Open Write is a community meet-up to write poetry on the third Friday of every month for four days—an invitation to write, read, and reflect together. You’re welcome to write a poem each day or to come and go as you need. You can also read and leave a brief note—a line you loved, an image that stayed, a feeling a poem stirred—as a way of participating, too. We’re glad you’re here.
Our Host Mo Daley
Mo lives in the suburbs of Chicago with her patient husband and two spoiled dogs, Jimmy and Lizzie. Mo has served on the Rebecca Caudill Young Reader’s Book Award Committee in Illinois for the last ten years. Mo continues to work as a worldwide literacy advocate and is planning her third trip to Kenya with Kenya Connect. Her free time is spent on a lake with her two amazing grandchildren.
Inspiration
As fall approaches, I can’t stop thinking about changes and shifts. Of course, the changing colors of Midwestern trees are always inspirational, but something else has been on my mind lately.
I look around and see the land and how I have worked with it and changed it, which leads me to wonder about those who came here before me.
Process
Consider your surroundings. How would you describe them? Have they always looked this way? Who was there before you? Perhaps 20, 50, or 100 years ago? How about long before then? Do you know what indigenous tribes were living there hundreds of years ago? You can enter your address in this online tool to inform you.
Take a few moments to think about those who came before you. What might they think about your surroundings today?
As a tribute to those who came before us, write a poem about the land around you. Choose any form you’d like. Perhaps an etheree, nonet, haiku, or free-verse poem is calling to you today.
Mo”s Poem
Ashosikwimia’kuk
In my garden I grow echinacea, or purple coneflower,
a native plant that can cure sore throats, the flu, and even skin damage
but it couldn’t help to ease the pain
of the indigenous Potawatomi when their land was stolen
and their children died on the Trail of Death-
there was no immunity against hatred
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.
Mo,
I missed day 1 so here is a gogyohka in memory of my beloved mother.
Before Heaven Called Her Home
No one was ever a stranger
she loved and welcomed all
to swim, eat, rest, and live with ease
someone I talked to multiple times per day
now, memories try to fill this vast void
©Stacey L. Joy, 9/22/26
Before I Was Here
Before I called this place home,
others walked on this land.
They built their lives,
shared their stories,
and left memories behind.
I wonder who they were
and what dreams they carried.
As I learn about those who came before me,
I also discover more about myself
my peace,
my identity,
and the woman I dream of becoming.
Bright, intelligent, and brilliant,
I now add my own story
to the many stories of this land.
Asking your own story is perfect, Esther. I like how you’ve managed to merge the past and the present.
Hi Esther,
I love how reflective your poem is and I feel the respect you give to your land/home. I taught a course to teachers that asked them to better understand family stories but I think it’s also powerful to understand the stries of homes, lands, neighborhoods, etc.
I especially love:
I’m getting back to
studying the Word,
discovering my peace,
understanding my identity,
and getting to know the deeper me.
I’m uncovering the mysterious parts of myself
that are still waiting to be discovered.
I’m becoming the woman I dream of being:
bright, intelligent,
and brilliant.
Rediscovering Myself
I’m getting back to
studying the Word,
discovering my peace,
understanding my identity,
and getting to know the deeper me.
I’m uncovering the mysterious parts of myself
that are still waiting to be discovered.
I’m becoming the woman I dream of being:
bright, intelligent,
and brilliant.
This poem feels so empowering, Esther. I love the thought of your self-discovery.
Thanks, Mo! Loved how your poem emphasized the invisible link to our past. We all need that reminder.
The Whispers
The whispers listen for me.
In May, their words ride the honeysuckle’s scent,
undulating on its curvy breezes.
On summer nights, their messages dance
in the firepit’s embers, its quickening tempo
morphing sparks into wispy white ringlets.
I seem to always ask: “Did you hear that?”
But no one ever nods. They can’t hear the secrets:
the stories, the sequels, the sagas.
Yet I ingest each one, left full and rich and warm.
Each hum, a gift to the past.
Catherine, I’m so happy you joined us today! This is so beautiful! I love the idea of you hearing stories, sequels, and sagas from the past.
Ohhh, what a treat this poem is, Catherine. I love the journeying through time and hearing the whispers/secrets. These lines are gorgeous:
Mo,
Thanks for hosting and for this push to think about where I lay my head each night. I’m traveling so am late to the party.
Tondzaosha’s Home
P-O-C-A-T-E-L-L-O
too many times have
i spelled the name
i know only because
my home occupies
land once home to
Chief Pocatello and
his people, the Shoshone
Great Basin people whose
land i acknowledge
in their conqueror’s
native tongue.
*My title is Chief Pocatello’s name in the Shoshone language.
The first line with the capital letters and spacing does such symbolic work for me in stretching out and taking up space it is due with the hyphen as intrusions and legacy of heritage and harm — I am just really sitting in the look of that line. And I feel the intention in the lower case i. In the way the speaker positions a kind of occupation that carries the “once home.” Yes. I feel that. And the final line “native tongue,” is an important call back to the first line of pronouncing.
Peace,
Sarah
What really stood out for me was that you only know his name because you live there. How many names have we never heard simply die to geography? Thanks for writing today, Glenda.
Glenda, love the title to show Pocatello’s native language. Your details help show the place and people. Love your closing lines. Wishing you safe travels!
Your poem taught me something new about Chief Pocatello and the Shoshone people. I like how you honored the people who lived on the land before you.
Glenda, I am learning so much today! I heard about Pocatello somewhere before; need to read some more though. Your visual spelling of “P-O-C-A-T-E-L-L-O” immediately signifies the name. I, too, like your intentionality with a low-case “i,” as Sarah noticed earlier.
Thank you all for your thoughtful poems today. I so enjoyed reading all of them. I’m tired after a day of travel. I’ll check back tomorrow. ❤️
I.
41.519202, -95.023440
Ioway
Báxoje
Pottawattamie Tribe
Oneota
Omaha
Otoe-Missouria
II.
1911
John Heiken, founder
Named for John G. Gates
Pastor
and more: landowner.
III.
1918
Peak population: 25
a railroad stop
toot toot
IV.
2026
Six self-selected citizens
Gates, Iowa,
Ghost town awakened by
Laughter and intention.
Allison, your third stanza really made me smile. Your fourth stanza left me wondering.
Allison, I love how this poem is constructed with numerals and numbers and sounds and names. Just a lovely form of place. Ghost town awakened by/laughter — this got me thinking and wondering.
Allison, wow! I love how you’ve captured a whole legacy in your poem and how it progresses. Love the closing lines, especially the “six self-selected citizens” Your poems never fail to impress!
Allison, I like how you used numbers and dates to show the history of Gates, Iowa. The years helped me understand how the town changed over time.
Allison,
You are brilliant to bring the prompt to life this way. I imagine students would love doing something similar. 🌹
Gotta love this stanza with the “toot toot” at the end!
Thank you, Mo, for hosting! I love the idea of reflecting on those who lived, loved, and learned on the land we now inhabit. Your poem does such a beautiful job of remembering and honoring. I’m fortunate this week to enjoy time at the beach. As the waves washed away my footprints, I couldn’t help thinking of all the people who left their fleeting marks on this same lovely bit of the world.
Footprints
at the beach, on the sand
all footprints disappear
erased by waves that roll ashore
every day of every year
bare, browned, sunburned
blistered, tender, tough
barnacled with bunions,
polished, pedicured, and rough
sandaled, flip-flopped, aching
the palest of scarred soles
covered up in freckles
all freckled up with moles
a father’s long feet
zigging on a toddler’s zagging heels
while the tot runs toward the water
and his baby laughter peals
old feet, new feet
two pairs walking side by side
perhaps a husband slows his steps
to match his wife’s short stride
Fleet-footed, light-footed, left or right footed
the waves sweep clean the shore
as if no one has ever
ever
walked that beach before
Lori,
Love this profound poem that makes me think about all those who walked the beach, the ones whose land we stand on every day.
I’ll never look at a beach the same again, Lori. Such wonderful imaginings!
I am loving and wishing for that “sandaled, flip-flopped” for myself, and your flowing of imagery as the sand falls over prints, memories, summer, a lifetime is lovely alongside the way sand make space for new prints and while allowing people to remember who was there before only if they are poets and are invited to do so.
Who Came Before
This house has good bones,
sturdy walls,
even if the floors creak.
Two families—this two-story colonial has held close.
The first settled after World War II,
grew their family,
and suffered loss:
a little girl gone too soon.
We came much later,
newlyweds who saw the potential
under the ’70s-style shag,
hope behind the ancient wallpaper.
It would be a house
we would cherish,
make our own.
Here, our three children would grow.
But houses tell stories,
whisper their history.
Our little girl
and their little girl—
imagined or real,
angel or ghost—
they were close.
Our little girl and theirs,
even though they lost her
long ago.
Our little girl would tell stories
about the friend we couldn’t see,
so we always listened
to the creaks and sighs.
This house has good bones.
Tammi, what a great, atmospheric poem: gave me a chill. I love a good ghost tale. ❤️
I love your repetition here, Tammi! And your stanza — “But houses tell stories, / whisper their history.” — is so so good!
Tammy, I love that elements of imagined and real so interconnected in your poem. Framing the poem with same line works so well creating a place that has a solid foundation, or skeleton to be closer to your metaphor.
Oh, I love your openness to the beyond.
What a story, Tammi! And the good bones are perfect!
as I look around
I see an unfamiliar
familiarity surrounding me
pictures hang in front of me
and I imagine the photos hung
and taken down before me
I think to myself
who loved this wall before I did
did they claim it as their own
the way I have
MS — “I see an unfamiliar/familiarity” — I love the paradoxical nature of this poem. Really cool poem.
Love your way of seeing in this poem. ❤️❤️
M S, these lines make me want to ponder the same about my place:
“who loved this wall before I did
did they claim it as their own
the way I have.”
Thank you for bringing out the ways of seeing and noticing.
“Who loved this wall before I did” – I love the tenderness and whimsy in this question.
What a fun way to look at a house, MS. Live the unfamiliar familiarity.
a word crafted
after before
to mean before
is afore
__________________________
Thank you for this invitation, Mo! I loved the connection that you drew between the “native plant” and the “indigenous Potawatomi” and the sad, profound truth of your last line: “there was no immunity against hatred.”
Love this take on the prompt, Scott, to surface some new meanings alongside and with specific order where we encounter the subject of our poems today. Nice.
Scott, your few words are just wonderful. When I read your poems I imagine how much fun you must have writing them.
Scott — This is poem is so clever. Feels like a proverb only much more fun! Love it!
I wake up somewhere
that is not home.
A different scenery surrounds me.
Old buildings,
Busy sidewalks,
Trees changing with the seasons,
Students rushing through.
Generations came and went,
Multitudes of people who have once called this place home.
Now I walk on this ground,
as many have before,
Thinking about my future,
And my family I have left behind.
Sometimes being away from home,
Makes me notice home more.
The slow evenings,
Small homes,
and knowing I belong.
Home may have layers.
There is my home,
The home that I have come from,
The home that had a name,
long before I knew it existed.
I am only here for this chapter,
And this home has many stories,
Stories I know nothing of,
long before mine.
I am not the first to call this place home,
Simply just another story passing through.
JW, I feel the meandering of thoughts in the questions we bring to new homes. What we left behind and our befores that we carry mean new things with that perspective. Love that line: makes me notice home more. So many o’s of longjng.
JW, I love the idea that being away from home makes you notice home more. Your last stanza really brings the poem together.
JW, I love how you explained that home can have multiple layers. Such a creative perspective.
JW — These lines — “Sometimes being away from home,
Makes me notice home more.” — hold so much truth. I really enjoyed the movement of your poem from waking to wandering and the observations that you make as you pass through.
Wow! I love the idea that we are each “simply just another story passing through.”
JW, I like how you explained that home can have many layers and stories. The ending was powerful because it showed that many people can call the same place home at different times
A Thumber’s Storm
Dew weeping willows,
in a ceasing morn,
Piping reflections
of a thumber’s storm.
Razor axes, shifting dirt,
hammered swings,
with
switch- bone hurts.
Dead blue jay,
silted water,
Bottled crimson,
bled from orders.
Yet,
His eyes,
arise,
in clear skies,
patiently
awaiting the creation,
of our demise.
Fallen, Fallen,
In poppy grass,
Each still sprouting,
trying to outlast,
Thumbs of the next cast,
Rise, rise,
from the past.
willow weeping,
How long will
the grip last?
Tears of chairs in the key,
Lonesome jay
in a fallen tree,
change of times,
chains of me,
thumbed with agony,
Willow,willow,
set me free,
severed the thumbs,
naturally,
to regain
what is meant to be,
in clear skies,
patiently.
-Boxer
Clayton, love thinking about what came before the fallen, fallen here. What that poppy grasses held before what fell.
Clayton, your language is perfect in this poem. It’s begging to be read aloud.
Clayton — I love the rhythm of your words, they read like song. Beautiful and vivid.
Mo, thank you for welcoming us to write together this month. In your poem you have taken the familiar plant and tied it to the peoples before along with the reminder of the cycle of colonialism which continues to stain our land. Your words no immunity against hatred end your poem with power.
home
more than 30 years in this home
more than 40 in this town
I walk familiar trails this September morning
unable to ignore the cracked, dry soil
in the garden I watch the nicotine plant I nurse thrive –
a gift from a new friend,
a plant first cultivated in the Americas around 6000 BCE
might the Comanches recognize what’s growing in the garden bed
alongside it a couple of eggplants and peppers
appreciative for their daily waterings
the tall lemon grass spray shimmers in the bright sunlight
tiny oregano leaves and tendrils fight and hold on
waiting for cooler days
a scattering of zinnias provide a few blooms for the table
while a patch of hoja santa spills out beyond its bed
do roots know borders?
Jamie,
I love the focus on plants, relationships, and history tied to one place.
Powerful ending:
I also really like this stanza:
Fantastic imagery and I’m right there with your oregano:
Hopefully, soonish, next month.
What a powerful question to end with, Jamie. I love how all your plants coexist. You’ve done a great job giving each their own personality.
Jamie — I really enjoyed the images of garden plants, especially this stanza:
“the tall lemon grass spray shimmers in the bright sunlight
tiny oregano leaves and tendrils fight and hold on
waiting for cooler days” and how the garden works as a beautiful extended metaphor for how people lay down roots.
The plants that are indigenous to areas are a treat here in your poem – – the last line and the way you ask that question are marvelous techniques for reminding us that borders do not matter in humanity – – we all need the same basic things to survive and thrive.
In 255 Willard, I wonder
who looked out this window
twenty years before, when I
was first becoming a teacher
when she was teaching versions
of me. What was she typing or
notebooking at 4:50pm on a
Friday the night before a big
game? Was she eating the carrots
she packed for lunch? Was she
looking for the sun through the
blinds I am sure were the same
twenty years before me. And
where is she now, twenty years
later. Is she still a teacher?
Of course, she is but maybe
in ways she didn’t imagine twenty
years ago.
Sarah, I love this scene and how the narrator answers her own question. I laughed at the line about the blinds as this sounds familiar. Great specific details to show place, time and perspective. I hope you’re home now enjoying a pregame beverage!
Sarah, thank you for bringing us to the window in your office and joining it with your wonderings. Recently, I’ve thought about the people I pass as I walk through my day: on my neighborhood streets, walking into the gym. Familiar faces I pass. Wonder about the power of time to mark these passes. Your words center you in the space while time provides a construct for your wonderings. who looked out this window, what was she typing, was she eating carrots – bring life to your wonderings. Thanks for sharing.
Oh Sarah,
Your poem is so lovely and wistful.
I love the continuity between teachers and students / beginning teachers and back to teachers who have perhaps retired or tried something else, but who still think and feel like teachers.
We’re always teachers, aren’t we.
I feel such a sense of grace reading your poem.
I love this wondering, Sarah. And the line about try e blinds really made me chuckle!
Sarah, I loved the perspective of this poem. A line that stood out to me was “Is she still a teacher? Of course, she is but maybe in ways she didn’t imagine twenty years ago.” This is such an interesting thought and I also wonder these same things.
Sarah,
I love the framing of this poem and how we are brought into your wonderings.I love the way the last question and answer is a revelation but also feels like wisdom one acquires with experience.
Sarah, I loved the twist at the end of this. 🙂
Oh I love thinking about the teacher who came before! I envisioned both teachers staring out the classroom window, separated by years but sharing the same hallowed space.
I just moved to Liberty In June and already trees have been dug up. They say because the branches are growing closer to electric lines and in the winter we don’t want branches falling onto the lines causing electricity to be cut.
Will you plant new trees?
No because the soil is clay and isn’t really good for trees.
Hmm I’m not understanding because the trees you cut were at least 25 years old. They lived well enough until you determined no more.
Liberty: The state of being free…
of wonders that give oxygen, homes, sources of food. It seems incongruous to me.
Oh, love that last line “of wonders that give.” Beautiful.
Cayetana,
Yes, it’s hard to see the cutting of trees.
I love your use of irony and the difference in perspectives you show between a bureaucrat with the power to cut down trees and a new citizen who appreciates them and mourns the loss
Might be a good message to send to your city council.
What a sad story, Cayetana. I thought we had already learned these lessons.
Cayetana, your poem brings all the feelings and emotions to my heart as we just replanted trees that were harvested (I did not want them cut down). I always feel so sad for the tree they bring to Rockefeller Center – – can you imagine being that poor tree? I like the way you raise questions about replacing what is taken or used.
Hi, Mo! Thanks for the link to research our native lands and thanks for hosting and providing this interesting prompt today.
On a Bluff above the Mississippi River
Once my home belonged
to the Sac and Fox,
part of the Meskwaki nation
who warred with British fur traders.
Keokuk, not a chief,
spoke eloquently,
attempted to establish peace,
agreed to sign a treaty but he was duped,
unwittingly relinquished native land.
Same sad story of white men taking advantage.
Barb Edler
18 September 2026
Barb, yes, this what I was learning about too– same sad story. Thank you for sharing. Now I know where your Keokuk Center got its name.
Barb, it’s fascinating to see the history coming out today from all the different areas of our country. That last line is the truth of our history. Thanks for sharing.
I so appreciate learning more about your town, past and present, Barb. So many precise words here — relinquished, and key names and places and players in the harm of “taking.”
Sarah
OMG, that last line packs a modern spin on the history of our nation and shows it happened long ago and still continues today even as one tries to rename gulfs and lakes like everything belongs to him and he makes the rules. That last line is a winner indeed.
Barb,
Sigh. Sad. Can’t help but think of how very relevant your poem is as we watch the bully bully. Time for this story to end.
Thank you for hosting, Mo, and making me learn something knew today. When I logged my zip code into the tool you shared, I found out that we live on the land that used to belong to Choctaw People, or Chahta Yakni, to be more precise.
When Every Being Was Kin
Chahta Yakni land,
colonized by
Spanish, French,
Britain, and the United States,
was once a place
where every being was kin:
river, deer, wind,
and the people who walked
with open hands and warm hearts.
Mothers nurtured children,
stories, and seeds;
fathers hunted with care
and kept the fire going.
Corn reaching upward,
beans climbing its strength,
squash spreading wide
to shield the soil.
They called them
Three Sisters feeding
body and spirit.
I live here now,
learning how connection
was once a way of life,
talking to sunflowers
to keep Chahta story alive.
Leilya,
You’ve written such a tender poem.
Love your ending, which is not an ending, but a continuation.
Love this, Leilya, especially the end! The peaceful and purposeful living resonates throughout this one!
Leilya, this is a gentle beautiful retelling of the land and values of the Chahta Yakni people. I love “open hands and warm hearts”
Leilya, as Sharon said, this is such a tender and thoughtful poem. I really like your first stanza.
I love this, Leilya! Your final stanza is especially beautiful: “I live here now, / learning how connection / was once a way of life, / talking to sunflowers / to keep Chahta story alive.”
Mo, what a great prompt! And I loved that tool for investigating the indigenous tribes from your area! I plan on using it next semester in my Multicultural Studies class, so thanks for that.
I loved your poem. The sensory detail and the detail were beautiful. Love the imagery of illness that pervades it.
I’m visiting my mom in Depew, NY this weekend, and your poem made me ruminate on what her neighborhood used to be before paradise was paved and made into a…neighborhood. And on my mom’s encroaching age.
“It is nice to sit here. It is nice. You can lock yourself in, you can…”
I never saw this day,
back then.
When my school bus
trundled down a country road,
picking up riders, the few
houses sitting lonely,
scattered along the roadside.
The trees and long grasses
held sway on those quiet rides.
The landscape changed.
Now, you live in one of those plots —
“developed land” —
trees sliced down, fields
mown over with Kentucky Bluegrass
in their place.
I wonder if birds miss their homes.
I wonder what the rabbits have to do
when their burrow implodes.
I wonder if trees feel
pain when felled by an axe.
And I wonder how I’ll feel
when you, too, are just
another memory of this place.
Wendy,
What a beautiful poem of empathy and wisdom.
Oh, Wendy, what a poem. First, you took me on a bus ride showing surroundings. And it’s the final stanza that will come back to me as a sad reminder.
Wendy, your closing line is haunting. I can remember a lot of prairie being renovated for neighborhoods etc in the area I grew up in. Your poem reminds me of meadowlarks I used to see outside my elementary school. I never see meadowlarks anymore.
Ah, Wendy, what a poignant poem. We can all see what you describe here, and your word choice of “sliced” makes it more powerful, in that it is all done with such ease: “trees sliced down, fields / mown over with Kentucky Bluegrass”
You had me at “trundled.” And your last stanza is just lovely.
M.E
The same old wind,
blows around me.
Making me think,
How am I here?
WHO IS M.E.?
Mother.
Grandmother.
Great Grandmother.
Great.
Great.
Great.
Am I making them proud?
Am I doing what I’m supposed to do?
Am I?
AM I?
AM I??????
M.E.?
Sitting here,
in my college dorm bed.
I ask the same dwelling questions
Over and over
Who is M.E.?
How did M.E. get here?
What the hell do I do now?
M.E
It’s been a long time since I was sitting in a college dorm wondering about my life. I wish I had been writing then. I could look back and see the whole time line. Your poem places me in that confusing middle place of what do I do now? I say Keep Writing!
Am I making them proud? Am I doing what im
supposed to do? Those are wonderful questions to ask.
M.E..
I love how your swirling questions echo your opening:
My guess is if you’re taking the time to think about your matrilineal ancestors and wondering if you’re making them proud, you probably are as you’re carrying them with you in your thoughts and actions.
M.E. You know that most of us feel your poem in special ways. For me it’s the fact that I’m named for my paternal and maternal grandmothers. My maternal grandmother is named for four of her Aunts! We’ll never know the answer to your questions, we can keep trying! Thanks for this sad and glad memory. Sad we don’t get an answer and glad we’re not alone.
Thank you, M.E! It’s a wonderful self-reflective poem with important questions about our identities. To me, M.E. has deep roots that brought them to that dorm room at this point in life. Wondering and exploring continues.
Your take on the prompt is very powerful, M.E. It’s been a long time since I was in college, but I do remember some of those existential questions while looking at sunsets after learning they were created from dust particles in the air. I have confidence you will answer that final question with gusto in this world that needs you so.
Mo, what a powerful ending “there was no immunity against hatred.” Thanks for this prompt that made me do some literal “digging.” I feel so privileged to live on the land near Bayou Teche. The history is long. This is a draft I composed in my notebook.
Grandmother Oak
To enrich this earth,
I have planted my feet
in the solid arms
of grandmother oak planted
three hundred years ago.
Chitimacha women prayed over the sapling.
I do not wish to escape
her history
scarred into her flesh.
Let me feel it, stroke
her old skin worn
and strong—single survivor.
I praise her hold
of the sunrise
where I rise
to be blessed.
Margaret, this is a lovely poem respecting your roots and the connectedness across time. That last stanza calls to me, ” I praise her hold of the sunrise where I rise to be blessed.” It makes me think of my grandmother who said (as i do) “Let us now be up and doing with a heart for any grace.”
Margaret, I love how your words flow. It feels almost like a song. I can imagine a beautiful dancer gliding along with the words.
Well, no you have me digging! I’ve never heard of the Chitamacha and need to find out more. I love how your poem embraces and revels in the history around you.
Margaret, I love the language in this: words like “planted,” “enrich,” “scarred,” and “rise” all glow with hope and reverence. <3
Margaret,
Your poem fills me with awe and with calm.
So much love and respect for nature and ancestors both in your poem.
Oh, wow, Margaret. Your connection of Grandmother Oak to the Chitimacha women who prayed over her as a sapling is making me feel all kinds of ways today. That is such a powerful insight, and I love that did some literal digging on your land today. Beautiful draft.
Margaret, your poem is so relatable. Oaks are special in Louisiana, and every time I see one I think about the stories those old oaks can tell. This line “Chitimacha women prayed over the sapling” holds such a strong power for me. Everything begins with a seed, a sapling, and care.
Margaret, your words read like an ode to the tree while sharing with us: the age of the oak – 300 years, scarred flesh, old skin worn, single survivor. There should be more odes to trees. Thanks for sharing.
Mo,
Thank you for hosting.
What a strong and sad ending:
“there was no immunity against hatred”
Heartbreaking.
I woke up this morning, thinking of my grandmother on the anniversary of her birth, so I chose that variation on your theme.
___________________________________________
Lineage
I watch
orange against black
curved peach slices
edged with a purple red
shimmering with oil
on the familiar black
of my grandmother’s cast iron
I hold its handle
missing her
in this week
of her birthday
___________________________________________
Posted along with photo on my blog, Pedaling Poet.
Sharon, I’m about to cry. Isn’t it amazing how something like a cast iron pan can bring up such emotions and feelings? Your poem is lovely.
Sharon, your image of the pan, worn through time and use, and its power to evoke memories is powerful. My mother gave her cast iron pans to my son and nephew hoping they were better “homemakers” than her daughters and granddaughters as well!
Your poem brings out so much emotion for how short and simple it is. I can imagine every word you wrote almost as if it were happening right in front of me.
I love how you found your grandmother’s memory in curved peach slices and a black iron skillet. Are you making peach cobbler? You are keeping her alive in your heart.
No cobbler although that would be a fitting tribute to my grandmother who was an excellent baker. She always made us cinnamon sugar donuts when we visited and strawberry rhubarb and blueberry pies. I also remember cobblers and cherrywink cookies and molasses cookies.
I was making a peach and goat cheese salad for lunch earlier this week.
Sharon, I love your arresting imagery in this piece! I could taste those peach slices. Love how you linked the gustatory imagery to your grandmother. <3
Sharon, what a beautiful poem of this memory of your grandmother. That is quite a lineage to have a pan in use for so many decades. The colors in your poem are brilliant.
Hi, Sharon! Those old cast iron pots and pans bring so many memories. Your poem is a tender reminder of the loved ones we miss. You have a rich imagery of orange against black, and I can smell your kitchen right now. Hugs 🥰
Sharon your words capture a moment. I can almost smell the sizzling fruit. How nice, special to have her skillet to hold her memory close. Thanks for sharing.
Sharon, those images evoke such memories and the cast iron is universally the fit for grandmothers, great food, apronstrings and all the love of hands that make food and a kitchen that keeps families together. Happy birthday to your grandmother, and thank you for sharing such a sweet sentiment with us!
Sharon, I love how the cast iron brought her memory into clear focus. What a lovely tribute for your grandmother.
Mo! Thank you. I love this prompt, I’ve often wondered about my neighborhood and other places and daydreamed about what it looked like 50, 100, etc. years ago, I don’t think I’ve ever attempted to write about these thoughts in any way though. Awesome prompt, and a cutting, beautiful, short exemplar poem for us all to ponder today.
We came as Potawatomi
and Miami
diverse ecosystems
unperturbed by white winds
and black balloon skies
cries of sparrow, crow, robin
close cousins from the edges of the wetlands and lowly prairie
We are the wild chicory eventually
swirled into fields of corn, soybeans
We are the mix of sand, clay, moss
at the foot of the grand lake
leaching into and along the Calumet
not dreaming of future houses, buildings, roads, smog,
dreaming of endless sunsets and grass footpaths
lush lilies as friends and majestic oaks arms as cover
comfortably sleeping next to the deer
comfortably waking to finch chirps, music of life, repeating
So beautiful, Luke. I almost wrote about chicory. I get the sense from your beautiful imagery that you live close to me.
Close. Indiana though. Thank you!
Luke, such powerful descriptions of the land. I found myself “googling” to determine, I think, you are talking about upper Michigan near the grand lake!
Almost, actually on the south of the Great lake in Indiana.
Luke, what a beautiful sentiment, and your words and imagery enhance the effect:
“black balloon skies”
“We are the wild chicory eventually/
swirled into fields of corn,soybeans”
And I love that you ended with no punctuation with gave the last line that sense of repetition, endlessness, and eternity. A really cool poem.
Thank you!
Luke,
Thank you for bringing me to this field to see your “black balloon skies” and hear these birds. Beautiful.
I’m glad
Wow, Luke, this is just gorgeous, such poetic lines and word choices. So many breathtaking images like “white winds / and black balloon skies” Really a lovely poem.
Luke, this is a gorgeous way of reminding us of the eternal connectedness and the way we are all one with the land in the interconnected way that Chief Seattle himself reminded us that we were. Your poem has me humming the song about painting with all the colors of the wind and asking the grinning bobcat why he grins – – I think it’s from Disney’s Pocahontas, and I think of unity and the return of all things to the earth. Your poem shares the rich heritage of all things and the way we are all one.
Mo,
Thank you for sending me down the rabbit hole this morning to find out more about the land where we live. Rather than going back to native times, I went back few generations and found out a lot.
Faithful and Loyal
Our two-story home
two decades ago was pasture,
three decades ago was farmland
Part of a subdivision called Catherine Estates,
our street is named Fidel.
I usually laughingly say, “As in Castro”
but really the land was owned
by Fidelis (what a cool name)
and Catherine Hopf.
She was a Dick
(a rather unfortunate maiden name)
and at the end of our now street
was the Dick School,
a one-room schoolhouse that served
the rural farm kids in this area.
Rural farm kids. Hmmm.
Hard to believe as this is a busy
part of town,
long ago annexed as “urban”
(our town is only 15,000) sprawl
began.
Where our Bermuda grass grows,
corn used to be.
Rotated with beans and sometimes
just hay for horses.
Fidelis and Catherine were married in 1941
and they lost an infant child not long after
He left to serve in WWII in Belgium in ‘42
and she lost another infant child while
he was overseas.
Not long after,
she received a telegram telling
that her young husband was
Missing in Action . . . MIA.
A few months later,
that status was changed to
Prisoner of . . . POW.
A POW for almost a year
until liberation by Allied troops
The interesting thing is . . .
our town was predominantly German.
Catherine and Fidelis
were German.
They spoke German.
Fidelis was serving America
and became a POW
of the German Nazis.
His understanding of German
kept him alive
as he understood what the guards
were saying.
Making humor of a plight too horrible
to speak seriously of,
he once shared that he subsisted on
“Cabbage soup without the cabbage.”
In April of ‘45, he came home,
reunited with Catherine who
weathered the loss of two babies
while he served,
and started a family
built a farm
attended mass
sold horses
and tilled the land.
For 60 years, he tilled the land
we now live on . . .
where we have raised our four kids,
had thousands of meals,
and made countless memories.
His blood, sweat, and tears
that fought for our country
worked this land
until he no longer could.
The pasture land sat here
until sub-developers
bought it and built
and sold homes
for families to thrive.
Fidelis Hopf led to
Fidel Lane
where our home sits.
Rich soil
reaps rich lives.
~Susan Ahlbrand
18 September 2026
Wow, Susan! Your poem gave me all the feels. I laughed out loud and covered my mouth in shock. You’ve painted a beautiful picture of your town. Thank you!
Susan, this is an amazing story of strong roots on your soil. You certainly found a lot in just a few generations. If that land could talk?????
Susan,
Rich soil indeed.
I am so moved by the story of Fidelis and Catherine.
I hope they found happiness after the war on the land where your home sits.
Susan, what a beautiful story you’ve told here about the history of your land. What a great and sad story about Fidelis and Catherine. What hope and resilience they revealed in their living life with such heartache.
Susan, you are blessed to know such history of your place. And I’m glad you shared it, including the unfortunate last name and the place where your street name comes from.
You captured the loss, irony, and growth of lives — how they all intertwined over time. Lovely to read.
I took a broader approach to this idea, thinking about the land that once stood in cities and neighborhoods. Looking back to the time before everything needed to be perfect, cemeterial, and matching instead of whimsical, nature, and alive.
The Land That Surrounds
I look around,
all to be seen is houses, cars, sidewalks, buildings,
barley any green.
But it all is so normal to me.
Then I think of the land that once stood,
full of life and love.
I wonder what this land looked like before.
Trees touching the clouds,
grass growing until the eyes could see.
I wonder of what those before would think.
Would they be angry about cutting down their trees
to building rows and rows of houses on their sacred land?
What would the first person to call this place home think?
What would they do differently?
I look around once more,
but this time I really take it all in.
The houses, the roads, the few trees that still remain.
It makes me wonder what this place will look like years from now,
what those people will think about the people that came before them.
I like your approach, A L. Trees touching the clouds sounds magical!
I too wonder how they would feel about cutting the trees and stringing those lines for electric and phones. I too wonder about the future and your stance of concern is important as we are for only a short while, stewards of our earth.
A.L.,
I like your thoughtful approach of looking back and looking forward.
My favorite lines:
A L, what interesting thoughts and questions you ask. I suspect your poem has brought you to be more aware and appreciative of the land and those who came before you.
I like that you are thinking about the past, present, and future!
Your last stanza is one I think about a lot – – as a rural resident, I often wonder if our neighbors will sell out to Target or Walmart at some point down the line, and I just can’t stomach the thought of citifying the countryside. Yes, I’ll bet they are angry about those trees and loss of the pristine, untouched landscapes. Thank you for helping steer our minds to not just the past but also the future and our unintended consequences.
Mo, thank you for this wonderful and creative prompt. I appreciate your nod to the Native Americans here first! I read today’s prompt on my porch after reading the newspaper on my phone thinking about those who built this home a century ago. They could never have imagined someone reading the news on a phone!
Once,
Native Americans, Lenni-Lenape, traipsed
Through my woods, headed for a Passic River
Before Dutch immigrants bucked
The tide to create cow pastures and farms
Before naming their land after
Nathaniel Hawthorne
Before General Lafayette camped at the
Goffle Brook during the Revolution.
Before the early 20th Century when
Home building created a suburban
Community attracted by lighted streets,
Uniform sidewalks, and a public library
Where books could be read, friends greeted
From welcoming front porches!
That’s the story the according to the old oak
Shading the porch shared,
He’s been around a while !!!
This is so sweet, Anita. I like how your ending feels communal. Your line about Nathaniel Hawthorne was jarring for me- in a good way!
Anita,
I like the sense of community across time that you create.
Love that you ended with
You make me want to sit on the porch and look at the tree and think about all who have come before as well as all who are there now.
Anita, I love the closing lines. There takes trees behind my house that are incredibly tall. I often wonder how long they’ve been around! Great historical details to show your place.
Your poem reminds me of Margaret’s today. I the “That’s the story according to the old oak…” Beautiful thoughts on this day. The old oak has seen a lot history at your place. It is fascinating to imagine all the scenes.
Anita, I started writing a poem about a tree today, but I couldn’t do it justice. Yours is the poem I wanted to write today – – especially the porch and the history of the old oak. I want to be there right on the porch, reading books and sitting in the shade of an oak that can tell the story and has all the presence of the years in its branches. Lovely! Can you imagine, really really imagine, all that the tree has seen?
Hi, Mo. Thank you for the beautiful invitation to reflect on the land and those who came before us.
I will be back later with a poem.
Before Us
The same ground,
beneath my own two feet.
Houses all around.
Some big,
some small,
some breaking down,
some spotlessly new.
Endless roads leading,
but to where.
Cars race along,
but to where.
Baby trees,
young and fragile.
Animals not seen,
hidden,
fearful,
hurt.
But what about before.
What about before.
The same ground,
beneath my own two feet.
What about the trees before.
Now passed.
Overtaken by houses,
roads,
buildings.
What about the animals before.
Wild animals.
Running free,
not fearful,
not harmed,
not touched.
What about the ground,
beneath my own two feet.
What is now my home.
Was someone else’s.
Their home.
Someone else’s home.
Someone else’s land.
Someone else’s life.
Did the trees soar even taller.
Standing even stronger.
Older and wiser.
Did the animals run free.
Fearless and happy.
Living and healthy.
The same ground,
beneath my own two feet.
Destroyed.
Taken over.
It is not the same,
not anymore.
The same ground,
beneath my own two feet.
The repetition of words, phrases, and questions works so well here, Emma. And for me, all the W sounds give your poem a wispy, ethereal feel.
Emma,
Oh the twist at the end is powerful.
I appreciate the repetion, like a mantra, like a prayer: “The same ground, beneath my own two feet.”
Your lyrical structure and repetition made your poem sway. I could feel that movement “beneath my own two feet.”
Fall in Livonia
I remember fall days
when I was in emeentary school,
the air is crisp
and the leave changing colors.
After school,
my siblings and I would grab out bikes
and ride around the neighborhood,
crunching over the leaves as we went.
The same streets I grew up on
have held so many different lives,
with generations of families
calling Livonia home.
But when fall comes back,
I still think about those bike rides,
the colorful trees,
and being a kid in Livonia.
Ah, those crunching leaves bring back lots of memories! Such lovely imagery.
I love the way you are describing. When you said, “the air is crisp”, and “crunching over the leaves as we went”, it brought me back to one of my favorite fall memories. My siblings and I just playing playing in the leaving after school, just having fun.
I really like this poem, taking a look back at childhood relating to what came before. It feels very sentimental and nostalgic. I really like this take of the prompt!
This is such an amazing way to go about the prompt. I love how you brought in your own personal experience; most people can remember a memory similar to yours.
I really like how you reflected on your childhood. I think that when we write about our past it brings up so much emotion!
As I was reading your memories, I thought of my own. I heard laughter and saw the faces of childhood friends. Your poem pushed me into my own past. That’s powerful.
Mo, great photo of you. I enjoyed doing research this morning on the native peoples from my area. My area was a higher elevation spot for several groups of nomadic indigenous peoples. I just wrote some of the people and meanings I learned and other thoughts today. Thank you for hosting. Thank you for your very powerful mentor poem. It is heart breaking.
Welcome-Miyaxwa
Serrano Morongo
Maarenga’yam – People from Morongo
Cahuilla – ’Ivilluwenetem – Powerful Ones
29 Palms Band of Chemehuevi – The People
have a co-stewardship agreement
with the National Park Service
to manage and develop
Joshua Tree National Park
together, which they still do
on the ground to some extent
but on January 20, 2025
the NPS archived the news release
about the agreement. No growth,
squeezing power from the people.
There is always something new bad.
There is always something new bad- what a line, Denise! I liked how you started with the words and phrases from your research and then boom! You hit us with the tough stuff.
Denise,
I like how your poem’s progression matches the park’s recent history, from welcoming to excluding.
I’m sad that this is where we are now.
I hope there will be a turning point soon.
I totally understand the next new bad thing. Dang!! I feel the squeeze every day! Powerful poem!
Always something new bad…..I was just thinking today about the prompt and the injustice of all that was taken from our native people. And I cringe every time there is something new bad like trying to rename a gulf or a lake on some whim of a tangerine tantrum. Your poem speaks of the National Parks, and it truly upsets me to think that these could be in jeopardy at some point if some common sense and values do not prevail soon. Your poem helps us realize just how unjust things are still on a modern scale. Something new bad indeed.
Denise, as I read and learned today from various poems and little research, “squeezing power from the people” who used to own and populate the lands has become a staggeringly widespread phenomenon. Thank you for introducing the names of the people.
Denise,
”There is always something new bad” every day from the current regime. I am so sad that all our national parks aren’t co-managed w/ native people.
Mo, thanks for this opportunity to honor those who came before me. I followed your lead and did a quick search about the Native Americans who lived here before the US negotiated a “deal” and Michigan became a state. What’s new? But, I’m pleased to acknowledge that I now know.
Ottawa Band, You Kept it Nice!
The Grand River Band of Ottawa Indians
Live on lively land that I now share
Every day Nature shows why this land is not bare.
Rabbits and squirrels, deer, ducks and geese
Leafy trees, flowers and berries are not the least
Of the reasons we find this a home
A home from which we seldom roam.
I’m glad to know, even though it is shared
The Ottawa Indians still call it home
Living in agreements back to seventeen-ninety five.
What kept them back then now help us all thrive.
For Kent County where we live
Thanks I must give to the Grand Band of Ottawa
And when their rights are eventually restored
By the US Government, I hope we will not be ignored.
We love it here and are grateful that the Ottawa kept it so nice.
“Thank you, Ottawas”, I thank you twice.
A poem of praise is a great way to start the day, Anna. I have a feeling the learning we take with us on this topic will stay with us for a long time.
I really liked how you showed your appreciation for the Ottawa people and connected their history to the land we live on today. I also liked how you included nature and animals because it helped me picture the land you were describing
Great poem! Your appreciation for the Ottawa Indians and their land is very prevalent! I agree with you, I am very thankful for them. They kept the land so beautifully and I hope their rights will one day be restored.
Anna, great minds think alike with our topics. I appreciate how this ends with a “thank you.”
Mo, I am curious to know how you prep the echinacea for use. I also pulled “immunity” from your poem into mine today. Thank you for hosting.
1830, Mishigami: great water
the technology of the Little
Traverse Bay Bands Of Odawa Indians–
the canoe, allowed them to oar their way
800 miles, during the monsters of winter,
through the human-rehashed erie canal
in and out of rapids, bends, and caps
from wigwams to white house
in a time when women suffragists
abolitionist movements, colonization
infected the immunity of the people
to dialogue, give in yet blade their way
into occupying what was already theirs
two centuries later, we can remember,
celebrate, learn because of a different tech
of those who came before us
Hi Stefani. I haven’t actually used the echinacea seeds, but I’m thinking about it.
Thanks for your poem today. I love the idea of a canoe as technology. You’ve captured quite a history here. I appreciate how you have only used selective capital letters.
I appreciate the way you talk about technology in the form of a canoe. What is now something so simple to us today, was once something that was a key component of someone else’s life.
You know I agree with your stance about our Native American predecessors on multiple levels! But, I particularly appreciate the poetic devices you demonstrate as you concisely tell the history across and through our Great Lakes! Great poem, Stefani.
oaring their way ….. a lovely and peaceful way to travel in a canoe, gliding along the waterways. I like that you included the wigwams and honored the tribal heritage of your area. A lovely way to share the Mishigami and its native people.
Mo, thank you for inspiring us with this amazing prompt today to get us thinking about our place in the timeline of history and those who came before us. My mind went back to cleaning out Dad’s things after he passed away in 2025. There was a lot to think about in all the things my brother and I discovered, wondering about all the history of the amassed inventories for a dream store they never opened.
Your poem’s last line is a gut punch – – one that makes us stop and think about yesterday and today….how much changes, how much stays the same.
Ritual Cleansing of 322 Magnolia and 7 Associated Storage Rooms
we circled the perimeter
of each room
beheld each dresser
each chair
each table
we acknowledged
each heirloom
each keepsake
each sacred sentiment
we wondered
whose each was
who drank from it
who ate from it
who slept on it
whose treasures it held
as we purified the space
cleaned the cobwebs
released old ghosts
freed captive belongings into new worlds
we invoked the spirits
invited new energies
cleansed the air
connecting past and present
on the timeline of forever
starting a new chapter
in the book of what remains
Kim, sorting and sifting through a loved one’s belongings can be so difficult. I love how you’ve honored your dad’s things and treated them with such kindness. The older I get, the more I think about all the “stuff” I’ll leave behind. Thank you for sick a lovely poem this morning.
This is a very beautiful poem, and a really good take of this prompt making it your own. As someone who recently lost a loved one I related to this poem a lot. Looking at all her old stuff from before I was born, or even when I was alive. Wondering what she thought when she bought it, what she did with it, if it was supposed to be a gift. So many questions come up but none will ever be answered. You do an amazing job capturing this in your poem.
Kim, I first read your post early this morning and with tears welling, I could remember doing this exercise five times thinking about the “timeline of forever” Cleaning out is hard and letting go is even harder. I often think of a photo I quickly grabbed at my mother’s condo before her service. Afterwards, everyone came back and took what they wanted, circling her crocheted doilies and her Scotch glasses as well. I took nothing that day, but the memories.
Kim, the form of this poem draws out the timepiece and memory brought forth through this experience. Thank you for sharing this with us today.
“cleansed the air
connecting past and present
on the timeline of forever” Lovely job
Kim,
Your ending is such an apt description of grief.
Powerful poem.
Kim, your poem is full of energy. The items that must be sorted, cleansed, removed, etc shows the difficulty of purifying a place. I love the spirits being invoked and the end resonates!
Kim, I can see the piles and precious belongings of your father, as you lovingly looked through everything. Your last lines invoking “past and present” “forever” “a new chapter” and “what remains” speak volumes of big ideas that our collected things can bring out.
I appreciate especially the last four lines. What remains is the start of growth.
Kim, thank you for taking us along with you as you moved passed your father’s belongings. The words you chose to describe show such reverence: beheld each dresser, sacred sentiment, purified the space. Taking us to the timeline of forever . . . in the book of what remains. Such a lovely sentiment.
Oh the emotion of culling things. Your use of anaphora works so well. I really love these lines:
Kim,
I love the idea of ritual cleansing and all the details in your poem. We need a national ritual cleansing.
A neighbor has a framed picture of their house when it was the only farmhouse here, before the homes and neighborhood was built.
Kevin
We finger the aged picture,
linger a little on the moment
of the farmhouse in the field
at the top of hill where now
our whole neighborhood sits;
it all fits — the history of a place
is rooted in the remembering,
the rocks in the soil wending
their way forward with each frost
in order to establish the present,
our dirty skin begins to build
something to last
Kevin, the gentle and precise language you use in your poem is perfect for remembering the past and looking toward the future. I love rooted in remembering.
I wrote my poem about a similar-Ish topic, and I really enjoyed your take on a similar topic. It really gets people thinking about what came before the rows and rows of houses, buildings, etc. It grounds you in a sense, really getting you thinking about what came before.
Kevin, these words:
“…the history of a place
is rooted in the remembering”
are drawing me in the thinking about the humans who participate and destroy/take over a place. If not for us, what would it be?
wonderful scene here Kevin
Kevin, You choice of images, history rooted in memory and also rocks in the soil wending their way forward reminds us that nothing ever is completely gone! Sometimes this is a good memory when we imagine the rock to be gold, and other times worry the rock will be sharp slate that will slice and separate us away from our pride in ourselves as if we are who we are because of ourselves! Maybe that’s just me. 🙂 and I should use 1st person, singular here. Oh well. 🥹
I love the wonderful rhythm you’ve crafted here, Kevin!
You create a perfect picture via words of this scene that seems pretty universal in so many rural places.
Mo, your poem has all things I love about poetry. The literal roots of plants that you plant and their history that connects peoples. That cure-all that couldn’t cure. It’s such a good paradox in a short poem. Thank you for hosting today. I’m off to ponder and scribble.
There is a really good resource at the Library of Congress website Sandborn Maps. These maps were made in the very early days of fire insurance and a great historical record for this kind of pondering.
https://www.loc.gov/collections/sanborn-maps/about-this-collection
Thanks for the great resource, Linda!