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.
Beautiful images and poetry today! Thank you for the prompt, Melissa.
The Rain by Claude Monet inspired this poem.
Spring comes softly,
the air is filled with song.
The flowers boldly bloom
in pinks and lavenders.
Rain slants through the sky
washing everything clean,
adorning petals with raindrops,
leaving rivulets to wind through gardens.
We are drenched with promise,
a new season to grow,
to thrive again, and blossom.
We are revived by the rain.
Melissa, I love your prompt. I’m just now reading it days late. I love your line, the golden moments in my life stitched.
I wish I had more time for this prompt and I hope to use this with my students and take more time later this month.
This painting is titled, She Will Find What is Lost, which to me, says so much about the meaning of it, so I’ll title my poem the same.
She Will Find What is Lost
Young and old
Grandmothers and fathers
A child lost too early.
All who love, who stood in our shoes
And remember
The not-knowing.
Now angels
Reaching, stretching
Wisdom’s hand
To help us as we
Wade through
Earthly sorrow
We seek to remember
The before
Search for the light
In the after.
They are here
to help us find
What is lost.
Oh how stunningly beautiful! I relate to it so much.
”angels reaching, stretching as we wade through earthly sorrow”
thank you for this gift
I am going to apologize in advance for no picture. My mom is transitioning to be with Jesus and well….need I say more. Her hospice nurse shared a picture on Thursday of her backyard FILLED with cardinals. It was amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it. That is what my poem is about.
Souls Come To Visit
If I did not know the job of the
wonderful human who took the photo
I might have thought it was a painting
Those cardinals weren’t there
just for the birdseed,
They were souls visiting the woman
who walked them Home
They came in peace
Letting her know they were free and happy
Soon one of them will be my mother
I hope she visits often
And sits for awhile singing
Free of all suffering and earthly worries.
Just for the birdseed. Love that line. And the way you offer a collective of souls feom the birds to the photographer to your mother and to the writer here. Hugs. And I feel this poem was a comfort to many today.
Sarah
This has me in tears. I love the idea of the birds as souls visiting the women who walked them Home. Just lovely. I’m sorry for this challenging time you’re going through. And I’m sure she’ll visit often.
Birth of Venus
Before photoshop’s deceit
Before filters and their
Careful masks
With a flip phone
A curious eye
I thought
This is beauty
I want to be like her
After social media’s rise
After the highlights, reels
My mind wanders back
Back to a shell
Back to the gentle curves
Of pure femininity
Of strong legs
Of gentle curves
A mother of three
A wife, I feel
Like her
Hi, Melissa! I’m late to the game, but better late than never. When I traveled to Greece last year, I learned about the unfair and prejudiced treatment of the Romani people that still exists there, illustrating how racial prejudice is, sadly, not just the province of the US. I also learned about Nikola Kokyova, a Romani woman who won Miss Czech Republic in 2019. See her beautiful picture and an interview with her here: https://romea.cz/en/czech-republic/dont-be-afraid-to-dream-big-nikola-kokyova-a-former-miss-czech-republic-model-and-moderator-tells-romani-youth
Hellas’ beauty looms,
majestic: Below, Romani
people beg, gloom
o’er mistreatment, clash,
and ignorance; yet one bird
rises from the ash:
Nikola Kokyova
spurns the snide sass to rise,
tall as Olympus,
rising on the wings
of elegance, grace, and pride
as, heartful, she sings.
Her pic!
Wendy,
I, too, was late to this one, but your poem reads like a war cry. A call to action wrapped in beautiful end-stops.
Melissa,
Thank you for this prompt and for the call to ekphrasis! I’ve always been fascinated with album art, especially album covers. There are so many iconic ones. The one I chose to focus on is the cover for The Coup’s “Steal this Album”.
Steal this Album
Are you behind bars
Or are we?
I guess we have always lived
under Bar Codes in the nation,
or rather, behind them.
And, I’m embarrassed to say,
but it took you pointing it out
for me to realize that the
universal product number
looks a lot like a prisoner number—
Are we prisoners to the products?
Or are we the products?
Is stealing this album the pathway to freedom?
Is that the file in the cake that I can use to saw through these bars?
Is that what you are trying to hand me from between the bars, or are you asking for my help?
If I could steal the album I would,
if I could help you help us get free with a petty theft, I wouldn’t think twice,
but everything is different now, and music lives in a cloud so
I can’t slip it in a record bag
or hide it in a folded newspaper and
casually walk out of the store,
waving to the clerk behind the counter—
I mean, it’s free now, anyway,
Isn’t it?
Goof questions, Dave.
i, too, miss album art. It’s not the same as a thumbnail.
Dave, I love all the questions. And the thought of bar codes being like jail bars and the product number like a prisoner number is compelling. Some good commentary and questions on society and they way we buy / steal our music nowadays.
Dave,
I am in awe of your exploration of bars here. The ways of holding in and between the constraints and invitations. The access and closure. Wow.
Dave,
Your poem has me pondering how small shifts in technology have such large ripple effects.
Very cool poem and album cover. Never thought of bar codes in this way. You always have a unique way to looking at life!
Little man
With big dreams,
You are free to
Hope, to
Explore, to
Love, to
Plan
Your Bright Future.
Little man,
I see you.
The painting is called Far-Off Places by Gordon C. James
Such a precious poem, Julie, and then the image to go with it makes it even better. I like Little man with big dreams and a bright future–that’s just how the little guy looks on the book cover.
Julie,
I pondering the way you end the lines with to. The enjambment that holds our eyes on the verb at the beginning, carrying our gaze to the next.
Thanks Melissa for the inspiration today–for me, there’s nothing better than looking to the art that nature hangs in the gallery of life. You can find it accompanied by a photo on my blog: https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2026/04/03/natures-art-npm26-3/
Nature’s Art: Day 3
When the day dawns cloudy and you have a sunset event planned, dreams of color fade to black and gray. Rain teased, moments of downpour mixed with fizzled drizzle. Nothing to keep you inside or suggest storm. Jacket nor umbrella made their way to into the day’s supplies. Time nears and the sun makes a path through the maze of clouds, an unexpected guest appearance.
After clouds and rain
shave ice spilled, pouring
colors you can taste
Kim,
I love the choice of form in this. Your prose paragraph has so many great descriptive verbs and your haiku is a delight—“shaved ice spilled” is a perfect image!
Oh, my goodness, what a glorious surprise at the end of the day, Kim. Nature’s Art to be sure! Favorites: “fizzled drizzle” and “shave ice spilled” and that last line of the prose paragraph–oh so beautiful!
Oh, how interested to personify rain. Rain teased. And then the passive structure that does not blame self or other for no umbrella.
Sarah
It is really amazing what a powerful verb can do and pouring here does so much great work. I love the image! It’s so hopeful and happy.
When you find a Kaua’i, Forest,
in the back of a garage,
on the corner of Hie and Alahele,
you must wonder,
How did this get here?
How did this forest
find its way to the back of this garage?
Is this a portal to Max’s wild rumpass?
And you wonder too,
who is this who captured the greens,
the blues and creams too,
all of them, every shade refracted in verdant?
The signature is a red scrawl
soil deep, rusted blood bright.
The signature is an apanane,
curved beak and impossible body
flitting through the forest,
oil on canvas.
11 by 14.
In the back of a garage sale.
Wow Jonathan!
Thank you for transporting me to
I loved seeing the art and imagining how it arrived
There’s so much energy in your poem.
Wow! I can see it…and smell it…every share reflected in verdant. I love the splendor of the unexpected ordinary (that is extraordinary when painted with your eyes and words). I’d like to hang that on the wall of my house to keep seeing it over and over again.
I learned a new bird–the apanane. Your poem is rich; and I can see the painting made with your words, like the painting at the back of the garage sale, even though I don’t actually see it.
Thank you Denise. The apapane is a beautiful special bird
Oh the red scrawl/soul deep is so vivid with a sense of incapacity or maybe apathy. Hmm.
We love that you are contributing poems to this space. Please also write a brief message to 3 other poets, too. This way we reciprocate the writing and reading from various perspectives.
You are still in Hawaii, yes?
Aloha, yes, still home on Kaua’i . Kala mai, I was only responding to one other…I will up my game!
Jonathon,
Your first stanza really captures a curiosity and interest in something discovered. The description of the signature feels like a big moment.
Melissa, thank you for this prompt. I loved the persona in “Boy in Gold” and the language of “golden moments in my life stitched with precision.”
The Prisoners
Sure, Michelangelo’s David was, as my friend said,
“a sight to behold”
But I fought the current of the crowd to revisit
“The Prisoners,”
the unfinished sculptures in the grand hallway
While their cross-hatched torsos and blocky hands
seemed curated to reveal
David’s smooth splendor,
I reveled in their roughness
Rick Steves told me that Michelangelo saw himself
freeing God’s vision from the marble stone–
that the figure waited inside
to be freed
Isn’t there some comfort in our wholeness
underneath,
revealed day by day through life’s chisel?
Brenna,
I like how you transformed the legend of Michelangelo
into a metaphor about us.
Beautiful!
You reminded me of all the transitions one goes through to achieve perfection with the unfinished sculptures. Your last stanza says it all. There is so much to be found beneath the surface.
Brenna, I’m glad you “fought the current of the crowd to revisit / ‘The Prisoners'”! I love your ending, the appreciation and acknowledging of the “wholeness / underneath.” Thank you for this!
Oh, yes, Brenna, there is some comfort in that “wholeness underneath, revealed day by day through life’s chisel” Wow, breathtaking beauty in your words.
“Leroy,
LEE roy,
LEROY!
Why did you,
when I expressly
asked you not to, why
would you line up them
damn dolls in the window
again? I’ve ‘bout had my fill
of Chucky and his ilk, they
gave little Nettie the heebie-
jeebies and I wanted a quiet
trip to the dump to get rid of
‘em, but you had to line ‘em
up in the back for all the
world to see; people
are honkin’, Leroy,
and takin’ pictures,
and you’re just
lovin’ it, sittin’
there with your
‘Kiss My Bass’
hat on. Unbelievable.
It’s just too much.”
____________________________________________
Thank you, Melissa, for your prompt and your mentor poems today! I love the lines “the golden moments in my life / stitched with precision / among intricate threads.” For my offering today, I couldn’t stop thinking of the picture that Wendy posted the day before yesterday for Sarah’s opening day prompt. I just couldn’t stop wondering about why this guy would have a car load of scary dolls, until I realized they were a misguided attempt to cheer up his granddaughter – Annette – who was suffering from the croup. He found a bunch of dolls – whoever heard of this movie Child’s Play, anyway? And isn’t one doll the same as any other doll? – at an estate sale and brought them to his son’s place, hoping to cheer up his granddaughter. The granddaughter was not, in fact, cheered up by the horrific dolls. So, thanks for that Wendy!
Scott,
Your dialogue, or rather monologue, is on point.
You hooked me in with this crescendo of repetition. Someone’s in trouble!
Scott,
So, of course, I scrolled through all of day 1 to find the picture on Wendy’s post and, LMAO! I had the heebie-jeebies after seeing those dolls, and, like you, I can’t imagine how anyone, Leroy included, would think that was a good idea!
After reading your poem, I had to go back to day one to find the image. Your words. That picture. Twins. Perfection.
Scott, so funny! Oh, my gosh, you took that photo for a ride in this poem. You even noticed his “Kiss my Bass” hat. So funny. I’m glad you wrote the commentary, as I had missed Wendy’s photo. So good.
Melissa,
Thanks for hosting and prompting.
I love these lines
You’ve captured so well how art helps us to see beauty in our own lives.
—————————————————————————————————————
Rothko’s Rectangles
Rothko’s rectangles
Turrell’s skyspaces
Views into the void
Slow looking
Joy
—————————————————————————————————-
Here are some photos I’ve taken of a Rothko and a Turrell,
Sharon, I was taken with the possessives in the poem contrasted with the alliteration of the more general “views into the void.” The last line “joy” made me slow down and take it all in several times. Thanks for sharing your poem.
Sharon, “Views into the void” sound haunting to me. I am always trying to see more than eye meets, so joy might be it.
Sharon, cool paintings those Rothkos and Turrells. Wow. “Slow looking” and “Joy” are great endings!
Hello, Thanks for the interesting prompt today. I love the way you transformed the poppies into lanterns floating into the sky! Such a cool image.
“Humay Meets Humayun”
She came to him in a dream and charmed his heart.
Humayun’s beauty was unlike any Prince Humay had ever seen.
They agreed to meet in the garden, framed by a cherry-red fence,
Gilded lion’s heads sat atop each post, protecting the young lovers.
The sliver of glowing moonlight floated in a sea of stars.
Her silk dress a mirror image of the pink, white, and burgundy petals.
In that garden, their love became immutable,
like the blossoms that return each spring.
I liked this imagery in your poem. “The sliver of glowing moonlight floated in a sea of stars.” Thank you for sharing.
Shaun, the images that pop out for me are in line four suggesting the layers of real imagined protection in the fence. How often we fence ourselves in for protection! Thanks for the fresh picture you painted with words.
Shaun, what a beautiful piece of art and beautiful words to go with it. I loved the verb “framed” by a cherry-red fence, especially alongside the art prompt and the visual elements alongside the word. The last two lines are perfect–“immutable” and the blossoms returning each spring: so hopeful. Thanks for sharing; I really appreciated this experience.
I love the prompt, Melissa. Thank you.
I chose a painting I came across in college in art appreciation class.
The burn feels different
whether passerby or participant
the crackle in your ears
The charred, sour aroma inviting itself through your nose
the heat’s unwelcome blanket singeing the tips of exposed hairs
but what a beautiful sight
o the colors; the wood, plastic, various insulations reveal under combustion
as the wind stokes the fire and the flames
pushes them on
then quietly after fully extinguishing
the wind carries the mentions and memories off toward the past
you don’t know what you got til its gone
and you hope it’s not you
but what if it is? what if it is?
the conflagration permanently altering your life
what next?
What a gorgeous poem and painting!
The elemental aspects offer a layered vivaciousness making the readers feel a sense of nostalgia as well as gratitude.
You created a beautiful poem. I felt so much emotion as I read your poem. “the wind carries the mentions and memories off toward the past…and hope it’s not you but what if it is? Thank you!
It’s amazing, Luke, how painting can look scary and welcoming at the same time! This painting is especially scary as we’ve heard if nearby tornado and thunderstorms that often set houses in fire! On the other hand, the cool green grass looks like a welcome place to walk after the lands been watered by the rains.
Thanks for sharing the powerful poem about that picture!
Your line beginning with the transition. ”Then”reminds us that trouble don’t last always.
What an interesting contrast in this piece between the concrete smells and sounds in the first stanza–“crackle… charred, sour…” alongside the rhetorical questions and abstract elements in the second stanza. I love the tension between the beauty and the fear/sadness created by the fire in the painting.
Luke,
The painting that you chose is stunning. Your imagery in the poem is so visceral and the tension that you create between the beauty of the scene with the horror that unfolds within it is palpable—“you hope it’s not you/ but what if it is?” is chilling.
Oh, I love ekphrasis! I do it every year with my students.
My chosen image is one that completely cracked me up yesterday…I decided to leave the text with it because it is SO true.
Adulting
His bemused expression,
little paws held uncertainty
in a protective stance
contrasts the festive, multicolored
hat, propeller spinning aimlessly.
He knows he must have
done something
to find himself in this chair,
but he has no clue
what,
or how to extricate himself.
Ingenious little guy,
he’ll likely find a way.
Perhaps an adultier adult
will come to the rescue.
Julie, I feel this one in my bones today! I love the adultier adult at the end- please send one this way if you find one!
This was the chuckle I needed, Julie. Really well done.
Ha! This is great! I sometimes wish I could find an “adultier adult” to take my place at times. Being an adult can be so exhausting.
Julie,
Love this! I keep looking around for the adultier adults to show up and they never come!
Halo halo (mix mix)
In tropical Philippines
enveloped by humidity
refreshing dessert
a key to survival.
With ube ice cream
sweetened beans and fruit
atop shaved ice and milk
restraint is needed.
Necessary, but unhealthy
to have daily.
Striking image to use! You captured it’s tempting ingredients here!
Cayetana, I love how you set the stage in your first stanza, then dove right in in the second. Great picture, too.
A delicious poem and photo! You have me craving this dessert.
Oh, I don’t think I would have any restraint if this was in the room. I loved the colors in the photo and how you described this delectable dessert in your poem.
Cayetana,
These lines made my mouth water:
And these made me laugh:
Thanks for these feast for our eyes.
Poster by Mike Smith
a magical jaunt by an unlikely twosome
little Wide-Eyed Bird, so at ease
perched upon Robust Elephant
carefully making their way through
a floral forest in rose, yellow, blue, and green
together they wander in watercolor whimsy
—
Thank you, Melissa! Great fun to pause and think about art.
Ooh! A magical jaunt is a perfect description, Maureen. And a robust elephant to boot. Love it.
Maureen, your poem is delightful. I especially love the feeling this line brings “together they wander in watercolor whimsy.”
Ooh! I love this pairing of the painting and poem. Captivating and fun!
I loved “water color whimsy.” You captured this piece so well in your poem.
Maureen — I like the whimsy of this one…the “magical jaunt”… I love the birdie tagging along with the elephant… just delightful and fun. Susie
Maureen,
What a perfect description of this painting! I love wide-eyed bird and robust elephant, and I especially love ‘watercolor whimsy”!
Time is very tight today. Thank you, Melissa for today’s prompt. Gayle’s lovely poem inspired me to write a letter poem. When I have time, I plan to work on it a bit more.
Dear E,
I cherish
the picture
you drew of me
and keep close
where I can see it
every day.
I like to imagine
your tiny hands
(age three or four)
carefully guiding
a red crayon
to form heart-shaped lips
filled with happiness.
The day you gave it to me,
you said, “This is you, Grandma.
See how pretty you look?”
You were so proud.
I was too.
A few weeks ago,
you turned sixteen.
I wonder how
you see me now.
Sweet!
I love being a grandma, my grandson is four and I often wonder what he will think of me in the future. I love this look back on the past and that you keep this portrait of you close by. I love everything about this picture–the heels, the dancing feet, the flower, the hair bow, the heart, the possible windmill (?)–I hope you share your poem with your grandchild and they treasure it the way you treasure their artwork.
The most precious art!
Tender and sweet. Nice poem Linda. The last stanza ends it wonderfully.
“I wonder how you see me now?” was a strong and perfect way to end this poem. I can only imagine that your granddaughter admires you even more now.
This is a cherished moment! Such a pretty picture she drew of you. She probably would be proud that you have framed and kept it even though she is sixteen.
Nice to meet you, Melissa. Thanks for today’s prompt.
Reminder for an Exile
Recordatorio Para Un Exiled – 1989
Alfredo Castenaga
Adrift in a sea of blue,
rocked by the water,
exiled and stranded
on a familiar bed.
Incapable
staring
wide eyed
worried
dreaming of a lost soul
hanging upside down.
Her mouth unable to remind you
of something important.
This idea of hanging upside down,
are a chilling echo of what so many immigrants experience. Incredible art, beautiful poem.
I liked the imagery of “exiled and stranded on a familiar bed.”
Susan, I love this! That ending is heartbreaking: “Her mouth unable to remind you / of something important.”
STANDING ON THE PRECIPICE
It took 250 years
to stand at the precipice.
It’s a long way
down;
hitting bottom
won’t take us long,
just a screaming plunge
into the darkness
of an illegitimate war
slaughtering…
170 killed, mostly little kids,
Shajareh Tayyebeh girls’ elementary school;
raining hell
on a country
rich in oil;
war for oil,
war for greed,
war for hubris;
war for naught.
We stand alone now,
no allies,
trust destroyed,
globally loathed,
as the emperors, unclothed,
run amok in Washington,
in Kiryat Ben Gurion,
while the marionette
pulls the trigger,
from the golf course —
incapable of remorse.
Is there another route,
a new direction to configure?
Even decades
won’t erase the doubt.
Let it be
that I stood
on the other side
of the abyss
ready to climb,
scramble through the debris
that was my country;
let it be
that my voice was clear:
rise against this madness,
cut the puppet-masters’ strings,
defend the children,
the teachers,
the immigrants who built
our cities, our railroads,
our highways,
churches, schools,
worked our fields,
assembled our tools,
cared for children,
served our country,
in the name of community
freedom,
democracy.
Let it be
we the people.
by Susie Morice© April 3, 2026
Your poem expressed so clearly what I have been feeling so deeply lately, I am so filled by every element in your poem that I am in a constant state of wanting to start a revolution. Thank you for saying all of the things I am feeling.
Powerful poem, Susie. Your poetic interpretation of the artwork takes us front and center to where we are now – and yes,
Susie- your poem has such a powerful message and call to action. Well done!
Susie, brilliant poem. I love the way you connect the art with our country’s horrific landslide because of a puppet master’s greed. Your voice is clear and I love the way you show the injustices occurring especially to the people who have done so much to build this country. I, too, want to rise up against the madness. From the opening lines to the closing ones, I feel the pain. Powerful, compelling poem, Susie! Did you paint the picture?
Yes, a watercolor… I’m enjoying a lot of watercolor painting these days.
It’s fantastic!
Susie,
You know I’m right there w/ you. The visual of your poem creates a precipice up top w/ a plunge to the bottom, which we’re scraping. Takes longer to climb to the top than to plunge to the bottom So many have followed this evil pied piper of dumbfuckery. Makes me so mad! I just saw a list of all he wants to cut to pay for his good for nothing war. Forget “provide for the general welfare” He’s only interested in warfare. Forget “Insure domestic tranquility,” Forget “We the people.” Keep sounding the alarm. We need all the Cassandra’s we can get.
Wow! Your poem brought a tear to my eye when reminded of the ravine our democracy is falling into. I love the analogy to puppet master and puppet strings. Didn’t Rome only last 200 years? Sigh!
Susie, there is so, so much to love about your words today, from the screaming plunge after 250 years to the marionette pulling the trigger. I am standing on the other side of the abyss with you – you are not alone. I imagine there are legions of us willing to climb. I hear Carl Sandburg’s Chicago in the stanza that begins “rise against the madness” in the cumulative listing, the working and ruggedness. Let it be.
Oh. Susie, each word cuts through as a blade revealing fested wounds. We need a surgery, an urgent one, so it’s possible to be “we the people” again. Thank you for such a brave poem!
Susie,
An incredible talent for words and art. I am speechless— this is brilliant!
Susie,
I’m amazed by your painting and by the narrative poem you’ve attached to it.
Hear, hear!
Mother Dear
My dad drove the ten hours
from Cleveland, Ohio to Birmingham, Alabama
ferrying me, his firstborn daughter,
to be held by his Mother Dear.
By the time my grandmother held me,
she’d held her fair share of babies,
seven sons & seven daughters worth,
(eight of the 14 having arrived in pairs)
her experienced hands, protective and steady.
My grandmother covered her daily chore attire
with her favorite striped duster, and chose the floral
background of the living room drapes for our timeless photo-op.
My grandmother, having just turned 50, (not looking a day over 30)
and me, just six months into my journey, staring hard into the future,
neither knowing we would get to have the next 42 years together.
Nellie Mae Willis (May 1, 1919–August 10, 2010)
Tracei- Wow! I love everything about your poem. It feels like the beginning of a collection of memoir poems!
Oh this is so beautiful! That final sentiment – having the next 42 years together – makes my eyes misty with love. I really enjoy these words,
“and chose the floral
background of the living room drapes…”
I (a grandmother) was transported into the room, feeling your dear grandmother’s excitement at meeting precious you and wanting the moment to be so perfect.
Tracei, I can imagine the love and pride your father had in taking the ten hours to ferry you to his mother.I love that stanza of her holding all those babies (and eight in pairs – phew!). I’m so glad you had 42 years of togetherness. There’s a beautiful relationship between grandmothers and granddaughters.
Tracei — This is precious. I love both the photo and the reverent words of caring and love. Gee… even driving 10 hours with the little baby to provide that first grandma hold… makes me wonder what it would have been like to have a grandparent (mine died before I was born except for a crabby old grandmother who had NONE of your grandma’s “steady” and “protective” hands. The “favorite striped duster”… even “duster” is a special word choice… bringing back those old days. I really love this poem and the the warmth it brings… so poignant and dear. Thank you. Susie
Tracei,
I love how she is holding you and these lines
Tulips Signal Spring
Collected in a vase
Reds, white tipped with colors
These are just the start.
Red for love and romance;
White for innocence, respect, forgiveness.
Add some
Yellow for happiness;
Pink for well-wishes;
Orange for energy, enthusiasm;
Purple for admiration, elegance.
Whatever the color
they signal spring,
my favorite season,
my favorite flower.
©️Jennifer Kowaczek April 2026
Art work: Vase of Tulips (1885) Claude Monet
Thank you, Melissa, for today’s prompt. I never took Art 101 in college (I chose Art 101.01 — Art for elementary education so while I was painting color wheels and weaving paper, my friends were memorizing artists and the history of their works).
Ekphrasis poetry helps me learn some of that missed history.
Wonderful to imagine all the beautiful meanings behind each color…and the joy that spring brings.
Poems about spring make me happy! Unfortunately, it snowed yesterday in Utah. Your poem give me hope that I will see the tulips in my flowerbeds soon.
It was difficult to choose art today because I have so much saved on my phone. I settled on a piece I saw a few years ago that would allow me to give a surprise to the reader. But I have some other pictures I found that make me think they will deserve a poem in the future.
Cochlear Implant
In the heart of Citygarden
downtown St. Louis
a short walk from the arch
is a head.
I found it on a Covid vacation
when outside was the place to be.
I’ve always been fascinated by sculptures.
I only learned today it has a twin
in Krakow, Poland
where by some strange coincidence
I’m planning a summer trip.
You can walk inside
Eros Bendato
and knock around in the noggin,
which I did,
peering out through the eyes and
running my hands along the metal.
But only because I knew a secret.
A geocacher’s delight,
hidden aelhcoc eht raen.
CHERI — How fun… I’m from STL and City Garden …how great that you found a twin in Poland! I didn’t even realize that either.. I love your poem… the “geocacher’s delight” and a little memory of home. I live now in Minneapolis. Perfect title. LOL! Susie
This is great fun! I would love to see and explore this. I really smiled at
Geocaching! I did the same during COVID. What fun and your poem expressed the adventure of discovery. I idea like the idea of knocking around inside a head.
Cheri—I love the sculpture, love the poem, but I LOVE the last line trick you pulled on me. Now I want to go there!
Oh, a fellow geocacher here! Now I never did see this head when I was in St. Louis, but I was there such a short time. This made me chuckle:
You can walk inside
Eros Bendato
and knock around in the noggin,
and I wonder – – will you also go into the cranium in Krakow??
Hello, Melissa. Thank you so much for hosting today and sharing your wonderful ekphrastic poems. Last summer I enjoyed viewing Raqib Shaw’s Paradise Lost at the Art Institute of Chicago. Here’s a link about his work: Raqib Shaw: Paradise Lost | The Art Institute of Chicago. The photo is one I took while visiting. His mural is impressive and difficult to capture in a single photograph.
Let Me Fly like a Jeweled Dragonfly
After Paradise Lost by Raqib Shaw
It’s difficult to balance
my love for you between the impressionists and
the sculptures on floor two
when I’m mesmerized by watercolors,
an artist’s self-portrait,
gold monkeys flying into turquoise skies.
Please don’t ask me anything here−
I’m not leaving you now,
I’m not leaving you ever, just
let me drown in a pool of oil to savor
shadows and light, each brush stroke,
shade and hue.
Let me be a jeweled dragonfly,
flirting with emerald creatures
beneath a saffron sun,
surprised by prying eyes,
so, I can lose myself inside a mystical
world full of brilliance and magic.
Barb Edler
3 April 2026
My photo is too large to attach.
Trying again after resizing.
Barbara,
This poem is fabulous and I love the exquisite details you’ve used for imagery. I too love the third stanza but the entire pairing of the art from start to finish is sensational.
Barb, your poem captures the mesmerizing nature of the painting. The third stanza stole my heart with jeweled dragonfly, emerald creatures, and a saffron sun – stunning imagery!
Barb,
Gorgeous poem. Gorgeous art. The line
“let me drown in a pool of oil to savor
shadows and light,”
creates a mesmerizing metaphor, a juxtaposition of to incongruous things: oil and dragonfly. The way one comments on the other is stunning. I so appreciate the way your poem invites readers to look, wander, linger, and remember, even after walking away. We will be true to the art and artist.
Barb — A brilliant sense of otherwordliness… I love the “drown in a pool of oil….” so rich…downright gooey. Yea! I love the image as well as the focus to “be a jeweled dragonfly.” The Chicago Art Institute is truly a fantastic place to wile away hours and hours. I took a train to Chicago in a winter snowstorm years ago…just to go to the CAI… it was worth every moment of the snowbound train through northern Illinois. You poem is too! Love it. Susie
Your beautiful poem about this incredible art is filled with magic. These lines reminded me of how captivating art can be, how we cannot move away from some pieces:
I would love to see this mural.
l love the descriptive language—that last stanza—wow!— but I think my favorite line is in the second stanza
“Please don’t ask me anything here−
I’m not leaving you now,
I’m not leaving you ever, just”
I can feel your emotions here…
Barb, your desire to drown in the pool of oil and savor shadow and light is mesmerizing and completely captures what it is to fall in thrall with the brilliance and magic of the artist. These words serve to share your emotion so clearly. Your photo is lovely too.
Barb, I’m always taken aback by the poetry that you share. I can see in the poem how the photo may bee to large to attach – – the magnificence that led to this poem must be noteworthy – – and then you managed to get it resized so we could see it. What strikes me is that in reading this, if I hadn’t known the painting was the inspiration, I would love it as much still. I could get lost in these lines, especially the final stanza.
I have a painting of two dragons hanging over my fireplace: A big red one and a smaller purple one who is burning the big red dragon’s backside while the big dragon looks upset and rubs at the spot. I will try to attach a picture if my tech skills are up to snuff. For the poem, know that my dad painted it when I was two, and it was my favorite piece of art hanging in our home (still is).
“Hey, you big lug– MOVE! I can’t see!”
Red dragon stays motionless.
“I said MOVE!!!”
Red dragon looks around– was someone speaking?
“Okay, fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you . . .”
Red dragon– Do I smell something burning? Ow!
My dad painted this when I was two.
I think he was in a community art class,
Something to do to counterbalance his engineering day job.
Dad always had a pocket protector and pens in his shirt pocket.
You wouldn’t think he was funny, because he wasn’t the guy who cracked jokes
At least not around people he didn’t know.
Some of his other paintings hung around the house:
A ballerina in a purple tutu
A landscape of aspens
Some sort of windswept island with pine trees on it
They were okay, but the dragons were my favorite.
I don’t know landscape painter dad: he seems too serious.
The dragons show my playful dad,
The one who sketched on the church bulletin to help us stay quiet when we got bored
The one who wanted to be an artist but chose a dependable career for his family.
When we went through the house after Dad’s death,
I didn’t want the landscapes.
I chose the dragons.
Always choose the dragons.
Sheila, I adore your last line and the painting. What a wonderful tribute to your father and who he was. Your opening dialogue completely pulled me into your poem. Lovely!
Sheila, thank you for sharing your Dad and his painting with us. Such a great way to pay him a tribute in a poem–keep choosing the dragons.
So neat, Sheila! I love this tribute to your dad & how much it shows his personality (and yours).
Your dad was very creative and had a sense of humor. I don’t blame you for choosing to save the dragons.
Shiela— I agree with your last line. Always go with the dragon! I feel as if you have offered a loving window into your relationship with your father. Loving and so lovely!
Art was not a big part of my life until last year. I visited MOMA and The Met for the first time. It opened up a new world to me. Since then, I have been visiting smaller art museums near where I live in upstate NY. I visited AKG in Buffalo about a month ago. The painting, Dynamism of a Dog on a Leash by Giacomo Balla caught my attention there and it is now a favorite of mine.
Joyous Walk
Quick, quick, quick, quick
short legs hustle to keep pace
Quick, quick, quick, quick
kinetic energy oscillates the metallic beaded leash
Quick, quick, quick, quick
ears bounce picking up sounds humans can’t detect
Quick, quick, quick, quick
black tail happily wigwags left to right
Quick, quick, quick, quick
Relish the joy of the outdoor world
Great poem for a great image! The dog kind of looks like a slinky. I love the repetition of quick– it moves my eye quickly through the poem, just like the dog is moving.
Cmhutter, I love the energy of your poem and the active verbs, hustle, oscillates, and wigwags are all fun. Your last line says it all! Fun poem!
I know this painting! I love it and your description is perfect.
Hi, Melissa, thank you for hosting today, your beautiful paintings and poems. Last summer we went to Paris, and I took several pictures that captured my attention. The painting I keep in mind is most likely by a Dutch painter Aelbert Cuyp (I couldn’t find the picture of a name tag).
Almost Home
While hundreds of hungry eyes
crowd around the Mona Lisa,
I am drawn elsewhere,
to a pastoral scene.
It’s simple.
Warm, golden light
rests on the cattle,
on the grass,
on the clouds.
There is no rush in it.
Just a calm rural view
of a quiet field,
life moving slowly,
the kind of place
that lets me stop and breathe.
I stand there longer than expected.
It reminds me
of home,
of open meadows,
of a soft harmony
between people and land
I still miss.
I love the line “that lets me stop and breathe.” Your poem does that, as does the beautiful painting that is its subject.
Leilya, you’ve pulled every one of my heartstrings in your poem today. I love this narrative and how you capture the peacefulness of the art and how it reminds me of the people and land you miss. Gorgeous and poignant poem!
Leilya — I love this painting… and I love that you opted for it as a respite from the hubbub around Mona. While I loved Mona, I totally love that painting of a pastoral scene took you to your long missed homeland. Alas… oh for a moment to be “beamed up” to sit there in the shade. Cool! Susie
Lielyak—I think my shoulders relaxed as I read your peaceful poem. Thank you!
Leilya,
I love all the elements and softness within this poem. I especially love the title that gives the reader a clue from the get-go. You really have a way with words. Beautiful!
I can see this – – the crowd gathers around a popular masterpiece, but yours travel to the one that speaks to you and calls you home. Fabulous imagery there in the gallery. And in the art too.
Leilya,
I feel this:
Thank for slowing us down.
I love your ending.
I love how art appeals to people in different ways! And I love how you share that you were more drawn to this piece than the Mona Lisa due to the emotion in evokes.
Thank you, Melissa for the art inspiration and poetry. I selected a public sculpture entitled, “Pacific Soul” by Jaume Plena.
Pacific Soul
The conditional…
What problems are we holding onto?
posing centered in art and creativity
white, innocent, whimsical, metallic
juggling our chatter and chaos
covering and uncovering
contemplating the intricate patterns
refraining, resisting, restoring
balancing complexities with moments of joy
Almost in a nirvana like pose
trying to instruct myself on not giving up…
out of which limb will you grow?
criss-crossing circuits
exploring intersections
uncovering the ugly truths
it’s hard to be excited about things
not the same way I used to be
losing hope in the climate chaos
summoning the dreamlike memory
the Pacific inviting vastness
splendor, diversity, beauty, playfulness
restoring the hidden fire
composing meaning
intimating a simpler life
drinking the light
spending time in the mystical hotspot
holding hope
transcending time
Pacific Soul by Jaume Plena
San Diego, California (Public Sculpture)
Darshna, I love how your poem shares our country’s ugly truths and climate chaos and how you try to pull in the beauty of the Pacific to help balance yourself. It is hard to get excited about things, but I love how your poem shows the importance of trying to visual nature’s and art’s beauty. What a magnificent sculpture, too!
Thank you, Barbara. I appreciate your connections and comments.
Thank you for your poem, Darshna! What I noticed is how the speaker in the beginning is a collective or communal “we” who witness societal and climate changes. Somewhere around midpoint, the speaker shift to “I” signals an inward turn trying to further pinder the problems. The speaker seem not to find any resolution, but also not to give in. There is a hint of hope, which is promising in the final lines.
Thank you, Leilya. I think you sensed my ambivalence.
Open the Door
Open the door.
Let the light in.
It’s been dark for so long
that you may need to shield your eyes
for just a moment.
But the day is bright with hope
and together
we can work
to bring kindness and caring
back to our country.
Diane,
This feels so grounded in invitation and care—I love how gently you guide the reader from darkness toward something shared. There’s a quiet unfolding here, and the pacing really lets each line breathe.
That line “It’s been dark for so long / that you may need to shield your eyes” really stayed with me—I can feel that moment of adjustment so clearly.
There’s something hopeful and collective in the ending that lingers in a steady way.
Sarah
Diane,
I love the message and depth of your poem. The last two lines particularly resonate.
I needed this poem today. Thank you! Love those last three lines!
I needed the hope in your poem. The line about you may need to shield your eyes for just moment- rings so true- as well as all of us being the light.
What a beautiful invitation to a new hope by stepping outside, Diane! Love finding hope “to bring kindness and caring / back to our country.” Love the picture!
Diane — Yes YES YES! We need light sooooo badly. I so appreciate the sense of “hope/and together/we can work…” I need this. I need this country to “bring kindness and caring/back.” Thank you, Susie
Diane…I so hope your poem is a harbinger of the near future. Thank you!
Diane, I’m with everyone else here: I love the “bright[ness] and hope” of your poem (and the painting) and I’m ready for the door to be open! Thank you for writing and sharing this!
Melissa, I, too, am from an artistic family. I am posting a photo of one of my father’s drawings. Today I led a Good Friday meditation at our church. My friend Carolyn played the singing bowls and in the midst of it, the lawn motor started up. At first I was angry. Then I let the whole experience inform my poem. Thanks for this wonderful prompt that gave me the space I needed to embrace the present moment.
Lazarus
Gestures weave
strips of burial cloth
cross-hatching
of sounds
violent and soothing
like a balm
on the day of death.
Jesus wept.
Jesus weeps with me
in joy and sorrow,
frustration and calm.
Our cries do not
go unnoticed.
We tear off
the garment
binding us to darkness
and enter into the Easter
of light eternal.
Margaret Simon, draft
Margaret,
I love how you let the lived moment shape this—the movement from disruption to presence feels so honest and earned. There’s a weaving here, both in image and sound, that really carries the poem. That opening image “Gestures weave / strips of burial cloth” stayed with me—there’s something so tactile and layered in that. And the turn into “Jesus wept.” followed by “Jesus weeps with me” feels deeply grounding, like the poem opens outward and inward at once.
Sarah
Margaret, this is such a heartfelt poem. The last stanza brought tears to my eyes. So beautiful.
Margaret,this is what the poets do–they embrace the moment and let it guide the pen. “Our cries do not go unnoticed” feels so relevant today. Love your father’s drawing.
Love how you used the shortest verse in the Bible for the greatest effect here – – and remind us that he still weeps with us in our sorrow. It’s a reminder we all need in these days.
so dang powerful.
I recently put a new piece of Easter artwork in my home – “Palm Sunday” by Paige Payne. I was drawn to two elements of the painting, so I wrote two separate poems.
Meek and Lowly
a donkey carried you once before
as a babe inside your mother
you journeyed to a stable in Bethlehem
and now at the end of things
you remind us who you are
and who you came for
Reaching
to be close to this man
to touch just his clothes,
his sandal, his steed
would be a boon –
yet even so, I am
touched by his light.
Lovely poems. I especially felt your last poem. I, too, long to embrace the Savior. Thanks for sharing.
Rachel,
In the first, that line “a donkey carried you once before / as a babe inside your mother” really stayed with me—there’s something cyclical there that feels both tender and grounding. And in the second, I’m drawn to “to touch just his clothes, / his sandal, his steed”—the reaching feels so human, so immediate. It captures that desire for closeness in a really accessible way. Both pieces feel gentle in their approach, and I appreciate how they let the images do the work.
Sarah
So beautiful. I love how you wove in the story of the woman with an issue of blood reaching up to touch the hem of Jesus’ garment.
I have heard the Christmas story and Easter one many times in my life but you made a new connection between them for me- the donkey that carried Jesus in both. Thanks for opening my eyes to that. May you have a Happy Easter!
That’s a neat painting, Rachel, and I noticed his light in it more because of your second poem. I like how you speak of how the painting affects you–“reminds us…” and “I am touched” That’s what good art should do, I guess.
School of Athens
Muted pastels
Greek columns
Arches above tiles
Statues of gods
Old men and young
Bald and bearded and beardless
We love to discuss
Which philosopher is each figure
What did Raphael intend
Where did he insert himself or his rivals
One set of female eyes,
Looks right at me
Dares me to name her
Hypatia of Alexandria most likely
Although some say
That’s just a male youth
I know how it is to be the lone woman
Among male thinkers
I know her isolation
She knows mine
This is so neat. Your last 4 lines are gold!! “I know her isolation / She knows mine” – I’m sure many of us here have been there with the two of you.
I really liked
“I know how it is to be the lone woman
Among male thinkers
I know her isolation
She knows mine”
This grabbed me, “I know how it is to be the lone woman.” One of my daughters is a single mom and her success is astounding me. “I know her isolation. She knows mine.” Makes me wish I could be her solace, but there are some things we can’t control.
Kelley,
This one really stayed with me—there’s such a clear movement from observation into personal connection, and it feels so grounded and intentional. I love how the opening catalog builds the scene—”Muted pastels / Greek columns / Arches above tiles”—it situates us so fully before the turn.
Sarah
Oh, yes, Kelly, I love how you ignore “Although some say” in your own poem, and conclude with your connection with the lone woman–knowing each other in your isolation, makes for less isolation. A wonderful gift of art, isn’t it?
Yours are beautiful, Melissa. Nice prompt too. I love the description of poppies as lanterns.
Thank you! The picture I took of the Highland Poppies doesn’t do it justice. Also, the art entitled Boy in Gold is actually a tapestry. I was so intrigued by every stitch the artist made to create such a beautiful piece of art. I sent my poems to the artists and they both responded back. It was a cool connection.
Speck Image
A speck of eight billion,
one to a million.
Even more per dash,
never changing,
in turning ash.
Each a tone,
of all,
or all alone.
Either here,
Either gone.
Defining his face,
sporadically placed.
All parts, not erased,
a look of gracious grace,
Each speck makes
their own case.
Notwithstanding,
only death,
delivers understanding,
without breath.
Stone, Marble, Paint,
Kept, displayed,
for thieves and saints.
Controversial living,
an image,
repeatedly giving.
Calendar marks,
for Earth,
Decided upon his birth.
Some cannot conceive,
Some will not believe.
Yet, the days are checked,
with aging specks.
Though his image is a mere,
evermore,
to appear.
When the trumpets draw near,
and a few specks remain here.
In darkness is light,
in depression is might.
in fear is love,
in low there is above.
Ever changing specks,
holds his image, yet.
The good is Friday,
For us,
For his dieway,
offers trust.
Closed eyes
see him,
Open hearts,
be him.
Many draw him,
but not enough draw him.
A speck for the lost,
His image,
can also be a cross.
So beautiful for good Friday. Thank you for sharing this.
I wish I had this poem for my Good Friday meditation early this morning. You describe so well this time of contrasts, dark and light, joy and sorrow. “In depression is might” is my favorite line I want to hold on to.
I love the imagery of small dashes and specks that make up the art. Looking close has such a different viewpoint then stepping back. Thanks for sharing your poem. It’s such a great poem for this week.
Hi!
There’s something meditative in the repetition of “speck” here—it gives the poem a kind of steady rhythm that feels both expansive and intimate at once. Lines like “A speck of eight billion, / one to a million” really set that scale, while still returning us to the individual. I’m especially drawn to “Each speck makes / their own case,” which feels like a quiet acknowledgment of both agency and difference. There’s also a layering of contrast throughout—”in darkness is light, / in depression is might”—that builds toward that reflective, almost mantra-like quality. The ending, “Closed eyes / see him, / Open hearts, / be him,” lingers in a contemplative way.
I’m also noticing how this poem feels in conversation with several others here—thinking about image, belief, and how we locate ourselves within something larger—and I wonder what stood out to you in others’ pieces this week; I imagine they’d really value hearing your thoughts as well.
Sarah
Clayton, your rhyming is never forced. I enjoyed reading this one so much. Do you do a lot of read alouds of your poems. I feel they are like spoken word poems. Some favorites today:
and
Hi Melissa,
Thank you for today’s prompt and your beautiful poems. I love writing poetry about nature, however, I am not certain today will offer me free time to write. I’m attending a celebration of life for a dear friend who lost her 29-year old daughter. I don’t want to assume my spirit will give me space to write later, so I’m offering a previously written ekphrastic poem from March 2025.
I will come back this evening to respond if I am able. Otherwise, I’ll be back tomorrow. 🥰
If I Could Fly
Oh, if I could fly
Over Africa’s west coast
Free spirits would call
And I would answer
Motherland, I’ve made it home
Thank you for waiting
©Stacey L. Joy, 3/17/25
This is an art project I teach my students using Faith Ringgold’s book, Tar Beach. They create the image of a place they would want to fly over and then make a version of themselves flying over the place. This piece was not drawn by me, it’s my student’s work. I just stole it to write my poem.
What a fun assignment! I think I’ll have to do this one. Sending prayers your way as you attend the celebration of life. I hope you find some comfort.
I’m holding the weight of what you shared about today, showing up for a friend in that kind of grief takes so much care, and it makes sense that writing may or may not have space. Be gentle with yourself and know that you never owe us an explanation for writing or not writing, being here or taking space. Of course, we notice both and love you, but we never want this space to feel burdensome.
I’m really glad you shared this poem. There’s something so gentle and spacious in it, and I love how “Oh, if I could fly / Over Africa’s west coast” opens into that sense of longing and return. The line “Motherland, I’ve made it home” really stayed with me, it carries both belonging and release in such a simple, powerful way. There’s a calm, almost prayer-like quality here that lingers, especially in light of the moment you’re holding today.
Love this assignment.
Stacey, what a day for a celebration of life Jesus conquered death. Peace to you and your friend in this horrendous death though. It never makes sense. I’m so sorry for her loss. May she rest in peace.
Stacey, my deepest sympathies for your loss. What a tough day it is. I love this prompt you shared. I think I could use it with students. “Thank you for waiting” is a lovely line. Hugs.
Stacey, your poem completely captures the beauty of the art. I love the closing line since it shows the narrator has finally made it home. Gorgeous poem!
Stacey — Thinking of you out there flying and celebrating a life… you are dear. Love, Susie
Stacey, sending kind thoughts your way as you share grief with your dear friend’s family 🙏❤️ Your poem and the project gift your students with dreams and wings. Precious!
Stacey,
I love this poem, project, and student artwork too! Sending you hugs and prayers during this difficult time.
Stacey,
Even though it’s been over a year, I still remember your beautiful poem and your student’s joyful art.
I hope it provided you with some comfort during your grief. So sorry for your loss. It’s so hard to lose someone so young.
Sending peace and love.
Melissa, thank you for hosting us today. I always enjoy the reminder to look at an artwork and write a poem. Your examples are so good. I especially like the Boy in Gold and how it led you to deeper reflection. I chose a painting by an anonymous master in Italy. This Crucifixion painting is in the Louvre. Italie, École de Maître du Crucifix de Pesaro
Jesus’ Choice on this Good Day
The faithful women watch under the Cross.
Legions of angels abide alongside,
and wait for Jesus to give the word.
Vile religious and political leaders conspire
and soldiers will later guard the tomb
to protect against the Resurrection.
They don’t know what they don’t know,
and Death dies below them all.
Wow I don’t think I’ve ever seen this painting before – there is so much depth in it. Beautiful. I especially love your last 2 lines – “and Death dies below them all.”
This painting is new to me. Your description is full of power and grit. Well done.
Wow, “death dies below them all” is a powerful line!
Beautiful artwork and a beautiful poem. I love your line about “faithful women.” Despite a world in so much chaos, I feel comfort knowing that there are faithful women all over the world. Faithful women united can change the world.
Denise, what a perfect poem to celebrate today. I love your title and the last two lines are delivered perfectly. Somehow this time period feels very close to home these days. Powerful poem!
Such a powerful poem for this week. I am especially drawn to they don’t know what they don’t know.This makes me wonder about my own salvation and not knowing. Thank you for sharing.
Denise, that final line is mighty! So profound. The painting is gorgeous. Thank you!
They don’t know what they don’t know – – you so meaningfully bring Good Friday’s message. They know not what they don’t know and they know not what they do.
Denise,
while searching for a Christ-related piece of art, I came across this one and I was so intrigued. There are so many things to look at, but I oddly kept getting pulled back to Jesus’s paunch.
is super powerful.
Geometry
The hard lines and angles of life
obscure
frame
contrast
the moments of our existence
temperate metal
splintering wood
support structures for movement
for being for
standing
separate
apart from the wild-
life
ducks on the pond
trees mirrored on the lake
Why do cypress have knees
Nature does not exist in hard angles
and straight lines
the curve of the shoreline
only we cut it to fit our lives
instead of molding our lives
into the nature we are naturally
part
of
See the image that inspired this here
David,
I love the geometry in you poem and the contrast of angles and nature’s curves in the image. A strong volta is one of my favorite poetic moves, and you make that shift beautifully with “Why do cypress have knees.” Toward the end of the poem I had an epiphany: We gerrymander nature. And we do that to our peril.
Thank you so much for your kind words.
David,
What an exquisite picture and writing. I appreciate all the metaphors, imagery, textures, and tone. Feeling very contemplative after reading your poem. Thank you.
Thanks!
The thought of how we square off our lives and how we are missing out on the true bends of nature. I enjoyed how you blended these two concepts into a vision. I for one definitely want to curve into nature.
“curve into nature” sounds like a great plan for Spring Break, which started for me today.
David — I love the whole concept of this…nature…geometry… curved lines of the natural world. As I painted today, I thought about nature and no straight lines… even when we look at the horizon, it might look straight, yet there’s the curvature of the earth…. something sort of ethereal about all that. Your poem is a beautiful reminder about all dem rules and misperceptions.. Thank you. Susie
It harkens back to the art concept of geometric and organic figures/lines. It’s we humans who create all the geometric designs. They do have their own beauty too, though.
David, these words captured my attention: “Nature does not exist in hard angles
and straight lines.” We, people, sometimes just don’t get it, do we?
Obscure, frame, contrast…why do cypress have knees? I was drawn into the juxtaposition of human-made imposition and nature’s soft lines and I’m so glad that I clicked on the link and that image grabbed me by the eyes! Your poem and that image go together perfectly.
Thank you for this prompt, Melissa! My AP students have been analyzing bits of art that protests, so for today’s poem, I used the one we analyzed yesterday.
Inspired by “The Last Lockdown” by Manuel Oliver
The numbers are there,
you see them, right?
Carved in bronze, the light
Hits and those statistics are burned
Into our retinas: the fear, the happenings,
The little done. Yet, for some,
Numbers are an easier thing to forget,
So let’s shift the perspective,
Picture this instead:
A young arm clasping
a thin leg of wood
for some sort of
support
protection
stability
hope
the things someone should have provided
when they saw those numbers, not this
desk or
door or
closet.
Not the first time, not this time, not ever.
Those numbers escape us,
but how can we ignore this image of
the last?
Wow! The visual sensuality, details, and depth within this poem. They are compelling and brilliant.
Lots of favorite lines and imagery: “Hits and those statistics are burned
Into our retinas: the fear, the happenings” “Those numbers escape us,
but how can we ignore this image of
the last?”
Thanks for sharing.
Wow, Jordan. Your poem is amazing. I wasn’t familiar with this work, so I had to look it up. It’s astounding. Your poem honors this sculpture beautifully.
Oh my gosh, I read your poem once, and pictured something very different in my imagination. Then I went and found the bronze statue and realized what the numbers were and reread the poem to see the depth and truth. I love this, and think it should be read far and wide with a picture of the little boy clinging to the thin hope of “support / protection / stability” which should have come “when [we] saw those numbers” Bravo, Jordan.
Cachinnating Gulls on the Chabble
Laughing gulls gathered for tea –
a spot of fish and clam debris –
afloat on chabble of the sea.
one skreeched a joke and laughed “hee-hee”
and thus began the raucous spree –
a cachinnation jubilee –
that lasted until half past three.
And though I screamed, “Just let it be!”,
they felt no guilt at bothering me.
by Donna JT Smith ©2026
First of all, thank you for sending me to the dictionary for that delightful word! What a joy to see / hear this moment with you — and to marvel at your never-clunky, always-engaging meter & rhyme. Respect!
Oh this is joyful!! Your rhymes are perfect & help us hear those gulls. I love the image of them gathering for tea, it lasting “until half past three.” Thank you for sharing this!
Donna,
I really like the playfulness and rhyme in your poem. As with Joel, I learned a new word, always a plus.
Such a creative idea- gulls gathering for tea! The rhyme in the poem adds a joyfulness too.
What a delightful and fun poem! I also learned a new word, bonus! Lots of sound bytes and smiles.
New vocabulary word for the win! It’s so fun to say!
Donna — I’ll be darned…cachinnation…. what a great word. Absolutely not a word I have ever seen before… I love it. It is a word I will definitely be using… I’ll be chachinnating with all my friends about the word…. you won’t know me from the laughing gulls. Thank you! LOVE IT! Susie
Donna, I love this! I think I will remember cachinnate. The painting is so great too, and illustrates it well. Such fun rhymes. Amen to what Joel said about the meter and rhyme! 🙂
Emmy Destinn: The Famous Dramatic Soprano
Dear Emmy,
We found you at an auction,
tucked behind some awful art.
Now you hang on our family room wall,
Powerful, haughty.
Lovely.
Judging us.
I hear you in my mind,
a diva, a true prima donna.
Your vibrato resonates in the room.
The air shimmers around you.
.
Your impressive bust
heaves with power.
Emphatic hands punctuate the chorus.
The stage is dark
except for you.
But now you hang here,
on a wall, far from glory,
confined to an oaken frame
in a humble room.
Oh, Emmy…
GJ Sands
4-3-26
“The air shimmers around you.” I love this image!
Gayle, I love the story behind the art and how you capture its subject through the diction. Loved “Powerful, Lovely. /Judging us.” She does have an impressive bust and I can just hear her voice singing inside that humble room.
Gayle, your poem brought Emmy to life! I had never heard of her, but your words and the picture gave me a glimpse of who this powerful woman was. By the way, I love letter poems, and your ending adds such emotion!
Gayle — What a heck of a find at an auction. Your description of her hanging there with those bodacious tatas ready to belt out a killer soprano-ring song….well, that’s just perfect. Cool portrait and even cooler poem. Hugs, Susie
Gayle, what a great poem! I love its epistolary vibe. Your description captures the portrait’s tone. She does look haughty. That final “Oh, Emmy…” made me smile.
Gayle, I love the personality you’ve created for Emmy – the way she is “judging” her audience in that “humble” room. The confidence of the photo exudes from your beautiful and mysterious poem. I can almost hear her voice.
Thank you, Melissa, for this prompt, which always always love : ) As always, I post my writing here. Here’s today’s poem “A Day in the Life” & the attached photo of its inspiration.
Motherless, myopic boy
grown now into this calm face,
self-made world famous,
named before his friends
(John, Paul, George, Ringo),
the wittiest of the four,
the most colorful,
the one who chose love
bravely, publicly,
(freely, sloppily).
The kind of poster
college freshmen buy
in student union buildings.
Okay, the kind that this one
bought long long ago, seeing
a day in the life
of a man — not a “young man” —
no, just that: A man
chiaroscuro’d before
the psychedelic
tour he’d lead us on.
He’d never grow old.
I was just watching a YouTube on the Beatles, and more John specifically…it was great. I think I’ve linked it. It’s on the making of A Day in the Life.
Joel,
Fantastic poem celebrating the life of John Lennon. Love the direct address in the first verse and the change to third person. It’s appropriate. Wonderful that you mention the artist’s technique, “chiaroscuro’d” as it has a Freudian ego aesthetic to it that both magnifies and obscures the subject of the poster. So much symbolism in this shadows and light.
Ooh I didn’t know that about chiaroscuro, thanks! 🤔
I grew up listening to the Beatles. I also know random facts about the Beatles, thanks to my father. I like the creative way you added “A Day in the Life” song to your poem.
Joel,
I love the way this moves between observation and personal memory—it feels both reflective and quietly intimate. The opening portrait, “Motherless, myopic boy / grown now into this calm face,” really stayed with me, there’s something so tender in that framing of becoming. I’m also drawn to the layering of identity in “(John, Paul, George, Ringo),” and how you situate him among them while still setting him apart. That turn into the speaker’s own connection—”Okay, the kind that this one / bought long long ago”—adds such a human, grounded touch, like the poem gently steps into lived experience. And the ending, “He’d never grow old,” lands with that soft inevitability that lingers, especially after the build through image and memory.
Sarah
Thank you, Sarah, for your kind words here — and more important, for creating this brave & generous & artful space for us. Truly grateful : )
Joel — Oh…soooo cooooool. John was, indeed, a cut above the other three. So cool a picture “chiaoscuro’d before…” Wonderful poem that honors what a fabulous guy he was. I will have to share your poem with a friend of mine…she was always so “John forward”… LOL… he was gaga about him. Great offering here today! Susie
love being a part of the John-forward brigade! 👊🏼
Melissa, thanks for this opening to post a link to my book EXPERIENCE POEMS AND PICTURES Volume II, due out this Spring, that includes poems I’ve written here, artwork, and photos by Nancy White, Susan Osborn’s sister, one of our regulars here. AND, what makes this volume extra special is that the “Reflection Prompts” at the end of the book are in English, French, German, and Spanish, inviting students to “Enter Art” and write about it in a variety of languages and genres.
Experiencing Poems and Pictures
Writing about a picture
Has become a fixture
Since I learned about it at NCTE.
When NCTE was in Detroit in the nineties
I attended an outing with a friend
We strolled through the Detroit Institute of Art.
What I learned there never did depart.
Over the years, with students and friends,
And teachers, starting in San Diego, whenever we see art,
We pick up a pen and a colorful poem we start.
Plutarch was right about poems and pictures
Poems paint, and pictures speak.
It’s with words we show what gives us a peak
Into the artist and ourselves.
Writing about pictures is now a fixture!
And I’m glad for the time to join in!
With or without that friend.
First of all, you need to trademark “Plutarch was right” bumperstickers, t-shirts, etc. lol
Seriously, though, what a lovely & thoughtful tribute not just to what art can do, but what a community of wide-eyed seers & writers can do.
Thank you!
Anna,
I agree w/ Joel’s comment about “Plutarch was right.” My favorite line is “Poems paint, and pictures speak.” Rhetoric and the way we use rhetoric always fascinates me, and I see you’ve taken the opportunity with this prompt to market your book. 🤔
Thanks for your poem. And, I’m going to have to get your book!
Anna,
It has been 9 years writing here, right? And I see you have found writing/art partners within this group to make more poetry in the world beyond this space.
Your poem traces a long, lived relationship with writing and art—it feels like both a personal history and a tribute to shared practices. The lines “Writing about a picture / Has become a fixture” really anchor the piece, and I’m drawn to how that idea carries through time, from “NCTE… in the nineties” to the present moment of writing with others.
Sarah
My Life As Art
By Mo Daley 4-3-26
There is an art
to growing old.
I am still developing my art.
I get tremendous joy from watching the birds,
observing behaviors and identifying
a female pileated woodpecker.
I practice yoga,
stretching and bending so that
a fall won’t debilitate me.
Keeping a civil tongue in my mouth
is often the most difficult thing I do all day.
I’m about 75% sure I’m going to stop
coloring my hair- so scary!
I have lunch with “the girls”
every month.
I’m working on hydration.
I seek out awe.
I don’t know how the final canvas will turn out,
but I am relishing the chance to practice
the art of aging unapologetically.
Mo, this truly speaks to me today. I’m here with you in these lines especially.
Keeping a civil tongue in my mouth
is often the most difficult thing I do all day.
I’m about 75% sure I’m going to stop
coloring my hair- so scary!
That civil tongue is an hourly challenge. I get it.
I so related to your poem! I loved how you related your life to art–especially the art of aging with grace. I’m trying to figure that out for myself, too.
Mo! Preach! “There is an art
to growing old.” And you have named so many specifics. Your poem is a palimpsest. We paint over our youth with time. I’m not good at “Keeping a civil tongue in my mouth.” I bought water in the airport an hour ago and was asked to “contribute to the military” at the checkout. I nearly lost my shit.
Painting and writing my picture every day new.
Mo, okay, I can relate to your poem on every level and especially the line, “I’m about 75% sure I’m going to stop
coloring my hair- so scary!” Love your closing line. It is something I need to read over and over again. Love everything about your poem!
I join you in developing this art. I love all of the parts of this art that you chronicle, from the birdwatching to the coloring of hair–both of which I am working to perfect! And I love your ending because aging is truly a privilege not granted to all.
Aw, Mo… what a perfect poem to write today. Yes, I will testify… you are ART. A true piece of work…LOL… no, seriously, you have handled this poem with such finesse… “developing my art” is such a good way to look at things at this point in life. I admire the “unapologetically”… hard to do that. I’m paying attention… I’m trying. Uffdah! Hugs, Susie
What an art you are practicing and perfecting! Love the specificity–the female pileated woodpecker, the civil tongue, the 75% sure… May we all age unapologetically and with intention.
Thanks for this prompt Melissa ~ ekphrasis poetry is one my favorite forms. Your Highland Poppies and Boy in Gold are themselves stitched with precision!
Seeing Silence
The name of the exhibit was Seeing Silence,
The Paintings of Helene Schjerfbeck,
a Finnish artist I’d not known before,
before she dropped into my mailbox,
before I studied her in books
and visited her at the Met.
Her muted colors, the soft pastels
and blurred lines speak to me
of loneliness and longing,
of memories fading just beyond our grasp
but her later paintings haunt me —
the hollowed eyes, the angular face,
the dark palette of a life closing.
I look away—
much easier to focus on the
on the small flowers in the box,
the Blue Anemones in a Chip Basket
painted when you were younger,
reminding me of the afternoon
my father-in-law stopped to buy
a small basket of anemones
in the only shop that sold them—
Sandy loves these, he said,
on an afternoon when he was here
and Sandy was still waiting.
Ann, your poem took me on such an unexpected journey. That pivot line “I look away” works perfectly here. Your details, such as the blue anemones and chip basket are wonderful. Your ending works so well to tie the whole poem together.
I loved your shift from painter and paintings to a personal recollection. You captured the way the art led you to a heartfelt moment resting in your memory.
Ann,
I love the idea of “setting silence.” It evokes a feeling of isolation that insists on attention. Some of Helene Schjerfbeck’s paintings remind me of Edward Hopper’s work, but many show close-up images of faces as though the artist insists on making the viewer pay attention. It is easier to “focus on the flowers” than on people.
“look away” struck me. Sometimes I find myself looking away from the hard and only wanting to focus on the positive, simple, or innocent. I found comfort in your memories in the last stanza, but I feel like I need to go back and explore the hard more. Maybe I will find growth there in my own life. Thank you for sharing.
Ann,
This feels so attentive and layered. I love how it moves between encounter, study, and personal memory in a way that mirrors the act of ekphrasis itself. The opening “The name of the exhibit was Seeing Silence” draws me in right away, and I’m especially struck by “her later paintings haunt me — / the hollowed eyes, the angular face,” there’s something quietly unsettling there that really lingers. That pivot “I look away—” is so effective, creating space for the poem to turn, and the shift toward “the small flowers in the box” feels both tender and human, like a necessary refuge. The closing image, “Sandy loves these, he said,” carries such emotional weight, especially in that final line, it holds memory and absence together in a way that stays with me.
Sarah
Ghazal: Not Mine
I study the work from afar, tracing lines that are not mine
A screen between us—pattern, pigment, and time that are not mine
Kené unfolds in quiet repetitions I cannot hear—
Sound turned to image, medicine carried in forms that are not mine
She gathers color from earth I have not touched, not walked—
Leaf, root, and river made visible in ways that are not mine
In museums I have not entered, her work resists its framing—
Refusing to be artifact, refusing the gaze that makes it not mine
We share a name—Sara, Sarah—a fragile bridge of letters—
But language cannot carry me across what is not mine
What does it mean to feel kinship shaped only by coincidence?
To reach toward likeness while knowing the ground is not mine
Traveler, tourist—neither fits when I have not arrived—
Still I inherit the gaze, the distance, the question of what is not mine
I read, I write, I try to listen through absence—
Careful not to turn attention into claim on what is not mine
I sign my name at the edge of another’s knowing—
Ink touching the page, aware even this reflection is not mine
Sara Flores is the artist of this piece at the MAC in Lima
Sarah, you so beautifully captured the struggle between the viewer of art and the artist. The tension between the viewer and the artist is one of the most interesting parts of experiencing art. At its core, it’s a gap between intention and interpretation. Thank you for sharing your poem–which is a piece of art in its own right.
Oh Sarah, I have read and reread the lines. I love your cadence and rhythm. “I try to listen through absence;” I feel like I understand the exact feeling and it is a feeling that pervades my life. Isn’t that what poetry is meant to do at times- to reflect back to us what is ours all the while knowing it is yours too? Poetry is always mine and is never mine.
“We share a name—Sara, Sarah—a fragile bridge of letters—” I marveled at this line. A shared name is a bridge, perhaps, for kindred spirits. Thank you for sharing this poem.
Sarah, this is deeply touching, especially knowing your journey through the world and becoming a part of the immersive culture. I like this line especially
Traveler, tourist—neither fits when I have not arrived—
And your repetition “is not mine” is such a reminder that we all need – – we are only borrowing our space here, just renting space on this planet. For today.
I love this Sarah ~ this poem is as exquisite, perfectly balanced, capturing what it means to listen through absence, I love your fragile bridge of letters, your ability to recognize what is yours and what is not.
The ghazal is about the most challenging, if not the most challenging, of forms. I am in awe of this poem so masterfully crafted with weaving of you as well as the artwork.
Traveler, tourist—neither fits when I have not arrived—
Sarah, your thoughtful, reflective poem is layered and complex as the art. I love how you’ve formatted this poem and its cadence. I also really appreciated “She gathers color from earth I have not touched, not walked—”. I am particularly moved by the lines: “We share a name—Sara, Sarah—a fragile bridge of letters—
But language cannot carry me across what is not mine”. Both the narrator’s voice and active verbs create a compelling scene and resonates with the universal connections made between people and art.
Melissa,
Poetry inspired by art is such a great way to help writers continue to see poetry everywhere. I so admire what you are able to see in each piece of art that you wrote about.
Well, with it being Good Friday, I wanted to look at some art inspired by Christ’s death. There is an abundance. I landed on one of the most famous, The Pieta by Michelangelo.
Pieta
soft stone
weak strength
cradling in death
as in life.
~Susan Ahlbrand
3 April 2026
I love the paradoxes you present; they are piercing and have me thinking how much of experience is a coin with two opposing sides. Thank you.
Oh, Susan. Such economy of words here. I feel the solemnity. Your reverence.
I felt your words deeply, and it gave me a new found love and understanding for this sculpture. Thank you.
Thank you.
There is no finer piece of art anywhere, and to stand in its presence and behold this piece is powerfully emotional. I’m so glad you chose it today to be the center of this Good Friday. And the sparsity of words allows the art to speak louder than the poem, which is particularly effective here in this iconic sculpture.
Thank you Susan for this Good Friday meditation. Cradling in death as in life…beautiful.
When I saw the Pieta, I cried. That image guts me on this Good Friday. “Cradled in death as in life” seems impossible as a mother.
Thank you Melissa for such a fun prompt! I’m not an artist, nor do I have a lot of art right here where I sit – but I am a bit of a simple crafter, and this cross stitch sits next to me as I work, begging for attention between academic tasks. I was struck this morning by the process of making the art in everyone’s pictures, and wanted to deviate accordingly.
In Progress
Stitches come together
Victorian in nature
A girl reading her book, by the lake,
Swans drifting by, under the bridge.
I, too, am a work in progress.
I watch, and read, and listen –
The work of my life reveals itself
One color at a time.
Stitching is one of my favorite metaphors for understanding life. I love how it makes beautiful sense on one side, but is a tangled mess on the other. We are all a connected web of progress. Thank you so much for this sweet poem.
Sarah, I love this gentle reflection with yourself and often wonder how you are doing with the transition back to the classroom. How that rhythm with new perspective lives on you. This craft shows the threads of life that continue making.
Sarah
Cross stich is an art form that I have never been good at nor do I have the patience. I admire people who can do that. I loved how your poem expresses the importance of patience and time to create beauty with art and life.
Beautiful tapestry and lovely poem. I like the parallel you create between life and stitching.
I love Frida Kahlo so much, so this was such a fun chance to write about her work. Thank you!
the seasoned seductress knows
a bed can be anything
and she waits, a snare
even apex predators
experience the lush ache of lust
and our lady lingers
undaunted as desert flowers
that burst bright in a sandy sky
we wish to scale her
cling desperately to her golden roots
to be choked not out
but into our oblivion
Here is the painting; I think I must have a weird firewall.
Maybe?
Oh, that wish to scale her is brilliant.
I loved the image “to be choked not out but into our oblivion.”
Kasey,
I also love Frieda Kahlo’s work. Your phrasing throughout is brilliant. For example, “seasoned seductress,” “lush ache of lust.” I’m in awe of “to be choked not out
but into our oblivion”
I can’t help but think of the pain Kahlo experienced when seeing that image, the branches trapping her w/ tentacles. They remind me of nerves.
Kasey,
I love Frida also and your poem is gorgeous and powerful. Sometimes images don’t post if they aren’t compressed to jpeg or a lower resolution. Just an FYI for future picture posts. I do see it in your comment though.
This ending is FIRE!!!
Thank you so much for this prompt! I really enjoyed it.
Artist in Residence
Papaw said I was an artist.
He was sure of it.
Back when he worked back-breaking days
installing pumps and tanks,
Standard Oil Company gave him a calendar
for Christmas.
Above each month’s days,
a nature photograph.
One, in particular,
was a favorite…
a buck leaping over a branch,
evergreens in the foreground,
fall coloring the hills.
“You could paint this,”
he said, confidently;
so I bought oil paints at K-Mart
and sat for hours on a backless stool,
facing a homemade easel,
daubing color on canvas.
I wasn’t satisfied I’d captured the photo,
but Papaw was.
He propped the painting,
pride of place,
on the mantel he built
above his wood-burning stove.
Papaw said
I was the artist in residence.
I was 12-years-old.
Such encouragement! A true blessing to have such a hardworking, soft-hearted papaw. The warmth is in this poem.
Such a lovely narrative in verse. Thisbis a great mentor texts for students to write formative scenes. Love that last line.
When we are little, all of us firmly believe we are writers, artists, dancers, etc. When we get older we often lose that confidence. I’m so glad you had a person in your life who helped you keep that confidence. Beautiful painting and beautiful poem.
Lori, what a priceless treasure. The painting AND the love of a pawpaw who instilled confidence in you and empowered you to tap into the artist within. Yes, you are the artist in residence. Still. What a gift! I love the narrative and learning more about you with each poem you write.
Lori,
Your Papa was a visionary, clearly! Yet I can’t help but think of the irony and marketing in an oil company using nature in its calendars. Love the painting and that deer watching in the background. Love the process in you poem and the way it impacted you as an artist.
Lori, this story of your Pawpaw’s belief in you that inspired this painting sends chills down my spine knowing that you have in so many ways fulfilled his faith in you even if most days? you paint with your words.
You are an artist, indeed, the way you captured this scene. I can picture you on that “backless stool,” probably even frowning when parts didn’t come out the way you wanted. A lovely memory you’ve captured with your words.
What a memory. What a story. What a photo. What a painting. Loved everything about this – art begets art. We all need an artist-in-residence in our homes….no matter the age.
Lori, the story told in your poem is so sweet. I can hear Pawpaw’s voice of encouragement and see the artist sitting on that “backless stool” lost in a different “back-breaking” work. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you, Melissa, for the visual prompting…always nice to ‘leave the shadows’ behind us and to see with more clarity. I was working with several pieces within an exhibit on my campus… For Which It Stands. Always brings me back to Prudence Crandall, her brother, the core of our nation, and the divisive narratives since the beginning.
Ick-phrases for Which It Stands
I’m thinking about Reuben, again,
Prudence’s brother. The one
arrested for being an abolitionist
while his sister ran away from
chopped-up kitty cats meant
to scare Sarah Harris & Mary
Elizabeth Miles.
K-K-Kuz
we’ve always
lived two
interpretations
of our red, white,
& doo-doo…
…these anthems.
the ways they tread
on the rest of us.
It’s an off-key anthem
after all, Frances Scott,
sung to shackle
human
dignity
at the
core.
land of the free…
home of the brave.
O say can we see.
Wow Bryan, I am moved by this. Especially reading it in today’s context, thank you for sharing this. I was especially caught by your lines
human
dignity
at the
core.
Sobering, at this moment when I scroll through the news.
Bryan, dear friend, love the form of this with the punchy lines, brevity of words and intertexuality toward commentary. I will hold onto the line of dignity.
Sarah
This is a powerful poem. I love how you weave lyrics with your ideas. So meaningful considering the world we live in today.
I had to go down a small rabbit hole to learn more about these Crandalls after reading your poem. Interesting stories there. There’s something in the words “these anthems” that I can only read with an eye roll because an anthem should really just be better. I’m not quite putting into words what I want to say, but your poem hits hard these days.
I could read your poetry all day and never get tired of the way you manage to blend serious topics and truth with such clarity through the unique voice that you bring to your writing. Two interpretations, indeed, living different narratives and realities. Thank you for the perspectives you bring us.
Mic drop🎤
Melissa, Thank you for the prompt. What a lovely idea.
Van Gogh’s Vase with Daisies and Anemones
hand hewn wooden table
deep brown and dark
from years of use and oils
crisp white clot– embroidered with
pink and yellow and red flowers
for a new bride–runs
the length and dips just so
over the ends
dark blue vase, hand thrown and painted
when you were a girl
holds pride of place in the center
filled with flowers, white and yellow daisies
red anemones, blue hydrangeas, orange gerberas
on the soft yellow walls, next to the open shelves
of cups and plates, a picture—
framed with same wood
by the same hands that made the table–
of flowers in a blue vase
Melanie, how lovely! This takes me back to a Van Gogh exhibit I saw years ago… oh, the flowers, and your listing of the colors speaks such beauty!
Something visceral in that line “by the same hands that made the table.” I felt it so deeply.
I enjoyed your poem. It’s such a beautifully written representation of the art. Thank you.
Melanie,
This is a lovely tour of Van Gogh’s piece. You’ve invited us to stand before the art and notice each detail, and there is always much to notice in Van Gogh’s work. A few years ago we went to the VG museum in Amsterdam, and you’ve returned me to that experience. A frame, a table, the same hands making both holds so much meaning about life and the utility of art. You’ve give art equal weight through your words
Melanie, the image of the table dark from years of use yet covered in a rainbow of colorful flowers and objects is just beautiful. I am really glad I had to use your words to paint the picture for me!
Melanie, you sketch of the painting is completed with such an attentive eye. I hadn’t looked at it when I read it first time. I could see the handmade table, the embroidered clot, and a vase with flowers. I love the ending acknowledging the hands that made the table and the picture frame. The painting is beautiful. I remember seeing it at the exhibition a few years ago.
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
I loved how you mentioned that “ordinary mason jar” and how it holds a “wild profusion” of beautiful flowers. Beautiful.
Beautiful Tanka for a lovely piece of art. I love when a vase is understated such as a clear mason jar that allows the natural beauty to shine and sparkle without anything competing for the space or color.
Thank you, Diane, for reminding us of how concise this form can be! And for reminder that beauty can / often does depend upon the ordinary, the wild : )
Diane, the majesty of this painting is amazing and your words really do take it to a higher level. It all starts with just an ordinary mason jar. Lovely
Diane,
I love tanka poetry and yours is gorgeous! There’s something extra special about flowers in a mason jar. I love my mason jar plants. 🌷
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…
Anita – I googled it and remembered right away what this was. Your description of the pane was wonderful, “popped out of the oven like the gingerbread man” – how delightful and playful! What a special memory and tribute to your mother. Happy Easter!
(Note: My pic was also too large to upload, so I opened the jpg and took a screenshot of it, and uploaded that instead – that fit!)
I liked how you bolded the words “just one.” It made make take a second look and think deeper.
I wished this poem had a scratch and sniff feature! I could see the lovely braided breads, true works of art.
I love that you used food as your art for the poem. I googled it, and it is a work of art, indeed. How wonderful to have a memory every time you walk past the bakery.
Anita,
The artist’s palate and tools: “knead, weave, and bake” offers us a delectable artistic vision. I envision the retrospective on display as though the bakery is a museum. And of course this all makes me hungry! Yum to food art and memories.
BTW: If you take a screenshot of your image and crop it just a little, it will upload.
Anita, the weaving you’ve done, of “just one” throughout the last stanza is beautiful. I’ve fought between ordering and making several times and the effort to make is always worth it. There’s a connection to be found, as you note, in the love and kneading.
Love the play on needing and kneading and the braiding as if holding family together in a baked good. This is lovely, and I hope you have a happy Easter.
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.
Jennifer,
These images you’ve crafted are visceral. “We are Caught
between the Cemetary gate
and the harvest table,”
Perfectly articulates the fills a, but what I love most about your poem is the way you’ve upended expectations. Upon seeing the painting, it tells a party picnic story, but you force us to see the unseen backstory. Love it!
I don’t think the art work would have held as much meaning for me had I not read your poem with it. Thank you for helping me understand this art more. Your poem is powerful. The imagery strong.
I was not aware of this painting, but these words are haunting: We are Caught
between the Cemetary gate
and the harvest table
The timeless reality in this state of being as people and as a nation have never been more palpable. You captured exactly what most of us feel…..the axe…..what’s next??
Jennifer, you painted an image so real that I can feel your fear as well as the routine task moment for your mom in that, of course, floral dress.
Jennifer, you’ve captured an edgy scene and I’m completely captivated! Pennant teeth, slashed and scrawled! Wow, love the language throughout and the narrator’s voice is compelling! The last line resonates with a chilling tone! Brilliant poem!
I’ve not seen this image before and I love it….except the poor chicken. Phew. “Smile affixed.” And now I’m thinking of all the deer that hung in my garage as a kid so we’d have winter meat. So much in this piece of art and from your poem.
Oh, Jennifer, you brought back some memories from my village life. I’d seen those Mothers in floral dresses with ready utensils. Your beginning lines foreshadow the tragic chicken’s fate with “brown and bloodied, slashed and scrawled,” quite an unsettling descriptors.
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
I love the pop ups that are happening. Art is often a place where protest lives and to see that happen in both image and poem is fascinating. I love the last stanza and then the last line–what a punch.
I, too, am disheartened by what is going on in our country and world. Your poem made me laugh. Sometimes that is all we can do in the moment. Thank you for sharing. Now, I need to visit D.C. so I can see this artwork for myself.
Glenda, I think you and I need to sit for a rage session about the demented king and bankrupt businessman droopin deuce bombs. What a metaphor you’ve created!
Glenda, I can smell the stench from here. I absolutely love your title! The caustic close reveals the pain and horror of his bs! Fantastic diction throughout this piece! Sewage and deuce are my favorites:)
Glenda, these are the words that stick most with me today:
he flushes sewage
across amber grains
his crowning accomplishment
The play of color and the stench of the wreckage just create a sensory feel that brings it all home – – reality. A slap in the face.
Thank you for always keeping us awakened to the reality of what is happening all around us.
Glenda,
I have to google the pop-ups.
Such a sharp, satirical edge—I can feel the energy of the piece right away, and how it uses humor and exaggeration to make its point. The imagery is bold and unflinching, especially in lines like “our bankrupt businessman / doing his business,” which really lean into that critique. And then the turn to “atop gold throne / he flushes sewage” amplifies that sense of excess and commentary in a way that’s hard to look away from. The ending, “happy birthday, america!” lands with that biting irony that lingers—it reframes everything that came before it in a really pointed way.
Sarah
Glenda, when I saw that image the other day, I did think you would comment / write about it! Your ending of flushing sewage across our amber grains is a painfully true one. I do not think his “back up” singer is any prize and perhaps the entire Congress needs to head out to the recycling plant, in my opinion.
Glenda, I think you have a book worth of Orangey-themed poetry. I am thinking about how long it takes after a thorough sewage cleaning to get rid of the stink.
So true.
Perfect!! I will be glad when he’s flushed and down the drain!
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.
I love the idea of chaos of creation–what a great ending line. The word choice is this poem was just wonderful. The richness of the imagery–lovely.
It takes courage to show our imperfections and growth–especially to students. I appreciate you exploring the muddy process of creating something. You’re poem is perfectly imperfect and that is what makes it beautiful. Thank you for sharing.
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.
I love the story behind this photo. Something that the viewer can’t see but needs to understand through words. Thank you for sharing. I’m not a farm girl, but I could probably help holding that man down–maybe slap him upside the head a few times.
Kim — Oh, you are my hero… saved the beautiful bird… I loved the sass in “sounds like he needs a few of his own…” LOL! I loved “felon” and “birdnapped” and “abductor”…. the sanctuary of your lovely morning turned into good ol’ human destruction… Excellent contrast, had me right there. I am so thankful for your “update.” Hugs and so glad you were there. Susie
The heartbreaking story of Peachy’s assault makes me wonder how a human can be so demented! Your poem and photo remind me how quickly safety is compromised when insanity and cruelty go unchecked. I loved your plan for vengeance at the end.
Your poem takes me from enjoying the majesty to breath holding, oh my goodness this can’t be true , in the blink of an eye, I had to Google to be sure this was real. You have given Peachy a fitting memorial.
“tortured by a tourist turned felon” really stood out to me. I love the story you tell and am glad that it has a happy ending.
Kim, I adore the way you end this poem. Flamingoes are simply incredible. I saw my first live ones just recently at the Texas State Aquarium. I was deeply moved by the experience so the assault you share in your narrative poem has my hackles rising. Powerful poem!
Ick. Humans. We’re just so yucky. Glad you’re farm girl jumped in to help.
Kim, thank you for volunteering! Peachy is a graceful bird. We have flamingos in New Orleans’ zoo, and there are always people mesmerized by them. I just can’t comprehend why some people are so inhumane.
Dang, I’m not a bird fan, but that was downright awful. I can’t imagine the sickness in a human who can harm animals. 😥
The ending was a little funny but I was so mad I couldn’t giggle. But yes, volunteer!!!🤣
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
I love the contrast of the images of debris scraps and fallen trees and the artist who sees something else in it. Wow. What a gorgeous last stanza.
I sometimes struggle finding meaning or a connection with contemporary artwork like this, but your poem added beautiful meaning to this piece. I needed your words to help me understand better. Thank you!
Kevin — What a fascinating “work of art” you selected. On the one hand, we see the artistry of creating something to comfort a grandma perhaps. On the other, my heart surges to the old oak, slain, stripped, dissected to one log “explod[ed]”… the collateral damage of that chair. The story tugs. Very interesting poem. Thank you. Susie
Love it
What a wonderfully deconstructed piece of art! I love the line: “with an invitation not to sit and rest but to wonder at the work”.