29 Days of #Verse Love (and One More to Go Today) - McCloskey's Task Was Simple: Redo, Revisit, Rethink, and Rewrite

I know this morning will be the last day that I wake up (until next April) to find a poetic prompt waiting for me to play. This is my 3rd year of participation, and I have to say it absolutely energizes me, especially to be part of a teaching community that writes, and a writing community that teaches. We build a nation...and international one...with one another.

I walked through the first 28 days to find a line or idea from each to create the poem for today. I'm sure my blog fans are tired of the poetry, as it is not the common language reflective folks are used to, but I cherish the opportunity. Soon, I'll be back to daily commiserating and wondering, with much less verse.

But, in the mean time, such joy. 

I Am All Cinderblock When It Comes to Concrete Language. I Tend To Always Live in the Abstract. #VerseLove28 '23. An Object Beside Me

This is why I was the world's worst English major. All those people labeling and naming and calling out and studying and pontificating and pasteurizing and bossing around what a poem is supposed to be about drove me bananas. I never wanted to be at a podium lecturing about the ways language gets used; rather, I wanted to be in the back of room playing with language without being distracted by all the detailing of what this or that is supposed to be. 

I don't know if I'm concrete or abstract, and I've never really cared. I am what I am and it is what it is. My poetry lessons have always been about exploration and play and not so much about citations and AP analysis.

Ah, but I loved the challenge. Write about an object next to you. That was easy. Reading Google for the definitions of abstract and concrete simply made me confused, especially after reading all the examples that were counterproductive to one another. They canceled each other out. 

So I tripped over a bone into my chair, looked over at the frogs, and landed just in time to see my new friend carrying today's carcass to her den. I really love her and want her to invite me to meet her newborns. It is absolutely magic to see her in action three days in a row (and yes, my dog is part of the poem, but not the critter-carrier....not at all)

Summoned the (315) for the 27th Day of #VerseLove '23, With Tremendous Appreciation for @readingrural and Her Thursday Prompt

I've said it many times, and it gets more substantial the more I age: home is where the heart is, and my homes will always be Clay, New York, Louisville, Kentucky, and Stratford, Connecticut. I could also add Roskilde, Denmark (a home away from home), but these are the locations that have centered my universe and remain constants in my life. Dr. Chea Parton wrote, "Place Tells Me to Be," and offered, 

Hey Bryan! I hope you got everything worked out with the contractor and that it’s nothing too serious. What I love so much about your poem is how it is a map of both place and time. I find that when I go home I plot points of memory and place by landmarks, stores (even if they’ve been torn down), and fields (even if they’ve been built up). Time is integral to how we understand and build place, and I think sometimes we forget it. Thanks for helping us remember and for writing today despite all the obstacles.

I couldn't agree more. The 315 told me to be, and with the 502 and 203, I've been able to see Cherry Heights in a totally new light. I love contemplating spaces and places, and on the 27th day of #VerseLove, I scripted the following (always a delight....and who remembers Close Encounters the strip-bar that used to stand where Home Depot now offers its goods?). Phew. Nothing sits still. That's for sure. 

#VerseLove, Day 26, 2023: Take a Line from Another's Writing & Make It a Title, Then See Where Your Words Take You

When I learned of Donetta Norris's morning prompt, I looked at the pile of books around me and then pulled aside Carol Ann Davis's book, The Nail in the Tree: Essays on Art, Violence, and Childhood. For several years I've loved reading her poetry, and I knew that her meditation on Sandy Hook, art, and parenting was the right choice for the day. 

I don't think of that day much, but when I do, I think about Carol and her parenting of Wilhelm who was in 1st grade at another school - the Newtown Poetry Project she created, and CWP-Fairfield's support of the work. Here we are a decade later with more and more gun violence, disregard for schools and children, and stupidity. We have so much still to do...the fight continues.

My memories are far from a perfect machine, but they stay with me, as I'm sure they do all the families that lost children that day, those who lost colleagues and teachers, and the pain that remains in southern Connecticut. 

Exploring the Genetic Cinquain, Day 25 of #VerseLove '23. We Are Winding Down to the Last Week of April

Last night, I dragged myself to the car after teaching the last graduate course for the Spring semester. Projects will arrive over the next week and summer courses are around the corner, but for the next few, I'm just delighted to not have to plan or spend 14 hours a day working on instruction. I can write for me, work on CWP, and participate in celebratory, end-of-the-year events.

Yesterday, though, I was challenged to write a cinquain about my genetics. I've already covered the psoriasis portion of my life, but it lent itself to another poem, this time: 2, 4, 6, 8, & 2 syllables. I should be thankful that the challenge was short, as the day was way too long. 

And here we are with another Hump Day, I'm just thankful that I don't have to be on campus for meetings or classes today, and I can work on other pressing issues. It is a tremendous relief, indeed.

#VerseLove, Day 24. Open a Drawer and Start Writing. Sad Thing is, You Can Open the Door to My House and Office and It's Equally as Cluttered.

I need to go on a major purge. It's simply difficult for me to get rid of things, and at this point I need to get rid of furniture. I now have three kitchen tables up (well, one dining room table), and it is probably in my best interest to get rid of ol' tv stands and coffee tables that are no longer used as tv stands and coffee tables. It's hard for me, because the tables are antiques from my grandparents, and the furniture reminds me of starting out in Kentucky. 

I want to channel my inner Erica Hartwell and be a total minimalist, but I have a maxilist personality. A neighbor brought me over a pot of flowers and I gave her a tour of the first floor. "My, you sure have a lot of books," she quickly said. "Yeah," I responded, "But it's the end of the semester and I'm working on my own projects as well as those of my students. I'll re-shelve them all soon."

She has no idea. She hasn't seen my University office, nor the one kept for CWP. I have books everywhere and should simply just go with, "here's a library card. They're more efficient than I am." But books are my life story. I remember being in awe at the offices of my professors. Now, when kids stop by and ask, "Did you really read all these," I can respond. "Yes. These are the ones I kept. Same in my house and Writing Project office." 

Seriously, though, I need to depart with much. It's meaningless in the end, anyways. But today's poem from one of my drawers. 

On Day 23, #VerseLove '23, the Challenge Was to Go Historical. Find a Figure and Rewrite, As If You're In the Room Where It Happens.

I still can't shake it out of my head...the fact that both Prudence and Reuben Crandall share the same great grandfather (it's just that for them it was five times over and for me, my sisters, and my cousins, it is 11 times over). Go, incest! Go. We had kissing cousins who moved to upstate New York. 

The more I read about Reuben, however, the more I'm intrigued about what life must have been in the late 18th, early 19th century...but then I think about where we are today and I realize, we're not that far off. The nation definitely has moved forward on two trajectories. One that claims democracy and justice (for White people) and the other that claims it for all. 

It still boggles my brain (and the brains of historians) about the the many truths of Frances Scott Key and the fact that we sing this universally during so many events...I can't help but think of Reuben kept in jail after he won the trial, and the intent Key had with his arguments. I guess it makes sense as we have the same ilk amongst us today. 

The Task Was To Write of an Island, So I Channeled a 1,000 of Them Near A-Bay...Some of the Best Memories a Boy Can Have (Thanks, Aunt Rena) #VerseLove '23, Day 22

Yesterday, I awoke to the challenge of writing about an island and the inspiration came from Maine. I kept thinking about the joy of visiting my Aunt Rena on the St. Lawrence River, and all the joy that came from fishing, sometimes swimming, and basically relaxing in such a beautiful place on Earth (one of America's best kept secrets). I am still trying to guess how my father could back a little fishing boat down the long driveway to that camp. I am sure I would have destroyed the car, the trailer, and the boat.

Still, it was the childhood I knew and I loved. I didn't put in the dirty cartoon books that also were at the camp, the ones that sat between magazines on either side of the couch. I think I memorized the jokes of those raunchy books, because they were hilarious (and educational). 

But it was/is the view for me. The joy of seeing the ships come in from the Atlantic to the Great Lakes. The slow pace of their movement and the knowing that Canada was just over yonder (sometimes we'd get a TV station spoke in French on the antennae). What a blessing to have in my memories, especially when coupled to the memories my parents also had when they were much younger.

On #VerseLove '23, @dphelps1113 Prompted Poets to Burn House to the Spirit of Another and I Went with Spring Firepits (Evenings I Cherished)

Very thankful to Darius Phelps, as always, and I couldn't help but respond with the backyard fire pit which I trimmed with a weed-whacker last night. Usually, this time of a year, it's a spiritual time to build a fire, burn fallen tree limbs, and to burn yard material needing to be scrapped. The warm days of spring with their cools nights make for such rituals...

...but the house is empty now. Times change, and this familiar is growing unfamiliar. Still, I like the sacrificial conversations we had on these nights. 

The prompt seemed to take legs of their own. It's Saturday morning, and I am channeling what I wished was my Friday night. Here's to the weekend.

Jazak Allah Khair. Day 20 of #VerseLove - To Create a Poem Where One Sits to Write. My Office (Of Us). Loved the Challenge

Much to celebrate this morning. Proud to have received the 2023 Jeffrey P. von Arx, S.J. Award for Excellence in Community Engagement at a ceremony last night at Fairfield University. I'm also thrilled to say I made through another fast with respect for young people acknowledging Ramadan, March 22 to April 20...it took me a couple of days before I realized the importance of making a salad in advance, so I was filling myself with vegetables and fruit, before devouring loaves of bread. The experience has placed balance, reflection, self-control, and focus in front of me.

Yesterday, I was thrilled to respond to a challenge to write about place, a space to look and think. Everyday I work under a giant frog painting and, while writing, I realized how important the photographs that change on my computer screen are for helping me to remain sane, aware, and appreciative. So, it was easy to write about where I work...the office (or, as I will now call it, the Of Us hours). Here's to the #VerseLove family and for all celebrating the month-long fast. 

On the 19th Day of Verse Love - Write and Then Offer a Title That Throws the Poem in a Different Direction

 I am unsure how this one will translate, but on Tuesday night my students worked through Body Biographies, and I modeled with Kwame Alexander's The Door of No Return. In my drawing of a young boy kidnapped into slavery, I was working on the chest and noted, "I don't think I've ever drawn a nipple before," imagining that a youth would unlikely have a top. 

This, of course, sent me back to Roskilde, Denmark, where in 2004, Tiana French and I were chaperones, and it is true we played made-up Danish Scrabble in the evenings, often laughing at the words we made up. We also came to the conclusion that a lot of Danish names were body organs pronounced with Nordic accents. Of course, when we came to nipple (NI-PULL), we had a conversation of why do men have nipples which was turned into a book by individuals we've never met. Alas, a poem was born.

This morning, reflecting on yesterday's poem, I am also realizing how that was a transitional year, before technology really took a hold on youth cultures. Shoot. Almost 20-years ago. Sadly, too, so many of the teachers who mentored us have passed away. And so...and so...and so....

Triolet Does Sound Like Toilet, No? I Love Writing in Formal Traditions so I Played. #verseLove Day 18. April is the Best Month

I might as well be a Tom & Jerry cartoon right now putting toothpicks in to keep my eyelids up. It's the end of the semester as we know it and I'm feeling, well, wiped out. The last undergraduate class is hosted today and we're doing a Summit of inquiry projects on issues in education - a broad stroke following the interest of students. As always, it's the planning behind the scenes that takes the most work. 

And across campus, urinals are flooding because, it turns out, they are battery operated to flush and when the batteries go low, they simply start running water. So, most urinals are being wrapped in plastic so they can't be used. I suppose that is one day to fix the problem. 

Okay, hump day. Here's the poem. I'm not bearded, nor do I claim to be a philosopher, but my degrees in higher education claim otherwise. 

Why Do Any of Us Write Poetry When There's So Much Death Around Us? Prompt 17 of #VerseLove April, 2023.

The truth is, as I was pulling into Quest Diagnostics to get bloodwork done, I saw two nuns running on the sidewalk, and I knew there was a poem in the works. The fact that the office smelled like marijuana and there was conversation about a man who exploded in the laboratory's bathroom didn't phase me much...nor the fact that I was told I have very thin veins. Um, thin + Crandall in the same sentence never made too much sense to me. I'm thick-headed. 

Still, I had a rhythm and a purpose to respond to the prompt, and I will showcase Frogu, my Jedi-alter ego, in any poem I can write. I am too big for Underoos, though, but do have a fantasy about running naked through the streets during a thunderstorm. So, a Tuesday poem written on Monday, it is. 

And on the 16th Day of #VerseLove a Challenge to Think About a Time Lost (a Friendship) and Tell That Story

When I was heading off to college, I really did pack up all my high school memories in a trash bag to be hidden and opened during my ten year reunion. A decade later, I remember going through all the items and simply throwing them all away. Yes, at the time, they meant something...who I was, I suppose...but all those years later I simply saw it all as disposable. Perhaps that is my issue. 

I do remember, however, that I severed a tie right before leaving for Binghamton - one that difficult to cut, but was necessary for my mental well-being. In order to grow, I needed to contend with the weeds. I know, too, that it set me in the direction where I've often done the same. I know what is best for me, and I act in the way that removes the toxicity that is unneeded. I've never been sure if it's a good way to live, but I know that I've always been a better man because of it. 

The Fear Of Missing Out, Prompt 15 from #VerseLove '23. Well, I Missed Out, But a Poem Was Born Anyway

I was to head to Syracuse for Easter, not only to be with family, but to include a baby shower for Kanyea and Courtney. A little girl would be here soon, and Kanyea was checking to be sure I was coming for months...I RSVP'd I'd most definitely be there, but then a neighbor backed into my car the one time I parked it on the street (and I was only inside for a quick, ten-minute shower). Although they promised it'd be done in Thursday, I didn't get it until late Friday afternoon. I knew going for a 24-hour trip was probably not a good idea given the time of the semester.

So, I missed it. The party. At Arrowhead Lodge on Oneida Lake - a venue near to childhood. I was lucky, though, that Kanyea sent photos and, well, yesterday's prompt pushed me to the writing I can add to the gift by the door. I'll get there...in due time...in due time. 

Who Says You Can't Write a Poem About Scaled Skin, Middle Age, and the Plague of Genetics? #VerseLove Day 14 Would Reckon You'd Be Wrong

The prompt was to imagine two peckers on your shoulders (I didn't go there, although I could have) and to turn a pesky frustration into something positive. My mom, followed by my sisters, have had psoriasis for as long as I can remember. I felt fortunate, I suppose, that I didn't begin getting my first splotches until my 40s. To say they've taken over my legs is an understatement. The Kennelog shots work, but they don't last forever. I look forward to my yearly stingings. Right now, I look like I have chicken pox, measles, and leprosy. My legs are the worst they've ever been, and for the first time, they are arriving to my forearms and elbows. 

When I was a teenager, I had eczema real bad in my joints: armpits, arms, and back of the legs. Then one day, POOF, it went away. I can't help but see the connection with the psoriasis. It's a family thing...I get that. And I also know the more stressed I get the more my legs burn. My legs have burned tremendously this year as a result of campus shenanigans. I try to do mindfulness, but my body doesn't get fooled by me. Instead, frustrations and meetings simply trigger them to catch fire. 

And so a poem. Thankful for the prompt...Loved making the graphic, too. 

And Bringing on the 13th Day of #VerseDay Was the One and Only Dave Wooley and His Hip Hop, Black Out Poem Challenge

The task was to find a text, make a copy, and go to town with a sharpie. I only had a blue sharpie, and article written by scholar Steve Graham, and my imagination. Actually, I had an audience, too...the fellow writers and teachers, teachers and writers, who join the EthicalELA space to be prompted and share their work with one another. This was written for them.

And for Dave. Thanks for prompting us further. 

I am rolling into this Friday absolutely exhausted. Last night I had the privilege of speaking at Pequot Library and I will, for sure, be writing about this after National Poetry Month. For now, I'm simply celebrating the collective. But, phew, I need sleep. 

I Should Have Known She's Aquarian. #VerseLove '23 -The Challenge: Find a Writer Who Shares Your Birthday Month. Use Their Words to Inspire Yours

A million and one shout-outs to Anna J. Small Roseboro for yesterday's #VerseLove prompt. I suppose I never inquired about what writers shared my birth-month with me, but when I came across Alice Walker's name, I knew I'd have to work with her wisdom. I was a just-graduated senior in high school who, looking for the college years ahead, pulled my mother's copy of The Color Purple from a book shelf. I have vivid memories of my mom and neighbors reading this book and, upon seeing the movie in a theater, coming home raving about the performances. I believe I sat with the book for one day, and the words ran through me in a way no other book had ever done. I give Alice Walker total credit for why I majored in English and, upon working with Carol Boyce Davies, why I put myself on a particular trajectory with my teaching, writing, scholarship, and community work. 

One of the reasons I cherish #verselove is the fact that I awake at 6 a.m. and have a present to unwrap - I never know what the challenge will be or where my mind will go. I'm just thankful to share February with Alice Walker and for the words she penned to page that have had a mantra-effect on my soul and well-being. I am grateful.

And I'm thinking about Janessa Siegel, Class of 2007, too. For years I taught The Color Purple in Kentucky, but it wasn't until she came my way as a student that I realized just how important this text was for high school students. It inspired her to spend every day of her senior year sharing history, leadership, passion, faith, and joy. My last year in the K-12 classroom was made more purple because of her.

Here's to blooming sunflowers.

Hump Day Mathematics. Do You Know Your Prime Numbers? Well, If You Do, I Present Day 11 - Prime # Poetry (17, 15, 13, 11, 7, 5, 3, 2)

At first I was cursed by the morning prompt, thinking I'm not in the move to write mathematically at 7 a.m. before I leave the house. But I thought about the sunlight that shines in through the brown curtains of the bedroom, and decided to go with that figure out th syllables. 

8 lines...counting down with prime numbers (or you can do it in reverse as instructed). I did the opposite. 

Short poem. Short post. Long-ass day. 

Tuesdays and Wednesdays are difficult days for drafting poems. But I'm doing what I can. 

What's Going on in Scientific Curriculum? Day 10 Challenge of #VerseLove. Go, Whimsy. Enjoy Terminology to Bring a Poem to Life

 

I wrote yesterday on EthicalELA how I used to love working with science teachers: Peg Box, Ann Brown, and Mary Lineberry, helping them to contribute writing to Kentucky's portfolios and perusing glossaries, tables of content, images, tables, and graphs to launch potential words perfect for poetry. Much of this probably came from my naturalist days, but using the language scientists use to conduct labs, to fill out reports, and to make hypothesis has always worked hand in hand in the poems I scribble in notebooks and play around with when the opportunity arrives. 

I once wrote a short story called "Phlegm" based on the same scenario: my grandmother calling me piss head on one of our visits. I never played with that idea in a poem, so that's what I set out to do yesterday. Meanwhile, I'm monitoring an ecosystem in my backyard which the woodpeckers love. So. A poem was born. 

Long day today: 14 hours, but here's what I scribbled yesterday. Hoping to find time for another poem today. And I'm off!

On Cloud 9 with #VerseLove - Yesterdays Rules: Simply Break Them & Go After a Poem Incorrectly. (Well, I Tend to Do That Anyways)

All I knew is I wanted to begin the poem with The End, which made me think of all the holiday Hallmark movies my mother watches when I'm home for Christmas (where I go back and forth to Price Chopper & Wegmans), and then I asked, "What if one of these runs was one of those stupid movies"? The rest is history. 

You're welcome. I love writing poems like this, even if they make zero sense to anyone else. BTW, I now has psoriasis growing on my forearm. Good times.

#VerseLove Day 8. When Clint Smith Provides a Prompt About First Jobs and What We Should Probably Tell One Another

Very thankful for the 8th day of VerseLove, where I wasn't quite sure where I would go, but ended up meandering to my days of selling women's shoes at Sibley's, eventually Kaufman's, at Great Northern Mall. From my junior year and all throughout college, I have shoes to thank for my education (even though while in college I cleaned floors, bathrooms, and emptied trucks. Whatever it took, I was willing as long as I made cash. Funny, my first job was $3.35 an hour at Kay Bee Toy & Hobby, but the new mall paid $4.25 (that, and I got 10% on every pair of shoes I sold. It is not a normal story, as I was able to save and pay for most of my undergraduate degrees.

Of course, many years later with tremendous fascination for CNY culture, my life has been blessed with a teach career and all the joys it brings, including my work with young adult authors. I think about this, as she had the most incredible writing studio north of the Mall, and I wonder if I met her back during my pubescent years & twenties. I was always there, and took pride sharing my pay stubs with CNS Northstars who didn't work on such commission. It was a fortunate time in history and I am thankful. 

Happy Easter. This is the poem from yesterday's challenge.

Great Northern Mall

~b.r.crandall

I should probably tell you how,

in my teens, I was Al Bundy,

already with a crush on gated apples,

christened by Central New York sun.

(a witness to phoenixes rising from Mexico 

& female Lafays) (Homer-sexuals)

sometimes landing in food courts. 

Al Roker would know this.

(Oswego again with these childhood poems)

It was just me and this pie festival 

for Brannock (his own device)

under northern lights & snow squalls,

where size-8, 9-Wests went first

& women were malled by  

the possibilities of shoes they didn’t need…

(who wouldn’t want another 

cinnamon roll from Cindy 

or cassette recording of Sinead?)

All the flowers that you planted Mama

in the backyard, all died & went away.

I should tell you, probably, that in my teens 

I hid cash in a cookie-tin under my bed,

to pay for prom dresses, property taxes,

& an undergraduate degree. 

Not quite a foot fetish, I suppose, 

but a boy who kept sn eye 

on human nature,

the tea leaves,

a power of words.

I wonder if I ever spoke with Laurie,

sold her knee-high boots 

while Melinda was just a draft

and not the straight lined winds 

she’d one day become.

On the 7th Day of #VerseLove, My Colleagues Gave to Me...A Reminder to Keep an Eye on the Entire Journey...the Exploration of the End

On Thursday night I spent hours talking with a friend who recently lost her daughter-in-law in a tragic accident. 21 year old kid, drunk, killed a woman. Fortunately, her two small children were not in the car. There's no way to bring comfort to all who are hurting, but I used the VerseLove prompt to process our conversation and to, perhaps, find a way to gift a poem to help her heal. Prayers up. All of us invested in this hope.

Sometimes

(for Shirls)

~b.r.crandall

sometimes ears

defend the mouth,

heeding the cries of

a screaming child - 

sister holding a hand 

as photographs bloom

above a casket.

crocuses

daffodils.

papers tell the story

in paragraphs -

21-year old buck

boozing with buddies

behind a wheel.

mother of two

needed a few things

down the road.

She was only a few miles away.

Sometimes ears

overpower humor,

a wit to make 

others laugh.

He’s not doing well.

He doesn’t want to live,

She was everything to him,

Purpose. Meaning. 

Ways to forget his past.

All I can see is his face in the hospital,

the first time his dad tried.

Their eyes locked and I worried,

like father, like son

Sometimes ears

don’t understand the music,

when listening to the screams

of a father, a son,

mourning

down the hall,

when all she needs 

is to cry,

too.

Decisions. Day 6 of #VerseLove and a Sijo, Korean-style Poem, Composed for the First Time, Simply Because I Own a Waving Cat from Japan

Maneki-miko - waving cat, keyojin - lunatic, macaronic - fusing languages for context

A little update on my world right now. Car smashed. House stripped of siding. Long weekend. Plans to do Syracuse for Kanyea's baby shower and family. Car still not done. Contractors need me here on Saturday for when they think they'll finish. Four more weeks of the semester. Recommendation season already in place. Still waiting on a couple more revisions for Writing & Pedagogy. House a mess (all items had to come off the walls for the construction. 

Semester more of a shit show than all of the shit shows of yesteryear put together. People walking. People leaving. People forced out. Confusion. Empty hallways. CWP-Fairfield work still full force (families signing up on the regular). Reports in stereo of faculty morale being down. I've made several life transitions and I'm not sure I have it in me for another one (although it's more and more tempting each and every day.

But I am thankful for #VerseLove and the fact that yesterday we were challenged to write a sijo, a Korean brevity poem of between 42-45 syllables (usually 3 lines). Although I practice being concise and sharp, I am an English language guy and love to play excessively. I think, however, this was a good prompt for me today...I need to zero in on what is most important. The Japanese waving cat (that is solar charged) acts as a metronome in my living room. I use it to keep tempo of my life (hence, the poem).

Here's to Friday. Here's hoping my car is done before the weekend. Here's hoping the insurance people will extend a rental over the weekend. Here's to finding calm.

#VerseLove is an Absolute Treasure for Teachers Who Write and Writers Who Teach. I am Exploding with Gratitude from Yesterday's Opportunity to Host a Challenge.

Yesterday, I had the honor to host the 5th day of #VerseLove, and I drew on my undergraduate days of Ruth Stone and her tremendous impact. Each and every class she offered was a gift and her investment has stayed with me for life. As I write on the site, in KY I started a tradition of Poetic Drive-Bys were kids were invited to leave a poem for another to discover. For a couple of years, I've loved running into a mail woman a few miles from my home who come for Karal, always with a dog biscuit and absolute joy with the fairy friends she meets. She was a perfect individual to write a poem for, and I can't wait to gift her with this when we run into her once again. 

More impactful, however, was the number of poetic responses my poem received. I couldn't help but tear up reading so many gifts written for others, especially in heart-felt, magical ways. This is the gift of language, the power of words, and the joy of the assignment. 

What gifts are inside of you?

Deliveries

~b.r.crandall

You don’t belong to us,
these porches of boxes,
driveways, & sidewalks –
yet, you bring stamped smiles
to our criss-crossing streets,
always carrying that satchel of language
over your shoulder:
sales, news, bills, birthday cards –
a correspondence of snails
assigned to chase Paul Revere.

We see you in the morning
working with packaged purpose,
eyes on lookout
for fuzz-nuggets
yanking idiots like me
at the end
of their ropes.

You might as well be my mom,
aunt, therapist,
reader of Tarot cards
who explained to me that death
is just like Publisher’s Clearing House.

Karal asked me to write you this poem
in exchange for the milkbones –

Joy, she says, comes from a delivered gesture.
Yours, hers, mine.

That’s why I let her lick
the envelope.

Another #VerseLove Challenge & I Wrote a Rather Crappy Poem. Play with Language, Noun the Verbs & Verb the Nouns. Well, Okay

When morning prompts arrive, I never know how my brain will respond, but thinking about wording, I thought of the colon: it's use of listing, necessity for naming, and ordering of thoughts. I then wondered what the anti-colon would be, and immediately thought of turning 50 and doing the ritual I've heard about over and over again. Yes, always memorable. 

And it became a poem. Probably inappropriate but fun to write (from the list I made).

: ahs, cope ee

~b.r.crandall

empty us feel

polyp-preparatory-pinched

nutty seed no-goes do,

grainy whole fruit, nope, woo

liquid-clear

broth-slime, 

grape-gripped

lemon-limed 

italian-iced

remote find.

bed-lined, case-in-just

towel-draped, eyes crust

dough-boy

doobie-do, 

abdominal, hurricaned,

turbulent, boo.

turd-shower, stool-power

roof-collapse, poo-sower 

I be uncharted

Bristol flower

floodingly foul, 

fool, I is 

toilet, I spew

midlife, gonna goo

whale hole, blow-blew

intestinal conduit

i is muck, 

emptied

(internal)

albeit, yuck.

probed be me

alienated I

scoped

coped

but

(phew)

cleared

Bry

And today I get to host the prompt: gifts for the world. More to come. Apologies for the off-colored wit. But it is, what it is. 

Great Appreciation for Yesterday's #VerseLove '23 Prompt By @Joyteamstars. Playing Around with an Unusual Word

I never know what I'm going to find when I awake each morning with #VerseLove and the daily prompts. Yesterday morning, I was thrilled to receive one from my West Coast inspiration, Stacey Joy, who wrote an epic haiku with her word, Ubuntu. For real. We know that word. I was going to go with Schadenfrëude, but at the last minute went with Uhrwurm. We all have those songs that get stuck in our heads. So, I gave that at try. 

I posted it on EthicalELA and received a message from Stacey that she wanted me to perform this so she can hear me. I said, "Let me see what I can do, so I quickly made a movie in my office. Truth is, the song that has been stuck in my head for weeks, but wasn't there yesterday when I was writing was, Bieber's "My mama don't like you and she likes everyone." Maybe in a revision. 

I'm off to the have The Hulk's door refurbished and the collision center...and then to teach. In the meantime, my attempt at being a social media sensation. 

Pour Yourself a Coffee and Wipe the Sleep Out of Your Eyes. #VerseLove '23. Sunday Mocha with Friends

I inherited from my mother, who inherited from her father. We ain't morning people. I don't mean that as a defense, or offense, or anything but what it is. I wake up and grunt, groan, and slide into my day. It takes me a while and the last thing I want is to be talked to in the morning. I need until 10 a.m. until I am social.

That is why Dr. Kim Johnson's Sunday prompt of having coffee with her threw me for a loop. That was the prompt....if the two of us were out for coffee, what would we have to write. Well, I followed my gut. And this one is for mom (and poor dad). They should get it just fine.

Mug Shot

~b.r.crandall

Sorry to be Squidward,

but I just birthed a cow.

 Calf-inated please…

No, I don’t typically do these morning rituals…

can’t espresso myself this early.

No rise & grind for this Star-bucker.

Simply one, miserable cup of coffee —

the depresso who doesn’t give a %#$@.

My bad. No Folgers in my cup. 

I shouldn’t have told you 

where you could dunk your donut, exactly,

(but I didn’t appreciate your glazed 

ring-toss around my middle finger, either).

I know. I know. I know.

You expected me to sing,

“You are so brew-tiful to me,”

but there’s been a latte on my mind lately,.

Alarm clocks. Eye boogers. Adulthood.

Sorry if this mochas you sad.

It’s just I was up all night coffee and sneezing 

(allergic to the tree sperm of April).

No. No. Don’t say that. It’s me, not you.

I’m not a morning brew

and you already knew I was a crotchety, 

cantankerous crab when you met me.

(I’m still afflicted with the sham of sunrise).

Got it from my mother —

you have no idea how many heads

my father’s had chewed off

while scrambling his eggs.

I mean, if we were meant to pop out of bed,

wouldn’t we sleep in toasters?

Yes, I’ll have another cup.

2nd Day of #VerseLove & Thankful to EthicalELA for Another April of Poetry (This is the Month Ahead)

A few years ago I signed on to participate in Sarah Donovan's #VerseLove, an open-write opportunity for the month of April. I look forward to it every year, because a poem a day is 30 days of joy. Glenda Funk offered writers the chance to write a Haibun Poem, which is a Japanese form of writing a restricted narrative, followed by a haiku. I've never written one of these and somehow channeled the day friends of mine brought me to a dispensary in CT after the state legalized the sale of marijuana. I didn't know what to expect and time spent there simply cracked me up...especially with how professional the experience was. It cracked me up that a crew of adults were wide-eyed and curious about what this all might mean.  

I enjoyed the challenge, even if the subject might be off-colored from what I typically write. I absolutely love 

Been a Minute

~b.r.crandall

 

I used to watch rain gather in puddles. Short, historical biographies of Hans Riegel and copper kettles…the mindlessness of dead-end jobs — gelatinous genius of sugared, Tanzbären dreams.. “It’s dispensary, not suppository,” she corrected. “We're a take out…not a push in. May I suggest Mirthbridge Forest for cartoons and Dance of Dragons before heading off to bed?” Proud, elegant efficiency, unlike the DMV. 

 

I want want to feel, want to feel like I did those days…April laughter is needed to bring flowers to May.

 

calm, hushed halcyon,

feathered in kaleidoscope -

I remember youth.

Here's to a month of #VerseLove

Shhhh! It! It Happens. And It Can Always Be Worse. It Is What It Is. This Too Shall Pass. Time Does That To Us. Bumps in the Road. Dents on the Car.

I never park on the street, but I had a dumpster delivered yesterday so put my car on Mt. Pleasant to make room for the truck. He needed to back in. I put The Hulk on the street, ran up to take a shower, and headed outside to drive to campus for the day. The neighbor across the street, however, was waiting for me. He didn't look in his rear view mirror and when he saw no cars were coming in either direction on Mt. Pleasant, he backed down the driveway, turned his wheel, and smacked right into the side of my car. He was devastated. "You never park there."

I was like, "These things happen, more often going backwards than forwards. At least we weren't on I-95 and no one was hurt"

The morning, nonetheless, ended up being a series of insurance companies, phone calls, and the necessity of wait time. It won't get tended to until next week and the car is still drivable. These things happen. The car is paid off. I wasn't in it, and he was okay. His bumper has minor scratches. Insurance will do what it's supposed to do. 

And hungry from fasting, I simply went on with my day because it's all I could do. Today is the Men's Final Four. I have faith in the Great Whatever. Counting blessings and totally understanding that these things happen. It might put a monkey wrench into my week and holiday weekend, but I can't sweat the little things. It's life. 

Happy National Poetry Month! It's April. There's so much writing still ahead.