Hi All... I have struggled to write poems lately. Maybe you have times like that also. But recently I began reading A Primer for Poets and Readers of Poetry by Gregory Orr, and I found his approach so interesting that I have been able to try some of his challenges. So... without further ado... here is my poem... based on a memory of me and my father. It may amuse you to know that I ended up being the shortest of my siblings, just 5'2" in my prime.
Shooting Hoops
I could smell his sweat as we stood
side by side on the driveway
Watch how I stand, he said
The ball swished through the net
I took the same wide-leg stance
heaved the ball and...
it fell short... Try again,
throw harder, let it go just so...
Me with both hands on the pebbly ball
Bend at the waist and swing up
When I made my first basket
sparks lit his eyes... That's it!
We practiced 'til streetlights came on
Mosquitos buzzing in the sultry night
He teaching hoops to his youngest daughter
Me, just a squirt, really trying.
© Karen Eastlund
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Such a sweet poem! I love how pleased your dad is, and you, "just a squirt, really trying."
ReplyDeleteThis is a lovely memory you've captured. And yes, I can relate to having times when I struggle to write. I'm just now trying to reestablish the habit.
ReplyDeleteSuch a great memory!
ReplyDeleteYes, I struggle sometimes. What a long 'almost' year it has been! I'm glad to see you back, Karen, and love reading this memory, the sparks in your father's eyes and you, my favorite, "just a squirt, really trying". I haven't heard that expression for a very long time. It made me smile!
ReplyDeleteLovely, Karen. Such a sweet memory of your father. His smell, the mosquitoes buzzing, the streetlights. Nice poem that evoked a specific moment.
ReplyDeleteWhat a wonderful memory I like “pebbly” ball. There are definitely days of struggle. I wonder if I would be writing as much if I wasn’t in writing and poetry classes.
ReplyDeleteSo much love in this memory, Karen. It's really lovely. And sometime my poetry faucet is just full, ready to pour some forth when I open the tap. But occasionally I turn the tap and...drip...nothing.
ReplyDeleteOh my, Karen - I teared up reading this. My dad used to call me "squirt." What a gift, this memory, so vividly and beautifully captured here.
ReplyDeleteSuch a loving tribute and a wonderful memory. I just now clicked through and read more about your dad and his experience in the 1918 pandemic (I don't know I never read that before!) Thank you for sharing this!
ReplyDeleteWhat a great memoir piece, Karen. I especially liked your last stanza that is rich with emotion.
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