Poetry Friday: I Am From

Carol, at The Apples in My Orchard, is hosting Poetry Friday this week. She and her workshop students have been looking at various kinds of "I am" poems. So this week I decided to share the latest incarnation of an "I Am From" poem that I recently had to write for a conference. 

I've written a few versions of this, some shorter, some longer. But one thing that never changes? That laughter with my sister. (I didn't get her permission to share her picture, thus her lovely smile.) 😀

I Am From

by Karen Edmisten 

I am from knee socks, Hostess cupcakes, and patent leather Mary Janes worn home from the store, from hollyhock dolls, dandelion bouquets, and lightning bugs in the backyard at dusk. 

I am from Santa Claus, the Easter bunny, and a squishy pillow at the drive-in, a six-year-old’s comfort in the dark cocoon of the car.

I am from “I’m rubber, you’re glue,” and “Nuh-uh is not a word, Karen.” (“Nuh-uh,” I’d retort, “I can make it a word if I want to.”) 

I am from Alaskan glaciers, and the sunrise on the Florida coast, from everywhere and nowhere, the child of a pilot and his bride.

I am from Air Force brats bonding through a shared, strange life, from always being the new kid in class. 

I am from laughing with my sister so hard it makes my stomach hurt. 

I am from the shock of having life turned inside out and upside down, from learning that sometimes things have to be deconstructed before they can be rebuilt. 

I am from celebrating the rebuilding. I am from being remade again and again. 

I am from Tom, and from Emily, Lizzy, and Kate. I am from five other babies I never met (but whom I feel cheering me on daily.) 

I am from bewilderment at the idea that marriage and motherhood could make me happy.

I am from that happiness. 

I am from my discovery of home education. 

I am from Anne-with-an-e, Betsy-Tacy, and Ramona Quimby, from George Eliot, Madeleine L’Engle, and Rumer Godden, from endless authors and perennial poets, from read-alouds, and verse, and the joy of the book log. 

I am from the simplest of pleasures, from dark chocolate, steaming coffee, iced coffee, walking, friends, talking, theater, autumn and spring, and letters. Still letters. 

I am from words, paper, typewriters, desktops, laptops, manuscripts, and books. 

I am from nomads, from possibilities, and from imagination.

I am from a longing for roots, found finally, magically and forever, in everyone and everything I love. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Be sure to stop by Carol's for the round-up. 

Poetry Friday: In the Middle, by Barbara Crooker

The leaves haven't fallen, as Crooker's have in this poem, but a season is turning at our house. 

Atticus has a meeting for school today and returns to work next week. How does August barrel in at such an alarming speed every year? Couldn't it, just once, take its sweet time and meander into town, instead of plowing through and uprooting everything? Time is that strange, wibbly-wobbly* thing and we are somehow always in the middle of it. In honor of Barbara Crooker, this poem, and the arrival of August, maybe today would be a good day to steal some hammock time from Time. 

In the Middle 

by Barbara Crooker 

of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's, 

struggling for balance, juggling time. 

The mantle clock that was my grandfather's 

has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time 

to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still, 

the chimes don't ring. One day I look out the window, 

green summer, the next, the leaves have already fallen, 

...

 (Read the rest here.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Be sure to catch the entire Poetry Friday round-up this week at 

A(nother) Year of Reading, where Mary Lee is adjusting to August and the passage of time 

in her own way, as a newly-retired teacher. 

(Photo thanks to Pixabay.) 

*Thank you, Tenth Doctor, for "wibbly-wobbly":