Re-Encounters with Shaun Ingalls
Welcome to Day 27 of Verselove. We are so happy you are here, however you choose to be present. If you know what to do, carry on; if you are not sure, begin by reading the inspiration and mentor poem, then scroll to the comment section to post your poem. Please respond to at least three other poets in celebration of words, phrases, ideas, and craft that speak to you. Click here for more information on the Verselove. Share a highlight from your experiences thus far here.
Originally from Utah, Shaun currently lives in scorching Las Vegas, NV with his family. Entering his twenty-fifth year in education, he currently teaches high school English. He is pursuing his Ph.D. in Instructional Design because he wants to learn more about blended learning, distance learning, professional development, and effective ways to integrate technology and distance learning in different contexts. Shaun is an RPCV (Returned Peace Corps Volunteer) and speaks Russian and Kyrgyz. He served in Kyrgyzstan from 1997-1999 where he taught at the Arabayeva Pedagogical Institute in Talas, Kyrgyzstan. After that adventure, he taught 7-12 grade “everything” in an Eskimo village in Alaska until 2002 when he decided to move from 40 degrees below zero to 114 above.
Inspiration
Today’s Open Write is inspired by Alicia Mountain’s, “Drift.”
She describes her poem as “an exercise in re-encountering the familiar.” Sometimes cathartic, sometimes frustrating, looking back at our experiences is a form of reflection that helps us understand who we are, and who we hope to become.
Take a moment to take another look at something – poem drafts, at circumstances, at assumptions, chores, beliefs, anything. Has your perspective changed? Do you feel differently now? Take a moment to re-encounter a part of your life, and let it inspire your writing today.
Mountain writes, “More and more, I have come to understand myself as a draft of a person to which I return and try to see again, anew.”
Mentor Poem: LINK TO POEM
Shaun’s Poem
Remember Valentine’s day in the fourth grade?
I remember it like it was yesterday.
We had that teacher who got in trouble.
She was upset by all the colorful language she was hearing
from the students (the boys) on the playground, so she spent hours,
or so it felt,
explaining what all the swear words meant.
It’s a fuzzy memory, but I think we were under strict orders
not to laugh.
That’s the only thing I remember about her.
So it was a cold, damp morning in the vestibule where we
left our slush-covered boots and damp coats, wool hats, and gloves.
I brought a heart-shaped box of chocolates for Monica.
I liked Monica very, very much.
She was fast and had a cowlick.
We used to fly kites together in the field near my house.
Being shy, I put the box of candy in her cubby in the vestibule,
without any identifying information, of course.
The bell rang, and we all gathered into the vestibule to don our winter gear.
I watched Monica gather her things and start to leave without the chocolates.
“I think those are yours,” I say, trying not to reveal too much information.
“No they’re not!”
She was gone.
In the real version of events, my favorite version,
Monica asks, “Did you get these for me?”
“Yes, I did.” Courage and Confidence stand tall together.
We then walked home together, hand-in-hand.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. 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.
Also, in the spirit of reciprocity, please respond to at least three other poets today.
Thank you, Shaun, for this prompt. There are SO many re-encounters I could/should pursue. Here is one.
Prisms
I remember
taking care of
younger siblings,
in some ways
being alone
in a very
large family.
Younger siblings remember
teaming together,
creating mischief
(and suffering
the consequences).
I hold
both of these
prisms
as truth.
Why did I feel alone?
Why was I
(real or imagined)
excluded?
Was my sense
of responsibility
innate or
imposed by
my parents?
I doubt the prisms
will ever merge into one;
what is important
is to know and be myself.
Hi Shaun, thanks for sharing. I like your prompt it is taking me back down memory lane…
Youthful love
When I first met you
I taught how can I even phantom dating you
You were too outspoken
I was quiet and wanted to refrain from the spotlight
You approached me and said lets go out on a date
I aske who me?
Yes you.
Was the a joke I taught to myself
Then you stood starring waiting for a response
I was muted for a minute
Then a resounding yes came from my lips
I went into a trance
This is not for real
We went on the date
I had an amazing time
And you became my soul mate for 21 years
Deeply missed by us
Your memories will forever be in our hearts
Shaun,
Thank you for the prompt and for your poem. The journey of it, and the details (“I put the box of candy in her cubby in the vestibule, without any identifying information, of course.”) paint a vivid picture of that memory and the possibilities that the moment held.
Words
I was ready.
I had practiced in the mirror,
a lyrical shadowboxer,
sharpening my sword,
spitting darts, ready to
grab the prize.
Booths, studios, stages,
cypher spaces,
open mics and showcase nights,
done, done, and done.
This was level up time.
Stepping into the
marble midtown lobby,
security desk sign in,
elevator to the upper floors,
doors open, gold and platinum plaques
lining the walls,
my shiny silver CD in a crisp
white paper pouch.
I was ready.
Stepping into the white room,
heart racing, sit to keep from pacing,
questions answered, I’m ready,
it’s Go Time.
Slip the CD onto the tray
and hit play and–
Freeze.
My mind goes blank.
Words won’t come
as the music plays on,
mocking my silence.
It plays though the verse,the chorus.
30 seconds, 45 seconds
the longest seconds of my life,
and no words.
I stop the music and walk out.
The words return in the
elevator ride down,
the car ride home,
dancing in my head as
I stare at the ceiling
sleepless.
Where were they when
I needed them?
I was ready.
Well, this is just downright sad in the moment, ennit? The narrative flow of this is seamless – and I want to read more! I want to know the story before and after. Alas, that’s a good poem then, too, when it leaves the reader creating storylines in their mind. The character stays with me. Not just in this incident, but how many of us can relate to words practice that never appear as we had wished? The “done, done, and done” is a kind of ‘checklist,’ but has more of a ring of accomplishment or achievement than just the execution of a chore. And, perhaps as people say, everything happens for a reason. Whatif the character had become famous – a whole different life trajectory… So many possibilities to this poem! Thanks, Dave!
Wow, Dave, you have told this story so well. Oh, my, what matter-of-fact descriptions of the set up, and then the let down of not finding the words. The descriptions of the words returning to mock in the elevator, the car ride, and haunting the sleepless nights are palpable.
Dave, your quick phrases and lists create an exciting momentum that delivers us to the ultimate gut punch.
Thank you for the prompt today, Shaun! I recently watched a comedic skit by Daniel Sloss. He compared life to a “jigsaw puzzle” and how everyone has one but has lost the box to it. The Jigsaw puzzle represents us guiding ourselves to find and connect our pieces without directions. I thought I would base my poem on changing perspectives from his analogy.
Jigsaw Puzzle
A puzzle with no directions
All the outside pieces into place
Now what?
What about the middle
What connects with what
Who am I supposed to be?
Who am I supposed to be with?
This is life
A puzzle with no directions
Trial and error everywhere
What I have learned is
There is a lot of room for error
There isn’t a set guideline that you have to follow
Everyone is different
Every path is different
Each piece has four sides to it
What connects with what?
Nobody knows how to fully build their puzzle
We’re all in this together
Keep connecting the pieces
We’ve got this.
Love this! Those two greatest guiding questions – and don’t some of us just keep searching our whole lives for a “fit”? This line as well, “There is a lot of room for error” is so precise for both life and puzzling – how many times do we try to fit that one piece around before we just put it down until later. It’s okay to do the same in life. This is definitely a wisdom-with-age understanding, and even then, “Nobody knows how to fully build their puzzle.” Great analogy poem, Margaret. It actually makes me want to get one of my old puzzles out!
“What connects with what?” I love puzzles and I love this analogy. I will definitely hold onto this poem. I love the way you played with this analogy and looked at the pieces themselves, strategies, and the whole task at hand.
Hi Margaret, thank you for sharing. Your poem is a vivid reminder of how life is. It is indeed a puzzle with no right answers. We live, we grow and we make mistakes.
Shaun,
I love the innocence in your lines and the quirkiness of childhood memory. “It’s a fuzzy memory, but I think we were under strict orders/not to laugh./That’s the only thing I remember about her.” There is something so pure about this scene that I found myself internally snickering with your 4th grade class.
Stepping Through the Storm
I had just left the doors of the
Campus cafe, bag gingerly
Strapped into my back,
Crutches just beneath
My armpits as I limped
And gimped and hopped
And bopped my freshly
Sewn-together hip towards
Philosophy with Dr. Kagan,
A crack of thunder barely
Filled the sky before the
Heavens poured down with fury.
Screams filled the sky as students
Ran for cover. My teammate looked
Helplessly and pitifully upon my fate.
“I’ll take your bag to class, but I’m sorry–
I’m not standing in this with you.”
And with that, my bag was swiftly saved
From saturated demise, as were pages of
Stoics, Nihilists, and Romantics.
Alone in the storm, I had to accept
This moment- the deafening rain,
My gingerly constricted progression of movement,
And the absurd comedy of it all.
A laughter I have not heard since the
Days of monkey bars and twisted slides,
Galoshes in the rain stomping through puddles,
Escaped my lips without warning.
The rain warm against my skin,
Cleansing all that had been touched,
All that had been taken, a peaceful joy
Which I thought had been snatched away
One summer night suddenly returning.
How soon I was reminded to step forward
Through the storm,
Reminded that the deepest wounds can heal,
Reminded that laughter exists under blackened skies,
Even when all others have run away, unwilling
To bear the storm with you, and
That is precisely what you need.
Rhiannon,
Every shift in the poem is seismic. So powerful–“A laughter I had not heard…”, “How soon I was reminded to step forward through the storm”. This poem builds and that last stanza is so cathartic.
Hi Rhiannon, thank you for sharing. Your poem highlighted the ugly truth and people and times when we need them the most the disappear. But yes wounds do heal and eventually our dark days become brighter.
Decisions
Taking decisions…
what a task
While it may take a few
seconds to decide
It may take forever to finally
take the risk and do it
As if time never passed
or does it?
While all of a sudden you encounter
yourself in the same spot
As if you had already taken a decision
or did you?
Getting back to “re-encounter” with
the person you were before taking a decision
It is time to decide
Should I?
I like your questions, Carolina. I think we all second guess ourselves and our decisions. You’ve captured indecisiveness perfectly.
Oh Carolina, this poem made me feel so good to know that someone else may take forever to finally decide and then wonder if it had already been done. That happens to me all the time!
Carolina – I really liked the structure of your poem. The couplet give it a sort of see-saw that fits the indecision of it. Taking a “risk” is that see-saw… and not coming to one side or the other in the end, you bring us to where we all are… “should I?” So clever! And being in the “same spot” lies in the middle is surely the fulcrum of the decision making.. teetering. Perfect! Susie
Thank you Shaun for the opportunity to re-encounter and reconsider a favorite topic of my attention and writing!
Beach Re-Encountered
Revealing itself one step at a time
under a veil misty wet, thicker than it seems
bare feet navigate water’s edge
air like a shower without drops
swirling, coating every surface
turning technicolor to monochrome
Landscape etched in pencil
blurred in the distance
the world slows
tunnels
forces focus
stay in the moment
Breathe in the quiet
punctuated by waves
ebbing, flowing
wash away the day
let bare feet lead the way
@kd0602
This is lovely, Kim. I really like the images in your first stanza. I wanted to read it over and over again.
Wonderful. Wonderful. You have taken me back to the beaches on the coast of Oregon, Kim. Haystack Rock. Every beach really is a unique place, and there are no beaches in Michigan like the ocean beaches. I could FEEL this line, “under a veil misty wet, thicker than it seems” and “air like a shower without drops” are such perfect ways to describe that atmosphere. It is thick and heavy, and yet – it’s all suspended there. I can still feel how it was ‘thick’ just to breathe. And how the land appears through that veiled air, “Landscape etched in pencil / blurred in the distance.” I would not have thought of that pencil etching comparison – it is so perfect! Thanks for that memory road trip!
“Landscape etched in pencil,” such great imagery for many horizons at oceans beaches. I enjoyed being transported there by your poem, Kim.
Feeling tired today…this is my “unable to see my way to re-encountering” poem: I just can’t compete.
Windows to the Soul?
In front of the classroom,
explaining how to create
an annotated bibliography;
enthusing about the beauty
of Shakespeare’s language;
exploring the inner workings
of an amazing poem…
I look out, hoping to
meet eyes, seeking for
understanding (or its lack),
knowledge to use to help me
determine my next
direction and pace.
What do I see?
Very few eyes, but rather,
the backs of screens,
large and small.
Oh, sure…it’s “against the
rules,” but we all know
how far
those “rules” can really
stretch in the face of
extreme
addiction.
I wish I knew how to
“re-encounter,” to
“re-see” this problem, to
somehow see it as an
“opportunity…”
but I just don’t know how,
and some days, it feels like
the straw–the one thing
that may
ultimately
push me out.
Julie, I feel the frustration and the sadness of this poem. You titled it so cleverly, and I like how it works on the phone level too. This experience reflects one that I unfortunately encounter too: “What do I see? / Very few eyes, but rather, / the backs of screens,”. Sending you positive vibes that tomorrow is a better day!
Wow. The formatting you used at the end made me sigh. Thanks for sharing!
Julie,
I swear I become more and more of a Luddite by the day (she says as she connects with a stranger through a screen). It is immensely frustrating. Interesting to read “we all know
how far those ‘rules’ can really stretch in the face of extreme addiction.” Something about your use of the word ‘extreme’ gives me a sense of compassion for their plight, but simultaneous anger towards those who contribute the perfect coding to feed their needs (perceived or otherwise). It is a strange time in a strange life.
Julie, your poem highlights the struggles that educators face as they try to plan to meet the needs of their students. Thanks for sharing and despite the frustration we experience great joy when we know that we are making a difference in the lives of others.
Shaun, thank you for hosting today. Your poem reminds me of how sometimes we wish things would go the way they want because reality sucks sometimes. Oh Monica, if she would’ve just taken the dang chocolates and said thank you. It’s like your bubble burst. Young love can leave people very distraught.
When I first opened this prompt for today, I was dreading it. I have written so many things and I didn’t know where to start. I let the day go by and when I finally had time to sit, I found a gem. I found this poem in the Notes on my phone. I wrote it back on March 6, 2016, the day after my grandmother’s funeral.
Here is the original:
Pain brings life, death brings pain,
A walk in sunshine, a walk in the rain.
Breathing one breath into existence,
With the last breath not showing resistance.
Your imprints in this world leave a lasting
impression
to extinguish life.
Here it is revisited:
Death and pain are a part of life,
but so are joy, rainbows, and blue skies
washing away the hurt and despair.
Rain and shine can coexist.
Liquid sunshine,
refreshing souls after a scorcher.
What was once dormant,
now emerges,
Breathing new life into what was once
lifeless.
Lasting impressions left behind
through many generations…
and many more knick-knacks.
Imprints of a Sassy Soul,
your life may be extinguished
here on Earth,
but shine and showers
are how you communicate
From Heaven above,
your own Morse code.
Wow, Jessica. This poem makes me think about the legacy a person leaves behind both literally and figuratively (“knick-knacks / imprints of a Sassy Soul”) and that life certainly has its highs and lows. What a beautiful piece created in such a time of grief. Thank you for sharing!
Thank you so much Rachelle. I feel myself opening up old wounds through writing. It’s definitely a healing place to process things.
Ohhh! This is a wonderful – albeit sad – revisit, Jessica. Your first poem is a nice “capture” of an emotional event, but time and retrospect and how you approached it in this revision really elevate the meaning and impact. I can envision these lines, “Rain and shine can coexist. / Liquid sunshine,” on those days when – yes – there is full sun and also full-on rain coming down. It is a curious but beautiful commentary on nature and the balance we are all a part of. I like the ring to “shine and showers” – it’s kind of folksy and also a kind of reflection in tone of the “Imprints of the Sassy Soul.” I don’t know what that might refer to (in caps), but I just like the sound of it! I also hate going “back over” in my life, but this is proof that it can sometimes help us to re-envision and re-frame and, as you say, help us to heal. Very sweet, Jessica.
Thank you Denise. My grandmother has been showing up in mysterious ways this week, so I attributed that to her mode of communication- Morse Code, but it definitely isn’t dots and dashes. More like channeling through her great-granddaughter. She had an accident with my grandmother’s table, splitting in into two clean pieces. I had moved it during Spring cleaning to its current location. She was broken up about it, literally. But in my reflection and further investigation, I found the table wasn’t that secure…and the only other thing that broke was a picture frame from the local Goodwill. So when you said reframe….I did have an entire new mindset, the gift of grace and appreciation. I never saw my grandmother in bad times, even up until her death-she died peacefully after a heart attack. My grandmother was a strong supporter. And that table helped her get up after she fell. She is still here. Gotta get that table fixed. And thank you for this revelation!
Memories
By Mo Daley 4-27-22
The news came crashing like a hurricane
her memory is going haywire
Mild Cognitive Impairment
sixty-four-years young
How can this be?
Will she forget the dress she loaned me
For my eighth-grade graduation?
Will she forget the rosettes she made me
that caused the fire that burned down her house?
How long will she remember the sweet faces
of her grandchildren?
How long will she remember me?
Mo,
This is heart wrenching! It is such a difficult space to be in with a loved one who has “mild cognitive impairment.” A hurricane is a perfect metaphor because one’s emotions are everywhere and nowhere all at once. I’m so sorry.
Oh, gees. This is heavy. It is crushing news, as all bad news can be at first. Sixty-four, as we now know, is still so young! But the poem also makes me think of why we think memories are so important. Why do we need to have someone remember that borrowed dress, the rosettes, the grandchildren? We want the connection, we want the person we “knew” before their mind changed, but the person is still a person, and we still hold those memories even if others cannot. We become the memory keepers, and the memories are all still beautiful. The person is still beautiful, just different.
Mo, the shift from “will she” to “how long will she” feel significant here. Memory loss is such a cruel part of our relationships and the aging process.
Mo, your poem reflects some of the experiences of our elderly family members. Lost of memory is terrible. Stay strong.
The spring light stretches
and three states away
a beloved teacher says
they’re not returning
to the classroom
carrying exhaustion
mourning faith.
Breathe releases
frail wishes
but then catches–
hoping their heart
heals ravaged dreams
like trees struck
by lighting, wounds
seal but remember,
the day you begin
to feel rested
and see possibilities
again, like branches
you reach toward &
may open the classroom
door again.
Sarah – the image of that lightning scarred tree is so rich here… and it fits so well. So many in this world of schools, teachers, students… this community is truly facing unprecedented wounding. I so appreciate the sensitivity of this poem. To have dreams delayed, twisted, burned… I hope for that open “classroom door.” Susie
Sarah, this says it so well. There have been many, many days when I say I am finished with teaching and other obligations but then the day I begin to feel rested, the doors open again. I enjoy your poem that shares these feelings. Sometimes I think it is just me that feels that way.
Sarah,
I’m a long-time teacher in my school and I’ve seen so many teachers come and go. I love your metaphor of a tree–possibly growing back toward the classroom. I believe that, like a tree, you have to just stubbornly grow like those that cling to cliffs, and once firmly established, nothing can budge you. Like you, I hope they catch hold, too.
Shaun, thank you for the poem you wrote for us–I like how you reevaluated endings to that moment. Because I teach high school, I often reflect on what I was like as a high schooler.
I worried so much about grades
doing homework all through the night
I had to get everything just right
for if I did, it would pay off in spades
but with time, the urgency fades.
So what if your GPA has a few dings?
Now, I teach students different things:
Talk to teachers, dance, code, explore!
Surprise yourself by participating more.
Enjoy the happiness this philosophy brings.
Rachelle- I feel the relief here in just letting yourself breathe and push away those perfectionist badgerings. A wonderful transformation. Susie
Rachelle,
Yes! You capture so well the contrast between our own high school experiences (yours much more recent than mine) and those of today. There are so many pressures that teaching kids to “Talk to teachers, dance, code, explore! \ Surprise yourself by participating more,” is indeed what needs to be done more. Nice!
Rachelle,
It is so interesting to look back on what we thought mattered so much that we often considered it life and death, only to realize as an adult how much unnecessary pressure is put on kids today. I love how you took your experience to intentionally avoid recreating that space for your students today. Kudos, and my thanks for this delightful piece.
I love this prompt, but I find that when I replay scenarios, it takes me to an place of anxiety. I question everything I did and make it all about how I messed things up.
Here is how that happens for me.
As I close my eyes
Each night I relive each encounter
Each conversation
An endless loop
I analyze what I said
What you said
The face I made
And yours in response.
I like to think this makes me a better person
One who reflects and learns
But really this makes me an over analyzer
An Overwhelmed worrier
Tonight I spiral and realize I need to stop
I try to ground myself by focusing on James the cat
Focus on the fur I am petting
Count his toe beans
And with each breath
And each toe bean
I slowly begin to
Stop the re-encounters.
Alexis, I can completely relate to this. I tend to think and rethink through conversations I’ve had and how what I said might have been interpreted. You’ve captured that worry and anxiety but also show us how to breathe through that. So glad James the cat is there for you! Your honest take on this prompt is powerful.
OMGosh! Yes! I’ll bet loads of us here are “overanalyzers”! That’s what makes for great writers, ennit?! : ) Aside from that, a colleague and I just shared that we both go through this same thought process you described here, and we also both “blurt.” As we are recalling something we can’t let go of, usually berating ourselves for some behavior of our own, we shout out, maybe “Stupid!” or “Why did I say that?” or “Dominos!” or whatever word related to the event. Even just, “Ugh!” And of course, around other people, so our partners will be like, “What?” And we respond, “Oh, nothing…” I love the “bean” counting. I never thought to call kitty paws beans, but I will now! I love rubbing those, if they’ll let me. And it’s a kind of meditation – reminds me of prayer beads. So – good luck with the mind clutter. Just know you are not alone!
Shaun, your wonderful poem reveals how mysteriously memory works…the clarity of your fourth grade Valentine in the midst of the fuzzy memory of your teacher that year (what a fun/tantalizing remnant – “explaining what all the swear words meant.”). Loved this!
I started writing in one place and landed in an entirely other place, perhaps far removed from the great topic of “re-encounter.” I will attempt this again, I promise! For today, this is the poem that wanted to be created –
seasons together
spring is the dogwood’s
creamy white flowers
with a kiss of pink
canopied by the great tree’s
yellow-green embrace
a bird or breeze carried
the dogwood’s seed
to my backyard
so many years ago
a chance encounter
the tall maple adored
this gift from above
offering hard roots
within which to nestle
sheltering the seedling
together
slowly steadily
they have grown
season upon season
alongside one another
ever
lasting
until
Maureen,
Each spring you do re-encounter the dogwood and its blossoms. This poem is a reimagine of community, a maple sheltering a dogwood and it’s delicate blooms. The last three words are interesting juxtaposed w/ the invitation to “respond.” Lovely poem about one of my favorite trees that holds many memories.
I love Dogwoods. They remind me of my grandmother. This is a beautiful poem exploring encounters.
Oh that ending… Has something happened to one of them? I’m afraid if one goes, they may both be at risk.
I love this little nursing from the male tree stanza…
Maureen,
I just love how romantic this is:
creamy white flowers
with a kiss of pink
so many encounters!
Peace,
Sarah
Ooo, Maureen, you went to a beautiful place with this. It reminds me of the novel The Overstory by Richard Powers… giving true connection among the trees… the protective “tall maple” “offering… roots.” I do believe in this connection. Lovely poem! Susie
With a kiss of pink canopied by the great tree’s yellow-green embrace…such a beautiful piece.
Hello, Shaun and thanks for an invitation to re-encounter today. I fell right into your classroom, all the sounds and emotions spoke to me. I adored this:
And the decision to capitalize Courage and Confidence…brilliant!
I wrote my poem in honor of my beloved Mom who I miss every single day!
Re-Encounter Living
DIagnosis: Stage IV Ovarian Cancer
Her bloated stomach
Diminished appetite and
Constant discomfort
Six to twelve months
To “live it up”
At 74 years old
And bone tired
But twenty-four months
Of time t i c k e d between
Chemo, radiation, hair loss
Ensure, morphine and hospice
Every time I awaken memories
Of the day she ascended
I re-encounter how she took charge
Of her leaving, her transitioning
What if each day
From now until . . . . – . . . .
We took charge
Of our living, our being
And stopped dying
From exhaustion, suffering
From regrets
And unwritten poems
© Stacey L. Joy, 4/27/22
Stacey,
I’m so sorry about your mom.
I loved how this shifted from such moving and sad description to words of hope and inspiration. That last stanza packed such a punch and held such truth. Loved this whole thing. <3
Oh, Stacey! This poem pays beautiful homage to your mother. It’s deeply personal. Then you come out at us with sage advice:
Ah, so beautiful, Stacey. Yes, what if?
Stacey,
Sending comfort.
And I so appreciate how you offer memories as always being with us and yet always with the capacity to awaken, which means we can also put it to rest and awaken again when needed: “Every time I awaken memories.”
Peace,
Sarah
Oh, Stacey – This is heartrending. I ache with you as you replay those post-diagnosis days. Dang, just so brutal. That you found the “what-ifs, though, and then “stopped dying” (excellent phrase)… the positivity in that is beautiful. I feel the loss , it’s raw here. Makes me replay my Mama’s sudden passing. ? Thank you for a very dear Mama poem. … just in time for Mother’s Day. Hugs, Susie
Stacey, I appreciate this poem more than I can say. I think often about dying, not in a morbid way, but in terms of how I want to live now and when I get that the end is near diagnosis. I’m taking these last lines as a directive:
“stop… dying
From exhaustion, suffering
From regrets
And unwritten poems.”
That’s pretty good advice, I think.
Stacey, I love this honoring of your mom. Her choice in transitioning speaks to her strength – and what tremendous strength she had! I love that she took charge and how it allows you (and us) to re-encounter each day. I needed to hear this today. I am grateful that you shared this.
Stacey, this is beautiful and moving! Thank you for writing and sharing these words (and your mother) with us tonight. I love your message at the end, urging us to “[take] charge / Of our living, our being / And [stop] dying / From exhaustion, suffering / From regrets / And unwritten poems.” Beautiful!
This came out of a conversation at lunch today between two long-time teachers and two newbies.
When I was first teaching,
every sad story from a student
hit me hard in the heart.
I took it personally when a
kid said they didn’t like me
or thought I was a bad teacher.
I worried that when students
didn’t do their work, it was
my fault, a failing on my part.
But after 26 years, I’ve learned
that taking things personally
is a shortcut to frustration.
I still feel deeply when students
tell me the stark facts of their
lives, but I don’t let it consume me.
I no longer fester when a kid
spouts off about how dreadful
my teaching is–they’re deflecting.
There is now a firm understanding
on my part that everyone has
their own battles with motivation.
Being a teacher doesn’t have to
suck all the life out of you
unless you allow it to do so.
There is tremendous wisdom in these lines –
Cara,
So much truth and wisdom in this poem! Love the easily digestible “bites of wisdom” in your stanzas. I agree with this so much, after teaching since 1997: there is so much going on for them that has very little to do with us,
Oh my goodness this hit so hard! It is hard not to feel each child and their pain, or feel so hurt when they say they dislike your class or even you. But yes. 100 times yes. You can’t let it consume you.
As a new(ish) teacher, it makes me reflect on my growth over the years, but I know I still fall into the same “traps” as some of the new teachers mentioned here. Thanks for writing a poem that made me think about my own experiences.
I still feel deeply…but I don’t let it consume me. Love the practicality, a necessity in this complex profession.
Shaun this is such a timely prompt as we reach the end of the month of poetry — but also because my friend and I recently unearthed an old box of notes we passed each other in school. I decided to make that the topic of my writing and had fun re-encountering those decades old notes.
—
On Finding Our Notes From Middle School
We hoard the words
like dragon’s gold.
Precious and sacred,
these timeless texts
of our youth,
where others carelessly
tore up, tossed.
We sealed, preserved,
the pages origami
folded to fit
thoughtlessly slipped and
creased to hold:
words, words, words.
It’s painful to
read but different,
from the pain
of writing them.
Tears of laughter:
“I can’t believe you said that.”
Once heartbreak’s tears:
“I can’t believe you said that!”
Words, words, words
wielded like weapons
by innocent children
who mistook toys.
We laugh, because
we know words
are not gold
but gilded grenades.
What an incredible find, a time capsule, really – fodder for so many more stories, I suspect. I love this,
That is the instinct of a writer!!
Erica,
Oh, this is lovely! I have a couple of those boxes in my garage, and it’s true — they are gold! Wouldn’t give them up for anything, those memories. Lovely metaphors in this!
Erica, your poem reminds of a truth we’d probably not have believed if told it when we were young,
we know words
are not gold
but gilded grenades
Still, we can teach that perspective of the power of words, so when out students get older and do this assignment we’re doing today, they’ll acknowledge, Ms. Erica was right. What else did she teach that I should re-encounter and reconsider?
sometimes this boy
sometimes he is sullen, withdrawn,
sometimes pulling pranks and
using endless puns, all
terrible but he has that eye
twinkle,
sometimes he is so frightened he
gasps for air, or so hurt
he gasps for air,
sometimes he is filthy and leaves
mud in the worst places,
sometimes he wants to do best in school,
sometimes he stares into space forever,
sometimes he jumps right into the dance,
sometimes he is beat red, blushing.
these ways are all familiar, right at home,
don’t worry me much.
the only real fear
I have is to keep him well-fed and
keep him alive–
this boy inside of me.
Kevin, I really enjoy this! The boy’s actions both pulled at my heartstrings with his “gasp[ing] for air” because of his fear and pain, but I also smiled at “sometimes he is filthy and leaves / mud in the worst places” and also the fact that “he jumps right into the dance.” And I love the reveal at the end: “this boy inside of me.” Thank you for this!
Love the last line, Kevin. Love it.
What a surprise sparkle of an ending – I imagined your voice as that of a loving parent, and then the big reveal – it is you, all along. Which lends credence to the notion – we need to offer ourselves loving care, always, as a loving parent tries to do. Take care of this boy!!
Shaun, this is such a compelling invite to write today. Your unusual memory of the teacher makes me think of the times children are aware of others around them but not of all the reasons something happens. The quote from Alicia Mountain that you included prompted me to write today.
Preliminary Sketch
I had a brief encounter with myself
that time I was 12
and worried about what people
thought of me
(like really thought).
I saw myself
as I was –
an outline chalked on the street
a sketch in shadow
searching with blind eyes –
and spent the days that followed
adding and subtracting
darkening the lines
along the defenseless perimeter
trying to define myself
while erasing what I’d seen.
Jennifer — This is a totally provocative image…the chalk on the street! I LOVE this! And the “adding and subtracting/darkening the lines/along the defenseless perimeter/trying to define myself/while erasing…” Doggone, what a creative image this is. And a perfect, absolutely perfect title. Wow! Susie
Jennifer — I love the use of sketching and drawing words throughout. I enjoy the imagery of that because it makes me picture children drawing with chalk outside — something I probably did when I was 12 if I wasn’t starting to grow out of it. We all went through phases like that around that age — so concerned about what others think. Thanks for capturing that in this poem!
Wow! I’m dying to know what the encounter was, but part of the beauty of this poem is in the not knowing. Lovely!
Such a gorgeous way to describe one’s growth, from adolescence to adulthood, this idea of “a sketch in shadow” – lovely!
Wow, Jennifer, this is a treasure! You pulled me right in and didn’t need to over-explain. Every image is crystal clear.
And the last two lines hammered it on home!
????????
I HAD A SISTER
For about three minutes in my life
I thought how cool it would be
to be my sister,
the middle child;
she had daddy’s loving eye,
didn’t look like the rest of us towheads,
she, with her brown hair and brown eyes,
she, the short one,
she, the one with all the new clothes
from the department store,
she, with a room of her own,
she, the one who whizzed through calculus,
had the vocal cords of an angel,
she, the mean one.
“Why can’t you be more like Sandy?!” —
seven words that reverberated
through Daddy’s rage
and ricocheted against the canyon walls
of sisterhood,
as he chased me out the side door,
grabbing a crowbar from the workbench;
that was all it took
for me never to want
to be my sister.
All I wanted from then on
was to be gone —
gone from the shadow
of my sister’s manipulations,
her searing lies,
self-destructive threats,
personality disorders,
cruel abuses of every one
who dared get close enough
to feel her singe the edges
and finally burn down the bonds
that ever marked us family.
There are those among us
who walk the earth
looking like everyone else
in old photos,
but when the fixer wears off the photo paper,
when light angles in,
the image washed away
yields a white space in our lives.
by Susie Morice, April 27, 2022©
What a powerful poem, Susie, and though your descriptions are raw and visceral enough for me to feel the singed edges of your sisterhood, it is the image of old photos with the fixer washed away to white space that will continue to haunt me. A masterful poem.
Susie.
Mine of the cruelest things a parent can do is compare one child to another. Another is to favor one over the other. Your poem confronts both scenarios and perks back the cruel reality. Some folks look all prettied up and shiny on the outside, but, whew, the inside reveals the rot. Like Ann, it’s that image of old photos that symbolizes this. Yet the white space remains, and that too causes pain. I think you’d be a fantastic sister to have, for what it’s worth. Hugs.
Susie, this pulls at my heart every which way making me want to reach out to the small you and circle my arms around you and take you away from all of it. I’m so glad you were able to come through this as the wondrous, kind, spirited person you are! I’m drawn to the images of light (shadow, singeing, white space) that you include along with the use of 7 (which holds significance) and most especially the “canyon walls of sisterhood.” And that image of the middle child leaving a white space in the midst of all of you is provoking too. Such a powerful piece from such a powerful you! Hugs.
I love reading your vivid poetry, Susie!
Susie, oh my gosh, your poem is exquisite in its graphic imagery. The mistreatment and abuse to your own desire to be gone is striking and painful. The white space is a perfect metaphor to describe the severed connection. Outstanding poem and powerful voice. Tears and hugs, friend.
Such a clear and painful description, “when the fixer wears off the photo paper” – I totally grasp the full weight of this. What a horrid burden on both you and your sister, to be compared in this way; it is such destructive parenting, I think.
Oh, Susie, what a story you tell in this haunting poem. From “I Had a Sister” to the three minutes wanting to be like her, her gifteness, the white space in your lives. Oh, my gosh! What images you paint with your words!
Good grief! I am both angry and in awe at the same time. Your poem speaks to me for many reasons. Something I think I’ve concluded from my life and now from reading your poem is that hurt children can become the most compassionate adults. Comparison is the thief of joy and we’ve both had our fair share. But Susie, Susie, Susie, if we could’ve been sisters, imagine the fun! I love you.
Susie, this is powerful! And so full of tragedy, of “searing lies,” “manipulations,” and “cruel abuses.” I’m so sorry for all of that! (On a positive note, though, this is so well-crafted! So thank you for reliving this to share with us.) And as everyone else mentioned, your last metaphor is wonderful. (I just love the phrase, “when light angles in.”) Thanks, again!
Thank you for the prompt, Shaun. Your poem is such a cute reminiscence.
I’ve always wondered…
I’ve always wondered what
My life would’ve been like if
I surrounded myself with
People of a different kind.
Maybe the rebellious one
Who always put themselves first.
Maybe the rich ones
Who never worried about the price tag.
Maybe the adventurous ones
Who always kept an eye out for the next ‘thing’
Maybe the artistic ones
Who always found a must wherever they went.
I, however, always surround myself with
Strays and stragglers,
The weary, the wretched, the poor,
The tempest-tost.
They never linger for they
Do not have much time.
They rest a while and, once
Unburdened, go their merry way.
And I, left behind, collet
The burdens left behind and
Tuck them safely within myself
Forever to be mine to carry.
A carrier of burdens is true spirit of the blessed. A touching poem for the giving. Nice work!
What a great picture this paints of you — love this poem. The last stanza was my favorite. 🙂
Saba,
You are a blessing and a gift! Don’t ever stop “tucking them safely” within yourself.
❤️
I was a bully that day
I was a bully that day
Not my typical role
I pointed and laughed
I made everyone stare
What prompted me to do it?
What was going through my head?
They didn’t deserve this
They had thought I was their friend
I got off the bus and walked into the house
My teacher had called and the message was delivered
I’m sure my mother was just as confused as I
At what had made the “good one” go bad
The conversation was brief
The point was clear
She knew I felt awful
Mothers always know
The apology was written
The situation resolved
But over two decades have passed
And I still replay the horrors I may have caused
Rob, the replay of the day after all these years proves what a “good one” you are. Your second stanza demonstrates how this event is replaying itself. All of the “I” statements at the beginning strengthen the ownership you took over your actions (I’m sure many of us have done something similar). I appreciate the short length of the lines in the conversation with your mother as they reflect the message there.
Rob this poem certainly captures the power one moment can have on the rest of our life — especially when in the moment itself we don’t recognize it. I like the attention to past tense and how it has clearly still stuck with you.
I appreciated your slip into the passive voice in that last stanza — for me, it showed the difficulty of owning this, especially when coupled with the repetition at the beginning. Great poem!
Shaun, thank you for your prompt and poem. I keep wondering about that teacher who got in trouble. How she felt getting in trouble for explaining the words she did not want to hear. The replay of your gift of chocolates is especially tender.
remember the wide-open field
green with promise after it burned
the woods behind it where we wandered
unafraid of the unknown
or when I leapt from the tree house
planting my face into the hard ground below
howling all the way home
I thought I was brave
wanted to prove my courage
perhaps because of a bully’s dare
remember─every day was a sweet adventure,
wild pranks, dancing through sprinklers; wading in creeks
forging friendships through
the games we played
today I have no woods
to wander
or Indian Creek to wade
my adventurous spirit flew off long ago
like a forgotten fading photograph
discovered in an unlikely place
knowing freedom and joyknowing the freedom of joy
Barb Edler
27 April 2022
Barb — The movement of life into one with perhaps fewer impulsive leaps out the treehouse seems the transitioning that we all experience…hopefully that movement to joy and how it frees us from those old shadows. I love the childlike wanderings though…so innocent. The melancholy of “fading photographs” that we trip over in these seemingly “wiser” days…that feels very real. “friendships through games” is a particularly interesting point…so much in my own life has images of games with others…where I learned to lose and to win…not always with the kind of grace I’d like, but each day is another learning day. Yours is the first poem I’ve read today…not sure where I will go with this one, but I loved reading yours. Hugs, Susie
Barb,
I hear echoes of the past and the feeling of lost. These lines take on both literal and metaphorical meaning:
“today I have no woods
to wander
or Indian Creek to wade
my adventurous spirit flew off long ago
like a forgotten fading photograph
discovered in an unlikely place”
I find the ambiguity most appealing and worth contemplating.
Barb, the transformative shift within your poem, from the wide-open space and the greenness of promise, to the departure of the adventurous spirit fading is powerful. That simple admission of what is gone (woods, creek) after all the beautiful description makes that shift feel all the more stark. It makes me long for my childhood days as well.
Barb this definitely made me remember my own childhood adventures and the marvel from simple things like fields and playing in empty lots. I felt like I was dancing in the sprinklers with you! I also love the imagery at the end because the lines “my adventurous spirit flew off long ago/like a forgotten fading photograph” really resonate with me as I try to make new adventures as an adult and struggle with it sometimes.
My goodness, I know that face plant was painful. There is extraordinary reflection, wisdom, maturity in the switch from
Love this!
Barb,
Loved this. Loved the picture you painted in the first two stanzas and the anecdote about doing something, not of your volition but to impress someone powerful, really resonated with me — relatable. Loved the mystery of the last stanza, the crossed out line — are you free because you’ve found real joy, now that you know better? This was great. 🙂
Barb, I love so much about this! Your vivid descriptions of adventure and play in your youth when everything was “green with promise” (a very cool line) contrasts so perfectly with “today,” when you “have no woods / to wander.” Thank you for this!
A Strewn Stack of Fated Wood
The wood was scattered in a crooked pile,
As my uncle looked at me and smiled,
“Boy you gone eat popsicles all day?”
I was eleven and didn’t know what to say.
As he heaved his axe way back,
Launched it down with a thunderous whack!
Hours, I watched him, perched on my stump,
He’d whistle and place pieces in a clump.
His axe was made of hickory and the metal was worn,
Sharpened hundreds of times, before I was born.
He always set it beside the pecan tree,
Next to a shiny axe, next to me.
I wondered what that axe was for?
But when I asked him about it, I would get ignored.
I reminisce of that summer I spent with Uncle Pat,
As I swing, split, and wipe sweat from under my hat.
I see my nephew perched on a bench made of stone,
I smiled and asked, “How long are you going to play on that phone?”
He just gave me a blank stare,
As I hoisted Ol’ Hickory in the air,
Before swinging it down to a thunderous whack!
I decided to stop because of my sore back.
When I sat my axe by the tree,
My nephew asked with curiosity,
“Why do you bring that one out every time?
Freshly sharpened with metallic shine.
I never see you use it for the chore,
So why do you bring it out here? What for?”
I left, not uttering a word,
Pretending not to hear, what I just heard.
As think back to Uncle Patrick,
The shiny axe was pragmatic.
A “badge” of accountability,
A “welcoming” to the family.
Soft hands-on new hickory,
Provide the family tree, with security.
Pick up the axe as much as you can,
It never too early or late to lend a hand.
Sooo many axes I left behind,
Can I go back? place my life on rewind?
To help all the ones I neglected,
And to listen, closely, when corrected.
Embrace the wisdom of the respected,
Be a true friend and stay connected.
I want to encounter the tasks left undone,
Rearrange my destiny,
stack the woodpile,
one by one.
-Boxer
I absolutely LOVE this poem. The turn is great. The 2nd part as reflection. The passing on of tradition and your use of parallel structure and diction as you trouble the line and shift slightly to your nephew’s experience is so great!
Boxer, your poem has such an emotional pull to go back and correct the errors or things left undone. I can relate, especially that desire to “Rearrange my destiny”. Love the rhythm and rhyme that carries your poem’s message and the voices are vibrant throughout the entire piece. Excellent poem!
It is so interesting how lessons can be given by an act rather than telling. That axe held wisdom that you learned while Uncle Patrick sharpened it and left it sitting by the tree to tell its story.
As much as I deplore reliving the past, what else does the brain do but come up with these weird scenarios?! Shaun, your life sounds like a movie! And I love that your kid has tinted hair – ! Thanks for this great idea today, because I can see revisiting this for whatifs and couldabeens just for fun times. As per usual, I went off on a tact I never expected today.
Remember Cassette Tapes?
I came across the mixed tape I made
back when I thought
I couldn’t breathe without you
How carefully I crafted
the selection of each song
to reflect the intricate complexity
of my emotions for you
Every word of every lyric
every drumbeat and chord strum
I knew them all by heart
Imagined you listening
tied to me through the ether
But just like a cassette tape
that jams the system
you hit that eject button
yanked the cassette from the deck
The sinewy fragile brown tape
streaming from the player’s gaping maw
a destructive silence between us
Now I just laugh because
I don’t even have a tape player anymore
And I never stopped breathing
even without you
Denise, I am not sure I have ever connected to a poem as much as this one. The playlist I spent hours/days putting together for an ex-lover wasn’t even acknowledged by him. Ugh. Thank you for writing this so beautifully descriptive and that last stanza is everything.
What a shift in attitude as the cassette tape jams the system! I like this story and it shows how much we change through time.
Denise, I love the visual of the cassette being yanked from the deck. “The sinewy fragile brown tape/streaming from the player’s gaping maw/ a destructive silence between us.” Powerful! Your end is definitely a shift, but I’m glad it’s a triumphant one. I could definitely relate to the mixed tape days. I still sort of do this but through spotify. Wonderful poem!
Oh, the hours and hours I put into making these mixed tapes to share with the object of my love. You have described it to perfection, including the ending
saw this on Instagram just today:
Denise, I connected with your poem so much. I used to make mixes for so many people (I was always in love with someone). I loved how you compared the relationship to the actual tape/experience of using cassettes in general. The second half of your poem was especially moving.
Denise,
I love the metaphor of the cassette tape and the last stanza is perfect! “I don’t even have a tape player anymore” is such a great way of saying “I’m over it!” and the last 2 lines delicately balance and temper that thought.
Such a fun poem to read! I love the movie that the line “you hit the eject button” brings to my mind.
Red or Dead?
I used to say “Better Red than dead”
during the Cold War
when my uncle would yell
at family gatherings
about the dread of communism.
When I thought there was no alternative
except communist domination
or extinction of the human race.
When I felt it was better
to be controlled by
a socialist government
than to be killed.
When I saw
those who fought
starved to death
or lay by the wayside
because they thought
“Better be dead than Red.”
Now, the phrase
“Better be Red than dead”
has lost its appeal to me.
Now I see the
true “blood-red” colors of communism
the lack of freedom,
the brutality if you don’t agree
and life is considered worthless.
And I have a rage inside me
because I know
that human liberty is worth preserving.
Now, I have savored freedom
to build a family,
a career,
to choose what I believe.
Now I am watching the destruction
of beautiful, happy
free Ukrainian people
who use all their strength
to fight
the constraints of tyranny
in a new war
where communism has grabbed from others
what is not theirs
And I have a rage inside me
because I know
“Better be Red than dead”
has lost its appeal to me.
And I have a rage inside me
because I know
I would fight
to be “Better dead than Red.“
Susan, wow, your poem shouts your rage. I can understand your shift of perspective and how this “new war” is terrifying with all its ugliness and tyranny. Your final words echo “Better dead than Red.” Fantastic poem!
How brave of you fo share your shift. Isn’t it funny how our perspectives and opinions change with age,
Susan — This is a very potent phrase that I, too, remember in my younger days. I had thought it so dramatic. And now…holy smokes… what we are witnessing daily in Ukraine just makes me feel your “rage.” What a meaningful poem! Thank you. Susie
Shaun, thank you for the prompt. I love the ending of your poem, so precious. I thought of too much to write about and decided on this. I read some poems I wrote in eighth grade and the conclusion is doing that helped me understand the complexities of my students (me) more.
I Understand
I’ve spent the past few weeks reading emotional student poetry and
my duty spot is at the entrance to campus.
I greet students as they enter.
Some look miserable,
some don’t respond when you say good morning, but
some are so cheerful every day,
smiles radiate from under their mask.
So different.
And I wonder what kind of student was I?
I know I was an “A” student
But I had an attitude.
Or did I?
I was nice and thoughtful.
Or was I?
I smiled and responded to good mornings.
Or did I?
I was a bully.
Or was I?
Did I ever make my teachers feel bad?
Did I make them wonder if I was okay?
“I used to be a stable creature
knowing exactly who I was
but now I’m lost in my feelings and thoughts”
I wrote this in eighth grade.
Or did I?
One day in eleventh grade, my English teacher played some song that had something to do with a father daughter relationship.
It made me cry.
Tears welled up around my black eye and
I hoped no one noticed.
No one said anything.
I don’t think anyone did.
Or did they?
Maybe all the answers are yes.
Angie, this is really powerful. So much angst. Your questioning and second-guessing really highlights the uncertainties of these teen years. Thank you.
Angie, wow, your poem is heartbreaking. You pulled me right into a morning duty I used to have greeting students at a door they entered. All of your questions are compelling, and then the black eye detail creates another deeper emotion. Deeply moving poem! Thanks for sharing!
Angie,
You capture so much of the rollercoaster that comes with remembering. Were we who we think we were? Spending our lives in schools and seeing and hearing and reading the insides of kids makes us wonder what we were like. Will we ever really know?
Shaun, Re-encountering past events and incidents can cheer us up, tear us, and even make some of us giggle. Your poem about past Valentine’s Days in school can do all three. Today with Mother’s Day on the horizon, I wrote another poem reflecting on my grandmother.
What’s New?
Going back in time
I found that rhyme
About my dear grandmother
She inspires me like no other.
She taught me well
She said, “Do not yell”
Instead let your heart now swell
And something nice now tell
Tell them they have a lovely smile
Invite them to sit and rest awhile.”
Grandma was quite a lady
She taught, “Tell the truth.
Don’t be shady.
And things will turn out all right.”
You’ve seen me write in poem after poem
“Don’t fight without the light”
And year after year, through cheer and tear,
I find that her advice is right.
(FYI – The photo reflects the relationship I re-encounter when I think on this topic,.)
A wonderful tribute to your grandmother, what a wise woman. So precious.
A fantastic poem, I love the rhyme and tribute to your grandmother. Nice work!
Anna, thank you so much for sharing. She sounds like an incredibly loving and patient person. I think we could all learn from her and what a better world we would have if we focused on her advice.
So wonderful – that picture screams – LOVE. What a wonderful poem and a brilliant, caring grandma!
my self
this body contains
who I am, but also can’t
contain all I am.
looking inward there
are no tracings, outlines, hems
so where is my self?
if we leave our selves,
change self-centered to self-less
then there’s no one (t)here.
Laura,
Your poem is particularly prescient for me today. I just spent over an hour on a video call w/ a former student who wanted “some advice” about some big, life changing decisions. We talked at length about what she’d lose and gain in both scenarios. That’s the paradox I see in both the beginning and ending of your poem. Thank you for this,
Laura, wow, your poem invites some provocative self-reflection. Excellent job of playing with words in the last stanza. Awesome poem!
Laura, I love how much you were able to say in so few words. The middle stanza especially spoke to me, what defines us? Thank you for your words today!
Laura,
I love the poem and especially the first stanza–the idea of the body as a vessel is liberating and your efficiency of language here perfectly reflects the thoughts that you explore in the poem.
Laura — This is a very provocative analysis. One I really appreciate. Self-examination and where it criss-crosses with “self-centered” is an interesting tightrope. Where do we find and understand the true self? I like thinking about this. Thank you. Susie
Shaun,
I love your Valentine’s poem so much. It is a perfect mentor. It gave me lots of ideas for re-encounters I could take today. My favorite line from your poem is this description of Monica:
She was fast and had a cowlick.
That year
I spent hanging out
with boys every recess,
I was one of two girls
“allowed” to play baseball
in the sixth grade lunch recess league.
Every day I wore
the same rag tag jeans
with ironed on knee patches.
When I went to our larger junior high school,
I decided to embrace my femininity.
I thought I had made
changes in my appearance,
that summer I started
growing my hair out. I
bought new girl clothes
and wore some that first day
of seventh grade.
But as Mrs. Sykes
called out my name
during roll call,
I came forward
to get whatever
she was passing out.
She said,
“No, this is a girl.”
Or something similar.
I said, “that’s me.”
Or something similar.
In a better world,
she would have known
our pronouns.
I love the description of yourself when you were a “tomboy” then when you “embrace(d) (your) femininity” tells such a story. I really like the repetition of “or something similar” because who can really remember exactly what was said in seventh grade? I feel that. Reminds me of the Maya Angelou quote about people remembering how you made them feel but not necessarily the exact words.
Denise,
I feel the sting in the teacher’s words: “No, this, is a girl.” Your last stanza is everything that would have and still can lesson the pain inflicted on so many children:
“In a better world,
she would have known
our pronouns.”
Side note: I had short hair and was mistaken for a boy at least once.
Denise — Your poem is just a doozy. It brought me right back to a memory of my own, when a nun at the library mistook me for a boy…I had given up all he frilly stuff and was truly such a tomboy…it never dawned on me how others looked at me. Eye-opening moments! 🙂 Love the “pronoun” reminder! 🙂 Susie
Denise, this is great! I love that you illustrate that saying, “They may forget what you said, but they will never forget how you made them feel,” with the end of your second stanza. You don’t really remember what she said (“Or something similar”), but you surely remember how Mrs. Sykes made you feel. (And shame on her!) Thank you for this!
The vague and repetitious pain of the words “Or something similar” really shows how truly painful this moment was for you. Ouch! Ugh. I really feel for you – I can remember similar moments, when I just wanted to disappear into the floor or woodwork/avoid everyone’s eyes and ears due to unthoughtful words of others.
Denise,
I really appreciate your poem and how it captures the fragility around identity and pronouns and how emotionally fraught school can be as children form their ideas about themselves. The description of that scene and your concluding stanza speak loudly.
Hi, Shaun. I loved your poem and its prompt. My brain immediately flew to one day that I feel like I’ll never be able to process faithfully or satisfactorily. But I’ll keep trying. Thanks for the opportunity.
“The Wait”
Waiting round a bedside, silent
Feelings, though repressed, are violent
Watching, waiting for some sign
To ease our wearied, troubled minds
Did he see us? Hear us? Sense us?
At each breath, our body tenses
Uttering reassuring words
No one really sure he’s heard
Collective sigh of those around him
Desperate wishes still abounding:
One wants words of reassurance
One grits teeth with forced endurance
One can’t help keep busy fingers
Though she works, depression lingers
One will leave, well past their limit
Can’t abide another minute
One will utter desperate pleas
Begging on imagined knees
All exhausted, feelings ravaged
By disease, we, reeling, savaged
All left wishing that this scene
Had been less somewhere in between
Questions left with no reply
Wond’rings left unanswered (“Why?”)
Answers, though, were not forthcoming
Pulses raced and blood left thrumming
As the group, dejected, fled
For the comfort of their beds
To imagine different scenes
Where all were left with memories clean:
“Yes, I loved you. Yes, I’m proud.”
“No, I never broke my vows.”
“Yes, I always knew you could.”
“Yes, I do believe you’re good.”
“Yes, I’ve utmost faith in you.”
“No, I’ve never been untrue.”
Instead, however, earless, eyeless
We’re left blind: the rest is silence.
Wendy,
This is so dang powerful. The rhyme really drives the poem forward in such a beautiful way, but it’s the ideas that pierce my heart.
I’ve been at the bedside and you capture the details so well. And while the hospice nurses asked us if we could think of people he had unresolved stuff with, I never thought about what if he could speak and leave all “memories clean.”
The chunks of dialogue tell so much.
Wendy, your poem moves me to tears. The unanswered questions, the powerlessness one feels watching another taking their last breaths, and the silence at the end all contribute to feeling rocked by death and the things we want to hear from a loved one. This silence is difficult to grapple. Heart-breaking poem and relatable. Thank you for sharing such an incredible poem with us today!
Wendy, your poem evokes the hours we sat around my mother’s bed, once she asked to be released to make her transition. That’s the euphemism we use when Christians pass from life to death.
No matter how often those moments, those of us who’ve had that experience wonder the kind of questions you articulate in your poem. Oh that we recall and act now so this does not become a repeat performance after the transition of another dear friend or family member.
Amen!
Wendy, wow. I’m glad you wrote this poem today. It’s good to try to proceed through poetry.
Those re-encountered “memories clean” were very powerful and speak volumes. Peace to you.
Senior Trip
Mr. Conti smiles because
He finds out I like Monty Python
While watching The Holy Grail
On the bus to Cedar Point
“You’re too smart
Not to like Monty Python,”
He says to the soundtrack
Of clippity-clopping coconuts
Jeremy and I pass
A magazine back and forth
With a picture of Wilco on the cover
And a CD that falls out of the insert
I put on headphones
To block out the voices
Over 4 years I’ve gotten so used to
Blocking them out
Listening to “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart”
For the very first time
Jeremy listens next
And we’re not driving to rollercoasters
We’re not driving to a sunny June morning in Ohio
We’re not driving to a fried dough candy apple lunch
We’re not driving to long lines for a 50 mile per hour 300 foot drop
We’re not driving to the kids who snuck off to smoke indiscreetly
We’re not driving to I don’t really like rides anyway
We’re not driving to I hate all these people
We’re not driving to What time does the bus leave?
We’re not driving to The End
We are driving to the future
Alex,
Wow. Wow.
I love these lines . . .
The anaphora and the various things the speaker wasn’t doing . . .
leads so beautifully to the last line.
Alex, this was fabulous! I grew more and more curious and intrigued as I read, and that repetition that dominated your last two stanzas, as well as the antithesis was, just….wow. Amazing poem!
Thank you, Shaun, for this prompt. There are so many things in my life I want to
re-encounter. It was hard to choose one. However, this memory of my Grandpa Antonio is so vivid to me – like yesterday. I wish I could go back and change every little thing.
Forgiveness
As I turn to leave, you stop me.
A minute, you say –
Opening the refrigerator door,
Taking coins from the butter dish,
Pressing silver dollars in my hand.
For you, you say –
Fold my fingers around the cold coins,
I kiss you on the cheek and leave.
I return an hour later,
Call out your name,
You’re not listening,
Your raspy breath comes as a warning,
I do not enter the room
Where you are lying.
I know what is happening,
But cannot face it.
I pace around and around
Minutes like hours fall away
Until my father, your son, arrives
To rescue you.
“Didn’t you notice your grandfather?
Call 911,” he says.
I stand frozen before the phone,
He pushes me out of the way.
Moments later, the ambulance comes,
Takes you away silently,
Red lights flashing – too late.
At your funeral
I tuck a poem – rough words
An apology
Into the pocket of your suit.
You’re wearing a gray suit,
Starched white shirt, a dark tie.
Had I ever seen you in a suit before?
I look down on your weatherworn face
For some sign of forgiveness.
Three days later, I’m in the den reading,
Suddenly, I look up –
Glimpse your blue bathrobe
Trailing around the corner,
I rise and follow to see you
Standing at the stove making tea,
Your eyes meet mine and you smile,
I turn away and look again,
But you are already gone.
Oh, how I wish I could just sit with you in this. You are not alone. Thank you for sharing. Sending hugs.
What a beautiful poem you’ve been carrying with you. Closer in age now to Grandpa Antonio than to the young person who turned to leave, I am struck with the value of the silver dollars. He pressed them into your hands because he loved you and with a grandparent’s love comes endless forgiveness. I don’t know if I’ve expressed myself well,
but I do love this poem.
Word Dancer, my heart breaks for you. I have a memory somewhat similar that I shared with my godfather. I was in college and came home one weekend. He had answers to the questions I never got to ask. I had to go back and only returned for his funeral soon after. Your Grandpa Antonio sounded like a special person. In moments of distress, trauma, tragedy, we panic. It’s a natural response to some people. But knowing that he still lives in your memory is consolation. His smile said it all.
Shaun,
We can never revisit, re-encounter things enough in my opinion. So, your prompt is certainly welcomed by me. I think I sometimes live in a world of revising as my poem will definitely show.
This comes on the heels of watching my favorite TV drama of all time . . . This Is Us . . . last night. So, events in the show made me re-encounter events (and mindsets) in my own life. If you are a fan of the show and haven’t watched last night’s episode, skip this poem. And, yes, it’s long . . . 🙂
Written in the Stars
Should a person
be so invested
in a TV show
that their moods
get affected by outcomes?
It’s Hollywood.
Characters played by stars.
Probably not.
But . . . when it provides
a diversion AND therapy both
during the toughest chapter
of your life,
it gets a little personal.
After all, it is
This Is Us.
It’s Us.
Every bit of it.
The times I have been
comforted or uplifted
or challenged by its characters
its plots
its music
are too numerous to count.
I grew up believing
in the idea
of finding THE love
of your life in grade school.
In connecting with them
as playmates in the neighborhood
then realizing
it’s more . . .
wearing his jersey to school on game days,
going to proms and winter formals,
having Friday night dates,
making out in his car,
on our porch,
on the couch while watching
Pretty in Pink
for the seventh time.
Even when different colleges
and different priorities
took us in different directions,
I just KNEW we’d circle back
to each other.
It was meant to be.
For years,
I kept that in the back
of my mind,
creating an unsurpassable
crevice for others in my heart.
Fast forward.
I moved on.
I married.
We built a life.
We had four children.
He didn’t.
He still hasn’t.
Last night,
the This Is Us
writers made
many of us fans
super happy by
having Sophie and Kevin
reunite . . .
finally mature,
grown into themselves,
and ready to build a life
on a sturdy foundation.
I watched with tension
filling my body.
They HAD to land together.
It was meant to be.
They were endgame.
When it looked like they wouldn’t be,
I wanted to chuck the remote at the TV.
I hadn’t cared this much
about fictional characters
since Hazel and Augustus
(nod to the brilliant John Green).
My heart lit up as Rebecca’s
demented words
landed perfectly
on Sophie’s heart.
My soul rejoiced
as the other two potentials
were eliminated.
Fogelberg is known for
the curveball, so I still
feared the
happily-ever-after
wasn’t happening.
Then, Randall’s
goofy wisdom.
And The Look.
The Chat.
The Kiss.
#Kophie was back.
Together.
Meant to be.
Endgame.
What was my sweet husband
of 27 years thinking
as he watched in his recliner
while I championed
these meant-to-be lovers?
Their path was nothing like ours.
So why was I so invested?
Well, seeing as how he never
knew of the longing I had
in my heart to have one
of those endings,
he likely didn’t think a thing.
He wasn’t and isn’t
aware of the power
of my romantic volcano
overflowing with longing
for the trite and corny
written-in-the-stars type
love story.
Somewhere along the line,
I gave up on the dream
of a story worthy of a
Lifetime movie
or Danielle Steel novel
and “settled” for a deep, loyal,
and sturdy love.
Am I glad Sophie and Kevin
ended up together?
Hell, yes!
But, they are fictional.
Stars.
Their looks of longing are acting.
And we are real.
With real-life struggles
and real-life celebrations.
And I’m glad that
at some point
I let go of the fairy tale
in my own life.
That doesn’t mean
I can’t long for it
and love it in my escapes.
#Kophie
#Sason or should that be #Jusan.
~Susan Ahlbrand
27 April 2022
Oh, Susan. I am not a watcher of this show but I do obsess over the idea of having a childhood love. (I never had one.) but in all the relationships I’ve ever been in I always wish I knew the person when they were young. It’s like I feel I’ll never really know them, if I didn’t. And your poem resonated with that part of me, very much. Thank you.
Susan — This was just a wonderful tear through This is Us! The Hollywood vs the recliner next to you… just made me smile from ear to ear. I could just feel you so deeeeeep into the outcome and the love and the “volcano” of it all. That is how I get invested in a good book and in series like This is Us. But it was so real that I couldn’t bear to watch it. Now, i have to go back and pick up where I left off…ever in search of the Hollywood in my life. LOL! Totally fun to read this poem! Susie
An A-C-T Test Supervisor Proctors a Love Poem
In order to read this love poem,
I need to see
proper identification,
need to fill in your name
on the roster on page 61
of the Room Supervisor’s
Administration Booklet,
need to, in fact, have
you sit facing the front
while maintaining three
feet of space (head to head and
shoulder to shoulder) between
you and everyone else,
not that there will be anyone
else reading this love poem,
but rules are rules,
and the A-C-T has
given me clear and outlined
procedures to follow and
forms to complete.
Are there any questions?
While reading this love
poem, you may not engage
in any of the following
prohibited behaviors:
copying any parts of this poem,
doodling in the margins,
chewing tobacco,
talking, or sighing, or in any way
expressing verbally any emotions.
When reading this poem,
you cannot go back to a
previous stanza or continue
to the next until you are told
to do so.
You may use a calculator –
unless it’s the TI -89 series – to
tabulate any of the figurative
language in the poem. If the poet,
for instance, writes, “my love burns
exponentially, a sun turning supernova.”
You may have to solve for X, may have
to compute the increasing rate of heat,
may have to, in fact, graph the rate
at which the super charged
astronomic event compares to the heart
of the betrothed.
You will have 30 minutes
to read and respond to this
love poem. I will give you
a five minute warning when
your time is almost up.
THERE SHOULD BE NO TALKING
at this point.
Remember to bubble in your
reaction; carefully fill in
each oval completely,
erasing any stray marks.
When I recollect the poem
and your response, you,
unfortunately, cannot discuss
this poem with anyone after
the testing session is complete
because this and all thing involving words,
language, and thoughts are owned
by A-C-T.
Failure to comply with these,
rather, humble requests will
result in the complete and utter
ruination of any possible hopes
you may have for future
happiness in this world – or
the next.
You have heard the saying
“Hope springs eternal”?
It’s true,
unless, of course,
you cross A-C-T
incorporated.
We will find you.
We will make you pay.
And you can forget about
college.
When we’re through with
you, even your safety
school will shun you.
Are there any questions?
Your time starts now.
________________________________________________
Shaun, thank you for your poem today! I love that the end is “the real version” where “Courage and Confidence stand tall together.” This was a nice poetic reversal of what I expected, what you led me to believe. Well done! And thank you for the chance to revisit and retweak this poem that I crafted a handful of years ago.
Shaun, I love how you’ve captured the ridiculousness of ACT rules which I thought these lines captured perfectly:
because this and all thing involving words,
language, and thoughts are owned
by A-C-T.
The seriousness of the directions juxtaposed with a love poem is another level of irony. What is truly crazy, is how many colleges will give students scholarship money based solely on the ACT test score. Thanks for illuminating the ludicrousness of testing:)
Scott…sorry, I guess I was thinking of Shaun’s prompt.
Holy GEEZ! This is hysterical and CREEPY… how much I LOATHE this testing crapola…and to think it’s a LOVE poem… oh my gosh! Once again, I’m totally smitten by the ingenious attack on the ACT and, well, all standardized testing of literature …which we are trying to share with the hopes of young people falling in love with ideas and images and metaphors and wordplay… dang…just test it, and then get out the ol’ 22 and shoot that poem dead as a mackerel. Love your poem! Susie
A Retell
By: Emily Yamasaki
slamming the car door closed
I fly through the threshold
into my mother’s arms
but he said he liked me
but he said I was special
but he promised
her fingers gently stroke
the tear-stained strands of my hair
slamming the car door closed
I fly through the threshold
past my mother on the couch
and she watches tv
and she doesn’t look up
and she sighs to herself
my chipped bubble gum fingernails
rub my tear-stained cheeks
Emily, these two versions on the same heartbreaking event put a magnifying glass onto motherhood and a young girl’s grief. So much depends on point of view, on what each individual sees and tells. I love the way repetition works and the balance in each stanza. There’s an equilibrium to your poem I find very satisfying and thought provoking.
What a beautiful and powerful movie!
Wow Emily, two different outcomes here. After heartbreak, we long for someone to “make everything alright” and when it doesn’t happen, we feel even worse. These lines: “and she doesn’t look up
and she sighs to herself” resonated with me because I feel this will be me when my daughter gets older. She’s only 10, but man…she is sensitive about the littlest things. We’ve been through enough already. Thank you for sharing this.
Shaun, thank you for the prompt today. I really love the mentor poem “Drift.” That’s such a perfect title given the subject and subtext. Your poem is a fun memory to rewrite, but it’s sad, too, to have a box of chocolates rejected. That “no they’re not” cuts. Your little heart must have stung from those words.
Motherhood
Why rethink motherhood?
I don’t talk much about
being a mother or
having had a mother.
She didn’t arrive for the
births of my children.
She never visited my Arizona &
Idaho homes & only once in Iowa.
She left a blank seat in the stands
during high school graduation.
She forgot birthdays, Christmases,
court-approved visitations.
She appeared at odd times of day&night,
once to snatch us & flee across state lines.
She derived no happiness from motherhood.
She offered no reason to honor
her on this curious faux holiday.
Decades of data confirm she’s not alone.
She bequeathed me
emptiness
questions
sorrow.
Longing to give her more of
all she never had or offered
I rethink my mother’s motherhood.
—Glenda Funk
April 27, 2022
Glenda, as my mother is in the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s, I am rethinking a lot about her motherhood. This makes me so sad that your mother was not the kind of mother you needed. She bequeathed “emptiness.” I hope you have found ways to fill that empty hole.
Glenda, each set of lets more powerful and resounding than the next. I love that you repeat “she”. Thank you for sharing this with us.
Wow, thank you for choosing to write this mother poem today. I’m glad you took the chance to rethink your “mother’s motherhood.” Wow, the “Longing to give her more of / all she never had or offered” is really powerful. Your poem is a gift for others who have mothers who didn’t give to their children.
Wow, Glenda… whoof, that is one complicated mess of a mama. Each of the blows to motherhood that you describe hits with a resounding wallop to the forehead. I hear you “rethinking” through the whole poem. This is such an honest reflection on such a difficult focus. I feel the “questions/sorrow.” Hugs and more hugs, Susie
Glenda, you know I can relate to this sad mothering model – had that, myself. These lines are so sad –
I find there is tremendous weight in the emptiness, isn’t there?
Glenda, “I rethink my mother’s motherhood.” What a striking line! This is saturated with pain, yet insightful. My mother has always been in my life, so I don’t know what it is to be without one. However, I work with children whose mothers have not been the very best. Some have rights terminated, some are nonexistent, and others are hopefully trying. I wonder what they think of their mothers? It’s one of those things I want to ask, but also have a respect for privacy. Thank you for sharing this because it reminds me that everyone has their own story and it’s not always a fairy tale ending.
Glenda, the power of your poem is incredible. The bequeathing “emptiness/questions/sorrow” is absolutely heart-breaking! I often wonder about women who may have difficulty being a “loving” and present mother in their children’s lives. How they may have experienced the same kind of treatment. I am haunted by “She derived no happiness from motherhood.” Hugs and peace, Barb
Glenda, thank you for sharing your truth in this poem. My mother is also emotionally unavailable, so my heart aches with yours.
Shaun, what an interesting life you have led. Your poem takes me back in time to first grade when I was in love with Martin. These early crushes are so bittersweet.
I wrote on my walk this morning after listening to The Slowdown, always inspiring.
I Hold an Acorn
in my hand
in a field of clover.
Am I a child now?
Walking with sun
bright in my eyes as it rises
above the live oaks?
It is spring, to be sure,
a time of resurrection.
Yet you are
not here.
I cannot call
you or text (You never learned how to text),
so I stand in the field,
hold
the acorn
lift it to smell my childhood, like the scent
of the Paschal candle. So many cut
flowers to save,
to savor.
I am here.
You are
not.
Your poem really puts myself in the situation of being a child in a field without.
Margaret, as to “you never learned how to text”: my dad was just learning how to email when he died twenty years ago this fall. I printed & saved his few messages. We are still children. Acorns from the oaks. Gorgeous imagery of the season and the faith – the truth for now being here when he is not. So beautiful-
What a beautiful poem Margaret. Walking not only is great for our physical health, but our spiritual and mental health as well. It gives us time to think because we have no purpose at that moment in time. Just walking….These lines:
“so I stand in the field,
hold
the acorn
lift it to smell my childhood, like the scent
of the Paschal candle” resonated with me because sometimes the most random things can bring back a flood of memories. Thank you for sharing.
Loved your poem, Shaun ~ from fuzzy memories to an absolute recreation of fourth grade pathos. You started my day with a smile — thanks! I went to a different place, but mostly I’ve been trying to go with my first response to every prompt so I don’t spend the day sloshing around in the vestibule 😉
Better be careful, she warned.
There was an incident.
I’m not going to tell. Ask him.
So I did.
We were sitting in his green bug.
There was no heat in the winter,
in the green bug—
but now it was summer,
end of summer,
when the leaves
are still thick and green,
holding on to their branches
without the slightest blush
to suggest what was to come—
It was nothing, he said.
A misunderstanding.
And I believed him.
I believed
in misunderstandings —
in forgotten birthdays,
and misspoken words,
in the bold bravado
green of leaves
just before they turn.
Had I known about the angels,
about the cliffs and gutters,
the echolalia
soft as a baby’s breath,
and later,
the words with form
and heft
that would crush me
and leave me
shivering in the ashes,
perhaps then
I’d would have have exited
the car,
pulled myself from the branch
before the first blush
and never learned
the power
of the phoenix,
or the sweetness
of that child’s hand wrapped around mine.
Your middle stanza got to me. “I believed in misunderstanding.” And these experiences do teach us valuable lessons.
Ann, I just finished a walk and now I want to go for another, hearing your voice narrate more of this moment.
The dialogue is as intriguing (alluring) as the storytelling. The poem flows beautifully.
Shaun, you’ve offered an extremely tough act to follow this morning. The narrative you put forward poetically, the re-encountering, was simply stunning…precious…felt…beautiful. Gorgeous poem.
I understand this crush. You took us all back to that classroom…those moments. Wonderful.
On This Day, April 27
~b.r.crandall
there were storms
& i missed Kentucky’s
bluegrass.
That bunny
continued to
lead me down
those rabbit holes
in search of time.
But Ms. Leigh’s 4th graders earned a pizza party
(best readers in the school) and I didn’t mind becoming an Amazon truck,
delivering wind-up toys & books to applaud them.
Kwame helped us, after all.
We became Muhammad Ali with him and James.
Don’t count the days; make the days count.
So, more Woodson to IRIS.
more Black Boy Joy to Harding.
Tonya brought me to Birmingham twice
and brought history out of a textbook
& into a collective memory.
We learned lessons
of youth movements,
& the struggle for human rights.
& I walked with Emmanuel Jal,
listened to him sing his child-soldier story,
& knew I had to find more
Hope for the Flowers
to plant in gardens.
the legacy of transatlantic slave trade,
the lynchings, codified segregation,
the incarcerations & racial terror.
The National Memorial for Peace & Justice.
When they write to say they only need 30 copies of
When Stars Are Scattered (to learn more of this world)
I will find a way.
Bryan,
Im processing so much from your poem, a reminder that in this moment we’re making history, and students are creating a history of their reading. These lines are the heart to me:
“brought history out of a textbook
& into a collective memory.”
W/out saying it, you’ve written a rebuttal to those book banners attempting to erase our national memory. We must all keep working to “find a way” through the terror of this moment to have memories of the moment you capture here.
Bryan,
I can’t help but hear an anthem, perhaps a battle cry, in your words. You so eloquently captured the power of reading to allow us to grow, become, learn, and see. I love the sprinkled names of authors amongst ideas that so many cowards throughout our nation fear. You will find a way because good finds a way. And if any of those copies are still needed, count me in for providing one.
Bud, Not Buddy was my not-a-big-fiction-reader son’s favorite at that middle reader stage. Great evocations in this poem, Bryan!
Close Encounters
Mom often slept on the couch
Because of insomnia
I would find books
Under the make-shift bed
About aliens, UFO’s and
Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence research (SETI)
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
That haunting five note tonal phrase featured in the movie
Richard Dreyfuss shaping mountains out of mashed potatoes
Shaped my childhood
Mom was an expert on alien encounters
Went to Princeton for Space Studies Institute meetings
Married my stepfather
Moved to Sedona
I found more information in my house
Looking at what was left of their lives
Pictures of planets and pulsars
Pouches of crystals
Pockets of peridot jewelry
I would say:
“How are your aliens today mother?”
She was not afraid
To poke fun at herself
While holding on to her vision of
Human colonies in space
She was called a maverick
A radical independent thinker
A fierce fighter for truth
A meeting with her…was indeed an encounter
I love the mysterious tone and voice woven throughout your poem. These lines really stood out to me and provided an image in my mind:
Pictures of planets and pulsars
Pouches of crystals
Pockets of peridot jewelry
Oh my gosh – I love this. I have such a vivid memory of Dreyfuss’s mashed potatoes, I’ve been to Sedona, I love that your mom could poke fun a herself – the true sign of a visionary. Wonderful poem. Thank you!
Amazing portrait of your mom, here. Jennifer.
We know her through your words!
I can so relate to your mother’s interest in the extraterrestrial. I love your end, “A meeting with her…was indeed an encounter” Wonderful poem!
The voice I heard in this was wryness juxtaposed with admiration. Your mom sounds like a fascinating person!
Some years ago I started my undergrad program
Wondering if I had made the right choice
Curious about what I would encounter
Time goes on and I was Not too thrilled with what I was seeing
My mind thought about fleeing
One Professor was very difficult
He probably was part of an occult….I thought. Have to be!
Tuition was climbing
State requirements were changing
And I was over it….
Though I was over it.. I had some very awesome Professors who cared for me
Fast forward and a jog into later
I graduated and shook Mr. President hand
But whoever thought that I would come back to complete another program
Well I did!
Something about the beauty of the campus I came to realize that provided comfort
A comfort that I could not get at any other place of higher education
New smell in the building, new faces, new work to do
But it was home. Welcome back!
DesC, I so enjoy how you show your feelings about returning to school. I remember starting my grad program and having a ridiculously bad professor, and thinking to myself, “What did I get myself into.” Fortunately the first was the worst and a few were outstanding. I can feel the love of learning radiating from your poem. Good luck!
Would I?
Would I do it again?
So many decisions
made in haste,
possibly (probably)
in waste…
Would I do it again?
Would I do it again?
Find myself
over and over,
each time finding out that
that self
wasn’t working?
Would I do it again?
Make mistakes
(so many of them),
then move on
to new mistakes?
Would I do it again?
Fall in love with a man
Who really wasn’t
right for me, who
my friends were
worried about,
who didn’t want
to turn thirty,
get married,
or have kids?
Would I do it again?
Leave the career
I had created
to be at home with
(three!) young children?
Go back to school to
become a teacher
(something my 20 year old self
said I would never do)?
Would I do it all again?
Yes. I would.
All of it.
Every mistake,
every misstep,
every possible bad choice
(and there were so many…)
created the path
to today.
And today
is a beautiful day.
GJSands 4/27/22
Love this. Yes, everything we do sums up who we are today. And it’s a beautiful day.
So beautiful. I love the questions that anchor each part of your poem. I found myself reflecting right alongside you.
Love this. And so true:
Every mistake,
every misstep,
every possible bad choice
(and there were so many…)
created the path
to today.
I am brightened by the ending. It brings hope.
Gayle — Such a strong voice and strong woman here! I love the reflections on each of these steps and “misstep[s]”… just makes me smile! Susie
I love this, Gayle! “And today / is a beautiful day.” What a great ending. (And I love the idea that our “journeys” are made up of all our steps — even (and maybe especially) our missteps.) Thank you for this!
Such a celebration, Gayle! Love the refrain and the no-regrets.
posted postcard
partially filled
my mailbox
with cursive
kindness
re-kindling
excitement
erased with
emails, emojis
of my grandmother’s
gorgeous
circles, slants
pauses through space
in her letters that
arrived when
I could
hold her cards
near my heart
I wish I could
hold her hand
the script-creator
just once more
—————————-
Shaun, thank you for hosting and sharing your 4th grade love story with us today.
Kim J, thank you for the postcard;)
This is beautiful piece about the power of your grandmother’s writing.
“…gorgeous circles,slants pauses through space.”
Oh so wonderful – with cursive kindness.
And…
my grandmother’s
gorgeous
circles, slants
pauses through space
You said it perfectly. That’s how I feel about my mom
Just lovely. Thank you!
Such lovely rhythms in your poem, Stefani – and such longing to hold the hand that left such distinctive writing. It is something I know well… that generation was so good about writing letters and cards.
Stefani,
I read this over and over because it sounds so beautiful. Your alliteration makes me think of the smooth lines of cursive that your grandmother crafted.
Shaun–this story-poem is wonderful–the detail, the awkwardness, the wishes. I look forward to remembering my crushes in response to this delightful prompt.
Shaun, oh to relive those early crushes. The awkward moments I’d love to forget and many I’d love NOT re-encounter. You’ve captured that one moment so perfectly that I can imagine Monica running with that kite and you beside her with a smile. Thank you for the joyful scene.
Today I am re-encountering people I’ve never met in person. I’ve worked with these people online for a year and this week I finally get to meet in person! It’s been strange to re-encounter the little person in a zoom box to a real live person!
Re-encounter
We’ve spent
hours talking
asking
questioning
planning
seeking advice
on a device
far away
never touching
tinny voice
sometimes only
words
thumbed in
on a screen
scrolling
advice
in bubbles
of green
your presence
a glamour shot
taken years ago
a snap shot
of you
or who you want
to be
or a box
of you
on the screen
you and
200 other guests
listening
from afar
In person
you are taller
smile more
laugh more readily
and your hug
says hello
so glad
to finally
see
you
Christine, those two-dimensional pictures on a screen just don’t capture personality, do they?
That’s what is so distressing about Zoom meetings to me. Yes, maybe better than nothing, but I agree – – finally seeing height and expression and movement and hearing voice is a big win in getting to know others after so long Zooming. I like your re-encountering topic – – that’s fabulous!
Christine, I think your glamour shot reference says it all, online our portrayals often elude reality. I love how you ended on a positive note though, with more personality and huggable responses. Thank you for sharing today.
Wonderfully put! Loved – In person you are taller – smile more – laugh more readily.
Thank you!
Christine, many things in your poem stand out to me – the tinny voice, the text bubbles, the glamour shot “of you/or who you want to be” – that really struck. The emphasis on finally getting to see a real person versus a virtual one is a re-encounter to be celebrated, indeed!
Shaun, your poem triggered many memories for me. Sometimes childhood rises up before us, vivid and clear – like the cowlick here, the slush covered boots and hats in this vestibule, all holding layers of significance and almost tangible. All I can say is I began to write of a thing and it led me onto another which I really hadn’t planned to write about today or any day. I am letting it go. It is the gift that writing – that poetry – gives. Deepest thanks to you for this invitation to re-encounter.
The Wallet
My father
returns
from the grocery store
without the groceries
—I got to the counter
the cashier rang everything up
I reached for my wallet
it wasn’t there
I retraced my steps
I looked in the car
it’s gone
so is his whole paycheck
cashed, in the wallet
for groceries and medicine
before what’s left
goes in the bank
it is the first time
I remember feeling
so sorry for my father
it will not be the last
many years later
he stands before me
wallet in hand
beads of sweat
as big as dimes on
his brow
asking,
How much
did she take?
and I tell him
I’m not taking
your money, Daddy
It’s not mine,
he says
it’s hers
and so
I hold out my hand
this is
our last visit
two months later
when he’s gone
I recall
a childhood nightmare
of my family on a train
which crashed
I’m a bystander
looking at scattered teeth
across the grass
today, I think of
my father’s wallet
of all the taking
and the giving
and realize
the great irony
of him being the one
who bought my ticket
not to ride
but to walk away
Fran, such wisdom you have in retrospect as pieces of the past come together in the picturesque puzzle of perspective. You are able to make sense, even of the pain and horror of a nightmare, as you re-examine the symbols and irony of situations. The scars of our pasts and our present that cut deep can heal as rainbows of hope later when we look back – and the more I feel hurt by those I love the most, the tighter I cling to the day we will all sing as angels in same-strains of praise. This is a beautiful poem – so heartfelt and courageous. And I feel the readerly vibe of connection.
Fran, once again you amaze me with how your memories are recalled and tied together in a seamless manner. Today your story of your dad and his wallet was no different, with the chilling ending to this string of events.
Fran–this required a re-read, as I was caught up in the story… That wallet. The loss. The walking away. The nightmare…
Fran, this is so heartbreaking and vivid. I want to know more yet you leave us with so much. Thank you for sharing today.
Fran, I have so many questions:
How much
did she take?
Who is “she”?
And the paradox, the duality, in these lines:
“who bought my ticket
not to ride
but to walk away”
Perhaps these are the complications of symbols, of a wallet both empty and full. For me the most important line is
“I retraced my steps”
because this is what you are doing in the poem and what I am doing in rereading and pondering. It’s why I think your poem is a brilliant response to the prompt. As always, gorgeous language.
This is a stunning poem, Fran. Just stunning,
I’ve walked through it several times, contemplating the turns you make…the choices…the narrative brilliance. Finger snapping from Connecticut.
Oh my goodness – so powerful. I can see the wallet, your father, and those teeth scattered across the grass – says it all. Thank you!
Shaun, that replay of what we would have done differently when the childhood kites turned to chocolates is something I think about from
time to time in my own life with communication…sometimes I didn’t say all that needed saying or respond the way I should have. Thank you for hosting us today – you made me think this morning ?.
Getting the Drift
I’d just finished
a writing workshop
for a school-community partner
when she – my same age –
asked me
how many more years
I’ve got
It’s getting more common
with each new wrinkle,
this question
that makes me wonder:
to live?
or to work?
I’m not sure, I paused
how about you?
I U-turned her question,
to clarify
to get her drift
me? oh, I’m going to keep
right on working,
she fired back
I’m not one of those
to sit home in my chair and
wait my turn to die
Interesting,
I considered,
nor am I –
I’m waiting my turn
to linger over coffee
to travel more
to write more
to walk dogs more
to watch birds more
to adventure more
to read more books
to nap in the hammock more
to lunch with friends
to cook more
to live more
“To live more” an excellent way to begin the day. I will U- turn as many questions as possible today- thank you for the challenge today! (I officially declare April 27-U-Turn a Question Day)As always your lines are inspiring!?
Kim… for a thousand different reasons, I was looking into early retirement yesterday. What an ambiguous question here: How many more years have you got? And your thinking in response: to work? To live-? Love the U-turning of the question… and oh how I love those final lines; sign me up, please! In the meantime, until we lay the mantle down, we carve out the pockets for “more” where we can. Your words never fail to uplift, Kim; they strengthen the spirit!
It took me so long to make that decision to retire. It’s never easy having been at this teaching gig for so long. And as you said you will have time to watch birds, nap and so much more. I am so grateful for my decision to retire, now working part time AND enjoying my family so much more than ever!
Loved the u-turn of the question! Let me just say–your closing stanza is so true, although it took me a year to make that adjustment. I am living just fine now, thank you (and I really wasn’t sure I would…)
Kim, this idea of “u-turn” could be its own poetry prompt. Your line “wait my turn to die” is powerful as well. Thank you for sharing today.
I’m loving your “waiting in turn” stanza. Wow. I’m waiting in turn to do the same things!
Kim,
As a fairly recent retiree, this poem resonates w/ me. I wonder how many think this is what we do in retirement:
“I’m not one of those
to sit home in my chair and
wait my turn to die”
Are there those who think this is what I’m doing? I love the list of living you’re awaiting. Every one is something I’m doing more of, although the lunching w/ friends happens more often in summer than in winter. This one’s going to stick w/ me.
Kim,
I love this so much. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve been asked, “How much longer you staying at it?” I’d be super wealthy. How you U-turned (love that term you created) her question and how it affected your feelings are response are just perfect.
I know I will miss my vocation of teaching kids deeply, but I will also relish in doing so many of those same things you list . . . and more! I won’t be waiting to die!
Year 27. Phew. I get this poem. Feel it in my bones. Love when a question is U-turned.
My husband is only 34 and he wants to retire. Like no joke. He is not a fan of anything involving reading but I told him to read your poem and he loved it <3
Kim, I always found those kind of questions rather irksome, and I love your response. I have always loved to share a leisurely lunch with friends, especially after having so many lunches that were definitely not relaxing. Loved “linger over coffee” and “to adventure more”. Beautiful and relatable poem!
Th
This place i
This place is blank
space
_______
| |
| |
_______
I’ve forgot
I’ve forgotten
I’ve forgotten to
\erase\
these and other words,
just
in
case
— Kevin
Formatting got weird there — those lines are a box
Kevin, my formatting goes off road a bit too sometimes. I like how you give us the feel of words not erased,
as placeholders. It reminds me of the writing process when I’m showing students my own thinking. It used to be that it was about showing the progress of the writing. Now, it’s about trying to remember my train of original thought….because of those spaces that didn’t used to be there.
Speaks to me of the power of writing, capturing moments and memory… not erased, just in case.
Love…love…love this, Kevin. ee cummings-esque and delicious.
Ooooo!!! Yes! This approach and perspective on the topic. I can’t put into words, but I appreciate this in several ways. Thank you for putting this out there.