This is the Open Write, a place for educators to nurture their writing lives and to advocate for writing poetry in community. We gather every month and daily in April — no sign-ups, no fees, no commitments. Come and go as you please. All that we ask is that if you write, you respond to others to mirror to them your readerly experiences — beautiful lines, phrases that resonate, ideas stirred. Enjoy. (Learn more here.)
Our Host
Jennifer Guyor Jowett is an English Language Arts teacher of too many years to count. She currently teaches in the mitten state where she wrote the middle grade novel, Into the Shadows (2020) and is the co-author of the poetry book Words that Mend (2024) and is a contributor to Teachers Writing to Bridge the Distance (2021). Her poetry also appears in the anthology Just YA: Short Poems, Essays, and Fiction for Grades 7-12. Jennifer is the creator of the DogEaredBookAwards, a student-led award given to middle grade and young adult novels each year.
Inspiration
Welcome to our July Open Write. Today we are going to tug at your memories, perhaps even look for a way to express that which is hidden. Emma Parker is a textile and mixed-media artist from the UK. I came across her art scurrying down one of my many rabbit holes of exploration. She resurfaced thanks to this prompt by Sarah Donovan during our March Open Write. Sarah invited us to breathe, and I recognized that creative expression and art were the places I breathed most.
Emma Parker’s themes are “often around the broken, the abandoned, and the forgotten.” She explains that thread and cloth hold the metaphors of mending, repairing, and connecting and becomes interested in the stories the materials hold and who has touched them before.
Process
Much like stitching pieces of fabric together, there are several ways to approach this poem.
- Write about the memories connected to a fabric, whether it is the scraps used to form a quilt or the life-worn fuzz of a childhood stuffed animal.
- Think of a time when something or someone was broken, abandoned, or forgotten and write about the mending.
- Make a list of memories. Fold them up and bind them together with the thread of words.
- Where do you find your creative expression? Write about it.
- Place on paper whatever comes to mind, in whatever form works for you. There is connecting beauty found in every word.
Jennifer’s Poem
Stitching Memories by Jennifer Guyor Jowett
For an entire spring,
the wooden quilt frame
took up most of the space in our living room.
Surrounded by chairs,
each filled with one member
of the family
or another,
fingers following
a soft pattern sketched onto muslin,
conversation filling
the space between us.
Hands stitched threads,
gnarled hands,
unsteady hands.
Up and down.
In and out.
Both the steadiness of great grandmothers
and the hesitancy of granddaughters
led the threads
one by one,
up and down,
in and out,
bringing beauty
from a scattering of scraps,
forming memories
for years to come.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
My Tapestry
The tapestry I don each day,
like a queen wears her cape,
is made up of all the
passages of my life,
woven by threads that hold them together.
Those glorious threads weave
together and hold in place
the various patches of my life.
Patches of processes that I made it through.
The thick, black threads,
how they made me weep,
for losses to my soul.
The green threads woven in
that helped me to grow.
The royal blue threads made me think
and question as I went through life.
The threads of gold, although sparse
at times,
what precious memories they
weave throughout my tapestry.
And the silver threads,
like gossamer strands
were woven as I wondered at
the magic of my babies first breath.
The red, oh the red, threads that
are woven throughout are
the failures that I rose up from.
Each thread, a memory of an
experience in my life
that, when woven all together,
creates a tapestry of extraordinary beauty.
So, every day I wrap my tapestry
around me, and
I am happy to remember
I can’t change any of them,
but I am greater for their lessons,
their wisdom, and
I can remember
Judi Opager
What a terrific approach to the prompt, Judi. I love how you’ve personified the colors of thread.
Judi, what a beautiful way to weave all of your experiences and hold them close. Your use of color is rich–my favorite being the gossamer threads of your babies’ first breath. Perfect color, perfect representation to capture that experience. Lovely!
I love the way you chose the colored threads in this one as they are woven together into a rich beautiful tapestry.
Ohhh, Judi, this resonates with me. I love thinking about life’s processes this way:
Being all the better because of the various challenges and lessons we face, just beautiful. I appreciate your acceptance of it ALL.
Judi, this is such a powerful poem, a wonderful tribute to your former self (and selves, all the trials and tribulations that made you you). I love the image of all of these varicolored threads making up this tapestry, these “passages of [your] life”!
Multipurpose Finery
By Mo Daley 7/19/25
April 2nd, 1972,
was Easter Sunday, a day I’ll never forget.
We were given brand new dresses for Easter mass.
Purple cotton mini dresses
dotted with white daisies and sun yellow centers.
We finished off the look with white knee highs
and shiny black-patent leather Mary Janes.
Did I mention they were mini dresses,
hitting above the knee?
We didn’t like dressing alike since she was 11
and I just 7,
but this one time, it was okay.
We were mod.
We were cool.
We were hip.
We were sisters who had IT.
I wore this dream dress one more time
three months later
to my dad’s funeral,
then I never wanted to see it again.
Oh, Mo. from joy to such deep and enduring sorrow. That last line. That last line…
Oh, Mo! That was not the ending I expected. Here I was, reading along and thinking: yep, yep. I remember those patent leather Mary Janes. I can feel how hip and mod you were in that cool dress. And then you caught us with what undoubtedly took you off guard as well. Those hard experiences really transform how we feel about everything. Hugs.
Wow, Mo. 🤎Simply stunning.
Mo, I didn’t see such a tragic turn coming. What a sad ending (and for the dress too). What’s more important is how we connect things and events, and how perspectives change under circumstances. Thank you and sending kind thoughts your way.
Wow, thank you for this prompt. I drafted on paper when I first read it this morning, and then just kept thinking about various iterations throughout the day. Nothing felt quite right, but I now have so many ideas I want to revisit, ha! I’m settling on this work in progress for now 🙂
I read somewhere that
all the eggs I’ll ever have
were determined when I was
stitched in my mother’s womb
My sons’ first threads
swam within me and
within mami, protected
for over three decades.
//
In the “Amiguity of Parenthood”
seminar I took this week, we
wondered to what extent
parents are responsible,
when is it okay to
l
e
t
g
o
a funny notion to
consider if we’re actually
deeplyconnected
from before our own
beginning.
What a layered and interesting way to think of genetics. So much woven long before we were a thought. Thanks for sharing and the visual style of this
Britt, I have read that about our eggs as well (along with the idea that our ancestors’ traumas likely affect our DNA–yikes!), which makes our interconnectedness so much deeper and significant. I love the opening to that second stanza–”my sons’ first threads swam within me.” Such a beautiful and stirring image. The formatting work you’ve done here to help us visualize the letting go and connection is especially effective.
I love the format you played with here it worked to great effect. Thank you!
Britt—What a great spin on threads! (I really did NOT intend that pun, but there it is🤦🏻♀️)
I just love short poems that give us so much to think about. Well done.
Britt, I really enjoyed this! And you’re right, the struggle is real, lol, when you start “thinking about various iterations.” And I love the word play with “l / e / t / g / o” and “deeplyconnected“!
Spent all day on this poem,
no, not this one, this one,
I spent about twenty minutes
on just enough to type it up, review,
cross out, (and by that I mean delete,
backspace as it were,) trying to keep
up the pace before the “Help me write (Alt + W)”
feature pops up each line, no, this other poem,
you should have read that one, it was beautiful,
Byoo-tuh-fuhl (if you know what I mean) it started
out a trip down Memory Lane before getting hijacked
by some of the nonfiction I’ve been reading this
summer – about memory palaces and various
memory techniques and devices and whatnot used
by ancient nonliterate societies (did you know that
Aboriginal and Indigenous societies the world over were
using this method of loci long before the Greeks – who
happen to be the first to write about memory palaces so
they get “the credit” for inventing them?, but come to find out
that Stonehenge – this 5,000 year-old structure – probably,
undoubtedly, was a memory palace constructed to help
ancient peoples navigate the world around them), anyways,
this new direction for the poem was quickly hijacked by
sentiment and mushiness and whatnot because Heather’s B-day
is next week so that’s where the poem went and why, ultimately,
you’re stuck reading a poem (about a poem), which as it happens,
is not nearly as good as the one you aren’t currently reading, and
speaking of currants, or, at least, currant adjacent, the other poem,
the good one, has a line about mangos, so it’s automatically better
than this one, although, now, this one has a line about mangos, too,
so, we’d better just stop this Christopher Nolan, Möbius strip, Schrödinger’s
cat poem within a poem nonsense right here, and end things now.
_________________________________________________
Jennifer, thank you for your prompt today and your lovely mentor poem! This cross-generational “looming” together is such a beautiful image, and I love the last lines: “bringing beauty / from a scattering of scraps, / forming memories / for years to come.” And I want to thank you for setting me on the path for this year’s b-day poem for Heather, lol, and I wasn’t just being facetious in my poem above, along with books and videos by memory experts Dominic O’Brien and Nelson Dellis, Lynne Kelly’s Memory Craft has been a fascinating read this summer!
Scott, I’m entertained, as always. You craft the best stream of consciousness poems ever! I’m hoping the poem, the one that is the other poem, which is the better one than the one you told us about it in, is for Heather’s B-day, because she deserves your best! Is Lynne Kelly, the Lynne Kelly of Song for a Whale fame? If so, then I just read, and loved, her latest Three Blue Hearts. Thank you for taking us on a ride today!
Scott — This was so enjoyable to read! I especially love how you keep reminding us about the other poem that we aren’t reading —“no, this other poem,/you should have read that one, it was beautiful,/Byoo-tuh-fuhl (if you know what I mean)” and manage to squeeze really cool snippets of information. Who knew“Aboriginal and Indigenous societies the world over were/ using this method of loci long before the Greeks? I sure didn’t know this.
Thank you for the fun!
This is fun and twisted and joyful. Thanks for sharing this one, whatever version this may be!
So fun to read indeed! I also went down a rabbit hole of memory THINGS throughout the whole day. I had a hard time committing to one idea, so I paused to read for awhile, which totally made the ideas even more complex, so I did myself no favors. Lovely poem about a poem!
This is a great ode to similar ideas I thinked I’ve read before , though I can’t remember exactly which ones to cite my sources, anyway this is a great addition to that cannon. Haha , I like it
Scott—I want that OTHER poem! As always, your stream of nonsense—I mean, consciousness—poems pull me in and leave me wanting more!
Jennifer, thanks for hosting today and for sharing your beautiful poem. I could easily see the hands quilting together. Beautiful!
402 2nd Avenue, Clarence…
the year of letting go
we were masked visitors
obscured outside your window
you couldn’t answer our calls
unable to comprehend
how to use a cell phone
our words shattered
between glass panes
bitter, cold, sharp
yesterday, I found another sliver,
tried to extract its jagged edge
painful as your last breath
Barb Edler
20 July 2025
Barb,
Theres such universality and specificity in your poem. Your words flow like an iconic movie scene w/ that hard glass acting as a barrier. I live fearful of a time I won’t be able to use a thing all others use w/ ease. The image of a jagged sliver” is particularly powerful in what it says about our efforts to remember. Gorgeous poem.
Barb! This is an incredible poem (perhaps my favorite that you have shared with us!). Every stanza is just as impactful a punch-to-the-gut as the next, but that third one – wow! At least that’s what I thought, until I read the fourth. This one needs to go places!
Barb,
This is heartwrenching. The imagery so powerful. I feel all those jagged edges. I’m so sorry for your loss.
That last stanza cuts so deeply. Thank you for bravely sharing this gutting piece
Barb, so stunning I’ve read it four times. Thank you for this gift. 🤎
Barb, you have a way of writing that just goes straight to the heart and hits in places unexpected and needed. To feel that shattering and capture it in metaphor and then to resurrect it yesterday brings us right to the place where memory stings and we realize that we are not alone in this feeling. Your poem goes deep and touches those grief emotions – – and reminds us it is a process, a wound that will open again and again. I feel seen.
Oh, my, Barb, your poem brings me to to that place of despair where the world shatters in front of our eyes, and we seem helpless witnessing the loss. From the first line “the year of letting go” till the final “painful as your last breath” I sense your grief and feel how “bitter, cold, sharp” it is even after all these years. Thank you for finding just the right words to craft this masterful poem!
Oh, Barb. Every word in this poem is perfection. I hurt for you/with you. That last stanza…
Ooof, ooof, ooof! Powerful poem, Barb. You give us so much in only 12 lines. The imagery is penetrating and I connect with this on a cellular level.
👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽
Barb, I have circled back to read your profound poem. That opening line is pure music. I think it is also an actual title of a book of affirmations – but here, such a perfect, poetic approach to loss. I envision an older person, maybe a parent or grandparent, entrapped by age, illness, and the isolation of the pandemic. I see the window as literal and metaphorical, noting that words shatter vs. the actual window. The finding of another sliver – memory – and the pain of loss, may layers of it, is a visceral stab to us all. I feel it deeply and am awed by every line of this work of art, this work of heart, still dealing and healing. Thank you for the gift of this-
Jennifer, this is a lovely prompt! Thank you. Great to be here with everyone!
a stitch in time
the very fabric of us
worn out
and I feel the tear
if i lean toward
you rip back
it seams
two parts are needed
for patching
and a willingness to stitch
aching and aware
i have fallen into
your scrap pile
our friendship now in tatters
Oh this one hurts and pulls my heart. Being in someone’s scrap pile is so painfully vivid. Thank you for this image, sadly I relate.
Maureen, the physicality of your poem is incredibly moving. I can feel that fabric stretched then tearing. The friendship in tatters is such a striking image. Painful and moving.
Maureen, this is such a clear and powerful image! “[T]he very fabric of us / worn out” and torn until you “have fallen into / [his/her/their] scrap pile.” And I love the conscious, deliberate shift from upper case “I” pre-tear to the lower case “i” in the rest of the poem!
Maureen, these lines–I have fallen into your scrap pile–wrecked me. I had hints of the unraveling prior to that (in the “willingness to stitch” and “you rip back”) but I was hanging on to hope that a stitching would mend whatever had happened. Both lovely and sad.
Maureen, I am obsessed with this poem embodies relationship. Thank you!!
Maureen, I feel the truth and love the way you use seam that can complete the ripping back like seams or as seem on the two parts needed for patching to mean it is probable. Very clever play with the word and the way it works in both ways here.
Oh, Maureen, I got caught off guard with the first lines: “the very fabric of us / worn out.” Such a sad, but beautifully worded metaphor of falling out of relationships. I hear longing for and grieving of lost friendship. Thank you for sharing!
The scrap pile. Powerful, painful metaphor…
Hello everyone. Happy July! I hope every one of you is having an amazing, relaxing summer.
Thank you, Jennifer, for our guidance today and your beautiful poem.
I was thinking the other day of my delinquent youth days, or some days I just think how amazingly lucky I am to have three children that all are better at life than I was at their age. Better decision makers, I guess that must be their mom’s influence over mine through the years. But now I also have 100 plus new kids each year, and I try to always to stress “make better decisions than I did at your age”. Of course, kids will be kids, but it is still hard to watch these 9th graders every year struggling through when I try to tell them “no, listen, I actually do know what I’m talking about.” In just 3 short week it will be time to get a whole new crop of students, trying to figure it all out.
Whipped Cream Dream State
These drugs aren’t “hard”
these dreams aren’t wired
Jon and I snuck out of the house
pulling the thread of my salvation army sweater
wordlessly drifting into the street
making Peter G. promise not to
tell his parents
that we snuck in through a window
smoked crushed up peanut shells
inhaling yet another bad decision
jumping behind garbage cans
once the headlights side-eyed us from the intersection
We had the 6 cans of whipped cream from KMart
I sucked in the nitrous oxide
and ran
I ran faster and slower than I had ever ran
I floated a few feet above and a few feet below the pavement
The noises of night got quieter and louder
I ran
and ran
for so long and only a few seconds
we couldn’t catch the future
so we fell back into the bedsheets of the present
now I can barely remember those jackets of the past
I floated through reading this poem. Which has inspired me to maybe write about my own teenage shenanigans. Love the images and bits of the memories piecing together here. Especially Peter G.- how we remember certain peers forever, no matter how long ago it was. Thanks for sharing this fun piece
Luke, your wish to have your students make better decisions is something I had always hoped, too. Kids can be kids, and your poem clearly shows one of those decisions in action. Your poem is honest and compelling, and I enjoyed ‘once the headlights side-eyed us from the intersection”. Powerful poem!
Luke, I’m especially drawn to the opposing descriptions in that last stanza. There’s something extra meaningful in “I ran faster and slower than I had ever ran” and “I floated a few feet above and a few feet below the pavement,” beyond just the effects of the nitrous oxide, especially sitting alongside “we couldn’t catch the future.” My favorite line is “once the headlights side-eyed us from the intersection.” It’s so, so good.
Luke,
Your opening lines “These drugs aren’t “hard” really pulled me in. Definitely what a teen would say to rationalize bad behavior.
I could feel and visualize the lack of control you experienced from the “nitrous oxide” in your words —
“I ran faster and slower than I had ever ran
I floated a few feet above and a few feet below the pavement
The noises of night got quieter and louder”
Relly enjoyed the way your memory poem unfolds and the ending — “now I can barely remember those jackets of the past” — is just perfect.
Luke, such a vivid narration of your incident from the past! There are many well-crafted lines here that help follow your reflections, and this one is one that made me pause: “inhaling yet another bad decision,” Then the running scene–a combination of fast pacing and slow-motion–creates an interesting atmosphere of liminality. I like these lines too:
“we couldn’t catch the future
so we fell back into the bedsheets of the present”
We can only hope our kids and students make better decisions, but often they prefer to learn on their own mistakes. Thank you for sharing!
Happy Summer everyone!
Yay, thank you, Jennifer, for this beautiful welcome back into our writing. Your poem brought back memories of my grandmother. I went down a rabbit hole 5 hours ago digging for inspiration from Bisa Butler’s quilts. She transforms fabrics into into portrait quilts that are mind-blowing. Here is this interview from 2021 for those who want to learn more about her work.
I chose my favorite form, Golden Shovel, and used this striking line from Bisa’s interview: The images I’m making are looking back at me.
Memories
Memories are like the
patterns in a quilt, stitching images
into my psyche, waiting for the moment when I’m
studying fine lines on my hands or making
my grandmother’s famous rice. Memories are
scents within the fabrics of family, figures looking
for a portal to return back
to where we all have never gathered at
the feet of God, please wait for me
© Stacey L. Joy, 7-19-25
This is a cool image to create with the poem, thanks for sharing the link. “Please wait for me” is a powerful end. Thanks for sharing this
Thank you for the Bisa Butler rabbit hole lol – and what a gorgeous golden shovel. Your words “figures looking/for a portal to return back” speak, I think, to the surprise happenstance of memories – how they appear almost magically, in the midst of some ordinary doing…and I am just flooded with thoughts about a loved one or a special time. I love the idea that the memories themselves have agency, seeking to find me again….
Stacey, your poem reads and moves like a song. I love “Memories are/ scents within the fabrics of family”. Your end strikes a solemn chord and perhaps a hopeful one, too. Gorgeous and powerful poem!
Stacey, wow! Butler’s work is amazing! Thank you so much for sharing. This makes me want to return to the Smithsonian (the African American museum is by far my favorite and the most well curated). Your writing is beautiful. I love that you merged your words with Butler’s, stitching them together in a new way to create your own art–the best of what a Golden Shovel offers. Those last three lines are my favorite, and I’m drawn to re-reading them.
Stacey, WOWZA! This is incredible – – the striking line and the expressions and thoughts here are on point. Memories are the scents within the fabrics of family, figures looking for a portal to return back…….and then the reminder to wait. I’ll be checking out Bisa’s work – – thank.you for sharing this link and your poem is an absolute gem.
Love your poem on the quilted background, Stacey! The Golden Shovel fits well here helping you to stitch the images and memories. Love this line:
“Memories are
scents within the fabrics of family.”
Beautiful!
Jennifer, thank you for hosting today, and for your rich and meaningful prompts. I want to sit in on that quilting party you describe so well in your poem, and actually I am able to with your imagery. The hands–both gnarled and young–come alive in the stitching.
I’ve been sorely unmotivated to write lately, and I’m trying to find my way back. When I feel like this, I find golden shovels to be my go-to format. It helps to stitch some of my own words onto the words of another. Today, I have chosen two lines from a poem Glenda Funk wrote this week: “Do not hide your voice from your friends / Let this game of hide and seek end.” (Thanks, Glenda.)
Do poetry and live full and true,
not with answers but embracing questions.
Hide your deepest self in the words of
your love and longing. Your
voice is needed, so don’t keep
from yourself, from your
friends, but be uncluttered.
Let this chapter be the start,
this time pointing you to life. The
game of tragedy will always be the cause
of a tear in the foundation, a tear in the eye.
Hide not your deepest self,
and discover peace as you
seek to empty–finding the
end of the rainbow.
A lovely collab poem! Love the tear/tear multi meaning in that line. I am excited to read your work this weekend, you have talent and spark!
Denise,
I know that feeling of being unmotivated to write. Lately words seem so impotent, but O know they are mot, even when those who should listen don’t. I keep telling myself how small voices in a collective of like-minded people can do powerful things. I’m honored to call you friend and honored to have you find motivation, if only a little, in my poem.
Denise, your poems confirm my poem! Thanks, Glenda. We are better together! And, thankfully, this family of writers feels comfortable enough not to hide our feelings. Thank the Lord for family.
great idea, great format, great poem. Thank you for sharing your “writer’s block”, I can also relate to that.
I’m going to assume this is something I find meself dong often subconsciously or consciously, writing a poem in 2nd person but intending it to actually address myself.
Beautiful idea to turn Glenda’s words into your golden shovel; love this. Your poem sounds like a prayer to me, a plea to yourself perhaps? “Hide not your deepest self…” poetry is the perfect outlet when you feel unable to motivate, I think.
What a beautiful poem, Denise. I love that you used Glenda’s poetry to guide this powerful poem. I feel such aching throughout your poem. I love the idea of living full and true and moving toward discovery and peace. The rainbow imagery at the end offers hope and beauty. Thanks for writing today!
Denise, poetry stitching! Love the concept of stitching your words to another’s (i.e. Golden Shovel). I can feel the pull toward starting to write again throughout your poem, but especially in the urging for your words and voice. I’m so glad you shared this with us today. Anything combining your words and Glenda’s words was bound to be amazing!
Denise, you chose some inspirational lines from Glenda to build onto the sound message. I like these lines and will hold onto them when I feel unable or unmotivated to write:
“Let this chapter be the start,
this time pointing you to life.”
Discovering peace within ourselves is also crucial. Thank you!
What a beautiful idea, Denise –to lean on the words of others for support and inspiration. And so, in lending their voice, we find ours again.
Jennifer,
Thank you for hosting and introducing us to Emma Parker’s beautiful work.
I love the connection and contrast of the generations’ hands:
So beautiful.
————————————————————————
When I came to visit
you always made my bed
with the quilt passed down from Grandpa’s step-mother
who died of the flu in 1918
I slept under its bright red squares
and red and green baskets
with the upstairs windows opened wide
to the cool North air
One summer at your kitchen table
You told me to take the quilt home
But I wanted it to be there
When I came to visit
Even after you died
I left the quilt there
When Grandpa died
No one could find the quilt
I was sad that I hadn’t listened to you
One day my uncle who had inherited your blue gray house
Found a quilt in an upstairs closet
One my parents and aunts and uncles had looked in many times
He thought to ask if it was the one promised to me
Now it sits on the top shelf of our linen closet
Too delicate for daily life with our dog
How special that it was discovered again. Thanks for sharing this sweet history.
Sharon, what a sweet memory. I’m so glad you got it eventually, and I love the sweet detail of finding it in a closet where “my parents and aunts and uncles had looked in many times”. Thanks for sharing, and I’m glad the prompt reminded you of this delicate treasure.
Sharon, your Lost and Found story rings so true in multiple ways, figuratively and literally, Well, that’s what poets do … create pictures with words that evoke memories. Thankfully, yours is pleasant as are those that came to my mind as I read your poem.
I’m glad you took down the quilt, at least figuratively, to share with us. Hope the dog stayed away, too. 🙂
a simply told but clea rand moving story. Thank you for sharing!
I love the connection, the storytelling, the love that is expressed in this one quilt. Your lines
“But I wanted it to be there
When I came to visit”
stopped my breath for a moment…just lovely, how special your visits were.
Sharon, sleeping under a quilt with the windows open wide to cool North air and all the perfection of that moment immediately takes me to September in Michigan, which is the very best sleeping weather. How special to have this quilt from your grandmother and for it to have found you again. I love that you left it for your visits. It makes the memories connected to it that much stronger.
Stitched Heritage
Its’ yellowed, cracked pages
fastened together with a metal spiral
bound and hold my heritage.
Forgotten faces inside,
words linking the ancestral photos
through stories told
back to the 1770’s.
They tell of survival.
People passing on their skills
joined by blood
birthright to children
again and again;
a graphic artist,
a writer,
a civil engineer,
a doctor.
A thread stitching traits
through hundreds of years
coming to me
with creativity.
Genetically gluing
lessons, characteristics and desires
to future lives
and reminding me of who I am.
It feels so good to be writing with you again. Thank you Jennifer.
Love love love “genetically gluing” – how special to look back on “forgotten faces” and see what traits lasted. This has a calmness to me. Thanks for sharing.
Susan, what a privilege to have this book of your ancestors. Wow! So much history. “A thread stitching traits / through hundreds of years” is a great metaphor and interpretation of today’s prompt.
so many visuals that come to mind, infered visuals? We all have some version of this maybe, but it’s not always something physical. I’m glad you get to have a physical version.
Susan, I love how you spun the prompt to thread your history into this poem. I keep returning to “genetically gluing” and how those aren’t words that usually sit alongside one another and how they work so perfectly together just the same. What an incredible gift to have this book going back to the Revolutionary War time. Fascinating!
A beautifully woven poem, Susan!
Jennifer, this is such a perfect prompt for my languid summer morning! I love the weaving of generations, the hands, the hopes, the memories that inhabit this space.
I too, write of quilted memories:
quilted memories
the sierra forest of my life
unfolds before me – I step into the morning
like a bride down the aisle
south to north, silence–
my gaze falls to the flannelled quilt,
carelessly crumpled, sunrays
seeping between stitches–
sisters blanketing me
in forty years of warmth
Patricia, the phrasing of this–”sunrays seeping between stitches”– is just lovely. It reminds me of long mornings, peaceful days, laziness and sisterly love spread out before me. Isn’t it amazing how much memory can be contained in one quilt (must be all those pieces!). Thank you for sharing this today!
this poem creates such beautiful visuals. I love the forest and the sunrays falling over you and the memories of a crumpled quilt.
being blanketed by sisters is such a beautiful image. Thanks for sharing this language and memory.
Patricia, what magic you have created on your languid summer morning. Such beautiful imagery. The joy of stepping into the morning like a bride, yet in the quiet, is something I wish to aspire to in my easy summer mornings. The quilt sounds lovely and warm here.
Hi Jennifer,
’Preciate you hosting today and sending me into my memories. “scattering of scraps” is a lovely image. This prompt offers many opportunities for stitching words together.
This September marks 50 years since my father died. My poem is about the last time I spoke to my father, which was the night before he died.
Our Last Goodbye
(for my father)
Your words haunt my
memories spanning
fifty years. I tug ganglia,
searching for a postmortem
ending for the last time we
spent time together. The
evocation formed when you
asked why & where when
we said our last goodbye.
Glenda Funk
July 19, 2025
Glenda, what a powerful (and haunting) memory tugging at you. I really like how those three questions words land in the line, “asked why & where when…” They urge me to read and reread and really examine the meaning behind the phrasing. 50 years seems like such a long time, though I don’t imagine it feels that way to you. I hope I can hold onto these last moments with those who are/were so important to me. Lovely writing!
How raw it comes back even after 50 years. Thank you for sharing this, despite the pain.
Wow, Glenda, your poem is so powerful. It shows the strong influence words can have, as well as the thoughts that keep those words embedded within us. The persistent memories around this goodbye, included him asking “why & where”, make it even more compelling as you keep it vague about what he said.
Glenda, I love the way your poem captures the emotions of this last goodbye. The last two lines are particularly moving. I can feel the desire to have one more moment to ask another question or to share another story in this. Loved “I tug ganglia, searching for a postmortem/ending”. Haunting and beautiful poem!
Glenda, this is a powerful reminder of how our parents and their memories do no just “die”; instead they linger in our “ganglia” for all of our time.
Glenda, it seems like the final goodbyes are as vivid years ago as they are weeks ago. Whether peaceful or not, there is regret, sorrow, bitterness and anger – – like death has a vortex of striking nerves even in the aftermath. I’m so glad you wrote this poem because it reminds me that the haunting moments of these memories will live on, and that I am not alone in feeling the urge to tug ganglia — I love that expression!
Glenda, whether it is 5, 30, or 50 years, the waves of grieving and the final goodbyes haunt us as long as we live, and I see it in your poem. From our conversations and your other poems, I know how important and influential he was in your life. To “tug ganglia” is such a loaded expression.
Jennifer, what a prompt to remind us of who we are and how we’ve arrived at this point. With the announcement of a book about poetry as an assessment, published by Routledge, that includes chapters written by several of us in the group, your prompt, and Stacy Joy’s photos on Facebook, this is the poem that came to me today
Less Looming
Better together.
We can weather the weather.
Whether or not we are in the same room.
Family connects us like threads on a loo.m
Meeting in class or meeting on Zoom
Problems diminish.
When we start to write
Solutions seem to emerge in the light
Whether or not we are in the same room.
Better together in pairs or small groups
Pulling together in circles or loops
We get the job done.
And we often have fun!
Our challenges no longer seem looming.
Instead, we seem to start blooming.
Yes, Stacey Joy, I know how to spell your name, but AI doesn’t… yet. Sorry, I didn’t catch it before hitting POST COMMENT 🙂
Oh gosh, Anna — yes! Better together, whether stitches or humans! “Pulling together in circles or loops”– great use of metaphor!
Anna, sometimes the very best things are found in what comes our way – just like this poem! I love the playfulness of the use of weather/whether and the community building you thread throughout, which I see in family, friends, colleagues, ethicalELA writers. I am embracing those last two lines today – it’s what I need to lift me up and move forward!
I love the word play here, my favorite way to use a prompt! Really lovely way to thread it together. Nice message. Thanks for sharing.
Anna, yes, yes, yes! We are always stronger as connected people than alone; yet, when we find ourselves alone, the power of those friends and family behind the scenes seems to sustain us.
Yes, Anna, it is so much better together! Supporting each other, elevating each other, caring and helping–and creating, building, producing. Your poem is uplifting and hopeful. I always like to trace your rhymes, noticing, remembering, learning. Thank you!
You ever think the stairs look so steep
that you couldn’t possibly climb them,
like the thought of a first step has you
breathless, knees wobbly, pits sweating?
I live on the first step now, most doubts
a pebble I kick aside, a crumbling crack
a welcome foothold. How did stairs be
come so daunting when they help our
bodies ascend? Maybe it’s another’s pace
or the calls from behind. I’ll move onto
the second step when I catch my breath.
Sarah, you are going to be the master of kicking many a pebble aside over this next year.
Sarah,
I hope you’ll take lots of photos of stairs during your year of travel. I think you’ll want to visualize in photos this metaphor for the journey you’re on and the ascents and descents you’ll experience. Soon those steps will become easier to climb. Seeing your post about the Barcelona stairs reminded me of stairs we climbed in Greece to our hotel. Seems as though all the journeys worth taking have stairs, literal and metaphorical. Photographing stairs and doors is one of my favorite things to do when traveling.
Great idea to document the literal stairs. Thanks for the encouragement.
Sarah, I love this reminder: “…stairs…help our bodies ascend” –such wisdom in reflection. Also love the prose form choice –a daunting stair for this poetic body –so I’m going to try my hand now that you’ve inspired me. Thanks!
Sarah, you are on the first step of such an incredible new journey. That pause is necessary. Take the breath. Gather yourself for all that is to come. You’ve done so much to get to this place–those pebbles and cracks can’t stop you now. (At the same time, I can see the literal stairs that face you on the myriad European streets–you’ll be climbing plenty!). Thank you for joining us from afar!
Wow, Sarah, so many symbols found in those stairs. Right away I thought about the challenge of walking them after my knee surgery but (now as I am healed) I feel the climb during my physical walks and then with the daily chores full of pebbles of doubt.
“I live on the first step now” is really calling to me. I just finished a rather steep hike and this resonates in the literal, too. Thanks for sharing.
Sarah, you are so skillful with the extended metaphor! We know stairs, but you add physical impact and emotional feelings, too. Thanks for demonstrating the poetic talent of figurarive imagery. I was huffing by the time I finished!
Breathtaking, beautiful poem. Thank you for sharing Sarah!
Sarah, your poem shows an uncertainty anyone can face when experiment with new things. Taking a risk, moving in a different direction can be “daunting”. I was particularly moved by the “crumbling crack/a welcome foothold” and the focus on catching your breath at the end. Powerful poem!
Sarah, your poem brings me, however briefly, into the wonderful and yet scary journey you are undertaking. Take your time on that first step!
Sarah, enjoy the stairs, kick aside the pebbles, and breathe the joy in with all you have!!
Sarah, I have dreams with this kind of steep stairs sometimes. They are scary. Wise people around say: one step at a time, and it makes them less intimidating.
Your poem’s form today reminds me those steep stairs and works well with the words. On the third step, you’ll feel so much better. Enjoy each one of them!
Jennifer, thank you for opening July poetic journey with such a heartfelt prompt and poem. I love generational quilting with “gnarled hands, / unsteady hands.” The ending is beautiful and so hopeful for both making memories and holding onto traditions.
I have to go now, but will return I the evening to read and comment on the poems.
Picking Up the Pieces
After the last goodbye,
Mom stayed—
cooking quiet dinners,
distracting the girls with stories,
tucking in loose edges
of our uncertain days.
I waited by the window
for a lunch that wouldn’t come.
One afternoon, she sat beside me:
“He’s not coming back, baby—
but he’s here,
if you let the memories in.”
She brought the old sewing machine
from the back room
and set it humming in the living room.
“We could use more pillowcases,” she said.
Surprised, I wanted to scoff,
but nodded like a good daughter.
We chose the fabric, measured, cut,
evened the sides, stitched the pieces.
Our hands brushed—
steadying each other
as we worked in silence
eased by memories.
She recalled the first time he visited,
how shy he was,
how he asked for my hand—
quiet, determined.
I told her how he’d vacuum the carpet,
snagging my skirt just to make me jump.
We remembered him reading poems
to the girls at bedtime—his voice
too alive to lull them to sleep.
How I’d whisper,
“They’ll never rest if you read like that,”
and he’d just smile and carry on.
We were picking up the pieces—
threading shared joy
into the soft corners
of what remained.
And life, somehow,
felt possible again.
Lovely, Leilya. “We were picking up the pieces” is a line so apt for the lived moments in the previous stanza. Reading to the girls. Precious.
Leilya,
Your words are ethereal. You’ve woven a gorgeous poem together w/all the sewing imagery. I love this ending:
”We were picking up the pieces—
threading shared joy
into the soft corners
of what remained.”
Oh Leilya, this is achingly moving (I am grieving the loss of my own dad and walking with my mom in her new journey). Picking up the pieces, threading shared joy…feels very familiar and very comforting. Thank you for this.
Leila ~ Every line pulled at my heart strings ~ I see his love—your love— in the snag of your skirt, I hear his love— your love in his bedtime readings…you have such a tender way of gilding simple words with beauty.
Leilya, this poem touched me in ways I can’t describe. It’s almost as if the prompt was written directly for you today. From that first exchange with you Mom (it brought me to tears) to the sewing scenes and words tucked throughout, to the last stanza and it’s incredible depth – it’s just beautiful. Hugs.
This is really beautiful. I am drawn to the last few lines “shared joy into soft corners” brings back some happiness and lightness to the topic. Very well done. Thank you for bravery of sharing.
That’s a professional poet here folks, look at the whole thing, but especially that last stanza. So well written.
Leilya, your poem is compelling and moving. I love how tenderly you share this precious time, sharing fond memories. Your mother’s story and your own, show us your father. Your closing stanza is incredibly moving. I loved “And life, somehow, felt possible again.” Wow! Thank you for sharing your magnificent craft with us today.
Leilya, your words reflect the intense pain of loss as well as the power of words and people to sew the shards of your life back into some sort of a new, yet familiar, pattern.This is a powerful poem
I can only echo what everyone else has said. And then wipe away my tears…. Beautiful.
Jennifer,
Thank you for your prompt and your poem. I connected with
“conversation filling/ the space between us” and loved the images of “Hands stitched threads,/gnarled hands,/unsteady hands.”
After my mother passed, my father gave me all of her hats. My daughter’s and I wear them and remember her.
A Box of Hats
My mother wore hats.
The beige fedora with a matching raincoat—
perfect for traversing rainy London.
Gazing at old photos, she reminds me of Carmen San Diego,
her spirit of adventure bright enough to catch.
My mother wore hats.
A cream derby with a black satin bow,
chic beside her summer wedding dress—
elegance woven from simplicity.
My mother wore hats.
A bobble hat for the coldest days.
A jaunty grey beret for nights on the town.
Kettle brim or floppy straw on sun-drenched afternoons.
There was always
a hat for the weather,
a hat for her mood,
a hat for the moment.
She wore them not just for fashion
but to say who she was.
My mother wore hats.
And in every one,
she wore a piece of herself.
And when we wear one of them,
we carry a piece of her with us—
a bit of her boldness, her elegance,
her way of facing the world with flair.
Hi Tammi ~ I like the repetition of My mother wore hats followed by what each one signifies. You’ve created a simple sentence, devoid of emotion and recreated a real person a full life, and a tribute to your mother’s boldness and elegance. A hat to say who she was— I think she’d be pleased to be remembered this way!
This is really sweet. Not only the “wearing different hats” that mothers do and juggle, but the pieces of personality in each one. A special gift. Thank you for sharing with us and your girls!
Tammi,
I really like how the repeated bold lines work as a hat on top of each stanza to anchor all the ways peiole we love showbiz who they are.
Tammi. Your tale of your mother’s hats is special and clearly a family legacy you will always treasure
I add my admiration for the repetition “My mother wore hats.” Such a definitive statement for someone who clearly had a definitive sense of self. Really wonderful, too, that you wear them, too!
Tammi, there’s just something about someone who wears a hat. They feel stylish, elevated, fun, creative, and also commonsensical (for winter warmth). I love the images you give us of her, the Carmen San Diego, the chic derby wearing bride. They evoke periods past but also the current times when you and your daughters carry on her style.
I don’t know why exactly, but I feel “My Mother Wore Hats” could be an excellent title of a poetry collection or chapbook or something. Thank you for sharing Tammi.
What a delightful poem commemorating your mom and her hats, Tammi! I love the description of hats, their functions and purpose for mood, weather, occasion. The final two stanzas connect all of you carrying a piece of her. Her legacy, not just hats, live with you.
What a beautiful prompt and memory Jennifer! Hands stitched threads…gnarled hands, unsteady hands ~ what a tender image you’ve captured!
Memory Threads
She was baptized Mary,
but liked to be called Marie,
my mother’s older sister,
my godmother
whom I loved beyond telling.
She lived with my godfather
in small turreted house
set upon a high, sparkling
pink cement staircase,
a magical path to a fairytale castle.
With no children of their own,
my godparents spoiled me,
let me play hopscotch and jacks
from morning til night,
never setting a table or drying a dish.
Never noticing my aunt’s mood
as she sat in her chair to crochet.
It wasn’t until I was much older
that I learned of about
the flurries of irrepressible mania
and blocks of immutable sadness
well hidden from a child’s eyes.
Now when I look at the delicate
handmade lace I inherited,
I wonder about each stitch—
was it manic energy captured
in threaded loops? or a willful
distraction from an unyielding,
demonic darkness?
If I could once again follow
those pink cement stairs, once
again enter that fairytale castle,
I’d put away my chalk and jacks
and sit beside her;
I’d watch her work, and whisper,
heart to heart,
thread by thread
I love you Aunt Marie.
I love you beyond telling.
There is such delicate tenderness in this piece and tribute to a special woman. Love the lingering questions. And very much captures how we can fixate on a project to soothe many ails. Thank you for sharing this image.
Anne,
I am drawn to how your poem captures the naivette of childhood and juxtaposes it against complexities of adulthood and mental health. How you describe “the delicate/handmade lace I [ you]inherited” representing your aunt’s internal struggles and your longing to hold onto the memories of the idyllic fairytale castle truly capture the dichotomies in life.
Beautiful poem.
Ann,
Oh, yes, what a “if I could” poem to look pack and zoom into background moment to redo, to see, to witness “thread by thread.”
Oh, how powerful and heartbreaking.
These line:
I wonder about each stitch—
was it manic energy captured
in threaded loops? or a willful
distraction from an unyielding,
demonic darkness?
Don’t we wonder fail to realize that those two polarities are responsible for the creation of so much beauty in the world.
Ann, this is such a precious look back — I hope you forgive yourself for being and seeing as a child then, and not seeing the mania/sadness. What a gift your aunt gave you in protecting you from that. Such love of a godmother to her precious godchild.
Ann, what a loving and lovely poem, filled with the memories of your Aunt Marie. The movement from fairytale in a turreted castle to what is real world is both heartbreaking and beautiful. How special a person she must have been to offer you this space to be a child all while she was struggling. And what a gift that lace is in all its stitching (not sure it’s called that). Such a delicate image for one so strong, just as lace is!
Ann, your memory threads are full of “love beyond telling.” As you stitch them together, you connect the childhood perceptions with the adult realizations hidden behind pink stairs and fairytale castles. I wish we could understand more as children or revisit the past and just sit beside people we loved. Your poem delivers this realization so well. Thank you for your words today!
I have to say that I have had a very rough few months and it was this prompt that got me writing again. Thank you!
Pattern
Just after midnight, my daughter and I drove the Sussex County road
That threaded dark fields patchworked with soy and the
“Silver Queen” corn that was (as promised and as always)
“Knee-high by the 4th of July” and read for picking by month’s end,
No matter how much else had changed.
We talked about God and faith and the Fibonacci sequence
Under the nearly full, nautilus shell of moon that curled iridescent
Against a black velvet sky, so perfect in its proportions,
Waxing and waning on cue. I told her about the Native’s Great Spirit,
The pattern-maker that stitches order into life’s crazy quilt.
We are on our way to the ocean to release his ashes into the Atlantic.
Forty years ago, my mother traded her wild, rocky Rhode Island beaches
For Delaware’s shore, its dunes that always smell vaguely of salt water taffy,
Water that snaps and billows like sheets on a clothes line, the scene of
Every summer memory, now the set for another curtain call.
Last summer, my sister and I succumbed to nostalgia and drove past
The house that was sold right after mom died 31 years ago. It was her house, and
Our father could no longer wade through the wicker and blue and white chintz without her.
I understand. Sometimes the whole space– this coastal expanse– feels haunted
By all of the wrecks of ghost ships lost beneath dark, damask depths.
As we drove and spoke, a string of words from a long-forgotten poem, written the year after My mother died (when I was the 19 year old that my daughter is now), wove its way across My Consciousness: The crescent moon as a “tear in the fabric that holds us all in.”
Tomorrow, we will carry handfuls of ashes into the ocean’s porous boundary;
Watch them spiral into divine, liquid patterns that are completely unknowable to us.
Breathtaking images and vulnerability here. Thank you for bravely weaving together these moments in your fabric and hugs to you on this challenging road. Beautifully done.
Wow! This poem is incredibly beautiful in myriad ways–the imagery (water snapping like billowing sheets), the word choices (especially of the water), the connection (I could feel what you were sharing), the colors (blue/white chintz vs dark, damask watery depths), the placement of the setting (after midnight, dark, threaded fields). It is just lovely. Mariah! I am so, so glad you joined us today. Sending hugs for all you’ve been through.
Mariah,
So many gorgeous images — “threaded dark fields patchworked with soy and the/“Silver Queen” corn”, ” nautilus shell of moon that curled iridescent/Against a black velvet sky,” “smell vaguely of salt water taffy,/
Water that snaps and billows like sheets on a clothes line.”
I connect with “We talked about God and faith and the Fibonacci sequence.” This feels like a conversation I would have with my children on a road trip. I feel sorrow, nostalgia, and cartharsis in your journey to the ocean, and I understand these emotions that come with the loss of a loved one.
Absolutely gorgeous poem.
Such beautiful language!
Mariah, Your line about stitching order into life’s crazy quilt is a powerful depiction of what you are doing on your journey as well as what we all do to get through life.
Mariah,
Thank you for sharing this beautiful poem.
This stanza especially made me smile with wonder:
And these lines made me cry:
Sending peace and love.
Beautifully lyical words, rife with sweet thoughts and memories. I wish I could help more of my students tap into this kind of expression, wonderful Mariah! I’d love to read more of your work!
Jennifer–your poem (and prompt) is beautiful! The imagery of the hands, the great-grandmothers and granddaughters working together, the conversation filling… Wow!
I come from a family of “makers”-weavers, knitters, crocheters, seamstresses. Rags became rag rugs; nothing went to waste. My grandmother taught me to sew when I was nine. The other day, I was going through boxes and found the green corduroy jumper I made for my mother for Christmas when I was thirteen. She had saved it, folded it perfectly, and preserved it. It brought back so many memories. Thank you for the reminder of why it mattered so much to both of us.
Threads
There is power in the making.
Begin with a flat piece of fabric,
woven of threads.
Lovely, but of little use yet.
On the dining room table, begin the transformation.
(Shoo the cat away–you don’t need their “help”.)
Place the pattern pieces thoughtfully.
Acknowledge the nature of the fabric–
Direction matters.
Consider where the edges will meet.
Then…Cut.
You are committed now–
No going back.
The magic starts here.
Disparate pieces of fabric unite,
forming something new,
greater than before.
When you have cut the last thread
and pressed the last seam,
stand back.
You have made something new–
It did not exist without you.
There is power in that making.
GJSands
7/19/25
I love the “directions” this piece gives us, especially with the cat! “It did not exist without you” is so powerful and shows so much pride in your art. Similar in poetry. Thanks for sharing this powerful piece of fabric.
Gayle, I love a good bookend and your opening/closing line does that perfectly! Your poem unfolds just as the creation does. I wish more people understood the power that comes from bringing something into existence (rather than destroying it). It is truly magical. And I love that your mother kept the jumper but even more so love that it had been so carefully preserved. What a gift for you both!
Gayle, the circular ending works so magically here too, just like the magic of the beginning of the quilt in your lines. I like that you added the perspective of finishing and standing back – – to admire it, to see it as the new thing created, the power to create! Even a small piece of fabric that may seem useless on its own holds quilts together as it realizes its full purpose, and that is the image I get here. Lovely!
Gayle —
Yes! “There is power in that making.” I love the way your poem unfolds. I feel pulled into the magic that transpires at your dining room table.
what a first line and then the slight twist of it at the end…
perfect.
Gayle, I love you bookends lines that capture creating something new. As a long standing sewer, crafter and creator, I will long Savor that line whether I am working with cloth, yarn, or words.
Jennifer, Your poem spoke to my quilting self; however, as I walked past the apron, hanging in my hallway for many years, I was reminded of the power of stitches, long after we have passed.
Way back in the twenty aughts,
We celebrated families, birthdays, holidays.
Too much food, lots of laughter, so many memories,
Reminders of love, rather than gifts, optional.
I wonder if she knew these butterflies, flowers,
Nestled in a worn, stained apron,
Stitched in love, so long ago,
Would still hang in my hallway?
Daily reminders to savor special moments,
Embrace the present, celebrate your people.
The future is not promised.
A sweet image of how closely related food and love sit in our memories. Thank you for sharing this special apron with us.
Anita, the stained apron is a powerful item to hold memories. We can see the results of the work created in the stains, feel the love gone into the food for celebrations. That it reminds you of the shared “love, rather than gifts” reveals so much about both you and her. I love that you stitched the past, present, and future into your poem today!
Anita, one of the last pieces my father wrote was about his grandmother’s apron. He had called a cousin to please tell all the stories of Granny Haynes, who was the matriarch and a powerful one at that. It does not surprise me one bit that this apron that hangs in your home has stood the test of time and keeps a lasting presence in your life and in your heart. Apron strings’ll do that. Beautiful writing today!
Anita,
I love these lines —
“I wonder if she knew these butterflies, flowers,
Nestled in a worn, stained apron,
Stitched in love, so long ago,
Would still hang in my hallway?”
I can relate to this as I have clothing and jewelry of my mother’s that remind me of special moments. I agree “the future is not promised” and we need to cherish each day we are given.
Anita,
Right before I read your poem I thought about how quilts, throws, anything homemade really holds memories. Leilya’s poem sparked that thought, and hour poem honors that idea. That last line rings true in scary ways as well as common ones.
I saw the email and was so excited to be back together again! I greatly enjoy this writing and reading community. The threads of the prompt have taken us all to interesting places in time.
care instructions
I had an old baby quilt, made of 50% tears,
sewn with snot and trimmed with worries
from crib to childhood years.
It shielded me from thunder,
but I couldn’t save it from the rain,
each time a little harder
to ease the growing pains.
For years I traced the selvage
to calm my anxious hands.
But salvaging a broken heart?
More than stitches could withstand.
I wrung out my body, releasing every tear,
sobbing in the shower caused them to overhear.
The quilt had muffled years of sadness,
it was finally too small,
my feelings and words grew bigger,
louder with each fall.
I now pen my heart on paper
instead of fabric squares.
As for the quilt— keep it,
wash and mend with care.
Yes, our baby blanket poems are quite different, lol! But oh, you hooked me with that first line, :an old baby quilt made of 50% tears” – I had to know more! “Sewn with snot and trimmed with worries” – how apt, how truthful, for a young child’s blanket into which she cried when afraid, until her worries grew too big for it. Wonderful and raw transition with growing older and coming to the healing power of writing. My own heart rejoices that the quilt’s still here. Such a powerful poem.
I love when writers subvert an expectation, especially in the intro! That line got me, for sure. But it was the tracing of the selvage and the inability to mend the broken heart that solidly connected me to the poem. You carried the image from the title (wonderful) to the very end it such a compelling way. Well done!
CO, Your poem really does remind us of the power of a baby quilt to provide courage and protection and then how we can morph our “lovey” into a pern. Just last night, my granddaughter and her friends brought their baby quilts to a swim meet to “sit on” between heats. I suspect there was comfort in those seats as well….I first wrote about that this morning….
Wow! From that first line (50% tears!) to its presence throughout your life. Wash and mend with care, for certain. Beautiful,
CO, I have been cleaning out and wondering whether to send my kids their childhood blankets or what to do with them, and your poem gives me just the right answers. It’s the heart that needs these blankets, not the hands – and so I shall send them along and let them decide whether they find comfort enough to keep them. I love the way you express the feelings and the way the quilt got you through the storms. “I wrung out my body, releasing every tear….” will stay with me. That is one powerful image to show the despair that life can bring us sometimes. Thank you for sharing your poem.
C.O. I set out reading this with a smile for an old baby quilt, sewn with snot and trimmed with worries but by the time your feelings and words grew bigger, louder with each fall, I was almost in tears. I’m glad you now pen your heart on paper, but also glad your noble quilt is washed and mended with care. A really lovely poem!
C.O.
These line blew me away —
“The quilt had muffled years of sadness,
it was finally too small,
my feelings and words grew bigger,
louder with each fall.
I now pen my heart on paper
instead of fabric squares.”
So much truth in these words. As we grow into adulthood, our struggles and pain grows so much larger and writing can definitely be cartharsis.
This is a bittersweet poem recalling the attachments we put on our special belongings and the way time shifts our ways of remembering. I love the ending:
“I now pen my heart on paper
instead of fabric squares.
As for the quilt— keep it,
wash and mend with care.”
It’s a celebration of the permanence of words.
Hello, Jennifer! You had me enraptured from the very start with the post title, “Memory Threads.” My kinda writing 🙂 Then – where you take us!! This inspiration pulled me all the way in: Emma Parker’s themes are “often around the broken, the abandoned, and the forgotten.” She explains that thread and cloth hold the metaphors of mending, repairing, and connecting and becomes interested in the stories the materials hold… yes, yes, yes. I knew instantly what I’d write about and honestly my mind is still spiraling in about a bazillion directions with other poems that I could write, all having to do with the broken, abandoned, forgotten, and all connected to thread, cloth, sewing…my mother was a seamstress and that’s all I will say for now. As for your poem: How rich a scene, this legacy of quilt-making, the great bonding of familial women and the metaphor of life. I have a little sign in my windowsill that reads: “When life deals you scraps, make a quilt.” I have a quilt my grandmother made and gave me when I married – I recognize pieces of outfits the women in my family wore in the early ’70s. See the flood of memory you bring today! What a gift – you and your poem and prompt! Thank you so much for this<3
The Silky String
Who
gave me
the blanket
trimmed with satin?
Someone receiving
a new baby to hold.
Did this someone ever know
that my sweet blanket, white as snow,
would become my babyhood lifeline
even as it all disintegrated?
-the blanket, that is, from too much loving.
Over time the satin pulled away
and someone (who?) tied it in knots
to keep it from being lost.
Priceless, my silky string,
for rubbing between
fingers, thumb in
mouth…soothing
me to
sleep.
I was also thinking baby blankets this morning, in a different way. The visual shape of the poem matches the rattiness and strings that remain hanging from the blanket. I enjoy the line breaks and free flowing thoughts. Thanks for sharing.
Fran, your words evoked so many baby/childhood blankets (mine, siblings’, my own kids’, nephews’). My oldest’s first quilt came from one of my parents’ elderly neighbors. They had just moved into a small village in Vermont. My son wore it threadbare. The choice of in and out etheree works beautifully here as a visual. I imagine the blanket unfolding in the first stanza and then fading away as it becomes worn in the second (all through love). What a beautiful poem!
Fran, like you, this prompt had my mind steaming with possible options. In fact, I wrote two other poems (about my granddaughter taking her baby quilt to a swim meet and about a first baby quilt I made) before deciding to share one about my sister in law’s stiches. You poem certainly got me thinking even more…….
FRan–for me, too, it was “which poem to write?!”. So many directions! The space between the first and second stanza is filled with life left unsaid. I felt the “who” in my heart.
Fran, your poem is touching and laden with memory and love in the moment of time the blanket swaddled you. Those satin edges are just the right sensory touches to lull us in all comfort to sleep. I feel the layering of life here – – and the turns it takes that we can never expect, scars we never expect to bear. This is rich with feeling and deep with meaning. You are a master of that – – the roots, the ancestors, the way time echoes on beyond the years.
Fran, you’ve completely captured the wonder of a baby blanket. Its ability to comfort is amazing. I liked how you focused on the soothing actions at the end. Gorgeous, tender poem!
Jennifer, I love the image of multi-generations around a quilt circle. Your prompt spurred on a poem I had started to write in my notebook. My mother died on July 9 after a long battle with Alzheimer’s. She had been in memory care for 2 years, so her possessions were few. In this poem, I explore why I was compelled to keep her silk scarves.
Silk Scarves
I saved her silk scarves
each one a bright
replica of art.
I couldn’t bear to place
such brightness
into a black garbage bag.
We worked quickly
making choices to give away
or throw away. Why?
I ask myself
did these scarves call to me?
I remember when appearances
were important to my mother.
She never left the house without
coordinating clothes, make-up, jewelry.
The end erased who she had been.
Lord knows I don’t need
anymore scarves. I’ve chosen
Tiffany stained glass (butterflies)
to drape my neck
alongside the black dress.
Margaret
Your use of color imagery is powerful.
And I know this line is weighted in loss but still, I found it to be the center of your poem for me:
The end erased who she had been
Kevin
Brilliant poem and imagery, Margaret. I feel the angst of parting with every “bright replica of art” – such depth of meaning, knowing how art is a hallmark of your family. I know about having to work quickly, against the pain of loss, to purge – the internal dialogue works so beautifully here in your poem. I can see you in your black dress with that butterfly scarf – stunning! – as your mother surely was, as well. My prayers are with you, friend.
Oh this is beautiful and painful. “The end erased who she had been” is so heart breaking. I’m glad you get to keep the scarves as a memory of who she really was. Thanks for the bravery in sharing.
Margaret, you have also been on my mind of late. I’m not sure there can be many losses greater than that of a mother. The symbol of the scarf, as a finishing touch on a carefully put together outfit, works beautifully to give us a glimpse of her. I can picture you as well, with the touch of art and her in the scarf at your neck. Beautiful!
Margaret, your poem is a wonderfully crafted reminder of the power of “things” to spur diverse memories. I am confident your mom would approve on the outfit and your choice of scarves.
Margaret–I know this road. That line, “The end erased who she had been” brought me to tears. Your use of color, the feelings it imbued. The black dress. So much sorrow.
Margaret, such beauty in all the sorrow. The memories rise up from the scarves – – all the color comes back with each wear – black dress for the mourning, the color and butterflies (a lingering passion of yours) for all the hope and release as you celebrate the life of your mother. My hope is that the joy far outweighs the grief you feel. You’ve been on my mind, and I’m glad we had a chance to talk during this season of loss of our parents. Blessings, prayers, and hugs.
Margaret, I am so sorry for your loss. What a road Alzheimer’s takes is done. This narrow slice of experience captures things so well. And that ending! My favorite line
Margaret,
Those scarfs hold big memories but require little space. One line I find particularly sad: “The end erased who she had been.” Sometimes we hold onto what we need emotionally and not physically. Maybe it’s enough to wrap your face in those scarves occasionally and let them evoke more memories. Maybe each one is waiting to become a poem.
Margaret,
So much love, respect and grief in these lines which capture both your celebration of your mother’s style and your grief.
So sorry for your loss.
Sending love and peace.
Margaret, I love scarves and how you show how your mother once made a great effort with her appearances. The deciding what should go where is difficult and painful, especially when it belonged to someone you deeply loved. Your closing stanza is powerful and illustrates your respect for your mother’s life and style. Beautiful poem!
Jennifer,
What a great prompt with so many options.
I love memories of the inter-generational activity that quilting was. You bring the scene to life.
Sew Nice
(in honor of Mildred Rogers
1919-2018)
Her name was Midred.
She lived in our ‘hood
when I was a kid.
She opened her tiny
four room
(NOT four bedroom)
home to us girls
so we could learn
to stitch, to sew, to quilt.
We went on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
At first, our moms
had to push us,
but eventually
we couldn’t wait
and begged to go.
She was in her early 50s.
seeming more like early 80s
as women of those times tended to do.
She and her husband
(whom I never laid eyes on)
had one daughter
Karen
who died at age nine
of cystic fibrosis.
She celebrated our birthdays
leading the gang in singing
“Happy Birthday” while a
white cake plate carouseled
while a single plastic-wrapped
caramel took a ride
waiting to be our special treat.
I created
(let’s be honest…SHE created)
a quilt version
of Grouseland,
William Henry Harrison’s
mansion when he was
governor of the Northwest Territory
prior to his one-month presidency.
It won a blue ribbon
at the Northwest Quilter’s Guild
quilt show.
The quilt frame’s hulk
overtook the small living room
leaving no space for Charles
to do much when he got home
from work.
I don’t know when I quit going
to Mildred’s.
I know 50 years later I sit here
holding regret in my heart
that I didn’t go more and
didn’t appreciate the gem
that she was.
I wish I could tell her
“Thank you”
for opening her house
to rambunctious pre-teen
girls and sharing her art
and I wish I could tell her
“I’m sorry”
Karen died.
Mildred Rogers turned her tragedy
into good and touched the lives
of a hundred or so girls in
Four Lakes neighborhood
in Vincennes, Indiana
in the 60s, 70s, and 80s.
And I remain grateful.
~Susan Ahlbrand
19 July 2025
This is such a beautiful, and evocative, narrative poem for Mildred, and her kindness (and her loss) that hearkens back to a sense of community threads that I fear we have been losing for too many years now, for all sorts of reasons. I wish every neighborhood had someone like her.
Kevin
This filled me with warm fuzzy joy. I really adore the single wrapped candy treat. How special to have someone like this so invested in your life in such formative years. I’m sure the girls offered her great comfort, too. Thank you for sharing this beautifully quilted piece.
Magnificent tribute, Susan – the gratitude is palpable. The world needs more Mildreds! I am struck by many things here. First, the loss of her only child. How utterly poignant are those birthday celebrations she gave for the daughters of others. Then – how you all had to be pushed by your moms at the beginning of those sewing lessons, and over time, how you and the others begged to go. What a testimony to this special lady and the relationship, memorialized here by your words. And: I adore your title!
So many feelings came up as I read through this, Susan! The reluctance to go, the eventual yearning to return, the sadness at her loss and later yours, the remorse in not continuing to follow her life… What a kind and generous soul Mildred was. You stitch together the bits and pieces of your relationship with her in this poem so beautifully. I am glad she was a part of your life and I know she was grateful for you as well.
Wow. Just wow. What a beautiful tribute, full of such specific memory. I hope she has a descendant who could read this and know her value. Wow, Susan…
Susan, your poetry always begins right where it should to get readers to the moment and bring us alongside you. I love that about your style as a poet and wish I knew more about where to begin in my own; you make it seem so flawless. I know Mildred knew that you would grow to appreciate what you did not fully understand at that time. She planted the seeds in you for seeing detail in each stitch – – whether with threads or quilt squares or words and poems. And in each of you, she saw a glimpse of Karen. I know you brought her pure joy.
My heart and spirit believe you spent time with an angel. We all need a Mildred in our memories to cherish.
💖
Susan, your story is a beautiful one of growing in wisdom and appreciation for those who are not our blood relatives and yet who mark our lives with their gifts.
Susan,
What a beautiful tribute. Thank you for letting me get to know Mildred Rogers. I feel like I truly met her through your poem.
I love the care she put into making a special ritual to celebrate your birthdays.
Jennifer, thank you for hosting today and inviting our poems of connection. Your poem captures so eloquently the lineage and heritage of family in your sacred heirloom quilt. I love the passing of time and the sense of “learning to walk” I felt in the learning to live life from unsteady to steady with each matriarch’s fingerprints. I’ve been writing and blogging this month the audio clips of Dad’s final hours and the stories he shared, so I felt like your prompt reached right into my heart and was just the medicine I needed for this hour. Thank you, friend!
Still Life with Dying Father
my brother and I
sat by our father
in his final hours
each labored breath
casting ethereal ripples
on the gossamer veil
hanging sheer and thin
between man and Maker
each weakening whisper
each story
each prayer
each memory
becoming weightless
dancing gracefully
toward the shimmering glow
Kim
I hope that writing poems is a way to remember, and to heal, and I think your poem captures the waiting in such a loving way, with the “gossamer veil” and then, as stories unfold, the “shimmering glow.”
Kevin
I envision your father’s memories as a quilt wrapping you in love. Each story, a piece of fabric held together with stitches made of love.
Kim, I have thought of you a lot over the last few weeks. Finding a way through with writing honors both his stories and yours. I can feel the transitioning in your words, along with the spiritual in “ethereal, gossamer, weightless, and shimmering.” As intangible as that all is, I can feel and sense each so strongly. There is comfort too. The veil, ‘hanging sheer and thin” sits in the exact middle of your poem, a threshold between “man and Maker,” and I love that. Hugs.
Along with an image of vigil at the end of life, you have honored that sacred time with repetition of “each” until we get to the “shimmering glow.” I am glad you’ve made some space in this time to write.
I admire you, Kim, and hope that one day, albeit painful, that I can use poetry as this vehicle in grief and healing, too. You are so brave and such a talented writer. “Between man and maker” was so captivating. Thank you for sharing.
Such beautiful word choices to describe the thinning of the veil, Kim: ethereal, gossamer, weightless. How precious are those stories, prayers, memories “dancing gracefully/toward the shimmering glow.” It is a scene of great peace. And holiness. And wholeness. I am so glad you and your and your brother were there with him. What a perfect title, layered with meanings. While I haven’t been writing much recently, I think of you so often, my friend. <3
Dear friend, sending more love your way as you honor your father and the sweet memories you have.
Your poem holds so much love and care, expectation and beauty, even in the depth of the sorrow I know you felt in those moments.
These lines help me remember how close heaven really is:
Much love and warm hugs to you, Kim.
Kim,
This is simply gorgeous. Its language is vivid, soft, descriptive, rhythmic. You capture those between moments/hours so perfectly. It paints a picture quite similar to our father’s last moments.
Poetry is such a gift to process grief.
These lines…
Kim,
The word “gossamer” always makes me think of Emily Dickinson. There’s something holy in that word and the sheer veil it represents here in your poem. I’m glad you had this interlude w/ your father, this time that made capturing so many memories and stories possible.
Kim, your opening lines pulled me immediately into the scene. The metaphor you create is incredible. I love the word choice you’ve chosen to show his labored breath, the stories, prayers, and memories dancing “toward the shimmering glow” is spiritual and uplifting. Incredible poem! Thank you for sharing this with us today.
Hi Jennifer
Thanks for the prompt and the visuals of threads and fabrics, and memory and time.
Kevin
Even broken strings
on an old broken
guitar sing in deep repose;
the memory thrums –
the hand strums
an architecture of notes
Somewhere, that familiar song
still plays in a broken
key; its resonance, floats
Kevin, I can hear this music. It changes – – like life, to different keys but with the familiar refrains. This is beautiful!
Kevin, I too can hear the music you play even when the strings are stretched or broken because you know that familiar tune that floats on. Lovely
Kevin, I’m reminded of the value in old with your poem today–how we can still hear and appreciate, love even, that which may no longer function as well as before, those who may not function as well. Memory is an interesting thing, yes? It binds us while also allowing us to see, and find more value in, the before as well as the now.
The repetition of the word broken is affective here. I love “an architecture of notes.”
Succinct poems are often my favorite because I can clearly get your images and message. Thank you for sharing this tone with music. “In a broken key” is so vivid and eerie. Excellent “song” here.
Kevin,
This poem is fire! The lines I quoted immediately pulled me in. You’ve crafted a gorgeous piece. The ending…ahhhh.
What a beautiful poem in its own straightforward right, but the metaphor behind it is truly thought-provoking.
Kevin,
What a beautiful, powerful metaphor.
I love your structure, moving us from
to
leaving us with the lightness of