Verselove is a community celebration of poetry in April—an invitation to write, read, and reflect together. You’re welcome to write a poem a day or to come and go as you need. Reading and leaving a brief note—a line you loved, an image that stayed, a feeling a poem stirred—is also a meaningful way to participate. This is a generous, low-pressure space. We’re glad you’re here.
Our Host
Kim Johnson lives in rural Georgia and is the District Literacy Specialist for Pike County Schools. She is the author of Father, Forgive Me: Confessions of a Southern Baptist Preacher’s Kid (Tate Publishing, 2012); and a contributing author of Words that Mend: The Transformative Power of Writing Poetry for Teachers, Students, and Community Wellbeing (Seela Books, 2024) and two other books written with EthicalELA writers. She blogs daily at www.kimhaynesjohnson.com.
Inspiration
I made a commitment to follow more living poets in 2026, and I’ve been on a remarkable journey of discovery ever since. As a third-year member of The Stafford Challenge, it brings great joy to see a surge of interest in modern poetry! At my father’s funeral in June 2025, I chose a poem from an anthology of living poets to read at his graveside – not one written long ago.
Joy Sullivan, author of Instructions for Traveling West, is one of the living poets I follow on social media. Her Substack, Necessary Salt, captivates me with each new post. I think what I find most enthralling is the sheer glory she finds in everyday moments. I invite you to go on a living poet journey to find new writers throughout the month. Use their work to inspire your own, even borrowing their style and a line or two to frame your own poem. You can find living poets at Teach Living Poets, Poetry Foundation, and by using search engines to discover others.
Process
I’ve selected a poem by Joy Sullivan to get us acquainted with each other using the title alone: The cashier at the gas station asks me where I’m from. Here is the poem free to download from Pinterest.
Choose a person and setting (i.e. cashier at the gas station, pastor at church, mysterious stranger at the bar, waitress at a restaurant, passenger on an airplane, etc.) and introduce yourself. Title your poem as Joy Sullivan does, and offer us a glimpse into your world.
Kim’s Poem
The Soapmaster of Green Willow Soaps asks me where I’m from
so I tell her: an hour south of Atlanta
because no one has ever heard of this place
and besides, these towns are so tiny we all just say
Pike County
which is small enough to spit watermelon seeds
across, where the sunsets rival Titian red
when we look over Alabama-way
but what I don’t tell her as I place bars of
Mountain Mist, Morning Citrus, and Purple Haze
into my arm basket
is that I’m plotting retirement in these mountains
sipping black coffee on my porch
in the shadows of Blue Ridge
channeling inner birdsong and crystal-splashing waterfalls
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
Thanks for the prompt that took
me down memory lane and had me exploring a generation gap…
Where are you checking in from asks the front desk clerk at the conference hotel
Indianapolis I offer while I write my name on the stick-on tag
Ever been to the 500
Sure, I say, without revealing I’ve never actually been there on race day
That as a kid growing up in Indy I listened to the race on my transistor radio trying (and giving up a few laps in) to fill in results for each driver on the chart printed in the newspaper
That the first race I remember was1964 with its fiery crash
Who’s your favorite driver
I don’t say Mel Kenyon, lifted up as a hero of the faith to us 60’s church kids, answering instead Andretti – the handsome Italian heartthrob admired by the girls in my teen years
Yeah, Marco’ s cool
I nod… but I was thinking of Mario, the grandfather
Well, hope you make it to the 500 one day, you’ll love Indy
Kim, your poem is truly exquisite and brings me into Pike County and the world of kind colors and my own black coffee. You’re on the porch, I’m in the kitchen, rain on the other side of the glass. You are an inspiration, à poet. Love, Susie
Kim, thank you for so much today: introducing me to a new poet, sharing the Teach Living Poets site which has inspired me with ideas for my classroom, offering this prompt which has my brain ticking, and writing your words that carry me to a town too tiny to name but make me want to sit on the porch and channel birdsong with you.
he hatter at the tea party asks me where I’m from
and when i say go ask alice
he says i think she’ll know
which i understand is a way
to add some logic
in a world gone mad
but i ask have you been smoking hookah
cuz the deranged king’s
lost his head
and the talking heads
are speaking backwards
from both sides of their mouths
and the world has upturned down
while we slept after the fall
while we slept
after the fall
Oh, Jennifer… so brilliant … the reverses in phrasing, so perfectly capture how I wake each morning… me, a woman who bounces out of bed, yanks up the shade, anxious for another great day… now robbed of joy, more broken each day by the madness. I hear you… we share so much. You are the joy this morning… our poems will make our joy. Thank you for sitting here with me. Hugs, Susie
How I would love to sit and talk with you about this poem, Jennifer. Your work always–always–provokes thought and emotion from me. Your intelligence, insight, and creativity always make for a great read and this one is no exception.
Oh, Kim . . . what a great prompt and what a beautiful mentor poem you wrote, capturing a whole lot more than a short interaction in a soap shop. I think this could elicit so many great poems and take a writer in a thousand different directions. I may write multiple today, but my heart went to an exchange I had last week while visiting our daughter in Austin, Texas.
the server at the Taco Depot asks us where we’re from
taking in her spiked hair with pink tips, her myriad tattoos, piercings, and ear gauges,
I am taken aback by the question.
a giggle escapes as I reply, “how do you know I’m not from here?”
with flat affect she says,
“because no one is from here.”
I tell her “Indiana” and she lets out a barely audible “hmmmpf”
and I don’t know what it means,
whether it’s judgment or boredom or curiosity lacing that sound.
“our daughter moved her so we came to visit”
is my spontaneous way of filling the air.
she shifts to ask if we have had a chance to look at the menu
and I wonder . . .
is it sad or liberating to live where “no one is from here”
to be transplanted away from your roots,
to live where basically no one knows your name?
I reflect on my sense of home
and how it feels to be rooted among
familiar faces and places
and I feel pity for people who don’t have it or don’t want it or don’t value it
but then I realize . . .
I think
her “hmmmpf”
might have meant that
she pities me.
~Susan Ahlbrand
4 April 2026
Susan – what a wonderful poem on how mindful reflection instructs us, opens us, helps us mosey through odd moments. I love this poem. Hugs, Susie
There is so much to think about in your poem. I love no one is from here- such a sarcastic – pondering response that makes me think about my home. How dare someone say that – haha. I enjoyed how you intertwined a “mind- battle” in your writing- very cool!!
Great prompt!
Kevin
The clerk at Deep Thoughts Records asks me where I’m from
and I remember as a kid watching Chick Corea
at Toad’s Place, in tow with my dad,
fingers flying over intricate key changes
in a room built on angled chords
and then to the Coliseum with my brother
to catch Yes, my first rock concert,
and Chris Squires’ bass guitar thumped
its way right into my musical DNA
and I recalled the vision of Shawn Colvin,
alone at Oakdale with only her guitar,
seemingly fragile, until her voice and song
carried everyone of us into the night
But I only replied: Connecticut as a kid;
Northampton, now – and left it at that,
ticket stubs still rubbing against skin,
musical echoes of places I’ve been
Kevin,
This is so great. I love how your first three stanzas share just a small sampling of your musical experiences and then your final stanza offers the answer with that killer line
Hi Kevin, ah, yes, the all too familiar thoughts vs. what we actually say. This happens to me too much as I’ll probably express in my own poem today. If that is the actual title of the record store, that is perfect for this poem, or maybe that’s the reason for the deep memories. I love the musical snippets you’ve taken us on and especially the last two lines. Thanks for sharing.
Aaah, Kevin – marvelous, this trek through the origins of musical you. I love the bits of happy threaded DNA 🧬 🎶 . Was there a moment in that reverie that seared poet into that helix… maybe in many ways those exposures were the same… poets, wordsmiths, musicians, sensory magicians. I love your poem. Susie
Your poem mentions Northampton, a place I never visited but a family I once knew from there who visited our church every year. I was taking a sign language course at the time, and their son, profoundly deaf, may have been a bit surprised when I signed back. And so we began writing letters for years. First time I’ve thought of Timmy in a long, long time. Thanks for this walk down memory lane. Your lines bring music to my ears, Kevin!
Watermelon seed spitting contest coming soon!! Thank you for the inspiration!!
He is There
Five days ago,
he sat on the back row,
intently, staring in my direction.
Grizzly, bearded, and gray,
ghostly, in a calming way.
relentlessly, offering affection.
I, could not fathom the phantom,
as I gazed back at him.
Contently, awaiting my correction.
Of his existence, there,
and if my resistance was fair?
Sent to me, for perfection.
His beard, I urged to pull,
or caress his plaided wool.
Defensively, I feared rejection.
So, I let the moment be,
Embracing his gaze of me.
Tenderly, without objection.
As, I listened to the sermon,
and slightly turned to him.
Eagerly, for my perception.
And he was still there,
Staring and aware,
Fortunately, without deception.
As I left I wondered
if he was real,
Of less sight,
and more feel.
Meant for my own reflection?
Ah, Boxer, what a compelling poem to make us wonder if we see the things and people we need to see sometimes that may be corners of memory or places of mind. That final stanza really hits it home and bring chills. There is a book by Billy Graham entitled Angels, Angels, Angels, in which he explains we may be entertaining Angels Unaware. I’m a firm believer in that! Incidentally, I hope to be on the Callaway beach for sunrise service tomorrow. I know that’s a place that holds a pretty special meaning for you!