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
Seana Hurd Wright is an Elementary Educator in Los Angeles and has been teaching 34 years. Retirement in the next year is definitely on her horizon. She enjoys spending time with her adventurous YA daughters and husband, doing puzzles, reading, travelling, and walking at the beach.
Inspiration
Remember a place or location that nurtured you, taught you a lesson, means the world to you, or one you’ll never visit again, due to awful memories.
Process
Identify some nouns, verbs, adjectives, and write about the place. See if you can paint a picture and describe it so we can see it “in our mind’s eye.” Focus on one aspect of the location. What would/did you do there, what fabulous or melancholy activities happened there and how did you experience them? Were they through your eyes as an adult, a child, or a teenager? I chose free verse to write about my special place. Have an enjoyable time writing about a special place OR write whatever you’d like to.
Seana’s Poem
When I cross the threshold and pass through those familiar glass doors,
Into the sanctuary, thousands of memories flood my mind.
Knee socks, itchy white stockings, hand gloves, and a black small pocketbook
were the norm for girls.
On those Sundays, my Mom always made me wear my “church clothes.”
I can still see the adult choir walking then myself with the youth choir following.
We’re all wearing long blue robes as I nervously walk down that lengthy
aisle that seems to be a mile long.
A few years later, as a Debutante for Christ,
I gracefully glided down that stretch in a pink sherbet long dress.
I lovingly took that lengthy stroll again
when I married and was blissful
having my father gliding with me
but didn’t enjoy all the stares.
Yet, I was so familiar with that aisle
and had been looking forward to that special amble
since I was a teenager.
Many years later, I took a somber walk with my relatives
when my Mom left this life and we
followed her remains down the walkway,
which was eerily comforting.
Years later, my daughters and I joined the Liturgical Dancers
and had the opportunity to not only walk
but gracefully run down the corridor to music
while the congregation watched with joy, awe, and admiration.
We twirled, formed circles, spun, and praised.
People were sweet when I waddled and stepped on my own two feet, at times.
The lane comforted me and seemed to say, “We got this!”
When the pandemic hit and places closed,
I missed my house of faith, my aisle, my promenades,
and memories of that special place.
I was grateful to return two years later
to view in person, the windows, the doors, my aisle
and remember the Baptisms, Communions, Weddings, hugs, smiles, familiar faces,
and all of the steps taken in that holy loving place.
by Seana Hurd Wright
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human, and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. For suggestions on how to comment with care. See this graphic.
Seana, thank you for this inviting prompt. I appreciated the specificity of not just your church, but the aisle itself. Lovely.
It is the germ
at the center
of the grain
harvested
and tempered,
ground into
flour kneaded
by grandmother hands
and tiny fists of the future,
baked hot
in the chaos of living
scent of belonging
frission of voices
spoors of identity
vying for air
while passing the peas,
spilling the milk:
Kitchen table
Allison,
So many strong, specific words leading us to that universal center of so many homes: kitchen table.
You have me seeing grandmother’s hands and her oil-cloth covered kitchen table. Thank you.
Allison – your structure is so simple and precise and holds within it such eloquence. Truly beautiful. Thank you for this gem.
I love the line, “in the chaos of living,” Allison! And you’re right: the kitchen table is the center for so much!
Allison, the sense of being grounded and rooted in family even in all the chaos of living is so fresh baked here. I got the family table this past summer, and it is one of my most cherished pieces of furniture – – I’m sure the ancestors hang out at all our kitchen tables.
Allison, what beauty in the words you’ve chosen, such pregnant brevity in this richness. “flour kneaded / by grandmother hands / and tiny fists of the future” has me thinking of generations past and present in my own family.
Thanks Allison, this is beautiful.
Thank you for hosting, Seana! Your poem holds so much live for that special place. I struggled today. The only place I wanted to write about was my childhood home, but I “couldn’t go there” all day. So my offering is still quite rough:
Am Not Writing about the War
I am not writing a poem today
About the place haunting me at night,
Where I used to be a child
Shielded by love, nurtured by care.
I am not writing about the war.
I am writing about my father’s grapevines
stretching across the porch,
how their leaves made a cool green roof
for our long summer evenings.
I am writing about the round kitchen table
that held our daily meals
and our holiday feasts,
how stories and jokes circled it
as we passed bread and salt around.
I am writing about my mother’s songs,
soft and heartfelt,
floating through cooking,
through laundry, gardening,
through the rhythm of her sewing.
I cannot go back there.
Not now.
Not while the war continues.
But the shade,
the table,
the song—
they are still here, with me.
Oh Leilya,
your poem is both heartbreaking and heart filling. Thank you for sharing both your pain of the war and your loving memories and bringing us right to your kitchen table
These lines are so powerful:
Sending you love and a hug
Oh, Leilya, in your struggle to write today, to attempt to go where you couldn’t go, you went to a new better place. This is both breathtaking and heartbreaking. You have captured something special because you couldn’t write about war. “But the shade, / the table, / the song–” in summary of the three specific stanzas brings me to tears. Yes: “they are still here, with me.” Lovely!
Oh my. You said so much “not writing about the war.”
Your “still quite rough” was powerful: the shade, the table, the song.
Lovely and haunting.
Leilya, your poem is a beautiful homage to the wonderful memories of your home. I only wish that you will soon be able to return. Чоң рахмат!
Leilya, Wow, your poem was beautifully haunting. Thank you
Seana, thank you for hosting, prompting, and sharing your beautiful church memories, I’m so moved by
and
—————————————————————————
Our view narrows
To the brown of the dirt trail
Climbing in front of us
Our packs heavy
Legs tired
Up the hill
We call to each other
Pushing on to the next camp site
Singing snips of Robert Earl Keen
Fellow Texan
I don’t wear no Stetson
Willing to bet son
Trailing off at the forgotten parts
Back on level ground
We boom out
Four lanes of hard Amarillo highway
We walk and notice
The impossibly tiny yellow wildflowers
The charcoal trunks
Still standing
Not burning to the ground
As they did in Saturday morning cartoons
Our view contracts
Expands
As our attention does
When we return home
i love the expansion and contraction in your poem, Sharon. I especially love the idea of impossibly tiny yellow wildflowers. This sounds like a terrific trip!
Sharon, as I read your poem, I am walking right there with you noticing all the things you do and lingering over those “impossibly tiny yellow wildflowers.” I like how your title blends into the poem and how by the end your view expands zooming out on a bigger picture.
Wow, so much to love in this backpacking trip. I want to read more about it. I like the song lyrics sandwiched in, and I’m fascinated with the details of Texas and backpacking. Contracting and expanding views.
What a wonderful prompt, Seana. I can see you and your daughters dancing down the aisle of your church. Such Joy! Thank you for this image. We definitely need more joy in the world.
Your poem made me think of a time when my friend invited me into her beautiful kitchen for some lunch and tender, loving care.
Alyce’s Kitchen
The week after my mother died
Alyce invited me to lunch.
Let me care for you,
she said over the phone.
I wasn’t used to people
caring for me, taking care.
It made me uncomfortable,
but I accepted because I knew
I needed someone to care for me,
to sit with me in a sunlit kitchen,
warm apple smell in the air.
French tiles in blue and yellow,
a warming backsplash.
Relax the shoulders, lean back,
let myself be loved.
Alyce is mixing and whisking.
Me, sitting and talking,
telling my mom stories.
Alyce listening and melting butter.
Me, so happy to be in her kitchen
with her doting on me,
knowing what it’s like
to lose your mother.
The kitchen is warm
as we sit together
It feels like a hug,
The tension and sadness
melt away with the love
Alyce metes out
and I receive it without reservation.
Such a friend, such a moment
Such a time in this beautiful kitchen
does not come often
in a person’s life.
So I dip my fork into
this delicious meal
Alyce has prepared for me.
We bow our heads
and whisper a kitchen prayer.
Oh Joanne. This is so beautiful. I’m moved to tears. I feel like I am right there with you in Alyce’s kitchen. Your imagery is so beautiful and I love the ending:
Joanne, your description of the times in the kitchen and your friend mixing a care-infused meal to wrap you in a love-filled hug takes the reader right into the space and people within it. I can feel the caring ooze out of the words as the “sadness melts away.” This is a special friend as well as a reminder to care for our friends!
Joanne, I needed this poem today so much! Thank you! Today was a day when I, too. wanted to be “loved and cared for,” and your poem helped me “melt sadness.” Beautiful words!
Joanne, what a delightful poem. You have put us there in the kitchen with you and Alyce and all our senses. I so love Alyce’s words, “Let me care for you.”
Joanne, I love the way you show the reluctance and then submission to be taken care of. Thank you !
Leaving the bite of the Michigan cold behind,
I feel the lift as the plane leaves the snowy ground.
In three short hours, two short hours, one short hour
I will be in a place of palm trees and happiness
Christmas in Florida is such a special place.
Palm trees, sand and beautiful light
Everything feels fresh and clean
The wind is warm and the orange sunsets burns in the sky
But Florida is home in my heart; where my family is
Grandma waiting at the door with cookies in hand
The loud laughter that fills the air
And the moments together all sitting around the kitchen table
The best time of the year!
Ah, what a sweet place you have captured. So much beauty and stark weather differences sound great, but then the third stanza is the clencher. So much family love. “The best time of the year!” for sure.
That lift in the first stanza really speaks to me, MS. I love how you are lifted to where you really want to be. You e painted a lovely picture for us.
That final stanza is so heartwarming with Grandma’s cookies, laughs, and fun times around the kitchen table, M.S. It truly seems like the best place to be. Thank you for sharing!
M.S., I love “[t]he loud laughter that fills the air” as a contrast to the cold “bite of the Michigan cold.” Thanks for crafting and sharing this!
My Girls
By K.S.K.- Feb. 21, 2026
I walk into the gym with a ball in my hand,
And bounce it on the floor.
I take a shot and hear the “swoosh”,
Then the girls walk in the door.
They laugh and joke just like I did,
When I was in their place.
I greet them as they grab a ball,
A smile on their face.
And as I watch them run the drills,
That I ran years ago,
I can’t help but think how lucky I am,
To be here as their coach.
Because it’s not about the place we’re in,
Although it’s where I once played,
But it’s about the people we’re with,
And the relationships we’ve made.
Hi K.S.K.,
My mom taught PE in high school for the majority of my childhood. As soon as I read the first line, I smelled the leather ball and the gym-ish odors. So many beautiful relationships came from my times in the gym. I love this.
Nice! I love this gentle telling of the girls you coach now in the place you used to play. Then the reminder that it’s not the place that makes it valuable, but the relationships. Amen! Beautiful!
First of all, it is so neat to coach where you once played, K.S.K. I also like the emphasis on people and relationships because these are the essential things that make a place special. Thank you for sharing!
Seana, thank you for this invitation to write along with the walks down (your) aisle. Reading your poem allowed me to become familiar with your meaningful space. I chose my parents’ bed as a place to share.
My parents’ bed
Not exactly sure when the green bamboo bed became my parents’ bed.
Maybe when we moved to Augusta.
Now it’s mine.
When I wrap my hands around those smooth posts,
I’m transported to the child sitting in bed between her parents.
The soft warmth of the space which nestled me.
The time seemed as much a treat to my parents, as it did to me.
They no doubt smiled that their daughter regardless of her age was happy to find her way here.
When the girls visited my parents, they too enjoyed that spot in the middle.
One evening or morning Rachel found the flashing light on the wall between the posts inviting
and pressed it, only to alert the alarm company.
Which was followed by “it’s only my granddaughter’s curiosity; we’re fine.”
Last night I wrapped my hands around the bamboo posts – my rosary.
Your last line is so poignant…
Jamie, wow. So many memories in this bed–generations worth. What a touching poem. I love the act of wrapping your hands around the posts at the beginning of the memories and at the end. And like Gayle said, that last line really cements the meaning of this sacred place.
Such a beautiful and comforting poem, Jamie.
My favorite lines:
and
and that exquisite ending:
You Are My Sacred Space
By Mo Daley 2/21/26
I wonder if I sensed, all those years ago,
That you would be my sacred space.
Did I know you would work so hard to mold our precious family?
Surely, I must have suspected you would cater to a majority of my whims.
But could I have known you’d be willing to inject me with lifesaving antibiotics around the
clock?
Did I think for a minute you would accompany my friends and me to Italy,
serving as our involuntary footman?
Could I have recognized in you the willingness to listen to Seamus Heaney reading
one hundred of his best poems on a long car trip?
Could I have foreseen your inclination to save an injured squirrel on the ice?
You’ve given me so many questions to ponder,
But the answer is that
You are my sacred space.
Mo, thank you for sharing the special person with us who helped mold your precious family, inject antibiotics and accompany you and your friends to Italy. What fun and what support. Thanks for sharing a little bit about you.
Whew, what a keeper!! Perfect title too. I hope you’re sharing this with Mr. Daley. Something about the squirrel resonated with me. I’ve always said that those who care for animals are indeed the best caregivers for humans.
Love, love, love!
The squirrel drama took place yesterday and today. He got him off the ice yesterday, but this morning the squirrel was back on the ice and disoriented. RIP. Steve is still upset about it 💔
Mo–what a beautiful tribute! A sacred place indeed…
Mo, you are so blessed with Steve in your corner. This list of questions! How precious. The specificity of each shows that you could have written ten thousand questions. And that sweet answer “You are my sacred space.” Bravo!
Mo, so beautiful! What a love poem!
Mo, you are the winner – such a special “sacred place.” This is also my understanding of a marriage filled with love. The squirrel’s care is especially touching.
Seana,
This is such a great prompt and your output is amazing. I love poems about faith and its places. The various trips down that aisle hold many memories.
We were traveling today, so I decided to lean into that and simply write about our car.
Car Cocoon
Traveling down roads and highways
sometimes in comfortable silence,
other times chatting casually or even
talking intensely;
sometimes the radio blares
or an audiobook carries us
along with its plot.
Landscapes pass by as if
they are the ones moving
rather than us.
Sparse traffic joins us at times;
bustling craziness engulfs at others.
We are kept warm
when it’s cold,
kept cool
when it’s hot.
The cozy leather seats
offer comfort
as we traverse
road after road.
Occasional bumps
and potholes
jar us, but
the ride is mainly smooth.
The cocoon helps
make the travels
tolerable.
~Susan Ahlbrand
21 February 2026
Susan, I find your poem so relatable. I enjoy a good road trip. I love the comfortable cocoon imagery, although I wonder if it says more about your car or the person you are with. Those bumps and potholes are a terrific metaphor for life.
Susan- I love this poem because it is so relatable! I like how you talked about aspects of traveling in a car by relating to different senses like sound, sight, and even touch, with the fact that cars keep us cozy or cool depending on the weather. I also love being in my car!
That cocoon!
Oh, nice job giving a shoutout to the faithful car cocoon. You remind me of all the pleasantries that happen in the car. I do like a good road trip.
Susan – since I am a road trip addict, your poem spoke straight to me. I love my cocoon car, a small space to travel down the road and have adventures.
Susan, traveling on comfortable silence as we are sheltered and cocooned in the assurance and trust of conversation is a pulse of strong relationship felt here in your poem. Riding right there with you.
Susan, what a clever and precise title. I like the idea of a car as a place that takes us places and as a cocoon that keeps us safe, sheltered, and comfortable. Now, every time we go on a road trip, I will remember your poem. 🥰
Watching
There was a field of wild oats
growing at the end of houses
with a winding path
connecting the highway into town.
A private place
to walk
in freedom
outdoors
to the beach
or the cinema
where I could meet friends
tell stories and gossip.
A place for romance
after the movie.
Walking home
holding hands
with a special boy
not knowing that Dad
was always waiting and watching.
I was kissed
and then heard “Aheem!”
the voice startled me
and I quickly scampered home.
Seana, thank you for your prompt. The church aisle is an important place full of memories for many. You depicted it beautifully with its uses of baptism, worship, weddings, and funerals.
Thank you for allowing us to join you on your walk through a field of wild oats. You shared lots of details through this field. I loved your ending “Aheem!” the voice startled me – Of course, I’m wondering the next words which followed.
Susan, I am holding my breath! None of us girls want to kiss and hear the dreaded, “Aheem!” OMG. But the path sounds like something in a love story. Gorgeous!
Susan–what a great memory! The peace, the privacy, and the surprise ending! Wonderful!
Susan, haha, that is a great story. I can just hear your dad now with the sweet details of this poem. I love the second stanza, where the privacy seems sure. Then the switch in the third with “not knowing that Dad was always waiting…” Fun poem!
Dads are always watching, aren’t they – even hidden in an oat field? A special place indeed.
My special Place
Clear blue skies,
Salty air-filled breeze,
Starts to feel like a mix of hope and inspiration.
Boats a plenty are docked.
Around are cheerful souls that bring warmth.
Oh, how I can’t wait to return.
Yes, Ivy! You and I share a love for the beach. Your poem pulled me straight to the water’s edge. I am taking it all in and holding it until June! ☀️🏖️
Oh my goodness, Ivy. I went to the beach today after a week of gloomy story skies. It was so clean, colorful, and full of hope and inspiration like you describe. Wonderful!
Ivy- When you wrote salty air-filled breeze it made me visualize the smells of the beach.
Special Place
Look, I’m not trying to be difficult, not trying to throw
a monkey wrench into the works (why is it called a
“monkey” wrench, by the way? I know they’re tool
user but do they use wrenches? Some of them can fly,
I get that, I’ve seen the dispatches from Oz, and some
clang symbols, but wrenches?) Anyways, I typed into
Google “how to locate things in space,” thinking that I’d
find the various ways we can actually find places, you
know, like using longitude and latitude, but the query
sent me careening off into space space, like outer space:
red shifts, time dilations, special relativity and whatnot
(did you know, there’s a Soviet cosmonaut credited as a
time traveler? He, Sergei Krikalev, traveled 0.2 seconds
into the future. He was also “lost” in space for over 300
days (long story) and that lead me to Ham, the Astrochimp,
who was the first monkey in space; He could definitely use
a wrench, I’d wager, but why was he named Ham. Isn’t that
an odd moniker to have?) Anyway, anyways, I realize that I
need “time” in my equation, too, not just space and objects “in
relation to other objects,” meaning my office or my classroom
or sitting on the couch with my wife aren’t my favorite places
without the factor of time – a couch is just a couch is just
a couch (as Gertrude Stein would tell us) without referencing
the specific moment of my wife stretching out her legs onto
my lap, our first dog nestled to my right, us just lazing about
on a summer afternoon, that, that specific moment is
a “favorite place” but it is time and memory sensitive, you
know? It’s like Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle (no, not the
guy from Breaking Bad but the science guy, and no, not Bill
Nye, he’s another Science Guy) I can only pinpoint a place
but it doesn’t become “special” until I also pinpoint a time
and memory associated with it, like Schrödinger and his
cat or Borel and his infinite monkey theorem, saying that
given an infinite amount of time, a monkey could and would
eventually be able to use a wrench or type out this poem or
something like that. I may be confused a bit on the details.
________________________________________
Seana, thank you for your prompt and your lovely, vivid poem about your “house of faith.”
“a couch is just a couch is just
a couch (as Gertrude Stein would tell us) without referencing
the specific moment of my wife stretching out her legs onto
my lap, our first dog nestled to my right, us just lazing about
on a summer afternoon, that, that specific moment is
a “favorite place” but it is time and memory sensitive,”
this.yes!
Scott, your prose poem made me so happy. Love the playfulness, the digressions, the additional dimension of time—so smart. And
Now I’m remembering and missing our first dog.
Thanks for taking us on this wild ride through space and time.
Scott, I love the stream of consciousness of your poem as you explore the profound abstractness of space and time. When those monkeys with typewriters type up your poem, will there be footnotes so kids will understand the allusions? I wonder…
Seana,
Beautiful journey! The repetition of walking, gliding, strolling, waddling, and running mirrors the seasons of your life. Your specific details give us vivid imagery and allow us to feel like we are right there with you. I love this sweet memory. 💙
I chose a Golden Shovel poem using the strike line: “Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be.” Langston Hughes
New American Dreams
As teachers, is it not our duty to Let
students be free to learn everything about America
Is it not our calling to be
honest and teach the truth about our past and present America
so history doesn’t repeat again and again.
As students, is it not their hope to Let
teachers read, write, and bring knowledge and all that it
encompasses to them? Will this country allow them to be
their ancestors wildest and boldest dreams? Or is the
system designed to only manifest the dream
of those in power? If we let America be what it
has always been, education will be used
against teachers and students. It is now time to
redesign, rebuild, and reimagine how a new America could be.
©Stacey L. Joy, 2/21/26
Stacey, your poem alone is so powerful and timely. Then emotion digs even deeper when it is paired with Hughes’ and his Golden Shovel quotes. Share this widely as we continue to reimagine hope in our school systems. Thank you for sharing today.
Stacey, Another triple play, that gets you a home run! The historical perspective honoring Langston Hughes, the contemporary, social and personal connections to our beloved, but challenging profession, so skillfully honors us all!
Yes. Please.
Stacey, what power in your words. Thank you! The questions so telling. I love that you teach your students the correct answer to this question: “Will this country allow them to be their ancestors wildest and boldest dreams?”
Yes, it is “time to redesign, rebuild, and reimagine how a new America could be.” We have fallen far, but that makes the need for these re-‘s so imperative and obvious. Yes, to change!
Love this juxtaposition between teacher and student, what was, what is, what will be.
Beautifully constructed. Thank you for this.
Ah, Stacey! Your signature poem and what a punch it packs! Your striking line is a favorite and about seven years ago I had a student win at competition with this Hughes iconic poem! Love what you have done here!
Stacey, amen! We do need reimagine “new American dreams,” as your title points out. The lines from Hughes are as relevant today as they were a century ago. I like how you frame your poem with questions and end with a call for change. Bravo!
Hear, hear! Thank you Stacey for your lines and Langston’s.
Seana, great poem! It made me think of so many special places where I can reflect and find peace. For my poem, I’ll write about a road near my home, where I hike up a hill to watch the sun rise and set.
Cool dewy mornings,
Warm summer nights,
Dawn and dusk,
I find myself ascending the hill.
I arise just before it wakes,
Listen to the birds, the bugs,
and the world come to life,
As I greet the Sun on this brand new day.
From here I can breathe in my home,
Watch as the Sun breaks over the tree line,
watch as its rays blanket the field,
until it covers me and beyond.
I find myself there in the evening,
taking in the same scene,
except this time,
The day dwindles to an end.
Where the trees hug the Sun, “goodnight,”
and the deer graze on the field’s edge,
I watch God’s paintbrush over the sky,
and thank Him for another day.
No matter where I wander,
or how many sunsets I see,
My favorites will always be,
over my home, where it all began.
I enjoyed reading your poem. I love watching the sun rise and set!
Beautiful! I like the image of the trees hugging the Sun to say goodnight as God uses his paintbrush across the sky.
Hi Clay,
So much to enjoy and see!
Glorious! I would love to be there and I see why it’s a special place for you.
Seana, thank you so much for hosting! I loved your poem – especially, how you focused on “the aisle” within church, honing in on your beautiful experiences there.
I am just so happy to be here in Open Write – I decided this was my “special place.”
Open Write
mesmerizing glow of poetry
illuminating the darkness
crisscrossing my cloudy mind
this welcome radiance
awakening me
embracing me
within me
flowing
light
Maureen, I like how you’ve picked a digital space–this one–to center on place. We gain so much from digital networks and often forget how much joy, access, and growth they bring. Thank you for sharing.
Maureen, your poem so clearly shows the emotional value of poetry writing and the tight genre style illustrates the fact that carefully chosen words arranged in specific ways can seed and feed the minds of viewers and readers. Thanks, so much.
“This welcome radiance”—perfect!
I love your poem!
Maureen,
I see and feel the flow and agree that it’s my special place also. I love the nonet and yours is extra special because of the topic.
🩷
Ooh, Maureen, what a glorious nonet! “mesmerizing” “illuminating” “radiance” “awakening” “embracing” I see a theme, and it’s all oh, so true! Such a lovely ode.
Oh – love this flowing poem. I read it backwards, too. Love the images it reveals.
Maureen, this is a place to celebrate and you have done it so beautifully. I like that you chose a Nonet because it makes me think of how I count down the days waiting for each month’s Open Write to begin!
This is great, Maureen! You’re spot-on: I love the “light” of the “Open Write,” too!
Seana, thank you for hosting us today! Your poem tells such a beautiful story of growing up. I love the Debutante for Christ description. I can see those dresses! I’m traveling today so quick writing for me before a long flight
after a late night at a concert. I love that you bring us to a place with your prompt! I can’t wait to read and comment later!
You Can Check Out Anytime, But…
mesmerizing orb
Sphere, Las Vegas ~ The Eagles
“you can never leave…”
My niece is there! Enjoy this fabulous show – great fun! I hope it feels as if you never want to leave. (Funny coincidence – I used “mesmerizing” as first word in my poem today – we need this magic!)
Fun, fun, fun! I hope you enjoyed yourself, and safe travels! Get some rest when you can.
Kim, an ode to Hotel California too:) I am going to aconcert there later in the spring and I’ll bring your “mesmerizing orb” phrase with me. Thank you for sharing.
Love this!
I so love how you use that key line of a key song of theirs as the title and the final line. So dang creative.
Sure hope to make it there sometime!
Oh, my! I’m so glad you got to enjoy this concert! Hooray for you. I hope you have a restful rest of your weekend. Did they play all your favorites?
Kim, I envy you. We were in the Sphere, and it is so impressive, but to couple it with The Eagles sounds incredible.
Seana, your beautiful poem transported me to the church where I grew up. I love the juxtaposition of the different feelings we experience in such important places. The memories of the weddings, the funerals, the choir performances, and youth group functions really stir up the emotions! Great work!
“Huckleberry Mountain”
A dear friend recently wrote about their childhood memory that involved hiking to a fire tower. Reading his piece transported me to a very dear place in my own memory – Huckleberry Fire Tower.
As hikes go, this one is moderate.
A slow, easy trek through lupine meadows and Indian Paintbrush.
The destination: Huckleberry Mountain Fire Lookout.
Built in 1938 by the U.S. Forest Service, now non-active.
Brought a tent in case it was occupied.
First come, first served.
One July morning, while approaching a large patch of huckleberries,
I decided to fill my empty water bottle with as many berries as I could.
I heard some rustling and saw some movement.
Frozen, I peered into the dense foliage, and there she was,
A small black bear lounging on her back,
Stripping berries off the bush with her enormous muzzle.
I slowly maneuvered my way back up the trail leaving the rest of the berries for her.
At the base of the tower, there is a quiet mountain stream.
Cool water trickles down the mountainside,
And tastes better than any water I’ve ever tasted.
After filling my bottles with ambrosia,
I continued up the ladder and into the tower.
I propped open the shutters to reveal the 360 degree, unobstructed view.
A tranquil serenity fills my body.
The sweeping panorama of the Grand Tetons and Jackson Lake fills the windows.
As night falls, every star is visible.
Then the clouds roll in, and the lightning show begins.
The sky strobes with blasts of light and dark.
The thunder shakes the old windows and boards of the tower.
The faint orange of embers glows from the potbellied stove in the middle of the tower.
Sleep takes over, and dreams transport me to a magical place,
A bridge between heaven and earth.
By Shaun Ingalls
Your poem brought me right into this hike with you. What a beautiful place! Extraordinary view, “The sweeping panorama of the Grand Tetons and Jackson Lake.”
Ditto Maureen. You took us there with carefully selected words that made us huff and puff, tremble at the bear, then feel refreshed with the berries and ambrosia water. This made for an inexpensive trip for me! I can almost say I’ve been there. 🙂
Shaun. Beautiful. I was there. Thank you!
Great poem! I love hiking and being outdoors, and this poem made me feel like I was there alongside you. There were many lines full of great imagery. I really like “The faint orange of embers glows from the potbellied stove in the middle of the tower.
Sleep takes over, and dreams transport me to a magical place,
A bridge between heaven and earth.”
Walking into church on Sunday mornings give me great joy,
Together we worship both girl and boy.
The songs we sing make me happy,
Hearing how Jesus died for us makes my heart sappy.
Praise to God is what we say,
It’s the best way to start my Sunday.
The church is filled with such beauty and awe,
It’s the specialist place I’ve ever saw.
Love your rhymes…a happy song of joy!
Bella,
I adore this poem. I can imagine this poem in a children’s book! The final line captured my heart.
Love it!!! Such good spirit!! Amen!
I really enjoyed reading this poem!
Bella- I love your poem! I teach Sunday school, and a poem like this would be great to share with children! Going to church truly is the best way to start a Sunday 🙂
Seana, I so loved reading your poem this morning and how you narrowed the sanctuary to the aisle and all that happened there. What a splendid history of your life in the church. I love the story of the liturgical dancers. Your church memories and a poem my daughter wrote about our orange tree reminded me of a tree of my childhood.
When we weren’t there,
we dreamed of the tiny yard
of her early 1900’s LA bungalow.
We loved her, but when we went
to her house, it was the tree,
the tree was our very reason for being.
This magical tree echoed
the avocado tree in Eden.
It filled to overflowing the small yard,
spilling over fences in all directions.
Large branches grew down
from the tremendous trunk and across
the grassless yard, then back up
making a zentangle of possibilities
for even the smallest climbers.
This tree was a sanctuary for us, and
the gods of play and avocados and adventure
blessed us with hours of devotion and rites.
We were children in awe–
at sport on the jungle gym of all creation,
at rest beneath the city-hushing canopy,
at mending mindfulness and joy.
After exploring for some time,
we clumsily began peeling avocado skin,
releasing the tender flesh,
scooping it out with our fingers,
flinging the seeds at each other.
Lovingly (while longingly awaiting next time),
we would say goodbye to our beloved.
I want to visit this tree – “the tree was our very reason for being.” So many layers of beauty here, Denise – sanctuary, jungle gym, canopy, mindfulness, tender, lovingly, longingly – what a precious ode.
“We were children in awe–
at sport on the jungle gym of all creation,
at rest beneath the city-hushing canopy,
at mending mindfulness and joy.”
Your last two lines really made me feel the love and nostalgia of family being around the tree. Peeling the avocado skin made me feel the peeling of time.
Oh my goodness, Denise – what a luscious tree – a delight of the spirit! Thank you!
Denise, I feel the freedom
and magic of childhood here, especially in these lines : making a zentangle of possibilities
for even the smallest climbers. Oh, to have that energy and the world at our feet too!! Such wonder!
Such a lovely line: “the gods of play and avocados”
I felt you revisiting this special place as I read.
Denise,
Thank you for these beautiful lines:
Seana,
Thank you for hosting today. I appreciate your line of community, declaring “we got this.” This resonates with me is no many places.
toes in the sand
dissolving under broken
centuries of fragmented
shored movement
exfoliating my soul
both salt, un-salted
sharks or not
ebbs of sifting through
memories, beaches
around the world
flow my wanderlust
endless sunsets
crash in colors
take me there
Stefani, there are so many amazing phrases here. “dissolving under broken / centuries of fragmented / shored movement” Wow! Beautiful ode to the seas. I am partial to the west coast sunsets myself too, but I’ve only seen a handful of sunrises over the water.
I loved your poem! I can really relate to this because the beach is one of my happy places. I can’t wait to feel this joy on spring break when I’m walking on the beach!
Stefani, I love that nothing is getting in your way. That middle line
sharks or not
says nothing is stopping you from the full experience of the beach! That is the vibe!!
Stefani,
I feel that transformation reading your poem.
Thank you for bringing us with you.
And the great thing about going to the beach in a poem–no sand randomly appearing everywhere once back home.
Seana—thank you for this walk into time. All those walks, all those beautiful memories. It took me on another familiar walk.
Old School; Young Me
That grand old building.
Mayville Central School
Marble steps, fine, dark woodwork,
Built in 1834. Closed in 1999.
Progress, consolidation, change.
I was a student there for 13 years.
Different wings, different teachers,
but– always Mayville Central.
The school on the hill.
My home away from home.
The library was my refuge.
Now is it filled with businesses.
Same marble steps, same fine woodwork.
I stopped in one day and was transported.
I walked slowly up the steps
and again became 15.
Gangly. Too tall. Thick glasses.
A tall pile of books in my arms.
Confidence not yet imagined..
My shoulders crept forward,
hunched to distract from my 5’9”.
I wondered if my hair looked ok;
if my slip was showing,
if anyone was looking at me,
if anyone even knew I was there.
I looked back at that girl–
that girl who did not yet know
who she would become.
and I thanked those marble steps,
that dark woodwork,
that blessed library.
They did just fine…
Gayle Sands
2/22/26
The image of thanking “those marble steps, that dark woodwork, that blessed library” stayed with me. There’s something so generous in that gratitude — honoring the place that quietly held you while you were still becoming. It feels like you’ve wrapped your younger self in the kindness she didn’t yet know how to give herself.
Oh, Gayle, what a delight! I love that you write about going back as an adult and seeing that young girl again in that hallowed place. Wow! The three times reading of marble steps and dark woodwork was just perfect! Love, love this ode to Mayville Central.
Oh, Gayle, you capture the beauty of this old building. I attended a junior high school that sounds very similar. It now contains apartments elderly.
These lines pop quite a punch:
Wonderful poem! This took me back to high school and all the memories I made there. This was very well done!
Beautiful memory – taking us through the corridors of your teenage self. Love the last stanza especially.
Gayle, this line invites readers into the library kinship with you: The library was my refuge. The literary pull is like a magnet right up the stairs and into the volumes of books!
“Different wings, different teachers”
I enjoyed the double reading of “wings” next to “teachers.”
“Confidence not yet imagined”
I loved this line.
I, too, was 5’9″ and hunched my shoulders to distract–
Thank you for taking me to Mayville Central’s marble steps.
Gayle,
I love the whole poem, but, oh those last two stanzas!
Oh, there are so many places that I could tell you about today, but I will reflect on my time in San Miguel de Allende through a mentor text from one of the new-to-me writers I met. An author, Kristina Marie Darling, has attended many residencies and earned many grants to support a prolific career. And I will draw on a topic from Judyth Hill who suggested we always write about the water source in the towns we visit. The writers we spend time with shape our place and shape who we become. I couldn’t have written this poem even a week ago.
NOT DANCING WITH GIANTS
When the giant puppets start to dance around her, she sees her solitude stomped into the earth. Her notebook returns to its sleeve between language books and a laptop aching for its lost charger. And she understands why the mojigangas see her, knows they are storytellers, too. The gringo with impossible blue eyes looks more interested in the trumpet player. Frida invites her to dance; she doesn’t.
But she does stand. Small. And this sudden discovery startles. Her cheeks become arroyos for Río Laja. The river floods the private dance floor. Gringo’s blue eyes turn to Frida; time to circle another.
And she is left to her solitude again. To wonder why she is crying at a fiesta, to uncover her story of the giants who pulled a river from her eyes.
Sarah, your poem said so much and spoke of the strength of the young lady. I’m thoroughly in awe of your courage throughout your trip. Continue to enjoy your journey!
Oh, wow, Sarah, I so love the growth and possibilities you are discovering on your sabbatical. Thank you for continually teaching and sharing what you are learning. Oh, my gosh, this: “…to uncover her story of the giants who pulled a river from her eyes.”
Sarah—Denise stole my comment! “Pulled a River from her eyes…”
Sarah, I love the topic to write about the water source in towns we visit. And you chose to write about the water as a bit of a metaphor – cheeks become arroyos for Río Laja – that floods the dance floor and tears “pulled a river from her eyes.” Seems you are practicing Neruda – spinning a metaphor. Your poem is lovely.
Sarah, you have taken many gifts from your travels and this one you are sharing with us. The idea of always writing about a water source when we visit is dear to me as my dad was an “environmentalist” and we always visited and acknowledged the water sources in anywhere we went!
Boy and Fawn
The straw echoed silence
to light,
Bronze, thin hairs,
clutched tight,
to the belly of a fawn,
spotted and alone.
A whisper of blackberry,
tickle his nose,
within the briars he remained froze.
Unaware of me,
perched in a cedar tree.
I, just as still as him,
thought of the scars on my limb.
To live frozen,
in a life unchosen,
is a fate of twist,
one we both cannot resist.
How am I like the deer,
is my end closing near?
Or shall we gallop open pine,
Unleash the straw that is in my mind.
Or sit and wait for death,
inhale silence with each breath?
There is no answer for our paths,
Which one we choose,
could be our last?
I climbed down to see,
if the deer was like me,
He darted at my move,
guess we both had something
to prove.
Clayton, I was excited reading about the journey between you and the deer. I’m a lover too of rhyming words and you hit all those notes perfectly. Thanks for your phenomenal entry today!
Boxer,
And then that small shift — you climbing down, he darting at your move — it’s quick, almost quiet, but it changes everything. Just two bodies breaking stillness at the same time, the pine wide around you, the silence no longer quite the same.
Peace,
Sarah
This was a great poem! I think deer are so beautiful so I was excited to read this poem. Great job!!
Clayton- I love the thought-provoking questions throughout your poem! They give the poem such depth and lead the reader to reflect on their own life and experiences.
I really enjoyed your poem! I love the line, “How am I like the deer,
is my end closing near?
Or shall we gallop open pine,
Unleash the straw that is in my mind.
Or sit and wait for death,
inhale silence with each breath?” Awesome!
Greetings, Ethical ELA friends! Seana is attending a memorial service today. She will respond as time permits.
Looking forward to writing and reading/responding today! 🩵
Thanks Stacey and yes I will respond to most later this evening.
Sending condolences and love your way! 🙏🏽
Seana, so very sorry for your loss. Hugs and prayers to all of you.
Seana, at a time when I am often very frustrated with organized religion, your poem reminds me of the important role it can play in our lives–church at its best. I especially enjoyed your description of the liturgical dancers!
Thanks Kimberly. I had to put my own weight issues aside and realize no one was judging me. Then I was able to enjoy the dancing.
Seana,your poem takes the reader right along with you as you walk those aisles for all the diverse purposes of you life. This is an interesting prompt and at first I thought of going to the beach, but instead I wrote an ode to the Grand Canyon where I hiked up and down at the tender age of 60 after the loss of a dear friend. I did learn a few lessons about tenacity and when to just say no!
The idea germinated in the empty
Canyon created by loss, sadness,
“Do it now,” echoed in our hearts,
Common sense muffled by sobs
Made reservations, bought
Hiking boots, hydration bladders,
Leaving at dawn, we walked,
Step-by-hesitant-step, over and under
Rocks, more rocks, death defying cliffs
Ankle sprains, aches and pains,
We arrived exhausted at base after
Dark, after dinner, where bunks
Provided brief rest before an arduous
Return across the river
Under cliffs, through endless switch-backs
Arriving after sunset in spite of those who said
We would not, we made it to the rim.
We are strong, persistent and tenacious,
And a bit foolhardy.
Anita –The canyon serves really well in your poem as a metaphor for grief. I feel the sadness as you describe your journey across the “death defying cliffs”, but also the ultimate satisfation experienced at the successful completion of your journey was also evident, “Under cliffs, through endless switch-backs/Arriving after sunset in spite of those who said/We would not, we made it to the rim.”
Love your last lines, “We are strong, persistent and tenacious,
And a bit foolhardy.”
Anita, your images were clear and painted the most compelling reason to yes hike the GC or watch images of it on a media platform. Thanks for taking us on this beautiful tribute to your friend. I loved your descriptions.
I’m right there with you in the “Leaving at dawn, we walked,” that steady rhythm of “step-by-hesitant-step” over rocks and under cliffs. The small details — hiking boots, hydration bladders, bunks after dark — make the whole climb feel lived in, earned.
Peace,
Sarah
Anita, the arduousness of your journey combined with the loss of your friend is truly apparent in all the details. It reminds me of a climb we made to a tea house at Lake Louise (not nearly as difficult as yours but we were not prepared for what lie ahead). Coming out all the stronger for having done it is worth it in the end, as I’m sure the entire experience and those views were as well.
You captured the urgency and the agency of this decision to hike the Grand Canyon. Wow! What a feat!
Seana, your vivid descriptions of memories in a narrow aisle evoked broad picturesque memories in many places that you made me jealous. 🙂 Our family moved a lot and each of the specific growing up events for me took place in a different church setting. But, thank the Lord, they have taken place! My poem is set on the porch in the fifth state we’ve lived in since our marriage!
The Man with the Holes in His Socks
Sitting across from him on the sun porch
Noticing those holes in the bottom of his socks,
Listening to the birds chirping their evening reports to their parents,
Hearing the squawk of the ducks as they teach their ducklings to swim upstream,
I wonder what it would be like.
What would it be like to have no one to talk to,
no one to report to,
no one to tease about the holes in the bottoms of his socks;
no one to interrupt my reading with,
“Hon. You’ve gotta listen to this.” or “Just a minute. Have you heard this one?”
Listening to the roiling of the steam just outside the sunroom window,
Hearing the water tumble down the man-made rock cropping,
Pausing as the mourning doves coo across the way,
I wonder what it would be like.
What would it be like to be able to finish a chapter
without being interrupted,
without learning something new about something I never knew was important,
something I’d never even thought about before,
without realizing how fortunate I am to hear
from the man with the holes in the bottom of his socks,
“Babe. This won’t take long?” or “Betcha never you hear this anymore.”
Sitting across from him, I watch the sunbeams streaming through the blinds,
Slipping over his shoulder and
Warming my toes,
Signaling that day is ending,
I wonder what it would be like.
Then, I smile to myself,
not having to wonder,
glad I don’t have to wonder,
thrilled I don’t have to wonder
What life would be like without the man with the holes in the bottom of his socks.
This is really sweet and I always love the images you pair. Thanks for sharing
Anna – your poem about your husband is so tender and beautiful. It is evident you have a strong bond. Thank you for introducing us to “the the man with the holes in the bottom of his socks.”
Anna, I like how you carry the sock image through your poem and also the sounds you hear from your porch.
Anna,
The rhythm of interruption feels alive — “Hon. You’ve gotta listen to this.” “Babe. This won’t take long?” Those small calls across the room feel like their own kind of birdsong. And the light at the end — “sunbeams streaming through the blinds… Warming my toes” — settles so gently before that final turn. It’s quiet, domestic, and full without ever needing to say so.
Peace,
Sarah
Anna, there’s a picture book in that title! I really appreciated the comfortable ease of this poem, so apparent in your descriptions -so true in all their aggravating and soothing details. Isn’t that what sharing life is? The repetition reminded me of how the days build, one upon the next, with all their rhythms and routines. Beautiful celebration of life!
Anna,
This ending is just so perfect, so sweet . . . the repetition with slight change
Seana, you write beautifully about your church with all the ways it has brought meaning to your life. I thought of my own childhood church, brainstormed words and wrote a tricube.
Sanctified
In this place
holy water
baby blessed
In this place
veil lifted
parting kiss
In this place
ashes laid
eternal rest
Margaret, I can’t help but think of how the tripling of the tricube adds emphasis to the importance of this space. The form also allows me to play with the reading – repeated first line, rhyme in lines 3 and 9, reading up/down (water, lifted, laid and holy, veil, ashes) – something I don’t do with other/longer forms.
There is a life cycle here that is shared so succinctly. Thanks for writing and inspiring the short stanzas
Margaret –
I also like your chose the tricube structure in your poem. It feels intentional, almost like a visual echo of how the number three carries meaning in the Bible — the Holy Trinity and Jesus’s three days in the tomb.
Margaret,
I’m struck by how spare this is — just “In this place” repeated like a tolling bell, and then those small, precise moments: “holy water / baby blessed,” “veil lifted / parting kiss.” Each scene arrives without ornament, almost like stepping stones across years.
Peace,
Sarah
Margaret, your tricube is the perfect format capturing different stages of our lives as equal partners coming into a sacred place at critical moments. It’s beautiful.
Seana, such a strong reminder of the significance of our sacred spaces and the life-changing moments that exist within them. I was immediately returned to the many and varied aisle walks marking significant changes within my own life, both similar and differing from yours. Thank you for reminding us of the importance of space today.
The Space Between
There is a transition
between lives,
a time of becoming,
no longer what we were
and not quite what we will be.
Yet there is existence
in the space between.
The ancients created
pyres,
sending ashes upward
in a reverse fall,
an ashrise,
from this life to the next.
Or buried deep,
decompositions
darkening soil,
nurturing re-growth,
what we once were
becoming less
and more
in this
space
between.
I love the way you wove in “space between” and the word “becoming”. The small lines give us the image of becoming less, a focus of Lent in my faith tradition.
The flow of this is so tantalizing and beautiful. Thanks for sharing this week.
Jennifer — Your poem and the acknowledgement of “transtion between lives” really resonants with me. Since my parents have passed, I have spent a lot of time reflecting on the topic you describe as “space between.” It gives me comfort in knowing that the energy of those lost is not truly lost. Beautiful poem!
Jennifer,
I keep returning to that opening — “no longer what we were / and not quite what we will be.” It feels like standing on a threshold, the air different but familiar. The image of ashes rising in “a reverse fall, / an ashrise” lingers — upward motion where we expect descent.
Peace,
Sarah
Jennifer, your poem makes me wonder about this space between – after this life as I know it. Your line, “a time of becoming not what we were and not quite we will be” is a strong statement of belief.
Seana, the progression through years, strategic moments, and rites of passage, give me a poignant glimpse into your younger and more unsure self toward the confident, grace-filled woman you are now. As that sanctuary shifted even in your pronoun (“my house…my aisle…”), we feel that deep connection. It reminds me of the sense of belonging that comforts me when I sit quietly amid botanical garden spaces that I hold in reverence. You remind me to pause for reverence in what opens our eyes and our hearts to beauty, thence comes grace. Thank you for a beautiful poem this morning.