Darius Phelps is a doctoral student at Teachers College, Columbia University. He is an adjunct professor at CUNY Queens, Hunter College, Teachers College, and intern at Brooklyn Poets. An educator, poet, spoken word artist, and activist, Darius writes poems about grief, liberation, emancipation, reflection through the lens of a teacher of color and experiencing Black boy joy. His poems have appeared in the NY English Record, NCTE English Journal, Pearl Press Magazine, and ëëN Magazine’s The 2023 Valentine Issue. Recently, he was featured on WCBS and highlighted the importance of Black male educators in the classroom. Darius can be contacted via email at: dmp2219@tc.columbia.edu.
Inspiration
With the turn of each page of How to Build A House , Kyle lays down a brick of new foundation cemented in honesty, excavation, and emancipation. Emulating poetry as architecture, with his work, his tone, his voice, and willingness to bear his soul, Kyle doesn’t just build a house in the sky by being vulnerable, he lays the foundation for a better world. One where marginalized voices, specifically where fellow young men of color, are free to unapologetically be themselves, on their respective journeys towards liberation. I was inspired to share his poem as a mentor text and hope it resonates with fellow readers as well.
Kyle’s Poem
Father do not worry
for I will burn a house
for you to have in the sky
before you pass
In it will be the
finest chairs and the
firmest beds where you can
rest your head
Father do not worry
for I will care for mom
She will never leave my sight
but when she must
I will place her ashes
next to yours
so she can meet you
in the house that I have burned
Father do not worry
I will burn as much money
as you need for no father of mine
will live like he is dead
because I will not forget
that you still live
in the house I burned
for you in the sky
Process
In old Chinese tradition, families would burn houses filled with furniture because it was believed that it would then be waiting for them in the afterlife. Kyle wrote this poem and dedicated it to his father, his unconditional love for him, wanting him to have the best in his after life.
For today’s poem, think of a person or object as the direct address and include what they or it needs most, which is what the speaker of the poem will burn for them. Another approach is for the speaker to be the person or object writing to you as the subject. What do you need? What is waiting for you?
Darius’s Poem
Mother do not worry
I’ll burn you a house in the sky
One where you finally love to love yourself
So you can love me the way that I’ve needed since the day his infidelity stole your soul
Each brick laid with intent,
I’ll make sure this time, he can’t come in.
I’ll make it one fit for a queen,
one where you’ll finally learn
how to spread your wings
One where our demons
won’t determine and deteriorate our bond
But instead we walk hand in hand,
just like we used to
No more false gods and failed prayers
No more wondering, if he’s really there.
One where I’ll return to being your little man
And not the man.
Only he knows how many tears I’ve cried
This house in the sky will set you free
Even if it takes every little piece that’s left of me.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. 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.
Don’t Worry
Do not worry, I will not burn your house
For you will not be here, nor there
You will be in our father’s house
Where you will stroll the streets
The streets that are made of gold
You will walk through those pearly gates
The gates where the angels sing
For you fought the good fight
You stayed the course
You kept the faith
So we will keep your house
Darius! What a powerful prompt!
Don’t burn me no house
For the sky
I won’t need one.
Don’t burn me no
Gold
Or
Silver
Or
Currency
Of any kind.
Won’t need those neither.
What I’d rather have are
The pictures of you
On the swings
Smiling
Making funny faces
Even the blurry ones
The videos of you
Saying funny things
Laughing
Doing silly dances
Even the ones outta focus
The memories
Of the way you smelled
After bath time
Of the way you loved
To bake cookies
To go on walks
To play card games
If there is a thing in this world
That will lift up as ash
To follow me into
Whatever
Comes next
Please
Make it
My love
For you.
Thank you, Darius, for hosting. Your poem had me contemplating all day, but my thoughts kept circling back to a letter a student wrote me years ago. Thanks for giving this opportunity to process.
To MF:
I wanted to burn
the letter when you
told me you
were alive because
of a cookie.
In middle school
your teacher
brought them
every Friday.
When you wanted
to do the worst,
you thought of that
weekly cookie instead–
a sugary prize
for choosing to
live each week.
Sweetheart, I would
burn a house full of
cookies for you
(and all books will
be alphabetized &
each series will be
placed chronologically
next to each other
on the shelves),
but I hope
I will
never
need to.
Rachelle,
Oh man. This hits hard. You and I were on similar pages this round. There are so many kids hurting so much–and only some let us know how much. This is so heartfelt and beautiful–I especially love the alphabetized books and series (my OCD heart!).
Darius, thank you for the prompt and the mentor text.
Mama Don’t Worry
Mama don’t worry
I will burn a house
for you to have
in the here and now
In it will be the most
comfortable mattress or
an over-stuffed recliner
if that’s what you prefer
Mama don’t worry
my family loves you
We’ll care for your needs
you’re accepted, loved, and seen
Mama, the house that I burn
will be yours to call home
a place to find rest
and live out your days
Donnetta,
Awww, so loving! I pray that all moms who need this house and support will have it. It hurts my soul when I hear about moms who are left uncared for by family. It’s a great tragedy. Your mom deserves to know how special this poem is and how loved she is.
Donnetta, the title itself offers such an affectionate and nurturing tone. I love the line “You’re accepted, loved, and seen” thank you for sharing.
Jack
Jack, I don’t believe in any sort of after-life.
But I remember that February morning when we drove you to the vet.
Collins carried you from the house.
The vet called us minutes after we left you. We turned around.
All the week before you sat by my side as I worked at my desk.
Thinking you wanted to spend time with me.
Not realizing our days together were running out.
Your bowl joined us beside my desk.
All dogs run their course.
I guess you wanted me to know how much you wished to stay close.
No longer having the strength to rest your head on my thigh or stand to eat.
You lay by my side as I worked.
Jack, I’m fine thoughts of you warm me.
No more strands of black hair in our home.
Google photo shares days with the pack of three, creek swims.
Fondly remembered.
Jamie, “All dogs run their course” is such a (terribly) beautiful line. Terrible in the truth of it, the transient nature of a dog’s life, and beautiful because of how clever and apt it is to evoke an image of dogs running…..I’m not sure why I’m trying to articulate this because you know it already…you crafted it, lol. I just wanted to take a moment and let you know that I really enjoyed this tender poem about Jack. Thanks for writing and sharing it!
Jamie, how somber and sweet. The juxtaposition of understanding a pet’s time is up and also cherishing their presence is a challenge. Thanks for sharing this beautifully heart-wrenching piece. Jack was so, so loved.
Thank you, Darius, for the wonderful mentor texts. I wrote to my daughter who gave birth to her first child this month.
To Eloise
Daughter do not be angry
for I would burn the past
if I could
Perhaps the past is not
mine to burn
but please
Let the small beak at your breast
tap open a crack
for us
Where burning is eased to warmth
and need is cupped
in a soft nest
of understanding
Allison, I love this sort of apology to your daughter about the past. The small beak at your breast tap open a crack is a fabulous metaphor for making change.
Allison, I really love the image of “the small beak at your breast” tapping open a warmth. I hope the transition into motherhood has been a good one for your daughter.
p.s. I always wanted to name a daughter Eloise 🙂
<3
Allison, what a beautiful metaphor for this sweet family of birds. “the small beak at your breast” is precious. “A soft nest / of understanding” Wow. Here’s to this poem being true for you and Eloise.
Allison, your poem is a gentle plea yet also a deep knowing between mother and daughter.
May your new grandbaby be the connector you both need. I love this and thank you for sharing something so tender.
Allison, this poem is poignant because I can feel the yearning in each word. The opening line “daughter do not be angry” feels like such a tender command which demands attention. The extended metaphor of “beak” and “nest” demonstrate the fragility of that mother/daughter/grandchild relationship. Thanks for sharing in your vulnerability.
Darius, thank you for this prompt today. It was just what I needed to help organize my thoughts on a hard day.
Mama, don’t worry
I will burn the bridge in the sky
because I don’t need it anymore
even though I beg, claw, and scream,
scream, scream, scream.
I know we, together,
for nearly two years,
built this connection not without
tears, so many tears, pain.
But, also, so much love and nurturing.
We’ll keep our connection
once the bridge has burned.
We needed the bridge to fortify
but we will remain strong without it.
Hold on to your words and the thoughts behind them. There are so many ways to show love. I know you know this. There are many ways to hold on tight.
Laura (and Jamie) both–
I feel so lucky to “know” you through VerseLove and Ethical ELA. Jamie’s response to Laura’s poem is, itself, a poem. <3
Awww, I love this Laura and it warms my heart to see your mom’s response. Mother-Daughter connections are complex and strong. Your poem is a testament to the complexities and understandings that you share. ❤️
Darius, I have been carrying your prompt with me all day! Thank you. I played and played with the word and found this!
Burn me a Memory
Never
Had a house
I could burn.
Rather
Father burn me
The spring trees.
Sear it
In my memory
Along with the songbirds.
Rather
Father burn me
The meadow flowers
Sear it
In my memory
Let their fragrance consume the air
Rather
Father burn me
The morning sky
Sear it
In my memory
Along with the clouds
Heavy,
Laden with rain
Drenching all earth.
Joanne, I can smell and feel these memories. You’ve created an interesting poem that touches every single sense–a new prompt, for students, perhaps! The burning meadow of flowers “fragrance consume[ing] the air” really gets me.
Joanne, wow, I see all of these gorgeous images vividly. The last stanza reflects our earth today.
Beautiful refrain also. I feel it as natural father and spiritual father. Lovely!
Darius, I’m grateful time permitted me to work on this during the earlier part of the day so that I could finish it this evening. Your words captivated me and called out for a Golden Shovel poem. This one is for my son who celebrates 978 days of sobriety today.
My Golden Shovel strike line is from your introduction: “free to unapologetically be themselves on their respective journeys towards liberation.” Powerful words I held close all day!
On Sobriety and Liberation
Sonshine, I burn a drug-free world for you to live free
rearranging your DNA, realigning your purpose to
break generational curses and cultivate courage. Unapologetically
become your Black and proud self, unafraid to be
alive and loved. No one will center themselves
at the expense of you as long as I am on
this planet. Or impose their
racist inhumane intentions or their respective
beliefs about how your life’s journeys
compare to theirs. I burn a hate-free world for you to leap towards
in faith, sobriety, and beautiful bold Black liberation
ⓒStacey L. Joy, 4/21/23
Stacey, wow, so beautiful. I’m so happy for both you and your son–what a huge milestone to celebrate. These lines really stick to me today: “No one will center themselves/at the expense of you as long as I am on/this planet.” Thank you for sharing.
Stacey, what a phrase you chose for your poem, and then you create even more powerful message with your words. I love every line, but the final two lines are my favorite: “I burn a hate-free world for you to leap towards/ in faith, sobriety, and beautiful bold Black liberation.” Thank you!
Thank you for hosting today, Darius, and for such a prompt that threw me back right in my Mom’s arms. Your poem has so many great phrases. I was struck at the beginning with the lines: “Each brick laid with intent// I’ll make sure this time, he can’t come in.” It makes me think about the intrusion that ended tragically.
This is my attempt at the poem today:
A House for Mom
Mom, I think am ready (maybe?)
to burn a house
in the sky after twelve years
for you to rest peacefully.
It will be crispy clean,
inviting, and beautiful.
It will have a garden
with you favorite flowers and grape vines,
just the way you like it.
I will throw soft carpet runners
on the hallway floors
to keep your feet warm,
just like you did it for us.
I will wash your shoes
after a rainy day outside
and won’t let your hands get cold
in that freezing water,
just like you did for us.
I will make you
a fresh cup of coffee,
serving it with candy and pastries,
just the way you did it
for your dear guests.
And when my time comes,
I hope my children will see me off your way.
We will catch up and share stories,
I will tell you about your grandchildren,
and their children, and how much we missed you.
Leilya, your mom sounds like a wonderful woman. The image of those carpet runners made me smile. I get what you mean about maybe being ready to write this poem. My poem yesterday was about my mom, who passed away more than thirty years ago, and it was still hard.
Oh, Leilya, I love how you end your poem….I can feel how much you miss your mother and how much you appreciated all she did for you. Truly moving and loving poem!
Leila,
I am so glad you came to the page with this poem. Your opening stanza is somber, but your “crispy clean” phrase tilts us into your happy memories of your mom. I loved “I will wash your shoes…” It reminded me of the many small ways parents show love–often unrecognized. Lovely.
I love all you share in the house for your mom. The garden, the carpet runners. Even washing her shoes. Details like this show how you know her and allow us to know her, too. I love the final stanza and what you share about the continuation of life. I guess that’s our opportunity for eternity.
Oh, what a precious poem celebrating the memories of your mom. I can see how difficult it could be to write “Mom, I think am ready (maybe?)” You were ready and the things you would do for your mom, like she did for you is a testament to the special person she was and the relationship you had with her. I love the dreams for the future.
Of course, I missed another “I” in the first line:
” Mom, I think I am ready (maybe?)”
Leilya, this poem is filled with loving care for your mom and it shows us how nurturing your mom was.
All of your poem speaks to the love you shared. This stanza warms my soul…washing shoes, keeping hands warm.
I am certain you’ll have the same done for you because you’re such an incredible human.💛
Waiting
I’d never burn a house for you
because you didn’t want to be enclosed
within walls of bricks.
I would send to you
a field of flowers and wheat
with a path between the weeds
that would lead you to the hills
and through the wind to the sky.
I’d burn a motorcycle with just enough power
to let you do a “wheelie” with me hanging on tight
to your muscular back.
I’d burn you a tent
to stand upright on the beach
under a bit of shade
with a flap that would sound with the breeze.
I’d never burn a house for you
because you will be waiting for me in a tent
because you did not want to be enclosed
within walls of brick.
Thanks for this prompt, Darius. It first I thought I would not be able to respond. It was a challenge and then this came to me. Secondly, my computer keyboard went dead and I had to go to the Apple store to get a new one. What a day!
Susan, it feels like you got right down to the soul of this person. I love the thought of a path through the weeds, hills, and wind right to the sky.
Susan, what a beautiful poem! I love that you know this person so well. It seems like you talk about the closest friend. The final lines touched my heart and made me cry. I think that’s what my husband would do for me. Thank you!
Susan, I love how many directions the teacher-poets take the prompts on this page, and yours is a brilliant example of that. “Never burn a house–” showed us so much about your beloved. “with a flap that would sound with the breeze” took me onto the beach for the sensory moment. Thank you.
Susan, I’m so glad you stuck with it today. I love that you didn’t want to burn a house for him because he “did not want to be enclosed in bricks” I love the idea of burning a tent, and “a motorcycle with just enough power“, enough for him, but not too much for you. Just lovely!
Sister Do Not Worry
By Mo Daley 4/21/23
Sister do not worry
for I will burn a house for you
in the sky
where you will be comfortable
Your heart will beat
in perfect rhythm here
The air in this house will nourish you
and let you breathe easily-
no machines required
This beautiful house will grow and shrink
as you decide which belongings
are vital
And your vitality will return
and you will walk around your house
happy just to be
*This poem is for my sister, who has been plagued with medical issues for quite a long time.
Mo, thank you for your poem today. I like that in that house your sister will be comfortable and breathe easily with a perfect heart rhythm. I love the lines: “This beautiful house will grow or shrink/ as you decide which belongings / are vital.”
Mo, I heard your love for your sister in each line. I was especially moved by this stanza:
This beautiful house will grow and shrink
as you decide which belongings
are vital
The word “vital” shares health connotations as well as its ostensible meaning of “important.” Such an effective way to meld health/heart.
My own sister (and closest human) is now 10 years out from a devastating ovarian cancer diagnosis. Ten years ago we never dreamed she’d still be with us. Your poem invited me into your experience while also reflecting mine: a window and a mirror both. Thank you.
Mo, “And your vitality will return” is such a beautiful thought. Peace to her, and thank you for your poem.
Thank you, Darius, for this prompt. I have a number of students right now who are really struggling with self-acceptance and isolating themselves from being open to those around them. This is for them.
My students do not worry
I will burn you a house in the sky
filled with acceptance and love
that lights every room
It will be in a rainbow
of colors shining through
glass of every hue and creating
a kaleidoscope onto the floor
There will be smiles on
every face and genuine
crinkles around all the eyes
so welcome you will be there
No longer will you yearn
for understanding, to know
the feeling of true friendship
for it will be in this house
Every story you tell will be
heard and celebrated
not looked askance at with
questioning expressions
There you will thrive in
self-confidence and the glory
of complete and compassionate
coexistence without doubts
Have patience my students
for I am burning you a house
in the sky just for you
where there are no judgements
So full of love and encouragement! What caught me were your lines about the kaleidoscope shining colors near genuine smiles.
Cara,
This is such a sweet poem. You clearly care so much about your students, and you notice the important things about them. If only burning a house for our students would allow them to have more self-acceptance.
Wow! Cara! This turned out beautifully. The imagery of the second stanza and knowing that many of your students are LGBTQ+ highlighted the beauty of acceptance across the spectrum. The reassuring tone at the end with “have patience” is such a motherly and nurturing sentiment.
Mother, do not worry
For I will burn you a house in the sky.
One where you seize control of your happiness
Without letting emotion take control of you.
I will burn you a kitchen
Where you treat yourself
Where I treat you
To what that you refuse to feed yourself
I will build you a bedroom
That will simply house rest
And not worry, regret, and despair
Of life
I will build you a room for living
In which you can put your feet up
And enjoy life’s parade of theatrics
Taking your mind off of everyday drama
I would burn you a house in the sky
Burn your cares, your worries to cinders
Torch the past
If only you would let me.
Wendy,
This line is an anthem: “One where you seize control of your happiness”!
And then that last line reminds us that we can write anthems for others, but they must be willing to listen, accept, permit, allow, welcome. Oh, I feel for the daughter.
Sarah
Wendy, your poem is beautiful, and touching, and gentle, and so caring. I love every word, but the final stanza will stay with me:
I would burn you a house in the sky
Burn your cares, your worries to cinders
Torch the past
If only you would let me.
Thank you for your words today!
Wendy— the gifts you offer your mother are a product of your love and your regrets. “Torch the past” says volumes.
A Promise
Granddaughter do not worry
for we will make a thousand blankets
for you to have in the sky
when you come
They will be made
with the softest yarns
crocheted in intricate designs
by Grandpa’s agile hands
Granddaughter do not worry
the quilts Grandma has in store
for you here are more exquisite
than any you have seen on the ground
And you can sleep in a bed
heaped with hand stitched silkies
softer than clouds
and they will hold you
Granddaughter do not worry
for blankets without number
will be waiting to surround you
in softness, gentle care
because we see how you ache
and we promise to ensure
that when you come
that aching will end
Rachel,
Thousand blankets! The images of bed, stitches, blankets, gentle care — what a comfort this poem offers Granddaughter. The reader is positioned here to be alongside the the “we” who “see how you ache” and to witness “we promise.”
Thank you,
Sarah
Beautiful. Soft and warm and full of love.
Thank you
Cherokee Smoke
Young Bird take this limb and place it in the fire,
Young Bird the smoke will climb higher and higher.
What is down here goes up there,
What is up there we shall share.
Firebird Father needs a home,
His is temporary, burn sticks until they are gone.
Young Bird -Firebird gained many feathers,
Young Bird -Firebird will receive many treasures.
He burns today to reach his place,
He burns today to start a new race.
Young Bird we all will burn,
Young Bird prepare for your turn.
You become the new bird of fire,
Young becomes old, as his smoke rises higher.
Lead us in a natural way,
In you the Spirit of Firebird will stay.
Connect with the smoke of you father,
Earn your feathers in his honor.
His teepee resides on Rushing river,
Here is his bow, knife and quiver.
Now lead us home- our Young Bird chief,
Your have inherited Firebird’s beliefs.
No fear for battles ahead,
Smoke will take us home when we are dead.
Fathers of fathers of Firebirds reside the sky,
I see each of them as I look into your eye.
-Boxer
Boxer,
I am in awe of what you created today. I am so in awe of how a poem stirs into existence every day.
This is stunning:
An honor to meet Young Bird chief and Firebird in the lines of this poem today.
I love the Native American culture and tradition that shines brightly throughout this poem. The resemblance imagery in the final lines is touching! Way to use fire and burning as a theme.
“Be advised:
suspect is at scene
not really armed,
although he does
have a pen and
paper.”
Sergeant McDougal
Littell Harcourt Norton
was too old for this
sh–
“I repeat: suspect
is on scene but
doesn’t appear
dangerous, he
just, in fact, looks
a bit sad. He might
use the word
desolate, though,
or melancholy,
or crestfallen.
Be advised:
the suspect is
a poet. I repeat
the suspect
is a poet.”
Three days away
from retirement
and now he had
to deal with this,
a rash of fires
popping up all
over the city,
not content to set
figurative fires
blazing through
the minds and hearts
of their readers;
now, these poets,
these #VerseLove
poets have started
to add some actual
accelerants to these
aforementioned
conflagrations.
He shook his head.
Poets, why did it
have to be poets?
They’re truly
a menace.
________________________________________________________
Darius, thank you for your mentor poems and for today’s prompt! Your poem has a real longing: “One where you finally love to love yourself / So you can love me the way that I’ve needed.” Beautiful and insightful. I, on the other hand, went in a different direction, lol, in a more silly direction (while, of course, kinda still trying to keep some passing semblance to your prompt).
Scott, this makes me cheer and dance a happy dance here this afternoon, thinking of the fires of words and how you crafted this as you celebrate this group of writers. Poets, no less – – us! Menaces! Starting fires all over the place! This put a great big smile on my face. I could hear the voice on the radio……I repeat…..
Scott,
I appreciate this poem today as an example to any new Verselovers of how we can find out way into a poem through or around a prompt that serves our heart and mind that day.
This
not content to set
figurative fires
blazing through
the minds and hearts
of their readers;
I like to think of conTENT and CONtent with this and love the phrase figurative fires!
Sarah
Scott— I have sensed the menace in you before, but now it is revealed for the world to see. “ I repeat, the suspect is a poet”. Excellent!!
Hello Darius, it is great to see you hosting today. We were at a round table together at NCTE for the ELATE-SJ session. I took inspiration from both poems today.
child do not worry
i will burn down the
stigma’d comments
the ostracizing gossip
child do not concern yourself
i will extinguish the feelings of inadequacy
the co-morbidity of medical conditions
that underlie the visible behavior
child do not exert your anxiety
i will burn this poem so
as not to ignite further stress
and in the sky
you will fly
worry-free
sparked only by
love
Wow, Stefani
”i will burn this poem so” – so completely creative, a beautiful wish for all children and I love the formatting <3
Stefani, I feel your pain here. Yes, I was on a similar tangent. I love the way the final lines of your poem ‘dance’. I also was really struck by these lines,
Each of these is an ‘accelerant’ to a person’s personal battle, just making things so much worse. Thank you for this poem!
Stefani.
Oh, what a gift this burning is to “fly/worry-free” and a burning that is “sparked only by/love.”
The spacing moves my eyes with the ash floating away and into the love.
Sarah
Darius, thank you for this prompt and poems today. I love everything. “One where you finally love to love yourself” can be true of my own mother so that line in particular is so meaningful for me.
Mother
I will burn you a childhood home
One where you can speak at the dinner table
Where meals include laughter
Where life includes laughter
instead of silence and secrets
Where you do not see your father drink everyday
Where that is not the only thing you learn from him
Where your mother loves you and encourages you so you don’t just dream all your life
But those dreams become real.
I’ll burn you a bunch of homes like those I have known all over the world, a world where your parents send you out believing and living your dreams, fearless, traveling, with your contagious smile.
A smile that appeared out of nowhere.
Angie, the smile out of nowhere is such a beautiful (yet depressing) sentiment to end this poem with. Your lines speak of hope for so many children. Thank you for sharing today.
I know well the cost of an upbringing filled with “silence and secrets.” Your wishes for your mother are so beautiful – love love love your last line, especially.
Angie,
What a gift this line is “One where you can speak at the dinner table” to Mother and to all readers who have ever felt or been silenced at the dinner table and any other number of metaphoric tables.
Sarah
Angie, I love this poem gift to a mother who needed more than she got from life, but one who was able to give some of those gifts to you. This is powerful and beautiful.
What a wonderful tribute to your mother who provided to you the best she could do with a husband that drank every day. I am happy she encouraged you to dream real dreams.
The way you write this feels like you are handing her a gift. Where meals include laughter. . . . instead of silence and secrets creates an ominous feeling. Which you develop in the next two lines about your father. Your word economy for a glimpse into your life. I’m glad there is a place for dreams.
Angie,
This is so incredibly powerful, especially these lines:
Darius, thank you for this thought-provoking prompt!
take care
Mom I’ll burn you a house in the sky
one with
no more fiery anxiety
no more scorching mental illness
no more need to lock yourself away
as if you were a stack of dynamite
out to destroy us all
the ashes of
how hard
you were on yourself
and all of us
will sail away with a healing wind
the heavens will blaze with understanding
mental illness is not a personal fault
and you will flare
into the whole person
you deserve to be
I’ll burn you a house in the sky and
encouraging embers
will rain down
reminding us
to be tender with ourselves
and seek help as needed
Maureen, these lines are positively lovely:
“and all of us
will sail away with a healing wind”
and this poem is a beautiful wish for your mother.
Maureen, thank you for writing today. We chose similar themes. My favorite line is “be tender with ourselves,” and this is so important for us all at so many different stages of life.
Maureen, the last stanza is such a perspective setter. I often have to bring my forgiveness into focus when I think about how my own children will feel dealing with me as I am dealing with my own aging father. My kids have always joked with me, “Mom. When you’re fifty we are putting you in a home.” Six years into 10, I’m still running loose in the world. But I often think about this, and your poem reminds me that I, too, will be a hot coal.
Maureen,
This is a touching, tender poem. I’m consumed by these words juxtaposed with the image of a burning house:
“one with
no more fiery anxiety
no more scorching mental illness”
How paradoxical is it that fire burns out “fiery anxiety” and “scorching mental illness.”
Brilliant phrasing, my friend.
Maureen,
I am struck by the elegies shared today and the wishes we have for our loves here and lost. These words hit my heart:
the ashes of
how hard
you were on yourself
I am thinking about the lessons and wishes in these poems for us and how we can burn houses now for us, let the ashes carry away how hard we can be on ourselves. This is a comfort in many ways. The closing words show how you, as a poet, are taking care of the reader with this “to be tender with ourselves.” Yes. Thank you.
Sarah
Maureen, so many lines strike me in the deepest places. Maybe these, most of all:
the heavens will blaze with understanding
mental illness is not a personal fault
-for they are true. The longing for wholeness and healing and peace reverberates in every fiery image. Many of us have endured-? survived-? overcome-? a parent with mental illness…your desire for your mother’s peace and for others to “take care” is profoundly moving. Thank you for this poem and its inherent encouragement.
Maureen, you have danced with this prompt today, and created such a lovely piece on mental illness and understanding and love for your mom. So gorgeous. I love that the ashes “will sail away with a healing wind”
Maureen, oh my goodness, I feel such a sorrow after reading your poem. “no more fiery anxiety/no more scorching mental illness”. Yes, let there be a “healing wind” for those who suffer from mental health issues. Tears are raining down. Love your poem! Hugs!
Maureen,
I love when I have thoughts about how illness and injuries and handicaps are made whole in the next world. These lines hit right to the heart of this:
Father, I know you’ve been waiting
so I will finally burn that garage
for you to make your dreams 3D
in your eternal workshop
In it will be a drafting table
with all your blueprints and
smudgeless erasers to adjust
your dreams by millimeters
Father, there’s no more waiting
for approval or permission
from Ford or Chevy, you’ll have
engines & tires to move sketches to land
I will make sure your files
of inspiration just as you left them
ear marked and sorted in systems
only you could ever decipher
make it to your shop
Father, there’s no more counting
of dollars or rejection letters
for I’ve arranged a green light
at every intersection of what-if
because I have not forgotten
what you left behind
unfinished on paper
in the garage I burned for you
Sarah,
thank you for sharing this poem. In these lines, I love what you will give in replace of the reality and the mention that you did not and will not forget.
“Father, there’s no more counting
of dollars or rejection letters
for I’ve arranged a green light
at every intersection of what-if
because I have not forgotten
what you left behind
unfinished on paper
in the garage I burned for you”
Sarah, this gives us a beautiful glimpse into your father and his interests. I am wondering if he really had a “file of inspiration”? I am inspired to create a folder in my drive based on this!
Sarah, a green light at every intersection of what-if sounds like such a blessing of a gift, a perfect way to get through the traffic of life and on to what we enjoy, without roadbump or stoplight.
Darius, this is such a powerful prompt. The mentor poem and your poem are both so full of care and protection. The lines, “One where our demons/ won’t determine and deteriorate our bond/ But instead we walk hand in hand,/ just like we used to”, offer som much vulnerability and longing. Really beautiful.
What happens when you die?
You’re dirt. You said.
So you lived a life of urgency.
Ironic, then, that when the towers fell
cascading in slow motion upon you,
you didn’t become dirt,
but ether,
rising from the immolation.
Phoenix wings disappearing
in the bright
sun.
Still your fire burns
in children that know only
your picture and our stories
but they carry your laugh
and your acid tongue
your generosity and
your impatience and they
look to the sky for guidance
And I know this is
what you need
and what I need
seeing you in them
because we both know
you were never going to be
dirt.
Dave, what an incredible way to lift those who have left, to share their immortality in the laugh and acid tongue. The challenge you set that it’s never dirt and rather ether, looking at death that way, changes our perception, and in fact could change culture. This is beautiful!
Dave—that last stanza holds so much—I can practically see the look you would exchange with the one you are speaking with. The love shines through in those children you share stories with. What a tribute.
“they
look to the sky for guidance” – this is so beautiful.
Dave, the images of the phoenix, dirt, sky, and burning work so well in your verse today to create so many emotions. Thank you for sharing today.
All of this, Dave. All of this.
I am fortunate to bare witness.
Darius, thank you for this wonderful prompt. Writing this has been cathartic for me, and I think it is something I will come back to. Thank you for sharing your poem. It helped me find the words to craft mine.
House in the Sky
Dad,
I would burn a house in the sky for you.
A house where you would not
be an only child
under the glare
of a demanding mother
A house where your father
lived past 59 so he could
see how hard you worked
to provide for your family
A house where you would
get help for your depression
so you didn’t have to
self-medicate with bourbon and water
A house where the lack of
alcohol would help you
control your temper so
we wouldn’t have to walk on eggshells
A house where you lived to
see what wonderful adults
my children have become
and the beautiful families they’ve built
Dad,
I would burn you a house in the sky for you
where our complicated relationship could
get a fresh start and I could tell you
just how much I loved you.
Rita,
Your poem sparked a memory for me as I think about all who lack the ideal home. The memory is of a project describing the ideal home and absence of it in Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I know that’s a book with lots of problems, but the book and project, which I found years ago via the U of Virginia Electronic Text Center, focused my attention on homes in literature. Reading to examine home depictions has become a passion. Anyway, so many details about your father’s life remind me we don’t all live in ideal homes. I wish we could burnbuild a house for all.
Rita, viewing your father through your lens (from child until now) builds empathy and makes your desire for a house without all of the challenges so much stronger. It reminds us of how much children want that relationship with parents, how they try to fix what’s wrong, and how they are filled with if only’s too, but most especially how much they want (and try) to love them. Thank you for sharing this with us today.
Rita, this is a touching, powerful, and complex homage to your father. I really feel like the prompt is calling us to consider our relationship to mortality and the not always warm and fuzzy grey areas that make life what it is. Your poem really does that. I was reading Robert Hayden’s “Those Winter Sundays” with my class yesterday and your poem is reminding me of that poem quite a bit.
Rita—Dave’s reference to Those Winter Sundays (one of my favorite poems for students) is so apt. The love you feel for your dad is there, but also the awareness of the problems. So many troubled families live in this gray area of caring. Beautiful poem.
Rita, there are similarities in your personal story that echo mine – I know this pain. I love the idea of burning a house in the sky
If only!
Rita,
thank you for sharing this honest poem.
”A house where the lack of
alcohol would help you
control your temper so
we wouldn’t have to walk on eggshells”
I feel the pain for both parties here and wish you could have that “fresh start”. Much love.
Friends,
I know this has been a rough year for teachers, but as you finish the year, please hold my former colleagues and friends, my school’s student body, and our community in your hearts as recovery from an early morning fire that destroyed a large part of the school begins. The facility is d as crawling with a student body over 1,400. I spent 30 years teaching at Highland, and while my heart hurts, other hearts hurt more. https://www.eastidahonews.com/2023/04/firefighters-battling-major-blaze-at-highland-high-school-in-pocatello/
Glenda, I am so sorry to hear this. I can only imagine what they are all going through. I will be holding them in my thoughts and heart, praying that they find the strength to get through these difficult days and the stamina to carry on.
*sprawling
Glenda, our schools as really homes. That this happened on a day when we are writing about burning homes seems beyond irony. I am so sorry for this and can only imagine the devastation you all must be feeling. Hugs to the whole community.
(Yeah, and I wrote a poem about actual fire today. Ugh. Not great.) Sorry to hear about this, Glenda. You and your former school community are in my thoughts!
Glenda, I was just talking to a security guard at my building who was saying how exhausted she was from the last several years. A fire is the last thing that a school community needs to be dealing with now. I’m very sorry that your community is dealing with this. I hope that you’ll be able to rebuild soon.
Oh, Glenda. This is devastating news, and I am so sorry for you and your community. Sending comfort and am ready to support Highland High in its healing and rebuilding. No more words here. Hugs. Tears for you.
Sarah
Glenda— so sorry to hear this. Schools are our other homes, aren’t they? They are so much more than a workplace…
Glenda, this is so devastating – I am so very sorry to hear this. I am praying for your community.
Sending healing thoughts, so sorry for you and your community <3
Glenda, I’m so sorry about the fire and what it means in your community for your families and students who are approaching the end of a school year – – especially those seniors and all graduates who have such fond memories of their high school moments in the halls.
Oh, Glenda – how sad. My heart is with your community and the recovery effort.
Glenda, my heart and prayers go out to you and your former school community. I pray that rebuilding and restoration will open new possibilities and blessings for everyone. Thank God for the firefighters.
Glenda, I’m so sorry for your colleagues, students and your whole town. This is a sad day.
Thank you for the article. Building D sounds like a one of the heartbeats of community, housing the “band and choir rooms, cafeteria, and the school’s gymnasium.” I was happy to read tomorrow’s prom can be moved to ISU and go on as planned. Peace to all.
Glenda, this is so heartbreaking. I am so sorry. Keeping you and the school community in my prayers.
Glenda, this is just horrific. So very sorry.
Glenda, I am just now getting to the earlier posts. I am so sorry for pail and suffering you and your community are facing! Sending kind thoughts your way.
Good morning Darius! Thank you for the prompt. But thank you 1000 times for sharing your poem. I instantly connected to your words – the sense of longing for parental affection is so strong, so powerful, it took my breath away.
Portrait of a Blue Lady
For you
I will burn
a thousand words
Let them
nourish you
They will fill
your throat and mouth
and emerge transformed
Let them
transfix you
With your hand
delicate and determined
use them to paint new worlds
Let them
inspire you
For you
I will burn
a thousand more words
Take them
and let your voice be heard
James,
This is a stunning poem! Your first 3 stanzas are really affecting.
The transformational power of words and the visceral image of the throat and the mouth really marries the physical and the abstract.
“ for you/ I will burn/ a thousand more words.” Wow…
James and Darius,
My therapist once told me that he would 20 times rather work with a Vietnam vet suffering from PTSD than to try to help a neglected child unpack their trauma. The deep need for love and attention from our parents is so strong.
James, I love this poem about the Blue Lady. I would like to learn more, but I will just take these beautiful images, like the Blue Lady painting new worlds with your thousand words. Wow!
Darius, thank you for the beautiful poems you’ve shared and for giving a form for me to express the sadness I’ve been feeling for all the cruelty in our world. Sometimes I feel so small, so helpless in the face of so much hatred. Your prompt helped me find the words for the great heaviness I’ve been carrying…I really loved your whole poem and appreciate the chance to imagine a place where demons won’t determine and deteriorate our bond.
Brothers, sisters,
do not worry
I will burn this house
to the sky
for you and me,
and all of our descendants.
I will gather
the whips and chains,
the iron collars
and shackles,
and fashion
a fence
for hatred,
a cage
for cruelty.
I will toss in the guns,
and weapons of war
that bloody
our land.
I will water the earth
with our tears
so all
that is green and good
will grow.
Then I will burn
amber incense,
pine and white sage,
cedar and clove
to fill our house
in the sky
with healing love.
And this is what I needed on Friday, Ann,
With the sun out, I plan to get my hands into dirt and invest in growth. Thank you for your poem.
Ann,
There’s so much about this pome to love. The whole ethos of the poem is something that I needed to hear this week after another vicious, violent news cycle and seeing the cruelty and ambivalence of the world. It’s hard to pick out favorites in this poem, but I love the way you craft these lines in particular:
The reversal of caging cruelty and fencing in hatred really resonates.
Ann, what a powerful poem with haunting images.
“Then I will burn
amber incense,
pine and white sage,
cedar and clove
to fill our house
in the sky
with healing love.”
If only we could…the world is in desperate need.
This is a prayer, I think, a beautiful prayer. How I love, especially –
Oh, Ann, so beautiful! Yes, our poems are partners today in “healing love” I love all the smells in the final lines, so fragrant and rich. I love the sound of this:
And the things you are making to put hatred and cruelty into. I just realized I burned up the bad things in my poem. Now I want to try again more in the style of Kyle’s poem of burning the house as a positive creation.
Ann,
Standing and clapping!!! Amen on all this! I want to copy/paste and highlight the whole darn poem!
♥️♥️♥️♥️
Mother, do not worry
I burned your notebooks,
the ones you wrote to rid
yourself of despair.
Each page torn away,
I destroyed your legacy.
No one will see the you
you were before.
We’ll save you in ashes,
place you next to Dad
Who isn’t really there,
you know. He’s still here
in your spotty memories
of a man named John
whose hands touched paper
whose thoughts changed lives.
He lives in you
in the amazing grace
of burned paper.
I reread my poem and feel I need to revise because it makes it sound like my parents had an unhappy marriage. They did not, but I did throw away all Mom’s notebooks at her request. Who knows what was in them? I think she did morning pages for years. Any suggestions for revision are welcome.
Margaret, I did not get the impression that your parents were unhappy. As someone who has many notebooks, I often think about what will become of them when I am gone. Will my kids read them or just trash them? You got me thinking about what I should do with mine. Even the happiest of marriages need a place to vent now and then. Your poem was such a sweet tribute to your mom.
Margaret, did you throw them out without reading them? Oh my, that would have been so hard for me to do. My mother was so circumspect – and there are no diaries (only a couple very dry ‘calendar’ book)…how I would have loved to know what was on her mind. Anyhow, I am awed that you took care of your mother’s last wishes so dutifully. I am fascinated by,
You’ve left me very curious about her life! And the final three lines are absolutely beautiful – love that so much.
Margaret,
when you said this: “We’ll save you in ashes,
place you next to Dad” I did not get the impression they were unhappy. A lovely poem. I definitely would have read those journals, but good on you for fulfilling a request.
Margaret,
I love this poem and the idea of writing as catharsis that enhances a relationship. I’m thinking about your note, and your request for revision suggestions. Maybe you can do something with the idea of laying burdens onto paper to be present with the man she loved and family they raised. I bet many in this space have happy marriages like your mom, yet we write. Maybe those are “worldly despairs” rather than familial ones. I hope that helps. And if you leave the poem as is, it’s still really good.
Darius, this is a great prompt. Thank you for the space to be vulnerable. These poems (Kyle’s and yours) bring sadness, but hope.
Finding My Final Home
After the shoes have been
tied eight hundred
plus twenty more days,
you will get all the lunches,
dinners, desserts, and breakfasts —
the Panamanian chai tea lattes.
After Mattie Ross has avenged
her father’s death six more times,
you will fill your gas tank
whenever you want.
You will enter museums —
that aren’t zero dollars —
to stare at the observations
of others to be inspired by
their captured experiences.
After the gas tank has been
filled one hundred
plus thirty-four times,
you will go where you want,
when you want,
and as long as you want —
you will speak in German,
Spanish, and English.
Because do not forget to rise,
stand firm, and be a guide that keeps
moving forward, carrying
only the calm that comes
after the storm.
I hear sadness (exhaustion?) coupled with real hopes and dreams herein…yes, you are counting the days, but what wonderful images await! This is spoken like an English teacher, love it so much:
Some of our participants, Darius, know the traditional hymn, “In the Sweet By and By” a song that came to mind when I read your prompt for today. So, I used that title for my poem. I’ve put a C&W version of the song in a link at the end. Enjoy both.
“In the Sweet By and By”
Dear family House in the Sky.
We often lived together,
Multiple generations under one roof.
Living together like that
Made living proof
That together, we are better.
In that House in the Sky will be
The chair where Granmomma read,
Every night before we went to bed,
Bible stories, yes, and lots of biographies
Of talented Negroes, courageous and bodacious
Admirable, yes, though all now dead.
In that house will be the plastic-covered sofa
And the turquoise French provincial chair
They finally could afford to buy, as a pair.
We could walk by and look at them,
We dared not plop or even have a seat,
Not if we weren’t calm and clean and neat.
In that house in the sky
Where we’ll gather by and by
Will be the salt and pepper sets
Displayed in the glass-front curio.
I always was curious about having
Stuff we couldn’t use.
But I knew I must not abuse
Didn’t have to think twice.
Just kept stuff dusted and kept things nice
Just ’cause you loved seeing them nearby.
Just like you loved and kept us thrice,
I see you in that House, now in the Sky.
“In the Sweet By and By”
Oh, Anna. The song and all those things you showed us. I feel like I have visited the house you grew up in. And I would love to have been there. And I know you will be there…
So many beautiful treasures held in these lines! Love this, Anna.
What a tender poem this is Anna. I think what I like best are the gems you choose from the generalities…you speak of generations living together, lots of biographies, Bible stories, but then there is that turquoise French provincial chair…the salt and pepper sets…and these details bring us to a real family…a real Granmomma. It reminds me too of the poems we wrote about our writing space…the things we keep close because we love seeing them nearby…simply a lovely poem.
Anna, I had missed this poem earlier. Now, I see GWC was one of the “courageous and bodacious” people you learned about in that House in the Sky? Beautiful!
Thank you so much, Darius, for sharing completely new and unfamiliar things with me. I had never heard of this Chinese custom nor the original poem you shared. I love both that poem and your creation inspired by it. You capture the changed dynamic between you and your mom so well.
Phoenix Rising
I need a match
a match
to ignite the kindling
that will engulf the logs
that will create
a crackling fire
of light and warmth
turning to ashes
the vision I had
for your life.
Then,
a phoenix of free will
will arise
bringing rebirth
to my vision
that aligns
with your life.
~Susan Ahlbrand
21 April 2023
Susan, the repetition of “a match” in the beginning made me pay better attention somehow. It is very effective. I love the fire of “light and warmth” and not destruction. It is only destroying “the vision I had for your life.” I love the hope of the phoenix and how you are “bringing rebirth / to my vision” Again, the fire as life and hope, not carnage.
“a phoenix of free will
will arise
bringing rebirth
to my vision
that aligns
with your life.”
When you figure out how to build that fire, send me the instructions, please. I could use one. So much love and longing here.
So many gorgeous fire references – and the break between the stanzas is an incredible pause – I just love this, how there is, first, devastation and then, radical acceptance – so much love and possibility:
Darius and Kyle, thank you for a powerful prompt that inspires so many different interpretations. There are so many lines in your poem I love. I picture you and your mom so often.
————————————————–
Little ones, I will burn up all the guns for you
I will blacksmith them into plow shares and pruning hooks
And we will meet in the fields to plant hope and a future
The rains will come gently and just when needed
Little ones, I will burn up the carbon dioxide for you
I will fashion CO2 catchers to run your cars and toys
And we will stop digging and warring over fossil fuels
Green spaces and clean air will fill our world
Little ones, I will burn up white supremacy for you
I will incinerate hatred in the world’s psyche
I will write peace and love in your hearts
And we will live, and we will live
Denise, I think we are on the same page this morning…I listen to the news and feel so helpless. Darius has given us the opportunity to imagine the world we wish we could give…
with green spaces and clean air…an absence of white supremacy and hatred. I really do love this poem!
Hello Denise – your poem this morning is wonderful. I really enjoy the way the words not only destroy the destructive, terrible elements it addresses, but that it also takes the ashes left behind to grow and nourish something new and beautiful in its place. Very inspiring! Thank you for sharing this.
Love each stanza beginning, “Little ones, I will” – such a poem of determination, resistance, power. Just beautiful, Denise.
Denise,
You hit a trifecta with these righteous lines. Of course, given my own poem, I’m hyper-focused on the climate issue, especially these lines:
“I will fashion CO2 catchers to run your cars and toys
And we will stop digging and warring over fossil fuels”
Wonderful poem.
I love these wishes for the “little ones” Denise! So powerful. And “we will live” repeated as your last line, so good. Thanks for writing repair into the world <3
Denise -!! This is MIGHTY and needs to be shared on the world stage. Every stanza like a prayer for the future, if we can “burn” our destructiveness now…if we want those little ones to have tomorrows…just so beautifully crafted. Those last lines, repeated, linger like a song.
Denise, your poem brings tears to my eyes. Yes, let’s get rid of these guns so our hearts do not have to break on a daily basis. Loved “I will burn up white supremacy for you/I will incinerate hatred in the world’s psyche/I will write peace and love in your hearts”. Absolutely fantastic poem and so full of love and heartbreak, too.
Greetings, Darius! I’m eager to engage with your prompt today and wish I didn’t have to go to work and could write instead! I recently watched your interview with Yolanda and Olivia. I love that now you’re here to guide and encourage us as writers.
Your poem could have easily been coming from my own son’s heart. The similarities strike me deeply:
Can’t wait to share this with him. I’m sure he will agree you and he share the same sentiments and intentions.
I’ll be posting my poem later in the day.
Much love and appreciation!
Darius, your lines “where I’ll return to being your little man and not the man” really tore at my soul. As the single mom of a now-grown son, I see and feel her struggles–struggles that I have no doubt she tried to keep from you, but struggles that you felt and internalized nonetheless. This is a lovely tribute to your mother and all she was and is.
Mine’s for my mom too.
Mom,
I would burn a house in the sky for you,
a house filled with the simple, peaceful
life you always wanted.
A house where you didn’t feel
compelled to marry a doctor
just because, “Nobody else will
want you.”
A house you returned to
after chasing your dreams
and going off to college,
instead of getting married
and starting a family at age 18
(although then you wouldn’t have me)
A house full of the children you wanted–
your surrogate classes of years of
first-graders were fine,
but I know you always wanted a big family
A house with parents and grown siblings
who grew close and stayed close
rather than dispersing across the country
in clouds of passive-aggressive,
stiff-upper-lip, “we don’t talk about it”
disappointment
A house of simple beauty
with loads of fresh flowers
and your beloved little dog
A house without worry about
what you’re not remembering
or misremembering and fear
of what the untethered future holds
A house filled with laughter where you
never have to feel alone,
where you can “sit and rock and eat cookies”
to your heart’s content, joyfully watching
while life swirls around you.
Julie, what a sweet poem for your mother. I want to write one about my mom now too. I can see overlays between their two lives. This is heartbreaking for you and me and so many other families:
Julie–this stanza could have been written especially for my mother:
A house with parents and grown siblings
who grew close and stayed close
rather than dispersing across the country
in clouds of passive-aggressive,
stiff-upper-lip, “we don’t talk about it”
disappointment
We, too, dispersed and disconnected, and she never got to have life “swirling around her”. Lots to think about here…
This is a beautiful gift of a poem for your Mom. I love this stanza, how it wrestles with aging…
Love you, Darius, and appreciate having a location to think about the here and now, but also the beyond.
Bricks and cinderblocks have intentions, but writing heals the child.
Father and Son –
~b.r.crandall
I miss the nights
we’d stare at flames,
as libations danced
to the stars as if ghosts.
You had a thing
with cigars, smoke,
and we’d sit
in royal hoodies
sipping bourbon
on Adirondack chairs –
two wo restorative thrones
purchased from a
local high school
that gave a kid
a 2nd chance.
We grew closer,
keeping distance
around the orb you
built for flames
with your own hands –
shifting one cinderblock
after another to keep
the heart safe.
.
You trusted the sacrifice, though:
winter twigs, frustrations
memories, & boxes
sent from the Amazon
we stored in the garage.
Sometimes you’d burn regrets, too,
neither of us caring for marshmallows.
Simply
setting our silence
on fire.
Sometimes you’d burn regrets, too,
neither of us caring for marshmallows.
I love the whimsy of these lines. There is so much love and comfort throughout the poem. And the last stanza just settled me into place…
The last stanza gave me chills (Simply / setting our silence / on fire). I not only love how you arranged these three lines, but I love the two meanings they carry as the poem closes. This is a perfect punctuation to your beautiful poem.
I completely agree on the last stanza! The whole poem is a really beautiful meditation on your dad! I love the restorative thrones and the paralleling with 2nd chances. So good.
Bryan, these metaphors in such concrete images as twigs and boxes are such a universal fit for the things we burn, the ways we burn, and those with whom we burn and what we drink and how we sit when we burn them. That safety dance, the shifting of bricks, is such a subtle but powerful force going on here.
Such fascinating coupling here – ‘winter twigs, frustrations.’ Now, I’m imagining sitting by a fire and purposefully naming a frustration aloud and tossing a stick in, to let go. Very meditative exercise, I think!
Brian,
I feel as though I’m gazing at an ekphrastic rendition of an Edward Hopper painting as I read your poem. I don’t know if Hopper painted such an image as the one you’ve painted with words, but he is a master at depicting loneliness while people are among one another, and that’s the sense your poem gives me, perhaps in part owing to the circumstances of this day. I also see multiple narratives in your poem: the father and son, of course, and the student given a second chance. It’s masterful layering to achieve complexity. The tone has a “Those Winter Sundays” sensibility. The lines that resonate most w/ me are
“shifting one cinderblock
after another to keep
the heart safe.”
Recent events remind me how much I always regret exposing my heart, which is why my poems are often detached and impersonal, and why I need the. under blocks stacked high around it. Too often it’s trust that goes up in flames.
Very line is wonderful, powerful. Wish these were my words. Thank you.
Burning Down the House*
Finished my freshman year at Brown
A mono-plagued spring semester
I had always heard Your body is a temple
I would not eat and I’d run
I was burning down the house
Mom said Radical are we?
When I would wear
Paratrooper pants
Doc Martens
Safety pins
I was burning down the house
Listening to The Clash
Tears for Fears
Talking Heads
Strange but not a stranger
I was burning down the house
I was fighting with my father
Because I didn’t want to return to college
Hold tight
We’re in for nasty weather
I was burning down the house
I was bereft
Depressed
My rage also turned inward
Fighting fire with fire
I was burning down the house
Eighties androgyny
Drinking tequila sunrises
Hold tight
Wait till the party’s over
I was burning down the house
Forty years later
Now my house in order
I think back to when
I was burning down the house
*Thank you to David Byrne and Talking Heads for inspiration
Jennifer–excellent!! The use of the lyrics brings so much with it, and the recounting of your personal burning of the house is so honest. I relate to all the ways you burned, even the mono. and here we are, our houses in order. Thank you for the trip down memory lane.
Hello Jennifer – I really enjoyed the way you used Talking Heads to help tell this tale. I can feel the inspiration it gave you radiating off the page (err…monitor) and it helps create a unity throughout your words that elevates your work. Thank you for sharing!
Jennifer, Talking Heads/Burning down the house is probably my FAVORITE song, lol. Definitely, what I think of when I remember my early 20s…love love love that band/David Byrne. (Tell me, you have seen American Utopia, yes?) Anyhow, I adore your poem. You have woven in these lyrics so very well. We are so full of ourselves when we are young, aren’t we? “Now my house in order” – true here, too, but I think I’ve got to go play that song and dance around a bit …
Jennifer, I really enjoyed reading/listening to your journey through the lens of “Burning Down the House.” I love that song! And thank you for sharing these snapshots with us today!
Darius, Both of the poems you shared touch my tender heart. I love how you transformed the mentor text to work through your relationship with your mother, wishing so much more for her. This is the anniversary of my father’s death. My path through grief has not been unusual. Many people, I’ve learned, grieve the death of a parent. It doesn’t go away. It just gets easier to push it back.
I am also grieving my mother because she has Alzheimer’s. I hope to be back with a poem for her. Thank you for giving me a pathway to explore and heal.
I love this prompt. I had forgotten the Chinese tradition of burning a house but remember the funeral pyre and burning ships from the Anglo-Saxons and from teaching Beowulf.
Our House is On Fire
we’ve no need to
burn this house as
the Chinese once did
we’ve already
lit the match to
burn our house
to the ground
climate change
flames lick
our forests &
boil our seas
all around us
our fossil-fueled
hearts burn with
the privilege kindling
we’ve already
lit the match &
thrown it on
our earth home
our house burns
as we watch the
conflagration &
think there’s time,
time to douse
the flames, to
offset emissions,
to outsource
the global west’s
inaction while
whales wash
ashore & crops
burn in fields
aflame with fires
lit by industrial
agricultural smoke
our rivers &
streams run dry,
set on fire by
burning air
& others parched
lips cry for scarce
potable water &
plastic bottles
aplenty sit empty,
produced for
profit while our
planet home
burned on the
capitalism funeral
pyre set aflame as
earth choked her
final breath in
this our burning
house where we
already lit the match.
we’ve no need to
burn this house as
the Chinese once did
—Glenda Funk
April 21, 2023
———-
”Our house is on fire” is a warning we first heard from Greta Thunberg. There’s a book by that title by Jeanette Winter,
Glenda—talk about taking it to the next level! Eloquent review of the mistakes we are making every day. You’re right— we will not need to burn this house down…
Glenda, it’s the last lines in your poem for me,
Channeling Billy Joel…we didn’t build the fire. Then, I look to my sidewalk and see how in every cracks life triumphs. We can pour all the concrete possible to mankind onto this planet, but she will prevail. Humans might become a thing of the past, but nature will surprise us each and every time. I love to believe in such hope.
Glenda, I love the repetition of a circular ending. Your use of such vibrant fire vocabulary is deLIGHTful here in these lines. The words I keep returning to:
all around us
our fossil-fueled
hearts burn with
the privilege kindling
Your brain works in creative ways. Truth and a great way to tell it.
The repetition of “we’ve already lit the match” is so eerie and spot on. I’m awed by your powerful messaging through such succinct short phrases – we are seriously a world on fire. Sobering poem, Glenda. A fantastic one.
Glenda, I almost went in this direction myself… I am glad I didn’t, for your poem is superlative. So. Much. Burning. We mindlessly keep at it. When does denial of our own destruction stop? Perfect marriage to the Thunberg quote, as well as to the tradition behind the prompt today!
Glenda, thank you for this clarion call. Wow. I’m sure this is the poem that jumped out at you because you knew the footnote you added. Thank you for sharing that book title with us. Such a powerful image:
And this makes me nauseous: the lips crying for potable water, the plastic bottles sitting empty and this:
Oh, Glenda, your end is a slam dunk. I love how you show the horror of what we have done to our climate. Loved “capitalism funeral” and the specific details to show why our climate is in danger. “lips cry for scarce/potable water”…oh my that is such a truth and I can feel the thirst, the desperation in that line. “we/already lit the match” is also such a striking line which emphasizes how we have burned our own planet down. Extremely powerful poem! Kudos!
A Fire of Peace
Mother,
I have burned the winning lottery ticket
now dad can build the garage he desires
I know you’ll use what’s left
to help others in need
everyone always says you’re generous to a fault
just like me
Mother,
I have set peace on fire
now, you’ll be able to rest your head
on the softest dream clouds
to roam wild luscious fields
to build a perfectly warm home—right
next to me
Barb Edler
21 April 2023
Barb, I love these images of fire and burning today and the beauty of this peace fire in your poem. (You have written another good mentor poem.) “softest dream clouds” “wild luscious fields” “perfectly warm” Peace. So beautiful, and I love the idea of ‘burning’ the winning lottery ticket.
Barb,
I am focused on the “winning lottery ticket” the speaker burned and the irony of now building “the garage he desires.” This idea speaks to my heart about what money can burn and how often those w/ less of the green do more for others. What does it mean to “set peace on fire”? Again, a paradox, a puzzle. I love the heavenly images associated with mother, the “rest you head / on the softest dream clouds,” the ability “to roam wild luscious fields,” the opportunity “to build a perfectly warm home.” I love that your speaker is addressing “Mother,” and notice “Mother” is on a line alone, as though you’re writing a letter, as though to suggest a woman is better off alone without such a man as the one the speaker talks about rather than to. I know I’m missing something. Forgive me for that. I do love this poem and all its complications.
Barb, being generous to a fault – – wanting so much to help others as much as you can, even if it means taking a negative consequence for yourself — such a lovely way to live life by investing your entire being into giving to others. The home right next to you is so sweet, to be able to have your mother right there close.
“I have set peace on fire” – this is exquisite, Barb. What a precious, beautiful poem you have created here.
Barb, these lines are so poignant. A fire of peace. That has a sacred sense to it. I think of peace offerings on altars. So much love and care and sheltering in your lines; I feel sheltered in them, myself.
Darius— beautiful, beautiful. Your sentiments, your words. It comes to me at a time when I am working through many family issues. Thank you for putting me in this place.
Mom
I will burn you a house in the sky
One in which my father is home each night,
not driving that semi across America
and coming home on weekends.
You will not have to be a
married single parent
in that house in the sky.
I will burn you a house in the sky.
One in which you do not live every day
with headaches we could only imagine.
But you had two young girls to take care of
so you did what you had to do
and then rested in that darkened room.
You won’t need that darkened room
in that house in the sky.
I will burn you a house in the sky.
One in which there is always enough money
and you will never need government cheese,
although it made the best grilled cheese ever.
One in which your daughters
never knew how much money they didn’t have,
because you stretched it so silently.
Your daughters never did without.
There will be always plenty of money
in that house in the sky.
I will burn you a house in the sky.
One which you do not have to leave.
One in which your mind remains intact,
and dementia does not steal you
from your home and your beloved cats
and you can sit by the window
watching the sunset over the lake,
reading your books.
You can stay forever
with your cats
and your books
in that rocker by the window
In that house in the sky.
GJ Sands
04/21/23
Formatting disappeared on that one!
Mom
I will burn you a house in the sky
One in which my father is home each night,
not driving that semi across America
and coming home on weekends.
You will not have to be a
married single parent
in that house in the sky.
I will burn you a house in the sky.
One in which you do not live every day
with headaches we could only imagine.
But you had two young girls to take care of
so you did what you had to do
and then rested in that darkened room.
You won’t need that darkened room
in that house in the sky.
I will burn you a house in the sky.
One in which there is always enough money
and you will never need government cheese,
although it made the best grilled cheese ever.
One in which your daughters
never knew how much money they didn’t have,
because you stretched it so silently.
Your daughters never did without.
There will be always plenty of money
in that house in the sky.
I will burn you a house in the sky.
One which you do not have to leave.
One in which your mind remains intact,
and dementia does not steal you
from your home and your beloved cats
and you can sit by the window
watching the sunset over the lake,
reading your books.
You can stay forever
with your cats
and your books
in that rocker by the window
In that house in the sky.
GJ Sands
04/21/23
Gayle, glorious. I love this house you are burning for your sweet mom. Thank you for reposting it with the correct formatting. I like the stanza beginnings:
My mom did this too; what I gift:
Oh, Gayle, I feel the heartache through your poem. Dementia is such a difficult disease that steals are loved ones from us. I love the beauty of the place you want for your father. I feel the “sunset over the lake” and “that rocker by the window”. Powerful poem!
Gayle,
This is a beautiful tribute to your mom who obviously did so much to hold your family together, to keep the home fires burning. The image of being a “married single parent” reverberates in many ways; it’s what so many women do. Your poem is gentle and kind and reverent. Today has been rough; your poem offers peace and a soothing balm.
I hear the whisper of a child’s plaintive voice in these lines,
I am reminded how our young selves only want our moms to be happy, to have all they need – and this wish is so easily met, with a ‘burned house in the sky’. This is a beautiful poem, Gayle – your deep love for your mother is so clear.
Oh, what a lovely thought – books, a rocker, a window, and cats. Dementia is the devil, I am sure of it. I’m sorry your mother wrestles these demons. Mine did, too – – and it’s about the most fearful thing to endure when the moments of realization come with the full knowledge that dementia has set in. I’m sorry you are having to go through this with your mother.
Gayle, what an ache in my heart, reading this. Your mom – how she managed. You, who would burn her a house of peace and comfort so she would never go wanting again. Please feel me hugging you right now.
Darius, both poems are so full of longing to right egregious wrongs – a desire to heal. They are also so full love and our need for another. Their impact is profound. I wasn’t sure I would be able to write to this prompt…but there’s something so beautiful in it and so I try. Thank you for sharing these poems, yours and Kyle’s; they are now branded on my heart.
Mortuary Apprentice
He burns your body for you
so that your family
can be free
of gawkers
gathering to see
what you look like
so young and beautiful
and dead
He burns your body for you
in exoneration
all the blame
consumed by flame
only burning questions
remain
He burns your body for you
another statistic
of someone’s deep pockets
lined with cash
never once caring
if you
become ash
—they say,
while they keep on living,
that you did it to yourself
just another box of dust
on the shelf
He burns your body for you
there are no more traces
of your blood, your veins
the substance of your brains
no more ears
to hear the sobbing
no more eyes
to see the tears
on your friends’ faces
no more planning
in the robbing
of all your tomorrows
no graduation
no reclamation
no retribution
as your future contribution
wafts away in smoke
no more what-you-might-have-been
as the flames purge you
of your skin
In burning your body for you
he sets you free
but he is young, too
and as he burns your body for you
he burns
Fran, oh my goodness! The rhyme scheme and the truths that are so freely flowing in this poem, just as the words flow. The repetition of burning and the creative words and the cast of characters that comes alive here, and the one who turns the dial of the door closed and cranks up the heat, all burn in some way. You remind us of the gift of life and the choices we make today. This one reads like spoken word poetry. I like this style you bring today!
Wow. This poem is amazing. It must be read aloud! The interplay of generations in this is what I feel…the young take care of their elder dead. Ooof. But, the form and rhyme keep me in the reading til the end. Well done!
Talk about an attention-getting opening line and stanza … I was all in.
Kevin
Fran— my goodness, my goodness. What a story you tell, and with such graceful words and effortless rhyme. My goodness…
Fran, your poem is haunting and vivid. I love the repetition throughout this, and that final line “he burns” is electric. Wow, you’ve captured so many heartaches in this poem.
Fran,
I hope you’ll share this breathtaking poem with your son. I hope you’ll thank him for being the one to burn the bodies. I love the litotes throughout, the defining of what will no longer be emphasizes what’s left: “no more planning…” “no graduation / no reclamation” and “no retribution” and on. My youngest son worked as a veterinary tech for several years. As one of the few males, he was tasked w/ euthanizing pets and in charge of their cremation. It became too much emotionally for him to bear, so I know those who burn the bodies have a very hard job. Hugs and peace to you.
Fran, how horribly hard it has to be for all who work in mortuaries, to bury the young. I am thinking of young addicts here, and feel a confirmation of my thoughts in these words of yours-
It is all just so painful. This is an extraordinary poem. Thank you for this!
Thank you for catching this, Maureen… the “you” are often very young, gone far too soon from an overdose. They look unmarred…beautiful…they haven’t even finished growing. It should not be.
Fran, oh, what a chilling look at the young person who was cremated, and the young mortician’s apprentice. This is so so powerful. I want to hear you read it aloud at a poetry slam. The rhyming and rhythm add so much to this solid burning poem.
Darius, your poem is so heartfelt this morning – the false gods and failed prayers, the longing you feel for your mother to have the life she deserves. Your poem speaks to me as a mother of children whose father walked out on all of us when his drinking became his thinking. One thing I know: a mother’s love for her little man never fades – – she always keeps those sweet childhood memories close to her heart, no matter how much pain and disillusionment. This was a brave, courageous poem. You wrote to the bone, and you’re a model of how poets reach in and pull out parts of readers that need reflection, tears, and gratitude. Your comment about the ancient Chinese burning down houses became my focus today. Thank you for hosting us, Darius.
Up in Flames ^ Choose One: House or Legacy? ^
those ancient Chinese
had it right: burn the house down!
strike up the torch flame!
better the house go
up in smoke than the siblings
killing each other
who gets the dwelling?
who gets the crystal timepiece?
who gets anything?
executor’s call:
who gets to make decisions?
who denies morphine?
which one plans all meals?
oh, but NO SUGAR, stage 4
cancer patient fat?!?
what is this fresh hell??
give Mom a damn M&M!
stop controlling LIFE!
inheritance sucks
some get fortunes, some get F(ORK$#)
who gets anything??!
those ancient Chinese
had it right: strike the match and
walk in peace from fire
Woah. I’ve watched my parents wade through this stage of life and sadly, seen some broken ties. Now, my siblings are approaching this time and we’ve promised each other we will not let the “gets” get in our way. This poem hits home hard with me today. I like the blunt edge of the voice in this…what fresh hell? give Mom and damn M&M. These are real details (even if made up)that illustrate frustration without having to spell it out. Well done.
Kim, I agree with you: Chinese are wise people. Your poem is strikingly truthful for many, and I observed similar in times of grief. Why do people are so obsessed with material things? Thank you for this poem today!
Kim— your anger is palpable and so real. The death of a parent can unite families in grief, or it can destroy them. “Strike the match and walk in peace from the fire.” I wish…
Kim, your poem is rife with emotion, and you’ve literally brought me to tears. I can feel so much pain in this and your questions are so devastating. “who gets anything?” truly stands out, and I understand the anger you share through the lines “oh, but NO SUGAR, stage 4
cancer patient fat?!?”. Love your final line. Finding peace after a loved one has passed is surely a difficult thing to accomplish. Fantastic poem! Hugs!
Kim, so powerful
Phew.
Kim,
WOW! You knocked it out of the park with this poem. I love everything about it, from the ironic twist in the idea of burning the house, to the ideas you address, to the bolding, capitalizing, unique spelling, punctuation. Everything is gold in your words. My favorite is “walk in peace from fire.” I have done this when someone dies. There was fighting about the casket when my dad died (not by me) and fighting over stuff when my grandparents each died. I have an aunt and uncle with sticky fingers. I hate all that parsing of things.
You are on fire, here, Kim! This stanza, wow –
When my in-laws were elderly and their health was deteriorating, there was so much strife between the siblings…it took us years to find forgiveness with one another. I know well this ridiculousness of
I am with you in pain, today. This poem is excellent – and hopefully a healing release. Thank you!
Kim…the anger burns in every haiku syllable…railing against the injustices of life. I once worked for attorneys. They said the worst human behavior they witnessed in the courthouse wasn’t divorce cases; it was families fighting over wills. As in fistfights. And then, here, the injustice of cancer and the medical machinery. Of a dying woman being denied a little chocolate while it might still taste good and when she might actually be able to swallow it…in the end, the simple things ARE the best of life and they aren’t even things. This poem…it feels like an exorcism; it burns clean. And I savor it.
Kim,
What a powerful burning poem. Wow. There you go again with haiku magic. The repetition at the beginning and ending, with the last line changing from beginning to ending “walk in peace from fire” is very effective. This makes me so sad that in the last days of a person’s life, these decisions have to be part of the discussion:
Your title asks a great question: House of Legacy?
Kim – love this! It is so raw, powerful and true!
Darius, burning a house into the sky (and its extended metaphor) to allow for the loss of the house that once was for your mother (taken by infidelity) and you (childhood) is powerful. I see that small boy, building back the house through tears, as each piece of him is given to the building of her and the rebuilding of them.
Farewelling
Child, do not worry
I will burn your dreams for you,
farewelling their memories
so that you can rest again
I’ll check the deep recesses under beds,
and inside the dark closets of your mind,
sweeping away reaching hands
I’ll leave a night light on
so that you can find your way again
I’ll banish the echoes
that dwell in the wilds,
and mock and mock and mock and mock
rub away wood-meres,
letting you rest in hollowed trees,
in greening care
I’ll hold your hand for you,
tether myself to the child you were
so that you can find who you are again
so that you can find your you again
Jennifer, this is sad and lovely for me. The “wood-meres” gives me ideas for new poems. I just love the ideas that invented word present. I love the strength of the speaker to be the trusted adult for the hurt child.
Jennifer—“I’ll leave a night light on/so that you can find your way again”. That line, by itself, brought tears. And your last stanza— every mother’s desperate wish for a troubled child. You know our hearts…
Oh, Jennifer, your poem is gorgeous and haunting. I love the line about leaving a night light on and banishing the echoes. I especially loved “letting you rest in hollowed trees,
in greening care” and the repetition at the end is so full of loving grief. Love that connection you build through the word tether. Absolutely amazing poem!
Jennifer, I adore the title of your poem. I adore the whole poem. Thsi stanza is my favorite:
I’ll banish the echoes
that dwell in the wilds,
and mock and mock and mock and mock
rub away wood-meres,
letting you rest in hollowed trees,
in greening care
-it has an old feel, from another time, with those marvelous word-choices. And “letting you rest in hollowed trees, in greening care” just stirs my soul. Teh clusre of “you can find your you again” is so lovely.
Darius, thank you for this prompt. Your poem for your mother is heart-wrenching. “No more false gods and failed prayers”, “Even if it takes every little piece that’s left of me.“ – These lines will stay with me.
I’m celebrating Eid today and in true Eid-eve fashion, I had an argument with my Dad last night. This poem is my way of saying “I love you” to him without actually saying it – because we just don’t communicate that way.
Father do not worry
I’ll burn you a house in the sky.
One where you’ll be young again,
With no responsibilities burdening your shoulders.
I’ll fill it with all the things you never had.
I’ll fill it with all the things you never thought you needed.
I’ll build it for the child in you.
I’ll build it with a game room
Filled with board games and bean bags,
With a foosball table, a bowling alley,
With an arcade racer game.
I’ll build it surrounded by fertile earth.
I’ll build it with a garden ready for you to grow
The flowers nobody thought to give you,
The fruits you love but never eat enough of,
The vegetables only you enjoy.
I’ll build it with an underground garage.
I’ll build it big enough to hold
The cars that you loved to drive,
The cars that we could never afford,
The motorcycles that you outgrew way too soon.
I’ll build it with high ceilings and windows for days.
I’ll build it so you have enough space,
Space to be young.
Space to make mistakes.
Space to breathe.
I’ll build it with love, care, and devotion.
I’ll build it with all the things you gave me
So you’ll also know how it feels
To be without burden.
To be without care.
To be free.
This is a beautiful apology poem, of sorts, with the final stanza the most powerful:
I’ll build it with love, care, and devotion.
I’ll build it with all the things you gave me
So you’ll also know how it feels
To be without burden.
To be without care.
To be free.
Kevin
Saba, Happy Eid. What a gift…this poem for your father. I love the freedom you give him to be young in it. If my child wrote this to me I would know it means, “I love you.”
A poem of love, of the gifts we would give to our parents if we could. A poem of gratitude. Amazing.
Saba, what a wonderful poem full of all the things we think we need, but then that share what we really need like care, love, and devotion. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a “Space to be young./Space to make mistakes./Space to breathe.” Your ending stanza says it all. Marvelous poem!
“I’ll fill it with all the things you never had.
I’ll fill it with all the things you never thought you needed.”
Years ago Erma Bombeck wrote an essay in which she asks, “When does the parent become the child and the child become the parent.?” I have thought about that often, and your poem brings it to mind as the tone is parental, the way a parent promises a child all the things. The specific list you’ve given us shows the love and knowledge you have of your father. Touching poem.
Saba, every line is powerful but the one that brings the tears is “I’ll build it for the child in you.” Something so precious is often so lost between childhood and adulthood…and here, in your poem, it still lives. And loves.
Saba, this is precious. I do hope you share this with your father soon. Consider sticking it in a Father’s Day card in June. He needs to know how you really feel, even if you can’t say it to him to his face. The fact that you believe he needs to know is a sign that you should let him know. Go ahead. You’re brave enough to share it with us. We’ll stand with you! Okay!
Darius, I love this prompt! I have a day off of school today as our Muslim friends celebrate Eid. Eid Mubarak to those celebrating. Kyle’s poem really touched me. I thought of a student that I had a negative interaction with yesterday. Her behavior can only be described as hateful. And I am a ruminator–I’ve been thinking ever since–what could I do for that girl? This is for her. I am a school librarian so I used the metaphor of binding and stitching like a book is bound and stitched.
Student do not worry
I will bind and stitch a school
for you to enter every day
A safe place, a yours place
In it there will be everything
the finest class where everyone
is a friend and you can drop
that heavy invisible armor you wear
Student do not worry
leave your make up, ear buds, phone
Come as you are, join the circle
we wait for you to complete it
I will allow your tears
and bear fits of giggles
so your mind and spirit
are fresh and ready for learning
Student do not worry
I will bind and stitch all
that you need as no student of mine
will serve the system like a number
Because I will not forget
that you are a young person
in the school I bind and stitch
for you – here, today, now.
Linda Mitchell
Wow — your first stanza is pure magic, Linda.
Student do not worry
I will bind and stitch a school
for you to enter every day
A safe place, a yours place
Kevin
Linda — please, May I be your student, in your “safe place”, your “yours place”? Every student deserves a Linda Mitchell. And your poem is a gift to them and to us.
Oh my goodness, Linda, your poem is so full of love, and I admire how well you were able to capture the book imagery throughout this. It’s so hard to know what our students are going through at home to make them act out as they do sometimes. I admire your compassion, and the end of your poem is a perfect reminder that we always need to be there for our students. Powerful poem so full of grace and love!
Linda, this is pure love and understanding of your students. We have to love them enough to let them hate us, don’t we? And you model the most gracious art of turning the other cheek, choosing choosing choosing to return hate with love.
Whoa, Linda – so powerful. These lines makes me wants to shout:
I will bind and stitch all
that you need as no student of mine
will serve the system like a number
-for numbers don’t live and breathe and hurt and need. One of our students told her teacher recently: “I am only loved at school.”
This poem, to me, is all about that.
Oh, Linda! Your poem resonates with me for about nine or 10 of my students this year. Wouldn’t it be joyous to create the safe and nurturing space you’ve described.
Pure joy!
Father,
your house is older
than you, a tiny concert hall
filled with a resonance
of drums
When
the time change comes,
we will leave it behind
as a foundation for
another family
Still,
there’s a memory
of music in these rooms,
where the slow roll
of snare drum
sings out
Father,
it brings out your best –
this home rumbling
in the percussive heartbeat
of you
Kevin
(My father, along with his day job, was a part-time drum teacher and semi-professional drummer – now retired — and I still associate the sounds of drums to the home where he still lives)
Kevin, such a beautiful homage to your father’s home. Thank you for sharing!
Thanks, Saba
Every stanza hold a beat of drums…what wonderful memories to preserve for your father. I love that you end the poem on, “you.” Beautiful.
Kevin— what a beautiful tribute to your father, who shared his love of music with you.
Phew. Beautiful.
Kevin, I sometimes think the old walls carry the stories of those who lived there; if only they could talk… in this case, I think of all your father’s drumbeats the walls have absorbed and stored. Latent inspiration for the next occupants, “when the time change comes.” This poem resonates with beats and love. So beautiful.
Kevin, what a loving way to express the rhythms of your of life with your day. Go ahead. Do this one up on a drum shaped card and put it somewhere your dad will find it. It’ll give him such joy he’ll pull out a tambourine and dance a tango!
Kevin, this poem beats with the rhythm of your heart. Do share this with your dad, soon. Consider creating a drum shape on which you write your poem and place it somewhere you know he’ll find it … privately. He’ll probably pick up a tambourine and dance the tango!