On Open Write Sunday, we feature poets we love.
Alora Young
Alora Young is a poet who has traced her life back through generations of Southern women. She is the 2021 Youth Poet Laureate of the Southern United States. Listen. https://www.npr.org/player/embed/1114490555/1114821128
Inspiration
Alora says that when we explore the history of our family, there is no starting place, and she says that her poems “didn’t start out about me,” and yet they come through her for us, her readers. Find her memoir in verse here.
I have many mothers
They are mostly black
They are mostly broken
They have existed here for centuries
They are dying with the towns that birthed them
Today, I invite you to sit with Alora and write from her verse, “I have many X” and see where it takes you, or try some prose poetry that tells us a little bit about an elder in your family or life and the home that they made for themselves either in a home they made or what I take to mean the life they carved for themselves within frames others may have built to keep them.
Sarah’s Poem
I have many sisters
They share my hips
They share my cowlicks
They send unresolved trauma clicks
They promise we can heal in stages–it’s all in the link.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to 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. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
I have one sibling
She looks like me
Well, some of the time
But she acts like my dad
We share laughs together
and many memories
She is my biggest blessing
and my one sibling
M S,
Lovely! Differences and similarities are shared in so few lines. Then I love the concluding lines–the sharing and love so evident.
MS, Thank you for your poem. Love that line, “Well, some of the time.” I was just thinking about that about my sister.
two poems in response:
1)
I have many students
They speak out
They stay shut
They travel through my space
for less than a year
and we are both changed
2)
I have many teachers
They are warm
They are cold
Like me they think they know what they do
But I am the one who chooses
when to learn and what
Nora, I do love your two responses. They are a sign that you’re a lifelong learner. Wow, your teacher poem shows you remember and have empathy for your students. I love that you recognize they have choices to learn. Those attitudes make you a better teacher.
Nora, Thanks for the little something extra. Two poems. Wonderful. I see in that second one asserting agency and recognizing the interdependence between teacher and learner, both trying to find their way into self. The perspectives are powerful.
Thank you, Sarah, for sharing Alora’s poetry and your own. I love that your sisters share cowlicks and send “unresolved trauma clicks ” – something only sisters can understand.
Collector
I have had many collections
over the years.
It started with pigs…
when I was nine.
(Thank you, E.B. White)
ceramic pigs
plush pigs
pigs carved from wood
blown from glass
clay pigs
a pig gifted to me by a dear friend
a fellow 4th grade artist
(his medium: a gently chewed piece
of pink Double Bubble gum).
I’ve collected rocks,
hot glued to cardstock,
labeled neatly
with permanent marker,
filed upright in a narrow shoebox.
I’ve collected
seashells
pinecones
paper dolls
doll house furniture
fountain pens
hardback books
Santa Claus ornaments
and
lighthouse figurines.
My collections,
more chaotic than curated,
were passionately cherished
at the moment of
procurement;
but parted with
during the culling
with relative ease.
Once interest waned,
I relinquished
whole collections
at garage sales
or broke up a cache…
blessing others
who shared an interest.
The joy for me
was always in the finding,
keeping just long enough
to admire the treasure
before passing it along.
Oh, Lori, your collections sounds so fun! The pink Double Bubble pig is a fave! I love the way you used your many collections to bless others. Such a sweet poem. And your form mimics the many items and many collections you write about.
Lori, I feel your earnestness in the collecting of things and want to embrace the ending, the letting go. Some special collections are hard to part with. “The joy for me was always in the finding”.
Lori, I read some of your poem aloud. Once interest waned/I relinquished/whole collections.” the s and l. The consonances feels so rhythmic to me. And that aha about the joy in the finding. I suspect may feel that way too if not being conscious of it. I like the seeking, myself.
Sarah, there’s both a Lucille Clifton and a Maya Angelou vibe to your poem’s reference to hips that I love. I also love being introduced to a new poet. Self-disclosure takes a bit more thought than I can generate this evening, so I’m turning to a subject that always gives me something to say, unfortunately.
Interpretive Center
After learning lessons Jesus taught
I have many critiques for Satan’s
servant, our shitgibbon president,
his sticky finger family of grifters, &
his cabinet of sycophant enablers
hell bent on bilking the public coffers
of every coin they can siphon &
suck from the public teet;
determined to degrade our
sacred memorials to fallen heroes &
sell our treasured national parks to
billionaire oligarchs who snack on
excrement oozing from his pustules,
these parasites sanction his depravity,
making a mockery of ideals we as a
nation once valued and taught our
children, grandchildren, & ourselves.
Glenda Funk
I took the Canva photo of Lake Superior today.
Oh, Glenda, your poem highlights the atrocities occurring today due to the shitgibbon’s innumerable crimes. I’m still stunned that he razed the willow and cherry trees. Your word choices to describe his syncopates is rife and practically makes my stomach turn. Hellbent is spot on! Praying for a miracle! Powerful poem!
Glenda, wow. You are speaking truth. I wish the country could interpret this administration and its following with as much clarity as you. When you saw evidence on your trip of what they did, you were inspired to write this. May all also see and vote this regime out. Ditto to what Barb said about your word choice!
So many words, Glenda. Precise and also incredibly fun (though it feels wrong to say so in the context of the poem ) to say. parasites sanction his depravity…billion loigarchs who snack on/ecrement.
I wonder if this flows out of your ori if you weigh every word– or both.Incredible.
I have many lists to complete.
They grow and grow and make me freak:
Paint the kitchen ceiling — it’s peeling!
Weed the flower bed — it’s looking quite dead!
Clean the garage — it smells atrocious
Pay the bills — Ugh!
Plan the week’s meals –they plan themselves!
But I chose to read a book instead — Those lists aren’t going anywhere.
Tammi, I agree!!! This poem is fun and definitely captures my thoughts exactly.
Tammi,
The rhyme really offers some whimsy or respite from the heavy load being carried here. I feel the resistance and the agency in choosing a book.
Tammi, such a healthy approach — “a book instead” sounds just right. When I am overwhelmed with work, I, too, take a few hours off for reading.
Love the internal rhymes with ceiling / peeling and bed / dead.
Tammi, the best way to handle lists EVER. Read instead. Yes to the better choice!
I love the sense of frustration your poem creates and the lovely shift to do what is enjoyable! So much fun, Tammi!
Tammi,
Perfect choice. Weeds will wait!
Tammi, I loved how your poem rhymed and how it seemed very personal to you.
I wonder what my brother thinks
I wonder what my Mom thinks
I wonder what my Dad thinks
I wonder what my friends think
I wonder if they wonder what I’d think
I get a slight sense of loneliness from your poem, Jonthan. I often wonder the same things!
Jonathan, I wonder works well here in the anaphora to show how thoughts can accumulate and toward that minor but important if in the final line, the shifting of tense speaks volumes about family. Thank you for sharing this perspective. I know the feelings.
Jonthan,
You are always welcome to share your thoughts here. We are listening and we care. Thank you for sharing.
Jonthan, I also wonder what people think frequently. I liked your take on this prompt and how you started each line the same way.
Sarah, thanks for today’s prompt. I smiled when I read your last line – They promise we can heal in stages–it’s all in the link. My daughters and I have a text understanding where we can read the sublties. Today I’m sharing a memory of my grandfather.
my grandfather’s lawnmower
There were summer Sundays when my brother, Bill, and I rode alongside our Papa Hymie on his green fading lawnmower that had been outfitted with two seats for us. A board ran beneath his seat with ours on either side of his. They were cushioned with foam rubber covered in a terry cloth fabric my grandparents’ creation. Seat belts were added to secure us. On Sundays we’d visit my grandfather’s friends. I came to realize it was a show off your grandchildren visit. He worked Monday through Saturday. On Sunday he had the time to drop in on friends and bring us with him. It was pretty fun riding alongside our grandfather through our small town. Not the most affectionate man. From him I learned affection can be shown in many ways.
Jamie,
i like how your poem shows your layers of understanding. A fun outing becoming
and a life lesson;
Sweet memory and lesson both.
Jamie, isn’t amazing how different folks “show” their love and pride in others. Taking time to add the “seat belts, sealed the deal for me! What a precious memory. Thanks for sharing.
Jamie — What a beautiful memory! I love how your poem shows the many ways that love is conveyed.This line is powerful -“Not the most affectionate man. From him I learned affection can be shown in many ways.”
Jamie, I love the prose here. I love seeing Sunday sprinkled throughout as an anchor. Seat belts were added. Yes. That last line is it, the gesture toward understanding toward recognizing or attending to what he maybe wanted you to know about affection about him. A noticing that asked for your attention today that we get to witness. Lawnmower with seatbelts.
Jamie, thank you for sharing this story of your grandfather. I see so much care in these lines: “They were cushioned with foam rubber covered in a terry cloth fabric my grandparents’ creation. Seat belts were added to secure us.” And the visiting friend to brag about you. That final line is a great lesson.
Sarah,
Thank you for hosting and introducing us to Alora Young. I’m excited about the new structure you’re giving us with a day focused on a living poet.
“I have many ________” is such a rich line that I instantly had ideas for several poems that I hope to circle back to.
Sarah, I love how your poem moves from the physical, visible traits we share with family members to the deeper, invisible ones. I admire your deft use of rhyme and your sparse details that still tell a whole, complex story.
——————————————————————————————————————
Trails
I have many trails
the snowmobile path behind the church in Frenchville
where I picked blueberries
with my Grandma, my Dad and my brother
where a bear once emerged
scaring my second cousin
who dropped her bike
her fastest means of escape
and ran down the hill
the backcountry trails in Yellowstone
the forest burnt but still standing
where my groom and I shared the quiet with a deer
where years later with full packs
we sang our way up the hills
with misremembered Robert Earl Keen lyrics
the beachside trails of the Milford Trek
which I trained for by wearing my pack
as I walked around my new school
our five day walk starting on Christmas day
the young guides running along the trail
with jingle bells on their packs
serving us hot orange on the top of a mountain
the oceanside trails of Abel Tasman
where we forded the sound
in the wrong place
up to my pack’s loosened hip belt in cold water
the crushed granite around Lady Bird Lake
which I still mostly call Town Lake
where I pedal faster than usual
to arrive at the springs
just the right side of free
I have many trails
I walk and ride along
I hike through memories
of long stretches of brown dirt
opening to
impossibly small wildflowers
clear lakes
wild horses
Incan ruins
sacred springs
Sharon, your poem makes me want to visit you! I want to see all of it. Your trails sound glorious.
Sharon — Very cool trails! I feel like I am traveling along beside you. I especially love these last few lines –” I hike through memories/of long stretches of brown dirt/
opening to/impossibly small wildflowers/clear lakes/wild horses/Incan ruins/sacred springs” — beautiful!
Sharon, the rich description of each trail makes me feel as if I am walking it. I love all the unique experiences. This truly is a walk down memory lane (trail, that is)!
Loved following your trails toward the now familiar and still unfamiliar Incan and those yes, impossibly small wildflowers asking for our attention on every trail. Yes.
Sharon, wow, you do have many trails. I love the beauty expressed through each image but your ending is incredible! Gorgeous poem!
Sharon, so much warmth in your poem–each trail has a story, a memory that is dear to your heart. The ending is beautiful and rich:
“I hike through memories
of long stretches of brown dirt
opening to
impossibly small wildflowers
clear lakes
wild horses
Incan ruins
sacred springs”
Sharon,
I absolutely adore your take on the prompt because trails don’t ever seem to come across my reading of poetry. Now, I’m in love with yours! I giggled at your cousin dropping the bike to run! Fun memory.
It’s all a sensory delight that I want to behold and enjoy. 🌳
So Many
by Mo Daley 9/20/26
I have many brothers
I have many protectors
I have many friends
I have many co-conspirators
I have many confidants
I have many patients
Thanks, Sarah. Today I wrote a line for each of my brothers.
Mo — you convey the many roles and relationships of siblings so well! I only have one brother, but I can relate to many of the relationships you describe.
Love this ode to your brothers and the ways they show up for you. I wonder if they can see themselves in these lines and if they’d know who was who. Probably. Right?
Mo, I always wished for a brother. This is a lovely poem recognizing each of them.
Mo, your brothers sound amazing, and each one has a superpower. You made me remember two of my own, who were friends, and conspirators, and protectors.
Lifespan
1876
hands hammering on rich mahogany
a harmonious beat
sawing pieces to fit perfectly
carvings of vines and birds
a beauty to see
bringing music into the world
1951
hands stretching over ebony keys
learning to produce the tunes
learning the music
until a teenager
I hated to practice
1966
newly wed
the piano came to my home
also wedded to me
I serenaded my husband
until children were born
and the piano sat quiet
1975
repeating the drill
my children would learn to play it
but refused the lessons
so the piano sat quiet
in my dining room
idle but beautiful to see
2000
Now it’s older than I
a cracked bridge
makes it hard to keep a tune
and no one wants an old piano
technology has taken over
2026
hands are hammering again
taking apart the beauty
I sadly watch as
as the junk men take it
to be buried in the earth
and I see the repeat
of a lifecycle
even for me
WOW!!! Susan, you’ve got me wondering about the piano sitting in my front room! My children all played it when they were young; my daughter used to accompany me when I sang solos, and our oldest son is a musician today! He taught years at a boarding school for musicians. I kept the piano, thinking I’d finally learn to play it until the grandchildren were born. But alas, when I practiced and missed so many “right” notes and my husband asked me if I was playing while wearing mittens, I stopped. And so far, no grandchildren.
I wonder, if when we pass it along our piano will be buried piece by piece. Our musician son uses electronic devices for most of his music-making now.
Oh well, I may get to write a poem about it sometime before it “passes” away.
Really, though, thanks for the memories of wondering if all three would ever be as good on the keys as I wanted to be!
What a journey, Susan! I was really rooting for that piano. I let out an audible, “Aw! “ when I got to the last stanza.
Susan — your last stanza makes me so sad. I also have a piano sitting my living room, gathering dust that hasn’t been played in ages. I know that one day it will be taken apart too and it makes my heart hurt.
Sarah, I enjoyed reading Alora’s poetry today and I love your poem’s closing line! Very fun poem!
XOXOXO
I have many ghosts
who haunt me daily.
They rise and groan,
whisper family secrets.
They cool my tea and eat my toast,
laugh when I’m in trouble.
On Friday nights they lead me
down forbidden highways,
reminding me that I’m never alone
even when I’m lonely.
Barb Edler
20 September 2026
Oh, a ride of mixed emotions for me reading this poem. The title and the crosses and crossing and ghosts maybe in the Os. They, the who, cooling the tea and laughing. Is that welcome or mocking? Maybe both. And do they witness lonely refusing to comfort or is knowing their presence not enough. I think I am wanting our ghosts to be benevolent when they don’t seem to be. Such a powerful poem, Barb. This is just my reading of it. Apologies if I am off.
I love the imagery of the ghosts cooling your tea and eating your toast.
Barb,
I love how you’ve captured how we are still in dialogue with our family members even after they have passed. I feel the duality of still having their voices in our heads while also being lonely from missing them. Or at least this is how it spoke to me.
These lines are fantastic:
Barb, several of the memories evoked by your poem strike minor keys for me, but the major chord is the closing ones.
reminding me that I’m never alone
even when I’m lonely.
Isn’t it great that we have Ethical ELA projects to remind us of these lines…even when the ghosts come, we know we may get to write a poem about them. So, there!!!
The idea of our ghosts haunting us daily is such a great topic and the way you humanize them really stuck me!
such a great feeling.
Barb!! This poem is chilling and powerful. I think we can all relate! I, too, have many ghosts.
Barb,
I absolutely love everything about your poem! The unexplained and unsettling cooling of your tea and toast to the comfort in driving down “forbidden highways.” I truly know what you are talking about as I have had odd experiences the feeling of a presence when I cleaned out my parents’ house.
Barb, I’m a firm believer that our loved ones can come and be with us – – yes to the ghosts on Friday nights and anytime, to keep us company and remind us that they are still here.
Barb,
I smiled at that line about “forbidden highways.” Some of my favorite Barb poems are those about your wild young woman days. I love the idea of ghosts who keep us company. I suppose these are the carriers of memory. Your poem has me feeling nostalgic. Love the poem.
Barb, we are reading The Turn of the Screw with my lit. analysis class, and it is about ghosts. Your poem reminded me about how our past fears or insecurities haunt us until we face them. I hope your Friday ghosts surprise you with good memories.
This line keeps me going back to it as if searching for some clue:
“They cool my tea and eat my toast”
Thank you for a beautiful poem–always enjoy your word choices and imagery.
I have many dreams
Some big
Some small
Many unknown
Dreams kept to oneself with
the haunting thought of if they will be achieved
Will I do it?
When will it happen?
Dreams turn into hope
Hope that one day
One day I will make it
Into the dreams
The dreams in my mind
driving me
defeating me
giving me a reason
Do you have dreams?
LRP, I like how your questions went from inward to outward. The repetition of D sounds make me feel a sort of urgency.
I love the way you talk about the feelings of your dreams pushing and pulling u away, and how every night is a completely new feeling
LRP — I love how you convey dreams as both haunting and hopeful. The juxtaposition of the postive and negative aspects of dreams is very effective in conveying the complexity of our dreams.
LRP, dreams was one of the ideas I had for today’s poem. Yes, just like you I have dreams–big and small, im/possible, and some unknown too.
I like how you conclude with and idea that dreams give you a reason to move on even after a defeat. Thank you!
I have many scars
I have many scars
Some are easy to see
Most buried deep
They are created in moments of regret
or from people who have left
They remind me of what I have experienced
The things I survived
Some faded with time
Some still sting inside
But every scar tells a story
Creating a map of who I am
I like how you use both the physical and mental aspects of scars. They aren’t always visible to others. You can hurt on the inside and no one knows compared to if someone sees them on the outside.
Our scars making a map of who we are . . . such a great idea!
A.L — This — “But every scar tells a story
Creating a map of who I am” — so true!
I have many wayfaric wanderings in the cache
yet I remain, mostly, stoic.
Ideas, like moths, meander in and sashay away
Hidden, gone. I’ve blown it.
Thinking in the moment I will remember
but unnesecarily, scarily disappear.
Dusk readies its gripping talons
the end of the day failure to aprehend is all I hear.
Luke, I can relate to those “Ideas, like moths, meander in and sashay away”. I always think I’m going to recall something but later it’s a struggle to remember. I love the personification of dusk in your poem. The close echoes!
Thank you, Barb.
Luke, your poem is so well crafted. Those gripping talons of dusk are reaching out for all of us! I really enjoyed the sounds in your poem.
Thank you for reading, Mo.
Luke, this is a very literary poem: alliteration in “wayfaric wanderings” hums; “moths, meander” has a hushed sensibility, a quiet alliteration. Like Barb, I can relate to that simile of meandering moths and thoughts. I’m not really emotionally stoic but I am stoic when it comes to certain actions. Really great poem.
I have many memories
I have many memories
Some memories are close
Some memories are far
I crave the memories I can’t reach anymore
Holding on tight to the ones trying to drift away.
Anxiety rushes over me when I forget.
Moments that felt so special,
now gone away.
I try to dive deep into my mind,
swimming through the many memories it “contains”
I have so many memories?
Memories are supposed to be held close,
but they all end up far.
Oh, that is a lovely closing stanza, friend. held close/but they all end up far. There it is. A truth that lingers.
Mercy, love your name!
Your poem resonated with me as I have begun realizing how many memories from my childhood seem to be frozen. When my sister and I talk about the past, it’s like we are both trying to defrost segments that hold all the love.
I thank you for sharing your poem with us.
I love the questioning at the end. “I have so many memories?”, this is so relatable. When things happen that I don’t want to happen I tend to immediately question my thoughts or what I did to make them happen. Overall beautiful poem.
How true! Luckily for those that keep a journal we can open it and read some of the memories that would have been totally forgotten. You are right, some memories are far away.
I Have Many Homes
I have so many homes
Some are places
Some are people
I have a home in Livonia
where I grew up
with my siblings by my side
I have a home with my family
many memories with them
and the things they have taught me
Now I have a home in Grand Rapids
where I am growing,
learning,
and becoming my own person
I have many homes
and each one
has made me who I am
Love this thinking of many homes as a tracing of a life unfolding and the ways place “made me who I am.” Lovely.
I love this tracing of the homes where you have live, but I especially love how you acknowledge that home can be a person.
Lovvvve this! I actually wrote something about homes not always being a place.
The way you move from place to place is lovely.
I love your idea that some of the homes are people. I get it. There are those people in my life where I can be totally me. Each of your homes seem to be a facet of you.
Sarah, what a topic to consider this Sunday! Alora’s lines ”
I have many mothers
They are mostly black
evoked memories of the “grandmothers” in my early years. All were not blood relatives, but they were there for me,
Don’t Stop or Drop It
“You can do it!”
Didn’t start up with me.
“Do it over, this time right.”
Sometimes made me bite,
Bite my tongue to keep me safe
And show respect.
“You can do it.
Remember you’re not alone.
Call someone; Use the telephone.”
Sometimes I call, but up in prayer
They told me He’d always be there.
The old song, “I’ve Got a Telephone
in My Bosom” gets me through today.
Seldom am I inclined to stop.
Few projects will I drop.
This idea is in my heart,
And not just because it’s Sunday.
Anna, that line “sometimes I call, but up in prayer” is an important line. So much of the calling up takes trust in others and can feel inaccessible at times, but in my bosom, it’s right there.
Anna, I love the grandmothers’ words of advice and encouragement. The old song detail is striking as is your Canva.
I like this prompt a lot! I love that I have a new poet to explore and discover as well.
I Have My Stories
I have my stories—
characters restless beneath my skin,
women standing at crossroads, ghosts waiting for names,
children running barefoot through towns already disappearing.
They tug at my sleeve while I answer email,
whisper whole sentences while I write about writing,
press their faces against the windows of academic articles
on subjects I love but deadlines demand I finish.
Not yet, I tell them. Not yet.
Still, they pace the rooms of me,
aching for the door.
I have my obligations—
papers stacked beside poems, meetings beside manuscripts,
lists making lists of what the lists forgot.
I have scholarship I believe in, students I believe in,
work that matters—and still
somewhere between citation and conclusion
a woman I invented twenty years ago clears her throat.
A ghost shifts at the edge of the page.
A town tucked between somewhere and gone along a tired Georgia road,
I keep promising I will get back to them
as if stories understand calendars,
as if imagination can be postponed without consequence.
I have my storytellers—
Grandpa rocking words into rhythm,
Granny making a thing plain without softening it,
voices moving man to wife, mother to child,
the rumble and rhythm of sound and story singing into summer nights.
They live in my memory, yes, but deeper than memory—
in my blood, my breath, my backbone,
in the way a sentence rocks before it settles.
And I know now the porch was never meant to hold them forever.
So I gather the voices that raised me, open the page,
and make another place for the stories to live.
I really liked how you described your stories as always being with you, even when you are busy with other things.
Based on this poem, it does seem like you have so many stories, and just things and people racing through your brain. But with you having so many stories, you still found a way to create a great story of your own.
This was such a great poem, and I really enjoyed reading it. I really how you described stories, and how they are always with you. I really enjoyed this line, “They live in my memory, yes, but deeper than memory—
in my blood, my breath, my backbone,
in the way a sentence rocks before it settles.”
This shows the inner side of most writers and the stories within waiting to be told. I like your reference to characters “restless beneath my skin” and your answer “not yet.” Hopefully you can get back to a few.
Melanie,
I love how you include so many rich details to show us what is keeping you from writing your stories, where they came from and then when we’re cheering you on, desperate for you to tell your stories you make that happen too. What a propulsive narrative.
My favorite lines are about your grandparents:
Beautiful!
Melanie, I would read a book of your stories–each has it way of showing up in the middle of all the lists and obligations. So many wonderful lines here where I stopped to reread and savor the words, as in here:
“somewhere between citation and conclusion
a woman I invented twenty years ago clears her throat.
A ghost shifts at the edge of the page.
A town tucked between somewhere and gone along a tired Georgia road”
Just mesmerizing!
Sarah, oh, how I love this day’s prompt and mentors! Sarah, you share so much in five lines. I feel connected to you and your sisters!
I Have Many Reasons to Give Thanks
Every time I prayed and received answers
When sunrises paint the morning sky
How the scent of you makes me warm
The surprise opening of my white orchid
That child’s hug that lasted ten seconds more
How my son’s dimples hold my heart
When my daughter tries a new recipe and it’s yummy
The email that fulfilled a dream
Every night you are safe and well
©Stacey L. Joy, 9/20/2026
I will respond to poets throughout the day. I’m on a Zoom training until 1p.m.
Stacey, the orchid is gorgeous and creates a beautiful backdrop for your poem, where it also has its line with “surprise opening.” You bring up reasons to give thanks, and each one is worth celebrating whether it’s your “son’s dimples,” your daughter trying a new recipe, or “[t]he email that fulfilled a dream.” Thank you for making me count my blessings.
Stacey, I am at games and trying to respond on my phone! Hard!!! But, yoir poem has me nodding and sighing. Your starting line is a testament of respect for all those answered prayers.
Stacey, gorgeous poem and Canva rendition. I love the white orchid detail and “sunrises paint the morning sky”. Your poem of thanks is a joy!
This poem is very lovely, really making the readers smell and think exactly as you envisioned. Good job!
Thank you, Sarah, for introducing us to Alora Young. I am especially grateful for the recording. Your poem is full of tenderness, and this line “They send unresolved trauma clicks” reminds me of my sisters.
I am finally reading Theo of Golden by Allen Levi, and his idea of sadness and joy co-existing in our lives inspired this poem.
I have many sadnesses
I have many sadnesses.
They are small stones
Pushing on my chest
They are the losses
I did not choose,
From longings
I ache to forget.
I have many joys.
They are warm lights
Through the cracks.
They are the moments
I did not expect,
From laughter
That returns on its own.
They both can live
in the same room
and still make space
for me to breathe.
I love the flow of this–sadnesses, joys, making space for both to live…there’s something about how this moves that really makes me feel it. I love the repetition of the S sound in the first stanzas. Love this!
Ahh, Leilya, this poem soothes me. I love that you brought the sadness too, but showed us how it coexists with joys.
Oh, Leilya, that tug between joy and sadness is so real. But the last stanze where you wisely show them living
just really made me take pause and realize that we always have both in us. We have to accommodate.
Leila, you take 5he reader from the stones of sadness to the joy peering through the cracks to a room in your heart where they can comingle! Lovely
I love this poem, touching on a deeper or more personal level topic. This poem has a beautiful flow to it and I love the imagery throughout it.
This poem is beautiful. The way that emotions can be so overwhelming yet somehow we still can breathe even with the weight of them in our chest. This is so relatable as someone who is very emotional.
Wow, Leilya, I love the dichotomy in your poem. I feel those stones and love the shift to the warm lights and the joys sneaking in past the cracks. Your closing stanza shares hope and shows your personal strength.
Love this! The many sadnesses and longings can be warmed up by the joys. The last stanza is uplifting.
Leilya,
I read your poem before reading your comment. I immediately noticed the binary and thought about how grief and joy occupy the same space. I felt that crush of sadness in the first verse. About Theo of Golden. I read to p 168. Lots about that book bothers me, but I know it’s beloved. I took my copy to Cambodia and gave it to a teacher in the TWT community. I do plan to finish the book before the end of the year.
“Matriarch”
I have many lives.
Before death and
after death.
Small deaths
along the way.
Physically broken,
beaten, bruised.
Resurrected and
filled with hopes to
find them dashed,
reburied.
I have many stories.
Which are truth and
which are fiction?
Not sure I
can tell anymore:
They blur into one
another, like raindrops
mingled.
Wendy, I read your poem several times. The way you write about “many lives” and those small deaths along the way feels so true. You weave together the many lives and stories we carry. And that ending image of raindrops mingling is beautiful. Thank you for sharing!
The contradictions in this poem speak to me. Many lives before death and after death…broken, resurrected…truth, fiction. The imagery is so strong.
Wendy,
Your poem grabbed me from the start. The before and after death lines are powerful. The ending of your poem affirms how much we live through and how much fades away.
Woof.
Isn’t that the truth? I think sometimes my tendency toward revisionist history has me not real certain how things really happened.
I have many ancestors
their voices whisper to me from a far off windy place
reminding me to stay the journey, to remember from whence I came and that there is a way forward, even when I feel like a lost seeker, afraid of my own shadow and longing to find my way back home again.
Kimberly, these words are my guideposts too: “remember from whence I came and that there is a way forward, even when I feel like a lost seeker.” So true. Thank you!
Kimberly, the voices whispering from a far off place really grabs me. It conveys both an ethereal tone and one of gravity as well. We carry both the memories and the advice of those before us – I appreciate the reminder that they are there for us when we struggle as lost seekers.
This is such an incredible poem and important thing to remember. Sometimes life can feel really big but like your poem talks about you need to just remember where you came from and let that guide you.
Kimberly, I love the direction you receive from your ancestors – to stay the journey, that there is a way forward. Good words to return to.
The overall story of venturing out to discover things on your own, yet always having those from your past there to help you, is beautiful.
white fox
The worms dig into my soul,
twirling in the rot,
for the things I’ve done,
I squirm in knots.
With panic,
they churn,
consuming,
what I have earned.
I plea to butterflies,
in my stomach,
to eat the worms,
under them.
But, blue lighting,
crashes my mind,
I squirm as the worm,
and cannot unwind.
Only to hear
the white fox cry,
forgiveness,
on the inside.
As, I open,
my eyes,
I realize,
the worms are a creation,
of my own demise.
Gently, I caress,
the white fox,
as I unwind,
from my knots.
Love the imagery in this poem. This stanza was my favorite:
“With panic,
they churn,
consuming,
what I have earned.”
To me, this poem spoke to needless guilt or shame — relatable!
Clayton, your poem is stunning. The way you move from worms and panic to the white fox offering forgiveness is so vulnerable, yet so powerful. I sense insecurity and fear woven into it, but also such a gentle release at the end with “as I unwind, / from my knots.” I really loved reading it. Thank you!
Clayton, I love these symbols and how they can mean different things to each reader.
Sarah, thank you for introducing us to Alora Young. Your poem today is a delight to read with those ending words in each line. Sisters–you have captured the complexity here.
I have many tangles
They are impossible to unravel
They complicate and clear up
They move in and out with yours
They weave together to form my tapestry
Denise, tangles — evokes so many images for me. Mostly hair, from when I was younger but also all the tangles of our lives and families. The anaphora works so well here to call attention to who the they can be, can refer to. The literal and figurative tangles. But that ending, that shift in the final line is everything for me, for your reader, that “my” in the owning, internalizing, embracing and reframing into tapestry, the beautiful self that emerges from all that tangles. Love this.
Denise, thank you1 as I read your poem, I thought about physical tangles (hair, knots), but then I thought about “angles” and “facets,” and how each one complicates to “weave together to form [your] tapestry.” Beautiful!
Simple, yet deep…telling in both shouts and whispers
I love the idea of our tangles making a tapestry!!
Denise, tangles brings so many memories – the threads from yarn, my mom working cream rinse through my hair when I was little, necklace chains that seemed to never be solvable, or unwinding the string from a cat’s cradle game where it tangled in my fingers. Life is full of tangles, it seems. You offer the hope that they’ll clear but also recognize that they make up who we are.
Denise, I love the opening line and the impossibility of unraveling these tangles. Love, love, love the tapestry. Very clever metaphor!
Denise, I love how visual your words are. A metaphor of you. I like the idea that things aren’t a move forward style.
Denise, an unexpected thing to have too many of, but so true that we have tangles. I love the way you show that the connotation of a tangle can be a great thing in the tapestry.
Denise,
Your poem says so much while also holding back much, but as your friend whom you’ve trusted with personal revelations, I feel the depth of your poem and sure wish I could give you a big hug.
Adventures
I have many rabbit holes
I journey down almost daily.
Something intrigues me
and down I go.
Like Alice, I follow White Rabbit,
growing curiouser and curiouser,
searching and digging and Googling
for more.
Sometimes my locked doors
have keys but often just peepholes
allowing me to see the alluring garden
yet I am denied access.
I cannot resist the Drink Me potion,
knowing I will shrink unto myself at times
and grow to gargantuan proportions
at others.
My Wonderland is sometimes silly
sometimes serious,
often taking on the contour of a past
that I am trying to make sense of.
My escape is often prompted by time
and I am left feeling fuller
and emptier
by the things I unearthed.
~Susan Ahlbrand
20 September 2026
Susan, Alice in Wonderland is a great metaphor for the adventure of following rabbit holes. Especially in these days. I love the opposites–silly-serious, fuller-emptier, shrink-grow. Such good images for what happens when we are adventuring like this.
Oh, Susan. The line “taking on the contour of a past.” Wow, that is gorgeous, and I am sitting with that line for a bit before I read on…Okay, I am reading on. Feeling fuller/and emptier. Yes, two things can be true. Another wow.
“Sometime my locked doors have keys . . . this stanza is so powerful to me. I am peering through the peepholes with you.
I read this poem aloud several times. I love the sound of it, the way the story built, the way the words flowed. I really appreciated the Wonderland imagery. I love this poem!
Susan, I have a such an affinity for Alice and Rabbit Holes so I find myself equally delighted by your play and envious that I hadn’t thought to delve here! You capture the craziness and seriousness of wonderland adventures and extend the metaphor throughout. Thanks for inviting down the rabbit hole today.
Susan, this is a perfect extended metaphor for a curious mind “on the go”! Like Denise, I love the play with the opposites throughout, but I’m truly taken with your last stanza of “feeling fuller / and emptier” by the experience. There is such truth in that, and the way you have “and emptier” on its own line is just so good. Perfect!
Oh Susan, how I can relate to going down rabbit holes. A mischievous escape without knowing the outcome but risking it anyway. Lovely…
Delightful, Susan!
I really like the comparison to Alice and the potion. I go down the rabbit hole too many times a day. Yes, time is the escape out of the rabbit hole and back to more serious calls.
Susan, what a clever metaphor to show your explorations down rabbit holes. I really admire the end because I often feel out of sorts by some of the information I discover especially the dark stories of war and abuse. Powerful poem!
Sarah, Thank you for bringing Alora’s words and prompts into this space. I appreciate how your poem can share so much with limited words.
I have many bodies
They all group as long, yet vary in flexibility
They have stepped through a marathon finish line
They have birthed a few humans
They have collected internal, external scars
They have tightened and limited movement
They have stretched abroad, pivoted across roles
They will continue to embody shifts in my eras
Stefani, what a great topic for all the bodies you have that have “pivoted across roles” and eras. I would like to try to explore my different bodies, thanks to your mentor poem. I especially like the delicious specificity of the marathon and birthing “a few humans” lines.
Oh, Stefani, you made me smile with “birthed a few humans”! And all the incredible ways your body has lived and persists and shapes the places you go, and I am so grateful to have stretched because of you and embodied shifts in ways I would not have otherwise because of you! Hugs.
Beautiful as well as a lifelong love letter to self, brilliant
I have many books.
They are mostly inherited.
My parents collected books like shells
from the sea, calling them to sit
with words.
My dad bent over each one
with a pencil in his hand.
I finger his marks, wistfully
want to read with a passion like his.
I have many books.
Hauled from my classroom,
tucked into crowded spaces,
remembering cozy read alouds
and pages turning silently in reading time.
There are not enough hours
to read them with grandchildren.
Is there a road to heaven paved with books?
Margaret, your metaphor around shells is visually powerful. I also love your ending question–thinking this could be a great prompt for others to respond to. Thank you for sharing today.
Margaret—first of all, I believe my heaven will be a library! This part of your poem is magical:
“My parents collected books like shells
from the sea, calling them to sit
with words.
My dad bent over each one
with a pencil in his hand.
I finger his marks, wistfully
want to read with a passion like his.”
those shell-books…
Margaret, I am sitting here with your words. It’s such a delight to think of your overflowing book shelves, books from your parents and classroom. So many stories. So many pencils notes. I love the line about you wanting “to read with a passion like his.” And that ending question is both fascinating and fun.
Margaret. Oh, the word “haul” is perfect. From and with your students to your grandchildren, but that is also because they were treated like “shells” and worthy of pencils in the margins and holders of passions. And that is gorgeous.
Thank you! Of course there is a road to heaven paved with books! Each reading of these books has led us to heaven on earth!
Love this Margaret! I so relate to the moment where you read your father’s annotations and “wistfully / want to read with a passion like his.” Beautiful. And your last question? Yes, of course, lol!
Books like shells…gorgeous! I love the imagery here. Heaven has to be filled with books and stories…the last line just made me smile so much. There is so much here.
“pages turning silently in reading time” Oh! How this embodies true passion for reading and dare I add? A lost time within the classroom when we were instructed to read silently once our assignment was done…
Margaret, I can see your dad hunched over the books, writing. I had book collecting parents, too, and I credit them with my passion for reading. I love that last line – – and I sure hope so!
I have many secrets
In forms labeled, SHAME
That I have chosen
Again and again
It has many names
Like each pretty label
Each bottle of pain
I sip my shame
Again and again
“I sip my shame” makes me feel empathy to whatever the cause. The repetition of again is affective.
Thank you, Margaret
Pamela, you build upon the original label of shame in a simple and effective way; bottles of pain that are always with us. Thank you for sharing this today and connecting us through this poem.
Thank you Stefani
Oh, gosh, Pamela . . . can I ever relate. Shame is a toxin I sip over and over again.
Indeed, shame is toxic. Thank you for reading
Pamela, wow, you have captured shame here. The sipping from the pretty-labeled bottle of pain is such a sinister image, and true.
Thank you pen pal…💜
<3
Pamela, oh that line “in forms labeled, SHAME” — that is something. Sip is so precise. There is a deliberateness in that word, and intention or a capacity for a a little at a time or when we are told to sip, not gulp or the things we sip to savor or to endure like medicine. Layers to that word. Thank you for your poem. You have be sipping and contemplating.
Thank you, Sarah
How powerful is shame’s impact on us. I so appreciate the honest vulnerability of this piece.
Thank you all for your kind and insightful responses. I’ve been a bit fearful to submit to any prompts but this reminds me that:
A) Poets support poets
B) I am never alone.
This made me ask so many questions about what this “SHAME” is. “It has many names.” You’re so right; people might think something is shameful, while others think it’s something to be proud of. This poem made me think a lot. Thank you.
Sarah, this prompt allows us to go in any direction without making a wrong turn, ideal for both new and long-standing writers. I will be sharing this one with my students. Your poem allows us to see the family connections in a sparseness of words, like a photo gives us a moment’s glimpse.
I have many lives.
They begin with time
and end with eternity.
They breathe and devour
their way into existence.
They consume space
in the way someone slips
into a crowded elevator
one second before the doors close.
They speak simultaneously
like the multitude of tv monitors
competing in a sports bar,
the volume never fully loud enough
to be heard above the din of fans.
They battle for attention
and relevance
in a world where attention-spans
last in three second blips
on a timeline constantly churning out
new material for consumption and
recycling and trash heaps.
The metaphors you use, (the elevator, sports bar) work well to create a feeling the urgency of time. And how our society has changed to have short attention spans.
Wow, Jennifer . . . those metaphors are simply perfect. You weave them in so naturally yet the reader is struck with a “oh, heck yes” in reaction. I love love love
Jennifer, I’m drawn to this idea of your/our lives battling for attention. How true this is both subconsciously and consciously. Thank you for sharing today.
Jennifer, that word “multitudes” is lingering for me in the ways “they speak” across the so many spaces we inhabit and ask for our attention though not always for understanding. And to end with the phrase “trash heaps.” That lands.
You create such a vivid physical sense of some of the common places that we all encounter. This allows us, the readers, to feel those places together in a sort of visceral way.
Ah, Jennifer, the craft on display here! I love it so much! Those metaphors and similes are perfect, and they build to an intensity, an almost frenetic pace (coupled with those growing sentences: one line, two lines, two lines, four lines, five lines, and finally, seven lines). So good!
Jennifer, this is deep and insightful! The crossover of lives ending with eternity makes me think long and hard about what forever will be like, and all the lives that will be on the same timeline in eternity, no matter when each person lived. Mindblowing poem!
I’m thankful to Alora for sharing this prompt and poem. I can’t wait to learn more about her!
I have many Blue Moon
they sing country song
they tell loose-lip story
they line dance wrong
they don’t drive
Kim, I’m drawn to your singular/plural nouns at the end of each line (blame Scott, who has me thinking like a grammar teacher today), and what they signify for the Blue Moon, non-driving, loose-lipped Kim. What a fun time this would be!
The “line dance wrong” made me laugh because I always sit out a line dance. I don’t like crowd dancing. I prefer to be held by my partner.
Kim, this is a fun poem where the image of Blue Moon laden tables merges with line dancers who cannot remember all the steps. Fun
Kim, I love every syllable of your poem. I especially adore “they tell loose-lip story”. The last line is a hoot!
Kim,
I toggled over to your blog and saw that delightful photo which conveys the two-step, crooked line dance in your designated drinker poem. Cheers to a fun verse romp!
I have many teachers:
they range from people,
places, things, and ideas
(nouns all of them, some
proper, some not), verbs,
too, and, quite a few, I’ll
be honest, are adverbs and
adjectives, and lest we
forget, I was raised and
taught by pronouns and
prepositions in conjunction
with conjunctions (who would
coordinate, of course, but also
subordinate and correlate with
each other) and “had we but
world enough and time” (Oh!
let’s take a moment to marvel
at Marvell’s surprise appearance
in this verse) I would be able to
list them all, but I can’t, so I won’t.
______________________________________
Sarah, thank you for sharing Alora Young with us! I agree wholeheartedly with her that arts and poetry can, indeed, “make the world better”! And I love the shifts in your poem from “cowlicks” to “unresolved trauma” to “heal[ing] in stages.” You move from Humorous to Serious to Hopeful…ous, sorry, I couldn’t “stick the landing” with that parallelism. For my offering, I bet you can see the exact moment that I took a left turn at the prompt, lol.
Scott, the English teacher in me absolutely adores what you did here. Your play with language –I just want it to keep going! Alas, there are only so many parts of speech. Perhaps a verb tense sequel can be somewhere down the line?
Scott— this is amazing—I especially liked all the “unctions”! My geekiness is so impressed!
Love it, Scott! You so cleverly tap into the core of our language, leaving us to connect the dots. Skillful!
I too have had many teachers. One of them in particular led me to being an English teacher because unfortunately I wanted to be better than she. She had favored the boys. Her classes bored me because she insisted on learning just grammar. She didn’t nurture my creativity. The journalism teacher did that.
Your telltale, signature wit is present today, Scott. Really a lovely piece. I love this thought of being taught by all of these different verbs, adjectives, adverbs, etc. This is great,
I read a lot more poems than I have time to comment on, and this was one I read and enjoyed yesterday. Then today I used the “lagniappe” prompt to write about something I learned from this fun poem yesterday. Thanks, Scott!
Thank you for sharing Alora’s voice here.
Kevin
I have many muses
singing along family lines:
my father’s drums –
my mother’s voice –
my brother’s guitar –
my grandmother’s stories –
every song is wrapped up tight
inside the threads of others
Kevin, those last two lines are beautifully written, and your love of music continues to thread your writing, wrapping each piece tightly.
I like the word muses and how deeply the threads go to find the muses that live inside you.
I love how the last 2 lines wrapped up the poem beautifully.