We were tasked today to dig into our junk drawers to find our inspiration!
April 24th: Forensic Poetry
Tag Archives: memories
Memories of Mondays
Memories of Mondays
On Monday’s Chili Night
We’d drive down the hill
From our house to Nana’s
For a delectable family dinner
And bellies brimming with love
Five long miles later
Her old wooden door ajar for air and us
Enough to let the spices pique
We knew
It was a two-bowl night
A two-tortillas-and-cheese-on-top night
Some added Tabasco and black pepper
Nana’s Chili, always just right to me
Scooting up close to the table
My chin parked on the doily mat
All that good stuff
Nana’s family spread
Her “good bowls and plates”
Rolled up napkins because she’s fancy
Punch bowl ladle we couldn’t touch
Because our hands were wreckless
Mommie and Nana side by side
My sister and I eye to eye
Stepdad and cousin head the table
We’d eat
And laugh and talk
Joke about what Nana forgot to make this time
The cornbread or the salad
We would serve up round two
We’d eat again
And laugh and talk
I’d watch and remember
And make Chili Beans on a Monday night
Thirty years later
All The Things Left Behind
All The Things Left Behind
We saw their mail
Piling on the table by the door
Like if it didn’t
Make it into the living room
It wouldn’t have life
We knew he couldn’t manage
Living in empty rooms
Where memories floated
On dust particles caught
On sun rays
That never touched his skin again
We waited for that day
Like waiting for the elevator light to blink
And doors opening
To pour people
All over us
Because the piles spoke
Behind gluey seals
On certified warnings
That people were coming
To lock the doors forever
They gave him two days
To pack 40 years
Without enough boxes
Or back strength
We called our crews
Our village of warriors
Who moved fast
With fury and frustration
Until every car and truck
Filled to capacity
They made sure we didn’t leave anything
Important behind
Like my mother’s jewelry and coins
Her letters from our father
Her photo albums of us, them
Her artwork, statues, and ashtrays
Crystal punch bowls and the abacus
From our father’s many faraway trips
But what about the cement handprint
And our initials in the backyard tree
And the hopscotch painting out back
And holiday boxes in the garage
And the smell of the Christmas tree
Or the burning embers
In the fireplace
What about the splashing sounds
From summers in the pool
Music playing in earbuds
While sunbathing and daydreaming
And all the poems I wrote
In notebooks
In the backs of binders
That hid from hands and hearts
Other than mine
All left behind.
© Stacey L. Joy
November’s 5-Day Writing Challenge: Day 1 “My Nana’s Kitchen”
My Nana’s kitchen
Jam-packed
10 x 10
Painted in holiday memories
Turkey
“Help me pull the innards out.”
Stuffing
“We have to burn the toast first.”
Rice Dressing
“Use the grinder for the onions and peppers.”
Candied Yams
“Have you seen my marshmallows?”
Ham
“Stick the cloves in.”
Green beans
“You need to eat your vegetables.”
Mustard Greens
“Everyone loves my greens except you.”
Mincemeat pie
“You don’t know what you’re missing.”
Icebox cookies
“Stir the batter the right way!”
Fudge
“It has to melt all the way down.”
And her fizzy foamy fruit punch
Mixed with rainbow sherbet
Pineapple juice
And 7-up
In her antique punch bowl
“You better not break my cups.”
My Nana’s kitchen
Steeped in
Love
Family
Recipes
Life
Where I wondered
if her cigarette ashes
ever fell into the greens
and the pie
Or if the food stuck to her dress
was from last year
or from when my Mommie was little
Where I couldn’t question her
because it was not appropriate
I had to trust her
because she was my Nana
Lessons I Learned at Home: Prompt 2 “Resilience”
“Resilience”
Dear Mommie
I miss you
Wish you could be here
To hold me
Talk to me
Let me sit on your lap
Well, lie across it
And cry
While you gently caress my face
I miss your sweet touch
Its magic
Sometimes I want to scream
Instead I pray constantly
Knowing you and God hear
My every word
Even the unspoken ones
That seem to live on the edge
Of my lips
Thank you for reminding me
Through memories
That you loved everyone
No judgements
No exclusions
Thank you for reminding me
When I look at your picture
That a smile can cure sadness
Thank you for teaching me
Resilience
And how obstacles are opportunities
And how struggles develop strength
And how love lives after loss
Pieces of Peace #21
Whenever I teach my students
how to write “Where I’m From” poems
I crave the past,
popsicles and Christmas tree flocking
falling on presents Mommie promised
I crave Nana’s baking
her back aching
and her cigarette scented hugs.
I peek into poetic memories
of young writers now college scholars
and I read.
I read Where I’m From poems
from 2002 and 2004
Precious people whose paths and mine
crossed
and tangled footprints in sand
eventually blew with wind and tears
back to my heart
where I protect the peace
in each piece I read.
I find my poem from 2008
When I was from making enchiladas
and summers in swimming pools
But I sense some missing peace
in my piece.
I don’t read that aloud
but it still shouts and makes my skin sweat.
Instead I listen
to what my class is writing
in a 15-minute warm-up.
Every voice is valued.
I praise one for its musical memories
Another for its vivid visuals of family traditions
But when I hear rich rhymes
and unexpected innocence
about loving frogs and butterflies
from the kid who never tries
I saw his light shining from trickster eyes.
I’m from never giving up
just keep writing
you’re on this one
and poems have power.
Prose Challenge Inspired by The House on Mango Street
Time to write prose. Sandra Cisneros’, The House on Mango Street, inspires this challenge.
The Real House
I didn’t always live on Weybridge, Don Tomaso, Canterbury, Nordhoff, or Citrus. Before that, I lived on Don Felipe, Mommie’s street. Before that, in a small house next door to my grandmother’s house on 4th Avenue. That house, I don’t remember. I had less than two years of life there. I remember our house on Mommie’s street because that’s where we made the best memories.
The house on Mommie’s street was home. Where childhood was forever, family love unconditional. I didn’t have to pay bills or change diapers, and no babies depended on me. I was the baby. I did my homework at the kitchen table while Mommie made burgers. Piano banging interrupted quiet evenings at home.
I left our house on Mommie’s street because it was my turn to go. Go somewhere to begin my own life, my own family, make my own memories. I lived in a shoebox-size dorm before a series of apartments. When I wanted some place to call mine, a real house, I moved to Weybridge, half the size of The Real House filling my imagination. The house I believed would be mine had levels, gardens, walk-in closets, and a large private pool next to a bubbling waterfall. It didn’t have a cloudy pool all my neighbors abused with their spit and germs floating in it. It didn’t have a gated entry and rusty lounges smudged with dirty stickiness.
The Real House would easily accommodate family visitors or out-of-town guests. They would not have to sleep in hotels around the airport and UBER their way through the city. Its bedrooms cozied us, the kitchen kept us, and the landscape loved us.
The Real House is on a grassy hill overlooking my old house on Weybridge, Mommie’s house on Don Felipe, and the clatter of crowded urban chaos. It overlooks walls decorated in graffiti and garbage-stained sidewalks. The Real House crowns a quiet street that winds. Winds up to serenity, to neighbors who love one another and share baked cakes and pies when it isn’t a holiday. Winds up to gardeners who carefully tend to our gardens more than their own; who speak and smile because we speak and smile first. Winds up to walking trails, meditation fountains, and peaceful prayer paths.
The Real House is there when my eyes are closed. But it hasn’t shown itself to me yet, when my eyes are open.
Tanka #21 Dead-End Dream
Memories that hurt
need to be dropped in cement
as it pours and dries
Or injected in road kill
dead flesh I would drive over
Tanka #9 Soul Shades
the color of paint
attaches to memories
stains the soul’s canvas
until a new artist strokes
tints and shades of beautiful
Tanka #1 Family Photos
sticky page unsticks
family photos sliding down
memories in books
life paints still pictures again
colors fade like lovers do