This is the first year I have tried the Sealey Challenge. For my faithful readers you know I love challenges and the Sealey Challenge is perfect for me, read a book of poetry everyday in August.
I am halfway through and have discovered some fun benefits of doing this challenge.
The first aspect I noticed by reading a collection of a poet in a day is the power of voice. That magical writing element that connects any writer with their reader, the element that makes that personal connection. By spending a day reading one poet, I got a better feel for their style, their voice. Yes, reading a few poems can hint at what a poet’s voice is like, but being submerged in a full collection reveals a truer sense of who they are.
Connected with voice are the themes and even objects / places that influence a poet. In some ways this has been the coolest benefit of this challenge. I have read classic poets, Nebraska poets, urban writers, and have found myself understanding how a place or event has impacted their view of the world and their poetry. This is the power of reading, but the challenge breaks the habit of just reading a few poems. Kind of like listening to a full album, not just the hit songs of an artist.
The Sealey Challenge has been a great experience so far. Even if you don’t participate in the challenge, when reading poetry find time to spend time reading more than one or two poems. You don’t have to read the whole book, but spending time immersed in their work will allow you to gain a deeper appreciation for the poems and the poet.
I was inspired to write a poem this morning. By posting it here I can no longer submit it to any lit magazines, but I like it so much I still wanted to share it. If you enjoy the poem, please consider sharing it with someone who enjoys poetry, too.
“To the young girl dancing alone in the street waiting for a parade to start”
I am sitting in the dark, just finished a bowl of cereal, Trix if you want to know. I am listening to the rain and thunder. And the lightning strikes flash in the kitchen window.
I am worried. Worried for so many reasons. Worried for so many people. Worried about the days and years ahead. And the lightning strikes flash in the kitchen window.
Yesterday sometimes feels better than today. Tomorrow feels heavy and sticky, like the humidity that will soak my skin on my morning walk. Routines can foster a dread of the unknown, yet that is where we find the edges of who we are.
And the lightning strikes flash in the kitchen window.
I don’t understand so many aspects of this life. How Love never really wins, never lands enough punches to turn the tide. The judges always side with Hate. But when the bell rings, Love finds its legs, making it through another round. But I am tired. The temptation to throw in the towel gets harder to shred.
And the lightning strikes flash in the kitchen window.
I was originally going to title this post as “I attended a funeral on my 28th wedding anniversary while reading poetry.”
I also thought about the title, “What is life if all we do is die?”
Instead I dated the post, because it was yesterday, and now it is a memory. I read a book of poetry, had a lovely dinner with my wife, and have a program from the funeral. I am driven to write a blog post about why any of it matters. (Yes, I thought of writing a poem, but the muse is indicating this is a blog post about connecting dots.)
So let me explain the dots.
First, I am doing the Sealy Challenge: reading a book of poetry everyday in August. Yesterday I read Today Means Amen by Sierra DeMulder. Today I am reading Dragging Sand Creek for Minnows by William Kloefkorn. I’ll come back to the poetry later.
Second, yesterday was our 28th anniversary. We had dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, The Odyssey. (The best bread pudding dessert. It was lemon blueberry this time!) Of course we talked about the last 28 years, but the funeral we attended in the morning was the main conversation topic.
Third dot, the funeral of my wife’s aunt, age 83. She was the youngest of seven children. The church was filled with family. She had 10 children of her own, 27 grandchildren and 38 great-grandchildren. I am always amazed at the size of my wife’s side of our family.
The last page of the program summarized 83 years of her life. There was a table at the luncheon that had photo albums and the wedding album of her aunt’s marriage. Especially at lunch the air was filled with stories, and with tears and hugs.
August 1, 2026, was a day that reinforced the foundation of what this life is really about. Love expressed through living every day.
Here’s what I mean on a deeper level with the three dots. My wife’s aunt’s life was more than the five paragraphs on the back of the program, the family and generations in the church was evidence of what she did, how she lived.
The poems I read, and the ones I’m reading today, gave me a glimpse of the poet’s heart, of their lives. As a poet, I know the vulnerability of writing, of crafting a verse that reflects the heart.
Twenty-eight years of marriage. Our own six children, the ups and downs present in the everyday, the love it takes to build a home, to build a life. It takes time and heart.
There will come a day when someone will try to summarize my years on this earth on the last page of the program for my funeral. There will probably be some photo albums, too. And my children will share stories, and maybe even my best dad jokes or even read some of my poems. But that day will simply be the accumulation of the days I tried my best to live this life with love. Love of the written word. Love of my wife, children, and friends. Love of having ordinary days to show that love.
As a child of the 80’s and a music fan, I know the wonder and addiction of a great one-hit wonder.
A-ha, “Take On Me”
Tommy Tutone, “867-5309 / Jenny”
Big Country, “In a Big Country”
To name just a few. I can give you the first few bars of a one-hit wonder and you would be able to identify it… “We can dance if we want to / We can leave your friends behind.” I know you started to sing this outloud.
As a poet, I could live with having a one-hit wonder poem. I have about 300 poems published in books, unknown amount of original poems submitted for the weekly #BornBattleReady poetry challenge. And the scraps of paper, notebooks, that contain rough drafts and poems that just haven’t found a home and I can confidently say I have over a 1000 poems.
The world of poetry is vast, and many poets, like Emily Dickinson, William Blake, and Henry David Thoreau, just to name a few, became famous after they passed away. I would rather have a one-hit wonder than become famous after death.
No one can predicate a one-hit wonder (or any success for that matter). But if I could choose one poem to be my one-hit wonder I would choose one of my earlier poems, “Air Jordans and Big Gulps.”
“Air Jordans and Big Gulps”
i wear
AIR JORDANS
when I work
the graveyard shift
at 7-11
(24 hour convenience store)
They do not match the Smock
(a dull pepper green)
Or my name tag
(red stickered first name)
“i I.D. it’s my job”
i wear
AIR JORDANS
when I work
cleaning the nacho cheese
and chili dispenser
(free for your chips or dogs)
They do not match the bottles
(40oz. and up)
or the cans
(lined like a library)
“please have I.D. ready”
i wear
AIR JORDANS
when I work
counting cigarette cartons
and filling the shelves
(Camels are on special)
They do not match the coffee
(freshly made every hour)
Or the Styrofoam cups
(one lid fits all sizes)
“Must be 21 or older to purchase alcohol”
I think this poem reflects my style the best. There is a form to the poem, but yet stretches the theme creatively through that form. I do use everyday life as a theme to highlight the depth of living, which this poem does. And it is autobiographical. I still have the first draft of this poem on the inside of a cigarette carton I used to write it on during my graveyard shift.
I have better written poems. I have more heart wrenching poems. I have poems about my family, my children. Poems about fate. Poems written in poetic forms from the 14th century.
But one-hit wonders are powerful, unique, and addictive to listen to… to read in this instant. And I could die happy if this poem was my one-hit wonder.
You may or may not have noticed I did not write a blog post yesterday. I had posted for 11 straight days. WordPress let me know each day what my streak was. And I was so tempted to just write something (I am considering doing a ‘5 I Can’t Live Without’ with books and movies) to keep my streak alive…
But I didn’t.
The streak is over. WordPress’s automated response was quiet yesterday.
Which brings me to a deeper question, why do I write?
At the moment I am at The Blue Moon with my favorite writing drink, a Bizarre Orange Encounter. I am supposed to be working on my novel, but I wrote a poem for the weekly Battle Born poetry challenge. Which I think turned out awesome! And now, I’m writing this blog post as I took a few minutes to watch the traffic inside and outside the coffee shop and started to ponder what I was doing with my writing life.
Part of the tension was my goal of working on my novel but spending time writing a poem. It’s not a bad thing to write the poem, I had the idea and even the poetic form I thought would work bouncing around in my head. The morning has been productive (plus a #blog post to share).
But I will be 110 years old soon (my dad joke, I double my age). In 5th grade I wanted to be a writer. I have been writing ever since, sometimes just to handle the pain in my soul, sometimes to share ideas and help other writers, but mostly whatever the muse hits me with.
Not the most efficient way to build a following for my blog, to complete a novel, or even produce poetry that people read or care about.
To be honest, one of the darker reasons I write is to feel a sense of validation. To be seen. To feel that I am worth, worth something. My psychologist side knows and understands this (for those who don’t know, my first degree is in psychology and I was in grad school to become a psychologist before I totally switched gears).
Last night as I was finishing the dishes thinking about just throwing something up on to my blog to keep the streak alive I realized that I was just trying to get some recognition from a digital source. From a notification that would have a little badge, maybe with an arrow pointing up. The muse was not inspiring me, I was dealing with any of my emotions. I was just going to write because of that small hit of validation that would come because I kept my posting streak alive.
I will always have that tension of trying to achieve my writing goals, poetry, blogs, short stories, and a few novels. The muse is an infuriating source of inspiration, but I love the rush of her touch. And I am working on the aspect of my worth connected with my writing. But maybe it’s part of the writing life when you try to write from your heart, even if it is dealing with the cracks and bruises of life. My writing is me.
Just sharing a song that I’ve been connecting with lately…
transitive verb : to call into question the truth of
noun : a lack of confidence
To me doubt is a heavy stone that often sits on top of my lungs. The weight pushes against my sternum, sending small pulses that make my tear ducts itchy.
In everyday life we all can be plagued with this feeling. Doubts greatest strength is in its ability to make you question any aspect of your life. Your parenting, your skills, your personal growth, your relationships, any aspect of living. Doubt adapts to any situation, which makes it hard to battle. Especially since the fuel it uses comes from the external world, from other people’s opinion and reaction to us, from social media, from the negative bombardment of society.
It all sits so heavy in our chests.
Trust is an antonym to doubt.
According to Merrian-Webster TRUST is defined as
transitive verb : to rely on the truthfulness or accuracy of
noun : assured reliance on the character, ability, strength, or truth of someone or something
To me trust is the foundation I build from the beauty of everyday interactions with loved ones. To live in the talents and dreams I have for my life.
In everyday life we have the opportunity to show our strength, build our character by the way we approach our relationships, to be honest in living according to what we say is valuable. Trust takes work and work is a part of every aspect of our lives. Trust opens up our hearts. It gains power from our talents, from the work we do, and the way we treat others.
I find that doubt gets to me when I am not engaged with my everyday life. When I value other people’s opinions, especially regarding my writing, over the joy of being fully engaged with what I love to do. Doubt is never ending in its attacks or the ways it can find to sit heavy in my chest. But I trust the sunrise. I trust the words I write. I trust in the truth of living by loving every day.
I carried my box back to the car, still full of books, but minus a few bookmarks.
Yesterday I attended an author event, one I have routinely been a part of for the last four summers. There was a big change this year. The event was part of the town’s summer concert series. We were indoors just across from the bandstand. The room was full of indie authors and artists selling their projects. The street was closed off. There were food trucks, games for kids to play. A classic summer time event.
I gave away a few bookmarks.
From what I could tell, there were only two books sold. No artwork left the building.
I drove home contemplating this writing thing.
Now, I did get to talk to people. One person shared her story of losing her mom after reading my poem “While Death Waits.”
But still, the question of what I was doing ran through my head, through my heart. Something I’m pretty sure all indie authors ask at different times.
And deep down I know I will continue to write. I actually have a new collection of poems ready to go, just need to finalize a few things. I’ll keep flinching every time I get a rejection email (read one last Thursday). I am a writer.
Maybe today someone picked up their new bookmark and thought about the poet they met last night… of course they are using it in a book I didn’t write…
I love April. Even though life is busy with teaching, coaching, and just general dadlife, the challenge of writing a poem every day brings a welcomed level of stress. My students know I am a poet, and have asked to hear some of the poetry. I have also had the opportunity to just talk about poetry and creativity with them.
Today, I wrote a poem that was inspired by my walk. I had already composed and shared my poem for the prompt today (which was ‘home’ – you can read it on my X feed). As I reworked a section of the poem, I felt like the poem represented my basic philosophy of poetry. Now, I have written all kinds of poetry, have written in over 100 different forms, but since I have shared my creative process a number of times in the last year, I thought it would be fun to share this poem and explain how it fits my general philosophy of poetry.
Some background first. Some info from the poets I admire.
Robert Frost, states in the preface “The Figure a Poem Makes” that a poem should start in delight but end in wisdom. Later he expands on the point, highlighting how the wisdom is not always grand but the simple depth of living, that a poem “ends in a clarification of life.” If you are a faithful reader of my poems (and even my blog posts) you can see this revelation at the end of many of my works.
Langston Hughes is my favorite poet, and most people don’t know that early in his career he was criticized for what makes his work loved now, the reality of life. Lifting up the working class and street people of Harlem. And bringing them into the discussion of the social issues of our nation. But he also threaded a spiritual aspect into his work. Langston once said that poetry was “the human soul, squeezed like a lemon…” I do not write a lot about social issues, but I do try to squeeze my soul until it forms a poem on the page.
I am also a fan of the Romantic Poets, Wordsworth, Keats, Shelly and the likes. Nature and the common life were driving forces for their poetry, and mine. Which brings me to today. After my walk I sat down on my front step and jotted down the first draft of the following poem (which is presented in its final version).
“April 11, 2026”
The battle between seasons
is taking place on lawns,
yellow brown grass fights for ground
against lush green blades
that are backed up
by bright yellow dandelions.
The air smells of a rain waiting,
a tint of mildew,
heavy and sweet.
While the wind blows
its war horn
from the north,
cold and biting.
Warning that freezing storms
are still possible.
The sky a grey blanket
with no seems to be seen.
—
And I am walking through
the middle of it all.
My heart holds on to winter,
while my mind yearns
for the thaw of spring.
A war between seasons
for the right to call
this day theirs.
This poem, I think, represents my voice well. The first stanza is a picture of the day during my walk. Revealing the tension of the weather during the days between the seasons. There is beauty in nature, a power that touches our souls, no matter what the weather is.
Then in the second stanza I squeezed my soul. Revealed a spiritual tension that I hope connects with the reader. A wisdom that they can read and then say, “I understand that feeling, too.” And with that inspiration to highlight the richness of our everydayness, I used the date.
The one aspect of the poem that is missing from my style is the use of a poetic form. Which I played with the idea, but the poem felt truer as a free verse based poem. And I am learning to trust my poetic instincts.
I hope you enjoyed the new poem and getting to know me a little more as a poet as I shared my poetic philosophy. Here is to a great rest of April and all the poems I will write.
April is National Poetry Month, and many poets write a poem everyday. I am one of those poets. I use the prompt provided on the Writer’s Digest site. I read the prompt in the morning. Let it sit for a while and then find time to write the poem. During that time I also consider different poetic forms to use. I have written three poems so far in forms I’ve never used before. I like using this month to work on my skill set and to experiment a little.
I wrote a poem yesterday (April 7) that I really like. And writing the poem has backstory that highlights the creative process.
The prompt for April 7 was a Two for Tuesday situation: Dawn or/and Dusk. Robert Lee Brewer is the editor for the poetry section for Writer’s Digest. He is the one that provides the prompts, and Tuesdays have always been a double sided prompt.
My first reaction was actually lackluster. Nothing really jumped out at me while I had my morning coffee. I also knew that I would be helping monitor a room for the ACT yesterday. Our school administers the ACT for our juniors every year. My only job is to walk around and make sure ovals are filled in correctly, handle any questions. I don’t even say anything regarding instructions.
As the testing got started I was not thinking about the prompt, instead I had this idea in my mind from a book I recently read, Birds Art Life: A Year of Observation by Kyo Maclear. She ends a chapter with a line about how there is never a day without birds.
As I walked around the room (I walked over 10,000 steps during the ACT) a poem started to take root. During the break I grabbed a piece of paper and got the ideas down. During instructions and the small break I made notes or added lines.
Because I felt like I had different ideas that still connected, I made the poem into a four part work. I was excited to sit down after track practice to write it and share to the community of poets on the Writer’s Digest site (and other social media).
After dinner I announced I would be writing my poem. The family is used to these kind of announcements, it is just our fun way of letting me have time to write. I grabbed my computer, my headphones, and no poem. I searched my computer bag again. I swore I placed the rough draft in my bag. Nothing.
I almost drove back out to school to get it, but I decided to trust my memory and write the next draft. When I got to school this morning, I checked the final draft to the rough draft, it was almost the same poem. There was a line or two that I changed or added but I would have done that anyway. Second (third, fourth…) drafts always have a change, that is the fun part of writing. Trying to bridge the muse with the audience.
Maybe because the poem took extra work, had extra stress, I like this poem. And with that, here is my dawn / dusk poem:
It is all Connected 