Patchwork Prose and Verse
Many thanks to my friend and fellow writer Margaret Gibson Simon from Louisiana for introducing the elfchen poem, written in five lines where the first line has one word, the second two, the third three, the fourth four, and the fifth one. Our 3 rescue Schnoodles went for grooming this week and smiled for the camera (well, for the treats dangling in front of the camera) on our front porch.
Valentine
Schnoodles, groomed
heart neckerchiefs knotted
three sweeties smile (for
treaties)
It’s my daughter’s 37th birthday, and I wrote an acrostic poem for her today. She’s celebrating on a trip to Arizona with her boyfriend, and they’re enjoying their time together, exploring the sights!
My daughter’s birthday
Arizona gift trip
Loving the cactus desert weather
Living the good side of life
Out for adventure
Rock-hounding enthusiast
Youthfully energetic
*She sent me this picture of a random cactus with this explanation: “We stopped for a wee and a fill up. This cactus was at the gas station. We’re 20 minutes from Tucson.”Classic Mallory text. I’m so happy that she is celebrating her birthday today!
Our host today for the fifth day of January’s Open Write at www.ethicalela.com is Dr. Leilya Pitre of Louisiana, who inspires us to write Naani poems. Nanni poems are 4 lines of any topic, with 20-25 syllables. She challenged us to look to the texts on our phones to find a poem.
Naani Goat
William the goat
was a character.
The Sapelo cabin is a story.
The fireplace remains.
Our host today at http://www.ethicalela.com for the 4th day of the January Open Write is Larin Wade of Oklahoma, who inspires us to write free verse poems on the theme of reflection or discovery, following a reading of One of Us by Joyce Sidman as we explore a time when someone revealed something new about themselves or reflecting on a defining moment. You can read her prompt here.
I’m an Honorary Unicorn
I came in to work
on a cold Monday morning
to find her note
on my keyboard
Her children
have lost 4 grandparents
in the past 5 months
and all I did
was take pizza to her house
while she and her husband
disconnected life support
said goodbye to a father
And here, she thinks
I’m a magical unicorn
who is noble and brave
who shoots lighting bolts
from my eyes
who inspires others to sparkle
who carries a passport to Fairyland
who is kind and good
but not a goody-goody
who loves with my whole heart
She thanked me for the little
thing I did
taking pizza over
and always being there
but she got it wrong.
I’m none of that except maybe the Fairyland passport carrier
But I’ll tell you one thing:
I’m using that checklist to
be a better me.
My unicorn friend has
given me new goals:
pooping glitter and charming dragons
Our host today at http://www.ethicalela.com for Day 3 of the 5-day January Open Write is Dave Wooley of Connecticut, who inspires us to write WHY poems in list form, choosing a list of purpose and then explaining it in 10 because reasons. Hop on over and read his prompt and the poems that are born into the world today. I’ve chosen a prose poem to combine with the list poem just because I got rambling a little bit on the bird soapbox……
Why I Watch Birds
Because Eastern Phoebe, see, she’s the forest drunk and she hiccups and calls her own name like she’s forgotten who she is and where she’s supposed to be, and she makes me laugh first and then cry later like that time at the Atlanta Braves game when that lost woman looking for her seat stumbled down to the front of an entire section and yelled up to ask if ANYBODY recognized her
Because Brown-Headed Nuthatch, see, she’s always in the middle of a domestic dispute telling somebody how it’s gonna be, telling her man he ain’t got a lick of sense and he ain’t coming all up in her tree stirring up no trouble, better carry his ass on out there and find another nest to be a deadbeat dad, and she makes me cheer her strength
Because White-Headed Nuthatch, see, she’s the Social Media Gossip, laughing like an evil circus clown at all the crap she stirs up in the woods, revealing her own true self in the mirror, projecting her sins through the rough-bared face of the forest trees, and she helps me see the weakness and insecurity of people who laugh at others like this
Because Great Horned Owl, see, he’s an all-nighter with all this early morning coffee shop talk across the farm, like he’s an old man sharing some great wisdom when all it is, is a ploy because let’s face it — the man sleeps all day and sheds no light on anything pertinent to school, so why they ever put a cap and gown on him baffles me, and he reminds me not to let his kind fool me
Because Wood Thrush, see, he’s a bird that blends into the scenery, yet his song is the most beautiful of all, kind of like those normal-looking people who step behind a microphone and belt out a song that’ll bring you to tears and give you chills and wonder to yourself, where did that come from? And who else am I underestimating?
Because Eastern Wood-Pewee, see, he’s always answering roll call, saying his name like he’s entered the building and the party can start, like a kid with a bad case of Senioritis who is perpetually late and wants to be sure he’s marked present so he’s not caught skipping
Because Northern Cardinal, see, he’s a woman-whistler, cat-calling at every woman who walks by, calling her pretty, pretty, pretty, just like some will do – some with good intentions, some with not-so-good intentions, but still giving me the gumption to tilt my chin up and carry on with the day
Because Ruby-Throated Hummingbird, see, she will ask for her food and thank me for it, then hover directly a foot from my face and look into my eyes like she’s blessing me with good vibes of peace and joy to feel like I can make a thumbprint-size difference, reminding me that all hope springs forth and wells up from a tug the size of a tiny thimble into a cascading waterfall
Anna Roseboro of Michigan is our host at http://www.ethicalela.com for Day 2 of the January Open Write, where educators gather to write poetry and share thoughts. Today’s prompt has us thinking about the motivation of a book character – what drives them to action.
I thought of the book I’m reading, An Irish Country Doctor by Patrick Taylor, and decided on two limericks today, showing the relationship between the old doctor O’Reilly and young doctor Laverty. (I changed the last line of the first limerick about twelve times…..you can guess the obvious struggle with that last word, but I kept it clean since it’s Sunday – my own motivation and reason).
The Young and The Old
There was a young doctor from Belfast
whose countryside practice in green grass
was learning the ropes
in this village of folks
from an old mentor doctor with wise sass
When Laverty finds Doc O’Reilly
he bites his tongue, sees raw truths wryly
patient respect is a must
as country doctors earn trust
before they’re regarded so highly
melatonin dreams
sweet sleep or nightmares?
milligrams matter
It’s always a coin toss. Do I want to get some sleep even with disturbing dreams, or do I want to wake up at 2 a.m. and try to suffer through the day?
I chose the sleep with dreams last night. Ten milligrams brings nightmares, but a five milligram dream is not all that terrible – usually.
In my 5 mg dream, I had been on a cruise ship with my husband’s side of the family, and we’d just returned home when some of us fell ill. And by family, I mean all of the Thursday night dinner crowd: Briar, his dad, his brother and sister-in-law, his son, and me. When two of them tested positive for the flu, some guys in white coats showed up at our door and put us in a van and took us to a medical testing lab to see if we had it, too.
We did.
They took us into a hall, where everyone was lying on the floor waiting on a bed. All the cruise baggage was still there, and each person was lying next to the luggage they brought. I took a picture of this, because I wanted proof they were making us get on the floor.
One by one, each person was taken down the hall when a bed became available.
I pointed to the copy machine I’d brought. Our office really did get a new one recently, and we’d all had to attend the 15-minute training on how the new one works and what not to do to break it. So it seemed logical that I’d taken the new copy machine on the cruise and now had it with me, rolling it around everywhere, even here in the medical facility.
The doctor came to tell me I’d tested positive and that I was being admitted to the hospital, and he had a little laptop that had my entire history on it. ”Well, if I’d seen that you’d taken pain pills when you had your children, I’d have never prescribed them for you. You’re probably only here for the prescription pain meds,” he accused.
This sent me into a fiery rage, and I unleashed on him. I screamed and caused a scene, right next to my copy machine I was pulling around.
“You %@$&@%^,” I yelled, pointing my finger an inch from his nose, making sure everyone in the building could hear me. “Yeah, you in your professional lab coat. I am not here by choice. Your people came and got me and accused me of being sick, and now you’re falsifying documents to say that I am and you’re forcing me into the hospital against my will when I have to go to work tomorrow. I am NOT taking your medicine.”
I find myself so satisfyingly bold in dreams, yet never enough like this in real life.
With that, he motioned to a nurse to come start an IV on me, and I started kicking and flailing my arms.
“What exactly do you do?” he asked.
“I make sure people can read so they have sense. Something you skipped in school. You have no sense. You did not ever get the help you need, and all these people in this facility think you’re a real doctor, but you’re not. You’re here to try to trick us, and you’re sending us to another planet.”
Everyone was staring at me, dumbfounded, and my family was all in a deep sleep, too deep to care. They’d already gotten their IV medicine and were being taken away, one by one.
I moved over behind my copy machine, but suddenly it sprang a handle and wheels and started looking more like a wagon, and one of the male nurses pulled it off to the side where I couldn’t get behind it. I was scared my school was going to charge me for it, and I threatened to sue the nurse for damaging this high dollar equipment.
The nurse didn’t care. No one cared.
They put me on a bed and wheeled me to a chamber.
They made us all get into hyperbaric pods so they could monitor us to be sure we were sleeping the fevers off. The chambers slept 4, with beds all around the edges of a capsule shape. Two kids’ beds were at both short ends, and regular twins were on the edges. You had to step up into the chamber on a little step that dropped down, and it looked a lot like a cross between an Airstream camper and a silver space ship. There were even lights on the thing.
They tried to put me in one with an old lady and a young child, and I saw them asleep and started screaming to wake them up. I screamed in the child’s ear, directly in the ear, thinking the child would cry, but she didn’t.
The door sealed shut like on an airplane, and an engine started revving, and I was beside myself with fear, knowing I was headed to Mars and that no one on this ship knew how to fly it.
I woke up in a sweat at 5 a.m., more ready than ever to go to work.
I didn’t have a copy machine to lug back to the office, and I was not headed to Mars.
I’m cutting back to 2.5 milligrams of Melatonin tonight. I’ll cut the gummy in half and see if I can get to a more manageable and more normal nightmare.
I accepted the challenge thrown at my feet. And by thrown at my feet, I mean the Facebook post stopped my scroll. I clicked on Learn More and read the details. A poem a day for a year, starting January 17. They call it the Stafford Challenge, and registration ends today.
Sounds like my kind of adventure.
I signed up, and my backpack is ready for the year ahead. My computer is charged, my coffee is hot, and my momentum is high. I’m looking around – – where is the inspiration in any writing time? Never farther than a foot away. I see my coffee cup, white with a black butterfly etched in the surface. Me. I see myself – caffeine for the long journey ahead, and the freedom to make it.
I have a Zoom tonight to see what it’s all about, but for today, all I need is my poem.
Ready
wings spread, eyes open
every moment, a story
becomes a poem
Today is the final day of the November Open Write, but this is a fun form today. Fran Haley and I have enjoyed hosting this week. You can read today’s prompt at http://www.ethicalela.com here, or read below.
Title: Doggerel
Our Hosts
Fran Haley
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.
Kim Johnson
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
We have enjoyed collaborating on this series of Open Writes inspired by the work of Poet Laureate Ada Limón! Next April, honor National Poetry Month with us by taking part in the discussion of Limón’s book, The Hurting Kind (you can join via Sarah Donovan’s new Healing Kind book club).
In the past few days we’ve written along many themes in Limón’s work: Family, community, belonging, nature.
Today we expand all that to include a celebration of our pets—in our case, dogs! We decided to end our Open Writes on a fun note.
Or should we say a punny note?
Time for some doggerel!
Process
Doggerel is intentionally bad poetry (what a relief)! Dictionary.com defines it as “comic verse composed in irregular rhythm…verse or words that are badly written or expressed.”
Many nursery rhymes are considered doggerel. Remember this?
I eat my peas with honey
I’ve done it all my life
It makes the peas taste funny
But it keeps them on my knife.
—Frequently attributed to Anonymous and Ogden Nash
Speaking of Odgen Nash, consider these lines of his:
I sit in an office at 244 Madison Avenue
And say to myself you have a responsible job, havenue?
Why then do you fritter away your time on this doggerel?
If you have a sore throat you can cure it by using a good goggerel…
You can read that whole poem and more here.
Today, celebrate the pets (hopefully dogs) in your life with a short whimsical, silly, rhyming or non-rhyming verse. Perhaps a limerick…
or write some haiku
and if you don’t have a dog
—sigh. A cat will do.
Just have pun! Er, fun!
Fran’s Poem
A Bit of Doggerel in Honor of My Granddog, Henry
Time for a nap
time to recharge
if only for a bit
on a teeny-tiny pillow
that ain’t a good fit
this is what comes
of living large
Kim’s Poem
(Texts and verse written with Boxer Moon as he delivered wood and saw the dogs at my house – I asked if I could use our texts for doggerel, and this is what we wrote in our rural Georgia vernacular):
Logs & Limbs & Dogs & Dem
I hope dem dogs don’t get me, he sent
In a text on delivering wood
Dey real visshus, I sent back
We put dem up
‘cause you need yo’ limbs
***
Did dem dogs get you?
I checked on the poetic woodcutter
Dem dog’gerel visshus,
but dem dog’dint get me, he replied.
***
The Woodcutter’s Afterword:
Dem Kim’s lims now
Dem dogs dint get me,
I stack’t da logs and lef’ dem dogs
-Kim and Boxer
Your Turn
Fran Haley and I are hosting this week’s Open Write at http://www.ethicalela.com as we prepare for April’s discussions on Ada Limon’s The Hurting Kind. You can read Fran’s prompt today here or below. Be inspired and come write with us!
Title: Birdspiration
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 previously mentioned in this series of Open Writes: Come April, Kim Johnson and I will be honoring National Poetry Month by facilitating discussion of The Hurting Kind, the most recent book by U.S. Poet Laureate Ada Limón (you can join us via Sarah Donovan’s new Healing Kind book club).
In preparation for this event, I came across a May 2022 interview with Angela María Spring of Electric Lit in which Limón speaks of inspiration for her book and the way humans search for community: “It’s the Earth and it’s the animals and it’s the plants and that is our community.”
What a glorious opening for birds today.
Over several summers past, I facilitated a writing institute for teachers. We spent a portion of one session crafting poems about birds, for, truth is, everyone has a bird story of some kind. Just as we went out for lunch, two doves flew into the building to land on the windowsill of our room. How’s that for symbolism?—and awe.
Process
Listen to or read the brief transcript of Episode 674 of The Slowdown, Limón’s podcast. Here she shares a poem by Hai-Dang Phan entitled “My Ornithology (Orange-crowned Warbler)”. Note Limón’s reflection: In observing birds and their world, we learn something true about ourselves. Experience Phan’s warbler up close and personal through every rich detail in the poem.
You might also read Limón’s “The Year of the Goldfinches”.
Now, consider what you’ve learned from birds in some way. Find a kinship. You don’t have to love or even like birds; you could contemplate the Thanksgiving turkeys sacrificed for your holiday table.You might go on a birdwalk or watch awhile through your window for birdspiration.
Explore birds and their lessons for your life in a short form like haiku, senryu, tanka, or a series of stanzas with the same number of lines. Invent a form! Phan uses three lines over and over. Consider how enjambment and varying sentence lengths can create bursts and phrases like birdsong. After all, poetry is about sound.
Play with form today. Let your lines sing.
What truths have birds taught you?.
Fran’s Poem
Harbingers
back country byway, winter-brown grass
trees, old gray outbuildings, zipping, zipping past
small pond clearing, wood-strewn ground
bald eagle sitting roadside—too profound—
I thought it was the anesthesia
until you saw it, too,
before it flew.
And I knew.
lanes of heavy traffic, day dawning bright
our son says you had a painful, painful night
dew on the windshield, fog in my brain
all hope of moving past this gridlock, in vain
but for the glory of autumn leaves, a-fire
against cloudless blue where a solitary flier
glides by, white head and tail gleaming in the sun…
I promise, beloved one.
Your healing
has begun.
Your Turn
Kim’s Poem
Lesson Learned
It was only fair to each pick a tour
So he picked one, I picked two.
Sled dogs and glaciers: what fun!
But a hovercraft?! He picked a hovercraft.
I willed a smile.
This was his vacation, too.
We fell in love with the dogs,
Laughed at Pumpkin, whose destiny
Was clearly supposed to be different
But oh, how she tried,
Tripping over her own feet,
Tangling the ropes.
“Pumpkin!” the driver yelled
A dozen times at least.
I could tell: she’d rather be
Chasing butterflies.
We held the next generation,
Puppy teeth nipping our ears.
He spied every seal on those icebergs
I photographed them all
We stood in awe as the glacier calved
Heard its thunder, saw its majestic crash
Into the bay, baby rainbows circling
But then came hovercraft day
My forced smile, my fake excitement
Was a Christmas sweater I’d wear once
Then pass along and forget.
We stepped aboard the yellow craft,
Took off like a racecar
Over the waters of Juneau
Then abruptly stopped in deep water.
The tour guide lifted the doors.
Had we broken down?
Were we swimming?
He reached down into a bucket
Pulled out a fish
Threw it high into the air.
From out of nowhere, the talons
of a huge Bald Eagle swooped in and
clutched the fish,
so close its mighty wingspan
made a cheek-brushing breeze.
It called its whole family
Uncles, aunts, cousins once- and twice-removed
“Fish! Over here!” it surely said.
Or perhaps they all knew to watch
For the yellow hovercraft,
Put on a show for the hovercraft wives
To redeem the husbands.
Baby eaglets at the tip top of a tall tree
Were the best “catch” of the day –
We caught a binoculared glimpse, but not a photo
Five hundred shots of eagles, two clear favorites
But most importantly, a lesson learned:
Step aboard, even when the smile is fake
It just might become the truest smile
Of the whole adventure.
He won the tour picking.
(He knew what he was doing).
Common Threads 