I wrote a post last week about a random Wordle Poem rule I made up for myself. Sometimes I write a Wordle poem using my word choices, but I ALWAYS write a haiku (a Wordle-ku) if I get the answer in three guesses. (I rarely get the answer in three.)
I made up a new rule yesterday. If I get the answer in five, I will write a limerick. Or, as the case may be, a Wordle-imerick. (I often get the answer in five. Maybe this should be a suggestion, rather than a rule…)
3/12 party, laugh, mange, manga, mango
The party was held in Durango. For a laugh, we danced a wild tango. So wild we caught mange, wrote a manga quite strange, then went to the store for a mango.
(I didn’t say they’d always make sense. But I did get better.)
3/13 chair, champ, chalk, chase (yes, I broke the rule and used a four-word win)
There once was a child in a chair. Said child had some gum in his hair. He wasn’t a champ. Chalk him up as a scamp chased down with a threat and a glare.
3/19 glory, stare, shark, snark, spark
The ocean — a vast blue-green glory. I stare at its unfolding story. The fin of a shark, and its sharp toothy snark spark panic before beaches get gory.
They’re slightly addictive, but I’ll stop there. I have two more recent solved-it-in-fives that I’ll Wordle-imerick (it’s also a verb) safely out of sight in my notebook.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
I’m listening to Margaret Renkl read her book, THE COMFORT OF CROWS: A BACKYARD YEAR. Some days it’s the only thing that keeps my head from exploding.
Every couple of essays, she tucks in a praise song. Now it’s my turn. Here’s my Praise Song to Early Spring.
I live in one of the top 10 gloomiest cities in the country. When the skies are clear, and the blue makes me just want to drink up every drop of it, going for a walk is the best therapy I could wish for.
The trees are bursting with the same joy I feel. They are sure of what they need to do, and they are going about their work without an ounce of self-consciousness. Why on earth should we NOT just fling our reds and yellows toward that juicy blue sky with everything we’ve got?
Early spring gives away glimpses of secret lives if you’re paying close attention. Like Margaret says,
To pay close attention to the natural world is to exist in medias res. Life is an unfolding that responds to the cues of seasonal change, but for our purposes it is also suspended in an everlasting present. We can see some of the creatures we share our world with, or at least some evidence of their nearness, but we cannot know the full arc of their story. Every encounter in the outdoors is an episode with a cliffhanger ending.
The quote above is as true about the humans with whom we share our world as it is about our more-than-human neighbors. There’s a cemetery at the far end of our street, and it’s a quiet place to walk, say names, wonder at dates, and give thanks for life — all of it, surging so gloriously outside of us in early spring, and surging inside of us for as long as we’re given. Spring reminds me to not waste a single moment of this gift.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
I glanced at the clock on my way down to the basement.
8:11
The message couldn’t have been clearer: the Universe was validating my decision to donate my classroom poetry collection.
It’s not a small thing to let those books go. They represent a key element of my identity as a teacher. A key element of my identity, period. But this is my fourth year of retirement, and because I retired as an online teacher, it’s been five years since children held those books in their hands every week on Poetry Friday. Five years since children chose a poem by themselves or with a partner, practiced the poem, and read it aloud to the class. It’s time for these books to be back in the hands of children. They’re not doing any good on a shelf in the basement.
As I pulled books down off the shelves to box up, I had to remove lots of sticky notes that had been left behind to mark favorite poems, chosen poems, instructions on how the poem would be performed. I remembered all of the timid voices that grew confident over the course of the year. I remembered strong readers generously coaching less able readers. I remembered the whole class supporting special needs students who could only manage a few words at a time but who got the same enthusiastic finger snaps for their effort. I remembered the looks on the faces of children who found poems that spoke deeply to their cultural or linguistic identity — Black kids finding Langston Hughes, Spanish speakers finding poems in two languages, sports kids finding soccer, basketball, and football poems, sassy kids finding sassy poems, nature kids finding nature poems. I remembered the quiet new kid who knocked us all off our feet with his bold and funny performance on his first Friday in the class. He showed us more about who he really was in those few minutes than he had all the rest of the days he’d spent in the classroom with us. He was well and truly a part of our community after that day. I remembered so many moments in the second half of the year when a student would ask to perform a poem they themselves had written. Yes, yes, YES!
Half a shelf of books remain with me: the first copy of a book eventually replaced three times because of its popularity (we loved calling out, “Who has A BAD CASE OF THE GIGGLES??”), books by poets who are personal friends, books that have poems that still speak to me as an adult reader/poet.
There are seven boxes of poetry books ready to go to the school library where the bulk of the rest of my classroom collection of books now lives — a library that was a desert when my friend began working there, but through which she has transformed the entire school. My poetry books will go to her library and to the classroom libraries throughout her school where they will be read and loved once again.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
I used to start each Wordle game with the same word (adieu) to check for vowels. I also used to care deeply about my streak. Dialing back the time I spend on my phone, mostly thanks to the hellscape known as the news, has cured me of the need to Wordle every single day.
I’ve also learned from Molly the joy of starting every day with a different word, a set-the-tone word, or a hopeful word, or a just plain random word. Last Friday, I opened the blind on the east window in my office, the one to the right of my desk, and was greeted with yet another gorgeous sunrise.
First try: OPENS, and I get the P yellow and the E green. Hmm…let’s try P as the first letter and a blend…PL would work. Then the E, and let’s check another vowel…PLEA…can’t be please, that’s too long. How about PLEAD?
Whelp, the P is correct as the first letter, and I still have E in the middle spot. What other vowels could I use? PIE…what starts with PIE? I know the Wordle puzzle makers often like to try to trick us with two of the same letter, so what starts with PIE and ends with E? PIECE?
YES! I got it in three. I don’t always write a Wordle poem, but if I solve it in three tries, a haiku is mandatory.
battered heart opens pleads for a brief respite piece of joy arrives
The email from The Academy of American Poets (poets.org) told me “Get Ready For National Poetry Month!”
They read my mind. I’ve been auditioning ideas for the past several days:
Revisit favorite poetry books from my classroom collection before I donate them? (No, I’d rather get the books in the hands of young readers BEFORE April begins.)
Wordle poems? (No, too unpredictable and often too goofy or trivial.)
Response to the news? (No. Just…no. No matter how important it is to witness the horrors, this would be way too depressing.)
Nature poems inspired by Mary Oliver’s “Pay attention. / Be astonished. / Tell about it.”? (That I could do.)
Devote the month to a form? (I’ve done haiku, cheritas, and golden shovels. This is a definite possibility. Maybe acrostics. Then I could respond to the news, AND “Pay attention. / Be astonished. / Tell about it.” with or without a nature theme. Let’s give it a try…)
Yesterday, I had my yearly eye checkup, complete with the near-blindness of the drops that dilate your pupils.
DILATED
Devil’s in the details. Ideally, anyway. But Leave it to the Big Picture Archetype to force us to Try to see everything all at once Even when we hardly Dare to open our eyes.
(c) Mary Lee Hahn, 2025 draft
Janice has this week’s Poetry Friday roundup at Salt City Verse.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
As I get ready to cook dinner, I chuckle to myself remembering what a struggle it was for mom to come up with meal ideas. We were absolutely no help when she asked what she should cook. The irony is that mom was a foodie. She loved the trips to Denver with her friends to go out to eat and see a show. She was always up for trying new foods, and she instilled the spirit of adventurous eating in my brother and me. We ate lima beans and Brussels sprouts, mangos and fresh coconut, and the best homemade Roquefort salad dressing I’ve ever had. Recipes from my childhood remain in rotation with new favorites: broccoli cheese soup (with bacon), cheesy beans and rice, chicken and wild rice, Lubbers Lounge LuLu, chili bean tostadas, and hamburger cobbler, to name a few. Thanks to mom, I never struggle to know what to cook for dinner.
Mom was a collector. She especially loved miniatures and antique glassware. But she also loved Boyd Bears, Hallmark ornaments, and apparently, scissors. I have her pinking shears and fabric shears, two smaller pairs of sewing scissors, the shears she used to cut hair, several pairs of our childhood scissors, multiple embroidery scissors, various manicure scissors including our baby fingernail scissors, and, naturally, a miniature pair of scissors.
Mom was an avid reader. She and a friend would go to the library sale every year and she’d come home with multiple grocery sacks full of books. She had a clever system for making sure she didn’t accidentally re-buy a book she’d already read. Inside the back cover of the myriad paperback mysteries she read, she’d pencil her initials. Then, when the sacks of library sale books had all been read, they were re-donated to the library. At the library sale, the back cover of each book was checked before the book was added to the sack of purchases.
Mom was an amazing seamstress, a devoted volunteer (Cub Scouts, swim meets, Bible School, reading buddy), and a creative gardener (she grew asparagus and tried her hand at breeding iris).
Most of all, mom was a great mom. She worked selflessly to make sure we had more and better than she did growing up. She died on March 11, 2017, just a few months before her 90th birthday.
Dad died on March 12, 1994. I still wonder if mom held on trying to make it to March 12, as if there were a special portal on that day that would take her straight to dad. She spent the final 23 years of her life without him. He was only 67 when he died and I had just started to get to know him adult-to-adult. As I now approach the age he was when he died (mom was the same age), I have a much greater empathy for her pain and her long years of loneliness.
My primary childhood memory of dad is that he was always working. He was the parts manager of the John Deere implement store and the needs of the local farmers, especially at harvest times, kept him behind the parts counter for long hours. I remember visiting him at work during Girl Scout cookie sales season and how special it was that he took time away from the parts counter to escort me to the “foreign” world of the tractor mechanics to sell my cookies.
When he wasn’t at work, dad was working in the yard. He was proud of the lawn and the trees he managed to grow in the arid high plains. When we wasn’t working in the yard, he was reading the paper, Popular Mechanics, or Smithsonian Magazine. While mom was the actively involved parent, dad was the rock of quiet strength.
There are more memories of each of them, of course. So many more. This slice barely skims the surface. If I could give them a message as I pause on March 11th and 12th, it would be a message of gratitude for my life, and to let them know that they remain an integral part of who I am and who I continue to become.
You’ve Got This! by Lindsay Bonilla illustrated by Keisha Morris Holiday House, 2024
We all need some encouragement at times. Life can be hard.
Whether it’s learning to ride a bike…
…or taking a test…
…it helps when there’s someone there who cheers us on with, “YOU’VE GOT THIS.”
Stepping out on stage? Getting a shot? Standing up to bullies? Admitting your mistakes? YOU’VE GOT THIS!
But the best part is
This book, with its catchy rhyming text, was made for the beginning of the school year (and frequent re-reads thereafter), the week before state tests, graduations (all ages and stages), and for anyone who needs a reminder that you’re there for them, believe in them, are rooting for them.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
There was a hit-and-run vehicular homicide on the street in front of our house last week.
An SUV hit one of our neighbors and took off without checking to see if she was okay. She was not. The Division of Wildlife was called, who redirected the call to the police. Two squad cars came. A shot was fired. A body was removed. Her herd came back that evening to check on her, but she was gone.
A couple of weeks ago, it was The Squirrel With The Short Tail who I found murdered in the street in front of our house. She received a solemn trashcan funeral and a prayer for the forgiveness of humans in too big of a hurry to let little ones get across the street to the Burr Oak Buffet. With sassy Short Tail gone the squirrel crew who cleans up under our bird feeder was a little lost before they finally held auditions for Big Boss Squirrel.
In happier news, the hawks who sit on the power lines that run alongside the railroad tracks up the block are still helping to keep the population of rodents in check (cycle of life, not murder), and the mockingbird who flits from the woods at Bull Moose Run to those same power lines (further down the road) is still flitting. My nose tells me that our skunk friends are starting to wake up, and the chipmunks have come out from under our neighbor’s fence to hide in our woodpile between seed-grabbing forays under the bird feeder when the squirrels aren’t looking. The birds are getting loud — wrens, chickadees, cardinals, downies and hairies and flickers, robins, nuthatches, titmice, finches, and even still a few juncos. A couple of the turkey buzzards are back from their vacation down south. Most are waiting until it’s warmer. This week, friends. This week. Soon it will be time to take the two black swallowtail chrysalises out of the garage and welcome the first butterflies of the summer to fly free and help to hold off their Lepidoptiral decline.
We love our more-than-human* neighbors. Can you tell?
*The phrase “more than human” is borrowed from Robin Wall Kimmerer, author of BRAIDING SWEETGRASS and explained nicely here.
4 cakes compressed yeast Almost a century separates us and yet time compresses – you are here with me in my kitchen.
1 cup lukewarm water I cup my hands around the story that you once held infant me.
6 tablespoons sugar It would have sweetened our lives had the car wreck not happened – my father anchored by family my mother loved as a daughter we children connected to ancestors
1 qt. skimmed milk but all those possibilities were skimmed away like the thick, rich cream that rises to the top of the morning milking brought straight to the kitchen from the barn.
4 tablespoons shortening I made your bread once for Dad, attempting to shorten the distance that had formed between us. It was good, he said, but
about 14 ¼ cups Mother’s Best not the same as yours.
7 ½ teaspoons salt It’s not the same as yours, but this three-rise half-day project is as close as I’ll ever get to the flavor of your love, Grandma Hahn.
Molly challenged the Inklings to write Hermit Crab poems this month. Think of the form as a poem that climbs into the shell of another kind of writing. A little bit mind-bending at first, but if you find the right “shell,” you’ll be off and writing.
As for the recipe, yes, this is bread I bake every few weeks. I can’t remember the last time we bought bread in a store. And no, I do not bake in that volume! I cut the recipe in half and make two loaves. I use granular yeast, Snowville Creamery whole milk to come close to “skimmed” milk, and I’ve never been able to find Mother’s Best flour, so I make do with King Arthur.
I can’t wait to see what the others came up with this month! Thanks for the great challenge, Molly! Yes, I do realize that this is the second Inkling challenge in a row that has resulted in a bread poem. No, I’m not going for a trifecta, though you just never know…
Here’s what the rest of the Inklings came up with, if life gave them the elbow room this month to write:
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
I bought my first 10-year diary in 2001. Each page is the same day through the decade, with about an inch of space to write a snapshot of that day in that year. In 2023, I had to switch to a 5-year diary because the original company folded. In 2028, I’ll likely make my own, because you can probably guess from which online store I ordered the current volume. But I digress. Let’s take a little trip through history and find out what March 5 was like for me for the past 23 years.
2001 PMS. Definitely a lifetime ago. 2002 Proficiency Tests. Which have morphed again and again… 2003 International Day of Poets Against the War. Went to a reading at the UU Church. Good reminder that we’ve never stopped working for a better world. It’s just way closer to home now and way more dangerous. 2004 74°. The bird clock fell. New trauma for Troy. I’m sticking a pin in this one so I can write a whole slice about Troy and/or the bird clock. Stay tuned. 2005 Snow. 2006 Dog play with Bender. This brings back bittersweet memories of our dog Bess and her buddy Bender. Another future slice. 2008 Snow and ice. 2009 Gave up on science and popped popcorn at the end of the day. The push-push-push can wait until next week. Yes, I kept a popcorn popper, oil, salt, and popcorn in my classroom for most of my career. Yes, I often needed the treat and the break from routine as much as my students did. 2010 Took a spinning class at McConnell. Another marker of a lifetime ago. 2013 I hate my job. There were definitely days like that. But luckily, more of the “I love my job” kind. 2014 Signs of spring in the change of light at the end of my 6am walk and in the tornado drill. 2015 I have poems in 3 anthologies: Poetry Friday Anthology for Celebrations, Dear Tomato, and the National Geographic Book of Nature Poetry. 2016 Cake baking day. Maybe I’ll write a slice about the birthday tradition of my three-layer from-scratch chocolate cake… 2017 Waited until 2:00 for the PT to come check for swallowing. Mom was in the ICU. Hard memories. My brother had gone back home. I was in limbo. Six days later, Mom was gone. 2018 Book Club at City BBQ. Elinor Oliphant. So many book club memories! Some of the core group has been together since 1991! 2019 I’ll keep a gratitude journal for Lent. For so many years my college friend and I have cheered each other on as we set goals for Lent. I’m going to pass this year. It’s enough to keep up with the 100 Day Stitchbook Challenge and Slice of Life! I have even quietly let go of the Stafford Challenge. There are only so many hours in a day! 2020 Nothing noted on this date in 2020. One week later, it was announced that schools would shut down. 2021 Lost two more to hybrid. I was an online teacher in 20-21. In the spring after the COVID shutdowns, things were starting to loosen up a bit. Some learners really needed to be back in and in-person setting. 2022 75° 2023 Bluebells are pushing up, there was a bee on one of the new hellebores. 2024 I broke the bathroom glass. I figured it would happen sooner or later. Almost every day I told myself to be careful, that it was risky to have a glass glass on the vanity. This was the day I bumped it and it fell into the sink and shattered. It was a glass that I had snuck out of a bar when I was an undergraduate. Moral of the story: nothing lasts forever.
Which is also the moral of the story of keeping a daily diary of snapshots of life. Except it’s not, really. The moral of the daily diary is that each day and each year have a warp of strands that are core to who we are. This warp is woven with an ever-changing weft of experiences that come and go, making each of us a tapestry.
A(nother) Year of Reading 