Welcome.VerseLove is Ethical ELA’s celebration of National Poetry Month each April—an invitation to write, read, and reflect together. New to VerseLove? Learn more: https://www.ethicalela.com/verselove
Our Host: Melissa Heaton
Melissa lives in Springville, Utah–a town nestled in the foothills of the Wasatch Range of the Rocky Mountains. Springville is also known as Art City because of its artistic heritage and dedication to the visual arts. Melissa comes from a family of very talented artists. Even though she didn’t inherit that family trait, she feels that she can still paint pictures with words. She graduated with a BA from Brigham Young University and has taught ELA for 26 years in the Nebo School District. In addition to teaching, Melissa enjoys baking, reading, dancing, interior design, and visiting national parks. It’s Melissa’s goal to visit all of the US national parks. There are 63 national parks, and so far Melissa has visited 27.
Inspiration
Since I come from an artistic family, I’ve been surrounded by art my entire life. I have childhood memories of waking up to the smell of oil paints and turpentine on Saturday mornings and going to the museum with my father to view his artwork. I also find that art often inspires me to write.
The last few years, I have tried to inspire my students to write through art. During the school year, I take my students to the local museum to view the local artwork. Then, they find a quiet place to write. Finding a quiet place to write isn’t always possible for 8th graders, but we make it work.
Ekphrasis poetry is inspired by art. This style of poetry typically involves a verbal description or interpretation of the artwork, aiming to create a new artistic experience through the intersection of poetry and visual art.
Process
Today’s invitation is to look at some art–photographs, sculptures, paintings, etc. How would you describe this piece of art? How does the art make you feel? Where does the art take you? Does the art have a deeper meaning or backstory that maybe one cannot see but needs to explore with words? Does the art bring back memories? Is there a tiny detail of the art that you would like to explore? What is the title of the art piece? If available, read the artist statement. Does the title or the statement help you understand the painting or the artist on a deeper level?
We would love to read your poems and see the art that inspired your poems.
Melissa’s Poems
Highland Poppies
Red poppies gather
like glowing lanterns against a night sky
Green stems hold their delicate blooms
waiting to let go
and make a wish
Boy In Gold
From darkness to light
I leave the shadows behind me
and see with clarity
the golden moments in my life
stitched with precision
among intricate threads.
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.
Tanka ( on Flowers for Lisa- Abelardo Morrell- Inkjet print, 2015, National Gallery of Art)
Sparkling clear water
Ordinary Mason jar
Flowers, all colors
Tuck in with wild profusion
Set in sunshine- work of art
Your poems are lovely and that image of poppies with eyes, it seems to me, deserves sequel poems, plural. My mother in law wove Pane di Pasqua, with love, every Easter. It remains a symbol of new life and spring that makes me smile as I make just one, in her honor. The image of my own will not load as it is too big, so Google if you want to know what a bakery version looks like!
They always sat in a pile on the table
As if they had popped out of the oven
Like the gingerbread man, rather than
Patiently kneaded, woven into perfect
Braids, holding their bright promises of life.
I smile as I walk past the best in town bakery,
Think about ordering just one, while memories,
Of her centerpiece urge me to make just one,
Thinking about her as I knead, weave, and bake
Just one to sit on my table to remember her love, and
The promise of hope needed this spring.
A beautiful memory leads to a beautiful poem. I love how the thought of buying the bread at the bakery, changes into baking just one to bring the promise of hope. The repetition of just one seems like the thought that made it seem possible…
Melissa, your words fill me with hope that we can move from darkness into light again, finding those golden moments and securing the stitches. I wrote about a piece called Picnic by Joel Sager.
We’re Coming for You
The day sat,
brown and bloodied,
slashed and scrawled.
Just beyond the woods –
a sun
(or is it a moon)
rises or sinks
(Who can tell).
Not that it makes a difference.
We are Caught
between the Cemetary gate
and the harvest table,
farmhouse legs
barely shrouded by
Mother’s tablecloth,
below the banner celebrating,
pennant teeth pointing downward
where Mother stands
in pretty floral,
smile affixed,
utensil in hand,
making ready the sacrifice.
Look away!
I want to warn.
But there’s no need.
We’ve done it before.
Oh, Jennifer — I grew up with this exact image, my mom (“in pretty floral”…always the cotton housedress) with a hatchet (not an ax) in hand and the chickens scratching at the dirt looking for bugs. It was Sunday dinner. Truly creepy to watch. I had stuffed that away in the back of my memory. I love the first person. As a kid I wondered too what the chickens were thinking, “caught.” You capture the matter-of-factness of the entire scene, as did your artist Sager. Farm chores. We knew farm chores…so does this poem. Thank you for sending me to my mom for a visit this morning (geez, I still miss her so much even after these 39 years. Hugs and love, Susie
Your poem and photo took me back in time to the chicken slaughter days of my childhood. The smell, the metallic taste in my mouth, the whomp of the axe. I loved the image of the “pennant teeth” and that your mother dressed up for the sacrifice. Loved.
I love the art installations popping up around Washington, d.c. so found inspiration in the latest one near the Lincoln Memorial. It’s the latest work from the Secret Handshake art collective.
flush! “ A Throne Fit for a King”
demented king Orangey
takes ‘executive hours’
in the overhauled
Lincoln bedroom lavatory
our bankrupt businessman
doing his business
dropping deuce bombs
he alone explodes
atop gold throne
he flushes sewage
across amber grains
his crowning accomplishment
happy birthday, america!
Glenda Funk
April 3, 2026
Glenda, I have been enjoying these pop-ups too. Somehow I missed this one. Your words sum up our current state – sewage flushed across amber grains. A more appropriate image there is not.
Oh, Glenda — These are words straight from my thoughts. The devastation of his “bombings,” both from the lavatory to the far reaches of children in the school in Iran and the medical schools there (the list of destroyed targets is horrifying…against the Geneva Convention) have turned our amber waves (perfect choice of phrasing!) to global sewage. How do we teach our children to be proud of this country? How do we teach them to stand up for our nation, to abide by the Constitution? Thank you for the strong voice; I hear it. Hugs and love, Susie
drafting life to re-innovate
werds needing edits
strokes wanting coverage
knots asking for help
erasers blurring process
from the top, 5678
cycles | resets | redos
or aptly destroy
imperfect design
chaos of creation
Melissa, thank you for hosting and I inspiring us with your own art. This piece was at O’Keefe’s gallery in New Mexico. I was fascinated and thankful the curators bought attention to an imperfect process that happens with all art.
Stefani, I am struck by the idea of drafting life and the many ways we do this (or try to). Each of those nouns (werds, strokes, knots, erasers) sits perfectly with their following words (blurring, asking). i dove into a rabbit hole about creation and its chaos as I started and stopped several ideas this morning (knotting, erasing, editing) so I felt everyt bit of this.
Popping Back for Popping Peachy
scrolling back through my pictures
my heart aches when I see them ~
flamingoes at The Flamingo
in Las Vegas, Nevada
***
I’d stood and admired them
each morning
safe in their habitat, rescues all
trusting the hand that feeds them
preening demurely for guests
unaware of their own beauty
***
one week later
Peachy was assaulted
birdnapped, tortured by
a tourist turned felon
before authorities came
to the rescue
once again
***
abductor says he’s a farm boy
who knows his birds
how to pop a wing
back in place
***
sounds like he needs a few of his own
appendages popped back in place
{I’m a farm girl – and I volunteer}
Update: Peachy is going to be fine after rehab.
Kim,
My stomach turned inside-out when I heard about Peachy and the assault on the flamingos from that bird-brained neanderthal. Your poem honors Peachy and his pink friends. I love the narrative structure and the visual effect of the divisions. Favorite lines: “he needs a few appendages popped” and “I’m a farm girl-and I volunteer.” Well, I’ve sliced some chickens and roasted some turkeys in my day and know how to clip a bird brain, too, so I’ll help.
Kim, I was not aware of this story, and my heart stopped with “Peachy was assaulted/birdnapped.” What is wrong with people? I’m with you on popping the abductor’s appendages back in place. So very grateful to hear the flamingo is fine. You balance the horrific nature of this situation with a sarcasm (I’m a farm girl – and I volunteer) that offsets the reader’s feeling from the first half.
A moment of frozen explosion
every remnant behind the task
of making the object by hand
now carefully arranged like
a line of vision –
the remains of an old red oak,
carefully placed upon the floor
with an invitation not to sit and rest
but to wonder at the work
we’re witness to the debris scraps
and ring lines of a fallen tree,
and the artist who sees it,
becoming something else, entirely
inspired by One Half Log Divided Into Chair And Scraps
by Gina Siepel, Smith College Museum of Art