Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Our Host
Stacey L. Joy is a National Board Certified Teacher with 38 years of teaching in the elementary classroom. Teaching her Joyteam scholars the power of knowledge, self-advocacy and justice are at the core of her practice. Stacey is a poetry lover, a creator who goes down rabbit holes on Canva, and a fan of coffee, water, and red wine. Follow Stacey on X @joyteamstars or on IG @joyteam.
Inspiration
It’s Hispanic/Latinx Heritage Month! Who is your favorite Latinx poet, author, educator, activist, artist, or human? Or perhaps there is a Latinx poet you want to know more about. Explore here for a start. When I read Pablo Neruda’s “Ode to My Socks” I thought of all the memories food and clothing hold for me. In the spirit of all the Latinx influences in our lives and possibly our communities (mine for sure), imagine how dull and empty life would be without those contributions/inspirations.
I grew up on a street named Don Felipe, not far from the street where I teach now named Obama Blvd. formerly Rodeo Road. Everyday, I drive on La Cienega and La Brea. I eat tacos, burritos, guacamole and salsa more than any American foods. Reflect on your community, food, artwork, your school curriculum, your childhood, etc. and find some Latinx inspiration to help you write today.
Process
Make a list of things that you found in your memories that have Latinx roots or inspirations.
Perhaps you might want to write an ode to an object like Neruda’s or to someone’s actions like Elizabeth Acevedo’s “Ode to the Head Nod”. Maybe you will find a strike line from a Latinx poem and compose a Golden Shovel. How about a love letter (an epistola, Latin word for letter) to an object, person, or event? Dear Socks by Amy Ludwig VanDerwater and Neruda’s Ode to My Socks inspired my epistola.
Stacey’s Poem
Dear Aunt Lelia,
How is eternity in Heaven?
Please let everyone know I’m always thinking of them.
Today, I’m writing a poem in honor of Hispanic Heritage Month.
I know, what does that have to do with you?
Pam and I always laugh about something I think you should know.
We thought our cousins from you and Uncle Rip were Mexican.
This was before we understood them to be light-skinned and Black!
Did you know that?
I hope to see them again, all grown up with their own children.
Aunt Lelia, my fondest memories of you and Uncle Rip come to me around this time of year.
Every summer, we crawled through traffic on the 405 to the San Fernando Valley.
We celebrated our family reunions swimming with cousins, aunts and uncles from sunup to sundown.
Listening for the clankity clank call of your pots and pans,
And the plops of large ice cubes into old lemonade jars.
Voraciously waiting for places to be set and dinner to be served.
I believe our mouths salivated since the previous year for the infamous
“Lelia’s Scrumptious Tacos”
Spicy beef, two cheeses, shredded lettuce and fried corn tortillas
You filled our tummies and memories with love and togetherness
But most of all, you always welcomed us with open arms
That held the aroma of cumin, garlic, onions and chiles.
©Stacey L. Joy, September 3, 2023
Mis Héroes
By Mo Daley 9/17/23
If it weren’t for
the chivalry of Miguel Cervantes de Saavedra,
the otherworldly women of Isabel Allende,
the lyricism and versatility of Sandra Cisneros,
the introspective journeys of Ana Castillo,
the magical mysticism of Gabriel Garcia Márquez,
the explored history of Maria Vargas Llosa,
the heartbreaking Mariposas of Julia Alvarez,
the healing souls of Rudolfo Anaya,
the preternatural recipes of Laura Esquivel,
the experimental prose of Julio Cortázar,
the grim borderlands of Luis Alberto Urrea,
the fearless, honest voice of Elizabeth Acevedo,
who would I be?
I am so late today, sorry, Stacey. I thought the Open Writes begins tomorrow, for some reason. Thank you for such a warm prompt opening this month’s poetry writing and thank you for sharing your fondest memories of Aunt Lelia with us today. I bet her tacos were the best!
My first encounter with Mexican food happened in Kyiv, when I first met my hubby-to-be in June, 2004. Here is my little tribute to that time.
An Ode to Fajitas
Oh, Fajitas, sizzling and hot,
You made your way
To our table in the corner.
First time in an American restaurant,
TGIF (what an irony).
Wrapped in warm tortillas,
A medley of flavors
Seduced my taste buds—
Grilled beef on a bed of
Sautéed onions and bell peppers.
Guacamole and fresh salsa
With a splash of lime and a dash of spice.
It was love from from the first bite.
Twenty years are gone,
And I still order this goodness,
When we go to our local
Mexican place ❤️
Leilya, I love the delicious flow of your poem. However, of all the delectable Mexican dishes I love, fajitas have never been on my list of faves. But your poem makes me rethink it and perhaps I need to try again. I probably have matured my taste buds and would enjoy them. As a child, I was always frustrated by all the onions, peppers and elaborate presentation. LOL.
Thank you for enticing me!
I think I want this enticing challenge!
Leilya,
Had I not read the setting before reading the poem, my experience would have been so very different, but I can’t help but think of the contrast of 2004 w/ 2023 in Kyiv. That makes the poem touch my heart in profound ways. A few months ago I read a memoir about food memories in the context of war. I am so grateful for your presence in this group.
Leilya, all the sensory detail in this made me so hungry! Loved this!
our town has never seen anything like this first Fiesta de Cultural,
the park filled with
Jalisco dancers
mariachis
and a narcorrido band
Jojo tells me try the quesabirria
but not to tell her mom because Magaly believes the woman puts something in them
whatever she puts in them is delicious
Jojo tells me this is what it’s like being a Latina in this rural Iowa town:
we love each other
but we are suspicious of each other too
So much to love in this poem!
“being a Latina in this rural town” echos for me.
Love/suspicion – I love the complexity.
I can imagine this “Fiesta de Cultural,” Missy! It sounds so inviting. I love little towns, where people “love each other,” leaving room for suspicions. Thank you for sharing!
Oooohhhh, I want to join you!!! I am captivated by the mystery of this “Fiesta de Cultural” and would love to be there!
Thank you, Missy!
Missy, I love the tensions in this. ❤️
Thank you, Stacey Joy, for nudging me into poetry today. I loved the prompts you provided. Here in my southwest Iowa school, we have only a small number of Latino students. While my intention to learn Spanish came from a place of good intentions, we all know where that road leads. Almost a year in, I’m realizing that my oversimplification of “connecting through language” reveals my Pollyanna ignorance of language, culture, and (yes, even) learning. Still, I beat on.
Duolingo
With 15 minutes a day
for the rest of my life I can learn
to say
Mi tenedor es mejor que el tuyo
and Me encanta bailar
con mi vaca o mi perro o mi peces
In 328 days I’ve crawled across arrastró a través
the first giddy days
of hoping to build a bridge to mis estudiantes Latinos
to the rasping grind of my dull ignorance
against the sharpening stone week in week out
as the diamond-encrusted language
draws blood from my hubris
Allison, I can so relate to what you said above about Pollyanna language learning. After 800 days I’m still unable to communicate. I almost wrote about Duolingo too. Wow, this is so strong…
<3 Thank you for hearing me. And hanging in there.
This is still impressive, Allison! I thought I need to begin learning a new language, and it’s still in the thoughts. Your poem is an inspiration to me. You are too critical of yourself.
Hi Allison (or maybe it’s good night at this point because I think you’re in a different time zone),
Thank you for sharing your thoughts and your poem. I took Spanish in high school and French in college. I know nothing that could save my life in any language other than English. Don’t beat yourself up.
The fact that you have infused Spanish in your poem speaks volumes to your progress. I had to use Google translate to get the title of today’s prompt. So you should feel pretty doggone awesome!
My heart tells me that the Allison who speaks English and writes incredibly moving poetry will move her students in the right direction regardless of her fluency in Spanish! I adore your passion!
💙
Allison,
The struggle is real, isn’t it? And even though it wounds your pride, I know your students appreciate your learning Spanish, regardless of how slowly and the ever-present gaps. The code switching here is brilliant and a way to honor tu estudiantes. Hope I got that right. Hope you’ll share your poem w/ your students.
Allison, that last stanza! Loved it! And I’ve been intrigued by Duolingo, so thanks for this!
Stacey,
Thanks for this prompt today! I just love the sensory detail in your poem — it made my mouth water. And I loved the gentle, reminiscent tone invoked by the first line of each of your stanzas. Lovely poem!
I may be wrong, but I feel like the further north one goes, the less a Latinx presence is felt, which is too bad. Here in upstate NY, near the Canadian border, that’s especially true. So I kind of struggled, but I drew upon my memories of my first and only time in Mexico:
Sick, I became
as germs intubated by stale plane air
took hold
And I had only a day in Cancun
before my voice fled.
Pues, my eyes still worked
drinking in green and blue
And we sat at a bar
in swings that stood in
for chairs,
Playing like children.
I croaked out Spanish
that they taught me
And they screamed with
laughter.
We drank it all in: sun,
rum,
the illness of
each other.
Wendy, omg. I am so sad that your only trip to Mexico left you ill. I went there in my early 20’s with close friends and we were all sick when we returned. I’ve only been back once since then and it was a quick 3-day cruise with a short visit in Ensenada. Not fun. I have been wanting to go to Cancun or Cozumel but haven’t made it yet.
I loved the playful nature here but felt the strain of your voice:
I would love to drink it all in one day (sun and rum) but not the illness. 🤣
Thanks for sharing this memory and your poem with us.
Wendy, you have captured the time in Mexico so well–playfully and matter-of-fact. I love “We drank it all in” — Sick or pues–you were there, so why not make the most of it. Lovely!
Wendy, I love your final line: the illness of each other. I am moved when a final line of a poem (or short story, or novel) spirals me back to rethink the entire piece. Yours did that. Bravo.
Wendy, what an experience! I love your final stanza:
“We drank it all in: sun,
rum,
the illness of
each other.”
It makes me think how resilient you are, and how even from not the very best experience, you took out the best. Thank you for sharing!
Hello Stacy! I could smell and taste those delicious tacos! Your inspiration and poem took me to the kitchens I worked in for over twenty years, where I met some of the most amazing people! My poem is an amalgamation of different experiences in those kitchens.
The Back of the House
Banda booms behind the broilers,
Big bass notes bounce off the stainless steel sinks and tile walls.
Trumpets trill and tubas intonate,
While the tenor laments lost love.
“Order up!”
A tiny bell dings under Ivan’s powerful hands.
“Table 20! Let’s go! The food is dying!”
“Gracias!”
“Okay, okay, muchacho! Now take this chingaso before it dies!”
“Gracias!”
George. Raul. Martine. Tomas.
They are the heartbeat of the kitchen.
A well-oiled machine with countless moving parts,
all dancing through the night,
Until it’s time to spray down the floors and lock the doors.
Some will head home to recharge for the next shift.
Others will grab their knives and drive to the next job.
Nobody values hard work, respect, and loyalty more than
The back of the house.
Shaun, the machinery of moving parts is such a great description for the seamless efficiency of task here in the food preparations by The back of the house. I’d have to be one of the ones that grabbed my knife and headed home – – this is hard work, and I know how much it is appreciated!
Hello Shaun,
All the alliteration in the opening stanza pulled me in and I wanted to turn up the volume!! Nice!
And such a powerful way to honor the hard work of those in “The back of the house.”
Bravo, Shaun! Thank you for sharing this heart-felt memory.
Such a musical first stanza, Shaun. It makes me want to beat on a stainless steel sink. Beautiful alliteration. I love the conclusion too. I can see those men working and enjoying their work in “the back of the house.”
What a treat is your poem, Shaun! Word choices are incredible, rhythm and alliteration create such a dynamic musicality. My favorite lines are about the men working: “George. Raul. Martine. Thomas.// They are the heartbeat of the kitchen.”
The period after each name mirror the heartbeat while also reflecting significance of each one of them. Strong and beautiful!
It’s hidden under the pans and bowls,
under the cookie tray of toasted taco shells,
under the freshly chopped iceberg lettuce,
as his fingers gather shredded orange cheese.
Under pans and bowls of taco night,
the wooden table holds a family:
gnarls catch Old El Paso salsa,
splinters clutch tomato seeds,
the plates tango for dining space.
And when my godfather stands
to say grace for this fiesta,
when we fold our grease-dripped palms
and swallow our premature bites
and mom has stepped away, it waits.
Even as I think now of our table,
sold after divorce, it waits: even now
in this memory of taco night it holds space for us.
Oh, Sarah, from the details we can see this meal at this special table, the informal pans covering it, the tomato seeds stuck in spots on the table, your premature bites. Oh, yes, no matter the stories, our memory can hold space for us. And I love the affection I feel for this personified table in that last stanza.
Sarah, the movement within your poem is so powerful. I love how you lead the reader to the end and the importance of this time and memory. “the plates tango for dining space” what a electric image. I can feel that special dance and the reverence in your poem with “we fold our grease-dipped palms/and swallow our premature bites”. Stunning and powerful poem. Your poem shares the importance of memories and family rituals.
Sarah, thank you for bringing us to your table of memory and presence. What a blessed time of togetherness and sustenance. Those mouth-watering premature bites are contagious to the reader – – I feel a fiesta coming on here!
Yessss, Sarah! I love when a table is the focus of a poem. Tables hold secrets and stories like no other piece of furniture in a home.
My favorite lines reminded me of my mom’s kitchen table:
Her table was built into the wall and my heart longs to know if the new family who moved in would have known or sensed that it needed to remain in tact. I doubt it. Surely these young couples who move into old homes gut them of all their loving memories. 😟
Taco night and your hidden table, all love! Thanks, Sarah! My heart is warm.
Sarah, I felt the volta at “sold after divorce.” The contrast of the first stanzas to the final lines, for me, is the most powerful. Holding space seems to say “widening the view of experience” to allow for both tender memories and loss. Thank you.
Sarah,
I marvel at the ways a simple, utilitarian object symbolizes the gathering of family, how it speaks in silent echos of memory, even after a leaf is extracted. I love the image in these words: “fold our grease-dripped palms” and think about those hands cradling those tacos and memories.
Stacey,
This is the perfect prompt for fall harvest. We have a massive tomato plant that’s yielded lots of fruit for salsa and fried green tomatoes. I love the way you take us on a journey through your neighborhood and it’s cultural diversity and your poem honoring Aunt Lelia’s tacos. Yummy!
One of These / One of Those
Here’s an old joke:
Take your cupped hand,
fingertips resting on a table,
back of hand angled like the
Adams family Hand &
ask: What is this?
Await silence. To land the
punchline, simultaneously
flip hand & point fingers skyward
as back of hand rests on the table.
say, a dead one of these.
Here’s a true American story:
One of those cupped hands
scoops your globed cabbages,
orbed lettuce heads,
sunny melons, dimpled citrus
from Earthen cradles.
One of these hands picks
our cornucopia harvest
ripened on flattened farms in California’s Central Valley,
along Arizona’s Colorado riverbed.
Here’s my worded hope:
Perhaps one of these days
one of those immigrant-
handed truths will touch our
lips in a a collective e pluribus
unum aha Now I get it epiphany.
—Glenda Funk
September 16, 2023
Oh, wow, Glenda, that “worded hope” is so perfectly delightfully worded. I am taking that to be my own worded hope for this truth. I love the description of the foods you include, especially “sunny melons, dimpled citrus / from Earthen cradles.” So much beauty in your poem.
Glenda,
This stanza is masterful:
Await silence. To land the
punchline, simultaneously
flip hand & point fingers skyward
as back of hand rests on the table.
say, a dead one of these.
This really sets up the complicity of hands but also the possibilities that you work toward in the final stanza with also that italics repetition in Now I get it.
Powerful,
Sarah
Glenda, your poem radiates with striking images, and I can easily visualize lush vegetables and fruits and how these foods bring joy although this wealthy abundance of food may not always be shared. I was captured by your word choice from the “cupped hand” to the “cornucopia harvest” and “ripened on flattened farms in California’s Central Valley”. Your “worded hope” makes us, the readers pause, gathering the truth of the hard labor that makes these fruits and vegetables available to us. Powerful and provocative poem.
Glenda, there is something sacred about hands. In photographs, in the everyday duties, and in poems. They do. They feel. They hold. I sense hands holding at the end, in this unity. What a beautiful word of hope today!
Glenda, my goodness. It seems your poems continue to enthrall me and leave me wishing to be able to craft poetry the way you do. I’m amazed at how you take something abstract and bring it to life.
I especially love how you moved from “those hands” to “these hands” too. My heart appreciates farm to table delights and your poem is a true delight and tribute to the hard work of “those immigrant-handed truths.”
I love it all! Thanks, my friend!
This line:
Perhaps one of these days
one of those immigrant-
handed truths will touch our
lips
Yes.
Stacey, thank you for hosting today. I loved reading the mentor poems. I loved your poem, especially the opening question. What a provocative question. Your poem took me down memory lane, remembering my own precious family memories, and to my first delicious love affair with food.
Ode to the Brilliant One
once my sister
drove me all the way
downtown to Armstrong’s Department Store so I could buy
my own pair of groovy bellbottom pants,
purple, crushed velour with white piping
I knew then that she loved me
but when she took
me to experience the unique
taste of Taco Kid’s fantastic fare−
I was completely unprepared
for my very first love affair, devouring
sanchos, tacos, enchiladas
smothered in cheese
my sister Pam,
older, wiser
the brilliant one−
I sure do miss her
and the gifts she
bestowed on me
Barb Edler
16 September 2023
Barb, what sweet memories of your “older, wiser” sister, Pam. How precious. Yes, I can appreciate how much you were loved that she bought you those groovy pants. Your specific details bring to mind my own rich memories of big siblings do sweet things for me. I am touched with your sweet ending.
Barb, I’m so sorry about the loss of your sister. What a fabulous memory of shopping for bell bottoms of crushed velvet! And eating tacos together. Food brings us together – and keeps the memories alive when friends and family are no longer here.
Oh, Barb. I just spent the day with you and your sister!! What a wonderful ode. What a wonderful memory…
Barb,
I love these scenes of sisterly outings. Such vivid images in “purple, crushed velour with white piping” and then the lovely sounds of “sanchos, tacos, enchilada.” Music there. Thanks for sharing this memory of your Pam with us.
Peace,
Sarah
Hi Barb! I didn’t know we share a special sibling named Pam! How cute that she gave you such precious memories of bellbottoms and Taco Kid’s food! This poem paints images of deep sister love.
I think the only difference between our Pams is mine would call me the brilliant one 🤣! I would call her the kind one. She claims I’m always learning and she wonders if I’ll ever stop. 🤷🏽♀️🤷🏽♀️
Is Taco Kid’s still around and do you eat there?
Thank you for sharing your Pam with us! 💙
Barb,
This makes me want to turn back time to more simple, younger days of youth and time w/ sisters. I don’t see my own sister often, but your words remind me how much I’d miss her if I could never see her. Today poetry is especially nourishing. Your words fill me w/ longing and gratitude.
Barb, thank you for sharing these memories of Pam and “groovy bellbottom pants” and “enchiladas / smothered in cheese” with us! This is such a lovely tribute to your sister!
Barb, I’m missing your sister with you tonight. Sending love.
Reasons I Love My Job: #432
I get
to share
more
Ada
Limón
with
my
students.
_________________________________________
Thank you, Stacey, for today’s prompt and for your excellent mentor poem! I loved your ending: “You filled our tummies and memories with love and togetherness / But most of all, you always welcomed us with open arms / That held the aroma of cumin, garlic, onions and chiles.” There isn’t much better than this, is there?
Oh, Scott, what a perfectly sweet reason #432! And I so love that your students get all the history, even the “unsung third stanza[s]” of our songs.
Scott, I appreciate your succinct poem, the nod to Ada Limón, who is also one of my favorite poets. Your title suggests you have several poems about loving your job. I’m sure these would be enlightening. Cheers to poetry and our favorite poets!
Yes, Scott!!! Sharing more of Ada Limón will make life all the better!
Thank you!
Yes to Limon! We love her so much! Fran Haley and I will focus on her poetry in November’s Open Write and also in April for Sarah’s book club. We will be reading The Hurting Kind that month and gathering to talk about it. So many amazing poems in her collections. Indeed, it is another reason to love doing what we do in our classrooms.
Scott,
First, I am thinking about #1-431 reasons and wanting to read those (or a few of those poems). And the italics here work so nice visually. I can almost here the tone of you uttering this word. Also, I like this word “get/to” and this is a lovely way to show the tone teachers can take when sharing poetry. Not have to but get to. Yes.
Sarah
Scott, I applaud your skinny poem tonight. Reason #433.
Oh, Stacey, it’s so good to see you here leading us in creating. Thank you for all the prompts. I’ll check out the epistola form another time. Aunt Lelia’s scrumptious tacos sound delicious. Thank you so much I can eat anytime anything that remotely looks like Mexican food. My sister got really good at cooking Mexican food for my brother-in-law and all of us. He was much older than my sister, so sadly he’s been gone awhile. Now, my sister owns the land across the street from where I live, and she named it Abel’s Mountain.
Gentle, round Abel, so
soft spoken, barely sweating
as he worked in the heat
Hermana, ¿qué pasa?
“Nada, hermano,”
as I munch a tortilla chip
fresh out of the oil
he’s been frying pounds of
them–so patiently
now I look out my window
and see Joshua’s Perch
up on Abel’s Mountain
and I always think of you,
Hermano
Denise- the soft affection in this poem touched my heart. What a lovely thing to think of when you look out your window. Hermano…
Denise, my friend, what a beauty! I am in awe looking at this picture of Abel’s Mountain. I imagine his spirit embracing all of it and your family too.
I agree with Gayle abou the “soft affection” and felt like I was right there with you and Hermano. Gorgeous.
I appreciate you taking the time to share with us today. 🤗
Denise, you completely pulled me into your poem. I can hear your voice, this special memory and of your brother. How wonderful that you can live so close to your sister. Love the photograph, and I really love your end. Tears!
Denise, I was right there with you in the heat watching him make chips. What a gem of a sweet memory of Abel! I love that he has his own mountain now.
Oh, Denise. Thank you for the picture of your poem and that attached one, too. I like the way you invite me to know Abel the person and Abel’s Mountain as a place that holds memories- gentle, round. I also like the translanguaging here to bring sounds to the poem.
Peace,
Sarah
Denise, I’m with the others, here! This is lovely! Your first stanza is so inviting and warm and tender: I love the enjambment and repetition of “so / soft spoken, barely sweating / as.” Such a wonderful poem and tribute!
Your poem is so warm and full of love, Denise! I can see you munching on that freshly fried tortilla chip taking to hermano. Abel’s Mountain looks beautiful. Thank you for sharing!
Denise,
I see that mountain in the placement of words in your poem and experience the climb both in the way the poem looks and in your words. It’s a quiet moment in nature, one that honors Able and takes us on a journey through your memory.
Stacey, once again, you’re opening a way for us to reflect and give thanks for those who came before! How often food is the memory maker – both negative and positive. We even have a “secret” recipe that can only be shared within the blood family!
Taste the Love
Cornbread comes to my head
When I think how often we ate it instead
Of sticky white Wonder bread.
We didn’t appreciate the heritage,
We didn’t understand the pain,
We wanted to be like kids at school
And their respect to gain.
So we waited for sales and bought day-old
Bread that had been sitting around.
But, when grandma baked fresh cornbread,
We just sat there, our faces in a frown.
Now, of course, we understand
That we ate cornbread because The Man
Didn’t pay them what their work was worth.
Still, our grandparents were there,
Generously sharing since our birth.
Never hungry for good food to eat
Sit up straight. Use napkins. Stay neat.
We didn’t understand
That cornbread was made with love
The love, we learned, that comes from above.
Anna, yummmm! I want some!! Your poem not only shares the love that only cornbread can give, but it also tells the history that many may not know. I love cornbread and tend to enjoy it most during holidays. For some reason, I don’t crave it “off-season” so when Thanksgiving and Christmas come, I know the cornbread is coming too.
Great memory of that nasty Wonder bread! I think it was only good with BBQ ribs and hot links. 🤣
Thank you, Anna! 🥰
Anna, your history with cornbread is complicated. As an adult, you can see the love, but as a child, our interpretations are different. Aren’t they? We were a family of beans and cornbread for a lot of meals; I’m glad I liked it and still do. I’m thankful for all the families who are “Never hungry for good food to eat”
Anna—“Never hungry for good food to eat
Sit up straight. Use napkins. Stay neat.”
Isn’t that what a well-lived life is all about??
Oh, that first stanza …. 🙂
Anna, your poem is priceless, and I love your closing message. This reminds me of how my younger siblings and I would frown at eating a stack of pancakes. We wanted a hamburger and fries, but I’m sure that was far too expensive.
Anna, there is such truth in the comfort and love of cornbread. I remember when Mom died and all the food started coming from people – so many amazing dishes and so much of it. My dad, brother, and I took the greatest comfort in a pit of vegetable soup and cornbread. Absolutely love this – and the soul soothing of cornbread.
Anna,
I love the way you use pacing in this poem. This line shows that masterful craft:
Never hungry for good food to eat
Sit up straight. Use napkins. Stay neat.
You create a rhythm of the lived scene and I hear you voicing the love and guidance of your grandparents present in these lines.
Peace,
Sarah
Conquest for the Best
Draped in gold and silver,
fire feathers flashing quivers.
Floating mountains reaching shore,
Aztecs never seen them before.
Four legged beast with two heads,
Quezalcoatl- Montezuma said.
Armor to meet wood,
Trickery of Cortez, misunderstood!
La Malinche catches his eye,
translates the myth of their sky.
The feather serpent has appeared,
and the conquistadors cheered.
To Tenochititlan they traveled,
as the legend began to unravel.
Human sacrifice and the cross,
conflict erupted lives were lost.
Chocolate mixed with gold,
Montezuma’s story did unfold.
Aztecs died by believing,
The Spanish pox aided the achieving.
Outraged for dread,
Montezuma -loyal rock to head!
Now stands a modern blend,
of unique cultures to begin, again.
Mulatto, mestizo, and more,
derived from Quezalcoatl’s lore.
With exchange across the Atlantic,
The taste of this culture is dynamic.
The feather serpent of destiny,
created uniqueness for eternity.
-Boxer
Boxer, I enjoy the stories of cultural history, especially your couplets today that share a rich illustration of character and place. When I read a poem like yours today, I’m reminded how poetry can be such a powerful tool for assessment of understanding, with creativity braided into the deep layers of the fabric.
Wow!!!! I can hear this being recited by students! This is lyrical/historical storytelling at its best!
Your poem is a lesson in itself. I hope you plan to share it with students and/or teachers. Thank you for sharing this gem!
Boxer, I love all the history in your poem, and the form it takes is magical. Like Kim said, poetry is such a great way to show understanding of content areas, and your poem would be a perfect mentor.
Stacey, what pure joy I felt when I opened today’s prompt and saw that you were the host. I feel so strongly connected to you for many reasons, but I always think of our shared bond of missing our mothers so much. I took the poem Dear Socks by Amy Van DerWater and found inspiration in the Thank You notes, turning mine into Memories of Miriam in a twist of that format, the same way you wrote to your aunt (I laughed so hard at the Mexican cousin part, and this will bring smiles when I think of it), and used the open arms and idea of hands/fingers throughout. You truly inspire me, friend! Thank you for leading us this morning!
Dear Mom,
you come to me
in the missing
with tingly spots that
turn warm
in the heart,
help me exhale~ my
fingers circling my temples
bringing back
all the whens
of this Bernina
your fingers guiding
mine under the
foot, stitch by stitch
learning to sew
a lime green terrycloth
bathcover, now
sewing quilts
for your great grands
on your fine
Swiss machine
of hawks,
talons clutching wires
checking that
my seatbelt
is fastened
as I drive past,
shaking your pointing finger
if I forgot,
knowing that
whatever I’m
thinking at
that moment,
you’re there
in it
of strawberry figs,
last summer wave
just picked, my own
weakening fingers twisting
tender fruits free ~
canned this very
week, Mason jars
sealed tight
with summer’s
sweetened warmth
for coming winter
of spiced Russian tea,
the Tangy orange
and lemonade mixed
with clove, sugar
cinnamon and tea ~
a medicinal brush
of your invisible fingers
through my hair
in sore throat season
of rippled milkglass
with resurrection fern
springing to life
unfurling its brown
dry fingers
into open arms
green again
Wow…what a tribute. I think this is the title: “whatever I’m
thinking at
that moment,
you’re there
in it”
Such wonderful, warm and tender memories. You are a lucky kid.
There are so many lovely sections here. I slowed down to savor this:
“… Mason jars
sealed tight
with summer’s
sweetened warmth
for coming winter …”
Kevin
My dear friend, thank you! I agree that we have a bond and each postcard I receive reminds me of your loving heart.
Perfect opening lines that pulled me in:
And these lines brought tears because don’t we all hold dear the ways our moms cured our ills:
Kim, your poem shows us all your mom’s beautiful and tender loving care. I am certain she’s close to you right now. I appreciate you more than you know, Kim.
🤗💛
Russian tea— that brings back so many memories. A medicinal brush, indeed. What a beautiful, loving memory you have given us. You have, indeed , brought back all the “when’s”
Oh, my goodness, Kim, what a beautiful and amazing poem. I appreciate your tender telling of all your mother shared, I could feel her loving hands, too. I love your focus on sensory appeal from the strawberries to the scents of clove, sugar and tea. Your poem radiates with goodness and a deep abounding love. Your ending image is stunning. “unfurling its brown/dry fingers/into open arms/green again”…truly magical and moving. Thank you for sharing such a gorgeous, powerful poem with us today.
Oh, what a beautiful letter poem. The “of” beginnings of each stanza–such tangible items, but they speak of learning and love and life, rather than just a sewing machine, hawk, strawberry figs, tea and a plant. Beautiful poem about a beautiful woman.
Kim,
Your mom poems, and Susie’s too, always offer a window to a life and relationship I never knew. They teach and knit w/ words a beautiful tapestry. I imagine you at the sewing machine as your mom watches from heaven and as your tender touch caresses fabric you’ll craft into gorgeous quilts for your grandchildren. Seems so idyllic to me, this legacy of love in words.
Stacey— what a perfect prompt. And what a beautiful memory! These lines said it all—
“But most of all, you always welcomed us with open arms
That held the aroma of cumin, garlic, onions and chiles.”
So much love there.
I guess I am respecting the Latinx in writing about corn, but, in reality, I am writing about something else. The poem sprung so quickly, I didn’t have time to think. So here goes— my ode to corn on the cob…
Corn on the Cob
I had a cat—Fluffy Ruffles.
Dumb as toast, but oh, so lovely.
She was a tail of wonder with a cat attached.
She would waltz into a room,
waiting for the applause.
Her expectations were high.
Even though she was born in the shed out back,
she knew she came from royalty.
We shared one love.
(other than herself)
We loved corn on the cob.
We would wait for corn season each year.
Butter, salt and a bit of pepper.
The essence of summer.
She would watch me eat,
eyes fixed on my corn progress,
waiting for the moment
when I would set the plate on the floor.
She would delicately, methodically
nibble the leftover rows,
cleaning the cob for me.
We did that every summer
for fourteen years.
She passed away this winter.
This summer,
I bought no corn on the cob.
GJSands
September 2023
Fluffy Ruffles! What a great and perfect cat name. “Dumb as toast” made me laugh out loud as well as your cat’s penchant for corn on the cob. Goodness, missing that cat reminds me of pets I miss these days. Your ending is sad but sweet.
What a powerful memory poem, Gayle. The moment when you write about sharing the corn with your cat made me smile and then the final lines with the loss of her made me sad — and that’s what poems can do — spark emotional response.
Kevin
Gayle, I smiled all the way through this, until the end. I’m so sorry. It’s not every cat lover who has a tail of wonder with a cat attached. That is a whole ‘nother level of cat, your Fluffy Ruffles. I laughed so hard at “dumb as toast,” and just thinking about the personality of a corn-on-the-cob-loving cat! Beautiful tribute to your sweet one.
😹 Gayle, what a funny start!
And what a sweet journey through the corn season with you and Fluffy Ruffles! I’m so sorry she’s no longer with you. I believe when you are someday ready to have corn again, you’ll be flooded with loving memories. This is a treasure and Fluffy Ruffles was beautiful.
I’ve seen videos of cats eating corn on the cob. I honestly have not ever given my cat any corn. I’m thinking she’s too old for it and might lose her teeth! 😹
Oh, Gayle, this is such a beautiful tribute to Fluffy Ruffles, with her “tail of wonder” is so precious. It made me weepy to see that you didn’t buy any corn this summer.
I’m so sorry for your loss, Gayle. Pets can bring us so much joy. I can understand why you would not eat any corn on the cob this summer. I loved your lines:
“She would waltz into a room,
waiting for the applause.
Her expectations were high.
Even though she was born in the shed out back,
she knew she came from royalty.”
Fluffy Ruffles sure looks like a queen!
Stacey, I love this post! I came downstairs early to write and I’m perfectly challenged and excited to run off and make my brainstorm list. Today, I’m organizing digital book talks for books that celebrate Hispanic heritage for our advisory/homeroom classes. I’m going to dig into my catalog for something to write about. Cheers!
Well, darn it. My writing took it’s own path this morning. I remembered photos of ancient Mayan artifacts I got to see at the Library of Congress. Found a photo…realized that duh…this was pre-Columbian…pre-Hispanic and wrote a poem anyway. It’s not very luvvy. But, it’s my morning writing.
By the time your adorned
stone ears heard Spanish
for the first time,
you were long
in the otherworld.
Seasons of maize
had fed generations
of our people
But, Spanish was heard
as Conquistadors advanced
through ceiba groves
and holy places
of our temples.
It could have been forgiven
but for the destruction,
death and debauchery.
Where is the sacred
path between earth and sky?
It’s hidden
and we cannot find it.
We’ve forgotten the words
to illuminate it.
Ancestor, help us.
Restore what we’ve lost.
Say any word in our tongue.
Paths are made to be followed … 🙂
Love these lines:
“We’ve forgotten the words
to illuminate it”
Kevin
Linda, my fellow early-morning writer, I loved these lines most:
Where is the sacred
path between earth and sky?
It’s hidden
and we cannot find it.
I think that sums up how I feel about the world these days. If we are ever going to find it, I think it’s either in the dawn or the twilight, so I stay tuned in there mostly. Lovely words today!
Linda, ooweee, this was meant to be written and shared. I’m grateful for the path of your writing. I think this is a perfect model for students to learn to write about historical events via poetry.
And the final three lines…….. LOVE!!!
Thank you, Linda!
Linda— this may not be Hispanic, but it made me stop and read it three times. The mood you set here is perfect for the topic. “Restore what we’ve lost”. Wow…
I love the way you have honored the Mayan culture here. The loss of culture comes through, especially, for me, in “Say any word in our tongue.”
You never knew
how I was watching
you layer the pasta,
then the sauce,
then ricotta,
sausage,
beef,
plus all the other
odds and ends you
wove into the dish,
making it ever more
delicious to eat,
and I still remember,
when I’d close my eyes
to take a bite,
it was like finding a poem,
buried beneath
— Kevin, for my mom and her lasagna
Yum! Great memories of my Grandma’s carefully layered dish come to mind.
Kevin, this memory of taking careful notes, watching our first teachers as they show us how to do things, is precious! Lasagna poetry! What a delicious taste!
Kevin,
Now, I’m hungry! The way you brought us into this delectable memory makes me believe I would love your mom’s lasagna (and I don’t usually like it)!! Weaving “odds and ends into the dish” is what creates the most memorable meals.
Thank you for sharing your mom’s love!
Kevin, this sweet poem is lyrical and so tasty! “delicious to eat…buried beneath” sound lovely. It makes me hungry to read your poem.
Kevin— your last two lines—“like finding a poem buried underneath”—what love you show! I can practically smell the aroma from your mother’s kitchen…
Kevin,
I love the “meta-ness” of your poem – finding the poem in the memory of mom’s lasagna. A good lasagna recipe is poetry! So many fantastic food images today!
I love the deliberate and delicate layering of your poem, Kevin! And that ending? “[I]t was like finding a poem, / buried beneath.” Chef’s kiss!