This is the Open Write, a place for educators to nurture their writing lives and to advocate for writing poetry in community.
Our Host
Sarah J. Donovan, PhD, is a former junior English language arts teacher of fifteen years and current Associate Professor of Secondary English Education at Oklahoma State University (since 2019). She wrote the young adult novel, Alone Together (2018) and is the co-author on several books on poetry Rhyme and Rhythm: Poems for Student Athletes, Teachers Writing to Bridge the Distance, 90 Ways of Community, and Words that Mend. Two forthcoming books include Teaching Poetry in a Digital World: Inspiring Poetry Writing through Technology in Grades 6-12 and Writing to Learn Across Content Areas: Poetry as Formative Assessment. Sarah is the founder of Ethical ELA, a free resource for ELA educators to write poetry in community.
Inspiration
Young adult author and poet Jaime Jo Hoang writes in “Pebbles in My Palm” about her culture. The imagery of dirt, pebbles, and blooming flowers symbolizes the poet’s ties to their heritage, showing how cultural identity is something carried within rather than tied to a single place. Ultimately, the poem expresses a sense of belonging wherever the poet is, as long as they hold onto their history and traditions:
Dirt in my hand,
pebbles in my palm.
Heritage in Vietnam.
Home is where I am.
Words I know dance on the breeze.
Hoa hồng is a rose.
Hoa sen, a lotus.
I speak not with ease.
I sound American because I am American,
but I am also Vietnamese.
So I listen to tradition
passed down in song and dance.
Fans in hands, a spark of imagination.
History at a glance…
(Click the link above for the full poem and listen to Jamie read the poem in the interview below.)
Process
Sometimes I find that I am holding my breath throughout the day or in certain situations. I have to actually remind myself to exhale to breathe, to take a deep inhale and feel my lungs filling up. I can do that anywhere, but there are places where I just know I will be alright and don’t have to remind myself to breathe.
I offer you a couple of options for your poem today depending on what you want to explore through poetic work:
“Home in Two Worlds”
Write a poem about the tension and beauty of living between two cultures. Explore the languages, traditions, and memories that shape your identity. Use sensory details—touch, taste, sound—to connect with the places that feel like home, whether they are near or far. How do you carry your heritage with you? What reminds you of where you come from?
“A Tradition to Treasure”
Choose a cultural tradition—either from your own heritage or one you want to learn more about—and write a poem that celebrates its beauty, movement, sounds, or meaning. Research a dance, holiday, craft, or custom, and describe it through vivid imagery. How does it connect people across time? What feelings does it evoke? Approach this as an opportunity to honor and appreciate the richness of cultural practices.
Sarah’s Poem
The Lion’s Club: Scholarship for Italian Heritage
Coming from a family of eleven, we knew
that if we were to go to college,
we’d have to pay our own way.
So we all got jobs, some since fourteen,
and worked the scholarship scene.
The Lions Club and the Knights of Columbus
offered money for our nationality.
My grandfather came to Chicago from Italy in 1920, just nineteen
from Collodi, greeted by Lady Liberty, married Esther Betti
brought three boys, two girls, and a rosary to Chicago for school;
the boys were princes and the girls were out of graces.
Though my mother’s upbringing was tough,
she was proud of her heritage.
One year, for Christmas, she bought each of us
an Italian jacket. You know — track style,
white with a shiny sheen,
and red, white and green
on the collar and sleeves.
She had our first names
embroidered on the front,
and on the back,
on the back was
Aikman.
No, that’s not Italian,
but Baiocchi was, is
the name Grandpa brought
from Collodi and stayed
with the princes.
At seventeen, I wore that jacket with pride though
I did not speak Italian. I had never been to Italy.
I did not cook lasagna, though I could make spaghetti.
So I wrote a nice essay about my heritage,
sent in a picture of me in my jacket.
The Lions and Knights were not impressed.
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.
Why are you adding
milk to your cake?
Isn’t that weird?
Is that a mistake?
It’s just what we do
how my mom
likes to bake.
The point of a cake
is to cut out a slice
set it up on a plate
before taking a bite.
But the taste of a cake
when surrounded with milk
is such a delight.
No one eats it like that
it is messy and muddy
the frosting is mixed
and the pudding is runny.
It’s a mid-western thing
and it’s really quite yummy
even when it looks so funny.
This brought a smile to my face, Diane. It’s tempting- maybe I’ll give it a try!
Colours of Our Home
In Pakistan, where hearts run deep,
We laugh together, and together we weep.
A land of customs, rich and true,
With every season, a vibrant hue.
Weddings shine with drums and song,
Family gathers, joy runs strong.
Hennaed hands and bridal cheer,
Love and laughter fill the air.
Ramadan comes with calm and light,
Prayers and peace through every night.
Then Eid arrives with hugs and sweet,
New clothes, kind smiles on every street.
Summer brings the mango days,
Golden fruit in sunny rays.
We sit and share with joy so wide,
With chilled drinks and cousins by our side.
When rain pours down, we find delight,
With spicy snacks and swings in flight.
Gardens bloom with laughter near,
As loved ones make each moment dear.
In sorrow too, we’re not alone,
Every tear is gently known
With open arms and heartfelt grace,
We comfort each and hold our place.
We’re people of a giving way,
With open hearts, come night or day
Najma, you’ve painted such beautiful pictures in your poem. I like how you interwoven the seasons and holiday to mark the passing of time. I really felt like I was in Pakistan!
I really liked this poem. It tells a real and touching story about family, hard work, and pride in your roots. The jacket part made me smile—it showed love in such a simple, sweet way.
Teenage Ambitions
By Mo Daley 5/20/25
“You are just like your mother,”
made my skin crawl was I was just fourteen.
I mean, she didn’t even graduate from high school.
She joined the Army, for God’s sake!
She couldn’t even drive,
and stayed home with all those kids.
I was going to BE somebody.
I’d take reddish hair, pale skin, freckles,
and gift of gab she bestowed on me,
and I’d show the world who I could BE.
It turns out, I’ve spent most of my life trying to BE her.
Her generosity knew no bounds.
Her thoughtfulness was at least town, if not world renowned.
Her love was limitless- if she met you, she loved you.
And I hope to one day be as smart as she was,
able to converse on multitudes of topics with confidence.
And the family she created and cultivated?
We are firmly planted, close to each other,
reaching our branches out to one another.
I long to hear,
“You are just like your mother!”
Your poem touched my heart. I felt the strong emotions and the love for your mother. I liked how you showed the change from wanting to be different to proudly becoming like her. It was honest, warm, and beautiful. A lovely tribute to a strong and loving mother.
With the recent death of my own (Italian) father, your poem rings true — I cling to my father’s Italian heritage –the gift of his culture that he breathed into us as part of our being. I love this memory, this jacket, and the emotion that lives in this poem.
But today I write about my home in two other worlds that have shaped me.
My Home In Two Worlds
Summer arrived yesterday in my desert home.
I woke to the shriek of a gila woodpecker
giddy at the prospect of a whole yard of mesquite
bark to herself, without threat of my hundred-pound
four-legged keeping her at bay. I watched a fat
chuckwalla take down a luna moth outside my window.
Tomorrow, I migrate to the mountains. I will wake
to seasonal whiplash, re-live winter-into-spring. A dusting
of snow will sparkle still-frozen ground. A forest thaw
will follow, and perhaps by June we will be able
to bury my father’s ashes at the base of a beloved Sugar pine.
It’s an annual migration; one I’ve been doing for 27 years.
I am loved by a desert and anchored by mountains.
©draft PJF
Ah, Patricia, this is gorgeous. I love the details, especially your watching the “chuckwalla take down a luna moth” and anticipating the day you will be able to bury your father’s ashes. Such a lovely poem about the two worlds that have been shaping you for all these years.
Patricia, my condolences to you and your family. Your poem is like a love song to nature.
🌹🌹
Patricia, I’m so sorry to hear about your father’s passing. This poem ias a lovely tribute.Your couplets are wonderful and flow so beautifully into each other, giving us a sense of movement. I love the contrasts in your poem. Also, I had to look up what a chuckwalla is, since I live in the MIdwest!
Beautiful poem. It touched me deeply. I recently lost my own father, and your words brought comfort. I hold on to his Italian heritage—it’s a part of who I am, just like your connection to the desert and the mountains.
Your poem painted such a clear picture. I could see the desert, the animals, the snow in the mountains. It felt peaceful and full of life at the same time. The way you speak about your father and the land shows how deeply both have shaped you.
I’m sending you warmth and strength as you return to the mountains. May the place you love help bring you comfort as you honor your father’s memory
Sarah, I wish I could’ve been a friend of yours when you were growing up. I am so drawn to your large family and can only imagine life with your siblings.
My time was short for writing because I attended my student’s piano recital. I was also honored to have 4 of my poems recited by students in his piano class. It was truly special.
I loved watching the interview with you and Jamie. I don’t know if she knows this but Sonja Cherry-Paul centers the dandelion in her newest book The Antiracist Reading Revolution. Please tell Jamie I agree there’s a poem in there waiting to be written. I stole her words (The diaspora is like a dandelion.) and wrote a quick draft of a Golden Shovel I would like to spend more time on another day.
Where Is Home?
Where is home? Is it in the
Spices or cha-chas? Home is in the diaspora
Where our story is
Written across continents. Home is like
A migration. We scatter in soil and take root like a
Strong resilient yellow dandelion
©Stacey L. Joy, 5/18/25 (draft)
Stacey,
Your poem is beautiful. I love the power of these words —
“We scatter in soil and take root like a
Strong resilient yellow dandelion”
Stacey, for a quick draft you’ve created an incredible poem. I adore your opening question and the last two lines are amazing! You must have been truly honored to hear your poems recited by your students. Very cool!
Stacey, another gorgeous poem from you!
Love the lines Tammi chose to highlight too.
This poem is simple elegance. Each word is precise and perfect. The double simile and the layered meaning of the dandelion- well it’s just genius.
Stacey, hooray for this. You are from that “strong resilient yellow dandelion” Beautiful ‘we scatter in soil’
Beautiful. The scattering, the rooting, the resilience.
I really liked your poem. The image of the dandelion is beautiful. It shows how we can grow and belong anywhere.
Sarah, thank you for this. I love the way you explained the jacket and the Italian heritage you got to experience a little bit. We almost forget about the title of your poem and the scholarship intro, until that very last line, which wasn’t funny to you at the time, but it made me smile.
When I think of my heritage, I always come up short on anything specific–we were Heinz 57 Varieties, as my mom used to explain my heritage. Even the food was quite varied, which was most often delicious, despite today’s poem.
My Food Heritage
I have a heritage
full of food—
All kinds of food.
Ethnic foods,
Southern comfort foods,
American foods,
Food, food, food.
My father feared
we’d look hungry,
so we ate.
Or we didn’t.
I was the one
(of the many mouths
around the table)
that didn’t like
“all kinds of food”—
liver and onions, for instance,
(who would?)
spinach was another.
There were plenty of others.
On the unfortunate nights that
yuck factor foods were served,
I was stalwart.
I’m not eating that slop.
(Of course, I only said it to myself.)
I would sit and sit and sit,
while they
waited for me.
Our heritage was to eat the foods,
and they did their best to make me,
but I was stalwart,
and I was the one
with power over my own
chewing and swallowing.
I learned all the hiding spots—
folded napkins, deep mouth recesses,
dog mouths, toilet bowls, and since
the others had long ago left the table,
I was alone to dump my portion back
into the casserole dish,
when I could
get away with it.
Occasionally,
my hiding spots failed,
and I spent early nights
in my room, sent to bed
without my supper
because I wouldn’t eat it.
I have a heritage
full of food–
(with some food issues
thrown in). So, stay tuned
for the next poem
in which I lavish praise
on all the foods I loved
and
continue
to
love.
Denise, your poem made me laugh out loud. It was a sad night at our house when we smelled bacon at dinner because that meant my mother was trying to disguise the smell of liver and onions by wrapping the liver in strips of bacon. It never worked… looking forward to the lavish praise of the food you loved!
Denise, we would be friends as kids too Lol.. There were foods I didn’t like (wouldn’t touch), but there was no choice. I like how you transition from all kinds of food to not eating:
“My father feared
we’d look hungry,
so we ate.
Or we didn’t.”
The spaced line prepared me for what’s coming. I smiled recognizing myself in your poem. Thank you!
Denise — your battle with unpalatable foods had me chuckling. I also tried my best to hide foods I disliked. I look forward to reading a poem about the foods you loved.
Denise, I was a huge picky eater when I was younger. I remember really detesting sweet potatoes and getting in trouble for not wanting to eat. Not enjoying liver and onions makes perfect sense to me!
Denise, this makes me smile — I have similar memories of holding out and hoping to be sent to bed to avoid eating “yuck factor foods.” Wonderful!
LOL! This could’ve described the majority of my mom’s dinners. Only I didn’t have the hiding places like you. I just left the yucky food on the table! To this day, I struggle to clear my plate and always leave a morsel or two.
Love the idea of a food heritage to center your poem around.
Oh my word, Denise! Our culture was to eat the food, too! I just love the lines,
“My father feared
we’d look hungry,
so we ate.”
You’ve said so much in these few words.
I really enjoyed this poem. It’s honest, funny, and full of feeling. I could picture everything clearly—especially the “hiding spots.” You captured what food and family can feel like so well. I’m looking forward to the next one.
Denise told me you were here yesterday! I am not getting Ethical ELA notices for some reason. But I was prompted again today by Kim’s beautiful poem of loss. And so now I’m here, and I’m thinking about my heritage, which is Italian. My Grandpa Tony, who was a miracle worker with plants, though he has so much trouble with language and never learned English that anyone could understand. But he was a genius when he spoke to plants. The Italy in my dreams and memory is about land and food and nourishment.
Old Antonio
Old Antonio
Stands in his garden
In his bathrobe and slippers,
Stoops to choose a tomato,
Breathes in its ripe aroma –
Snaps some beans from their vines.
Old Antonio
Collects jars of eggshells
Floating in murky water,
Eventually the shells dissolve –
Rich nutrients water young plants.
Old Antonio
Stands forever is his garden,
Worms singing beneath his feet.
Joanne, so glad you made it back today. I hope you can get your reminder emails sorted out.
I love Old Antonio here as you describe his magic touch in the garden. And those last lines make him seem forever alive. Beautiful poem.
Joanne, thank you for sharing with us “Old Antonio.” He sounds like a garden magician. “Worms singing beneath his feet” is everything in this poem–such a soulful image.
Joanne — love the images of Old Antonio standing in his garden “In his bathrobe and slippers.” Sounds like he was a character!
Joanne, Old Antonio comes brilliantly to life in your poem. I love your focus on actions and the end is amazing!
The last image is such a perfect way to end this delicious poem. There is delight in joke words, in Antonio, that keeps coming through line after line. What a joyful poem!
Oh, I love Old Antonio –that he lives forever in the space he so loved. Beautiful!
Joanne, I got the emails, but am just now opening them! Oh well! I came here to say your poem is a beautiful painting.
I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect to be so moved by a quiet garden scene. But this poem really stayed with me. The way you describe Old Antonio is so vivid and peaceful. It made me slow down and appreciate the small, steady moments in life. The final line is just beautiful.
I love worms singing beneath his feet. This sums up his magic beautifully.
Sarah,
Thank you for your wonderful prompt. After the recent passing of my father, my brother and I have a house to sell. It was my parent’s dream house, so this process will be bittersweet.
Love, Loss, LegacyNestled deep in pines and maples,
a red brick house —
rhododendron trimmed —
the dream they built,
their legacy.
Inside,
Dad’s office where he crunched numbers,
dispensed advice —
CPA, confidante, kingmaker.
Stacks of papers,
crisscrossed and untouched.
Everything remains
just as he left it.
Step further
into the open kitchen
flowing into the living room,
where we watched TV —
garlic and oregano
wafting through the air.
Cabinets
hold Mom’s Christmas dishes —
mine now,
but their joy fades
without her presence.
Generational photos line the walls —
Mom believed pictures
should be shown, not stored.
My brother says,
“You can have them all.”
I laugh —
“I don’t have enough walls!”
Four seasons room
Doors opening out to a daffodil field —
planted by Dad
for Mom,
regularly plucked
for kitchen vases.
In this garden of dreams,
I long to spot
a cardinal.
I’ll dig bulbs in fall,
bury them at home —
a springtime reminder
of Mom.
Beyond the daffodils,
a wooden play set,
built for grandkids —
now splintered,
canopy torn,
faded.
Letting go of this house —
the dream they built,
this legacy of love —
seems impossible.
Tammi, it is truly a bittersweet parting – the gift and the memories are sweet and painful at once. I have been thinking of you in these days. Losing parents is so tough. I’m sorry – – and I know that he is in a much better place. But when they’re no longer in this one, we feel their absence. I’m glad you got your mom’s dishes and some photos. Your ancestral spirits live on around the kitchen table. Always around the table!!
Tammi, my condolences for your loss. Your mom was gone, and now your dad is too. Going through all their things and letting go of the house adds to the heartbreak. I like how you added some smiles throughout, with the photos and the bulbs to bring to your own house. Yes, I’m sure it will seem impossible for a while. Peace to you.
Tammi, your poem is threaded with pain you carry. The final stanza reveals the depth of your grief. Sending love and hugs to you 🤗
Oh, Tammi, I can feel your loss in every word of your poem. It’s so difficult to sort through the things left behind that are reminders of happier times. I love the way your poem provides a clear view of your parent’s home that reveals not only the rooms but its surroundings like the daffodils your mother planted. Very moving and poignant poem. Hugs!
Tammi You know, this really got to me. The way you walked us through the house—room by room , made me feel like I was right there with you. Every detail, from the garlic in the air to the daffodils in the field, carried so much love and memory. It’s such a beautiful, heartfelt tribute. Letting go of a place like that really does seem impossible.
Thanks for this fertile prompt Sarah. Both your mentor poem and your own poem touched something tender inside me. I felt the pebbles in my palm as deeply as I felt your pride in that white jacket. I also felt the sting of Lions and Knights who are blind to the beauty of what they don’t recognize or understand.
My heritage is stories, always stories,
especially stories told by my father
round the dinner table, stories
of his childhood, or the celebrities
he’d seen working in the city
but whose names
he could never remember. You know,
he’d say, tossing out clues
and shaking his head
at our wrong answers. You know.
By dessert, we always would know
and he’d tell another story,
about the cleaning lady or taxi driver,
or the doorman at his office.
Their stories made us sad sometimes
and he’d remind us that everyone has a story
and that the cleaning lady, the taxi driver,
and the doorman at his office
were just as important as the celebrities he’d seen.
Now, years later, the only celebrity I remember him
telling us about is Telly Savalas, but I will never forget
the story about the cleaning lady from Poland
or the taxi driver who survived Auschwitz
and the doorman at his office whose son
was the first in his family to graduate college.
Ann — I totally can relate to your poem as my father was also a story teller. While my father didn’t have stories of celebraties, he did infuse humor into everything. I love the progression of your poem opening at the dinner table with your father never remembering the names of the famous people and then progressing to the stories of the people he encountered in his everyday life.
Lovely poem, Ann. You weave the poem so perfectly leaving little breadcrumbs of information so that we get the whole delicious stories at the end. Just wonderful.
I love these stories in your poem, Ann! I, too, had a storytelling grandfather and now a storytelling husband who often draws diagrams on napkins to tell his stories. I love the emphasis on each person being as important as the next – – and the importance of stories in all our lives.
This is such a sweet tribute to a man who taught you well.
Oh, what a splendid ending to your story about his stories. He instilled in you the importance of each individual, and you have captured that so richly here in your poem, dear Ann.
Ann, what a great heritage–we live storied lives, so telling stories is such a huge part of our being. Your father reminds me of my parents; they both were great storytellers. I love that the story time was around the dinner table. Thank you for sharing this story today!
Thank you so much, Sarah, and to everyone who shared today—your poems are absolutely beautiful. As I read, I could hear the rhythms of our different cultures, the echoes of our struggles, and the light of our joy. But most of all, I felt the deep thread that connects us all.
I wrote Pebbles in My Palm to help ground myself, but reading these words reminds me that my journey isn’t solitary and it’s okay to reach out, to open my hand, and to take someone else’s. Thank you for being part of this moment.
If my poem sparked something in you, know that your words have truly inspired me too. Let’s keep lifting each other up, one poem at a time.
a hard line
Kasey D
generations of poverty
bending the knee
in front of star spangled capitalism
my line is back broken
chase a high to cope
with the lows of the lower class
rituals of self-preservation
rolling grass- it’s an uphill crest
falling back to earth, back in line
we are weed smokers
compulsive gamblers
paycheck to paycheck
damn the struggle tastes so good
we fly yellow warning flags
flyfish for supper
pray the words “don’t tread on me”
our culture is fight
our religion irritates our reality
so we warp it – make it a mirror
braless and barefoot I steep
peyote with hands who know tarot
sip at another culture
in order to purge my own
That line—‘peyote with hands who know tarot’—wow. Your whole piece hums with grit, beauty, and truth. I felt every word.
Kasey,
Wow! Really powerful poem!
This stanza really struck me —
“our culture is fight
our religion irritates our reality
so we warp it – make it a mirror” — so true!
Kasey, I love reading your poems. Your tone and word choice–wow! You say so much with each additional phrase. And that last stanza–so powerful. Thank you.
Kasey, your powerful poem resonates with me in so many different ways. I feel the anger and have lived too often from pay check to paycheck. Love the title and your closing lines deliver a fantastic punch!
Kasey, your poem is brutally honest, and I love it. The precise punchy lines effectively deliver the message. Your final couplet leaves me thinking:
“sip at another culture
in order to purge my own.”
Thank you!
Sarah, I love how that final line shows so much about your efforts to win the scholarship. The jacket sounds fabulous! You must share a photo if you can.
A Real Good Time
a beer bottle in one hand
a deck of cards in the other
we know every trick
during the birthday gatherings
celebrating in garages or barns
yodeling gleefully while Leo plays
a Czech party polka on his accordion
our thick cankles dancing joyfully
Singing, “Ha, Ha, Ha, Ho, Ho, Ho,
She’s too Fat for Me”
Barb Edler
18 May 2025
I love “on thick cankles” as a descriptor, made me smile. This poem is joyful in the rhythm and the memory of these fun times. Thanks for sharing.
I went this way too- it’s interesting the idea of culture lost and morphed. The candles got me- we are always inheriting so much from each other. Thank you for sharing your joy with us!
Barb, I can hear the accordion and laughter—those ‘birthday gatherings’ feel so alive, full of love, grit, and joy in every detail. My husband is Czech!
Barb,
There is so much joy in your poem!
“Singing, “Ha, Ha, Ha, Ho, Ho, Ho,
She’s too Fat for Me” — sounds like fun memories!
I am told my grandfather also played the accordion which he called it a button box. We still have it tucked away in a closet somewhere.
This poem makes me happy, Barb. Thank you! I can hear that accordion polka music right now, and I need to dance!
Barb, I feel festivity – music and dancing….and not just any music – – POLKA! A hopping step and I look down at my own cankles – – too tired to get up and dance, but nodding my head to the chicken dance song just ’cause it’s a polka. I would head straight over to the card table and look for a euchre partner…..and hope for a left and right bower to play a lone hand in hearts.
Barb, this is a great memory as well as I suspect a traditional family way to celebrate. I can hear the accordion and the heels racking the floor. Lovely
Barb, your entire poem creates an image I can easily visualize. It is living and breathing. Love “yodeling gleefully while Leo plays” – consonance here is so sing-songy delicious!
I want to be at the party!!!! Barb, this is it!
Barb,
what a fun poem. Though they are different than our parties, I feel like I can get to know these birthday gatherings through the details of your poem. The joyful dancing and singing makes me smile!
Barb, You’ve captured the joy so well here! This definitely sounds like “A Real Good Time”! And I love the line “our thick cankles dancing joyfully,” lol!
wow. I remember that song “she’s too fat for me” . it sure brings up a lot of memories for me as well.
It keeps flagging my poem as spam…. so sorry Sarah, if this messes up your comments box! Poem attached as a photo screenshot, thanks for reading my spam 🤪
I love this- I felt myself remembering how my mother in law- gave me her recipes once I wed her husband after 10 years of just dating. I acutely felt both of these stanzas. Thank you for sharing.
I fixed the error. Sorry for the frustrations!
Oh my gosh, no worries! I’m sorry for the 50 comments I tried to post and was confused about!!!
Oh you made me giggle! Thanks! “Trauma-bonded, free” – EXCELLENT, just EXCELLENT!
This is brilliant, C.O.! When I was reading the first stanza, I didn’t expect what was coming in the second! The ending is exceptional! Thank you for this gem 🙂
personalized gifts
When you get married,
you get
your very own,
spiral-bound,
laminated,
curated,
color printer
copy of the family cookbook.
And if you don’t want to get married,
you get
your very own,
custom-made,
unique to you,
built-to-last,
black and white
rejection from the family.
Spiral-bound costs extra-
Trauma-bonded, free.
Cooking is definitely a rite of passage – – I’m liking the unexpected shift here in the lines that follow And…. Those cultural expectations and family expectations can be steep sometimes. Those last lines in italics, oomph!
CO, this poem is a clear reminder of the power of family standards and expectations that most of us experience overtly or covertly. I would love to talk to the person in charge of cookbook distribution about diverse families and about respecting decisions that are not yours to make. I wish all who do not marry a copy of the New York Times Everyday Cooking book – $15.95 and no strings attached!
C.O., oof your poem shows how families sometimes fail to accept life choices. Your poem delivers a punch through your specific details of the colorful cookbook compared to the black and white rejection. Thanks for sharing this terrific poem!
Sarah,
Thanks for hosting and providing such great mentor texts.
I can just see you proudly wearing your jacket. I like how it’s a tangible sign of your mother’s pride and her handing that pride down to you and her siblings. I also like the way you allude to gender differences within your heritage:
Love the humorous? ending:
They missed out an opportunity to award a worthy candidate a scholarship!
Something I noticed this morning, sent my writing on a tangent to your prompt. Maybe I’ll come back another day to address it head on.
—————————————————————————————————-
I notice you
You transform a moment
of stillness
and silence
into suprise
How did you find yourself
also still
perched vertically on a white rope
attached to a construction scaffolding
of a high-rise building
twenty-seven floors up
So far above
the grasses you
hop in and out of
Sharon, this is beautiful. I love how you show this moment of surprise. The white rope of the high-rise building, twenty-seven floors up is such a perfect detail to highlight the focus of your poem. Lovely poem!
The word choice and alliteration here are smooth and mesmerizing. Thanks for sharing this scene you captured. Keeps us curious, too!
What a mysterious poem- I feel it as a metaphor, but alas I am unsure. Beautiful language- an exquisite image that keeps trembling at the edges of my mind- long after the reading is over. Lovely!
Sharon, This poem captures a quiet, astonishing encounter—a moment of awe at the smallness and boldness of life against the vast backdrop of the city. That image of you both ‘perched vertically’—it’s so unexpected and tender. I felt the stillness, the wonder, and the breath you gave that moment
Sharon, my mind is ripe with guesses – of course, grasshopper is first up….then lizard, then green tree frog…..and avoid all thought of rabbit. This is so much fun – – that you notice this surprise and wonder is all the enchantment. And it’s contagious.
Sharon, you certainly have me wondering but I envision a relative washing windows of a high rise. You word choices contribute to the sense of excitement and wonder
Sharon, I read your poem and thought about a grasshopper right away. Then glanced at other comments and caught myself doubting. Love alliteration/consonance that adds to build a suspense with “s”s – stillness, silence, surprise.
Amazing!
Thank you for another prompt, Sarah! I love this one because it lets me learn about everyone in this community so much! as for your poem, The Lions and Knights just didn’t know what they had missed. My DNA says I may possibly have some Italian and Greek roots.
Jars of Memory
I thought about my heritage
early this morning
while picking vegetables
in our May garden—
washing and sorting cucumbers,
bell and banana peppers,
eggplants, polished like plum stones,
sun-warmed tomatoes,
pale pattisons, and curling squash.
Chopping fresh parsley,
feathery dill, sharp onions.
Sautéing.
Prepping jars.
Cooking.
Canning.
I remembered Dad
showing me how
to tend the garden—
how to spot the reddest tomatoes,
how to lift the prickly cucumber vine
without bruising its gift.
I recalled Mom’s soft voice
explaining how to make
a pickling marinade—
herbs, coarse salt,
cracked pepper, vinegar—
the scent steeped
in summer’s hush.
I sifted through a memory
of my sister
teaching me how
to make the best
strawberry jam—
ruby joy sealed in glass.
Ah, family traditions—
save what you can’t eat now
for winter,
for friends,
for memory
that lasts.
Leilya,
This is absolutely beautiful and filled with love. I love the small details of
This beautiful description
made me so happy and resonated. My grandmother used to make and send us chokecherry jam. I’m imaging the taste of it right now and making a mental note to write a poem about my grandfather teaching me to pick string beans and helping my grandmother pick the chokecherries for jam.
Thank you for sharing your beautiful memories and sparking mine.
Leilya, your poem is warm, inviting, and touching. I love that last stanza so much and all you share about family lessons with gardening and canning. Gorgeous poem full of scents and summer warmth. Love it!
“Save what you can’t eat now” is so good! Love the idea of saving and holding memories in this way. The little jars of stories and memories are so sweet. Thanks for sharing!
Leilya, This poem is a beautiful meditation on heritage, memory, and the quiet rituals that preserve both food and love across generations. Lines like ‘ruby joy sealed in glass’ and ‘bruising its gift’ are just stunning—your words hold so much tenderness, care, and reverence for the everyday sacred.
First you took me into your May garden with all it’s scents, colors and textures, but when I read the poem again, I remembered Dad…I recalled mom…I sifted through a memory of my sister…made me realize that your garden holds so much more than bountiful treasures that can be saved…and your last stanza brought tears to my eyes…
Leilya, the moments of food preservation grown fresh from the garden are so sweet and real. These are all the best memories right here – – the preparation to feed a family and share in conversation around the table. I love this stanza so much:
I recalled Mom’s soft voice
explaining how to make
a pickling marinade—
herbs, coarse salt,
cracked pepper, vinegar—
the scent steeped
in summer’s hush.
Summer’s hush is something of which I could use a packed quart mason jar about now. You make me want to make pickles this week. Beautiful poem!
Lovely, Leilya! I can smell and taste that “ruby joy!’ Thank you for sharing.
Leilya, this is filled with the love of tenderly caring for plants and then carefully preserving them and the memories. Your last line is a keeper, “save what you can’t eat now for winter, for friends, for memory.”
I forgot to attach an image.
Oh, Leilya, this is just so lovely! The magical phrases like: “ruby joy”, “without bruising its gift” and “feathery dill” made me stop in awe. And that last stanza: so full of love. The title is a joy too.
Leilya, I love your poem and the picture of your May garden’s bounty! And I love the way you connected these images: “I remembered Dad / showing me how,” “I recalled Mom’s soft voice,” and “I sifted through a memory / of my sister.” And your ending! “Ah, family traditions– / save what you can’t eat now / for winter, / for friends, / for memory / that lasts.” So good!
This is beautiful poem about details of garden and memories of family 💞 I like it.
Tonking
when you
softly cradle
one hard-boiled
egg in a loose fist
and someone takes
their egg and strikes
the top of your egg with
the top of theirs to find out
whose egg will crack first
was a tradition that kept
us kids entertained for
a good long while
Easter morning
and I taught it
to Heather
and now
we play
too
_____________________________________________
Thank you Sarah for your mentor poem and your prompt today! I love how your poem pushes back a bit on how odd (and difficult) it is to “quantify” someone’s heritage: “The Lions Club and the Knights of Columbus / offered money for our nationality.” And after you wore your “Italian jacket” – embroidered with love and imbued with heritage and worn “with pride” – “[t]he Lions and Knights were not impressed.” (Makes you want to send them this poem and a picture of your doctorate to them, doesn’t it? Or maybe that’s just what I would want to do were I you, lol.)
Now that is a fun Easter tradition. Tonking. I’ve never heard of that, but somehow in the poetry you write that always keeps us laughing and seeing things from a humorous lens, this tradition seems very Scottish…..well, perhaps we should say Scott-like. Scotch Tonking eggs. I’m seeing the kitchen revelry and shaking my head – – chuckling.
What a great way to begin a day, Scott! I, too, remember this Easter tradition, and taught it to my children. Isn’t it amazing? We had a large family, so there was always that one egg that wouldn’t crack, but I think my brother was cheating ))
Scott, you have me smiling and remembering my husband’s family Easter tradition! They would “clonk” a loved one on the head with a (hopefully) hard boiled egg. It was a strange tradition that we let pass peacefully after an incompletely hardened egg christened a tween’s perfect do one year!
Scott,
This sounds like fun, but the part that made me happiest was your explanation of how it feels to share family traditions with new people that we love:
I like this poem visually, as it connects the experience and space with past and present. I’ve never done that, but definitely heard of it! Thank you for sharing!
Scott, what a lovely memory to share and continue with Heather. I love the shape of your poem because it adds to the action of your poem. Very fun tradition!
Scott, This poem captures the sweet playfulness of a family tradition passed down and made new again through sharing. I love how you cradle the memory as gently as the egg—’Tonking’ becomes this soft, joyful echo across generations.
Scott – I love the shape and playfulness of this poem. AND now, I want to start this tradition next year! So. Much. Fun! Thank you!
I love this. Such brief moments in time are the best poems, and full of meaning. Makes me think of the little things we do in our family, without thinking they were anything special. This shows how special they are.
Sarah, thank you for inviting us to write poems of home and heritage today. Your poem reminds me of all the ways we are connected by threads to things, culture, place. I think I felt it most strongly with the embroidery on the jacket – the stitching to place, holding us in places where there is connection. I felt that when my father gave me my mother’s jacket she’d bought in Korea. I’ve never been there, but my mother loved and wore that jacket – it was in all the pictures. That’s the memory you brought me to this morning with your poem. It’s been a weekend of mourning – a funeral yesterday and a loss of nature today. Definitely a time for poetry to step in strong and hold me.
Harvesting Homes
here in rural Georgia
on my front porch
on this drizzly Sunday morning
on the Johnson Funny Farm
with my coffee
and banana protein shake
I sit in my nightgown
and a pair of flip flops
hair in a clip
computer in my lap
listening
hearing
feeling
crying inside
what has been home
is changing
what has brought comfort
is falling
in sickening thuds
what has brought deep peace
is disappearing
by the log-truck load
birdwatching
here
is almost over
what remains
is perhaps
five more mornings
and my heart is sick
grieving with loss
for my birds
and their nests
and their eggs
and their choir
but this morning
those in trees
still standing sing like
all those Whos in Whoville
in the absence of place or thing
not knowing their tree
is next
today’s song is in joy
of overcoming
others are
singing their goodbyes
one by one they’ve come
to the single row of pines
closest to the porch
and perched
like a last hug at the airport
said farewell
and flown off
no luggage in hand
to the next life
my tears here on this porch
don’t stop
won’t stop
how do I live in the absence of
morning birdsong
deep in the woods?
more important~
how do they?
Oh, gosh! This made me sad! We have so much construction and building going on around us and when I walk past this one park near my house that is now about 100 new apartment buildings, almost finished. I get so angry and sing, “They paved paradise to put up a parking lot.” I’m sorry this is happening near you. But somehow, the birds near me have still found a way and they are still singing.
Kim, you’ve crafted such heartache here. It’s so beautiful in its vivid details and so poignant in its message. I’m holding on to the lines, “today’s song is in joy / of overcoming.” Thank you for this!
Oh, Kim, I am so sorry you have to say goodbye to this place. You made me remember the time I locked the door of my Crimean home for the last time. These lines made me so sad:
“my heart is sick
grieving with loss
for my birds
and their nests
and their eggs
and their choir”
Sending hugs to you, my friend.
Kim, your line, “tears here on this porch don’t stop” tugs at my heart and I can “hear” those logging trucks deforesting your mountain top and turning it into McMansions as we refer to them in the NYC metropolitan area. Some may see it as progress, but as you already know, many of those birds will head to places more conducive to their song. I am sad for your mountain, for you, and for those birds as well.
Kim,
Thank you for sharing your poem of raw grief — and resiliency.
These lines resonated deeply:
and
I’m sad for you and your family and for the birds.
Sending peace and love.
This is really beautifully done and so much feeling. Thanks for sharing this peaceful yet harsh scene
Kim, wow, what a powerful poem you’ve crafted here. My heart aches for this drastic change, the loss of birdsong, envisioning your grief while sitting on your porch. You’ve captured so many emotions, and I love your simile “like a last hug at the airport”. I’m so sorry this change is happening. Hugs!
Oh, Kim. This poem is a heart-wide-open elegy for place, home, and the more-than-human neighbors we sometimes lose before we’re ready.The way you write from the porch in ‘your nightgown and a pair of flip flops’ makes this grief so intimate and real—I felt like I was right there with you, mourning and listening, holding space for the birds and for you.
What a heart-rending requiem you’ve written in this season of loss.I am so sorry. You’ve left me with lots to think about. I know how Kim will be brave, but I wonder as you did, what will become of the birds and their nest, their eggs and their choir. A truly beautiful tribute…
Oh I love this. What a great poem, I can follow right along with you even though my experience might be a little different. I love how you interweave home and heritage and history and nature and change and the future and eternity and thoughts of existence.great poem Kim!
Sarah, your prompt and poem had me writing even before I made coffee! Your images of those jackets and 11 children, oh my, are powerful. My own heritage is pieced together like a quilt; yet, I am certain that surnames as well as first names provide a binding that determines how we perceive ourselves as well as how others see us. So here is my humble offering on the tension between the many parts of my own messy heritage.
From the very beginning
I was wrapped in a shamrock green quilt,
The Dineen surname overpowering
Equal sized fabrics from,
Germany, Italy and Wales.
My siblings, Kathleen and Jeremiah,
Despite identical genetics,
Far more Irish than I,
Anita, whose perhaps
Spanish or Peruvian name
Added color, if not clear roots,
To my quilt.
Hesitantly,
I traded my quilt’s backing
For one where race cars
Mingle with calamari,
Providing my children
The Ferreri surname binding
Pieces of their own quilts
From Germany, Italy, Wales, Ireland
And perhaps, Spain or Peru!
I love how you used pieces of a quilt to bind together all the parts of your culture.
Anita, the metaphor of the quilt with swatches of this and scraps of that and patches of this and patterns of that, all bound together in a new and beautiful arrangement is so strong here and a reminder that the uniqueness of each person’s background is a gift of pizzazz, its own special recipe. I like how you’ve blended here and made it all your own.
Such a rich family history, Anita, with intertwined quilt pieces. I love the metaphor of quilt for showing how each part add color, richness, value. Beautiful!
Oh what a lovely connection to a quilt and all the patches and scraps that make it as it moves along. Reminds me of “The Keeping Quilt” by Patricia Polacco. Thanks for sharing.
Anita, This poem is a tender exploration of heritage, naming, and the evolving patchwork of family identity stitched across generations.I love how you carry the image of the quilt through every turn—your lines feel both playful and profound, wrapping legacy, love, and curiosity into something beautifully yours.
Where I Be.
I am backwoods, uptown, no-good, hillbilly,
College educated, reformed, serious-not really,
Dignified-countrified wanna -be ganster,
Storytelling, crybaby –history teaching prankster.
I’m from dirt roads and city lights,
I Work early and party nights.
Bass fishing, rabbit hunting,
Turkey calling, deer grunting,
Trail hiking, mountain climbing,
Bike riding, abstract rhyming,
Junkie. Gym rat, football fan,
Grass cutting, pine-straw man.
Chop wood for fun, and sell it too,
I’ll take the grilled, not the bar-b-que.
I’m from the briar patches and the mountain top,
My favorite artists are Everlast, Chevelle, and Tupac.
I’ll float the Flint and jump off the bridge,
Flip off the rock and climb the ridge!
Ride my bike through every alley in town,
Skate off curbs and 360 around.
I’ll write a poem then haul some hay,
Work-out, cuss like a sailor, then pray.
I’m the mixture of renegade and Cherokee,
Got lost in dark, but now I see.
Coached every sport they offered me,
Still fighting with my complacency.
Where I’m from, is not my reality,
I long for creativity.
I haven’t designed my destiny,
My road keeps turning in front of me!
Creations of imagination control my sanity,
When it arrives, it will be my finality.
But, Which of the two is it?
I won’t stop, I’ll never quit!
I’m from where I can’t see,
what I leave is my hereditary!!
Boxer
Clayton, this is amazing! You included so much about the complex and multidimensional person you are today as well as your diverse roots in a very different world. Your line “where I am from is not my reality” is important but my favorite line is “I haven’t designed my destiny.” Your poem is a reminder of that our lives are not those of our parents!
You’ve turned the prompt into a take on the Where I’m From prompt. I love how you long for creativity (so evident in your writing!) So many strong images here that show you are a complex being (mix of renegade and Cherokee). The rhymes are fun, too!
Boxer, you capture the essence of Georgia woods, and I love the homespun flavor of all the things so near and dear to us here in these parts of middle Georgia. Floating the Flint, jumping off the bridge, climbing the ridges – – the grills and barbecues. All of this – and I love how you wove in the “Where I’m From” lines, too – – such rich poetry and I can see the images clearly.
Boxer, I need to hear you recite this! Just wow. As a lover of Where I’m From poems, this is knocking it out the park! Thank you for sharing so much of yourself through rhyme and rhythm!
👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽
Boxer, this poem told me more about you than any other poem. Thank you for sharing. I am rereading this lines with a smile as I can almost see you:
“I’ll write a poem then haul some hay,
Work-out, cuss like a sailor, then pray.”
Boxer, This poem is a bold, rhythmic anthem of contradictions, roots, reinvention, and the restless push toward becoming. Your voice bounces with pride and grit—I felt every twist of ‘the road that keeps turning,’ and I love how you hold it all: the backwoods and the prayers, the Tupac and the hay bales, the poetry and the pain.
Sarah,
Such rich prompts and mentor poems you are offering us.
Cultural Clash
I grew up in a purely
middle class family.
Simple.
Lived without.
Traveled little.
Shared a bedroom.
Sure, 50 years
have passed
and society as a whole
has changed
But
I’ve been thrust
into a world of
affluence.
Opulence
Abundance, even glut
Worldliness
Isolating space.
I didn’t earn wealth,
didn’t want it,
don’t prefer it.
I still don’t chose
the options it offers.
But my in-laws do,
They buy
They provide
They spoil
They expect.
Generational wealth
hopped over me
to our kids.
They have to navigate
two worlds
and I hope they
see the best in both.
~Susan Ahlbrand
18 May 2025
Ooo!
“Generational wealth
hopped over me
to our kids.”
How you’ve phrased this idea is so good. These days I would imagine it’s hard to stay down to earth if you have generational wealth.
I definitely relate to you when you say
“I still don’t chose
the options it offers.”
Yup!
Susan, your poem is captivating with its layers different economic statuses as well as the impact they have on who we are and who we perceive ourselves to be. There are two worlds for sure and I too hope your kids see the best in both
In your poem, I see how having wealth is not always a choice and not something we all desire. Having to navigate these worlds can be difficult.
Susan, I’m feeling this one in big ways this morning. It’s so true that when people marry and combine finances, the opportunities may change but the values do not. Hearts for the simple remain in all the best cases, and yours is one. Like mine. I still prefer the chicken pot pie from the frozen foods, the one with both top and bottom crusts. Give me that, and I’ll come sit at the table with you, friend, in the section where the riches are right inside the heart. I LOVE your poem!!!
This is so thought-provoking. I really like the “seeing best of both” and using wealth as a heritage. So true. Shapes so much of our experience and memories, too. Thanks for sharing this.
Susan, This poem quietly holds the tension between past and present, simple roots and complex inheritance, and the hope threaded through it all. Your words carry such honest warmth—‘generational wealth hopped over me’ feels so real and tender, and I love the gentle hope you hold for the next chapter your kids will write.
Thanks for the prompt Sarah! This topic always has endless possibilities. What to focus on? There is so much! Is the Aikman, Troy Aikman?? That’s the only Aikman I know, Cowboys fan here (or used to be). The last line is funny.
My breakfasts used to be more Mexican
Grandma would make huevos rancheros,
migas, papas or chorizo con huevo,
even nopales con huevo with tortillas
even my very white father would make
these things for me, influenced by her
even though she was the traditional type.
She’d throw up her hands and grumble
in Spanish about how he shouldn’t be
in the kitchen but she loved him.
That was breakfast for me for many years
my whole childhood and adolescence
huevos y huevos y huevos y huevos.
Now I eat eggs or no eggs at all.
I don’t hear that word anymore.
It’s a possibility that I might never
eat those breakfasts again in my life.
Those dishes have been replaced with
doubles, saheena, fry bake with fried aloo,
fried ochro, pumpkin choka, baigan choka.
These come from my husband’s family
in Trinidad and Tobago.
Funny thing is the fried aloo tastes
just like how my grandma would make
the papas for papas con huevo
I think of her every time it’s made for me.
They laugh when I say I want my fry bake
with cinnamon sugar and honey which is
basically just a sopapilla.
Different versions of the same thing.
It’s so strange how people like to focus
on the “different” more than the “same”
but I’m always amazed by the same.
Angie, I really like the way you describe your intermingling of culturally significant foods. I think it is a sign that people are people even if we give our foods different names!
The focus on breakfast foods in different cultures helps us see what you want us to see, how we are all more alike than different, even in the foods we eat. I love all the Spanish words in your poem.
Angie, I love it all, but this:
She’d throw up her hands and grumble
in Spanish about how he shouldn’t be
in the kitchen but she loved him.
This is my favorite part – – it reminds me so much of Sandra Cisneros and the rich culture I feel and love so much in her books and in your poem, where the people are alive and I can see them. The love language of belonging comes out in the kitchen – always the kitchen!
Your last stanza, too, will stay with me – – the same and differentness of things.
Last stanza is so so so so so so good and important and true. Love the connections to foods and memories and all that accompany them. Thanks for sharing this piece of you!
Angie, Ha, no relation to Troy. This poem beautifully traces the flavors of family and memory, weaving together different cultures through food and love. I love how you hold both the ‘different’ and the ‘same’ with such warmth—your words make me taste those breakfasts and feel the love behind every shared recipe.
Empty Nest Dance
Once the nest was empty,
date nights turned to dance lessons
Cajun and Zydeco.
We jumped in with four feet,
literally learning how to be a couple
who moved together,
followed a step,
and created our own rhythm for a life
without kids in the house.
Ten plus years in, we’ve got a routine—
a waltz that flows,
two-step, turn, two-step,
and jitterbugging a few impressive turns.
Looking at us, you know
we’re too tall to be Cajun
and too white to be Creole,
but we keep smiling
and twirling this Louisiana life.
Makin’ me miss Louisiana, Margaret! What beautiful images of yall dancin’.
I absolutely love this:
“Looking at us, you know
we’re too tall to be Cajun
and too white to be Creole,”
I could say the similar things about my cultures.
and definitely the last two lines are lovely.
Margaret, you capture the stage of life where can and do reinvent ourselves in a new image that has its own rhythm and turns. Your empty nest sounds like a wonderful place to be!
Margaret, I love that you bring in the dance as the metaphor and the literal culture of life in place. At the funeral I attended yesterday, dance from Colombia, South America was a part of the obituary, his love for the dance floor. And I feel in this poem the richness of dance in your place, in your life and marriage, in your exact niche of being. I can hear the music and feel the beat. I like that it ends in a twirl of Louisiana life. I see a skirthem moving and polished shoes.
I really love the title of this. And that last stanza is so beautiful about maybe not fitting the part but adopting the life and love and memories. This is fun and heart warming. Thanks for sharing.
Margaret, this poem dances with the joy of partnership and the playful ways love creates its own rhythm over time.I love how you spin that image of learning to move ‘with four feet’—it feels so alive, warm, and full of the beautiful messiness that makes a life together so special.
Love this, Margaret. There’s so much music in the way the words flow. I love the end line: and twirling this Louisiana life! Maybe YOU are the Word Dancer!