Poetry Treasure Hunt with Allison Berryhill & Lauren Stephens
Welcome to Day 2 of the June Open Write. If you have written with us before, welcome back. If you are joining us for the first time, you are in the kind, capable hands of today’s host, so just read prompt below and then, when you are ready, write in the comment section below. To learn more about the Open Write, click here.
Allison Berryhill lives in Iowa where she advises the journalism program, teaches English, and hosts a weekly Creative Writing club at Atlantic High School. She is active with the Iowa Council of Teachers of English, the Iowa High School Press Association, and the Iowa Poetry Association where she serves as teacher liaison. Allison is a runner, an accordion player, and a wedding officiant. Follow her at @allisonberryhil for photos of #IowaSky and schoolblazing.blogspot.com for random musings.
Inspiration
My Iowa friend and poet Lauren Stephens now teaches 8th grade after working with sophomores and juniors for her first six years as an educator. She recently shared an idea that is great for getting students out of their desks while also inviting them to see in new ways and pay attention to details.
Lauren based her lesson on an idea she found on “Teach Living Poets,” an online group of educators who share ideas about how to incorporate contemporary poets into the secondary classroom.
Process
Follow Lauren’s directions on the following slides!
Our Poems
| Poem by Lauren’s Student | Poem by Allison Berryhill |
|---|---|
| Plastic Lid On the ground I lie and shift From wind and earth. I lay waiting to be Disposed. The sun beats down But I do not decompose. My edges are round almost Sharp. The label on my back is not yet worn. The grass beneath Me is cushioning And old as the season. | Gathered from a walk around the perimeter of my yard: The Husk Remembers I was once an emerald chalice lifted toward the sun holding golden grain. |
Your Turn
Today I invite you to participate in such a treasure hunt. Grab a bag and head out (or stay inside) with an eye for the unexpected. Gather items that spark your interest. Then use Lauren’s nudge to write a poem about the treasure hunt experience or any of the objects you discovered.
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may 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.
A brilliantly white pair of sneakers
Dangling precariously from the electric wire
Overhead
Synchronicity?
Designed to catch my attention?
Hovering by thin white shoelaces
Tied in a perfect bow
How too did they come to be
Ideally perched on their
Aerial meanderings
Caught now and then by the wind
Shifting them a bit in wonder
If they will ever fall.
Judith, sneakers on a wire triggered a slew of memories from books and history. Love the questions within your verse wondering how and if. Your word choice of “perched” offers thr apt image of a bird caught. I wonder how many of us feel as such. Thank you for this metaphor today. Lots to ponder for me.
Thank you Lauren and Allison for the prompt! Lauren, I love how accessible you made poetry for your students. Allison, thank you for highlighting Lauren’s awesomeness. Miss you both! I didn’t have much time to polish my poem tonight, but I am happy for the encouragement to write tonight anyway 🙂
fogarty beach
i went searching for an agate
a piece of cubed up sun,
a reflecting gem from the ocean
i went searching for an agate
but remembered i ought to call my dad
so i dialed the number i have had
memorized since kindergarten
and sat on a piece of driftwood
listening to the crashing waves
and the ringtone
inhaling the salty air
and the Marlboros
watching the sunset over the Pacific
and the sea of cornfields
remembering splashing lake water
and long summer days
i went searching for an agate
but instead I am laughing with my dad
while sitting on a log at Fogarty Beach
watching whales spray water on the horizon
1,729 miles away
from him
Oh, Rachelle. Why are tears coming to my eyes? So beautiful to have captured this moment of shifting through place and time to make this connection. Wonderful specific sensory detail – Marlboros, not just cigarettes is such an ear for word choice. The culmination of the disrupted search to find something but finding something so much more dear – on father’s day – and most especially for those of us who no longer have our fathers with us – this just hit the most tender chord with me. Thank you so much.
Rachelle, what a gorgeous Father’s Day poem. “cubed up sun” and the memorized phone number leap out at me today. But, as Denise H. says, the sweet story you have captured is just lovely.
Rachelle,
This is beautiful. Your search for something physical being usurped by connection is so heartfelt and such an important message. You expressed it perfectly.
I took a walk with my daughter and her dogs today. The treasure I continually find is GREEN! Seattle is full of it. Allison, maybe your sweet poem about the corn husk inspired my poem today. “Emerald chalice” wow!
I am the green
that hurts your eyes,
brilliant and dazzling,
bright and ubiquitous.
Here in the Emerald City,
the sprinkles come in
a circadian rhythm of sogginess.
Moss grows thick on wood and stone.
Ferns pop and ivies creep
Green, the only color.
Hi Denise! I’ll bet Seattle is quite a different scenery from where you have been. Wow. What a change! And you have captured the essence of Seattle Spring here, for sure. Michigan spring is also a sudden shock of green, but nowhere near the depth and breadth that you have out there. I love the verbs that make the green feel so alive – grows, pop, creep – it’s just so true – green permeates the northwest. Lucky you! I hope it stays green and cool through the heat we are predicted to experience.
I love the ideas and process that we can share with our students!
I read the prompt and mentor poems shortly before heading out on a lengthy walk. Near the end of my walk, I stopped to check out this odd-looking structure. I have driven by it dozens of times thinking it was the homeowner’s idea of interesting yard art. But no, it contains offerings of free flower bouquets, undoubtedly from the homeowner’s yard, in the style of the Little Free Libraries. What a gift!
humbly I stand erect
assembled of free materials
gathered nearby
humbly offering
free beauty
to all passers-by
Isn’t that a lovely idea? Beautiful poem about this gift to the world. I like the word “humbly” here too.
What a sweet sweet idea! I love community sharing like this – and libraries, tea stands, little food libraries – all speak to the TRUE nature of HUMANITY. And taking the time to be able to enjoy it as you have and share it – thank you Charlene! “free beauty” can come to us in many forms. Lovely!
I intended to look for tangible things on a walk but ended up finding words in an interview I listened to that hit home and decided it was found enough.
On How To Be Human
It’s summer
And I can read again
I can write again
I can create again
I have headspace
And I’m not used to it
Sometimes I scroll on my phone
Sometimes I feel listless
Other times I get busy
And I crave more
Like I’m watching YouTube
But I’m also listening to an interview
Like I’m programmed to do all the things at once
And then I’m struck with beauty
Words that are so true
Words that I feel so deeply
The reading of novels and poetry
was instruction
on how to be human
Michael Silverblatt’s voice sears
straight to my soul
I stop
And listen to them again
Write them down
Read them one more time
It’s summer
And I can read again
I can write again
I can create again
They say poems can be windows or mirrors, and this is a mirror for me. From being programmed “to do all the things” to to taking time for words that resonate. Thank you for this!
Ach, Rachelle! You have captured the true essence of a teacher’s summer here! I can’t tell you how many times I cycle through this exact sequence of doing, not doing, and multitasking, and doing so many things there is never time/space for during the school year. I appreciate your found word approach as an alternative today. I’ve been listening to Where the Crawdads Sing, and there are so many beautifully poetic lines in there that I wish I had written myself! It’s a unique appreciation to be able to find joy or to be sparked by someone else’s words, especially something they might just randomly say in an interview. I guess that’s what truly makes us rhetoricians!
Wasn’t my intention
to ruin some dude’s
Father’s Day, wasn’t
my intention to spend
most of today in a
holding cell.
I didn’t ask him to call
the police.
There were a number
of questionable decisions
made – both today and
in the past.
Let me explain.
Several years ago,
let’s say about 20,
I hid a number of
valuables in my
backyard and
to ensure I
remembered where
said valuables
were I drew up
a treasure map.
I was young and
dumb, let’s get
that out of the way,
first, so I had the
map tattooed on my
back – full size,
think of Ben
Affleck and his
phoenix, but bigger
and classier.
Some might consider
this the first mistake,
but probably watching
those old pirate movies
growing up or National
Treasure on a continual
repeat for two weeks
straight were contributing
mistakes, like pilot fish
swarming around the
shark of a tattoo on my
back.
What I failed to realize
was that 1) I’d probably
move out of my childhood
home and 2) that as
you age you get bigger,
and by that I mean
wider, so, no, the “X”
marking the spot
really wasn’t marking
The Spot (and side note
I should really get that
mole looked at that
was serving as a
landmark – a fleshy
cairn, if you will).
So, fast forward
sixteen holes and a
half day later, and
this “new” home owner
is calling the cops.
I hadn’t found the
buried treasure yet.
I think it was filled
with a couple Furbies,
and half a dozen
Beanie Babies
wrapped up tight
in a Food Town
grocery bag
(to keep out the
moisture).
Jackpot, right?
So, I’ll let all of this
“blow over” for a few
days and then,
shiver me timbers,
I’ll give it another go,
and hope he got a
Chihuahua as a guard
dog instead of, say,
a pit bull or Rottweiler.
_____________________________________________________
Thanks, again, for the mentor poems and the prompt, Allison! I really like this activity and can see it working well in the classroom. I almost wasn’t able to post today – the day just got away from me – so I started with the “idea” of a treasure map and then I just followed the dotted lines to this poem.
I am so glad I decided to check in late! I would have missed this tale of woe, otherwise! Such a great story…and the tattoo??!!?? Love when you follow the dots, my friend!
Fantastic story! I wish you well. Write when you find it.
THIS:
“I was young and
dumb, let’s get
that out of the way,
first, so I had the
map tattooed on my
back – full size,
think of Ben
Affleck and his
phoenix, but bigger
and classier.”
Your voice is strong and irresistible. Most of me hopes your narrator is unreliable Poe-esque. (A little bit of me hopes this chomp-able tale is a 100-proof real-life experience.
Either way, this was a romp! THANK you!
Lol, sadly (?) no full-sized back tat, but I think I did have a Furby in my possession at some point in my life. I just started thinking of that “treasure map on body” trope that I’ve seen before and started to question it. Is this really a good idea? And wouldn’t it be backward in a mirror? And what about when your body changes as you get older? All good questions that I’m not sure the pirates of yore have considered. Anyways, thank you for the kind words!
Scott – the poem carries me right along like a treasure map that hooked me with ‘the holding cell.” So funny… the tattoo… and the inevitable body growing… omg, hilarious! This is gold! How perfect! Happy dad’s day! Susie
Scott, absolutely delightful read! The absurdity of the treasure map on your back and the size of the mole, etc. is sheer genius. Your direct voice and asides are sublime. I could see this poem becoming a short film. Brilliant!
I love the treasure hunt element in this prompt. Thank you for that.
I went back to photos from our vacation last week, but this poem still needs a lot of work.
Swap Tour — Louisiana
It’s hot! So, So hot
St just before noon.
Waiting for our turn…
Look! That grasshopper is huge!
Check out that tree,
what’s over there?
Some kind of moss
and a rotting, wooden boat.
On the airboat, finally some relief.
Hear the roar, watch out for gators.
Stop one — greeted by two.
Happy to visit — for a marshmallow!
The swamp is home to birds too —
we see white cranes, blue herons.
A purple gallinule stops by to snack —
Moves on to feed the babies in the nest.
The breeze as we get moving
offers great relief.
Comes just in time
under the noon day sun.
Alligator smiles,
Marshmellows for birds.
Mysteries of the swamp
Revealed!
Jennifer, I am so tickled to find your poem tonight! I have not been to Louisana, but you brought it right up to my door!
Your poem reminds me of the power of travel. We see the huge grasshopper, the ‘gators, the birds…appreciating them for their newness.
I feel the breeze–a tactile detail that in turn heightens the visual details in this poem.
Bravo!
This was a very powerful prompt Allison. What value these words add to discarded trash. Lauren’s poem resonated with me. These lines: “The label on my back
is not yet worn.” is a reminder of how quickly we discard fresh memories, new ideas, things that can can be repurposed!
I’m posting one of my earlier adventures. Instead of outdoors…
Unexpected Treasures in a Church Bathroom
Checking the bathrooms before service,
One would usually expect to find slivers of toilet paper, a wad of paper towels, or tightly compacted diapers.
But in the women’s bathroom
downstairs and across the way I happened upon
a container of
Raising Cane’s.
Not a fan of this chicken, tasteless.
It’s the sauce that gives it flavor.
I don’t know how this franchise is so
popular.
But I digress.
So this discarded container
and its contents of flavorless chicken,
chunked into the trash receptacle, in the bathroom?
Not even the closest!
Possibly forgotten if it wasn’t
for the escaping aura of days old chicken tenders stampeding into the open air
to resurrect the memory of a last supper.
Quickly finding something to mask the smell,
searching the closet I found some spray.
It’s not Whispering Rains, but I’m sure no one would mind the aroma of “Original Scent Gain”.
Spray and release,
the scent slithers into the hallway.
Thankful my son didn’t see the misting vapors cascading down,
for he would surely have had a scented shower,
eye burning included, minus the soap.
But I digress.
Keeping the door open hoping the Gain, Original Scent
would do its job and attack the stench of leftovers,
just in time for the Father’s Day luncheon.
The smell of discarded chicken and Gain, Original Scent
now covered by the mouth-watering scent of Grilled and Baked.
MISSION: Scent Be Gone. ACCOMPLISHED
Jessica, thank you for this romp! The mix of smells (slithering!) gave ME the vapors! Your MISSION/ACCOMPLISHED ending was a hoot!
Allison, it was definitely too hot to go explore, so I had to go with inside adventures, lol. I swear I can’t make these things up! Thank you!
Jessica,
I love that this is a complete story in a poem! I could see you finding the errant spoiled chicken (and pictured what my face would look like–ick!), and improvising a solution to a careless disposer. Excellent poem, I was compelled to read on!
Thank you Cara, I was tempted to open the container, but then common sense paid Ms a visit. The container of chicken is now safely spoiling in the dumpster outside. I could only imagine if it had been there another few days. ?
So very glad you digressed! Great story, great telling of same!!!
Thank you Gayle! I’ve always wanted to use that phrase! ?
The Medical Glove
I found you lying crumpled by the side of the road
Your beautiful turquoise color caught my eye
as you lay with the palm side up
and fingers folded over making a crumpled gesture.
Where had you been?
How did you get by the side of the street?
Covered with dirt I didn’t want to touch you.
Did you blow out of the janitor’s bag?
Did you cover a hand as it cleaned an office or a toilet?
Maybe you helped the doctor finish an exam.
Covered in germs I didn’t want to touch you
What stories you could to tell
if I knew how to listen
and become brave enough to hold your elastic body.
I’d give your fingers a friendly stretch
if I wanted to touch you.
Wow Susan, more often than not I see medical gloves discarded all the time, but I’ve just really thought of whose hand the story comes from. These lines made me think:
“What stories you could to tell
if I knew how to listen
and become brave enough to hold your elastic body.
I’d give your fingers a friendly stretch
if I wanted to touch you.”
The right thing to do is pick it up, but how many people have medical grade gloves or something similar to grab it? Leaving it behind for the next person to pick up adds another layer to the story. Thank you for sharing!
Susan,
I appreciate the variety of possible sources you came up with for the glove. You just never know, do you? Something so commonplace has become a real worry–you capture the anxiety and hesitation perfectly.
Susan, this phrase “palm side up
and fingers folded” shows the attention to detail I love in a poem. The open palm seems to me to be an invitation…a welcome. I might re-name this exercise “Stories from the Trash”!
Susan, I really enjoyed the repetition (and slight adjustment) of “I didn’t want to touch you” and “if I wanted to touch you” (not to mention the cool connection you’ve created because that is just what a glove does — keeps the hand from “touching” something). I also loved the self-deprecating moment of “if I knew how to listen.” Thanks for sharing this!
The Lantern
By Nancy White
Warmed by the afternoon sun
I sit amongst the succulents
Dull grey and bumpy,
Majestically rustic,
My purpose is to glow.
Nancy, I love the photo and focus of your poem. The descriptive details bring your garden light to life. I could feel the warmth throughout your poem.
Not only do I adore your poem, Nancy, but now I want this lovely lantern, too!
Nancy, as plain as these lines are “Dull grey and bumpy”, it gives the lantern another layer to peel off. Looking at the picture, the color contrasts from the typical setting, and the bumps remind me of scars, making it look like it was strategically placed there. It has a story to tell and it got my attention! Thank you for sharing!
Nancy, thank you for this gem of sounds and images. I love “my purpose is to glow.” I might make that my new Twitter bio! <3
Nancy, I’m with the others; you’ve crafted a very cool juxtaposition between “Dull grey and bumpy” with “Majestically rustic.” And, like Allison, I really do love your last line: “My purpose is to glow.” Thanks!
Another fun prompt, Allison. I’ll be sharing this one w/ lots of teacher friends.
My poem is based on a solo stroll yesterday evening in Baton Rouge, LA. .
Mississippi River Walk Talk
His line dangled &
glistened in murky
Mississippi River water.
Catfish weren’t biting.
Instead those bottom feeders—
like their feline namesakes—
napped below Old Man river’s
surface hiding from late afternoon sun.
Wrapping his right hand around the
line, he checked its slack. Nothing tugged below the opaque facade.
“I’ve caught some big ones here.” He
pulled out his phone & scrolled. “See?”
I marveled at his catch & generosity
in gifting the fish to a friend. We
swapped fish stories & memories.
“Thank you for talking to me,”
he said, as though my need for
information merited gratitude.
“You seemed like someone who knows
the area.” He mentioned he’s from Mexico & I remembered how people like
fishermen on the Mississippi see skin’s epidermis & not the good being beyond.
—Glenda Funk
June 19, 2022
Glenda — The fishing grabbed me immediately…I have a whole life of that and still love it. Fishing, though, on the Mississippi is a whole other thing. I love this. The connection between you and the fisherman…it is both poignant and important…a lovely man with a kind spirit comes across so clearly. The message of the damned Midwest bigotry…that part…geez…that is the kicker. I continue to work hard to change what little I can on this exact topic. Your poem is testament to the work we all must do. Hugs and thanks. Susie
Glenda, I love the conversation within your poem and the way you make the reader pause at the end to consider how we can assume things about people based on appearances. I could see the opening scene and could easily relate to fishing for catfish. I’ve often heard that they can become extremely large near the depths of the dam in Keokuk. Always gives me a bit of a chill. Loved the line “swapped fish stories & memories”. Safe travels! Love seeing your posts:)
Hi Glenda, your poem made me wish to be out there watching the fisherman. I can see this as if I were there with you:
I’m grateful he met you and might have finally seen “the good being” inside you!
Glenda, what a lovely and touching story and message. Loved how the dialogue helped it (an already beautiful retelling) to really sparkle. Thanks for this!
Hi Glenda! Love that you are writing poetry as you travel. This connection between catfish and domestic cats is so wonderful,
“napped below Old Man river’s
surface hiding from late afternoon sun.’
I feel the languid pace of Louisiana in these words.
Glenda, THIS is why I love poetry: the condensation, the word choice, the feeling. You brought this one all the way home. THANK you.
This passage really swept me in:”Instead those bottom feeders—
like their feline namesakes—
napped below Old Man river’s
surface hiding from late afternoon sun.”
The Dog Bin
Over the years,
as my furry babies
arrived and sadly passed,
the effects accumulated;
I shifted the bin
from closet
to corners
to garage
to remind me of the
connection to those
I loved and who loved
unconditionally;
the stuff
the nail clippers
never used —
I couldn’t bear to err
and nip the quick —
best left to the vet;
the doggie perfume spritz
made Watty smell…well,
less doggy
after a good hose-down bath,
but Rayo’s paws waft popcorn,
the undeniable puppy perfume —
at 14 lbs and heading to 100,
she may need a spritz,
who knows;
the water bowls —
the gallons and gallons
of slurps and slops —
stainless steel and shiny
seem to work like mirrors
as Rayo paw-splashes
all the water to the deck
so she can see
her face looking back;
old medicine bottles
for Livvy’s aches,
Zoe’s woes,
and Watty’s itches —
fingers crossed Rayo diverts
those demon witches;
the Furminator and scissors,
like a sheep shear
to all their matts
will find another life
with Rayo,
bearded collie,
oh my;
Zoe’s girlie collar
that became Watty’s collar
(he never seemed to mind the pink)
that will become Rayo’s collar —
she’ll sport that color like a boa
on the runway
setting off her fluffy
black-n-white
haute couture;
the things I hold,
the flotsam,
the scraps
are lives
woven
into a family
deeply rich
in dog.
Meet Rayo De Luna!
by Susie Morice, June 19, 2022©
[Rayo (Moonbeam) came to me on the full moon this week, adopted from NeedyPaws.]
Susie, ohhhhh, I love the tenderness and love that radiates from your poem and Rayo De Luna is absolutely gorgeous. I especially loved the lines “woven
into a family
deeply rich
in dog.”
Absolutely precious! Thanks for sharing the photo and your treasured dogs in this poem. Hugs! Barb
WHHHAAAATTT? You had me all teary eyed relating to all the dog accoutrements, then POW! I need to know more about your beautiful new family member. What breed is she? How old? And congratulations!
Susie,
What a beautiful addition to your family! I love her face!
I would venture to say she probably also wanted to get another glimpse of YOU! I love your poem, Rayo de Luna and you too!
Ohhh my heart ached reading about the memorabilia of fur babies of the past. Then, to read about and see your new family addition! What a cutie and what joy Rayo de Luna will bring!
Susie, you are a master of sound. The assonance in this passage feels so strong, yet effortless in your care:
never used —
I couldn’t bear to err
and nip the quick —
best left to the vet;
I love how your poem both individualized your dogs and also brought them together as one. This line was SUCH a great ending:
“a family
deeply rich
in dog.”
Just this morning I found and saved this image. I think I’m going to buy the print. Read it and you’ll know :-).
https://www.oliviaderecat.com/shop/closeness-lines-print
I love these lines, Allison! Cool print!! Susie
The final panel wrenched my heart!
Susie, this is so great!! I’m so happy Rayo found you — and you her. (Oh, I like your poem, too, by the way. Lol. Your second to last stanza is so good, so jaunty and fun: “she’ll sport that color like a boa / on the runway / setting off her fluffy / black-n-white / haute couture.” And that ending is wonderful: “lives / woven / into a family / deeply rich / in dog.”) And she’s adorable!
Susie, heartstrings attached to each collar, each bit of memory. I have a collection, too. And Rayo is beautiful!! From one dog lover to another…what a lucky family!
Susie,
My puppy-loving heart is melting. I love burying my face in doggy neck fur and drinking in their doggy scents. Rayo is adorable. I showed his pic to one of my traveling companions, and we both oohed and awed over his cuteness. Forget those teaspoons, I measure my live in puppy pats, as I know you do, too. ? ❤️
Treasure in Pleasure
Yesterday we visited a botanical garden
It wasn’t the Garden of Eden
It was a little rough around the edges
But it was on those edges we found the signs
Signs that told us the names of the plants
Signs often enlivened by honeybees and ants
Covering edges of the polysyllabic words
Hard to pronounce when distracted by colorful flitting birds
Birds in the trees, hiding in the leaves
Twirping and chirping, chortling and tweeting
Hiding in plain sight
Squawking with all their might.
Noticing distinctive designs of the tree trunks,
Observing geometric angles of the branches
Meeting families strolling the trails
Grinning at wee ones’ smiles and friendly glances,
Hoping among the thick brush
There would not be any skunks.
The treasure was the pleasure
Of being outside in the sun
Seeing God’s diversity in people and plants.
And having lots of fun
Shaded by the trees, informed by the signs,
Then skedaddling back to the car in a senior citizen run.
Which is really just a quicky walk
A time to reflect and talk.
I always read the signs, Anna! Thank you for a lovely poem celebrating them.
Thanks for taking us along to experience the sights and sounds and the signs to highlight the way. Sounds like a very pleasant time. I like the picture of you skedaddling!
Anna,
I appreciate your taking us on the walk with you. I am envious–I, too, was in a botanical garden yesterday, for a wedding, but it was rainy and chilly. I didn’t stop and look at too many signs for fear of being even more soggy. I had vicarious fun on your sunny day, though, thank you.
Anna, So much fun to walk through the botanical garden with you! I loved internal rhyme especially:
“The treasure was the pleasure
of being outside”
I love how many different directions the poets here take the prompts. Yours is a gem.
Morning Treasure
Morning light slanting
to warm my shoulder
making a mirror of wet sand
reflections in full color
Water pulls back
revealing rocky flower fields
anemones clustered
nature’s jewels
Blue upon blue upon blue
color like breath
oxygenating my blood
morning treasure
@kd0602
Ah, Kim. These lines soothe
Blue upon blue upon blue
color like breath
oxygenating my blood
morning treasure
Thanks for reminding us to just look at the blues and be revived not depressed as the color blue often depicts.
Kim — Gorgeous images in words and in the photo. The line “oxygenating my blood…” that is so true of those glorious images that wake us up inside. Lovely! Susie
Kim, wow, what a gorgeous poem and photo. Loved the repetition of “Blue upon blue upon blue”. Your poem is truly a treasure! Fantastic!
Wow. “Rocky flower fields…blue upon blue upon blue.” What a morning treasure indeed!
Wow, Kim. I was there with you! That light on your (my) warm shoulder…the mirror of the sand…The blue on blue on blue oxygenated both of us! Just lovely.
I want to be there – right there – in the blue with you! Wonderful peaceful, healing poem. Thank you!
Going on a hunt
for treasures when blinded-by
makes gathering gifts
futile until ego heals
sight: behold Present.
Sarah, your poem is like a treasure hunt. I am pausing, rereading, and considering the subtle layers of what we see as a treasure and pondering the power of the present. Very provocative poem!
Sarah, the hyphenating of blinded-by gave me pause. At first, I expected enjambment, then realized no, “blinded-by” is an adjective, a condition. It is in the fourth line when I meet the healing ego that I circle back to understand that the poet (now me) is in a condition of blindness, unable to see treasure as the result of an ego injury. From that blindness, the final line moves to the contrast of sight. The Present is now, of course, but also the treasure. THAT is what I experienced as I read your potent poem. Hugs, Allison
I have departed a little, but I truly love the prompt and will certainly be using it.
Road TripTreasure
Leaving three kids behind at home
on Father’s Day
to head south with our youngest.
College orientation
six hours away.
Six.
Yep.…six.
That’s far.
Excitement mixes with uncertainty
and nervousness
in a delicious milkshake
of emotion
Too bad I’m lactose intolerant
and will probably be pulling over
regularly and seeking a restroom.
~Susan Ahlbrand
19 June 2022
Oh, I love that line “in a delicious milkshake/of emotion” in contrast with “lactose intolerant.” Clever imagery to go with the mixed feelings of that — yikes — 6 hour drive.
Hope you all made it safely!
Peace,
Sarah
Susan, I love the milkshake metaphor. A milkshake is such a HAPPY mixture, delicious too–which is, of course, a wonderful comparison to taking a child to college orientation. And then you get real: lactose intolerance. Even delicious life events can bring on the pain. Hugs.
Susan, I’m smiling broadly here — not, mind you, at your discomfort — but at the unexpected turn of your poem. I was traveling along with you — six hours is, indeed, a long trip (and a far distance from your youngest) — and enjoyed the “delicious milkshake / of emotion” only to laugh out loud at your last stanza: “Too bad I’m lactose intolerant.” So funny! I hope the trip (and orientation) went smoothly!
I do love treasure hunts! This was a very enjoyable prompt. Thank you, Allison.
grey feather
Feather in my path, opposition in my head –
do not pick that up, germs hiding within!
and
oh, this is good luck! blessings from above!
Slow down, let’s look.
Feather in my path, deep grey soft fine
I know you.
Catbird’s lost their plume.
Catbird, I’ve been watching you
you’ve been watching me
seems like we are always
together apart in the backyard
you, so very full of singsong funny meow
I see you whirling about,
dashing from one thing to another
Tell me about this feather, Catbird
Were you ready to say goodbye?
Did it hurt to lose?
I suppose it depends
whether pulled or softly let go.
New growth awaits
Maureen,
This is just so lovely in so many ways. The repetition of feather in several scenes sets a tone of possibility, and the direct address and proper naming of Catbird invites council and wisdom.
Peace,
Sarah
Maureen — I was pulled to the idea of a feather not falling out but perhaps being pulled out…I love that you posed that pondering. You are so lucky to have a catbird in your routines! So cool! And I do believe that birds watch us as surely as we watch them. This is a poem that forces me to slow down and pay attention. Thank you! Susie
Beautiful! I found a few feathers today and could have remarked about how they were from the crows that are not loved by me. The interaction between you and the bird warms my heart as you both are “dashing from one thing to another.”
Maureen, I love the way you play with words throughout this poem. The direct address to Catbird, the way you both watch each other, and the questions you ask it. Love the end “New growth awaits”. Gorgeous poem!
Maureen, I love a poem that begins with a little bit of a wander…as yours does when you first contemplate the decision to pick up the feather–or not. But then you move into the owner of that feather, your relationship to Catbird, and finally your empathy as you ask the Catbird “Did it hurt to lose?” Oh my. Your poem moved me, tugged me, from the first line all the way to the satisfying end. Thank you.
Maureen,
I concur w/ Sarah. I also love the conversation between you and the feather and the catbird. There’s a fluttering quality here that’s light and lovely.
Allison, “I was once an emerald chalice”…wow, love it! Thanks for your prompt today. I’ve seen so many things this weekend from a Gay Pride parade to the Snake Alley Art Festival, but I wanted to focus on a goose feather, one I felt was left especially for me. Cheers to this perfectly beautiful Sunday!
Unexpected Gift
A fine goose feather
lies patiently beside my driver’s door
slender, sable, gently furled
a perfect gift to lift me
into June’s heavenly blue sky
or pull me beneath the river’s edge
to slip away to a Louisiana bayou
where I’ll conjure Cajun spirits and you
Barb Edler
19 June 2022
Barb, the last line of your poem turned it into an unexpected gift: a love poem. How great! 🙂
Barb, this is a very special find! I don’t know that I have ever seen a goose feather (separate from the goose!) – are they quite long? Love the connection to Louisiana bayou and “where I’ll conjure Cajun spirits and you” Beautiful!
A feather to conjure spirits – it takes me to that scene in Forrest Gump where the feather on the breeze is symbolic of life’s moments, fleeting and floating. Gorgeous!
Barb,
How nice to see the feather here and in Maureen’s verses today. I am feeling lucky and invited to be open to possibilities. Love the notion of patience here and the direct address to signal companionship and reflection. The tone is one of peace and comfort. So happy to witness this with you today.
Peace,
Sarah
Barb — The feather (Maureen had that experience today too!)…I like the reflection on the journey…”slip away to a… bayou…” In the same way that the feather feels like a gift, this subsequent poem feels that way too. The line “pull me beneath the river’s edge/to slip away…”… that has a boding that gives me pause…we drift with the wondrous bits we see…but stay above water, my friend!! Hugs and love, Susie
Oh Barb, I’m so glad you found–and wrote about–the goose feather. Your word choice (fine/feather…slender/sable…gently furled…) is beautiful. The “gift to lift” internal rhyme as you move toward “June’s heavenly blue sky” is perfect. Then you offer the sky’s alternative: slip beneath the river’s edge…and “conjure Cajun spirits and you.” Each poem you write about your son brings him into the world again. Thank you for your strong, feathered voice.
Barb,
Your poem pairs beautifully w/ Maureen’s. My friends and I took a Louisiana bayou/swamp tour yesterday. It was lovely. Your poem speaks to my nature-loving soul.
Allison, another fun prompt to give me a sweet start to my day. I love the student’s and your poem. I appreciate both because I see how the treasures found can lead to a poem of various lengths, forms, and themes. Fun!!
I came across a lone pink balloon this morning and chose it as my inspiration.
Pink Balloon
Bouncing
On imaginary rubber feet
Searching for a safe landing
Far from the cactus thorn
Or the shards of glass
Wedged in sidewalk cracks
Drifting
on a sudden breeze
Gently kissing golden petals
Picking up drops of dew
And a lonely ladybug
Drawn to the softness of your skin
© Stacey L. Joy, June 19, 2022
Stacey, Your poem is sensuous. It speaks to me of fragility and danger in the first stanza, then hope and beauty in the second. A forgotten balloon can say a lot in the deft poet’s hands! <3
Stacey, your poem is so rich with sensory appeal from the shards of glass to the gently kissing golden petals, I am completely captivated. Your end is especially sublime! Mmmmmmm! Powerful!
Stacey, loved the juxtaposition of imagery in the first stanza and the unsettled feel it gave me. And loved the shift in the second stanza that turned a concrete image into a more nebulous, slippery one. Lovely poem!
Oh my, the image of the ‘lonely ladybug’ on the balloon is so very precious and precarious! What a treasure of a find, Stacey!
Stacey,
So many vivid images here in conversation– even the lonely ladybug finds its place in the last lines of your poem. I long to be that balloon, evading thorns and glass, offering gentle kisses and bringing dew and ladybugs along for a ride. Perfect guide for being.
Peace,
Sarah
Stacey — I like that bouncing balloon! The tone of whimsy is here…and it feels very balloon-y! 🙂 I love the freedom of it…on on Juneteenth, that seems just right. Hugs, Susie
Your poem grabbed my attention right away with the bouncing on rubber feet. A lovely ending with “the softness of your skin.”
I chose to write about my school’s halls because it was grading/pack-up day on Friday and it is always such a stark contrast from the day before with all the students. Thank you for the though provoking prompt–I love your examples.
The halls are empty now
of students and noise and chaos.
Teachers are packing
for the summer,
boxing up the necessaries
for future years.
In the hall,
piles of discards
denote changed minds,
forgotten projects and
outdated ideas.
In one hall,
furniture prevails:
a gimpy table,
an unused bookcase,
a pre-digital file sorter,
a chair without a back.
In another,
piles of books
headed to surplus,
treasured once, now
relegated to
inappropriate,
aged out,
culturally tone deaf,
or just plain crispy and broken.
Teachers
clear their spaces–
both the physical classrooms
and their accumulation
of worries, stresses, and
time crunched panics.
Summer is time for renewal.
Cara,
I still felt the echoes of “treasure” in all of those discards: once treasured, now trash. Great poem, loved the haunting imagery of it all. <3
Cara, I love how a stack of objects can in fact tell stories: “piles of discards
denote changed minds,
forgotten projects and
outdated ideas.”
Your poem spoke directly to my worn-out teacher’s heart.
Renew, renew, renew.
<3
So much emotion and memory packed into every one of these discarded treasures. I feel the emptiness, quiet, and exhaustion of this year’s end. Happy summer!
what an homage to the artifacts of a school day, a teaching dad, or a career. Thank you for these images and the invitation for restoration.
Treasure
(“Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”)
Daily, treasure haunts my mind
and leads me forth to seek
my fortune in my daily life
and, thusly, havoc wreaks:
Days are filled with student work
as, nose to grindstone, I
keep reaching for that ring of brass
that never seems more nigh.
Peace of mind, the treasure next
that still eludes my grasp
and pricks my brain with worried thoughts,
spurs nail-bit hands to clasp.
Still more treasure beckons me
and causes me to crave
control of loved ones’ doubts and fears,
our sanity to save.
But consciousness knows how to cleave
the foolish from the wise.
And luckily I can perceive
the truth with mine own eyes:
Unhappily, we can’t rely
on certainty for treasure:
Not peace of mind or wallet full
are here for any measure.
Money comes and money goes,
and moods change day to day.
And constant change can certainly
be guaranteed to stay.
I’ve come to see that treasure chests
aren’t made of solid gold
they’re made of more ephemeral stuff,
not guaranteed to hold.
So finding treasure every day
has now become my art
And loving moments, good and bad,
has helped to heal my heart
And taught me to appreciate
my constant, changing treasures –
turning times of tension
into moments rich with pleasure.
Oh, Wendy! I read your poem aloud to feel the rhymes in my mouth. This is such a gently rolling TREASURE of a poem–with a message that resonates: find treasure in the changes. I love envisioning the “solid gold” treasure chest shimmering to ephemera. Wonderful word care and choices. Thank you.
Wendy, your poem is so full of wisdom. “loving moments, good and bad,/has helped to heal my heart” is especially provocative. Your end is powerful, and I agree that treasures are more “ephemeral”. Fantastic structure throughout!
So much great philosophy woven into these gentle rhyming stanzas; I love
“And constant change can certainly
be guaranteed to stay.”
Thank you for inspiration today!
A Slight Ponder ?
Once so green and long,
Now sliced and gone.
A spirit journeying to be the best,
cut down to be like the rest.
So all the people could see,
uniformity conquering creativity!
Two inches in every lot,
green, with piles of sliced rot.
None can reach the glory,
Old men share their story.
Of how fast the can mow,
never letting one weed grow.
Beautiful dandelions and ragweed,
you’ll be thrown out and fed to centipedes!
There’s no use for natural and wild,
lawns are pampered like a child.
Green must be spent on green,
so others can see what they’ve already seen.
Let’s all have square green yards,
Two inches high like notecards.
But wait, maybe I’ll devise a plan,
I’ll be different, the neighborhood MadMan.
Yes! Today imma let um all grow,
reach their potential- a wilderness show.
Attracting snakes, mice, and birds,
bugs, squirrels and everything absurd.
All the things that are supposed to be,
residing in my yard next to me.
I’ll be the talk of the town,
with everything growing all around.
Crows, horseflies, and ants
briars, switch sage, and all the can’ts
Everything that ain’t supposed to be,
will be right in my yard beside me.
Oh! It’ll be a glorious place,
freedom with radical grace.
Not adhering to a so called rules,
as I swing into mud puddle pools.
So weed as I look at you once more,
I hope you will not be sore.
But I must conform to a societal Core,
Regretfully,
I’m getting back on my
Lawnmower!
I love getting to see your internal thinking here. The idea of what if and then clicking back to the choice to conform…definitely something I can relate to.
Boxer, I recently attended a workshop on ecopoetry. To my understanding, it is similar to nature poetry but centers itself on the natural world as worthy in and of itself, as opposed to “using” nature to expand/reflect/highlight the HUMAN experience.
Your poem is such a great example of this–with grass!
This was one of my favorite couplets, with its clever multiple meanings of green and the irony of creating a “sight” that is just like the others along the block!
Green must be spent on green,
so others can see what they’ve already seen.
This, too, was a line that leaped off the page to me: “freedom with radical grace.”
WOW! You nailed this.
Boxer, oh my, I had to laugh throughout your poem because I instantly understood your topic. I’m afraid my neighborhood is completely obsessed with perfectly manicured lawns. I want to say to anyone mowing on Sunday, “Give it a rest”. Loved imagining you swinging into “mud puddle pools”. Fantastic poem!
These two lines beautifully capture the inherent foolishness of this ubiquitous lawncare:
Slowly but surely, we’re coming around to more natural yards here in my Maryland suburb…clover is our grass, hahaha
Boxer, the societal conformity for a lawnscape is felt as pressure even in deep rural country living. It’s where we’ve been today too – not giving anything a rest. Love this!
Boxer — This is totally delightful. You go girl…let it grow! I love the rhythms of this…it’s a read-aloud for sure. I particularly liked “freedom with radical grace…[those] puddle pools.” I could just imagine that. My niece lived for a time in a far burn of KC…where everything was beige…every blasted house for as far as you could see was beige…she so loathed that. Her rebellion before she moved was to paint the house green! LOL! Freedom with radical grace…sorta. LOL! Fun poem! Susie
Boxer, this was GREAT. Loved the clever and witty rhymed couplets. Wonderful imagery, and parts that made me smile and chuckle aloud. I was sad when you got back on your lawnmower. 🙂
Allison, thanks for all your efforts with the prompts and the mentoring. Thanks to Lauren for the activity that’ll get the kids outside in search mode. I got a little surprise this morning from my daughter as far as her celebrating me for Father’s Day, so I used that as a launch pad for today’s prompt. It seemed to tie well in my mind.
FATHER’S DAY TREASURE
This morning my daughter returned,
back from a scavenger hunt
arms full with appreciation and validation
stuffed bursting into a
fill in the blank book
from Culver City, California.
The book
(roughly the size of a human heart)
held 50 affirmations
directed my way,
and she asked for me to unpack it
as we sat in the kitchen.
I started a new pot of coffee (number 14)
coughed a bit (number 38)
and paged through our relationship,
getting to see my quirks
in the prismatic light of my daughter’s love.
I am blessed with her feeling blessed,
and happy in her sense of well being,
reflected back in the reflections
of her reflecting.
And as much as I am so lucky that you’re my dad
is number 46 this morning,
and number one in my heart,
she will never know
my new simple mantra as a father
is counting to 50.
Oooooo, this is so cool! “paged through our relationship” stands out to me because it’s such an abstract thing that you’ve made tangible. How neat to have this memento and to bring it to life here too.
Rex, I am GRINNING. What a beautiful exchange “reflected back in the reflections of her reflecting”!
(roughly the size of a human heart) was the perfect parenthetical as you pulled me into the poem.
“getting to see my quirks
in the prismatic light of my daughter’s love” speaks to the infinite ways children show us ourselves. Just lovely.
This was so lovely! Brought tears to my eyes with its sweet imagery and meaning, and loved the motif of the numbers throughout; your last sentence was wonderful. Thanks for this, Rex!
Wow, Rex, I am in love with your poem and the loving exchanges between you and your darling daughter. I wish I had had a father who loved like you! You and your daughter are blessings to each other and this is a gift:
Happy Father’s Day!
Allison—I wish you had been my teacher! The concept, your student’s poem, and your beautifully simple poem—all inspiring…
Recipe Card
Once pristine,
blue-lined-white
immaculate.
Ingredients, quantities, times…
Hope
on a three by five card.
Now bedraggled,
grease-besmirched,
unkempt,
beloved,
worn.
How many times
have you been called to duty?
How many lives
have you lived—
propped on a counter,
consulted,
then tucked away
till the next time
love is on the menu?
GJSands
6-19-22
It’s a neat idea to think of what a recipe card has seen. I love the last line “love is on the menu” because it doesn’t matter what the recipe is, something like this that is passed down through generations is pure love.
Gayle, your poem had me thinking of my own recipe cards, some written in my mother’s hand. Your descriptive words are perfect: “unkempt, beloved, worn” Cooking can be a true act of love!
I feared this card was abandoned as trash on the side of the road, but your closing lines convinced me that it is heartwarmingly worn due to so much love! I adore this,
“Hope
on a three by five card.”
I treasure many of my old recipe cards!!
Gayle, your lines in the closing stanza are especially evocative of the documentary we watched about Dean Martin. He, according to the film, was at heart a family man, and what warmed his heart more than anything was when the family share meals of homemade Italian cuisine. His daughter’s final story in the film was her preparing his favorite made from the “family” recipe that no one was “allowed” to share.
“then tucked away
Till the next time
love is on the menu
We show our love when we cook with love.
I’m getting teary! But that’s okay. The tears are for good memories evoked by your poem.
Gayle — This sure rings familiar…those smudged recipes… living the life of that recipe card…such a poem that! Susie
Gayle, I love this! (Having witnessed my wife pouring through so many cookbooks and files, index cards, and scraps of paper with handwritten notes from her mother and grandmother, I really enjoyed your “Recipe Card” poem.) And I love the little “surprise” that I felt with your second stanza, the contrast of “bedraggled, / grease-besmirched, / unkempt” with “beloved” and “worn.” That was a very cool moment. (Along with, of course, the cool last lines: “till the next time / love is on the menu.”) Thanks for this!
Gayle, I would LOVE to be in a class alongside you! No teachers: all of us learning partners together.
Oh, recipe cards! I do still have a recipe box (a bridal shower gift?)–but I’m afraid nine times out of ten, I turn to Google to find that “Swedish meatball recipe with catsup and nutmeg.”
Your final lines plucked my nostalgia strings: food is such a strong memory bond.
“till the next time
love is on the menu” = wow. Thank you.
Welcome to Miscou Island
by Mo Daley 6/19/22
The wind! The wind! The wind!
A black and white warbler
Playing hide and seek with me
But mostly hide
A Pitcher Plant
A bog, but no frog on a log
One, two, three ospreys
Whistling their alarms
A boardwalk, well worn
Welcoming me
To this wild and foreign land
You have taken me on your journey… My favorite phrase—“mostly hide”—it says volumes!!
Mo, I love that I feel like I’m walking right along with you. I know that I would linger to take in the black and white warbler activity the longest, especially in trying to find the hider!
I don’t know Miscou Island, but this caught me, Mo, because it could very well be right here where I live! I was imagining my own walks along the river, our boardwalk – also well worn (aren’t they all?). I enjoy description by negation, so “no frog on a log” made me smile, because – of course – I imagined some big old frog sunning itself on a log. And that end line on “wild and foreign” seems to make it separate from you, but instead, it’s welcoming you, you’re already there and a part of it, so I envisioned you becoming a part of that wild and foreign landscape, like walking into a foggy painting of this scene. Sigh. Lovely. Thank you!
Yet ANOTHER engaging experience I will be sharing with my students this coming year! Thank you, Allison! (And my dog thanks you for the extra walk this morning!)
Visitors
This morning the power went out
no storm no construction no warning
my loaf of no-knead bread
ready to go into the oven
I wander out to search for clues
find a broken Master Lock
a crumpled piece of metal
and a weatherbeaten copy
of Madeliene L’Engle’s
A Wrinkle in Time
I quickly turn to look around
searching for the renegades who
surely must have broken away
learned to plummet through barriers
of space and time and mass
The streets are empty except for a neighbor
who complains about the outage
asks, “How will you bake your bread?”
I just shrug – there seem such larger worries
like galaxy-hopping time travelers
blowing all our energy to smithereens
“At least there’s Starbuck’s,” she says
as she waves on down the road
I just smile and think to myself,
Maybe.
Denise, I enjoy the way you open this poem and your second line carries so much information with few words. What an interesting collection of treasures, and I love your end! I had to laugh at “ there seem such larger worries
like galaxy-hopping time travelers
blowing all our energy to smithereens”
Very fun poem!
Denise, I love how you wove in elements of A Wrinkle in Time so matter-of-factly in your verse of thoughts as you walk. The surreal becomes normal and calming during the power outage, which to me can be a time of stress and dismay.
Denise,
I love how loaded maybe can be in the end of your poem. I am also appreciating the positive potential of the title itself. For whatever reason, I kept thinking of Ray Bradbury’s “The Monsters are Due on Maple Street.”
Loved the whimsy of this poem; thanks for making me smile!
Denise, WOW! I love how you wrote this as a mystery. Poets in this space took the prompt in wildly different directions, but I do believe you are the only one who took it to the speculative genre! “Visitors” is the perfect title! You left me with a shiver!
Wow, Denise, what a sweet little sci-fi narrative you have woven here. Fun and that “maybe” at the end is loaded, as Rex says.
Thank you! I will use this idea in the fall with my students. For now – I went treasure hunting at the garden supply shop and found this.
Garden Treasure
We meet early in the morning,
My friend and I
To celebrate summertime.
We walk the aisles
Of the garden supply shop,
Acres of blooms surround us:
Impatience, begonia, hydrangea
Echinacea, salvia, and petunia –
Rolling syllables of blossoms.
The lantana look like flowers
from a fairy wedding,
I half expect Puck to announce:
If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.
We take our time,
Taking in color and fragrance.
We are collecting wonder,
Peace, grace and gratitude.
We find baskets of flowers,
Containers of houseplants,
Bright assortments of garden pottery,
Wooden birds, cement frogs,
Sleek ceramic bunnies,
And a tin watering can
To take with us,
To treasure, to make our own.
“We are collecting wonder. peace grace and gratitude”. I may take myself to the garden supply shop. now.
“rolling syllables of blossoms” Oh there is so much I love about this poem–and the idea of finding wonder, peace, grace, and gratitude at the garden supply store! Thanks so much for sharing this treasure!
Joanne, first I have to cheer the entrance of Puck – the way you describe the profusion of flowers, it wouldn’t surprise me if fairies were about! So many treasures here in the actual flora and in the fauna decor, and then with that tin watering can, a symbol for nurturing the life envisioned in the gardener’s mind. Absolutely lovely.
What an amazing invitation! Thank you for this post
Allison, what a wonderful invitation to go out into the fresh morning air and collect a few items to write about. It helps remind us that there are poems even when we think the well has run dry. I love your husk remembered – the stalks of corn come vividly to mind, holding the chalice to the sun. I found a feather, a hydrangea bloom, a pinecone, and a dried flower from an arrangement I had thrown out when the flowers withered. This process brings to mind Susan Wooldridge’s book Foolsgold, where she finds things on the edges of her world and makes nature collages with them – and I find her work so fascinating. Thanks for the inspiration!
Poetry Treasure Hunt
blue bloom
from a starter plant
named Missy
gift from a childhood friend’s
island garden
shed its training wheels of
protective netting
now cycles hands-free
like we did
wheeeeeeeeee!
feather
among the rocks
gift of warmth
a mother’s blanket
shed from the empty nest
now combs the breeze
…..freeeeeeee!
pinecone
in the understory
from the playground canopy of
resident fox squirrels
gift of fire kindling
now seasoning a winter spark for
meeeeeeeeee!
dried flower
from an I Love You
arrangement
gift of fresh beauty
declaring what’s cherished
for all to
seeeeeeee!
Kim, the rhyming of the last line in each stanza is brilliant and brings a lightness to each found object. I feel freeeee
Love it!!! Love the rhyme and carefree feelings in the poem!! Nice work!!
Kim, your poem’s specific treasured fines are uplifting. Love the playful endings of each stanza. Delightful poem!
Kim,
I love the contrast between the objective labeling of the object at the start and the totally subjective responses at the end of each stanza. It’s like there is a reset with each stanza.
Kim, I am enraptured by the idea of a plant named Missy and all of these images that are all part of nature’s nurturing blanket, plus the sheer joy encapsulated in your lines. It’s a celebration of life and love – a treasure, indeed!
Great job sharing your treasures. Each stanza has a wonderful description and I love the way you end each with a fun eeeeeeeee rhyme. Did you really name your starter plant “Missy?” That’s wonderful! I should try that because it might help it grow.
Allison,
I love how this can be used in the classroom! I can’t wait.
You poem…”an emerald chalice”.…so perfect.
We have a very busy day today, but I plan to carve out some time and post a poem later.
Allison, a double victory (getting kids outside and cleaning the environment simultaneously!). When I landed on match during yesterday’s wheel spin, I came across info from John Garver’s “Matches” (Popular Science Monthly, Aug 1877) that fascinated yet held no purpose in my poem. It felt much like a treasure hunt, albeit a different kind, and so I used it here.
A Meandering
A winding course
Begins at dawn
(with the use of phosphorous)
As words commence
To flow
(in small neglected factories)
This turning in a passage
From intent to discovery
(where children cannot escape fumes)
I am content to be
Amidst a word wander
(clothes and breath luminous at dark)
A meandrine journey
As words shift
(white fumes escaping)
And ignite
Before flaming out
(whenever they are seated by fire)
This is so wonderful! I spun – MATCH – too, yesterday. I love how one idea leads to another and takes us on a completely unexpected journey.
Jennifer, an utterly, utterly haunting poem. I see ghost-images of children in “small neglected factories” making matches as your word wander takes you on mysterious twists and turns. There’s a dreamlike quality to your verse, almost fantasy-leaning, otherworldly. I am in awe of it.
I stopped up short on your poem, Jennifer, because it would seem the word “meandering” has come to me from various people numerous times this past week. A sign? I’ll ponder that! In the meantime, LOVELY combinations here with the text in parentheses. Did this come from some other text you encountered – from that article? I love it when texts come to us like this and can be “collaged” or mixed together in some way. And then how you wove these concepts into life – living and breathing – and creating with words. It’s like watching someone with great skill braid hair in a fancy way. I especially loved that end line, which can be both dangerous and excited. Nicely done!
I do a version of these ‘treasure hunts’ but I call them feldgang or field walks. A feldgang can be outside yourself like this exercise suggests, but they can also be inside a digital space or even better it can be inside yourself. My poem is an inner feldgang. This is a very dark poem and I admit to writing it as a way of banishing my share of guilt for having created this world for my children and grandchildren. It is my Father’s Day feldgang and, like a lot of poetry, an exorcism, a bleating presence struggling against the status quo. You can probably tell that the school murders weigh heavily on me so…trigger warnings all around. Sometimes we find ‘treasures’ we wish we hadn’t.
Seeking Absolution: A Treasure Feldgang
My
self
has been stripped
like a rusty bolthead, frozen unmoved.
The pandemic
has broken
my
‘me’
and I have
no other tools
to remove and replace
myself
with some other self.
So this ‘I’ says
and so this ‘I’ sits
in the zero black-coffee
morning,
cats pressing
against the keyboard
to create
a new username
and password.
These new identities
are controlled
by other regimes
of:
lithium batteries,
apps,
touchscreens,
tinnitus of the postmodern and
echoes of color-coded states of emergency,
poxy sirens,
10 year-old children in cobalt mines.
Might as well
just ask for bullets
on Father’s Day
or a gun sale at the church.
Terry, my heart breaks over and over and over and yet it goes on. I am struck by your word choices (the rusty bolthead stripped of movement, the broken me without tools for replacement, the zero black coffee morning) and their absolutism. And in the midst of that, the cat who reinvents just for a moment before the return. And that last stanza. So, so powerful. (Thank you for placing a name – feldgang – to what I did in my own poem today)
Oh my gosh, Terry – this is so powerful – punch in the gut powerful. I can feel your angst and I know it well – the zero black coffee morning. Yes – this needs to be said and heard. I am grateful that you were brave enough to write and share it. We are listening.
Oh, Terry! Deeeeeep! Thank you for sharing your feldgang.
This resonated with me along with the rest of the poem.
Terry, I’ve read your poem several times because it resonates with me on so many levels. Over this last month in particular I’ve struggled for words (my typical lifeline) and against an inner paralysis over the brokenness of things. There’s that exact feeling, which I’ve found hard to express, reflected right here in your opening lines… as haunting, dark, and littered as an inner feldgang may be, that “bleating presence” is a sign of the very thing needed for carrying on. I rest in your lines – and I thank you for this.
Terry, thank you for sharing so honestly, my friend.
“The pandemic
has broken
my
‘me’”
I think many of us are feeling that way. Yet we go on, and when each of us in our little corner of the world demonstrates love and kindness and gentleness, we DO have the power to counteract the anger and violence. If I didn’t believe that, I would have given up long ago.
Allison, your poem and the student’s are treasures. I adore the idea of going outside seeking to discover. I try to do it often. Awe awaits. Reminds me workshops I’ve taken and led in turn, when we went outside to contemplate “abiding images”. Thank you for this invitation and inspiration – in my part of the world it’s currently 60 degrees and sunny, and the fresh air is incredibly invigorating!
Here’s the treasure I found today:
The Treasure
In the backyard
by the fence
it lies half-buried
sun-bleached
pristine white
glowing with
ethereal light
a holy relic
enshrined in earth
beloved remnant
of a creature
who carried it
in his kingly jaws
who stretched out
his golden body
this white scepter
clutched
in big leonine paws
a treasure left behind
for me to find
monument
to lazy afternoons
when he was
here
so full of love
unwritten
in stone
yet still
resounding
abounding
surrounding
the bone
Fran, your words conjure imagery as real as the moments of being there by the fence to see this half-buried treasure right next to you, feeling the magic of a secret discovery and imagining the story of how it came to rest right there. Beautiful words!
Fran, so many wonderful lines in this verse but what’s sticking out for me is “a treasure left behind for me to find.” And now your words leave a treasure for us all. Great imagery here
Love this one too, Fran. The rhythm and rhyme slides us along to those lazy afternoons. My favorite line: so full of love unwritten in stone and the words: resounding, abounding, surrounding (the bone). Incredibly powerful. Thank you!
Fran,
As a past big dog owner, I feel you captured the missing presence well. Finding the bone or the toy after the dog is gone is so evocative, truly the treasure left behind.
This prompt reminds me of Naomi Shihab Nye’s book “Cast Away” I am inspired by your model poem to write a mask poem from the point of view of the lid. I think kids would really enjoy this prompt and it would serve two purposes, picking up litter and inspiring writing. I missed my walk this morning because I slept too late. I will tuck it away for another day.
Allison, oh how I love your inspiration this morning and capturing that image of a chalice lifted toward the sun. What a glorious thought. I’ll have to pass this morning on walking around the yard – as shared below. But I still got a poem out of it! I’ll wait until the sun comes out and dries out the packages.
Scavenger Hunt? I Think Not
Take a walk
around my yard
to find some
hidden treasures?
I dare not tred
upon the grass
after a gaggle of geese
– twenty-two to be exact –
stopped by at six
and shared some
packages of love.
I think
it best it wise to
stay away
and scavenge
elsewhere.
I can relate! Yesterday I walked a path and my brother said, “Watch out.” What he meant was don’t step on the geese poop. Do you live near the water?
Yes – we have loads of fencing along the water but they snuck in through my neighbors yard!
🙂
Those geese!
Alas, Christine. The organic nature of things, shall we say. It’s definitely a minefield where the geese have gathered – although the babies (now grown big, here) are utterly precious! Maybe the grass will benefit from so much fertilizer? And that’s a LOT of geese!
Christine, “packages of love” might just be the best surprise usage of wording for this delivery ever! I can only imagine what 22 geese would sound like at 6:00am – another gift!?
Christine, this brings a chuckle. I was dodging the dogwalk zone as I went searching for treasure. Those packages of love marking presence are definitely dodge zones!
I giggled at the geese’s packages of love—a perfect reason to scavenge in a less decorated space…
Christine,
When life gives you goose poop, make poetry!
CAN’T WAIT to take a walk and write this once it warms up (why is it so cold in upstate NY this weekend?!). Thanks, Allison + Lauren!
Feels like fall here, too (in Western Massachusetts). Strange weather …
broken
eggshell, motley
blue
it can’t be fixed
with a dab of
glue
and where
she’s gone, now,
we haven’t a
clue
on flights of fancy,
or deep in stories,
true
https://flic.kr/p/2nsYAtP
https://flic.kr/p/2nsYAtP
Loved the photo.
Good morning, Kevin – I enjoyed the birdie-ness of the eggshell… that blue. I felt a sort of whimsy in the tone… the Noh really knowing where “she” went but then thinking of her in stories… lovely. Happy June to you, Susie
Kevin, such a wonderful capturing of finding a motley blue egg. Oh how I wish we could fix them all with glue!
Loved this (and the photo)!
Thanks for sharing the image, but your poem describes it perfectly. I love the rhyming words.
Kevin, now that I am reading your poem I see we did sort of the same thing with a final rhyming word on a line all its own. I love how you pulled this together with a bird egg – – it makes me wonder where she is now and right where her GPS location is in the wide, wide world or in literature.
I love the rhythm of this, Kevin.