Allison Berryhill teaches English and journalism in Atlantic, Iowa. She is publications-coordinator for the Iowa Council of Teachers of English. Follow her @allisonberryhil for photos of #IowaSky and schoolblazing.blogspot.com for random musings–most recently about housing her elderly parents in her basement during Covid-19.
Inspiration
I love the vivid colors an onomatopoetic elements in the snap-shot poem “Killing the Rooster” by Sheryl L. Nelms. It seems that Nelms has held a visual memory for years and then puts it to paper in this striking poem.
Killing the Rooster by Sheryl L. Nelms
Process
Flip through the strong visual moments of your childhood and select one to capture in a poem. Brainstorm a list of colors associated with the memory. What sounds do you associate with the experience? List those too.
Now make a two-columned table. On the left paste Nelms’ poem. On the right craft your own. I suggest this side-by-side method because it encourages me to study (and honor) what the mentor text has done as I write my own.
Here is the opening stanza of Nelms’ poem. You may read it in its entirety on the link above.
Gramps held the rooster
with his left hand
and swung the
ax with his right hand
the silver edge
sliced clean
and whumped
into the elm stump…
Allison’s Poem
Sewing with My Mother
I sat on her lap and
my mother’s arms
wrapped around mine
guiding my hands
guiding the muslin
the chomping foot
of the ebony Singer
inched close
to my tiny fingers
as my mother’s hands
hovered over mine
I mapped
the purpled veins
like rivers
on her creamy skin
my bony bottom
balanced on her
soft lap
and her voice in my ear
murmured
guidance
Write
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. 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.
Uncle Dale held the spatula
with his right hand
and flipped the
burgers from one side to the other.
R+B music blarred
from the radio speakers
and aunts, uncles, and cousins
danced their cares away.
Dixie paper plates are piled high
with homemade delicacies
and some store-bought
wrapped in tin-foil to
survive the ride home.
Summertime on farm
Grandma saved me from the snake
Not a country girl
Good morning Katrina,
This is a powerful haiku. It says so much with just those three lines! Glad Grandma saved you. Wow!
What a crisp memory! Thank you for this lovely slice of poetry.
I am so with you girl.
salt water taffy
Mom stood at the stove
stirring the melting sugar
and watched the thermometer
the pot handle held by the mit
the light blond liquid
thickening by the spoon
a swirl of lines
led by the spoon
pulls the edges
from the sides of the pot
lightly buttered fingers
hold on to globs of hardened
sugar
pulling and pulling til
the strands grow thinner and lighter
strands of candy rest
on sheets of wax paper
waiting to harden
fine strands of candy
pulled between fingers
create a web of sugar touching every kitchen surface
Jamie, what a lovely memory. Those swirls are so easy to picture. Although I’m not really a fan of saltwater taffy, you’ve created a world that is so warm and inviting that I want to go in!
I love this. What’s nice to think about is that good memories like this can me formed for children today even in these difficult times.
Jamie – The poem has a slow swirl to its movement. Very soothing… “thickening by the spoon/a swirl of lines led” and “buttered fingers” were lovely images. I’ve never watched anyone make salt water taffy, and you’ve offered such a sweet (pun intended) image of that. Thank you, Susie
Jamie, the image of the handle held by the mitt took me right into the kitchen. “Light blond liquid” emphasized the hair-like texture of the sugar strands. Really nice!
The Swing
Riding on a swing
Back and forth; back and forth
The air is fresh. It’s early spring
Swinging back and forth; back and forth
Brown Buster Browns dangling from my feet
Back and forth; back and forth
Brown skirt and white shirt in the middle of my torso meet
Swinging back and forth; back and forth
Birds are singing in the air
Back and forth; back and forth
I have no worries and no care
Swinging back and forth; back and forth
Leaning back, feet reach towards the sky
Up and down; up and down
Leaning down and up. again. feels like I can fly
Swinging up and down; up and down
Jumping off onto the green grass
The empty swing swings back again
Heading home for I’m the last
One to leave the swing
Donna, the repetition in your poem is just perfect to set the tone. I also love the image of the Buster Browns. I’m glad you were the last one to leave the swings!
Wow, your repetition made me feel like I was swinging, back and forth; back and forth! I loved how you changed it to “up and down” in the 4th stanza, and then took out the repetition in the last stanza when you jump off the swing. This is such an effective representation of childhood and all it entails!
I had forgotten about my Buster Browns! I saw myself in your poem–loved the swings! Thank you for a lovely poem!
That chilly summer Montana morning
My brother came in from his field, sighing,
“The tractor’s broken.
We need to take it into town.
I’ll drive it.
You’ll drive the pickup.”
My heart thumped wildly.
My head spun.
My palms drip, drip, dripped.
My brother doesn’t joke.
I was only 13.
“I’ll give you a lesson.
Don’t worry,” he said in his annoyingly calm voice.
He made sure my feet could reach the pedals.
He explained the gears.
We practiced on the silent country road.
He never yelled or raised his voice, but repeated,
“Slow. Slow. Slower!” more than once.
His hand squeezed my knee when I failed to brake to his standards,
But I did it!
I could drive!
My brother has always had faith in me.
Hey, MO- I love this tribute to a cool moment with your brother! Learning to drive at 13! Wow! I chuckled at “ annoyingly calm.” That calm and the basic explanations are similar to my dad’s approach when I was young. You brought back great memories for me. Thanks! Susie
The line – my brother doesn’t joke – shows the kind of person he is – followed by his words – slow slow slower – we don’t need volume – the squeeze makes the intention clear
Mo, I love the sequence of this poem. The images, sequence, the “Slow. Slow. Slower!” makes the scene so easy to visualize. Your nervousness, the “silent country road” really spoke to me, but it is your end that was so beautiful! I enjoyed your poem very much. Thank you!
I see why this memory has stayed with you! You’ve captured the excitement, the nerves, the trust, the pride. I’m there on the silent country road with you.
Allison — Your mentor poem is beautiful. I found myself sitting on your mama’s soft lap. SWEET! I was always mystified and terrified of that “chomping foot.” Feeding fabric through the foot… yikes! But we became very able seamstresses from that “guidance.” So lovely, Susie
Love the words, “His hand squeezed my knee” – such a feeling of pride, he’s excited that you are driving and so are you. What a fun memory! Big brothers are the best!
August Hucksters at Soulard Market
Banjo pickin’ at the west end,
“She don’t like her eggs all runny…”
some version of Charlie Parker’s sax
torturin’ “Hot House” at the other end.
In between,
the hucksters —
Look at this melon!
Honey dew, no honey don’t!
Peeeechies, Missouri peeechies!
No peaches sweeter’n ‘at,
Run down yo’ chin – JUICY, Lucy!
Come on, we’ve got cukes by the bushel,
beans by the peck,
fresh green beans,
buck-a-pound,
what the heck!
Patty pans tender
as yo’ baby’s behind!
Radishes, we got reee-eddd radishes,
fifty cents a honey bunch!
Peppers, bell peppers,
sweet red and green
four for dollar, come get ‘em, Jolene!
Waterrrrr-melonnnn! Waterrrrr-melonnnn!
Seeds! No seeds!
Sweet, Ruby, sweet!
Ain’t nuthin’ betta in this kinda heat!
Nuthin’.
by Susie Morice©
I am right there at the market with you, “Radishes, we got reee-eddd radishes,” Love this!
Susie, this is such a beautiful ode to the Soulard Market! If I close my eyes I feel like I am right in the middle of it. It’s hard to choose a favorite image, but I guess “Patty pans tender as yo’ baby’s behind!” would be a winner. Excuse me, I need to go eat some watermelon.
A stroll through a farmer’s market in every way! I loved the way you used the exaggerated accent of the locals and the call of each vendor! Made me want to go to one, but, alas, the pandemic! Thanks for a stroll outside.
Susie! This is so much fun! This city girl hasn’t experienced anything like this before, but your poem took me right there with you. I think I loved the sounds first and foremost, I think I can hear you! My favorite part is:
Look at this melon!
Honey dew, no honey don’t!
Peeeechies, Missouri peeechies!
No peaches sweeter’n ‘at,
Run down yo’ chin – JUICY, Lucy!
Makes me want some juicy peaches and some honey dew!
?
I love how you open the market by sandwiching us between the banjo and the sax. Your rhythm and smattering of rhyme make this poem SING! The hucksters’ cries are almost smarmy–yet playful! This is a rich sensory delight!
Family Vacation
Dad rolled up to school
in the chevy station wagon
and swung the doors open,
with a grand gesture,
and a broad smile across his face
My brother and I tumbled in
butts squeaking across the too hot vinyl seats
and lunged for the ice cooler packed
with bologna sandwiches and cans of Coke
Windows down, ears popping, sweat dripped
as we sucked warm, humid air in our mobile sauna
and melted like chocolate
legs sticking to the seats, we sucked ice cubes
and argued about who had crossed the
invisible line on our bench seats
as miles of mountainous green passed
We drove through the night, heads
slumped on our chest, drool rolling
down our chins and awoke
to donuts, cream filled, jelly, custard …
two a piece! sugar-coma!
And Mom continued to distract us …
The License Plate Game, Eye Spy and
songs while miles of blue sky blurred
across the bright horizon and the dirt
turned red.
Tammi — What a wonderful memory! I love this. I was right there in the car with you. The hot sticky seats and “argued about who had crossed the/invisible line…” (LOL! that was ALWAYS the deal in the back seat of my dad’s car!) The visuals … “heads lumped on our chest, drool rolling…” HA! And how sweet to wake up to the sweet “donuts” – WOW! And the games…we played “Eye Spy”…. loved all the colors and sensual… Wonderful. Thanks, Susie
I know so many of these memories! This took me right back to my childhood: “and argued about who had crossed the/invisible line on our bench seats” – isn’t that the truth! The things we argued about as kids!
My how this stirs up fond memories! Driving in a car without an air-conditioner was an adventure in itself; but, with kids in tow it could be a nightmare for the Mom (I was such a mom). Your description was right on point! I, especially, loved the “butts squeaking across the too hot vinyl seats” particularly, entertaining and factual!
Wow, you recalled the family road trip perfectly! The squeak on hot vinyl seats, the games to distract – really brought back memories.
Off to Church
Every door of the old green station wagon
is opened wide, to fool the hot sun.
Dressed in his blue suit and white button-down,
tie hanging loosely around his neck, to knot later,
he takes one last puff of his cigar, and
bellows, “Load ‘em up!”
Hearing his roar from inside,
the ritual haphazard scramble to the car ensues,
quick tapping of our black dress shoes,
swoosh of elbows, knees, and backsides,
adorned in freshly-ironed fabric,
squeezing, squirming into the seats.
I scooch over to the middle of the middle,
give one tiny yelp as bare skin hits hot pale vinyl, and
adjust my blue and green plaid skirt under the exposed leg.
Sonny and Ralph clamber in from the rear,
careening over the bench,
one random foot bumps me in the head before
they flop down, sandwiching me,
their white dress shirts flowing loose
from the belted waists of their khakis.
Mark and David race out,
right at their heels,
laying claim to the favored
rear-facing back bench,
now with younger brothers’ footprints, and
swing this heavy door closed, with a slam.
Mom walks calmly and assuredly from the house,
sidles and settles into the front passenger seat,
holding the skirt of her soft, blue dress, demurely.
Dad climbs into the driver’s seat,
stamps out his cigar in the ash tray,
vrooms the engine.
It’s Sunday, and we are off to church.
Quick tapping, swoosh of elbows, knees and backsides. What a wonderful scene you paint!! And what a rollicking family you must have been. I think my favorite detail is the cigar…
So fun! My favorite detail was: “I scooch over to the middle of the middle, / give one tiny yelp as bare skin hits hot pale vinyl, and / adjust my blue and green plaid skirt under the exposed leg.” Definitely a familiar sensation 🙂
October 30th 2012
The day has finally arrived to meet you
I walk into the hospital room and there you are
So tiny and full of perfection
Your little big nose and your precious fingers
I admire you first from a distance
because I still can’t believe you exist
I can’t take it any longer so
I pick you up and look into your eyes
and I swear I’ve never known love before you
My heart is full and I’m right where I need to be
and it all just kind of makes sense
I was put her to be your aunt
To love and protect you at any cost
I look down at you and tell you I love you
and your eyes tell me you know
and everything falls into place
These are such magical words, “and I swear I’ve never known love before you,” at such a magical time. Aunt is such a special role!! Congratulations! I love “and your eyes tell me you know” – there is nothing more special than a child’s eyes, looking at you. Loved this!
Naydeen,
What a sweet and beautiful memory that you have shared today. It really shows what type of person you are and how protective and close to family you are. “Your little big nose and precious fingers” so wonderful. Thanks for sharing.
Superman
I climb up the stairs
To our spacious deck
I breathe the cool air
I feel the gentle breeze
My mother’s long
silky red scarf
tied around my long neck
The excitement fills my soul
I look down
The vibrant emerald
lush lawn
looks soft
The cloudless blue sky
In the early morning
Calling my name
Inviting me to soar
The smell of breakfast reaches me
My mom busy in the kitchen
No one around
I’m ready
Heart pounding
One minute of hesitation
But I’m only five
It doesn’t last
For a fraction of a second
I’m Superman
Thump
A sharp pain
My mother running
Screaming
My siblings
laughing
Me
Crying
Two broken arms
Blood and pain
I cry in agony
Sirens in the distance
Till this day
No regrets
After all,
for a millisecond
I felt like Superman
Monica, I can so relate to this scene as something similar happened to me when I was about this age. I enjoyed all of the specific details, and the image of the red scarf and emerald lawn are both so striking. The siblings laughing is so relatable. I so enjoyed the point that you had no regrets!
What a fabulous memory to put into a poem! Wonder how Mom and siblings would re-tell it? Love that you recall this; especially, what you were thinking – your goal was to fly! “Calling my name/Inviting me to soar” One should NOT deny this voice, and you didn’t! “…for a millisecond, I felt like Superman” – so great.
This is beautiful! I love how you have captured the spirit of a child. I was never a risk taker as a kid but my daughter who is gymnast is. I can totally imagine that she feels like this every time she flies through the air reaching for those uneven bars . Love the ending “After all/for a millisecond/I felt like Superman.”
this is so fun – even shown through the last stanza – no regrets, a friend and I did this off a pier into the sand holding the corners of a towel – we didn’t float – hail imagination
First, I applaud you for having the audacity to have the imagination to think you were Superman! Your humor makes a dangerous action a fond memory.
I was pulled from the first line, and had a feeling I knew exactly how it was going to end. I thought about doing this when I was little. I thought I could just tuck and roll once I landed. I’m glad you had no regrets, and I’m glad I didn’t try it. Great poem.
Allison, Thank you for today’s prompt. I have several fond memories of my mother, but shortly after the memory I share today, she was quite suddenly completely paralyzed, unable to speak, feed herself, or care for her five children. So this poem is just a small moment, but one I have always cherished.
In the Kitchen with Mother
Lemony yellow sun rays
Warm the heavily starched air
Kitchen curtains flutter
Sighing satisfied
Mother sprinkles clothes
As I practice reading aloud
The Gingerbread Man
I say quite dramatically
“The cow mooed”
Her delighted laugh
Is a golden caress
I ardently adore
Barb Edler
April 19, 2020
Barb,
this such a cute little memory and I see it is one you hold so dear, and I can see why it is so lovely. I’m sorry about your mother. Thank you for sharing something so close to your heart. I wish you the best!
Barb, this is so precious and poignant, your memories of this one small, magical moment. “Her delighted laugh/is a golden caress” that carries you throughout life, I am sure. I love the sensory elements – the lemony yellow, the heavily starched air. Lovely!
This small memory is so poignant. Your mother sprinkling clothes (I remember my mom doing the same thing), and that delighted laugh. Love.
So many beautiful images here — “Lemony yellow rays” and “Kitchen curtains flutter/ Sighing satisfied” but the line that resonated with me the most is “Her delighted laugh/is a golden caress” . My mother also lost her ability to speak, move and feed herself in the last years of her life and the thing that I most missed was talking to her and hearing her laugh. Thank you for this beautiful poem.
Barb — This is a soothing memory poem. The lemony color…the sound of a kid reading aloud. Soothing. What gave me a giggle was the “Mother sprinkles clothes.” Yes, something that is certainly out of our past… it was actually one of the chores in my kid days… one of us had to sprinkle, one had to iron, one had to wash, one had to dry… all those chores meted out to the five of us. Your poem took me back to a simpler time…sweet. Thanks, Susie
Barb,
Aren’t you thankful you have the details of those moment cemented in your mind now preserved in beautiful verse?!
My favorite lines:
“ Her delighted laugh
Is a golden caress
I ardently adore”
I can smell that starch. I love the alliteration of “sighing satisfied mother sprinkles clothes.” This brings back memories for me.
Barb, Thank you for sharing this beautiful moment. I smell the starch and feel those clean curtains billowing. This is a beautiful sensory memory. Did your mom ever regain movement? What a wrenching story.
Allison, no she never did. She was bedridden for the rest of her life. She was 36 when it happened and passed when she was almost 60 years old. She was truly a selfless type of mother. I felt like I lost her twice: once as a child and then when she passed. She did know what was going on and we had some different methods to communicate, but she couldn’t speak or take care of herself.
Slip n Slide
A long yellow tarp
Stretched to a near tearing point
From end to end
Everyone in the neighborhood was there
Kids ran barefoot clutching their towels
That bore the faces of the popular cartoon characters
The day was hot and the water was cold
The dads sat back and grilled
While the moms begged us to go one at a time
Our skin was as red as a tomato from the sun
Our yard was a giant brown mud hole
It was an easy time
A simple time
A happy time
Kole, thank you for taking me back – – those Slip and Slides were all the rage, and what a rush! I can’t even begin to think of doing such a thing now, hurling my old woman body down on the ground to resurrect the fun of a slip and slide, but I remember it like liquid yellow sunshine – cool, refreshing, carefree! Yes – – a simple time, a happy time. Oh, the excitement of childhood.
Kole, the least three lines took me straight back to my childhood when things were simple, easy and happy. These lines are so nostalgic and touching. Thank you for sharing them.
Oh, Kole, I love the imagery of skin “as read as a tomato” and the yard a “giant brown mud hole”— seems like small sacrifices for a happy time. Thank you for bringing us into this moment.
Sarah
Kole, I can easily visual this scene. I really love the end. “Easy” “Simple” “Happy” these words carry the joy of a child’s precious memories.
Oh yes! Slip and slide. This really takes me back and makes me smile. Loved the images of “skin red as a tomato from the sun” and “Our yard was a giant brown mud hole”.
nice memory with a number of points of view, the setting is clear from dads a grill to yard a giant mud hole – nothing mattered but the happy time – feels care free
April 19, 1995
Mom and dad tucked us in
with tears falling
on the cross-stitched quilt
while large hands lingered
on my own
a little too scared to let go.
They both got on their knees
praying for people we didn’t know,
praying for the first time,
praying for “the nineteen angels,”
praying like people I’d only seen in movies.
I glanced at my sister
red cheeks began to swell
tears were forming in her dark brown eyes
A family embrace and everlasting hug
“We remember,” they said.
They were right.
I will never forget.
Lauryl,
Thank you for helping us remember through your eyes, through your family mourning. The opening stanza of “cross-stitched quilt” offers a powerful symbol of our nation stitched together (or in need of more stitched) when we witness such acts of domestic terrorism. And yet the imagery of your family on their knees praying, the anaphora of “praying” in four lines shows the sort of fiber we need to hold on to one another during tragedy. Oh, “her dark brown eyes.” So moving.
Sarah
Lauryl, your poem is so powerful. I think you capture the tragedy so well with the witnessing of your parents praying, the cross-stitched quilt, and your sister’s tearful face. All are striking images that carry the emotions of this overwhelming and unbelievable loss of life.
Lauryl,
as sad as the memory is it’s nice to see how your family comes together in times of despair. “A family embrace and everlasting hug” beautiful! It is so crazy how we remember things in our childhood and the impact they have on us as adults. Thank you for sharing your beautiful piece!
This is such a moving poem and emotional poem. The images of mom and dad on their knees and “praying like people I’d only seen in movies” — Wow! What a powerful line!
Gathering Worms
Grandpa held the red plastic flashlight
with his left hand
and shined it over the black earth,
his little worm box in his right hand
the green metal edges
barely visible in the dark.
Kneeling down I could see
slimy brown bodies sticking out an inch or two.
Quickly I snatched the slimy beast
and felt the muscle pull back into the black loam.
With the silver trowel,
I scooped a column of earth
under the worm
to prevent its escape.
The writhing and wrenching
never stops
until it burrows into the bottom
of the worm box
only to be seen again
when pulled out
to conceal a silver hook
at the end of my line.
Shaun, you were taught by the best – – I love the imagery here as you gather worms. My favorite line:
and felt the muscle pull back into the black loam. Real and sensory – – I can even smell the earth!
Shaun,
Thank you for introducing us to this moment with Grandpa and this snapshot of fishing. I love how you slow down the moment by taking us into the earth with your trowel.
Sarah
Shaun, the imagery of your poem is crystal clear. I like how you were able to follow the mentor’s text so well. I can literally feel the worm, pulling back from your hand, and the silver fishing hook end is perfection.
Love the vivid imagery here. Reading this actually grossed me out as you described how you “snatched the slimy beast and felt the muscle pull back.” Yuck! But what an awesome memory!
I love the double alliteration using “w” and “b” in the last stanza. This is a poem some of my students would love.
Allison,
Thank you so much for the inspiration. It helped to take me away from my wordiness and more to precise images.
You create such an image in your short poem. A true snapshot of a vital memory. I struggled to choose one key line, but landed on:
“my bony bottom
balanced on her
soft lap”
Here is mine. It still lacks economy. I have to find a way to limit what I say and how I say it.
Snapshot
In a small house
nubby worn carpet
the color of the desert
bold blue and yellow
flowered upholstery
brown glass lamps
emitting filtered light
dangling chandelier
rays filling the room.
I’m five.
expected to be
seen and not heard
while adults
talk
smoke
drink cocktails.
The iron railing
along the stairs
help stabilize
climbers
but for me
the bars separating
their space from mine.
Across the entry
the opposing wall
all mirrors
to make a small
space seem large.
I’d stick my head
through those bars
and gaze into the mirrors
seeking something.
what? I’m still not sure.
Cigarette smoke wafted
and swirled around the room
words and guffaws
beyond my understanding
echoing off walls
as my translucent spirit
fluttered through
wanting to find a place
to land.
A child in an adult world
yearning to be seen,
to be acknowledged.
I’d poke up and perch my
head upon the lap
of the visitor, a hip girl
home from college, and beg,
“Can I smell your knees?”
Wanting to breathe in
all that she was
and all that I wasn’t
~Susan Ahlbrand 19 April 2020
Susan, your long-ago child’s perspective on this is fascinating – – the way of seeing the railing, the way of explaining the behaviors that would appear childish but in fact are filled with logical curiosity. I love that line: Can I smell your knees? It makes perfect sense now.
This poem is such a beautiful snapshot of your observations and desire to be apart of that moment. I can totally see this in my mind and relate as I remember tucking myself in a corner and reading during my parents parties, listening to snippets of their conversations as I turned the pages. Always on the periphery. Thank you for sharing this beautiful memory.
Swing and Swim
Bare feet prancing on hot concrete
Watching all my cousins splash and play
One-by-one they’d race across the old wooden deck
and grab the iron bar to swing away
Downward they’d crash into the lake
Resurfacing with smiles cheek to cheek
Their arms and legs would battle against the ripples
While I stood spectating, scared and meek
But life is not a spectator’s sport
I realized that while standing still and dry
I wanted to be brave, just like my cousins
I wanted to see how it felt to fly
My fingernails dug into sweaty palms
And trembling slightly, I walked up to the wood
The planks all creaked beneath me as I started
To run as hard and as fast as I could
My feet were pounding along with my heart
My tiny hands gripped the handle tight
That’s when my body swung into the air
That day my cousins all watched me take flight.
Ann, I love that you ended this poem mid-air! The trembling, the creaking wood, the feet and heart pounding……and somewhere, mid-air, I’m sure the sidelines of spectatorhood became a thing of the past. Go Ann!
This is awesome, I felt like I was there with you watching it all happen! My favorite part was your 4th stanza. There’s so much detail in your description: sweaty palms, trembling, planks creaking, starting to run…. I love your rhyme scheme too – it’s pretty subtle, but it really helps the poem flow!!
I love how the suspense builds through to the last line – I could see every detail and feel the speaker’s taught fear.
Grandma bent down
over the coffin
and lowered her whiskery
face to his
her warm lips
gently smacked
and lingered against
his cold and
still ones for
the last time
a broken howl
escaped from her lips
as she fell
against her son
and watched
sentinel
while the lid of the coffin
slowly shut
enclosing the shell
of my grandpa:
her everything
Rachel,
This is such a heartbreaking image that you have depicted in this poem, yet you described it so elegantly and beautifully. The second stanza is really bittersweet, but I love the language you chose and the juxtaposition of temperatures. Thank you for sharing!
Rachel, of all the heartbreaking moments we can share, the closing of a coffin as one takes in the last image of a loved one is staggering – even without the whiskey. I love that he is called sentinel. The watchman. The guard, the protector — as he will continue to be from the other side!
Rachel, this poem is heart-breaking. The sequence of actions show the moment so vividly. I felt completely pulled into the scene. Your last stanza says it all. Thanks for sharing such a moving, poignant poem!
Rachel — This is such an impossible moment… I felt the loss so strongly in your words. “a broken howl” — oh I can hear that. These scenes are unparalleled in their capacity to stay with us forever. I am so sorry for that loss and know that recreating it here was that sadness brought back. Thank you for sharing such an intimate memory. Susie
Rachel.
This makes my heart hurt.
“Her everything.”
Oh, Rachel, what a perfect description of a moment in time forever etched in your memory. This is so powerful, and I felt like I was there witnessing it with you.
“Thursday, September 10, 1998”
We walked
our usual route
with our backpacks
tugging from behind
the wooly blanket of concrete sky
deceived us;
the safe comfort that
our tucked away
neighborhood
never ceases to provide
the children’s prescient playground
screams undulated
through the quiet streets
and evergreens
scoring our journey home.
The street
parallel to mine
where she lived with her mother
and mother’s roommate
to this day echoes
with horror.
Laura, this gives a powerful jolt – – the wooly blanket of concrete sky, the deception of safety. There are moments like this from our past that steal our childhood innocence and reveal that yes, in fact, there are truly some wolves in our midst.
Laura,
this is amazing! There are moments in our life that change our perspective of the world and they are our realization moments and sometimes they can be hard to come to terms with. The world is a dark and scary place sometimes, I see that through your lines
“the wooly blanket of concrete sky
deceived us;
the safe comfort that
our tucked away
neighborhood
never ceases to provide”
Laura — This is such a jarring image… a seemingly safe place… is indeed not. Yikes. This hit me hard, as Is just finished reading Disappearing Earth by Julia Phillips about two little girls who were abducted by a creepy, strange man. The whole book had the tone of this poem. Wow! Whew…takes my breath away! Susie
Round and round
Tiny fingers grip
the gold, swirly pole
and tiny sandals dangle
too short to reach the stirrups
She always chooses
the same black horse
permanently kicking his legs
leather strap reins
The red and yellow
blinky bulbs
bold carnival trimmings
reflected in the carousel mirrors
That shrill ring
plinky, plunky
clinkly
music box tunes
It’s hard to tease
out the laughter,
the chimes, and
the wind in her ears
Round and round
to her delight
but no waves for her
no mom in sight
Oh, Emily, what a lovely memory you bring back to me! I loved riding the merry-go-round and even, as an adult, I pretended I needed to be on a horse nearby when I’d take m children to the fair or amusement parks. 🙂
Hi Emily,
Great visually appealing poetry here! Love so much but this is especially beautiful:
“The red and yellow
blinky bulbs
bold carnival trimmings
reflected in the carousel mirrors”
I instantly landed at a carnival, seeing those blinky bulbs and carousel mirrors.
“She always chooses
the same black horse” Love that it’s from the outside looking in if it’s you looking back at yourself.
Really cute too how I think you were so captivated and entranced by the ride that you were unaware of your mom. I got lost in public places quite a bit as a child, so I also thought for a moment maybe you were not supposed to be on the carousel and had ventured off to do your own thing. Hmmm. It’s a fun piece. Makes me think and also brings back fun times.
I love the way the horse is “permanently kicking” and the sound was perfect “plinky, plunky, clinkly” – great imagery.
Allison, your poem wasn’t here when I first stopped by. I love the image of you sewing with your mother’s help. The bony bottom resonated with me. I remember being so skinny as a child and wishing I would grow up to be as soft as my mother. The Singer sewing machine was still in her house when we cleaned it out last summer. (She is now in assisted living and doing well.) But I keep thinking about all the stuff. I should write some memory poems about it. Thanks for the prompt today. It worked well for me.
Stockings
“Come on Sea, get your leg in here”
I didn’t like those itchy pants
when I was five
that kept my feet enclosed.
Mommy made me wear them
and church was always “starting soon”
I used to look for an opening
to start a hole in them
so I could make it bigger
then we could
throw them away.
Once I found one,
I always worked slowly
attempting to make the opening
look like a crater so I could take them off.
But even then I knew it had to
look like a mistake
or an occurrence
of happenstance.
I would be questioned about the
rips and feigned innocence
every week.
Yet the next Sunday,
another white pair would
magically come out of the
drawer and I would start the
quick writhing movements
again.
Oh Seana, you are so cute with this one. I can see you…
worked slowly
attempting to make the opening
look like a crater
Then the end which we all know is certain to happen…
another white pair would
magically come out of the
drawer
Just love it! I enjoyed my tights because I thought I was grown! LOL!
Seana, I remember those tights and stockings, too. Things have sure changed for the better with their decreasing popularity over time. We wore those things year-round – not just in the winter! You bring back itchy, hot memories of the 60s and 70s for me!
Seana,
I love the way that you’ve captured the quiet deviance of a child with this poem. Your final lines have me cheering for the 5-year old you even though I know there was another pair awaiting you.
Moments with Mommie
By Stacey L. Joy
Mommie cradled the mustard yellow receiver
between her ear and shoulder
and a Silva Thins cigarette
teetered on the edge of thin lips
the snake of smoke
slinky air doodles
wafted and curled
into her bouncy bob
where it vanished
with VO5 and Ultra Sheen
long caramel arm
locking me
in
near her heart
where I listened and watched
the fragile gray ash
curving heat
almost falling
before she tapped
puffed and released it
into the glass tray
to extinguish with 14 others
I love “slinky air doodles” and how I can practically smell your poem. Great use of imagery.
Stacey, I used to be transfixed by my mother’s smoking friends and their lit cigarettes when I came home from school and found she had company. Somehow these smokers seemed so much happier than my mother. They laughed a lot more and were more expressive with their talk. This bob and the VO5 and Ultra Sheen take me back to the 1970s, which was a fun, fun place to be! I can see the long caramel arm pulling you in – – I love this part best:
the snake of smoke
slinky air doodles
wafted and curled
into her bouncy bob
where it vanished
with VO5 and Ultra Sheen
You have a unique way of taking us to the moment and letting us be right there with you.
Wow! I saw every moment of this as I read each line. I especially love “the snake of smoke/slinky air doodles.” The use of the word snake brings about the subtle known danger in the smoke, yet the air doodles seem playful and innocent in the unknowing eyes of a child. Thank you for sharing this beautiful moment with us today.
Stacey, this was beautiful. The details really made it come to life where I felt like not only was I seeing it, but also I was feeling it happen. It’s so vivid. And the variety you gave the length of the lines really helps to show the rhythm. Beautiful poem.
Stacey, this is so beautiful, especially these lines
long caramel arm
locking me
in
near her heart
where I listened and watched
I can see it. It’s such a loving scene.
Oooo, Stacey — I wish I had thought to write about the smoking in my parents’ home. This is so sensory-loaded and visual.. and auditory… well, all the senses. Precise words like “teetered” and “snake of smoke” and “slinky air doodles” and “gray ash curving heat/almost falling/before she tapped/puffed and released it…. WITH 14 OTHERS!” OMG! This was my dad… this was my mom… watching them smoke … forever they smoked… WHEW! This is a killa poem. WOW! I am going to “borrow” your idea and try to capture some of those smoking moments with my folks. Especially, since it killed my dad and contributed wholeheartedly to my mom’s heart attack. Dang. I’ve included images of my dad smoking before, but I’ve never actually written about the smoking. Thank you! Allison and you really opened up a can of worms for me tonight. Thanks! Susie
Stacey,
As I read your incredible detail, I’m wishing I had included more about the smoking in mine. You paint a picture that helps me to remember exactly what it was like during my parents’ cocktail parties.
Sunny Days
Mom settled herself
reclining toward the sun
Glistening skin
Reflected the perfect mixture
of sunscreen
and baby oil
She sunk deeper into
the lounger
Tapping her fingers
To the tune on the radio
Fresh green
grass clippings
Scattered
with yellow dandelion heads
Waited for the large metal prongs
to collect
With striking repetition
Small hands
gather instead
Sprinkling delicately into the
Empty red stained Strawberry quart
A medley of organic greens
delivered carefully
To the bronzing smile
An afternoon snack
For Mommy.
-Jenny Sykes
Jennifer, your imagery here is vivid,
Fresh green
grass clippings
Scattered
with yellow dandelion heads
Waited for the large metal prongs
When I first read it, I was thinking you meant the lawnmower, then, I said, does she mean the rake? Doesn’t matter. Your words painted a picture I could see!
Jennifer, this has some serious “Blueberries with Sal” vibes except that it transports me to my grandmother’s backyard in Georgia. Your line breaks create such a nice momentum: swift at times, leisurely at others. Thanks for sharing!
Allison, your poem brought so many beautiful memories and images to mind. Somehow (blame it on my eyes and brain still asleep and my coffee not yet fully enjoyed) I first read it without reading the title. So my first read I thought of you on mom’s lap and “the ebony Singer/inched close…” was some bird or animal LOL! That’s my fear of birds creeping in to mess up the beauty of your poem. When I finished reading the first time all the way through, I felt grateful for your special moment being guided and protected from the stupid creature in my brain. ???
On the second read, finally seeing the title, I had to shake my head at myself. Wow, my own grandmother did this too. I remember sitting with her and studying her fingers, and the “chomping foot/of the ebony/Singer/inched close/to my tiny fingers…” of course, it’s a perfect description of that moment!
Love this:
I mapped
the purpled veins
like rivers
What a special memory to hold forever!
Please forgive for the wasted time of my first read. Now I know what some of my students must feel like when they think they know something and they’re sooooo far off base. ?
Thank you for today’s prompt! Excited to dig into my memories and explore!
Allison, your prompt has evoked another Gramma poem. Thanks. I need this today.
Watching Gramma
Standing behind Gramma in church
Watching her give praise to the Lord,
I wondered if she’d heard the musical chord.
She sang with such gusto! She knew every word.
Standing next to Gramma in the kitchen,
Watching her flip the pancaky cornbread,
I listened to her daily instruction,
Paying attention to what she said.
“Anna Jamar,” that’s what she called me.
“Whatever you do, do it as unto the Lord.
He don’t care if you is perfect. You see,
He just wants to you to obey His Word.
“When they call you bad names out there,
It don’t mean that He don’t care.
It means you got to lean on Him for sure.
He’ll give you the strength to endure.
So thinking on those times next to her in church
My heart and my head reach back to search.
What has she experienced? What does she know
That makes her sing loud and make her skin glow?
Will I ever have it? Will it ever show?
The “Anna Jamar” got me right away! I can see her singing in church, flipping the “pancakey cornbread”. Such small details are what make up our memories…
Anna,
This is your signature style, Anna! What you do best. The dialogue! Wow, you bring us right alongside you, right into this sense of place, right into this scene where we benefit from the advice and guidance!
“Anna Jamar,” that’s what she called me.
“Whatever you do, do it as unto the Lord.
He don’t care if you is perfect. You see,
He just wants to you to obey His Word.
Love this,
Sarah
Hi Anna,
Love your Gramma poem and these special moments you’ve shared. Nothing beats a child watching Gramma in church, such everlasting impressions and lessons, lifesaving experiences! Then to go into the kitchen, surely another sacred space in Gramma’s life, and taking in “her daily instruction” is a vivid and sweet memory. I ADORED my grandmother and especially times with her in the kitchen.
Anna, the lessons she’s taught you most definitely show in you today. You’re a blessing, Gramma is proud and beaming love on you every single moment.
?
Allison—both the mentor poem and your ode to sewing with your mother brought back vivid memories. My sister and I used to fish (gig?) for frogs in our pond, then run across the yard without ears plugged while my grandfather killed the bullfrogs and saved their legs for a later meal. (I don’t think I could do that today!). My grandmother taught me to sew when I was about eight. I remember the fear of the sharp needle and the powerful feeling I got from pushing on that pedal and seeing the seam flow out. Two memories—one much more pleasant than the other! Thank you!
Snow Globe
We walked through the swirling snow
Grandpa in his grey wool overcoat and fedora
Me in my snowsuit. Scarves wrapped high,
circling our faces against the cold.
He held my mittened hand safe in his gloved one
even though no cars ventured out.
Just the two of us, solitary together in the storm.
Snow muffling all noise except
the sharp crunch of our booted steps
in the gathering snow.
We walked up and down hills in sturdy silence.
The squeeze of his hand were all the words we needed.
No birds, no cars, no sound,
nothing moving but we two.
Snowflakes gathering on the brim of his hat,
clinging to lashes, icing cheeks.
Characters in a diorama,
a snow globe just shaken
Two people in a storm—
In a silent city, on silent streets, in silent snow
In a snow globe filled
with the warmth of love.
This is a lovely poem. I like all the silence especially “sturdy silence” and “icing cheeks” – I can feel the cold but it’s not an uncomfortable cold at all. Your descriptions express a sort of comfort with grandpa, “solitary together” and especially at the end. I like your title as well – it fits with the prompt as if this memory has been saved in the snow globe 🙂
Gayle,
I love the image and symbolism embodied in a snow globe, the isolation of walking through a snowstorm, the sense of feeling at one with and alone w/ grandfather. Simply beautiful. The ethereal tone gives the poem a quiet, cozy feel. Wonderful repetition and litote, too. Lovely poem.
—Glenda
Gayle, the visual here with the snowglobe against the backdrop of the real walk in the snow is just a winter wonderland! What a great feeling to have the warmth of love in the midst of the freezing snow. I love the snowflakes gathering on the brim of his hat – – it’s amazing what we remember visually from swatches of memory.
What a delicious memory! Your details and strong sensory imagery pull me right into that silent snow globe: “Snow muffling all noise except the sharp crunch of our booted steps
in the gathering snow.”
Thanks, too, for the bullfrog memory! YIKES!
Yall’s memories are so vivid. Everything I tried to think of was difficult to recall. This is the memory of meeting my first cat. I love the descriptions of hands in your poem, Allison. I love hands and veins.
Sox
Out at uncle’s country home
Burnt dirt driveway, open fields
Distant goat bleats
Brisket in the air
And a kitten on the road
Black fur
With socks on paws
Matted up
With blues, purples, yellows,
and some blood-caked scars.
A barely audible,
painful,
meek
mew.
Carried him to the hose
Translucent fluid created
a pastel puddle
swirled in the ground.
Dirty was all he’d known
so he splish-splashed around.
Moved to concrete porch
Tiny in a fluffy towel
Purr vibrations felt through
Shiny black coat
A comfort like no other
He never left my side.
A stray to save
Or the other way?
I wasn’t letting go
Even if my parents refused.
Never knew where he
came from,
but was certain
I would take him home.
Angie—this brought tears to my eyes.
First of all, your description of the setting put me right there with you, and then you found that kitten and I, too fell in love with that matted, mewing baby. I know you saved each other. Beautiful, beautiful memory.
Angie,
As one cat person to another, I’m always ready for a kitty poem. I love the way you juxtapose the dirt road isolation w/ the kitten’s abandonment in the first stanza. The care you give to this dirty kitty is so apparent in the second stanza. I love seeing kitty in a fluffy towel through your words. I think you and kitty found and saved one another. My inner kitty is purring. Lovely poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Angie, your descriptions of this sweet kitten are so vivid and sweet–“Black fur/With socks on paws/Matted up/With blues, purples, yellows,/and some blood-caked scars”–but simultaneously speak to the resilience of these adventurous creatures. Thanks for sharing!
Angie, line after line in your poem pulls me in with the specific imagery.
“Distant goat bleats
Brisket in the air” – smells and sounds right there.
“Tiny in a fluffy towel
Purr vibrations “–This is such a warm and satisfying turn from “dirty was all he’d known.”
Beautiful poem.
Allison,
I love the mother-daughter moment with the Singer. I had similar moments, and it brought back rich memories. That is a delightful memory and a lovely tribute to her patient guidance. My favorite – “Her voice in my ear murmured guidance.”
I didn’t spend too long with the mentor poem. I guess the roosters brought me back too soon to a sad animal memory of my own, and I just got lost in the writing.
Rony’s Requiem
Aunt Jo took the match,
drew it against the fence post,
and launched it.
With precision
like a tiny bomb,
It rocketed into the straw bed
where Rony lay in repose
Her stiff equine figure
outlined against the glowing
crackling golden frame of chaff
She was soon joining the fire
At first a perfunctory
fizzling, sizzling
Then soaring, imploring,
and,
once her fat fueled the fire,
Bellowing and cursing
The charring of flesh and hide
(hide once covered in hair of Mahogany bay)
Twisted our insides
Nauseated us
Caused us to relocate the requiem
to a tolerable distance
My animal-loving sister
Eulogized Rony with her tears
And I sat and waited
Here is a nice dictionary of onomatopoeia words I used today. https://www.stage32.com/sites/stage32.com/files/assets/screenplay/185490/25610_1536758815.pdf
Oh, Denise, those last lines “eulogized Rony with her tears” is so moving. The entire poem is so vivid and sensory. I think about what we witness as children and how it impacts our being is so place-based, so situated in the context of our lives. I cannot imagine witnessing this burning (as a city girl). The “bomb” feels so traumatizing at first with the “fizzling and sizzling,” but this is a funeral, grief – ritual, yes? I read it as ritual and not as spectacle.
like a tiny bomb,
It rocketed into the straw bed
where Rony lay in repose
So moving,
Sarah
Denise—my goodness. I felt every moment of that poem, that memory. My goodness…
That is such an amazing poem around an incredible, indelible event. I can’t believe you watched it. Fire has always been a serious fear of mine since fires of childhood. It surely made this memory come alive.
Denise, the onomatopoeia is spectacular here – charring, bellowing, fizzling, sizzling, crackling. What a memory – – wow! Thank you for giving us the dictionary link, too!
Denise, this is a beautiful rendering of a searing memory. Your use of onomatopoeia brings an aural dimension to the scene. Repose…requiem…eulogize: your word choices show respect that pairs in such an interesting way with the child’s morbid fascination in what is happening. I loved reading this.
Nephew Huggies
Auntie held a fleshy thigh
with her right hand
and flipped the
chassis open with her left
the elastic panels resisted
birds ‘n’ clouds folded in
velcro tabs trapped access
to cellulose fluff & leg cuffs
Auntie raised the guard
let loose the thigh
and pried apart
the cloth coop
tinkles
tapped
nursery walls
spout
sprayed
mobile decals
Auntie tossed
in the towel
stopping the flow
thighs wriggled
cherub giggled
and she began again.
Sarah,
I giggled when I realized what the little cherub “spout sprayed.” Did auntie get a sprinkle on her cheeks? That’s happened to me, the price we pay for boys. Love the phrasing of “tabs trapped access / to cellulose fluff & leg cuffs.” I can hear the diaper sounds and see the chunky legs pumping. Such a sweet poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
“Flipped the chassis”—what a red herring that phrase was!! I chuckled all the way through—the cloth coop, the tinkles tapping. What a joy of words!
Sarah, I felt the tinkles here in these moments – – those fleshy legs and sweet soft baby skin! I especially love:
thighs wriggled
cherub giggled
It’s a 4-D poem complete with all the sensory sights, sounds and feels!
Sarah,
This was such a fun moment to experience. I’ll never forget the time I experienced this with my baby brother. Such great imagery! I loved the lines “tinkles/tapped/nursery walls.” I could just see it all happening in my mind! There was also great alliteration throughout and moments of onomatopoeia that were simple, yet effective (cloth coop, spout sprayed and tinkles tapped)
Sarah, I heard “chassis” and “coop” as automobile lingo. I love how tossing in the towel carries “I give up” but also stops the spray! I just want to squeeze those fleshy thighs! Delicious, grinnable poetry here!
Allison,
That rooster poem is a delightful, gory feast. I watched my grandfather chop a rooster’s head off and gazed in a hypnotic trance as the rooster scurried around slinging blood until drained it dropped dead onto the dirt. I wrote about the first memory the rooster inspired.
“Hitchhiking on Route 66”
The engine sputtered,
Clanked,
Sizzled,
Wheezed, and
Quit,
Abandoning dad and
Us two girls
On Route 66.
“Let’s go.”
We followed his
Deep command
Crawled across
Gray Naugahyde
Inched out the creaking door
Onto the hot,
Sticky August asphalt.
Waves of prismed heat
Formed a mirage on the
Highway’s gravel shoulder.
I sensed heat meeting
My blistering feet,
Tender and raw,
Thin soles separating
Black melting tar
From my searing skin.
“How much further?”
We shuffled along.
Tears dripped down
Our red cheeks and
Marked muddied tracks.
We walked East on West Seventh
Following the curve of dad’s
Slumped shoulders.
Cars steered past
Ignoring dad’s
Outstretched thumb and
His desperate glance,
His silent SOS in the
Scorching summer sun.
Later we angled South
Across an empty lot
Lined with rusty implements:
A hollowed car shell
Abandoned billboards
Smashed cigarette butts
Drained Bush beer cans
Littered the landscape.
We trudged onward
Toward Able Body Company.
Reaching our alternative
Destination, we
Circled the white
Domed building,
Once an airplane hanger
Converted into a
Manufacturing facility for
Assembling sleeper cabs.
Finding all doors locked
Dad crawled
Into a window,
Reappeared through an
Open gray door.
We walked past
His extended arm
Into the smoky
Frigid room.
—Glenda Funk
I had a nervous, scared feeling reading this. I think reading this as a parent is different than reading it before that time. The thought of keeping my kids safe is always present. I cannot imagine being in this situation. The description of the feet, the tears, the passing cars. You definitely built a feeling here.
Glenda, what an experience! That gray naugahyde and the walking on the hot asphalt with thin soles – – so much emotion (tears, silent SOS), so much imagery (the mirage from the heat), alliteration throughout, and sounds of the sputtering engine and breakdown and then the creaky door……shuffling, trudging to a frigid room. I’m glad you escaped the heat – – figuratively and literally!
Glenda,
This is so vivid. The “”slumped shoulders” and cars ignoring “Dad’s outstretched thumb” and the shuffling, tears, and red cheeks and blistering feet. I feel the desperation, but I also feel from the “we” that this experience was one among many when there was an “alternative destination” when Dad had to assemble some solution.
I also feel like there is more to the story. I am left wanting to hear the next chapter after the smoky, frigid room. Ah, there is always more to the story, isn’t there?
Peace, my friend,
Sarah
Glenda, reading your poem brought back a similar memory of mine but I barely remember anything about it!! So annoying. I remember having to walk through the city with my father and brother and at this point I have no idea if my dad just made us do that for like fun? (he would) or if our car broke down (feel like that’s unlikely). And while I was trying to think about details, all I could think is did this really happen?? Anyway, I really like the dialogue you add to the poem. “Let’s go.” A short command that would have come from my father as well. I can feel the whole poem.
The detail in this poem is almost painful—the tension never let up! Even when you reach the “frigid room”, I am not sure you are safe!! (Glad you are here to write this piece!)
What a great memory to put into a poem! What a strange day, in childhood. I love the many great sensory details – everything from Gray Naugahyde, blistering feet, smashed cigarette butts…you build tension of the heat and desolation through these. These lines jumped out at me as especially poignant: “Following the curve of dad’s/Slumped shoulders.” You know he is just feeling hopeless. I felt as if I could see your Dad crawling into a window! That was so surprising a twist – and much needed for y’all!! Loved this!
Glenda, “Waves of prismed heat” and “Following the curve of dad’s
Slumped shoulders” were two of my favorite lines, but the entire poem is a visceral experience. I AM the child in this poem: scared, hurting, and at last relieved. I am also the dad–desperate, worried, defeated. Powerful stuff. Thank you.
Allison, I LOVE the rooster poem that you linked! That elm-stump-whump stays with the reader. I might posterize it and hang it in the coop and read it every morning to Chanticleer, who is as full of himself as ever and constantly trip-trap-troll-trumping around having his way out there. Thank you for stretching us as writers today with this prompt!
Almost Asleep
pitch black dungeon dark except for
his screen beam of scrolling
against the haint-proof-blue headboard
eyelids fluttering lazily to the sounds
of drift-on-a-dinghy verge of the
edge of a deep sleep forest
where the gnashing of the
terrible teeth of the wild things
on the fringes of the wild rumpus begins
with the whirring blur of a white noise fan
feverish scritch-scritch circling of Schnauzer Fitz,
feet-sheet-scratching to Shanghai
rumble of thunder as we slumber under the
refrain of pelting rain
grumbling growl of Schnoodle Boo
the king of all wild things
who’s snoozing too
(Thank you, Maurice Sendak, for Where the Wild Things Are)
This is awesome! I love all the weavings of Maurice Sendak’s Where the Wild Things, coming into mind as one falls asleep next to “his screen beam of scrolling” and dogs that need to settle down…love the idea of “haint-proof blue”, which keeps the poem in this frightening realm. Although this poem could be about falling asleep on any given night, I think it is more frightening to think of it as a snapshot of falling asleep during the pandemic – how interdependent we all are, how tangled up in one another, what borderline-monsters we are becoming! (I’m speaking for myself.) It seems as if you, the narrator, are fighting to sleep, and, in the end, “the king of all wild things” gets to snooze…not you. Loved this!
Kim,
What an auditory feast you have given our ears. I love all the invented sounds. Some of my favorites are “scritch-scritch circling of Schnauzer Fitz,” an “feet-sheet-scratching to Shanghai.” Love the way the poem both celebrates and enacts “Where the Wild Things Are.” Thank you.
—Glenda
What a fun, scary journey. Oh, those Wild Things! I love the haint-proof blue headboard. That’s perfect voice.
Kim,
So much imagery and sound in this space that feels between sleep and wake. These lines are packed with sensory experience nestled into the sense of place of body and consciousness:
against the haint-proof-blue headboard
eyelids fluttering lazily to the sounds
Wow,
Sarah
Kim—the rush of absolutely perfect words never stopped here! I especially loved the “haint-proof blue” of the headboard—that served as the anchor to the following waterfall of words. Wow!
Kim, Do you really have a snoring schnoodle? I do, too. His name is Charlie. Love all the Wild Things references and the sounds that rumble, bumble throughout.
Kim, loved “haint-proof-blue headboard,” then your capturing of the delicious sounds and sensations of falling off to sleep. You wove together the wild things and the childhood pets in very satisfying ways! Wonderful.
The Kindergarten Cave
We had been building the cave
out of papier-mâché
now we took turns
walking through the silent cavern
the brown crumpled walls
with red fingerpainted figures
echoes of kindergarteners
shouting, laughing, pretending
my fingers
learn the inches of the wall
the blonde student teacher
smiles sweetly
staring
into children’s eyes
magic transports their time-traveling faces
a blue wooly mammoth
and yellow saber tooth tiger
mauling each other
no blood
but tusks and teeth
real enough, real enough
Alex, you’ve captured the magic and wonder of childhood in this paper mache cavern – the last lines take the imagination to faraway, long ago places:
but tusks and teeth
real enough, real enough
That word: enough…….is just the secret ingredient to make this bread rise!!
Alex,
This is a wonderful celebration of childhood imagination and learning. I can see the children, amateur spelunkers exploring the cave. I love the way you’ve constructed the teacher as child-like and innocent, too. It’s a wonderful parallel to the children. Years ago we had a Mark Twain festival at my school. One of my classes’ tasks was to construct a cave to recreate the cave scene in Tom Sawyer. I had a student teacher at the time, so this poem also has a lovely parallel to one of my teaching memories. Thank you.
—Glenda
Alex, I am grinning! What a gift of experience/memory that student teacher gave to her charges’ imaginations! Your last line “real enough, real enough” is PERFECT. This is a gem.
Alex,
You have me thinking about the “blonde student teacher.” At first, I was thinking that this was a teacher working with you, and then I wondered if you were one of the children who received the sweet smile. The “we” pronoun at the beginning seems to welcome us to be the children in this cave of fingerpainted figures. I love the wonder.
Sarah
Love your Kindergarten Cave – so real, so real from your descriptions. I really like the alliteration and description in “magic transports their time-traveling faces” and the visual of “red fingerpainted figures”. Good job.
I’ve been trying to slowly write a memoir of a flood when I was a senior in high school. This prompt led to a poem for “Flooded Pictures”
The Portrait
Mom removed each portrait
from its frame,
Laid them flat
on bath towels
along the apartment
floor to dry.
My twelve-year-old self,
awkwardly stared at me
as if that penciled sketch
knew me at all.
Freed from flooded frames,
with warped, brown-stained edges,
the paper portrait relaxed
into a shape
of innocence.
This girl with deep brown eyes,
flowing blond hair,
was a stranger
in our refugee home,
a fading portrait
of lost childhood.
Oh, wow. The brown from a flood….and the emotions of being out of place. Wonderful description here. The bath towels get me. So simple a solution for such a life-changing tragedy.
Margaret, I love the haunting feel of the portrait – “my twelve-year-old self, awkwardly stared at me” begins the disconnect and the use of the word “refugee” in the final stanza pushes the familiar further and further away where memories go to hide in the cobwebbed corners until they visit again.
Margaret,
The image of lost childhood creates a sadness as the poem progresses. I have a clear image of you, the refugee girl, bending over the frame and photo and searching for who you were before the flood. “A fading portrait of lost childhood.” Beautiful and haunting.
—Glenda
Margaret, this is beautiful. The jaded older self looking at the younger self (and vice versa) works so well in this context. I loved this line: Freed from flooded frames,
with warped, brown-stained edges,
the paper portrait relaxed
into a shape
of innocence.
Margaret,
This is beautiful and heart-breaking. “Freed the flooded frames” and the “warped, brown-stained edges” and then the “deep brown eyes” — this is such a perspective of loss in a snapshot portrait of family recovery. We witness the literal and figurative losses that warp our being.
Peace to you,
Sarah
“As if that penciled sketch knew me at all” – what a capture of the emotion of this time, Margaret. Wow. This is really powerful. Keep working on that memoir. You have a story to tell.
Allison, thank you for this prompt. I was determined to greet this prompt early this morning and not be defeated by trying to best my last writing. I love the poem you selected as mentor text for its color and for memory of a grandfather.
Pharmacist
Grandpa poured pills
with his left hand
and scrape-counted by fives
across the blue plate
Into its trough.
Snapping a clear plastic shield
over the pills
he tilted theminto orange bottles
prepared with white labels
Through all the maladies
of our little town
poured out,counted
and labeled for curing
–He was silent as a confessor
hearing sins.
His acolyte,I perched
on the high red stoolnext to him
after schoollearning
to count by fives
in the sacristy
of his drug store
Linda, your poem is so vivid I can hear the pills counted and poured, the snapping of the plastic. I also love the metaphorical use of confessional and sacristy. A wonderful use of the mentor text.
Nice, Linda! Your poem is vivid enough to be a photograph. I like the 3rd stanza the best, “Through all the maladies of our little town” and “He was silent as a confessor hearing sins.” There are some strong feelings that come through these lines!
Linda, you have preserved a precious snapshot with your pen today! Scrape-counting, snapping plastic, counting by fives with you there beside him – – this is medicine for the soul today, and Lord knows – – there can be no overdose for such needed healing! Beautiful.
Linda,
I love the way you honor your grandfather and the juxtaposition of his counting and your counting by fives. This simple act reinforces the larger lessons. Wonderful alliteration in that third stanza: counting, curing, confessor. “Scrape-counted” is a marvelous word. Really spectacular poem, and it brings back a special memory from my childhood and our local pharmacy. Thank you.
—Glenda
Oh WOW, Linda. I love how you used the mentor text to guide your first lines (Grandpa poured pills
with his left hand), offering such rich imagery, then began to feel the holiness of the experience, pharmacist as priest, you as the acolyte. My heart just swelled as I read this. Beautiful.
Linda,
Your word choice is so precise, and educative. I am learning of the maladies as I sit alongside these words:
His acolyte,I perched
on the high red stool next to him
“I perched” exudes an innocence, a little bird flying in to watch the counting.
Sarah
I love the holiness in the metaphors you chose. A holy relationship and connection you and your grandfather shared. This is beautiful. “Through all the maladies / of our little town / poured out, counted / and labeled for curing –He was silent as a confessor hearing sins.” This was an inspired one.
Linda—starting with “scrape-counted” and all the way through, your words are so perfect. The merging of words forces me to read them in a different way, and all in the sacristy of his drugstore. What a wonderful memory!
Linda, in addition to the fine features already mentioned, I reiterate the other lines that struck me,
Through all the maladies
of our little town
poured out,counted
and labeled for curing
–He was silent as a confessor
hearing sins.
It’s interesting what our pharmacists know about us just from what medicines they prepare for us! WOW!!!