Welcome to Verselove—a space for educators to nurture their writing lives and celebrate poetry in the community. Each day in April, we come together to explore the power of poetry for both heart and mind. Write with care, for yourself and your readers. When responding, reflect back the beauty you find—lines that linger, ideas that inspire. Enjoy the journey. (Learn more here.If you’d like to host a Verselove Day in 2026, sign up here.)
Host: Margaret Simon
Photo by Jennifer Greycheck
Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. Margaret has been an elementary school teacher for 38 years, most recently teaching gifted students in Iberia Parish. Her first book of children’s poetry was published in 2018 by UL Press, Bayou Song: Creative Explorations of the South Louisiana Landscape. Her latest book is Were You There: A Biography of Emma Wakefield Paillet, UL Press 2025. Margaret wrote poems in Emma’s voice as she worked through trials and tribulations of Reconstruction and a Jim Crow South to become the first African American woman in the state of Louisiana to receive a medical degree. Margaret’s poems have appeared in anthologies including The Poetry of US by National Geographic and Rhyme & Rhythm: Poems for Student Athletes. Margaret writes a blog regularly at http://reflectionsontheteche.com.
Inspiration
In Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello’s prose poem, The Houseguest, she invites us to her kitchen table to talk with Forgiveness. I imagine there are a number of emotions we can bring to our kitchen tables. Grief, Joy, Gratitude, etc.
Process
A prose poem looks like prose; however, there are poetic elements that set it apart from a paragraph. There is a rhythm of poetry within the prose-like lines. Contemplate an invitation to an emotion. Write it out in prose. Let your words flow out like the water from a teapot.
Margaret’s poem: Come to the Kitchen Table
I invite Grief over for a spot of tea. I have a new gooseneck teapot I want to try. I love the way it heats the water to the perfect 212 degrees without complaining. I place a spoonful of honey in the bottom of the cup and make sure the tea bag string dangles like a gift tag over the pottery mug. (Also a gift). I think about gifts. How Grief can be a gift. I offer Grief a teacup, a small one with an angel imprint because she’s an angel I’ve neglected. When I sit down at the kitchen table, Grief circles around. I tell Grief that she has become like a poodle, trying to cozy up to me, and make me hold her with love. Why does she do this when she knows how much I resist her? I should have sweetened her tea with salt. (I’ve been known to mistake salt for sugar, so why not?) Grief doesn’t seem to mind the comment. She knows how the heart works, how Love grows inside Grief’s shell, a carapace of protection, hiding until the temperature is just right for her to come out and sit with me, be on my lap, warm and bittersweet, smelling of salt. Grief hands me a napkin to wipe my tears.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may choose to use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers.
Thank you for hosting today Margaret! I wanted to try something a little different, I hope you don’t mind.
world commotion
*ring ring ring* Not her again…*ring ring ring* what’s even the point *ring ring ring*
every time you call you drift *ring ring ring* further and further away from change *ring ring ring* why are you so stiff *ring ring ring* where is your pliability *ring ring ring* I don’t want to speak with you anymore *ring ring ring* you make me not want to be here *ring ring ring*
…
*ring ring ri-
This prompt was so cathartic!
Nightly Dinner Party
Overstimulation grabs and squeezes my shoulders while regaling us with a raucous story full of animal sounds and nonsensical words which is hard to follow but I’m trying my best. I squinted my eyes. Search for the floral details on my plate but my eyes won’t focus and everything grows fuzz. Why is it so hot in here? Stress sits too close to me and we bump elbows every time I try to take a sip of whatever’s in my cup. God, I hope it’s got alcohol in it but I’ll never know because Overstimulation gesticulates wildly running around the table, knocking it out of my hand, reducing them to a crying puddle demanding comfort in my lap. Stress whispers to remind me that there is a deadline looming and I’m behind on grading and did I know what I was gonna teach on Monday? “I don’t want to be touched!” I try to scream but it seems I’m mute and Overstimulation hugs me closer, and Stress, who seems to take umbrage at being ignored, grows louder in my ear.
I like the details of “everything grows fuzz” for your vision and “hope it’s got alcohol” to handle these emotions!
i ate dinner with perfection and guilt
I sit at the kitchen table, fingers dancing delicately in my lap, as figures swirl, and swirl, and swirl around me. “You better get this right,” Perfection tells me once more, his shadowy darkness hovering over me as if he’d fully block me from the dingy light hanging above my head. “I’m trying my best,” I mutter, but Perfection sits down across from me, waiting for another answer, waiting for me to break, waiting for me to break myself in half to meet his standards that he tells me I set for myself. Guilt speaks up from the corner. “Why don’t you feel bad that you’re not good enough? You keep breaking, disappointing people.” I stare Guilt in the eyes, wishing to delicately cup my palm against her cheek, brush the wispy brown strands behind her ear. She looks too much like me, too much like a younger image of myself. “Because,” I start, “I’m more than what you two tell me I am.”
And with that, they vanish only into the constraints of my mind, waiting there for the next time I doubt myself so they can invite themselves to dinner.
“She looks too much like me, too much like a younger image of myself.” wow, what a description for guilt.
Molly I appreciate your poem. Thank you. With Guilt I always hear the question “Am I good enough?” thank you for the connections.
Hardship, I get told that I go through a lot of hardships, and get asked, “How do you not break?” or “How do you keep going?”. I think of it as a being a palm tree, the wind may blow powerful winds, but I bend and don’t break, I am flexible, I give to people. In the future, I want to keep that in my head, that it’s ok and be a palm tree, flexible, but strong, and also giving back to others. But I will always invite hardship to a table to sit at and be present, because I want them to know that is what made me the person I am today.
I would ask the same of people who go through hardships and your answer of a palm tree is amazing. You are strong.
Hailey! Thank you for your poem, I really enjoyed the “How do you not break?” I always often ask myself that. Or even sometimes “why”. Sometimes I get tired but we all need to keep pushing.
I wrote this poem to my future self in hopes that when the world feels too heavy, I can come back and remember my why.
The chipped ceramic mug steams on the familiar wood, a silent invitation across the years. Come in, future me, sit down. The air still hums faintly with the ghost of lesson plans, doesn’t it? Remember the spark in their eyes when a difficult concept finally clicked, the sudden forest of raised hands eager to share an insight? That thrill, that connection – it’s still in you, a steady ember beneath the daily demands. Don’t let it fade.
He’s probably brewing coffee, the same slightly too-strong blend he’s always favored. Watch the way his hand brushes yours as he sets the mug down. Remember the laughter that bubbles up unexpectedly, the quiet comfort of his presence in the chaos? That unwavering support, that gentle understanding – it deepens with every shared sunrise. Hold onto that warmth.
Look around this kitchen, at the mismatched mugs and the worn cookbooks. This is the heart of it all, isn’t it? The place where stories are shared, where solace is found, where the everyday magic unfolds. You are the gatherer, the nurturer, the quiet observer who finds beauty in the ordinary. You are the one who leads with kindness, who listens more than she speaks, whose strength lies in her empathy. Don’t ever forget that core, that quiet knowing that anchors you to the truest version of yourself. Welcome home.
I love what you decided to write. Encouraging proses like this is necessary and it’s great that you will look back at it during tough times. “Ghost of lesson plans” wow, haunting.
Margaret, what a great prompt. I took an Earth Day direction–and picked a topic waaaay too big to tackle in the amount of time I had for writing tonight. But…it’s a start!
Sometimes Ocean roars in like a dragon, frothing and swirling, energy radiating from every salty drop, tossing boats, leveling cliffs, chasing swimmers to shore. Every scale and feather ripples in this self-induced storm, power is the name of the game. Other days Ocean is a mirror, calmly reflecting the world around, inviting bare feet, sand castle builders, and sunset seekers. Still waters run deep and Ocean is seldom still and often deep. Beneath the surface lies worlds unlike those we know on dry land. Curiosities are common. Ocean makes a home for the octopus who is a master of disguise, changing shape and color at will. Pelican skims the surf above, joined by its squadron overseeing the shoreline, pouches poised for a quick snack. Ocean reminds us that water is everything: power and life and home. Whether dragon or mirror, to preserve life on our planet Ocean requires our respect and protection. Now is our time to roar.
To see photograph:
https://thinkingthroughmylens.com/2025/04/22/an-earth-day-prose-poem-npm25-day-22/
Kim,
I love how you take us through the many moods of the ocean—the dragon’s roar and the stillness. The alliteration really gives the poem a sense of movement, especially as you describe the wildlife that call the ocean home.
Kim thanks for the poem!! I loved your descriptors and your dragon
Regret Comes Calling
I sit quietly at the table, wondering if I should offer him something. I’m hospitable, if anything, but I don’t stir. Regret sits quietly too.
You know the sayings, he finally said. They seem popular with young daredevils and long shot lovers. Things like, ‘You’ll only regret the things you don’t do’ and ‘No regrets, just love.’ I can go on and on. Google has a million of ‘em.
“No, I’m good,” I say. “I don’t need any more sayings.”
I take out the photo album, and we look at photos. So much joy. So much love. So many stories. Some are difficult ones, some show the missing pieces.
“I should have let her know when she was young,” I whisper.
It’s not too late. Tell her. Just love.
_________________
Margaret, thank you for your poem. It’s beautiful. “Love grows inside Grief’s shell, a carapace of protection” and “warm and bittersweet” are really nice.
Denise, the way you address regret in this and the ambiguity of the photo album paired with the last line is heartbreaking, but it gives me pause to think about all the things we should say while we can.
Denise, I am glad I stopped by here once more before calling it a day. Your offering of Regret is so poignant. I sense pain in your poem when you look at the photos and note difficult stories and the ones with “the missing pieces.” The following ambiguity hints on your struggle to come to terms with something. Regret shows you a glimpse of hope: “Tell her. Just live.” Sending peace and love your way
Denise,
Theres power in “I don’t need any more sayings.” I really dislike the “No Regrets” tattoos, except when the word is misspelled. Now that’s something to regret. People who grow and evolve have regrets, and we learn from them. At least we try to learn from them. The image of the photo album and imagining you looking through it is so tender. Until it is too late to say “I love you,” it’s not too late. Hugs.
Denise, your poem is heart wrenching! Regret is a difficult emotion to overcome. I love your end. Your poem resonates! Thank you!
Oh Denise, this is a beautiful poem. I especially love the repeat of “Just Love” by Regret at the end, but in a true, meaningful way not just an unattached “saying”. And your words “I should have let her know when she was young” leaves much to wonder and feel about. Thank you.
Denise, I am sorry Regret came to visit you. He was nicer to you than he usually is to me. Such a strong emotion.
I love the emotion you talk about, regret is a hard emotion, but you overcome it in your own ways.
i absolutely adore this poem! you capture such a real and vulnerable conversation here. you do an amazing job personifying regret, here.
Margaret,
This prompt was so much fun! I loved the poems that you included as your inspiration and your poem was so good. I took inspiration in your personification of Grief and then took everything a bit left…
Reported Assault on Inspiration
Cognitive Investigate Task Force(CITF)
Report of Investigate Activity
Date of Investigative Activity: 22 Apr ‘25
Place: withheld
Report Number: 210000438804
REMARKS
Witness interview of David Wooley
On April 25, 2025, David Wooley was interviewed
by Sierra Bellum,investigative agent of the CITF,
the following comments are the witness’ statement:
I was waiting around for Inspiration to arrive;
we had an appointment to meet in my headspace.
Killing time, I was fielding a few emails when I
spotted Inspiration lingering around the corner.
Waving him over, I invited him in, when–SHAZAM!–
Self Doubt, that bully, shows up and
starts beating down Inspiration. I thought I
could handle Self Doubt, so I’m about to run
over, when I get blind-sided by Procrastination.
At this point, Procrastination is on top of me,
Self Doubt is all over Inspiration, really
killing him. Then, popping up out of nowhere,
Memes shows up and double
teams me with Procrastination. I’m down,
Inspiration is practically done, when,
In the nick of time–DING!–Notification shows
up in my feed with this super interesting
article. Before you know it, Inspiration is
manhandling Self Doubt and I’ve overcome
Procrastination and deleted Memes!
After all that, me and Inspiration were finally
vibin’ in my headspace; it was practically
Poetic! But Self Doubt is still out there,
along with Procrastination and I want to
press charges before they assault Inspiration
again!
Addendum:
Moments after this report was filed,
Chat GPT accessed it through a secret
backdoor and wrote a screenplay, novel,
rock opera and marketing campaign
in 23 seconds.
Haha, Dave. So fun. I love your format, and I’m glad you found Inspiration. “it was practically Poetic!” makes me smile. Definitely Poetic!
OMG all of this but especially that end!!! Like seriously. I don’t want to put anything on the internet anymore because ChatGPT will do something with it. It really grosses me out the many problems with it but ANYWAY. So creative. I would add watching GRWM videos in my personification of procrastination.
Such a clever form for fighting off those bullies to your inspiration! Thanks for writing.
Enough whispered in my ear when I reached for another slice of pizza somehow knowing my nine year old string bean body couldn’t tolerate an eighth slice, that my mother’s jokes of a hollow leg distracted my stomach from sensations of satisfied or any sense at all of full. Of course, I ignored Enough not knowing when the next meal would come, not wanting to let Brother or Sister get my share. And, of course, Enough giggled over the toilet bowl when I inevitably threw up all traces of satiation. After years of frustration, Enough went silent, appearing in a gut pinch or back twinge that knocked me down. The notes were no longer about nourishment but worth. What thresholds of capacity have I crossed and recrossed? Most asks are easy to accept. Most of the time I can add an hour at the beginning or end of a day to accommodate. I am feeding some bottomless empty still. But now, as the ache potentiates, I fall to my knees, holding down just Enough that I might finally be able to feel full.
When I chose enough as my one little word a few years back, I was needing the assurance that I was enough. Your piece has turned my attention to another kind of enough. The painfulness of “gut pinch” that “knocked me down” is so visceral. I hate to think this has been a part of your life for so long. Hugs, sweet Sarah. I’m glad I came back to find your piece. I wasn’t able to read the latter part of the day. I am so amazed by the writing here!
Sarah,
Wow! As a person who can push limits, this poem really resonates. From “the notes were no longer about nourishment but worth”, all of the lines build and build the tension, so the turn at the end is both unexpected and full of relief. Every sentence in the poem packs a wallop.
Sarah,
Your poem is full of inner child aching so familiar to many of us. Those attempts to get enough food and other types of nourishment are real, and they never completely go away, do they? You write “I am feeding some bottomless empty still.” resonates for me, and I do hope you get full and stay full very soon because in the final analysis so many things we use and do to fill ourselves up only really matter to ourselves. I know I’m being cryptic, but this is something I’ve realized in retirement. And another way of saying “enough” is to say “no.”
You have taken me on a many avenues exploration of Enough. I lingered on the personification here: “After years of frustration, Enough went silent” and this end speaks volumes: “I am feeding some bottomless empty still. But now, as the ache potentiates, I fall to my knees, holding down just Enough that I might finally be able to feel full.” I love the way you phrased “I am feeding some bottomless empty still”. Thank you for sharing this, Sarah. You are incredible.
I have known Avoidance for years; he’s a longtime friend of the family. Although I find him difficult, it seemed only right to invite him over, now that he’s settled here in D.C. He knocks cagily at the door, stepping away when I go to open it. (Perhaps some sort of prank?) I don’t get it at all. I am surprised he’s wearing a tightly zipped coat when today’s weather is mild and breezy…and he refuses to take it off upon entering. Avoidance is such a frustrating personality. I thought we were getting together for breakfast; he says we no longer need breakfast. What’s that supposed to mean? I do! Here’s something weird – he starts wandering around my house, opening doors, peeking into cabinets – I said, “May I help you? Are you looking for something?” His dodgy response: “Oh, no, nothing really.” I’m not at all sure what to do with Avoidance now – I simply want him gone.
Maureen,
I love this personification of Avoidance! The way Avoidance is being inconvenient and getting in the way but also not acknowledging what is needed is so beautifully captured in this!
I love all the ways you’ve captured Avoidance, Maureen! He’s “difficult” and “knocks cagily at the door” and “refuses to take [his “tightly zipped coat”] off upon entering.” Avoidance is quite the contrarian, and he nosily pokes through your cabinets! And what’s this about “no longer need[ing] breakfast”? Ridiculous!
Maureen, this personification of avoidance is brilliant. “he refuses to take it off upon entering” LMAO! “Oh, no, nothing really”. I’ve definitely said this and heard this before. Yes, frustrating indeed!
Margaret, thank you for pushing me outside of my comfort zone. I remember when I resisted prose in a session at UCLA’s Writing Project. They told me to put all my lines of my poem into a paragraph form and then work with it from there. I liked that idea, but it didn’t work for me today. I just went forward with writing it like a story. I think I will push myself to work harder on this over the summer.
Curiosity Sat Beside Me
I was sipping a Cabernet, the kind you don’t rush, when Curiosity slid onto the barstool beside me. She didn’t look at me right away—just traced the patterns of wood on the counter, like she was creeping her way toward something delicate.
“You knew him,” she said softly, “but not the way daughters are supposed to.”
I didn’t respond. She wasn’t asking.
She tapped the rim of her glass—empty, always empty—and asked, “Do you remember the sound of his laugh?”
I did. I also remembered the silence that followed, the way it stretched between birthdays and phone calls that didn’t come.
“He showed up sometimes,” I said. “But never stayed long enough to build anything with me.”
Curiosity nodded. Not with judgment, but affirmation. She seemed to know how those moments lingered—half-warm, half-vanished.
“Did you ever wonder if he wanted to build more with you?” she asked.
I did. And I didn’t. At some point,my curiosity gets tired.
We sat in silence, not the spiky kind, just the kind that settles in when all the questions have already been asked too many times.
“He would have liked the woman you have become,” she offered. “Or maybe he wouldn’t have known what to do with you. But you’re here anyway. Whole and joyful, despite him.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I looked at her—this small, persistent presence beside me, holding space for a story with holes in it.
When she stood to leave, she placed her hand on mine, light as breath. “Not every absence is empty,” she said. “Some just echo longer.”
And then Curiosity was gone.
© Stacey L. Joy, 4/22/25
maybe you could teach a master class on prose. I’d love to join.
Chills. Total chills. This is phenomenal and wise. I appreciate the bravery in this personification. Thanks for sharing your gifts
I chose curiosity today, too, and I’m struck by how different our visitors are and how yours disappeared, leaving behind a powerful, personal poem and a sense of, truly, curiosity. I’m curious, too, that you suggest this isn’t a prose poem. I guess I’ve always seen them in paragraphs, but I can’t imagine why this is any less a poem because you allowed it to looke like a story. Whatever, this works and the feeling I had as I finished it has lingered.
Thanks Amanda. I was saying that my old process of writing in poetry form then pushing the lines into prose didn’t happen for me today. I just composed as a story. It’s prose, but it’s not my comfort zone. I am happy it worked though and that the feelings and purpose came through. I will read your post. Thanks for sharing.
Stacey,
Thanks for sharing your wisdom.
Such a powerful ending:
Oh, my, Stacey – this Curiosity seems like a friend worth knowing. What a powerful question – ““Did you ever wonder if he wanted to build more with you?” she asked.”
Excellent!
Wow. Wow.
Stacey, I also wrote mine in a story-like way breaking into several paragraphs. Like you, I am not experienced with a prose poem. I do think you wrote a beautiful poem today. It evokes feelings, it questions doubts, it attempt to fill in the holes. I am especially touched by your ending: “Not every absence is empty,” she said. “Some just echo longer.” There is so much wisdom in this.
Oh, Stacey, you had me at “the kind you don’t rush,” and I felt like I was sipping in your prose with each line moving toward Curiosity’s exit. Lovely.
Stacey, today is the 3rd anniversary of my father’s death. These words as story/prose poem resonate, ““Not every absence is empty,” she said. “Some just echo longer.””
Thanks for writing!
God bless you and your family. My father has been gone for 14 years and it’s very sad how in his death there was no more of an absence than when he was alive.
I always admired friends who had fathers who did the fatherly work and gave the fatherly love.
Stacey,
This is pretty brilliant! The dialogue, for starters, is really immersive and cinematic. And you build this scene so well, starting with the Cabernet that you don’t rush. And then there’s the space that you give in the pauses and the things left unsaid. This is so good!
I invite Anxiety over for a workout. Heart races, breath shaking. “C’mon, let’s get moving and put those calloused hands to work.” A simple nod from a frenemy. “What do I do if…?” I turn to ask.Knurling scrapes against my palms, resolve erupts and interrupts our conversation. Anxiety replies, “It’s too loud in here–I can’t hear myself think!” The music pumps through the speaker almost as fast and strong as my bupropion pumps through my veins. “Go heavier. You can do more” I scowl. “But it’s too hard. I don’t think I have it.” Anxiety quivers. An eye roll, another plate, a thankful prayer. People ask how I balance it all, but I couldn’t do everything I do or be all I am without the push and pull and weight of my anxiety.
‘
I love how you capture using anxiety as a super power. That is how it is for me too. It’s a sharp double edged sword. I am so glad you harness it and let it make you stronger!
I like this play on good and evil here. And how you can talk back to anxiety, that’s important. Thanks for sharing this perspective.
Ashley, I like that you invite Anxiety to a workout. It sets up my expectation for the poem’s pace. I am reading a YA novel, and the protagonist uses the word “frenemy” to a girl who used to be her BFF and turned into a competitor, so I am attracted to your poem to see your relationship with your frenemy. Like your concluding sentiment: “I couldn’t do everything I do or be all I am without the push and pull and weight of my anxiety.”
Love the last line – there is such acceptance of anxiety in this, recognizing the gifts of this. I totally relate to “It’s too loud in here–I can’t hear myself think!”
Ashley, you have explore the relationship with Anxiety. “A simple nod from a frenemy” is a great illustration of that relationship.
I like how you use anxiety in this poem, a way to push anxiety and yourself to do more, even if you’re overwhelmed by the things around you.
It’s Been a Pleasure
This is no ordinary meal. Please sign your consent here. We are here for hedonism. Our special guest is Pleasure. Tonight we dine under moonlight. Don’t forget to take off your shoes. We will be maenads. We will satiate madness, feed ancient hunger. Let’s toast Dionysus, let the wine wet our tongues, and afterwards let’s not forget to be dizzy and dancing. The berries are ready and ripe. If the juice dribbles across your lips, we will worship you all the more. Surrender is the only rule. When your thirst is slaked and sated belly hums, let your breath be moans. Laugh and stay longer than usual. Ride the waves of starlight and dare to keep letting go. It’s been a pleasure to dine with you.
What a tasty and sexy poem. I really enjoyed the word play here and nod to the gods. It was fun to read and envision. Thanks for sharing.
What do I love most here? The images? The diction? The sounds? Here for hedonism, indeed. I love “satiate madness, feed ancient hunger” and “When your thirst is slaked and sated belly hums, let your breath be moans” and so much more.
A poem with the word “maenads” – what’s not to love? This was very playful. Love the idea that Pleasure comes when “Surrender is the only rule.” Wisdom to follow!!
Margaret,
Thank you for this imaginative prompt and your beautiful poem about grief. I love these lines of complicated truth and beauty:
——————————————————————————————–
Park Bench
I sit on the green park bench along the Town Lake trail, binoculars dangling from my neck, taking a break from trying to see the birds that Merlin can hear in the trees. I rest my eyes on the water. I’m nervous about who might sit down next to me on the bench. Grief’s coming around a little less often, but still tramps in whenever she wants. Sadness, Anger, and Injustice have been triple-teaming us at work. Injury keeps hanging around, long after she was supposed to move on to another town. I sip my green smoothie, my palms pressing against the solid glass, my fingers feeling for the raised edges of the words that are too familiar to see. Change has been walking the same trails as me and I’m almost certain that she’ll appear today, asking what I’ve decided about that big decision I need to make. I’m almost ready to give her an answer, but wonder about how much I’m letting Grief and Injury influence me. My circling thoughts are interrupted by a “May I join you please? And oh look at that heron. I bet she’s going to get a fish soon.” Nature and I settle into a companionable silence, watching the heron catch and swallow her fish.
What a spectacular poem. I love the premise and the cleverness of these words. I am left wondering about the bench and the words it may hold. Thank you for reminding us of the comfort of nature!
Sharon, what a gorgeous poem. Your descriptions are so rich with imagery, that it seems as if I know the Town Lake trail. You build quite a suspense anticipating a companion telling about different ones who are around. I am so glad, it is Nature who has a superpower to comfort and recharge. Thank you for this beauty!
I really relate to “Change has been walking the same trails as me” – dang, they are rough trails! Leave it to Nature to offer some meditative healing.
Sharon, I love that I was surprised at the end of your poem! I didn’t see Nature coming (although you did set it up beautifully with the park bench and the birding and the personification of Change who “has been walking the same trails as [you].)” And your last image is great: “Nature and I settle into a companionable silence, watching the heron catch and swallow her fish.” Perfect!
I love that nature joins…and the calm settles. Perfect for Earth Day!
Margaret, what a wonderful prompt. I find prose poetry fascinating and have never tried it before. Between Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello’s poem and your own, I felt welcomed to the table! Here’s my attempt:
The student
Curiosity pops into your classroom before the first bell. You are writing the date on the blackboard – neatly, in the upper right-hand corner, in cursive. You finish, then place the chalk in its tray. Next, you connect the cord to your computer then cast about for the remote control. Curiosity discovers it over near the bookshelves and brings it to you. You continue your morning routine, aware that Curiosity is watching: straighten the student desks; sift through the papers. You want to settle in, but Curiosity has found the magnetic poetry in the back corner and is busy creating crude verses – and cackling. You hesitate, trapped in the fun house mirror as you pretend not to watch Curiosity who is pretending not to watch you. Should you interrupt the word play? Stop the game? Once, you would have sidled up next to Curiosity and, snickering, added an “s” to “as”. Once, you would have scrawled the verse on the walls in permanent marker. Once, you would have grabbed Curiosity’s wrist and run out of the classroom before the bell, after you had both arrived early. Today, you quietly allow Curiosity to continue writing poetry.
How clever! I keep rereading it and finding new gems. Curiosity is so fun but can be sneaky! Thank you!
Amanda,
This is lovely. Curiosity is always welcome in the best classrooms w/ the best teachers. Curiosity has a keen eye in your poem. I giggled at “crude verses – and cackling.” and smiled at your former self adding that extra ‘s’ and felt my heart strings tug when I reached the end where you left Curiosity alone to write poetry.
Amanda, you captivated me with the first sentence. I love your perspective and relationship with Curiosity. I, too, would’ve used that permanent marker to share some crude words once upon a time. I love this so much! Grateful I didn’t miss it.
I find myself wanting to know more about this curiosity–past and present! Should you interrupt the word play? Stop the game? … Today, you quiety allow Curiosity to continue writing poetry. My curiosity is definitely piqued!
I invited Love to the table. (My therapist told me Grief is what I’m feeling, and a poem told me Love is the one behind grief.) I invited Love to the table, but I couldn’t quite sit down myself. Love was too patient, too kind. And so I busied myself with redundant preparations—rearranged the lemon bars, searched for cloth napkins. Love asked after my mother, and I laughed bitterly, thought of martinis and missed concerts. “Do you remember,” Love asked me, “the night you hid in your closet, hurt? You were fourteen. Do you remember how she tried to get you to come out but didn’t push too hard? How she brought a plate of dinner to you there?” And then I did remember. And then I sat down across from Love and looked in her eyes that were the color of the inside of blueberries, just like my mom’s when I’d been a small, small girl and all I’d known was Love.
Oh Kate, what a beautiful memory. Sometimes when I think of my dad, it’s the bourbon and waters he taught me how to make for him, but when I eventually let Love in, there are sweeter memories too. I hope you continue to invite Love to your table, even if she makes you antsy.
Kate,
This is wise
and oh so tender
Thank you for the gift of this poem of love and grief.
Grief is unspent love. And I found such peace in this memory. Finding fondness and love when looking back. How beautiful. Thanks for sharing this.
Oh, that final detail – the inside of blueberries – and the way grief and love swirl together here as you rearrange the lemon (of course lemon) bars.
“eye that were the color of the inside of blueberries, just like my mom’s” Sheesh, what an amazing detail! Thank you for sharing.
I love the connection you give between grief and love.
This is a beautiful poem. As someone who has been grieving, it is such a wonderful feeling to know that there is love seeping into your life as you remember all of the happy memories. Amazing work.
This prompt, literally, made me sit with Sadness. I almost did not write. I literally left the table, but I came back.
Sadness does not need an invitation; she always seems to be there, knowing that I can’t avoid her forever. I need sustenance at some point, and I can only keep busy for so many hours. When I consider joining her, I feel as though I need to give in, give up, and that fills me with fear. So, I avoid the table as much as I can even though I know it will not make Sadness leave. Sadness knows I need her, knows that the only way the pain will ease is through. And so finally I give in, lips trembling, eyes welling, and heart aching. She tells me it is okay to sit with her; it is not a weakness but a natural stage of the heart. When I feel on the verge of collapse, I push my chair back to leave, but she grabs my hand and holds it. She promises me that she is not my enemy, but my guide to the other side.
Heather,
This is just what I needed to hear at this moment when my school community is dealing with a difficult sadness.
Thank you for sharing your wisdom on sadness. It brought me comfort.
I have ha sadness visit my table today. Your poem is comforting and I love the last two sentences about sadness being a guide to the other side.
This makes me think of the movie Inside Out, where they don’t understand why Sadness is with them or what she does, until she helps them feel and appreciate joy and love even more. This poem was powerful and emotional, I hope it provides you some healing along the way. Writing does that for me, but it is heavy heart work. Hugs.
You capture this feeling in such a beautiful and vulnerable way. I know all too well what it’s like to give in to sadness. Your details are so poignant. So emotional and well written.
Thanks, Margaret, for hosting today. Your grief poem had me thinking of guilt. It likes to hang with me.
OUT!
“What are you doing here already?” I grumble. Guilt just smirks from the dining room table. “I see you’ve already taken a seat and closed the shades. You like it dark in here, don’t you? Let me keep this brief, you’re not welcome here anymore. I do not need to be reminded of every single mistake I have ever made, so pick up your uninvited, depressing vibe and get the hell out before I plant my foot so far up your ass that you won’t be able to see for a week. I’m tired of you stealing my joy. And I’m not snuggling with you tonight in bed either!”
Barb Edler
22 April 2024
Barb, I love your spunk and crystal clarity of the directive to guilt. The tone creates just the mood to cheer alongside you as you address this unwelcome guest. I hope guilt takes leave at once……sounds like you mean business!
Barb,
This calls for a dedication to all those who do guilt’s nasty bidding. Your tone is one of righteous indignation. I can envision you w/ your foot up guilt’s surrogate’s ass. “Vibe is the perfect word for guilt’s shenanigans, but my favorite part is the lady line:
“I’m not snuggling with you tonight in bed either!””
Love how angry your tone is against Guilt as you fight it. I love this point of view and the expression of foot up ass through eyes
thanks for sharing
Barb, that guilt doesn’t have a chance! Love how you take charge of the situation and kick it out of your house. I need to write this down for me and make mental PostIts for every space at home and at work: “pick up your uninvited, depressing vibe and get the hell out.”
That’s one way to show guilt to the door!
Well, here it goes, Margaret. Thanks for the prompt but I am sad to say this took a sad note from me.
Longing
There you are, Longing, sitting in the chair. Yearning to see your face looking down at the newspaper and then a smile for me. I ask what you crave but the cup is full of empty memories lacking nourishment. On a tabletop of unpaid bills, the oatmeal box rattles as my spoon tries to get something from it. There is nothing left. The milk is coagulated and sour. Without substance, it cannot be poured. I long for something fresh, new and a heavy breeze to blow it all away then cover the table with colorful flowers.
Susan, what a wonderful emotion to focus your prose poem. The cup full of empty memories resonates for me as well as the longing for something fresh. Powerful piece!
Wow! I felt as though I was sitting with you and feeling longing every minute. My poem had a sad note, too, but I am glad I came to the table today. Thank you for awakening my senses with your poem.
Wow what brutal images. Thanks for sharing this poem and digging into your heart. Beautiful.
First you personify longing, then tell us it has no substance that we can pour out. How well that paints a picture of the unseen. You are artistic in word and pieces, creating a collage feeling we can see and feel.
I invite chaos to sit next to me. An old friend-suddenly all too familiar. We begin our conversation as always, catching up about the past. The conversation begins easily, her laughter bouncing off the walls. Throughout our coffee though, she likes to take over. She leads our little chat, somehow excluding me from the conversation entirely. Towards the end, I find myself tired of listening, exhausted, and feeling like she doesn’t care about me. She has taken over, as she usually does. This is all chaos knows though, so maybe we can’t fault her for that.
I think I have been inviting chaos too often lately. She does like to take over doesn’t she? I like how you give chaos a pass at the end.
Demry, chaos is definitely alive in your poem. I love her laughter bouncing off the walls and completely taking over. Your last line is provocative. Fun poem!
Chaos is definitely a woman, for sure
thanks for sharing this, it was a fun feeling to imagine
I enjoyed your personification of Chaos, Demry! My favorite line is “She leads our little chat, somehow excluding me from the conversation entirely.” Lol, she’s a bit self-absorbed, isn’t she?
Such an apt prompt for me today as it’s “family dinner night.” I am a homebody and truly don’t like my weeknight peace being disturbed, but irritation shows up every two weeks anyway.
Irritation is coming to dinner tonight, Actually irritation and its whole family is coming to dinner. They get invited every two weeks to sup with us, and I would really rather they not. When I asked my daughter if she would be coming down for dinner, she said no and was that okay. Sure, I replied, I’d rather not be coming down either. There’s no one my age, she says, and the littles are annoying. I don’t disagree and wish that I could bow out, but the expectation is there and I do, in fact, want dinner. But, oh, the incessant questioning of my sister-in-law. The inane banter of the whole group. The religious judgment that seems to ooze from them. So I eat and retreat to the living room, try to sidle up to tranquility on the couch while irritation prattles on in the kitchen.
Oh, I can so relate to your post. Family dinners with my husband’s siblings were more than I could stand. I always felt judged and as a sensitive introvert the comments stayed with me for a long time! Irritation is the perfect word! I hope you get more tranquility than irritation.
Cheri, oh, I know that irritation. I love those first two lines and how the phrase “actually irritation and its whole family is coming” sets the stage. I also enjoyed the incessant questioning which can really set me off. “Religious judgment” oozing is powerful. Fantastic prose poem.
I can totally relate to these family obligations. There are a lot of feelings going on at that table.
Cheri,
This is genius. I love everything about this poem: the tone, the anonymity of irritation’s identity, the dialogue with your daughter, your determination to escape irritation and join tranquility in the couch. It’s all wonderful. Side note: The son is coming to dinner tonight and texted during my massage to ask if his irritation can come, too.
Oh, no. A massage interrupted by irritation?! I’m currently enjoying my time with tranquility and Hulu.
Today…
Today I wake up
To my montonis routine.
My head full of complaints
At what I have to do Today.
But if I stop and ponder,
And let the young me see into what Today has to offer,
A day full of what I have always dreamed,
Awaits just outside of my window pane.
Once a dream,
Now a reality
Has to me,
Become some of monotony.
If again, I slow my step,
And let my future self consider Today,
A strong longing she posses,
If only she could go back for just one day she tells me.
For oh, how she longs for what was,
And now is Today.
So now I see,
Today,
To be the perfect day.
So up I rise,
On with the day,
For my past, future, and today self.
For never again,
Will today be.
Excellent, I enjoyed the rhythm and rhyme as you mentally conquered the day. Our days are exactly how we perceive them. Very creative with flavorable flow.
Amelia, I really like the roller coaster of emotions within your poem. Personifying Today is very clever. Trying to embrace each day as though it will be perfect is wonderful. Some of life is monotonous but also one of those realities we have to face. Clever prose piece.
Well, I needed to hear this poem. The ending is a strong and important message to us all
Amelia, the interplay with Today is very creative. You are so wise treating every “Today” as full of possibilities. Love the brisk pace of your poem and a change to an uplifting tone in the end.
Margaret, thank you for the invitation to write a prose poem. I’ve kept this memory close for a few months, and this seemed like the perfect vehicle for sharing. Thank you.
our table
Tonight I welcomed Joy to our table. Both girls in town with family and beau. The lucky thing about a rectangular table is the possibility to squeeze an extra person on the long side; two can fit on the short sides. All of us fit perfectly. The planned, quickly orchestrated meal prepared by several pairs of hands slid on to the table. As bowls were passed, plates were filled. Bottles of wine fit into the small empty spots. Animated chatter surrounded the table. At any given moment three conversations crossed the table. Voices soft enough to allow sharing. Between words and bites I lifted my eyes to capture the faces. Watch their expressions.The little ones fed by by an assortment of hands. Beto, our newest to the table, appeared at ease. I hoped he felt our warmth. Chatter continued as we refilled our plates and glasses. Perfection not the goal or expectation. Joy surrounded and filled us enhanced by candles flickering flames.
Jamie, I love the way you open this poem and make room at the table. I can feel the joy of having family surrounding you, viewing their expressions and listening to three conversations at once. The candle imagery at the end added a lovely touch.
‘Jamie,
I have no doubt that Beto felt your warmth, as I could feel the love reading your prose poem. Thanks for sharing these images of closeness, connection, and
Absolutely lovely. Glad you were all able to spend time together. I like how this line shows the unity of your care for one another:
Thanks for sharing your joy and inviting us to the table.
Table of Scars
Feeble hands praying at an Oak table,
He wanted to stand but was unable,
All his joy sat in empty chairs,
The bread was stale,
And so was the air.
So, he prayed about life and death,
Moved to each chair,
Continuing to hope by himself.
The oak was scratched and scarred,
Just like his life: rough and hard.
But his table, has always remained stable,
Steady through his life stories
and his life’s fables.
His anger is knotted in his stomach,
Like the cherry twisted and held under it.
Emotionally flat and upset,
His chest filled with regret,
No one is left at the table he set,
All the family meals, he will never forget.
How much closer to death can a man get?
As he flicks the ash off a cigarette.
Shame, guilt, gluttony and doubt,
Have all visited him with happiness
Or without.
Madness, sadness, and gladness too,
Unfortunately, visited like the flu.
But, grief has constantly remained,
Just called by different names,
Death, heartache, and pain,
Why he remains? He cannot explain.
The table stands on all fours,
Has held multiple hands and blocked doors.
Battled through storms and tornadoes,
Laid under turkeys and tomatoes,
Biscuits and gravy with potatoes,
Seated devils wearing halos.
The table goes around,
As his memories surround,
Those who he laid in the ground,
As his pain becomes more profound.
He ages gray as the oak,
He recites prayers he spoke,
He lifts his cigarette for a final toke,
For into the table his soul did soak.
– Boxer
Clayton, I love how you personify the table and all it has witnessed. What a great perspective. Emotionally flat, stands on all fours, laid under turkeys. All so easy to visualize. I feel the distance between the object and the past events. Solemn.
Clayton, Jamie has pointed out the poignant lines that strike me too. Along with those lines is the description of the
seated devils wearing halos
But we still miss them
And, most moving is the fact that his prayers still sustain him. Thanks for the memories your poem evokes.
Margaret – Thank you for this prompt. I have been sitting with Grief at my kitchen table since January. I have wiped away many a tear. Thank you for helping me write a letter to my dad, who died in March at the age of 99.
Dear Dad,
I wish I could have broken bread with you these four years before you died. I wish your hard words did not push me away to protect myself. Dad, we spent many years in the kitchen: puzzling over math problems, joyfully writing poetry, making spaghetti, baking cookies. And then – abruptly you could turn over the kitchen table with all its contents sliding, spilling to the floor onto our clothes. Mom and my sister would run for cover, and me? I’d stand firm to fight you, to make you behave. But you were a truculent father: I never succeeded in taming you, in calming you, in making you love us enough. Dad – sit down now. Have a sip of wine, taste the pasta I have made for you – its complex flavor that you taught me to create. Dad, I break bread with you now. Not broken-hearted now, but in peace that you are finally at rest.
Oh, Joanne. This is such an honest and heartfelt letter. You’ve really captured the complex emotion of grief in your prose poem. Life isn’t two dimensional and neither is death. Thanks for sharing your thoughts today. I hope writing this piece gave you some respite.
This is beautiful Joanne. Thank you for pouring your heart out in this piece, there are so many layers here to your words. The structure of this piece though is what caught my attention. The way that you move through your feelings to in the end find peace is wonderful. Thank you again for sharing.
Wow! I am at that table with you. Your poem is full of so much emotion it is leaping through the screen to my heart. I am sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing.
Oh my goodness, Joanne, I read this after I posted my prose poem about Love, Grief, and my mother—who has not died but has dementia… and there are so many similarities as we tease out the complexities of grief and love. I felt vulnerable sharing mine. Thanks for being a mirror and making the sharing feel safe.
Joanne, this is a beautiful reminder that there is wholeness only in Heaven – – the newness of spirit and the perfect love we so strive for will never be found here in this life. I love the way you can rest in peace, breaking bread and sharing it like a sort of communion with your dad in Heaven.
Joanne, I so treasure that last line about not being broken-hearted now, but at peace, knowing your father is at rest. Free of his angst and anger… in my similar situation I wondered if I had any right to grieve; I grieved many things other than the actual passing. But here, the breaking of bread, the wholeness after the brokenness… unspeakably healing.
Joanne, I think I needed to read your letter as much as you needed to write it. My complexities are not with parents, but they still exist, and I struggle with forgiveness sometimes. It brings me hope that you found peace and a way to mend your broken heart. Thank you for this gift today!
Wow, what a poem of forgiveness. It makes me wonder what kind of poem my niece might write for her father, my brother, one day. It’s saddening. Thank you for sharing Joanne.
Morning Visitor
By Mo Daley 4/22/25
Ugh! Frustration came calling early this morning right as I was about to play The Breakfast Game with the dogs. How can she not know that this activity will take up nearly two hours of my time? I sit her down at the table in the nook, shoving the drippy teapot in front of her while I try to get the dogs to eat their OWN food, then I left them about approximately 42 times in the next hour while Frustration sips her, by now, room temp tea. Meanwhile, I’m wondering if I’ll ever have a chance to get out of my well-worn robe. After all, I have a busy day of closing cabinets doors and supposedly soft-close drawers that my husband has once again wandered away from. Right around 11, after I’ve folded and put away the laundry and cleaned the toothpaste from his side of the sink, I remember she is still here. I offer her water now, as I sit with her at the table facing the peaceful patio. She asks knowingly, “Now, what of importance is, on your mind, dear?”
Mo, I’ve read this a couple of times trying to recognize Frustration – your cat? My cat was usually my breakfast companion. The drippy teapot her water bowl? The attention to closing cabinet doors, drawers. Places my cat typically checked out or entered. Just say I enjoyed the mystery in your words.
Mo, your poem captures your emotions immediately with “Ugh!” I feel the aggravation with your husband’s lack of attention to close cupboards and drawers. Sometimes those consistent behaviors can be extremely frustrating. The closing dialogue is wonderful. Very relatable prose poem!
Sometimes, Loneliness saunters in and sits down at my table with a smug smile. The uninvited guest. The squatter. Loneliness enjoys the quiet echoes of silence and the dark corners of the mind. He gravitates to the bitter aroma of sadness, and feasts on isolation and disconnect. He prefers fear for dessert and always asks for seconds–never satisfied. Loneliness doesn’t like it when I invite empathy and compassion to join us at the table. Loneliness will wring up his nose in disgust and fold his arms in protest; he demands my undivided attention. But, I will say with courage and confidence, “I’d rather eat with someone else.”
Melissa—perfect personification! I love your last line—“I’d rather eat with some else”. Good choice!!
Melissa,
Some truly gorgeous lines here:
“Loneliness enjoys the quiet echoes of silence and the dark corners of the mind.”
And “fear for desert” has that wonderful long ‘e’ that ekes out a creepy sound perfect for loneliness.
Melissa- I like how you brought loneliness to life and made him a character using personification. Your poem is beautifully written, and I like how you let your readers sit in the loneliness but end with hope.
This is perfect! I too wrote something similar to loneliness. (Longing that comes from loneliness.) You describe it so well as Loneliness does “wring up his nose in disgust and fold his arms in protest” because you would rather eat with someone else. I agree!
Margaret,
Thank you for hosting today. I love prose poems and think it’s vital to teach writing (essays, etc.) in ways similar to how we teach poetry. Personifying grief is eloquent and touching. My poem reflects a pet peeve.
Picking Up Poop: A Primer for Poop-Averse Pup People [a pet peeve prose poem]
Poop averse pet owners heed my verse: Not picking up pup poop when your dog defecates tells the hood you’re a walking, talking, lazy turd cosplaying like Kristi Noem. You have one job when out and about: Scoop the poop your pet plants on property you don’t own. Your poodle, doodle, schnoodle, schnauzer, or whatever breed knows how to behave. You have no excuse for the bad example you set. Grow up. Put a plastic bag over your paw. Bend over. Swoop and scoop that smelly mess. Pick up the brown roll deposit from Fido’s ass.
Glenda Funk
4-22-25
This made me laugh! I agree with your opinion. Thanks for sharing.
Alliteration, internal rhyme, and vitriol! A perfect poop poem!
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry about this pet peeve, Glenda! Just this morning I had to pick up some poo near our trash can by the road. I even know whose pup left it. Anyway, your prose poem came in so timely. I love this: “Your poodle, doodle, schnoodle, schnauzer, or whatever breed knows how to behave. You have no excuse for the bad example you set.” Exactly! So well delivered!
I love the comparison of someone not picking up poop being a turd themselves, the hand as the paw, and the “poodle, doodle, schnoodle.” This gave me a good laugh.
THIS is a poem/story that I read to my 7 year old grandson and he laughed his head off! Yes, poop,is the biggest reason I do not have a lovable pile of dog hair in my house at this moment. Well, poop and the challenge of dog walker/caregiver when I travel!
PS Thanks for thinking of me while I was very busy for a few days with family and holiday celebrating. I DID read your great prompt and did some drafting that I will finish some day.
Glenda, your poem is hysterical. I loved the way the dog breeds sing within your poem. I also love the sharp tone at the end, and “walking, talking, lazy turd” aptly describes pet owners who do not take care of their dog’s droppings. Very fun poem.
“You’re a walking, talking, lazy turd” HAHAHA – you must have quite a lot of poop to pick up since I know you wrote a slice about this, too. I really enjoy the sounds in here (poodle, doodle, schnoodle, schnauzer) and the way the non-pickerupper is the real animal.
Oh, such fun alliteration and rhyming word play, Glenda! So, so true. It’s a pet peeve of mine too. I think this could be posted in some areas that need it! I’m thinking of a place near me that could use the reminder! I love the directions for how to pick up the poop, especially “bag over your paw.”
Well hi, there, peace. It’s okay, you can come out from around the corner. I know you’ve been lying low for a while, not sure if conditions are right for you to stay. No, really, you can stay. I’d like you to stay. Look, I have a place set for you at the table. I gave you the cat mug. You like cats. You remind me of a cat, actually, and how I have to quietly coax you over, speaking softly. Or sit and do something else, then be surprised when you come over, purring, and head bump my arm. And then, if I stay really still and calm, you just might hop up on my lap and curl up, happy to stay awhile. I’d like that. I really like it when you’re here. What will make my kitchen more inviting? There. You’re sipping your hot chocolate. I even put in mini marshmallows, just for you. We should do this more often.
I loved your metaphor of peace being a cat. How clever. I can see it. Thank you.
Sheila, you’ve conveyed so much in this poem. The idea of coaxing peace is one I’m going to sit with for a while today. Love the cat metaphor and especially the mini marshmallows.
Peace as a reluctant guest feels apt, and the conditions perhaps not being right. Beautifully done.
Sheila, I like the way you wrote your poem! I like how it so easy to read and flows very smoothly!
Sheila, what a great personality Peace has in your poem. You have really personified Peace appropriately. “Or sit and do something else, then be surprised when you come over” is a great one.
I came to my kitchen table and had a conversation. Do you remember? I do. Do you remember putting me in through the window and attaching my legs later because that was the only way to fit? Yes, I remember. Do you recall about 5 years ago when the world shut down and you all sat here among the three or four sewing machines, with the snips of scis? sors and the cutting of fabric and the ironing, sewing, bagging up cloth masks to be taken and delivered to people’s mailboxes ? Do you remember the bags of groceries being set on top of me and being sanitized piece by piece? Yes. Years of homework, both yours and your kids’, silently working. The nights of board games, although the couch would be more comfortable, staying here sharing memory, sharing thoughts, sharing love. How me wood has dried a bit? How new cracks have appeared? How the grooves never really fully get cleaned all the way? just surface level. Yes, I know all of those things and I appreciate your use.
The sunset rays gleam in through the doorway onto the legs. The dog naps beneath you, always resting her head on your cross bar. The dust weightlessly lifting and landing along your ledges.
I don’t know, at least it’s the start of any idea, Thank you for the prompt Margaret and for sharing your beautiful example.
I really like your approach today, Luke. The kitchen table sure see a lot, doesn’t it? You’ve captured so much of it in your prose poem today. These lines spoke to me today- How the grooves never really fully get cleaned all the way? just surface level. Not sure why- maybe because I still feel like I’m cleaning up after Easter when I thought I was done. Thanks for a smile today.
Luke, I enjoyed becoming acquainted with the life, lives of your table. I haven’t had to move something in through the window; hate to speak to soon.Loved the role of craft space with 3 or 4 sewing machines. My table became my classroom. And the uncleanable grooves. My table shares that with yours. Thanks for introducing your table to us.
Hey, Grief, thanks for coming over (quite unannounced), no, I love surprise guests, I would ask you to come in, but I don’t want to, no, no, it’s not you, well, that’s not true, it totally is you, but, you know what, we can talk on the porch, maybe on the sidewalk even, I would, as a matter of fact, be more than happy to walk you to your car, you see, it’s just a really bad time, and, yes, I get it, I need to “sit in it” and “breathe it in” let it wash over me, let the waves ebb and flow, (unceasingly, unrelentingly) lapping from Sorrow’s ocean, I get it, but, I’d just rather not right now, I mean, I dipped a toe in, earlier last week, and forget about it, you know Stevie Smith’s poem “Not Waving But Drowning”? Yeah, that was me, and, I have no wish to revisit that anytime in the near future, and, anyways, I was talking to Denial, oh, yeah, she stopped by yesterday, we had a nice chat and a warm cup of coffee, and she said, you’ll be happy to hear what she told me, she said I have all the time in the world to “do this,” so, again, I don’t want to appear impolite or ungracious or whatever, but, you know what? Do you know what rhymes with grieve? Yep, that’s right, it’s about time for you to – kindly, piss off.
________________________________________________
Margaret, thank you for your mentor poem and invitation for us to invite an emotion to the table. Your wonderful poem was so insightful (and eventually understanding of Grief and her ways, her knowledge of “how the heart works”). For my offering today, I went the other way, lol.
Nailed that last line! “Do you know what rhymes with grieve? . . .” This poem reminds me of William Carlos William’s “This Is Just to Say” where the person’s sorry but not really sorry– you’re grieving but not wanting the grief to be there. Nice.
Oh that ending made me laugh. I love the style of this one-sided conversation, I can see and feel you pushing them out the door. As Denial would say, there’s time some other time … beautiful. Thanks for sharing this
No, I love surprise guests. Love your conversation. I can see you physically edging grief out the door…
I love how you personified within today’s task and kindly asked her to “piss off.” Loved, “Denial, oh, yeah, she stopped by yesterday,” too. Phew. Wonderful
Scott – I’m not sure how you do it – but you made me laugh in the middle of “grief.” Thank you! I needed that. Expertly and creatively done!
Scott,
Thanks for this. I, too, would like to tell grief to
I think I might say that aloud, if not in my head, next time she shows up.
Margaret, thank you for sharing these beautiful poems. You make Grief feel like a welcomed friend rather than something to avoid.
Intervention
Hello, my name is Rita, and I am addicted to my iPhone.
Hello, Rita!
Years ago, I removed Candy Crush from my device and was clean for a long time. However, the discovery of Bingo Clash and Solitaire caused me to relapse. Playing these games replaced tackling my tedious “to-do” list. Add a volatile political climate, and I was back in old form – worse, in fact! I am a social addict – social media, that is. My current drugs of choice are NYT games, Facebook, Reels, Messenger, Instagram, and Threads. I am constantly distracted, leaving me unattentive to my partner, phone calls, reading, writing, and many other things I used to love. Today, I am taking the first of twelve steps to freedom from the talons of my Smartphone. Honesty – I admit I am powerless over my cellphone and deliberate doom-scrolling; it has become unmanageable. I am filled with the Hope of step two that trust in a higher power will restore my sanity. I am open to advice and strategies to help me achieve my goal of being more mindful, peaceful, and present.
Way to write this beautiful, honest poem, Rita. You can do it! On to step 2!
I can relate to your words. I, too, have found myself waiting time on social media and the endless scrolling. I have removed all social media from my phone and I feel so much better, but there still is that tug to get online. I feel your pain. Thanks for sharing!
Wordle is an addiction! It’s the gateway drug to all the other word games. Indeeatqnd te addiction!
I love how you framed your prose poem! I also think I have a slight addiction to my phone, Instagram being the app I’m most drawn to. I am trying to slowly distance myself as well!
Margaret, thanks for inviting us to open our homes and hearts and host an emotion in a paragraph poem. Please know that we know that in “real” prose, we’d change the paragraph when we change time, place, or speaker. But, today, we’re taking poetic license and just posting the words. Let them tell you where to go!
Hosting Pride
The sun shines brightly outside when I invite pride inside. But I don’t want to hide, she says, flouncing around like a star on the stage. Then she slipped and fell, saying I’ve got a story to tell. I gathered her up in my arms, nearly giving in to her inherent charm. Sit here on the stool. I’ll get you a drink. Something sparkly and cool. I want something hot. Is that all you got? Give me a slice of that cake. So glad you have time to bake. Crumbs crinkling on her lip, she suddenly let slip. Being proud is exhausting. Folks expect so much. If they see you being humble, they think you lost your touch. I reach across the tiled breakfast bar, across to where she sits on the stool, Hon, I say calmly. Just be yourself. Then I reach up on the shelf and pull a gold rimmed cup. My gramma gave it to me, and I now pass it along to you. You don’t always have to be the star. Just be who you are. Tears stream down her cheek as she whispers, Now I really feel like a star!
Awww . . . I love the ending! Pride can be tamed– so lovely.
Margaret, your poetry is always wise and thought provoking, like today’s prompt. I first read it as I sat with my tea at my table and smiled as I rubbed it’s worn finish and thought about all that happens around a table. Then, I decided I had to write about a special table in my life that has an unpublished children’s book already written about it and yet has seen and heard it all!
Thank you for this format and this prompt.
For many years, it sat
on her sun porch,
a rarely visited spot filled with
stacks of old newspapers and magazines and
out of season geraniums. There, I found
her previously loved
taking-up housekeeping
center of her life,
heart of her kitchen table.
It was long-ago painted white,
but worn clean from washing and scrubbing,
with edges covered with evidence of
abandonment as time and tastes moved on.
“Sure, take it,” she said of the old table
Likely shaking her head, wondering why
anyone would want that Sears Roebuck
catalog gift for newlyweds with nothing but hope.
I adopted it as a tween to use as a base for
sewing, writing, hoping.
Painted now in trendy antique red,
it spent an era in my bedroom,
where it’s edges were covered in threads
as a heart of my dreams table.
“Sure you can take it,” she said
as I left that home, a newlywed myself
with little but hope. It was
repurposed as a kitchen table for
meals, discussions.
Painted a trendy yellow,
worn thin from pasta and elbows.
Time past, again and it was
repurposed as a computer table.
Painted brown, now, it
celebrated it’s centennial birthday and
produced a dissertation
before a well-earned retirement in a garage.
Holding left over training wheels,
scraps of wood, wayward nuts, and sagging
with age, it is still holding scraps of life.
Beautiful! So much love for that table and those memories…
Anita,
The table is an inherent part of your life story. No wonder you can’t part with it. That would be so hard to do. I love reading about all the ways the table has served you: from sewing to writing your dissertation. I have a drop leaf table my grandfather gave me in 1982. He hauled it to Arizona from Missouri. He had gotten it from a woman who was going to toss it. He refinished it. He knew I admired the table. Several aunts and uncles were angry grandpa gave me the table. He didn’t care. I was his favorite granddaughter, probably because I was the only one who took an interest in his work. So I understand your love for your table.
Just beautiful, Anita! The table going from white to red to yellow to brown. I can clearly see it in all its transformations. I love your last line – with age, it is still holding scraps of life. Perfect!
That table is a gem of life! Loe how the color changed through the stages living.
Thank you, Margaret, for sharing the writing of Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello’s with us…what a gift to all of us, like your invitation to grief you shared today. I love the lines, “I place a spoonful of honey in the bottom of the cup and make sure the tea bag string dangles like a gift tag over the pottery mug.” Phew. The prompt elicits a lifetime of revisions and I imagine many of us will be playing with this inspiration for some time.
Bluegrass
I see her standing out the window: suntanned, bronzed, & weather-beaten. It’s easy to invite her in, even if her edges have always been at the table — the ones she tried to vanish while walking that line between the mountain and the sea. Back then, we kept it offtrack with Oaks & Derby hats.
April, however, has a way of surrendering to May(be). This year, the thunder will be silent…the storms, heavy rains, & rivers have begun to overflow, reminding us of how easy it is to drown.
She’s always lived across the street with her bottles, iced ellipticals, syrup meant to be kept simple and bitter. Sometimes I’d see her outside with a cherry or an orange peel. She claimed I was old-fashioned with my minted modernity. It’s why I sometimes tip my glass to her now — it’s hereditary.
The garden berries, she once told me, are rooted to be on the back of our tongues.
Weep no more my lady. Oh! weep no more today.
I used to ignore her back then. I was too busy lacing sneakers and hitting pavement to understand how muscles and bones get schooled from pounding possibilities. All the miles. That journey. The races. All the heat that made the two of us sweat.
For the Old Kentucky Home far away.
I understand now why she poured her evenings onto chipped glaciers and nodded her aching prayers towards the sky. She said her evenings were meant to cap the memory I was too afraid to dance closely with her soul.
This is lovely. You’ve personified place so beautifully. I love the line “She’s always lived across the street with her bottles, iced ellipticals, syrup meant to be kept simple and bitter.” You have me missing Appalachia now.
Reading this is like entering your world. Beautiful…
She IS bronzed and weather-beaten…and in your blood, your soul, having settled there when you were young and too busy (and maybe too afraid) to notice. She’s just a-comin’ back to claim her own. The way you string words together to paint images, Bryan, is just wondrous. Word-music.
s
Ah, you bring to mind just this morning when I took a picture of my Kentucky Starbucks coffee cup and sent it to my daughter in Owensboro. The bluegrass, the Derby, the oak barrels….all of these things are familiar to us. That bluegrass…… a little Billy Strings….Allison Krauss…..all the good Bluegrass – – somehow, somehow it holds us. Love your nod to Kentucky.
Nostalgia
Today is a day for nostalgia,
the soft sweet melancholy of memory
that invites the heart and hands to the table set with the wistfulness of the past,
what we lost, what built us into who we are.
Today’s memory lane is triggered by a coffee cup and a sink.
I stand and swish-wash-rinse the breakfast dishes in the warm soapy water.
The pink coffee cup in my hand—a gift from my Granny—
is missing half of its cartoon image
of a red-headed girl holding an older woman’s hands as they pick a flower.
The caption is long gone; it once said “remember the little things.”
I am swept into the memory of Granny’s kitchen—
the deep black of the wood stove, the deep sinks, and the smooth wooden counters.
I see Granny as she stands barefoot in the kitchen.
Elbow deep in warm dishwater, she daydreams to the scrub-rinse-shake-place rhythm
of the routine task. Dishes plink as she places them in the drain rack beside the sink.
In my memory, Granny places a cracked blue bowl
in the rack and sighs when my mother adds a new pile of plates to the sideboard.
“There’s somethin’ about summer,”
she says in my memory breaking the working silence
of the kitchen after the chaos of the noon meal.
“Somethin’ that makes the world seem kissin’ new.”
She returns to the rhythm of scrub-rinse-shake-place. Her eyes again
face the sunshine of the view her window frames.
These memories have the hazy glow that comes with
happy memories of moments of contentment. I look out my kitchen window,
at the budding pink and white flowers in my neighbor’s yard,
at the dappling of light on the leaves of the trees
and agree, there is some “kissin’ new” about summer.
Your memory of your grandmother is presented here with such grace and gentleness I can imagine your relationship and feel your longing for her. Thanks for taking us to this beautiful moment of memory with such sensory images.
Melanie, I also wrote about memory today. This is what brings me solace and some peace these days. Thank you for taking me to your Granny’s kitchen, full of love, light, and her wisdom. I want to keep this in my memory too: “Somethin’ that makes the world seem kissin’ new.” Thank you!
Prose poems are fun but I felt pulled to stanzas for this.
Nothing brings the feeling of loved ones quite like standing at the sink holding an object that they touched or that inspire their memory. I like the way you bring us into the moment with the scent of dishwashing liquid and the sights and smells of flowers on the bushes out the window. Kissin-new summer. That’s a new expression but one that seems wildly welcoming. I’ll kiss it hello.
Thank you so much for hosting, Margaret! Your poem is mesmerizing. So many lines that are resonant; they seem to carry the burden of loss. This one touched me: “She knows how the heart works,” but the last phrase when grief hands you the napkin made me tear up too. I did the same as you a few days ago when you recorded your poem. So I was walking this morning when the idea came to me, and I used the voice recorder on my phone. Very convenient.
Before the Last Sip
I set a cup of coffee on the table and noticed a gentle presence. Memory slipped in quietly, smiling—and in her smile, I recognized Elmira, my beautiful niece who left too soon. Yet here she was again, laughing, her eyes lit with joy, untouched by time. She was telling a story—as she always did, her voice full of wonder, kindness, and delight that no hardship could dim.
As I stirred my coffee, Memory leaned closer and opened another door: my mother, greeting neighbors with open arms, offering her famous fries—crispy potato wedges, a simple dish only she could turn into a centerpiece of warmth and welcome.
I took a slow sip, and Memory shifted. I was five, my brother seven, chasing laughter through the house until he stumbled into the kettle of hot water. It spilled onto me, burning my legs, but it wasn’t the pain I remembered—it’s the way my sisters rushed in, their hands wrapping me in care, their presence more healing than any balm.
Another sip, and Memory led me to my father among his vines, his hands patient and sure. He moved from branch to branch, teaching me that to grow good fruit, you must first offer careful tending—every leaf, every root, every hope nurtured with love before any harvest can be claimed.
Memory walked with me as I cradled my cooling cup. When I took the last sip, she rose. “Don’t leave,” I whispered.
“I’ll be back,” she promised—and was gone, leaving only her warmth behind, like the last breath of steam from my empty cup.
Leilya, You’ve taken us with you and Memory. I love how you structured the prose poem around your morning coffee ending with “the last breath of steam” as memory promised to return. I could imagine all of your memories with your detailed descriptions. A cup of melancholy with your coffee.
Oh, Leilya, this really pulled at me right from the start. Memory slipping in so gently, along with Elmira (and immediately past loved ones came to me as well). And then you gifted us with your mother and I am in tears (even as my students on working on their NWEA tests and I am grabbing a moment to embrace this necessary aspect of my life). And the pull continued all the way to that final breath of steam as she promises to return. I loved, loved, loved all of this! Hugs.
And now I’m all weepy . . . this was so beautiful. Thank you.
Leilya,
I’m touched by your descriptions of your neice. Wonderful personification of memory. Adding memory’s voice “I’ll be back” is lovely, too. We are never alone when memory walks w/ us. Beautiful poem.
Oh, Leilya, this is so quiet, so full of love. Beautiful…
Oh! like the last breath of steam from my empty cup. Hit me right in the heart! Thank you!
So lovely, Leilya! Recalling people and situations is a lot like sitting down with a cup of coffee and various visitors stopping in.
Leilya, you are the master of emotions. I love the “gentle presence. Memory slipped in quietly, smiling”….such an incredible opening to set the tone. Then to meet your beautiful niece who left too soon shares such a heartbreak. Your ending lines are also so poignant. Incredible poem!
Leilya, such a beautiful moment shared as you remember these special times of the past – – and keep them close at heart in the present. The steam and the breath and warmth combine in every sense to give presence and hold being over the memory. What a lovely way to share this memory and to inspire us to keep the same feelings close and alive.
Ah, Leilya, what a satisfying poem. That last paragraph is so beautiful. “Don’t leave” and “I’ll be back.” Perfect!
Wow these are beautiful glimpses of Memory. I especially love the comfort of your sisters’ embraces which you remember of your burn. Thank you.
Margaret–what a wonderful prompt! Your last line was poignant: “Grief hands me a napkin to wipe my tears.” You took us through the stages of grief and out the other side. (This has been a rough writing week for me–I’m glad to re-enter the fray)
Problem Solved
I didn’t invite them.
But here they are, all sitting in my kitchen.
The whole lot of ‘em–
Impatience, Blame, Worry, Despair,
Depression, Anger, and Anxiety.
All talking at once.
All demanding to be heard.
“One at a time”, I said.
At least then I can sort you out!
Who sent you, anyway?”
Blame spoke up. “We were over at Complacency’s house
and we heard you were having a party.
Complacency was just sitting there.
She didn’t think we would leave her, but we showed her.
She should have taken better care of us.”
Impatience interrupted. “So where’s the food?”
She rushed around the kitchen,
opening cupboards and rattling silverware.
“I’m hungry. I thought you’d have snacks ready!”
Worry, Anxiety, and Despair huddled together in the corner, sobbing quietly.
“This is horrible! We came all this way,
and we are so hungry, and the gas tank is low,
and we don’t know where to go next! What will we do?”
Anger jumped to his feet, red-faced.
You could see the vein popping out on his forehead as he shouted,
“What is the matter with all of you!? I knew this was a stupid idea!
I have had it with all of you!” And he stormed out of the house,
slamming the door behind him.
Blame muttered, “Good riddance.
He was the one who started this!
All he ever did was cause trouble.”
Depression bowed her head and moaned,
“I knew it would be like this. Nothing ever changes.
It just gets worse and worse. Every. Single.Time.
It’s never going to get better.”
To my relief, everyone stopped talking.
They sat, staring at the table, each in their own world.
I made a pot of coffee and set out a plate of donuts.
We sat in silence as we ate and drank.
Then Hunger, who had been hiding under the table,
stood up and said,
“Well, I feel better now.
Let’s all go home.”
And they left, one by one, mumbling thanks
and apologies for the intrusion.
I sat at the table.
Wisdom joined me, helped herself to the last donut,
and smiled contentedly.
“I knew they were just hungry.”
GJSands
4-22-25
Oh my, Gayle, what a company! Wisdom is so right: they were just hungry. I like how you show us all the guests through their own words and a little description. This one made me smile:
“Impatience interrupted. “So where’s the food?”
She rushed around the kitchen,
opening cupboards and rattling silverware.
“I’m hungry. I thought you’d have snacks ready!””
It reminded me of small children who ran around the yard all day, and they rushed into the kitchen in search of food or snacks.
I am glad you had coffee and donuts for them. I thoroughly enjoyed your poem today, Gayle. Thank you!
I LOVE this poem. The last stanza–perfect. What a turn! I loved the personifications of the different emotions. Wow!
Wow, Gayle, I’m so glad you came back today. This is a fabulous personification of all of the feels! I get all of these when I am hungry. Watch out! Wisdom came just in time.
I loved this. It brought a smile and joy to my face over lunch. “I knew they were just hungry” is such a smart end! I love it. Thanks for sharing these guests.
This is wonderful! I love that ending line from Wisdom– feeding fixes so many things.
Gayle,
What a gathering!
“Impatience, Blame, Worry, Despair,
Depression, Anger, and Anxiety.
All talking at once.
All demanding to be heard.”
And that last line is perfect:
“I knew they were all hungry.”
Did you feed them?
Oh man, Gayle! I am jealous! You have written the most perfect poem. You made me laugh throughout, and then the ending? Zing! The last donut and the hungry emotions. LOVE THIS SO MUCH! THIS NEEDS TO BE READ BY EVERY HUMAN ON THE PLANET!
THANK YOU! (And yes – I am shouting!)
Omg, “Hunger, who had been hiding under the table,” that is so funny that hunger is under the table. This reminded me of Inside Out and not sure if you have heard of Elle Cordova but she made a video about punctuation. If you haven’t seen it, I think you’d love it since it looks like you are a fan of the Oxford comma: https://www.instagram.com/reel/DIFU9g2S8Lj/?igsh=MXRidXNyaGFrcHAybw==
Margaret . . .
This is a fantastic prompt and your mentor poem captures so much about Grief.. Personifying these emotions is definitely harder than you made it look.
I was going to have Resentment over for dinner, but then I remembered a passage of the book that I am reading, The Life Impossible by Matt Haig . . . . “People say that love is rare. I am not so sure. What is rare is something even more desirable. Understanding. There is no point in being loved if you are not understood. They are simply loving an idea of you they have in their mind. They are in love with love. They are in love with their loving. To be understood. And not only that, but to be understood and appreciated once understood. That is what matters.” And I decided to try to work with those emotions. As always, too verbose, but I’m a-trying!
Dinner Party
My husband invited Love over to dinner last night, but I wanted Understanding to come over instead. I was planning to invite Appreciation, too, because I know they will make a great couple. But my husband doesn’t like when I try to play matchmaker. He likes to keep our gatherings simple with core friends and simple meals . . . steak, baked potatoes, and a tossed salad. New and unfamiliar people make him uncomfortable; he prefers staying in his lane. He does so well with his people when he can talk about topics he cares about. That’s why he prefers Love. Plus, he, too, enjoys Busch Light. My husband finds broadening his sphere to be a challenge; he thinks that Understanding will make him feel uneasy. He finds him a little pretentious, expecting some elaborate meal and fancy cocktails. I told him Understanding is simple; he will be happy with steak and a glass of Cab Sav. I sucked it up and played the amiable host for Love, but next week, we ARE having Understanding over. Perhaps, Appreciation can just join us for dessert.
Love these lines, Susan.
And I think it is clever that you imagine guests at your table that would challenge someone you love. Clever.
Susan, I like how you crafted your poem beginning with Love and ending with Love and tagging Understanding and Appreciation along. I want to think that if there is Love, then Understanding and Appreciation are already there too. But it’s just my pondering.
I want to quote every sentence, but will choose your argument as my favorite: “I told him Understanding is simple; he will be happy with steak and a glass of Cab Sav.” and I couldn’t pass the final phrase: “Perhaps, Appreciation can just join us for dessert.”
I can hear that sarcasm with love. The quote is so helpful, too, as my daughter is dating and she brought her new boyfriend home this weekend. One of the things she told me about him is his understanding and appreciation (So important to a lasting relationship). I love the Cab Sav and the contrast to Busch Light. (Ha!) Thanks for writing today.
Susan, so glad you are insisting that Understanding is indeed coming over, despite your husband’s uneasiness and preference for familiar. Pretty sure Understanding would get that without offense! Loved this line: I sucked it up and played the amiable host for Love–isn’t that just how it goes? What a good response to this prompt.
This was so beautifully human, I loved it. All of these poems are making me smile today (mostly). Thanks for sharing these guests. And as a teacher and partner, you’ll figure out a clever way to keep inviting them to the table.
Excellent! I hope Appreciation can make it for dessert!
Susan,
Your poem is very clever! I really enjoyed reading it!
I love the layers here – the comfort zone of Love, the hesitation about Understanding – eesh, Understanding might usher in Change, right?? So much for the comfort zone! I LOVE the depiction of Understanding as simple, happy with a steak and a glass of Cab Sav, and that whole last line, the determination to have Understanding over and maybe even Appreciation can join – pow! – you nailed the ending!
Time to Go
Some guests overstay a welcome, or show up unannounced. Exhaustion has done that, showed up two weeks ago. As a host, I don’t want to be rude; how do you ask a guest to leave? This guest has been my shadow at work, the track meets, even sitting on the couch reading over my shoulder. What can I say to send this guest away? What can I do to encourage this guest to move on? I need Exhaustion to flee!
©️Jennifer Kowaczek April 2025
Margaret thank you for this prompt. Once I settled on an emotion, I just started writing. This poem is the result of my free writing experience. If Exhaustion takes the cue, I want to do more when I get home.
I love this, Jennifer, and likely because I feel the same way. Even when sitting on the couch reading a book, which should be the ultimate in relaxation, dang Exhaustion is right there breathing down my neck. Great job!
Jennifer, it’s the second poem I read this morning that is about an intruding Exhaustion, and both are so well crafted. I love this so much: “I don’t want to be rude; how do you ask a guest to leave?” I’d like to know the secret too. This one has been showing unannounced too often in the past month. Thank you!
This is the time of year (and time of NPM) when exhaustion sits beside us all, most of the time. Will we make it through May?? Thanks for writing and giving exhaustion a kick in the pants!
Jennifer, the older I get, the more often Exhaustion shows up at my door. You have me thinking about what I can do to encourage Exhaustion to move on.
I love this “asking for advice” tone here. Hoping that Rest comes soon.
Jennifer—I think it’s that time of year! The slog seems so long…
Jennifer, we can be companions in our journey to rid ourselves of Exhaustion! I appreciate that he has even looked over your shoulder while reading. I find him there too when I have fallen asleep with a book dropped onto my lap. I’m not sure I can last the next 6 weeks! Sending energy your way.
This was playful, fun, and a nice start to my day. And it truly was like telling the story of one of my dinner parties. Hoping to have her around more often.
Grace
Grace has wanted to come over for a long time now. Lots of previous commitments I suppose. But at my house we don’t have dinner parties at the table. We graze around the coffee table sitting on the floor. It’s not for everyone; Judgement hated the floor pillows at first, Rigidity picked a chair and lingered in the back last time. When I told her that, she texted back, “sounds great! I’ll bring wine!” It was a busy week but we were all excited to see Grace, so we made it work. Takeout was good enough. Paper plates made for easier clean up. I ran out of hummus, so the veggies went with ranch instead. No big deal. As others started to arrive, they got their own drinks and made themselves comfy with snacks on the floor. Grace arrived with a nice bottle of wine and I said, “Shoot, I didn’t clean the red glasses, only white.” Without hesitation, Grace reached in the cabinet and grabbed a plastic cup, “Why do dishes at all???” she insisted. I shrugged, popped open the cab, and settled into my cozy spot on the floor with all my friends, sipping red with a smile out of plastic. Having Grace over was really nice. Definitely not a Perfect dinner party (we stopped inviting that bitch a long time ago), but it was still a really nice one. And funny thing! I forgot I invited Acceptance! He swung open the door, kicked off his shoes, grabbed a beer, and joined Grace on the floor next to the chips and queso. Who doesn’t make friends over cheese??? They’d make a cute couple…I’ll invite them over again next time. I’ll pick the wine, they can bring the food. Or better yet, maybe I’ll even ask her to host; Grace is probably the best hostess.
Who doesn’t make friends over cheese? Great question. This was a fun play on today’s prompt.
I love this so much. “I forgot I invited Acceptance.” Glorious! What a beautiful line and a beautiful moment!
Oh, my, I am inviting Grace over this afternoon for sure. She’s begging for an invitation. Acceptance has been hanging at the back door waiting like a mewing cat for me to feed him. Grace and Acceptance…a perfect couple!
This is my kind of “dinner” party–casual, laid back, floor grazing, hanging out. I could envision every guest (Rigidity and Judgement made me smile), so cleverly described that they made me want to hang out even longer. I’m cheering Grace and Acceptance on!
What a wonderful poem! It reminds me that I haven’t invited Grace or Acceptance over in a long time. I love the casual vibe of your dinner party. Next time I host, I will have to remember not invite Worry!
I love your prose poem! A golden line for me would be when you say “I forgot I invited acceptance”. This is such a playful line that holds so much meaning!
What a host of characters, portrayed in such truthful light! I laughed aloud at not inviting Perfect anymore – applause for that! – and also love how Grace and Acceptance depicted as a potential “cute couple.” They really do go hand-in-hand. Perfect and Acceptance can’t even get in the same room together anyway, lol.
What a wonderful idea to have a dinner party, C O.! I read and reread the part about Perfect enjoying every word )) Then you drop another pearl: “Who doesn’t make friends over cheese???” Terrific!
Haha!! I feel as though you know some people I know! This is masterful! Love that you named others as well as Grace. And I am all for the Ranch instead of hummus. LOL!
Grace would be an incredible hostess!! I really enjoyed this experience with all the folks!
Margaret, i am plunging back into VerseLove after several days away and this is exactly the prompt to get my inspiration flowing again. What an amazing poem on grief. To understand it as a gift, with the imagery of salt, repeated, fully expressed in tears, and the idea of safety and comfort from the “carapace” of grief – all profound. I find healing in it and imagine you found someas well, while writing. Thank you for the gift of your words today. I hope mine work half as well – here goes:
The Welcoming
I dreaded the visit. I am the one who issued the invitation so, inevitably, I must play host. At the appointed time I wait at the table, sipping black coffee gone cool, staring at the empty cup across from me until she arrives. Somewhat late. She’s wearing a ponderous coat, too heavy for the season, but she is smiling. Here, I say, let me take your coat. She willingly shrugs out of it. The weight of the thing is shocking; it drops me to the floor. I have to turn loose if I am to stay upright. For the life of me, I cannot understand how she got here wrapped in this monstrosity…she seems such a frail, ethereal creature…she sees my expression. She throws her head back in a laugh – a light, silvery sound, gentle and pure, not mocking. Now you know why it took me so long, she says. You have had a taste of my burden. Now let me refill your cup. And so Empathy, invited guest, takes over. She pours out the old pot and brews fresh, stirring in something that I cannot quite see, humming to herself the whole time a tune I know I ought to recognize. Before I can name it we are seated across from one another, cups steaming, her eyes upon me, radiant with tears, and when I take the first sip I begin to understand, at last, that this is what I have been craving all along, exactly this… the elusive flavor of absolution.
Fran, The coat, the heavy coat that knocks you down, is such an original metaphor for empathy. I would think the opposite, that empathy would be light, and of course she is when she takes off the coat. You have taken me with you to the table and left me wanting to know more. “the elusive flavor of absolution.” Ah, yes!
The heavy coat of empathy…..the weight carried by the empath for all the people and all the concerns. You’ve captured it perfectly here, Fran. This is the price that the most caring people of all must pay. You have a true servant’s heart – the cross to bear, especially for a minister’s wife. And you know too well the heaviness of that coat. What a metaphor you have given here today. It’s beautiful and heartbreaking all at once.
Oh, that word ponderous. I love it! I can feel that heavy coat. A wonderful description.
Oh my gosh the vivid flavor and shared experience. Fantastic. From dread to welcoming. Lovely. Thanks for sharing.
Hi Fran, I’ve missed you.
I love that you didn’t name Empathy from the start. And this description of her: “For the life of me, I cannot understand how she got here wrapped in this monstrosity…she seems such a frail, ethereal creature…she sees my expression. She throws her head back in a laugh – a light, silvery sound, gentle and pure, not mocking.” Just wow, the contrast between what she is and what she carries. Perfect along with her laugh. Thank you. Glad to read another poem by you
Aww! Thank you, Angie, for your words. I missed being here
Phew. You’ve found language to bring forth the intensity of dread…the moment, Fran, where the tensions of serenity and potential chaos inevitably meet face to face. This is a stunning chunk of words, compose to perfection. Congratulations.
Fran,
This is one of those poems that brings envy to the surface. You have represented empathy in such a rich, unexpected way. Your culminating line is perfect . . .
Fran, the shocking heaviness of the coat that Empathy carries, the ponderous monstrosity against the frail etherealness is so beautiful and so distressing simultaneously. And when she takes over for you, tears in her eyes…wow! Exactly what Empathy should do (though, my empathy is making me want to assist her!). Beautifully crafted!
Perfect visit from Empathy – shedding her ponderous coat and you taking it up. I can hear her silver laughter and the tune she hums. I also love – the elusive flavor of absolution. It is such a rare gift – this empathy for ourselves. Thank you, Fran!
oooooh. I love this poem and how grief brings gifts. The teapot that heats without complaint, really nice. I love the salt…it calls to mind weeping and tears. And, isn’t that the truth that sometimes we mix up tears with what might be the opposite of grief. A great metaphor.
I opened up the Calm Feelings Wheel that I recently used with students and picked ‘contentment.’ I thought it would be easy. Then, I spent way too long trying to write some prose that “prettied up” contentment. ha! A great exercise this morning. Thank you.
Contentment lets herself in the side door. I wave hi with a mitt then prick muffins inside the hot oven with a toothpick. Perfect. Have a seat. Coffee’s hot and these are coming out right now, I say placing a pan of perfectly baked blueberry muffins on the cooktop. Contentment wants to know if I’ve been alright. She hasn’t seen me out and about much these days. Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Just busy. What I don’t say is that I’ve been spending time alone at my craft table downstairs. I’ve been cutting and gluing and even stitching recycled paper into cards and bookmarks, tags and postcards. I don’t even know if I could really explain how seeing the start and finish of a thing, a pretty thing, a simple thing, has been helping me these days. The unraveled and broken strings of the world are too much to put right. But, a birthday card? A book mark? That’s just cutting, folding, inking edges, jotting a short note. That’s a practical bit of making that gives me a whole new feeling of happy.
Linda, this line sticks with me and echoes words I have tried to find lately: the unraveled and broken strings of the world are too much to put right. I see them. I feel them. I want to fix them even though I tried to prevent them, and I can’t. I know the “I’m busy” that I often say as a complete introvert who avoids most social gatherings of any sort. I understand not being out and about much these days. I’d stay on the farm and go back and forth between the open windows and the front porch and dog walking paths, with little need of a car if given the choice…….I may need to find a craft room. I feel seen.
This has such a soothing tone to it. I know how much crafting serves your soul and appreciate the absence of contentment who was there all along, wasn’t she?
This is so beautiful, Linda. You definitely figured out how to get to the gist of contentment. I especially love
That is the ultimate sign of contentment . . . especially with something quite tangible like crafts.
It’s wonderful to see contentment personified as you’ve done here. I love “The unraveled and broken strings of the world are too much to put right,” yet this is what you are doing…bringing calm to yourself and the world. I felt it in this prose.
I love this pondering, Linda: “I don’t even know if I could really explain how seeing the start and finish of a thing, a pretty thing, a simple thing, has been helping me these days.” Sometimes the things you love most, the simplest things are inexplicable. Thanks for sharing.
Linda, your poem brings me straight to your kitchen, and I can see you “pricking” the muffins, then taking them out of the oven and placing them on the cooktop. These lines are striking: “I don’t even know if I could really explain how seeing the start and finish of a thing, a pretty thing, a simple thing, has been helping me these days.” Yet, I can understand that there are little things that we can control and see the results. And then there “broken strings of the world,” where many might feel helpless. Thank you for such a beautifully crafted poem this morning!
Linda, you are welcome at my crafting (and dining) table any time! I understand the need to take the unraveled and the broken and bring them back together, especially now when there’s too much torn apart. The image of you creating and finishing all the pretty things took me to a place of calm immediately ( love that you used the Calm app to find your word – great activity for kids!). And all those practical bits of making–the cutting, folding, inking, jotting–there’s no “just” about any of that! All those layers are what brings it life.
Just reading this gives me a sense of contentment. Love how she lets herself in through the side door – indeed she does! There truly is a sense of contentment that comes with the making of the manageable “practical bits” at a craft table…or in a notebook, or on a screen…I am thinking how strength, too, lies in the small things.
Margaret, I’m seeing the gooseneck tea pot and the mug – – and the tea bag string dangling. I can see the table, too, and you bring us all right there to the table – we recognize grief. I’m so glad you challenged us with prose poetry this morning – a wonderful way to begin the day. Thank you for hosting us!
Click, Click, Click, Ding
…..at the table with The Poetry Fox ~ his vintage typewriter clicks like my mind, wondering how he works this magic. Writing poems in a minute, pounding out letters, words, thoughts, feelings. Bringing tears of sentiment, laughter of imaginings, words and images to life. Like a heartbeat, rhythmic and steady, not skipping a beat until the poem is complete and he stamps his paw print, reads the gift aloud, winding my joy-filled heart right into the ribbon of those keys I can still clearly hear…..
click, click, click,
ding,
click, click, click, click, click
ding
click, click-click, click
The poetry fox! I love him. Those paw print stamps are fabulous. Keep going with this idea, please? And, thank you!
That sly poetry fox. He is a gift. I’d love to meet him and get a poem from him.
Haha, Kim you can compile all your Poetry Fox poems and gift it to him! What a great gift that would be. I love this description: “winding my joy-filled heart right into the ribbon of those keys”!!
Love the play of sound as the last lines and thoroughly enjoyed how “he stamps his paw print.” Delicious.
Oh, this poem! Such utter joy in it. It is a poem that I will remember. I love the sounds and language.
Kim, may I suggest an Onomatopoeia as your middle name?
I love, love that click, click, click, ding so much. I also remember the image of the poetry Fox, so your poem felt so natural describing the work of the Fox on a typewriter. I think your poems also feel like “a heartbeat, rhythmic and steady.” Click, Click!
Kim, the details of this (the clicks and dings–oh, how I miss those with computer use–and the stamped paw prints) add to the fun! I’ve always wanted someone to whip off a poem for me like the poetry fox does! I love that your heart is entwined with the typewriter ribbon!
Glad you wrote about The Poetry Fox. I wish he came to New Jersey. I would definitely invite him to sit at my kitchen table!
Dear Fox! Who could not want him at the table? He’s a spellbinding, transformative force. i’ve never seen him make an error. The paw print stamp is the icing, so to speak. Love that the emotion he evokes in you is joy – great imagery, winding your joy-filled heart into that ink ribbon. He is a wonder and your click, click, click, dings have me right there in line, ready with my word, watching his paws – er, hands- type, knowing that an audible gasp is imminent when he reads. He never fails to amaze. Your poem imparts the wonder, for sure.
How on earth did you think of this? I absolutely adore this. The reading aloud captures my whole heart!
Margaret, I first thought of grief (she’s spent too much time with us of late) as I read through The Houseguest but soon found you had written of her so beautifully. Your last two lines brought me comfort this morning.
The Visitor
Exhaustion showed up again at the door, invited himself in without knocking or ringing the bell. You found him settled into the crevices and nooks of the house, alongside dust bunnies and stray hairs from the dog, every corner filled with his presence. You thought briefly about getting the broom and sweeping the remnants away or grabbing a vacuum and sucking the strays into oblivion, but instead you moved to the kitchen wondering what the refrigerator held for such a guest. Empty shelves. Week-old remnants from the last meal cooked. Perhaps you should ask him to leave but remember that every guest should be treated politely, no matter how tiring they were. You give up instead, settling for a glass of water, no lemon, and return to the table. Exhaustion now sits across from you, slumped dejectedly into a chair, head in hands, too tired to care.
Jennifer, a perfect complete presence description for this guest: You found him settled into the crevices and nooks of the house, alongside dust bunnies and stray hairs from the dog, every corner filled with his presence. He leaves no corner unfilled. I like the way it feels all-engulfing.
Oh, boy. I know this guest. Maybe just place a blanket around his shoulders and let him close his eyes right there. A beautiful description of what exhaustion feels like–and I never imagined that could be described beautifully. Wow.
Exhaustion is an all too familiar guest in my home. I love how you have invited him in to sit and slump. What else can you do? I’d turn on a mindless TV show. Ha! (I also love that he is a he.)
There was something so lovely about the vacuum reference, I’m not sure why. Feeling the exhaustion while reading. Thanks for sharing this piece. Hoping for rest
Everything about this works very well, Jennifer. The movement from one room that needs attention to another room (presumably in avoidance) is what exhaustion does to me. The visuals in the last line/sentence (what do you call it in a prose poem?) are perfect.
Stunning and perfect. Loving this prompt today (and feeling a wee bit guilty, as I kicked exhaustion out of the house by simply hiring a cleaning service to offer me more mental space in my own home). Ah, but the “week-old remnants” remain in the fridge, likely to be tossed because we’ll never get to them.
If the cleaning service is all it takes, I’ll gladly spend the money! I love the visual of that allowing more mental space in your own home.
This was a creative choice to pick but all too familiar for anyone. “invited himself in without knocking or ringing the bell” this made me chuckle on the second read and this is all too true: “every corner filled with his presence.” I also loved the “week old remnants from the last meal cooked” oh how I hate cleaning the fridge out. I do eat leftovers but am not always able to finish and hate throwing things away!
Jennifer, I read your poem first thing this morning when my eyes could hardly make out the letters, and I blame your guest for that )) Your description of Exhaustion makes him almost omnipresent: “settled into the crevices and nooks of the house” and in “every corner.” I wish we didn’t know this creature “slumped dejectedly into a chair, head in hands, too tired to care.” Your words are so precise and carefully chosen!
Jennifer, your description of Exhaustion is spot on! I also wrote about this guest, but not as eloquently as you have. I especially like your middle section, starting with “You thought briefly about getting the broom…” and ending with “Empty shelves.”
Thank you for sharing!
Oh, Exhaustion! I am well-acquainted with him! I am fascinated by the imagery of him settled into the crevices and nooks of the house, every corner filled with his presence – that is EXACTLY what exhaustion is like. He settles in one’s very bones this same way. You capture the lack of energy so well – not getting the broom and sweeping or grabbing ghe vaccum – and then that final phrase, “too tired to care” – bam. Nailed it!
Jennifer,
Your guest has been visiting me much too often! I am running out of steam and don’t know how to push through until June!
Please leave, Exhaustion!