What I Didn’t Do with Tammy Breitweiser
Welcome to Day 20 of Verselove. We are so happy you are here, however you choose to be present. If you know what to do, carry on; if you are not sure, begin by reading the inspiration and mentor poem, then scroll to the comment section to post your poem. Please respond to at least three other poets in celebration of words, phrases, ideas, and craft that speak to you. Click here for more information on the Verselove. Share a highlight from your experiences thus far here.
Tammy lives in Beloit, Wisconsin where she is a literacy coach in the School District of Beloit District. In her spare time, she teaches writing classes. Over her 26 years in education, she has been a classroom teacher, reading specialist, TAP Master Teacher, and coach. She believes reading is the gateway to everything. You can find her on IG @inspiretammyb or at her website https://tammysreadinglife.wordpress.com/.
Inspiration
Laura Robb introduced me to Naomi Shihab Nye many years ago at a writing conference in Sun Valley, Idaho. I have been inspired by her words ever since.
I invite you to read Burning the Old Year aloud to yourself.
I have used this poem in many capacities over the years and it always speaks to me in the perfect way when I reread it.
Today’s poem brings forth strong images and the idea of what has come and gone. What is it we release and what to we hold onto in our lives?
Process
- Write down what images strike you from the poem?
- What images from your life and memory does the poem bring forth? Make a list of these images.
- Write a list of the things you haven’t accomplished over the lived days of 2022.
- Consider what ideas do you need to burn and be let go?
Freewrite for 10 minutes considering the words of the poem and the lists you made. Reread and mark at least 4 phrases that sparkle for you. Use those phrases in your poem in a different order.
Tammy’s Poem
Burn it Down by Tammy Breitweiser
Coffee, black stains the blood red shirt
The doorway stands and holds me up,
sturdy , the color of chocolate,
Silent and safe.
So much not done these days,
Lists of tasks moved on the calendar
From one day to the next week,
Gray swirls of smoke
That take the logic and thoughts
Away.
Now that you are gone
There is no trip to New york,
Or pro baseball games,
Or a plane ride anywhere.
Grief swallows and spits
The ashes of the life
That is now burnt to
Ash.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. 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.
Also, in the spirit of reciprocity, please respond to at least three other poets today.
A feeling of despair
A wave of dread
The pounding loudness inside each part of your mind telling you to give up on everything
I’ve felt it all…
I’ve met the conspiracy
I’ve seen the curiosity
I am the curse
Stuck in this material plane of meaningless socialism
Sick and tired of losing those who are close to me
But i must keep going
My mind can’t stop me
As i become the person i was destined to be
Instead of becoming a decoration for my ceiling…
Hello Tammy! I like this prompt, as we have continued a “routine” from the start of 2022. Here is my poem.
New Year, Let’s See Where It Goes
Self-love.
A resolution that is consistently on the list
Sometimes accomplished
Sometimes forgotten.
A new lifestyle
A new routine
Going through the motions
Feeling a bit weak.
Hoping for some light
That will brighten the day
In need of some warmth
Hoping for brighter days.
Hey, Tammy. Thank you for the prompt. Your poem is a profound expression of loss. Sending good vibes your way.
Recycling Resolutions & Regrets
I scratch out the old year and write the new
On the same list of resolutions
Promises made to self long ago
That I won’t say I broke, but also didn’t keep.
I read it again item by item
Willing myself to pick at least one
To focus the year’s energy on.
I begin another year with too much to do
Vowing that this won’t end like the last one
With nothing done, regret being the only souvenir
That I carried with me across the threshold of time.
Saba, your metaphorical use of you being the souvenir is lovely and ties into your topic and our needs related to self-care. Thank you for sharing this poem.
I can hardly imagine “nothing done” with the life you live, Saba, but when we set those lists or goals for ourselves, it can seem we did not “achieve.” This is why I don’t set new year resolutions. Maybe a better way to cross that threshold is by making lists of everything we feel we accomplished or even better – experienced – in that past year, and reflect on how it can help to guide us through the next. That way, there is no regret souvenir – which is a metaphor I love – but rather we have the previous year to mentor us through the next. This is also a great line as the speaker sort of negotiates this, “That I won’t say I broke, but also didn’t keep.”
Saba,
Using the list of resolutions as the framework for the poem is so good. I relate to this. Your last couplet is so powerful. There’s music in your phrasing.
Thank you Tammy! I love this prompt and the process and your poem and the inspiration of Naomi Shihab Nye (she’s one of my favorite poets, too!). I started the poem below in class today in Connecticut and I am finishing it in Memphis–finally getting to see my oldest son after too many months apart. That’s part of what inspired my poem today.
Water from the upstairs bathroom still
leaks
through
the
ceiling,
cascading
into
a
bucket below
but the water
can wait.
I’m more concerned about
evaporating opportunities
unrealized memories
washed to sea
drowning in the mundane
…A smuggled kettlebell rests in the backseat of my car
knocking from side to side as a turn
“Gotta get beach ready” banging in the background like
Jacob Marley, as I’m chained
to pick-up, drop-off schedules and daily to-do lists
So much to do
family has been–
disconnected–
for too long
I long to spread my wings
across land, across oceans
walks on Beale Street and doubles in Couva
B-B-Q and Bake N Shark–plenty spice!
and the cooling off of coconut water
or a Carib
but mostly just to lime with family
while there’s still time
So little is stone
the fragile possibilities of what’s next
the shattering
of certainty
that’s sure to come
Let it rain down
Dave, “evaporating opportunities” is a fantastic connection to your opening water stanza. Then ending with “let it rain down” packs a powerful call to action at the end. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for sharing part of your process! How interesting to start a poem in one place and end it in another!
Tammy, thank you for this prompt. Nye’s poem was vivid, succinct, and yours was heartbreaking. I especially enjoyed your use of colors to paint images. I used a phrase from Nye’s poem as the title for mine.
So Little Is a Stone
fame, fortune, flamingly fleeting
so little is a stone
today’s news, yesterday’s regrets
so little is a stone
connections with those we love
are the stones worth anchoring
Charlene, the movement from your first “so little is a stone” to “the stones worth anchoring” is short but effective. Thank you for sharing.
That stone line also resonated with me, Charlene, and how wonderful to see you fold that into your creation. So little is a stone can have multiple meanings – being that which is solid and small, maybe very little concrete to hold onto, but also, even just the tiniest pebble in our shoe can be disruptive to us and irritate and even hurt us. I love collecting beach stones – we have some beauties here in Michigan – and tumbling them to polish them, so that line with the anchoring makes me think of those stones we keep, that we cherish and that anchor us as well. Beautiful!
Charlene,
“So Little is Stone” is what hooked me too! I love what you did, especially in the 2nd and 3rd stanzas–the juxtaposition in the 2nd and those 2 beautiful lines to resolve the poem.
Tammy,
Thank you for this. There is a reason why I am posting at 11:50 p.m. (almost missed it). Prompts like this are why I haven’t written poetry in nearly five years, but as much as I have avoided, I was quickly reminded of the powerful healing that can be found in composing a poem. As much as I wanted to avoid this, your words took me there:
“Now that you are gone
There is no trip to New york,
Or pro baseball games,
Or a plane ride anywhere.”
It is my greatest hope that, since or in time, there is — perhaps — a trip to NY, a pro baseball game, or a plane ride anywhere.
Five years
Reading your words was
Breathing air —
Inhaling, exhaling a
Haiku about the moon, or
Complicated contemplation
Of mortality or
An ode to surviving or
Momentary beauty that
Had to be shared or
Elation over dreams
Of future fatherhood
I hope she has your eyes or
“Hi girl” or
“You know.”
It isn’t that I haven’t written you —
I still do, even though I try
Not to, at least as often —
I simply haven’t read you.
At least not todays or tomorrows,
Just columns of dated yesterdays
Of proclamations beyond prose,
Captured only in galaxies
Held in the palm of a hand or
Coffee-colored words played
With the softest vibrato.
What is a poem without a poet?
A wingless, shivering bird —
Words waiting to take flight
And land without reservation.
We said, once married, we
Would still write each other
Every day, poetic gifts left
On countertops or
Taped to mirrors,
Labels on casseroles
Or snuck into pockets.
There are endless
Versions of what
Comes next
When light has left,
when new words
No longer take flight —
Leaving others behind with
Columns of dated yesterdays.
I don’t know what comes next,
But wherever it is,
And wherever you are,
I hope they write poems
So I may breathe again.
Wow. Such emotion here that resonated with me.
I esp love these lines:
What is a poem without a poet?
A wingless, shivering bird —
Words waiting to take flight
And land without reservation.
Thank you for sharing even though you had resistance.
There is hope and sadness in your lines.
OM Rhiannon. This is sweepingly beautiful and heartfelt. How you weave different images and phrases back into the journey through this poem is incredible. That’s a skill I admire but seem unable to capture. There are so many great lines in here, but these struck me:
Captured only in galaxies
Held in the palm of a hand or
Coffee-colored words played
With the softest vibrato.
I don’t “get” these so much as feel them resonating as a character who is out there but not concrete, rather they come to you in these concepts these best-laid metaphors trying to represent what is lost or gone. It hurt my heart to read them in that melancholy way. The old Polish drinking song goes, “In heaven, there is no beer, that’s why we drink it here.” Perhaps the same is true for poetry, but I rather like your ending better – to think that wherever there is, there is indeed poetry. Thank you for sharing this. I hope you will keep writing. Keep breathing.
Tammi — thank you for the invitation to write today. Burning the Old Year is one of my favorites, and I return to it every *new* year. The imagery in your poem and Nye’s reminded me of a house fire that occurred at one of my family’s rental properties. My dad rebuilt the home and we moved in years later.
curious eight-year-old meets a Zippo lighter
orange swirling flame meets a thirsty Christmas tree
hungry inferno meets a couch meets a curtain meets drywall
and soon the house is engulfed
hairspray cans pop like gunshots
family photos sizzle like moth wings
the second story collapses like an elephant surrendering
to slumber
smoke reaches toward open blue sky
water suppresses a raging fire
what once was continues to crackle
after the blazing dies
amidst piles of ash,
the bones of the home
and its foundation
remain
prayers of gratitude sing to heaven
“at least we are all okay”
Tammy, I’m sorry! I spelled your name wrong in my post, and I just noticed it!
You integrated Nye’s lines into your poem so smoothly! And your descriptions of this fire are so sharp & clear. I love “the bones of the home / and its foundation / remain” – especially knowing that you rebuilt the home & lived in it later.
Rachelle,
I love the interweaving of the mentor poem from Nye–it is so smooth that I almost didn’t realize. Your poem creates snapshots of an incident gone horribly wrong in a beautifully poignant way. Well done!
The blue and pink Winnie-the-Pooh box lives in the back of the closet,
collecting more dust than memories.
What once was labeled as the ‘baby box’ now houses a hodgepodge of
smudged
torn
& faded
snapshots from the past.
You shied away from the camera,
never wanting to be seen.
Honoring your wishes,
left few moments to be captured.
If I had known that one day soon,
your photo would be all that remained,
I would have taken more of you.
Emma, the juxtaposition between new life “baby box” and death “your photo would be all that remained” emphasizes the brevity of life. Thank you for sharing this today.
Wow, this makes my heart hurt. I’m so sorry. Your poem is beautiful & draws me to Nye’s line, “so little is a stone.” But oh, we wish it were. Thank you for sharing.
I can feel your sadness. I have a similar child that has always shied away from the camera but I am fortunate to still have her. I must remember to get more photos. I am sorry for your loss.
Emma,
Your poem is a bit of a gut punch. My family is not good at taking photos, we tend to get lost in the moment and forget. Your poem is a stark reminder that photos are valuable and treasured artifacts that are necessary to maintain memories. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for sharing this, Emma. I can picture the box of photos in the first stanza and I can feel the heartache of the last stanza. I’m sorry for your loss. This is such a poignant reminder of how precious our time with the ones we that we love is.
For Packy
By Mo Daley 4-20-22
I didn’t think
about changing your diaper
or the time when you were three
and you ran naked down the stairs
to finish your drawing before bath time.
I didn’t think about
the time you took a handlebar to the eye
and lost your sight
or even the first fly ball you caught
a week after your injury.
I didn’t think about
your crazy side-arm pitching
that left batters wondering what junk was coming their way
or the job that took you halfway across the country.
When you called tonight
to tell me you were engaged
I didn’t even think,
“My baby’s getting married!”
I just thought
how lucky you are to be loved by so many
and how happy I am
to be your mom.
Mo, this poem is so heart-felt and pure. The repetition of “I didn’t think” at the beginning of each stanza until that fourth stanza really sets this life event apart. Thank you for sharing this moment with us 🙂
Mo, how exciting—congrats to you and your daughter! What a beautiful album of memories you’ve created.
I love all these snippets of memories – Packy sounds like quite the character! Time goes by so quickly. Congratulations 🙂 Also love the form of your poem and the repetition of “I didn’t think about…”
Mo, Your last stanza got me. The transition of the parent-child relationship as life unfolds is truly one of my favorite aspects of getting older. This poem is all love, and I am all gratitude.
I just thought
how lucky you are to be loved by so many
and how happy I am
to be your mom.
How lovely.
Mo,
Oh, this is so lovely! There are so many little incidents that are so easily forgotten when there is abundant love–you capture that feeling perfectly.
What a sweet sentiment to your child – thank you for sharing.
What I didn’t say
was every smartass retort
that I have squirreled away.
What I didn’t say
was how the last four months
have felt more like seven years.
What I didn’t say
was how I shouldn’t
have to say anything at all.
What I didn’t say
was that we don’t
understand one another.
What I didn’t say
was, despite all of this,
how much I love you.
Oh, I’m not the only one who squirrels away smartass retorts? Your second stanza really rings true for me. I think many of us have been there before.
Laura, I really enjoy the repetition of “What I didn’t say” throughout your poem and your movement from a more universal set of circumstances to the more specific circumstances of your last two stanzas. And I love the “twist” of the final declaration at the end: “despite all of this, / how much I love you.” Thanks for writing and sharing this!
Laura,
I truly appreciate the duality you’ve shared with us. “What I didn’t say/was how the last four months/have felt more like seven years” and “What I didn’t say/was, despite all of this,/how much I love you.” Complicated beings, we are, and so often, that fact is denied or pushed away. I deeply appreciate the authenticity of your poem from the first word to the last.
The last line in the final stanza came as a surprise. Thanks for sharing.
Tammy – Thank you for your prompt and your poem. That last stanza — Wow! I feel that.
What I didn’t do was wash YOUR laundry
even though I dodge clothes mines
in our closet each morning
What I didn’t do was haul in the trash cans
even though I got home from work first
I’m not taking on another chore
What I didn’t do was make dinner
I sat on the couch with a cold beer and
called in a pizza
Good fir you. Those clothes mines are a sore spot in my house, too. Literally right next to the hamper!
I loved both model poems and I started to write about three different versions that didn’t quite cut it, and so I settled on a series of Shadorma poems.
I didn’t
speak when choices were
made that I
would not have
they are nearly men not needing
a meddling mom now
learning to
choose restraint over
infringing
where I no
longer should push, pry, or poke
at their sovereignty
closer and
closer I creep to
an empty
nest from where
my chicks have flown and made their
own roost, my job done
Cara — Right there with you. Nearly an empty nester myself. It is really hard letting go and trusting that we’ve done our jobs well and raised responsible and independent children. Love your last stanza.
We have to walk a fine line as moms of a certain age, don’t we? Newsflash, though, your job will never be done!
Mo,
Oh, I do know! That’s okay, I am liking being a “consultant” for my sons as long as they’ll have me–I just ran out of syllables. 😉
Cara, thanks for introducing me to a new type of poem. I like the structure a lot! What I love even more is your use of alliteration and assonance which is why the end of the first stanza particularly stood out to me!
Thanks Tammy. I found myself drawn to Nye’s line: an absence shouts, leaves a space…and then found the overwhelm of too much to do in too little time squeezing itself into the spaces of this (quite rough still) poem.
Leave a Space
Leave a space
for breath
As I hurry to finish all the things
a list longer
than my memory
tying knots between
my should blades
Leave a space
to ponder
instead of filling my brain
with bad news
fake news
ridiculous new
who really needs
this news?
Leave a space
of contemplation
Another meeting
another committee
filled with decisions
that everyone
and no one
cares about and those who care the least
make the final
decision
Leave a space
to just be
wide open space
Leave a space
where I can be me
@kd0602
I love the dialogue about open space and filled/anxious/busy space here, Kim. The images in the filled up space are vivid and oh so real.
Kim — Truth! We all just need space and time to breathe.
I can really relate to your second stanza as I have the same knots in my shoulder blades.
Kim — what a powerful reminder that “leaving space” often requires a conscious effort in a culture that demands one thing after another, but is an effort entirely worth it. Thank you for these thoughts. I suspect I will be seeing my time with more intention tomorrow morning.
“tying knots between
my should blades” — ah, yes, truth.
“Leave a space
where I can be me” — another truth. We all need to take another breath.
Tammy, thank you so much for this prompt!
What I didn’t do this year
Was go out with the guy who dropped out of college
To grow mushrooms in his mother’s basement.
Not the psychedelic kind.
The fungus.
I’m not sure which is worse.
“He’s perfect for you! He’s never been in a relationship either!”
Is a terrible argument to make.
And yet, that’s the one all of my friends went with.
As if both of us having no experience with romance
Was the only qualification necessary
For me to find love.
It’s the same concept as:
“You don’t know how to drive? Me either! Let’s go on a road trip!”
Everyone with a significant other will tell you
That love comes when you least expect it.
While that may be true, I don’t believe that
My soulmate is this particular
Fun guy (pun intended).
I know I said my resolution for this year was to
On a date…or twelve, but at this point
The resolution has been sandwiched between
Enough deadlines and due dates
That it has drifted to the bottom
Of my to-do list.
Elizabeth, I can’t relate to the dating thing, but I can definitely resonate with my own resolution sandwiched between the “deadlines and due dates “. It’s time to bump it back up! But the way this guy sounds, you definitely dodged one there!
Elizabeth — I literally laughed out loud to this:
Not the psychedelic kind.
The fungus.
I’m not sure which is worse.
Glad to hear you didn’t go out with that guy.
Thank you for this prompt, Tammy! I’ve had this idea in my mind that I wanted to put into words. Your mentor poem and guidance helped me think of how I could craft my ideas with a small twist.
What I Didn’t Remember
“Thank you for the invitation, but
I have my parents waiting for me to have lunch
together at home”
That’s true
Last minute invites are not allowed if food
is already cooking at home
Being far away makes memories fade
shared meals used to be a thing
Where nobody would eat until everyone
sat on their chair
It just took that comment
to bring this memory back to life
Your line “ where nobody would eat until everyone sat on their chair”- brought a vivid memory alive in my mind. Your last line is true for me but this poem inspired my images.
Carolina, your poem evokes a sad longing and sweet nostalgia. Thank you for reminding me of those family meals—something that I am working toward curating in my home today!
Carolina, I can resonate with, “Being far away makes memories fade
shared meals used to be a thing”. I remember that used to be a “thing” in my home growing up and even at my grandparents’ home, but now even with my own family, not so much. I miss it sometimes, but I also miss my peace. But I do believe that this memory needs to be resurrected! Thank you for the reminder!
Carolina — This was my house too. Growing up we always shared meals as a family. I tried to do the same with my own family but once my kids became teens and were in sports and had jobs, it became very difficult to get family dinners in. I miss those days.
It’s been awhile all! I finally got around to typing and sharing poetry again. I was quite surprised the direction this poem took. I started with my list of chosen words and then started writing about what it reminded me of — and apparently I have some dental trauma to work though hah!
What I Didn’t Do
Was floss regularly,
traumatized by the time
my teeth were tied
on a line of mint green floss,
plucked scarlet.
What I didn’t do
was swallow,
“Swish and spit,” they said.
A metallic taste and clacking sound,
nightmares of loose teeth.
What I didn’t do
was displace a dental plan
with fairy visits,
dimes and dollars deposited
deep in sleep.
What I didn’t do
was abandon the mouth guard
vigilantly watching over
my night stand.
I was wise enough to not require
wisdom teeth.
Instead, biting down on pen caps
in hopes of gnawing
towards genius.
I love the personification of the mouth guard when you say “vigilantly watching over my night stand.” Thanks for sharing!!
Erica, I am also working through dental trauma! I love the wordplay in your last stanza. Your first stanza is so vivid and I can feel my gums cringing as I read!
Erica — Your last stanza is genius! I wish that would have worked for me.
Suspended
hanging in nothingness, thousands of feet
up, this vacuum of white-noise sucking
silent space between us, body suspended, looking
looking for horizon, any horizon.
need more space, you said, my heart tries
to move toward your desire, to take a big slug
of water in the middle of this flooding room,
shaking in the still deep as you back float away.
this empty space is a screen where commercials of
memory pop up on their own and I rewind them,
watching us again and again, trying
to notice now what I didn’t notice then.
when I can’t do something for you, my son in
space, I’ll wait for the lucky chance to do something for us,
something quiet and beautiful, like maybe I’ll find a cloud
out there, in the vastness of vapors, break from my body,
shape it like a seagull.
Kevin — This is really an exquisite poem. The image of relationship floating away in a weird absence of connection…the white space of a relationship…oooo. That is raw right there. The aftermath of words like I “need more space” is brutal…the surreal-ness of it is palpable in the word choices…”commercials of/memory pop up on their own and I rewind them”… oh lordy! I am replaying the last two lines…”break from my body,/shape it like a seagull.” Oh my…such a poignant image! This poem hits me as a really provocative set of images. Mmm-mmm. Thank you for sharing this personal replaying of experience. Hugs, Susie
Thank you for your thoughtful and generous response Susie. It meant a lot to hear you were able to connect with the lines.
Kevin — This poem is absolutely beautiful and heart-wrenching at the same time. You’ve really created that feeling of being suspended and unable to reach the person you love. These lines were especially poignant:
“and I rewind them,
watching us again and again, trying
to notice now what I didn’t notice then.”
Thanks for your kind and pointed response, Tammi. I really appreciate hearing how to got the feeling of it.
Hello Tammy,
I so enjoyed this prompt and your poem. Both yours and Naomi’s poems spoke to me. I voice-recorded myself reading Burning The Old Year. I listened about 5 times and jotted a few key words then went with two Zappai poems.
Beginning
Rising in silence
Absence lives louder than life
Burying my joy
Beginning again
Life ablaze silences death
Ignites my passion
© Stacey L. Joy, 4/20/22
Yes, Stacey! “Life ablaze silences death/ignite my passion! You bet! Live in that glorious firelight! The Zappai really fits this message… Beginning…great sense of power in these two Zappai poems! It’s really quite something when you can pull off such a powerful message with 20 words! Marvelous! Hugs, Susie
Thank you, Susie, and how incredibly coincidental that you said FIRELIGHT. That was exactly what I was going to title it then thought it was dumb. LOL, now I know it was brilliant, thanks to you!
Stacey,
You are so good with this form. I love the paradox in the second line, but the third line makes me sad and mournful. But you end with hope, with “Beginning agin” with a life “ablaze.” As Susie says, there’s so much in few lines. Hugs and peace to you.
Stacey, I loved reading your approach to today’s prompt and your poem, of course! That first stanza I had to sit with because I can’t get over “Rising in silence.” So many images and emotions come to mind. And thank goodness for that second stanza, from the ashes we “Ignite our passion”! Yes!
Stacey,these lines: “Beginning again
Life ablaze silences death
Ignites my passion” resonated with me. I feel like when I changed jobs, I was here. I was able to begin again. I think we all have to “begin again”, like a restart to our souls do remind ourselves of our purpose to live. Thank you for sharing.
“Beginning again, Life ablaze silences death.” Oh I must remember these strong and helpful words.
Thank you for this prompt! The mentor poem and free write were therapeutic to me. 🙂
“De boog kan niet altijd gespannen zijn”
her laugh is pure, bright, irresistible
I smile, witnessing her joy
but for some reason, I can’t turn off
the mental to do list:
put her in crib
clean up lunch
finish grocery order
20 minutes of yoga
read a chapter
write a poem
and I wonder if I should scribble it out
replacing it all with one item:
be with her
Rachel that last line is so fantastic and I love how it reduces your list from before.
I love the imagery and vivid verbs in your poem! When you say “I should scribble it out” and immediately imagine the action. I’m not a mom, but I am an auntie. I can definitely relate to your poem to whenever I visit my nieces. Thanks for sharing!
Your beginning line is fantastic! I could picture a bright little face saying that.
Last holiday season we were all getting reacquainted
with our homes and selves
As we silently raged that we couldn’t be with
people who very well might be gone next year
So our gatherings were smaller if at all
and we pretended it was all fine because what good
does it do to bitch and complain
I was able to bring into focus what was truly important
in a classroom of 13, identity and love
and we pretended it was all fine about MCAS
because truly we knew it didn’t matter
Then this year we lost the masks if we wanted to
and everyone pretended things had gone back to normal
as students exhibited anxiety and depression the likes
of which made us all need to make confessions,
write poems about pain and peace
because truly we knew that was what mattered
When the smoke clears and the ash settles
What will we have all learned really?
Will we continue to pretend or be more transparent-
After all isn’t that what children truly deserve from us?
I love the use of the comma before “identity and love” to have that silence before saying what it really matters.Thanks for sharing <3
I loved following your thought train here – so wise & so relatable. Your last stanza is beautiful. “When the smoke clears and the ash settles / What will we have all learned really?” I hope we have learned what matters.
Thank you for this prompt, Tammy! It is always inspiring to read Naomi Shihab Nye. My initial thought in responding to this poetry prompt was that it would be great to revisit my new year intentions a few months into the year, a time of reflection. However, I think your poignant poem led me another direction…I admire how you wrestled with the loss of someone dear…these lines I find so sad/beautiful –
Grief swallows and spits
The ashes of the life
Here’s my poem:
What you didn’t do
some sort of haunting breeze
within
rattled you whispered through
settled in
was it grief-borne?
I never understood
must have
need it
can’t pass it by
keep it keep it keep it
all this stuff
endless stuff
I never understood
how many times did we tease
you can’t take it with you
now
you are gone
leaving us
jammed closets
full floors
laden tables
stuffed drawers
yet
so empty
Maureen, it is interesting how this prompt has made quite a few of us look at our loss and grief. I love the words of haunting breeze and how it is so hard to let go and we keep it, keep it. Your last stanza really jolted me in memory of my dear friend who I lost in August, left us jammed closets, full floors, etc. Your poem says it so well and beautifully.
Maureen, your poem is gorgeously written. I am moved to tears understanding how things left behind make one feel even more loss. Thank you for this poignant, exquisite poem of love and loss. Peace!
Maureen,
The key line, the most powerful line on which so much turns is
“keep it keep it keep it”
and we see the price this exacts for those who remain in the final stanza:
“leaving us
jammed closets
full floors
laden tables
stuffed drawers
yet
so empty”
This is powerful stuff, and I don’t want to do that to my children. And I’m amazed by how you can say what the subject didn’t do by saying what the subject did.
I CHOSE NOT TO
I chose not to scream back in her face;
I don’t wear enough leather to pace that OK Corral.
I chose not to take to the salon chair —
Covid, our novel virus, is just too real;
maybe mullet hair will make a comeback.
I chose not to gripe about lack of sleep;
just being horizontal is quite delicious all by itself.
I chose not to go nose blind when he stepped from the cellar,
reeking of pot at 6:30 am before teaching teenagers;
truth speaking, it’s just sick and wrong.
I chose not to attend the symphony on Friday nights
after a frenetic week of teaching;
falling asleep with a drooling snore in public is just plain tacky.
I chose not to screw my students;
(oh my god it never even crossed my mind)
he weaseled enough of that
to stoke his own inferno of #metoo casualties.
I chose not ever again to get near toxic narcissists (NPDs);
now I ease into the best years of my life.
I chose not to burn down the house,
dusting it with voodoo herbs, instead, on my way out;
he’ll never deserve even an ash of my fire.
I probably should’ve chosen not to write this today;
that’s the thing about poems sometimes:
they just sort of write themselves through the fray.
by Susie Morice, April 20, 2022©
Susie, well, your poem carries quite a justified punch. Although I do not personally know your subject, your details share a whole lot of revelations, and I agree that you need to be present to teach and not under an influence. Nor should we be screwing our students, and what the heck, those NPDs…yikes, I’ve known a few too many and they never learn nor listen because they know it all. I love the imagery of you with your voodoo herbs, cleansing your house, and I agree “he’ll never deserve even an ash of my fire”. What a punch! You deserve the best not someone’s stupid, self-serving bullshit! Clearly you are wise and make positive decisions for yourself and others. Hugs, friend, Barb.
Susie, somehow you manage to hold onto humor (mullet hair) despite the seriousness of all of these chose not-to’s. I definitely feel you need a hug after writing this (heck, I need a hug). I cannot like enough the stanza of voodoo herb dusting – it’s a perfect action/reaction/ image. Here’s to easing into the best years. And you are truly the best.
Okkkkkk my girl has done it again! Susie, this stanza is ME! You know how many times I wanted to be destructive but it would’ve been a waste of fire!
And this is “quite delicious” too:
Oh so much to love about this poem that wrote itself today!
Standing and clapping! Grateful for all the things you chose NOT to do.
?
Susie,
Yes, you should write this–all of it, and I for one am glad you penned this poetic rant. “I chose not to” is a powerful phrase, and all these things you did not do speak volumes about all the right things you did and how necessary they are to civil society and to personal relationships. Every verse strike the right chords, but I’m focusing on
“I chose not to go nose blind when he stepped from the cellar,
reeking of pot at 6:30 am before teaching teenagers;
truth speaking, it’s just sick and wrong.”
because these words echo a conversation I had w/ a neighbor today about what gets ignored in schools and how good parents feel about that. It is wrong, and it must be called out. I’m giving this poem the ovation it deserves.
Susie,
To say that this poem was intense would be an understatement. There was a significant amount of power in your writing and it took so much courage to share out. I especially loved the stanza about the salon chair. Mullets are absolutely making a come back!
Tammy, I love your imagery in your first stanza: “Coffee, black stains the blood red shirt
The doorway stands and holds me up,
sturdy , the color of chocolate,
Silent and safe.” The way you punctuate helps enhance the feeling of the atmosphere. The general tone also makes me realize that I need to quit thinking of adding things to my list and go ahead and mark off what I want to NOW. Time is precious and people are leaving.
As for this prompt, this was very difficult. I think because of what I wanted to avoid…how much I haven’t accomplished in 3 years or the realization that I have accomplished much, but not what I really wanted to do. Well, thank you for the challenge. It gave me a nice break from such a hectic day and now I can stop and think…and focus on the plan for what I have put off for so long.
If only…
time could rewind
to those specific moments
of when I forgot
or needed to finish…
I can barely get to my
domestic duties;
can’t remember when
I’m supposed to bring
snacks for the team.
What was said
yesterday about next week?
I stopped making lists;
I never accomplish them anyway.
They just get longer,
wasting paper like wasting time.
Goals, tasks, to-dos…
to-don’ts…
Educationally, I’m thriving,
(for now)
Spiritually, I’m maintaining.
Financially, emotionally, and mentally,
Well….
SURVIVING!
The one thing I kept not picking up,
but moving down my mental register
was my notebook of my ideas
about what to write.
Fiction, self-help, devotional…
Rambling?
Last November was the last time
I thought
while on that long ride to Turpentine Creek.
But I briefly picked it up again a few
months ago,
but quickly put it down
once new ideas overwhelmed old ideas.
No receipt,
out of register tape.
Things keep getting me off the path,
but by happenstance.
Counting them as appreciative obstacles
Because I know that soon
That these bomb blessings
will explode with deserved
pomp and praise…
one day.
Jessica, “appeciative obstacles” is such a fabulous way to greet all the “never did/still to do” on our lists…I really like that! Also, wow –
To me, those two lines say “it is in there, I just can’t prove it to you right now” – I hope you will find time for that precious notebook of writing ideas!
Yes, exactly Maureen! I think once I fulfill all of my education obligations, I will find some time to settle down and decide.
Jessica, your list of all you are dealing with in life and what you want to accomplish is crafted perfectly in this poem. The positive end is the perfect emotion to reveal your determination no matter what obstacles get in your road. Hang in there! You have a wonderful voice that needs to be shared!
Thank you so much Barb! I know I have a lot I want to do, but I don’t want that to deter me or make me feel like a failure. I have so much more to do. And thank you for your kind words, they touch the heart!
Teacher’s Nataraja
Thirty flames burn
around the arc
frame my cosmic dance
promises made to
do better be better
flicker Agni’s eternal fire
my computer
goddess Ganges
my calendar the drum
steady beats
tapping lapping
twirling whirling
August to May
this cycle nearly complete
mudra abhaya says
fear not
I hear a very meditative, understanding drumbeat through this poem; those words “fear not” are very reassuring – you have prioritized those 30 burning flames, and sweet time is coming…
Denise, I appreciate the ancient rhythmic quality of your poem today, the stanzas marching along in size and beat, the cycle and mantra feel, the burning flames with the cosmic dance – it’s filled with ritual. We are so near!
I love the imagery of cosmic proportions and how it’s describing the classroom. It definitely makes me feel more divine and inspired as a teacher. I love that final, two-word line as well.
Your poem is playing like a dance inside my head. The use of rhythm makes your words flow like a song.
Things I haven’t done
Reading a book for my own pleasure
Opening my bible
Going for long walks
Finishing details of my wedding
Finding time for myself
My friends
My family
And My dog
Tiring
Fatigued
And still no time for me.
Opening my bible line struck me as I know I have neglected reading it for some time now.
You are almost to the finish line! I remember this empty, “I haven’t done” list from my teaching days. Hope those wedding details get done – but, all weddings have things go wrong and that is part of the happy memories…. best wishes!
Emma,
Self-care makes all other things possible. Take time for you so you can give time to others. Get eight hours sleep every night so you can be effective and efficient. The things will wait. Get a massage.
The phrase “Teacher Tired” doesn’t even begin to describe how burnt out teachers are right now. This year has been incredibly hard and making time for anything outside of our “teacher” identities has been a challenge. Keep pushing through!
time for me…such a powerful message!
I really like this writing activity. I have had a bit of a paradigm shift from today’s prompt. Thank you so much for that, Tammy.
My poem is raw and unfinished, but I do feel prompted to get it out there for now.
There are holes in my life.
Sudden death.
Broken trust.
Life is on the speed train.
And my holes of aching celebration –
are they just sitting there unattended?
I’m…
I am…
I am taking care of myself
even if I don’t feel like I am –
I am.
I will not let myself down.
My internal core won’t let me stop.
“You are big and tough.”
I am progressing from something that was.
It’s moving to something that is no longer.
I am moving from the flames into the coals.
Very raw and felt the emotion as I was reading. The I’m…I am…I am taking care of myself melted my heart as I feel it coming from someone who is experiencing loss. Hang in there!
Amber,
The words and tense of the verbs and the punctuation all offer this movement and shifting that really simulate the final line of “flames into coals”. I can feel the smoldering the speaker is experiencing.
Sarah
Amber (perfect name to fit the color of fire) — Your poem has a very strong tug. The switch from “I’m” to “I am…” and to “I will…”…there’s strength right there. The move from flames to coals is a provocative shift. On the one hand flames are mesmerizing and breathe big air and coals the undercurrent of heat…yet, there is on the other hand the sense that coals are a slow burn perhaps to burning out…or perhaps to remind us to stoke the fire. A very rich poem! Susie
Your poem may feel raw and unfinished to you, but it’s present tense brought me right into your heart. from the flames into the coals...just beautiful!
I actually really enjoy this raw poem, Amber! My favorite is perhaps the second stanza and how it grows and unfolds with each declaration of “I am” and how that eventually becomes “I will.” You have a great ending line as well because of the movement from flames to coals — though I can’t decide if it’s supposed to be a positive or negative thing.
Tammy,
Thanks for the mentor poem by Naomi Shihab Nye. I can see where different things would result with each read. Your resulting poem is dynamite. The way you isolate key words on a line by themselves is powerful.
Regrets
I don’t have a lot
but the ones I have are big.
Huge.
Do people tend to regret
what they do
or what they don’t do
more?
I think when I do,
I have had more regrets,
so I have moved into
don’t do mode more.
Less to regret.
~Susan Ahlbrand
20 April 2022
I loved the question you posed, Susan! “Do people tend to regret what they do or don’t do more”. This is a great question. Thanks for sharing!
I totally agree with Emma. Your question is great. So philosophical.
Susan,
I love the subversion here “don’t do mode more”! I actually started my poem that way — to let burn all the overdoing, but found that I wasn’t ready yet. I am struck now, however, with the “I think when I do, /I have had more regrets.” And now I am worried.
Cheers,
Sarah
Susan — I was feeling these some things today. I stewed over the idea of regret…all sort of pointless… so I love “less to regret”… I like that “don’t do”… Right up my alley! Susie
Susan—a wonderful question. And I agree-less to regret with don’t do…
Your poem reminds me of Daniel Pink’s new book, The Power of Regret, where he reports on a big study of people’s regrets. Love your question–do people tend to regret what they do more or what they don’t do more?
Tammy, hello and thanks for the prompt! Once I started writing down ideas, the poem spun away from me in a whole different direction. 🙂
All Apologies
Up in flames? Not so much.
Resigned to a garbage heap.
Hopefully, repurposed in someone
else’s music collection.
What I regret most
Is not what I didn’t do
But what I did:
Thinking vinyl’s demise final
Carting a cardboard box
To Record Theater,
I bid adieu to them all.
Out of the Cellar, and into
someone else’s.
That Very Special Christmas?
Not so special anymore.
Ice Cream Castles?
Couldn’t give lame vinyl
The Time of Day anymore.
Instead: Collected in one
Spotty online home, they now reside.
The sacrifice: liner notes
With all the lyrics
(and those personal kudos)
The joy of sliding vinyl from a sleeve
And fidgeting with the “little black thing”
(as we bequeathed it in childhood)
Which – Abracadabra! – made
that 45 sound so perfect. The tether
that made me curator of that
Sleek
Staticy
Black
Disc
Fawning like a hennish mother
To fix slipped discs, to turn sides,
To make sure the needle was
placed
just right.
So, Wendy, I probably should get rid of all the cassette tapes and CDs collecting dust, too. Our babies. “Fawning like a hennish mother.” Maybe in the end we’re all just a garage sale away from the generation to follow.
Wendy, wow, your poem created a flood of memories for me with my own 45s. I love how you end this poem: “To make sure the needle was/placed/just right.” Such a provocative end! Sensational poem! Thank you!
Wendy,
I feel the same pain. I no longer have those 45 RPM records from years ago. I, too, thought they had become obsolete. And the albums, almost all gone when my now ex-husband decided “back-masking” was a thing and of the devil. I wish one of us had been less stupid and insisted on keeping those musical treasures. I have a few left, including the original Thriller album and a Jim Croce given to me by an old boyfriend. I think that one cost $5.00 at the time. Indeed, what haunts isn’t always what we didn’t do but what we did. ‘Preciate this poem and the truth you shared today.
What I didn’t do
I never was able to get ahead
Days passing rapidly
With reckless abandon lost in space
I never was able to make it stop
I never went home as much as I should
Spending days missing it
Yearning for meaningful moments
I never even called enough
I never ended things earlier
I would have been so much happier
Waiting to save a soul
I never found my own happiness
I never visited your grave
Your memories cloud my brain daily
Missing you and all that you were
I never wanted you to leave
“I never went home as much as I should” I totally feel this one and it eats at me every day. It is so hard to fill the need of everyone in your life, especially when you don’t live close by. Thanks for sharing!
I share so many of these “nevers” with you, Ella, and feel the weight of each of them as I read this. And yet, we are indeed pulled in so many directions in our lives, thinking what we ARE doing will make us happier – and only realizing (much) later that it didn’t. Alas, I still think this helps us to shape the time we have ahead of us much mo’ better. “I never even called enough.” Okay. That one did it. I’m calling my mom right now… (Thank you!)
Ella, I’m not sure we ever spend enough time with those we need to and we often learn to late that it is, in fact, too late. Your regret permeates this poem – not going home as often as you should (never even calling enough – oy!).
Tammy! I’ve had to let this prompt marinate a while, because I knew what it triggered for me, but wanted to push that away. This is a PG-13 site. I appreciate you sharing the Nye poem (gorgeous) and the use of ‘ash’ and ‘smoke’ in your own poem. I couldn’t help channel raising boys. In my head, I’m more chill than I really am, but the truth is I’m more the chaperone and wallflower, than the Saturday Nigh Live. Either way…this is the poem that resulted. You’re all welcome to bypass it. Carry on, Covid years. Carry on.
Burning It At Both Ends
She steps out of her car
just as a sunbeam crosses her face.
I knew she was on her way –
(how could I not know she was on her way?).
She texted for two hours
I stopped in Vermont for you…
she says, handing me a plastic tube.
Wait? You got me a tampon?
It seems everyone’s a teen these days —
we’re all an episode of Roseanne.
In college, people thought I was Cheech
(or is that Chong), because
I looked like Anthony Kiedis
and tap-danced with bees upon blind melons —
— even raised a squirrel on Rotary Ave.
Matt taught me,
the eucalyptus leaf is lobster for the ladybug.
Okay, Shaggy. Give Scooby another snack.
And it is true I’ve impounded for years
(confiscated) (quality control) from the boys —
because I have friends that come
over, sometimes, and…
well, mom has her gummies.
Sometimes I pretend
to pack all my anxieties into a bowl
and watch them go up in smoke.
Papaya Wow
Storm Dough
Gooberry Red
Twilight Curse
Rhino Gold
Banana Zero
Lavender Shit
it’s legal now, huh?
(and I had to look these up…
who knew I’d find the language of poets).
A fitting poem for today- With less than 2 hours away. Very clever!!! Funny how one small group in society can declare a special day due to time. ” Mom has her gummies” Haha
Nice work!
well, that’s a coincidence. now, I’m sort of proud. Wait until I tell the boys.
I understood and greatly enjoyed your poem, but didn’t realize the significance of the date until I read the comments. Not the first time I was oblivious ~ the first time was when I was wearing a hand-me-down sweatshirt from someone’s bat mitzvah. I was getting all sorts of winks and nods from mall goers younger than me. Luckily I had a daughter who could explain the significance of 4-20 and why no one ever wore the sweatshirt in public unless they were fishing for winks and nods. Thanks for the memory. Who knew?
Tammy, I just loved your mentor poem and the poem that you crafted from its inspiration. I connected with the leaves, ashes and burning the old year. They remind me of one of my favorite rituals, writing wishes on a special thin “Wish Paper” at New Years (and anytime!). The paper burns very quickly and symbolically take wishes out into the world. At the moment, I like this idea of letting them also take away unneeded memories and trauma. These ideas inspired my poem.
Wish Paper
We write what we will let go of
On thin leaves of paper
Light them on the granite island
Companions lookings sideways at the lady who brought the matches
But still things remain
“The Body Keeps Score”
And experience the loops and pains inside.
An itch that i would like to ask to leave,
But don’t know how
How does one
Remove
Such an itch?
Surgery is not an option for this kind of thing.
I have a scaredy-dog
Giant chihuahua mix that hides his tail
When a noisy truck
Or well-meaning neighbor
Approaches
When the offender has passed
He shakes his whole body
Long ears flapping against head
And he is released of his fear.
Is there a human version of this?
Until I find it
I employ thin leaves of paper
Lit with a match, taking the memories anywhere but here.
Merry, wow, this is so powerful. I love the imagery of the dog shaking off the fear, and the practice of burning these think paper slips is something I must adopt. The progress and structure of your poem helps deliver your powerful end, showing that you will continue to use this ritual to release fear. I kept thinking that someone at the party was unnerving, but I’m not sure I read that correctly. Either way, fantastic poem!
So not the prompt but I want to share my experience reading “Gate A-4” with my 8th graders in Kuwait. They enjoyed that the poem contained Arabic words and everyone wanted to read that stanza. The conversations were so rich. (I paired it with Bilingual/Bilingue). The poem mentions mamool cookies and I told my students I wanted to try those just from how she describes them in the poem. Today, one of my students brought me a box 😀
Here is my blackout poem based on “Gate A-4”
Angie, this is wonderful! All of it! The conversations you had with your students, the blackout poem you created, the original poem “Gate A-4,” the sharing of the cookies. All of it! To (mis)quote Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem, “This / is the [classroom] I want to live in.” Thank you for this!
Scott, I agree. Hate it when you beat me to thoughts!
I love your use of the blackout poem! Powerful words, thank you for sharing!
Angie, I love that this writing brought so many together (your students and you, English and Arabic, your writing and experience to us), and most of all that cookies were shared.
Tammy, thank you for your prompt, the mentor’s post, and your deeply moving and heart-breaking poem. I was completely absorbed by the emotions, the line “So much not done these days.” Then your last lines rocked me to the core. I could physically see a mouth full of grief spitting out ashes. Incredible poem!
Cold Remains Still Burn
Turkey buzzards devour red remains
Black tipped sea gulls glide, eyeing
Turbulent murky water
Communes like last rites
Drowning hot tears
One’s pain cannot be seared by silence
Strive for understanding, write poems,
Feel the prick of derision
Solace is not found here
Once life was brimming but suddenly wasn’t
An abyss shrieks, complicates, leaves a wake
I begin again at the ending, searching
To glean answers in letters and posts
Sifting through all I didn’t do
Singed fingers touching cold ashes
Barb Edler
20 April 2022
Such a great poem written based off of BTOY, Barb. The imagery and the expressions of searching and trying to understand throughout. So good.
Thanks, Angie. Yes, I followed “Burning The Old Years” format, and I should have mentioned that in my opening note.
“Once life was brimming but suddenly wasn’t
An abyss shrieks, complicates, leaves a wake
I begin again at the ending, searching
To glean answers in letters and posts
Sifting through all I didn’t do
Singed fingers touching cold ashes”
This is amazing. This line— once life was brimming… and the last—singed fingers touching cold ashes. Oh, my goodness.
Wow! I love it. This reminds me of the video by Guns and Roses “Civil War”, that is played to the scene in Saving Private Ryan. Just a vivid piece of work. The last verse where he fingers are singing as they rub the cold ashes – I feel the ashes. Sifting through all I didn’t do, I see a soldier so full of regret. The scavengers in the first line create a dark, peaceful emotion. Dark to see how humans treat each other and peaceful to see positive change. The Cold remains still burn – a great title to prepare readers of the emotion ride they will experience when they read this poem.
I love your use of imagery in this poem! Very well done!
Barb — There’s some strong burn here…those “singed fingers touching cold ashes”…very raw. Phrasings really pushing this… “prick of derision” and the sense of you watching the river roil from your perch up on the hill there…and the “sifting” for answers…that burn. Ooof! You have so much to say, my friend. Keep writing…I’d like to think we can write away the pain. Hugs, Susie
Barb,
This poem born from grief is absolutely brilliant. The pain in each line is visceral. Several lines offer a paradox, beginning w/ the title:
“Cold remains still burn” the heart and soul…
I begin again, at the ending, searching…
“Singed fingers toughing cold ashes.”
These lines juxtaposed w/ the images of birds of prey haunt and remind me of how the world hovers over the grieving with their judgments and condemnations. Powerful poem, friend. I want to purge this pain from your heart.
Barb, your title “Cold Remains Still Burn” left me breathless. Every line of this poem creates such powerful images.
I remember the days when you use to love me
I remember the days when I use to love you
So many trips to wonderful places
but yet so many rips that caused me to have many faces
Your love making so powerful and so bold
Powerful enough to leave a stronghold on me
Bold enough for me to give you a key
A key to unlock the door and a key to my heart
Who knew that after all of this we would be apart
While apart I longed for you day and night
Jealous and could not stand the sight of you with someone else
I roared like a Lion to advocate for us
But the bee in you always wanted to buzz and fuss
The Tiger in my mind said cuss you out
But the soft prayer in my heart said just leave in peace
Still healing and still feeling your hold on me
I rise yet I rise but I rise
and though apologies have been said
I just remember the days when we use to love each other
These lines resonated with me:
I roared like a Lion to advocate for us
But the bee in you always wanted to buzz and fuss
The Tiger in my mind said cuss you out
Thank you for sharing.
DesC, you’ve captured the torment one experiences after an unexpected break. Dampening those flames of love is excrutiatingly painful. I love the details that show the passion, the end, and the emotions that follow. The repetition in “I rise yet I rise but I rise” shows such strength and courage. Outstanding poem! Bravo!
Thank you for sharing this powerful piece. I love the final line “I just remember the days when we use to love each other”.
Envelopes
If Winter will let Spring win
We’ll see Summer somewhere
Taking out the recycling
In mythical sunshine
Coups don’t quit
Or believe in gravity
Lies live on
Parallel to purgatory
Kept like a dying cat
Pooping on the bathroom floor
Spitting up by the bedside
On headlines
You started off so strong
Now you’re unopened envelopes
Yellow with age and waterstained
Free promotional calendars
WOW! These last 4 lines!
You started off so strong
Now you’re unopened envelopes
Yellow with age and waterstained
Free promotional calendars
Alex, wow, I am enthralled by your poem. The image of the dying cat pooping on the bathroom floor is striking. Your end so depressing like receiving junk mail there seems to be no use for. “Lies live on/Parallel to purgatory” is provocative. Sensational poem! Thank you!
So much here. I’d pick one line, but I can’t. Your cynicism is accurate in today’s world, unfortunately. But your phrasing takes it to a new level.
Alex,
I have never related more to a stanza than I have to your first one. Every time I think I get a taste of spring, the temperature drops back into the thirties and it begins to snow again. I have never been missed the sunshine more than I have this year. Wonderful poem!
Thank you, Tammy, for the intriguing prompt, I had so many ideas for this one, but so little time. All the poems are fabulous, enjoy the rest of April 20th and all the songs by Bob Marley.
Give Goals Arrest
Listen Ol’ Disturbing one,
I know the things I done.
This one is about what I haven’t begun.
You talk to me at the strangest times,
Make me regretful, spoiling my shine.
When I start to work on the tasking,
You demand other without asking.
Buttin’ in like a stubborn goat,
Ripping my mission into one- lettered notes.
I never meet all my goals,
Wrinkled like my skin, the 100 paper folds.
Don’t talk to me about the should haves,
Don’t yell at me about the would haves!
Never say could haves!
Deep, the clash unfolds in- halves!
One- the yearning to do,
One -the failure burning through.
Oh! I strive to be – goals complete,
No! I fail to be- regretful defeat!
My beard now gray from the stress you give,
My eyes shine for the life I live.
Defining the small dash that we all endure,
Complete my goals this time for sure.
No, I can’t this time,
Cast them away under dead- frog grime.
There is no hope, only reciprocity,
When I smile, is it pomposity?
Listen Ol’ disturbing one,
None of this can be redone.
Even though you and time,
Trigger torment in my mind,
There is one thing you must know,
I tricked you, today, with my flow.
Even though this is about things undone,
I wrote this poem today, so I won!
Me one
and you one million and three,
You are consumed with defeat,
Yet, I am free!
– Boxer
Boxer—as always, you amaze me. The triumph at the end is wonderful!
“Even though this is about things undone,
I wrote this poem today, so I won!
Me one
and you one million and three,
You are consumed with defeat,
Yet, I am free!”
Boxer, your direct voice is compelling throughout this. I love how you free yourself at the end, showing how you won! I was really impressed with the flow of your poem and found the description of dead-frog grime especially effective. Excellent poem!
Boxer, the win is the win – and you clearly win! I love that you’ve given the Ol’ disturbing one a name and called it out. That small dash that we all endure has been on my mind lately, so much to do and so little time to accomplish all the things. I’m glad you found the time to write today.
Tammy, your poem evokes a tender melancholy ~ thank you for sharing it and for the prompt by another of my favorite poets. I was surprised at how quickly I responded to it.
What comes to mind are the purges, some immediate,
in the actual moment of helpless rage, others years later.
in the actual moment, pictures and letters,
torn and tossed into the fire—
(and me, sobbing, sitting crosslegged,
watching them curl, scorch, and turned to ash.)
others, careless bookmarks found years later—
a photo, a yellow post-it promising endless love—
(and me, carefully scrutinizing before shredding and shoving
in the kitchen garbage, beneath broken eggshells and rotted grapes.)
only one card survived the purge.
it’s a secret. my secret.
a small gift card marked I love you
in bold, rounded scrawl.
decades after the final purge,
recently found in a book seldom read,
it seemed good to remember,
that once there was love.
In a world filling with loss upon loss,
it seemed fitting to allow what love there was to remain.
Here’s the stanza for me, Ann.
recently found in a book seldom read,
it seemed good to remember,
that once there was love.
I carried boxes of book to a library book sale this morning and asked myself, “Did you check for any notes or confessions, Crandall? Any lust or foreplay?” Then I thought, “Dang, if you did leave anything juicy between the pages, then let it be a gift to those who read next.” Likely to be receipts, post it notes, and unused Q-tips, though.
Ann, the purging the reminders of a past love is absolutely powerful throughout this. I loved the image of shoving a later found note beneath the garbage. Wow, that really stood out for me. At the end when the poem turns more tender is wrenching. Remembering a love that once was is so relatable. I just found myself looking at a photograph from more than 30 years ago and it brought back a lot of memories some I wish I could purge, yet as you say in a world filled with loss, perhaps remembering a love lost is “fitting”! Powerful and provocative poem!
This is a great prompt. Thanks, Tammy.
What I didn’t do
Because you’re gone
I didn’t
take a garden tour
sign a paper bag of birthday wishes
eat blueberry pie in the garden cafe
make a phone call to just hear your voice
urge you not to smoke those cigarettes.
Instead I looked at a blank square on my calendar
and didn’t fill in that square for a day with you.
Now, I burn up the old calendar pages
and make new marks
on a fresh page for tomorrow.
Oh that last stanza expresses renewal so well – “new marks”, “fresh page” – I love the positive end, Susan!
Susan, I am in total love with your poem. Wow! Wow! Wow! Love how you show all that isn’t happening because of the person’s absence from the blueberry pie to the cigarettes these details are familiar and relatable. Your final verse feels cathartic for me…that “fresh page for tomorrow.” What an awesome flow of images and emotions. Bravo!
Hello Susan! Thanks for sharing your beautiful poem. Your words resonate with me as I have lost someone that I too liked to adventure with. Sending you love & motivation to find happiness again!
Susan — Your poem works like the white spaces…the places, the moments, the people that aren’t there can be as haunting as the spaces loaded with words and fancy images. Burning calendar pages…I really like that idea…it feels a bit like taking control of time…as if we could. Susie
Susan, many feelings here, seeing all the things you didn’t do and then why. The quiet and inactivity here “I looked at a blank square on my calendar” it’s such a sad and lonely line.
Tammy, thank you for the poem by Naomi Shihab Nye. It is thought provoking. Your poem is heart wrenching when we see the reason for the “so much not done these days” You have written a poignant poem of grief.
I was struck with the line frim Nye’s poem…”so little is a stone”
Shadowing efforts
Tested by fire, what remains?
So little is a stone
Denise!
Each word here is profound. That first line has me pondering about all the ways shadows work with/against/for our efforts. And thank you for echoing that line “So little is stone.” This is a comfort today.
Sarah
Denise, this poem carries so much heft despite its tiny size, much like the stone. I appreciate the transience in the first two lines (shadowing, fire) as both objects can shift. And it all comes down to the stone.
Denise,
That first line has thoughts swirling in my head. I’m thinking about all teachers do that goes unacknowledged. These days being an educator is to be “tested by fire…” I often see poems in this space that lament the teacher’s life. Profound poem, and while I’ve read it w/ one interpretation, I see the ambiguity and multifaceted interpretations possible in these three lines.
Bandages of Busy
One more email of gratitude–
One more invitation Reel–
One more vibrant design to entice–
An interview with author X–
A symposium to share–
A Zoom to hatch a plan.
Reaching for answers–
Searching for solutions–
Stirring complacency–
Inspiring agency–
Willing better
for all the youth jilted,
for all the teachers scorned,
for all the families spurned,
for all the schools decayed.
Busy is a bandage
casting change in gauze,
yet I can’t stop wrapping
education wounds in
teacher-love with you.
Sarah, your poem is deeply moving. I can see so many details of your life in this poem. How you work so hard to help heal the wounds we all suffer. Your final metaphor is incredibly moving. “wrapping/education wounds in/teacher love with you.” Such a beautiful, loving end. Thank you!
“Busy is a bandage
casting change in gauze,”
What a powerful metaphor. Love the poem!
Sarah, your poem shows the important work that you and other teacher educators do. The reasons you are busy are so rich…
Beautful!
I loved the title and it made me read on–so many truths here-
Your last stanza was the best….I keep re-reading it.
Don’t ever stop wrapping those wounds.
Sarah – Your poem is like a march… shouting out for something in this crazy teacher life to change. “…a bandage/ casting change in gauze… “ fascinating image. Love the voice of reason. Hugs, Susie
Lost the Ability
Lost the ability to breathe openly and freely in public
Lost the ability to go to many friends’ weddings
Lost the ability to trust that I will be ok in big crowds
Lost the ability to teach how I’d like
Lost the ability to travel on a plane safely
Lost the ability to go to restaurants without seeds of fear
Lost the ability to frequently visit my father-in-law in a nursing home
Lost the ability to claim some of my sanity back
Lost the ability to be cheerfully optimistic under almost any circumstance
Lost the ability from March 2020 till today
and I’ve
Lost the ability to say everything will be ok
Oh, Jennifer!
So much here resonates with me, and I suspect many of us. “Ability” is such a powerful word of agency and de-agenting in our lives, that I so wonder how we will engage our abilities again and which are worth engaging for that matter. I wonder what okay looks like and feels like now as it has all been turned for me. Thank you for this invitation to reflect.
Sarah
This is a great list to emphasize all the things I have lost these two years. Yes, I know them but they are made so profound when seen this way in your poem. Even though many think this pandemic is over, we are still lacking the availability of so many things and the ability to enjoy them.
Jennifer,
Im drawn into the depths of your poem via its repetition of “Lost…Lost…Lost…” As Sarah, says, so many of us know. I hope you’ll soon be able to replace what’s lost with what’s found, that you’ll find strength to trust, and explore, and commune w/ others, that you’ll find strength to do the things you miss, and you will be okay, better than okay, that you will thrive.
Holy smokes! Jennifer, I feel this in spades! Every single line. Dang! Each one a gut punch that is undeniable in our lives. Robber barons have taken so much. Susie
Every year, despite
my best efforts,
I seem to be
getting older
and I’m seeing
more of a divide
between myself
and the diction
used by my students.
Good is good,
for instance,
but bad is better
and better still is fire.
Huh?
Something amazing
or very attractive
or extremely good
is said to be fire
(or fya if you’re in need
of slang for your slang).
This makes me wonder
about the interaction
between the first
Homo sapien teacher
and his students;
I can see them
sitting in rows
(this is before this
particular seating
arrangement
fell out of vogue) while
he’s teaching a lesson on
hunting-gathering.
For his anticipatory set
activity, he draws the
Fire emoji (for the first
time in recorded history!)
on the wall of the cave
(because his SMART Board,
per usual, is on the fritz)
before starting an actual fire
in a ring of stones in the
center of class.
Since teenagers are
teenagers are
teenagers are
teenagers (apologies
to Gertrude Stein)
I imagine that the
conversation went
something like this:
“That fire is fire.”
Yes, I know.
“No, you don’t understand. It’s lit.”
Yeah, I know. I was the one who just rubbed those sticks together.
“You don’t get it. I’m saying I think it’s pretty cool.”
Ok, I’m just confused now. Can you do that? Can you just change the meanings of words like that?
Yes,
apparently
they can
and do
all of the time.
_______________________________________________
Thank you for your mentor poem today, Tammy! Your last two stanzas are very powerful. I love the personification of “Grief swallow[ing] and spit[ting] / The ashes of the life / That is now burnt to / Ash.” In regards to your prompt, I found myself thinking less about “What I Didn’t Do” and more about the word “fire” itself. Essentially I just ended up “playing with fire” this morning, so to speak. Lol.
Needed the humor, Scott. “That fire is lit.” Can’t help but think, “Well, if Gary Larson was going to to pick a poem from #VerseLove, this would like be it.”
I love learning new slang – it keeps me young! *silly face*
Bwahahaha!
Scott,
Facts: That poem is totes. It has drip. IYKYK!
*This comment brought to you via a mommy blog and some other website I can’t remember but where I learned something new.
I love your morning playing with fire and how you shared it with us. So many smiles. e. g. (because his SMART Board,
per usual, is on the fritz)
Lots of fun.
Scott — You NEVER disappoint! This is so chocked full of the world of teacher and teen student…the snark is always hilarious…the truth is always just a bit stinging and honest. The ending student conversation…LOL! Just dandy. If you feel like this today 2-20-22… it’ll be tooooooo amusing to see what you say in two more years. 🙂 Wonderful! Susie
Scott, this was so fun! I also teach teens, and tell them I count on them to keep me informed of the current slang and what the “cool kids” are like. Over the years, my pedantic bent has softened, especially as I think of how Shakespeare’s English is all but foreign to us, and 500 years from now the English we speak will be foreign to the “newbies.”
Thank you, Tammy! This prompt got me reading and thinking. I went back to an old journal and found a scrap of a poem that I titled – Anger. Now, years later – the anger is gone but the heart of the flame is there.
Something’s Burning
You were the adult.
I loved you so much
With a complete trusting heart.
You were my hero,
My poet-father.
For years, I search for the answers:
How could you hurt someone
Who is part of you?
Did you hate yourself that much?
Do you understand the pain
You caused me?
Then, I burnt away all my feelings
Leaving them red, raw, blistering.
I burnt the whole of me away
Until there was just bone,
Hard white bone.
In a strange way,
You made me strong.
And out of the ashes
I grew.
poem about resilience…”You made me string and out of the ashes I grew” ~ very powerful.
Word Dancer,
The question here sear the heart. The things left unsaid evoke more questions and are a real gut punch as I read between the lines. But that image of survival, of arising from the ashes like a reborn phoenix is an image of hope. Peace and love to you, and thank you for trusting us w/ your vulnerability.
WOW! So raw…and real….and honest….
“red, raw, blistering…” to “And out of the ashes I grew.” In spite of him. Good for you.
Whoa! Joanne! This is a breathtakingly raw and hauntingly beautiful poem. I have spent a good bit of time thinking about people who cause us great pain… and you are right in that we grow from it, eventually. You ARE strong, so very… and whole, and bright, and powerful, as are your poems. Anger burns out after a while but yes, the heart of the flame is there – fire-memory.
Love – fire-memory, Fran. I think I have a whole compendium of “fire-memories” to write. Now, it doesn’t burn so much, and I can express it better I think. I changed the last line from – I grew – to – I rose like smoke, and filled the air.
Tammy, thanks for hosting. Your poem is haunting and heartbreaking, especially the last lines when the weight of grief is heaviest. I actually wrote two poems after reading this wonderful inspiration. I’m sharing the less serious of the two.
Promotional Updates I Ignored
Lily Pulitzer will dress me
in Palm Beach resort
chic if I order now.
Viking beckons me to
discover Canada.
Fit On asks if I
know the 10 best
eco-friendly recipes.
Vanity Fair says
I’ll want to see this,
whatever this is.
TJX Rewards offers
early access to new
deals online and
in stores.
Hotels dot com calls
me to book now for
Page, Cancun, Paris,
all the places I search
where wanderlust calls.
Nancy shouts “I’m done,”
but I know not with what.
Fabletics informs me
my cart is not reserved.
Old Navy sends its sixtieth
sale of the day notification.
Scott’s Cheap Flights
announces weekend
getaways departing
Greeley, Colorado,
nine hours in a car
away from me.
Goodreads updates
arrive so I can see
all the books I’m
not reading as my
promotional email
hits the spam folder
or the gmail trash bin.
These and more:
promotional updates
I ignored.
—Glenda Funk
April 20, 2022
Such a wonderful response to this prompt and mentor text! What a fun read this was – thank you for sharing and your kind words.
Did you access my email? I am truly suspicious right now!
And…they are listening! Most of the time I can ignore the ads but sometimes I get dragged in, or even worse… Love this take on emails and spam
What a fun poem, love the details that you write.
Fantastic, Glenda! Wow, what a recitation of all the advertising “harassment” that typically awaits us in our inboxes…yikes. Inundated!!
Glenda — This is hilarious… overtones of Scott McC’s funny ramblings… what a list you have! It’s like going through my own email, junk mail, spam, crapola upon crapola! And from this crapola come the algorithms that profile us…heckuva bio…yikes! Crazy stuff! I loved this poem. I also would love to see that other poem that you didn’t post! Susie
Susie,
It’s funny you mentioned Scott. Did you see my poem yesterday. I had this line in it:
“Wonder what Scott would write.” LOL!
Burn the Letters
a summer ritual
bonfire lit, shards
of graded assignments
projects, hours of work
stress, knowledge–ablaze,
dissolves into the atmosphere
game of life
ethereal process, delicately
burning away the school years’
timestamps, those red letters
burning a whole/hole in
my pedagogy, grades
learning over letters
if not, then why?
as a lifelong learner
ungrade, what? ungame the
colonial cycle of schooling
we can smolder it, one flicker
of design at a time, burn away
the points, ignite a new ritual
I love the idea behind this poem to burn the remains of the school year as a ritual! Thank you for sharing.
Stefani,
The images you created are perfect and remind me of what I’m looking forward to doing once school is out in 2 months. Thanks for this additional early morning mentor text.
Yes! I love this idea of burning the old papers and the vulnerable self-reflection you entered in to. Thank you for sharing.
Stefani,
WOW! “Burn the letters,” indeed. Every word from start to finish had me mesmerized as I traveled through the fire and reached those important lines:
“ungame the
colonial cycle of schooling
we can smolder it, one flicker
of design at a time, burn away
the points, ignite a new ritual”
Yesterday I read a commentary from a teacher on the anxiety of grading, yet I fear the person can’t or won’t make the journey you call on educators to make. My last years teaching were devoted to decolonizing curriculum and assessment. I’m so glad I did that, as imperfect as it was and knowing I had more to do. Still, it was a start. Love your poem. Keeping lighting the fire snd fanning those flames.
Your last few lines are beautifully written with metaphors, these last lines really speak to me. I would love to be around this fire with you to help ignite a new ritual in schooling.
Stephi – a big amén yo this! Yes! Burn away the hideous “colonial cycle” of measuring us against each other before we even have a chance to count our own toes. Terrific voice in no this poem. Fist pump in the air!! You give me hope! Susie
Tammy—thank you for reminding me of Naomi Shahib Nye’s poetry. That mentor poem’s images are amazing. I hope this is a year of healing for you. Your poem is beautiful, heartfelt. The last stanza was incredibly, powerfully moving. I found Nye’s line about starting again with the smallest number intriguing. Last year was an extremely difficult time for me and my family. I used this morning’s musings to reflect on the things that are going right this year…
The Smallest Number
I’ll start with the smallest number…
One
brand-new first granddaughter
perfect, grey-eyed, honey-colored,
a place to put all the love I didn’t know I had
Two
dogs warming my lap as I write
Three
cats—purring, shedding,
knocking things about
Four
new double-walled coffee cups,
waiting to keep my coffee warm every morning
Six
dance class adults, baltering badly,
jazz hands, hip thrusts, missed steps,
and laughter
Three hundred sixty-two
days of my husband still beside me.
I thought I had lost him that day,
but I didn’t. He is here.
He is here.
GJSands
4/20/2022
This structure works so well and I am saving your poem to inspire me later to write. I send healing to you as well. Difficult times seem to stick with us to remind us of the good and the difficult. My heart stands beside you.
Thank you for sharing this beauty today.
Tearing up reading this and happy for your ending – he is here… My favorite line: a place to put all the love I didn’t know I had! Oh how true
Gayle, you had me at every stanza, even the cats. The place to put all the love you didn’t know you had, the lap dogs, <i’m allergic to cats, but I am amused by them>, the coffee, and your husband still being beside you when things could have turned out so differently and didn’t. But what is sticking with me more than anything is that you are dancing, just like your prompt earlier this month with a dancing grandma. I love the missed steps and laughter, because that is the medicine – – there is always good soul medicine in laughter.
Oooo – I like what you did with this. Smallest number stood out for me too. I love the last stanza – grateful – so grateful. What a powerful poem.
Gayle,
This by the numbers structure reflects how little things make us more aware of the big things. “I’ll start with” commences our journey w/ you. The contrast between 362 and 1 hits the mark. I love the contrast here. My husband had a health scare in January and news of a minor miracle last week, so I know well how precious each day is, especially as the years pass. Beautiful poem.
This poem progression. I really like your movement in numbers. I’m also relieved that laughter lives inside these numbers for you.
What a celebratory poem, Gayle – those last lines echoing a reminder to be glad of every day, every moment we have with ones we love. And, having a new granddaughter myself (age 5 mos), I celebrate right alongside you with the whole of my heart, this “place to put all the love I didn’t know I had.” That is a perfect description! I treasure it!
Oh, Gayle, this is such a wonderful small numbers poem. “He is here. He is here.” I’m rejoicing with you today.
Tammy, thank you for your inspiration and exercise of image creating. I was amazed by the process. Your poem was filled with images but most striking was: “Gray swirls of smoke
That take the logic and thoughts
Away.” I related to that haze when nothing seemed clear or understood. Thank you!
I’ve been doing some deep cleaning and thinking of late and your inspiration hit a chord.
Out-look
Cleaning out stuff to
make room
for new to blossom
to come forth
free from the past
I put on a
newly laundered shirt
Pressed
and crisp
Perfectly white in glory
Underneath
I am
still me
just a new
out-look
Love this focus on making room “for new to blossom,” Christine – and wrapping yourself in this new outlook. So uplifting!
Deep cleaning is a great theme for this exercise. Thank you so much for sharing.
These lines resonate:
I put on a
newly laundered shirt
Pressed
and crisp
Perfectly white in glory
Underneath
I am
still me
Thank you.
Hi Tammy, Your poem illuminates how cleanliness can add to a persons self confidence. Thanks for sharing
Christina—love this, especially the double-entrance of out-look. The newly laundered white shirt is a perfect metaphor for the new day. (However, it would only be moments before I spilled coffee on it, so there is that…)
There is something wholly medicinal about cleaning – getting rid of what is only taking up space in our lives. The laundered white shirt brings the smell of newness and cleanness to these lines and has a contagious effect on me. I want to clean out my closet!
Such crisp poem – freshly laundered – new to blossom. PERFECT!
Christine.
Crisp, white, new shirts are my favorite clothing. The contrast between old and new is lovely, as is the making way by cleaning out. I feel spring in your words.
Ohhhh! How sweet and lovely this is. I especially like the imagery about the shirt.
And I agree about the process for this prompt. It worked wonders in my perspective and beginning those creative juices. I hope I revisit this process again.
Tammy, thank you for these incredibly powerful poems so full of vivid imagery. I will have to keep tinkering with this… as I prepared to write about 2022, I couldn’t escape from what’s happening at my school: many colleagues are leaving, some before the school year ends (the principal already has – our interim arrived yesterday). I also recalled lines of my favorite Shakespearean sonnet, 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold…consumed by that with which it was nourished by. Here’s what I have, so far:
Dissipation
In these last days
burnout
the kindling long removed
no more spark
in their eyes
one by one
a dropping away
compressed, compacted
no fuel left
for fueling others
red-hot inner glow
so long-burning
giving way
to gray
charcoal
withstands heat
that can melt iron
but only
for so long
before being consumed
by that with which
it was nourished
in the gray dawn
of a new morning
in these last days
I poke through the inner ashes
thinking of the instability
of remaining structures
after sustaining
such a blaze
feeling skeletal
catching faint whiffs
of possibility
borne on any
slight wisp
of hope
and like my colleagues
who remain, for now
I scrape it together
and head
to school
“I poke through the inner ashes
thinking of the instability”
very visual … and metaphorical .. all at once!
Kevin
I was taken back by the image of no fuel left for fueling others. It was heavy and near hopelessness. I’m not sure another summer can cure us of this burning sadness.
I resonate with your whole piece today but these lines stick out
feeling skeletal
catching faint whiffs
of possibility
borne on any
slight wisp
of hope
Thank you.
“charcoal
withstands heat
that can melt iron
but only
for so long
before being consumed
by that with which
it was nourished”
This is the perfect metaphor for my teaching friends’ days. I am so lucky to be retired for the last two years… they are all, as you are, scraping it together these days…
Fran, it is a changing world of education. These lines stick with me:
feeling skeletal
catching faint whiffs
of possibility
borne on any
slight wisp
of hope
This is where I realize the full effects of this burnout. I’m so sorry that your school is undergoing such change all at once, right at the finish line of a school year especially, when those already running on fumes are having to pull even heavier loads. I do recall a post a month or so ago where you described coming home feeling so exhausted. Sounds like it’s time for renewal and recharging – not just for the year, but for each day.
I’m sure thinking of you, my friend, and will take a moment this morning to lift you in prayer.
Fran – yes – scrape it together and head to school. That is exactly how I’m feeling. Joy is being burnt off – but I’m trying to scrape it together! Thank you for this.
Hi Fran, your poem is packed with powerful metaphors. You were clear about the struggles that teachers face especial after the pandemic. It still is daunting for us all
Tammy thank you for sharing. You poem made me reflect on how the lost of a loved one can impact our lives forever.
Without Saying Goodbye
It happened so swiftly
I recall our last conversation
but if only I knew it would be the last.
No more phone calls,
No more visits,
No more celebrations will ever be the same
If I could have looked ahead
I would have talked longer
Visited more frequently
If I only knew…..
Dee – I have lived every line of this more than once. If only we knew… the threads of memory and moments become ever more golden. You have perfectly captured the sense of loss and the thinking that is tied to it.
If only I knew… I know this more than I want to share – so hard to live every day with those thoughts. But a lesson in being grateful for all things and people in our lives. Love your words!
Dee, yes the loss of a loved one was strong in this poem for me. Your title draws me in here. Sadness in yours but love too.
Thank you.
Dee—if we only knew. This is so poignant, and so real. All the things we didn’t do…
Dee, these are such haunting words. A friend of mine from high school died right out of the blue in February, after having surgery on her leg. No one could have predicted. She was a rock of her community, and people loved to go sit on her porch and have coffee and talk. It’s just absolutely jolting when someone leaves so suddenly.
Dee,
The cruelest words in English might be “if only.” I feel the cutting regret and lamentation of missed opportunity in this gut-wrenching poem.
This is a life lesson that many never learn… appreciate every moment you have with loved ones. My sister and I were just talking about how we have to take a trip this summer to spend time with our aunt who’s turning 90. It’s in July, praying she stays well and keeps kicking butts well after we come and go.
I love the last stanza. Honest reflections. Hope you know that your loved one still loves you and is very close to you all the time.
?
So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems
— Naomi Shihab Nye, from Burning The Old Year
and here’s the match,
here’s the flint,
here’s the flat rock scratching
against mountain stone,
the friction needed for
fire, the smallest spark arising
on paper contact, a few words
fluttering into nothing
but thoughts on air:
a poet, alone,
with little more than
the ash of an idea
— Kevin
And out of that little ash, a little flame, hopefully, alighting on the page… magnificent, Kevin.
Kevin, you amaze me with taking the simplest seed and flying with it. I am hanging on to the ash of the idea – out of the ashes arises beauty
Such strong images that will stay with me today.
The ending line is brilliant.
Thank you.
Oooooh! “Little more than an ash of an idea”—what a magical phrase—“thoughts on air”—another. Wow!
….what Fran said were almost my exact words, verbatim. I see a phoenix rising, a poem with glorious words from that ash of an idea.
Ash of an idea, indeed! What a great working of this poem – match – flint – scratching – friction – smallest spark. Just brilliant! Let it burn!
Kevin,
You embody the poet who can do many clever things. I admire how you think, visualize, and bring it all to the page!
Love that image!
Kevin, I love the phoenix imagery that you’ve ignited in my mind here: “a poet, alone, / with little more than / the ash of an idea.” Thank you!
Tammy, there is deep grief here in your poem today, a feeling of loss and longing, of a doorway holding you up, all thinking swallowed up in emotion. It’s painful and beautiful all at once, feelings and the ability to share them so eloquently. Thank you for hosting us today with a prompt that makes us consider things from all different angles.
I Didn’t
I didn’t take the bait
strike, spark, ignite
I didn’t smile at the watermelon memories
flicker, flame, burn
I didn’t buy the celebration dresses
sizzle, fizzle, smolder
I stayed home.
With my dogs.
We ate cake.
sparkle, glitter, shine
That late Cake – Bait rhyme works perfectly, and then moving us into sparkle/glitter/shine
Kevin
I’d have loved the staying at home with the dogs and having cake – sounds like a perfect celebration to me, Kim! Your words always sparkle, glitter, and shine – I am always grateful for them.
Kim, I love the trio of burning words after each phrase. I too shine when I stay home and eat cake!
So much in this poem I adore.
I didn’t smile at the watermelon memories and
We ate cake.
sparkle, glitter, shine
are lines that resonate with me!
These would be great lines to use as starters for new freewrites and then poems for me! Thank you!
Kim—we always come back to the pets, don’t we?? I, too, stayed home with my dogs and ate cake. I love the three adjectives ending each stanza, the “punctuation” to each thought.
“sparkle, glitter, shine” – Cake, home, dogs. Kim for the win!
Kim, you amaze me. I wasn’t sure what direction you’d go but it was a fun, delectable ending!
Thank you for always inspiring me! Love the fire words.
Hi Kim, thanks for sharing. Your poem made me reflect on the simple things in life. Choosing to be with those that matters most and keeping out of the spot light.
I love this prompt! Thanks for the NSN poem and what you’ve brought with you today–especially those last lines of each stanza of your poem. So final and beautiful: “silent and safe, away, or a plane ride anywhere, ash.”
Her poetry is amazing! Gate A-4 is a great one to read as well. Thank you for commenting today.