Welcome to Verselove—a space for educators to nurture their writing lives and celebrate poetry in the community. Each day in April, we come together to explore the power of poetry for both heart and mind. Write with care, for yourself and your readers. When responding, reflect back the beauty you find—lines that linger, ideas that inspire. Enjoy.
Our Host
Bryan Ripley Crandall lives in Stratford, Connecticut, where he directs the Connecticut Writing Project and is Professor of English Education at Fairfield University. He gained his teaching legs at the J. Graham Brown School in Louisville, Kentucky, a K-12 public school with a mission for diversity, inclusivity, and equity, and is a proud teacher-leader inspired by LWP XXI. He co-hosts National Writing Project’s The Write Time.
Inspiration: HOME/HOGAR
My childhood home has been an epicenter while moving from here to there and bopping around the globe (always singing Cat Steven’s On the Road to Find Out, of course). I travel often to my childhood home in Clay, New York, where I now care for my parents when I can and love to spend time with an ever-expanding, and always-changing, family.
CWP loves to use children’s and YA texts for inspiring writers. With our immigrant- and refugee-background composers, we’ve had tremendous success with verse novels (e.g., Home of the Brave by Katherine Applegate and Other Words for Home by Jasmine Warga). This past summer, though, we used Matt de la Peña and Loren Long’s children’s book HOME, their follow-up to the award-winning collaboration, Love.
Home is not the walls we build up
around our orderly little lives
but the wild, wild world outside.
It’s the hawk steadily circling overhead,
measuring the sky with its wings.
And it’s the road of the tide
retreating over rocks.
It’s the floppy flight of a monarch butterfly
and the sweet smell of sunlight shining down
on a field of jasmine.
Home, for me, reminds me where my heart is (and has been). It is true, too, that languages we speak decorate exactly who we are (it is why we loved reading Hogar with students, too – celebrate translanguaging!!!).
Hogar no son las paredes que construimos
alrededor de nuestras pequeñas vidas ordenadas,
Sino el indómito mundo de allá afuera.
Process
Think about your childhood, teenhood, adulthood, personhood, and all the locations you’ve seen as a home. How have such spaces harbored your soul and/or catapulted you to seek safer, better locations? How do you define home in your current state of being?
Directions: Brainstorm words you associate with the locations you’ve felt safest…the places that have brought you many emotions. Explore images, memories, sounds, smells, tastes, and feelings you associate with these locations. Feel free to be multilingual, too..
Humming
~b.r.crandall
At first it was childhood,
Utica greens & chicken riggies,
the songs of an empty refrigerator box
becoming a castle radiant enough for my sister Queens…
…the time for learning puppy breath on cold, linoleum floors
and finding warmth while wrapped in towels after a day of swimming —
(she waved willow branches to swat porch flies as he stars bathed in the lake).
I see the sun and the sun sees me.
Я бачу сонце, і сонце бачить мене.
We buzzed along mental maps of Cherry Heights,
peddling ten-speeds in high tops,
feathering hair with wiffleballs & pig skins,
while telling truths and daring one another
With Milwaukee’s Best stolen from our fathers.
This is before I found silence as a lonely Londoner –
way before the Danish winds,
taught me to sip Tuborgs in a skurvogn,
smukke solnedgange langs fjorden,
& to maneuver my mouth like a magpie:
Pen Oos, Vahgeena,
Ah Noos, & Svinek Ter
Walking along Beargrass Creek
I’d also learn to fiddle with Kentucky bluegrass,
all the stories of room 301,
Tommy Tuesdays, David Dursdays – the miracle of Brown.
And would one day get used to hiss-snakes
in the wood piles that humored my doctoral studies,
(needing that sanctuary of an Amalfi-drive pool).
These days, I find the simplicity of a blanket matters most,
the times when light teases the dog curled besides me,
the hymnals she sings through whimpers…
And I’ll always find myself humming
of being harbored…to finally have a home…
…even as the monsters set out to destroy them.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Bryan, I have at least 19 poems to write about the topic of home, so it’s always a good time for it. Thank you. I can’t pick a favorite line in your poem but the childhood stanza, just wow. So many phrases I linger on and reread. “…the time for learning puppy breath on cold, linoleum floors
and finding warmth while wrapped in towels after a day of swimming” Geez! Masterful lines and the last stanza of course is so powerful.
Glenda inspired me to focus on my homes with my person 🙂
I’ve lived in nineteen different homes.
Three of them with you.
The first one lasted a few weeks,
My apartment in Dhaka, Bangladesh
in COVID July before you left for Kuwait.
All you had was a suitcase, an expired visa,
and a country that wouldn’t let you go home.
So I offered you mine.
I’d never been more willing
to allow someone to share my space.
And I didn’t want you to go.
I decided to follow you to Kuwait.
Our first shared home.
An apartment on the 12th floor
with the best L shaped couch
and an Asian style too small kitchen room.
When it was hot, we could only walk at night
but we also had to buy a small space heater
we had no idea the desert gets cold.
We watched a pigeon hatch on our balcony.
Saturday mornings we ate
falafel and hummus sandwiches,
masala dosa, or potato and cheese fatayer
We ate so many meals you cooked for us.
After two years, we packed our stuff
in one shipping box
and headed to our next destination.
Our current home in Mauritius
is a ten minute walk to Albion beach.
We have a swimming pool in the backyard
we don’t use enough.
We saw three luscious palm bushes grow up.
The kitchen is still too small
but we have ceiling to floor and wall to wall
windows in the living room
that you want in our future forever home.
A literal slice of paradise in Paradise Island.
It’s been just the two of us
for 5 years
and now it’s 3.
This is our son’s first home.
He might be too young to remember
but we will tell him
and some day he may write about
our memories of his first home.
Angie,
Im so glad to have inspired this lovely poem/letter w/ so many memories and so much learning and many firsts together. Your son will treasure this poem. Add it to a photo album.
This is beautiful in so many ways. I love the way your writing shows how much you love your people who make your home a home.
Angie, I love the way you used Glenda’s poem to inspire your own, and what a touching tribute to your family. I love the last stanza, thinking about the way that the world unfolds for your son and the memories he is making now that he may write about later.
The son’s first home. Wonderful. New generations ready to tell their stories ahead. I’m not sure I actually started valuing the power of home until the boys left my own. At first it was insane and I tried to get them back. Then, over time, I began to think, “You again? I thought you moved out.” Ha ha.
Bryan, your poem is so full of vivid imagery and language from the fascinating journey that you are taking through life. I’m just realizing that we share the same phrase in the turn–these days. Tonight was a tough night to write, but I didn’t want to miss the day that you are hosting! Here’s to sharing more home memories, wherever they may be!
Finding Home
There were six.
Six of us and almost never less.
Some homes are hubs,
and there was no telling who might
end up sitting around our dinner table
on any given night.
We always served laughter
with a side of good natured
ribbing. If you didn’t like humble pie
you didn’t have to stay for dessert.
Thee was always music,
cacophonous chaos,
at least two instruments at a time
a beautiful sonic dissonance
together apart, but somehow
making sense.
These days, it’s just three.
There are empty rooms
and guests seem to need
an invitation before showing
up at the door.
There”s still laughter
but more often silence,
more quiet that cacophony
neighbors seem far off,
waving indifferently,
distant not by distance.
This house will become home,
our youngest is making it so,
filling rooms with his outsized
presence. And when the rooms
are full, the stars aligning and
all of us as one, this house is
more than enough home for
us all, pulling the stars closer
if only for a moment.
You have expressed the change in the sounds and nature of this home so well. People always showing up and welcomed, loud “cacophonous chaos” (wow) to “more quiet than cacophony…distant not by distance.” I’m glad you were able to share.
There were 7, Dave. That bourbon bastard of a neighbor would stop by from time to time (sometimes bringing dog hair). My home is your home and I know the reverse is true, too….albeit further away than before.
fresh out of the shower
your calloused bear feet
you throw back the curtain,
whisper wishes to stars
Don’t tell me.
Yeah- wish rules.
That’s all I have for tonight
Verselove Day 9: Home
Home is where my dad no longer sits
in his big brown chair to watch Judge Judy at 4,
World News at 5, and Local News at 6–
relaxing to three hours of attitude and angst.
Home is where Stan, the fat orange cat,
no longer waits for me in the window sunning,
waiting patiently to greet and then ignore me.
Home is where A and M worked math problems
at the white tiled table and read AR books between
bites of cereal, an unfinished jigsaw puzzle peeked
out from under a Monopoly game board paused by life.
Home is the garage where I sit in my car
zoned out in silence or engrossed by an audiobook,
until H drags his blue blanket and sticky popsicle’d
fingers to sit next to me because he doesn’t want me to be lonely.
Home is the house with the broken mailbox door,
the unfinished fence, and the dead azalea bush.
Home is the house where a family of wrens
build their nest above the front door year after year.
Home is where there are “Free to Good Home” books stacked by the door,
and there are bookcases, book carts, books in boxes and on display,
books stacked on books on every surface including the floor.
Home is where my wifi connects automatically
and my black chair reclines.
Home is a heart construct,
it’s where I learned how to belong.
Home is where I don’t have to fake it,
it’s where I get to be unapologetically me.
Home is where my heart holds space
for those no longer here,
Home is where my heart embraces the ones I love.
Tracei Willis, April 9, 2026
Tracei, I like the form you used to show how the people you love who are no longer there are all part of home along with the loves who are there now. It’s such a healthy embracing of all that home is for and has been for you–unapologetically you! Beautiful.
The television programs, Tracei, fat cats, and Monopoly. Home is where all our hearts embrace the ones we love!
Home
I always wanted three bedrooms or more
a dining room with a smooth maple table and place settings for 12
fine china, Waterford crystal, shiny silver spoons.
I always wanted an inviting sectional sofa
Soft fabric, huge cushions—
Fort-making materials.
I always wanted an expansive kitchen
with a stocked stainless steel refrigerator and
a table we can gather round for meals and game night.
I always wanted a huge backyard
with a cool pool for summer fun
and space to run around and catch fireflies.
But, I’ll settle for a studio, a condo, a duplex—
a small space with a sturdy simple sofa
so long as you always come home.
Ah, Julie, what a sweet love story. This reminds me of Sarah’s poem, which I just read. Home is really about the people who are there with you. I love the “I always wanted…” it sets up the reader to know there will be a But. And that last stanza is precious.
I felt something similar tonight. It was a long day of teaching and baseball games. And I don’t want to lose a moment of the home we have created. It’s beyond precious. I love the way you poem muses and then lands where it always was headed anyway!
Yes, at the end of the day, it’s who you share whatever home with that matters. All of that material stuff fades away. Thanks for writing!
Oh, the pervasive pool dream. Whaaaaaa! Now the seed is planted in my head again. A pool. A home with a pool! Julie, we all deserve a home with a pool!
Thank you for this invitation, Bryan. I love all the verbs in your poem–buzzed, fiddle, maneuver–and especially the end description of “humming of being harbored.” Your poem is cozy and wild at the same time.
213 w 11th st
today’s poetry prompt was supposed take a lovely shape
about home
but all that surfaces is this home–
an old beauty, built in 1914 who survived a move across town with oak trim on the main level and pine on the second, welcoming guests on a south-facing front porch (now a precursor for any potential move; at 26 I had no idea the luck), a classic four square, the most efficient of floor plans, elegant, genuine, sturdy–
is the place i brought my tiny baby girls
home
and the home where i kissed their foreheads, sobbing, on
election nights the American people told them they wouldn’t be enough,
not yet
daily slights reminding us through rhetoric and law that the female body
is above all, to be controlled, managed: the real trick in teaching us to
manage ourselves,
fearful of the collective brain capacity women might have
if we aren’t busy counting calories or protein macros
so i cry a lot about the out there
but in the walls of this cream dining-room,
dust that will never come out of the corners but that I choose to believe
holds some wisdom,
cozy with a handmade cherry table and my great-grandma’s chairs
that squeak and creak and listen
we gather and argue and laugh
most of all, we try
Brenna, wow! What a powerful poem with so much generational love spilling out all over this four-square house, but also a poem with a huge social justice message. I enjoyed reading it so much. Again, wow!
Idk if I am hormonally stable for these poignant poems. Thank you for glimpses of your beautiful home and beautiful love.
Cozy & Wild…you may have offered me a t-shirt print to wear to bars. I love that you reference dust as holding wisdom. Yes. I’m stealing that. “Hear that bunnies, dinosaurs!!! Brenna says you’re brilliant!”
I found an old poem from 2019 about my “classroom home” and decided to revise it.
The Joyteam’s Sanctuary
Lavender drifts into Frankincense,
a fragrance of welcome, a softening of morning air.
Warm hues and Kente patterns
reminders of our origin.
Outside, the city hums, but inside
the tunes of a playlist roll in
to awaken sleepy spirits.
The corner library waits with
bean bags, pillows, and cushions
to cradle the weight of young scholars.
Every spine on the shelves and racks
is a mirror, reflecting the faces,
the families, the deep-rooted lives
of those who call this space home.
My eyes drift to the art gallery,
where self-portraits make me smile
and hand-drawn dreams of a better world
hang under Trailblazers and Changemakers
who illuminate the world’s hard truths.
I turn in a slow circle,
stepping out of my elder’s eyes
and into a child’s shoes.
I look up at the world through their curious eyes:
Is there joy here? Is there room for curiosity to grow?
My pothos and the white orchid
absorb the morning sun,
but they thrive most from
the voices of children who refuse
to be silent about the wrongs of the world.
For years, when my home’s four walls
held only chaos and the weight of discord,
this room was my steady ground, my sanctuary.
I keep the vibe chill but neat
and the rhythm true
because I know, for some,
this might be the only shore
where the storm stops.
When former Joyteam stars return,
grown and tall,
nostalgia and I hug them.
Stories on the walls,
the power in their team of Joy,
it all comes rushing back.
A shared breath of safety,
a lifetime of resilience,
remembered.
©Stacey L. Joy, 4/9/26
Stacey, I know you’ll be retiring soon and find myself hoping that the next person who has your classroom fills it with as much live and joy as you do. I love the image of the spines in the shelves and racks. And stepping out of your elders’ eyes- wow!
Stacey — If I were hiring teachers, based on this poem alone I’d hire you in a heartbeat. If ever there were a primer for how to create a “sanctuary” for kids to learn unimpeded by the woes outside that classroom, then THIS IS IT! You are such a master. Your kids over the years have been blessed by what you have provided. The “only shore/ where the storm stops” is exactly what school and learning should be…a safe place to love and learn and share and become whole. Dang, you are not just a National Board star, you are a star for every kid that crossed the threshold of your classroom. I’m so proud of you. Love and hugs, Susie
You and Mo have me crying. I think the pre-retirement tears are worse than menopausal tears. Love you, Susie!
You’re a peach 🍑! 💜🧡💙🩵
Oh, what a beautiful space you have created for your scholars–and I love that you call them that. I love how you end with “remembered” as a solo word in the last line, calling out to the legacy that you have created. A favorite early line is “outside, the city hums, but inside/ the tunes of playlist roll in.” This makes the contrast between the inner sanctuary and the outside world really come through. So beautiful.
Oooh, I want to visit the JoyTeam sanctuary. I would love to come read to/with/near the Trailblazers and Changemakers and to experience their resilience/curiosity/joy!
If you are in Los Angeles, you are always welcome!! 🤗
Stacey, what a beautiful poem to revisit on this your 40th year of these dear Joyteam stars! I so love that in your classroom library “Every spine on the shelves and racks
is a mirror” There are so many other lovely images–“the only shore / where the storm stops” and “hand-drawn dreams of a better world” are two of them. Your students have been so blessed!
Stacey,
If this line,
doesn’t perfectly encapsulate what it is that teacher’s do, I don’t know what does.
Stacey,
For 40 years you have given young people an idealistic school home. This poem touches my heart. Every detail is a treasure, as are you. Joy grows where you are.
Stacey, the cradling of young scholars in the reading corner will stay with me. This is just a beautiful testament to your classroom so filled with love and someone who knows that books are mirrors. Such a lovely tribute to home at school.
I forgot about the JoyTeam! I totally get the time issue during April. This is why I’m returning a day after to read the poems I didn’t get to last night. I had to go to bed and have been behind all day today, too. Classrooms are our homes, too. And you, my beautiful brilliant, stunning, amazing, irreplaceable friend, have harbored so much for so many in your classroom spaces! Cherish knowing all you’ve accomplished and stand for.
Barnacles
It’s true. Home was once broken pinkies smashed against father’s walls amid the abrasive brapt of basketball scoreboards and tree-lined sprints.
Home is now the gray blue of lolling waves on Burying Hill.
Home is now white windows that resemble slaloming skis attached to my creaky hips at North Conway.
Home is now Manchester wood floors collating against sea walls that disrupt an ecosystem, already croaking for breath as tadpoles lie out on cooked spinach in a terrarium, wriggling for nutrience.
Still, before they grew tiny arms and turned into wood frogs. Antes de solicitando becas para la educación. All before sloshing along the tepid ripples of the briny water of the sound.
All before a monstrous snow season with rising heat prices, all while others lost an inconceivable amount more than I.
Before all that, Home was 301 and 351. Home is still Stanley.
Home is 23 years and 7 days since the first triplet poked his head up out the window.
Home is 23 years and 7 days since the first third became eager enough to see everything the world could offer on the street below.
Home is now rockweed. The Tully. Resnick setting traps and carting mice away in plastic bags, too closely resembling the characters in the elementary books we now voice.
Home needed to be peanut butter chicken, gagged on collectively by five pink mouths.
Home needed to be Pine Brooks and Camp Eagle Feathers.
Home needed to be Eastbury. Home needed to be the firstborn of five, listening to Gregor the Overlander floating above our toes on the secure waves of a nurse’s voice.
Home needed to be before it could be the possibility of many languages in a life that grew up screaming.
Home needed to be testaments, denial, reconciliation.
Home needed to be school mass, Patriot girlfriends, and communion.
Home needed to be hard before it could be an acceptance of who we are, and who I am.
Wow, this is a fascinating read. It reminded me of all the stories that emerge in a “Where I’m From” (George Ella Lyon) poem. So many stories wrapped up here that leave the reader curious. That last line is so very powerful.
M.R.L. — OOOoo, this is loaded with a lot of stories. It feels like each line is the start of a very important chunk of your life. Some of it was no easy street. I think the “testaments, denial, reconciliation” had to be exhausting… such strong words that demand so much. And yet, the last line tells me that “acceptance” is finally part of “Home.” Your title grabbed me from the start…excellent word for burdens on the back of something you don’t control…that sense of hanging on, planted there for the ride. I really want to know the “many languages in a life that grew up/ screaming.” I appreciate how openly you’ve shared here. Susie
Yes, MRL, home needed to be all those things first. Your poem is so expansive, yet it brings us right there with you every step of the way. Thank you for sharing your amazing work.
M.R.L.–This piece took my breath away. I eel like I could read it ten times and be drawn to something different each time. This time, it is the difference in the opening lines of “home is” and “home needed to be.” I love the sense of time and imagery in the different details you present. Thank you for sharing it.
I love all of the definitions of what home is and what home needed to be. There is so much history in these lines. You paint a picture of a life that is well lived and that is constantly evolving.
This line, MRL, paints the picture…like birds in a nest w/o an appetite for earthworms, but fed such things nonetheless. You have amazing descriptions.
Bryan, my friend, what a gorgeous poem filled with rich imagery and memories. I was particularly taken by these lines because they brought me to a soft landing:
I am wanting so desperately to write a different type of “home” poem from what I’m used to writing, but I know time has worked against me so I’ll go with what my heart leads. I’ll post shortly and will return to read/respond.
Love,
Stacey
Bryan, loved your imagistic — and recognizable — memories of CNY. Your other homes were described just as memorably, and I especially loved:
“These days, I find the simplicity of a blanket matters most,
the times when light teases the dog curled besides me,
the hymnals she sings through whimpers…”
Here is today’s effort, inspired by this quote:
(“After all,” Anne had said to Marilla once, “I believe the nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.” — Lucy Maud Montgomery, author of Anne of Avonlea)
“Second Home”
How have I
spent 26 years between four white walls? Hard to believe.
Smell of gourmet foods floating up from below, the
pounding of clay from art rooms above – the nicest
kids and
the most unkind, the sweetest
moments (“This class makes me live, laugh, love”), days
spent with laughter, frustration as friends: Are
those moments going to remain here? Ghosts of them not
haunting me but this room? Those
prospects haunt me. On
these walls hang our efforts, which
are products of blood, sweat, and tears: Anything
goes on the very
black blackboard, covered in splendid
student graffiti: “tungtung” or
“6/7” (Again? Wonderful.);
“English rocks” or
“Katie was here” – exciting
and excited commentary happens
when I’m not looking – but
I don’t treasure just
the moments: it’s those those
small spaces here that
made this home: the duct tape dragon: Molly once did bring
it, leaving it on my shelf: the simple
coffee cup collection behind desk; the little
lavender zen garden that kids loved: pleasures
like my snack cupboard that built a secret following
as kids passed the word from one
to another.
Softly,
They would roll in during class, like
quiet pearls
slipping
treats off
the shelf, and I would smile, our hearts tethered as if with a
string
Oh, Wendy, this poem shows the sweet 26 year chapter of your home at school. It is filled with love and good memories. Fun and experiences that you and your students will never forget. I especially like the snack cupboard with the secret following. So dear.
This is beautiful, Wendy! I love the truth of your anchor line; it’s those “simple little pleasures” that mean so much. And I also love your last lines: “They would roll in during class, like / quiet pearls / slipping / treats off / the shelf, and I would smile, our hearts tethered as if with a / string.”
Wendy, this is a treasure! We both wrote about our classroom homes. I felt a bit of envy that you get to enjoy the aromas of gourmet foods! The smell of my school’s food is about as savory as smelling something left in your fridge too long.
Ohhh, the thought of what will remain after you’re gone. Just wow!
🩷the blackboard graffiti
🩵the duct tape dragon
💙the snack cupboard
💛lavender zen garden
Thank you for sharing your special home with us!
because it is the smallest of things, the most idiosyncratic, that define those spaces for teachers and make them our own.
Wendy, you’ve taken the golden shovel to a whole new level with a quote as a striking line and woven in humor and love.
Obviously, I need to applaud the poem within a poem through the choice of last words or maybe it’s a golden shovel. I just read your Buffalo post from tomorrow (today) as many of these poems arrived after I went to bed last night. I’m in an Upstate NY state of mind.
What a wonderful trip down memory lane for me as I thought about the places I’ve called home.
Rosedale Street
3 doors down
from the elementary school,
quiet streets
to cruise on bikes
to “my” playground.
Oxbow Drive
corner lot
with a huge side yard,
balls flying
from feet, palms, or bats.
Hide and seek
neighboring yards
until the lights
flickered bright.
Fruit Street
surrounded by arborvitaes,
a quiet backyard
singing splashes and giggles
as legs kicked
and pumped
through water and air,
but now chirping
and peeping
nature’s song
as time witnesses
growth and change.
I enjoyed viewing the passage of time through the 3 stanzas of your poem. I, too, played Hid-n-Seek across neighboring yards in the late evening. Your last lines ” as time witnesses growth and change” sums up what truly happens in our homes.
Heather, what a lovely portrait of pleasant, nostalgic stasis and the changes that inevitably follow.
Heather, what a lovely poem. I love how the memories or children are so different than if you had lived in these homes when you were grown. I remember hide and seek outside until the street lights came on. Your second and third stanzas reminded me of two houses I had when my children were young. I can imagine them writing similar stanzas about the corner house on Sutton and the house with the pool in Arizona. Your poem brought nice memories to me, and I imagine to you as you wrote it.
Heather, the scenes outdoor gaming in a park: balls flying, bicycles, laughter. That is the joy every child should experience: bliss. I love that there’s a street called Fruit somewhere in America.
Heather–I love all the imagery in this piece, the different times of day, the different movement, and the plants. I’m taken by “cruise on bikes/ to my playground” because it is so relatable! We all have those elements of childhood we claim. In the last stanza, the legs kicking and pumping have so much strength. Perfect ending. Thank you for sharing.
Heather,
I feel as though I’m home in your poem. You have so many familiar images from my childhood here in your verse.
My childhood home was-
one bathroom and 6 people- which is unheard of now-a-days-
always a buzz of activity, chatting, living.
My childhood home was-
all 6 of us gathered around the table promptly at 5:30- which is unheard of now-a-days-
devouring a delicious home-cooked meal,
my mom’s love language.
My childhood home was-
gathering on the front porch- which is unheard of now-a-days-
with my dad and neighbors on hot, humid summer nights
watching baseball on a small black and white TV powered by an orange extension cord.
My childhood home was-
a strange mixing of John Denver and Black Sabbath blasting from rooms- which is unheard of now-a-days-
a younger sister adoring her big sister while belting out “Country Roads”,
a brother yelling at the other brother to turn down his music so he can study.
My childhood home was-
hours and hours and hours of outdoor freedom- which is unheard of now-a-days-
building in my best friend’s sandbox,
playing baseball with teams of neighbors,
calling Marco Polo over chlorinated waters,
catching fireflies in mason jars.
My childhood home- which is unheard of now-a-days.
a black and white Cape Cod
Sold over 20 years ago when both my parents had left this earth
BUT
my mom’s famous recipes,
a love of the NY Yankees,
an eclectic appreciation of music,
an appreciation for our natural world
live on in my home,
my heart,
my memories,
my mind.
I am my home.
This final line is everything! This morning Jennifer wrote “I carry my home with me,” and your poem delivers a similar message. I like how you craft your poem about experiences you had that are “unheard of now-a-days,” but you hold onto those experiences and memories. It’s heartwarming and beautiful!
I love the repetition! It is so true how much things have changed. I love the sounds and sights shared in every detail.
This was so, so sweet! Loved that last line and the ending that built to it as well as your refrain — it’s so true that most of these things are “unheard of nowadays.”
Cathy, beautiful! So many unheard of nowadays in your poem. That ending is very special–the special things that “live on in my home…” is so beautiful. And that last line is a tear jerker.
And you brought us home with you, which I appreciate. I’m hearing a harmony between Black Sabbath and John Denver that I never knew was possible.
Bryan,
Thanks for hosting and this opportunity to think about home, which for me is less about place (it’s complicated) and more about my person. Loved reading and learning about what home means to you. That Matt de la Pena book is special.
heart-home
[for Ken]
you are my hand
to hold when
I trip on uneven
surfaces
you are my walking
stick to lean on
when I explore
ancient ruins
you are my shelter
facing strong cross
winds during
our journeys
you are my map
guiding each
movement when
my eyesight
fail me
until you I
wandered alone
far away from
heart-home
Glenda Funk
April 10, 20
This is a stunning and tear enduring tribute to your soul-mate! Fabulous!
Just a beautiful tribute to Ken and your heart-home.
This is a beautiful tribute to your person, your heart-home. I love all of the comparisons made throughout.
Aww Glenda, what a great love poem. Your person being home is not complicated at all. I feel that those are the lucky ones. I love how the title comes back up in the last stanza about what life was like without your Ken. You’ve inspired me to write about my person. Thank you.
Oh Glenda,
this is so beautiful and tender.
Glenda,
You had me at the first line. A beautiful poem, this is everything! I am awed how you crafted this with so much honesty and love. It helps to have a terrific soulmate.
Thank you for sharing this poem about your “heart-home.” It resonates with me as it traces love that endures even as we stumble, our eyesight fades, we need someone on whom to lean. How wonderful when home is a person you love.
Positively beautful, Glenda! How dang lucky you are to have Ken as your heart-home! (I love how you created that word with a hyphen. The alliteration and the images create such a perfect term!)
I love how you have been creating an image for your poems all year and this one really is great. Frame that baby and give it to Ken
Glenda, such a wonderful love letter to Ken! I hope you shared it with him. You eloquently described what he is for you, but those lines touched me the most:
“until you I
wandered alone
far away from
heart-home.”
All we need is just that one person who completes home for us – beautifully crafted!
Glenda, this was just lovely! What a sweet and loving ode.
Glenda, each line resonates with your love for Ken. Heart-home is beautiful! I was particularly moved by the map metaphor. Love the Canva rendition, too. Gorgeous photo and incredible poem!
OH, Glenda, so lovely. Ken is a special one indeed–my hand, my walking stick, my shelter, my map, my heart-home. Wow. So many beautiful images.
Glenda — Such a beautiful love story this is. Dang, girl, Ken is a lucky man and you are a dandy couple. I think of you two traveling the world together… a “guiding map” and “a shelter” and “a hand”… so loving. Just the right thing before I head to bed. Hugs, Susie
Love it, Glenda. I think these home prompts always find a way to rethink so much more about our lives, including what matters most….those hands for uneven surfaces.
Thank you for sharing, Glenda. So tender, so sweet, so romantic. You two are clearly a great pair. You name all these things;hand to hold, shelter, map, walking stick, that either protect or shoe the way. What connection. This would have fit perfectly in the unit on human bonds and connections that I just finished up with students.
I LOVE YOU AND I LOVE KEN! Your poem shows what true love with a soul mate should be.
💓
This is so beautiful.
Glenda, This is such a tender tribute to your “heart-home,” Ken. (And I love the escalation in your poem: Ken as a helping hand, a walking stick, a shelter, and then a map that keeps you from “wander[ing] alone.” Beautiful!)
Glenda, what a perfect poem to honor Ken and the adventures you share together. I love your heart for travel and the hand that you have to hold to enjoy it all! Cheers for the traveling!
Bryan,
Thanks for hosting.
These lines made me smile:
————————————————————
Raintree Drive
My brother and I grew up
In a neighborhood
Where all the streets
Were named after trees
Our Mom said
They had to do that
Because there were no trees
Wow, Sharon, this is not what I expected, but it makes sense that
“They had to do that
Because there were no trees.”
I like a brevity of your poem; it tells just enough to get the job done. Thank you!
Your poem brought back a memory. We had a Green street in our neighborhood, but one summer the city cut down all the trees justifying it by the reason of interfering with power lines. It was way more than needed, so Green Street turned into the ugly, naked one.
Oh! That’s funny! Probably true too. A way to give tribute to trees without growing them.
Sharon,
This is wild and mind-blowing to me!
The brevity of your poem echos the starkness of a treeless place. As someone who loves being amongst the trees, your words hit hard.
Oh, this made me a little sad. Loved it.
Sharon, wow, this is so precise and matter-of-fact. “Because there were no trees” is funny and was a surprise.
This is a funny poem, Sharon. The irony is brilliant. What a wonderful piece of trivia from your life and I’m so glad you turned it into a poem for the rest of us to read.
Sharon,
How interesting! There is a community in my city named Raintree. I was certain your poem was about the same place. How funny that they named the streets after trees. Wonder why there were no trees. 🤔
Sharon,
This is hilarious. It’s like our subdivision—Victorian Village—in Idaho, so far from England.
Sharon, I love your mom’s response – – it’s simple, true, and right to the point. She holds a lot of wisdom, doesn’t she? I can tell.
Thank you Bryan for hosting today. Loved the multilingual aspect of your poem and it is so vividly written, I can almost hear the humming.
HOME
Phone #417-673-3749
Stargazing from the
Iris lined patio
Mixing magical Joy
Dish soap and blowing bubbles
Nestle’s Quick syrup over
Vanilla ice cream.
Phone #417-673-1265
Picnicking under the mimosa tree
PB and J with Flavor-Ice popsicles
Piggy back rides to Dairy Queen
Made up stories and late night songs
about holey buckets.
Laughing until our sides ached
from tickle fights and big hugs.
Board gaming in the kitchen
with pizza and the Statler Brothers,
and friends gathered around.
Phone #417-673-1874
Newlywed nights
Long, lazy days
Kids grown up too fast.
Now retired, empty nesters.
Pansies peeking out of the bed
Home is the front porch swing
A brand new book
Birdsong all around.
Coffee in my mug
and grandkids
Begging to stay overnight.
Yes, I see we had very similar thoughts today. I’ll say I truly think your is much better than mine.
Jeania, what a great idea to trace homes by the phone numbers. It seems like the speaker reflects in childhood, adolescence/youth, and adult life. This definition of home as the front porch swing brings peace and content with slowing down and enjoy books, birdsongs, coffee, and grandkids. Life is good, and you earned it. Thank you for sharing.
Oh – this is magical! I loved the phone numbers. I can still remember my home phone number from the 1970s, my grandmother’s number, and my great-aunt’s!
Jeania,
So many things in your poem made me smile: the phone numbers, flavor-ice,
Your ending is lovely:
I can feel the love.
Ha. I used to remember all the phone numbers I’ve had in my life but not anymore! At least I remember the addresses I guess. I like the phone number addition and the snippets of each home. Thanks for sharing!
Jeania — I LOVE the phone numbers. You pushed me to remember my own — very effective anchor in time. My first one: 2 longs and a short (the ooooold phone boxes that hung on the farmhouse wall…with a shared line so you could hear other people talk to whomever they called. Then Jackson 29547 when we moved to the city and had a rotary phone. and then, and then… I just love that idea. Several images felt like home to me: “tickle fights” and “Nestle’s Quick syrup…ice cream” and “now retired.” It all goes so fast. Love this. Susie
My high school friends and I were sharing our childhood phone numbers a few weeks ago. There is so much fun and love in these stanzas. The third stanza reflects so many phases in that home, much like my own.
Such a creative idea- the use of phone numbers! Wish I had read yours before I wrote mine- it may have lead my writing in a different directions.
Jeania…your approach with phone numbers is clever and I have been thinking how I can still remember all the numbers of my childhood, but don’t have anyone’s numbers mesmerized today (eeks, if I lose my phone). The kids to grow up too fast and I worry the numbers of yesteryear won’t be the way to reach them.
I love the way each stanza starts with the phone numbers! I still remember all fo mine too. What a fun way to remember home.
Gezellig
I barely spoke their language, but this, I recognized. The way this family moved, the way they scattered and gathered, the way they laughed and teased. How Gloria spun through all her sons’ names before landing on the right one: “Rocky – Lloyd – Cedric – Jason – Ferrill – CHRIS!!” And how they folded me into their circle under the breadfruit tree as the sun sank low.
I taught them a game
our hands pat, clap-ing in
a messy rhythm
Rachel,
So much sweetness here.
And the universal running through of names of a tired or frustrated Mom:
This is so beautiful:
And just the right amount of messy
Yes! Everything Sharon said!
Rachel, I liked the narrative start and the way you brought it down with a briefing of poetics in a precious moment (albeit messy). All the names that are folded into who you are from this memory. Wonderful.
Tu Me Manques
By Mo Daley 4/9/26
Strasbourg, France,
is emblazoned on my heart.
The City of Crossroads came to me when I was at a crossroads.
I somehow felt I belonged in a land of
half-timbered houses from fairy tales.
Strasbourg is nestled on the Rhine,
which may explain why it has been governed by both
France and Germany four times in its history.
My favorite monument to visit was the
Monument aux Morts de Strasbourg-
a mother cradling a dead World War soldier son in each arm,
to the east, one who fought for France
to the west, one who fought for Germany.
Babies born in Strasbourg in 1940 were German.
Babies born in Strasbourg in 1944 were French.
I sated myself with the Alsatian meals and drinks:
Baeckeoffe, tarte flambée, and choucroute,
vin chaud, Riesling, Kirschwasser, and Gewürztraminer.
I was in my element in this culturally confused city—
what does that say about me?
I love the line about crossroads. How fitting that at your time of crossroads, this city of crossroads found you! It sounds vibrant & beautiful & perfect.
The last two lines are very powerful! Having not traveled much myself, this poem fascinated me.
Wow, this is a poem not just about one of your homes but about history of a place as well. Thanks for teaching me something. The monument is powerful and heartbreaking. I love your question at the end!
Mo — I love that this specific city resonated with you. That history is so poignant and complex… “confused” for sure. Those towns along the Rhine were so much like fairytales to me…so beautiful and yet in war times torn apart as indicated by the “Monument aux Morts de Strasbourg.” I’d say that you, too, are a complex woman…in the most lovely way. Hugs, Susie
Mo,
I’m in awe of these lines:
The simple repetition and substitution marking such a historical shift.
Well crafted!
It says everything, Mo. What a rich locations to create memories. I’m almost finished with Kendi’s CHAIN OF IDEAS and overwhelmed in a good way about how much history was never taught to me and I should have known. The shifting of populations, the consequences of war, the relocation of populations simply working to survive. We are products of the statue you admired and, sadly, are setting to continue barbaric traditions for artists of tomorrow to contemplate as the work moves in all directions. The line
stuck out to me….maybe it is the fairy tale that caught my attention in how I’m seeing the world right now. Thank you for sharing with the rest of us.
Bahay – house
Tahanan – home
Tahan na – stop crying. Said lovingly by a caregiver: parent, grandparent, an older relative mostly to a young child.
“Mahal kita”, rarely spoken
Nanay made a tahanan for us, kanyang mga apo
Love was felt:
Hugs,
Reviewed math facts
helped recycle
met distant relatives
cared for orchids
disciplined too.
We abandoned her
I was a child and had
To be obedient to a parent.
My heart still cries.
Writing this poem,
The wound breaks open
again remembering.
then
A whisper: “tahan na.”
The similarity between those 2 words – tahan na and tahanan – is striking. I can feel the sorrow in your words. Thank you for sharing.
Cayetana,
This is haunting, and beautiful!
The last stanza break MY heart wounds open and I didn’t even live it.
Beautiful words. Where was home? Sounds tropical. I can feel your sadness in leaving Nanay.
The wounds breaking open again, remembering. Cayetana, when I was thinking about the prompt I realized quickly how memories from one location changes over time and, the human heart is capable of so much forgetting. I love, though, the vocabulary you’re allowing readers, bringing in the sounds of what you heard in youth…words to make it all okay.
and Bryan, yes cool prompt but your poem is very rich, not a throw away example in any sense. Thank you for all of your great work each open write and verselove!
Millport Dr.
red carpet
brown leaves, neglected houseplants
atop bookcases of college yearbooks
CPU boneyard
Cape Cod
carsonblocksneighbors
cracked concrete roads
early morning biking newspaper delivery
not divorce but separation
last days, me 19, most of my bachelor party , 16 or 17
Heritage Rd.
aka hairy tag
married
baby 1
job
baby 2
better job
baby 3
where we all began
planting our family tree
in brown indiana grass and crowding dandelions
flecked with the sidewalk chalk/plastic party necklace shards/ripped junk mail
fertilized dirt under our fingernails
Sunset Dr.
growing into a larger sweater placed in a larger closet in a larger bedroom in a larger house in a larger yard on a larger street inside a larger city
city limit
limit reached
lost job
back to school
my graduation
new job
baby 1 graduation
baby 2 graduation
baby 1 college graduation
Flash forward future
baby 3 graduation
empty nest
but not empty
full of love, mistakes, messy life, learning, new waves, new perspectives, long live the king
king of what again?
Luke,
You and I clearly had similar thought processes today. I love that in some ways this reads like a laundry list, but the repetition, and alliteration work really well to pull in the sentiment of home in the lines.
Bravo!
Luke,
I love how this takes us through your difference homes. Each one held so many experiences and so many versions of you. I love the longer lines that list things. The length really helps those ideas stand out. And I especially love
I couldn’t help connecting, not only with the empty nest, but also with Sunset Drive. That’s where we lived when our kids were aged newborn and 2 to 10 and 12. Even though they are almost 25 and 27, they still talk fondly of that house…that street. Ours was in Paris, Ky. I really enjoyed how the short lines illuminated how fast time passes.
Luke,
I appreciate how your poem speaks to so many parts of your identity — home. The street names are a clever nuance in bringing memories to life while naming them. Love the last line!
I used my street names, too. I love the short, simple lines to reflect major milestones and then the long line in the last stanza, in which there are so many life changes.
King of the narrative, Luke. And of time. Sequence. Place. Life. The street names where you crowned your world.
Luke,
This reminds me of a Gary Soto short story I taught long ago. I love the imperfections of each place that together create a home because of the people there.
home [This poem “under construction”]
it begins with movement and variation
wild, playful energy and shipyard whistles
brothers running in and out of house
muddy clothes from neighborhood games
slamming doors
eggshell walking around mom’s depression
on repeat: discard, pack up, settle in again
another duty station for dad, another moving truck
and there’s me,
in pursuit of a quiet corner for dolls, books, drawing
followed by
magical years of living on my own
slow, melodic
tidy apartments, sunshine, sweet breezes
coffee and friendships
Cat or Tracy or Talking Heads singing
or joy of silence
my beck and call
[I’ve still have a good 40 years to write about, lol!! No time today…]
—–
Bryan, thank you for this creative prompt…I loved how you wove in the varied languages. I I hope to add some foreign words and much more to mine on another day…here’s my start on “home”.]
Maureen, your first stanza is packed full of precise details that show what your childhood was like. The energy, the depression, the discarded things left behind as you moved again are all clear. I like how you separate yourself between the before and later parts of your life. Your ability to create a peaceful home for yourself is marvelous. Love your title’s sidenote. Tacking home in a poem is tough stuff!
“and there’s me, in pursuit of a quiet corner for dolls, books, drawing…” That would have been me as well!
Maureen,
I love the title of the poem and what you have constructed so far.. so much honesty and visual details that brings your home to life. We are so much more than any one year(s), place, or relationship. The contrast really layers the architecture of your home. Can’t wait to read the full version!
Maureen — You have begun a powerful story here, rich with images of a home and household of complexities. Seeing you move to the “magical years” makes me sure that you will poem your way through those 40 years, and we will be all the better and richer for having followed along. Keep writing, sharing these images. Hugs, Susie
Cough Cough. David Byrnes is performing down the road in May and, cough cough, I have that one photo of him and I…my mom and I…when he asked to sit with us at a high school in New Jersey where my niece was performing. He was there as part of his Contemporary Colors documentary. We had Mac n Cheese and chili together. Can’t make it up. I want read more…intrigued my tip-toeing around a mother. Phew.
Oh my goodness! I am filled with envy! What a treasure, to meet David Bryne – and to have a photo to commemorate. Thank you for sharing this!
Maureen,
Love that opening “It begins with.” Those words make home a living rather than ecstatic place.
Home
A dream
take a beach house
on a hill over looking
a field full of yellow daisies
and make a home.
Home nurtured by a yard full of roses
ranunculus of a thousand colors
encircling
aromas of vegetable beef soup
ready for family discussions around the dinner table
while a dog with floppy ears barks.
Neighbors join
jumping and splashing
into the backyard pool.
Sisters tease
play hide and seek
and fall off roller skates
then try the skate board
and wish to surf.
A few tears
follow skinned knees
in a home encircled with hugs
and back rubs
before evening prayers
and falling asleep.
“ranunculus of a thousand colors” – gorgeous image! Love this idea of a home nurture by beautiful flowers.
I’m drawn to your last stanza: “a home encircled with hugs and back rubs before evening prayers.” This home sounds like paradise – from outside to inside.
Susan,
The love in this poems feels both intentional and natural, a family at ease.
Susan — Each of these images are so alluring, so dear. The flowers, the family discussions, “fall off rollers skates” (LOL), skinned knees. But most of all, I’d give my eye teeth for a back rub. Thank you for the joyful images. Susie
Susan, I am seeing the swimming neighbors, feeling the scraped knees, and wanting to scratch the floppy ears of the dog. And for me, I will take the smell of most soups any day!
Bryan, oh my gosh, I’m still laughing at the line “Milwaukee’s Best stolen from our fathers.” which immediately opened an onslaught of forgotten memories. Thank you for hosting and providing such a compelling prompt.
Home is a Road, a Farm, a River
First there was Hilltop Road,
anticipating Annie Annie Over’s ball or marauders,
our exquisite laughter lifting summer’s sun,
playing baseball, roaming woods, fishing for chubs.
For a while avenues offered
strange apartments or homes with bats,
new friends to venture back roads,
mapping out lives that rarely intersect.
Then this city girl landed on a farm, surrounded by barns,
chickens, geese, frolicking lambs in spring,
planting vegetable gardens, raising babies, raking hay,
learning a new culture and its language.
Now a river calls me home, a beguiling seductress,
sassy and dangerous, where an old man lifts
his fresh catfish for me to admire. I celebrate
his feast with a two horn salute and smile.
Barb Edler
9 April 2026
I love this. It brings pictures to life in my mind. It reminds me that home is anywhere my heart decides. Still using the mystery of poetry to give depth to your vision “Now a river calls me home, a beguiling seductress, sassy and dangerous”
This sounds so wonderful! I’m impressed at how you were able to write four stanzas and cover the concept of home so beautifully…I was so in the weeds, trying to figure out how 66 years of home would ever be written about…
“Barb, this is a journey through your homes that makes me smile. Since you refer to yourself as a “city girl in the previous stanza, your current river-side home, “beguiling seductress, sassy and dangerous,” is a great gift for that “old man” and his catfish journeys! Lovely
Barb — The different times that felt like home are so interesting and so different from that river “seductress.” An evolution… you create a very real sense of comfort in each… those word choices did that … “venturing” carries exciting learning …”roaming” and “lifting the sun” carry a positive eye-opening time. It takes a lot of living to map a life of homes…you’ve shared cool inside peeks. Thank you for sharing these. Susie
I could see each location so clearly!
Barb,
Lots of delicious and exhilirating lines within your life!
The poem is so fun and expansive — love the images and details!
Barb, This entire stanza does it for me,
It is superbly located to bring the memories full circle and way you describe the river is simply stunning.
Barb, wow. I love your work. You are clever and unique as shown in so many lines, but this one stands out to me right now: “…offered / strange apartments or homes with bats,” I just love the stories hidden within your poem that I would love to sit and hear you tell about. The river stanza is amazing too, that “beguiling seductress”
Barb, you are my favorite poet. That’s it.
Barb,
First I love the progression here and the three act structure, but mostly I love all the ways you are one with the river: “beguiling, sassy, dangerous” ( in all the best ways).
Barb, I love that you celebrate catfish with a two horn salute and that a river calls you home. Somehow, a river has a power that no other body of water can quite top. there’s a scene in Theo of Golden about the power of a river, and this makes me think of the blood that courses through veins, brings life – – the same thing a river does, and I give your poem a three horn salute. And smile.
Bryan, I love the details and focus on home…such a powerful word and idea to explore!
Captured Serendipity
The breeze gently lifted my hair,
engulfing me in the distinctive
petrichor scent.
Cuddled into a fuzzy crocheted
afghan, made with love by
someone’s grandmother in years past,
my legs lolled over the arm of the
old, comfy armchair.
A chunky mug of Earl Grey steamed
on the side table.
In my hands, an unopened book I had
coveted during the morning’s thrifting
adventures.
Not home…instead, a house i had never visited before
And yet, this moment was one I instinctively knew to slow down
as much as I could,
savoring this quicksilver perfection,
knowing that all too soon, the afternoon
mountain rain would stop,
knowing that, looking back through
the fog of years,
I would revisit with joy and longing
the brief “home” i found at 19.
Julie, your poem captures a warm and comforting moment, cuddled in an Afghan, the Earl Grey tea steaming, with a book and the breeze lifting your hair. What an inviting moment to luxuriate in. I adore the way your poem moves to the closing reflective moment, remembering that brief home at the age of 19. Gorgeous poem!
That is really seductive, I think, to be in another home and find such peace. Lovely.
Julie — I particularly love the image of you draped in an armchair with that “steamy” mug. And the expectation of “mountain rain” stopping. Soooo cozy. So homey! Susie
“savoring this quicksilver perfection…” Wow! I love that line! Those moments when we pause and just know we will remember are so significant. Your memory enabled you to paint a beautiful scene.
Julie,
Julie, I love the beautiful way you captured a snapshot of time, and as a reader I see you on that armchair, with that tea, and wanting to join you in reading that book. As soon as I read “mountain rain” I found myself inhaling as if I might, too, bring it into my lungs. And as for the afghan….I’m going to find one while I read the rest of today’s responses.
Not feeling well, so almost skipped again; but this prompt brought me home to our rural down in Maine. Growing up we had the run of the place. So many ways to “get hurt”… what a life!
Foghorn means it’s time to head home
running, trudging
singing, yelling
dusty explorers
from
field or bay
tree or barn
stained with
strawberries, blueberries
raspberries, chokecherries
grass, mud
full of
garden radishes
baby carrots
whole dripping tomatoes
crunchy cucumbers
sorrel and apples
but still hungry for
tomato soup with crackers
macaroni and cheese
applesauce on bread
chocolate cake with a hole
The foghorn means it’s time to head home
the sun’s going down
barefoot explorers need to check in
and tend to any wounds.
Oh my…this takes me back to my own rural upbringing (and it made me hungry!) I love the repetition of “foghorn” and “explorers”!
Donna,
This made me feel like I was right there with you, all that freedom and wildness and care woven together, and I love how the foghorn becomes both a call and a kind of protection. My favorite line is “barefoot explorers need to check in,” because it holds so much tenderness inside all that adventure.
Peace,
Sarah
So many delicious foods – these are the best memories of home.
Donna,
You’ve had an incredible life and adventure! I hope you are feeling better. This poem is tugging at so many wonderful childhood memories. I want to put them in a time capsule. It looks like you’ve got this poem —what a beautiful & wonderful home & life.
Donna,
i’m so glad you wrote despite not feeling well. I hope you feel better soon.
I love the cataloguing of movements and plants. Especially happy to see chokecherries which remind me of my grandmother.
Wow. I love the list-quality of imagery here, Donna. In so many ways this is the streaming of a healthy-childhood…one to fuel you for life…all those berries and then grass, mud. Superb.
I love how you started with “foghorn means it’s time to head home” and reminded us, again, toward the end . . . that the sun’s going down and it’s time to head home. “barefoot explorers need to check in and tend to any wounds.” Perfect end to a full summer’s day!
The Houses I Pass, but I Think I have Forgotten a Few
Every time I drive somewhere
on this island
I drive past my house,
multiplied as they are, across the maps
of Kaua’i:
There is the one off Waha road,
on the hillside over the sea.
Someone lived behind a glass slider,
in the garage?
Or the one on another hill
above the highway, in the tall grass.
David swears I don’t remember
that one,
but I see something like the shape of a memory
of a house in the shadow of the mauna.
Then Morioka’s house,
near Nounou, the sleeping giant,
his belly covered in boulders.
But that’s just an empty lot now
after hurricane ‘Iwa.
Actually, it’s a lot still,
filled in with trees and chickens,
and ghosts of dead dogs
and collapsed ceilings.
Then there is Kawaihau Sports Villa
tangled in the hollow between two ridges,
with the constant sewage seep
of the overtaxed cesspool,
and the anoles we wore as earrings.
Tabitha lived there, down at the low end,
near the racquetball courts.
Then also Sambo’s house by the iron bridge,
where we got scolded for picking the star
fruit hanging over the fence.
Or the one on Paha’a Pl,
where the turtle ran away.
Or the Lempke’s house on Ka’apuni,
where Sarah broke her arm
and I slept on the floor,
and pissed into cups,
and mutely discovered the space
and shapes between my legs.
And also there is the condo at coconut marketplace
where I broke my arm at my birthday party,
one of the many with only one guest.
And then the house on Makaloa, too,
the one where the neighbor’s boat
sailed through our garage
during hurricane Iniki, the one
where the family finally fell apart
and where I forgot to adequately hide
myself or the box of condoms.
These are some of the houses I pass
as I drive around my life, now finally
making a home.
Jonathon,
This feels like memory mapped onto land, each house holding a version of you, some tender, some painful, all still alive as you move through them. I’m especially struck by “I see something like the shape of a memory,” because it captures that in-between knowing so beautifully, and the ending lands with such quiet power as home becomes something you’re finally choosing rather than just passing through.
Sarah
Jonathan — Such visceral images, details that make me feel like I’m riding on the handlebars of a bike you are pedaling through your memories. So specific, makes it fascinating. Wow, Kaua’i! The hurricanes, the scolding, the “discover[y] of your body, empty lot filled with memories. I loved the specifics. Fascinating details. Love the ending lines: “drive around my life, now finally/making a home.” Cool! Susie
Jonathon, when I return to my childhood home I now walk the streets I used to run, noting the homes of friends and the stories we’d tell of locations and spaces. I also recognize the changes each and every time I return, sometimes wondering what happened to those that used to reside these spaces. I think this is why I love,
lines the most…I think it is the word ‘ghost’ that resonated with me the most.
Jonathon, your poem is so interesting. Such a lot of places, with sad and happy stories, “where the turtle ran away.” That last stanza is so powerful. I had not realized, I guess, that the poem was all about “house” and house that you passed. Now, you are making the empowering choice to build a home. I enjoyed your poem.
I grew up in the Silicon Valley,
Long before it was the Silicon Valley.
Blossom Hill Road actually had blossoming fruit trees lining it,
Rather than endless lines of stalled traffic.
People ask me, usually in the middle of sub-Arctic winter,
How I ended up in the Midwest.
“Why would you ever leave California?”
I smile and say something about, oh, you know, lower cost of living,
This is where the job hunt took me, blah blah blah.
Home has held lots of kinds of winter:
Snow for the first time in college: at the time, Utah winter felt SOOOO cold!
Now I call it “baby winter.”
Idaho panhandle winter, where if the surface temperature dropped below -40, school was cancelled.
That only happened once.
For three days.
Back to Utah for more baby winter and some debate coaching.
Turns out Soldier Summit closes for snowstorms,
And debaters wonder when we’ll EVER get back home.
So maybe not baby winter after all.
When I pulled up and out of Evanston, Wyoming, headed east on I-80 to Iowa for grad school,
I saw the landscape open up, looked at my dad in the passenger seat, and said,
“I’m pretty sure I can see Iowa from here. Where did the mountains go?!?”
Iowa taught me a very important concept: wind chill.
West Virginia winters brought differing routes to campus,
Because I couldn’t climb the roller coaster hill if it were icy.
I had to gun the car and yank the steering wheel hard at the last minute to make it into my driveway,
Raising my arms in triumph once I made it.
Back in Iowa, I have learned to dress for winter.
20 degrees is “warm” and very runnable outside.
Yeah, winter is long and cold,
But the spring blossoms are glorious.
No Blossom Hill Road, but the bluebells are just starting.
Not sure why I’m writing about winter on a beautiful spring day, but there you have it.
Here are the bluebells from a previous year.
Lived in the midwest a few miles from Iowa…weather is both warmer and colder than in Maine, and spring comes earlier. “I’m pretty sure I can see Iowa from here…” My memories going home to Maine “I can smell Maine!” Different places but I could bring up versions of your memories.
Sheila,
I love how this moves through place and time, each version of winter shaping you in a different way, and how humor carries us through it all. That line “Where did the mountains go?!?” stayed with me, because it captures both wonder and disorientation so perfectly, and the ending with the bluebells feels like such a gentle, earned sense of home.
Sarah
Sheila, you are showing a bit of nostalgia for a home on Blossom Hill Road. I know that road because my daughter lives near it. I can’t imagine the cold you are describing. I love your contrasts in the last stanza and the icy struggles of winter.
Sheila, my youngest resides in Iowa now and I’m amazed at the drastic shifts in temperatures, windchills, seasons, and precipitation that he experiences (I also didn’t know it go that warm in the summers). I love the way you brought us through the many ‘seasons’ of locations you’ve experienced.
Sheila, what fun to read your story of home through the winters of your homes. I grew up in California too, and spent 14 years in Iowa, so I felt right at home with some of your home stanzas. I couldn’t relate, but the West Virginia winter sounds treacherous! Well done.
Thank you, Bryan, for your poem and inspiration. There’s so much to covet in your poem and theme of home. Lots of images and metaphors that I am holding onto. I found myself toggling between so many memories and decided to combine a previous where I’m from poem into today’s writing.
Juxtaposition
I am from mangoes, rose, and jasmine blossoms
raising their faces to the sun
Roti and potato saag, walking hand in hand
with my grandmother
Sugar cane juice with a hint of ginger
connected by a maternal bond
I am from playing tag and chasing friends
Jumping from rocks and teasing siblings
playing dress up in my mom’s saris
until mom said, dinner’s ready
I am from abundance and love
These days…
Home is finding a way
without fading away
traversing the rolling hills
caverns of solitude
searching for signs
whispering clouds as they share their secrets
rolling and morphing into creatures of fantasies
memories and make-believes
scattered and scented pine cones strewn on walking trails
satiating in the scents of the spring air
greeting the yellow and cream daffodils
stopping and turning, hinting us to dance
whispering sweet nothings
swaying in sunshine and in the invisible air
Hugging the lusciousness of home
Darshna, this is lovely! You brought me into your life with the sweetness of mangoes, rose and jasmine blossoms/raising their faces to the sun and I loved following you to dinner time…I also know how it feels to find a way/without fading away but trust the whisper of clouds and am happy knowing you have carried your home with you…
Darshna,
There’s such a beautiful fullness here, the way the first half roots us in family, food, and love, and then gently opens into a more searching, solitary present without losing that sense of wonder. I keep returning to “whispering clouds as they share their secrets,” because it captures how home becomes something you listen for now, something felt as much as remembered.
Sarah
Darshna, I absolutely love your closing line “Hugging the lusciousness of home.” The shift between the past and the present is striking. Both parts share an abundance of love and are rich with images and sensory appeal. I can smell the flowers, the pin, and hear the sweet whispers. Gorgeous, inviting poem!
“finding a way
without fading away” is seemingly simple but powerful and profound, but I think my favorite morsel of this graciously beauteous poem is “whispering clouds as they share their secrets”.
“Home is finding a way without fading away” – I know I will think about this line for a very long time. I loved your inclusion of both past and present.
From “These days” on, I was in awe of the way the language was flowing into my veins…it’s the verbs….all the doing that a home has for you…and I love that is “finding a way without fading away.” I just love that.
Darshna, wow, so much beauty in your two different worlds. The first section ending with, “until mom said, dinner’s ready / I am from abundance and love” So beautiful! Then the second section with all those beautiful words beginning each line, so peaceful.
Darshna, these words spoke to me loudly and clearly, and I will carry them with me.
Home is finding a way
without fading away
traversing the rolling hills
caverns of solitude
searching for signs
And the daffodils, yellow and cream…..I’ll carry those, too.
Bryan, I hope this doesn’t appear twice, this is the second time this month that my poem disappeared….this time it was marked as spam! anyway, thanks for this invitation to trace the steps of my journey home…I hear your voice as I read this poem and loved that you learned to maneuver your mouth like a magpie. I also think your poetry often reflects the rhythm of your fiddling…
Roots & Sprouts
When I first left the sidewalks and sycamore,
the stoop and corner lot,
I didn’t know—
I was seven years old and arrived
in a landscape
that might have been the moon,
with curbs instead of sidewalks
and craters marked for unbuilt houses.
But my mother still made lava cakes
birthday cakes,
and snowball cookies for Christmas.
There were woods to explore,
leaf-piles in autumn,
a dad-built ice rink in the winter,
and soon enough,
craters filled with friends and frenemies.
My next stop was a small house
with chimes in the hall,
a fireplace, wall-to ceiling bookshelves
and a child who became my home
in the mad season that almost broke me.
A child, a white wicker rocker,
lullabies and love became my home
in the season that almost broke me.
I was learning.
My new home was a man with blue eyes
and a baseball cap
who made promises he never broke.
Together we moved to a house
with a fireplace, thousands of pencils,
hundreds of books, two children
and Smudges, the ill-mannered dog we loved.
The children are grown now and Smudges is gone.
Our new dog, is a fraidy-cat dog who follows me
everywhere. But I have learned what I didn’t know—
what I wrote in a poem years ago:
home is where love sprouts;
we carry our roots inside us.
Ann,
This poem is so delightful and narrates truly like a verse poem. Love the title and all the symbolic gestures and momentos of home. Beautiful.
OMG. When I read the title, I thought it was going to mean roots and sprouts as in what you eat. Those last two lines…amazing. “Home is where love sprouts” is so beautiful! Thanks for sharing the good and the “season that almost broke” you with us also.
The distinction between roots and spouts is so insightful. Your title pulled me in, the emotion of the poem pulled me through, and that last stanza just hit me with an AHA! So much wisdom!
Ann,
I didn’t see any of your comments in spam, but I will be on the lookout. Sorry for that frustration.
Your poem is so beautifully layered, the way each “home” shifts from place to people to something carried within, and I love how that sense of learning threads through the whole piece. The line “a child who became my home in the mad season that almost broke me” really stayed with me, and that closing feels so earned and grounding, like you’ve arrived at something true and lasting.
Sarah
Oh! Those last two lines! I loved the details throughout, and those last two lines tugged at my heart.
Here’s the humor, Ann…I left a response on your first attempt and it wouldn’t save. Being strategic, I texted it to myself in case there was a glitch. When I went back it was gone…your poetry and my response. So, I just found my text and sent it to myself again.
Home
Welcome,
make yourself at home, it’s
where the heart is, you know,
it’s where the buffalo roam
(and the deer and the antelope play)
so, we should, probably, move the
couch over a little bit, maybe
clear out the coffee table and the hat
rack (why do we still have a hat rack?)
to make more space, but let’s leave the end
table with the landline (and remember
to keep the line free ‘cause E.T. may
be phoning later) also make sure to avoid
blocking the fireplace (since we’re keeping
the home fires burning), but move the rug
in front, it’s a bit of a tripping hazard, now
to be honest, there is, absolutely, no place
like this, but, again, let’s move the recliners,
we’re gonna need more room because,
apparently, the cows are coming, too,
and they’re bringin’ the chickens.
_________________________________________________
Thank you, Bryan, for your cool prompt and wonderful mentor poem! I love the lines, “the time for learning puppy breath on cold, linoleum floors” and “the times when light teases the dog curled besides me, / the hymnals she sings through whimpers.” And the “monsters,” oh yes, there are always “monsters set out to destroy [homes].” For my offering, though I didn’t bring in other languages – not that they weren’t invited, mi casa es su casa, you know? They just chose not to – I did try, however, to play with various clichés and idioms involving “home.” This was fun.
I’m in love with what you’re writing, Scott, and have read this a couple times over, because it’s playful, witty, original and intriguing. I often joke about land lines which my home hasn’t had in years, but is central to my paren’s home (the ringing still startles me when I visit). What humored me is your connection to ET phoning home, which ages us I suppose…the ongoing playfulness of that line in the 80s. The overloading animal and expansion, too, made me chuckle (you might be Noah’s younger brother who doesn’t get as much hype in the parables). Always always love seeing what you are able to do daily with the #VerseLove prompts.
I still have a land line . . . I say it’s because there might be an emergency where cell towers are down in a power outage and then, ba da bing! I will still be able to call for help.
I love the play between nostalgia (love the ET reference) and subtle critique of the American dream.
Scott,
I admire your uncanny ability to deliver a verse poem with so much spunk, pizzazz, and nostalgia. Bravo!
Like always, so funny, Scott. Each cliche works so well 😀
Scott.
First, thank you for your really detailed and heartfelt response to my poem the other day. I? think I might print it out and save it for days I feel doubt about writing. Really grateful.
This poem made me smile the whole way through, the way you play with all those familiar sayings and then literally rearrange the space to make room for them, it’s so clever and inviting at the same time. I especially love “why do we still have a hat rack?” because it grounds all that humor in something real and lived-in, and the ending just opens the door wider, like home keeps expanding to hold whatever shows up.
Sarah
Scott, your playful tone and concrete lines are simply a delight to read. The buffalo, E.T. and the cows coming home are immediately recognizable and add to the image of pure a pure Americana home. Fun and cleverly crafted poem!
Scott, this is so good. What a read. Very clever and smooth. I also love reading your work every time. I need to save this one, I think
As always…👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻
Scott — As ALWAYS, your mind and wordplay are just unlike anything else… so much fun to hop-a-long with you. That “home” is this screwy vault from “Home on the Range” to the furniture arrangements is just hilarious. So apt for how home, indeed, takes on what rattles through our minds as we take up space in this menagerie we call home. I loved journeying through your “home” thoughts. Hugs, Susie
Thank you, Bryan, for a chance to ponder what home/hogar is to us. I hope to revisit to go more poetic/figurative, but here is what I could fit in on this busy day.
Crumbling Castles
My childhood home
felt like a castle.…
more than we needed
with ample space for all of us
I spent a lot of time
in homes far smaller
with less.
So I was grateful
for what we had.
It simply was home;
no need to compare.
Little did I know
how simple it was.
Spartan with no need
or desire for more.
I’ve spent my adulthood
living among affluence,
among true castles . . .
houses that made me realize
just how simple
my childhood home–
and my current home–
are.
But I’ve also realized that
home is homey,
warm, simple, cluttered,
welcoming, personal.
I drove by my childhood home
last week.
The castle has become squalor,
in a neighborhood full of
down-trodden houses.
I prefer to remember the castle
and the ‘hood as it was back in the day.
Como en casa en ningún sitio
~Susan Ahlbrand
9 April 2026
Susan, I appreciate this poem for its return to it at the end…the memories of what it once was. I often think of the movie Cinema Paradiso, when you learn the entire film is Toto’s story, returning to his home for a funeral….seeing all the changes. I make mental notes, too, of my childhood neighborhood….in some locations, trees that have grown enormously, and other locations where they’ve been taken down. It is fascinating, actually. Thanks for the last line (and I’m lucky to have translators besides me in my classroom).
Susan,
A beautiful tribute to your childhood home and the one you’ve created.
Love these lines,”But I’ve also realized that
home is homey,
warm, simple, cluttered,
welcoming, personal.”
Our memory and sentiments are home.
Susan— Our castles…best left in memory. Your poem is so very real!
Susan,
There’s something so quietly powerful in the way this redefines “castle,” not as size or wealth but as feeling, memory, and care, and how that understanding deepens over time. I’m especially moved by “home is homey, warm, simple, cluttered,” because it grounds everything, and the ending carries such tenderness in choosing to remember what was rather than what remains.
Sarah
Susan, my heart aches any time I drive past my childhood home which is simple and rife with memories. I feel that same ache resonate in your poem. Loved the lines:
home is homey,
warm, simple, cluttered,
welcoming, personal.
Yes, that’s the perfect description! Thank you for sharing your experiences with both castles and a home.
Susan, this is a powerful memoir poem that takes me through your adult reflection about childhood and earlier perceptions. The neighborhoods of my youth in a trailer park are also pretty much down-trodden and yet a reminder of where my roots are.
“There’s no place like home”! Yes. I’ve done the same, Susan. I’ve driven by my old home and wondered how did a family of five live in that, it’s the size of a shoe box, lol — but I didn’t remember being cramped at all when growing up; it was just “homey, / warm, simple, cluttered, / welcoming, personal.” Thanks for this!
Susan, that is interesting that you had just last week driven by your childhood castle. No wonder you thought about it today. I loved reading your childhood memories of your home. Yes, to this kind of castle: “Homey, warm, simple, cluttered, welcoming, personal.” I like how you repeated simple or simply several times. That seems a perfect description of a home. I wish there was a way to revamp all the hurting houses for people who need them!
Susan,
This tells us so much about you and how home is so important to you. I love how you reflect on your childhood home so lovingly.
Susan, I can feel the shift when you drive by your childhood home. Your use of castle and squalor in the same line shows the lines of time etched deeply and the realization that things can change so quickly and our memories are better left as they are. I was shocked when I drove by 208 Martin Street, my old home, and saw it had been torn down and a high rise built. All the memories of reading in my closet with a flashlight can now live only in my mind. And that’s okay. But still – – our hearts are town when we see things that were once there are so different or no longer there.
I don’t have much time to ponder, write, or to read and respond yet, but hopefully later tonight
I love this prompt, as I often think about the concept of ‘home’. I really enjoyed your poem. I can see you’re an expat, too. I love the mix of languages and images!
Home in More than One Place
I’m at home in
more than one place
The life of an expat means
home is here
and there
Home is comfortable
familiar
safe—
where you can fully be yourself
and fall apart (when you need to)
shutting out the noise of the world
to reset
Home is cozy
inviting—
vanilla-scented mornings
stacks of books piled high on your nightstand
full of spaces you can cocoon
with a good book
and a cup of tea
Home is lived in
an extension of you—
decorated with art collected on your travels
picture frames full of those you love
your mug of tea still sitting in the sink
Home is family
loved ones
you hold dear—
your mom’s chocolate merengue pie
your dad’s water cup always left by his spot
Blue Bell homemade vanilla scooped and shared
Laughter and teasing and stories swapped
Home is complicated
and in more than one place
yet full of love
~Jennifer Kesler, 9 April 2026
What a relatable welcome to each stanza with the successive “Home is” … and what surprises are there. Each sense honored & sated throughout! : )
I loved reading this. I thought about places in nature that I call home. Going to the farm, fishing in the creek, but still those places with that warm cup of coffee and safe and inviting.
I loved your details…the meringue pie, the mug of tea, the water cup… “Home is lived in…” – love that line.
This reflects your travels and how the feeling of home is with you as you go. And reading it, I also remember glimpses from your year in photos, too.
“Home is lived in/ an extension of you”– I love those lines so much! It says we carry home inside us, much like the April 1st prompt.
Jennifer, for a while (on the road between KY and NY) I used to say that I felt most at home in the in-between spaces of who I once was and who I was becoming. Aging, however, has made me more interested in the nature of living and having spaces (as I had a gigantic hornet’s nest in the walls of my home last Fall and greeted males on the daily, coming inside to die after mating with the Queen). It keeps me thinking about aging…species…
patterns of how creatures utilize homes. And those books on the nightstands! Here’s to any locations that offers a home to our reading materials!
You have hit a homerun with this poem! I love it all and how you’ve lined every detail with such care and honesty.
Jennifer,
There’s such a gentle expansiveness here, the way you allow home to exist in multiple places without forcing it into one definition, and it feels especially true to the expat experience. I keep coming back to “home is lived in, an extension of you,” because it gathers all those small, specific details into something deeply personal and real, and the ending holds that complexity with so much warmth.
Sarah
Aggie, your repetition of “home is” really heightens the feeling of moving towards your concluding stanza with the heart of a home. This is so true. I wish I had this as a book mark as a child moving ever few years. It might have helped!
Jennifer, your poem echoes so many other poems I read today: home is not just about place(s), it is where we find or get to know it. The stanza before the final is what resonates with me most. Lovely and soulful!
Jennifer, I appreciated all the very specific things you said about home: chocolate merengue pie, dad’s water cup and more. It really makes it so believable. I understand just a bit about what you write because of my eight years in Bahrain. You summarized beautifully in that last stanza.
Oh, what a blessing to have roots in more than one place. Yes, family – – family is place too. Stories shared over Bluebell Vanilla Ice Cream are always better than stories without the ice cream.
Bryan, thank you for such a great prompt. I love the idea of home, and your poem is quite a mentor. The translanguaging makes it even more special. I love “& to maneuver my mouth like a magpie” and the dog and “the hymnals she sings through whimpers…” So amazing. Thank you for the three CWP book choices you shared. I’m looking into them. One of my first thoughts of home today is Earth, even with “the monsters set out to destroy [her].
Our Crescent Home
Beauty of Earth
more special
emphasized how alike
every single person on Earth
alive same planet shared
how we love and live
universal
specialness
preciousness
——————————–
A found poem from comments astronaut Christina Koch made on Artemis II / Photo from NASA
Oh, Denise. What is possible when we embody a new perspective. How beautiful to imagine this share love and responsibility for a home. Our planet.
What a beautiful poem and very poignant given current events. 🙂
What a way to be introduced to your writing, Denise! I don’t think I’ve found you out here yet, but I’m so glad that this was my first of yours to read. Such a gift on the ear — the long vowels at “alive same planet shared” and the s’s toward the end that … well, I can’t explain what they do, but I like hearing them : )
So beautiful! I love the blend of universal and specific: we’re all loved, and we’re loved in our specialness. Your found poem captures that so well.
The images from space did give us some new perspective of our home, Earth. I thought of that when I read Home/Hogar earlier today. “Same planet shared” is truly a thought that needs to be constant on our minds along with “how alike every single person on Earth.” Seems some people ignore that.
Tears in the eyes, Denise. I never thought about approaching the whole earth as a home, poetically, although I think of it as a home on the daily….the word in your poem that resonates most is ‘preciousness.’ If only more realized how precious, miraculous, fortunate, and beautiful it is to share life on a single planet. If only we could be more harmonious.
Denise,
Just what I needed to see and witness in your poem, thank you! This is magnificent and I am holding it close.
I appreciate the found lines you have woven together here to remind us that we are in fact living on a shared home…It reminds me a bit of the Flaming Lips song, Do You Realize??
I have been captivated by Artemis II so I am so glad to see you cultivated a poem from words from one of the astronauts. And that image . . . just wow. Those who ask why were are spending money to do this. That photo is our why.
Denise, your poem is perfect. I love the photograph and that you’ve created a found poem from Christina Koch’s comments, but what I love most is the message. We all are connected through this amazing moon. Powerful message and gorgeous poem!
Denise, your thoughts about our shared home are share by all…even those who forget “we are alike, every single person.” My 10 year old grand asked me why a book character kept referring to someone as “special” and “disabled” just because they were in a wheelchair to more easier. “Why don’t they just say she is a person with mobility issues… because as soon as you label someone based on looks or challenges you start to see them that way…” she asked? I want to be hopeful her generation will do a better job with our planet and its diverse people.
Denise,
What a brilliant poem and inspiration for us all. I feel hugged by this poem.
Thank you for crafting this beautiful tribute to mother Earth, Denise! (And I love that image!)
Brian, thank you for your wonderfully crafted poem of where you have roots in upstate NY as well as your areas of learning and growing into who you are. I chose to write about a rural, mountain top location, Stormville, where I lived for many years 70 miles north of Midtown Manhattan. I really did have some wonderful years there, am grateful for a my small town options at this point in my life. Living in Stormville today is a bit easier than when I lived there as a new mom, but it is still pretty quiet and “sleepy.”
Sylvan Lake Phones had humans overseeing
Shared phone lines in the beginning,
Then, pops confirmed a start of hunting season, bucks on
Top of pick ups, hanging from trees, before breakfast
Once the power lines went down, we were
Out of water, heat, lights for days, weeks even,
Rural Route 2, for years was all Mailman Everett would
Require, add Nathan Hale if you want,
Most of us left the Post Office-General Store seeing double
Mail and milk combined was a first for me,
Vacationing hikers trudged through backyards
Venerable Appalachian Trail summer warriors
It was as snowy, as windy as the name implied,
It forced camaraderie on top of that mountain, a
Long way from groceries, gas, schools, friends
Lots of children of chip-makers in IBM’s hey-day
Learned to play with neighbors or be lonely while the
Looping interstate grew busier and noisier
Even thinking about groceries, ballet, take out required
Escaping to Hopewell Junction, where the action was?
Anita, the acrostic form fits so well here. Your description of Stormville sounds like a setting for a Hallmark movie or one of the small towns nestled in Western Pennsylvania, where my son went to college.”Learned to play with neighbors or be lonely.” There are many lessons to be learned in small-town living.
Anita, such a sense of place with natural and constructed terrains that make a home for some and a borrowed shelter for others. Love the shared phone lines.
I agree- the acrostic works really well in your poem. I especially like the double lines with the same letter. It sounds like you grew up in a small town, isolated from the big city.
Anita, wow, I learned so much from your poetic acrostic about Stormville. The “mail and milk combined” and “Vacationing hikers trudge through backyards” and the name Stormville. Yikes! The world is full of places we don’t know about. Thank you for sharing.
I’m a huge fan of acrostics, Anita, as well as all traditional forms to help contain and constrain a writer’s thinking – it’s always a challenge to craft and I appreciate whenever I’m invited to play or see another dancing with the possibilities. I’m seeing Stormville is in my neck of the woods, in CT, but as a Syracuse guy, I consider that downstate. The use of deers as trophies (and dinner) resonates most (as does the movement of hikers into such locations, as if your backyard is Disneyland). And now I’m ready for a hike, myself (but in my neighborhood on paths meant for such trespassing).
Anita, I admire the clever use of acrostic poetry to show what life in Stormville was like. It certainly wasn’t easy. Your poem reminded me of party lines, listening to other people’s conversations. Learning to navigate a place can be challenging and impactful. I appreciate how your poem reveals this through layers.
Anita,
Excellent acrostic. I love that you made us wait until the end to reveal this idyllic place.
You are blessed to have had this idyllic and adventurous life in Storyville. Sad to say that we will all soon say the same of the whole world: “had humans overseeing….” headed as we are into the robotic age. Being so close to the Appalachian Trail, I think I’d have taken off and gotten lost in the woods – – what a great way to grow up!
Brian, thank you for this prompt. It was cathartic for me. Although home is different for me since the loss of my husband in September, writing this reminded me of all the sweetness and love that the memories hold. This is a poem I will come back to revise, I am sure.
Safe Haven
It was going to be our stepping stone
from the red brick row house in the city with a cement patio and back driveway
to an aluminum-sided beige twin in the “burbs” with a fenced-in backyard.
Each move was meant to bring us closer
to the larger single home with a two-car garage we imagined,
but instead, the twin house on Carriage Drive became our forever home.
Here, we hosted Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas Feasts of the Seven Fishes.
With the help of folding tables and chairs, the guests were packed in like sardines,
yet there was always room for one more to join the chaos.
It is where the love of everything Philly shines with pride –
where yelling at the TV on football Sundays or at the Phillies or Sixers
was a common occurrence, but the love for the teams never died.
Here, our children learned to cook by watching their dad
make delicious dishes with the “special” ingredient – love.
It is where grandchildren come to sleep over and spend time with Nona,
and watch movies, make crafts, play board games, and eat snacks.
It is my safe space to come home to at the end of the workday,
where the love of my life welcomed me home with a smile.
Now, I come home to an empty house, welcomed only by the memories,
but the memories are still so sweet, and I still feel safe.
Rita, your poem is certainly evidence of the love and memories that will always fill that home. While you cite it specifically in “dishes with the “special” ingredient – love,” the evidence of love is also in “room for one more” and the feasts a forever home hosts. When my marriage ended after more than 4 decades, my family lost all that and the Seven Fish, too! Fortunately, they are trying to make their own beginnings in their tiny forever abodes. Thank you for the reminder of the power of love to build a home
Oh, that first line, Rita. It was going to be. Wow. And “was mean to”. How a change in plans can become the life we didn’t quite imagine and yet is the “now” we come home to and the life we actually did make. Love it.
This poem is beautiful and tells of a life well-lived and full of love in a place, a home, that feels safe and comforting. I’m sorry your husband is no longer with you, but it sounds like you are surrounded by his memory in your lovely home.
Rita, the beginning title “Safe Haven” and the last phrase, “I still feel safe” are so poignant. Beautifully done. I liked reading that this place, once considered a stepping stone became your forever home, and the guests packed in like sardines at the feasts gave such a special image of warmth and love. Your kids learning to cook in love by your husband–what a joy. So many beautiful memories wrapped up here. I’m so glad you wrote it today.
“…the twin house on Carriage Drive became our forever home…” – I love how you introduce this place of safety, a treasure trove of memories.
And now I’m all teary . . .
Rita, I realized from the introduction that this approach to the prompt was going to be touching and thought-provoking. You delivered and a couple of times I allowed the tears to swell in connection to your humanity, the change over time, and the loss of your husband who you built space, memories, and magic with over many years. The fold-up tables are a saving grace…pack them in…not only the people, but the stories that come with them.
This was the line for me.
[Just a dash of español, as el tiempo would allow today… I’m still aprendiendo.]
HOME/HOGAR
Wiggling in Mama’s lap,
pushing su libro aside,
smooching her on the lips,
giggling her into a smile;
ol’ Watty Boy sentado en mi foot
while I toqué Pachelbel,
the piece, through the touch,
somehow transmitting;
in Judy’s voice,
sister tones, a harmony única,
she sounds a lot like Aunt Hilda ahora
and surely we sound like each other;
bundled en días fríos in 2020
in the open garage safely 6 feet
from Prima Jackie,
jabbering, finding laughter
in the horror of the daily count;
en el camino with Rayo,
pausing for sniffs
as the redwings conk-la-ree-check-check
from the spent cattails along the wetland;
plucking tuned strings
of a John Prine song,
singing historias that live on
though he’s gone;
smearing pigments
till I find amarillos y azules
that agree
and amuse the cotton papel;
sliding between clean sheets
after driving through lluvia y sleet for horas,
Rayo de Luna asleep
on the corner of her dreams;
in un poema that carries me lissomely,
one hogar to another,
as readily as un ojo
opens and closes.
por Susie Morice© nueve de abril, 2026
Ah, Susie, I was happy to be able to read most of the Spanish words. (I guess my lessons are gradually adding to my vocabulary.) So many beautiful images like “Rayo de Luna asleep / on the corner of her dreams;” I learned a new English word here in your HOME/HOGAR poem–lissomely. “in un poema that carries me lissomely,
one hogar to another,” So beautiful!
I think you’ve got a knack for what Kay Ryan called recombinant rhyme : pushing / smushing, sheets / sleet / asleep / dream, song / on / gone. Thank you for doing such lovely graceful work on the ear and the heart here : )
Susie, I’m picking the bird-play from all the great lines in your poem,
and remembering the first time I learned of these birds swinging from cattails and being told, “Be careful. They’re nesting. They will attack.” And the did, because they do. Still love them, and I love the way you brought their song probably singing the joy for their own homes. Wonderful to hear that this afternoon.
This is a wonderful poem. I especially love the way you weave back and forth between languages. One can sometimes only capture home in one’s home language. In my Lang Arts classes, I always encourage my students to use what ever language works best in the moment.
Susie, wow, I have been immersed in language, sights and beautiful song while reading your poem. What a wonderful ride!. I love the redwings “conk-la-ree-check-check”. The lovely harmony of your sister and Aunt, the “sing historias that live on”. Simply gorgeous! Your poetic craft is shining brilliantly throughout this one!
Susie,
How lovely to see mama, Watty Boy, and John Prine in your poem. It feels so nostalgic to read this and think about our early days together in this community. You are among my favorite people m, and we’ve never even met in person, yet I felt as though we share so many values that make a friendship.
Glenda — It is the same feeling I have here. You are a kindred spirit, a friend indeed! Love, Susie
Susie, when I hear John Prine, I think of you, his number one fan. I love the feeling of home and giggling your mom into a smile. And ol’ Waddy Boy makes an appearance once again! I love that. I love the feeling of home and the sharing of it.
Writing about home is time travel. Thank you for this prompt, Bryan!
On Galley Street
On Galley Street, I stood on Great Granny’s back porch,
Appalachian mountains peering over my shoulder.
I watched the North Fork of the Kentucky roil and churn,
brown waters foaming in their haste to round the bend.
“Debris,” Great Granny said (pronouncing the “s”)
“floats down the middle when the river’s on the rise.”
A thick branch, torn away upstream,
raised its hand once before going under.
We weren’t worried, though.
We were high enough on the bank.
On Galley Street, I ate green apples, smaller than my fist,
plucked by Great Papaw from his carefully-tended trees.
A stray kitten, Misty, scampered onto Great Papaw’s shoulder.
She used a white paw to fish peanuts from his shirt pocket.
Great Papaw chuckled, a thin stream of chewing tobacco
flooding a wrinkle near the corner of his mouth.
On Galley Street, Great Granny and I sat on the red porch swing,
flaking paint curled beneath my fingernails.
Great Granny pushed us gently, one foot against the concrete porch.
Great Papaw sat in a sagging folding chair, shuffling a deck of cards.
It was story time on Galley Street.
Great Granny told tales about their 12 children,
when they were littler even than me,
about my own Papaw, my Daddy’s Daddy,
who now lived next door in a house he built to stay close.
Great Granny said, when Papaw was little,
he was afraid of feathers.
Of course, I thought.
Who would ever, in a million years,
want to fly away from here?
Oh, Lori, wow. You are a gifted storyteller in prose and poetry. This is so beautiful. I hear the accents and the culture and the love. And that ending! Brilliant.
What a wonderful description of home. I love the image of the mountains peering over our shoulders. Here on Kaua’i the mauna are alive and are parts of our families, so they often peer and watch and laugh and judge.
Lori, this is beautiful and while the entire poem had me entranced with Galley Street, your last lines gave me a chill…so very beautiful ~ who would ever want to fly away from Great Granny’s porch? Thank you for bringing me someplace I’ve never been.
Obviously a kitten fishing peanuts from a pocket is a line I need to highlight. Wow. But I absolutely LOVE the feat of a feather followed by why anyone would like to fly from such a space used to finish the poetic challenge for today. Lori….thanks for time traveling with all of us today to this KY memory…I can see the foaming brown rivers vividly in my mind.
So many feels with this poem! Love how you integrated nostalgia and brought it to life for us. Thank you!
Lori, I love how you describe your home with specific images that show the actions and family love. Your ending question is perfectly delivered. Beautiful poem!
Lori,
This has such iconic place language in the words “Great Granny” and “Papa.” I feel transported to Appalachia reading your poem.
BRC— this resonates with me. Thank you!
“These days, I find the simplicity of a blanket matters most,
the times when light teases the dog curled besides me,
the hymnals she sings through whimpers…”
Home
Growing up, I knew what home was:
Tiny house next door to grandparents
Fields stretching behind,
Chautauqua Lake’s glowing sunsets in the front.
A tiny room downstairs, near no one,
just me, Trixie Belden, and Nancy Drew.
A quiet cocoon.
I left my cocoon and went to college.
Dorms were crowded and dramatic,
offering options, choices, opportunities.
I made many choices, took many chances.
I made glorious mistakes and survived them.
I would blame it on being a child of the seventies,
but it might have happened anyway.
I cannot count the places I came to rest over the years.
Cocoons are not made to last forever.
Once outgrown, they must be discarded.
I never lived in my quiet downstairs room again.
Nancy and Trixie waited there.
I flew away, never to return for more than a moment.
Years later, I cleared out the detritus
of my mother’s life
and closed the door of that tiny house behind me.
I left the keys inside.
But I carried with me a box of comfort.
I took a bit of cocoon to my now-home.
Nancy and Trixie are still with me.
GJ Sands
4-926
I
Gayle, I love the idea of the cocoon. Your last stanza resonated with me. I haven’t been in my childhood home in over 25 years since my mom sold it, but I think I took a bit of cocoon and Nancy Drew with me too.
Oh . . . I love that ending with the box of your book detective friends coming with you to your current home. That was lovely. I also love the cocoon image.
Gayle, I found your opening lines relatable. The closing scene of leaving your mother’s house, her life, and carrying “a box of comfort” is deeply moving. Then your final says it all. Oh, how I loved Nancy! Precious memories and powerful poem!
Wow, Gayle…I felt your poetic response today, especially the carrying of the cocoon with you as you left the keys behind. I’m also thinking about “glorious mistakes” and how happy I am to see you name them with such a wonderful world (I hope such mistakes fuel you for life…I know mine do).
The Map to Home
is not the straight line of a major highway
it’s winding back
roads that take sharp turns near land we used to farm
where I’d drive a tractor from sunup
dreaming of an unknowable future
fields where family gathered bringing meals
to dad
the road hits a straight stretch near the old
high school–twice as big now
where band was a class, a subject, and
a family
The map has been folded and re-folded
there are parts I don’t want to remember
and many I can’t forget all folded together
roadside markers highlight
loss and celebration
There are detours and road closed signs,
but they can’t bypass
the feeling of being loved
or prepare us for what lies ahead
David, this is beautiful!
“The map has been folded and re-folded
there are parts I don’t want to remember
and many I can’t forget all folded together”
This is so true. The roadmap metaphor works so well, and your last four lines convey both peace and anticipation.
The title of this poem drew me in, and the nostalgia your words evoked kept me glued to it. I loved your use of the physical map as a touchstone for all the memories of home.
“where band was a class, a subject, and/ a family”– that’s really lovely.
David—I feel this poem. The stanza where band was a class, a subject and a family…what a wonderful part of your map. The extended metaphor is true and beautiful.
I’m thinking about the last stanza, David, as I look over at a Road Atlas I used to keep in my cars, highlighting with markers where I’d been (which is strange to me now that my latest vehicle maps everything out for me). But, the folds (refolds), the moments of getting lost, the need for direction…that is what I’m taking from your poetic response today.
I Am From
I am from big ears, bushy eyebrows, and snow white hair
I am from old country names- Lyman and Norcie, Pluma, Easter, Loray, and Verrena
I am from My Old Kentucky Home and Back Home Again in Indiana
I am from beans and ketchup, and cornbread in an iron skillet, and White Castles brought home by the dozens by my dad
I am from Sunbeams, Sunday School, and VBS, from memorizing verses by heart until they became my heart, from growing up to marry a preacher
I am from the USA… Japan, Panama, and Peru have pieces of my heart, too
I am from being a wife, foster and adoptive mom… a widow
I am from being a teacher… inner city schools and ELLs
I am from home in many places, the people in my heart my true home
Wow!! Such an amazing journey- I would love to have coffee and hear all the wonderful stories you have hidden…. Thanks for sharing
Diane — What a RICH and full home. I love the expansiveness of your home, from the “eyebrows” (made me smile) to the “White Castles” (yup… integral part of St. Louis where I’m from originally) and the “ELL” which holds a very loving place in my heart. Thank you for opening your home! Susie
Diane, I am a fan of the I am From form and the way you’ve used it here shares your heartbeat and home. You are passionate about living a life of service to others and that is a rare quality lately!
I love your poem, Diane! The “I am from” repetition really works here. I made some connections to where you’re from. Old country names…beans and ketchup and cornbread…Sunday School and VBS…teacher. 🙂
Diane—wow! What a life! So many pieces of your heart as your home. Wow.
Diane, the use of “…a widow,” is the punch to the poetic narration in your George Ella Lyon influenced journey on home. I can’t hear my Ol’ Kentucky Home without the arrival of intense emotions…for a while, I was a Hoosier, too, living in Clarksville (last train)so I could walk along the Ohio River every night (I need to see water to survive). Keep the sunbeams coming.
Diane, loving form for this sweet poem about you and your true home. Gorgeous. I’m also from “beans and ketchup, and cornbread in an iron skillet” 🙂
Thank you, Bryan. I appreciate the prompt today although I must admit to moments of sadness as I wrote. I lost my father a month ago so I thought about the town where he grew up and I spent summers with my Granny.
Home is the road
that circles back through memory
the porch that never quite lets go,
the stories, the songs, the cicadas,
that hum long after voices fade
on that porch, after your loss, watching
as peas slipped cool through my fingers,
tilt-run-turn-sort-sift,
the rhythm of staying
in a place already leaving
Main Street still begins
just past the narrow bridge,
though no one is sure anymore
where it really starts
at Maiden’s Well,
or at the memory of it
The town is not dying,
not exactly…
it is softening, scattering, dissolving,
like voices drifting from a back porch
into honeysuckle dusk
Grandpa sleeps with his hat tipped low,
dogs pooled at his feet like shadows,
and somewhere a screen door
swings drunkenly on its hinges,
remembering hands that once pushed through
now home is a road I can still name
but no longer fully walk,
a place where the flowers almost cover
the river rock path
but never quite hide it
and I find myself humming
being harbored,
being held and holding
even as the houses empty,
even as the stories loosen,
even as the porch light stays on
for no one
and everyone
at once
Melanie, I just love how this begins, as a road circling back through memory. It’s soft, meandering, mesmerizing, much like a journey should be. So much of your language is that (tilt-run-turn-sort-sift, the honeysuckle dust – gorgeous! – dogs pooling like shadows, humming, harboring, held, holding – all those h’s breathing words out). At that ending – oh, how it lands.
Melanie — I have a favorite image right off… that “river rock path” that was the road… yes. That translates to my own memories out at the farm where I spent my first 12 years. It really hit me, that image. And “as the stories loosen” is such perfect wordsmithing. Cool! Susie
Yes, the way the title leads into the first line was a smart/crafty way to bring us into the memory (It’s funny, or not funny – even as I crafted a prompt, I realized that something like a home can trigger multiple emotions, and our understanding of space and place also changes over time. I also love the idea of a town not dying;
All of this….gorgeous (sorry about your loss, too…hoping the writing offers some healing.
I absolutely loved the sleeping Grandfather with the dogs “pooled at his feet like shadows.” – Perfection!
Thanks, Bryan, for your facility with a long line, with detail- and image-rich sentences, with stanzas that a varied, delightful, and surprising. And thank you for keeping the non-English languages non-italicized — a poet should never other their mother tongue.
As always, I post what I write here. Here’s today’s offering, the form inspired by this one.
“Be it ever so humble”
My father-in-law said,
“Find the cheapest house in
the nicest neighborhood.
Then move in.”
That was decades ago
& three lovely children,
interest & escrow,
save, pay, & then
emergencies, hail storms,
sprinkler systems, mouse traps,
suburban plagues in forms
that make you laugh
in their perverse surprise.
But it isn’t all bad.
Fresh paint brightens the eyes.
My wife was glad
to circumcise the house
(her words, not mine). A wall
opened to allow
more light. We all
took pride in the barn doors.
I had worried: Money.
Change. But thank the good Lord
Michelle could see
a way to beautify
our home. But then again,
she knows loving this guy
means that again
& again, she must wait out
my … my … What to call it?
My contentment with now,
my calm habit
of saying “This is fine.”
[Insert flaming dog meme]
Father-in-law of mine,
through her, I see
the advice you lived but
didn’t say: Find the house.
And trust my girl about
its kids, its use.
Joel — Part of this just made me laugh out loud. The tug between urgency and ennui.(“contentment with now”… tomAto/ tomahhhto).. very funny. LOL! With any house/home… having a “calm habit” seems pretty darned essential. I say this, having just moved lock-stock-n-barrel to a new state…uffdah! (so say the Minnesotans… put me in that new category…) UFFDAH! Home …”suburban plagues”… sure had my share these last six months. I loved identifying with your poem. Made me feel good. Thank you! Susie
Phew, Joel….eeks…I always debate how to best use the languages I’ve heard throughout my life in poetic form (italics or no italics)(the ongoing battle of a manic brain). Also love that you multi-purpose the prompts to your own website (I do the same). I would love to know the story behind your home’s circumcision. That is such a wonderful way to name a definite change in the home.
I often joke that I became a recovering environmentalist after owning my first home. Nature will win over our human constructions every time…let it be triumphant over our whack-a-doodle species. I’ve never heard your father-in-law’s advice, but I might use that with my own boys when that time comes. Thanks for the writing.
re: circumcising a house — it’s just a joke I’ve heard among nice Jewish wives like my wife: When you move into a house, you have to knock down a wall [insert grin, insert shrug emoji]
Perhaps your children inherited your talent for writing, inherited their mother’s talent for seeing possibilities.
Joel, what a great poem. Your Michelle sounds like the pride and joy of you and her father. I’m sure she has done so much to make your house a home. I love her idea of circumcising the house. So funny!
Good Morning, Bryan! I am so-so grateful for you and your poem today. I think This was for me: “I see the sun and the sun sees me. / Я бачу сонце, і сонце бачить мене.” I teared up reading it and appreciate it more than I can express. Here is my poem for today:
Home Is Where It Learned to Be
Now, home is where my loved ones are:
in Louisiana with my life partner,
in England with my oldest daughter,
in Ohio with the family of my youngest,
and still in my beloved Crimea—
with siblings, nieces and nephews,
and my parents’ resting places.
Home is where Crimean Mountains
kiss the radiant rising sun,
where the Black Sea hugs the day
and tucks it in for the night.
It is where Mom and Dad
are still there with us,
each busy, but present,
ready to support, scold,
teach, listen, hear.
It is where ten of us
at the round dinner table
share freshly baked
khatmer bide—flaky,
soft bread—with Mom’s
famous cherry jam.
It’s where we make up games,
invent the rules,
and play outside till dark
until the sound of Mom’s call.
It’s where people meeting you,
Say, “Dobrogo Ranku!
Buvaite Zdorovi.”—
Good Morning!
Wishing you health.”
It’s where I go to bed
knowing Mom and Dad
would take care of everything,
would find a way out
of the life’s toughest corners.
And now I carry that knowing with me,
wherever home has learned to be.
Leilya, here’s where I am landing (and want to stay) – “where Crimean Mountains kiss the radiant rising sun, where the Black Sea hugs the day and tucks it in for the night” – the imagery and actions are vivid and comforting. And also in the “knowing Mom and Dad would take care of everything” – we certainly owe parents so much for the care and safety they give. That knowing that is carried into every home we make is the thread of our survival and nurturing.
Leilya — I love the images of your homeland in particular. That you carry this beauty with you so very clearly is a true gift. And for us, as we become a community, a family, each with our own layers of home. “Khatmer bide”… I want a recipe for that! Hugs, Susie
I love this so much! These lines especially made me long for my childhood, for a simpler time.
It’s where we make up games,
invent the rules,
and play outside till dark
until the sound of Mom’s call.
You returned the emotions for me, Leilya, with
a final home on earth and a heavy reminder to appreciate our spaces, locations, and people while we have them. Yes, the Ukrainian language was added with anticipation I’d have at least one reader who would appreciate my grandmother’s singing at her lake home. And I’m all for ‘making up the rules’ of childhood games. I miss those days.
Leilya, your poem is exquisite. I love the familial love and all the places that are home. Your description of Crimea is marvelous, and I could relate to the parents’ voices scolding or supporting you and your siblings as you grew. Inventing games, playing outside till dark and knowing they did everything in their power to navigate “life’s toughest corners” is incredibly moving. Your final line echoes! Gorgeous and powerful poem!
Leilya,
Love the title. Love that we know place is where the ones you love are even though you never say those words. I always love your Ukraine poems and the code switching. Hugs,
Leilya, the twist ending is spectacular here – – what a move, shifting the perspective of home learning to be.
And now I carry that knowing with me,
wherever home has learned to be.
Hi Bry! Home wasn’t the issue. It was what to wear, eat and drink. I had fun with this one.
DISCOMBOBULATION!
In another state, working in a new region
Learning terms for familiar things
Hoping soon to get my wings.
How do I talk to the teens?
They don’t know what I mean.
At home in Motown, we called it pop
In St. Louis, it was coke whatever the flavor
They called it soda in Massachusetts and Maine
What to order when on a transcontinental train?
Hoagie, hero, po boy or wedge
Names for the sub sandwiches we called at home
Not knowing the regional terminology
One could starve on the roam.
What shoes should I wear today?
I wanna be quiet and comfortable.
“What chu you wearin’?” What do I say?
Sneakers, kicks, gym shoes or tennies or beaters?
On the roam in the new state near another new home.
But it was grinders that threw me for a loop!
Why would high school musicians be selling “grinders” in the summer?
That’s what burgers are called in Massachusetts!
Talking with teens that year was really a bummer!
Daily discombobulation!
Anna, I love that you explore home in terms of language variations. This is what I discuss with my students in linguistics course, and I also ask them about the name for a cold carbonated drink. Even in Louisiana, some say soda, some coke, and some pop, or just a drink. The names for sports shoes have less variations, so I haven’t heard kicks and beaters before. “But it was grinders that threw me for a loop!” – this would threw me off too. Thank you for such a fun poem!
Anna, what a great title for your exploration today (DiscomPOPulation ran through my head with that first verse). I intro jargon with a study of what we call different things in different places – the kids are fascinated. There’s a couple of small sections (like city size) that have their own words). It’s amazing how language travels and transforms – as you share with us from your travel.
Anna — I LOVE all the varied words for the things we all use and do every day. It feels very much like the healthiest part of how we are all smashed together and still learn each other’s lingo…it is a fun game, picking up new words for common-ground living. Something about our mixed backgrounds that is healthy and fun. I wish everyone embraced these as happily as you do, as I do. I just read Leilya’s poem and she has a bread from her homeland called “Khatmer bide”… maybe we poets can be the sharers of our varied breads! :-). Fun poem! Susie
Anna,
In CT, grinders are hoagies, subs, & heroes! I love the ‘translanguaging’ of slang across state lines…and I learned a teacher, turned scholar, that sometimes the words used in higher education have totally different meanings for urban youth in some cities (which has caused embarrassment and oops-moments when saying such words in high school workshops). I love that every home has its language rituals (and funny…we call our summer programs Y’ALLs (for Young Adult Literacy Labs) as a throwback to my time in Kentucky! Love it.
Thanks, Bryan for these mentor texts and for the invitation to think about home, which has been on my mind a lot.
Hogar
Hogar is the aisle in Walmart
where we bought a knife
for our Mazatlán apartment,
the word we gave the Uber driver
so he knew where to find us
hogar is not a house
a house is thirteen bodies
one bathroom
black mold blooming in corners
pink bacteria climbing the shower curtain
a house is where others now
chop vegetables with the knife we left behind
learn the rhythm of autumn mice
how not to light a fire
that is a house
hogar is a way of being
not the drip of a hot shower
with the circuit breaker within reach
not four layers of blankets
in a Cusco bed
not the microwave unplugged
so the oven can live
but maybe, yes definitely
home is the table
where we sit
and imagine our lives after
celebrate our lives before
the coffee between us
instant
pour over
machinato
I like a place to sit
with my love
and that feels like home
even if
it moves
Beautiful. We’ve had other prompts for ‘home’ in the past, but a student’s work on translanguaging has me rethinking the way I understand them. I was also thinking about you and the ways you’ve found home in your own creations, reflections, stories…And I love how you approached this…pushing against the structures in which we find ourselves inhabiting and reaching for the feeling (even if it moves) with those we love.
Phew. The tip-tapping rhythm was heard. For so many, finding home takes time…leaves scars. Teachers learn this quickly about their students and many worked hard to find their own.
Oh, Sarah, your poem is so moving, and I think we have the same idea of home, which is quite different from a house. I think you also learned to find home where it finds you–at Walmart, at the table, at the place to sit with your love, wherever that place might be. Thank you!
Oh, Sarah. So many lines to love here. I am not sure where to start–I read this outline and the softness of the last lines grabbed me. “I like a place to sit with my love even if it moves.” Sigh. Lovely. The lines about buying the knife and leaving the knife also grabbed me but for different reasons–they felt like you were making a memory and leaving a mark that you were there or leaving a tool for someone else to make a memory with. While I don’t drink coffee (unless the taste of coffee is completely covered up), your description of making it here sounded so lovely and like such a beautiful ritual.
Sarah — YES! This is exactly the gift of this prompt… the difference between home and house… both make good fodder for poems, but A HOME is truly a layer of meaning that moves us, for example, from verse to poetry. I love the “where we sit/and imagine our lives after/celebrate our lives before” — the depth makes the heart tingle along with the head. Hugs, Susie
This is beautiful and raw. The imagery- “black mold blooming in corners”, “pink bacteria climbing the shower curtain” “not the microwave unplugged/ so the oven can live”
Wow…you are a poet!
“Even if it moves”—perfection…
What a clever way to tell us how much you’re enjoying this special time with your Honey!
Giving us a tour of the hogar and your heart!
Sarah, I feel breathless after reading your poem. Your poem captures incredible images that carry a range of emotions, some deeply painful. I love how you completely pulled me into your poem with its unique and unexpected lines of buying a knife at Walmart, but your ending is so soft and lovely. I agree that sitting with the one you love is home. I adore your poetic craft and ability to transport the reader into new places, emotions and homes.
Sarah, your poem, like your sabbatical journey around the world, are inspirational and reminders to capture the magic of every single day. As you remind us, home is a “place to sit with your love, even if it moves.”
I really appreciate how you slow things down at the end, really drawing on the importance of whom you are with. And, I love the distinction between a house and a home. What jumped out to me most was the stanza about your childhood home, especially
because we had those very same things. The shower curtain slime . . .
Sarah, I’m holding you and this poem close today. I know it’s been a long time since you’ve been in your old home in Oklahoma, but now someone else is there anyway. “home is the table” begins such a beautiful love story of home for the rest of your poem. Stunning.
Bryan, Thanks for taking us down Memory Lane to a childhood of humming. I was singing a song in the car the other day and my granddaughter, much like my daughter her mother, said, “Stop singing that song!” I kept singing. I want to be known for my singing.
My Mother Sang Opera
Every dish she washed,
a prop.
Every floor she mopped,
a stage.
I carry her song with me everywhere.
I sing it in my head, buzzing
from the top of my silent lungs.
”I want to be someone who makes music with my coming.”*
Keep singing. Keep singing. Keep singing. The other day I caught myself flowing air into a fist while wiggling fingers (as if playing a tuba)…a behavior my dad did while he drove and I was doing it, too (genetic? learned behavior). It’s the music. The first two lines have me performing with your mother…with you, too. And your music will be what your granddaughter remembers most.
Margaret, I hear so many voices in your poem today – yours in the author voice, your mother’s (everywhere), and Nye’s in that brief quote at the end (I can hear the sounds of both her and you speaking). Our poems belong together today – you have showcased what mine attempted to explain.
Gorgeous! I love the vision of your mother singing and you carrying her song with you. My mother and I sang together (very badly) every morning on the way to school.It is a cherished memory. The line “every dish she washed, a prop” just grabbed me. BEAUTIFUL!
Yes, keep singing… one day your granddaughter will be singing and her granddaughter will say stop… and it will continue on, your mother’s legacy…
Margaret, I can hear the melodies, and what a beautiful way to remember your mother. I wish I could sing…..I can’t, so I can particularly relate to:I sing it in my head, buzzing
from the top of my silent lungs.
Good for you, Margaret! We are kindred spirits in this. I sing in the car, at home, on walks… I sing ALL the time. People have asked, “Oh, do you listen to books on tape when you drive to STL or WYO.” My answer, “Nope. I sing. I sing all the way there and all the way back.” Ask me to sing you a song, and I will drop EVERYTHING to do that. I LOVE your poem. I will forever remember you as my SINGER…and your mom as well. :-). Thank you! Susie
What imagery! I can hear your mother and you singing.
I love this! My Granny, my best friend, liked to pretend she was an opera singer while we stood at the sink washing dishes. She always said she “couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket,” but she made up with enthusiasm what she lacked in talent. This lovely poem reminded me so much of her.
In the circumstances of our lives today, one must keep on singing!
Margaret, it is amazing how you find home in songs of your mother. Love that you keep singing them too. Warm and beautiful!
Bryan, thank you for hosting us today as we think of home – past, present, and future versions of it. Your lines of simplicity will echo in my mind all day –
These days, I find the simplicity of a blanket matters most,
the times when light teases the dog curled besides me,
the hymnals she sings through whimpers…
Yes to the Kentucky Bluegrass and all the places (and languages) you reference, and I love that you used other language in your verse. I seek the simple, and the dog and blanket and hymns in the whimpers are what will stay with me through the day.
My Open Road Retirement Home
a teardrop
a fifth-wheel
a bumper pull
no tent
no yurt
no fort in a tree
a camper van ~
Class A, B, or C
anywhere I can take to the road
most any RV will do for me
but with this old back and
collapsible knees
no tearjerkers for me, please
a full tank of gas
a State Park Pass
dogs by my side, ready to ride
(husband can come along, too)
pens to write and books to read
and that is all I’ll ever need
Your poem sounds like a country western song! “Dogs by me side!”
This line sent a newsflash across my mental scree. I never thought about it before, but a link within/amongst all the homes I’ve occupied have been the pens and books. I’ve always been a reader wanting to know more and a writer trying to make sense of my knowing. I’m sure your husband loves when you take him along. And I have a new word…yurt. Thrilled, because I’ll be able to rhyme it with yogurt in the near future. But, in truth, I’d really like to do a poetic roadtrip in your camper van.
Kim, can I come visit? This sounds idyllic. I’ve a fondness for those teardrop campers, something about the size and shape that reminds me of becoming a Fisher Price person in a playscape. I can’t decide if I want to convert it into a little shopfront and live inside or just park it in the furthest national park and hibernate!
I read true contentment in these lines… and isn’t that where we find home?
Kim — You are a stitch! I love the no-holds-barred, unapologetic declaration in your tone…you launching your retirement on the back of the bronco…well RV… armed with your full tank and park pass…that is just great! I love the fast rhythm of the poem…it fits perfectly this very moment in your life! Ride ’em, girl! And write ’em! We will want to hear all about it in the year ahead. Hugs, Susie. PS. If you get to MN in the RV, stop at my house for a breather!
Sounds like you’ve got a dream retirement planned! I love that pens and books made the cut.
I love the idea of this home on wheels…with your dogs, husband, books and poems. What a life, so enviable, so rich in its simplicity!
Kim, this is you through and through. I love your whimsical tone and compact lines that help the reader visualize the retirement home for you. Yes, I want to be there, too, reading and writing in nature with the dogs running around. Fantastic poem!
Kim, I can see you in that RV, parked at the lakeside writing poems while your dogs run around chasing each other or sitting by your feet and waiting for some play time. I smiled at “(husband can come along, too).” Don’t forget to stop by in Louisiana; coffee and treats are on me 🙂
Kim, I long dreamed of such as retirement life visiting all of the national and as many state parks as I could find along the way! Your lines, “no tent, no yurt, no fort in a tree,” leave me laughing out loud. I too need a padded bed, off the ground, and coffee without grounds in the morning!
I chuckled at the parenthetical. Because as much as we love them, if we have
they can kind of get in the way.
Your version of home sounds delightful.
Bryan, your poem is a roadmap of life, yet always finding home. I’m drawn to the blanket and curled dog now too, having lived many places as well, as it always feels most like home. Thank you for an inspiring prompt.
Homeward Bound
I carry home with me.
It lives inside my cells,
transferred from mother to child
across placental divides,
bits and pieces of the past
lodged into DNA,
reminders of who we once were
and where we’d once been,
pieces of stardust
and cosmic rays
finding their way
from before time began
and throughout time forward,
binding her story
in one common thread
of home.
Jennifer, the common thread is felt so strongly here the way you weave generations and timelines here, each person having a place in the unfolding of life…..and home….it makes me smile to see the picture of it!
Jennifer, Why is it that our mothers are the ones who make home a home? My mother came to me as well. I love “pieces of stardust.”
Jennifer, for me it’s the “stardust / and cosmic rays” within the DNA that captivates me. I’ve been really thinking about the galaxies that might exist within the dust on the tip of an eyelash concept and how, with all our zest for individuality and originality, we truly are DNA carrying forth survival mode within the tribe we arrive…a species nature to pass on narratives (we tell ourselves) one generation after another. And this brings me to womanhood…the miracle of carrying another and offering one’s home. It’s truly remarkable. I love how you interpreted and used today’s prompt.
Throughout time forward… one common thread. I hold the thread from the past and hand it in to the future…
Jennifer — “It lives inside my cells.” YES! I love your word choices…”placental divides”… and the clear sense of strength that comes because this is how you see/feel home. I also love the sense that you are “binding…story”… that it is not static, it is always in play yet threaded. Lovely. Hugs, Susie
Beautiful poem! This line stuck out for me- “across placental divides” Whoa…just whoa.
Jennifer, you had me at “I carry home with me.” It is such an aha-moment right away. So much generational wisdom is here “from before time began and throughout time forward.” As Sarah wrote in her poem, home is about being. Your poem shares the similar idea.
Jennifer, your poem “hits” at the heart of what a home really is: where you are. From your “placental divides,” to your “pieces of stardust,” to your “one common thread,” your poem is overflowing with love and respect for your roots that have given you the “wings” to live and grow. THIS is lovely.
So specific yet broad all at the same time.
wow
Bryan, thank you! I don’t have a poem draft this morning—but I do have oodles of free write prompted by your motivation to connect with the ideas of home. I can imagine sister queens very well…and the lonliness of being a foreigner in a city. There’s a richness in the memories that come from this.
Thanks for the cool prompt!!! Such a great experience to be around so much talent!!
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,
b- ball- Gym rat, football fan,
Grass cutting, weedeating,pine-straw man.
Chop wood for fun,
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.
write a book, don’t know how to cook,
I Tangled with Iceberg,
well I had a look….
Fine wife, with great kids,
blessed after all the wrongs I did.
I’m the mixture of renegade and Cherokee,
Got lost in dark, but now I see.
Got Baptized in the Flint,
wrote Nals about what it meant.
Connect with red- tails,
and collect squirrel tails.
my life a revolving fairytale,
A heavenly hell,
Served medium well….
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!
Boxer
I really enjoyed your journey to describe home for you and more about who you are. As someone who grew up in Texas and spent a lot of time in the country, I was nodding along to many of your references. Well done!
Clayton, I loved the rhythm of this – I could feel the words traveling within me as I read. It would make a great slam poem. There are lines here, that catch upon me (like your briar patch) and don’t want to let go, starting with the wording of your title and following through to “I haven’t designed my destiny.”
Clayton, I can play this movie in my head – – especially floating the Flint, jumping off the rock (still scary to me). And I love the honesty in these lines, the varied levels of work and meditation:
I’ll write a poem then haul some hay,
Work-out, cuss like a sailor, then pray.
You capture where we live so well it’s almost a photograph.
Boxer – Your “home,” your tugs left n right share a person that is an inspiration to me. How full and rich and open you are… if you lived in the treehouse next door, the gate would swing open every day and we’d climb and jabber. I’d read your poems out loud and write songs and play my guitar for you… just so you’d write me into your home. Thank you for this glorious poem… for you. Susie
My favorite line came early.
especially as it bounced off hillbilly. I’m fascinated with the 1st-generation arrival to collegiate education (somehow we got there, and somehow it still doesn’t feel right in adult life…like we’re imposters or weren’t meant to be included. Be proud a reformation never occurred and you hung on to the backwoods.
I absolutely love the back-and-forth rhythm of this poem. Such rich description. Beautiful.
To have a family of our own is to be blessed… that’s home.
I love this introspective look at who you are and where you be, but I especially appreciate the rhyme.
Memories of Home is always an inspiration, Brian. This river was an important childhood landmark and yet, as the poem notes, we never looked at it the same way again.
Kevin
My mother was in a college class at Quinnipiac
when she asked us to take a handful of glass tubes
to the Mill River to collect water for samples
to see what was in there that we couldn’t see
Curious, we did as she told, and then waited
We skipped stones, and walked across bridges,
and in winter, we teetered on ice barges;
One spring, we saw the largest snapper turtle ever
and ducked down on a summer day as a heron descended
In memory, it took forever for her to know
Then, she warned us to never ever to drink the water
of the river that ran through all of us,
and we never looked at the flowing currents
the same way, ever again — only the factories
Kevin, your poem makes me wonder how long it will be before we are warned to never ever drink the waters of anywhere that run through all of us. The difference between the innocence of childhood exploration and freedom and the realities of the knowing that comes as we grow up is stark here. A true garden of eden.
Kevin, I love how your poem sets up the ending. But in the middle, you take us as children to the river. I had a creek and now a bayou. But I never drank from either. Thanks for this poem that inspired my own memory.
Phew. Kevin…I’m a kid of similar creeks and waterways (remembering the adventures, until the toxicity arrived). What an amazing narrative quality in these lines…from mom taking course at the Q to boys skipping rocks. The innocence and playfulness popped…the generational wake-up call continuing today. There are many outlets for such a poem, beyond our #VerseLove community. Phew.