Today’s inspiration comes from Stacey Joy. Stacey is National Board Certified Teacher, Google Certified Educator, L.A. County and LAUSD Teacher of the Year with 35 years of elementary classroom teaching experience. She currently teaches 4th grade at Baldwin Hills Pilot & Gifted Magnet School. Stacey has served as a partner and guiding teacher for graduate students in the U.C.L.A. Teacher Education Program. Teaching her Joyteam students the power of knowledge, self-advocacy and justice are the core of her practice. Stacey is a poet at heart with one self-published book and several poems published in Savant Poetry Anthologies. Stacey is mom to her grown son, daughter and a Himalayan cat. Follow Stacey on Twitter @joyteamstars.
Inspiration
Today, we are writing Abuelito Who poems! Sandra Cisneros is today’s inspiration. Her quote spoke to me, and I have a feeling it’s inspiring more than just today’s prompt. She said, “When you have your heart broken wide, you are also open to things of beauty as well as things of sadness. Once people are not here physically, the spiritual remains, we still connect, we can communicate, we can give and receive love and forgiveness. There is love after someone dies.”
Process
Separate a page into 5 sections or columns for your five senses. Make a sensory chart of memories, descriptions, details, and emotions as you think about a lost loved one, pet, or even a “no longer loving you” loved one. Consider the smallest or least obvious details to bring into your poem. If figurative language, rhymes, or imagery will enhance your poem, go for it. There is no required format, but try using “Who” where it fits and consider using only one punctuation at the beginning or the end. You may title it “_____Who…” or whatever you choose.
Mentor Text: “Abuelito Who” by Sandra Cisneros
Abuelito who throws coins like rain
and asks who loves him
who is dough and feathers
who is a watch and glass of water
whose hair is made of fur
is too sad to come downstairs today
who tells me in Spanish you are my diamond
who tells me in English you are my sky
whose little eyes are string
can’t come out to play
sleeps in his little room all night and day
who used to laugh like the letter k
is sick
is a doorknob tied to a sour stick
is tired shut the door
doesn’t live here anymore
is hiding underneath the bed
who talks to me inside my head
is blankets and spoons and big brown shoes
who snores up and down up and down up and down again
is the rain on the roof that falls like coins
asking who loves him
who loves him who?
My 4th Grade Student’s Poem
Gran Who?
By A. Harris (now a sophomore in high school)
Gran who gave me graham crackers
and let me jump on her bed
who made me oatmeal
who wore fancy coats
is full of warmth and love
who loves to garden
will have never forgotten to watch Ellen
who has held a special place in my heart
Is in heaven above
Gran who shops a lot
is not going to give up until she gets that dress she wants
Gran who I will never forget
Stacey’s Poem
Exes Who
Exes who poured love like butter
And made us adore them
Who were plans and dreams
Who were team us and we
Whose smiles were diamonds and pearls and paychecks
Were too stupid to think we didn’t know
When they said they were buying gifts for us
When they said they would never lie
Whose promises were disguised deceptions
That can’t hide behind our bonds again
Played the victims
Who once seemed invincible and brave
Are narcissistic assholes
Are incapable of committment
Are locked out of our houses
Where our love no longer breathes
And memories hide in fabrics in our closets
Who shuffle sappy songs on our hearts’ playlists
And bind photos in albums and gold bands in boxes
Who reformed us into steel warriors
Like nails closing coffins
Who will love them again who?
Not us.
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.
Wynona Who
Wynona who…is the granddaughter I love
whose heart instantly captured mine
who I thought would be
a BIG part of my life
my inspiration for joy
Wynona who three years later
without warning and no explanation given
began to disappear from my life
whose parents are no longer together
so I grieve
the “death” of a beautiful family
Wynona who I miss terribly
and must wait long intervals to see
who changes so much
every time I see her
who I hope remembers me
I have no choice, I must be patient
and see you whenever I can
and love you as much as possible
What began as pure joy
has become pure torture for me
when you are gone.
So beautiful, this longing and hope.
I’m not sure anyone is checking the comments anymore, but I had to share one of my students’ response to this prompt.
Maddie is my sister that died at 7 months. That had Down Syndrome. That I loved.
This poem is dedicated to her.
Maddie who looked at me with wide eyes
who grunted and cooed
who smiled small smiles
each one worth more than 100 diamonds
who always smelled of baby soap
from the last bath
who holds a place in my heart
as I held her in my arms
Maddie who I will never forget.
A.J, 6th grade
Thank you so much for sharing this, Margaret. My condolences to your student, A.J. We will all remember Maddie because we were able to bear witness to her life through A.J.’s words — this is what happens when we share our writing — we share our grief and our love and our joy. Thank you for being with us this month. See you in February.
Wow! What a powerful piece of writing. We must always remember that strong voices can come from any age. She shares the sweetest of details here. And her love is so evident. Please thank AJ for sharing her heart with us.
They never give A.J.’s pronouns, thus by saying “Please thank AJ for sharing her heart with us,” you are essentially disrespecting them by assuming their pronouns.
Margaret, what a touching poem for her little Maddie. Oh my, so heartbreaking. Bravo to your student and I wish I could give her a hug. I don’t know if you’ll see this comment, but I’m glad I came back and read the poem!
They never give A.J.’s pronouns, thus by saying “and I wish I could giver her a hug,” you are essentially disrespecting them by assuming their pronouns.
Amy who?
Amy who looked like Julia Roberts
but better, whose smile glowed a mile away,
who wore a crown with grace
when she threw beads to the crowd,
whom you may call a social butterfly,
her conversations were real; she didn’t stray
from the tough stuff, and laughed aloud
at funny happenstance,
who held my grandbaby the last time I saw her,
tears in her eyes
as she said, “I will never have this.”
Who faced cancer with wisdom,
never giving up
while knowing all the while
her body was,
who left us all missing her,
whose joy lives on,
and her smile.
Oh. dear. This hits heavy at “I will never have this.” I know too many people fighting cancer these days. I’m so glad Amy lives on for you. I’m in a rotten state of just plain old being mad at cancer. These prompts and responses to people we miss have been incredible. They really bring those people back to us.
Again, Margaret, thank you for this poem also. I didn’t know it was here. Decided to come back to Abuelito Who because I had an idea for my students. Then, look what I find. Two incredible poems that I could’ve easily missed.
I have deep compassion for you and your family. Cancer took too many of my loved ones and I know the pain all too well from this loss.
I loved the beginning and how you showed us her beauty and grace, her laughter, and then gently her tears. Wow.
“Who faced cancer with wisdom/never giving up” that is how cancer is handled by Sheroes who fight with all they’ve got.
Rest in Peaceful Paradise, Amy.
?
Day 1 Writing Challenge Ade WHo?
Jackie Hill
Ade who was never meant to be Fred
who listened to his Yoruba ancestors
who communed with orishas across seas
who shared the visions of Yamaha
whose razor intellect cut through layers of fakeness
is challenging me, healer.
who named me sister
whose compassion regulated his lofty ego
reminds my spirit, forgetful and worn
is negative ions
is used bookstores and tea
is patchouli and sandalwood
doesn’t have to push and prod me to the future
is deep brown eyes and broad shoulders
who sends my eye to sailboats and freighters at horizons
is African shaman
summoning me
who are you?
Hi Jackie, better late than never and so glad you posted! I love how you included the actions of Ade by writing…
is challenging me, healer.
is African shaman summoning me
So powerful and uniquely presented to us.
Welcome to Ethical ELA’s Writing Challenge.
Grandpa Walker Who
Grandpa who rarely had a harsh word for anyone
And laughed to relieve tension
And loved people and stories and history
Who was bigger than life
And smelled like outdoors year ‘round
Who traveled and collected and connected others
Who paid to undo what Indian boarding schools had done
Silently
As he walked around Hell’s Canyon barefoot like the explorers
And used a cane for show – then whooped the kids at foot races
Who died on a mountain with the taste of huckleberries fresh on his lips
As he collapsed at the truck to save his wife the trouble of getting him there
Who lives on in my daughter, the adventurer who loves all and collects
History and stories and travels and connects others
Debbie, wow I love this. Sorry to have missed it when you posted.
This line hits me~ Who died on a mountain with the taste of huckleberries fresh on his lips….
Your daughter must be a lovely soul to have received his gift of adventurer.
Thank you for sharing.
Thank you, Stacey. My daughter is indeed a lovely soul -she is very like Grandpa! The funny thing is that she was conceived sometime within the week he died, so I like to think they are connected somehow.
There a couple of times a week
Mom bringing us to see them
One bedroom, cluttered place
smelled of his cooking, garlic
The Old Forrester uncorked on the table,
she wearing the same dresses for a decade; vivid memory
The playground on Airdrome & Robertson my refuge
Took mom’s death and his, a scant two months apart
for the real stories to surface;
drinking, beatings, infidelities
Mom, obligated, had to go
Only later I understood–
we were her cover
Hi Doc and welcome to the challenge! Thanks for joining us.
Your poem hits hard because I can totally relate to your mom’s pain as well as your own as her son. You’ve captured a sadness, losses, tragedies in “Took mom’s death and his, a scant two months apart/for the real stories to surface…” Interesting how loss brings about the real stories.
The ending: “we were her cover” I’m just shaking my head. Hugs.
Thanks for your very heartfelt comment Stacey…
That was quite the year. I was 12 & mark it as the end of childhood.
Hi Doc! I love that the playground was your refuge at this terrible time. I think a lot of people find refuge in a place where there are others around – but not the ones they are hiding from. Tragedy can strike anywhere, but it can be even more tragic when the truth seeps out a little at a time and has to be assembled from bits and pieces late.
Debra,
Thank you for your response & very sweet words
Thanks for the invitation SJ and for adding me to the group. After reading many great poems, I’m ready to jump in.
DADDY WHO
Daddy, who taught me to ride a bike in an Inglewood alley
who fed me oatmeal, Cheerios, and rice for breakfast
who fostered my addiction to television shows
who loved Sanford and Son and Bob Hope movies
Daddy who eventually left Mommy and moved nearby
thanks for dropping by and leaving money for me sometimes
thanks for reminding me that you still loved me
thanks for mostly supporting me through college
but didn’t attend my graduation due to his fear of planes
Daddy who lovingly walked me down the aisle
Daddy who PESTERED me about becoming a teacher
like he and Mommy were
its in your DNA he would say
he always gave my daughters savings bonds
and told them to attend college
Daddy who called to tell me about the tumor
who fought for three years to stay here
Daddy who is gone now
Daddy whose eyes are mine
I see your love daily
Seana! Welcome to the group and the challenge. I hope you enjoy each day’s prompts and everyone’s poetry here.
I love how you focused on your Daddy. There’s something so special and deep about Father/Daughter bonds, something I never had.
I loved these lines in particular:
“thanks for dropping by and leaving money for me sometimes
thanks for reminding me that you still loved me
thanks for mostly supporting me through college” because the support and presence even when he’s moved away strengthened your bond.
Then there’s “Daddy whose eyes are mine/I see your love daily” Oh my, how I love this. They leave us and then we see them in OURSELVES every time we look in the mirror.
Beautiful poem Seana.
So much love here. Thank you. You made me think about my dad and all the ways he is like and unlike your dad. The line “Daddy whose eyes are mine” is a wonderful penultimate line, showing the physical connection you will always have.
I have been watching these writing challenges from afar, but participating in the #100DaysofNotebooking has given me the courage to try this! So here goes!
Mom who found herself at 40
with two kids in college
two kids at home
and a divorce
who packed an entire life
in cardboard boxes
and started over 240 miles away
only to become a stranger in a new town
a woman in a man’s world
who found strength in the betrayal
to launch a career and sit across from them
at a boardroom table
Mom who is finding herself changing
betrayed once again
a person who is slowly becoming a new stranger
in a familiar world
who is becoming divorced
from her memory
who can no longer find strength
in the betrayal.
Leigh Ann, welcome! Your poem is beautiful. Your love and respect for your mother and your sorrow as she declines are given power by your words. My mother suffers from dementia, and the betrayal in the second stanza hit me hard. She, too, is becoming a new stranger to both of us. Good wishes, Leigh Ann, in her journey.
Leigh Ann,
So happy to see you here. Your mom sounds like a very brave woman. The emphasis on “two” throughout your poem magnifies the effect of divorce for me. That second verse packs a wallop w/ the “divorced from her memory” line. This separation must surely be the most painful. Hugs to you, friend.
Leigh Anne — The strength and the betrayal feel so real in your poem. You took me to the incredibly hard place through “…an entire life in cardboard boxes” and “…a boardroom table.” But most of all in “becoming a new stranger….divorced from her memory.” Those are daunting images. I’m watching a dear friend become “a stranger” in my own world… so heartbreaking. This is a poem that I’m very glad you posted! Thank you, Susie
PS. My dearest cousin used to live in Vincennes years ago!
Leigh Anne, I’m so glad you joined us. This community is the air we breathe each month – – the open mic to express ourselves and to be who we are, and to be moved by others. I am so deeply moved by these lines i particular:
a person who is slowly becoming a new stranger
in a familiar world
who is becoming divorced
from her memory
your experience and words are valuable to us all – – these words pack a wallop! I never thought of memory being like a divorce, but you have sure given a new perspective. Thank you for sharing this, and I wish you peace and strength on this journey with your mother.
Welcome Leigh Anne! I apologize for missing your poem yesterday and responding late. Wow what an entrance you’ve made here in this writing challenge. Your mom is truly a SHEro! We women can connect with and relate to this line so well:
who found strength in the betrayal
I felt her struggle when you wrote this:
a person who is slowly becoming a new stranger
in a familiar world
I love your description at the end, although it hurts deeply, and I pray that you and your mom have special times together now.
Hooray for notebooks! So glad your notebook got you to this space too. That’s a win. The lines that really get me is “entire life packed in cardboard boxes.” and, “slowly becoming a new stranger.” These lines say so much without the need for further detail. I can feel the enormity of these times.
Leigh Ann,
All too often we focus on the betrayal of others and how people can find strength as part of a divorce. But I love that you use the same word in the second paragraph – a divorce from which there is no running, no hiding, and no strengthening. It is such an honest description of the mental anguish that affects so many – including the people suffering from their decline and the family who must meet a “new stranger” again and again.
So, I had to go back and check for others by you. This is incredible. Having lived through Dad’s dementia, The “becoming divorced from her memory” is such a brilliant image/metaphor. The power it is is so much stronger because of her earlier divorce in the more literal sense and then you tie it all together with the strength and betrayal repetition. Kudos!
I’m sorry you are dealing with this. It’s certainly no fun. (and I had no idea about your mom moving away earlier in life).
You are gifted.
Almost Two Years
Alan Keith who drove across the country in a small pickup truck
Containing all his worldly possessions
Who took a chance on me that I could change his world
And that we could build a new life filled with sunshine and summer dreams and
Who loved to drive the little Mazda Miata convertible up and down the coast and
Made everyone feel like they were seen and valued and special
Who baked special rolls on the holidays and tried new recipes out on the relatives
Who obsessed over the Oklahoma Sooners like a school girl with a new crush
Ran circles around everyone else and led by example
Cared not a wit what others thought — and so easily understood every situation
Who was such a great counselor
And cheerleader
And friend and comforter and lover
God how I miss him, but he told me to be grateful and happy and kind, so I try to emulate
The man who was my greatest joy and the best adventure I ever had… so why is it that it feels like
We were a lifetime ago and I can’t remember him anymore?
Sunshine and summer dreams…I can feel the joy in that phrase. We were a lifetime age—the loss in that phrase is palpable. A wonder tribute to your man in the Miata.
Melissa — There is something so warming about a voice of love in a poem. I particularly smiled at the man who “baked special rolls” (I would’ve loved that!) and “obsessed ….like a school girl” (made me giggle). You’ve remembered Alan Keith with such heart here even as it “…feels…long ago.” Thanks for sharing such intimate feelings. Susie
Melissa, those images of memories are precious and fun. I love that you describe him as “the best adventure I ever had.” That last line question is so haunting – – but writing gave you the perfect way to bring him all back and share who he was! You were blessed, and you blessed us!
Melissa, thank you for your bravery and honesty in this poem. “Best adventure I ever had” is such a beautiful thing to say about someone. Your love just pours out of this poem, which makes the last line so sharp and painful–which in poetry is truly beautiful.
Good morning Melissa and I apologize for missing your poem yesterday. This is such a sweet tribute to “the man who was my greatest joy” and makes me want to know someone as special as he was to you. You’ve contained many memories and vivid details in such a short space. Something I enjoyed was how he took a chance on you and how you two would “build a new life filled with sunshine and summer dreams.” That is pure bliss and love. Thank you for sharing Alan Keith with us, and I feel your pain in not remembering him anymore.
Oh, those special people. They seem to burn bright and fast in lives….yours, mine…all around us. I’m so sorry for this loss. Allowing people to feel seen and valued is a tremendously special gift. I think your memory might be more feelings that images….but what feelings. They are beautiful.
Woman of Many Names
Wife of 51 years . Good times, some bad.
Always there for the man she loved. Support.
Daughter the rebellious one.
Chose public high school. Fought with siblings
Middle child. Love her parents unconditionally.
Mom, Mommy, Mother she wore many hats.
Chuffour, cook, nurse, housekeeper and friend.
There for her 4 children wherever needed.
Sacrifice herself for the ones she loved.
Grandma Grandma, spoiler, hugger, nurturer.
The smell of homemade chili cooking on the stove.
It hurts to miss her so much.
We get through the pain by remembering.
All she was and all she still is!
Tricia — The voice of appreciation is so clear in your poem. The strengths come through in “chose” and “fought” in particular. This is a dear memory and I feel comfort in that as you “get through the pain” through that memory. Thanks for sharing your poem. Susie
“the smell of homemade chili cooking on the stove” is simply a perfectly spicy way to drive home the idea of rebellious…..middle child….fought……. all that sass right in the chili pot! What a lovely tribute!
Tricia, I love how you explored this woman through her “many names”–such a cool idea. I smell the chili. “Chose public high school” has layers of connotation. Thank you for this poem.
Good morning Tricia and I apologize for not being up late enough to read and respond yesterday. Beautiful tribute to Woman of Many Names, and I especially love that title. She must have been unforgettable and loved by so many. Your descriptions of her, how she “chose public school…Fought with siblings…Middle child” remind me of all the women I adore. The sacrifices and unconditional love, the chili cooking, brings my own mom and grandma to mind. Loved your poem.
Dione Who
Was the girl in school
who left class too soon
who taught us that life really does end
before we learned to spell i-n-v-i-n-c-i-b-l-e.
Dione who longing for friends
joined the JV cheer squad
who shook the pom poms
shouted, Go! Fight! Win!
Dione who went bowling that night
laughed over gutter balls
with her sharp, too loud laugh.
Who rolled a strike.
Who rode in the backseat
when the car swerved out of control
hitting a treeon the way home.
Dione who couldn’t see her mama
open the door to the late night knock
then screaming Dione, Dione, Dione…
Who was absent from homeroom
though our teacher didn’t call her name.
Dione who taught us that visiting
a funeral home is called calling hours.
Dione who wore her best —
a fresh pressed cheer uniform
in the shiny lacquered coffin
lined with cream satin.
Dione who I worried was too cold
in her polyester skirt and T-shirt
buried under ashes and dust she came from.
Dione who remains silent. A doll in a box
who never will come out to play again.
You have caught the emotion of a life taken too soon, of every mother’s nightmare, and of every child’s understanding of death. Your metaphorical last line is so heartfelt.
Linda, oh my. Thank you for sharing Dione with us, her painful realness, buried in her JV cheer uniform (“her best”). Could anything capture a life not yet lived so powerfully? The doll in a box image at the end is in my head. Wow.
Linda, This is incredibly sad and powerful. It struck me when writing this form how it is a narrative poem. The moment when life changes, when living brings tension, when events defy understanding—all of this is slowly uncovered. “Calling hours.” Too soon.
Linda – Oh man, this is just a rip-in-two poem…. so heartbreaking. The very topic of a young Dione teaching such a difficult lesson is incredible… important. The images of Dione are so light and delightful…the laughter, the gutterball, the siss-boom-bah go-getter girl. That makes the “doll in the box” contrast just a gut-punching loss. So effectively laid out in your poem. Even the “shiny lacquered coffin” slices right through the joyful girl at the start — wow! Really well crafted. I just stood there at that front door, dreading that “knock knock knock.” Brutal… and exactly what jolts the reader. And so darned sad. Susie
Thank you for this poem. You have brought us into the too short life of Dione and it’s heartbreaking. I felt as though I could feel her fresh, clean cheer uniform in my fingers.
Wow. You captured that first loss of youth with a restraint that makes it all the more painful. Dione taught you so many things, and the repetition of that phrase pulled me through the poem. The image of her in her best, a cheer uniform, and your concern about her comfort are everything we feel when someone is cut short in life.
Linda, the life that was so bright – – the bowling and cheering and laughing loudly – is all too quickly “absent from homeroom” and the rest of the days, and then the cheer uniform in the casket shows us that just like a doll, she was gone far too soon. WOW. Heartbreaking and real.
Good morning Linda. I read this last night before I went to bed and really couldn’t respond. I first read it as a teacher, finding out she’s lost a student. I’ve never lost a student and this really hurts. When I thought about how deeply we know our students and how much we love them, I felt total grief for this loss. Then today, I read it again thinking about you losing a friend in school at your young age. Tragic.
You captured the enormity of this loss through the smallest details because that’s what death does, makes us notice the tiny things like “calling hours…too loud laugh…lacquered coffin…cream satin” You’ve described a HUGE tragic pain remarkably well. Hugs.
Amazing poem! You are a gifted writer and your descriptions were flawless, yet so sad. ” a doll in a box” brought a tear to my eye.
Please continue writing.
Laura
whose mother taught me to hug
by wiping damp hands on
the kitchen towel
then
threading her arms under mine
and pulling me close
with a glissando of laughter
before turning back to the sink
to tenderly hull small
wild strawberries
Laura
who for thirty years
hugged me
through our children’s
misplaced confidence
the narrowing of dreams
through spiked tears
for the stone men we’d married
through the
telephone cord
that tethered us
during the fragmented fog of
motherhood
through ebb and tide
and forgiveness of long friendship.
So when
Laura who
could no longer stand
to move from chair
to bed
Laura who
could no longer speak
or clasp a spoon
or lick her lips
needed me to thread my arms
beneath hers
pull her close
hug her from the chair to the bed
lie next to her
with damp tears
I knew how.
Holy Cow, Allison – your poem was worth waiting for. How incredible your Laura. This poem is so masterfully crafted! With the threading arms at the opening and then rethreading at the end. My eyes are all welled up. How full-circle and beautiful the teaching/learning from such tender care….beautiful. I loved “the glissando of laughter,” and did not know there was a word for that movement of fingers over the keys — perfect word! I’m absolutely going to use this word — thank you for that gem! So many images grabbed me: “narrowing of dreams through spiked tears,” “the stone men we’d married,” “fragmented fog of motherhood…” The final image is such an achingly perfect choice. You have such a beautiful heart in the words you choose. I love this. Thank you, Allison. Hugs and sending threading arms, Susie
Oh Susie, you are the BEST reader ever. You always make me feel like I’ve been heard. I use you as a role model as I respond to my students’ writing: Can I hear them as Susie hears me? Thank you, friend. Threading arms back to you <3
This phrase….”glissando of laughter” is absolutely beautiful. I want to dance to it.
My goodness. You have certainly capped off this day’s writing! I can’t even decide which part moved me the most! The movement from her mother teaching you to hug came full circle in the gift you gave to Laura. Beautiful.
Oh, Allison! Those first few lines. I was there in that kitchen. I feel this, step right into this scene. And then I was there, have been there to lift with threaded arms. Thank you for sharing this and helping me revisit some memories.
Sarah
Standing and clapping over here for you! Then to crawl into the fetal position to contain my emotions! There is really something to be said about the reversal of roles we daughters and moms must experience. I’ll never forget pulling my mom up from under her arms as the hospice nurse said to do so I could support her to the bathroom. It’s chillingly familiar.
You and Susie gave me new words today! I love glissando, how it sounds and feels and touches me. Bliss!
The stone men. I can’t even find my words.
Thank you for this tender moment in time. I appreciate all the emotions you’ve evoked in me.
I don’t even know where to start with my comments. The middle stanza is so full of beautiful words: “misplaced confidence”, “spiked tears”, telephone cord that tethered us to the fragmented fog of motherhood.” And then the final lines of how we learn to compassionate humans. Beautiful!
Allison,
You drew me into this poem w/ the image of “threading her arms under mine” and held me close w/ your words honoring the way Laura’s mother first taught her and you to hold those we love close and then w/ the way you reciprocated and held Laura and “hugged her from the chair to the bed.” I’ve been thinking so much lately about the way the body changes and weakens w/ age and the ways women teach one another to build a home. Your poem captures these ideals for me.
Geez, Allison. The threading of arms shifts from the love while hulling strawberries to the need for help with movement – from happy and laughing to weakness and tears. I love the way you use this simple act of entwining arms to show the shift. That’s powerful stuff right there.
Girl Who
Girl who throws caution to the wind
and glosses her lip
who is independent
who is a coffee and felt tip pen
whose hair is on point
is too defeated to get dressed today
who tells me she can’t do lunch this weekend
who tells me she knows a chapter has ended
whose puffy eyes are out of tears
can’t have one more beer
stuck in her home on duty and obligation
who used to be the party
is new
is a new mom learning the ropes
is crying and struggling
doesn’t want to be seen
is hiding outside the nursery
who nudges me to hold on
is career and drive and badass
who gets back up, back up, back up
again
is the wave on the shore coming and going
asking who am I
who am I who?
HI Emily and I am so happy to see you here for the challenge!
I love the raw reality of your poem. Being “too defeated to get dressed today” is familiar in more ways than one of motherhood. And it came as a shock because I was picturing the coffee, felt tip, cute hair girl who certainly was about to conquer the world!
Then there’s “who tells me she knows a chapter has ended/whose puffy eyes are out of tears” I just want to hug her. Been there, done that.
But then I’m feeling the power and hope because she’s “career and drive and badass/who gets back up, back, back up again” EVERY WOMAN’S ANTHEM! We always get back up!
Emily, you’ve introduced yourself to us in POWER and PASSION! Hugs and love always!
You nailed this one. The travails of working plus new motherhood is such a challenge. “Who used to be the party”. I remember that feeling. Well said!
Oh WOW, Emily, this is stunning! You pull me right into the heart of Girl Who when she “is too defeated to get dressed today.” “Doesn’t want to be seen…hiding outside the nursery” is spot on. The rhythm of “back up, back up, back up” beats steadily to match the “wave(s) on the shore”–excellent! And the ending, OH!, the ending of asking who, who? is perfect for capturing the identity shift/struggles/loss of motherhood. Thank you for this beautiful poem.
This is really powerful. It’s so hard for this person the author used to be. I can relate to grieving for a former self. The line the gets me is “is the wave on the shore coming and going asking who am I who am I who?”
Oh, Emily. I almost wrote about Girl today…too defeated to get dressed. The best lines are the truest! Thank you for bringing us alongside this new mom.
Emily,
This is a haunting portrayal, one I relate to as a mom who struggled in those early months of new motherhood. “Stuck in her home on duty and obligation” is so true for many women. The lives of women are so complicated, and you capture that. Still, we “get back up, back up, back up again.”
Mom who
always volunteered to be a field trip chaperone
even when the other kids thought she was my grandma
who donated to every charity
even when we struggled to get by on dad’s Social Security death benefits
who never let anyone see her sadness
who stunk up the house frying liver and onions monthly
so when the nuns called asking her to donate her B-
she’d be ready
who colored her hair with henna
so we never knew which shade of red or orange to expect
who knew how to stretch a cheap cut of meat
so we had something in our bellies
who talked back to Alex Trebek in his early years on Jeopardy!
who could eat a one-pound box of Fannie Mays in one sitting
but not until she’d poked a fingernail in the questionable creams to see what they were
who sat in the same pew every Sunday at mass
who enjoyed a beer or two at night
who kept the hours of a Spotted Owl
sleeping well into early afternoon
who loved each grandchild as if it were the very first
who left us way too soon
who left a legacy of love
Hi, Mo — What a great mama! I totally enjoyed this woman. “Talking back to Alex T” — hilarious! Testing the chocolates — oh gosh, your mom could’ve been right at home in my family. The most fun image is her frying up liver and onions “so when the nuns called…[she could] donate her B-” — really made me laugh out loud. The rhythm of her routines rolls through the poem giving it a structure that really works. Remembering these Mom antics and moments is such a fascinating part of writing the poem…and all the poems today… really fun and touching. Thanks, Mo! Susie
Mo,
I feel like with every repetition of “who” that you were bringing alive the hours of a Spotted Owl and the talking back to Alex Trebek. I wish I could have met her and could hug you in person, but in this verse, I feel like you have made the introduction to us all.
Much gratitude,
Sarah
Mo!! I am laughing at “stunk up the house frying liver and onions” because of course that’s just downright disgusting, and wondering why we all have that memory. So funny. Your mom was clearly a treasure in human form. I see this sassy lady with her orange or red hair, talking back, going to church, then having her beer or two! What a blessed life! I love your poem, your mom and of course, you too!
Mo, you have given me such a loving, lively introduction to your mother. May I use this with my students to show them how the power of a specific detail is much stronger than a generality? I want to know, did you use Stacey’s suggest sensory chart before writing this? I absolutely love how the catalog of details comes together as a whole. <3
I’m so flattered, Allison! Of course you may use it. I did use the chart Stacey suggested, although many times I don’t. For this poem I thought it was helpful. My other secret is after I jotted down my thoughts and ideas I asked my husband what some of his favorite memories of my mom were. I love how he recalled things that I didn’t. Memory is such a wonderful thing!
Mo,
This is such a complicated portrait of your mother. At the beginning you depict her almost saint-like only to invite us to see her endearing humanity: poking holes in chocolates, drinking beer each night, talking back to Alex Trebek. I love the complications that make your mom so human yet so one of a kind.
Thank you for such an insightful commentary. I think the complications are what made my mom so amazing!
Funny how long I have known you, but we have never discussed our mothers especially when women understand we are so influenced by them. Who knew this writing challenge could give me a better sense of how you truly became you. What a blessing to see the power of writing in this format, the ability to deepen my understanding of you-such a long time friend! I now can clearly see from where you get your charitable spirit, gorgeous hair, nature appreciation, and enjoyable spunk! Cheers to the written word!
This format has been a game changer for me, Tracie. I hope to see some of your writing here soon!
I love “who kept the hours of a Spotted Owl” – it shows her wakefulness at all times. But these lines were the ones that drew the real picture of Mom for me: who talked back to Alex Trebek in his early years on Jeopardy!
who could eat a one-pound box of Fannie Mays in one sitting
but not until she’d poked a fingernail in the questionable creams to see what they were
Oh, what vivid memories you have – – those are moments that just bring her here and introduce us to a fellow Trebek backtalker and discriminator of chocolates. Yes, a legacy of love and life. What a blessing!
Stacey — I really enjoyed this prompt and what it generated in all the poems. Your poem was just soooo right there for me. You and I really do have a TON in common. I read it several times and was struck by the common ground. Deceptions and narcissistic exes really do make for some hard-hitting poems. I’ve been there and I feel it! And “steel warriors” really is the way I feel. You really brought this baby home! Amen! “Nailing the coffin” — Oh yeah! Such a strong voice and poem! Thank you! Susie
Hi Susie, thank you! I am just dancing over here to the visuals and experiences I’m having with everyone’s poems. It’s magical! I am so grateful for this community. Now, let me read your poem!
Stacey, I too loved this prompt! And your suggested five-senses list gave me a place to start my brainstorming.
“Poured love like butter” made me swoon a bit.
“Locked out of our houses
Where our love no longer breathes” was another line I felt in my solar plexus.
Tell A. Harris I want to be a grandma like his, who let’s my grandchildren eat graham crackers (well, vanilla wafers) and jump on the bed!
This prompt led to so many energized, vivid poems! Thank you!
Thank you so much! I agree, so many energized, vivid poems!! We may need an anthology!!
Brother Joey
Echoes of Joey
ricochet off the canyon walls of my yesterdays,
like two separate songs colliding in a fugue,
reverberations of him rumbling through his amp
triggered by his Stratocaster’s vibrato arm
with a haunting twaaaaannnnnnnggggg-gggg;
Joey, who was both melody and dissonance
in one dichotomous being,
barking his penned opinions through his weekly column,
offending and affirming in one blustering breath;
Joey who cuddled kitties and puppies and babies,
yet baffled by women and the good fortune of others;
Joey, who inked crosswords, inhaled books,
cut his teeth on Jimi and Chet and Elvis and Bob;
Joey, who
bitter but sweet,
funny but angry,
battled two decades of Non-Hodgkins,
yielding then regenerating his Brillo-thick hair;
Joey, who swilled scotch as if Kool-Aid at a playground,
hectoring a litany of “gonna-do” and “oughta” and “coulda”;
Joey, who could slide up and down his Fender’s frets
with callused fingers and raw disappointment
till his music tickled like a feather on my nose;
Joey, whose six foot-four frame towered, overpowered
everyone in the room
and me,
till echoes whisper away
as we all lie down,
one with the earth.
by Susie Morice ©
Oh, my goodness. What a beautiful poem. I love the line of “melody and dissonance.” And, I think that is the true title of the poem. Such a tribute. I am genuinely sorry that this person has left all our presence.
Susie, again, your word choice is astounding. You’ve painted such a beautiful picture of a brother who you so very clearly loved. Your poem is superb.
barking his penned opinions through his weekly column,
offending and affirming in one blustering breath
What a wonderful image. It reminds me of my son. Thank you. Sorry you have lost him.
Susie…
The tender sweetness of your brother Joey makes me wish for a brother. I love your poem and as always, I am so inspired to be a better writer, one who chooses words with power and punch. Honestly Susie, sometimes I have to go to dictionary.com while reading your poems because I don’t want to diminish my own understanding with my poor use of context clues. LOL, yes, I admit I don’t ever use the word “hectoring” or “swilled” but my how else could you have described Joey’s actions? Incredible. You are my kind of teacher, I want to think and understand! Thank you!
This was especially striking to me because of the contrasts that not only are musical but also very humanistic:
“Joey, who was both melody and dissonance
in one dichotomous being”
And this will go in my journal to remind me of why we choose perfect words!
“Joey, who swilled scotch as if Kool-Aid at a playground,
hectoring a litany of “gonna-do” and “oughta” and “coulda”;”
Susie,
I love the complicated personality of Joey, especially the lines “ Joey, who was both melody and dissonance / in one dichotomous being,” and the way what follows describes his duality. The extremes of his personality resonate in “ swilled scotch as if Kool-Aid at a playground, hectoring a litany of “gonna-do” and “oughta” and “coulda.” These lines take me to a painful place w/ one who is always planning and whose life is filled w/ promise that somehow never becomes reality.
Susie, I love this on so many levels. I, too, love a complicated brother. Your “fugue” (oh! we’re teaching each other music terms tonight!) theme, the contrapuntal apects of your brother, reverberate–ricochet– throughout the poem powerfully.
Line after line shows your wordsmithing:
“canyon walls of my yesterdays”
“both melody and dissonance
in one dichotomous being”
“offending and affirming in one blustering breath”
“hectoring a litany of ‘gonna-do’ and ‘oughta’ and ‘coulda'” (MY BROTHER!)
Thank you for writing this. Your poem twaaaaannnnnnnggggg-gggged in my heart.
Susie,
I had a similar thought… I love the line about “gonna do” “oughta” and “coulda” — such a human sentiment; how many times do we hear it? Say it?
Susie, my heart goes out to you. This part is where I realized how much Joey and I are alike:
Joey who cuddled kitties and puppies….
Joey, who inked crosswords, inhaled books
I know you will see Joey again. Thank you for sharing this today.
What a beautiful tribute to your brother. You had me at the first three lines but kept me until the final echoes. My son is a guitar player, and I appreciate thread of music through your poem. Lovely.
Stacy, what a lovely way to invite us to write about those who have been dear to us.
I REMEMBER
Grammama who dressed extra special for church on Sunday mornings
When she walked near, you notice the warm maple syrup skin tones,
Dusted and muted with loose face powder
She stored in the silvery container with the floral glass top.
I loved the music that played when she lifted the lid.
Where is that vintage powder holder now?
Grammama who sang with gusto,
Could not hold a tune in a pot with a lid.
But she knew all the words, verse after verse.
She said hymns spoke to her heart
As she sang her praise songs to God.
Grammama who wore no jewelry on hands, wrists or ears,
Bedecked the lapels on her Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses
With glittery floral broaches the size of pineapple rings.
Grammama, who walked head up and proud wherever she was.
When she strode by waves of watered-down perfume
Mixed with Energine used to spot her aging dresses
Waft through the air.
Grammama who each morning sipped forbidden caffeinated coffee
As Grampoppa watched with tightly held tolerance
Squinching his face and sucking lemons slices he put in his morning tea.
The answering squint in her eyes seemed to say, “Don’t challenge me!”
You live according to your beliefs.
Just leave me to live according to mine.”
Grammama who hugged so heartily
That, when she pulled me close to her chest
Sometimes my check scraped on those sparkly sharp broaches.
But I didn’t mind. I know love sometimes hurts.
And it does. My heart aches to know
I’ll not see her again in this life.
But, the God we love has promised we’ll see each other again.
We may not wear blue gaberdine dresses with flashy bronze broaches,
But the Bible does promise us long white robes and golden crowns.
You’ll look good in those robes, Grammama,
As you join the heavenly hosts
Singing to God you know loves you.
I remember, Grammama.
Anna,
I love the image of your grandparents sitting at the table agreeing to disagree about caffeine, especially your grandfather’s “tightly held tolerance.” It gives such a sense of your grandmother as an independent woman. “Could not hold a tune in a pot with a lid” is a stellar image. It really makes a point about grammama’s singing. Your family stories are wonderful and idyllic.
Glenda, so many of the prompts invite us to reflect on family. I’m truly enjoying the opportunity to recapture memories of special people in my life. And, equally. to read and “experience” because they capture them so vividly, the memories our contributors are sharing. They are mirrors and windows!
Anna — So many lines in this that I love: “hold a tune in a pot with a lid” is priceless; “the forbidden caffeinated…” I know too well. The sense of strength in the way she walked, in the brooches on her lapels…Grammama was quite a wonderful woman! I thoroughly enjoyed meeting her this afternoon! Thank you! Susie
Susie, and mentioned in response to Glenda, this forum is so inspiring in that the prompts offer us so many ways to reflect on special times and people. I love the challenge of capturing the images in fresh ways that show what I recall so that others can experience these memorable times, places and people for the first time.
Reading and sharing here is an insightful time for me.
Thanks, Sarah, for keeping the challenges a vital part of your online presence.
Wow, Anna…what a picture of Grammama. I want to know her and for her to love me special like you got love. That transition line at the end of your poem about love hurting is key. Wonderful transition.
Anna, your poem about your Grammama is such a loving tribute to a strong woman. What other people see in us is a concept that has long fascinated me. As I read your poem I couldn’t help but wonder what my little grandson will think or say about me one day. I hope I can be a wonderful GrandMo to him like your Grammama was to you!
Anna, the first stanza seemed to grab me and took me back in time. I began searching my memories of my own grandmother because I was certain there was a flowered container of face powder. Wow.
And this: “Grammama who sang with gusto,
Could not hold a tune in a pot with a lid.” Doesn’t every grandmother do this? So funny and true.
And this: “But I didn’t mind. I know love sometimes hurts.” It’s that unforgettable feeling that only comes from your Grammama’s hugs and broaches.
And yes, God’s promises are reassuring and true. We shall see her again! Love, love, love!!
Anna, this part grabbed me:
Grammama who hugged so heartily
That, when she pulled me close to her chest
Sometimes my check scraped on those sparkly sharp broaches.
But I didn’t mind. I know love sometimes hurts.
That just brings back memories of my own grandmother – hugging and hugging too tight! I’m
So glad you have these special memories!!
“My Aunt Nellie”
Aunt Nellie who lived down the street from
Great Grandma Cowen’s columned house on
Daugherty where I lived, too,
Aunt Nellie who l told me stories of Kirkie, the uncle
I never knew, and how he
Died in the kitchen, on a cot, at two,
His chubby cherub cheeks fading into heaven.
Aunt Nellie who gave me Brach’s butterscotch candies and fried apple pies because
She knew we never had sweets in our house with
Dad being a diabetic and commodities not
Offering sweets.
Aunt Nellie who smacked her lap and clapped her hands when
Perry Mason bested Hamilton Burger every time,
Who had cable and let me watch while she watched too;
Aunt Nellie who showed me tricks for tying bows and folding corners on Christmas gifts,
Who gave me a vision of a well-kept home and a picture of a life in contrast to my own;
Aunt Nellie who loved Uncle Henry and kept him well-fed and his shirts ironed,
Who took him a sack lunch at Henry’s Paint every day;
Aunt Nellie who modeled domestic bliss,
Who greeted me with a smile and hug when I toddled down the block to her house,
Whose home offered a refuge, an open door, a window for glimpsing an idealistic world,
Aunt Nellie whom I called Aunt wasn’t my aunt at all.
She was so much more, someone not obliged to accommodate a child like me.
Glenda! You opened the door and let us step back in time to a simpler day when sack lunches and ironed shirts and open doors and toddling down the road and non-aunt Aunts were part of the schemes of our lives. This poem puts us there with you, swirling a butterscotch in our mouths as we wonder about Kirkie and think of the heartache of that moment. That window for glimpsing an idealistic world that holds its heartaches as well as its dreams. This form is just incredible for bringing out people and stories, and I love yours!
The women we are blessed to have as aunts! I love your poem and your precious Aunt Nellie! I’m reminded of the ease of which so many women carried the loads of being women who took great care of their husbands, homes, and families. I can picture the Brachs candy and almost believe I’m smelling the butterscotch (I didn’t like that flavor) and I’m remembering the cinnamon one I loved most. Isn’t it amazing how we recall the “tricks for tying bows and folding corners on Christmas gifts” as if it were yesterday? Thank you for introducing us to Aunt Nellie.
Glenda — Of course, I loved Aunt Nellie… all the careful tending she did had such an impact… I love that you remember all those caring details. My favorite parts…2 in particular — I laughed out loud at the Perry Mason images… too funny…”smacked her lap and clapped…” Great. I also really loved that she had earned her “aunt” title through these caring attentions to you. That term “aunt” is a very important one… you really brought that home. Wonderful! Thank you…I’m sitting here thinking about the Aunts in my life… I feel quite lucky. Thank you! Susie
You are rich for having this person in your life with such wonderful memories to write of her. What a beautiful picture of a person here.
This is such a beautiful tribute to all the “aunties” we may have that are not actual aunties. Your poem makes me smile and I particularly loved the image of the tying of Christmas ribbons. Thank you for sharing.
I love this mentor text so much! I am writing a poem about my Oma and am reliving the memories with her. Such power in this piece. I feel that way about Sandra’s work always. She is magic.
Hi Tammy, thanks for being inspired. Looking forward to reading your poem.
Hi Tammy! I, too, look forward to your poem! Please let this be a safe and welcoming space. If we pressure ourselves to “finish” our poems, we sometimes skitter away from sharing them. Whatever you post will be celebrated. <3
Boy who assembles flying machines like DaVinci
and asks for more time to imagine
who is steel and clouds
who is a book and a cotton throw
whose fingers are made by Craftsman
is too focused to hear your call
who invites me to take flight
who invites me to tour the landing
whose bespectacled eyes are skies
just want to play all day
creates in child’s pose his way
is stuck
is a domestic canary caged to scrollbars
is de-passioned by wi-fi
doesn’t learn Here
is complying on his sitbones
who talks to flying machines in his head
is bricks, plates, tiles, knobs, and tubes
who hops up and down, up and down, up and down again
is the DaVinci machine that glides through the clouds
asking when can he play
when will this test be over
when?
Sarah, this is beyond precious. I loved “who is steel and clouds
who is a book and a cotton throw” the contrasts speak to the beauty of a child. I picture this easily, especially how he is too focused to hear your call. The captivated mind of a child! Love it.
Sarah, I’m reminded of school children, waiting for the monotony of a test to be over before the fun begins, of the childhood play that is too often forgotten but consumes (is too focused to hear your call). I love all of the imagery of flights (flying machines, canary caged, bespectacled eyes are skies – my favorite) and the movement (up and down, gliding). This piece soars!
Whose bespectacled eyes are skies… I love that. So much hope is built into those words. Lovely picture of your son!
Thank you. This is my nephew in Chicago — from when I visited him at Christmas.
Oh, what beautiful truths of the love and prisons of learning. You capture this so accurately with words that show us the experience and allow us to feel both the wings and the bars. I love these words of pause:
is stuck
is a domestic canary caged to scrollbars
is de-passioned by wi-fi
doesn’t learn Here
You simply expose the truth in powerful ways, Sarah!
“Boy who assembles flying machines. . . ” the mention of “boy” immediately catapults my mind to my young son (not young anymore), and then as I read, I can’t help but apply your words to his life and our relationship. Connection at its finest.
Sarah,
The ending of your poem packs a punch, and this “boy who assembles flying machines like DaVinci” represents so many boys whose imaginations take flight but are held earth-bound to the “no” inherent in the god-awful tests. So many canaries “caged to scrollbars.” This image of extinct childhood made so by for-profit motives is chilling. This poem is both story and argument. I love it and mourn because it’s too real.
Sarah — you have captured the striking contrast of that “caged’ feeling and controlled environment of school against the beautiful metaphors for learning freedom and imaginative play. Holy cow, it is such a lesson, this poem! My favorite word is “sitbones.” What a perfect term that fits that compliance ambiance. The DaVinci machine is such an iconic image or creativity…perfect for this description. Cool poem! And how perfect for all of us teacherly readers! Thank you! Susie
Grandpa
Carl Aarvid Johnson
Who came on a slow boat from Sweden
To build my foundation,
who was slight of build, sharp of features
who smelled of cigarettes and soap
Steel blue eyes shining warm
I thought you looked like Fred Astaire
(Though Grandma was no Ginger Rogers)
She was the bread baker, the sewer of clothes, the iron hand
You were the velvet glove.
Sunday mornings were our time, just you and me
The kitchen table our haven
Dunking scorpers in milk-and-sugar coffee
Cinnamon and sugar sweetening the warmth
Poached eggs on toast, quiet conversation
Our circle was complete.
Mitten- in-glove snow globe walks in the winter
Sunday drives in the summer
Singing “Won’t You Come Home Bill Bailey” at the piano,
Grandma playing by ear. She knew all the good songs.
When your heart burst, I was thirteen.
Perhaps you gave me too much of it.
but I will always remain your lovely child
The one who loved you best
Maybe that was a good thing
I could never disappoint you
As I did those who watched my stumble toward adulthood.
I was always “your girl“, and always will be
Frozen in that kindly time and space.
You were the water I walked on.
For you I was perfect.
Only for you.
I carry you deep in my soul.
You, who taught me what love could be.
Oh Gayle, such vivid pictures you’ve painted in this lovely poem for your grandpa. There are so many lines and words I love and want to soak in.
-who smelled of cigarettes and soap (memories I also have from childhood, so many people smoked)
-She was the bread baker, the sewer of clothes, the iron hand
You were the velvet glove. (thank God for that balance that we all need in our lives)
-When your heart burst, I was thirteen.
Perhaps you gave me too much of it. (I can’t imagine that feeling at 13 for you)
-You were the water I walked on (Ohhhh the beauty of this)
Gayle, I absolutely love it and hope you can use this form and even your poem with others you teach. Beautiful!
I must be very hungry because I gravitated to the deliciousness found in stanza 2. But it is the quiet images that I loved (Sunday drives in summer, snow globe walks). The loss in the third stanza is palpable. There is such sorrow in the idea of the frozen child who never disappointed as she stumbled to adulthood. You have truly captured the love between you.
Given current ideas about immigrants, “Who came on a slow boat from Sweden” held much power for me. If everyone had a relationship with a grandparent that mirrored this relationship, the world would be a better place.
Gayle,
Your grandpa sounds like that person we all need – someone who accepts us and loves us as we are and shows us that we are important. I love this:
“Dunking scorpers in milk-and-sugar coffee
Cinnamon and sugar sweetening the warmth
Poached eggs on toast, quiet conversation
Our circle was complete.
Mitten- in-glove snow globe walks in the winter
Sunday drives in the summer”
You are so blessed to have those sweet memories of snow globe walks and cinnamon and sugar sweetening the warmth!
Gayle,
Your grandpa sounds like a wonderful man. I love the Fred Astaire image and reference to “Won’t you come home Bill Bailey.” I giggled when reading “grandma was no Ginger Rogers.” To have the bond between grandfather and granddaughter forged at the kitchen table speaks to me of the importance of sharing food with those we love, and I can’t help but think about my own grandfather and all he taught me when reading your poem.
Gayle, the circularity of your poem gives a special feel. You started and ended on water. But what made this image special to me is the building a foundation….on water…. on which you walked. It made me think of the Biblical account of Peter walking on water, but only as long as he kept his eyes on Jesus. In your story, it seems because you trusted your grandfather, you were able to do extra special feats. What a lovely memory. Thanks for sharing.
These lines….just undid me. Wow!
“When your heart burst, I was thirteen.
Perhaps you gave me too much of it.
but I will always remain your lovely child
The one who loved you best”
And, I love that though the poem is about your Grandfather, it’s also about the relationship with Grandma too.
Gayle,
Those last lines…
You were the water I walked on.
For you I was perfect.
Only for you.
I carry you deep in my soul.
This is incredibly powerful, and the alliteration of were and water and walked softens it just enough for it to be real, to hit hard and not knock me over — just a stun. Wow!
Sarah
StaceY, what a joy of a poem form you have given us this morning! That voice you heard in your ear in California cheering as I read your poem? Yeah, that was me over here in Georgia with my fist-pumping cheering, relating to all you said, but especially
And memories hide in fabrics in our closets
The memories were everywhere for me for a while, but mostly in the towels. When I could no longer stomach drying off with what had once wrapped us both, I trashed them
And got all new ones and have felt miraculously more cleansed ever since.
Thank you for the reassurance in your versr this morning!
Stacey—I echo Kim’s praise! And we had the same favorite line. I believe each of us has memories hiding in fabrics in our closets. I so wish I had coined that powerful phrase. Thank you for a snowy morning retrieving a potent and wonderful memory for me.
So happy this worked for your snowy morning Gayle! Enjoy and thank you for the praises.
Thank you, Kim! Man, I don’t want to think about towels either. LOL his nasty butt! So happy you enjoyed my poem!
Pat who ran the town
scheduled the blood drives
orchestrated Christmas shoeboxes
rocked Volunteer of the Year
waved and smiled from parade floats
chauffeured the seniors
called her favorite commissioner her son
laughed over lunches at the cafe
who ran the church
changed the marquee
typed the bulletin
wrote the newsletter
watered the plants
tended the gardens
organized the missions
rocked the nursery babies
visited the sick
held the hands of the dying
who ran the family
planned the birthdays
reserved the tables
baked the cakes
talked Christmas lists in October
approved the Christmas trees
distributed farm land
doled out tree money
scrutinized the VRBOs
sanitized clean hotel rooms
Pat who loved me as her own
when I married her son
when my mother died
when the sun was shining
when the moon was rising
when time was ticking
who taught her daughter AND sons
to scrub floors
to wash, fold, and iron clothes
to negotiate traffic
to choose steaks
to make beds
to love animals
to listen to others
Pat who was Christmas shopping one day
and fell out of bed the next
who was taken to the hospital
and rushed for brain surgery
to remove what they could
of a stage 4 glioblastoma
the day after Christmas shopping
Pat who ran the hospital
picked her own room
sent tasteless food back
then called for café takeout
got the scoop on nurses’ life stories
then s l o w l y tried to tell us each one
introduced her PT as her tormenter
bravely wore the white mask
courageously tried to smile
even laughed once or twice
before coming home
Pat who sits in the recliner
as twinkling Christmas lights
are boxed up
who watches from the other side
of the glass
sometimes transparent
always reflective
praying the treatments
buy more days that keep
passing the 2-way mirror
fingernail test…..
Kim,
This is a gorgeous tribute to Pat’s strength and a well-lived life. I hope writing it was at least a little cathartic and that you’ll share w/ other family members. I especially like the personal section when you give the conditions of your own life and the way Pat loved you as her own child.
Kim, I am in tears. AndI now know Pat with all the love you have for her. You were so lucky to have her. And I believe she was, too.
Kim,
So beautiful. I love this tribute to your mother-in-law as you honor who she is (still is) as she battles this diagnoses. The contrast of all the activity to the recliner is both inspiring and heart-wrenching. The stanza of her as a teacher to her sons and a mother to you is moving.
Thank you,
Sarah
Tears!!! Memories of my mom’s brain surgery then later her ovarian cancer battle. You’ve captured her life in such incredible phases that show us how life ebbs and flows. Negotiating traffic is the story of my life. I loved how she ran the family but also ran the church and everything else around! She’s a remarkable woman and I pray that she never ever suffers. This one hits me hard. Thank you for sharing.
This was so very difficult to get through (in the most beautiful way). My very good friend died of this, and I feel your journey with your mother-in-law. The fingernail test – oh! such a visual. The stanza where she loved you as her own is full of emotion. Prayers to all of you!
So many things to appreciate about this poem: happiness, sadness, curiosity, suspense. . . For some reason, I really like the idea that it starts with explaining Pat in terms of her community involvement before it filters down to family relationship (maybe because it got me started thinking about people who serve community that way, maybe because I was engaged in considering who this person was). Thanks for sharing.
Oh, Kim — This is just so so so breathtakingly tender. At first, the litany of angelic deeds put me in a Mother Teresa frame…she did SO much, and when the shopping turned a page and Pat was suddenly stricken, I just gasped. From the short, hopping lines, just like Pat’s ready attention to all the needed duties, to the hospital and she “s l o w l y” spoke, I was so sad for you and her … these images are so very real and so hard. My heart goes out to you and to Pat. The image of her watching the lights get boxed up… oh gosh. Hugs, Susie
The repetition of Pat who…..showcases the impact of this kind of poem. It keeps me reading and wanting to know the more that follows. I can feel the admiration for Pat…and that last stanza about the fingernail test has me wondering about the author.
The two-way mirror fingernail test is where you check in hotels and other places to see if someone can see you from the other side. Put a fingernail to the mirror. If there is a gap between the fingernail and the mirror image, it’s a two-way mirror. If there is no gap, no one is watching you from the other side. We want the two-way mirror to remain in this case so that while she may be behind glass at times, she’s still physically with us, passing the mirror test., so to speak. 🙂
I’ve reread your poem so many times. The rhythm that your poem demands just continues to showcase the type of amazing and strong woman, Pat, is. I’m blown away by the lines about Christmas shopping. Thank you for sharing this.
Stacey,
WOW! This is a wonderful prompt w/ so many possible ways of writing. I love how you don’t mince words in your poem. “Assholes,” indeed. That simile at the end shows how strong women can be! “Who firmed is into steel warriors / like nails closing coffins.” ?
BTW: Whenever I taught The Great Gatsby I took a similar approach to Cisneros’s poem to teach students to write what I called a one-sentence character analysis. I wanted them to learn to compose periodic sentences.
Thank you so much Glenda. I could not seem to find a better word than assholes. LOL. Hugs!
Stacey, this is powerful stuff. The images you chose of boxes and closets evoked suffocation (“where our love no longer breathes”), a suffocation that ends in the coffin. The disguised deceptions and memories in fabric all hidden (and buried). The feeling of being weighted down weaves its way throughout the piece. I love the image of the heart’s playlist. If you ever see A. Harris, please tell her how powerful her writing is.
Thanks Jennifer! I was definitely suffocating, weighed down, and dying a slow death. Thank God for resurrections! I am in touch with A. Harris and will share your compliments! Much appreciated.
Women Who
Women
who planted
rows of beans and corn
and two feet firmly
in the ground
like our lives depended on it
Who grounded us
in the words and oneness
of who we are
and who we would be
Who wrote stories upon our souls
a river of words
Herstories
tumbled over river rocks
and flung across the abyss
leaps of faith
whose own stories
were mountains and majesties
gilded and gleaned
lifted and conquered
Who were hushed
and shushed into darkness
locked both out and in
buried deep
Who will spring forth
again and
again.
Jennifer,
I love the image of women as growers “who planted” and the nature image of “a river of words upon our souls.” The absence of specificity about who these women are inspired all women to “spring forth again and again.” Lovely.
“ who grounded us in the words and the oneness of who we are”. What a wonderful phrase! It immediately brought my grandmother to mind. Your poem evoked such strength, such respect. Strong words, Jennifer!
Jennifer,
I read this several times — swimming in your words. This phrase:
Herstories
tumbled over river rocks
and flung across the abyss
leaps of faith
Gorgeous and powerful because of the movement and also because of the sense of disruption followed by possibility.
Thank you,
Sarah
Jennifer, is this a tribute to me?? LOL just kidding, but honestly it speaks to all of us women who work, toil for families, share stories, give faith! Beautiful images dance through this poem. “Whose stories were mountains and majesties…” Marvelous!!!
“Who wrote stories upon our souls” I love that; it will stay with me for a while (forever, I suppose).
I love that your poem is about women……who wrote stories upon our souls…..and all the things that we did to get to this moment in time. A great tribute to women!
Jennifer — The strength of women in this poem is moving. “Herstories/tumbled over river rocks/and flung across the abyss…” really create a vivid sense of the words of women and how they affect the world… Then, the “hushed/and shushed into darkness/locked both out and in…” – oh boy… this is so true. Women, who carry the weight of “grounding” each of us… oh man, I love this poem. Terrific sense of voice, tellin’ it! Thank you! Susie
For some reason, this reminds me of Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. She talks about the idea of herstory… women’s notion of history.
I have not read that but will check it out!