Our Host: Erica Johnson
Erica lives in the suburbs of Little Rock, but teaches in the rural town of Vilonia, Arkansas. She has dedicated thirteen years to helping high school students excel in Advanced and College level English courses. Not only does Erica work with students, but actively supports teachers through mentor programs and her work with the online community known as Teach Write and the Teach Write Academy. Erica spends her non-writing time setting new personal records in CrossFit, playing silly games with her extended family, and planning more trips than she can ever afford to go on.
Inspiration
At the end of 2024 I read James Crews’ collection of poetry How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope. While there are SO MANY poems worth exploring in that collection, today’s poem was inspired by the poem “Nest” by Jeffrey Harrison. I loved the surprise discovery revealed in the poem and how the poet marvels over this small miracle that they discovered while putting up their Christmas tree. It made me want to explore my own little discoveries and what they revealed about myself or the world around me.
Process
Take some time to reflect on a moment you discovered something unexpected or stumbled across something surprising in your life – big or small.
When I wrote my poem, I broke it down into these five parts for each of Harrison’s five stanzas:
Stanza 1 – The initial discovery. I followed the structure of Harrison’s poem using the words “It wasn’t until…that ___ discovered…”
Stanza 2 – The feeling or reaction to that discovery. I asked myself the question “What ABOUT this discovery sticks with me?”
Stanza 3 – Start with the phrase “And now…”, how are your feelings/reflection on this discovery evolving?
Stanza 4 – Start with the phrase “And yet…”, what contrast or contradiction comes to play as you continue to reflect on your discovery?
Stanza 5 – Wrap up your poem with a final take away moment.
Erica’s Poem
“Flood”
It wasn’t until I noticed the dog walkers returning
from the singular trail ahead of me
that I discovered there might be trouble at the turn –
a flooded path blocking any progress forward.
Cautious, I paused my walk
taking a seat upon a rock half-warmed
by the weakened winter sun which
had itself been washed out for several days.
And now I wonder is this really a problem
or an invitation to forge ahead, to bound boldly –
after all – had I not walked this trail to reconnect and
to find my way to a future less mired in grief?
And yet, while I know the flooded waters are winter cold,
I find myself removing shoes, socks, and sanity
as I stride forward into the flood – inches high:
Suck it! I shouted to the trees, but also to my tears
and washing away both my grief and fears
that had begun my day and were now flowing
off of me like the very flood I was fording across.
I am lighter for my foot bath and ready – ready for a new me!
Your Turn
Post your writing any time today. If the prompt does not work for you today, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Write what serves your heart and mind today. Please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
A day later……
Sundays Fun Days
It wasn’t until my 39th year of teaching that I decided to stop doing schoolwork on Sundays.
I discovered it was a perfect day to eat breakfast late, talk to my 93 year-old aunt on the phone, and enjoy the smell of clean laundry.
I discovered that I have more books TBR than those in my shopping cart.
And now when I think about Mondays, it doesn’t happen on Sundays. Sunday thoughts are present and iridescent and weightless.
And yet I want to peek at my school emails for the sake of saying to myself, “I will not respond.”
I stop playing games with my mind and cozy up on the couch to play Rummikub until all my coins are gone.
©Stacey L. Joy, 1/21/25
Friends— I forgot to post this. I’ve been a bit out of the loop this week. My husband has been ill, and now we know why..
This is the Year
This was going to be the year that
I would take care of myself a little more–
Take some small trips
Lose that ten pounds again
Get massages
Join a book group.
Have lunches.
Enjoy my interns, help them grow.
This was going to be the year that
We celebrated family
New grandson on the way
Three-year-old drama queen to marvel at
Dogs and cats wrestling and loving us
Joy.
All that changed with one phone call. Now…
This will be the year that we fight my husband’s cancer.
Again
Doctor’s appointments
Surgery plans
Organizing medicine bottles
Chemo, radiation
Worrying
Losing sleep
Advocating, advocating, advocating
Because he can’t and because he never will
Pain
Tears
We’ve been down this road before.
I know how to do it.
I know that I can do it.
I’m good at this.
This will be the year that I become a caretaker again
The rest will have to fit itself in
The joys of being a grandmother
The job that I love
The dogsandthecatsandthehouseandeverythingelseittakestolive,
This will be the year that I’ll have to remember how to be strong.
This will be the year I had hoped would never happen again.
This will be the year.
GJSands
1/22/25
Oh Gayle, sending you comfort and care! I am sorry that this is happening (again) and I know you know what to do, but it’s still hard. We are here for you. I will add you and your husband to my prayer list. I keep a special list for those fighting cancer. 💛
Malignancy
By Mo Daley 1/21/25
It wasn’t until last month
that I discovered what
an asshole I’ve been.
I mean, could I have been
stupider?
More negligent?
Did it really take my brother’s
colon cancer diagnosis
to schedule a long overdue
colonoscopy?
And now my insides are in turmoil
my intestines are in knots
my mind racing
just as fast as my legs
to the toilet
while I bargain with God
trying not to lose another sibling—
praying we all have the guts
to get through this
together.
Mo,
I’m so sorry you are facing this. Your poem gets right to the raw emotion of this and contains clever language that in no way detracts from the seriousness of the topic.
This simile brought a subtle smile:
and the use of “guts” did too.
Mo, I’m so sorry to hear this! Wishing for the best for you and for him. The anger, sadness, and frustration was so clear in your powerful poem.
Mo— we seem to be traveling a similar path. Hope we both get through it with success.
Mo,
I send my prayers to you both and I hope that the outcome is good. You chose the perfect word (guts) and I pray everyone’s guts are healthy!
Nothing compares to the colonoscopy PREP! Those trips to the toilet are something someone should make a movie about.
Hugs.🤗
Hi Erica,
I loved this prompt when I read it this morning. My day didn’t give me time to write and I don’t want to NOT write to the prompt. I’ll post and comment tomorrow. Thanks for understanding.
Thank you for this lovely prompt. It reminded me of a recent trip to West Virginia, where I am always discovering new things and often feel pulled between this world and another.
The call of a thin place
It wasn’t until I crested the Cumberland Mountains,
The fog giving way to a shadowy sunlight.
That I discovered a thin place, where the edges of Earth and Heaven mingle in a delicate dance.
My breath caught, my heart hard against my chest.
Eyes blinking against the sun swaying between the shadows on the trees,
against the backdrop of a place long forgotten. I stopped and fell to my knees.
Listening to winds blow through the trees and the trill of the Hermit Thrush
And now, a cry from somewhere, to me? A welcome to this place I call home.
And yet, it felt flighting, the boundary between what I knew and did not know as willowy as a softly spun web.
I sat overlooking the distant ridges,
Blue and smokey against the sky.
I teetered on the edge of reality, testing the waters to determine where I belong.
Wow, Mona, I am intrigued by the depth and beauty of this thin place “where the edges of Earth and Heaven mingle in a delicate dance” Such beautiful imagery and wordplay. I like the word “flighting.” And “this place I call home” and “where I belong” makes me want to learn more about you and this trip.
THis is so lovely, Mona. Your first stanza really drew me in.
Mona, I love the vivid descriptions that you’ve crafted here. “[A]s willowy as a softly spun web” is beautiful. This “thin place, where the edges of Earth and Heaven mingle in a delicate dance” seems quite magical!
Mona this last phrase—“I teetered on the edge of reality, testing the waters to determine where I belong”. This felt so real to me.
Erica — Thank you for your prompt and your beautiful poem.
These lines really resonate with me “and washing away both my grief and fears
that had begun my day and were now flowing
off of me like the very flood I was fording across. I also spend a lot of time hiking in nature and find it provides solace.
“What I Don’t Need”
I noticed there was
withdrawal
when I first
removed Facebook
from my phone
There was that urge
to open it
while waiting in line
at the grocery store,
while sitting in the
doctor’s office,
while stopped at
a traffic light.
And when I would forget it wasn’t there
and look for it
there was
disappointment
and
worry
and
fear
that I had missed
something
important.
And there was
an itch
to read the commentaries
and to argue
with my right leaning MAGA
Acquaintances
Acquaintances
Acquaintances
who I had
somehow
friended ?
How do I know you?
My fingers
Twitch
Twitch
Twitching
My eyelid
Twitch
Twitch
Twitching
But
Over time the urges
subside
subside
subside
I moderate my time
Only
checking Facebook on my computer
Occasionally
to catch up with friends and family
Not the haters!
Not the haters!
Not the haters!
Why are there so many haters?
And now there is less
Less
Less
Less
Anxiety
Anger
Stress
I have almost
forgotten
about Facebook
Almost
This is fabulous! Especially the “Almost”
I envy your ability to de-toxify.
Whew! This giving up of a social network is so so hard. I am the same. I rarely look at Facebook.
I love the way you emphasis the haters, haters and now there is less, less. You have captured the withdrawal.
Good luck! You are not missing anything!
Tammi, yes indeed, what we don’t need. That’s true. I’m going to do this too–move it to only the computer, at least until I delete my account, which I’m considering. You have inspired me. I like the “almost” ending too. 🙂
This is really powerful, Tammi. You’ve given us a lot to think about.
Tammi, stay strong! FOMO is real, but, I think you’re right: “And now there is less / Less / Less / Less / Anxiety / Anger / Stress.” Thank you for articulating this so well!
Yes! ( and that’s good almost is so real!)
Thanks, Erica, for this fun prompt! I shared something that just happened this weekend. I really loved your poem and especially the second-to-last stanza that pulled all of the imagery together!
It wasn’t until yesterday,
driving home with eldest daughter
that she divulged the courting of her sister
and her roommate
by a pair of college boys on their floor.
They would stealthily deliver
gifts of tiny rubber ducks to their door
and when the girls finally amassed a flock of them,
the boys returned for the “hostages,”
their Trojan horse successfully delivered.
Speechless, hands clenched on steering wheel,
having just delivered daughter to dorm,
my heart flipped a bit at this incursion,
my baby girl gone in a flash,
replaced by a woman capable of being wooed with wiles.
And now, I see all the other moments
that I haven’t seen, the news I
haven’t gotten as sisters whispered secrets
to my exclusion.
And yet, I remember all that I never told
my parents – the funny, the thrilling, the dangerous –
all of the things that turned me into who
I am.
Hands relax on wheel
Head takes stock
Heart lets go.
Wendy,
Letting them go is so hard. I have two out of college and my last one is a senior in high school and your words ring so true.
This stanza, especially —
“And yet, I remember all that I never told
my parents – the funny, the thrilling, the dangerous –
all of the things that turned me into who
I am.”
Ooh! That’s a hard one to realize our baby girls have become young women. I am so glad you are able to relax and remember your past and what made you.
I love this poem, of our children and family members growing up, becoming adults, and living their own life. I feel the difficulty of this in your words. ❤️
Oh Wendy, I can picture you listening with the wisdom of being in the next generation from “the funny, the thrilling, the dangerous” and letting your hands, head, and heart all relax into this new chapter your youngest is in. Beautiful!
Oh, yes. When you realize all the things you didn’t know! And so wonderful that they care enough about each other to share…
Erica,
Thank you so much for your beautiful and powerful poem and for providing us with this simple step-by- step structure that allowed me to write about some complex feelings. As you will see from my poem, I identified with walking in nature as a balm for grief. I could feel the giddiness of
and the relief of
Thank you for sharing, Erica.
Snow Day
It wasn’t until I thought about
how eagerly my brother and I rushed outside on those rare snow days of our Texas childhood
that I discovered that I regretted staying home under the covers
while my husband ventured out for an early morning 24 degree dog walk
I bundled up—thermal underwear, my warmest hiking pants, warm pullover, gloves so puffy they’re hard to pull on and off, my husband’s pea coat that he’d left draped on the back of one of the dining room chairs, orange knit cap, thick wool hiking socks
I jingled the leash to rouse the dog who’d returned to bed
and was curled up tight, nose to tail
and grabbed my binoculars
And now I gasp
as I see not one but two
great blue herons in flight
I cry a little
sinking into the grief
of not being able to call my mom
to hear her laugh
and tell me she is proud of me
when I tell her I’m out walking in the snow
looking for birds
I’m nervous when I read the words state police on the back of the black coats and hear the officers talking to two men who have slept outside under the bridge by the library
I’m relieved to hear that they are the only two out there and that they are both alive
I stop under the next bridge
to admire a Carolina wren
who poses for me
and smartly uses the concrete arches
to amplify her song
And yet despite the cold, my grief, the injury I’m nursing, the inauguration yesterday,
I find myself laughing again and again
as I continue on my walk
at the wagging and wobbling rear end of a white duck
at a pair of mallards taking turns peeking up at me from below the trail
at my joy in figuring out how to snap a blind photo of two pools of white snow collected in the gnarled recesses of a brown tree
at my first ever sighting of a yellow rumped warbler
at how fun it is to stomp across the footbridge and crunch the snow under my hiking boots
at how charming snow makes even the quotidian details of the scraped up water fountain and the low curved mosaic wall beside it
at the way I keep tugging off my right glove
holding it aloft with my mouth
to frame photos of snow-covered bark and berries
of herons wading
of American coots swimming and diving
of my dog scraping and scraping her paw to turn on the turned off water fountain
of red graffiti remixed with white
of rough surfaces made smooth
as my mother taught me
there is much to be grateful for
and happy about
and as I return home
I vow to turn daily to nature
and look slowly
Sharon, I feel your grief and joy today — it took me back to my own nature experience I had while writing “Flood.” I love how healing and cathartic nature can be for us and I thank you for sharing this today. I particularly enjoyed following your trail of birds throughout and I felt elated each time I “spotted” one in your poem.
Sharon, this vow “to turn daily to nature and look slowly” is one I take to heart myself. In nature I find rhythm, order, peace, and healing…I have read that awe makes one more altruistic and I know it to be true. And oh, the two herons that might have been missed had you not taken the walk…and those tears for not being able to tell your mother about waking in the snow looking for those birds, the wren’s amplification of song, and the incredible visual details that paint the creatures so clearly that it almost plays like a movie…absolutely lovely through and through.
Sharon, this was just a gem! What a lovely poem. As a fellow bird-loved, I so appreciated alll of the bird imagery, and your opening stanza almost had me considering walking our dog, Sam, in our frigid Central New York weather. Beautiful poem!
Sharon,
I love all the details and observations in your beautiful poem. Nature really is the best healing sanctuary. I’ve been missing my walks lately because it has been so icy. Crashed once and now I’m waiting till I get my YakTracks.
These last lines really resonate with me:
“I vow to turn daily to nature
and look slowly”
Sharon, what a gorgeous walk I had with you on this special snow day. I like the long list of things you bundled up with. And I loved the appreciation you have for how charming the snow makes “even the quotidian details of the scraped up water fountain and the low curved mosaic wall beside it” So lovely! I can picture it.
Erica, thanks for this prompt. I have been on vacation and missed the start of Open Write. This has got me back into writing again and got my brain thinking and reflecting.
A Spot of Red
It wasn’t until I noticed a shining spot of red.
A leaf on the elm tree that slightly moved
and shimmered
and realized it was a hummingbird.
I stood quietly and wondered
are my eyes being true
before it flew away
and I knew.
Surprised and in awe
that nature could design
a tiny bird looking like a leaf
while sitting on a tree,
well equipped and
a part of the plan
I wondered “what about me?”
I worry too much about my welfare.
Am I also so well designed and
a part of the plan?
I remembered the words of Jesus:
“Look at the birds of the air
they do not sow or reap…yet the heavenly Father feeds them
are you not more valuable than they?”
Relaxing I knew
I was also well designed
a part of the plan.
Susan,
I am a big fan of the gentleness of the moment. It is like having a butterfly land on you in a garden. I appreciate how you blend an awareness of nature with faith to reach the calming closure. I wish I could relax in instances like this, and stretch that feeling out as well!
Susan,
Thank you for your beautiful, calming poem. I love the combination of observing, wondering, remembering, and realizing.
Susan I have had a similar experience with spotting a hummingbird perched in a tree and I remember feeling a similar moment of awe and whimsy. I was happy to see that reflected in your poem and I especially appreciate your final stanza about relaxing into the well designed plan!
This is simply beautiful, Susan.
what a concept, what a reminder.
Susan, I loved the picture that you painted with this poem and the reflection at the end. Thanks for this lovely piece!
Susan, I was just responding to Sharon about the healing element in nature, much of it connected to awe…hummingbirds are another favorite bird of mine. They are nearly magical. I was just thinking they’ll be here at my window again in a matter of weeks… I love the reflection in these lines:
I worry too much about my welfare.
Am I also so well designed and
a part of the plan?
-followed by those comforting words of Christ as an answer to your question… yes, a well-designed part of the plan. A beautiful poem. Like the hummingbird itself.
Susan,
I love the feeling of awe and wonder that you’ve captured in your poem and in this stanza:
“I stood quietly and wondered
are my eyes being true
before it flew away
and I knew.”
What a wonderful and beautiful world we live in!
Erica,
Thanks for the prompt that really stretched me in terms of direction and focus, it is most certainly a work in progress as forms go, but I had a lot of fun with the last stanza.
AT THE WHITE HOUSE
It wasn’t until I watched Peanut
that I discovered she was a good girl,
Jenny on a cruise
and Gus the Frenchy at Jenny’s friend’s house,
Peanut holding down the fort.
Hard to shake literally and figuratively,
Bandit, the Clark’s Blue Schnauzer
was a prolific leg humper,
begrudging this breed to me
since way back to the 1970s.
For now, and perhaps longer
I know this Schnauzer as a kindred spirit,
Peanut likes the same teams,
signified in her silence
sitting perched on the back of the couch.
And yet, good girl,
your tippy taps and zoomies will most rank third,
as I hold in my thoughts my babies,
Gretta and Zuko chambers of my heart,
my friends in low places.
Peanut, we both know you belong with Jenny,
you’re part of her home, part of what keeps her going.
If you don’t stay you’ll regret it, maybe not today, or tomorrow,
but soon, and for the rest of your life,
We’ll always have Morgan Street…
Here’s looking at you, dog.
Rex,
Laughed out loud to this stanza:
Bandit, the Clark’s Blue Schnauzer
was a prolific leg humper,
begrudging this breed to me
since way back to the 1970s.
I guess there is a reason why they say dog’s are a man’s best friend. These guys seem like a lot of fun!
Rex, so many dogs to love and know, and you have introduced them to us here in this fun poem. Peanut was lucky to have you to watch him while Jenny was cruising.
Reading about Midas cichlids
(pronounced SICK-lids)
horrifies and bewilders me
in equal measure
from their brutal mating
rituals to their unique
survival adaptations
from one species
to the next to the fact
(as far as we can tell)
that they mate for life
and this reminded me
that crows mate for life
and that reminded me of
the YouTube Short
(the old person’s TikTok)
that I saw last week
of the crow consciously
and deliberately playing
(at least what appeared
to be playing) on the top
of a snow-covered car.
It was rolling down the
windshield until it would
hop up, flutter itself off,
fly to the roof of the car,
and roll down the windshield
again, like it was sliding
down a snowy hillside.
And this, of course,
reminded me of Hamlet’s
line (because doesn’t
everything, in one way
or another, remind me
of that) when Horatio
marvels at the ghost
and Hamlet quips,
There are more things
in heaven and earth,
Horatio, than are dreamt
of in our philosophy.
Yeah, I think of that one
often when I let myself
be open to awe and wonder
when I let myself realize
that I don’t have the answers
to most things in life
that people do things
I don’t understand or
agree with and that
events happen to which
I have no control over;
There are some (many,
maybe even most) things
in this world that I just
simply do not understand
like the fact that a species
of fish could develop a set
of jaws in their mouths as
well as their throats to help
devour their prey:
amazing
and
terrifying.
____________________________________
Thank you, Erica, for your prompt and mentor poems today! I love the cleansing and exaltation at the end of your poem: “like the very flood I was fording across. / I am lighter for my foot bath and ready – ready for a new me!” In terms of my offering, the reading that I wrote of in stanza one (and six) was from chapter 24 (“Plenty of Fish in the Sea”) of The Beauty of the Beastly by Natalie Angier. The more I read/watch/experience in my life, the more I realize that this world (and its “occupants”) are bizarre AF, lol.
Oh, Scott – you are singing my very life song with “when I let myself be open to awe and wonder…” acknowledging that we see so little, so very little, of the whole picture, nor fully grasp the grand scheme of things playing out about us. Then that story of the crow playing on its improvised snow-hill (yes, dagnabbit, I have tears in my eyes, because I can sense the crow’s joy and I long to see it for myself). All things DO connect to Hamlet, because all things connect if we follow the threads far enough. And YouTube, the old person’s TikTok-!! I fear I overuse the word “priceless” when responding to your poetry…but this is priceless. I once heard these phrases and each changed my life: 1) Suspend certainty. 2) Don’t commit “assumicide” (i.e., death by assuming vs. understanding). You remind me of that, here. I will have to check out that book you mention because, yes, the longer I live, the more awe, wonder, and horror I find. Thank God for poetry – the attempt to capture or process it all in our own ways. I love this poem so much.
Scott,
I love the transition from the crows to Hamlet. Two focus points in my life that beg for constant reference or exploration. I am a fan of the end as well, amazing and terrifying…the yin yang of the unknown.
For me as a guy who is feeling older and realizing how much I have yet to know, I loved the progression in honesty of the some, many, most stanza.
It wasn’t until I unpacked the third box
of enveloped photos, the one with
school pictures, that I discovered
the last time I wore bangs was
when I was eight years old.
Amazing, the perfectly combed
cowlicked fringe lining my brow
flurried memories of picture day
maybe my glasses were nearby
but I couldn’t see a thing.
And now this picture made my
self-chopped bangs today feel
childish, a wish to be a past self
I hadn’t remember. So I learned
to blow dry angles, flipping just so,
and round brushing the locks just
like the tutorial (or almost), like
maybe I did decades ago (or a sister)
waiting for my picture to be taken
and filed away on my phone
to unbox unfile before I chop
my own hair again.
It’s sometimes embarrassing to me to see old photos of me and a bad haircut. I do remember getting the “Dorothy Hamill” in high school. The blow dryer and I worked hard on that one.
Sarah, the first stanza made me giggle because I was reminded of my
“goofy kid” photos in grade school. Then, reading your second stanza I was laughing out loud because I remembered the new glasses I wore and how I hated them and thought they were so ugly. Now, the vision of self chopped hair and round brushing is really a fun remembrance as well. Thank you!
I enjoyed this so much. I have been looking through old photos recently as we consolidate some items at home. And sometimes it makes me
chuckle at what I wore in the 70s and 80s. And my hair style. 😉
Erica, I love how your encounter with the challenge of a flooded path, you powered through to not only a new path, but a renewed spirit. This form comes at a perfect time for me because here in New Iberia, LA, we are having a historical blizzard. When I say it never snows here, I mean never…until today. We are getting close to 8 inches. It has stopped the world we know. I drafted a poem using your prompt. Thanks!
Enzo Blizzard 2025
It wasn’t until I walked in the snow
that I discovered
snow is wet. In the movies, actors
never seem bedraggled.
And now as a historic blizzard
pours down snow, I remember
my rain boots in the dusty box,
dig out the snap-on hood for the coat,
and place a towel by the back door.
And yet, snow is silent
surprising me with a steady
fluttering rhythm of soft white flakes.
I know this phenomenon is unreal,
ethereal, a moment I want to keep
in a photograph to cherish
and hold.
Margaret, what a surprise. I love the sweet joy expressed in your poem as you enjoy and experience the snow. Eight inches of snow! That’s so much for a place where it doesn’t snow. I think you may have gotten some of the moisture that skipped California this year.
Margaret I love how you captured this historic snowfall in poem form — we recently received snow just like this and it was certainly a moment I wanted to capture in so many ways. I appreciate you sharing your discovery of the wetness of snow. I think it pairs well with how silent it can be and I felt like I was walking out into the snow with you by the end of the poem.
Ethereal is a word I love, Margaret – and a snowstorm on the bayou is definitely ethereal, even surreal! What a gift, this snow with its silent, fluttering rhythm. Perfect description. Weather-people are calling for snow on our Outer Banks and islands over these next days, but not so much here in central NC. Crazy! Would love to see snow at the beach. Talk about surreal.
Margaret, I would love to bottle it up and keep it, too. Especially for hot flashes. I’ve always wanted my own Narnia portal just to have cold weather at the ready. I’m glad you all are getting snow – – I keep seeing Louisiana on the Weather Channel, and it is gorgeous. So happy you and the grandbabies get to play in it today!
Margaret,
I like that there is an innocence and wonderment to contrast the event that shows up in the title as a blizzard. To have the unreal phenomenon and greeting it as a cherished moment where others may be prone to some level of panic. Please tell me you got some pictures of snow sticking to the huge trees with Spanish moss!
Erica, what a wonderful prompt and two spot-on mentor poems. I couldn’t wait to hear your adventure in traversing the flooded path, and it didn’t disappoint. “Foot bath” is such a healing phrase. And I love the cleansing it provided, making you ready for a new you. So wonderful.
I couldn’t think of anything but the last decade of politics when I read “It wasn’t until…” this morning, so warning…
It wasn’t until we bounced
back to cling to racism
that I discovered this
low rung of history.
That is not who we are.
Oh, yes, yes, of course, it is.
It’s who we’ve always been,
The arc is slight, if it moves at all.
And now again, complacent,
backward bend of the arc.
Ignominy of this chapter haunts,
and I am future-fearful.
And yet I can choose resistance.
Shine spotlights on racism, sexism,
megalomania, and dishonest gain.
Someday we will take another step
of justice. I may not see it,
but history points to better days
in the future. My grandson will live
anew in a more just world.
Denise, from your lips (or pen)… Your grandson will see this, will live it. It is the hope for the better days that will keep me going. Knowing that I have a classroom full of students and my own boys means I want to keep showing up for them, making them stronger, more self-reliant, better critical thinkers. This is the future we are protecting.
Denise, much of your poem resonates with me…envisioning and actively striving for a world without hatred, in which we are able to value and be valued by one another as a species. Not to mention being better caretakers of the earth itself…this is absolutely a future I want for my granddaughters. I go back to the Golden Rule (a form of which exists in nearly every culture/religion): Treat others well, the way you would like to be treated. It is so simple in concept, so seemingly impossible in application. The hope in your last lines sends my spirit soaring. Think of our grandchildren flourishing so! To this I will cling.
Denise, I stand right here with you hoping so desperately for a better world for all of our grandchildren. I want my granddaughters (and grandsons, of course) to have opportunities to choose their paths even as I am a fellow future-fearer. I would love to believe that we can overcome feelings of racism that permeate our country – that the words of the prayers offered at the inauguration are sincere – but I do wonder. I pray for a more just world.
Denise,
thank you for bringing us reflection and hope. I, too, have been reminding myself to zoom out and take a long view of history. I thought the pendulum would be swinging back now, but we’ll just have to keep pushing.
Denise,
I appreciate your candor in telling it like it is, how it has always been. More so I appreciate you embracing commitment of shining light, though it may not be seen by us. The minister at church talks about light and not hiding it under a bushel. I think the light shining ahead of us is much more involved than just lifting a basket covering, but I have hope. This chapter haunts, but with active involvement, maybe there is a plot change…
Hello Erica, it was walking the dogs, but writing with students that opened my eyes! As have many in this group, I attended a National Writing Project summer institute about midway through my teaching career. What an eye-opener!!!!
Writing is Revealing
It wasn’t until the summer writing project at UCSD
That I discovered there mignt be a writer in me.
I’d always enjoyed pen-palling
If fact, that’s probably how I “got” my husband
But it was writing with others, not just about me
That opened my heart and helped me to see
Along the way to this very day
I may have something to say.
It was writing with students that helped them to see
It is more about them than it is about me.
They began to open up, thinking wider, thinking deeply
Sometimes smiling, sometimes weepy
But we grew together. Considering the reading,
Sharing our writing and uncovering meaning in what we read.
Reflecting more thoughtfully about what we said,
Just because we were writing together.
And, that guy with whom I penpalled.
Through all kinds of weather
We’re still together.
‘Cause he is a writer, too.
Writing can be more than a boo!
Anna, it was fun to read your writing history. Such a specific moment at “the summer writing project at UCSD” that did it for you. And I like how you describe penpalling with your not-yet-husband. That would be a story I’d like to hear more about.
Since you ask, Denise, I did write a novel based on the week we met at our church annual convention. 🙂
Here’s the link! https://www.amazon.com/Zions-Hill-Anna-Small-Roseboro/dp/1507860455
Anna, your rhyming never ceases to amaze me. I so love that you “got” your husband by penpalling – and that you came to realize the writer in you. Think of all the lives you have blessed, still bless, by living the writerly life. It really is heartwork.
Anna,
so many of your lines made me smile:
Thanks for sharing your writing journey and wisdom.
Hi Erica, I didn’t think I’d have a moment to write today, but your prompt was exactly what I needed. The mentor poem is beautiful and your own poem, your “shout to the trees” was just the push I needed. Thank you!
It wasn’t until early November
I realized how naive I was,
of course there had been signs,
but always I believed
goodness triumphs. Truth outs.
In early November, the girl
with the braid down her back,
began to follow me.
I saw her so clearly. The plaid uniform.
The small hands and nail-bitten fingers
placed over the patch and pledging so earnestly.
And now, I should call her foolish,
I should say, grow-up. Go away.
Do you not see what is happening?
And yet, my small hands,
grown spotted and dry,
tremble and beckon her closer,
I cry to remember her innocence.
Her faith.
Stay with me, I whisper.
Show me how to believe.
Oh, Ann, this is the poem I wanted to write today. Thank you for crafting it. I love that girl with the braid down her back and how she has come alongside you again. I needed this poem today. Thank you.
Thank you, Ann. Your poem resonates with me today as well — especially the details of that girl and how you contrast the accusations of her “foolishness” with the desire to support her in her “innocence.”
That last line hits home too!
Ann, such a visual and alluring poem – I feel emotion building until the final plea, so full of longing. She’ll stay in my mind a long time, this girl with the braid down her the uniformed back, with little nail-bitten hands…my brain keeps putting fingerless gloves on them. I don’t know why! To comfort-?
Ann, I love the meditative quality to your poem, the journey with the girl in braids traveling alongside you, the invitation to keep her there with you, to reclaim her innocence and most especially, her ability to believe. This poem is healing for me, especially today. Thank you.
Ann, the reverence and the innocence and the faith here – – those last two lines just want to linger in my mind. I keep rereading, this is so beautiful.
Ann,
Thanks for this powerful poem. I, too, thought this election would be bring joy and safety for the little girls of our nation. We’ve got to keep showing up and doing our best for the
Erica, the language of water is used so gently throughout your poem, in washed out suns and fordings. I am reminded of how water births things, new days, new beings, new ways of being, and new you. Thank you for sharing you in your words today and for giving us a new poet to explore (Nest is beautiful!).
The Strike
It wasn’t until I opened the back door
And Shadow stumbled inside,
that I made the discovery.
I’d watched her stagger toward the house,
my heart clenching at the thought
that she’d been hit.
Just then, right then,
suddenly and all at once,
the realization struck me.
Too late to send her back out,
too late to start the day over,
too late to do anything but cry.
The smell still lingers,
just behind her ears,
three months later.
Oh, Jennifer, without identifying what Shadow’s strike was, you have identified it with your powerful, pungent poem. Well done!
Oh no! The smell lingers around here, too, in certain spots along the road – never have I seen so many skunks. Poor Shadow! Poor you! Aaargh. I have to say I saw a family of live skunks crossing the road last summer and marveled at how beautiful and diverse they are. I never knew this before. Every line of your poem is a gem, Jennifer. I’d have cried, too…whew.
Oh, Jennifer – – poor Shadow! I’m glad it was a skunk and not a car, but I can relate from the time our Archie got sprayed in our own garage. We had to sleep with t-shirts over our faces because it stunk up the whole house. I can’t imagine how it must have been when Shadow came in the house – – – oh, friend, I could cry for you all the way down here in Georgia.
Jennifer,
We had a cold day here in Iowa, so no classes. I shifted to extra dense mode, and in reading your poem, thought indeed Shadow had been hit by a car, and maybe the smell behind the ears was antiseptic or I don’t know what. Guess it has been a bit since one of my dogs got sprayed. Thank heavens for a community of poets who can lead me gently toward reality in the reflections they provide you.
Now, I am a big fan of the shift in the poem from catastrophic tragedy to tragic comedy. (I hope that is okay to say.) There is such an inherent too late-ness to owning dogs…Is Shadow a black lab?
Yes, she’s a black lab. And it absolutely was a tragic comedy. She’s the first of our dogs to have been sprayed. I had no idea it was so awful. I tossed rugs, towels, and scrubbed and rescrubbed, both her and everything else that clung to the stench. I’m hoping never again!
Erica, your experience reminds me of a discussion on Lord of the Flies about how there are people like Ralph who plunge right in, while most of us are like Piggy. We test the water first. Thank you for sharing and for your prompt, which woke me up and got me thinking this morning (like a good cup of joe).
If you are like me,
(Thank God, you are not),
Parents were grownups who
Put out their smokes in
Ashtrays you made in school.
(Yes, this really happened).
The minute company came,
(In the days when company came),
Your folks immediately offered coffee,
Which most took “just black”
And might have been made in
Something called a dripolator
On top of the stove.
I never took to
The art of smoking,
Daintily holding a cigarette
Between fore and middle fingers
While I do everything else.
And I was late to the coffee game.
My formative years as a
Teacher provided
Opportunities to study abroad.
It was in Strasbourg,
That coffee and I fell in love.
Except it was expresso
Served after the meal
Rich and well-sugared
in a tiny cup.
I suppose it wasn’t really
Until that first unforgettable sip
That I was finally a grownup.
That is an amazing and wonderful surprise. I love this ending!
Katrina, your poem brings back so many memories – the ceramic ashtrays in art class (we made them, too, wonky and glazed). I like the feeling of traveling the globe and then having a moment of sugary bitterness that you fall in love with at the end and realize that this is adulthood in one little tiny cup, sugar coated. Oh, the metaphors I see in the reality of the moment! I love it.
Katrina,
I loved the before and after explored in this poem — through the smoking and coffee of the past to how you view being a grown up now. I especially appreciate the level of detail and i learned a new word today: dripolator
Katrina, my son and I were just talking about coffee yesterday. We both LOVE the smell but cannot stand the taste. I thought by now (late 50’s) that I would acquire that adulthood marker (may parents began drinking coffee in their 50’s and it seemed such an adult thing to do). Maybe I’ll take a trip to Strasbourg and see if that makes the difference 😉
Katrina, like your poem from yesterday, I love reading the details of your youth and grownup stories. (And mine, like the smoking adults and handmade ashtrays.) I enjoyed imagining you with that first expresso. “Rich and well-sugared / in a tiny cup” makes me think I would like it, even though I have never developed a taste for coffee.
My grandfather smoked and it fascinated me in my young teen years. I could relate to your poem completely. I love your conclusion as well. I didn’t start drinking coffee until the morning after my third child was born. There’s probably a poem in that.
Katrina! Love these lines as I have that exact same memory. :
Wow, Katrina – how you take me back to my own childhood! The cigarettes, ashtrays, black coffee – I don’t recall a dripolator but definitely instant coffee, Nescafe. I tried a sip as a child and bleecchh… a miracle that I ever tried coffee again, loaded with cream and sugar, and that I now drink it black. Funny, life’s circular route. Your falling in love with that rich little cup makes me want to go brew some right now! What a rich rich poem – love the humor you used in your opening, too. It set such a welcoming, inviting tone – like in the days when company came. 🙂
Katrina, I love the parentheses in this with just the tone of candid commentary that tempers the absurd. Ashtrays. Ha!
Erica, your process is fabulous – easy to follow, and the mentor poem and your own are inspiring. I enjoy seeing how one seed of a process or topic or form takes us in different directions. Your poem is one of overcoming and triumph, and I am celebrating and cheering the invitation that you saw that the dog walkers only saw as an obstacle. A foot bath in nature! Oh, what a lovely perspective. I’m over here singing Climb Every Mountain from Sound of Music as I read your last stanza. What a way to start the day! Thank you for hosting us.
Scrap Paper Love Note
it wasn’t until
I went to make my coffee
that I found his note ~ ~ ~
amazing, cherished
sentiment on a receipt ~ ~ ~
scrap-paper surprise
and now my heart warmed
like steam from my Snoopy mug ~ ~ ~
love wafting outward
and yet he was gone
driving to Alabama
me, spooning honey ~ ~
and adding creamer~ ~
stirring joy, blending heartbeats
across the state line
Awwwwww. “scrap-book paper surprise” is fabulous…so is “spooning honey–” I hope you give this to him. It’s fabulous!
Thanks Kim! It was really fun to unpack the poem and then reshape it into something from my own brand of discovery. I enjoy your poem as well — especially the way you blend the details of a Snoopy mug and the “love wafting outward” just like steam from it! What a beautiful little detail that captures so much. I also love how sweet the phrase “spooning honey” is — such a lovely, warm pair of words.
Kim, this little glimpse of your morning, the ease and warmth and love, is just beautiful. I am caught in the word spooning, its placement, and its meanings, and how it brings together the care and nurturing you found in the scrap-paper surprise and in the morning coffee. How the steam of both love and drink combine and blend. How all the actions surrounding coffee spoon with all of the love you share.
Hi Kim! Your scrap-paper surprise is the perfect valentine! Just lovely!
Oh, Kim, this is just a precious love story poem. I see the ~ ~ ~ love and steam wafting in your punctuation. And the “blending heartbeats / across the state line” Gorgeous! I wonder if he could have imagined his love note sparking this poem. I hope you’ve sent it to him!
I love the scrap-paper love note surprise!
Kim, my husband usually gets up before me and has my breakfast and coffee ready… these small gestures have infinite value. I find you ending lines incredibly precious, with the honey/cream/coffee-stirring analogy: “Stirring joy. blending heartbeats/across the state line.” Aaaahhh.. so satisfying. And so true. The connection holds despite physical distance…love transcends all.
The hyphen-ish marl, not sure what it’s called works on so many levels here. Like the receipt ribbon, like a waiting ellipses, like scraps, like kisses or sips, and certainly heartbeats. Lovely.
oooooh, Erica, I had fun with this prompt. Thank you! The story of your poem draws me right in. I can feel that cold water and your satisfying retort to the trees. What a wonderful surprise in that cleansing.
I have a non-binary heron friend named Gladys who visits me at just the right moment in uncanny ways. I wrote about a recent encounter with them. I’m not including all my lines but the last few. Thanks for an amazing writing time today.
And now, I know that Gladys knows
all my fuss was nothing, really.
After seeing them
in the morning light–
after getting right
with my heron.
Linda, I’m hungry for more of Gladys’s appearances. Already, I am enamored with the idea of a non-binary heron who visits at the right moments. I know you mentioned that there is more to this poem, but I have to say that I love the part we get to read begins with And now. It makes me wonder if this stanza, wherever it appears in the original poem, could be the beginning. You inspire me to want to try it on my own – – to write a poem with a final stanza that begins And now and then to move the end to the beginning and see what happens. You know I’m jotting this amazing idea down, right?? Please share more of Gladys.
Linda, I am right with Kim in wanting more of Gladys AND in trying and “And now” poem, beginning at the end (Harry Potter’s Snitch open-at-the-close style). Your poem reminds me of the woman I follow on social media who befriended a crow, or he befriended her), named Marty (after Marty McFly??). I think we need a poem thread on Gladys!
Thank you Linda! I’m glad you enjoyed exploring this poem with me and thank you for sharing this bit about Gladys.
Linda, what fun! Gladys the heron. Who knew? And now…is an interesting place to start reading. It can stand alone, this stanza, and leave us wanting more.
Gladys! Like Kim, I want to hear more. How are you getting right? What truth does Gladys reveal?
You had me at heron…a favorite bird for me. When they fly, they defy gravity… anything but wicked. Prehistoric, maybe. I am utterly captivated by your partial poem, Linda!
Linda,
I, too, wrote about herons today. You captured the feeling I often have when seeing a heron. It feels like a sign that things are alright. Thank you for introducing me to Gladys.
Erica. your poem is captivating. So vivid – I could feel the sun-warmed rock, could feel the suspense building. When I was a child, my neighborhood often flooded; people would go down the watery road in rafts. No one ever lost a home, though. Your conclusion is a reminder that perspective is everything!
I didn’t write in lovely stanzas like you – your form is wonderful – I just let it roll out. The suggested line starters work so well. Thank you for this inspiration today!
Until I Discovered
It wasn’t until I discovered
the little old Bible
Inscribed by mother,
two months before I turned twelve:
Happy Birthday
a little early
that the pain changed
from something heavy and dull
that I’ve been dragging along behind me
for years
to a sharp-edged shard
in the core of my heart
And now, after two decades
apart, after having had to
cut myself (and my children)
off from her destructive ways
I have learned
(never mind how)
that she has probably died
(not that any of her family
would ever let me know)
And yet I remember
how she took me to church
(we walked; she didn’t drive)
how she made my dresses
how she tried to sing in the choir
until the director told her to stop
(she was off-key)
(partially deaf)
how she laughed
how she cried
how she tried
how she tried
how she tried
I do not know
if Hemingway is always right,
that we are strong
in the broken places…
my mother was broken
long before I was born
she is that shard
in my heart
not for the wrongs
not for regret
not for guilt
not for judgment
not for never reconciling
but the bright-sharp part
that was
so beautiful
despite all
Fran, thank you for reminding us of the “bright-sharp part / that was / so beautiful / despite all.” There is such redemptive beauty in those words.
Wow…so much story in this poem. It’s beautiful with that amazing ending. I think we all can connect with people that fit in this story somewhere. You make tenderness for someone difficult seem so possible.
Fran, you have a gift of sharing pain even though it brings a flood of emotions, in a way that raises the best parts of the past to the light and appreciates the good that once was. I need more of the ability in my own life to be able to parse out the pieces and sort them into piles and keep only the beautiful ones. You inspire me to do that. I once took a photograph of a little boy blowing a dandelion puff, and it reminds me that there will be weeds even in all the wishes. And though all hope seems lost in this lifetime, there will be perfection in the next. The truth is there, even if the gift is a little early or a little late. Your words always move me.
While having a form is fun, I also think it’s fun when we take that form and make it our own! So I am glad you did that here for this poem. I especially appreciated the shift from cried/tried and how you then emphasized that line with the repetition over and over! It emphasized the desperation and flowed well into that stanza with the Hemingway reference about strength in broken things.
What a beautiful poem, Fran. The heavy and dull pain, the repetition of how she tried, the recognition that your mother was broken long before you were born, just the whole movement of the poem towards something beautiful really moved me. It seems that is always a shard that opens our hearts…
Fran,
“so beautiful / despite all” What a poem of reconciliation and wonder at the vastness of life and forgiveness. Of love and maturing. This is beautiful that you have found that shard in your heart to be a remembrance of how she tried. Really powerful poem. A part of your verse memoir, I hope.
I feel your love for her despite the pain and disappointment. Your poem is a catharsis, a healing in a way that surprises me. (the bright-sharp part that was so beautiful) Forgiveness heals the forgiver.
I am captivated by the story in this poem and a surprise that your ending memories are so positive and beautiful. I wonder about the decades apart and how no-one in the family would ever let you know if she died.
Thank you, Erica, for investing in us today and for providing such a clear-cut model for good writing. Your mentor poem is so powerful and personal and the title “Flood” is simply perfect.
I had hoped to landed on some tangible discovery that I could describe as you do, but my mind seems to be taken up with the topic I ended up writing about.
Walking Away
It wasn’t until I changed my shoes and started hiking the halls that day on
my planning period
that I discovered that my life was getting ready to take a big turn —
it was November 21
and I was ready to retire.
I had tinkered with the idea for a few years
(once you near 55 or the Rule of 85 it sits there like a portal you’re intrigued by yet scared of )
but that morning a switch flipped.
It was that out of nowhere.
I was ready to walk through that portal and discover what was on the other side. .
And now, the deed is done.…
paperwork filed, letter submitted, board accepted, position posted.
I’ve told all keys players (except my students who won’t be affected, since they move on anyway).
And not once have I felt a blip of hesitation or regret.
They say you’ll know when you know.
And I know.
And yet, the first question everyone asks is:
“What are you going to do now?”
to which I say, “Nothing” then quickly add, “Whatever I damn well please.”
The French gave us the word retire
meaning literally “to draw back;
to withdraw to a place of safety
or seclusion.”
That’s what I want to do…
withdraw.
I’ve given my life, my days to other people’s kids,
expanding their horizons through reading and writing,
hoping to leave them more thoughtful, empathetic people.
I’ve worked alongside some wonderful people.
I have loved every second of it.
Until I didn’t.
I’m peopled out.
Now,
I’ll wait for the good Lord to reveal
What’s Next.
It’ll be something with no schedule, no bells, no state initiatives, no guideless 14-year-olds filled with rizz who yearn for more than they are getting at home.
And He may have to wake me up
and stir me from the couch to do so.
Because I’ll be retired.
~Susan Ahlbrand
21 January 2025
Susan, your words resound with me. Especially the line, “That’s what I want to do… / withdraw.” I have two years until I reach the rule of 80. It’s not that I don’t want to work. It’s that I would rather be with at home with my husband and my dogs right now. I think there is something very appealing about wanting to “‘to draw back; / to withdraw to a place of safety / or seclusion.’” Thank you for putting into words what has been pressing on my heart lately.
OH, my goodness, yes! I feel like you are telling my story. I want to retire…but it’s not quite time for me yet. I love this…just LOVE this.
Susan, I’m printing this and keeping it in the top of my jewelry box. It is SO where I almost am. Here in my state, we are the Age of 60 and the Rule of 90, so it’s a bit different. I like that you are not having one single second thought – – this is the part I need to dwell on. And the response, oh, that response…….Nothing. Whatever I damn well please. That will be what I, too, say, preceded by In the words of a favorite poet. And the best part is Jesus having to wake you up because you’ll be retired. Now THAT’S the best last stanza ever!
Oh, Wow, congratulations, Susan. What a great way to announce your retirement. I loved reading the details of your discovery to know you were ready. Then, even more, the meaning of retire and how God will have to wake you up from the couch with what’s next “Because I’ll be retired.” Perfect!
I like this sad description of your students. It makes me think this may be what has kept you from retiring earlier:
Susan, I have to confess… I love love love the line “I’m peopled out.” And the Good Lord having to wake you up to tell you what He wants you to do next. And: GOOD FOR YOU! (cue fanfare and confetti). My dad worked the same job for almost 41 years and died with three days to go before retirement. It has left me questioning things ever since. I adore your poem.
Susan, I love this! “[N]o schedule, no bells, no state initiatives” sound divine. And your “Whatever I damn well please” answer is perfect! I’ll need to remember that when I’m ready to go!