Welcome to Verselove, a place for educators to nurture their writing lives and to advocate for writing poetry in community. We are gathering every day in April to write– no sign-ups, no fees, no commitments. Come and go as you please. All that we ask is that if you write, you respond to others to mirror to them your readerly experiences — beautiful lines, phrases that resonate, ideas stirred. Enjoy. (Learn more here.)
Our Host: Joanne Emery
Joanne has worked in education for more than forty years as a classroom teacher, learning specialist, and curriculum coordinator. Most recently her poems, “Esperanza,” and “I Met a Funky Monkey” were published in the poetry anthologies, What is Hope? and Clara’s Kooky Compendium of Thimblethoughts and Wonderfuzz edited by Janet Wong and Sylvia Vardell.
Joanne was an original member of Judy Chicago’s Birth Project, and her quilt is on permanent exhibit at the Albuquerque Museum of Art and History. She has exhibited photography throughout the United States including the Salmagundi Gallery in New York City and the San Diego Art Institute. Joanne maintains a weekly blog on art, education, and writing at http://wordancerblog.com.
Inspiration
A couple of years ago, I worked on creating a compilation of poems about birds. I have always been in awe of their beauty and power of flight. While creating the poems, I focused in on how the birds moved, looked, and behaved in all habitats and seasons. When I came across Joy Harjo’s poem, “Redbird Love,” I was struck by the way she was able to capture natural beauty so expertly. I read Harjo’s poem over and over again, and was astounded by her keen power of observation. She was able to express, through simple and clear watching, a deep connection between nature and the human world.
Process
Look closely at something in nature or manmade. Consider why this thing hold importance for you. What memories are brought up by youe close observation? How will this reflect the mood of your poem? Use any form of poetry to best convey your careful observations. I am most comfortable with free verse, so that’s what I used to explore the memories of my in-law’s home.
Joanne’s Poem
No Longer
Every year, for twenty years
we came here,
to this house –
two-story brick
sitting stately on a hill
surrounded by elms and maples,
slate blue doors and shutters.
We came to love this house
because we loved
the two people inside
and loved them more
as they aged –
Silver-haired and stooping
but always moving,
always answering the door
with open arms,
and open hearts
in every season:
Magnolias bloomed
fragrant in summer.
In fall, elms showered yellow
leaves onto the rooftop.
A dusting of snow frosted
the windows in winter.
The pear trees’ white blossoms
were the first sign of spring.
The seasons rolled one onto another
so imperceptibly we didn’t even notice.
Gradually, the stairs became harder to climb.
the television was harder to hear,
vials of medicine lined the kitchen counter,
important phone numbers were listed on the frig.
Now, when we came,
the house sat a little lower.
We watched a little more closely.
stayed a little longer.
listened a little better,
opened our arms and hearts
just a little wider
to keep the memories
and the two inside close.
But the seasons rolled on
and the two are now gone
and the house we loved
Still sits on the hill
but we can no longer return.
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. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
Still catching up. Thanks for this invitation, Joanne!
A Birder Looks at 40
Look! There’s
one
floating low
lazy
in the sky.
Look! There’s
another one
a rounded
shadow
lighted on a wiry
branch.
Look! There’s
another one
a spear slicing
through
sky
piercing the
unsuspecting
(is that a)
mouse?
And though they look
when I tell them too
they aren’t fast enough
eyes not keen enough
to see them when I do.
Maybe they’re not close
enough to 40.
Perhaps their eyes will
adjust with age
and they will finally be able
to spot a
hawk
from a mile away.
But for now their
disappointed
chorus
rings and
echoes
throughout the van.
I take 8 steps methodically
followed by 16 more steps
gliding over each inch of turf
filled with synthetic grass blades
my toes pointed in a ski line path
guiding my body, its athletic portions
across dozens of yards of field
I take 8 rhythmic breaths
each one preparing me for take off
preparing my hands for the next attack
lifting into each given beat written on a page
listening, tracking, anticipating
guiding my arms, their musical portion
through a series of rhythmic complexities
I am on the field
the field leaves its pellets
lodged into numerous pairs of socks
a lasting memory
of years of performance
Carson,
Yes! I was right there on the field with you. This poem is one that would’ve been perfect for our anthology dedicated to student athletes. I really enjoyed the infusion of music because I imagine the 8 counts help keep an athlete in step and focused.
Hi Joanne, thank you for hosting and thank you for sharing your wonderful poem and tantalising prompt.
A Blissful Moment
Along the dirt road I run
In green sugar cane fields.
Chunks of canes that fell off lorries
During harvest
Have long since been crushed
By the wheels of tractors.
What remains is a criss-crossing carpet
Of soft dust-covered fibres,
The pain in my calves subsides.
My breathing stabilises.
Sweat streams down my face.
Shiny beads form on my sunburnt arms.
I begin to enjoy the run
As my body gradually releases
Stress-destroying endorphin.
I’m free, I’m happy.
I’m free. I’m happy.
I stop running and walk
when I reach the small wooded area
Near the old sugar mill at Alma .
The songs of birds greet me:
The warbles and trills of invisible birds
The shrill, the sweet and the achingly melodious. .
From the dishevelled leaves of tall palm trees
Hang the upside down homes of weavers.
Defying gusts and gravity.
I wonder why the moss grows
Only on one side of the trees.
I stop in front of the small lake
A stone’s throw from the mill.
A shimmering sheet in the sweltering summer
A pair of water ducks float away
Rippling the reflective stillness of the water.
I am lucky to see and hear such wonders.
I am free. And I am happy.
This is such a lovely and peaceful memory, shared with such vivid detail. Thank you for sharing such a beautiful poem!
Thank you for hosting today; beautiful prompt. Here’s to my grandfather who passed last year February <3
Tito
There is a grainy picture
of his strong, calloused hands
gripping a jackhammer
during his time working in construction.
But I knew those hands as a pair
that counted the family restaurant’s cash,
the hands that delivered donuts to squealing cousins
and shelled peanuts and apple slices in the driveway
Praise God, those hands held my first born
and then my second and then my third; hands
full from raising his own five girls, spoiling
sixteen grandchildren, delighting in ten great grandchildren
And then, his hands moved slowly, shakily, barely.
My hands held Tito’s hands,
soft and gentle and warm;
nietos flew in to place their
hands in our grandfather’s hands;
tias gripped their daddy’s hands,
little girls turned women, carrying legacy;
Tita folded her hands into
her husband’s hands
one last time.
Oh, Britt, those beautiful images of family hands–four generations strong. This is beautiful. I especially like the Spanish for the family role names in your poem.
Britt,
I wish your tito could hear you read this poem to him. His hands are the hands of love and of building a home and this country. I am honored to read your words and think of my tito’s hands that built, and my father’s hands, and my husband’s hands. But mostly I think of the migrants I met when I taught in Arizona and their hands bent and calloused from the work they do to feed this country.
This sound like a rich life really well lived. I wish every old person in the world could be surrounded by loved ones like Tito was.
This work is beautiful Britt, and it is such a strong reminder of my Pops who passed away when I was 19. He had many of the qualities that your Tito has, so it is really touching to read your memory of him. Thank you for sharing!
Britt, I’m in love with poems that honor hands. What you created is a loving tribute to your Tito. God rest his soul. I adore the generations of hands!
Thank you for your prompt and poem and for exposing me to a new poem from Joy Harjo.
Disclaimer- I am definitely in a writing funk, but I am enjoying all these poems, so though, I do not love it, here is what I got.
Plants have languages.
Adjectives petal bright in spring
Sultry bold adverbs of summer
Verbs in autumn fruiting, flaring, fading out
Winter nouns of fairies, of flakes, of frost
Plants have languages.
I have spent my life learning.
Silent yellow as soft as butter
Screams shivering slices through the wind
If immerse myself,
If I listen closely,
If I am humble and
Hum my heart’s hymn
I hear, am heard and
We understand.
Oh, Kasey, I’m seeing a lovely poem here. So graceful and clever in the use of language to describe the plants. I like the alliterative verbs. And that last stanza sounds so beautiful, and I like the “we” in the last line there.
Hi again,
I enjoyed our field trip to the Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens. I took a bunch of photos. I settled on this one in my attached image. It felt sooooo good to see my boys stopping to smell the roses and declaring which ones they loved most. This was a tender and memorable moment.
A Petal Pause
Children stopped to smell
roses of various scents
nature’s oohs and ahhs
Will they remember
to stop and smell the roses
when life moves too fast
I hope they recall
the joys of nature’s gifts and
take a petal pause
© Stacey L. Joy, 4/10/25
I will catch up on commenting tomorrow. I have zero energy left after being in the sun and on my feet all day.
Oh, Stacey, such a treasured moment! I, too, hope they will “take a petal pause.” The image is beautiful and enhances the poem.
Stacey, what a day you had! A beautiful field trip it seems. You deserve to be tired. That photograph with the green behind your lovely students stopping to smell the roses is just gorgeous. “A Petal Pause” is very clever. I too hope they will remember this and take petal pauses often.
Your haikus like blossoms enclose so much fragrance and so many wonders.
Stacey, your poem is a reminder that I should be stopping to smell the roses. Life has been moving so quickly recently, and you have inspired me to take some time later in the day and go hammocking by a pond, be in nature. It is time to slow it down, take a pause. Thank you!
Thank you so much Joanne for the invitation to slow down and look closely…and for the beautiful poems of inspiration.
My camera helps me look closely, so I took a stroll through my camera roll to find my poem for today. Here goes:
Slow Motion
Fireworks explode
in greens, blues
purples
painting the sea
in still life
motion
in motion almost imperceptible
sea stirred
I remember
to slow down
and channel
my inner anemone
sunbathe in the shallow salt
water
soak up the sun
let the sea stir me into motion
And, when no one
is looking
throw out sparks
that bring
color
to the world
Kim Douillard
4/10/25
You can find the photo on my blog: https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2025/04/10/slow-down-npm25-day-10/
Kim, what a beautiful metaphor for the anemone–fireworks of “greens, blues, purples” “sea stirred” Gorgeous photo. I like how you take a lesson from the anemone in those last two stanzas.
I’m not sure that I followed the prompt exactly, but I leaned into memory and thought about some specific details of a place that was a home to me. I loved the beats of your mentor poem, Joanne; lines like “Silver-haired and stooping/ but always moving” and the wonderful use of parallel structures in the latter part of the poem. Thanks for sharing your poem and this prompt.
Shea
It was a dump,
built on the Valley of Ashes,
even TJ Eckleburg
would’ve looked away,
named after the man
who brought the National League
back to New York,
Shea Stadium was
our playground.
We were nosebleed seats kids,
son of a firefighter, bus driver, bodega owner,
the jets practically scraped our heads, as they
roared overhead–sometimes 3 per inning-
landing over the left field wall at LaGuardia.
Sometimes we’d sneak down,
red seats to green seats to blue seats
to orange, slipping the usher a 5 spot,
if we had to, to sit field level for a couple innings.
I wasn’t there for Piazza’s homerun,
10 days after they flew planes into the towers,
but we were huddled around the TV,
praying for bigger miracles,
but taking what we could get, when he swung
and lofted that majestic fly ball over the centerfield
wall, reminding us, for a brief moment, what joy felt like.
I was there, 5 years later, when Piazza returned,
the prodigal son, in an opposing team’s uniform
and hit 2 homeruns and we all cheered and cried,
remembering how he reminded us how to smile.
I was with my son that night, and I was with him
On September 28th, 2008–the last game before
Shea was demolished, in the midst of a crumbling
marriage, as the Mets lost again, but we were glad
to be there, and my son said, through tears,
“this is the end of an era, but next year will be
something brand new.”
It was a dump, but it was our dump,
and we made memories that you can’t erase
with a wrecking ball.
Dave, what a sweet history you have written here with all the details of your Shea Stadium memories. I’m sorry it had to go, but somehow the memories are dearer and stronger because they are ones “you can’t erase / with a wrecking ball.”
Dave, I love the story you tell here of this special place. “We were nosebleed seats kids,…” I think we’ve all been Nosebleed seat kids at some point in time, but we didn’t care as long as we were close to what brought us joy. What a great retelling of a special place in time.
I was inspired to write an echo…free verse poem, lol, after attending this Zoom this evening. Here’s hoping that when I post it, the computer gods won’t mess up the format.)
“The News Today”
(On Hearing Senator John Mannion Speak to the League of Women Voters)
What he sees
from his colleagues in the Senate: (Senate)
Heads down, laughing off the antics (antics.)
of the powerful. People (People)
on the other side of the aisle rooting (rooting.)
for rebellion to be successful. Discouraged to think (Think,)
of the reticence of cowards. (cowards.)
Part of a deeply divided (Divided)
district, working for them – but (but)
against demonizing (demonizing)
people, breaking (breaking)
laws, violating (violating)
court orders and rules of law. (law.)
How (Litigation.)
To (Legislation.)
Fight? (Knowledge.)
In support (Support)
of balanced budgets – not on the (the)
backs of the needy. (needy.)
House hypocrisy? Unbelievable. (Unbelievable)
Fights bowing (bowing)
to the other side, cutting taxes to (to)
the ultra-rich. (ultra-rich.)
A closing quote from Barack Obama, who we (We)
were graced, this week, with a visit from, who will (will)
again spur us to action: “No one is coming to save (save)
us.” (us.)
Wendy–
The lines that really stick for me are:
Instructions that I fear we are going to really need to follow, and:
This is a powerful call to action and the echo effect amplifies your points!
The echoes are strong! “Unbelievable bowing to ultra-rich” and “We will save us” Yes, indeed! Well done, Wendy!
I think we are meant to notice beautiful things, but I saw a picture, actually two pictures of myself today, and I looked too closely.
A snapshot
of a happy time
I remember smiles and laughter
But this snapshot?
Oh my God
my face
why am I making that face?
my arms
why am I slouching?
I don’t remember slouching
One time I read that others
see us in movement
love us in movement
we see ourselves in still pictures
where we focus too much
on each part
where it’s easy to criticize
each part
We would love ourselves
if we saw ourselves
in movement
like the rest of the world
like we love others
So that is what I tell myself
as I close the picture
and decide to either
hide from cameras
always
or just never look at any
snapshots
of myself
ever
again
The end made me laugh out loud. Nice job with your shift.
This made me think of all of the pics that I see posted of me on social media where I look absolutely TERRIBLE! Your questions–why am I slouching? why am I making that face?–ring true. I really like the refrain of “in movement” as it points out the lies that still pictures tell about us.
What a provocative idea! I love the contrast of movement and stillness…something I also played with a bit today. I wonder if others see the movement in the snapshots? Don’t hide from the camera!
Ona, what an idea! I am not sure this is true:
but I want it to be. That is a sweet thought!
This poem comes from a notebook entry I wrote when I went on a nature walk at my local park in December.
“Things I Noticed While Sitting Alone on a Bench by the Pond”
I am lapped at
pools of water
separated
from the pond
an overflowing
flooded plain
connected but
barriered by
the tall grass.
There
watching me is
a bird of soft grey
feathers and fluff
perching proud
upon an island.
So small
it contains
only
him
and a bushel of berries,
bright red gems
his treasure
to protect
defend!
What secrets
does he keep
just out
of my reach?
What secrets, indeed? The rhythm of your poem feels like water to me. This is a lovely capture.
Erica,
I love the moment that you capture here. It’s such a delicate description, and the secret at the end leaves us pondering about what other treasures lie in the pond.
Erica, I love that you were paying close attention in December when you watched this little soft fluffy bird on the the island with his berries. Your poem takes us right there with you.
I can see every detail of the setting that you’ve described. Amazing usage of imagery Erica, especially the tiny island with the bird on it.
have you seen those infinite zoom images,
the ones where you’re looking at a piece of pie
or the earth or a glass of water, something,
whatever, and you unpinch the image and you
can keep zooming in and in and in and the pie
crust or mountain top or ice cubes become
something else, something else entirely, a
cityscape or beach scene or moonscape and
you unpinch and it becomes an apartment and
you zoom in and in and there’s a phone on a
desk and on that phone there’s a background
image of a bird, a red one, a cardinal, a sign of
hope, and if you unpinch and zoom and unpinch
and zoom you’ll see that the eye of the cardinal
will become a constellation of stars and I realize
that people are like this, too, stories upon stories,
layers upon layers and all you have to do Is ask
them questions about themselves and maybe
unpinch them, too, that sometimes helps
__________________________________________________
Joanne, thank you for your beautifully tender mentor poem and prompt today!
I LOVE those images that do that and I love how you connected that aspect to stories and people — brilliant comparison.
Scott, you suckered me in and had me wonder where this poem was going. I love the idea of unpinching people to get through their layers.
I love how this flowed, image to image to image to the comparison to people. So true.
Fun, Scott. People are like this, especially if you pinch them! :-). What was cool becomes hot as snot!
Scott,
That ending!!! You had me following the breadcrumbs all the way through your poem and then you reveal that metaphor. So brilliant! I love that idea of pinching and unpinching, changing our perspective to see new realities.
Oh, Scott, what a beautiful message. I think you are right. I love those times when I can get people to talk about their stories, and likewise when gifted people can get me to talk naturally about my own. You know I’ve never seen that word unpinch, which is exactly what we do to zoom in, isn’t it? The details in your zooming in picture are amazing, and when the cardinal’s eye becomes a constellation of stars, of course, that is when you relate that whole beautiful idea to people, and it made me so happy.
Well, this feels rather odd
My eyes took it all in
A science classroom
My new classroom…
An English teacher
Spacing issues, empty spaces
So many outlets and sinks
An emergency shower
Hanging and tempting
My underclassman
Mrs. V..what would you do…
If I pulled this?
Sir, that’s not a good idea
Let’s not play that game
Flair pens and post-its
Swimming in long drawers
My desk a black counter
Front sink to rinse my coffee cup
Can I spit in this sink?
No, let’s not do that either
Empty shelves dreaming
Of being a classroom library
Some may see a science
Room, but I see areas
That are calling to become
Reading nooks
I love the contrast of what the room is vs. what it could be. I think my favorite was the line about “Spacing issues, empty spaces” because who doesn’t walk into a room and immediately start to picture how to make it your own and arrange things so it’s NOT empty. I hope you get your reading books — that sounds delightful!
Ashley, I love this! “Empty shelves dreaming / Of being a classroom library”! Yes! Maybe this is just an English teacher thing, or, just a me thing, lol, but, I keep looking at flat surfaces in my classroom and imagining more bookshelf space!
Ashley, your poem me if early years, as new teacher in so many states, I became a floater, sharing rooms with other teaches. But, in all those years, never a science room to teach English. But, I admire your visualizing HOW it can used to support your style of teaching. You’re all going to make with fond memories of when…
wishing you well.
Ashley, what a great topic for a poem. So funny that the science room became your English classroom. And I loved the ending–you were seeing all the reading nooks. Beautiful!
Joanne,
Thanks for hosting and sharing your beautiful poem. Your bittersweet ending resonated, reminding me of visiting my grandparents.
———————————————————-
As I walk into work
I look around for birds
Yesterday I saw a flock of vultures circling over my school
Riding the thermals
Not a good omen for state testing day
Today there are grackles on the telephone wires
And a pair of brown house sparrows
Birds I have recently learned to identify
Fly towards the entrance I am about to walk through
But then turn away and hop up and down in flight
I yearn to fly away with them
Thanks for bringing me to this familiar space. I was always surprised with the birds which held close to the building. A certain kind of confidence. I like the image of the birds “hop(ping) up and down in flight” and their tug on you.
Sharon, I fall for some of the ominous signs too sometimes, especially when I am expecting on some important issue resolution. Hopefully, the sate testing day went well, and it was the sign of protection in a mysterious way.
Your final line hits familiar chord: I, too, wish to fly away with birds, especially when the weather is so beautiful, and the sky is a color of my dream. In one of Chekhov’s play, the main character has this sentiment that is often quoted: “Why don’t people fly like birds do?”
Thank you for your observant reflection today!
Sharon, oh, to fly away with them on a state testing day sounds glorious. I love the detail of the birds’ names, especially “Birds I have recently learned to identify”.
I love the use of birds in this poem and how you connect to them. I remember when I finally learned how to identify the mourning dove and now I get tickled every time I hear it calling to me from the tree outside our school. Also the word “grackle” is just fun to read in a poem. I want to fly away with the birds as well…and at this point in the year I’ll even take the vultures.
Sharon,
”Vultures circling over my school” immediately made me think of the new Secretary of Education. She’s accompanied by DOGE in my reading of your poem. I understand the impulse to fly away.
Joanne, Thanks for inviting me into your in laws house and the prompt and the opportunity to focus on a single moment.
hawk
yesterday
a single hawk sailed across the morning’s wide blue sky
and caught my eye
I watched those long white outstretched wings –
and distinctive white head shift out and then down
as I watched you sail
I imagined you must be holding your breath
Jamie,
Thank you for letting me see this hawk.
Your last line surprised me.
Jamie, I appreciate thinking about the hawk and what you are telling us, and then the switch in the last two lines when you speak directly to the hawk. Then I feel like I’m observing you both in that breathtaking moment.
Jaimie, I really like this brief moment of your close look and the reflection of it. It’s amazing what you’ve done with one line. I read it–“I watched those long white outstretched wings”– and with each modifier, those, long, white, and outstretched, I see these long wings; it’s as if each word makes them longer, so to say.
Jamie, I love that I can picture this scene so perfectly — the sailing through the “wide blue sky” and the “long white outstretched wings” and the “shift[ing]” “white head.” Thank you for crafting this and sharing this hawk with us!
Lovely…that last line!
A Bench Lost In a Hurricane 4/10/2025
Now I scarcely remember
the objects that came and gone,
thrashed about between what
man makes and nature
stakes to claim.
I used to sit, bench-bound,
watching the lake’s roil.
Whitecaps and cormorants
battling on the slate grey,
Vying for my attention–
creaking wood
inscribed with three
generations of lovers names;
chipping, rotting,
chains rusting away.
The ache remains,
for a bench lost
in the hurricane,
floating, sunk now in the gulf,
fathoms and fathoms away.
I can’t help but long
for the objects silently
strewn along, out, away.
Like a bird flying into a window,
Missing the air that was once there.
Wow, James. I’m thinking of that space “between what man makes and nature stakes” Such great sounding lines there. The description of the whitecaps and cormorants against the slate grey is such a great description of the view.
James, your closing simile is striking. Longing for objects and times that cannot be recaptured sings through your gorgeous poem. Fantastic use of rhyme to help the poem flow effortlessly. Thrashed about is an apt description of how objects move in a hurricane. Thanks for sharing your talents with us today!
Such vivid word choice! Your last stanza is so powerful, and for some reason I am really drawn to the “strewn along, out, away.”
James, loved this. You make great use of sound in this piece to underscore tone and mood:
“I used to sit, bench-bound,
watching the lake’s roil.”
and
“battling on the slate grey,”
and
“The ache remains,
for a bench lost
in the hurricane,”
And I loved your simile at the end. Really enjoyed this!
Ohhh! This is so good! The exacting details of the bench, the sound of the wood, the lovers’ names, all attest to its familiarity to and meaning for you. And its loss is so profoundly felt, not only by you but also by us as we reach that last stanza. But this, this is just so powerful–strewn along, out, away, like a bird flying into a window, missing the air that was once there. The separation of along, out, and away and the sound of them mimics the tossing and the image of the bird and what it missed is heartbreakingly beautiful.
Wait, I just thought of another moment! I’m writing TWO poems today- woo! I looked up in the middle of class yesterday to see a squirrel looking in the classroom window. It stood there for several minutes– we all just stared at each other. Then a student grabbed his phone and the squirrel ran away.
Joining Class– A Squirrel’s Perspective
I was poking about the grass, trying to remember where I buried that last acorn
I think it might be right by this clear hard thing . . .
Hey! I can see inside it!
Gasp! There are PEOPLE! I had no idea!
What are they doing?
They seem to be trapped inside little boxes.
How boring.
One of them just lifted her hand and pointed at me
Now they all are
What do I do? What do I do?
I freeze and stare back.
So far, so good . . .
One of them just moved! Run away!
Safe.
Fun, Sheila! I love this sweet story from the squirrel’s perspective.
This is funny! We have ground squirrels and they are multiplying! I am hoping to trap one of them in a little box!
Hi, Sheila, what a fun poem from the squirrel’s point of view. these made me laugh:
“What do I do? What do I do?
I freeze and stare back.
So far, so good . . .”
I’d be creeped out by these PEOPLE. lol
Thank you for sharing.
Sheila, this was fun! I’m glad you wrote from Jason’s point of view in your last poem and the squirrel’s in this one. Thanks for both of these!
People Have the Worst Noses
10:34 am.
My greyhound, Jason, wants a walk.
I am in the middle of planning classes, but he will not be deterred,
So on goes the gear– the leash for him, poop bags and a hoodie for me– and out the door we go.
It’s FINALLY a beautiful April day, and I marvel at the brand-new leaves just starting to open on my lilac bushes.
I smile at forsythia blooms we pass, and I hunt for sprouting tulips.
And Jason?
He snuffles around and yanks me to a tree trunk.
An apparently still dormant tree trunk.
Really, buddy? There’s all this beautiful green to look at and you pull me here?
But then I wonder what I am missing because I don’t have his sense of smell.
Or his sense of sight and motion
True fact: one evening his ears went into alert mode. I saw nothing and thought he was faking.
Until we almost walked into four deer just standing there.
So here’s Jason’s stanza:
There’s lots of good stuff to smell here
Mom has no clue
I will pee and sniff and be happy.
I often wonder about my dog’s thought process when walking, why some piles of leaves are more alurring than others. Your final stanzas made me smile and realize how overcomplicated we tend to make our reflections on our pets; they’ve got the right idea, to meander along and simply enjoy the managerie around us. Thanks for sharing!
Sheila, I like that Jason helps you to look closely. Yes, Mom doesn’t have “his sense of sight and motion”. I suppose you may see more and sense more than the dog-less walker. Clever idea!
This is so fun. Love how we all experience the world differently, animals included. Playful stanza from the pup, too.
Joanne, thanks for this prompt. I did not get to thank you this morning but now I am really enjoying comments from everyone. I liked the wods “answering the door with open arms.” My parent’s house was on Magnolia Street.
Joanne, this was really beautiful. I loved the structure, just the look of the poem and the way it flowed as a result. The progression of your sentiments was just lovely.
COUNTING ON THE MOON
The moon waxes, wanes,
sliding through spring clouds at midnight,
a cradled crescent,
the next night elusive,
as storms claim the heavens,
sirens moan, hie to shelter.
But she returns, Luna,
having donned a shawl around her shoulders
a few nights later,
reminding me that moons
steady the tensions
during grave, earthly moments,
gravity pulling at the skirts
ruffled at the hemline
from the muffled riptides
of discordant perseverations,
undertows sucking
sands at my feet.
Blood Moon in full regalia,
her lunar halo,
ease my pacing on the deck
till sleep bests and tugs
me back to bed,
while she tiptoes east to west
protecting, guarding,
an inveterate trajectory,
inviolable.
by Susie Morice, April 10, 2025©
So many beautiful lines here, Susie. I especially like fifth stanza with gravity pulling at ruffled skirts of the tides.
Susie, I read your poem and “see” you rich, vivid images in the way the moon is “sliding through spring clouds at midnight” and Luna “having donned a shawl around her shoulders,” and then comes the gravity with “the skirts / ruffled at the hemline,” and on, and on. The imagery is stunning! I also love the personification of the Moon, especially “while she tiptoes east to west.” Finally, at the end, you underscore that sacred nature of the moon with its “inveterate trajectory,/ inviolable.” Your poem clearly takes a close look at the moon.
Susie, you’ve captured the moon’s powerful essence magically in this poem. Nature’s gravitational impact is a wonder and reflects the various emotions we experience as the moon changes from one stage to the next. Provocative and gorgeous poem!
Susie, I hang on so many of your lines – – cradled crescents, and this whole stanza sings
gravity pulling at the skirts
ruffled at the hemline
from the muffled riptides
It feels like a lullaby, this poem that you have written – and I can imagine you strumming the guitar, singing it in a tune. It has the feel of a white cotton nightgown in breezy night air, the backdrop of a bright moon and dark night sky. I love it so much.
Susie, wow, so much lunar and lexical beauty in this poem. I can take each stanza and read and reread. Beautiful. And I learned a new word: hie.
Susie,
The moon feels like a companion in this evocative verse. I see her on chilly nights echoing you as you, too, “donned a shawl.” And knowing those midwestern storms that have you paving on the deck, there’s a comfort to nature. Lovely alliteration throughout. “Inviolable” is a perfect ending.
There is something so beautiful in describing the moon’s clothes. I learned a lot about phases this year with my students for Ramadan. There is so much significance and symbolism in phases. Love this piece thanks for sharing.
Susie the way you write about the moon is so gorgeous! I could visualize her very clearly and I love the different aspects of her you capture in this poem.
Found the connection of “man and nature” today on my walk to my car. Having a rain coat on made me look down closely! Thanks for this fun nature prompt.
fascination
By the weatherman’s recommendation
I packed rain boots for my destination.
But by my own miscalculation,
the umbrella missed our evacuation.
Using my hood as insulation,
my head bowed down through precipitation.
I tip-toed around puddle accumulation,
but stepped right into bizarre coloration.
For a moment finding beauty with elation,
then realizing danger in the combination
of water and fluids from transportation.
Swirling colors and rainbow creation
slipped down the tar with motivation
moving and dancing with automation
down the road and lot, no deviation.
With only one goal: contamination.
As the slick reached the drain for sanitation,
I thought of how helpless I was in this situation.
Can I really contribute to any conservation,
without community behavior modification?
Or will I sit with the symbolic representation
of fake rainbows,
storm drains,
and beauty
imitation.
C.O. — Oh my gosh, the wordplay is spectacular! I loved the litany of ..”ation[s]” — so witty and fun and accuracy! It’s a perfect tight examination of your poetic creation after the inundation of a big rain! LOL! Just way way way fun to read. You have to read this aloud and fast…as it moves just like the the mess streaming down the street straight for the storm drain. I really laughed out loud and “behavior modification” — this is a stitch! Love it. Susie
This was so fun to read! I love the “ations,” too.
C. O., this is brilliant! The rhyming makes reading this poem so entertaining. As I was reading one line, I was thinking about the next possible word with “-ion” suffix. I especially liked this couplet combination:
“moving and dancing with automation
down the road and lot, no deviation.”
It’s a no pun-intended citation ))
I was 100% smiling while reading this, -ation rhymes are some of my favorites! A lovely conversation about the weather, thanks for sharing!
C.O., wow! I never knew there were so many -ation words that sounded so great together, so playful. Yes, to “community behavior modification” so we don’t have to have oil slick rainbows.
There’s a rhythm to this verse that replicates the putter pattern if rain and that belies the seriousness in the last part of the poem. A couple of years ago I read Under a White Sky, which echoes the environmental ethic and lack of one in your poem. We are not in a good place right now.
man-made
for my dad
i sit at a wooden desk
carefully crafted, slabs of wood
atop each other as if they’d been
constructed
for that reason alone.
but i have no idea who made it.
back home, my dad hammers
pieces and pieces of wood,
cut, sanded, painted,
into benches, end tables,
that i delicately sit on,
place my drinks on,
rest my feet on,
until they wither out of existence.
my dad likes to use his hands
to stain the deck,
perfectly paint additions of my room,
garden, and garden, until the plants bloom,
and create a yard of memories.
in my dorm room, i sit on the futon
that my dad put together,
place drinks on the nightstand,
that my dad put together
read books from the shelf
that my dad put together,
and through town,
i drive the car my dad taught me how to drive, navigating through town
together.
i love the oceans,
the gardens,
the fields of flowers and
greenery,
grass, and rocks, and trees.
but i prefer the man made.
as i wade through my life,
picking up items, and sitting,
and creating,
i see things made by my dad,
and i feel close to him,
as if sinking into cushions and propping up my feet can place him next to me.
after all,
aren’t i man made?
perfectly crafted by my parents
into what i am today,
like the bench,
the end table,
the futon,
the nightstand.
created by my father.
Molly, I attended a funeral yesterday of a carpenter. I was talking to the son, age 27, who was an apprentice to his dad…all the skills he uses were mentored from his pop. Neither he or his father could figure out a way to counter cancer…with their hands…through their minds. And that was the hardest part. I appreciated this pome this afternoon…all the handy work of your father…all he made you to be.
What a wonderful tribute to your Dad and his creative hands!
I love your decisive tone, “i prefer the man made.” I spent quite awhile making my mind up as to which is more profound, man or nature, and settled on something bwteen the two. My Dad is a craftsman as well, and your poem made me glance around my writing space, dissecting where his hands contributed. Thanks for sharing!
Molly, what a beautiful, heartfelt tribute to your Dad. These lines touched my heart:
“as i wade through my life,
picking up items, and sitting,
and creating,
i see things made by my dad,
and i feel close to him.”
You are certainly man maid. Thank you for sharing!
What a lovely tribute to your talented father who could make all these beautiful pieces. I love how you describe how these pieces “can place him next to me”.
Oh Molly,
Love the double meaning of man made and the repetition of all the dependable furnishings your dad provided you with. I feel the love and respect in you poem, both in his creations for you and your attention and appreciation of them.
Beautiful!
the mourning dove
you didn’t hear me
approach
so I instinctively froze
and studied you
absorbed
delighted
you are so quiet
and focused
looking, looking, looking
what do you seek?
you sweet being
the soft curve and tilt of your head
oh my,
your feathers are glorious
that blue lavender patch!
plus peach and brown and grey
your milky white spotted breast
I love your eyes
so direct, clear, certain
you are a true beauty
how is it that
I am just noticing you
for the first time?
Maureen, how wonderful to sneak up on a bird and be able to see it up close and personal! I was taking guesses at the type, but all I can think is a vireo. You have me curious about what it might be! I love that nature always holds something for us to notice for the first time.
Aah, this is sensory candy for this birder. Dovies are always out there in my backyard, tootling out from under a blue spruce on the hill. I love the frozen moment to observe them carefully. Birdies are amazing. And your keen eye saw all those colors whereas so many see only big, grey bird with a too-small head. LOL! Cool poem. Susie
Quite beautiful, Maureen. We have those dove here and I love it when I can get a close look at them while they gather at our feeder. You do capture the dove in your use of color and the soft curve of the head. Thanks.
This was lovely. I’m never fortunate enough to actually see them. I just hear them. Thank you for this gorgeous description.
Maureen, I was “watching” that dove with you noticing “the soft curve and tilt of [its] head,” glorious feathers, and “milky white spotted breast.” It feels like you carefully chose each word as if you were nursing them. Gorgeous!
Oh Maureen, did you just notice this beauty today for the first time? What a testimony to the power of poetry and a good prompt, if that’s the case. That glorious stanza about the colors on the mourning dove is just beautiful.
Maureen,
I paused reading your poem to watch a tree full of robins out my front window. They became a conversation w/ Ken, which is how I see you delighting in the dive you’re observing. The details are exquisite. I want your dove to appear in my tree, but all our doves are gray, ring neck ones. sigh
Maureen,
I love how you directly address the dove. And the last stanza leaves us with such a great question!
Joanne,
I love the Joy Harjo poem. Your poem is both nostalgic and sad, as though the house itself is a character saying goodbye as you part ways. I’ve always been drawn to stories that feature homes in that way. The moment I read the prompt this morning, my poem arrived.
Eyebrows
before i learned
to love Frida Kahlo—
eyebrows and art—
before i understood
her memento mori—
her art of dying—her
skulls & screws, her
blood-red blotches &
expressionless self-
portraits, paintings
depicting herself
as a wounded deer
pierced with arrows;
before seeing her
forever-alive bright
blooming hues;
before i saw Frida
Kahlo’s thick arched
unibrow magnified
in her art & under-
stood this symbolic
gesture rejecting
conventional beauty
standards; before
i embraced rebellion &
wordpainting my own
reality; before i fell in
love with feminist
icon Frida Kahlo,
i plucked my eye-
brows into razor-
thin stripes & refused
to let them kiss.
Glenda Funk
4-10-25
There is so much I love about this, Glenda! Frida Kahlo herself, such a fabulous muse; I love how you begin with her eyebrows and tumble through all that is awesome about her and land with the your own eyebrows – and the power behind these. The eyebrow theme ends up being “bookends” in your poem – and I think the physical look of your poem is that of a bookmark. I adore the word “wordpainting” and the idea of wordpainting one’s reality…marvelous poem.
Glenda, I love art as an act of resistance. I was fortunate to have seen the Kahlo exhibit at the High Museum in Atlanta about a decade or so back, and I was mesmerized by the shapes and colors used in the artwork. Love the message!
OMG, Glenda! Wow! I am totally in love with this poem. Love the powerful language you’ve used throughout this one. I especially enjoyed the lines: “her art of dying—her
skulls & screws, her
blood-red blotches &
expressionless self-
portraits, paintings
depicting herself
as a wounded deer”
I am a huge Frida Kahlo fan, and I so appreciate the way you share your own admiration for Frida, specific and important details of her life, and then connect her unibrow with your own “eyebrows into razor-
thin stripes & refused
to let them kiss. ”
What a triumph! Kudos!
Glenda bringing the poetic funk to us once again! Love the subject, the tower-like thinness of your words, the education you offer, the strong stance for women, and the heart of each of the words you chose for this.
AHAHAHAHA! Glenda — I love this examination of FK. She and her unibrow have been a fascination for me too. You reminded me of how complex her real life was, what a feminist she was in the place and time that wasn’t having any of that. I can’t EVEN imagine you “pluck[ing] [your] eye-/brows into razor-/thin stripes…” So funny. Great topic and meaningful poem. This would make a great assignment for young writers to take a person they’ve stared at in art and then having them look beneath the surface. When you grow out your unibrow, send photos! LOL! Hugs, Susie
Brilliant poem, Glenda – such vivid imagery (how could it not be?!) and amazing flow throughout. Every word lands just right. Love “wordpainting my own reality” so much.
Glenda, what a surprising ending, but I love imagining that if you’d have fallen in love with Kahlo earlier, you would be sporting a unibrow. “refused to let them kiss” is such an interesting and beautifully-sounding phrase.
Oh love this. My friend calls it being “eyebrow positive” and I have a student who draws himself with his unibrow in every portrait. Times are changing. Love this visually
Oh my, Glenda, first you teach readers all about Frida Kahlo, whose art I also happen to know (thanks to a friend introducing me to her work a few years ago), and then you deliver your signature line. I love the motion in this poem, the growing tension, the power of feminism and decision making, including yours. You never cease to amaze me with your poems.
Glenda,
Love this description of Frida’s art, and how it changed you.
Here’s to fully grown eyebrows!
LOL. My Frida <3 I love her, and I love this poem. Obsessed with the eyebrows starting and ending here.
Joanne, your poem is poignant and beautifully portrays the way our lives often change. Your specific details clearly illustrate the relationship and why it was vital. Thank you for hosting today.
An Old Woman Rises
whose man hands are these,
she wonders, examining her
lined and mottled skin
she no longer
recognizes the young woman
she devoured long ago
whose pale face
is speckled with age spots,
a roadmap of grief
Sylvia’s terrible fish
has risen in her “Mirror,”
smiles ruefully
Barb Edler
10 April 2025
Barb,
Im here for “Sylvia’s terrible ‘Mirror’” and fondly remember a former student who is Plath’s biggest fan. Of course, being a certain age, I see myself in your poem. I saw my reflection in a selfie yesterday and thought my mother’s ghost had come to haunt me. This aging is crap, and do is the alternative. I try to hide that “roadmap of grief” but felt its sting this morning when I found a letter my oldest son had written to me when he was a kid, and I was not at my finest hour. Regrets. Your poem haunts me, but that is one reason I think it’s an amazing verse.
I know this all too well – and the “smiles ruefully.” I am often caught off-guard by the mirror these days, that gray-haired gal looking back. I particularly love this stanza, and the use of ‘devour’ here –
To devour, I think, is a life lived fully and passionately. Wonderful poem!
Barb, the mottled hands are a thing. I see my hands changing each year, and it scares the fool out of me – – reality in the skin, which I slather with lotion to try to reverse the hands of time. Your poem speaks volumes about the fleeting sense of time. Lovely and true and scary all at once.
Barb — Ooo, this speaks to all of us at this “vintage.” Dang…the mirror (great Plath reference) is a beast. Every line of this poem resonates. When we look at those damned lines, we have a story(ies) for each one… it is true how haunting a close examination can be…and it’s nigh on to impossible to blot it out with hats or hair or makeup or shrouds…that mirror…damn the thing. Hugs, Susie
Barb, I keep being started by my father’s face looking back at me in mirrors and glass doors. Your poem’s haunting images reflect – indeed – the haunting process of growing older. The “roadmap of grief” on the face, especially. The reference to Plath’s poem is the perfect touch – connecting your title and all of it. An amazing poem-!
Barb, wow. You are so good. I did have to look up Plath’s “Mirror” as I hadn’t read it before. What lovely companion pieces these make together. Thank you for this phrase: “a roadmap of grief”
That “evil” mirror, and the worst one is early in the morning (lol). Barb, thank you for another great poem that has your distinct voice. I think I am able to recognize your poems without seeing your name next to them. I like the hint to Sylvia Plath’s poem. “A roadmap to grief” is such a somber and powerful line. Thank you!
“young woman/she devoured long ago”
What a stunning line!
Trees outside my window
I watch the leaves beyond my window grow
As springtime teaches them the way to show
They shimmer soft in morning’s gentle light
And fill my heart with something clean and bright
In summer’s heat, they murmur overhead
A lullaby in green connected by brown threads
I sit beneath and feel the seasons bend
Each breath a marker I cannot suspend
Then autumn comes, and one by one they fall
A drifting hush like a silent call
I watch them spin and think of things I’ve missed
Of time that passed like smoke I can’t resist
And when the branches stand in winter’s chill
I wait beside them quietly and still
And yearn for the springtime again
but for now I will sit and wait til then
Your poem is lyrical and shows the connection between mankind and nature well. I loved the lines: “In summer’s heat, they murmur overhead
A lullaby in green connected by brown threads”
Time does pass like smoke. Nice closing line, too!
The rhyming in this poem is absolutely lovely, flowing. I love this line so much, “A lullaby in green connected by brown threads” – a birthing of a new season as witnessed by the changing colors.
Ah, this is lovely. The four seasons that seem like lyrics to a song. I think my favorite is summer, with the murmurs, the brown threads, the breath markers–it all seems quiet and a little stifling, like the summer. That autumn stanza is lovely too, as you “think of things I’ve missed”. And the winter…and the spring…Nice poem.
Joanne, Your poem prompt pulled out a long one as I look closely at photos taken this past year of the natural phenomenon I see from my side window.
They’ve Been Here, Now I Am!
Having lived in cities most of my life
I only knew about nature from books
But, now that I’m retired I can give it lots of looks
Outside my windows, yes still in a city,
In a recently built condo development,
That used to be the habitat of deer
And wild turkeys, geese and birds
Who still wander through in herds
Outside my window now,
A red wing blackbird, flitting around as though it’s a clown
Showing off crimson wings and other things
That will attract him a mate this spring
Out the side window this morning I saw
A pair of ducks, he in sharp blue neck and white collar
She in basic brown. She blends in with the scruff around
Like the red wing above, the duck clowns around on the ground
They all come to the rippling stream
That keeps them all alive
Thank the Lord, I see what I read about Nature is true
Water, trees, and human-made feeding troughs
Help us all to thrive. I get to see, and they get to be.
Hwe are photos from my side window. New sights to me!
There is a heartfelt prayer in that last line, “Help us all to thrive. I get to see, and they get to be.” Amen! I love all the bits of nature you can see from your window…I laughed at the antics of the red wing blackbird.
Maureen, what was so interesting this winter, with all the snow we had in West Michigan was seeing the red berry trees with birds at the top, flicking off berries and deer below nipping them before they sank into the snow. And the fact they all are so alert that if I’m moving at the window they stop still and then look around. I’m in the house, for crying out loud…but they can sense my presence. Oh well. It’s been fun!
I’m glad you are taking the time to stop and smell the roses, so to speak. It’s pretty amazing what we can notice, even in the city!
Anna, I’m so happy that nature has come to you in the city. Such lovely images in words and in the photo you shared.
Hi Anna! Somehow I thought I responded to you yesterday. I love your tour of the the wildlife near your home. I experience much the same where I live. I also find nature healing and comforting. I love your description of the birds as clowns – they are entertaining. Thank you!
Thank you, Joanne, for the prompt and your beautiful mentor poem taking me on a tour around the house of your in-laws. I looked at my Mom’s photo, that is in my office. I will come back to read the poems and respond later today–have a few more hours on campus.
The Last Wave
There is an old photo
on the bookshelf behind my desk—
my mother, 77,
waving goodbye
from across the ocean.
She stands in our front yard,
Beneath bright-green grapevines,
their shadows interlacing
along the fence like time
that cannot be fetched back.
Her dress, golden yellow,
headscarf of soft purple haze
covering her neatly pulled-back
dark hair—colors too alive
for the sadness in her smile.
She tries to be strong,
to hold the moment
like a breath not yet let go.
But her light green eyes
betray the tremble.
I see the fear
she never spoke,
the bravery
woven in her wave—
the gesture of love
that always came
with silence.
That day, she smiled
a little more eagerly,
than she usually would,
so I would leave
believing in return.
This is really beautiful. I love that you used a photo. I can think of several photos I’d like to turn into poems. You have some beautiful similes. These lines: their shadows interlacing
along the fence like time! Wow.
What a lovely portrait you painted of your mother, Leilya. I loved the lines: the bravery
woven in her wave— I can see her sunny yellow dress, her determination to be cheerful. Thank you!
Such a beautiful poem Leila – I see your mother so clearly in her yellow dress and her headscarf of purple haze…I see the temnle in her light green eyes. You have used such a light touch to capture such a heavy moment that I am in awe.
Leilya, this is a beautiful poem. I love the sensory details and how vivid this poem is. I feel it. Great work.
Leilya, oh my, this poem struck a chord with me today. I love the specific details that show us a woman who has endured much. I especially enjoyed the lines:” colors too alive
for the sadness in her smile.” Your closing line is haunting. Gorgeous and poignant poem. Hugs!
“But her light green eyes
betray the tremble.”
My own eyes are misting at this. Such a precious, poignant poem. I admire how you detailed a photo and opened up a whole story and world to me, the reader. Just lovely, Leilya. And sad.
Leilya — Oh geez, this one, this poem is a punch in the chest…looking at that image of your mama…so brave but so crushed by that moment, seeing you go. Gulp. It makes me teary. The grapevine in the fence so tight — I love that image…a lot of years in those vines deepen the sense of loss. The end line “believing in return” … oooo, here come the tears. Beautiful poem, so poignant and real. Hugs, Susie
Leilya, you have captured this goodbye so well here. I’m trembling and trying to believe along with her, as she watches her daughter and grandchildren go so far away. This is so beautiful. Peace in your remembering.
Leilya, my heart feels heavy as I imagine the scene unfolding, the fear not spoken and the love always coming in silence. The love, that’s exactly the word – – -the feeling of deep, deep love enough to believe. And that is the most powerful force of all. This is lovely and bittersweet.
Leilya,
My heart aches reading your words today and seeing your mom waving goodbye. I have done this myself so often but never from across the ocean, except when my boys went to war. Those last words, “believing in return” tell a story all their own. Hugs to you, my friend.
Cowbird Watching
By Mo Daley 4/10/25
Did I make a mistake when I introduced the passerine queen,
the cowbird
to my five-year-old grandson?
Truly the jerkiest of all birds, the trollop lays
upwards of 40 eggs a year,
wait for it…
in other birds’ nests!
This brown-headed brood parasite
doesn’t even stick around
to watch the humor in a Magnolia Warbler
foster mom feeding a hatchling who will grow to twice her size!
In my yard she is infamous, her behavior titillating,
but Nathan keeps asking,
“Why can’t she just take care of her children?”
Mo, this poem cracks me up! First of all, your line “Truly the jerkiest of birds” made me chuckle. I have it on good faith that most birds are jerks, so this is quite the distinction.
I’ve also never heard of this species, so now I’m going to have to do a little more research…
Mo – i didn’t know that about the cowbird. I don’t even know what a cowbird looks like. Now, I have to investigate! Thank you for this!
Mo, cowbirds are definitely a different breed. I do love how you close this poem. What a magnificent question from I am assuming your grandson. I really adore how you weave in factual details about the cowbird in this one.
Mo, the cowbird is my least favorite bird of all. Good for Nathan to question. It’s a lot like the movie The Ugly Dachshund…. the same deliver-and-ditch approach.
Mo — I LOVED this birdie poem. I’m such a birder, and cowbirds and “trollop”…so funny and you laid her naughtiness right out there…40 eggs! LOL! Good heavens, she is a real pole-dancer. I truly loved this poem. Nathan asks a darned good question. Did you have a ready answer? :-). Hugs, Susie
Mo, what a fun poem! I did have to look it up how that cowbird looks like. And then I learned another new word – trollop. i love the conversational tone of your poem. Your grandson’s question is quite reasonable. ))
Mo, I may have learned about this devil bird from you in another poem, I think. Your first question to start the poem is perfect. Then we have the whole poem to wonder why it may have been a mistake. Then, that sweet last question Nathan asks is so heartrending.
The Hawk
I hear a piercing cry
overhead.
He soars
screaming at me
a harbinger of luck
good, I hope.
Native Americans thought
the red-tailed hawk to be
from ancestors
a symbol of power and strength
a messenger of change.
I must prepare for my future.
Broad wings
reddish brown tail
shoulders of dark brown
first spotted by my husband
as he sat on the wall
a year before he died.
I hear a piercing cry
the hawk has come back
screaming at me
as he sit on a pole
with puffy chest
and sharp hooked beak.
He is courting a mate.
I would like to be like him
with a mate nearby
and flying so high
making huge circles in the sky
while screaming at the world below.
Your last stanza got me, Susan. Would I like to be screaming at the world from afar right now? Yes, probably.
I also liked the way you played with meaning in the first stanza: “a harbinger of luck / good, I hope.” You made me think about things for a bit. I mean, how many times have i thought something was a good or bad omen, only to have life steer me in a different direction?
Thanks for this. =)
Oh Susan – your poem is so powerful describing the hawk and then so sad. Your word choice – harbinger, piercing screaming, really add to the solemn mood of this poem. Thank you.
Susan, I love the way you describe the hawk and bring it back to your own desires. The loss of your husband resonates in this one. Yes, screaming at the world below would be delightful. Hugs!
Susan — I loved your poem. i made me love the red-tail all over again. I painted him last year. These last two years I’ve gone to the Missouri Department of Conservation’s raptor talk. And here’s your new buddy:
Hugs, Susie
Fantastic painting. Watercolor I assume. You captured the clear discovering eyes.
Susan, what a beautiful poem. Your look at that hawk is so close and intentional that it allows me to see the bird and watch it along with you! I “hear” longing and sadness in your final stanza. Sending peace and hugs your way!
Susan,
The red tailed hawk looking for a mate, and your husband spotting him a year before he died, and you writing about him today as you have had to have an unwanted year of change after your husband died. I’m glad the red tailed hawk is also a sign of “power and strength.” Here’s to a future of power and strength for you.
Joanne, your poem is filled with imagery of the house but also of the memories it shaped over many years. Your premise that the memories are spurred by the physical presence of the house is what talked to me when I first read your poem early this morning while still in be. It is what I was thinking about as I swam laps. It spurred my own thoughts about the memories daffodils provide for me. It is almost like my brother talking to me
It’s an ironic twist,
The early, forced ones arrive,
Rewards for donations
Fighting cancer,
He always loved them.
While it is still too cold for flowers,
More emerge braving wind and rain
Bringing hope for spring.
Canary yellow blooms against the bleak landscape.
“Harbingers of spring,” he would say,
“They will be gone too soon,” I think,
Like him.
Anita – There is such a strong and contemplative tone in you poem. I can hear your brother’s voice and see the bright daffodils – yes – both gone too soon. Thank you!
Oh my, Anita, your final stanza is a heartbreaker. I love the way you open your poem, and I love the line “Canary yellow blooms against the bleak landscape.” Bleak expresses a loved one’s absence perfectly. Your brother’s voice at the end is as precious as the daffodils. Incredible poem full of love, grief, and power.
the last two lines, Anita. The last two lines…we need memories to counter the bleak landscapes. thank you for sharing.
Anita, this is beautiful and so sad. I am sorry for your loss. Your final lines express how much you miss your brother. Sending love and kind thoughts your way.
Anita, this is lovely and sad. Your brother speaking in it is a comfort. Yes, he was gone too soon. I’m sorry for that, and thankful for the “harbingers of spring” that bring him to mind when you see them. Beautiful description of the daffodils in that middle stanza.
Joanne, what a beautiful poem about this house. Your imagery shines, starting with the nature around it through the seasons. One part that stuck with me felt more like a turning point for the house and the people in it: “Now, when we came, / the house sat a little lower.” It’s just a quiet way of expressing what so often happens to our loved ones: we age, we need more care, we pass on.
Your writing just might be a catalyst for a poem that’s been in my brain for years, but hasn’t yet shown itself fully. I chose an etheree, mostly because I think I needed some structure to wrangle my thoughts. Here goes:
Driving the Point Home
There
are times
as I drive
through neighborhoods
whiz past the houses
I think of my own home
and all that it holds within:
laughs around the dinner table
the door frame where we measured our height
countless retellings of family lore
hugs of farewell, of grief, of welcome
but my home is one of many,
like these, these houses that I
speed past – every last one
harbors countless worlds,
beyond what I’d
possibly
ever
know.
This is fantastic! I love the details, especially the ones that I can relate to, like “the door frame where we measured our height.” I love how you end with realizing that all of those houses we pass have so much to them, too. Empathy at its best
Lainie, the etheree format works perfectly in this poem. It adds a sense of movement to the actions described. I really loved the subtext, how the houses are all full of countless worlds and ones we may or may not recognize. I really loved your carefully chosen words throughout this and the lines: “countless retellings of family lore
hugs of farewell, of grief, of welcome
but my home is one of many,” Fantastic title, too!
I love your comparison and passing of homes in your neighborhood to the reflection of your home. The sounds and portraits of life in your home. Recognizing the existence of such moments in theirs. And maybe you will know what lies within those houses.
Amazing double etheree, Lainie! The lines that really capture me are the wonderings about all the houses you “speed by” and that they each harbor “countless worlds.” I know this feeling. I have wondered about all the stories those walls have witnessed, especially older homes long abandoned.All the life that once was. It is a ponderous thing – and heartening to hear you pondering it!
Lainie, I like that this prompt and Joanne’s poem has drawn this out. What a wonder of an idea you’ve had for years. I love this idea of considering all the stories that are also in all the other houses. We can’t know, but it does help us become more empathetic, I believe.
Joanne, thank you for inspiring us to slow down and observe.
“and the house we loved
Still sits on the hill
but we can no longer return.”
These lines in your poem hit home with me. I have been thinking about my childhood home and what I would give to walk through it again. But as you so beautifully stated – we keep the memories close. I have no idea how I ended up with my poem today.
Metamorphosis
The face I have looked at
for many years has gone from
sunkissed and lightly freckled to
sun-weathered and age-spotted.
Bright green or maybe hazel eyes
bespectacled in single-vision glasses
are now hooded and sporting
progressive lenses and crow’s feet.
Raspberry lips that blew
raspberries have turned to
faint pink lines – still
rarely touched with lipstick.
Bright white teeth peeking
out from behind a shy smile
are yellowed from a life
of tea drinking.
The face once framed in
strawberry blonde locks
is now surrounded by
wisps of gray.
Life is measured on that face.
Smooth in youth – transforming
with time – showing signs of age –
in laugh lines and creases or
disobedient facial hair.
The reflection is a moment in time,
but the memories that created
this present iteration
remain just under the skin.
Oh Rita! I think your title is so spot-on. I feel the same way and can describe myself much the same. I love your last line: remain just under the skin. It’s perfect – like you. Thank you.
Rita, we wrote about the same topic today, but your poem captures so much more. I adore your title and how well your lines flow. Your last stanza is provocative and adds the wisdom provided by age. Boy, can I relate to “disobedient facial hair”. Nuts! Thank you for creating this perfect poem about how our physical traits morph over time. Loved it!
Rita, this is so good. I love the details of when you were younger, like the raspberry blowing and strawberry blond hair. The memories created those beautiful lines and spots. That last line reminds me how it feels to get older, always still feeling like you are that young person too.
Joanne, my poem went a little different direction this morning, but I will come back to your good prompt to pay close attention. It’s something I have difficulty taking time for. I loved Harjo’s “Redbird Love” poem so much. And your poem about your in-laws is so dear and tender. This observation is rich with meaning: “the house sat a little lower” I showed my husband my poem today, and he said, “Cute, and I don’t have fleas.”
At Home With You
You shared this morning’s headline with me: there’s
Evidence that pets can “boost wellbeing”, that
Pets can, surprisingly, make one
As satisfied with life as being married. You
Tell me I could have had an easier life, and circle
Back playfully to all the pain I could have avoided, back
To the several dogs that could have replaced you, to
Instead, remind me, this fine day, of your love, for
Which I am grateful and so at home.
_________________________________________________________
Joy Harjo’s striking line from “Redbird Love” – “There’s that one you circle back to — for home.” And the article: Pets could boost wellbeing as much as a wife or husband, study suggests
Denise,
Your poem seems very observational to me. I was drawn to that line in Harjo’s poem, too. Seems to me there is the easy thst makes life hard w/ the wrong partner, and the struggling together that makes life worth living. It is true what the article says about pets, but they don’t respond to poetry (Ken laughed at my ending, which isn’t funny.), and they don’t make dinner, or help w/ chores, or drive me places since I don’t like to drive. We should refer to those rejects as hyenas and not dogs.
What a beautiful poem, and a beautiful tribute to being a sharer of homes with dogs. And your golden shovel approach from Joy Harjo’s work is the perfect vehicle for it!
I have a close friend who needs to say goodbye to a Very Good Boy today; I think I may send her your words.
Thanks, Denise. I see your husband has a keen sense of humor! I love the poetry form you chose. I haven’t used that form much – but will. And I. firmly believe our 4-legged friends boost our well-being. I showed a video of a dog preparing for a test to a bunch of 4th graders this afternoon and mood of the room went from tense to joyful.
I love your Golden Shovel poem, Denise. Thanks for sharing your link and headnote about your poem. Your husband sounds like he has a nice sense of humor. I love everything about your poem and how it shares the power of fur baby love. Your end though is delivered perfectly. Love it!
Denise, I get the feeling of deep satisfaction with Keith – – and how funny and playful the reminder of easier coulda-been life with some dogs. You chose a beautiful Golden Shovel line from Harjo.
I love how you embedded the “there’s that one you circle back to for home” in your poem about the value of pets. I also love your husband’s response. I’ve found one dog in a shelter – the one we circled back to and brought home.
Denise, what a great idea to use a line from Joy Harjo’s poem and the article to frame your poem. You craft an important message about marital relationships: they may not be easy or glorious at all times; their might be struggling moments, but if there is love and if together you feel at home, it’s all worth it. Thank you for this reminder today!
Joanne, your poem is really warm, it tells a beautiful story capturing so many memories. I admire the way it circles from how they “opened their arms” to receive you and later on during your visits you:
“opened our arms and hearts
just a little wider
to keep the memories”.
My poem is about my new love for plants and the deep warmth they bring me.
My Joy
Twirling around the stands
Their green leaves gaze boldly
I gape back admiringly
Their voices smile
as they stretch
with great care
they mean more
than I can explain
close to my heart
I chat with them
they hear me,
blooming adoringly, their
beauty extends far more
than can be seen
in soil or water,
indoors or out, they
deliver so much joy
and adorn my life.
Juliette,
Love the imagery here: twirling, smiling voices (a paradox). I’m fascinated by rhizomes and the way plants communicate. I know they are responding w/ love to your voice.
I love plants too. Twirling around the stands, voices smiling, stretching, blooming…give them personality. I can feel your love.
Juliette – I too agree that plant add joy, and they can hear us speak to them and respond. We just have to slow down and listen. Thank you!
Juliette, we can really get the message of your new love. This ode to your plants is a love letter! So beautiful, with words that make them sound human. I’m happy for you.
Joanne, I really love this prompt. This morning, I’ve thought about so many things I could write about. Your poem made me think of my grandparents house that are no longer their houses but in my mind they are. I often go to them when I can’t sleep at night. (And usually by the time I get to the back bedrooms of my mind, I’m asleep!) I will probably write several poems today with this prompt. The one I am putting here though is my now as I am taking care of my sick mother and I have had a lot of time to sit and watch the bald eagles out her window.
Bald Eagles at my Mother’s Window
The Eagles witness
In wispy folds of air
A storm brewing at sea and
Across Schwan Lake
Between Eucalyptus and
Dead branches of Live Oak
Like me, they sit quietly
Despite blowing wind
And rain
Their wings tucked tightly
Their heads bowed
Like mine
As I beg for Mother’s relief.
I lift the binoculars
Like a whisper
Put them to my eyes
So I can see
Mom
Hands shaking
Waiting for another pill
To take away the pain
In her mind.
And I wish, not selfishly
But mercifully
For her to have wings like the eagles
Who, before I focus,
Have flown.
Oh Emily – this is so poignant. I feel your mom’s pain and want to ease it that I ache. Your last line is a prayer. I pray that your mom’s pain is relieved. Thank you for your honest and open poem today.
Emily, wow, the imagery in your poem is phenomenal. I adore the language in your poem and how they suggest both bird actions as well as human behavior. Your final stanza is heart wrenching. Hugs!
Emily — This is a very beautiful piece. The eagle represents so much here. The wings that would give “Mom” flight — Oh, I wish that for her and for you. I love the eagle and the wind…how the bird has the command of that force is powerful. Such a touching poem. Hugs, Susie
Gorgeous, Emily – an interspersion of sorrow and glory. I cannot imagine seeing the eagles in the brewing storm like that. Beautiful closing, so poignant and freeing.
Emily, what a beautiful and hopeful poem for your dear mother who is suffering so. I hope she will have peace and comfort until she is able “to have wings like the eagles”
Thanks, Joanne, for this opportunity to look closer. I loved how you captured a lifetime of love in a single rotation of the seasons rolling by but also took us inside the house— a house it seems we’ve all been in… this is a really beautiful poem.
I’m not sure why, but I went in a different direction…remembering a close-up with nature that still makes me shiver, despite what I learned.
The Visitor
I was horrified, horrified now as I recall,
but intent to tell lessons learned
from what is horrid to look at
and magnified by fear:
this time, a wolf spider sleeping
on a silken pillow outside
my grandson’s bedroom window.
Do something, I begged my daughter.
That might make it worse.
She’s just looking for shelter.
Don’t worry. She won’t get inside.
Throughout the day as I helped sort
outgrown clothes
and played out toys,
I peppered my daughter
with what if’s
and tortured myself
with a closer look,
trying to see
with my daughter’s eyes
but left only with my own:
a hairy bisected body,
pale brown
with dark brown stripes;
long thin legs
stretched across
its spun ruche bed;
two bright eyes awake now,
with four more
google confirmed
smaller eyes
two above, two below
none of which
were looking at me.
A week or so later
I asked about her worrisome pet.
Oh, she’s gone.
Gone? Gone Where?
Don’t know.
Maybe the wind blew her away.
I knew she was just passing through.
Just passing through.
Aren’t we all?
Shouldn’t we recognize
we are not the center
of the universe?
Shouldn’t we be grateful
for children with eyes more open
and wiser than ours?
Shouldn’t we give shelter when we can?
Ann, your description of the spider gave me the willies. I am okay with insects if I know where they are. Once your visitor went missing, I was feeling your angst. Your conversation with your daughter sounds like one of mine with my daughter. I love how your last stanza gave me something to contemplate.
Ann, I loved this poem.
Thank you for sharing about a spider.
I’m a fan of spiders. talk to them. Invite them inside to capture the other bugs I’m not thrilled to entertain. I love all the angles of this poem…the eyes of a resting child, the eyes of a daughter, the eyes of a protective grandma, and the google-certified eyes of a spider. I really love how your daughter’s voice comes through, too.
Ann, this had me chuckling:
wo bright eyes awake now,
with four more
google confirmed
smaller eyes
two above, two below
none of which
were looking at me.
Those google-confirmed eyes tell the story of your search and curiosity, eagerness to learn of this wolf spider. And the last stanza is telling – – yes, I often realize my children’s eyes are far more open than my own, too. We’re in the Wiser-than-Us Kids club.
Ann, spiders, the big ones, make me shiver too. Your poem reminded me a movie about the Black Widow spider, and every time I remember it, I can sense the hair on my head moving. Then a few year’s ago, my friend’s husband had been beaten by a Brown Recluse, and almost lost his thumb. So, I am right there with you, scared and paranoid.
I do love how you frame the final stanza as a lesson in questions. This is a deeply philosophical question – aren’t we all passing through this earthly space?
Ann, wow. What a great story you have woven here. The “spun ruche bed” and “google confirmed” six eyes add such interest. I think your daughter sounds measured and wise, and I’m glad the spider didn’t come in the house. The questions in that last stanza say everything!
Thanks for making me take time to look closely today, Joanne! Here’s my poem:
For My Husband
You’ve been at the picture window
most of the morning, watching birds:
juncos, chickadees, jays.
But it’s the red-bellied woodpecker
that keeps bringing you back,
his crown a deeper red
than you remember from last time.
“Maybe it gets redder with spring,”
you guess aloud. And I humor you,
stop to take a look. And though I
don’t mean to stay, I do—stand
alongside you and study the bird, too,
its dark mottled wings and soft,
beige belly (the bird’s name a trick),
but mostly that nape and crown, so red
against the still-bare branches, the
sky white with cloud cover.
And then I look at you, at whom I
don’t look closely enough, so used to
your presence beside me. Your auburn hair
now more brown than red, the stubble
of your new beard flecked with white,
your eyes a color I’ve never been able
to name, no matter how long I look.
This. This is one beautifully crafted poem, Kate. The way you begin with your husband, watching the bird with curiosity, perhaps with a tinge of wonder, then you pull us into your musings, much the same, in observation with him. And there’s this amazing familiarity and intimacy that’s balanced with the curiosity and wonder. Just…delightful.
Yes – I noticed that too – that I don’t pay attention to my husband as he ages beside me for the last 40 years. His eyes -too – I’ve never been able to name, no matter how long I look. I think they are gray but then they turn pale blue and then deep green. This is a love poem, Kate. Thank you!
Beautiful, Kate. I love how you crafted the bird-watching, into the beard-watching. Wonderful writing. Stunning. Congratulations.
Oh Kate,
this is so beautiful. I love you slowing to look at the woodpecker, to humor your husband, eases you into slowing down and looking at your husband.
Here’s to slow looking—at birds and partners.
Oh, Kate, this is gorgeous. Your close look at the beige belly woodpecker and then the turn to your husband and a close look at him is so loving and sweet. I like that you have looked so closely in his eyes and can’t name the color, especially that you must have done it a lot “no matter how long I look” Beautiful poem.
I am also most comfortable with free verse. Someday, I will try harder to write some specific forms, but the majority of everything I write has been free verse. Great prompt! Here’s my off the cuff first attempt:
The black, brown, grey, sometimes mossy green
speckled
spiked
the rusty nails have overcome
the telephone pole is now more metal
than wood
what could have
should have
been
weathered scraps of gararge sale signs and lost puppy signs
stuck in the teeth of the nails
bent from the heads of hammers weilded by enthusiastic entrepreneurs
or through the sighs of tired single mothers
that lived here once
they left their mark
they left there mark
nails always driven in, but never taken back out
I love all the details in your poem. It is something we all see often but just as often, don’t take much notice of. I love the line, through the sighs of tired single mothers that lived here once. I remember, years ago, biking all over town with my 2 year old in the back bike seat posting signs about our dog who escaped from our back yard one night. It’s a memory of telephone polls I won’t forget.
I love this attention to something we see regularly but don’t stop to think about… It’s interesting to consider how our eyes can take in all these details even in passing but how giving them greater attention brings them such life, really makes them register. I love “nails always driven in, but never taken back out”—something that should be obvious but didn’t quite hit me before and is so interesting to ponder: all that’s left here, all that’s been put in.
Oooo – this is a close-up, precise, and single-minded. I love this detailed look at something we have all witnessed. I love your four last lines:
that lived here once
they left their mark
they left there mark
Luke, your poem beginning hooked me up right away with suspense. You build up your descriptive words (adjectives). I read the first line “The black, brown, grey, sometimes mossy green” and think about what this might be, and then you add: speckled, spiked– what is it? And finally “the rusty nails.” This is a very smart move! Such an interesting observation – “nail always driven in, but never taken back out.” Thank you for sharing!
Oh, Luke, you have chosen an unlikely manmade object for your poem–a telephone pole. And what a beautiful creation you have made about this topic. I love the idea of all those who left a mark–entrepreneurs and tired single mothers and so many more with all those nails making it “more metal / than wood”
Thank you all for reading and your wonderful observations. This was my favorite that I’ve written so far for #verselove this month
I accidentally put my first poem under Seanna Hurd Wright’s replies. Here is my second poem.
When teaching something honed by years of work
Experience dictates what I teach and say.
Tho tried and true, the lesson plans I shirk,
Ad-libbing as I find a common way.
I wonder if perhaps I’m burning out,
No longer held in expectation’s thrall,
But students’ faces, bright, allay my doubts;
Connecting with each one is still my call.
Ideas flow from writers of the past
Comingling with ideas students share.
As years encroach, soon one will be my last,
Who will I teach when my class walls are bare?
I dread and love: ‘two years ‘til I retire’
I only hope I do not lose my fire.
I love this line – it reached out and grabbed me: Who will I teach when my class walls are bare? I ask myself that question a lot! Thank you!
Hi Kelley. I can tell by your writing that you won’t lose your fire. You’ll be amazed at all there is to do when you retire.
Kelley, nice poem with rhyming too. It makes it interesting. You make some good points. I remember before retirement having to keep affirming: “Connecting with each one is still my call.” It is not easy to teach, but as long as we still feel the call, we continue. “Who will I teach when my class walls are bare?” You will find good work to do. I have. I haven’t lost my fire, but it’s nice to have extra time to be able to do things well and not be overly busy as one is when teaching fulltime.
Nine years ago, I built my home on my grandparents’ land. At the time, I chose that spot out of financial convenience. Little did I know, the view from my front porch would be my past.
My Front Porch
Welcome to my front porch. Take a seat.
Now, when you sit here with me, no words need be spoken,
For nature spins a yarn, tells a story,
And we, the audience, just sit in wonder
And take it in.
Look to your right just past the broken-down well.
See the arbor above the rusty, old gate?
This was the passage to the backyard of Heaven –
My grandparents’ house where towering trees
Created canopies for snapping peas in sticky summer evenings.
And the space between us and the gate,
If you close your eyes and squint your brain,
You can see a giggling girl
Riding on the back of a worn-out Farmall tractor,
Arms fastened around a man just as worn,
My hero, my Grandpa.
And just across that Oklahoma dirt road, do you see that pond
Surrounded by cattails waving in the breeze?
There’s fish in that pond…well, maybe only a few
Because I caught a million with that man,
My hero in overalls.
And if you listen closely, you can hear my grandmother’s voice
Calling clearly across time, “Dinner’s ready!”
Familiar faces flanking a worn pine table
Homemade biscuits, the proud centerpiece,
Hearts full, bellies full of the rewards from the garden
So, welcome to my front porch.
You may visit, silently, anytime
So as not to disturb the narrator.
I love how you began and ended your poem with an invitation to come and sit and see with you. Your poem makes me think of something I recently started doing at night when I can’t sleep. I walk through my grandparent’s house in my mind and visualize everything I can remember. I want to write a poem like this one! I especially love your line about seeing the rusty old gate. “This was the passage to the backyard of heaven.” I love the image of the backyard of heaven being opened by a rusty old gate.
Your poem really speaks to me as someone who lives two blocks from where she grew up (and four houses from where her husband grew up). I see the past everywhere I go. Sometimes I treasure this haunting, and sometimes I want to be free of it… You’ve created such a warmly nostalgic piece that reminds me of the best childhood reads telling of a hero grandfather and his giggling grand-girl!
Jessica, your poem harkens to a simpler time and a bucolic dream. I wanted to turn my head to look in the direction you were describing. I love how you invite us to come and visit, but set boundaries. We all need to sit silently more often.
“where towering trees
Created canopies for snapping peas in sticky summer evenings. ” I can see it. I can feel it. I want to be there. Well done.
This is lovely! I would love to sit in the rocking chair and put honey on those biscuits.
Jessica, what a fun point of view. I enjoyed sitting on your front porch, and I loved watching the narrator as work with the sweet details of life with your grandparents.
Hi Joanne,
). Thus, I will be late posting because I’m on the West Coast. Thank you for hosting us today.
Your prompt speaks to my heart today, and your poem brings all the feels. I share in a similar sorrow that I can’t return to my childhood home. All of the details of your poem helped me visualize this warm and loving space as well as your loving in-laws. We are going on a field trip today to the Huntington Library and botanical gardens. I will intentionally observe to find my inspiration for my poem (it won’t be a bird
Joanne, that you for today’s inspiration. Your poem stirred me with warm thoughts of a time when my aging parents grew in need. These words hit me hard:
“We watched a little more closely.
stayed a little longer.
listened a little better,
opened our arms and hearts
just a little wider
to keep the memories
and the two inside close”
I moved to my lakeside home 10 years ago and I am still in awe of the beauty I am surrounded with, hoping to never take it for granted. So when you spoke of the interaction of nature and humankind, my mind quickly turned to my view and words tumbled out. My draft
I stop
and slow my pace
and begin each day
with a look at the waters
Today they’re mirrors
yesterday’s wind brought white caps
Sometimes I spot the eagle
or the muskrat
or the ever stalking geese
One day I noticed a giant snapper
swimming towards me
I watched in awe
Then I listen
for the screeching terns
the squawking heron
the cooing doves
or the whistling swans
with their dazzling wings
I am mesmerized
blessed
by these daily gifts
of sight and sound
peace
unfolding before me
A lifelong city girl, I’ve recently been spending a lot of time in the country and wow is the type of watching you describe healing! I love your bird stanza, those “screeching terns…squawking heron…cooing doves…[and] whistling swans”!
I love all the images here. Reading this poem makes me feel like I am sitting right beside you at the lake. You are blessed! Today they’re mirrors/yesterday’s wind brought white caps These lines struck me has to how a lake is like life–sometimes smooth and other times, not so much. I live by the sea and often think about how different the sea state can be and how that represents life.
Christine,
Nice! You are blessed. It truly sounds like “peace / unfolding before me” Beautiful nature in your lakeside home.
This is so beautiful, Christine! Full of images and sounds. I feel like I’m right there with you! Thank you!
Mr. Gibbs
Quiet, slinky, adorable corn snake
Nocturnal
Burrowing
Smooth
Gentle
Nocturnal
Climber
Entertaining
Comforting
Nocturnal
Corn snake: quiet, slinky, adorable
copyright 2025 Jennifer Kowaczek
I’m trying to attach a photo, but I guess my file size is too big — bummer.
Joanne, thank you for leading us through today’s poetry journey. I enjoyed stepping back and looking closer at my pet snake. My form was chosen intentionally to match with my subject.
Your mentor poem, with all of its descriptive language, had me feeling like I was looking at a photograph.
Your poem is a photo. Love how each word uncovers a new dimension including “entertaining” and “comforting’ to include the effect on the observer.
Jennifer,
I love skinny poems, and this one is perfect for a snake. It’s a welcome contrast to the “chill to the bone” Dickinson offers and the mythology around snakes in our culture.
Jennifer, what a great skinny snake poem you have created! I know a lot of people who may find it hard to believe that Mr. Gibbs is “adorable” and “comforting”, but I love those words you’ve chosen for this special pet.
Mr. Gibbs is a corn snake? Now, I know exactly what he looks like and his entertaining personality. Thank you!
Jet-Way Heading to the Pacific Ocean
I saw squat bulldogs on leashes during my walk days ago.
Felt breezes call my name and soothe my sore areas
A lone kayak-er enjoyed his voyage
as his collie watched a seagull hover
The ocean glittered and I reminisced
remembering a magnificent Hawaiian vacation with my beloveds
Someone expertly managed to parasail
The sea seemed to say “I’m pissed off today”
with its waves thrashing, hurling,
and climbing high on those who dared to ride the waves.
All the high drama was enjoyable
The breezes, swells, sunshine,
and few people
were just
what I needed that day.
Seana, all the verbs show waves of engagement from the observer to the ocean to the parasail offering the “just” of needs. Lovely.
This is so lovely. I can hear the waves and gulls and smell the salt spray through your imagery.
Mine is not so beautiful, but I wrote two . . . so hopefully it makes up for lack of skill.
We were newlyweds when he teased,
“Guys are supposed to pick girls like their moms,
But I picked one like my dad.”
I didn’t mind.
His dad was determined,
Creative, forthright, and unafraid.
A bit of a Tigger at times.
Sometimes he said the wrong thing,
But don’t we all?
My sweetheart is like none of my parents,
Birth or adopted.
But I’ve watched, wondering,
And as he’s aged,
I’ve seen it:
Hardworking beyond exhaustion,
Deep-thinking,
Cautious, worried, hesitant,
Anxious . . .
A bit of an Eeyore at times,
Never satisfied with less than perfect,
Now I know who I married,
His mom.
Sorry, I meant not my poem in as a reply, but I can’t figure out how to delete it.
I can feel that line: the sea seemed to say I’m pissed off today…..the /s/ sounds are seasprayish even, rather whitecappy. I feel the energy and the anger of the water – – such a vivid image here.
Seana,
I had to stop and comment on how much i enjoyed this! “The sea seemed to say “I’m pissed off today”/ with its waves thrashing, hurling” is so full of sound and imagery. So good!
Thank you, Seana. I live on the Atlantic Coast, so it was wonderful to get a true glimpse of the Pacific.
Love the prompt this morning, Joanne. I love your variation of words, inspired by Harjo and related to the return to a home, again and again, over years. Appreciated this…
They are yours, but somehow universal. I was craving a gorgonzola, mushroom, cheeseburger last night, and had to ask myself, “How do you know if the gorgonzola is still good? It kept me up all night and, well, seemed the perfect item to look closer at this morning. Oh, snap! I need to teach in 14 minutes!
Cheesy Revelation, #041025.G0Gnzla
b.r. crandall
there will the days
when you’re zestfully blue,
unskimmed, like cow milk
turned green upon
11th century marble.
the sitting still
will pay off,
four months to
determine how your
mold spores
entangle, thread,
branch, spread.
you’ll recognize the
archaic porcelain,
the decadence,
& be ready
for the celebration of age;
your memory of youth,
where times
were softer,
creamier,
& nimble.
maturity is about
getting the right
pungent bite
at the end.
piquant,
& strong.
A cheese poem that’s a metaphor for aging. Beautiful and whimsical both. I love your word choices that apply to both people and cheese.
If only G.K. Chesterton could have read your poem. No more silence on the subject of cheese! I’m impressed with your metaphor here. I’ve been somewhat resistant to aging but I sure do love a good aged cheese. These lines are great: maturity is about/getting the right/pungent bite/at the end.
A brilliant poem. I wish to mature enough in my life to acquire a taste for gorgonzola equal to my appetite for whimsical poetry. Such a fun poem!
This is so descriptive, I love the metaphor of aging cheese! You also use such fun language, I love “archaic porcelain” and “maturity is about getting the right pungent bite!” Very powerful, great work!
Bryan — I really like this “cheesy” look at the aging process. All the cheese references are fun…the “blue” and the “spores” etc… So nicely woven. Thinking of the “creamier,/& nimble” days..aah, indeed, wistful. But, of course, especially given the view from my seat, I’m eating up the “pungent bite” and “piquant & strong.” I reckon I’m a toss up between a blue and a cheddar…but I understand the Bitto Storico is the really aged doozie. :-). Fun poem! Yea! Susie
Well, Bryan – I couldn’t ask for a better birthday poem (yesterday was my 69th)! I was trying to pick out my favorite line – but all of them were. Your poem is as exquisite as gorgonzola itself! Thank you!
Joanne, thank you for hosting us today. That memory of the home holding all the memories of those no longer with us is bittersweet. A reminder that our time is fleeting, and each day is a gift to make the most of what life we have.
Hello from Heaven
two days ago
passing through
Greenville, Alabama
I noticed a mural~
Alabama’s Camellia City
fuchsia petals
and yellow anthers
adorning the corners
and thought of
my mother, who loved them
yesterday
in Hattiesburg, Mississippi
I drove past a camellia
bush of these exact colors
and thought again of
my mother, who loved them
this gentle wave from Heaven
to remind me of her
sent me on a quest
to discover more about
the Japan rose
which symbolizes
advancing women’s rights
and is used to make tea
and food seasoning
and to protect the blades
of sharp cutting instruments ~
interesting, but where is the
message from Heaven?
my brother will be at
The Masters, where the
10th Hole is The Camellia Hole
so I will tell him to look for a
sign from our mother there
and perhaps, just perhaps
he’ll see a
Freedom Bell or
Cornish Show, Inspiration,
Royalty, or a Spring Festival
maybe my own message is
here, now, ~ in To Kill a
Mockingbird, Jem destroys
Mrs. Dubose’s garden when
she insults his family but is
later given a bud from the
dying woman who struggled
to overcome her
morphine addiction
and perhaps, just perhaps
this camellia wave is
every assurance that
forgiveness of others
is the work my heart
needs to do
and perhaps, just perhaps
I’ll plant a camellia this spring
to welcome more
hellos from Heaven from
my mother, who loved them
I glance up at the coffee table
in the VRBO where I’m staying
and notice a decorative box
I hadn’t noticed before now
gold-outlined camellias
as if my mother has been
sitting with me as I write this poem
and perhaps, just perhaps
she has
Oh, Kim – This is a beautiful journey. I wanted Jem to be my brother and I love that scene in the book where he reads to Mrs. Dubose. Your ending is ethereal and powerful. What a wonderful tribute to your mom.
This is simply beautifu Kim….I love how your straightforward, earthly details are so delicately streaked with gossamer threads of gold…
Love all the places this poem goes in the time and place of your writing and the ways images welcome your mother into the now. This is so craftdul, and I feel some nods to Erica’s flower prompt on Monday and the maybes in Britt’s prompt yesterday . Love this poem.
This is so beautiful, so rich with details . . . but I especially love the indications from Heaven. Seeing those flowers in your VRBO is a sign that you can’t just attribute to randomness.
Oh, Kim, your poem is such a beautiful tribute to your mother. I love the powerful emotions I experienced reading this one, and how important it is to notice those “hellos from Heaven”. I adore the way you end by noticing the camelias of gold that outline the decorative box. Forgiving others is hard to do, but feeling someone we loved but have lost sending a hello is extra special. Hugs to you and thank you for sharing such a moving poem with us today!
Oh my goodness, Kim — This is just marvelous. I LOVE camelias, and that they were your mom’s little visitations is just perfection. My aunt in Seattle had a literal wall (maybe 20 feet high) of camelias in her backyard (everything grows like in fairytales in Seattle). The coincidences (and maybe not so coincidentally) are perfect fodder for poems… here you are in another state, at a golf course event and in a VRBO…and camelias are blowing through your hair. So many kinds, so many colors! And you gave us Scout and Mrs. Dubose! What a poem! Thank you! Hugs, Susie
Kim,
You have taken us and your mother on a journey filled with flower symbolism and reminders of those who travel with us. Your exquisite details of the bulletin board and the Japanese rose symbolizes strength we often look past in seemingly delicate flowers and women. Knowing how significant your relationship w/ your mom was and continues to be makes this poem very special indeed.
Kim – we both wrote about our mothers day, via flowers. I love how you keep looking for the hellos from heaven, those spiritual reminders of you mom, when camellias are in fact popping up everywhere you look. That final one you hadn’t noticed…poetic perfection. This, this, I love so much:
perhaps, just perhaps
this camellia wave is
every assurance that
forgiveness of others
is the work my heart
needs to do
-this is something I have come to realize more and more as the years go by. Unforgiveness is too a heavy load to keep dragging around. Forgiveness frees the forgiver.
Oh and…camellias were my dad’s favorite. In his last years he took a cutting from my grandparents’ bush and planted it at home., the house where I grew up. I wonder if it is still there.
Your poem is a treasure, friend.
Kim, you are so observant. This lovely shout out from heaven with all the camellias is just beautiful.
Joanne, thank you for hosting us today. That memory of the home holding all the memories of those no longer with us is bittersweet. A reminder that our time is fleeting, and each day is a gift to make the most of what life we have.
Hello from Heaven
two days ago
passing through
Greenville, Alabama
I noticed a mural~
Alabama’s Camellia City
fuchsia petals
and yellow anthers
adorning the corners
and thought of
my mother, who loved them
yesterday
in Hattiesburg, Mississippi
I drove past a camellia
bush of these exact colors
and thought again of
my mother, who loved them
this gentle wave from Heaven
to remind me of her
sent me on a quest
to discover more about
the Japan rose
which symbolizes
advancing women’s rights
and is used to make tea
and food seasoning
and to protect the blades
of sharp cutting instruments ~
interesting, but where is the
message from Heaven?
my brother will be at
The Masters, where the
10th Hole is The Camellia Hole
so I will tell him to look for a
sign from our mother there
and perhaps, just perhaps
he’ll see a
Freedom Bell or
Cornish Show, Inspiration,
Royalty, or a Spring Festival
maybe my own message is
here, now, ~ in To Kill a
Mockingbird, Jem destroys
Mrs. Dubose’s garden when
she insults his family but is
later given a bud from the
dying woman who struggled
to overcome her
morphine addiction
and perhaps, just perhaps
this camellia wave is
every assurance that
forgiveness of others
is the work my heart
needs to do
and perhaps, just perhaps
I’ll plant a camellia this spring
to welcome more
hellos from Heaven from
my mother, who loved them
I glance up at the coffee table
in the VRBO where I’m staying
and notice a decorative box
I hadn’t noticed before now
gold-outlined camellias
as if my mother has been
sitting with me as I write this poem
and perhaps, just perhaps
she has
Joanne, your poem has such a bittersweet tone. I know the people who lived there and see their beautiful life that is now out of reach for you except through memory. How wonderful to capture the memory in a poem. Thanks for this prompt.
Kim Johnson and I are writing together in a little house in Hattiesburg, MS. We presented yesterday at the Fay B Kaigler Children’s Book Festival about the power of poetry to heal, using 90 Ways of Community. What a gift this community is to us!
I took a striking line from Joy Harjo’s poem to write about my friend’s butterfly garden.
Mary’s Invitation
In her garden, there’s
salvia, swamp milkweed, that
purple one
I forgot the name of: you
watch a swallowtail circle
tall parsley flowers, back
around to
orange pincushion pistils on a coneflower
for a taste of home.
Wish I was there with you and Kim. Sounds lovely. And your poem narrow in on the garden to the coneflower. I love this form too. It’s my birthday today, the 100th day of the year. I hope you and Kim share a piece of cake today!
It was great to see the photo of you and Kim on Facebook. Lovely. This poem is a perfect scene of an observer of an observer of a swallowtail that is an observer, too. Layers.
Margaret, the golden shovel form works beautifully with Harjo’s line. Your love of butterflies shines through in the swallowtail – – a funny thing is that I used the word pistil in my poem today too – – and we were writing in different rooms of the house. And it may be the first time I’ve ever used that word in a poem. What in the world?? Mississippi air carries thoughts out loud, I suppose. I noticed your butterfly earrings yesterday, and they are uniquely YOU.
Joanne, you are always singing my song with the connections to nature and birds, especially! Your poem reminds me of my favorite line of Shakespeare, the last of Sonnet 73: “Love that well which thou must leave ere long.” So much love radiates in your memory of the house, your in-laws, and the great love you shared. There comes a time when we cannot return to these sacred places…but the memories are treasures worth more than gold, and the love lives on. What a beautiful offering today. Thank you <3
-Okay, i know many of y’all will be expecting me to write about birds. I didn’t! I will just say I put up my hummingbird feeder one morning last week when people were saying the birds had not retuned yet; that afternoon, a male ruby-throated hummer appeared. There. My bird tale. But not my poem…that went in a different direction today…
Healing-Plant
Today is her birthday.
From my window,
I see the neighbor’s forsythia
In full bloom.
She planted one
by our house
when I was a child
and it thrived.
She loved the yellow.
She painted our kitchen
yellow
and it was warm.
I have read
that forsythia
are hard to remove
due to their
extensive root systems.
Like memories.
I would not remove them.
I would not harm them.
We lost each other
two decades
before she died
but I would not say
our relationship
died.
I will say
it went dormant
for so long
that there was
no real hope
for it.
Yet
today
the forsythia blooms
as bright as a child’s crayoned sun
and waves its long arms skyward
with newfound buoyancy
—she is free
of the coils of Earth
and every convoluted spiral
that strangled her mind.
I am free
to remember
what was bright
and beautiful
before the dark.
I will not labor
with the roots.
I will appreciate
the return of yellow
on this healing-plant
named for peace
on your birthday
Mom.
“I will say it went dormant” is such a beautiful way to think of this time. I love forsythia. I will see it with this poem in mind now.
Fran, you have such a wonderful way of weaving together a poem of grief with light: “as bright as a child’s crayoned sun”. The forsythia showing you how to hold the memories dear.
I love this poem Fran. Earlier this week I I tried to capture my father’s love of forsythia for the villanelle prompt but failed miserably. Now I see that it was a mismatch of form and content… like dressing a a forsythia bloom in brocade…here you have capture both flower and memory. Beautiful.
I love the shift from “she is free ” to “I am free” with the speaker choosing will and will not.
Fran, your poem gave me chills. I love your decision to “not labor with the roots,” because those memories, good or bad, carry us.simply beautiful.
This is so beautiful, Fran. I love forsythia and your relationship with your mom mirrors my relationship with my dad. My favorite line: I am free to remember what was bright and beautiful before the dark. Exquisitely written. Thank you.
So many levels and layers to this, Fran. I originally mused on the forsythia itself, which (around these parts) is my sign that spring has begun in earnest, and it’s always represented hope to me.
And this representation you’ve brought today, on your mother’s birthday…it haunts me. Especially when you speak of memories – alone in its stanza, both as an afterthought and an emphasis. I do think memories are like that, laying dormant until they sneak up behind us, much (I’ve come to realize) Grief will do as well.
Sending peace on light on what might be a tricky day.
Oh, Fran, your poem is so full of love, beauty, and loss. I love how you connect the forsythia blooms to your mother and your relationship with her. Your closing lines are heart wrenching, and I feel so much love and grief throughout this poem. Thank you for sharing your mother with us today!
Fran, the healing continues and is strong in your poem today. Your use of the word dormant is perfect here – – for this life and all its challenges, the life beyond is perfect, and the blooming of the forsythia is a sign that she is free – and healed. And that you recognize it and celebrate, not wanting to harm the memories of it all. What a fitting meaning for the forsythia. And…..I’m still waiting on my hummers. No signs at all yet, and my feeders are up.
Fran,
Your poem and Kim’s show the complicated relationships we have with mothers. Those memories—love the simile—do burrow deep their roots. I’m glad you’re able to see “as bright as a child’s crayoned sun” those memories and feel the plant’s healing now.
Good Morning, Joanne. Thank you for the lovely poem. I feel like I know those two people in the house. And, I miss them too. What lovely lines, “We came to love this house/ because we loved/ the two people inside.”
This cat
curled against
the small of my back
takes my body heat
multiples it
wraps it in a purr
and gives me
a company gift
this cold, frosty
April morning.
Oooh – i am in that moment. savoring every bit of that peace and armth against the cold, Linda! As vivid as vivid can be,
warmth*
Linda, such a simple gift–the exchange of body heat–shared between two beings. The push and pull of opposed forces (“against” the small of my back; heat and cold frost; taking and giving) is simply beautiful. And touching. You drew me toward giving Shadow an extra hug this morning!
I love how this one sentence wraps us in the warmth of “this cat”.
I thank you, and my cat thanks you. I think the cat is getting warm as well. Wraps it in a purr and gives me a company gift . . . so cuddly an image. My cat curls up on my lap every morning when I watch the weather before leaving for work, and every morning he’s so disappointed when I leave. But when my husband returns, my cat curls up at his back–right where it hurts. He seems to know.
Simple and descriptive. I can see the cat curled and feel her “purrfect” warmth
….wraps it in a purr…..oh, my heart! The warmth of a pet is pure love.
Aw, that is so so cuddly. I love that …kitties…they know the warm spots. I love the idea that the kitty “multipies” your body heat…yes! That is indeed what they do. “…a company gift…” a new phrase for me. Thank you, Susie
I love your poem. I sat with it as I crafted my own. Yours feels like one long silky sentence. A perfect definition of reciprocity.
Linda,
Send your cat my way. I have two cats and neither curl into my lap in the morning, and one will barely let me nest her. I love this image of your cat.
Thank for you the invitation to look closely, Joanne. I tried but the result ended up more emotion than observation.
Boxes
those sturdy boxes—
you know ‘em—
the ones that reams
of paper come in,
the ones with lids…
seven of them
in the dark corner
of her basement.
that dark corner
of her basement
with rough brown carpet
the color of midwestern mud,
brown paneled walls
bowing out in places
the musty smell
of a windowless,
doorless space
moisture melding.
a lifetime—77 years—
in those boxes
in that dark corner
of her basement.
lifting each lid
like opening a time capsule
holding treasures.
artifacts of a life—
his life.…
photo albums
loose pictures,
framed photos,
car show trophies,
bibles,
Lutheran hymnals,
cross-stitched bass,
VHS tapes,
cassettes,
reel-to-reels,
military medals,
softball t-shirts.
those items
in those boxes
in that dark corner
of her basement…
the things he took
each time he left
and started over.
his life—
one of mystery—
stored in those boxes
left for his two sons
to go through
after they buried
his ashes
those items
in those boxes
lugged two hours west
for them to sort through…
trash, donate, keep
all the while
wondering the significance
to the man
their dad
the mystery.
those items
in those three boxes
stored in our basement
so down the road
another generation
can sort through…
trash, donate, keep
all the while
pondering the significance
trying to unravel the mystery.
~Susan Ahlbrand
10 April 2025
Susan, you took me right into that dark corner, to those boxes, under those lids! You didn’t just try–you did! And the emotion you feel comes through to. We all have those boxes (too many of them). But I like the generational sorting, the treasures yet undiscovered that remain for someone else.
Oh, my goodness…I can relate. Those boxes are deceptively simple. I hope you enjoy uncovering the mysteries you find and learning more and more.
Wow! I love how the repeated lines take me on a journey with the boxes. I feel so sad that a whole life gets reduced to a few boxes in the corner of a basement. You have captured that emotion well in your poem today.
Oh this is such a narrowing journey. You described the basement and boxes so well. I know them too – those heavy memories, those mysteries. Thank you.
Susan, this poem is so beautiful. My grandma died about a year and a half ago, and my parents and I are still sorting through her ninety years of life. You put such a relatable feeling into words and made me feel it! I love your details and the way you formatted this poem. The central point of boxes is wonderful. Great work, such vivid emotion.
Repeated lines here work so well to reinforce the time lapse of the boxes, and the ashes of a once-living person who kept these treasures. As they were treasures with memories and sentiment that somehow don’t hold the same personal memories to the next generation. I like that you refer to these as time capsules. We call Dad’s storage rooms tiny museums. He likes to go Christmas shopping in his own pile of stuff and wrap “bars of gold” for others. This poem resonates deeply with me today.
Joanne, the image of opening the door with open arms and open hearts took me immediately to my parents, and I felt everything with my heart as those gestures were returned in keeping memories, as well as the heartbreak of a house you no longer return to. So beautiful.
April
Sophie was two in April
a month with harsh beginnings
“A” steep angular slope to surmount
followed by a puff of air
the (t)rill of birds
the softening sounds of spring
“softening sounds” is lovely.
From harsh to soft, marking time and celebration – again, so much packed in a small space, Jennifer! Yet – April is like this. Oh, the (t)rill of birds. Love. Happy birthday to Sophie!
Awe, beautiful Sophie of April. The “puff of air” softening the sound. What a sweet trill of a poem.
I read this poem in the wee hours of the morning and loved its detail. But I didn’t “get” it with that quick, cursory read of it. I am revisiting on my planning period and now I “get” it. What a clever little poem this is!
Yes to April. I am an April girl and I feel your description reflect my own life so perfectly – a puff of air, a trill of birds. I can hear those spring sounds. Thank you.
Jennifer, your poem is provocative. I love the way you incorporate sounds in this one and appreciate the harsh contrasting the soft. Lovely and poignant poem!
That last line – – the softening sounds of spring – – is calming and so reassuring. I love the change from the lion’s roar to the trill of birds. I like the punctuation uses in your poem.
Jennifer — the quick movement from the start to the soft ending…this is, indeed, what April feels like…so quick to change. Kids grow up so fast…poof, “a puff of air.” Lovely, Susie
Jennifer,
I have an early April baby, so the hard, soft, puff, trill imagery ending with that final /s/ alliteration resonates in multifaceted ways for me. April and her complications will give way to May.
Thank you for the prompt, Joanne
Kevin
The forgotten remains
of last year’s discards
wait at the top of the bin;
an old banana peel
grinds from morning coffee
a tangle of teabags
bread ends moldy green
peels of an abandoned orange
I stick a pitchfork in,
and push, tilling the past
to tend to the present
This reminds me that I really need to try composting again. My first go round brought skunks into the yard (after the banana peels) and then the dog got sprayed–not an experience any of us want to live through again. Love the last two lines!
Love how you end on the present. It’s such moment to begin a season. This is it!
I love “tangle of teabags” and “tilling the past/ to tend to the present.” I wish I were a composter. Some day…
Oh Kevin – ” tilling the past to tend the present.” Absolutely a wonderful, hopeful message to keep in my heart. Thank you.
Kevin — Now who would’ve thought you’d pull a poem out of compost…but of course! It fertilizes the emergence of new stuff! You did, indeed, stick that “pitchfork in” and “till[ed] the past/…to the present.” Perfect ending. A wee poem with a grand message. Love it. Susie