Today’s inspiration comes from Shaun Ingalls. Originally from Salt Lake City, Utah, Shaun lives in Las Vegas, Nevada where he has been teaching ELA at Southeast Career Technical Academy for eighteen years. His prior teaching experience includes two years in an Alaskan Eskimo village, and two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Kyrgyzstan. Most importantly, he spends his free time with his wife of 20 years, his fifteen-year-old daughter, his eight-year-old son, and his Bichapoo Lucky.
Inspiration
April is a reminder that our lives are perpetually bound to cycles and the progress of time. It has always been my favorite season as the natural world awakens after its dormant period. Write a poem about the passing of time and the ways that time and cycles inspire you, whether in our lives, in nature, anywhere.
Process
Go outside. Spend a few minutes observing your surroundings. Pay attention to evidence of cycles and the passage of time. Then make a list of five to ten of your observations. Perhaps a tree growing in your yard or an object that has changed over the years. What does it say about how you relate to the world?
See Carl Sandburg’s “Clocks”: https://www.bartleby.com/134/46.html
Shaun’s Poem
This spring
A single dandelion had the audacity to punch a hole
Through my verdant artificial turf.
The deep greens and reds of new rose leaves show evidence of
Rebirth.
The patio table glass is opaque with old rain.
Fake holiday greens still snake around wooden posts.
At this rate, they may make it to Independence Day.
In front of the sliding doors, a tray of tomato sprouts lean toward
The sun,
Lean toward the bed of rich brown soil that will sustain them until it won’t.
In the rust of the iron pipe that holds strings of hanging bulbs,
In the lime left behind by the neighbor’s sprinklers
That seep through the cinderblock wall,
I feel the impending calefaction
That will transform this Eden into a sweltering furnace.
The fruit will cook on the vines.
The desiccated weeds will be reduced to dust.
This spring will come again.
Write
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Time of My Life
I’m 18 years old
Is my life one-fourth done?
I feel like I’m only
Just learning to run.
If life were a day,
The light just would be breaking.
And the man that I am
Only now would be waking.
I’d make plans and dream dreams
For the day stretched before
I’d look forward with hope
As I walked out the door.
If life were a year,
As the seasons move by
I’d be starting my summer
I’d be learning to fly.
And the seeds that were sown,
In the spring of my youth
Would be starting to sprout
Bringing life to my truth.
But life is a path
That we pave with our choices,
We decide who we’ll be
What we’ll do with our voices.
So, I won’t look behind me
And regret what is past,
I will keep looking forward
My potential is vast.
I will live every moment
I will win and I’ll lose
But this life will be my life
It will be what I choose.
It’s daybreak, it’s summer,
I’ll walk in the sun.
My childhood is over,
My life is begun.
Every time I step outside
The air immediately reminds
that there’s a metal castings plant 200 feet away
leaving the glass patio table, always needing a wet cloth
I observe the moss between the bricks on the patio
didn’t I just power wash this?
Touchdown will need a new paint job soon
The bulbs on the string lights have a spot of them
from dried up rain
a natural direction sign to the opposite side of the world
the patio heater looks like another tree branch fell on it
the bolts are rustier
Water will destroy
but we will always need water
The dark night
the starry light
why is it hard to see?
we make the light
to see at night
but where are the stars
no where to be found
polluted by light
that is where they will drown.
Yet when you look down
you see a light
not from the stars but from the moon
there it shows that it is no longer noon.
The days have been so dark
They bring so many new smells
And with every breath
A new sight is opened to see,
But the sounds remain the same
To where it’s almost repetitional to
Hear the sounds of the cars going past
I see the world in a different view
And I want to show whoever I can
In these desperate times to be outside
Indoors can bring happiness too.
Thank you, Shaun. I liked reading Clocks and your springtime poem. I felt like I could see your yard and all the details–like the “Fake holiday greens still snake around wooden posts” and the tomatoes leaning “bed of rich brown soil that will sustain them until it won’t.”
I’ll give it a try, even though a day late. Thanks!
Springtime to Summer in Manama
Here is a season that knows it is going to lose the fight.
One day a breeze blows in the twilight, almost breathing a bit of chill from the Saudi peninsula.
Another one has a humid breeze from the south east soaking up the water from the Arabian Gulf, pouring it on the island. Not in rain, but in oppressive heaviness.
In April there is an angry dance between lovely springtime weather, warm and welcome.
The dance partner, summer day, is a bully, stifling and scorching.
Dominant and tormenting summer.
It’s coming.
An unbreakable building, building.
Heat dome lying heavy and unmovable.
Over the Middle East there are no Canadian cold fronts providing relief for a day or two
Summer in all its oppression will win
Fresh off the lift
At the top of the slope
Suddenly I notice the moment
So peaceful I just wanted to write about it
I wanted people to feel what I was feeling
The only sound is the trees,
swaying back and forth
the years are heard through each creak
I have finally experienced it
A moment so special to inspire writing
The way a single moment can open your eyes, and reopen your vision of the beauty is so nice.
Well, when I went outside it was night so I went with it.
Upon the sky,
There lies the moon
Shining in glory,
Beautiful and Full
Yet tomorrow it will be sunny,
For the sun takes the moon
Night takes the day,
and the day takes the night
For eternity,
we can always trust
The cycle on the day and night,
for one can always be sure,
the sun will rise again
Kain,
What a beautiful picture this poem painted in my mind. I love the repetition of one taking the other, a true reflection of daily cycles. Your explanation in the beginning seemed to be a unique first line to me, although it wasn’t intended.
Thank you for sharing. Glad you went with it. ?
Kain, I really liked how these lines unfurled:
“the sun takes the moon
Night takes the day,
and the day takes the night
For eternity”
This is the place in the poem where I felt the rolling, cyclical rhythm of nature take hold.
I’m glad you looked to the moon!
I relate to the parts speaking on the outdoors, the ay the nigh just seems to sweep over us all.
A Bookshelf
It stands six and half feet tall
Up against the wall
Brown and embellished on the top crown
Loaded with books and pictures and things all the way down
So much stuff just sits on the selves year after year, after year
I can’t remember that last time I looked at any of it. So, it would appear
That this self is just a dumping ground for things with which I cannot part
Things that were once so near and dear to my heart
A picture of my eldest receiving her high school diploma is up on the top shelf
And pictures of grandkids and knick- knacks on the second, and a degree for myself
I think it’s from junior college, on second look, no, it’s from the University
Beneath is a snow globe, a candle, a statue from my granddaughter, such diversity
Now the next one is full of my favorite books, poetry, and collector’s fare
I haven’t read one in so long, I, simply, forgot that they were there
Well, the next two shelves are full of the same kind of stuff just taking up space
But the bottom shelf holds treasures; year books from school to school; place to place
Friends and family are within those covers and memories I do not want to forget
So, this tall brown bookshelf standing strong over the years, precious memories it has kept
By Donna Russ, 4-23-2020
Donna: A poet after my own heart! Bookshelves dominate our house, too. You frame your poet so nicely with descriptions of the bookshelf itself. Then you paint a richly detailed picture for us, level by level. Such a great use of both structure and language! Anne
Donna, your poem stole my heart. Of course who wouldn’t love a busy bookshelf,
“Loaded with books and pictures and things…/full of my favorite books, poetry, and collector’s fare…” SO MUCH TREASURE!
What I also enjoyed was that the poem was not “poemy” with your rhymes, had to go back to double check because they creeped up on me so sweet and subtle. Descriptive and fun. Glad I didn’t miss it. Just a day late seeing it.
April in Austin
anything’s possible, the month I bore my second daughter
days before her birth I squatted in the garden to plant basil
and hoped the child would be inspired to arrive
two mountain laurels planted to mark her birth
today their height marks her time here, tall and full
some Aprils outdoor gatherings required sweaters
and I was grateful for a porch to provide protection
for those of us who gathered to celebrate another year
today I padded around the yard bare feet and in shorts
though mornings still require a fleece top
tomorrow’s forecast 98 – crazy!
Jamie, this poem is lovely. Happy I came back to see what I missed.
Such a blessing to have trees in honor of her birth and life. Truly a treasure to behold.
I love “anything’s possible” as the opening. Sets the flow and gave me anticipation. Almost thought maybe she was born out there.
Thank you for sharing your special place, where anything’s possible. Today will be blazing. I hope you’ll have a way to enjoy it anyway.
I am drawn in immediately as the alliterative title blends into the opening line:
“April in Austin
anything’s possible”
I loved the image of the expectant mama squatting in the garden, planting basil!
Your use of alliteration is again so good in crafting this line:”a porch to provide protection”
Happy birthday to that second daughter!
Moods of a Country Road
Brazen, flaunting cusps and curls
blue snow
reflecting solstice stars
Needy, tugging wheels
into spring ruts
winter has lost her frosty grip
Flustered, frothing dust clouds
in my wake
then still again: mid-August drought
Hearty, lined by heavy corn
awaiting harvest
welcome home welcome home
Allison, I love how you capture country roads in this poem. “Needy, tugging wheels” says it all; I’ve been there. The end is beautiful! I can totally relate to “welcome home welcome home”. The alliteration and imagery of “flustered, frothing dust clouds” is sheer perfection. Lovely!
Allison – Your images of the country road took me right back to my years on the farm. The road was a powerful piece of that experience— you’ve offered a mentor poem for me that I’d like to borrow if that’s okay. (Crediting your genius, of course) “Needy tugging wheels /into spring ruts” (I feel the pull and the sound) and “flustered, frothing dust clouds / in my wake” (sooo visual) and “heavy corn” (that weight on the corn stalks on both sides of the road…heavy is perfect)—these are sensory maps for my trip from your home to mine. Thank you for the trip. Susie
THANK you, Susie! Of course you may use my poem in whatever way is helpful or pleasing! I really struggled to get started last night (some poems require TUGGING 🙂 but I liked it by the time I finished! I do love my road. Hugs, Allison
Hi Allison, I am late reading yesterday’s poems because yesterday sucked!
Thank you for taking me on this ride on country roads. I’ve never lived in a rural area, so I have nothing to draw on. That means your poem took me there easily and made me want to ride along with you. I’m most captivated by the “flaunting, cusps and curls…” since that type of weather is also not one I’ve lived through. Lovely! Fun! Welcome home.
?
Shaun: I liked your prompt. As someone who grew up in Southern California, on the edge of the desert, I remember how brief this bridge season was before the heat came! It was raining in Chicago today, so I could not go out for a walk. Instead, I wrote about living with 2 calendars, and thus 2–or more–spring beginnings. Anne
Divergent Seasons
Anne Johnston
April23, 2020
S
pring began
The 15th of Sh’vat.
Happy Birthday, trees!
37 degrees
In Chicago.
But in Jerusalem
The almond trees were blooming.
Spring began
The 19th of March,
52 degrees
Made a chilly walk
For the last Shabbat
Synagogues would be open
In Jerusalem.
Spring began
The 19th of March.
A glorious 62 degree Shabbat!
(before a characteristic polar plunge to 33 degrees)
A wonderful day to walk
To synagogue with friends in Chicago
(the last day to walk to synagogue …)
Spring began
The 15th of Nissan
Chag haAviv/Passover/the Festival of Spring.
Such atmospherics!
First seder: hail (the 7th plague)
Second seder: snow (that one didn’t make it into the Torah)
A real Chicago spring celebration!
From Jerusalem, my son sent a photo of himself during Passover vacation:
Kicked back on his balconey, in shorts and sandals,
A blooming tree behing.
We settled, by the 8th day, for snow-crested daffodils.
This is Spring
The trees in the yard have green
where bare once was
The birds chirp and sing
their lovely songs
The wasps are relentlessly working
to cover my home
The days are warmer and the sun peaks in
my windows just a little be earlier
This is Spring
Donnetta,
I love the way your poem defines and observes spring in its intimate details. Yesterday I saw a solution to the wasp problem: install a fake hive. I thought that was clever.
—Glenda
My Tiny Star
Twenty years ago, the Star Magnolia was a mere bush in the yard when we moved here.
My boys were barely seven, ten, and twelve.
They zoomed around the yard, throwing any kind of ball they could find.
The tiny Star Magnolia served as a hurdle for their running games,
Losing leaves when they jumped too soon.
We took family trips over spring break- D. C., Colorado, and California.
The fragrant Star Magnolia would bloom each spring whether we saw it or not.
But truth be told, I was always heartbroken when I saw the withered and browned petals strewn around the lawn
When we pulled in the drive after a vacation.
The boys grew.
Soon the Star Magnolia served as a backdrop for graduation and prom pictures,
Casting just enough shade on my growing giants.
The tiny Star has now grown to over twelve feet tall
And even my six-and-a-half-foot tall little boy can no longer jump it.
This year I watched from the kitchen window as her petals fluttered and fell to the ground
Since there was nowhere to go.
But I thought of the new little boy, the son of my son,
Who will play in the Star’s shade for so many years to come.
Ohhhh Mo, how incredible is this! Thankful I came back this morning to see what I missed yesterday. Your poem gives honor to the Star Magnolia in a way that reads like a picture book. I can see it on the pages, maybe in 2-3 lines and the rest of the pages dominate with rich illustrations. Just in awe.
I’m in love with the beginning and the boys playing and jumping the bush. Every mom of kids who love the outdoors appreciates that memory. Then to see how Tiny Star became the backdrop and then shade for “the son of my son” is pure love. Wow Mo. Get your illustrator and get this book done!
Thank you. Wish I could see Star.
I’m not crying! You’re crying!
Fruit Tree
Every year
Is a new year for survival
Every year
There is a rebirth of plants
Every year
This tree
This beautiful fruit tree
Is on the brink of death
Every year
It survives
Almost completely colorless and barely alive,
There’s always one branch bright with green leaves
Every year
It has a chance for survival
And this tree
This beautiful fruit tree
Like many others
Is doing everything it can to stay alive
I love how this opens me up to how much bauty is still around us even though I can’t see it.
Golden Mornings
By Stacey L. Joy, ©April 23, 2020
In my childhood during spring
the morning sun’s golden rods
barged past my thin curtains
to awaken sparks of hope
that summer days
inching around the corner
would arrive
FINALLY
no more school
no more homework
no more schedules
time to be unaccountable
Today, a month into spring
the morning sun’s golden rods
pointed to my Keurig
an ironic calm in my cup
awaiting one touch
to fill the room
with the aroma of the day
AHHHH
no clothes to press
no lunch to pack
no desks to wipe
time to pray for our world
Stacey — Your poem reads like a glorious relief. I even blurted out AAAHHH at the end. It’s neat how you take us back to when you were a kid and spring “barges” … that youthful energy. And the anticipation of summer — oh man, what kids, what teacher, did count the days till summer? And simply to be “unaccountable” — the magic word for me! Indeed! I’m glad you have that coffee…that is one indelible sniff…brings me straight up out of bed…COFFEE! AAAAH! Thanks for serving up some fine spring! Susie
Stacey,
Such stark contrasts these springs offer. My attention goes immediately to the parallel phrasing and reputation of “no” in both stanzas. Yes, time. Time once for carefree days. Time now for prayer and meditation. I still can’t believe our reality is our reality. *sigh* Sending love and hugs. Thank you.
—Glenda
When I first saw today’s prompt, all I could think about was how different this spring is from any other. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to write about that, though. I’m so clad you did! The contrast is stark and plain to see.
Spring in Missouri
Spring in Missouri —
aside from all that blooming
and April planting,
endless shades of emergent greens,
and the shedding of winter’s dander —
manages to host a sinister party,
the reveling of wind, the howling of twisters,
tornado season.
Roiling clouds suck down
the bathtub gin replete in thunderheads
and spew out hail,
like cold epithets cursing nature’s spoiling,
pounding new leaves to the ground;
then with another big gulp skies turn green
and pause to an eerie quiet
and the sirens begin to pulse,
sending me to the basement with Watty Boy
where we wait
so much more than before.
He wonders why we’re sitting
in the drafty, barren subterranean,
staring at my laptop
flashing Doppler maps in primary colors
(do dogs see color?).
I shift and wobble on the camp chair
I’ve relegated to this concrete haven,
while Watty scarfs up dead crickets in the corners,
crunching like he found a bag of peanuts.
In Missouri these days you need to survey
your tornado gear —
I have a list now:
guitar, phone, laptop, chargers, flashlight, Mama’s afghan, keys,
dog leash,
I’ll add a poetry book this spring… Mary Oliver
and Rita Dove and Billy Collins and Maya …
I think I’ll need to set up a bookcase.
Spring is time for poetry.
by Susie Morice©
Susie,
I have so many memories of Missouri springs. I know the anxiety-inducing waiting when the Doppler radar wails, the hunkering in bathtubs and basements, the stepping onto the porch to look at the sky and see if it’s green. Did I tell you I visited family in Joplin after that horrendous F-5 tornado, that it killed a high school friend, and leveled an aunt’s home? I think about the severity of storms now compared to those from my childhood. Yikes. They are so much worse now. I’m w/ you in needing poetry to see us through these literal twisted and the metaphoric ones tossing us to and fro. I love the way your poem “turns” with few end stops before angling toward another direction the way tornados change direction unexpectedly. Love this poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Susie, I feel like you brought me full circle with this poem. I smiled at the beginning picturing your images, but then that sinister party cam e and stuff got real fast! You got me a little nervous until the crunchy crickets. But ending with the poetry and turning this whole experience into something beautiful is just genius!
Hi Susie, apologies for day-late reading, yesterday sucked.
Your opening is clever and catchy! Who would think of Spring in Missouri the way you do:
“hosting a sinister party/the reveling of wind, the howling of twisters.”
Then the sensory images you created:
“ spew out hail,
like cold epithets cursing nature’s spoiling,
pounding new leaves to the ground;”
Amaaaaazing! Having no frame of reference for this type of spring made me a bit jealous. Of course I love the extremes of it all. However, the basement “concrete haven” and crickets gave me the chills.
The end makes it all good again.
Lovely escape for me this morning. Thank you Susie.
Seasons
“There’s nothing to see. I used to live here, you know.”
“You’re going to die here, you know. Convenient.”
– exchange between Luke Skywalker and Han Solo on Tatooine
The buds in the park
Somehow remind me
Of the blocks of ice
Strewn across the shoreline of the creek
In the dark of my early mornings
Driving through the park
Listening to some NPR voice
When icy roads kept me honest
I don’t drive anymore
I just walk.
And keep walking.
The air is the only thing that’s still icy
I remember summery Aprils
And coming home in May
To relive the shift of seasons
Pink and purple leaves on campus
Walking downtown to sit
Outside of the bars
Seeing my breath in the streetlight
Warming my hands in deep pockets
Now I pass strangers who ask,
“Did Winter make a comeback?”
And I give a polite small talk laugh
Pushing my red faced infant son
Obsessively refreshing weather.com
Obsessively refreshing Buffalo.
“inconspicuous growth”
Here is a tree with leaves trembling on a vein of crisp air that slices through the warmth echoing through a sun-soaked late-April afternoon.
These branches–bare just forty-two days ago–now appear lush, verdant, virile.
How am I unable to recall the bareness, barrenness? It was just there.
Here is the pen-stricken page in my notebook that records the poignant epiphany realized for the second time in twenty-eight days.
These sentences–halting and flowing—attempt meaning and consciousness.
Have my cells transformed with the speed of the oak? I was just here.
I love the comparison of yourself and a tree. At the end of your first stanza, I like how you note that we often forget the changes of seasons…we almost always suddenly feel like it’s been this way forever. It’s a bit slower where I live than in Arkansas, but pretty soon, it’ll feel like it’s always Summer, and the cold of Winter will feel distant, a foggy memory.
Lou, I like the precision of your words that are echoed with the precise numbers – trembling on a vein of crisp air – verdant, virile, pen-stricken page
Thank you Shaun for the prompt and inspiration! I have been collecting Spring-time observations in my journal for the past couple of days, so today’s assignment provided an opportunity to bring them all together. My phone went off in the middle of writing this piece…tornado and severe storm warnings all afternoon. We are fine (no damage, yes power, just rain), but several tornadoes touched down in the area, and there is damage throughout the community.
There’s a storm coming:
trees whip and sway,
dead limbs and pine cones drop,
garden flags float and snap.
A rumble echoes in the canopy
like waves on the shore.
I gather cushions,
flip law furniture,
shelter hanging plants and succulents.
One lonely geranium bloom droops beside
the leggy citronella, both survivors of hot summers and wet winters.
A single purple petunia flowers in the grass (a remnant of last spring’s bounty).
The neighborhood hummingbirds seek the feeder
(a crimson glass globe already tucked inside).
A tree frog hides within the patio table;
I approve of his sanctuary.
My lizard friend scampers across the porch,
seeking new refuge.
I untether the pencil cactus from the front porch railing,
drag jade plants and aloe into the shelter of the alcove,
tuck the hanging tendrils of the kalanchoe.
My Easter lily
(fluctuating between death by sun or by drowning)
appears to be resuscitated.
The sky darkens.
The wind ceases.
Thunder murmurs in the distance.
Everything glows in the stillness,
an inhale of anticipation.
There’s a storm coming.
Besty,
I can’t help but think as I read your poem how lucky your plants and critters are to be cared for so sincerely! I love this collection of living things that have all weathered and survived previous assaults (hot summers, torrential downpours, strong winds). While ominous, this poem is filled with hope, as I am for your community this evening!
Betsy,
Your writing here paints a vivid image of your home! What a nice juxtaposition of beauty and terror. Well done!
Betsy – I really like how I was zipping around with your tending to all the “get ready” activity for the storm coming. I zipped to the “city, state” line, as what you were doing was similar but not at all like Missouri and this time of year. You already have tree frogs and lizards — I’m sitting out here on the deck right now hunkered in because I’m cold… our sun basking critters don’t come for weeks yet. And the plants…a pencil cactus (nice!)… so different, and yet not. I love the coming of a storm (the whipping and swaying of trees — that’s always amazing to me, because I can’t make a big tree sway no matter how hard I try, and Mama Nature, well, she’s a brute when she wants to be! You made this very real. Thank you!
Your description of the rote tasks of preparing for a coming storm was vivid and familiar! It’s the little things like noticing a lizard scamper to safety that drew me in and made me feel like checking for a coming storm of my own.
The gardener lingers at the tree
Surprised by the scene
Bereft of blossoms, branches bare,
Hardly any leaves.
What is this gray green fungus eyed,
Growing up the side?
Every other spring, majestic blooms
Now, will it survive?
Grief is like this, when it comes about,
Whether whisper or shout,
Approaching loss always hurts
Seeing life worn out.
Maureen,
Such a meaningful poem. I notice the gray moss against the tree and its parallel to grief consuming those who mourn. There’s also the subtext of this moment in time that gives me such a feeling of loss. Your poem captures myriad incarnations of loss. Thank you.
—Glenda
Maureen,
Your poem gave me chills. Each line takes an unexpected turn, and you’ve so beautifully captured the interconnectedness of life and death, renewal and decomposition. That final line, “Seeing life worn out,” stays with me–so heartbreaking, so eternal.
Maureen – The poetics of this are wonderful. This: “Grief is like this, when it comes about,/Whether whisper or shout,/Approaching loss always hurts/Seeing life worn out.” Such an apt comparison. Quite magical! Thank you! Susie
I like the gardener’s presence as a part of the scene. an observer in the changing scape
Your poem could describe a person as well as a tree. Every year something new to zap life that somehow survives another year. ” Approaching loss always hurts, seeing life worn out”, begs the question, is it a person or a tree?
The world awakens
buds of yellow, green, and pink
Start to peak out from their hiding places
Beads of rain rest on the reclining sticks,
Victims of the sleds that pummeled over them
While resting.
Daily walks to the mailbox
Bring recycling bin food,
And the whisper of poppy hellos and lily bulb salutations
Bring a much needed smile to my face.
A chill catches me off guard
While the sun’s rays stroke my spine
Warmth.
Finds its home and
Decides to stay a bit longer each night.
Raindrops dot the ground
stirring up the dust
The smell of wet soil, and rotting worms
That couldn’t find their way back
Escort me on my return
Preparing the way for summer lust.
It will be here soon.
It must!
-Jenny Sykes
So many things to love here. Those first colors peeking out are among my favorites all year. There’s a gentleness to your language that evokes spring (rain resting, world awakening, the whisper of poppy hellos and lily bulb salutations – my poppies are up already). And the thought of the warmth of the sun staying just a bit longer makes me perfectly happy!
My favorite image:
“And the whisper of poppy hellos and lily bulb salutations”
Jennifer, Wonderful alliteration and sound repetition of /b/ in “budding, buds, bring, bin, bulb, back, be.” These strike me as a birthing, the way spring births new growth. I also really like the rain imagery throughout. Thank you.
—Glenda
My favorite lines:
Beads of rain rest on the reclining sticks,
And the whisper of poppy hellos and lily bulb salutations
The smell of wet soil, and rotting worms
Beautiful imagery and sensory details! Thank you for sharing your poem with us today, Jenny!
You capture the transition of seasons beautifully, between winter and spring, and the hope for summer. Lines such as “A chill catches me off guard/While the sun’s rays stroke my spine” – beautiful! Love how the briefest lines – “Warmth, and “It must!” are like soft shouts, emphasis to the poem. Thank you for this!
Shaun, thank you for today’s wonderful prompt. Your poem inspires the hope we all desperately need during this difficult time.
Great River
Spring is a cherubic child
Cooing contentedly
Reflecting the Redbud’s gentle
Lilac hue
An open embrace
Summer is a sultry siren
Smiling wantonly
Offering decadent adventures
Under an open sun
A dazzling seductress
Autumn is the wiser maiden
sheltering summer’s secrets
Reflecting verdant hues
Fluttering across her tranquil blues
A rueful smile
Winter is an exquisite Marchioness
Wearing a mantel of diamonds
She wields her power
Icy and fierce
An evening enchantress
Barb Edler
April 23, 2020
Barb,
What a neat way to set this poem up, personifying the seasons. You use such beautiful language and descriptions!
So fun to think “Autumn is the wiser maiden” – this is my favorite season! Love how you connect the seasons to different strengths; very nice! Thank you for this.
Barb,
So much to love here. Such great alliteration in every stanza. I especially like “cherubic child/Cooing contentedly. and then the ‘s’ sounds in the second and 3rd stanzas are wonderful. I especially loved “sheltering summer’s secrets.” I can’t wait for those summer secrets to return. Thanks so much for sharing this.
Barb — I like how you addressed this prompt. A solid venture into each season. Quite effective in giving us pause to look around and feel the differences. My fave is autumn… I really like “the wiser maiden…secrets….verdant hues…her tranquil blues…rue…” the sounds are so just right. Neat! Thank you, Susie
Barb, I LOVE your female imagery through the seasons! You give each one a provocative introduction (/Autumn is the wiser maiden/) , then expand on that with further description (/Reflecting verdant hues//Fluttering across her tranquil blues/ –Nice end rhyme, and the second line is my very favorite–you describe it so I can just see those blues!). Then you reveal each seasonal lady’s gift (/sheltering summer’s secrets/), It is a grown-up visit to those seasonal fairies of our childhoods. So fun to read! Anne
Here is the place that reminds me that it is time to get to work
whether it is beautiful or gloomy outside
whether I feel tired or energized
A small desk with a comfy chair, my office
A computer sits on top
Waiting for me to start
It has become one with the desk
It is a simple desk, nothing fancy
But it is much nicer than the one in my classroom
It welcomes me every day
I spend more time here now than anywhere else
It never gets sick of me
And maybe I should hate it
But I don’t
it sits facing the ocean
what else could I ask for
This desk, my office, has become my classroom
it welcomes my students
it’s where I laugh and connect with my kids
it’s where I realize how much I miss them
it’s where we have great discussions and
where my kids amaze me
It is an unassuming desk and it looks cold and distant
That’s misleading, though
It has become my heaven
It embraces my inner feelings, dreams, and desires.
It keeps them safe until I’m ready.
Monica,
These lines say so much about place and time:
it’s where I laugh and connect with my kids
it’s where I realize how much I miss them
it’s where we have great discussions and
The anaphora is powerful and calls for attention, deep consideration but the present tense of laugh, realize, have, and amaze show what has survived.
Sarah
Monica, I really enjoyed your honest and straight-forward tone in this poem. I was especially touched by the end…”It keeps them safe until I’m ready.” Such a powerful line and one that resonated with me. Sometimes it takes little to get on task, but sometimes it takes a whole lot more; especially now with so much uncertainty coloring our lives. Thanks for sharing!
Monica,
I needed your words today. While I am a bit envious of the ocean view, I have grown to love and appreciate my suburban street view and desk as you have. I’m always interested in how spaces become infused with our experiences, and you’ve captured this so nicely. I am particularly drawn to (and relate to) the juxtaposition of your “simple,” “unassuming desk” that “looks cold and distant.” I could have never imagined that this table we bought last year as a dining table would become this space of refuge and teaching and learning and practicing gratitude. Thanks for the reminder that this temporary situation can be lovely!
Monica,
I love this tribute to your desk, this place that fosters so many relationships and that you depict so beautiful as a constant, steadfast companion. For b me the lines that best capture this are
“ it’s where I laugh and connect with my kids
it’s where I realize how much I miss them
it’s where we have great discussions and
where my kids amaze me…” Lovely. Thank you.
—Glenda
Monica, so many artful lines beginning with “it” [and one that I envy so – “It sits facing the ocean” – wow, what a setting for a time of isolation]. Envy aside, the line, “It’s where I realize how much I miss them,” is so poignant and dear, and familiar. Thank you for this!
I like the shift in the desk from a holder of the computer, welcomes, nicer than the one in your classroom, facing the ocean, your classroom, unassuming, cool and distant a contrast with the rest of the poem and even the lines that follow – I wonder why?
This is a person who views teaching as a “calling” not just a job! The willingness to sit at a plain desk for so many hours with a, welcoming, smile for kids that are just blips on a computer screen is a touching reminder of what we are all going through!
tick tock tick tock
snow called to melt
plants’ time to sprout
blossoms to bloom
tick tock tick tock
bugs crawl out
ants smell crumbs
mosquitoes hunt blood
tick tock tick tock
birds back from the South
nests to build
ditties to sing
tick tock tick tock
roll out of bed
stomach grumbling
nails ready for trimming
tick tock tick tock
walk out the door
limbs to stretch
errands to run
tick tock tick tock
the arms never stop
pushing the world
keeping life on her toes
Rachel, I love the onomatopoeia of the tick tocking clock keeping the world and people on track. The short staccato syllables give this a timestep rhythm and keep events in sync. I love the bugs crawling out and ants smelling crumbs…..you got every perspective right down to the smallest creatures!
Rachel,
I love the rhythm and motion in this poem leading to these lines:
the arms never stop
pushing the world
keeping life on her toes
Clever layered meaning with toes and running and agility. Cool.
Sarah
Rachel,
What a catchy rhythm you create!
Rachel — You really had fun with this. I love the short bursts of each line…it’s like a march accentuating the time/beat. Such a fun poem… it seems like one that you might use as a mentor poem with your students… it plays with the sounds, the metaphors for time, the specific images. Thank you, Susie
There is a place
Where green grass grows and ferns sprout
On the banks of a river
In which fish and turtles swim
Beneath two fallen trees, spanning the water
They lie on sand and mud
Which has, beneath it
A thousand others like them
For this river floods, every spring
Removes all but the most mighty
And starts anew
Connor, this visual imagery is beautiful. It reminds me of a post I saw recently where a nature videographer recorded a tree that had fallen across a stream and showed all the animals that had crossed it over time. It was beautiful – all kinds of creatures great and small. The starting anew gives a fresh feel to a clean and renewable woodland.
Connor,
I really enjoyed reading this poem because it reminded me of a song. “There is a place/ Where green grass gowns and ferns sprout” makes me think of a place deep in the woods where anything can happen. Nature is truly magical! Thanks for sharing.
You are able to paint a wonderful scene with your words, you evoke a yearning feeling, I felt that
Hi Shaun,
Thank you for a relaxing and peaceful prompt and mentor poem. This resonated with me because I always wonder how they can be so strong and persistent:
“A single dandelion had the audacity to punch a hole
Through my verdant artificial turf.”
And this us brilliant, such a subtle change that many overlook:
“The patio table glass is opaque with old rain.” Beautiful reminder of weather we’ve made it through.
The end is the rebirth and promise after “calefaction…sweltering…desiccated” whew, so good!
Looking forward to writing, just hope it’s sooner rather than later.
TIme Limerick
There is a man who is named time.
He is quite fond of doing crime.
Thievery more so;
Prying in to cause woe.
Hear him now. His incessant chime.
Lauryl,
I loved how you wrote a limerick. You get the message across in a simple yet powerful way.
Lauryl,
Fantastic limerick. Do you know the poem “Jenny Kissed Me”? It’s a Rondeau. There’s a line that reads “Time, you thief.” Time certainly does steal so much these days, and I do feel “His incessant chime.” Cute poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Lauryl, I enjoy reading limericks and hearing the rhythm of them, but I don’t write them – I would like to try some, though. Thank you for getting my mind turning in that direction. I love your rhyme scheme in this one!
Lauryl,
I was all for economy of words today, too with my haiku. Love the limerick. The final line is brilliant with alliteration in “h” and the consonance of the s in his and incessant — incessant is a pretty word to look at, too.
Sarah
Yes! I almost wrote a limerick today too. This is so fitting! So great! I especially loved the last line. Hear him now. His incessant chime. Brilliant!
Nice Lauryl, the limerick form works well for this prompt. Time sure can be a bummer! The last line especially sums it up well, the “incessant chime” that we always hear as it steals and steals from us.
I really love the portrayal of time as a thief. The phrase “incessant chime” really stands out to me as a powerful image.
April’s earth, a sponge,
Absorbs hungrily
And even tries to take my shoes.
As servant to the herbs, which
Apparently live forever,
A rue, an oregano, a sage,
Ambitiously I move them from their
All-too-small chambers to
A spot in the sun which
Affords more square footage
And a sumptuous vantage.
Already they imbibe the
Air and appear, Oh, so grateful!
There is so much optimism in this. I love April trying to take your shoes!
I feel like I can imagine this perfectly, the spongy mud trying to take your shoes; you tenderly replanting the herbs. I love how you call yourself a “servant to the herbs” – but they are grateful to you. Beautiful spring tribute!
Katrina,
We are doing this dance, too. We have our sage and basil in pots that we bring in at night. Place in a sunny window spot in the morning. And then put in the outdoor sun when it finally gets warm. And then back in when the sun set and the chill beings. But unlike Illinois, we’ve been able to keep these plants alive through the winter!
Sarah
Katrina — You made me want to go plant my herbs! Some wintered over, but some succumbed to the too cold nights of winter. My favorite line is the soggy earth wanting to take your shoes! Indeed! Spring! Thank you, Susie
I noticed you used the technique of placing breaks and choosing words so that you are starting each line with the same letter. Beyond being an interesting writing challenge, I think it adds something to the effect of the poem, but I can’t explain why.
Shaun, thank you for this wonderful prompt. It forced me to spend some quiet time…in which I actually took a nap. LOL! I must have needed that quiet. I appreciate the colors in your poem and how the old and the new rub up against each other. I think that was part of what inspired my imagined walk with my imagined Greek Grandfather. I lived in Greece for a time…so I had some wonderful friends as chose Greek family.
Walking with Pappous*
Each bead
tumbles into his palm
as we walk
stream cooled stones
blades of grass
sky turning to see
her reflection over her shoulder
Young copperheads on patrol
Red cardinal surveying new nest
Robins fat with worms
Red bud and flowering pear
Hold a line of advancing spring
Saplings not old enough to shave
stand tough as a crew
Old leaves ground gossip
as fresh green buds roundagain
Kombolói*
click clack
in Pappous hand
*Pappous = grandfather
*Komboloi = worry beads which are beads swung over a wrist as a calming device. We teachers would call it a fidgit.
Linda,
I see and feel Greece in your poem. We spent three weeks there last June. I particularly love the personification in “
Young copperheads on patrol
Red cardinal surveying new nest”
Lovely poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Linda,
I love this imagery:
Saplings not old enough to shave
stand tough as a crew
I read sapling as nature but also as young men…I had a glimpse of The Outsiders. Not sure why my mind went there, but thanks — it’s nice.
Sarah
Linda, what a beautiful moment of walking with your grandfather! I love the personification of the sky looking over her shoulder and the saplings not old enought to shave. These calming beads add another dimension of wisdom to the poem – – there is strength and renewing of mind in nature and faith that all will be well.
Linda,
Simply beautiful. And, thanks for helping me to learn new things.
Shaun,
Thank you for the very timely prompt. You nailed April. Three of our four kids were born in April and I almost went with that topic, but school is taking up most of my mind.
Your poem certainly gets at the root of rebirth. I love these lines:
“A single dandelion had the audacity to punch a hole
Through my verdant artificial turf.”
Here is my attempt:
The 4 Rs
Routine
Rhythm
Renewal
Rebirth
Teacher . . .
my life is dominated by the 180-day school year
the seven-hour workday,
the 45-minute class period.
Start
Dig in
End
Start
Dig in
End
Start
Dig in
End
Repeat
Repeat
Repeat
Sometimes each phase is a challenge
The adrenaline wears off
The newness wears off
The anticipation excitement wears off
It’s a rhythm
Get excited
Maintain
Fall
Dig deep
Fake excitement
Maintain
Fall
Suck it up
Don’t even pretend to fake it
Maintain
Fall
It’s over.
Really?
How’d that happen?
But in it . . .
wow, it’s tough.
Hindsight sees things
so much differently.
The jelly bean jar . . .
At the end of the day,
if it was a good day,
transfer a jelly bean over
to The Good Jar.
On May 22,
which jar has more?
The days are long
but the months and years are short
Or are the days short
and the months and years are long?
Routine
Rhythm
Renewal
Rebirth
~Susan Ahlbrand
23 April 2020
Susan, I really like this…the rhythm is fun to read aloud. The days really are long and the years short. This is a sweet and thoughtful description of the school year. I hope we get those back again soon.
Susan,
When I read today’s prompt my mind immediately traveled to the opening line of “The Waste Land”: “April is the cruelest month.” It’s such a contrast to Chaucer’s first lines in the prologue to the Canterbury Tales. Your poem reminds me of the paradoxes in perspective, particularly the lines “The days are long
but the months and years are short
Or are the days short
and the months and years are long?”
The repeating sounds and words reinforce these. I’ve never heard of the jellybean jar for tracking the days. That would never work for me. I’d eat the jellybeans! Thank you.
—Glenda
I love the brevity with which you recreate a school day and the mixture of experience and emotion each class brings. I like how you paired the words “anticipation excitement” without a comma. The jelly bean idea is so clever, though I would probably eat the jelly beans.
Susan,
This works so artfully on several levels — visually it is composed to make use of white space, gesturally I feel my eyes working to move down and through the verse in a rhythm like the cycle you are turning, and then textually with your repetition and emphasis with one word on certain lines. Stunning.
Sarah
Susan, the patterns here really resonate with me. These moments that you’ve tracked throughout the year seem so dependent on circumstance in the moment or the week, yet they are perennial. Thank you for sharing!
Spring
The sun beats down hot
Like every April in Oklahoma
It already feels like summer
Tornado sirens sound in the distance
Why does a sound of danger
Provoke us to go outside and look?
The weeds start to breakthrough
The tiny cracks in the concrete
The yard needs to be mowed
Nearly twice a week
It is springtime in Oklahoma
You perfectly describe April in Oklahoma. People who don’t live in tornado-prone areas probably cannot understand the love-hate relationship we have with such a destructive act of nature. Thank you.
Katrina, your poem took me back to when I lived in Arkansas years ago. I was terrified the first time I heard the tornado sirens.
The phrase ” why does a sound of danger provoke us to go outside a look?” got me thinking about the balance between curiosity and safety, which led me to think about the balance between taking a chance and playing it safe in my own life.
We Almost Missed It
Having lived in five different states
All across the country
I’ve come to appreciate signs of the seasons.
And I now understand the reasons
My children nearly missed Christmas
That first year in California.
Being a Michigan girl, used to the snow in a whirl,
I was awaiting the snow to plan to get out and go
To the mall and shop for Christmas.
It didn’t snow there, not down there where
We lived in San Diego.
Now that I’m back in Michigan,
I see flowers covered with bees.
Because of the changing colors on trees,
I can now tell just when
To Christmas shop and when to stop.
And the snow falling up to my knees!
You excellently juxtapose the two very different climates of southern California and Michigan. It is amazing how closely we tie our memory of holidays to the seasons in which they occur.
I can totally relate – I lived in the Caribbean for a couple years, and it was always strange when Christmas would come around and there wasn’t a lick of snow! We really do rely on the seasons to help us track life, and it can be so strange when they aren’t there. Living without seasons made me so thankful for them. Thank you for capturing this idea in your poem!
Anna, your timing and the sense of anticipation for each different season is so welcome here – – the thoughts of springtime and summer warmth are on our minds as we look for signs of healthy life to venture back out into the world – and all the same, you remind us that there is family warmth in winter ahead and plenty of reasons to celebrate and prepare!
April:
The sun is shining,
Chilly mornings and warm afternoons,
Green grass pricks bare feet and pastel flowers begin to bloom.
Brave souls are jumping into their luke-warm pools for the first time this year,
Little brothers and sisters color with chalk outside, screaming from at least six feet away to their neighborhood friends
Hamburgers and hot dogs begin to be grilled outside and s’mores cooked as the sun stays out for longer.
Spring is happily embraced,
as people begin to feel joyful again.
Kaitlin, your poem made me so happy this morning. I loved the detail you included and I’m certainly smelling hot dogs on the grill right now. It’s joyful and light – perfect for spring!
Kaitlin,
I really loved how optimistic and calming your poem felt. Spring really is a time to begin again, but you really made me yearn for summer! Thanks for sharing!
Kaitlin,
Your poem brought joy as I read it. My favorite line of this poem was “hamburgers and hot dogs begin to grill outside and s’mores cooked as the sun stays out for longer.” I go camping with my family every summer and this moment took me to my happy place. Thanks for sharing!!
Good morning spring,
I see you that your floor is soft and uneven,
probably abused from the snow angels that winter left behind.
Moss grows in thick overlooked patches of unfertilized grass,
deep concrete cracks invoke life to seep through,
reaching their hands out to almighty.
The air crisp and chill, no toxic clouds flowing from the road.
I see your creation running from stump to stump,
trying to climb into its home high in the sky.
The sweet white buds peeking out,
eager to show their beauty to those who will take a moment
in a world where time is never ending.
I noticed that your mother has visited a few times this past week.
She didn’t sound too happy with her gust of a breath.
She continued to hold you in a strong embrace and whispered ‘grow’
as her teardrops fell down her rosy cheeks.
I hope I get to see you tomorrow morning spring,
you never seem to fail with what surprises you have in store.
Until next time.
Monica, My favorite lines from the poem are these, that so inspire me to keep working despite the apparent odds for success, and with knowledge of where my strength comes from…. the Almighty. Thanks for the reminder.
deep concrete cracks invoke life to seep through,
reaching their hands out to almighty.
I love the lines: “The sweet white buds peeking out, / eager to show their beauty to those who will take a moment / in a world where time is never ending.” What a great reminder to stop and smell the roses. 🙂 And the imagery in your description of mother nature visiting is breath taking (“hold you in a strong embrace and whispered ‘grow’ / as her teardrops fell down her rosy cheeks.”) Your poem sounds so soft and dreamy – beautiful job!!
Wonderful imagery, you use your vocabulary beautifully, good job
This spring
The sky covered in a gray blanket
Cracked by the light
The greys and whites mix enduringly
Neighbors walking about with their family
smiling and playing around clearly stressed
Pushed by the pandemic
Baby birds screeching as mother pecks
Digging through the yard looking for worms
As she returns to her nests the screams slowly stop
The air feels dry and colder than usual
goosebumps at the sudden change
A single penny rests in the crevice of the driveway
Lincoln smiling back up at me
Connor,
What an elegant moment of hope you offer in the last lines of the poem!
“A single penny rests in the crevice of the driveway /
Lincoln smiling back up at me”
For everything that is happening, we are, as a penny found, lucky in many ways.
Andy
connor, I love the use of “cracked” at the beginning of your piece. I can envision being covered by the blanket and that first light that seeps through the crack. Those last two lines are such a contrast to all the nature images from before – the resting penny, the crevice, and mostly Lincoln’s smile – these serve to tie up the ending in much the same way that a couplet ties up a poem with rhyme pattern. it’s an intriguing contemporary device.
I loved all the descriptive colors you used in your poem, “a gray blanket”, “grays and whites mix enduringly” as well as all of your animal imagery. It really set a clear picture in my mind of a spring day!
Connor, don’t know if you planned it, but I see a parallel between the parents out with their stressed young ones and the baby birds screeching. (As a poet, I imagine you did. 🙂 )
Your closing lines remind me of a childhood superstition that good luck follows when one finds a coin “head side up”.
A single penny rests in the crevice of the driveway
Lincoln smiling back up at me
Thanks for both the sample of the power of poetry as a genre to reflect double messages in few words and the reminder to look for the smiles.
Very powerful words, I enjoy how you tied it all together, good job
“The Same But Yet So New”
Gazing at the horizon that God has created
I marvel at the beauty.
Straight ahead of me is a tree out in my front yard.
Red buds are growing, reaching its tentacles out to the clear sky.
Underneath the sole of my shoe is a mole hill.
What started as a speck of dirt grew in persistence of a mole making its home.
The road stretched beyond me, once paved, is now a smattering of black cracks.
Above me, a bird is perched on the highest limb, keeping flock of her younglings, knowing they’ll spread their wings and fly soon.
Little pine corns graze on the forest floor coming to an end of their existence.
Around me, there’s the cycle of life.
Birth, death and rebirth.
Boy am I lucky for the cycle of time!
Hi Alexa! I loved the line “The road stretched beyond me, once paved, is now a smattering of black cracks.”
It gives me a great sense of imagery and really allows me to see what you’re thinking!
Alexa,
This was such a wonderful walk outside. I felt like I was with the speaker looking around and seeing everything from the mole hill to the bird’s nest, then back to the “pine corns” on the ground. Great movement.
Thanks!
Here is a living wall
that grows thick as wood
the same way all green grows
to the sky, they stretch on
Man may come to trim
her down, tidy her wandering arms
and he’ll leave thinking he’s done it
But she knows better
Her most patient friend, Time,
tickles her slender form to reach
Her warmest gal pal, Sun,
calls her with hugs of rays
Her brilliant greens darken
Sweet, orange blossoms burst open
So that her most popular girlfriend, Hummingbird,
flits around for a sip
And of course she’ll be here all year
in this part of town we have just one season
Emily,
This is gorgeous! I read it several times and once aloud. I love how it feels to speak these words. The assonance, e sound in these lines especially because it celebrates this friendship
But she knows better
Her most patient friend, Time,
tickles her slender form to reach
Thank you,
Sarah
Emily,
I loved how you used personification describing the living things on Earth. For example, “her most patient friend Time, her warmest gal pal, Sun,” this gives a clear visual in my head of two friends having a great time. And that’s what nature is supposed to be like. Relaxing and beautiful. Thanks for sharing!
Emily,
Your opening line transported me to Shanghai and the Bund’s living wall. My profile photo on this site is in front of that wall (March 2019). Your gorgeous imagery of flowers and hummingbirds connects these two places: San Diego and Shanghai. Lovely poem. Thank you.
—Glenda
Emily,
I could smell the orange blossoms! I love the relationships created!
Thank you!
Emily — This is so beautiful. I lovelovelove the “she” of the orange tree. The personification in this is so well mapped. You give her strength which I love: “she knows better.” In the face of what can happen to trees at man’s hand, it is comforting to think of the orange tree as a strong female life. Lovely! Thank you, Susie
From my window I see my rose bushes.
Still appearing very dead, but as my mother once said,
“Don’t worry, they’ll be back”.
Such a phrase seems quite simple.
From the outside a lot of things seem this way.
But just like the rose bushes with their deep, intricate roots,
And my mother with her complex and difficult amazing history,
This statement is more than what it seems.
This statement represented her hope.
Hope that even in the darkest of days the light will always come back.
Hope that even when all seems lost there will always be something to pull her back.
Hope that even when she feels dead inside, there will always be a flame to bring her back to life.
So when she tell me not to worry, and that they’ll be back,
I know she doesn’t simply mean the roses.
She means the Joy,
The smells,
And the Beauty of nature in the spring.
They will all be back.
I think the heart of this poem is in the line “Don’t worry, they’ll be back” because it emphasizes the idea that all things grow and change, and that nothing is gone forever.
Malachi,
Artful use of dialogue in this poem to signal an outside voice and influence. And then the way you compare here:
But just like the rose bushes with their deep, intricate roots,
And my mother with her complex and difficult amazing history,
The poem’s speaker noticing the complexity of this woman as beautiful on the outside and inside with the deep roots.
Peace,
Sarah
Malachi,
My favorite line in this poem is what your mom said “Don’t worry, they’ll be back.” It set up the premise of the poem and how even though the phrase is so simple, it brings the complexity of life and I enjoyed how you brought this poem alive!
Thanks for sharing!
hey Malachi, I really love the way you have a positive double meaning within this poem. I especially like the line “Hope that even when she feels dead inside, there will always be a flame to bring her back to life.”
It gives strength to the piece and gives me the belief that spring will always come, no matter the type of michigan weather we have!
Malachi,
The movement from sitting at the window seeing the roses to the conversation with the speaker’s mother is beautiful. This represents not only the cycles of seasons but of generations.
Thank you!
Malachi, what beautiful words from your mother. I needed to hear that the joy, the smells, the beauty, the re-emergence of people, …….the roses……will be back. Thank you for those words of hope today. Your mother is a wise woman.
Just the prompt I needed to jumpstart my creativity. Thank you, Shaun, for the lovely prompt.
“I See You, Spring”
I see you, Spring,
moving in the mud
and puddles
and debris as the crisp morning air
still holds my breath in plumes of cloud.
There you are
rousing a clipped rosebush,
which looks anything but gorgeous
as its stems cluster like brown sticks
plunged into the earth by a child.
Yet, there is tender life reaching,
subtly out to the sun.
Again, I see you,
on the Elm
as you distinguish yourself
from the hardened and browned branches.
A quick, silent, and shooting growth
hoping not to be noticed
yet the red color
of your supple reach gives you away.
And brings me joy.
You sneak among the creeping ivy
who is poking its head
up through the dark mulch
turned compost heap.
Your beauty, Spring, is silent
and grows from a season
where it seems hope is all but lost.
Stll, you are there,
under the surface
and waiting to gift the world
with eventual colors and abundance.
Bringing me back around
to a time when I, too,
believed anything was possible.
I see you, Spring,
moving in me,
offering hope in sips
and whispers
and time-slowed appreciation
that will soon blossom in my heart.
Love the repetition of “I see you, Spring” using direct address and anthropomorphism to engage playfully yet respectfully with all the way Spring exists to the speaker. And I love how the poem gradually moves toward intimacy, proximity with the personal influence of “sips” and “whispers” and “heart.” Lovely.
Sarah
Andy,
There is so much I love about this poem – the repetition of “I see you” – makes it feel so conversational. Then the poignant observations that remind the speaker when they “believed anything was possible” – spring has that power and you made me feel it with your poem.
Thank you!
Andy, your personifying Spring reminds me of the myths from many cultures that suggest there is supernatural power managing the natural wonders we humans can only observe!
‘I see you,’ is a wonderful refrain…playing peek-a-boo with spring makes this fun with the beautiful and the bringing back around.
Andy — The voice in this feels so fun… like an adult talking to a kid… “I see you…you little cutie.” Ha! It works start to finish… love that. I love “waiting to gift the world…” and “hope in sips” and “moving in the mud and puddles” — quite a lovely poem! Thank you! Susie
As I open the window
And peer outside
I see nothing
Stagnant
The bushes are still
The air is still
The roads are lifeless.
And yet
I know that it is not so
Clouds move and change in the sky
Squirrels and bunnies scamper about
People stir sleeping in their homes
Flowers push their way out of the ground
After a long winter nap
All just beyond my line of sight
Even the still bushes move slightly in the breeze
But I only noticed
After I stopped looking
And started seeing.
Robin,
I love a poem that has a shift, that moves from an observation to an insight, discovery. Love that line “And yet” to me, to signal me to prepare for the contrast you offer, a way to start seeing and be more observant to start “seeing.”
Sarah
Hi Robin, I like the shift that your poem takes from observation to realization. The part that stuck with me the most were “All just beyond my line of sight
Even the still bushes move slightly in the breeze
But I only noticed
After I stopped looking
And started seeing. ” It really encourages me to go out more often and start seeing too!
Robin,
I live the cinematic quality of your poem. It’s like the opening scene with silence and stillness, but then it gradually comes into focus with frenetic energy.
Thank you for sharing!
Robin, those last lines: But I only noticed after I stopped looking and started seeing – – wow, this could apply to so much in our lives, not just the still bushes. This is one to ponder!
“The Reasons”
Everything happens for a reason.
The same reason we suffer through downpours,
Only to enjoy the flowering of May.
The same reason the Sun rises in the east,
Only to set in the west,
Providing direction.
The same reason the Earth travels around the Sun,
Only to give its inhabitants variety in their weather.
The same reason the Moon pulls on our home,
Only to shift the tide,
Circulating survival.
Everything happens for a reason,
The cause and effect,
The World around us,
Creating hidden positives,
And exposed negatives.
Dig a little deeper,
And the World might look a little better.
your words “Dig a little deeper, and the World might look a little better.” really moved me because in these times of hardship, one often struggles to find the good in the world.
Jodi,
I connect with the positivity you share in this poem. Yes, we “suffer through downpours,” still “travel around the sun,” and “shift the tide[s],” within our lives. This is how we grow from within. Indeed, if we “Dig a little deeper, / And the World might look a little better.”
Thank you for your words today. I needed them.
Andy
I love the message at the end, that the “hidden positives” are there if we “dig a little deeper” – so very true.
Thank you!
Jodi, thank you for sharing your poem with us today. These lines really resonate with me:
“The same reason the Sun rises in the east,
Only to set in the west,”
I love that you give these reasons for us to ponder today. A thoughtful and insightful poem that has me thinking beyond just what I see in front of me in the present moment. Thank you!
Concrete Jungle
The city that ever sleeps
Trees leaves’ blow in the wind
Trucks pass
The sun hides today
A cloudy haze covers that city in gray
Overnight
Rain coats the street
Cold and wet
The whoosh of cars and trucks, passing through puddles
I long to go outside
But the dark clouds remind me
I need to stay in
Michelle, we have a similar kind of day here in Michigan. I love the play on the words Rain Coats, which allows coats to be both verb and visual image of a rain coat. Whoosh is such a great word – it works hard to carry that sound to readers. I’m going to force myself out for a walk despite the dark clouds!
Michelle,
I adored the imagery and the personification you’ve crafted into this poem. You are one with the sun and clouds who “hides today,” “cover[ing] that city in gray,” and “stay[ing] in.” Beautiful words, my friend. Much needed today.
Andy
Michelle,
So appreciate the sense of space and place in New York. I am from Chicago but now live in Oklahoma. I don’t see the concrete jungle and miss it. The line that slowed my reading, that made me see something new was this:
Rain coats the street
I thought of rain coats and raincoats — like the night as a raincoat for the street. This image is with me.
Sarah
I love the imagery of “the whoosh of cars and trucks, passing through puddles” – I could see and hear the powerful spring storm, and identify with the speaker’s frustration.
Thanks for sharing!
Michelle, thank you for sharing your poem! I love the whoosh of the cars – that familiar sound is ringing in my ears even though it is full sunshine over here on the other side of the country.
Michelle, the feel of this rainy day and the “dark clouds” that remind you to stay in bring to mind the Danish concept of hygge and the comfort-seeking during raging blizzards. I think there is a definite yearning for comfort here – from the rain, from other clouds that threaten our world. The clean sunshine will arrive another day. For now, afternoon tea, a blanket, a cozy chair, and a book…….and the cloudy haze disappears as we step into other worlds :). I love the whoosh of cars and trucks passing through puddles. Washing the city streets clean!
I am noticing some inspirations elicit longer poems while others an economy of words for me. And some days I have more time to write than read or more time to read than write. This is part of what we can consider at day 23 — patterns, tendencies. Today, I am feeling haiku.
Showered shamrock carpet
sprawled shag overnight. It’ll dance
’til Toro’s dusk slashing.
Oh! An economy of words but not of meaning! Showered shamrock shimmers off my tongue. And Toro’s dusk slashing – wow!
Sarah,
I’ll admit I’m running out of steam. I blogged every day in March, journaled for 100 days (beginning Jan 1), and am, of course, writing poems every day. I also created that 17-year-late scrapbook for my kid. This has been a year of writing. Word economy is good. “Showered shamrock carpet” is a gorgeous image. I want to redo my trip to Ireland. You make use of every syllable in your haiku. Thank you.
—Glenda
I love the alliteration of showered shamrock and sprawled shag. I also love the use of the words “dusk slashing” because to me it marks a sharpness to the passing of day into night.
From the first image of the shamrocks to the roar of the Toro, the economy works perfectly to mirror the short-lived dancing.
Thank you for your poem and for creating this forum for us to share and create!
Agree! Some days, I just can’t do the serious heavy-lifting of thought required to answer the prompt in the time I have. But, believe me….those prompts are in my head. I think April was made for haiku!
“sprawled shag overnight.” “dusk slashing”
LOL! Sarah — You made me laugh… wild thang with a Toro lawn mower! Totally fun! Thanks! Susie
Shaun,
I love the image of a dandelion encroaching on artificial turf. When I lived in Yuma, Arizona we called such lawns desert landscaping. You’ve captured the sweltering furnace of summer in details like cinder-block, calcification, “fruit that will cook on the vines.” I love the cycles in your poem and think about the promise each season brings. With each we have hope, something we need right now. Thank you for hosting today.
I’ve been thinking about this group, the way it often feels like two disparate ones occupying a common space, and began playing with an idea last night. Today’s prompt feels prophetic.
“Poetry Shifts”
First the morning crew arrives
Eager wordsmiths,
Morning birds
Pecking about the nest
Excited for the daily
Worm prompts dangling before
Hungry ravenous beaks.
Fluttering hummingbirds
Sucking nectar-engorged lines
They flit and fly in and
Out of the nest as
Sundials twirl, words swirl.
Dusk yawns and
Stretches its tired rays
Across a pink horizon
Signaling an awakening
Night owls emerge in
Silent flight & nestle in the nest.
They hoot and perch on
High canto branches
Their hawkish eyes revolve,
Clocking, Observing,
Expelling feathery runes of
Poesy upon a word-wonder world.
—Glenda Funk
Glenda, I absolutely love the metaphors here for this group writing. I have been both the early bird and the night owl. I’m going to miss this group so much. Your poetry is always an inspiration and this one is truly divine. I love the action words, the personification and sounds that are all striking and vibrant. I absolutely adore the lines “Sundials twirl, words swirl” and “Worm prompts dangling before”. The end is sheer brilliance. I’m truly inspired to think hard about what I will write today. Thanks for sharing this incredible poem. Kudos!
Glenda, so many lines to marvel at this morning! The extended metaphor in ager wordsmiths, word prompts dangling before ravenous beaks, sucking nectar-engorged lines is gorgeous. With my favorite being, expelling feathery runes of poesy upon a word-wonder world. Just wonderful.
Glenda, I loved the line “dusk yawns and stretches it tired rays across a pink horizon” because it made me feel that the days are exhausted just like us. I also loved the line “sundials twirl, words swirl” because it made me think of how animals and nature can be poets too. Thank you for sharing!
Glenda,
I love how you juxtaposed the bird-poets as they come to life in different time zones. I feel the same way! Sometimes I just don’t have time to write until late in the day, and by then, the other three time zones have already come and gone – but I love that we are all here! And these poems will always be here!
Thank you!
Glenda, you have painted our poetry group nest so perfectly in a “word-wonder world” sketchbook! It’s funny how our habits can be so birdlike – from early birds to night owls and all birds of a feather flocking together in between! I generally write near my window that looks out on a little butterfly and bird garden, and right now I see doves, cardinals, bluebirds, tufted titmouse, and sparrows – – and because of your creative paintbrush today, I’m now seeing the faces of all of us on these fine feathered friends. These poetry shifts are simply stunning!
Glenda,
I love that way you see poetry in the cycle of the day. My favorite lines are: “Eager wordsmiths,” “Worm prompts dangling,” and the owls who are “Expelling feathery runes of/Poesy upon a word-wonder world.” What a remarkable way to conclude a poem. Thank you for the inspiration!
Love the image of “Worm prompts dangling before” – I am a huge fan of worms; seriously, I am missing worm composting with my preschoolers this spring. I hadn’t thought of this community having its own ‘seasons’ or timing each day…I, amusingly, can’t figure out into which group I fall…I think I am a straddler…I know that I love to read the prompt early in the day and I let my ‘poetic thoughts’ stew through the day. I know I continually amazed by the gift of time of this pandemic, the freedom to devout real time to my writing. Perhaps that freedom has always been there, but now I am taking advantage? “Dusk yawns and…” – love this! Certainly, I’m competitive enough to not want to miss a day…dusk is my clue to get a move on. Thanks for this!
Shaun, that singular dandelion with its audacity to make its appearance in the yard is truly an image of springtime. The tomato sprouts leaning toward the bed of rich brown soil sustaining them until it won’t speaks most to me (We have many sproutlings spread across the kitchen and table now and have been working the soil in preparation for planting). Your words remind us of the limited time we have.
Canonical Hours, a Spring Chime
Matins
Just before dawn,
as black to violet-grays
wash and dance their way
across the sky,
a solitary harbinger
announces the day.
He calls alone.
Arise.
Lauds
Morning doves
in gray habits,
their harbingers’ hymns
commend new beginnings.
Awaken.
Prime
First Hour sounds,
a feathered cacophony,
the full chorus
from branchwooden pews.
Announce.
Terce
Byrds, a time
to every purpose.
Turn. Turn. Turn.
Sext
An afternoon
pattering,
of droplets,
a baptismal washing
in each singular
pitter.
Nones
Early evenings’s arrival,
a shift of light
slanting through branches,
choir practice begins.
Wind organs pipe
at night hour.
Vespers
The poetry of spring peepers
calls to me.
The choral bells chime
a lyrical listing of reasons
to stay awhile.
Evensong.
Compline
As blue gives way to black
the day retires.
A bugler’s tap.
Jennifer, I am absolutely blown away by your poem. The structure and musical connections are so clever. I also like how the chronological sequence and how you have captured both sound and color throughout the entire poem…”blue gives way to black”….awesome! The allusion to the Byrds, “Turn, Turn, Turn” is delightful. Your poem is sheer genius. Much impressed!
Jennifer,
I love the musicality of your poem. Just the other night the birds kept me up with their beautiful songs – but I was not so appreciative at that moment. This is such a beautiful tribute to spring and the cycle of the day.
Thank you!
Jennifer, this is beautiful. I love the division of day into bells. What a perfect circle with that blue and black.
Jennifer, this is positively gorgeous! Every single word evokes the lyrical harmony of nature. I love this part the best:
Nones
Early evenings’s arrival,
a shift of light
slanting through branches,
choir practice begins.
Wind organs pipe
at night hour.
The morning calls are beautiful, too, but the way the light refracts through the woods and the sound of a pipe organ begins playing creates the feel of a large stained glass window and a majestic sound of those pipes in a sanctuary. This should be published in a wildlife journal – it’s simply divine.
Jennifer, what a moving poem! I am drawn to its form and the musicality. The imperatives at the end of the first three stanzas ring out: “arise,” “awaken,” “announce.” The playfulness of the alliteration and consonance sings: “harbingers’ hymns,” “feathered cacophony, / the full chorus,” “shift of light / slanting,” “poetry of spring peepers.” Thank you for sharing your piece with us!
Jennifer,
The structure of your poem grabbed my attention right way. I had to do a little research to make sure I had some understanding.
But as I looked/listened more closely, it was the language I loved the most.
Yes! Love this song of Springtime! Each stanza is so beautiful! My favorite one is Sext, and the “pattering,/of droplets,/a baptismal washing” is just so lovely. The sound is like music. I love it.
Shaun, the promise of spring holds hope for our gardens – – I wanted to get out on Earth Day yesterday and pull some of those weeds you mention. I wish someone would invent weed dissolver and not just weed killer for my lazy yardishness. I love this line: the patio table glass is opaque with old rain. The sound of this and the imagery are so rich and right here at home. I have some of that exact table glass. Never thought of it as “opaque with old rain,” but I like it better than “cloudy glass that needs my elbow grease.” Thank you for growing and stretching us as writers today. This poem is one I wrote last year as I woke up overlooking River Street in Savannah, Georgia and watched the sun creep up over the cobblestone streets, barges, and early morning ferry boats shuttling people back and forth, a cycle of transportation and time. Thank you for the prompt taking me back to those memories of pralines and Spanish moss-draped oaks and Flannery O’Connor’s childhood home nestled in the shadow of a beautiful cathedral! I can still taste the traces of a peach sangria in City Market, the diminishing drinks a cycle of sunrises and sunsets as well.
Mayan Frost
6
Big round waking orb
Eye opening slowly
Peering out over the blanket of pines
Ready or not to face the day
7
Rising slowly
Sluggish day jobber
Not quite ready to fully emerge
But still you rise
8
Both feet on the ground
Embracing the day
Extending full rays
Flashing a just-brushed toothy gleam
To a rapt audience
10
Like an over-charged cup of Starbucks
Sudden jolting glares
Blinding sunglassed drivers
Through windshields
12
You shine most brightly
At the height of your day
Climbing the ladder as high as it can take you
In this job
Lunch on the run – airplanes, kites, birds
Fuel for the day
2
Rain and clouds darken your shine
But you steal their thunder –
A light surge of effort for you
6
You clock out and head home
Miles to go before you sleep
Change into more comfy duds
Shed all the glinting bling
9
You stretch out to reflect on the day
Glimmers of hope for a brighter tomorrow
Succumb to a nightcap
Feet-first, climb under the covers
Call it a day
12
Big round blanketed orb,
Shooting stars patting your upturned bottom
Dreams alive in other worlds
Until tomorrow
-Kim Johnson
Kim, your word choices speak to me this morning. Mayan Frost is lovely. The slowness (eye opening slowly, the sluggish day, peering, stretching) is soothing. I love the use of miles to go here, that you brought it into present day, a reminder that things remain the same through time and that our journeys continue. Until tomorrow.
Kim — The trajectory of your poem is that rise-n-fall in a lilt that carries an ease, even as it works up to the “ladder” and “fuel for the day.” The cyclic sense is comforting. I LOVE the “shooting stars patting your upturned bottom/Dreams alive in other worlds/Until tomorrow.” Aaah, lovely. My favorite is the opening stanza… that figurative language is scrumptious. I felt the sun “peering out over the blanket of pines” and really liked the notion that she’s there, ready or not. You took Shaun’s inspiration right to the words I needed this morning. I’m glad you had this in your River Street memory book. Thank you for that! Hugs, Susie
Kim, I loved the lines “ready or not to face the day” and “not quite ready to fully emerge but still you rise” because it made me feel like even in all the uncertainty of the world currently, the act of getting up is itself a success. I also loved the final lines “dreams alive in other worlds until tomorrow” because it made me feel hopeful for what a new day may bring. Thank you for sharing!
Kim,
This is so lovely and has me dreaming of travel. For some reason I started reading in the middle, and I thought you were describing a woman going through her day by the hour. As I read it from the top, I still had that in mind and had to reread it to see that the subject is the sun, but it works as a woman too. It may have been the writing that I was sketching before reading as I was drawing connections between my own energy and productivity and that of the sun’s. So inspiring to see these cycles every where we look. Thanks for your beautiful images, I especially like “Big round blanketed orb,/Shooting stars patting your upturned bottom” and “Rising slowly/Sluggish day jobber/Not quite ready to fully emerge/But still you rise.”
Kim,
Thanks for sharing this fantastic example of how cycles have such a powerful impact. I love how the sun is just an “Everyman” doing what needs to be done! Thanks!
Wow! I love this setting and the sun as a character in it. What a lovely walk through the day…so positive, so full of wonder…like that word, “bling.” I’ve been to Savanna a couple of times and now I just want to go baaaaack. I admit to being tired of being in the house. I really like the stanza of “clock out and head home.” Such a great study in personification. I hope you use this with students.