Brian Glaser has written two books of poems, All the Hills and The Sacred Heart. He has also published many essays on poetry and poetics, and he teaches English at Chapman University in Orange, California.
Inspiration
I find inspiration in this description of the form of the ode, from Robert Hass’s A Little Book on Form: “Out of litany and prayer came the praise poem and endless lyric variations on the praise poem. In their formal development these poems have a beginning, middle, and end; an inescapable (unless you are Gertrude Stein) three-part structure. The beginning part is often initiated by desire or dissent. The middle section is almost infinitely variable. . . . and its third and final section is apt to get to, or point toward, or try to instantiate, or ask a favor from that [inspiring] object or power.”
One of the most beloved odes of the Romantic period is John Keats’s “To Autumn.” I have chosen it as a mentor poem because of how richly sensuous it is and how it shows the dynamism possible within the formal parameters Hass describes:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44484/to-autumn
Process
Identify a power that has some mystery for you. And write to try to get into the right relationship with that power—praise, description, interpretation, petition. That force could be a season, as for Keats, or an art form, as in my poem, or, as for Pablo Neruda, a luminous ordinary object. Try for three sections or parts, to see what happens to your relationship as you write in this inherently responsive form. It’s good if you find you have a three-part poem at the end of the process—but odes can be unsegmented or have as many as eight parts to them as well. Follow your own sense of relation to your inspiration as you go.
Brian’s poem, “On Surf Guitar”
Write
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
This is my why
No one moment could summate,
All the times I have felt complete,
So many other times,
This is my reason why…
Yesterday, someone asked me,
If I had ever second quested the key,
In enjoying all the possibility,
This is the only reason why…
Today, I have reflected and written,
So narrow this career that I am driven,
So many years to ponder on,
This is the soul of a teacher,
This is my why.
Tracie, I thanked Mo below, but I wanted to thank you as well for creating challenging and rewarding opportunities for us to respond to in verse. I have learned a lot, and my soul has been fed.
My pleasure!!!
WOW! That was a rhyming workout! I scanned and mimicked the Keats rhyme and rhythm scheme. I got tangled in the second stanza and needed to call it quits (10:40 p.m.) I loved both this invitation to write and to celebrate our sweet corn patch!
Ode to Sweet Corn
If ever there was goodness, it is you–
As fresh as cloud-peaked sun, as sweet as morn,
Each bite is long lost summer déjà vu.
I praise the mystery of fresh sweet corn.
The husks pulled back reveal your pearls in rows
Arrayed with golden hair of fairy child.
I marvel at your wholesomeness, your way
Of leaving mouth and teeth and tongue beguiled.
I walk into the field and surely know
That Iowa is heaven, row on row.
The season of content? a July day.
The wizened seed’s an ugly shrunken thing.
But add some dirt, and sprinkle it with rain–
And magic overflows from the sole to crown.
The miracle of farming once again
Transforms a speck of nothing in the spring
To sustenance that’s worthy of a king.
Oh sweet corn, all is good and all is grown.
Allison — I woke this morning to this good poem. The sweet corn of Iowa…aaaah, doesn’t get much finer. I love that you “ode-ified” something I love from the git-go. I could live on sweet corn. From those many RAGBRAI rides and Raccoon Trail rides back and forth through the corn-n-beans heaven of America, I have a particular love of the state and the ethos of growing. You captured that in these lines. I love poems that dig into food…it’s truly a sensual topic…we get so much pleasure out of the sweet and the savory in our food loves. My favorite lines:
(that phrasing “row on row” — so fitting for the visual of Iowa!
and
This feels like pulling back a blanket and finding a sleeping child…innocent and chubby-cheeked. Love that feeling of seeing something that’s been hidden like a found treasure.
I so appreciate that you cranked this out at the end of your long day. I like starting my day with “As fresh as cloud-peaked sun” — quite a gift, my friend. Thank you, Susie
PS. I added comment to your poem on the following day yesterday too…sometimes I just operate on a broken clock.
Good morning! I’m glad I came back to read what I missed yesterday. I’m no farm girl but I lovvvve sweet corn! I soak mine in the husks and then put them on the bbq grill. Ahhhhh!
You’ve given this poem the love that sweet corn deserves.
“I marvel at your wholesomeness, your way
Of leaving mouth and teeth and tongue beguiled.“ Perfect!
And you may not have chosen to write a JOY poem yesterday but this opening is pure JOY:
Grateful for this poem, you, and sweet corn!
The miracle of farming once again
Transforms a speck of nothing in the spring
To sustenance that’s worthy of a king.
This process never ceases to amaze me!
Ode to Ocean Currents
I
Churning brine, world traveler
Rivers of water within water pushing around
Jellyfish and whales and all of the ocean’s babies and gardens.
Like blood through veins you push those nutrients
Up the ocean walls to make our bay a rich green soup.
ii
I saw my first facemask washed ashore.
A rubber ducky spilled in transit from Japan
ends up three oceans away ten years later.
You slosh trash into giant swirling islands.
Are you sweeping it up so we can figure out the dustpan part?
iii
I don’t leave my rock that pokes out of the ocean.
Not since March.
But you come to me, having touched every icy and sandy shore.
Seeing what you deliver to me each day
I can drift with the whales and the knotweed
To somewhere new.
Emily — When I read this really late last night, I was taken back to my trip years ago (before we met) to the shores of Maine. I did an Audubon Camp 2-week experience up there way north on an island (banded birds and did all kinds of ecology stuff) …I think there are several Egg Islands that dot the coast, but I think that was the name of it. Maybe around Machias. Anyway, your lines took me there and made me love the brine, the drift of Maine waters. In “ii” I felt the invasion of something that didn’t fit in the pristine Maine waters (trash in giant swirling islands). I particularly love the image:
Your poem made me want to go back, to be in Maine, be in that unique swirl of ocean and bay.
I’m so glad that you’ve been here this week, getting your beautiful writing into the air.
Thank you, Susie
My friend and I were supposed to do one of those Audubon bird experiences together, too! Would love to hear more about it! Definitely had to shake off some creative writing cobwebs, but it felt good. Thank YOU for getting my foot in the door!
Emily,
I too have felt amazed and curious by the stories surround what swirls around the ocean. You captured my thoughts so perfectly!
Seeing what you deliver to me each day
I can drift with the whales and the knotweed
To somewhere new.
window facing desk
the desk sits write up against the wall
the chair faces the window
and I sit while my gaze goes out to the greenery
framed by stained wood
beyond the panes of glass
a day and a world exist unrelated to me
observed by me
an anole poised on the fence slat
green at this moment
back feet hang on to the fence
body dips up and to the right
tail anchors the anole
sweeps to the left
a perfect curve of green
outside the window
my neighbor’s house
quieter than the early morning
windows at rest inside the brick casing
shingles hang in the triangle above the brick
once there were actions that placed them
memories of views from windows
classrooms where the right blue filled
metal cased windows
memories of the view remain
while names of teachers are lost
the sign by the classroom door obscured
There is a quiet strength here. And you paint word pictures that are so vivid. I feel I saw the anole’s curving tail myself! Beautiful!
Lost and Found
I. I wanted to believe in heaven
Soaked in years of theology,
I was empty vessel yearning for insight
discovered much of it quite interesting
History is after all, a story…
I wanted to believe in heaven
Sat obediently in pews,
listened raptly to sermons
proselytize by priests and pastors both Catholic and Protestant
and I’d been moved —
on occasion
by their convictions and
the “sometimes” hope they offered
but the prescribed path to eternity
left out so many …
This prescription for salvation
had serious side effects —
side effects I wouldn’t,
I couldn’t
stomach and then there was the
proffered “sometimes” hope that was —
only “sometimes”
and all the self proclaimed
Christians were mostly just intolerant and
this left me nauseated
II.
Now my son doesn’t believe in heaven, per se …
He talks to me about an egg, the universe
continual rebirth … evolution
The notion that our ancestors never leave us
because they are
us — past, present and future …
They are the universe
I question whether he is tripping on something
because — well, it all seems so surreal
But
III. When I think about this notion of oneness with
the universe, of living over and over again in
different lives,
something feels right about
this avenue of spirituality because
if my loved ones are reborn again and again
into the universe, they are with me,
Always
and we,
they,
all of us
are granted infinite chances
to become more
to become better
to become our best selves
And maybe redemption is realized through rebirth into our universe
And maybe, just maybe salvation begins within ourselves
Tammi — The exploration that is in your lines is so full of hope. How can anyone not hope you find that path that makes sense. I’ve been around for eons, and I’m still on the journey, bits and pieces making some sense along the way. I am moved by your poem, moved. Thank you, Susie
Tammi—first of all, love the title. Second—love both your words and the story they tell. As a lapsed something-ot-other, I have picked and chosen bits and bobs that work for me. I’ve sort of boiled down to the golden rule and crossed fingers. Your last stanza gives me a new bit to absorb… Thank you!
There is a lot to unpack in your poem – I want this to be an introduction to a much longer piece! Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18” – great work!
ode to books
I.
These days, my reading stacks are fruitful and flirtatious.
I find myself aching to sink into bed,
pull the shield across the screen–swipe up–or
press my finger into the bookmarked crease.
Once there, words will fill the space in my head
with an ever-expanding, strange, and distant universe.
II.
These days, reading slips easily inside.
With days lacking structure and
my orbit always within steps of a shelf or a stack,
these days mirror summer breaks of my childhood:
In between weaving or rowing camp,
before or after my friends were around to meander,
I would spend an early afternoon alphabetizing books.
These hours meandered as I would thumb through
a beloved picture book, or try to uncover why exactly
a long-distance relative gifted me a particular piece, or
experiment with alternative organizational approaches.
After stacking, prying, rearranging, squaring, levelling,
I would cap off my labors with a comfy read.
III.
These days are not dissimilar.
As a child, I would spend hours physically reconstructing ideas,
rebuilding structure, creating and quelling chaos, implementing order.
As an adult, I spend hours lost in swirls of abstraction, incessantly
reorganizing and reconfiguring the structures of this world,
deliberating whether there is or isn’t order, evaluating the parameters of our existence.
As both, I turn to the order and the structures of other worlds
out of my control.
I really like this, Laura. So many of us have been writing about anxiety lately, but there have been moments of calm and even joy. I’m like you in that organizing, sorting, moving, and rearranging books gives me comfort and makes me feel useful. I hear from many people that they haven’t been able to read much in the last few months. I feel so bad for them as reading has given me structure to many of these days. I love your comparisons to your childhood.
This is so beautiful. It’s so much more than the love of books. The “order and structure” of your words reflect the “order and structure of the other worlds out of your control.”
I like how you travel through time sharing the importance or meaning of books to you at different points in time and looking at books from the contents carried within and the physical state – nice traveling with you.
Last night, I watched Tom Hanks as Fred Rogers. While talking to a troubled Tom Junod about his childhood, Rogers asked him to take one minute and think silently about the people who “loved you into being you”. That phrase has burrowed into my thoughts throughout the day. Love can take so many forms—sometimes forms we don’t understand at the time. Hence, some of the people who loved me into being me… (By the way, if you haven’t seen it, you must! Not at all what I expected, and so, so much better!)
Who loved you into being you?
Who loved you into being you?
Who held you, comforted you, nourished you when they were exhausted or sad, or in pain?
Who spent days and nights driving a semi-trailer, missing your childhood so he could support his small family?
Who read to you every night, sharing fairy tales, nursery rhymes, and singing you the songs they remembered from their childhood?
Who tucked you in tight and warned the monsters away?
Who loved you into being you?
Who loved you into being you?
Who made card-table tepees in the living room and recited “Hiawatha” with you, sitting cross legged on the floor on cold winter nights?
Who lay beside you in the narrow twin bed, whispering, “I’ll make up a story for you and you make one for me?”
Who sat beside you on the piano bench, glasses perched on his forehead, pounding out “Chopsticks” in a raucous duet?
Who taught you poker at the age of three and the words to “Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey”?
Who loved you into being you?
Who loved you into being you?
Who held your hand as you walked together in room-sized circles at night, sobbing from the pain of an ear infection?
Who sat behind you on the six-foot toboggan, speeding down the monstrous hill and towed the sled up that long expanse, Just to fly down again?
Who taught you to snowshoe, walking the traps with you in the woods and sat beside you near a tiny fire in the middle of the lake, fishing through a hole in the ice?
Who laughed with you as you straddled the floor heater, your nightgown trapping the glorious warmth in a flannel balloon?
Who taught you the difference between buck, doe, and faun?
Who took you to the library so you could feed your endless hunger for words?
Who loved you into being you?
Who loved you into being you?
Who taught you that you were responsible for your words and actions, no matter what the other person said or did?
Who held you to higher standards than you thought fair, measured only by your potential?
Who taught you that honesty was the highest virtue and lying the greatest sin?
Who looked at you sadly and said, “I thought you knew better…”?
Who reminded you “not to break your arm patting yourself on the back”, even if what you did had been pretty wonderful?
Who taught you to skid on a frozen parking lot, laughing as you panicked, simultaneously teaching you caution and recklessness?
Who loved you into being you?
Who loved you into being you?
Who knew you would fly away no matter how much they wanted to keep you close?
Who waited for you to understand that home could be returned to time and again?
Who stepped aside to let you make your own mistakes?
Who stayed silent and waited for you to call?
Whose heart did you break, again and again?
Who loved you into being you?
Who loved you into being you—and
how have you loved your children into being who they are?
What kind of “being” did they get from you?
Who loved you into being you?
G J Sands July 2020
O.M.G. so beautiful. I cannot pick one image or line to highlight. Taking it from lessons learned from Mr. Rogers to what is clearly learned from other adults in the speaker’s life is so powerful. The age transitions are clear and smoothly done. I loved the winter imagery, and totally understand coming from a hunting/trapping/fishing family. The balloon nightgown over the heater had me laughing. Thank you!
Holy mackerel, Gayle, this is soooo rich with love and care and worry. Each scenario is a memory, explicit and searing. Your heart in these words is pii I losing so loudly with a mother’s commitment and love. Whew! Beautifully stated. I am so glad you watched Hanks’ movie. This is a gigantic by-product that even Mr. Rogers and Tom Hanks would find difficult to imagine. Powerfully loving. Thank you. Susie
This is so beautiful Gayle. My eyes are welling up, so I can’t say much else as I think of the people living and dead who loved me into being me. My favorite part- telling you not to break your arm patting yourself on the back. That’s absolutely something my brothers would have said to me. Gorgeous!
It was my Grandma Inie—poker at three and all the tough love you could find!! (I was Grandpa’s pet…)
Gayle, this flows so beautifully! I adore the repetition of that great question, “Who loved you into being you?” You have listed so many magical and yet ordinary moments, showing how it is loving presence that forms us best…so precious.
In Praise of Mourning
In a time of great pain, mourning bring us healing,
We gather together, sit alongside, embracing grieving,
Our hearts bursting, allowing all the tears to openly fall,
Families holding one another up,
Dear friends laden with food, flowers, and cards,
A blur of dresses, heels, makeup, styled hair, suits, knotted ties, polished shoes.
The bodies, the bodies, the bodies, all close and physically together,
Overflowing into hallways, kitchens, doorways, and corners,
A dance of people in moving, mixing, mourning clusters,
Some quiet whispers of what they deeply loved, remembered, felt,
Boisterous laughs at that time when, oh my, do you remember?
Eulogies, sharing prolific words, from deep within,
So much weeping and wailing,
Arms strewn over shoulders, tissues grabbed for falling tears,
Enfolding one another in deep, strengthening hugs.
We are mourning.
How do we do this now? In this time of great pain,
We cannot be with our loved ones as they die, no bedside vigils.
Last minute gambles, stay home or to the hospital?
So many deaths, so much pain, so much love.
Dying, always a singular journey, is now absolutely lonely as well.
We, the near and dear, hunkered in our houses, watching from computers.
Is there a deeper pain than ‘I cannot get to you’ ?
Our very constructs for mourning are challenged,
all of us, distanced, afar, with artificial environments imposed.
Funeral plans made virtually for a virtual service,
a semblance of ritual, an apparition of presence, an emptiness so raw.
Appointing one family member to be liaison, to make the solitary journey,
to gather the remains, absent any consoling community.
Leaving you wondering, is this just figment of imagination?
Is it really happening?
We are mourning.
Alongside our great pain, there is beauty within mourning’s new form
Technology allows us to join together without limits
Take the time, make the time, listen, hear, soak, be.
The grieving have their arms stretched wide, ready for embrace
We write on those virtual obituary walls, send the loving text, a caring card,
Share that cherished thought, that laugh, that heartfelt moment,
Dare to be a one-inch presence on the screen of the distant service,
Know that mourning is tender, ongoing, unstoppable
Connecting us, wrapping us up in one another’s deep love,
Truth be told, mourning never fits in any structure,
A leaky vessel, it seeps into other days and times,
A special song, a certain food, an unexpected picture, and tears flow.
Name their names, shout them into empty homes, allow those tears to fall.
Fervent, overflowing, unbridled yet focused, cherishing the one who lived,
As all mourning is, and ever shall be.
We are mourning.
As the kids say: I’m not crying, you’re crying.
Oof. You hit the emotional core of what so many are going through right here:
Thank you
Maureen—this is so very beautiful. One line that I loved— “Take the time, make the time, listen, hear, soak, be.” It succinctly gives all we are doing together in perfect words. Your poem flows grandly and solemnly—so much to love. “as all mourning is, and ever shall be.” Wow
Maureen,
This is heart wrenching. Your lines: “Dying, always a singular journey, is now absolutely lonely as well” is really powerful. It actually is one of my greatest fears. That someone I love or I will end up dying alone in a Covid hospital bed. Yes, we are mourning!
You have really captured so much in this poem, Maureen. I appreciate how deeply you dove into mourning during the pandemic. You wrote tenderly about things I had not even considered. Your last lines, starting with, “Truth be told…” will stay with me for a while.
I’m currently reading James Agee’s A Death in the Family. Your poem is a perfect companion to it.
Maureen,
Your poem is so tender and mournful. The images of community now separated by the necessity to replace human contact w/ screens reinforce the mourning we share. So many beautiful images here; I can’t pick just one. This is one of my favorite poems of yours. It reminds me of the collection “October Morning” about Matthew Shepard.
—Glenda
Ode to Human Touch and David Vetter
Today marks a hundred and twenty-nine days
without skin-to-skin,
hand-to-hand,
lip-to-cheek;
a leaden mantle, my shoulders weak,
palms aching in the absence of your hand,
languid limbs not holding you;
so many days without
human touch.
Yet, I am the lucky one.
It seemed other-worldly – that boy
David,
who lived twelve years
in a bubble, that kept him “safe”
from human touch,
the deadly viral outcome of that.
He knew only the bubble,
finally yielding from life; from absence of life?
Yet, strong enough to give it his all,
as I recall, he reminds me how small
I am for fussing about my missing
human touch.
David lived four thousand three-hundred eighty days
within the bubble, without human touch.
I can wait,
will wait,
and let words do the touching,
keep me breathing,
hold me in place,
grant me grace
to love David Vetter
for his light that touched,
made me more human today.
by Susie Morice©
You’ve made a beautiful connection here. Yes, we can do this. Loved this, especially:
Susie,
Your tribute to David Vetter is both haunting and hopeful. This time w/out touch and w/ limited touch sure forces us to focus on what matters most in our lives. I’m clinging to these words:
So true…. your line “he reminds me how small / I am for fussing about my missing / human touch” – I think about this all the time with lack of travel and all of the people who have had to escape other humans by hiding in confined spaces for months and years. I love the resolution stanza. It’s like you’re fortifying yourself for the next moment.
Susie—this connection puts everything in perspective for me—with skill and grace (as always!) “ David lived four thousand three-hundred eighty days
within the bubble, without human touch.” YOur use of specific numbers lends power to your ideas—gives them a solidity. Yes, we can do this…
Susie,
I am so moved by this poem. This tribute, is just Wow! You’ve captured that vacant feeling of loneliness we all have experienced through COVID so perfectly and at the same time have reminded us how lucky we are in that this will pass. If “David lived four thousand three-hundred eighty days within the bubble, without human touch” we can all certainly wait a little longer.
Susie, thanks for reminding us of our strength today. We’ve all talked about our emotional roller coasters of late, it I think it’s good to remind ourselves that we are all still fortunate. I especially like your plea for grace. If more of us had it, the world might look a little different right now. Stay strong, you warrior!
I.
It was not uttered but a look–
stone eyes looking past me,
the “Sway-Away” move when
hips, then shoulders turn from,
turn toward silence for who knows
how long.
II.
Still not uttered but written —
scarlet letters draping the subject line,
the “Call-Out” move when
fingers are braver after the fact,
shouting out what I did, didn’t do,
didn’t mean to but still did,
the harm.
III.
Finally uttered, “I’m disappointed —
in you,” steel spade hollows out,
the “Never-Forget” move when
arms take hold of my shoulders shake
loose love not earned, confidence
returned, grit depleted, always
in the red.
Sorry for this, dear readers. “A power that holds some mystery” brought me to a place that I am always trying to fill up.. It is my greatest fear – to disappoint someone.
Sarah — I want more of this poem. This was a HOT, vivid conversation/human interaction…a reliving of moments that feel so real and so intimate. You sure know how to do intimate! I can feel the heat in the first stanza…that turning away and the “stone eyes.” Ouch…it feels so full of heat …that kind that comes with silence. Then, in “II” — the “fingers are always braver after the fact” … “what I did, didn’t do” — that accusing voice…ouchouchouch. What is happening to me as a reader here is that I have a strong fright/flight reaction…avoidance of conflict…and the desire to fight is real and so is the “oh, this is going to be bad” is just as real…dealing blows (“the harm”). Whoof! Then, in “III”… the ripper…The guilt of disappointment… oh man… have you nailed this, or what! “THE STEEL SPADE HOLLOWS OUT.” Oh lordy, this is a strip-it-down-bald phrasing. And as the whole moment melts down…you are left “in the red.” OMG, this is a brilliant poem. Truly brilliant. Whew! Okay, as little kids say, “Oh man, do it again, do it again!” Thank you for this piece. It really lit my ceeegar! Hugs, Susie
Sarah,
The language here evokes a dance, “the sway…” I know this fear so well and internalized it for others when I was a child. I think this fear of disappointing others is strong w/ teachers. It’s certainly been my intimate bedfellow since I’ve been sick and unable to fulfill commitments.
—Glenda
Sarah—as I read this AMAZING poem, I entered the moment with you. That hurtful Sway-away. I know that move. Susie and Glenda commented on the guilt—I wonder how many of us have gone into teaching to assuage that powerful and painful emotion. It gives one pause, doesn’t it? But maybe that is WHY we are giving our all to our kids…and the reason we care so much.
Good lord, this has been a week, hasn’t it?
Sarah, I so relate to this greatest fear of yours, and I like the way that you’ve broken this experience into three parts. I can feel my chest tighten as I read the “Sway-Away,” my cheeks singe with “Call-Out,” and my heart weighs with “Never-Forget.”
Sarah — your final stanza really hit me hard because I have felt that same feeling. I especially struggled with these emotions as a young adult and you’ve captured the raw pain so vividly …”Finally uttered, “I’m disappointed —/in you,” steel spade hollows out,/the “Never-Forget” move when ..”
Wow, I had to read this a few times to make sure I didn’t misinterpret but I think you’ll forgive me if I did. First, I decided this was your interaction with a coworker or student in the first stanza. Then the second stanza made me think it was someone who isn’t close enough to you to do their “Call out” in person so they were a punk and did it in writing, so who would do that? I decided a friend. Then the last stanza had me seeing you and a loved one. I am drawn so far in and probably so far off in my understanding but I want to know more. I want a movie! I want the book!
This could only be a punk! (Forgive me if I’m calling someone you love a punk)
Oh wait, is the last stanza your mind/guilt giving you the shoulder shake and keeping you in the red? Help. I need a poetry tutor. ?
All this to say you are an incredibly talented and powerful poet! I need to be more appreciative that I’m in your midst.
your images are powerful in describing the moments -look–stone eyes, fingers are braver after the fact, steel spade hollows out – are you calling out to let them know you knew?
Brian,
I found your poem inspirational and knew exactly what I wanted to write about upon reading it. Thank you.
Poet Friends,
Thank you for your love, support, and kind words in poems and messages as I have struggled this week. I appreciate each of you.
“66 Drive-In Theater”
I
Saturday nights we packed the family into the Ford Falcon
We three kids in our jammies, Jean in the front passenger seat, Dad behind the wheel and
Headed to the 66 Drive-In Theater on
America’s Mother Road
Popcorn popped, a cooler of Shasta off-brand sodas, and generic candy made the journey.
We could only afford bargain fun and
Disney Movies priced by the car load—
Parent Trap, Love Bug, Ghost and Mr. Chicken—
Innocence covered our white childhood
Tailgating 60s style.
II
We embraced American Graffiti nostalgia as
Teens parked in the back row where Steven King’s bloody prom drenched us in
Goose bumps shared stories of
Drive-in playground antics and those halcyon days of yore.
A hand not unlike Carrie’s arose from inside the Pinto followed by laughter.
Little brother and his friends, preteens who shimmied under the theater fence
Steal a show, taunt a sister.
III
This pull into the past tricks us into a
Good times lull, a happy days mindset, a
Denial of reality, a false focus on the
Technicolor larger than life fantasies in a
Rainbow of colors divided by black and white separatists in Missouri sundown towns.
We roll the film reeled in cracked memories,
Awaiting a trailer of coming attractions before the last drive-in darkens its antiquated lot.
—Glenda Funk
P.S. I took some poetic license. The 66 Drive-In theater is still in operation just outside Carthage, Missouri. Two other drive-ins i frequented as a kid no longer exist, the Webb City Drive-in theater, where my brother and his friends sneaked in, and the Tri-State Drive-in theater in Joplin, Missouri.
Glenda, you have evoked such wonderful memories! I really had a laugh at “A hand not unlike Carrie’s arose from inside the Pinto..” Sure had that happen! I had forgotten this memory until now. I really like the way you end this with referring to how the happy days mind set can give us a denial of reality while the separatists roam. These cracked memories keep me in balance.
Interesting that the drive in venues are now being used to give concerts, provide places of worship and live theater when those inside venues are closed due to this virus.
Glenda,
I so needed this poem right now. I went and sat in these lines for a bit —
So specific, vivid inviting, especially the word “jammies.”
Sarah
So good to see you here today, Glenda!! What a great thing to praise. Laughed hard at the antics of little brothers. This line, “We roll the film reeled in cracked memories,” so true, so true.
Glenda — I was was hooting at the drive-in scenario that is SOOOOOO what I remember as a kid going into town to see Disney movies all crammed in the back of Dad’s Studebaker — you had a Falcon…same crammed-in feeling — too many kids in a small space. Funny. When you added the “Mother Road” I was immediately taken to the drive-in that literally was just about 3 miles down Rt. 66 from where I live right now! LOL! All those drive-ins in STL were just down the road from me (where I am now). You had Steven King creepy stuff that your brother pulled off, which just a few years earlier (dang, I’m older than you…LOL!) were the same “HOOK” stories.. that sent teens screeching as the “hook” was pranked on the window of the car… oh, this was soooo real! The ghoulish man with a hook. Ha! We laughed but were freaked at those spooky pranks. Oooooo! So after all that frivolity and coming of age memories, you get to the meaty stuff in “III” which really gripped me:
INDEED…we were living a divided reality… life so different and so whitewashed in those towns…all our towns.
Remarkable poem! I love that I landed on your poem right away when I settled into poetry this afternoon. Thank you for posting. Stay strong. My heart is with you. Love, Susie
Glenda—hope you are feeling better, my dear. This poem brought all the feels—the details like off-brand Shasta”, generic candy, popcorn from home. You took me back, girl. I know all things weren’t what we remember—but parts of it were real. And they were lovely, weren’t they? Thanks for the memories, Glenda…
Glenda,
I love the way you pull me into the rose-colored days of childhood and then repeatedly remind me that it is a facade. I’m reminded of a the new documentary on Netflix: Disclosure. I especially love your play with words in your final words: “We roll the film reeled in cracked memories,/Awaiting a trailer of coming attractions before the last drive-in darkens its antiquated lot.”
I hope that you’re feeling better!
Glenda, yes!!! The Drive-Ins were the best! I’m grateful for your memories shared and written with such clarity. I can definitely see the snacks all packed in with you. I was right there with you when Carrie showed up when you moved into teen years. As awful as that movie was it was one of my fondest movie memories. This is so much fun. I instantly thought about those raggedy speakers my mom would have to latch onto the window, never understanding why the sound was not quite right. LOL. Pure delight to read this today.
My favorite part was this because I didn’t have any little siblings but this made me chuckle:
Take care, my friend! I’ll be checking on you. ?
Glenda,
You’ve truly captured the sweet nostalgia of by-gone days. Love this vivid image
“Popcorn popped, a cooler of Shasta off-brand sodas, and generic candy made the journey.
We could only afford bargain fun and …” I am right there with you.
Brian, I found your prompt intimidating, but I’m glad I pushed myself to try. Your poem brought back childhood memories growing up in Manhattan Beach, CA. I used to surf, learned guitar from listening to The Beatles, loved The Beach Boys, too. Surfing, art, and life all woven together–what could be better? Thanks for this reminder.
Thank you to Brian, Mo, Tracy, for hosting us this week. It’s been a stretch; I’ve learned so much. This is my first time doing all five days. I enjoyed the challenge and look forward to next time. Thank you, Sarah, for this wonderful forum. Thanks to all for your inspiring reflections. Stay safe and well!
(I didn’t get “odey” but I definitely got “praisey” ??)
Hallelujah Has Power
© Stacey L. Joy
Hallelujah has power
When sunrise and bare feet dance in rain
When love Psalms sing over our pain
And God’s peace we seek not in vain
Hallelujah has power
When broken bones and sweet hearts mend
When sags and wrinkles beautifully blend
And you feel loved first from within
Hallelujah has power
When distance seems forever it will be
When COVID’S sickness won’t quickly flee
You believe you’ll recover and be well completely
Hallelujah has power
When icy masked faces question our worth
When Black babies are despised immediately from birth
We take a stand & raise praising hands across the earth
Hallelujah has power
??????????
Stacey,
You have me thinking so deeply here — as always — but about the pronoun “we.”
The “we” taking a stand. The we raising praising hands — across the earth. We need more on the we-side to spread across the earth. I would love a collective “Hallelujah.”
Sarah
Oh, yes, Hallelujah has power! “We take a stand & raise praising hands across the earth!”
Hallelujah! Indeed, Stacey! This is such a “praisey” beautiful poem. 🙂 I loved the lyrical flow of this poem. It fits the uplifting nature of a word that demands to be heard (Hallelujah) right out loud and boldly. I love the seamlessness of the rhyming…not at all forced…good crafting! My favorite lines are these:
Gee, I hadn’t thought about today’s poems being all feel-good…but the ones I’ve read so far are really powerful poems that feel very good. I’m here smiling. Thank you and Hallelujah right backatcha! Susie
Hallelujah! This poem is so strong, even as it calls out the ills of our world these days. As a sort-of-lapsed Lutheran, it makes me wish I had the faith that some of the rest of you have to depend on. This is simply an amazing, praisey poem, whether odey or not. (And I was so glad that I had your poem to refer to—I can never spell hallelujah—it took me four tries to get it right just now!!!!)
Stacey,
This poem of praise has me feeling all the feels and singing “Hallelujah.” I love the time emphasis in the “when” clauses and the reminder to look for all that is praise-worthy. Thank you for the power and strength of your words. ❤️
—Glenda
Tracie, Mo, and Brian, thank you so much for this incredible challenge. I’ve never done anything like it before — and it surely shows the novice, however, it was fun. It wasn’t “praise” that called me out, however, but rather the darkness that enveloped life in the 1960s. I’m almost embarrassed to post it, but here goes!!
The 1960’s
The songs of my youth’s early summers dreams
so innocent holding your hand in mine
heralded much bigger ideas it seems
early summer gave way to a lost virgins sign
the days that once carried the passion of gold
calling forth the energy of those young legs
with ceaseless abandon and movement the core
drank cup after cup through the very last dregs
had verses endless beyond number were sold
though eyes may be opened, they were not bold
and still we shouted, “more, music, More MORE
We listened keenly to unwinding reels
spoken by gurus and gods and now
slowly morphing to reflect changing keels
as innocence took it’s last bow
life moved on wings at lightning speed
each day brought a challenge anew
holding a hand seemed somehow so trite
in light of events down the queue
just to hold on now as the wicked plant seeds
to find an anchor of hope what we need
The words of love had picked up a bite.
The summer of music had come to an end
replaced by chords of anger and rage
Children no more, and the sounds they did send
were written in newspaper ink on the page
There was no going back to a simpler time
no gently holding hands as we talked
We could not erase the lessons once learned
Virgin’s blood flowed wherever we walked
the words were now written without any rhyme
people ached and cried for that simpler time
The deeds had been done and soul now burned.
Judi! Judi!
I am transported and really need this today. I just want to swim in another time today. These lines:
These lines lull me with the rhythm and rhyme of your verse.
Sarah
“as innocence took it’s last bow“—what a phrase!!!!! That is going to stay with me… and “the words of love had picked up a bite”.
A masterful following of the form. Thank you!!!
Tracie, Mo, and Brian, thank you so much for the challenges and fun prompts to write this week. I hate to see it end, as I always do on day 5. Brian, at first I said forget it because my mind wasn’t willing to get “odey” or “praisy.” Soooo, I waited a while, read some and said go for it. I love your poem and found so much to appreciate (surfing, art, guitars, Beach Boys, and the painful but necessary finger blister).
Be well and stay safe! Grateful for you all!
In this great big country that is ours
The son of a peanut farmer from Plains, Georgia, would be elected President,
The son of a Kenyan immigrant would be elected President,
An African American woman who “dared to be herself” would not be elected President,
A school teacher from the Lone Star State would be elected President,
A former first lady and Senator would not be elected President,
One vote at a time.
In this great big country that is ours
Our mothers dragged us along to the local polling place.
We watched as she punched holes in an ivory card or
Used a ballpoint pen issued by a precinct official.
We would later learn how hard those with darker skin than ours
Fought just to make it to the table, to find their names
In the great big book, to be given a list of choices, to be given a pen, to cast an ever-living vote.
People like Fannie Lou Hamer, God rest her great big soul.
In this great big country that is ours,
In the year of our broken and divided Lord, 2020,
A naturalized citizen will cast their first vote for an American President.
A community college student will cast their first vote for an American President.
The felon behind bars will not be voting for an American President , not this year, not ever.
The commander of the local VFW will once again vote on an American President.
The American history teacher at the local high school will vote on an American President.
One vote at a time.
I am taken by the depth and breadth of this poem. So much to take in here. The repetition of the first line of each stanza is grounding, and the transition “great big” from the second to the third is subtle, but also speaks to how deeply entrenched our souls are with this country, why we care so much, and why it matters so much. I was also struck by this phrase, “an ever-living vote.” I never would have put that adjective on vote, but Oh. My. Gosh. how true that is. In our lifetimes, did we expect to see what we have? What next? Only the vote will tell. How powerful.
This is powerful! I love the effect of the repetition of your first line and your voice. The whole poem is relatable to me, especially in the second stanza, “Our mother’s dragged us along…” through “…great big soul,” because it makes me think how oblivious I was growing up in the 60s, 70s, and 80s compared to our students of today. Your line, “ in the year of our broken and divided Lord, 2020,” jumps out at me. Your whole poem is a history lesson and makes the reader realize how important voting is.
Katrina! The refrain here is everything. The pronoun signals ownership and demands agency to change our country together.
Sarah
Katrina — This is just really dandy. You have given us a poem and a history and a voice all with “one vote at a time.” The repetition of that phrase is powerful. If you titled this poem, what hat would you place on these lovely words?
My favorite lines/phrasings are these:
Those real and early images of our exposure to voting…big darned deal! I so appreciate the reality that those with “darker skin than ours/fought just to make it to the table.” I’ve been watching several documentaries on PBS about the vote… your poem adds to those images.
Terrific poem. Thank you, Susie
Katrina—one vote at a time. We forget that sometimes. Your last stanza—I re-read it three times! It shows just how important our vote is. One. At. A. Time.
Katrina, the repetition throughout your poem–“In this great big country that is ours” and “American President”–gives me hope and power. I have to believe that we must trust the process. And your words, like this country, is vast and expansive–there’s space for everyone.
Ode to a Red-Bellied Woodpecker
Don’t do it…Don’t do it…
Not today.
Keep yourself free from the soul-crushing darkness.
Don’t let it fall like a curtain
Obscuring the vision of an equally gloomy future
Try hard, then try harder.
Ignore the ever-increasing pressure
Squeezing hope from your heart.
Take a breath
Take a walk
Take a bath
Take a drink if you need to,
But be alert.
A red-bellied woodpecker appears
As he does every day,
Brightening the view from the kitchen window.
He knows the chili pepper flavored suet will be there,
As it always is
Summer, fall, winter, and spring.
His needlelike onyx beak pecks away
At the delicious sustenance-providing treat.
The flash of scarlet never fails to attract my gaze
And I marvel, not only at his beauty,
But his persistence, his doggedness.
Every day he pecks away
And then pecks away some more.
Why can’t I be like that?
Why can’t I be single minded
And control the extraneous thoughts in my pachinko machine brain?
And just when I think I can’t handle the stress anymore,
I spy them-
Two juveniles, nary a red feather on their heads, at the feeder
Learning to peck steadily away
From their steadfast father
And it dawns on me-
There is hope.
Mo Daley 7/22/20
*I didn’t know where this prompt would take me on a bleak morning, but these friends on my patio stuck around the whole time I was writing.
Like “Brightening the view from the kitchen window.” & “The flash of scarlet never fails to attract my gaze” & “my pachinko machine brain.” When I first started reading, I was like, “Wait, this isn’t about a woodpecker…” I love when titles don’t immediately match the content because then I’m hooked and want to see where this ride is going to take me. And, as those two juveniles are learning from their adult, so too, isn’t the speaker of the poem? I like that the idea of “hope” means not just for the bird(s), but for the speaker (and the rest of us) as well.
Mo, you grabbed me from the first line! Your emotion and repetition in the first stanza is effective and relatable. In fact, your whole poem is relatable because when I have felt depressed I have often looked out my window to watch or listen to birds, squirrels, and butterflies and they brightened my whole day, also. In the third stanza, I love how you question yourself and then, give in to the beauty, wonder, peace and hope that nature always offers us, which changes the mood of your poem and shows the reader your growth. Beautiful. Thank you for for reminding us about the gift of nature.
Gosh, Mo, this is terrific. That you juxtaposed the “pachinko machine brain” (that I understand waaaaay too well) with the power of the woodpecker to hammer you into another zone, another reality that is right there at the suet feeder in front of you. I love the idea that he/she/they hung around the whole time to truly bring you to a better place a very dear reality. Nature has that kind of power and you captured that so well. Hope. “There is hope.” I am super grateful for this poem today. I get way too “single minded” myself, and your call to nature is a healing energy. Thank you, Susie
Mo—I have been trying “not to do it’ all week—I think so many of us are. This is wonderful—loved the pachinko machine brain, the babies learning steadfastness from their father. Maybe I need some chili pepper suet to help me out. :-/
Mo, what a beautiful image of serendipity. “Hope” truly “is a thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” Thank you for the leading us this week in such thought-provoking, challenging writes. Each has been such a rewarding experience.
I love your seeing persistence in this bird – I like the chili pepper flavored suet mirroring the color on the bird – I’ve often thought of those birds as they tap away on trees or telephone poles in search of insects – maybe the are laughing at us as we pull into parking lots in front of grocery stores – how easy to find a tree
This is my first experience writing with this group. It has been a blessing. I have learned so much! Thank you, Mo, Traci and Brian for your wonderful teaching in the prompts. Thank you to this group of gifted writers.
The Sea-Walk
Oh how I desire to walk by the ocean
to put my feet in the sand
and to hear the waves pound!
A stretch of the legs and a breath of fresh air
Birds whirling around me fancy and free
To have the surf’s wetness crash at my knee.
Oh how I desire to see what I find
washed ashore in the sand –
a shell, a sand dollar, a bit of seaweed
or beautiful glass smoothed by the sea.
I can smell the salt and taste it too
as small drops condense on my skin.
My legs quickly step on irregular mounds
that smooth out when reaching the shore
and give me the steps so needed.
My eyes see the sights of dolphin at play,
ships anchored on the horizon.
A marine layer of clouds soon give way
to the sun warm on my skin.
Then I rub on that goo to protect me.
When I am feeling so low this walk can provide
a cleanse of my thinking, a rise in my spirits.
May the call of the sea-walk continue to beckon.
Yes, sea-walk I can be at your side in a second.
Your poem resonated with me. The word choice captured exactly how I feel when I go on my daily walks. Truthfully, it’s the only thing that has kept me sane these last few months. These are my favorite lines:
Susan, your descriptions are so vivid. The surf crashing at your knee, the smooth sea glass, and the drops of condensations are so easy to imagine. But for this pale midwestern girl, the protective goo is the easiest to relate to! The call of your sea-walk now beckons to me!
It’s neat how many of us are using nature references in these poems – steadfast nature will always be worthy of praise! I don’t know oceans, but I do know beaches, and loved these lines, “To have the surf’s wetness crash at my knee.” & “My legs quickly step on irregular mounds / that smooth out when reaching the shore” – I could just feel the sand shifting beneath my step as I read that! And this line will be my mantra today: “a cleanse of my thinking, a rise in my spirits.” Thank you Susan – I’m glad you’re here this month!
I adore your poem! What freedom you envoke – I can walk that beach with you! Thank you!
Susan, you poem resonates with me because I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed the ocean until I’ve read it. Your sensory details have captured the beach so well that I feel like I’m there! I love your line, “a cleanse of my thinking, a rise in my spirits.” Thank you for your powerful poem, which has indeed “cleansed” me and risen “my spirits!” I also love how your last line changed voice and reminds the reader how much a memory can heal us.
Susan—welcome! Isn’t this a great place!!?? That first stanza—who-ee! I could feel it—I was RIGHT THERE! I could use a sea walk!
You Really Are Here
You’re elusive, but very present to those who sit and wait.
In stillness I hear silence and I strain to seek your face,
Yet you’re here in full display in the early morning light,
In my seedlings’ newborn fruit, miraculous delight
You open my eyes, my senses know your signature on my heart so full, alive.
All around me there is danger,
Fear and hatred, waves of anger,
So-called leaders deceive, divide, and vie for power.
I seek peace and people together,
No agenda, only vision, fields of blooming flowers.
You surround us and we let it all flee
We collectively breathe, a chance to start over!
You are here alive and breathing
Within our butterfly-lives so fleeting.
One thing will never change;
In fact, I see it in a baby’s smile:
You are love and love remains!
And for now I’ll stare at clouds,
Soak in beauty, praise your name.
Nancy, the shift between your stanzas is so stark that I had to reread them to make sure I understood what was going on. You truly have brought me full circle with this ode. My favorite image is our butterfly-lives so fleeting. That put things in perspective for me.
Nancy, this is pure love and gives complete praise to what I believe to be as God Almighty! I love the reminders that He’s always present and shows us His glory in newborn fruit, our senses, and a sweet baby’s smile. What I needed most for my own comfort was…
We are never alone even though we are so much of the time, alone.
I give praises to this poem and you, the poet!
I can identify with sitting in wait in stillness and silence. That is the way peace comes to us. No agenda. Yes, He is alive and breathing but we let it all flee. Great words of wisdom!
Brian, I had to keep Google handy today to look up so many references about a topic that I knew nothing about (even though I grew up in southern California and loved the Beach Boys). I enjoy reading things like this that teach so much, and at the same time are so beautiful to read, like the surfers: “the fit, bobbing acolytes of the rhythms of the ocean living out / a new postwar discovery” Thanks for being here with us today. Today, I identified the inspiring power for me as story. Then this came out of what was on my mind.
1
There’s a story in this place
A story no one told me
My ancestors
My teachers
My textbooks
Were whitewashed tombs
The Greatest Generation
Family vets came home from war
bought houses in the suburbs
and graduated from college
Thanks to hard work and persistence
Why didn’t they let me see
the decaying and decrepit
bones inside the tomb?
Family vets came home from war
bought houses in the suburbs
and graduated from college
Thanks to the GI Bill that
worked primarily for white veterans
2
Bill Barr, you are wrong when you said,
“Well, history is written by the winners,
so it largely depends on
who’s writing the history.”
We’re done with that.
The introductory essay
by Nikole Hannah-Jones
in The 1619 Project won a Pulitzer.
3
Story, come anew
Story, come afresh
Story, call us onto your lap
Hold us gently and whisper truth into our ears
A story we will retell to ourselves
A story we will tell and retell
to future generations
We’ll be better ancestors
Better teachers
Writing better textbooks
We’ll break the racial contract
All people are created equal
Come quickly, Story
Denise, you’ve handled this topic wonderfully. The back story in stanza 1 pretty much lays out the facts that so many boomers have grown up with. I love the line, “We’re done with that,” in stanza 2. You simply state it as a fact and don’t invite argument. Then I read stanza 3 as a call to action, but also an acknowledgement that we will need help. This is lovely.
“A story no one told me/My ancestors
My teachers/My textbooks/Were whitewashed tombs/”
“Why didn’t they let me see/the decaying and decrepit/bones inside the tomb?”
I’ve been asking myself these same questions and it’s taken me 64 years to even KNOW the questions. I pray we all wake up. I love the hope you offer in the third stanza! May it be so!
Denise—I hate it when the others beat me to the best comments! Stanza 2 is perfection—and all the stuff everyone else said!
Well, the tough part – and also good reminder – is to find something to praise when continually being inundated with so much that is just flat-out awful going on. Since I wasn’t traveling this year, I committed myself to raising monarchs through the summer. I tend to them every day, sometimes twice a day, and find great solace in their existence.
Raising Monarchs
I kneel in the garden
my gaze craned upward
scanning the underside of each
sun-haloed milkweed leaf,
pin-prick eggs cast nearly invisible shadows
first instars no bigger than
a plucked hair of stubbled beard.
I clip and harvest each miniscule miracle.
Days that pass one instar to the next
are the glories of nature.
How those teensiest mandibles
munch right through leaf after leaf
shed and grow, shed and grow
2000 times its original size.
Even the atheist in me
believes these creatures have a maker.
Each day I tend to their needs:
more leaves, shade the sun,
tuck them away from storms.
Each day I beg and bargain
they survive until the final stage.
When they finally transform into that
gold-studded, bright green chrysalis,
I breathe a sigh of thanks. Almost done.
“You have such patience,” friends comment
“for something nature could do anyway.”
But with each emergence and release
when I see that winged angel
black-veined orange and spotted white
cast itself to the sky, I know that life
will stand a better chance,
or so I pray.
Denise, I love your poem so much! I may have to pick your brain about your hobby. We had so many Black Swallowtail caterpillars that were, unfortunately, eaten by the birds. My two-year-old grandson keeps asking, “Where’d the pullers go?” I want to save them next year.
My favorite line in your poem is, “Even the atheist in me believes these creatures have a maker.” Nature has a way of making us pause and reflect, doesn’t it? I also liked your choice of ending your ode with, “Or so I pray.” Thanks for this beautifu poem today.
I learned a lot by watching YouTube videos! They’re really pretty easy to raise (they poop A LOT – which didn’t fit well with the tone of the poem). They have a 10-15% survival rate in nature, so I figure if I can do better than that, I’m doing alright. I’ve got about 22 of them in process right now – all harvested from about six plants that grow in my yard. I have to harvest plants from local parks to keep them fed. It’s definitely a hobby!
The hope which emerges in your poem made me smile (and hope).
All those amazing images and your word choice have me smiling today. A few favorites…
Wow, Denise. Such a beautiful praise of these creatures. I love the ending.
Denise, we are kindred monarch watcher and growers. I love” that winged angel black-eyed orange and spited white case itself to the sky ” because I can see it so clearly. I too, cast my eyes to the sky and watch these marvels.
“Even the atheist in me
believes these creatures have a maker.”
Love, love, love this. So much detail, precision, mathematics, and order in nature. It must be so rewarding to see the monarch emerge. Last year we had many caterpillars on our milkweed. I never got to see their cocoons. I pray they didn’t get eaten! Will be trying again this time with protection for them.
Denise—this is wonderful! I spied a couple of caterpillars on my parsley and looked it up—they were going to be black swallowtails. I was so pleased, and made plans for th observation process. A couple of days later, they were gone. I assume the birds got them. In review, I should have protected them. I envy you the hope for the better chance…
Brian,
Once I zoomed in 175%, I could read your wonderful ode. The title alone sparked a loud, thunderous version of one of my favorite tunes,“Misirlou,” in my head. Thanks for that! I loved the images of the bobbing surfers and the persistent player! “Our blood-freaked first” – wow! I love that finish!
“On Siblings”
If the numbers are reliable, approximately 22% of women are mothers to an
only child.
Hey, that’s me!
Growing up in Utah, I was surrounded by two groups of people:
Mormons and Catholics.
I promise, there were not many singletons to be found in that crowd.
I’ll admit, sometimes I was jealous of the way brothers and sisters
unite, cooperate, support, and understand each other.
But most of the time I enjoyed
me time.
And to be honest, the fights and yelling and screaming did not appeal to me
at all!
Enter Stepsister #1
I became a sibling for the first time as an adult.
It’s not the same. We never lived together. Not in the same house. Not even the same state.
We’ve met a few times over the last 25 years,
We share some common interests in music and literature,
but that’s where the connection ends.
Enter Brother and Sister-in-Law
Do they really count as siblings?
We get along. We are family. We support each other.
We NEVER fight! I know better than that!
Enter Stepsister #2 and Stepbrother #1
I wrote them a letter once. An introduction of sorts.
We are all adults, and we have aging parents to consider.
Shouldn’t we at least communicate with each other?
I felt like an ambassador for peace, trying to unite two warring kingdoms.
They never replied.
So, I understand siblings.
I am father to two, caring and vicious siblings.
I could never be prouder,
and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
This expresses a lot of layers of unique family dynamics and what is more commonly now the blended family where adult children first become “related”: “Enter Stepsister #1 / I became a sibling for the first time as an adult.” I can appreciate the attempt to define each of the roles of these people in your life, and the complexity of those, as in: “I felt like an ambassador for peace, trying to unite two warring kingdoms. / They never replied.” And by the end of the piece, I also give the speaker props for knowing what sibs mean, even as an only child. Laughed out loud at “caring and vicious.”
I love how personal your poem is, how clear and straightforward it tells this aspect of your story. Excellent!
Shaun,
It was interesting to read about your childhood in Utah–surrounded with Mormon and Catholic friends, as a lone child. You were conspicuous, weren’t you?
These lines are so telling:
The ending seems to give up a bit, but acknowledges that your energy will go to love and nurture the other “siblings” in your life. Your children sound delightful!
Thank you for giving expression to the beauty of being a “singleton” and also the awkwardness of relationships with siblings distanced from us by divorce and remarriage.
It Ain’t So Bad
This red-crowned virus is so awfully fierce.
Hate politics with poison it seems to pierce.
Gunshots and protests expand in spheres.
When our daily joys diminish and wane,
When out elderly can’t get out with their cane,
Online contacts help keep us sane.
Thanks to those who take time to share;
We give praise to those who remember us in prayer.
Their love reaches here from way over there.
http://www.ethicalela.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/07/1595438547937_Sending-LOVE.jpg
Anna, your poem soothes my soul. The last stanza is a sweet gift, “praise to those who remember us in prayer.” Thank you, not just for the poem, but for your gifts.
?
Their love reaches here from way over there.
yeah.
Kevin
Good morning Anna,
I appreciate your rhyme and title. I love the line, “online contacts help keep us sane” since this is so important and interpreted differently during these times of isolation. Thank you for sharing.
Reading your poem, I can hear these words through many voices…so many people are feeling these things, from the scary news that has us confused and fearful in 2020, to the bright spots of love that we have found along the way. Very nice!
“Red-crowned virus” – my goodness, what an apt description. I never thought of it before. Crown is in its name, for pity sake, and the famous image of it is covered with red crowns. I like that.
And yes, that last stanza is lovely. Love does reach from here to way over there through prayer. Your “it ain’t so bad” was good for me today. Thanks!
Anna, thank you. Through our sharing here, I believe that “love reaches here from way over there.” (I love that line).
I especially love your last stanza, Anna. So sweet and tender and makes me feel grateful.
Brian, I love your ode to surf guitar. What a great and underappreciated genre!
Dennis Quaid in Innerspace
You caught me humming a made up tune
And when you asked me what it was
And I said I didn’t know
I thought about the last real magic
The inexplicable unscientific
Spontaneous internal combustion of
“The Process”
And how many masterpieces
Started out as pure nothings
Beethoven’s notebooks filled
With childish cringe worthy themes
And yet they became such heavenly dreams
Damian sent me two books of poetry
Which I read in bed nightly
It makes me feel a little like
Dennis Quaid in Innerspace
Getting a little taste of
Martin Short’s brain
Damian’s poems are such insightful snapshots
(And sometimes pleasantly crude sex jokes)
That lived locked in a sewn together DIY zine
And now that they belong to me
I think of the urge to write and how I would resist
All to allow a few blank pages to exist
Later tonight we calculate the percentage
Of songs that are actually good
And we agree on about 30%
Earlier I started listening to
A random album on Spotify
Which had 12 songs
But was only 16 minutes long
Every minute might be
The gateway to some mini-masterpiece
But maybe 70% of the day leads to pure schlock
I’m willing to fuck up the majority of an hour
Writing even the foulest shit is a special superpower
Alex, I love the relationship in this poem…to Quaid, to Damian, to poetry. I love how it’s not the product that’s important but the process…the glue that holds people and words together.
I had not even thought of this movie in a loooong time, and then your lines brought me right back into Martin Short’s brain (not sure I wanna be there, in that crazy mind, but here I am …)
🙂
It makes me feel a little like
Dennis Quaid in Innerspace
Getting a little taste of
Martin Short’s brain
Kevin
Wow, this brought back memories of “DIY zines” and all the “poets” doing their best. I love the way your poem moves in time, across centuries and back again.
Every stinkin’ day I open up the challenge, my first reaction is, “oh. I can’t do that one.” LOL. And then, I pull out my notebook and start writing words or ideas and soon I’m opening my laptop to type faster than I can write.
A junk journal is a recycled book filled with collage art. I’ve been making them during the pandemic. Making helps with anxiety! AND–get this! Today’s poem on The Slowdown with Tracy Smith is a praise poem! So, I used the skeleton of that poem to write this one.
In Praise of a Junk Journal
In praise of weeded books: yellowed pages. Wise
words for readers moved on or gone. Pen and ink
illustrations. Art I can make in a new way. Praise
the endpapers, faded – still elegant adornment.
Removed from shelves and circulation. My scissors cut
and trim chapters into strips to frame a new page,
using margins and line spacing as a straight edge, guide:
what was junk becoming a treasure.
Farewell outdated copyright, hardcovers spoiled by rain
Hello! Transplanted print. Meet my paintbrush
distressed ink pad and mod podge. In my studio
we rearrange and take shape in new ways.
No need to conform to metric or template. Each spread
from ditch to edge is it’s own. A palette
of my own making with recovered headings and hues.
A bit of poem here – a slice of map there and wow
this old encyclopedia illustration fits it.
As I’ve cut and brushed and pieced and polished
no thoughts of the world have interrupted
I am an artist up to my elbows in junk
and I love it.
This is so great. I’m inspired to start my own junk journal. I recently made a collage for the first time since I was probably a little kid, and it felt so good! It is a form of stress relief…and there’s nothing like turning something old into something new!
Hi Linda, another reason I love this community of teacher/writers is because I always find new resources to devour. I never knew about The Slowdown. Love Tracy Smith and went right to the podcast to subscribe.
Your junk journal sounds fun! I may need to sit with the idea of starting a new kind of journal too. Thank you! Awakening my mind to new inspirations.
Your poem’s artistic beauty jumps off the page. I can see you crafting and bringing what was junk into your new priceless treasures.
My favorite part:
Don’t we all need our thoughts of the world to be interrupted! My heart lights up on the last two lines.
You are a talented artist in so many ways! Thank you, Linda.
I love the words spilling over (like ink, like thoughts, like toes on the edge of the cliff) and how it all works together so nicely, like phrases stuffed into a favorite notebook …
we rearrange and take shape in new ways
Kevin
Linda, thank you for this and the inspiration of a varied art form. I can’t stop thinking of it as a “remix” journal. I haven’t created a collage in a while and my first thought is the limited magazines, texts, etc. that I have or don’t have. I might start saving junk mail for this purpose and encourage my kids to create too.
I love art journaling, collage, playing with colors, and I love that you wrote about your junk journal, Linda! I feel such joy in how you express your creativity.
Linda, each stanza touches a different one in different ways, but each is moved to respond with gratitude because you’ve been able to articulate how we feel some days. The lines for me today are
I am an artist up to my elbows in junk
and I love it.
My husband laughs at my office, but know I love it, junky and disorganized as it appears to him!
All may not see our “art”, but that’s okay!
Linda,
I love the art journaling you are doing! Repurposing is an amazing act of responsible stewardship, and using those items for creative expression is the using on the cake. Love this part best :
using margins and line spacing as a straight edge, guide:
what was junk becoming a treasure
Brian, thank you for a beautiful form today and for taking the time to inspire us as writers. Your blend of guitar strumming and surfing the waves brings waves of different sensory delights to the ear, to the eye, to the soul.
Let’s Tango!
back and forth in constant motion
Jean Foucault’s Pendulum
360 degrees every 24 hours
spinning earth and swinging cord dancing a tango
overhead a magnetic kick
replacing energy lost with each swing
52 foot cable, 240 pound ball
vertical and horizontal lines
a dance floor of circular movement
side by side, front to back, clockwise
counterclockwise, elliptical paths
motion making sense of the universe
spiritual dowsing
physical healing
inner peace
invisible energy
balancing chakras
cleansing divination
holistic healing
changing perspectives
influencing decisions
affirming actions
spawning growth
broadening horizons
back and forth in constant motion
the reader’s eye
foveal, parafoveal, peripheral visions
250 millisecond fixations
with intermittent spans of
7 to 9 letters right, 3 to 4 letters left
in lock-step moving-window paradigms
a rhythmic textual tango of
fixations and saccades, scanning
alphabets of right to left, left to right, up and down
neurological networks using syntax and semantics
motion making sense of life
Oh, wow. This is the kind of writing I aim for–blending seemingly unrelated things/ideas together. The fulcrum and the tango and the reading are in concert in this piece. I love the use of the words back and forth and motion. This poem moves. Well done.
The specifics here are the backbone for all the words that fall around them …. like a spine of language
Kevin
Kim,
I’m sitting here reading your poem with my busy scanning saccades imagining the fulcrum at work creating neurological highways in my brain. You made me think today, and I’m always amazed at all the poems that come each day of these open writes. Beautiful words!
Dearest G,
Leashed and guided by you, guilt
a conformity of our wills
I protest as you materialize, take control
a storm cloud lingering too long overhead
become accountable for your unwelcome
Your association and pleasures, guilt
act as a challenging void
my control, my role, stronger
you will no longer make one vulnerable
nor will we avoid your presence
The culpability of guilt, oh guilt
survey the broadness of your power
the privilege of guilt, non-examples of sins
no longer befriended by the guilty
no longer will I say your name
Stefani, the manipulation of guilt is debilitating – – what a needed topic you chose today. I can sure take plenty of this message – – “no longer will I say your name” is a great mantra for all of us to adopt as we begin to function with more limitations and need to resist the urge to compare our pre-Covid abilities with those we now have. Thank you!
I like in that last stanza how you take back the blaming power from guilt.
“No longer will I say your name”
Good for you. Powerful poem.
Stefani, I smile reading your poem that begins with “Dearest G” then on to the line where you describe it anything but “dear”! Then, in these lines, you make your declaration of independence,
you will no longer make one vulnerable
nor will we avoid your presence
Though guilt may show up from time to time, you refuse to be bound by it.
Good for you!
All praise
to the shortened pencil,
the powerless point
with which to write,
scratching small poems and
stories, essays and plays,
sticking words on white
All praise
to the worn eraser,
telling time of thoughts,
such lost angles and false
prophets of ideas, shifting
compass of directions;
reconvene, writer, when lost
All praise
to the empty page,
playground of the possible,
and pause before its wonder,
for where nothing was
now something is,
move the rock to find what’s under
(I do find myself writing about writing quite often ….)
Kevin
I appreciate the pattern within your ode – the repeated placement of metaphors. These lines strike me most: the powerless point, telling time of thoughts, playground of the possible. Concocting something from nothing does feel like moving a rock often. Some days are heavier than others.
Kevin,
What if you wrote a poem about meta-writing:) I appreciate the lines, “powerless point” and “sticking words on white” because they bring me to a place of physical writing versus typing. And the “playground of the possible” is also a fabulous descriptor of the potential of writing. Thank you for sharing.
I love this! I also enjoy writing about writing. Very soothing.
Kevin, I have never thought of an eraser as a false prophet of ideas…..until you. Your brain has fascinated me all week, the way you think about things and the way you articulate your thoughts. I hope you hide your erasers and let the prophecies flow freely. You are a master of words.
some mornings, my brain is a jumping bug … thank you for the kind words …
Kevin, writing about writing clearly works well for you! This is an incredible piece and so very relevant for my writing lately. I completely adore the alliteration and word choices here:
I really enjoyed this poem and found myself thinking that maybe I should try writing with a pencil sometimes. ?
Staceeeeyyyyy! (She whines.) Those were the lines I was going to quote!
Okay, I’ll make it a refrain for Kevin.
All praise
to the empty page,
playground of the possible,
and pause before its wonder,
These monthly challenges evoke such praise for the opportunity to write and for the joy of reading the work of others. We play when we write and again we see how other make our minds play as we seek the words to express our responses.
Thanks!
It’s a lovely topic, Kevin! The magic of pencil, eraser, and empty paper allures all of us. Some of my favorite phrases are “sticking words on white” and “playground of possibility” — actually that whole last stanza is a delight., “pausing before its wonder” and moving the rock. I feel spoken to in your poem today.