Fran Haley of North Carolina and I are hosting this week’s writing prompts at http://www.ethicalela.com for the November Open Write. You can read today’s prompt below or here on the website. We’d love to have you join us as we write and share!
Give Me This – an Ada Limon-inspired Poem
Our Host
Kim Johnson, Ed.D., lives on a farm in Williamson, Georgia, where she serves as District Literacy Specialist for Pike County Schools. She enjoys writing, reading, traveling, camping, sipping coffee from souvenir mugs, and spending time with her husband and three rescue schnoodles with literary names – Boo Radley (TKAM), Fitz (F. Scott Fitzgerald), and Ollie (Mary Oliver). You can follow her blog, Common Threads: Patchwork Prose and Verse, at www.kimhaynesjohnson.com.
Inspiration
As part of Sarah Donovan’s Healing Kind book club, Fran Haley and I will be facilitating a discussion of The Hurting Kind by Ada Limon in April to celebrate National Poetry Month. Preparing for these conversations led us to choose several of Limon’s poems this week as inspirations for topic, form, or title. In Give Me This, Limon watches a groundhog steal her tomatoes and envies the freedom of this creature in the delights of rebellion.
Process
Use Limon’s poem as a theme or topic, form, or title (or combination of these) to inspire your own Give Me This poem.
Kim’s Poem
I’m using a moment I would love to re-live, a moment I did not want to pull away from, as my inspiration for today’s poem, and I’m choosing the Nonet form, in which each numbered line from 1-9, or from 9-1 has that many syllables on each. I’m writing a nonet and a reverse nonet to form a concrete (shape) poem resembling a prairie dog’s hideout.
This week, Fran Haley and I are hosting the November Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com. Come join us as we write poetry together. You can read Fran’s full prompt on the website along with the poems of others or the prompt only, here below.
Title: Belonging
Our Host
Fran Haley is a literacy educator with a lifelong passion for reading, writing, and dogs. She lives in the countryside near Raleigh, North Carolina, where she savors the rustic scenery and timeless spirit of place. She’s a pastor’s wife, mom of two grown sons, and the proud Franna of two granddaughters: Scout, age seven, and Micah, age two. Fran never tires of watching birds and secretly longs to converse with them (what ancient wisdom these creatures possess!). When she’s not working, serving beside her husband, being hands-on Franna, birding, or coddling one utterly spoiled dachshund, she enjoys blogging at Lit Bits and Pieces: Snippets of Learning and Life.
Inspiration
As Kim Johnson mentioned in yesterday’s Open Write: Come April, she and I will be honoring National Poetry Month by facilitating discussion of The Hurting Kind, the most recent book by current U.S. Poet Laureate Ada Limón (you can join us via Sarah Donovan’s new Healing Kind book club).
Let me linger a moment on the word healing. How often, how long, have we cried out for healing as individuals, families, communities, nations, humankind? When a group of students asked me what superpower I’d want most, that’s what I said. Healing. Oh, to lessen suffering, restore wholeness, impart peace…
In contemplating the despair and destruction of our times—of our human history, honestly—I cannot help picking up the inextricable thread of belonging. Think on this: How much pain stems from the need to belong? To know, to have, a safe place of being?
In a May 2022 interview with Angela María Spring of Electric Lit, Limón speaks of inspiration for The Hurting Kind: “We are all part of a community, we’re all connected. And sometimes we work so hard at trying to fit in somewhere to find our community, to figure out what it is that makes us connected…you’re already connected. You already have all that you need. And it’s in everything that’s come before you and it’s in everything that’s going to come after.”
That is the spirit of today’s poetry writing.
Process
Read Limón’s poem, “Ancestors”. Note that her images and metaphors are drawn from nature. She writes, exquisitely, of being from rocks, trees, and the “lacing patterns of leaves,” concluding with “I do not know where else I belong.” There are telling lines about roots and survival.
Considering the whole of your life: Which places impart the greatest sense of belonging to you? Why? Concentrate on details and possible symbolism of these settings. What’s the story? Which people are connected to these places? They’re often, but not always, family.
Try writing free verse or a prose poem incorporating these meaningful images, perhaps borrowing the phrases I’ve come here from and/or I do not know where else I belong.
Fran’s Poem
Origins
(after Ada Limón’s “Ancestors”)
I come here by way of the king’s river a moody expanse, as vast as the sea gray-green depths with bell-topped red buoys bobbing, bobbing Right, red, returning —a rite of passage
I’ve come here from bridges yes, most of all from bridges
traversed by my predecessors seeking livelihood
—did they ever encounter bridges in their dreams
the way I have? Distorted structures of dizzying heights
spanning waters at dead of night absurd angles
impossible to navigate
I never think I can
but I always find my way.
Like a pigeon, released
driven by some coding deep in my DNA
I’ve forsaken the riverside the mammoth steel cranes
the sound of buzz saws, rivet-guns,
metal striking metal —over time, making a man lose his hearing
to return, to roost here in the dawn lands where abandoned gray houses and weathered-wood barns sink decade by decade into the earth
—for it always takes back its own
where white-spotted fawns
guarded by their mothers
step like totems from sun-dappled woods
swelling with cicada chorus
—little living buzz saws echoing, echoing in my blood the generational song
—I don’t know where else I belong.
Your Turn
Kim’s Poem
Ancestors Speak (inspired by Ada Limon’s Ancestors)
Fran Haley and I are this week’s hosts of the November Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com. Each month, this writing group gathers to write for five days. We rotate as hosts and participants, and we provide encouraging feedback to other writers. Come read and write some poetry with us! You can find the direct link here. You’ll meet fellow writers who become the kinds of friends who know you better than those you see in person.
Instructions on Being a Dragonfly – an Ada Limon-inspired Poem
Our Host
Kim Johnson, Ed.D., lives on a farm in Williamson, Georgia, where she serves as District Literacy Specialist for Pike County Schools. She enjoys writing, reading, traveling, camping, sipping coffee from souvenir mugs, and spending time with her husband and three rescue schnoodles with literary names – Boo Radley (TKAM), Fitz (F. Scott Fitzgerald), and Ollie (Mary Oliver). You can follow her blog, Common Threads: Patchwork Prose and Verse, at www.kimhaynesjohnson.com.
Inspiration
As part of Sarah Donovan’s Healing Kind book club, Fran Haley and I will be facilitating a discussion of The Hurting Kind by Ada Limon in April to celebrate National Poetry Month. Preparing for these conversations led us to choose several of Limon’s poems this week as inspirations of topic, form, or title. In Instructions on Not Giving Up, Limon illustrates the glory of spring through an unfurling leaf as a tree takes on new greening after a harsh winter.
Process
Use Limon’s poem as a theme or topic, form, or title (or combination of these) to inspire your own Instructions poem.
Kim’s Poem
I’m reflecting on a moment I spent beside a lake watching dragonflies dart around chasing each other as my inspiration for today’s poem, borrowing a couple of starter lines from our U.S. Poet Laureate to drive my thinking about form. The greening of Limon’s tree leaves and new growth reminded me of the color changing moltings that dragonflies undergo throughout their lives as they continuously evolve.
One decade ago – that’s how long ago we built this Christmas tree. We raided the reading room, where I used to have six bookcases crammed full of books (I still have the six bookcases, but I have done the anguishing work of paring down my collection over these years, letting go of some keepers).
I think of the work that we did. Find all the tall ones, and place them flat in a circle. Then, we discussed how to proceed. Find the next size down, a little thicker, and place them about a half inch inside the ring of the floor books. And so on, and so forth. String the lights, and light it up! At the top, as I recall, we’d placed a wooden chest with a Bible in it.
Every Christmas holds its magic, and over time, ideas and traditions come and go. I’m grateful today for the memories of the years, right back to the 1960s tinsel trees that I remember in my grandparents’ homes, the real trees that smelled like Frasier forests, and the Charlie Brown trees of the years that didn’t turn out like we’d planned. There was a tree that had little teeny spiders all in it the year I’d made a new sequined tree skirt, and they all climbed down and decided as a group to die right there in it, leaving little black spots everywhere. And, of course, the tree that leaned, that we fixed, then leaned, then we fixed, then fell with a hefty burglar size thud in the middle of the night, breaking precious ornaments and sloshing water everywhere.
To the magic of Christmas ~ and all it holds for us, past, present, and future – I raise my morning coffee. I’ll see A Christmas Carol on the stage of the Alliance Theater tonight in Atlanta, Georgia, and I’ll be thanking Charles Dickens for all of the versions of this classic Christmas tale as we know them today, as well as the traditions that had not yet arrived in England from Germany until he published this book – including the Christmas tree.
A few years ago, I began reading more about the Danish concept of hygge and learning about the ways to create comfort – at home and in life. Ambient candlelight, toasty socks, hearty meals of soups and stews, warmth of fireplaces, soothing sounds of music, and coziness of blankets and sweaters. The enjoyment sitting by the fire with the dogs as I write and sip hot tea. These small measures of comfort go a long way in self-care.
One author who brings all the feels of hygge is Gladys Taber. This morning, I read about November long ago from her book Stillmeadow Sampler, published in 1950. This book was a gift from my father last Christmas, and is signed by Eugenia Price in 1977 as a gift to Lady Jane.
Below, I share an excerpt:
Now, toward the end of November, rain falls steadily and it is a chilling rain. The bare branches look black and the browns in the meadows are deepened. The pond’s level rises and we can hear the water pouring over the dam and on into George’s brook. The small-paned windows of the house are a wash of silver. The lamps go on early in the day.
When we go out to do the chores, the air smells of wet fallen leaves. It is a curious musty smell, but pleasant. Jill brings in an apple log from the woodpile and the fire burns brightly. The Cockers and the Irish doze on the warm hearth. It’s a good time to have Brunswick Stew, that delectable combination of chicken, tomatoes, lima beans and corn simmered with seasonings in the old iron soup kettle.
When the rain finally ends, usually at dusk, the whole world looks polished. The horizon has a rosy glow. The air is like vintage wine, properly cooled. When we open the door, the dogs rush out and dash around the house. Rain’s over, rain’s over, they say, barking happily. Inside, with the rose-colored light coming in the windows, the house takes on new life. The milk glass gleams, the brass and copper shine. And the soup kettle is ready to be lifted from the crane, the popovers are hot.
“Next thing we know,” says Jill, dishing up the stew, “it will be snowing.”
I glance over at my dogs, deep in a morning snooze, and glimpse my mother’s rippled swiss dot milk glass on the kitchen counter. I think of her recipe for E-Z Brunswick Stew, and I take it from the recipe box to share with you today. Though Mom is no longer here with us, her legacy lives on through her recipes and memories.
Over the past ten years, we’ve rescued three Schnoodles and given them all literary names. Boo Radley (To Kill a Mockingbird) was found behind the door of an empty duplex, abandoned by his former family when they moved out. Ollie (named for my favorite poet, Mary Oliver) was a young stray found on the streets of north Georgia. Fitz (short for F. Scott Fitzgerald) came to us following a badly broken leg (the x-ray looked like a candy cane snapped off at 12:00 of the hook) that the vets barely managed to save. He also had extensive road rash, leading us to believe that he may have been thrown from a moving car. He’s had a large cyst removed from his neck and had most of his rotting teeth extracted since he came to us, including his canines because of CUPS Disease. He also has cataracts, but he can still miraculously spot a lizard from a mile away. Fitz is the happiest little dog I’ve known in all my years.
Fitz is my soul dog – he sleeps right next to me, he has to be in my lap, and he invades my space right down to the air I breathe (he’s usually checking to see what I’ve most recently eaten when he gets in my face, being the little foodie he is). He likes to do what I do, so if I get up from writing to refill my coffee, he assumes the writer position in my chair in front of my computer. He heard it was NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), so here he is – working on his first novel. He’s going for those 50,000 words this month.
All the breathtaking charm of the autumn season stops me in my tracks sometimes and fills my heart with the feel of cozy togetherness and reprioritizes my focus on the simple things. The cool breeze, the warmth of a fire, the flicker of candles flavoring the air, the cinnamon and nutmeg spiciness I add to my morning coffee, the softness of the quilts piled one, then two, then three thick on our bed to bring all the hygge comforts, and even my favorite sherpa-lined slippers for scuffing about the house and for porch sitting.
I began taking pictures of a tree on our farm in September here in rural Georgia so I could see the changes over the time span of a month or so. It’s one of my favorite views from my seat on the front porch, a place of birdwatching and reading, of talking and sipping a cup of hot tea at the end of the day, of phone conversations and FaceTimes with children and grandchildren across the miles, of prayer and meditation, of writing.
I’ve always wondered what they would say “if these trees could talk,” and perhaps in this modern age of AI, even the trees will start communicating with us and each other. If they do, this is the tree that would someday tell my story better than any other tree of my middle-age years.
Please meet my faithful friend in these photographs. She reminds me that cleaning out, renewing, and regenerating in a new and different season is a blessing and a lovely way to grow. And that every season is one to celebrate.
Thanks for reading today! I’m raising a mug of hot apple cider to you and waving my scarf in knitted kinship!
Our second grandson was born on this day nine years ago, and what a blessing he is in our lives! Each time he finishes a Harry Potter book, he is allowed to watch the movie. His parents are teaching him the timeless truth that the book is almost always better than the movie! Today, he’ll spend his birthday in Harry Potter World, and he has no idea that this is part of the surprise.
His mother and I were texting last night, and she said he thought he was going to a state park to hike and explore, and was so excited about that, and it seemed almost at first as if he was a little disappointed, since he is an outdoor-loving adventure kind of kid. Then, once they got into the park, he said it was the best birthday ever, despite the throngs of people. She reminded me that they are not used to crowds at all beyond their family and the grocery store, so this is a cultural awakening for them. “We are not in any way, shape, or form ‘crowd people,’ ” she texted.
“Tomorrow is going to be different. He won’t be able to contain himself with all the happiness of Harry Potter World,” she added.
We can’t wait to hear all about his birthday with his family in Harry Potter World.
Warning: Photos of dead bobcat in photos at end of post. Do not read further if this makes you uncomfortable. It saddens me, but country living is full of both delights and horrors, and I take the bad with the good.
At 7:52 a.m. yesterday when I pulled into the parking lot at work, I reflected on my morning. Already, I’d seen a dead bobcat, two rabbits (one alive that ran in front of my car, and one dead that didn’t make it when it ran out in front of someone else’s), a squirrel, a large buck and small spotted deer. I’d heard the calls of the Downy Woodpecker, Eastern Phoebe, Blue Jay, Carolina Chickadee, Ruby and Golden-Crowned Kinglets, Carolina Wren, Eastern Bluebird, American Robin, Pine Siskin, Chipping Sparrow, Eastern Towhee, Northern Cardinal, and Orange-Crowned Warbler. I’d walked our three schnoodles and discovered a new scratched-up area in the ground cover along the woods of the driveway, showered, dressed, and had my mushroom coffee and protein shake.
Ollie checks out a new ground scratching
I’d been in the shower when I heard the phone’s text ding. I saw it was my husband, so as soon as I was reasonably dry, I read the text: Please call me before you leave for work.
He told me he thought he’d seen a dead wildcat on the side of the road where the neighbors with the black Suburban live. “Take a look when you drive by, and let me know what you think it is. It might be a bobcat.”
He knew I wouldn’t be able to wait on fixing my hair, clothes, and makeup. So off I went in my robe to see this creature whose fate had been determined somewhere between 10:30 Thursday night and 6:00 Friday morning.
I stopped the car in the road and turned on the flashers, got out with the flashlight, and made pictures. Sure enough, it was a wildcat. Its gut organs had been eaten, but the rest of it was still in fairly good condition for something that was hit by a car going the speed limit on Beeks Road. I didn’t think a car had done this, or at least not the blood and gut part.
I made some pictures to help me in my research and theories about what happened. Imagine: a half-clad, robed wildlife crime investigator out on a rural road before daybreak, wet hair, no makeup, snapping photos of a dead animal carcass. That was me.
I mourned the life of this cat for a moment, despite the fear its kind evokes in me each time I take my dogs for a walk. Moments like these are powerful reminders of why I believe strongly in keeping my dogs on a leash at all times. People think it strange that I live on a family farm in the country on the backside of nowhere and leash my dogs. This is why: bobcats, foxes, coyotes, owls, red-shouldered hawks as large as the Great Horned Owls, rogue dogs, wild boar, cars, venomous snakes, and hunters. Not to mention those who believe that every dog they see off a leash needs rescuing, posting on social media for three days, and then rehoming (a/k/a dognappers who believe they are fully justified). Ours are chipped, but walking unleashed in our neck of the wilderness simply isn’t worth the risk.
I raced back home to pull my Audubon book out and make a 100 percent positive identification on the bobcat. Check.
Then I began the investigation. “Hey, Google. What are a bobcat’s natural enemies?”
Google rarely lets me down. “The most common enemy of bobcats is man, but they also have other predators, including owls, eagles, coyotes, and foxes, mountain lions, and wolves.”
I looked closely at the photos and observed that this bobcat appeared to be in good shape except for the gaping gut hole that had been devoured by something. I also noted an odor that suggested the bobcat had been dead for longer than a couple of hours, even though it wasn’t there the night before. It seemed odd it was in the road smelling of decay already, and not fresh-since-last-night meat. It was also on the edge of the road where it would have likely been hit a number of times by texting drivers who failed to see it in time and move over a little.
A pack of coyotes would have picked this bobcat clean and torn its limbs apart, so I ruled them out. I have never seen a wolf here, and it’s been years since anyone has seen a wild boar on this property. A fox lingered for a passing thought, but one predator emerged as the prime suspect. We have three active culprits, and they’re nocturnal. The Great Horned Owl.
Most people would shake their heads and dismiss this possibility. No way an owl would kill a bobcat.
Here’s a way: a bobcat is struck by a car and crippled but not killed. It languishes for several days in the brush, and finally succumbs to its pain and lack of food or water, probably realizing that whatever animal stumbles across it will consider it a gourmet meal.
I believe it was the Great Horned Owl who watched to see that the bobcat was alive for a time, and then when it knew this creature was too weak to fight back, but probably still alive, it swooped in for the feast. I believe it dragged it to the road for a better angle and strategically placed the stomach organs on the line in the road where the elevation dips back down so it could get to all the good meat in much the same way we invert the yogurt lid to lick the top, and I believe it ate the stomach organs and the eyes.
I believe all of this because I have seen over the years how the Great Horned Owls prefer organs. They eat the heads of rabbits, taking out the brains and leaving the rest. This carcass destruction made sense to me.
I can’t imagine the sheer shame of the bobcat spirit in bobcat heaven, reading the Georgia Rural Wildlife newpaper obituaries about his tragic end:
Robert W. Cat died Friday, November 10, 2023, killed by a Great Horned Owl with a five-foot wingspan. His friends all believed that he was the fiercest of his kind there in rural Georgia but report they had noticed a slip in his swagger in the days preceding his death. His wife reported she had heard rumors he was out running around on her with his sly catlike ways, and moved on just hours following her husband’s death, noting simply, “I hope he was in life number nine. He was a real animal.”
Common Threads 