Our Host
Rex lives in Keokuk, Iowa and teaches ELA at Keokuk High School. He is actively involved in his community as a member of the Keokuk Public Library Board and the First Christian Church Board. Rex enjoys poetry and photography as artistic forms of expression. Free time is shared with his adultish children, the elliptical room and weight room at the high school, and dachshunds Gretta and Zuko. He shares his existence adventures with his conspirator Jenny.
Inspiration
The junk drawer has been the collection location for both method and madness. The most urgent motivations to fix something or do something purposeful are tied to the things often gathered there. The eventual rummaging through the drawer lends to varied levels of reminiscence.
Process
Pick your favorite junk drawer and explore it with a search that settles on something that carries deeper meaning. If you currently don’t have a junk drawer, envision one that you may have been exposed to over the years. Along the way, use at least four prepositional phrases as you navigate, and at least three abstract nouns. This is a loose requirement, I just find that the focus on the particulars makes for more intriguing results. Format however you like, and feel free to include a photo if you are so moved. It is my hope that one of two things happen: you’ll find a story that needs to be shared or your junk drawer gets cleared out.
Rex’s Poem
DISHEVELED HEART
In my search for frugality,
I find myself in the drawer
once again,
beneath the Shoe Goo,
and left of the baby batteries,
looking for the solvent that solves all,
the Super Glue,
the remedy of remedies.
I find pause in the process,
under the Black Ice
in the guise of the pig that poops keychain,
still hooked to the memories,
my daughter and I when she was little
and curious,
and everything was gilded in giggles,
and funny was the innocent
pooping of silicone pigs.
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.
Thank you for hosting today, Rex! I love the prompt for an opportunity to stop and reflect on the little things that may seem insignificant to others, but are so dear to our hearts because of great memories. Your poem is a proof of this sentiment. I had a very long day, but wanted to contribute something. Like you, I also have a keychain in my poem from my daughter.
Little Treasures
In a drawer by the sink, we keep treasures.
Don’t you smile; this is true for us indeed.
We store memories in here,
Some are bigger, others smaller,
But with every little piece,
Heart is melting and at peace.
Here’s puppy on a keychain,
Soft and tiny, funny ears to the sides.
I remember little girl—braided hair,
Biggest smile—she is happy,
So am I. Many summers passed since then.
The girl’s grown; she is gone
To another distant land,
The puppy still is in my hand.
Other memories live here:
Old coins clinking upon touch—
Their homeland too far away,
I don’t want them on display;
Yet, it’s nice to see sometimes their faces,
To remember other places
Where running as a child
Always felt so good and wild.
Screws and wire for my husband—
Tools that he cannot abandon.
Ready fixing what is broken,
Now and then are fondly spoken.
Among other things you’ll see
Band-Aid strips and sterile pads,
Index cards and wooden pegs,
Pencil, markers, garden knife—
Things that carry we through life.
In the drawer by the sink, we keep treasures
Don’t you smile; this is true for us indeed.
Leilya, look at you with your sweet rhyming and precious memories. “memories live here.” I love this line “Things that carry we through life”. Interesting choice, and I like that it makes me think of the things that we carry, as well as the things that carry us!
Rex, thank you for a really interesting prompt. Your pooping pig key chain “still hooked to the memories” is perfect. What a great line. I loved your story and precious lines about your daughter.
I’ve been thinking of my life’s junk drawers all day. I could have written about my present junk “basket,” which also has a half dozen empty metal tea tins. I find them so pretty and thinking they can be useful, I add them to the basket. They just take up space and make it harder to find my tape and scissors. I chose to write about one from my childhood. I think I was six years old. In my memory, I can walk right to that drawer in the house of my childhood and find a rubber band, a paper clip, a bottle of glue, a roll of tape, and sometimes joyfully, a yoyo, a jack, or a marble. The they in my poem is probably my older sister and one or more parents. I don’t remember for sure, but I wasn’t in as much trouble as I thought I would be.
Blue in the Mouth
When I saw myself in the mirror
I began to feel blue,
knowing I was going
to get in trouble.
I would talk a blue streak,
talk until I was
blue in the face
to convince them
I didn’t do anything
untoward.
You see, I had
been ruminating
through the
junk drawer to find
something,
anything
interesting.
Finally, I found it!
A tiny blue-lidded
plastic bottle.
The bottle seemed
to be clear
with some dark liquid
inside. I didn’t
recognize it as I
carefully untwisted
the cap, put my tongue
inside it, turning it
around and around.
When I noticed my
fingers turning blue,
I went into the bathroom.
When I saw that my lips,
tongue, gums, and even teeth
were blue, I closed and locked
the door, hoping I hadn’t found
something poisonous, which
seemed to keep spreading.
I got soap and water and
a washcloth and went to town
removing a layer or two of skin
along with some of the stain.
Ah, there is always
something new to learn in
childhood physics and
chemistry. That day, I
learned the power of
food coloring and why
you only need a tiny
bit to do the job.
Denise! A little goes a long way, as they say! I love that you captured the curiosity of your childhood self — and really, of all (most?) children — so well! The first instinct after “carefully” opening the bottle with the “dark liquid / inside” was to “put [your] tongue / inside it,” lol. And only then, of course, do you wonder if it may have been “something poisonous”! Thanks for sharing with us this six-year-old version of you!
That is so precious, Denise! I love how a six-year-old Denise was “ruminating” through the drawer and found something very interesting. I am glad it wasn’t poisonous; for a moment there I had to hold my breath. Of course, it was food coloring. i very seldom use some, and really “a tiny bit” goes a long way. Thank you for sharing!
Hi Rex,
How fun! Love the idea of spending time in a junk drawer but I didn’t actually spend time there today. I realized as I was sitting in traffic that my mind is very much like a junk drawer so I went with that instead. Thank you for hosting us today and I enjoyed your poem, especially “the solvent that solves all.”
Brain Dump of Junk
Between my prefrontal cortex
And my hippocampus
Are compartments containing
Chronic consumption of chaos
Repetitive rehashing of ridiculousness
And an incessant recurrence of “Ummmmm”
Behind my amygdala
And in front of my cerebellum
Are fast and fiery fantasies
Flickers of my fictitious future
Wonderings and wanderings
With an AI lover living inside my motherboard
©Stacey L. Joy, 3/19/24
Stacey,
I like how the alliteration lends itself to the compartmentalization within your brain. I would see this as something I’d run up against in the middle of the night, as opposed to being in traffic. Wonderings and wanderings really captures the essence of an energized mind, with room for more exploring. Thanks for taking a different fresh perspective.
Stacey, that is some magical use of alliteration today. A master class, I think! The brain parts are so fun too. I love how you speak with authority about where each bit of junk lies. Each line is a pleasure to read.
Stacey, I am beyond impressed by your knowledge of brain compartments. The fact that you know how your Mental junk is distributed in this complexity is even more amazing. That is a fun-fun poem, friend! Love multiple alliterations and especially this one:
“Are fast and fiery fantasies
Flickers of my fictitious future.”
Thank you!
Rex, this was a fantastic prompt! I can’t wait to steal it for class (“Backpack Affirmations”??)
I decided to rummage through my husband’s junk drawer tonight…
He
To the right of his bed
Lamplight close to his head,
Squats a weathered wood nightstand:
At first glance underfed
With items that serve him
In one single drawer –
It’s all that he needs,
He requires no more:
A flashlight for outages
Deep in the night;
A checkbook for purchases
Made with delight;
An anchor with nails
For fastening tight;
A tie pin for fancying
Outfit just right;
A flash drive for saving
All that crucial data –
Dig deep, though, to find
Memories with more matter:
A Spiderman lanyard
He snagged in Orlando;
(Early honeymoon romp
Later visits foreshadowed);
A stack of old greeting cards,
Bought and homemade:
“Have a very fishy Christmas!”
One of them brayed;
Below, a thick stack:
From the kids, he’s so grateful
(After maintaining greeting cards
Are simply wasteful);
Other old trinkets
Help round out the drawer:
An Anakin Skywalker pen,
And there’s more:
An old coral necklace,
A ticket to Van Halen,
(Still remember that show –
Ed’s strat Frankie was wailin’)
– Such a small drawer
Holds the depths of his heart
And the years that we’ve spent
burnishing marriage art.
Wendy, this is lovely and fun! Per usual, your vivid details capture so much: “Below, a thick stack: / From the kids, he’s so grateful / (After maintaining greeting cards / Are simply wasteful)” and “Such a small drawer / Holds the depths of his heart.” You’ve crafted such a wonderful character sketch of your husband and the “marriage art” that you’ve made together! (And as a side note, I’m totally jealous of the Van Halen ticket!)
Wendy, we get to know him so much through this precious poem. At first with the flashlight and checkbook, I thought it was going to be all business and useful items. Then you get into the ticket stubs, greeting cards and other trinkets and he becomes sentimental. It looks like a treasure box of fun and memories. I love your rhyming.
Wendy, thank you so much for rummaging through your husband’s drawer and sharing its contents with us! I noticed several of the same things that my husband has in his bedside drawer too. I love the final stanza that is heartfelt and rich:
“– Such a small drawer
Holds the depths of his heart
And the years that we’ve spent
burnishing marriage art.”
the junk drawer
during our kitchen renovation
we absorbed an overload
of trends ideas recommendations
from the home remodeling ether
and could not ignore one saturating
message shouted and screamed
even by magazines at supermarket
checkouts, over and over and over:
organized = calm
we chose to make our junk drawer
the smallest
most narrow
nearly
i
n
v
i
s
i
b
l
e
one, believing, deep within ourselves,
we will win this lifelong challenge
to tame the tempestuous beast of stuff
calm = freedom
only to learn that now we must run
through the whole house to find
that little common thing we need
right now
so badly
dang it, where is it?
freedom = anarchy?
Oh, you had fun with this one. I can tell. That colon is everything. I keep telling teachers that grammar lessons need a context. And then your italics. Yes. Calm. And then line breaks for every letter of invisible. Is anarchy invisible? Ha!
maureen— this is wonderful! The skinny drawer (what were you thinking??!!), the lesson learned, the search!
Maureen, this reveals humor and truth! Don’t we benefit from knowing the tiny screw is next to the bread bag tie??
l enjoyed picturing you running through the house.🤣
Maureen, love how organized = calm = freedom = anarchy?
I agree! We only have two drawers in our kitchen, so we were not able to designate one to be a junk drawer. Now I live with a crazy junk basket. It’s just not the same! Nice job on the concrete nature of your poem, and showing that very narrow, almost invisible drawer you have tried to get away with using as the most important drawer of all!
Maureen, isn’t it funny that trying to be more organized we are actually finding ourselves lost? I also love how you played with the poem’s formatting. It brings so much life to it. Thank you!
Rex what an intriguing prompt! Your last lines were both joyous, but a little sad—oh, for those days of easy laughter…
“and everything was gilded in giggles,
and funny was the innocent
pooping of silicone pigs.”
Junk Drawer Blues
My house is awash in drawers filled with junk.
So hard to choose just one.
But I will begin with the tummy drawer in the desk
that was my grandfather’s before it was mine–
the desk that has moved with me from house to house many times,
filled with the detritus of fifty years.
It will forever be Grandpa’s desk.
His love is imbued in the corner of every drawer for me.
There are layers of love in this drawer.
And, looking more closely, layers of great confusion…
Why did I save those tiny naked baby dolls in the middle cubbyhole?
And the slide rule? The last time I used one was in Mr. Sprague’s high school math class
more than fifty years ago.
If you got caught chewing gum in his class, you had to buy gum for the whole class.
(And you couldn’t chew it that day)
You couldn’t bring Beeman’s, as he hated that gum’s smell.
Funny, the things you remember.
Rulers and hole punches and staplers and paper clips–
jumbled in a futile hope for organization.
At least five data drives–who knows what they hold?
A measuring tape, pencil sharpeners, glasses for close work…
A seam ripper and a crystal perfume bottle topper–
Useful items if I can find them when I need them.
(Except for the perfume stopper. No explanation there…)
A tiny unopened packet of worry dolls.
I bought them every year.
I would tuck them in my daughters’ hands at night
to hold the worry for them so they could go to sleep.
Kate carried one in her backpack all the way through high school,
just in case. Maybe it worked sometimes. I hope so.
I think I’ll mail her one today.
A little piece of love
from Grandpa’s desk drawer
and my heart
to my daughter too far away.
GJ Sands
3/19/24
Gayle,
I appreciate the irony of the fact that you open the pack of worry dolls when sending your love to your daughter. Not so much worry, but reinforcing the ties that bind. Isn’t life about layers of love and layers of confusion?
I think the use of questions works well too, as I don’t think one can really reflect without using the interrogatives.
Funny you picked blues in the title. I think of the blues as sad, but cathartic in a way that always makes me feel better.
I love, love everything about and within this poem. Every word. One of my favorites by you!
“Funny, the things you remember.” Gayle, this poem is so lovely. I am there with you, wandering down memory lane. I am charmed by the term “tummy drawer,” I don’t know that I’ve heard that before, and yet I know exactly where it sits on the desk. The Beeman gum memory – yes, it is so fascinating how the mind flows. I hope you do send a worry doll to your daughter – I used to slip those under my boys’ pillows…such a sweet memory. Wonderful poem.
Oh, Gayle, those last two stanzas just yank at my heart.
Gayla, the one word that stands out for me is “detritus” used to described what is left in the tummy drawer of your grandfather’s desk. As I finagled with the junk I wrote about it, and reflected on the “clean-ups” after the passing of other relatives, I wonder if that is what my treasured items, (not necessarily with cash value) will appear to those who “inherit” my stuff!
What can I pass along now? To whom? Will the recipient see it as, you say” A little piece of love”? What can I sell so it can be used to fund programs for teachers that I value? What should, could, would be thrown out if I had the nerve to discard the detritus?
What a prompt we’ve had to today! Thanks for sharing yours.
Junk Drawer
Why do I contain all of this clutter?
Please throw away the magnifying
glass!
Don’t you know no one uses them anymore
and that there’s an app on your phone for that.
The random screws,
nails, blue tape and lint roller
are itching to escape
and relocate elsewhere.
They don’t wanna be in a poorly
lit space that only gets light biweekly.
Gorilla glue shouldn’t even exist
YET you’ve got it in MY space
along with useless pens, rubber bands,
and a humongous bag clip.
I’m awaiting the day when you
trash most of that useless stuff and
I can be free to stretch out
and have empty spaces.
BUT, when you do, I implore you to
leave behind the clear zip bag
of fresh lavender.
The scent is my morning delight and reminds
me that beauty exists.
March 19, 2024
Seana,
You caught me off guard with the olfactory reference at the end. What a nice shift. I think of the drawers as making the sounds, and being colorful, but more dry and barren as the nose goes.
I like the idea of the drawer having a higher regard, and not being happy to hold clutter. And the demostrative all caps make the drawer have even more personality. Nice subtle touch.
Seana–yes, please keep the lavender. (and I’ll bet you will keep all the other things, as well!)
I am marveling that you took the perspective of the drawer itself, personifying its horror and pain. Oh my! What if our drawers could talk? Love the idea of your drawer desiring the smell of lavender and to be “free to stretch out/and have empty spaces.” So great, Seana!
Good one!! Love the drawer’s voice! Yes, to the lavender! Fun poem!
Nostalgia
Nostalgia comes to me
as I wonder
how can I collect so much
then forget about it
as it is lost in a drawer.
Nostalgia comes to me
as I find three things
(amid the paper clips, bread ties and lint)
that remind me of my mom, dad and the cat.
A vial used to keep the stem of a rose wet
while travelling,
a sprinker top that fits on an old coca cola bottle
to dampen clothes before ironing,
an old Texas pecan from a tree that died ten years ago.
Nostalgia comes to me
as warm memories return
all because I looked in the drawer
for masking tape
as it is lost in the drawer.
Susan–I love the ending of your poem–“all because I looked in the drawer for masking tape”. So many memories hide in cluttered drawers…
Susan, I wondered the same thing as I looked at my drawer this morning. How in the WORLD have I collected so much in there? I like your repeating starting line and I’m grinning at the old Texas pecan from the tree that died ten years ago. Yes, yes – the random things we keep.
I am so swept into your nostalgia, I rather think that you simply forgot about the masking tape and basked in the warm memories for awhile. I am completely taken with your find of “an old Texas pecan from a tree that died ten years ago” – this is precisely what I might place in a drawer, a memento from a trip, long forgotten. Wonderful musings!
Susan,
There’s so much to behold in memories from your three things! I love the word “nostalgia” and it always feels warm when I say it.
Keep the drawer just as it is so you’ll always have the nostalgia to visit.
Thanks, Rex for your interesting prompt. I don’t think I captured all of the parameters, but I did try to include the prepositional phrases. My junk drawers are everywhere and can be fun to explore, but my favorite storage place is so much more, consequently I chose to write about it today. I need more time to craft this, but it’s just one of those days.
Pandora’s Box
beneath old coins
a beaded vest
an old granny dress,
bittersweet memories bloom−
sister’s wintery wedding
a prom date disaster
my daughter’s stillbirth
beyond baby quilts
handwritten notes
children’s poems,
a trapped cry sighs−
tenderly touching treasures
carefully tucked away
inside the cedar coffin
Barb Edler
19 March 2024
As I read this poem it feels like excavating layers in a hope chest – each of these items carefully folded and tucked away.
“a trapped cry sighs−” what a heartfelt phrase. Beautiful…
Barb,
The trapped cry sighs really got me. There is something special in a creative sense when you juxtapose blooming and disaster and stillbirth…the tenderness of the treasures, tucked in the cedar coffin.
I feel like this is one of the most tender poems I have read of yours, because it has such a light touch but so much depth. Thanks for the chance to read it.
A cedar coffin! That is a perfect name for the chest in my house. Many memories of the past become bittersweet blooms and trapped cry sighs. Great descriptions.
Barb, so many memories, and the layers of it as each item is presented go deeper and deeper into the pain, and then that last word…..not cedar chest but cedar coffin…..that says so much about the grief that still remains, buried and out of sight but ever present.
Oh, these are tender memories, indeed. I wonder how often you open this cedar ‘coffin’ (such a stunner of a final word, bittersweet indeed), and how many tears you shed when you do. “A trapped cry sighs” – such beauty, wondering if the cry comes from all that lays within, or from the one who opens the box… beautiful, Barb.
Barb,
This is beautiful and powerful as is, but I am sure you can grow this. It captures so much and there is so much there, I’m sure. I love the structure of the stanzas and I really love
Not the most difficult work
we study – challenging,
of course, but not Godot
challenging – but it is
definitely (and defiantly)
the longest and the most
Russian, in all its bleak
landscape, rolling gray
storm clouds, and existentially
angsty glory, so, in all reality
it absolutely could be a Beckett
contender, it just depends on
the How and the Why and the When
we discuss it (still looking for
the “best,” most educationally
sound, most engaging “whole
class novel” approach, by the by).
I’ve found, though, tying part of
the text to modern police investigative
techniques by walking a crime scene
akin to that of the pawnbroker’s murder
gets my students thinking about
Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment
in a different way (before, of course,
asking them to annotate and discuss
various critical essays that explore the
philosophical, biographical, historical,
sociological, aesthetic, and/or thematic
aspects of the…zzzzzz).
_______________________________________________
Thank you, Rex, for your excellent mentor text and your engaging prompt! Your pooping pig made me think of my pooping cow – that felt as weird to write as it, undoubtedly, felt to read – so that led me to this activity that I do each year, the props of which (of which?) I use are stored in a junk drawer of sorts. (The pooping cow allows me to talk about insects/animals at the scene, but, more importantly, (pre-pandemic) it was a good “bit” to push down on the cow, making it “go,” so that I could pop the jelly bean in my mouth. And since I would fill it with a mix of Bertie Botts jelly beans, it was always a question about what I’d get: some hours it was banana flavored while other hours it was booger or vomit flavored, a confectionary Russian roulette, if you will.
Rex, thank you for sharing this prompt. I wonder if age makes us more appreciative of the space that junk takes up. I have used this as a prompt with students, and they struggle to get anything out of it. On the other hand, I could write forever. Thank you.
The box, a polyethylene exoskeleton,
Holds within the heart and soul of the 1970’s.
There is the Lee School 1973-1974 directory.
Robert E. Lee School since renamed Council Oak,
And landlines now tangled somewhere in time.
There are the report cards written in
Beautiful cursive with “Talks too much”
Forever memorializing the third grade.
There is the pop-up rubber Mickey Mouse
Purchased at Disney on Parade.
His limbs were removed in a nightmare, true story.
There is a tiny partial plate with its
Tiny Chiclet teeth to replace the ones
Lost in one of many meetings with the pavement.
There is the “Nixon’s the One” button
And a crystal Siamese Cat with ears tipped blue
And jacks and a disintegrating red rubber ball
And marbles and a set of Click-Clacks
And a Blue Birds pin
And a Holy Bible with a picture on the front of
Jesus welcoming the little ones like me.
Katrina,
I think for me you’ve really captured how so many of the particular items have pretty strong memories attached, like the nightmare Mickey. And yet, once they find their way into the drawer, it’s as if they are oxidized in our importance, like the disintegrating rubber ball.
But that doesn’t make us clean out the drawer, as it means cleaning out the memories.
I love the “Talks too much.” That seems to be a reliable line from our growing up.
Katrina, oh, each stanza is calling for a poem and maybe a photo collage of these times and places and ways of being. On my screen, Blue Birds is directly above Holy Bible creating an interesting visual of letters.
Katrina–
“There is the pop-up rubber Mickey Mouse
Purchased at Disney on Parade.
His limbs were removed in a nightmare, true story.”
What a tease–this deserves its own poem!
Well, Rex, I think you’ve put us all in a reflective mood, and like you, I’m ‘hooked to the memory of when everything was gilded in giggles (my favorite line).
Treasure Chest
Of course I don’t take offense,
your memory has been slipping
and you haven’t opened me
since last summer when you stuck
the garden clippers here
because you were too lazy
to put them back in the garage.
It’s ok.
The seasons pass so quickly,
it’s easy to forget
the homemade birthday card
with the aluminum foil heart
pasted in the middle,
and inside
soooooooooo much love
scribbled in a child’s bold hand,
or the school-picture bookmark
with the mop-topped first grader
posing like Bob Ross
with arms crossed, smug and smiling
in his grown-up picture-day tie,
or the rainy-day rummy cards
leaning against
the sunny day side-walk chalk
used for rainbows, stickmen and tricycle racetracks.
A junk-drawer? You who love words,
are you waking up?
Are you connecting the dots
made by these worn down pencils
and snub-nosed crayons
that wait with leftover water balloons
and wooden tic-tac-toe pieces,
with rubber bands and beaded bracelets,
magnets and matchbox cars?
Need I go on?
Junk drawer is such a misnomer.
I’m a treasure chest should you ever forget
the sweetness of homemade cards
and water balloons—
of rainy days and sunny days
spent with more joy than you can hold.
Ann,
I think your last stanza really nails it. Why do we as adults have junk drawers, where we had a treasure chest as a kid? There must be a cynical drive that makes us shift to seeing treasures as junk.
I like that your junk drawer is mature enough to not be upset by the lack of attention. It is like an understanding grandparent, thankful for a visit. If only we were all as understanding as the junk drawer!
Ann, I love hearing from the drawer’s perspective and its renaming to treasure chest. I have to admit to leaving measuring tapes, paintbrushes, and various other garden clipper-like tools in my junk drawer so as to not have to run them down the stairs or outside the house as a result of laziness as well. But it’s the treasures – the heart and child’s scribbles inside the card, the bookmarks and rummy cards that I want to (and can) relate to more. Somehow, they find a way of hanging around, only to be discovered just when needed. Thank you for this reminder today!
Rex,
I love this prompt! I didn’t get started on this at home this morning, so I opened one of my desk drawers here at school. I’m sure many Type A personalities (and any sub I have had) are squirming at the sight of it.
Time Capsule
The center drawer
of my desk at school
serves little purpose.
It’s a junk collection
and a time capsule
wrapped up in
one
big
mess.
There are trinkets
and cash (because who needs it)
and functional objects
that I forget are there.
I look through five mugs
on my desktop for a Sharpie
yet there are four in
the treasure trove
of this drawer.
There are keys to filing cabinets
that no longer exist,
tiny art projects produced
by our kids,
gift cards handed off in appreciation,
and recipes thoughtfully hand-written
by a student teacher when I praised her lunch.
(she’s had her own classroom for 20 years.)
There are old school pictures showing
the less-wrinkled me with a much less
exhausted expression,
staples and a staple remover and
thumbtacks
and rubberbands,
a book mark from a beloved student,
and symbolic item. . .
metaphors unknown to others.
It’s a mess, yes.
But it’s also a treasure.
Should I clean it up and
discard unneeded items?
Probably.
But then I wouldn’t be able to
open in and be transported
back in time.
~Susan Ahlbrand
19 March 2024
Struggling to get the picture attached.
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1Mwk8TohYN58MNaLIc2sdewXNesx5ACWy/view?usp=drive_link
Oh, Susan, I so love the juxtaposition of the mundane with the priceless treasures. It does make it a tressure hunt everytime you open this drawer. The details you provide (student teacher 20 years ago, “less wrinkled you”, etc.) add authority to the piece and cement your ending.
P. S. Can you please change the sharing settings in your photo to include all can view with the link?
Susan,
What a great reflection of a teacher’s desk. I think my favorite is how you have stuff in there from 20 years ago, the recipes. The desk is a cluttered time capsule…I have photos from probably the last ten years in mine…I like the it’s a mess, yes. There is a clarity to the rhyme. Like we have a method to our madness.
The desk isn’t a green metal desk, is it?
Susan, I love the image you create here. To be “transported back in time,” you either have to take the desk drawer with you when you retire or take a picture of the drawer and frame it with this poem next to it.
I love the moments of discovery – how many times have I searched for a sharpie (or staple remover) in all the places it should be, only to discover later that they’re having a party at the back of my drawer?
The line breaks of “one / big / mess” remind me of the multiple yanks necessary to open the “junk” drawer in my desk.
Susan–this. Right there. so very true!
“But then I wouldn’t be able to
open in and be transported
back in time.”
Sometimes poems feel like junk drawers. I’m not home where I can view the contents, but I think I might have taken this approach anyway. We have one of those ginormous three-car garages w/ a double bay and a shop area. It’s all beyond my comprehension, but lately I’ve been thinking a lot about how I’ll face this space if Ken casts off this mortal coil before I do.
Tool Chests
—for Ken
They line the garage
wall, standing at attention
their red coats shining
only one man knows
their contents, the randomness
confounds my mind’s eye
they’ve assisted in
repairing, rebuilding things:
cars, appliances
his heart ticks through tools
as his hands cradle each one
to spark their magic
one day i’ll open each box
to feel my lover’s soul beat
Glenda Funk
Good morning, Glenda! Your poem hits home. My husband left drawers and drawers in our garage. I have been sorting through them and yes, I have found new homes for many of the tools I will never use. However, your words “his heart ticks through tools as his hands cradle each one to spark their magic” makes my heart happy.
Love this dedication and the respect for the knowledge and history under those red coats. So beautiful “his heart ticks through tools.”
Oh, Glenda, what a poem for this prompt. I love it when a prompt reaches in and finds wealth, treasure, so much goodness. Your love for Ken shines through. And this stanza is gold…
Glenda, I understand the overwhelming feeling when viewing all the things crowding our garage shelves, let alone the drawers. I loved your line “his heart ticks through tools” which connects so well with your closing line: “to feel my lover’s soul beat”. Your poem is not only loving and gentle, but it also has a sense of sadness because of the thought of losing someone so close and dear is nearly impossible to bear. Beautiful poem!
Glenda–
“his heart ticks through tools
as his hands cradle each one
to spark their magic “
What a beautiful way to describe the beauty you see there. yes.
Glenda that last stanza has me envisioning the love that we all feel to touch something that someone once touched when we know the affinity they had for the thing we can now hold. Lovely!
Rex, you did it! Made me look. Well, now you’ve got it. A poem inspired by junk. Who woulda thunk it? You even inspired a collage of that stuff.
Been There/Done That
Seated among the junk
Is stuff brought back in the trunk
Reminding me of good times
And some that really just stunk.
Good times at conventions
Lime green badge holders from NCTE
Cluttery badges with colorful pins
That evoke teary, nostalgic grins
Of those who gave them and those who saw them
Reminders of our collegial community.
Snippets from airline tickets
Proof that I’ve been to Prague and France
Pictures from South Africa, where I learned that kooky dance
Square plastic hotel keys to rooms so teeny tiny
Hotels chosen just to be near historical places
My daughter and me at the Louvre, viewing famous faces.
Anna, no need to be whiny
You’ve traveled near and far
Enjoyed those times, especially homecoming day
When you returned to your Honey, with him to stay
Now it’s time to put that junk away
And start planning that next trip.
Anna,
I know those NCTE badges! Hard to part, but make a start. Yes, I’m always in next trip planning mindset!
Anna, I love reading your rhyming poem each day. Don’t know how you do it each time. Love this list of memories you evoke from your drawer. Aren’t we lucky?!!
I don’t know how I rhyme either! I write what I hear when I read the prompt each time. Often I attempt the style suggested, too.
I thoroughly enjoy your poems,too. The ones that flick on scenes that allude to stories on your first book! Isn’t this group a fun place to share memories.
Glad you’re here!
Anna, I never know what to do with those conference badges,such an investment in “collegial community.” And this evidence held of the worlds you’ve witnessed is heart warming.
Sarah
Sarah, I tried to “reuse” the badges from year to year in an effort to “save money”. Then I realized I was just showing off! So, I stopped taking them and use the ones issued each year. But, thank the Lord, I had the privilege of attend NCTE almost every years sine 1989 (except 2011) and during COVID-!9. So, you can imagine how many are clogging my cabinet space. But, thanks to OPEN WRITE, I also have the joy of pulling them out and writing poems about them. So, they have some value after all!
See you in Boston?
Thank you, Rex, for a thought provoking prompt- it made me think about the world we live in and why we choose certain life paths.
Junk Dlrow.
I am placed in front of this drawer,
With options I cannot ignore.
I reach in and feel the temptations,
Of life with all the sensations.
Knicks knacks that have been placed on earth,
Trinkets I’ve been battling against since birth.
On one side there is a bible and cross,
The other side has a pipe and a map of the lost.
My palm caresses each softly,
I choose the crack, though it’s costly!
My arm goes in deeper,
I find a needle its cheaper.
Now my shoulders are pulled in,
In here there are no friends,
Dark and despair of a lifeless sin,
I have forgotten where to begin?
Drawer trapped up to my waist,
Diseased Alcohol is all I taste.
A drawer of junk within a beautiful home.
I stare in its darkness, I am alone.
Only my toe remains free,
I have succumbed to my insanity.
Frivolously searching for my reality,
I peer to the left and see a speck of morality.
I reach out to grab the bible,
For my life is a downward spiral.
I touch it with my finger,
As my wicked choices still linger.
As I palm the first verse,
Me knees drop in reverse,
As I pray for my decisions to be replaced,
I feel grace upon my waist.
Scriptures crystallize, I as get older,
I feel his hand upon my shoulder.
Light of the world slowly creeps in,
As I ask forgiveness for my sin.
Slowly, I free my arm,
Unhealed from the drawer’s harm.
I stare outside this drawer of junk,
And realized how far I had sunk.
So, many options hid within a beautiful life,
Temptations lure many to rife.
Why do we all have this drawer?
Do we all need more?
If so, what for?
Or is it a test of our valued core?
Look today at the passerby,
You will see the drawer in his eye.
You will hear the choice in his voice,
Is it an addiction or a rejoice?
For blessed are those that fight temptations,
In a junk world of sensations,
On Earth– full of inspirations,
For each of us have our own variations,
To palm spiritual elevations,
And establish holy declarations.
Before you reach into your junk drawer-today,
Kneel and pray,
That you may not go astray,
and that we can save those that have lost their way.
– Boxer
Clayton,
This is an excellent extended metaphor. Yes, we each face the junk drawer choices in life compared to those choices that direct us to a better way.
Clayton,
I looked at your response and how I helped you to see the world we live in, and I was asking myself, “What the heck is he talking about?” But I see it now, and appreciate it. We have these convenient indescretions hid in darkess as if a junk drawer. And the same drawers hold hope.
I like that you have a stanza that addresses the need to see the junk drawer in your brother’s eye. Moreso, asking the reader to reflect on where that passerby is at. More altruistic love in the world would be a great start.
Beautiful metaphor for life and choices – a junk drawer filled with so many options, and choosing which is the universal battle between good and evil, both ever present forces that pull us.
Thank you, Rex, for this prompt today! I love the “pig that poops keychain” as having a 6 year old, I can definitely relate to these sweet memories in seeing how her humor has evolved!
A Junk Drawer Poem
My husband maintains the junk drawer can only be found
Underneath the poverty line.
I disagree.
Because in my search for Scotch tape,
My fingers skim over
Forgotten Scentsy wax bars,
(What does cashmere smell like exactly?)
Instruction manuals still wrapped in plastic,
(Reminders of new appliances bought
when we decided to occupy this old farmhouse),
Remnants of your Gran’s silver, a cake server
(Lovingly ensconced in paper, and then boxed),
Dried magic markers that reveal cartoon characters
(This used to be M’s favorite activity).
Each piece a moment to remind us of
Wealth we have seen.
Jordan, your careful and considered description of your Gran’s silver shows the meaning such a wonderful heirloom. I love the idea that each piece is a moment of us.
Jordan, I love how you connect “Underneath the poverty line” to “Each piece a moment to remind us of/Wealth we have seen.” Truly gorgeous poem. I understand coming across too many Scentsy wax bars and old silver servers, etc. Powerful poem!
Jordon, your poem reeks of the joys of junk! Thanks for showing how items through the ages remind of of “Wealth we have seen”. Though the items may mean nothing to those who have to clean up after we’re gone, they serve an important purpose now. So, hang on to what helps you hang on.
I really appreciate your culminating lines . . .
Sunday
by Mo Daley 3/19/24
The stacking holy cards
in muted hues
rests, mostly in peace,
until I take my grandson to church
and we riffle through them,
him pointing out the
flowers, the crosses, the sheep, the
Pretty lady in a blue dress and
me, my heart aching,
thinking of all the people
I love and miss
Mo, these moments ring such truth – the way we miss those who were just standing right next to us yesterday…..and now the flame of candles casts the light of truth. We are here but for the blink of an eye. Beautiful reminder.
Mo,
I’ve always felt there is a level of deeper meaning to the holy cards. There is a inherant sanctity to them. You aren’t going to hold them or shuffle them without thinking about faith, or relationships. You have a tender balance with a grandson and a fascination with visuals, and you with nostalgic reflection. I appreciate the moments like this between generations, where there is a happy obliviousness to the time spent together.
Mo, I adore the way you open your poem by describing the holy cards. Your poem’s final line is poignant and beautiful. Truly love the way this poem progresses to that final line.
My grandmom has to downsize her house to be able to move into a slightly smaller house. My mom and I have been helping to clean and organize her things to help with the process, and make sure only what is truly needed goes with her.
Grandmom’s Junk Drawer of a Desk
The childhood memories
swirl with the dust
that comes off the
push pins found underneath
yet another staple remover
shoved in the back
corner of the thin metal
middle drawer.
Between the stacks of
home-made scrap paper
pads and endless supply
of black sharpies lies
the image of playing
imaginary store with
the old calculator that
typed equations on paper
that looked like receipt
paper.
Cleaning out and
thinning out the unnecessary
amount of endless
twist-to-sharpen pencil sharpeners
sharpens the feeling of
the refuge the desk
once provided during the
chaotic family gatherings,
the one place to find
peace and quiet in a
family that only has
one volume.
LOUD!
We might be downsizing
the copious amount of
office supplies, but
in doing so are
magnifying the good
and wonderful that
Grandmom’s junk drawer
of a desk
brought to us.
Hope, your poem is so relatable on so many levels. I found myself nodding my head a LOT! I love how you were able to weave such beautiful emotions into the common, everyday objects.
Hope, wow, I love your gorgeous poem and how you are able to show your family and the reason you’re cleaning a desk drawer. I also appreciate the way you describe each item you uncover while cleaning the desk drawer. There is something quiet about a drawer, the magnifying end is priceless!
Love the antithesis of downsizing and magnifying! Such joy in the little things, right?
I can’t bear to open this drawer
to look anywhere other than the
silver mesh flatware sleeve for
a paperclip to hold the fold of
my frozen peas or maybe the
box cutter to slice through the
stubborn tape keeping me from
bookmail or another pair of shoes
that won’t fit my narrow heels.
Why is it that I avert my eyes
from her recipe books and the
dozens of coozies or Donovan
coasters from Ireland? Maybe
it is because before Ancestry,
he thought he was Irish and we
now know the same named
castle never was home. Maybe
because her ghost climbs
into his hands as he bakes —
and those pages he reads
are not for me. Maybe because
the idea of a junk drawer
is an intimate familiar:
designated storage versed
for things that don’t belong
anywhere else but together.
A poem. My mind. Our life.
I love how you’ve brought us right into your junk drawer world, and then let us have it. I want to know more about this Ancestry discovery. I also love the expression “intimate familiar.”
I love the cadence and imagery within lines such as
“the silver mesh flatware sleeve for
a paperclip to hold the fold of
my frozen peas”
and
“Maybe
because her ghost climbs
into his hands as he bakes —
and those pages he reads
are not for me.”
This definitely captures that the junk drawer is more than its objects. Beautiful work!
Sarah, there are stories here. I especially love the intrigue of your final words…
“a junk drawer
is an intimate familiar:
designated storage versed
for things that don’t belong
anywhere else but together.
A poem. My mind. Our life.”
And didn’t we all think we were Irish (or Native American) before Ancestry revealed the truth? “No Erin go bragh” here.
This junk drawer dive got familiar and then personal. Love this conclusion, “designated storage versed
for things that don’t belong
anywhere else but together.
A poem. My mind. Our life.” Things that don’t belong anywhere else. And yet they are things we carry, we choose to carry. Thanks for this poem.
Thank you for this, Sarah, for this pensive — with a tinge of melancholy — reflection on the nature of “junk drawer[s].” I love the complexity and layered nuance of “the idea of a junk drawer / is an intimate familiar: / designated storage versed / for things that don’t belong / anywhere else but together.” And your final line is perfect, for what is a poem but disparate images brought together to make something new — something more than the sum of its parts? And that’s what our minds do as well, I think, and relationships too, of course. This is truly beautiful.
Sarah,
How does a junk drawer manage to bring about so much nostalgia and even melancholy? Your poem is so beautifully written and it hits me in the heart. I especially appreciate
for how it captures the intimacy of YOUR junk drawer. It’s nobody else’s.
I love the word frugality and of course, the pooping pig memory. A clever prompt.
Junk Drawer
I forgot another password
so I turn to the all knowing
drawer of junk to locate
the secret notebook.
My hand gets stuck on
the safety scissors, not so safe,
and ruffles a roll of tape,
plastic container of paper clips.
Where did all this stuff come from?
We stuff it full and fuller
until whole hours are lost
in emory boards, stapler, and hole punch.
The password itself brings a tear
of grief for my sweet Charlie.
(I’ve heard you shouldn’t use pet names.)
Buried in the junk is the purest love.
Margaret, you’ve captured all of what the junk drawer is – a space for all that we can bear to let go, all that we know not what to do with, and the conundrum of what is junk and what is not. I love that yours unburied a sweet friend – Charlie. (I keep a notebook of passwords too, which sort of defeats the purpose of the password).
Oh, Margaret,
Your poem took you/us right where it needed: this sweet memory of Charlie. What a gift it is to witness your love of Charlie and the tear of grief in this stanza — until you need to uncover the password again.
Hugs,
Sarah
Margaret, the secrecy is so real here, the hidden notebook and the forgetting – – something I am doing more and more and understand more and more, the more it becomes a part of me. That’s a lot of mores, I know. I’m so sorry that the tear emerged for the sweet Charlie. Someday the tear will become a smile when the love outshines the grief – – still too real, still too raw. The purest love indeed is pet love. Unconditional pet love.
Margaret, you’re last line captures what so perfectly what so many of us are trying to say:
Buried in the junk is the purest love. Just beautiful!
Margaret, oh yes, we are kindred spirits! I do the same thing – keep on stuffing stuff in the drawer. Some object often jams the drawer so that I have to fight or get a tool to wriggle in and move said stuck thing. What a waste of time! I have learned to jiggle the drawer really hard and often the thing will release without so much effort. I have not learned to throw most of that stuff away so jams won’t occur in the first place. Then, your line on finding that password, the name of a beloved pet, chosen so it would not be forgotten – alas- and on being remembered, tears… this poignant truth pierces my heart.
Rex, thank you for a compelling prompt today. A kitchen junk drawer is second only as frightening to me as forgetting a piece of clothing and showing up at work for everyone to see all truth. It’s downright scary except for the drawer I did clean out last weekend. I still have one to go, and it’s the worst one. Your invitation to explore those quirky drawer corners is fantastic! I love that even in the oddities, the junk, there are revelations – – the pooping pig is a touching memory with your daughter that will live on in poetry. I, too, had pigs in mine, so I focused on them today and took them out.
Unbanded
One junk drawer
is empty
~the middle one~
but the one
on the edge
is chock-full
of random bits
and pieces
a years’ supply
of 9V batteries
for the
smoke alarms
we change
often
because
Boo Radley shivers
at the smell of
toaster heat and
smoke alarm chirps
plus the goat ball
banding tool
and bright orange
bands
as if the
whole horrid
thing
needed a
screaming
fluorescent
proclamation
across the farm
and a vintage
unfiltered
cigarette-
sized box of
Happy Family
ceramic pigs
from England
a mama
and twin
piglets
but no daddy
there was never
even a space
for his
unbanded
self
now
from the
Funny Farm
kitchen
windowsill
Mama smiles
with a sparkle-eye
bats her eyelashes
and thinks….
freedom!
I’m glad you rescued those adorable pigs.
Kim, how cute are those pigs! Your un”boxing” of the drawer is like a cleaning in and of itself. But I’m stuck on the goat ball banding tool and what that could possibly be (used for?) and do I even want to know. It calls to mind my teaching partner who used to volunteer on a farm where they castrated the animals. That’s a whole junk-hole memory of its own. I’d much rather spend time at your Funny Farm with sparkle-eyed, freedom-loving ceramic pigs!
KIm,
I love the playfulness of your response with the pigs, and the eventual freedom captured in their perching photo out of the box. The speed of the stanza makes me think of the speed of our rummaging when we actually go through the drawers. Nice touch with the Funny Farm.
Oh, that happy pig! And what a happy verse. Except for the poor goats who truly, truly don’t need a screaming fluorescent proclamation across the farm… I am also struck by there never being a space for Daddy Pig. That’s a story, there! Love this wonderfully fun read and I’m cracking up over your intro about the analogy of junk drawer to showing up in public without a piece of clothing…what would people THINK?…note that I did NOT include a photo of my drawer with my poem!
What a delightful poem, Kim. I love how you lead to your poem’s end and then have that wonderful photograph to help support your text. Loved “with a sparkle-eye”. Lovely!
Rex, you have my favorite pens stashed among your “junk” and treasures. There is no more sensory line that “gilded in giggles” – for its unexpected image ad bright sound that draws forward my own memories of kids’ laughter. (I think we had a pooping frog at some point too). I had fun with this prompt today. And Jim Croce will have to forgive me, along with all of you.
Well, the bedroom of my youngest
Is the baddest room I’ve ever seen
And if you enter there
You better just beware
Of the junk that you will find
Now this room is more than trouble
You see it’s only about ten by ten
All the stuff that should be put away
Well, that stuff is everywhere
And it’s bad, bad, this teenager’s room
The baddest spot in the whole dang house
badder than our basement storage
And more cluttered than a junk-filled drawer
Now this teenager, he’s real fussy
And he likes his clothes just so
And he won’t wear them with one dirt fleck
To mar his exact look
But he’s got clothes both clean and dirty
He’s got wrappers from last night’s snack
He’s got ten empty bags, receipts inside
He’s got boxes yet unpacked
And it’s bad, bad, this teenager’s room
The baddest spot in the whole dang house
badder than our basement storage
And more cluttered than a junk filled drawer
Well Friday, it was just last week
I’d finally had enough
Cuz to enter in
(if you’re even able)
Oh that room like a trash-stuffed bin
I cast my eyes upon it
And the trouble soon began
And the teen had to learn a lesson
Bout messin’ with mom who is not a fan
And it’s bad, bad, the teenager’s room
The baddest spot in the whole dang house
badder than our basement storage
And more cluttered than a junk filled drawer
I do not miss the days of teenagers in the house. After my last one left, I found endless bobby pins, a load of dust bunnies, and a toilet blackened. Now at 33 she keeps a pristine home. Who knew?
Haaaaahahaha, Jennifer, I’m singing the poem to the music and loving every beat. What is it about those teenagers that they’re either oblivious to the mess in their rooms or they nut up over the least little thing being out of place? I love what you have done here with the song. Messin’ with mom who is not a fan brings the fight dynamic to the meaner-than-a- junkyard dog mama that don’t want no junk sitting around the bad, bad teenager’s room. There is so much on so many levels to love here in your poem today, and I also love that you shifted from drawer to entire room! Bravo!
Jennifer,
Awesome blend of a junk drawer day and a mondegreen day! I’d change some of the lyrics to “Of the dad who is not a fan.” This has real value and potential for when the next karaoke comes along!
I love this Jennifer! what great rhythm! I don’t think I had as joyful a beat when I dared enter my own now-grown teenagers’ rooms, so hat’s off to you. I love that you opened the junk draw wide enough to hold the baddest spot in the whole dang house. I’ll be tapping to that beat all day!
I love your riff on “Leroy Brown.” I think I saw those bags with receipts still in them too. Beware! Don’t throw them away, they probably contain the change he received as well. You might find enough to buy a Coke.
JENNIFER! I am singing right along! You don’t miss a beat – and OH THAT ROOM. I KNOW IT…it’s in my house, belonging to my youngest, who’s rummaging and supposedly thinning out in preparation to move out later in the summer (gettin’ married!). I am practically dying on the vine for it to be over so I can re-do it all. I love this fun (if horrifying) verse – I want to hand you my box of extra-duty lawn and leaf bags. Let’s have at it…give us just fifteen minutes..
I’m digging through fire
its flames waiting, begging
skittering for freedom at my touch
My fingers glide
between the blades of war and sustenance
tucked away, dreaming of adventure
I overturn keys to the past
locked against memory
tempting nostalgia
I flip prayer
on her head
question her innocence
I search for tools
of a vision less wobbly
cleansed of fog
The metaphor of going through fire when you open the junk drawer is very appropriate here.
Kathrine, there’s a soothing component to your poem today – the words soft and nudging, despite the fire and blades. I’m drawn to the use of keys as I imagine them both as literal and figurative, as well as the verse about flipping prayer on her head to question her innocence. The use of the feminine and questioning of innocence is both provocative and rebellious.
Katherine, fabulous – those flames and the Keyes to the past and flipping prayer on her head and a vision less wobbly drew my eyes back again and again as I read and reread your poem. The cleansed of fog part is demystifying at the end, leaving the reader satisfied that the truth is clear.
Kathrine – that’s a very compelling image at the outset, digging through an active fire that would be set free at your touch; my first thought was keeping fire from destroying, but then I think…instead.. maybe this is a “good” fire that needs releasing. That second stanza is profound, the contemplation and temptation of the blade … all in all, a mighty, mellifluous, metaphorical rummaging for necessary tools of survival. Your verse is a delight to read.
Kathrine, your poem is compelling and provocative. I love the opening line and the idea that items are “skittering for freedom at my touch”. You’ve captured the abstract perfectly in this poem, and I adore your key lines and “I flip prayer/on her head/question her innocence”. Wow, such a powerful poem!
Rex, thank you for this powerful prompt. What an act of courage, being willing to share the junk in one’s drawer! But, therein lies so much story…love your title, “Disheveled Heart” and all the vivid images. I especially love that the pig sparked the memory of your daughter when she was little, and the phrase “everything was gilded in giggles.” Oh the innocent fun…I feel my eyes misting. Time goes so much faster than we ever realize.
On that note, here goes…
Rolltop Desk Drawer
I forgot
what brought me
to the old rolltop desk
what I was looking for
in this drawer
it isn’t the box
of sheet protectors
left behind by my youngest
marking his time
in high school band
not the psychedelic folders
their neon-swirl flowers
peeking out from under
the folded map of
The British Isles
this juxtaposition
conjuring a sense
of the 1960s
and The Beatles…
can’t buy me love, no
no no no no…
not the bag
of unsharpened pencils
I won at a staff PD session
(why haven’t I used them?)
or the phone chargers,
wires twisting and coiling
over and around
five clear marbles
I hid here last year
to keep them away
from my toddler granddaughter
or the tag she tore off
my Princess Diana
Beanie Baby bear
(ripped away,
just like
the Princess)
or the flat little baggie
lying so unobtrusively
in the midst of it all
like an untold secret
carried within
-don’t know why I saved it,
this tiny snakeskin
pale as sand
fragile as a minute,
an exhaled breath
I remember finding it
in the garage last spring
just a remnant
of a shy earth snake
that was once here
then gone
leaving only this papery bit
of itself behind
I remember putting it
in this baggie
I think I meant
to show it
to the granddaughters
but I forgot
just like I forgot
what brought me
to this old rolltop desk
that I’d given to their dad
when he was still a boy.
We are kindred spirits; Our worlds so full that going to the junk drawer and in those small seconds, completely forgetting what I was looking for. I love the examination of the items and how they tell a story.
Fran, your words have the power to draw us in with a familiarity (have you been snooping in MY junk drawer, which seems to also be yours) but at the same time shake our cores with descriptions of beanie baby tags ripped away like Princess Diana and “fragile as a minute/an exhaled breath” (so lovely!) and layered in the depth of forgetfulness and what that means, which brings us back to the oh-so- familiar!
Fran, I like the way you move from thing to thing in the drawer and give it a little spotlight, and the ripping away of the tag just like Diana is so symbolic. The forgetting why is the lovely part – – – the forgetting about the point of going is transcended by all the memories of the things and the moments not forgotten. And snakeskins in baggies we share in common just like the bottle of Inis. Always, always to show the grandchildren.