Our Host
Karen Workun is a National Board Certified high school English teacher in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She is married to her middle-school crush Zac and is mom to two adventurous children, Isaiah and Gideon. Karen also volunteers with Poetic Justice, a non-profit dedicated to cultivating hope through writing with incarcerated women. She believes that writing has transformational power and is a practice worth cultivating.
Inspiration
One of my favorite movies is Cameron Crowe’s Elizabethtown. It is filled with dark humor and offers an authentic and collective approach to grief. At one point in the film, the main character, played by Orlando Bloom, narrates this:
“Because we have a moment here, let me tell you that I have recently become a secret connoisseur of ‘last looks’. You know the way people look at you when they believe it’s for the last time? I’ve started collecting these looks.”
I love the term “secret connoisseur”. Each of us has a handful of things of which we are the most knowledgeable, moments and routines and processes with which we are intimately expert. I always notice the thin, pale layer of white that sits atop a freshly brewed americano. I am THE expert when it comes to how precisely close I like to sit to my car’s steering wheel and exactly how much I like my seat reclined. I have memorized the movements of preparing scrambled eggs and cheese grits for breakfast. Of what would you consider yourself a secret connoisseur?
Process
Quick writes are an invaluable tool for kickstarting the writing process. Give yourself a couple of minutes to quickly list anything and everything that comes to mind in response to this question: Of what would you consider yourself a secret connoisseur?
Don’t focus on the details yet; simply list the things that come into your brain. Don’t listen to your inner editor. Tell them to hush. Then jot things down for two minutes.
Once this is done, choose one of the things from your list to zoom in on. Now, give yourself another two minutes or so to explore the details of that thing. What makes you THE expert on that thing? What sights, smells, sounds, feels, tastes are summoned as you focus on it? Write all of these things down.
Once you’ve brainstormed, it’s time to write your poem. You don’t need to adhere to a certain form or rhyme scheme; simply breathe your life onto the page.
Karen’s Verse
Crack the eggs in the bowl
Splash of milk
Salt and pepper
Whisk these all together then
Throw in a pinch of grated cheese
The sharper the better
Burner on, not too hot
Pour in to the pan and start to
Drag the rubber spatula along
The bottom and the sides
The bottom then the sides
Don’t stop the dragging or
They’ll burn
Before long perfect pillows
Curdle
White and yellow together make
The color of Easter dresses
Once the whole pan is solid
But not too far along
They are ready for the eating
Perfect
Fluffy
Scrambled
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.
Barista’s Romance
Foam on a latte
is like a
silky velvet
cream
coaxed into existence
with the whispers
of a steamer
the wand
at a precise angle
poised to send
little whirlpools
of milk
round and round
heating up gently
as the steam
caresses waves
in the little metal jug
when the steel
feels just right
against my palm
dip the jug
just a bit
The trick is
to skirt the tip
of the wand
along the surface
hovering between an
elevation of 0 and -1
The sound is distinct
a hiss
a kiss
between the
liquid and air
Emily – This is artistry and the whole poem reads like a softly blown kiss. It’s sensual… slowing down time to feel the heat. Wow! I am smitten by the beauty of something so velvety. Just gorgeous. I wish I had this cuppa rights now as I wake this morning. Love it! Susie
Radar
It was how a fox must look to a rabbit
who knows she is too close
to outrun the danger,
the rabbit knows
this is not going to be a good moment,
knows she is in the line of fire;
the fox can overpower,
targets easy prey.
Children have a remarkably keen
sensory toolkit;
I was always fair game
until I honed that second sense,
knew within a fleeting glimpse
that I needed to escape,
flee the scene,
become invisible,
if I were to survive.
I developed a sort of radar,
a precision in knowing
the set of my father’s jaw,
the curve of his lip,
the eyes, slightly glazed, that tripped a trigger
when they locked on me,
the sense that I was in the crosshairs
of his ire
when he had even a simple whiff
of alcohol.
by Susie Morice, April 27, 2021©
Susie,
No child should have to hone this expertise. As always your craft amazes me. Only in the end to I realize the metaphoric implications of the rabbit. My mother was an alcoholic, but I did not live most of my life w/ her. Still, I learned self-protection skills. Sending hugs to you, dear friend.
Wow, Susie, your poem makes me want to pull that little rabbit close, and it reminds me of how many of my students have skilled themselves in invisibility–at home and at school. “Second sense/fleeting glimpse” is an example (again) of your language dexterity. I picture the rabbit darting through the narrow rhyme.
Wow, wow, wow. I am left with the little bunny in my mind. I want to hold it close and hide it away. Thank you for sharing this.
This poem is simply a reflection of how I feel like I’m an expert in knowing when someone lies to me especially when we’re face to face.
Keeping track
You said if I loved you that you would be good to me
you lied.
you promised to give me the world although we both despised it
You and I went together like whipped cream on a pie
You spoke to me with kind words and tricked me with your charm
you also said you would never cause any harm
I made you repeat that just to reconfirm
but you failed to notice that I always keep focus
on how those words turn into lies
I notice the look in your eyes
how you look to the left and then to the right
as if I don’t already know that you lie
you twiddle your thumb and play with your hair like a chum
I’m starting to feel numb
I keep track of how you lie
so I don’t sit at home and cry
when I hear the reason why
you left without saying goodbye…
Thank you for this prompt! It made me analyze everything I did today and wondering if I was any good at it, haha! I was brainstorming with a friend, and they reminded me that I’m good at folding fitted sheets. I really didn’t think I could write a poem about that, but I took up the challenge! Lol. I had fun with it and tried some new things!
It’s easy to feel a sense of defeat
when tasked with folding a fitted sheet
the curled corners quickly become
toothless gums to which we succumb
Instead, approach the folding
with a predetermined molding
first-shove fists into opposite nooks
second-place your hands in a prayer-like look
and transfer one edge atop the other
but be careful not to smother
follow the process again with the bottom
Good! Look at you! You’re doing awesome!
This tutorial may be a tad incomplete, but
I don’t want to reveal ALL my fitted sheet secrets
Rachelle,
I love the silly, lightheartedness of your poem about fitted sheets. I have always disliked trying to fold them, but I still try. I may need a few more of your fitted sheet secrets.
Racheele,
You fold fitted sheets like me! I thought I was the only one OCD about it. My sons think I’m crazy. Such a fun poem–it should be included with sheet sets!
Rachelle,
I love how this poem is both informational and secretive. I would little take a class just to learn how to fold fitted sheets.
My mind works like a
a top-loading Maytag
thoughts sudsing
in the wash cycle:
a tune from the radio
and pick up the rug at Servicemaster
rubbing up against
where did I put the chapstick
and Colin’s birthday is Wednesday.
Like so many beige towels and
gray t-shirts
impressions
churn to the top
then work their way
under again
with flashes of poems
–a red sock!–
startling my day.
Allison, I so enjoyed how you opened this poem and its progress. The red sock at the end is striking. Love the way you add color to this poem and draw us into your thought processes. I can feel this washer machine churning! Great poem and awesome metaphor!
Allison,
What a perfect metaphor for the brain of a busy teacher/person! I particularly love your end–
How many flashes do we get that, like those lost socks in the dryer, never make it to paper. Wonderful poem!
What a perfect description — the simile was perfectly done and pursued throughout the poem. The pop of color at the end was really fun and felt like my brain today. In the car earlier I was telling Sam how 27 days of poetry has changed the way I look at things — I’m constantly asking myself “could I turn this into a poem??” haha!
I enjoyed your poem. I can totally relate to so many thoughts running through my mind. I usually think of it like popcorn one thought popping in as the first pops out.
Allison,
I really enjoyed your poem. I get the feeling of an organized yet chaotic day. This seems very exciting and full of joy to know that washing is one of my dreaded days.
Hey there, Allison — How did you know there was poetry in that crazy Maytag?! My washer is running right now, churning away… maybe I’ll find that missing sock! HA! You have such a skill at making such a beautiful poem out of something I’d never even thought about…and yet there it is…that universal human experience…that “red sock” …Bam! The litany of random chores and the “oh, don’t forget” items reminds me of all the disconnected pieces of laundry that I heave into the Maytag (mine is a top loader with a window so I can watch the rhythm of this thing in a dazed stupor till I’m jolted to the next chore. I love this poem. I love the images of a day begun and churning. You are one doozy of a poet, my friend! Well, I have to go schlep the load into the dryer. 🙂 Susie
I had high hopes for my writing time today. I pictured myself writing during my lunch break because it’s so quiet and still. But I let one teacher talk my head off in the hallway, almost taking my entire break. I should’ve written about being a secret connoisseur of “How to Let Nonstop Talkers Steal My Time.” Instead, this evening I thought about what bugs me even more than what happened today.
Being a secret connoisseur of spelling, grammar, and punctuation is NOT a secret!! Everyone who knows me, knows my secret. It’s so bad that my friends and family fear I’m silently correcting everything they write and say. LOL, I am!!! But I don’t ever say a word (unless I’m asked). I hope you enjoy this randomish rant about my so-called secret.
My Thing
I hate when people
Who are supposed to be smart
Don’t know the correct use
Of I and me.
It’s my thing
Not yours, I know!!!
You and me, no
You and I are different.
It’s true for you and I, no
It’s true for you and me.
And the smarties on TV
So busy trying to use I instead of me
Don’t they see
They’d never say
Give the stimulus check to I.
Would they?
Give it to ME!
That’s my thing
Not yours, I know!!!
You have better stuff
To worry about like
Them and him and she and he
Or they and us or you and we
© Stacey L. Joy, April 27, 2021
I love the clever word play in this poem!
Stacey, I also am often perturbed by the misuse of I and me. I love how you show this pet peeve through your cleverly rhymed poem. This flows so incredibly, and I love the stimulus check line. Sheer perfection!
OMG do I feel you in this poem! Can I add the difference between less and few? How about their/they’re/there in writing? Ugh. Yes, indeed, I am also silently correcting your grammar. Love it! Great poem!
Stacey! I LOVED the rhythm, rhyme, and word play in this poem. It was fun and playful to read. Posting it here, with fellow teachers, is the perfect audience 🙂
Stacey,
Yes! ???
Hey, Stacey, this thing you say is yours is mine, too. “Let’s ask Mrs. Funk” was a common refrain among my colleagues to their students when a grammar conundrum stumped them. Can we talk about correct use of the subjunctive mood now? ❤️?
Oh my gosh, Stacey — This just made me laugh out loud. I am soooo sooo that grammar girl. I find myself talking back to the TV with the pronouns are all a mess. Your wordplay in this poem is marvelous. And the bigger fish to fry ending is way too true (“them and him and she and he….” LOL!) Susie
I have colleagues, ELA teachers, who do this always. It’s nails on a chalkboard for me. My husband laughs because when we watch tv I’ll just say “me” whenever “I” is used incorrectly. Love your poem!
This had me laughing the whole way through! I love that I can hear your voice reading this to me.
The cupboard shelf welcomes me home from the cold, cruel outside.
Reassuring is the brown label with straight silver letters that snugs the square box.
Lifting the lid invites the immediate inhale of the intoxicating richness inside.
The world may tempt the rebel in me to try new things, to stray from tradition,
But sometimes the simple recipes on the box are made to measure for the soul.
What a treasure you have in your recipe box, Katrina. Such comfort in tradition, too. Food fir the soul!
Wow, Katrina! This is very well done! I like how it can be interpreted literally but also metaphorically. The images you paint, the tone you convey, and the structure of the poem itself all add up to an intriguing piece. Thank you for writing today! I enjoyed reading it!
Wishful dusk
Dandelion yellow stained noses,
stick-mud fingers,
green stained knees,
the need for power spray
scrub brushes.
Comforting warm clean mist.
Air breathes mint.
Words whisper
as lashes draw closed.
Fluttering dreams as
Whip-poor-wills hush goodnight.
Linda, your poem is so rich with sensory appeal and wonderfully clear images. The first thee lines of your poem are so inviting. I can just see these
Your last line reads like a satisfying sigh that the day is over. Gorgeous poem!
Such beautiful warm-weather images! I’m guessing the temperature was pretty incredible by you today, too, Linda. Your poem reminds me that summer is just around the corner.
So many choices, but I decided to use my hair, of which I am very attached, though I have donated 36 inches.
Braid
Since middle
school I have
had long hair.
Not hair to my
shoulder blades,
not to my bra
strap, no, long
hair down to
below my
waistband,
even to below
my tailbone.
I wear it,
nearly all
the time, in
a French
braid. I am
told I am
easily
identifiable
from behind
with the long
swishing tail
behind me.
Students yell
my name
across streets
and stores,
and I turn
to see a
triumphantly
familiar face.
Every morning
I brush out my
wet hair after
my shower and
plait it wet.
The secret is
to not look in
the mirror.
I slide my
fingers under
the hair above
ears and begin
to weave. As
each strand
crosses another,
my hand swishes
out to the end,
whisking out
tangles and
fly-aways. A
few inches
below the
nape of my
neck, I flip
over into a
forward bend
and braid
upside down,
all the way to
the paintbrush
end. I don’t
even have to
think to braid
anymore, it is
automatic.
Now I have
grays sprinkled
throughout and
a good start on
a Cruella de Ville
stripe on my left
side, but so be it.
I will always love
my braid and
will someday
be the little
old lady
with
the
long
gray
hair.
TTTT,
Fabulous poem about your very long hair.
I can just picture the end of a braid or tip of a paint brush. Nice imagery.
So enchanting Cara. I especially like the line
How do you have the patience or the strength in your arms?! I always end up with the pony-tail. I also empathize with your.
I adore how your l o n g poem curves like the braid. As your reader, I FELT the rhythmic crossing over of strands as your lines glided forth. Lovely!
Cara, what a lovely tribute to your braid! I love to braid hair, but I’ve been wearing mine short for nearly a decade now. In addition, I had three boys, so I don’t get much practice. I love the image of you bending over to braid.
YESSSSS I love this poem! The structure — long and narrow– mimic your braided hair very well! I like how you took your signature look and turned it into a poem. This morning I braided my hair and then I thought “is this Cara’s thing? Can I actually do this?” LOL. I stuck with just a little half-braid 😉
Oh I am envious of your long braid! I always wanted one and adore that look. A great poem about how skilled you are in caring for the braid and automatically weaving it. Thanks for sharing that ability with us.
For some reason this website is giving me issues in terms of leaving a comment. I hope this works.
`To My High School Student Sticker Collectors”
The sheets slipped out of my desk:
fishes and phrases
plants and platitudes
a veritable menagerie of mayhem
that on a whim I will bestow.
Each mark, stamp, and sticker
a sign signifying my secret:
you were in my class,
you were my student,
you were in need
of a sticker to be let loose
on the world.
Perhaps it began with an errant star
shiny, glittery foil perched neatly
beside the accompanying ‘A.’
Or else it began with a shifting mood
watery, anxiety clear as day
I unfurl a streamer and ask:
“Which one would you like?”
Slapped on shirts,
affixed to appliances,
or bound to books
each one labels clear
the connoisseur of stickers.
And though they peel
or fade or eclipse,
there are enough to share.
“Do you want a sticker?”
Erica, STICKERS! What a simple, tangible way to express so much. I love your closing: “And though they peel or fade or eclipse, there are enough to share. ‘Do you want a sticker?'” I’m feeling nostalgic for the stickers of my childhood.
Erica, so glad you could post your poem, and that I can enjoy it again.
Erica, your poem moves so effortlessly. I know my students always loved stickers, and the way you describe them here is amazing. I especially liked how you showed the reason for the stickers:
Wonderful! I love the playful alliteration (sticking WORDS together with sound. I feel the generosity of your spirit in. your overflowing stickers!
Books, Shoes, and Pens…But, Books are My Favorite
I love books – all genres of books.
Picture Books
That tell a story and help us care.
Middle Grade Books
That remind me of how I don’t miss those years.
Novels In Verse
That grab my heart the way the story is told.
Graphic Novels
That show me what my mind can’t visualize.
Poetry Books
That model and teach me various forms.
I will not address all the
Professional Books I possess.
I wonder if there is a thin line between connoisseur and hoarder? NAH!!!
The honesty in this poem coupled with the humor was just delightful! I especially enjoyed the last four lines. Thanks for sharing.
Donnetta, from one book lover to another, I’ll echo your NAH! This is a lovely tribute to so many different books and the special ways they resonate with our hearts and souls. I’m now meditating on the types of books I love the most and how they speak to me. Thank you for this poem!
Oh, I love love love that last line, such insight! Truly!
Donetta, oh my, I have to laugh out loud after reading your poem. I hear you when it comes to having so many books that it is teetering on “hoarding”…lol! My biggest laugh though was from your line
Awesome and delightful poem!
Karen, thank you so much for today’s wonderful writing prompt. I deeply appreciated your comment: “writing has transformational power and is a practice worth cultivating. Thank you, Barb.
Light Lover
I am a secret connoisseur of light
luminous, languid, warm
I’m delighted by dawn’s rosy rays
smiling shyly in the east
I worship its loving fingers
whisking the grays away
cherish spring’s lemony light
blissfully playing beneath the red bud tree
I’m entranced by shadowed light
weaving like a sinuous snake
along the water way;
hypnotized by gauzy halos of light
framing a saucy full moon that casts
a strand of diamonds
across the river’s flowing face
but most of all I treasure
the light in my lover’s eyes
glowing with promise
Barb Edler
27 April 2021
Barb, I felt bathed in light reading your poem and kept thinking about the metaphorical meaning here, too. That you are certainly a light in my life this month.
Sarah
Thank you, Sarah. I so appreciate your kind words!
Barb,
This is gorgeous, luminous, a poem of light in a dark world. I love every lyrical line, every lighted image. You’ve given us a visual feast. I’m grateful for the light in your words.
I almost wrote about light too! What a delightful exploration of the different kinds of light available to us. I really enjoyed this — such beautiful words.
Oh, Barb, I love light so much – and you have captured so many of my reasons, in such beautiful poetics – “hypnotized by gauzy halos of light” – this is heavenly. Yes!
Barb, you have a way with words that proves you are a connoisseur of light. Wow! Thank you for this gift of a poem.
Light is one of my favorite themes and symbols, Barb. This is absolutely beautiful – lyrical, rustling with lovely silken sounds, glowing with love itself. It casts such a calming spell that I want to keep rereading.
Oh, Barb! Your words are so inviting it makes me wish I’d thought to write about this. I want to spend time with and in this light. “Spring’s lemony light” reads beautifully. And that saucy moon and strand of diamonds is exquisite.
Barb, this poem is stunning. Line after line invited me to see light anew: spring’s lemony light, shadowed light
weaving like a sinuous snake, and gauzy halos of light were some of my favorites. I of course also loved the Homeric rosy-fingered dawn!
I almost wrote about #IowaSky, which I think is my version of your light.
Barb — each of these light images is gorgeous. “gauzy halos of light” and the “shadowed light” under the redbud…oooo… The whole poem is sensory LUSH! Mmmm-mmm. Susie
Thank you for the prompt, Karen. That was fun. I almost think I am addicted to buying books. As a matter of fact, one is sitting on my doorstep.
I buy books.
poetry
writing
mystery
true crime
historical fiction
cookbooks
fantasy
realistic fiction –
you recommend it
I buy it
with a click
on the computer.
Ordered,
shipped,
delivered
to my doorstep.
Almost daily.
Then, I pile them in my room.
Walls of books
keep me safe
and tuck me in
each night.
Heather, I thought about writing a poem about books. I buy a lot also. We are kindred spirits
Heather, I can so relate to your actions here. and adore the variety of reading you reveal. I’m usually reading two books while listening to another. I love the end of your poem. Books do offer solace and create a place to escape. My favorite time to read is at night in bed. Sheer bliss!
Heather,
I can totally relate to buying books. My family laughs at me, I read cookbooks like others read novels, cover to cover.
I don’t know if this poetry form has a name — it’s kind of like a list — but I love the rapid nature of it! I think that works well when you come to the point about ordering and shipping your books. I am the same way with my reading. Perhaps instead of a blanket fort I should try a book fort!
Heather, I adore the image of
There are far worse obsessions! Books are a delight.
Heather, your economy of language here highlights the depth of your book love. I will never forget how I felt when I received my first main book delivery. I thought, “Uh oh…this could be a problem.” Ha I love your final image: “Walls of books keep me safe and tuck me in each night.” Oh, the beautiful comfort books provide. Thank you for sharing this piece with us!
Heather, I can definitely relate! I ordered more books between April 2020-Jan 2021 than I could ever read. I vowed not to order another book until I’ve read at least 2 of the ones I had ordered. It’s really insane. In my mind, I think I have all this time to read and sit and devour books. In reality, I’m on the computer lesson planning and checking students’ work, and then 5 days a month other than April, I’m writing poetry with Ethical ELA. When do I have time or make time to read?
I appreciate your poem. I want to read, I really do. LOL. But I’ll be good with this:
????
Karen, I love this idea and I enjoyed your poem so much – truly a beautiful description of scrambled eggs. Alas, I just struggled to land anywhere today, mostly due to time – Tuesdays are spent with grandchildren. Here’s my soft attempt to answer this prompt!
I am a
calculated connoisseur,
developing
essential expertise
alongside those I love
I am an affable authority
digging for worms
throwing sticks in the creek
finding lambs-ear in the garden
listening for wind chimes
noticing birds
I used to be gentle genius
identifying dinosaurs
Thomas the Tank Engine trains
Pokemon characters
I’m ready to refresh
my scholarly skills
should the need arise,
as I have with
construction vehicles
I fear I am emerging expert at
forgetting
where I left my eyeglasses
my hot cup of tea – oh, my, it is now cold
to make an appointment
titles of books and movies I loved
names of authors, actors, even some neighbors
to dig the weeds before they spread
to move the wet clothes to the dryer
passwords for every imaginable account
oh no,
the gas burner on low, overnight,
oh my!
Maureen,
I love these various incarnations of connoisseurship. Isn’t this the way life should be? We become appropriate authorities as necessary. I struggled w/ this prompt too for reasons you allude to in “emerging expert / at forgetting.” Do you know Billy Collins’ poem “Forgetfulness”? This last section of your poem reminded me of it.
Maureen, I love the progress of this poem. I enjoyed the details showing your actions with your grandchildren, and then the turn at the end is quite funny, and I can definitely relate. I am easily distracted and am always losing a cup or of glass of anything. Thanks for sharing such a delightful poem!
Maureen, your poem made me invoke Whitman: “I contain multitudes.” Don’t we all? What a lovely tribute to our many selves, the countless ways we become the experts our circumstances demand. I so enjoyed your poem.
Ah, how I can relate to becoming an “emerging expert at / forgetting.” The oh no and oh my’s among your list of things you forgot are perfect. I want to look for lambs-ear in the garden with you and your granddaughter! And, as I’ve said before, I love your alliteration in all the titles you’ve given yourself, especially gentle genius. Oh my!
Karen,
Thank you for the prompt. I know that I will come back to it when I am feeling better and have more time. I’m off to a baseball game so here is today’s effort:
Home Plate
I spend the bulk of my life in bleachers.
Basketball games
Volleyball matches
Soccer games,
Football games,
Baseball games.
I come the most well-prepared
for baseball.
I sit in the bleachers
just to the right of home plate,
just above the on-deck circle.
From there, I can see it all
and hear most of it, too.
I plop my stadium chair down
right against the fencing side
of the bleachers.
I like the comfort of the support.
Next to me is a bag complete
with blankets, sunglasses, rain gear,
a sweatshirt, gloves,
gum, money,
earbuds, my phone,
and my Yeti full of ice water.
I get there in time to watch
both teams take infield.
I know it’s going to be a good night
if the coach (who happens to also be my husband)
successfully gets the pop fly up
to the catcher to end infield.
It’s no easy feat.
I clap for both teams line-ups
and stand proudly for The Star-Spangled Banner.
Depending on where our son is playing,
my nerves heighten after the anthem.
When he’s on the mound,
the adrenaline starts pumping
knowing how key his arm (and head and heart)
are to the game.
I pop in a piece of gum,
take a swig of water,
put one ear bud in to hear the radio play-by-play
but leaving the other out to hear the crowd.
I’ve learned not to say much.
I cheer much more for others
than I do when it’s ours.
I fiddle and fidget and watch and worry
I try to remember how much I will miss this
But in the moment, the nerves get me.
I know how well he wants to do.
I’m off to take my place in the bleachers
once again
watching those I love do what they love.
~Susan Ahlbrand
27 April 2021
Susan,
I see the lovely expertise of being a “soccer mom” in your poem: “watching those I love do what they love.” Your an expert spectator. That’s how I enjoy baseball, too.
Susan, I spent so many years in the bleachers! We were just laughing about those March baseball games – how you’d need to bring a blanket to wrap yourself in…oh, my, yes, this is expertise. I totally relate to these lines,
This was the story of my life until my son went off to college. I miss those days. I feel every bit of your poem.
Susan, you do an excellent job of showing your emotions while being in the bleachers. I can totally relate to feeling like I need to be careful about what comes out of my mouth, and the anxious feeling you can get when watching a loved one perform. You pulled me into so many of my own memories watching my sons play sports. Thank you!
Susan, I was so struck by your line “My nerves heighten after the anthem.” There is certainly an ebb and flow to these events, and you are clearly an expert of the emotional connection to place and the rhythm of routine. This is a meaningful tribute. Thank you for sharing!
Susan, you have really given voice to sports parents, especially your poem here of a baseball mom. These lines say a lot. I love the sound of the first line, and the second, as a former sports mom, it’s true, and you know it already.
Enjoy the summer games!
Thank you Karen for todays prompt. I created a list of items I enjoy from purchasing more yarn than I could ever finish knitting up before I die, to the mugs that are over flowing my kitchen cabinets, to the colorful pens I use to grade Bell Ringer work and vocabulary packets.
Rainbow of Colors
A rainbow of colors fill my mug
Reds from cherry, to crimson, garnet, and ruby
Sitting in the mug on my desk
Used for note writing not grading
Greens from moss, to emerald, seafoam, and shamrock
Sitting in the mug on my desk
The darker ones are almost dried out from use
Blues from sky, to cobalt, sapphire, and navy
Sitting in the mug on my desk
Best grader of the bunch
Yellows from dandelion, to mustard, citrine, and honey
Sitting in the mug on my desk
Pretty to look at but seldom used
Oranges from tangerine, to topaz, carrot, and marmalade
Sitting in the mug on my desk
Used when a student picks my grading pen
Purples from heather, to violet, amethyst, and lilac
Sitting in the mug on my desk
Often misplaced as TTTT likes to “borrow” them
A rainbow of colors brightening my day
Sitting in the mug on my desk
I bet your home is warm and inviting, all these gorgeous colors! Yarn, mugs, pens – each so inviting. Love, love, love your lines describing all the different variations of a particular color, and how you use them as almost dividers in your poem – gorgeous!:
Maureen,
Thank you. I may have an addiction to office supplies, however colorful pens are so much fun to look at an use. There are days I even let students select the color I grade with. It is a bonding moment, who knew?
DeAnna,
You could almost have done a similar poem with all of your yarns-in-waiting. 😉 It is wonderful to see all of the distinctive individual colors–and so much fun to use them and express a daily mood. Fun poem!
From TTTT 😉
You are my favorite purple pen “borrower”
Are you mildly shocked I didn’t have pink listed?
Yes, totally have a rainbow of yarn as well!
This is the most colorful poem, and I loved reading it! Your descriptions, imagery, and word play all come together to form an image in the reader’s mind. I also love all the colors associated with flowers which evoke lovely scents as well.
My wife had mentioned that I have a great memory about my childhood. That inspired me to write this about my grandfather.
This morning while showering
I used ivory soap
The soap the floats
The soap that has that
Distinct smell
The smell of summer, 1986
And now I see
My six-year-old self
Standing on the checkerboard
Tile bathroom floor
At my grandma and grandpa’s
Modest house
Across the street
From the college
I see four hands under
Warm running water
Ivory soap suds
Turning grey
Two six-year-old hands
Two ancient hands
With grey hair
Partaking in the ritual
between summertime adventures
and dinnertime
as I smile at this image
and smell the ivory soap
it becomes apparent
that I am a connoisseur
of good memories
I cannot imagine a better thing to be a connoisseur about:
especially, as a writer! This is lovely. And a precious memory, too!
Lovely memories for sure. Once you said Ivory Soap, it took me to my great grandmother’s house. Thank you for that trip back to the past.
Eric, yes, there is something extra special about Ivory soap and the image of your hands with a grandparent’s hands is striking. I adore your end! Good memories definitely need to be cherished! Thanks for sharing this lovely memory!
Bryan, you are a genius with word play! I love just about everything about your poem today. Thanks for sharing.
The Book Haters
by Mo Daley 4-27-21
I am a secret connoisseur of book haters
I collect them like a little boy collects rocks
I gather them close and hold them tightly
When I have enough, say 6-10,
The punishment can start
I attack swiftly, harassing and haranguing
I am relentless
Rattling off titles like an AK-47
Most of my sentences start with,
“You should read this book about…”
Their suffering continues until
They read not just 1, 2, 3, 4, or 5 books,
But until they bound into my classroom,
Beaming and booming,
“I just finished my 30th book this year!”
And then, my work is done
For now
Mo, this brings such a big smile! I love the enthusiasm and the shift from book haters to book beamers.
Mo,
This is so clever. Of course you are “a connoisseur of book haters,” which I believe are actually book lovers incognito. I often told students they’re book lovers who don’t know it. I love the way you torture and make the book haters suffer. They deserve it! ??
This is the best poem I have read in a very long time. I love books, and your expertise as the Book Hater Whisperer just floods my heart with joy. I love the description you use in the line, “Rattling off titles like an AK-47”. YAASSS!!!! Love it.
You are Mo the Magician! Transforming haters to lovers of books … as I learned from Harry Potter, magic is really a lot of work – and then when one begins to have confidence and believe… well, these kids can tell the story, can’t they? A bit of tough love – maybe, but more a tale of passion being contagious. Love, love, love this poem and your “relentlessness”.
Karen, thank you for your poem today – I had the urge to scramble some eggs after reading this morning, but I’m not sure I could have done them justice in comparison to the fluffy lushness you described. This prompt opened up so many ideas.
Secret Connoisseur
They tell me the latest,
the greatest,
the sacred,
the dregs,
and I listen.
It’s just between us.
My lips are sealed.
And they tell me
who said it,
who felt it,
who took it,
who done it,
until I’m in the know.
Part gnosy.
Part gnomic.
They tell me their secrets
and I hold them,
lips pressed together,
thoughts scrambling,
chasing one another
along synapses
of disbelief,
of dread,
of concern,
of wonder.
Somehow, I have become
the keeper of secrets,
marking truths
by the shadows they cast
from vertical shafts of gnomons.
Like a Knowman,
I’ll take them
to my grave.
Jennifer, wow! You are a literal secret connoisseur! This is beautiful, and I was so struck by your use of the gno- prefix (gnomons, gnosy, gnomic). And what a closing: “Like a Knowman, I’ll take them to my grave.” Thank you for sharing this exquisite poem today.
Jennifer.
Again you wow me w/ your wordplay: gnosy, gnomic, gnomons, knowman. I imagined for whom and what you keep secrets as I read. I love the imagining the poem invites.
Jennifer, I love how this poem plays out and your delightful word play, too. I am fascinated by your lines:
These lines feel a bit heavy, and taking them to the grave is very serious indeed! Outstanding poem! Thank you!
Marvelous play on the prompt – literally a secret connoisseur! The wordplay, the lines…sheer magic. “Knowman” – I absolutely love this. I am awed.
OOoooooo, Jennifer — This is a beaut! From the message to the artful use of wordplay, this is really a terrific poem. The gnomons (which when I looked it up…a totally new word to me) flipped this image on its head for me… Wowza! Reading it aloud this morning (sorry I’m so late… I drove to KY and back to MO yesterday to see a friend who has been hospitalized, intubated, now trach’ed (a cruel and horrible story), and wheelchair’ed, and now that we are all fully vaxxed, I could see him…didn’t get home till late last night and just dropped into bed after I finally posted)…anyway, reading it aloud punctuates the cadence. And when I got to the last stanza, I just was taken by the crafting of this piece. Secrets…oh man, what a powerful topic and the pressing sense of how secrets “marking truths/by the shadows they cast/from vertical shafts of gnomons…” HOLY COW, this is a haunting image. The “Knowman”….oooo! The “gnosy” and “gnomic”….dang, you are such a brilliant wordsmith! Very impressive poem. And I sure feel the burden of secrets…”to my grave” … whoof! Love this. Thank you for this imagery! Susie
Thank you, Karen, for this prompt (and your mentor poem)! I really enjoyed this notion of the “secret connoisseur.” (And I really love the idea that you are “THE expert when it comes to how precisely close [you] like to sit to [your] car’s steering wheel and exactly how much [you] like [your] seat reclined.” This had me smiling!
____________________________________________
When thinking about
the things that I’m
the best at, my
secret talents or skills,
I am the worst.
I think it’s my
self-deprecating
nature (but maybe
it’s not, maybe
I’m wrong).
For instance, take
this morning, I
found that I’m
amazing at pressing
the wrong button
to stop the alarm
clock. I just kept
pressing the
same — WRONG —
button, expecting
that incessant
blaring to stop.
Isn’t that somebody
or others definition
of insanity?
And I am rather
(famously) bad
at blowing my nose.
If not for my wife
(and pandemic
living), I don’t
know how often
I would have been
parading around
town with clumps
of dried snot stuck
to the front of my
shirt. I mean,
seriously, how hard
is it to correctly
position the Kleenex
(or some other knock
off facial tissue)
under my nostrils
when I commence
to forcefully expel
air (and nasal
detritus) from my
nose. Apparently,
it’s very difficult.
Now I know how
tedious and tiresome
it can become when
someone rather
pedantically drones
on and on about
how bad they are
at things. People
are like, look, Jeez,
ok, we get it, we’re
better than you at
literally everything.
I just want to reiterate
that this is not the
moment in the movie
where the shy (and
rather, perhaps,
dashing…?)
protagonist has been
begging off playing
the guitar, claiming
he isn’t very good,
when suddenly (deep
into act two of the
screenplay, near the
second plot point),
he picks up the Fender
Stratocaster and
makes it sing.
This is not me.
I’m not going to
figuratively
play the guitar here.
(and side note, nor
am I going to literally
play the guitar because
even after several
lessons, I still can’t),
but I will end on a
positive note. I mean,
hey, even a Shakespearean
Tragedy has a moment
of comic relief in it,
amirite?
There are moments,
sometimes few and
far between, when
I craft a phrase,
image, or scene,
that, for the briefest
of moments, will
have me smiling or
quietly chuckling
to myself.
And I’ll be honest,
for a moment, all
facetiousness
aside, I want to
be clear on this
point: I really
am bad at the
guitar, that F chord
should be outlawed,
but, you know what
they say, if we outlaw
F chords only outlaws
will be able to play
“Bad Moon Rising”
by CCR.
(See, I should have
stopped this poem
two stanzas earlier.)
Scott, oh, the crafting! You definitely have your moments (not so few and far between here) that brought all the smiles, and a chuckle in that last parenthetical addition. I’m glad you took this spin on the prompt. Self-deprecation could even be a whole nother prompt! This was fun.
Scott, your conceptualization of this prompt is brilliant. Being the best at the worst is certainly something…ha! I think you are a connoisseur of being self-aware, and this shines through as authenticity. I so appreciated the moment you took to acknowledge the small moments when you realize you’ve done something good:
“There are moments,
sometimes few and
far between, when
I craft a phrase,
image, or scene,
that, for the briefest
of moments, will
have me smiling or
quietly chuckling
to myself.”
I enjoyed your poem so much!
Scott,
Thank you for making me chuckle today! I enjoyed the humor and the playfulness here.
I am always shocked when I write something that makes me chuckle and that others seem to like a well.
Well, Scott, one thing is for sure: you are one helluva a poet. And unabashedly I say, I wish I had your conversational turn of phrase, the depth of references that sharpen the lens, and the pacing that makes a jillion-line poem just “sing” on the page, triggering laugh out loud responses every bloomin’ time. You’ve got that F chord, my friend, and it’s called the poem. Susie, sittin’ here lovin’ and laughin’.
Secret Connoisseur of Lullaby
Tell me why
the stars do shine
and I’ll tell you why
the baby loves me.
His crying stops.
His cornflower eyes glaze,
body relaxes
into the melody I sing.
He hears a harp string,
a rolling waterfall,
a soothing sway
rocking a-bye.
Margaret,
This is sweet. Babies know who to trust, and your voice obviously soothe your grandchild. Lovely.
Margaret, there’s something about that grandmotherly touch that comforts babies – they just know. And what a beautiful bond that is to have. I can envision those cornflower eyes – so sweet.
Margaret, as a mother of 2 young kids, this struck a chord with me. I know these lullabies well, the relaxing of tiny bodies in your arms. You articulate this sensation masterfully: “His cornflower eyes glaze, body relaxes into the melody I sing.” Just lovely. Thank you for this poem.
Oh, you brought back such lovely memories for me of the nights I would sing and rock my little grand-baby back to sleep. I sang “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra..” an Irish lullaby. Your poem is very sweet and I am happy you are so good at the lullaby.
I love your poem. These poems are bringing so many memories back to me. When my son was little, there was a girl at daycare who would sing him to sleep. She was so special to him, and she became our one and only babysitter.
Hello Karen! I think it’s fascinating the many different ways people make scrambled eggs. I don’t whisk mine together before scrambling 🙂 “Long perfect pillows” is lovely.
I’ve handwritten a poem today. Take a look, if you want. Ughh I obliterated the spelling of “connoisseur”
Should Handwriting Be Taught?
Angie, I love your cursive poem. The section of tiny writing and sloppy writing is perfect too. I want to write a handwritten poem! I’ll have to add that to my list! I like “curving the cursive” and how you went through your history of handwriting.
Angie, I’m so glad you included your handwritten note as a way to express what you are a connoisseur of! And the tiny phase and sloppy sentence added to that visual – so fun! I regret how much typing I do now and fear the loss of the hand written form.
things I’ve learned while perched on my couch with my gray blanket
by: a window watching connoisseur
when it’s time to move a storage pod
a large man drives up in a semi
with a fancy metal contraption
which he carefully maneuvers
to enclose the pod
then he uses a small lever
to guide it onto the semi
the neighbors went grocery shopping and bought:
2 packs of water bottles
laundry detergent
dish soap
popsicles
tortillas
Kali moved home
she took her dog and her niece on a walk
the dog pooped in the neighbor’s yard
not mine
but Kali came back with a bag
the mother across the street
has her hands full
with children
and sometimes loses her temper
there are 13 dandelions
about to spread
vicious seeds
the weather prediction was wrong
no snow today
kids these days are in to scooters
Ha! The part where you list the neighbor’s grocery items is awesome.
You have proved with this sweetly funny porn that you are indeed a window watching connoisseur. So funny and matter of fact. From dandelions to scooters, groceries to dog walking. So very effective!
Rachel,
I adore this poem for its keen observations and resistance to judging or interpreting (except the vicious seeds). You offer perspective but also, in writing a poem, an elevation because we do not know what these gestures mean to the people or objects. It is their poem to write.
Cool, and I am also thinking about whether the scooters you see are the scooters I know or if it is some new iteration!
Peace,
Sarah
Rachel,
I’ll admit I’ve been known to be a window watcher, not the noisy neighbor type from Be Witched, but the kind who happens to notice what is going on while sitting a the table watching the world go by.
I enjoyed the seeing your street through your eyes, without judgement. 🙂
Rachel, I love this! What a peek into the neighborhood you provide. People watching is always great fun, especially when mundane tasks offer insight. This felt like a brief pause in my day.
Rachel, I love the title of your poem and your observations are incredible. Your poem reminds me of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Rear Window….I keep waiting for you to see something a bit disturbing. Your perspective makes me think your school was cancelled due to the threat of snow so you have time to watch the world outside. Love the detail of the blanket too. Such a very cool poem! Loved it!
Good morning Karen, I’ll take a nice warm plate of your eggs and a side of your cheesy grits, please!!! Yummy!
I love your poem, today’s prompt, and the sensory delights with which I’m starting the day.
?
I have struggled writing this month, more the past few days, so when I saw today’s prompt I once again thought about quitting. Friends, this is hard. I am tired. Last night and this morning I reread the poems I wrote during the 2019 April challenge and washed in the warmth of friends here I met that month. I wonder where others who joined us then are now. Rereading was cathartic. I honestly did not think I could write today because I don’t consider myself a connoisseur of anything. I’m an expert amateur, I suppose. This prompt pushed me hard, and I am grateful for that shove. Karen, I’m returning to your poem so I can learn to scramble eggs, such a seemingly simple task that belies the necessary connoisseurship to get the eggs to that idealized fluffy texture. Your poem makes me hungry for eggs and for poetry. Thank you.
Hillbilly Connoisseur
Y’all,
I know a
little about a lot of things
but
not a lot about any thing.
I know to hold the
wine glass by the stem so
the wine does not warm
the way the sun
knows to cast rays on
cold mornings and
nourish botanical and
sentient life
but
I am not a
sommelier nor
a helioseismologist.
I know to examine
light and shadow
absences & angles in
an Edward Hopper
painting the way
nature’s Ozark museum
displays galleries of
grand gardens &
babbling brooks
birthed in rocky
mountain ranges
but
I am not an
aesthete nor
a botanist.
I know to look up into
autocumulous clouds
clumped like marshmallows
atop canned yams &
give thanks for
sky
moon
stars
as I wonder like
Wordsworth’s lonely cloud
adrift over a field
of daffodils
but
I am not a
nephrologist
nor a cognoscenti.
Y’all,
I am just a
hillbilly who
knows a little about a lot
but
not a lot about any thing.
—Glenda Funk
I was listening to a friend this morning talk about a documentary she watched about the creative brain. This is second hand but she said that it is important for our brains to do hard things. You showed me how you could overcome your first impression of “I can’t do this” to get to this clever poem with all the wonderful things you know. The comparisons are delightful. ” I wonder like
Wordsworth’s lonely cloud
adrift over a field
of daffodils” Thanks for sticking with it and writing today. Creativity is also healing.
Thanks, Margaret. Do you know the name of the documentary? It sounds fascinating.
Uhhh Glenda, you are a poetry connoisseur, a poet!
Soooo many lovely images:
And I love the use of yall in this.
Thank you, Glenda, for your reflective paragraph and for your poem today, which almost wasn’t but is! That really is the miracle of poetry and this space for me. All of this here did not exist in the world hours ago and yet here, we, together have made poems.
And I think about the poets who were with us a year ago, too. I hope they are well. I love that this space endures and hope it will be here if they find their way back. And I think about those who visit but may not write, yet. Yesterday, there were 55 writers (a few for the first time) but 184 visitors., so I love imagining people out there reading the poems, pondering the prompts, maybe thinking “next year I will try”. I have received some emails from teachers saying that they are using the inspirations with their students and having their own #Verselove community experience. That is nice.
Like you, this month has been hard but for different reason…that is, until I begin and then, well there it is, a poem!
So thank you for your poem and for the vocabulary experience. I love this “h” word:
Peace,
Sarah
Glenda,
I love how you share your knowledge with your ready and then let them know you’re not a specialist in that area. I keep telling my family I’d love to be a sommelier, but I don’t care for very many red wines. Thank you for your poem today.
Glenda, YES! All of this: from your “intro” to your poem. I was nodding my head (and smiling) throughout. This is hard. A poem a day? What were we thinking!? (This is not even to talk about how much I see myself in your poem. If I hadn’t spent several drafts tweaking my poem during the day, I would have been tempted to just post something to the effect of “Read Glenda’s Poem — yeah, what she said.”) And just a quick thank you for being here, for reading and responding as you do. You (and others, who I don’t want to list for fear of leaving someone out…it feels like the band is going to start playing me off at any moment) are such an inspiration. I’m becoming a better writer and responder because of you!
Glenda, I love what you’ve done here – the knowledge of enough to be well rounded and appreciate so much about life but not so much as to be all boring and scientific about how things work. The title here sucked me right in – this is my favorite part
I know to look up into
autocumulous clouds
clumped like marshmallows
atop canned yams
Not too many hillbillies here in Georgia can tell one cloud from another so I’d say by hillbilly standards you are pretty much a genius! ?
Glenda, I feel as if we were both in a similar place when we started our poetry writing today – thinking, oh my, how in the world do I respond to this prompt?, but – wow – as usual, you knock it out of the park. Your poem is truly poetic … so many beautiful, lyrical associations … I love every stanza, especially
Oh, Glenda, I can surely hear your hillbilly voice here, and your learned professor voice, too. What a contrast! I adored the way you describe the Ozarks, truly a gorgeous landscape. Loved the lines:
Honestly, I will have to look up a few of your terms as I know a thing or two, but obviously have some serious learning to do. Your end is especially fun. Thanks for this entertaining poem!
Glenda, I know one thing you know well…writing poetry! I’m ready to take an online course if you’re ready to teach it!
I love the title. I’m trying to understand if you feel like a hillbilly or are you really a hillbilly. I can’t picture you as one but what do I know? I know nothing about that! ?
This delights my heart to read and to picture:
?
Glenda,
I love the beginning and ending of your poem:
I had to sit with my dictionary to make sense of all the things you aren’t. I learned some new words and saw some beautiful photographs through words “galleries of grand gardens” and the clouds emulating Thanksgiving dinner went right into my eyes.
I keep being drawn to these lines:
And I am found wondering either about what allusion I’m missing about nephrology or that this is purposefully not related and thus the best line in the poem that shows an example of knowing “a little about a lot but not a lot about any thing.” Either way, your poem is brilliant.
Karen, thank you for being here today, and for your work with Poetic Justice. I loved the image of perfect pillows of scrambled eggs, as
Perfect description! Beautiful poem.
Thanks for introducing me to the “secret connoisseur” quote. I like that term, and it was meaningful writing in my journal today about all the things in my life I’m a secret connoisseur of (and I’m learning how to spell connoisseur by writing it so much today). I thought about writing about my cultural appropriation experience of wearing saris here in Bahrain. I have at least two dozen of them, and wear them for every important holiday, wedding and dress-up event. They were gifted by friends in Bahrain from India, and they’ve taught me how to drape them. Today, though, I just want to wrap India in all of them and cry about their Covid problem. I also wanted to write about my fascination with ginkgo trees (or is it gingko trees?–one of the only words I know that looks equally correct both ways.) Instead I chose to keep it simple and write about being a connoisseur of fresh fruit…
Fruits from every land
Fill ships passing through
the Strait of Hormuz,
Destined for our produce stands.
I am a fresh fruit connoisseur.
Covered with playful filaments, the red rambutan
Nestles a smooth and sweet pearly gift from Thailand.
The Fuji apple from China, the size of a softball,
Is as sweet and crisp as a new day.
The tough rich purple of the mangosteen
Opens to show its flowery frosted petals from Indonesia.
Succulent neon navel naranja from Spain
is like opening my Christmas stocking every day.
Mangos from all over the world,
but the ones from Egypt win–
Green and dully camouflaged,
Creamy, coral and delectable within.
The Elaichi banana from Kerala
Fits in the palm of my hand
and tastes like a firm bite of Eden.
The golden kiwi from Italy is like joyful sunshine.
Syrupy sweet melon from Iran,
the dripping juice as sticky as honey.
Yellow Rosemary pear from South Africa,
Delicate white peach from Jordan
Long juicy grapes from India,
Tart and sweet pineapple from the Philippines,
I could go on and on.
I am a fresh fruit connoisseur.
Denise, your imagery here is delectable! I can taste all of these wonderful fruits as you describe them, especially my personal favorite rambutan. 🙂 I so appreciated you taking us through your thought process, the reality of mourning India’s current COVID crisis, to your connection to gingko trees.
Denise,
I need all the fruit in your poem. Your words nourish and tantalize me. I’m so hungry. We ate apple bananas dipped in chocolate and rolled in macadamia nuts while in Hawaii. I love traveling for food as much as for sites. I love your poem. It’s a gift of my favorite food group, fruit. Gorgeous offering today. ‘Preciate you.
Denise, I am taking the 5 saris that I bought or received while in Bangladesh home with me. I cannot part with them. My heart breaks for India as well 🙁 Have some friends who are now family who are Indian. Also, I looked at ginkgo/gingko like 5 times and was like, what’s the difference?!?! HAHA
I will MISSSSSS all the vibrant fruit stands everywhere in this country SO SO much. AH! Love all of your descriptions of fruit. YUM!
Denise, this is amazing! You are not only a fruit connoisseur, but you are living somewhere with access to remarkable fruits – oh, how I would love to stumble through a market in Bahrain! Every line is extraordinary; I love especially this –
Denise, okay, this is seriously one of the most delicious poems I have ever read. Wow, you do know your fruit, and I am completely jealous as I have not tasted some of these. I so appreciate how you not only included sensational taste appeal throughout this, but that you also included geographical details. I still want to read about your saris, they sound fascinating and I bet they’re as beautiful as the fruit you describe. Thank you for sharing this delightful taste sensation!
I am sitting here in awe of these exotic fruit, Denise, and of your mouthwatering descriptions! Utterly magnificent – I can see this whole colorful cornucopia in my mind; so vivid that can almost inhale the fragrances.
Spot-on poem, Denise! I love to read your work. While I only spent a short amount of time in Southeast Asia, this poem brought back many colorful images and memories of eating fruits. I was waiting to see if you were going to include durian in here somewhere 😉 You have me aching to travel again and to try some of these fruits!
I Hold the Paintbrush
Hard to explain something natural to me
as using a paintbrush. Simple as can be.
Which one to choose? Soft bristle, short or long,
camel, ox hair or synthetic? One can’t go wrong.
I just pick it up. No special way to hold
my fingers around it. Time to be bold.
It’s all in the pressure. Heavy or twirling
makes the lines straight or makes them swirling.
Three fingers push it, drag on the way.
I can even curl it, dab or let stay
into the colors, grabbing just enough
with pressure, light or heavy, not too rough.
Color on canvas – red, yellow and blue
then adding brown and orange to change the hue.
For a soft pastel I use lots of white
to strengthen the contrast and add some light.
My fingers get smudged but I never worry.
There’s water and soap to clean in a hurry.
There are many mistakes that a layer can cover
leaving some transparency that viewers discover
on textured canvas some scraping and roughness
with smooth paint layers. Greens add some lushness.
Lastly, the rags to clean up my mess
then I put the brush down, stand back, yell “Yes!”
Oooh! I love this! So sensory! Now I need to go paint!
Yes, artist, YES!! 🙂
I love the language in these lines:
Thank you for sharing your artistry in poem form today! <3
Susan, wow, your use of rhyme is stellar throughout this poem. Your words create its own incredible canvas. I love the way you describe the process of your painting. The end is so fun! Wonderful poem and work of art!
How to Avoid the Things You Love
by An Expert
The guitar is in its case
Th banjo hangs dusty above the kitty litter
The pens are scattered preemptively around the house
But never right here
The notebook is defiantly sitting on a bookshelf
The Notes App is placed strategically in a mystery folder
That is not on the Home Screen
Set yourself up for success
Use good judgement
When you don’t want the work to be done
Avoid the things you love
Haha I connect with this on a deep level. I especially love your title and “by An Expert”. Your poem reminds me of the book “Atomic Habits” and the pattern it gives for creating / breaking habits . . .
Alex, you may be an expert at avoidance but in his poetic writing you didn’t avoid and made a doozy! It is full of excellent examples of and fun images of avoidance. My ukulele is like your banjo and guitar.
Alex, this is so relatable! How often we neglect the things we really enjoy. I love the “show not tell” style of your descriptions, especially in the line “the banjo hangs dusty above the kitty litter.”
Good morning, poets! I am so excited to be your host today and can’t wait to read your beautiful words. Happy writing!
As the Shoe Connoisseur Ages
By Nancy White
I know what I love
and I love what I know
About my feet.
My large and “more mature” feet
Cannot tolerate stylish heels, pointy toes,
or any shoes that don’t have some “squish”.
But, they can rock certain running shoes,
sandals, and booties
(if they come in Wide.)
These feet are shaped like paddles,
narrow in the heel and spread-out
like they wish they were hands.
They crave comfort above all
and some days only flip flops or Ugg’s will do.
It is a happy day when new shoes are delivered
and they actually fit—
Heels don’t slip up and down
and bunions rejoice that they are not tortured.
Arches say, “Ahhhhh”, thankful they haven’t fallen.
My feet say, “Hallelujah!”
When they notice no squeaks or suction-sounds when stepping.
And I, the proud best friend of my feet give thanks to all the caring shoe makers who know just what I love—
some cuteness, but most of all comfort.
Anything to keep my feet happy.
Nancy, I love the descriptions you included here! I especially loved the line “like they wish they were hands.” As someone with wide feet, this spoke to me on a hilarious level.
“These feet shaped like paddles” are the words that made me chuckle while thinking of ducks. Your poem is a delight! Feet are so important to keep comforted, cute and cuddled.
Nancy,
As one aging shoe connoisseur to another, my feet and I join the chorus seeking comfort. I learned something about myself from your poem: maybe my arches have fallen; I can’t wear most shoes because the arch bothers me. I long to wear heels that make me tall-er, but my feet get numb. I’m in the ugly shoe, ugly bra stage of life. That is, comfort natters more than style. I giggled reading:
“These feet are shaped like paddles,
narrow in the heel and spread-out
like they wish they were hands.”
I’m going to cradle and thank my feet for being such good friends. Thank you for this fun poem. I can’t stop grinning.
Karen, this prompt made me look at the work “connoisseur” very differently! We’re all experts at something! I decided to go with my family and the different types of comfort they need.
Comfort Connoisseur
When tears fall from
Harrison’s eyes
He’s secretly begging
For rest
And a few hours of
A video game
When Mom’s tone gets snippy
And her teeth grit together
She needs distraction
From the work calls
When Dad lets a sigh escape,
Shakes his head, looking down
He needs to watch
A western,
Or fishing
When Rob’s pitch gets higher
And her throat tightens
She needs a car ride
To Starbucks
And someone to curse to.
Ann, you have such an acute sense of knowing exactly what each loved one needs. I love the attention to detail. The love conveyed through this intimate knowledge is profound.
Oh this is so neat. It broadened my perspective on the word “expert”. I love how you started each person’s section with a physical / observable thing: tears falling, teeth gritting, sighing, high pitched voice. Comforting starts with noticing. Beautiful!!
Wait! I need that car ride to Starbucks right about now. One sugar free caramel dulce frappe with light whipped cream for me, please, and then I too can behave much better myself!
I love this…especially that last line.
Karen, thank you for your prompt this morning. I appreciate your guidance in processing the idea of secret connoisseur-ism in our lives. My words took me to a broader topic but I was inspired by the kitchen theme of your poem.
a secret connoisseur
of balance
sous chef of stability
blending mental
professional, familial
social, physical
arranging in equal
parts, as needed
with a splash of spice
sprinkle of sugar
squeeze of tart
shh, don’t tell anyone
she won’t say no, but
still says yes, yes, to a
symmetry of significance
to all ingredients of life
sous chef of stability…there’s a lot of power in that tiny phrase. I love it.
Stefani,
This phrase, “sous chef of stability,” is clever and a connoisseurship to be desired. The perfect balancing of life’s many moving parts.
I love this! The alliteration makes it feel bouncy and alive. I like “symmetry of significance” especially!
That phrase – sound chef of stability! Oh my, Stefani! You coined a whole new phrase that is a great way to describe the balanced and levelheaded girl power glue of any group!
This kitchen theme is magnificent, Stefani – so incredibly clever, with such delectable phrases! That elusive word “balance” shines here in the mix…
Karen, what an interesting prompt today! I can’t wait to return this evening and read all of the responses that this one draws out! Thank you fir your work with Poetic Justice and fir hosting us today. Yours is a poem that makes me want a better breakfast than my protein shake!! Oh, for those eggs!
Antiquarian Library
old heart pine floor
creaking underfoot
as I step into the
library of antique bookcases –
mahogany, teak, cherry, oak –
in this hidden forest of
vintage volumes,
musty scents of the wardrobe
to Narnia, of Turkish Delight,
the sting of cold wind-whipped snow,
the sounds of tropical birds
welcoming the sunrise along the wave-lapped shores of
Treasure Island,
mingled tastes of pungent stench
of soured ale permeating the
streets of drunken London in Dickens’ day, hunger and filth and bare feet
on cobblestone streets
first editions
with gold lettering and
threadbare bindings
lining every wall, floor to ceiling
books – vertical, horizontal on shelves,
stacked sideways on tables
under oil lamps and
centuries-old spectacles
an inkwell of rich indigo ink and
its vessel, a fountain pen atop
a half-finished handwritten letter never mailed to his love on the desk, nearby
a copy of The Scarlet Letter open
to the sunlight-faded names of Hester and Pearl,
tiny dust motes dancing like ghosts
at a Victorian ball
along the heavy lace-lined velvet draperies
I stand, mesmerized,
wondering about the hands that held each book
and the worlds from which
they escaped to read…..
You had me at heart pine and kept me in this poem until escaped to read. What a delicious, wonderful, fragrant place to be. I want in!
Kim, I love the story your poem tells about other stories here. My favorite part is entering the “hidden forest of vintage volume”–beautiful. Thank you for sharing today.
Kim,
This poem is a visual feast. Every detail, every pen stroke, contributes to the empathy of that ending w/ those ellipses points suggesting there’s more, other books will join these dusty times. I love the phrase “vintage volumes” and the way you infuse nature imagery into the descriptions of various books. I want to read THE book about this library.
Kim, what fun to read your beautiful poem full of images of this special library. “I stand, mesmerized” at your words like
That is some “inspiring me to be better” writing there.
Wow, I want to escape to that world. I love that you have appealed to all the senses. Favorite lines:
You’ve made me want to re-read all my old favorites.
Kim! I almost, almost wrote about reading (a connoisseur of stories) and the near-physical pain of being pulled out of that book-world when interrupted… and here in my home I have a Spare Oom, for once a king or queen in Narnia, always a king or queen in Narnia <3 <3 <3
Karen, this is a delightful prompt! Your egg-cooking expertise is clearly matched only by the imagery you cook up here – “perfect pillows curdle” and “white and yellow together make the color of Easter dresses” – how deftly you convey the comfort and lightness of scrambled eggs done right (and, now I’m hungry…).
Here is one of my absolute specialities…
Lapland
Lapland
they say
is an icy
enchanted region
where the
northern lights
color-play
in the sky
and where
the only official Santa
actually lives
but here
in my house
I am Lapland
to a ten-pound
cream-coated
chocolate-nosed
dachshund
who will NOT stop hopping
by my chair
until he successfully
springs into my lap
or until I scoop him up
whichever comes first
and where he settles in
to snooze
with blissful
rhythmic
surprisingly loud
dog-snores
for as long
as I’ll let him
which is usually
until my leg goes
completely numb
from his tiny deadweight
yet still I sit
absorbing
his mighty warmth
like a recharging
of life
for the day
and should I have
to get up and walk
to get the blood flowing again
in my poor numb leg
he trails me
with glistening
brown doe-eyes
beseeching
the reappearance of
his cozy
enchanted Lapland
for the dreaming
of his
little dog dreams
Oh, how funny and how true! Dachshund-batteries should totally be a thing. My cat is very similar…he will sleep on my back, side, tummy…wherever he senses heat. I love the fun you have with phrases like color-play, Lapland…ha ha….little dog dreams.
Fran, I love this, the subtle humor and sweet connection/obsessions our dogs have with us is clearly expressed in your poem. Thank you for sharing.
Fran,
This is a delightful poem. I hope Kim sees it. She will love it, too. I’m sure she’s Lapland in her home, as are many dog lovers among us. I love the contrast between the places, a country and your lap. That “but” is a might powerful word. I can see your little dachshund in your lap and those piercing eyes. How can we resist those fur babies wanting to cuddle? It’s impossible.
Fran, you have painted a magical Lapland here. You are truly a connoisseur of doggy love to sit so patiently as your leg falls asleep. I love this poem so much. The ongoing movement in your poem of sitting and helping him up and letting him snore and getting up for your numb legs, etc. etc. etc. shows this beautiful commitment and a significant part of some days, it seems. This is lovely:
Fran, it always amazes me how the shortest little legs can spring such determination to get in a lap and love.
Lapland! Such a place of dreamy bliss for your baby!
Fran, what a gorgeous poem. I love how you connect the opening Lapland with your own lap. Your ending is so rich! I can hear your patient love for your pet and his adoration for you. Thank you for sharing such a beautiful poem! I can see your dog’s doe eyes! Yes!
Fran, this is so sweet! I love the play on Lapland and the image of your little chocolate nosed pup snuggling in makes me want to be a lapland too (or spend some time with your dachshund).
That is a fun and delicious poem…I am ready for breakfast now. BTW, I was living in Louisville when they shot Elizabethtown. My girlfriend at the time and I saw Orlando having dinner at a restaurant we were at. She made me wait until he payed his bill and got up to leave so that she could follow him out the door, introduce herself and have me take a picture of the two of them…
That is such a fun story! Now I really need to see this movie
Good Morning Writers,
Ooooh, this is a fun prompt. I had no idea was I would write until thinking over my brainstorm list. I love that!
Karen…the description of scrambled eggs–well, that is perfection. “the sharper the better, the bottom, then the sides, pillows, easter dresses…” Such specific wording turns a common chore into much more. Thank you for that mentor poem.
Here’s my quick write this morning:
I’m a connoisseur
of fairy tales
spinning flax
into extra time
Selling the family cow
for magic beans.
I have hospitably piled mattresses
for lost and wandering princesses
Served juice box tea
to Belle and Cinderella.
I’ve slain dragons
and slapped wicked stepsisters
I have the burn scars
to prove it
Witches know to
steer clear of my water bucket
I collect evil as well as good.
You ARE the connoisseur of fairy tales, Linda – and you are mighty! How beautifully you weave your magic with words and open arms, bearing their scars…That last line is like a -zap- of magic, a warning – it hangs in the air, lingering.
Linda, this a great response to today’s prompt. I love your lines “hospitably piled mattresses/for lost…” and the juice box tea has me thinking kids are involved in this experience. Thank you for sharing.
Linda,
You could do worse than be a “connoisseur of fairy tales,” weaving stories into reality. I have an image of you playing and drinking from a magical juice box in my mind from this wonderful poem.