Day 4, January’s Open Write for Educators with Stacey L. Joy
Stacey L. Joy is a 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 5th 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
When I go on my daily walks, I take pictures of nature or objects that catch my attention. I started this practice back in March when schools closed as a way to calm my nerves. This practice is sometimes called mindful walking because instead of walking for your goal of fitness and completion, you walk with intentions to pay closer attention to the small things you may not usually notice. In Nikki Giovanni’s book, Make Me Rain, she wrote quite a few poems about concrete objects (food, quilts, seeds, trains). I’ve included her poem and also a video of her reading it. The video starts with her describing her sweet friendship with Toni Morrison.
Nikki Giovanni’s Poem, “A Bench (for Toni Morrison)”
benches aren’t just pieces of furniture
sure
we find them at rest stops where birds have stopped over
and truck drivers have pulled aside
to smoke a cigarette
(no matter how bad they are for you)
and yes
in fabulous museums we find
benches decorated sometimes
with gold or bronze
and the faces of the famous
sometimes we even find benches
among the poor
which are simply logs put one across the other
or sometimes just bricks
piled and put deeply enough into the earth
to stabilize those who need comfort
but benches are actually
a metaphor
they are friends we call on sad days
they are two old ladies who bring
Duck Eggs when your Grandmother passes
they are a friend’s mother
who makes a quilt for you
when she hears
you have lung cancer
and mostly they are the voice
on the other end of the phone
who says “Write”
when you are so sad at losing your mother
“Write” when you don’t know where to go
“Write” when the only person who can read you
is on a Cross
“Write”
because that is your job
“Write”
Process
- Go outside and intentionally look for something you may not normally notice. If you’re so inclined, take a picture to study it more when you’re ready to write.
- Consider your object/subject as something that has withstood time, something that has resilience, secrets, stories to tell, and is a metaphor for something else.
- Imagine having a conversation with this object or imagine the conversations it has had or overheard.
- Write your poem with the object as your topic.
- I tried a form called Zappai because I wanted to try something different. A Zappai is like haiku (5-7-5) minus the reference to nature. I decided to write 11 stanzas using the Zappai form. If the Zappai doesn’t resonate with you, try free verse or any other form that works for you today.
Stacey’s Poem, “In the Secrets of a Sycamore”
[I wrote 11 stanzas with the Zappai form.]
You’ve witnessed lifetimes
Growing families walk with dogs
tagging you with pee
Boys’ hiding places
from girls they willfully taunt
and friends they spy on
What stories you hold
Teens on blankets kissing and
Expressing true love
Moms and dads praying
Faces upturned to the sky
their God listening
Cries for Breonna
Sandra, Michael, Tamir, George
Pleading for justice
Signs tacked to your trunk
Missing girls, dogs, boys, and cats
House for rent or sale
Life and death stories
Of people and property
While you stand watching
For spring’s renewal
Deep hunter green
Summer sun’s prelude
When fast-paced music
Plays in earbuds as runners
Stop to rest with you
Autumn’s pruning and
Gold and russet leaves fall for
Little feet to crunch
‘Til your winter’s nap
Begins and rain pours its love
On strong naked limbs
Stacey L. Joy ©
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.
Sis, of the billions of people who have picked up a pen to write, Toni Morrison is my absolute favorite! I love the way Nikki loved and revered her with this incredible piece. But your poem is magnificent Stacey! The way you were able to structurally remind us of all the ways we use trees. And your words, “Moms and dads pray Faces upturned to the sky
their God listening Cries for Breonna Sandra, Michael, Tamir, George Pleading for justice”, all the things a tree has seen.
Thank you, Stacey, for this fun prompt and your beautiful poem. I love how many different images and emotions it contains.
I had a wonderful Nikki Giovanni connection today. A lovely student from my first year of teaching (’94-95, eighth grade English) emailed me because she heard in an interview with Nikki Giovanni and it reminded her of when we read Ego Tripping (there may be a reason why) and wrote poems inspired by it. I taught her four younger sisters, but have not heard from her since I taught her more than 25 years ago. Made my day to hear from her. She was so kind to reach out and share what she remembered from our class. Might need to write a poem about that and/or a poem wondering what all those students from my first year of teaching are up to these days.
For now here’s a quick late night draft of something I saw on my early morning walk.
Why?
I’m standing here
constrained by bricks
and concrete
separated
at measured intervals
from my peers
and now—
a final indignity—
you’ve stepped out
of your concrete
and brick enclosure
and tangled
our branches
with strings
of white lights
Why?
Sharon, what a great story about hearing from your student from 25 years ago. That/she does deserve a poem.
I love your image here of the naive tree asking why about all these injustices. Wow. So powerful. I had to read twice about the brick and concrete enclosures–both for the tree and the human who brought out another indignity. That got me thinking more about the walls and buildings and borders we selfishly and wantonly build around ourselves and everything else in the world. Thanks for the challenging thoughts today.
Full disclosure: I like lights in trees, especially walking in the morning darkness! But, okay, I am full on board with this narrator’s perspective! Even reading it – it feels tight and constrained – the language: at – just that preposition with it’s hard t – at measured intervals. Ugh. Tight. Constrained. And measured – the -ed past – done by someone else not even here with us. Lots of hard sounds in here – k t ch. Using tangled for the lights – not strung or hung or decorated – all those lovely words normally associated with the lighting of [objects]. The strongest word of all: our. We share these branches – and this someone having done this on their own accord is a violation of that sharing, a greedy grabbing, and owning, and not rightfully so. But what can the speaker do in response? The softest word of all: Why? A vowel word that leaves the mouth open in awe.
Stacey,
Nikki Giovanni is such an amazing human. I never get tired of watching her share with an audience–so warm and loving and funny. Her bench poem breathes of power–hers and Toni Morrison’s. Thank you for sharing it.
Your sycamore tree poem is beautiful. What a sweet reminder to me of my childhood, when my brother had his special lookout place in our mulberry tree. Always ready to tease me or anyone walking underneath. I love the references to all the seasons. It added weight to the long sturdy life of this champion. My favorite phrase is “rain pours its love” Oh, that warmed my heart today.
Thank you for your beautiful prompts yesterday and today. I almost didn’t make my mindful walk, and I waited until this morning’s sunrise to choose my metaphor. What a great practice. I am sure I will be taking my camera with me and doing more of this mindfulness walking.
Walls
I walk mindfully
around the cemetery
and I see a wall
Separating us–
the living from the dead. Are
they also mindful?
My mind jumps across
Earth’s span to U.S.
politics and walls
Divide us from
All our neighbors to the south–
At least in spirit
Confine refugees
Hoping for a new start, but
Not life in a cage
Restrict a future
Hope that independents will
Bring some sanity
Split up lawmakers–
MAGAs versus those who think
insurrection’s bad
Break up Washington
Protecting democracy
From rebels within
Fortify the White
Supremacy legacy–
Make her great, again?
Enclose our hearts
Against the madness and fear
Will we trust again?
Crumble under the
Weight of justice served up to
All of God’s children
Hi Denise, thank you for sharing your heart! I appreciate you. Your poem needed to be written and shared. We need to acknowledge and dismantle the walls that separate us from love and compassion. Thank you! This resonates with me, so real, so sad:
And last but not least, bravo on using Zappai for your poem! You made it seem easy breezy!
Hugs!
Denise, thanks for articulating so clearly the ways walls have been used and abused in recent times. Seeing the pictures your words create, breaks down walls of ignorance. We have no excuse for inaction! The challenge now is to acknowledge the truth in your poem and any role we have played in the construction, mending, or dismantling the kinds of fences you’ve described so succinctly describe. Then learn ways we can participate in the acts of justice that crumble cruel walls and help build protective walls that gently care for others, yet have unlocked doors where one can come and go in peace.
Fortify the White
Supremacy legacy–
Make her great, again?
I can’t shake this interpretation of MAGA. I have never thought to put a question mark behind it, only to respond back to it with my own frustration at what that statement completely ignores, attempts to erase and continue to suppress. And the other question, “Will we trust again?” is one that rattles through my thinking daily. I’m on the edge to get through January 20, but it will only be the beginning – and truly the middle – of a very long path we must all walk together. Nice summation of a lot of chaotic swirling thoughts in my own daily ruminations. Thank you!
Stacey, THANK YOU for your beautiful inspiration, both yesterday and today. I’ve had a busy day, but had to post this since its been on my mind all day.
I carry people to work, home, church, stores,
visits, ceremonies, school, and to see loved ones.
Some travel tooooo quickly or aren’t
watching carefully and injure themselves.
At times, I carry precious cargo- an infant, a bride, a President, a casket…
Everyone has a story, a destination, an objective.
I created lanes to keep people separated
and there are signs telling people my speed limit.
Most follow directions but there’s at least 20 a day
who have their own mind and move too quickly
as though they’re running out of time.
I’m blessed though, with folks who patrol the highway and
attempt to keep people alive for another day,
so they can use me again tomorrow.
Oh, Seana, and this is more poignant when you are driving around Los Angeles, I know. This is my favorite line:
I stopped to think of each of these scenarios, and how I have been intimately involved in each. (Except the President maybe–just on TV) But so many experiences and feelings come up for me with that beautiful line.
I love the voice in your poem, so tender and personal, not the voice one would expect to hear–but so very welcome for those of us who have to be on the roads. Thank you. Stay safe!
Yes, Seana, you needed to let this poem land on the page to release it from your spirit. You’re a carrier, a warrior, a super woman badass, so relax now and rest knowing that your cargo is well cared for. The way you crafted this into the story of so many women who do it all (effortlessly) is phenomenal, just like you! I love these lines most because we know these 20+ all too well:
I give love and gratitude for the time you took to stay up a little longer to share with us. Thank you, my dear!
❤️
Rest well, tomorrow brings new promises.
The last line struck me hard – so they can use me again tomorrow. – after the start of the poem – I carry. There’s a sense of willingness in the first line, and a sense of loving awareness of what/who is being carried and why, with the speaker concerned about others who travel tooooooo quickly. Yet, that last line, the sense of duty, of obligation – I want to say the words you wrote to be “used” – but it’s not in an abusive “used” way. It’s more as a service, of duty – just as the ‘folks who patrol’ have their duty and are there to serve, to ‘attempt to keep people alive.’ So, too, is this speaker attempting to keep lives moving forward. I also sense a kind of exhaustion at the end – what is being done is hard work! Stressful! Acting in and witnessing the acts of others. Yet, ‘again tomorrow’ tells me the speaker is also choosing to participate. Again, a sense of duty, obligation, but also commitment and concern. Honestly, this is so often how I imagine many of us lay our heads down at night – exhausted, but knowing we will get up tomorrow and participate again. Because we have to and because we choose to. I don’t know exactly what the carrying is here, but I want to say thank you for it!
Thank you Denise for your kind words. The speaker is a busy multi-lane freeway.
Brilliant!
these hands aren’t just
phalanges
sure
they are bones and sinew
good stuff for an anatomy lab
who am I kidding?
my last dissection was in
9th-grade bio
a frog
pinned to a tray of wax
spread eagle
(I saw a bald eagle today
on my drive home)
i pressed the scalpel
to the little reptilian belly
and watched
his tidy insides
disrupt my thinking
i was not–nor are you–
a glob of mushed-up guts
we are dissectable frogs.
little frogs hop
these hands type words
Allison, so many smiles today. Your poem actually reminds me of Scott’s stream of consciousness style. But then at the end, I’ve read it several times–
Wow, such eternal and existential thoughts right there.
Allison, nooooo I don’t want to be dissectable frogs! LOL. You are bringing joy to my heart just before I go to sleep. It’s good for my soul. No weird nightmares about trump or masked evil doers. I love that you can recall the dissection of 9th grade frogs. Wow, I don’t know if I did the dissection, ditched class, or just forgot the whole well-planned lesson.
I’m so grateful you took the time to use your precious hands tonight, all for the sake of poetry! ?
Holy cow, Allison! Where did your mind take you? Froggies!!! This poem is the perfect example of why I love this writing community! Only here would I have found the profound examination of the beauty of a froggy spread-eagle pinned to wax and sought my own reflection on what is humane and determined that even squashed creatures deserve our humanity…. we are indeed all creatures great and small… Allison, I am always smitten by where your poems take me. You keep me hopping and here I am typing and I’m grateful for it. Hugs, Susie
What a crazy, busy day today was! I didn’t have time to get outside, but I had time to meditate and go inside.
I should meditate
More often to see who is
The me you could see
Mo,
A perfect Zappai
From a talented poet
Who writes from her heart
That Zappai is just for you, my friend! Thank you! ?
❤️
Mo, thank you for the invitation to know the hidden you. Isn’t there always a hidden self? Lovely.
Mo, this is a beautiful thought to end your crazy, busy day. I hope you will be able to do it more and more often. I love the way you put it in your introduction that instead of going outside, you took time to go inside. Beautiful.
I also love the feel and sound of the last line:
Mo – I’m going to try just that. You haiku-ed me to take meditative action. Thank you! Susie
I love haiku/zappai , but it doesn’t always work for me when I “want” it to. This one has got the kind of word ebb and flow I appreciate.
I should meditate more often
meditate more often to see
see who is the me
who is the me(?)
the me you could see
you could see
I read ALL of these variants in there – less like reading and more like ebbing and flowing back and forth over the words. Then, using different stresses on words – again – whole different meanings.
Such a mighty short form!
Wow, Denise! What a thoughtful reading of this short form. Thank you so much!
Caching
Ever gone cashing
on a trail to a treasure
to find a small tube?
Left under a rock
or hanging from a tree limb
buried in a fence.
I found one today
and wondered at the contents
secrets held inside.
You’ve been there how long?
Sealed from wind, rain and frost
what hand touched you last?
A golden capsule.
Inside a gift, names, stories.
I added one too.
Inserting my gift
added my name to the list
closed the lid again.
With care, replacing.
Me, wishing safety like you
hiding in my nook.
How long will you sit there?
A year until someone comes
finding your secrets
again.
How fun, Susan. Do you do this often? Apparently, my sister-in-law is obsessed with geocaching. I can see how it could be addicting. I like how you approach it as a a story to unfold.
Susan — I love the rhythm and story of this poem. I have never been caching, but now I want to. This adventure sounds like so much fun! I love that you left added to the treasure.
Oh Susan! What an experience! You captured this with vivid detail…mad me wish I could experience it myself!
Bent centurion, she leans precariously toward our garage,
gnarled roots gripping the cold, hard winter soil.
I gaze at her through fogged windows,
worry a strong winter gust will topple her.
Over the years, our earthy paladin has granted us
shade over the children’s sandbox, over our picnic table, and
reprieve from summer heat, and sweet balm for our souls.
Her sturdy bark, an unwavering bullseye,
has weathered many a nerf gun fight.
In summer, her boughs are arms for swings and wind chimes
and when snow pummels our town, she embraces mother nature’s offering.
Elegant wrists and long fingers bejeweled with winter crystals,
she is a breathtaking winter queen.
Your description of leaning precariously toward our garage got my attention right off. Today I was looking up from under a tree such as that and wondering when it might fall under the wind. Our trees are our history, full of stories and our guardians. So touching!
Tammi, I especially love how you use the tree to mark the passing of time. I love the image of “Her sturdy bark, an unwavering bullseye, has weathers many a nerf gun fight.” I could have written those words about one of my trees!
Ohhhh yes, your trees teach us how to love others without conditions. Amazing how I almost hear their heartbeats within your words. This is truly magnificent to imagine:
Gratefully receiving your poem tonight.
I haven’t written my poem yet, but I wanted to share a moment I just had: I watched the video Stacey posted and heard “right” as Toni’s answer to Nikki’s woes and questions. It made perfect sense to affirm the pain and experience of others. Then I read the text and realized the word was “write.” How cosmic that RIGHT and WRITE can both be affirmations and responses to whatever it is we are facing. Now off to write! Right?
Write on, Girl!
Yesss! Right! Wright! ?
Beautiful thought!
This trail is just a path beneath my feet
A way to get from here to there
My footsteps pad along
Today through the snow
Soon enough in mud
then on dirt and rock
Until again across scattered leaves
It’s been that way for 50 years
And so there are days when this trail
Is not just a path beneath my feet
But also a time machine
whisking me back
And suddenly I am
walking behind grandpa
On his tractor
Grabbing buckets from taps
And dumping sap
With my cousins,
The warmth of February sun
And laughter
In the air
And the next thing I know I am
Barreling toward the garden
Tiny feet and chubby legs
plastic sticks in hand
Ready to plant
These popsicle seeds
That Uncle Mark
Promised would grow
They never did
And there I am
Sneaking out of the house and
Down the trail
Cigarettes hiding in my pocket
That time I thought I wanted to
Take up smoking
I didn’t
I cannot count the times I have walked this trail
It is enough to know that my footprints
Cover every inch
And when I look down
I see a kaleidoscope of memories
And know that I belong here
I always have
I always will
Stacey–what a beautiful trip down your (literal) memory lane! YOur time machine gave us specific and heartfelt memories. thewy made me smile. thank you.
Stacy, I love the history you share in this poem; the detail about sneaking the cigarettes was particularly humorous. Your end is so precious, knowing you are right where you need to be. Thanks for sharing your kaleidoscope of memories!
Stacey — These are such beautiful images and memories. I loved the way you transitioned through the seasons in the first stanza:
“Today through the snow
Soon enough in mud
then on dirt and rock
Until again across scattered leaves.”
This was a very fitting way to set the journey down memory lane.
Hi Stacy! I soaked up every word of your poem! I felt nostaglic with Grandpa and Uncle Mark, the risky youth wanting to “take up smoking” and glad you didn’t, and finally this gorgeous image of the trail and YOU:
Thank you for sharing your memories and your trail! ?
Stacey,
Thank you for your poem. You capture the deep connections we have with trees. As a refuge and a witness to what we humans endure. What stories do they hold?
Yesterday, I happened to take a picture of the fog rolling in. A welcome sight during too hot for winter in Los Angeles.
Fog
fog filled in the bay
a bowl of soup
hugging the cliffs
floating up in visible droplets
grayness competing with blue
a jetstream
leaving wisps of white
covering the hotspots
fog is a cool blanket
water vapor that wraps its way around
whispering, “settle in”
suspend yourself in the moment
fog is a time out
official permission to be still.
ooooooh. I love fog–but have never realized exactly why until now! Fog really is permission to disconnect, to be still. I will always look at it that way now, thanks to you…
Julieanne, I love how you bring the fog physically to life in this poem. I especially enjoyed your metaphor
The ending point is outstanding…yes, just be still, soak it all in! Awesome!
Julieanne — I love your description of the fog as “a bowl of soup/hugging the cliffs/floating up in visible droplets.” I love how you see “fog as a time out”. This really made me think, and I agree with you.
Julieanne,
How beautiful to embrace the moment, the pause, and the stillness within fog! I love that you found it for your topic of today’s poem.
I will look at fog with more compassion the next time it rolls in. I’m in Los Angeles too so it’s not often that it’s thick where I am. Thanks for sharing this sweet reminder to pause!
Thank you for the opportunity to reflect upon the 90 arborvitaes that surround our home. They have grown up with us. It made me think of all that we have gone through in our yard.
Arborvitaes
You have surrounded
our home, sheltered us from
unknown eyes around
Young kids and parents
played over your hedge with balls
bouncing up and down
Sleds flew between your
bases, you caught young kids
tossed them back safely
You witnessed parties
by the pool, firepits, soccer,
and family yard games
You have grown with my
kids, and now you reach great heights
holding memories
Snow may blanket your
branches, weigh you down, but you
are resilient and loyal
Oh to be surrounded by 90 trees! And bravo on the form. There is comfort and protection in trees. I love how yours have witnessed and grown with your family.
Heather,
I love the idea of them growing with your kids and reaching great heights. I loved that you described them as loyal.
Heather, what a blessing to have so many different trees nearby! That’s a pure oxygen haven – oh, to breathe in those O2 rich molecules! Your memories if the sleds and the volleys and the snow blankets are the stuff of life and the living of it with the trees as family!
Heather — Wow, 90 trees! I only have two very old and very large maples in my yard, but I totally connect with your poem and feel the same way about our trees. My favorite stanza:
“You have grown with my/kids, and now you reach great heights/holding memories.”
If our trees could talk, can you imagine what they would say? They would be witness to so much.
Breathtaking tribute to your arborvitaes! Wow, 90 surround your home? That’s amazing.
I loved:
Funny to recall when trees would catch me! Thank you, I needed that and congrats on working that Zappai form with ease!
Stacey, thanks again for your wonderful mentor poems and inspiration. I read the prompt very early this morning, but I’ve been on the road today. I kept looking for something to focus my poem, but all I could think about was what I could no longer see because of the time of day and season so that is what I wrote about today. I love writing haiku and was pleased to use the Zappai form which I’d never heard of before. Finally, I want to say how much I admired the passion of your poem, and was particularly struck by your stanza
Thanks for sharing such a powerful and provocative poem!
The Absence of Tow Lights
Twilight descends—no
Tow lights flicker across the
Window in winter
Flower pots border
The deck, once full of glory
Now sprout lifeless leaves
Bare branches guard the
Wide river like a mother’s
Protective fierce arms
Sheltered inside I
Dream of sunny days and nights
Blooming with tow lights
Barb Edler
January 18, 2021
Barb – You clearly found quite a lot in those winter snapshots today. I particularly love the absence of light idea. Your poem creates rich white spaces that hold what is in your mind, your memory… there’s something sort of emotional about seeing through the absence, through the sort of white space to satisfy the heart of your memory. Quite beautiful. Thank you. Susie
Well done, Barb. Your images are striking and bare, yet they evoke so much. Missing tow lights- who woulda thunk it?
Thank you, Barb! I am happy you found what you could no longer see as the topic of your poem. That speaks volumes! You focused inward not at what was most obvious or even right in front of you. Your poem does something I really appreciate. It doesn’t fix it. It doesn’t give the much anticipated outcome. It gives us what it is. I think that is another hard practice to master when doing a mindfulness activity. So yay you!!!!!!
My favorite stanza:
Something is so regal and strong about that stanza!
Hugs!
Barb, I would love to sit with you and see the view you are describing. I can’t imagine what a horizon “blooming with tow lights” would look like and I want to see it. I have a favorite stanza too. The same one that Stacey mentioned:
The image took my breath away and made me love the trees more. Thank you.
Intertwined
some time long ago
a tree began to grow next
to a large boulder
or perhaps the truth
is the boulder rolled up next
to the tree and stopped
some time long ago
they grew together, truly
tree and boulder one
forever as one
imagine this, wonder, and ask
did they choose this life?
this life of such fixed
perspective, never knowing
anything else but here
so different, yet
so inseparable now
who listens to whom?
what do they speak of
when the sun goes down and they
are truly alone
do they share gossip
of the day, the laughs and tears
of walkers and more?
maybe they grieve and
heal together, and become
wiser over time
Oh, Maureen,
I love this poem, love imagining the literal and figurative here. These lines especially:
And then, you brought me to think about who and what visits the “here” and how that makes their being dynamic in a sense, and then HOW they exist over time. That temporal nature of time passing and their being some change in just that, in just the passing of time. So much here.
Sarah
How I would love to know that the tree and the boulder say to one another when the sun goes down and they are “truly alone”! Those last lines…oh, they fill me with longing, on behalf of humans who still have so much to learn.
What a lovely fantasy—the unity of these two…
“do they share gossip
of the day, the laughs and tears
of walkers and more?
maybe they grieve and
heal together, and become
wiser over time”
Old friends…
Maureen, gosh, this is such a compelling poem. I love the flow of this narrative. It is the end that just knocks me to my knees:
I love the idea of these two becoming inseparable, growing, and learning to be wise over time! Fantastic!
Maureen,
This poem is a beautiful allegory. A tree and rock are so different, yet anchored together in a fixed place. I can’t help but read this as a view on our nation and our intertwined dependency. I love the questions you pose and the way this poem makes me think and hope.
Maureen, you have given me an unintended laugh. For some reason, I started imagining the tree and the boulder as me and my ex-husband. LOL okay, let me explain. He rolled up next to me and stopped, then I wondered did we choose this life?? ???
Okay, I’m sorry, that just had me in tears laughing. Then, I brought myself back to the page and faced the truth of tree and boulder’s relationship. It’s remarkable! So much more kind and loving than my original imaginings.
And your ending stanza should be what any healthy couple have (grief, healing and wisdom) but I guess that’s only for tree and boulder. I love this!
?
Yes, unintended partners. Maybe they did not choose that life, but now they make the best of it. You have written such beautiful musings about what they must think and talk about in the stillness.
“wiser over time” gives me hope. Thanks!
That was simply beautiful! Thank you Maureen, I just loved, “or perhaps the truth
is the boulder rolled up next to the tree and stopped”. Your ability to tell the perfect story as you adhered to the structure of the poem. Amazing!
Stacey – how you have captured the living, loving, and losing of our whole human experience in this poem! Reading it was like watching a micro epic movie. I do not doubt that trees like your sycamore hold our secrets alongside their own. The Giovanni selection – electric – those final admonitions to write go coursing through my veins…
Tried Zappai. Ended up haiku. But I walked mindfully today, just for this. Thank you 🙂
Mindful Walking, Middle of Winter
January day
of indeterminate mood
shades of brown, of gray
Neither here nor there
just opaque in-betweenness
oblique winterlight
Chill breeze, slow-seeping
without blessing nor cursing
my ghostlike passage
And where are the birds
to reclaim abandoned nests
in these naked trees?
Silence is punctured
by a dog’s loud cries next door
like vivisection
On and on it shrieks
-a rescue, says my neighbor,
first time on a leash
Russet dog, sweet-faced
an indeterminate breed
shivering, afraid
Dog-in-training heels
pausing to consider me
-pretty boy, you’ll learn
No more cries follow
I go on, contemplating
redemption of dogs
When a silhouette
swoops across the woolen sky
with effortless grace
Hovering in place
wings outstretched, never flapping
just riding the wind
We watch each other
one long, suspended moment
this dark hawk and I
Then it soars and flies
sunless, winter-shrouded skies
with echoing cries
And then, only then
a red-brown flash like lightning
from somewhere nearby
Female cardinal
vanishes in rows of cypress
finding asylum
January day
of indeterminate mood
and hidden solace
What a gorgeous poem about walking mindfully! There are so many special sightings, so many lines I love:
the red-brown flash, the suspenseful hovering of the hawk, the oblique winterlight…beautiful!
Fran, I was totally pulled into your walk, observations, and experiences. This poem is so rich in sensory details and color. I liked how you reconnected the “indeterminate mood” but ended with “hidden solace”..What a wonderful journey! Thanks for sharing it!
Wowza, Fran! This is beautiful, just so vivid and real. I love the lyrical flow of the whole poem as well as the blending from stanza to stanza. I’m struck how the grey of winter is so visually beautiful. Maybe it’s that it feels sort of like a canvas for the hawk and the cardinal… a backdrop for a dog trying to make sense of human expectations. So many phrasings satisfy: woolen sky…opaque in-betweenness… winter shrouded…riding the wind… you just really nailed this poem! Well done and thank you for taking me on your walk. Susie
Fran,
What a treat to walk with you on this “indeterminate” day. Your contemplation and vivid description took me through your internal and external walk today, Gorgeous,’
Hi Fran, thank you for sharing this glorious captivating experience of yours. My mouth went “ahhh” at the beauty of this:
d
As I’ve written before, I’m no bird fan, but I truly appreciate the love of them in a poem?. The opening and closing of your poem are perfect for the walk’s beginning and ending. I love this!
Oh, Stacey and Susie . . . thank you so much for these prompts this week. You got me out of my own dang head and noticing more of the beautiful world around me. Your prompts offered great inspiration (and new forms) while allowing us great freedom to allow our minds to go where they needed to. I didn’t get to spend much time in nature today, but I paid special attention as I walked into the adoration chapel for my holy hour.
The Rail
Up to the chapel
along the steps
is a rail.
Iron
Round
Painted
Maybe seven feet long
It provides stability
for those climbing
those six steps
leading to the slight incline
that leads past the hedges
to the chapel door.
The rail has been touched by school kids
and elderly grandmas
and everyone in between . . .
those coming out of obligation
and those coming out of desperation
those who are lost
those looking to be found
those with faith
those searching for it.
When people start up the stairs,
typically their heads are down
their shoulders slumped,
wearing the weight of the day, the week, the year, the life.
The rail is there.
Regardless of need,
most grip it fiercely, tensely,
allowing it to help people them
up the stairs
hoping to transfer some of the strain to it.
The heavy, burdened trudge
of those entering
contrasts
with the lighter, relieved amble
of those leaving.
An hour later for most,
ten minutes for some.
The relief of those coming
down the steps
is obvious to the rail.
Few grab it as tightly
regardless of the need.
Light touches, slight grasps,
even complete disregard.
Because they have adored
and prayed and
placed their burdens at the foot of the Lord.
The walk back to the car is easier.
Even going down those six steps.
By the rail.
~Susan Ahlbrand
19 January 2021
Susan, I just want to thank heaven for this rail and its stories. The faithful, walking away unburdened, along the stability of that rail. So beautifully rendered.
Susan—this right here.
The rail has been touched by school kids
and elderly grandmas
and everyone in between . . .
those coming out of obligation
and those coming out of desperation
those who are lost
those looking to be found
those with faith
those searching for it…
The comfort in these lines is palpable…
What a clever focus – the rail! So taken for granted, so very important. I loved imagining all the different people going up and down, and these lines especially:
Gosh, Susan, this is exquisite. You did exactly what, in my mind, Nikki G. and Stacey did with the bench and the tree… something so seemingly ordinary brought to a whole deeper understanding. Susan, you ought to read this in church… it reads like a prayer… and I think it sounds and feels spiritually uplifting. That rail is so much more than just a chunk of wood and you lay that out with eloquence. Thank you. Susie
Yesss, hallelujah! I see God in all of this, especially in the rail! What a beautiful heaven-sent poem. Thank you for going in the adoration chapel and seeing something that has always been right there with you. Divine!!!
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So grateful I got to read this before my night took over!
Having arthritis in my knees I love rails! This is a wonder honor to them. You have described them exactly. What burdens they carry for those of us that grab tight going up!
I have been looking for the right moment to honor these trees.
Elms on Death Row
Three trees stand solemnly
in a row just as planted
nearly one hundred years ago
Each tendril root
tapped deeply into place
somnolently holding to earth
Craggy rough bark
like aged hands so many
life stories harbored there
Each now marked: a bright red dot
some roughshod city worker
sprayed just doing his job
Their days are numbered
soon hewn to stumps
then those ground flush
I place my hand on one
breathe in breath out
say “Thank you”
then the next: Thank you.
then the next: Thank you.
Lest they go from this world
unappreciated for all
they have provided.
Thank you.
Hauntingly beautiful, woven with a rich tapestry of language (somnolently caught me hard; the elms don’t know what’s coming). I have an ache in my heart at the image of you touching each one and thanking it for its provision. Images from Richard Powers’ The Overstory come back to me…wonder if I could chain myself to a tree, for its salvation… I loved every line, even with the heartache, Denise.
I lived in Oregon for a time and knew both timber families and met people who lived in trees to help save them. Theirs are distinctly different worlds, but both had their own version of respect for the trees and nature. It was tough to see elders displaced from their work in lumbering, trying to come back to college and learn new skills. When timbering has been in the family for generations, there is also a kind of extinction going on, people who felt their lives end while they were still breathing. I am all for the trees, but working directly with those impacted was heart wrenching. I heard of Powers’ book, but I can’t bring myself to read it. Is it really all so sad?
I feel this down to my toes. Trees aren’t supposed to be taken away, are they? So glad you shared your thanks with us.
Love these lines so much:
What these trees must know! I imagined you thanking each one – how respectful and caring!
Whoa, Denise – This one really hit me hard. The title… I didn’t get it at first, but when I did, my eyes welled up. You touched a chord when you touched those 3 trees. Oh man. And it really worked to let me see the cavalier worker painting the red dots… I wanted to scream… what a contrast! Super poem. Whoof. Thank you for the sensitivity and heart. Susie
“Their days are numbered”- this line really stands out to me.
I love that this is a poem of appreciation. It’s beautiful.
Denise, this gesture is so beautiful. The title is haunting, but you bring some sweetness to what is inevitable. Thank you, indeed, to the trees.
I love this description:
It makes it even sadder that they have to go.
Stacey—thank you for the inspirations-this week has been a bright spot in a tough time… the video and the mentor poem were fantastic—what a beautiful friendship those women had! Your sycamore has witnessed so many things. My focus stopped inside today—my and my husband’s stuffed pandas occupy places of pride in front of the fireplace in our living room. They have witnessed our lives and those of our children—what will their future be?
Teddy bears
Two stuffed bears
Remnants of our separate childhoods
Retrieved from old boxes…
Sharing our todays.
Rumpled, rough skinned, tattered
worn, loved threadbare
Once black and white—
Now dimmed with age,
light and dark
faded to muted grays.
How did they survive the years to
follow us to this room?
Who loved them enough to preserve
their sad button eyes?
Two old teddy bears, unrelated,
bound together in our time.
Who will love them when we are gone?
gjsands53@gmail.com 2021
Gayle, thank you for your words of support and for being here to write! I have fallen in love with your pandas! Awww, this melts my heart:
I would have never thought to take the perspective you chose today. That’s what I love so much about this community of writers, all the various forms, ideas, lessons, etc that fill me all the way up!
What will come of your pandas when you are gone? Is the email a possible request for someone to adopt them in advance? LOL
Thank you for this heartwarmer today!
Gayle!
Just seeing the words “Teddy Bears” made me smile. And then thinking about the “todays” and being “bound together in our time” offers such comfort with the word “our” but what remains has me feeling melancholy — that question about what will happen to the teddy bears. I can tell you that they will live on in this poem and our hearts as we now carry the teddy bears with us all.
Peace,
Sarah
Relics of our childhoods are so fascinating – these especially, that both you and your husband had stuffed pandas. It’s a “meant-to-be” thing. Those pandas belong together… “how did they survive the years” … well, love, of course! They have each other and I cannot help but wonder at all the stories they might tell. Stories, like poems, preserve us… here I am, trying to immortalize your beloved bears. Your words pull on the heartstrings.
Gayle, I love this . . . the emotion shines through in a powerful way.
My favorite lines:
“Rumpled, rough skinned, tattered
worn, loved threadbare
Once black and white—
Now dimmed with age,
light and dark
faded to muted grays.”
This is so very dear! I am imagining these two bears at your fireplace,
Precious.
So little depends
upon the upended
gray, plastic wheel barrow
misted with snow flakes
beside the wooden fence
until summer comes
when Heather will use it
as mixing bowl,
will pile it full
from our garage turned
horticultural apothecary
to concoct some (un)earthly
mixture to help plant
and nurture new growth.
Scott, I love your voice in this poem. I grabbed these lines because it reminds me of a partner’s willingness to be supportive of something not so fun:
to concoct some (un)earthly
mixture to help plant
and nurture new growth.
I appreciate your swift move from snow to summer in my mind. It works beautifully. I’m wondering what the wheel barrel may want to do in the snow. Thanks for triggering my curiosity! Fun, fun, fun poem!
Scott — You have a transformation poem here… that plastic barrow via Heather becomes a sort of crucible for new outcomes… I really enjoy your word choices in such a seemingly simple scene…”horticultural apothecary” (love that) and “(un)earthly/mixture”… I like that sort of sorcery feel. Whether your poems are long stream-of-consciousness or short snapshots, I find myself drawn to them and am never disappointed. So glad you wrote again today. Susie
Scott,
Thank you for this nod to Whitman and this turning over of the barrow by Heather to reimagine and make use of it anew. Love this multisyllabic line “horticultural apothecary” that will find the mixture we all need for growth. Beautiful!
Sarah
Loved the allusion here, and the horticultural apothecary your wife has created! You need with a positive hope for the spring—will we actually get there??
I love your twist on Whitman’s poem. I want to go on a hunt for something that is waiting to be useful again. I like your comparison to the mixing bowl.
This is just so fun. I am thinking of “seasons” and possibility now. “So little depends upon…UNTIL…” What a fun thing to think about.
Very well stated, Scott. We have a similar wheelbarrow that sits now and measures the rain. I love the idea that yours is misted with snow flakes beside the wooden fence. Scenic!
Stacey, I love the contrast between the every day imagery (dogs peeing, runners stopping for a rest) and the profound and necessary BLM message for justice. Beautiful!
McClellan Circle
People who live in Buffalo
Love Buffalos
And, naturally, you will see them everywhere
On jackets and hats
On t-shirts and pants
On front doors and flags
Of course, there are statues of
Buffalo families lining the highways
And grazing the sidewalks outside restaurants
In your mom’s garden
Standing next to rotting pumpkins
Under tomorrow’s snow
(I’ve never been to Los Angeles
But do all the locals put
Angels on everything there?)
Here we have our favorite statue
A buffalo watching a traffic circle
Sometimes responsibly wearing a mask
Back in April, the baby
(The only Buffalo-born of the family)
Discovered the statue
He insisted
That we stop and visit
Every time it caught his eye
There aren’t just Buffalos on his clothes
Or everywhere he goes
There’s Buffalo in his blood (and it shows)
Alex—- Ahahaha! I love this… all those Buffalo logos, paintings, murals… too funny. It does beg the question about other towns… say, Corvallis, OR… it is true, there are beavers ? everywhere. A friend and I found ourselves taking pictures of beavers that even overlook intersections and beaver crossing signs. I chuckled with your masked Buffalo. Ha! Funny! Totally delightful poem! Thank you. Susie
Thanks, Alex! This was a fun poem and I had to laugh at the angels in Los Angeles. NOPE, NO, NADA! If there are a bunch of angels around, I have to venture to say they’re in the spirit realm only. ?
I am laughing at the buffalo families lining hallways! OMG.
But the lines and image I love is:
What a hoot this is for me to imagine all the random buffalo in your city!
Alex, I’ve been to Buffalo and enjoyed an Air BnB that resonated a rustic flair. I agree that places fixate on particular animals, etc. I love how your poem carries us to the cleverly written end
I’m still smiling! Absolutely delightful poem and tone!
My friends from Buffalo will love this. Especially after their teams win last week.
Stacey, your prompt reminded me of a photo another Ethical ELA member posted last week about her walks. She too, lives in this colder climate and one of her photos showed the berries I often sometimes see here in Western Michigan. So, you both inspired my writing today.
Inside Outside Outside Inside
Standing inside, looking outside,
out my condo window,
What do my eyes behold?
Snow on the ground and ice on the pond
Lots of deer tracks all over the place
With bird tracks intermingled like lace.
Standing inside, looking outside,
out my condo window,
What do my eyes behold?
Luscious red berries on branches of trees.
Berries on low branches meet the deer needs.
Berries on high branches are there for the birds
Who can’t find much food in the snow.
Standing inside, looking outside,
out my condo window,
On what does my mind reflect?
The God of the Bible has promised to feed
The deer and the birds and all who have need.
The “all” may need our hands to give.
The “all” may need our giving to live.
There, standing inside, looking outside,
out my condo window,
I see what I must do.
Put hands to work and do more than lurk.
We’ve seen those online requests for funds.
We can pray and ask God, “Are these the ones?
Are these safe places to give?”
He feeds the deer and the birds
Outside
We can be like fingers, “fingers on the hands of God”
Helping humans to eat and so live.
Let’s channel His heart and His love and give.
Yes, we can give from
Inside.
Wooooow!!! I am sure this is a song that you or someone who sings must sing for us someday! Oh my, it’s lyrical like Psalms, loving like God, and instructing us like scriptures. Anna this is brilliant. The repetition makes it even more like a lesson we all must learn. Standing and clapping over here for you and this poem!
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Anna! I was thinking much along the lines of Stacey’s response here. You have written a song, such rhythm and rhyme leading us toward the fabulous metaphor or being fingers, doing the work of loving and giving!
Sarah
OK—Stacey and Sarah stole all the good comments!! This does feel like a song that should be shared, especially th ease days! Thank you!
Anna,
Reading this lovely poem about giving reminds me of the Bible verse, “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace….” I’m sure you know it better than I. That we sow love w/our poetry is perhaps my favorite thing about this community. And as those berries in winter feed the birds and the deer, poetry feeds our souls. I love the repetition and it’s emphasis on looking and noticing, especially in winter that seems so barren but harbors nourishment. Lovely poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
[Note: My “walk” this morning was pretty limited…I walked around my house and settled on a topic that really didn’t merit a photo, but somehow it dished me a poem. Susie]
Toilet Time
My history with the throne,
a sort of wonky metaphor:
in early years I sat the two-holer,
socially never-distant
arrangement –
sibs intruding on my reign
joined right in,
disrupting poetic, regal ruminations,
oblivious to the storied green oak
unadorned, rubbed smooth
from all the asses
that came before.
But today the toity,
the loo, the crapper,
the porcelain palace,
water-closet, privy,
pissoir, commode,
the ablution solution
is the big release,
the flush-away,
the big swirl,
the gone-baby-gone metaphor
for all things I no longer want,
the you-musts and goads,
the haunts that have to go —
it feels so good
to unload.
Today I offer up
the entirety of 2020,
this psychotic episode,
to the toilet,
slam that lever down –
DHOOOSH!
And let
it
drown!
by Susie Morice©
Susie, I laughed out loud as I read your poem! I can agree with slamming that lever down on 2020!
Well crap, Susie, I love your bathroom humor and certitude. I’m right there w/ you:
Flush that turf and all the turds accompanying it, and by it I’m sure you know I have many in mind.
BTW: When we installed new toilets in our home a few months ago (part of the renovations, you know) Ken attached a photo of the orange turd to a stick and stuck it in an old commode. I took a photo and amused myself w/ the image.
Susie—you made my day! DHOOSH—let it go, let it go, let it go!!!
Susie, So funny! “[I]t feels so good / to unload.” This line had me LOLing — literally. “[U]nload” is the perfect word here. It left quite an impact on me, to be honest, and I am relieved to be able to tell you that. (Sometimes potty jokes are the best, amirite!) One of the other things that I noticed after being so moved (I can’t seem to stop) by your poem was the fact that we have a lot of names for “the John.” Lol.
Susieeee, I wish I could record my response as an audio file! Omg, I am in tears laughing. The visuals! Funny thing too is when we become a certain age, isn’t it just normal to talk “toilety” things? I love it. How accurate to name 2020 as a psychotic episode! Perfection! Thank you for the laugh this afternoon! I needed it (right before going in to Zoom for a grade level team meeting w/boss and my guns are locked and loaded)!
Hugs and gratitude!
Love how you can spin joy and laughter out of a poem about the porcelain palace. The literal movement but also the shift from the literal to the figurative (not-so) is just perfect and took me into this lovely “oh-I-see-what-you-did-there-Susie” moment. The punctuation, capitalization, line breaks — makes me feel like “it” is swirling into the hole in the bowl. Yes, let it drown and bring with it the pain from the last couple weeks, too.
Peace,
Sarah
Susie, your humor is absolutely gold, and I love the idea of flushing all the bad of 2020. I especially enjoyed the lines:
Your verbiage for the porcelain throne is truly priceless! Thanks for the laugh! Loved it!
Oh Susie, we have do many common experiences! We only called the out house the throne. When someone stayed in you long!
This is so funny! I love it! Then the final lines of giving 2020 to the crapper. Perfect!
Susie, you just had to take a short mindful walk today and you found a treasure. Thank you for the memories of outdoor toilets and this sweet image of letting go of 2020 this way.
Susie this is so very clever and hilarious! Thank you for the best laugh I had all day!
I took my one chance to escape my computer and classroom and made my walk as mindful as possible. I have night school tonight, so my opportunity to take a real walk in the real air is limited to the building to the car to another building. Some nights, I catch a glimpse of sunsets or moonrises that are worthy of poems….today, this is all I get. I have enjoyed walking with ya’ll today through parks and yards and neighborhoods.
My
one chance
to use the
bathroom between
meetings and Meets and
emails: a quick respite.
I take my time, trod slowly–
echoes from closed doors, whiff of lunch,
patches of paint peeled by anxious teens,
a new poster announces yearbook sales.
Betsy — A walk through your school…I love that. It all rings so familiar… all those blasted meetings… But I really loved “echoes from closed doors, whiff of lunch/…paint peeled…/…poster…” School is its own world and so so so predictable. I love the etheree structure of the poem. So glad you could post despite that killa schedule! Thank you! Susie
Well, Betsy, you have taken me on this slow trod with you and I can see it in the clearest of details! Thank you for considering even a walk to the bathroom as an opportunity for a mindful moment. It worked beautifully! I also love that you didn’t worry about following my form suggestion. Nothing worse than letting a prompt become a headache. Thank you for sharing this sensory escape!
I almost did my poem on this same topic. It is so difficult to get outside during the week.
How must it feel to be FOR SALE–
to be exposed here in the curve
of the cul de sac where quarantined
neighbors mark you as their
turn-around;
you, not the fire hydrant
where their poodle lifts a leg,
you, not the light post,
Frank leaning in for a quad stretch?
FOR SALE is shame on an iron naughty
step watching siblings play Candy Land.
How must it feel to be FOR SALE–
catching the eye of Georgia, noticing
her imaginings in a lingering glance,
Penny plotting her dream house on
your vacant lot;
a wrap-around porch sipping sweet tea,
maybe a pool overlooking your ravine?
FOR SALE is hope on a glossy plastic
sign held up by 30″ aluminum stakes.
How must if feel to be FOR SALE —
no more.
FOR SALE is home on a dusty, country
corner filled with us where squirrels,
mockingbirds, turkeys, deer, and cattle
take their quarantined turns
watching us play our version of
Candy Land: this game called life in
Oklahoma.
Sarah,
I don’t know that I’ve thought so much about the ambiguity and juxtaposition of “For Sale” the way this poem entices me to do. I love the personification, suggesting rejection, detached utilitarianism, and finally acceptance. And in this moment I can’t help but think about the larger implications of being “For Sale,” those beyond a dwelling to people and influence. I just love the way you complicate my thinking and force me to step back and consider again. It’s an exercise in slow reading and thinking. Thank you.
—Glenda
Sarah, your poem is so provocative. As I read and reread, I am struck by the emotion of this poem. I feel a wide range from shame, to rejection, to humiliation, and also a sense of longing perhaps to belong. This poem is so intriguing, and the ending lines are particularly striking
Overall, I loved the way you pulled me into this scene and revealed your thought process and observations. Reading your poem, makes me wish this place wasn’t virtual. Thanks for taking me to a new place to ponder what it does mean to be “FOR SALE”.
Sarah, Sarah, Sarah! Again, you take me places I’ve never been in poetry and not in reality. I was captivated by the first questioning of how it must feel to be FOR SALE. Loved how you offered so many emotions for something we NEVER think about. What caught me most were the people, Frank, Georgia & Penny!
You are too much, Sarah! Is there a follow-up when the home is built on the vacant lot? Thank you for giving this gift to us today!
Sarah, I had an emotional response to your poem. One of sadness and loneliness for this house. Now for the rest of my life I will always wonder if every house for sale is sad about being FOR SALE.
Broken Tree
Once so proud and tall like a soldier guarding the tomb
Broken and splintered after a war
Lay the oak
A life of stories it’s silence screams
Laughter and giggles are haunted memories
Of inner rings
Squirrels scratching and tickling fissured, dark bark
Scampering up and down
Around in hide n seek
Just once more the oak
Dreams of waving green tresses
Bracing for an eagle’s claw
Cradling a nest of just hatched
Dark eyed Juncos
Now – laying on a cold winter blanket of thorns
Bent …
Snapped…
Forgotten…
WOW! So brilliant to write from the fallen oak’s perspective! This really resonates with me:
Laughter and giggles are haunted memories
Of inner rings
Thinking about the fact that they hold the rings which are symbolic for repetition…the laughter and giggles almost taunting the fallen tree. Oh my, you really got me with this one. I read it right before opening class and I’m glad I stopped to read. Thank you!
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Robyn, what beauty! This makes me think of Shelverstein’s The Giving Tree. These lines are ringing for me:
Laughter and giggles are haunted memories
Of inner rings
Beautiful!
Robyn—“ A life of stories it’s silence screams” is contrasted with all the pleasant memories contained in is rings. A poem both uplifting and so very sad…
I loved the video! Thank you. There’s nothing like hearing a poet read their own words. I’m grateful for those moments of joy in my day.
The Shed
I’m afraid to go in to the old shed now.
The rusty old tiller with remnants of garden weeds
Reminds me that he doesn’t garden anymore.
I’ve lost count of the number of old bikes piled on top of each other.
The kids still remember the old yellow banana-seat bike.
Bikes that no one rides anymore.
Hoses with holes still hang on the peg.
I’m not sure why.
And always the smell of the gas can and dying grass.
The once-white shed doors are worn and raggedy.
The padlock doesn’t keep the neighbor’s cat out.
Daily he comes stalking by, crouching low.
I wonder what he might catch
In a shed that doesn’t scare him.
Marilyn,
This is such an evocative poem. I can see the old banana seat bike, the hoses, the cat crouching among these beautiful ruins. There is a nostalgia and longing in decay. Maybe it’s the stories that appeal to us the way you’ve evoked them in this celebration of the old shed. Love it.
—Glenda
Thank you so much for the feedback. You named my feeling – nostalgia and longing.
Good heavens, Marilyn, this is strikingly poignant. In a shed so full there is a sense of hollow emptiness in the haunting tone. The aging of doors and the piles of unused afterbirth of vigorous living gnaws on me. This is really a moving poem… and oddly a bit like a still-ed life. Gosh! Beautifully done! Thank you, Susie
Thank you for reading my poem. I’m always a little fearful in posting. Your thoughtful response has given me more to think about, too.
Marilyn,
I feel like this is the first poem in a verse novel. I want to know more about “him” who doesn’t garden anymore imagining the shed as a metaphor for remembering, for utility, and even for that which no longer scares (like wisdom? or apathy?). There is much for me to ponder, and that banana seat brings back lots of memories. Thank you.
Sarah
Marilyn, your poem appeals to all of my senses and my heart. It seems as though time has stood still in that shed. The same with my garage. I am so happy you posted your beautiful poem.
Marilyn, you have given all of my senses a sweet nudge. I had both an eerie feeling and a sadness all at same time. I wanted you to get the hoses down and start washing away the sadness. I also felt a distinct connection to the items that get stacked, stuffed, hung, and left to be without human touch. It’s a loss that really has no words. Wow. I’m captivated.
I want to read this story…
Marvelous poem, Marilyn!
Hills of Rock
By Nancy White
There are my old friends
I say “hi” to them each day
They respond “hello”
They’re easy to love
Especially at sunset—
They take on a glow
And shine with a blush
Tan meets rose and shades of rust
These rocks come alive
Each day they see me,
The traffic, and the walkers
They stand two miles to the east
Silently they watch
Most people barely notice
Their confident grace
One year there was fire
And flames shot over the top
We were so alarmed
But, the rocks held fast
They stood and bore all the heat
And kept us all safe
I think I forgot
How lucky we were back then
To have these rock-friends
Now each day I walk
I smile and feel their blessing
Strong, secure, warm light
This poem feels solid like the rocks you describe. I knew you must be from the West when I read:
They’re easy to love
Especially at sunset—
They take on a glow
And shine with a blush
Tan meets rose and shades of rust
These rocks come alive
Just beautiful.
I live at 4,400 feet elevation and see mountains daily, although I’m in the flat valley. I don’t think I could live w/out them as a backdrop, especially given this lovely vision each day:
There’s peace in those hills. Beautiful poem.
—Glenda
Nancy – I love the rocks as protectors. I had not thought of them that way. They’ve more often been beautiful, yes, but also something to navigate, to get over. I admire your Zappai discipline and how smoothly you sculpted it. It’s the rocks! Ha! You artist you!!! Thanks! Susie
Nancy,
I love the perspective here. I enjoyed trying to guess the object under celebration, reading like a mysterious ode. Love the rock-friends — remembering their blessings is a welcome reminder for me today!
Sarah
Nancy, I’m loving your Zappai choices with the focus on your “rock-friends.”
So much beauty to hold here:
Gorgeous tribute to your old friends, rocks! ?
Gorgeous poem, Stacey. I love the way your tree bears witness. I think it’s important to name specific names at the base of this tree where so many life events have happened, important to individuals who experience them but not w/ the national impact of those whose names you name. This is a reminder of history and the role tress have played in our collective tragedies. Love it, my friend.
Walking Path
a circular walking
path slices the
playground at the
school and i wonder
how many children
have circled this
walking path and
counted laps adding
miles to their
soles and souls
as i walk
in early afternoon
after the last
bell rings and
the children have
dispersed onto yellow
school buses into
houses dotting what
once was a fallow
potato field
on this path
i see poems
hover over mountains
a verse rise
in pink sunsets
a rhyme take
shape in stray
balls and abandoned
backpacks forgotten by
children whose play
takes its rightful
place of priority
in this broken
world where many
have walked invisible
paths dreaming america
may in time
stop circling her
ideals and arrive
at that more
perfect promised union
Walking Paths are
destinations leading to
new places keeping
us close to home
stretching our imaginations
like a travel brochure
we browse longing for
exotic adventure or
a new promised land
beyond this cracked
broken circle we’ve
walked four hundred
years awaiting an
estimated time of arrival
—Glenda Funk
I love this metaphor, Glenda—the walking trail and the broken seemingly endless circular path of our nation. I think of the Israelites and 40 years of wandering in the desert before reaching the promised land (which was not that far from their starting point!) I, too, await a more perfect Union.
I enjoyed the way you went from local to the dream of what is possible in America. The last phrase “awaiting an estimated time of arrival” left me with a gut-punch of feelings. Here’s to hard work and hope.
Glenda- You are the master of the big circle….I feel like I was walking with you, both of us rambling and absorbing the importance of kids stepping into this circle to help the country get itself on track. I lobe the structure of this poem! Love it! Thank you for your wisdom today! Susie
Glenda,
I was struck by the lower case “i” and felt such a resistance to the upper case when wondering about the children going about their day, even a resistance to capitalizing America – -maybe it was just me wanting to stay in the assonance of the “i” throughout, felt comforting somehow. And then Walking Paths was capitalized – like a call to imagine, move “beyond this cracked/broken circle”. Such a feeling I am experiencing with this, Glenda.
Sarah
Glenda, I’m with Sarah here! I have goosebumps. That lower case “i” means so much. The first half (and even a bit further) have me thinking and connecting your text to Jamaal May’s “There Are Birds Here.” These lines are so important: “by / children whose play / takes its rightful / place of priority / in this broken / world.” Thank you for this!
I absolutely love the way your poem looks, each line being virtually equal in length – much like a walking path. These lines soared within me:
This is what walking does for me, always. Sets my mind free to play with words.
Well, Glenda, here again is one of those poems that I could copy/paste and block-quote the whole piece! If it were cake, I’d never eat it. It would have to sit and be admired before taking even one slice. Ohhhh what do I choose to pull out from the treasure? I loved this stanza because it gave me warm fuzzies for my students I so deeply miss watching run and play on the playground:
Then the pure glory of this stanza just wows my soul:
So I obviously love it all. The final turn around the circle to our nation’s promises in comparison to a brochure…what a clever choice, so accurate!
Bravo, my friend! You do it every time! ????????
Wow, you found an idea–so simply stated in the first stanza, poetically extended in the beginning of the second, and then developed into a full-throated extended metaphor for what is going on in our country and how we await a more perfect Union. Thank you.
I love the images of after the children go home and you are there in the quiet, you see the poems:
The style you used was very effective today.
Back in Dhaka after being in Colorado for a month and Texas for a week. Came back to AQIs of 200, 300, 400, 500 and 768 at one point today supposedly…I’m not “allowed” to leave my apartment. Fine, I don’t want to ANYWAY. I’m not really sure how to add a picture of what’s outside my window in the mornings but it’s like a sauna. Just gray. Can’t even see the buildings next door. Sometimes this is not a great place.
Haiku Turned Zappai
A natural dream
Of the clean air in Texas
Clear blue sky all ‘round
All I heard was wind
Juniper blues on the ground
Peace among the trees
Colorado snow
Crisp air to breathe in deeply
Jack rabbits race by
Mountain peaks capped white
Snowy drops in the distance
Haiku turned zappai
You want me to walk
Outside but I’m unable
I have to stay in
I don’t have COVID
But it has been agreed we
Shall self-quarantine
After returning
From a far away country
Where I could roam free
So I’ll look outside
But all I see is gray smog
Not one speck of green
No nature for me
This is a zappai for sure
Now to choke on fumes
Wow Angie, I can’t imagine! What stark contrasts! My senses felt jarred as I read this. To go from such beauty and open space to total enclosure and gloom— seems almost unreal! I hope you stay safe and strong. ?
Angie,
The contrast in places you’ve constructed reminds me of how much I take for granted as I look at the blue skies out my window. I love the play on words and form here:
I hope that quarantine lifts soon.
—Glenda
Angie — Gosh, I forgot that you were living in Bangladesh. Whoof! The contrasts of the TX sky and the CO peaks with the passive voice of “it has been agreed we/Shall…” and then gray smog, no green, no nature…. and “cook[ing] on fumes.” Oh wow! You are a warrior to steel yourself against those contrasts! Thank you for sharing these images. (don’t open your window!) Susie
Oooweeee Angie! Dang. I’m speechless!
Thank you for giving the Zappai the opportunity to share this story with us. It is truly remarkable. I literally felt myself go into darkness and gloom with you. I’m sorry if my prompt was insensitive to your conditions, but I sense that you’re okay with the suggestion to walk outside, but let the quarantine have a piece of your mind. Fingers crossed.
Your poem’s title is spot-on! I went from one emotion to the opposite right there with you.
Safely hugging you! ?
No! Not insensitive at all. I liked to compare and contrast the settings. I’m grateful for wherever I Am at any moment although sometimes things are a bit depressing. I am glad I was able to write something. Thanks for the prompt and another new form I’d never heard of 🙂
Angie,
We had a few weeks of AQIs above 150 but 500? I can’t imagine. I’m so glad you had some recent outside adventures to reflect on. Bravo on the form. My favorite lines:
Colorado snow
Crisp air to breathe in deeply
Jack rabbits race by
Oh Angie, your sensory images bring tears to my eyes! Amazing how olfactory images jerk my heart strings and cause my eyes to leak! Amazing poetic devices working guided by a talented writer.
Stacey, I put off writing until after my walk this morning and love how this prompt helped me notice something new on my walk, Porch Lights. I found myself counting how many neighbors had them on, the way a poet counts by noticing their differences. What a wonderful exercise in mindfulness. I took Nikki’s form and wrote over it. Another day I will write zappai. I want to use that form with my students.
Porch Lights
Porch lights aren’t just light bulbs
sure
We see them on houses, under eaves,
over mailboxes
and yes
Sometimes lamp light flickers
atop an ornate post
of geometric design
or a bulb screwed into
a box made of plasticine
but porch lights are actually
a metaphor
They wake up before dawn
to turn the coffee on,
deliver the daily news,
and alert the dog.
They say “Hi there!”
with a wave
squeeze fresh orange juice
on Saturday morning.
They are origami cranes
hanging for Sadako,
beacon of peace
and All’s well here.
But mostly porch lights
are the sun
before dawn
lightening my burden
on Tuesday.
A lovely poem about porch lights. I think it’s interesting how some people leave them on and some people don’t. I like the metaphor of them waking up before dawn to turn the coffee on best 🙂
Good morning, Margaret! Oh my goodness, another poem that I want to copy/paste and block quote the whole thing! I love how you’ve given something as concrete and not thought about as porch lights so much attention to detail and purpose. First, I fell in love with:
“Sometimes lamp light flickers
atop an ornate post
of geometric design…”
Then you totally had me with:
And of course the end just blew me away! What a fun poem with so many intricate details and love for the poor old porch lights. I don’t know if you’ve read The Important Book, but your poem reminds me of it. Fun, fun, fun!
Oh, Margaret! I love this lyrical celebration of porch lights and the possibilities. Such hope here. The orange juice was a spark of light, too — I began to look around my space but realized I did not need further burden-lightening. Your poem did it for me today! Thank you.
Sarah
I love a porch light! I am usually more aware of them at night, but love the vision of them in the early morning hours. (I have a neighbor with the most lurid orange porch/flood lights.) I appreciate the extended metaphor for the porch lights and what the “say” to us. My favorite line:
Thank you for sharing your walk and poem with us today!
Margaret — You’ve got me thinking… I’ll be looking at those porch light differently now. It’s a wonder, this business of sharing poetry. You wake up my eyes to see nuances and just like that, I’m a bit different. Poof! Way to go! Thank you. Susie
Margaret,
Your tone is so welcoming. Inviting conversation. Just like porch lights.
My favorite lines
“… the sun
before dawn
lightening my burden”
I love the light that lightens especially in the dark hours of the morning.
Thank you, Susie and Stacey for a wonderful week of writing. I’m amazed at not only your prompts and your modeling of excellent writing but also your care to comment on all the offerings. I so enjoy learning how to find and celebrate the good writing of others.
I skipped through my photo roll to find a pic of a squirrel hanging from a very high branch last spring.
Squirrel Magic
you’re a silly clown
I see you holding on from
that high skinny branch
If you fell just now
you’d break your neck –but you won’t
this is all for show
I don’t want to be
jollied or cheered-up I like
being in my head
where I can mutter
and putter and imagine
I’m the only one
I’m the only one
that appreciates this day
all spring blue and green
but you scamper climb
a jungle-gym of oak
chitter-laugh and leap
I sigh and agree
to become your audience
pick up a stick
my stick becomes wand
magic that lets me join you
jumping to new heights
You did a wonderful job with the form. “my stick becomes wand” waves magic over this poem.
Linda, yay!!! I love that you gave Zappai a chance and you did an outstanding job of it too! Your poem is light, fun, and gives me a cute visual with you and the stick! How clever. I don’t know if you had hiccups with the syllable counts the way I did because yours seems like it flowed effortlessly without any glitches. Amazing! Thank you for writing with me this morning.
?
I swear I saw this same image of two squirrels chasing each other all over a tree like your “if you fell right now, you’d break your neck – but you won’t this is all for show” and me and my niece and nephew were like they’re gonna fall!!!! But no they didn’t. Nice images and I miss the squirrels already. I took a walk on my first day in Colorado and paused to look at them in a tree with acorns in their mouths. I love squirrels. Thanks for sharing!
Linda,
This is a brilliant, fresh metaphor. I love the idea of thoughts tumbling and jumping the way a squirrel scurries. I’m a cerebral person, so these lines really resonate w/ me:
Very clever poet, you are. Thank you!
—Glenda
Linda– Here you are in conversation with a squirrel. Gotta love that. The whimsy of picking “up a stick”… a wand… love that. This is a delightful morning moment. My fave is this:
Your voice in these lines is strong and sassy… I feel that. Thank you ! Susie
Stacey, this prompt is lovely today – your sycamore with the stories and signs on the trunk and dogs at its feet inspired me to pull up my camera roll and look back at the Live Oak tree in my brother’s front yard of his new home. I visited at Christmas and adored this tree before I ever made it inside the new house. Funny – I grew up under the Spanish moss-draped oaks of South Georgia and never realized how much I’d miss them when I moved just a few hours north. Thank you for inspiring us these two days!
Majestic Oak
majestic oak
once a tiny acorn
on Union Street
in Brunswick, Georgia
now a fortress
draped in Spanish moss
sprigs of resurrection fern
proving
dormancy is temporary
you gather your people
under your arms
keep their secrets
shade the sun
as they
talk
walk
picnic
live
breathe
I love trees that are friends and family to us as this oak is. The secrets they keep! LOVE that. “Dormancy is temporary” is a line I want to steal. Such a lovely response to today’s prompt.
I moved south and am surrounded by majestic oaks with hanging moss; they inspire many poems. Love “dormancy is temporary”, filled with hope that nature gives us.
Good morning, Kim! Thank you for offering this peaceful beauty today! I adore:
and the love your oak gives to all who it meets. Thank you for writing with me this morning and for your encouraging words.
?
Kim,
I love this poem. It reminds me of the oak in our front yard when I was a child. I’m holding close the promise this tree offers:
This dormancy will pass. Thank you for this gentle reminder.
—Glenda
As someone who still spends a lot of time under South Georgia oaks (my parents have one in their yard that is over 115 years old), your poem spoke to me personally. I loved the image of the “fortress/draped in Spanish moss” and the personification of “you gather your people/under your arms/keep their secrets.” I especially like the detail of the resurrection fern…that is a piece of the tree I have grown to notice and admire as I grew older…and the line “dormancy is temporary” resonates with me after I finished reading the poem. What a beautiful tribute to a beautiful tree!
Kim — This is a beautiful, reverent personification. I love the oak and the journey from acorn to something so majestic…really, that’s quite something, isn’t it? I have to look up “resurrection fern”… never heard of that. I love that your poems teach me new stuff. Hugs, Susie
The old man stopped me
on the path inside the park
and said, before I could stop him,
Let me tell you
something about this bench,
this one here, this bench is named
for the man who led the school,
the one right over there,
a man who had a large nose,
right there, but who was a fine man
at that school when I knew him,
a fine man with a big nose,
and something else, too, he had the
word nose in his name, too,
and isn’t that just something to think about,
and when I replied that I, too,
knew the man, and agreed, but hadn’t
seen this particular bench in the park before,
we were both quiet for a minute,
strangers thinking together of the man
with a large nose who led the school,
right there.
(Sorry for the long prose poem but this happened yesterday and I told myself to remember the rhythm of the conversation as it was unfolding)
Kevin
Kevin,
It’s funny how things happen that way – I’ll bet when you read the poem about the bench, you had to pinch yourself out of the Twilight Zone. Just think – that moment was in the making yesterday to collide with the reflections of today. I love the nose!! Our noses lead us, but they also lead men who lead schools! Makes me think about all that’s in a name.
I like this poem….I like the surprise at the man’s interruption and the side-by-side reflection. I’m caught in the story of it. This poem helps me take a moment too.
I love the rhythm of this, the cadence of conversation, how it meanders around. Reminds me with a chuckle of how R.J. Palacio opens Wonder with the story of Mr. Tushman.
No apologies needed, Kevin, you made a perfect choice to write your prose poem today! I love it. I feel connected to the man, you, the bench, and …
Good stuff, Kevin! Thank you for writing with me this morning!
I love the simplicity in this poem especially “strangers thinking together of the man”. The simple story of a man and a bench and strangers. I MIGHT share this poem with my students as a lesson on when repetition is PURPOSEFUL 🙂
Kevin — What serendipity that your “nose” man is the old man’s “nose” man! This chronicling of an episode is really compelling. I love this poem…I love the coincidence, the humor of a nose, the benches that earned names/dedications, the shared silent moment in the end. Since almost ALL my poems are “long prose poems,” I have no beef with this beauty. I love it. LOL! Thanks.