Day 2, January’s Open Write for Educators with Susie Morice
Susie Morice spent 30 years in the public school classrooms in the St. Louis, Missouri area. Long a Gateway Writing Project and Missouri Writing Project veteran, Susie loves what the National Writing Project has done for ELA teachers. Since retiring, Susie worked with professional development in writing, taught education classes at University of Missouri-St. Louis, Fontbonne University, and St. Louis University. She currently is a writer and editor for the Santa Fe Center for Transformational School Leadership, which partners with Washington University and publishes her writings and others writings on transformation in our schools. Between all that serious monkey-business, Susie plays guitar, sings, writes music and poetry, and reads (of course!) … certainly where her heart is these days.
Inspiration
I just finished rereading Mary Oliver’s collection, Evidence, that offers us a chance to slow down and look carefully so that we might offer evidence that defines or enlightens and at least honors what we are witnessing. Mary O. always summoned us to see the layers in nature and not be too hasty to pass up what is right under our noses, what is deserving of our words.
Mary Oliver’s poem, “Almost a Conversation“
I have not really, not yet, talked with otter
about his life.
He has so many teeth, he has trouble
with vowels.
Wherefore our understanding
is all body expression –
he swims like the sleekest fish,
he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles.
Little by little he trusts my eyes
and my curious body sitting on the shore.
Sometimes he comes close.
I admire his whiskers
and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear.
He has no words, still what he tells about his life
is clear.
He does not own a computer.
He imagines the river will last forever.
He does not envy the dry house I live in.
He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship.
He wonders, morning after morning, that the river
is so cold and fresh and alive, and still
I don’t jump in.
Process
- Force yourself to stare out the window or, better yet, wander outside (bundle up if it’s cold where you are) and maybe around the block or in your yard. Make this not about your numbers of steps for the day; instead, make it a slow moment outside your usual cocoon and go slowly. Stand somewhere and hold still so that you might take in the world under your feet.
- Use your 5 senses and notice the nuances of color and light, the layers above and beneath you.
- Make a slow acknowledgement to north, south, east, and west. Realize that you are in the center of that compass for these few minutes and yet you are not the focus of the moment…the world around you in its layers of sensory detail is the star of the show for the moment.
Mary Oliver uses lots of enjambment and very simple phrasings as she muses and wonders. Mary also often has 3 or 4 line stanzas in so many of her poems. In this collection she declares, “I don’t like adjectives,” though she uses them, but sparsely, opting instead to spend her words on precise nouns and verbs. Mine just pays attention to the details.
Above all else, enjoy the wonder of writing a poem….any poem that moves you today.
Susie’s Poem, “Thin Ice“
I followed the trail of the white
tail, through the sun bleached, sparkling drifts,
remnants of the last night’s storm,
where he trod alone against the biting wind
to the lake
like he’d done so reliably
so many nights before;
tree trunks scraped and ragged bark
reminded me that he was
there
somewhere;
beyond the path the drifts deep enough to trap me, trap him and break his four legs.
Yet, he knew the way, he knew the snow;
pulling winterberries from the undergrowth
around Lake 35,
he wore a trusted circuit.
The lake edge uncertain after another snow–
my own warm breath frosting my face, fogging my glasses,
I tested each step at the lake’s edge
till I saw a breach
in the formless landscape;
blinded in the achromatic glare, I wasn’t sure…his fuzzy antlers;
like an unkind snapshot freezing him in time,
he stared up at me, looking through a cruel frozen window,
he beneath the glass
without the air
just three feet from steady ground–
frozen all the same.
[Susie’s poem published in Grist, the tiny publication of the Missouri State Poetry Society won first place in that organization’s “Winter Contest” in 2014.]
Your Turn to Write & Respond
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. See the image for commenting with care. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming.
If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, share this invitation form.
I got distracted yesterday. Not exactly a happy nature poem, but the word Evidence stuck with me.
The trail after a storm that wasn’t snow
The ground is too soft – waterlogged moss
Squishing beneath our feet
We negotiate crossing new swamps
and streams that used to be frozen maps
Plotting my points of contact, shout out to
A conveniently felled birch
For helping me along on your railing
While fording the little river.
Where is January stillness? Instead,
Water barreling down to the green ocean inlet
Bubbling right through flimsy ice
Where it should have stayed to water
The forest in spring.
I know I should enjoy
warmth that allows conversation that once
was dinner with friends
to happen on a trail, But
all I see is evidence.
Tonight by the Fire
By Nancy White
Out in the dark
The stars are alive.
Glittery constellations say hello
as I sit with the fire crackling at my back,
my front ice cold
till you come to cuddle.
You’re almost too big for my lap,
but you’re warm and cozy
and your hair smells of sweetness and smoke.
We look up at the stars together
and you say you want to stay here forever!
Ahhh—my heart is full
And I’m so happy you’re here,
the only one who calls me Grammy.
Nancy – Such a. beautifully shared moment. I love the night sky. Having the heat of “fire crackling at my back” is such a fine sensory experience as it opens the contrast of hot and cold. Having a child snuggled with hair that captures the smoke, the “sweetness” … that’s lovely. Thank you for posting tonight! I woke up and was happy to find such a perfect poem to send me back to sleep. Susie
Nancy, you’ve crafted a lovely scene here. My favorite line might be “almost too big for my lap.” It reminds us of the fleeting, precious nature of our lives: the child almost too big–and then too big. To pause in the moment and capture it is the best we can do. Thank you for honoring the moment in a poem and sharing it. Beautiful.
A Sunday Morning Walk With You
I bundle up-3 layers on top and 2 on the bottom.
You wear your coat all year round.
This cold winter wind nips at my face, and I tie my hood a little bit tighter.
You don’t notice the temperature as you prance toward our normal route.
They cold, gray concrete leads us on our way,
While dry, brown grass allow us to stop and pause.
My eyes enjoy the the clarity in the sky.
My lungs welcome the freshness in the air.
My heart beats for every chance to walk with you.
Loving my Sunday morning walk with you.
Donnetta! So good to see you here! I loved joining you walking your dog in this poem. Tying your hood a bit tighter is a lovely detail. Your last stanza–your heart beating fast–is a love poem!
Donetta, I so enjoyed the specific details about how you are dressed for the cold and show us that you are with your furry friend who wears the same “coat all year round”. The physical details of your walk really pulled me into your experience. The two lined stanzas work so well to show us your joyful Sunday walk!
Donnetta — I like the whole idea of a shared walk, a Sunday walk. And walking with a furry buddy…well, that is just precious to me. And the contrast between you two… that is fun. Here on this grey day, I was lifted by your “clarity in the sky” — I’m so ready for that! Your poem is a breath of fresh air on a cold night. Thank you. Susie
Donetta, I can sense the joy and love between you and your dog,—you bundling up against the cold, sharing the routine, and enjoying the time together. I enjoyed this feeling of closeness conveyed, your heart beating for the chance to walk with your sweet pup.
Good evening, poet friends! I was already in my pajamas when I opened this prompt, so I needed to connect with the bit of nature here in my cozy study. I guess I could have focused on the dust mites. I chose the larger specimen: myself. I pulled Mary Oliver’s otter into my poem as well.
Nature Tonight
Nature is here with me
She’s in my skin
Tickling my cheek with a strand of my hair
The buzz of my fingertip against the keyboard
is nature.
I am here with nature.
My house
rests on a hill, her steady haunch.
My glance at the wintry pane
is nature meeting nature.
Nature is in
a stream, a stone
a mole, a mountain
and my eye
like the otter’s.
He sees a glint of sun
on the riverbank
I see black words
on a glowing screen.
Allison, I was so hoping I would be able to read your poem before I turned in today. Wow, I love the way you connect nature to yourself; your skin, the buzzing of words created on the keyboard. So many tactile images. I adore the simile at the end
I really like how you created the pace in this poem, and the catalog of details from nature. I can just imagine you sitting comfortably inside your wonderful home, protected from the snowy cold of the outside world, but still completely connected.. Your reference to your eye had me hoping your eyes are healing well. Thanks for sharing such a delightful poem! Barb
Bless you, Barb! My eye is indeed mending! I return for my post-op on Tuesday, but Little Lefty seems to be back under control! Hugs, Allison
Allison — Aah, your take on bits of nature is spot-on. I love that you’ve found the focus in your own unique space…of course. And the “she” of Mama Nature is all the more fitting… she is “in my skin”… yes! Even the house breathes on “her steady haunch”…. I love that. The image of nature within and nature without at the window pane really works…that connection…your connection to all that lives within and around you…that is a beautiful thing. You’ve woven it all together in the last stanza. I like the image of you at your screen bringing it all together. Thank you for your poem this evening. Susie
Susie, I have loved your prompts! Your poems are the springboard my poet heart needs. Thank you for your guidance and encouragement!
Allison—wowowowow. This is superb! Nature is here with me/She’s in my skin/Tickling my cheek with a strand of my hair/The buzz of my fingertip against the keyboard/is nature. This is so true, and so beautifully stated. We ARE nature—each one of us…
Allison, what a clever take on the prompt! You show how nature can be so different for all of us.
Allison, I am writing my poem late in the day, too. I love how you tied nature into being at home, “I am here with nature”. Yes, it’s here, if we are still enough to perceive it! Your poem has a sense of heightened awareness I enjoyed.
Susie – As we follow the white tail, we are transported on to your trek. But, when you mention the fog on your glasses – we are instantly pulled into you and your human moment. It is a welcomed moment.
Circumstantial Evidence
It’s like that, isn’t it?
The leaving people behind
with only a trail of artifacts,
a card catalog of memories
and a feeling of you in their marrow.
In our hustle for living and disregard of the date and significance,
we forget others are carrying you.
So entwined
In their dark bones, it’s a place we cannot see –
Unless we are paying attention to them
When they see a small piece of evidence of your life;
carelessly or loving left behind – it matters not –
And there is a shift across their face, a flash of light, a loss of complexion, a frog in a throat, maybe some words,
a lip suddenly weighed down or the stretch of smile –
it all depends on their weather.
As bystanders to this occurrence –
Sometimes our reactions are unsure of what to do.
We don’t know if we should be still or grunt or hug or cry or laugh or run away.
So we just stand there,
idling.
trying to decipher and decide what to do with this momentary evidence
Until, they take pity on our stupidity or
Perhaps don’t even realize we frozen
As they were swept away for a brief moment, too and
Their weather shifts again.
Wow, Annie. This is such an incredible poem. I love how you focus on the dumbness humans often feel when faced with a loss; especially as a bystander. That feeling of wanting to flee rather than to face the pain or the inability to give comfort during an exceptionally difficult loss. I love how you connect the weather….being “swept away for a brief moment”.. I am in total awe of your opening stanza
I think you’ve captured the idea that even though there is evidence of someone’s existence, there is so much more…that “feeling of you in their marrow”. Outstanding poem! Thanks for sharing!
Annie— I keep trying to choose favorite lines. This is so wonderful! And I think this is the one (at first it was the opening stanza)—
“When they see a small piece of evidence of your life;
carelessly or loving left behind – it matters not –“ there is something precious there. A small piece—that really is what we leave behind, isn’t it? Thank you, my dear!
Annie — A long time ago I wrote about the “circumstantial evidence” of my mama that I noticed when I looked at my aging face in the mirror and saw reflected back her face. I love the idea of those bits that surface as “a small piece of evidence” of our connections to those in our past. I remember “standing there idling” and trying to make sense of seeing someone now gone actually showing up in a smile. I felt the unsure reaction… not certain how to feel about a trail of artifacts. Your poem provokes lots of questions about the various pieces of evidence. I’m wondering about being swept away for a brief moment. I look forward to your poems in the days ahead. Thank you! Susie
Susie, thanks for sharing your poem! I love the pacing; I feel like I’m walking the same path.
Still Sunday
The creek still flows
And the wind still blows
On this eroded earth
The dogs sniff around
Snow that leads to
Summer memories
Like layers of metamorphic rock
Fossilized metaphors
Too deep for real meaning
Your boots will tread the same paths
And I’ll be walking behind you
Under scrutiny of the cardinals and squirrels
This colorless afternoon
Will trickle away too soon
But many more live on beyond the bend
Alex, what a wonderful poem! I loved the rich detail; I felt completely pulled into your walk. I loved the last stanza and the positivity at the end even though the afternoon is “colorless”. I also love the complexity, pondering who you’re following, and the sense of more to come. I so enjoyed your simile:
Alex — I like how the first lines give us a lyrical bounce. I like the power of the dogs’ sniffer to track sentiments that will surface in other seasons…dogs are amazing that way. The grey of January seems to carry the tone…”colorless afternoon/…trickle away too soon” in a bit of melancholy….maybe it’s the “still” of it…the time paused for a moment to notice what’s on the walk. Thank you for this evening’s poem! Susie
Susie, thank you for the prompts and mentor texts. Although my January may not be as icy or cold as the other writers, it has still been gray and bleak. This time of year, I like to daydream of warmer climates and scroll through my phone for warmer memories. I found a couple of pictures to inspire today’s poem.
I remember our trip to Charleston, South Carolina, and those sweltering, miserable summer nights.
We avoided the stifling heat of
our Air B-n-B, sought refuge in
late night movies and drink specials
at touristy bars (extra ice, please).
Days so unbearably heavy and bright, we argued on sidewalks, carried out disappointment
like so much extra luggage. We ducked into
any cafe or bistro with fans
and air conditioning, bypassed the walking tours and history for shade and gelato.
Nights so unbearably humid and hot, we couldn’t
touch, couldn’t sleep in the same bed. I lay
alone on top of the covers, legs bare,
hair moist. We drove around for hours
in the dark, crossing bye water
and marshes—the A/C on full blast,
the moon roof open for briny sea breezes—
avoiding sweaty, unsettled sleep.
On our last day, we escaped to Sullivan’s Island,
chased the last light to the coast. The wind
whipped the sea foam and swirled the cat tails. Our toes stuck in wet sand, we stood on the edge of the world. Watching the tide go out
and the sun set behind us, I snapped
your picture, an attempt to capture a
near-perfect moment during a nightmare trip.
A gold streak floated above the horizon. Sweat
and salt left streaks on your face. Your hair
curled tighter in the air, and your shirt hung
off your shoulder. I caught you mid-word,
mouth half open. I needed proof
we survived, proof that I loved you.
We picked up our shoes
and started the trek back to the car,
bare feet echoed on the boardwalk and
cicadas hummed in the sawgrass. I held your hand, knowing that no matter what happened,
we would return home together.
Betsy, I so enjoyed the specific details of your nightmare trip. I was in Charleston once and recalled the unbearable heat so I could relate to so much of your references to the heat, the gelato, bistros, and Sullivan’s Island. The photograph is especially striking, and I love that the end is positive. Your line
is such a perfect simile.
Betsy — This is a marvelous poem of heat and love and connecting. The lines explode with that South Carolina heat and humidity…. one of the things I truly abhor…sweaty nights. I loved that you “escaped” to find another memory that was precious…”chased the last light to the coast” — oh man, I love that line! The sensory details are so real…the breeze “whipped the sea foam” (great verb) and “toes stuck in wet sand”… I feel that. “Stood on the edge of the world”… that is soooo what it had to feel like. Closing with “cicadas hummed in the sawgrass”… that’s good stuff. I feel like I’m sitting there with you and that picture is in your hands as you hit the replay button. Really wonderful. Thank you. Susie
Oh, Betsy, wow, what a love poem. And how you have captured the heat. You have so many details that make this poem a study in capturing that oppressive humidity. Anyone who hasn’t experienced it can through your poem.
My mind went back and forth to South Carolina and a sweltering trip we took one year.
These lines so speak of how the heat weighed and strained your relationship:
That’s when I remembered our daughters’ theme song on our awful trip was “Sloop John B” (“Let me go home!”)
Sun sets at 5:25 and
evening descends.
When winter in Northeast, Ohio
is ashen sky, damp mist and bleakness,
inky darkness is beauty.
So I dip softly into this night where
the evening hum of sweet suburbia —
neighbors walking dogs, teens taking strolls,
the glow of house lights —
beam brighter than afternoon sun and
slice through the gloom and
desperation of gray January days
Soon in this swath of darkness
white flakes blossom,
swirl in ebony, illuminate the night
these falling crystals alight on my nose,
my cheeks like tiny wet kisses
intoxicating my soul
and
I dance home
Tammi — this poem reads a like a dance… there’s movement in your verbs (dip, swirl, alight, intoxicating). I love the flow of it. Winter at dusk is a particularly interesting time…bits of the day linger and at the same time night takes over…a sort of eco-clime that lets us be in the margins of both. I like that. There were those same “white flakes” were blossoming here tonight too. I love that you captured the crystals on your cheeks “like tiny wet kisses.” Thank you. Susie
Tammi,
I like the many shifts and contrasts in imagery:
and
.
Love the joy of your last line:
.
Thank you for sharing your lifting spirits and lifting ours as well.
Tammy, what a lovely poem and homage to the season. I love how you embrace the inky darkness and discover so many beautiful images. My favorite:
I like how the human elements provide more light and life than the dreary winter world. Thank you for sharing your poem with us!
Tammi, I love how you embrace what is there: inky darkness is beauty. It seems you find nature in the suburbs, loveliness in what others might see only as dear. I am uplifted by your perspective and your choice to dance. <3
The Morning Walk
I wonder how many houses are
In this subdivision as I
Walk by the same ones we see everyday.
Too many
I reply to myself.
This is what he means when
He says I’m never really in
My surroundings –
Why I’m always bumping into
Stuff.
I’m in my head with possible publications
And to-do lists
And worries
And wonders.
So much so that I don’t hear the stroller wheels
Or the dogs panting
Or birds calling
Or the train thundering.
My legs move over the pavement,
But I’m walking in my head
Until
A small voice cuts through it all,
“Mama, want my glasses,”
And I’m back in the physical world,
sliding strawberry
Sunglasses over tiny ears.
Just realized autocorrect messed up my name (Chea). I guess I should’ve learned to check to it by now. ?♀️
ooops! Darn auto-correct gets me every time. I love this world in your head. Kids are the one thing that can bring us out. I kinda miss the stroller days. This poem makes me think of that.
I can appreciate this perspective so much! You have captured the essence of the “obsessed” in all of us! I especially love these lines: “My legs move over the pavement, / But I’m walking in my head.” The idea of ‘walking in my head’ is beautifully portrayed here. Another one of those “I totally get it!” and “Why didn’t I ever think to say it that way!” moments. The “Until” is a striking one liner that indeed stops the whole movement of the poem and likewise pulls the reader out of the narrator’s head. Nicely done.
Chea — Your poem maps the disconnect of the to-do lists and the fretting and the reality of those little ears in such a touching way. All those voices that rattle around in our heads, and really it cuts to the “small voice” that matters more than anything else. Quite beautiful. A very sweet mama indeed. Thank you. Susie
The “sliding strawberry sunglasses over tiny ears” is one of the strongest images in my head tonight.
I totally relate to your “Morning Walk” and your words “My legs move over the pavement,
But I’m walking in my head”
I too often find myself in my head and not in the moment. It seems that our lives are sometimes so busy that we miss living.
Chea,
I can relate to missing the present moments due to dreams, plans and worries. Love the cataloguing of the things you are missing:
I love that the poem ends with you back in the moment, noticing the details of your daughter.
I can totally resonate with much of what you have written in your poem. Every so often, I find myself stuck in my own head while I’m supposed to be moving my body and enjoying my surroundings.
Chea, I connected to your poem personally. My children are grown now, but I worked as a writer when they were young and I was often writing in my head while blindly tending to their incessant needs. No judgement here, just recognition. Your poem is beautiful. We all so often live multiple lives at once: the ones in our heads…and the other one.
The Pond in January
I step from the woods
into the clearing and find you
frozen over
waiting for me
A surprisingly cold breeze
scurries across my face
sending momentary movement all around
everything aflutter, swirling
branches bend and sway
a leaf skitters across your ice
I wonder, does the dry brown edge grass
prickle and tickle you
as my hair does, against my cheeks?
I need your welcoming silence
your resounding silence.
Listen. It is so quiet, do you hear
the slight squelch of the mud as I shift
the titter pitter patter chatter of small
birds, invisible to my eye, where are they?
the drip drip gurgle of water
flowing into the culvert
ah, see, you are warming up
I playfully toss a pebble and I hear
the tiniest tink tink as it rolls to a stop
I feel lighter
I like being here
with you
The personification in the second person is the most striking element of this piece. It adds such a different layer of personal relationship between the speaker and nature/the body of water. I can visualize the dry grass and hear every single sound. I know this kind of place whether I know this exact place or not. The comparison question about the grass and the hair is so intimate, I almost feel like it’s a private conversation I should not be overhearing, but I can’t stop listening!
Maureen – I loved all the onomatopoeia in your poem. ”titter pitter patter chatter of small/birds, invisible to my eye” is an absolutely brilliant line. Thanks for taking me with you through sound.
Maureen — The conversation really felt intimate as you slowed yourself to hear the “tink tink” and feel the tickle. This is quite lovely. Ice is an amazing piece of nature…it shifts, changes…that sound of water in the culvert… I love the idea of messing with ice… it affords ricochet sounds, it transforms… you selected such a good focus here. The personification was so effective is bringing the details to us. You made me want to go find a frozen lake this week. The weather seems to be heading in that direction. Thank you. Susie
Maureen — I love the way you have made the pond come alive in this poem. I especially, love your fifth stanza:
the slight squelch of the mud as I shift
the titter pitter patter chatter of small
birds, invisible to my eye, where are they?
the drip drip gurgle of water
flowing into the culvert
Maureen,
I love all of the sound imagery. My favorite stanza is the last.
I don’t have experience with frozen ponds–although after reading your poem, I feel like I have visited one. But your poem does remind me of how much I like being in nature and feel lighter when I spend time in nature.
Thank you for bringing us to your pond.
Maureen,
Your words create a character, a friendly companion of the pond. That’s the way nature is, a welcoming, kind friend. Favorite lines:
I love thinking about the pond as having a face.
August soil
I drive
Windows down in silence
The cold wind whips my hair and
Corners my motley brown sunglasses
Exposing cold tears
Down an aged face
Miles of red dirt roads and old highways
Adorned with potholes
I drive silent
I do not remember passing highway marker 67
Or the old Holloway farm
Here in the entrance I find myself
The last place I saw her
Lowered into the August soil
Along with my heart.
Your poem lets me feel present with you on this sad journey. Lovely. There is something about the cold and the silence that ‘haunts’ the journey…then reveals the sad ending:
Wow! What a sucker punch of a poem. Those last lines made me physically gasp. I really loved how your poem beautifully and powerfully captured the brokenness of life through imagery. The motled sunglasses, the potholes, the lines in the speaker’s face – and yet life journeys on. Thank you so much for sharing!
Robyn —
I feel your pain in this poem. I lost my mother almost two years ago, so I understand the moments your describe.
Your last lines “Here in the entrance I find myself/The last place I saw her/Lowered into the August soil/Along with my heart” — Heartbreaking. I am so sorry for your loss.
There are poems that hurt so much—this is one. You share your pain with us here. I am honored by your courage.
As I read your poem, I wasn’t sure where we were heading, but I felt like I was there with you. I am sorry for your loss.
I feel the contrast of the now-cold and August. Your repetition of silent/silence pulls me into your blind journey. Your last lines are anguished. Thank you for turning the pain of experience into a poem.
Robyn, So powerful. And surprising. And heartbreaking. Thank you for sharing your poem!
Thank you, Susie, for this lovely prompt and for your powerful poem.
Circling
One week after a rare snowfall
The sun is back out and
People are back in the park
Spread across the hike and bike trail
Riding home from family lunch,
I take a detour,
Following a circular trail
Up to the top of Doug Sahm Hill
I work my way up and around,
Pausing to let toddlers cross my path
And veering off the trail to avoid
mothers slowly pushing strollers
There are too many families
At the top including
One with a chatty photographer,
So I circle back down
As I pedal, I listen
to the freight train clanking by
Metal scraping metal in the turn
Towards downtown
And find stillness
in a heron
standing atop a stone wall
reflected in the retaining pond.
I imagine such a joyous day! Everyone out and about, and you finding beautiful stillness in the end. Lovely!
Robyn — I loved that you were able to find the stillness amidst the hustle and bustle and Trains!
Your last stanza is so beautiful!
“And find stillness
in a heron
standing atop a stone wall
reflected in the retaining pond.”
Sharon, I really enjoyed this! I love how there are so many circles in your poem: the path of the sun, “the circular path,” “veering,” “circl[ing] back down,” and “in the turn.” And all of these circuitous paths lead to the “stillness / in a heron.” Very cool!
Susie, your poem took me to by surprise. How perilous this life can be. Today’s prompt brought to mind a place I haven’t visited since spring. Today I made a point to venture in. Thank you for the process that make me pay attention to what I have avoided, thinking it unworthy of my time.
I have neglected the path that
winds high above
my usual route.
Time
( the belief that I have more of it )
brings me back
to a changed landscape.
The growth,
once high above my head
filled the boarders
who perched there for play or
as outposts
searching for seeds or
predators,
has been cut low.
I stop
looking for life
hiding
in the thirsty chaparral.
Grass pokes underneath
brown patches
yellow blooms
and the base of a leafless stalk shows green.
Time
( that circles back )
brings rain and song on branches
covered with dew.
Julieanne — I’m so glad that the prompt gave you permission today. Your poem has a tone of nostalgia, as you return to something that you’ve pulled from your memory only to find it changed. That you walked us through time to see that “circle” is a strength in the message that these images shift and still bring “rain and song.” I like that idea. A lot. Thank you. Susie
I really like these lines,
How nature calls us to partake, to take the time – you have really captured the beauty of being present like this.
Julieanne — I love the way you depicted the changed landscape to show the transition of time. Yet, despite time passing and the landscape changing something like “rain and song on branches/covered with dew” remain constant.
Susie, wow, your poem is so powerful! The ending image will resonate with me forever I imagine. The sun came out just a moment ago, but its gone again. I tried to write something a bit uplifting, but these endless gray days are taking me down a dark road. My apologies!
Backyard View in January
Light snow laces
Bare branches
Arching toward a bleak sky
A white bank of ice
Spreads Its frigid fingers
along the river’s edge
A somber lull
Entombs the frozen
landscape
Until a blue jay wings by;
A crimson cardinal
lands to survey seeds
Still life flutters
Beneath molten skies;
Unperturbed by truth or justice
Or the numbness I feel inside
Barb Edler
January 17, 2021
Barb — This is a bit uncanny. I actually was wishing that you would write about Iowa skies today. I miss being there, visiting my family that lives in Des Moines. I LOVE Iowa…the sky you describe is part of the reason. Even though winter is bleak with the grey, there is something gigantic about it that feels majestic. The snow “laces” — great verb. Those reaching branches “arching” — you have the verbs! The “frigid fingers” are just the right image along the river. The slice in the image is the blue and the red (that jay and cardinal)– it’s like the red kerchief in a Bingham painting. When the world is so upside-down, I find solace in your poem’s strength to push back the grey to see and feel that brilliant color “unperturbed” by all our screwed up human mess. Your poem lifts above the numbness for a moment, and I so appreciate that! Thank you! Susie
Oh my. This is powerful! I am right there with you. Thank you for this poem and your voice, Barb.
Barb — Are you sure you were describing the view out my window in Ohio? I totally relate to this poem and
especially your last stanza:
Beneath molten skies;
Unperturbed by truth or justice
Or the numbness I feel inside
We could all use a little bit of sunshine right now.
Barb,
You’re not alone in lamenting the gray days, but I found your poem full of life, and in that life, the bird imagery, I see hope. Nature does have a way of showing us how to move on despite all that surrounds us. Take care. I hope a blue sky finds its way to you soon.
Dear Teacher Poets — It has been marvelous to share poetry time with you these last two days. You are writing some truly rich poems! I’m looking forward to Stacey’s prompts on Monday and Tuesday (you’re going to love them) and our shared prompt on Wednesday. Keep writing! Keep sharing your reactions! Keep letting yourselves embrace and release the words inside each of you. Your writing has moved me and truly does justice to the voice of ethicalela.com ! It’s been an honor! Susie
Susie, thank you for such a lovely note and of your wonderful words and time. I’m looking forward to Stacey’s prompts and intrigued for what is in store for us on Wednesday.
Park
By: Emily Yamasaki
Tiny shoes
scuffed and worn
Marching, exploring, thinking
The distinct composition of
white sticky sunscreen and
toddler sweat
If you know you know
A tree for shade
A fountain for water
A bench for mamas
Who haven’t figured out that you don’t actually sit at the playground
How much fun did he have?
Well –
How much sand
Did you find between his toes?
Aw, Emily, this is so sweet. The pure voice of a mama. I love that… right down to the sand between his toes. Precious. Thank you, Susie
Emily, I love your ending! It shows the truth of playgrounds and time well spent with a beloved child!
Hi Emily,
I have missed spending time with you and your adorable son in your poems! This is pure love. Funny to end with the sand between his toes. That’s the best and it’s so very real! Hugs, my friend!
When reading these poems, your words “How much sand did you find between his toes?” stopped me in my tracks to look more closely. I love the sand and beach and have fond memories of sitting with my mother at the beach when she made me sand cookies that I thought were real and took a bite. Your description is lovely. Like the sticky sunscreen and toddler sweat too.
Emily — Oh, how I remember those days when my children were toddlers and when fun was measured in the amount of sand found, well, everywhere! Thank you for sharing your sweet memory.
Susie—oddly enough, I had just finished looking through my collection of Oliver poems—the one you selected is one of my favorites. Your poem is so beautiful, and the story so hard to read. Thank you for your inspiration today!
Thank you, Gayle. I love how we find these connections! Susie
Susie, my heart broke reading this again and thinking how hard that must’ve been to forget. Those are the kinds of life stories that seem to come alive every time you retell, rewrite, or re-see them. Hugs.
I noticed yesterday’s prompt brought a ton of birds to the pages of our poet friends. So, although I don’t have the compassionate heart for birds, I decided to write for them today because they interrupted my peaceful quiet sunny meditation time. Here is my etheree for you bird lovers.
Birds
gather
plotting meals
curbside squawking.
My deep senseless fears
mar the beauty of you
jolting my quiet Sunday
like lightning striking my peace twice.
I don’t love you, no my feathered foes
keep your distance and I’ll finish this poem.
© Stacey Joy, 2021
Stacey — You are priceless! I love the etheree form…cool! But your voice is always one that gets me revved up. Damn birds…they’re all buzzards! LOLOLOL! I have to say, you nailed this and gave us birdie lovers a dose of the other side. I’m lovin’ it! I’m literally here laughing out loud. If Watty were still here, he’d be looking up at me, knowing I was reading a Stacey poem. 🙂 Love you and love your poem! Thanks! Susie
Stacey—this is great—it is deceptively quiet and calm—and then the ending! Stay away and I’ll be done here!
Stacey, thank you for this poem and your lines “mar the beauty of you” and “feathered foes”–all with a chirping wit.
Stacey, the humor of your poem is simply delightful! As much as I love birds, there are ones that simply scare me. I wish I could share a video of some that landed in our backyard a couple of years ago. The noise was eerie and I felt like I had landed in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Anyway, your poem took me to that memory and how annoying some birds can be.
Prior to reading the post for today, I went outside to experience the wind and noticed a change across the street from my house. Thank you for the prompt that allowed me to reflect upon my surroundings.
Evidence
The wind gusts,
metal clanks.
I turn to find
the culprit,
but I see nothing
manmade moving.
I look across the street
and notice several
tree trunks
leaning on another,
no longer standing
on their own.
I wonder
what caused them
to lose their footing
and topple over,
leaving a clear view
of the buildings
they used to shield.
Was it today’s wind?
Are they just too old and tired
of serving as a barrier
between apartments and
a neighborhood?
I look for evidence
of their demise
because I would much rather
gaze upon their beauty
than the dwellings man built.
Heather — How fun that the prompt and your gut instincts collided this morning! Gotta love that! Your tracking the sound and finding something changed took me right along. Trees collapsed on each other …maybe from the wind… that’s worth noting. I love that you had time to document this and then ponder the trade-off between nature and manmade. I’m with you, trees win every time. Thank you for your poem this afternoon! Susie
Heather, I like the idea of wind or nature as the “culprit” in an act. Thank you for sharing today.
Heather, I love how you pulled me into your scene. I so agree with your closing comments, and I especially enjoyed the question:
Heather, I enjoyed the personification in your poem. And I really liked the phrase “to lose their footing” to describe the uprooted trees!
Daybreak
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Reaching the door
opens, creaking.
Cold blast hits face.
Feet on the floor.
Nose starts running.
Two steps go down.
Right hand/left arm,
left hand/right arm
gone is the frown.
Giving self-hug
torso is warm.
Leaves are crackling.
Ground cracks hidden
cloaking the charm.
Elbow reaching.
Open the gate
in predawn dark.
Bumpity bump
wheels slide in weight.
Barking yard dog,
glimmering sprouts
wettened by dew,
a crow cawing
pointing my route.
Eyes catch a light.
Reverse my step.
Noise of traffic,
morning commute.
Not for me, yet.
From over the hill
yellow ball rises,
lights up the sky.
Day has begun
future surprises.
Susan — I loved the rhymes that seem to bounce along with this morning wake-up. That seems to fit. The ritual with the dog, the gate, the crows bring a calming sense of a day unfolding, detail by detail. My favorite part was the “reverse” and your rejection of the “noise” on which you turn your back. It’s like a strength, a conquest, so that you can invite the day on your own terms. I like that a lot. Thank you! Susie
Susan, the rhythm of your poem brings out the effects of nature and fresh air. I also appreciate your incorporation of a self-hug. Thank you for sharing!
Susan, you have captured the morning flow in such short lines with powerful descriptions. It has a pace that made me feel like I wanted to linger there with you but at the same time it sped up just as morning sunrise seems to do. Beautiful! My favorite lines and a important routine in self-care to remember:
?
I love the attention to every detail you experience. I felt like I was right there with you at sunrise. I like your last line, “future surprises” and the positive sense of anticipation that conveys.
Susie, that poem about the thin ice and the white tail deer has haunted me this afternoon. It is so powerful. Wow, I learn a lot from all these amazing poets in this space. Thank you for your challenges these two days. Looking for nature in my location is not always easy, but it is always there. So you have renewed my senses to pay attention to nature wherever I am. Thanks!
Buttermilk
Today’s sky was covered in buttermilk–
streaked, like the sides of a
finished glass of it.
I thought of my childhood when
three generations of relatives
sat around the table
eating beans and cornbread. Earlier
ancestors hailed from Georgia,
so we still remembered–
after dinner everyone got
a tall glass of buttermilk
so they could crumble another
piece of cornbread in
and eat it
with an iced tea spoon. Meandering
rivulets, like today’s clouds,
ran down the glasses as we finished.
Today’s buttermilk sky was
a welcome winter anomaly. I didn’t see
buttermilk white, but instead I saw passionless
smoky curdles. Gray tinged
with subtle pinks as the sun tried
to push through the foggy undertones.
Skies are small here. City buildings
take up a lot of room. Today’s
buttermilk sky was stunted,
and as I walked to school
between buildings,
trying to glimpse more of the soured sky,
I thought back to the giant skies
above Iowa’s farmland. Now there
was a place one
could get lost in the sweet sky–
Cirrus, stratus, cumulus
galore. The sky was
generous and gracious
and made room for all. Layers
and layers of clouds
fill the heights, depths,
and breadth of the expanse
in every direction, in
every shade of white
they dance across the azure sky
Thinking of buttermilk
and big skies
made me home sick today.
“they dance across the azure sky”
I love that line …
Kevin
Good heavens (pun intended), Denise, this is beautiful! The buttermilk… wow! Yes, buttermilk! Your lines are filled to the brim of that glass with images that give such weight to your memories, and then our memories. That contrast between where you are now in Manama and where you’ve been make your moment pausing with the skies so rich…thick like buttermilk that “streaked, like the sides of a/filled glass…” Geez, I love that image. The “small skies” of right now gave flight to the memory of the open skies of Iowa. Our many Iowa teacher-poets are going to love this as it resonates so well. The “soured sky” is such a perfect phrase for the feeling of almost being cheated of the memory…it gives way for the ending of being home sick today. It’s been grey for several days here, trying to snow, trying to rain, leaving me with “sour sky.” I so appreciate that image… you put it so poetically. Wonderful poem! Thank you! Susie
Buttermilk skies—what a beautiful description. Is that a localism from Iowa, or a wonderful phrase you made p? Either way, it allowed me to see your memories perfectly. And the glass of buttermilk, and the cornbread, and the iced tea spoon. I joined you at the table for that moment. The contrasts… all of it. Perfect.
Wow, wow, wow what a fantastic choice for starting this lovely poem:
Denise, it’s amazing how I would have never thought of buttermilk to describe the sky, and look at how your poem was made for just that! Then to move to your childhood memories of beans, cornbread and buttermilk, remarkable visuals for me. I feel like I’m there with you.
This leaves me speechless:
In awe of your writing! Thank you, my friend!
Denise, what a lovely tribute to Iowa skies. Your poem brought back the memory of iced tea spoons of all things. I’d forgotten about those, but we used to have them. I love how you carried me along in this poem, starting with that perfect image of a buttermilk sky!
Denise, I love this poem. Thank you for taking me back to a time when I would watch my grandmother crumble her cornbread up in a big glass of buttermilk.
Skies making you homesick – what a beautiful lens on how nature makes and breaks us…I adore the buttermilk imagery…my husband is from Georgia, I know well this ritual you delightfully describe:
Me, myself, I just eat the cornbread…I bake with buttermilk, have never dared indulge as a drink!
The Find
The nut,
Round and glossy brown
Had removed its teacup cap
In our honor.
Despite the split in its shell,
Its smoothness
Found my caress
And a place in my pocket.
I’m not sure what
It was about the acorn
Which was, in fact,
Far from its tree.
At home it found
Nondescript lodging
On the dining table.
At least until
Someone questioned
Its place there.
The shell, easy to remove,
Revealed a soft and healthy nut
Inside. I could all but eat it.
So nice to put a face to you today. Thanks for the pleasant interview yesterday. I love this little acorn and how it travels to your table, not to be eaten, but that thought of how you could. It takes us into nature in a new and surprising way.
“far from its tree”
Something about that phrasing could be the heart of a whole other poem.
Kevin
Katrina — The simplicity of this act, preserving the acorn and dissecting its anatomy…that has made a wonderful poem. I love that you picked it up and gave it a close look to see the missing “teacup cap” and to pocket a treasure that just allows you to hold onto this gift of nature, even if questioned by others. The ending is a delight…”i could all but eat it.” I love that! Thank you! Susie
Katrina—I have always acorns and their little hats. And its nondescript lodging on your table. My fingers are caressing that smooth surface in my mind. I need to find an oak tree…
A rusty iron woodpecker,
Stands alone in the garden,
Caught in a perpetual chase.
It’s unnatural.
Green garland snakes around patio posts.
It’s unnatural too.
Strings of Edison bulbs
Imitate starlight,
But they’re not stars.
Plastic yellow flowers
Rim the base of the feeder.
So disappointingly fake.
What is natural then?
Is it the quick chirp of the visiting finch?
Or the distant groan of a 747?
It’s not impossible to find
Natural places,
Uncorrupted by artifice,
But I can’t find one today.
Huh. Love this. Read it a few times.
“Strings of Edison bulbs
Imitate starlight,
But they’re not stars.”
Kevin
Shaun — Your itemizing of the artificials in our environments today serve us well, teaching us what feels “disappointingly fake.” Your poem, in describing the iron woodpecker, the garland on the posts, the Edison bulbs, and plastic flowers, gives high value to what is missing…or what is natural. I love the choice of the word “uncorrupted” as it lays at the feel of mankind the value of “natural places.” Very effective poem! Thank you. Susie
Shaun, your poem strikes a very emotional chord for me today. I loved the specific details of the unnatural artifices that leads to your final thought.
These opening lines are so striking! I can see this poor woodpecker spinning around and around.
Susie, I am so heartbroken by your poem, a sight I could not have imagined had you not captured it. Wow! I usually try to write first thing, but this morning I gave myself the gift of time. I took a walk and tried to photograph robins. Photographing birds is a challenge when walking a dog. However, I think I found a poem. Thanks for your nod to nature and Mary Oliver, one of my favorite poets.
Robin Who Didn’t Show the Way*
Robin invites me to dance with him,
to bounce limb to limb,
jump grass to grass,
be hoppy-happy
just because.
In class, I talk to students
about symbolism, how robin showed
Lucy the way into Narnia,
led Mary to
a secret garden.
But this robin is illiterate,
oblivious to literary devices.
His modicum on this path is unnoticed,
yet inviting,
an opening
to a way
to be
here.
*In The Secret Garden, the chapter title is “The Robin Who Showed the Way.”
Margaret — You do wonderful justice to the robin. I’m so glad you took that walk and zeroed in on the robin. I have watched those very movement you described…the “hoppy-happy” and the “limb to limb” that is so robin-esque. I chuckled at the “oblivious to literary devices” that saw that all robins are not the same. The “inviting…opening/to a way/to be/here… Perfect line breaking! Well done, that! Your robin was perhaps more literate than we thought! 🙂 Delightful poem. Thank you! Susie
“His modicum on this path is unnoticed”
Indeed!
🙂
Kevin
Your robin’s hoppty ways invited you and you me on his path to presence.
Margaret—I love your illiterate, hopping-happy robin and his invitation to dance!
Margaret,
I love the funny juxtopositon of the robin as literary symbol and the robin who
. I like the tapering shape of the the last lines, narrowing the focus of both the reader and the subject emphatically: here.
Thank you for sharing.
So, here I am:
outside, facing
the elements,
or rather,
cowering in
upon myself,
trying to
keep the pages
of this notebook
from soaking in
too much of this
snow water that’s
falling from
the sky.
I’m staring
at the hollowed out
husk of the planter
where Heather’s
tomatoes flourish
in summer,
thinking about
the Monarch Butterfly
on the wire frame
that was meant
to impose order
on the chaos
of nature.
(The natural order
of tomatoes — it seems
at least in our garden —
was not to grow
in an orderly fashion.
In fact, I can remember
some of our cucumber
shoots, taking a page
from their tomato brethren,
adamantly refusing to climb
on the trellis that we so
thoughtfully provided,
choosing — quite deliberately
and defiantly — to climb
instead on the side fence.)
But, that Monarch,
not a care in the world,
flitted from one place
to the next.
I, of course, learned later that
butterflies — according to Google,
are, in fact, neither flies
nor made out of butter —
and no matter how carefree
they look, they are voracious
eaters and are probably searching
for food to inhale
through their mouth straws.
But, nonetheless, at that time,
I stood, amazed, watching the
beauty of the natural world,
the garden hose left
unattended, limp at my side,
quietly pouring
water down my leg
and
feeling this wetness
through my shoes,
my reverie broken,
I shiver,
shaking off this
aforementioned weather,
wipe the sodden pages
of my notebook
on my pant leg
and head
inside.
I love how you captured this seemingly insignificant moment in your day with so many sensual images of water, cold, and those tomato plants. We are amazed by the natural world, even though they seem to give a flip about us watching. Monarchs fascinate me.
Scott — This conversation… a sort of muttering made me smile and chuckle aloud again. The garden in its winter clothes rang so familiar…in summer that stubborn cucumber vining up the fence…ha… of course. I continue to love the candor in your tone… out there where you are faring much less smoothly than the garden’s remains, muttering about the cold and damp. Such honesty! Gotta love that. That you did, in fact, stand still and let yourself be “amazed”…the details of the “sodden pages” and “wetness/through my shoes”… the “shiver” took me along with you. What I love the most is witnessing you standing there and then seeking the space to write what was left on your mind after you ducked back in the house. Quite a phenomenon actually. The mind and eye of a poet. Thank you for that! Susie
Scott-your curmudgeonly poem again spoke to my heart. Following instructions, going outside to your disobedient garden, and grousing about your wet sitiuation. As always, bravo!
Bird Hedge
It wasn’t intentional–
The hedge.
The house in town needed privacy–
We planted the ivy
and let it grow.
Now we have a village.
House sparrows occupy
our privacy now.
Forty, fifty, maybe a hundred,
They move so quickly, it’s impossible to count
Urban birds, they call them.
Cheerful, gregarious,
traveling as a tour bus with an invisible guide.
Chattering and chuckling amongst themselves,
they switch seats and socialize,
clusters form and re-form.
Cliques gather at the feeders,
nibbling and quibbling,
bustling and flustering.
A congregation of fluffy-haired women,
Gossiping as they eat lunch.
They hush as I enter their space.
The ivy rustles with hidden life.
When safe, they re-emerge
and form music notes on
the staff of our fence,
sharing their tunes
for my pleasure.
Wonderful use of personification in this poem. I love this one, “A congregation of fluffy-haired women,
Gossiping as they eat lunch.” And also how they form musical notes. Watching birds is such a lovely way to waste a morning, don’t you think?
Oooo, Gayle — this is quite beautiful. I love that it was the seemingly ubiquitous sparrow that prompted such a beautiful poem. So many lines and phrasings to love here. The bus image of all that jabbering and seat changing…that’s terrific! The ‘ing” endings really worked to accentuate the chatter and activity of these busy characters… Cool! Mary O would love that. As do I. My very favorite image, though is that the fence becomes a musical staff as they send for their songs. How wonderful is that?! Whoohoo! Love it! Thank you. Susie
Gayle,
I love the way you created a “village” of birds that “switch seats and socialize” – so vivid.
I love the phrase, “House sparrows occupy our privacy now” and wonder if they feel the same way about us.
Susie,
I so appreciate a second opportunity to engage with nature. I was rather aggressive with my mockingbird yesterday. I keep thinking about “why 5 days” of the open write, and, in part, I can answer that with this inspiration. When we are invited to come back to something a few days in a row, we illuminate dimensions of shared space, of the encounter of ourselves and the poem and the page/screen. Sometimes I feel like — yeah, I got a poem in me, just one — and then, after the five days, I witness all that was in me that I did not know, that I did not believe. It is rather invigorating now, wondering what will come in the next few minutes.
Lovers Wounds
Ivy ascended her body once,
mounting crimson scales
around her trunk like a
garland of hearts.
Never had she felt more
fiercely adorned, and
she liked it — while it
lasted.
Ivy’s grayed remains now shift
in the bitter wind, garland stitches
dress new winter wounds,
a limb-bending coat of Ice Storm,
a heart-opening blanket of Snow Fall —
lovers’ residue.
If her wounds could talk,
they’d not tell stories of heartbreak,
there’d be no healing but sealing —
a poem of wound-response:
tissue ever growing upward and outward,
no fixing of scars but containing,
isolating pain, then growing
beyond.
Yes, every wound suffered
remains within a tree, and
while she may not heal,
she will get closure.
Sarah — Once again you took me where I was surprised to go. Thinking of the tree robed in ivy, like a “garland of hearts” (beautiful image), I was taken to the wounds laid bare in winter…the tree’s and our own. What I loved the most is that the tree doesn’t so much heal as it seals in response to breaches and cuts…”no fixing of scars but containing, isolating pain, then growing beyond.” This is a hopeful lesson from nature. Perhaps we are too caught by the magic of healing to appreciate the glory of sealing and containing a wound, carrying it to make us stronger “beyond.” You have a real primer for our thinking here, Sarah. This is an important poem, and important lesson. Poof… who didn’t know where you’d go, yet here you are… sealing the deal. Dang, you’re good! Love, Susie
This is a wonderful simile “garland of hearts.” And I love the lesson of healing of a wound, not healed, but contained.
Here you go with your magical poetry that makes me sit in total awe. I’ll jump straight to one point that I grabbed immediately from these lines:
When my son had to have 5 intestinal surgeries before his 1st birthday, he was left with a long scar that would be with him forever. By the time he was around 9, he had become self-conscious of it and it hurt me to my core. Finally, by about age 18, he decided to accept my story that his scars were badges of honor and courage that he was gifted with at birth. He got a tattoo to “decorate” it and now he’s fine with it. I said all that to say, he’s grown beyond the pain and the scars and I’m forever grateful.
Thank you for sharing this love poem, a lesson teaching us to master closure so we can move forward with our beautiful wounds.
❤️
Thank you, Stacey, for sharing this story of sealing. I do think we forever carry our wounds as we grow beyond. Such a powerful testimony. Love!
Love the metaphor—sealing the wound and growing beyond it. Something our nation certainly needs. But was the damage ever lovely ivy that adorned? I think not…
Sarah, oh my gosh, I love the thoughts about how wounds heal within your poem. I especially liked the lines:
I love how you lead us to this revelation and connected it to a tree. Finding closure…ahhhh…so important! I also appreciated your opening comments to Susie. I could not agree more with your words. Thanks for sharing such a beautiful poem and your personal insight!
Sarah,
I can’t help but feel this poem moves beyond an aged tree to a woman growing older. Once green w/ ivy, now winded and sealed off from the pain of list loves, broken branches. It’s how I feel so often, and I imagine these feelings of isolation are shared by many.
Nature Is My Church
This old Catholic heart
Feels tremendous guilt
At missing mass during a pandemic
I still rise early on Sundays
But now, I savor the activity in my yard
Spying on the creatures who regularly visit
The nuthatches and chickadees
Cheerily let me know that service has started
And the cardinals welcome me without judgement
The jays and starlings hesitate to make room for me
But the woodpeckers hammer the point home—
I am welcome here, if only as an observer
Now that Nature is my Church
Mo – You have captured what has been church for me all my life. It warms me that you embrace this opportunity (as grim as C-19 is) to find the wonder and miracles in the nuthatches and chickadees and cardinals and jays and starlings, all of them inviting you to hear that woodpecker’s sermon. It’s a beautiful family, and I can’t help but think you are much more than an observer among these “creatures great and small.” Love you poem. Really love it. Thank you. Susie
Nature has become my church, too. I used to rush on Sunday mornings to get ready for choir practice and church service. Now I mosey about, taking a walk, sweeping leaves, watching birds. A kind of church still. I love how you expressed this sense of sadness wrapped in peace.
Mo,
This reminds me of the romantics and the way they shared their faith through natural images. As being in a church may provide comfort, your description of your backyard “service” feels even more comforting.
Ohhhh Mo!! Yes! This is the church! This is the service we need and crave! I love your poem even with the birds being the messengers. ?
I think I need to visit nature’s church more often. I took a quick walk around my yard today and enjoyed what I noticed and heard. I love this metaphor.
Mo—I’m comings to YOUR church. The peace and the joy, and the woodpeckers hammering the message home! I then you’ve found the right congregation!
Mo,
I love how your poem brings the different birds’ personalities to live and extends your metaphor or nature as church.
The woodpeckers made me laugh.
Thank you for sharing.
Susie, thank you for your nature-inspired prompt, and congratulations on winning with your beautiful poem back in 2014. Have you read World of Wonders yet? Your prompts make me think of her writing and I think you would enjoy it.
Dismantle Nurture
I see nature and its
genetic inspiration
Northern pintails used to splash
in the pond, stick around
Now walking the ice
exploring for food,
liquified ground
nothing verbalized this change
A pen, searching for a cob
dominates this pond, short-term
when did they rise the chain? yet
fowl, fledglings, feathered friends know
Robin nests are built in spring
nature pulls them away in winter
yet somehow tweets communicate
a knowledge, a feeling
Of exactly where to return
a genetic GPS, a technology
built through evolution
dismantling nurture
I love the idea of genetic GPS….naturally built through evolution.
Stephani — I want to get ahold of World of Wonders…it’s “out of stock” right now on Amazon… it’s a hot book! I’m anxious to get it…right up my alley indeed! Thank you! I love the title and where you take that Nature/Nurture idea. The pintails… I love this duckie… got to see lots of them when I visited Oregon and Washington …there’s a reserve I go to there on the OR/WA border that has these beauties. My kiddo (my niece) was working for Audubon in Portland prior to C-19. I love thinking about the genetic GPS that is such a force…like yesterday’s petrel… creatures are so wired to lasso nature. Your poem took me to the pintails and I so appreciate that beauty. Thank you! Susie
White Plain
We bounced along
White plains stretching
Beyond the horizon and
Hemmed by the Targhees,
Sawtell’s jagged edges
Poking crystal skies
Only fresh powder
Cushioned the ride as
Our skis sliced earth’s
Cover, leaving squiggles
Sprayed in our wake. I
Glanced right as I
Gripped the levers, my
Legs straddling the beast
Racing toward earth’s edge.
A mesh of brown fur
Poked through white,
Revealing trickster’s outstretched
Paws and elongated body
Reaching for a destination I
Did not know. Our eyes met
Acknowledging our shared
Sentience, dangling a question
In frosty air until
One of us broke the spell
And raced toward an
Invisible finish line
Demarcating our journey’s end.
—Glenda Funk
Good morning, Glenda — Oh, you wild thang! I’ve never been on a snow mobile…”the beast” that bounces along, but this morning I’ve there with you. My Katie up in Boise is skiing and snowshoeing now and living this life of Idaho snow, and you have given it a new view with your poem. She sends me beautiful pictures, but your poem gives me beautiful words to go with that now. I love the “skis slice the earth’s cover” like “a wake”…yes! You give us the view forward and backward…I love that. The “mesh of brown fur” reminded me that out there in that frozen “white plain” there is so much more than just that…other “eyes” that meet our own when we pause to look carefully. It fits that you used “spell”… these moments are frozen in time like a spell… I love that. Now I’m wishing for some snow here (remind me I said this…ha!) so I can drag out my cross-country skis. Hugs and thank you! Susie
Whooooo hooooo! The speed, the freedom, the fresh powder to slice through. Sounds like fun. And, I really love how you don’t have to tell us what this is….but we know!
Glenda,
Thank you for taking me on this “race” in the presence of the Sawtelle mountains. I had to look up Targhees (sheep, boot brand, and resort). I want to know more about “trickster’s outstretched/paws.” I love the moment “In frosty air until” — just that moment and that breath before what’s next. Lovely.
Sarah
Trickster is a coyote. It ran beside my snowmobile for about fifteen minutes before going its own way.
Glenda, your poem is like a wild delightful ride while wondering if I’ll survive; especially when reading the lines:
Thanks for sharing the beauty of White Plain and this moment in time!
What a magical time! I love the suspense that you wove into this outdoor fun in winter –
I have never been on a snow mobile – your poem makes me want to give it a try!
Like other dog owners, I’m up early most days – regardless of weather! I loved this prompt because it truly did get me to take a pause (pun intended!) this morning and look at my mundane canine obligation in a whole new way. And I can’t say as I will turn to not liking adjectives, but the Oliver insight and poem does have me rethinking – making more intentional – their use. Thanks again, Susie! Your own poem was so heartbreaking for me. I’ve likewise seen winter-dead deer. It’s a tough aspect of nature to witness.
Infinity’s Companions
It is morning but it is the moon still
in the clear black sky as I stand in the park
my dog scrapes her nails against ice crusted snow
she can smell who was there two days ago
my own sniffer buried under layers of mask and scarf
useless anyway for finding lost souls
I can only smell cold, see cold, feel cold, hear cold.
When she has recorded each new scent
we move just a few steps more
before a smooth patch welcomes her to roll
back and forth, legs swimming skyward
then suddenly stilled on her side she just lies
looking around, at me, at the trees, at the sky
I realize she’s right and fold myself earthward
crunching through the top layer of winter
I roll onto my back and through the barren tree limbs
see the infinity of stars shining brightly
“Make a wish,” I whisper to her and she sighs
the steam of our breath rising in the dawn
Denise, I love that you can hear cold – that tells it all, how cold it is. And the your dog that can smell the history of who has been there. That wallowing in the snow has me freezing! Yes, I think our dogs are so fascinating – and they get us up early to live more minutes that don’t otherwise pass us by. Stay warm in Michigan!
Whoa Baby! This is exquisite, Denise! You have created a real masterpiece here. That you stopped and took the lesson from your sweet doggie just turned the whole chore of the routine dog walk upside-down…literally and figuratively. The moment did, indeed, become so much more than a cold pre-morning walk with the dog. You created a pace for the poem…a walk that turned you into an active participant in the world… and you learned the pace from the seeming innocence of a dog (dogs are NEVER just dogs for me…they are creatures of wisdom). I loved how I got the 360 degree view in this poem…black sky, moon still, crusted snow underfoot that I can hear via dog nails, the pause of the paws in the air, and then you “fold myself earthward” to become part of the world with a new view. The final couplet lifts the poem with that “steam” to a level of prayer. Gosh, this is beautiful. Thank you so much! Susie
This is lovely….it begins so lonely. You and your dog separate in the tasks. Then, you share a special warm moment in all that cold. What a beautiful ending.
Denise,
I love the moment, “I roll onto my back and through the barren tree limbs” — this is so lovely and welcoming of what vision comes next.
Sarah
Denise—the dog lover in me honors the dog lover in you! Coming from south of Buffalo, I know exactly the way cold takes on all your senses, whether you want it to or not! And I so love you making a wish together. Warmed my heart, Denise…
Oooooh, I copied the description of evidence in my journal. What a beautiful prompt from Mary O. And, Susie…what an incredible mentor text. I love that last line and the use of the word “frozen.” The double meaning packs a punch.
Since I’m in my PJs during writing time, I turned to my photo roll for some inspiration and found a pic of a grey heron I took this summer. Gladys is a familiar friend around our ponds and creek near my house. Gladys has been this heron’s name for years….but it also really fit the poem today. Ha!
Grey Heron
Gladys stopped me
the other day
as I was walking to get
my heart rate up.
Without a word
She looked me in the eye
calling out, stillness.
I stopped–
pulled my earbuds off.
I couldn’t remember
the last time I waded
in a creek.
Gladys could not recall a cause
to move as fast
as me
along this August path
so lush and green
a break from sun
to grab some lunch.
I listened to Gladys
for some minutes
slowing my breath
willing to keep
our conversation flowing.
Such patience
Gladys offered me.
It grew inside my chest
a gift of silence at noonday.
Peace within my rush.
Linda, Gladys is so, so wise. I am delighted by her telepathy, catching your eye and guiding you to wade in the creek. Your poem is a gift of peace this morning.
Linda, this is charming – the whole idea of a heron named Gladys who stops you in your tracks as you walk to get your heart rate up while jamming to your tunes. She brought peace and silence to your hurry ans noise. Yes, that is a beautiful noonday gift. I love that you chose this experience to share. I need a Gladys.
Oh yes, Linda! This is beautiful! The heron is one of my most beloved birds. You have captured the power of the heron’s pause to look you over, to share a moment like a gift, to hold you in the moment. Gosh, I love this. That you pointed, in that last stanza, to Gladys’ strength in giving you the gift amidst all the human cacophony turns this poem into powerful piece. It’s not just about what you saw, but it is about what Gladys saw and afforded you. That turn-around is poignant. I loved that…the move from the earbud distraction to the “gift of silence at noonday.” I want me somathat. Love it! Thank you. Susie
This is so cool! A heron you have named Gladys. I love it and your interaction with her. I can feel the “gift of silence at noonday” while being watched by a quiet curious creature.
Linda,
So many phrases here that I am swimming in — first, “the last time I waded/in a creek” and then “a gift of silence at noonday” and then “Peace within my rush”! Maybe it is the the soft “i” sound in each but definitely the spatial and temporal connections.
Sarah
I love Gladys! I saw our daily heron fly over the bayou yesterday around noon. It was so elegant and fast that there was no time to grab a camera. I had to just watch. I can feel the peacefulness of your noticing and how Gladys is comfortable in your presence.
Your Gladys is a wise friend. What a gift she gives. And you give to me:permission to take a deep breath, rather than hurry on in the day’s work.
Linda,
What a beautiful description of a powerful and intimate, silent interaction. I also found stillness today in a heron I saw while riding my bike and wrote about it for my poem. I always feel a sense of peace when I see a heron. I love your description of the physical change that can take place within us when we slow down and connect to nature.
.
Also, Gladys is a fun name for your wise heron.
Thank you for sharing.
Linda,
Gladys is a wise old bird. She’s like a guardian, winged angel watching over you, keeping you company. It’s a lovely image.
Susie – breathtaking, these moments with the deer. I could feel the crunching of ice under my feet, the potential peril, and the close proximity still being so vast. My poem-draft is born of a summer image that I’ve been carrying with me. Not my normal fare. I imagine I’ll be revising for a while.
Desiccation
soft summer morning
before the heat
sparkling quartz
beneath my feet
empty street
just walking
no talking
dark lump
just ahead
oh, bullfrog
lying dead
half the size
of my head
biggest one
I’ve ever seen
glistening skin
army green
intact
can’t see how
you met your end
poor amphib-friend
I walk around
I walk around
day after day
knowing
sun will soon extract
in its way
decay
day by day
yet Bullfrog remains
somehow whole
except
except
for empty sockets
krokodilian green
this I’ve seen
this I know
in the heat of the day
eyes are first to go
Fran, what a fun play
With words
–
Krokodilian
and amphib-friend! The whole walk with the anticipation of what this lump
Ahead is – and then discovering it is a dead bullfrog! I love it!
I live in Williamson, and our schools are in our county seat of Zebulon, Georgia! Not too many Zebulonites out there – so we are Zebu-friends across state lines!
I just ooooh’ed out loud twice reading this! Poor froggo! But, precisely how we sometimes encounter nature and loss and wonder at the ‘how’ of it. There is such a beauty in the decay, and, like Susie’s poem, that sense of awfulness in witnessing what is purely natural and recurring in nature. Agreed that you have a fun play with words here contrasted with the seriousness of death and dying. The lasting decay is as strong as the imagery created in this work.
Fran — My goodness…from the title (which I totally love) to the last line, this is just terrific. That you had this image stirring in your mind/memory is just so right…something that halts us to look carefully…you unfold the evidence like a master, seeing every last detail. You made something that might otherwise have caused us to look away turn into something that maps the journey of bullfrog, a living creature, to its end. I love the word choices and rhythms and rhymes…this is so fitting for a bullfrog which is all about the remarkable sound that they make and is now missing. But it is the eyes in the end that really nailed the poem for me. “The first to go.” Oh wow…that is loaded… eyes that don’t take the time to see…that’s not lost on me…you have a fantastic poem here! Thank you. Susie
Your poem reminds me of a time we came upon a turtle crossing the street. We moved it to the side of the road. On our way back from the walk, we found it dead in the middle of the road. I love the rhyme and repetition.
This demands a read-aloud! This is a frolic with words!
Susie,
You know my love of Mary O – I want to hug you for the inspiration! Your poem leaves me in awe of your ability to capture the moments, taking us with you on a trek through the woods along to Lake 35 and straight to the fuzzy velvet antlers peering back from the cruel frozen window. Oh, how I love the moments of nature. Your poem captures the spirit of joy in observing. Thank you for inspiring us!
Silent Signals
I give the signal
two pats of my hip
the covers rustle
two still-sleepy bedheads
black Schnauzer
white Schnoodle
emerge
eight feet
hit the wood floor
in two thunks
collars clinking
toenails ticking the grain
through the dark
to the front door
leashes click
locked tight
a blast of cold air licks
my ankles
bare between my
high-water Cuddle Duds
and worn-out scuffs
I pull my hooded flannel up tight
give two quick huffs
watch my breath float
brace for the pull of the leads
as the boys’ nose-to-ground adventure begins
to find the choice spot
at 5:14 a.m.
nestled deep in the woods
a beam of flashlight
shines yellow eyes
stalking
lurking
watching
height-from-ground
guesses
deer? owl? fox? raccoon?
coyote? (the reason the leashes lock)
icy crunch of earth underfoot
pinhole winks of stars overhead
I wave to my mama up there
she is more amused
by these knuckleheads
than by me
as they stand
like two motorcycles
parked side by side
on kickstands
thawing the frozen ground
before
scratching off
in an overdone show
of who marked better
I give the signal
two pats of my hip
back inside
leashes unlock
toenails tick the grain
straight back to bed
to tunnel back under
and slumber
til sun-up
Such warmth, mirth, and comfort in these wintry moments and vivid images! Even with the yellow eyes and the reason the leashes lock. Deeply moved by your waving to your mama in the “pinhole winks of stars overhead” and your sensing her amusement at the antics of your precious little dogs.
Hilariously detailed – motorcycles on kickstands and the after-scratching as an “overdone show” – precisely! Dogs are just dogs – another aspect of nature, but brought into our space and perceived in our human ways. I appreciate bookending “I give the signal / two pats of my hip” – and the use of “of” rather than “on” is subtle, but rhetorically marks that “signal” aspect. Funny, because I’m also writing about dog-ventures today. I mean, what else would get us to venture out at 5-ish am in the dead middle of winter?!
Kim — You knew this morning how much I missed my dog…well, all my dogs over the years…when you wrote this. You took me on that too-early foray with leashes well-locked. The evidence from the moment you awoke to the moment you crawled back under the covers had me with you and with your two big ol’ beasts. I LOVED this poem. The “eight feet on the floor” and the “thunks” and the “pull of the leads” and “pinhole winks of stars” and the “flashlight” that shines us forward. This little journey is packed with life, the shared life with dogs. There is something very rich about your life with these two… with them you feel the cold licks, you hear the wood grain the floor and the crunch beneath your feet and you see the silhouettes like motorcycles on kickstands. There’s a beauty in what you share with your creatures and what they share with you from two hip pats to two hip pats. Wonderful! Thank you. I feel better now… like I’ve had a healing dose of dog this morning…and I needed that. Thank you. Susie
Kim, not having dogs, I often wonder how a dog owner can manage to get up in the cold to “let them out.” Your poem describes the adventure well. I like how you repeated the toenails ticking and tunneling back into bed to complete the circle. The passage that really got my attention was the description of “yellow eyes, stalking, lurking, watching.” There is always a sense of danger lurking when one takes a walk predawn.
Kim,
I love this snapshot and the narrative structure of your poem. That image toward the end is perfect: “I give the signal/two pats of my hip”. The meter of this is playful yet clearly conveys who is in charge:)
Sarah
Kim,
I loved going on this walk with you and your dogs. They way they move “nose-to-ground” and the “scratching off in an overdone show of who marked better” describes exactly how my dog takes me on walks. I also love the way you describe the winter morning stars as “pinhole winks” – great images.
Your poem awakens all of my senses. I love your description of the “two knuckleheads…stand like two motorcycles/parked side by side.”
Your love and annoyance with your furry knuckleheads made me smile along with your mama. Thank you for this vivid too-early morning escapade.
Thank you, Susie. What a beautiful prompt! I love that it asks us to slow down, pay attention, and practice curiosity.
Yesterday
I stood
in the place
I remember
today –
the bend by
the bridge
where the brook
brings ice
from beyond
and tomorrow,
I’ll be remembering
how today turned
yesterday;
that river
never stops
flowing
Oh the passage of time…”that River never stops flowing”
Your words are just beautiful. It was a pleasure to read this poem. Thank you.
Nicely done, Kevin. The short lines and sense of movement really work well to evoke the passage of time. Lovely.
Rivers, symbolic of so much. Beautiful, Kevin.
Kevin,
You capture the evolution of time and moment in the flow of the river and remembering – even the knowing remembering of what is to come. A very Mary O perspective in your own trademark style. You never disappoint!
Kevin — In such few words you have given me a moving (pun intended) lesson. I love the power of rivers or streams or brooks to carry on…never stop flowing. I feel a touch of an almost nostalgia in the lines “…tomorrow/I’ll be remembering/how today turned/yesterday…” and I love that sensation. It’s always amazing to me how a moment in words can carry such weight. Thank you for this beautiful poem this morning. Susie
You remind me that the joy in today is remembering it tomorrow.
Kevin,
The river flows through yesterday, today, tomorrow. Beautiful metaphor and sound
‘the bend by
the bridge
where the brook
brings ice
from beyond’