Making It Count: Syllabic Verse with Fran Haley
Welcome to Day 5 of the June Open Write. Thank you so much for joining us this month. And a very special thank you to Allison Berryhill and Fran Haley for your inspiration and generosity of time and compassion. Please join us July 16-20 with Jennifer Guyor Jowett and Mo Daley. Bring a teacher-friend who may need this space in their life.
Fran Haley is a K-12 literacy educator, wife, mom, and Franna of two little girls. She savors the pastoral life just outside of Raleigh, North Carolina. Writing is her favorite thing to do; she loves helping people of all ages fall in love with the craft. She authors the blog Lit Bits and Pieces: Snippets of Learning and Life.
Inspiration
My youngest son is a musician. When he was four or five he’d stand at a whiteboard easel making tally marks as he listened to cassettes of his favorite songs. When I asked what he was doing, he replied: “Counting the syllables.”
He meant beats.
Like heartbeats, rhythms of life surround us. Let us listen and take note. Moments and words count…down to the last syllable. Last year I attended a workshop led by a poet who said: “Experiment with the rhythms of your voice. Find a syllable count that’s natural for you.”
Process
Perhaps there’s a line of unwritten poetry playing in your mind, waiting for its moment. Now’s the time. Count the syllables. Maybe it’s five, eight, or iambic pentameter. Or simply begin by crafting a line that relates to something important to you (listen for it in the beatings of your heart) and count the syllables.
Once you know the count, try writing the remainder of your lines with the same number of syllables. See where the beats take you.
Maybe play with more sound by incorporating internal rhyme, alliteration, and so on.
My poem, sparked by the words of a teacher during a memorable job interview, came out in lines of five syllables.
Fran’s Poem
All in for the Kids by Fran Haley
In the interview
the candidate said
we don’t get credit
for all we’ve endured
on behalf of kids
in these past two years
and apologized
for the sudden tears
surfacing from depths
immeasurable
a soul subjected
to intense pressure
somehow withstanding
high temperatures
beyond description
the weight of the world
in every teardrop
salt-worth far beyond
the rarest diamond
culminating crown
of love resounding
courage rebounding
in five wondrous words:
“I still want to teach”
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. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Fran, I love the story of your son counting syllables! I really struggled at first tonight. I couldn’t think of a single line that felt worthy of crafting a poem around. In fact, I first wrote a nonsense poem using the dactyllic rhythm of my own name (Allison Berryhill) before finally landing on a line from The Rumpus tonight that grabbed my attention. I used it as the first line in my poem.
Make space, but not empty space.
Fill the space with powder puffs
of memory or silence.
Then grant the space to others:
space to wonder and ponder
without limits or demands.
Make space, but not empty space.
Fill space with pauses between
heartbeats, pregnant pauses with
room for waiting, unhurried:
open chasams of welcome,
space that hallows openness.
Allison, this is beautiful. It reminds me of an image Walter Wangerin uses about making room for others. “Room for waiting, unhurried” and “space that hallows openness” are my favorites. I’ll need to remember this as i spend time with my daughter, son-in-law, and new grandson. Thank you for hosting this week.
Allison, it’s a profoundly beautiful poem. I particularly love the idea of making space to fill with “memory or silence” and the “open chasms of welcome” – and the sacredness of it. What a gift your words are – thank you!
What a great line, Allison, and how differently we might all interpret that in our lives right now. I appreciate the suggestions you offer the reader, like giving us permission to actually not having to be working working working in every moment. In summer, that “lack of anchor” makes me feel guilty sometimes that I am “just” sitting around reading or writing, pausing as it were, daydreaming even. So what?! It’s NOT empty space. It’s space we need to recharge and renew. To remember who WE are as individuals. I like this. A lot! Thank you!
Allison, love “fill the space with powder puffs/of memory or silence.” Such a powerful appeal to softness which is followed with granting the space to others. Love the idea of waiting unhurried and “open chasms of welcome”…wow, simply gorgeous!
Thank you, Fran, for your precious prompts this week. It hasn’t been easy to keep up, but I’m glad I was here. A couplet in honor of today!
Today my daughter had a baby
Sweetest, most perfect ever, maybe
Congratulations Denise!
Two perfect lines to begin the poetic commemoration of your grandbaby’s life journey! Congratulations, Denise – so excited for you!
Congratulations – and hilarious! Way to hyperbolize and then take it back! I hope it all goes well!
Congratulations, Denise! Sweet verse! <3
Denise, I am so happy for you. Your couplet is perfect, and so will your new grandchild. Girl or boy?
Thank you, everyone! It’s a boy. He doesn’t have a name quite yet! They are narrowed down to two choices, just trying them on for size.
Congratulations, Denise!! So wonderful!!!
Thank you again Fran for hosting for today. High praises to your poem. I’m definitely not in it for the money, and to me, it is far more rewarding when I see the spark in a child’s eyes ignite their eternal flame for their love of learning. This stanza resonated with me:
“the weight of the world
in every teardrop
salt-worth far beyond
the rarest diamond”
No one knows our true faces behind the many masks we wear to please the parent, praise the child, and chastise the bureaucracy, all while trying to keep what little part we have left to care for our families.
I’m proud of this one! I’m feeling “bookish” so here is my poem. My starting line was where I received my inspiration from.
I find in a book:
grand words on a page
lovely lyric lines
answers in fine print
corny jokes for kids
genre sets galore
imagination
Exceptional feats
Impersonation
printed depictions
in a book I find
freedom from the world.
Jessica,
Loved this! Loved the lilt of the “lovely lyric lines.” The “corny jokes for kids” (so true). The “genre sets galore” and the assonance of the “printed depictions.” Great sounds in this, and a great poem. 🙂
Books are everything! Thank you so much, Wendy. I had fun writing it!
Jessica, your lines are absolute treasures – as is everything you find in a book. I love this poem and can see it printed, illustrated, and framed in a classroom reading nook or by the teacher’s table. Since I was a small child, I found freedom from the world in books. You should be proud of this one, indeed – it will speak to the hearts of anyone who loves books! Beautifully done.
Thank you Fran. Books are everything and not just meant to be a political statement. I might consider your recommendation!
Jessica, I like the repetition of in a book, and how you changed up that line at the beginning and end. Yes, indeed,
“in a book I find
freedom from the world”
Jessica, your choice of preposition “freedom FROM the world” is telling. Those of us who love books use them to expand our life experiences. We read to widen our world. That we now also use books to find freedom FROM the world is a commentary on these trying times. Thank you for this thoughtful poem.
I like the way the syllable count forces language, creates opportunity for new thinking. As I walked the beach this morning, I kept thinking about the monsoonal moisture promised by the weather forecasters–and the fact that I know it won’t result in the rain we need so much. I found myself obsessed with rain as I walked, counting syllables in my head. Here’s the resulting draft and the beautiful sky last night that fueled today’s obsessive thinking.
Summer Rainless Song
A pitty pat pat
The sound I don’t hear
Except in my dreams
Water all around
But not on the ground
Monsoonal moisture
Parched earth, cloud-filled skies
Precipitation
Promised rainfall – gone!
No pitty pat pat
Tinderbox of fear
Drought-dried brush, fire fuel
Inferno rages
In my brain, waiting
Wishing for the sound
And the smell of rain
Pitter patter pat
Living in dryness
Monsoonal moisture
Waiting for rain
@kd0602
(Can’t get the photo to load–here is the link to my blog is you want to see the image:
https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2022/06/22/summer-rainless-song/)
Oh yes Kim. I long for the rain. Your alliteration with the “pitty pat pat” and “monsoonal moisture”- my what a word! It makes me anticipate the moment the skies open up and release a sensational shower! Thank you for sharing.
I often hear rhythms in my own brain in the way that you describe. Your word choices are just amazing, Kim: parched, tinderbox, drought-dried, inferno, not to mention monsoonal moisture and all the magnificent alliteration with variations of pitty pat pat/pitter patter pat. It’s a magical poem, through and through, even the title – I hope it will conjure that needed rain. The photo on your blog is just breathtaking.
We are together in the drought. I long for the monsoonal moisture. Had seven drops this morning. “Tenderbox of fear” says it all. I long for the pitter patter pat. And to think that this is only June!
I feel the rhythm in your poem. Thanks.
Kim, i love the pitty pat pat and similar lines. The photo too, is inspiring. I hope the monsoon rains come in abundance.
This stanza really captures the terror of forest fire fears:
Tinderbox of fear
Drought-dried brush, fire fuel
Inferno rages
In my brain,
Fran, your poem was so lovely! I so appreciated the alliteration, drawing our attention to those phrases.
My syllable-counting was a a bit irregular, but this poem led me to some trochaic meter and a tone decidedly different from yours 🙂
Pause
Doctor, doctor–please believe me
Having symptoms, please relieve me–
Joints are swelling, mind forgetful–
Overwhelmed and feeling fretful.
Need relief, need understanding–
Balance off, with trouble landing–
Agitated, scratchy moods–
Mid-life crisis trouble brews.
Achy breasts occur in cycles–
Pain at work is always stifled–
What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger–
A motto that could not feel wronger.
Pain at morning, pain at night–
Feeling more inclined to fight–
Early bedtimes, so exhausted–
Sweaty flashes leave me frosted.
At the window, pits exposed–
Soaking through my layers of clothes–
Up at night, to pee again–
Wondering will this ever end–
What’s the reason? What’s the cause?
Doc shrugs, “Hey. It’s menopause.”
Wendy,
I love this! You share so many sensory details and the rhythm and rhyme really help the sound pop. The subtle humor is awesome. I think this should hang in all Ob-gyn offices!
WENDY, I LOVE THIS. It’s PERFECT. Made my day! You didn’t miss a beat – literally!
Oh, yes! Love this rhythmic summary of woes!
You captured this so completely. Brava! I agreed with Susan – your poem should be in every OBGYN office! Really wonderful! Thank you!
Been there – done that! It does get better!
Thanks for the reassurance, Joanne! Ugh, it seems never-ending! XD
Wendy, I’m not there yet, but the many women I come in contact with have some of the same experiences. I’m not ready! The hyphens interrupt the bombarding thoughts, which I feel are a true testament to the “M” Word.
Oh, Wendy, your poem is perfect! Love the rhythm and rhyme. Ugh to menopause and not getting answers sometimes when we know something isn’t right. Menopause is a bitch.
Thank you for the inspiration and the space to write. Today was my last day of school, and it has been crazy busy the last month. When it all ended today, I felt a little lost. A friend retired, some students were sadder than usual, and I was exhausted. I remembered thinking last week this year will never end. I worked off of that thought.
I never thought this year would end,
and so it has, marked by tears of
relief, sadness, loss, and confusion.
Today marks the end of three years
teaching the students I weathered
the pandemic with, eighteen years
traversing teaching with a
calming influence, and a year
everyone thought would be normal.
As my shoulders dropped, weight lifted
realization settled in –
I am quite lost without my kids.
Heather, I feel this so much!! the conflicted love and relief that the end of the year brings…the anticipation of next year (“It will be different! And better!”) mixed with the exhilaration of the year ending…so many feelings. 🙂
Heather,
This hit me right in the heart! Yes, a thousand times, yes! I love my kids and what I do, but it is exhausting. This line hit me particularly, “a year / everyone thought would be normal” because it is truth. Wasn’t everything supposed to just slide back to normalcy when we were back in person? Never mind the mental scars and behavioral aberrations that the pandemic “gifted” us with. This is a heartfelt expression of what it is to be a teacher right now, “marked by tears of / relief, sadness, loss, and confusion.”
Heather, so many of us thought this year would be better than last and found it exponentially harder. You captured the sense of it so well in your lines. How poignant, the realization or reaching the end and having the burden lifted just to realize that lost feeling without the kids. Thank you for conveying what so many of us have been feeling.
Fran, thank you so much for providing today’s prompt. I love the photograph you shared and the line “the weight of the world
in every teardrop.” What a powerful truth.
Gravel Roads 101
remember the violets
their tender dark blooms we
planted near the oak tree
Grandpa’s farm; the gravel
roads coating us in dust
literally flying
over sunny green hills,
stomach dropping, smiling,
clinging to the car door
your riotous laughter
bouncing like the white rocks
pinging into the ditch
no speed limits here, you
exclaimed; happy to teach
a survival lesson
Barb Edler
22 June 2022
Barb, I just loved your beautiful imagery and sensory detail here! (And agree about Fran’s new photo: lovely!)
Barb, I reread your lines several times to remember the violets (I adore that line), to soak up the sense of the old farm, to watch the dust fly from the gravel road – I love this place, I love this memory, and I love the riotous laughter bouncing like white rocks into the ditch. There’s such joy in this wild survival lesson. The poem is gorgeous and fills me with longing for long-ago days spent with my own grandparents deep in the country.
Thanks for your words about the photo – that’s me with my granddaughter Micah, 7 mos. <3
Hello, friend. Your poet’s voice is so strong here. I loved this stanza especially:
your riotous laughter
bouncing like the white rocks
pinging into the ditch
The way you connected the laughter to the gravel speaks to my rural heart.
Thank you for this moment/memory/image.
<3
Canadian Birds Are Bastards
by Mo Daley 6/22/22
Canadian birds are bastards
Philadelphia and the Red-eyed
Veery, American Redstart
Two Blackburnian and Magnolia
Warblers, a Northern Parula
Ovenbird, Black and White Warbler
White-throated Sparrow, Swainson’s Thrush
Black-throated Green Warbler are some
Of the elusive birds Merlin
Said populated the Fundy
Forests, but wouldn’t show their plumage
To me today, but I’ll be back
LOL! The tile, itself, made my bust out laughing, Mo. The I read the first stanza and wondered…
“Hmmm…where is this going…”
Then hit the second stanza and guffawed again. Go get, ’em, those fickle little jerks!
Mo,
Intrigued by your title, I read on. You named a bunch of birds I’m not familiar with (different part of the country?), and then hit me with “but wouldn’t show their plumage / To me today, but I’ll be back.” I love it. Naughty birds, taunting you! 🙂
Loved this, from the title to the conclusion! You will get them next time, the bastards!
Canadian Birds Are Bastards
by Mo Daley 6/22/22
Canadian birds are bastards
Philadelphia and the Red-eyed
Veery, American Redstart
Two Blackburnian and Magnolia
Warblers, a Northern Parula
Ovenbird, Black and White Warbler
White-throated Sparrow, Swainson’s Thrush
Black-throated Green Warbler are some
Of the elusive birds Merlin
Said populated the Fundy
Forests, but wouldn’t show plumage
To me today, but I’ll be back!
Darn those bastards, Mo. So frustrating but love the rhythm of elusiveness that their names created for us today!
Sarah
The names are pure poetry, Mo… I hope those birds show themselves tomorrow! Such a fun and lively read.
Mo, I love your ending. The birds colors and names makes me want to see them with you. It’s amazing how birds can be so elusive.
LOL. Mo, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had that same thought: “Canadian birds are bastards.” Actually, I can, none, until, of course, I read your poem. I loved your “naming of the birds,” and I hope they — all of them — make an appearance for you when you return!
Fran, thanks for another challenge.
YOUR YOUNG MEN WILL SEE VISIONS
Young men need routes to run
special gloves to catch things thrown
padded, to block things kicked hard,
something set to butt against,
something soft to hunger for,
handshakes, nut taps, and back slaps,
firm, painful, and resonating.
Young men need distant Valhallas
and nearby mother’s comforts,
peaks for bright conquest’s glory,
shadow of death’s dark valleys,
windmills worth jousting,
purposeful hills worth dying on.
Young men need scents and reason
drifting clouds of acrid smoke,
the remembered soft perfumes,
antagonist guised mentors,
arms folded coaches, once boys,
to be thrown in the water,
to be lifted to the wall.
Young men need wisdom to scoff,
and mistake’s regret to shrug,
molding of increased pressures,
the promise of bend or break,
scarred success to look back on,
and quiet to own the quest.
Rex,
I love every line here and found myself wondering about the young men around you that may have inspired this poem or the wanting of the young man within who put together this collection of wishes. The repetition of need burrowed a bit deeper with each stanza for me from the concrete to the abstract and into the existential. “and quiet to own the quest” of the “purposeful hills worth dying on.” Yes!
Peace,
Sarah
Rex – your verse is just glorious. I note the title’s connection to Act 2:17. Your lines speak to many needed, positive, shaping influences in the life of young men, and the development of coping skills. The ability to overcome and own “scarred success” – there are many, many layers here. Young men need it all and we all need each other… I find so many lines here to be profound – “purposeful hills worth dying on” and “quiet to own the quest” chief among them, but the images that strike deepest for me are the antagonist guided mentors and coaches to be thrown in the water and lifted to the wall… role models. You say so much here in your images.
Cool connection, Fran, to Acts 2:17!
Oh, wow. I did not see this. My admiration deepens.
Rex, wow, this is so powerful. I especially like the powerful imagery, the active verbs, and the contrast between strength and softness. The last stanza is a wowser! Powerful!
Rex, this was awesome. Arresting, sobering. As a teacher of young men…boy, is this full of wisdom. What a wonderful poem. (Loved, btw, the “scents and reason.”)
Rex,
As the mother of two young men, I couldn’t love this poem more. I especially love
Oh wow. Rex, I have been your poetry fan for several years now, but this one ratcheted my fandom to a new level. I ache for our young men. You brought it home. Beautiful.
For those of you who wrote here last summer, I sometimes wrote of my wildfire fighting son. He is off again fighting fires again, to give context to the poem. (demobing means demobilizing)
Another summer,
wildfire firefighting
for my oldest son.
Called on his first day
after school is out,
New Mexico bound
where the Black Fire burns
near Silver City.
Every fire is not
the same, this one was
on steep terrain that
couldn’t be safely
worked–there has to be
an easy escape
route, and there wasn’t.
So they watch and wait
and do brush clean-up.
Then the thunderstorms
began–a blessing
and a curse of rain.
Burn scars easily
flood and the rains were
heavy and caused more
challenges despite
putting out the fire.
Last night heavy rain
was forecast, flood risk
with three inches due.
Early morning text:
“We’re getting demobed,
rain was torrential,
massive flooding through
camp, everything is
soaked. No idea where
we’re going to be
sent, but heading home.”
As a parent, I could feel my anxiety rise as the poem progressed. The last line let me breathe for you once again!
Cara, this is so hard! Your poem is very intense. I agree with Gayle, it’s hitting all my parent buttons. Your five syllabic beat adds to the intensity I think, these short lines of understanding – perhaps a parallel to the firefighters’ understanding of what they are facing just grows and grows, a bit at a time. These three lines were such a pivotal point –
I learned a lot about fires from your poem. May your son and all this colleagues stay safe in their work!
Cara,
Thank you for sharing the thread of syllables from one summer to the next. I wonder if you’ve heard of the new book Jumper by Melanie Crowder as it is maybe the first YA novel I’ve encountered that represents wild fire fighters. Maybe you have a collection of poems from a mother’s POV in you.
The early morning texts embedded in your verse are so visceral, so embody his work for use in the “demobed” and “torrential” and especially “heading home.” So glad he is safe and heading home to you.
Peace,
Sarah
Cara, I love a story poem and this one is absolutely compelling. People like your boy who help to right such horrible wrongs in the world fill me with awe, even as these fires fill me with horror. The flood on top of fire – he’s a hero and I cannot help rejoicing at the coming home.
Cara, the power of the fire and the emotion you create in this poem is intense. “Burn scars easily/flood” was especially riveting. So glad the end is a happy one.
Cara, from the beginning, this was scary to read. I agree with Gayle — that you did a wonderful job of heightening our anxiety as the poem progressed. I wish him — and you — well!
Cara, the imagery. “Black Fire” and “Silver City” create an ominous tone paired with the “torrential” rains. Rain usually symbolizes life and new birth, but I like how your poem pushes back at that. Glad he is heading home ❤️
Cara, I do remember your “wildfire fighting son” poems from last summer! Your poem today is so well-crafted, tense and suspenseful. Thank you for writing and sharing it!
I love this story poem–and I also know the horror of wildfires (luckily not from personal devastation). “a blessing and a curse of rain” –all those opposites, rain and flood, drought and fire, wet and dry…so glad your son will be heading home.
Fran,
I love the simplicity of this prompt. It really helps writers tap into finding that rhythm.
Your poem has such a great sound but an even better meaning/emotion.
We just spent the last three days at our youngest son’s college orientation. One side effect of that was that I have not been able to participate in the Open Write as I would have liked. The other is that it left me reflective about why I am such an indecisive homebody. So, I went with that . . .
Unknown Indecision
Unfamiliar throws me off
My places make me feel whole
But I do get excited
looking at things that are new
It’s just that my gut fires up
with no sense of calm at all.
Decisions are so hard to make
A tip-toe into the unknown
A restaurant, a big purchase
Impulse choices are not for me
My wheels spin and I ruminate
Often doing nothing at all.
When choices are made FOR me
I resent and I shutdown
Feeling so out of control
When others discredit me
And do what they think I want
mistaking my quiet stance.
Why can’t I just make a choice?
Why can’t I love to go and see?
Crippled by anxiety
A concrete statue I become.
Staying put and inactive
Keeps me safe and in control.
~Susan Ahlbrand
22 June 2022
Oh Susan – first, I am glad you were able to take part today, writing this raw and riveting poem. I sometimes think anxiety is not always about the decisions as much as fear of making wrong ones, as well as the unknown…an exhausting cycle. These lines are especially poignant to me: “When others discredit me/and do what they think I want/mistaking my quiet stance”- these remind me to not assume I know what’s going on inside someone else’s mind and heart. Thank you for this amazingly courageous poem and congratulations on the youngest arriving at college!
I have always hated the “big” decisions. I feel for you. The need for safety and control is so often taken out of our hands as parents, isn’t it?
I can relate to so much of what you have shared here – it’s anxiety plus my own tendency to be an introvert…I know the concrete statue feeling, and I totally resent how others often are “mistaking my quiet stance.” I like the six line stanzas, six syllables a line.
Susan,
The “crippled by anxiety” alongside the “concrete statue” resonate deeply with me and offer images of the material of the social and being social and being among others. This sense of control that you name in the end is agency in the knowing, and I felt it in your syllables, your pattern here.
Thank you,
Sarah
Thanks, Allison and Fran. These days have been great! This is the syllable morning I am having today.
Awake With A Cold
The beat of raindrops
vibrational sounds
purring by my head
heart beats in my ear
nose running, sneezes
gravel crunch of steps.
I beat to these rhythms
as my day unfolds
I pulse and I sigh
a few more deep breaths
back to my bed, head
hitting the pillow.
I love the syllabic rhythm of this which creates a staccato pitter-patter effect to bring awareness to the rain falling. I’m so sorry you have a cold! No wonder with the weird weather changes. Feel better soon, Susie!
Oh, no, Susan! I admire your extreme dedication in this perfect capturing of cold-rhythms, The heartbeat in the ears, the pulse and sigh…alas. Do feel better soon.
The quick pace/length of each line is perfect for describing your not-so-healthy state – I hope you are on the mend!!
“I beat to these rhythms” Love the way you turned a cold into a song!
From somewhere near Tennessee border, driving south from Maryland…thank you for these five days of poetry inspiration!!
Driving and dreaming
Great poem with rhythm
Then, open notebook
My mind is blank
Where did the words go?
No glimmer or glimpse?
Why can’t I recall?
My mind is blank
Hazy the highway
Bright sky above me
Long road is tripping
My mind is blank
See how hawks circle
Stare at the hillside
How about haystacks
My mind is blank
Hotlanta’s coming
Fam-ly reunion
Rest stop is needed
My mind is blank
First – Hotlanta! Love dialect. It’s a delightful poem, beating along like the miles on a road trip and reminding me that sometimes there’s no need for words when the sky is bright and the hawks are circling – sometimes the being IS the poem. Safe travels, Maureen!
Maureen, I love how you pull me into your desire to write feeling as though your mind is blank and capturing this road trip at the same time. The specific imagery of “Hazy the highway” and the hawks and haystacks help set the scene. Although your mind might have felt blank, you created a powerful poem!
Oh my gosh – the repetition is perfect! Writer’s Block – indeed. Pure genius, Maureen!
Perfect repetition of “my mind is blank.” Hotlanta is hilarious, and fam-ly–works for the dialect, as well as the syllable count.
I love the visual imagery that pops up in these lines:
I’m glad you found your topic!
Fran, that is such a moving poem. Thank you for all your great prompts. Today was hard for me—my mind such a blank!
A Poem That’s Going Nowhere
By Nancy White
My brain is somewhat foggy
I sit here with my coffee
And try to think profoundly
But thoughts just swirl around me
Like butterflies they flutter
Through one ear, out the other
I wonder when they’ll land here
On paper filled with clutter,
The marks of my frustration,
Brain farts, word flatulation!
I’m staring, blinking dumbly,
Words falling mumble-jumbly.
Wow! I nice surprise as I am taking a first peek at the poems written today before I edit mine. I don’t think your brain is foggy at all. Do like your rhyming in this.
Nancy, the rhyming is spectacular and fun. Sometimes the Muse is elusive – watching to see what we’ll do. That imagery of thoughts as butterflies swirling and fluttering is spot-on. I know it well… yet you wrote and it’s encouragement for us the next time the thoughts won’t land nicely, in the midst of our frustration. Thank you!
Nancy, you created a lovely poem in the midst of your mind drawing a blank. It captures what I’m sure we all experience, especially when we sit down with that coffee and expect magical profundity to happen on that page.
I love it!
Nancy, I love the language of your poem, the sound and emotion they create. The rhyme and rhythm of this poem is fantastic. Loved the end “Words falling mumble-jumbly”. Fantastic!
I love the rhyme and word choice in your poem. You described my brain tonight. I had to dig deep for some words. I almost gave up. I am glad I stayed and read your poem.
I love that your frustration resulted in something wonderful! I often feel like I scare my words away just thinking about writing them down! (They do seem more profound in my mind than when I try to pin those fluttering beings down.) “But thoughts just swirl around me like butterflies they flutter”–my favorite line!
Oh, Nancy, I love these “words falling mumble-jumbly”, which is not how I would describe this artwork. Love the rhyming and the topic. It’s a masterpiece.
Fran, your poem today was beautiful and really connected with me. I felt like I could visualize the interview. This line struck me today, “the weight of the world / in every teardrop”. It certainly feels like that in our type of work.
Let’s breathe. Can you
take a minute?
Hold still. Settle in.
Count breaths with me.
in, two, three, four
hold, two, three, four
out, two, three, four
hold, two, three, four
in goes fresh air
hold, feel your lungs
out, recycle
hold, clean, empty,
in comes nice thoughts
hold onto dreams
out goes despair
hold onto hope
smell the roses
lungs are balloons
breathe like hot wind
cleanse the palate
Your poem actually caused me so pay attention to my breathing and slow down. I thing the simple counting on the beat does wonders for calming and your poem shows us just how. Great that you helped me practice mindfulness!
Rachelle, this poem of breathing is one I can envision as an exercise in class – reading it aloud and following the instructions. Cleansing and relieving, for sure – I absolutely love these verbs: hold, clean, empty, plus the exhaling of despair, the inhaling and holding of hope. I feel peaceful after this reading.
Rachelle, I love this poem! It sounds like it should be a recording on my Calm or Headspace apps!
Let us all hold onto hope!
Rachelle,
Your poem speaks to the yoga teacher in me. It could very well be my inner dialogue as I convince myself to calm down and carry on. I especially like the imagery in the last stanza: “smell the roses / lungs are balloons / breathe like hot wind / cleanse the palate.” Thank you for leading us in a moment of calm.
I just listened to a podcast about how we continue to compound trauma after trauma without ever having time to heal. My first thought was Buffalo and all the elderly people who simply wanted to go grocery shopping. ??
We Want to Live Free
We’re afraid to go to the grocery store
It’s the same fear students have about school
And church members looking over shoulders
After singing praises in Sunday’s choir
We’re afraid to jog while wearing our skin
The same fear the elderly have alone
And babies hiding under the tables
After saying the Pledge of Allegiance
Anxious living digs early graves for peace.
© Stacey L. Joy, June 22, 2022
Stacey – the grim truths of your poem cut deep – especially that last line, ‘anxious living digs early graves for peace’ – oh, it should not be. None of it should be. Usually I try to take some heart in the way that people reach out to help one another but when traumas are compounded, as you mention per the podcast, despair becomes a paralyzing weight. In Buffalo, in Uvalde, in so many, many places, across time, the outpouring of love is needed and good to see but it can’t undo the brutality and loss. We need each other. I will have to end on that note…your lines stir so much emotion. I am grateful for the light you are.
Stacey the entire poem struck a chord with me, and I thank you for sharing your poignant poem today. This line in the second stanza made me particularly pause: “And babies hiding under the tables / After saying the Pledge of Allegiance”. The innocent diction of “babies” and the juxtaposition of “hiding” after pledging allegiance especially emphasizes the irony of the phrase “liberty and justice for all”.
Whew! This struck home! The other day, i was walking into the college where I work, and found myself analyzing the “soft-target” it presented. Anxious living, indeed.
We are living in a very anxious and sorry state of things. Everyone, it seems, no matter the age or color of skin, has to look over their shoulder. Your line…”After saying the Pledge of Allegiance” makes me wonder who really cares about that pledge.
Stacey, wow, you’ve captured fear and the injustice so well here. My heart aches reading this, and I have to agree completely with your final line: “Anxious living digs early graves for peace.” You need to get this published.
Teaching is social work. That is the truth.
It’s time: be honest about what we do.
My first career I interned in prison
cells, emergency rooms, psych wards, family
court. I learned to ask for stories, listen
between breaths, de-escalate anger,
mediate shame. I knew this was the job,
and I knew it was really, really hard.
There was a Code of Ethics binding me
to self-monitor my impairments, to
watch out for colleagues in need of remedy
so as not to harm the lives entrusted
to us.There was a Code. Our well-being
had to come first. Let’s be honest: Teachers
are social workers navigating the
intersections of politics, economy,
health, crime, family, psychology
stories, breaths, anger, shame
ours and theirs. Let’s be honest:
This is going to get harder.
(So, I am working through this thinking today prompted by this article from a friend — which got me thinking about teacher preparation and the teaching shortage of Oklahoma. Yes, better pay would help, but teachers are not being trained to do everything a teacher is asked to do and also self-monitor their wellbeing or normalize therapy to sustain their career. If they make it to the classroom, they are leaving in a year or two. And these past two years have been something else. I know not every teacher has to directly navigate trauma, but it sure seems like the implications of COVID on families, economy, social practices is going to change the state of teaching. Again, just using this space to think today.)
absolutely!! strong words, well written! “There was a Code.” And teachers have no such code–we are asked to do whatever, whenever, however. I agree that it will become harder. this should be shared. Somewhere that decisions are made.
Sarah: First, thank you for this space to share, to think… I am deeply grateful for it. Your poem, with its powerful couplets and breaks, paints a still-emerging, stark picture of teaching. It is honest. It is true. It is haunting, held against the background of your prison intern experiences. My colleagues and I have talked for some years now about teacher preparation programs not being enough, and now…. now the equipping needs are vastly greater, and will continue to be greater still. I read the article and am hanging on to it for future reference. My colleagues, across schools, thought this year would be better than the previous and found it harder. Your words and the those in the article hit home.
Sarah, I can’t imagine how hard it is for all of you teachers in today’s world. I retired just before the pandemic. I was on the verge of burnout then. I’m not sure if I’d be able to endure it today. Hoping and praying for more answers, better pay, more effective training, more support, better laws. Love to all of you teachers.
Sarah, you leave us all with a lot to chew on today. I just finished my 6th year of teaching, and a retiring administrator said, “I really think this was the hardest year, and it will be easier next year for you all!” I appreciated her optimism, but I couldn’t help but to think it was just that. So, I appreciate your frankness and honesty in the last line of your poem, “This is going to get harder.” But, I don’t read that line as a complaint. I read it as a fact; as a call to action.
Thank you again for the honesty of this poem, for helping us sort out our identities, and for giving us a forum to cope throughout the year.
Sarah, I believe your poem explains the struggles we all have as teachers whether new or veteran, it’s DIFFFFICULLLLT! I’ve completed my 37th year and it was harder than year 1.
Thank you for always voicing our needs, our hearts, and our passions. This interesection speaks volumes:
?
Thirty-Seven!! That’s awesome, Stacey!
Sarah, oh my gosh, I absolutely love your poem, and I completely agree with you about the role of a teacher and how much harder it is going to get. I know several people, including my own daughter-in-law, who are young teachers and they have quit or are ready to quit. Teacher shortages are effecting Iowa, too. I wish I had had training about self-care before entering the profession, and I do think it is needed much more now than ever before. Your line “stories, breaths, anger, shame” is spot-on. I think your students are so lucky to have you as their mentor.
Sarah,
Perfect!
You state things so dang clearly, showing what a social worker does and the things in place for them. Then, you contrast what teachers have become and make it abundantly clear that so much is missing.
I truly agree with and appreciate your honesty. And yes – it’s going to get harder, but there must be a way to make it easier. Much the same state of teaching in New Jersey too. People are retiring here and no one wants to take their places. Thank you for this and I’m off the read the article.
Sarah – just read your friend’s article – it was so honest and heartbreaking. I want to find words that made it better and what
I found is – We (teachers) are important. We must keep going. The
kids need us.
Sarah, I loved the repetition (and subtle “shifting”) of “Let’s be honest.” In the first stanza, (at least for my reading) you’ve opened your audience to everyone: hey, let’s be honest about this — “Teaching is social work. That is the truth.” (I also love those quick declarative statements to start your piece.) Then you explain/explore your previous work that did, indeed, “have a Code” (and was concerned — actively — with the welfare of the worker). This shifts, for me, to teachers when you place “Teachers” after the colon on the same line in stanza seven: “Let’s be honest: Teachers.” This is a very cool “move.” And then you keep the focus on teachers at the end — “This is going to get harder” — but also, simultaneously, opening it up for a general audience, too (mirroring the beginning), again, saying, hey, this was tough everybody, but it’s only going to get tougher. I also read the article from your friend and found myself nodding in agreement throughout. This year really did have a “we survived it” kinda vibe to it! (And thanks, again, for your earlier comment on my offering for today: it really did make my day!)
I am so eager to write today! Thank you for these last two days of fun prompts, Fran. Thank you, Allison & friends, for the opening 3 days. It’s been a great 5 days!
Fran, your poem was meant to be shared and savored. This spoke to me as I was recently sharing how much suffering our children and we teachers have experienced and never have been offered safe spaces to share.
We need the safe spaces for sharing, Stacey – the suffering has been so great. I am grateful for this safe space and to be part of helping provide more for students and teachers. Thank you always for your great heart <3
Fran — I absolutely loved this poem about teaching! I felt it so much, especially in these past few years. What teacher hasn’t cried over their passion for what they do and felt like no one was listening? Thank you for sharing this.
I’ve been thinking a lot about fear and confidence lately, so I think that’s where this poem got its start (also with some credit to Jeff Zentner who had a line about fear making us feel small in his book “In The Wild Light”).
I began with the first line and wrote from there — when I noticed that each stanza also seemed to be growing I made sure to rearrange them so as I write about growing each stanza “grows” larger as well.
Head in the Clouds
I will grow.
No longer
small in fear,
but looming
with giant
confidence.
I will grow
until I can
no longer
hear from fear
far below
telling me
to be small.
I will grow
touching sky,
skim the clouds
searching for
the dreams left
from before
I was forced
to the ground.
I will grow
to see my
life laid out
quiet, small,
but vibrant
as the stars
gathered up
in my hair
crowned with love:
I will grow.
Erica, this is a poem I needed to read today. I know many others who need to read it. All this: no longer small in fear, or hearing from fear…rising above and reaching for those dreams before fear knocked you down. Just so true and so powerful. The short lines work so well and this imagery in particular enthralls me:
I will grow
to see my
life laid out
quiet, small,
but vibrant
as the stars
gathered up
in my hair
crowned with love:
I will grow
-this is just stunning to me. It says so much about hope and mattering and vastness in the smallness. I have grown just by reading it. Thank you for this beautiful offering!
“vibrant
as the stars
gathered up
in my hair
crowned with love:”
Oh, my goodness…
This poem goes so nicely after reading Stacey Joy’s “I Want To Live Free.” I hope I can keep my head in the clouds about all the terror below. Your fourth stanza about searching for dreams left from before speaks to me. We need to keep those dreams!
Your poem really spoke to me as I am still navigating the new empty nest stage of life. I will not give into fear and let it make me feel small. Even at my age, I still have dreams. Thank you for these words of hope.
I love this poem, Erica. I love the look, the sound, the images. Just wonderful – vibrant as the stars gathered up in my hair crowned with love – WOW! Thank you.
Fran, thank you for this prompt. I find I do well with poetic structure and syllable count is a perfect way for me to focus. The hard part is finding the starting line.
Today, I choose to focus on my role as a middle school librarian. So many people think of me as a “checkout person”. Yes, I sometimes check out books to students and staff, but I am also part of the TEACHING staff. That part gets lost when you’re only in the building part time because you are running two middle school libraries.
School Librarian
I’m here to support all.
To collaborate with …
Science, History, Art,
PE, Music, Dual.
And yes, of course, English.
I am a teacher, too.
My role is more than books.
Let me partner with you—
Together, we can build
Life-long readers, learners.
©Jennifer Kowaczek June 2022
Jennifer, there’s a shortage of librarians these days and not very many days pass that I don’t consider the wealth of knowledge and experiences they (you) bring to students, and how important this role is. Your role IS more than books – those last lines say it all about the ultimate goal of lifelong reading and learning. In a word – inspiration. Reminds me of the William Arthur Ward poem which ends with “The great teacher inspires.” Librarians are great teachers – I celebrate you!
My librarian is my best friend, so I am a little biased, but I ABSOLUTELY need librarians who are ready to go to bat for ALL teachers. You all work so hard for both students and staff and should be celebrated for it. Thanks for writing this poem and recognizing the work librarians do — I SEE YOU!
Librarians are the best people in the building, in my opinion!! Multi-faceted and builders. also a place of refuge for a lot of kids (and teachers).
Yes! I love our school librarian and rely on her so much. I wish others would do the same.
Love this – especially poignant to me because my friend and colleague has had to work all year to explain to administration why reading aloud to children is still important for LIBRARIANS to do! Can you imagine? Thank you for this!
Hey Fran – you are making us use our brains this morning! Mine wants to go back to sleep. I find that even when I’m in the midst of summer vacation – I’m thinking about teaching. How can that be?
Power of Our Words
Small faces look up
From old, sturdy desks,
Eager to please, smiling
Wonder, curious.
Teacher, look down now.
See in front of you
Possibility,
Imagination.
Open your mouth and
Choose words carefully,
Encourage, provoke,
Engage your learners.
Do not shut them off,
Do not let them down,
Wait! Listen closely.
Give them all the time.
They will weave stories,
They will write new tales,
They will keep learning,
If you let them free.
Teacher, look down now.
Please pay attention,
Small ones are ready,
Hopeful and trusting.
I have been reading The Power of Our Words by Paula Denton. It was sitting next to my laptop this morning, and the title called out to me. The power of our words are not to be taken lightly. This year – teachers have been stretched even thinner, and I have noticed the toll it has taken on their relationships with their students. I wonder how I can make a difference in the fall. This book helps to show the way.
Joanne, your words remind me of my teaching philosophy which is really a little quote given to me long ago by my then five-year-old son: “A teacher in wisdom and kindness helps children learn to do do exactly what they thought could not be done.” Basically: be an encourager. That’s what’s brimming in every line of your poem here. I was reading just yesterday about the impact of teacher credibility, that it has a far greater impact than student motivation on student learning – in other words, kids believing the teachers can teach them and want to to teach them. You capture all of this in your powerful, hopeful, uplifting lines. Words have power – we gotta hold onto wisdom even in the trying times. Maybe especially then. Thank you for this and the reference!
Joanne, oh my gosh, I love every line of your poem. The wisdom here is profound. I will have to check out the book your reading. Such a powerful piece. I hope more teachers will have the chance to read your poem.
I love the “sweetness” of this poem, Joanne, but I can also sense the heavy responsibility we teachers have and the ‘advice’ nature of this commentary. Likewise, thank you for the book recommendation! I had not heard of it, and reviewing the contents on Amazon – wow – that looks like an IMPORTANT text! I’ll definitely be checking that out. I like the repetition in this poem of “Teacher, look down now” because in a way, ‘looking down’ on someone is a negative, but in this context, it is flipped to be a positive – to look down and recognize, acknowledge, and validate those little wonderous beings. I especially loved, “If you let them free.” Indeed – appreciate what each and every one of them has to offer when allowed to truly be themselves! Lovely!
Fran — Thank you for this prompt and your beautiful and heart-wrenching poem.
These lines really spoke to me:
“the weight of the world/in every teardrop”
Sometime it really does feel like teachers carry the weight of the world.
But we keep on keeping on because we were born to teach and connect with young people.
My poem today is a simple memory from my recent Maine trip.
Mornings in Maine
I’m not an early riser
but
Nature does not pause for me
The sun smiles early in Maine
sweetly streaking through windows
washing with welcoming warmth
but
even before the break of dawn
the birds singing joyously
rouse me from deep slumbering
Nature’s alarm is splendid
“Nature does not pause for me” – what a true line, reminiscent of Dickinson. Nature does not pause for me but I pause for it, and soak up the awe it offers, as you have done here in your poem. I am basking in your alliteration here – smiling sun, sweetly streaking, welcoming warmth. Nature’s alarm IS splendid – those birds, singing before dawn. It all strengthens my spirit so! Thank you for this, Tammi.
Forgot to say: I have visited Maine in summertime and was astonished by how early bright daylight comes. I woke thinking it was much later than the clock said!
Tammi, wow, I adore this poem. The welcoming warmth, the joyous birds singing, and “Nature does not pause for me” are all striking. Your final line is the perfect end! Absolutely gorgeous!
Nature does not pause for me
indeed. for me, neither. i guess it’s on us to pause for nature. as you did here.
🙂
Kevin
Tammi,
I love this reflection of Maine and the gift you offer us with the glimpses of “Nature’s alarm” with the “sun smiles” and “birds singing” all the while acknowledging the contrast between your nature and the sun’s.
Lovely.
Sarah
I’m going to Maine in two days! What a wonderful welcome. Love your last line: Nature’s alarm is splendid. INDEED! Thank you.
Tammi I absolutely love the nature imagery in this poem. There’s something nice about getting to see the “sun smiling” as it rises. My favorite line though was “Nature does not pause for me” because even when we aren’t actively watching it, nature does it’s own thing. Beautiful.
When I read the first 3 words of today’s heading, I was reminded that we need to make moments count. Here’s a poem I wrote earlier this year (which will be in my book of Poems when I eventually publish it) :).
Moments matter
Moments matter
Memories are made from moments
Make memories that will matter with your moments
Moments matter
Memories from moments with people that matter
Are things we want to keep as mementos
Moments matter
Some moments result in momentum
Momentum to do something momentous
Moments matter
Like drops make an ocean
Many moments can result in a movement
Moments matter
Motivation received in various moments
Give us what we need to face our mountains
Moments matter
Some moments/matters may result in a momentary delay
Soon you will regain your motion and continue on your way
To making a lasting monument
© 2022 Quip Queen Ada Adeleke-Kelani
Ada — Truth! Moments really do matter. I can see this on a classroom poster. Love it!
My favorite lines:
“Moments matter
Like drops make an ocean
Many moments can result in a movement”
Moments DO matter, so very much, for they are finite and precious. Such beautiful imagery, Ada. How I love this line: “Give us what we need to face our mountains.” YES. I do hope you’ll publish that book of poems – thank you for this moving, motivating poem today.
Ada,
I am particularly struck by the slash in the final stanza between “moments” and “matter”. The forward slash offers a choice but here it seems to be connecting or even nudging the matter much like your poem is nudging us to notice.
Peace,
Sarah
Oh – love this – moments, motion, movement, momentous, momentum, momentary, monument. Pure genius! Thank you!
I love how you are planning with the word moment throughout this poem. I think my favorite stanza comes when you compare moments to drops in the ocean — it’s a good comparison because like moments making memories, individually they seem like they don’t matter but they add up to something huge! This poem definitely had me thinking about my own momentous drops.
Here is a poem written to the gallumph of six syllables for each line. Based upon a quote from Virginia Woolf and a paragraph from Rebecca Solnit’s Hope in the Dark. Here’s my post with a little more backstory.
The Future Gallops Hard
Convulsing and dying?The future is so dark?Dark but not menacing.Dark as in untraveled, dark as in determined.Are we sure? Do we know?It’s a dead end instead?Comforting cul-de-sac?A stranger thing perhapsthan the apocalypse?Yes, stranger, more complex.Yes, we can be damned sureof dark uncertainty.
Can’t seem to fix the formatting. Let it gallop.
off to the margins … your poem became a prose poem with the formatting crunch …
“Let it gallop”! I love this. I read your poem two ways at once. “Gallumph” it did! And in such a satisfying way! I love the various ways of looking at “dark.” Dark uncertainty might just be my new love language. Thank you.
Terry — With all that is happening in the world, it really does feel like we are hurtling into “convulsing and dying” and “dark uncertainty”. The picture you paint is accurate and chilling. Although I am still looking for those “comforting cul-de-sacs”.
Whoa, Terry – the imagery in your poem is incredibly powerful, even if the syllables all galloped off as a herd (I can still follow it and feel the breaks, in all the right places). The future is uncertain and uncertainty IS dark. And I love the embedded reassurance of “dark but not menacing” and “dark as in untraveled” and “dark as in determined”. What a word-weaving of hope the somber colors of solace!
Terry,
I love the clustering here with the question marks working like line breaks yet without a breath between. The poem is really an extended exhale of inquiry (and a bit of panic.)
Sarah
Thanks for your poem Fran.
Your last but one verse resonated with me (I love the fact that I cry easily or as needed) 🙂
the weight of the world
in every teardrop
salt-worth far beyond
the rarest diamond
Hmm I see that we’re both PWs. It would be great to connect.
Ada, thank you for your words here, letting me know what resonated. I knew when that teacher cried she probably thought the interview was a bust but I for one saw it as a passion for teaching still alive, despite all, and worth more than diamonds. The suffering’s been all too real…
Fran, it’s all about finding and staying true to what we love and hope for. You’ve placed the world’s weight perfectly within the image of the tear drop. Salt-worth houses so much.
Deconstruction
I have spent this week
inside intense dreams,
a culmination
of pressures built
playing out inside
my head every night.
The combo of summer
break and stress stoppage
has allowed my brain
to play with sorting
and making sense of
worries long built up.
This last, a disaster
of a house, which I’d
apparently bought
with the intention
of renovating,
but how does one fix
a house so far gone?
I should surrender
hopes of downsizing
and making something
my own and just let
worries deconstruct
over summer break,
but I fear my world
is much like a house
beyond all repair.
Jennifer, the last weeks of school were difficult for me – I felt these same mounting pressures and intensity of dreams. The time to decompress is so needed, yet when it arrives, other things come crowding into one’s head…I can relate to everything you say here, heartbeats along the same rhythms. I have GOT to get some home repairs done here while I have time to think! Thank you for your poetic kinship – I treasure it and every line of this poem. Above all – here’s to summer!
I have responded in the margins using Hypothes.is. Familiar with it? Allows for social annotation of text online. Here is a link to it and explore the hedgerows of your poem. Let me know if you want any assistance. It is tool well worth the learning.
I’m with you there
Interesting application. I will explore.
Jennifer,
I can relate. The end of the school year is so intense with so much wrap up. The movement of this poem from school to a broken house really works well as a metaphor for life. These lines speak to me:
“but how does one fix
a house so far gone?”
Jennifer,
So much resonates with me here. I feel myself moving between the literal house of walls and the figurative house of my own skin and mind. You make that simile in the final lines, but I think of all the ways the house metaphor works for our careers, our bodies, our lives. I wonder if I hold onto or create projects to keep my brain from the deep sorting the brain is wired to do. (But I have enjoyed doing some sorting of the transcripts today.)
Alas, so appreciate your poem and this invitation to consider repairs-renovations-deconstruction and, well, surrender to a fresh start.
Hugs,
Sarah
I feel this alongside you. Stressful year – hoping for a respite – house needing repair – my soul needing repair – the world needing repair. All I can think to do is just breathe and be held.
Jennifer,
I like how you tie the surrendering to the house to the world around us. The fact that it ends the poem I also like, as it doesn’t seem like there are any ready answers to what we as teachers can expect as far as next fall is concerned.
I used this prompt for my weekly Wednesday photo prompt, This Photo Wants to be a Poem. Thanks Fran! I still want to teach, too. Love how you ended with those words.
Mimosa
evanescent blossoms
perky pink feathering
flames of flower power
invasive Asian tree
reaching for the sunlight
my childhood memory
Oh, I am intrigued by the photo that wants to be a poem…and I love: “flames of flower power”–thank you for sharing.
Margaret, I have loved mimosa trees all my life, with their fuzzy, peachy blooms. ‘Evanescent’ is a fantastic word choice … the tree does reach for sunlight/sunlit childhood memories. I will have to come play with this at Reflections on theTeche – thank YOU.
Margaret — I can see this vibrant picture! Love your word choices “Perky pink feathering” and “flames of flower power”
Flames of flower power – so vivid and perfect. And I didn’t know this plant was invasive – still a beauty and worthy of childhood memories.
A wonderful start to my day, Fran, as I sit here drumming out beats on the table as I write. Fun close to the month. Thank you!
things my parents told me
“We’ll see,” my mother said
often enters my thoughts
watching the news unfold
waiting for the next vote
wanting hoping wishing
acting signing writing
I’m doing what I can
encourage you the same
not for not trying, but
we’ll have to wait and see
As a parent, I realize my “we’ll see” or “maybe later” often equals “no”! I try to be intentional with my words but they can be interpreted in so many ways. I appreciate the words and experiences you’ve brought together here to remind me of this. Thank you!
Denise, my own children learned that “we’ll see” translated to “most likely no” very quickly as I used the phrase to give myself some time to contemplate requests that were a too much for the moment. I like that your “we’ll see” contains hope and possibility and persistence. We will see, indeed!
Denise, the syllables work so perfectly in your poem; I love the flow and circling back to the idea of ‘we’ll see.’ The story is forever unfolding. I am just now thinking of a Shakespearean monologue, the famous “All the world’s a stage/ And all the men and women merely Players” – for, as you say here, we all have our parts to play. Thank you for this reflective and active verse today – I so appreciate your words.
We’ll have to wait and see— these days, and with the knowledge that age brings—seems like a firm no, doesn’t it? Your poem reflects all of our worries…
Denise — Oh, yes! “We’ll see” — is a phrase my mother used as well. I often find myself using my mother’s phrases and every time I do I am reminded of her. It is crazy how certain memories just stick with us.
Denise,
I appreciate how your mother’s voice has sort of become your own by the end of the thought process. It is intriguing how much wanting, hoping, and wishing has become a part of the process for dealing with things over the years.
Sometimes I get hung up
on the names of the poems,
the types, I mean, like the
ode, ballad, acrostic,
sonnet, free verse, blank verse.
You see? I get confused.
Take this poem, for instance,
I call it a haiku
with too many sylla-
bles: stock nature image.
__________________________________
Thank you, Fran, for another fun prompt! (Your mentor poem had me nodding as a veteran teacher at the simple declaration at the end by the (soon-to-be ?) new teacher: “I still want to teach.” Yep. Same. For your prompt, I landed on six syllables and just kept at it. For better or worse. Lol.
Scott—please, will you be my neighbor? I want to hang out with you over coffee and play with words. Your off-beat approach to these prompts always makes my day!
Lol. Thank you. I would love that, Gayle!
Scott, every poem you write is a wonder of wit. Pure delight. Honestly – and walking in a student’s shoes, especially – the types ARE confusing! Call it what you will, the poet lands and keeps at it, as you mention in your afternote. Try forms on for size and discard ’em if they don’t fit for what needs to be expressed. I absolutely love your playful ending linked to haiku and “stock nature image”- priceless. Oh, and the interviewee…also a veteran, needing a change; those tears bespoke a passion worth gold and we snapped her up.
Fran, thank you for your comments on my poetry! And for telling me more about the interviewee. I’m so glad that she was (and is) still passionate as a veteran teacher and that you “snapped her up”! Such good news!
Another clever poem, Scott. “A haiku with too many syllables.” I think I’ll borrow that.
What a poem of optimism…looking on the bright side of haiku. Thank you for sharing today.
Scott,
You bring me such joy. Thank you.
Sarah
This made my day!! Thank you, Sarah! ?
I like your playfulness with this Scott. It takes me back to counting on my fingers with my first haiku attempt, or my efforts earlier today. I like that there is a fruition to your confusion.
Scott, I love how you open and close your poem. I was completely drawn into “Sometimes I get hung up” and then the “stock nature image” is totally hilarious considering your reference to haiku. Yes, this one does have too many syllables for haiku. Very fun poem! Thank you for the smile!
Fran, thank you again for an inspiring verse. I felt the tears of this vulnerable candidate.
I had a sleepover with two special boys this morning so my poem is based on my awakening.
The Awakening
Little boys waken
Not used to the chirps
Run to the window
To check out the view
Swan, duck and catbird
An octopus too
All before the six
On a summers morn
Christine, I can feel the wonder and joy – I want to see the octopus, too! These moments count immeasurably.
I love how the rhythm of 5 syllables works in this poem. I’m partial to grandboys myself. “An octopus, too” is so cute. How old are they? Mine are 3.5 and 2.5. Such joy!
Christine, what a delight of a poem! I am right there with them (and you, far too early for summer, but well worth it when such discoveries are being made!). This is perfection.
Fran—your poem touched me in so many ways. I still want to teach. Those words, and the way you expressed the last couple of years, were rich and heart-breaking. I was glad for the counting of syllables this morning, as it allowed a precision that did not match my tears as I wrote this poem’
I have been AWOL this week because my middle child is moving to the West coast, and visiting for the last time for a while. We spent time talking, laughing, and sorting through the closet we shoved everything into when she moved on for the last time, many years ago. it was wonderful, cathartic, and we gained some closet space.
Pieces of My Heart
We opened the closet where her life was stored.
A memory vault—five, then ten, then teen—
then gone. My daughter’s memories, waiting
for review, boxes full of childhood.
Adult belongings were discarded or
saved enroute. These, frozen in time, unchanged.
Four piles. Save, take, donate, throw. No remorse.
(The doll she said goodnight to last each night
because she looked mean and would hurt her. Give.
She will ruin another child’s dreams now.)
Books, so many books—part of her being.
A review of belongings, a trip through
childhood. Loss and love, sorrow and laughter.
And then we were done. Bags for the thrift store,
Boxes to car-load, bound for far away.
No second thoughts allowed for throw-aways.
Farewell to a childhood of laughter, joy.
A life of imagination, her world
full of love and poetry, her childhood
well lived; well loved. And my heart, boxed, bagged up.
GJSands
6-22-22
Oh, Gayle. Thank you for your words and your heart this morning, all boxed and bagged up…you have wrung mine today! That mean-looking doll “ruining another child’s dreams now” is a perfectly-placed bit of comic relief. These transitions come all too soon – your poem captures the depths so well, so very well.
Gayle, you placed me right there beside you with this poem. “My daughter’s memories, waiting
for review, ” We cleaned out my father’s things this weekend. I’m sure a poem is waiting there for me, too. “My heart, boxed, bagged up,” and dropped off at Goodwill. Thanks for the inspiration.
Gayle, you’ve so eloquently described what must be incredibly challenging – sorting through a life. Those pieces of our childhood are more difficult to shed, except maybe for that doll – definitely pass her on to “ruin another child’s dreams!” Your movement from the boxes of childhood to your heart boxed up is beautifully done.
Oh my gosh – right to the bone. You had me at: We opened the closet where her life was stored. And then – And my heart, boxed, bagged up. Yep – life is just like that – tenuous, tender, tenacious. Thank you!
Gayle,
I am struck by your use of punctuation. I see the hyphens, dash, parentheses, and flutters of periods and careful semicolons to show your process of boxing and bagging the literal stuff and the figurative heart. I see that last semicolon like a tear drop and relationship in the “well lived; well loved”. Thank you for sharing these syllables from a mother.
Peace,
Sarah
Gayle, “We opened the closet where her life was stored.” Wow, what an opening. You had me tearing up on that very first line. I’m so glad to hear that you had a wonderful visit with your daughter. “And my heart, boxed, bagged up. ” Oh my, what an end. More tears. Gorgeous, powerful, and lovely poem!
Gayle, this is so well-crafted. (And so rich with complicated emotions!) I love your move from stanza two to three: “Loss and love, sorrow and laughter. / And then we were done.” I really feel your last line, too: “And my heart, boxed, bagged up.” This is so nuanced! Thank you for writing and sharing it!
beat – clap – up – down – count
tally – roman – five
ten – fifteen – twenty
syllables – silver
hairs – sounds – status
pounds – countries – children
fingers – toes – blessings
minutes – miles – money
years – breaths – ins and outs
until – the – beat –
Love the spacing …. that first line gives the poem an audio soundtrack …
All the things that count, here in a playful list that almost feels like a child’s chant. I was bobbing along the waves of your stream of consciousness, Stefani! Thank you for this delightful verse.
I was tapping my fingers and toes as I read your poem. The strong beat is infectious. The internal rhyme carries the reader along. Love this!
There is something so simple yet profound in your poem. And you grabbed me with “until the beat!” Wow
Love the creativity of this – the beat and breaths – the images. Wonderful. Thank you.
Stefani,
Hello! Love the look and feel of these syllables with spaces and en dashes as a little extra glue to compound the beats across and down as I look for enjambment and fill in the stories between beats.
Sarah
Take Five
Headphones and downbeats:
Dave Brubeck in five
four as Paul Demond
rhymes through a solo,
singing, for all time
— Kevin
Kevin, your five syllables are rhythmic and capture the essence of you! Your passion shines through.
And five lines!
🙂
So many things to admire here – how you took the group’s big hit song title and incorporated it into the syllable count, how you’ve tied poetry and jazz and beats and rhythm, how it’s so clearly in sync with your own heart. Way to take five!!
Thank you …
“for all time” is such a brilliant end line here, Kevin. It’s multiple meanings. Name references in poetry are so tricky but also fun to utilize. It fascinates me to read works with pop culture references that I don’t know and trying to figure out the context and the meaning those hold in the work – what ‘additional information’ knowing them can provide. It’s like archaeology in reading. Of course, we know these references now, but fifty years from now? A hundred? I also keep meaning to share this poem with you – from a colleague of mine who won our local publication’s award with his poem “Miles” by Mark Sheffield Brown. You can find it in the book Still Life which is online through Issuu. It’s on page 45.
https://issuu.com/svsu/docs/still_life_2020
Thank you for sharing the Miles Davis prose poem. I’m going to come back to it later. But this line:
“Sapped white sun barely made its way past the window panes and the black, grooved vinyl shone in the weak light …”
Yea. That’s jazz riffing right there.
🙂
Kevin
I enjoyed it so much I remixed it, and hope that you might be able to send this link his way and share my appreciation of love for memories of music and poems, and, the inventive genius of Miles Davis.
Kevin
If you click on the animation, it will lead to where I am hosting it (Flickr)
I love your musicality in all your poems. And the line—“singing for all time”
Five is singing out loud and clear here Kevin. I too want to be singing all the time!
Fran, thank you for hosting us today! Despite all the challenges of teaching, still wanting to teach – that last line brings chills and shared passion!
traveling
adventures:
such magic!
discover
new places
go explore!
Kim, your insights and your energy are always a treasure to me. Love how you wove your passion for traveling into this celebratory, invitational poem. You ARE an adventurer, in the world and in words!
I have been having such a challenging time getting back into my pre-pandemic sense of exploration and travel, Kim. I can’t tell you how often these very words have come into my thoughts this summer as we traveled to see family for the first time since 2020. While those words should evoke fun, excitement, and joy, they still rattle me with some level of fear and anxiety. Still, I keep coursing them through my head, trying to recapture the positive nature of them. I’m going to take your poem as my mantra, write it down, and carry it with me. “Kim says…” It’s like my permission slip! Thank you!
Kim,
I will follow your sage council shared with exclamations and encouragement.
Sarah
Kim, I love how this poem just rolls like a wonderful road trip. Great words to show the magic of exploration!