Allison Berryhill lives in Iowa where she advises the journalism program, teaches English, and hosts a weekly Creative Writing club at Atlantic High School. She is active with the Iowa Council of Teachers of English, the Iowa High School Press Association, and the Iowa Poetry Association where she serves as teacher liaison. Allison is a runner, an accordion player, and a wedding officiant. Follow her at @allisonberryhil for photos of #IowaSky and schoolblazing.blogspot.com for random musings.
Inspiration
If you’ve accessed Poetry180 (and I suggest you do!), you may be familiar with Tom Wayman’s sharp poem “Did I Miss Anything?.” (I’ve been known to quote lines to students who ask me the question–)
Recently I came across a poem titled “What You Missed that Day You Were Absent from Fourth Grade” by Brad Aaron Modlin. I was intrigued by the similarity in title, and yet Modlin’s poem explores “something missed” in a different way.
Take a look at the opening stanzas from both poems here, and click on the links to read the full texts.
“Did I Miss Anything?” by Tom Wayman
Nothing. When we realized you weren’t here
we sat with our hands folded on our desks
in silence, for the full two hours
Everything. I gave an exam worth
40 percent of the grade for this term
and assigned some reading due today
on which I’m about to hand out a quiz
worth 50 percent…
“What You Missed that Day You Were Absent from Fourth Grade” by Brad Aaron Modlin
Mrs. Nelson explained how to stand still and listen
to the wind, how to find meaning in pumping gas,
how peeling potatoes can be a form of prayer. She took
questions on how not to feel lost in the dark
After lunch she distributed worksheets
that covered ways to remember your grandfather’s
voice. Then the class discussed falling asleep
without feeling you had forgotten to do something else—
Process
What have you missed?
What might you have missed by skipping/avoiding an activity or situation?
What have others missed that you wish they’d experienced?
I invite you to explore “something missed” in a literal or imaginary sense.
While I love to run, there are days I talk myself out of it–for laziness, time crunch, foul mood. I chose to write about what I missed on a day I decided to skip a run on the trail.
Allison’s Poem
What You Missed Today on the Trail
by Allison Berryhill
The baby rabbit hopped toward you, then paused
long enough to let you pet her water-soft fur.
The sun sprinkled confetti rays
of orange and blue
pinpricking transluscent tattoos
across your thighs.
The wind was at your back
both coming and going
and the road was all downhill
like skiing on powder
The other runner on the trail said
she liked your bandana and
nodded with her whole heart when
you asked her
for the meaning
of time.
One of the students in our Creative Writing Club wrote to her grandfather on the day after his funeral. Shared with permission:
what you missed the day after
by Genevieve McCalla
you ate the cheesy potatoes at the reception
because they were your favorite
you comforted mom when she cried
because dad had a bottle in his hand
you played checkers with Knox
because he didn’t know what was really happening
you straightened up the flag on the coffin
because our eyes were too blurry to notice
you bathed in the cemetery’s sunshine
because we had our heads bowed
you sang the hymns in happy tones
because our notes were sad
you smiled down on us always
because you loved us so.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
The field is my canvas
Their equipment is their paintbrush
My players are the art
It is beautiful, messy, and chaotic
There are screams of laughter,
Screams of frustration
I never thought I would miss it
But here I am longing
For connections, competition, and chaos
Allison, I needed this prompt. Thank you for it.
“Papaw, you ever wish you’da
Gone out
with your boots on
In that cornfield
The day of
The accident?”
You paused
With contemplation
Not hesitation.
“Hell, no, Punk!”
“Look what I woulda missed”
You said at the oak table
On the gray tiles
Of the house I grew up in.
You sat
at the head of the table
As you always did.
You swept your arm across the room
As if collecting all of the
Moments
Memories
People
That you’da missed:
Meeting your great-grands
Christmases like this one
Living down the road from your daughter
More time with Mamaw, your best girl.
Of course, I knew you were right.
All the struggles of being an
Elderly
Amputee
That I saw you go through
Didn’t matter one bit
When you could see
All that you’da missed.
Hey Allison! I’m trying to catch up with the days I missed when work was crazy. Thank you for this prompt – it made me think of all the experiences I’m missing simply because I refuse to participate in relationships that don’t feel true anymore.
What Have I Missed?
In recent years, I’ve shed half my social skin.
I no longer smile at strangers at parties,
I no longer start conversations to fill silences,
I no longer put myself out there.
The upside – My heart and my ego are safe.
The downside – I am beginning to miss out.
I’ve missed out on
Shopping sprees just for the fun of it,
Coffee dates with almost-friends,
Midweek dinners to blow off some steam,
Movie dates and popcorn sharing.
I’ve missed out on
The comfort of being lost in people,
The companionship of similar hobbyists,
The ease of stepping out of routine,
The relief of not having to do anything alone.
But the upside – my heart and my ego are safe.
Thank you for this prompt. It was fun to play with the prompt since I am responding so late to it. 🙂 I
What did I miss today resting in bed?
Simple words that were spun into images
What did I miss today resting in bed??
Moments to marinate the prompt and write
What did I miss today resting in bed???
Poets to read what I wrote then respond
What did I miss today resting in bed????
DeAnna,
I know you were sick, but healing is more important than writing–and look at you, catching up entirely. Go you!
DeAnna, I love this line “Simple word that were spun into images”. The word “spun” is so important there and really creates motion in your poem.
You’ve missed sunny days at the beach
Mom’s daffodils blooming
Me making sense of your life
You’ve missed people dying
But they are with you now
People gunned down in mass shootings
COVID 19 turning our world on its head
You will miss my retirement this year
And mom declining at age 92
Relatives trying to make sense of the senseless
And my writing to process it all
It’s been 14 years without you
What have you missed?
Everything…and nothing
Heidi,
Thank you for sharing today. Your poem holds many honest memories, both good and bad. Your last two lines pack a powerful punch.
Thank you Allison for hosting and challenging me with this process.
What I Miss
I miss fried eggs with bacon and toast, and a little tea with my sugar;
and the occasional “Netta, just try a little bit.” when I said I don’t like something.
I miss late night television with air-popped popcorn and Friday Night Fried Chicken;
and Granddaddy’s, “Keep your hands off the walls!!”
I miss Christmas gatherings with all the fixings and the our Thanksgiving family feasts;
and instructions like, “Keep your pants up and your dress down.”
What I miss most is the time I spent with my Nan~Nan.
She passed away while I was pregnant with my first child.
They both missed getting to meet one another.
Allison, thank you for hosting today! I loved the shout-out to this poem and poetry 180. When I read the prompt, I wanted to write about running because your poem was so nice! I loved the imagery of the rabbit and the companionship on the trail. Genevieve’s somber poem was so poignant, and makes me want to dedicate a poem to my own loved ones who have passed away. Thanks for sharing both as mentors.
I spent the evening campaigning for a local school board candidate, so this poem is coming in late from the west coast. Although it’s important work, there’s always part of me that would rather be reading 😉 Hope all is well with you!
What You Missed in the Book
Tonight you were going
to figure out her motive.
Why she went back to her
hometown (like maybe you
should do more often).
As you turned the page
your dog would snuggle into
the little nook your legs create,
resting his chin in the crook of
your knee.
Right at dusk the garden
lights would gradually power on
one by one.
Tonight you were going to
learn the word akimbo as
the main character stood
with her arms akimbo while
looking at the murder scene.
The light rain would tap
on the patio, so you’d
start the fire and steep
tea.
You’d sink into the
couch and take this
moment for yourself.
Good reason to ‘miss’ being here sooner, Rachelle! You have captured well the feeling so many of us readers have when we just want to get back to our books – how those plots and characters stay with us and keep us wanting and wondering, and then creating that whole scene of what didn’t happen so clearly. It also makes me want to know what book you were reading! (I hope your candidate wins!)
Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn! I am a little late to the party, but I have been in the mood to read something suspenseful, and I know her books have a reputation for that. Thanks for all the kind words!
Yes, I love this!!! Those books just suck us in. I want to know what book you are reading, too. I love your section about learning the word “akimbo.”
Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn! Thank you for all the kind words!
Rachelle,
Busy day! Falling into a book is one of the greatest pleasures of life—and you capture it perfectly. My dog would be right there in the nook of my legs. Lovely!
Rachelle,
I love falling deep into the book I’m reading. Getting lost in vivid imagery the words create, while connecting to the characters. Thank you for teaching me a new word as well. 🙂
Thank you for hosting today, Allison! I loved the mentor poems, your and your student’s creation. I love how you described “the missed run” imagining things and people on your way. Your student’s poem is heartbreaking.
I, probably, missed tons of things in life, but I wanted to find something good today.
What I Didn’t Miss Today
I didn’t miss reading
your poems today,
full of images, feelings,
thoughts, and wisdom
Meeting my dear friends for lunch—
heartfelt conversations,
Italian cuisine, coffee, and Tiramisu
Taking pictures of beautiful roses
blooming in my front yard
Waiving to the neighbor
mowing his lawn before the rain
Watching the dark sky
cut in half by lightning
Snuggling with a notebook
and thinking about tomorrow.
Leilya, you are living! How nice it is to be with friends, roses, neighbors, the poems, and the sky. Beautiful!
Leilya,
Your day sounds splendid. Thank you for being a generous reader in this space, for honoring us w/ your time and comments, and in your poem. I want to see those roses. Love that you’re “snuggling with a notebook.”
I love the positive focus in your poem!! What a lovely day you had. Nothing better than cuddling up inside during a lightning storm!!
Leilya,
I enjoyed how you flipped this question to what you didn’t miss today. Sounds like a peaceful day to me.
Allison, thank you for this prompt. It was a real challenge.
The truth is
I was there,
But I wasn’t always
There there.
Nostalgia takes me
Back. I would do it all
Over again, but I would
Be fully there there,
Shoulders not wrapped
around my ears,
Hands loosened
from white-knuckled fists,
Emotions in the
downward position,
Breathing deeply,
Drinking it all in.
Katrina, I can relate to your poem so closely. I wish I, too, were “there there,” especially for my kids. Always work, deadlines, and worries. It seems I missed so much. “Breathing deeply, / Drinking it all in” is so needed. You found just the right words for many thoughts that ran through my head today. Thank you!
Katrina, wow. I have felt this feeling of regret for not being “fully present” in a particular moment. I will think of this line now whenever my shoulders are tense, “Shoulders not wrapped / around my ears”
This is the poem I wanted to write that I couldn’t figure out how to! Thank you for writing it. I have a lot of regret like this looking back. I try to tell myself that I did the best I could in every moment, was “there” as much as I could be.
Such a wonderful prompt and mentor poems, Allison. There are a lot of heart-wrenching pieces here today. Thanks for sharing your hearts, everyone.
Although my youngest child is now 24, the following thoughts were often on my mind during those teen years.
What you missed
as you rolled your eyes at me
disdain in your voice,
“Mom, you don’t understand.”
you missed that I, too,
was once fourteen,
and my mom didn’t understand, either.
you also missed that
the insufferable boundaries
I dare set and enforce
are a reflection of my
incredible love for you.
because, you see,
you missing my intentions today
will hopefully keep you safe
so I don’t miss you tomorrow.
Charlene, I love dichotomies in this poem–between daughter and mother. Boundaries and freedom. Logic and freedom. We can all remember our parents being “totally lame” but later reflecting on why those rules were actually important since our parents were “once fourteen” too. Thanks for sharing this today!
Charlene, loved this, felt it 100%, and loved the wordplay in the last line! As someone with teenage daughters, I feel this acutely!
Saturday
Missed writing a poem
today. Was busy trying
to live one.
Rachel, this is exactly my sentiment today. I think “living a poem” is worth more. Hope you had a wonderful day. Thank you!
Lol, now just write about it tomorrow, Rachel! 🙂
Love this! I almost wrote about this, too, today, lol.
Ah…that dreaded “did I miss anything?” I love your poem–“the wind was at your back both coming and going.” And it got me thinking …
What You Missed
Today on the beach
you missed
the unfurling of tension
spooling from my shoulders
as I breathed in the briny sea air
that is still not quite spring warm
You missed
the tropical smell of sunscreen
on bared bodies
plunging into the too cold surf
laying on the too rocky shore
playing together in community
in this community treasure
You missed
the unending science lessons
as I studied the geology
of crumbling cliffs
and ocean-smoothed cobble
the biology
of velellas velellas
the not quite jellies
washing up on the shore
You missed
the pelicans
enjoying the low tide reef
and the pock marked rounded rock
a bowling ball for an octopus?
Luckily
I took my camera along
so you can enjoy my beach walk with me
You can find the photo essay version of the poem on my blog
https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2023/04/15/what-you-missed-npm23-day-15/
Kim,
I am vicariously enjoying your trip to the shore. You create a multi-sensory feast with the smell of sunscreen and briny wind,the sight of jellies and pelicans, and feel of imaginary sand between my toes. Thank you for sharing.
Bowling ball for an octopus – ! – hilarious! I love seeing all your photos, Kim. You make me miss the ‘good old days’ of blogging when we shared more than a limited number of characters or one photo at a time. I think I’ll become a regular at your site! Such a different worldview from where you are. I appreciate the sensory details – I can smell the sunscreen, and my own shoulders dropped a bit when I read “the unfurling of tension / spooling from my shoulders.” We should all have and treasure such moments.
I wasn’t sure how I was going to engage with this wonderful prompt, but I’m quite happy with what it helped me create this evening.
What We Missed
Cherry picked hot spots
aglow with dingy
pearlescent lighting
and too many craft
this-or-thats to count.
Moon drenched nights
and beads of sweat
glistening along your
collarbone.
Poorly paved parking lots
at 4AM. Don’t
forget that the sun
must also rise.
I forgot to tip the waiter.
Roads stranded in time
stretching beyond the
horizon, fading faster
than the fog of
first light.
Holding you as city after
city burns down,
creating a supernova of
sound and light.
Your hand gripping mine
when you told me
to never let go.
Love the variety of images, but I am especially impressed with how it all comes together in the end: “Your hand gripping mine / when you told me / to never let go.” Thanks for sharing this today!
Rightly stated, James – this is the kind of poem we would all love to see flow from us when least expected. I loved the pairing of “Moon drenched nights / and beads of sweat / glistening along your / collarbone.” and the attention to detail pulled from a memory. (Though I feel bad about the untapped waiter – !) : )
You missed out
When we made your favorite lemon merangue pie
and the family gathered around
to hang up the balloons.
When we put candles on your cake
and looked out the window for you.
When the clock chimed
the time you should be home
and our smiles disappeared.
We missed out
When you changed yor plans.
When you walked with your hand held by another.
When you sat on the beach, not alone
and watched the sunset.
When your heart burst with love for another
and you forgot about us.
Such a bittersweet poem, Susan. Perfect structure.
Oh, my, Susan! Heartwrenching!
What you missed
A morning with seven juniors reviewing the AP argument prompt.
Before you harrumph, you have to know what great conversations.
Just because we were preparing for an exam doesn’t meaning the conversations about writing were shallow.
These seven writers wished to write arguments.
Lean into their ideas to write stronger arguments.
And yes, with a line of reasoning.
As the morning progressed, we moved beyond brainstorming.
To introductory paragraphs with hooks, quotations, a thesis with claims.
Different ideas shared and tried out.
During our time together I thought to myself how I needed to write Collette’s mom.
And share the conversation we’d had earlier in the week about her essay
and today the leadership qualities I saw as she guided and encouraged her
peers to share what their writing.
We laughed at AP supplied student essays.
We noticed what was in the essays that existed in their own essays.
Working to know the assignment better.
Working to practice the writing so the morning in May
when it will count for something,
they will have the confidence (and skill) to move through the writing.
A morning writing with students.
Maybe not the most exciting of assignments.
Time shared, words shared, ideas shared.
You missed a morning connected through writing.
Jamie, this sounds like the perfect class! I’m so glad you decided to write about this topic.
Jamie, this sounds great! “Time shared, words shared, ideas shared. / You missed a morning connected through writing.” Test prep — as you described (and facilitated with your folks) — is test prep done right!
The Writing on the Wall
By Mo Daley 4/15/23
When did it happen?
When I was out with my back injury
or maybe brain surgery?
I’m scratching my head trying to figure out
when the paradigm shifted.
When did we go from the literal writing on the bathroom wall
There will be a shooting in school tomorrow
to a parent suggesting
that children’s voices have been stifled
so this is probably just their way of protesting gun violence?
What did I miss?
I feel the frustration and exasperation in the final line. When it comes to gun violence in schools, I have been asking myself that very question.
Mo,
I am with you on this so much. We’ve had two threats at our school recently (one not really made public), and it just boggles my mind that this is the new normal we’re supposed to live with. Well said!
Yes, Mo! This is powerful…you ask such a smart question. The “bathroom wall” message is chilling…and the voice in this poem is so spot on. It has that jab that comes when just the right question is asked, the one that you just hope to heavens gives pause to the dense boneheads out there. Wonderfull poem! Hugs, Susie
What you missed?
Opportunities, lots of them.
Promises to pick me up
To take me here, there.
Vacations.
Appointments.
A list of firsts:
Words, steps, kisses.
Chances to speak
And to hear
Moments to connect,
To unburden hearts.
What I miss?
You.
As I read your lines I wondered where you were going. Who was you? I was not prepared for your last two lines.
Aw, that’s sad. I sense a regret about romance that could have happened. Yes, a missed opportunity for two. Good poem.
Your short piece is a remarkable and emotional piece of poetic craft. It was tugging at my heart well before I reached the final two lines, which are so full of a kind of bittersweet longing, I felt tears welling up in my eyes.
Oh wow…the detail in both your example and your student’s are simply stellar! This prompt got me to thinking about the necessary chain of events that lead to any happening in life, and what could so easily be missed.
Serendipity
What if…
Sherri hadn’t asked
me to cover
her shift at
OJC bookstore
on registration day?
What if…
the bookstore manager hadn’t
assigned me to help
incoming students find their
books, since I didn’t know
how to do
anything else?
What if…
you hadn’t come in
to buy your books
that afternoon?
What if…
you hadn’t struggled
to find your
Intro to Astronomy book?
What if…
you hadn’t stood
in the wrong payment
line, spending an
unnecessary 30 minutes
waiting to pay?
What if…
I had let my shyness
get the better of me
and not engaged with
your clumsy flirtatious?
What if…
I hadn’t given you my number,
so that you could call and ask me
on a date–going together to audition for “Desperate Hours”?
What would have happened?
What would we have missed?
33 years later…here we are.
This is THE sweetest. Frame it and hang it in your home!
What a lovely story built from details. I still love happy endings. It sounds like your was.
I love your take on this prompt! This is such a sweet song – I can’t imagine a more perfect way to reflect back on a beautiful moment from 33 years ago.
Julie, I really enjoyed this tender reflection! Thank you for crafting it and sharing it today!
Oh my! Your poem circles me back to a frequent thought that (might!) become a poem: each moment is built on the last, the dominos toppling us forward. Thank you for this gift!
I like this prompt a lot! Thank you for the thoughtful examples, I really enjoyed all of them.
What You Missed
The sunlight fading through the tall trees
with the crackle of a Steller’s Jay piercing the air
The twitch of the squirrel’s tail as it taunted and glared
through the window at your defenses on the feeder
The jingle of the dog’s collar as she paces
back and forth looking for a source of attention
The pop and clatter of the freezer as it stocks
the ice bin, full of cubes shaped like canoes
The thumps and bumps of towels in the washer,
sloshing their way towards the spin cycle
The silence of a day spent recovering from a week
filled with sounds that command rather than lull
You missed the symphony of hushed murmurings
that heal the soul and restore one’s sanity
Woah! This. The “filled with sounds that/command” and then the “hushed murmurings/that heal”. Just what I needed to hear!
Cara, such truth! The sights and sounds of a mundane day of “doing nothing” can be so restorative.
I can see and hear this poem vividly. Each stanza brings a serene feeling. The last stanza solidifies the necessity of these quiet and tender moments in our lives (even if it feels “unproductive” to take notice to “the twitch of the squirrel’s tail”.
Cara,
WOW!! This poem is very you, needed some quiet after all the sounds of a busy week. I can just picture the ice you describe well here:
Lessons from Today’s Writing Celebration
Let gratitude wash over you
like a summer rain, hold
the rainbow’s beginning
and end in the palms of
your hands.
Extend your legs through
tiles past concrete
like a tree’s roots grounding
your body so that
your voice soars.
Name yourself writer
in words and gesture,
opening the book to find
your page inked with
your words, white space
waiting for the next.
Sarah, Sounds like another wonderful day providing a rich poetry writing experience for students. You have a new generation coming along that is blossoming from the seeds you’ve planted and cultivated over the years. Keep up the good work!
Sarah, you couldn’t have started any better:
The rest of the poem warms my soul as both teacher and writer. Your students are fortunate to have you in their lives.
Sarah,
What a wonderful celebration of writing! A beautiful way to spend a day. Each of us needs to “name yourself writer / in words and gesture” as we write our way through NaPoWriMo!
A GOOD DAY FOR MISSING
Back in the late fifties
I missed the big one;
sitting in the cob-webby cellar
of the century old farmhouse
in the dark right after the sky turned
a weird shade of green
when everything got very still,
it felt like this was IT,
a tarnada!
No Dopplar,
no live action red and yellow maps
on a 65” screen charting the projected
target areas of the straight-line storm,
working west
straight across the I-70 corridor.
No in ’59,
it was a green plastic transistor radio,
crackling to find a station.
Exciting, yes.
I never wanted to miss anything.
Five kids and Mama
huddled and fidgeting
on the rough wooden steps,
I was as worried about black widow spiders
as I was about a tarnada;
I didn’t know fer nuthin’
‘bout tarnadas —
Twister was still 37 years from production
and sirens didn’t happen for another decade –
but I knew the look on Mama’s face
as she scrambled us into the cellar,
this was not ordinary.
Living out in the boondocks
we missed that day in St. Louis
where all our cousins and aunts and uncles lived,
where we wished we lived.
It was one day out of the twelve years
we lived in the middle of nowhere,
that we missed out.
We missed the day
the F-4 slammed 60 miles away in St. Louis;
we missed the blow
that left 1400 homeless,
we missed that the storm
actually started in Oregon,
working its way over the mountains,
across the plains,
erratic enough to jump
over our farm,
but angry enough
to injure 345 people and
kill 21 in my folks’ hometown,
collapse brick homes.
Stately neighborhoods
added that tornado to their histories.
Now 64 years later
I shake off the FOMO.
by Susie Morice, April 15, 2023©
Susie,
The structure of this poem is just so carefully constructed to blend all the modes of knowing — the story, the information, the argument even. I would love to see students craft a poem from experience and then blend in facts and details of the event that could only be gathered because the speaker survived, because the speaker, indeed, could “shake off the FOMO.” That the speaker was not one of the 21 and yet it is part of the histories of St. Louis — city and boondocks.
Sarah
Susie! I love how you used this prompt to tell such a riveting story!
“angry enough
to injure 345 people and
kill 21 in my folks’ hometown,
collapse brick homes”
I love how you blended a child’s experience (envy?) with historical data. You are such a gifted storyteller!
<3,
Allison
Susie, your poem captures your childhood voice so incredibly well. The background information you add to your narrative adds that extra layer of awe. Your poem is mesmerizing as the terror of terrific storms that are permanently etched into our memories. I adore how you weave the theme of missing out into your fabulous poem. I felt like I was there with you in a cellar worried about spiders. Fantastic poem!
Susie,
Missing a tornado is something all in tornado alley long for. I’m sure I’m not the only one w/ an image of Dorothy and Toto in my head as I read this. I always love your use of vernacular and mamma’s voice. I think you know about the F5 tornado that hit Joplin in 2011 and that it destroyed one of my aunt’s homes and killed a friend from school. I went back two weeks after the tornado and saw the scorched earth. It’s something I’ll never forget.
What you missed on your walk yesterday
The precious sun-kissed purple blossoms;
(the ones that weren’t there the day before)
The bevy of quail whooshing and rustling
(out of that nesting bush on the south side)
The fuchsia fireworks of the prickly pear
(they hailed you to stop in awe)
The tickly breeze when you first walked over the pass
The lone jackrabbit darting on the trail
(he went faster than you could aim your camera)
The great greening of the desert
(green green after those winter atmospheric rivers)
The pumping of your heart outdoors under a big blue sky
Peace
———————————–
Allison, it’s so good to see you again in this space. We missed you this week, but like Kim said, it was better to miss for the important relationships you were there for.
The mentor poems–all four–were so inspiring. Wayman’s poem is hilarious. I started several different missed poems before I settled on one like yours. I’ve missed my daily springtime walks lately, so I wanted to remind myself of what I missed the last few days.
Denise,
Your words paint a desert landscape. Those delicate purple flowers are easy to miss if one is not attentive. I love your use of parenthesis to emphasize the fleeting moment of the quails’ hatching, and the personification of the prickly pears. But the richest lines are those at the end as they encapsulate what this desert scene offers:
“The pumping of your heart outdoors under a big blue sky
Peace”
Beautiful poem.
Denise, I love your opening line. It pulled me right into the beautiful walk you were able to enjoy. Your words are vibrant and show the true joy of nature: “whooshing and rustling” and “fuchsia fireworks of the prickly pear” were especially vibrant. Your ending final word is delivered perfectly. Peace to you, Denise!
I love the appreciation of nature in this poem and the use of parenthesis. I’d love to take a walk with you in your desert landscape, so different from my own.
Denise!
Just love the way the parentheses work to add insider details and gentle nudges about other dimensions of what was missed because the speaker is just so fastidious, so observant, so present, so conscious. I would love for this speaker to walk alongside me to help me see – “The great greening” and “The pumping” of a heart that just needs us or someone to help us see, to remember, too.
Sarah
Denise, the sensory imagery makes this experience come alive. I particularly get a kick out of auditory words, whether created through onomatopoeia, assonance, consonance and rhythm. When the poets’ words capture and replay an experience for readers as though they are watching and listening to a film, they get me. WOW!! You’ve done it here.
Denise, this is one of my favorites! Since I canceled my gym membership, I promised myself I would walk at least 3 days last week. I was able to do it and I even got in 3 miles at the beach today.
Your poem is affirming the cancellation of my membership! Thank you, friend!
I will stop in awe!
I love this description of the walk. It is so true. I walk in the nature area every day and have a special bunny that I look for and say “hello” as I see her. You comments in () are exquisite in the way the clarify what happens during your walk. Thanks for the whooshing, rustling and the breeze. I can feel and hear it. Too many miss this type of experience.
Wow…I think I love everything about this piece. The way the parenthesis let us know what we wouldn’t other wise know, the colors (sun-kissed purple, fuchsia fireworks, green green), the sounds…and the “he went faster than you could aim your camera.” Just lovely!
Denise, this is one of my favorite poems today! I wish we went for a walk together, saw these amazing things, and you’d tell me little things in parenthesis. Thank you for sharing!
Allison — I love the reflective nature of this prompt and your poem, especially these lines:
“pinpricking transluscent tattoos/across your thighs”.
What you missed …
A trek to the summit of Mount Gorham,
the cerulean blue panorama stretching to the horizon,
collectively held breath as we stared out across the ocean expanse, and felt so small.
What you missed …
The blossom of music that erupted during halftime on crisp fall Friday nights
and the excitement that bubbled just before our children stepped off.
The swell of pride as she accepted her diploma, became another college graduate.
She would never tell you, but she was disappointed you weren’t there.
We were disappointed for her.
What you missed …
All the small moments that built to bigger moments…
We tried to pull you in.
That is what you missed while you slept enveloped in deep blue.
Oh, Tammi, the disappointment you convey in missing out on all these beautiful and exciting moments is palpable. The longing in “We tried to pull you in.” And that last line. Oh, its all sad and melancholy.
Your description of the trek up Mount Gorham is breathtaking, absolutely gorgeous.I hear such sadness in this poem. You have me wondering if that last line is a play off of “the devil and the deep blue sea” – I love the phrasing ‘enveloped in deep blue,’ and wonder if you, too, were very hurt by choices made.
Tammi, I love the beauty your words capture in the opening stanza, the way you capture the sound of the graduation moment, and end with how those small moments are so important. Your last line is so arresting: “slept enveloped in deep blue”. Incredible poem full of striking imagery, sound, and emotion.
“All the small moments that built to bigger moments” is a line that draws me in to the longing. We can’t get those moments back, can we? Once they are missed, they’re gone. “We tried” brings me to regret.
Oh, I am thinking about the “she” and the “you”. I am reading into the literal and figurative of what “enveloped in deep blue” can mean, and how much of the enveloping was intentional or avoidable or avoiding.
Lots here to ponder, but I am sorry for her disappointment and hope her heart will not harden to the “you” though it might.
Sarah
Oh Tammi,
At first I thought you were writing about someone who had died, but as the poem pulled me on, I think you are writing about someone who “wasn’t there” maybe because of depression (enveloped in deep blue)?
Your truth of “all the small moments that built to bigger moments” is spot on. We can’t wait for big moments. It’s the small ones that add up.
I’m so glad to find your poem here tonight. Thank you.
if this
stack
of
research
essays
is any
indication
(and why
wouldn’t /
shouldn’t
it be)
apparently
i must
have
neglected
(this
entire
semester)
to
review
(or
even
mention)
the
importance of
parenthetical
documentation
__________________________________________________
Allison, thanks for your prompt and mentor poems today! (Genevieve’s tender poem was quite heartwarming. Thanks, again, for sharing it!)
Scott —
You’ve totally captured the agony of feeling like we are talking into a vacuum. I teach younger students but have the same issues with them including cited text evidence. They completely ignore my rubrics, too! Ugh!
Hahaha! I love your parentheses within your poem! We’ve all been there, perhaps not wanting to admit that it had anything to do with us:
Good luck with that stack.
OMGOMGOMG! You and me both!!! I seriously just looked at how many papers and thought, Did I not say A THING about this?! Okay. Aside from that great lament – I love this STACKED poem. Feels like the weight of the work and the frustration venting line by line, word by word. I can just see the steam coming out of your ears. : ) Sorry, pal, but yeah, I think a lot of us will relate just about now.
I don’t envy this paper-grading, Scott! Super glad I missed this. Best of luck!
Oh my goodness, isn’t that true? Isn’t it just the time of year when we reflect on what we did and didn’t and almost accomplished — with all the evidence confront. I am right there with you! “apparently/i must/have/neglected”
Sarah
HAHAHA! This is certainly a TEACHERS’ poem! I don’t know how many times I’ve sifted through essays/tests/projects only to realize “Welp! I guess I didn’t teach THAT well enough (or at all?)!” I love a poem that invites me to revisit my shortcomings in such a forgiving, inviting manner! THANK you, Scott!
Thank you, Allison for this prompt. I wrote of loss – not of grieving – but just of what is.
What I missed
Ever-expanding,
the round belly
grows hpeful
with expectation of great
and wonderful things
in a small promise
The first cry,
the first step,
the first word,
the tight grip
of small fingers
that let go, suddenly independent
Making the cake with care,
Layer upon layer of white frosting,
Candles set like pastel soldiers,
1…2…5…7…9…12…15…
I missed all of those
And more and more.
Scraped knees,
Broken hearts,
Friendships misplaced,
The thrill of new love,
First flowers, first dance,
Times to press into photographs.
College application angst,
Preparing and waiting…
Comforting and waiting…
Handing a thick envelope,
Long joyful hugs,
and tears and celebration.
Off to college,
Off to work,
Off to a new life
Of promise and possibility,
I missed all of those
And more and more.
Joanne, your poem flows so effortlessy, but shows so much of the vital things in life worth experiencing. The repetition of “I missed all of those/
And more and more.” is so haunting. You’ve captured a whole life of wonder in your poem. A life worth living and the deepest sense of loss.
Joanne,
Your listing of all the things experienced with having a child flows so well. Then, the
hits the gut and the heart.
The loss is definitely palpable.
Gut-punch of a poem, Joanne. Oh, how this hurts. These two lines capture more than the words say because of all the many reasons for flowers and dancing and photographed times:
Heart-wrenching poem, I send you some warm hugs.
💜
Joanne — your poem is so beautiful and heart wrenching. This stanza brought tears to my eyes, so poignant!
“Scraped knees,
Broken hearts,
Friendships misplaced,
The thrill of new love,
First flowers, first dance,
Times to press into photographs.”
Joanne, what a bouncing through the lives of my daughters I did as I read your poem. And those last two lines give me pause: “I missed all of those / And more and more.” It makes me wonder what I completely missed–not just that today I miss them–but those times when I wasn’t fully engaged or present or too busy to enjoy these fleeting moments.
Joanne, such deep sadness here, oh my. I really feel for you. “Times to press into photographs.” – ah, yes, this is where so many memories go.
Joanne, I am stunned by the power of your poem. You pulled me right in as you/we missed the round belly growing hopeful–wow. Then: “expectation of great
and wonderful things
in a small promise”
Hard to choose a favorite line, but this one knocked me over:
“Layer upon layer of white frosting,
Candles set like pastel soldiers”
I cannot lift your loss, but there is one more person in the world tonight holding you in gentle thoughts. Thank you for writing this.
Thank you. All the replies made me feel seen. For that I am very grateful. I didn’t know that poem was in me, and you brought it out. Thank you again.
Allison, I knew this would come out sooner or later. I’ve had a school year from hell, one for the books. My coworkers always say I have the worst class ever. I hate to say it, but it’s true. I don’t know if it’s effects from the pandemic or what but I pray to make it 38 more days. I’ve lamented over what I haven’t been able to do so it all came out here. This is a raw exposure of my truth and it hurts to read it.
What You Missed Because the Twin Showed Up
You missed out
on the teacher
staying later than the bell
who would be there
when you forgot
to grab your homework
or your lunch bag
or the note
she wrote to you
about how you shined today
You missed out
on the teacher
who let you come in
twenty minutes early
to sharpen pencils
organize the books
share who likes the new boy
or whose birthday party sucked
or to listen to the music
she choose for morning inspiration
You missed out
on the teacher
spending too much money
on fancy folders
for the class
to use during math
or “special” journals for writing
and scented markers for art
because grape and lime
made everyone giggle
You missed out
on the teacher
who didn’t wear a mask
who wore pink gloss
and remembered to floss
and her smile warmed the room
who laughed more
than she raised her voice
whose singing cracked you up
because it was awful
You missed out
on the teacher
who planned
to be five different people
dressed in costumes
who spoke with different accents
and carried a mean stick
for Middle School Day
you missed out on Ms. Joy
instead you met her evil twin
©Stacey L. Joy, April 15, 2023
Oh, Stacey, I am so sorry you’ve had this year from hell. I’ve been there before with a class or two who just seem bent on making everyone’s life miserable. You show what an amazing teacher you are in this poem and how difficult it is when we cannot be the teacher we want to be. I’m hoping you will get through the year and be blessed with a much better class next year. Hugs!
Stacey,
Your title yanked me in, and I grew impatient to connect its meaning. Then, those last two lines . . . such a clever way to list some of the many things your class miss out on when they are simply just not being the way that allows us to be our JOYous selves.
I feel similarly. I am so sorry. It’s hard to know that they aren’t getting the best of me, but it’s impossible to give them what they can’t handle.
I worry and wonder so much if it’s just a blip due to Covid or if this is the shape of things to come.
Susan, thank you. In the past, I would invite my evil twin to visit and the kids fell for it. I played the role of Tracey Mean and they actually believed she was my twin. Two of my former students work at my school now and they asked me when my twin was coming. I told them, she’s been here all year, better ask when is Ms. Joy coming back. LOL!
I love that so much!
Stacy,
I’m sorry to hear you’ve had such a rough year. You poem reminds me of the picture book Miss Nelson is Missing. I hope that the remaining 38 days are brighter and that you have the opportunity and inspiration to sing again.
Stacey, wow, you did need to remember the Ms. Joy you want to be. Next year she can come back. I’m sorry for you for this year. I didn’t understand your title at first, then forgot about the twin as I read the poem, then circled back and laughed at the last line. Very effective.
I can hear your frustration with yourself, with your class of students – and I suspect you are exaggerating this ‘evil twin’ imposter who has been leading all year. I’m so sorry it has been a hard year. I have heard this from many teachers – this attempt at ‘normalcy,’ the residual trauma and learning gaps, so much lost socialization for the students…it adds up to H.A.R.D. My hardest year, I turned up the inspirational music JUST FOR ME before everyone entered the classroom – do what needs doing to take care of you these last days, with ‘forgiveness’ being right at the top.
I think it is the pandemic. These kids seem to be developmentally delayed in social skills. It’s sad that they don’t respond to your Joy. But you need to stop blaming yourself. I heard some advice on a podcast today about getting through hard stuff. Take care of yourself. Do what you need to be strong. If that means taking off a few days to get a massage, do it. Taking care of yourself when all else is falling apart is important.
Yes, definitely making sure to take care of myself. I’ve been absent more this year than any year other than when I had surgery or babies. That says a lot! I scheduled an eye exam this Wednesday at 8:30 and instead of going in to work after, I took the full day off. I remember when I would not schedule appointments for my own medical/dental needs unless it was after work. NOT ANYMORE! I appreciate your advice, Margaret.
Stacey, I love you. And your evil twin.
I am so sorry to hear of your horrible (is that the word?) year. But I totally get how hard teaching is right now. A few weeks ago my second-semester journalism students painted their ceiling tiles. This is a joyful tradition that my students love and that brightens our work spaces. But THIS year, I found myself dreading/resenting the mess and chaos. I felt old. Or maybe not just old, but worn down.
Let me say this: Ms. Joy’s evil twin is STILL a gift to her students. She deserves a wide swath of grace. The fact that you wrote this poem speaks volumes about your teacher heart.
Hang in there. <3
Tears! I love you!
Stacey, I too would love to be remembered as the teacher who “laughed more than she raised her voice.” Thank you for the vulnerability embodied in these words. It reminds me of the purpose of this community. Your poem spoke to me.
Allison, thank you for your prompt. I love your poem, the image of the bunny, the downhill slope, the beauty of the wind and tattoos, and the ending provocative question. I think it’s awesome that your student shared her poem today, too. I loved her imagery of the grandfather straightening the flag on the coffin. Heartbreak!
Since You’ve Been Gone
What have you missed?
Nothing
not the ring exchange
a pandemic
pink moons rising
Grandpa escaping the nursing home
through a window on a snowy day
wishing he’d remembered his cane
slipping, breaking a hip
dying
Grandma’s heart failing eight months later
What have you missed?
Everything
karaoke tunes
birthdays, vacations
your own celebration
new nephews; your nieces
broken bones and shattered hearts
endless voids
silence
our constant struggle to breathe
Barb Edler
15 April 2023
Barb, whew, another gut-puncher today. I hope I interpreted correctly and this is sharing memory loss/dementia and aging. My friend’s mom suffers from dementia and she and I were recently talking about how she didn’t have to deal with all the angst of 2020-22 but yet she also missed a ton of celebrations.
The ending of your poem speaks to our collective grief. Thank you, Barb.
🌹
Barb,
These contrasting/paired poems are filled w/ love, tenderness, heartbreak. The scene in which grandpa escapes out the window of the nursing home had me cheering—until he fell. Did he find the ultimate freedom eight months later? That’s the philosophical question I’m asking. The final breathtaking truth is profound. Isn’t life too often “our constant struggle to breathe.” WOW. Amazing poem. I can’t stop thinking about the paradox of missing everything and nothing.
Barb — Wow! Your whole poem is so raw with emotions and those last two line “silence/our constant struggle to breathe” — so powerful!
Barb, peace to you and your loved ones as you continue to “struggle to breathe” I started a similar poem inspired by Wayman’s about my mom–the nothings and everythings she’s missed since she died. I shared a different poem here though, but I loved the idea of that pattern he and you chose here. Your Everything section is very effective–it starts out so positive and happy, including new nephews, but then becomes darker and sadder into silence and those left behind.
Barb, the speaks to the most horrible, traumatic pain a parent can ever experience. I am so sorry for your loss, and know there must be “our constant struggle to breathe.” There’s no getting over it, just enduring. So sad for you. I was struck by your sections of ‘nothing’ and ‘everything’ – and got the wildest little tingle at the word ‘pandemic’ being in the ‘nothing’ column. My goodness, it is all perspective, isn’t it?
“our constant struggle to breathe” hits me in my gut. You’ve missed nothing and everything. A powerful poem.
Barb, I love how you used Tom Wayman’s “nothing/everything” to frame your loss. I found the catalog in each category to tug at stories and…life. (“Grandpa escaping…missing his cane…Grandma dying” took be through the gamut of emotions in fewer than 30 words.)
As you move to the final lines, you use “broken…shattered…voids…silence” in a spiral of your/our loss. Your final line says so much: the will to keep breathing.
Hugging you tight, friend.
Allison
Allison, I’m drying tears. Tomorrow is the 4th anniversary of one of my bestie’s passing and this morning I felt her all around me. Then Genevieve’s poem…right on time. Please make sure she knows her poem is healing.
Your poem will encourage me to get out for my walk today no matter what! I don’t want to miss anything waiting just for me!
Thank you for this nudge! Grateful for your prompt today.
🌹🌺🌞
Stacey, Genevieve is finding her identity as a poet. I know she will appreciate your words of connection–which is, is it not, why we write?
Allison, thank you for hosting today and sharing a lovely variety of examples. I appreciate Genevieve’s willingness to share her words and memories of her grandfather.
i said no
so, did i miss a thing?
no, but maybe so
but probably
i gained a stronger grip
on boundaries
on self-care
on catching-up
i garnered time
to reset life
to limit multi-tasking
to prolong eye contact
i gave way to the
power of no
I think there is tremendous power and ‘rightness’ in saying ‘no.’ This line illustrates the virtue of having said no and therefore having time for ‘being there’ – “to prolong eye contact.” This is a gift!
Stefani,
Brilliant poem. We gain much when we miss out. This is a paradox, yes? My high school debate coach taught me an important lesson that has stuck w/ me all my life: No one is indispensable. That has been a welcome reminder of the power of “NO” when I’ve been tempted to overextend or think too much of myself. The list of gains: boundaries, self-care, catching-up, garnered time, reset life, etc. Look how much you would have missed. Look at all the gains! Is there really any comparison?
Stefani! I love how your poem give PERMISSION to “miss out”! And look at what you gained in exchange: prolonged eye contact (I love that!). Hold tight to that grip! Thank you for writing today. I’ll let Genevieve know you appreciated her poem.
Stephanie, I love the twist you took on the prompt.
embracing the power of NO is so important!
thank you for sharing.
Stefani, I applaud you for saying no and capturing the reasons we need to say no. Loved “to reset life”.
Stefani, your poem is edifying. Yes, we can say no. Your lower case “i” and lack of punctuation mirror your thoughts.
Congrats, Allison, on the new, family addition! This feels like the perfect prompt for your transition home today. After writing this morning, I did some quick research to confirm that I do not understand string theory or multiverse but this is what I’d like it to mean.
“Cosmic Strings”
Hoping to have it all
We can’t help but miss
Alternative routes
Heads to our tails
Option C’s.
But, this is why string theory
is my spirituality.
We may ease our yearning
for that which we miss.
In the infinite variations of the universe
Nothing is missed.
Laura, you have me contemplating a lot here and I’ve enjoyed rereading it a few times. Thank you for sharing.
Fantastic idea! What a lovely way to ease into missing some things!
Laura, I’ll go with your definition of string/multiverse theory! Let’s give ourselves permission to “ease our yearning” (LOVE that line) leading me to live in the “nothing missed” universe. Thank you <3
Hi, Laura! Ooooh, this has me thinking and I love it! I don’t know what string theory is either but I want it if it’s this:
🤗
I love that the first stanza is yearning – wishing for what we can’t have or may not be what we think it would be or want. I like the positive turn of the second stanza and realize we’ve missed nothing. So while string theory focuses on connections beyond our grasp, we may have what we need and truly want.
Ah, yes. That age-old question. I teach at a 2yr college, so many of my students already feel like they don’t belong or are trying to understand the community – they simply don’t know how that question rankles teachers. I teach them how to rephrase that inquiry and also temper my response to something like, “You missed some things that I can catch you up on, but mostly – we missed you. I hope you are okay!” I adore Modlin’s version, and the mentor poems are true beauty and weepers.
When you slept in today, you missed
the quiet stillness of city streets
darkness through which the
hanging lights at the park shimmer
being able to cross streets without looking
because no one is up going anywhere
this early on a Saturday
the sunrise over the bridge
orange and mauve and purply-red
before it burst into golden white light
the rising cacophony of birdsong
layers of sparrow and starling and crow
the blue jays back looking for their peanuts
and the sun the sun the sun
breaking now above the neighbor’s roof
blinding me to see it
me wishing you were here
I will go and wake you
you are mine, after all
us so lucky to have one another
why miss a moment more
so precious few we have to hold
Denise, thank you for this. I love the stillness at that beginning that builds to the awakening of the world as your poem ends.
Denise, you and I were on the same wavelength this morning (up early on a Saturday) – but, wow, yours is absolutely gorgeous, with these tercets! I love this one especially,
The idea of ‘layers’ of birds is fantastic.
Denise, this is wonderful. I love how it turned into a love poem at the end with the tang of one less sunrise to share. Your opening stanzas (1-5) celebrating the morning (the sun! the sun!) create a counterweight to the heft of the final two. When I hit the belated volta in stanza six, I felt myself holding on to my own loves for “so precious few” left. Powerful. Thank you.
Denise, I love your variation of the assignment. I’m such a morning bird and night owl (I don’t want to miss anything) and I can feel me writing for my little sister who used to sleep her way through life…
Love it!
Allison, they’re coming! End of the year school dances. They’re among the few school events I no longer miss attending. I lost so much respect for some of my “top” students when I saw them in that setting. You see, I’d been a teenager, too. 🙂
What I Missed at the Senior Prom
The guys dressed up in a suit for a change
The girls dressed like hookers roaming the range
The teachers gossiping in the corner
Some wishing they were out on the floor
Instead of standing stiff like a grown-up
Just wanting to be somewhere else being more
Than the eyes on duty to note who left with whom
Listening to the live drummer going boom, boom, boom
Checking the halls and the bathroom
Knowing what could happen but not wanting to assume
That the couple in the corner is not who you thought
The guy with a gal, not the one he had brought
To the senior prom that year
Wondering why must I be here!
Photo for Senior Prom Poem
Anna,
I resonate with these lines: “Instead of standing stiff like a grown-up
Just wanting to be somewhere else being more”
I’m all for having fun and wildin’ out as a grown up (ok, ok I did as a teen too) but it makes me super uncomfortable when I have to monitor teens in these settings. Like, yes, it’s cool to see them dressed up and living life but some of the trifling things that happen are too much! You wrote this so well!!
Anna, thank you for this take on such a large school-cultural event. As always, I enjoy your rhyme and it really works well here thinking of the music involved in this event.
HAha! Anna, your bubbly rhyme was just right for this whirl around the prom floor! I laughed at “not the one he had brought.” I, too, have been perplexed to see students I thought I knew match up with…well, not whom I would have picked for them! I’ve managed to PAY younger teachers to cover my chaperone duties these past two years. Money well spent!
Allison, thank you for FOUR amazing mentor poems. I had not read either of the first two you reference and I absolutely loved Modlin’s poem. This is another prompt I will share with my students. I can foresee gems coming out just like Genevieve’s, wow. Every line expresses what a wonderful kind of person her grandfather is and what a creative and meaningful way of looking at the prompt! You are doing powerful work. I love this imagery in your poem: “The sun sprinkled confetti rays
of orange and blue
pinpricking transluscent tattoos
across your thighs.”
Today, I went back to two prompts I did not read or write for and decided to create a found poem from lines that stood out to me. Thanks Verselove community!
What I Missed
(a found poem)
Thirteen ways of
looking at this.
A panoramic
vision of landscapes.
This world both so beautiful and cruel:
pointed fingers, forked tongues
those little, nameless, unremembered
acts of kindness and love–
cross-legged…women
drunken waltzing
a mother buttoning her child for the cold
walk to school, wrapped in an act of love, light in their eyes
missing the outdoors —
swimming
biking
rollerskating.
The sound of the words
apples and cranberries
words glimmer(ing) like tiny fish
in your sunlight (creating) peace ripples
Your weary head nod
a curl of hair escaping the net,
maybe joyful exhale,
a sweet slice of silence,
that wasn’t silence
Your eyes scrunched against
the sun, walking towards me.
Your trust in my
ability, potential, power.
Mountain-moving faith.
Unexpected blessings
like July rain,
a knowing smile,
fire poppies (crawling) across charred soil:
a beautiful blooming allamanda plant,
the fragile, glowing spirit.
a sacred
little space
where
miracles
of humanity
and nature
take place
misty mountain-winds and
plucked feathers from backyard chickens
(dancing) with the daffodils.
The whole sky…blown open to a blank page.
*Inspired by the prompts of Allison Berryhill, Anna Roseboro, and Bryan Crandall. Found poem lines by Scott M, Glenda Funk, Joanne Emery, Julie E Meiklejohn, William Wordsworth, Jennifer Jowett, Stefani B, Denise Hill, Haley Moehlis, Sarah Donovan, Tammi Belko, Jennifer Kowaczek, Ann Burg, Kim Johnson, Stacey Joy, Leilya Pitre, Fran Haley, Chea Parton, Mo Daley, Rita Dove, Saba T., Laura Langley, CMHutter, Tammi Belko
Thank you.
Angie, thank you for this creative interweaving of prompts! “Pointed fingers, forked tongues” and “words glimmering like tiny fish in…peace ripples” were just two of the lines that leapt off the page to me. And your final line is one I will transfer to my notebook: “The whole sky blown open to a blank page”! Love, love, love.
Phew! You went to work on this, Angie. Amazing. I’m most intrigued/impressed by these lines,
This will be floating in my head all day!
Wow Angie ~ this is nothing short of amazing. That you’ve gathered so many threads from our community to create something new is further proof of how much we miss even with our eyes wide open!
Angie! Woah! This is so impressive. I love your approach/execution. I didn’t even recognize my words the first time through since you created such a fantastic poem. I especially love: “The whole sky…blown open to a blank page.” Woah, again!
Thank you, Allison Berryhill, for the invitation to ponder what I’ve missed. This idea was a topic of conversation over drinks with friends last night. As a teacher, time off does not necessarily match up with the rest of the world. I feel that I have missed many moments in my children’s lives, and it is even harder now that they are adults and off on their own.
I recently missed Mother’s Weekend for my daughter’s sorority. She sent me pictures, attempting to keep me connected, but it hit my heart. I am going to plan carefully so I can attend next year. I only have so many more of these “mother” moments.
I missed
a weekend by your side
with your “sisters,”
instead a friend stepped in my place.
I missed
making bouquet bunches,
our fingers arranging the beautiful blooms
in the same room and not through text.
I missed
too many seconds
because time is a treasure
that is difficult to find with you.
Heather,
”time is a treasure
that is difficult to find with you.”
so true of so many things these days. I wish there was more time, always. Thanks for sharing!
I know this sadness of moments missed; so great that a friend stepped in for you. I love those last two lines, capturing the fleeting nature of time and how both you and your daughter run on different schedules now.
Heather, thank you for the vulnerability of sharing a loss. Regret is such a difficult emotion for me to sit quietly with, and you gave me space to do that with your poem. I appreciated the literal?metaphorical? act of arranging beautiful bouquets together (and not just through text). I am glad you had a friend step in–we need a village. <3
The longing in a mother’s heart for more time is so real. Beautifully said.
Oh, Heather, this makes my heart ache. I love the focus on actions to show what you missed, but your end is a heartbreaker….
“I missed
too many seconds
because time is a treasure
that is difficult to find with you.”
Gorgeous and powerful poem!
I do love all the mentor poems and have share “Did I Miss Anything?” w/ many students over the years. I feel a little like Lot’s wife looking back because my life has been filled w/ hits and misses. I suppose that happens w/ age. I wrote one poem about my mother and stepmother and all they chose to miss, but that’s a downer, so I took a skinny path, the opposite of my fat list.
FOMO
If I were omnipresent I wouldn’t fear missing out on
living—
winged-things
forest-bathing
nature-hikes
life’s
kindnesses
joyous-moments
loves—
Lives:
I wouldn’t fear missing out if I were omnipresent.
—Glenda Funk
April 15, 2023
I love the omnipresent angle and the way it frames the perspective of this poem. So clever and I love the details
winged-things
forest-bathing
nature-hikes
Great poem!
Glenda, first: the title is fabulous. I never thought of you like Lot’s wife – – at least in the looking back you have become more of the salt of the earth and not a pillar of salt. You illuminate the looking back and make us think about the significance of that and the implications of what life will be like when we come to those moments of looking back more and more and reflecting on the journey. I wish, like you, that we had an omnipresent option on the switchboard of who we are….and then, there are times I’m thankful I’ve been blind to so much of what I might have otherwise known. Much to think about here!
There is such joy and beauty in this! Just imagine being omnipresent! I remember doing a superheroes unit with young children, thinking about special traits we wish we had (mostly taking ideas from nature)…the idea of being able to be everywhere at once, now that is a fabulous super power!
You know I love
especially!
Glenda, your skinny poem is one word-treat of image/sound after another! But I also want to acknowledge the “downer” poem you didn’t share. I think I could give your fat list a run of my own if I headed down the what-my-mother-missed path. I see you, friend. And even without sharing our lists, I think you see me too. Thank you.
Glenda, what a beautiful reminder of all we need to embrace in life such as “winged-things/forest-bathing-nature-hikes”. Love that you follow this with “kindnesses/joyous-moments/loves”. I’m sure your fat poems will be further attended to, and I understand the pain that you must have spent writing those poems. What you’ve captured today is fabulous and I love your title and final line. Powerful poem!
What a sweet skinny treat this beautiful spring day. I love all the hyphenated joys and your variations on life, lives, living. Fullness right here today.
Allison ~ your wonderful prompt and poems — particularly the last line of your own poem, started lots of dialogues in my head and it was, at first difficult to settle into a single thought. This is the voice that shouted loudest, probably because my daughter, who is herself a mother now has a birthday coming up and I have been thinking about the meaning of time.
what you missed
in your leaving
were tears
and worries,
so many worries
and small
humiliations:
food stamps
old clothes,
the desperate
scavenge
for pennies in pockets,
and prayers
(so many prayers)
turned to ash—
what you missed
in your leaving
was the plump
of tiny fingers
turned to
toddler fingers,
and soft babbles
blossomed
into first words
and childhood
laughter
bursting
like flowers.
what you missed
in your leaving
was me,
like the dying
swan,
unfolding her arms,
lifting
her bowed head
and rising to dance
with my daughter.
Simply beautiful poem. I especially like the last stanza, so poignant. The imagery is amazing.
Oh, Ann, there is so much to love in this poem today – the fears and worries of leaving as the cycle of life begins and continues and begins again…..I love the swan at the end, the dance, the rising…..it reminds me of that glorious scene in You’ve Got Mail when Meg Ryan’s mother appears in the memories of how they danced and twirled and twirled and twirled and twirled……it brings tears even now as I think of all that happens “in the leaving,” and what remains.
Ann,
First, you have a youthful aura, so learning you have a daughter who is herself a mother is something I did not expect. Like you, I struggled settling on a direction today. I like the way your poem keeps me curious about who left, how it celebrates a child’s life while mourning the absence of the one who left. This complicates the tone in pleasant ways.
Ann, wow what lovely metaphors here:
“soft babbles
blossomed
into first words
and childhood
laughter
bursting
like flowers”
they work so well and bring to life the words and laughter ten times more! Beautiful!
The interplay of loss/grief with new birth is really beautiful. It is one thing to miss
and quite another to miss
My heart aches for this loss. There is such a sense of ‘rebirth’ with the dying swan that is absolutely stunning – “rising to dance.”
Ann, I was immediately invested in your poem when I read:
small
humiliations:
food stamps
old clothes,
the desperate
scavenge
for pennies in pockets,
and prayers
(so many prayers)
turned to ash—
The choice of specifics–pennies/pockets/prayers,
then ash–is powerful.
The second stanza made me wonder if the oldest child left before younger siblings grew up? I may be off base, but I love how you capture the plumping of fingers and babbles blossoming <3.
I feel an uplifting gin the final stanza, a hopefulness bringing you back together. Thank you for this lovely work.
Wow.
Always a poetic gift. Always, Ann.
Allison, Thank you for sharing these poems (and an incredible prompt). We’re so used to collecting from the experiences, but there’s so much we also miss, especially when weren’t present. Major FOMO. I loved this couplet
And now I’m not only missing my running life, but I’m missing the days I missed out on my running life. Happy Saturday!
Sorry I Wasn’t There
(For Kanyea & Courtney)
~brcrandall
It was on the calendar for months,
but I missed your gift of
yellow, white, & gold balloons.
That linen suit. The shoes –
everything about to pop.
The crate of books
stands by my door
wrapped in pink & blue possibilities
like a flamingo on one leg
ready to teach a fledgling
to do the same.
My wings were clipped, though.
It was an accident.
First time I parked on the street.
I should have known better.
But I saw the men dancing
& cheering in Gur, Mande, & Kwa,
carefully sliding adowa, antelope steps,
in celebration of swing, jazz, rock, ska & soukous.
I heard the kologo lutes & gonjey fiddles, too.
The music.
The life.
This little girl coming…
…just for you.
Bryan, what a precious and haunting memory all at once. I understand and live the FOMO myself. This is my favorite part, though I love it all – – this grabs me most:
The crate of books
stands by my door
wrapped in pink & blue possibilities
like a flamingo on one leg
ready to teach a fledgling
to do the same.
Those clipped wings (booted car?) also speak volumes about why you missed the balloons and linen suit. You have a style of writing that reminds me of something Billy Collins says: bring in a spider (something surprising). Your way of keeping a smile of intrigue and fascination as I read your writing is hard to explain, like a seasoning or spice in a delicious food that cannot be determined with accuracy, the taster just knows it’s there and different and savors it.
Phew. Where do I send the check, Kim? Thank you.
Bryan,
I can hear the sounds and music in your last stanza – what a wonderful celebration and even though you missed it, those last 4 lines represent hope in a beautiful way!
Bryan,
The greatest joy of offering a prompt is reaping the bounteous harvest! Each poem expands my thinking/feeling about missing out.
I especially want to tell you how these lines felt:
“That linen suit. The shoes –
everything about to pop”
THAT linen suit (yes, THAT one!) followed by the shoes–we don’t have time to contemplate for long because
EVERYTHING is about to pop!
Your image/word choice creates expectation and urgency.
Beautiful poem. <3
Allison,
This is such a great prompt that allows for so many different outputs. I anticipate that I will revisit this one again. Congrats on the birth of your grandbaby! I am so glad you were able to keep the computer shut and attend to helping. We all know how much this community means to all of us, so I’m sure doing so was hard. But, being there to help in that lifechanging event trumps all. Reading about that actually instantly gave me my topic .
What You Missed (or What I Missed)
You missed our wedding.
Your absence hung in that church
like the pall that was draped over
your casket.
You missed the births of seven
grandchildren, four of whom
were mine.
You missed me trying to navigate
being a new mother
and an overwhelmed mother of
one, two, three, four kids.
You missed helping me master
changing a diaper,
getting a stubborn baby to latch on,
cradling a baby in one hand
while stirring the pasta with the other,
sleepwalking to the nursery
for late-night feedings,
packing half the house for an overnight trip.
You missed becoming their Gagaw
like you were for the other four.
You missed seeing their eyes light up
when you walked in the room.
You missed being for them,
with them,
things you weren’t for me.
You missed everything in the lives
of those seven and the four you
were here for.
The big moments . . .
the firsts, the ballgames, the recitals,
the graduations, the weddings.
And the little things . . .
sitting on the couch watching
Days of Our Lives with you,
snuggling in the recliner as you
played Atari, dining at Captain D’s
while you were the secret shopper.
You missed helping me
You missed my realizing how tough
motherhood is.
You missed the healing of our
relationship.
You missed everything.
But through The Veil,
you missed nothing.
~Susan Ahlbrand
15 April 2023
. . .
Susan, what perspective! Wow, that ending! Perhaps, in many ways, the thereness of moments is more fully known through The Veil, from the other side. I like the way you counted each child, one, two, three, four, because adding each one is such another layer of life that it bears counting, not just numbering. Holding the baby and stirring the pasta says so much, too – – because pasta feeds growing families. I think Italians have mealtime right! Those last two lines will stay with me.
Oh, Susan. Thank you for your heart-filled words. I felt this line extra hard: “You missed the healing of our relationship.” My own mother is still alive, but we didn’t heal until after she became demented…which is a thin, too-late healing. I also caught “things you weren’t for me” which adds to the poignancy of your poem. I am trying hard during grand-parenting to redeem at least some of the ways I failed in parenting (being there).
Your poem gave me so much to think about. Thank you for giving it to us. Hugs.
Susan, thank you for putting words to your long, challenging walk of adulthood without a mother. These lines were particularly poignant, “Your absence hung in that church
like the pall that was draped over your casket.” My mom was indispensable to me when she was here. She remains indispensable to me still.
What you Missed the Year You’ve been Gone
Since you’ve been gone, spring sprung again with bright
cypress green and pops of buttercups along the roadway.
Baby June was born on winter’s solstice. She’s blooming, too.
You’d want to make raspberries on her strawberry cheeks.
Since you’ve been gone, we’ve moved Mom twice
finding better and better care for her. We think you approve
because I walked beside a woman with a dog
who told me about her mother. We talked and talked
then she said her name was Beverly like your favorite niece.
whose southern drawl comforted like a soft pillow.
I miss you on days like this, when the birds sing opera,
the sun hides behind the clouds. I kiss your great grandson.
He’s forgotten you died and says, “Where’s Pop?”
I haven’t forgotten but I think I see you in his smile.
Margaret, so many precious memories and wishes woven in here. I loved
I know you are missing your Dad. What a gift this poem is, I think, as you grieve.
Margaret, there are literally tears welling in my eyes as I read your beautiful poem this morning in Cathedral Coffee in Macon, Georgia at a table with my husband. This conversation with your late father, gone a year now – – I remember when! Has it really been a year?? Time and moments fly. That line where you kiss his great grandson and see him in the smile just pulls on the old heartstrings this morning. And the pops of buttercups, the life that carries on outdoors in all of nature, carries on in our souls, in our spirits, in our legacies and on our family trees. Beautiful, heartfelt, and touching!
This is beautiful and brought tears to my eyes as I could write something like this about my Papa who has been gone a year. It is a great way to remember special moments
Margaret, Your poem is filled with Baby June’s strawberry cheeks and a woman with a dog and (my favorite!): a southern drawl comforted like a soft pillow. So much to love here. Your final stanza is the bitter/sweet I live for in poems. Lovely.
Allison, love this prompt! Your poem is filled with motivational reasons for running – that sweet bunny, the confetti sun, so much more…but we wouldn’t have had your gorgeous poem if you had headed out the door, and that would have been a real loss for us. Genevieve’s poem moved me to tears, so touching, so observant in the midst of grief. This was the couplet that did me in, offering us insight into her grandfather’s spirit and ways –
Fun to be a part of the “early morning writers” today…my poem explains why, lol.
the things you missed while slumbering in bed
the things you missed while slumbering in bed
whereas I woke wide-eyed to the rumble of thunder
you missed finding the bottom rail of the rocker
with your big toe as you stumbled in the dark of the living
room, before finding the light switch for the little lamp
so that you might sit in its soft glow and write
you missed the mental machinations of whether it was too
early for a cup of tea, as in – was this really the ungodly
hour that this Saturday would begin, or would you write yourself
back between those soft sheets momentarily?
you missed holding that warm ceramic cup between your hands,
the simple pleasure of hot tea in the dark before dawn
you missed listening in on the robins calling out to one another,
making plans for the day, and learning that cardinals chorus
almost a half an hour later than those early birds, and wondering
if they are simply not big talkers first thing in the day?
you missed the dance of dark and light, the slipping away of night
the soft entrance of morn, how light gently sprinkles the trees and
grass, and leaves you sitting captivated by whispers of dogwood
blooms and shadowed tulips, not yet aware of dark’s graceful exit
you missed me, snuggled next to you, and I missed you
Maureen, so many lines just sparkle and dazzle this morning – writing yourself between the sheets, and learning that cardinals chorus, and robins making plans for the day and wondering whether birds aren’t big talkers first thing……the snuggling in the last line is just a slice of precious time, the stillness and peace of a morning with the one you love.
Maureen: I actually heard that early cardinal chorus this morning, too, and recorded it! No kidding! It’s so happy and bright and uninhibited that I had to save it. Oh, what a lovely poem, even with the stubbed toe (OUCH) and the thunder and the ungodly hour of waking. The night slipping away, the light sprinkling on trees and grass, the dogwood whispering – there’s a sacredness to it all, the perfect atmosphere for a poem being born into the world. The flowers unaware of dark’s graceful exit is the perfect lead-in to the graceful exit from the bed, leaving the loved one still snoozing. The longing for that simple snuggle, that infinitely intimate warmth- powerful. A gorgeous aubade!
What a lovely poem, Maureen! so many moments I could visualize so clearly—hot tea in the dark before dawn—the soft entrance of morn, how light sprinkles the trees and grass. Really, I might as well quote the whole poem ~ just lovely.
Your words painted my favorite moments of the day. I hate missing that dark morning writing time witness the world wake up.
Maureen,
Hows that big toe? I felt an ouch when it missed finding the bottom rail. For much of the poem I thought you were writing to yourself, then to Tony with that lovely last line:
“you missed me, snuggled next to you, and I missed you”
And I, too, have missed the Cardinal song, but my slumbering is not to blame. There’s something satisfying about the morning time alone: the quiet while drinking a hot beverage, the thunder (I long for this.) m, the animal sounds. I’m enjoying all through your poem and while reading it in the quiet of my kitchen.
Maureen, I love your title and how you catalog so many precise moments of your morning. I love the physical action and sensory appeal to both sound, light, and touch. I love your lines “you missed the dance of dark and light, the slipping away of night
the soft entrance of morn, how light gently sprinkles the trees and”…you capture nature’s beauty so perfectly. But your end is jaw-dropping as you emphasize what you missed by rising early. Fantastic poem.
Oh, Maureen, beautiful poem today. Did you share it with Tony? I think it was a treat for us that you couldn’t sleep, but I hope you have a good night’s sleep tonight. This poem reads like a love song (to nature and your love):
Maureen, sometimes I notice the moment I am sucked into a poem. In this poem, the moment was the enjambment between these two stanzas:
“…stumbled in the dark of the living
room, before…”
Your choice let me experience “in the dark of the living” before offering “room” for a tilt on the thought. Maneuvers like that tell me I’m in for a treat of a poem! And you delivered…
“write yourself
back between those soft sheets” (love the play with bed/writing sheets)
Your final line–missing the loved one and being missed in return is most satisfying! Thank you!
I’m sorry you missed
Walking me down the aisle.
You had two chances…
I’m sorry you missed
That I chose to keep my maiden name
So I could be Dr. Kagan just like you
I’m sorry you missed
Your son’s son being born
He was named after you
I’m sorry you missed
Mom’s resilience
Dealing with her medical issues
I’m sorry you missed
Cell phones, medical breakthroughs,
Apple watches
I’m sorry you missed
My birthday every year.
I was born on Father’s Day
I’m sorry you missed
That I belong to a synagogue
And I’m an active member
I’m sorry you missed
A lot of your life
You died at sixty
Too sudden and too soon
Jennifer, your poem wrenches my heart. Your father has missed much and every line reverberates with how much you miss him. Your reveal about being born on Father’s Day is perfectly placed in the stanza with missing your birthdays; it is another special connection between you. I often think of all my own father has missed, what he’d say about the world now, and what he’d think about my children, now grown. I know this: he’d be amazed and proud. I wager to say yours would be, too – I sense it most in the synagogue stanza. Thank you for this lovely, poignant verse.
So much emotion in this one, Jennifer.
Kevin
Jennifer, I’m weeping along with you all the regrets of what we wished others had valued when the opportunities were there. The synagogue brings a strong feeling of legacy, of family values, of the lineage of Abraham throughout time, the family tree that despite a few wobbly branches is never, ever broken. I wonder sometimes, in my own situation, whether I cheer values that others don’t see the weight of, and why it bothers me but it doesn’t seem to have any impact on them. I’m so sorry that your dad died so young and that for whatever reason, he wasn’t there sharing some of the most important moments. What I love, though, is that you know their value and seize them with your son. That’s the gold.
Jennifer, I am so sorry for your loss, how many precious moments that your father missed. There was a lightness to this stanza that was really dear, letting me know him as a ‘tech nerd’ –
The short stanzas and repetition are powerful.
Jennifer,
I thought about writing about my father who died at 39; I was 16, so I feel as though I’m reading much of my own story in your poem: that walk down the aisle twice, for example. I love the touch of levity that breaks the mournful tone in this verse:
“I’m sorry you missed
Cell phones, medical breakthroughs,
Apple watches”
In a different time and place, right?
Jennifer, I feel such depth in the specifics you explore in this poem: Apple watch, synagogue, Dr. Kagen, Father’s Day. You pulled me into your loss–which also celebrated who your father was/is to you. Beautiful.
Allison, congratulations on your new life and kudos to you for keeping your computer shut and focusing on your priorities. That’s what my poem is about today – priorities. What you missed on the trail – I love that they all pale in comparison to the moments you chose, especially the bandana – and the meaning of time is so different in each context. You have me thinking. Time to a high schooler sitting in a class, time to a runner who shows improvement, and time to an Olympic runner where a fraction of a second carries far more weight, and time with family that is all so important. The one holding the bottle over there not comforting someone at the funeral in your student’s poem is a moment of knowing the power of human in-the-momentness. Your poem takes me back to what a grandfather missed at his grandson’s 13th birthday fishing trip. I’m glad you closed your computer. I’m glad there are seven poems not here because there are 7,000 memories and moments that needed tending. You did the right thing, friend.
what you missed
you’d have never seen anyway
the way he looks like his mother
the way he casts his line
the way he asks with concern
the way he answers with passion
the way he doesn’t miss a beat
the way he marches to his own
the way he loves animals like Mimi did
the way he rescues turtles
the way he named his baby duck Steve
the way he knows departure
the way he feels betrayal
the way he talks all scholarly
the way he tells books start to finish
the way he hugs his cousins
the way he thinks in waves of blue
the way he ponders nothing new under the sun
the way he sees the world
the way he doesn’t see the world
five years from now
he’ll carry fewer memories of you
because you were absent
off praying for all the others
at a ballpark
again forgetting your own
that depth finder could see fish
but will never not show the depth of
what you missed
Love the repetition of the way. It sounds like a prayer.
Oh my, Kim, does this ever speak to misplaced priorities. It is a truth we all know: there is nothing more important than time spent with people who matter to us most. Not doing so begs the painful question of mattering…and the inevitable spiral of feelings and futures from there, as expressed in the final stanza. I see a metaphorical sign by the chosen road leading away from the fishpond, the ballpark: Warning…
The repetition of “the way” makes every line a songlike chant, a lament. What I celebrate, however, is the heart that saw all these things, because they matter so (that he looks like his mother, that he loves animals like Mimi, that he rescues turtles, that he named his baby duck Steve – awww! – that choice set me a-wondering…). All seen and kept in the heart of the one present, because it’s priority. Those final lines about the depth finder finding fish but never being able to measure depths of what’s missed – hauntingly true. Some folks never can determine the shallows from the depths.
Oh, Kim, there is such sad lament in these lines. The introductory slam,
“The repetition of “the way he” is so beautiful, the perfect poetic tool to drive home the weight of absence, of misplaced priorities, the lingering pain of these choices. That ending is extraordinary – I adore the connection to fishing, which is referenced as a joy for “he” (the way he casts his line) –
What a powerful poem this is Kim! What a blessing that everything he missed, you note and appreciate. (I loved the line he thinks in waves of blue.) Beautiful.
Kim,
Ouch! Those two openings g lines pack a punch:
“what you missed
you’d have never seen anyway”
You nailed the reality of those who choose to miss those beautiful moments you chronicle These two lines really speak to my decision not to write about my mother and stepmother. And that closing stanza has a “Cats in the Cradle” echo. I wonder if the subject of your poem will ever realize all they missed. Time will tell.
And he bursts into tears….what a beautiful poem. All of it….these lines, though:
Well, that was a healthy post lunch (although I’m fasting so not post lunch) afternoon trigger of emotions.
Kim, wow, your end is such a gut-punch. I love all the important things you’ve catalogued in your poem to follow why the subject has missed so much. Hugs!
This poem and that cheering on Allison’s decision shows you know something of what you speak. That list of “the way he”s goes on and on seemingly nonstop. The depth finder “will never not show the depth of / what you missed” Wow! He can’t get away from what he’s missed. So sad and riveting.
Kim, wow. This poem is both a celebration of that 13-year-old (your son?) and a cry of hurt when (your dad? a pastor?) chose the masses over the individual: his own. I have seen (even experienced) this painful dynamic myself, but your poem served it to me in a fresh and startling way. Just wow.
A few favorite lines:
“the way he doesn’t miss a beat
the way he marches to his own”
“the way he knows departure”
“the way he thinks in waves of blue”
You use the fishing conceit to powerful effect in your closing lines. Thank you for this.
(And also thank you for your celebration of my days with Roger 🙂
Allison, I so appreciate this prompt and its inherent connection to priorities and things of value. The images in your poem resonate deeply with me – nature offers us so much! The mixture of reality (scattered light of the sun, patterning) and fantasy (that baby rabbit! I want to stroke its water-soft fur! – all downhill, wind at your back both ways) speak to missed gifts on the trail today. There’s a sense of awe pulling – nature does that to perfection. Your reasons for not running (laziness, time crunch, foul mood–thereby missing the trail’s gifts) make me think of reasons we don’t write…and what we miss. And oh, Genevieve! Every line is so pure and real. This is a treasure of a poem. Knox not understanding what’s really happening, the flag on the coffin, the bathing in the sunshine while heads are bowed in prayer and smiling down always “because you loved us so” – they pierce my heart. So, so beautiful.
As I post this, Allison, I see your note about “closing the computer” – I don’t blame you, I do the same, for the moments are too precious to miss and that’s really a bit of what’s behind my poem…
What You Missed While Texting
the most important thing
the boss said
in the meeting
how tired your spouse looks lately
while asking (twice before you hear it)
how you feel today
the (friend) (child) (significant other) beside you
feeling less important
enduring the lulls
and increasingly disinterested
in trying to have a real conversation
the unspoken invitation
from nature to come
commune
let your mind be still
and heal
that dog out of nowhere
zipping across the street
right in front of your car
and the other driver (also texting)
veering over the double yellow lines
coming for you
and your (beloved?) passenger
head-on
How powerful. Love this:
the (friend) (child) (significant other) beside you
feeling less important
enduring the lulls
and increasingly disinterested
in trying to have a real conversation
This is so true! You’ve captured the issues with texting beautifully!
Fran, it’s all so powerful today, but that last line leaves us perfectly hanging, hinging on choice and temptation at times we are pulled to just check the ding. Those moments, the most important in a meeting, the feeling of being less important, and the unspoken invitation to dwell in nature ~ all so true, so real, so beautiful. I love the topic today, and you really brought so many truths to the forefront of the need to be present in all the moments.
The perfect poem for the times we live in … and the dangers of our screens ….
Kevin
Fran, thank you for writing about this! Really, almost a public service announcement. There is so much that can be missed when one is absorbed in those darn texts. The line that painfully resonates with me is “feeling less important” – one can’t help but feel a lower priority.
Fran,
I love that you honed in on both the antisocial consequences and the life or death consequences of texting. Like most, I’m on my phone, too much—now, for example—but it’s never out in class, even when subbing, and I know how to put it away when among people, etc. I tell kids often the phone robs them of learning, of deep thinking. I hope as phones become more normal they’ll become less present. Love your poem and the important message you’ve shared.
Fran,
This poem holds life-saving lessons about the dangers of being stuck on our screens! I am guilty and I will heed the warnings here. On the freeways in L.A., I see collisions daily. I know this is why more times than not.
Thank you, Fran! 💎
Oh, Fran, the way you build towards this end is incredible. I understand everything about that difficulty people now seem to have because a phone’s distraction. I love the stanza to commune with nature and how this seems so peaceful followed by the “veering over the double yellow lines”. Wow! Powerful poem and one that needs to be read by everyone!
Fran, you took me into your head and I got to watch the tumbling out of “lost to texts”–each more significant than the last until your head-on ending. Your use of parentheticals was especially effective for me in the question of (beloved?) after ignoring that very person in stanza three.
Put. Down. The. Phone.
Thank you.
Hugs.
Good morning, fellow poets! I have been in NC all week tending to my daughter and her baby Roger (and her dogs and her partner–). It’s been lovely in all the important ways, but I missed writing with all of you as I chose to keep my computer shut. When I opened the prompt today, I thought of the seven poems I didn’t write. Life is choices. I hope I can wind my way back through the past week’s prompts eventually, but we know how way gives on to way, so I am telling this with a sigh.
It’s good to be headed home even as I wish I had more time here. I now look forward to reading your poems in airports today!
xo,
Allison
Taking care of ourselves is key. Poems can wait (until they can’t and then they get written)
Kevin
I have missed your presence in this space, Allison. I know the contradictory pull you’re experiencing. It’s how I feel when I’m with my grandson. Safe travels.
Alison— Want you to know that even though you were in NC doing exactly what made total sense (good for you), you were here because so many of us have internalized you in this space. I’ve thought about you each day and myself took leave to tend to other things, all the while missing the connection of my poet family here on ethicalela. I look forward to any and all poems that you share. Hugs to you and my best to your family. Susie
Allison, I would much prefer you do what you need for yourself and family because YOU MATTER and so do they!
I feel like I have wanted to call a sub for the month of April so I can dedicate my time to poetry and rest. LOL, I guess that’s not an option.
Safe travels and I look forward to your return here. You’re missed!💛
I’ve missed you, Allison, but you certainly made a great choice. Congratulations on the birth of your new granddaughter. What a blessing you must have been to your daughter and family this past week.
(no idea where this poem went)
What? Were you
daydreaming
again? ‘Cause I missed
you in the side pocket,
today, a corner shot
deep with spin, spoken
off the top of my head,
my words in full ricochet
tinted with scuffed-up
blue, when I heard
you wonder out loud
to a friend, in guffaw:
Was I daydreaming,
again?
— Kevin
Good morning, Kevin. I’m all for “no idea where this poem went.” I think a prompt should be just that: a nudge at top of the hill. I loved how you took the pool (snooker?) conceit all the way through, “speaking” the shot off the top of your head/ball. So clever and satisfying!
Thanks, and yes, the words came rolling down that hill all right, and I wrestled with the metaphor.
Kevin
Kevin, it is the poem that wanted to be written and it works. Even for a reader who’s terrible at pool. I could feel the pocket, hear the shot (clack!) see the scuffs, feel the ricochet…and the snap to attention. It’s real.
Kevin, I love days that my knuckle-tight grip loosens and lets the pen lead. Fabulous-er things happen when the poem writes itself. I love that you loosened your grip and let the words and ink flow freely, without a road map, to emerge as a wonder, a miracle, a masterpiece.
I enjoyed the pool table metaphor – and especially this,
This is such an apt way to those abrupt words, spoken without thinking before one speaks – one feels the sting, the power.