This is the Open Write, a place for educators to nurture their writing lives and to advocate for writing poetry in community. We gather every month and daily in April — no sign-ups, no fees, no commitments. Come and go as you please. All that we ask is that if you write, you respond to others to mirror to them your readerly experiences — beautiful lines, phrases that resonate, ideas stirred. Enjoy. (Learn more here.)
Our Host
Glenda’s high school speech and debate coach taught her “no one is indispensable,” an ethos she internalizes through Emily Dickinson’s poem
“I’m Nobody! Who are you?”
I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Dont tell! they’d banish us – you know!
How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell your name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
Glenda blogs at Swirl & Swing: www.glendafunk.wordpress.com
Inspiration
The poem with the most dominant image of a wave in my mind is Stevie Smith’s “Not Waving but Drowning.” I shared this poem often with students. The first verse reads:
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
I learned about Wave Poems as a sub-genre in the June 22, 2025 issue of The Weekly Muse from Two Sylvias Press. This prompt offers space for many possibilities. Think about the myriad meanings of wave. A wave can be a hand gesture offered to greet or say goodbye to someone. When my father died, my brother, a seventh grader at the time, waved at mourners who attended the funeral from the limousine as we left the service on our way to the cemetery.
The word wave can also refer to ocean waves, light waves, sound waves, etc. We can also experience waves of emotion: grief, fear, love, anger, etc.
Process
Consider looking at various definitions of wave in a dictionary or encyclopedia. The writers at Two Sylvias Press suggest we
#1 explore the human wave gesture in a poem. You can write about a moment of waving hello or goodbye. This prompt lends itself to a focus on place and occasion. Consider composing a metaphor for the physical gesture of waving.
#2 explore a beach memory. Focus on sight and sound imagery in your poem. Feature the beach waves as a central image or metaphor or narrative device in your poem.
I love the following suggestion from Two Sylvias Press:
#ProTip: “Try searching your word document files for words like “beach” or “ocean” to uncover other possible wave poems you might already have so that you can submit them!” I followed this advice for my poem.
Glenda’s Poem
Florida
Pink pastel flamingo vibes
Miami Vice mythic scribes
Sunshine senior paradise
Hurricane Ian’s high price
Low country Everglades swamp
Gators galore in ponds romp
White sand beaches so sublime
Watching surf crash wasting time
Florida Man dark rep dooms
Don’t say gay governor looms
From panhandle to Key West
colorful folk coalesced
Take time unwind chase the sun
in the state that looks like a gun
(5-20-24 inspired by Taylor Swift’s song “Florida”)
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.
So much to love here today, Glenda: your lovely imagery-filled poem; your choice of “Not Waving but Drowning” (one of my favorite poems!); your mug! XD
I recently learned that a group of vultures is called a kettle and watched a video of their hypnotic flight, and your theme today fit that perfectly!
“Relic”
Yellow, hazy, smoky sky;
lazy circle eye does spy
Feathered creature, thermal soar,
Carrion crunch, he craves some more.
Keeper of our forests, green
Skulking fellow, seldom seen
Slow to amble out of way
Knows his place – and yours – today
Knows you’ll pass and he’ll resume
Feasting on blood, bone, and rheum.
Majesty as they do fly
Create a kettle in the sky:
Undulating like the steam
As from a potion, witch’s dream
Prehistoric wingspans grace
The sky as comrades keep apace –
Until, with telescopic vision,
Eye meets meal, electric frisson.
Cape a-spread, the bird takes flight
Sublime, like creature of the night
As senses home on coveted meal
Overwhelming curb appeal
Then lightly does he land to feast:
Unsung hero, king of beasts
Keeping ecosystems clean
Then disappearing, sight unseen.
Wendy,
Your poem is magical and fun. The rhyme is playful, and my sense is this would make a wonderful picture book.
Wendy, I am taken by the rhyme and how much delight it adds to reading a poem, which I sometimes forget. “creature of the night” and “unsung hero, king of beasts” are such powerful images. Love this poem.
Eyes swerve, bouncing between the sidewalk and skyscrapers
Heads nod underneath headphones, blasting what sounds like silence to the rest of us
We are all here, and in motion, but clearly somewhere else
I too have stopped stopping
Decades of being told to keep going, now lodged into the pedestrian’s playbook
The City and The Solitude, both oceans: vast and ripe for discovery; limitless and dangerous
Knee-deep in the sea you meet a wave you’ve never met before because they never repeat themselves, no two are the same
If you only believe they are there to knock you down
You miss the ones that lift you up and take you to the warm earth
Where you lie with arms spread
Stable and convinced
to do it all over again.
Rachel,
I hadn’t thought about how unique each wave is until reading your poem, but my favorite part is these lines;
“If you only believe they are there to knock you down
You miss the ones that lift you up and take you to the warm earth”
Poems such as yours reminding me that perspective matters and defines much of life are among my favorites. I’m saving these lines.
Rachel, I so enjoyed reading your poem for all its movement and imagery of urban scene. I felt like I was home in Chicago or on the lake with waves but also waves of people, a sea of bodies, but then I felt the wave of a turn in the ending and “arms spread” wanting to be lifted. That stays with me.
Waves of energy
Waves of pain, anxiety
Waves of wine help
I’m not really depressed! I’m just having a couple of tough days. Tomorrow I’ll write an upbeat poem, I swear!
Mo,
I hear you. I told someone yesterday I’m generally (almost every day) a joyful, happy person, but that’s not often reflected in my poetry. I just love bashing the regime, and I do understand those “waves of pain, anxiety.” I wish I could enjoy “waves of wine help” more, but my ability to consume alcohol is on life support because of my dumb A1C.
Sending positive vibes, Mo! Tomorrow will be a better day 🤗
Waves of wine help. Agreed. I’ve always been a fan of the short forms, and this is why – – you cut right to the point. Well done. cheers
Wave
I was going to the beach gayly
to check out the freshness and motion
The rolling rhythm that changes daily
yesterday, calm roll of the ocean.
Today a crashing cascade
too strong for a wade
as a storm from the south approaches.
I’ll go again tomorrow to see
what difference there may be
for surfing it may be just right
a ridge of water moving
a lifting heave of the Pacific proving
to rise a great height
then curling back to the sea
shaking the pier in retreat.
Again, I must say thank you to Glenda and to all.
Won’t be able to write tomorrow.
This is a lovely poem, a beautiful reminder to notice and to revere the power of the ocean. I love the subtlety with which the ocean changes our planet and our perspectives. I so wish I could see the ocean daily.
Susan,
I love the carefree and joyful emotions “The rolling rhythm that changes daily
yesterday, calm roll of the ocean” evoked your visit to the ocean. I feel the awe in “a ridge of water moving/a lifting heave of the Pacific …”
Susan, the picture your poem paints is a bully being brushed off. These are the lines that create that visual for me. I’d like to say the bully’s conscience caused a change in its mind; on the other hand, I’d say someone stood up to the bully with an “I dare you!” 🙂
a ridge of water moving
a lifting heave of the Pacific proving
to rise a great height
then curling back to the sea
Such a lovely rhythm and cadence in your poem, Susan. It must be wonderful to live by the ocean!
Sue, the rhyme and rhythm allow me to roll with the poem and see the wave changes. I love effective rhyming that is not forced: cascade/wade; moving/proving, and the rest. Maybe, tomorrow’s walk to the beach will aldo show up in a poem. Thank you!
memories washing over me
brothers and I standing smiling
thigh deep in the salty water
torso and legs scratched and caked
seat of my bathing suit filled
with wet beach
my feet digging into the sand
with small expectant bounces
small ripples lapping my body
impatiently ignored
eagerly, repetitively, looking back
over my right shoulder
for the big one
arms outstretched
one hand folded over the other
ready ready ready to spring forth,
with a scream before the dive
“YES!!”
and full body skittering
up and across the shore
over and over again, the gritty joy
belly-surfing
riding the waves
———–
I love the very word “waves” and how it takes me in so many different directions…thanks for today’s prompt, Glenda!
Maureen, your poem is so full of joy and fun. I love how you paint this experience. I can feel the sand, the water, the anxious wait for the wave to carry you to shore. Beautiful!
This poem is so refreshing on a hot day here in So CAL. I loved body surfing when I was younger. Yes, “the gritty joy”.
Maureen,
This is a perfect poem for a summer beach day, a memory that’s both personal and universal. Keep riding those waves, and let’s hope they’re blue in November.
Maureen! Your poems nearly scares me stiff! How can there be “joy” out in all that power! This response coming from a person who thought she was drowning the first time she, an experienced swimmer in indoor pools at school, got swashed over by currents in an outdoor river!” But, having lived in SoCal for nearly two decades, I got to see that the waves are more”gentle” and “controlled” by the beach than I understood that first time swimming outside. Thanks, I think, for the memory of both! 🙂
“YES!!”
and full body skittering
up and across the shore
over and over again, the gritty joy
belly-surfing
riding the waves
Maureen — Love the movement and action in your poem “smiling, digging,lapping, skittering.” I can see this moment so clearly. What fun!
Glenda, thank you for affording me to slip back into my memory bank and return to the shore. And thanks for sharing the wave you caught in Taylor Swift’s lyrics. I love the images you selected – flamingos and gators before landing on a gun.
The Wave
before me this long haired woman lines herself up
leans forward while her chin turns across her shoulder
lifting her feet allowing me to carry her –
the tumble begins
over and over – but who’s counting
I notice her hand reaching towards her knees
no doubt in search of sand or air above
she rights herself
lifts to standing and walks to shore
I love that this is from the wave’s perspective, Jamie, and how gentle it all seems: “allowing me to carry her” and “the tumble begins.” It all seems matter-of-fact to the wave and wholly without malice. Thanks for crafting and sharing this!
Jamie,
I agree w/ Scott. Additionally, the line “the tumble begins” reads as ambiguity to me. Is the woman tumbling now? We know she will eventually. Or is the wave tumbling, as waves do in that circular motion? I love thinking about both possibilities. And then both the wave and the woman reach the shore. This is the best kind of poem. So much is unexpected and leaves me pondering.
Jamie — I love your personification of the wave. What a cool perspective! I especially love how these lines — “I notice her hand reaching towards her knees/no doubt in search of sand or air above” — convey that disorienting feeling that one gets after tumbling in the waves.
I love your approach today, Jamie. So fun!
Thanks for hosting, Glenda. I’m struck by your poem’s final description because it resonates more than a physical attribute.
With Certainty
I know the stench of hog shit,
how to count silk
across a sea of corn.
Iowa’s always been my home,
but for too long, I’ve watched
our governor’s greed, refusing to support
summer lunch programs and more.
I’ve suffered listing to
Senator Ernst’s proclamation
We’re all gonna die.
She’s right, we will,
first in the state for cancer cases
from toxic spills, poisoned water,
fertilizers and insecticide.
I sit along the river side
drowning in disappointment
below hazy skies,
watching gulls fly and
praying for public funds
for public education and
a blue wave come November.
Barb Edler
19 July 2026
Oh, Barb – love that you wrote hopefully about the blue wave. Love your word play with so many good water words – the gulls flying, drowning in disappointment, the spills and the poisoned water.
oh, the idea of a blue wave–wow. I was not expecting that line and it tied the previous stanzas together so strongly. I appreciated the conversational tone as your presented your critiques, so matter of fact, so perfectly named. I loved the moments of alliteraction–governor’s greed, cancer cases, drowning in disappointment. So good!
Barb,
O have an image of a tsunami smashing into Iowa as I read your words. Each time I hear some horrible news out of the state my heart breaks, and like you, I long for a blue wave in November. Keep speaking truth to power through your powerful poetry and prose.
Barb, your first line grabbed me and hooked me, pulled me right in to sit beside you along the river side and share the disappointment of so many injustices – program funding, lunches, healthcare, education.
Barb,
Thanks for the fire, and the hopefulness of the blue wave. I have been too passive when it comes to converting my indignation in a poetic format. I appreciate that you haven’t.
Barb — I feel these line — “I sit along the river side/drowning in disappointment
below hazy skies …” and share your frustration.
I’m hoping for that blue wave too!
Barb, when I read your poems o feel like we are having a conversation. Your voice is so true and constant. I love it!
Barb, from the title and first line, I was expecting the wave of frustration and disappointment, but I am glad that the end shifts toward hope. Losing hope is the worst, and I hope we always find something good to hold on to. Thank you!
unwritten
the rain arrives in waves
a hard, driving summer rain
wild in its fury, whipping at the windshield,
the highway disappears as sheet after silver sheet
turn the road into a river
I slow
because I know these roads, know how they twist
and turn and roll, both hands on the wheel
because the rain and the road and the memories demand it
the tears are gone, I think
or maybe they’ve simply become rain
finding another way to leave
another mile, another goodbye,
another page waiting for words
I haven’t learned yet
the future feels, has always felt, less like a map
than a blank notebook, resting
on the passenger seat, pages lifting
everytime the wind finds a crack
in the window
outside the window, Georgia drifts by
in waves of memory
Wadley (Mayo moved here after the war)
Kite (Evelyn taught me to make jam and quilt)
Wrightsville (Blanche married at the courthouse here)
Swainsboro (Eula danced with him here before I was born)
little nowhere towns, scattered like puddles
across the heart of the state,
not destinations, not usually,
just places the road remembers
the names arrive one after another,
breaking softly against me,
fallow fields
mill houses
places holding more stories than people
family cemeteries where generations
wait together, the way families do
everything passes, everything stays
the rain comes harder,
sheet after sheet,
weaving water across Highway 53
until the whole world
looks unwritten again
maybe that’s what waves do
they return, they erase
again and again
each one carrying a little of what was,
a little less of what we thought could never change
And somewhere beyond the next bend,
beyond another little town
whose name somebody’s granddaddy
still knows how to explain,
the clouds begin
to thin just enough
for the road
to write itself
forward.
(after listening to “Unwritten” by Natasha Beningfield during a rainy drive in Georgia)
Melanie, your poem is riveting. I love the imagery of the rain and the travel and how your poem shifts towards the new road writing itself forward. Thought-provoking poem full of power and history.
My eyes glistened as I read
I feel as if I am right there in the car experiencing the rain and the memories.
Your poem weaves and moves like waves, I think…
Melanie,
I love that song and am transported by your poem to my own experiences driving through rainstorms on winding hills in the Missouri Ozarks. The rapid rise and fall of a ribbon of road certainly does feel like a wave ebbing and flowing, and those little town names are something thsts always fascinated me.
Great prompt and poems to inspire us today! I revisited a poem I wrote about loss of sleep during the pandemic in 2022. I revised it but kept the same graphic because it works for both.
Between Waves of Sleep
Three in the morning.
An owl.
A dull #2 pencil.
Seaweed.
My mother’s voice.
The news.
A lost list.
The tide keeps coming
with everything
except sleep.
©Stacey L. Joy, 7/19/26
Stacey, I can feel the restlessness here. Your short lines add to the tension. Losing sleep is an emotion unto itself, and I love how your final stanza creates emotion and a sense of foreboding. I also really like the narrator’s specific list of things heard and noted.
Stacey, I love the list you shared – sound of the owl and your mother’s voice, the pencil and seaweed – lovely close – The tide keeps coming/with everything/except sleep.I try so many strategies to fight that wave when it catches me before dawn.
“The tide keeps coming” – this, I think, is the gift of waves…all kinds of waves, reminding us that nothing is static, things always moving.
Stacey,
Perfect title and an incident we can all relate to when we experience sleepless nights. The owl sound juxtaposed w/ the scratching #2 pencil is visceral. I feel the nerve endings and annoyance in that imagery. For me sounds are the most difficult images to replicate in poetry, so I’m reading your poem as a mentor text, as well. I love the Canva, too. Did you see the owners of Canva are going to give away most of their wealth?
Wow, no I didn’t see that! I am not surprised though. I always felt there was something loving and caring inside the bones of Canva. Makes me happy to hear this.
Thank you, Glenda.🌷
Stacey, what a beautiful image for your poem. And it is so relatable with the things you listed, and especially pencil and mother’s voice. I keep a little notebook by my side, in case I remember something important in the middle of the night–that’s what I tell myself. Hope tonight is better, and you can rest. Those night tides are my frequent guests this summer.
Stacey, your poem really brings back all the restlessness of sleep and the random things we tossed and turned over…..I remember writing one about sleep too, with the dogs scratching the sheets for no reason at all just over and over and over. I’m glad you demonstrate the way you revised something existing – – you inspire me to do more of that.
Glenda, this proved to be an interesting challenge on this a day I celebrate the Sabbath, Here’s what floated in from the waves of thought about your prompt.
Whining Pining
“Tell the truth in love,”
Comes crashing from above.
Gramma stands tall, hands in a wave
Telling me that love will save.
“Save me when I tell on my friend?
Then our friendship will surely end!”
Emotions crash through my mind
How in the world will I find
The right thing to do?
‘Cause when I get through,
I gotta live with me!
But the truth can hurt.
I’ll be down in the dirt.
And it’ll take more than a squirt
Of water to clean my skirt.
“Gramma, I can’t tell on her.
I’ll take the blame.
I’d be more ashamed of
Hurting her being named
A tattletale by my friends.”
“Tell the truth!
Darling Ruth
And forth sooth
You won’t get the boot!”
Emotions crash through my mind.
Maybe that’s a sign.
I look up at the straight pine.
It’s no use to whine;
I gotta live with me!
Love says “No. Say nothing!”
Anna, I really feel the mixed emotions radiating from the poem. The cartoon also shows the situation. We most likely will all leave this earth with our skirts needing to be cleaned.
I love this! My favorite stanza:
Such great word play. I hear the life lesson in “Tell the truth in love” – and your childhood experience reveals that the flip is also true, a not-telling is a love gift sometimes, too (if only for oneself!)
Anna,
This narrative poem had me mesmerized as I waited to see if you tattled. I’m glad you did not. Seems to me a childhood incident doesn’t quite rise to the level of adult biblical stories, such as Ruth’s. As always, you’re bringing the heartbeat of life w/ your rhyme and rhythm!
Glenda, Thanks so much for the prompt. I just got back from visiting a son and daughter that both work in Yellowstone Park. It was a wave to see them, and to sorta say goodbye to my old memories from forty years ago. It is in a haiku(ish) format.
Watching Old Faithful,
awe and insecurity,
nothing’s changed, I’ve changed.
I love the pairing of “awe and insecurity” and “nothing’s changed, I’ve changed”–those lines stood out. You packed quite a lot in your 17 syllables!
Rex, great ending line to show the speaker’s internal emotions. Old Faithful is such an icon, it helps set the place. Hope you’re enjoying your time in Yellowstone.
Rex,
Old Faithful is a timely *wave* of sorts, for sure. Are your children working in that part of the park? I think one’s first encounter with Yellowstone is an enduring image. It’s my favorite national park and a place I wish all could experience. It must have been wonderful seeing the park through your children’s eyes,
My niece Alex was three when her words became understandable sentences to me. I didn’t need my sister to tell me, “She meant…” Visits were a blast just taking in her imagination. Saying goodbye was always hard.
“Don’t go, I don’t want you to go.”
“If I don’t go, I cannot come back.”
This little tyke was processing what I said. Her forehead would wrinkle. There was no verbal response. It wasn’t fair of me to say that; she was only three. But then her little arms would be around my neck hugging me. “I don’t want you to go.” My heart is overflowing. Fearing I’d be blubbering; I too was mute. Soon my sister would pry Alex’s arms loose and she held her so I could stand.
When I opened the door, Alex, now standing, was right behind me. She followed me to the driveway waving and calling “Bye!” Over and over. As I drove down the street she would run, my sister running behind. From the rear view mirror, Alex’s wave never falters.
Today Alex is thirty and she’s not always around when I leave after a long weekend with them. She’s at work. But the night before when we said our goodbyes, “It was a nice weekend. Thanks for coming. I really liked baking mamon with you.” My heart still overflows.
Cayetana,
I love these lines:
“Don’t go, I don’t want you to go.”
“If I don’t go, I cannot come back.”
It’s rather remarkable how one word can conjure so many lovely memories as the ones you’ve shared. I have a special niece, too. I might reach out to her today. Thank you!
Watching my nieces grow and mature has been one of the greatest joys of my life. Thank you for reminding me of that this evening, Cayetana.
Glenda,
I love your mug! Thank you for your introduction to the wave sub genre. There are so many possibilities with this prompt. I look forward to writing more poems focusing on different waves.For today, I thougth I’d lean into gravitational waves.
Gravitational Pull
A ripple in darkness,
stretching, squeezing,
wrapping the fabric of space and time.
Violent, invisible waves.
Perhaps, we are all sources of gravity —
two black holes orbiting,
waves connecting in love, hope, protest,
a mood altering energy transfer
of becoming visible waves.
Tammi,
I love this. Your poem is an epiphany for me. This idea of humans as waves is intriguing and inspiring. Now I’m thinking of all kinds of waves. Do different waves have names? Glad you like the mug. It was a gift from a student during the first horror show.
Tammi, excellent poem that pulls me like gravity! There’s something comforting in the hope resting amidst “violent, invisible waves.”
Beautiful!🌊
Tammi, I love the closing line and the idea of making waves that become visible. Wonderful use of language throughout this poem to add the power of a gravitational pull.
Another great prompt, Glenda. You capture Florida’s stark duality, or double consciousness if borrow from your yesterday’s prompt, in each couplet, but the final one is the most sobering. I used your ProTip and looked at my previous work and poems. I had two most prominent already with waves and chose the one I can handle better today. The original poem “Purring Buddy” was from October 2022, and I revised it to make the wave-focus a bit more intentional.
Returning Waves of Calm
My orange goofball,
Robby purrs when he is
cozy, content,
relaxed, eyes half‑closed,
settling by my feet
as I work,
or curling in my lap
at night.
A little quiver
sends me
waves
of calm,
comfort rolling
softly through the room.
Sometimes he purrs
when he’s hungry,
a thin,
trembling sound,
almost a child’s cry.
I didn’t know
until the stroke
cats also purr
when hurt,
when pain ripples
through their bodies
and they try
to soothe themselves
like babies
sucking a thumb.
Quick search reveals
scientists agree:
purring helps them heal.
What a relief.
Now I listen
more carefully
leaning in
to catch the tide
of his small body
to know
if he needs me
to send him
waves
of calm
in return.
Leilya, your poem has me mesmerized and brings me into lap where the waves of calmness are clearly evident. Your words cascading down the page feel like those wonderful waves I experienced last week at the ocean that soothed my soul just like your orange furball! Lovely
Ah, sweet Robby, and you bringing each other “waves of calm” is so sweet. I like the formatting you were able to achieve here, Leilya.
Leilya — I love the flow of your poem and the way you incorporate the waves through your cat’s moods. Calmness permeates through your words.
Denise,
I did not know this about cats putting. I love the ebb and flow look of your poem, and being a cat mom myself, I love the purr of your poem. I hear that soft, calm sound as I read. And I do believe Stanley just putted in response.
Leilya,
Tears. This is such a loving poem for your cat. I love how you tweaked just a little to bring forth the waves (“tide of his small body”).
Ooohhhh, what a treat! We cat lovers recognize these different purrs. I now understand why my Headspace app has cat purrs to help guide meditative breathwork.
Your baby sounds like a healing friend! 🐱😻
Leilya – I love your translations of purrs – when cozy and content – sending you waves of calm and when hungry – almost a child’s cry and learning about the purr when hurt – to heal. Nice link to waves with catch the tide – your a caring partner to Robby.
Leilya, I love the way you share Robby with us today. Your love for your pet is pure goal. I love the diction throughout and the descriptions about a cat’s cry. Your poem ends on such a wonderful, emotional wave. Gorgeous poem!
I like your use of the purr to describe a wave and the tide of contentment in a small body and the wave of cam it gives.
Leilya,
I like how you turned the purring around, as an epiphany moment where your comfort has shifted to compassion. I like how you flipped it for Robbie, AND done it with the format of waves in the process.
I like the inclusion of science to back up love, as well.
Glenda,
grateful for this prompt
which sends so much happiness
waving back at me
You pack so much double consciousness into your Florida images. Delivering the knockout punch at the end. And you do it all with rhyme—impressive!
——————————————————-
Sunday Swim
now the rain has stopped
it’s time to bike to the springs
wave my feet at fish
think of sweet baby
I met last week named Edda
too young to wave yet
focused with hunger
her impossibly small toes
concentration clenched
———————————————-
poem and photo of springs posted at my blog Pedaling Poet
Sharon, love the title of this piece and the accompanying photo. I’m picturing you swimming along as you brainstorm ideas about waves and remembering sweet baby Edda. This is precious, especially he “impossibly small toes.”
Sharon, your poem painted a picture in my mind long before I clicked on the link to see your amazing photo of swimming in a magnificent location. Yet, like you, my mind wanders as I swim and I could see how you would still be thinking about those tiny toes focused on growing so that they might one day join in your swim.
Hi, Sharon! You got me at “wave my feet at fish.” I am sitting here, smiling and imagining you do it. I can almost see sweet Edda with her tiny toes. Thank you!
Sharon,
I love the juxtapoistion of feet in these lines:
“wave my feet at fish” and “impossibly small toes
concentration clenched”
So many ways to wave!
Sharon,
How lovely and appropriate that your poem is paired with/ Denise’s. Like you, I love this baby meeting moments that happen randomly. What is it about getting older that draws me to babies in ways I wasn’t attracted to them in my younger years?
I love how you used wave here to compare your wave to the fish to the tiny feet of a baby not yet waving. I wanted to write about my grandson who has learned to wave and it seems like an amazing skill that he loves to show off. I can almost determine the age of a child by whether they can wave or not.
Sharon I love the way you tied your swim to your visit with Edda. The rhythm of your stroke rocks you to remember “her impossibly small toes.” Tinier than peas.
Sharon,
I liked how you are greeting the fish with the splashing waves. I also like the irony of the little baby clinching toes in hunger’s concentration. Nice balance with the adult being child, and the Edda being intense.
Glenda, I didn’t get much further than the idea of writing about wave as a hand gesture. I’ve got little Beau on my mind a lot these days! Your brother waving to the mourners at your father’s funeral procession would make a great poem. Your poem is a gem with the short rhythmic and rhyming lines. “Hurricane Ian’s high price” is a poignant reminder of that bad storm.
He can feel it, I know.
My precocious grandson
watches my hand waving
as he flies his whole arm
up and down
top to bottom
of his little existence.
He is one hundred percent
invested in the hope
of this thing called life.
Oh Denise,
Thank you for the joy of this full bodied wave!
I wrote about a baby too young to wave and I love seeing the progression / difference.
Best of all is your ending:
I love this so, so much!
Denise, I can see the excitement and “hope in this thing called life” in you words as they paint his excitement and hope for your visits as well as the promise of your return for more. I adore how young ones love and feel anger with their whole beings. My littlest grand runs at me with her whole being as if knocking me to the floor to join her at her level were the goal!
Denise, your poem is such a wonderful reminder that children are absolute (100%) embodiments of hope and true believers that life is worth living!
Love your final lines:
“He is one hundred percent
invested in the hope
of this thing called life.”
I am going to see my munchkins next Sunday, and adds to my excitement.
Denise — I feel the energy in your grandson’s whole body wave and I love these hopeful lines:
He is one hundred percent
invested in the hope
of this thing called life.
Denise, a child’s completely untarnished view of the world is such a precious gift – – a lovely way to express hope in all that life offers, without any of the knowledge of the risks or dangers of any of it. What a blessing he has in you, a wonderful grandmother who loves him so very much. May he forever hold this love of life and the 100 percent all-in-ness of it.
Denise,
I love the way babies wave. I can see Beau waving, and that last line where you write
He is one hundred percent
invested in the hope
of this thing called life.
reminds me of how much our lives depend on these moments w/ children.
Oh how sweet-when he waves with his whole self, “Hello, World!” I’m so glad Beau has you to nurture his enthusiasm.
Denise, my grandson has also learned to wave and it’s so magical how it takes their whole entire body to do it. Sammy is happiest when he is waving, or clapping, or being tickled by his sister. 100% invested!
Denise, I love the focus of your poem. I can see him waving, but your ending lines are absolute magic.
“He is one hundred percent
invested in the hope
of this thing called life.”
Wow! I hope life isn’t too disappointing for him. Fantastic poem!
Denise, I love the intentional undulation that your lines make! And, like everyone else, I love your final lines: “He is one hundred percent / invested in the hope / of this thing called life.” So good!
Short and sweet, Denise. I think it captures the verve of being a child, and the “all in” nature of learning new things. We need to take a page from his book!
Glenda, your prompt really got me thinking about both the multiple meanings of so many words but also the images those words conjure in different scenarios. Then, I read your wonderful poem inspired by TS and was thinking of all the inspiration for students and those of us who think about words as well as experiences in diverse ways. My head was also still spinning and splitting after driving for about 8 hours yesterday to and from a family celebration of love in waves of rain that were relentless (which is why I will have to catch up on yesterday’s prompt later)!
Local forecast was dire, red flag warnings waving ominously,
Yet, I waved, to my neighbor, bravely securing a chair, an umbrella,
I patted the coffee, water bottle, glasses as the wipers waved
Slowly, in anticipation for the first wave ahead where a
Deluge would deter them from trying to wave away gallons
Flowing from waves of furious clouds before the
Thruway would disappear in waves of tears beating on cars
As if they were kettle drums, as waves of terror gripped my
Soul knowing the destination was worth wavering through
Waves of rain attempting to power wash everything in its path.
Anita, we missed you yesterday! What a perfect prompt for today, though, after your horrendous drive on Saturday. The waves in each line emphasize the relentless rains you experienced. My husband is reading over my shoulder this morning, and he is so impressed.
Anita, even before I read your poem, I thought about Anna’s “take a Word for a Walk” prompt, whihc I love and use in my classroom. Such a great way for you to represent various waves in your poem: the red flag, your wave, the wipers, the rain, the clouds, terror–a whole range of natural and emotional weight here. Really beautifully crafted, and the bolded words create a wave silhouette too. Thank you!
Anita,
I can totally feel and see this deluge. The repetition of waves throughout your poem works well to create a picture of the rain. Those waves of rain are so harrowing when driving, especially when it is an ending to a celebration. Glad you made it home safely.
Anita, your use of so many meanings and all in the same poem is genius! I am glad you had some family time, and glad you made it back safely in spite of all the rain. Those red flag warnings give us opportunity for pause, but they can’t stop the fellowship of family togetherness.
Anita,
Excellent use of “wave” and its forms. You really capture the anxiety and tension of driving in a deluge of rain. I’m a white-knuckle driver anyway, so I’m having a physical reaction to your poem because the images and language are so strong and accurate. Love it.
Anita, what a clever poem. I love the various uses of wave and how they accurately depict the action throughout the poem. I especially love the final line. What a great landing!
Glenda,
I love the prompts that you create. Such creativity with endless possibility.
To all, I’m sorry I didn’t comment on any of your poems yesterday. My day was quickly hijacked. I will today.
I’m not sure the best way to get the formatting for my poem to hold. I inserted an image.
Susan, I love the image of long lost friends who perhaps stole a kiss or a bit more long ago in a past life or perhaps way back in high school comes to mind from the image you paint. I really feel like this is the beginning of a love story and I want to hear the rest!
Susan, I love the look of your poem, so I can see why the photo was good to capture that. My husband and I were reading it this morning. We both like it and discussed the realistic description of your wave. That whole section of your shy “offkilter W” one flick wave is just masterful. Wow!
Wow, Susan!
I can feel the waves of heat. And hesitancy.
I especially like the imagery of these lines:
Susan,
I love the look of your poem, and because I’ve read many books and have a vivid imagination, I’m intrigued about this look, this gaze across the room. It feels a little naughty and taboo. If it’s not meant to be, don’t tell me!
Susan, the array of emotions you captured in your waves is quite wide, and the formatting reveals the movement from the first connecting gaze with its pulse, love, magnetism to hesitancy, and to realization of shared destiny. I am wondering who “You” might be, but certainly a VIP considering capitalization. Love the final stanza!
I love love love this, Susan! It is so sensual; those two Ps — “pulley” and “pulling” — and then all those Ws, Ms, and Us sound so good in your last stanza!
Susan, the magnetic pull of this encounter absolutely sizzles. The end is promising. Love the way you’ve formatted it.
It’s
dif
fi
cult
to
fath
om
the
ad
vice
don’t
make
waves
when
you
are
sup
posed
to
catch
them
and
ride
them
for
as
long
as
you
can
_____________________________________
Another thought-provoking prompt! Thank you, Glenda. My favorite stanzas from your mentor poem are “Low country Everglades swamp / Gators galore in ponds romp” and “Take time unwind chase the sun / in the state that looks like a gun.” A perfect ending! (Oh, and I love the words of wisdom from your high school speech and debate coach!)
I appreciate the form and the message of your poem.
Scott, you write poetically about the advice with give and the lives we must live where making waves of change is painful and yet the only way we can move out of a tough situation! Plus, riding the many rough waves of life is the only way we can make it through the many challenges of life.
Scott, bravo! I love the two idioms combined into this fun, very skinny poem!
Scott,
I like the slender look of your poem, the way reading it feels like catching a wave. A few weeks ago during our PCH road trip we were in Santa Cruz and watched magnificent surfers. Your poem is a reminder. Glad you like my teacher’s advice. It has served me well, especially when I neared retirement.
Scott, I am afraid to move as I read your poem (lol)- it does look like a narrow surf board, and if you step to left or to the right, the waves may swallow you. So well done!
Scott, you’ve captured the dichotomy of making waves well in your clever poem. The skinny format works well to share the message.
Love this skinny poem!
Glenda—your prompt led me down memory lane. One of my old poems was written after the Covid epidemic, about not being able to say goodbye or hug my students. I had almost forgotten that pain, that horrible time. Your poem about Florida showed the duality of the place, so beautiful yet so difficult. Thank you!
Covid Waves
It seems so long ago
That all we could do was wave
We couldn’t touch; we couldn’t hug,
for fear of giving or receiving death.
Covid was a rogue wave,
tearing through our reality,
smashing our sense of safety,
changing our forever.
It was a time of masks and of pulling inward.
It was a time of mistrust and isolation
We became selfish out of necessity, waving others away.
To survive, we closed our doors to the storm outside.
When the tsunami retreated,
it left in its wake an altered world.
We needed to learn how to trust again.
Some of us succeeded. Some of us never will.
Every storm leaves its mark upon the shore.
Covid’s waves changed our shorelines irrevocably.
What will the next storm bring?
Gayle Sands
7/19
Gayle, your poem brought me right back to pain of that siege and that day I drive to my son’s home and waved to his babies standing next to their nearly bare holiday tree through the window as their dad lay on the floor in another room unable to leave as the virus ravaged his body. They could only hear him cough through the walls and I could only drive home through waves of tears,
Oh, Anita…
Oh Gayle,
So much hard truths of our past and present in your poem.
So many hard hitting lines:
Thank you for this wise reflection.
So many truths about Covid here, Gayle. What a good topic for your wave poem. It really was a tsunami, and that last haunting question. Yikes.
Gayle,
Theres a mournful tone to your poem, a sad metaphor for the storm we call Covid crashing into every part of our lives. It definitely left a mark.
Comparing Covid to a rogue wave is such a powerful metaphor. The waves of anxiety and mistrust continue to wash over so many. That time seems like the strangest dream.
“Covid was a rogue wave” Wow, ain’t it the truth. I still feel the impact from Covid and worry about that next storm.
Thanks again,Glenda, for hosting! My wife and I love your mug.
Waves crash of rhinos waving goodbye to subtleties and subterranean waves through the outer crust only the insects can detect those vibrations good vibrations at such frequencies and frequently stuck in the crust the earth never reaching the surface submerged us in the never ending ebb and flow waves of ocean waves of grace waving hello and goodbye back and forth in and out under our feet over our head standing on shore belonging to somebody’s east and inhabiting somebody else’s west alone yet together interconnecting global all all and nothing interspersed existing coexisting at the same time
Luke, you capture the constant ebb and flow, the pull and push of the waves and I can feel it in the reading – – the constancy of tidal flow itself. I also love how Glenda takes selfies everywhere with her favorite mug. It reminds me of the Flat Stanley trend when everyone was taking Flat Stanley around the world and taking pictures. Only the mug is better.
Like,
Your poem is full of profound ideas. I can’t say I have ever thought about insects in the underground, but I’m in awe of the juxtaposition w/ ocean waves and this idea of inter connectedness, especially in the line “belonging to somebody’s east and inhabiting somebody else’s west.” It is so true. These divisions we know are artificial constructs.
I’ve had my favorite mug since the first nightmare. A student gave it to me in 2017. Hrs a brilliant kid who just finished his first year of medical school.
Luke (and Kim), I share your love of Glenda’s mug and her selfies that put smiles on my face every single time. Your prose poem has a powerful ending in, “interconnecting global all and nothing interspersed existing coexisting at the same time.” We are all connected by those same waves and the same universe even if some think we are not!
Luke, I love your form and the way the ideas blend together in a “never ending ebb and flow”
Glenda, Thanks for your suggestion to do a search for a previous poem. I felt like it was cheating, but I liked the poem from 2021 that came up. I enjoyed your rhyming couplets about Florida. How have I never looked at the map to notice the gun shape? My daughter has work there and encounters the good and bad of Florida people and politics.
Mississippi Heat Wave
August was long of light
in a Mississippi heat wave
that summer of ‘72.
On the path to Purple Creek,
my flip-flops kept the stickers away.
Mosquitos preferred Missy’s freckle-juice.
Covered in Off and Coppertone, we held hands
to cross the waterfall (just a tip-toe trickle over a concrete slab.)
On the other side was a pine forest. We walked
the path of dirt bikes, skipped around
ruts in the muddy red clay.
Avoiding under-the-bridge where the smoking kids hung out,
we wandered to the stables,
picked out a favorite horse,
pretended they were ours.
Endless summer days
stretched out like a Gulf Coast beach
burned our tender noses,
streaked our blonde hair,
became a backdrop to childhood memories.
Margaret, as I read your poem I started thinking about the way such indelible memories can play like a movie reel with just the way we remember everything, down to what we were wearing and the lay of the land and the angle of the lighting and all that we pretended. These rich memories preserved in poetry share the moments in ways that stories and oral tellings cannot. You bring us along – – even steer us clear of the smoking kids – – and invite us to be your childhood friends. What a lovely, safe, and daring place to be.
Margaret, these images are so clear and precious. I feel as if I can see summer unfolding right before my eyes. Thank you for taking me back to these summer days.
Margaret, your poem brought to mind my own earlier days – the endless wanderings, the open invitations, the imaginary worlds created, the Coppertone and Off (it’s a wonder any of us survived the chemicals). How I long for a return to most of that. I wonder if life is cyclical for ways days can be spent (a wave back to the beginnings, perhaps). If so, I plan a retirement full of wanderings, invitations, and imaginings. I might just find Kim along the way!
Margaret,
Remember that Linda Ronstadt song “Heat Wave”? Your poem evokes that in my mind. I can feel the sticky Off and sunscreen reading your crisp images. And I feel that humidity, a relic from my Missouri summers. Those were halcyon days compared to what so many children and adults experience under the current oppression.
Margaret, your poem is a reminder that a heat wave as well as a long cold, snowy winter are really just the fabric of childhood and adult memories!
Margaret, I’m glad you shared this again. It made me very happy to imagine you two crossing the concrete waterfall and longing for have your own horse, so many more glimpses into childhood. Beautiful, precious memories. I love “endless summer days / stretched out like a Gulf Coast beach”
Glenda,
Thank you for hosting us. You certainly have me thinking about waves in so many ways today. I love your poem and your photo with your favorite mug! As I was thinking about which wave meaning to use, I realized I’m about to give a big wave myself on July 31, so I’m using the traditional wave of the hand.
Waving from the Wayfarer
everyone keeps asking me
what I’m going to do in retirement
when maybe the question
should be what I’m
not going to do……
because I’m choosing
Answer D: all of the above
I’m going to do it all
waving from the Wayfarer as I go
Yay, Kim! I’m so excited for you. Retirement is sweet. It’s taken me a minute to adjust, but I’m so glad I retired. I can’t wait to read all the poems about all your new adventures.
Love, love, love! Choice D for all of the above! Wayfaring is a lifestyle and one that suits retirement well. I know we’re going to all benefit from your journeys as you will work them into your words and carry us with you. Exciting stuff.
Kim,
I have an image of you in my head: You’re waving your arms around and saying? “None of this” in response to that question. Let the Wafarer adventures behind. I can’t wait! I’m so excited for you!
Kim, I am really excited for YOUR adventures and this chapter of exploring and learning about life in your Wayfarer. I suspect on some level you have been planning for this chapter all your life with camping with grandparents as a child and learning to live in small spaces with others, I am most excited to share in the experiences of the many new people you will meet on these adventures.
Oh, love the reframing of the question. That is absolutely your prerogative and a way of showing others your perspective as the waver! Fabulous. Yes to all of the above.
Oh, yes! Love the alliteration in your title, and the joy of a new retirement to do “all of the above”. Love, love, love the hopefulness and wonder in your poem.
Kim, I am feeling your excitement “waving” at me! We need to talk because I have found “All of the above” has been difficult to grasp in the day to day.
Love this poem, Kim. I wish I could be on that Wayfarer with you.
Yay, do it all, do nothing, do whatever! Cheering you on as you wave!!
Beautiful times await!
(I also don’t care for all the questions about what I’m going to do in retirement.)
Glenda, just last week (for Tuesday’s Slice of Life), I found myself thinking about (and writing about) waves. I had no idea that wave poetry was a sub-genre! My memories of waves are mostly positive…ocean waves, my granddaughter learning to wave; but today I chose to write about some “waves” that had me pretty shaken up back in the mid-80s. I enjoyed this prompt and loved your Florida poem! Thanks again for hosting this month!
The Perm
The summer before I started high school,
I wanted a hairstyle that would make me look cool.
My mom heard of a salon only two hours away.
(It was 1984. Google reviews could not save the day.)
Mom drove our station wagon, her purse in her lap.
Granny rode shotgun, and I read the map.
We arrived at the hairdresser’s in record time;
my appointment was scheduled for just half past nine.
The process was lengthy, the solution…it smelled;
but I couldn’t shake from my vision the image I held.
Farrah-like curls or Jaclyn Smith’s wavy tresses…
a style that would complement blue jeans or dresses.
After setting the rods, the stylist vacated the room.
My scalp started burning, a forewarning of doom.
My eyes watered profusely. My nose became runny.
The smell from my head was not one bit funny.
Should I go for help? I was alone in the chair.
I could tell something was not at all right with my hair.
When the buzzer went off and the stylist returned,
it became very clear that my hair had been burned.
There were no Angel ringlets, no waves, no curl…
just tight frizzled corkscrews, fit for no girl.
I cried on the spot, sobs I couldn’t contain.
The stylist grew angry as my tears flowed like rain.
“This isn’t my fault!” she said with a glare.
Mom and Granny could do nothing but stare.
We left the salon and piled back in the car.
I bawled for two hours. That ride felt so far.
Our neighbor had scissors and some sense of style.
She snipped and she feathered for quite a long while.
My hair fell around me. My dreams turned to ire.
The pixie cut had gone out at least ten years prior.
“It looks fine,” said my mom. “You know it grows back.”
I wanted to cover my head with a brown paper sack.
High school would begin, and I’d have to be brave
and live with the fallout from a Permanent Wave.
Oh, the agony! Great story, great poem. I can hear your mother— “you know it grows back.” And starting high school?? Brave is right!!!
Thank the poetry gods that made wave a sub-genre so that you could write out this story in form and rhyme! It’s priceless. I feel your pain. I believe every woman can relate to a failed hairstyle. I will never forgive my mother for the Buffon she made me get for my piano recital when I was 11. It was horrid!
Lori, I can see the three generations of women sitting together watching to see the emerging wave and pppffffttttt then the “permanent wave” crashes to the shore in unexpected ways. You sure bring us to the scene, and all with amazing rhyme scheme. I remember those days pre-Google, and my own perm crashed in a different way ~ my hair would not hold a perm and it fell flat. I’m glad you had a neighbor with style to help you out of the fix. You bring back the horror and the all-in-retrospect memorable stories of the 1980s.
Oh, my gosh! Lori! We have all been there. I remember wanting something similar when I was 12. Let’s just say, it was a disaster. I had no idea how to tame the riot of violent curls that suddenly sprouted from every pore. I don’t think stylists back then were quite as adept. Love your take on waves.
Lori,
This is quite a story. What a tale of woe! I’m so sad for the term you, but the old lady in me is amused, perhaps because I’ve been there! I had some terrible cuts in high school. Truly awful! I love the rhyme in your poem. zit crested both suspense and humor, I also love your wave blog post. I wrote the prompts for this month a year ago and am now as surprised as everyone else when I see them! I wonder what tomorrow will bring.
Oh, my gosh, Lori! You are such an expert at the narrative poem. And with rhyming too. Wow! The details, the feelings, so powerful. I have my share of feelings about my hair, and your poem brought me back with a bit of those traumatic years. I love how you end the poem with “Permanent Wave” — ending it there with that towering capital P in permanent really adds to the story.
Thank you for plopping me right in that salon with you . . . I can smell the smell even! The pure horror of starting high school with less-than-ideal hair will never be forgotten!
Glenda, some of yesterday’s double-consciousness drifts into your Florida poem, reminding us of the two sides of Florida – unwinding in the paradise of a gun-shaped state. I am surrounded by water in Michigan. It lingers in my blood and DNA in ways not always discernible. When searching “waves” in my previous pieces, this one came up – one of the first poems from my most recent novel in verse, The Lightkeeper’s Daughter. The lakes of this bluewater state holds both paradise and dangers as well.
Hannah’s Story, Spring 1910
Grandfather’s 66 foot fish tug
had weathered
so many storms
that we no longer
fretted when
clouds stacked
like towers
in the western skies
and the air
grew dark
and scuttled against
the horizon
or the winds turned
bluewater waves
into churning whitecaps,
crashing along the shores
and thundering louder
than the incoming gales.
Grandfather had named her
Steadfast
and she’d held
my father and
uncles safe
since they were
toddlers
casting horsehair lines
off the bow
and pulling in
every kind of fish
alongside a handful of crew.
With Grandfather’s expertise
at the helm,
the Steadfast held us safe today.
Safe enough to deliver us
all the way north.
Safe enough to keep us
all three together.
Father, Mother, and me.
Safe enough that I held hope
we might one day
remember we were a family.
Even though we were missing one
on the lake we struggled
through now,
a lake that
held treacherous waters,
like those of November.
Today
the lake
wanted to remind us
man has no say
in what the waters
bring each day.
Jennifer, thank you for sharing Hannah’s Story with us – such a beautiful piece. The name of the fish boat–Steadfast–The boat’s functions almost like a promise: in naming it, the Grandfather set its fate. It echoes the saying I grew up with: “как ты лодку назовёшь, так она и поплывёт” — the idea that the name shapes the journey.
The ending stanza makes me want to read your novel to find out “what the waters bring each day.” I am getting to your book soon. Thank you!
I love the voice of the narrator, the name of the boat, those amazing verbs: weathered, fretted, scuttled. I want to read more!
Jennifer, that last stanza reminds us that the ultimate power and control is not in the hands of man. What a powerful message and a beautiful name for a ship – – the Steadfast. Your verbs are vivacious, and your poem is gold.
Jennifer, what a beautiful way to begin a verse novel, placing us in the time and space with a hint of what happened, just enough to draw us into the story. Thanks for sharing. I have abandoned three verse novels, so I admire anyone who can stick it out and then publish!
Jennifer,
This is lovely, and I’m glad you found a snippet from your poetry board to share. I can see those waves and feel the safety of Steadfadt in your words. When I crawl out from under the pile of verse novels I’m tasked with reading for NCTE, I’ll return to your book.
I too would like to read this book because I wonder who was now missing?
Jennifer, I was brought back right away to Hannah’s sweet and eventful story in your book. I love that last stanza, which is still so true. The waves deserve a lot of respect.
Oh, how I love this entire poem, but these lines especially:
I was drawn to the connections in the poem between Steadfast and family, the weather and turmoil. Then, the final stanza is the reminder we all need to keep in mind. Nature rules!
Love this so much, Jennifer!
I came across the headline
in the Daily Current,
a flurry of bad news
about administrative abuse
The spokeswoman waved
away questions, though
the reporters did try — she said,
it’s nothing – it’s both sides
as if a puddle’s an ocean
and we’re always drowning
in water
I can visualize that spokeswoman’s dismissing wave which highlights the “it’s both sides” as if the matter sloshes back and forth between them. No wonder we’re drowning. A perfectly composed poem today, Kevin!
Kevin, I sense the flurry of bad news every single day. If it’s not on the town level, it’s the state. If not the state, the nation. If not the nation, the world. All the drops of the puddle an ocean, and here we are just trying to survive the waves.
I love how you’ve used the wave here and continued the metaphor of “current, ocean, and water.” Well played!
Kevin,
“The spokeswoman waved
away questions” is on point for this admin.
Kevin, waved-away. Gosh, that is a line right there toward the complicity in the drowning. I see the current and wave and puddle and drowning progress clearly. Craftfully.
Wow, that last stanza sums it up so well, Kevin.
Waves of La Barceloneta
bare breasts take sun beats
parasol sellers shuffle sand
cream puddles sweaty cheeks
queer lovers stroll holding hands
wading waters wash Rambla greed
old shantytowns carried out to sea
elder bellies shadow blue speedos
claiming a meter of coastline tourist-free
Thanks, Glenda, for inviting a closer look at the waves we’ve seen at the beach. The link offers a little insight into the impact of the 1992 Olympics on this area of Barcelona.
Elder bellies?
LOL
Kevin
Sarah, the rhythm of your poem, its rhyme pattern, reminds me of waves coming in and receding from the shore – there’s an in and out of coming and going (waters washing in, old shantytowns carried out) that is soothing, much as if I were listening to the waters along a lake here. I love your descriptions – cream puddles sweaty cheeks, elder bellies, skin taking sun beats). And ick, ick on the beach vendors!
Sarah, the waves you describe create a series of sketches with each couplet. You brought me to the beach, and as I walk, I see those who take sun beats, parasol sellers, queer lovers, and elder bellies in blue speedos. Love the movement–the waves you created!
Sarah, I hung on your lines of beachgoing and suddenly started to smell the scent of Coppertone. Love the Speedo imagery and the wading waters – – you bring us to feeling the warmth of the sun in your lines.
Sarah,
It’s too early for images of old men in Speedos! lol! Years ago a friend told me how he was wearing a Speedo on the beach when some young girls asked for a photo. He described being flattered until learning they wanted the photo to check an item off a scavenger hunt list: Take a photo of an older man in a Speedo. I love that story. Your poem has me smiling at memories from Barcelona. I’ve visited the city three times and have art I bought from a street artist in my family room. It’s a gorgeous, vibrant painting of Gaudi architecture.
I love the form you have used in this poem, short lines and the long e sound. I cringed at elder bellies in blue speedos.
I was fascinated to read the two links and learn about Barcelona. Good for them for using the Olympics to make life better there. (But the mojitos sound deadly!) The form is fun with the rhythm and rhyme of a sweet day at the shore.
what a perfect image! Thank you for sharing a slice of Barcelona with us. I love the uninhibited life that locals live in certain areas, no knowing or caring what onlookers/tourists are thinking.
Yes, these two elderly fellas are out there swimming every morning. I love eavesdropping on their conversations.
Sarah, your poem’s title helps set the stage for your very fun poem. I love the way the images express sun and fun and freedom. Not sure I want to gaze on those elder bellies blue speedos though.
Sarah,
I was all for being right there with you until the elder bellies in speedos showed up!🤣
Thank you for sharing the link to enlighten me on the impact of the 92 Olympics. The E. Coli was out of control! Yikes!
You give us such a cozy summery vibe!