Our host today for the 17th day of VerseLove at http://www.ethicalela.com is Kratijah, who lives in Mauritius, where she teaches English Language Acquisition and Language & Literature at Le Bocage International School. She inspires us to write poems about our kitchens in free verse, and you can read her full prompt here.
This company also publishes “Write The Poem” which I will also share in an upcoming blog post
I was browsing through our local used bookstore on a lunch break last week when, on my way out the door, a book caught my eye. Its title, Write the Story, glimmered in gold lettering down the spine, as if to plead: Hey, over here! See my sparkle? Take me home with you!
Already reaching for the doorknob, I changed course and went back to check it out. I expected a how-to on the writing process. Instead, I discovered the hidden treasure of a delightful writing challenge. Each page bore a titled topic with ten pre-determined (seemingly random) words to be used in the writing of a story.
The pages appeared to be blank except for one on which someone had penciled a story to satisfy one singular challenge and apparently moved on with life, abandoning the book and donating it to the bookstore, where it now rested in my hands. Treasure, indeed!
Poems to be written. Winter seeds of poetry, all scattered between the covers of one book. Destined for me, cast off like a stray no one else wanted, knowing all the while that a cultivator of words and writing would be most likely to pick it up, fall in love with it, take it home, and feed it.
I bought it and realized that other members of my small-group Stafford Challenge writers must have a copy. When we commit to writing a poem a day for a year, we all need a little prompting from time to time when the well runs dry or life gets too busy to think deeply like a poet. Once back inside the car, I turned on the heat and warmed up. I ordered three more copies online from the parking lot to send to Glenda Funk, Barb Edler, and Denise Krebs upon their arrival. Then I took a few snapshots to send them in the mean time.
Today’s title: In the Middle of a Long, Cold Winter
concluding a futuristic opera treading frozen spring water
winter cleanses our lungs
razor-sharp alveoli icicles fall sun breaks out in a crescendo of seasonal transition melting the white powder milkshake from the mountainside grace of its forgiving kiss beckoning crocus, groundhog-like peepers stretching up through frozen ground ready to crawl out of bed emerge from quilted slumber shed their corm-sewn bud vests and sing a new song
When my friend and fellow writer Margaret Simon of New Iberia, Louisiana invited me to the Fay B. Kaigler Children’s Festival in Hattiesburg, Mississippi in April to present a poetry writing workshop with her, I eagerly accepted the invitation and began planning the trip. Since it was during my spring break, it made taking the time away much less challenging. Even though I wasn’t able to stay for the entire festival, I enjoyed some time with Margaret – especially our time together in our VRBO as we wrote together and shared the experience as tea drinkers. (You’ll see how Emily Dickinson joined us in a photo at the bottom of this post).
During the month of April, we were both writing daily for #VerseLove2025, so we used the day’s prompt by Joanne Emery, also a writer with Slice of Life, to create poems inspired by looking closely at things around us – particularly things in nature. You can read Joanne’s poem below, used here with her permission.
No Longer
Every year, for twenty years we came here, to this house – two-story brick sitting stately on a hill surrounded by elms and maples, slate blue doors and shutters. We came to love this house because we loved the two people inside and loved them more as they aged – Silver-haired and stooping but always moving, always answering the door with open arms, and open hearts in every season: Magnolias bloomed fragrant in summer. In fall, elms showered yellow leaves onto the rooftop. A dusting of snow frosted the windows in winter. The pear trees’ white blossoms were the first sign of spring. The seasons rolled one onto another so imperceptibly we didn’t even notice. Gradually, the stairs became harder to climb. the television was harder to hear, vials of medicine lined the kitchen counter, important phone numbers were listed on the frig. Now, when we came, the house sat a little lower. We watched a little more closely. stayed a little longer. listened a little better, opened our arms and hearts just a little wider to keep the memories and the two inside close. But the seasons rolled on and the two are now gone and the house we loved Still sits on the hill but we can no longer return..
-Joanne Emery
Margaret’s poem:
(Margaret took a striking line from Joy Harjo’s poem to write a Golden Shovel poem about her friend’s butterfly garden).
Mary’s Invitation
In her garden, there’s salvia, swamp milkweed, that purple one I forgot the name of: you watch a swallowtail circle tall parsley flowers, back around to orange pincushion pistils on a coneflower for a taste of home.
-Margaret Simon
My poem:
Hello from Heaven
two days ago passing through Greenville, Alabama I noticed a mural~ Alabama’s Camellia City fuchsia petals and yellow anthers adorning the corners and thought of my mother, who loved them yesterday in Hattiesburg, Mississippi I drove past a camellia bush of these exact colors and thought again of my mother, who loved them
this gentle wave from Heaven to remind me of her sent me on a quest to discover more about the Japan rose which symbolizes advancing women’s rights and is used to make tea and food seasoning and to protect the blades of sharp cutting instruments ~
interesting, but where is the message from Heaven?
my brother will be at The Masters, where the 10th Hole is The Camellia Hole so I will tell him to look for a sign from our mother there and perhaps, just perhaps he’ll see a Freedom Bell or Cornish Show, Inspiration, Royalty, or a Spring Festival
maybe my own message is here, now, ~ in To Kill a Mockingbird, Jem destroys Mrs. Dubose’s garden when she insults his family but is later given a bud from the dying woman who struggled to overcome her morphine addiction and perhaps, just perhaps this camellia wave is every assurance that forgiveness of others is the work my heart needs to do
and perhaps, just perhaps I’ll plant a camellia this spring to welcome more hellos from Heaven from my mother, who loved them
I glance up at the coffee table in the VRBO where I’m staying and notice a decorative box I hadn’t noticed before now gold-outlined camellias as if my mother has been sitting with me as I write this poem and perhaps, just perhaps she has
– Kim Johnson
We listened to The Sound of Music, which Margaret and her mother often listened to together.
The tea I brought as a gift for Margaret (I have a canister I enjoy as well) is Poet Tea, inspired by the herbs and flowers of the New England farms where Dickinson lived and wrote her poetry. The steam of this tea seems to conjure her presence.
Today we wrap up #VerseLove 2024 at http://www.ethicalela.com with a prompt from Dr. Sarah Donovan, inviting us to choose a favorite prompt from the month and write another poem on that same prompt. I chose Stacey Joy’s In Our Mama’s Kitchens and Fran Haley’s The First Time. A very special thanks to Sarah Donovan and to Two Writing Teachers for giving us a space to write and grow and encourage each other. I look back as a preacher’s kid growing up in a household where one truly never knew which way the ball was coming, and today’s poem takes me back to the first time I knew I needed to hold on tight.
Pastorium Perils
late summer 1971 in rural Reynolds, Georgia the land of peach trees in their time of ripeness
Mama was pregnant with my baby brother and we were in the den Mama Daddy and me when
~~whoosh~~
in through the kitchen door a naked girl with long wet hair streaked through our house holding a towel screaming all the way down the hall to my parents’ bedroom
locking the door on her heels her stepdad pounding and screaming threatening her life I recognized them from church
I was five the girl was a teenager (with flapping boobs ……and hair….down there?) her stepdad was drunk
my mother clutched me carried me like a football into my room locked the door
then ran through the connecting bathroom
I followed, fearful to stay alone crawled under their bed
Mama found the girl huddled in the bottom of their closet shaking crying uncontrollably wailing for help Mama comforted her clothed her sat on the bed holding her
called the cops
we listened in fear for Dad as we waited
those slurred screams of fury are seared into my memory forever
she comes with me or I’ll go get my ruiner and ruin you
then more voices, the crash of a lamp furniture slamming
handcuffs, arrest, police report one prominent family in ruins
exposed
it was the first time I knew growing up a preacher’s kid would bring a whole cast of characters always calling mostly clothed
it was the first time I saw a naked teenager running for her life
Common Threads 