This post is part of VerseLove, our annual 30-day experience to read and write poetry in celebration of National Poetry Month. Welcome. Learn more here.
Our Host: Scott McCloskey
Hi, folks, I’m Scott, and I’m at a loss for what new information to tell you about myself. So, I’ll simply say that I’ve been teaching high school ELA in Michigan for over thirty years, and I’ve been reading and enjoying poetry for even longer.
Inspiration
I’m writing this prompt the morning of the start of daylight savings time this year, thinking about all the things I could have been doing with that hour that I had to give up, had to lose, by “springing forward.” So, for today’s prompt, let’s spend some time thinking about things that you’ve “lost.”
Process
The form (and intent) of the poem is yours. Your offering could be comic or serious or seriocomic. You could riff on losing your TV clicker, your car keys, your sanity, our nation’s collective humanity (that escalated quickly, sorry, lol) or anything else “under the sun.”
Just spend a bit of time today with “loss.”
Now, if you’re looking for some poems, in this vein, I’ve found some for you. You could do worse to (re)read these four poems: “Separation” by W.S. Merwin, “In Blackwater Woods” by Mary Oliver, “Nothing Gold Can Stay” by Robert Frost, and “Michiko Dead” by Jack Gilbert.
Ultimately, of course, your poem does not need to be about “loss”; it can be whatever you need to write and explore/express today. There are no wrong answers here.
Scott’s Poem
Here we lie
in bed, pillows
propped behind
me, Kindle resting
on my knees, reading
paused, we silently
watch the clock
on the armoire
click over from
1:59 to 3:00 AM.
We lost an hour
again: every year
it’s gone – poof!
this government
sanctioned time
travel – and don’t
speak to me about
“Falling Back,” that’s
not going to help
me when this same
alarm clock that
we’re staring at
is going to go off
tomorrow at 4:30
(which is really really
one hour earlier).
I almost start to
grouse, thinking
about all we’ve lost
this past year,
my father,
your mother,
thinking about
what we’re
going to lose,
how the insurance
company wants
to cut ties with
U-M Health,
effectively making
your entire care team
Out-of-Network,
when you smile up at me
and say,
the good thing about this
is now we’re one hour closer
to Halloween.
And this makes me smile, too,
so I simply return to our book
and continue to read out loud.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
Hi folks, thank you, again, for entrusting us with your losses today, allowing us to bear witness to them. If I wasn’t able to comment on your poem today (which is now, technically, yesterday, since it’s about 12:20), then check back sometime on Saturday to see my thoughts on your poem.
Scott, I appreciate the care you’ve given to everyone here. Your thoughtfulness is evident in your poem when you keep reading aloud at the end. Thanks for sharing your powerful poem and energy to sustain this community.
Yes, I agree, Scott! Thank you for your dear care. It was a good and sad day of poetry, and you were there for each of us.
Scott, I love the chance to write about losing and loss. As a Jets, Mets, Rangers and Knicks fan, there has to be some value in enduring so much losing. So I figured, a kwansaba in praise of losing was the way to go.
Passing down purgatory
(or the erudite explanation of why I made my kid is a Jets fan)
“Why do we always root for losers?!?”
Tears streak cheeks, it’s a serious query.
Because we value grit, loyalty, and strife,
Because the taste of victory is only
sweet after the bitter taste of defeat,
soaring heights need the depths, the loss–
winning will come, and you’ll be ready.
Haha, Dave, good for you for coming up with an erudite and poetic justification in being a fan of losers. Only temporarily, “winning will come, and you’ll be ready.”
Dave, thank you for reminding me of the kwansaba form (and for providing such a wonderful example of one)! I smiled broadly at these “erudite explanation[s].” They are reminiscent of the old parent chestnut – “It’s to build character” – when asked by a child why he has to do something when he doesn’t want to. And the answers are similarly unsatisfying, lol. Um, why can’t we just support a winning team. Wouldn’t that be sweet tasting, too? Lol, thanks for this!
Dave, I can completely relate to your opening question and love how you show that victory is sweeter after the “bitter taste of defeat”. The hope you offer at the end is marvelous. I always believe this might be the year my team might win the championship and know that I will return to your opening question. Very relatable poem!
I wrote a comment this morning about needing time to sift my thoughts on loss. I had so many that I couldn’t write; they overcrowded my brain. i return tonight with what materialized. Thank you again, Scott, for this invitation.
Memento Mori
Our little granddaughter
age four
came to spend an afternoon
at our house
she told her Grandpa
I want
to stay here
forever
he said
I know, honey
I want you to
Then
she said
Grandpa
I don’t want
to die
and he said
honey, you don’t
have to worry
about that
Jesus
will take care
of you
(which is
what his mother told him
when he was twelve
after his daddy died)
and, despite thirty-eight years
in the ministry
officiating hundreds
of funerals
when he tells me
what our granddaughter said
he breaks down
into uncontrollable sobs
See, she does not know
how fragile
and patched
and damaged
his heart is
(stents, CABG,
ablation,
ventricular tachycardia)
he knows
he’s living
on borrowed time
it will run out
likely sooner
than later
He does not mind
the going
when Jesus
should come for him
but he cannot bear
the thought
of hers
And what is there for me
to do except
hold them both
close
every minute
every day
for as long
as I can
(thank you
Lord
for this gift.
Amen.)
Oh, Fran. I want to hug all three of you desperately right now. Thank you for this gift of your poem.
I’m so sorry that you have “so many,” too many moments, in fact, to choose from, Fran. Your beautiful poem is full of heart wrenching moments from your granddaughter saying she doesn’t “want / to die” to your husband “break[ing] down / into uncontrollable sobs” to the truth of his “fragile / and patched / and damaged / …heart” to him “living / on borrowed time.” I am heartened, though, by your reaction to your husband and granddaughter: “And what is there for me / to do except / hold them both / close / every minute / every day / for as long / as I can.” And to echo your last lines, thank you, for this gift.
Oh, Fran, your honest voice revealing your husband’s health condition and realizing how his leaving will impact his granddaughter is heart wrenching. The gift of time is a blessing. Hugs!
Fran, I’ve been reading poems today and crying since the wee hours of this morning. This one is so dear and loving, the longing for life and love.
Yes, thank you, Lord, for all of it–the joy and the pain–gifts all.
Fran,
This touches my heart deeply as someone whose father died when I was young, as someone unafraid of death but afraid for the sadness my husband will feel if I die first, as someone who knows having grandparents around is important to my grandchildren, yet all we can do is hold one another close and go the best we can do w/ our brief time here.
Fran, this is heavy. The ‘living on borrowed time’ balanced with the impending heartbreak for both your little granddaughter and you is a lot. Yet there is a sense of peace, a sense of gratitude, knowing that Jesus will take care of you all. Thank you for sharing this private moment with us. Holding you in my heart today.
Oh Fran,
This poem is such a gift! So many exquisite and precise exchanges to remind us all of this precious life. So beautifully captured and crafted with care. Holding this one close to me.
Losing My Father
Such precious things, the lost:
Photos from France
The 9th-grade journal
His answers and his questions.
The ache of loss–
My most muscled of emotions
And yet I’ve lost the muscles too,
And yes, my father.
I feel every word of this, Allison. And your 2nd stanza (and the first stanza, too, tbh) is so heartbreaking: “The ache of loss – / My most muscled of emotions / And yet I’ve lost the muscles too, / And yes, my father.” Thank you for this.
Allison, you’ve hit on something that’s been in my mind a lot lately- the “things” we leave behind. Your last stanza really makes me feel that ache. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Allison, in so few words you capture the “ache” of loss – the little reminders, the beloved…I lost my dad suddenly and it was shattering. Nothing was ever the same. Muscle memory, for sure. Thank you for this.
Allison, I can feel the loss and pain radiating off the page here. Love the specific details of the concrete things list and how you shift to the emotional/physical pain of losing your father. The repetition adds impact at the end. Powerful poem that pulls hard on the heartstrings! Hugs!
Allison, peace, peace. This was a sad day in so many poems. I’m feeling “the ache of loss” in your losing your father. That last stanza is heartwrenching.
Scott, thanks so much for hosting and offering this prompt. I started this poem a while back and revised today. It’s inspired by art and a real experience.
Goodbye, Mom…Mom?
Long ago my mother said bright beams
levitated fifty feet into the air
at the end of our farm lane,
but no one believed her
when she cried for help.
She was frightened of losing me,
her infant son, sleeping peacefully in my crib.
She was sure they’d beam me up,
whisk me to a galaxy far away,
and often claimed, I was her alien baby.
Yesterday, I cowered behind the barn
when an eerie keening pierced my ears,
and a starfish-shaped thing landed in the hay field.
Silvery shapeless clouds writhed from its interior,
crossed the creek and morphed into crowbots and wolf fiends.
Their soulless eyes ravaged the land,
devoured spring lambs, and stripped the cornfield,
but mother didn’t blink an eye. She ran to the ship’s
luminous wings, clung to its shimmering door and wailed,
Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me behind.
Barb Edler
24 April 2026
Barb, the symbolism and imagery in this are profound. “She ran to the ship’s luminous wings” puts tears in my eyes, I am very sorry for your loss
Barb, thank you for revisiting and revising your older piece for today! The third and fourth stanzas are full of vivid sensory details, reminiscent of the best sci-fi/horror films – “Silvery shapeless clouds writhed from its interior / crossed the creek and morphed into crowbots and wolf fiends / Their soulless eyes ravaged the land, / devoured spring lambs”!
Barb, I know it has been a long time since your mom passed, but the pain never goes away, and I’m sorry for your loss. Your poem has such vivid imagery and splashes of light color – silvery, shimmering, luminous, bright – – against the landscape of the land, cornfield, hayfield, farm lane, showing the color and texture of a painting! I can see it.
Barb,
Oo! An allegory has me mesmerized w/ all the layers and hidden meaning. “Their soulless eyes ravaged the land,
devoured spring lambs, and stripped the cornfield,”
are lines that feel particularly prescient in this moment. Yet there is also the psychological implications of loss of sanity w/ the closing voice of the mother an aching wail. Lots to think about.
Holy crap, Barb. You’ve really told a tale here. This poem really builds to a crescendo. I feel like there is so much pain in this poem. Truly incredible.
Barb, it’s your title that threw me right into the abyss that I experience in a nightmare when I see my lost loved ones, call their name, but they keep going away–a dreadful feeling. Your poem seems to mirror a wave of grief that comes suddenly and possess us like a spell. Such a moving poem!
Barb, your poem is utterly haunting, and mesmerizing… your vibrant, supernatural, otherworldly imagery leads me to believe there was either dementia at work or perhaps a very real thinning of the veil in your mother’s visions. I sense her great courage… something she imparted to you, indeed. Profound poetry.
Barb,
There are so many mesmerizing details and sensory images. It has me questioning the loss and the attachment even long after…
Thank you for sharing.
Barb, the imagery in the last two stanzas is striking. The stripping and devouring of the land and soulless eyes feels very real. And the fear of being left in the destruction feels very real as well.
Barb, wow, could I have read the earlier version of your poem? I know I’ve heard at least the first part of this story. Holy moly, though, the story just gets more intense as it goes on. “crossed the creek and morphed into crowbots and wolf fiends.” And the end scene of your mother clinging, wailing and calling. So sad and jarring.
Wow, Barb. I feel the mother in you clinging to that ship. Sending love.
Allison
I was sitting in my car reading the prompt when inspiration hit–as you’ll see from my poem. Hope it gives you a laugh this Friday evening.
Arriving to work
I clock in from the parking lot
because memory ain’t what it used to be
And I might get distracted once inside.
Memory isn’t the only thing that fades with age.
Knees consistently fail me,
range of motion down from years past
and pain-free mornings are a complete thing of the past.
But as I sit in the car postponing entry to work
I suddenly wonder if the next thing I lose is my bowels.
And with it, my dignity.
So I hurriedly, but gingerly, comport myself to the bathroom.
I heard recently that 1 in 7 people soils their pants regularly
and I was shocked,
But today hope that I’m not joining that club.
A TikTokker said one had to wonder
if they’re closer to the date they last pooped their pants or the next time they do.
I thought of that while on the toilet,
realized I still don’t know which date I’m closer to
but am glad today wasn’t the day I found out.
Cheri, your poem gets the bottom of aging! No, not just tuckus, but the fact that we wonder as we age. What’s going to come out next…something we’ve kept hidden in the closet or the keys in our pocket that we didn’t secure carefully!
Oh, Cheri, yes, your poem is full of truth and humor. I really appreciate your honest voice and how well you show the dire situations us aged people face. I’m still smiling!
Cheri, your poem on the trials of aging has me smiling and crying at the same time. I try hard to embrace the “ache of the day” because you never really know what that is going to be! In the past year, I have become a passionate aquacise instructor and teaching those who are well into their 90s and still get up every day and make it to the pool, even when it is freezing out, have give me a lot of inspiration. I’m glad you made it through the day!
Phew!, Cheri, I’m glad “today wasn’t the day [you] found out”! Your poem had me smiling, yes, the struggle is real, lol, “Memory isn’t the only thing that fades with age.” Truth! Thanks for the laugh!
Cheri,
OMG! “I heard recently that 1 in 7 people soils their pants regularly.” This is horrifying! I’m gonna have nightmares thinking about this reality. I’m already nervous about something escaping during my upcoming surgery. And an image of Diaper Don and his smelly Depends popped into my mind reading this. Gurl, I needed a trigger warning! 🤣
I love every line of your poem, Cheri. This morning I finally remembered to set my Fitbit when I did yoga. I forget to stop it when I finished, so I logged in 3 hours and 45 minutes of exercise. Go me!
Wow, Cherie – I am in my 60s now so concerns about aging are a real thing, indeed – but one in seven people soling their pants regularly?!?!? Oh DO let’s be thankful we are not in that club-!! Brilliant poem.
Cheri, this is hilarious! I’m glad you made it. The idea of wondering if we are “closer to the date the last pooped their pants or the next time they do” had me laughing! Loved the light-heartedness of your poem today.
Scott thank your for this prompt and your daylight savings times woes. I have long hoped it would end, but I do realize the strength of the spring sports people! I have my share of comedic losses like the key chain that did not make it back into my bag search at a far away an airport that randomly made it back to me a year later. All I can think is they somehow searched my library card number, but I will never know! I’ll save that for another time as this poem on loss is April’s forever story.
The usual greeting was met with the tears lurking
Millimeters from the surface as “should be 26,” and
“I don’t know why I am so sad” burbled and
Long repressed miscarriages, moves, hopes,
Fueled grief, decades old, in one listening
Whose lost child “was just 19,” causing her
Eyes to well with the tears of understanding while
I remembered the searing pain of telling my
Parents of a loss that surpassed pain, as well as
The life-changing call about a beloved grandchild,
That early morning message about an adored niece,
That tainted the twinkling tree light, and
That sunny morning destroyed by learning of
Her treasured child, still finding his way are
Moments where you remember nothing but
Their deflected pain that may eased, perhaps,
If only a wee bit, in remembering.
April’s forever story… may remembering help.
Anita — This is heartwrenching. So much pain and loss, but there is definitely peace found “in remembering.”
Ooof, Anita, your poem is deeply moving. Your images and diction show the deep grief and the way tears can bubble suddenly from the repressed losses and fueled by grief. I’m sure some tears were shed crafting this one. Hugs!
Anita, the pain of loss is so deep here, so intense. I’m so sorry that there is such grief that destroys souls when a child is lost – and what a poem to remember April.
Anita,
Theres so much sadness here, emphasized by “should be 25,” and the pain of being the one to share the news. I know such memories visit every month, but it’s particularly cruel in April when poetry can make the pain so much more real. Yet what matters to me in such memories is that they make me feel, help me be a more empathetic person, and that is no small purpose in such sharing.
Anita, I’m holding on to the truth of your last lines: “Their deflected pain that may [be] eased, perhaps, / If only a wee bit, in remembering.” I love how you temper this truth with “may,” “perhaps,” and “wee bit” because even a miniscule amount can (sometimes) help when confronted with a “loss that supass[es] pain.” Thank you for this!
Oh. Anita, this is such a tender poem. Losing a child is unbearable because it violates all laws of logic. Time doesn’t heal, but remembering helps learning to live with a loss. Sending kind thoughts.
Anita, such losses are never forgotten, and time is always marked: “should be 26″… it means that love was great, and so is the loss. Searing poem, reminding us that remembering is vital. And a gift.
Anita, you describe the pain of loss and also the strength and solace in witnessing, sharing grief and remembering. This is so sad, but so beautiful too.
Anita, this prompt was made for April for you and your family. My, this is heart wrenching. So much loss, and the “deflected pain that may ease, perhaps, If only a wee bit, in remembering.” Yes, I believe it. Thanks for sharing the load through this poem.
I have been writing a lot about the loss of my husband, but today’s poem goes in a different direction. I am not sure whether to attribute it to widow’s fog or senior moments, but the struggle is real.
I lost the stamps I bought last week.
Would you believe I’m on a streak?
Important papers, my current book,
a shopping list, and notes I took
I put things down; they disappear.
I could have sworn they were right here.
Here are my keys, but where’s my phone?
Empty the bag with a loud groan.
They’re in the spot where they belong.
They must have been there all along.
Losing things from morning till bed
Be careful, or I’ll lose my head!
I get it… my keys seem to get lost all the tine. And my phone… let’s not talk about it. Haha.
Rita, the fact that you were able to do all those rhyming lines on a Friday after a long week says your mind is as sharp as a tack and you’re merely spread thin! If only my own missing things were always where they belong!
Rita — Same! I can’t tell you how many times I have misplaced my phones, and I have literally walked around looking for my glasses when they have been on my head!
Rita,
Glad you have a sense of humor about losing things. “They’re in the spot where they belong.” reminds me of all the times i can’t find something because it’s where it belongs!
I love the rhymes that suit the playful mood of your poem. I’m thinking now of things I’ve misplaced or lost and realized I probably should have written about the bracelet I bought in Switzerland two weeks ago that never made it home.
I love the rhyme and fun of finding things right where you left them.
Thanks, Rita.
I’m right there with you. “Here are the keys, but where’s my phone?” sounds like most mornings. And “I put things down; they disappear” is the truest line ever.
Rita- this poem is very relatable, sadly. I wish we didn’t lose things or thoughts as much as we do as we age. I enojyed your poem, the rhyme, rhythm, and humor work well together.
Rita, this had me smiling! I can relate to this so much, now, wait where did I put that? I could have sworn it was “right here.” I look everywhere for the missing thing until I find it, of course, right where it goes, right where it has been “all along.” The struggle is real!
Look high and low
On top and underneath
Still you can’t see it
Too much bother, so you stop
And take a
Nap instead
Don’t worry, you will
Find it
Out of the blue
Unexpectedly
Naturally, you
Do- it’s right where you left it!
Diane, it looks like we both had the same things on our minds today. I love your second stanza. These days, a nap is always welcomed, and everything seems a little easier to manage after.
Diane, this is so true! I love your solution of just taking a nap and waiting a bit. Usually I tear the house from stem to stern before I decide to take a break and it reappears1
Diane — So true! In my experience the lost item is found in that super secret spot I placed it in!
Dianne, this is so relatable. I am smiling as I reread your poem – “it’s right where you left it!” lol
Lol, Diane, yep! It’s usually (always, in fact) “right where you left it!” And I love the suggestion to “take a / Nap instead.” Always good advice. Thank you for this!
9:30 a.m. Friday Existential Crisis
By Mo Daley 4/24/26
This morning in yoga class while lamenting
my lack of lower-back flexibility,
I remembered poses I used to be able to do with ease
I remembered crows, plows, and camels
among others
but now I prefer sphynx, cobra, cat/cow,
and definitely
corpse pose (which I’m really good at).
Can I even do those demanding poses anymore?
Should I try?
What if I fail?
Then I saw my life in black and white-
the yin and yang of it all:
the duality
the opposition
the interdependence
the balance
the harmony.
I saw myself-
a curved line of constant movement
and I knew I hadn’t lost a thing.
Mo, your poem takes a lovely turn from lamenting the changes of aging to embracing that your yoga life has given you balance. You line about “a curved line of constant movement: is the perfect embrace of your practice.
Mo — This line– “corpse pose (which I’m really good at)” — had me in stitches! I love that you can find humor the moment and truth in reflection –“a curved line of constant movement/and I knew I hadn’t lost a thing.”
Mo, wow! I love everything about your poem. The morning yoga class sets the scene, the remembering of a more flexible time in the narrator’s life and then shifting to the yin and yang of it all is incredible. I love how you shape this into a metaphor at the end and land on such a lovely self-realization. Incredible poem and cleverly crafted. Kudos!
Mo, you are a wise woman, and your life made you richer and more content. I desperately need to do something about my neck and back. I am not even good “at corpse pose” any longer I think.
Mo, what an overcoming of existential crisis! “A curved line of constant movement… I hadn’t lost a thing” speaks to the gift of life despite all its mess.i am chuckling about being good at the corpse pose – wonderful release of tension in that, poetically and yoga-etically..
Mo, the moment that got me was “and definitely / corpse pose (which I’m really good at), lol! And I also love the lines “Then I saw my life in black and white- / the yin and yang of it all.” Thank you for contemplating your life (through yoga poses) and crafting this poem!
Thanks, Scott. This prompt lent itself to some fun.
Lost Things
There is a place where lost things go.
Where it is i don’t know.
A well kept secret
maybe in a cave,
a dungeon or the cloud.
If I knew, so much I could save
if I had everything.
I’d be so proud
to have both socks that matched
and a letter I’ve started
(it’s very good hearted)
but I lost the pen.
I’ll finish it when
I discover the back door
of the entrance that’s attached
to a place hidden
and ridden
with all my things that are lost.
Susan,
Im smiling at the familiarity of this verse. Love the rhythm rhyme adds to the poem. Thst elusive missing sock loves to run off to who knows where! I familiar refrain in my home is, “Do you know where…?” followed by whatever it is I can’t find!
Susan, this is a lot of fun! I love the rhyme and rhythm you’ve crafted throughout and the fact that you brought your poem back to the beginning at the end! You start with the “place where lost things go,” which leads you to your one sock and an unfinished “good hearted” letter “[you’ve] started” once you can find your pen, which you’ll find as soon as you find “the entrance that’s attached / fo a place hidden / and ridden / with all my things that are lost.”
That very good hearted letter! Made me smile!
Susan, this is a really fun way to describe that “place where our lost things are piled up waiting for us! Your rhyming pattern reinforces the fun in this.
Susan — oh, those mismatched socks are the devil! Love the playfulness and rhythm of your poem.
It’s interesting how so many are writing about aging today! What we’ve lost and why we lost it!. Your poems gets the, however, doesn’t sound as sad…just factual. Sadness is a fact of life, but I’m glad, today, that some losses are not all that bad. Thanks.
Susan, I so enjoyed reading your poem. You’ve captured a lyrical rhythm along with intriguing images of where the lost things may have gone. When the pen is lost adds a great touch of humor and your end connects perfectly with your opening. Fantastic poem about lost things.
Scott,
Thanks for hosting. Loss is such a wide open topic that choosing a single something to focus on is tough. Like you, I really dislike daylight saving time. I wish it would fall back permanently.
lost plot
we’ve lost the plot.
he changed the narrative:
we’re no longer the give
me your tired masses
yearning to breathe free
nation welcoming the stranger.
archetypal storylines
crumble into dust.
narrative threads unravel,
snipped by a narcissist,
a malignant cancerous tumor,
a naked emperor exposed
while the civilized
world watches
trapped in his chaos.
Sarte nailed it:
hell IS other people.
Glenda Funk
April 24, 2026
Glenda, you nailed it. I love the interpretation of the prompt that we have lost the plot, and the metaphor that continues in unraveling narrative threads, “snipped by a narcissist.” Powerful. So true, so sad. And those last two culminating lines, wow.
This powerful poem bites! I like “a naked emperer exposed” while we are “trapped in his chaos.”
Oh, that end, Glenda, I love it: “hell IS other people.” I also love your craft of “plot” and “chang[ing] the narrative” and “narrative threads unravel[ed], / snipped.” He just continues to take and take and take and make things worse; you’ve got it right, he’s “a malignant cancerous tumor.” Truth!
Glenda, I am in awe of how deft you are at creating poems that so clearly capture this sad time in our country.
Glenda, this really is a great representation of lost direction. Your lines, “narrative threads unravel, snipped by a narcissist,” are powerful words that reflect the lost plot of our nation. This is a very sad tale, but oh so true.
Boy, did we lose the plot, for sure! Your descriptions are so apt.
Glenda, I can hear your anger in this one and can relate. I loved these lines: “snipped by a narcissist,
a malignant cancerous tumor,
a naked emperor exposed”
Perfect metaphors for the orangey one. Your ending lands on the truth about hell and I sure wish this nightmare would end because the world right now is full of chaos and not enough peace or dignity. Powerful poem!
It is sobering to think that one power-hungry narcissist can have such power to change so much. Yes. Hell indeed.
Glenda, you and Sartre got the gist: “hell IS other people.” Another striking lines for me here:”archetypal storylines /crumble into dust.” We were always taught to choose good, not evil, but the king-wanna-be doesn’t know the difference and doesn’t care. I like your all the appositives you use to rename that piece of mama’s garbage. The Canva backdrop is very fitting.
I appreciate the positive spin at the end. A prompt we have done in the past and one I was using with senior ELA students today was on taking a word for a walk. I decided to use that format to explore the words lose, loss, and lost:
I lose myself in the text.
The words lose meaning with repetition.
We are told: lose the attitude.
But tone and text lose impact.
And a girl cries out: don’t lose!
I know that grief and loss
Friends to pale blood loss or
the hurt from loss of love.
We’ve taken loss in our stride
this loss no different than before.
This lost art is revived daily.
I look lost, yet I won’t
stop my pace. Lost? Of course.
I’m not the scared lost child
I learned, I loved, I lost.
Oh, great idea. Anna will be pleased to see this. Love recognizing how the word curves or snakes toward discovery.
Erica, love the words of the prompt going for a walk with you today, and that your students are doing likewise. “I learned, I loved, I lost” was a nice ending.
Erica, this is very clever. As your words subtly change down the page the pattern of your bold words creates a slow path towards the end. I really love this as a style.
Erica, I remember taking a word for walk exercise and also use it when teaching vocabulary! Such a great word exploration. Love the final two lines showing a trajectory of a life lived.
Yes, I remember “talking a word for a walk”! I loved watching the bolded words undulate through your poem, Erica. And your ending? Wonderful. “I’m not the scared lost child / I learned, I loved, I lost.” Thanks for this!
I wrote a Skinny poem using today’s prompt.
Aftershock
Grief lives in my heart cavity
reverberates
catches
me
vulnerable
reverberates
anguish
lives
anew
reverberates
my heart cavity lives in grief.
Great idea to use the skinny here to let the grief be held in the white space. Only a single breath can carry, only single beats like the heart carries.
Yes, this is what grief feels like. Thank you.
Feeling this today.
Cathy, Yes! “[R]everberates,” “reverberates,” “reverberates,” again and again and again. I love your repetition here. It is the gift that keeps on giving. Thank you for crafting this!
I feel the grief in my heart cavity as well. This skinny poem is very powerful.
The skinny form works so well here as with every new line we see/feel how grief reverberate. “my heart cavity lives in grief” is such a striking line. Thank you!
on the morning
you breathed your last
the skies were so grey
with one small hole
where the clouds parted
and sunlight
beamed through
and ever since
when
clouds
offer
this
gift
I think of you
in some ways
I have more time
with you
now
you slip in
when I’m gardening
on my walks
when I’m laughing
and you are gentler
more patient
listening
————–
Scott, your poem is so precious, leaving me with misty eyes – that painful “thinking about/
what we’re/ going to lose”…thank you for sharing this with us. Thank you for the nudge to write into loss today.
Your poem’s turn is so effective—”in some ways / I have more time / with you /now”—and I love the litany of surprise appearances: “when I’m gardening / on my walks / when I’m laughing.” And the end is so heartening and haunting, Maureen: the “you…gentler / more patient / listening.”
Oh, Maureen. What a discovery, what a comfort to craft those lines that in some way I have more time with you. I feel that in my loss but couldn’t name it until now. Thank you.
Oh, Maureen, this made me tear up:
“and ever since
when
clouds
offer
this
gift
I think of you.”
Still so tender.
Oh, Maureen, I know this moment with the grey skies parting and the sunlight beaming through and you just know you’re with someone you loved and lost. I love the way your poem flows, and its end is particularly powerful! Gorgeous poem!
Maureen,
I appreciate the little signs of our loved ones that come in nature. The ending speaks volumes but yet it’s so tender.
Maureen, I love every bit of this, every word: the “small hole / where the clouds parted / and sunlight / beamed through” to the craft of stanza two, mimicking the beam of light, “this gift” to the visiting during “gardening” or walking or “laughing.” And I love love how you so artfully conveyed the complicated nature that these return visits are somehow “gentler / more patient” more attentive than before the person “breathed [his or her] last.” Lovely! (And thank you for your kind words in your comment!)
Great prompt and poem, Scott! I must say that I’ve never witnessed the time change on the clock when it’s Spring Ahead or Fall Back, and now I’m intrigued by it.
In The Book of Alchemy, a woman writes about being on a wild adventure and how she experienced beauty in being lost. My strike line is: “they remind me of a time I was alone and lost but in the middle of an adventure…”
Land of Loss
I pull up a chair to gather with my ancestors, and they
each looked oddly familiar. Their eyes, their high cheekbones remind
me of the times I looked in the mirror, but wasn’t sure it was me
in the reflection. I’ve always felt the presence and nudging of
kindred spirits, helping me navigate while lost in a
world where nothing has evolved, lost in a time
where powers that be try to render me powerless. I
seek the wisdom of those who persevered before me; they knew what was
bound to happen. They communed and held one another close, never alone
as they battled against principalities and
spirits of darkness. I believe humanity is fragmented and lost
and craves the hope and joy it once had, but
I ask at the gathering, are we trapped in
watered-down wishes, looking down a dark well where the
light will never glimmer? Are we floundering in the middle
of nowhere, somewhere, in search of
a façade? This is a dream where victims and survivors win and an
incredible force comes to rescue them from this life’s dreadful adventure
©Stacey L. Joy, 4/24/26
communing, holding each other close and battling spirits of darkness sounds like the same strong woman they raised….you! I love the use of ancestors and spirits to create such a feeling of presence here.
This one feels heavier, like a different kind of loss, like it wasn’t just personal, but something bigger, almost generational. What stuck with me most is how it keeps circling that feeling of being lost, and it’s not just physically, but in identity, in history, in the world itself. It’s like reaching backward for strength while also questioning if things will ever really get better. That ending feels almost like a wish more than a belief, like hoping something powerful will come fix it, even if deep down you’re not sure it will.
Stacey, your poem reminds me one of these dreams I, too, have sometimes, and I can’t quite explain where we are and what we are doing, but I feel “kindred spirits” and try to find the way out of something that I can’t quite name. The hope at the end of your poem is promising when “incredible force comes to rescue them from this life’s dreadful adventure.”
Stacey, your borrowed line is priceless. I am in awe of the way you carry the reader to the end throughout this reflective adventure poem full of provocative images and questions. I especially appreciate the power and the powerless, the battle and the fragments and of course, the floundering which I personally do so well. To see victims and survivors win is truly a moment of hope. Profound, powerful poem!
Stacey, I love the connection you’ve cultivated with your “ancestors” and the fact that you can “pull up a chair” to ask these “kindred spirits” for help to “navigate” these difficult times where the “powers that be try to render [you] powerless.” And you are so right, “humanity is fragmented and lost / and craves the hope and joy it once had.” Thank you for crafting this!
A Tribute to Ate Nene, who helped raise me when I was a child.
May 2022 an email
Warning me not to go to their house
Her dad is angry and will not let me in.
I am devastated. What had I done wrong?
I returned to Pililla and hoped our paths
Would cross at the market,
Walking down the street.
It didn’t happen.
Summer 2023 another return.
Again I hoped, no luck. I still didn’t understand.
Summer 2025 another return
Again I hoped.
One more month. No luck.
In desperation I asked my cousin why?
She had no answer. Instead, we planned.
When I visit my aunt, cousin will call her aunt
The sisters would meet, and I would conveniently be there.
Her hug was tight, she loves me still
But she couldn’t go against her husband
The clandestine meeting was repeated before
I left again. Thank you, God!
October 2025 brought shocking news.
She was dying. WHAT?! WHY?!
Six weeks later her Maker called her home.
“When will I hold you again?”
I am so glad that you were able to hug her! What a hard loss, and incomprehensible that her husband shut you out. We each deal with illness and grief differently. So sad.
Those memories of the hug were lasting, and her arms are holding you still. She never let go. She never will – – I’m so glad you got to see her when you did.
Oh. Cayetana, as long as you are, that final hug and Ate Nene will live in your heart. Men can be so heartless. Thank you for sharing!
I am so glad that you were able to finally see and hug Ate Nene, the woman who “lov[ed you] still,” the woman “who helped raise [you] when [you were] a child.” I’m so sorry she was kept from you and for your loss of her when “her Maker called her home.” Thank you for sharing this with us, Cayetana!
Scott: I love the unexpected Halloween turn in your poem!
Lost and Found
Like almost everyone, I’ve lost
my glasses too many times to count,
some memories of my childhood—
I can’t tell you which, I don’t remember them—
and socks in the laundry.
Other losses feel more singular:
the very tip of my left ring finger
to a slammed door in Seattle,
affection for my mother’s humor
grown caustic with age.
I’ve lost my confidence on the dance floor,
that easy flow of hips and eyes-closed hum;
lost my desire to cook from scratch anything
but breakfast; lost my need to pretend
I don’t love a good romance book.
Again and again, I’ve lost my train
of thought and the name of all seven dwarfs.
But I’d lost you and got you back
so who cares anything at all
about the rest.
Oh! Yay for all of this, but especially the last stanza. I’m a sucker for a happy ending. Your word choices for all your losses created vivid images for me. I enjoyed your poem!
Kate,
I love how real your poem makes me feel!
Well done capturing this prompt!
Your last three lines really throw a great twist to your poem and a reminder to look at what is most important. Also, I can really relate to most of your list of losses. (The socks in the laundry, the desire to cook from scratch, confidence on the dance floor, all so relatable!)
Oh what a marvelous twist at the end! Beautiful!!
Your last lines focus on the important parts of life- connection, relationship, love- and how other daily things pale in comparison. The ending was a surprise- a happy one.
This one feels a lot more personal, like someone just listing out all the little ways life chips things away from you. Some of it is almost funny, like losing socks or your train of thought, but then it slips into things that actually sting a bit more, like losing parts of yourself or how you see people. What really stands out is the ending, though. It kind of shrugs off everything else, like none of those losses really mattered compared to losing that one person. I enjoyed reading this very much Kate.
Your list of lost things is good. Ouch to the loss of your finger tip! I can identify with losing interest in cooking and confidence on the dance floor. “But I lost you and got you back” is so rejoicing!
Kate!!! This is a keeper!! I wasn’t expecting to feel so validated and normal. 😂 The ending was a sweet surprise.
Kate, I was waiting for the found as hinted in the title. So great when one find is worth of all the other losses. It calls for celebration! Thank you for this gift.
I love this Kate! Such a wonderful ride from the mundane or banal losses of glasses and some childhood memories and “socks in the laundry” to more specific and painful losses of “the very tip of my left ring finger” and the “affection for [your] mother’s humor / grown caustic with age” Ooof! And then you end with another twist: “But I’d lost you and got you back / so who cares anything at all / about the rest.” So good! Thank you for crafting this and sharing it!
On a train from Sicily to Rome, we
briefly became a boat,
the train cars uncoupling from the engines
as we rolled onto tracks that float,
somehow.
Our bodies are used to the forwardness
of cars on metal roads.
We only notice the motion, like the passage
of time, when there is a change,
an acceleration, a drop or a drift,
and so the lurch of the world
once solid, steady, chugging along
made our stomachs drop
with the swell
as our boattrain sailed the dark seas.
Our tickets were used already,
dated earlier in October, hand printed,
in black ink.
We had adjusted them, a 7 into a 9
or a 3 into an 8,
so we could afford the trip
on the train that becomes a boat
as it crosses the Strait of Messina.
Later, between quiet towns in the quiet
of night,
the roar of rolling ceased
into the whisper of coasting
and only then did we notice
the roar of rolling.
And the train drifted to a stop,
no longer a boat
or a vehicle of any kind
and we sat in the silence that suddenly presented itself,
and we sat in darkness that suddenly inked every corner,
and we wondered
and we waited
for time
to catch us from the back,
so that 1:00 am would be 1:00 am
again
and our journey could continue.
And I wonder
about that hour that rolled past
while we sat in silence.
Jonathon! I enjoy and admire the poem’s pace—how it takes us along on legs of the journey, building to the moment of time standing still. I especially appreciated the sound and structure of the first stanza (the rhyme and then the set apart “somehow”), as well as “the lurch of the world” after “a drop or a drift” and the “whisper of coasting” after “the roar of rolling.”
Love your description of the effect of the train becoming a boat,
and I find these words a parallel to how we feel with grief.
I like how at first nothing huge happens, but suddenly time slips, the train isn’t really a train anymore, and everything just feels off. That moment where they’re waiting for 1:00 am to be 1:00 am again, it’s like wanting things to reset, even though you know they won’t. It reminds me of those times where everything goes still, and you realize something’s already passed, and there’s no way to get it back, even if you can’t fully explain what “it” is.
Jon, your poem has a certain mysterious vibe of a time travel I, too, experienced the train turning into boat once when we went from Crimea to Caucasia via Kerch Channel, so it was a weird experience. These lines give me that feeling of the lost time:
“and we wondered
and we waited
for time
to catch us from the back.”
U thoroughly enjoyed your poem. Thank you!
I love the poetic craft in your second stanza: “We only notice the motion, like the passage / of time, when there is a change, / an acceleration, a drop or a drift, / and so the lurch of the world / once solid, steady, chugging along / made our stomachs drop / with the swell / as our boattrain sailed the dark seas.” This is cool, Jonathon. Thank you for writing and sharing it with us!
Scott, thank you for hosting today. Thank you for being generous with your words and offering mentor text. Your poem leaves me with a glimpse of hope, which I tried to find in my own, but kept hearing E. Bishop’s “One Art” in my head.
What Remains
Staring at a blank page,
trying to gather
faded shadows
of those I loved most.
My first love,
who showed me
what love can be,
how fairy-tale ending
begins after the wedding.
My first niece,
sweet, innocent,
who taught me
what motherhood
might look like.
My father,
kind, intelligent, wise,
who spoke truths
others feared to whisper
in a “free” Soviet nation.
My oldest sister,
then my brother—
within nine months,
the strongest limbs
of our tree gone.
And as if that weren’t enough,
my mother, the heart of us all,
loving us entirely and fiercely,
the one who held us together,
offering her songs to heaven.
She called my second brother,
my childhood partner in mischief,
so they would not be alone,
Six of them now up there
keeping each other company,
while the five of us here
hold onto memories,
recall their dear smiles,
waiting for the moment
we are no longer parted
by earth and sky.
Leilya,
A loving and beautiful tribute to all those nearest and dearest to you. It is evident how you hold their memories and love fiercely. The poem feels reassuring despite all the losses. Thank you for sharing.
I do love the way you go through various specific people, remember them, bring them back into your(our) lives
Oh, Leilya. Sending comfort and i do hope writing this poem was a comfort, too. The stanzas hold lessons taught only theough love, through family. Thank you for remembering for us to witness the people in your life who have nurtured the beautiful Leilya we know and love today ❤️
What remains is the loving legacy poured into the next generation.
This lovely poem, so beautifully worded, tore at my heart – “the strongest limbs of our tree gone,” “my mother, the heart of us all.”
This pain of losing siblings – who hold our family memories with us – is eviscerating. My husband comes from a large family and we have lived through this pain too many times. I really admire how you move through so many griefs here, and conclude with such love and hope.
Leilya, I’ve read this a few times today – – at lunchtime I ran out of time to comment, but what a moment it will be when all of humanity is no longer parted by earth and sky. I know you miss your family and your homeland, those memories of the village in your early days of teaching. I see the beauty in them and feel the loss right with you.
Ahhhh, my heart felt all the emotions. I love that there is something beautiful in what you remember even though it’s laced with sadness. Your true and first love stanza is priceless.
Oh, Leilya, you have suffered so many losses and yet you honor each so beautifully in your poem. I’m brought to tears by how well you close this poem with your future moment when “we are no longer parted
by earth and sky.”
Hugs!
Leilya,
Another hauntingly beautiful homeland poem. It is so hard to hold onto memories, to enshrine those we love in permanence, but writing helps. I love the way you honor family, especially your mother.
Leilya, your love for family is bold and foundational, so substantial. I love that ending “waiting for the moment / we are no longer parted / by earth and sky.” It is so lyrical and beautifully put.
This is lovely, Leilya, and so heartbreaking, this list of all you’ve lost. I love (and am heartened by) your last stanza, though: “while the five of us here / hold onto memories, / recall their dear smiles, / waiting for the moment / we are no longer parted / by earth and sky.” Thank you for this gift of poetry.
Thanks for the intriguing prompt, Scott! I enjoyed your poem, especially the lines “government sanctioned time travel”.
the loss of what I left
going back was
bittersweet
the loss
of what I left
more evident now—
walking on eggshells
teetering on edge
waiting for things to fall
because they always did
too much pressure
too much anxiety
too much perfection
I lost it all
when I left—
not all in one go
but in pieces
falling
sloughing
until
only I remained
~Jennifer Kesler, 24 April 2026
Jennifer, I read your poem as a long, well-deserved sigh of relief. It didn’t come right away: you lived through “walking on eggshells / teetering on edge / waiting for things to fall” and experiencing all the pressure, anxiety, and perfection. I am glad “you lost it all.” So well said and so well earned!
Thank you, Leilya, it feels like a sigh of relief to have closed that chapter and come out better on the other side.
“The loss of what I left” is really sticking with. I like the way it sounds and I like how it makes me struggle to think about that idea.
I really like how the poem’s end gets me thinking about how gradual loss is—the “falling / sloughing” off “In pieces”—and how the letting go is how we find ourselves.
You said it, just like I meant it! “the letting go is how we find ourselves”
Jennifer,
Your poem makes me consider how we have to lose certain parts of ourselves along with select relationships to find our new selves. This all takes time and it can leave us feeling like we are on an edge. I am glad you are on the other side.
Thank you, Darshna, I am, too. It’s painful at the time, but necessary all the same.
These are losses that serve you well, I think. I hear such strength in that last line, “only I remained.”
Jennifer,
You have done what so many are afraid to do. Kudos!!! You have a new and better version of yourself. I did the same and I’ll never regret what I lost when I left. Good riddance 🤣.
Thank you for sharing this with us.
I’m glad you’ve done it, too. I do not regret leaving, although at the time, it was a very difficult decision.
Jennifer, thank you for illustrating this feeling of anxiety so well with “walking on eggshells / teetering on edge / waiting for things to fall / because they always did.” You’ve captured this constant, low-level hum of dread/panic that is present (even before you realize it is present) so well! Thank you for writing and sharing this with us.
I’m at a loss for words
which seems to presuppose
I had the words at one time
but have misplaced them
or willfully thrown them in the trash
or scattered them as ashes on the lake
in any case you wish to imagine
I no longer have the words
a have no words
for this particular sentiment
words fail me
so which is it?
I had the words, but lost them
or the words are with me but have failed to support me
or there are no words?
words are a fragile ecosystem
whether I had them or not, I never fully allow them to speak
I speak for them
The words have not failed me
I have failed them
they could have said it so much better
they could have conveyed it so much clearer
from my brain to my toungue
I chose to blame the words
when no one is to blame
not me
not you
that’s just the way it is
Ah words! they are such a fragile ecosystem — I love that line and think I will hold on to it forever…unless of course I misplace it…
Luke, I like your questioning here. words can be tricky–seems like you have them, and now you don’t! Love this expression–“words are a fragile ecosystem”–and will keep it with me. Thank you!
I really love being made to look more closely at idioms like “words fail me.” And I love the nudge to not fail words.
I love your wordplay here – and the beautiful compassion and understanding that weaves through this (a commonplace problem for me – that sense that I should have spoken up, said what I was feeling, expressed myself.)
I think we’ve all experienced this feeling before. That loss for words, that catch of the tongue, that not knowing what to say. I like how you question throughout the poem, but then, in the end, there’s acceptance.
Luke, this is very clever! I loved the play with being “at a loss for words” turning to “words have not failed me / I have failed them.” And I love the truth of “I never fully allow them to speak / I speak for them.” (This word play reminds me of that moment in Hamlet, just before the play-within-a-play when Hamlet is talking to Claudius. Hamlet says something to which Claudius replies, “I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet. These words are not mine” and Hamlet responds, “No, nor mine now,” meaning, of course, that once they have left his mouth they weren’t his anymore.) Thanks for writing and sharing this!
I fumble around the desk: where did that pen go? I just had it . . .
Fumble some more, lift all the books, feel behind the laptop and along its side.
It was just there!
Did it roll off the desk onto the floor? If it did, it became a cat toy
And is now under the couch.
I sigh, grab another pen, and start working.
Ten minutes later: Hey, there’s my pen!
It was right where I left it, directly in eyesight, yet somehow I missed it.
I walk into my kitchen to do something: why did I come in here again?
I search my brain unsuccessfully. Nope, can’t remember.
Train of thought has derailed.
Only one solution: backtrack to where I started to have the thought,
Then see if it comes back on track.
Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t.
Every time, though, I wonder: early onset Alzheimer’s?
What’s the difference between losing a train of thought
And losing brain cells? Memories?
Does anyone else reach for a word or fact
But just can’t quite find it?
I’m relieved when it pops back into my head at 2:30 am.
Maybe the neurons are still firing.
I won’t call them “senior moments,” at least not yet.
Instead, I will call them . . . well, I don’t know.
What was I doing again?
Sheila, I thoroughly enjoyed reading your poem. It made me smile as I recognized myself in each of the situation. This one is my main annoying chip right now:
“I walk into my kitchen to do something: why did I come in here again?
I search my brain unsuccessfully. Nope, can’t remember.”
The final stanza is witty and humorous; you still got it and are as sharp as a razor. Thank you!
I especially love your last paragraph!
Shelia,
This is beautifully crafted poem that encapsulates so much… I love how you narrated the scenes stanza by stanza.
All done with so much heart and humor!
I wonder: early onset Alzheimer’s? It’s a terrible thought… senior moment? only slightly worse… relieved when it pops back into my head at 2:30 am… but why can’t it come when we summon it?!
Sheila- Your poem is very relatable. We have all, at one point, experienced these moments. It’s certainly frustrating when it happens, which you conveyed well in your poem with your questioning. I like the humor in the last stanza.
Yes, Sheila, I have lost so many pens, too, so many! (Only to find them, of course, right there “directly in eyesight.”) And I loved your ending, “what was I doing again?” Lol. Thank you for exploring these very real (and very relatable) losses!
I truly enjoyed working with this prompt. I find joy this morning in what I have lost. As a Christian, a doctrine that is dear to my heart is the doctrine of regeneration, where the Holy Spirit makes alive dead hearts. This poem is inspired by the following biblical passages…
What’s Been Lost is Death – Gavriel Epperson
While lost in sleep
Sin had my keep
Above me came a voice
“Awake, O sleeper,
Rise from Death
Christ’s Light shall melt your heart”
I don’t cry for what’s been lost
I sing because it has.
For, death God took
Once thrilled my soul
But now I joy in Christ
My heart did melt.
Unknown to me
My God could break this stone
Lost my root but gained anew
A living beating love.
I don’t cry for what’s been lost
What’s been shed is death.
For, this God took
Once thrilled my soul
But now I joy in Christ.
Gavriel, welcome! Thank you for writing with us. The repetition of “I don’t cry for what’s been lost” and “But now I joy in Christ” adds to the strength of your message! (And thank you for the accompanying biblical passages: those helped shed light on your poem!)
I love the last stanza: “I don’t cry for what’s been lost/ What’s been shed is death.” It’s making me think of Amazing Grace: “I once was lost but now am found.”
Thank you for your words today, Gavriel. I also like the final stanza. to me, it reads as an acceptance of a wise person.
This touched my heart today. Thank you. O death where is your victory? O death, where is your sting? My favorite line is: “But now I joy in Christ.”
Gavriel, this is beautiful. There’s a strong rhythm here, a hymn of praise.
Scott, Always love the prompts that come from you.
indeed. Definitely standing with you at the age of losses and thinking about how quickly that which we’ve gained throughout a lifetime disappears.
Lost Cause(s)
b.r.crandall
I meant to lose 30 pounds
while writing this poem,
but chunks of my mind
disappeared instead.
There’s the glasses I lost
only to find not one,
but two pairs atop my head
after asking 100s if
they’d seen my
specks….
thought they might be
with my car keys
that disappeared in 2006
only to learn days later
that they were hidden
by a student outside
a classroom window
as a little joke.
I had to walk to
work until he
remembered his
playfulness.
Schmuck.
The kid is
almost 40
now.
As for hope,
Pandora,
you’ve
trapped
us.
I
know
where you
find the
evil stored
in a box.
And for those
thieves who’ve
stolen time.
yo.
I’d like it back.
But for the girls
I met in
junior high
& college.
Thanks for
the cigars.
I tried.
Love this memoir of connected scenes of various losses and insights (specs) gained. So many specifics in the schmuck to Pandora and cigars. The rhythm of your words and mind is beautiful.
I was laughing from the start. Not at you, mind, but along with you. Well, at least until you lost the keys. Then I was laughing at you. Love the reference to Pandora and sad to know that you know the location of evil. If only we could spare all of humanity from that source. Let me know if you find the thieves. I’d like a word.
Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m still celebrating Bryan Day. Celebrating the joy of your poems, of your life, of students who loved you and trusted you so much that they felt safe to play a prank on you – – to all the schmucks we’ve loved before, I’m glad they came along and hid keys. Fabulous – – cheers for the poetry and Bryan Day. You need a tshirt for your day.
You made me laugh! And made me think of days gone by. And just little side note: modern technology has ruined my literary senses. You said Pandora as in her box, I think music app. 🤦♀️
LOL, thanks for this Bryan! “I meant to lose 30 pounds / while writing this poem” had me smiling wide right at the start and then I continued grinning throughout from your missing glasses – “two pairs atop [your] head” – to the stolen car keys and the time thieves to the apologies to the “girls / [you] met in / junior high / & college.” This was a lot of fun!
Bryan, you did it again. From yesterday’s National Bryan Day to today’s “Lose 30 pounds and then some else” Day, you made both of mine brighter. I appreciate your humor, your wit, and playfulness with words. I am here, screaming at those: “thieves who’ve / stolen time. / yo. /I’d like it back.” Thank you, friend!
Ha! This made me smile throughout…the two pairs of glasses on your head, the lost keys, the 30 lbs you meant to lose. If only writing poetry burned calories! Thank you for helping me find my smile today.
Bryan,
This is so witty and bright! Appreciate the scenes including the pandora connection — stolen time. Bravo!
Bryan,
LOL! Who among us has not listened to their glasses on top of their head, or in my case, on my face, as my family searched frantically for them! I never had a student lose my car keys but did have a colleague whose car was hidden by some students.
Love. This.
Bryan, Lost Causes, indeed. So fun. I love your humor, like “Schmuck. The kid is almost 40 now” just made me laugh out loud.
Love the humor infused throughout your poem! The beginning was the best…
“I meant to lose 30 pounds
while writing this poem,
but chunks of my mind
disappeared instead.”
Scott, such a turn into hope in your poem. There is always hope, in the midst of big or small troubles.
My poem stems from the struggles and worries (and endless navigation of overly complex systems) of planning for a loved one who can no longer live independently. It just makes me think about what our frenetic, divided culture has lost.
Mama
Front porch sittin’–
grandma in the spot of honor
old creaky rocking chair
her favorite ratty shawl
tucked in around
her shoulders
Gnarled fingers clutch
a book of wonder, of wisdom
Cherished soul pours her
stories into minds and hearts
of the children, kneeling
enraptured at her feet
Sitting all alone
in a sparsely
furnished room,
a frail old woman
slumps in a standard issue,
institutional chair,
an overburdened, overworked staff
sometimes hear her call
that she’s chilly, and put
a scratchy, bleach-smelling blanket
haphazardly over her shoulders.
Nobody has time to hear
her stories
Nobody’s there to reassure
and answer her plaintive
questions. She fades, becoming
smaller and smaller,
until finally,
she just disappears,
and all of her stories
and wisdom
and love
are lost
forever.
The repetition of nobody lingers for me. And yet your poem is the somebody. Your speaker is witness. Your readers witness, too.
Julie, this poem made me feel things. I love the way you speak about who your mother was and what she had to become because of the system.
This is a very real fear, isn’t it? Thank you for articulating it so well, Julie. Your vivid details – “sometimes hear her call,” “scratchy, bleach-smelling blanket,” and “all of her stories / and wisdom / and love / are lost / forever” – are heartbreaking. Thank you for sharing with us.
Oh . . . the contrast between the “favorite ratty shawl” and the “scratchy, bleach-smelling blanket” is stark and powerful– and very, very sad. I want better for Mama.
Your poem is beautiful and hits me hard in my soul. I know my mom is lonely and I need to make more time for her. I think of my tante in the assisted living home and how at 103, she longs to go home. But how I love to hear her stories.
Julie, I can’t imagine how difficult it must be. That “institutional chair” hit me hard. Watching our loved ones fade seems unbearable, but “her stories / and wisdom, / and love” live in the hearts of those who are still here. Thank you so much for sharing. Sending kind thoughts.
Great first line. Nothing beats front porch sitting for me, except maybe floating in the ocean. I also enjoy the way the poem and the lines fade out into the end.
This broke my heart. If only every elder had an opportunity to live the front porch life in life’s last years.
Gone, but not forgotten
Often misplaced, left in the dust,
Marbles often scattered,
Screws just a bit loose.
O, my mind!
Where have you gone?
Are you wandering the backrooms of my thoughts?
Are you simply taking a rest from this crazy life of mine?
Maybe, one day, you will come back to me.
You will be whole again.
Not wandering, not scattered, not loose.
Until then, I guess I will just remain
a little bit insane.
I like where you took this. I feel the wink at the end, an embrace of the insane. Maybe a little grateful for some things forgotten, right?
We were on the same wavelength today with our poems! Those minds just keep wandering off . . .
Ugh. This is funny and not-so-funny at the same time. I’ve always been a little scattered but then along came menopause and really scattered my marbles, and made me wonder when I might have sanity in abundance again.
I especially like the image of the mind wandering the backrooms of thoughts!
This is funny, and witty, and a bit ___(fill in the blank). Love marbles and screws metaphors, the questions, and acceptance. The title deserve a special praise!
I love the clever word play throughout – the euphemisms at the start, losing your marbles, having a screw loose until they are named in the final line as “a little bit insane.” And I also love the use of apostrophe in “O, my mind!.” Thanks for this!
Lose, Loss, Lost
I am a loser.
A loser of papers
and phones and iPads
and schedules
and things-that-are-important-so-they-must-not-be-lost.
iPhones and iPads are easy.
“Siri? Find my…”
If only Siri could manage the rest of my life.
I needed my passport.
I had put it in a Very-Safe-Place,
(because I am an adult).
I checked all the usual VSP’s.
It soon became obvious
that I had chosen an even better VSP than usual–
A Super–VSP.
The mad search began.
Drawers opened, folders emptied,
dogs and cats shooed away, boxes upended
husband berated for no good reason except that he was there.
I found things that I did not know were lost…
Letters from an old boyfriend.
A book of checks from 20 years ago.
Three dead watches.
Five folders of defunct lesson plans.
And two gift certificates purchased for last Christmas,
hidden in a VSP so Special that I couldn’t gift them.
The search was not completely useless.
I found my birth certificate and Social Security card
that I didn’t know was waiting for me in an old VSP.
I have ceased looking for my passport for now.
It will reveal itself when it is ready to be found.
It is in a Very-Very-Special Place.
Very, very special…
GJSands
4-24-26
I love the irony unfolding here. Is that the right word. I never could teach about irony well. It is simply true that loser as a positive is possible amd can speak to a beautiful life that is anything but lost or empty or forgotten.
Gayle, I have a VSP in every place I’ve lived or even just visited so I enjoyed this poem. Some times I think of the joy on the faces of the whoever’s face when they stumble upon those old letters or my aunt’s gold watch that stopped working years ago. Thanks for the smiles of recognition.
Maybe your VSP is one of the nooks/cubbies in your car . . . I have a friend who cleaned out her old car after buying a new one and found her social security card.
Oh my! I completely related to this and your VSP’s! I realize that once an item is placed somewhere SAFE, I shall never find it again.
Brilliant as usual, Gayle! I love how you can – with seeming ease – craft such funny stuff about serious topics: I especially loved the “things-that-are-important-so-they-must-not-be-lost” line and the build up of the joke “It soon became obvious / that I had chosen an even better VSP than usual – / a Super-VSP.” So funny!
Thank you for this prompt, Scott!
Departure Day
I keep losing things lately
my breath, my balance,
the quiet certainty of ordinary mornings.
You fold your uniforms,
and suddenly the whole house feels like a suitcase
you’re packing yourself into.
Everyone says this isn’t a loss,
that you’re not gone, just gone for now
but love doesn’t know the difference.
It only knows the shape of your absence,
the echo of your laugh in the hallway,
and the way my heart salutes you
long before the Navy ever will.
Oh, this is lovely. I love those final two lines and how they encapsulate the depth of your love.
Sheila, your poem invited me in from the first stanza, losing your breath, your balance, the quiet uncertain of ordinary mornings— such haunting lines and then the next stanza, when the whole house feels like a suitcase your packing yourself into— such a profound metaphor for your experience. The last three lines turned my grief at your loss into anger for anyone who won’t acknowledge the sacrifice being made on Departure Day. A beautiful poem.
Oh, the “quiet certainty of ordinary mornings.” What I wouldn’t give for that sometimes.
Your second stanza’s metaphor is just extraordinary—deftly worded and such a powerful sense of all closing in.
“And the way my heart salutes you, long before the Navy ever will.”- this line lets all of your love be felt in your words.
There is so much heaviness in your poem, the impending absence weighing heavily on your mind. Wishing you peace during this time and thank ‘you’ for your service.
Abby, I love the truth and complicated nature of your third stanza: “Everyone says this isn’t a loss, / that you’re not gone, just gone for now / but love doesn’t know the difference.” Thank you for crafting this and sharing it with us!
Something Lost is Found
Something lost
is found again.
This is the theme
of my life.
Lose it,
Gain it anew.
Sometimes I find it again
buy visiting the old magnanimous chain department store
and purchasing a new one
a better one,
one I pay hard earned money for.
I’ll find the old one
as soon as my purchase is complete.
If it is a high dollar purchase,
I will find the lost one
only once the warranty expires on the new one.
Every day I lose my keys,
my glasses, my phone.
I cannot just run to (discount department store)
and replace those.
I find myself playing
who-can-find-my….
more times than I can count.
Some losses cannot be found.
Losing my dad,
a loss that is still pain-stakingly new,
after a mere 6 years.
That’s right. years.
What I am finally starting to gain anew
is a heart full of gratitude
for the memories,
the love,
the things that my folks did right.
I’ll never find my dad again
(well, I plan to see him in the afterlife),
but his love is here
everyday,
I just have to find it.
-Carrie Horn
4-24-26
I’ve included a pic of my dad helping my youngest with her fish out at our family farm. My youngest is almost 22, but when I came across this picture, it was so perfect.
Carrie–You understand me! I am convinced that lost items keep moving until they are replaced and no longer needed. I love the memories that you have not lost. That line-“the things my folks did right” touched my heart…
Carrie, I love the paradox you uncover in this poem. In the naming of loss, you honor thinag, people, choices, experiences, and in this way, you are finding them again, too. And I am sorry for your loss of your father and am grateful to have met him through your poetry.
That is the perfect picture! Your poem highlights not only the daily losing and replacing of objects but the powerful loss of a loving parent and “the heart full of gratitude for the memories” that you are now beginning to find. Your title captures it all.
Carrie,
The poem is so honest and raw, it makes the reader feel the everyday losses while truly appreciating life and our loved ones. The care and affection for your dad is incredible! I love the photo, it’s a perfect reminder to cherish and hold close.
Carrie, this is beautiful! I love the casual, humorous even, opening of being able to “find” lost items by just buying new ones (only to for sure find them if the warranty is up or if they were purchased with “hard earned money”) which turned to the somber reality of losing your father, a loss that cannot be replaced. (I’m sorry for your loss. I am heartened, though, by the picture you shared and the fact that your “heart [is] full of gratitude / for the memories, / the love, / the things that [your] folks did right.” Thank you for crafting and sharing this with us.
Thank you for the interesting prompt! I loved your mentor poem–in particular the line about watching the clock turn over and losing the hour.
Lose / Loss / Lost
We lose time in the name of measuring it—
bubble by bubble,
minute by sanctioned minute—
as if learning can be counted
without being diminished.
They call it time lost,
as though it slipped quietly from our hands,
as though we didn’t hand it over—
stacked it neatly into testing windows,
sealed it inside proctors’ scripts.
Loss sounds softer than it is.
A thinning. A fading.
A word that suggests accident.
But this is not accidental.
We lose the question
before it can become a thought.
We lose the thought
before it can become a voice.
We lose the voice
before it can become a student
who believes it has something worth saying.
Lost:
the conversation that almost happened
before the pacing guide pulled us forward.
Lost:
the tangent that might have opened
into research, into wonder, into something
no standard could quite hold.
Lost:
the pause—
that sacred space where a student leans back,
eyes narrowing,
and says, wait…what if…
We are told to recover loss.
To remediate.
To fill in the gaps
as if they were empty spaces
instead of places where something
was taken.
Learning loss.
Writing loss.
Reading loss.
But what about the losing of joy?
The slow erosion of curiosity—
filed down by scripted lessons
that leave no room
for a question not already answered.
The loss of writing
when writing becomes a task,
a prompt,
a timed response
scored by a rubric
that cannot measure breath
or risk
or truth.
We lose writing
when we stop calling it exploration,
thinking, playing, creating…
We lose books
when we stop talking about them—
not testing them,
not dissecting them,
but living in them long enough
to argue, to wonder, to disagree.
Lost:
the student who once raised her hand
for everything
and now doesn’t bother because…bored.
Lost:
the moment when a classroom felt
like a place to think, to explore, to try it out
instead of a place to perform.
We say we cannot afford
to lose more time.
But we are already losing it—
not in minutes,
but in meaning.
And what we have lost
is not easily found.
Melanie, I really enjoyed this. I loved your use of “Loss:” because it caused me to pause and notice the significance of what you were about to say. I also loved the premise, highlighted in this golden line: “…losing it–/not in minutes/but in meaning.” Time itself is a blessing but what we make of it is what it’s there for. Wonderful work!
This was heart-breakingly deep. Telling about the “progress” of modern education. It hurts my soul. The reasons I went into teaching…. The wonder, the questions, the inspirations.
Melanie,
Your poem is tugging at my teaching heart. So much to consider in real time… it is all so hard. I do wonder what all this means for the future of education in a school setting.
I like how you organized this poem filled with depth and flow.
Ugh, Melanie, you are spot on here! And your poem is fitting since this is the “testing season,” one that makes me crazy every year! I love your poem. Two specific moments of craft and word play that spoke to me are “Loss sounds softer than it is. / A thinning. A fading. / A word that suggests accident. / But this is not accidental” and this moment of “los[ing] books” when we don’t “[live] in them long enough / to argue, to wonder, to disagree.” Thank you for this!
Lost for Words
Sometimes, words hang upside down
in my brain like bats in a belfry
waiting to wake up.
Stupid stupor? Or getting older?
Sometimes, words sit on
my tongue and spoil,
losing their savor before I can speak.
Fatigue? Stress? Or anxiety?
Sometimes, words emerge from
deep reservoirs—
then rise like fountains,
spilling on the page.
On those days, the words find me.
I absolutely love the inner rhyme scheme. Thank you so much
Ooh, yes! I have bat-words and spoiled words all the time. Thank heavens there are words still there for poetry…
This is so simple yet so deep. I was slightly confused at first and then realized that this is a loss for words. This is such a great idea, yet it is so relevant to everyone, especially those who care about the significance of their word choice. Thank you for this!
Ending with hopefulness. Thank you. When those days days come, can’t hardly write fast enough. Good thing there’s cursive writing.
Melissa, I love the craft moves within this poem along with how masterfully use precision and imagery. It all really resonates. Beautiful.
What creative ways to describe the various ways words come to us or get lost. The first stanza made me pause and I just visualized for a moment and nodded in agreement with your idea.
Yes, Melissa, same! I love all of your clever imagery here: “words hang[ing] upside down / … like bats in a belfry” or “spoil[ing]” on your tongue until finally (“[s]ometimes”) they “rise like fountains, / spilling on the page.” Yes! I’m lucky to “sometimes” have those times, too, lol. Thank you for crafting and sharing this!
Scott,
Thank you for your prompt! You delight me with your acute observations transformed into poetry that’s artfully composed. Poetry that’s layered with craft, conversation, a sense of humor and some truth. I especially love that moment between you and your wife–smiling.
I am reading The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny by Kiran Desai and this phrase popped up – sideway intimacies. I can’t seem to shake it off, the way it is portrayed in the book. It got me thinking about the character’s struggles, who’s grappling with culture, identities, wants, relationships, changes, losses, etc..
sideway intimacies
say, what? hmmmn
the kind when you
are next to the one
and don’t need
to say anything
simply can hold them
the profound and
sheer pleasure
of waking up
beside their side
melding into one
I think another name is
Spooning
loss of first love
feels like cerulean blue
tracing the contours and
traversing down
memory lane
semi-opaque
with permanence
Good morning Darshna, I really enjoyed this piece! I thought that the start of your poem was perfect!
Darshna, thank you for capturing those moments when nothing need be said, and for capturing moments when a loss captures all senses & all our emotions! That last stanza has such luscious vowels running through it — like a full spectrum of sound to capture the fullness of the feelings!
PS I just finished Desai’s debut novel, which I loved, and I’m waiting for school to end so that I can dig into The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny!
I keep seeing this title as one to read. Your poem is beautiful and I can feel the loss of the first love deeply – – I still remember mine. His name was Charles. Charles, of all names.
What a striking ending image!
Darshna, I love your title and your final stanza is evocative. I love the way your poem shows “sideway intimacies”. Loved “feels like cerulean blue”. Beautifully crafted poem!
Love the imagery and intimacy in your poem. These lines are my favorite-
“semi-opaque
with permanence”
Darshna, thank you for your kind words! I love this term: “sideway intimacies.” When you first described it in stanza one, I was thinking, oh, like “companionable silence,” which is my go-to-word for these instances, but then things heated up with “[s]pooning” and its rhyme connecting with “cerulean blue” which connects again (visually) with “contours,” leaves us with a soft sensuality in your poem. I love it! Thank you for writing and sharing this!
Thanks for your prompt, Scott! I share your dislike of “springing forward,” although I love spring. I had to smile at “the good thing about this/is now we’re one hour closer/
to Halloween.” Your prompt led me to think about times I’ve lost my place…in line, in a good book, in situations where I know it’s “not my place” to say or do something I once would have said or done (parent of adult children speaking). Anyway, I landed on losing my place in the checkout lane.
Losing My Place
Grocery cart grinding, squealing, stuttering
(because somehow I always choose the one
with the bad wheel),
I’m thrilled to see a checkout lane
with no waiting!
Not self-checkout…
a real lane with cashier, bagger, and conveyor belt-
a small miracle.
Shrieking round the end cap of protein bars
and potato chip bags,
securing my place
in line
(first place!),
I realize with sinking heart
I’ve forgotten the Diet Sprite
and all its horrible chemicals
(but still
no caffeine);
so I drag my cart,
wheels screeching in protest,
backward
toward the soda aisle
which is close
(so close).
But the cart doesn’t want to turn,
sensing he was near the end of his service,
almost to the cart corral
where he could rest easy
in the sun
while dozens of other carts piled in behind him
waiting for the high school cart kid
(on his phone)
to attach them to the motorized cart robot
(Warning! No more than 25 carts!),
and guide them back into the store.
Wheeee! A cart ride for the carts!
But now, my cart resists the turn,
so I (unkindly) give a sideways yank,
and the eggs
(It’s always the eggs!)
bump roughly against the
back of the baby seat
where they were cradled.
And they’re probably broken,
but I need to get those Sprites
and get back to the beautiful,
empty checkout lane
and my first place spot. Hooray!
So I drag my cart from the wrong end
(the end without the handle)
into the soda aisle,
and I lift with my back
instead of my legs and heft a
24-pack of Diet Sprite
half-settling, half-dropping it on the
bottom rack beneath the cart
where I pray the scanner will reach
because I don’t have the
strength or dexterity
to finagle my way back to the
bottom of this broken-down cart
in the middle of the too-tight
checkout aisle
to lift the 24-pack of sodas
that must contain mostly lead
(they are so heavy)
and slosh them onto the conveyor belt.
I do love the conveyor belt.
Don’t get me wrong-
no need to pile/stack/mound produce
and packs of hamburger meat
and salad dressings
like a teetering food pyramid
which I always end up doing in the self-checkout
when I mistakenly think I can make
a grocery run without a cart
or a too-tiny basket
so I gather food in my arms (as did my ancestors)
and then where to put it?
The shiny chrome square provided
for purchases pre-scanned
is insufficient…
probably so small to deter
exactly what I’ve done;
but I digress,
for I have a chance
to be first in line on this special day!
I’m making my way back,
my cart jolting along
(like an old jalopy)
to the deserted checkout lane
when I see from the corner of my eye
a shopper,
smooth hair,
smooth skirt,
smooth cart
smooth skyscraper of groceries
meticulously arranged
in her stealthy, silent cart…
and she whips right in front of me
and just like that
I’ve
lost
my
place.
What I love about your poem, Lori, is the relatability of it, the way that so much of our life is not a narrative arc but a narrative corkscrew. The multiple but and so that disrupt & reorient the path of those of us on our least smooth of days. Thank you for that humorous gift of the shopper at the end there, who just like that brings the poem to our lives again : )
Lori,
What a joy ride this morning with your poetry! We can all relate to the grocery store cart, waiting in line, the squeaky wheel, the shopping experience, having a real cashier. Thanks for capturing the everday scenes which manifest into so many real life moments. Wows and Woes or is it the other way around.
I love how relatable this is, as others have noted. The thing I love most about this is that it made me laugh. I thought of the hundreds of times this has happened to me and it’s just too real, not to laugh. Thank you for giving some realistic, yet comic relief! Great work!
This was a fun poem and all too relatable. I especially liked when you personified the shopping cart.
This is so very relatable. I just wanna get my stuff and go. And then I forget and have to go back. Big sigh. I felt myself racing along with you trying to beat the skyscraper cart!
Lori, right there with you every step of the way in this universally-relevant moment of loss, and that line is no joke. It reminds me of that scene in Fried Green Tomatoes where Taiwanda rams that little car to pieces and tells those young chickadee drivers she’s older and has more insurance. And that is where the mean streak in me comes out because I would have wanted to ram that other cart……and yelled “TAIWANNNNNNNNDAAAAAA!” That smooth skyscraper of groceries would have imploded…..or I could have been nice and patient and accepted the loss…..which is where I need to be more like you. I can tell. You handled it well.
I thought I was the one who always got the cart with the bad wheel! I absolutely love the poem’s careening energy, perhaps embodied best by “Shrieking round the end cap of protein bars / and potato chip bags.” But I think my favorite is the Diet Sprite—full of “horrible chemicals / (but still / no caffeine).” Oh, the moral bargaining we do for our treats! Wait—I can’t forget the wonderful “cart corral,” lazing in the sun while all we crazed shoppers vie for position. !
Lori, this is brilliant! I loved the reality that the cart (which always is in opposition to us at the grocery store – our number one op, as the kids might say) is thinking about resting or enjoying “[a] cart ride for the carts!” And I love love your use of the word “finagle.” Such a great word! Thank you for this!
Return to Sender
She holds like a teacher passing papers
that can cut deep into a fingertip
stinging, bleeding incessantly. The letter
is heavy, the weight of a childhood’s
tears that no longer leak, sealed with
with hurt tongue and poisoned saliva.She
moves her thumbs slightly; fingers
become curious, maybe ache for resolve,
and it makes the pulse quicken, for the heart
knows harm. Before afterward, she carries
it to her Safe, arms fatigued by ambivalence;
he refuses to reopen her grief, to utter a voice
that stirs pain. Hands shaking or maybe numb,
she tears the envelope to pieces. Perfect blue
cursive peeks from torn edges, stained
with their blood. Paper cuts.
First of all, you have such a gift for suspenseful, meaningful line break: for the heart, she carries, utter a voice, Perfect blue. I love how you’ve also captured the drama of a written message — the time, the focus, the intimacy of the written word in all of this. Paper cuts, indeed.
Sarah, your poem has a strong sense of emotional tension: curiosity and avoidance, recognition and resistance, holding and releasing. A strength of your poem is your powerful use of imagery to represent emotional pain. It allows the reader to connect.
This line stood out to me: “he refuses to reopen her grief…” It’s protective. Loving. The poem is heaving with heaviness and grief. And what to do with it.
Sarah, your poem carries the image of the pain one experiences both physically and emotionally. The way another’s words can wound like a paper cut but even deeper. I am still pondering “he refuses to reopen her grief”. The action of tearing the letter to shreds at the end is striking. Love the title of the poem, too. Riveting piece!
I love the suspense and tension that you’ve crafted here and the hurt that stings and “can cut deep” and will bleed “incessantly.” There is real pain here, enough so that “the heart / knows harm.” Thank you for crafting and sharing this with us, Sarah. (Oh, and the poetic/linguistic part of my brain loves the phrasing of “[b]efore afterward”!)
“the weight of a childhood’s
tears that no longer leak…”
was such a compelling line. I felt my concern and curiosity bubble–and it sucked me right into the narrative.
Also loved the blue cursive peeking out. Such fresh, clear imagery.
Thank you, Scott, for your instructions, your encouragement, and your impeccable timing. I happened to have … well, you’ll see when you read what’s below. It is inspired, in part, by your sparing use of dialogue, which I’ve tried to add to mine.
You, reading this, help me out. I don’t have a title. Ideas? I always post what I write here, and you can read today’s currently-untitled offering below:
[Title TBD]
We took the toll road, a slightly faster
route to the funeral home. We parked just
as Amens gave way to Remember whens.
Pews emptied, the slideshow in the background.
Across the chapel, he saw I was there.
We were best friends once, and it all came back.
His mom fed me & tolerated me
countless noisy weekend nights. One more kid
giggling down the hall well past their bedtime.
He has grown into a man who shows love
by touch, hugging, his hand on my shoulder.
We stood just like that. His loving hand still.
Years peeled away, our brown eyes locked, glistened.
And I said what my wife’s family says:
May her memory be a blessing. And
right there, we shared, revived those memories.
A big wreck slowed our way home, thick red line
on the GPS, an artery slowed
to urban crawl through urban sprawl. We talked
as only families can. “He got old!”
“Who was that again?” “Where will he live now?”
My pocket buzzes. “Thanks for coming. Great
seeing all of you.” I text a reply,
imagine him watching the three dots flash,
waiting to see what his best friend will say.
I like how your poem unfolds like a narrative. I also appreciated how the theme of loss reveals itself on different levels: loss of a spouse, and distance and reconnection.
As far as a title, I liked the phrase you used: “May her memory be a blessing.” Maybe you could use that somehow. The memories of your reconnected friendship is a blessing. Celebrating memories, etc. is a blessing.
I connected with this poem. I loved the way you showed how childhood memories linger…how those memories and connections have amazing staying power.
Joel,
I appreciate how you bring the reader along on this emotional and personal journey…to the funeral, to your childhood memories, and more importantly your best friend. Thank you for your writing and thoughtful comments. You have a keen sense of what writers need. This is an incredible gift! I am sure your students truly appreciate this.
Joel, there is so much here! I love how “it all came back”; that reconnection is a kind of magic when it happens between best friends who haven’t seen each other in years. And I also really enjoyed how you bookended your narrative with traffic, traveling on the toll road at the beginning and then the “big wreck” at the end, which had you “slow[ing] / to urban crawl through urban sprawl”! Thank you for this! [And, sorry that I don’t have any suggestions for a title (as most of my poems are titleless because I’ve found that titles are hard, lol).]
I love a good story poem, Joel. So many strong lines pulled me along. These are some of my favorites:
Amens gave way to Remember whens.
fed me & tolerated me
our brown eyes locked, glistened
thick red line
on the GPS, an artery slowed
to urban crawl through urban sprawl
Lost
I lost my innocence
again
and
again
and
again.
it would’ve been easier
to only lose it once.
Susan, thank you for the gut-punch of reality here. Your succinctness & your mature, knowing tone calls to mind Kay Ryan at her best, especially in your taking literally an idiom that might be underread in our lives.
HI Susan, thank you for a powerful message here.
Oh, how I feel this, Susan. There are so many ways things repeat. You think it can only get so bad, and then it moves further. You do so much with so few words here, just as revealing or speaking truth often does.
Susan, I’m in awe of your poetic prowess. You can craft long flowing lines in one moment and brief whip-smart lines in the next. And your repetition is so powerful here! Thank you.
Susan, thank you for this profound poem. Every heartbreak, every disappointment, every life-altering moment is loss of innocence as I see it. And very time it seems devastating. Your one-word lines are like punches–so strong.
Susan,
Your poem has so much depth and poetic brilliance. The repetition and length really delivers the theme and metaphor. Thank you.
Susan, the repetition and the final lines work so well together here to hit home the message that the repeated losings were far more challenging. I agree – that heavy hitting loss is a real gut punch.
Whoa…so much is conveyed in this brief poem. The loss feel heavy.
Susan. Such truth in a mere 18 words. I LOVE a tiny poem with a punch. I’m still losing mine–
Good morning Scott. What I notice right away is how conversational your poem feels, which resonates with me. The theme of loss can be classified in many ways, so here is a poem of mine that I feel would be best for this:
The Hero & The Highlight
He was a senior
I was a freshman
He was my mentor
I was his disciple
He was an amazing athlete
I was still learning
He would choose me
I was honored.
He would graduate
I would continue
He would start his job
I would use his teachings
He would watch me work
I would tire myself out
He would comfort me
I would be patient.
He went to drink
I went to practice
He went to watch
I went to play
He went into depression
I went in with high hopes.
He went down a dark path
I went down a bright one
He was gone
I was lost
He was no longer with me
I was alone
He was with God.
I was in shambles
He went with my Lord
I went into sorrow
He went on unhappily
I went on the same
He went on in life
I went on to realize
He went on waiting
I went to show his work
He was my mentor
I was his successor
He was watching from above
I was playing from below
He was proud
I was too
He was My Hero
I was his Highlight.
Jackson, thank you for writing with us today! I appreciate the narrative you’ve crafted with your short, clipped lines (and the repeated pattern of “He was…” and “I was…”). And I enjoy how, after the diverging – “He went to drink / I went to practice” – you brought the he and I together again with “He was watching from above / I was playing from below / He was proud / I was too.”
Jackson,
I cam feel the pain yet appreciation in this poem. I love its structure–how you use anaphora and alternate each you descriptors then his.
I hope you can hold on to the memories and be comforted in the knowing you were his Highlight.
Beautful work!
Scott–writing later. but wanted to thank you for the prompt and the positive spin on that lost hour.
🙂
You always amaze me Scott, with your ability to turn a poem so quickly. Today I was tiptoeing into a pool of government sanctioned time travel and insurance loss, and then without skipping a beat plunged into the deep end of the losses that really matter. Again without skipping a beat I popped back up to the image of you and your wife smiling, swimming on together. That’s the journey today’s poem set me on this morning ~ I loved it.
It’s easy to think that my forgetfulness
is age-related—
I am forever losing things,
phone, books, thoughts—
thoughts sometimes abruptly stopping
mid-story, like an icicle
suddenly snapped
from eave into empty mind,
Truth be told, as they say,
I’ve always been forgetful.
In my early teaching days,
my class wrote a play,
and while I no longer remember
what it was about (obviously)
I do recall the girl with glasses
who periodically crossed the stage,
repeating the same line.
has anyone seen my glasses?
Fair to say the condition has worsened
over the years, but really, not that much—
I’ve lost so many important things—
family, friends— even once a husband—
though it was he who lost me (intentionally)
and I was forced to remember,
like the coming of Halloween,
there is always something of joy in the offing —
a child’s laugh or the green tip of a crocus
peeking through chilled soil—
always something to remind me,
that life is more than what we’ve lost,
life is what we keep.
Ann,
I love how you paired today’s prompt with forgetfulness and painted a picture filled with snippets of teaching days, the younger days, to the heaviness of losing family and friends. Took a sharp turn with
though it was he who lost me (intentionally)
and I was forced to remember,
like the coming of Halloween
and your last stanza:
Beautifully composed.
Ann, I so much enjoyed your poem. It flowed smoothly from the beginning to end with a major pause before the final stanza for me. You skillfully weaved in Scott’s silver-lining with Halloween and finding joy in little things. I love this reminder that “life is more than what we’ve lost, / life is what we keep.”
Oh my! This is golden. I love the memory of the class play and the character wandering around looking for her glasses, the thought snapping like an icicle, your allusion to Scott’s Halloween line. Most of all, I love your final lines “life is more than what we’ve lost, life is what we keep.”
This is so poignant! And I love how it ends with
for that is the fundamental truth.
Ann, I really enjoyed your comment explaining “the journey” you took this morning. And, of course, this had me smiling: “like the coming of Halloween, / there is always something of joy in the offing.” And I love love the truth of your final stanza: “life is more than what we’ve lost, / life is what we keep.” Thank you for this!
Thank you, Scott, for hosting.
I feel the heaviness of
and then the lift and lightness of the closeness of marriage.
Lovely. Thank you for sharing this intimate moment with us.
____________________________________
Innocence
I miss the innocence I’ve known
calling you whenever
just to chat
to share what when wrong
to ask for that recipe
to confirm a memory
to hear your laugh
I miss the innocence I’ve known
Sharon,
I feel this poem — the innocence, the love, the comfort, the laughs. There’s so much to treasure in these memories and life.
Sharon, your title has me wondering if this is the loss of someone young, like a mother who has lost a child, or whether it’s the loss of a mother and the child is remembering this through innocent eyes not yet aware of loss. Either way, it speaks to those everyday moments that comprise life and how meaningful those simple acts are.
Ouch. This one hits. Maybe because I zeroed in on innocence, but in a different way.
Sharon, I love the idea of being able to call your past self, when you were innocent, to “chat” and “confirm a memory” and just simply to “hear your laugh.” This is really good! Thank you for crafting and sharing this!
Sharon, I can feel this one so much today. The loss of moments, but mostly of innocence is palpable. Growing old is not for the faint of heart. I miss the innocence of feeling invincible.
Scott, I don’t know how it is that the one day I need to write, you prompted us with the word loss. I love how your poetry reads like a conversation with the reader. The end bit of humor brings a smile today when I need it most. Yesterday a student who I had the privilege to teach in a school visit was shot and killed in a mass shooting in a Baton Rouge mall. She was 3 days from finishing her senior year. Her grandfather is a friend of mine. The tears have not stopped since I found out. I don’t know how to write about this, really. How can words do any good when there are angry boys in the world carrying guns? But I need the warm hug of this community where we share our pain, where we feel a sense of safety and hope. I wrote a small poem for Stuck Bumblebee, a Substack with poet Joyce Uglow. Posting here as well.
Frozen Future
The world lost a light.
A child poised to launch
Senseless anger opened fire
Where is healing?
Where is hope?
Oh Margaret,
I read the news of this shooting last night. I am so, so sorry. Sending you a fierce hug.
Oh, no, Margaret. I have no words. “Where is healing? / Where is hope?” Great questions. I can just say, thank you for writing this and sharing this with us. You are an integral part of this community “of safety and hope.”
Margaret,
My heart goes out to you. So sorry for your loss. It is moments like this that we need community and you’ve been such an important voice within this space. Thank you for sharing.
Margaret, I cannot fathom the depth of despair in such a sensless act. And I’m right here with you, not knowing even where to begin. But your poem carries the questions right to the heart – – where, where?? Where are these answers. Hugs, friend.
No one deserves to die so early. I feel really sorry for what happened. I send you a big warm hug. Please do not lose hope. Only love can appease anger. Therefore we need to keep trying.
Oh, Margaret, this one has done me in tonight. I’ve been sad all day with this prompt, but this young woman, still “A child poised to launch” Why? I’m so sorry for your loss and all the myriad of others who loved her and see the senselessness of guns in the hands of angry boys. Hugs and peace and someday more hope…
So much pain in this world, so much loss. Writing is a way to try to make sense of it, to try to heal. I’m so sorry for your loss, and for everyone who loses loved ones to gun violence.
Scott, you certainly know how to challenge us! It is the mention of “Nothing Gold Can Stay” that seems to go with my poem today. Here we are!
Loss of Pride
I thought it had to be me.
“Do your best, and you will see.”
What didn’t I see jumping with glee?
It wasn’t enough just being me.
I need help. I need a team
Together we beam more than would seem
Possible with people like me
Trying to be all that I can be.
With ya’ll by my side
It don’t matter ‘bout pride
We have success; we all are better;
Together Everyone Achieves More!
Anna alone can’t be no more..
No need to keep the score!
Just do my best, working with the rest.
We are all better together.
Pride, you can go take a ride!
Hi Anna! I loved your poem about pride and choosing to be humble for everyone else around you! Your acronym (TEAM) really stuck out to me because unity, especially in the world of education, is so important!
“Pride, you can go take a ride!” Lol, Anna, you are absolutely right: teamwork makes the dream work! When talking with my classes about “how” and “why” we analyze literature, the discussion, inevitably, turns to the sentiment of your poem. I usually end up saying something to the effect of, “Individually we are all smart, but together we are brilliant!”
Scott,
I love your poem. In the last few months I have tried to immerse myself into poetry. As a result, I feel more alive, more connected to people, to beauty, to nature. Because of the desire to write poems I feel more attuned to poetry. I’ve learned that if you stare long enough at a poem, meaning begins to unfurl – like the petals of a flower. This is the best gift I could offer myself and one that I would not like to lose. If I did not have poetry, it would be more that one hour of my life that I would have lost. I may never be able to write a good poem, but I have poetry. This is enough for me.
As a nod to Elizabeth Bishop, I will name this:
the art of not losing
when we think all is lost
all is not lost
we look
for a light
at the end
a glimmer
of hope
something to hang on to
a loving word
a soft cuddle
a serendipitous juxtaposition
a flickering flame is enough
to rekindle passion
to rekindle passion
a flickering flame is enough
a serendipitous juxtaposition
a soft cuddle
a loving word
something to hang on to
of hope
a glimmer
at the end
for a light
we look
all is not lost
when we think all is lost
Inspired by Elizabeth Bishop, I tried to write a villanelle last year.
Dedicated to a little angel and his wonderful parents, who have only kind words and love for everyone.
My heart can love you and this is enough,
Your dimpled smile framed by springy curls.
My night is long but you remain my sunshine.
You are the brightest star in the darkest sky
On a night when a million lamps are lit.
My heart can love you and this is enough
I can curse the light and the darkness too:
Not to have known you would be much worse.
My night is long but you remain my sunshine.
I thought your world was make-believe and mine real,
Now as a mere shadow I step into the world.
My heart can love you and this is enough.
The world’s wealth and all its wisdom I shun,
Memories of you are my most precious treasure.
My night is long but you remain my sunshine.
How can you be everywhere and yet nowhere?
This and other questions beg for answers.
My heart can love you and this is enough.
My night is long but you remain my sunshine.
Both of these poems massage an ache I feel deeply today, a longing for hope and healing. Poetry helps. Your second poem with the line “How can you be everywhere and yet nowhere?” Speaks to the loss I feel today.
Writing a reverse poem is such a challenge! This shape works well to showcase the ebb and flow of things lost, especially hope and the art of not losing. I love the line in the second poem that reads, “My heart can love you and this is enough.” It’s in the simplicity of the action that it shines.
A reverso!!! Oh, that is the hardest of all. Both of your poems use the word enough, and my eye holds steady on that word. Sometimes, enough is more abundant than too much. It was my one little word last year, and oh, the perspective it gives. You’ve used it beautifully here.
I’m so glad you started this journey, this “immers[ion] into poetry.” And have no fear about “never be[ing] able to write a good poem” because you’ve done it! Twice as a matter of fact, lol. I love the look of your first one and the list of vivid details that remind us that “all is not lost” even “when we think” it is. Thank you for writing and sharing this!
Oh, Scott, I’m awake, sleepless in Seattle, thinking of the newsletter I have to do and the lack of time (lost?) I have to do it. And I made the mistake of reading your poem and prompt. Now I’m lying awake thinking of you and Heather. Your poem is so full. As Jennifer said, you take the everyday and elevate it, making the loss of an hour, not just funny in the moment, but our collective universal experience. Thank you.
Three O’clock in the Morning Question
When did the pendulum at work to bend the moral arc of the universe toward justice become a wrecking ball?
Denise, IF you find an answer to this profound question, I sure hope you share! It is the question that keeps me up at night and makes me sad to be part of the generation that has had much but lost even more.
Been curious of the same question, Denise. I’ve written about CHAIN OF IDEAS this month (Ibram X. Kendi). Nic Stone also told me about THE STATUS GAME by Will Storr (devoured it). Not the answer I wanted, but a good offering of logical insight that history has a way of recycling the ugly. Fortunate for me, the 3 o’clock closet of being buried alive, being torn apart by a shark, and being lost in total darkness in an unknown space left me alone last night. Instead, I dreamt of sneakers…which has been my midlife crisis (which some are saying is better than most). Cheers to you in Seattle.
Denise,
I was the insomniac yesterday (Tuesday night), which is why I wrote my poem at 4:00 a.m when the prompt posted. i hope you can snag that needed time for that newsletter. I wish there were an answer to your question, but the pendulum swings both ways, and I have to believe we will see it swing toward justice again.
“A wrecking ball” All we can do is connect and share and cry together.
Denise,
Such a hard question. I admire how succinctly you’ve phrased it with such a powerful metaphor.
Your poem made me think of a poem by my favorite poet, Wislawa Szymborska. Sending it to you as a balm.
Four in the Morning
Wislawa Szymborska
Translated by Magnus J. Krynski, Robert A. Maguire
The hour from night to day.
The hour from side to side.
The hour for those past thirty.
The hour swept clean to the crowing of cocks.
The hour when earth betrays us.
The hour when wind blows from extinguished stars.
The hour of and-what-if-nothing-remains-after-us.
The hollow hour.
Blank, empty.
The very pit of all other hours.
No one feels good at four in the morning.
If ants feel good at four in the morning
–three cheers for the ants. And let five o’clock come
if we’re to go on living.
Wow! When indeed! I’m reminded of Yeats’ Second Coming and these lines, “That twenty centuries of stony sleep/Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle” with your words. Your image is just as strong, just as compelling. I’m taking heart in knowing that the pendulum can only swing so far before it makes its return.
Oh, Denise, this is a three o’clock cry into the universe. I’d like to know the answer too. “A wrecking ball” is a precise term for a lost/bent moral arc of the universe.
Wow, Denise, I love this question and have suffered lately from this wrecking ball!
Denise, your “Three O’clock in the Morning Question”s are more succinct and brilliant than my wide-awake, brain-fresh moments/questions, lol. This is such a great (and important) question, and I love the image (and hate the truth of the sentiment) of the wrecking ball winding up and smashing through everything! (And thank you for your kind words! And I hope, and trust, that your newsletter went well today!)
Denise,
Wow! What a way to capture this question in such a poetic and existential way! So many of us think about this and worry… hoping we can find some answers and solace. Here’s a community trying to find some comfort and reassurance even in this deep quandary and poem. Thank you.
Scott, thank you for hosting us today and for a compelling prompt that gets us thinking about all that we have in our brief time here. Your poem speaks volumes about the little things, the sweet moments like looking forward to Halloween, in the face of other things that seem to engulf our minds and steal our joy. But books, bed, togetherness, and a smile can fix so much. Most people know we rescued three Schnoodles who are our only children now that the human ones have grown and flown the nest. One has CUPS Disease and is riddled with pain of mouth ulcers, among other things, and I know the time is drawing near to say goodbye. Thank you for showing me that sometimes a smile is enough – – and believe it or not, my Fitz has a toothless smile.
Enough
here you are, slumped
next to me
in our favorite
chair and a half
your warmth on my hip
resting peacefully
Gabapentin doing its work
Thank God your
mouth is on the armrest
with one paw
protecting it
breathing the other way
with breath so bad
it might kill a buzzard
but for your human it’s
the sign of life
of your holding on
and already I know
chances are high that
your teeth and mouth ulcers
and bladder stones
may not be all that is lost
next week
I feel tears welling just
thinking about it
you, our rescue schnauzer
with no known age or past
all things uncertain except
one thing:
we are tenderly and fiercely
bonded, imprinted, paired
as forever buddies
you are here,
you are warm and safe,
and you are loved
in this moment
now
which is
enough
for this hour
Kim your love oozes through your words in this poem. “We are tenderly and fiercely bonded,” gets me with its mushy love feel and yet the I-will-fight-for-you-to-the-end level of commitment.
Okay, friends. Today’s poems are going to do me in! Actually, they are simply putting an arm around my shoulder saying, “The universals are with us…..there are these times when….” Kim, you have me thinking of similar days and the promises of never, ever again. But there’s always that look…that cocked head…the silence that comes when nails aren’t tapping on wooden floors, and the cycle continues. When it is time, I recommend reading Brian Lies THE ROUGH PATCH. No rush. Right now, you’re in the right hour…warm, safe, and loving, which is what you’re meant to be.
Kim,
I know you know I share this shnoodle nond w/ my Snug who crossed the rainbow bridge last year. It is so hard to say goodbye, to endure the loss. You honor Fitz w/ your love and w/your words. I smiled at “with breath so bad
it might kill a buzzard.” I suspect Fitz knows he has halitosis and is sorry. I hope all goes well next week. Sending hugs and love to you and Fitz.
Kim, I’m sitting here during my planning period, wiping my eyes — must be some pollen or ragweed in here somewhere — and rereading your poem. It is so good, so tender. “You are here, you are warm and safe, / and you are loved / in this moment / now / which is / enough / for this hour.” Thank you.
Kim, I am dreading this upcoming moment for you but feel comforted by the comfort your rescue feels curled alongside you, your bonded, imprinted, paired forever buddy. That is all that can be asked at any given moment but especially at the end. What a blessing you have been, offering warmth and safety and love. Hugs to both of you.
Kim, I am moved by your compassion and fortitude. To be ‘tenderly and fiercely/ bonded’ speaks of trust and lasting memories of good times spent together. May you find solace in the fact that you are doing all that is humanly possible.
Kim, oh, dear! So much love, ache, and fear in your poem. Losing bladder stones and teeth doesn’t seem as scary as what can come next week. Hopefully, it doesn’t. Loosing loved pets is so-so hard; they love us unconditionally and never ask anything In exchange. Let this moment, when you are warm and safe together, stay with you. It is enough for now, indeed. Sending hugs.
Kim,
This is making me teary-eyed and filling me with so much… tenderness—the way you capture this amazing bond is so inspiring. May you hold on to these moments with love and care.
The magic of now is captured so well here, Kim. In those times before we suffer the unavoidable loss, we catch ourselves realizing it. And we cry.
I felt each line…my own senior Schnauzer asleep next to me while I read and write today. It is “enough for this hour,” but oh how you’ve captured the pain and joy of loving an older dog.
Kim, your poem is so full of love, and I can hear your tender voice with your beloved Fritz. I love the touch of humor with the breath being so bad it might kill a buzzard. I can hear your love through every word of this poem and the time I got to the end of your poem, I was crying. Deeply moving and poignant poem. Fritz is in good hands. Hugs!
Kim… it is enough. Haven’t we all had moments in which we are actually like your rescued furry beloved, perhaps seated at the table with the family or friends, maybe as children or as adults of children, when we feel so warm and safe and loved that we cannot imagine it ending…it is a forstaste. I believe no real and true loves are lost here, that will not be found again in heaven which gave them in the first place… even (or especially) if they come with breath that could kill a buzzard.What a gift it is to be given a creature to love, one that desperately needs it… it’s redemption all around.
Kim, I am so sorry to hear that your “forever buddy” is not well. The impending loss weighs heavy on you, as you savor the small moments you have now. Thank you for sharing this with us, and my heart is with you as you and your buddy go through this pain.
Scott, I am in awe of writers who can take the everyday and elevate it, capturing a moment of reality while giving us pause to consider more deeply, and you have done just that here while exploring time. The poem is a pause, one deeply needed, in the rush of things. I am struck by how you present the idea that once we acknowledge our loss, life continues on.
lost and found
i have yet to find
any of the things we’ve lost–
paradise
(the labyrinth has been entered)
generations
(we build upon bones, upon bones, upon bones
so deep there is no bottom)
causes
(feathers only carry hope so far)
treasures
(who can solve for x on a map without a why)
innocence
(taken, just once, only once)
marbles
(though this one may be a gift)
and yet,
i carry their dna
within the stars of my ancestors,
extinguished light reaching me
long after the implosion
i tread along worn paths,
grasses parted by eve’s feet
i swim along shoals
having birthed multitudes
finding my way
Jennifer, your thoughts here connect the losses through the ages with the found hope of light and paths that have withstood generations in spite of the many, repeated losses along the way. It makes me feel a quiet hope for our society enduring thanks to strong “dna” and the guidance “worn paths.” Thank you
Jennifer, I’m still trying to solve this riddle,
I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS LINE.
Jennifer, your poem reminds me that loss is a worn path that we can walk upon, we can move forward, and we can persevere. “Long after the implosion, i tread along worn paths.” Your () are effective in the first stanza.
Jennifer, wow! I see your poem as a celebration of life, an intergalactic journey from genesis to the present and the interconnectedness of all life forms. I love the enumeration of things lost and the parentheses that follows each item from the list.
Jennifer,
Thank you for sharing these beautiful lines:
They connect me to my swimming at Barton Springs which offers me such peace and to Walt Whitman’s abundance. Thank you.
Jennifer, you have some doozies of deep thinking today that stopped my eyes in their tracks as I read your brilliant genius.
(feathers only carry hope so far)
(who can solve for x on a map without a why)
I love the way you put these added thoughts in parentheses and continue the search, swimming along shoals finding your way. The night sky is particularly effective in the search because it makes the find all the more challenging, which is what it feels like in the search…..wow!
Jennifer, thank you for your kind words! I love love your first stanza with all the “losses”: “paradise,” “generations,” “causes,” “treasures,” “innocence,” and “marbles.” I had that New York Times Connections light bulb moment when I was reading – “Oh, I see it!” lol. And your last moment? Beautiful! “i swim along shoals / having birthed multitudes / finding my way”
Jennifer, you poem tickles my love for language. First of all, I love the low-case “i” in your poem. It makes me feel like the speaker/you is a part of the whole, not someone above. When I was just learning English, I was surprised about capitalizing this personal pronoun. English is the only one of the major languages that capitalizes it. Your clever use of parentheticals for clarifications and witty comments works so well in this poem. Love these two especially “(feathers only carry hope so far)” and “(who can solve for x on a map without a why).” Keep swimming and gifting us with your brilliance!
Jennifer,
An incredible way to capture the making of who we are… the way you organized and thoughtfully connected this poem to your ancestors, memories, and places is so magnificent. Beautiful imagery throughout with so much affection.
The whole poem is fantastic, Jennifer, but I especially love the first stanza–how you wisely enumerate different “lost”s we know of and use in our vernacular. The parentheticals are great.
You know what amazes me about your poem is that the lines in parenthesis hold so much power. I had to reread them several times. They are reflective and powerful and clever too. And then marbles after all the other more serious losses adds an element of surprise and humor. I just love this poem.
Jennifer, sometimes I imagine you sitting early composing so fiercely, like you did at our AirBNB in Columbus those days at NCTE. I am always amazed at how you can get up and be so productive and inspiring. This is so beautiful. I love the playfulness of the top section. Then the second stanza where you go all in, with lines like “I carry their dna”, “grasses parted by eve’s feet”, and “finding my way” So beautiful and meaningful.
Scott,
I’m jet lagged and wide awake at 2 am and almost glad now since I’ve been traveling and have felt the loss of not only sleep but poetry this month! I think the line I love best in your poem is the hope your wife gives by looking on the bright side—one more hour closer to Halloween! That made me smile.
I’ve lost a lot of friends and a brother to cancer over the past couple years, but tonight, while not being able to sleep, I think mostly about how I’m almost an empty-nester and the loss I’m feeling at that.
For years when you were little,
A house finch hid its nest in our eaves
Every spring, you’d both climb a ladder to make sure it was there again.
It’s gone now, that nest. I’d forgotten it until this spring when straightening your unslept-in beds.
When i looked, there were still little remains of it, a few sticks and matted feathers.
In the closet hangs your winter clothes, the picture of grandpa on a horse, his old cowboy boots. I’ve been meaning to take down the Giants poster, and the one with all the years of Fords.
I always wanted a guest room or maybe an office. I sold the old brown dresser. Bought a white one.
Still there are two twin beds which I’ve realized aren’t best for a guest room and leave no room for a desk.
You’ll both be home at Christmas. Thanksgiving, maybe.
The Giants poster, torn now, and so teenager, still clings to the wall. All those Fords, too.
This year, your sister will leave and another bed lie empty.
I pray for the bird to come back, to watch the mama fly from tree to nest, to sing in the Amber Maple outside my window.
Emily, this is just so beautiful. My heart is rending at this empty nest moment you share. Those opening lines, bringing together the finch nest and the bedrooms, the comparison between what remains of each, wow. I imagine you as the mama bird, straightening beds like building nests, waiting for offsprings’ arrival. So lovely.
Emily, this is a wonderful description of the complex emotions around those little birdies flying the nest. Your simple connection with real birds and the real trauma-mixed with pride of our children leaving is a great one.
Emily…yes…the fledglings take flight. You perfected this with language and I loved how you paired it with the finch. I don’t think I’ve admitted this before, but for a year after departures I’d open the doors and just look in…thinking…remembering. Now, I keep the doors closed as if the rooms no longer exist…keeping them for the return. Phew. Definitely part of the grand narrative that just comes at ya! Love how you kept their youth alive in your reflection of them taking their flights away.
Emily, I love the craft here! The connection of the “empty nest” feeling with the actual “house finch[‘s]” nest and the repeated images of the posters is wonderful. And the “maybe” after Thanksgiving speaks volumes! (And I’m so sorry for the loss of your friends and brother.) Thank you for this.
Emily, this is beautiful! While I don’t have any children myself, I have three siblings and this poem can help me imagine what my mom must feel with all of us out of the house! I love your line “… there were still little remains of it, a few sticks and matter feathers” because that is almost how I envision what remains in my childhood bedroom when I go home.
Emily, I love how you connected the finch nest to your home nest, the empty bedrooms that may be full again as the holidays come. you poem reminded me how my oldest daughter flew out and away, and it was soo tender. Then the youngest left us, and for some time emptiness is all I could sense in a suddenly huge house. Thank you for sharing your poem. I so love your final line: “I pray for the bird to come back, to watch the mama fly from tree to nest, to sing in the Amber Maple outside my window.”
Emily,
As someone who anticipates sending her youngest off to college this all really hits home. A beautiful metaphor filled with so much affection and care. Oh, I love this!
Scott: You have hit upon a theme that is often in my mind. Loss. I believe it is a thing we fear more than “any other spectre we have seen,” to quote Ebenezer Scrooge to The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. Loss of time, loved ones, money, security, youth, treasured things, time, and life itself. My mind is so crowded with poem possibilities that I can’t even get the words out in the moment. I must sift. I will come back tonight. For now: How I appreciate your always-deft, light-hearted touch, still present here, despite marking the loss of parents and decent insurance and, essentially, any say-so in things…a reminder that every hour, every minute we have is precious; let us savor it, let us read it and record it well…finding that, yes, we can still smile, for the quiet joys remain. Thank you for this. I need it.
Agreed. So I read for a bit and will return.
We’ll be here, Fran, after the “sift[ing],” lol. But, to be honest, this “comment” (quotation marks because it reads more like a prose poem to me) is beautiful — “a reminder that every hour, every minute we have is precious; let us savor it, let us read it and record it well.” Yes!