Landscapes of Our Lives
Every April, VerseLove becomes a landscape—thirty days of poems written across classrooms, kitchen tables, notebooks, and glowing screens around the world. I am Sarah Donovan, founding collaborator of Ethical ELA and Verselove, and we’ve been writing poetry every April since 2017. Learn more here.
We begin this year with a simple idea: our lives are landscapes.
Inspiration
(Note: Each day, we will offer you a topic, which we call “Inspiration,” followed by a suggested “Process,” which is like a mini-lesson plan you can use in your classrooms. It is intended to support your writing as a point of access, not to be restrictive, so feel free to reject it or innovate the prompt or process into something different altogether. We also include a mentor text, a poem written by the host that day, intended to offer you a visual example to imitate or borrow from, in form or idea, if that feels good to you. It is just something to get you started and to show we are writing with you.)
Some landscapes are visible—rivers, cities, deserts, fields. Others live inside us: memory, language, family stories, migration, grief, joy, survival. Teachers carry landscapes of students’ voices, classrooms, histories we teach, and histories we are still learning.
Poetry lets us walk these terrains with care.
For this opening day, we write toward the places that live within us. Not a map exactly, but a beginning. A noticing. A first step into the month’s shared ground. This is a great way to introduce ourselves to each other, too.
Process
You only need 10–20 minutes today.
- Take a moment to think about the landscapes that shape you. These might be physical places, emotional terrains, or cultural inheritances.
- Make a quick list in your notebook:
- places you have lived
- places that changed you
- places you carry in memory
- places you long for or return to in thought
- where you are right now
- Choose one place from your list.
- Write a poem that begins with the phrase: “Inside me there is…”
- Let the poem explore that place through image or sensation.
What can we see there? Hear? Smell? What memories live there? - Keep the poem short—8–12 lines is perfect.
Remember: VerseLove is not about perfection. It’s about showing up, writing honestly, and witnessing one another’s words.
If you have time and the capacity today, explore these place-based poems from Poetry International:
- Plans by K. Eltinae, a Sudanese poet of Nubian descent
- How We Will Live: A Manifesto by Yulia Fintiktikova from Mairupol, Ukraine| Translated by Oksana Maksymchuk and Max Rosochinsky
- To Vermin by Lêdo Ivo, Brazilian | Translated by Andrew Gebhardt
- Poems from Ligia by Rosabetty Muñoz from Chile | Translated by Elena Barcia
- Names by Fatemeh Shams | Translated by Armen Davoudian
Mentor Text from Sarah
Landscape
Inside me there is a river
that still remembers
how cold the water was
that morning we crossed.
Inside me there is a notebook
full of voices
trying their first brave sentences
into my hand.
Inside me there are staircases
I did not choose
and bougainvillea shade
where I stopped to breathe.
Poetry is how I witness them again.
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 today.
Welcome to VerseLove.
Also, note that if you are writing to this prompt after the day it was published, you may not receive a response. With the pace of the month, we tend to read and write the day of the prompt.
Inside me, there is an old pond.
Water is said to hold memories.
This body of water holds many.
Inside me, there is fishing with my grandpa.
Laughing till we can’t catch our breath.
Out in the summer heat.
Inside me, there are journaling moments
When I would sit at the old picnic table
right next to the pond
Write down all my feelings.
Things left unsaid.
Kasidy. So glad you are writing, but it is better to join on live today and write with us each day so that you can interact with writers. If you post on past days, people will not see your poems or responses because we are focused on the current day. Cheers.
Inside me is an old barn once used to cure tobacco.
I bet I could smell my grandfather’s cologne
if only I could stop the car, get out, and let the quiet in.
Inside me is an old place that I want to make new.
An abandoned property, barely visible from the road—
it’s in flyover country, halfway between the towns of Memory and Potential.
Inside me is a precipice.
Whoever said cliff side rocks are sturdy lied.
They crumble constantly,
cascading toward a sea
where everything is waiting.
Love this, Rachel. So sensory and that truth of crumbles seems so apt when we talk about how where we are from can change. Just a quick note if you’d like more responses and to engage in more real time. Be sure to write on the same day of the prompt. This way you will receive more responses and get to know others. Of course, feel free to explore in ways that feel good to you. This is your writing after all.
Good to know, thank you!
Inside me is a comfortable, overstuffed red chair that
belonged to a dead woman.
Inside me is the sunny corner where
we put the chair, after we lugged it home.
My mother said, “it looks like death.”
Inside me is the weight of
my baby as I nursed her.
Our breath and heartbeats synced
The two of us cozy and dozy.
Inside me is a memory of love, gratitude and life too big to be contained
inside me.
Deanna, I am circling back to your poem. Thank you for sharing this memory held in a poem. Just a note that other than the host, writers keep moving forward with each new prompt. So if you do want more responses to your poem and for others to see your notes to them, post on the same day. Of course, this is your journey, so do what feels good to you. Hugs.
Inside me there is red dirt
With clay stained shoes,
Whispering winds, coyote
Howls and fire crackles
Inside me there is sand
Warm, golden, housing,
Collecting remnants of water
Ocean creatures of long ago
Hello Ashley! I really enjoyed the imagery in your poem! In my opinion, it gave a lot of emotion and really helped me connect with your poem. Thank you for sharing your poem with us to read! “Clay stained shoes,” really helped me imagine the memory you are sharing with us!
“Jasmine” by Shaun Ingalls
Behind me, and inside me, there is a wall of Jasmine,
With tiny white blossoms, it lures me with its tendrils,
Filling the air with sweet liquor.
It numbs the pain of the day.
A cool breeze fills my nostrils with the drug.
Nothing can break this peace.
Anything is possible here.
The season of change consumes me.
Shaun,
“Behind me, and inside me, there is a wall of Jasmine,” — I’m so taken by how that image holds both protection and interiority at once, and how the sensory language (scent, breeze, sweetness) gently saturates the poem. The movement from external description into that expansive “Anything is possible here” feels like a soft opening, where the structure itself enacts the shift into possibility and transformation. I’m really grateful you shared this and so glad you’re here writing with us again.
Sarah
The scent of jasmine is alluring and inviting. You have done a fantastic job of capturing that within your poem to mark the beauty and possibility that comes with the changing of seasons.
Shaun,
You really took me into nature with your poem! The last line is powerful!
Shaun,
I really like how you’ve captured the way that small moments and sensations can soothe by bringing us into the present moment.
Inside me is a bookshelf
full of stories lived,
stories developing,
stories yet to be explored.
Inside me is a library
full of books that educate,
books to take me to new places,
books to share with my daughter.
Inside me is a book
full of memories with family,
full of knowledge to be shared,
full of questions still to be answered.
©️Jennifer Kowaczek April 2026
Thank you, Sarah, for this wonderful entry into my favorite month of the year! I’m arriving late today so I took an easy route, focusing on my love of reading and career as a school librarian. I plan to dive deeper into this process in the coming days.
Always do what feels good to you. Easing into things sounds good to me.
“Inside me is a bookshelf full of stories lived,” — I love how that opening invites us into such a rich inner world, and the layered metaphor grows so naturally and generously. The progression from bookshelf to library to book feels like a deepening inward spiral, mirroring the movement from expansiveness into something intimate and rooted in memory and relationship. I’m so grateful you shared this and so glad you’re here with us.
Sarah
Thank you for this beautiful visual of your books of your life. I enjoyed reading your poem!
Jennifer,
Your words make me want to cozy up with a new book. The stanzas made me picture different life stages and how reading shifts with us as we grow.
The Lark Steakhouse
Inside me there is a muscle memory of folding cloth napkins
into perfect diamonds, before service began
and I started to fail–
Faces of forlorn eaters placing nervous orders with this green girl
Inside her–as she glided from table to table–were thoughts of grandiose lessons,
changing the world one writer at a time
Unaware that hot trays, spilled lemonade, smooth manipulation,
and upselling a mediocre appetizer were all preparation for
the unbridled energy of a classroom
Inside me is that black book of priorities; only now it holds
mentor texts and magic tricks instead of checks and cash:
my feet still hustling toward the next outstretched hand
Brenna,
I love the full circle moment of your poem! The specificity of your details pulled me into the feeling of anxiety of serving and being the greenhand in an unforgiving job. That extended metaphor of service is really present in this too. I love the last line that ends with “hustling toward the next outstretched hand”.
Brenna, I love your poem and the comparisons and smooth transition from the Steakhouse to the classroom. Beautiful!
I really enjoyed the magnificence of the poem. All the action involved from the get go to what it means to teach, lead, and inspire young people. I especially love the last line!
Brenna,
“Inside me there is a muscle memory of folding cloth napkins into perfect diamonds.” I love how specific and lived-in that image is, it immediately pulls me into that earlier version of you. The way the poem moves between that “green girl” and the present self feels so natural and full of recognition, like the structure itself is honoring how those experiences became part of your teaching life. I’m really glad you shared this and so glad you’re here writing with us.
Sarah
Oh my goodness, how these lines grabbed me:
The truthfulness in that! I really catch on that “upselling” because what teacher doesn’t have to get students to do unappetizing tasks. I love how this poem blends the past and the present.
Brenna,
I love the way you connect your past to your present here, and the insight that we never know how our past experiences will prepare us for life!
Hello Brenna, thank you for sharing your poem. I like how it made a full circle around your life and shows the journey you went on. You made it into a look into your life, which is amazingly done by the way.
Inside me is a little girl
Enjoying childhood
Dreaming, questioning wanting to be like her big sisters.
Inside me is a devoted wife.
Committed in good times and bad,
Still in love with her husband.
Inside me is a maternal instinct
that never fades,
Even though our five children are adults.
Inside me is a teacher,
without a classroom.
Still longing to make an impact on youngsters.
Inside me is a writer who wants to emerge.
She crafts picture books, poems and stories,
hoping to be a positive voice in the world.
I love the chronology of your poem; it makes the words flow so beautifully. You are still a positive voice in this crazy world.
Rita, sweet poem about the chapters of your life. I like the “Inside me is…” form that shows you are still all those people even as the years go by. I like the “writer who wants to emerge” in that last stanza. That is a hopeful way to show who you are as a writer. I know you already are a writer, but still looking to emerge gives a breadth to the experience.
This poem is so sweet that it tugs at my heart. How wonderful that you have captured the essence of what means the most. How wonderful that you still want to make an impact in the world.
Rita,
“Inside me is a little girl enjoying childhood” I love how that opening holds so much tenderness and wonder, and how each stanza adds another layer of who you are. The steady repetition of “Inside me” feels grounding, like you’re honoring all these selves at once, and the movement toward the writer emerging gives the poem such a hopeful, forward pull. I’m really glad you shared this and so glad you’re here with us.
Sarah
Thank you, Sarah for the invitation and inspiration through your poem yesterday. I really appreciate the community that you have created and continue to nurture here. So glad to be part of this celebration and community!
I really loved reading this. I too long for a classroom.
Hi, Mrs. Rita Kenefic, I loved this poem. It gave a really good insight into who you are as a person and the positive power your voice holds. This poem flowed very nicely and was very clear and concise.
Wonders
Inside me there is the warmth of the sun
That dares to hold
The embrace of a partnership
Quenched in a thirst of giddy happiness
Inside me there is a collection of colors
An array of celebrations
Marred by memories, uncertainties, and affections
Creating and painting a picture
One at a time
Inside me there is whispers and wonders
A deliberate dare of curiosities
Questions that inquire and guide
Leading and turning me to
Golden lines and aha-s
Desperate to find echoes and connections
So many poetic lines. I especially loved last two lines of verse 1.
Appreciate you taking the time to comment, thank you!
Love the “collection of colors” and “whispers and wonders”…they are echoing and connecting with me!
Hi Kim,
Great to see you here. Thank you so much for noticing and responding.
I love the sounds in your poem–the assonance, consonance, and alliteration and there are some great lines–“A deliberate dare of curiosities/Questions that inquire and guide”–are my favorite!
Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.
Darshna,
The way you move from warmth to color to whispers creates such a beautiful unfolding, like we’re stepping deeper and deeper into your inner world. “Inside me there is the warmth of the sun” feels so expansive and alive, and I love how the imagery keeps layering into something both joyful and searching. I’m really glad you shared this—welcome to the VerseLove Wonders, we’re so lucky you’re here.
Sarah
Inside me is a bridge—
a meeting of two minds,
two places,
two stories.
Behind me,
there are miles of
Resilience—
forests of fear
valleys of hardship,
hills of victory.
I do not know
how far back it goes,
as I can only remember
Parts
of the journey from this lifetime,
and I do not know
all of the generations
who walked the trail before me.
Inside me is a bridge—
a place where
Who I Have Become meets
Who I Am Yet To Be—
a handshake, if you will,
a passing of the baton,
a nod of understanding between
the places I have already grown,
and the new victories that stretch ahead.
Inside me is a bridge.
It is not a place for me to stop long,
just a place for me to take
a moment,
to reflect,
to take a breath,
before I move ahead
into my next adventure.
So appropriate, Julie, or should I say profound!
I great take on memory and the bridge between the past and present. “The passing of the baton” between two minds.
This entire poem says so much, so beautifully. Verse four is especially intriguing.
Julie, I love the capitalization in “Who I Have Become” and “Who I am Yet to Be” because it honors those positions’ names–stages and growth moments to celebrate. This in conjunction with the bridge as a pausing point in the last stanza is inspiring. You make the journey so optimistic and appealing here. Thank you for sharing this poem.
Hi, friend. Good to see you! The repetition of the bridge and the way you return to it makes the whole poem feel like a crossing, a pause, and a becoming all at once. “Inside me is a bridge” is such a powerful anchor, and I love how it holds both the weight of where you’ve been and the openness of what’s ahead. I’m really glad you shared this—welcome to the VerseLove space, we’re so glad you’re here.
Sarah
I’m always a late in the day writer–made worse that I am currently on Hawaiian time (or made better I should say!)
30 poems in 30 days? Here goes…
Thank you Sarah and Verselove for the inspiration.
I. Inside me flows
salty Pacific waters
always moving, never still
etching their way from
head to heart, calling
my name
II. Misty mornings wake me
dampen my face, painting
monochromatic shadows that
smell of sea funk
rust tracing the rivers
where salt spray never dries
III. Waiting for evening sky bursts
colors beyond imagination
when juicy languid reds trickle into
luscious oranges that tickle the nose
yellows so tart your taste buds pucker
sensory feast worth hungry gray days
IV. Inside me lives a liquid map
surrounded
by desert where fires flare,
water is precious, beauty goes deeper
than the eye can see
roots spread to quench their thirst
V. seeking connections
VI. My pen yearns for words
to plant seeds deep underground
to protect my lifeblood and yours
Earth’s waters
That flow in us all
Hi Kim,
I really feel the influence of Hawaii in your first two stanzas I long for those salty Pacific waters. Enjoy! Love your imagery.
So much to love here! I am taken by the color imagery in the third stanza in contrast with the last line: “worth hungry gray days”–just a surprising, cool shift there. I also love the movement in stanza II–“sea funk rust tracing rivers where salt spray never dries”–the word “tracing” in tandem with the absolute struck me. Your poem makes me long for the ocean. Thanks for sharing it.
Hawaii, eh? Enjoy the other side of the Pacific for this spring break, Kim. So much water and beauty in your poem tonight. I love this, and the numbered stanzas are a neat variation.
Hi Kim,
The poem is a feast of all sorts.. love the imagery, the essence, the playfulness, and the depth. A beautiful juxtaposition of virtues and all the senses. Happy Spring Break! Enjoy Hawaii!
Inside me are the sand dunes
south of Lydgate, south Hikinaakala,
spotted, seething, tangled beneath iron woods
and rusted cars.
When it rains, the jeep track
to the shore is a swamp,
a lake of black water
alive with keiki awa and ‘ama’ama.
This water here is muliwai,
the water behind the sand bar,
salty and fresh, where kai
meets wai.
And Inside me are the sand dunes,
and the brackish water
and the smell of salt and fish.
Also the hot, endless minutes, days, and months of
being raised by the shore.
Jonathon, I could smell the ocean water and feel the breeze. I could imagine looking up and seeing a rainbow in the sky. I could sense the Hawaii you described, and found myself adding my own sensory memories. Thank you for this quick trip to Kauai.
oh, Jonathon, wow, the sense of place here is so full of sensory details. They would be enough, but the Hawaiian words add so much, and that last stanza with the repetition of “the sand dunes” and list of all the things and times one right after another, add so much to that last striking line. Beautiful poem.
Jonathon, thank you for inviting us to “the sand dunes / of Lydgate, south Hikinaakala, / spotted, seething, tangled beneath iron woods.” The place sounds beautiful and mysterious. The use of translanguaging creates this atmosphere of the unknown that is worth exploring for me. I had to look up the words to understand it. Thank you for teaching me something new.
So good to see you!
“Inside me are the sand dunes” is such a vivid, grounding image, and I love how the place feels alive through the textures and language you weave in. The way the poem circles back to that line, layering in water, memory, and time, mirrors how deeply this landscape lives inside you. I’m really glad you shared this—welcome to VerseLove; we’re so glad you’re here.
Sarah
Mahalo Sarah for inviting us all here and for your kind words. I used your opening line (Inside me is a river) to pull my poem out, so mahalo for that as well
Inside me there’s a memory — a garden, verdant green
purple leaf lettuce crawling
cucumbers waiting to be pickled
There are parents kneeling in warm loam,
heads bending, straw hats deflecting sun’s rays
tending their garden
Inside me there’s a memory of days past
of warmth and love
It feels like yesterday
Oh, Tammi, your poem is poignant and gorgeous. I feel the familial love and see the rich earth and vibrant vegetables. Your closing lines are particularly moving!
Hi, Tammi, there is so much live inside of you. Your precious memories remind me my parents “tending their garden “
Tammi, your images of vegetables “crawling” and “waiting” really stand out to me, they’re active even if it’s just actively waiting.
The second stanza allowed me to see who was tending to the crawling/waiting vegetables and I love their actions as well—kneeling/bending/tending to their garden.
I could see my parents out in their garden through your poem.
Tammi, this is so warm and delightful. I love that your parents were in the garden together. What a memory! With the produce of the garden and your parents there, no wonder you are still full “of warmth and love”. Beautiful!
A Tale of Two Yards
Inside me there is a pink stucco house
A back yard with no fences,
Filled with citrus trees and raspberry bushes
A hammock hung between two locust trees
A tire swing that may have broken while I was at the far end of the arc.
Inside me there is a garden the length of the back yard
This time running along a fence line,
Filled with apricot trees and tomato plants
A big lawn we chased the dog down when he got hold of the Nerf football
Scattering spongy bits of yellow as he gave the football a death shake.
I think both places are still standing,
Owned by other people,
Probably re-landscaped.
But inside me, they stay the way I want forever.
Sheila, this was so lovely to go back with you to these two yards. I laughed at this: “A tire swing that may have broken while I was at the far end of the arc.” The “may have” cracked me up! And the Nerf football death shake brought another giggle. That last line is great to “they stay the way I want forever” I like that “the way I want”. Claiming your power, right there.
Sheila! I love the precision of the nouns in this poem–hammock hung, apricot trees, spongy bits. The details in each place capture the everyday ways that a place becomes a part of us. Then, the last stanza is striking and relatable–the sensation of nostalgia for a place that was once yours. Thanks for sharing this poem!
I couldn’t resist stopping by when Verse Love was promoted by so many of my slicer friends. Thanks for this invitation.
Inside me is a classroom,
where sixth graders fill my dreams
with crazy, chaotic shenanigans.
The daily frenzy continues.
Inside me is an island,
I walk with friends through
spring blossoms, summer blackberries,
fall splendor, and winter’s quiet comfort.
Inside me is a lake,
a wooden bridge, honking geese,
diamond sparkles, gentle breezes,
my solo walks are never lonely.
I love those sixth grade crazy, chaotic shenanigans!
Ramona,
I love the movement of your poem as it transition from “chaotic shenanigas” to “quiet comfort” and “solo walks.”
Ramona, I felt like I was in the classroom with you—part teacher, part shenanigans. I also felt like I was with you on your solo walk. I hope my presence on your walk was not enough to distract you from your peace, but enough to make sure that you know you are never alone.
Three unique and special places, Ramona. The lists of characteristics of each really puts a picture in my mind. Some of my favorites: “crazy, chaotic shenanigans” and “diamond sparkles” and “my solo walks are never lonely.” So glad you joined us today, Ramona.
Hi, Ramona. Your poem says so much about the way you spend your time. Last line is lovely. Glad you are here on Verselove.
My solo walks are never lonely…
how I love that line!
History
Beside me is an actual landscape
as I drive across eastern Tennessee
through forests of oak-hickory
and visions of confederate soldiers holding long rifles
in battle against the Union.
I hear old time music and country voices.
History surrounds me.
There is little history
when I return home to California.
Inside me there is a grandmother
coming to be a “nanny”
in a State full of promise
with little history.
Thank you, Sarah, for starting us off on this creative month!
Your second stanza has me thinking about the juxtaposition of documented, large-world history (Civil War) and the history we hold in our memories of a place.
Susan,
I like how you juxtapose a long history with a new one that is evolving as “nanny.”
Enjoy your history making!
Susan, I’m intrigued by the notion of history in your poem–how there is much in Tennessee, but little in California. I’d love to talk to you about that more, and the “grandmother coming to be a ‘nanny'” is so interesting too.
Far Away
by Mo Daley 4/1/26
Inside me there is Mwikali:
such warm welcomes
bright smiles
dark eyes
thirst for knowledge
abundant wildlife
unseen on my continent
gentleness
In Kenya they call me
Mwikali—
stay,
or one who returns,
because they see me
Mo, your Mwikali persona sounds amazing! I love how in Kenya they have one word that says so much. I also envy you a bit for the incredible opportunity to go there on such a crucial mission.
Mo, a poem of exquisite presence – -where names hold such sacred meaning, so reverent and fitting. Mwikali. If I say it aloud it rather sounds like your first and last name. I love it both ways – Mo Daley, Mwikali. And I always enjoy the photos you post when you are there.
Mo — I love the sound of your Kenya name and the universality of your last line “because they see me.”
Mo, wow, what an incredible poem! I love learning about your name and the warmth shared through the experience. Being seen is such an honor. Gorgeous poem!
Thanks, Sarah, for your invitation to write about our landscapes and for sharing all the wonderful poetry links.
Inside the Cave
Inside me is a creek,
a quiet waterfall, mossy stones, dragonflies,
lilac clouds, the clatter of railroad tracks,
a meadowlark’s song in a sunny field.
Inside me is a mouth full of mulberries,
bare feet-stained purple, curvy hills,
dusty roads, an endless wood,
6 a.m. cornfields, children laughing.
Inside me is a cavern,
I crawl inside to feed its fire,
translating its hieroglyphics,
a tender landscape I once traveled.
Barb Edler
1 April 2026
Oh, you had me swoon at dragonflies, lilac clouds. And I love the literal and metaphorical ideas of bare feet-stsined purple. And I wish for many more tender landscapes. Hugs.
Barb,
Gorgeous Iowa imagery here: caverns, corn fields, berries. creek. I feel this place I too know, although not as intimately as you know it. The shift into the third stanza with the change in “cavern” is perfect. What a child explores becomes a place to “crawl inside” and “feed fire.” The concise wording and taught imagery is stunning.
Hi, Barb! I tumbled along with you in the creek with the dragonflies…the mouthful of mulberries (that is such a perfect childlike image). I could see those purple feet and cornfields. That cavern is another place… a place for “crawl[ing]” and “translating”… the sense of childlike delight against the cavern crawl, speaks a lot to the complexity of what “once” was… more complicated. Our lives are indeed more than any one reverie…there are places where crawling is the only way through. Thinking of you with love, Susie
Oh Barb,
Both your first and last lines really move me
Beautiful.
So much here to savor in your images and all the sensory charm of each line. I love the summertime feel of the bare feet, dusty roads, dragonflies and mulberries. It’s rich in the essence of place, complete with sounds and scents and all the finest splendor of this landscape.
Amazing imagery, Barb! Every one is more lush than the last one. This seems like an idyllic landscape.
Barb, I am tasting those mulberries with you standing “bare feet-stained purple.” You brought me straight to my childhood. I talked about mulberries so much that my husband planted several trees in our yard three years ago.
Your final stanza is magical: “I crawl inside to feed its fire, translating hieroglyphics” sounds incredibly enticing. Bravo!
Barb,
While I love the entirety of your poem,
makes me think of the mysteries that are inside most if not all of us.
I love these lines and the emotions they evoke.
Barb — Beautiful imagery. I especially love your last stanza. I feel the energy of a child exploring.
Barb, this is such a gentle and beautiful poem of lovely memories. My favorite is “a mouth full of mulberries” and that whole stanza which reminds me of Iowa and love.
Barb,
That 2nd stanza really got me with the purple stained feet, the mulberries. and the laughing children. What a delight!
Inside me
there lives a gentle hillside of quiet,
rooted with a small growth forest
of elm, oak, walnut and birch,
dotted with the paint of flowers,
all about to witness bloom;
I take my pen into the writing room
Kevin
Beautiful!
Kevin, what a treasure! “I take my pen into the writing room” is such a great way to hint to your poet duty. You have to capture this “gentle hillside” in all of its beauty.
Love the trees with flowers. There is such a readiness in the “about to.”
Love this imagery:
“of elm, oak, walnut and birch,
dotted with the paint of flowers,”
Yes!!! Take the pen to the writing room!!
That gentle hillside of quiet is gorgeous, Kevin. The writing room is pretty cool, too!
I feel like I’m walking through these woods right alongside you, then hurrying home to capture them on the page.
Kevin —
I love the way you’ve crafted your poem to feel like art on canvas “dotted with the paint of flowers.” Beautiful image!
You painted a picture and ended it with a lovely action.
Inside me there is a quiet
Acacia tree behind me
Its shade a blessing
In June, in the tropics.
My Nanay was buried here
Almost fifty years ago
Each time I am home
I come to sit with her in memory.
Propelling me:
Doing good for others,
Respecting nature,
Loving.
Beautifully written!! The ending is spectacular!!
Oh, Acacia tree. Yes. Blessing. And then the next stanza, a shift to Nanay. Your poem invites us to sit in her memory, too.
Cayetana,
What a sweet vigil. I like how visiting the Acacia tree and your Nanay serve as a call to action to leave your Nanay’s values:
Holding presence at this tree and carrying it with you in your heart = treasured imagery!
It is lovey, Cayetana, how a memory of an acacia tree and your Nanay bring so much motivation and love.
I can feel the shade and quiet and love the propelling towards all that is good. Beautiful poem.
I had a thought of what I wanted to write this morning, but Kim Johnson’s “the page and the pen” has stuck with me all day (she posted her poem very early this morning). I can’t deny the role that reading has always played in my life and I had read some of the most memorable settings in the last year. And so with credit to Kim and her wonderful idea, I very abashedly share my poem.
Inside me there is an atlas of places I have visited.
Teribitha
San Nicolas Island
Blackbird Pond.
Even the entire town of Sweet Valley
where I spent so much of high school.
It all looks a bit childish now,
but the roads in those maps opened a world.
Today I have new maps,
of places so comforting I long to return.
Marsyas Island
Charon’s Crossing
the aquarium at Sowell Bay
Fedder Fountain
and a ship to Tau Ceti.
with thanks to Kim Johnson and her “the page and the pen”
Love this anchoring in the places of our books.
Seeing “Blackbird Pond” here made my heart lift. Haven’t thought of that place in a long time and I’m instantly back there. Thank you.
Cherish love this inter-poet and inter-textuality that is what poetry holds best. Layers of life, relationships, and connections across spaces. Perfect.
Now I have to go find Kim’s poem to see what inspired your lovely poem. I love the idea of cataloguing the places we’ve been to in books.
Cheri, thank you for the kind words. I’m inspired by your poem – our reading as an atlas of the journey, starting in books we read as children and opening to a wider world. Were it not for Blackbird Pond and Sweet Valley and other places of our childhood books, the portal to all the other places may not have opened as wide, and I’m sure that we both mourn those for whom reading never took root. It’s as if we had to drive through books as towns to get to the next place and appreciate it. I’m so glad you are here writing with us, and I look forward to discovering all the poems yet to be. Let’s stand at the Fedder Fountain and offer a toast!
Cheri, books take us to so many places. I was always amazed by the things I learned through the books. I like how you connect your childhood readings with the present ones. Thank you!
“The roads in those maps opened a world” is a line I identify with readily. It took a second reading for me to recognize Tau Ceti (I listened to the book). And I’m still on the wait list for Theo of Golden, but I think Fedder Fountain is from that book!
I listed to that book, too! Amaze! In truth, I had to look up some of the setting names because I couldn’t remember from memory, and that was one of them. I wanted the names to evoke a notion of now, where have I heard that before. And you’re correct with Fedder Fountain–oh my, you’re going to love it.
“Even the entire town of Sweet Valley!” I was with you, in all of those places. Especially Terabithia. Some of my maps are similar to your maps.
Oh, I love this prompt! And Sarah, I keep coming back to the “staircases/I did not choose.” A lot of stories contained on those staircases, I’m thinking.
Inside me, there are
the swings at Library Park
and Loverland
and powdered sugar donuts.
The Towne Shoppe with my
yearly birthday gift certificate
to buy “fancy” clothes my
grandmother found suitable
The Mountain on the Washington School playground,
its dirt and tires sheltering the hamster
I took to school (and out for recess)
even though my mom said not to.
Harris Pharmacy, buying the just-right
Christmas card for my crush before I
rode my bike all the way to his house,
slipping it into his mailbox with shaking, hopeful fingers
The dip in the road by my grandparents’
house, where I stood, paralyzed, clutching
my newspaper bag, as the snarling
German Shepherd charged toward me
The S chair at the United Methodist Church,
so marked because Sara laughed so hard she
peed while sitting in it. For years after, we
looked to see who was sitting in the S chair and giggled
This tiny town, setting of my beginnings
as well as every book I’ve ever read. The
memories live on.
Julie, the narrator provides so many rich details in this poem. I love the memories living on at the end, the humor of the S chair, and the sheer terror of the German Shepard snarling. Thanks for sharing such a rich and vivid poem, poignant and powerful!
Julie,
I love how each stanza is a complete story and how varied they are.
The S chair! Oh my, I bet you giggled.
Sweet ending.
Photo after photo…so vivid!
I’m all about the powdered donuts and Christmas card and of COURSE the peed-upon 5 chair because all the best memories have laughter, and all the best laughter has……well, pee.
You snuck the hamster to school even though your mom told you not to . . . I love that detail!
The S chair & a giggling fest! The German Shepherd charged me on my Girl Scout cookie sales route. Setting of my beginnings, indeed. The memories live on. Thanks for this glimpse of your tiny town.
Sarah, Thank you for this prompt. I loved the idea of the river inside of you, where all our memories live. I liked it so much I copied your first lines. I didn’t have much time to write today, but I’m so grateful for every moment and for April!
Inside me is a hill
Covered in needlegrass and sage
That remembers
Sliding down it on a cardboard box
Inside me is a field of lupin
Where my feet
Ran through
Herds of cattle.
Inside me is a canyon
Curved and winding
Three miles up
To a dirt driveway
That led home.
Emily, I love the way the poem leads the narrator home. The specific details help create the place and the wonder as lovely as sliding down a hill on a cardboard box. Beautiful!
I am savoring this line:
Emily, the hill, the field, the canyon – – all places that whisper west in ways that show in your poem the sliding, running, and finding home. This is beautiful!
Hills, fields, canyons, and a road leading home! What a beautiful poem.
Sarah, it’s good to be back! Thank you for calling us together in community for this month. The metaphors are beautiful in your poem–rivers and notebooks and staircases–all gateways and paths to explore.
Today’s Supreme Court session was at the front of my mind as I was writing and (unsurprisingly) I’ve been listening to Public Enemy all day–Chuck D is an enduring influence and the metaphor of a bomb is a frequent metaphor in his lyrics, in a good way.
Inside me is a bombtrack,
etched like the grooved vinyl that embraces the stylus,
diamond sharp, it lifts messages and carries truth on
waves of sound, born of friction, amplified and punching
through the fog of white noise and buzzing drones that
award indifference with a quick shot of dopamine
as we scroll through life.
Inside me is the psychic vision to perceive
the bright rim of light just beyond the darkness of this eclipse,
Inside me is a bombtrack
summoning the loops of history that speak like the rings of a tree,
calling out to a tomorrow that blazes brighter than the blighted darkness
of today.
I love how you describe the elements of the record/bombtrack “etched like…diamond sharp” and how that music and sound can be used to amplify and punch through the fog. There is an energy you captured in that first stanza that I really enjoy.
Hi, Dave — The music images…”the stylus,/diamond sharp/” carrying the image of truth makes it almost tangible…great way to depict this. And “punching/ through the fog of white noise…” Dang…excellent… that sense of so much that the truth is nearly lost amid the “drones”… Gosh, this is taking me right along. I woke up to the SCOTUS birthright mess… I just have been riveted to the hope that they would feel the “bombtrack” and find a spine to bring us “a tomorrow that blazes brighter…” You were not alone in this focus today…well and all the days it seems as each day there’s another OMG moment. Thank you for the effective images that resonated with me today. Susie
Dave, thanks for the note to set the stage for your poem. It’s quite simply brilliant. I especially appreciate the extended metaphor of the bombtrack. The narrator’s diction is striking. Love the “buzzing drones” “quick shot of dopamine” “beyond the darkness of this eclipse”. Then the simile “like the rings of a tree”. Wow! I can relate and feel the “blighted darkness of today.” Tremendous poem!
Dave,
There is the power of witnessing and of hope in these lines:
I love the way you tap into your musical genius and work it into this poem, Dave. These lines . . .
just so dang good.
Inside me there is…
a small meadow of wild poppies,
striking colors,
having dabbled with other poppies
and thereby grown richer,
deeper in hues
of understanding,
lost sometimes in the questions
from Queen Anne’s lace
wanting predictable form
in her Fibonacci spirals.
Inside me there are…
petals, papery,
easily singed by bright sun
swayed in the breath of storms;
there for the bees, butterflies,
for the soil,
there for dreamy sleep,
whispering:
there could be
peace.
by Susie Morice©
Susie,
This evocation of poppy imagery is gorgeous and relevant in this moment. I think about the poppies the VFW hand out at public events, the poppy “field” at the National WWI memorial museum in Kansas City, the poem “In Flanders Field.” I see the math in the “Fibonacci spirals” that feel like bodies laced in war. All of nature whispers “there could be peace.” This all sings to me in a sad yet hopeful tune w/ your gorgeous painting.
Inside me is a little girl
wondering if this winter’s day
will still bring a birthday party
Inside me is a young woman in love
and experiencing the beauty of the Pacific Ocean
Inside me is a grandmother
wishing for more time to love
Sandra, From little girl to young woman to grandmother, in just a few lines really shows how the time flies. “wishing for more time to love” is so poignant.
I think you posted your poem as a response to Glenda’s comment on Susie’s poem. I’m afraid not a lot of people will see it here.
Sandra,
The movement from little girl to young woman to grandmother feels so tender and full of time passing, all held in just a few lines. “Inside me is a little girl wondering if this winter’s day will still bring a birthday party” is so vulnerable and real, and it sets up that quiet longing that carries through the whole poem. I’m really glad you shared this—welcome to VerseLove; we’re so glad you’re here.
Hugs,
Sarah
Susie, ahhhh…..I absolutely love your poppy paintings and your gorgeous poem. Your poem radiates sunshine and beauty. I love the diction, the s and p sounds that draw me into the poem’s message. I especially appreciated “breath of storms” “bees, butterflies, for the soil” and your end is full of positivity and hope. I do so hope for a dreamy sleep because peace reigns. I feel so blessed to read your words today. Hugs!
Your words and your painting are both so beautiful. I’ve read your poem several times, thinking about the layers of meaning and the delight of noticing:
And each time there is that powerful punch of an ending:
Thank you
Susie, I love that you are entwining your art forms here, the dabbling of poppies and their papery petals with the intricacy of the Queen Anne’s Lace, your paintings and words building upon each other. Your nods to all things poppies – dreamy sleep, peace, soothes. So glad you are here.
Susie—I love this phrase “having dabbled with other poppies”. I want to use it somehow in conversation!!
Susie, your paintings and artwork that inspire poetry (and vice versa, no doubt) are so inspiring. It’s as if you are your own book illustrator, and I so wish I had those combined talents. I love that your poem has you in the midst of the sun and storm, bee and butterfly, petals and soil whispering of peace. Yes. This is the way to live and write.
Susie, this is so beautiful–the painting and the accompanying poem. “there could be / peace” Yes. What an ending.
“whispering: there could be peace”. Ahh! I can hear those papery petals, and I share the sentiment!
Inside of me
is the little girl
whose photo I keep
on my dresser.
She is smiling
but her eyes
tell
a different story.
Seven decades later,
I catch a glimpse
in the mirror—
her eyes.
Linda — It reasonates with me, this looking at the photo and reflecting, seeing changes and “a different story”… so vivid a feeling. Thank you, Susie
Linda—so good to see you here!! The story changes, but the eyes hold true. Beautiful poem!
Linda, those eyes can tell so much. The seven decades later line really made me catch my breath. Very powerful.
Linda, I love your poem! I can see you.
Oh, Linda, the child’s eyes, your present eyes. Such a story here of that little girl who is you. So few words, so much emotion.
Sarah, thank you for the invitation to write, it’s nice being back
unmarked paths
weekend mornings opened time to my brother and me on the beach
stepping from pier to pier
high tide splashed waves beneath our feet
each jump became a challenge
once home we rinsed our sandy salty feet before
settling into our seats at the table
warm pancakes waited on our plates
summer days filled with endless hours
to pick blackberries, brave thorns and scratches
for warm dark berries
some so soft bleeding in our paper sacks
moistened the surface as we carefully
carried them home
this morning I steered one puppy
on the trail arched in tree limbs
each day she learns more
only gentle tugs on the leash
head turned to capture my eyes
and the positive lyrical words
“Good girl. Lucky”
Hi, Jaime — The tone has a nostalgia that hits like a pang. Especially, I love the blackberries (thorns..scratches…soft bleeding in our paper sacks”). I felt like I was walking there with you and Lucky. Lovely, Susie
I love how this takes us into your special childhood memories into a more current scene. The description is beautiful of those berries moistening the sack.
Piers, pancakes, paper sacks of berries, and of course….puppy! You have all the best memories of childhood and they layer into today.
Great title, Jamie. I can taste those
I like that you end with today and Lucky.
Jamie, I feel like I am there with you in these places from your childhood, and “this morning”. Such beautiful thoughts, like “warm pancakes waited on our plates” and “warm dark berries” the steering of that little puppy. Just such sweet images you have conveyed so clearly.
Great to see you again, friend.
“weekend mornings opened time to my brother and me on the beach” feels so spacious and inviting, like we’re stepping right into memory with you. I love how the poem moves through those past moments into the present with the puppy, the structure tracing a path of care, learning, and connection across time. I’m really glad you shared this.
Sarah
Sarah, thank you for this prompt. I have been thinking of all the places in my life, but I can’t get specific like you did. I recognize the staircases in your poem. I wrote of Bahrain, which means two waters in Arabic.
Inside me there is a kaleidoscope
of place privilege,
in a position to be
received with impunity
Inside me there are Two Waters
fresh and sea
rich and poor
safe and bombed
Inside me there is a conflict–
to be so comfortable
in a place that starts wars
with impunity
Denise, your final stanza stopped me. I’d wondered about the word privilege in the first stanza, not exactly certain of its intent. Until I read the two closing lines. I liked the repetition of the word impunity bringing me back to that idea of privilege.
I always look forward to your poems. I love all the contrast and yin yang of your inner landscape.
Denise — I feel this pull, the sting of comfort in the face a war perpetrated mindlessly and “with impunity.” We are all of “Two Waters” I believe… they are painfully murky. Wonderful poem that really speaks volumes. Thank you, Susie
Oh, Denise, your poem speaks to the many problems immigrants face today. Our privilege is never questioned whereas others have to worry about going to work, the store, their home, etc. The injustice is painful and your poem shares that well in the second paragraph. I feel the conflict. You are doing so much, and I love how your poem shares this uncomfortable truth. Hugs!
That last stanza. Wow!
safe and bombed…..wow, this contrast holds so much emotion. The sting of reality bites when we think of ourselves in our comfortable homes as others suffer through no fault of their own.
Oh, Denise. This: Inside me there are Two Waters/ fresh and sea/ rich and poor/ safe and bombed” and I love how that contrast holds so much tension in just a few words. The way the poem moves from kaleidoscope to waters to conflict feels like a deepening reckoning, the structure itself turning and refracting privilege into something harder to look away from.
Inside me
is a seed
of an idea.
Not a plot
or a character
a theme
or a mystery.
Just one tiny seed
that excites me
to dream
of the landscape
it will grow into.
Lovely. All we need is that seed to dream. I will carry this idea all month long.
I love the idea of seeds as metaphor. Great little poem, great little dream.
I love your message – – It’s like The Lorax – – one seed can start it all. Just a seed. An acorn grows to an oak, a matchhead starts a raging fire. I love the idea of the bigger landscape of a dream from a mere starter seed.
Just one seed – I have to keep reminding myself of this when I am staring at the blank page. Thanks!
I can relate to this so much! I love getting those tiny seeds. Well done!
I appreciate your poem because it’s spring! I think of the tiny mustard seed that grows and is home to many.
Diana–I love this seed, this dream… So much possibility lies there.
Inside me there are
vast green pastures,
whole vistas, open
wide and expansive,
along with valleys
and gorges, deep
places rife with nooks
and crannies and
apparently (with the
amount of times I’ve
used the bathroom
today) some spigot that
has gone unchecked.
___________________________________________
Thank you, Sarah, for starting our VerseLove journeys off right!
From the sublime to the…😂👏🏻👏🏻
Scott. Vast. Whole. Widening. Gorges. Such space of possibility. And then the shift to nooks and crannies. Yes, there is possibility there, too. Very wise. Then another shift in that humorous closure with an ominous hint.
Currently caring for both parents. Here’s to the spigots.
Love this, I can so relate to the unchecked spigot. 🙂
Hi there, Scott — Aaaah, there’s that humor “unchecked.” You are a total delight to find here this afternoon. I think I am most enamored with “deep/places rife with nooks” … you’ve got some crannies I’m sure. LOL! Hugs, Susie
Scott,
I was going to ask you what you did with Scott and demand you return him immediately. Then he peeked around the door jam and said, “Here’s Scott,” whom I see is having a little trouble with ‘ye old prostrate, eh? LOL!
Same! HA!
Scott, Thank you for starting the month with your impeccable dry wit. I look forward to reading your contributions this month. Your poem started out with such natural beauty – “whole vistas, open/wide and expansive”, but then the turn – diarrhea? Laughed out loud! Call to action: check those spigots! Be well!
Thank you Sarah for this lovely beginning invitation! And thanks to all of you here who brave being vulnerable and share your work; I admire you. My imagination brought me back to my childhood home, a place of both joy and sometimes sadness… it felt good to recall it, so thank you for the prompt! Happy VerseLove, friends!
Inside me there is a lake house.
A place of my childhood,
With swampy grass and muddy footprints,
The spring thaw flooding the front yard.
We dangled from the broken swingset,
Its frame creaking under pressure –
While flotsam washed up along the shore,
Smelling of seaweed and dead fish,
Calling forth the scavenger birds.
Scabbed knees, fighting siblings –
Howls could be heard from front to back
And from inside at the kitchen table.
Yet so could joy and laughter.
From among the washed out garden,
The spring’s first crocus buds
Seen poking through the sod,
Ushering in a second chance.
Hi Sarah,
This is directly from my childhood memories too!! So fun!
I feel and hear all the love and excitement of your childhood memories! I especially love that nature weaves itself throughout your poem.
We’re lake people, aren’t we?
I’m waving to you from Clay while I care for my parents…love the last lines, and the crocus buds are saying, “there will be days in Syracuse that aren’t so gray.
You put me right there with you! Love it!
The imagery! This is lovely — and that ending. Perfect poem for April 1st.
Thank you for sharing your lake house with us and those precious childhood memories. I can almost smell the seaweed and dead fish.
Inside me there is a kitchen
Orange formica countertop, rotary phone on the right
Two drawers underneath:
the left containing placemats and a white tablecloth,
the right holding phone books, rulers, batteries (the junk draw)
Inside me there are memories
Mom, dad and I sitting at the circular dining room table,
Just big enough for the three of us and Raggedy Ann to converse with
Eating delicious dinners prepared with love,
Never knowing until recently mom wasn’t crazy about cooking
Inside me there is despair
When three became two after dad died,
the meals less extravagant,
Sometimes just BLTs, you and me
Adjusting to a new reality
Inside me there is rage
Emptying that entire kitchen,
Selling my childhood home at age 60
to keep you in memory care
As all of your memories slipped away like breadcrumbs.
This is a very powerful poem about losing our parents in different ways. The last line is so poignant. Thank you for sharing.
Heidi,
I felt your poem in my core. These lines brought both sorrow and love:
The ending is gut-wrenching and I pray you and your mom find special moments together while she’s still here.
There are many here in the Ethical ELA community who know this all too well:
Sending warm thoughts your way.💛
so vivid, and so sad at the end.
I’m feeling the BLTs and know they are beautiful in that kitchen…caring for memories…I want to pick up that rotary phone to pick up some of the breadcrumbs with you. Beautiful.
Heidi, I love the specificity of your words. Seeing your kitchen with a place for everything. The table “big enough for the three of us.” BLTs as part of ‘Adjusting to a new reality.” Your words stick. Your last lines are so powerful. “to keep you in memory care/As all of your memories slipped away like breadcrumbs.” As someone who shared that experience, I’ll encourage you to appreciate those who care for your mom. I learned a lot from my mom’s caregivers.
Heidi — I hear the reverie and then that shift as age and memory care and loss feels so strong. This poem has such a clear voice…I can feel the “rage” and the hollow sound of loss. I’m so sorry. You have, though, written such a strong poem that captures a piece of the pain. Thank you for sharing what will likely come to many of us. Susie
SWITCHSCAPE
Switch grass twisting,
in the field,
Wavering sounds,
Waving still.
I,
still as bark,
Handshake heaven,
Yet,
yearn for the depart.
River willows whisper a tune,
Gurgling orchids,
Ribbiting ‘til noon.
There are no mirrors
In the mountain,
Dogwoods,
Sway,
my away,
each one counting,
My days of past,
Still….
I stand sculpted in the Switch grass.
Does the scape, hear my flee?
For in the scape, I long for E.
The knot of the pine, twists back,
Into my darkness,
Through crackling slate cracks.
Slow,
Flint currents with tainted foam,
Hiding the savageness,
Of where Gars roam.
My skin burns in scattered straw,
Covering the
Agony of my awe.
The mockingbird, redhead, and silver crow,
Harmonized into a poetic flow.
Pecking wood, Cawing grief,
Flapping rhythms,
Of unheard beliefs.
As I rose from a Timber’s nest,
I promised a finch,
I would do my best.
Drumming of the Tom,
Beat in my chest,
As the cardinal rested,
upon the crest.
The Flint turned magnetic blue,
I followed the silver crow,
As he flew.
All the way to the peak of scape,
Where golden Hemlocks,
Bent and draped,
Shading the stump of a Forever oak,
Where He sat unshaded and naturally cloaked,
whistles of a whippoorwill,
echoed as he spoke.
Surrounded by daffodils,
Engulfed with blackberry smoke.
Mimosa silk brushed my face,
Cicadas chanted everliving grace,
Though I faded from his face,
Crickets faintly, fiddled from his place.
He set me back
in the switch grass field,
His handshake,
forever I feel.
The grass was waving,
still…….
For E,
or forever, until……..
You got me with ‘gurlgling orchids” and blackberry smoke.” I’m carrying those words with me into the evening.
Boxer,
There’s so much rich imagery in your poem. Stillness is present throughout , but there’s so much movement too–the waving grass, the foaming river, the swaying dogwoods. It’s really the sound of the poem that is so captivating, the musicality of your words and the sonic imagery that you create.
Boxer — The imagery and wordplay is captivating. The idea of “switchgrass” is so compelling…(having stood in switchgrass often as a kid). I loved visualizing and hearing (whippoorwill–so distinct a song, the crow and mockingbird and cicadas… all of this resonates with me). I particularly loved the image of “sculpted in switchgrass”… almost like looking at an old black-n-white photo with those ripply edges. And the ending “For E,/ or forever, until…..” leaving me with a sense of what is missing “until….” Lovely. Thank you for the sensory WOW. Susie
So many words swirling in my mind! This…
Pecking wood, Cawing grief,
Flapping rhythms,
Of unheard beliefs.
Sarah I absolutely loved this as an opening poem. I especially enjoyed the last line of your poem: “Poetry is how I witness them again.” Because that is certainly something I have come to appreciate about poetry when I write it — it’s my way of trying to process my feelings and memories in a way that is reliant on emotional resonance.
I Am The Memory Maker by Erica Johnson
Inside me there is an ocean lapping at the shore.
It brushes my feet with its cool invitation,
depositing gifts of shell and smooth glass.
Each an imprinted memory that, if unclaimed,
will wear away with the waves.
Inside me there is a mossy grove entwining its branches.
It speckles the light on my skin into gold and green glitter,
hiding a trail here and a bouquet of flowers there.
Each a shaded memory gathered that, if undisturbed,
will conceal itself with time.
Inside me there is a mountain reigning over clouds and horizon.
It rules the scope and substance of my dreams,
separating itself through its impassible and silent ways.
Each a potential memory to be lived, if untrodden,
will wait for the next step to be taken.
Thank you for your poem that talked about the ocean. The first eleven years of my life I grew up near the ocean. I have now lived in the Midwest for almost fifty years. Thank God I am able to return to the ocean now and then.
Erica, what a lovely way to explore your complexities with ocean, grove, and mountain metaphors. Really clever.
Hello & happy April! I couldn’t resist being a bit more literal for this prompt.
A Womb
Inside me there is a moon
that waxes and wanes
swelling larger than life
then shrinking again
Inside me there is an ocean
ebbing and flowing
Inside me is Spring
a bulb resting beneath the dirt
that awakens and sprouts
green leaves, pink petals
Inside me, a cocoon
I cushion it and keep it warm
Inside me is a volcano
the magma shifting and building
and I know that the eruption will come
as it has before, cooling into nutrient rich soil
Inside me is a creek bed
that will one day dry up.
Wow…I love this — the waxing moon, the ebb and flow of the ocean, green leaves, pink petals, the shifting magma…you’ve captured the cycle of life though I do like to believe that even a dried creek bed holds promise! A beautiful poem.
Love the metaphors but the cocoon most. Yes, cushioning and keeping warm ❤️
Hi Rachel,
So clever! The images that your poem evokes are startling, warm, real.
I chuckled a little at the creek bed drying up. 🥹
Rachel — I felt the strong sense of being in one place but oh-so ready to be more. The bulb that flourishes into petals, the volcano erupting, the in and out of ocean waves, and the waxing/waning. Vibrant sense of more to come. I reckon you’re a long way from that dry creek bed. 🙂 Thank you for reminding me that we don’t sit still. Susie
Inside me there is the foot of Cadillac Mountain,
massively intimidating-
creating self-doubt that I can overcome it.
Inside me is each slanted slow step up the incline,
anxiety, doubt, fear
battling against my
perseverance, strength, faith.
Inside me is joy of cresting the summit
still bathed in blackness-
the sun cracks the night
with a vibrant band of creamsicle light of a new day.
I love this image of hiking a peak for sunrise – I’ve been there before & can see it all! Your last line is gorgeous – “vibrant band of creamsicle light.” What hope.
Hi Cathy,
This resonates with me because I find myself constantly repeating that with faith, anything is possible. I am not a hiker of mountains, but this life lately sure feels like I am climbing an uphill battle.
Thank you for this gift.
Seattle June 1998, or After Commencement
Inside me there are early mornings
in a new city, waiting at the corner of
Olive and Broadway for a bus downtown
to an office job, nothing to do with poetry.
But the rain too light for an umbrella
still felt like a baptism, and there was always
the hope of a sunbreak over lunch
when I’d head down to the market,
watch the fisherman in orange bibs
lobbing pink salmon over hills of ice,
then lean over the ledge of the waterfront
to spy Mount Rainier dawning in the distance.
Wow, Kate. You’ve brought me right there with you to those early mornings. I can feel the rain, smell the salmon, see the dawn. Thank you for bringing to life this glimpse through your writing.
Wow this is awesome!! The title and the line “the rain too light for an umbrella / still felt like a baptism” really bring this home. It makes me think of freedom & new beginnings. Or, as my husband says, “The world is your burrito.”
Kate—you crafted a beautiful portrait for us!
Kate, “the rain too light for an umbrella still felt like a baptism” is such a beautiful line, I love how it turns an ordinary moment into something quietly transformative. The way the poem moves through the rhythms of that city life into those glimpses of wonder, especially that final image of Mount Rainier, feels like a soft unfolding of becoming.
Peace,
Sarah
Happy Verselove everyone!! Sarah, the staircase line you didn’t choose gets me! Thank you for the poem and prompt. I had my baby boy March 30, just in time to write a bunch of poems about him 🩵 jk I’ll try not to write too many.
Inside me there will always be
A hospital in Mauritius
Where I hoped to deliver naturally
But had an emergency c-section
Inside me there was a boy
Who is earth side now
We call him Cairo Reign
He is big and hearty
Inside me there will always be
The grand dreams and plans
But at the end of the day
All that matters is our health
first off ~ Congratulations and welcome to your so big and hearty little one, ~ I’m glad there will always be grand dreams and plans for you to share!
Write all the baby boy poems you want! I love the way your poem works with the literal and figurative insides—and, wow, does the “where I hoped to deliver naturally / but had an emergency c-section” do so much narrative work. Here’s to “[y]our health”!! (I love “earth side now,” too—makes me think about what that magical womb space is!)
Yay, congratulations! Give us all the baby boy poems, please!! I agree – the literal & figurative work together so well in your poem. I love your first line – “there will always be” – those birth stories do stay with us, become a part of us that never leaves.
Congratulations, Angie!! I’m with Kate, I really love the line “Who is earth side now.” Thanks for this!
Congratulations, Angie!! Welcome, Cairo Reign! Love that name. My great niece is named Kennedy Reign, so I am a little partial. 🥰
I hope you and your baby boy are doing well. C-sections are no fun so take your time and don’t overdo it. This is not the time to practice being Super Mom. Save that for later.
Hugs and kisses to baby Cairo!
Congratulations on your big and hearty baby boy! That’s such an exciting blessing and what a wonderful name! I love this poem and look forward to more “baby poems” this month.
Yay, We are so happy to welcome another poet to our world! And please write whatever feels good to you. 30 poems about your baby sounds pretty good to me.
“Inside me there will always be a hospital in Mauritius” is such a powerful way to hold that place and moment, I can feel the weight and tenderness in it. The movement from expectation to reality to gratitude for health feels so grounded and true, like the poem is gently reshaping what matters most.
Inside of Me
inside of me is a desert storm
a crackling static rage
so impotent and american
there are quick, sandy screams inside of me
ash-winged squalls
electric devils stirring up new dust
and yet, inside of me is the desert dagger
a bladed tree, succulent and slow
fruitless and blooming a thousand years
kjd
I loved “crackling static rage” and “sandy screams” and “ash-winged squalls.” Beautiful imagery!
Yes the sounds in this poem are everything! And the description of the desert dagger…wow. Thanks for sharing!
Inside me there is a kitchen
decked out in avocado green appliances & burnt orange accents
where Cream of Wheat bubbled on the stove,
and a bowl topped with wheat germ,
brown sugar, and evaporated milk
cooled on the counter for me.
Inside me there is a living room
where Tom Baker wore long colorful scarves
on one of the three television stations,
the stereo played “Kiss an Angel Good Morning”
on an 8-track cassette, and my dad told tall-tales
of roasted possum surrounded sweet potatoes.
Inside me there are barracks, dorm rooms,
base housing, and apartments.
All so different, and somehow the same…
A place to briefly lay my head,
to lay down memories left swept into corners,
under rugs, discarded, of no use to anyone else.
Tracei, almost sounds like you’ve written an alt version of a Where I’m from poem. Great getting to know you. I love the avocado appliances and description of Cream of Wheat. Also, the many different kinds of housing you’ve called home.
It’s that “bowl…on the counter for [you]” that gets me… Someone “topped [it] with wheat germ, / brown sugar, and evaporated milk” for you—at least that’s how I read it. Of course, the specific details of the topping show so much… but it’s the act of the making that sticks with me. That could make for a great prompt: the food someone prepared for us. At least, I’d love to remind myself of those moments of care.
Tracei,
Home always seems to start in the kitchen and your first stanza is so alive with the bubbling of the Cream of Wheat and the vibrant colors of the appliances. I love the details in the 2nd stanza too; I can remember the 3 or so stations on the TV!
Tracei!
“Inside me there is a kitchen decked out in avocado green appliances & burnt orange accents” is so vivid and specific, I can see and feel that whole world come alive. I love how the poem moves through these rooms and spaces, layering memory and impermanence in a way that mirrors a life shaped by place and transition. I’m really glad you shared this.
Hugs,
Sarah
inside me there is anguish
today and many days to cry
a soft why
i cannot sort out what will
staunch what flows – winter’s cold froze
this soft rose
spring has released the torrents
melted my eyes to sudden streams
no soft dreams
This sounds like it needs to be a spoken word poem. I love the mixture of feeling and nature!
This poem hits hard after trying to be there for two loved ones in pain this week. I find spring’s release so powerful in this poem… We often think of it as just this positive time of rebirth, but I think so much has to wake up, and waking can be hard. I see you.
Your line “winter’s cold froze this soft rose” created a vivid image in my mind os what grief can do to our human hearts.
this poem applies to so many situations. It touches so many more than you might have intended. A soft why is so relatable.
I felt this poem. My first idea was to pour my heartbreak out as well. We all needed this poem. You did what I didn’t, and you did it beautifully.
So lovely and heartfelt, Donna!
Wasatch
Inside me are high mountain walls—
Protective, powerful, independent.
My nostrils flair at the scent of turpentine and butterscotch sap.
Hearing the whispers of aspen leaves,
The crunch of gravel and needles with my footfalls,
I am grounded by red rock cliffs.
Finally, the bright rose flash of sunset
Bounces off their western faces
as clouds darken the sky.
Never have I been able to adequately paint
Or photograph or show this.
It must live inside me.
Beautiful poem. Your description placed me in your memory.
Your conclusion, that this beauty must live inside you, is such a powerful ending to this poem. I love how you included sights, scents, and sounds.
Your line “Never have I been able to adequately paint
Or photograph or show this.” Struck with with such truth. When nature awes us, it is hard to capture and communicate to others. I’m glad you have witnessed such utter beauty.
Kelley, you have begun to adequately show us this beautiful scene. But I do love the last line, that you know you haven’t been able to do it justice because you’ve been there. And that statement of it living inside you adds even more to the effectiveness of the scene you set in your poem.
Hope
by Melissa Heaton
Inside me there is hope.
A light that guides me through
the darkness of fear.
A soft, reassuring glow
reaching through clouds of despair.
A spark igniting my determination
to climb personal mountains and prevail.
Inside me there is hope.
I like the soft reassuring glow and the darkness of fear. Nice use of words.
Let us not forget “hope.” It is so important. It is a catalyst. Your poem has brought me hope, so for that, thank you!
Yes, we must hang on to Hope! now more than ever.
Melissa, this is motivating, your structure helps reassure your reader, with the alternate solution and problem. Thank you
Melissa, I love this poem! I write about hope a lot, so anything with the title “Hope” I’m going to read and enjoy. Beautiful!
That One Path
Inside me there is that one path
That starts behind the weird building
That looks like it was built into the hillside
That reminds me of cupcakes…for some reason…
Once we enter the woods
You sort of disappear
The sounds of the highway become
Whispered gossip
My mom tells me about her work
But I’m preoccupied with the leaves
The way the wind creates like an artist
And the dogs sniff around
And I sniff around
Wondering whose ghost I walk beside
The cars growing louder
Whoever you are
We’re arriving at the parking lot now
The credits in my dream roll
I like your imagery with the line “The sounds of the highway become whispered gossip.”
What a lovely poem; I love the first stanza so much. I felt immediately intrigued. I was expecting a twist, but not the one you ended with; however, I now find myself wishing to know more about this ghost.
Alex — I love how this reads like a “dream roll”… It captivated me from the git-go on down to the dream roll. I loved images like “whispered gossip” and the musing of “whose ghost I walk beside.” Hmmm. That works for me. Thank you for sharing “that one path.” Susie
Oh, Alex. So great to see you.
“the sounds of the highway become whispered gossip” is such a cool, unexpected turn, I love how it transforms the ordinary into something almost secret and alive. The way the poem moves from playful detail into that quiet, wondering presence of “whose ghost I walk beside” and then back out to the parking lot feels dreamlike, like the structure itself is drifting between worlds.
Peace,
Sarah
Yay! We are back together again for 30 days of poetry! Sarah, thank you for a perfect launch and prompt. I agree that inside you there is a notebook! I can only imagine its contents. 💓 I look forward to reading and responding throughout the day.
I chose to be flexible with “Inside me there is” and with a Golden Shovel-ish form.
Joy, Love, and Poetry
Laughter and lighthearted pranks wait Inside
my heart and soul, beckoning me
to douse doubt fires kindling there
Oh, how precious is
this life I live, hold on to joy
Inside the marrow of the bones of
me live generations of prayers that
there is nothing God can’t do, there
is a way to thrive as long as
love remains the center
Stories, memories, and melodies abide Inside
the landscape of my spirit, expecting me
to hear it, speak it, write it there
on a page or a stage; wherever I am, there is
joy, love, and poetry
©Stacey L. Joy, 4/1/2026
Not sure what happened with my image.
Soul. Marrow. Spirit. These are landscapes of such depth that we carry and tend. Love thinking about these places.
Inside the marrow of my bones live generations of prayers…. wow. Powerful image. And I love the first and last word sentences. Lovely.
I love the shovelishness of this! Trying to grab onto that joy and hold it tightly!
This is beautiful Stacy, great format and great words all along!
This is just beautiful, the essence of life itself. I love how you made it the Golden Shovel form…ish!
Hi, Stacey — You are sooo good at those golden shovels. Great word-smithing. This feels like you… the joy, the poetry… you are a dear soul. Your history is so strong. Folks and all those kids have been so so lucky to be part of this “Joy, Love, Poetry.” Love, Susie
Wowza, Stacey! You shoveled gold today! I love all three verse’s striking lines. Dousing doubt fires, firm in faith, standing strong in joy, love, and poetry. I always love when you use your name as joy in your poems.
Stacey, your golden shovel approach works perfectly to show you and your incredible ability to create joy and persevere with faith! Gorgeous, triumphant poem!
In My Space
I love my place,
my home,
my quiet life.
By quiet I mean
the chaos of starving kitties,
goats who’ve never been fed before,
and omnivores who say
they’ve never been given their daily scratch.
This is the chaos I love.
Though I frequently lament
the acquisition of goats.
Not-that-tiny destructors
that they are.
I love gathering eggs
as broody hens squawk and scream
and protective roosters
run to protect their flock.
I love holding mewing kittens
that haven’t found forever homes yet.
And grown cats
who think they are still kittens.
I love this hustle and bustle
and I’m so grateful for
life on my tiny farm.
-Carrie Horn
4-1-26
Carrie- I am so intrigued by “chaos of starving kitties” and how that can be literal companions for goats or maybe something metaphorical in the world. Just thinking. All these beings cultivate a way of being you, so beautiful.
Yeah my cats think they don’t get fed. Lol
Lol! Never owned a goat…I’ve seen how everything to them is either a mountain to be scaled or food to be inhaled!
They are cute little terrorists! I’ve had temporary license tags eaten! But they sure make cute kids! And they are the best.
Carrie — Honest to goodness, this sounds so dandy. I grew up on a farm (my first 12 years), and each of these sensory explosions are so real…kittens, crazy goats, chickens squawking… PERFECT. Totally good feeling reading this poem. Thank you. Susie
Yeah it’s an exhausting little slice of paradise.
the Atlantic coast
inside me are so many trees, pine and hardwood
forests standing on tiptoe, reaching high, yearning
and swamp cypress, stunted, unwavering, determined
there are live oaks weathering time with elegant and wry twists
while dressed in spanish moss
sweet redbuds with tiny blossoms bursting forth into hearts
despite their spindly broken limbs
look, too, my fallen logs replete with turtle families
see, too, the sandy beaches alongside vast turquoise water
rippling with words in elusive cursive
frolicking clouds, salty air, cold wind
how small i am, how scattered
—
A joy to be back here! Thank you, Sarah, for this beautiful writing space. Here’s to April!
I could see and feel your “oaks…dressed in spanish moss” and the redbuds’ “tiny blossoms bursting forth into hearts.” Thank you for taking me on this walk today.
Being in Maine, I forget how the Atlantic coast has quite the variety of scenery. Loved the “elusive cursive”!
Such beautiful description, creating a painting with your words. I loved “fallen logs replete with turtle families.”
This is beautiful, Maureen! And I love the “vast turquoise water / rippling with words in elusive cursive”!
Hi there, Maureen! Great to tumble through your “scattered” images that just make life seem better. I love the details…”swamp cypress… dressed in spanish moss…redbud..hearts….turtles [on the] logs… cursive/frolicking clouds”… just oozing with good sensory MEAT. Glad to see you here today. Hugs, Susie
Maureen, love the beauty of the trees you’ve captured in your poem today. The sensory appeal is incredible and I appreciate the emotional pull you’ve created through your word choices especially with scattered and yearning. Powerful and gorgeous poem!
Sending you a big welcome hug.
“forests standing on tiptoe, reaching high, yearning” is such a gorgeous way to bring those trees to life, I love the quiet personification there. The way the poem expands outward into all that landscape and then turns to “how small i am, how scattered” feels so true, like the structure itself holds both abundance and humility.
Sarah
Thank you again Sarah for hosting and encouraging voices, victories, struggles, all of it! All poetic ponderances! Let’s give this a shot
Inside all of us, there are seasons that change
winters that last far too long
where the ground we walk upon
and the air we breathe against
offers no flexibility
all frigid and constricting
usually there comes a spring
new buds and breezes that offer at least a possibility
that resist the hibernation
and long for future flourishings
we feel summers like goldilocks
just right to some, still have anything to complain about for others
the heat keeps rising
our patience lasts no longer than in our winters, though
autumnal cyclical certaincy
the rounding of the final stretch
or just a pit stop
when we’re young we don’t appreciate all the beauty we hold
when we’re older we find it hard to be grateful for all the beauty we held before
I love how you pulled in the seasons to this poem that to me is so much about being grateful for each season and each phase of life. It can be so hard to do! Your poem makes me want to stop and just be grateful for each moment, each season. Thank you.
I love how your poem moves, touching on each season and the passage of time itself. I love these lines “autumnal cyclical certaincy/the rounding of the final stretch” – echoing a lifetime, I think.
Those last two lines, so true! I had to smile at the perfect uniqueness of “we feel summers like goldilocks.”
I loved meandering through the seasons with you. I loved “summers like goldilocks just right so some” and “autumnal cyclical certaincy”. Your last 2 lines really say it all.
Inside Me There is a Spring
Our yellow house
perched at the corner of Spring and Pear,
a bright finch in our tangled nest of a yard.
Out back, a stubby hill tumbled
then splashed
into the spring on Spring Street.
Cool, shielded by crumbling stone
magical
burbling.
I was 8-years-old,
with 50 cents for two goldfish,
carried home in a plastic bag.
Sloshing tank water, green-tinged,
I set them free.
The Black Moor, eyes bulging,
flowed like ink from his plastic prison,
leaving his old life behind.
The other, curled head toward fanned tail,
a mandarin slice
reluctant.
Cupping my hands in sagging plastic,
I held the bright orange of that fish,
nudged him toward his new home.
Over time, he quadrupled in size,
grew to fit his world,
sunrise in water.
Lori, what beautiful imagery for the simple joy of buying goldfish. I especially liked these lines:
Sloshing tank water, green-tinged,
I set them free.
flowed like ink from his plastic prison,
leaving his old life behind.
a wonderfully descriptive and vivid place. Great work, thank you for sharing!
“sunrise in water” is such an intriguing final line to me. Love it!
sunrise in water! I love that image. I like how you took us to your childhood home and more than that, you took us to one specific memory that I could relate to and remember also, bringing home a goldfish in a plastic bag.
This made me smile – “into the spring on Spring Street” …I imagine you really did live on Spring Street. And your description “a stubby hill tumbled” – that is wonderful word play. I feel your 8 year old excitement in this precious poem.
I love the color imagery. So powerful. Yellow house. The finch–yellow. Spring street. Mandarin–yellow orange. Gold fish. Sunrise… You made a painting in my mind.
Lori,
You have a gift for creating a sense of place with language. I love the alliteration in “splashed
into the spring on Spring Street”
and the image of that wiggling fish who “grew to fit his world.”
Lori, I’m so glad you are here writing – – oh, how I can see these lines so clearly
I was 8-years-old,
with 50 cents for two goldfish,
carried home in a plastic bag.
I see the bulging eyes of the black fish, the Mandarin slice of the orange fish, and the stretch-a-fish-to-fit-the-world swimmer. Yes, a sunrise in water indeed!
Oh, Lori, I love your last line and how the narrator carries us to that wonderful end. I adore corner of Spring and Pear. Who wouldn’t want to be there! Gorgeous poem!
Thank you, Sarah for the invitation to write. I am looking forward to flexing my poetry writing muscles this month.
City Within Me
Inside of me is the City of Brotherly Love
where I spent my childhood and adolescence.
On hot summer days, we’d sit on cool concrete steps.
waiting for the “brrrring, brrrring” of Rosie’s water ice truck.
Inside of me is a girl who played outside
until the street lights came on, who remembers
nightly dinners with the whole family,
neighborhood pride and football rivalries.
A place where important things happened…
where I learned to love music and the Phillies,
where I met my forever love and bought our first home,
where we grew into our little family of four.
Inside of me is a place where I no longer live,
but a place and a feeling that will always live in me.
Your last two lines gave me a nostalgic ache for times and places gone by. I loved reading about “the cool concrete steps,’ and “Rosie’s water ice truck.”
Such good memories! Love those “cool concrete steps” – and I have this wave of nostalgia for a childhood played outside. You’ve captured well how we hold onto places in our bones, no matter that we have moved on to elsewhere.
Your last two lines -“Inside of me is a place where I no longer live,
but a place and a feeling that will always live in me.” Brought tears to my eyes. Your words of always having home in me is so helpful right now. Thank you sharing those words today.
In Pieces
Inside me there is a home half built
And an adventure half taken.
There’s the desk where I read
And the thrill of airplane flights.
There’s the holiday meals I want to make
And the new foods I want to try.
There’s the garden I want to plant
And the unknown lands I want to explore.
Inside me there are pieces of home
And pieces of lands unexplored.
Brittany, I feel each line so deeply because I can very much relate! What a lovely balance between past and future! I love those last two lines of “Inside me there are pieces of home/And pieces of lands unexplored,” as they bring the poem to a full circle. Thank you for sharing!
It is marvelous how you capture dreams and goals in this poem – and that title “In Pieces” is great. Places within can be all new places, not yet explored – love that!
I love the direction you took with this poem giving us a glimpse into your hopes and dreams.
Brittany, the title made me consider how we are all made up of multiple aspects — pieces making up a whole. I will admit at first I thought the poem itself was going to be sad, until I reconsidered what pieces come together to do. I also enjoyed your repetition of “there” which really does ground each memory in the concept of place.
Thank you for this prompt.
Story Love
inside me is a front porch
with high-backed green rocking chairs—
seats of power and promise, places for story and gossip
and a haint blue ceiling and
hanging baskets of cascading pink and white flowers,
inside me is the gathering place for family
and friends and those who need comfort
inside me is a hammock under a tree
where I could breathe in air heavy with humidity
and honeysuckle and lose myself in books and story,
words blending with the sounds of the breeze
tickling the green-black leaves and the songs of birds
and chirps of crickets and buzz of bees and mosquitoes,
just me and a book and breeze in the summer heat
inside me is a kitchen
with a freshly swept wooden floor
where I stand elbow deep in warm dishwater and
daydream to the scrub-rinse-shake-place rhythm
of the after-dinner chores, a girl who prefers daydreams and
stories and books to outside work of
farm life, planting and picking and nurturing the plants
that nurture us
inside me is a library
with shelves of books, crammed with the myth, mystery
and magic of stories, a place to get lost in the worlds
captured in words and image, in line and lyric.
inside me is a repository, a container of
tales, those from the porch, the hammock,
the kitchen, and the library.
inside me is a reader, a daydreamer, a story lover
Your poem reminded me of the story lover who lives in me, too! I love the line, “Words blending with the sounds of the breeze.”
I am right there with you – “daydream to the scrub-rinse-shake-place rhythm”. There is a lovely musical rhythm to your poem, a sense of wistfulness and dreams.
Melanie, the images of the strong rockers as places of stories and gossips at your start are the best bookends for your image of the magic in a library. In between, you sandwich the image of the dreamer even while elbow deep in dishwater that makes you so human and real. This poem tells me so much about you. Wonderful
Melanie,
Reading this I feel as though I’m in low country south, especially with that “haint blue ceiling” and hammock. But my favorite parts are the reading and storytelling lines. They have me smiling and dodging in agreement.
Sending a welcome hug. Can you feel it?
“inside me is a front porch with high-backed green rocking chairs” feels so welcoming and full of life, I can almost hear the stories and laughter gathering there. I love how the poem moves through porch, hammock, kitchen, and library, the structure itself collecting spaces into a kind of living archive of story and self.
Peace,
Sarah
Thank you, Sarah, for the lovely welcome to Verselove! So happy to be here again after a long writing absence, but it’s a wonderful reminder to take this time.
The Rotunda
Inside me there is a girl,
swathed in golden light,
surrounded by gods of old.
even young, I never cared
much for those dour, Catholic angels.
Panels of Muses channel
my pen, skipping, scratching,
smoothing ink over blank pages.
Athena, up above, concentrates
on classics: Atwood and Dosteovesky
Are favorites. Crowds pass
through, looking to the heavens
for a brief moment, ignoring my
own little world within this chair.
Onto the next exhibit they go
while I stay, read, write,
ponder those above me,
wondering how they spell
out my Fate. After all,
only they would know.
Wow. There are great images in this poem. I love your alliteration (and strong verbs!) at the beginning (swathed and surrounded). My favorite stanza is when the crowds pass by. I have felt that feeling before, being so focused in, while others hurry on by. This is a really beautiful poem, Jordan.
Jordan I learned from your poem. From the spiritual and historical details you included. i understood how the power of the past impacts ‘the now’.
Oooh, wondering how those above me spell out my fate……that is so deep and so moving. Very thought provoking poem today!
Thank you Sarah, for the opportunity to write here.
Out There
Inside me there is harmattan
Dry patches everywhere
A swirl of dust touches
the beauty of all and sundry
Inside me there is sunshine
That makes the plants smile
They enjoy their daily shower
It’s coolness changes all
Inside me there is rain
Wild tropical rainfall that
drenches us all, people
plants, lawns and rocks
Inside me they all glow
My solid place of respite
The greenery soaks me up
I breathe and draw in freshness
I enjoyed learning about the “harmattan.” What a perfect word for a poem. I loved the line, “The greenery soaks me up.”
Juliette, I enjoyed learning about your climate through your poem. I especially like this line:
Inside me they all glow
My solid place of respite
I love your line, “Inside me there is sunshine That makes the plants smile” It’s probably something I might never say about myself since I have a black thumb, but I loved it. I want to be like that. You have some really beautiful images in your poem, Juliette.
Juliette,
I loved the arrangement — going from dry to sunshine to rain and glowing. It captured every element that is necessary for growth and was mirrored in you as a poet. I loved the line at the end “breathe and draw in freshness” because it reminded me of how I feel when I am out in nature as well.
I’m not the 1st to be fooled by the joys of April. Welcome back for another year…always in need of inspiration and possibilities. Thank you, once again, Sarah, for the leadership. I, too, will try to “remember how cold the water was.” Even so, I’m likely to jump in again.
Inside Me There Is
a poetic landscape
of winding roads
doodled across
Basquiat swamplands…
I am scribbled like a seagull
above dry lakes & empty seas.
a know man,
an eye, land
ing upon
photographs
charting maps
outside
beyond
boundaries
binaries
aviaries
histories
discovering
this poem.
The sound and imagery in this poem definitely take us on a journey through your poetic landscapes! “Basquiat swamplands” is a very vivid image in my mind! I also love the stanza of “boundaries/binaries/aviaries” to show what shapes this landscape. What a wonderful beginning to the month!
scribbled like a seagull. I can picture myself scribbling in that seagull in all of my doodles which really is one doodle that I’ve drawn since middle school. A sailboat, an island, a sun, and the scribbled seagull. I really enjoyed reading your poem, as I do all of your poems.
There’s lots to love about this poem, but your last lines are going to stay with me…I’m not sure if I can explain why or what I mean, but it has something to do with thinking we are writing the poem, capturing the idea, when really the poem is already there, waiting for us to discover her. Does that make sense? I have to think about this more— this poem.
Hello, brother – what a lovely poem! I especially loved “a know man,
an eye, land” which I think was particularly clever. I admire you and also hope to engage in “discovering this poem” as I write and embark upon joining this group this month. Salud!
I am drawn by the figurative language you used. This word play works so well with the lines” an eye, land / ing upon’.
Hey friend! You bought your A game today! That “scribbled like a seagull” couplet is pretty brilliant and I love the double meanings in the 3rd stanza and the cool enjambment! “boundaries/binaries/aviaries”–whew! So good!
Bravo! I love the way you played with line breaks and double-meanings – “know man” and “an eye,land/ing” – The image of a seagull that “scribbled” is so unique and unexpected! It is so great to reconnect here with you! I can’t wait to read more!
Landscape of Understanding
Inside of me there is a memory of being the Other:
The different, the foreign, the curious,
The college student in a world not my own,
The interloper cataloguing similarities and differences,
The survivalist unused to seeing weekly fruit markets–
Or the military with uzis strolling between stalls,
The foreigner with an accent that made everyone laugh,
The American with a sense of what it means to be the Other.
Inside of me there is a purveyor of understanding,
One who admires the courage and ethics of the Other,
Who values the differences among us–
As well as the humanity that connects us,
Who aches for students whose parents live in fear,
Who cannot understand the hate toward the Different,
Who longs for our melting pot to be restored.
Inside of me, there is a person, plain and simple,
A daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother, a teacher,
All of whom respect the lives of Others
And wishes everyone understood what it is like to be
The Other.
Debbie, I love the direction your poem led us. If only everyone could see the Other, the Different for who they/we are and reveal and respect their beauty. Your poem gives me so much to think about.
Debbie,
This insightful verse expresses a truth I wish more knew and understood: Once you’ve experienced being”the Other,” you can better understand and have empathy for those among us who don’t feel as though they fit in.
So true, Glenda.
Debbie — I NEEDED this poem today. I totally feel the “wishes” and understand the hurt that has befallen this “melting pot.” I too, “ache[s] for students whose parents live in fear.” I ache for my “other” friends who’ve been “ICEd” /deported and terrorized. You are not alone in your reflections here. This poem resonates powerfully with me. And I totally appreciate it. Hugs, Susie (in Minnesota)
Thank you for the feedback. An experience yesterday showed me how one student is trying to deal with it.
Yay for VerseLove! I’m visiting friends in Texas and was inspired by the accompanying pic to reflect on my love of traveling on the road. 😆
Inside me there are
highways undulating
which I shall miss
when I die:
The freedom of the road
The odd and audacious
Horizons and hope
The best of humanity
Imagining that all around
me are bound for
some glorious adventure.
Oh, I love the line “the odd and the audacious”–the rhythm of that fit the idea of the road so well andthe repetition of “d” as a sound made me think of the beat-beat-beat sound of the road on a long trip. Love this poem! Thank you!
Wendy, I’m reading this while listening to This Side of Paradise and the movement between your poem and the song is a vibe I want to stay in. Undulating is a beautifully placed word and falls so softly and moves so carefully through the poem’s lines. I adore “which I shall miss when I die.” When I think of what I will miss when gone, travel is one of those things – the wanderlust and adventure!
Wendy, your poem is a song of the freedom and possibility that April brings ~ my favorite lines: the odd and audacious horizons and hope The best of Humanity… thank you!
May we all strive to be “odd and audacious!” A beautiful poem, Wendy – it calls my wanderlust!
Wendy, I love this tribute to “[t]he freedom of the road”! “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey” and all that! (On a side note, is that an SUV full of dolls from the movie Child’s Play? Riding next to a bunch of Chucky dolls would be rather unsettling, lol.)
It is, indeed! Seen while driving outside of Fort Worth! 🤣🤣
Wendy,
”Life is a highway,” right? Like you I think about where people are going on the highway. I love road trips, except driving to Boise. We just bought a new car yesterday, so I’m ready to go!
Wendy, it’s the same here – when I am on vacation, everyone on the road is on vacation. When I’m heading to work, that’s where everyone else is going too. And home, and church, and so on. I love that you end your last line with some glorious adventure. Work, home, vacation – – life is surely just that!
Wendy, I had missed your poem the other day. Scott wrote about your photo today. So hilarious, and I love the gentle way you write about it. “The odd and audacious” indeed. Here’s Scott’s poem today: https://www.ethicalela.com/ekphrasis-poetry/#comment-118469
Hello, everybody! It’s great to be back writing in community with you all. Thanks, Sarah, for the prompt, and thanks in advance to each of you for the inspiration & encouragement. I post things I write here, including today’s poem:
“Landscape within”
Deep within, a rediscovered country
alive, verdant, teeming, clean all along.
Each step into that before effortless,
a note found in a long neglected song
of praise, of joy. I wonder why I left
and what I’ve found since I’ve been gone and where
I thought I’d find a place that would nourish
the hunger of that me, barely aware
of what dust he shook from his worn sandles
as he walked away from that house of G-d
(but never away from G-d, no, never
away from the light). A decades-long wan-
dering enriched me and humbled me. Then,
I knew where I had to go. And went. Amen.
“A note found in a long neglected song”–what lovely phrasing! It made me stop and pause and sigh. I love the last three lines–a moment of grounding and thought. So beautiful.
Joel,
Im letting these lines wash over me in recognition of the metaphor in “country” and the presence of “G-d” in the church house and outside it. Today I evaluated student writing submissions for NCTE and read the most fantastic poem and essay that reminded me of Archibald Macleish’s Ars Poetica line “A poem should not mean but be.” That’s the sense I have from your poem, too. Have I ever told you how much I love ambiguity in literature?
Joel — I look forward to more of your poems that play out the “decades-long wandering”… I want to know more of the “rediscovered country”… there is such a strong tone of reverence. Thank you for sharing this poem. Susie
The prayerful tone is particularly effective at feeling the meditation of self here, and I can see the landscape within.
Sarah—a perfect place to start! Those staircases you did not choose…we all had those, didn’t we?
Inside Me
Inside me, there is a tall girl
from a small town
in a small house
and a small family
with a cat and a dog
and books.
The tall girl loved
the cat and the dog
and the books.
She lived in her books and they lived in her.
They gave her dreams and hope and places to go
where she wasn’t too tall and her ideas were not too grand.
Inside her, there is still
a small town
and a small house
and a small family
and dogs and cats.
Inside her, too,
are those magical books,
that filled her with hope and dreams.
That tall girl is a tall woman now.
Some of her dreams came true.
And she still has cats and dogs
and books, so that she can dream.
GJSands
4-1-26
The rhythm and repetition here! Gorgeous! I loved the repetition of tall, small, and dreams. the narrative arc you created is just lovely. Thank you!
Gayle, this is just beautiful. I feel as if i’m reading a picture book, illustrated to lead us to sizes and depths and magical places and all that we can become and all that is inside us. Seriously. This is a picture book!
“She lived in her books and they lived in her…” so lovely and relatable! I enjoyed reading about this tall girl, with her books and pets and dreams.
Loved this. “She lived in her books and they lived in her.” That line tells a whole story.
Gayle,
I loved the contrast built into the tall of the individual with the small of everything else. Yet, it came across as cozy and inviting, even if the “tall girl/woman” might have towered above everything. I am also glad that those things still exist for you and I hope they will continue as well. I appreciated the detail was not on the girl or the animals, but on the books — truly emphasizing what was important to you.
Gayle, perhaps it is the repetition of lines where comparison sizes (small, tall) makes me think of the big and small dreams you (and I) found in the books you explored as a child. I too, even now, fill my heart and end table with books so I can dream
Gayle, the tall woman has helped many others make their dreams come true! I especially love the line “She lived in her books and they lived in her.” I can relate! Lovely!
Gayle — I love the “small…tall” repetitions… delightful word-smithing. Amazing how books carry us through our lives and dreams. Hugs, Susie
Gayle, I love the storybook approach to the poem, the dog and (I see calico) cat and all the things to love in books and pets. A girl growing up with dreams and hopes, and here you are – – -dreams achieved, dreams in progress. So many blessings and many more to come.
Gayle, I like the progression of your poem, and the simple pleasures, simple existence that comes in that last stanza. The books that bring “hopes and dreams”–so important here, along with the cats and dogs.
Hello there! I’m excited to join Verse Love…thanks to my SOL friends (Glenda, Kim, and Denise) for posting about it.
Inside of Me
Inside of me there is a little girl
who grew up in one place and
while she loved her childhood
she always dreamed of more—
of a life lived on a larger scale
where she could go places
she never thought possible
Inside of me there is more than one version
all of the experiences and places leaving a mark
forever molding me into
the version I am today—
but my story isn’t finished
Inside of me there are more versions
ones I don’t even know yet
just waiting for their turn
to appear
Jennifer Kesler
1 April 2026
I think we can all relate to being a never-ending process. We are multiple versions of ourselves, but we are also new versions of ourselves.
I love the ending “Inside of me there are more versions, ones I don’t even know yet, just waiting for their turn, to appear.” Even though we like to think we know how we would react to situations, or to the future, we can surprise ourselves. Thank you for writing a poem that encompasses all of us!
Oh, I love the idea of more than one version! I resonated with the idea of dreaming of more and how places can leave a mark. Lovely! Thank you!
Jennifer, you poem captures the dreams of so many girls to have
“a life lived on a larger scale
where she could go places
she never thought possible.”
I like the acknowledgement of your growth and change, and more hopes for the future in “my story isn’t finished” and “more versions” that you “don’t know yet.”
Thank you for sharing!
Jennifer, this is a wonderful description of you as someone with diverse experiences far beyond your roots and yet ready for the versions that are still to come. Your poem is both hopeful and optimistic about life.
Jennifer,
Yay! You’re here! I’m envisioning a photo book of your many travels featuring lines from your poem today. Texas is just too small to hold all your wanderlust!
Ah, Jennifer, welcome to Verselove! Knowing you, I have the privilege of knowing some of the places that have shaped you, that became possible. Lovely poem today of the past, present, and future.
I’m so glad you are here in this writing community sharing your gift of writing with us. I love the feeling at the end where it’s like a book with more chapters, and there is still so much to discover about yourself. A beautiful poem to start the month, and so much fun getting to know you.
Jennifer—I love all those versions waiting for their turn!
Sarah, As I first read your post in my sleepy haze I was pretty sure this prompt was bigger than me, Then, during my early morning power walk I started to see the words of my own landscape come into view. You have allowed me to write what has long been buried inside as I have trudged at times and now walk, slowly more confidently along my own trail. Thank you.
Inside me is a jagged, rocky, complex trail,
Detours, wrong turns, switchbacks,
Cliffs, rock slides, hold your breath moments,
Brilliant rainbows follow devastating storms,
Meadows where God’s majesty flows.
Climbs where I stumble, fall, find footings,
Brave new paths towards the unknown,
Learn about strength, persistence,
Hidden paths, self worth, hope,
Appreciate all the small moments,
The stronger, more confident,
Heirs to my mountain.
Sarah, your poem is at once personal and profound. I’m not much of a climber but I have stumbled and fallen, found my footing….followed paths toward the unknown and witnessed hold your breath moments. All of this, this record of your trail speaks to me too Thank you!
Oh, wow. I read this one several times. I am such an indoor person so I don’t have a lot of experience with climbs or hikes but you created this thoughtful description of what it means to follow a path and deal with the complexities of that. The layers of imagery–detorus, wrong turns, etc.–and the rich descriptions of the rewards–brilliant rainbows, meadows, hidden paths, etc.–connected with me on such an important level. Lovely. Just lovely.
Great poem. Beautiful, Anita. Your words show wisdom, power, resislience, really quite an autobiography with some amazing details to be filled in I’m sure.
Anita, I love the complexity of your trail with “Detours, wrong turns, switchbacks, / Cliffs, rock slides.” As I read, I am with you appreciating new opportunities, welcoming hope, and cherishing my roots. Thank you!
Anita,
This is a fantastic extended metaphor. I’m drawn to “hold your breath moments” and think both of the metaphoric and literal moments that line speaks to.
Anita, precious images of generations here – – the feeling of living and raising others as well. I see little foothills in the shadow of a mountain and it brings a smile to my face and joy to my heart.
Anita—I believe we all have a mountain inside of us. That’s where we find who we will be,
Good morning everyone! Sarah, your poem is the perfect way to start the month and remind us what a gift poetry is. Thank you!
Inside me there’s an armchair stoop,
and cracked sidewalks
separated by skinny strips of grass,
weeds and the tiny blue flowers
that grow between the concrete squares,
and squeeze through the sidewalk heaves
beneath the grand sycamore I loved.
On the corner, a chain link fence
surrounds a garden of wishes—
yellow dandelions and white seed globes
that stretch between the links
to greet me as I round the corner
to the boundaries of my walking world—
Joe’s Candy Store, my school,
my church, the blue grotto I loved.
If I ever make it to heaven,
you can find me sitting
on the armchair stoop
waiting for my brother
or maybe on the curb
beneath the sycamore,
scraping seed pods and singing.
Ann, I loved this! Each stanza built such a rich image of specific moments that seemed both personal and universal. I loved the arc, how you started in one memory and returned to it as your heaven. My favorite stanza is the second one–the “garden of wishes” and “that stretch between the links to greet me as I round the corner to the boundaries of my walking world”–this was a stanza I had to read aloud. I loved the sound of it, the way it felt as I read it. Gorgeous. thank you.
This is so great Ann. I loved reading this. I was really able to visualize your places very well. You invite your reader in so wonderfully.
Hi, Ann! Each of your stanzas narrates a landscape that I want to explore more. I see that “armchair stoop” and want to sit in it and absorb the sidewalks, the grass, the tiny blue flowers. I want to walk with you rounding that corner through familiar places you love. Thank you for inviting me/us to your world!
Ann, that image of an armchair stoop is so vivid to me thanks to your words that paint an image of you in pigtails watching the cracks in the sidewalks grow singing softly. This is a strong physical image of your roots. lovely
Ann — What a delightful image… you there with the “seed pods and singing.” The details just bring this so vividly to reality. From the sycamore to the Candy Store. Cool. Susie
Sarah, thanks for getting on going on our ninth year of VERSE-LOVE! Thanks to platforms like this, I can write a poem that reveals what’s inside of me.
Cross-States Landscaping
Inside me, there is Memphis
Michigan, not Tennessee
A foster home on a tiny farm
Kept my siblings and me out of harm.
In me is St. Louis,
Missouri, not Michigan
Where 8th graders taught me
How teaching is reaching
In me are Fairport and Wilbraham
New York and Massachusetts
Where substitute teaching prepared me
For interdisciplinary humanitarian
Lessons across California content areas
Teaching in East Africa with Rotary International
Aren’t you from our tribe?
Revealed to me my heritage.
Experiences that set me up on stage
Five states and sixteen grades
Teaching diverse students of different skin shades
Let me know that showing love
Works as well as spanking with a glove
Colleagues along the way
Mentored me like they do today.
Thank you all is all I have to say.
Thanks, Anna, for reminding me of past colleagues — you’re so right that they continue to nourish us. And I admire how you’re bringing each stanza to a direct engaging rhyme. Such a gift on the mind and on the ear!
Anna, thanks for sharing your journey! In the words of Johnny Cash, “you’ve been everywhere, man”! Stanzas 2 and 5 were my faves. ❤️
I loved how you situated where you’ve been and how the people and places have nourished you. I loved the layering of experiences. Beautiful!
Anna, your words paint an image of the many intersecting fibers that created your foundation in so many different places providing the roots for your teaching of a diverse group of learners. Your path certainly had its challenges and yet you focus on the protecting your from harm and letting you grow in a life long learner. This is a testament to your personal tenacity.
Hey there Anna — What a super testament of a life and career that has made a tremendous difference. Each of the experiences stacks up to greatness. WHOO! Cool poem! Hugs, Susie
Wow, Anna, this is quite a journey! I love the parallel slight misdirection of the first 2 stanzas, and the rhyming couplets that bring a pulse to the trip that you take us on.
Anna! Thank you for sharing this wonderful poem! First, let me say that it was a pleasure to meet you in CO. I hope we can meet again. Second, this poem moves and weaves like the speaker did through all those places and times. I can’t wait to read more about your rich experiences!
Good Morning, Dear Poet Friends! Sarah, thank you for welcoming us to words today. The inspiration and invitation to learn about each other through the landscapes is thoughtful and beautiful. I will save your mentor poem to use in class.
Places I Carry
Inside me there is
A field of sunflowers.
Framed by the blue sky,
It gifts me hope of returning
Inside me there is
The Black Sea with
Magnificent Ayu-Dag
Steadfast stronghold of Crimea
Inside me there is
A quiet, yet firm belief
That even in the darkest seasons
These places hold the light for me.
This is lovely ~ the field of sunflowers framed by the blue sky holds light for so many of us in this dark season. Beautiful.
Leilya, loved this poem! Your ending was so beautiful and wrapped up your thoughts so perfectly. And that picture! I hope you’ve framed it, it’s lovely. And you taught me about Ayu-Dag in Crimea, so thanks for that!
Leilya! I love this so much. The field of sunflowers framed by the blue sky–gorgeous! The second stanza–love it! Thank you!
What a beautiful sensation of longing for home, Leilya – thank you for your words! May that quiet, yet firm belief hold true. Much love.
Leilya, I could see you and your heritage in the photo before even beginning your words, but you are there every step of the way. Your word choices (flag and light) honor the flag and the people, as does your hope and firm belief that light will come again. My students add Ukraine to our intentions every morning. They always remember.
Leilya, this is an amazing poems of admiration and respect for your homeland. Your last lines, even in the darkest seasons These places hold the light for me as me, your reader, to respect the dark season of your roots. I’m feeling your strong emotions
Leilya,
I’m looking forward to all your Ukraine poetry this month. You know I love sunflowers and all they symbolize. Hold onto that “quiet, firm belief.”
Such beauty, this poem and your delightful picture of the blue sky and yellow flowers. Were these the colors of the Crimean flag at one time? It’s so comforting to see the nature in the picture and feel a sense of unity with Mother Earth.
Hi, Kim! These are the colors of our Ukrainian flag. The Crimean-Tatar flag is the same color of blue and a capital T in the top corner.
Leilya — In some ways you and I were on a similar journey with our poems today. Love the sunflowers! I really do believe that the beautiful places we see in our memories shape the way we navigate the world. I’m glad you’re on my sailboat! Hugs, Susie
Leilya, whoa! I am so deeply moved by your poem. The photograph adds such poignancy to the message you’ve shared. I appreciate the imagery that shows us Ukraine and your last stanza is magnificent. “These places hold the light for me.” Wow! What an end. Hugs and thank you for sharing such a powerful, gorgeous poem with us today.
Leilya,
Thank you for this beautiful poem of home and of hope.
I LOVE APRIL!!! These daily inspirations are not at all daunting . . . they are life-giving. Thank you a zillion times over, Sarah, for creating, maintaining, and nurturing this space.
I love today’s prompts. So many possibilities. I love how your short verse captures with powerful imagery what poetry does for us.
Magnet
Inside me there is
a little door knocker
tapping on my heart,
a hollow yet incessant
pestering
for admittance.
Inside me there is
a little girl,
a teenager,
a college student,
a young wife and mom,
an empty nester,
and a grown-ass woman
who hears
yet ignores
the rapping,
sometimes pounding,
on the lodestone
of my psyche
still uncertain
of where
I should be pulled.
~Susan Ahlbrand
1 April 2026
I can picture the different versions of you nestled inside one another like Russian stacking dolls.
Hi, Susan! What a marvelous view inside of you. I like how your poem captures the changing roles and growth. The unknown “still uncertain” is the intriguing part of life, isn’t it? Beautiful poem to begin a poetry month!
Susan, I loooooved the shift in the second stanza. The strong language and imagery shift jolts the reader. Loved the uncertainty of the ending juxtaposed with the purposeful linear movement at the beginning of stanza 2.
This sounds like the me I want to be when I retire. 🙂
I love this so much–the listing, the layering of images. I love the last stanza–there is something very powerful in the uncertainty. There is so much strength in the layered images so the uncertainty doesn’t feel like something that can’t be handled. Love it!
Oh, Susan! Not knowing where you should be pulled speaks so strongly to all that you are (and we are!). These words are so powerful: incessant, pestering, lodestone, grown-ass. I think of the strength and persistence in each of them and am reminded of Poe’s Raven and Tell-tale Heart too. Love this!
Susan, you have taken me into your heart and soul to be part of what is for all of us (I think) a life long struggle to know where we should go and what step we should take. While its your story, I certainly connect and think this is the story for all who stop and reflect along this journey of life.
Susan,
This is so vulnerable and honest. Some fab vocab, too: “loadstone” among them. I think all women harbor these doubts and uncertainties.
Also, ‘Preciate you comment to me today and know your words are a gift to your family, too.
Susan, I read this at lunch today and didn’t have time during that window to do any responding, so I have read it again and love it so much – – I laughed out loud at the grown-ass woman and can relate so strongly to the pull from so many directions and not sure where I should head. I love your use of words here in the poem – lodestone, psyche, rapping. You have a magical way about your writing.
Hi, Susan — The reality that we are always wondering, always asking just where we “should be pulled” definitely resonates with me. I love the sensory image of the “knocker/tapping”… seems just right. And a smiling nod to “grown-ass woman”… YES! Love that. Love the phrase “lodestone/of my psyche” — might have to steal that someday. :-). Susie
You captured that anxious wonder beautifully with the symbol of the knocker.
Susan, your opening lines, pulled me right into your poem. I appreciate the list of all the people you are and the demands that hammer inside. Powerful!
Wow, Susan, what a metaphor, the tapping on your heart, “a grown-ass woman” and then that last stanza–the pulling of the magnet.
Thanks, Sarah. This is a gorgeous prompt for our celebration of poems and poet friends.Im writing for my grandchildren today.
our history
[for Ezra & Alyannah]
i will teach you
histories inside me
pen poems & stories
on your heart so
you will know my
show-me-state child-
hood & hear ancestral
voices tell tales of
people you never met
places you’ve not seen.
they will germinate like a
garden feeding-nourishing
writing your life—
histories inside you.
Glenda Funk
April 1, 2026
NPM VL EELA
These lines are beautiful!
“pen poems & stories
on your heart so”
Glenda, thank you so much for sharing this seed of love, this seed of yourself. Your grandbabies are lucky to have you. My favorite part — “writing your life”, which in my experience always feelings like righting one’s life : ) Abrazos!
I love the poem printed over the photo. Past and future merging, shared in the present.
What a beautiful promise of things to come.
Glenda, this was beautiful! Loved the confident, wise, and purposeful tone of your first line, your engaging line breaks, and the cyclical nature of story that your poem suggests. Lovely!
Good Morning, Glenda! Your grandchildren are so lucky to have you “pen poems and stories” on their little hearts. Love the inclusion of “ancestral voices” that will plant the seeds for the new histories for your grandchildren.
I love this! The idea of “pen poems & stories” as something to be shared and passed on–gorgeous. I love the last two lines–what a great ending!
Ezra and Alyannah are so fortunate to have your stories, your words. I especially loved the lines “writing your life- histories inside you.”
Glenda, this is a love song/story to your grands that assures your stories will live on through their memories. As my own littles have grown, I am trying to find ways to share those stories as well. I am often using pictures to spur questions and stories at times which seems to add context to their worlds so different from my own.
Wow.
I have looked at times at my writing as a gift to those I leave behind and your poem captures that so well.
Glenda, what a beautiful way to share the history of you, your son, your grandson with Ezra and Alyannah. This could be the first poem in a book to them. It’s precious, and the Canva is so engaging too. I like what you have written to them!
Glenda — Your commitment here to telling the truth to your little ones… I’m so relieved for you to be on this earth. You will tell the history, tell the truth, include the gory details. I am blessed to think of you doing this. Love, Susie
Oh, Glenda, I love the Canva rendition and how your poem reaches out to your grandchildren. Your first stanza completely pulled me into your story, your heart, and the childhood from the “show-me-state”. Your end is poignant and has just the right tone for a poem directed to your precious grandbabies. I so appreciate your craft, the way you’ve formatted this and the diction you’ve chosen. “Geminate” “Garden feeding-nourishing”. Lovely message and cadence! Simply gorgeous!
Here’s my April Fools’Day poem:
April one
A day for fun
Seventies sisters
Together today
First a buffet
Then a play
”Pretty Woman” on the stage
Remember when the movie
was all the rage?
Seventies sisters
Having fun
Feeling young!
Diane,
Happy to see you here. Your celebration of your sister has me thinking of fun times and shenanigans w/ mine.
Hi Diane! 🙂
Your poem is playful and conveys your love for your sister!
Diane, loved the carefree picture this painted! Loved the active variety of sentences that engage us and the animated use of punctuation: a lively and fun poem!
Diane, it’s a great day to celebrate with a sister. Love the playful rhyme throughout the poem. “Having fun / Feeling young!” cheers me up. Thank you!
The youthful rhythm of your poem made me feel so happy for these “seventies sisters!”
Diane, this is a great way to celebrate this silly holiday!
Now this is just the best – two sisters out tearing up the town doing all kinds of fun things. It’s great to feel young, and who better than a sibling to be young with??
Sarah,
Thank you for hosting and starting us off with such a lovely way to (re)introduce ourselves. Thank you so much for providing this space to write in community.
I’m so happy to be back with you poets for an entire month!
—————————————————————————
inside me is
the crunch of the trail
under my bike tires
the smell of rain in the woods
as I walk up the hill with my Grandma
in the St. John Valley
home where I never lived
the flat rock in the brook
my mom’s laugh
strawberry rhubarb pies for birthdays
my husband’s hand on the small of my back
pages read with my Dad’s green army flashlight
the shadows of Sethe and Paul D holding hands
in the first book I taught
dark Rothko rectangles
a respite from the hospital
the light I swim into
Sharon,
OMG, I can’t imagine teaching Toni Morrison as the first ever novel I taught. How lucky to begin that way. I see you riding your bike, embracing nature, exploring through your words. And I love Rothko’s art. This is a feast of imagery.
Your poem reveals so much about you, from tiny details to big moments.
Sharon, the imagery in here was so visceral and particular: this was really beautiful. ❤️
Sharon, how great to “see” you here again! Your imagery is captivating and comes alive with the “crunch of the trail” under your bike. teaching Beloved in the first year is daring, but those shadows are so powerful signs of hope. Thank you!
Good to see you, too, Leilya. It was actually year zero, student teaching. My cooperating teacher wanted me to teach what she was teaching to her tenth graders since that was a state-tested year, but she let me loose with the seniors and I went for it. It was a good experience.
The line “home where I never lived” is so powerful to me. Each image in each line is like clicking through a View-Master reel: quick, surprising, colorful, and clear.
Sharon, you have me walking with you on that trail as you paint vivid memories that could easily be the see of a deeply reflective memoir. While you may never have lived there, your clearly were nurtured by this space. Powerful images
Sharon, the line that has me nodding in knowing is home where I never lived…..this space of relatives’ homes that feel so much like we belong that it’s hard to describe it any other way. The hand on the small of your back is a comforting feeling – – that assurance that someone “has your back” and is present as you move along – – such a sweet gesture of protection.
Sharon — Each line is, in fact, its own poem — so beautiful are the images that you have here. Some nostalgic for me and others poignant to the point of tears for me. BEEEEEAUtiful poem. Thank you. Susie
Sharon, your poem pulled me in for a visceral ride. I can hear the crunch, feel the husband’s hand, and taste the sweetness of the pie. Your end is particularly provocative.
Sarah, your poem is so beautiful. I especially loved:
Your river reminded me of the mountains I seek every summer to lessen my load and raise my spirits.
Mountain Meditation
The golden meadow
Laced with wildflowers,
The stand of pine trees
Gently sleeping along
The quiet ridge
Just beyond
The mountains rise
One after the other
A play of light and shadow
Silver clouds drift
Swiftly north
Dusting the mountaintops
Beckoning
Evening rain.
I love the peaceful feel of this poem. I think I’ve been there before…
Joanne, I especially loved line 4 as a standalone line and how the image changes when read with line 5. Neat trick!
Joanne, you had me with the first two lines. This is one of my favorite landscapes:
“The golden meadow
Laced with wildflowers.”
Your imagery is rich, captivating, yet so familiar, that I am longing for these “silver clouds” that are “dusting the mountaintops.” Beautiful!
Joanne, this is an exquisite feel, the sleepy meadow with weather touching the tops of the trees. It feels like here this afternoon – – we have had a drizzle but are getting more, and the clouds are moving swiftly. You captured the image of the GPS of where to stand for the feeling of peace.
Joanne, your imagery gave me a lovely break from a busy day. I didn’t quite get to meditating, but you brought fond memories of walks in cool woods on warm blustery days. Thanks for the lovely lacy wildflowrs!
Sarah, This prompt is serendipitous to the first line of the Kidlit Progressive Poem hosted today by Tabatha Yeats at The Opposite of Indifference. https://theoppositeofindifferencecom.wordpress.com/2026/04/01/the-2026-kidlit-progressive-poem/
If anyone wants to participate, I still have 3 dates at the end of the month available.
Your poem leads me to that place where poetry resides in me. I always worry that I won’t be able to write. And yet, the gate opened this morning with this simple prompt. Thanks!
Bayou-Side
Inside me there is a sycamore,
a tall pine, a draping grandmother oak.
I can draw a map from Purple Creek to Bayou Teche.
I’ve spent a lifetime walking near water
watching for herons, turtles, and honeysuckle.
When it’s time for me to leave this land,
place me in a boat without a motor.
Let me float for eternity.
(Margaret Simon, draft)
I’m just over here trying to catch my breath. This. Is. A. Masterpiece. I’ve read your poems for years and years, but today’s literally took my breath away, Margaret. I’m seeing the grandmother oak as a metaphor for the passage of one mother to the next, and tall pines as children. Your heritage is rich. Your legacy is strong. I know the worry you won’t be able to write is real, but you certainly wrote today!
Margaret, thank you for sharing this today and what depth you’ve pulled out in your verse as a draft this morning. I got sidetracked with finding images of Bayou honeysuckle to further visualize your view.
Margaret,
I have such a sense of peace reading your poem of place and acceptance.
I am not surprised to find trees deep inside you.
You let us experience the Bayou, too. We feel how deeply it is a part of you. And as in the bayou is the place for you , there’s a place in all our hearts where we want to be for eternity. Beautiful!
Your poem is beautiful. I especially love the ending-
Margaret—there is so much peace here. You have taken me to a place I haven’t know. And the second stanza. Wow. Just wow.
Margaret, beautiful poem! Your last stanza calls to mind Vikings and Arthurian legend.
Margaret, those first three trees sing so lyrically on the page, falling into and out of my mouth as I read. All three so good, but I love the draping grandmother oak and the visual it offers. Your ending is so gentle, and such an offering, peaceful and inviting.
Margaret, your poem took my breath away. The landscape you narrate is gorgeous, but the final lines keep me rereading poem over and over. I sense so much love for the place that holds you!
“I’ve spent a lifetime walking near water,” leads the reader gently to “Let me float for eternity.” I felt this poem in my heart.
This! So lucky to have such a lifetime of walking.
Margaret — I think that sounds like a darned good plan. Sounds like the peace I am hoping for. I love sycamores, pines, oaks, herons, turtles, honeysuckle… quiet waters… aaaaah. Going quietly into this good night. :-). Hugs, Susie
Happy April Verselove! Sarah, as always, thank you for creating the space to welcome and inspire us.🩵
inside me there is a cavern
spaces to collect
sensory souvenirs
of places i’ve witnessed
inside me there is a hook
pulling in the wander
lust for exploration
travel flowing in my dna
Stefani, those sensory souvenirs are the best travel gift – – to be there, to see, to feel and take it all in. I’m feeling that hook you reference, and I believe that it is true about wanderlust in the dna. Your poem brings all the wonder and the desire to wander.
Stefani, I have these collections. The little things that remind me of my travels. I love how you used the word “hook” in the second stanza. That pull inside you that wants to travel more.
Stefani,
We share a love of travel, and being from Missouri, the cave state, I love the cavern imagery.
A hook, pulling in the wanderlust…what a wonderful metaphor!
Stefani, I’m envisioning that cavern (and all that we are capable of holding – sometimes too much) as a cumulation of an entirety of existence. All that you have done, have taken on, have gathered – that collection is so vast and encompassing. What a beautiful image.
Stefani, your cavern metaphor seems as a perfect collector of “sensory souvenirs.” Yet, there is also the hook that keeps taking you placing to witness more. I love how you structured the poem here with a place that holds memories and a desire to explore more.
Sarah, what a lovely way to begin this month of VerseLove, getting to know our histories and our heartbeats. I love the way you build community and sustain it. You inspired me to think also of my favorite books, especially the blank ones. I love your nod to being shaped by the page. Thank you for this space and for hosting us today!
the page and the pen
inside me there is a boxcar
bent fork and family
there is a farm
radiant web overhead
there is Golden
Fedder Fountain and Verbivore
there is River Heights
old clock and mystery
there is Mitford Village
Barnabas and covered dish
there is a mountain
Swiss cabin, goats, grandpa
Inside me there are pages
some filled, some blank
where the reader writes the story
but I
I hold the pen
I admit to starting your poem quickly, almost on autopilot as a sleepy breakfaster. But
stopped me in my tracks as I just finished that book a few days ago. It, too, lives in me. Such a lovely tribute to some of the books that have shaped you, and others.
Good morning Kim, I am loving this twist of the reader to writer–we hold the pen to our lives. Thank you for sharing.
I love that repetition of the word I..I hold the pen. You are the writer of your life’s journey.
The pages we hold… and holding the pen to fill more. It’s the way to be in Poetry Month.
Hi Kim! 🙂
I enjoyed your poem very much. It reminded me of “Where I’m from” by George Ella Lyon. I especially liked the repetition of ‘there is’ and the ending.
Kim — at first I was thinking of real places, then I realized that they were all the books inside of you! What a wonderful tribute to all of those author. I shared many of the tales. I need to find Fedder Fountain!!
Kim, “verbivore” was everything! ❤️❤️
Kim, how I enjoy walking with you through all of these places! Places I have set aside for some time and places closer (in time and to the heart) and places I have not yet been. Your ending reminds of Frost’s Road Not Taken. The pause on I, the repetition, adds emphasis and power. I’m playing with the many ways to read this by changing pause length and emphasis and it’s so fun!
“Where the reader writes the story but I, I hold the pen…” That stopped me in my tracks. I love those lines!
Oh, Kim, you are taking me on a journey with the books–such a great way to bring up the landscapes that shaped you into a person, a writer, a poet. Keep using that pen–you are a skilled wordsmith.
How on earth do you reveal a “list” of book places so beautifully? And then you shift with that powerful, isolated last line . . . the writer. Our writing has been so shaped by our reading, hasn’t it?
Hi, Kim — I love the idea of the page and the pen. Each of those specifics have a strong sense of history. The opening “boxcar” and “bent fork” grabbed me right off. You are a woman of the pen! Love, Susie
Kim,
This catalog of places and items echoes Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” one of the poems that made me fall in love with/ poetry and teaching poetry. Then there is that ending that claims narrative ownership and interpretation. It’s a fantastic touch of ambiguity and a provocative idea.
Kim, what a beautiful tribute to all the wonderful stories that have shaped your life. I do love your last stanza and the way you formatted the very last line because it adds so much power to “I hold the pen”. Marvelous poem!
Kim, what a beautiful poem that shows the connection between the reader and writer. I love the
“but I /
I hold the pen”
Lovely!
Sarah, what a beautiful beginning, a way to introduce ourselves to one another through words and our “first brave sentences.” Can’t wait to meet everyone for the first time or again through new poems.
Aprils
Inside me there is tapestry,
a quilted landscape
of seeds,
sewn furrows planted,
rows expanding into fields,
rolling over hillocks
and settling into swales.
Each seeded letter
becomes a word
becomes a verse
becomes a poem
becomes community,
speaking of yesterdays
and growing into tomorrows.
Good morning and happy poetry month! Thank you for starting us off this morning. I want to take your last two lines and have it be a poetry prompt and starting lines.
Jennifer, your poem wraps my soul like a springtime shawl, full of warmth and bloom and curves of green – – rolling over hillocks captures the perfect essence of springtime’s spilling out, greening up, covering us in warmth and life. What a perfect start to the MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR, and that’s National Poetry Month.
I love how you move us from literal seeds to the figurative ones, the ones we sow with our words, making a tapestry of common ground.
The word tapestry should be field, to make the metaphor work. Ha!
“speaking of yesterdays
and growing into tomorrows.”
This is our garden, here at Verselove…wonderful.
Rabbit rabbit, Jennifer: you were the first one here! This was really lovely. The imagery of growth and gardening and that swelling, growing sense of stanza 2 enhanced by repetition…perfect way to kick off VerseLove! Thanks for this. ❤️❤️🪻🪻🪻🌷🌷
What an image you create with these lines, Jennifer! Your first stanza is beautiful and the second one tugs at emotions capturing a slice of what this space is.
Jennifer, it’s the first day, but you’ve already have a vision for the tapestry of voices cheering this community with your generous gift, and each one of us belongs to that “community, / speaking of yesterdays / and growing into tomorrows.” Thank you!
Hi, Jennifer — This has such a solid sense of hope and looking forward. Following the seed to the swales, was beautifully crafted. And turning that into your writing and the possibilities that lie in the “tomorrows” makes me feel good. I think I’m going to go make supper. :-). Love, Susie
Jennifer, what a great way to begin the wonderful sharing of verse. I love the images you created: “sewn furrows” “settling into swales” – it fills like the earth is preparing for the wonderful bounty that this project will produce. Thank you for this opening gem!