An Hour with Rupi Kaur

In this season of uncertainty, so many people are sharing their talents with others to provide support. This afternoon, I participated in the poet Rupi Kaur's hour-long writing workshop on Instagram. I was introduced to Rupi's book, the sun and her flowers by a friend. At that time, Rupi's poetry pulled me through a breakup.

Rupi began our session with a quote by author, Flannery O'Connor, who said: "I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say."Instantaneously I was pulled further into the workshop because I connected to O'Connor. Most of the time, I'm able to express myself more easily and honestly when I've put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard.

Working through the three writing prompts, Rupi guided us, nudged, supported, and then cheered as some authors shared their work.

She led us through an exercise in how she creates her spoken word poems. I've decided to share the first draft of my spoken word poem that I wrote during her workshop. The green writing is Rupi's coaching and words, while the gold writing is my poem.

This is a poem I'll go back to revise sometime soon. I've got decisions to make but like the snake idea that I've got going so far. Rupi told us her spoken word poems can take a week or months. She reminded us that sometimes letting things ferment; we can grow more.

At one point, I paused my writing because I looked up from my notebook and noticed that over 9,000 people had joined her live session. What a powerful moment. All the 9,000 participants, sharing this experience of writing together. I wonder what it sounded like in heaven.

Rupi's Instagram story, aka her Live poetry workshop, is available for the next 24 hours on her Instagram so you can enjoy it too. 

Just a little warning that her final prompt would not be appropriate for all ages. 

Online Grocery Ordering Win! A Poem

Ordering groceries
so far in advance is
new to my parents.
This shifted practice
is yet to become
a routine.

We plan meals
a week at a time,
trying to keep them,
Bernie,
and
Maureen,
out of stores
as
much
as
possible.

When we click our final submission,
they wonder,
"Will we get what we need?"
They're learning,
as I am too,
what we really need
to keep our fridge
and pantry stocked.

Our fingers crossed as
we drove to the store
this morning.
The car, quiet.

Upon arrival,
we dialed the number
and gave our family name.

A man, in his 20s,
pushed a cart
toward our car trunk.
We opened it.
He placed bags inside
and closed it.

We drove home,
put on gloves, and
brought the three bags inside.

Success!
Only a few items missing,
and as my dad said,
"We've got more than
enough right now."

Three Letters: A Poem to my Nephew

Three letters.
Scrawled in turquoise
across the white.

E M
G

The slanted lines,
straight strokes, and quick curves
reveal your affection.
My name written by your hand.

In the mail today, I received a thank you note from my nephew.
Wow, how his writing has grown.

Our New Routine: A Poem for my Father

Each day I knock on your
imaginary office door.

My knock is a pause
at the entrance to the sunroom
where I rap my knuckles on
the wooden pillar which
divides the spaces.

"Yes?" you ask from
your caramel recliner. 
You lookup from the
biography you're reading.

"What time do you wanna walk today?"

You repeat my question back to me.

"What time do you wanna go?"

Each morning I share
one or two of the
to-dos from my list
that I'd like to finish
before we depart.
Based on those,
I make my proposal.

"How about 10:30?"

"Yeah, sounds good," you agree.

For the next hour
I bake, read and write
snail mail notes to
faraway friends.

For the next hour
you read, and
solve your crossword puzzle.

At 10:25, we meet.
Each of us bundled.
Ready to brave the
temperatures and wind
knowing these walks
warm our hearts.

Here's To You: A 70th Birthday Toast and Poem for My Mother

* This is a draft of a poem I'm working on to give to my mom on her 70th birthday. 

P.S. If you do know my mom, shhh! This is going to be a surprise. 

Here's to Valentine's Day cross-stitched patterns,

embroidered vests and

stenciled Christmas ornaments

that you created and then 

gifted to your family and friends.

Here's to the sound effects

you create to replace

words because 

your feelings aren't precisely captured

by the current English language.

Here's to the traditions you 

created for our family

like wearing matching Xmas jammies 

before it was cool and

gifting each of us

the perfect children's book

on Christmas Eve.

Here's to your dancing,

which sometimes looks more

like parading

in dramatic fashion

across the living room floor

to take a shower.

Here's to nursery rhymes

sung with your unique lyric changes.

Teaching your grandsons a

new and improved

GMo versions.

Here's to birthdays 

celebrated

with feeling.

To making all of us

feel extra special on the 

anniversary of our birth.

Here's to the snail mail

you sent across oceans

to make my heart physically

feel your love

when I read your note.

Here's to you 

being a caretaker

of Gram, and

GUE and GAD.

Taking time to cherish,

and honor 

and love them

deeply.

Here's to you being

strong,

tall,

and funny.

Here's to 70.

Here's to many more.

Here's to you mom.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Car Window Poetry

The highway's
black surface and
white dashes
pull my eye
forward.

Fighting this
optical illusion,
I turn my head right.

Winter ground.
Golden stalks
jutting from the black soil.
Tracks of plowed lines
making patterns where
green will sprout.

Turning my head back center
my eyes encourage
my hands to stretch
for the white and gray
batting that's escaped from
my grandmother's pillow
and floats across the sky.

All this contrasted
against the blue
shows me that
Mother Nature
is ready to
share spring with us soon.