On Monday, Dave Wooley hosted the March Open Write at Ethical ELA. He invited participants to compose small ekphrastic poems inspired by art, “to capture essential moments that are reflected in, or alluded to, in the work of art. Or, perhaps, how in reflecting upon a work of art, that might become a spark for a related idea that could be explored in the burst of a short poem.”
The key, of course, is selecting the artwork. Dave chose statues.
I chose a work of art in progress…
Envisioners
Segmented cardboard pulled from a shipping package is now repurposed
by the magicians (known as my two granddaughters) with markers in hand
a dragon rises from their creative efforts— Franna provides eyes.
The masterpiece in the making
******* with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the March Slice of Life Story Challenge
My three-year-old granddaughter, Micah, has finally experienced enough snow to make a snowman.
Two snowmen, in fact. Five weeks apart.
The first snow really wouldn’t pack, so we ended up with a little heap of snowdwarf. It was cute and we loved it anyway (see the photo on To Life and Lafo).
The second snow packed beautifully. Micah’s artistic big sister, Scout, took over as snowman engineer and designer, rounding the body and deciding what to use for facial features.
Micah said, “The snowman needs a hat!” She chose the Santa hat from the toybox I keep for the girls. In her words, the “Ho-Ho hat.”
And here you have it. Our merry friend:
That night, as I put our exhausted Micah to bed, she kept stalling.
She fights going to sleep, has always been a restless sleeper. She asks for songs: Frère Jacques. Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. She chats about a boy at daycare and calls him “my brother.” She says he’s going to the beach and she wishes she could go, too.
“All right, Micahroni,” I say at last. “It is time to sleep now.”
She twists around, lies still, and is silent for a moment. She looks at the ceiling, the wall. Her eyes are heavy.
Then those big eyes are on me. “We forgot the Ho-Ho hat! It’s outside!”
“Yes, but it’s okay. The snowman can wear the hat tonight. We can get it tomorrow.”
That seems a sufficient response, for she’s quiet again.
Then: “Franna.”
“What, Micah?”
“I don’t want the snowman to melt.”
“He won’t melt tonight, honey. It’s very cold outside. He’ll still be there tomorrow.”
She looks at me earnestly. Deep brown eyes, rosy cheeks.
“I don’t want his face to melt,” she says.
I murmur something soothing, I think, but my mind isn’t on my words.
It’s on the workings of her little mind, already understanding the temporary nature of things, fearing loss…yes, it’s just a snowman. But its face reflects humanity. She cares about it and knows, at three, it cannot last.
I stay with her until she drifts off to sleep and her breathing grows loud.
And then I go to bed myself, praying, I confess, for the snowman not to melt the next day while she’s staying with me… because childhood and life itself are so short. They melt away so soon.
When she goes home, the snowman is still in the backyard, joyful as ever, twig-hands raised in praise, undiminished.
I remember to rescue the Ho-Ho hat. She will remember asking. She remembers everything.
I hope she always will.
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with thanks to two Writing Teachers for the March Slice of Life Story Challenge
She is three sitting by me on the couch open book in her hands head bent so intent in her study of detail in the picture
She is three and I see a reader coming to light
and very possibly an illustrious illustrator of dawning intensity
even though she’s three.
My granddaugher, Micah. I’ve read A Bad Case of Stripes to her over and over. She anticipates events in the story now and comments on the drawings. She studied this page a long time.
Her first sketch of her dad.
She made her dad tie a cape on her. “I’m Batman, she told him. “Read to the Batman.”
******* with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the annual March Slice of Life Story Challenge. This is my ninth year participating alongside fellow teacher-writers.
constructed in Franna’s Spare Oom during Christmas
Never mind the season
for in the hands of the creator everything is made new
like the Halloween tree guarding the inner tent entrance
a cone adorned with black and orange ornaments has become a pillar of ember and ash cascading into firepetals (left over from a wedding) where chunks of stars (harvested from an old crib mobile) have come to rest
much like the creator herself savoring the fruits of her labors (having been aided by Franna and Big Sister, definitely magical)
now stretching out on her back little bare feet to the firepetals
cozy and content
clutching her baby while gazing up through the window at the wintersky
for, as any fantasy writer knows,
worldbuilding is hard work
not to mention most gratifying
The worldbuilder, age 3, resting in her fort with her doll “Jape” on her chest
When I tell you your story in all the years to come you will remember bits and pieces on your own
because Three records memory
I will tell you of these days my own autumn in which you paint infinite points of opal-fire against charcoal-ash sky
because Three is alchemy
I will tell you how my heart sings at sight of you running as hard as you can your little arms held out to me, to me
because Three is utter glee
And I will tell you how I listen as still as I can be when you sing snippets of hymns… oh, always, always abide with me
beautiful Three ever holy
love you forever, Micahroni – Franna
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with thanks to Linda Mitchell for hosting Spiritual Journey Thursday writers with this invitation: “As we enter Native American Heritage Month I ask that you respond to Joy Harjo’s Fall Song in any way that makes your heart happy.”
Our two granddaughters make my heart and Grandpa’s as happy, and as awed, as they have ever been.We pray thanksgiving every day.
She’s almost three now. When he leaves the room, she asks: “Where’s my grandpa?”
She’s not afraid of his eyepatch or his closed eye beneath it. She commands him: “Open your eye. It’s laying down.” He can’t keep it open, even with the prosthesis. One day he’ll tell her how he lost that eye, that beautiful brown eye, so like her own. But not yet.
She knows he takes heart medication. She sees the bottles and pats her own chest: “That’s Grandpa’s medicine. For his heart. From the doctor.”
She knows he’s wearing a heart monitor. She crawls in his lap, tugs on his shirt, and says, “I want to see your heart.” He pulls the fabric over to reveal the monitor. She studies it. Her little brows knit.
She knows he sometimes walks with a cane. She finds it leaning against the wall and carries it to him. She doesn’t appear to recall his recuperation from spine surgery last fall, or that it was months before he could pick her up again. He started doing it before he should have. He couldn’t resist those little outstretched arms and the request, “Hold you.”
She wants me to play hide-and-seek in the house with her so he can find us. She hides in the same place every single time: behind a chair in the living room. She wriggles with anticipation and puts her fingers to her lips with a loud, stage whisper directed at me: “SHHHHHH!” She doesn’t know how obvious we are in our so-called hiding place. He plays along, walking through the house: “Where’s Micah? Where’s Franna? Are they in the closet? Are they in the bathroom?” She answers him with a high-pitched, drawn-out “Noooooo!” When he peers over our chair, she shrieks with delight.
She demands: “Grandpa, upside down!” He takes her little legs, swings her upside down like a pendulum. Her brown hair flies and her face radiates with glee. “Again!” she cries. “Again!” He will keep doing it until his back makes him stop.
She came to the recent wedding shower for her Dada’s younger brother. She crawled under the church fellowship hall table to play. Grandpa, the pastor, crawled under with her.
My first thought: They really are on the same level.
Second thought: Look how that back surgery paid off!
At dinner this week, he told her: “You are Grandpa’s little angel, Micah.”
She looked at him a moment, those dark eyes shining. She replied, “You are Micah’s angel.”
He always will be, my little love.
*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge
Today’s post is inspired by Kim Johnson, who’s organizing a community event for National Poetry Month. Her local arts council chose the theme of “Awakenings” and in her Slice of Life Story Challenge post of March 12th, Kim sent out a call for short poems of 4-6 lines. Featured poems will be displayed on canvases in windows around the town square throughout April.
Kim: Here’s to power of awakenings, poetry, and community! Much success to you, my friend, and all involved in this exciting event.
Now…how might I play some little variations on this theme, let’s say, with snippets of my life?
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awakening (plural awakenings)
noun
the point of morning coffee (may require more than one cup)
a soul-spark generated by infinite possibility
a heart condition caused by beautiful language
(plural) the celebration of poetry at a local literacy event
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Sisters Seeing
One winter’s night, when I was ten, I dreamed of an angel. My little sister stood by me at the window, watching it pass. Morning brought this revelation: she had dreamed of it, too.
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First Rhythms
Love of words was born in me upon my grandmother’s lap reading stories in rhyme rocking chair keeping time with the beating of her heart.
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Cicada Rhythms
High in the oaks against the bluest of skies the rattling swells as its season dies. A paradox, this buzzing call from amid the leaves, soon to fall. This song of my childhood, lingering still in the last of the light, before the chill. Full force, cicada sings—don’t you know? —summer’s gone on the wings of a song long ago.
Yet it returns, when you rise from the ground Awaking the child I was, with that sound.
******
Lullaby for My Granddaughter
Precious darling, while you’re sleeping I’ll be here, safe watch a’keeping This time is such a fleeting thing When you awaken, love, let’s sing.
My precious Micah after I sang her to sleep
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Composed for Day 27 of the Slice of Life Story Challenge with Two Writing Teachers
with thanks to Denise Krebs for inspiring the Dictionary Entry poem
Over at Ethical ELA last month, host Amber Harrison invited Open Write participants to compose a poem inspired by Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”:
I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good as belongs to you.
The idea being to fill in these blanks:
I celebrate____.
And what I _______you _____. For every ___________ me as good _______ you.
My poem:
Grandmothering
I celebrate the immutable now.
And what I pour of myself, you drink—a transubstantiation of sorts, blood-memory in the making.
For every day, in passing, decreases me as good as it increases you.
As anyone in a writing community knows, giving and receiving comments is the stuff we feed on to keep going. One of my fellow Open Write participants (“tellio”) offered this astonishing reponse to my poem:
Here is an explication of your poem by the AI Perplexity. It is, in a way a backfilling in of the lines. I wonder what Uncle Walty would make of it.
“Grandmothering” is a poem that delves into the profound connection between generations, particularly the relationship between a grandmother and her grandchild. The poem celebrates the present moment, emphasizing its unchanging nature, hence the phrase “the immutable now.” The act of sharing and passing on experiences, wisdom, and love is likened to a sacred transformation, described as a “transubstantiation of sorts,” evoking the religious concept of the Eucharist, where bread and wine are transformed into the body and blood of Christ.
The line “And what I pour of myself, you drink” vividly captures the idea of the grandmother imparting her essence to her grandchild, who receives it eagerly and completely. This exchange is described as a “blood-memory in the making,” suggesting that the bond between them is not only emotional and intellectual but also deeply rooted in their shared heritage and lineage.
The final two lines, “For every day, in passing, decreases me as good as it increases you,” encapsulate the bittersweet reality of this intergenerational relationship. As the grandmother imparts her knowledge and love to her grandchild, she recognizes that her own time and energy are finite. Each day that passes diminishes her own vitality and presence, yet simultaneously enriches and empowers the younger generation. In essence,“Grandmothering” beautifully captures the timeless cycle of giving and receiving between generations, acknowledging both the sacrifices and the joys inherent in this process. It speaks to the enduring significance of familial connections and the profound impact of legacy and heritage on our lives.
Oh, Perplexity. You have me weeping over the way you’ve pulled all that’s behind the poem and in my heart out into the open. How profoundly you understand the depths of my soul.
And you aren’t even human.
Or alive.
I celebrate the immutable now
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Composed for Day 18 of the Slice of Life Story Challenge with Two Writing Teachers
lit bits and pieces 