Our Host
Fran Haley is a literacy educator with a lifelong passion for reading, writing, and dogs. She lives in the countryside near Raleigh, North Carolina, where she savors the rustic scenery and timeless spirit of place. She’s a pastor’s wife, mom of two grown sons, and the proud Franna of two granddaughters: Scout, age eight, and Micah, age two. Fran never tires of watching birds and secretly longs to converse with them (what ancient wisdom these creatures possess!). She can often be found coddling one utterly spoiled dachshund and blogging at Lit Bits and Pieces: Snippets of Learning and Life.
Inspiration
My oldest son was born on this day, April 29th. I am remembering the fierce emotion that flooded me in those first moments alone with him in the hospital. It invites a poem…
Process
Author Georgia Heard created Heart Maps to help younger students find their own meaningful stories. When I led writing workshops for teachers, I used Heart Maps as a means of tapping powerful moments. We started with templates labeled “First Time” followed by “Last Time”…and the floodgates burst open.
Today, brainstorm “first times” in your own life. Jot them down; you can even write them inside a big heart labeled “First Time” (for these moments all live in your heart). Example:
Give yourself a few moments with the memories. Go with the one that pulls the strongest. This is the poem that wants to be born today. You can bring it to life in any form you like.
I chose a pantoum (taking poetic license to alter one word in a repeating line). You might consider a prose poem like “first time” by Reina María Rodríguez or free verse like “Oranges” by Gary Soto. You might play with a first-time experience in childhood voice, as Roger McGough did in “First Day at School”.
Fran’s Poem
Alone for the First Time
a pantoum
The day you were born
I watched a shaft of sunlight
piercing the shadowed room
and I knew, I knew
I watched a shaft of sunlight
reaching its finger to your sleeping face
and I knew, I knew
I’d fight to my death, for you, for you
Reaching my finger to your sleeping face
warrior-strength flooded my soul
I’d fight to my death, for you, for you…
I never loved anything so fiercely before
Warrior-strength flooded my soul
piercing the shadowed room:
I never loved anything so fiercely before
the day you were born
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
My first move
was too fast to remember
my first home was long gone
My first back yard
was a field behind tiny apartments
with a playground of hot rubber tile
my first college
has an open field, no playgrounds but I don’t need that now.
And a small apartment for me and my desk.
Nathan, there’s a poignance in your lines on “firsts’ – the first home long gone, and no playground, not needing that now…I cannot help thinking that the page or the screen is your playground now, there in that small apartment, at your desk! Thank you for this moving offering.
My first step into
Teaching was surely unsure.
Accident’l educator.
But today I step surely.
All happy accidents now.
Oh, Saba – I never planned to be an educator. Teaching found me. Love this little verse about an “accident’l educator” and “all happy accidents now.” Thank you for this!
Until our first time together,
I didn’t know the joining of two bodies
could feel anything more than
dirty and underwhelming.
I didn’t know I could feel
respected,
adored,
perfectly whelmed.
And to think,
I was terrified of ruining
our friendship.
Mick, how beautiful, this love born first in friendship. Those last lines are especially powerful.
Mick, I feel every emotion in this poem. Personally I know this feeling. This poem is so strong and shows conveyance to the thought of always being disrespected from people to finally being adored. I have read over some of your poems the last five days, and each one I feel like connects together like a story. Keep being great.
The first time…ever I saw your face…
21 years and still giving grace.
Just as some things change, some stay the same,
and with each repeated fail, I bear the shame.
You are delivering some heavy hitters!
Donnetta, I hear Flack’s beautiful voice in your first line…I can see this poem as a reflection on the teaching profession, the challenge of it and the self-blame when students fail. Yet – in that first line, they are seen. In the second, they are given grace/opportunity. Of course there is a universality to your words also, that can many many things – this is how I sense it, for I know it. Thank you for this offering.
Donnetta, such a short poem, but it hits so heavy. You start your poem so serious and in 3 lines you hit us literally with “bearing the shame.” This was really inspiring.
I love the open endedness of this piece, it feels like it could be any relationship.
Hi Fran,
I’m back but it’s late. Thank you, for hosting us and for giving me another affirmation that the summer’s required reading is to finish Awakening the Heart. I brought the book along with me today to work as if I thought there’d be a quiet 20 minutes to read. LOL, who was I fooling. Anyway, I am sad to see the next to the last day of April already coming to a close.
The First Curse
The first, yes first,
and last time
I heard my mother
use profanity
was a few days before
she passed away
Mommie never used foul language
but to hear her gravelly utterance,
“SHIT…”
pulled belly laughs
from the three of us
I think I tried
to convince her
to say it again,
one more time,
she remained silent
She wanted to give us
something funny and joyful
to hold onto
tighter
than
our
sorrows
©Stacey L. Joy, April 29, 2024
Stacey, wow, your poem is incredibly moving and I love the way your poem reveals your mother’s incredible strength. Your last four words on separate lines adds to the power. What a heart wrenching poem but so lovely. The family holding on together resonates! Gorgeous poem!
Stacey – What a priceless memory. I could just hear her making that utterance. She, like my mama, never cursed until that time when she was about 70… sound familiar? I loved how you saw the humor at that moment… so out of character that laughter was precisely the right response. Your ending lines are so touching. Lovely. Glad you could get back this evening to share this gem. Love, Susie
Dear Stacey – with or without Heard’s book or the map, this poem shot straight from your heart and pierces my own. A dying woman has a right to curse. Death is the ultimate curse. Your words envelop me in layers of emotion – sorrow, admiration, amusement. Most of all it’s a shot of unique Stacey-strength. I see now where you get it. I am grateful for your words and for you <3
Back to school today, and I’m already so tired that all I can muster is a poem about figs. Loved your poem so much more, Fran! Thanks SO much for this fun prompt — I’ll definitely revisit it when I can do it justice! For now, here is fig for thought:
I ate a
Fig
last week
for the
first time.
I balked at first:
so brown
and wrinkled –
it looked like a mushroom
but not as inviting
because I knew it
was not a mushroom
but evil
in disguise,
a sly pretender.
My friend wheedled
Cajoled
Nagged
until,
finally,
I bit into it
with a grimace
then raised eyebrows
as I realized the shocking
sweetness
under the
butt-ugly
cover.
The butt-ugly cover! I love it and your willingness ness to try and write about new things. I also love the evil in disguise. Your poem brought a smile to my face.
“Butt-ugly
cover”
ain’t that the truth! But they are so good and now you have me craving one!
Yay! One more in favor of figs ))) This is a perfect first time incident, Wendy! I liked the same phrases Mo already mentioned.
Wendy, what a fun and humorous poem. Love butt-ugly cover because it’s so true. Your voice is striking in this one and I love the sweet surprise at the end!
Hahahaaa! How clever! I love this so much. I hate figs and their butt-ugly covers!
You have a wonderful talent for making the most ordinary things so enjoyable to read about. I love the lines, “but evil / in disguise, / a sly pretender.” And I really love your word choice, “wheedled / cajoled / nagged”. I’ve never had a fig, mainly because of their appearance, but I’m more open to trying them after reading your poem. I love it.
WENDY! This is astounding! I was chuckling over your intro lamentation that all you had to offer was figs. They really are (butt-) ugly. Evil in disguise, sly pretender – fabulous phrases. And, yes, shockingly sweet. My grandparents had a fig tree – the fruit is amazing, fresh-plucked.I absolutely adore this first-fig poem!
Haha!! You just made me realize that this was, indeed a “first fig,” poem, Fran — my sincerest apologies to Edna St. Vincent Millay! XD
…and even more appropriate for a week when I’m definitely burning my candle at both ends! I think the poetry gods were having a little fun with me when they planted this one in my brain…
Fodder for the Scandal Sheets
By Mo Daley 4/29/24
The first time I saw a tabloid at the checkout line
And didn’t recognize any of the “celebrities,”
I was baffled. How could this be?
I watch tv. I read books. My brain is full of stuff and things
But I had no idea who these people were.
I couldn’t tell this Emma from that Chris,
And I wondered if I should get to know all these
Bachelors and bachelorettes,
And all these dancing stars and singers in masks.
Then I realized that I have limited brain cells
And as much as these celebs were knocking at my door,
I didn’t need to answer.
I could save my cerebellum for whatever I wanted-
The important things,
Like trying to remember where I put my reading glasses.
Mo, this is great. I love the pushback against the attention economy. I especially love
“Then I realized that I have limited brain cells
And as much as these celebs were knocking at my door,
I didn’t need to answer.”
Save those precious brain cells!
No – This is totally fun and relatable! This brain cells are pretty darned precious. The ending line—priceless! Hugs, Susie
Fantastic way to address growing (a wee bit) older, Mo – I recall a Trivial Pursuit question while playing with my kids, about brain cells not replenishing any more after after age thirty (or something like that; I, um, can’t quite remember). My boys looked at me and said “That explains things.” They were joking, but…anyway, I love those last lines most of all, about saving your cerebellum for important things like remembering where you put your reading glasses. Brilliant poem!
I like highlighting trivial matters in pop culture, the limited brain space idea is one I should probably pick up.
Fran,
thanks for hosting, sharing your beautiful poem and promoting this childhood memory to resurface. Love the repetition provided by the structure of the pantoum, especially of
What a meaningful birthday gift for your son.
Thanks for sharing.
Standing Together
I was little
still an only child
you and Aunt Betty
didn’t have kids yet
you taught me
how to hold the rod
at just the right angle
how to press the button and
turn the reel to let out the line
how to tell the difference
between the bobber moving
in the wind
and a fish
moving the bobber
how to reel in the line
slow and steady
when it really was a fish
we waited
standing together
at the water’s edge
after a while
you told me to switch rods
with you
you said
I think you got one
I started reeling
in the fish
you’d hooked
for me to catch
but in my excitement
I spun the reel
fast
and in the wrong direction
making a tangled mess
of the rod and reel
and the fish got away
you stayed calm
set the unusable rod
aside for later
we stayed
fishing with just one reel now
until I caught a fish
you took a picture
to show my dad
who was out of town
back at your house
while I told
my mom and Aunt Betty
about our adventure
you untangled the reel
that was not made for
a little kid
catching her first fish
Sharon,
What a picture you wordpainted! You nailed every detail as I experienced every bit of this when my boyfriend–now husband–took me out and tried to teach me to fish. It’s so much more special with it being a generational hand-down of tradition.
What a wonderful memory, Sharon. What a small thing your uncle did that created such a strong memory. Your poem shows the quiet simplicity of the moment perfectly.
This beautiful poem paints such a loving portrait of your patient uncle and young you learning to catch that first fish. I am delighted this memory resurfaced for you. The lines of your poem ripple just like water in a lake – it is absolutely lovely. Thank you for your words, Sharon.
Fran,
Thank you for your prompt and your beautiful poem. A mother’s love is fiercest of all. These lines really resonated with me —
“I’d fight to my death, for you, for you…
I never loved anything so fiercely before”
I decided to follow your poem format with a Pantoum about my first Apple Pie baking experience.
This Apple Pie is Not Like My Mother’s
Not that I thought it would be easy, baking pie without you,
Rolling out dough, fluting the edges just so,
Certainly didn’t expect disaster,
baking my first apple pie.
Rolling out the dough, fluting the edges just so,
Elbows deep in flour, wishing mom were here to guide me further,
Baking my first apple pie,
Mom’s recipe scribbled out before me.
Elbows deep in flour, wishing mom were here to guide me further,
Certainly didn’t expect disaster,
Mom’s recipe scribbled out before me.
Not that I thought it would be easy, baking pie without you.
Tammi,
This poem flows well and the way you described everything makes me feel like I’m there in the kitchen as well.
Tammi, I like your pantoum. It always amazes me how well these repeating lines work throughout the poem. I also sense your longing for your mother, which makes baking a pie even more difficult. Love these lines:
Elbows deep in flour, wishing mom were here to guide me further
Not that I thought it would be easy, baking pie without you.
They create a beautiful frame for your poem.
Tammi, I like your take on this prompt. I can feel all your emotions in your poem. I love the repeated lines of “baking my first apple pie” and “Mom’s recipe scribbled out before me.” It really emphasizes the feeling of loss. Great imagery.
Tammi – this pantoum is gorgeous. The form isn’t easy but I love it for the power of its repetition, which you have managed so masterfully here. It flows like a charm. Love the word choices of “fluting” and ‘scribbled” and most of all, the connection to your mother, trying to recreate her apple pie. I savor this poem – despite how the pie may have turned out, oh my!
The best/last first kiss
Two souls dance the bolero
Time stands still for us
Oh, Ashley! “Two souls dance the bolero” – this is poetry at its finest!
Ooh! The brevity of your poem leaves me wanting more, or maybe it’s just the bolero! Your use of the word soul is such a great choice, as is the time standing still. Fabulous!
Ashley, beautiful haiku. I love the resolution—“time stands still for us”.
Lovely haiku, Ashley – few words but oh such a clear, rich scene! I am intrigued by “best/last first kiss”. I sense more story, there…
Thank you Fran! I’m married, and i was reflecting on how people/movies/sitcoms have so much focus on a first kiss, and they don’t write much about the last first kiss someone has.
Fran, thank you for this beautiful prompt and your poem. Pantoum works so well with the lines you chose to repeat. It is full of unconditional mother’s love. I adore these lines:
“reaching its finger to your sleeping face
and I knew, I knew
I’d fight to my death, for you, for you”
I have written several short poems about this enormous joy of becoming a mother and touching a tiny face or hands of the baby as discovering a whole new world. So today I decided to remember the first time I saw my first love. I wrote a few versions and didn’t like any. Maybe this will be a good one for later revision or a strikethrough poem.
Love’s First Glimpse
That late and cold October night,
You walked into our yard,
Your glowing smile warmed me up.
My friend, taken aback, asked:
“Is he your sweetheart?”
“Never laid eyes on him before.”
That night unfolded a party
Sending my brother off to his military duty.
You stayed close to lend a hand
In entertaining guests with music and songs.
Though words were sparse,
Yet, an invisible thread
Connected us tight—
Closer than any net might.
When morning light graced the sky,
You said goodbye.
I remembered your eyes—
Light brown, incredibly kind.
My heart was stolen—I didn’t mind.
Leilya,
Love the way the story meeting your first love unfolds in your poem, from the not knowing”“Never laid eyes on him before” to the knowing “My heart was stolen — I didn’t mind.”
Leilya,
“Though words were sparse, yet, an invisible thread connected us tight – closer than any net might” is a fascinating stanza. The word play in that is awesome!
Ahhh, so much hold for the rest of your life! Thank you for sharing this intimate love story’s opening!
Oh, Leilya, I can totally understand your heart being stolen during this important family event. Kindness is such a charming trait and I adore the way you close your poem with “I didn’t mind “. Lovely poem!
Leilya,
This must be a bittersweet memory from your homeland. Thank you for sharing it w/ us this evening. Those initial moments when we meet someone who steals our heart, and we spend the evening talking through the night are among my favorite bygone days. Maybe that’s why the last line is my favorite: “My heart was stolen—I didn’t mind.” I’m tucking this one away so I can return to again.
Leilya, this is so beautifully written. I feel the wonder and love building in each line. Funny how your friend reacted – how others notice things before us, when love finds us. That he stayed to help you with the party for your brother, going off to military duty – how could you heart not be stolen?? Thank you for every precious word here.
Busy Day and here’s my late yet heartfelt entry. Thanks Fran for the inspiration !
The First time
I realized your malady
might take you from me,
I cried in the car as I was leaving the hospital.
You’d had surgery, were healing
there were life affirming visits in
the hospital and you even allowed a few of your
friends to come.
However, on release day, a few complications set in
then a few days later your
confusion terrified me.
That was the first time I realized
something dreadful
had happened.
Your conversations were alarming
they mentioned a skilled nursing facility
possible stroke and delaying cancer treatment
Next came emergency surgery.
When I saw you that last day, I was
a scared 5 year old, though I was actually in my mid 40s.
I wondered if it was how you felt the first time when you shared that
you’d lost your own mother to
TB when you were 8.
Your brothers and best friends
encircled you that last day and we all cried and said farewell.
The 5 year old kept looking up into the corners of the room,
looking for your smiling and comforting face
the way they do on TV shows when people are passing on.
The 5 year old didn’t want to accept this grim
terrifying reality
So for the first time, the older me had to force the 5 year old
to say goodbye.
By Seana Hurd Wright
Oh, Seana, this is a heartfelt poem indeed. I am so sorry for your loss. It is unbearable to lose the loved ones. I can imaging “a scared 5 year ild” in an adult body. This image of you as a child, lost and hurt, is effective and allows me to witness your pain. Thank you for sharing!
Seana — I feel this pain and grief in your words:
“The 5 year old kept looking up into the corners of the room,
looking for your smiling and comforting face
the way they do on TV shows when people are passing on.
The 5 year old didn’t want to accept this grim
terrifying reality” and I can relate and understand that feeling of suddenly being a child again even as an adult. I’ve been there. We are never ready to lose our mothers. I’m literally crying right now.
Oh this is a heartbreaking poem! I understand much of it as I lost my husband of 56 years to similar circumstance. How helpless one feels and for the first time the older one has to teach the younger self to be strong. I am sending you a hug!
Seana,
The pain and the emotion I feel as if I were the little 5-year-old child!
Seana, this is a beautiful and heartbreaking poem. First, I’m so sorry for your loss. Loss is palpable in your words and the evocation of your younger self really exemplifies the feeling of helplessness and unpreparedness that we feel in the face of a great loss like this.
Seana, I want to come right through the screen and hold the five-year-old who’s really 40-something. You bring us right into the midst of the unfolding horror, suffering, and loss. How true it is, that the little child in us resurfaces in such a crisis. The loss is palpable – the forced good-bye – oh I hope that writing this was good for your heart. Thank you for your amazing strength in composing and sharing with us. Like grief itself – if we share it with others, we comfort one another. Thank you for this profound poem.
Frozen
hard to breath
body going numb
time stands still
pain so deep
Nothing can prepare you
for the hurt that you feel
losing your hero
never wanting them to go
Tell me it isn’t true
best man I ever knew
didn’t know what to do
They say that time heals all
but it’s at a screeching crawl
I still think of you everyday
the very best Grandpa
Paul,
The cadence of your lines feels like the stages of grief ending with acceptance at the end. It is a lovely tribute.
Ouch. I felt your pain and remember when my grandpa died and how hard that was. I was very close to him. I love your lines “They say that time heals all
but it’s at a screeching crawl” So true.
Paul –This is beautiful poem full of heartache.
This stanza especially–
“Nothing can prepare you
for the hurt that you feel
losing your hero
never wanting them to go” — We are never ready to lose our loved ones. I’m so sorry for you loss.
Paul, as Ashley noticed your poem has a great cadence; the rhyme creates a somber rhythm. I l have learned that time doesn’t help; it teaches us how to accept the loss and deal with it. Thank you for sharing this beautiful dedication to your Grandpa!
Interesting, Paul, that this theme seems to be common today. I almost wrote about my grandma passing. Your second stanza says it all.
Paul,
There is a moving rhythm to this poem with the economy of words, short phrases, quick pacing. They rhyme adds a musical quality to the poem leaning from the remembering into the direct address at the end to Grandpa. That last shift felt very intimate. Thank you for inviting the reader into that moment.
Sarah
I am undone, Paul. Every word is so true about the loss of one so loved, one’s own hero – that it was your grandfather especially resonates with me. -And who says poetry isn’t your strong suit?? This poems packs a very real punch – it does exactly what it should. It pulls us in and we feel what you feel – we identify and say “yes, that is exactly what it’s like.”
Fran, your memory of that precious first “Reaching my finger to your sleeping face” is so lovely. Thank you for this prompt! I ended up going to a rather dark side of firsts…
live in light
what was the very first hurt
where was the first hideaway
to cover scars
who was first to walk on eggshells
to hold a secret
when was the first time someone said
‘don’t tell anyone’?
how was denial first precipitated
to wall off pain
why was numbing pain, swallowing harm
ever believed to be a good idea
who was the first to look into the abyss
to see what they’ve become
and take the first steps towards recovery
Maureen,
This is a powerful series of questions, made more relevant by the title of your poem and the absence of question marks, except the one. At first I thought this might be about your mom, but I also thought about your poem from yesterday and the devastating family news you referenced. I also see the poem as touching others outside your orbit, such is the nature of addiction, the struggle to hide scars, etc. Touching poem.
Maureen, to me, it seems that all these were your own “firsts,” and they were not the easy ones. You are one strong and resilient woman, who took “the first steps to recovery.” Hope life also has its rewards.
Maureen —
These lines really struck me:
“where was the first hideaway/to cover scars” and “who was the first to look into the abyss
to see what they’ve become.” It is true sometimes remembrance of first hurt is what sticks with us longest. I like the way your ending “and take the first steps towards recovery” provides hope despite the pain.
Oh, that first question was profound. Of course, ask this question — the very first hurt. I want to write this poem now, to search into that. You do it lovely and in a moving way “to cover scars” and “to hold a secret” and “to wall off pain.” All the reasons we may not ask that first question. The “swallowing” is what I am connecting to a certain kind of “recovery,” but I also read this as any number of ways we swallow our pain.
Hugs,
Sarah
Oh, Maureen, I immediately recalled your poem about eggshells yesterday. This is hitting home, as you know. You’ve crafted a poem that speaks the raw truth about addiction and recovery and all the secrecy involved.
Hugs! I hope your loved one knows there is life in recovery.
Maureen, your series of questions are compelling, and I love how you lead up to the very painful act of looking into the abyss to see what the person has become. Such a riveting moment. Taking the positive step towards recovery is a wonderful way to close which adds a powerful element of hope! Fantastic poem!
Maureen, I knew there would be “dark” firsts and even “lasts” with the prompt – the poem that wants to be born will be born. I’m imagining many kinds of self-harm – cutting one’s flesh, addiction to painkillers, a number of addictions, really, and even abuse. In this darkness, though, you allow a ray of light – hope – of overcoming denial first, to see reality, and take the first steps away from the abyss (in my mind, before it swallows you whole). Powerful, powerful writing – your poem could be – should be – used in recovery sessions. One cannot walk on the eggshells, in the depths of despair, but for so long. There is light, for living through and beyond – you title tells us so.
Thank you, Fran, for your beautiful prompt and poem. I’m going to have to save it though. I thought I’d come here to share with you all, my poetry family.
Firsts I Considered Writing About Today
my first sister-in-law who died last monthor all the ‘firsts’ from this week alone:the first time I started an official bird watching life listthe first time our cabin bedroom got a closetthe first time I ripped out sticky vinyl tilesthe first time I got myself stuck on a concrete vinyl=less flooror the first anything else I wrote on my list of memoriesthis morning before I got word thatmy third sibling died yesterday
Denise, I am sending you big hugs. I am so sorry for your loss. It is a very painful grief to lose our siblings, those who have known us always. I am so sorry. Be tender with yourself as you walk the days and weeks ahead.
Dear Denise – I write to give you my love and my aching heart. Thank you for telling us. My prayers go out for you and your family. And thank you always for your every precious word.
Oh, Denise, I’m so sorry for your losses. You and your family are in my thoughts. And thank you for sharing with us, your “poetry family.”
Denise,
My dear friend, I am so sorry to see your heartbreaking news. Sending you lots of love, peace, and prayers you’ll find comfort among family and memories. I hope you find comfort in poetry, too. Your voice here is powerful. 💔
Oh, Denise. I’m so sorry. My heart hurts for you. I lost my second sibling recently. Your poem is so powerful because the pain of losing someone you love takes over everything else. And your sister in law died last month as your first line! My sister-in-law died two weeks after my brother died. It’s a lot. I feel it all with you.
Oh, Denise. I am so very sorry. How you honor us by sharing your grief with us. Through poetry. I will hold you close in prayer.
Oh, Denise, I am so sorry for your loss.My thoughts are with you and your family. Sending love and hugs!
Oh Denise,
I’m so sorry that you have lost your third sibling and your sister-in-law.
Your poem delivers the gut-punch of grief. Thank you for sharing it with us, your poetry family.
Sending love and light.
Oh, Denise. I first thought that I had the wrong day with the strike out and then was moved to see how Glenda’s craft suggestion served you today in all the ways of striking out, maybe it was cathartic for you to slash over the firsts, to stop it all for this poem to name your grief. To name yesterday. Oh gosh, so sorry for your loss. Today, I witness this third that is also a first. Sending hugs.
Sarah
Denise, my heart is breaking for you. Your strikeouts help emphasize the difficult situations you’ve experienced and then your final reveal adds a punch like ripping the bandaid off. I’m so deeply sorry for your loss. Sending healing thoughts, dear friend!
My sincere condolences to you and your family, Denise. I am honored you entrusted us with such a heartbreaking experience. Don’t ever forget, we are here.
Fran, your prompt is wonderful and I really love concept of the heart map as a brainstorming tool. You pantoum is beautiful, the rhythm of the form suits your recollection of your son’s birth perfectly!
Shark Tales
The first time I saw Jaws
I was 5.
Money was tight,
so movie night was a treat,
and, perhaps, looking to secure
an “excellence in parenting award”,
mom and dad thought Jaws was the
perfect family film.
Coincidentally,
we had just moved to the seaside
from the city,
just like Chief Brody and his family
in the film.
I was about the age of his youngest son,
in fact, or “that Kintner boy” that the shark
snacked on when Mayor Larry wouldn’t close
the beaches on 4th of July weekend.
(How do you think we pay your salary, Chief?)
The subtext of that critique on capitalism
was lost on 5 year old me, but sharks…
Sharks were everywhere.
Sharks were in my dreams, and in the sound
of water lapping at the all too near shore.
In my bubble bath, which terrified me
and in the toilet bowl where I was scared to pee.
In lakes, rivers, and swimming pools–
at any moment a dorsal fin could stealthily
breach the surface.
Now, many viewings and
Discovery Shark Weeks later,
it’s my favorite film–
Just don’t sneak up on me
on quiet nights, when 5 year old
me is whispering dread into my ear,
cuz I will slap the sharkskin off of you
without even knowing what happened!
Oh, Dave, like you, I feared sharks everywhere after seeing that film, but unlike you, my life wasn’t modeling the Brody family. I can only imagine how intense your feelings were. Thank goodness for Shark Week!
“[C]uz I will slap the sharkskin off of you / without even knowing what happened!” Lol. Dave, I’m glad you appreciate Jaws now after “many viewings”! And I can totally see how you could have been so traumatized by it, what with the recent move to the seaside and then seeing it when you were that young. This movie — with that soundtrack! — did for the beach what, I’ve heard, Hitchcock’s Psycho did for showers. Those movie terrified so many people!
Oh my Lord, Dave! 5?!?!? and your family had just moved to the beach?? I can hear the da-dumm, da-dumm, dadumdadumdadum as I read every eerie, crazy similarity between young you and this iconic (definitely not for kids) movie. “Looking to secure/
an ‘excellence in parenting award’/mom and dad thought Jaws was the
perfect family film – well-crafted, but-!!! I can well imagine the trauma manifesting itself as you describe so terrifically in the “sharks were everywhere” stanza. I don’t blame you for slapping the sharkskin off anyone sneaking up on you, on quiet nights. Is it wrong to say I love this poem-? not for what happened to you, but for this incredible poem-retelling.
As grandmother to two young sweeties, I can definitely imagine how these terrors hold onto us – the idea that there may be sharks “In my bubble bath, which terrified me”…I bet this was a challenging time for your parents, dealing with your 5 year old fears (and second-guessing that movie choice).
Ack! Jaws! It’s so funny that I have still never seen it and don’t want to. All my life I’ve been an ocean swimmer, a surfer, a prone paddler, and I prefer still to never see it.
Your line about being scared to pee even! That really cements in the fear.
I’m glad you enjoy shark week now.
A few years ago, I was training to paddle across the Monterey Bay and that year I saw 3 great whites! Two times I was on my board and at least a mile offshore so there wasn’t much I could do. Thankfully, they are pretty well-fed around here (lots of seals!)
Oh my, Dave! At 5, I wouldn’t get out of the house )) I can’t imagine how scary it must had been. I don’t remember exactly when I watched it, but well into my late twenties, probably, and I never wanted to repeat that experience.
I like the narrative flow of your poem; it is easy to follow.
Dave,
This scene of “5 year old/me is whispering dread into my year” is very powerful and craftful.
Sarah
Dave,
I love how you narrate the poem from the distance of adulthood, but the bring us back to the full intensity of a five year old reacting in fear with your ending.
Thanks for sharing and making me laugh with
OMG, Dave!!! I loved Jaws and loved the beach so go figure. I am sorry that little Dave had to suffer so many horrible side effects but……….
That makes me happy! Cracking up over here! 🤣
“Cherish the time you have, you’ll blink and it will be gone”
“Time goes quicker than you realize”
These sayings,
that I used to laugh at,
flickered in my mind Last Thanksgiving
As I drove my great-grandma home,
in her little white van
for the first time.
My Grandma Jean was
The woman who picked me up from Kindergarten
in her little white van
Who taught me how to use a hammer,
And how to lick batter
From a spoon,
And “to never swoon
For a man who doesn’t love you.”
The woman who
made rude jokes,
cheated at Monopoly,
and played sports with me
at school playgrounds
on summer nights
under street lights.
The woman who complained about everything,
but all in good humor,
Who fed me ice cream for dinner,
And drank Dr. Pepper,
Who was wild,
and crazy,
and fun.
Who rubbed heart attacks out with Mentholatum
And told every bully to “Go to hell!”, but never cussed.
The woman who now…
Struggles to walk,
Whose arthritic hands can barely brush her thin, white hair,
Whose coffee-stained teeth
No longer shine
Through a smile that once lit up a room.
Who doesn’t laugh or joke or poke fun anymore
As she sits at a Thanksgiving table,
In someone else’s house,
Eating food that isn’t hers,
and feeling replaced
as she sits quietly and watches the world pass by
as grandkids who, when little, would race toward just for a hug, now forget to say “hi,”
Until she quietly asks her granddaughter,
now 18,
all grown up,
if she could possibly drive her home
in the little white van
that her frail bones no longer have the strength to drive.
And as I drove,
she turned to me and said
“I remember when I used to drive you home.”
And I nodded, remembering the woman
who used to drive
this little white van.
On Em, what precious memories. Thanks so much for sharing and letting us know that even in her waning days, Grandma has fond memories of first times, too.
And as I drove,
she turned to me and said
“I remember when I used to drive you home.”
And I nodded, remembering the woman
who used to drive
this little white van.
And what a van to last soooooooo long! Not just in your memory.
Em – what a heartrending tribute to Grandma Jean! What a delightful character – cheating at Monopoly, making rude jokes, playing sports with her granddaughter – just wow! The frailness and feeling dispossessed, being overlooked by a busy family – all too often this is the sad truth for the older generations who gave us life and loved us well, often sacrificially. I can so see the scene of the two of you in the van, and her turning to ask if you remember her driving you home. It’s so, so important, remembering – again, your words pull hard on my heart.
Well, that caused the tears to come! How difficult to watch such a vibrant woman decline and become a shell of who she once was. I loved seeing her connect the dots at the end, even though she was far from her old self. I hope that you can cling tight to gratitude over the massive imprint she made on you.
This is a bittersweet love letter to your dear great-grandmother, I think. You have beautifully captured how the passage of time flips everything around,
Em,
Thank you for sharing this beautiful tribute to your great-grandmother.
I love this list of things she taught you—great skills all.
The role reversals of your last stanzas made me cry.
I’d glad I got to know your Great Grandma Jean through your poem, Em.
Oh, to have a Grandma Jean! I would have loved to have these memories. So much raw fun and joy. The fact that she remembers you and driving you home is priceless.
Hugs!
Fran, thank you for your prompt. Your pantoum moves beautifully toward your precious last line. I decided to write about facing an early fear for the first time. I wrote two tankas to capture the moment.
My First Leap of Faith
my toes danced across
the blue high dive, then teetered−
water reflecting
my fear, too scared to turn back
screwing my courage to leap
my heart-feet plunging
into icy depths below
toes never touching
surging to the top, smiling
eager to repeat the thrill
Barb Edler
29 April 2024
Barb,
Once again your sparse language evokes so much emotion, tells a fear many face, then guides us into overcoming that fear. You have us jumping right into your poem and into the water. Gorgeous poem, but my favorite image is the “heart-feet.” I can see those big toes touching and forming that heart. Perfect image.
Barb, the tankas flow beautifully. The high dive is so alluring – you capture the first time, the moment of truth arriving too late to turn back, so that I find myself holding my breath a bit as you leap. How victorious your smile must have been, rising up from the icy depths, ready to go again! I feel as if I just experienced it all myself. Exhilarating!
The fear of the high dive is something we share! I know I wrote about it once; you have me curious to go find it. I do know that your concise descriptions sure capture the scene well. I was (hell, am) always so leery to take any risks, but I typically was filled with adrenaline and ended up loving whatever it was. I love how you focus on that in the end.
I am right there with you – though I am awed by your courage, this idea that “my fear, too scared to turn back”…I did turn around, and made everyone move to the side of the ladder. Never dared to go again. I can only imagine
How I love the word ‘heart-feet’!!
You are so brave, Barb! I had a morbid fear of water and learned to swim only… three years ago. I can relate to your final lines because the first time I seam under the water, I was thrilled too. As always, your word choices are impeccable.
Barb,
I was always fascinated with high-dives because I loved the water and the “regular” diving board. I felt like I was on the board with you! In my next life, I will high-dive from a cliff in Hawaii or some Caribbean island!
Fran, this is a great prompt. I made a list but came back to this one of my first love. Tried the Pantoum a bit…
First Love
HIgh school sweethearts, first love
Chosen as the couple to last forever
King/Queen of the prom
Strolling hand in hand at the beach
Chosen as the couple to last forever
What happened?
Strolling hand in hand at the beach
Paths dispersed as we outgrew each other
What happened?
College happened
Paths dispersed as we outgrew each other
We made new friends
College happened
You moved away
You made new friends
and didn’t love me any more
You moved away
Chosen as the couple to last forever
But didn’t love me any more
High school sweethearts, first love
Years later you found me
wanted to rekindle romance
I don’t think you were happy
I didn’t love you any more
Wanted to rekindle romance
my heart was broken
I didn’t love you any more
I don’t think you were happy
My heart was broken
I was not going back
Paths dispersed as we outgrew each other
no longer high school sweethearts, first love
Susan, your poem is relatable, and I love how the pantoum works so well to show this first love and how it grew then ended. It’s painful to remember some of those first loves and the bewilderment when things can suddenly change. Breaking hearts and trust will make it difficult for someone to think they’re going to be able to get back into your good graces. I can think of few of those guys, and I like how you showed you wouldn’t be returning in your final stanzas. Powerful poem!
Susan, the circular form works so well to tell the story of a love that expected to circle back. “Chosen as the couple to last forever…” reminds me that all too often people believe the narrative more than the reality as life happens. You emerge strong and confident at the end – in charge of your own story! I am glad you played with the pantoum – I do love that form.
The pantoum is a wonderful way to share this first love story; I am struck by how musical it feels, perhaps a slow waltz down memory lane. Two excellent reasons for not pursuing this relationship –
Susan,
I love the way you use the structure of the pantoum to show the changes in your relationship. The repetition and reordering of the lines works well to show how your feelings changed and reordered so that you were no longer in synch. Powerful use of form to convey emotion.
Fran,
Your pantoum is gorgeous. I especially love the line “piercing the shadowed room.” Heart maps are among my favorite things to jump-start writing. I got a very late start on my poem today so took a different approach and used something that happened this month as my first. The Canva is Death Valley last April.
First Decomposition
the first time my spouse
left a package of sirloin in the
car (or i left steak in our vehicle)
it aged past its expiration date,
decomposed & rotted the way a
body does over time, unnoticed
until the stench of rotting
flesh seeped into my lover’s
nostrils & he discovered the
abandoned corpse in the
trunk, brought it into the house
held it high for viewing and said,
i found the steak under a
grocery bag. i guess we missed it.
his words sliced tender
muscle in my heart reminding
me aging & forgetting occupy
two hands of the same clock—
ticking, passing, throbbing
toward absence, not ours but
those who text i love you on
special days until they no
longer remember we’re here—
aging, rotting, decomposing
human flesh left alone.
Glenda Funk
4-29-24
Oh, Glenda, ouch! I love how you open this poem with a clear anecdote and then move into the darker side of being forgotten, aging, and decomposing. I feel this to my very core. The friends that once were dear, no longer a part of my life. I so enjoyed your lines “sliced tender/muscle in my heart reminding/me aging & forgetting occupy/ two hands of the same clock-” Wow! That is so true and a rather fearful reminder of how fragile our lives and relationships can be. Sometimes absence is absence, and it creates a hurtful void. Your final line is like a death knell. Powerful and fantastically crafted poem!
Glenda, such visceral verse-! A twist of Dickens comes to mind: “The meat was dead, to begin with.” The overlooked steak in the car – ooof. It had to be rough. My youngest is a funeral director and has had to handle pick-ups for decomp cases – won’t go into the horrific truth here but it comes to mind with your lines about the stench. These are the lines that get me-
his words sliced tender
muscle in my heart reminding
me aging & forgetting occupy
two hands of the same clock—
ticking, passing, throbbing
toward absence…
-meaning those we love who are left, not remembering us, left alone to waste away.
Unbelievable, how masterfully you move from the first scene to the second – I do not mean to be punny when I say breathtaking craft.
Wow. Just wow! I love this so much,
aging & forgetting occupy
two hands of the same clock—
ticking, passing, throbbing
toward absence,
Hey I wasn’t done…lol…I guess my misty eyes fogged my view and I hit ‘post comment’. Weird and wonderful to go from rotting steak to the sadness of aging. Thanks, Glenda!
Glenda,
I really appreciate this metaphoric move from one concrete scene of rot to another process that is also decomposing in the aging. I am reading this with an observational tone in some parts but the “sliced tender/muscle in my heart” is a line with “no longer remember we’re here” have me thinking about another tone. I am thinking about people who move on, away from my life, maybe they forget about me like rotting steak that could have been prepared and enjoyed or maybe it doesn’t matter to them what happens once they are done with me. I am thinking about these lines and possible interpretations. Alas, that is what is happening in my meaning-making. You offer lots of room for your reader to puzzle it out for their “human flesh.”
Sarah
Glenda, as others noticed you seamlessly connected the ideas of literal and connotative decomposition moving readers from rotten steaks to rotten “human flesh.” Ad I read the ending, I think about elderly parents who are looking forward to hear from and see their children and grandchildren. Some of them, as you remark, text only on special days. Those final lines are especially striking to me: “we’re here— / aging, rotting, decomposing / human flesh left alone.” The older we get, the scarier such a perspective sounds.
I came home
from school
freshman year,
15 years old.
My parents sat
in the room
sweaty palms,
rubbing their heads.
How do they break
the news
to the innocent little girl,
they call their daughter.
Mummer..
then comes Breast Cancer.
The first time in my life,
my thoughts shattered.
I cried in disbelief.
How.. Why.. It cant..
It can’t be,
my mom is healthy.
We always lived life,
by the books.
Never out.
Why us.. What if I loose her?
Years went on,
Time passed by.
Life got worse
before it got better.
But then she battled
She won the fight.
Now a family
lives on.. no loss.
My Mom. My Faith. My Strength.
Mak,
These are hard firsts no one wants to face, and I’m so glad your mom won the fight against breast cancer. You created suspense early in your poem that had me guessing what the news would be.
This is a very timely poem. For some reason, I have had lots of stories lately of friends and relatives with breast cancer and it coming at an earlier age. I am so happy your mother won the fight but I am sure it was a terrible journey. Glad you still have her in your life.
Mak, I move from the sense of horror dawning to rejoicing that your mother won the fight – these lines, especially, strike deep, with truth: “Life got worse/ before it got better.” It is something we need to remember in the hardest times. I hope you will share this poem with your mom. It is so powerful.
I would say,
and this is
not a flex
by any means,
that I have an
intimate
knowledge of
the alphabet,
have studied
it for years,
for it is the
literal and
figurative “stuff”
of my life’s
work, but I
have never,
and let me
be clear
about this,
I have
never
in all
my days
walking
blissfully
unaware
upon this
great green
and fertile
Earth have I
encountered
the true power
and utter discomfort
associated with
these three letters:
“U,” “T,” and “I.”
My world is shook
and I now
long for
a time,
like, seriously,
even
just three
days ago,
when I could
use the words
“Bright orange”
and “burning”
to describe,
I don’t know,
just, like,
the sun,
or anything,
really, instead
of, you know,
The
Other
Things.
________________________________
Fran, thank you for your mentor poem and your prompt today! The pantoum is perfect to illustrate the fierce, “warrior-strength” of your love, and the repetition of “I knew, I knew” is perfect paired with “for you, for you”! In terms of my offering, I gotta be honest, though, this “first event” for me is not going into the shape of a heart. I think Joseph Conrad may have said it best: “The horror! The horror!” I mean, what the actual eff, I’m (still) hoping in the near, oh please god, near future that I can get some relief while relieving…ok, sorry, I may have shared too much, lol. Just keep on scrolling, nothing to see here folks….
Oh geez…you po’ thang! You alpha male you! That’s miserable! And totally hilarious in this poem. There ya go…the alphabet
strikesagain! Sending hugs, SusieDear, dear, dear Scott: I.AM.SO.SORRY. Never mind TMI – a UTI is no joke, a fate worse than… um, a whole lot of other stuff. Definitely not going in a heart shape – except maybe for a solitary word: Relief -? You built this poem up magnificently – classic Scott delivery! I want to chuckle but am cringing in empathy. To not be able to use the words “bright orange” and “burning” – how awful, seriously – prayers for your relief.
Scott,
You have a wonderful sense of humor in the face of a painful condition, so I know you’re looking on the bright side of this diagnosis and thrilled the 22nd and 4th letter of the alphabet—in that order—are not part of the news, not to suggest they could be, of course. Do take care. Finish all your antibiotic.
Yeesh,Glenda,it feels like you just kicked me while I’m down, lol. And you didn’t even include an emoji at the end to soften the blow. “[N]ot to suggest they could be, of course,” is, of course, the perfect way to suggest they could be. Now, I know (I hope I know) that it was a joke, of course, but I might need a bit of help parsing it out. I always get confused with when to use “imply” and “infer,” but I think I’m right in inferring that you’ve implied some kind of infidelity (either “on my side” or “my wife’s”) in my twenty-eight years of marriage. Is that right? No, no STDs or VDs or TBs here.My doctor believes it was induced by dehydration since I’m still masking at work and not pushing enough fluids during the day. And I’ll make sure to “stay the course” by finishing the antibiotics. Thanks! 🙂Only Scott could take a pure misery like a UTI and turn it into comedy! Prayers for the
bright orange burning” to subside quickly!!
New House
the realtor gave us keys and left
us with empty rooms, blank walls
a canvas for us to paint on, sure
but it still felt like someone else’s space
us, with empty rooms, blank walls
laid out mats and sleeping bags
but it still felt like someone else’s space
as we closed our eyes
laid out mats and sleeping bags
we held close together
as we closed our eyes
and prayed that we could
hold close together
building a life, a family
and prayed that we could
make this house a home
Rachel, I feel the new strangeness, wonder, and hope in every line – what a monumental moment! A place to make your own … “a canvas to paint on” with the artistry of living life. Just lovely.
Rachel, this will be my reality in about a month. Your poem really captures the vulnerability of being disoriented in a new space and the comfort of loved ones to get you through those moments.
You can feel the sense of fear and also excitement in this.
First
My life,
my love,
has slipped away….
I know,
I know,
Ill get it back someday….
For all the first times we shared,
There’s nothing left to say…
Ill go, Ill go,
And be on my way……
First broken heart,
My blue eyes have turned to gray…..
First without you…..
Say no, Say no
Cursed, want you stay????
And take my heartbreak,
My heartbreak
Away….
My life,
my love,
has slipped away….
So, it’s so,
Through all the worst we cared.
There’s unknown in my dismay…..
Show, it was a show,
Ripped dreams in my nightmare day……
First, of the worst,
Blackened innocent rays,
My life my love,
Has found a way,
To leave me here,
First, alone,
I pray………
And I pray…….
· Boxer
Oh my, Boxer – how these mournful lines echo! “First, alone” – left by life and love, to pray and pray, is haunting enough but these lines, “Show, it was a show/Ripped dreams in my nightmare day” – they reach right out of the screen and rip the heart to shreds. I keep coming back, like a bird circling, looking for a safe landing place, to “I know, I know/I’ll get it back someday.” I pray so, too, for the speaker. For those of us who have lived/are living it.
I also wrote about a first love, but yours is so much more poetic. That feeling of “my love, my life has slipped away” is poignant.
The first time I drove
with a boy, I was fifteen,
young, and in my mini
jean skirt tucked a 5
in my coin pocket.
Music pumping from
the cassette deck, he
reached in the backseat
a paper bag, peach schnapps
cracked open for a sip
between beats. Pre-party
priming — and a test for
this freshman by the upper
class-less boy. Is she
prudish? Curious, I imbibed
the sweet antiseptic; he
watched for a wince, which
I hid as we pulled into the
drive. I should’ve found a
phone then, called a cab,
but I didn’t. I took his hand,
in mine for the walk-in,
then released it to let him
chug a beer with his friends.
I shared my schnapps with
other girls; that seemed a
way of belonging, a way that
made small-talk easier.
made me easier, too,
some might have thought.
But I was learning what
Godmother meant when
she gave me that orgamied
five with a taxi number scribed.
Sarah — Great story poem. What a classic this is. I loved the $5 origamied into your coin pocket. Teenage boyz…oh lordy! I’d love a head count today of the women who had a similar encounter…I bet the number isn’t small. You were a wise young woman even at 15 despite the struggle of fitting in at those reckless parties. Oh boy. Loved your poem! Hugs, Susie
Sarah, your poem completely captivated me – I wanted to intervene pretty much at the start, even though I was fifteen, once, just change the characters and the schnapps a bit…well, that’s why I wanted to come right through the screen. This twist at the end is just phenonmenal-
But I was learning what
Godmother meant when
she gave me that orgamied
five with a taxi number scribed.
Thank heaven for Godmother(s) and such wisdom! Better than a magic wand…
Sarah,
As Susie says, this tells a fabulous story. I love that you released that boy’s hand and learned the miracle of an origami five dollar bill w/ a taxi number on it. That struggle to fit in is so powerful and drought w/ so many temptations. BTW, your poem reads to me like an updated, more relevant version of Gary Soto’s “Oranges.”
Grandmother’s have such wisdom. Mine always kept $5 inside a sock pinned inside her underwear.
Sarah, oh my gosh! You’ve captured such a striking image of yourself and this “class-less boy” who I’m sure is definitely wanting to take advantage of a drunk date. I feel that whole awkwardness of going to a party and trying to fit in by doing something dumb like drinking schnapps, etc. Your ending is priceless, and I wished I had had a Godmother as generous and wise to hand me a “five with a taxi number scribed.” Absolutely adore this poem.
sarah,
thank you for being so vulnerable with us and showing with an honest look at a way-too-common teenage situation.
I love the mystery of the ending.
Fantastic prompt! I decided to write about the first time that I subbed as a teacher, as it was the first memorable thing that I could think of.
The First Subbing
At middle school
The same one
that I went to
when I was younger.
Feeling the same
Yet so different.
On the otherside
Of the desk
That my old teachers
Sat behind.
I can’t remember
What the class was,
Or what day.
All I can remember,
Was the nerves
That I felt standing
In front of students
Like who I used to be.
Going through the day
And all 6 hours,
Ended up being
Not as bad as I thought.
Coming home realizing
That I really enjoyed it
Despite my nerves.
To this day,
I still feel the nerves,
But my enjoyment,
Which has become love
And I still feel it,
Every day.
Oh, Andrew – i was just responding to Reagan that the nerves never really stop, we just get better, maybe, at managing them there in the classroom. The first day subbing is an awesome topic – everyone knows “students like i used to be” give subs a hard time! Middle school, especially. The realization that you actually enjoyed the experience enough to keep going back, to teach, and to love it – that’s a victory if ever there was one. I love every line of this story-poem!
Andrew, the fact that you remained even though nervous affirms the gratification one can experience, despite the nerves. Thanks for sharing your uniquely common story! 🙂
Andrew, thank you for writing and sharing this! And as Fran pointed out, those “nerves” really don’t go away at the start of new semesters and new years and whatnot; this is year 29 for me, and I still get ’em, too. But I think that’s a good thing; we manage them better, perhaps, as Fran suggests, through experience. I would be more nervous of teachers who are, like, meh, new semester, whatever, same ol’ same ol’, you know? (And I’m glad you “really enjoyed it”!)
I really like this prompt a sa great time to reminisce on the old times and good memories! The only thing I could think of too is when my own baby was born <3
The day I first held you I sat there in awe
I watched as you moved, and you cood
Tucked up in a blanket in a tiny little ball
Sitting in a bassinet against a wall.
Parents are tired and ready to sleep
Babies awake with a smile so deep.
The ones we love in the room with care
Laughing and memories all made right there.
“Awe” is definitely the word, Katherine…and oh, I can see the blankets, the little ball of baby, the weary parents, and that baby-smile so deep – it just feeds the awe that much more. Thank you for this sweet, sweet offering.
So much love in these eight lines you compose! I would love to see this put into a Canva design and hung somewhere in your home–your child’s bedroom perhaps?
I love the line “tucked up in a blanket in a tiny little ball” – I have pictures of my babies wrapped like tiny balls & it always surprises me to remember just how small they were!! Only taking up the smallest space in their cribs. Beautiful!
I enjoyed this prompt! My thoughts kept wandering into the future- my first day of teaching and taking over a classroom. The feelings of passion, fear, the dream coming true for the little girl who used to line her stuffed animals up in her bedroom and begin “teaching” and reading to them. This first time hasn’t happened yet, but it’s getting closer.
In the classroom, my nerves take flight
Guiding young minds, to find their light
Full of passion, maybe some fright?
This is what we used to dream of at night.
Reagan, I do not think these feelings ever really leave us! In time we subdue them better, perhaps – oh, you capture the teacher-feeling so well. Full of passion… it’s contagious. The students will often become passionate about things the teacher is passionate about, just as when teaching is a chore for the teacher, learning is a chore for the students. Here’s to your journey and your very fortunate first classroom – and thank you for these poetic truths today!
Fran, What a great prompt. I could sit here today and write for hours all the different first poems! I related to yours, and I felt exactly this too-
“I watched a shaft of sunlight
reaching its finger to your sleeping face
and I knew, I knew
I’d fight to my death, for you, for you”
Happy Birthday to your son! (And you!)
New York City, 1988
I was 15-years-old
my brother, 12
the first time
my parents set us free
with paper map in hand
looking for that Hard Rock tee-
the New York City one.
We stepped from our hotel
into a river of people
pressed against the banks of storefronts.
pushed along the current
we were swallowed in the street.
The sound of impatience blared
from passing cars
billboards loomed above
Guess Jeans
Coca- Cola
The Phantom of the Opera
As we turned a corner
a yellow cab jumped the sidewalk
Crashed into the side of a building
Like a colony of ants,
people moved around it
as if taxis running into buildings
was as commonplace as
beggers beneath black awnings.
Past donuts and delis
Butchers and bagels
Macys and Levi Strauss
We came upon a shoe store
with large glass windows
Inside we were first to witness
A woman sitting on a chair
Kick up her high heels
Slam them into a man’s stomach
Our eyes glued
A crowd grew around us.
Blocks later we found the Hard Rock Cafe
Bought our shirts
Back to the hotel
Our feet
Clapped to the beat
of New York City
I sang,
I’m Emily Avery!
I’m alive.
Alive.
Alive.
What freedom you had to have felt to be set free in the most awesome of cities! So might sights and sounds and smells to assault your senses . . . and you recall so many.
Emily, I was just a little older than you the first time I went to NYC; I was so excited and then so terrified once I was actually there. I got over it and learned to love future trips there – where anything is possible, literally. You brought the “city that never sleeps” back so clearly that I can smell the air, that unique bread-smell behind everything else (am I the only one-??) Crowds and cabs galore – and this crash you witnessed the first time you were set free with maps in hand-! That woman kicking the man in the stomach, the beggars under black awnings – evidences of rock-hard lives playing out there on your way to the Hard Rock Cafe. I can totally appreciate the refrain of I’m alive, alive! after having accomplished your mission of scoring that t-shirt. Your verse reverberates with the beat of New York City!
Oh, Emily. I was right there with you and your brother on this (what seems like harrowing) adventure. The taxi, the kicking woman, the people begging… The ending of being alive was a delighted surprise!
Fran, Well here we go again with a “True Confessions” poem. It’s been quite a month! Here’s mine.
THE FIRST TIME
The first time I went to Disneyland
Who could even guess
That I’d be under arrest
They cornered me to confess
Something I did not do.
“But the person looked like you to view.”
They said, “She is black like you.”
The first time I saw that man
As at the back of the tabernacle I’d stand
His hair looked neat, not in a bushy ‘Fro
At that time I didn’t appreciate that hair style at all
Who knew that this would be the man, handsome and tall
That I’d marry three years later.
The first time in Africa, on a teacher exchange,
I stood straddling the Equator
I was amazed that I didn’t slide off
In my mind I was standing on the edge of the globe
Forgetting the globe is just a symbol. It’s not real.
So fear was not something that I should feel.
But I did! but I didn’t fall
Into police custody or jail
On me that crime they could not nail
I did fall in love, but not of the globe.
That’s about all I recall.
Wait you move from a serious injustice to love to a bit of humor in being disoriented? Wow, amazing. And bring them all together with the ways you fell or didn’t. What a wrap up.
I loved this dry humor end:
“I did fall in love, but not of the globe.
That’s about all I recall.”
Anna, I read your “true confessions” of first times with absolute amazement – from the appalling case of mistaken identity based on race alone (have you ever been back to Disneyland??), to the handsome man whose hair you didn’t appreciate, at the moment, becoming your husband (I so love this kind of story) to the hilarious notions about the equator and the globe – misconceptions or early impressions are hard to shake, though. You tied your compelling first times up so beautifully in that last stanza – fearing, but not falling in jail (thank heaven) or off the globe, but in love – just magnificent, all the way through.
Fran, as a matter of fact, I FINALLY returned, just to get that first-time incident out of my head. But, alas, it remains, and arises when I see news reports of others “arrested” or recently, being shot because of race. (The young folks who pulled up into the driveway of the wrong address.)
I didn’t say in my poem, but once I was ‘released” at Disneyland, the guards took me and my daughter up to the front of the line. Like going first made it all better. Ha!!!!
Anna, I love how you unite all these first times. I admire how you start with a vision of gross injustice and then bring humor in finding your husband, and then the awe of realizing where you are in your travels. Lines such as “I stood straddling the Equator” are truly wonderful. Also, I really admire how you united this all with rhyme!
What a beautiful prompt, Haley! I love heart maps for brainstorming! I don’t think I used it with my creative writing class this year, but I need to bring it back. My mind went to my first-born as well, but she’s been going through some challenges this year at school due to certain perceptions and expectations that are just unrealistic for a six year old. Decided to turn it into a poem.
The First Time
The first time your teachers,
Voices strengthened by test results,
Quietly said “autism,” heads nodded,
Eyes avoided mine, and slight murmurs
Filled with a grief reserved for funeral parlors,
Not conference rooms.
Darling, simply put, they may have the tests,
But they do not understand it’s simply how
Your brain lights up in color, zig-zagging to your
Own conclusions, patterns you master in
A voice of your own, drives you to
Learn, learn and learn.
So, my love, you will read and write, taking
Your timeline instead, and without restraint.
You will twirl on a stage, you will continue to sing.
If there is want, you will do, and I hope no
Part of you will say, due to one word:
“But I can’t.”
It may be the first time this word was spoken into our reality,
But it will be the last anyone decides our future for us.
Love this line, Jordan,
Beautiful.
Jordan, this is amazing! The way you can feel the love through your piece and the way you encourage your child is truly wonderful! You perfectly captured the negative people have of autism, considering it a disease or something of the sort. The way you described how your child’s mind works is great!
“Your brain lights up in color, zig-zagging to your
Own conclusions, patterns you master in
A voice of your own, drives you to
Learn, learn and learn.”
Such a creative way to show how people with autism or on the spectrum have their own way of thinking. Your piece was creative and beautiful!
This made me think about when I was first told my son was dyslexic. Although I wasn’t surprised I was afraid of what giving him a label might do. But how wonderful all our different brains are and how amazing my sons is under the hood of a car or as an electrician (which is his chosen profession and his genius!)
I love the line about his brain lighting up in color! Yes!
Jordan, this is such a courageous, triumphant poem – it should be shared widely! It offers such hope to others going through similar circumstances. The one word, the diagnosis, does not a life or person make – how I love the lines on the brain lighting up in colors and the mastering of patterns in one’s own way. This all reminds me so much of my younger son, a musician who’s always seen and heard patterns, even being able to replicate a song on the piano after listening – it’s a gift. He endured his education – barely – as it wasn’t “in tune” with his own brain. Your poem is full of confidence in overcoming what others “do not understand” with great grace, love, and encouragement…oh how i love the ending lines about the the first time the word was spoken, and the resolve that no one will decide (or define!) your future – I see wondrous things happening in it! Thank you for your willingness to share. Your spirit is so strong – you boost our own spirits with your words.
What an advocate she has in you, Jordan! This seems to be a common comment for me, but you need to use Canva to get this looking more visually-appealing, send it to a photo printer, and hang this in her room as a constant reminder!
I love the perspective on this, Jordan. The word “autism” has creeped up into my life as well. The description of “your brain lights up i color, zig-zagging to your own conclusions” and “your timeline instead” are well said and beautiful.
Fran, thank you for this prompt!This was really fun to do! Also, happy birthday to your son!
My head was a mess
Of jumbled thoughts
Questioning what we were.
I couldn’t keep still
As my nerves buzzed
With anxiety and excitement.
My heart was beating so fast,
Ba-dum! Ba-dum! Ba-dum!
As I felt your leg against mine.
You stole my breath away
As you leaned in
And brushed your lips against mine.
I felt your soft, red lips breathe life into me
And take away any coherent thoughts
And my heart.
I want you to keep it forever.
Oh, you really got the feel of a first kiss here! I like the line of your lips breathing life and taking away coherent thoughts! Truth.
So beautifully captured and conveyed, Marisa! The jumbled head and nerves, loss of coherent thoughts on the first kiss…I so remember. That last line about keeping your heart forever – so perfect. Such a celebration of love – thank you for this!
Maria, what a loving memory. I particularly appreciate your use of onomatopoeia. Not only because it adds sensory image to your poem, but also because it reminds me of teaching this term and poetic device to middle school students.
Between the length of the word and the spelling, the preteens felt overwhelmed. I finally told them to slow down, stand on the MAT in the middle to spell the word, but pronounce mat like mot. Think that helped?
Well to some; it brought a giggle and more of the young ones felt okay both spelling it in the writing and saying it in their speaking.
Thanks for the reminder of both memories … yours and mine.
Oooh. I was thinking about first kisses too. I love your list line!! And all the details about your heart beating, legs touching, etc. So sweet.
That First Night
carrying her inside me
filled me with fear,
overwhelming at times,
every bite i took and every movement
i made potentially harmful,
but nothing prepared me for
the constant anxiety of having her
outside, bare to the world.
giving birth was such a miracle.
she exited my body and
became the world’s.
her fragility filled me with fear,
overwhelming at times,
my body’s protective cocoon
no longer her home.
after the photo ops with grandparents
and the ooohs and ahhhs of visitors
finally ceased,
it was down to the trio . . .
mom, dad, and baby.
we fumbled with the diaper change,
latching on was not seamless,
distinguishing the source of cries
impossible.
i urged him to go home and get some sleep . . .
that upright brown leather “recliner”
was nowhere to catch some zzzzzzzzs.
when only splinters of light
fractured the darkness,
panic fought with fatigue
for control of my heart and mind.
nighttime always did bring fear.
my body missed the beat of her heart
enveloped deep in my core and
the reassuring kicks and punches
were replaced by the gurglepain of my
organs returning home.
my eyes and right hand kept seeking
the papoosed bundle next to me
in the clear plastic crib
to make sure the blanket’s
rising and lowering indicated breathing.
quiet yelps and lip smacks startled me
from my fitful slumbers
yet offered relief.
the nurses were a Godsend,
offering wisdom and care.
they would place the corded call button
up by my face and encouraged me to
press it when i needed them.
i fought off the urge to summon them;
it made me feel needy and incapable.
finally, when my efforts to soothe her fell flat
and uncertainty rendered me helpless,
i reached and pressed that button,
feeling high maintenance and demanding . . .
and a failure.
in came kindness and patience,
guiding me and reassuring me
and ultimately taking her
to the nursery . . .
“you need rest.”
so, rest i did.
that is until they came in to check my vitals
and my very own diaper
every hour.
when i couldn’t see the baby,
my heart rate picked up,
my breathing quickened.
when she was in the room with me and
i felt helpless at what to do,
my heart rate picked up
my breathing quickened.
i can still remember
that first night
with all its joy usurped
by apprehension
and fear.
the weight of the massive responsibility
sat on my chest like bowling ball
the cloud of incertitude shrouding
me like fog coming off the water.
twenty-seven years later and
i still wish that motherhood came to me easily.
i still wish all i felt was elation in that hospital room.
it was so hard
that first night.
~Susan Ahlbrand
29 April 2024
You remember with such vivid details and capture all our senses, but especially that sense of fear when first you become alone with your newborn. I remember crying a lot. The uncertainties. The comfort of having my own mother close by. You’ve brought them all back to me. Do you have grandchildren yet? It’s such a different experience. I was blessed that my daughters each wanted me to be there.
Susan, you made me tear up. I’m not a mother myself, but I believe you have perfectly captured everything that comes with being a mother: the protectiveness, the uncertainty, the feeling of inadequacy, the anxiety.
“quiet yelps and lip smacks startled me
from my fitful slumbers
yet offered relief.”
You’ve captured this stressful and yet wonderful experience of having and taking care of a child your firstborn at that. The anxiety and all the troubles that come with it, yet you can still feel your love radiating. You did a wonderful job with your piece.
This reminds me of a song by the JUDYBATS, Susan. I will link it here. Don’t drop the baby.
All the allegories. All the caves.
Oh!! I remember so much of these feelings also. It took me back to the first night in the hospital with all three of my kids!
This line I especially loved and related to-
“ when only splinters of light
fractured the darkness,
panic fought with fatigue
for control of my heart and mind.
nighttime always did bring fear.”
Oh, Susan…you reminded me that i had never changed an infant’s diaper before my oldest was born. I did it one time before we left the hospital just to be sure I could. Then my husband and I couldn’t figure out how to get him in the carseat to take him home…I ended up riding in the back with my hands keeping him from sliding over like a rag doll. Truth. I was willing to die for him (still am), but it’s a wonder, really, that he lived…the fear and anxiety are no joke. I have lived to see him taking care of his newborn daughter’s diaper in the hospital the day after she was born… it doesn’t come easily but it surely comes with the forever-love which speaks throughout your verse. And there’s profound strength in that.
Yes, yes, yes. All the details. I remember a specific moment that first night – my baby crying in the hospital bassinet, but I couldn’t quite reach to get her out (and oh, my body hurt!) My husband was asleep on the brown leather couch & I couldn’t get him to wake up to help me – but I didn’t want to press that button! Such a helpless feeling. But thank goodness for nurses!! It’s a wonderful feeling to finally be holding your child – but also terrifying. Your poem does such a good job of putting that feeling to words.
Susan, I felt this right here like yesterday:
the reassuring kicks and punches
were replaced by the gurglepain of my
organs returning home.
Yes, that was an interesting feeling and I love that it is officially dubbed gurglepain. This is a lovely poem of your first night of motherhood, and oh, the ambivalence and mixed feelings of caring for one that exited your body and now was the world’s. It doesn’t get less scary, does it?
Oh, Fran, this is a great prompt. One that I can use today and many more times. Your poem captures that intense love and desire to protect that rises up when you set eyes on your child for the first time. As the mother of five adult children, I can attest that it never really ends. Beautiful. Thanks for sharing.
Love’s First Kiss
Who knew he would surprise me,
drive up from Baltimore,
plan to be at the Pub?
Who knew he would
stand up when he saw me,
usher me into his booth,
slide back in right next to me?
Who knew the electricity
in the air would be palpable
as we locked eyes on each other?
Who knew he would
ask me to dance,
hold me tenderly,
and then…
Lift my chin
and bestow a kiss
that made time stop
and bells ring.
Who knew that kiss
would lead to a
lifetime of kisses…
53 years and counting.
How beautiful, Rita. I wil love all the poems today that allude to love lasting. It’s inspiring for people like me who are just at the 4 year mark! I love that a surprise and kiss turned into 53 years <3
Oh, that first kiss of a long love. I wrote about that today. We’ve been married 42 years. 53 is quite the accomplishment. Congratulations.
Rita, I hope you gift this to the “he” in your poem. 53 years is an incredible gift of time and person – how lucky you are. I love that this poem shares the beginning of that life with us in such a deeply moving way.
Rita,
your lines sure capture the early–yet lasting–love that you are fortunate enough to have!
I am literally dancing myself after reading this magnificent poem, Rita! The story is glorious, from beginning to 53 years and counting. I linger on your line about a kiss “that made time stop” – love does this. It knows to savor every precious minute. Just beautiful!
Rita, just the perfect poem, the sweetest first kiss! I love all the sweet stories today, and the sad ones too. This lifting of the chin draws a picture, a couple dancing, he taller than she, you two kissing and falling in love right there to the music of life for all to see. Thanks for sharing this today!
Good morning Fran,
I’m so excited about this prompt because I just started reading. Georgia Heard’s second edition of Awakening the Heart. There are so many great ideas and strategies that I want to spend all day with the book. Unfortunately, I’m on my way to work. I will be writing later today, but I wanted to let you know that your poem reminds me of the fierce love I felt when my two children were born. It also brings to mind the book, I Love You Forever. Have a wonderful day and I look forward to writing and reading later.
Thank you so much for these words, Stacey – can’t wait to see where the ideas lead you later today! <3
Hi Fran, thank you for this. I had so many ideas. Will definitely come back to this sometime. I’ve been wanting to write another pantoum for a while now. First time for everything and a last, as you say. Glenda’s powerful line about dementia from yesterday is still on my mind and Grandma Mary.
On Remembering
I don’t even
remember
the last time I
said I love you
kissed you
hugged you
saw you
I know you
wouldn’t remember
memory gone way
before the last time
I did any of those things
I don’t even
remember
the last time I
lived with you
put you to bed
watched TV with you
washed your clothes
drove you around
gave you your pills
injected you with insulin
cooked for you
helped you get dressed
helped you in the bathroom
woke you up.
Did you ever
remember
the last time you
lived with me
sang me to sleep
washed my clothes
prayed for me
taught me my prayers
cooked for me
drove me to school
put my hair in a tight ponytail
helped me get dressed
changed my diaper
woke me up?
Do you remember
the last time you
knew who you were
saying I love you to
kissing
hugging
seeing
before
your memory
left you
for
the
last
time?
Wow…Such rich memories crafted in a touching way. This is a bittersweet poem that reminds me of my older sister who is suffering from Lewy Bodies Dementia. Sad subject, sweet memories.
Fran, I’m sorry I meant to say that I love how different things do things in your poem. The sunlight pierced the room, then your strength and then the sunlight reached its finger then you reach yours to your son’s face. The movement was beautiful 🙂
Aww – thank you, Angie! The beam of sunlight was real that day – emotions are raw after childbirth anyway but that ray of light it set my soul afire to the point of tears. Nothing was going to come after my baby boy without taking me out first – that’s what I remember thinking.
My mother has Alzheimer’s so I know all too well this wondering when was the last time. I wish I could remember the last time she said my name. The last time she called me on the phone was Valentine’s Day, 2023 after I sent her a stuffed animal that she became very attached to. Those were the first signs that she was not the same. She carried the stuffie everywhere. God bless you in this journey. It’s not easy.
Angie…I knew some last times would beg to be written today…my own grandmother succumbed to dementia. It’s a horrible, helpless thing to witness. Like you I can’t recall clearly the last time I saw my grandmother; it’s like the fog comes into my own brain, and the not being able to remember hurts deeply. All these lines about remembering what she’d done for you throughout your life, following those on what you did for her at the end… things come in a strange full circle. I lived it, too, and you capture the sense of it exactly here, with your own details.What I feared most is that Grandma wouldn’t know me – I didn’t think I could bear it. Your ending, with asking the last time “you knew who you were” is an agonizing testimony to the extent of this diminishing disease. Above all, your love – and hers – shine through. I am grateful for this poem – thank you for it.
I lived something very similar to this, Angie . . . the parent becomes the child. I love how you set up the poem with two stanzas of statements followed by two stanzas of questions . . . reflecting similar things.
Angie, I think you and I were in a similar place today with memory loss and letting a loved one go. These moments are haunting. I like the way you said memory left you for the last time……such truth there……in the coming and going, when the memory is back and the full reality of dementia sets in, I think that at that point the reality was in many ways a worse time than the not knowing, at least from what I could see in our mother. I’m so sorry this disease is so dreadful – – no one should have to go through it. Your poem hits home today.
Firsts and lasts are fertile grounds for writing. Thanks for the invitation.
I tried a Sijo today.
The first time I wrote a poem, I crumpled it up, embarrassed.
The last time I heard your voice, you sounded so weak, transparent.
Maybe I could share the rhythm of my voice through this poem?
So relatable, your sijo. I’m thinking about that first poem…any poem, honestly….what an act of great courage it is to pour one’s heart and soul onto the page, let alone putting it out there for others to see. Your second line is haunting, and the last reminds me of why we are here, sharing the rhythms of our lives, our very beings, in these lines. Thank you for this offering today.
Oh, oh, oh! Such truth here. Wouldn’t it be beneficial to try things for the first time like a toddler learning to walk, just up and at it again and again with no embarrassment? I love how you’ve woven the writing and the speaking into the voice of the poem, a perfect combination of coming to be.
Good Morning, Fran, and thanks for unraveling the prompt this morning. Not sure why the somersault went with wordplay and brevity at my desk, but it does what it does. There’s no strength like the warrior strength of a mother with her fledglings.
That’ll Learn Ya
b.r. crandall ’24
it only took
wet tongues
a frozen
pole
the 9V
those
3 fingers
on a
hot stove.
the (last)
thing
i needed
was
you
me
flight
fight
a first
t
i
m
e
to walk
away.
Bryan – just haunting. I sit here reading with a cold stillness settling in my soul. As others have said to me, sometimes less is more; the scarcity of words here pierces like an icicle and burns like those fingers on a hot stove – heaven help the child. Help us. “Time” written that way – drawn out out – shows the momentum building for the walking away. That title – it comes to fruition, full circle, at the end I believe. Thank you for the strength revealed in this-
Ohhhh! The frozen pole and tongue had me laughing because there’s a scene in the Watsons go to Birmingham when one of the boys kisses a frozen mirror and his lips get stuck. Hilarious that’s a first time that should never happen again.
The rest of your poem went to my heart. You’ve shared a moment, so many of us have experienced. Unforgettable.
Bryan, right from the title, we have a tone, a bit foreboding, a bit casual, a bit… what we later discover to be fear-inducing. By the time I’m reading about fight or flight, I’m hoping to walk away with this small child. This is powerfully crafted in wording and format. So good.
You mix and mingle those flat stupid childhood acts with the big ones and it works so perfectly!
Bryan, I’m with Stacey – my mind went to The Watsons Go to Birmingham and that hilarious scene. I can see you learning this lesson the hard way, and touching your tongue to the 9V battery to feel the shock, too – – and having to touch the stove to see if it’s true it’ll burn you……those things, those things, those silly things we do once and only once…..including walk from the fight.
Beautiful, Fran! Your poem brought tears to my eyes. I went off prompt, but I turned a classroom moment into a poem.
Morning Greeting
I walk into the sun filled
second grade classroom.
Addie greets me
with a wide smile,
“Perfect timing,”
she says,
as she hands me
her writer’s notebook.
She helps me
turn to the pages
of her poetry,
The poetry
inspired by me
when I spoke last week
about how I love to write.
She was listening,
She was taking it all in,
She was turning ideas
in her wild mind
and making them
into words – her words
about dogs, stars, and dreams.
She was so proud,
She was so confident.
She is a poet.
I walked into the sun-filled
second grade classroom,
Perfect timing!
Joanne, these are the glorious moments when we know we’re doing exactly what we are meant to do – when students listen, when ideas are born, when they come to life on the page, when students taste their own power for the first time (there’s the link to the prompt, after all!). Perfect timing, indeed, to share this poem as VerseLove comes to its close; it is a great encouragement to keep writing and inspiring the love of it in others.
Omg this is amazing Joanne!! Make me think of my niece who is in 2nd grade now. My brother’s child. I wish I could talk to her about poetry right now. Thank you for sharing this beautiful experience. I love that your student said “Perfect timing”. What an inspiration you are 🙂
This brings me back to those special moments as a teacher. Moments when you know you have made a difference. I love the line, “She is a poet” because it focuses not on what this little girl has done, but on the belief that is now cemented in her heart. Well done!
BOUNDARY WIRES
Barbed wire undulated
from leaning cedar post
to post, greyed
with the years
of our poorly tended farm,
marked the curved boundary
between the pond and the road,
clumps of spring grass
already grown in tall tufts
around the posts and wire,
right there, that’s where
the Easter Bunny lived;
I’d thought so
when pondering
such blasphemies.
It was what I knew in my heart
despite my rapid firing neurons dictating
it wasn’t true –
bunnies maybe, but not
the E.B.
I hung onto that notion,
crusty as the rusted wire,
not wanting to let go,
not wanting to feel the barbs,
not wanting to drop the boundary
between believing
and knowing better.
by Susie Morice, April 29, 2024©
Susie – my heart is caught on that rusted barbed wire, that boundary between childhood and adulthood, believing and knowing better, between fantasy and reality… and oh, it bleeds. “Not wanting to drop the boundary.” Thank you for this clear vision of the old farm and such poignant metaphor.
Susie,
Oh, those moments of denial . . . of knowing we should let go of a belief yet not wanting to. Not only do you capture that so magically, but your images of the farm and the barbs and boundaries echo the ideas so well.
Susie, you carried me right back to childhood (we were on a country road surrounded by farm fields and would often go feed the cows grass over the barbed electric fences). I too wanted to believe desperately in EB and imagined where he might live – we’d discovered enough baby bunnies in the yard from nests plundered that we worried for him. And once I swore I saw the red nose on the front reindeer of a sleigh flying over, such was my belief. This is a beauty of a poem.
Susie, I feel this reasoning that is so frustrating ~ the wanting to believe in the EB and the reality that sets in when knowing better gives way to believing. I want to still believe a little, and I think I do, just minus the eggs and candy and that bunny trail that they don’t make because they have to stay hidden from the owls. When you first abbreviated EB, my mind went straight to EB White…..I know, silly, right? What a beautiful last time to share – the figuring out of things on the cusp of the unwelcome truth.
Susie, I would so love to share a story here, but then that’s all about me, and I want to focus on your poem which is absolutely gorgeous and struck such a chord with me today. I love how you open with the clear image of barbed wire undulating, the cedar post, and the poorly tended farm. Then how you move toward where the E.B. lives, and then move toward the universal truth of when we especially at a young age are faced with letting go the wonderful fantasies our parents/siblings/adults have made us believe. There is such a sharp edge to letting go of the fantasies. Plus, then we go and recreate the same nonsense for another child who will eventually have to face reality rather than live in blissful ignorance and the joy of the wonderful unnatural things in life like an Easter Bunny. Brillian poem and love your title! Marvelous poem!
Susie,
Choosing “between believing and knowing better” is so hard.
You absolutely nailed the tension between wanting to believe and wanting to know better.
Thanks for sharing.
Fran, you captured this moment so eloquently and the pantoum echos the perfect lines, reveling this life-changing time! You brought me back to holding my first born, and all the feelings that the moment carried. Thank you for that!
I had the time to journal and draft a poem this morning. I am thankful for the opportunity to re-live this moment.
The first time I
climbed a mountain,
a real mountain
the kind with snow
still lingering
into June
with hours spent
scrambling to the top,
I experienced rich feelings,
an overwhelming awe,
at the beauty before me,
His magnificence was as far as
the eye could see
my soul filled
with glory to the brim
as if it would burst.
At the same time
I felt small
like one little needle
on a pine tree in a forest,
a grain of sand
on the grandest shore
an infinitesimal part
of this tremendous world.
I still recall this
dichotomy of feelings
this tremendous sense of
His creative powers,
even-though the first time
I climbed a mountain was
forty years ago.
Christine, the view even from here is breathtaking! The majesty of the mountains, the snow lingering into June, the effort to climb rewarded with incomparable awe – these lines are the very definition of awe, a life-word for me:
I felt small
like one little needle
on a pine tree in a forest,
a grain of sand
on the grandest shore
an infinitesimal part
of this tremendous world
-and also that the memory is undimmed by the passing of forty years. Just incredible. The exhilaration is palpable!
I love the expanse of size in your poem! So good. I really love, as Fran has pointed out, your comparisons to how small you felt against the largeness of the mountain.
You’ve taken me to that mountain and your beautiful, descriptive words convey your feelings so well. The simile of “one needle on a pine tree” captures how small you felt compared to the majesty of the mountain. Truly a beautiful poem.
You sure make me want to go climb a mountain!! The grandeur and awe that you share and the way you felt so small are relayed so well through your words.
Christine, I believe we share the same love of the mountaintop views. The majesty – – the majestic bigness of beauty that no photograph can capture. The seeing for miles and miles and miles and miles, and knowing that so much is there, it’s overwhelming joy. I’m so glad you share this mountain climb. I wish I could still climb mountains, but I’m probably past a good bit of that level of adventure for fear of falling and breaking an ankle again. On the other hand, it might be worth all risk…..those views are spectacular.
The first born child will always be the one who changed you forever. I love how you used an echoing form to engage us. I tried but my pen went with prose.
The first time you said I love you, my head
in your lap gazed longingly into your honest eyes; I believed you. I ran
upstairs to my dorm room & shouted “He said I love you!” to my preoccupied uninterested roommates. They didn’t know that man
had just stepped foot on the moon, stepped indelibly in the dust of my soul, leaving an imprint forever. His print remains. Our love has changed, matured, grown into its natural maturity, lasting, old, held
until our last breath.
A prose poem holds a magic all its own, Margaret, as you evidence here – I see the whole scene like I’m watching a movie, every single detail – the honest eyes, the excited run up the stairs, the exuberant shout, the apathetic roommates, the soul-moondust where the footprint remains – stunningly powerful and beautiful imagery. Love grown into “its natural maturity,” born of trust and true commitment for life – oh, how I celebrate this, my friend. Such a relationship is a gift born of choosing it and prioritizing it and honoring it every single day. You write with such grace – thank you for your words here and in previous comments. We are kindred spirits, indeed!
Oh Margaret, I love this prose filled with such love and tenderness! You end with such hope and endless love that has “changed, matured, grown into its natural maturity, lasting, old, held until our last breath!” Tearing up for sure!
I like the image of the footprint in the dust of the moon. Thanks for sharing.
Wow, what a love poem Margaret. I have a poem to write about my love, some other day. I really love your description about laying in his lap and his “honest eyes” and how yall have stood the test of time. Beautiful!
Margaret, I feel like we are on similar wavelengths today. The words, “just stepped foot on the moon, stepped indelibly into the dust of my soul” touched me. What a poetic way to describe the awesome experience of the first, “I love you.” The last line is equally as powerful. Love this!
Margaret,
There simply can’t be a better metaphor than the moonprint! I love this image so.
Margaret, this is beautiful! That first I Love You is unforgettable. The world takes on a new charm and a purpose. the dust of your soul – – what an image, rather like that moondust that makes me think of the astronauts in their moon boots jumping with zero gravity, weightless, like happy moon dancers. Like this.
Fran, happy birthday to your son! What a beautiful gift to him – the poetry of his mother, reflecting on the pure love of him as an infant. The prompt is perfect for today. I love the way the energy still flows this month because of prompts like yours that keep us wanting to write. Your poem draws a picture I can see – such sweet and tender moments. I went to the end of life and a last time today and reflected on the death of my mother. Thank you for hosting us today and investing in us as writers.
The Last Time
The last time I came home
before you died
youstood feebly
in the door
cold rushing in
against your
flannel pajamas
swallowing you
life leaving your body
escaping you
your voice
deep and low
sunk to the bottom
of your being
a soul cry of despair
saying my name
Kim
proving you knew me
there at the bitter end
unlike the times before
your trembling arms
reaching for me
I reeled at
the change in you
in only a few days
and held you up
while we cried
both knowing
this would be
our last
standing hug
our last
cry together
our final
goodbye
before you
slipped away
I watched you die
Dear Kim – I felt like some poets might prefer to write of a “last time” today. You remind me of last times I saw people I loved – sometimes knowing, like kissing my granddaddy’s head when I said my last goodbye, and he reached to grab my hand and held it tight. Other times not knowing, like my dad who died suddenly; the last time I saw him was marked with family trouble and I was nearly consumed by my anger at not being able to change the circumstances. The grief, then, is even deeper, after…I have a sense of latent anger smoldering in your stark lines of seeing your mother succumb to disease. The shrinking in the flannel pajamas, the voice sunk deep to the bottom of the soul, the frailty, the vulnerability, but by God the undying, fierce love of a mother determined to hold her child one last time… I am crying now, too, but I rejoice at love such as this. Thank you for your mighty writer-courage with this image of the last hug standing, and the reminder (I’ll say it again) that love never dies.
Tears, Kim. I’ve been here as you know. Not in a standing hug, but a final kiss on my father’s bald head that was still warm with life. Thanks for writing your personal grief. It is universal.
Wow oh wow! I am filled with such emotion having experienced this as well. You brought back so many emotions, raw and filled with love and more tears than can be described in a poem – yet you did this so gracefully. Thank you for sharing
Oh, Kim, this is so visceral, so real, so darned sad. Yet, it is so beautifully remembered here. That image in the doorway…that is really a gut punch. Hugs galore, Susie
Kim, this was beautifully heavy. Felt. Relatable. Well done.
Phew.
Kim, this poem is heartbreakingly beautiful but maybe the most terrifying description for me is
“I reeled at
the change in you
in only a few days”
today it’s a fear of mine to find one of my loved ones like this for reasons that have come up recently. But for now I can only imagine that change that happened so quickly. *hugs* thank you for sharing this with us <3
Kim, You put your heart on the page today. Those last times forever replay in our minds, a mixed blessing of sadness blended with the deep love that will never be forgotten. “I reeled at the change in you in only a few days” is so powerful. This poem is a beautiful tribute and your mother was blessed to have you by her side when she passed.
Oh, Kim, the beauty and agony in this! You capture it so well how we lose them twice when they fall into dementia. The phrase “soul cry of despair” is such an apt way of describing your mom’s crying of your name in a moment of knowing she will be leaving you.
This poem leaves such a heavy feeling in me . . . for you, with you.
Oh, Kim, my heart absolutely breaks for you. Thank you for sharing such a moving poem sharing such a precious last time with your mother. I can feel those tears and trembling arms, your grief, and your love for one another. Hugs, sweet friend!
Kim, your poem truly touched me and it seemed to inspire the same idea, write about our mothers as they left us. These words touched my heart, “the change in you
in only a few days and held you up while we cried both knowing this would be
our last standing hug our last cry together.” I hope your healing journey is comforting and you remember the terrific moments with your mom.
Kim, this is heart-wrenching. There are no words for being with someone as they pass through, but you have found the strength to put it into words. Each goodbye brings us that much closer to our own and impacts us more fully simultaneously. Hugs, my friend.
Fran, the movement of the lines within the pantoum is reminiscent of the feelings that surge and ebb within a parent as their child grows. I remember that fierce need to protect, a need that resurfaced in such a powerful way, sometimes unexpectedly and often at times where to protection was needed. Yet, there it was. Beautiful poem. Thank you for sharing your writing with us!
the first time i
rode a bicycle, knobby-kneed limbs
flailing side to side
following the course of the front tire
wobbling first one way
and then the other
in an effort to build momentum
along the sidewalk
the same sidewalk
i once ran away from home upon with
all the belongings of my five-year-old self
thrown into a ginormous
cardboard box
as i left behind my mother and younger sister
crying at the kitchen table
because i was leaving them
because i was mad enough to leave
though i didn’t get much further than
the neighbor’s house because
a box is an awfully heavy thing to carry
when it houses all the important
things in your life
except your mother and sister
who cannot fit inside
and though i spent a lifetime running
along paths that veered back and forth
as i sought to, fought to,
find my way
it never felt the same as
that first time i
Jennifer, sassy five year old Jennifer showed some sidewalk spunk! I love the sass, but more than that I love the lesson, the way the sidewalk taught you about life – the leaving and the coming home, the finding your way on wheels or feet through the wobbles of life on knobby knees. This is poetry at the pinnacle of childhood experience. Love it!
Jennifer, as always, your craft is spectacular. The knobby-kneed, flailing, wobbling of the first bike ride is just like our first attempts to find our way through life…beginning at age five. This poem strikes me deeply for several reasons. I recall packing a bag around that same age because I, too, was so mad at my mother and sister that I decided to leave. I would walk to my grandmother’s house (only 180 miles away). My little sister looked out of the picture window, sobbing, as I made my way to the first corner, where I had to stop and return, crying myself, because I had no idea how to get where I wanted to go. Your metaphor for “that same sidewalk” is mighty – incredibly meaningful. The imagery of the heavy box that holds ll your important things except your mother and sister “who cannot fit inside” – oh, my heart. I know this. The veering on the paths, the finding of the way, sometimes takes in directions we cannot predict, to destinations not imagined…thank you for this poem-gift today. I treasure it.
I don’t recall my first bike ride yet you brought me back to so many moments of my childhood. I love the wobbling front tire and the ginormous cardboard box – I was there! Thank you for letting me reminise through you.
It’s easy to see a stubborn, hostile little you being obstinate with her box
love this.
Jennifer — You captured that image on the bike…that flailing and wobbling that is so real. I LOVELOVELOVE the little girl and the big box…it’s funny, yet so poignant as you realize “your mother and sister/who cannot fit inside.” Lovely “first time” poem! Hugs, Susie
Thanks for sharing. I like the image you created when you wrote “knobby-kneed limbs
flailing side to side.”
So much “voice” in this poem, Jennifer. I just loved the way you rambled on, like a child or anyone speaks when they are upset and have to unload their emotions. Your description of the pavement and the heavy suitcase and simply the way you told this story made this a memorable piece. Thanks for sharing!
Jennifer,
Your poem initially reminded me of a poem I had written about learning to ride a bike, but I love, love, love how you branched out to write about so much more. I love how this first time set the course for your future veerings.
And what a clever way to go with the pronoun at the end of the line giving us anticipation and giving you openness:
Fran,
You capture what is so hard to capture about becoming a mom. And you weave just the right images in there. The pantoum works so well for this. Or, rather, you work it so well.
I’m going to let things marinate a bit today and shake the Rob Lowe from my mind. I shall post later!
Susan – you are cracking me up with “shake the Rob Lowe from my mind”! I so appreciate your words; I am looking forward to what you come up with after marinating 🙂
Fran, did you mention floodgates?! Goodness…what an intense journal time this morning. Maybe a poem will come from it maybe not. I have one line to share from my morning writing from your prompt:
“we were a bonfire made in heaven.”
Thank you for your urge to remember and to write. Your pantoum is absolutely precious. I can feel that mother love in that room with the sunlight. I’m fortunate to be able to know it in a personal way too. Thank you for the beautiful gift of your poem.
I forgot to mention a shout-out to the National Writing Project podcast. I just listened to ‘The Write Time and the Furious Flower Syllabus Project.’ Dave Wooley and Bryan Crandall, regular Ethical ELA writers were in it and it was so good to hear their voices and energy for poetry. And, the guests were amazing to listen to as well. I highly recommend listening to this pod…and especially this episode.
I cannot wait to see what comes of “we were a bonfire made in heaven,” Linda! I am delighted to know that your journal writing time was intense. Thanks so much for every precious word here.
That river’s first bend
into the unknown, began
a love of boating
Thanks for the prompt of remembering, Fran. I thought of one of the first times my wife and took kayaks that were gifted to us during the Pandemic out on the river, and how we both realized, this was something beautiful we had been missing in our lives.
Kevin
how beautiful…some days, I miss lock-down just a tiny bit. These moments and discoveries are precious.
Kevin, this is a beautiful beginning “river’s first bend / into unknown,” and it is an invitation to pause in awe and to explore.
Kevin – A pure-ness … rich. I love this. Susie
Kevin, your haiku feels like the beginning of a great adventure novel, not to mention love story. It’s an amazing metaphor, taking that first bend into the unknown. For all the suffering the pandemic brought, it also brought gifts such as this: “something beautiful we had been missing in our lives.” Thank you for every lovely word.
Kevin, the river’s first bend – – yes, the bends are kayaking dreams. I used to love rivers, but now I’m more of a lake girl. I want to see the whole thing all at once, and truth is that those rapids can outrun me now.
Kevin, my husband and I go canoeing in the bayou in our backyard. I’m so glad you and your wife know this kind of peace, togetherness, and joy.
Great image with the river’s bend. I love finding out what is around the next corner.
Thanks for sharing.
To find such beauty in the simple awe of nature is a gift!
into the unknown – you remind me of the beauty of taking risks – big and small! Great feelings captured in so few words!