Today’s writing inspiration comes from Linda Mitchell. Linda is a family girl, Teacher Librarian and poet. She taught in western New York State apple country, outskirts of Athens, Greece and now serves as a Teacher Librarian in Northern Virginia. Linda is a prompt hound who loves a challenge to write in new and interesting ways. She blogs weekly at A Word Edgewise for Kidlitosphere’s Poetry Friday.
Inspiration
Every February, poet-author, Laura Shovan, shares thirty poetry prompts to celebrate her birthday month. Each birthday month participant provides a unique prompt per day around a theme chosen by Laura. This year’s theme was “Water” which became such a celebrated collection of prompts that it grew into a Poetry Month Project which you can find at Laura’s blog: https://laurashovan.com/2020/03/waterpoemproject-introduction/
Process
One prompt I loved was ‘Small Fictions’ offered by Teacher Dance blogger, Linda Baie: Look at writing a poem as a small fiction, based on facts, but not necessarily true. Begin with an event or situation that happened in real life.
My friend showed up late for a dinner date — I didn’t understand why. As I was pulling on my coat and boots in another room, I called out questions about why she was late. As it turned out, she got pulled over by the police. But, as you can see in this small fiction, my friend became “Winter” and I embellished with personification to make my poem a small fiction that feels true, and I hope a little funny to readers.
What’s something that’s happened to you that you can turn into a small fiction? Turn it into a poem. I used free verse…but you may use any form you wish. Add metaphor or simile…make a character come alive!
Linda’s Poem
Winter finally showed up.
She’s out back
one snowy knee folded
up over the other
in my Adirondack chair.
She’s late because Autumn drove
–got pulled over for speeding.
Didn’t know Autumn’s license was revoked
which resulted in a ticket
and the delay.
Fortunately, there were mints
In the glovebox.
Winter’s not starving yet.
Where’s Autumn now?
Jail! Winter shrieked.
She called Summer to bail her out.
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.
A Night for Counting Bats
We sit in lawn chairs at dusk
facing the house where
origami fold of gable to gable
has loosened a shingle.
We suspect the neighborhood’s
furry flying mammals
are using this secret passage
to secure precious mothering habitat.
How sweet.
Egads.
At 8:45 a darkening at the fold
then one,
2, 3, 4…
black darts of energy
zip across the smokey sky.
Eighteen,
19, 20, 21…
We have read that each
mama bat is,
during this protected
maternal season,
likely tending two bat babies
smaller than gumdrops.
Thirty-two,
33, 34, 35…
They are now
en force
not unlike
the high school football team
breaking through
the locker room door.
They scatter onto the field
announcing their
sheer physicality:
we are here
we are to be reckoned with.
We the fans (?) applaud their numbers:
Fifty
51, 52, 53…
We cheer
as these speedsters of the night
decimate the bugs of the night sky.
Then we shudder
as they return to the secret passage
at the fold of the roof
whispering the secret password
for re-admittance:
guano.
I am laughing and loving this. It’s easy to read how in awe you are but theres the gothic/horror element that bats give most people too that is present–a strange balance that you give perfectly! I love how you play it off with humor– “How sweet/Egads” so that the first one is sincere and sarcastic; we question: are we fans or not, watching in joy and horror?; the last line: is it the password or our ultimate reaction of defeat, our weakness, and fear (well, poop)?–the reader struggles with the sublime at this moment.
I wrote a paper on Gothic Humor for my masters several years ago and this…is just a stellar example!
Good morning Allison, I came back to read what I missed last night, and Lord knew not to let me read about bats before bedtime. I have a terrible fear of birds, and double the fear of bats! OMG, I am not even able to dig in to understand more of your poem because I’ll take it to my soul and dream of bats tonight. ???
So without looking back and pulling my favorite lines because of the beauty of your writing, I love the bravery and your willingness (eagerness) to watch them, count them, and marvel at the same time. I hope your home is bat-free. THE END. ???
From the pages of a book
I shared the story of Roxaboxen with you.
A story rich with imagination.
Where stones became walls
and it didn’t matter that we’d never seen ocotillo.
Below the playground you and your friends
began to construct your world with rock edges.
Days grew an imaginative world –
a product of your attention.
Talk filled the air as you and your friends
arranged rocks and other treasures
available to your third grade lives.
A world brought to life with easily found objects.
The focus of each recess
roles were assumed.
A world became inhabited through the
imaginations of eight year olds.
Simplicity, imagination, attention helped pass the time.
A hillside outlined in rocks.
Filled with an array of objects
and busy children.
Jamie, I’m familiar with that book! I love the story you told with this poem. Excellent visuals.
Day’s End
By: Emily Yamasaki
It’s the kind of Thursday that
Really feels it needs to be a Friday
The last of the lager sends its
Little bubbles down my throat
I ease off the couch like I’m
Fifty pounds heavier and
Open the frig door for a second round
“Another one… really?”
Finn crosses one brindle paw over the other
I roll my eyes and twist off the cap
One large gulp, looking dead into his brown eyes
A sigh escapes the flaps of his snout as
He lays his head to rest on his paw
I think: even at the end of the day
I’m signing off with judgements from the dog
Good morning Emily,
I missed your poem last night, don’t judge me for going to bed before 9:30 during summer break ??, I had one too many glasses of wine in addition to ice cream and potato chips! If I had a dog, imagine the judgment??!!
I love the easy flow of your poem up until Fin offers his questioning judgment. Then I’m justifying your second round and hoping you’ll go in for a 3rd! So much to love about your poem. I hope you rested well!
?
Small Fictions (A Rejection)
There was a castle
in my back yard
and we raced
up the sides
trying to see who could
climb
the fastest
which became
the highest
and then became
who could
j u m p!
from that height
without fear
and land
with giggles
and no broken bones
We still race each other
now
building castles
and walls of our own
but the race
isn’t fun
anymore
and there’s no
jumping–
just the fear
of falling
and the brokenness
that comes after
we land
and instead of
my giggling
at the bottom,
you giggle from the top
When and where did
we learn
that jumping and falling
meant failure
rather than courage?
I remember when falling
was flying
and we did it together
hand in hand.
And when did we
unlearn
a helping hand,
yours in mine
saying we could do it
together?
When did
“I beat you!”
turn into bruises?
I live in a castle now
that I built with my own
two hands
just as you live in yours,
but the biggest
story I ever told was that
this one
is better than
the one
we played in
together.
“When and where did
we learn
that jumping and falling
meant failure
rather than courage?”
What a great sentiment. This poem is powerful. I love how you used “the biggest story…” in the final stanza to honor the childhood relationship.
Wonderful. Thank you.
Wow, Andrea! Your poem just blew me away. I had to scroll back up to reread it. I love this story of castles, your way with words and lines told this story so beautifully. Thank you for sharing it with all of us.
This poem is amazing, Andrea, and the third stanza – WOW! You captured something that I’ve long felt but haven’t been able to put into words. When did everything become a competition? Why does one person always have to be better/stronger/faster?
Good morning Andrea,
Wow you knocked this one out of the park! Glad I came back to see what I missed last night. I read this first as children growing up together. Then I read it as lovers or spouses in love and growing apart. It’s my own rotten marriage filter coming through.
This resonated all too well with me:
When did
“I beat you!”
turn into bruises?
Blew me away.
Then this part:
“and the brokenness
that comes after
we land
and instead of
my giggling
at the bottom,
you giggle from the top”
My heart hurts because it’s the mean-spirited taunting that hurts for such a long time. I really can’t shake this poem, well done Andrea!
Andrea, when did we learn indeed? I enjoyed going on that journey with you. You reminded me of my childhood tree climbs…. Thank you!
Flying
It was a sunny day
in the month of May
She was five
never felt more alive
The tablecloth her cape
There was no escape
Without an ounce of fear
Her dream was near
She raced up the stairs
And breathed in the fresh air
She stood on the ridge
About to jump off the bridge
She started getting numb
The time had come
She wished for a rope
But all she had was hope
As she looked down
Her smile became a frown
She stared at the tiny plants
What if she peed in her pants?
The sun was bright
Suddenly it felt right
The wind flowing through her hair
She didn’t have a care
The trees started to sway
And with no delay
She took the leap
It wasn’t too steep
She was flying
And she was smiling
And to her surprise
She was not crying
This reminds me of … but what if you fly? Bravo you for rhyming! I love that table cloth…best cape ever!
Monica,
I enjoyed your rhyme and the timeless connection through your words. I love the juxtaposition of peeing in her pants and didn’t have a care. Thank you for sharing this memory today.
What a lovely, fun, pixisish poem – I loved it!!!!!
Monica! I love the gentle and innocent imagery you paint here with such a warm, golden glow! It rings so simple and pure, just like the happy child. Thank you for sharing.
Only Some Truths
It started with the ocean in my ears,
a mounting murmur of chaotic whispers
pleading for help, and I dreamed
a scarlet tattoo that moved in waves across my body
Told the healer about the rushing ocean,
and the obsidian speck in my eye,
that left my vision unfocused,
told her my skin had boils, pus-filled,
oozing boils that I couldn’t stop piercing
with my isopropyl dipped needle
told her the neighbor’s feline was devouring my hair,
strand by strand and there was my mutating tattoo …
The healer said close your eyes and
take these pills, it will cure your ailments real and imagined
“But,” I cried “my insurance won’t cover the blues ones …”
“Leave, if you don’t like America!” the healer spat.
But I couldn’t live my love
So the ocean roars a dynamo,
rushing and bursting into cataclysmic pops
until I hear nothing more and nothing less
I taste salt spray on my parched lips,
wipe Neptune’s tears from my cheeks,
and in the periphery of warped vision
I spy the neighbor’s feline
coughing up silver strands
of my Medusa hair
Wow…strong fantasy vibe in this. The feeling of fear written so well with the images of sickness and incomprehension. I like the use of color in this the red, the blue the silver. And, I’m always happy with a nod to the Greek gods.
…”oozing boils” and “cataclysmic pops”–wow, the imagery and sensual connections you make in this poem are great. Thank you for sharing this twist of a poem.
Tammi,
I am wowwed. The strength of your language, imagery, and STORY grabbed me by the throat. You just held up to me the power and force of a confident poet. You are my newest role model. Thank you.
A Tribute to Fathers doing Daughters’ Hair
He tried to part her hair for two ponytails.
Using his fingers took way too long.
Daughter said, “Daddy, use a rat-tail comb like Mommy does.”
He got it and tried to use the tip but he was a little inept.
Callie, the comb said,” No, no, no. I’m too skinny
for all this beautiful course hair. You need my sister,
Wide tooth Wanda.”
Daddy looked at his watch, Willie, impatiently, who
said, “I told you to get up earlier but you wouldn’t
let go of the pillow.”
Wide tooth Wanda told Daddy, “Go get some Blue Magic
and some water in a spray bottle. Then watch me work.
I’ll have you out of the door in under 10 minutes.”
Daddy and the wide tooth comb parted her hair,
smoothed it down and put it into three braids.
Daughter smiled and gave Daddy a huge hug.
They turned to leave and Willie the watch yelled out,
“Don’t forget her lunch bag! ”
Willie later mumbled, “What would he do without me?”
This is such a beautiful story. I love the tender tone of this piece, and so glad daddy got it right.
Seana,
This is such a clever, fun poem. You do a wonderful job offering visuals of a father struggling to part his daughter’s hair. Seeing men tend to their little girls this way melts my heart. I have no memory of my father ever touching my hair or my sister’s curly locks. Your poem makes me feel as though we missed out. I love the dialogue and think both your poem and Maureen’s would make wonderful picture books. Clever names, too, especially Wide tooth Wanda! Thank you for a delightful narrative poem.
—Glenda
Seana, I’m so sorry for my typo in your name. I can’t find the edit option!
I went in through admin to fix it — sorry, I don’t know where the edit feature went with this latest blog update.
a warm, cozy poem. The personification lends whimsy, and the love is apparent. I hope there is a little girl who will love this poem as much as I do!
Your poem reminded me of my daughter’s first day if preschool. I was at work and her dad had to get her ready. When I saw the photo…let’s just say he tried his best. It’s a precious moment captured in a photograph. Priceless.
D.E.L.I.G.H.T.F.U.L. Such a tender moment in the voice of the age. And, that playful last line wraps it all up in a bow. A wonderful poem.
So fun, your personified implements remind me of Beauty and the Beast. What a fun way for a child to remember her father trying to do his daughter’s hair. And Inept is the perfect word. My partner helped me braid my hair one morning; I was dressing up like Frida Kahlo. I still remember how gently he worked with my hair. There’s love in these moments. We need to remember that.
In the middle of his swim,
Making laps along the shore,
Papa saw he wasn’t alone,
There were dolphins by the score.
He began to swim away
Wanting to let them be,
When one lifted him up, and
Dropped him right into the sea.
Papa sank deep down under,
came back up with a sputter,
the dolphin just smiled,
clapping his fins with a flutter.
Papa, astonished, said,
“Wait, you did that for fun?”
The dolphin explained,
“You seemed a lonely one.”
So began a friendship,
A playful one at that,
The two would meet daily
When Papa swam his laps.
When you are given the chance
To befriend someone new
Try kindness and laughter,
Plus an open point of view.
My father once shared a story about a dolphin brushing up against him, when he was out swimming in the ocean. I feel as if I changed it into a fable for children!
What a great message. Love the joy that is spread in this piece.
Maureen,
indeed, your poem is a fable. I love the playfulness and the cadence, which replicated the ocean sounds. I can see this lyric as a picture book. The last stanza is my favorite. We can’t go wrong w/ kindness and laughter. Thank you.
—Glenda
This would be a beautiful children’s book! If I could illustrate, I would begin today. But I can only admire…
So wonderful! The language is playful and light and inviting. Papa and the Dolphin needs to grow into a book!
Maureen, what a great message! Even as he tries to be respectful of their space, his respect grants him a place in that community. I think that is an important message, especially when paired with “try kindness and laughter/plus an open point of view.” Allow people to be and you will find yourself being with people.
Thank you!
This poem was magical, Maureen. I love the way the lines seemed playful in their beat and rhyme. These lines really sank into my heart: Papa, astonished, said,
“Wait, you did that for fun?”
The dolphin explained,
“Tik Tok Tulsa”
Somewhere in cyberspace
Forced air spiraled
Forming a funnel much like
Dorthy’s twister.
Turning and turning this
Widening gyre swooped & swirled
Through Tulsa’s tornado alley,
Scooping the unsuspecting
Petri-dish of people into its
Windy world, lifting and separating
Onlookers from tik-tok ticket holders,
One million Zoomers
Who Pranked the POTUS.
A fiction forms in a scorched earth
Tornado of untruths. Parscale
Points his Twitter curser
Accusingly at protesters exercising
Their right to peaceably assemble.
“These mobs have taken over our country,”
A single soul dragged from the Bok,
One arrest amid a chorus of empty blue seats, invisible activists assemble online.
Ninety minutes of fiction punctuate a Kryon call to test less. Six positives
Advance the mythology:
“You’ll have fewer cases.”
Tulsans take shelter as the sirens wail.
—Glenda Funk
Glenda, I seriously wrestled with writing something about this very thing! Loved the TikTok story … and love what you did with this. That first stanza with all its whirling words about tornadoes – so awesome…it sweeps you up as you read it, honestly, I felt the motion as I read it. I love that this ‘small fiction poem’ is a pun, really – his ninety minutes of fiction!!
Gotta love Generation Z for pulling that one over on our POTUS! Your lines: “A fiction forms in a scorched earth /Tornado of untruths” — untruths really do feel overwhelming like a tornado. Your poem really brings to light so many issues that plague our nation.
Well-said!!! I really enjoy your analogies and creative connections! I think this would go viral on social media!
I thought about writing a current events poem, but couldn’t find the words. You did. Thank you! You summed up my joy in today’s events!
Love this. I just love this. I love that what twitter is calling a prank is actually activism by our young generation. I love how the campaign manager is now facing the fiction of the night. It’s all fun and games until that last line which underlines the tragedy of the whole ridiculous rally.
Glenda,
You are brilliant and witty–this is a fabulous way to end my day. I love the immediacy of the content and to play off the trickery of what went down. I love the “petri-dish of people, “tornado of untruths,” and “Twitter curser.” Thank you for this!
I love the Yeatsian style of your poem.
When my brother realized his age. The Ugly Truth
Leaning over the counter,
she began a small conversation with him,
full of nuance
and innuendo.
Flirtatious –
“Did’ja miss me?”, she asks.
Grinning like a fool,
he wondered,
Is this an offer?
Does she want to come closer?
And so he responds
as any 28-year-old man would,
flirtatious and inviting.
“What are you doing,
“What are you saying?,”
the older woman asks him.
What did I do?, he genuinely wonders.
“She is 23 and you are 65!
Do you want to be known
as a dirty old man?”
Shocked, he looks around
at the women his own age,
and realizes he couldn’t bed his own grandma.
Like a hot frying pan smack into the face,
perspective comes calling.
He doesn’t like it either.
What a great poem for a small fiction…such a fiction in this. That hot frying pan…gosh, it hurts!
I so apprecuate the art metaphor here as how your father saw the field as his canvas and you his paint brushes.
Everyone was in the living room
After Tump’s visit
Riveted to the television
Talking about the small crowd
Happy to see peaceful demonstrations
Quite counter to what we expected
Unleashing our held breath
Actually I thought it was just me
KOTV reported we all shook.
Earthquake.
Katrina, I felt that earthquake. It was my first ever. I love how you use it a literal and figurative here.
I meant Trump. Can’t figure out how to edit after submission.
The comment platform updated,and now the edit button is missing. Still troubleshooting that feature.
Thank you for your comment and for all you do to make this work for us.
This is a gem….hold onto this. Someday, it will explain a lot!
Katrina, I also felt like I was holding my breath. Your concise poem describes so many layers of emotion in this experience. Beautiful!
Not It!
I remain voluntarily sheltered-in-place.
Refusing to play “Tag” with COVID-19.
COVID is “It”, but he doesn’t play fair.
He keeps changing the rules.
I’m not going to argue.
He won’t conceded anyway.
I’ll just stay on “Home Base” where it’s safe.
Donnetta, I so appreciate the playful lead into this poem with the pronouns and personifying of the game maker here. And love the pun with “home base.”
I enjoyed the light tone of this poem. It is so easy to fall into depression under these circumstances but I love the way you make the best of the situation.
Donnetta—love the personification, the game, and “home base”. I was always a base-hugger in the game—and I have been so in this game, as well.
Perfect. Covid does NOT play fair…and you playfully, artfully don’t engage in verse. I love this!
Just a note about edits. This commenting platform had an update, and now the “edit” feature in the comments is “missing” even though I have it set to allow you all to edit your comments and such. Sorry for the frustration. I am trouble shooting it.
Thanks for your patience, friends.
Teddy
I once owned a cat named Teddy
Or rather he owned me
He showed up asking for food one day
And simply decided that he would stay
He was orange and white
Fluffy but fierce
He lived to be one hundred and one
A feisty soul, a loving friend, lost his spark and fun
He visits me in my dreams sometimes
Healthy and proud once again
He whispers to me that he’s all right
Still on the prowl and full of fight
Sharon, that idea of nine lives and the cat living on – on the prowl and full of fight, reassuring you that he is all right – that’s precious! Teddy – the cat of your dreams!
What a special cat…and to keep Teddy alive this way is wonderful…love that “still on the prowl and full of fight.”
I love this poem. Pets are the best. I love how your worded the first stanza to indicate Teddy picked you…”rather he owned me” “and simply decided he would stay”. I think are pets really do pick us, rather than the other way around.
So tender…the way the poem brings you alongside one another once again and in a state of health and pride.
I love how you wrote he owned you. Isn’t that so true? Our pets do so much more for us then we could ever do for them. My dog, Freyja, has me trained. She gets her way all the time.
I love your lines – or rather he owned me, lived to be one hundred and one, visits my dreams . . . whispers to me that he’s all right –
I love my cat which came to me when my younger daughter was 16 – she went to college and the cat stayed – he definitely owns me – I’ve never considered his years so succinctly and he was gone for four months one summer into fall – you leave me wondering if he will return to me in my dreams when he’s no longer here to soil a litter box –
beautiful description
He’s looking at me. She’s looking at him.
Now, he’s looking at her. Now, she’s looking at me.
He’s good looking and so is she.
Are they a couple? Are they together?
I need to know, so I can know whether
That’s a look to return or a man to flee.
He’s smiling at me. She’s smiling at him.
Now, he’s smiling at her. Now she’s frowning at me.
He’s nodding; she’s nodding. Do they now agree?
I need to know, so I can know whether
That’s a look to return or a woman to flee.
He’s walking toward me. She’s walking with him.
They’re walking together. It’s that a good sign or bad?
“Hello!” he says grasping her hand in her hand.
“Hello! Are you Anna? We saw you up in the band!
“Your brother texted my sister and me take you to stand
With you by road until he comes. Wow, you were rad!”
Whew, I thought! That was close. I was ready to wink.
Still, I’m glad I took time to think. This could have been a stink!
But it wasn’t. At first, what did you think?
This is wonderful! All the thoughts that pass through…aren’t we glad we don’t act on them?? Love the story, love the cadence…
That line should read,
“Hello!” he says grasping her hand in his hand.
For some reason, wasn’t able to edit when I saw my oversight.
What a perfect story for a small fiction…all those questions in the space of less than a few seconds. Wow. You really had me anticipating something. And, what a great ending…with a question!
Such a gifted storyteller, Anna and with your signature dialogue. The pronouns add such mystery and alert readers to the danger of making assumptions.
Loved your poem – loved the story – loved your rhythm — it reminded me of a song from the early 60’s — so full of life I can touch it.
I love how we are brought in as a third party witness to the interaction ….and the slow confusion that becomes clarity
Kevin
A quick kiss and he is off,
a spirited trot toward River Liffey
for our lime green Fiat rental.
I set my pack on the hotel bench,
examine our route to Dingle,
sip hospitality tea.
Church bells chime.
Three funerals and a wedding,
an uncle’s heart,
a father’s heart,
a mother’s last breath,
a promise till death.
We’ve come to emerald isle
for the honeymoon we missed
for the luck that seemed to skip
my Irish lad.
Church bells chime.
Tea residue sticks to
porcelain on the curves of
my cup. An hour has passed
since I’ve seen my love.
The bell hop reassures me
one way streets and turns
in Dublin are tricky for
Americans
Church bells chime.
No cell service.
I have his ID, our passports.
No calls for me, says
the front desk.
Church bells chime.
How will the police find me?
What will I tell our families?
Another loved lost–
robbed at Castle parking,
left for dead in Temple Bar,
floating under Ha’penny Bridge.
Lime green Fiat honks.
I am not sure how to respond to the poems today knowing that there is fiction involved.
This is a dramatization of our first day in Dublin almost 20 years ago. We spent our first year of marriage taking care of my mother-in-law who suffered with ALS. Indeed, our families had suffered a lot of loss that year, and this trip to Dublin was our delayed honeymoon. We had stayed in Dublin one night before heading out on our self-guided tour of the country. We had to park our car a mile from the hotel. Dan went to get the car but did not return after an hour, two hours. He was lost — not assaulted. This was when there were no cell phones or Google maps. I was so sure he died and was already thinking about how I’d get his body back to the U.S. — we just had so much death, that was the only place my brain could go.
Sarah, you took us with you in that poem, just the way good fiction writers, do! Thanks, though, for explaining that though based on a real event, the end was not as sad as in the poem. I’m sure, it was the real emotions that infused this poem, and that a good place to put them.
Thanks for sharing with us, both the poem and the explanation.
I was there with you, as anxious as you were. A sigh of relief at the happy ending. “Lime green Fiat honks” Thank heavens…
Thank God you told us how the story really ended, Sarah! I was in tears. Tragedy and trauma can truly alter our lives. I’m still dealing with PTSD after my house flooded in a hurricane in 2017. What a powerful piece of writing!
Traveling without cell phones or GPS seems on par with traveling by horse and wagon. How did we survive? I can relate to your anxious speaker.
I like the way you insinuate the color green into the poem.
The repetition of “Church bells chime” is effective in getting me to pause in this piece. The lime green fiat is a neat clasp closing the loop of this story. What a scary feeling…and a sobering to be wondering about death already. Even if it’s not a small fiction…it’s quite a narrative poem.
Wow – this is really tough, not knowing what is real and what is fiction. I feel so saddened by all the tragic loss in this poem, and it is heightened with the soft repeating of “Church bells chime” – these three words toll like a bell.
Sarah, you and I write at different times of the day. I usually respond to the latecomers like myself, since they may not receive much feedback. Tonight I intentionally searched for your poem, and I was well rewarded.
On my first reading I copied this stanza:
Three funerals and a wedding,
an uncle’s heart,
a father’s heart,
a mother’s last breath,
a promise till death.
Then this:
“porcelain on the curves of
my cup”
Your attention to image and sound provide mentor text for a great mini-lesson on “Why Sound Matters.”
Your blending of dream and reality was powerful and effective for me.
Thank you!
Allison
The fiction element is both interesting and confusing … I agree … I want to note here that the use of the repeating church bells is wonderful, giving the poem rhythm and building towards the suspense of the unknown ….. I might even add the ‘church bells chime’ line one more time at the end (that’s just me, though)
Note—. I’m trying this on a different platform. Let’s see if the breaks stay in place now.
The Sands-Hotel for Mice and Friends
The mice came to visit
They couldn’t resist it
Coming in to get out of the cold.
The cats just ignored them.
The mice seemed to bore them.
After time, the issue grew old.
Have-a-heart traps were set out
Catch/release a bailout
The vegetarians agreed
That the mice should be freed…
No harm to the mice.
The traps would suffice
And satisfy all those involved.
The mice would be gone.
And the line would be drawn.
Our mouse-plague would be solved.
The mice entered in
To the clear plastic bin
To eat peanut butter and cheese.
In the morn they were ejected
Their health was protected
We carried them out to the trees.
But they kept on returning
Obviously learning
That the Sands-house was a good deal.
Included in their vacation
Was food and transportation.
Who wouldn’t take up such a steal?
Somewhere in the field
A mouse-agent, Lucille
Was making a fortune in travel.
Selling trips to rodents
Promising golden moments
A mouse-couple chance for revival.
The Sands-Hotel defined
Mouse-pitality refined.
We finally decided to end it.
No more new guests
We were finished with pests
Our welcome completely expended.
The problem ended
By rides more extended.
Farther and farther away.
Lucille finally retired,
Her income expired.
No more Sands-Hotel holidays.
(No mice were injured in the writing of this poem. Honest.)
Gayle Sands, June 2020
Gayle, this is delightful! I was smiling as I read it. So many cute images, but I think my favorite is Lucille, the travel agent.
I love your rhyme. This poem reminds of the halted trips to Disney because of Covid. You write, “Their health was protected.” I enjoyed the playful word choice!
Oh, I loved this, Gayle! It would make an awesome children’s book, I think! So playful. I love all the imaginings of the mice and cat feelings!
Heat
What is it about the 90 degree mark
that turns a sunny day into a fire
burning you through to the bone?
They didn’t speak in the heat;
Their brains thirsty, wrung out
beyond droplets of sweat,
couldn’t fathom anything worthy of speaking.
He handed her the phone,
clicked play on a video of animal faces,
noses in particular, that made her smile
despite herself. She didn’t bother
to ask why.
Humor finds its way into the cracks
of relationship, beneath the surface
of burning skin to release toxins
from the crease of a smile.
Margaret, your sensory tactile images nearly made me stop reading and go get a cup of ice-water. Glad I stayed and enjoyed the smile in the final lines. “release toxins from the crease of a smile.”
ooooh, what a surprise in that ending…releasing toxins from the creases of a smile. So sharp and true. Love this small fiction. It rings true.
As I read this poem, the first two stanza made me think of a couple who had had a disagreement (his fault) – “They didn’t speak in the heat”, and in the last two stanzas he is using humor to get her to speak to him again. Great poem.
Ahhh, the healing power of humor! You used such great words to depict the heat of the day, I felt as if I was right there.
Surprise Under the Log
It was hot and we were tired
Down across the creek, in the bottom land
Surrounded by nature
Walking across the sticky, squishy,
Marshy ground
We were supposed to be cleaning up after the bulldozer
Removing all the chunks from the field so the plow wouldn’t get clogged up
Our farmer father was waiting for the new open field to be his latest canvas
To harbor and richly nurture the seeds of the virgin crop
“I can’t pick up one more chunk of wood”
Still arguing with my younger brother,
I start pick up one…still grumbling
“This one is too big!”
“I can’t do it by myself!”
“HELP me please!”
“OK just a minute!” he yells
Together with all our might we lifted that might oak log!
When all of a sudden,
Scattering quickly in every direction were the shoestring babies…
Cottonmouths!!!!!
We ran screaming all the way back to the truck!
When I close my eyes still today I see them and a chill runs down my spine!
How quickly our argument went by the wayside and we ran away united by fear!
This is a poem of truth not fiction! We spent many days helping our father on the farm! On this Father’s Day I thank him for all he taught us, provided for us and the special memories we share! Much love Daddy!!!
Susan – Such a wonderful tribute…well, minus creepy snakes! LOL! But seriously, the memory is so rich, the kids jabbering about the chore, and the sweat of the hard work. It helps us appreciate a dad’s hard work so close to the earth. I remember plenty of cottonmouths and copperheads, so the real sense of scattering to get away is so clear. I really like the Father’s Day element today. Loved your poem. “…the latest canvas…”. Good stuff. Thank you for posting your memory. Susie
Oh, Susan, what a sweet story of work on the farm with your dad and brother.
There was another moment of unity in your poem. I love this line too, that even with the arguing, you were proud of this moment:
I also liked the description of shoestring baby cottonmouths scattering in every direction. That does sound terrifying.
I have a child-born fear of snakes under a log. I lift everything outside with trepidation. I love how the fear unites you and your brother. Our stories, our true stories are always as good as fiction!
Ack! I just about screamed reading this. Fact IS stranger than fiction sometimes. What a rough job for kids! Yuck! I would hate that kind of chore. Please tell me you and your brother still talk about this story sometimes. Your line about Dad’s newest canvas is breathtaking. I hope you take that line for another poem someday. If not, can I use it?
How quickly the feeling in your poem changed at the start of the final stanza. I gasped. I was reminded of a walk to the beach late afternoon with my brothers. I was last; I’d stopped to pull a sticker from my foot. As I approached the board walk I saw a rattle snack poised to strike.
Though we knew what to expect as adult readers, you helped us imagine this scene through the eyes of a child. The way the experience united the children is so true to human nature. I can see them laughing about it later on.
Love this:
“Walking across the sticky, squishy,
Marshy ground”
for the sensory image — my feet sticking in the mud of the poem
Kevin
Linda, your poem does sound true, and it did make me laugh. My favorite line was when Winter shrieks that Autumn is in jail now. It’s going to take Summer some months before she is able to bail her out. Clever story you told here. I told a Father’s Day story. It’s not all fiction.
A Gift from My Father
The water flowed through the pipes today
Thanks to your work at LADWP
You gave me a suitcase when you
Left us and died too young
Sadly there is no more ice water
in paper cone cups
the water and cups
left over from your day as foreman
I, the self-appointed water supervisor,
led the crowd over
after our game of Mother, May I?
“line up for ice water”
opened the steel door and always found
the five-gallon, heavy-duty metal cooler,
confined in it’s space,
solid and steady,
still half full of water and ice
I dispensed lavishly, but always
maintained control
for the neighborhood kids
They all knew it was better than the hose
The suitcase couldn’t keep ice
But it’s full of water and power
Electrified rainwater and tears
Power to make it
Power to take control
even when I was
a broken baby bird
A gift of water and power
A message from you:
Be careful not to electrocute
yourself and others
Oh, my. Denise….what a day to write this. Gosh, a suitcase…and water. Never would I have been able to spin this story poem together. It’s really beautiful. I love “Electrified rainwater” the most. I don’t know why. It’s just a vivid image to me. Those neighborhood kids sure were lucky.
Linda—you are making me sweat with these prompts! Again, I had to did deep for an idea. Love the challenge and your mentor poem. Keep up the good work!
The Sands-Hotel for Mice and Friends
The mice came to visit
They couldn’t resist it
Coming in to get out of the cold.
The cats just ignored them.
The mice seemed to bore them.
After time, the issue grew old.
Have-a-heart traps were set out
Catch/release a bailout
The vegetarians agreed
That the mice should be freed…
No harm to the mice.
The traps would suffice
And satisfy all those involved.
The mice would be gone.
And the line would be drawn.
Our mouse-plague would be solved.
The mice entered in
To the clear plastic bin
To eat peanut butter and cheese.
In the morn they were ejected
Their health was protected
We carried them out to the trees.
But they kept on returning
Obviously learning
That the Sands-house was a good deal.
Included in their vacation
Was food and transportation.
Who wouldn’t take up such a steal?
Somewhere in the field
A mouse-agent, Lucille
Was a making a fortune in travel
Selling trips to rodents
Promising golden moments
A mouse-couple chance for revival.
The Sands-Hotel defined
Mouse-pitality refined.
We finally decided to end it.
No more new guests
We were finished with pests
Our welcome completely expended.
The problem ended
By rides more extended.
Farther and farther away.
Lucille finally retired,
Her income expired.
No more Sands-Hotel holidays.
(No mice were injured in the writing of this poem. Honest.)
Gayle Sands, June 2020
My breaks appear when I type the poem, and disappear when I submit. I am not seeing this in other poems, and t won’t let me edit to correct. Anybody have an idea how to correct this?
Gayle are you seeing the formatting tool bar at the bottom of the comment box? I wonder if it’s your connection or device that’s not giving you all the options. Do you see the B I U, for instance? Like in the picture I attached.
You could try a different browser or devise and see if you have the same issues.
No, I’m not. I’ll try a non- Chrome browser…
It worked! Guess Chrome was not my friend!
Gayle, that’s great! Glad it will work for you next time. 🙂
Gayle, this is so fun! Oh, my! I love imagining Lucille, the mouse travel agent raking in the profits from these lovely mousie vacations. You told an amazing story while you still did magic with the rhythm and rhyme. I don’t know much about poetry forms, but did you use a form or make it up with couplets and ABBA stanzas? (I know you tried, but I would like to see how you used breaks between the stanzas.) Thanks for telling your sweet story.
Gayle, I’m glad you got to edit your poem with the line breaks. It’s very effective. I see the rhyme scheme now.
Bwahahahahaha! My sil is dealing with this situation right now. She would love this. Oh, the detail, the love of the cute little devils, the transportation and fine dining. This is another poem I’d love to share with an illustrator. Lucille is a hot ticket, as my Grandma might say. Great read. Thanks!
On The School Bus with MatthewStacey L. Joy, © June 21, 2020
Last night
I watched Moonlight
For the second time
Needed a reminder
Of how much I adored Chiron
Cared so deeply for him
That he became
my former student
Matthew
In my dream
This morning
Kids teased and taunted him
Said he slept in the same bed
As his crackhead mama
His fear of bullies disabled his strength
So he ran and
Leaped onto the school bus
I ran too
To sit with him and hold his head
In the safety of arms
“Oh no,
The bus has left the school
And I shouldn’t be here.
Matthew, I have to get off,
But you’ll be alright.”
Never fails to amaze me
How I appear near my mother’s house
In so many of my dreams
“Bus driver, will you let me off
At the top of the hill?
I can call my mother from there
She lives closeby.”
(I’m now the child.)
The bus driver’s lips are moving
No sound. The Dream Effect.
Knowing I can’t get off the bus
Knowing my mother will never show up again
Knowing she’s been dead almost ten years
But today is her birthday
And she always comes to rescue me.
Happy 86th Birthday, Mommie! RIP
Stacey, your Mom lives on in your dreams and in your realities! Her legacy of protecting you reaches through your own arms and embraces your students! This is so touching!
Awe! I love the switch of you being the superhero to being the child, then Mommie always being your superhero! Beautiful picture, very special!
The imagery, your care for your student and the transition to revisiting the “home” where you were cared for was heartbreaking. Dream-Effect, indeed. I will revisit this again, Stacey.
Stacey — The Mommie dreams…they are so rich in the capacity to take us right to the love. It was fun to float through your dream with the student that needed the tenderness, and the heroics of “leaped onto the school bus.” Dreams afford such license to see things and feel things that can’t come without that sleepy vehicle… you really played out the power of your Mommie to “rescue,” and it leaves us loving her and you for that bond … and lets us care about Matthew. Geez, your Mommie was beautiful… I LOVE that picture of her. You two share that smile. Sweet. Thank you for a dreamy poem. Susie
Stacey,
What a beautiful story about your lovely mommie. Happy birthday to her. The childish hope as you are near your mom’s home in your dreams comes through.
We really sense how much you miss her. This poem is a lovely tribute. This spring my mom had been gone for ten years too. God bless you, my friend.
I love that you included a photo. Our dreams take us to a place of safety, like yours to your mother. But often they also take us to things we are fearful or concerned about, the bullying of a friend. Your poem takes us through your dream. We experience with you.
Oh, I love my mom dreams. Even when they don’t let me be with her, I’m near and it feels like a visit. I miss my mom so much. I hope today, you get a sign that she’s still with you. I hope you find a penny, something electrical switches on or you just feel an overwhelming love settle on you. It’s so special that you can write about the protection she provided in your poem above. It’s still with you. Lucky girl.
Linda, your poem is so clever! I love the personification and sequence. My poem is based on a photo of an ice cream cone melting on the pavement, but I have a few truthful nuggets within the poem.
Just Desserts
She made his favorite meal
Salisbury steak
Mashed potatoes
And gravy
All congealing now
On the dining room table
Alone on the farm
She fumed
Furious that he hadn’t come
Home on time again
A hunger overpowered her
For something sweet
Something decadently divine
Blazing down the gravel road
Rocks pinging off her car
She didn’t care
Careening down Main Street
She parked outside the Tasty Freeze
Ordered a double scoop cone
Double Chocolate Mint
Her first taste forgotten
When she saw her husband
Across the street
Stagger out a barroom door
A buxom bimbo
With a fiery mane
Tucked under his arm
The cone forgotten
Slipped unheeded
Onto the hot pavement
As she froze inside
Furiously thinking about how
He always said he hated redheads
Barb Edler
June 21, 2020
What a great story! Oh, my gosh…the detail, the build up, that last line. I want to know what happens next. Fabulous writing.
Oh man, Barb! What a stinger this is! Yeowwww! The images are so crisp and so real…icky real! I loved her screaming down the rock road, “rocks pinging” and to the ice cream stand! HA! The first word that hinted this would go sideways: “congealed” — great word and so fitting for that stop-in-its-tracks action …potatoes going cold…oh yes. The sting of the husband who we see “stagger out of the barroom door” and the doggone REDHEAD…oh man… this is flaming and thereby melting down that lost ice cream cone, right to the “hot pavement”…. This “fiction” is way toooooo non-fiction in its clarity. I hope to heck it is fiction…but I assure you it is 100% real in my own mind. Great poem! Thank you for sharing that tough voice! Susie
In my teenage-voice “DAAAAAAAAMMMMMNNNNNN” Barb, I hate to think the truthful nuggets are the ones that burned my eyes and ached my heart. It’s incredibly strong to begin in such a sweet savory place with the salisbury steak, and then to move into the fire with unexpected throat punches for us as readers not knowing your story.
Just damn. Damn. Damn. Damn.
That’s great writing for a painful purpose. Thank you Barb.
Barb I visualized every moment! All that from a picture of an ice cream cone on the pavement, WOW!!! Love the lines…
“Blazing down the gravel road
Rocks pinging off her car
She didn’t care
Careening down Main Street”
Barb, that is rich imagery and rich feeling. The way temperatures and textures and colors all intermingle in your poem today adds to all the imagery I feel on the inside. I really feel like fighting. When those rocks started pinging and she didn’t care, I knew we were going somewhere that we might want to take a few of them with us for throwing at somebody – or two somebodys.
OMG!!!! This story rocks! You had me at the late meal, and dropped me off with the last line. “He always hated redheads”—insult to injury time…
Barb, wow! What images you were able to put in our heads with your words. I’m just in awe. It’s like a photograph.
Amazing inspiration from a melting ice cream cone.
Thanks!
I’m with Linda. What does she do next? I want to read more of this.
this was a new way to describe the changing seasons and even to seasons of life.
Loved it
Good morning Linda! Another fun prompt. I’m loving the idea of fictionalizing something this morning because it happens to be a perfect day for that. You’ll see when I write my poem. I love the personification of the seasons in your poem. My favorite image from your poem is:
I love that because I never get to experience snowy seasons here in Los Angeles. Sounds like she got really cozy in your Adirondack chair. I adore the imagery.
A lovely way to describe seasons and I see the relationship with seasons of life
Linda, thank you for this prompt today. I also plan to look into the Teacher Dancer blog.
“Fable of Flights”
Staring at the digital
numbers like a hawk
airplane mode
please time, turn
into a snail and turtle race
Landed, switched mode
insensitive data speed
tic…toc…tic…toc…in ear drums
finally, syncs like gibbons
omnibox to the rescue
Flight status, on time
updated ten minutes ago
no, oh no, a red herring?
let me out!
heartbeat chasing a cheetah
Hold your horses
priority deboarding for
connecting flights
no rat race to deplane
allows me to weasel in on time
Gosh, you really gave me a sense of urgency in your lines. “heartbeat chasing a cheetah” is super good. I hate that time of landing but waiting to deboard. The basic instincts of animals: hawk, gibbon, cheetah, rat adds such a layer of interest to this poem that I like.
Stefani, you’ve captured such a strong emotion here. It’s clear you’re not wanting time to move. I enjoyed how you used creatures to help show your reactions: the hawk, turtle, red herring, horses, rat race, and weasel. Thanks for sharing!
Watty Boy and I, Liar Liar, Pants on Fire!
“Mama, honest, I didn’t eat all the peanut butter,”
Watty Boy professed, gazing at me, batting innocent eyes,
as I washed peanut butter chunks from his muzzle,
marveling at his capacity to unscrew the cheap plastic lid,
wondering what 32 oz of Skippy would look like
when it came back to greet me at three a.m.
Watty Boy, with rabbit M&Ms stuck in his whiskers,
flashed his old lab-doodle smile, woofing,
“Yeah, Mama, let’s go in and eat supper, I’m starved!”
“That’ll be $3.51. Do you have a penny?” the checker asked, as I
fished out a cent from her penny dish,
not wanting to be the old lady in the grocery line,
fumbling through her change purse at the bottom of her bag
for 1/100 of a dollar.
“What!? Again!?” Shredded tissues all over the bathroom floor,
Watty Boy see-sawed his old-man brows and sheepishly held,
“I did not stick my nose in the trashcan
the moment you left the house. Not moi!”
“What happened to my echinacea seedlings?” I stood, arms crossed,
mumbling that the blasted rabbits were annihilating my coneflower bed.
Watty Boy, green leaves stuck on his face,
smiling, woofing in agreement… “those pesky wabbits.”
“Well, my portion size is apt for Weight Watchers, right?
Nothing bigger that the palm of a hand,” I assured myself,
as I envisioned Kareem’s monstrous,
basketball-palming hands…
“they didn’t say whose palm.”
“Those lines weren’t there yesterday. I’m certain,”
I looked hard in the mirror shifting from 10x to 1x magnification.
“I look so much better at 1x, it’s the truer me,”
conning my aging face,
I lowered the dimmer on the light switch.
by Susie Morice©
Good morning Susie! Oh this is so much fun! I can hear Watty Boy as if he’s right here with me, peanut butter muzzle and all. How can I not love him and all of the shenanigans. Let me say this because as a pet lover, you’ll understand. The voices of Watty Boy are not fictionalized so it must be the checker!!
My favorite lines because we stand in the same courtroom, judging and conning our faces with maginification on high:
“I look so much better at 1x, it’s the truer me,”
conning my aging face…
At least you have a dimmer switch. Love you and love your poem, and please give Watty Boy my love too.
Susie, your narrative is hysterical. I’m still laughing out loud. I can totally relate to your end. I was truly concerned for your cone flowers! Thanks for sharing such a delightful read! I needed a laugh this morning!
This small fiction…these small fictions draw me in. I want to be friends with this friendly voice with this funny lying Watty Boy and someone who mutters to rabbits, plays with the magnifying settings in the mirror because I understand, I feel like I was there in a way. You pour so much affection into this piece. Love it….even the dimmer switch.
Watty Boy! Oh, how I love when our pets come along to our group. He’s a good mess! I can so relate to the tissues – oh boy! When we try to take them it starts a speed-driven obstacle course just to retrieve a partially shredded Kleenex! I love Kareem’s palms as I sit here on the WW purple plan eating lunch – focusing on zero point foods. If always heard a deck of cards instead of a palm, but they make them big on the Price is Right, so we can find a way around either rule of thumb! I adore this poem today because it intentionally rambles a little and gives us a true slice of the day and your thoughts!
I want to meet Watty-boy! I can hear his voice in your words. Innocence everywhere! (And my favorite other line is “I envisioned Kareem’s monstrous basketball-palming hands…”. I use that same manner of judgment!
Susie, thank you for this. You have told a great universal truth story. Funny, witty and so clever. And too true. When we point at someone there are several fingers pointing back at us. It’s even biblical too–those who pass judgment are guilty of the same things.
Your title is perfect. It gives a lovely summary and shows your humility. 🙂
Linda, I am loving your prompts this week! Thank you so much for hosting us. My favorite line: “Fortunately, there were mints in the glovebox.” It reminds me so much of that line from “You’ve Got Mail” where Tom Hanks’ girlfriend is stuck in the elevator and everyone else is going to love their people if they survive, but she’s all worried about her TicTacs. Your verse today makes me chuckle. I want to sandwich in with your crowd!
Kim, that scene has become part of our family lore. Whenever anyone is worrying over some minute detail, we say, “Where are my TicTacs?”
The Legend of the Three Pigs
A little bit sideways is all you gotta be to end up here.
In the spring of 1971, three farmhands were
clearing a path for cattle fencing
when they heard the warning grunts and squeals
and turned to see three sets of tusks charging.
They dropped their tools
and ran for their truck.
Two made it, but one tripped on a stump
and fell flat, fearing the worst.
The two on the tailgate turned
and trembled in horror
as the wild boar closed in for the kill,
coming face to face with their comrade –
but at the last minute, the pigs zigzagged
and veered sideways like drunk moonshiners
wobbly-wheeling away from revenuers
approaching a still.
No one ever believed the story,
but folks always acted amazed when
the guy on the ground explained
what had saved his life.
“Them pigs was cross-eyed.”
The Johnson Funny Farm was born that day,
A place where impending doom is transformed into
the miracle of survival –
a joyful place of rescue for humans, animals, and plants –
a place where a farm sign with
three cross-eyed pigs
greets guests –
a place where even something as simple
as connecting to “wi-swi” remains
a tribute to three legendary wild swine
with the password #crosseyedpigs.
A little bit sideways is all you gotta be to end up here.
Oh, my gosh. This is fantastic! Please tell me that every guest gets to read this and/or gets a copy when they visit. It’s funny, I’m sure based on a real event with some extra big details in it. “Them pigs was cross-eyed” was so colloquial…and so unexpected and so true. It really has to be the anchor story in your forthcoming book. I love it. I have officially added visiting the Johnson Funny Farm to my bucket list. What a riot!
I love this line, “A place where impending doom is transformed into
the miracle of survival ” But I am also laughing out loud at “Them pigs was cross-eyed.” Hilarious! We have a cross-eyed cat that I think I need to write a fiction about. Thanks for the laugh and the inspiration.
OH WOW! What a fantastic tale. This really is super! Kim, you have the story genes… sideways or not…crossed-eyed or not… what a great story! And it turned your farm into a haven. I laughed out loud at “Them pigs was cross-eyed” and again at “we-swi” with the password carrying this right to the end. Geez…how’d you crank this out so fast this morning!? You are a wizard! This would make a remarkable poem to read aloud at a formal poetry reading… sometimes those are such serious affairs, and this would be the prize of the night! The wobbly-wheeling moonshiners…priceless image. This whole poem makes me want to come to your farm! Love it! Susie
…we’ve lost the “edit” feature, so I couldn’t correct… Wi-swi
Kim, wow! I love the story and how it resonates with the personality of the Johnson Funny Farm throughout its history. What a fun read and one I’m sure would be delightful to hear read aloud. I can just see the farm sign with the three cross-eyed pigs!
Kim—this story made me laugh out loud. “a little bit sideways” is so perfect, and your story deserves to be published somewhere!
Legends are so awesome. Like Linda said, I hope you will share this with visitors. My favorite lines are these and the heart of the legend:
I learned a new word. I had to look up revenuers.
As always, it’s so fun to read your poems.
The tone of the writing here is what caught my attention — the consistency of light-hearted wonder and adventure and the recurring “three cross-eyed pigs” made for a fun read.
Kevin
I keep myself quiet
on the stories
I could tell
I just whisper them
gentle to my own
ears, the only ones
in range of hearing –
I avoid the hard sell
of Self to the crowd
I’m more apt to run
fingers over edges
of jagged truths,
instead of shouting,
even at the risk
of a slow disappearing
Oh my gosh, Kevin! I LOVELOVELOVE this poem. The not wanting to air your own stories… oh yes, I get that … actually grew up with that. But clearly not anymore, LOL! But these lines are exquisite: (jagged truths…fingers of the edges of jagged truths…GORGEOUS line)
Thank you for this early post this morning. I’ll be thinking on this all day. Susie
Thanks. It is funny because (maybe this is all of us) balancing the public personality with the private person is always a juggling act (maybe this is what we as teachers do). Appreciate the kind words.
Kevin
Kevin, this is really beautiful. “gentle to my own ears,” “avoid the hard sell of Self” are wow phrases. And, that “slow disappearing” is a perfect final line. Great poem for all the images and emotional tugs it gives me, the reader.
Thank you, Linda. The last line was difficult to find, the right cadence, and I sort of landed on how it ended up …. My ear thinks something is still off with it but my daily poems are full of parts that need more work (sort of like myself).
🙂
Kevin
Kevin, my favorite line is “I avoid the hard sell of Self to the crowd.” You are an interesting book filled with stories that are not for the masses. I love this!
Maybe I’m a comic book, in the bin over …. there.
Thanks, Kim
Kevin
Kevin beautiful poem! I hear this entire poem whispered, each word measured and carefully making an impression! Thought provoking! Thank you!
I’m thankful for the time you took in reading it and hearing the flow (that’s important to how I write poems).
Kevin
Kevin, your poem reminds us as educators to give our students time to tell their stories or options not to. Your closing lines, also remind us of reasons to nurture a classroom environment where students feel safe to tell their stories because telling the
“jagged truths,
Instead of shouting,
even at the risk
of a slow disappearing”.
While it’s not clear whether the message is that the problems disappear with the telling or the external mask of the writer disappears with the telling, your poem cautions me to be careful.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts with us here.
Thank you, Anna, for pointing that out (classroom connection). In some ways, the shift to Distance Learning may have allowed some of my quieter/introverted students more space to find their voices — an unusually positive element of the sudden shift to home (and one of the few bonuses).
Kevin
How this resonates with me, Kevin! On so many levels – as an introvert, as an outsider from a dysfunctional family, living alone during this time of self-isolation. “Even at the risk of a slow disappearing” – so powerful! I hope your words and stories don’t disappear. This is beautiful.
Hi Sharon
Thank you for your words. That a poem resonates with anyone is like a little skip of joy here in the quiet of the screen.
Kevin