Day 1, March’s Open Write with Dr. Kimberly Johnson
Kimberly Johnson, Ed.D., is a literacy coach and media specialist in a public school in rural Georgia. A former public school classroom teacher for 20 Years, she taught all grades except 4th and 12th, and she is the author of Father, Forgive Me: Confessions of a Southern Baptist Preacher’s Kid.
Inspiration
Sharing memories, moments, messages…taking the hand of the reader and saying, “Come with me. Have you ever….?” As writers, we are diviners of stories that need to be told. Stories validate, motivate, educate. They have the power to change, they tell the truth, they call out injustice, they conjure the past and take us back there, they bring back lost loved ones, and they sing the unsung heroes in ways that regular prose cannot – yet the prose poems and flash essays in You are No Longer in Trouble by Nicole Stellon O’Donnell burst wide open, exploding with vivid memories. The recess wedding story took me back to my own childhood, reaching for my own indelible memories:
Marriage
The rash of weddings at recess continued until Mrs. Provencher had to give a talk. You are third graders. You cannot be married. Parents had called to express their concerns. The margarine tubs full of violets in your desk were bouquets and the flower girls had carried them, stems pressed into foil pilfered from the kitchen drawer. She can say what she wants, but you were married to Doug M. all those years ago, bound by asphalt promises over the screech of the swings’ metal chains.
Choose any form of verse today that shares a vivid memory story – perhaps one that evokes pain, humor, fear, love, or any other strong emotion that still lives on….dive into the pool of memories that need to be told – – and bring it to the surface with words and images!
Kim’s Verse
This poem is dedicated to every kid (including my brother Ken) who ever found the courage to take a leap and anyone who ever helped make it happen
The Two-Scoop High-Dive Foot-First Feat
from the high dive of the Sea Island Beach Club
the cool blue pool was the earth from space
we tiptoed to the end
shivered,
chickened-out
crept back again
carefully glued
to the middle
down the ladder
we soothed
our trembling limbs
slunk across
to the ice cream stand
averting our eyes
from the lowered shades
of the sunbathers
mocking our courage
but then-
then
then the tall black ice cream man
in his white paper hat
and white stringed apron
who in the mid-1970s
could spot defeat of every kind
took one look and knew
just what to do
he perked up:
playfully goofed-up his gaze
eyebrows raised
mouth ablaze with a smile
flashed his bright white teeth
with a gold-crowned tooth
and asked
“Two Scoops??”
of course
he already knew
but we shyly smiled
and nodded, whispered
“yes sir, chocolate, please”
he dipped into
the freezer
with his scooping spoon
rolled up two spheres
of a world we
could
dive into
consuming it
one lick at a time
as we sat
on the vinyl-strapped
pool chairs
in the cool shade
to stay
ahead of the
melting drips
trickling down the cone
to the last sugary
mouthful
then
sticky-fingered
off we scooted
whistle-warned
by the lifeguard
“Walk!”
he scolded
and the sunshades lowered
again
our courage drooped
again
Mom’s head raised
from her sunbathing
at the whistle
somehow knowing
her shades, too, lowered
eyes adjusting
peering out
spotting our
chocolate-rimmed mouths
rebuked us –
“30 minutes of no swimming
for our stomachs to settle”
(the true fake news)
so we swooshed our feet
in the baby pool
for forever
and waited
and waited
and waited
until finally
her groovy
sunhat moved
and she released us
with the attitude
of an Olympian
we marched surely
back to that ladder
climbed with confidence
and strode to the end
of that board
peeked over the edge
shuddered again
from outer space
looming over the tiny speck
of world below
crept back
to the ladder down
stooped
stopped
closed our eyes
turned around
took a deep breath
clenched our fists
stepped forward
one foot at a time
then
fueled by a double dip of new truth
opened our eyes
looked straight ahead
took off
and flew over the edge
executing the greatest
Two-Scoop High-Dive Foot-First Feat
ever
in the history of the world
and we knew it
because
from
behind the ice cream stand
we saw
a wreath of smiling teeth
one gold glint
festooning
two
thumbs up
Your Turn to Write & Respond
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. See the image for commenting with care. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming.
Thank you, Cara, for the reminder!! This was such a fun process of remembering and capturing. I still remember this moment vividly, though it happened decades ago.
Betrayal
Summer sun sizzled in through the windows, making the crowded room even more cramped.
It almost felt like church more than my birthday.
Despite the insufferable heat, my family gathered to celebrate me.
Eight candles blazed atop the Bubbles the Powerpuff Girl emblazoned blue birthday cake.
7 uncles began the birthday tune. 3 aunts chatted. 13 cousins drooled for cake. Countless neighbors joined in the chorus. 1 grandpa smiled with pride. 3 (yes 3) grandmas sat patiently. My mother posed next to me. My father held the camera. Brother and sisters planned their own parties in their heads. Hali, my allotted friend, shouted the lyrics the loudest. All eyes on me.
I made a wish and blew out 7 candles.
Yes.
Only 7.
It was all my little lungs allowed.
1 still glowed and I tried to blow it out before anyone would know.
“Who’s the boyfriend?” the men’s choir teased.
My cheeks blushed for I certainly did have a crush. But my uncles could never know.
Before my mom could mute her brothers, a loud singing voice from my left projects:
“She likes Chad L!”
I felt as if I had been crucified.
She did not understand the teasing I would endure. She broke the only rule there was to young friendship. My heart was punctured
My cheeks were suddenly wet. All eyes on me once more.
It seemed as if my language failed—I had not yet learned the word for betrayal.
Gads, the pack of family you had as an audience! I love the voice in this, it really sounds like your child-self feeling the pressure and embarrassment. I love your last line very much–so apt for an eventual English teacher.
This went from having me smiling to breaking my heart. So much to unpack here. I LOVE the numbering. Never start a sentence with a number, right? NOT! The use of the number symbols works well in this structure. All of those numbers whittled down to one betrayal that supersedes them all in the narrator’s feelings. POWERPUFF GIRLS! Though I’m too old to have grown up with them, they are a reference that spans generations – especially for GRRLS! The simple singular details throughout are what make this writing stick: sizzled, insufferable, emblazoned, drooled, allotted. Nice full circle metaphor from the church reference to the crucifixion to the betrayal – the last supper.
The sting of betrayal! Ouch. I was hanging on from beginning to end. You’ve shared this painful memory with such rich detail and imagery that I may have been blowing your 8th candle for you. I felt somehwat grateful that the secret was indeed Chad L. and not someone that could’ve hurt even more. My mind was all over the place. Thank you and I’m glad I came back to read it this morning.
?
Night Hike
By: Emily Yamasaki
I don’t remember much
my first grade teacher’s name
favorite stuffed animal
elementary friends or enemies
zilch
But the soft crunch of the dried leaves
under each step of my Skechers
we were leaving footprints on the trail
subtle, but present
In the pitch darkness
only a night hike in the forest
can conjure
Our teachers – don’t remember their names either..
giving directions to pair up
for the short stretch of hike
we get to do alone
I couldn’t even see the air
that was surely floating from
our lips in the cold
but I could hear every one of your breaths
Without saying anything to one another
we stepped into the night together
I don’t know when it happened
but as we took the last few steps
I realized we were holding hands
This night at sixth grade camp
This, I remember
Emily!
Glad to have a late night writer like myself tonight on the west coast. Thanks for sharing this story with us. I felt like I was with you, on that hike. And I love that this is the memory you remember.
Thank you for this. I likewise struggle with details from so long ago (my long ago being so much longer ago). The subtilty of naming a shoe brand sears an image in my mind. The leaves, the unseen breaths – I am envious at such ability to conjure details. The lifelong imprint of a touch, and how that comes full circle to this: “we were leaving footprints on the trail / subtle, but present.” It makes me wonder how intentional that choice was for the writer, or was it a happy accident the reader puts together? Either way – beautiful and so youthful and innocent.
What a wonderful memory! I especially loved this verse:
I couldn’t even see the air
that was surely floating from
our lips in the cold
but I could hear every one of your breaths
It really brought home such wonderful imagery . . . . . such talent!!!!
Good morning Emily,
What a sweet memory! I love the trusting risks you all took out there with teachers you don’t even remember. That says VOLUMES! The ending is truly special.
I didn’t expect it at all. Happy I didn’t miss your poem today since I didn’t last long yesterday.
?
I love this prompt! Thank you for letting me reminisce. I read this to my mom and she was completely unaware that we’d ever done this, but she said it reminded her of the adventures she and her sister had had.
Running Away
At the ages of seven and nine
We were pretty sure we were ready for the world.
We rode our bikes up and down the road,
Spent hours playing in the neighbor’s horse corrals,
Dragged a 30 foot chain home we found in a field,
Climbed trees, sheds, and boulders.
So clearly, we were ready to be on our own.
We packed a few snacks,
And a bit of money from our piggy banks,
And took off on our banana seat bicycles
After telling our mother we’d be playing in the field up the road.
We got to that field and sat there a bit,
Pondering our options.
Convinced of our readiness,
We rode on,
Pedaling past the end of our street and beyond.
Our house was in the hills,
Not really close to much,
But we rode past parks,
And houses and apartments,
Finally arriving at a gas station mini-mart.
It was getting chilly and we realized
Our money wouldn’t go as far as we thought.
Without a lot of discussion,
We rode home,
Arriving just a bit before dinner time.
Neither my sister nor I said a word.
We just slipped back into the routine.
The years have changed the world now,
No longer can kids run safely free
Without someone checking on them
By sight or by phone or by never leaving their side.
But for me, I miss the brazen freedom
In my wild years, running loose
And learning the comfort of choosing to come home.
This memory had me holding my breath until the end. Thank you for sharing!
I like how timeless and applicable this piece is to anyone, especially with that last line “and learning the comfort of choosing to come home.” I also love the details you chose to include. It made me feel like I was there with you.
That. Is. So. Beautiful. a way to close this poem. I just “Awed” out loud. I was not expecting that, which is what makes a great poem for me. Banana seat bike, heck yeah. And secretly going outside of boundaries. Today, yes, not something we would see without being worried for those kids. The title had me immediately. What kid hasn’t once imagined running away? What is that? It must be something we all go through at some point in our lives (what adult doesn’t imagine just getting in a car and driving off into nowhere at times?). Establishing how these kids explored their world first – what looking back the narrator considers ‘having adventures’ helps set the tone for their wanting and being ready for more. It could be a disappointment to them that they did not achieve what they had imagined, but, instead, the reflection at the end makes this seem a great triumph, in ways never expected but fully embraced by this reader. Lovely.
Three
Little girls
Safely tucked inside
The tan station wagon
Keeping bears at bay in
Their cozy steel and glass refuge
Yellowstone was known for audacious gutsy grizzlies
She arrived one night and ate our bacon
And scarfed the boysenberry jam from the can then
Took a stroll throughout the campsite leaving dusty and sticky
Pawprints across the teenagers’ sleeping bags and tarp “bed”
But the torpid teens slept like a shipwreck
Throughout the visitation. The next morning buzz
Fascinated, yet terrorized three little girls
Who thankfully returned to their
Station wagon that night
Safely peacefully tucked
Inside their
Refuge
Love, love, love this line “Fascinated, yet terrorized three little girls” – it makes me think how women together are strong and fortified! So glad they were together! Love the ‘look’ of your poem, how the lines build in length, and then recede; the entire poem points like the tip of an arrow. Cool!
Love the alliteration in “torpid teens.” This is a much more a harrowing memory than you may realize. Bears will roll cars and break into them. Was there no bear box at your campsite? Station wagons evoke strong memories for me. I’ll never visit Yellowstone again w/ out thinking about this story. I also love the look of your poem. To me it suggests a tent.
I love the description of the bear’s journey through the campsite. What an amazing story!
Hilarious! I did not know the word ‘torpid’ before today. Glad to add that one to my vocab. And who on earth comes up with a metaphor “slept like shipwrecks”?! I am SO jealous of that kind of creative mind! I love metaphors and bristle at cheap ones (generally used by academic administrators and politicians). This one is a new high on my love list. I can also hear “The next morning buzz” – such a great way to capture the myriad emotions of the moment.
I absolutely loved the fun in your poem. Like any good poem, you brought me into that tan station wagon with you, and I enjoyed it tremendously. I especially like your format – so clever. I always enjoy reading your entries you are so incredibly talented!
Denise, this is nail-biting and fun at the same time! I love this description:
The station wagon is a character worthy of this desciption and power! Thankful the 3 terrorized little girls had this refuge after a very scary experience!
Wow!
Denise — What a moment to resurrect! Yikes, three little girls who could’ve been a midnight snack for that sticky pawed behemoth! I love the architecture of the piece…the rise and the fall from tucked in…back to refuge… with a big, honkin’ BEAR in between! Whoo! Susie
What a great prompt, Dr. Johnson! I tried to mimic the prose-poem style of Weddings. What fun!
It must stop, Mrs. Seymour said. Sign language did not belong in the fifth-grade classroom. It was distracting and excluded classmates. (What’s the purpose of secret code if not to exclude? What’s a best friend for if not to share private language?) Our crime: the British two-handed manual alphabet. (No internet. Had we found it in Worldbook?) Our stubby fingers punched the air, against the boredom of endless mimeographs, thawing our stupor for a few days. Mrs. Seymour shut us down. But not before we’d learned our single lasting lesson of grade five.
Oh, goodness! In sixth grade, my best friend and I used to finger-spell to each other in the orthodontist’s office. This brought it all back.
Oh, Allison, what a memory. You have given it a beautiful retelling in the prose-poetry style of O’Donnell. I love the last line. It sadly points to what teachers can take away from the genius of their students.
This is so wonderful! I remember creating codes for notes we passed in class. I love the perfect portrayal of the secret world that goes on behind the teacher’s back in classrooms. This is the line that called to me: “Our stubby fingers punched the air, against the boredom of endless mimeographs, thawing our stupor for a few days.” It struck me how the boredom of virtual learning could certainly use some punching up. 🙂
My friend Stephanie and I bought a book called “Kids’ World Almanac” from the book fair in 5th grade. We learned sign language from it and did the same thing. Thanks for reminding me of my own memory through yours!
Allison — the prose-poem form works so well here. And the story just shot me right back to my own crazy kid days of “passing notes”… coded and goofy. That Mrs. S found this a “crime” is a particularly interesting piece of the situation. While I love the creativity of your sign language, I wonder that Mrs. S was so rattled by it. Of course, excluding others is a fussy mess, yet…her mimeographs “thawing our stupor” really tells the tale. Allison, this poem is a perfect piece to examine in a classroom with your students…I can’t help but think the discourse would be super rich… whose side would kids take and how would they defend their positions… a fun debate and all the while the kids would love knowing that you were this frisky kid.
Back in the day,
before rubber-tipped bats
and catcher’s masks,
we played with real
equipment before school started.
In fifth grade one day.
my team was winning at
baseball.
My crush, Vic and I
were taking mess and being sassy.
We told the other
team that we were gonna
beat their pants off.
When the other team was at bat,
Vic was running his mouth
and got too close.
The batter swung back quickly.
I saw blood and teeth
and heard moaning.
I was shocked and heartbroken
and all of us cried that day.
That was the first time I’d ever prayed
for a friend and worried about
someone other than my parents.
I drew a picture for him and wrote a note full
of hearts and rainbows.
We turned them into
his mom when she visited.
Vic returned about 10 days later
with silver capped teeth, a swollen mouth
and a few stitches.
I hugged him and he asked
when was the next baseball game.
He also said he liked my drawing the best
and I was in heaven.
Oh, Seana! This poem is packed with memory, imagery, authenticity, and truth. What more can I ask for? I love how you blend the horror of the actual experience with the (equally genuine) childhood crush. LOVE!
Seana, what a sweet memory poem, with so many layers of emotion! Wow. It was cringeworthy in the best sense of the word…
Then the end when he comes back safely and his crush is there to greet him. Happy ending.
What a wonderfully detailed rollercoaster! I was laughing out loud at ” taking mess and being sassy” then gasped at “The batter swung back quickly. / I saw blood and teeth” – even though the lead-up to this was right there, “Vic was running his mouth / and got too close.” – it still shocked me. The shift to “and all of us cried that day” makes me think of how truly compassionate children can be in the most genuine ways. These lines marking a moment of growth, even leaving that innocence in a way, “That was the first time I’d ever prayed / for a friend and worried about / someone other than my parents.” That is indeed rite of passage or emotional growth for us as humans. The focus on the mouth throughout is both an overt and subtle thread throughout.
Good morning Seana! Whew, this is a doozie! I, too, loved playing baseball and any games the boys would “allow” us girls to play. My goodness, your Vic is lucky to be alive. I think this is the most powerful and loving part of your memory:
Thankful you learned to pray!
??
Dad
By Mo Daley 3-13-21
We were the early risers in a bustling household
You were 52, and in the last year of your short life
I was 7 and had no idea how cruel the world could be
We sat at the kitchen table
You at the head
And me squeezed close to you on the bench
I thought you looked so silly with the dab of zinc oxide under your nose
I didn’t know how those frequent torrential nosebleeds took such a toll on you
I was just so happy to be with you
Alone
Together
When you gently touched your still warm coffee spoon to my elbow
And reminded me,
“Elbows off the table…Marry before you’re able,”
I didn’t know it would be the last time
Mo, what a poignant memory. I love how you show your father in the opening and then pull us into the moment, that kind of last moment, you never forget. Very powerful poem!
Mo, looking back on that moment of words and those memories that have lasted seem bittersweet – – you bring the life of your dad’s love alive so that we can see what a bright spot you were in each other’s worlds.
Mo — You pull your us into this vivid moment so expertly. These are such beautiful and tender memories!
This was beautiful. In exacting images, you take me to the 7-year-old, the father. We just never know what moments will be with us for the long haul. Thank you for this wrenching, lovely memory.
I love the intimacy of this poem. You beautifully capture a moment in time that seems so inconsequential at the time, but lives on as a precious memory. Thank you for sharing.
Still warm coffee spoon.
This phrase is hitting me right in the chest. What a beautiful memory and so many emotions wrapped into this poem. Thank you for sharing this slice of your memory with us.
Oh Mo, you made me cry with this piece – probably because I’m such a Daddy’s girl myself. I am sitting at that kitchen table with you. Thank you for sharing such an intimate memory.
Sprinklers
There was always something going on at Nan~Nan and Granddaddy’s house…
Family dinners, Christmas parties, and backyard barbecues.
But, Summertime at Nan~Nan and Granddaddy’s meant getting wet.
Granddaddy unrolled the long, green plastic hose with the metal nozzle and dragged it out into the yard.
He carefully aligned the grooves of the sprinkler, the kind from which water arched back and forth. and
Methodically twisted until the two were tightly secured.
From the first spray of water, we were giddy as school girls. Oh, wait, we were school girls.
Who would go first? We knew that water was coming out cold as ice.
1, 2, 3…Screams of shock and delight as we jumped in together; pretending to be avoiding the spray;
But, really wanting to get as wet as possible.
What a lovely summertime memory, Donetta! I can just about hear those shrieks of joy. Thanks for reminding me that summer is on its way!
Donetta, I love the joy in this poem. It reminds me of times I experienced a sprinkler, which you so clearly etch in the second stanza. I could see that sprinkler squirming on the ground. Loved the “screams of shock and delight”. Beautiful poem!
Donnetta, those days of the sprinkler out in the grass, running through the water, carefree childhood times of fun and play – – bare feet and swimsuits – – you’ve captured it all right here and put summer in a frame for us to admire and look back on and forward to!
Donnetta — Oh, yes! I can see and feel this moment, and your words brings back my own memories of summer and sprinklers when I was a kid.
Someone – maybe Stacy – whispered the word first: snow. Eyes shifted. Heads swiveled. Then someone cried “Snow!” and old Mrs. Rish’s quavering voice could no longer keep us in our seats. 24 bodies tumbled towards the windows and flattened their fingertips against the frigid glass. But Mrs Rish believed that magic could not co-exist with mathematics: “Children! Sit down! You have all seen it snow before!” Spell-broken, children trudged back towards their desks, but I was frozen in place.
“I haven’t.”
My teacher melted. “Oh yes. That’s right. Everyone but Mandy, back to their seats.”
For one day in fifth grade, fractals were my math and magic.
Is it okay if I tell you twice how much I love this poem? I hope you’ll share it w/ your students.
Amanda, I’m glad that your teacher let you stay at the window to see it. Your description of Mrs. Rish’s belief that magic and math could not coexist shows the strict teacher in her. I’m glad you got to feel the magic.
Great teacher, great memory, great magic…
What a lovely moment of truth you’ve written. The kindness that revealed the real person inside your “old Mrs. Rish” is poignant. May we all remember to honor our kids’ experiences as she did for you.
I love this poem and I love the you go to experience the magic of snow that day.
Favorite babysitter
The parcel shelf is
packed tightly with her
claw-machine winnings:
a fuzzy rainbow assembly–
the most impressive trophy case
to a five and seven-year-old.
Her sedan rolled into
the strip mall parking lot;
heat waves curl from the pavement.
Built to resemble the facades
of Old Western towns,
Boomerz was centered like the crown jewel
with its oversized black and yellow sign
stamped like a comic book “Pow!”
(As a twenty-five-year-old, I’d
frequent this same establishment for
cheap whiskey-sodas and Lone Stars,
free and open pool tables—
a refuge from the hip bars across town
teeming with my peers and cold-shoulders.)
But today, we’re here for the
Cherry Pop-Tarts, that we’ll buy
at the convenience store
down the sidewalk, and
the big-screen cartoons.
While we sit at the bar,
elbows barely clearing the ledge,
skinny legs dangling like minnows,
we eat our crumbling, cold pastries and
watch, big-eyed “Penelope Pitstop.”
She counts the drawers and
preps the bar for the evening crew.
Did someone say cherry pop tarts? Because I’m all in. Especially if they are the kind that we put a little dollop of butter on before toasting in the toaster oven until the edges browned and the top glistened all buttery. Cold was good, too – – but toasted, just the mention of a cherry pop tart brings childhood rushing back.
What a sweet memory. You have put an image in our heads and hearts of those two little girls, “skinny legs dangling like minnows” The crumbling cold pastries and even the name of the cartoon conjures up memories for me as I relieve yours. Beautifully done.
The last stanza is incredibly clear in my mind. Cherry pop tarts and legs dangling. It’s like I’m right there with you.
Oh Kim! Was THERE through every detail of that experience with you. I LOVE that! While I (honestly) generally do not care to go dredging through memories, I was absolutely flooded this time. I can’t believe what a variety of responses a prompt like this can elicit, and I gobbled up reading so many – I need more time to go back and properly respond – but what a great inspiration you all are today. I needed this. And for whatever reason, this particular event would not move out of the way for others, so it makes the board today. Thank you all.
Central Elementary 1975
The third floor of our elementary school was off limits. We knew the lead pipe-lined steam room in the bowels from our air raid practices, our bare knees against dusty concrete, our heads tucked between them held in place by tightly finger-woven hands against our necks. But the third floor was forbidden. It housed the high school before the city grew and the new building on the hill took charge of teens. There were stories: ghosts and jars with fetuses in formaldehyde – a cow, a dog, some said a real human baby. My hand on the steel curve of the door pull, my intestines rumbling with nervous fear, my little sister on lookout one flight below. I slid behind the heavy metal barrier and stepped lightly down the darkened hallway, peering through each door window before cautiously walking past. Empty classroom after empty classroom. Dozens of empty table chairs. Empty chalkboards. Empty teachers’ desks. Until, at the end of the hallway, the Science Room. I stopped breathing as my eyes widened to take in the detail. Backlit by the tall unshaded windows, wooden shelves lined with giant pickle jars of yellowy liquid. What was it I saw? The floating shapes glowed unrecognizable. Pale and squishy looking. Nothing I could make out or understand. A loud thump. My sister stomped the floor in warning. My bladder let loose a little, and I turned and ran on tip-toes back to the exit, down the stairs, half colliding half hugging my sis as we bolted in a flurried silence out onto the street, then ran a full two blocks before we slowed to catch our breath. “Did you see it?” she asked in gulping gasps. I nodded. “What did you see? What’s there?” I gathered up my breath as we continued walking home, my hands shaking. I started laughing. “I peed myself,” I said. “Gross!” she smacked my arm. “What did you see?” I stopped, hands on my knees, taking one deep breath then another. “It’s just like they said,” I hissed. “Babies.”
Denise, what an experience of fear and anticipation all at the same time. That stomping of the foot – – and the pee really brings the reader into the feeling of fear for you and your sister. This quick moment in the prose poetry/flash essay style is so captivating and engaging that I couldn’t stop reading. That last word is still haunting me. And I love that about your writing.
I love how “Gross!” is the reply to peeing yourself rather than all the other bits of this tense/ scary/ exciting moment. You’ve captured the wild mixture of emotions that overwhelm us when we don’t understand. “‘It’s just like they said,’ I hissed. ‘Babies.'” Brilliant last line.
Friday night drive
The last fall we lived in Waynesboro we spent most weekends at Hilton Head. Friday nights found my dad at the steering wheel, my mom beside him, and Bill, Jon and me in the back seat on the highway to the coast.
Outside the roads were dark, AM radio filled the inside of the car, the 5 of us too tired for much talk. We’d driven this road so many times. The car seemed to know the way.
Riding in the back our heads nodded to our shoulders, dozing to the dark and the hum of the road. Til the hum gave way to tires slowing against a grassy shoulder seconds before the bumper met the fence.
Somehow my dad missed the turn. Too long a week. Together Bill and I giggled. Our dad always did everything right. Between us tears rolled down Jon’s cheeks.
For the remainder of the drive the car was even quieter. We crossed the bridge on to the island and after a short time pulled on to the gravel drive. Home.
Jamie, this hits home in a big way for me today. I lived on Hilton Head from 1979 to 2006, so I am envisioning your drive over the bridge from the island to the mainland and the feeling of pulling into home. I’m glad you were all okay and avoided a fender bender. That grassy shoulder was the cushion that kept things from being worse. I’m thinking Jon’s tears were from laughter, too.
Jamie – HH was a favorite family vacation spot for us, and I could smell the air as I read your poem. I found the pace and cadence of your words as softly lulling as the drive you describe until the abrupt run-in with the fence and the shorter sentences that come after. What a beautiful way to make form reflect content. Thank you for sharing!
I would gladly return,
Not for the charm
Of the Alsatian town
With its warm and
Welcoming street lights,
But for the espresso,
Strong and sharp,
Paired with chocolate mousse.
This rendezvous
With the dark and smoky drink
Would be a first for me.
It would ruin me on the drink.
I would return home scoff
At the Mr. Coffee I would buy
In a foolhardy attempt
To replicate the experience.
True to our nature,
America would seek
To capitalize on the
Best the continent has to offer.
Now I can have a quickie
With an espresso in a
Green and white cardboard cup
In the comfort of my hybrid.
Almost thirty years have passed since
That first sip.
What I would do to go back…
Katrina, I love travelling to a new place with you through espresso and mousse–how delicious! Your poem makes me yearn for new travel experiences that I can bring home, but also grateful for the new desires that travel inspires and how we hold them dear in our home lives.
I love the language use here and how you take something like enjoying coffee/espresso and make it come across like a love affair.
Katrina — The sense of a simple pleasure is so strong here. “what I would do…” – Yes, indeed! I love the notion that something wonderful would “ruin me…” — aah, simple pleasures have that thread of anything but simple… all those things that change us. Lovely. Thank you. Susie
Traveling inspires us to do all kinds of things in the kitchen to try to replicate what was served on our journey. I’m thinking of pasta arrabbiata in Italy, I love your final line: What I would do to go back………
oh, the moments that we relive as we think back on the sensory experiences of meals. Those Mr. Coffees just don’t do espresso justice, any more than arrabbiata sauce in a jar……so we will have to go back!
Katrina, there is nowhere in the world I love more than Alsace. Thank you for bringing those wonderful memories back to me tonight!
Kim, I remember this poem by Stellon O’Donnell. Her poetry was a buoy during the pandemic.
Yes – so many deep and concentrated moments in her book. She took a style all her own and ran with it. I love her stories, too.
(In)Dependence
So much depends on a
little red wheelbarrow
but ours was orange
loaded with rich dark soil.
We circled around it
basking in its earthiness.
Hands buried deep in its
warmth and promise.
“You know,” Mama said,
“Ain’t nothing wrong
with getting your hands
dirty.
Don’t you ever let anybody
tell you any
different.”
Hmm
As if she read my mind
she continued,
“Even you girls.”
Having the permission I didn’t
realize I needed
I buried my hands just
that
much
deeper.
With the sun on our backs
we laid soil and seed
that meant salsa
and green beans
and strawberries
and corn for canning
and freezing for the year.
So much depends on a
little orange wheelbarrow.
Chea, I love how you incorporated and circled back to borrowed lines. Those last two stanzas are so refreshing and visceral–to think of that deep dirt-diggin’ and sun yielding those fresh snacks. A beautiful reminder of the power of mothers!
Definitely love the allusion here to that other famous wheel barrow. I enjoyed the imagery as well — digging hands into the dirt and knowing what was to come from it — the playing with words from soil to salsa was delightful!
I love that you took William Carlos Williams’ first line and made it uniquely yours and put your story with it. And gave it a circular ending.
I love how this brought me back to playing in the dirt with my mom, planting seeds and wondering about the magic that happened to make them sprout. I also really love the wheelbarrow frame–it works perfectly.
Meet you at Hecker’s!
Meet you at Hecker’s!
someone
must have asked permission
someone was first
all I know is
kids had been playing on his front lawn
since long before we moved in
Meet you at Hecker’s!
Mr. Hecker’s front lawn
the only one on the street without
trees or shrubs or flowers or
a concrete sidewalk to divide it up into parts
just one big rectangle of bare grass
inviting
Meet you at Hecker’s!
Mr. Hecker lived alone
the only house on the street that wasn’t bursting
with children or pets or relatives or wiggliness of any kind
just him and
all of us
Meet you at Hecker’s!
every kid in the neighborhood
every afternoon after school every day all summer
impromptu football, frisbee, footraces, flags to be captured,
he saw it all from his front window
our laughter and our bickering
so much foolishness and sweat
children at play
he welcomed it all
Meet you at Hecker’s!
I remember those impromptu football games, though I never liked being tackled. At the risk of sounding old school, it saddens me to think about how technology has diminished the allure of the outdoors for all of us.
What a lovely memory. The natural sense of belonging – kids had been playing on his front lawn
since long before we moved in. From the feeling of your words I sense you all brought a joy to his place by the window – he welcomed it all.
Have you read Joe Knowles’s book “Meet Me at Harry’s”? It’s the first thing I thought about as I read, although I’m not sure why. I’m so glad Mr. Hecker welcomed you all. I love the image of a big rectangle of grass where children play under the watchful eye of a caring neighbor.
This idea of the meeting spot of our childhood – Hecker’s – is what I wish more of today’s children could experience. Our world has changed so much that Hecker’s is no longer safe, and so we meet online…..never knowing the joy of those impromptu games and interactions. You were indeed blessed!!
What a treat for you AND Mr. Hecker! I can just imagine the stories he’d tell. 🙂
Kim, what a wonderful prompt! It has been such a joy to read all these story poems. Quite refreshing. Thanks.
Kim — I was with you on that high dive. You captured those childhood memory so vividly. The narration of trepidation and then conquering the fear so embodies summer!
The Joy of Reading to You
In the womb, you heard my voice and knew
I would always read to you …
Chunky board books rich with rolling rhythm and rhyme,
Silly and sassy syllabications sprang like song from thick pages
and you crawled into my lap, pressed your forehead to mine,
in the days before you could even take a step
and as you toddled and grew into a little boy
into preschool,
picture books crowded onto our shelves
overflowed onto all flat surfaces,
table cloths of words, layered lexicon,
wonder, waiting to be consumed …
and there you were always the first to
clamber onto the storytime rug
Each afternoon when your 6, 7, 8, 9 year old body
was bursting with energy, and your need to move
caused agitation and sometimes crisis at school
you sought the melody of words
which became your balm, your sanctuary from nonconformity
and each evening became a symphony
as we huddled together
and fifteen minutes melded into 60
one book into many
Oh, the worlds that opened!
Oh, how you let the words simmer and brew
your vocabulary grew
and your own concoctions you drew
Elementary school, middle school,
Your head always buried in a book
Fantasy, history, sci fi …
and although Harry Potter became your
friend in second grade,
we still found the spot
where the springs had less spunk
and the coach sunk
the place to read together a chapter or two
At the sagacious age 12
you remind me of what you’d read in a research study,
“Reading to your child until they are 14 is beneficial”
Yes, you knew and I knew too
This is how you grew
High school, college, now an adult …
the saggy couch has been replaced,
no longer do we press our foreheads together
but
still we share the words of wonder
words that speak to us, sing to us, connect us …
because
in the womb, you heard my voice and knew
I would always read to you …
Oh, I love this! How I loved reading to my kids! You can see how your son grew into such a voracious reader, so beautiful – “still we share the words of wonder.” I just (re-)listened to Naomi Shihab Nye on OnBeing podcast, and she talks about standing in the hallway outside her adolescent son’s bedroom and waking him to poetry, as she read aloud to him, and I wanted a do-over, to do this magic with my boys, too. Your poem reminded me of this! I am a huge fan of alliteration, and this phrase was especially lovely: “Silly and sassy syllabications sprang “
What a perfect title to a poem that captures the joy of reading to/with your child. I don’t think my son could recite the lines of CAPS FOR SALE or TIKKI TIKKI TEMBO, though I can. But he did just text me to say he is off to Barnes and Noble.
There is something about a circular ending that captures the passage of time and still preserves the continuance. I love, love, love this…..particularly this line:Oh, the worlds that opened!
Our Savior’s Church (Copenhagen)
by Susan Osborn
A Danish guide
promised a fantastic view.
“Follow to the top of the church.”
An ancient clock
mechanical wheels
counting time
Four hundred steps
A dark ladder to the top
climbing
emerging
a rooftop door then outside
winding on the edge of the spire
reaching
a panoramic view
of red tile roofs.
“Certainly,” I thought
“this can’t be hard.”
I didn’t see the large grin
spreading
ear to ear
on his face
as I followed behind.
My skin buffetted
by cold air
blowing over
serpentine steps
getting more narrow
rimming to the point
ending in one small final step.
I knew I would have memories
unforgettable.
I wasn’t afraid of heights
no vertigo or dizziness.
I took four steps upward
shakingly
carefully.
Three more steps.
This had to be done
before the bells would toll
on the hour
and deafen my ears.
Two more steps.
My body rebelled.
“What are you doing” said body to brain
and questioned my sanity.
Just another step.
winding
scarier
Then my legs stopped.
My brain said “Go!”
My body said “No!”
frozen stiff
Neither forward or backward
I couldn’t move
amazed
frustrated.
I sat down on my rear
giggling
humiliated
and began to scoot
my way down
defeated
while those Vikings in Valhalla were having a laugh.
O Susan! What a thrilling experience! Sounds very scary. I can understand the brain thinking it’ll be me easy when the body says otherwise. Glad the Vikings in Valhalla had a laugh! ?
My legs are sore just from reading your poem and what about that fantastic view? Love it!
Oh, the pain of those moments of sore muscles and a body that doesn’t want to cooperate. You bring us to those steps of remembrance……times we thought we could run marathons without training or climb hundreds of random steps without tiring.
You got me huffing and puffing? Whew.
This brought back memories of traveling in England, climbing rickety steps and holding on to frayed ropes, wonder how aging bell ringers did this every day! Thanks for the memory..
SHENANIGANS
It’s true, I have the brains of a chicken —
scratchin’ around in the dust,
looking for who knows what.
Case in point, the week before senior year —
my buddy Dee and I made the most of my $28 balloon-tired bicycle,
slathered blue and white with leftover house paint.
One bike and two teenagers,
it was perfect math
and a gorgeous tees-n-shorts Saturday;
one on the seat and one on the broad, cradling handlebars,
taking turns
pedaling and wending
down through Cool Valley, over to Ferguson and back up to Berkeley,
coasting down and pumping up,
we didn’t even feel hills back then,
no intended destinations, just the big ride.
Finally, hungry enough to gravitate toward home,
two blocks from the house, we turned onto Margaret Drive,
so full of our big adventure, so full of ourselves.
The wide, sweeping curve of sloping concrete and rain-washed loose gravel
was a relief, just a few more pumps and we were cruising
the rest of the way home.
Back in ’66 the echoes of an old TV commercial,
rattled through my marbles —
I took my hands off the handlebars,
legs pounding the pedals in triple time,
arms flailing, triumphant in the air
as we hit the curve,
yelling, “Look Ma, no hands!”
my words dissolving into the image
of Dee wobbling on the bars,
speed,
bits of crushed chat,
downhill,
laughing so hard, noses running, eyes watering,
the front wheel finding a mind of its own.
And just like that
we slingshot our bodies across the pavement,
Dee skidding, shredding enough skin off her thighs,
gravel embedded in the raw meat of her skin.
Our laughter tumbled into
“Oh my god, look at your leg!
Oh my god, look at my arm,”
Blood.
Gravel.
Awkward twist.
And still
we laughed
until all the neurons finally connected to brain cells;
we rolled and collected our battered bike and bodies,
the reality
that we’d actually hurt ourselves
beginning to sink in as we plucked out
gravel chunks
and limped
the remaining block to the house.
It never once dawned on me
that I caused this mayhem,
my broken wrist,
her hematoma,
the itchy cast,
its own autographed trophy
that launched my senior year
and forever anchored
my love of girlfriends
and chicken-brained shenanigans.
by Susie Morice, March 2021©
I could feel the wind in my hair as you pumped the pedals. Funny how ironic life can be sometimes. You really capture that. At least we remember the joy of the ride despite the pain of the landing.
Susie, your gnarly description of the bike wreck takes me back to some “chicken-brained shenanigans” I found myself in with a girlfriend in elementary school. We were still play-doughy enough (and not yet tackling hills like yours) that the worst we had was broken skin and hurt feelings. Love your hyphenates, especially on this “gorgeous tees-n-shorts Saturday”!
So incredibly vivid and sensory; I was another girl on the bike here and I could so taste the exhilaration of youth. Thankfully that spill wasn’t worse!
Susie, you bring back such wonderful bike memories – – the freedom to fly, the consequences of the very small margins of error with skinned knees and broken limbs. But what I love most is the anchoring of your love of girlfriends and chicken-brained shenanigans. I want to rediscover the joy of that equivalent at this stage of life – – but then I think, “naw, I’d break a hip.” That’s why these memories are so much fun today!
Lordy, Susie, I knew where this was headed so paused mid-poem to read it to Ken. I knew he’d get it, too. We’ve all been there on that bike, speeding along, crashing and laughing. I’m so glad you did not break your teeth. A broken arm is less of a tragedy than a broken smile at graduation. What a ride this poem is. In my mind I’m riding down the big golf course hill in Webb City, Missouri and vaulting over the handlebars when I hit the curb at the bottom. Good times.
Susie, I love this. The sheer joy is an exquisite ride in itself. Your ending is priceless! What an adventure!
Pismo Beach
By Nancy White
Early in the morning Dad woke us up.
It was pitch black and the cold air slapped me in the face.
Marybeth and I jumped into the back of Dad’s big white Dodge pickup,
quickly sliding into our sleeping bags
Bundled up like two cocoons we took off,
gazing up at tree branches and stars.
A six hour drive would take us to Pismo Beach
and we could barely contain our excitement
for camping, the ocean, and driving the dune buggy,
which followed us on its trailer.
We knew in three hours we would stop for our traditional breakfast at Loops in Oxnard.
When the trees turned into a spooky tunnel overhead
it meant “almost there” and our heartbeats quickened.
With growling tummies we ordered whatever we wanted: pancakes, strawberry waffles, crispy hash browns, and scrambled eggs.
The other campers greeted us there, our old friends and fellow “duners”.
Johnny Diaz always called me “Charlie” just to be a tease.
Helen Haydon laughed at everything and her laugh was a raucous melody of delight.
We were ready for our second leg of the journey.
“Are we there yet?” I wondered over and over.
But, Marybeth and I sang songs and planned adventures.
We saw the town of Santa Maria and knew we were close.
Then Oceano, the entrance to the dunes.
That meant filling up with gas. Tanks and tanks of it.
Dune buggies are thirsty fellows.
The loud sounds began. Engines revving. Cackling laughter. Yes, I heard Helen.
Dad double checking we had everything.
Off to the campground meant driving on the beach!
We saw people on horseback in a line.
Vehicles were playing Follow the Leader,
Jeeps, buggies, trucks, motorcycles, all shapes and colors.
The campsite was in a small nook of flat sand nestled against small dunes and scrub brush that smelled like sage.
We heard the “chink chink” of hammers hitting tent stakes.
Tables and chairs were set up and firewood piled by the fire pit.
Soon everyone was ready for a nap.
Dad let me and Marybeth take the buggy for a spin.
We took turns and drove all the way back along the beach to visit her sister who lived in Grover City!
Imagine two 13 year olds driving through the sleepy little streets in an open dune buggy without a care in the world!
After a nice visit with Martha, we headed to the little corner market where we thought we would be sneaky
and buy cigarettes.
It’s important to also buy gum to cover up any telltale cigarette breath, so we bought the kind shaped like hot dogs that was cinnamon and yummy.
Now off to smoke our first cigarette!
We found a hidden spot in the dunes and felt so stealthy and grown up!
No one ever knew about our shenanigans.
We got back to camp and the drinking had begun
I was shocked when I saw Dad smoking!
He wasn’t a smoker! Or was he?
I guess being grown up means you have secrets.
Nancy — the tone is so steeped in nostalgia that it was like walking back in time to read each line. Each line kept me in the adventure…such clear images. I particularly liked the notion of you and Marybeth cocooning in the back of a pickup truck…aaah the no-seatbelt days of yore! Ha! Then, we get to the coming of age moment with the lens to your dad with a cigarette…very funny…adult secrets and your own “shenanigans” — I chuckled also, having just posted my poem call “Shenanigans.” We were both drifting through time this afternoon! I like that idea, Nancy! Thanks for taking me on this ride! Susie
Oh I share those memories, Sis, but didn’t know about your shenanigans. So funny how your were being stealthy only to catch dad smoking!
I love memories like this one. The comfort it must bring to remember being bundled up like two cocoons in the back of the truck.
Nancy, those days of dune buggies on beaches and camping ….and cigarettes! The carefree days of wanting to be so grown up, being a 13 year old with freedom beyond our years…..and smoking like grownups. AND having the sense to try to cover it up with chewing gum. Our secrets become some of our best memories, don’t they?
Kim, your poem is delightful! I am immediately transported back to my own summer days spent poolside, and my fear of diving! I especially love power achieved by ice cream – “fueled by a double dip of new truth,” such a great line!
Thank you, Maureen!
I went rooting
around for a
memory in
my notebook
today, running
my fingers
over pages,
digging deep
furrows between
words and ideas,
searching for
little things,
squirming snatches
of “thought worms,”
that may have
life in them
if nurtured
further
until I realized
I was in the “wrong”
journal, had been
for nearly an hour,
had been aerating
the rich soil
of my PD notebook,
tilling the works of
Jon Corippo and
Matt Miller
so that, now,
this poem
wants
to be about,
in fact, needs
to be about
EduProtocols
and Jamboards.
As always, your voice is strong and hilarious. Please write a poem about Jamboards. That jargon was a hilarious juxtaposition with the nostalgia.
Perhaps these days everything wants “to be about EduProtocols and Jamboards” for classroom teachers. Now you’ve captured this rooting around the wrong notebook, a memory itself, in a poem. The humor is subtle and well placed. Fun poem and twist on the prompt.
Scott — AHAHA! I love that you were lost in your own journals. Your phrasing and images of “digging deep/ furrows between/ words and ideas” — that’s beautiful! And “thought worms” — oh yes! “rich soil…tilling the works” — you are farming the poem today. I love that. And I agree with Emily… the jargon juxtaposed… Darn good piece here! Thank you! Susie
And here you are again! As always you make me laugh. Protocols and jam boards!
Really interesting how this prompt put us back into journals and otherwise forgotten memories. I got a chuckle how you got into the “wrong” one that turned out to be “right.”
So easy to relate to the school notebook filled with notes about plans and the goings on of the day with my students. Love the discovery at the end.
Thought worms aerating the rich soil. You have such a way with words – – such rich imagery of the idea of the resurrection of ideas that still have life.
Kim, This is a great prompt… love your memory poem. Favorite lines:,
and
Awesome.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about all the memories that are unclear or incomplete, questions I never asked, and people who held secrets and stories I now wish I knew. I wrote with the intention of asking questions, then it took on a life of its own.
Memories, The Missing Ones
by Stacey L. Joy
Fifty-two years ago
When my father was in Vietnam
My mother received letters
On blue-lined yellow legal paper
Promising of his return
To keep our family together
Did she write back
To say she wanted a divorce?
Did he file or did she?
Fifty years ago
Miss Later, my second grade teacher
Sang “This Land is Your Land”
While smiling and strumming the strings
Blonde hair hung over her shoulder
Touching the body of her guitar
Did she believe this land was ours?
Did she convince me it was mine?
Thirty-four years ago
The day after New Year’s
My step-father said,
“Your grandmother just passed away.”
My maternal grandmother
Our matriarch, chef, party person
Suffered in silence alone
Did we see her again before
They took her away?
Why wasn’t there a memorial service?
Thirty-two years ago
My first born baby
Had intestinal surgery
For a rare disease
The surgeon assured us
He would heal well
But the scars would be significant
Did he know those scars
Would run deep like tree roots?
Ten years ago
Cancer wormed its way
Through my mother’s ovaries
And took her life
She never showed fear
Her faith and peace prevailed
But I had so many questions
I still needed to ask
That only she could answer
Did she ever have true love?
Would she ever share her secrets?
Seven years ago
I celebrated my 50th birthday
We had four events that week
My then husband
Was only invited to two
My sister and best friend knew
He would spoil the fun
Did he ask me why
he couldn’t go?
Did he care at all?
One year ago today
I packed some teaching supplies
Into my rolling cart
Locked my closets
Unplugged my fridge and diffusers
Walked down the sticky ramp
Littered with a granola wrapper
A plastic straw and a broken crayon
And left the school
Did I imagine not returning
Until one year later?
Did I know I would teach
On Zoom for the next 190 days?
Oh Stacey, I love how the unanswered questions connected the dots here. You take us into your world with unflinching and honest questions. I connected with the most recent feeling of desolation in cleaning up a classroom for COVID, and the little remnants of kids in the granola wrapper, sticky ramp. Your poem crackles with truth. Thanks for sharing.
Stacey Joy, your poem resonates with me. I also have unanswered questions about secrets. Recently we found out my father-in-law was in a Japanese POW camp. He never told his kids. Now, he’s gone. It was something we never dreamed of! So many secrets kept. So many things misunderstood. Your poem says it all.
Oooo, Stacey — This is packed with killa questions. Really, the magnitude of each of these vignettes is jarring. Each one held me, letting me walk around in the unknown. If I’m walking around in those unknowns, I can’t help but think what you must tread. Whew! Your mom’s letters to your dad…yes, I want to know as well. And the 7 years ago…the subtlety of that…so telling about what others were observing and understanding. A mother’s secrets, a mother’s worry and fear (infant surgery, omg, how hard), the grandmother passing without that expected service. Then, you bring us to this infernal year…holy moses. You did such a number on this prompt…it is a really hard hitting poem. Thank you for the intimate questions of each of these. Susie
Stacey, this hits hard. I think I need to pay more attention to the unanswered questions in the moment. Lately, I’ve been asking them, too. Your memory of your child is the one that hurts my heart most. I understand the metaphor of the deep scars. Next to that one is the questions you pose about that old Woodie Guthrie song. Those questions still don’t have the correct answer. Sending you a hug, my friend.
These six gut-punching moments you share today, ending each with questions, show us how much we wonder about things that were out of our control all along. It’s so interesting to me that you end each stanza with questions. A sense of uncertainty and confusion – – and that broken crayon seems to stick with me as the image that symbolizes this brokenness. The innocence of a child’s crayon, broken and forgotten. It feels like we feel sometimes.
Kim, thank you for this wonderful writing prompt today. I sure could relate to the fear of jumping off the high board. Your poem brought back a lot of summer memories for me.
The Extra-Special Birthday Gift
For my 9th birthday in June
Pam and Dave restored
A broken down bike
Painted it robin egg blue
Wrapped the seat in white tape
A wonderfully heart-filled gift
Soon after Pam and her friend plan a bike ride;
I desperately want to tag along
But I am five years younger
They laughingly speed off
I work my hardest to keep up,
Pedaling furiously, building speed
I careen around the corner
hurtling down the street we live on
Tearfully realizing, the chain’s broke;
I can’t brake—Blairs Ferry Road,
a two lane semi-riddled blacktop highway
is lying in wait
“Danger, danger, danger,” my mind shrieks
Leaping off the bike, I escape my certain demise
Landing hard on the concrete
Scraping my knees; watching my beloved
bike wobble across the highway;
losing some paint; collapsing into the ditch
Hearing my screams, Pam and Dave rush outside
Find me crying; lying in a heap
Shouting, “Look what you’ve done to the bike!”
“You never appreciate anything!”
But what about me?
Is all I can think
Barb Edler
March 13, 2021
Barb—the moment of terror, the dive, the “what about me?” All so real. We appreciated things so much then, didn’t we? I wonder if kids today would put the same value on a robin-egg blue repainted bicycle? Love your story…
Mmmmm… this last bit spoke to me, Barb. People worrying about their stuff in front of a human suffering. Just kids themselves, Pam and friend, perhaps were a little too attached to the gift. Great poem!
Dang, Barb — What a bite in the heinie! I was right there with you on that bike…relieved you literally took the leap and felt so crushed when that scold cut the real wound. Dang! The brakes images…those missing brakes…yes, that is the power here… the image of quick panic but logic and leaping winning the moment…though bruised and battered… you were the strong one here, despite the wounds…as you saw what needed to have been said…and it stuck with you all these years. I like the sort of coming-on-age – ness about the ending… learning what should NOT have been said. Good poem! Susie
Barb! I am laughing to myself. Not because of the hurt you endured but because this jostled my similar memory of roller skating and trying to catch up. Oh, I fell so many times and drew blood. It’s really a badge of honor to have a scuffed up knee. Too bad you didn’t get any sympathy.
The color of a robin-egg blue bicycle and the outdoor fresh air is perfect for the spring feelings we all have right now – – I know it hurt that they worried more about the bike than they did about you, but I keep hearing what my brother would have said to me if I’d flown off a bike that was destroyed: “This is why we can’t have nice things. Because of you.” And he would have smiled and teased me, expecting me to know he was really more concerned about me. I’m hoping that was the case with your friends.
Barb, time and again, I see you blend heart-rending stories with moments of LOL! This is a gem. Your details are exquisite: that white-taped seat!
Kim–thank you for the inspiration. It took me a moment, and then the most outstanding day of my childhood (maybe) rushed forth. Your poem caught so many moments of growing up in the summer. Love that gold-toothed hero, and your courage.
Old Lady Cady
That’s what we called her.
Laura Cady, 1963,
Iron-jawed, iron-ruling–
The hanging judge of the fifth grade.
We were in her thrall, we fifth graders.
She ruled with an iron fist and a threatening glare.
No second chances asked, none offered.
She was our evil queen, a martinet.
We were mere subjects.
Then, there came THAT DAY.
Brian Johnson, one of us,
fellow member of
the great timid unwashed–
Talked. Back. To. Her.
A hush came over us.
No sound in the stillness.
Thrilled and appalled, we waited.
Breath bated…
Apprehension and anticipation
Competing for the win.
She swung back,
Launched the blow,
let her outrage fly.
Ear-boxing imminent.
And, then…
Brian.
Ducked.
Her open hand
Collided with the chalkboard.
And our hero,
our Samson,
our lionheart
returned to his seat.
Gayle Sands 3/13/21
Gayle, this poem echos the Trunchbull in Matilda. WOW! What is it about 5th grade teachers. Mine scared me. Her name was Mrs. Troxel. She wore wigs. Rumor was she had no hair. Anyway, I’m admiring that rebellious child. My favorite line is
because it suggests something about privilege.
I wrote about fifth grade tonight as well! Gayle, I’m sending you a heart-felt WIWI (Wish I Wrote It), the highest compliment I give to students! I love the pacing, the tension, the conflict, the win! Wonderful!
Wowsa, what a memory! Love this description of you and your classmates, “the great timid unwashed.” Such a great telling of good and natural consequences, her hand smacking the chalkboard. I want your poem to continue – how in the world did Old Lady Cady go on with her teaching day?
Dang. She sounds hardcore- I love the young back talker as hero. You place yourself so squarely in this memory from the young person’s perspective. I can see the chalk dust rise from the misplaced smack.
Wowza, Gayle — This is really a killa poem! Doggone that Laura Lady … “hanging judge”… perfect descriptor! You chose such powerful phrasings/word choices! Really really good! Mine “hanging judge” (actually, I had 2 of them)… in 3rd grade it was “T-Rex Hanner” (I’ve written a real doozie about her) and in 1st grade it was W.S. (I later gave her an alias…LOL!) You built the tension in this, and I wanted to hug Brian Johnson. Also, the juxtaposition of power … the “unwashed” against “evil queen.” And the “hush” that halts everything while we inhale in expectation! Woo! Great stuff! Thank you for walking back into that 5th grade room! Susie
The pacing of your poem is just perfect. I love your use of punctuation. “Talked. Back. To. Her.” Though I’ll put my Mrs. Whistler up against your Ms. Cady any day. 🙂
Brian rules! I love how you separated the words with periods ….talked.back.to.her and Brian.ducked. It’s amazing how the vividness of indelible memories comes rushing back when we dive deep to remember these moments that have had such lasting impacts on our lives.
Love both the inspiration and the poem, Kim. What stands out to me is the ice cream man’s race. Was that pool segregated? It seems to me there’s a deeper meaning here than we read on the surface, one about who has access to the diving board and a chance to explore all the depths of what life offers.
I decided to keep my poem-ish memory in paragraph form given the inspiration text and that I’ve never written a paragraph poem. I might add line breaks later.
Lost Dog Testimony
We named you Dick Tracy. You were always more Gaylene’s dog than mine. She found you, whatever found means to a tiny tot. You followed her everywhere. I followed you both. Who would notice two shirtless girls and a Lassie look-alike roaming the aisles of Food Town. I hid in the closet when the dog catcher rapped on our door that afternoon. Peeking through a crack I heard sister tell the man no, mister, we ain’t seen no dogs around here and watched him drive away in his turquoise truck.
That was close we said in unison to your barking.
You moved to Pitcher with us and discovered Mrs. Gardner’s cats. We ignored her threats and roamed free like earth-children, untamed, unsupervised, wild. When sister climbed that tree while calling Dick Tracey, Dick Tracey neither of us expected a downward glance would fill our eyes with your lifeless body. Our wails absorbed the sky, sending birds fleeing nests. We knew the evil old lady had kept her word to poison you.
Only later did she find a way to rid the neighborhood of we two who grieved our lost companion.
—Glenda Funk
Wow, Glenda! Thank you for this. I really loved the paragraph form for this poem— it felt very much like the pivotal chapter in a coming-of-age verse novel. The phrase “earth-children” resonates with me because of the parallels between the children and dog Dick Tracey. Both you and the dog were “strays” of sorts, wards of nobody but the earth and each other. Truly enjoyed this.
Oh, Glenda. I hate that woman! I was roaming free with you, “like earth-children, untamed, unsupervised, wild”. And then the crashing blow at the end. YOur last sentence put the lid on it. What a beautiful, sad story…
Oh I really think you nailed the paragraph poem. It’s harder than it seems. You captured that kinship with the dog and sister, that feeling of needing to evade adults who were always trying to get in the way. Your sensory details and plot kept me hooked. Thanks for sharing Dick Tracey.
Oh, oh. I’m always more worried about our pets. That emotional twist from saving Dick Tracey from the dog catcher to that final end was heart-wrenching. I could feel your wails deeply. I’m sorry for this loss even after all this time. I so love the description of yourselves as earth-children. I’m sure Dick Tracey loved those two girls deeply as well.
Glenda, hello!
This poem is perfect in paragraph form. I want to find that evil old lady and tell her a thing or two! So awful. I visualized every bit of your precious memories. Especially loved:
Fantastic poem!
The excruciating heartbreak of this line, “neither of us expected a downward glance would fill our eyes with your lifeless body.” Oh, how I would hate for any child to experience that! And to always know/wonder that your pet had been poisoned. Such an evil world!
Glenda, I really enjoyed this! Your text pulled me rapidly in several unexpected directions. (And after the first reading, I needed to return for multiple readings to marvel at your craft.) At first I was, like, wait, did they just “steal” this dog? What about the original owners? And then they’re climbing a tree (as “earth-children, untamed, unsupervised, wild”) until they spot Dick Tracy’s “lifeless body.” What just happened? Oh, Mrs. Gardner’s cats and Mrs. Gardner’s threats. And then you have this ominous ending of “only later did she find a way to rid the neighborhood of” us. You took me to three quite different places all in the span of this rather short piece. (And this is not even to mention the “lost” of your title in reference to “no, mister, we ain’t seen no dogs around here” and then to the poor “lifeless body” of Dick Tracy.) Very cool. Thank you!
OMG, Glenda — That HORRIBLE battle-ax! I am just sick that you had such a cruel experience, so brutal. Man oh man! Your story just rips at me. What a truly heartbreaking “testimony.” I just want to hug you and help that image dissolve away into never having happened. You evoked a supremely clear voice of outrage, so much so, that every one of us who read this are gut-punched with the brutality of this. Susie
Oh! Oh, how dare she! What a horrible old lady! But, what a great first prose poem. Your descriptions of your sister and yourself are earthy and evocative. I really enjoyed this.
Glenda, this form works splendidly for you in this verse. Mrs. Gardner is evil. She who would poison a dog shall meet her demise. Utterly sinister. I enjoyed the way you let us see the way you and your sister protected Dick Tracy – – he escaped the dog catcher and we were relieved – only to find ourselves wanting to get ahold of Mrs. G and show her a thing or two.
Oh, what a sad memory of loss and yikes! What a neighbor for children to have to have! I loved the image of the two shirtless girls running free with the Lassie look alike. Wow!
Hi Kim,
I held on to every word! Familiar fun from my childhood memories of swimming, taking daring leaps off the board, and of course the “vinyl strapped pool chairs.” I vividly recall the imprints on our legs when we spent too much time on those chairs. So much fun in your poem and I’m thrilled beyond words that you took that leap so perfectly described as:
Looking forward to finding my memories and poem today! Thank you for such a fun prompt and mentor poem.
Thank you, Stacey!
Afternoon Delight
Fifth grade me
the youngest of four
full of mischief
equally full of innocence
wise to the world
yet not.
Indoor recess
thirty two smelly kids
one spinster teacher
checkers in one corner
jacks in another
crafts in the middle
“Did anyone bring in music today?”
I darted to my desk
pulled back the little wooden chair
leaned down to peer in the opening
to grab my offering.
“Here, Miss Wilhite. I brought this,”
carefully handing her the 45
in its thin envelope
not wanting it to get scratched.
My 8th grade sister would kill me.
“Afternoon Delight”
Starland Vocal Band
It plays for a few,
we girls sway and tap and bop
singing along.
From her comfortable seat at her desk
where she perches grading papers,
Miss Wilhite bolts to the record player,
yanks up the arm, the sound of the needle
scratching across the vinyl
assaulting our ears.
“Susan, that is NOT appropriate for a
fifth grader!” she bellows, shoving the disk
back into its home. “ Take this to the office and
tell Mr. Harbin to call your parents!”
I liked how the song sounded.
Its beat and rhythm made me happy.
I had no clue what an afternoon delight was.
I just knew that indoor recess was ruined.
And so was my sister’s 45.
And I guess so was my innocence
as my parents had to explain
later that night why I got in trouble.
~Susan Ahlbrand
13 March 2021
Oh, my, gosh, Susan! I love this scene. Your storytelling is wonderful, and your use of dialogue in the moment takes us right into this moment — words shouted at us (and as a teacher words I have used, too). Terrible to get in trouble for innocence!
Sarah
I’m rolling!!! That is hilarious, Susan. Your memory is so spot on in taking us to the moment. Fast forward a couple of decades and the teacher would be the one in trouble for not previewing the afternoon delight 45. This memory takes me back to my 6th grade music days when Mrs. DeFino would draw a name at the end of class and let someone pick a 45 from her stash. DeWayne’s name always got drawn and he ALWAYs picked “Float On” by The Floaters. Nobody ever liked it. Nobody. We were starved for more good music like yours.
Ohhhhh yeah. I know that feeling, like why is this bad?! That half knowing that you capture here – you think the mischief is in the record borrowing. You capture the sensory details in here just great with the sweaty kids and the various games and the teacher suddenly awakened to children crooning about afternoon delight. This was a delight!!
Susan–what an amazing story! The innocence, the joy, and the fall from grace (on so many levels!). Innocence destroyed… and I heard that needle scrape across that 45…
Ohhhh my goodness! Shame on Miss Wilhite for not properly handling your innocence with this song. How sad. I am also laughing because I want to know more about the song lyrics so I will look it up now. I love the details that create so many vivid images from childhood. The checkers, jacks, and small wooden chair ring of my childhood too. I love the detail of the teacher’s comfortable seat and how she “perches grading papers” because it’s another indication of her power on her throne. Fun riding with you on this memory poem’s journey.
Your story reminded me of the moments when I realized somethings were okay for adults or others. Sometimes an explanation was shared, but not always. Good for your parents. Loved your story.
On picture day, the picture lady believed a comb could tame my cowlick
just like my mom thought scissors could. Static from the comb, angles from the bangs
only made the genetic swirl more apparent– you can’t fight nature.
On picture day, I wore a gold necklace and a white sweater dress
neither belonged to me. The necklace Mom’s. The dress Sisters’.
I don’t remember my shoes, but I remember my knees — after I surrendered to nature.
On picture day, I wiped the blue saddle with my palm before I swung
careful not to dirty my white dress during recess. I resisted the urge to fly high–
the wind would blow up my dress, the sound of the chain would draw attention.
On picture day, Tony and his 4th grade crew played four square on the blacktop until
Tony whistled the tune that silenced the ball and the four plus two on the sidelines
raced to the swing set to get their kiss from the girl swinging alone on picture day.
I connected with the theme of trying to take children here. I was left with an ambiguous feeling of hoping you were ok on that swing set. Having to do a normal civilized thing like school picture day after playground madness is just something we ask of kids, and it stirs us up. Well done.
Sarah, this first stanza was the one that spoke to me – I can so relate to picture days. So many stories. So many cowlicks and way too many dresses. I adore this:
On picture day, the picture lady believed a comb could tame my cowlick
just like my mom thought scissors could. Static from the comb, angles from the bangs
only made the genetic swirl more apparent– you can’t fight nature.
“You can’t fight nature” is Golden truth.
Picture day was always so traumatic for me. Still is. I giggled at the cowlick. I have many. “You can’t tame nature” resonates. I felt the tension of worrying about the white dress, and what joy comes feeling the wind blow up the dress. I like knowing most boys will never know that feeling. It makes me want to swing. Love this poem.
Sarah– Picture day! You bring back so many memories! wiping the blue saddle–the specificity of that took me there with you, along with the cowlick battle…
The taming of the cowlick is definitely relatable. Combs, scissors, licked fingers. Nothing seems to ever help. You’ve captured that challenge and the feeling (for me awkward) of those picture days. This didn’t end as expected, which makes me feel for that girl on the swing all the more. I’ll bet you would have flown high in retrospect!
Sarah, you have such a unique way of bringing me into your world. I love the topic of picture day. I’ve sadly seen too many of my childhood picture days as reflections of my rebellion. LOL, hair a mess, sweaty face and all. So to imagine your cowlick, the sweater dress and gold necklace seemed like the picture of perfection. Cute! My favorite part is this because who doesn’t want to fly high!!
Oh, my, picture day! The stress of it all. You have me worried about the girl and Tony and his 4th grade crew…don’t like how they “raced to the swing set to get their kiss from the girl swinging alone on picture day.” All this extra pressure on girls, these limitations . . .having to make sure the dress doesn’t fly up. Ugh! I am back in time. Love how each stanza begins ‘On picture day,” as if swinging the reader into the next revelation.
Maureen,
There was this kiss chasing game happening during recess that was so scary. That is how I dirtied my knees on picture day…fighting “boys will be boys nature.”
I like the way your poem builds and builds, but I am not crazy about Tommy and his presumptuous crew.
Sarah! I write my own poem before reading others’, but reading yours now sparked a second-grade memory from picture day I need to explore in a poem. I love hearing your mixed-blessing childhood inform your writing. Your unrelenting honesty inspires me to Try. Harder.
Sarah, I so love this. Now that I have read this, so many memories of picture day come to my mind. My dad always fed us eggs that morning because “eggs make your eyes sparkle.”
Your detail is so perfect that I was transported right back to the playground of my youth.
I love the anaphora of each stanza.
Spring Sleepover
tucked under
a cotton blanket
we swing
on my front porch
we whisper
best friend secrets
between bites
of chocolate graham crackers
we wish
on the stars
one for each jewel
in Orion’s Belt
Betsy! So good to see you here this March! I also was thinking about swings today. I love the cozy sensory language here of the “cotton blanket” and “chocolate graham crackers” under the stars. We need spaces to wish!
Sarah
I love this bite sized moment of joy for its use of sensory details like the crackers and cotton blanket and crisp night. You have said so much about friendship in just a few words. Love it!
Oh, this is so inspiring. I didn’t think to write about sleepovers. I hit a wall w/ the prompt. I love that I read your swinging memory after Sarah’s and the freedom and pleasure both evoke. I want to sit and swing with you as we eat graham crackers.
Betsy, I love the tenderness of this poem and the way you shared this memory with specific visual details. I especially enjoyed the image of wishing on the stars of Orion’s belt. I also really like how you structured this with: we swing, we whisper, we wish. Beautiful poem!
Betsy–i loved my friend’s porch swing. and the cozy tucking under the blanket and graham crackers… oh, for that comfort again!
Hi Betsy,
The short sweetness wins! I love every line of this precious memory. ?
So much is packed into these lines – – the whispers and graham crackers and the wishes on the stars. A moment in time when all the hope of wishes on stars was as real as the light!
Betsy, I really liked this, especially the syntactic repetition of “we swing…we whisper…we wish.” There’s also a very cool movement in your poem from the literal and concrete to the figurative and abstract.
Doubt
On a warm spring day in 4th grade,
Mrs. Timmons turned off the whirr of the overhead projector,
and brought out the best thing I ever saw in math class:
a giant lamb cake for us all to share.
Fluffy yellow cake inside
White peaked frosting outside
Soft pink nose accents
Flakes of coconut covered everything but the sweet eyes
I think it was loosely tied in as a division problem.
This is the kind of math I could get behind.
“We can’t eat that, it’s Passover” Lauren announced to the teacher.
Dang it.
For one small moment,
I forgot the dryness
of the peanut butter matzah affliction sandwich
I had eaten for lunch.
Just eight days. But it felt eternal when you’re nine.
Lauren and Adam hadn’t even lined up for cake.
They were so good. So obedient.
Reluctantly, I tore myself from the line and stood by the windows and textbooks by them.
What was really going to happen to me if I ate that cake? I wondered.
Would I be smote down?
Burned in a fiery bush?
Banished from Lauren’s sleepovers?
Rolled up in a giant Torah and smushed?
Fingers wagged at me by ancient rabbis in flowing robes, towering over me as I tried to sleep at night?
Seeds of doubt are sown
blooming into a love of Easter candy
burning into my secret
disobedient soul.
Emily! I also thought about 4th grade today, and you brought me so close to this moral dilemma that I remember pondering during Lent as a Catholic girl. This “what if” and this practical self talk that brought cake alongside eternal shame and “fingers wagged” at the “disobedient soul.” Wow! So powerful and really true. I still navigate this!
Sarah
I love the way this poem critiques religious edicts. I want to eat that cake. It’s seriously making my stomach growl. I chuckled at
Christianity uses the Bible as a literal weapon. Eat lots of Easter candy and have no doubts about it. Wonderful poem.
This is GREAT!! I joined in your anticipation of the lamb cake,, and sorrowed with your peanut butter matzoh affliction sandwich (an amazing phrase right there!). But the best was the consequences– “Burned in a fiery bush?/Banished from Lauren’s sleepovers?/Rolled up in a giant Torah and smushed?”
The depth of elementary school judgement… Wonderul!
For the record, when Lauren heard this story years later , she laughed and sent me a box filled with Easter candy.
Emily, I love how you recreated this moment. The visuals are so rich. I felt completely pulled into this moment. I felt so badly for you standing at the window, away from what sounds like an incredibly beautiful cake. I especially enjoyed the end:
Awesome poem!
I absolutely love the questioning of all you’d been taught or made to believe. I hope you enjoy your Easter candy and no longer feel like a “disobedient soul.”
Love the sequence of events, felt as if I were right there next to that projector.
?
Emily, this was great! I loved a number of things about your poem, from the use of the colon in that first stanza — “the best thing I ever saw in math class:” cake — and the specific detail of the “whirr of the overhead projector” to the sowing of the “[s]eeds of doubt” “blooming” into “a love of Easter candy” in your last stanza. (And I’m glad to hear that Laura sent you a box of Easter candy after hearing this story! Lol.)
Emily — I love the feistiness in this little Emily… questioning all those traditions, exceptions, and promises of doing what we’re “supposed” to do. I chuckled at the assessments of how others responded to the moment… Adam and Lauren not questioning. And the weighing of the what-ifs… being “smote” or “burned” or “banished”…lol! The image of the robed rabbis wagging fingers — we all have so many wagging fingers…it’s a perfect metaphor for all ritualized things we question. Let me say, Em…. I love that “disobedient soul” of yours! Hugs, Susie
Maybe I am reading too much into it, but while the lamb is a symbol of sacrifice, it was you who made the sacrifice here. (You really put us there with you).
As a preacher’s kid, the line that resonates most with me here is “burning into my secret disobedient soul.” Maybe this explains a lot about why I have a raging sweet tooth to this day. It’s my form of disobedience! This is a lovely memory, and I also like the symbolism of the lamb cake – – like it was a sacrificial act to not indulge in it. Love this!
Norwegian Sendoff
A circling plane
preparing for a landing
on a frozen February runway
in a deep Minnesota winter.
White smoke coming from
snow covered chimneys
against a white cloudy sky.
A time to die.
Heart is shredding and dreading.
He will not allow tears.
Too much spice for a stoic
6’3” Norwegian Viking.
He wants a good Sina and Ole joke.
He expects it.
He misses his mom.
He is joyful at the coming reunion.
Put on the big girl Norwegian panties.
He’s sitting majestically in his chair,
with an impish look on his face
teasing the nurse beside him.
“You have to pick February to die, old man?”
I question him.
“You can’t do this in June or July?”
He laughs like a loon; the nurse thinks I’ve lost my mind.
She begins to give him his at-home instructions.
He hunches down imperceptively.
I know he’s up to something
because there’s a twinkle in his eye.
“You can’t walk up and down stairs.”
The nurse instructs him. “WHAT???”, he shouts back,
“WHAT DID SHE SAY?” – his hearing is perfectly sound.
I repeat her instructions in a loud voice.
Wondering what he’s up to,
“Take your medicine on time”, she says, and again,
“WHAT?? SHE’S MUMBLING”, he says with a smile
playing about his lips.
“YOU MUST TAKE YOUR MEDICINE ON TIME”, I repeat loudly,
knowing full well he heard her the first time.
Finally, she says to him, “You cannot lift anything heavier than 5 pounds.”
Right on cue, “WHAT? WHAT’S SHE SAYING??”, he looks at me innocently.
“DADDY”, I say in a near shout now, feeling quite stupid,
“SHE SAID YOU CANNOT LIFT ANYTHING HEAVIER THAN 5 POUNDS.”
He hunched down even further into his chair, then looked up at the nurse and said,
“WELL THEN I GUESS I’LL JUST HAVE TO SQUAT TO PEE!!!!”
I was charmed by your impish father, you brought this moment alive with dialogue and your introduction of your father being determined to choose his attitude no matter the circumstances. Heart is shedding and dreading is a line that spoke to me in its elegance- so much conveyed in this moment of transition, with a nice internal rhyme. Thank you for sharing this moment with us.
Judi! Thank you for allow us to witness this conversation, this scene that takes us through a range of emotions, reactions to Daddy. There is a mourning that begins but then you invite us into the twinkle, to smile, to laugh in that last line at Daddy’s humor and wit. Love this. Thank you.
Sarah
Judi, oh my gosh, this is so funny. I love the way you open this poem. The tone and surrounding is so somber, which is such a juxtaposition to the humorous end.
Tearing up and laughing at the same time. Perfection. I know those big girl Norwegian panties, only mine were Swedish. And I admire the way you honored his courage and humor in the exchange. Bravo to you both.
Judi, I just read this one aloud to my husband and we are both dying laughing. The humor in today’s poems is so medicinal for me – I have needed these laughs and smiles and heart hugs over these past weeks. Yours just simply brings that kind of laughter that comes from deep within, totally unexpected, and the kind that takes a minute to recover before you can read it aloud to someone. Perfect. So perfect.
Pool Days. Cool Days
After three years of austere budgeting
We bought our dream house on the hill.
Our own master bathroom. What a thrill!
We lived on a corner just across the street
From our own playground and pool club.
There, neighbors with kids would meet.
We even formed a book club—what a bonus treat.
The winters in Upstate New York
Just south of Ontario lake
Were so long and snowy that summers at the pool
Were a warm and welcomed break.
I was at-home mom with three children not in school
So, interactions with adults were slim.
We mainly met and socialized, sitting around the pool
Or swimming laps, pretending we were healthy and trim.
There were morning swim lessons and festive holiday games
Where we learned each others names and joined in festive cheer.
Moms and pops mostly dressed in typical swimming pool gear.
When I saw a neighbor at the local Christian book store
I greeted him with a glance, and back to my chore,
Shopping and hoping a book bargain to score.
He looked askance when I spoke to him;
I wondered why he looked so grim.
Later, standing behind me at the check out counter
He blurted out loud and got a grin from the crowd,
“Oh, it’s you! “ he said with a sneeze.
“Do pardon me, please.
“I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on!
“What!” exclaimed the cashier, staring in disbelief.
Then she bowed her head and packed my books.
I grabbed my bag to escape other customers’ looks.
Then, sitting in the car, it finally occurred to me.
This neighbor of mine, I’d only seen at the pool.
Though he hadn’t meant to be funny or cruel.
Still the next time I saw, I was rather cool.
And not just because of what I was wearing,
But shivering recalling those customers staring.
Oh Anna! I laughed aloud at this one. Those awkward moments are hard to recover from. I was cringing with you. I enjoy how you make your poems flow while incorporating rhymes very naturally.
Anna! I love the rhyme! You are so gifted as a poet as you write on so many topics and in so many forms. You just know when the subject matter needs this whimsy that comes from end rhyme. And I love how your poem works in conversation with Kim’s in the sense of the way that neighborhood pools create such memories. And you have me thinking about our bodies, too.
So much to think about and enjoy, Anna. Thank you.
Sarah
Anna—this is so wonderful! And the double entendre of his comment was so good! I would love to know what they were thinking!
Thank you, Anna for sharing this humorous yet humiliating moment. I bet he was just as embarrassed as you were when he recalled what he had said without thinking. Then again, maybe he was just being a rude “smart-ass.”
The absence of context/perspective is often the basis of humor and certainly is here. Love the fact that this is what came with the dream house.
Anna, I loved this story – – of all places to not recognize you and announce the reason- in the Christian Book Store –
“Oh, it’s you! “ he said with a sneeze.
“Do pardon me, please.
“I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on!
Plus, you are the master of rhyme. It reminds me of the time I spent working with a group of science teachers at an in-the-field summer program for forestry, plants, wildlife and aquatics sessions down in south Georgia. Years later, I saw a man who’d also been part of that group at a teaching conference in Atlanta. “Hey,” he said. “Remember me? We spent the summer together in the woods.” Heads turned, and I turned red. I understand your embarrassment, but the after-humor and the out-of-context quips are treasured memories in themselves.
Oh, Kim! Thank you so much for this poem. I was brought right into the of ice cream courage and even better “double dip of new truth.” I loved being in that moment and then also feeling such validation for my own summer swimming experiences — all the times I climbed down from the high dive and what I was missing all along — ice cream.
Sarah
Hi, Kim! This line — “fueled by a double dip of new truth”—so encapsulates childhood. You’re a master artist of vivid images – so vibrant and alive, with your careful attention to detail. Just magnificent.
Ok, so. Here’s a bit of memory from my childhood I’d rather forget. Will give the title at the end…
No
I will not go
But you said you had to
I do I MEAN I did
but not anymore
It’s not good to hold it
I’m not holding it
although
Granddaddy is
and he sets it there on the floor
white enamel pot
with a pretty red rim
it even has
a matching lid
We’ll go out, says Grandma
you just call us when you’re done
I don’t have to go
We did this years ago,
Daddy scowls
it’s not going to hurt you
just go
The pot sits waiting
No
I don’t even want to know
rather bust with No. 2, you know
I
will
not
go
(affectionately entitled “The Chamber Pot”)
Funny memory. I have so much trouble “doing it” on the side of the road or in the woods. It is a common nightmare for me.
Fran, we are soul sisters for sure. You tackle a topic today that makes us all appreciate the privacy we desire in the privy. That chamber pot of yesteryear sparks an uncomfortable baring of the soul we had in our younger days as children whose every movement (pun intended) was monitored by adults. ! I look forward to joining hands with you in April here in this space as we Listen together!
Ooh, ooh, and I see you are from Zebulon, NC. I just saw the musical “Bright Star” that is set in your town. Our high school drama department in Zebulon, Ga staged it. Wonderful story!
“Movement”…you are killing me… I’m delighted about April to “Listen” and I so would have loved to see that production. We’re even linked by Zebulons!
“We did this years ago” were words that took me back to so many conversations with my grandfather. Some of those conversations taught me lessons that I carry with me today, while others reminded me that I was extremely grateful to not have lived during the “years ago” days. No matter what, they are moments I treasure and that bring a smile to my face. Thank you for sharing this memory!
Fran — You made me chuckle out loud. I had those exact experiences with the white enamel/red rimmed chamber pots…. and being told to sit there, with my little fanny teetering on the pot. Geez. You captured so clearly the image and did it so well with so few words. I’m trying to take a lesson here. Thank you! Susie
Loverland
The ritual began
Your aunt, indulgent as always, pushed the dollar bills
Across the library counter
“Be careful,” she whispered with a smile
Now, for the doughnuts
But not just any doughnuts…
Hostess mini powdered sugar doughnuts
Proudly purchased at the Food Market
Down the street from the library
We couldn’t wait
We never did
It was all part of the ritual
By the time we got back to the library
Our bellies were full and our faces and hands
Were powdery
Next, the swings
We sat in our favorites–always the ones in the middle
Next to each other
“Ready?”
Not waiting for my reply, you called out,
“Spin!”
Our feet tap-dancing on the hard dirt beneath us,
We turned and turned, tangling the chains
Until there was no give left.
Hearts pounding, we cried out in unison
“One, two, three…go!” and lifted our feet
With reckless speed, the swings untangled themselves
As we spun crazily, our eyes squeezed shut tight
We intoned “Loverland, loverland, loverland” over and over
Until the spinning slowed
And we opened our eyes to see
Not the faces of our future boyfriends,
But just each other’s laughing, dizzy, powdered-sugar
Faces..
Julie! I am loving this visit into the ritual
The movement and untangling is glorious.
Peace,
Sarah
Julie, I absolutely adore the memories the writing invokes today. I spun right along with you on those swings. And then remembered facing each other and putting our feet on either side of the person on the swing opposite us – such fun! I’ve never done the Loverland chant – what a wish-filled type of play.
I feel the love of friendship and ritual and donuts here. It really captures that freedom, when sugar and swing spins made us happy instead of a grown up feeling sick. Thanks for sharing this moment!
I am seeing and even tasting the powered sugar and the glee. Those swings, the twisted chains, the chanting…pow, I am right back in my own childhood even though “loverland” wasn’t one we knew. Love how that’s the title of your poem.
There is so much motion and spinning and sugary delight packed into these lines. Loverland. A beautiful place of childhood, hidden just in the corners of your mind, still spinning.
Kim,
Your poem reminded me of a short narrative I recently wrote with my students, and it got me thinking about how playing with verse in an already existing narrative can help a writer zoom in even more. Your poem reminded me that I could not just dive in to the pool of memory, but that I can return to the pool, wade around, and reshape the memory to revisit in in an even clearer way.
—
Push, Punch, Fly
Heading home from the farm
that old, junky, red truck.
Dad will drive,
Flash, our devoted dachshund,
and two dirty, warring daughters
by his side.
Where the truck goes,
Flash goes.
Jenny and I
temporary interruptions
to their peace
after a long day of work.
Mom hates it
when he puts us
in that truck.
“It’s a short trip,” dad always says.
One of many lines
that ignites
a wildfire of argument between them.
She knows the truck isn’t safe –
should have been scrapped long before today.
We sprint to the truck,
Jenny beats me.
I’m stuck by the door.
How did that pip squeak beat me?
When did she get so fast?
Once inside the truck,
I still fight
for that coveted middle seat.
The safe seat.
We push
and punch
and pull hair.
No one relents.
No one wants
to be stuck
by that door.
That door
is dangerous.
The battle continues,
probably because
there are no seatbelts.
Nothing to anchor,
contain,
or restrain us.
Dad and Flash are in the driver’s seat.
The truck rumbles to life,
and we go.
No safety check, no ceremony.
Autopilot.
The route home
and our fighting
just two parts of a day
everyone knows by heart.
Jenny and I
are fierce competitors.
She’s three years younger,
but she is tough.
No one backs down
until someone cries,
an adult pulls us apart,
or blood is drawn.
As much as dad hates to admit it,
he raised us this way.
He’s a man with three daughters
who raises us
like the sons
he sometimes
wishes he has.
Dad pulls out
of the farm driveway
and on to Swyers Road.
The fight intensifies.
“Sit down!” dad yells.
We don’t listen.
We never listen.
Not when there’s a battle
to be fought.
To be
won.
We round the corner
from Swyers to Main.
and
The pushing
and punching
and hair pulling continues.
I shove Jenny.
She doesn’t give in.
She pushes back, hard.
Much harder than I expect.
I slam into the door.
It flies open.
Dad yells, “Hold her!”
Jenny pushes.
I fly.
I love the diction throughout…I was struck, even in one of the early lines, by “warring daughters.” You’ve woven such a clear picture of that push/pull of sibling rivalry–it’s amazing how much that shapes us.
Thank you for responding! It’s funny that now that we’re 43 and 40, we are – in a family of four daughters – the two who are the closest.
Erin, this is terrifying and reassuring. I’m glad you lived to tell the story. The foreshadowing of a truck that needed scrapping long before “today” gave the hint that things were not going to end well. The terrifying part is that you flew out.
The reassuring part is that siblings and families argue and bicker, fight, pull hair, gnash teeth, draw blood…and that’s part of who we all are. This part stays with me:
We don’t listen.
We never listen.
Not when there’s a battle
to be fought.
That’s true of us as humans and true of us as humankind. You remind us of the consequences of not listening, and I love every word!
Thank you for drawing my attention to the larger implication of those lines. My goodness, you’ve nailed it. It’s interesting how truths pour out of us when we just let the words be what they need to be!
Erin, we had one of those trucks (the work truck), with a hole in the floorboard below the passenger seat. I used to watch the road speed by underneath my feet. You capture the relationship with your sister intensely. And oh, that ending! I wanted her to hold onto you. But the ending was the one that needed to happen. I love the tight description there.
Did our families somehow share the same truck?! Ours had a hole in the same place!
Thank you for reading and for your kind words!
Probably the same model. I should apologize on behalf of all Jenny’s too.
Erin!
The promise of these early lines carried me through
It is all in a flash and the daughters pushing, shoving, pulling but one flies — wow. Such a family scene that is both so precise and also rings of sibling “love” in tight quarters!
Also love the quick pace, short lines moving my eyes down the screen!
Peace,
Sarah
Thank you for reading and responding! Thank you also for pushing me to see and think about my words in a new way. I hadn’t even considered the connection between our beloved dog’s name and how this is a flash of memory. I remember asking my students if I should include the dog in the original form of this narrative, and they responded with a resounding, “YES!” followed by, “as long as he doesn’t die in the story”. I’m so glad I listened to them!
Ohmygosh! What an amazing story. The voice of this poem is spot on for the age.
So much power and energy in your writing, Erin – I was living it and really kind of pulling for that old truck. You had me at “dachshund.” That ending – perfect, but oh my gosh, I am wanting to know where you landed, how hurt you were – clearly you survived but you’ve pulled the writer’s great feat, leaving us wanting more. Love your intro as well – that’s true about going back to wade around and reshape, making the telling even more powerful.
Kim, your poem could be a metaphor for teaching. There are times in our profession when we need a partner or pal; sometimes an advisor to counsel us to sit and reflect a while, allowing new intake to digest or marinate, and also someone to believe we can be successful trying something new or scary, and to cheer us when we take the dive!
What a powerful metaphor, Anna. One constant reminder for me is that in life, writing, and especially teaching–we need to play. Joyful, wild, play to nudge us into those intense, serious moments when we can take the dive.
Thank you, Anna! So many people along the way make a difference in our lives. It’s hard to ever know the ripple and impact of what one small smile or gesture can make when we encourage anyone. Thank you for being the encourager you always are in this space and everywhere!
I loved this! I love the way a simple thing for a kid can take on such weight and seriousness. Thank you for sharing!
—
Inside the Box
It’s raining, but you are not bored,
because grandma has returned from the grocery store —
snacks and meals and toilet paper put away —
she gifts you and your sister
A simple, cardboard box.
It’s the one she used to bring those same groceries in,
empty and unassuming,
There is a lot of magic to be worked
from a simple, cardboard box.
Drag it into the living room,
stuff it full of pillows and blankets:
a cozy and safe space to snuggle down.
Though you are too wound up to stay still
to not rock the boat.
So you make a game of tipping over in it
Rocking back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth,
before tumbling backwards in a fit of giggles.
As long as Pawpaw isn’t watching Price is Right
Everything is all right, but eventually you are banished.
Crawl out, flip it over, drag it back to the playroom
slide a few books inside, grab your paper and pencil
and cross your legs: criss-cross applesauce.
It’s summer break, but suddenly you are at school
Your teacher (your sister) opens a math book,
probably plucked off a table from a recent garage sale,
“Good morning class. We’re going to do the first ten problems on page 200.”
And though the cardboard bends beneath you when you write,
It’s certainly a better desk and a better classroom than the real thing.
But it’s summer break at grandma’s house
Nobody wants to play school for long.
Dump the books out, spin it around,
drape a blanket over the top,
before carefully placing two plates
two saucers
two forks
two spoons
two tea cups
and two girls with borrowed clothes for dress up
sit patiently waiting for service from
Your server (your cousin) comes out with a tea pot
“Welcome to our restaurant. What can I get for you today?”
And you open a picture book turned restaurant menu,
taking your time to imagine all the possibilities waiting for you.
The box changes with each hour
from simple cozy nests to school desks to grand banquet tables,
eventually settling into the form of a house or stable or garage
for your dolls, for your ponies, for your cars
for you to play out all the potential scenarios lying dormant
in your own imagination.
There is a lot of magic to be worked from a simple, cardboard box.
We carried our childhood in boxes and blankets and found objects
brought in by our grandma from the far corners of her neighborhood,
it was raining, but we were never bored.
Erica, the simplicity of the box bringing a multitude of creative ideas and an outlet for imagination calls to mind the simpler days of childhood. I love the image in these words, “We carried our childhood in boxes.” My sister and I played in many of these same ways (and I’d forgotten about rocking the boat back and forth. Thank you for letting me remember.
I’m glad you could connect with it! I didn’t quite realize just how much we played with the boxes until I sat down to write this. They really did factor into almost every game we played.
Erica, this part I could audibly hear:
So you make a game of tipping over in it
Rocking back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth,
before tumbling backwards in a fit of giggles.
I hear those giggles and feel them! This is priceless, the morphing of this box into a new place of imagination with every hour. I like that you shared this as your daily slice, too!
It’s both strange and exciting to know that so many also played similar games with boxes — a shared childhood memory despite different childhoods. I like when I can use one prompt for multiple purposes!
I loved this, Erica. It reminded me of one of my surrogate grandmothers – my best friend Amie’s grandma. Grandma Rena made life magic – with cardboard boxes, snacks, and her gentle nudges to use our imagination and fly. She is part of the roots and wings of my childhood, and your poem made me remember that.
I’m glad I could bring back such memories — my summer days spent with my grandparents are some of the ones I cherish most.
Erica,
I love the rhythm of language throughout!
And then in the end the speaker offers this thoughtful reflection of the places we carry our childhood — “n boxes and blankets and found objects” — this is lovely, and so true!
Sarah
Thank you! I had a lot of fun recalling these memories and trying to capture the magic in the words.
Erica,
Yes, the joy of the box! You’ve have capture the joy of a child’s imagination so perfectly. I especially love this stanza:
The box changes with each hour
from simple cozy nests to school desks to grand banquet tables,
eventually settling into the form of a house or stable or garage
for your dolls, for your ponies, for your cars
for you to play out all the potential scenarios lying dormant
in your own imagination.
I’m happy to hear that! Thank you.
Kim, your words always bring me joy. You’ve evoked so many vivid memories, placing me directly into the city pool in summer, staring at the high dive. Thank you for that and for acknowledging the courage needed to take all leaps. I landed between the inspiration you shared in “Marriage” and the ice cream man’s smile to find my piece today.
My son’s smile
split across
baby teeth,
a singular gap
marking the transition
between
preschooler
and kindergartener.
Helen asked me to
marry her,
he announced,
a proud proclamation
from son to mother,
one that forced
the partially peeled potato
from my hand
as I lowered to eye level.
Tell her
she needs to focus first
on her education and
a career.
These words, the first
that came to mind,
spilled
from a mother’s
hope to keep her
child,
to hang onto
his childhood.
Helen
asked me to marry her
again
but I told her
what you said.
This announcement
came
the very next day.
What did she say?
I asked,
eyeing him through
the rear view mirror.
She kissed me.
an even broader smile
marking a second gap
and a childhood
disappearing
like mile markers
on the road.
This was so cute and clever. I loved the connection between the gap in his smile and the gap from childhood to growing up. It was really sweet and a nice mother/son poem.
Jennifer, this is a precious toothless moment frozen in time, etched into your core – I can tell from this part:
a proud proclamation
from son to mother,
one that forced
the partially peeled potato
from my hand
as I lowered to eye level.
That rear view mirror smile just melts my heart! You took us straight back in time to the moment with the details of place. I really like the view into the mirror at the end – it’s where you’ve been!
Jennifer, what I love about this poem is how it played in my head. I could hear it, see it, feel it. It took me inside all three experiences. At different moments, I was you, I was your son, and I was Helen.
Oh my goodness…you made me tear up! Those moments go by SO fast. I love the image of the road woven into your narrative here. Very fitting.
Awwwww. Love that last stanza so much…mile markers!
Jennifer, I love the image of a gap and the duality you create in your clever use of it. The disappearing childhood haunts. This poem could easily be about a grown son. I love your response snd the seed it planted.
Jennifer — I love the way this narrative poem unfolds with your son moving through moments of life. The end is just priceless.
Kim, you take me right back to my childhood days at the local swimming pool. You capture sooo many details that the poem easily becomes a movie in my mind. While you have many glorious details, I think I most love “a wreath of smiling teeth” as it is such unique wording yet so perfect.
I’ve already started the worming through memories and note-taking. I hope to land on the perfect spot today to inspire a poem. Thank you for urging me down Memory Lane.
Kim, your poem could be my poem. I remember so well the hot summers of trying to get the courage to go off the “high dive”.
As many are looking at today, the anniversary of the big shut down, I remember it well. The end of the story is I am the grandmother of a healthy and smily 3 month old girl.
Impending
On a March wind,
a virus swirls
much like an impending hurricane.
After my morning walk
and weeding, coffee in hand,
my phone vibrates.
Her voice, shaking, quiet,
“I’m pregnant.”
No ultrasound photo wrapped like a birthday present.
“I don’t know if it’ll take.”
New life is fragile
like the wildflowers, newly budding, blowing.
Gripping the phone, tears welling,
I am inwardly in prayer fervent and furious.
Calmly, with a mother’s voice,
I say, “Congratulations.”
Margaret, congratulations on that new grand baby! These words resonate with me today, “On a March wind, a virus swirls” and “New life is fragile.” As the mother of a March baby, i recognize the transition in this month – the budding flowers against the release of winter. Your piece marks transitions to new life, and the muck of the virus being born along with the celebration of a baby.
Margaret, the voice on that phone is heartstopping – the joy, the fear, the hope, the past, the present, the future- and so much more that is there all in two quiet words shared by your daughter. I love the parallels to the growth of plants, the budding that happens with the earth in spring. There is even at the beginning the weeding – getting out what is not important to make room for what becomes most important. And the coffee – the awakening and full sensory preparation with energy for what is to come. Sweet and precious!
Margaret!
This line took my breath away: “I don’t know if it’ll take.” Indeed, new life is fragile and we carry that knowing in our bodies, but YES, it is a time to celebrate and you have all of us with you “in prayer fervent and furious”!
Peace,
Sarah
Wow….the strength women have, must have and share is something I am still unprepared for every day. But, I see it here in your poem and I realize that it’s from sharing stories like this that gives us the strength for the next need. Simply beautiful. I hope you give this poem as a gift to the woman who needs it.
New life IS fragile. Those ending lines – empathetic, for having walked in those shoes, but altogether earthshaking in that controlled effort to be calm for your daughter. So many more swirls…I think of the hurricane and those new buds present in this poem. Her fear of loss, your strength. I am thankful I know the happy outcome, Margaret – this poem is a gift. Beautiful.
Margaret — Congratulations! You captured this beautiful and emotional moment so vividly. Your lines: “New life is fragile/like wildflowers, newly budding, blowing” — so powerful!
Kim, the description of earth from the “space” of the diving board brought back all the nerves from childhood. And, the watching adults with lowered shades…the surprise of the jump and the smile of the ice cream man. Magical and yet touched with that bit of now-understanding that makes me feel wise as a reader. A super, fantastic poem.
I wrote a bit of prose and then carved a skinny from it — ironic because it comes from memories of Thanksgivings from childhood.
After Thanksgiving, Before Dessert
time
for
cousins
game
time
relay
racing
silly
time
Thanksgiving dessert
Linda, finding a skinny between Thanksgiving and dessert is just perfect, as is capturing that brief moment in time. I like the idea of finding meaning in moments, in sharing the slice that might move to the side of the bigger focus (the meal). You’ve caused me to rethink the gaps of holidays.
Linda, I need to find some skinny in my Thanksgiving and in my poem writing. This captures the feels and the fun of Thanksgiving! Having all the fun with cousin play worked off the dessert calories before they were ever eaten! The one word lines give it a feel of action – a fast pace like those games!
That time for cousins to play is so familiar yet so far away this year. I hope we have lots of cousin play at Thanksgiving 2021.
Linda, your poems evokes so many memories is so few words. A gifted poet for sure. It’s amazing how not matter how stuffed one is from dinner, there’s always room for dessert!
Linda,
I read your poem yesterday morning…in the small space between weekend errands and planned observations. I didn’t respond then, but I was inspired by the shape of your poem…it’s thinness juxtaposed with the fullness of the subject matter. I was inspired also by the brevity of the moment, finding those small windows of time within the bigger moments or celebrations. Thank you for your poem and your spark of inspiration!
Kim, I echo Denise’s comments. This poem and your prompt is quite touching. I LOVE your poem, visual in every movement… the knowing man’s glorious smile… that is priceless… that understanding of a child’s determination and fear and the scold that humiliates and yet motivates. I need that double scoop this morning. I hope I can find my leap today. Thank you! Susie
Thank you, Susie! Thank you for sticking with my long poem. The memory was so vivid it was hard to shave it down. You’ll find your leap – your leaps always inspire me!
Feeling
from memory
the crinkled material
of the weighted blue tarp covering
someone’s overturned fishing dinghy,
a space to crawl into, a protected darkness,
where we’d whisper teenage secrets to each other’s ears
Kevin
Oh, I loved to find places like this as a kid. I was a fort builder and fort finder. This is magical. I can feel that tarp and imagine the special light filtered through its blue crinkles.
Kevin,
The shape of your words forming this poem looks like part of a tent or tarp-covered boat – like the place you’d go to whisper those secrets and share those moments. Your economy of words is wonderful too – this is a beautiful memory!
Such a sensory image you build here, line by line, up to the teenage secrets. Love!
Kevin,
I love the shape of this poem as the lines linger a bit further one after the other and then leading us to the “whisper” under the weighted blue tarp!
Peace,
Sarah
Kevin, your words captured me and I didn’t realize I was under the “tent” with you until I began to walk away and “heard” the other responders chattering about some kind of tent! Then, when I returned to the poem, I realized, “He got me!” Shape poem takes a level of skill that few have. You got it!
Kevin, that brings back a flood of memories for me. We actually climbed up on the elementary school roof to run around and hide.
Beautiful! I can hear the blue tarp covering making a rattle in the wind and hiding your secrets.
Kevin,
Like Linda’s piece, I was inspired by your poem yesterday morning. You capture a single memory in such sharp detail—the tarp, the sound, the secret space—and it made me think of memories that I have from my childhood. How is it that some moments linger clearly and sharply, and others just fade away? After reading your poem, I decided to focus my piece on just one such moment, one small memory that keeps re-surfacing, and just let it stand alone and speak for itself. Thank you for the inspiration!
Kim, what a story you have told. I love how you broaden the gift of this poem with your dedication: “to who ever found the courage to take a leap and anyone who ever helped make it happen” The details of the ceremonial eating of the ice cream were rich, and I was licking my cone with you! Thank you for your beautiful poem and challenge for today. I’m off to remember…
Thank you, Denise! That man made a difference in those days and still inspires me today when I look at anything from a “high dive.”