This is the Open Write, a place for educators to nurture their writing lives and to advocate for writing poetry in community. We gather every month and daily in April — no sign-ups, no fees, no commitments. Come and go as you please. All that we ask is that if you write, you respond to others to mirror to them your readerly experiences — beautiful lines, phrase that resonate, ideas stirred. Enjoy. (Learn more here.)
Our Host
Kelsey Bigelow, based in Des Moines, works as a mental health poet. She’s the author of four poetry projects, including her latest book “Far From Broken.” Her work is published with several small presses. Videos of her work live on Button Poetry, Write About Now, and elsewhere. She’s the founder of the Des Moines Poetry Workshop, Slam Chair for the Iowa Poetry Association, director for the BlackBerry Peach National Poetry Slam, and more.
Inspiration
Poetry lives in everything we say and do. Some of the greatest writing prompts come from overheard phrasings in conversation.
Young kids are often the most imaginative minds. They still have curiosity, excitement, and creativity to play with.
This prompt came from a conversation I had with an elementary-aged student several years ago, and I knew I had to write it down immediately. It’s one of those questions that gets you thinking about the good sides to memories.
Process
The prompt: “What is the happiest thing you’ve ever tasted?”
Step 1: Free write (brain dump, stream of consciousness writing) in response to the prompt. Let yourself ramble on the page as you ponder this question.
Step 2: Write the poem based on what you uncovered in your free write. This poem can be in any form or style of your choosing.
Kelsey’s Poem
The happiest thing I’ve tasted is Momma’s pasta salad
How it always had notes of abundance in her empty home
How it was her only source of freshness for us
The vinaigrette coated each noodle and veggie
the way her hugs tried to do for us
The carrots were finely chopped but not removed
She could manage with dentures
Cubes of monterey jack overflowed
as if to make up for her under-presence
Ham chunks and celery lighten the bowl
in ways her dark dining room never saw
Since she died
I’ve added cherry tomatoes
She never could handle them
and I never thought it was never complete without them
Yet her recipe still tastes like the freshest
happiest thing I can never duplicate
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
To Be a Butterfly
By Mo Daley 9/20/25
Today we went to the Monarch Celebration
At the nearby nature preserve
We beaded
We colored
We answered trivia questions
We donned glasses that made us see like a butterfly
We chose the flowers we’d get nectar from if we could
We stood still in the butterfly tent
As Monarchs landed on each of us,
One by one by one by one
And I knew that today was the sweetest nectar I could ever sample.
You’ve got the best today, Mo! I can imagine the magic moment.
Mo, I could feel the wonder of the monarch’s landing one by one. Your poem is a celebration of nature and the awesome connections we sometimes get to experience. Lovely poem.
Mo,
I want to be covered in monarch butterflies. What a lovely thought and image. A moment in nature does taste sweet.
Ah, what a sweet ending to this lovely poem, Mo. It sounds like a very special experience. I’m thinking your grandsons were with you for even more joy!
Today we had a surprise birthday to celebrate my sister’s 70th birthday. We cooked for her, but usually she is the master cook. I thought of all the memories she’s brought back to life for me now that I get to live next door to her.
The happiest thing
I’ve tasted
is my sister’s memory.
She brought our
childhood back
to the future–
my grandma’s
steaming
sweet cobblers,
my mama’s
chicken a la king,
savory satisfaction
over toast cups.
And more…
nutty nuggets,
Chicken and rice,
Corn bread,
biscuits with gravy,
potato salad.
She’s the best cook
I know.
Childhood
memories
in my mouth
and in my heart.
This is a sweet story with food. Thank you for sharing and a lovely tribute to loved ones
There is something extra special about a sister’s tasty creations. I thought a lot about my older sister’s dishes today. Your list of food has me remembering my favorite picnic memories and more. How great it must be to have your sister living so close. Glad you got to celebrate today!
Happy Birthday to your sister, Denise! She sounds like a super master chef cook, but the most precious are your childhood memories.
You are lucky in so many ways. Your poem made me chuckle at the thought of my sister’s cooking- she can barely boil a hot dog! I love how the memories fill your heart.
Denise, I love this! I hope your sister’s b-day went well! Thank you for sharing your sister’s recipes and your childhood memories with us. Delicious!
Denise,
Over the years I’ve admired your relationship with your sister. This poem is a lovely tribute to her. I love the list of all the good tastes she brings to your table.
Thank you for the prompt, Kelsey, and for opportunity to go back to warm, kind, and happy memories. Your poem brought me to my place of comfort.
Taste of Loving Hands
Sun-warmed grapes—
my father’s vines
whispering summer.
Mom’s pie—
steam rising,
a crust of comfort.
My sister’s dish—
new, surprising,
seasoned with laughter.
My child’s sweet—
crumbs on small fingers,
love in every bite.
The happiest taste
is never the food,
but the dear hands giving it.
Oh that final stanza is so lovely and rings so true in all of these poems. I greatly enjoyed the little tastes of family you shared
Ahhh, Leilya, you pulled me right into your poem and provided the sweetest end! Love it!
Leila,
Indeed, it is the hands that grow and prepare the feed that gives it that sweet flavor. As you know, I love your Ukraine poems. I can see those vines growing. We had grape vines in our yard, too, when I was a child.
Such short stanzas and such evocative images, Leilya! You pulled me in instantly with those grapevines and had me the whole poem. So sweet!
Leilya, “whispering summer” is a lovely line – soft, gentle – a welcome into the “love in every bite.” Those third lines in every stanza read like their own poem, and lead us to the reminder of all that is important. Beautiful.
Leilya, what a delightful poem. I love each stanza with a new set of hands serving love. Gorgeous!
Leilya, I love what each family member brings to their dishes! Your “sister’s dish” which is “seasoned with laugher” is my favorite!
I have so many happy food memories but I couldn’t stop thinking about getting sprinkler water in your mouth or when wet hair dripped onto your lips. Childhood summers were the most joyful. Happy to be back writing this weekend.
open wide
Did you squeal
riding bikes
down every big hill?
Did you laugh
running wet through
sprinklers with skill?
Did you smile
waving wands
‘til bubbles would fill?
Garden hoses, bugs,
and soap
didn’t make you ill.
Little tastes
of joy,
youth’s goodwill.
C.O., what a fun memory filled with joy! Love your rhyming, which adds more charm to your poem.
C.O., the sensational thrill of being young and having fun resonates through your poem. I love the image of squealing down a big hill as it captures youthful adventures. For me, hills were the best until my bike chain broke.
I love how your questions brought us right there with you, CO. I was nodding and smiling as I read each line. Thanks for the memories!
Oh! I love those little tastes of joy! This was a ride through memories, senses, and summer. The questions invite us into and through those memories. Glad I rode along!
C.O., fun rhymes! It’s true, so much didn’t make us sick! I like all the questions asked to bring back good memories.
Happiest Taste
for Damon
I’d expect you’d
think I’d say
Xanax or oxy
or fentanyl
(especially after
the accident)
or maybe Coach,
June, or Maggot,
maybe even the
Peggots or Tommy
and his skeletons
or Angus, thinking
it was just about kinship.
You might even say
Fast Forward
or Linda Larkin
(oh, Linda and her
phone calls)
or Dori
(doridoridori)
but I’d guess it’d be
because you don’t
know me, don’t
know me at all;
if you’d have
thought
Ms. Annie
(and her shoulder
tattoo) or Mr. Armstrong
(telling us about the working
man and his red bandanna)
you’d have been closer
to the truth:
the truth
about perspective,
about Red Neck,
about the fact that
we are not the
stereotype, the
joke, the evergaloshin
punchline you thought
we were.
We are so
much more;
we’ve been here
the whole time
and we’re fixin
to stay.
__________________________________________
Thank you, Kelsey, for your mentor poem and your prompt today! You’ve cooked up such a vivid description of Momma through your poem. I love the repetition of never in the end and the lines “abundance in her empty home” and “[h]ow it was her only source of freshness for us” and “as if to make up for her under-presence” that really speak to the complicated nature of your relationship. For my offering, I have to say that I have about a hundred pages left of my book club’s book, Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead, so my brain went to Damon when I first read your prompt. How would he answer it? What would Damon say is the “happiest thing [he’s] ever tasted?”
Scott,
You’ve brought me right back to Kingsolver’s Damon’s world.
I find this stanza especially beautfiul:
I like how your poem reflects Damon’s — and all of ours’–desire to be seen and understood on a deeper, truer level.
Such a fantastic character and you’ve done him justice. Will you share with your book club?
The drug names really drew me in to this piece and thinking about how dopamine is a “happy taste” too. Wow. What a neat perspective on the prompt. Thanks for sharing
Scott, I’d never assume you are a Xanax guy )) Also, I haven’t read Kingsolver’s book, so now I am thinking I should. Thank you for another gem!
Ditto what Leilya said!
Scott, your poem captures your character’s voice. Your opening sets the tone and pulls the reader into their world. Powerful piece!
Scott, yes, like Sharon, I can picture Damon through your poem. What a great activity for sharing about a character. I love the use of prompts for sharing about what we’re reading. (I just remembered I wrote a poem here about Demon Copperhead once too.)
my slow cup of tea
after days of duties endlessly followed
there’s finally time to sit and wallow
I’ve nothing to do, my schedule hollow
reflect
wonder
be still
dawdle
it is so quiet, I hear my swallow
Oh, there is nothing like that “slow cup of tea” when the day’s duties are completed. It’s one of those simple pleasures that never get old. I love this!
Love that final line and totally understand the peace that must be present if you can hear the gulp. Thanks for sharing.
Maureen, I love the structure of your poem. I think it reflects the actions well. Wonderful use of rhyme and rhythm too. The dichotomy between the hectic life followed by this quiet time is striking!
I can feel the peaceful breathing in the two-syllable lines…..in, out…..in, out….yes to tea. Yes to the peace of tea.
I love when such moments occur, Maureen! Mine is usually early in the morning on the weekend. The “sound” of “dawdle” is delicious!
Maureen,
Theres a delightful leisurely pace to your poem. The /aw/ sound throughout replicates a yawn, an afternoon nap and cup of tea moment. Fun poem.
That time is very special and to be hallowed. Thanks for helping me remember that.
Maureen, I love your rhyme throughout — “followed,” “wallow,” “hollow,” “dawdle,” “swallow” — and the two syllable list in the middle! They really slow your poem down!
Maureen, what a perfect title for your poem. and they rhymes. Just perfect and so fun. I’m glad you had some quiet time to hear yourself swallow.
Kelsey,
Thank you for hosting and prompting a trip down memory lane.
I like how your poem is both an homage to your mother’s love and her pasta salad and the all-too relatable story of how you try and stay connected to both after her death.
Lovely.
————————————————-
Summer of ‘76
My brother and I squeeze
In between our parents
All four of us
On the sticky black vinyl bench seat
Of Dad’s red Ford pickup
We lick our vanilla soft serve
Melting quickly
Our first summer in the Texas heat
My little brother stands barefoot on the seat
Walking in place
Leaning against our mom
Biting into the bottom of the cone first
The ice cream too cold
For his toddler mouth
Wow…you just took me right back to childhood. The “sticky black vinyl bench seat” and “leaning against our mom.” Gorgeous description, and there was nothing like that melting vanilla soft serve on a hot hot day.
Beautiful imagery and takes us back to early childhood with the images of toddler brother. Lovely and delicious. Thanks for sharing
I can feel the heat, the sticky car seat, and taste the cool sweetness of the ice cream in your poem. I appreciate how your title adds to the poem’s history. I can easily imagine that cone mess in a toddler’s hand. Vibrant poem!
I can almost “feel” that ice cream in my mouth! This is a delectable poem.
Sharon, your sketch is so vivid. I can see you all on that “sticky black vinyl bench seat /
Of Dad’s red Ford pickup.”
The stanza about your little brother reminds me about my grandson when he was about two. Thank you for the poem that brings happy memories from childhood!
This is a fun prompt. Of course, my default was food (cheesecake & fried green tomatoes), but then I remembered how the dogs jump in my face each morning and our cat Hero walks across my head. This is for Stanley and Lucy, too. Shout out to Margaret for introducing this form.
Puppy Kisses
[Shadrama]
Puppy tongue
laps my hazy lips.
Still I lie
sleepy-eyed
in my cozy nest before
morning doggy kiss.
Glenda Funk
September 20, 2025
Glenda, I love how your poem moves effortlessly to show your deep abiding love for your pets. Your photo shows the setting well. Loved the imagery of sleepy-eyed and your end with the doggy kiss is superb! Sweet!
Wonderful form, Glenda! That line and image, “morning doggy kiss” – this is so precious, I feel the love.
Glenda, with an image of your pups, the poem is alive. They are both adorable, just as their “morning doggy kisses” sound to be.
This is definitely one for the dog folks, Glenda. My tiny dog is suffering with dementia right now. She is not as snuggly or as loving as she used to be, probably because she is confused most of the time. I really miss those morning kisses!
Ah, what a sweet photo and poem of your best taste. I love the sounds of “hazy lips” and “cozy nest” The sounds conjure up peace and rest and gentleness.
I decided to write a “fib” poem today to express something I have relished more than anything in life.
Sweet Happiness
my
son
cooing,
his warm weight
resting on my breast—
sweetest taste I have ever known
Barb Edler
20 September 2025
Barb,
Your mama love shines in this poem. “Cooing” is such a lovely onomatopoeic word. I can see you gently holding your son through your words. I like how a fib builds on words and ideas, showing the growing mother-love.
Barb, this is probably a poem he could write, too, as he recalls the soothing times he spent in your arms. Yes, truly a sweet story. BTW, my youngest son refused to stop nursing. I don’t think he would take milk from a bottle, even expressed milk! We say, he went straight from breast milk to Coca-Cola! Thankfully, I was able , whoto remain an at home Mom to my three were all in school. So, it was not big deal. Still, reading your poem brings back sweet memories for me, too.
Barb, those infant months of having them so tiny, watching their little fingers curl and their mouths move toward sustenance is the sweetest thing ever, yes. I agree – – a fib is a perfect form for your sweetest taste poem today. Brings back all the memories of young parenthood…..(and little sleep)…..
Oh, my eyes misted. This is such a happy, happy “meal” memory for me, too – not your son, lol, but my own babies. Beautiful, Barb. Thanks for taking me back in time.
Barb…the fibonacci form is perfect here for emphasis and impact of every precious word. How pure is this image, this moment…how well I remember the sweetness, myself. Beautiful and precious.
Oh, Barb, such a sweet memory! Those little ones can sure melt any heart. Love how a ‘fib’ form helps you share the “sweetest taste.”
Barb, this perfectly captures the simplicity found in those early moments when all that is needed is the two of you. It put me right back into those times effortlessly, immediately. I love what you did with this prompt.
Ah, that is such a sweet taste. “his warm weight / resting on my breast” Yes, indeed, that is a delight.
Kelsey, thank you for today’s prompt! I had to eat breakfast before tackling this one. I love the way you connect each ingredient to Momma – her personality comes through each addition. Now I want to make this salad!
Flaming Gorge
Summer means fresh rainbow trout,
Smokey and tender, grilled to perfection on the deck of my grandfather’s cabin.
With just a drop of lemon juice and a pinch of salt,
The flakey orange flesh was manna.
After a day on the lake, that peaceful sheet of glass,
disturbed only by the hypnotizing rings of a minnow feasting on a fly,
Or a curious seagull out of his element,
We would rest on the most comfortable lounge chairs,
Watching the occasional deer cross the pasture,
Followed by the chittering of squirrels fighting over sunflower seeds hanging from Grandma’s feeder, swinging from the lowest branch of a towering pine tree.
I’ll never know if our day’s catch was extraordinarily delicious, or if we were enchanted by the love connecting all of us together, and the powerful beauty of nature.
Shaun, one of my favorite fish dishes is rainbow trout, but it’s so hard to get where I live. The way you describe it in this poem really has my mouth watering. I adore the way you open the second stanza by describing the lake and the peace within this beautiful place. Your last two lines is wonderful. A great reflection to ponder.
Shaun,
I love eating rainbow trout and love watching them swim in streams. It’s truly magical. Your poem captures these images and the way food. a bins us to place and family.
Shaun,
I feel like I am right there with your family in this beautiful scene, enjoying the freshly caught fish and watching and listening to the nature all around you.
I love the musing at the end, the acknowledgment of the love and connection:
There are so many gorgeous nature images and sounds; what an ode to a special time with your grandparents. I love the sound of these words together: “the chittering of squirrels.”
I love a good food reference. Here’s my attempt:
Daddy’s chicken
Sticky sweet, tinged with smoke
crafted with love.
No handwritten recipe card left behind,
so I try.
And try again.
But I can’t get it right.
Memories of taste mingle with experience that can’t be replicated.
Sultry summer nights-the cicada’s song.
Ice cubes clinking in a highball glass.
The crackle of flames in a bbq grill.
Metal tongs snapping close with a click.
Fireflies trapped, dancing in a mason jar.
The satisfying sizzle from the grill.
Kansas sweet corn, drizzled with butter and sprinkled with salt.
Patio table set with worn checked napkins and the flickering flame of a faintly scented pine candle.
So I try.
And try again.
To somehow find the flavor that time left behind.
Ahhh, I know that feeling of having “No handwritten recipe card left behind,” Your second stanza captures so many relatable sensory details. I feel that summer heat, hear the cicadas and the clinking of ice, taste the buttery corn, and smell the pine candle. Your closing stanza is mesmerizing. Lovely poem.
I think one of life’s great paradoxes is how food seemingly prepared the way we remember it as children never tastes the same. Maybe it’s not possible to replicate given modern food manufacturing. I particularly love that last line and the firefly imagery.
Love the verbs in this poem. And that last line “the flavor that time left behind” is so connecting and beautiful; common threads among many poets today. Thanks for sharing.
This resonates with me. We try to replicate those delicious recipes but it just never quite works.Your backyard memories take me to a peaceful place.
Thank you, A! Your poem beautifully captures the childhood memory and nostalgia. I am drawn to this line: “Memories of taste mingle with experience that can’t be replicated.” The final line is also so relatable.
Hmm…i typed a whole thing, submitted it, then noticed a misspelled word, went back to edit, and it was tagged as Spam. Now it’s gone. I’m hoping it reappears….
I’m glad you mentioned it, Julie. I was able to release it from Spam prison.
Thank you, Denise!
Oh, Kelsey, I love how you’ve shown elements of this delicious-sounding pasta salad as ways to make up for lack. Masterful.
My poem comes from a memory I was sharing yesterday with my Creative Writing class. The prompt was “the best burger you’ve ever eaten.”
Plein Air
I could smell the warm,
earthy aroma of mesquite
fired up on the huge grill.
Exhausted, filthy, and ready/
not-ready for the week
to be done,
I paused to breathe in the
smoke-scented air,
just for a moment,
before racing off to finish
packingcleaningpreparing
our campers for home.
The scent followed me
around the grounds,
beckoning me to stop,
relax, nourish body and soul.
My stomach rumbled.
Finally, all was done, and
it was time to commune
together one last time,
soak it all in to
sustain us through the
cold, dark winter.
After serving my campers
their food, it was my turn.
Flip grinned when he saw me
and slapped a slice of
of sharp cheddar
atop the patty he’d grilled
especially for me–
slight char marks outside,
just a hint of pink inside.
He squished the cheese
with his hot spatula to
make it a bit melty and
grease-speckled.
He scooped the mouth-
watering hunk of drippy
meat and cheese onto my bun,
“Just the way you like it.”
I smiled my thanks, loaded
the masterpiece up with
fresh lettuce,
juicy ripe tomatoes,
and crisp red onions, then
slathered the top bun
with my own special
concoction–Miracle
Whip and Grey Poupon.
I plopped down at the splintery
picnic table with my campers,
adopted the
Guy Fieri “hunch,”
and took that
first
glorious
bite.
Julie, you completely pulled me into this scene. I love the way you capture the surroundings and the finality of this particular day. Knowing the dark winter is ahead really sets the time. I adore the burger description as I could visualize everything. Your diction is spot-one to lead us to that glorious bite. Fantastic poem! I think I’m drooling!
I love camping, Julie. Your descriptive poem made me long for more. The smoke filled air and one being filthy and exhausted from caring for little campers made me remember the days I was a youth director for my church. Yes, that delicious, juicy hamburger served especially for you must have been one of the greatest rewards. Yummy description.
Hi Kelsey, thank you for a perfect first day prompt for September! I love food poems and I also love pasta salad! Your poem made me want to make some because it’s been a long time since I’ve made it.
I took a different route but used food metaphorically. I chose a nonet for my form.
On Freedom
I miss its savory taste, the pinch
of fairness salted into law,
bread broken with dignity.
Each bowl poured in balance,
tables set equal.
Voices nourished.
But we’ve lost
freedom,
starve.
©Stacey L. Joy, 9/20/25
Wow, Stacey! Such a powerful representation of the state of things. I love the visual impact of starting with nine syllables and slowly decreasing to “starve” – great extended metaphor.
Stacey, your poem shares exactly how I feel. I appreciate how well you blended in the cooking words such as “salted into law” and “bread broken with dignity”. I do feel that lost freedom, the feel of starvation. The nonet form is effective for sharing this timely and important message, and your Canva rendition is brilliant. Powerful poem! Thank you!
Stacey,
Amen! I often think of Stephen Crane’s poem “In the Desert” in relation to the regime and what motivates the hate. They hunger for it and would feed on their own flesh to satiate it. I want the meal you describe. I want to sit at the table of justice, mercy, kindness, and DEI. Your writing feeds my soul. Heart you.
Ending with Starve is so powerful. And leaves us all hungry for the taste you describe. Potent take on the prompt. Thanks for sharing this weekend
Oh, Stacey, this is so heartbreaking!
Powerful use of the form of a nonet and of food metaphors–it’s a real gut punch moving form “freedom” to “starve.”
I share your yearning for
Oh, Stacey, how did we arrive here? It seems unfathomable. That last line sounds like a command given from those in charge, a let-them-eat-cake kind of disdain toward the people. Your use of word choices (salted, bread broken, poured in balance) is so good.
Truth. We have moved backward, not forward. It feels like the French Revolution, only worse.
Home made ice cream!
The best ever on a hot summer day
made by Dad in his hand-cranked wooden bucket
holding a container surrounded by ice.
We had to work at it, churning it over and over
until our arm ached.
We didn’t mind
because the reward was marvelous.
Dad would open the lid and test.
Was it ice cream yet?
It was hard to wait.
The taste of it waiting on our tongues.
Soon it had thickened
and Dad pulled out the container,
took it to the kitchen.
“Sit in the dining room and I will serve you.”
But we should have known
Dad was full of tricks.
Home made ice cream is crunchy and icy
what we ate was smooth and silky.
Never suspecting
A delicious (store bought) treat
switched out in the kitchen by Dad.
Susan, your poem resonates for me as my dad was always fond of dishing out ice cream, however, we never had homemade ice cream. I love the pace of your poem and how you make the reader anticipate the final switch your dad engineered. What a precious memory!
Oh, that’s hilarious! Did you try to make ice cream on your own when you were older and wonder why it never turned out as silky and smooth as your dad’s? I used to love making homemade crank ice cream…this brought back those memories.
O Suan, I chuckled as I read the closing stanza. I was thinking Dad decorated the cups of homemade ice cream, not substituted it for store bought. I’m curious, when did you his “trick”?
Interesting, too. I read my poem to my sister about Jello Joy. She’s younger and doesn’t remember it, like I do. She said, she would have written about churning ice cream, I couldn’t remember that! Interesting, she noted that being brought up in the same household, we each have different “fond, and tasty” memories.
Thanks for sharing yours.
Thanks, Ana. I learned my Dad had done that when in an older age, he confessed.
Kelsey, I love how the ingredients from pasta salad become memories of your mother. It was wonderful inspiration for me to cull through favorite foods as a child and realize how tied up they are in what I wish for my own children. Thank you!
Taste of Heaven
I want to give my kids
olives on fingers–
salty black puppets, five for each hand,
a holiday staple straight from the can
to remember
the cousin-kids’ table.
I want to give my kids
pancakes with syrup–
steam-fluffed and stacked buttery-warm,
Saturday morning down-the-stairs scamper
to remember
what weekends are for.
I want to give my kids
ice cream-coned-happy–
a balloon-scoop bonanza,
a chewy-tooth, brownie-chunked,
chocolate slather of goodness
to remember
vacations.
I want to give my kids heaven.
I love this list of food fun as a child. I had forgotten about olives on fingers, those black puppets. Thanks for the memories.
Patricia, your poem’s title is perfect for your delightful favorite foods poem. Love the pancakes and the imagery of the black olives on the children’s fingers. So much fun and precious love in this poem. Your ending line is the perfect end note. Lovely!
The repetitions of memory making is so pretty here. I love all these things. Keep tasting the joys here. Thanks for sharing
Patricia,
This poem is precious!!! I love it all but especially this:
Patricia, each of these stanzas reads like an offering of courses in such a beautiful way. I love those hyphened foods (especially the chewy-tooth, brownie-chunked chocolate slather – though I had a hard time picking, just like I would if they were all on the menu). What a delight!
Kelsey, thank you for sharing the prompt and your poem today. I do love the twist on food being the happiest ever tasted. In your poem I love the details of what is included and how it is prepared “cubed” and how the vinegar coated “every noodle.” I also like how you share something with us about her “notes of abundance in her empty home.”
Dreamland
two days from Texas to Georgia
we’ve been dreaming of this since we started
gas stations, food stops, one hotel room
laughter and music –
songs change every trip
though “Earl” stuck around for several trips
long straight roads
the summer the black station wagon was new
we named her Morticia
many things were optional, but not
the stop in Tuscaloosa
Bear Bryant greeted us on the walls
still does along with
headlines celebrating the Crimson Tide
the ceilings hang low
little light streams in from the front window
the air is cool
early on it was just ribs
now there are other meat offerings and sides
nothing falls off the bone like a pork rib
meat that melts on your tongue
after hours on the road
Ooh! I have stopped at a place like that when on the road. I remember the light streams in a dark room, the cool air and the ribs. So enjoyable.
Jamie, your poem is a road trip. I totally understood “Earl” and loved Morticia as a name for a black station wagon. Crimson Tide helps establish the setting along with Tuscaloosa and Bear Bryant. Your ending is a culinary delight! Very fun poem!
Jamie,
I love the sense of anticipation and the feelings of a road trip and the return to an anchoring place:
Jamie, this is so beautifully visualized. I was happy to road trip with you – it felt like many of my childhood trips on long straight roads. And I need a photo of Morticia – what a perfect name!
Kelsey,
Thank you for your prompt. Your mother’s pasta salad sounds delicious! I totally relate to this: “Yet her recipe still tastes like the freshest/happiest thing I can never duplicate” — as I have never been able to make an apple pie like my mother’s.
My day is bursting, so this is all I was able to manage. I hope to circle back later and read more poems.
Apple Pie Under Fall Sky
The happiest Things I’ve Ever Tasted
Were the wonders in the kitchen you created
The warm memories that float in my mind
Flaky crust of apple pie
Later consumed under fall sky.
I see you turning the blue handle,
see falling spirals of cored Granny Apples,
and butter dappled slices settled into round pans.
I see brown sugar and cinnamon,
sprinkled abundantly,
like your love, never at minimum.
The Happiest Things I’ve Ever Tasted
Were the wonders in the kitchen you created
Your labors of love
Never Forgotten
Tammi – your joy comes through each stanza remembering the love your mom’s pie brings to mind –“never at minimum”. Really nice!
Tammi, the imagery and love you share in this poem is delicious. I love the title and the lines “sprinkled abundantly, like your love, never at minimum”. Simply gorgeous!
Tammi,
What a beautiful tribute to your mom:
Tammi, it all comes down to that last line, “your labors of love.” All the wonders of the kitchen are labors of love IF you make them for and share them with those you love.
Kelsey, your prompt this morning got me thinking. I am one of those who eat to live rather than one of those who eat to live. I am not a cake person nor one who adores a good steak. When I really think about it, as you have made me, I think the happiest food that have entered my mouth are not be recognized for their gourmet goodness, but rather for the people around the table.
Spread across the nation, it was rare
When we gathered at her massive
Table to share bowls of pasta e fagioli,
Simmered lovingly
On that big old stove in the corner, yet
It was the happiest of times, sharing soup.
Spread thin from work, school, activities,
Some days, we were able to gather at the table
With homework papers and books to share
Bottomless chicken in a pot always
Started on Sunday and fed with veggies,
Pasta, broth, tomatoes, and love.
It was the happiest of times, sharing soup.
Spread between overflowing lives,
Busy careers, soccer, football, lacrosse,
Swimming, family responsibilities,
It’s very rare for us to gather, yet when
Those stars rarely align, it’s still veggies
Simmered with love in a big pot,
It’s the happiest of times, sharing with my people.
Anita, I really like how you open with the fact that family can be spread across a nation which makes the opportunity to gather together a rare one, but when it does, it is “the happiest of times.” I know that distance and love when those rare occasions occur in my own life, so your poem resonated for me. I love the repetition of “It’s the happiest of times, sharing with my people.” because that’s what it’s all about. Your poem celebrates the special times with family beautifully! Thank you.
Anita,
I feel the nostalgia in this memory of family coming together to share a meal. I enjoyed how you used repetition of “spread across,” “spread thin,” “spread between,” and how it highlights how families are pulled in so many different directions but the coming together for a meals pulls us back. While my family is quite as spread apart geographically, I relate to the spread thin very much.
Anita, your repeating line says it all: people are at the heart of the happy times since it’s all about the sharing. I love that pasta e fagioli. And any pasta with arrabbiata sauce. Oh the tastes that burst forth with fresh tomatoes at the base. Bottomless chicken is a fun thought – – and even despite the busy schedules and geographic challenges, you manage to make the stars align to see those you love and simmer some love with your people!
Anita, I agree with you on eating live as opposed to being a person who lives to eat. I’m not a foodie. I enjoyed visualizing your gatherings. Warmth, care, and love bounce from each stanza. I love how you chose: spread across, spread thin, spread between.
Perfect!!
Anita, the refrain “the happiest of times” sings in each stanza, notably changing from sharing soup to “sharing with my people.” I can almost taste that amazing pasta and broth “simmered with love in a big pot” – love gives it the unforgettable flavor. Such a reminder to make time to gather and celebrate – so important, so true.
Anita, the movement between everyone across the nation to gathering shows so clearly what food will do – pull us together no matter the craziness of the days. I picture those long Sundays when a meal felt substantial, as did the time spent together. And “simmered with love in a big pot” works so well to represent family joining for a meal.
Kelsey, your prompt and the picture inspired this poem! Thanks for the inspiration.
JELLO JOY!!!
As youngsters in foster care
One may wonder, “Where oh where
Joy could be tasted there?”
But week after week
We had our choice
Of what to mix in our Jello!
Colorful, flavorful and not costly at all
You could pour it into molds and into it fold
Fruit of almost any kind.
Grandma Grace didn’t mind.
That’s how we learned science.
Some fresh fruits, like pineapples
Will ruin any flavor of Jello.
But canned pineapples are just fine.
Use a little less water and Jello stands up
You don’t even need to serve it in a cup!
Just set the slice on a plate
And unlike ice cream, Jello won’t melt
If for dessert, you have to wait.
We could slice it or spoon it
And on special occasions,
Have it topped with pure Pet Milk!
And it slips down our throats, smooth as silk!
What joy to sup gelatin made with such love
Streaming down from God above.
Anna, you have brought Jello into a whole new sphere for me with your post. I have never enjoyed eating Jello in fact I don’t even really like to look at it with its wiggling not-solid-existence. YET, your post got me thinking about Jello as love and togetherness which is the aspect of food that really is the MOST meaningful. Thank you for reminding me of the power of a little box of Jello.
Anna, I remember plenty of family gatherings with Jello concoctions. Green Jello with pears and orange Jello with carrots, etc. I’ve never heard of the Pet Milk topping though. I am intrigued by your line “Grandma Grace didn’t mind” wondering if this was your grandmother’s name or if you are using a metaphor. I appreciate how you learned science through your choice of ingredients you chose to put into the Jello. Fun use of rhyme throughout this.
Nope, Barb. Her name was Grace Bright and she was just that! It was she, the church musician, who taught me how to sing and speak in front of our small congregation. The tips still work when speaking in front of a colossal auditorium crammed with unknown folks.
Practice and pray!
Thanks for sharing, Anna!
Anna,
I never knew there were so many ways to consume Jello! I love the rhythm and rhyme of your poem and the love found in the simple things in life.
Anna, I’m a Jello lover, too, and your poem gives more ways to love it. My mother used to put the canned fruit cocktail in it. I think it’s probably the most highly underrated dessert out there, but as you show in your poem, a little experience and patience with it gives it such variety. And as always, your rhyme scheme amazes and dazzles me – – you make it seem so effortless and fluid, where mine generally fails like an unsettable jello….
Kim, fruit cocktail was the most special of all additions. Each of us liked different “fruits” so we all got something we liked. Thanks for the reminder!
Anna, YIKES! LOL, I absolutely detest Jello and your love of it is fascinating to me. I can’t imagine. It’s a texture thing for me. 😂
Remind me when you come to visit, to keep my special Jello mold salads off the table. Don’t want to upset you! Really, that used to be my signature dessert to take to potluck gatherings … especially of women. I learned to make the molded ones with layers. In fact, that recipe helped me sell Tupperware! As a Tupperware sales person, I earned a “free car” for two years! Oh well. I didn’t know anyone didn’t like Jello! Hope I didn’t turn off anyone. Take care, Joy even if Jello won’t do it for you.
Kelsey, Your poem, though deeply personal, stirs a universal memory of my own mother’s pasta salad. My mother added green peas because my father loved them. She and I did not, so we both picked them out. I love how you show in the end how you made the recipe your own, and stored away the happy memory.
I did the free writing and am hopeful it will shape itself into a verse as I type it here.
Black Friday Gumbo
The happiest thing I’ve ever tasted was your gumbo
meticulously stewed on Thanksgiving night
in a stock pot of left-over turkey bones, onions, and celery.
The strong scent perfumes the kitchen
even though our bellies are full.
Friday morning chill is heated by oil and flour
you stir for what seems like an hour
hunched and humming, listening to the game.
Our love is certain in a peanut butter roux. You stand
taller and hand me a spoon to taste.
That first sip tingles on the back of my throat
like our first kiss, longing and true.
Margaret Simon, draft
Margaret, my Louisiana-born daughter-in-law makes amazing gumbo. I can taste the layers of it and the heat of it against the “Friday morning chill” – your poem is so sensory. Those ending lines are just perfection – the tingling, the love – certain in the peanut butter roux and certainly everlasting.
YUM! I need to try a peanut butter roux.
Margaret, your words evoke relationship, in the tasting from the spoon, the meticulous crafting for full bellies, the longing and true of the kiss. What a sweet taste here today. I love the contrast between morning chill and heated flour and oil.
Margaret, your deeply personal relationship with a bowl of gumbo is another reminder to me that the power of food is not so much in the flavors but more in the way it connects us to others, like that first kiss.
Margaret, I am enthralled by how you capture a Thanksgiving weekend with the Black Friday gumbo being made and listening to the game. Your simile at the end is on fire. Wow! I felt completely pulled into this scene and how special this time must have been as you got to taste the peanut butter roux.
Margaret,
The description of the Gumbo is making me hungry. Sounds delicious! I love the image you paint of your mother in the kitchen cooking with and “humming, listening to the game.”
These last lines:
“That first sip tingles on the back of my throat
like our first kiss, longing and true.” — just beautiful!
Peanut butter roux??? Oh, my taste buds are already wondering. The last couple of lines show the role foods play in wanting to spend time savoring all of life together. What a perfect stirring, mixing, tingling, lingering. I like the way the recycling of one recipe feeds another.
Margaret, I love having people in my life who make gumbo, ’cause I don’t. Thanks for reminding me of them, and how I often change my departure date to make sure I don’t miss the gumbo. I love how your words cling to our senses – strong scent perfumes the kitchen, morning chill heated by oil and flour and visually with peanut butter roux. Makes me wonder where I might find gumbo on this game day.
Thank you
Kelsey, what a wonderful prompt! I can see and taste your Momma’s pasta salad, and I felt the significance of your own contribution via the cherry tomatoes. It speaks to an appreciation for heritage and individuality within it. I am also intrigued by your work as a mental health poet. I want to know more about this! As for my poem…I have written about my mother’s carrot cake before, and honestly tried to steer around it today. It wouldn’t let me – but it did allow for something new, akin to your cherry tomatoes. Thank you for the gift of your poem and invitation.
The Taste of Happiness
What is
the happiest thing
you ever tasted?
If you asked me this
when I was a child
I’d have said
Mama’s carrot cake
We had to wait
the whole livelong year
for her to make it
Arduous task, it was,
grating carrots
into invisibility
for the batter
Two layers baking
cinnamon wafting
through the house
like the breath
of Heaven
Cracking pecans
from Granddaddy’s tree
(its trunk studded
with woodpecker holes)
Weeding out every last
shell-sliver from the
nut crevices,
finally chopping
small bits
for the icing
o, the icing
Confectioner’s sugar
folded into cream cheese
for folding in the pecans
and onto
my finger
bliss
I begged for this cake
for my birthday
she never
managed it
except for
Thanksgiving
Looking back
I realize
the undetectable
endurance
sadness
long slow unraveling
folded into
that taste of the divine
—What is the happiest thing
you ever tasted?
I still love
Mama’s carrot cake
I make it
for my granddaughters
even made it once
for my own birthday
but truth be told
the cake
my daughter-in-law made
for my sixtieth—
strawberry
tinged with lemonade
covered with
pale blush icing
as rich and silky
as memory
and piped there
among the roses
my name
“Franna
—We helped make it,
Franna
says the three-year-old
big brown eyes aglow
a precious little finger
sneaking a bit
of the creamy icing
as my daughter-in-law
serves me a slice
barest-pink sweetness
with just a hint
of zest
unspeakably light
yes
o yes
this
is the happiest
thing
I have ever tasted
Fran, the shift of happiness from generation to generation seems to come through in the slices of things – breads, pies, cakes. You won’t be surprised to know that I leaned in on your grandfather’s pecan tree (mine had one, too) and that carrot cake was so much my favorite that – – you guessed it — I chose it as my wedding cake. Your phrasing like “the livelong year,” “into invisibility,” “breath of Heaven,” those words resonate so strongly with regional dialect and home culture, and then you put the icing on the cake literally and figuratively with those sweet words from your granddaughters and daughter in law…..oh, what a fine taste of sweet family love, all these girls to cherish. You are richly blessed and you always have just the right words to help us see where the mattering lives.
In this poem as it steered you toward your mother, it also steered you away to your own life as a mother and grandmother, where the sweetest thing is present with you always.
That is a beautiful thought, Margaret – how true. Thank you.
Oh, Fran, such a delicious poem with so much love, care, and sense of togetherness! Remembering “Grandaddy’s pecan tree” reminds me of my in-laws and our pecan trees in their yard. And those tiny fingers “sneaking a bit of the creamy icing” are priceless. I love watching my grandkids do that and pretend I don’t notice it 🥰
Fran, I could go on and on about carrot cake (a favorite), and your words bring forth the very best of the reasons why. I think it is in the lingering days between tastes that we find worth, in the anticipation and not overindulgence, in the appreciation for what is to come and the fleetingness of that moment. You capture it so beautifully here.
Fran, your poem is just delicious as is the way you weave the tastes and love through the generations. The food is delicious for sure but the love of your people is the very best taste of all.
Fran, your poem is a celebration of family. The gift of baking radiates throughout the entire poem. I can smell the special scent of cinnamon and taste that creamy icing with a hint of zest. I really liked the way you separated “unspeakably light” and how your poem moves like a joyful dance to the close. Gorgeous poem full of love of sweet happiness!
Hello Open Write! It’s been a while. Thanks for being a place I can return. Kelsey, this prompt is delicious! Kid really do have a way with language as they learn that delights us. Thanks for the process story of how you came to today’s prompt. It’s so stinkin’ cute!
I love how you’ve added something mama could never handle, the cherry tomatoes. Isn’t that the way we are? We stand on shoulders, grow and become the base for a new generation. I can taste the love in your poem.
I don’t have a title for this yet, but here’s where my scribbles led me this morning.
The happiest taste I can remember
is the giant chocolate chip cookie
on the last day of school.
Those bitter-sweet chips of until-we-meet-again freedom
mixed in with soft biscuits of closed grade-books,
a clear appoint-calendar, and no planned lessons…
only sleeping in, staying up late,
bare feet making friends with beach sand
and senses dialed in to summer stars
and cicadas.
Linda, the fond memories of how summer begins and where it takes us – – and the hallmark ending of cicadas leaves us with the trill of summer I can still hear, still feel beach sand on bare feet and still remember what life was like with no worries…..and to think it all comes rushing back in a chocolate chip that prompts a poem that brings all the feels.
Linda, the conciseness of this poem (unlike mine, ha) makes it as rich as I imagine that chocolate chip cookie to be. Oh, the sweetness of that freedom! “Senses dialed in to summer stars and cicadas” – you have captured a piece of my very own soul, right there, with yours. So much to say about that, I won’t say it all, only that the sound of cicadas is one of my life’s favorites, deeply meaningful, and inextricably attached to memories. I love the poem ending on that note. I am still hearing them here in central NC.
I can feel your longing to be back at that last day of school. I love the metaphors of “until-we-meet-again freedom” and “soft biscuits of closed grade-books.”
Linda, I almost wrote of this taste but I’m glad I shifted away since you have done it so much better. I love those middle lines – the chocolate chips and biscuit metaphors. I can almost taste them now having not left them too long ago. They will come again, and more quickly than believable.
Linda, the way you started with the delicious taste and then reminded us that the tastes took you to the real prize of a carefree summer. I thought I was alone in my initial perception of tastes really being about people and times but I am guessing we are all in this same people-focused boat!
Linda, your poem is a taste-explosion of sounds and sensory immersion. I loved your line “mixed in with soft biscuits of closed grade-books”. You’ve captured the pure joy experienced when we know the freedom of summer is here. I love the end with “summer stars/ and cicadas”. Brilliant poem!
Linda, I love how your ‘giant chocolate chip cookie’ symbolizes so much more than taste. until-we-meet-again freedom – closed grade-books – clear appoint-calendar – no planned lessons and so much more. Hard to say if the happiest food is tied to the moment or the taste.?
Oh gosh, Linda! I love that the TEACHER is revelling in the giant chocolate chip cookie– and the bare feet (yay! there it is!) making friends with beach sand! Hurrah!
Kelsey, thank you for sharing with us today. I’m struck by the repetition of “never” in your poem and all that it might hint at. Having never had carrots in pasta salad, I’m going to give them a go the next time.
Order Up
I tasted death
once.
It tasted of darkness
with a hint of relief,
a single-note
of silence,
and a suggestion of alone
that remained
on the tongue
far after the table
was cleared.
Such a powerful work that infuses emotions with the senses. A taste of death is terrifying yet intriguing- I keep returning and reading your poem over and over. The taste of death lingers after the table is cleared is thought provoking. I want to hear more….😊
Jennifer, what a taste! What a poem! That hint of relief in the darkness and silence and then the metaphor of the table at the end take the “death” to other places unliteral, like marriage/divorce, relationships, a clean bill of health, a job, the what-could-have-been-but-wasn’t. I’m a fan of the deep thought here.
Jennifer, I recall realizing my own mortality around age nine and fearing it. I remember listening to my grandfather snoring loudly in the night and praying that he would not die any time soon (he didn’t; he lived three more decades and died peacefully at 92). I say all this to say that eventually the fear leaves. How your poem encapsulates it with “A hint of relief…” Your imagery, as always, is profound, the language, just lyrical.
Oof this is so so so deliciously good, thank you for writing it. I’m moved by the words dripping off your poem.
I know all too well the taste of “alone”. I’m intrigued by your title “Order Up.” It hints at the last taste of life.
Oh, my…I’m surprised at how the typically sad subject can sound so positive by the end. I love this short Order Up with such a “pow” to the poem.
Jennifer, I just love the poem you share with us today. The imagery is stunning: taste of death, darkness, hint of relief, silence. The entire poem reads like a moment of awe and crucial realization. So thought provoking!
Jennifer, Wow! Your compact poem radiates with emotional power. I really enjoy how you opened this “I tasted death/once.” The “hint of relief” is compelling and the “single-note/of silence” emphasizes the punch we experience after a loss. The image at the end is incredible. I feel like I have heard a tremendous gong reverberating from reading your poem. Sensational poem!
Your poem is layered with pain and yet hope. It reminds me of how I felt the night my marriage ended over beef and broccoli with a cheap bottle of rose. Alone was what was left. I will be thinking about this one all day, but please know I hope you are ok and know you are not totally alone. I care.
Jennifer, your poem holds my attention. I am wondering about this meal. Your poem follows a narrative structure beginning with tasted, followed by hint of relief, single-note of silence, suggestion of alone that remained . . . far after the table was cleared. Feels like an invitation to fill in the spaces. Thanks for sharing.
Ooh, Jennifer –Your poem is powerful! I love how darkness is a taste –relief, silence, alone-ness –and its timing with a cleared table. Very nice!
Kelsey, your poem inspired mine as I thought today of our gathering this past June when Dad died and the children all rushed home, only one of them in time to say goodbye to their grandfather. I like that your bio shares that you look for the good side of memories. That stays with me – – because there is also such sorrow, such grief, such anger and downsides to the memories, too, but the good is what carries us on. Thank you for hosting us today.
It’s All in the Kneading
he happiest thing
I’ve ever tasted was that moment
when in my grief
soul-gutting tears in a
big-enough-for-all
walls of a VRBO
reverberating sniffles
and crumpled Kleenex
and happy laughs of
oblivious grandchildren playing
with their newest cousin
trying to teach him
to walk at six months
and believing he could
the strains of Amazing Grace
sung to a guitar
by the rest of us trying
to sing with the best
believing we could
as we all sat piled high
on the curved couch
pajama-clad, remembering
*******. ********
then one broke the silence
asking for a happier moment
in the autumn – another together
time when smiles returned
then another added
yeah, when
any of us can
make a word from tiles in
turntable Scrabble
and another added
yeah, and only if Mom
brings the pumpkin bread
and I right then
in those delicate moments
I knew three things:
that I had taken the reins
as the newest family elder and
that tradition of togetherness
lives on in food tried first
as a flopped recipe
when they’re toddlers, then tested
again and again to perfection
by the time they’re teenagers
and can’t think of gatherings
without it and
that families too
are like that ~
learning to walk
learning to sing
learning to bake
learning to live on
through all the tears and laughter
together
Kim…here we meet again on, literally, the same page (ok, screen) with memory, loss, love newness, and generational celebration.Yes, as families, we are always learning. The taste of memory is sweet and sharp, like autumn itself. I feel within me a stirring to write something autumnal. Not sure what. Wouldn’t you know, at this very moment, I have a pumpkin bread mix on my kitchen counter, to make for my family? I think of the spices that make carrot cake and pumpkin bread so good, and love (not variety) being the spice of life, especially in the richness of those bright moments with loved ones before the leaving comes. Ah. You pierce my heart. Beautifully rendered, friend.
yes to becoming newest family elder. I am not. yet. But, I see it coming and it’s a chilling thought until the goodness that paved the way floods in. You are literally singing my song and I’m crying along with you. xo
Kim, when I read the prompt this morning, the first thought was about being together with my family at the big childhood dinner table, but then I read your poem. You say it all so much better. The notion of being the eldest in the family comes with some pressure. When my oldest sister and parents passed, the second oldest sister shared her little fears and responsibility to keep us connected. That feeling of togetherness you mention is such a vital part of our lives. Thank you for helping me resurface some of my memories!
Kim, the stream of consciousness format of your poem works so beautifully to capture what feels like the saturation of emotions and the multitude of things that make up our losses. From the “kneading” double meaning to the perfecting of family recipes holding us together through generations, your words ring true and speak to the length and the complexity of the process of letting go. Which is also a form of arriving. Beautiful.
Kim, my heartstrings are pulled throughout your poem. I can feel and see this emotional gathering and the pleasure of sharing the special memories. Your use of anaphora at the end of your poem is extremely effective because when we lose someone close, it’s like we have to learn once again how to move on. Absolutely adored the last two lines. Tears! Hugs!
Kim, your poem is so honest capturing the joy among the saddest of gathering and the promise that life will go on even as the “elders” change as change is the only “thing” guaranteed in this life. As I pondered this prompt when swimming early this morning, I was thinking that I have few if any real moments about a specific food even if I love chocolate chip mint ice cream and lobster and…. It’s the gathering of people who represent the happiest of memories, even as you note so powerfully, if the gathering is to celebrate life’s ever changing gatherings through tears and laughter.
Kim,
This is such a bittersweet verse, a lovely reminder of how togetherness tastes, how we grieve and live together, how a moment we think we’ve failed turns into an iconic memory we’d never dream of changing. Time takes and gives us my thought as I read and reread your memory and savor the ideas. Like you, death and loss is on my mind. I know yours is fresh and new while mine will mark 50 years next Saturday.
I thought of birthday cake.
🙂
Kevin
Whipped cream frosting
on a whipped cream cake
My mother, tossing sugar,
with the oven set to bake
A once-a-year adventure
she’d once agreed to take
I’d sit and watch her work,
and dream and contemplate
then after celebration,
we’d dig in, without haste
I’d close my eyes in wonder
and lose myself to taste
Wow!! Excellent beat, rhythm and rhyme. Happy Birthday 😊
Yum! I’m imagining whipped cream frosting on whipped cream cake and the lightness of it all. Maybe too much for breakfast but it sure sounds like a good place to start.
bonus points for perfect rhymes. Well done.
There is nothing like those sacred family recipes, and the once a year made their presence after absence even more tasty, I’m sure. Love the imagery, too – -I can see, smell, and taste the cake.
A musical and enchanting rhythm, indeed – perfect for the topic, I, too, thought of birthday cake.
I like the weaving in of rhyme here along with that yummy taste of frosting.
Kevin, the delicious description of your mother’s cake is striking. I love the action in this poem, “we’d dig in, without haste”. Lovely celebration of cake and all the reasons to celebrate a birthday.
Kevin, your rhythm and word choice are lovely but your first lines describing whipped cream frosting on whipped cream cake is just magical! That line makes me think of a cake made with so much love that it is huge and worthy of that once a year adventure.
“The Southern Wish Sandwich”
Two pieces of white bread,
one quick mayo spread,
wishing for bologna instead,
only thing that kept us fed.
Being poor in the South,
wish sandwiches is what it’s all about,
fill it with anything,no doubt,
but you only getting bread in your mouth.
Roast beef, steak and ham,
cheese, pickles, heck even spam,
anything and everything I didn’t give damn,
They were the best, ‘cause here I am.
My cousins and I all had our share,
of the dream sandwich that was not there
and symbolized what our daddy’s could not bear,
’Cause cotton mill bosses did not care,
if all kids ate sandwiches of air,
and looked at them with a hunger stare,
The fake sandwich was so unfair!
The wish sandwich taught,
about what can’t be bought,
granting societal thought,
into classes sought,
that it wasn’t really my daddy’s fault,
Stratisfaction can’t be fought,
though success can be sought,
it’s like the sandwich, it’s all for nought.
-Boxer
“Sandwiches of Air” – there’s a caption for cultural stratisfaction, a title for a collection of stories that too many can tell. I keep returning to those words, unable to step away from both image and nuance.
I’m hanging on all of it because I, too, lived it but never thought of it as a wish sandwich. How perfect! My mother ate them, too. So did my dad. And that word – – stratisfaction. Oh, wow! That’s a new one for me, and so, so apt. So fitting. The society in layers of socioeconomic status. Are you sharing this one with your psychology students?? Please do, and it has me hoping you’ll ask them to write poems on concepts and realities like wish sandwiches. This is a real winner today, MoonDog. You have a gem of a poem here.
oooof. Isn’t it amazing how something that was not real is oh, so much more real with memory. There’s plenty of my students that eat wish sandwiches. I had a few in my time too…only natural peanut butter was my “mayo.” You bring the prompt to life.
Boxer, I have always cherished my Southern roots. Much to be said about hard times and families and communities helping one another. My dad was born in a tenant house – Granddaddy was a sharecropper. My mother’s mother worked in the mills. All of it rises inside me as I read your words, so magnificently crafted. I do love a story poem best of all. And…I recall how my dad loved a SPAM sandwuch (!!!). The mayonnaise always had to be Duke’s.
The rhythm and rhyme get me through this heart wrenching story of wish sandwiches. “‘Cause cotton mill bosses did not care/ if all kids ate sandwiches of air.” Gut punch!
Boxer, your poem shows the pain of poverty. I remember desiring something better than the toast and gravy we often ate so the “sandwiches of air” resonated. I am deeply impressed by the rhythms of your poem.
Clayton, I first read your poem early this morning as I savored the prompt. Your use of rhythm and rhyme to describe such a powerful concept as providing food is powerful. While I have not really known sandwiches of air as a child growing up, I have spent much of my life working with those who have known empty bowls of hope and despair. Your poem reminds me to be generous at the soup kitchen and empty cups. POWERFUL
Wow. This is powerful and brings such playful rhyme to something so hungry and humble. Thanks for sharing this piece