Verselove is a community celebration of poetry in April—an invitation to write, read, and reflect together. You’re welcome to write a poem a day or to come and go as you need. Reading and leaving a brief note—a line you loved, an image that stayed, a feeling a poem stirred—is also a meaningful way to participate. This is a generous, low-pressure space. We’re glad you’re here.
Our Host

A former high school English teacher, Kate Sjostrom is a teacher educator at the University of Illinois at Chicago and Writer in Residence at the Hemingway Foundation of Oak Park.
Inspiration
I was introduced to this writing activity, an emulation of Stephen Dunn’s poem “Loves,”* while student teaching under poet extraordinaire Glen Brown. Twenty years later, I still find this writing exercise to be one of the most enjoyable and productive, for students and teachers alike. In his poem, Dunn essentially lists things he loves, but rather than relay them in a straight-ahead catalog, he employs a varied, easy-to-emulate form that gives the poem dynamic movement. He also explores a wide variety of loves—concrete and abstract—that allow the poem to work on multiple registers. Of course, the poem can be centered on something other than “loves,” providing an opportunity for writers to explore and share as they’d like.
*Note that while I link to Dunn’s whole (very long) poem here, I share only the first four stanzas with students—a manageable and school-appropriate excerpt.
Process
- Pick an abstract concept/emotion that you really want to explore. You might write about things that you love, hate, need, want, live for, will lose, care about, are afraid of, envy, don’t understand, wonder about, hide, will never see, will never do, are proud of, share, were taught, or were not taught. You could choose to write about things that control your life, make you angry, have too much of, hurt, taste good, make you cry—or something else altogether.
- Explore your concept/emotion from many angles and offer detailed examples that are both concrete and abstract. (For example, Dunn loves plums (concrete) and chaos (abstract).)
- As you draft your list poem, consider varying its form and deepening its content by borrowing some of Dunn’s structures:
- Say it straight. (Dunn’s version: “I love the way my cat Peaches, / brought the live rat to the door / looking for praise.”)
- Think in categories/Make a choice: “Of all _____, _____.” (Dunn’s version: Of all fruits, plums. / Of vegetables, mushrooms sautéed / in garlic and wine.”
- Use Cause-Effect Structure: “When I _____, I _____.” (Dunn’s version: “When I betrayed, I loved chaos, / loved my crazed version of sane.”)
- Ask a question. (Dunn’s version: “And what’s more interesting / than gossip about love?”)
- Give a definition. (Dunn’s version: “Love: such a ruthless thing.”)
Kate’s Poem
Shoulds by Kate Sjostrom
(after Stephen Dunn)
I should do my back exercises,
the feline arches and
plunges of spine assigned
fifteen years ago, before
my back hurt every day.
I should drink orange juice for
folic acid, green tea for antioxidants,
milk for my low-density bones.
And what is more important than flossing
around my crown where the gum is
subject to flame?
I should take time to write
poems like I used to, letters to college friends,
notes to my husband on the mirror—
red lipstick in luscious script diagonal
and quick.
Filing should come
directly after bill paying. Folding
after drying—no more linen mountains,
monuments to my inefficiency.
Of all errands, the car wash.
Of all floors, the bathroom floor
by hand this time.
I should be getting to bed,
the essential eight hours.
I should be studying the still
of my husband’s face next to me
as he feigns sleep, waiting for me
to turn out the light, waiting
for me.
I should remember what it felt like
to not sleep at all, to put everything
aside but him, to ride the day after
like it was the first day of sun.
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.
Kate, first of all, thanks for your guidance here, which hits the goldilocks spot between structure & freedom : ) And thanks for your gift for sound in line: “plunges of spine assigned”, “aside but him, to ride”, “linen mountains”, etc.
As always, I post what I write here. Here’s today’s offering, which is inspired by teaching Odyssey for decades and by taking on a new role soon (College-Freshman-Dad):
“Commencement”
I love stories of return,
& of difficult return:
twists & turns, temptations,
newly discovered strengths,
and the difficult lesson
upon the longed-for door step
that home is too small
for the you that’s here.
Love’s lens sharpened by pity
of those that remained, waited,
and maybe even
longed for this new you.
What new selves must we be now?
You, unpacking your worn bags
in this room turned
stage, your return show
in a role you’ve long outgrown.
Me & mom at the threshold
of your room she cleaned,
watching you text friends
also returned for the break,
planning froyo, coffee, or
just a hang somewhere,
your favorite supper
warming, waiting on the stove.
Did you miss us? You hungry?
Was it all worth it?
Welcome home, my love.
Kate, thank you for hosting and sharing Dunn’s poetry. I am drawn to your lines about studying your husband’s face as I try to do this with my kids and partner–noticing changes and amazed by time’s shift.
I could sleep in, start #lazysaturday
on an eventless weekend day, anomaly
my kids are self-sufficient now
they won’t judge me, lowkey
I could see how productive I can be
in my robe all day, a movable blanket
who made this rule anyhow?–wearing
“clothes” as appropriate public behavior
I could skip my kombucha |
heated neck wrap | coffee-protein
stretch | green tea routine
nobody is looking
I could remember others don’t care,
call it self-care, make it a dare,
since it’s rare, rhyme my verselove,
unshare my creative pursuits, ere
I could eat an entire row of thin mints
a full box of little debbie cakes
a carton of mint chocolate ice cream
all for breakfast, or brunch if I keep sleeping
I could avoid the gym
use single digit weights, is 10
really better than 8? maybe just
walk, to get five-digit steps today
I could
but
my body
would know
LOL! Oh, that last stanza. I love the truth of this. I would love a day like this in my moveable blanket. Oh, my goodness the truth of this is perfect. It’s why I don’t mind a sick day or a rainy day. Alas, it’s gorgeous here and I need to get up and out! Go, go, go!
I can have my bags packed in 15 minutes…..now TSA is a different story, but I can be there for
I could eat an entire row of thin mints
a full box of little debbie cakes
a carton of mint chocolate ice cream
all for breakfast, or brunch if I keep sleeping
Yes! I’m down for some Swiss Cake Rolls and Zebra Cakes. What time?
I love the way you throw it all out for #lazysaturday, and if this is a thing, like a real Instagrammable thing, I want in. Perfection in a poem, you say and think about what we are all desiring, this doing and eating whatever we want. Love it!
First of all, Stefani, I’m not sure I’ve read or commented on your work yet — so glad that this is my introduction to you : ) There’s some center of a bullseye you’re hitting here with tone — the light-heartedness lands because you capture what so many people internalize about the shoulds of adulting. That successive “my kids don’t care”, “nobody is looking”, “others don’t care” and then the “my body / would know”? What a journey!
Kate, I am drawn in by your list of shoulds. I have each one of them, but you have put them together with such a skilled poet’s hand. And that last love song of a stanza. Yes. As I look to my husband of nearly 44 years, I have to remind myself of this long lasting love and what a true gift it is. Lately I focus way too much on his annoying eating sounds. 😉
I lost a colleague this week, very suddenly. I wish I would have appreciated her more.
Sandra
I should have noticed your gentle grace
of voice genuine and truthful.
I should have found you to say goodbye.
I should have appreciated your enthusiasm
instead of tiptoeing away down the hall.
Now I look at the sky
and notice the sun’s rays
as they spray light behind the clouds
and realize your short life
was given and taken
like sunshine on a cloudy day.
Margaret, your poem and Jennifer’s are so similar in the goodbyes and the giving and taking, exploring the theme of loss. I’m awestruck at the way you capture the essence of life as a gift, one that does not last forever, like sunshine – – can change on a dime. I chuckled at your focus on the annoying eating sounds. I was doing that yesterday morning as my husband ate a Pop Tart in the camper and I got annoyed at that and his heavy boots walking around when I was trying to write a villanelle. I’m sorry you lost your colleague. I will take your poem and try to find a sun’s ray today to remind me to appreciate the light while it is here.
Margaret.
I am so glad you are here and deeply grateful for your presence with Ethical ELA over the years. You have shaped me as a writer and human.
This poem. Whew.
So tender and full of quiet regret—the sunlight image is beautiful. Your noticing now feels like a gentle, loving act of remembrance.
This is, indeed, an invitation/call to tiptoe towards.
Sarah
Oh Margaret, I am sorry about your loss but this gift of words you provide today is so welcome and so relatable. Your metaphor of life in your fourth stanza is heartbreaking. Thank you for sharing this.
Oh, my. I’m sorry for the loss of this person full of enthusiasm that maybe was a little to bright sometimes. I’m glad your poetry time gave you space to address her spirit. The losses begin to pile up and it’s true strength, I think, to keep going and honor these lovely people. It would be easy to give in to the sadnes.
Avenida Cultura
I love when we walk side by side
and then don’t—
the quick decision at the puddle
in front of the Cortina store,
how we break without saying anything,
one of us stepping up to the curb,
arms out a little,
testing the narrow.
Not the puddle itself,
but the balance,
the small risk of it,
how the body remembers play
before it remembers caution,
how we pause the sentence
and pick it up again
on the other side.
I love having somewhere to step out to,
and something that lets me come back,
the thread not pulled tight
but not lost either,
something to lean on
without holding me still,
I love how we live like that sometimes,
not always aligned,
the line loosening between us,
slack we learn to give,
not drifting off
but not held tight either,
the way a body leans
and trusts something will steady it,
a rhythm I can keep my life to,
again and again.
Sarah, the simple puddle and the childlike balance of navigating it, arms out, resuming the sentence like the puddle was a mere comma in the grand scheme of the universe, is a poem of such depth and beauty – – you really made the break in stride a thing of beauty, showing the ways your love works with the sustaining and the flexing. I like that you think of play before caution.
Sarah, the notion of play as the strongest muscle memory in your second stanza has me thinking about how we (as adults) often push these feelings back. How freeing it is to play and let loose in ways that often go unnoticed. Thank you for sharing today.
I need to be that student who just plus-ones another : ) I want to second everything that Kim says here, and I want to thank you for the image of a relationship, not as a lockstep thing, but a rhythmic trust for life. Glad you have a love that supports and walks with you that way!
Kate, thank you for hosting us today with such a lovely prompt. I love those shoulds in your poem. Idon’t think I did it exactly right, but I did feel elation this morning and wanted to capture it….somehow.
Elation Over the Song of the Wood Thrush
it’s 6:38 a.m. when I hear it
we’ve just taken the boys out
to do their morning business
when a familiar note plays
from the branch-pew of a tree
on Pine Mountain
like a retro diner Jukebox favorite
a song to stir the heart
not call-like,
not chatty or operatic
definitely not theatric
(like that one lady in church,
–thinks she can sing)
still, this voice offers hymn
praise to its maker and in
that way they are alike
this voice isn’t
wearing colorful Gucci garments –
picture instead
a simple watercolor painting of
dark, milk, and white chocolates
splotched with dots
and caramel feathers
the star voice of the woods
and doesn’t even know it
doesn’t show off or sing louder
like I would do with a voice
like that ~ why would I
ever say anything?
I’d sing it all, asking where the
tomatoes are in the grocery store
and what is my balance
at the bank and I’d be the
talk of the town for all the
wrong reasons ~ folks
would say I’ve gone off
the deep end
……but if I were a bird
I’d hope to be a Wood Thrush
the best voice in the choir
so humble
so unassuming
so musical
turning heads
with elation just to listen
and even sour Simon
Cowell would look up
and smile, knowing
there’s the talent
and press the Golden Buzzer
but with my Wood Thrush ways
I’d shun the competition
not needing his endorsement
I’d crap on his head
my own golden buzzer
on my way to another branch
still singing
Kim, I could write for years and years and never have “this voice isn’t
wearing colorful Gucci garments,” in a poetic reference. When I came across this, I thought, “wow,” someone has paid attention to the world around them. Gorgeous.
Kim, I feel like every April, poems of spring, birds, and growth branch out of the prompts we receive. I love the birdsongs that blossom as well, and laughed a bit thinking of one of the birds that perches on my deck wearing Gucci. Thank you for bringing this sound to life today.
This Merlin-app-user appreciated the surprise of each stanza, each sentence delighting in the song: from the “familiar voice” to hymn, to star voice, to star voice, etc. Really appreciate the humor of the competition imagery in the last two stanzas especially — what a wrap up!
Kate, thank you for this prompt. I so enjoyed your bio. I want to hear tales about what being a writer in residence at the Hemingway Foundation. It sounds cool!
I’m sharing my mess of a … I don’t know what from this prompt. Please know that I’m not currently feeling sad or sorry for myself. There must be some corner of my brain that wanted to get this out! I’m actually pretty excited about a Saturday to go out and enjoy…however, I might call my sisters and see what they are up to!
Of all the world’s eldest
daughters tidying up
messes of little brothers,
sisters,
why am I sitting here
adrift in nostalgia
at my table with bone china,
cut crystal salt and pepper wells,
linen napkins beneath the silver?
I am the only one I trust
to wash them later without nicks,
chips, and tears.
They came, wine glasses in hand,
not one blessing gifts
about to be received.
Who will inherit
this bit of earth?
Who will tend
this bounty?
You put your soul into this poem and I am connecting with you across the miles. Who will inherit this bit of earth? When we contemplate the end of things, the things that matter, but don’t, we drift into nostalgia (I have a love/hate relationship with this word.)
Linda, I admire your nostalgia and wish I had more of it instead of the little I do have. I enjoy wondering about all the people who ever used our family’s salt cellars and love their sparkle. I’m glad you offered a blessing – – you are setting the example and would make your parents proud. And more than the things, I’m glad you and your brothers and sister still gather and hold presence, honoring the legacy of a strong family. Have fun today!
Linda,
I love the way the poem holds two truths at once: the fullness of a beautiful setting and the undercurrent of wondering—who sees this, who values it, what happens to it after me? Those closing questions open the poem outward in a really powerful way. They feel less like despair and more like a kind of inheritance of attention, of stewardship.
And knowing what you shared—that you’re not in a sad place—actually deepens it for me. It feels like one of those corners of the mind doing its work, asking the big, quiet questions that don’t always match our mood but still matter.
Yes, this is poetry’s invitation to us to “get this out.” Call your sisters. I will email mine today! Thanks for the nudge.
Sarah
This poem fulfills in all ways. The first time reading was enjoyable, but then I reread and reread for craft. The birth order…the labors of the oldest child. The thanklessness of younger children….the family histories left upon us to carry…but what stands out the most is the ‘care’ not to wash them in any way to cause ‘nicks/ chips and tears.’ Phew. Stellar, Linda. Stellar.
Kate, I just loved your poem! Be back to write later.
Kate, your poem has me thinking of all the should’s that are still remaining on this second from the last day of spring break. But that fails to acknowledge the potent and beautiful wording your spill into each line. Especially that last – wow! Thank you for offering a new prompt that students will love and find accessible too.
I will lose people
throughout this lifetime,
more at the end
than the beginning.
I will lose them like a patient
with Alzheimers
whose memories fade
one by one,
first pruning the extraneous threads
before dwindling to the core.
Of all those who go,
family.
Of family,
parents before siblings.
When I imagine loss,
I cannot fathom a child,
much like I cannot understand
a God who would create
and then take,
plus then minus.
What is more devastating
than watching His deft hand
prune the tree
with such careless abandon?
I wonder if a mother
would
could
should
birth then death so easily.
ooof. This is a poem I feel deeply. The anticipated grief thing is real. Your last lines really hit home. The word, “easily,” is perfect.
Jennifer, first of all, you made this form yours, and your poem is a great mentor for me. The subject you discuss is so relatable. After so many personal losses, I still question God. Why?
“What is more devastating
than watching His deft hand
prune the tree
with such careless abandon?”
And then your final indirect question leaves a traceable mark in my heart. Thank you!
Your poem gut punched me today as I face the loss of a colleague who just this year was realizing her dream of her own classroom. “What is more devastating than watching his deft hand prune the tree with such careless abandon?” Oof. Touching my anger over Sandra’s totally unfair death.
Jennifer, this one hits hard and real, and I often go down the hole of wondering about the whys too. So much on the living side of life is so unclear. Grief is the cruelest and so is suffering. Your last line uses birth and death in a unique way, and I love a poem that makes me stop and give thought. It’s so effective to the work of the soul. To birth. To death. To do these things easily – – yes, unfathomable.
Jennifer,
Right away, I feel the steady, almost inevitable truth in your opening:
“I will lose people / throughout this lifetime, / more at the end / than the beginning.” There’s something so clear-eyed about that, and it grounds everything that follows.
And then that image: “like a patient / with Alzheimers / whose memories fade / one by one”…feels especially powerful.
The way you move into “first pruning the extraneous threads / before dwindling to the core” is just stunning. It captures both the tenderness and the quiet violence of loss, how it reshapes what remains.
Hugs,
Sarah
It’s these lines for me, today, Jennifer.
The shortness of the + and the -, that just hit.
I tried to use your template/guiding question for one single stanza, Kate
Thanks
Kevin
I might
write more in a day
than I am able to do now –
stories, poems, a novel, perhaps,
even tacking that musical play
taking up space in my mind –
when I have more time;
it just might happen,
but who knows?
Thinking on writing’s
a little bit different
than doing the writing:
some drafts just never get written
Kevin, this is a wonderful first attempt. I, too, agree that thinking on writing is different that actual writing. Your final line is honest and relatable.
Kevin,
It is Saturday. I finished two weeks of language school here and am taking more time this morning to read our poetry and think through what I want ot say to the people who so fill me up with joy. So glad you are here.
I really love how you open with that expansive imagining: “stories, poems, a novel, perhaps, / even tacking that musical play”; it feels full of possibility, like a mind that is alive with ideas and not afraid to dream a little beyond the page.
And then that gentle turn: “when I have more time; / it just might happen, / but who knows?” There’s such humility there, and also a kind of acceptance that feels very human.
What stays with me most is this line: “Thinking on writing’s / a little bit different / than doing the writing.” It names something we all feel (okay, I feel) but don’t always say out loud.
And the ending with “some drafts just never get written”; that feels both wistful and strangely peaceful. Not regret exactly, more like an acknowledgment of all the lives and versions of ourselves that exist in possibility. I am holding that now, too.
There’s a quiet wisdom here, and a kindness toward yourself that I really admire. Even in naming what hasn’t been written, you’ve made something that is here, is real, and does matter.
I’m really glad you put this one down.
Peace,
Sarah
Intrigued….”that musical play,”… hmmmm. Good morning. Thanks for always being one of the first to draft with us.