Bryan Ripley Crandall lives in Stratford, Connecticut, where he directs the Connecticut Writing Project and is Associate Professor of English Education at Fairfield University. He gained his teaching legs at the J. Graham Brown School in Louisville, Kentucky, a K-12 public school with a mission for diversity, inclusivity, and equity, and currently brings a love of verse to award-winning Young Adult Literacy Labs and teacher institutes. He is co-host of National Writing Project’s The Write Time.
Inspiration
Pedagogy is a gift (Luke, 2008). On the best days, we teach/write and write/teach in anticipation that our words might be unwrapped by another.
As an undergraduate at Binghamton University, I was gifted with the wisdom, mentorship, and wit of poet Ruth Stone. In her workshops, and on occasion, she’d stop someone after a reading to say, “Oh, you’ve written a poem-poem,” which she explained as, “ a gift to the universe.”
I share a gift from In the Next Galaxy, her collection that won a National Book Award.
Entering the Student’s Poem
By Ruth Stone
The most beautiful videos
come from reading poetry.
and they’re in your head.
How many times you speak
to the woman wrapped in a black shawl;
how many times you go up to her
where she sits on the bench
near the railroad, alone, waiting.
But she speaks no English
and the tall girl you have become;
your straight blond hair in a Grecian bun,
your voice melodious, shaking,
because the language is so difficult,
because you are traveling alone;
all this comes to you
from three or four lines
written by a student
who always sits midway in class;
smiling if you call on her,
the blood rushing to her forehead.
Process
I like to assign students to think of a person, place, or thing worthy of a poem, and to write as if making an offering. My Kentucky high school students used to call these ‘poetic drive-bys’ and would chalk their poems on sidewalks or write them for strangers to find in the mall (a few ‘tagged’ abandoned buildings and one young man delivered his poetry to fast food employees around town).
Write today’s poem for someone else: the boy who bags your groceries, the neighbor who walks by your front window every day, that colleague or friend who has been on your mind. Craft the poem to be left for another to unwrap (a gift that we all need).
Bryan’s Poem
Deliveries
~b.r.crandall
You don’t belong to us,
these porches of boxes,
driveways, & sidewalks –
yet, you bring stamped smiles
to our criss-crossing streets,
always carrying that satchel of language
over your shoulder:
sales, news, bills, birthday cards –
a correspondence of snails
assigned to chase Paul Revere.
We see you in the morning
working with packaged purpose,
eyes on lookout
for fuzz-nuggets
yanking idiots like me
at the end
of their ropes.
You might as well be my mom,
aunt, therapist,
reader of Tarot cards
who explained to me that death
is just like Publisher’s Clearing House.
Karal asked me to write you this poem
in exchange for the milkbones –
Joy, she says, comes from a delivered gesture.
Yours, hers, mine.
That’s why I let her lick
the envelope.
BTW. This is Karal.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Dear Fr Ronnie,
I met you at a young age,
Caring less that you were a priest
And more that you’d take Cathy and I
to the beach to swim
You said mass every day at Gisela’s house
I listened because it seemed important to you
And you were important to me
That’s what friendship is after all
Days turned to years,
Long after you stopped coming to Cape Cod,
Through your missionary work in Guam
Where you sent so many postcards I now treasure
Through my college years
Where you came to visit once with your beloved camera
And took amazing photographs
It was fall and the leaves were as bright as my smile
Through marriages and divorces,
Ups and downs,
You were there, never judging
Always with a God Bless You
It did finally become important that you were a priest,
One that was truly representative of God on Earth,
Who never judged me
Taught me so much about God and love
And then the day come when I needed you
To pray for Cathy at the end of her cancer battle
You didn’t return my email
I should have known something was wrong
I finally called you at your parish in NY
Fr Sams? He died.
I fell to a puddle on the floor
Inconsolable grief washing over me in waves
They sent me every article,
Your obituary
I prayed for you as you always had for me
I knew God’s arms were enveloping you
It’s been 5 years
And I still cannot delete your last voicemail from my phone.
God Bless you, Fr Ronald Sams, SJ
wow, Heidi. I feel this gift…not only of him, to you, but you, to him.
Just beautiful.
Catching up, Bryan. Thank you for the prompt. There is something I need to say to an old friend, though now it’s too late.
Dear Rose Ann
Rose Ann, you came into
my classroom each morning
with a smile and a sing-song greeting
That my students would sing back.
Rose Ann, you wrote little notes
to your teachers on pink parchment
telling them that you noticed, that you cared,
such an everlasting gift.
Rose Ann, you lifted this new teacher up,
showed her the way with humor, with heart
Walked alongside her and called her a friend,
You wanted to be called princiPAL, and you were!
Rose Ann, you certainly were,
And you certainly will be missed.
Your life with children and teachers
was a blessing; you’ll remain in our hearts.
This is everything I need to know about Rose Ann, Joanne. Such leadership is rare (but also a tremendous gift to those who work for them)
Thank you Martin
A neighborly neighbor
Not just a hello. Never just a goodbye.
“What can I do to help?”
“Do you need anything?”
“It’s just what neighbors do!”
Not many…
At least, not many of mine.
Which is why I am convinced
I could never adequately express
how grateful I am
For my neighborly neighbor
That’s you.
Donnetta, I have a 94 year-old neighbor from Poland. She lost her husband last year and her son, who is a real estate tycoon in NYC, can only occasionally visit. Being her neighbor, I think of the numerous neighbors who looked out for my grandparents when they were no longer the zestful inhabitants of their streets. Thank you for gifting Martin, and reminding all of us to be on the lookout for what others may need.
I’m way too late, but I didn’t want to miss out on this prompt. Bryan, thank you for this chance to reminisce on an old friendship.
I will remember
Always your bright orange t-shirt,
Your eyes scrunched against
The sun, walking towards me
On that August day we met.
I will remember
Always your annoying laugh
And our “meaningless”
Conversations filled with truths
Disguised as throwaway thoughts.
I will remember
Always our conversation
as friends who knew their
Time as such was at an end,
Goodbyes that felt too final.
I write this for you,
Knowing you’ll never read it,
But this will at least
Allow me to exhale
Ashes of my love for you.
Saba, I’m a strong believer in The Great Whatever. It will be read, because you gifted the world with this friendship and poem. I love the way these lines came forward,
Your poem encapsulated me with your grief. The final line “Ashes of my love for you” brought tears to my eyes. You captured how we write for others to keep them alive in our hearts.
Dear Musician
You wear your heart on
A set of shiny steel strings
The joy, the pain, the victory
Feels like it’s just for me
Your voice hits the keys
That mine can never find
Three to four minutes long
And a lifetime to repeat
Your music finds it way
Travels far and wide
It grew and went with me
Now I sing it as a lullaby
It used to be an old cassette
Battered and recording radio
Now a swipe of a screen
Empathy’s sweet release
Ashley, Thanks for sharing your gift-poem with us. I love the nostalgia,
And in my garage I have all my ol’ cassettes. I don’t have a cassette player, but I just can’t part with them.
I understand completely. I just parted with my CD case a few weeks ago. It was an emotional event!
To Young Barrett
unravel these words with care.
breathe them in…
repeat them, often:
i. am. worthy.
(re)connect with your body.
i’m here with you.
we are here
we have always been.
you have always been
worthy of being.
(re)member.
Barrett,
You poem reminds me of a yoga session. Reading your work is like breathing in acceptance and self-love.
Barrett, I love the image of breathing in words with care, “I. am. worthy,” and for the redo of ‘connect’ and ‘member’ – a remind you are central to the memberships of the communities you belong, too. You gifted us with brevity, word-play, and healing. How can we not be thankful?
Barrett, this is lovely. This could be another verse love prompt, Write a letter to your younger self.” I love the first line. It’s a great leap into the piece.
Barrett, I love that you chose to write this gift poem to your younger self.
Lovely, thank you for sharing,
Jennifer
Barrett, I love the choice you made in writing to Young Barrett. Your punctuation choices (i. am. worthy.) helped me see each word in its full power. Your choices to (re)connect and (re)member gave power to the theme of (re)discovering and speaking to our younger/weaker/more fragile selves. Lovely.
Thank you, Bryan! I so enjoyed this prompt for writing. I forgot to post yesterday, but dropping it in now!
The Coffee Lady
The rasp of your voice
crackling over the drive-thru speaker
is something akin to a coarse
sweater made with care.
“You got it, babe!”
The chorus of all our mornings,
the order, always the same:
light roast, splash of skim.
A few feet later, you’re there
at the window, always the same:
visor, hair pulled high in a messy
knot atop your head, rust
colored flannel flapping open,,
head set a bit off kilter.
You’re a no-nonsense woman,
hard edged and soft at once.
No make-up; no need.
No small-talk; thank God.
You send me on my way each morning,
“Coffee for ya. Have a good day, hon”
like a mother buttoning her child for the cold
walk to school, wrapped in an act of love.
You’re the familiar, comforting fabric
of my morning drive.
And I don’t even know your name.
Your poem feels warm and cozy, just like this motherly-coffee-giver you describe. I’ve had people like this in my life, too. Such constant, loving presences – yet we don’t even know their names; and they probably have no idea how much of an impact they’re making. Beautiful tribute!
Haley, Applauding my favorite lines from this gift to the woman who serves you coffee,
the rhythmic reminder of ‘thank God’ arrives with a beautiful tempo of word play. Brilliant.
Oh, Haley, I haven’t read the other comments on your poem yet, but I’m guessing others were knocked down (in the best way) by your final line! I think your coffee gal (whom I’ve heard on your car phone!) is a bit like my flight attendant: warm+business. So much to love in this poem, but the image of a mother buttoning up her child is spot on. Love+no-nonsense business. You must slip this poem to your coffee lady!
Hey Bryan! Love this prompt and the ways it helps us acknowledge the people we see and know but don’t know-know, know what I mean? 🙂
Walkin’ Mamas
I see you
I see-see you
and recognize that
reach into the infant seat
of the stroller
pacifier in hand
as your feet press on
dog tethered to the stroller.
I could be lookin’ in a mirror
except I have a couple more
human kids
and one more
fur kid
with me.
I hear you
I hear-hear that
gentle pleading
mixed with exasperation
as you try to soothe your
baby with your voice
the same way you need
this walk to soothe your
body
and
soul.
I get it, Mama.
The fatigue
The frustration
The I-just-wanted-this-one-thing-for-myeslf-today-is-that-so-much-to-ask
I feel that
I feel-feel that.
Because I’m out here with you
In good weather or bad
When the babies are happy or sad
And right now
I’m cussing Diggity
for barking and waking up my baby-baby
too.
Chea—
thank you for bringing me back 13/14 years.
Your poem resonates with me, missing those stroller days. I love the human my baby has grown into but those early years were so fun.
Chea, yes, I know what you mean, how we don’t know-know so many people. I love your poem, and the see-see, hear-hear, feel-feel you are doing within your poem. Did you read Susie Morice’s poem today? Yours reminded me of hers. A mom with babies and fur babies can relate to another mom. Some of us have forgotten those days, but you certainly haven’t. “The I-just-wanted-this-one-thing-for-myeslf-today-is-that-so-much-to-ask.” You understand.
Should’ve mentioned that the picture is of a penitent Diggity. ☺️
They always look so sad after they’ve wronged us, don’t they? I love your use of repeated words see-see, hear-hear, feel-feel, and then the swap to the noun with baby-baby. Those simple repetitions speak to a much greater sense of humanity. I also feel-feel YOU as you feel-feel this poor mama’s plight. This poem is like the first domino to drop, and then we each sense our own connection with it. So nicely captured here, Chea. Great felt observaation.
Chea, What’s not to love about this poem, this seeing? There are two newborns very much in the proximity of my life right now and I’m constantly reminded of the labor that goes into the first six months (and the soothing of a crying child). I’m also laughing, because this is the line that rang from my own childhood, a daily rant from my mother to her fledglings
This usually came around 1 pm, Days of Our Lives time. This is a poem that resonates brilliantly. Loved unwrapping it with you.
Chea, your details are so dead on and visceral. I am in it — this parenting thing. Your repetition works so effectively. I love this.
Chea,
Good for me that I came back to see what I missed last night! Oh, how I love this and how well the prompt worked for Mamas! Your title had me and then you pulled me in fast with your strong mama voice.
Love it! Keep on walkin’ mamas! It keeps us alive, healthy and sane.
❤️
Chea,
Your poem made me feel seen! The imagery is so powerful, but you leave it open enough for interpretation allowing the reader to see any circumstance in which this would be an event.
For my Pelvic Floor PT
I expected you to heal my body
(a childish expectation I have for
every medical professional).
You taught me to heal my body.
But you also salved my soul.
I expected you to give me
homework—“exercises”—
that I would procrastinate
like AP Calculus problems.
But you showed me compassion,
so I put my trust in our work—
and it worked.
While others told me
my pain was par for the course,
you reminded me that
pain isn’t normal;
you gave me the tools
to relieve the pain
while they sanitized their hands in preparation for their next patient.
You ask me,
“How much does Townes weigh, now?”
I answer, you hand me
the 25-lb weight,
My face and confidence wince, but
I know the weight in my hands
is your trust in my
ability, potential, power.
Thanks for this prompt, Bryan. I’ll definitely be sharing this with students and feel like this writing is would be a good daily routine.
Oh, what a wonderful PT you have. This is beautiful. I hope you will gift it to this healing therapist. That second stanza is rich. Rather than giving homework you wouldn’t do, you received more. Beautiful!
Love that trust that comes in the final lines of this –“trust in my /ability” and the implication of a self-trust here, too.
Sarah
The flip in each stanza is so well expressed. What a treasure to not always get what we expect when we don’t always expect the best or even nothing more than neutral. The line about the hand washing is one of those, how did Bryan say it? Observed like a poet. I KNOW that same gesture, but here, it speaks in such a different way. Felt. (My FIL once had weekly PT – and we later learned he was skipping it completely and going to Burger King – !)
Good Morning, Laura. Sorry I missed your post yesterday. I retired to Grogu & Lass (needing digital streaming therapy myself). Love the use of “salve” in this poem and
These two lines burst forward, as it is a window into your word-gifts, but also into the writer, too. Procrastinated recovery. Love it.
Sweet poem. It means so much when someone takes time for us & sticks with us, strengthens us. I think we all have to let go of that “childish expectation” we have for medical professionals – although it’s been hard for me to do, too. (Also I wish I could find a pelvic floor pt like yours!! My experiences have not been as positive.)
What a fun prompt! I’d like to revisit this and write several more. 🙂
Every day–
morning,
afternoon,
evening–
you pass by my house
walking your impish pup.
He’s all black,
but he walks like
Lady’s Tramp,
high stepping and jaunty
as he pulls you along–
tiptoe paws
barely touching the ground.
No matter the weather,
you’re out there,
walking solo
or with your wife,
raincoat or shirtsleeves,
giving that pup
an outing that
seems to be as
reliable as the
ever-changing weather
in Oregon
is not.
Cara, I imagine we all have one of these neighbors? Mine wears a Michigan T-shirt, sweatshirt or hat depending on the weather—every. single. day. Your poem took me right to my driver’s seat where I see my neighbor each morning on the street. The cadence of your poem is so like the neighbor walking the dog. I love that you chose this subject and gave them the proper illumination.
Hey Cara! Your poem makes me wonder about what my neighbors think about me with my stroller and dogs when we go for our daily 2 miles. Sometimes folks stop me and tell me I’m an inspiration and they don’t know how I do it every day but knowing what they think and wonder and notice is so limited. I feel like your poem gave me some insight into that. I love the word “jaunty” – it’s one of those words that is what it means. Does that make sense? Anyway, I loved the way you painted this picture and the juxtaposition at the end. Such a perfect ending!
Cara, great poem about a your neighbor, who seems jaunty himself, along with his black pup. Concise and sweet ending there, which shows how committed this walker is.
Cara, this symbol of routine and Constance contrasted with the ever-changing weather emphasizes the importance of this ritual. Thanks for sharing it with us too!
Cara,
You have painted a wonderful picture in my mind of the way this dog walks. I salute you for the Lady and the Tramp reference.
Cara, I loved the pace of these words, the “tip toe paws barely touching the ground” (a furry love nugget parading as a Clydesdale)…the “high stepping and jaunty” routine. Even better, I applaud the way you capture an every day scene with enjoyment, curiosity, and grace. That’s why I love poetic gifts.
Hey Bryan, I love this prompt! You probably know the backstory behind this poem, but, essentially, this is about the uphill battle that many educators face when they work to challenge the norms of our educational system that is too often about turning students into manageable, measurable units within a predetermined framework and not enough about celebrating and nurturing the humanity, and talents, and gifts of our kids.
Mentor
They weren’t ready for us.
They damn sure
weren’t ready for you.
Revolutionary pedagogue,
Ratchedemic,
Change agent,
Catalyst,
Adversarial,
Polemic…
You are
what they say
you are
because you
grew humanity
in a space that
made confinement
and co-option
the norm.
They turned
the South End
to Harbor Point
and you turned
eyes to the stars
and told children
that dreams could not
be contained
by neighborhoods
or schools
or policies.
They tried to force you
out
but you never gave
in
Forcing them to
unmask their
ugliness
for all
to see.
Still you persevere.
And your students
laud your influence.
You exude love
in the face of calculated
indifference.
They tried to
erase you. But
your legacy is
strong
and
growing
and
I’m
proud
to stand
by your side
and call you
my friend.
Wow, Dave! What a tribute! I love this stanza:
You are
what they say
you are
because you
grew humanity
in a space that
made confinement
and co-option
the norm.
Dave, I love this poem and want to print it out and stick it in my drawer as a reminder, as an aspiration, as an acknowledgment. This year more than ever I find myself questioning my role as educator in the same ways that you celebrate in this poem. Those first theee stanzas really pulled me in and give me fuel—thank you for your words.
Dave,
This is a siren call to all those who still strive to educate and lift up students, not just wedge them into a too small box. You brought back memories for me of two mentor teachers in particular who believed in me as a newbie and helped me become the kind of teacher I am. Keep singing the song, more will join in! Love it!
Hey Dave! Wow! The passion and fire in this poem is amazing. I felt more hyped with each word and stanza. There isn’t a misstep in this whole poem, but my favorite lines are “You exude love/in the face of calculated/indifference.” Boom! Yes! This is it. This is the thing. Thank you so much for writing today!
Dave, This is a mantra poem of appreciation that I wish was written my every educator in all our classrooms. Those who push back on administrative danger, and choose what is best for all kids. “Ratchedemic” is brilliant, as are these lines,
I’m the lucky one with this poem. I not only get to read you on #VerseLove, but see you live as a poem in everything you do. I’m looking forward to your prompt later this month.
Thanks Bryan! This was a great prompt!
To All The Children’s Book Authors
Thank you for being there
back in the fifth grade.
Stuck in a cast,
all summer long.
Missing the outdoors —
swimming
biking
rollerskating.
You were there
keeping me company,
creating adventures,
opening escapes.
Thank you…
Judy Blume
Beverly Cleary
Roald Dahl
Jennifer Kowaczek April 2023
Thank you, Bryan, for this prompt. It was a fun one to explore.
Fifth grade, in the ‘80s, I broke my leg roller skating. I was in a cast from March through August and missed out on so much. But, this was the year/summer I truly discovered books and a love for reading. I credit this for being where I am today.
Jennifer, even though you were hurt, this is such a sweet memory. I’m a sucker for poems about the importance of books! Thanks for this poem.
Jennifer, My 5th grade teacher (a man in a wheel chair with multiple sclerosis) was obsessed with Patricia O’Neal. He also was one of the only teachers who encouraged writing in his classroom (even having us write love letters to her). When he read Roald Dahl to us he’d admit it was a subversive plot to get closer to the love of his life (often asking us to write Roald Dahl to argue why he should give up his love to O’Neal so he could have her). Ah, memories. Yours “keeping” you “company” in a cast…triggering mine, the boy who dressed Mr. Finster, that 5th grade teacher, as Ms. Piggy that Halloween.
Jennifer,
I wish we could mail this poem to everyone who is trying to ban books. Books are so powerful and you captured the comfort they bring.
Thanks Bryan for an intriguing prompt today. I knew pretty early on that i would write about water–how could I write about anything else when water in ALL its forms greeted me all day long? This still feels like an early draft–there is more tweaking needed to express what I am trying to say…but it’s a start, something to return to after some rest and time to wallow a bit.
Again, I’ve written in photo essay form. For photos you can access my blog:
https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2023/04/05/water-an-offering-npm23-day-5/
Water: A Super Hero
It slips in and out of our consciousness
We crave it in scarcity
waste it in abundance
underestimate its power
Water shows us its superpowers
shape shifting with ease
from liquid to gas to solid
As liquid it carves canyons, topples trees, moves mountains
what looks like a calm river
can roar with ferocity and later gently lap the sandy shores
It’s mysterious as vapor
sometimes appearing to mask the view
other times rising to mound in voluptuous curves, ready to give birth to liquid again
Frozen it is rigid, sharp, unforgiving
breaking stone, cracking under pressure
encasing everything it touches in translucence
Stalactites, growing longer, pointier drip by drip
until they drop and shatter
or pierce the bubble of truth
Water we love you
want you, need you, worship you
and forget just how much power you wield
Thanks for reminding me!
Kim,
I love the way you’ve captured all the states of water, reminding us of its power. I really love the image you created in this stanza: “Stalactites, growing longer, pointer drip by drip/until they drop and shatter/or pierce the bubble of truth.”
So funny to read this as we are experiencing flood warnings in our area. Yes, we need it for our farms, but I do not need it in my basement! : ) That’s what we humans get, I suppose, for thinking we could plant a house in a hole in the ground and not have nature keep trying to seep in. I love thinking I’m reading “science” with each of your poems, Kim. I think I could have done much better in my science classes if there had been some poetry to go along with all that prose.
Kim, my 1st thought kicked me to the writing of Douglas Coupland (that I was obsessed with in my 20s)…he wrote the human body is water’s twisted plot to recycle itself all over the world. I loved that and have recently adapted it to “knowledge,” too. We are liquid movers of history. Loved Loved Loved the photo essay, as it popped additional images into the exploration. Finally, thrilled by an ecological poem….a Wendell-Berry exploration of science, nature, and the limitations of our species….but the brilliance of being able to poem as we do. These lines made me drool (yes, that’s a liquid, too)
Bryan,
This idea/form is sure to be a new crowd favorite. Thank you so much, I had the longest day ever, so my commenting may be lacking, but I took the time to write a poem for my dear fellow teacher who worked her tail off to coordinate our academic bowl this evening.
She Made Herself a Phenomenal Teacher
Quiet in speech but loud in love
Hesitant to act but bold in belief
Humble and hardworking
Dedicated and selfless.
Giving genuine, patient attention
to every kid.
Every. Kid.
Every
Kid.
Weird ones.
Quirky ones.
Bright ones.
Annoying ones.
Pestering ones.
Kind ones.
Needy ones.
Social ones.
Isolated ones.
Always treating each as
The Only One
in the moment.
Piercing, warm eye contact and
buoyant smile
sharing love and acceptance.
Firm, unmoving eye contact and
hard-set jaw
expressing disappointment
with an undercurrent
of “We’ll start over tomorrow.”
Fierce advocate for all regardless
of race or gender or sexuality
or neighborhood or origin.
Walls decorated with messages
of love and acceptance and effort and encouragement.
The classroom on oasis, a haven,
a respite from cruel adolescence.
Once a shy, smart thirteen-year-old
who loved to read but wanted to be
invisible
who now spends every day
making sure no one feels
invisible
making sure all feel
seen
and
heard.
A lead-by-example kid
gradually turning into
a pure leader
giving students
and cohorts guidance
and something to think about.
Leading in quiet but organized, efficient ways.
An introvert who engages and inspires
a room of the most rambunctious
and rowdy kids
every day.
Crafting awesome lessons
breaking down tough tasks
tirelessly checking for understanding and growth.
Inspiring and empowering.
Turning tough kids into readers
and writers and thinkers.
Helping them find their voices
to share their stories
and
helping them grow their empathy.
Churning out good citizens
and great people.
Every day.
Every day.
Her heart is huge
Her passion is pervasive.
Her name is Kasey Young
and she is a rock star!
Susan,
Kasey sound like a phenomenal teacher!
These lines were powerful and relatable:
“Once a shy, smart thirteen-year-old/who loved to read but wanted to be/ invisible/
who now spends every day/making sure no one feels/invisible/making sure all feel/
seen/and/heard.
Funny, that same line Tammi quoted hit me so hard as well. I have to think most teachers are people who find that balance between our quiet reader/studying selves and the one that has to stand up in front of others and direct it all. This poem makes me see just how much that role has to be able to do professionally and personally – humans are our business, after all. “Churning out good citizens” is no small task (as we know, it doesn’t always work – but not for not trying on our part!).
This poem is an inspiration, much like it’s subject! I love the stanza where you list the types of kids. That so captures the type of care and adaptability that being in the classroom and really SEEING our students requires. And the way you use repetition. Whew! So good!
Susan, There is nothing more precious, gracious, honorable, and telling than the honest praise of one teacher to another (actually, I read this after watching last night’s episode of Abbott Elementary, that explored a similar notion of what teaching excellence could/should be. These are the lines for me, though.
Like Kasey, you used these words as if differentiation on an IEP. Line by line, to slow the reader down to make sure the content is well-received. This was delicious and I love being gifted by your words.
poetic drive by
Sometime after my mom moved here,
we visited motor vehicles for her to get
her id.
When we are older, no longer visiting
motor vehicles
to renew our driver’s license,
we might revisit the place for a photo
id.
Such was the visit when I encountered
you.
One delightful employee.
You sat across from my mother and me
carefully asking her questions
and listening also with care as she
began to respond
or glanced at me
as I helped you complete the
application.
Respect was what you were about.
No worry of time crossed your face.
Your words were followed
by our words til the task was
completed.
Next it was time for the photo.
I helped my mother stand and position
herself before the camera.
Me checking with you about her
position.
You adjusted the camera to find her in
the lens.
Seconds to adjust and you were done.
I thanked you profusely for your
kindness and patience.
You assured me that it was your job.
Today many years later. I remember
your actions.
Thank you.
Hi Jamie,
Of all places to encounter a kind and patient employee, the DMV surprised me! Thank goodness for that sweet soul. I love that you chose to write for this person. These lines stand out because it always seems to feel like a “hurry and get out” message in the DMV:
I hope the next time I have to be in the DMV, there’s a patient person like this ready to help me.
This is one of my favorite poems that I’ve encountered her on this site. The humanity that the poem embodies is remarkable. A particular favorite phrase is;
Your insider/outsider relationship explores the complexities of the relationships that we encounter on our journeys through life.
Jamie, I think that piques my interest the most is that there is a DMV employee somewhere out there that is patient, kind, and good (sorry if anyone has DMV kin in their lives). I’ve always thought of such state-run agencies as the prime example of why government is wonky at its best. Still, there’s not only a preciousness in your gift to this person, but also the gift of the narrator who, obviously, cares for the mother, too.
In this writing, I also see you adjusting your camera, which is fresh and real.
Bryan — Thank you for this prompt. My intent was to write a drive-by about my favorite place but my irritation regarding a recent post on my community facebook page seeped through at the end.
Criss cross applesauce
story time with nursery rhymes
brightened many gray winter days,
curbed summer heat,
ushered in a sweet slice of silence,
that wasn’t silence
but a peaceful buzz,
young children are rarely silent.
Young mom’s savored the buzz, nevertheless.
The hum was understood
in this joyous place of stories, poems, words …
It’s funny thing,
how those stacks of books and toys
brought tranquility
to our little motorboats of energy.
Puzzles and abacuses
kept little fingers and curious minds busy.
Shelves bursting with stories and pictures,
a story for everyone
a friend for everyone
we spent many hours
snuggling in the nooks and crannies,
crawling into the wooden house,
finding the perfect place to read a book.
We went everywhere
and
nowhere.
Readers and thinkers
were nurtured in this spacious athenaeum.
Now, years later,
my children are long past
the criss cross applesauce days
and I hear the clamor
about a book, Jacob’s New Dress
“The book has no place here!” they yawp,
and now that sweet silence
is squelched, inclusivity stifled
and I think,
If only,
If only,
we had Jacob’s New Dress years ago
how many more children would
have found a book friend,
would have found themselves,
among the pages
while sitting criss-cross applesauce?
Tammi,
A poem is a perfect place to honor libraries and books, especially those that invite all into their pages. I love the playful diction in contrast to the serious subject. The cross-cross applesauce ties each theme together. In my home state Missouri the GOP voted to completely defund public libraries. This is the battle we face. Your poem is an important response to the war on books. If not for those like your neighbors none of this censorship would be happening,
Yes. I am stunned every day by new assaults on everything except killing machines. What a strange world we live in here in this bubble of a nation. It speaks all the more to what the responsibility is to be aware and active. I teach college, and my students are so fatigued by the violence. I just say to them, “I hope you can make this better. My generation didn’t do right by you, despite our best efforts.” I’m not sure they can turn this Titanic around. Sigh. (Which also means you have captured this issue so well here, Tammi. As much as I hate the subject, poetry gives us a way to look at it without all the noise and clamor.)
Tammi, if only then we had….I think there’s a poetic prompt in those lines. If only then we had (phew). Thank you for gifting our libraries as a recipient of a poem. My students often hear me say, “If I could do it all over again, maybe librarian would be a wise choice,” simply because they are the orchestrators of U.S. democracy. They are the agents of what is possible. Such ‘yawps’ are the chirps of fools. Let them ‘shelter’ their kids (and even themselves….because that is what it’s really about). If you teach, you know the wide spectrum of humanity. If you ‘yawp,’ you simply declare I see the world through the urethra.
Pissheads, my grandma would say. Absolute pissheads.
Amilah
By Mo Daley 4/5/23
I wonder, did you know,
that Wednesday afternoon at 2:32
when you put your hand on my shoulder
before you ran out the door,
that when you said,
“Are you okay? You look stressed,”
that you restored my faith
in students
and healed my weary soul?
Mo, I wonder, too, if they know the power of being seen.
Such gesture. Such human connection. Such a teacher poem!
Mo, you’ve captured the perfect teaching moment. Sweet!
Mo, thankful your student took the time to share some care and restored your faith.
I hope when I go back Monday, there’s someone waiting to do the same for me. We need it everyday just like they do.
🤗
Amilah sounds like a student who learned from you. Kids are the mirrors of our behavior. Thank you for sharing such a kind and impactful moment, Mo!
Oh, Mo, this is so precious. It makes me tear up thinking of those students who restore faith and heal our weary souls. Gorgeous. I wonder if you will share it with her. Beautiful.
Bryan, thank you for this prompt today. I was keeping my eyes out all day for the perfect “drive by” poem idea. Your poem about the mailman has such a playful use of puns that it was joyful to read all the way through. Thanks for the pet picture, too. It’s always appreciated!
Recently, our neighbor had an emergency late at night. Everything has been figured out since, but it was an eye-opening experience for me about what it means to be neighborly beyond the pleasantries.
Neighbor,
Although you live
across the fence/
next door/
in the adjacent lot/
one house down,
I never really
knew you.
We exchange pleasantries
punctuated with short, spastic
waves of acknowledgement.
“Howdy, neighbor!”/
“Need help carrying groceries?”/
“How about this weather?”/
“Is it Friday yet?!”
Still, I never really
knew you.
We went on living parallel
lives, never intersecting until
you rang my doorbell
at 3:30 that morning
begging for help.
That was when
I learned, truly, how I
could be
your neighbor.
Rachelle— how often do we pass each other, pleasant and neighborly, without being a true neighbor. This poem shows the difference between the two, so beautifully.
Rachelle, I don’t know what happened at 3:30 that morning, but I related. I often replay a moment from when I was 19 years old and I came home to learn my Grannie Annie had passed. She called a neighbor and when they came to her, all alone in her home, she was gone. Neighbors are the eyes (windows & doorways) to extended family. We don’t need to know the detail, the gift is that you were there. And that is gift to all of us.
Rachelle,
I, too, live parallel lives to my neighbors. Years ago, an ambulance came to a previous neighborhood and opened the doors to my knowledge of my neighbors. I love how you punctuated the adjacent words and the neighborly phrases. Well constructed and it ends on a cliffhanger!
Rachelle, wow, I like how the story remains untold. Two neighbors in relationship, no longer “living parallel lives, never intersecting.” This is a rich human poem. Thank you for sharing.
Rachelle,
So many people are content to continue living those parallel lives, instead of actually engaging with their neighbors. I love how you left the reader wanting more. Thanks for sharing today.
Bryan, thank you for this prompt!
Telephonophobia
One of six, mom
Was the sibling who
Kept in touch with everyone
And helped them out in
Times of need.
Flamingo-like, she
Stood, one leg perched on
The telephone table
In the hallway,
Receiver glued
To ear, uttering
An eternity of uh-huhs.
An only child,
I fostered a hatred
Of the heavy, black
Object with the cord
That always twisted in
On itself and had one ringtone,
LOUD.
So, friends, family, callers,
I must apologize.
Maybe, it’s the speaking or
The listening or the awkward silences.
But, if you don’t mind, let’s text.
Katrina, what wonderful imagery: “Flamingo-like, she / Stood, one leg perched on/ The telephone table”. Thank you for sharing, and your final line is so funny to me: “But, if you don’t mind, let’s text.” I definitely understand why after reading the poem. Thanks for sharing!
Katrina, The image from your gift that sticks with me is,
That one leg. That detail. Thanks for letting us unwrap this with you.
That’s the mage that stuck with me too. So real, so visceral.
I love the image of your mother standing balanced on one leg. And your honest perception of the telephone. Which must have led to your final line – “let’s text.” I love the honesty.
Thanks, Bryan, for an invitation to appreciate. For some reason, I thought of the last stanza in Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “Valentine for Ernest Mann,” where she says,
“Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us
we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock
in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite.
And let me know.”
I do love my colleague and friend captured in this poem–I’m not getting the tone quite right. I thought about the weird familial relationships we have with our colleagues.
T-Slates
You always start your stories with a time and place:
“The year was 1995, and I was managing a Carlos O’ Kelley’s,”
Hands raised in the air, hips about to join the fray
Embellishing details for audience effect
But none of us really mind
When I moved schools, I said something at lunch like
“I feel like there are some characters here”
Everyone there was nice, but a bit boring
You chuckled and noted, “Just wait.”
In curriculum meetings, you never let the following die:
Lord of the Flies, Macbeth, the word “robust”
But when we add a new text together, you annotate
Like the best student, unwrapping each idea like a gift
You stir things up, sometimes, sharing
The best gossip from the social studies department.
Once you started a political lunch debate and lit a match,
Making me fend for common sense alone.
That day, we had words.
But most days, I appreciate your routines:
Doing our dishes after birthday food days,
Using the big bowl for your soup and your oatmeal,
Leaving early to coach your son’s sports.
We often argue about writing pedagogy and Huck Finn,
If Atticus is really a hero.
But you’re the mashed potatoes of our department:
No one can argue that.
Brenna, this is great! You did capture that tension and love that exist in families and how that translates to colleagues and friends. I love the drama in this line: “Once you started a political lunch debate and lit a match, / Making me fend for common sense alone.” Thank you for sharing!
Brenna— “you are the mashed potatoes…”. What a wonderful comment! So much is communicated there! I will find away to use it soon, I hope! Thank you!
Brenna, Whoa! The mashed potato of a department. Now that is character.
Sometimes the best gift is the one we wait to open together…the revelation of who it is that actually catches are eye…our attention. Beautiful.
Brenna,
You’ve captured this “character” with such depth. The ebb and flow of details lulls like a conversation. Your opening is wonderful! Your details invite the reader to consider how they might capture someone they know well — the way they tell stories. I love that detail. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you for today’s prompt, Bryan! I love the idea of a “drive-by” poem. The mentor poem and yours are truly “gifts for the universe.” I especially like the lines:
“Joy, she says, comes from a delivered gesture.
Yours, hers, mine.”
The day was so packed today, and I thought I wouldn’t be able to write, but I I wanted to share a story of the best neighbor. Here it goes:
A Gracious Neighbor
In a world of kind and caring people,
One of them lives across the street.
Unpacking the first load of things—
Books, tools, dishes, and whatnot—
You walked up to introduce yourself.
Without a word, took a heavy box
Out of my hands.
I glanced to see a tall man—
Blue jeans, plain white shirt,
Kind, smiling eyes.
“Are you a new owner?”
“Yes, sir! I am.”
“Welcome to the neighborhood!
You are my family now,
And I’ll assist in any way I can.”
Warm and fuzzy it felt inside,
As if my father had sent the man,
To look out for me.
Five years later, we are great friends.
Yesterday, you brought me
A beautiful blooming allamanda plant.
“Why?” – “Cause I just love the way
You say ‘bush’.”
P.S.: My turn to bake David a pie this weekend.
Hubby doesn’t mind—they are friends too.
Leilya,
The fourth stanza has such lovely choices–I love the dialogue and the way he asserts himself as family, the syntax inversion of “warm and fuzzy it felt inside,” and reference to your father looking out for you. This stanza brought me warmth too. Thanks for sharing.
Leilya, From a gesture, a poem is born,
A small gesture, and one returned with a poem. Both gifts that make all of us better human beings. And with that my heart has bloomed like your allamanda.
Leiya, This is a precious tribute. I hope you and your husband include this poem when you bake and take the pie. The pie may be gone in a day or two. This poem may be passed down to generations to come after delighting your neighbor that you expressed your gratitude for him … to us.
What a wonderful poem to celebrate a wonderful neighbor. The pie detail was super sweet!
Leilya, wow, he is a great neighbor. I love his warm welcome:
I also like the introduction, which gave us such a sweet hint in a few words.
Thank you, Bryan Crandall, for the invitation to write a Drive-by poem for someone worthy of a poem. It was the perfect prompt for today.
I have a student who got a 3D printer for Christmas. I shared that my son had one when he was younger, and I loved the different things he would create. Since then, the student has created and gift me two of his 3D creations. Today, I received the second. I am overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness, and he is certainly deserving of a poem of appreciation.
Printed Delights
You drop your bag
on the table
and dig for treasures
just for me.
Then, you brandish
a creation made of
carbon fibers
for everyone to see.
My heart lifts
and joy flutters
as I am the lucky one
touched by your generosity.
Heather, how sweet! I know your heart is full. It’s amazing how one student can bring a world of joy to our days.
Love the pencil holder! I am impressed.
💛
Heather, oh my goodness! How sweet is this pencil holder. It’s beautiful, and your touching poem of gratitude is too. “I am the lucky one”, indeed!
What a sweet gesture from a student, Heather! I bet they don’t bring gifts for all the teachers; you deserve it. Thank you for sharing.
Heather, I love the word choice of “brandish”–such great sound here and really brings flourish to the moment.
Heather, if only we spread the spirit for others:
These are the gifts that fuel us forward, just like the poem you shared for us to read!
Heather,
Wow! What a thoughtful gift. Your second stanza really shows how cool the gift is “a creation made of /carbon fibers/for everyone to see.” Truly a treasure!
Coffee Cart Man
The loneliness
So raw beneath tears
Across the miles
New York to San Francisco
“I didn’t know that I
Would miss you
So much,” she would cry.
How to explain that,
Having no real mum
Of my own,
I didn’t know it either.
“I didn’t know that I
Could miss the
Checkout guy at
Trader Joes.
The mailman.
My hairdresser!”
She wailed,
“I didn’t know the difference
Between being
Seen or unseen,
Known or unknown.”
But then, she found you,
Coffee cart man.
One person who
Knew her name and
Her New York order —
Regular – that white
Sugar sweetness
Cutting a little of
New York’s bite.
When I finally visited,
Your eyes lit up.
Your smile shone over
My daughter,
“Your mum is here!”
You cried, sharing
Her delight, while
Refusing the bills
In my mittened hands.
“Your daughter, You told me
she is so good. So kind.
She loves you so much.”
“Thank you, coffee cart man.
Thank you, for all of that.”
Tanya, your poem is so wrought with emotion that you have me in tears. I love the pace of your poem and the way you describe the type of coffee you like. The ending of your poem is so incredible. I truly love the dialogue and gratitude shown. Truly beautiful poem!
Tanya, I’m with Barb (and almost everyone responding to today’s prompt). Tears.
One has to know the Big Apple…the size of it…the intimidation…to get its fright. And to have someone notice a stranger….and to create a smile. That’s the response every parent wants. Thanks for gifting us this poem.
Thank you, Bryan, and everyone. I haven’t really participated in verse love before, only did today because of the little extra push you gave me. Thank you. This really is a gift — the forum, your prompt, these kinds words. Thank you.
Tanya, what a gift he is to your mum, and to all of NYC. That is just precious:
This is a beautiful and heartfelt poem, Tanya! Thank you for sharing today.The feeling of lost and being unseen in a huge city is so relevant. I am happy you found a coffee cart man.
There is so much beautiful emotion here–I love the simplicity in the last couplet, even in his title of “coffee cart man.” I love the dialogue throughout. But the middle stanza is my favorite:
Beautiful. I, too, am ready to cry!!
Tanya,
This is a really beautiful poem. These lines really moved me:
“I didn’t know the difference
Between being
Seen or unseen,
Known or unknown.”
Bryan, thanks so much for your prompt today. My poem is not so much as a drive-by but more of an important message I needed to write today.
Unexpected Sunlight
to the lovely lady
who listens to my pain
one refrain
slammed
after another
who understands.
silence
the uneasy precipice of trust
the weight of words
who encourages,
offers sage advice,
brightens a gray, stormy day
like unexpected sunlight
lifting with ease
the heavy load
from my shoulders
Barb Edler
5 April 2023
Barb,
Your poem offers a gently reminder of what all poetry and friendship should be. The subtle allusion to slam poetry, the tone reminding us our silences—especially those in public spaces that appear as subtractions, omissions, gaps in online spaces—echo and reverberate in ways we may not realize. I think about these things as I scroll and notice and count and see both the presence and absence of it here and elsewhere. We all need shoulders on which to lay our burdens along this often difficult life journey. Your poem is a gift, one that will be treasured and honored.
What a beautiful phrase and just reading this poem made me feel a little lighter.
Barb, and it’s a poem that needed to be written, indeed.
Such is the way pain speaks to the moon. And she listens. Beautiful.
Oh, Barb, what a beauty. So many images here that show the importance of this load-sharer: “the weight of words”, “lifting with ease / the heavy load” and the pain of “one refrain / slammed / after another” Wow. Peace to you, my friend.
Hi, Barb! I love every single word in your poem, its rhythm, pacing, tone changing to the lighter one by the end, when “the lovely lady” offers “unexpected sunlight /lifting with ease / the heavy load/ from my shoulders.” It is beautiful and is yet another “gift to the universe,” as Bryan suggested with his prompt.
Barb, Your stanza
to the lovely lady
who listens to my pain
one refrain
slammed
after another
who understands.
reminds us of the value of listening. So often we want to “advise” when all is really needed is a listening ear, pat gentle pat, and a prayer.
Sometimes just listening lightens the burden, understanding silence, and those refrains slammed into the air. What a wonderful note of appreciation.
Barb,
You “lovely lady” sounds like a beautiful person. Love this “who understands silence”
We all need someone like that in our lives.
I am reminded here, all we need is one, just one who listens deeply to us. This is so tender and beautiful, Barb. I got a chill down my neck with these three lines in a row:
I’m imagining you at the poetry slam…hoping you felt the love from many, but, at least, one. You are so amazing to put your words and voice ‘out there’ like that – you are amazing, Barb.
Bryan – thank you for this fun prompt. I love the idea of a poem as a gift to be opened later by the reader.
Once or twice a week
You brighten my day
Quick hellos or how are yous
Taking time to get to know not only me
But the hundreds of other regulars too
Once or twice a week
Including me in your community
You build one cup at a time
With those of us who count on you
To literally and figuratively fill our cups
Knowing our orders by this sight of our cars
Once or twice a week
Even thrice if using a freebie
My cup gets filled with my
Nonfat sugar-free caramel latte
Often without me ordering
Once or twice a week
You’re a bright spot
Starting my day off right
Once or twice a week
My coffee is not just black
DeAnna,
I love the way this phrase situates the speaker as a member and not a customer: “Including me in your community”!
Sarah
DeAnna, When I lived in Louisville, I spent every Sunday at the same coffee shop (which I crave all the time from Connecticut home – best Everything Bagels in the Universe at Nancy’s Bagels). I pictured the smiles that come with your cup being filled.
We need such daily joy!
I hope you will share this poem with your coffee server – I mean, how wonderful is it that “Knowing our orders by this sight of our cars”? I adore the verbal play with the word cup, the double meaning of ‘My cup gets filled.” Fabulous!
DeAnna, I bet the person is just as happy to see you! Imagine how many rude and disrespectful customers they encounter on a regular basis. That’s why I always try to be the kind one in their day.
Sweet!
The little things are what matters, and your poem speaks to this – “knowing our orders by this sight of our cars, quick hellos, build one cup at a time.” This is a wonderful gift for the your coffee friend.
I love the repeating of the lines “once or twice a week” as it speaks to the habit this has clearly become. I can relate — there was a time when I would treat myself this way at least once a week. My favorite pairing comes at the end with the acknowledgement of this being a treat for you with a special coffee and not just the standard black.
DeAnna, this turned out great! The repetition is spot-on because this is a person you repetitively see–I’m actually surprised it’s only once or twice (or thrice) a week ;). I love the line: “To literally and figuratively fill our cups”. Thanks for sharing today!
I love how you begin each refrain with “Once or twice a week.” The predictability of each visit with a different focus each time. I imagine with each encounter you walk away with your coffee and a “different bright spot/starting (your) day off right.” Small noticings. Each enough to call you back next time.
Deanna,
I have a barista who brightens my day, too!
I really love your last stanza: “Once or twice a week/My coffee is not just black.”
Having someone take the time to engage is definitely spruces up one’s day and the coffee!
DeAnna,
This is so nicely you, my coffee loving friend! The repetition of the initial line really ties it together.
I love the sense of gratitude this offers writers to explore, Bryan (or “commiseratory” as this one turned out). There are so many I will continue with as a regular practice, but, once again, first thought, weirdest thought, so I went with it!
Rotisserie Chicken Lady at the Supermarket Deli
I can’t imagine
how many times a day
people must ask you
“When will the chickens be ready?”
standing next to the
steaming rotisserie
fat spits and sizzles
coating your skin and clothes
with a fine layer of grease
as if you can speed up time
or the ones who won’t take
what’s already sitting there
instead demand “the fresh ones”
leaning their smudgy elbows
against the deli case
as they text and wait
in the way of others wanting
half pounds of potato salad
and sliced honey-baked ham
keeping a distrustful eye on you
daring you to forget them
I’m relieved just knowing
I won’t need to cook tonight
and my husband will gleam
at this splurge away
from our more healthy eating
and why I look your way
hoisting my little bucket of bird
smile and mouth “Thank you!”
I see your weary head nod
a curl of hair escaping the net
your boss breezing through scolding
you’ll get written up
if it happens one more time
and I hate her for you
as I head to the checkout
Denise,
What a grateful poetic drive-by for the chicken guy/person to whom you see and acknowledge in just the right way: “and why I look your way/ hoisting my little bucket of bird.”
Sarah
Denise – You captured that essence of the hard working deli attendant.
I can just hear this line as I read it and then read it again.
Denise—so accurate, so true, so well-said! I hate her, too!! But that chicken…worth waiting for, and deserving of thanks!!
Denise, I’m fasting until April 20th. Sun sets at 7:22 tonight and I just read this poem. Two more hours.
Thank you for making me salivate for a rotisserie chicken. This is the stunning joy of such a poetic task…the labor and work of others that make all of our lives more special (but rarely gets celebrated by our glitz & glamour culture).
This is the eye of the poet!
Again, as with DeAnna’s above, what a true gift, a treasure, this would be if you handed this sweet poem to your chicken gal, next time you treat yourself. I love her power – “as if you can speed up time” – how we depend on her! (With very little recognition of our dependence on her.) Just lovely!
What a great moment captured in time, Denise. 🙂
I shop early on the weekends, and I am very grateful for the people preparing the rotisserie chickens. I love that you “hate her for you” and the instinct to feel something in defense of the worker.
Denise, this ode to a rotisserie chicken lady is a gift poem in my book. Thank you for writing and sharing. So many great lines here, and my favorite are in the second stanza that describe the lady. I also love the final sentiment “and I hate her for you.”
Thank you for this prompt, Bryan! I love the idea of gifting a poem, and yours created such a joyful situation. I especially loved the last two lines. Today I’m going to try to write three small poems for my family members. I started out with one for my youngest daughter.
For Beira
Your name came to us slowly.
All selected for a second child
Didn’t meld in our mouths like
We thought they would when
Each syllable was carefully
Weighed and printed five years prior.
Surprise was the circumstance
Of your existence, my mind
Taking months to catch up with
Your flickering monochrome heartbeat,
The pink sheet of copy paper
Proclaiming a second girl to our family.
Your name echoes ancient legends,
Forgotten under the pages of time:
A wintry matron who carved mountains
From pebbles, whose scarf conjured
Their white caps of snow. A woman
Who created a country from nothingness.
Forgive me the future, Beira,
Full of others who question where
This name came from. I hope you
Will echo those legends, knowing you
Have helped to create our home, and
Go on to create so much more.
Oh, Jordan. This line is just lovely “Will echo those legends, knowing you”!
Sarah
Jordan, you gifted your daughter, but also the rest of us, especially with lines like,
I loved receiving the education of this unusual name, and the care a parent makes in the choosing (intentionally & with purpose). I hope her unwrapping brings smiles.
“carved mountains
From pebbles,” and
“Forgive me the future, Beira,” – just gorgeous! What a beautiful poem to gift her.
Jordan, that last stanza! Brought tears to my eyes.
Jordan, “your name echoes ancient legends” gives me pause. It is so beautiful. What a beautiful heritage to give to your daughter. Thank you for sharing.
I took a different path for this poem then all the others I read. Most of the posts wrote to a person but I wrote to a thing I found worthy of a poem. This was mentioned as a choice Bryan gives his students. I was standing in my garage today and noticed my kayak paddle. For some reason, it stuck in my head as the topic for this poem. I wanted to thank this unnoticed thing for everything it give to me.
With each dip
and pull through the water
you propel me into a natural hush
quieting my mind and muffling the world’s dissonance
peace ripples through my being
each stroke guides me back
renewed and ready to face
the waves of my life.
CM,
Your poem is cathartic . I like the “dip and pull” cadence of lines gliding on the surface of the page the way a kayak glides on water. Like you, I wrote about a thing instead of a person.
Thank you for your comment. I’m am glad that the words felt as smooth as a glide across the pond.
CM,
You bring me along with this speaker’s physical and soulful mediation of the waves literal and figurative of body: pull, propel, muffle, ripple, stroke, wave.
Sarah
CMHunter, in just a few strokes you made me long for summer and a return to the Long Island Sound where I kayak as often as I can. In early September, I’m blessed to circle around Charles Island where both bald eagles and traveling monarchs like to land as the hotter days end. On the best days, the blue fish also swim alongside my kayak and I feel like the only human on earth, blessed with the natural world. I love,
And it was brilliant to choose the paddle itself to write about. The gift is all ours!
Your place to kayak sounds absolutely wonderful with the gifts of nature you see. To see bald eagles in the company of monarchs brings a bit of jealousy forth in me. Enjoy all your paddles this summer.
This is just beautiful. (I think I am overusing the word ‘beautiful’ in my comments today!) It is so clever to write to this object, the kayak paddle, and unveil all that this paddle does for you –
I know that feeling, being “propel(led) into a natural hush” It made me a better mother through the most talky years. “Peace ripples through my being” feels just right.
CM, this is gorgeous – the flow, the peace of the words, the brief interludes on the water until time to return to the waves of life. Lovely!
CM, love the beautiful, tranquil, alliterative sounds in this poem. Now I can’t wait to kayak. 🙂
I love how the movement of the paddle is reflected in the reading of this poem — it made me feel like I was gliding across the water or at least reminded me of that feeling. This made me want to kayak too.
Cathy, what a beautiful poem. I love so many of your words – hush, muffling, dissonance, ripples. I can feel the release kayaking provides for you.
Thank you Heather!
CM, your “dip and pull through water” immediately set me at ease. You capture perfectly here the balance skimming along the water’s surface can provide.
Your poem reads like an ode. Love your words “you propel me into a natural hush.” “Peace ripples through my being.” Your words imitate the feel of the oar. Nice.
I love the quiet appreciation of your poem…”peace ripples through my being…renewed and ready to face the waves of my life.” A perfect choice today.
You had a secret for me
and it emerged while we
walked the dog — all eight
pounds of him.
You laughed – cheeks flushed –
and held your open palm over
your mouth to keep your secret
from passing your lips.
“I don’t know, if I should tell you,
dad,” you said, “I’m afraid of
what you will say. I’m scared.”
I looked at you, smiling because
I knew that no matter the secret
my love for you would never waver.
“Don’t be afraid. You can tell me.
There is nothing you can say
that will change the way I feel about you.”
You laughed. You closed your eyes
tight. You drew in breath. You told
me Aria was your girlfriend.
Then — you waited.
The secret was out
and hung in the air
for a brief moment.
“I love you and I don’t care who
you choose to love as long as
who you choose to love treats
you the way you want to be treated.”
My response,
the one you were
so worried about,
hung in the air
for a brief moment.
Relief fell from your face like
a veil freed from the last stitch
holding it in the air.
Then, eyes smiling, I teased,
“Did you kiss her yet?”
And you laughed, “No!”
And you smiled.
And you felt comfort
in knowing that your dad
really does love you
no matter what.
You had a secret for me
and it emerged while we
walked the dog — all eight
pounds of him.
Andy,
I love these lines — the image is familiar and telling:
And then the final lines of your poem offer this space for what was held in the palm as “a secret for me” to emerge!
Sarah
Andy – What a love gift poem to your child. Not only a beautiful poem but true unconditional love. Thank you for sharing.
Andy — What a beautiful moment. That “hung in the air” moment is so real and honest. Geez, I’m so proud to know such good people…albeit through your poetry…but you paint the moment, so delicate so honest a moment, with such love that I can’t imagine a better dad. The pace of the poem works like a flower blooming…we see it, take a glance, and then we pause, take a closer look, the petals are blushing and ready to “emerge,” and then a flower unfolds and is spectacularly beautiful, and life walks on happily. So dear. Thank you for sharing such a touching moment. Susie
Andy—love this, and the truths that emerge in ordinary moments. “No matter what” is such a gift!
Oh, how I love this on all levels! It transported me back to when my son was 6 and my daughter was 5. He confessed a deep dark secret to my mom that his sister was not a virgin! I don’t even have enough time to explain but thank you for the sweet memory this poem brought to me.
I wish every child had a dad like you! We all need a comforting unconditionally loving dad!
Andy, I think I need to tell Sarah that I’m not sure if I can do this again next year. These poems are slicing into me in an unusual way. (Maybe it is because last week, before my son moved to Iowa, he pulled his usual machismo maneuver of biting into my soul to make it easier for him to leave. As his words, cruel, pierced my heart, I simply said, “Stand up. We’re not doing this again.” I walked over to him, hugged him, and kissed his head. “I know trust is hard. But unconditional love is stronger. It doesn’t matter where you are or what happens ahead, I love you unconditionally.” Needless to say, “all eight pounds” of this poem was a gift to me today. Thank you for taking all of us on this walk with you and your daughter. Better yet, I hope you share this with all your students….with other fathers…shoot, this needs to be read by the universe. Love is love is love. Thank you for making me cry. Ruth….this one’s for you. A poem poem.
“my love for you would never waver” – exactly what every child needs, always, from their parent.
#cryinginthedoctorsoffice. This week, staying with my sister, looking after my dad, I had this moment with my niece. What a beautiful thing to be able to be the person who received a secret in a way that the sharer hoped you might.
Andy—your poem is simply beautiful and it brought a tear or two to my eyes.
Thank you for sharing this with us.
Andy, this was a lovely recollection. Love the stanzas that bookmark the story — for me, they introduced and then reinforced the normalizing and acceptance of what was clearly a pregnant, uncertain moment in your child’s eyes.
Andy, if you are an English teacher like me, you are used to seeing the symbols in things. Forgive me if I am overreaching, but a father’s acceptance lifts what must have been a heavy weight. What must have seemed a burden to a child weighed no more than an eight pound dog.
Mooing the Lawn
I see you on your rider, sir.
Mowing the grasses around
the parched pond once a pool
for Spring Peepers;
you’re not quite as skilled
on the hill as they were.
I see you on your rider, sir.
Cutting in the seams of
your mile long blacktop
like a painter; by the way,
congrats on joining the
block plumbing pipeline.
I see you on your rider, sir.
Inspecting the fence around
the pasture for rancher-rent;
grass there is a premium,
around these parts.
Aching ooo’s echo in
the margins of my words
soothing at first, sir, until
I realize it’s not the hum
of your rider but moo’s
mowing your other lawn
until their demise.
That close!! I read it two times before the meaning sunk in! I sometimes hear the mooing coming from trucks on the way to the but her, and try not to consider their destination…
Sarah, I know this lawn-mowing man, this sir, and he might be my father (although I’m kinder now as the dementia sets in). I could have written this poem a few years ago, when the Town of Stratford mowed down all the vegetation by a neighborhood pond, disrupting the ways of wildlife: the birds, the frogs, and especially the peepers. The song of peepers are the magic of summer.
I’m revisiting the letter campaign to my local officials about the importance of watersheds, tall grasses, and cattails to our local ponds. Mowing down entire ecosystems is such a terrible idea. I’m inspired, though. I’m setting out to plant more milkweed.
There is a lot of heartbreak in this lawn-mowing man’s ways … you lead us in gingerly, with
but still, my ache for our land and what we do in the name of ‘need’ is so horrible.
Sarah, your ending is such a wonderful surprise. I love the imagery throughout your poem such as the parched pond, long blacktop, and pasture for rancher-rent. Your tone is clear and effectively delivers that final punch.
Sarah, I just asked my sister in law the other day if she thought our great great grandchildren someday will ever see the countryside as we know it. We let our farm grow except up near the yard – – and in pastures when I see mowing, I worry about the baby deer, who just lie there and don’t know to get out of the way. It breaks my heart.
Bryan this was a fun exercise and I really enjoyed the wit and humor in your own example! I wrote mine inspired by our overworked librarian — especially since just yesterday was School Librarian Day! I also have missed a few days of Verse Love so I wanted to write this in the haiku sonnet form from a few days ago (shout out Stacey L. Joy)
How many jobs can one person have? by Erica Johnson
(A Poem dedicated to TK)
You once compared jobs
to that of a bar tender
serving books not drinks.
Gossip flows to you —
no need for a truth serum.
We are open books,
waiting to be read,
while waiting to read ourselves.
There’s so much demand
and you can’t supply
all the services you wish
you could — over due!
How many jobs does it take
to be one librarian?
Erica,
These are the lines for me. I never thought about it before, but the metaphorical possibilities of library/liquor work are endless. This is a perfect connection (and you captured it in haiku form….amazing). The other area that captured me to ponder more than a few minutes is the centrality for gossip a library actually could be. You’ve convinced me. I think I need to go back to school for library science.
If I were to leave the classroom, I think I would like to be a librarian. My librarian is one of my favorite people. I can’t speak for all of them, but ours really is the heart of our school and so a lot of people (students and staff) go to her with their problems and celebrations and she listens and responds and is just the best — hence the comparison to a bar tender. If you want to know something at our school, you go to our librarian.
Love this so much! I think librarians and media specialists have the best views of people in the world. Chuckle, here – nice pun –
Agreed and thank you.
Erica, as the mom of a future librarian, this sang to my heart. <3
My librarian is one of my favorite people! I’m glad because we need more special librarians like that!
Erica, I love how you open your poem and bookmark the end with the question. Your playful book metaphors and language make your poem a pure reading delight! Loved “There’s so much demand”
I love the comparison to a bar tender. It is so true. I love talking to my librarian friend. I do bare my soul to her.
“we are open books, waiting to be read”. I hope your librarian friend loves this!
Bryan – The idea of a poem as a gift for someone to open is wonderful. This is a great prompt to kick the morning (afternoon by the time I post) off.
Return
You handed me a book once.
No preamble – you just thrust
the tome into my hands and
said “here, I think you’ll like this.”
And you were right.
We talked about politics,
philosophy, and a few
personal things. Sometimes
we whispered – sometimes we giggled.
I liked the giggles more.
You gave me another book,
a smart-ass grin on your face.
This time all you said was “Oh
my god, you have to read this.”
Again, you were right.
One day you hugged me. It was
simple, reckless, and sweet. It
was somehow both a selfish
and selfless way to connect.
And I dared return the gesture.
I still have the books you gave.
I read them, reread them. I’m
too frightened to give them back.
I’d hate to say goodbye.
Maybe I can give you one of mine.
James, I am amazed by this. The gesture of a book and a return of a poem. You not only returned the favor, but expanded it to all of us on #VerseLove. These poems keep triggering me, emotionally, on a new level. Maybe it is because I’m able to ‘pay it forward’ for Ruth Stone; perhaps it’s the joy of gifting to another; more likely it is the raw, beautiful talent of this community.
These are the lines that intrigued me most, inviting me to peel back the layers and give your art a couple more reads. Wonderful.
It is so beautiful how you build the connection between these two, and that the relationship begins with a book “You handed me a book once.” The poem ends with me wanting to know more about these two!
I love this moment you have captured in the poem between you and the book giver! It makes me happy to see words exchanged like this and I hope you ARE able to share books with them in return.
James,
I enjoy sharing books with friends and families. I feel loved and special when a friend hands be a book and says you have to read this, knowing I’ll love it. It may be a small gesture, but it is a gesture beyond simple friendship.
I hope this touching exchange, starting with a book, becomes a long friendship. It’s a beautiful beginning!
Brian, thank you for this precious prompt. I think of all the people who I have passed by who I could write a poem for. What a sweet challenge. Thank you for sharing about poem-poems and Ruth Stone. Her poem is so powerful. In your poem I love the way you play with language–making everything so fresh, yet recognizable, like in “a correspondence of snails / assigned to chase Paul Revere.” Thanks for fuzz-nugget; I borrowed it today.
………………………………………..
Hippified you are into your seventies,
taller than most, wiry and wizened,
gray hair half loosely pinned up,
half fallen around your shoulders,
your trusty fuzz-nugget beside you.
You were thrift shopping with the rest of us,
but you stood out a head above others–
both figuratively and literally–
living out loud with passion, pleasure, purpose.
You sincered us with your kindness and joy,
and we were captivated, even entertained–
Just a bit of what you said that day:
Yeah, they’re kind of hard to find.
They go fast.
Where are my gla…
Ok, I do have my glasses.
Yo, dog, let’s go.
I have something for you
{Thank you.}
You’re welcome, you’re so welcome.
It came from my heart.
I don’t know if you like it,
but I like it.
Is that in your way?
Your rarity is a treasure,
not at all in my way.
Denise,
I noticed you verbifird “sincered,” a fantastic connection to yesterday. And the quotes let us know your subject better. My favorites are “yo-dog” amex”where’s my gla…” That last is me! I also appreciate the anonymity, which invites readers to see our own somebody in your words honoring your somebody.
I imagine you bumping into this stranger, and immediately feeling a sense of delight – what a wonderful description,
I love that closing couplet…especially, ‘not at all in my way.” Just beautiful, Denise!
Denise, I think the cool think about middle age realizing that the hippies I once idolized are now grand parenting and coming full circle to the youth they lived so brilliantly. I have always ridden on the backs of their tail feathers, idolizing the time(s) they lived and the changes they made.
It’s the hair for me. I know this individual. I’ve followed them my entire life, when the hair wasn’t as wiry and wizened. Thank you for gifting this poem.
Denise, I love how your language captures the “hippified” seventy year old. I especially enjoyed your line: “living out loud with passion, pleasure, purpose.” The quick snippets of overheard conversation adds another special layer before your closing lines that show how you felt about this person.
Denise, your description of a hippified character is so vivid. It allows me follow you along in the thrift store. Love alliteration in the line “ living out loud with passion, pleasure, purpose,” which creates sound a dynamic flow. The final lines are full of Grace: “ Your rarity is a treasure, / not at all in my way.” Thank you for such a gift today!
Brian, oh my, so much to love here with your poem, Ruth’s poem, and Karal. You delivered a loving gesture of joy today!
I stayed with what first came to me when I began writing this morning. My 90-year old aunt Joyce recently told me she loves how the youth today are so carefree. That’s one thing she and I agree on!
Thanks again for this prompt and encouragement to start Poetic Drivebys someday! Love that!
To GenXers and Boomers Who Wonder What’s Wrong with Kids These Days
Kids these days are different.
We didn’t act like this
We had to go to college
A career was not optional
They call this rappin’, music?
All they’re doin’ is cussin’ and gyratin’
And callin’ women bi%*hes
Our music had meanin’
Pull your pants up!
Nobody wants to see your drawers
Saggin’ and draggin’ around here
We wore belts and slacks
Put your phone down!
I’m talkin’ to you, yes you
TikTok can’t pay the rent
Wait, what, it can?
I don’t agree with the angst towards youth today and the choices they make,
I love who they are, how they stand up for their beliefs.
Our parents and grandparents probably criticized us too,
But we turned out okay, for the most part.
©Stacey L. Joy, April 5, 2023
Joy, nice job looking at young people from both sides. I love the “TikTok can’t pay the rent / Wait, what, it can?” That probably covers a lot of what this boomer wonders. I like your last stanza. “But we turned out okay, for the most part.” Sweet and clever poem. Hooray for Aunt Joyces!
Stacey – your poem captures the struggle I feel when I teach a classroom full of teenagers. The line “our music had meanin'” has probably fluttered around my brain more times than I can count. But I love the way the poem pulls back and express disagreement with those sentiments, instead taking the perspective that every generation has had its problems, and that the older generations have always criticized the younger generations. Your poem is such a great reminder that we could all be a bit more patient, understanding, and respectful to the youth today. After all, I bet we all had a parent or grandparent that thought “our music had meanin’.”
Stacey,
Preach. I hate when people smack on teens. They have so many challenges we didn’t face. Hello, climate change, college tuition, anti-women Rs. I’m here for the kids. It’s why I sub. I have to constantly remind myself phones are ubiquitous among geezers, too. We were criticized. Hey, I’m a 70s kid, and old people hated disco! Anyway, I love this poem.
I laughed so with “Wait, what, it can?” – you have captured what is always true, I think, generation to generation…the older folks complain, never seen youth behave this way. Such a great subject to write into, Stacey; teens are just like us, I think.
Stacey — You made me chuckle…those voices …yes! AGAIN, those VOICES… you nailed those! I love that you bring us to the final narrative stanza… that is, indeed, how I feel. I just love the young folks feeling and speaking and roaring their beliefs. I hope to heavens they run for office and go to the polls! 🙂
Your dialogue is so true! And your thoughts, as well. Every generation faults the next. If only we could look for the positives, instead. (I sound virtuous, but we are all guilty of “in my day-ing”)
Bryan! Typo! Doggone it! Please know that I know better.
Stacey, that shift is amazing – – wait, what, it can?
Our music had meanin’
Now that line I could talk all day about, just on its own (I think I sprang into being somewhere in the background of The Platters in late 1965). I believe each generation has criticized the next wave and each generation has probably always said they don’t have bands like they used to. But I’ll say this: the 1950s-1980s musicians and bands stuck around and had enough hits for multiple albums – – so now I’ll get off that soapbox! I love your poem!
Stacey, What resonates the most with me is how accurate and familiar the voice of the critic actually is. Any one of us who dedicate ourselves to the career of teaching hear these voices, even in our schools. One of my colleagues once asked me, “Why do people who hate kids choose to teach kids?” I’m thankful you chose kids (and their youth and spirit choose you, too…it comes from the Joy that you are to us all).
And that deserves a Hallelujah! Let’s applaud the difference!
Stacey, you gifted me with such a joy! I could “hear“ your voice and your intonation. I love that you love kids the way they are. I wouldn’t imagine it any other way. The generation conflict and parents-kids issues will not cease to exist, but the world still changes for the best.
“Joy, she says, comes from a delivered gesture.” – Karal is very wise! And adorable! Thank you for this inspiration, a kind of “noticing the stranger,” I think.
tagging along
to you, my dear
between the lamb’s ear and
the waving ornamental grass
a shortcut through the neighbor’s garden
(they set out flagstones, is that not an invite?)
your plushie bunny is trying to escape
your unzipped backpack
which is slipping off your shoulder
as you wiggle your way tagging along
behind him who keeps to the street
a cool distance ahead
there you are all knobby
knees and wild hair
barelegged with the warm spring
laughing chanting some ditty
and he’s head down, big-stepped, muted,
trying to ‘lose you,’ needing to
be seen as separate – alone – NOT with
I see you, I see me
my knees scraped from tripping over
my feet in the street
singing some song,
scurrying along after school
trying to keep up with
my big brothers
he’s watching you
he adores you, little sister
Love this! You see her- I see you – I see me – scraped knee and all. Beautiful poem.
Maureen, wow, you’ve captured this scene so well. I can visualize everything from the plush bunny to the brother, “big-stepped, muted”, a perfect descriptor. I love how you tie the imagery to your own experiences to show your empathy and understanding. Powerful and vibrant poem! Stunning!
Oh, that sweet scene, Maureen. The two separate, yet together. Those ending two lines make my heart soar. Wow, I love your poems.
Maureen,
I see you as a little sister, but at first I thought this must be about Frog or Bird; your poems and blog posts about them show me you and the circle of life. I’m walking w/ you in this poem. I notice your bunny, your unzipped backpack, that flagstone path, a portal into nature you love so much. I’m drawn to the big brothers who are “head down, big-stepped, muted…” Lovely, lovely poem. This could be a picture book.
Oh, Maureen. This is so lovely. The scene, the “NOT with”, the reality behind it. Made me smile…
Awww, Maureen, such a sweet memory and gift you’ve given us today. The vivid images make me want to hold little you!
I imagine my sister doing the same exact thing to me as a child. All love!
🐰
What a joy to read, Maureen! This reminded me so much of Beatrix Potter, the nature and bunny and knobby knees running along in the waving grasses. You sure captured a moment of childhood here in the sisterly keeping up with brothers! Sweet and sad, too.
Maureen, What is not to love about this? Dang. I’m crying again…crying over the exceptional way every one is responding to today’s prompt. These lines,
I see this. I feel this. I love this. And the hints of this child offering glimpses of who you once word. And what makes this special, is that I can capture it all as if in a photograph that I’d love to have handing in my house somewhere. It simply is art.
Drive-by
On the way home
from the grocery store yesterday —
holiday prep buzzing in my brain —
I drove past a bus stop
where a man, maybe middle aged,
sat on the provided bench
across from the 7-11.
Already, I knew
I was the lucky one…
I was not waiting on a bus.
I zipped my car
quickly to and from the store
to grab the beets
I’d forgotten on the earlier trip.
Privilege, I thought…
I have privilege,
a big fat carbon footprint
pasted with privilege.
I felt bad,
but lucky.
And that guy, well…
he was scratching a ticket…
a lottery ticket
that he’d leveraged
against his bare knee…
shorts already on April 4th…
global warming
his wardrobe.
I flipped on the CRV’s AC –
even at 72 degrees,
I was hot.
I am sending
winning numbers
to Mr. Scratch,
he could use a break;
he could use a lift,
a car,
maybe even a renewed driver’s license;
he could use a full tank,
a pair of sunglasses,
a hat to ricochet the sun’s demons.
And I could use
wider eyes,
another friend,
an absence of “I,”
fewer beets, and
more empathy.
by Susie Morice, April 5, 2023©
Ms. Morice—a parable for us all!!
“Privilege, I thought…
I have privilege,
a big fat carbon footprint
pasted with privilege.”
I hope those numbers you sent him were good ones, my friend…👏🏻
Oh, Susie, I adore your poem. I was immediately pulled into narrative, and I love how effortlessly it flows. I admire how you weave the message of privilege and carbon footprint, and your end has me aching. “another friend, /an absence of “I,” /fewer beets, and /more empathy.” Your word choice is precise, and the images are striking, but that end has me wishing I could give you a real warm hug. Fantastic poem, friend!
Oh, Susie, he was seen this day. I went back and reread your poem after seeing “an absence of I” — how powerful to read again your “I” statements. Your wishes for “Mr. Scratch” were heartfelt and empathetic. And what you could use perfect. Your poem doesn’t solve the inequities, but it definitely shines a light on them and makes us all think. Beautiful.
Susie,
I think I, too, need to drive by myself and observe my…
“Privilege, I thought…
I have privilege,
a big fat carbon footprint
pasted with privilege.”
The weather contrasts w/ the 12” of snow that fell yesterday, but the lifestyle, down to the same car, parallel one another. Your poem is a mirror and a critique, especially in these concluding lines:
“And I could use
wider eyes,
another friend,
an absence of “I,”
fewer beets, and
more empathy.”
Im glad I had the opportunity to drive by your words, this poetic argument, today.
Just beautiful. So insightful and caring – we have so much privilege, we can’t even get to the bottom of our list of advantages.
Susie, this poem is a life lesson for humanity and a wake up call for all of us who have privileges we don’t even realize.
I am always aware of the unhoused souls I pass daily on my way to work. They have stories the world needs to hear.
Thank you, Susie, for being compassionate.
Susie, Poet Art Clements once said to me, you can write for decades and not come across a miraculous set of words to describe a situation, but every once in a while they are put to page, and you have to stop and contemplate them. You did this with your gift to us.
I can write forever, and I don’t think I’d ever see these words strung together to so artfully and beautifully capture the point of your poem. The alliteration, too, brings the punch even further. Congrats. You’ve put Art’s words into action.
Susie, I wonder so often about others’ stories…I love the lines “I could use wider eyes and another friend.” Your words paint such a vivid scene… I am reminded of a homeless woman and her little dog living on sidewalks in a busy city. I saw her a couple of days in a row but she was the first call out a friendly greeting, to my surprise and shame…but I learned her name and her dog’s and haven’t forgotten them. I stopped by to speak with them several times thereafter…there’s a deep lesson about humanity in all this.
Susie, this is lovely, genuine, introspective, masterfully crafted, and so so humane. Just out-and-out wonderful. Thank you for this poetic “Drive-by.”
Bandaged Wires Sometimes Break
for a friend I’ve not heard from lately
connections
can be so
wobbly,
so unstable,
so streaked
with static—
words
can be so
distant,
so deceptive,
so artful
but illusive
so in the while,
we wait,
send
poems,
send prayers,
send muted benedictions.
Comparing falling out of touch with a friend to wires that have been bandaged with electrical tape (what I see in my mind) is so wonderful, yet sad. It also evokes the feeling that it’s almost always just one person doing the repairs, too – just person trying to reach out to reconnect and cut through the static of time or distance. Your writing is simultaneously beautiful and melancholy, and I can really identify with the emotions you have expressed this morning.
This is melancholy and plain ol’ sad when I think about a friend slipping away/ being distant. But, it is less sad if I make the friend “words” – work with me here, lol – you have shared a different facet of writing, this idea of a writer and words being a ‘connection’ … just lovely!
Perhaps this will help me be a little more tender with myself, with writer’s block next time – a wobbly connection, just now, give it time.
Ann, I’m realizing through all these gorgeous responses to the prompt that the variations are endless, including these lines,
Now, I’m making a list in my notebook of all the other poems needing to be written in the waiting moments…the in-between that often gets lost in the human experience. And “wobbly” is exactly the right word for the way some relationships travel. Brilliant.
Oh Ann, you have read my mind today. I too have been thinking of friend I have lost touch with. Your poem hit just the right tone.
The Unmasking Command
You don’t deserve a poem
or someone to take notice
of your upity, crass nature
that got my attention as you walked
out of the doctor’s office
into the lobby where I sat
and told me not to where a mask.
I told you I had my reason. “Asthma,” I said.
You spun around and proclaimed
the unmasking command
to the man waiting across the room.
“Maybe I’m just dumb,” he replied.
Then as you left the lobby you announced
To those around
“Well she has asthma and he is stupid.”
One way to get attention.
Sorry about the misspelled where. Should be wear. Oh, these automatic corrections!
Susan,
My dander is up after reading about that rude, ignorant woman. I want to tell her she’d look better w/ a paper bag over her head. I want to call her an anti-science flatlander (which I’ve done but not to that specific woman). I want to tell her to mind her own business and show her two upraised middle fingers, one on each hand. I want to video her rudeness and turn her into a doxxed social media shamed “Karen.” I want to…We’ll, you get the point. Grrrrr! Some people crawl under my skin like lice and bedbugs. Try not to let that woman bother you.
Wow… here you are apologizing for a typo (no worries) when that woman should be the one apologizing! Your last line reassured me that you’ve put this rude episode in in its proper prospective ~ but I do hope more kindness poured into your day!
You hold her. I’ll hurt her! I only hope karma gets her in the end. Not physically, but arrogantly…
Susie, there’s so much to unpack in this fantastic poem, but I’m applauding the first line,
This is an entire prompt in itself. You mastered it. And what I love about the craft is you let her voice bring forward the character who caught your attention.
I just think this is stellar.
Susan, your poem is so easy to visualize due to your precise delivery of the action and comments. I had to laugh at the final line set apart. That really adds a punch. Where do these people come from anyway!!!
Good heavens, Susan! As if we owe anyone a reason for wearing/not wearing a mask. I can see the whole scene playing out, with her making a big exit…thankfully!
Susan, thank you for witnessing this and writing (and sharing) it! I’m sorry it happened to you. The whole thing — her wanting/needing to make a scene, her “crass nature,” her ignorance — the whole thing just makes me shake my head; people sometimes confuse and sadden me! Ugh.
I’m stuck in a snowy April! As of yesterday, our snowpack this year reached the most ever received on record in Utah. It’s a blessing & a curse.
April 5, 2023
To the snowplow drivers
who thought they were done for the season
brace yourselves when you start your engines
To the kids on spring break
who aren’t on vacation somewhere hot
think of it as a snow day – spring break may come in June (or not)
To the birds
picking at frozen buds on snowy branches
next year think twice before making northern advances
To the skiers
On the slopes in the longest season ever
in my pain, can I blame you for finding some pleasure?
To the weather app
that shows a sun icon tomorrow
if not for you, I’d cave in to sorrow
To the God who sent this April snow:
I thank thee for the moisture we’ve received
forgive me for being a little bit peeved.
Living in a snowy state, I can relate. Love what you did here with rhyme!
I grew up south of Buffalo. I feel your pain. Those birds, those kids, that snowed-in you…
Rachel, I have to remind myself that I’ve lived through snowstorms on Mother’s Day in May. I’m already in summer mode, so if snow comes back, I’d likely cry. I felt these lines,
While living in Syracuse on spring, the peepers came out and then an ice storm arrived. Several of them were frozen solid on the bushes outside of my house. I brought one inside, he thawed, and he peeped. I went online, of course, and learned that it was okay if peepers freeze…they are fine with it. Phew. I was traumatized, but of course nature is more brilliant than we are. Of course there’s a natural plan….loaded with resilience.
Bryan, thanks so much for giving us a prompt to acknowledge someone special in our lives. Today I write about Paralee, a woman who was a “day worker” who cleaned the homes of the wealthy to help care for her own family. Her husband of nearly 60 years worked for the auto industry and often was laid off. The poem tells why I value and feature a day worker in my poem.
A Day Worker Made My Day
When I was in high school
Folks wondered why
Why I strived so hard to try
Why even try to go to college
Didn’t the high school provide enough knowledge
Black professionals would not likely be hired
And if they were, they’d be the first to be fired
But at church, Paralee, you saw something in me
You invested in a dream you, too, hoped to see
You’d hug me real tight and fix my collar
When you shook my hand, you’d leave in a dollar
Because of you, I saw a better view
Of the future I might have
Because of you, I went to the college
And indeed did gain lots more knowledge
But the best lesson I learned, I’ve never spurned
“You must give to get, and when you get, you give.”
You modeled for me the best way to live.
(The photo is not of Paralee but could have been her. The photo is of Nannie Helen Burroughs, an African American woman born in Orange County, Virginia, who was one of the very first nationally acclaimed advocates for the advancement of women’s rights and the improvement for all people of color.)
Oh, Anna, how lovely. What a legacy Paralee has left for you and others, and I’m sure the angels are dancing an extra celebration with her in heaven today. I love the transition after the first two stanzas: “But at church, Paralee…” She sounds beautiful.
Anna,
Gorgeous celebration of Paralee and the rhythm of her life through the cadence of your rhymes. She gave you perfect advice, too, I hope you’ll read Stefani’s poem because it, too, honors workers such as Paralee.
Anna-what a beautiful tribute. Parolee is a true savior—one that every child deserves. I’m glad she found you, and I know you are paying it forward every day.
It’s amazing how one person can have such a long-lasting and profound impact on us. Your poem speaks volumes about how Paralee touched your life, and the gratitude you have for her. These are such beautiful, touching words. Thank you for sharing.
Anna, what a lovely tribute to Paralee. I need to remember the phrase “You must give to get, and when you get, you give.” This is something my mother has lived by. Today she is reaping what she sowed, getting help she needs this week while she is sick.
Anna, I think this is the 7th or 8th poem from today’s responses that have caused me to cry. Why tears? Because of love. Why love? Because of history. Why history? Well, if Ruth Stone didn’t invest in me, I would never have a poetic prompt to give VerseLove…And her inspiration gave me wings, which today, you gifted us through introducing Paralee. These are the lines for me,
This is the Black excellence that Gholdy Muhammad celebrates…these are the moments of literate society that too often get untold (as some write the narratives for others). Since college (1st in my family to attend), professors have occasional asked me if I was related to Prudence Crandall. Because of college, I have the tools to do the research. It’s taken me years, but then a chance occurrence in a local book store introduced me to a book of poems by Marilyn Nelson and Elizabeth Alexander. I’m 51 now. The way I see it, I have more time to learn more about those that aren’t necessarily put in our curricula to read. Every word, every poem, has the potential to bring miraculous gifts to others. That’s what this book (and your poem) has done for me.
Anna, what a beautiful tribute — and a beautiful picture! Thanks for introducing me to both Paralee and Nannie Helen Burroughs, 🙂
Anna, thank you for your lovely poem! We all need someone to give us courage and support. This is a wonderful tribute.
Paralee sounds amazing, Anna! You skillfully captured the lesson learned from this outstanding woman. Every time I read your poems, I am impressed by your excellent rhyming that is not forced, but meaningful.
To the Flight Attendant
Hair parted like a dart
sleek-seal black
pulled to your nape
in a knot of confidence
Smile tight with purpose
eyes large and cool as stones
vigilant
Even your hands
clasped with immobile intention
nails short
prepared for emergency
tracheotomy
or wound packing
or efficient deployment
of life vests and oxygen masks
Under your perfect
skin you are steel
and blade all business
enjoy your flight
Allison,
Smart choice for today’s prompt. My niece is a flight attendant for American Airlines, and I now have a vision of her performing an “emergency tracheotomy.” Love the list of possibilities. I’d love to share your poem w/ Samantha.
Please do! 🙂
Allison, wow, you have captured this flight attendant. I think anyone of us would recognize her on a flight. I can see her large, cool as stones, vigilant eyes. And the emergencies she might have to be ready for give reason for her stoic demeanor.
Allison, “Hair parted like a dart”…wow, what a way to pull me right into your poem. The description throughout this is vivid! I can truly see this air flight attendant with “eyes large and cool as stones/vigilant”…she sounds a bit like Nurse Ratchet. Then your end provides the perfect punch: “blade all business/enjoy your flight”…what a wonderful twist to someone who appears quite frightening. What a great read!
Do they enjoy their job these days, or, like teaching, is the joy covered up by responsibility? “Smile tight with purpose”, prepared for emergency…
Allison, Phew! This attendant intimidated me, but that is the power of language and how crisp she was captured in this gift to us all.
A knot of confidence! Wow.
I love how the crisp lines of the poem are reflected in the subject matter. I can easily picture her standing in the aisle as she is directing our attention to the safety video! Well done and definitely a figure worth giving a drive by poem to.
Allison,
I love the way you open with the idea of dart — such a powerfully evocative noun — and how, the rest of the lines fly toward the target with such purpose to land — enjoy the flight. And your enjambment is working beautifully!
Driving with Mom
You had a brown VW Rabbit
I rode in the back until sixteen
I was so small, you, so protective
You chauffeured all of my friends
To the R-rated movies
Buying a ticket and then slipping out the back of the theater
So we could watch John Travolta gyrate on the dance floor
You gave us permission
To have puppet shows
Through your sunroof at stoplights
You brought us to the Burger King drive-thru
Where you pronounced Wooper instead of Whopper
In your heavy Swiss accent
You drove me to tennis practice, gymnastics and summer theater
With the radio playing
Dire Strait’s Sultans of Swing
And Best of My Love by the Emotions
You were driven to make sure
I was always ok
Whatever the road I took
You were a driving force
Who always took the high road
We had such fun during those years throughout the journey…
Love your play with “driving” in here, Jennifer, and the lovely anecdotes you shared…especially the sun roof puppet shows!
“you pronounced Wooper instead of Whopper
In your heavy Swiss accent”
Oh so much comes through in this line! I love the expression of care AND joy that comes through your mother’s actions. This is a lovely tribute.
Jennifer! This mom! This poem! These lines,
It’s everything. Three lines, a gift, and we know so much about the mother who guided your entire way. I hope tonight when I fall asleep I am able to dream about hand puppets performing from the sunroof of my own car.
Bryan, thanks for this opportunity today. Ruth Stone! That poem literally gave me a chill after I read it, it was so good. Loved your poem “Deliveries” — and the adorable picture of Karal. That last line — lol.
Took me a while to settle on a gift recipient, but I chose my best friend, Donna…and I discovered a fun poem format online to play with, the “Blitz poem” (link below) which I thought was appropriate for drive-by poetry! 🙂
How and Yet
Always talk by phone
Always explore why, how:
How shared past happened
How future, murky, might unfold
Unfold fortune-tellers, revealing names
Unfolding bent, tight corners to reveal
Revealing details of past loves, lives
Reveal secrets, even at this late stage
Stage an intervention at
Stages when necessary
Necessary words dictate action,
Necessitate sympathetic clucks
Cluck when you disagree, too – those
Clucks from our past have been foiled with these
These disapproving tics
(These help ferret out undeserving objects of love)
Love each other always
Love is the rule, our north star
Star in your own drama sometimes
Star as she is, herself, she’ll understand
Understand sometimes you’ll hate each other –
Understanding you’ll always fly back to roost
Roost in your memories – nights in bars, cars –
Roosted on a barstool writing poetry on napkins
Napkins in laps, lunch, laughing
Napkins in hand, crying over…everything
Everything gone to shit
Everything full of hope
Hope in a tiny apartment, treading water
Hopeful mattress on a wooden floor, tossing towels off a balcony
Balcony scenes from Shakespeare played out in our minds
Balcony seats to look down upon a drama
Drama half-remembered, cringing
Dramatic nights, laughing now at the futility of it all
All in good time
All in good times
Times spent on our backs, in beds, wondering why
Times wasted sweetly, afternoons whiled away on patios
Patio lanterns and Kim Mitchell in Canada
Patio lights and high low times
Time ticking down, ever so slowly
Time speeding up, now, on this phone
Phoning in to make sure we’re okay – watching moms
Phone it in as they phase out
Out loud, saying all we’ve ever needed to say
Out, but not down yet
Yet we made it this far – scarred, bruised,
Yet our humor intact, ripe
Ripe
Bruised
https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-form-the-blitz-poem
This is such a cool form, Wendy! I’m going to try it out! I love how you’ve captured an old, dear friendship so eloquently….I love “balcony scenes from Shakespeare played out in our minds.” This reminds me so much of my best friend from childhood and how we always playacted “Romeo and Juliet” and she always made me be Romeo. LOL
I also love the disapproving tics–it’s amazing what a “language” long-time friends develop. Thank you for this little trip down memory lane this morning!
I love the repetition of first words, the details are AMAZING. Reminds me of my relationship with my BFF.
Wendy….You need to sign up for #verselove next year and lead us on a blitz poem. This is so cool and I love the potential for using it with students. Ah, the right words to blitz the page! These lines are just magical,
The friendship explodes no the page and you’ve blitzed the galaxies. Brilliant.
Wendy, the Blitz – – I love your choice here of form and the words of the poem. I think the words that most resonate with me are
Understand sometimes you’ll hate each other –
Understanding you’ll always fly back to roost
What is it about disappointment in those we share life with that keeps us flying back home to roost? I believe it can only be love.
I could feel the emotions of your poem all the way through. I especially enjoyed “Everything gone to shit/Everything full of hope”..wow, that describes my last week of life and more for sure. Your ending is pricelss. Truly wonderful poem full of rich images and powerful language. Thanks for the link, too. This looks like something I’d love to explore.
Wendy, I love a blitz! It has its own unique flow – and what a wonderful drive-by of your relationship and love for your friend! “Understanding you’ll always fly back to roost” – indeed.
Bryan,
Your students are brilliant in naming the poem gifts drive-by poems. I love Ruth’s mento and the idea of poems as gifts and students as sources of information. Your poem is one that makes me wish I’d thought of that, and, of course, Karl knows what to write. He’s a handsome boy. Fantastic prompt.
RMRA
although we’ve never met
our paths criss-cross
along each new journey;
I like things old school:
up close my hands
hug your sides,
eyes scan your lines,
your silence signals
which turn to take;
you lie flat on my lap
giving me purpose,
a plan, a panoramic
vision of landscapes &
etch-a-sketched
boundaries demarcating
borders and belonging;
even as technology
narrows my field of vision
onto a square screen,
you remain faithful;
I take you along for
the ride down concrete
byways & country
county paths;
your omnipresence
wraps me like Linus’s
well-worn threads;
with you I never go alone;
our intimacy limited
only by the the trip,
dear directional travel
companion—my map crush—;
my cartographer love,
Rand McNally.
—Glenda Funk
April 5, 2023
I grinned out loud with “etch-a-sketched
boundaries” and “my cartographer love” <3
Your clever blend of romance was ticklish and satisfying! Maybe my favorite: “you lie flat on my lap”!
Thank you for this treat!
Glenda, oh, I do love how you develop this poem with so many specific descriptors. Your end is especially fun “my map crush-;/my cartographer love”. Pure genius throughout. I do love a real map that I can hold in my hand. Incredibly crafted poem! Thank you for sharing your humor and love of travel through this delightful poem!
Glenda, I was a geography major in college, a cartophile, to be sure. But for some reason, I have succumbed to Google Maps in the car. Yet I hate that you can never rarely see the big picture. Your poem makes me want to put a road atlas on my birthday wish list. In southern California we had Thomas Bros road maps, which were amazing in their accuracy and depth. “etch-a-sketched / boundaries demarcating / borders and belonging” (I even applied for a job at Thomas Bros after college.) This is a precious analogy:
Oh, Glenda — You are so funny. My cousin and you are Rand-y buddies. She swears by the map in her hands. I love how your poem has that reminiscent pining tone for something held for years in reverence. And the personal references to your own sight shifting (dang, what a bite)… they make your poem wrap around the reader in a shared sense of being there together, wandering and reflecting at all the miles. Neat take on the prompt! Hugs, Susie
The road atlas -! There’s absolute nothing wrong with being old school – whatever did we do before GPS, which, if I may say, isn’t always right?? Love the reference to Linus’s blanket as a familiar omnipresence. It has long fascinated me, the cartographer’s art. Such an entertaining (and grateful) poem.
Glenda, My son came across a Rand McNally I had in my bedroom, with all the roads (less traveled) that I’ve been on. For years, I used a highlighter to map the story I was writing. He laughed. A few weeks later, when we took a road trip, I proudly announced that I downloaded several podcasts to my iPod (I still have one and it still works). He was like, “Dad. All you need is your phone. Your phone connects to the radio…it also can be your map.”
I really liked these lines, as I cannot think of a better companion than the blanket to Linus. Those lines said, “Crandall…reread with this in the back of you heard.” Suddenly the entire poem exploded for me…mapped and written by a pro.
Glenda, I kept taking guesses. Camera with 35mm film? Tomtom? I never guessed Atlas – – this is fun, and so YOU with all of your travels and adventures! Your cartographer love – – Rand! I had forgotten about this, but it reminds me of a bridal shower I helped decorate for about 8 years ago. The bride and groom loved travel, and we scoured the shelves of our thrift stores for old atlases and maps to wrap around candles as decoupage and also did some sides of wooden trunks. I’m so glad you wrote your poem to Rand, ode style, and NOW I understand the title.
When I read your line -“your omnipresence
wraps me like Linus’s
well-worn threads;”
I understood how much comfort and security you feel with a real paper map. I differ from you on this- a paper map for me bring anxiety.
Glenda, your poem is so flirty, playful, and clever! I smiled while reading and trying to guess what your “secret admiration” is. My favorite lines are:
”even as technology
narrows my field of vision
onto a square screen,
you remain faithful.”
I am an old school too in some ways, and while I use a GPS in a car, I still love books, real books, not Kindle editions or audio versions.
Glenda, this is one delightful case where when one“remains faithful;” and the other responds “I take you along for/ the ride,” the relationship is all the better. Tony & I love our Rand McNally road atlas, and it is earmarked and worn, with pen and pencil markings and some highlights…I swear by this! I just can’t get the whole picture with Google maps and other tools. This was so fun! Loved the lines,
“our intimacy limited
only by the the trip,”
For Anyone Who Needs to Read This
Hello.
Hi.
Welcome.
Have a seat
If you’d like.
Take a load off;
rest your burdens here
for a bit.
Let these words
be what you
need today
at this moment,
this now.
Breathe.
The world has been
a lot lately,
so take a moment
for yourself
to be with
yourself,
let your mind
wander,
sure,
to what
or who
brings you
joy.
That’s fine.
More than fine.
But, remember,
please,
that
like the
glow
of the firefly,
you
can
make
your
own
joy,
too.
You are enough.
You are strong
and capable.
You are
enough.
So, when
you’re
ready,
and
only then,
scroll on by
and continue
your day.
You got this.
Scott, we got this – the firefly glow is all the light we need. Bring on a better tomorrow (I’ll be sure to mail my burdens to you & let Karal lick that envelope, too). Thank you for writing this and offering us an ear.
Scott- I’d love to see this poem illustrated or animated. With fireflies coming in at that perfect moment. Thanks for this inspiring, comforting encouragement. Put this up on your wall for your students!
Oh, Scott! These encouraging words are just perfect for me today. I am gradually coming back to my “New Normal” and love your words “So, when you’re ready, and only then,” is perfect! Thank you.
Scott, loved this, especially:
“But, remember,
please,
that
like the
glow
of the firefly,
you
can
make
your
own
joy,
too.”
These words were what I needed to hear today; thanks.
Scott, I keep coming back to your poem and reading it over and over. This is really what I needed to hear today. Every time I read it, I feel my breath slowing down…aah. May I share this? I can think of many others who would really get a lot out of it as well. Thank you so much for this!
Julie, thank you! Absolutely, share away! (I’m glad it’s resonating with folks today!)
Scott—thank you for all the wisdom; for all the permissions…
Thanks for reminding us that we got this. Such a great, uplifting poem of hope.
Scott,
Whoa, did you know I needed this today? I’m in the Wednesday of Spring Break funk! I don’t want it to end! Help!! Now, I feel better. Time to make my own joy!
Stacey — The whole time I was reading Scott’s poem, I was thinking about the JOY that you bring in your poems and tone and voice and in your name. You and Scott are just two beautiful spirits. Love, Susie
You just brought peace into my day by telling me to take a moment for myself. Oh yes- the world has been a lot lately. Your firefly connection adds perfectly to the moment of slowing down and focusing on joy.
Awww, so precious! Thank you, Scott. Every line, every word helped shift me from the mess of what is bugging me to the joy. I needed this. Love you, love your poem, Susie
Scott,
What an uplifting poem. I’d love to have it as a colorful poster in a space for my students to see. Thank you for sharing. 🙂
Scott – this could be made into wall art, shirts, pins, etc. with just a bit of watercolor firefly and a dab of neon. It is true! And it brightened my afternoon. 🙂
Bryan, thank you for hosting today and walking us through your process. I am enjoying your word, “fuzz-nuggets.”
You scrubbed the books and shelves
of words where future generations
empathize and see themselves in
You threw out drafts, ignored scratch
worksheets filled with letters you couldn’t
interpret into messages
You sanitized halls of learning
you listened and you talked
and you loved–even if judged
You retired and continued to clean away
stigma, that one’s never too old to learn
as you sit, learning how to finally read
Stefani, As 21 year-old (legal to write), I volunteered in an adult learning class and worked with several Iraqi women and a few men who wanted to learn to read in their adult life (I remember vividly the night I made popcorn on a stove as part of a lesson and one of the guys said, “whoa. And you don’t even have a microwave.” I share this with you, because this gift you gave us (and the world) is gorgeous. Poetry is for everyone, even those struggling with
I love everything about this poem: the subject, the eye of the writer, and especially the heart.
Stefani,
I concur w/ Bryan’s sentiments. I kept a broom and dustpan in my room and used it myself and insisted kids use it to clean up after themselves. The “it’s the janitor’s job” attitude drove/drives me bonkers. All work has dignity, and that’s the beauty of your poem. You honor those who do important work. You give them dignity with your words. Your poem also “clean[s] away stigma.” Thank you.
Stefani—oof!! That last stanza pierced my heart. I always loved our custodians, and honored them. Not all of the staff did so, though… that stigma, erased. Please!
Stefani, my heart cries with bittersweetness at these verses you share today. I witnessed this morning one who is still trying her best to learn to read, and in the group of adult learners of which she is a part, she sits near one who helps her along the way when she stumbles. Somehow, in every student who struggled and presented challenges, I came face to face with the future of the past in those moments around that table. What a blessing to know that it’s never too late. What a story you share today!
Bryan, I love this idea of the poetic drive-by, the poem as gift. So good! Thank Karal for me for asking you to write this poem “in exchange for the milkbones.” I love the ending of this: “Joy, she says, comes from a delivered gesture. / Yours, hers, mine. / That’s why I let her lick / the envelope.” (Great picture, too!)
Bryan—I love Karla and her love for deliverers, I love your delivery people bringing satchels of language and smiley packages. And I love this start to my morning.
To All the Women My Husband Loves
There are so many of you…
Frankly, I’ve lost count.
He lusts after you.
Your hair,
your voice,
your legs,
your…other parts.
He notices nuances,
comments on clothing,
points out your positives.
He’s done this for years.
He watches you from afar.
I don’t worry, though.
He is grizzled, bald,
and a good bit overweight.
He is old.
His sartorial style leans toward
sweatshirts and jeans—
on his good days.
None of you have fallen yet
for the twinkle in his eye or
his ability to quote old British poets
and song lyrics from the sixties.
Because he is fickle.
You are the woman of the moment
but you will inevitably be dethroned
by a new CNN correspondent.
The well of women is deep;
my husband’s love for you
is shallow.
Gayle Sands
04/5/23
Gayle, such a humorous tribute to the allure of attraction your husband holds for all the women. I’m chuckling, because it’s just human nature that most of us keep to ourselves (oosh, those eyes…..sheesh, that one’s got some muscles….), thoughts we would mostly never share with anyone when our eye catches and holds the glimpse of an admirable physical feature of another person. That your husband shares these moments with you proclaims that he trusts you – and that you are indeed where he has cast his anchor for forever love. I was getting beef stroganoff at the Kristkindl Market in Atlanta with a friend when she sidled up to to me and whispered, “The cook looks like Paul Newman. It’s a good thing I’m married.” Human nature notices these things, and I’m so glad you are such a great sport about the comments. You probably playfully cuff him in the back of the head on occasion, don’t you?
an eye roll is my usual response…
Gayle, this is sweet and I can’t stop thinking of that meme picture of the man looking back at another woman and people have inserted various words. I think the thought of one of the other as a news anchor is hilarious and a great add-on. Thank you for sharing today.
To quote the young, OMG! Gayle, this was gorgeous and I love the way you honored your husband’s mental philandering for all the women he’s loved before.
These lines – you painted so many I know, view, and wonder about. Thanks for showing your resilience and strength, humor and love, through what I’m sure can be eye-rolling moments…especially while watching CNN. Wonderful!
Holy Moses, Gayle — This is hilarious! Just absolutely spot-on PERFECTO! I was once married to un bastardo de rato, and unlike your “grizzled” sweetie pie, he…well… let’s just say he didn’t merely watch “from afar.” Ha, but that was eons ago and this just made me laugh out loud. I totally love it! “The well of women is deep” indeed! LOL! And so true that those CNN babes are there for a “deeper” reason. You are a stitch! Hugs, Susie
Gayle,
You are an amazing woman, and this poem is everything. My husband has a crush on Joy Reid and Nicole Wallace, but he’s been in a long-term, pixelated relationship w/them from his chair a long time. I laughed at your description of your husband’s physical attributes and admire his devotion to poetry. How could these botoxed beauties not love a man like that? Brilliant ending lines:
“The well of women is deep;
my husband’s love for you
is shallow.”
LOL, Gayle! You nailed it with this one. He’s a hoot and you have given me a morning chuckle. I am grateful yours is only looking (at CNN) when it could be so much worse. Trust me, I’ve been down that road and shut that sucka down!
Anyway, I love this so much and I admit at first I wanted to say, “Oh hell no!”
😂Thanks, Gayle!
Gayle, I winced a bit at first but then you had me chuckling aloud. Because he is…. that whole funny list, and you are mighty. 🙂
This has me chuckling so! A very surprising ending – and quite benign, I think, to be infatuated with the CNN hosts.
Subject: IMPORTANT MESSAGE!
IMPORTANT REMINDER!
PLEASE READ!
INFORMATION YOU NEED TO KNOW!
DON’T FORGET!
You are awesome!
Thank you Bryan for today’s prompt! It reminded me of when I taught how I would sometimes send my students an email with the subject line: IMPORTANT REMINDER! And then in the body of the email write: YOU’RE AWESOME or a little science joke. Thank you for the reminder that sometimes all it takes to make someone smile is a little note!
Brittany, what a moment of joy that must be for your students to realize how AWESOME their teacher knows they are! Wow! The world needs more teachers just like you.
Brittany, can you have some stickers, shirts, and posters of this? Love that you sent as an email, your students are lucky to have you!
Brittany, I want a science gift, too! An email with a joke and the love of your leadership! Scientific Drive-Bys. I love it!
Brittany—say it loud, say it proud!! A tribute for all…
Brittany, I love this! (And I bet your students did, too!)
Bryan— I love the poem— the simplicity language, the quiet, unwrapped wisdom and joy— truly a poem-poem— a gift to the universe. I love it.
Bryan, Bryan, Bryan! I love the satchel of language, that death is like Publisher’s Clearing House, and that you let Karal lick the stamp. She’s doing her part to bring joy to the recipient! That is precious and priceless, and your creativity in this prompt has a spirit about it that is contagious to want to share poetry. Thank you for investing in us today as writers – and investing in us to become better people, who share what we love with others. Poetry is one of those passions. I’m doing something a little different today, but sort of the same. I’ve recorded local poets, and even gathered a recording or from this group (thanks, Anna Roseboro), and I’ve created QR Codes from these recordings. I’ve framed them and put them around our town square – on bookshelves of the bookstore, on counters where folks check out, on tables in our coffee shop. There will even be some QR Codes in Easter Eggs hidden out and about, too. Those are my drive-bys for all of National Poetry Month. I’ll leave you with a recording today, instead of a typed verse. If you were in my town today, you might see a framed code that says, “It’s National Poetry Month. Scan me!” And after you scanned, you might see this video that I made with a local poet named Ethan Jacobs or one of many others. Today, my Drive By is for YOU, dear poet friends:
https://youtu.be/LiZyaXpJzFQ
Awww it’s so good to see you and hear your voice. Such a sweet, southern voice you have ❤️ Thanks for sharing the video!! The QR code setup you have described sounds awesome.
Oh, these were both just lovely! And I agree with Angie, that it was great to both hear and see you, Kim!
Kim, I love that you are sharing these here, in your town via QR codes, and with the world. Tech and poetry helps spread the love;)
Kim, you’ve made the drive-by royal, and I’m in awe of the Queendom you are delivering to your communities. Your QR IQ pierced my soul. Guess what I’ll be doing with teachers and writers in CT this summer? Stealing the joy and wonder of a digital surprise. I love, too, that you read his as he reads yours. We should be encouraging our students to do the same…to record their voices and offer the non-poetic a lil’ #VerseLove as they stumble upon your “ransom” notes left around town. B to the r to the i to the l to the l to the i to the a to the n to the t.
I am so glad I got to see that face that produces your lovely words. I love the idea of QR code postings. I am going to share it with my teacher friends—thank you!
Kim! You’re always a source of great inspiration. I love this! I saw the email last week and life got in the way.
Loved listening to both of you read each other’s poems. I’m thinking about this QR Code treat as a way to celebrate Poem In Your Pocket Day. Students can pass out QR Codes to place in pockets for scanning and sharing later.
You rock!
Kim,
Hearing Muscadine in a southern voice enriches it. I love the line repetition in “Hard times come…” How true is that! I loved revisiting your barnyard chorus in the reading. You have given your community the gift of poetry. I’m glad Anna sent a poem recording to you. I have few nature-themed poems and this ought it best not to share an anti-Orangey political poem w/ your community. 😉
Kim – your ceaseless creativity leaves me ceaselessly amazed! I am imagining being one of the folks walking around town, using the QR codes to listen to poetic treats, and even finding them in Easter eggs! So, so fun, and what a way to share the poetic love. I listened to you and Ethan and felt right at home for a thousand reasons, mostly because of the southern images and sounds and the warmth of your voices. I was so thrilled to hear yours – so lovely! Tell Ethan my grandfather grew scuppernongs and I am ever nostalgic for them…they do tend to set the world aright…again, home, home, home. Thank you, my incredible sister-kindred-spirit-friend.
Very cool, Kim. Your poem and reading of Ethan’s work was wonderful!
Oh, gosh, Brian…I lovelovelove the idea of Poetic Drivebys! This really got my creative juices flowing this morning, thinking about possibilities with my students…
As I started to think about writing my own, I went immediately to my daughter, who woke me up in the middle of the night last night after having a nightmare about a shooting at her school…something I can’t even let my mind truly process. This one’s for my girl.
for Lillanjoybean
My mini-me–
I see so much of my
own fifth-grade angst
in your experiences now.
Except…
where I was illicitly reading
“Forever” and worrying about
my first period,
you’re “illicitly” watching
TikTok
and worrying about getting
shot at school.
I see you, my girl–
standing up to the raging
mob of “pick me girls,”
refusing to let them
crush your spirit.
I hear you, my girl–
writing twisty mystery stories
for your classmates to solve.
I feel you, my girl–
as you pour your creative soul
into elaborate paper dragons.
Eternally optimistic–
you continually strive
to make the world into
the place you hope
it can be,
shrugging off the slings
and arrows
cast your way.
You, my girl, are a wonder–
I want to be just like you
when I grow up.
Julie, I remember the days classmates read FOREVER under their desks. Now we all pray our youth make it past first period without another tragedy. We need more paper dragons who can shrug
I wonder about a reading of this poem over an ice cream sundae with a cherry-hug on top.
Julie, I remember passing around a copy of Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret and Deenie and Forever by Judy Blume, the parts for all the girls to read marked with dogeared pages as we waited for our big day. When I often wonder what’s in a name, I think of Judy Blume and the feminine bloom, the mystique of womanhood. Those were the things to embrace and fear in our coming of age – – and now, today, there is a perpetual shadow cast over even the landmark days of our daughters and sons. I pray protection over our generation of children who must be like owls, constantly turning their heads in all directions to keep 360 degree awareness in a way that we did not. Lovely words and a powerful reminder today!
Julie, I feel this poem so much: my daughter is 16, and her world is so different from mine was, growing up at her age.
“you’re “illicitly” watching
TikTok
and worrying about getting
shot at school.”
How our world has changed…. Your poem is full of love for your granddaughter. I would like to be her, as well!
I can’t imagine the anxiety a student must have at school these days. Your poem is a wonderful tribute to your daughter. She has so much youthful spirit going for her that she will be fine, as you know. Her presence will make the world a place of hope.
Julie, I teach 5th grade and your poem is 100% accurate! I love that your girl is so strong and resilient in such a tough time. I wish I had been as strong when I was in 5th grade. I agree, I want to be like her when I grow up.
I hope your Lillanjoybean enjoys this poem as much as i did.
Julie – she IS a wonder, eternally optimistic, courageous, and creative with the twisty mystery stories and – what!! – paper dragons! You and i have more paper dragon poetry to write, for sure! To me this signifies an outlet – dragons are strong. They can fly, hence, they can escape. They are magical. Protectors. They can live a really long time…perhaps all linked to that fear of being shot in school. Utterly unimaginable in my school days. Yet, to keep striving to make the world better – your “Lillanjoybean” is an epic heroine, indeed.
Brian, first: Karal steals my heart! I am a person who must have a dog as long as I live. They remind us there’s still hope for the world; they offer unconditional love and frenetic gratitude and profound insight and thank-you notes for milkbones. I love this line: “carrying that satchel of language over your shoulder” – a concrete image and vibrant metaphor for communication (even if it travels on one gastropod foot). Your poetic invitation called to mind the child in school who made paper dragons all day and got in trouble for it, but I was enchanted by her work and told her; I ended up being the owner of a beautiful paper dragon and tree (“a dragon is nothing without its tree,” says the child, who now has her father make cookies for me every so often). That was the poem I was going to write. But then – maybe your delivery focus? – maybe the mention of a porch? – maybe the photo that’s been up on my screen for a couple of days? – whatever it was, suddenly swallowed the dragon-cookie poem. It will be born another day. This epistle (I need to play with the shape some more) was already waiting in the wings…thank you, Brian.
Dear Delivery People:
Thank you
for respecting
my taped-up signs
that say stay away
from the front porch
it’s a bird sanctuary again
the house finches nested early
on the door wreath I left for them
Mama laid four tiny eggs in blue cold
mohawked nestlings hatched in a snowfall
by mid-March I thought the fledglings
had all flown, for there was no more
happy chatter-song at the door
and when I checked I found
two perfectly beautiful
fledglings dead
in the nest
how
why
what
happened
here
I placed them together
in a deep pile of dry leaves
at wood’s edge because birds
do not bury their dead
they are creatures
of the air
I tore down
the death-nest
and the taped-up signs
and read online
that birds grieve
the death of
their young
the next day
blades of green grass
appeared on the wreath
where the nest had been
the day after that, more
grass and flowered strands
scientists say that only
the mother finch builds
the nest but I am here
to tell you that the father
worked just as hard
in tandem they flew
with string and fluff
in their beaks
chattering their
architectural plans
in five days,
recreating
what was lost
and now
in the most
exquisitely-lined nest
I’ve ever seen
there are new blue eggs
exactly
two
so thank you,
Delivery People
for reading my
freshly-taped signs
this
is a sacred
little space
where miracles
of nature
take place
#awe
Wow! Fantastic poem with renewal of hope and the awesome cycles of nature.
*Bryan. I had to fix that!!
I get “Brain” a lot. Sometimes “Brine” as if I’m one syllable. But my favorite is how the name is slang in Danish schools for the most moronic kid in each class. I’ll take that.
No-! the Danish – seriously? Growing up, kids in school called me France. I told them, indignantly, that I wasn’t a country. But… poetically speaking… and I gotta love Brine. Around these here parts, that would be pronounced Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiihne.
this
is a sacred
little space
where miracles
of nature
take place
Oh, lovely …
Kevin
Fran, I will never tire of reading poems about your finches. You are such a good host putting all your heart into the matter. Thanks for nurturing tiny miracles.
Fran, It’s 8 a.m. and currently hammers are pounding my front porch as siding goes up. It’s too early for my first cry of the day (I haven’t even finished a cup of coffee). This poem is gorgeous, and I couldn’t help but see the way feathers flip outward within the nest, stretching in the familiar, protective of the young. I have a story of befriending barn swallows when I studied at Bread Loaf. I’ve always lived with strong women, but that summer, the mother sealed the deal of the strength and dedication of moms. Phew. I want to copy and past your first stanza here: it is everything — I love this poem (something tells me Ruth Stone would, too). Come to think of it, the summer I spent with Barn Swallows, I also visit Ruth for the last time…Her sight had gone by then and she asked me to read her the poems I was writing…she could only hear the wonders of language in her last years.
Fran, I love your hashtag #awe and the continuing stories of the sweet bird eggs and hatchlings. What a remarkable story – the resilience, the overcoming grief, and the promise of hope and new life even in the depths of despair. The seeds are always there for a better tomorrow. Of course I love it all, but this last part grabs me and holds me tight:
this
is a sacred
little space
where miracles
of nature
take place
It reminds me of a Mary Oliver poem, one about the everyday miracles that no one notices – – and you illustrate it perfectly here in your poem. It makes me want to get on my knees and thank the maker for the miracles performed that I never see – – the protective hand I didn’t realize was covering me, the gift of new life, the restoration of souls. Thank you, dear friend. I always catch my breath somewhere in your words.
This story is so wonderful, and as always, your words place us on your porch with you. This bit here—
“how
why
what
happened
here”
—stopped me in my reading. I heard your voice.
What a beautiful, joyful picture. Thanks for gifting us with it today, Fran — it made my heart happy.
Oh, Fran…what a lovely gift of a poem. I love how poetry is so much about really NOTICING the world around us…you’ve really done that here. You’ve captured a whole story arc in this brief poem, and you had me on the edge of my seat, crying in sadness, then rejoicing at new life. Beautiful!
Oh, and a note… your mention of paper dragons is what made me choose the recipient of my poem. My daughter makes them ALL the time!
Fran,
This narrative really needs to be a picture book. The way you bookend the bird story w/ a note to delivery personnel is simply exquisite. I can envision the cycle of life and the various delivery personnel stopping by and checking on the nest, all gathering to grieve and honor the family who lost their little ones. I can see this as an allegory for the violent ends of children. Beautiful and inspirational.
It makes me want to take
a scraper to your hull,
the way your home peels away,
in transition from what it was
to what it is, and you, inside,
barely noticing the rest of us,
but we all worry about you, still,
and what it means when structures
become too dilapidated to provide
support and shelter in the most
fragile of times
Kevin
(We have some neighbors that we all worry about and keep an on eye)
Awww. I felt this one, Kevin. Likewise, we have these neighbors – I hope if we all do, we all keep an eye on them! – but I also think, “Someday, will that be me?” And sadly, so many have recently passed away. My husband and I said, “This is all so sad. We need to make friends with younger neighbors.” The “barely noticing the rest of us” line resonated with me, because when folks pass, we talk with others about them and realize so many people did know them or of them – and we share how we all kept our own lookout for them. I wonder if they do know of their secret brigades of concern out there. Nicely captured.
Kevin, right now there is wordplay happening in my brain with shudder and shutter…the visual is unnerving. I feel the pull to do something (“take a scraper to your hull”) and a greater pull on the heartstrings with concern for appropriate “support and shelter in the most/ fragile of times.” People suffer more than we can ever see.
Kevin, your poem tugs at my heartstrings. We have those neighbors. They recently gave up and moved to assisted living. It was weeks and weeks of their left behind stuff at the curb that did it to me. I literally cried passing by.
Oof! This is powerful.The literal and figurative of the “too dilapidated structures” is a fitting metaphor for aging in America. And the worrying is a testament to the strong fabric of your community. This is a sad, beautiful poem.
Wow, Kevin. We’re neighbors. I watch a house across the street with similar eyes. “a scraper to your hull” is the line that pulled me in…”what it means when structures become too dilapidated to provide support & shelter in the most fragile of times” – WoW. Thank you for gifting us this morning.
Kevin, your poem speaks volumes on the literal level of a house and on the metaphorical level of the mind and heart. I have the privilege, on occasion, of working with those in recovery who find themselves in emotional distress as they endure the hard work of the soul, so I read your poem once with the home in mind, then went back and read it again from the perspective of the internal wranglings of righting the world back to its proper axis. That you look out for your neighbors is an act of love – – and I know that the ripples of gratitude extend far beyond the neighbors themselves. As always, beautiful!
Oh, Kevin, I am glad you keep an eye on them. I used to fuss about how my elderly neighbor always complained about the leaves on the sidewalk. She swore that the airplanes flying overhead shook the trees and made the leaves fall. She lived to be 104 but she passed away. Now, every time I see the leaves by her front yard, I think of her.
Hurts to imagine this:
I’m glad the neighbors have you!