Last week I mentioned that Loni was holding a contest over at Joy in the Morning. Tomorrow’s the last day to enter, if you’re of a mind to give it a try. I have to confess I resisted at first, because I’ve never enjoyed scripted writing exercises. But now that I’ve done it, I’m so glad I did. I’m glad for my children: they have a glimpse now of images from my childhood that I might not have remembered if I hadn’t been following this template. Now I’m hounding Scott to do it too. And how cool would it be for my own parents and his to take a stab at it—how my kids would treasure the portrait of their grandparents’ young lives!
Anyway, Loni, here’s my contribution, and thanks for inspiring us!
I am from tumbleweeds,
from Wrangler jeans
and scuffed red sneakers.
I am from the new subdivision
where Denver’s ragged edge
petered out into prairie.
it smelled like baked earth
and new carpeting.)
I am from buffalo grass,
from prairie dog holes chewed
right through the bike trail
beside the Cherokee oak.
I am from biscuits with chocolate gravy
and musical puns,
from Mema and Aunt Genie
I am from the sing-out-louds and the what-a-good-flavors.
I am from the-crusts-are-good-for-you and the stay-in-the-right-lanes.
I am from the Sunday morning bus
that took us girls to the Baptist church,
from plastic cups drained of grape juice
and stacked higher than our heads.
I am from Alamogordo where they tested the bombs,
from south Georgia where the soil is red
and jeweled lizards skitter up the brick.
I am from fried okra
and rocky road sheet cake
without the marshmallows
to make it too sweet.
From the time my sister hid
an Easter egg
in my pink purse
that matched my shoes,
and then hid
From the crayons we melted
in our overhead light
on the yellow walls,
from sunburns and freckles.
I am from the albums on Aunt Genie’s bottom shelf,
page after page of the Almand ears
sticking out like pot handles,
from my mother’s shy smile
between her grinning brothers and sisters,
from my looks-too-young-to-be-a-father daddy
standing in front of cargo planes that matched his fatigues.
I am from two kids in love,
three little girls in homemade bonnets,
meadowlarks singing their joy across the blue prairie of the sky.
Poet Spotlight: Christina Rossetti
Deep Thoughts, by Rilla
Astonished at the voices of Willamette and wren
Monday reading notes: only all the poems