Karen Edmisten

Poetry Friday: "Dharma" by Billy Collins

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Thu, 04 Jun 2026 22:15:48 +0000

Monday morning, while walking and listening to Sad Boy Noah Kahan, I met the handsomest boy, who wasn't sad at all. I asked his person what his name was. Jake! It was Jake. A perfect name for a lumbering, retriever-y, labradorian-kinda guy with a thick, coppery coat and sprays of gray on his aging, distinguished cheeks. Jake and I immediately became best friends. I'd invite Jake over to spend some time together, but I didn't catch his last name, and it would be awkward to invite him and ignore his person (which I would totally do.)

Who was walking Jake anyway? A man, a woman? A robot? Who knows, who cares? My relationship is solely with Jake, who made me think of "Dharma" by Billy Collins. I think Jake would like this poem, good, handsome, not-sad boy that he is.

{Postscript: Do I need to get another dog?}

{{Post-postscript: Maisy would say no, no. Most definitely, decidedly not. Do not mess around with her current lifestyle.}}

Dharma

by Billy Collins

The way the dog trots out the front door

every morning

without a hat or an umbrella,

without any money

or the keys to her dog house

never fails to fill the saucer of my heart

with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example

of a life without encumbrance—

Thoreau in his curtainless hut

with a single plate, a single spoon?

Ghandi with his staff and his holy diapers?

Off she goes into the material world

with nothing but her brown coat

and her modest blue collar,

....

(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Mona Voelkel.

Poetry Friday: “As You Wish.”

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Thu, 21 May 2026 22:11:36 +0000

Okay, so this isn’t exactly a Poetry Friday post.

It’s a, “Guess what my daughters and I did last Friday?” post.

And it’s a, “Let’s talk about the magic and poetry of a perfect movie” post.

I know you’ve heard of The Princess Bride.

And you’ve heard of Cary Elwes, who dashingly played the dashing and devoted Westley in that Rob Reiner* masterpiece.

Perhaps you’ve even heard that ten years ago, Elwes wrote a book (As You Wish) and that he sometimes tours to promote it. The show is called “An Inconceivable Evening” and it opens with a showing of the movie. The audience is then treated to an hour-+-ish of storytelling from Elwes (in conversation with a moderator.)

So, once upon a time (last Friday) three beautiful maidens (my daughters) and a queen (me) agreed that four women who’ve had crushes** on Cary/Westley for as long as any of them can remember should indubitably journey to the land of giants, pirates, princesses, and Mandy Patinkin. (Oh, if only he’d been there in person too, my joy would have been complete!)

It was an evening of charming stories, laughter, delight, and — ohmygosh, I didn’t know I would tear up and cry so much! — affection and emotion. I’ve loved A Princess Bride for decades. I’ve loved sharing it with my daughters. I’ve loved saying, "Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” I’ve loved incessantly talking, thinking about, and rewatching a film that, at its heart, embodies true love in all its forms.

So, when I first asked my girls if they wanted to accompany me to a belated birthday celebration involving all of the above, imagine my joy when their response was:

“As you wish.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Carol Labuzzetta

at The Apples in My Orchard.

~~~~~~~~~~

*May that dear man, that compassionate soul, rest in peace.

**Speaking of crushes, my main crush, the one I have on the man I married, endures.

The other day, I was being (at least I thought) difficult. I later texted Atticus to say,

“I’m sorry I’m so hard to live with.”

“You’re not hard to live with,” he returned, “and you’d be impossible to live without.”

What a storybook story response. (Cary/Westley who?!)

We’ve not been without our fireswamps over the years,

but we’ve had fun storming the castle.

Poetry Friday: “Spring is like a perhaps hand” by e.e. cummings

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Fri, 08 May 2026 01:19:00 +0000

It’s been a busy week and although I did write a handful of new poems (thanks, April Halprin Wayland, for a delightfully productive class on Wednesday!), they aren’t ready to see the light of day. So, instead, I give you …

… Another spring poem!

This one is from the incomparably weird and sometimes wonderful e.e. cummings:

Spring is like a perhaps hand

by e.e. cummings

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare arranging and changing placing

carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

…. (Read the rest here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the lovely and talented Cathy Stenquist.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: “A Light Exists in Spring” by Emily Dickinson

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Fri, 01 May 2026 01:25:00 +0000

Nothing new to report here, other than this: I love springtime.

So, I think, did dear Emily, in her beautiful, melancholy way:

A Light exists in Spring

by Emily Dickinson

A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period-
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay-

A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rose Cappelli is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up today. Thank you, Rose!

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: “Impressions” — An Ekphrastic

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Fri, 24 Apr 2026 01:12:00 +0000

Last month, Tanita Davis shared the latest challenge from the Poetry Pals:

Here’s the scoop: we’re writing ekphrastic poems, which might pair beautifully with your plans for National Poetry Month (I’m attempting poetry comics). Ekphrasis is a Greek word which means “description,” and you’re invited to choose your own image from anywhere – personal pictures or otherwise. Are you in? Good! You’ll have the month to craft your creation and share it April 24th in a blog post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. We hope you’ll play along!

Oooh, I love an ekphrastic. Even so, I put this assignment off until this week because … well, because that’s how I roll. Image choice was WIDE open, so I had trouble narrowing it down. Then yesterday, out of the blue, this one — A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat — came to mind.

I realized I’ve never thought much about the people depicted in this painting. I’ve assumed they're an ordinary assortment of urbanites enjoying a day by the water. It turns out there's other speculation about them too. I found several commentaries that remarked on this idea:

There has been scholarly debate as to why Seurat included certain motifs in the painting, possibly alluding to prostitution that took place on the island, where clients would meet. Two notable motifs include the woman to the left with the fishing rod and the woman to the right with the monkey.

The fishing rod could be suggestive of the idea of “fishing” for a possible desirable woman or that the prostitutes fished for prospective clients. The female monkey’s name in French was singesse, which was also a term utilized for prostitutes. The woman on the right could be with a client.

— from Art in Context

Who knew?

On the other hand, given that women are routinely misjudged, unfairly labeled, frequently stereotyped, presumed upon, lied about, and otherwise wronged and maligned, the idea/poem/twist that came to me was this:

Impressions

(after A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grand Jatte)

People always have their opinions.

Some of you eye us and think,
“Ah, another Sunday in the park

with George.”

But also?

Many look askance.

They assign a seedy motive

to my sister’s fishing expedition.

Presume my pet monkey

means I am a woman

of questionable character.

But perhaps I just love animals?

Why has no one asserted

or assumed that

my predominant thoughts are these:
"This fabric does not breathe.

I’m ready to go.

I hate this stupid bustle.

It's hitting the floor the minute

my monkey and I get home.”

— Karen Edmisten

~~~~~~~~~~

The Queen of Ekphrastics — visit her entire “ArtSpeak” series here —

Irene Latham, has the Poetry Friday round up this week.

Progressive Poem is here! (Day 22)

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Wed, 22 Apr 2026 10:45:00 +0000

"The Land of Poetry" — created by Tabatha Yeatts (place names added by Donna and Heidi)

It's my first year participating in the Progressive Poem, and I'm happy to add Line 22 to this delightful work in progress.

What's the Progressive Poem? Thanks to Linda Baie at TeacherDance, we have this succinct summary:

It began with Irene Latham, who hosted it from 2012-2019. Those archives of the poem can be found HERE! Margaret Simon took over in 2020, and those archives are HERE!
Here are the rules:
The poem passes from blog to blog.
Each poet/blogger adds a line.
The poem is for children.
Each blogger copies the previous line exactly as written, unless permission from that poet has been given. They then add their own line, offering an introduction if they wish.

So today I’m following Irene’s lead. She said, "It seems time to bring it back around to the speaker of our poem...how is she feeling now, after listening to the birds? What will she DO?”

Let’s find out! Here's the poem so far, with my line added in bold:

The Land of Poetry

On my first trip to the Land of Poetry,
I saw anthologies of every color, tall as buildings.
A world of words, wonder on wings, waiting just for me!
Birding for words shimmering, flecked in golden gilding.

Binoculars ready, I toured boulevards and side streets,
exploring vibrant verses, verses so honest and tender.
feathery lyrics, bright flitting avian athletes
soaring ‘cross pages in rhythmic splendor.

In the Land of Poetry, I am the conductor,
seeking oodles of poems that tug at my heart,
a musical medley of sound and structure,
An open mic in Frost Forest! Wonder who’ll take part?

There’s a pause in the program; no one takes the stage
the trees quiver, the audience looks up. Raven lands,
singing Earth’s message of the sage.
“Poetry in motion will be forevermore, from forests to sands.”

“Scatter,” she croaked. “Beyond Wilde Pond, to each and every beach.”
Meek Dove mustered courage and sang, “Instill humanity with compassion and peace.
Let Thackeray’s middle name, from this thicket, hearts reach!”
Her gentle coo-ooo-ooos reverberate, soft as fleece.

Words dart, dimple—Do I dare warble what's in my soul?

I’ve inhaled inspiration…yes, I’ll risk my refrain.

~~~~~

The fabulous Heidi Mordhorst is up next with Day 23!

And here’s a full list of this year’s contributors. Tabatha launched us into the Land of Poetry with Line 1, and she’ll bring us full circle on April 28:

April 1 Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference
April 2 Cathy Stenquist at A Little Bit of This and That
April 3 Patricia Franz at Reverie
April 4 Donna Smith at Mainely Write
April 5 Janice Scully at Salt City Verse
April 6 Denise Krebs at Dare to Care
April 7 Ruth Hersey at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town
April 8 Rose Cappelli at Imagine the Possibilities
April 9 Margaret Simon at Reflections on the Teche
April 10 Janet Clare Fagel at Reflections on the Teche
April 11 Diane Davis at Starting Again in Poetry
April 12 Linda Baie at Teacher Dance
April 13 Linda Mitchell at Another Word Edgewise
April 14 Jone MacCulloch at
April 15 Joyce Uglow at Storied Ink
April 16 Carol Varsalona at Beyond Literacy Link
April 17 Robyn Hood Black at Life on the Deckle Edge
April 18 Michele Kogan at More Art for All
April 19 Kim Johnson at Common Threads
April 20 Buffy Silverman
April 21 Irene Latham at Live Your Poem
April 22 Karen Edmisten
April 23 Heidi Mordhorst at my juicy little universe
April 24 Mary Lee Hahn at A(nother) Year of Reading
April 25 Tanita Davis at Fiction, instead of Lies
April 26 Sharon Roy at Pedaling Poet
April 27 Tracey Kiff-Judson at Tangles and Tails
April 28 Tabatha Yeatts at The Opposite of Indifference

Poetry Friday: "For the Bird Singing Before Dawn" by Kim Stafford

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Thu, 16 Apr 2026 23:07:00 +0000

We're halfway through National Poetry Month, and all I've managed to do so far is rant about the news.

I know, I know — I'm allowed, given the state of things, but let's take a break from all that, shall we?

First of all, be sure to visit the inimitable Jama Rattigan for a comprehensive round-up of the Kidlitosphere's NPM poetry projects. So many luscious plans! Thank you, Jama, for all the work that went into that post! It's brimming with places to go, people to visit, and poems to read.

Secondly, birds. I wrote about birds last month and this morning, just after a walk during which I heard meadowlarks, killdeer, mourning doves, robins, and red-winged blackbirds, I was telling my sister about how much she'll love the Merlin app.

Birdsong. Is there anything better? When you hear birds — a symphony of birds — tweeting their joyful, ridiculous, miraculous little heads off, it's as if you're part of something both immense and beyond your grasp, but also innate, somehow within you.

I love them so much.

Birds = Hope.

Therefore, I bring you "For the Bird Singing Before Dawn." Of his poem, Kim Stafford said:

“Many times in my life I’ve been told by serious people that I must be very naïve to be happy, to have hope, to celebrate this little life I’ve been given when, actually, they say, everything is pretty dire. There’s war, poverty, crushing injustice all over—what right do I have to talk back to all that with flimsy little poems about the good? What can I say? The birds are my teachers, my elders, my guides. Every day before dawn, in silence and darkness, I’m at my desk making poems on the page. And then, before light, I hear the first bird outside begin to sing.”

Oh, little plover, I want to hug you.

For the Bird Singing Before Dawn

by Kim Stafford

Some people presume to be hopeful
when there is no evidence for hope,
to be happy when there is no cause.
Let me say now, I’m with them.

In deep darkness on a cold twig
in a dangerous world, one first
little fluff lets out a peep, a warble,

a song—and in a little while, behold:

....

(Read the last two stanzas here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Wishing you morsels — nay, a feast! — of joy as well as the company of birds, who are their own kind of poetry, during this National Poetry Month.

Heidi Mordhorst has this week's Poetry Friday round-up at My Juicy Little Universe.

Photo of killdeer courtesy of roamingowlsdotcom at Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "Of History and Hope" by Miller Williams

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Thu, 09 Apr 2026 22:45:00 +0000

"How do we fashion the future?"

Oh, what a week.

My week has shone with the joy and hope of Easter, but it has also held despair and anger over a madman at the helm of what, at least for now, we still call our country. This poem by Miller Williams seemed fitting today. We hold so much responsibility in our hands. I vented on FB a couple of days ago:

Nothing says “America in 2026” like calling my reps today, being put on hold, and hearing “Yankee Doodle Dandy” blare in my ear while waiting to register my objections to war crimes.

Call your reps. Even when you want to scream.

It seems useless, futile, maddening. Especially when I later hear my rep double down and defend threats to wipe out an entire civilization. How do you address that? I don't know. I guess we keep turning to both history and hope?

Of History and Hope
by Miller Williams

We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,

to keep on going where we meant to go.

But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how

....

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jone Rush MacCulloch has the Poetry Friday round-up this week.

And be sure to check out the 2026 Progressive Poem. Nine poets have contributed thus far. Margaret Simon has today's line, as well as the rest of the work-in-progess. I'll be contributing a line on April 22, and Margaret has the whole schedule at this link.

Photo courtesy of Eliens at Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: Unraveling the Ovillejo

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Thu, 26 Mar 2026 21:39:00 +0000

Poetry maven and Writer Extraordinaire Tanita Davis shared the Poetry Peeps’ March challenge here. The mission? Knit together an Ovillejo:

Here’s the scoop: we’re writing tight little bundles of poetry called Ovillejos! That’s exactly what the word means – a bundle of yarn. This Spanish form bundles together ten lines, made up of 3 rhyming couplets interspersed with three verrrry short lines, and a quatrain. The last line is a “redondilla,” a “little round” that collects all three of the short lines and casts off the poem, as it were.

I wrote my ovillejo about a concert we — Atticus, me, Ramona, her boyfriend — went to last weekend. My Christmas gift to Atticus was tickets for Bob Dylan’s Rough and Rowdy Ways tour. We'd never seen him live before, but know this: the man is determined not to be photographed or recorded. (A few years ago he blew up at an audience over their phone use and asked if they wanted him to play or to pose. The subject of phones in public spaces is a big one and I have so many thoughts but that’s a post for another time.) Phones were locked up in Yondr pouches as soon as we entered the venue. Low lighting, a permanent perch behind his keyboard, and a hoodie pulled far down over his head (practically over his face) helped Bob keep his distance from us.

The night before the concert I had the funniest dream: we arrived at the theater and almost no one was there. Bob looked over all the empty seats, sighed, sat down a couple of rows ahead of us, and pouted. I woke up wondering what had prompted that, but maybe it was a premonition? Because, while in real life the theater was full, Bob did seem a tad pouty. Microphone malfunctions didn’t help. Dylan kept picking the mic up and plopping it down in different positions, prompting reverberative booms every time. (Is the mic person still employed? I have my doubts.) Despite Bob’s aloof performance, we had a good time, and I think Ramona and her boyfriend did too. As we talked about him the next day, I said, “Dylan’s such a … character? Distinct ... personality?” and Ramona said, “Weirdo?” He is, indeed, all the things, daughter.

Yes, it’s all true. I have a love/hate relationship with that weirdo-genius-pouty-bratty-talented-rebellious-creative-Nobel-prize-winner who likes his hoodies more than he likes us.

But hey, now that I ponder it, I think the best Dylan concert I’ve ever been to was a couple of years ago in our living room. Ramona taught herself three songs (“It Ain’t Me, Babe,” “The Times They Are a-Changing,” and “Don’t Think Twice”) on the guitar she inherited from my father, then she played and sang them for Atticus on his birthday. And she didn’t even wear a hoodie or turn off the lights! What an un-aloof performer!

And that, ladies and gentlemen, leads us to my Ovillejo, which actually came to me surprisingly quickly.

Ovillejo for a Temperamental Legend

Karen Edmisten

Who is a legend named Dylan?
Bob. Thrillin’!
Who saw him sing on Saturday?
Us. Yay!
He is known for a stunning show?
(Well, um, no.)

He doesn’t like his face to show.
Sloppy hoodie hides his features.
(Fans are such annoying creatures.)
Bob! Thrillin’ us? (Well, um, both “yea" and no.)

Final take: Don’t think twice, Bob, it’s all right (not that you’re worried.) We rolled with what was blowin’ in the wind, and now we can say we’ve seen Dylan. Also, brunch the next day was excellent and I really like Ramona’s boyfriend. All in all, a great weekend and I got a new poem out of it.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Marcie Flinchum Atkins, who is celebrating the beauty of twilight and her newest, soon-to-be-released book, When Twilight Comes.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "Why I Need the Birds" by Lisel Mueller

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Fri, 13 Mar 2026 00:36:00 +0000

When I was young, I didn't think much about birds, know much about birds, or care much about birds. They were part of the landscape, obviously. They were around, I was around, live and let live, blah-blah-blah. I suppose we co-existed blithely, in that way creatures who don't have an urgent need for one another can do. We each — robins, wrens, and I — went about our business, conducting it admirably without caring that the other was nearby.

I remember once, sometime in my twenties, I think, when I was out for a walk with my friend Jack. We heard a bird with an intriguing call, and I said, "I wonder what kind of bird that is?" A beat, and he said, "Holly would know," at the precise time I was saying, "Atticus would know." Our respective spouses, you see, were the bird people. They were the ones with a knowledge of and a love for nature. They were the Dickon Sowerbys who would know what was growing in a secret garden and what a robin was trying to say. They knew the magic.

I can't say I consciously sought to increase my knowledge of birds over the years of our marriage, but somehow birds have become a part of it. (I wrote about the laudable stubbornness of our swallows here, and mentioned the return of the swallows to Edmistrano here. And, ummm, somewhere along the way I started calling them "our" swallows?) When I was very young and very stupid, I thought an interest in birds was a thing for old people. But last year, when Atticus got excited about the Merlin Bird ID app, I got kind of excited about it too. (I mean, honestly, it's really, really cool. Open the app, it records every sound it hears, and then it tells you what birds you're eavesdropping on. Cool.)

"But Karen," you might say, "you have proven your theory about birds and old people, because you are old now." Ummm, just go check out the Merlin app! You'll thank your elders!

Oh, and read this poem too! It's by Lisel Mueller, a Pulitzer-winning poet whom I've only just discovered.

Lisel understood. And while it's likely that Mueller wrote "Why I Need the Birds" when she was not-young (and unlike some of us, she was never stupid), I have a feeling that she — like Holly, like Atticus — simply knew her whole life that birds were a miracle of creation worth every moment of attention we pay them.

Why I Need the Birds
by Lisel Mueller

(1924-2020)

When I hear them call
in the morning, before
I am quite awake,
my bed is already traveling
the daily rainbow,
the arc toward evening;
and the birds, leading
their own discreet lives
of hunger and watchfulness,
are with me all the way,
always a little ahead of me
in the long-practiced manner
of unobtrusive guides.

(Read the rest here.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by the ever-wonderful Linda Baie of TeacherDance.

Photo thanks to Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: I’m hosting! (and a new poem)

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Thu, 05 Mar 2026 22:30:00 +0000

Welcome to the Poetry Friday round-up!

Last week, the Poetry Peeps shared pieces inspired by the work of U.S. Poet Laureate Arthur Sze. The challenge was flexible. (Read: “Pick a poem, any poem! Write in his style, or don’t! Focus on a line, a stanza, a theme, the ghost of an idea. Whatever you want!”) I love a wide-open challenge … until I don’t. But the fault, dear reader, was with me, not with the peeps posing the challenge. As I’m wont to do, I allowed procrastination and choice-paralysis to defeat me. I wrote nothing for last weeks’s round-up, so I decided to tackle it this week. Here’s how it unfolded:

I tinkered with one of my favorite Sze poems, "The Shapes of Leaves.” I played around with the shapes of houses, I experimented with the shapes of hands (as the objects that "our emotions resemble”) but I wasn’t satisfied with what was flowing. (Because it wasn’t flowing.) I still liked those ideas, but set them aside.

Then I bumped up against another of Sze’s poems, one that, serendipitously and in that lovely, winding way of poetry, happens to reference “The Shapes of Leaves.” Eureka!

In “Residence on Earth,” Sze recounts a gathering of poets and a reading of his work. I did a little digging and it seems he’s referring to the Festival Internacional de Poesía de Medellín. (Here's a video of his reading.)

“Residence on Earth” ends with:

I understood how poets from all over the world

had come for peace, solidarity, justice—
and when my host, and reader of my poems

in Spanish, invited me into his home, I saw
one way to live during our residencia en la tierra.

I took the words “one way to live” and ran with them. Here’s my draft:

One Way to Live
(after “Residence on Earth” by Arthur Sue)

One way to live on this earth

is in stunned observation.

You see chaos before you,
but are paralyzed, inert,
a terrified deer.

One way to live on this earth

is in constant bellicosity.

You howl at the lunacy
until your throat

is raw and torn.

One way to live on this earth

is in quiet service.

You see gaping needs;

you fill one, meet another,

walk toward the next.

One way to live on this earth

is in the

shimmering

rainfall

words.

You shine light,

reflect truths:

chaos, lunacy,

desperate need, yes,

but also beauty, tenderness,

the shape of a leaf.

A band of poets become

one voice, create one home,

fashion a refuge.

Together,

while in residence on earth,

they have found

one way to live.

~ Karen Edmisten

~~~~~~~~~~

Mr. Linky awaits your contributions. Drop them here!

Poetry Friday: "I Stop Somewhere Waiting For You" (A Walt Whitman/Susan Thomsen/Chicken Spaghetti-inspired poem)

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Thu, 19 Feb 2026 22:52:00 +0000

A few weeks ago, Susan Thomsen, at Chicken Spaghetti, posted a prompt: begin a poem with the last line (I stop somewhere waiting for you) of Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself."

Susan's take on the prompt is here, and her "Flurries of Winter" is an enchanting take, full of joy and verve and love and snow.

I went a different route, being the INFJ/Melancholic Eeyore that I am. 😏

I might've composed my response sooner if I hadn't tripped myself up by turning the prompt upside down. I'd gotten it fixed in my head that I should end the poem with the suggested line. I tried a number of different openings and approaches but none of them were working. Page after page of garbage. I decided to go reread Susan's post/prompt, thinking maybe I'd pick up some new inspiration.

"Oh!" I said to my upside-downed self. "I'm going to START the poem with that line." Well. Okay then. Let's try that.

I imagined being caught in a wretched kind of limbo with a friend or significant other or spouse — really anyone you're trying to have an authentic relationship with when you aren't getting anything in return. (I mean, truly ... we've all been there.) And then the poem wrote itself in twenty minutes.

The lesson here is to listen to Susan more closely the first time. But I think, in general, it's just good advice to listen to Susan.

Okay, here we go:

"I Stop Somewhere Waiting For You"

~ Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Somewhere.
Waiting.
For you.

It’s exhausting, being mired

in this bog, slogging through
a swamp of unearned, unreturned

hope and promise.

I don’t really even know where I am.

“Somewhere”?
Who chooses to live there?

It feels like Wonderland,
and every bit as absurd.
You make me believe
six impossible things before breakfast
but by dinner time, I’m famished.

So I've decided.
I’m moving to a new anywhere.
I will learn its borders and boundaries as I go.
The plan is still fuzzy.

But I stop, somehow, waiting for you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Susan has the entire Poetry Friday round-up this week.

Visit her at Chicken Spaghetti and enjoy lots of poetic goodness.

Poetry Friday: “God” by Brian Doyle

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Thu, 12 Feb 2026 22:31:00 +0000

Brian Doyle was a luminous writer who died from a brain tumor in 2017 at the age of 60, an inexplicable injustice in this world if ever there was one.

According to this obituary in The Beacon, after he received his diagnosis, he said, “I’ll hear all laughter. Be tender to each other. Be more tender than you were yesterday, that’s what I would like. You want to help me? Be tender and laugh.”

I delight in every ounce of his work (novels, essays, poems, and prose poems he called proems) and I’m on a mission to be a Brian Doyle completist. I corresponded with him only once, when I was seeking permission from Portland magazine (which he edited for many years) to reprint a story excerpt in one of my books. His emails were as charming as everything else of his I’ve ever read.

This week, because the magic of children has been on my mind, because children are pure and holy and dinosaur-loving vessels who deserve to be protected and flooded with love, I’m sharing this one, which I'd never read before today and just now seredipitously stumbled upon. I’d like to think Brian had something to do with that.

God is in the Kindergartener, is the Kindergartener. What a luminous and spot-on thought.

God
by Brian Doyle

By purest chance I was out in our street when the kindergarten
Bus mumbled past going slow and I looked up just as all seven
Kids on my side of the bus looked at me and I grinned and they
Lit up and all this crap about God being dead and where is God
And who owns God and who hears God better than whom is the
Most egregiously stupid crap imaginable because if you want to
See God and have God see you and have this mutual perception
Be completely untrammeled by blather and greed and comment,
Go stand in the street as the kindergarten bus murmurs past. I’m

Not kidding and this is not a metaphor. I am completely serious.

….

(Read the rest here.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Robyn at Life on the Deckle Edge.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "Dear Reader" by Billy Collins

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Fri, 06 Feb 2026 01:09:00 +0000

It is far, far, far past time for some Billy Collins. I need him, don't you?

And this one targets my readerly heart as if its poetic arrow is aimed to pierce me, only me. Because, well, it is. That's how poetry works. That's how Billy Collins works. That's how reading works. ❤️

Oh, how I love to read. Some of the books and writers who have been my sisters, brothers, kindred spirits, or heralds of surprise and fascination thus far in 2026 include:

Memorial Days, Geraldine Brooks

The Vaster Wilds, Lauren Groff

The Separation of Church and Hate, John Fugelsang

The Berry Pickers, Amanda Peters

The Road to Tender Hearts, Annie Hartnett

Flashlight, Susan Choi

Homeschooled, Stefan Merrill Block

As Collins says in the final line of this poem, books and I are on "a road we will always be traveling together."

Who are you traveling with right now? What have you read in the last month?

Dear Reader

by Billy Collins

Baudelaire considers you his brother,
and Fielding calls out to you every few paragraphs
as if to make sure you have not closed the book,
and now I am summoning you up again,
attentive ghost, dark silent figure standing
in the doorway of these words.

Pope welcomes you into the glow of his study,
takes down a leather-bound Ovid to show you.
Tennyson lifts the latch to a moated garden,
and with Yeats you lean against a broken pear tree,
the day hooded by low clouds.

But now you are here with me,
composed in the open field of this page,

....

(Read the rest here, at The Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Molly at Nix the Comfort Zone is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up today.

Photo courtesy of Pexels.

Poetry Friday: James Crews, via George Bilgere, via Poetry Town (with a word about Hamnet)

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Fri, 30 Jan 2026 15:49:00 +0000

I usually get a Poetry Friday post put together on Thursday afternoon, but yesterday I was too busy weeping. I saw Hamnet for the second time in a week — Saturday with my daughter, yesterday with Atticus. It's possibly one of the most beautiful films I’ve ever seen. Reviewers who are calling it “emotionally manipulative” (and worse) are (in my not-so-subtle opinion) callous, jaded, and ridiculous. Have you ever lost a child? Have you ever felt deep, raw, uncaged grief? No? Then go write about something else. Review a different kind of movie. Or maybe, instead of cranking out reviews, go create something yourself. There’s a challenge for you.

(Do I sound salty? Yes, yes, I do. Perhaps my patience is wearing thin these days.)

Hamnet is a mesmerizing, two-hour meditation on love and grief, love and forgiveness, love and the power of art. If it’s not your thing, that’s fine, but don’t call it “grief p*rn,” which is an idiotic expression and an idiotic way to characterize a sensitive, serious film about one of the most horrific losses a couple can endure.

We now return to our regularly scheduled Poetry Friday post.

I had nothing ready for Poetry Friday, but this morning George Bilgere came to my rescue again. I have enjoyed Bilgere’s work for a long time, but in the summer of 2024 I found him in his latest habitat: Poetry Town. If you haven’t checked it out yet, run, do not walk, over there. Now!

Today’s Poetry Town pick is from the marvelous James Crews. In October, I participated in a four-week (four Zoom meetings over consecutive Fridays) workshop with Crews called “Turning Toward Grief.” Each week featured a conversation between James and another poet (Bilgere was one, along with Naomi Shihab Nye, January Gill O’Neil, and Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer), followed by writing prompts from James. It was sublime.

Today, I invite you to enjoy the awe that James describes, inspires and encourages in this poem. Then, run, do not walk, over to his website to sign up for his beautiful newsletter, “The Weekly Pause.” Now!

Awe

by James Crews

It’s a shiver that climbs the trellis
of the spine, each tingle a bright white
morning glory breaking into blossom
beneath the skin. It can happen anywhere,
anytime, even finding this sleeve of ice
worn by a branch all morning, now fallen

….

(Read the rest here, at George Bilgere’s Poetry Town.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Amy Ludwig VanDerwater is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up today at The Poem Farm.

Photo courtesy of Ilona Burschl at Pixabay.

“When Giving is All We Have” by Alberto Ríos (and finally settled on my Word of the Year)

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Fri, 23 Jan 2026 01:07:00 +0000

A beautiful poem from Alberto Ríos, who says:

This is a poem of thanks to those who live lives of service, which, I think, includes all of us—from the large measure to the smallest gesture, from care-giving to volunteerism to being an audience member or a reader.

When Giving Is All We Have
by Alberto Ríos

One river gives
Its journey to the next.

We give because someone gave to us.
We give because nobody gave to us.

We give because giving has changed us.
We give because giving could have changed us.

We have been better for it,
We have been wounded by it—

Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,

….

(Read the rest here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Which brings me to finally settling on a word for 2026.

“Word of the Year” … “One Little Word” … whatever we want to call it. I like to do this, but I’m not always consistent. In 2024, I chose the word “Hope,” because hope was much-needed that year. Last year (after waaaaaay overthinking it) I chose the word “Create” (also much-needed, immensely-overthought, and ultimately overstuffed with goals I didn’t live up to as I'd hoped or envisioned. Maybe I should have chosen a phrase instead of word: “Hope to create and stop overthinking.”)

Anyway. This year, I dithered for a while but eventually landed on:

“Giving” (as Alberto Ríos presents it) and “engagement" aren’t exactly the same thing, but they're affectionate sisters.

I am striving to engage with intentionality in the areas of life that are most important to me, and to let go of the things that sap my energy. I want to engage (begin to, continue to, or expand on previous engagement) in a variety of ways:

Socially and politically (read: “Advocacy for human dignity and basic human decency, and the same human rights for all people everywhere.” It should be so simple. Why is it not?)

Professionally (read: I want more accountability and formal community for my writing … Poetry! Picture Book Aspirations! All the Things!)

Family: (read: We’re already a close family, but a busy one. I want more regularly scheduled get-togethers and dinners. Hear that, grown-up kids? I’m comin' for ya.)

I know this doesn’t cover all the bases, and my thoughts on Engagement in 2026 will keep developing, but it's a start.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tabatha at The Opposite of Indifference is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday round-up.

Poetry Friday: "The Before Picture" by Maggie Smith

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Thu, 15 Jan 2026 23:44:00 +0000

I'm with Maggie Smith — my relationship with progress is complicated. But what's the alternative? It is always, as she says in the final line, "now again."

(Do you ever want to say, "Stop the world, I want to get off"? Me too.)

Let's keep trying to turn our Before Pictures, the ones that embody the best of us, into now, into the future. And into poetry, compassion, love for our fellow human beings, and justice.

The time is now.

The Before Picture

by Maggie Smith

It’s complicated, my relationship status
with progress. I often prefer

the “before” picture. The future
is where I’m going only because

I have no choice, because time

....

(Read the rest here, at the Poetry Foundation.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by Jan at Bookseed Studio.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: “What Can I Say?” by Mary Oliver

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Fri, 09 Jan 2026 00:40:00 +0000

It’s hard to know what to say about our country and the world in 2026. I’m repeatedly struck dumb, horrified, paralyzed by the worst of situations, events, governance. What can we say that we haven’t said before? Why are so many not listening? And why are those who have the power and responsibility to do something doing nothing?

What can I say? I’m figuring that out on a daily basis, and in the meantime, I often turn to poets and peacemakers like Mary Oliver. (Thanks to my youngest daughter for bringing this one to my attention.)

What Can I Say

by Mary Oliver

What can I say that I have not said before?
So I’ll say it again.
The leaf has a song in it.
Stone is the face of patience.
Inside the river there is an unfinishable story
and you are somewhere in it
and it will never end until all ends.

Take your busy heart to the art museum and the
chamber of commerce
but take it also to the forest.

….

(Read the rest here.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up this week is being hosted by Ruth at There is No Such Thing as a God-forsaken Town.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay and Nordseher.

Poetry Friday: New Year's Morning by Helen Hunt Jackson

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Fri, 02 Jan 2026 01:03:00 +0000

Here's a marvelous poem from Helen Hunt Jackson who was born in 1830 in my home state* of Massachusetts. She was a poet, writer, and activist for Indigenous Americans. She often published anonymously under the names H.H., Rip van Winkle, or Saxe Holm. In 1985, a hundred years after her death, she was inducted into the Colorado Women's Hall of Fame. (Well, it takes us a while to catch up with women and their accomplishments, doesn't it?)

I especially love these lines:

The Old Year's heart all weary grew,
But said: "The New Year rest has brought."
The Old Year's hopes its heart laid down,
As in a grave; but, trusting, said:
"The blossoms of the New Year's crown
Bloom from the ashes of the dead."

May we go into 2026 trusting in the new year's crown, that it will bloom from the ashes of 2025.

New Year's Morning
by Helen Hunt Jackson

Only a night from old to new!
Only a night, and so much wrought!
The Old Year's heart all weary grew,
But said: "The New Year rest has brought."
The Old Year's hopes its heart laid down,
As in a grave; but, trusting, said:
"The blossoms of the New Year's crown
Bloom from the ashes of the dead."
The Old Year's heart was full of greed;
With selfishness it longed and ached,
And cried: "I have not half I need.
My thirst is bitter and unslaked.
But to the New Year's generous hand
All gifts in plenty shall return;
True love it shall understand;
By all my failures it shall learn.
I have been reckless; it shall be
Quiet and calm and pure of life.
I was a slave; it shall go free,
And find sweet peace where I leave strife."
Only a night from old to new!
Never a night such changes brought.
The Old Year had its work to do;
No New Year miracles are wrought.

Always a night from old to new!
Night and the healing balm of sleep!
Each morn is New Year's morn come true,
Morn of a festival to keep.
All nights are sacred nights to make
Confession and resolve and prayer;
All days are sacred days to wake
New gladness in the sunny air.
Only a night from old to new;
Only a sleep from night to morn.
The new is but the old come true;
Each sunrise sees a new year born.

(This poem is in the public domain.)

~~~~~

Catherine Flynn has the round-up at Reading to the Core.

* Sort of. We moved when I was three years old. I've lived everywhere from Alaska to Florida to the midwest but I still love that I was born on Cape Cod. When I close my eyes and think of them, I can still hear my grandparents' New England accents.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "Advent" by Thomas Merton

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Fri, 19 Dec 2025 01:30:00 +0000

I've shared this one several times before, but it's so lovely, so peaceful, and brings me such December joy that I decided to share it again as we near the end of a year that has been full of much that is not-lovely, not-peaceful, not-full-of-joy.

Enjoy this bit of respite, friends.

Advent
by Thomas Merton

Charm with your stainlessness these winter nights,
Skies, and be perfect! Fly, vivider in the fiery dark, you quiet meteors,
And disappear.
You moon, be slow to go down,
This is your full!

The four white roads make off in silence
Towards the four parts of the starry universe.
Time falls like manna at the corners of the wintry earth.
We have become more humble than the rocks,
More wakeful than the patient hills.

....

(Read the rest here.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Lovely, peaceful, and full-of-joy host Michelle Kogan has the Poetry Friday round-up this week.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: "Putting in a Window" by John Brantingham

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Fri, 12 Dec 2025 01:10:00 +0000

This poem reads like an instruction for life. It also makes a terrific prompt, doesn't it? What's another craft or skill that, mindfully executed, becomes a master class in living?

On another note, how is it already mid-December?

Putting in a Window
by John Brantingham

Carpentry has a rhythm that should never
be violated. You need to move slowly,
methodically, never trying to finish early,
never even hoping that you'd be done sooner.
It's best if you work without thought of the
end. If hurried, you end up with crooked
door joints and drafty rooms. Do not work
after you are annoyed just so the job
will be done more quickly. Stop when you
begin to curse at the wood. Putting in

....

(Read the rest here.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Wise and wonderful Linda Mitchell has the round-up this week at A Word Edgewise.

Photo courtesy of StockSnap at Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: “November Night”

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Thu, 20 Nov 2025 21:02:00 +0000

There are so many crisp, perfect, and wistful poems about November. It’s hard to choose just one, isn’t it? But here’s a short one I return to every year. (And it’s in the public domain, yay!)

November Night
by Adelaide Crapsey

Listen …
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
And fall.

~~~~~~~~~~

The ever-lovely Janice Scully is hosting the

Poetry Friday round-up this week at Salt City Verse.

Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

Poetry Friday: A Meme Poem

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Thu, 13 Nov 2025 23:01:00 +0000

Susan, at Chicken Spaghetti, invited us to join her in a meme poem, ala Donika Kelly. Kelly’s inspiration was a meme from 2017, so I went back to see what else made the rounds that year. Remember this grand entrance? As Professor Robert Kelly conducted an interview with the BBC, his daughter marched into the room, her baby brother rollered in behind her, and then his wife rocketed in to retrieve the uninvited interview guests.

Here’s the video that went viral:

And here’s my poem:

Life Interrupted

Oh, sweetheart,

March!

Burst on the scene,

exultant.

Jubilant.

Lead the parade.

Insert yourself.

Settle in, take up space.

Suck the marrow of life.

Act like you own it, baby.

Because you do.

~~~~~~~~~~

Carol at The Apples in My Orchard has the Poetry Friday round-up this week.

Poetry Friday: Burning Haibun

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Thu, 30 Oct 2025 22:22:00 +0000

Wow, this was a challenge.

The Poetry Peeps are tackling burning haibuns, which I’ve never attempted. Tanita Davis explains:

Poetry Peeps! You’re invited to our challenge for the month of October! Here’s the scoop: As invited by Poetry Magazine, we’re composing burning haibun. Not regular old haibun, folks. These highlight the internal landscape of memory, and within them, something somewhere must BURN. Perhaps it’s your candle at both ends. The stub of wax in your jack-o-lantern. Perhaps it’s just your heartburn, or your indignation. We cannot wait to find out. As always, these poems will continue our theme of writing in conversation. Are you still in? You’ll have a month to craft your creation(s), then share your offering on OCTOBER 31st in a post and/or on social media with the tag #PoetryPals. THIS is gonna be LIT (see what I did there?), so we hope you’ll join the fun!

The process is further explained/illustrated at this link, from Torrin A. Greathouse.

My subject matter is on the darker side (I'm sorry, Tanita, mine is not fun!) But I couldn’t stop thinking about it: I’m focused here on the lives that were burned down by Covid. Specifically, in this poem, my parents’ lives. Two people who were mentally sharp and doing as well as folks in their late eighties can do — until Covid hit them. New and horrible health problems, dementia. Steady, heartbreaking declines. Yes, living as long as they did is still considered “a good, long life,” as they say, but the last few years of their lives became hell for them in ways they’d never experienced and couldn’t have anticipated before the pandemic, a wildfire that is still smoldering.

Here's my attempt at a burning haibun:

Fragments

My father, this proud man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, painstakingly readying himself for the continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, unless everything else has burned.

This man, no longer at the top of the mountain, readying himself for the continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. Still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Everything else has burned.

This man at the end

of life. A fragment. Ashes.

Everything has burned.

~ Karen Edmisten

~~~~~

Here's what my process looked like:

My father, this proud man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, slowly, painstakingly readying himself for his continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, everything else has burned.

~~~~~

My father, this man, is no longer at the top of the mountain he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, slowly, painstakingly readying himself for his continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. He is still doing his best, still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over to the horrific fire, to the aftermath of the burning corona (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame, everything else has burned.

~~~~~

My father This man, is no longer at the top of the mountain ~~he was climbing. He once thought he’d hold everything in his hands but now he is reluctantly, slowly, painstakingly~~ readying himself for his continuing fall, for the end of life as he knew it. ~~He is still doing his best,~~ still taking care of my mother, his beloved, who has already handed her life over ~~to the horrific fire,~~ to the aftermath of the burning coronavirus (just another virus, some said, a fragment of a moment in time, soon to pass.) But the fire required all her strength and his resolve as they battled the constant lick of the flames, sought to douse the blaze and find, in the ashes, their former selves, the self, after all, being all we really have left in the end. ~~Unless we don’t. Unless everything has been touched by flame,~~ everything else has burned.

~~~~~

This man, at the end

of life. A fragment. Ashes.

Everything has burned.

I worked my way backward, from thoughts for the haiku to building, in reverse, the first paragraph (although the haiku ended up changing.) I don't know that I hit the marks for a burning haibun. The second paragraph doesn't offer enough in the way of reorientation. (In further drafts of this, that's what I'll aim for.) And I'm not sure this hits the "Conversation" theme either, but this is what came out over the course of a couple of sessions. It was, at least, a challenging and cathartic bit of writing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jone Rush MacCulloch has the Poetry Friday round-up this week.

Poetry Friday: "Servants" by Faith Shearin

noreply@blogger.com (Karen Edmisten ) — Fri, 17 Oct 2025 00:24:00 +0000

This poem has layers. I'm curious about what reactions it inspires in you — thoughts? I have so many! Let's chat.

Servants
by Faith Shearin

In college I read about Virginia Woolf and Edith Wharton
and I thought of their great minds and their long dresses
and their gilded friendships which involved tea

in the library or on the lawn. I thought of the places
they traveled and the weight of their trunks
and all the ways their marriages did or did not
please them. I thought of the dogs that followed
at their heels and the rooms and gardens they
decorated and the beaches where they

carried umbrellas. But I never once thought of
their servants. I didn’t think of the cook who

....

(Read the rest here.)

~~~~~~~~~~

The Poetry Friday round-up is being hosted this week by the lovely Sarah Grace Tuttle.

Photo thanks to Pixabay.