Welcome.VerseLove is Ethical ELA’s celebration of National Poetry Month each April. Please share a favorite moment of your time together this month here.
Our Hosts
Barbara Edler is a talented and gifted instructor for Keokuk High School, located in southeast Iowa. She is a veteran language arts and college composition instructor who loves to write flash fiction and poetry. Her poetry has been published in Words that Mend, The Cities of the Plains: An Anthology of Iowa Artists and Poets, the NFSPS Encore 2025 Prize Poems, and issues of the Grant Wood Country Chronicle and Lyrical Iowa. She is also a contributing author to the 2025 Routledge publication: Assessing Students with Poetry Writing Across Content Areas: Humanizing Formative Assessment for Grades 6-12. Each month she joins the Ethical ELA community’s Open Writes and believes in the healing power of poetry.
Glenda retired from teaching in 2019 after a 38 year career. She now volunteers at the Restorative Center in Pocatello, Idaho where she leads a Restorative Writing Workshop. In addition to being a dog and cat mom, Glenda loves to travel and is a doting grandmother to Ezra, a budding reader, and a granddaughter, Aliannah. Glenda serves on the NCTE Children’s Poetry Awards Committee and is participating in the Stafford Poetry Challenge to write a poem a day for a year. Her poetry has been included in several anthologies. Glenda blogs at Swirl & Swing: www.glendafunk.wordpress.com
Inspiration
In her newest collection HOW ABOUT NOW, poet Kate Baer reveals what being an aging woman means in a country with rising patriarchy and misogyny. One poem in the collection is “The Bridesmaid’s Speech,” which is available on Baer’s website.
The poem begins…
I have known her all her life.
And by that I mean I’ve seen her
in the impossible light of girlhood.
The spaces inbetween–the car
on the way to the birthday dinner,
the moments before the photograph.
I have stood outside the bathroom stall,
held tight while her shoulders shook
with sorrow….
We think often about both the seen and unseen, the spoken words and silences. We believe poetry offers unique ways to make the invisible truths and experiences of life visible and heard. Often our poetry speaks to these realities, as in Barb’s poem about personal events and Glenda’s poem about more universal, lived female experiences.
Barb’s Poem:
Stage Four
No one notices him
sitting in the back
quiet, unassuming,
wearing black.
Until he takes center stage,
spreads his vicious wings,
pierces our hearts with each
razor-sharp word.
We fall, grovel, pray,
consume chemical cocktails,
agree to his every command—
anything—to cast off his noxious spell.
Now we count each day
fueled by anxiety,
fueled by fear,
knowing the end is near.
Glenda’s Poem
Redacted
he pops the top
on his black Sharpie
draws thick lines through
sacred documents
orders park rangers to
dismantle history….
it doesn’t take
black ink to redact
our stories when agents
shoot citizens on city streets,
when they dismantle
erase signs in national parks,
when they follow the
authoritarian playbook to the letter.
Your Turn
Today we invite you to choose a topic important to you, one that may be more vulnerable than those you normally write, one that lifts a shroud to reveal what others may not typically see. You may choose any form you like or select free verse as your structure. As always, do your own thing, even if that means ignoring this prompt.
The Flow of Water
I
Um
I just
Damn..
I don’t
Know…
Anymore
I try and try
Yet here I am
I am still here,
Holding onto it all
Just for it to not work
I gave it my all, yet I…
Still feel empty, lonely, gone
Until a light shines, giving me
A new hope, a hope to move on
And it starts with letting go of what
I hold dear, what I loved, which is you
I loved you, craved you, worshipped you
But you wouldn’t show that same love to me
You lost that look in your eyes that you gave me
That passion we had, the many memories we made
HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO THROW THAT AWAY!!!!
I’m shaking… I’m scared that I won’t be complete
But I have to… I have to let you go so I can live
So like a water droplet, I just need to let go
It flows, it falls, it finds the earth again.
I close my eyes. The ache trembles.
It knows what I must do now
To loosen, to release,
To let it fall
J, Wow, I’m so glad you came back and wrote this poem, like a giant flowing, falling water drop on the page. “It flows, it falls, it finds the earth again.” Here’s to your healing and wholeness as you find the earth again.
inside the mind lives a number of things
things you could have said in that argument
what you had or didn’t have for breakfast
that one time you said “you too” to the waiter
who told you to enjoy your food
Inside the mind you hold many things
the opinion of others
the opinions others have of you
the feeling of everything you’ve ever done
and how it might never be enough
The mind is full of things
things people can’t see
things that are all consuming
invisible weight can be the heaviest to carry
you body feels the weight
and your head bears the burden
Alli,
I like how the poem turns everyday, almost humorous moments into something heavier, showing how the mind holds both small embarrassments and deep insecurities at once. The closing idea of “invisible weight” is especially strong, giving a clear, relatable image to something people often struggle to describe.
“The mind is full of things”–thank you for making your thinking visible here in this place. The second stanza is so poignant. “and how it might never be enough” Peace to you in the journey!
Alli, I love your poem. For me it really talks deep into certain feelings I would never admit to myself, the certain thought that I might think but don’t feel brave enough to express. Love it!
Really enjoyed the freedom of this prompt! A topic important to me is the miraculous work of the Triune God, saving and redeeming his children. This poem is inspired by several different parts of scripture, but especially Romans 8.
Saved, Saved, Saved
From the wages of sin,
I’ve BEEN saved
For death I earned,
But life I gained.
From sin’s pow’r,
I am BEING saved,
For God’s Spirit moves me!
“Abba! Father!”
From sin’s presence,
I WILL be saved,
For all creation—
I myself,
Groan for all things remade.
The Father chose me, in love
For Christ paid my penalty,
And the Spirit quickened me.
Gavriel,
I really appreciate your testimony and am glad you liked the prompt. I recently had a conversation w/ the tech who performed an ultrasound in my gynecologist’s office about her recent salvation experience. We discussed our beliefs, including her asking me about the afterlife and what I expected that to be for me. I struggled to explain to her my faith because I don’t attend church. It’s hard for many to reconcile Christianity w/ the absence of organized religion, but that conversation has made me confident in my faith, which is currently being tested. If you have not read Calvin Miller’s “The Singer,” see if you can find a copy. It’s an allegorical retelling of the crucifixion story. It’s been years since I read it so can’t say how well it has aged, but I loved it when I read it many years ago.
Glenda, I really appreciate your comment. I enjoyed hearing about your conversation! For many, the relationship between organized religion (church) and personal religious beliefs is hard to grapple with. I understand this feeling. Seven or right years ago, I started to doubt a lot of things that the church I was part of taught. It put me on an unforeseen journey of seeking out truth. Along the way, while studying the Bible, I realized that many of the beliefs I was raised to believe weren’t biblical, and in many ways, I felt lied to. It took me a while to find a system of belief that I completely agreed with. As I continued to seek Christ, I finally found comfort in the teachings of Reformed Theology, which is consistent with the beliefs I found myself leaning towards. And now, me and my wife have found a wonderful church family to be part of. I say all of that just to communicate, I know how hard it can be to reconcile those things, and sometimes it takes us on a long journey. It feels great to look back on that journey at times, and I wish you the best in your faith!
Thank you for the recommendation! I have never heard of it, but will definitely look into that!
I am interested in the range of text features in bold and caps and then dash and apostrophe. The dialogue. It feels like an internal conversation, maybe a self testimony that you can save in writing, in this form. Seems like you are a late night writer. Maybe ideas come to you at the end of the day. Mine tend to come as I see people in the world. You are likely noticing the wide range of topics and writing routines that you see in your students, too.
Gavriel,
The title and first line from each stanza speaks to your reader. This is a poem of faith, belief and encouragement. Thank you
Love the sense of rhythm in this poem.
Gavriel, your poem is jubilant. From the title to the opening stanza, you show the power of being saved, how it lifts the soul. I appreciate the words with all caps and the closing stanza with the bold lettering emphasizing the message of Father, Christ, and the Spirit. Thank you for sharing this powerful poem that speaks directly to one’s faith and heart.
Gavriel,
I like how the poem moves through the past, present, and future by using “saved” to show an ongoing spiritual journey rather than a single moment. The repetition and capitalization give it a powerful, almost sermonic rhythm that reinforces its message of faith and transformation.
Glenda and Barb, thank you for this encouragement to say something hard. Oof. Both your poems hit me for different reasons. Barb, the movement between “him” and “we” is so interesting to me in your poem. There is an intimacy and an observational quality to the pain. Glenda, the flippant sensation in the first line of “pops the top” followed by the bleak and serious truths to follow was haunting.
I wrote my poem today about a beloved colleague.
Scott
he used green Pilot Precise pens and
drank tiny cups of instant espresso
each day during fifth period.
sometimes, he would burst into your class
with a silly question about capitalization,
just to rile up the kids and remind us all
that English (and life) is full of glorious contradictions.
he wrote emails laced with perfect diction
and inside jokes that included everyone,
so witty
it’s taken me nine years to write this poem,
knowing I could never capture him, really.
in addition to teaching high school juniors to
appreciate anadiplosis and Hamlet,
he had other jobs:
to adjourn the annual union meeting in his booming tenor
to encourage a higher caliber of potluck dishes
to remind administration that our plates were of finite size
his last May (we thought just for retirement),
he gave me a blue glass Taliesen mug
and all his AP Lang files;
we awaited his cranky old man podcast and
the IPAs we would sip on his front porch
while we regaled him with the gossip
he would so badly miss
he and Heather were supposed to spend September
on Lake Superior
(two teachers had never taken a fall vacation)
at his August funeral, when they asked, “friends or family?”
we said, “English Department” and that category was, too,
sacred.
Brenna,
My heart feels the pain, the admiration, the spirit of your colleague. This is so heavy and reminiscent of a former colleague who died five months after retiring. He was in another department (science), but we bonded over our mutual dislike of our principal at the time and philosophy of teaching. I want to say life is unfair, but it is just life. I see why writing thus took so long. Those ending lines speak truth to the idea being the English department didn’t fit into a beat category. As a retired teacher myself, I’ve both shared stories of former colleagues and heard the stories shared about me. We are narratives, the stuff of life in all its messy glory. Thank you for introducing us to your colleague, and thank you for sharing his story.
Oh, this poem serves as a witness to a life and a teacher life. English department. Wow. So many develope as a beloved (or dysfunctional found family) and there are stories there, and also a kind of love and respect, for we all care for other people’s children and the literacy lives of hundreds of kids. And you show there are also dimensions of our colleagues’ lives we can never know or might have a sense of, too. All of this, you have me thinking about. Most of all, I am sorry for your loss.
Brenna, oh damn! Your poem has me in tears. I am so glad I was able to meet your colleague, Scott, through your poem this morning. Wow, what a tribute. I can feel the energy Scott exuded, bursting into a classroom asking a question, inspiring students to love Hamlet and the spoken word. I am just so sad that he never got to enjoy a fall vacation. I’ve lost colleagues, too, right before they were to retire, etc. Life is so dang hard, but your poem lifts Scott’s personality and spirit. I am so glad you were able to write and share this poem. Thank you!
Brenna, this is so beautiful and heart wrenching. I am in tears reading it, so thank you for sharing such personal experiences with us!
Dear Poet Friends,
Thank you for sharing your gifts today. Thank you for trusting us with your stories. Thank you for making visible vulnerabilities, secrets, parts of your heart. I will check back one last time tonight. I’ll try to return some time Thursday, but it might be later in the day. Good night and blessings to you all.
Thank you, Glenda, for hosting with me.
Ethical ELA Community, I also want to thank everyone who shared their poetry with us. It takes courage to not only share your poetry but also your hearts. I felt deeply moved by the poetry today. May poetry continue to support and heal you during difficult times or provide joy while sharing it with others.
Safe travels and may the end of your school year be blessed and not so stressed!
Barb
Barb and Glenda, what a treat to have you both to host us today. I was praying for time earlier in the day, but time escaped me. I chose a line from your inspiration statement to compose another Golden Shovel. I’m a little sad that we are approaching the end of our writing month. 😢
What Poetry Offers
April is poetry month and We
write with the Ethical ELA community everyday. We believe
emotions, events, and ideas bring poetry
to the page. A quick trip through the imagination offers
a kaleidoscope of varied and unique
possibilities. We ponder the many ways
to rhyme and flow, to
present abstract thoughts and make
the reader see and feel the
impossible, inconceivable, and invisible
realities in verse. We shamelessly share hard truths
or dark secrets sitting in our marrow. and
our most cherished experiences
in April come towards the end of
our month when we celebrate knowing that life
is more than what is visible
it breathes inside line breaks, stanzas and
in written words and in those on our lips ready to be heard.
©Stacey L. Joy, 4/29/26
Ahhh, I felt my heartstrings pulled hard when I got to the part about life is more than what is visible followed by poetic language. Your poetry is always such a gift! I hope you are putting a chapbook together of your golden shovel poems because they are always amazing! Thanks for celebrating this community in your poem today! Hugs!
Stacey,
This has been a heavy day, much heavier than I expected, but gurl, your poem squeezes my heart. I am so honored to read this gorgeous poem, honored to learn you found inspiration in our words. It’s truly a gift, this community, this friendship grown from the seeds of poetry Sarah planted back in 2019.
“We shamelessly share hard truths
or dark secrets sitting in our marrow”
has been a theme today, for sure. It’s hard for me to disclose personal truths here. I need to do better at trusting. I so appreciate and value your witness to the power of poetry. Thank you for being here and for inspiring me w/ your gift and life.
Stacey, what a great idea to use a line from the prompt–and a really beautiful sentiment–as the anchor line for your golden shovel. The fluidity of your verse is always amazing and I keep reading through this, hearing the repeated P sounds and S sounds and the rhythms of balanced words and phrases. And i couldn’t agree more with your characterizations of the communnity and the power of sharing our experiences together for this month!
Oh, Stacey, I love how you captured the sensations of the month, especially with the line, “impossible, inconceivable, and invisible”--it really is remarkable the way our words clarify and connect us to one another. The last line is perfection. I have enjoyed reading your work this month.
Yes, Stacey. This month has been an endeavor to make visible in the fonts and white spaces here landscapes of our lives. Present, past,tomorrow’s, liminal, concrete, abstract, and dreams still forming, almost here. It is an honor to witness these forms of our lives emerge. I think of it as a miracle almost. Just days ago, these words didnt exist in quite this way. And then a friend, Glend and Barb, ask us to consider writing about this, telling us we dont have to or that we can find our own way today, and look. Look what you made. And the beauty. Day after day, Stacey.
Barb and Glenda, thanks for hosting today, for the prompt (that I was kinda struggling with!) and for your two different takes on it in your poems!
Group Pic
the night
i was late
for the group
picture wasn’t
because I
fell asleep
or brain farted
or had to attend
to one calamity
or another.
truth is,
i sat
in my
room
alone,
unable
to move,
feeling
apart,
convinced
I wouldn’t
be missed.
i felt bad–
but better–
when I
got the
text–
“where are you?
we were waiting,
but we have to
do it tomorrow,
we couldn’t
take the
picture
without
you”
Oh, Dave, I am deeply moved by your poem. The feelings of uncertainty and feeling as though you don’t fit in speaks volumes. I’m glad the poem shifts to the narrator receiving text that does let him know he matters. We surely do not always know what thoughts are running through a person’s mind and your poem is a reminder that we need to be gentle with each other. Thanks for sharing!
Dave,
’Preciate you and this poem. I know it’s late on the east coast, but here you are w/ a poem that echos the universal experience of feeling unimportant. We humans aren’t very good at seeing our own value to others, it seems. Yet the sadness of sitting alone only to learn of one’s importance to others is a perfect ending to this day. Thank you for the vulnerability in this verse and for hanging in until the muse inspired you.
Dave, I love how you captured this universal feeling in short lines. That second stanza starting with “truth is,” was such a punch. The ending dialogue is perfect in assuaging the insecurity. “bad–but better” is such a great line too. Thanks for sharing this.
I am holding space for this speaker. The “feeling apart” that we can carry with us to many scenes and yet also can be our own narrative of coming to know what belonging feels like. I often wonder if there is such a thing, knowing we belong, or if it is a belief or if it is a text. Here we see it is the person who notices her absence and tells you so. Or the speaker. Not sure if the speaker is you.
Love this. The halting line lengths really underscore, imo, the content.
Dave, this was wonderful to read! The feelings you write about in your poem I deeply relate to, and I really appreciate your honesty and vulnerability!
Aw Dave, I love this piece. This is such a universal feeling so many people have but are unable to express. Especially for me, this is a feeling I’ve had more times than I could count and you have been able to say it in a magnificent way. Thanks for sharing!
Farmer’s Daughter
dad at the kitchen table covered with
an array of invoices and bills of sale
“are the crops going to make it?”
tired sighs and “it will work out”
somehow, someway it always does
riding along to check the cattle
or cut the wheat
“hick” “uneducated” “poor”
6 plus generations
boiled down to stereotypes from big city folks
my childhood revolved around the clock
that is farming and agriculture
my summers ordained by harvests
and the early mornings and late nights of my father
the hardest worker i have ever known
i look like my mother
but i am my father’s daughter
raised by hard work
stubborn, tenacious, and sometimes mouthy
i am the farmer’s daughter
remember to thank a farmer
when you sit down for dinner
walk through the grocery store
because
they make the world go round
Kenna, farm life is extremely hard and your message is an important one. I really appreciated your phrase “ordained by harvests”. Your poem is a wonderful tribute to your father and how he impacted you. Thanks for sharing!
Kenna,
My husband spent his career in agriculture and often lamented that people have no clue where food comes from, and so your poem and what it makes visible about the hard work and financial challenges of farm life resonate w/ me. I really feel seen in the line “stubborn, tenacious, and sometimes mouthy.” Thank you for making seen an important part of your life and of that of many students.
Kenna, this is a beautiful tribute to your father and to his hard work and resilience. That 3rd stanza and the imagery of the clock and time that sets up the early mornings and late nights is really striking. And your last stanza is so true.
Kenna, I love the opening stanza–“dad at the kitchen table covered” is such a reminder about all the tension and behind-the-scenes worry that is on top of the hard work of the day. I also was delighted by the line “i look like my mother/but i am my father’s daughter” because it rounded out the family experience and brought you into the story.
Kenna, I loved the authenticity of this piece. Farmers are under rated. People do not value the kind of hard work they put themselves through. Farmers truly do run the world. Young farmers are harder and harder to come by, and many people are completely estranged to what farming and farm life is, which is one of the many reasons farmers are so under appreciated. I personally believe farmers should be celebrated! Love your work here!
Oh, so lovely. Look luke my mother. Father’s daughter. A very humanizing first few stanza uncovering narratives of countries and country. And then the final stanza is a turn to directly call for some action, to name the collective you.
Kenna, love the picture that you create and the message here. Thanks to him and to your family for the work that you did and that you do!
Barb and Glenda, thanks for the opportunity to let this poem be drawn forth today. I’m coming up on the anniversary of a loss of a dear friend, and this pantoum proved cathartic to write.
“To Elaine”
I lean upon my window frame
Sight unseen, the cardinal speaks:
Elusive friend, her loss proclaims
And with each note my feelings peak.
Sign unseen, the cardinal speaks
And calls to mind the notes I wrote
And with each note my feelings peak
As, on my phone I scroll —
And call to mind the notes I wrote
To dearest friend, departed late,
And on my phone I scroll
As, silently, I curse the fate
of dearest friend, departed late,
Whose steadfast presence was a rock
And, silently I curse the fate
That left me lost and shocked.
Your steadfast presence was a rock.
Companionship is still, now, mourned,
I’m left at sea and lost, still shocked,
As anniversary dawns.
Oh, Wendy, I understand the need to write about personal loss when certain dates occur. Your pantoum is gorgeous. A perfect form for sharing loss. The shock, the loss, the grief resonates throughout this one. Hugs!
Wendy,
This is an exceptional pantoum. I am in awe of how beautifully crafted it is and so very sad about the loss of your friend. I hope you’ll have the chance to share this poem gift w/ her family. The image of a robin is particularly gorgeous. I hope scrolling through photos and remembering are cathartic as you near the anniversary of your friend’s death. Thank you for sharing this heartbreaking memory. Your poem has touched my heart.
What a lovely tribute to your friend. I haven’t thought of the pantoum this way, but in your hands, it’s one of those forms that … that resists loss, that preserves as best as it can.
Wendy, this is a lovely tribute to your friend! I love the line “whose steadfast presence was a rock / And, silently I cure the fate / that left me lost and shocked.” Grief and loss are ugly monsters that take so much and give so little.
This is really strong. I like how the repetition works because it gives the poem a steady rhythm that matches how grief comes in waves. The contrast between the cardinal and the phone makes it feel really real and present. The ending sticks with you and feels honest, not forced or wrapped up too neatly.
Wendy, I loved reading this beautifully sad poem. I find that writing about my grief journey helps me a lot, so thank you for sharing a glimpse of what this might be like of you. So sorry for your loss!
“Poetry offers unique ways to make the invisible truths and experiences of life visible and heard.” I will incorporate these words into my discussions with students about why we read poetry. Thank you.
Thanks for the note, Allison! Take care!
Allison,
Your note has made my day. Thank you! 🥰
Yes! Love this, love your note. My whole thing in poetry is making those truths that feel too hard to say out loud and turning it in a beautiful piece that feel heard.
Thank you for the prompt today. I did not expect this memory to be the topic of the poem for today. I had another idea in my mind but when I went to write, this is what flowed out.
The Song We Never Shared
All eyes are on the bride and her father
poised facing each other
holding hands
looking into each others’ eyes
smiling
the song of choice begins to play
they sway
gracefully move around the ballroom
Memories of her as a newborn,
toddler, child, teen
race through his mind
as he beams with pride
tinged with a smidge of sadness
at the amazing woman looking at him eye to eye.
As her white dress sways in rhythm
father-daughter memories sashsay
through her mind
teasing smiles and tears across her face
as she radiates love for her precious dad.
Wedding guests watch
this demonstration of lifetime love-
some with smiles and others with happy tears.
Often, I need to walk away.
A sadness
for a loss of this special moment
that was stolen from me.
I was a high schooler when he left this world.
Many life milestones reached without his presence
but this special father-daughter moment
rises my heartbreak each time I witness this tradition
from the sideline.
Still, I long for this dance
my father smiling at my womanhood
reflecting my childhood in his eyes
me beaming at the first man who showered love and safety all around me-
we dance in my mind
imagining his face and mine
swaying to “You are My Special Angel”
as the final notes fade
to silence
Omg! Tears. Your poem brought back a flood of memories. We played “You are My Special Angel” at my father’s funeral. Family events like the father daughter dance do trigger so many emotions and memories. I love how you pull the reader into the scene, showing the love and the loss. Your final lines are particularly poignant. The silence resonates! Thank you for sharing your amazing poem.
At first I was struck by the tense usage in the first part of the poem and wondered if you were sharing a memory of you and your father from third person point of view. Then I came to the revelation your father passed when you were a teen. I was 16 when my father died, and like you, I have crested special moments in my mind and pondered all the memories we did not share. I also “long for this dance….” We are almost 51 years into this loss, and the longing is still strong.
Oh, that shift. I didn’t pay attention to the title so I was completely taken off guard. My heart hurts for you.
Yes, poems surprise us from time to time. This poem begins with such an idyllic narration of a father-daughter dance until you shift to the loss and sadness. I sense your ache and longing and hope you have memories of your father where he smiles and shows his endless love for you. Wishing you peace.
This is really moving. I like how you start with a universal moment that everyone recognizes and then shift into something much more personal. That contrast makes the ending hit harder. The imagery is clear and easy to picture, and the imagined dance at the end feels really emotional without being overdone. Really wonderful piece.
A Sad Diagnosis
A new diagnosis
lifechanging
draining
painful
No research done
No way to help me
no way to relieve the pain
No information on how to manage
Sad news
No positive comments
Told I would never have the one thing I want
A family
Kassidy,
I am so very sorry. Truly. This poem is heartbreaking, and I want to fix and make right this awful reality. There are no words”positive comments” to offer, but please know you are among people who care and feel deeply the pain our poet sisters feel.
Oh no, Kasidy, I am feeling the weight of your poem. Not getting the answers you need is terrifying and being told you’ll never have a family is beyond painful. I’ve actually been in that situation. Keep searching for health care providers. I know that probably seems like weak advice but it’s amazing what you can find when you seek more opinions. Thanks for sharing your poignant poem. Hugs!
Oh. Kasidy, I am so-so sorry you have to go through this pain. I wish there could be a miraculous treatment. Sending kind thoughts your way. Please, keep writing and sharing. Being heard and seen helps a little.
Kasidy. I am not sure if the speaker of this poem is you given the topic, so I will say the line breaks here show how a poem can serve as a confession and truth for others to witness, so the speaker need no sit with news alone. The readers in this space can see the the scene so clinically. Clearly no poet was in the room for comfort if there could be any. Hugs to the speaker.
Hi Sarah, thank you for the perspective on the poem, and I like how you said it can serve as a confession. I wanted to clarify that the speaker is me. Thank you for the hugs.
Last year I read a book that exposes all of the ways that women have been ignored in research and design. I think about it often and crafted this prose poem to capture some of what she said. I focused only on some things in the book and left out so many other things in society that could be added. Feel free to add your own in a comment.
If Women were as Important as Men
Mammograms wouldn’t squash boobs into pancakes. Medical problems unique to women, like PMS, menopause, dysmenorrhea would have long ago had better treatments. Piano keyboards would be smaller. Voice-recognition software would be more accurate. Public restrooms for women would be twice as large as men’s. Breast pumps would be more user-friendly. Maternity leave would be looong. And paid. Female crash test dummies would’ve been used prior to 2011. Top shelves would be lower. Caroline Criado Perez wouldn’t have needed to write Invisible Women. I wouldn’t be writing this poem.
Birth control wouldn’t be painful with a long list of side effects. Tampons would be free. Pink tax wouldn’t exist. Femininity would be seen as a strength and not an insult that men use against each other. Amazing concept and all too true! Bravo!
Cheri,
I can’t begin to tell you all the times I’ve gotten on a soapbox about these issues. We women must settle for whatever men want, whatever the research dictates for men. It is maddening. I remember when my district’s insurance paid for Viagra and not birth control. I hope the men here read your poem. It’s a righteous testament to the learning our country needs. Bravo!
Cheri, your poem speaks directly to my heart. I love how you’ve captured significant instances where women are not considered. Surely, the mammograms could still improve but the maternity issue must be addressed. I love how your poem ends! This is one to share around the world. Thank you for sharing it here!
Such fantastic examples of things we women endure. Love how specific they are.
Cheri, these are all so important to notice. To add, women wouldn’t need to always have to prove they are able to accomplish things; they are worthy; they are enough. It’s a shame this country can’t afford to provide paid maternity leave at least up to a year.
“Leave no trace”
“Leave places better than you found them”
Advice I received in early backpacking days.
For me, the point of hiking is to be invisible,
Simply to enjoy the place I’m in
Without causing damage.
A (sort of) fly on the wall.
But when I step onto the trail,
Or just out on the street for a walk,
There are traces:
orange peels that somebody thinks will magically compost when left on the ground
(Psst . . . compost and dissolve are not synonyms)
granola bar packaging
those little iridescent Vodka bottles that kids sneak out of the house and then consume on the trail
tissues that fell out of pockets
I think nature would prefer that we pick up after ourselves,
That we choose invisibility again.
Right on, Sheila! I back pack as well and know exactly how messy and uncaring people can be.
So true, Sheila! This applies not just to backpackers, but walkers, too. I’m surprised about the amount of trash even when I take neighborhood walks. Thanks for bringing this topic up today.
Sheila, what a fantastic poem to remind us how precious nature is and that we need to leave it better than when we arrived. Being invisible in nature is such a compelling message and I love how you open with the sage advice you have received while hiking. Powerful reminder about the fragility of our world and how we need to cherish it.
Sheila,
People can be so gross and disgusting. Litter in the U.S. angers me. It’s the byproduct of selfishness and privilege. Where are you hiking? I don’t see the kind of refuse you describe much in the West, at least not in my part of the West. I do agree with the ending here:
“I think nature would prefer that we pick up after ourselves,
That we choose invisibility again.”
As a fellow hiker your message is right on! The lines “For me, the point of hiking is to be invisible, simply to enjoy the place I’d in”- YES!
Sheila, I’ve seen things that don’t belong in parks and trails. Some people just don’t care, and I always think if they do the same at home. I wish they were more respectful to nature. I like your final two lines.
Yes, Sheila! “[O]range peels” and “granola bar packaging” and “little iridescent Vodka bottles” are wonderfully vivid details of these “traces” that people leave behind. I agree totally with you, “I think nature would prefer that we pick up after ourselves.”
Sheila, I think you capture nature’s disgust and annoyance with litter bugs perfectly. Humans have lost the art of leaving no trace and have started to let the earth pick up after them.
Thank you Barb and Glenda for your prompt today and for your moving pieces. Both of your pieces deeply moved me. There are endless topics that I thought of to write about, so it was tough choosing just one, so I wrote two! They could use some tweaking, but as always, I just let my mind wander and wrote down what comes to it. Thank you for giving all of us writers a space to speak about the unspoken.
Casserole.
There is no funeral
No flowers
No casket and no body
There is no I’m sorry for your loss
No burial and no gravestone
And no one with a casserole on my front door step
You are gone
But your heart continues to beat
Pumping the same blood that I’m partially filled with
That is cold to the touch
Blood that rushes into my cheeks
Each time your name is mentioned
Not out of embarrassment
But out of shame
To share a last name
Knowing the person you are
I don’t shed a tear
But for the ghost, the mere silhouette
Of who I dreamt you could be
I weep
Like I am front row
At a funeral
Staring at an empty casket
Fading.
The sun slowly disappearing below the horizon
A fire longing to be fed as it slowly dissipates, leaving behind burning embers
A smile that slowly fades after every empty “i love you”
But even a little bit of warmth is better than none at all… right?
Kaylee, both of your poems have a sadness about them. The first one left me with a lot of wondering. The ending is a very strong image.
Kaylee,
In “Casserole” the repetition of “no” has the effect of driving home the absence of traditional funeral markers, making the questions about the type of grief here compelling. As is Mo, I’m left w/ so many questions about this loss, but I feel the sadness and grief inherent in both poems.
To clarify, the poem ‘Casserole’ is about grieving someone who is still alive 🙂 I hope that brings more clarity!
Kaylee, your poem “Casserole” is such a fresh title for the experience you share in the poem. I can understand the feelings of embarrassment and there’s nothing done to acknowledge this significant loss even though the narrator shares that they do not shed a tear and that they feel shame. This idea is provocative because it has me wondering about the reason this is true. Then when the poem shifts to
But for the ghost, the mere silhouette
Of who I dreamt you could be
I weep
Such a heavy thought full of heartache.
I really appreciate the ending question in “Fading.” Thanks for sharing your artistry with us today!
Kaylee, isn’t it a blessing to have family, friends, and nature that remind us that we are not alone? We may miss the casserole, but then take a walk, watch the weather, see the flowers and skittering animals, and know that this sadness, too shall pass, but we may be reunited in another time and place.
Thank you all! To clarify, the poem ‘Casserole’ is about grieving someone who is still alive 🙂 I hope that brings more clarity to it!
Kaylee, I love the way you have written ambiguity into Casserole! The tone of sadness and loss that you make us feel, but still leaving us room to wonder and question is remarkable.
Barb and Glenda — Thank you for co-hosting today and sharing poetry that’s emblematic of the hard stuff. I really appreciate your invitation to explore vulnerability. Today, I went to my first burial and I have to say it was really hard. I have been to funerals, wakes, and cremations, but this was an entirely different experience. My heart goes out to my friend who will be a widow now– it all seems so unreal.
Dua
Wind chimes whisper
creating sounds
that linger
Tears flow
Sobs and sniffles
Eyes welt
Landscapers do their part
Dirt leveled
Burial happens
Imam invites
us into prayers, Dua
Family and friends do their part
paying our respect
folding hands
with reverence
Tulip tributes
Visiting memories
of Morocco
of mint tea
His love affair with berets
His gentle heart
Huddling in a group hug
Holding on
Wondering if it hurts
to live
*Family and friends ask Allah to forgive the sins of the departed, which is referred to as “dua”
Darshna,
My condolences to your friend and to the family who now carry this sorrow. And although this is a painful experience, I am grateful to you for teaching me something new about a culture I don’t know enough about. I am awed by the tenderness of your words and the reverence in the tone of your poem. Each detail contributes to my understanding and experience, from Morocco, mint tea, tulips, etc. This poem is a gift, as are you to this writing community.
Thank you, Glenda for your support and kind words.
So many times it does hurt to live, Darshna. The concise word choice in your poem creates a feeling of sadness for me as I read. It’s a wonderful poem.
Darshna, I felt completely pulled into this funeral scene as I have attended plenty. The flowers, the tears, the memories, the living on with hurt all radiated from your poem. The landscapers doing their part is also vivid. Thanks for sharing the footnote at the end about “dua” and I want to extend my deepest sympathies to you and your friend. Being a widow, losing your life partner, oh that is heavy. The group hug and shared grief touched my heart.
Appreicate you and your ongoing support so much, Barb.
Darshna, I am sorry for your friend’s loss. I am joining you in dua to pray for peace. It does hurt to live, and time doesn’t heal; we just learn to live with the loss, one day at a time. Sending kind thoughts.
Who Knows?
The face radiates
beauty
but who knows
there is a deep
hole
inside
that is filled with
hidden treasure
and overgrown with past hurts?
Who knows the loneliness
while walking alone?
The chin is down
hair covering the face
while looking at feet
that carry the burdens of life.
Who knows the burning
steps from the past
that rise up to the future
hoping that someone
will take notice
say a word
and smile?
There is laughter and joking
in a crowd
concealing the
hunger inside
for connection
and friendship
but not knowing
because it doesn’t happen
in a world too busy
to tip a hat
as one passes by.
I like the repetition of that questions “who knows.” Also, the phrase “overgrown with past hurts” is wonderful too
I really the question, “Who Knows” as your title and exploration within the poem. It feels very reflective and universal in its theme. Thank you.
Your repetition of “Who knows” has me thinking about lines from a hymn I love: “In the quiet heart is hidden sorrows that the eye can’t see.” Your poem makes me want to pay better attention to people’s silent hurts.
Susan,
I appreciate this reminder that we don’t know what each person is carrying through life. We must ask that “who knows?” question constantly so as to be tender and gracious, which is not always easy. There really is a huge benefit to us when we lead w/ understanding, so I suppose I’m a bit selfish about this. Thanks for reminding me a face doesn’t always reveal what I need to know.
Oh, Susan, your poem is filled with loneliness and heartbreak. I can empathize with the subject as I view as one of the walking wounded. Someone who wants desperately to make a connection but still does not know how to make it. Crowds can be distant even though there is laughter and joking, but they’re too busy to notice another person hurting. Powerful poem! Thank you!
Redacted
You step off the plane
into the brochure you are so sure
is where you are.
The sun is digitally enhanced
for your pleasure.
The sand is warm, but not hot,
and you walk along shores
without removing your shoes
and you fail to notice the way we laugh
at you for that.
You step off the cruise ship
that is larger
than the hill it nuzzles,
looking for the beach
and the drink
and the curves of skin
you are so sure of.
You walk, soft bellied
and pink nosed, loudly exclaiming
your awe and wonder
and maybe you wonder
about the world you are visiting,
but probably you do not.
Ooh, that last stanza! Such a zinger about moving through the world without being aware of tourism’s negative impact.
Jonathan,
I like your version of “Redacted” featuring the title of my poem today. I actually do think about the fiction we construct about our vacation destinations and explore this theme in a poem a few years ago during a trip to Hawaii. These ideas are worth shining a light on often. One person’s vacation paradise is another person’s daily life.
Jonathan, I am fascinated by your narrator’s voice; I’m wondering if this is a native speaker or someone coming off the cruise ship. I really appreciate the second stanza because it sounds sexual and predatory: “looking for the beach/and the drink/and the curves of skin”…The soft bellied and pink makes me think someone’s privileged and on vacation. Compelling poem!
This reminds me of all the people who say they just love Mexico, and what they mean is they love their all inclusive resort. I think your last line is likely accurate. Your depiction of the tourist as “soft bellied / and pink nosed, loudly exclaiming” reminds me so much of an American tourist.
I love these moments: “The sun is digitally enhanced / for your pleasure” and “ and maybe you wonder / about the world you are visiting, / but probably you do not.” Thanks for crafting and sharing this, Jonathon!
Barb, this poem is a little longer than I usually write because I didn’t have the heart to delete lines to keep it short. You and others will see, this is History in Song in celebration of the United States Semiquincentennial. Stanzas from familiar patriotic songs.Five songs used in Anna’s CoachUp Podcast – Session Seven. Will be online next month. How many songs do you recognize, friends?
History in Song
Oh say, can you see
By the dawn’s early light
What so proudly we hailed
At the twilight’s last gleaming?
O beautiful for pilgrim feet
Whose stern impassioned stress,
A thoroughfare for freedom beat
Across the wilderness! America!
America! God mend thine every flaw,
Confirm thy soul in self-control,
Thy liberty in law!
God bless America, land that I love
Stand beside her and guide her
Through the night with a light from above
From the mountains to the prairies
To the oceans white with foam
God bless America, my home sweet home
God bless America, my home sweet home
God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,
Thou who has brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who has by Thy might Led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places,
Our God, where we met Thee;
Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;
Shadowed beneath Thy hand, May we forever stand.
True to our GOD, True to our native land.
We’ll walk hand in hand, we’ll walk hand in hand,
We’ll walk hand in hand someday.
Oh, deep in my heart, I do believe,
We shall overcome someday.
The Lord will see us through,
The Lord will see us through,
The Lord will see us through someday.
Oh, deep in my heart, I do believe,
We shall overcome someday.
Anna, I enjoyed reading this though confess it made me sad too..I recognized all the songs and am glad you closed with we shall overcome some day.
Anna,
I appreciate your poem’s honesty and hopefulness. The rhythm and lyrics are reassuring especially the last stanza.
Anna, what an interesting mix of music here. The passion for America rings through each line. I found “drunk with the wine of the world” intriguing. I’m not sure I’m familiar with that song. Your faith and patriotism are shining through this one. Thank you.
That line comes from “Lift Every Voice and Sing”. The original plan was to pull one verse, in chronological order, from each of the five songs. But… alas, this is what we got this time. Thanks for your prompt.
Anna,
I do recognize all the songs you’ve cut and pasted into this mashup. I’m old and grew up in church, which gives me a level of familiarity some of the younger teachers among us may not have. It might be helpful to let them know the entirety of your presentation is comprised of lyrics you’ve juxtaposed together in this patriotic tribute. Your belief and faith in our country is deeper than mine. I’m struggling with the idea of celebrating this upcoming milestone and have told my husband I want to be out of the country on July 4, which isn’t possible, sadly. I do see you’re in your self-promotion Yankee Doodle role and appreciate your steadfast commitment. Barb and I enjoyed working on today’s prompt and are thrilled you brought the red, white, and blue spirit to this space today.
Hello, my poem today is based on personal experiences. I struggled a lot in school and had many issues with feeling outspoken. The feeling I had growing up encouraged me to become a teacher to listen to my students, especially the outspoken ones.
Students get wronged
day by day
I had no voice
back in the day
We need to advocate
for unspoken problems
We need to give grace
to students’ needs
This is what empowers me
to be a teacher
But we also need to do better
for our future students
Sarah, I love the honesty in your poem. I couldn’t agree more about advocating for students’ unspoken issues and the way we need to offer grace. Allowing students to voice their problems, concerns, issues, opinions, etc. is truly important. Your students are lucky to have you. Sometimes the best teachers were not always the best students.
Sarah, I’m sorry your teachers didn’t hear you. Your poem offers powerful truths. “We need to give grace/to students’ needs.” I hope this poem finds its way to teachers and students who need it.
Sarah,
I suspect most in this community share your experience on some level. Like you, I took this advocacy for students role seriously. It can co
e w/ a professional cost. The best thing we can do for students is show we care and are listening. Thanks for sharing these heartfelt lines today.
Yes, I agree. Wonderful
Sarah,
It’s wonderful that your students benefit from your sense and sensibility. A necessary and important reminder to all educators–especially the ones that may be overworked and exhausted. Thank you.
Yes! Everything this poem says! We absolutely need to advocate for the struggles our students don’t– or can’t– voice.
Hi Sarah! I loved this poem. So much honesty, and I couldn’t agree with you more. We need to do better for our students, and we need to advocate for them more.
Just the other day
I was reminded again
There was another place I had called home.
Students needed to complete a test.
We didn’t know each other so
I welcomed them into my space.
Someone blurted out, “Where are you from?”
Fifty years into my sojourn,
With God’s grace I simply said, “The Philippines!”
“My grandpa is from Mexico. He talks like you.”
I just smiled and asked, “Ready to do Math?”
Cayetana, I love the keen focus you’ve captured in this scene. The way a student asks a sudden question and how in this poem, the instructor leads the student back to the task at hand. I love the way you open this poem and establish a thought about home. It immediately hooks the reader to wonder where home is. Very engaging poem!
A moment of connection caught in a poem – delightful and touching!
Cayetana,
I love this reminder that there are other places we’ve called home. I try to ask folks I meet “where is home for you?” because the “where are you from?” question is so loaded. I really want to meet your student. Clearly, there’s a strong connection w/you. Your poem makes me smile and brings me joy.
Cayetana, your first line just the other day drew me right into your poem, because yesterday King Charles referred to our upcoming 250th birthday as an event that had happened just the other day,,,I don’t know if that was intentional on your part, but it made me read your poem with a consciousness of time and the timelessness of home. A lovely poem!
I knew the royals were coming, but I didn’t hear any of his speech. What a coincidence!
Oh I love this connection with your student and the entire exchange embedded into a poem.
Cayetana, your poem shows how important it is to have educators from diverse heritages, faiths, races, and genders. Students light up when they see and hear familiar people and things in places of authority.
Hi Cayetana! Thank you for sharing this poem with us. It has a very strong message. I love how you structured this poem and the revelation of where you are from! I have had those moments where it is like I forget about my hometown, which shaped me into who I am today.
subtlety of invisible
the damp spot in the basement
a text typed but unsent
a fringe opinion
tone of voice
melting butter
words swallowed
absence
is invisible actually
ignored
unobserved
deemed irrelevant?
consider how bindweed and porcelain berry
weave beneath our feet
working quietly in the dark recesses, and
the surprise reveal
of their true nature
is one’s very garden
strangled
is invisible
clandestine?
(it hides within indivisible)
a tiny seed
shift in the clouds
first breeze of a hurricane
a twinkle in the eyes
first voice in a chorus
the way hair shifts on the neck
pen to paper
might invisible
instigate?
——————–
Thank you for this inspiring prompt, Barb and Glenda! I appreciate your poems and Kate Baer’s so much. Very sorry to see this month of poetry writing come to an end tomorrow – it’s been a joy.
Maureen, wow, what an amazing poem so full of concrete instances of invisibility. I love the compelling questions and how you captured both positive and negative invisible things in this poem. My favorite question “is invisible clandestine?” Wow, that is deep. You’ve crafted a gem here! Powerful and compelling poem!
Maureen, I read your poem and re-read it to savor the richness. The image of the bindweed and porcelain berry choking the garden, the “first breeze of the hurricane.” You made me SEE invisible in a whole new light.
Maureen,
Thank you for inviting us to consider the many types of invisibility. Your first stanza has me wondering about all the causes and constraints leading to the different types of invisibility in your list. I also wonder about the consequences of these invisible items:
Oh and your last question—so gentle and opening up so many more questions.
Maureen,
Ive read your timely poem several times. The idea of invisibility being hidden w/in indivisible is so relevant, important in this moment. The images of weeds remind me of Shakespeare, and the way forces work both for and against entities. We have to our detriment ignored the invisible forces that are destroying our democracy. Gods help us after today’s events.
Maureen, this is the poem that not only describes invisible but brings it into a discussion point! Not too long ago, I had a conversation with an 8 year old around infinity. Even if you cannot see or feel it, is it real and if you were to somehow find the end, shouldn’t you be able to touch it? I am going to bring this question back to that kiddo!
Tsunami
By Mo Daley 4/29/26
The innocent face
the inquisitive mind
the desire to please
Hide the incessant whirlpool
of emotions,
the boiling, roiling thoughts
that come seemingly from nowhere
And surface without warning
determined to hurt
anyone and everyone
even himself
I am defenseless
Mo, wow, I can feel this poem, having just spent a week with my toddler grandson. Tsunami is a great title, and that last line–so simple and yet declares a truth, without seeming to have options. So powerful.
That “surface without warning” gave me the chills; I relate to your unease and “defenseless” to such a challenging personality. Several faces came immediately to mind. I like the metaphor of the hidden whirlpool within, the “boiling, roiling thoughts.” Powerful.
Mo,
This poem magnifies the complicated emotions “that come seemingly from nowhere.” I’m awed by the ambiguity that belies familiarity and the way emotions can get out of hand and overwhelm all, including the one who owns the emotional response. Like you, in these moments “I am defenseless.”
Hi Mo, the ending of being defenseless is so powerful. Thank you for your poem today.
Yikes, Mo! I love the way you’ve captured this tsunami. The hidden depths of the whirlpool of emotions just ready to boil over is vivid. I understand those tempers that blow unexpectedly and love how your poem shows this in such a fluid and exquisite way. Separating “I am defenseless” adds an incredible impact just as a tsunami does. Love how cleverly you’ve crafted your poem today. An amazing metaphor and subject to reveal. Kudos!
Mo, your title captures the poem character’s spirit. The untamed emotions that “surface without a warning” can be tricky. I am familiar with feeling defenseless looking into the “innocent face.” Ending with the final line without a period makes me linger longer on that line in search of the resolution. Very well crafted!
Mo, this poem fills me with the terror you describe. I hope the tsunami is an out of control toddler or teen (they are basically the same) or a dog that needs lots of training; yet, whatever it is, I hope you are safe. This is powerful.
You have described the whirlpool of emotions in a young person so well. I have seen the “explosion” from the surface without warning that comes from temper tantrums in children.
Barb and Glenda,
Thank you so much for the mentor poems. The Kate Baer poem is so lovely. “How lucky are we to know a love like this.” Barb, you poem has me thinking and praying this morning. So, so powerful and painful. Glenda, I can read this two ways to read this thought: “it doesn’t take / black ink to redact / our stories” I’m taking it today that nothing as simple as a black Sharpie can take our stories away. We will rise above. Thank you both for hosting today. I did try to write about something that is often invisible to me, until after a conversation like we had this morning.
Commitment
You, in your contentment to be still
Me, in my restless longing for more
You, in sleeping and sweeping
Me, in seeking and completing
Us, in correcting, in expecting
Promises in sickness and health
in thinking and understanding
in clinging and commanding
we are in it for better, for worse,
even when our currents seem adverse
Denise,
I feel the tug and push, they on and yang in your poem. Keith and Ken are similar. You and I are alike in our “restless longing for more.” It’s hard for us to sit by and be content, isn’t it. Yet in all circumstances we choose the “for better or worse…even when our currents seem averse.” I love the flow in these lines and the compare/contrast structure of your poem Hugs.
Denise, I totally relate to this. I’m surprised by the invisible force that leads to these moments of seeming denouement in my marriage – and then it always ebbs, just this wave passing through… as you write “currents seem adverse.” I love the subtle rhyming (assonance?) throughout these two lines especially –
Denise, commitment is the perfect title, and it immediately opens the door to the differences a couple faces throughout a partnership. I really appreciate the action verbs chosen in this one such as seeking, understanding, clinging, commanding. Each one carries a separate emotion. The adverse currents can really cause a riff. I can understand the difficulty created when people have two different approaches to life. I know I deal with this often and often consider how I am going to navigate a particular desire, sometimes abandoning it all together because it’s just too hard. Hugs, friend. Love your poem and hope the tides will be more in your favor.
Denise, my husband and I are approaching our 30th wedding anniversary in June. I can relate to every line of your poem today! 🙂
Denise, I really loved this. The contrast between “sleeping and sweeping” and “seeking and completing” feels so real. You perfectly capture how two people can be in the same room but in totally different headspaces. It actually made me think a lot about my own marriage. I often wonder if there’s ever a perfect balance, or if one person always feels like they’re carrying the “expecting” part while the other is just “being.” But your last few lines reminded me that even “when [the] currents are adverse,” that core commitment, the die-for-each-other kind of love, is there. Thank you for sharing!
Denise, this is a great testament to the give and take that allows a marriage to ride “even when your currents seem adverse.” The two stances are clear at the beginning and come together, kindly, toward the end.
Marriage has bonds that can be visible as well as the invisible. You made me remember numerous years I had with my husband. So often he was the content one and I was the one wanting more. He was sleeping and I was seeking. However, overall our relationship was fantastic for better and for worse.
Barb and Glenda, I loved your prompts and poems! This pushed me to go a bit out of my comfort zone for what my poem is about, but I think it turned out great! From my childhood to now I’ve learned many different things, but the biggest was learning to love the world around me, including myself. I hope you enjoy my poem titled:
The Rebuilding
I used to take everything for granted.
The friends I had. The life I had.
The clothes on my back and shoes on my feet.
It’s a peculiar feeling to have,
one where you thought you’d feel one way
then felt another.
The feeling of everything being stripped
from your hands.
Unknowingly losing everything
before standing up.
Having to rewire your brain
to realize,
the reality you made before
needed some revisions.
It wasn’t my fault.
My father raised me this way.
Receiving the basic necessities,
expecting more than what’s given.
A simple way of saying ungrateful
without the words ever leaving my mouth.
But I lost everything.
The world that surrounded me crumpled
at the touch of my care.
So, I rebuilt.
I shaped my reality around me.
I am more grateful than I have ever been.
Grateful that I get to wake up and see another sunrise.
Grateful I get to have an education.
Grateful I have friends and family around me who care
more than I even know.
Grateful that I am getting to experience this ‘future’
I thought I would never make it too.
And maybe that’s the point.
To lose what once felt permanent
so, I learned how to hold the world gently,
softly put in my pleading hands begging for forgiveness.
I am grateful
not for what I lost,
but for who I became
when I rewrote my reality to begin again.
Angie,
I enjoyed reading your poem very much and find its tone and content comforting. I’m especially drawn to
“And maybe that’s the point.
To lose what once felt permanent.”
This is so hard for many accustomed to having so much, both the tangible and intangible. Yet rather than bitterness, there is so much gratitude in your life and words. I appreciate the lived reality you’re sharing here today. Thank you.
I love this Angie, especially the stanza beginning and maybe that’s the point. Lots of wisdom here…
Angie, wow, this is gorgeous. I love how you went out of your comfort zone and wrote this today. What a succinct and beautiful description of what you learned here: “ I learned how to hold the world gently, / softly put in my pleading hands begging for forgiveness.” There is some true wisdom.
Powerful poem. That twist early on
makes me think you were still quite young when everything fell apart, yet your resilience led the way. Gratitude is a beautiful place to live.
Angie, I am so glad you were able to write this poem today. Sometimes life has a way of shifting our entire purpose and perspectives. I love your honesty in this poem and how you felt you once took everything for granted. Rebuilding a life is not easy. Accepting your flaws and building a better you are even more difficult. Thank you for sharing this deeply moving poem with us today. I love your last stanza and wish you healing and joy.
Angie, thank you for sharing! You were incredibly vulnerable with us by posting this today.
Thank you for sharing this poem. It showcases wisdom and growth learned from life experience. “I learned how to hold the world gently” – that line made me pause and wonder if I can do the same.
Angie, your transformative reflection is clear in this poem that becomes increasingly aware and focused on gratitude as it flows. I am still sorry for whatever lead to this awareness as i suspect it was painful; however, I totally get the rewards of “rewriting your reality to begin again.” I too have done that. I\
Hi Angie! This was beautiful! Thank you for sharing this poem with us. It is so deep. I can feel the emotion behind this poem, but still, it feels so calm and peaceful. I hope that is the life you are rebuilding for yourself, calm and peaceful.
Dear Barb and Glenda, thank you for bringing this prompt today, for your fierce, passionate love for words, for the mentor poems that tear my heart. Your poetry writing amazes me, and I am learning from you every day.
We Don’t Talk About War
When I talk to my sisters
in Crimea, occupied now,
we don’t talk about war.
We don’t talk about
how it split our family,
closed the roads between us,
made visits impossible.
We don’t talk about
the thousands who have died,
or how they lower their voices
when they say their sons’ names,
or how fear eats beside them
at the dinner table
with its quiet, constant,
bone-chilling presence.
We don’t talk about
how those sons
may be called to fight,
to kill those
who are ours.
We don’t talk about it.
We ask about the weather,
about what’s growing in the garden,
about what was cooked for dinner.
We say we are fine,
as if silence can keep us safe.
We don’t talk about war.
Phew. Last night, a Serbian man who teaches Math also discussed how so much history is not talked about in the U.S. (and across nations)…how the powerful make decisions that are often detrimental to real lives they could care less about. This is such a strong poem, Leilya. Glad you wrote/shared it here and I hope you will send this out into the world. Powerful.
Leilya, i am in tears about the reality as well as the huge losses you describe just by, “not talking about it.” You have bravely hinted at the huge and ongoing losses to your family that time alone cannot repair. I think of a long ago conversation about the ending of WWII with my father who noted strength, bombs, loss of life will not end wars; only humans, proficient with words, who finally wake up and weigh costs vs benefits honestly can do this. You are all in my thoughts and prayers.
Leilya, we were talking about Crimea today. Everywhere we are confronted with our Americanness and implications of our country. What some people want to talk about, war, and others, hot dogs or rock n roll. So weird how people avoid hard thinks to be politically correct or something else. Thank you forr exploring what we don’t talk about and naming the small talk of excuses.
Leilya,
I’m echoing Bryan’s comment and simultaneously angry and sad for the reality of your poem and the US government’s complicity in the evil perpetuated against the Crimean people. The lines
“fear eats beside them
at the dinner table
with its quiet, constant,
bone-chilling presence.”
are such strong personification. These lines remind me of a poem I shared w/ students many years titled “The Face of Poverty.” Like poverty, war is a squatter, an unwelcome guest we can’t evict on our own. And the repetition of “We don’t talk about war” smacks us from our self-imposed stupor and calls us to talk about war and do something to end it. Superb poem. Hugs and Peace to you.
Oh, Leilya, this breaks my heart. While I suspect we all have the things we don’t talk about in our families, few have things as serious and dangerous as war as the invisible.
Thank you for continuing to share so openly about your experiences.
Leilya, oh my, thank you for opening up and sharing this today. Wow. I didn’t realize, but of course, Crimea would have families affected by occupation. “We don’t talk about how those sons may be called to fight, to kill those who are ours.” How awful. I can see how talking of everyday life–weather, gardening, etc.–would just be more bearable than the unsolvable dilemma of war. I’m glad you could write about it here and share this burden with us.
“As if silence can keep us safe.” Oh, Leilya, this is such an honest poem, insightful. I hurt for you. The cruelty of laws that
is sickening … how many families suffer needlessly. Shattering.
Leilya, your poem is incredible. I am moved to tears. You show the real damage created by war. The fear eating beside the family at the dinner table is an image not easily forgotten. I love how you repeat “We don’t talk about the war.” The silence builds through the worry, knowing how the family has been split and possibly even more so if sons are called to fight. Your honest voice and direct language allow the poem to move effortlessly. I am so deeply sorry about this war. I wish more than anything we could have peace, joy and safety across the entire world. Thank you for sharing your incredible poetic voice today! Hugs!
Your poem is so clearly filled with pain and yet so gently written it feels like tiptoeing…whispering a heartbreaking truth. Thank you for sharing this.
Leilya, this is just so compelling: “how fear eats beside them at the dinner table with its quiet, constant, bone-chilling presence.” What could leave more unsaid than fear? To give it life and a place at the table seems too much but as a constant companion to families whose sons are at risk of being called to fight, how could it be anything else? Those last stanzas are powerful. Hugs.
Leilya,
This is so hard.
Thank you for bearing witness.
The frank discussion of tragedy against the understandable omission and shift to daily details and connections is heartbreaking.
Sending love.
So powerful. How much do we not talk about because it breaks the heart? In my class we do not talk about deportation.
Leilya,
There’s such a heaviness and earnestness in your poem. I love the repetiton of we don’t talk about it.. It is so delicate and intense at the same time. You are a master poet. Love the juxtaposition and metaphors. Sending hugs for your support and kind words.
Leilya, this is such a powerful poem. “We say we are fine, / as if silence can keep us safe.” So heartbreaking. Thank you for sharing this with us.
Barb, your poem forced me to close my computer and sit quietly for awhile, to say a prayer, to reflect. The dispassionate way you reveal Stage Four, the presentation of neat lines and contained metaphors belies the depth of feeling you roused in me— the distance we always try to keep between ourselves and cancer. Growing up my aunts wouldn’t even say the word and here you are paintings its picture. A powerful poem. I was grateful for Glenda brought me back to sharpie lines and erased signs that enrage me. Thanks to both of you for cohosting.
to open or not to open,
after all these years,
would blood still spill
or has it so long
coagulated, only
a rusty remberance
remains,
and would anybody care?
better to smile,
hide the scar,
pretend
she does not tremble,
I do not tremble—
(open or shut,
at least tell the truth):
memory moves through
my veins like a river,
a solitary river of tainted blood.
Ann, your poem sits heavy in the chest. I hear the ache in those lines, and the courage it takes to name it. I cannot imagine or pretend to know the size and depth of your scar, but I’m here with you sitting quietly and taking in your words. That river you describe… it feels like something no one should have to carry alone. Sending hugs.
Ann,
Im entranced by the deductive structure of your poem, and in my mind I reread it with the ending as the beginning: “memory moves through
my veins like a river,
a solitary river of tainted blood.” followed by evidence. This “tainted river” that is memory has me contemplating relationships and how I remember things others no longer care about. Lots to confront and contemplate in your poem. My brain is getting stretched w/ the profound insights you’ve offered. Thank you.
Oh, so haunting and candid. A confessional while honoring privacy while maybe not naming the thing that moves through. And in this way, it is a collective harm or a harm in which we can all move through, all with blood that can be a river, too.
Ann, your poem take my breath away with it timeless question of whether it is better to just move on, or not. Your memory going “through (your) veins like a tainted river” suggests to me that this is still and may always be, a strong thread running through you. While I cannot answer your question, I do know you have me thinking of all who hold secrets and parts of them that they have repressed for a zillion reasons and I can tell you (from my experience) that finding a forum like this writing community is more effective than years of $$$ therapy! I wish you hope and peace as you move on, day by day.
Ann, I love the way you open this poem with debating an action. Sometime revising the past is allowing a deep wound to reopen. The image of blood spilling, the rusty remembrance remains help establish the difficulty of this opening decision. I am especially moved by the speaker’s actions and thoughts. The question “would anybody care/” is relatable and depressing. I know the act of smiling, pretending and hiding.
The lines:
“I do not tremble—
(open or shut,
at least tell the truth):
illustrate the narrator’s pain. Then your last stanza is full of movement and tainted blood, solitary river, veins all add to the deep, residing pain which makes me want to say, “No, don’t rip the Band-Aid off the scar” because it all seems too painful.
Heavy poem, Ann. Thank you for honoring us with your excellently crafted poem.
Ann, your poem is a sad coupling with Leilya’s, offering another visceral example of the pain of silence. That “pretend” sitting alone on one line – yes, this is the societal ask, isn’t it? Powerful.
Okay. This was a poem I will sit with for a while. It is heavy and painful. There are lines that feel pulled deep from my own soul and experiences and lines that show a shared experience but phrased in a way that makes me pause and feel. Feel so, so much.
Barb and Glenda, your poems and your prompt have stirred my heart. Barb, your line, “the end is near” stirred thoughts about all the doctors who tell you to just take a pill and walk out of the room if you are over 65! I drafted that poem first. Then, Glenda, your line about the magic sharpie erasing so much I value in our society propelled me to draft a poem about the darker world surrounding us. Yet, your call to choose a topic “lifts a shroud to reveal what others may not typically see” begged me to rewrite on of the many poems and stories I have written about the loss of my family after my husband’s shattering decision to leave our family as we were about to become grandparents. I’ve been sad, embarrassed and climbed slowly out of the dark hole thanks to writing bits and pieces about the loss and bravely sharing and receiving feedback from this community.
Today I am sharing a poem loosely based on my cherished grands that is about anyone we might wonder about, and love, even though they are missing from our life. I am sharing this version from the perspective of a child,
I used to ask about him, wondering
If he liked to hike in the mountains, or wade
With shells in the morning, like she does,
I learned answers were empty
Like mom’s eyes when I asked
If he bear-hugged when she was sad, or played
Football and catch like my uncle, or
Stole her Halloween candy, or was her best friend?
It seemed as if the questions had no answer, so
Imagine if he were merely lost, took a wrong turn,
A journey into a dark, dense woods where
Tangled brush holds you from moving forward or
Back to those you love. Where dark shadows
Fill his heart with sadness, questions, misplaced
Love. Where he he wanders alone,
Wondering how tall I am, whether I love
Science (I do) and which flavor
I would choose at the ice cream shop (chocolate)
And if I think of him (I do), if there is a pathway
Out of the woods (I hope so).
Anita, thank you for sharing this amazing poem with us today. I love this perspective and all the questions a young child would ask in hopes of understanding someone who is not in their life but know they are important. I love bear-hugs and Halloween candy, specific everyday life kind of moments we can take for granted but miss desperately when we lose someone. Your use of parentheses helps emphasize the answers to some of the questions, but I also feel those dark shadows and the sadness tangled in the dense woods. Marvelous, poignant poem! Thank you!
Anita,
My heart is overwhelmed by the note you shared leading to your poem. You have reminded me of the profound power of community and writing in community. I often fixate on what frustrates me. You’ve given me a much needed shake and that Cher “snap out of it” slap from “Moonstruck.” ‘Preciate that. I love that you’ve written from a child’s point of view. Empathy is one of your super powers. I love the parenthetical answers and all the contemplation in your poem. Is it okay for me to be mad at your ex for blowing up your family? I hope you’ve learned what an amazing, strong woman you are in the aftermath. Hugs.
The italics and parentheses to some important care-work in this poem. Holding truth, maybe confession, maybe a voice that is healing and hoping.
Oh, Anita, thank you for sharing with us this poem from the child’s perspective. The child doesn’t understand complexities, but does understand love, bear-hugs, and spending time with people who care. I like how you include the child’s answers to the questions to show how eager the young one is to know a family member who’s “lost in the woods.” For a child to recognize mom’s empty eyes and connecting it to the absence of the other person seems like a heavy burden. You’ve crafted the poem that stirs deep emotions for me. Thank you!
Anita, thank you for trusting us, for sharing this painful reality with our community. What a beautiful, poignant choice of voice, to write from the perspective of a young grandchild. That “Imagine if he were merely lost, took a wrong turn,” – a child would have that kind of worry, that unending curiosity, that “but why, though?” I think, too, how some might call this “unspeakable pain” – and I am so glad you are writing into it, declaring it aloud. What a tribute to poetry, to write and release, and persevere with your full and loving life. Bravo!
I wonder if the title should be: “Music is Life.”? But I’m struggling to keep my head above water and honestly was too distracted to even proves the prompt.
Music Describes my Life
“Welcome to show
Step inside
Step inside”
This starts playing in my head
as I think about my life.
I think about
The chaos that described
2020; Covid.
This feels a little bit (lot)
The same.
I feel the mire
Pulling me down
I can’t breathe.
Someone laughingly says
“My life is sh*t show!”
And I say….
“Mine too. Mine too.”
I hear the carnival music
And smell the carnival foods
As the familiar theme
Plays in my head.
But this is real life.
And as I feel myself go under
Another anthem rings through my head
“Save my life I’m going down for the last time….”
-Carrie Horn
4-29-26
Carrie, I can hear each tune you’ve captured to show the feelings of overwhelming chaos that shares the narrator’s emotions and life. The repetition of “Mine too” adds to the cadence. I appreciate the carnival theme and the feeling of being on a crazy ride, one that most likely makes the subject feel nauseous and out of control. The closing lyric screams anxiety. Sending you positive vibes. Life can so damn tough. Hugs!
Carrie, those tunes bouncing around your head may also be evidence of the thinking and reflection trying hard to happen even as you very busy life has you spread as thin as a pb sandwich before payday. I send you hopes for some calmer moments and lots of positive vibes as you dance through this crazy life.
Carrie,
I hear the musicality and the chaos in your poem. I sense a need for some self-care in your words and hope you’ll do something for yourself today. Your poem is a gift to me. As Barb knows, the past week has been hard. I hope you have a Barb in your life for this moment when the refrain is “Save my life I’m going down for the last time….” Peace.
Carrie, your poem is so relevant to me these days, and I sing with you “Welcome to the show.” Someone needs to stop this show and let us get out of this “theater of life” to breathe and take a few hours (preferably days) to ourselves. Hang in there, friend, hopefully, a break is on the horizon. I like how you weaved the songs into the poem. Thinking about the title, maybe “Music of My Life” or like the first line “Welcome to the Show”?
Martha
She carried iridescence
Like Iris
A rainbow flowed from her smile
Inside her dreamer’s heart
She led an orchestra
A dance on a stage of hope
Take from her a gemstone
A glow that others can feel
Set it into a circle of gold
Wear this pendant like a shield.
Barb and Glenda,
Thanks for the prompt today. It helped me to write about the tragic loss of a young student. Such senseless violence in our world is unbelievable. But when it takes someone with such potential and beauty, it is devastating. I write to remind myself to take kindness and love into my heart even as I grieve.
Margaret, I am so sorry to hear about the passing of your young student. Your poem is a gorgeous tribute. Every line is a gift. I love the imagery of rainbows, a dreamer’s heart, and that she led an orchestra. The metaphor of her as a gemstone is precious. Thank you for sharing this heartfelt and poignant poem of a wonderful child taken far too soon.
Margaret, your words paint a priceless image of a treasure, lost much too soon, that leaves a “glow others can feel.” i struggle with the senseless loss of potential you describe. I hope you find some comfort in writing and knowledge you are not alone in your grief or sadness/
Margaret,
I am so deeply sorry and sad for your loss and for the grief you and others are experiencing. This poem speaks to my teacher heart that has know the profound grief that comes when a student dies. It is heartbreaking. In these moments writing is cathartic, a way to process feelings. I can’t help but notice all the artistic details in your poem: orchestra, dance, etc. These make me want to know more. They deepen my sorrow. Hugs and Peace to you.
Margaret, what a tragedy! Kids are not supposed to go before parents–this is so wrong. Thank you for this sorrowful tribute celebrating Martha Odom. This hits too close to home. I’ve been thinking about Martha and her family for days.
Margret, thank you for this today. I felt the imagery you used here with the gemstone and the orchestra.
Margaret, this poem is beautiful. I’m so sorry that you lost a student. “Take from her a gemstone/A glow that others can feel/Set it into a circle of gold/Wear this pendant like a shield.” – Those lines! I am awed by their simultaneous strength and tenderness.
Margaret,
Thank you for this beautiful tribute to your student.
Sending love.
Barb and Glenda, thank you both for this prompt – a call to bring something into the light. Your poems are powerful and do the hard work of revelation. Your prompt led me to celebrate a story my grandmother shared with me…a story type-written on a manual typewriter long before I was born, submitted for publication, rejected and returned, saved in a drawer, then given to me years later when I needed it most…when a story of mine fell short of acceptance.
And the Waters Rise
Her name was Rennie. I called her Gran, my grandmother, my father’s mother,
my best friend.
She wore red lipstick and painted her nails. She loved Jesus, and diamonds,
and my grandfather, and her two sons…and me.
Every night, she whispered her prayers.
She did not go to college, but she visited me at mine;
she read everything all the time.
She taught me the joy of reading in tandem, each of us lost in a good book
but always together.
A quilter and crafter, with a spare room full of notions,
she saved anything we might need.
“Gran, do you have three red buttons…
a pink marker…
silver glitter…
a yard of eyelet lace?”
“Does a wild bear poop in the woods?” was her reply, no matter the request.
She had it all.
Once, she handed me a letter, addressed to her from Reader’s Digest.
The salutation: “Dear Contributor” – a rejection letter for her true story
“And the Waters Rise”
about the ’57 flood that wrecked her home and how she rebuilt it,
alongside my grandfather,
carrying boards and nails and sheetrock until she thought her bones
“would surely break”
only to have floodwaters rise again six years later,
undoing all their hard work.
“As I sat there surveying all the things turned upside down in the mud,
that we could not save, I began to brood…”
She wrote about her neighbors who saw her sitting on the porch steps,
“…mud-streaked pants, an old flannel shirt, and boots two sizes too large…”
“Hey, come over,” they called to her, “We’ve got a pot of hot coffee,
no cookies,
no chairs to sit on,
but plenty of coffee.”
“What could be better than friends,” she wrote,
“who looked like Raggedy Anns and Andys,
sitting on the floor, sharing a cup of coffee,
laughing at our silly outfits and dirty faces…
as if we had not a care in the world.”
“A house is never the same after a flood,” she continued, “but it’s still home.”
Reader’s Digest thanked her for her interest and wished her
“better success with some later contribution.”
Their loss.
Her contribution was priceless.
Lori, wow, what a wonderful narrative poem to show your wonderful grandmother and her personality. I admire how you establish your relationship right from the start sharing that she was your best friend. I loved the part about how she would reply when you would ask her for an item like the pink marker, etc. The whole flood piece is absolutely riveting, and it is clear that Reader’s Digest sure missed the boat by rejecting her true story. Thanks for sharing your remarkable grandmother with her red lips, painted nails who loved Jesus and diamonds. Every line in your poem is rich!
Lori, what a touching tribute to your Gran Rennie. I love that she lives in your heart and her legacy is in you and your family. She reminds me my mother-in-law, who also “had it all,” whatever we asked her. I absolutely agree–Reader’s Digest lost a unique voice. You honored Gran’s word in this poem, and this priceless too. Thank you for sharing!
Lori,
Your grandmother was quite the storyteller, and you follow in her footsteps. Narrative poems are my jam, the reason I fell in love with/ poetry. I smiled at “She loved Jesus, and diamonds,” as this feels so Southern Baptist to me! I’m glad Reader’s Digest didn’t get the final word and that this story of strength and resilience has made its way to us.
I appreciate reading about your grandma as my grandma (mother’s mother) was special to me as well.
Super sad that Reader’s Digest said no to her.
Lori,
Such strong descriptions from both you and your grandmother.
These images are my favorite;
and
Thank you so much for sharing this story of love.
Lori, she would be so happy to know that today, so many read her story – – and even better than the Reader’s Digest version, her granddaughter told her story. I know she is smiling down. You gave her the best gift.
What a fascinating topic, Barb and Glenda! Both of your poems do such a fabulous job of revealing invisible things.
I’m not sure why, but I was drawn toward choosing a picture that had a lot more going on than what is revealed.
Funeral Day
The patriarch gone
leaving behind four kids
grieving in varied ways
two sons-in-law, two daughters-in-law
(one no longer)
trying to hold together the pieces of
the broken
eleven grandkids
(one no longer)
some wearing ties for the first time
and confused by the permanence of loss
under mournful smiles
resentment simmers
eventually severing the fragile tethers
of family bonds
no longer stabilized by him.
divorce
and drugs
and dragons of sin
puncture the picture,
the picture holding peace,
a tenuous peace
gone once
he was.
~Susan Ahlbrand
29 April 2026
First of all, I am sorry for this deep painful loss. And I am moved by your careful penetrating imagery throughout. The tethers & dragons, the tenuous peace & mournful smiles. An emotional encyclopedia of a family. Wow.
Oh, Susan, your poem pulls on every heartstring. I can feel the pain of mournful smiles and the anger simmering beneath. It’s incredible how a picture shows one thing, but an untold story is brewing beneath it all, including a future that is not always the way we would want it to continue. The loss is clear as well as the problems. I was particularly moved by the final stanza and the phrase “dragons of sin/puncture the picture”. Wow! The familial ties are indeed fragile. Thank you for sharing this gift of poetry and the photograph today!
Your poem is so moving. I admire how you expose the hidden “dragons” that chase families and “puncture the picture” that we show the world.
Susan,
Funerals are complicated events, for sure. Your poem peels back the layers of life to lay bare the impact both the life and death of a patriarch can have on family dynamics. The alliteration in
“divorce
and drugs
and dragons of sin
puncture the picture,
the picture holding peace”
with the hard /d/ sound and explosive /p/ sounds heighten the tension. The /s/ in smiles and simmers are sounds slithering and hissing under the surface. This is gonna stay with me a long time and rise in my memory the next time I attend a funeral.
Thank you for sharing. Isn’t it something that sadly many families go through separation and maybe death, when that certain someone dies?
Susan, your are so right, the pictures rarely tell all the story. You’ve crafted a poem that peels off the surface smiles revealing pains and troubles: “divorce / and drugs / and dragons of sin.” The use of alliteration in the final stanza intensifies emotional emphasis, where “the picture holding peace” becomes it opposite. Thank you for your words today!
The moment and moments captured here show so much loss and pain. The careful word selection, the delicate movement between ideas and images–just so moving. My heart hurts with you and for you.
Susan, Susan, a truer poem never written. That one word that hangs and hangs and hangs is resentment – – so much division in families when loved ones pass. Divorce and drugs and dragons of sin are such realities in so many families – – I love that phrase dragons of sin. I think I have cried more today after having to let my beloved Fitz go than I have in the past ten years, despite other losses…..precisely because there is no resentment when it comes to dogs like there is with people. Sad but true. I’m deeply sorry for your loss, and I do hope that somewhere in the sorting out of things and feelings, there can be some restoration of the happy memories and moving forward without the weight on your shoulders. This poem really speaks volumes, Susan, and I was nodding my head through each line in agreement, in recognizing, in understanding.
Hi, thank you for the prompt. Invisible/visible is such an intriguing tasks. Today is a day for giving feedback to students on their writing so that got me thinking about the support good feedback provides and the harm that certain types of feedback can do.
Marked in Red
You don’t see it happen—
not at first
because it looks like help.
No smoke.
No breaking glass.
No voice raised loud enough
to call it harm.
Just a paper
returned face-down,
inked in correction—
comma splice, subject-verb,
awkward phrasing—
as if the sentence were the sin
and not the silence
it leaves behind.
In tenth grade,
she circled everything
but the poem
breathing in the margins.
That, she ignored, dismissed,
and then, worse, assigned…
Count your syllables.
Name your devices.
Three metaphors, two synecdoches,
at least one metonymy—
as if poetry were a checklist
and not a pulse.
She missed it
the way language leaned
toward something alive,
the way it reached past rules, past checklists,
and into meaning.
She missed it
even when it won (awards, contests, accolades)
even when it glowed
outside her rubric’s reach.
Even then—
she counted,
put the words and lines
in cages.
Later—
another voice,
sharper, cleaner, colder
closer to authority,
with the weight of certainty.
You can’t write.
Not like this.
Not with that rhythm
still clinging to your tongue,
not with sentences that bend
like they’ve been sung
before they were written.
He missed the pulse,
the reach, the beat,
the risk of it.
Rise above your raising, he said.
Don’t let it show.
As if voice were something
to scrub out.
As if home and history
were a stain.
And still—
another voice, softer,
praising what the others
could not hear—
but it is the red ink
that lingers.
The sharp edge of correction
that hums louder
than applause.
You learn to cross yourself out
before anyone else can.
You learn to flatten the line
before it has a chance
to stand.
You don’t see the harm
when it happens.
It doesn’t bruise the page.
It settles quiet as doubt—
in the hand that hesitates,
in the line that never gets written,
in the voice that learns
to ask permission
before it speaks.
And even now—
years later,
I write…and hear them—
counting
correcting
cutting
trying to name, tame
what should not exist.
Someone else praises you—
later,
says the poems sing,
says there’s something there—
but praise doesn’t cut
as deep
as certainty.
The red stays.
It hums
in every draft—
But the poem—
still there—
still pressing
against the margins,
still waiting
to be seen
for what it is
instead of what it isn’t.
Oh, Melanie – the harm done by well-intentioned (?) teachers who forgot/never knew that form is one thing and the voice from the deepest recesses of the human soul is another. Of course there is much work in making a marriage of these BUT: one can have perfect form that’s utterly lifeless as well as a vibrant, valuable, breathtaking poem that refuses an ill-fitting form. Sigh. The memory-scars are worse than the inner critic sometimes, and, in fact, they feed it. Give me the poem pressing against the margins. It’s the one I need. Just like this one you gave us today – love.
I agree so much with your comments and appreciate the connections you made!
Holy shit! Your poem is on fire, Melanie. My wish is that every English teacher was reading your poem today. I love every line and can feel the hurt from a past instructor’s red marks and dismissive words. The truly wonderful thing is that you right here and right now show those past voices no matter how haunting did not stop the poet. The poet is alive and breathing through every margin and creating a voice to be praised. A voice that will carry past the red marks and cruel comments. Incredible, deeply moving poem! Kudos!
Thank you! I really appreciate your comments. So much.
Melanie, this struck a chord in my heart! How many positive comments will it take to erase the harm done by negative feedback…are there ever enough positives to counter the negatives? What a powerful message you deliver here! That poem “pressing against the margins” – I love this…
Thank you so much. It feels like a math formula…how many of one does it take to negate the other?
Melanie, once again you have captured a sensitive teacher’s conundrum ~ I remember when my husband and I were both teaching and set down to correct papers. He being a biology teacher at the time, went through dozens of papers, while I still agonized about what I should circle with my blue or green pen (never red, never wanted to bleed the paper). Still, blue or green, we don’t see the bruise that settles in quiet doubt…Having been on both sides of the issue as both student and teacher, it is really remarkable what you’ve captured here.
We agonize over each word we say when giving feedback.
And, thank you for your comments!
Melanie,
Holy truth telling here. The blob of red ink lingers, creating doubt long after the red dries and fades.
Reading these lines—
“awkward phrasing—
as if the sentence were the sin
and not the silence
it leaves behind.”—
I’m reminded of how so many of us who are older replicated what happened to us. We had to learn to do better, but sadly it still happens. I had a professor (three classes, 12 credits) who made us come to his office and watch him grade our papers. It was brutal. It made me physically ill. The lines
“You learn to cross yourself out
before anyone else can.
You learn to flatten the line
before it has a chance
to stand.”
describe my life in poetry. I did not start writing poetry until 2018 because I spent nearly 40 years w/ that professor I mentioned in my head. Thank you for this profound, superb poem. Sent to NCTE, please. I think it needs a big audience.
Thank you. I’m sorry you experienced so many of the things I did.
Oh, Melanie, this is so real. You tug at every heartstring I have. Yesterday, I showed my students how to provide feedback for writing in the Teaching of Writing course. We looked at one sample paper together, and then I gave them another one to read for themselves. as I walked past one pair, I heard one of them mention about what was wrong, what wasn’t there, and I stopped to remind them: Look for what is in there, not for what is absent.” So your ending just brought back this episode instantly. as a second language learner, I’d have stories to tell how people treated my writing during the first decade if not longer; it was more important to notice the missed article than the presence of thought and substance.
These lines are so full of truth:
“You learn to cross yourself out
before anyone else can.
You learn to flatten the line
before it has a chance
to stand.”
Thank you!
I love, love, love that you remind them to look for what is there, not for what is absent. Just hearing you say that makes me feel so seen as a writing teacher.
Ouch. My heart hurts for you–all these years later still being hurt by the red ink. I know I was likely guilty as a teacher of killing someone’s spirit, and I hate that. This poem should be in a handbook for future ELA teachers.
The raw emotion reverberates throughout, but I especially love
My students and I talk about what makes good feedback and, so often, they talk about the feedback that matters is the feedback that is constructive and gives them a path forward, that focuses on what is there. I think there are so many writing teachers who give that kind of feedback now.
Melanie, so many amazing poems today, but this one might just be begging to go to NCTE’s English Journal for publication. Friend, you have reminded us of the importance of humanizing the grading and finding what is there, not finding what is not. Your poem speaks volumes, and I’m grateful for your reminders of care in grading.
Thank you, Barb & Glenda, for poems that remind us of the political / social stakes of everyday life — such gravity, such menace, such reality here. Your instructions include the phrase “seen & not seen”, which is the title of a spoken word song by Talking Heads, which inspired this mostly-original poem. As always, I post what I write here (image source). Today’s offering:
“Persona”
She had seen faces on her phone each day,
all day, contoured, smooth. Thick, long eyelashes.
A ring light out of frame branded perfect
circles in each wide, liked, shared, open eye.
It mattered little what the faces said.
She hoped — she longed — to frame herself like this,
to be seen (& not seen) as she had wished.
Gradually, her face would change. But would she?
She knew some had lost themselves in this chase.
They arrived at a new self exhausting
to maintain, based on some algorithm,
some digital fast fashion. Halfway there,
could she change her mind? Would her face follow?
Was she ready for the surface of things?
Joel, wow, your poem is mesmerizing. I am captivated by the speaker’s perspective and focus on how she hopes to be seen or not seen. Plus, the whole eyeball photograph is kind of creepy. I feel a female’s obsession about appearances and trying to keep up with this “digital fast fashion” world we live in. The closing questions are provocative. Thanks for sharing such a fresh and unique poem full of compelling subtext and imagery!
Joel, the idea of framing oneself is so interesting to me. As someone who always has shied away from photographs, I can’t imagine how I would have fared during my teen years if social media had been a thing back then. Even now, though, I struggle not to compare reality to whatever surreal images are out there. This poem really made me think. “She hoped – she longed – to frame herself like this…”
Joel,
Constructing this poem about the pressures we who are “she” face (yes, a pun) to adhere to social media beauty standards as a sonnet is perfect. Both social media screens and sonnets are closed (semi-closed) forms that call on us to adhere to a paradigm. WOW! “They arrived at a new self exhausting
to maintain, based on some algorithm,” is reality, albeit it a false one. I can only imagine the distortion (that eye image) face from this pressure because even now as an older woman I feel it, especially these past two weeks as I face more physical deconstruction. Love this poem and hope it finds a big audience.
Joel, your poem has me thinking so many thoughts! This is a really interesting dive into the pressures and postures of how we curate ourselves and the image of ourselves in the digital world, social media, and the attention economy. That last line, “was she ready for the surface of things?” really makes me think about how we flatten ourselves to present an image, a 2-dimensional rendering, that’s not really us, but a version of us competing with all of these other 2-dimensional curations. And then, what does that process do to us? Really fascinating poem.
Barb and Glenda, this is such a thought-provoking idea. Barb, your personification of cancer is incredibly powerful and chilling. Glenda, I love “black ink” and your title…it feels very heavy (as it should).
I started thinking about photographs today…my best friend since childhood gave me an Aura frame for Christmas, loaded with all these old pictures of us. It’s been so fun to watch them pop up and take trips down memory lane. I focused on the first photo that popped up this morning, which is an out-of-focus candid one of me making a silly face, so close to the camera that my whole face isn’t even in the frame.
Out of Focus: An Examination of a Candid Photograph of Me, Age 18(?)
How old was she here?
Why was she making such
a strange face?
Where was this picture
taken?
What happened right
before the shutter
snapped?
Or right after?
Who was the blurry
figure in the background?
What was she thinking
about?
What fears, doubts, worries
did she carry?
What were her secret joys?
What would this girl think
if she knew that she had
been captured,
preserved,
memorialized
in this moment
to be examined
all these years later
by her much-older self?
What would she think
if she saw her life
through my eyes now?
I hope I haven’t
disappointed her.
Julie,
I know Barb is going to feel connected to your poem given her love of ekphrastic poetry. I love the way each question functions as artistic analysis that has transformed a photograph into an exhibit. The punch of that final statement, “I hope I haven’t
disappointed her.” is one I think I can answer: You have not disappointed the young you. I think she’d tell you she’s proud.
Julie, oof, what a powerful end you deliver in this poem. I can relate to wondering about how disappointed I’d be in myself if my 18-year-old-self could visualize my current life. Your use of questions really carries this incredible poem to that gob smacking end. I think your poem is a perfect future prompt for VerseLove 2027 or a 2026 Open Write. Old photos are truly captivating. I appreciate the questions you used to show us what the speaker is considering as she questions what was happening in the photograph. Truly provocative poem! Thank you!
Julie, I love how you analyzed the candid pic of your teen self. What a wonderful prompt for us all…to fully lean in to what we might have been thinking and feeling when a photo was snapped of us, a moment in time captured. We were there, yet that moment is still so lost to us. Thank you for giving me so many questions to consider.
Captivating! I love to look at pictures from my childhood and try to fill in the blanks of what might have been going on, what I might have been thinking, etc. But for you to pose the possibility of the today me disappointing the then me . . . simply wow. I think now I will look at pictures of me with that mindset.
Using questions throughout your poem was a wonderful format. A photo of you created so many wonders. Your last line is what we all hope for when we think about our younger selves.
Thank you, Barb & Glenda, for peeling back layers, pulling the curtains aside, and seeing new light with your poetry prompt and models. #VerseLove26 started with parental care in CNY on April Fool’s Day and now, as our verses ready themselves for closure, a return might be inevitable. Always thankful to have opportunity to process poetically.
This Morning
b.r.crandall
I imagine him
sitting at the window
counting coins,
listening to
telenovelas
in Spanish he
won’t understand,
his hearing aids
charging or lost
in the laundry
with yesterday’s
Lucky Strikes
& crushed cans
of Milwaukee’s Best.
Cars will drive by
& he’ll wave,
perhaps cry,
worrying she’s not
in her chair
under a blanket
covering her
purple toes.
He’s already forgotten
his morning medicine
but he’ll mow the
lawn a few times,
after fussing
with the
recycling bins.
A stranger will
aide him today,
unwrapping the meals
dropped off by wheels,
and no one will
answer the phone.
We’re all
on call.
Just waiting.
Oh, Bryan, there is so much more going on than just this slim slip of words, and I feel for you. Beyond the levity of meals/wheels rhyming is the unanswered phone. Beyond the mowing is the forgotten medication. Beyond the lost hearing aids is the tv in a foreign language. Beyond all of that is the man inside. And the family who waits. You’ve dropped my heart some for all of you.
Oh Bryan, I’m living this life, the “just waiting” life, right now. Or, I was, until crisis mode hit a few months ago.
I always love the incredibly specific details in your poems…the “telenovelas in Spanish,” the “purple toes”…you inspire me.
Bryan,
This waiting, this inevitability is so hard. For me it lasted four years w/ my father and four w/ my mother, but neither had dementia or Alzheimer’s. In the moment each daily activity slices the heart, but I’m also thinking about how memory will change the narrative years after the call, The lines
“listening to
telenovelas
in Spanish he
won’t understand”
remind me of my father *watching* General Hospital once he could no longer work, but because he was blind, he could not really watch. In terms of the physical appearance of your poem, it’s a visual timeline, a long road of waiting, Beautiful and heartbreaking. I’m sorry for this pain.
There is so much here to talk about. The line “we’re all on call” really hit for me. The layering of images is both beautiful and painful. So much of this has been my life for the past 5 years.
Bryan, wow, I love your poem and all its specific images and diction. I immediately can visualize the lost or charging hearing aids, the beer and cigarettes, and the meals on wheels phrase is priceless. The narrator shows us two lives focused on medicine, recycling, and the inability to completely care for themselves. The blanket and purple toes is especially telling, and the unanswered phone calls add more tension. Ending with “Just waiting” adds to the sad reality of aging parents, how their loved ones worry and wonder what will happen next while knowing there may be only days rather than years left. Incredibly powerful poem! Thank you!
Bryan, this is both beautiful and poignant. Your lines flow like a dream but I know the reality of this waiting all too well. My heart aches for all, but especially for him (your dad, I think – I recall his Lucky Strikes) and if I am right, it is your mother he worries about and cries for, not finding in her chair. Oh, my heart. It’s ripping. Yet I thank you.
Bryn, knowing and waiting is the hardest part. I cannot imaging how you do it; I am just quietly crying now as you are all on call, just waiting. Keep those images by the window close. Hugs!
Bryan, I am touched by the sadness, the period of waiting, the grief that has all started its course even before the call. My heart goes out to you in this time of pause, where it’s hard to move forward, hard to move backward, hard to move sideways or any way at all. You are a caregiver, and that is one of the toughest things to be, ever. And it’s also one of the greatest acts of love. I wish I had state-stretching arms so I could hug you.
Bryan, I read this earlier today and I knew I had to come back to it and comment. Sending you a virtual hug, this is so tough. There’s a lot of love in your description. And sadness. Your poem speaks volumes in the quietness and stillness of waiting.
Your vivid details are heartbreaking: “Cars will drive by / & he’ll wave, / perhaps cry, / worrying she’s not / in her chair / under a blanket / covering her / purple toes.” Thank you for continuing to share with us, Bryan! You and your family are in my thoughts.
If this
world is,
indeed,
a stage
and we
merely
players,
why are
some
actively
trying to
strike
the set
before
the show
is actually
over?
______________________________________
Thank you Barb and Glenda for this prompt and your mentor texts! They both exemplify (brilliantly) the malevolence of power: Death can fuel patients and their loved ones with “anxiety” and “fear, / knowing the end is near” and “he” can (try) to obfuscate and “dismantle history” with his “orders” and “black Sharpie.” For my offering, I started thinking about stage directions (written directions for the actors – words that are quite literally invisible and made visible) but I couldn’t make it work, so I stayed with the “theater” metaphor to comment on how the Orange Deplorable and his ilk keep trying to burn this world to the ground.
I imagine, Scott, the set-strikers are not the readers or thinkers we’d hope them to be. This is definitely not the adulthood I imagined for any of us. Love the slim strip of language you created today – it’s like a straw, perfect for blowing spitballs into the scrub-brush hair of a narcissistic Dorito.
Literally guffawed at the use of the straw.
Oh, Scott! This is so, so good. I’ve wondered what causes someone to burn it all down – what brings him to that point? The fear and loss of power (if I can’t have it…)? I love the idea of taking a well-known phrase and striking a question from it. Pondering ways to use this with my students now…
Scott,
Your poem and Jennifer’s are in conversation today, at least in my mind. You have crafted an excellent poem. I love the condition structure signaled by “If,” kind of a Kipling trope, followed by the question that stumps so many. It’s a question I contemplate often, the “why?” of it all. I’ve come to believe this environmental destruction is rooted in right-wing Christian nationalism and a belief in the second coming of Jesus and the tribulation. They are literally trying to speed up what they think is inevitable. I have more thoughts on this, but if you haven’t considered this possibility, do dive into it. It is disconcerting.
So succinct and powerful! As a theatre geek, I love this! And it makes me think of other theatre imagery/characters/lines that could be used to describe the situation we find ourselves in.
Scott, I am a theater nerd, so I do appreciate your metaphor. It seems particularly fitting since so much of what I see on the national stage appears orchestrated. The Orange Deplorable wants to deflect our attention just as Macbeth does, etc. Love your provocative ending question! I also really like the skinny format today because I think it helps each word have its own power and adds to the fluency. Thanks for the feedback and sharing your poet wizardry!
Oh, wow. Love the Shakespeare references mixed in with the stark reality of our current world.
Scott, your poem immediately brought to mind one of the old Nasiruddin stories, the one where he’s sawing off the very branch he’s sitting on. The people in your poem feel similar: so intent on dismantling the stage that they don’t seem to notice they’re standing on it themselves. You are sharp as usual. Thank you!
Barb and Glenda, thank you for bringing us a thought provoking prompt and the amazing Kate to start this midweek morning! Your poems get us started thinking of all the ways we can make manifest the unseen in our world and lives, often in relationships and actions others can’t see – or refuse to see. Thank you so much for this prompt! I saw a musical last night that had me thanking writers who can raise voice and tell stories even ages after the living.
Six – History or Herstory?
onto The Fox stage
Six voices raised: herstory
(why we need no kings)
Intrigued by this poem, today, Kim. Love the way six/fox bounce on the lines as sisters, love the history/herstory motif, and curious of the voices (as I’ve never understood the intrigue of Fox…felt the same about Rush Limbaugh…Slytherins)
Kim,
You know you’re preaching to my choir and singing my song with “(why we need no kings.)” I’m sure you saw the nonsense maga response to democrats giving King Charles a standing ovation yesterday. Such profound stupidity coming from them! I love that little detail in “onto the Fox stage” and hope you had a duality of meaning in mind w/ it. I would celebrate if the women on Fox did a 180, Anyway, glad you shared the show w/ us.
Kim! One of my favorites! As soon as I saw the first word of your title, that’s where my mind (and hope) went! Not only do I love the musical (and the messages therein), but I also love your poem (and its message). Let’s keep raising our voices together. Imagine the compounded strength.
Kim, you can tell such a huge herstory – any kinda story! – in so few words. As always, your haiku is a gem. Every word pulls its own weight; nothing is wasted. Today I really wanted to write a poem about Polly Tix and her pal Sharly Tan sailing the Hippocra Sea (not my usual vein, and not based on one given event) and thought better of it, as it’s gonna take some time. Perhaps one day…
Kim, what a brilliant poem. I adore the title and the closing parenthetical line is absolutely divine. Fox stage immediately lets me know that this is no ordinary production. How fun for you! Concise poem that lands with a definite punch! Marvelous!
Wow. So many great poems today. This one touches me on so many levels. Love the haiku!
I really like this, Kim! It captures the spirit of Six so cleanly. Short, sharp, and full of power: six voices, no kings!
We saw Six a few years ago on Broadway, and I was gobsmacked! It was such an inventive way to share history, and we/I learned so much about each woman’s demise. You sure capture the essence of it.
Kim, when I read this much earlier today, I smiled and knew I would find you to celebrate this brilliant connection between Six and current events (as they say). Words last. Keep writing. Keep talking. Keep singing the message of no kings needed.
Love that last parenthetical line. Here it stands out rather than being an aside.
Barb and Glenda,
Thank you for your powerful poems and your call to vulnerability.
Barb, the difference between the imagery in your first two stanzas is striking and fits so well cancer.
Glenda, your poem is also heartbreaking. Thank you for bearing witness
I appreciate how you both bravely name hard things.
————————————————————————————
mentoring
my tough mom
hid her pain
minimized
focused on
gratitude
family
practiced
hopefulness
her whole life
Sharon, Love the title…and the way your thinking trickles into admiration…the world ‘minimized’ stands out, as mom maximized strength through hope. Beautiful tribute.
Sharon,
I’m immediately struck by your title and how you cast your mom as a mentor rather than a role model. This is a provocative idea. I think of mentoring as a professional relationship rather than a parent-child role. And I want to know more about your mom’s pain and how her way of living has impacted your life. Was this physical or mental pain? There is so much of life broken wide open through your words in this compelling, short verse. Hugs and Peace to you.
Sharon – I love your poem and I love your mom. She’s who I want to be…
Sharon, oh my, your poem pulls on every heartstring. With so few words, you show what a force of nature your mother was. Her ability to practice hopefulness is indeed brave. Thanks for sharing this amazing tribute! Loved it! Thanks, too, for the feedback about Glenda’s and my poem today!
What a beautiful tribute. I appreciate the use of mentoring, minimized, focused, gratitude and practiced–those seem like such strong and powerful words for the poem and for our lives.
Sharon, having mom as a mentor sounds amazing. I am drawn to the way you describe “her pain minimized,” which increases “gratitude,” “family,” and “hopefulness.” The skinny tricube works well for your precise way of defining mentoring. Thank you!
Sharon, your poem pulls at my heart as you describe your Mom’s strenght6 and her lifelong positivity. Blesings
The economy of words allows the white space to hold so much more. The whole of her life.
There are always hard things in invisible places- like the heart.
COA (Child of an Alcoholic)
Is it a secret or
Is it a lie?
Lying is wrong
She’s been taught
But in keeping secrets
She’s been trained
And now she’s an expert
Liar
And most people
Never suspect
It at all
Diane, wow, you’ve captured a heavy topic in your poem today. I love the opening question. I also think your poem would be excellent to share with students to consider the way secrets such as not revealing a difficult home situation can create more harm. Alcoholism is such a beast since it is a disease. Yet, it is easy to become an enabler for an alcoholic and it’s easy to not want to show what’s really happening behind the scenes. I feel such pain in your poem today. Placing “Liar” on it’s one line adds emphasis and an emotional weight. I hope you’re able to share this with many people as it could open up a great discussion, especially how or when to intervene. Powerful poem. Thanks for sharing!
Oof. Tight. Packed. Powerful. And felt. Cleverly crafted…the last three lines ring the poetic bell. Nice touch there and solid poem.
Diane,
Oof! This hits hard. Love the title and your opening tag:”There are always hard things in invisible places- like the heart.” That needs to be framed and displayed. I don’t think I’ve ever thought about the thin line between secrets and lies as you compel me to today. My mother was an alcoholic. We were taken from her when I was in first grade. My dad won the custody fight. I have spent my life trying to reconcile so many things about my childhood, particularly issues of trust w/ both family and friends. It’s not easy, even in this late stage of life.
Diane, from the title to the ending line, your poem is gripping in its truths. What alcoholism/addiction spawns in the children – in this case, not outright denial, but deceit, not ill-intended, but as a coping mechanism. I can’t help thinking about how hard it is to disrupt the cycle with the truth, and the depth of pain – I know because I lived it and the cost is high. Magnificent poem.
Sigh. I feel this–not as the child of an alcoholic but as the grandchild of one. Secret keeping and lying is generational. So much is kept to the shadows. So much pain here.
Diane, this is a hard topic and it’s effects on children are profound, as you describe. I dealt with this as an adult as my parent lost control of drinking and while it was painful and hard, I did not live there and depend on the parent. My heart breaks for the lying that children must do to just survive.
Barb and Glenda, this prompt (and your poems) opened so many possibilities and I thank you for that. The tone of each of your pieces feels both ominous and inevitable, showing how different experiences are shared experiences. I think the poems help to break the inevitable, giving us reprieve, as poetry should.
(between)
in (between) the coming and going,
(between) the asking and answering,
the beginning (between) the ending,
the greeting and departure,
in (between)
is where
we exist.
when someone asks,
how are you?
there’s a brief space
in which we live
(between)
draw quick breath,
a lifetime in a second’s space,
where that moment
holds the silence
–we live in that silence
our heart beats in that silence
we breathe in that silence–
of what could be said
and what is
(between) us
Jennifer, I am fascinated by the way you’ve structured your poem today. The emphasis with between adds a depth to the exchange taking place between the everyday coming and goings. What lies beneath the surface, is intriguing. We don’t always know. We don’t always share. I especially enjoyed the lines:
“a lifetime in a second’s space,
where that moment
holds the silence
–we live in that silence”
That brief space in which we live is provocative and carries so much weight in your poem today. Thank you for sharing this compelling poem and for the lovely note.
Jennifer,
This is Shakespearean and profound and prophetic. It’s as though you read my mind because a couple days ago I was thinking about a passage in Julius Caesar, a line about between the thought and the action. I’m sure you know it. You have explicated that passage and brought the ideas into the 21st Century. Kudos for the visual appeal of the poem. I love the repeated parenthesis, the way setting (between) off magnifies that nanosecond of time in between. Masterful poet andvpoem.
Love the way you’ve crafted (between) as a movement, an internal craft offering rhythm, and subject of your poem (You may have offered us a challenge to try the same, Jen). And I’m doing the very Ted Lasso thing of saying “between” out loud down, thinking is it really a word…it sounds so strange. Ah, but it is a word and I love what you’ve done here.
Thank you! Repeating “between” gives definite pause. The last line best expresses what is said (or not said).
(between)–wow! I love how you have used this in your poem! What a great mentor text you have provided in addition to the poem. I love how the sounds echo through here as well brief, breath, breathe…gorgeous.
Jennifer, what an intentional way using parenthesis with (between), as something than can easily be made invisible by removing. I am awed by your ability to pinpoint the mind work (between) “how are you?” and the moment someone simply says, “I’m fine.” It is that moment that “holds the silence,” in which we live but don’t offer to share. So incredible! Thank you.
Oh, that space after that question! Does anyone ever really answer that question with any level of honesty. Because . . . who expects to hear an honest answer. The structure of your poem with its (between)s is simply perfect for the situation. And the prompt.
Jennifer, the use of the word between in parentheses is captivating throughout your poem. I feel the knowing of one’s own story and the passing of time, the living and breathing, and then the exchanges with others doing the same as we see only a fraction of what is visible, and all the rest is in between.
Oh, yes, we live in that silence, and your poem has invited me to look for that today. To witness someone in that silence, bot to interrupt but to see them.
Good Morning Verse Lovers,
I decided to free-write in my journal to this beautiful prompt. I’m pulling out a few poetic lines to share. Barb and Glenda, today’s writing is such a gift. Thank you, both. The images in your poem of the black sharpie, black wings, the idea of stage four, and redaction…they work together to create a tone that is all too real. But your poems bear witness in ways that I appreciate. We need this, even if uncomfortable. Thank you.
Poetic Lines
It never occurred to the poem that this inheritance was its own,
that a shroud is not really for these things. It looks all wrong…
…this poem resolves to be positive, practical, puts the coffee on, and greets a new day with emptiness tucked away in its pocket.
Ahhh, the resolve to carry on, tucking emptiness into its pocket…the brave face of this poem! Reminds me of one of yesterday’s poems, in that poems do have a mind and will of their own, despite the poet’s ideas…what comes is often the poem that wanted to be written.
Linda, the “few poetic lines” you pulled create a poem all on their own, whether intended or not. I feel you writing both about the poem and as the poem, much in the way that a poem starts and then becomes.
Linda, I love the image of emptiness tucked away in its pocket and the focus on the poem. I get the feeling from your lines today that sometimes we inherit things we do not necessarily want, but yet, a person is faced with these things or a situation, and it has to be tackled or managed, etc. So, the speaker is resolved to make the best of it, continue to do the things we do to start our days, etc.
Linda,
Thank you for sharing your process and for personifying poetry as a thinker: “It never occurred to the poem…” The image of a poem who “puts the coffee on” is amusing and profound. In your poem I see each person here as poetry, poetry living and walking among us. That’s a beautiful thing.
Practical is how I am making it through my days in the wake of loss “emptiness tucked away”.
Barb and Glenda: Thank you both for sharing your poetic gifts with us today. The invitation to write from a vulnerable place often leads to release, maybe to some healing or a wild taste of unexpected freedom… something I think about often, as I turn events, perspectives, moments around in my mind, considering their many facets. Many differing takes are shared here in this meeting-place, and I have always been thankful for the open invitation and the welcome without judgment. I deeply appreciate all the encouragement each of you has given me – it means more than you know!
Bred in Captivity
What can she know
of freedom
when all her experience
is caged
raised to be sold
for profit
someone’s pet
completely dependent
on the someone’s
remembering
to feed her
or spend time with her?
What can she know
of happiness
in solitary confinement
when her species
is inherently social
indeed,
what can she know
at all?
More than you think.
She watches
how the hinges work
and one day
with her sharp curvy beak
she wrestles open
the wire door
and takes her flight.
What does she know
of freedom?
That it exists
that it is calling
that it is meant
to be hers
and she
will have it
or die trying.
oooof. A gut punch, all those things that are not supposed to be. I love the hope at the end flying off to uncertain but possible freedom.
Fran,
This poem breaks my heart. As I travel I think about the privilege I have and the “captivity” I see in the absence of that privilege among most of the world’s people. Your poem is a call to action evoked in questions along a narrow corridor, a cage, made visible in sparse, direct lines: “What can she know
of freedom…” and “What can she know
of happiness…?” “what can she know
at all?” “What does she know
of freedom?” The subtle shifts in diction force us to change course, to alter our thinking, to confront our preconceived notions. This is the stuff of the most important poetry. Thank you for drilling down on these important ideas.
Fran, your poem feels as if it’s breaking free, how confinement shrinks in on itself until finally releasing (in whatever form that might be). I read the strength that she contains, especially in those last three wonderfully powerful lines. She will have it–yes, she will!
Fran, wow, what a fascinating poem. I love the way you’ve structured this one. I can feel the escape at the end. Your poem can metaphorically represent anyone’s freedom, but I appreciate the caged bird imagery. Your end is especially riveting “or die trying”. Outstanding poem! Thanks for the lovely note, too.
Thank you! What is in the soul can never be extinguished.
Wowza! Such a powerful poem. I imagined a bird yet it could be anyone stuck in a place of captivity. You caught me in the trap of this poem wondering.
Fran, I remember how you love birds, and this bird’s metaphor is masterfully developed in your poem. I keep thinking of those who don’t know freedom, who are bred and raised “in captivity” in poverty, under dictatorship, in an abusive family. I also have hope that once they know what it is, they begin the f(l)ight.
Your poem reminded me of the Mirabal sisters “Las Mariposas” (the Butterflies) In the Time of Butterflies by Julia Alvarez. It is about the Mirabal sisters, fighting R. l. Trujillo’s dictatorship in Dominican Republic.
Fran, the call of the wild beckons. Your poem is haunting in its need for the beaked bird to not be alone, and haunting too in the escape of your pet. Of our three rescues, only one ever had to be leashed, and that was our Fitz. He felt the call to hunt lizards and any things that moved, not knowing his limitations (small, no teeth, snack sized for predators). Today, we had to say goodbye; he, too, has gained his wings and now has his freedom, but it was sure hard letting my soul dog go, even knowing that as much as he loved me, he wanted freedom to run and chase things even more. Just like your bird. Leaving our hearts grieving. I needed your poem today – – it is a reminder that there is peace in freedom. Thank you, my friend.
He only tells me
decades later
on a walk on a beach
how lonely he was
as a kid, with few
friends, and no
books, and no
love, and now
I understand
how living alone
is not loneliness
for him but how
his mind works
Kevin
A haunting poem, Kevin – and a reminder that while we all need the same basic things (love, friends, books -!!), that our senses of loneliness/being along can be very different. As our minds often are.
What love…to open up to understanding another’s differences. Beautiful.
Kevin,
”how lonely he was / as a kid” could be a refrain for many adolescents. Often kids appear social but hide a deep sense of loneliness only a beach walk, metaphorically speaking, reveals. As I read and comment on poems today, I’ll be looking to see what those in this space reveal, both in their poems and in their comments. I always find myself overly interested in early arrivals, so expect to see and am keenly interested in your responses to all those who have generously commented on your poems this month.Will you surprise me or remain consistent in keeping your reactions to the VerseLove of our poet peers invisible?
Kevin, this is a compelling poem–those last lines resonate. It reminds us how our lived experiences create our reality while also showing that we can never really know someone or why they do what they do, There’s something in the placement of a walk on the beach, in its isolation, that adds to the loneliness too.
Agreed. Alone is not lonely.
Our experience of being alone and loneliness can be two different things altogether. I like how you place us on the beach walking and talking.
Before She Enters the Room
I have seen her
just before
not inside, where the voice carries,
not where the they lean forward
or look away—
but here,
in the narrow corridor
where the florescent lights hum.
She stands still longer than necessary,
as if waiting for a cue
that does not come.
You would not know
how much it costs her
to turn the handle.
Only that she does.
Only that, moments later,
there is a version of her
who fills the room
as if it were simple
as if it were a version
of home where she believes
she is wanted.
I have watched her gather herself
like precious poems pressed to the chest,
like breath counted quietly
behind closed lips.
There are no witnesses
to the small negotiations—
the bargain struck
between fear and devotion.
Inside,
she is fluent.
Outside,
she is learning the language
over and over again.
And when it is done—
when the last question dissolves,
when the chairs scrape back
into their ordinary silence
in the space just after—
I have seen her. She’s
not broken,
not exactly,
but emptied
of whatever it was
she carried in
to make it possible.
Barb and Glenda, thank you for this invitation to witness and consider the perspectives of witnessing. I am struck my the time or temporal element of your poems, of poems. How they are are also a reflection of the poet being ready and willing to name the scene, the actors, the implications that the poem holds. I feel the willing of each of you in these poems for our world, for humanity. Thank you for hosting today.
Sarah,
I think your poem called to me in the middle of the night and awakened me w/ both its clarity and ambiguity. I’m reading and rereading the pronouns “I” and “her,” and in both I witness the speaker writing about herself in a sort of out of body experience and describing the experience of many women. This poem bears witness to our imposter syndrome. Images that have a universal and, paradoxically, personal quality include:”narrow corridor
where the florescent lights hum,” “version of her / who fills the room,” “Inside,/ she is fluent./ Outside,/ she is learning the language / over and over again,” among others. This social awkwardness resonates. Ken often tells me my family doesn’t know me. I suspect you know how that feels. Anyway, thank you for this gorgeous poem. I’ll carry it w/ me.
Sarah, this is so beautifully crafted and incredibly piercing. I can see “her” in every moment of the scene you paint so vividly – I walk through your words in in her shoes. The different versions of self, the version of home where she believes she is wanted…inherently knowing otherwise. I have lived this at different times in my life. I honor how you see her, with empathy, and above all I love the she is not broken even though she’s emptied of what she initially carried – drained. Thank you for this amazing poem – for the invitation to really “see” – and for your heart full of care and concern. I am so grateful for this poem, and for you.
That final ordinary silence…the change that has been wrought. I can feel it. Beautiful…and the last word, possible. Exquisite.
Sarah, I have lived in that space of hesitation, in the brief time before turning the handle, and know the the differences and similarities of the person inside and outside the door. I wrote a bit of it today, though far less beautifully than you. I am held in these lines, “I have watched her gather herself/like precious poems pressed to the chest” as I think of all that poetry means to you–it is in the poetry that we come alive.
Sarah, your poem this morning is captivating. I am immediately drawn into the scene, imagining the narrow hallway of a school with fluorescent lights humming above. I am also drawn into the subject’s internal thoughts, wanting to believe that she is wanted at home, but still wondering if that is true or how that part of her life has shaped her. I know the feeling of being on stage, not in a good way, when you need to gather your strength to move forward or to be present in a situation such as teaching, etc. I love the simile of poetry and the closing stanza is compelling. I love “She’s/not broken,/not exactly, but emptied”…there are layers here to peel back and I am impressed with how well you’ve captured imagery, a mood, and message in your poem. Thanks for sharing your incredible poetry today and for the welcoming note.
Sarah, I am with you in the corridor watching and feeling the anxiety build and then you send us to the other side where all is done and with amazing fortitude and grace. I imagine the she is you as you enter a place where you are in the spotlight. Courageous and giving all you have.
Sarah, I read your poem around 4 a.m., and I let it sit with me for a long time. You so truthfully and precisely captured that hidden threshold, that liminal space in the moment before we step into the world wearing a version of ourselves that others can, or are used to see. I felt the weight of that “small negotiation,” the courage it takes to keep showing up while carrying something unspoken. It made me think of how often we move through rooms unseen in our effort, how much we give just to belong, and how tender that emptied space afterward can be. And the ending “not broken, / not exactly, / but emptied” made me think about how often we carry things inside and keep going anyway, even when it takes more than we can handle.
You sure pull us in with the speaker of this poem. I don’t think there is a woman alive, especially a woman educator, who has not had to stand outside a room and get herself mentally prepared to “put on the show.”
I feel I know the speaker, yet at the same time, I want to both cheer her and hug her.