Sometimes when I tap my pencil or my fingers, I feel the rhythm of a poem I hadn’t planned on writing. It’s like hearing music and wanting to dance, only there’s no music and I don’t want to dance. I think this might be like the call of the spirit wolf to the cub who spent hours on end reading poetry with a flashlight as a child and has now grown up – – and something rhythmic this way comes on a howling wind outside. Or something Iike that.
One of the poets in one of my writing groups – I believe it was Denise Krebs – introduced us to the tricube form a few years ago. It’s three stanzas, each with three lines,
each with three syllables. The rhyme pattern is a,b,c,a,b,c,a,b,c, and the meter is trochee with stressed/unstressed/stressed. These are just fun to write, especially using seasonal words. Try one today!
November Tricube
turkey stew pumpkin spice gravy boat
fireplace flue windshield ice hooded coat
vibrant view saffron rice .....did you vote??....
A Challenge for the week:
Fellow blogger Anita Ferrari inspires a new poem today. One I have not yet written. She writes of the six seven syndrome going around. You can read her post here. This week, I’m going to try several variations of six seven poems – – poems with six syllables on one line, seven on the next. Poems with six words, then seven, and even six stanzas and then seven. I’ll post them this week and then one again next Tuesday. Anyone up for the challenge?
Let’s write six seven poems this week! Who’ll join me??
One type of poem I’ve been writing this year is a gift basket poem – – what would I give a recipient in any given month of the year? For November, the choice is clear: it’ll be filled with brown things.
If I were giving you a gift basket I’d go basketweave brown!
you’d receive a caramel cake, fresh-baked and glazed to gratify all visiting gobblers
a leather-bound gratitude journal to gather your blessings this holiday season
and a warm wooden photo frame to season your photos like a perfectly browned turkey ~ a cornucopia of nourishment sure to fill your appetite!
On the first Monday evening of each month at 7 p.m., I meet with a small group of Stafford Challenge poets via Zoom. We’re also members of EthicalEla, and we’ve presented together at NCTE. Periodically, we’ll text each other a poem or prompt. Our evening meetings include time for writing and sharing.
Our group consists of Glenda of Idaho, Denise of California, Barb of Iowa, and me. We weren’t sure whether or not Denise was going to make it this week, but she texted us a prompt in case we wanted to try the writing prior to the meeting and have something to share.
This was her prompt:
Screenshot
Steering clear of adverbs was challenging (I think of Stephen King’s words: the road to hell is paved in adverbs). Writing without them is not easy. I noticed the need for doubling down on adjectives to meet the sensory part of the prompt and also accepting that this would be a major run-on sentence. Here is the poem I shared with my small group on Monday night:
we’re listening to Christmas music, joy
filling our hearts and souls ~ chicken pot pie
piping hot and broiler-top crisped and browned
our three schnozzles snoozing by the fireplace
Sam’s Club Members Mark Old Vine Zinfandel
spilling from a ruby red wine chalice
catching each sparkle of shimmering light
Vermont Flannel blankets warming our toes
in forest green and rich brown earth-tone plaid
on this crisp night here in rural Georgia
I’m so thankful for my writing friends who always inspire me to try new forms and challenges. And Denise showed up – – after a long day of travel, in a Chipotle, still not yet having arrived at her destination for the evening. The four of us each shared a poem and caught up on life, and for that time of fellowship, I am grateful.
I never laugh as much as when our book club gets together! The books we read and the times we spend talking about them are a balm for my soul.
People have asked me how we “do” our club, because there are so many ways to structure a book club. First, we decide on a book based on someone’s recommendation. We’ve already picked dates through the end of summer and have marked them on our calendars so we guard our time. We sent out digital invitations so we don’t plan any other meetings by accident. Priorities.
Once we know our book and our next meeting time, we read and try not to talk about it with anyone reading it so we don’t give spoilers. Our regularly scheduled gathering spot is our local coffee shop, where they have all the best coffees, a few food items, and the best downstairs couch circle anywhere in town – the kind of leather couches you slide down deep into and wonder if you’re ever going to be able to get out once you get in. The kind with a big coffee table in the middle so there’s room for mugs and plates and stacks of books. We go there and pull out our general book questions as a discussion guide. Sometimes we use questions designed specifically for a book – – like at our most recent gathering, when I’d forgotten to bring the list of universal book questions. Another group member pulled up a set online that we discussed.
The part so many book clubs don’t “do” that sets our club apart is the action part. Every member of our club has a streak of adventure dwelling in our hearts, so we like to think of something the book inspires us to want to do, and then go do that thing. For example, in The Beautiful and the Wild, one of the characters was always drinking tea. One of our members found a local tea room and went for brunch to try different teas, even trying on all the hats and a pair of gloves, too. In The God of the Woods, the characters ate s’mores, so we met for appetizers at the home of one of our members and made s’mores. Having the adventure part adds to the experience of any book, because we do things we wouldn’t ordinarily do on any normal day of our lives. We stay young.
Our latest book, Colleen Hoover’s Regretting You, was released as a movie this month, so we made it our October selection and met for dinner and a movie. We spent as much time discussing the movie and the differences between the book and screenplay, and we were still talking in the dark theater when the manager came in, turned on the lights, and said he was “surprised” to see us there. He was shutting the place down. We were just glad we didn’t get locked in the movie theater overnight. We imagined the headline with humor and horror: Local School District Employees Earlier Reported Missing Found Locked in Local Theater Overnight.
Our next book is The Housemaid by Freida McFadden. The movie comes out December 19, and of course we all have our Regal apps for movie tickets up and running and have booked the date. We’ve decided to leave after the credits finish rolling – – just in case.
When the high school teacher called asking if I would be willing to come write poetry alongside students, I jumped at the offer. As a District Literacy Specialist mostly wrapped up in the operational world of data and school improvement, I miss the opportunities of the classroom. That’s where we make the biggest difference.
She read to me the AP Standard on taking poetry from prose and wanted to feature blackout poetry. As we chatted, I shared with her my blog post that day and gave her a copy of 90 Ways of Community, a book on poetry written by one of my writing groups. Together, we considered the various poetry forms that we could use if we modeled the process ~ blackout and found poetry were already on the list, but we added Haiku, X Marks the Spot, Acrostic, Golden Shovel, and Zip Odes as a geographic timestamp bonus of sorts. The students have already created their own personal writing, and we’ll show them how I used a blog post to extract poetry and urge them to do the same.
We’ll model the process.
We’ll feature an overview of possibilities – – a menu of choices – – and then watch their creativity flow onto their paper like they’re mining for gems that they pull out to polish and sparkle.
I’ll remind them that poetry is a process – – not a product. In fact, I’ll probably open the class with something like, “poets and artists have a mindset of creating a lot of bad poems and a lot of bad art.” They’ll wonder who the crazy lady is, but I’ll explain what I mean: perfection is not the goal. Writing is the goal. Thinking is the goal. Not every race is a marathon, not every photo wins awards, and not every book gets 5 stars – – it’s finding the pieces of what we do well and building on those parts so that the process becomes somewhat of a habit. I’ll explain to them that I think in metaphors and syllables, and I take a lot of random pictures to come back to little things I see that will work their way into poems.
Take this, for example:
These kids are a big part of my life. Here stand five of my seven grandchildren in the very spot at the top of a mountain in Sevierville where their parents were married in May 2012. Their other grandparents own that land, and at the bottom, there is a fishing pond. Let’s take a deeper look.
Blazing a trail, tackle box and all
I see two boys (yes, they’re boys – they just have lots of hair) exploring the trail that leads to the pond, tacklebox in hand, ready to to cast a line and spend time fishing. I’ll explain to them that already, my thoughts are swirling in metaphors of adventure, seeking, a quest, a tackle box of what it takes to find, a hook for the found thing to be caught, and the patience and grit to stick with it – and the treks through the mud and the weeds to get there.
Because fishing isn’t about the fish. You can go to the grocery store and get fish. You can order fish from a restaurant – or better yet, you can Door Dash fish.
No, fishing is no more about the fish than poetry and art are about perfection. It’s about the adventure and the process, and the wait for just the right inspiration.
Beckham, who never stands still and quiet, is standing still and quiet – fishing!
It’s about engaging in what it takes to do a thing, whether writing a poem or creating art or catching fish. It’s having the stick-to-it-ness to stand still and be quiet for two hours of a morning and be determined when you’d almost always otherwise be doing something else, but you learn to love a thing and know that there is something, something, something that will bite and that you’ll reel it in and be proud of it, whether it’s big or small.
River with his fish
You’ve caught something you’re proud of, and you can’t wait to share it with the world. So you pose for the photo, holding a fish mouth open the way you’ve been taught, holding the fish a little closer to the camera to make it look bigger than it actually is, and you see the great things about your fish.
And then you release it back into the world, knowing that next time you come back, you may catch that same one again – – or something different, like that turtle your sister caught.
Noli’s shoes tell the story: she’s seizing the day!
Either way, the one thing you cannot buy, like that Door Dashed fish, is the mud on your own shoes from the lived experience.
And that is what poetry is – life, experience, thinking, waiting, casting a line and seeing what comes up on the end of the hook.
So while I may say I’m going to school today, what I’m really doing is going fishing
The Easter holiday before Dad died, I sent him a Bendable, Poseable Jesus of Nazareth. Back before we knew just how sick he was because he kept preaching and going to book sales and doing all the other things he always did, I thought it looked like just the kind of thing he could use for a children’s sermon or could work into some story he was telling. I must confess that I thought it was a bit funny, too, this Bendable, Poseable Jesus figure- – because the adjectives just seem silly, as if the product might sell on name alone. As if Jesus had ever posed for a selfie or been a contortionist.
Imagine my surprise when I found this gift still unopened in the package in the guest room after Dad died. I was going through all the boxes, and up popped Jesus in his Jesus sandals and robes. I decided to take him back home with me. With the way my year has gone throughout 2025, I need all the Jesus I can get.
As we packed to leave for Tennessee for a week with our children and grandchildren, I gathered colored pencils and games, puzzles, and toys to take for the week. I also grabbed Jesus, still packaged, to come along for the ride.
He spent the first couple of days in the kitchen window just in case I got tempted to say any words that would not be appropriate around children. And to remind me to be kind and patient and all the other fruits of the spirit.
Eventually, one of the grandchildren opened him and took him out of the plastic and cardboard, posing and bending the figure and playing with it. Even the baby of the bunch, Silas, got in on the Jesus action.
Silas, checking out Jesus
They played Peek-a-Boo, which may have reminded my daughter of the way my late parents hid a Waldo figure for each other to find. She began hiding Jesus and challenging all the cousins to find him.
Countless times throughout the days, they would play this game, taking turns hiding and finding. My son came up from the game room and asked what they were doing.
“We’re finding Jesus,” they all shouted, in unison. The look on his face was priceless.
On our last day, Jesus was in the middle of a good hide. We’d not seen him since the day before, and we almost forgot him, when my daughter remembered him and asked, “Where’s Jesus?”
Saylor, the oldest granddaughter who’d been the last to hide him, ran back inside and then returned shortly, carrying him out to the car.
“We can’t leave Jesus in Tennessee,” she exclaimed.
Nope, and we didn’t. Jesus is safely packed back in the bag to be hidden again on our next trip together. He’s a part of our daily lives, yes – – but on vacation, He will come along and play all the games with the children, and abide with the adults in a very chaperoning way.
We need as much of Him as we can get.
We all need Jesus
to remind us to be kind
to seek Him daily
Mallory and Beckham with Bendable, Poseable Jesus
With 6 of our 7 grandchildren – Beckham, Saylor, Magnolia Mae (Noli), Sawyer holding Silas, and River
Kindred Spirits From L-R: Jennifer, me, Martina, Joy, Jill, Janette
Last year, we started a Central Office book club in our rural Georgia school district. This was Janette’s idea, but she graciously allowed me to help organize its inception. We asked another local book club if we could read their books they were not using, and we gave each title another round of reading before placing these in Little Free Libraries according to the grant provisions with which they were originally purchased. This club has become a sisterhood, and much like my writing group friends, our interactions go beyond the daily water station office talk into what goes on in our lives and how we feel about issues that arise in the books we read. We connect on a deeper level this way.
We’re a cross-section of society, which lends to richer discussion. I’m the oldest. Martina is the youngest. All of us are mothers and wives. Two of us are real sisters (Jill and Joy). Four of us are grandmothers. Two of us are preachers’ kids. We’ve all been through some tough times and bring differing perspectives to our conversations. But what’s most important is that we are all readers, we understand that every book is not going to get five stars but that there is something to take from each, and we embrace our collective voice on womanhood and readership. We’re the Kindred Spirits – and we are aptly named.
Last April, I shared a poem with our group each day during National Poetry Month, and while most were written by well-known poets, one or two were poems that I wrote. They know that writing poetry is what keeps me balanced at all times, but particularly in tough times – of which there have been many lately in my life. When my father died in June, I was sad that he would not be here to see the book I’d been working on for so long come out on Labor Day weekend.
Imagine my surprise when my Kindred Spirit sisters knew I was feeling down and threw an after-lunch dessert party for me and presented me with a poem that they had all written to cheer me up and celebrate me. I was moved to tears as they explained that they had each written two lines, and that the lines appeared in alphabetical order according to their names: Janette, Jennifer, Jill, Joy, and Martina.
I framed it and keep it among my greatest treasures; it means so much to me that in a time when I was grieving, my reading sisters built me up and reminded me that we are all in this together – – and that the tears along the journey can be turned into laughter and joy. We feel it in our local coffee shop on our small town square each month as we sip our brews and talk about the characters we have come to love (and dislike). We feel it at work as we deal with our day to day duties, and we will feel it in the movie theater later this week as we watch our monthly novel come to the big screen: Colleen Hoover’s Regretting You.
I’m not sure where I’d be without my reading group – and my writing groups. Today is a day to celebrate all of you (if you’re reading this, it includes you, too) who make a difference in my life. My glass is raised to you, dear friends, for all that you mean to me. You inspire me, and I appreciate each and every one of you!
Poem written for me by my Kindred Spirits book club
Front: Jill, Janette, Martina; Back: me, Joy (Jennifer is missing)
Books We’ve Read in our Club So Far:
The Beautiful and the Wild by Peggy Townsend
First Lie Wins by Ashley Elston
The Last Flight by Julie Clark
Mother-Daughter Murder Night by Nina Simon
The Wedding People by Allison Espach
One Tuesday Morning by Karen Kingsbury
God of the Woods by Liz Moore
The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid
Regretting You by Colleen Hoover
and
Selected Poems-a-Day for National Poetry Month
Book Club Haiku
we’re always on the
lookout for our next great read
….any suggestions?
Special thanks to Two Writing Teachers for hosting Slice of Life
Our host today for the first day of the October Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com is Fran Haley of North Carolina. She and I are teaming up together this month to bring the writing prompts for the three days of this month’s challenge. Fran and I both live in small towns with the same name – she in North Carolina, and I in Georgia. Here’s a little more about Fran Haley:
Fran and Jesse
Fran Haley is a K–12 literacy educator who coordinates elementary programs centered on a love of books and the joy of reading aloud. She helps young writers find their voices on the page in creative ways. A pastor’s wife, mom, and Franna of two spirited granddaughters, she savors the quiet rhythms of rural life near Raleigh, NC. The pre-dawn hours are Fran’s sacred writing time; you can find her there in the stillness, seated at the kitchen table with a sleeping puppy (a miniature longhaired dachshund named Jesse) in her lap. She authors the blog Lit Bits and Pieces: Snippets of Learning and Life.
Fran inspires us to write by reminding us of the significance of today. She says, “Today is the third Saturday in October, which happens to be National Sweetest Day, according to the National Day Calendar. Originally “Candy Day,” the recognition began in 1916 with American confectioners encouraging high standards in candy-making and the patronage of candy shops and bakeries. The observance was suspended due to sugar rationing in World War I. “Candy Day” eventually resumed; historians note that it was also meant to be altruistic, a time for buying sweets and distributing to those who could not afford them. The holiday later evolved into “Sweetest Day” and the giving of notes, cards, and gestures of love. “
She wonders what “sweet things” we can consider and shares her process here:
Write a poetic note of love to a neighbor, co-worker, friend, or family member
Write a poem based on song lyrics about candy (think “Big Rock Candy Mountain”), or any “sweet” song you love
Write a sweet memory or gesture made toward you
Fran chose the last option, in narrative free verse.
Fran’s Poem
The Gift
Late in the evening
my husband aims the remote, presses a button, banishes flickering ghosts.
All is still and silent in the lamplight.
He turns to me:
“You know I love you, don’t you?”
That timbre—
that deep, low note in his voice
—my brain translates to
Mayday! Mayday!Mayday! Prepare for impact! Even as I answer, Yesss, I am guessing: The doctors have called. It’s his heart again. Or worse. What now. What now. We’ve spent the last decade— a quarter of our marriage— skidding to sudden stops, pressing the pause button, resuming in altered states,
patched and scarred.
I can’t even summon a prayer. I brace for the crash. The shattering. But he’s just scrolling on his phone. He holds it out: “What do you think of this?” A photo of a red-gold puppy lying on a blanket. I can’t process. I’ve missed a cue —how early does dementia begin? “Precious,” I say, confused. My husband looks at me for a long moment, then: “He’s ours. I put down a deposit three days ago.” What am I hearing?
Is this real? A dream? My heart had given up hoping for a dog, in light of his battles…
yet this man, so valiant in suffering,
begins to sob
with the magnitude of his own sacrifice,
offering me new life.
And she passes the pen to us with the challenge to write our own Sweetest Day poems. Here is mine:
Our youngest grandson, Silas, the sweetest 10-month-old
Pajama Adventure to Krispy Kreme
it was just after 7 a.m.
I was still in pajamas
writing at the kitchen table
on family vacation
when my son asked
you want to take a ride?
I reminded him: I’m still in pajamas
no worries, he assured ~ come on!
the hot light came on as he pulled
into the parking lot
and a couple dozen later
we were on our way back
with hats and hot glazed doughnuts,
creme filled and sugar-laden,
to share with the others
just as the good Lord
intended
My son, Marshall, who knows how to share the best breakfast, with son River
Common Threads 