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.
Ooo, Kim – I love the twist on “where I’m from.” I can envision Pike County and the dreamy Blue Ridge.
The clerk at the counter
with silver rings on each finger
asks me where I’m from.
“I’m from nowhere,
are you from nowhere, too?”
I smile brazenly.
“Happiness,” he smiles back,
is not in another place but this place…
not for another hour, but this hour.”
He winks, “Whitman,” he says.
“Some help from Dickinson,” I respond.
He packs up my water.
Leaves me with these words:
Poets are their own
place and time.
This prompt has been percolating away in the back of my brain all day. So… last minute, but here I am!
We’re on vacation and someone asks where we’re from
and we’re sitting in the back of a small cafe in Paris,
tucked between the bar and an impossible dartboard that makes us laugh:
maybe they toss the darts from the front door through the bar and over the heads of the people sitting in our seats,
of us. Our laughter, we think, is what attracts the impossibly old men and since we are
impossibly young we are startled by the tears that spring to their eyes
when we say we are American and they say, “thank you, thank you” and shake our hands.
Later we will ask our parents if they can explain what happened.
and it is not a year since the towers fell, since
the US was bombed, so when we tell the couple on the boat with us
that we are American they shake their heads
in sympathy even here in Vietnam, where yesterday
we hiked around a crater created by a US bomb.
and we say “we’re Canadian” which is true for most of us and true enough
for me right now until the captain of the boat lets out a heavy whoosh
of air and says he knew – just knew- we weren’t American because Americans are
so loud and demanding, boorish and self-centered and suddenly I long to say
that I am (still) American but I can’t find the words anymore
to say where I am from.
Amanda,
I keep returning to the way this poem moves across places and moments, letting a simple question open into history, memory, and the complicated weight of identity, and how the tone shifts so naturally from humor to something much more unsettled. What stays with me is that feeling of carrying a country differently depending on where you are, how belonging can fracture and reform in real time, and how difficult it can be to name where you’re from when the meaning of that place keeps changing.
Sarah
Amanda, what a powerful message of letting go of what we can no longer stand for and finding what we stand for. It’s always been a saying we can choose our friends but we can’t choose our family. And here, you show how you can choose your nation….which becomes your family. This ever-changing world continues spinning in a different orbit all the time, doesn’t it?
The surfer in the lineup asks me “wea you from?”
and when I answer, “Here…”
I point over my shoulder,
and I sigh, anticipating the end
of this conversation,
but wondering how to weave
my last name in…
“Up Kawaihau Road.”
He responds with a grunt,
“What year you grad, guy?”
“I went Kaua’i High, 96.
Why? Baddah you?”
Now his eyes are huge,
like his shoulders, and his scars,
and I look past him, to the next swell
rolling in our direction,
langorours, dangerous,
like his shoulders…and I nod the wave
to his ken as I paddle over the should.
And then he smirks.
“Nah, guy, no baddah me.”
“K den” and we surf.
The lines “languorous, dangerous,/ like his shoulders” have incredible sounds; I really appreciate how you weave in the local sound in dialogue along with your own interior voice, which recognizes that you are simultaneously in and out of this space.
I love how the language and rhythm of this piece fully inhabit the setting, the dialogue doing so much work to establish place, tension, and belonging without ever needing to explain itself. What stays with me is how you capture that subtle negotiation of identity in a single exchange, how we carry proof of where we’re from in voice, memory, and shared codes, and how recognition can arrive in something as simple as a smirk and a wave.
Sarah
Jonathon, wouldn’t it be great if the world’s people were surfers, seeking the swells and inviting each other to ride the wave together? To take part in the thrill of feeling the tides under our feet? You carry a message of power in your poem.
My New Poet Friend Asks Where I’m From
after I’ve pointed out my in-laws’ home
four houses down from my own
and I just laugh and say, “Guess.” Joking,
she points ahead of her: “Two blocks away?”
She’s gotten the distance and the direction
exactly right, but for once I don’t start right in
with the disclaimers, don’t describe the two years
my husband and I spent by mountains and sea
before we were married, before we settled
back in the midwest. I don’t say, as I usually do:
I didn’t always live here.
I don’t know if it’s age
or that my new friend has just talked of
missing home herself, but I’m in no rush
to brush off this block I’ve walked for decades.
In this spring sunlight, the tiny blue flowers
in the scraggly suburban lawns glint like
little jewels.
Mahalo for this poem. I love to listen to a convo between new poet friend, thanks for taking us there. I also enjoy the list of the things you don’t say…these don’ts are so important
Kate. There’s something so quietly powerful in the choice not to explain, not to qualify, and to simply let this place be enough in this moment, especially after all the ways you could have told it differently. I’m really moved by how the poem settles into that acceptance, and what lingers is the sense that what we carry shifts over time, sometimes arriving as a kind of peace with where we are, right here, in the light of what we’ve stayed with.
Sarah
Kate, your poem speaks to the feeling of embracing the present before delving into the past, and what a way to honor the here and now. Beautiful! The memories can come later in the friendship – – but now, the rooting of the present.
The woman sharing the armrest asks if she can pray for me
and countless unwritten air travel rules
sizzle between our soft forearms:
Do not engage
Do not overshare
Do not proselytize
Do not admit the fear
of rejecting
superstition.
Whew, Allison! I don’t know how I would react in this situation. Do not engage would be the best, I think but?????
I love the repeated “do not” phrase–so much in just a few lines! “sharing the armrest” really puts that air travel closeness into view!
Hi, Allison! Oh… I reckon you did the best.., you wrote a great poem. Love, Susie
Oh wow, that “sizzle between our soft forearms” gives the poem such a charge!
“Do not admit the fear
of rejecting
superstition.”
wow, what a line!
Lol, love this situation. I have so many “rules” that apply to various life situations, including how to act on a plane. The title kills me, perfectly setting up the poem and I feel the rules sizzle between them
I’m so taken by how much tension you hold in so few lines, the unwritten rules pressing in just as much as the human impulse beneath the question, and how the shared armrest becomes its own charged space of negotiation. What lingers is that delicate balance between boundaries and vulnerability, and how we carry both the desire to protect ourselves and the quiet pull of connection, even in the briefest encounters.
Hugs.
Allison, I’m not one to turn down any prayers, but I too, as a believer, am guarded about being held in silent agreement with a prayer that may not be offered to the God I worship – and I am sorry that your seatmate was so presumptuous to assume that 1) you needed prayer because you might be “less than”; 2) her prayers were above your own that may have already been prayed; 3) you believe in the same deity if any, and 4) that sitting in the same space carried the right to infringe on your right to a flight without being put in an awkward intimate moment. I’ll admit: I have often wanted to write a disclaimer for folks offering to pray for me that I ask them to sign before I bow my head. I’m stepping off the soap box and giving a high five to your poem today!
Kim, you really heard me. Thanks.
I love your poem and the example poem so much. I love the image of how small your county is by the line about spitting watermelon seeds! I love this form and how the title is part of the poem. This was fun to play with today. Thank you, Kim!
The old man on the side of the road when we ask for directions
Speaks to us in English even though we’ve asked in Portuguese
Such poor Portuguese that he can tell we aren’t from these islands
Even though my husband’s blood runs through the lava-lined
Fields of cows, the basalt cliffs dropping into the sea
He’s so happy to practice his broken English with us
So eager to show us the way
That when we come around a second time, still lost
He insists on walking in front of us the several blocks
To show us, so happy and full of smile.
That we can’t help but laugh and be grateful
To feel from his welcoming
That we aren’t wandering or lost
We’ve come home.
Oh, those two final lines, Emily! Such a kind story of a generous stranger who made you feel at home. Love it!
Emily, “We’ve asked in Portuguese,” is so relatable! When we liven in Strasbourg, France, I tried my best to speak French, but I was always answered in German! What a let down. Love so much about your poem.
I just love the image of him “walking in front of [you] the several blocks”—so sweet. And I am so heartened by this story of kindness and connection.
The lines “my husband’s blood runs through the lava-lined/ Fields of cows” really caught my attention – so evocative! – as did the final line. The idea of who does and doesn’t belong, of what is home, is really powerful here.
“[S]o happy and full of smile. / That we can’t help but laugh and be grateful.” I love this! Thank you for writing and sharing this, Emily!
Emily, such lovely lines here – of course I love those last two lines, but my eyes go back to these as well, as thinking of lineage as part of the landscape and the agriculture: Even though my husband’s blood runs through the lava-lined
Fields of cows, the basalt cliffs dropping into the sea
Welcome home!
I’ll do a bit of a variation, based on a real conversation with an aunt that made me smile.
I used to have a t-shirt that said
University of Iowa, Idaho City, Iowa.
Bought from the World’s Largest Truck Stop, exit 284 off I-80
I loved that shirt.
I wore it one day over Christmas break while visiting my family,
And my dad said, “I don’t get it. Why is that funny?”
Then my aunt called:
“Your team won its bowl game: Ohio State!”
I’ve lived in Idaho. Just not the part that grows potatoes.
Both states apparently known for monoculture crops.
I don’t think there’s an equivalent to “Iowa nice” in Idaho.
Or an “Iowa goodbye,” which a student demonstrated in class one day,
Much to the amusement of everyone in the room.
One day a student pointed out that in Iowa, people don’t give mileage to measure distance.
Instead, they give the amount of driving time.
Not “70 miles” but “one hour away.”
I’ve never been to an Idaho state fair (or an Ohio one),
But I’m pretty sure they don’t have a butter cow
Or deep fried butter.
But maybe, just maybe, Idahoans love ranch dressing, too.
Sheila, your last line had me laughing! This whole conversation/poem had me laughing. I can almost hear your aunt. I want to go to the World’s Largest Truck Stop!
You should! It’s very entertaining.
Sheila, we have fellow poets in this group from Ohio, Iowa, and Idaho, and I love that the cultures blend so beautifully. You capture the fusion of place and tradition in a poem and sparked by a t-shirt memory. I am so curious about the student’s demonstration, but somehow the “Iowa nice” comes into the rearview mirror as I can imagine his gesture, and if that’s the case, I would laugh too!
I will attempt to describe it: You slap your thigh, stand up slowly, and say, “Welp, time to go.” Then you proceed to continue talking to the people you’re with for several minutes, sit back down again, and keep talking. Repeat process at least twice.
“What school do you go to?”
the group of girls at dance class asked me.
I was a new first grader
in the neighboring rural town.
I had no idea schools had names.
Later I asked my mother.
Schools had names.
I had no idea schools had names.
I thought you just “went to school”.
They didn’t talk to me again.
At dance recital I walked off stage
five seconds in.
No one was dancing to the rhythm.
I assessed the situation:
they’d be done well ahead of the music
And I’d be on stage alone
to finish what they didn’t do.
They had no idea there was a rhythm.
They had no idea dancing had a name.
They had no idea I had a name.
By Donna JT Smith
Donna, this was just lovely — so moving! The anaphora at the end is so effective, and the feeling is palpable in this poem.
Oh . . . such a painfully beautiful ending! I want to give your little first grade self a hug . . .
Oh, wow, Donna, the use of having no idea things have names is so powerful here. I love that you assessed the situation, as a little girl. You knew your dancing. Your last line is a stopper. Wow.
Ever since I was a kid, when I read a book, my mind automatically sets it in Rocky Ford, Colorado, the small town where I grew up. I’ve always had such a strong connection to home, and that seems to be reflected in how I envision the books I read. Does anyone else do this? This poem pays homage to some of the fictional spots and people that populate the small town of my childhood.
My summer institute writing group asks me where I’m from
I respond
The sprawling brick farmhouse where Rebecca Sawyer
snuck a peaceful moment to watch the sunset from
the wrap-around front porch of her new home
The run-down shuttered once-white shack where Arthur Radley
hid away from
the cruelties and injustices of Maycomb
alone in his pain, until Scout showed him a new path
The dense, spooky wooded area south of town
where Gordie, Vern, Chris, and Teddy
embark on their quest to find a dead body
and tthemselves.
These spots, and so many others, are in the same
small town where I grew up.
The movies in my mind always return me to
Rocky Ford, Colorado.
Isn’t it amazing how even when a book is set in a definite place, we set it in our hometowns in our minds? I love your tribute to loved books that you explored in your home town!
Such a creative and inviting way to use the prompt!
Nature in Steel
Walking through the arboretum paths
Paths taking us to see Vivid Creatures
Creatures made of colorful steel
Steel mimicking incredible features.
Features like feathers, wings, horns
Horns providing a home for birds
Birds like robins, maybe cardinals
Cardinals, those lovely songbirds.
Songbirds which represent those gone
Gone from this world, not from our hearts
Hearts that hold on to memories strong
Strong as steel, nature as arts.
©️Jennifer Kowaczek April 2026
Kim, thank you for this prompt. I tried to find a living poet writing about nature but didn’t find what I was looking for. So, I went a little rogue today. My poem is inspired by the art sculptures in the Morton Arboretum, Lisle, IL.
The artists are Heather and Fez BeGaetz.
My photos are too big; here’s a link to the website https://mortonarb.org/explore/activities/exhibitions/vivid-creatures/?utm_medium=qr&utm_source=interpretation&utm_campaign=vivid_creatures&utm_content=scamp#about-the-artists
Before I got to the end, I wondered if you were writing about the Morton Arboretum! So lovely to see “the arb,” as my mom calls it, memorialized here!
Yes for living poets and thanks for the introduction to Joy Sullivan. For some reason I couldn’t get the what’s you job question out of mind…so I went with that. I love the twist on where I’m from poems and love your soap poem and the way you make your place sound like the perfect place!
poem #4
What’s your job?
No matter who asks:
doctor
cashier
insurance agent
random stranger in the elevator
I answer
teacher
What grade?
The standard follow-up
First grade
The inevitable unchanging single syllable 4-letter response is
Cute
They can be.
They’re also:
feisty and opinionated
timid and uncertain
liars and painfully honest
hilarious and NOT!
surprising and predictable
constant conundrums
consumingly curious
cautiously certain
ferociously feral
frustrating
funny
fabulous
They learn
even when they’re trying not to
mostly they sink their teeth
(the ones that aren’t falling out)
into your heart
and never let go.
That’s my job.
What’s yours?
constant conundrums
consumingly curious
cautiously certain
ferociously feral
frustrating
funny
fabulous
I love this list of descriptors– I think “ferociously feral” is my favorite. I also love the image of them sinking their little baby teeth into your heart. Awww . . .
This was so much fun to read. I love the cadence of it. And the 4- letter word being cute. I love the image of them sinking their teeth into your heart.
Looooong time first grade teacher here…I get it all Love the teeth!
Cute!!? I would think they would say “bless your heart!”
I absolutely love this:
“mostly they sink their teeth
(the ones that aren’t falling out)
into your heart
and never let go.”
❤️ ❤️
Yesterday my cottage neighbor asked me what was new
By Mo Daley 4/4/26
since we really hadn’t seen each other since late fall.
Then she told me Paige will graduate next year,
said they weren’t getting any more chickens,
that her son went to Alaska
and they went to Pennsylvania
and how much they loved Paris two years ago
and that she’s desperate to get these petunias in for a bit of color.
She asked again what was new with us,
but what was I supposed to say?
That I still hadn’t figured out an Easter menu
that would satisfy everyone?
That my mind was spinning with a possible NCAA tournament win?
That we need to complete this woodshed ASAP?
That I worry so much about my grandson
and I can’t talk about it with anyone?
That I don’t know if I can commit to a poem a day?
That I’m overwhelmed with planning an anniversary trip?
No.
So, I just said,
nothing new with us at all.
I love the list from the neighbor followed
by the questions left unsaid and then the nothing new comment at the end. Creates a picture of that conversation that was mostly one sided—at least in appearance.
I hear you, Mo. Thanks for writing this and sharing it with us. (“That I don’t know if I can commit to a poem a day?” Yep, the struggle is real!)
This poem is so relatable. I just love how you went from your neighbors talking to all your worries and life problems and then you said what we so often say, especially when we feel the world on our shoulders. I think I might write another poem with yours as a model just for a little inner healing right now.
Mo, love your title incorporated in the poem so smoothly. Hope things start looking a bit lighter soon (I am a good listener, just in case). I used to write “unsent” letter when things seemed too weighing down on me. Sending hugs 🤗❤️
Sometimes the what’s new is so little, yet so much, that’s there’s nothing you can say except “nothing”.
I love the opposing perspectives. And I appreciate the last line because it’s so true how we often don’t share the truth because….well we feel someone else wouldn’t relate. Sad but true.
Kim–a gorgeous poem (I especially love the imagery in the shift, “channeling inner birdsong and crystal-splashing waterfalls). Your poem made me think about what wouldn’t be said in an interaction like this one.
a person on spring break far away also wearing an Iowa shirt asks me where i’m from
so i say, “newTon,” hardening the “t” as few residents of my hometown do
as a high school kid, pronouncing that letter gave me a sense of separation,
like i would be one to get out
saying “new-on” with a swallowed consonant somehow felt to me like
giving up
and i was going places
but no one says it that way, so when she asks, “where??”
i say it just like everyone else, and she says, “oh, new-on–the speedway–”
and i want to say, “no, maytag”–we used to have a bustling
manufacturing economy and the empty factories actually
make me want to cry
i’ve never been to the speedway (partly on principle), a block of
jobs that were never a decent consolation prize
yet i keep quiet about that because she doesn’t really care, so I smile
and say, “it opened after i moved away”
i never actually went far
i live in cedar falls now, a couple hours north and east–the trees
a bit more plentiful with a brownish splendid river, and
drives still marked by lush spring planting and crackly fall harvest
i hope my companion is the kind of person who
relishes a time when Iowa was purple
but that wouldn’t be Iowa nice to bring up, so instead i do the thing Iowans do
where i ask if she knows the person i know from her town, something
my city-boy husband finds ridiculous
so we find her uncle, who was also a cross-country coach in our conference
at the same time i was running, and her cousin, who lived in the same dorm
as me at Iowa, and her dog-groomer, who is originally from cedar falls,
a quiet celebration of a rooted place
“Where are you from?” I asked the man in my graduate course years ago
“Bermuda,” he replied.
“Ohhhhhh,” I replied as the memories came flooding back
We’d travel there each year on my birthday
when I was a young child
and my father owned a travel agency
“Do you remember the Bermudiana Hotel?” I asked him
He did
“It burned to the ground in a fire years ago
along with part of my childhood,” I told him
I shared my beautiful memories with this stranger:
Horse and buggy rides,
Walking into the caves at Elbow Beach
holding my 6’1 father’s index finger as a tiny tot
calling out to my mom and hearing the echo,
Thinking Dino the maitre’d at the restaurant was my boyfriend
and being crushed when he told me he was moving to New Zealand,
Thanking the handsome bellman in his red and gold suit with the tall hat
when he’d rescue my doll, Gail, and return her to me when I dropped her
“Don’t ever go back,” he told me
“It’s not like you remember it anymore.”
And for the second time my heart skipped a beat in heartbreak.
Heidi, wow! Those words spoken ring so true. I went back to see my childhood house at 208 Martin Street and the first time I realized it had been torn down was a real gut punch. I am grateful for the memories that live on because the house is no more. I’m sorry that part of your childhood burned down, but so grateful for the memories you have. And they live on, much of the time, bigger and better than the things of today.
Oh, Heidi, this is gorgeous. You reminded me of a friend I had growing up. Her dad worked for an airline, and they went to Bermuda every year. I was so jealous! It’s still on my bucket list. The line about Dino is wonderful. But the “Don’t ever go back” is crushing!
The woman in the elevator asks me where I’m from
After catching my eye,
startling me out of my studied,
furtive examination of her, comparing
luggage, clothes, hair, size,
eyes, arms, waist, and thighs
and wondering how I stack up,
and I want to blurt that I am
from an unwell place
in which a gaze
is a scale and
I a commodity.
Wendy,
Wow, those last 4 lines are so devastatingly good. And just devastating—the things we internalize.
Wendy, I’m feeling both the knowing feeling and the not stacking up, as most of us as women do……especially at certain times…..and I’m also (apologetically) chuckling just a little bit because I can see the temptation to blurt “I am from an unwell place.” I just love the stark honesty and the bold truth that elevators will bring. Thank you for writing. I like the writing that comes from these moments of reflecting.
Every one of us can relate to this line: “and wondering how I stack up,
and I want to blurt that I am
from an unwell place”
Thank you for articulating it. I will carry it with me.
After reading your poem, I am realizing how “where are you from?” can be a loaded question, especially when we’re busy sizing each other up and comparing.
Wendy, your poem made me chuckle, but there is so much truth in it about us. Probably, many of us are from that same “unwell place.”
Yes, and it sums up society these days. Why do we do this to ourselves? So unnecessary really…comparisons lead to heartache.
loved “I am from an unwell place
in which a gaze is a scale”
ouch!
Just wow, “I am from an unwell place” what a line. Yes, totally relate. Thank you for writing this. It will stay with me.
Wow, the end especially works…”I am/from an unwell place” is a wonderful phrase.
Thanks for the prompt, Kim. I enjoy using mentor texts to help my students write.
“Who are you?” asked another colleague’s students.
They think I’m a sub.
Should I be offended?
Behavior is conditional, respect not automatic
A teacher has no promise. A sub—sometimes less.
They don’t know I’ve been here for twenty years.
They don’t know that I’ve taught their parents and siblings.
I realize I don’t know them either.
I should go back to my classroom where
I am known and I know mine.
Always the best thing – – when you have taught their parents and siblings. It is nice, though, to be right where we are fully known. Thanks for writing. I love how you drew us to a place where we feel that sense of not being known – – it’s so relatable!
Melissa, I am struck by the line “A teacher has no promise.” That one is sticking with me. Then–the echo of “They don’t know.. they don’t know…” with the last line. This feeling is so relatable in a building where we feel we should have some street cred–but also captures the universal human experience of generally wanting to “be known.” Thanks for sharing.
Fun prompt!
The man at the counter asks me where I’m from.
Kentucky, I say.
He’ll have no idea where that is, I think.
We’re in the middle of nowhere Australia
somewhere between camp and the worksite.
at a roadside shack selling burgers almost as tall as your head.
Is there any reason for him to know Kentucky?
Bourbon, Derby, and Kentucky Fried Chicken, he says
My surprise was obvious.
I grew up believing Kentucky was small,
unremarkable
(even now still do).
But his remark showed me
How small the world really was.
When I met a man in small town Guatemala
A few years ago,
I shouldn’t have been surprised that he knew not just Kentucky but my small town of 1,000 people.
And bourbon. And Derby. And KFC.
When I taught in Japan, I remember feeling like the Colonel, himself, when anyone learned I worked in Kentucky. I was golden and an instant hero. Australia has its ‘nowheres,’ too. I was thinking about this while trying to find heavy cream at a grocery store in upstate NY. We are a strange species….human beings. Also thought about this the last time I was in KY for a wedding and we drove through a town with a vibrant A&W in operation. I was like, “Whoa.” Look at that!
Cheri, it really is a small world after all, like the song. Wow! You visited Australia – what an adventure, and Guatemala too. When I was a baby, we lived in Port Royal, Kentucky while my father attended Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville. And today, I have a daughter and grandson in Owensboro. Kentucky is near and dear to my heart – – the iconic places, the family and friends, and the plethora of great writing that comes out of that state – – yours included!
Cheri, I love the language shift from “believing Kentucky was small… to how small the world really is.” This is a great contrast or follow-up form the “roadside shack selling burgers almost as tall as your head”– I really like the shifts here and the blend between concrete and abstract.
Oh, Cheri, that is a great experience to illustrate “how small the world” is. So neat, and an illustration of the world’s different, maybe better education than we have here. What do we know about Guatemala and Australia? Great poem and memories of your travels.
Cheri–I love this. I live in a recognizable place, yet I’m surprised at how many people not only know the “big” general place, but also know smaller details. I’m not surprised that people know Kentucky, but I don’t know if I would know your small town of 1,000 people!
The cashier at an eye glasses place called my name—of sorts. I approached; I knew she meant me.
She said, “I probably butchered that.”
“Well,” I responded, “you got the first syllable. It’s Ka-ye-ta-na.”
“Is it Indian?”
“No, I’m from the Philippines. It was my grandmother’s name.”
I think about the different ethnicities I have been “mistaken” before. Chinese, Mexican, Vietnamese. Yesterday I added Indian to the list. Indian from India? Or Indian as in Native American?
Either way I’m loving it. I am big C: Catholic; and little c: catholic—universal. What a blessed place to be!
Cayetana, such a beautiful name. People here butcher names all the time ))). I love how you add cultural and ethnic richness to being open to whatever others suggest. Thank you for your poem and positive outlook!
Cayetana,
I’m glad you can find humor with how people mispronounce your name and get your ethnicity wrong. I love your play on words with catholic.
Cayetana, I love that spirit – – the big c and little c are a blessed place to be! Thanks for writing today!
Cayetana, there is such a beautiful matter-of-factness in this poem. I love it from the opening line “my name–of sorts.” The dialogue is precise, and it’s cool how you give readers that experience and then zoom out to your inner experience. Thank you for sharing it.
Cayetana, I thought my name was easy to pronounce until moving to So Cal where I was allied AhNa! I had to explain. I’m a two N Anna pronounced through your nose. Eventually, I’d just say, “ Call me anything but late for supper!” We’d giggle and move on to the misspelling and incorrect pronunciations of their names! Ah names!!!
Hi Cayetana. Nice to read/meet you here. I have been mistaken for “Asian”, Hawaiian, African American, Indian (the mistake being from India because I’m sure I have some type of Native American in me) Bangladeshi when I lived there, and the list goes on. I have known some Filipino women who have such similar characteristics as my maternal grandmother who is Mexican.
I don’t mind when people ask me what I am. I ask them to guess first. I think it’s fun.
I see you embrace the questions and your ethnicity also. I love your positivity in the end:
“Either way I’m loving it. I am big C: Catholic; and little c: catholic—universal. What a blessed place to be!”
Kim,
I really appreciate the call to read and interact with living poets! The poem that you chose as a mentor poem and your poem are remarkably beautiful.
Pizza in Memphis
Grabbing lunch at the pizza spot in Memphis
and the waitress, filling our water glasses,
asks “where y’all from?”
And I glance at my wife and croak out “Pennsylvania”, feeling as forced and unnatural as it stumbles across my lips
as it must sound to her, as she clearly expected subways and skyscrapers and instead got horse and buggies and barn raisings—
and I wonder about roots—the places
we’re from and the places we end up
traveling like seeds in the wind,
and she says, “well, I’m glad you stopped in”,
and smiles a thousand welcomes,
and I realize that I could’ve said I’m from anywhere and the smile would have been the same,
and I never felt more at home.
Dave, I really enjoyed your poem, especially:
and I wonder about roots—the places/
we’re from and the places we end up/
traveling like seeds in the wind,
So lovely. So true!
A beautiful encounter and poem. I especially liked the line about traveling like seeds in the wind along with the smile.
I like your simile: “traveling like seeds in the wind.”
Aw gee, Dave, That’s just downright sweet. A smile is, indeed, home. Totally made me smile… funny how a poem makes you feel good. Thanks, Susie
For me, I still am picturing that one pizza you had to carry on the roof of your car…and you’re from (E) All the above. I keep thinking about roots and homes and entanglements and friendship and time. “Seed in the wind,” indeed.
Awww, Dave, I am right at home with “y’all” and the smiles. If I didn’t know it was Pennsylvania, I might have guessed Kentucky with the barn raising and horse buggies that we always see when we visit our daughter and her family there. You wrote a poem of deep reflection about belonging and welcoming – – and feeling at home!
I love the ending! I want that kind of welcome when I stop in a new place.
Kim, thank you for this delightful poem and prompt!
My daughter says what’s up with you today?
Nothing, I say.
I want to be from adoration and love, but to my dismay
I am from heated squabbles and passive aggressive interactions
All of it makes my skin crawl
I want to say, clean up your room, pick up your clothes
I am tired and feeling underappreciated
I want to be from wonder and startlement, but to my dismay
I am in a bad mood today
On the edge of plummeting
I have roused the ugly beast within and it won’t stop
Yesterday, I constructed a riverbed of dreams
I hiked in the woods
I planted tulips and hyacinths
I baked cookies and cakes, relished in confetti, and laughter
Even dressed up and went out to dinner
Today — I am totally different
My mood is so mercurial– everything is bothering me
I want to be amazed and awed
I want to be from a playbill with a happy ending despite all the loud and unexpected turns within
Today the circle of trust feels broken
Writing on scraps of paper even napkins at the diner
I’ve got so much to say and nothing at all
My mind traverses from one bad idea to another
feeling in a rut
hesitating to be totally truthful
so I tell lies to myself
What a day, huh?
What was I even thinking..
Only then love shows up
like a Godiva chocolate bar with almonds
Oh, you found my white sweater
Will you help me with my recommendation letter?
What’s for dinner?
Oh, thank you, mom.
I appreciate your honesty. I don’t have any children of my own, but I felt that I could relate to what you wrote. I think it was the emotion you expressed. “I’ve got so much to say and nothing at all” has been part of some of my days, too. Thank you for sharing!
Darshna – The frustrations are so very real. I’m guessing there’s not a mom anywhere that hasn’t been exactly where you were through much of a day. The ending was as poignant as the pile of frustrations were irritating to you. À poem to pass to your daughter someday at just the right time. Thank you for sharing so honestly. Susie
Darshna, those days of just impossible moods can turn on a feather when our children tug at our heartstrings — and that comparison of the chocolate and almonds is perfect. There is just so little that chocolate and children can’t fix. Thanks for writing.
Darsha,
What an incredible story of the frayed edges of parenting. “I want to be from a playbill with a happy ending” is amazing! And I love the happy ending that you’ve written—the love and acknowledgment of a child.
Kim, what a prompt! Love the spin on “I Am From” poem. Your title is brilliant. The response to the soapmaster is epic.
Here is my attempt. Still a draft I typed on the phone while on the road, so I want to revisit:
A Girl Sitting Next to Ma on a Plane to
Cincinnati Asks Me Where I Am from
She turns to me
somewhere above the clouds,
twenty years old maybe,
with eyes wide open
the way
I, too, used to have.
Where are you from?
she asks,
hearing my accent
as if it’s a place
I can point to on a map
or looking out of illuminator.
I almost say, “Louisiana.”
It’s easier.
It fits in conversation
between takeoff and landing.
But something in her waiting
makes me expand the answer.
I am from a coastline
that has the memory of mountains,
from a place where the sea
meets stories older than language,
where people are brave and free spirited.
I am from a house
that no longer belongs to me,
but still lives in the way
I set a table,tend to the garden,
or hum songs without noticing.
I am from learning
how to carry a place
without holding it.
From translating myself,
so others can understand,
and sometimes so I can too.
She nods, like she understands.
I wonder what she hears:
a country, a history, or just a woman
trying to answer a simple question.
I will say Louisiana next time,
when someone asks.
Leilya,
I’m glad you gave the long answer.
I love these lines especially:
and
Lovely and gentle.
Leilya,
A lovely poem and response. So many sweet lines with a felt sense of who you are. Thanks for writing!
Leilya, good gracious! I just caught my breath here at these words:
I am from learning
how to carry a place
without holding it.
That is deep, and while Louisiana may be the easier answer for the wide-eyed 20 year old, I hope you always answer the longer version so that the world knows Leilya and the amazing miracle that you are. Thanks for writing!
Leilya, I always love to hear you talk about your homeland and traditions. The love you have for country is so easy to see. I feel the longing in your beautiful poem.
Leilya, lovely poem! Like Sharon, I prefer the long answer! I loved this stanza, especially, because the sentiment rings so true — it’s so much easier to give the simple answer:
I almost say, “Louisiana.”
It’s easier.
It fits in conversation
between takeoff and landing.
But something in her waiting
makes me expand the answer.”
This hit me with such power, Leilya. The beautiful way you describe your country of origin moved me deeply. But the most powerful part was
and then that ending. Wow. Please always continue to share the depth of who you are and where you are from.
Kim,
Thanks for hosting and prompting poems of small connections.
Makes me happy to hear more about your retirement plans:
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 waterfallsSounds lovely.
————————————————————————
The Prickly Pear Doesn’t Ask
The prickly pear doesn’t ask
Where I’m from
It’s not blooming yet
But I’m still leaning in
To take its photo
Tempted to tell it
How my grandmother
Canned chokecherry jam
Sealed it with thick slabs of wax
Mailed it across the country to us
In glass jars in a cardboard box
————————————————————————
You can see some of my photos of prickly pear along with my poem at my blog, Pedaling Poet.
This poem is so quietly beautiful in the way it lets the absence of the question hold so much, and the image of chokecherry jam traveling in glass jars carries such tenderness and care across distance. What stays with me is how we carry these small preserved pieces of where we’re from and how sometimes belonging lives not in explanation but in being allowed to stand, unasked, beside something steady.
Thanks so much, Sarah. What beautiful feedback. Your comment is its own poem.
Oh, Sharon, this is so beautiful. Each word carries meaning. I love you sharing your grandmothers gifts
“Sealed it with thick slabs of wax
Mailed it across the country to us
In glass jars in a cardboard box.”
This is what grandmothers do. Such a heartwarming poem! Thank you.
Sharon,
There is so much love and tenderness within your poem. The composite of your grandmother, memories, and the actual jam hits a sweet spot!
Sharon, I’m heading over to see the jars at Pedaling Poet. Thanks so much for writing today, and I love the way you are talking to the prickly pear while taking its photo. Your grandmother would be so proud that you are preserving memories too in addition to the preserved jam. Thanks for writing!
Oh, my …I haven’t heard chokecherry jam (jelly for us) in so many years. My mom made it. Sometimes it’s kind of nice to know the plants don’t need to know anything about you, but they let you be you.
Prickly pear is always photo worthy–in bloom or not. Love this twist…the prickly pear doesn’t ask. (And love the photos)
Kim, I became enamored by your prompt, today, and have figured out how to do my entry from the phone. I’m ready to sip coffee with you on the back porch, especially as we watch “crystal-splashing waterfalls.”
The Guy at Spectrum Asks If I Have Authorization on Their Cable Account
and I say “no I’m a son of a Butch. Morris Wayne & Sue Crandall are the parental units,”
in which he asks, “Can you show me an i.d.?” but winks at me. “Okay, Bryan…Morris,
I understand your modem is down and you’d like a replacement.” Chitunga laughs.
He’s a grand son of a Butch & spent 2 hours this morning with me hearing my
mother’s distress because she couldn’t check on Marlena & her friends in Salem.
How is a woman to live if she can’t go online to watch her shows…God Damn It!?
My mother can’t use her telephone, either. It’s also down. You tell those assholes
I have a heart condition. “I’m sorry, Bryan, I mean Mr. Crandall… I mean, Morris,
about your mother’s heart but all we can do is trade the equipment. Replace it.
Take in the old stuff. 80-year olds lost in cyber space are not his business.
Distress…naps…connection to the world. We get home and try to re-establish a
lifeline. Or so we thought. Spectrum is down throughout the neighborhood and
has been for 24 hours. It’s why we watched the coach of UCONN women throw
a pre-pubescent temper tantrum on my cellphone instead of cable. Her electric
recliner still works, though. She’s laid back for a nap again. And I cooked Easter
dinner a day early so they’re fed. The carrots weren’t cooked all the way through
and dad decided he hated creamed potatoes after 86 years of eating them.
The deviled eggs, though. He must of ate a carton. The guy at Spectrum
didn’t need to know all this, I learn, and my sister saysI need Dr. Rick from the
Progressive commercials because I’m turning into my parents. I just want to get on t
he Internet for some #VerseLove. We’re all on the Spectrum, I tell this guy and it’s
#VerseLove. The 4th day of April. I need to get online to write today’s poem.
Oh, gosh! I so feel for you throughout all of this, Bryan! Who’s to argue with any of you in the midst of such world-ending moments when each of you has your own challenges. I’m not sure if missing the Salem friends or suddenly disliking creamed potatoes is worse, but I know for sure, I’d be distressed if I missed #VerseLove. So glad you found your way here,
Thank you for the humorous look at where things are at with your family. I liked these details:
And of course you need to “get on t
he Internet for some #VerseLove.”
Also, what the hell, U Conn coach?!? That was terrible!
Bryan,
At its heart, this poem feels like it’s about caregiving in the middle of ordinary chaos, how love shows up not as something neat or noble, but as frustrating, funny, exhausting, deeply human responsibility.
It’s also about connection and disconnection at the same time for my reading of it: the internet is down, the systems meant to keep us connected fail, and yet the speaker is fully immersed in connection, fielding a parent’s distress, feeding family, translating needs, carrying stories into a stranger’s space. The humor (the Spectrum guy, the deviled eggs, the Dr. Rick reference) softens it as you do for your students and colleagues, but underneath is that real tension of aging parents, role reversal, and the weight of being the one who now holds things together.
And maybe most powerfully, it’s about how we share as a form of reaching out, wanting someone, even a cable employee, to recognize the fullness of what we’re carrying. And most of the time, they do. Recognize.
Bryan,
What a day! I applaud you for capturing it all from the play on words — to the metaphors, the imagery, and poetic devices. There is so much emoton, joy, frustration, and playfulness in this entire poem along with a transaction of living and loving.
Bryan, I hear you, friend, and it seems when something is out of order, the other problems show up. Internet today is a lifeline, especially for 80- year-olds. I appreciate your humor. Back home, we used to say, when we have nothing else left to lose, we laugh. Gope it is fixed by now. Hang in there.
Bryan, every single moment of your frustration is felt right straight in the pit of my gut. I’m there with you – – my brother and I have had these exact moments for the past year, and some of the swearingest wordslinging moments happen when dealing with paperwork and utilities, when someone is sick or no longer here and children are trying to step in and take care of the business that must be done. I’m so sorry you are going through this. On a positive note, I’m really glad that you cooked Easter early and your parents are fed, and that you were able to write #VerseLove Day 4 into your Verselove Day 4 poem. And I’m really, really glad that you have someone there to laugh with you through the times when you’d rather scream. Because that makes all the difference! Thanks for writing, and come sit on my porch anytime. I’m sending you a big hug.
BR… boy does this ever ring true! Ha! The voice of irritation and frustration and coming unglued is truly authentic. Made me chuckle at the too-damned-true feel of it. “Lost in cyberspace..” we’ll all be there. Geez. Thanks for reminding us about the tech company yah-hoos. Ha! Good poem and glad you could get online. Susie
Bryan, boy does this capture this experience so, so perfectly. As someone who is also dealing with elder care — the questions, nonsanswers, frustrations, and desperately trying to help a parent maintain a connection with the outside world — I see you.
Kim, thanks for introducing me to J. Sullivan. I enjoyed reading about where you’re from.
The man in the seat beside me asks where I’m going
I answer Little Rock, my grandson is turning one
That’s wonderful he responds
And I come back with it is
How bout you, where are you headed?
My grandchild is graduating from college this weekend in Conway.
My daughter went to school in Conway; that’s how she landed in Little Rock.
Our chatting moved on to the book on my lap when he asked me what I was reading.
Let Us Descend I answered running my fingers across the cover. It’s a hard one.
Stories about slavery can be difficult to read. But I want to follow her story.
And gave him a squeezed grin.
Yea, a hard time to read about and bobbed his head.
I’m looking forward to seeing family this weekend.
Celebrating my grandson’s graduation.
Same here Townes is my first grandson.
We’re pretty lucky having family celebrations.
Jamie,
Good picture of you as a loving grandmother, thoughtful reader, and kind seat mate.
Jamie,
This feels like such a quiet, tender moment of connection between strangers, the way simple questions open into shared stories about family, milestones, and the lives that have brought you each to this point. What stays with me is how easily you move between the weight of history and the light of celebration, and how in that small exchange you show what we carry with us, love, lineage, and the deep gratitude of getting to witness the people we care about grow. Hugs to Laura.
Sarah
Jamie,
I love this story about making a connection and about the parallels that we find with different people that we meet randomly and about not shying away from difficult subjects—especially one about families interrupted and cut off from relations. Great poem.
Jamie, it’s great to have that kind of connection with travelers – about places, about family, about books. Being able to share and pass the time with total strangers seated next to us is a gift. Lots of times, headphones or phones get in the way of good discussion. I’m glad you talked. And I’m glad you wrote today!
Jamie, I am grateful for your poetic story. It is so good when we connect with the strangers we meet. Sometimes, these conversations allow us to unburden without imposing, and in your case, to celebrate families. Love every instance where you find common things. Thank you!
The man sitting alone
in the coffee shop
says hello
as I walk by with my mocha latte,
laptop under my arm.
I smile reply hello.
He follows me to a corner table,
sits without an invitation
asks if I live around here.
Fear rises in my throat.
I tell him I don’t,
a lie I doubt he believes.
He says his car broke down,
needs a ride
just a few miles
to the other side of town.
Inside me a tug-of-war.
My heart wants to help.
My mind says run.
I tell him I don’t drive,
another lie I doubt he believes.
I remember my sister once said,
Hot coffee can be a weapon.
I grasp my cup,
pretend to see a friend
outside the shop,
politely wish him the best
quick-stepping to the door
my heart and my mind
in a tug-of-war.
Yea I would have a tug-of-war also, Linda. But you’re better than me, my aura usually doesn’t get to the conversation stage. Thanks for sharing this “honest” interaction.
Oh, your words made me feel your anxiety. It really is a tug-of-war. I love to help how ever I can, but you can’t be too wary of strangers these days.
These situations
can be so hard.
“Hot coffee can be a weapon” wonderful read. I enjoyed your poem a lot Linda
This poem captures so powerfully that split-second tension between instinct and self-protection, the way kindness and fear can exist at the same time in the body, pulling against each other. What stays with me is how you honor that inner tug-of-war and remind us that what we carry isn’t just empathy, but also the wisdom to keep ourselves safe, even when it’s uncomfortable.
I felt my heart pound reading this.
Ooh! That is so scary! I would have been thinking the same about hot coffee and getting away while I could. You have told this story with power and a few words. I have felt the “tug of war” with wanting to help and feeling a threat.
Linda,
Oof, this captures a truly terrifying moment and a reminder of how vulnerable we truly are sometimes.
Linda, you have my heart and my mind totally wrapped up in this – – I’ve watched too many crime shows to believe that he couldn’t summon an Uber. Or call someone. Likewise, there is a part of me that wants to sympathize. Oh, I’m so glad you clenched your coffee and quick stepped to the door. Thanks for sharing and reminding us that there are times we should clench our coffee.
Omg Kim, what a prompt. So much to look up later. I love the addition of what you don’t tell the Soapmaster.
The anesthesiologist at Wellkin Hospital first asks me why I’m crying while I’m lying on the surgical table about to be cut open.
Not many people have seen me cry. It’s not something I do often.
I tell her I didn’t want this to happen.
And she calmed me down. It’s safest for you and your baby. A standard answer.
I take my glasses off and try to give them to her.
She tells me to keep them on. Don’t you want to see your baby?
I start to feel pins and needles in my lower half and I don’t think it’s right. I tell her I can still feel. And she says a series of other things I don’t fully remember about pain and what I will feel. (I think at this point my gynecologist was already layers in.) She touches my arm and asks if it hurts. It doesn’t. She pinches me and asks if it hurts (because it’s supposed to) and I say it doesn’t. She laughs.
My husband comes into the operating room and sits by me.
Her on my left, him on my right.
And that’s when she asks where I’m from
The states, I say, because I’m in no position to elaborate and it’s never as interesting as my husband’s answer. Trinidad.
Ohh, Trinidad.
How do you know Trinidad? He asks.
I know of most countries. That’s where Rayhahna is from right?
Who?
Rayhahna, the singer.
Oh, Rihanna, she’s from Barbados.
The other one is from Trinidad, I chime in.
Oh, Nicki Minaj. But we disowned her, he says.
Yea, she’s pretty much American right?
This is the conversation we had while our son was being brought into the world.
Our half American, half Trinidadian son who is a quarter Mexican, an eighth German, an eighth Norwegian, a quarter Indian and a quarter African. Born in Mauritius.
Don’t ask me if I did that math right. The point is he is the epitome of diversity and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Then I hear something that sounds like the tiniest baby cry, even though they were still operating on me.
That’s your baby.
The most surreal sound ever. Crying while still in the womb must be a good sign, right?
His cries get louder, he’s placed in my arms,
and the anesthesiologist sees me cry for the second time.
What a scene, what a story, and masterfully written, I love how these conversations unfold within these stanzas, Well done!
Oh, Angie. Thank you for this scene, feels so intimate and surreal at the same time, the way an ordinary question like where you’re from unfolds right in the middle of something so profound and vulnerable, and how humor and humanity slip into even that moment. What stays with me is how you show what we carry into birth itself, fear, identity, love, and history, and how in the end it all gathers in that cry, that meeting, that becoming.
Oh, my, beautiful Angie! I love this so much. Congratulations on that sweet precious baby, “epitome of diversity”. I love that you could hear him cry while still in the womb. He’s a strong one. My daughter had a c-section in December, and she describe the wrenching and jerking, not pain really, but a measure of violation nonetheless.
Beautifully written! Thank you for sharing.
Aw, that last line is just the best! I understand the crying both times…..I’ve been in that same boat. And what a great conversation to have, thinking of roots even as your son is brought safely right into the world, into the midst of conversation. He will be one who asks people where they’re from – he will be one who engages in the fine art of conversation. Congratulations on your baby, and thanks for writing and sharing that sweet story. That last line, though….what a great last line.
Hi. Angie! Congratulations on a baby boy! Thank you for sharing this beautiful story of birth giving. Love everything about your poem. These are my favorite lines:
“Our half American, half Trinidadian son who is a quarter Mexican, an eighth German, an eighth Norwegian, a quarter Indian and a quarter African. Born in Mauritius.”
I had no idea a baby can cry in the womb. It is surreal. 🙂
The Indie Bookstore Owner in CT asks where I’m from…
I prepare my answer-
it always brings confusion.
“NY,” I say
and hurriedly continue without giving a chance of response.
“But not the city, no not the city but upstate
like really upstate-
on the western end of the state actually.”
I am from a Great Lake with endless views and crashing waves just like an ocean.
I am from rolling hills and forests of green filled with solitude.
I am from a slower pace where people greet each other and chat for minutes in the stores just to catch up.
I am from a part of NY that most people never visualize when they hear the name.
I am not from NYC. I am New York State.
Then the owner comments, “I have the book for you!”
She walks over and picks up a book titled Lake Effect by Cynthia D’Aprix Sweeney.
It is about the exact place I live.
I traveled to CT and purchased a book about the part of NY where I reside.
A book that recognizes the truth that the state is more than a city
and people from the other areas
are important too.
I like how you distinguish NY the state not the city.Beautiful description of upstate. And even better that your story led to a book recommendation. What a delightful connection. Favorite line – the state is more than a city.
I really love how this unfolds from that familiar moment of having to explain where you’re from into something much deeper and more grounded in place and identity. The way you move into the sensory and lived reality of your New York—those lakes, rhythms, and conversations—makes it feel expansive, and it lingers with me how much of ourselves we carry beyond the shorthand others expect.
I can honestly say that after being married to my first husband – from a little town outside Buffalo called Colden, NY – that I understand the NYC/New York State difference. And oh, it is as different as the tiny town where I live is from Midtown Atlanta. It’s great you are getting a book about right where you are – – I love that you got it in a different city, too! Thanks so much for writing. Those slower paced areas outside the bustling cities have my heart.
This is a gorgeous response. So many lines to praise and such a great way to share the story. These lines felt like home to me:
“I am from a slower pace where people greet each other and chat for minutes in the stores just to catch up.”
Thank you!
He Doesn’t Ask Who I Am
And I don’t tell him.
He can see that I’m wearing a name tag
which suggests that I might be someone—might even
hold some authority over the grown up who just yelled at him,
Or maybe not.
I had been sitting by myself, in the Commons
composing an email. One of those, where I kept
changing my mind on if it should be “reply” or “reply all.”
I looked up when I heard the voices, one raised.
And that’s when I saw him, and he saw me.
The expression on his face asked, Do you see this guy?
in reference to the grown-up, the one with the raised voice.
I am confident that my facial expression back said,
I do see. He seems really frustrated. Next, my facial expression asked,
Did you play a role in that frustration? and followed up with a,
Don’t get me wrong. I still see your humanity, guilty or not.
I know that he understood
everything I was saying without saying anything.
I know this because he wore a smirk that was humble, and playful,
and friendly, and responsible, all at the same time
(if it’s possible for a smirk to do all of those things),
as he walked to the office with the grown-up,
the one with the raised voice.
Julie, I love how your shared facial expressions do the communicating. Amazing what we can say without words. I am wondering what happened next.
Julie,
There’s something so moving in the quiet exchange here, how much is communicated without a single word and how deeply you honor that moment of seeing and being seen. I keep thinking about the way you hold both accountability and compassion at once, and how what we carry isn’t just judgment or authority, but the ability to recognize someone’s humanity even in a complicated moment.
Sarah
So much is said in this exchange of knowing looks.
I like the small detail of
Perhaps a nuanced struggle between kindness and accountability. Which also plays out in the interaction with the child and the grown up.
Julie, I can see every single minute of this, and the raised voice of frustration and the return look of asking if he’d played a role – – oh, such a picture of the facial expressions and the situation unfolding. A smirk can do all of those things he was trying to do, and I can see that face as well. Ah, springtime is in the air, isn’t it? Thanks for writing.
Julie,
Ugh. My heart hurts for that young man. Yes, who is guilty? The universality of this scenario saddens me, but I know your words are a mirror to those rare times I responded in a way I regretted. Thank you for seeing both individuals in the fullness of their humanity.
Julie, how I love that you included facial language to communicate with a student. From your encounter, it is clear you both saw and “heard” each other. Like Jamie, I am wondering what happened next. I almost wish that you were heading to the office where the adult took that student.
BEING THE NEW KID ON THE BLOCK
Earl asked me if I was from here;
he thought I just moved from the city,
the big city,
the Twin Cities
new to the area
down here in the south burb
of Minneapolis;
he knew I was from somewhere
else…
I’d installed a costly fence,
black wrought iron-looking steel
‘tween our two yards
so my Rayo wouldn’t wander
to the streets.
“No, I’m totally new,
I’m from way south,
about 9 hours south.
His eyes widened
“Oh, St. Louis…
yeah, I hear there’s a lot of trouble
down there…
never been there…
heard about Michael Brown,
all the riots and that looting.
I measured my words
when he summed up
a slain, unarmed black youth
as trouble,
trying not to sum him up
as he dragged on the stub
of his cigarette,
blowing smoke
away from my face
to be polite.
“Well, my family all grew up
in Ferguson,” I shared,
“I can say the news didn’t do
justice to that tragedy.”
I waited for that to sink in.
His dog bounded to the fence,
cautious and territorial
about my Rayo and me,
we were new after all.
Veering from the topic,
I smiled and pet Rayo
at my knee,
“I hope these two get along,”
both black and white
they could be cousins;
we made nice over the fence.
Six months have passed,
the dogs are friends at the fence,
tails wagging;
Buck waves,
always the cigarette
in his raised hand.
Polite smiles, a quick wave,
we are neighbors
and remain
on our own sides of the fence.
by Susie Morice© April 4, 2026
Susie,
I like how you balance having to get along with a neighbor, not wanting to be too quick to judge him, with not letting him get away with a (possibly) racist comment about your community.
I feel like I was right there watching this uncomfortable interaction unfold.
I like the detail of
juxtaposed with seemingly not being worried about his words offending his new neighbor.
Perfect ending, too,
Oh, Susie.I’m really struck by how intentionally you build this poem, the fence working not just as image but as structure, a kind of gate the reader moves through, with each exchange revealing what can be said and what must be held back. The spaces between those moments feel just as important as the words themselves, and what lingers for me is how you show what we carry while navigating those boundaries, history, restraint, care, and the quiet, complicated work of living alongside one another. Whew.
Peace,
Sarah
Susie, I love the fence as the metaphor for the division of party, opinion, position. You were astute to pick up on the hints and maintain neighborly peace. And the dogs of course will continue to wag tails, without a dog in the fight so to speak. You always have a great way of sharing unique perspectives. I just saw a camper called a Rayo that I have never seen before, and I’m wondering about Rayo’s name. Is he an adventurer?? I love it!
Susie,
Well, ain’t it something that you moved next to this guy who probably fits in better down in a snooty part of St. Louis county than in the Minneapolis of my mind.You found Frost’s fence in MN! “we made nice over the fence.” channels that “good fence” East coast ethic. Glad the dogs get along.
Oh, Susie, I absolutely admire how you reveal the differences between you and your neighbor. I appreciate the narrator’s side remarks to emphasize the differences and the whole cigarette bit is vivid. The fence plays not only a physical separation but also a figurative one. I’ve been curious about your move and hope you’re happy with your new locale. Powerful and relatable poem!
Hi Kim,
My friend, your prompt teased me this morning. I was certain I would be able to craft something right away, and found myself drafting over and over. LOL, funny how the muse sometimes decides to play hide and seek. I love that you’re “plotting retirement in these mountains” because it seems the perfect place to relax and live a slower pace. Beautiful.
when no one asks if I’m from the city of angels
I rarely state I am a second generation Angeleno
because maybe people assume
I am from New Orleans
following the path of my paternal grandmother
or I am from a small town in Oklahoma
where my Nana’s little girl years began
maybe they think I took my first steps
in Nigeria, Cameroon, or the Congo
where many generations thrived before me
No one asks me where I’m from
but the next time I have the chance
I’ll tell them to read the stories
written by my DNA
study the life lines left on my palms
or sit with me near the Hollywood sign
where we can both imagine what it’s like
living amongst stars and angels
©Stacey L. Joy, 4/4/26
Images are being weird today and won’t post even with lower resolution. Trying again.
Stacey — I love this poem. I hear the pride of your ancestors and the importance of honoring who we are no matter what the geography might assume. Favorite lines “read the stories/written by my DNA/study the life lines left on my palms.” I’d gladly sit with you “near the Hollywood sign…” In this country, it seems we are all from so many places, so many roots…that people measure it is kinda nuts. Hugs, Susie
Stacey, I love all the details you open with showing all the places you connect with, but your ending is magical! Loved the DNA line, too!
Stacey,
It’s hard not to be seen clearly. Yet, you meet that with such grace.
Stacey,
There’s something so powerful in how you center the absence of the question and let it open into a fuller, more layered sense of origin that stretches across generations and geographies. Who gets asked this question and when and why?
I love how you move from what others might assume into an invitation to read more deeply, and what lingers is the sense that where we’re from isn’t a single place but something carried in the body, in memory, and in the stories we choose to share.
I want to sit under that Hollywood sign with you and hear all the stories.
Sarah
Stacey, I am envisioning all the lines on the palm and how your life and history intersects in so many places, and then there is the STAR – – YOU ARE HERE, which makes me happy that you are with the stars and angels while all at once remembering that you are but one small dot in the lineage of your family. This is beautiful.
Stacey,
This poem pairs so well w/ the one you wrote about flying over Africa. I didn’t get a chance to comment on it, but it’s w/ that magnificent poster your student created. I live:
“to read the stories
written by my DNA”
and think about this so often w/ my beautiful grandchildren born in idaho but from their mama’s Charleston, and their ancestor’s Africa. And friend, that muse always finds your.
Kim, thank you for this great prompt and for introducing me to Joy Sullivan.
Cul-de-Sac Reflections
I am from a cul-de-sac in a small town,
10 miles northwest of Philadelphia, where I grew up.
It is where we watched our children grow and pursue their interests,
where I established my 40-year teaching career in Catholic education.
I am from a cul-de-sac in a small town,
where we were once a young couple with young children.
Now I am the resident living here the longest (but not the oldest!),
with a house empty but for the memories.
I am from a cul-de-sac in a small town,
where neighbors look out for each other, especially when it snows.
It is where a neighbor, whose children have long been adults,
still has a basketball hoop out front for the kids.
I am from a cul-de-sac in a small town,
where we gathered to watch each other’s children go to prom,
get married, and have children.
And now we talk about the grandchildren.
I am from a cul-de-sac in a small town,
where I hope to live out the rest of my days,
knowing this is a circle where
everyone looks out for each other.
Rita, your use of repetition is effective. The circle is clearly tight and I like how you reveal specific details about your life and why you remain. Good neighbors are invaluable!
Rita — I was drawn to your cul-de-sac partly because my most beloved sister lives. not far from you in Lansdale. I was there last fall and loved the area. I lives for many years on a cul-de-sac in St. Louis and I fell sooo much of what you said…”we gathered…look[ing] out for each other.” Precious feeling. Thank you for sharing this slice of you. Susie
Your last line really sums up the whole message of your poem- knowing this a circle where everyone looks out for each other. Your poem also shows the circle of life as a family
Rita, I lived on a cul de sac and always felt like we all shared a connection. The boy next door was a classmate. The one up the street someone I dated. Many nights he changed into jeans when he got to our house. His parents did not approve. There was a certain safety except maybe when riding a skateboard. My favorite line is the last – everyone looks out for each other.
Rita, I love the circular pattern not only of the cut-de-sac but of the generations of time and circle of life. This is a beautiful testament to the protection of family and small town life. Thanks for writing and sharing!
Kim,
Live the prompt, love the collection, love the mentor poem, love your poem. Your poem paints an idyllic, bucolic picture of Pike county. I’m joining Susie in enjoying your place and its Southern charm, but if I know the south as I know I know the south, I also get a Deliverance vibe. LOL! My poem just happened during our Friday/Saturday flight from Seattle to Korea.
Josh from docusign provides in-flight tech support
We’re seat-mates
on a twelve-hour jaunt
from Seattle to Incheon &
he’s determined to pair
my husband’s hearing
aides to his Airfly. I’m
in the beloved
middle
seat & serve as concierge
repeating-interpreting-passing
words-devices-instructions
between generations.
Together
two men—assisted by reels,
Google, & AI—form a successful collaboration. Soon we’re
all connected & lost in our
on-screen time passages.
Glenda Funk
April 4, 2026
Glenda, I appreciate your ability to capture this scene and the tone is fun. I’m sure the beloved middle seat is somewhat sarcastic. Your poem captures the interesting way we do connect both literally and figuratively. Love the closing lines and your Canva page is perfect!
Glenda, I love the way you used the hyphens repeating-interpreting-passing/
words-devices-instructions to show the in-between-ness you felt as Josh helped your husband—through you. I felt like I was watching from across the aisle and smiling at you the entire time.
Glenda — Have a great trip! It’s a loooooong way from Pocatello! Long way from here in MN! Uffdah! I’m picturing you in that middle seat. You are a saint. Keep your poems coming! Love, Susie
Glenda, my goodness. I was stressed out just imagining you in the middle of all that was going on. So happy it worked out. Perfect graphic.
In-flight collaboration-what’s not to love! I enjoyed your description of this moment (or several moments) in time.
Haha, I love the “concierge” description of what you did getting the connections sorted. It was fun reading of a real life introduction between the two generations, and then the “Soon we’re / all connected & lost in our / on-screen time passages.” It is definitely a blessing to have some screen time on those long flights.
Glenda,
First, I am sure you have a chapbook for travel poems in you. I’d love to read it. Wish I had it in my pocket this year.
I love how the form mirrors the experience here, the spacing and movement on the page enacting that middle seat, that in-between role of passing language, devices, and understanding back and forth until connection is made. There’s such a quiet generosity in this moment, and what I am carrying is how you show what we hold while traveling, not just our belongings but our willingness to bridge gaps across age, language, and technology.
Sarah
Glenda, connected and lost…..wow, what a true way of putting it so succinctly. I know you are traveling if not already, soon, and I hope you have a safe flight and stay connected! Love the Canva background today. Airfly. I have to learn about that.
Thanks for writing and I can’t wait to hear about your adventures.
Love this moment, Glenda. This poem…these lines
Ah, the middle seat.
Glenda, love the way you told your story. Your role and your words are vital “as you serve as concierge / repeating-interpreting-passing /
words-devices-instructions /between generations.” Have a wonderful trip and share pictures from Korea!
the students ask me where I’m from
I say “Stillwater, Oklahoma”
They say
…
“Don’t they have tornadoes?
Is it really windy there?
Do you miss it?”
A small smile, a quirk
of my lip, my mind
travels miles away
To red dirt
To Go Pokes
To cheese fries and
To orange fountains
To the place that shaped me
So I could fly
So I could soar
Here.
Ashley, the home and the here – – the home giving wings and nourishing along the way – so beautifully captured here in your poem. Those last three lines give me little shivers of joy.
Ahhh! I love your little poem about how Oklahoma shaped you and some things it’s known for. My question from students is always about brisket (Texas) haha.
Ashley, I love the way your poem gives readers a glimpse of who you are. Your poem reminded me of Georgia Ella Lyon’s “Where I’m From.” Your poem would make a terrific mentor text!
Ashley,
Love the repetition and the list of images and the movement at the end that ends emphatically in stillness.
mired
the waiter in Raleigh asks where we’re from
I say “Washington, D.C.” and
she says
“Oh.”
It’s really a conversation stopper these days.
I understand.
She takes a second look at us
sizing us up and
I smile back warmly,
all the while wondering why
I always feel so responsible for others’
moods feelings reactions
wanting to soothe their uncomfortableness
should I keep chattering?
tell her we’ve lived in D.C. some forty years?
raised three sons?
now doting on two granddaughters?
let her know I’m a retired preschool teacher?
make a case for an ordinary life?
far from politics?
dare I speak up?
tell her we ache for those being harmed
by this administration?
we are eyewitnesses to so much ugly?
we peacefully resist, confront, protest?
cannot be silent?
that I feel guilty being on vacation
when so many are hurting?
then she asks for our drink order
I say “Just water, please,”
and we are back on neutral ground
—
Fabulous prompt, Kim – and my writing took me in a surprising direction (I love when that happens with these poetry prompts)
Maureen,
Your poem paints the landscape so clearly, the mind racing through the lines and the ultimate decision to keep certain words to oneself is so relatable.
Maureen, I can sure understand your feelings of home in the midst of the political landscape – – a place where you have raised a family and continue nurturing your new leaves on the family tree, granddaughters – and still want to explain that your home is not the way most see Washington, D.C. I like the way you took the energy from the waitress’s question and ran with the thoughts in her head and your perceptions. And water – – the life force to neutralize the pH. Thanks for sharing today!
Maureen, your poem shows a vivid scene. I love how you show the tension and your own personal response. Lovely poem showing the way your poem and ends on being back on neutral ground. Powerful poem!
Maureen — I love the way the poem riffs through your inner thoughts, questioning and sizing up just what that flat “oh” meant. I have walked in those shoes. Meeting people in new places, new faces… all that requires so much measuring…I know the feeling. I have been in the “Just water, please” moment myself. Neutral ground sounds so inviting in the midst of “all this mess.” I love that you wrote about this. Susie
Maureen, I don’t live in D.C. but I can sure relate to the feelings described in your poem. I especially love way you ended with “Just water, please.” That line says so much!
Maureen, I appreciate all the honest self-talk you have after your initial “Washington, D.C.” All the questions you ask yourself. Then the powerful “we are back on neutral ground. I’ve been thankful for this quite often over the past few years of this life we’ve got now. Thank you for your poem.
I love a whimsical prompt! Thank you for the reminder that poets are here and doing the hard work of the witness! Here is my first draft.
The student who has me hoping asks where I am from
and I want to layer lie after sweet lie if it means he will let
himself savor his life and this moment,
but he knows me well, and he is as astute as a fledgling professor-
stalking his source material with sneaky, snarky insights. He makes
me think things like: genius.
I would lie to save this kid.
ButI lay it bare and let it lie between us instead.
Here. I did and did not leave. I left not enough and enough.
I went to college. Only 30 miles away. I have never bought a passport,
or watched the sun set in Paris or cliched my life in the million ways my dreams
still believe are possible. I am proud and longing. Where I am- where I am from-
there is a thick sweetness, an exquisite ache, and an honest hope.
kjd
Kasey, there is so much depth to your poem in the rootedness and connections – between place and people, work and play. I am captivated by: I did and did not leave. I left not enough and enough. Oh, how I understand those words so perfectly in the context of belonging in a place and living so intensely there.
I love your play with “lie,” “lay,” and “lie,” Kasey! And these modifiers — “thick sweetness,” “exquisite ache,” and “honest hope” — beautiful (and intriguing)!
Kasey — This is a totally fascinating poem. Your phrasings are worth multiple reads…cool. The tugging in the last five lines is just dandy…”did and did not….enough and enough…ache…hope. Good going! Susie
A Quick Escape
A bar in Nashville
Quiet (would you believe?)
My sister and I
having a burger and a beer
when three men entered
and started to weave.
Loud and a bit boozy
the largest man
too newsy
complained
of his wife
he was chained.
Slept only three hours.
“Where ya all from?”
He loudly asked across the room.
I felt doom.
Funny how quickly a nice time sours.
In answer, I say “San Diego”
and don’t give much detail
try to get out
cover my tail
pick a quick route
but Sis had to add
before I got mad
“Bonsall!”
“Where’s that?”
“Near Fallbrook
north of San Diego.
Do you know it?”
Trouble coming, I knew
His slobber a clue.
But conversation started
before we departed.
Talking to three drunks
because they were hunks.
I yanked on her arm
“Let’s go!”
Thanks Kim for today. Also wishes to all for a Happy Easter with blessings.
Haha! I was invested. Sisters! Am I right? Drunks/hunks had me smiling so did- the slobber a clue. I love the rhyme and fun!
Yes, Kasey. Traveling with my sister-in-law for a week in Tennessee to visit a cousin who just bought a house there.
Man, oh man! I’m glad you escaped those rowdy men. Your rhyme scheme is so pleasing in this narrative that draws the reader in and keeps us watching, like we’ve popped popcorn and are expecting the broken chairs at any minute but then you quickly whisk your sister away and leave these men in their slobber. Go Susan!
Susan, oh I could completely see this scene unfolding and your desire to leave radiates. Great details to set the stage ad to show how different your reaction s compared to your sister’s. Fun poem!
I like the rhyme and the way you made a questionable situation funny. “His slobber a clue.” : )
My poem today, although not fun, has a similar theme of how much should be revealed to a stranger.
Barnardo, from Hamlet, Asks Me Where I’m from
or more accurately, he asked me who I was – “Who’s there?” he said,
opening Hamlet on the stage in New York, some twenty years ago, and,
let me tell you, you don’t know the meaning of awkward intimacy until you’re
straddling over theater chairs occupied by strangers. I went over three rows.
It was a whole thing. I stumbled onto the apron of the stage, my foot having
been caught up on a theater goers pashmina scarf, into the waiting arms of
Barnardo or maybe it was Francisco at this point, having said the next line,
“Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself,” and there I was, unfolding
myself, mostly because I tripped from that lovely scarf, but also because
here I was being asked twice about who I was, about who I purported myself
to be. I remember saying, hi. I remember saying, thank you for seeing me,
thank you for acknowledging my existence, for letting us share this moment
of theater, this moment of fellowship, embracing the fact that we are all just
merely players strutting and fretting our lives here on this stage called life,
or maybe I didn’t say all of that, I do remember, security being called, and
I remember holding my hand up, my mitten, and pointing at my lower palm
to show them exactly where I was from, and, I remember, this I do clearly
remember, I remember asking if they would validate my parking. And they said, no.
_____________________________________________
Thank you, Kim, for this fun prompt and for your mentor poem. I love the crafting of all the colors you’ve used in your descriptions from “the sunsets [that] rival Titian red / when [you] look over Alabama-way” to the “Purple Haze / [in your] arm basket” to “sipping black coffee on [your] porch / in the shadows of Blue Ridge.” Gorgeous!
What a tale full of sound and fury! I love this cute poem. Your work always has such a clear and satifying tone, to which I find extremely beautiful. Thank you for your humanity.
Scott, I’m laughing so hard, and I apologize/kind of for chuckling at your misfortune’s fall – – or perhaps it was timed just perfectly for you to pop up and recite Shakespeare in All the World’s a Stage…..I’m glad Bernardo and Francisco and the woman with the scarf were there to catch you….well, trip you and catch you. Love the tongue-in-cheek humor of the non-validated parking and the lead-in of who we are and where we’re from straight outta Shakespeare.
Holy moly, Scott — SERIOUSLY, did this happen?! This is a riot. And all in the lap of Shakespeare….and you have recalled it all here as if to say when it happened, you knew you would someday write a narrative poem about the moment! So skilled you are! So hilarious. When you held up the “mitten,” I laughed even louder. You could be a winning television show. Hugs, Susie
Kim, thank you for this fun prompt. Your commitment to living poets is making me think a lot last month and now this month. Thanks for introducing us to Joy Sullivan. I can hear your accent in your poem, and there are so many special details “my arm basket” and your “plotting retirement” ending. Today, I couldn’t not write this, as it happens whenever we’re out of town.
The _____ at the _____ asks us where we’re from
And Keith, the campaigner
and connector, inevitably answers,
“Joshua Tree” and makes
an immediate connection:
Oh, I love Joshua Tree! or
I’ve never been there,
but I want to go.
And I, the analyzer,
the strategist
honest-to-a-fault,
am thinking to myself,
Actually we’re from Yucca Valley. It’s close to Joshua Tree, in fact our house is on the west side of the road. Joshua Tree starts on the east side of the road. Our mailing address is in Yucca Valley, but the town of J.T. is very close. We’re not far from, blah, blah, blah.
After a while, Keith
and the waiter, or Keith
and the hotel clerk, or Keith
and the dishwasher on his break
have all but exchanged numbers,
and I’m reminded again
that there is more to honesty,
poetry, storytelling, and life
than every minute detail.
Denise, I adore your view of the prompt that take us to the central and powerful message about the connections we all share. Perhaps we are all Keiths, or Lindas, or Denises!
This is so relatable!! I love how Keith’s and your personality are revealed in your poem.
Oh, Denise – this is gorgeous! Love, love, love how I feel as if I know Keith by your one line, that he and whomever he has met “have all but exchanged numbers” – this is the way my husband is, too.
Denise, what a combo the pair of you are! I love that we see your personalities immediately in these introductions and connections. I know many a married pair who respond just so to the waiter, the dishwasher, the hotel clerk, the uber driver… And yes, honesty, poetry, storytelling, and life hold the multitudes of minute detail and the broad encompassing hellos.
Denise, your honest to a fault approach here in the poem really brings a humorous twist on the conversation, Keith over there doing his thing and talking to everybody swapping numbers and making friends and you analyzing and trying to explain the east/west side of the National Park. Fabulous, and when I look at the cover of Joy Sullivan’s book, I think of the desert and Joshua Tree and…..well, now I’ll include Yucca Valley and Denise analyzing and Keith chatting about it all. Ha! Fabulous!
Love the way you spin this poem, Denise. Your closing lines are particularly provocative and moving. Lovely poem showing the difference between you and your husband.
Ahhh Denise. I am you and my husband is yours! Love the similarities I see!!
Denise,
All those minute details you’re analytical mind file through are man-made constructs. You are from Joshua Tree, my friend, just as all New Yorkers are from NY first and then their borough. It’s time to tap into your inner Keith. Love the form here: belongs in the title, italics, your inner thoughts, but especially that ending: “there’s more to…”
lol! This sounds like something I would say. And then my daughter would say, why do you have to talk to everybody. I love how it doesn’t really matter who the exchange is with, the interaction is the same.
Love those last 4 lines…and the different ways you and Keith navigate the world.
Denise, love your poem from the first line to the final. Looks like we have a lot in common. The first thing my husband would say is: “I am from my mama,” and then he would tell his story and possibly even exchange phone numbers. I am learning with you:
“that there is more to honesty,
poetry, storytelling, and life
than every minute detail.”
Thank you for this, my friend!
Kim, thanks for the prompt and great lead to search for new living poets. Joy Sullivan and your poems are both great. I found at least 2 new living poets to follow!
The fellow Doordasher at Panda Express breaks the silence
with “What a day, huh?”
which could mean many things.
he takes my reply , “yep”
as an invitation to sit.
which is fine.
I assume he is referring to our shared half-anxious waiting.
time is money, after all.
but maybe it was an attempt to speak of the weather?
or whether his and my shared experiences can be related, cross referenced, venn diagramed?
things you say when you feel silence isn’t the answer but you have no idea what words you should be speaking
(spoiler alert, uncomfortable silence is still an okay option many times)
My order is now ready.
I set off
leaving the wayward book choy on the tile floor, the orange chicken aromas, the frenetic aproned and baseball hatted food service workers, and my new friend behind.
Luke, yes and yes. I’ve been there, at Yama and China King, where perhaps we could share cross referenced experiences as you note, or can create Venn diagrams of our interesting lives, but instead do the nod of deep understanding of the intersecting moment of life.
We’ve all been there, on both ends of this conversation. I enjoyed the specific details in your poem.
I’m captivated by how kind your “yep” must have sounded, that
So fun to feel such an instantaneous good bond with a stranger.
Oh yes, that awkward silence – – from Where ya from? to What a day, huh? all of those with door dashers or anyone waiting anywhere – – it’s one of those times that I pull out my phone, even if it’s to check the weather. I like the way you used the Venn diagram and the cross referencing to think of common threads in your lives. Maybe you’ll keep seeing your fellow DoorDash new friend and the silence will be less awkward next time! Thanks for writing today, and I’m glad you found some living poets.
Love the play here, Luke.
Luke,
I loved “his and my shared experiences can be related, cross referenced, venn diagramed?” I can imagine you’ve had other Doordasher encounters with people who know “time is money, after all.” Your conversational style makes this poem really delightful to read.
Kim, thank you for your amazing prompt and poem that have consumed my mind all morning even thought I have a million things to do.
Here’s the imaginary, wanna-be-real-setting. I found myself moved to business class last minute where I was assigned next to a younger woman, eyes already closed. Her hoodie was pulled low and her earbuds seemed to be closing out the world. I did not want to stare, but she sure looked like my heroine. I read and reread that same page again and again as she slept and I wondered what I’d say if she woke up. I was staring at the clouds as we passed over Kansas when she stretched…..and we shared destinations…. before she asked, “Where are you from?”
I lived in McKeesport just long enough to get certificate of birth
Not long enough to appreciate the pollution of steel mills before
In my mother’s arms, we pulled our trailer to Terre Haute, Indiana
Then Ohio, which did not generate any family worthy stories before heading
To Spring Valley, NY where Hasidic families lived as they believed
Risking lives, walking in the dark on the Sabbath before,
Heading to Meridian, Mississippi and then to Selma, Alabama where
First hand inequities of our society became more real in segregated schools,
Stores, even churches shocked even my dad who I thought was worldly before
Heading to HS in upstate NYS where everyone skied and I bridged to college at
SUNY Albany as Vietnam War protests raged on the quad, before embarking
On my college journey to Syracuse, NY and then the University of Maryland
As Watergate exploded, before
Stops in Murrysville, PA and Troy, NY as early married life unfolded before
Landing in Stormville, NY, on top of a mountain that really is that stormy where
I raised my children and found out how strong I really was before
Settling in a two-train town in Northern, NJ not too far from my precious grands
30 minutes from Fordham University, The Met and Broadway.
“That story should be a poem!” she said and I’ll always believed I talked too much but gave her fodder for a real poem about me!
When you said in your intro “she stretched”, I think she inspired the shape of this poem — I got swept up in the expansive line lengths, each of which has its own charms of imagery & diction “raged on the quad” “risking their lives, walking in the dark”, each of which is a small part of an unspooled stanza. Loved the long journey that resolves with that lovely “two-train town”. Would love a sound file of this! I feel like I can hear it : )
You’ve offered so much insight into your own fabulous writing practice with this poem – how you reflect on what you’ve seen and experienced, “First hand inequities of our society became more real in segregated schools,” and muse and imagine about others, “Here’s the imaginary, wanna-be-real-setting.” – and ““That story should be a poem!” she said” – Marvelous and clever writing!
Anita, you have lived in places that have given you a great taste of several landscapes across the Eastern part of the US, and what a great variety of places to have experienced and known. Even more wonderful is that now you are close to grandchildren and can duck away and see the shows and galleries when you want. I’m glad your seat neighbor suggested this could be a poem – – and what a wonderful one it is!
Anita — Whoa… that’s a lotta gitty-up-n-go…just the list of places is dizzying and remarkable. I’m taken by the smooth way to laced these moves all together, almost as if on a trek and taking big, gliding steps one to the next. My favorite image is the “two-train town” in Jersey just a few more steps from Broadway. I love how it’s staged with the hoodie girl and her earbuds. Made me smile. Cool! Susie
OH, my goodness! That was a poetic introduction. Love all the details and so many places in a variety of regions. I like the enjambment and the capitalized words at the beginning of each sentence. Wonderful intro and conclusion. too.
Yes…the story is a poem and I loved the poetics you shared with us, especially the movement of locations (as I’m in Syracuse now/at the University yesterday). Still have to visit Fordham one day. Time. Location. History. That makes the writing delicious.
The hotel clerk asks me where I’m from
and I hesitate to answer truthfully
(though the minivan I just climbed out of may give me away)
because though I technically am a “mormon wife”
I have never thrown a barstool at my husband (or child).
The way a dandelion glares in a grassy field
draws the eye away from the
soft, green sea
I swear, I am not a weed
scattering seeds in the breeze –
I will cushion your feet
while you walk
you can even walk barefoot
if you’d like.
Rachel, it’s interesting to see the hesitation many have expressed in stating where they’re from, as if the worst famous act of that location defines all of us. The way you shift between that and the glaring dandelion amongst the cushioning grass is beautiful, so intentional, so symbolic.
Rachel, the way you hesitate to identify yourself with a television or stereotype version label that grows out of prejudice and a desire, perhaps, for a type of one size fits all mentality that I struggle to accept or support in any way. Yet, after your intro, you pass s into the strength you have to notice, protect and to be who you are. This is powerful. I applaud your strength.
I laughed aloud at “I have never thrown a barstool at my husband” and I am transfixed by how softly your poem continues…such an amazing juxtaposition with that barstool line. There is so much beauty in
Rachel, I’m so glad the barstool hasn’t flown – – and the peace of dandelions in the field and the cushioning of the feet are wonderful images to see and sense. Thanks for writing today!
I adore this prompt and your poem. I can’t wait to share, later!
Thank you, Kim, for making me think of the two-way street of interactions!
Gemini asks “Where should we start?”
First, where is this where? I’ve come to beware
a short cut unsticking me from a rut
that my mind could traverse. And what’s worse:
Who is this we? I suppose I can see
it’s meeting me halfway, which is to say
I’m meeting it, a troubling new habit.
Where I’l start, then, is with paper and pen.
(Let’s not pretend I won’t see you again.)
Joel, I am reading today while past boils, perhaps at first distracted, (Italian mother thing) so I read two, three times and now I am with you on that different road that you didn’t tell me about but showed me. The one with the rut with “Gemini” who is ever annoying and yet fine company when you travel alone, as I do. I think I’ve “got you” but perhaps as the gifted writer you are, you have led me to where I am taking your poem! Lovely
Joel, I’m following the AI invitation and also applauding the resistance. All the questions of the universe, pulling us into the place where our minds traverse. And get stuck. And get tempted to let it write for us when really the human brain as an art form is so much better – – just the purity of the paper and pen. I think I’m following that, and I’m a fan of the plain paper and pen myself. Thanks for the fun!
Joes — How interesting to interact with AI’s Gemini… ha! Yes, I’m sticking with the paper and pen…well, the keyboard and my own brain. But that is to say, I could use a dose of Gemini assistance. LOL!. I resist. For now. 🙂 Susie
Joel,
How playfully and thoughtfully you turn that simple question inside out, lingering in the language until “where” and “we” become something much more unsettled and alive.
The movement back to paper and pen feels both grounding and gently (or not so gently) resistant, and what stays with me is how you hold that tension between human thought and machine presence, reminding us of what we carry in our own minds even as we meet something new.
Human.
Sarah
Well, Kim! You’ve done it again. Given us inspiration to try something new. I used ChatGPT to illustrate my poem this time. It reminds me of our prompt yesterday showing how words paint pictures. What a kick!
Fashions, Not Factions
When at conventions and folks ask,
“Anna, where you from?”
I usually say, “When?”
You see, I’ve moved a lot
That’s why I’ve got
So much to say when they ask me that.
I’m from Motown, Missouri, and Massachusetts
California and New York and way far back from Africa!
But mainly, I’m from family!
Three siblings and grandparents, you see
No matter where I lived, they were there for me.
But all along the way, the church I attended
Help shore me up.
The students I’ve taught helped fill my cup.
I learned to listen and to learn
More about my faith and my passions.
So, really, when folks ask where I’m from
I cannot answer in a single word
“Cause I’ve flown around, like a curious bird.
Trying to keep up with fashions, not factions.
“mainly, I’m from family” — I felt that part in my bones. And the shift into spaces we choose (churches, schools) will make a reader reflect on the blessings of place, not just of origin, the gifts of work & faith, not just family. How fortunate you are to be from & to grow from where you’re from!
PS I’ve probably been one of those that asked you that at conventions : )
Anna, I am loving the AI art of all the places you’re from. And mainly family. That’s the greatest part – – we can be from somewhere, everywhere, anywhere, but it’s who we are in the great family of humankind that matters most. Thank you for sharing it!
Kim, I love that even when answering a question with a word like where you reply with Who you are. I see you. And your fashion is impeccable.
Anna,
I love how the rhythm carries a sense of movement and accumulation. Yes. I don’t think people understand how this is a questiom of story rather than multiple choice.
What lingers for me is how you center belonging in relationships and growth rather than geography, showing how much we carry from the communities that shape us along the way.
Sarah
Your poem reminds me of how I answer when I’ve been asked. I usually say, “Depends” because after my family moved to this country, I felt that we moved every couple of years. There were many lonely days when I was the new kid in school. However, still my siblings kept me from being lonesome.
Thank you, Kim! This one brought back memories.
Two Zs
At the University of Kentucky, in 1988,
I enrolled in the Work Study Program
to help pay my tuition.
I helped staff the desk
in the Journalism Reading Room,
surrounded by newspapers from around the state,
the country,
the world.
“Where are you from?”
a co-worker asked.
I secretly loved his black-framed glasses
and marveled at the way he sat at the check-out desk,
writing love poems
on scraps of paper,
while I dutifully re-shelved resource materials.
“Hazard,” I told him,
(two hours away, Eastern Kentucky, my mountain home)
“Where the Dukes are from?” he asked.
“No, that’s two Zs,” I mumbled.
That old show was set in Hazzard County…
filmed in Georgia,
I thought, dismayed.
He looked down, writing again,
romantic words for some other girl.
“But the Dukes come to my town every year,” I said
with enthusiasm I did not feel.
It was weird but true.
“They come for the Black Gold Festival Parade:
Daisy, Boss Hogg, Luke and Bo, Cletus…
even Sherriff Rosco P. Coltrane.
They ride the General Lee right down Main Street!”
I was practically shouting.
He did not look up,
having lost interest
when I said two Zs.
Lori, your poem perfectly captures this memory. I adore the way you show the reader the narrator’s attraction and attempts to keep his attention when it’s clearly elsewhere. Your final two lines deliver a wonderful punch.
‘No, that’s two Zs,’ I mumbled” is such a quietly powerful line, it holds so much about place, pride, and being misunderstood. I love how the poem moves through that moment of trying to be seen, the details building and then falling into that final recognition of disconnection.
I have a similar connection from the movie “Forever Strong” based at Highland High School – I grew up in Highland, but not that Highland & often got reactions like the one you describe. I love the way that poetry lets us time travel to these little long ago moments!!
I could see that shy college girl and the brash college guy… but I made another connection to the poem- I am from Ashland, at least I was born there- it’s not what I answer when asked where I’m from since we moved before I was old enough to make memories. My dad was from Mousie, Ky.
This poem shows how people have expectations based on earlier associations and most often can’t update or budge their perspective. So sad that by taking away a Z can limit a possible friendship.
Lori, I see a Z can make all the difference. Hazard and Hazzard – – and I was drawn in to your poem with its walk back to 1988 and the memory that is pressed indelibly into your lived experience. Funny how time does not erase reactions and sharp details, right down to the glasses but there are days we can’t remember what we had for lunch the day before. I’m so glad you shared this!
Lori, your poem evokes fond memories for me when I, too, helped pay college tuition in the Work Study Program at Wayne State University in Detroit, Michigan. And, you’re right, they often put us in the front office to help filter visitors. I don’t recall letters as “funny” and important an issue. Mine was with shorthand! I was hired because I knew it, but they found I couldn’t do it very well. I’d depended on my memory not my scribbling!
Hello, fellow Kentuckian! I really like your last line, those two Zs reminding me of someone has fallen into a snooze.
Lori,
Ooh, this there-way dialogue:him, you to him, you with yourself-/is so insightful about assumptions we make about place and the people who live there. I always worry about how they will respond to Idaho when I say where I’m from. Love the spelling reference and the geography lesson that shows how place changes perceptions.
The Hazards of writing a Kentucky poem is that there aren’t any! Love that you wrote this mildly flirtatious poem with a romantic reader of the news from moments in a library as an undergraduate.
I need to get back to the bluegrass soon.
Kim, thank you for your lovely poem and inspiring prompt. I love the channeling at the end of your poem and the Pike County reference. Simply gorgeous!
Imagining the not so Distant Future along the Riverfront
I perch on a barstool,
wait patiently.
“What’ll it be?”
the young man finally asks,
as he swipes a white bar towel
across the glossy wooden countertop.
“Yukon Jack and a bottle of Budlight, please.”
(cuz I’m Iowa nice)
“Whiskey on beer is mighty risky, ya know.”
I smile and say,
“I’m ready to let it all go.”
“You’re in good hands here.”
His dark brown eyes
remind me of someone I used to love.
I stare out the window behind the bar,
watch hawks wheel across a sapphire sky,
a tow with a heavy load drift by.
A flat screen tv in the corner
cheers as a rocket launches,
another bomb drops.
“Ready for another?” he asks,
eyeing my empty shot glass.
“You betcha.”
(cuz it’s early and the long lonely night
has sharp teeth)
Barb Edler
4 April 2026
Your words transported me to this bar on the night you’re describing! Each line takes the reader deeper into the scene.
“‘I’m ready to let it all go’” just stays with me, there’s something so honest and a little raw in that moment. I love how you move between the easy bar talk and those bigger, almost distant images outside and on the screen, it really holds that feeling of being alone in a crowded world. I just love being here with you, Barb.
Barb! This is visceral, with such a strong sense of place. I can feel your need to take the risk and let it go and his caring and thoughtful response sitting alongside the rocket launching while another bomb drops (so, so good). I’m struck by the cheering of the TV – as if it’s celebrating the news it continues to deliver as entertainment, despite loss of life and humanity. We just argued whether the children or the machines are in control in our class debate of The Veldt. This is another example of how machines control.
This is terrific! It is poetic with the hawk wheeling, the sapphire sky, the loneliness, the memories of past love and the sadness felt in this out of whack world. Really enjoyed this.
Barb,
The title had an ominous tone, a foreshadowing. What feels like an unwinding now feels like an ending, and I’m reading those bombs as literal and metaphorical. I want to know who is this “someone I used to love.” So much ambiguity has me thinking, and I love the dialogue.
Barb, being in good hands is a good place to be in the bar. These bombs and rockets have me thinking about how they can be literal or figurative with life being what it is so much of the time. I like the narrative poem with dialogue and inner thoughts. I’m so glad you are Iowa nice – and I love learning more about the cultures and drinks of places and the way we avoid the sharp teeth of the night. So glad you are here writing!
Damn Barb — This is red hot. I LOVE this poem. The voice is so real…the tone… the need to dull the “sharp teeth” … we live in times of very sharp teeth…the balloon has popped. LOved “eyes… /of someone I used to love…” uhhuh, yup. Hugs and love, Susie
Barb, your narrative poetry skills are off the chart! “the long lonely night / has sharp teeth” Wow!
Barb, thank you for this amazing poem. It is loaded with lines where I sense unspoken:
“I’m ready to let it all go.”
“His dark brown eyes
remind me of someone I used to love”
“(cuz it’s early and the long lonely night
has sharp teeth)”
And then this harsh reality:
“A flat screen tv in the corner
cheers as a rocket launches,
another bomb drops.”
Truly, a glorious poem, Barb! Thank you.
Today I didn’t use the prompt because I felt the need to purge the feelings in my soul. Does poetry (or any writing) do that for all writers? I feel compelled to get it all out.
Heavy…
Heavy
like a box that has weights in it,
or bags of chicken scratch and feed,
I carry this feeling with me.
It’s been here all week.
I will call it grief.
Grief for a new friend,
I feel guilty that it hurts,
because I didn’t know her well.
Grief,
and relief,
for a family that I only know
in a small town way.
Guilt that I’m grateful
that it’s not me
facing their walk,
their pain
their shame.
Stigma…
I wish it weren’t a word.
But especially in small town,
rural Kansas,
it’s definitely a word.
There is no shame,
but I feel it just the same,
when I face the crisis
of supporting a child
that society doesn’t understand.
or embrace.
Heavy.
My heart is heavy
like a cold steel beam
facing the loss.
As if it weren’t enough…
I remember
a man on a cross
dying slowly,
painfully,
because I am a selfish sinner.
Heavy.
The weight of the gift
is heavy.
My heart,
dragging these feelings
is heavy.
I will lay it down today
so tomorrow I can remember
the joy
of my salvation.
Knowing that
these things, feelings, baggage,
are still
heavy.
-Carrie Horn
Carrie, I agree that writing one’s grief out helps. Your poem is rife with so much subtext especially when we know others are carrying a heavy loss in a small town where most everyone knows our business. I appreciate how your poem shifts to salvation and letting the weight go. I feel the weight throughout your entire poem. Powerful!
Carrie — I feel the grief and pain in your words “box that has weights in it”, “cold steel beam”,” a cross/dying slowly,painfully”, “baggage”. I do think poetry can serve as catharis for grieving souls. I hope you find solace in writing and purging your pain.
Carrie, this poem really touched me. I’m glad you went with what was in your poet’s heart today.
Always, always write what needs to be and is ready to be written.
“Heavy like a box that has weights in it” feels so grounded and real, like you’ve given shape to something hard to carry. I love how the poem keeps returning to “Heavy,” each time deepening it with grief, guilt, faith, and love, the structure holding all those layers without trying to resolve them too quickly. I’m really glad you shared this.
Yes, poetry is healing. It is interesting how these stories from people we barely know can affect us so much – but I have been there, too, reading sadnesses from old acquaintances on social media & weeping for them. I appreciated your reference to Christ & laying down your burden with him. Hugs ❤️
Carrie, I am a fan of rejecting the prompt and always, always listening to the inner voice of getting the poem that needs to be written written. And you have done that in such a raw and compelling way – – the grief of loss can be so overwhelming it’s crippling, debilitating, and to write and share is to allow others to carry some of the weight. I’m so glad you are here in this space, writing and sharing.
Carrie, please accept my condolences as you carry the weight of grief. Our pastor’s sermon last week was the “Weight of Waiting,” and while he did not address grief during the wait, I can feel it in your poem. Caring for others who don’t even know us is often a weight few understand, unless they accept Christ’s teaching to love everyone as He does. Bless you for being so caring, knowing you’re not bearing the weight alone!.
When my teacher Gladys asks me where I’m from
in our classroom in Cusco
I say Estados Unidos and wait
for a reaction that doesn’t come and when
she asks which state I hesitate because I
don’t want to say Oklahoma though it has been true
for six years so I say that’s where I work,
not where I’m from, and offer Chicago instead,
a city people might know, and someone asks
¿es peligroso? and when I ask why
he says H-block and I don’t know it,
only that he’s chosen a place that doesn’t fully
belong to me, so I shift and say I am from
the Chicago where my grandfather arrived
in 1920, Little Italy, and twenty miles west,
a house of eleven children, and I say pizza
and the French student lights up and Gladys
smiles, shaping thick with her hand, and I say yes,
this is true, this is something we can share,
a small language passed between us, a
way of saying I will meet you here, though
even as I say it I feel it loosen, because
their Chicago doesn’t quite hold me and Oklahoma
doesn’t either; I am not cowgirl nor football fan but
something closer to the stories I choose,
the ones that move depending on who is listening, and
when I answer I hear myself
making a place to stand, something
I can hand across the room, something
like: here, we are not so different, here,
let me shift, make space,
though what I mean is
I might be from something less fixed, from
words and metaphors, from the sanctuary
and sometimes the prison of my own mind.
But Gladys has moved onto Sweden
and I try to listen for his something less fixed.
Sarah, Bravo! The being from somewhere sometimes doesn’t have just the right bucket if we are bucketing our froms or framing them in ways others quite understand with all our unique histories. Your sabbatical and seeing all the places really appeals to me, and I often wonder if those who have lived in one place all their lives are a bit firmly rooted to make the explorations. I would go; for my husband, it would be like trying to pluck an oak tree from the ground thinking it would be like a dandelion. I love the way you used the image from Sullivan’s poem in your own way: here, we are not so different, here,
let me shift, make space, – – I am in awe!
“I might be from something less fixed, from
words and metaphors, from the sanctuary
and sometimes the prison of my own mind.” – I read these lines again and again. I know that feeling. Thank you for sharing this poem.
Sarah,
I love how your poem/story conveys the connections we can forge across continents and cultures through our stories “something closer to the stories I choose,/the ones that move depending on who is listening” — so powerful and true!
Sarah, your poem today completely pulled me into the scene. I can understand your ambivalence about living in Oklahoma and wanting to connect a place that is home. I loved the image of Gladys’s hands shaping a pizza. Your poem today shares a universal way we connect with strangers and look for common experiences. Loved “ here, we are not so different, here,
let me shift, make space,”
Provocative and beautiful poem!
Oh, Sarah! This is just beautiful in its movement – throughout the room, from fixed to transient and fluid, from peligroso to sanctuary. Just after high school, a friend and I went to Europe for a month. I remember being on the train sitting across from an Italian speaking man who attempted to find the hand across the aisle by offering recognizable American words. We landed on Arnold Schwarzenegger first (of all things). I was embarrassed I had little well-known Italian pop culture to “discuss” back.
Sarah — I followed right along with you on this. We place so much on the place…when it is so much more complex than that. Something “less fixed”… indeed. I can point to places on a map, but they do not speak to what I am inside. They are a piece of it in other ways… but I, too, look for the experiences and interactions and metaphors that fit me at a given moment. I am right this minute not the same person I will be in ten minutes… nor is anyone I would think. I so enjoy reading about your experiences through your sabbatical trekking. Hugs, Susie
Sarah,
This! All of this “something less dust” and the “from words and metaphors,” but even that depends on interpretation. I love the way “their Chicago doesn’t quite hold me and Oklahoma
doesn’t either” is the story of my adult life. I love that you set the scene in a classroom and the role reversal we witness through your words. How often to we as teachers move on before a student is ready complicates meaning here.
Kim — Thank you for your prompt and introducing us to Teach Living Poets. I love your poem and can understand the big city reference. I always do the same reference because my town is so small.
The desk clerk at the Marriott in Lexington asks us where were from …
I say Cleveland
even though my sleepy town of Rocky River
is nine miles west.
A tiny lakeside town
with a three-mile span,
traversed easily on foot or bike,
where traffic lights blink after ten o’clock,
where postage-stamp lawns are manicured,
and sidewalks are walked by youngsters, retirees,
and everyone in between.
Day or night,
lean in and see.
It’s a tiny town where I can hear
a baby babbling next door
if I lean in.
Where the high school band music ripples on the wind
on Friday nights—
if I lean in, I hear
our Pirate fight song.
Backyard barbeque smoke and burnt s’mores
drift through the air.
Local bands play in the parks on lazy Sundays,
sound spilling onto our decks.
I can walk to the library,
the market, the lake, the café.
But I say Cleveland—
because we own that too.
Nine miles to arts and culture,
to the food and the lights
of a vibrant big city.
So when I say Cleveland, I mean all of it—
and I lean in.
Tammi, what I think I love most is that no matter which small-town-miles-from-bigger-town we are from, we are invited to lean in: Day or night,
lean in and see.
And when we do, you show us that while we may live in different parts of the world or country, we can lean in or lean over and see our own places. We actually have a Pirate fight song, because we too are the Pirates here. Libraries, babies, backyard bbqs and s’mores. Your poem invites this leaning in (I love that line) and seeing ourselves in the mirrors of others. You weave the magic of poetry in its ability to loop us all together, miles apart, but in the same heartspace.
I really enjoyed this poem – all the details! From my back porch, I, too, can hear the high school band practicing.
Tammi, wow, what a gorgeous poem. I love all the specifics of the small town, the repetition of “Ilean in” and the reason Cleveland is also a place you won. I could visualize everything and your title is perfect. Lovely!
I thoroughly enjoyed reading about your small town. I get it too. I currently live just outside of a very small town and often need to reference the towns nearby to give people an idea of where we are. Your town sounds very cozy. The kind of place where I’d like “lean in.”
My Living Poet is Clint Smith. My mentor text is “Something You Should Know.”
CLINT SMITH
SOMETHING YOU SHOULD KNOW
is that as a kid, I once worked at a pet store.
I cleaned the cages
of small animals like turtles, hamsters,
rabbits, and hermit crabs.
I watched the hermit crab continue
to grow, molt, shed its skin and scurry across
the bottom of the aquarium to find a new shell.
Which left me afraid for the small creature,
to run around all exposed that way, to have
to live its entire life requiring something else
to feel safe. Perhaps that is when I became afraid
of needing anything beyond myself. Perhaps
that is why, even now, I can want so desperately
to show you all of my skin, but am more afraid
of meeting you, exposed, in open water.
————————————————————
Something you should know is that after high school, I joined the Army.
I marched left, right, left, quick time, half time, double time, and counter column.
I stood at attention, at parade rest, and finally at ease.
Which prepared me to hurry up and wait, to stay ready so I would never have to get ready, to seek out the sharp edges, the shine and polish, the clean perfection of straight smooth lines.
Perhaps that is when my anxiety took root and grew in the pit of my stomach.
Perhaps that is why, even today, I can want to relax and be easy, but instead, I find the fault, the imperfection, the blemish, and invite it in to feast on me.
~Tracei Willis
Tracei, WOW! I love Clint Smith so much and am glad you chose his poem as your mentor text. You skillfully show how particular moments have such a lasting effect on us. Memories become metaphors for life as it unfolds in the living. I remember an episode of the morning show when Michael Strahan said, “If you stay ready, you don’t have to get ready.” and another of his zingers, “Little boys break toilets, little girls break hearts.” Your line brought that back to me: to stay ready so I would never have to get ready. Wow! Such depth throughout, and I’m so glad you shared this. And chose Clint as inspiration.
Tracei —your details “I watched the hermit crab continue/to grow, molt, shed its skin and scurry across/the bottom of the aquarium to find a new shell” are so vivid and they convey the vulnerability of the hermit crab perfectly. Your chose of the hermit crab as a metaphor for your feelings is powerful and relatable.
What a great mentor text! I love how it shifts the reader so effortlessly, at just the right time, from narrative to meditative mode (and here to show your own pursuit of “clean perfection”, of sharpness & readiness). More importantly, I love how you follow the mentor text into a deep but relatable resolution — the “perhaps” is such a gentle & loving look at oneself, the perfect nudge into knowing who you are, vulnerabilities & all. Thank you!
Hi Tracei,
I am a big fan of Clint Smith and I don’t recall reading that poem. It speaks volumes about how easily a child can witness something in nature that shapes their own understanding of themselves. Wow.
Your poem is honest and powerful. I love that you’ve given us the small details that make such a huge impact on your existence. Thank you for your vulnerability.
Love this line, Tracei, and am recalling the hermit crab I once owned that didn’t make to a better shell.
A line like this can only come from one paying attention to the details of their world.
I Don’t Get Out Much Anymore
I used to dislike small talk
but it’s been a while since anyone’s asked me where I’m from.
I miss those casual and fleeting interactions.
Moments of connection.
I don’t get out much anymore
my food and sundries ship to my door.
Even when I do get out for the odd bit of shopping
people don’t stop to talk. They keep on moving.
No more chatting with the young mother
smiling reassuringly and in solidarity as her kid
tantrums on the floor.
Or, grousing with the cashier about the weather.
I took those moments for granted. Who knew they were the glue that held us together.
But, I don’t get out much anymore.
Your repeating line resembles a pantoum form, but it’s so effective as the only repetition without the echo of competing repetitive lines. I love the way you hone in on the often overlooked importance of human connection, even in the small talk, as a unifying force of humanity. We are certainly missing the opportunities as we all keep on moving, and your poem today really hits home in your message. Thank you for this!
Deanna — Your poem captures our reality so well. I see this disconnect all around me with everyone on their phones and insulated in their homes. The pandemic really changed the way we all interact.
These lines struck me
“No more chatting with the young mother
smiling reassuringly and in solidarity as her kid
tantrums on the floor”
Young mothers need other young mothers and it is sad that these connections are disappearing.
Oh how our society has changed with the use of technology to get everything at our fingertips, no need to leave our porch. Somedays I miss the human connection, somedays I revel in the solitude.
Your poem is very effective in bringing out emotion… feels sad to read.
Your beautiful poem reminds me that the older I get, the more nostalgic I become for the days when we were so connected to others in large and small ways. “I don’t get out much anymore.” This repeated line resonated with me. Life sure is different these days.
Hi Deanna,
I feel so many emotions from your poem. The raw honesty of not getting out much mixed with the disconnection with people when you are out are familiar. I get out quite a bit but the disconnection is insane. No one looks up from their phones and everyone is walking with their heads down. What have we turned into? I hope when you are out the next time, you find one face that lights your day or one whose day is better because you’re in it.
🌹
Kim, What a great prompt! I love the poem you linked to and your example.
The barista at Bad Ass Coffee asks where I am from
and then before I can answer
she says you’re not a tourist
or a woo-hoo girl here to party
so you have to be a singer
or a song writer cause Nashville is Music City,
a city of songs and struggle and sacrifice,
a dream factory, where everybody sings, everybody plays,
and even drunken karaoke at a dive bar sounds like a concert
I’m a singer, she says, from Seattle,
I nod and she continues, one of the
other baristas is late because she had a gig last night,
so what are you? I laugh at how where I’m from has morphed
into what I am. I order my coffee (well, chocolate with a shot)
and say, I’m a teacher, a professor at a university
huh, she says. Nashville has those?
Seven, I say. Huh. So not a song writer? You look like a song writer.
I’m a writer, I say, but not songs.
I sit with my coffee (well, chocolate with a shot)
and I think about where I’m from,
the dirt roads, the trailer parks, and small towns, and the classrooms
and I jot down the line “everybody sings, everybody plays” in
my notebook to think about later
I hear the the barista asks
one of my students who has just come in me where ya from?
My student says, Hawaii…and the barista pauses
with a for real? So’s the coffee. They connect over
coffee and a shared island dream—one misses home
and one wants to visit postcard image she has. She says,
I hope to tour there one day.
Oh, gold here! This is pure gold – – I can see the barista, such a quick-wit (Hawaii? so’s the coffee) and also a slight naivety (Nashville has those?) all at once, in a perfect blend just line the grinding of the beans for the chocolate with a shot. Your narrative lens in capturing the story AND the characters AND the mood is so perfectly on point. Maybe the barista has a point – – perhaps you should try some song writing. Because you can sure write poems!
Melanie –I absolutely love the story you weave through this poem. I can see and hear the scene like a scene in a sitcom. Feel like a Cheers moment! So fun!
Melanie, wow, what a wonderful ride you took me on with your poem today. I love how you completely capture this scene through the dialog and internal reflections. I had to laugh at the barista’s question, Nashville has those? Delightful poem!
Melanie, “a city of songs and struggle and sacrifice” – what an incredible descriptor, one that says so much in three words. And then you drop us right into the scene! I can even smell the coffee (well, the chocolate with a shot, which is my preference too). Love that you continued on to the next customer – I can see this threading forward through the day.
Your barista cracks me up 🙂
Melanie, narrative poems are my favorite, and you are a gifted storyteller. So many gems here, in addition to the plot. Love this exchange:
“huh, she says. Nashville has those?
Seven, I say. Huh. So not a song writer? You look like a song writer.”
And then, “I jot down the line “everybody sings, everybody plays” in my notebook to think about later.” I see a writer, a poet at work here. Masterful!
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
Diane, I’m right there with you with the transistor radio and the newspaper results from back in the day, where there was no real-time news. You have preserved a piece of the past here in these lines that takes us back to early electronics and days before social media and brought us to the present, where the younger generation’s responses sometimes indicate they don’t realize that there were generations “before” the members they all seem to know. Thanks for taking me back to the good old days this morning!
Diane, this poem takes me back to childhood and the interaction between newspapers, radio, readers, and listeners, an interaction that can not be duplicated in a world where everything comes so quickly in multiple ways with the ability to repeat, replay, or just skip ahead. The juxtaposition of the speed of the race and the slowness of the time pairs so well. (Mario came to mind first for me too).
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
Susie, there is peace in the morning rain, and I’m raising my mug to you. Wherever we are, poets all, here we sit in unified solidarity. Hugs for the day!
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.
the 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.
mic drop. BAM! You are on fire today, my friend! I think you upturned a stone with a rabbit hole that may need some tunneling – – the nuances here between the master writer CS Lewis, a logic we so desperately need that seems missing in all the world, and today’s parallels to the state of the world are simply brilliant. Let this be your introductory poem to more like it – – this is genius. We need more of these, Jennifer! The world gone mad.
I so enjoyed reading this. The allusions grabbed me–so well done!
Ha, this is so, so good. Your repetition at the end is golden. I love the way you bounced off the prompt poem & made it your own.
Jennifer,
ONG! Brilliance here. It’s perfect to channel Alice and the Mad zHatter in this time of confusion and chaos. This works so well because of all the flipped language that informs the illogical structure of the world.
Jennifer, oh my goodness you have created a magical poem to illustrate the mad king situation of our current world. I love the dialogue and the clever word play. I especially enjoyed “and the world has upturned down” plus the song lyrics work perfectly to draw the reader right into your incredible poem!
Oh, those last lines. Yes, “in a world gone mad” you have captured the madness and the repetition of “while we slept after the fall” is just so powerful. Thank you.
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!!
Susan, I believe shift is the hardest thing to create in a poem, but for me – – it makes the poem tingle for me as a reader. And you have done it magnificently here. Multiple times, as I read and reread, you take us to another point of perspective. Here, there, and right where we are considering what home means. It’s funny – I was thinking of Cheers last night when we were in a pizza bar and we noticed people in our small town that we don’t know sitting AT the bar, and that song came to mind. And up pops “knows your name” today. I’m hearing the song and feeling the poem, friend!
Susan, I feel both sides of this – the desire to be grounded and rooted in familiar faces and places but also the yearning to be/remain/become anonymous. Both offer a sense of freedom in their own way. Your poem is brilliant in its underlying introspection sitting alongside the judgment (or boredom or curiosity) on both sides. Lots to unpack!
I was really struck by the line “Is it sad or liberating to live where no is from here”–it really stood out to me as place to pause and think. I loved this poem.
What I love most is that you captured this particular type of server perfectly. Love the voice in which you approached this prompt.
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!
Kevin, what a way to get to know you just a little more, to discover where that love of music originated, to travel with you from bar to concert. And we thought we knew your musical DNA from past poetry! Love the ticket stubs still rubbing against skin.
I will admit that I had to look up several of the people mentioned here. But, that really helped me as a reread the poem. Those details, those references added such specific detail to your work. I loved the thought process/memory path that you took that you then simplified to Connecticut & Northampton. It just shows how much nuance there is/can be to a response.
I love how you share your thoughts which are rich and full of interesting information and then contrast that with the basic facts about where you’re from. This is what we really do when we talk to people we don’t know well.
Genius!! Love this approach to the prompt. I shared earlier that the prompt had me thinking of all the ways I would possibly write, and then I found myself stumped. Your poem is a fun journey through your childhood and of course your musical background is weaved in nicely.
I think I missed the proximity of my home now to all your childhood music romps. I know all these locations and love the great artists come though. I’ve luck out twice with Tank & the Bangas and once with Trombone Shorty. Missed Mon Rovia by milliseconds. New Haven has a great draw!
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!
Intriguing. That’s the word that sticks when I think about my reaction to your writing. I am intrigued and I want more. Thank you for sharing.
Ohhh, what a mysterious and chilling treat you’ve given us. I’m wanting to see where this goes and if it was real or not. The ending is so reflective and I think about the times when someone leaves me feeling a certain way, not based on what I saw.
Loved the rhyme, mystery, intrigue, and speed in which this reads.