show us, by leaving the home..where weeks later we’d find him. Oh, my dear. To see someone leave the worlds intellectually is hard enough, but those last three words. Oof. So sorry.
Rex, it’s wonderful to see you sharing your poetry. Thanks for today’s prompt. I think of all the journeys in life, but one still remains close to my heart because some loves just don’t fade away. Best always, Barb.
That Girl—Long Gone
An early morning sky
teases me with a sliver of sun
reminding me of a
girl I once was,
That Girl—Long Gone,
in a sundress and cowboy boots
whisper light and free.
A tantalizing tease
whose fate was to heedlessly
free fall in love with you.
Our lust,
intoxicating as Jimmy Jones punch,
flamed in a fiery combustion.
Our passion danced
a two step jig past
truth and stability;
between the apartment on Avenue B
to the home on Avenue D.
Our greatest possessions
vinyl albums and a stereo.
I believed
love would never fade away;
that wounds could heal,
and the words “I’m sorry” were enough.
Until you mutely stood at the top of the stairs
Watching me slowly descend, and I,
barely breathing,
silently prayed you’d say,
please stay, please stay, please
stay with me.
Barb Edler
February 15, 2021
Barb — the scene at the stairs is so vivid. It hurts. I love the girl in the sundress and boots — just love that image of sass and fun. The last stanza’s shift to the sense and tone of something slipping right through the sieve is so real. The staircase itself is the fitting platform for everything falling down. So sad. Whoof. Feeling for you with this memory. Sending hugs. Thank you for sharing something so close to your heart. Susie
I am with Susie in every way of her reading and so love this girl in the sundress and boots with the tantalizing tease. Wouldn’t it be grand for all of us to meet when we were so young and have a dance together. Instead, we get to meet one another in our poems in different moments of our lives, and it is an honor to bear witness to “free fall in love.”
Barb, this is powerful, such a heartwrenching memory. Love the rhythm and words of that second stanza, feeling the love and passion between you two – fiery and all-consuming. I particularly like the juxtaposition of how you “heedlessly free fall” in the first stanza and then “slowly descend” the stairs in the end. Very poignant.
Oh! I hadn’t noted that free fall/slowly descend contrast until you pointed it out. YES. I love reading others’ comments and deepening my understanding of why a poem moved me.
Barb—the tension in that slow descent is palpable. But I love the image of that sassy girl in cowboy boots. Good memories make the sad ones so much harder, don’t they?
Barb,
I love the intimacy and the sadness in this poem. I know several of us in this space can identify w/ these broken relationships. We, too, are “that girl long gone.” I look at photos of myself from long ago and do t recognize the me I was then. It’s a haunting feeling.
I like the sad finality of the quiet departure. It feels like we have such swirling struggles with conflicting thoughts, and somehow they translate into quiet scenes in our memory.
Barb. I feel this poem so viscerally. I remember when “our greatest possessions were vinyl records and a stereo”. And that punch in the gut when you realize it’s over
Oh, Barb, what can I say? This is such a heartbreaking poem. Like others who have commented, I was riveted by the flirty you in the cowboy boots. Your transition from how (we all) believed love could save us…to the gasping wish of “please stay” even as you are the one leaving…is knock-me-down powerful. If poetry’s purpose is to turn the pain of living into something beautiful (which is one of my favorite definitions of the form), you have succeeded here exquisitely.
Wow, Barb, this is a powerful and beautiful story of that girl, long gone, and her joys and sorrows, but resilience. As Maureen said that free fall into love and then the slow descent down the stairs are a powerful juxtaposition of images. These lines are a powerful foreshadowing:
Thank you for sharing your sad and beautiful poem today.
Out ‘n Back
I had TE as a kid: toilet envy.
The neighboring farm had a bathroom,
porcelain and pink towels,
TP on a roll holder,
a painted lidded seat,
tiny black and white floor tiles;
and best of all the chrome lever
that took you out of touch
with your own stink,
flushed away evidence
that you were even there.
What I understood only years later,
once we moved away
and on to the big city
we dreamed was so much more,
I felt the unexpected advantage
of our two-holer
out ‘n back beyond the hen house,
its invitation to jabber
with Mama,
where she read grown-up stories out loud
a place to sing and fashion rhymes,
a little corner of respite on the farm
where I had her all to myself.
Though I might teeter,
a pendulum marking this bit
of my history,
of course, grateful for indoor plumbing
every day of the rest of my life,
I rock back to those moments
with Mama
cured of TE once and for all.
by Susie Morice©
Susie, oh my, your humor and poetry is always such an extra special delight. I had to think awhile about what TE meant, but it finally came to this old brain of mine. I’ve experienced plenty of outhouses while growing up and visiting relatives who farmed. The opening details of the inside bathroom is crystal clear. I could visualize the tile, and yes, the magic of a toilet that flushes. But the best part was the tenderness of your special memory of having your mother all to yourself, “jabbering” away. Jabbering, what a perfect word. I bet you were a wordsmith even as a young child! Your mother sounds like such a loving soul. Thanks for sharing such an interesting topic and beautiful memory! Thanks for the smiles, Susie! Barb
Susie, I feel like you are the improv star of poetry, like someone could shout out a word (toilet!) and you could write a beautiful poem about it. I certainly didn’t expect to read a poem about an outhouse today, so thanks for that! Your poem is a lovely tribute to your loving mother.
Susie,
I love the way you embrace the “out and back” theme in today’s prompt w/ your out back two-holler. You’re outhouse memories, that TE, and mama always spark my own memories of pre-indoor plumbing days. Thank you.
Toilet envy. Wow. What a poem and story you have told here. I love the description of the neighbor’s bathroom with such exquisite details. “I rock back to those moments / with Mama” is especially poignant and beautiful!
let the children play
to the untrained eye, there we were, teachers and preschoolers
on our one block walk to the community playground, however,
this minimizes the work of a wiggling, winding, weaving procession,
herding cats, really, with endless congestion and delays along the route
multitudinous mishaps with shoes and laces, hats and mittens, coats and
zippers, not to mention irascible line partners and unplanned sightseeing
oh my, truck, oh my, broken glass, oh my, everything, anything, fabulous things,
the scurrying full stop movement of preschoolers, one block becomes ten miles
We arrive jubilant,
me in the very front, when,
in one sudden, sly, and deft moment,
I see, grab, and hide
three bullets
lying on our path
a glance, entrance, in trance
and so ensues teaching as improv, teaching in two minds, staying composed while my
insides falter, a blur of joyful children run, laugh, play, and my eyes search the environs,
wondering if there was someone still here that was up to no good
wondering how might I protect these little ones
wondering how quickly I can get us all back to school
how far away school seemed
one clutching hand
touching fear
burning, searing, hating, hurting, devastating in my pocket
There I was, chortling along on your walk, smiling at
“ oh my, truck, oh my, broken glass, oh my, everything, anything, fabulous things,
the scurrying full stop movement of preschoolers, one block becomes ten miles”
And then, full stop. Three bullets. And I was frantic with you, how far away school seemed. And the horrible, horrible reality in your pocket.
And you have taken all my thoughts away, Maureen. This is the power of poetry.
Maureen, even through the scare and caution, you capture the wonder and awe of preschoolers –
“oh my, truck, oh my, broken glass, oh my, everything, anything, fabulous things,
the scurrying full stop movement of preschoolers, one block becomes ten miles”
I can see the eyes widening in wonder and sensation!
Maureen, the shift from wonderful to completely fear struck is striking.
so succinctly says it all. Protecting our students is an endless duty; endless fear. You show that truth so well!
Maureen,
It may come as a surprise, but high schoolers meander toward their destinations the same way. Rather than shoe disasters, they run and jump on one another. They’ll poke a head in a classroom on the way to the commons. Someone heads the wrong direction on their way to the fire-drill gathering spot, and those lock-down drills always found us quaking on the couch, a hormonal collection of teens.
Anyway, I love theses words: “ wiggling, winding, weaving,” but the loss of innocence is palpable, and it’s heartbreaking innocent play is drought w/ danger.
Maureen — Such a frightening moment in the midst of the delight of little kids. That juxtaposition just nails this poem. “…how far away school seemed” is a loaded line — so much more to fill our reflexes that want to protect and panic and remain calm all in the same moment. A friend of mine had a “bullet” experience as well. She came home and found a hole through her bedroom window..a small hole…she wasn’t sure what the heck had happened until she saw a bullet lying there on the white sheets of her bed! It is a rattling, scary experience for sure. Whew! It gives graphic evidence of teacher-as-warriors. Hang in there! These little squirts need your strength! Thank you. Susie
OK, Maureen, as always you are a spell-binding storyteller. This is a perfect way to explore this prompt. (I wonder if you have written about this before today.) What a searing memory!
And your word choice is impeccable. I have always appreciated your use of alliteration, and here there are so many fine examples–“wiggling, winding, weaving procession,” and “multitudinous mishaps”
I can just hear the children now–“truck” “broken glass”–the long journey of one block with preschoolers. And then when you found the bullets and your double role became more important–fellow learner and explorer vs. ever-vigilant protector. Oh, my, you told this so well. Thank you.
Rex, what a challenge for us today. It’s certainly hard for me NOT to journey down a tough road, but it helps to me looking at in on the other side.
I am a fellow Hoosier to my eyes instantly perked at the bedroom communities of Indy being listed. I especially love this stanza:
“Each harbor synonymous with family
and ties to something deeper
that may one day be understood,
for now just heartbeat intrinsic.”
Thank you, Rex. Your description of the calico cat and viewing it with your daughter was quite an experience that we got to be there with you in your words.
This week I’ve been in a funk, and I am seeing it in my lack of inspiration for writing poems. When I do make myself write it comes out Debbie Downer style this week!
Regrets
She studied geography, a college grad
Young and optimistic, though sad
A master’s in global food security
Was her sincere hope for futurity
She strayed before getting very far
Married, didn’t follow her North Star
She set off on a conventional orbit, adulted a smidge
Now she can’t even manage the food in her fridge
Regrets are a journey, too, yes, indeed! These are sweet and sad rhyming couplets. I think you are being hard on yourself! I am amused by “adulted a smidge/Now she can’t even manage the food in her fridge” – part of being an adult is that we can ignore the darn fridge, if we desire 😉
Denise—this seems to be a Downer week for many o us. But you managed to take the down and turn it into a moment of whimsy, “adulted a smidge/now she can’t even manage the food in her fridge.”
An artful turn of phrase and mood. Thanks! I needed that!
Denise,
While it may seem like a Debbie Downer week to you, I read this and think how we all feel that way right now and how your words are a snapshot of our whole collective experience. I am so there with the food in the fridge – as a routine ClickList shopper who has a set time and day of the week, I just hit the fail button about 3 weeks ago and haven’t done a full week’s grocery pickup since then. It’s “every man for himself” in these walls, so I think you hit the nail on the head and found a fellow fridge-fail friend!
Denise, your line “Married, didn’t follow her North Star” resonates with me. Ah, life can have us rethinking and rethinking our paths. The light-hearted rhyme contrasts well with the final more serious emotion. You have struck an inner chord with me! Now, I don’t feel quite so alone. Thanks, Barb
Oh, Denise — This is so much packed into so few lines. Wow! The couplets really work here. The optimism in those goals…fantastic! The final couplet, though, just gave me a sense of the humor you have at your core…”manage the food in her fridge”… ha! You are spunkier than you tell! I do understand those “funk” days that we face sometimes. Rest assured, your heart is much more powerful than that “master’s.” I really liked your poem! Thank you. Susie
Denise,
I don’t see this poem as a downer at all. It has sort of a limerick quality to it, which is an appealing incongruity. It’s okay to embrace the mood from time to time. We can’t be happy Hanna all the time. There’s still time to recalibrate and follow that North Star. You can have it all, just not all at once.
Denise,
I would think that there may be a sense of tragedy to the adulting in smidges, but it may also be the material that makes heroic protagonists!
Hi Rex, thanks for a most challenging prompt today. I almost gave up because I couldn’t picture myself going in and coming out differently. Then it dawned on me to think about my life’s tragedies a little differently. I love your father/daughter poem. So easy to visualize as many of us have had those bizarre experiences while traveling with little ones. Thank you!
I borrowed your suggestion to “chew on, or spit out” to help me with my title.
Chew Well Then Spit it Out Forever
When I was 5 years old
I walked on the kitchen sink
To get a Lipton tea bag and some cubes of sugar
Reached high in the tall wooden cabinet
One misstep back, the edge of the yellow-tiled counter
Hammered my little-girl vulva
Made peeing painful and impossible to bear
When I was 12
My best friend grew boobs overnight
Like how chickenpox covered me on Christmas
She got a bra with real cups
And wore tighter T-shirts to tease boys
I received a training bra with no train or clasps
Stuffed it with tissue that never perked or bounced
When I was 14
The girls and I decided it was time to tongue kiss boys
Found him at lunch in line for beanish burritos
Slipped my lovenote to meet at 12:40 in his ashy hand
He nodded what I decoded as hell yeah baby
I waited and rubbed my sticky palms on polyester pants
But he never showed up not even to say sorry
When I was 22
This dude and I married in a full church in the presence of God
We vowed to be faithful
Through sickness and health
For richer or for poorer
Then he had other women and another baby
So 29 years later, I set myself free
©Stacey L. Joy, February 15, 2021
Oh my!! Oh my. Every stanza woeful!! I laughed at this part:
“I received a training bra with no train or clasps
Stuffed it with tissue that never perked or bounced” – mainly because that was me, too, slowly developing, well behind my peers. I love your title. I adore the image of 14 year old girls deciding it was time to tongue kiss – ha! We are always in control, aren’t we? Very inspiring conclusion, Stacey –
“I set myself free!”
Stacey, I love your straight-forward honesty in this poem. I’m glad you set yourself free! Your title
is sheer genius! Thanks for sharing these painful experiences! P.S. I remember not needing a bra when everyone else was wearing one. Ugh!
OOOOOOooo, Stacey — You DID spit that out! That was a tale that needed extraction. I loved the years of progression… it takes years to “set myself free” indeed. That 5-year old fall…OUCH! The kid who grew boobs over night…that line is a stitch! I remember the same feeling with other girls so well endowed so suddenly. Ha! Finally, the big church wedding…an irony, given the “other women”… oh man. The 29, though, is the kick in the pants. That is one lonnnnng journey. Whoof! This lineup was a very effective distilling of experiences though. I appreciate that you shared it. Hugs, Susie
Stacey—each stanza stands alone as a rollicking story all by itself. Making it part of the montage of your life was perfect. And the last stanza—whooee!
And that title…
This is a marvelous memoir poem. I was that 12 year old stuffing the training bra and the 14 year old experimenting with kissing. But your unfaithful marriage crushed me. I’m glad you have the power you end with but I’m sure that’s been the toughest part of all.
Stacey Joy,
I like the relegation of the male you married as “this dude.” It smacks of spitoutedness.
Spitoutedness!
Stacey,
Your poems stab me in the heart. Keep doing that.
Oh, Stacey, thank you for letting us take this journey of memories with you. I love the title too, as Barb and Gayle pointed it out, I took a double take. This could be a good prompt for all of us to chew up and spit out some of those memories that cling to us. Well told, my friend.
Sorry it’s so long! I tapped into a memory of a past event and re-looked at it from his point of view
Childbirth From His Point-of-View
I was having a nice sleep
when I was rudely awakened
get dressed because she needed
to go to the E.R. because she had gas and couldn’t sleep.
I’m ready and she was just getting out of the shower
and decided she had to paint her toes.
“What in the hell is wrong with you”, I asked,
Hurting her feelings.
Then she insisted we had to pick JoAnn up
“We’re not going to the fair”, I shouted at her,
but she had THAT LOOK that said, ‘just shut up and do it’
I’ve been through this before, twice, with my first wife
“You’re in LABOR”, I shouted at her (we New Yorker’s always shout)
“and they’re coming every 4 minutes!”
Trying to get her to understand the severity of the situation,
but nothing could rustle that Minnesota calm façade
I pulled up to the E.R. expecting her to jump out,
or at least try to waddle out on her own,
While I parked the car and it seems I did it again
Hurt her feelings.
She’s lying on the bed and they are checking her
“I think it’s just gas”, she shyly tells them.
They burst out laughing, “it’s not gas – you’re already
dilated to 7!” “Are you in any pain? You HAVE to be in pain!”
Feeling useless I look around and see a TV in the room,
Elvira, Mistress of the Dark had her movie playing
And they were re-showing the Laker game on another channel
Thank God because this was going to be a long night.
In the past I just waited in a room
waiting for my name to be called.
She looked at me with expectation now . . . . but I didn’t know what to do
And yet again, I hurt her feelings.
She changed in an instant, just when Magic Johnson made a beautiful pass,
“Feed me ice chips”, she shouted in between contractions, “NOW”
Gone was that, “there’s no pain” stoicism
and enter a raging crazy lady!
She needed something for the pain now
but it was too late, so she had to muscle through it on her own
JoAnn kept her comfortable with cool cloths and holding her hand.
When I went to hold her hand she tried to rip mine off!
“Come and look, you’ll see the baby crowning”, the nurse offered.
No thanks – that’s just a little too private for this old boy.
“She needs to begin pushing now”, they advised me.
What was I supposed to do – I couldn’t push for her
They put her on the toilet to aide in her pushing, and
That’s when I left the room — too much reality
I felt shrunken and useless against the ever increasing onslaught
of her pain and inhuman noises that came out of her
The delivery room was white and sterile
My wife couldn’t appreciate it, she was like a feral animal
This wasn’t at all how I envisioned things.
I stood behind the doctor’s back
watching the progress of my child being born.
Yet again, I hurt her feelings –
I was supposed to be supporting her as she ravaged through push after push.
In less than 5 minutes, that baby came flying out like it had
two jets up her ass – I said this out loud – I guess that wasn’t very romantic.
Then I looked at my wife,
and tears were streaming down her face with
her entire body was shaking uncontrollably
But her toes looked pretty.
They handed me this squalling bundle of humanity and I was at a total loss
I’d never experienced this before, I didn’t know what to do.
“Sing to her”, my wife said, “like you did when she was inside me.”
“Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, how I wonder what you are.”
Instantly she stopped crying and was trying to focus on me.
Now there were tears running down my face, as I carried her to my wife
“Our daughter is here” was all I could think to say
My wife smiled at me with all the love in the world.
You have beautifully, humorously, scarily captured the rollercoaster of childbirth! I loved how frequently you admitted to “I hurt her feelings” – though, seriously, I suspect you were not the object of her feelings right then at all. I laughed hard at,
“In less than 5 minutes, that baby came flying out like it had
two jets up her ass – I said this out loud – I guess that wasn’t very romantic.”
I am laughing in tears for this beautiful, funny, honoring story! I have to admit that the baby flying out like it had two jets up her ass visual made me laugh aloud. (You really maybe shouldn’t have said that out loud, by the way 🙂 But her toes were pretty. Thank you for this admission of ongoing errors, and the moment of absolute love at the end.
Judi, this is real and hilarious all at the same time – my favorite part:
I’m ready and she was just getting out of the shower
and decided she had to paint her toes.
“What in the hell is wrong with you”, I asked,
Hurting her feelings.
Then she insisted we had to pick JoAnn up
“We’re not going to the fair”, I shouted at her,
That moment just takes me there and I love how you tried to see it all from his perspective as he tried to do the right things and just couldn’t keep from hurting feelings in the process! Funny and warm.
Judi, oh, gosh darnit, you have me crying. I love this! Such a wonderful story to share! The final line is so well placed! Golden moment indeed!
Judi, this is incredible. I love the shift of perspective. Makes me want to do the same thing about the birth of our kids. You include so many “man” details that it’s hard to tell it’s not a man writing it. You tell the story so well . . . this is going to make for a great keepsake.
My favorite lines (though it was hard to pick) are
“Come and look, you’ll see the baby crowning”, the nurse offered.
No thanks – that’s just a little too private for this old boy.
I think I like it so much because my husband’s best friend told him he would never look at “it” the same way again after watching childbirth!
Night on the Trail
All snug in my knapsack
asleep in that bed
on a mountain trail
dreams of Mt. Whitney in my head.
In darkest night awoke with sounds
of branches breaking, snapping,
thudding footsteps of creatures approaching.
What mischief were those monsters making?
Afraid of the disturbance.
What animals await
to bite off my toes and
change my fate?
Off and on through the night
the steps came and went
keeping me awake and
my rest was spent.
When dawn’s rays broke
through the vertical trees
I scrambled, raised my pants
and got up from my knees.
Adding shoes, socks and gear
to get on my way
with hopes to climb to the top
safely, I pray.
Trekking again
avoiding the rocks
that soon became embers
warm through my socks.
Barricades of charred remains,
fallen branches aglow,
trees devoured from flames
making my walk very slow.
Then, sounds of shovels
scraping the earth
their long handles held
by men of great girth.
Muscles working while fighting a fire.
Had it grown and been neglected
could have engulfed me.
Yet, I was protected.
I praise that courage
brave souls on alert
Give them honor and glory
for protecting my body, unhurt.
Susan, your poem took me to an unexpected place today. I smiled through the first couple of stanzas with your rhyme scheme and Night Before Christmas homage. How you got to the wildfire is pure genius. I’m glad you are ok. This is a wonderful poem.
Susan, I love the way you piggy-backed “The Night Before Christmas”. I especially enjoyed
I’m glad the end was heroic and not tragic! I am always amazed by the courage of our fire fighters. Thanks for sharing this experience through your cleverly written poem!
Holy cow, Susan –What a remarkable experience. And truly, you were so lucky! What peril! You captured this journey of an experience that was really quite remarkable. You are one brave person. I can’t imagine packing in and sleeping in a forest environment at night. Hiking yes, being there in the night…I so resonated with those “creatures” and “monsters”!!! Cool poem! Thank you! Susie
Out and Back
There was that day
March 13th. 2020.
A rare sick day for me.
I never called in sick.
Fell asleep at my desk
one day many years ago.
Swine Flu.
102 degrees
That’s what it took
To call in sick.
That’s the kind
of teacher I was.
So, anyway,
I was home.
Plans submitted,
substitute summoned.
Sick enough that
I really didn’t care
if they learned something
or not,
just so they weren’t
rude to the lady.
(Realistic standards,
after all–
it was a Friday
and they were 8th graders
in March.)
And then they
closed us down.
Just.
Like.
That.
And the school building
was emptied
of students and
learning and
laughter and love.
And of me.
And I missed
the whole thing.
In that moment,
on March 13th, 2020,
everything mattered.
And I missed it.
Months later,
I entered my stuffy room
and said a final farewell
to the walls
and the learning
and all that love.
Boxed up my soul
and hauled it home.
This is the way my world changed…
Not with a bang, but a whimper.
GJSands
Oh Gayle! I can’t imagine how you must have felt. I know one other person who was out that day for a training and didn’t realize she would not get to see her students again. So tragic. I’m so sorry you had to end it this way. Your poem shows your dedication and love for your students and your profession.
Hugs! Stay well.
Oh, Gayle, yes, yes, this is exactly how it was:
“And the school building
was emptied
of students and
learning and
laughter and love.
And of me.”
It was heartbreaking. Still is. I love a lot about retirement, but I did not like that departure, that lack of a real goodbye.
Yes! We must have lunch post-COVID!!!
Gayle, I experienced this same thing! Wow! I wasn’t sick, but I couldn’t be at school on the 13th because I took a personal leave for my son’s marriage that was on the 14th. I missed so much! I just want to say, I get it! Plus, I really don’t think I’m over it. I’m so glad I read your poem today as your final two lines state the whole experience so well!
Thanks for sharing! Hugs, Barb
Holy crapolini, Gayle — I did not realize that Covid hit and you finished teaching in that slam-bam way! Oh man… What a jolt! Your poem is really a powerhouse! Right down to the last two lines. There’s a strong sense of PTSD in this poem, Gayle. Your words so crafted here convey a gigantic watershed event…more than just the Covid shutdown… you had a total shutdown. Oh man. Know that I am feeling for you and hoping that you are able to find ways to care for your own well being. I’m grateful you shared this today. It is a story that I feel deeply, that I understand, that isn’t just one-more-Covid-story. Whoof. Hugs and caring, Susie
OH, Gayle! What a horrible lack of closure. Not that you were wanting/expecting some Mr. Holland’s Opus-type ceremony, but something–anything–to wrap up and acknowledge your selfless career. Love, love, love the ending:
This is the way my world changed…
Not with a bang, but a whimper.
Gayle,
I remember that day as I got one of my best pictures ever in black and white, of the empty hallway before school started. In the days and weeks after it became a photo of stark emptiness. Sorry your year wrapped that way for you, although I like how you say it changed as opposed to ended. That last line nails it.
Gayle, thank you for sharing your story here about being sick that day. I have heard others tell how they were absent that last day too. It must have been so lonely to come back to the stuffy room months later. You expressed what happened here so very poignantly:
And you missed it. 🙁 Your poem is so sad.
May I ask, did you also retire after last year? Because you are saying a final goodbye, and you “boxed up your soul and hauled it home.” Waaaa!
A detailed list will be provided…
Strangely missing from the list:
Not the twin xl sheets,
Not the laundry basket,
Not the power strip or
The Ziploc bags or
The tweezers or
the Q-tips or
The mini tool set, which
Seemed like a great idea,
So compact and sensible.
Strangely missing from the list,
Because, face it, that tool set
Will never be used.
Strangely missing from the list
That really was for me anyway
Is the heart I need to
Replace the one I left
At room C-303B.
OOOOhhhh my heart is broken. Your poem did not prepare me at all for the ending. I am without words.
Hugs and love sent your way. ?
Oh, Katrina. My heart is breaking for that last, crucial item on the list. The one you left… you got me on that one, my friend.
Katrina, that packs a punch. My heart hurts for your hurt heart!
Katrina, I love the specific catalogue of items; especially the specific room number at the end when you pull my heart completely out of my chest. The things are just things; the emotion is real! Beautiful poem! Thanks for sharing this one today, Barb
Oh my goodness! What a surprise ending and so full of mystery and sad! Makes me wonder what was at room C-303B. A hotel room or hospital?
Rolling Stone
You ask me to speak of a time
when something unexpected happened.
How much time do you have?
I assume you don’t mean the time
the hot water heater went out
while Steve was on the road,
leaving me home with three babies.
Or the time the basement flooded
and I didn’t realize it for two days.
Or the surprise party my family threw me
months after I’d earned a master’s degree.
Or the call saying we were moving to France.
I’m assuming you want to hear about something deeper,
Like the time my sister went to work with a headache
and her brain decided to hemorrhage–
a seismic disturbance I still feel the effects of years later.
Or maybe you want to hear about
the time that “minor surgery” “went wrong”
and brought my known world to a screeching halt–
crippling my body and brain.
Or maybe I could shorten this conversation
by telling you that nothing can surprise me anymore.
I am a rolling stone.
I gather no moss.
I roll with it.
I survive.
Mo,
This series of passes that the rolling stone moves over and through is a life of surviving with no need for moss though it may have (maybe not) softened some of the turns. The quotation marks say it all, signal the shift and the words that set us up, let us down. Indeed, you survive, and I am in awe of your strength and spirit. Such a clever shift there at the end with
Peace,
Sarah
You are a survivor! What a way to turn a story.
Mo, I can relate so much to the shock and trauma of so many unexpected life events. Yes, a rolling stone is the perfect way to describe it. We roll with it.
Even though “rolling stone” is the title of the poem, you still managed to surprise me with your apt metaphor at the end. I love the contrast you create between what we tend to think of as surprising events like leaks and floods with life-changing surprises. The conversational nature of your poem had me from the start.
Mo,
The contrast between life’s major disruption to those causing property damage is stark. It’s a breathtaking reminder about what matters most and how all we can do is “survive.” This is something I need right now given certain disruptions to routines. Thank you.
Mo, Mo, Mo! You have given me so much to think about and so much to say, “Mo is 100% Badass!” You may have gone through a ton of crap, but the key word is “through” because you are on the other side, rolling stone badass! I appreciate the depth and honesty because that’s what helps us all grow and learn from people like you. Thank you!
Mo—I love your toughness and the honesty in this poem. So true—exactly how much time do you have to listen t my “unexpecteds”? The humor, the resilience, the way you took us right along with you. Roll on, my friend.
Mo, you are one resilient woman! All of those experiences – and you rock and roll right on through.
That’s sass and determination – wow!
Mo,
What a testament to the strength of your will!
This is a concise, tragic, yet ultimately hopeful mini-autobiography that really packs a punch!
We Took a Walk
We took a walk, my daughter and I,
amidst the early Covid haze in April
when everyone hunkered inside or fled outdoors,
we chose the later,
to breath untainted air,
mask free and six feet from our neighbors.
We took a walk, my daughter and I,
wandered the wooded trail,
the path edged in a
green peach fuzz blanket, among
wildflowers erupting in trout lily and white trillium,
a Monet landscape breathing.
We wandered this path, then veered.
A vast hill,
dense with soaring oaks and maples
seemed an apt challenge.
We took a walk, my daughter and I,
Gripped gnarled tree-root handles,
dug sneakered toes into dirt for leverage,
she scrambled as I panted
eventually we reached the summit.
We took a walk, my daughter and I,
Gazing down, the steepness of our journey
realize how likely I was to tumble
if steps, we retraced
so we move forward and venture
away from the imprint of our climb,
and the human trace we’ve left behind.
We took a walk, my daughter and I,
and trek in a new direction, get a little lost in our wanderings,
thrill in slight disorientation,
grappling with direction but never
in any real danger.
Today,
I smile when she asks
if I want to get lost in those woods again.
Wow. I like the stanza where you capture moving forward as a better option, as opposed to the steepness of where you had come from. It brought me back to a hike I had with my son, except we went down through ravines through the woods to the Mississippi.
Tammi,
These lines are so powerful for the imagery and for the groundedness, the concrete during a time of such abstract existence during COVID:
Love this literal and figurative grappling!
Sarah
Your poem took me on the walk with you. Getting lost in the woods is such a marvelous way to spend time together, away from worry.
Tammi,
This is a lovely poem. I love the repetition of the first line in each subsequent stanza. Most of all your reminder that we can’t, nor should we, return to old paths, old ways of going and knowing, speaks to my heart through these lines:
Tammi, this was fun to read and it gave me a few jitters. I wasn’t sure what to expect!
So cool that you and your daughter have enjoyed something like this together. These are the kinds of “COVID chronicles” we need to treasure. ?
What a beautiful recollection! This line, I love—“ a Monet landscape breathing.” you could have stopped right there. But then you took us into that lovely choice—and a forward free of the struggle behind you. And I would get lost with you and your daughter any time!
This is such a wonderful expression of quality time spent with your daughter.
This prompt took me to a sad memory. Sorry.
We’d driven this way before
miles of bridge over Atchafalaya Swamp.
I carried a fear each time
because accidents here stop time,
traffic backed up for miles
on the one route East from Houston.
You take your chances on I-10.
On this day, our side heading west
open and flowing.
East bound at a standstill.
We watched
an 18-wheeler
speed over the incline
driver oblivious
to the traffic below
plowed
into a lane of cars
igniting them
into inferno
death traps.
“People just died,”
I gasped, my throat closing in
on shock.
Traffic slowed to country road pace–
a sacred moment
of collective fear,
collective prayer.
Oh, Margaret. This is sad.
You bring us right into the moment, shortening your lines to slow us down.
Powerful ending:
Thank you for sharing.
Wow. And I cannot come up with anything more profound than that. Collective fear. Collective prayer.
Margaret, you’ve got that speechless sobering scare of realization going on at the end. It’s powerful – life just ends on a dime and leaves us reeling, whether we knew folks or not. Because we could have…..
Margaret, oh, I am so sorry. I have not seen first hand an accident this tragic, but I’ve seen plenty shortly after. The terrible reality is mind-numbing. You effectively show the immediate change from normal to an unbelievable tragedy. Your final lines are so perfectly stated in this poem. Hugs to you! Barb
Margaret — What a godawful thing to experience! Whoof! “People just died” really hammers the matter of fact-ness of this horrific scene. Your poem has a sense of trauma that is palpable. What a poem! Thank you for sharing this scary image. Susie
Margaret, this poem reminds me of the tragic traffic accident near us on Thursday. Although I didn’t witness it myself, the cellphone video footage on the news made it feel like I was there. I’m so sorry you witnessed this.
Breath-beats
time travels through me in lingering seconds
a pause of bird wings between bare branches
gone before the eye adjusts
tha-whump tha-whump
the sound echoing behind
Jennifer,
This is a lovely turn, the idea that
when it’s the idea we travel through time that typifies our thoughts. Lots to think about.
I love this moment of breath-taking. Such wonderful onomatopoeia of tha-whump.
Jennifer,
This poem really does feel like breathing. Beautiful!
In the End
every morning
I pour the kefir and
swallow eight teeming world populations
of life: 50 billion
microscopic bacterial organisms
in a double gulp
all in the name of probiotic health.
I line up the containers
on the refrigerator shelf
and ponder these
overpopulated colonies
like so many bacterial pilgrims
boarding a Mayflower
praying for a journey of survival
through treacherous depths
and wonder
what they hope for
in the end.
The mathy-ness of the first lines drew me in, the “ones” in every morning, I, a glass of kefir – the zeroes in the shape of the glass, the open mouth; eight; 50 billion – and all the collective nouns. The juxtaposition of the microscopic with the massive – why does it remind me of Horton?! The refrigerator imagery has me curious as to what is in those containers. Is it leftovers? Condiments? More bacteria in fermented foods? I supposed EVERYTHING in the fridge has its own bacteria – all those “pilgrims.” Such a poignant way to think of food – since it has made a journey to arrive where it is, and still has ‘journeying’ to go. I won’t look at the contents of my fridge the same way again!
Kim (and Denise),
I so love this space where a poem written and a poem read work together to move the mind of a third — me. This wonderings in Denise’s response have me thinking of Horton and now moving toward my fridge have me re-seeing all the living that is happening in the containers (and how aged much of it is ). Yikes, “overpopulated colonies.”
Kim,
This is so clever. I love the humor in imagining
and thinking about where the end of the “journey” takes them. All that twisting and turning in intestinal corridors only to reach THAT end. Love it.
Kim, that image of swallowing world populations caught at me. Our consumption is vast. You provoke us to think beyond ourselves, to wonder if we are the organisms being consumed by something bigger. Love the comparison to the pilgrims. Thanks for giving us something large to ponder from something so small.
Kim,
Your poem and these lines: “swallow eight teeming world populations/of life: 50 billion/microscopic bacterial organisms/in a double gulp” really made stop and think about what so many of us take for granted. Americans consume so much. Your imagery was so vivid and poignant!
Oh, what a delicious journey you have taken. Giving those bacteria a life of their own and a journey like the Mayflower was really fun to think about. Those last lines a treasure:
Living West
“People in the east are kind but not nice.
People in the west are nice but not kind.”
Dipping into the Portneuf valley the first time I saw twinkling lights of this Hotel California,
a gap carved by Bear River along a fault line.
Railroad ties sliced this region too,
a continental divide demarcating
those who are from those who are not.
The question hangs in the air,
awaiting an answer to an unsolvable equation:
how to live west.
We traverse boardwalks, gaze into geyser basins, climb lava flows,
harboring secrets those tourons passing through
mistake as something exotic, a destination to forge.
There’s an unmistakable sulphuric stench,
a fog hanging in the air along this corridor,
a man-made shroud blanketing the region.
In time the land opens its maul and
swallows those unable to find the exit,
only then can they know the
inexplicable meaning of living west.
—Glenda Funk
Love this anchoring phrase: “how to live west”
Kevin
Glenda, that whole idea of a demarcating line – and how to live on either side of it – is most intriguing! The cultures that permeate us and hold us to a certain way of being like the tightened rivets of blue jeans – it’s so complex and almost becomes innate through the generations.
“Only then can they know the inexplicable meaning of living west” gives a vibe of exclusive expert understanding to those who live and breathe west! Love this.
Glenda,
As we struggle to bring ourselves together in a world increasingly split, I hover along the demarcating line of nice and kind. I wonder if we’ve already passed the exit ramp and will be swallowed alive. Beautiful words here today.
Tourons! I love the park employee vernacular, Glenda.
Glenda,
I long for your poems of place and the way you invite me to traveling alongside or through your verse. I know you have seen many sites, but the way you reflect and offer insight is incredibly powerful, moving — my heart. I always struggle, grapple with belonging, so these lines particularly resonated,
Peace,
Sarah
The west is filled with geographic wonder, which you have captured here so beautifully – and questioningly! Love the “divide” that permeates every line, opening with that quote of East versus West. Two very different cultures, for sure. The certainty and finality of this final stanza is stunning – and made me laugh:
“In time the land opens its maul and
swallows those unable to find the exit,
only then can they know the
inexplicable meaning of living west.”
Glenda, from the opening quotations to the end your poem, I was completely transfixed. I love the way you describe the land. I especially enjoyed the daunting and mesmerizing lines of stanza four.
I love how the poem leads to a definition that I most definitely do not want to know. Your poem not only develops beauty, but also the incredible danger nature inherently provides. I so enjoy the perspective you share as well as the sharp images! Thank you, Glenda!
Wow, this is intriguing. I’ve actually had the opposite experience–being a Californian finding myself going east and out of place in the Midwest. Perhaps that is a poem for another day. I love these lines and had to read them a couple times to catch the meaning. It’s more existential than just where someone is from. Beautifully told, Glenda.
Rex, thank you for such deep inspiration to go into the moment and be so reflective about the moments of experience! That daddy-daughter moment is a moving honor to the life of a calico, cut short. Oh, my pet loving heart!
Whose woods these are
I may no longer know
as my shoes dip heavy
through new-fallen snow
The dog’s beyond me,
on the trail of a scent
as I follow her tracks,
in silence, seemingly sent
from somewhere above;
trees grabbing midwinter sky
as I hike through the gap
between the ground, and I
(with hat nod to Robert Frost)
Kevin, that is a fabulous ending – I see the divergence ahead! Masterful, as always! Such rich imagery here.
Kevin — An hour’s already passed and you have been here and gone, leaving behind images that keep you always here in my snowy white space …in the gap between your poem and mine. With a nod to Kevin. Thank you. Susie
Writing before the day begins …
🙂
(Our puppy was up and around way toooo early)
Kevin
Kevin, your writing is always so clever. I love the twist on Frost. So many people know those “Whose woods these are I think I know” and you tap right into our memory and take a delicious detour.
You are certainly a talented writer!
Kevin,
Fun not to Frost. The snow does make the woods new, and the dogs always seem entranced as though never having walked the path hundreds of times.
Kevin, those opening lines grab me – I think of the separation we have between neighbors, the disruption to the connectivity of humanity, the loss of whatever God people believe in – and the starkness of trees grabbing like hands at what’s missing.
Kevin,
I like how you have the silence as purposeful, sent from somewhere above. I like the level of contentment that you’d follow the dogs tracks. I can’t articulate well this morning, but I think it captures how things can be more laid back and chill in nature. Hat nod.
Loving this poem and it’s quiet solitude through the woods. Wish I was there.