Ring, ring, ring!

The results of our telephone game are finally in! For those of you who are newer to this newsletter or missed the relevant posts, I invited community members to participate in a poetic rendition of the telephone game. Here’s how it worked: I wrote a poem and sent it to the first participant on the list, who was then tasked with borrowing at least one phrase, image, or distinctive word from my poem and weaving it into a poem of her own. Her poem was then sent to the next participant with the same instructions. And so on and so forth until we reached this moment and the grand reveal of the full string of poems. Above each poem, you’ll find the name of its writer, hyperlinked to take you to their Substack (if they have one).

Drumroll please . . . Or maybe telephone ring . . .

Idle Wishes (by Lisa Jensen, aka me)

I want to lie down
like a grassy field. 

Let the rain
saturate my soil.

Let the sun tell me
when to grow.

Let the cold come,
or the scorching heat.

Let them kiss me
back to sleep.

I want to believe them
when they say
 
I’ve done enough,

it’s time

to rest.  

A Poem by

A. Wilder Westgate

What might it be like
to lay, as the grass,

to feel the kiss of the sun
and stretch toward it,

to sway with the breeze,
unbothered and unweary,

to rest in the rain, 
let it saturate my soil,

let it satiate my soul --

what might it be like
to feel the purpose of being, 

to feel the peace of being
without purpose, except

being

?

Spring (by

Larry Brickner-Wood

)

Flowers emerge from their long sleep
across the drenched and dreary days of winter,
Cascading colors flowing like snowmelt
dripping down whitecapped peaks
frozen forests, blanketed in snow.

Colors exploding in a feast for the eyes,
tantalizing sound of the word, “spring”
grey skies lifting finally,
experiencing again the kiss of the sun.
Rainbow symphony bringing hope to our hearts.

What might it be like
to feel the coursing of life
coming again to our limbs,
as shadows lift and we dance
across the moonlit meadow. 

Kisses, embraces, holding hands
as if to let go is the last straw
in the resignation to winter.
Rather we bathe in the shower of warmth
Flowing from the dawn of this brand new season.

Mercy in the Turning (by Rebekah Jensen)

There are words you say
without rolling them around
on your palate, words you live
without a second thought.

I have spent twelve full years
in Spring, but only today did I
consider that it is also a verb.
That made me wonder, is it
the pithiest description of what
we the northern creatures
do between March and June?
Is it the Earth’s
clipped instruction for us
as she makes her rounds:
take two and spring?
Is it what I, in full sentience,
demand of myself?
(Okay, that’s enough rest now.
Get to work!)

I don’t know who or what
winds me up,
but I am springing everywhere:
back and forth to the garden,
bouncing between the rows,
soil in my hair, in my clothes,
in my teeth most likely.
It is exhausting and I can’t
stop. At the end of the day,
I do my stretches and
doze off on the floor.

Spring is lovely and I wish
it would last forever, but
frankly that would kill me.
There is mercy in the turning,
mercy in that other verb
that finds us each year:
Fall.

The Named Ones (by

Billy Mann

)

White letters stitched on blue jerseys
For the first time
For the last
For only this Fall
Unsung
Unworthy
Unwanted
Punish this culture that makes men
Wolves
Destroy this hallowed ground that let gods hurt the innocent
Burn this Rome and see the tears of the blameless wet on their cheeks
Law can only try to justify
Law cannot mend
Only God can right ruin
Only Love can defeat death
Love for family
Love for country
Love for dear old State
You stayed for each other
You stayed for us
The named ones
We will remember
The named ones
We will remember 
The named ones 
We will remember

A Haiku by

Chuck

those cool white jerseys

with curly red "W"s.

My team, win or lose

On AYSO (by Steve Salinda aka

TheUltraContemplative

)

Ponytails bobbing in the wind
Little feet, little legs, little sense of strategy
I can coach all I want

But those ponytails
But those little feet, those little legs
Go where they want to go

Run to the ball
Dribble, dribble, dribble
Kick it hard, really hard like you mean it

Take it from her
Don’t be afraid
Be there first

But…

When I care
More than they do
I need to be real

They’re little girls
With little feet, little legs
Little need to win

They run hard
They kick hard
They’re Wonderwomen

Those cool white jerseys 
With curly red "W"s. 
My team, win or lose.

WALKING IN THE WIND (by

Julie Schmidt

)

Forgotten whispers carried along in the breeze. 
Vibrant voices echoing from pasts long gone.
.
My windblown hair ruffled into a bird’s nest.
I pull my jacket in closer like a warm blanket.
.
Resonant sounds of frolic and fun infiltrate my being.
Squeals of joy from leaping into a huge pile of leaves.
Laughter as a kite of dreams soars high into the clouds.
.
Wanting to get away from these mischievous gusts.
I snuggle in tight as I walk amid these bitter gales.  
Yet those forgotten whispers are getting more insistent.
.
That young girl in ponytails from years gone by
is ardently urging me to let go, to play with the wind.

A Poem by

Karri Temple Brackett

I never go out walking after dark 
Streetlights are on, the sun’s already set 
But I had to get away from my own words
And things I said I knew I would regret. 

The night air’s slighter cooler than the day. 
Light winds blow the trees that I walk by. 
Vibrant voices echoing from pasts long gone. 
Remind me of the times I’ve lost my mind. 

Sticks and stones and all that shit need not apply 
When the ones I toss are edged in razor wire. 
I’m all out of excuses it’s just me
That fans the flames of anger to a fire.  

I used to blame the liquor or the wine
When words I threw like daggers split the seams. 
Sobriety aside the jokes on me 
I guess I’m just that mother fucking mean.

A Poem by

Keith Aron

Vibrant voices echoing from pasts long gone
plaguing present from first
blue of dusk til last pink of dawn.
Trespassing, taunting, relentlessly haunting,
waking my dreams and drowsing my thoughts.
Consciousness clotting, nerves tangled with knots,
I plead for release, beg them for respite.
Just a modicum of peace, please.
I am desperate, aggrieved, and unable to believe
what a heart cold with grief cannot hold and
eyes dull with regret cannot see.
These ghosts in my head need me, only me,
to let them go, to set them free.

Photo by Luke Southern on Unsplash

The Prompt

Ring, ring, ring, now it’s your turn! If you’d like a prompt to play with, pick up where we left off with the last poem (even if you’ve already participated in the phone chain). Find a phrase, image, or word that grabs you, and let that be your prompt. What poem wants to emerge? I am so excited to dive into the wide ocean of responses that you share.

Thank you all so much for being here, and double thank you to those of you who bravely took up the pen (and the phone) and participated in this endeavor!

P.S. Who wants in on another round of the telephone game? Maybe in the fall? Let me know in the comments or via DM if you’d like me to put your name on the list.