Poems – 9/2020 on

A thought from one of our readers: 

                           Aldo Salvatore Coraggio

I want the earth to become a place where the person is at the center, not profit, a place where the person is worth for his being and for his actions, not for his possessions. 

I am from a tennis town where Palmetto

Championships are still played each May.

Where the Standpipe stands guard over the

small building that once housed the library,

close enough for me to walk for a book.

I am from closed-off streets on Wednesday

afternoons when shops were closed and kids

could skate their cares away around the

town square.

I am from home-made biscuits on the table three

meals a day unless you wanted a slice of

Merita bread to accompany your fresh

vegetables and chicken with gravy,

homemade chow-chow and sweet pickles.

I am from going to church on Sunday morning and

Sunday night with other activities during the

week—First Baptist, then a church

plant—Eastview where I learned to play the

organ. Bible school with glass-bottled Nu-

Grape and Orange Crush iced down in a tin

washtub to drink with your moon pie or

pack of Nabs.

By Betsey Matheny, 

Pegasus Poet and Foothills Writers Guild Member

I Am From:

I am from homemade yeast rolls tied in knots with butter glistening on top.

From King Arthur flour and Fleishman’s active dry yeast in the packets of three connected together side by side.

I am from a two story clapboard house on a deep lot with slate roof, wide porches, and a one car, two strip driveway,

Our house nestled comfortably between neighbors houses much the same.

I am from snowbanks piled up taller than my head on both sides of the street where six to ten kids dug tunnels and made snow forts armed with an arsenal of well made snowballs or ice balls, (depending on the overnight temperatures).

I am from clams roasted on an open fire over a cast-off Ford pick-up tailgate.

From determined, independent folk bent on finding their own way of doing things right.

I am from  Joseph, called “Joe” by everyone who knew him, and Grace Mary, just called “Mom” or “Grandma  Grace” depending on your generation.

I’m from family gatherings where everyone talked at the same time and no one listened.

I’m from listeners who really hear you when you need them to.

I am from “Don’t let this set-back stop you from trying.”

And from “You will find your way through this!”

I’m from Quaker Quarterly Meeting Sunday suppers on the grounds,

And Silent Meetings listening for the still small voice of God.

I am from the Adirondack foothills, great northern baked beans slow cooked in a crock, and Mamie Eisenhower’s Fudge for desert.

I am from the calloused hands and bent shoulders of my grandpa who once deadlifted a boulder three men with crowbars had been unable to budge from the hand shoveled water well they were digging out back.

I am from the log cabin built out of old telephone poles, and a fireplace built of fieldstones gleaned from a tumbled down property line stone wall.

I am from family photos taken outside that same cabin, in front of that massive stone chimney.

From the family reunion pics. and the one proud child with their first catch of fish pics.

From the log cabin, that was a three generation family bonding experience. Every stone of that chimney was mortared in by Joe’s hands and carried there, one wheelbarrow at a time, by my brother, Johnny.

I am from Barnes, Varney, Hall, Smith, Hoague, Superaut, Cooley, Stiles, Jackson, Johnson, and Gailey ancestry. Then I married John Stepp  and doubled my family tree.

I am from Irish, English and French Canadian stock who have been in the Americas since the 1700’s as farmers, laborers, business men, and women of honest labor, and proud service to both community and country.

I am from the first generation in our family to achieve higher education degrees, but certainly not the first to demonstrate creativity. There is an actress, three quilt makers, oil painters, miniature creators, bakers, herbalists, seamstresses, fine cooks and candy makers just to name a few among the women in my pedigree.

Susan B. Stepp, FootHills Writers Guild, Pegasus Poets II

Foundations 

I am from the red clay hills of Georgia 

          near the bustle of Atlanta 

          on the banks of the Flint River 

          where it is still only a stream 

          dammed up by my grandfather 

I have been from south Florida 

          with summer sun all year, 

palm trees, hurricanes, flat land 

citrus plucked fresh off the tree 

sandy soil, ocean breezes, flowers 

I have also been from the hills of north Georgia 

          in a town with one traffic light 

          where strong down-to-earth country folk 

          taught me simple values of rural life: 

          porch sitting and homemade biscuits 

 I am now from South Carolina  

          for over half a century, with 

          roots deep in the Carolina soil 

          surrounded by family, friends, neighbors, 

          former and current students of all sorts 

I am from generations of strong folks 

          who taught me to value life, 

          sunshine, meaningful work 

          honesty, chickens and goats 

          digging in the dirt, rain 

          each other, and every moment 

All these places have brought me to this day 

          and to a deep appreciation of this life. 

          The weaving of my tapestry continues

Mary McAlister, Pegasus Poets and Foothills Writers Guild

I Am From

   By Angela Mason Lowe (11/4/2021)

Pegasus Poets and Foothills Writers Guild

I am from South Carolina’s breath-taking 

            waterfalls and rippling streams

From Oconee’s cloud covered mountains,

            cool and crisp.

I am from a family of bohemians,

             wanderers who paint life in colors

From shades of blue, green, yellow and red.

I am from musical instruments,

            a four-string fiddle and ukulele

From piano keys and guitars

            played by ear.

I am from the rhythm of the drums 

             words of a song

From the healing balm of music.

I’m from the strong and the brave, 

            secure in faith.

From patriots and rebels, 

            immigrants and natives.

I am from the stories behind  

            pictures hung on the wall

From the soldiers of the red, white and blue.

I am from the richness of the dirt 

            plowed by the farmer

From a seed planted, watered, 

            weeded and nurtured.

I am from two hands used for work 

            and gentle caresses

From cotton mill workers and entrepreneurs.

I am from the lessons in life

            taught through hardships and trials.

From sprinkled with laughter,

            smile through the tears.

I am from the lines of a lyrical poem,

            a shy actor on a stage

From rhyme and reason.

I am From 

by Diana Carnes Pegasus Poets and Foothills Writers Guild

I am a slender willow, pliant, bending in the wind

Not an oak whose thick coarse branches would first break before rescind.

I am a fragile lily who wants tucking in at night

But defend my hearth by day and give intruders cause for flight.

My blade is used to slice the haunch or carve my babe a rattle

But do not underestimate its value in a battle.

I hunger with a quest for knowledge – base and elevated –

But no matter how much time I read, my need’s unsatiated.

My bond for daughters, sisters, mothers – is deep and goes unspoken

But with men somehow strange passions flare and nature’s almost…broken.

I am daughter of the daughters of the Amazons of yore

Who first conquered, then enthralled the chosen men whose get they bore.

I am silly when I’m happy and I brood when I am not

But the tie I feel for family just can never be unwrought.

I am From

by Jay Wright: Foothills Writers Guild

I’m from the foothills of Appalachia in northwest Georgia 

   where we feasted on neck-wrung chicken dinners 

   on Sundays after church at Grandma’s. Where we 

   were joined by Preacher Robinson, his family, and 

   other deep-water Baptists. Where Grandma held

   in-home prayer meetings with neighbors on 

   Wednesdays. Where neighbors shared bounty from 

   their red dirt gardens. Where snuff-dipping, gossipy 

   neighborhood women gathered around old wooden

   quilt frames every winter to lovingly create warm,

   beautiful quilts from flour sacks and scraps of clothes

   worn paper thin over time.

I am from a neighborhood of family and friends, 

   Grandpa’s in-home visits by Dr. Allen, fresh-churned 

   butter from Suki’s morning milking, telephone party lines, 

   hours spent in an old tire swing, and home-made 

   ice cream cranked to perfection by us older kids.  

   From a neighborhood where north winds brought the

   stench of paper mills fifty miles away. From a black 

   and white TV that brought Bear Bryant football 

   highlights over a hundred miles away with only 

   a rooftop antenna. The Bear’s still my hero.

I am from a little three-traffic light town full of clothing 

   mills. Where my single mom worked alongside everyone 

   else’s parents. Where there were more mill workers than 

   farmers, more moonshiners than preachers, more barbers 

   than beauticians, far more stick shifts than automatics, 

   and the best kind of teachers.

I am from the foothills of majestic, snow-capped Mt. Etna 

   in Sicily. Where I stood watch from our Naval Air Force 

   base and witnessed Etna’s volcanic eruptions in the distance

   beyond our runways, causing fear and devastation to the

          farmers and their lands. I met people who were poorer, 

          less educated, and more desperate than any I’ve ever

          known before or since.  

Now, I am from Appalachia’s foothills in South Carolina,

   I see mountains on clear days. I’m surrounded by 

   dear, interesting people. God-fearing people. Locals 

   who sound like locals. Transplants who also seem to feel 

   at home here in these foothills.

I AM FROM

I am from praying daily in public school,

From proudly reciting the Pledge of Allegiance to our flag.

I am from jump rope, hopscotch, and tic-tac-toe,

From reading, writing and arithmetic.

I am from black and white television with rabbit ears,

From Mr. Ed the Talking Horse and Captain Kangaroo.

I am from Bible stories in Sunday School,

From singing songs in the Red Back Hymnal.

I am from catching lightning bugs in mason jars,

From swing sets and super slides.

I am from fall fairs held in the cool crisp autumn air,

From excited children waiting for Santa at the end of the Anderson Parade.

I am from picking blackberries fresh on the vine,

From a bowl of cornbread and buttermilk served with a glass of sweet tea.

I am from saying “Yes Mam” and “No Mam”,

From nightly prayers of “Now I lay me down to sleep”.

I am from China tea sets and pretty baby dolls,

From cap guns and holsters and cowboy boots.

I am from sharecroppers to cotton mill hands,

From an “honest days’ work for an honest days’ pay”.

I am from experience and wisdom that can only be gained,

From life’s valuable lessons.

By Ann Ramsey, 

Foothills Writers Guild and Pegasus Poets

I Am From

By Patricial Wood,

Foothills Writers Guild and Pegasus Poets

I am from:

Willow trees by mud-red river.

Arrowheads, fossils and canoes.

Wild honeysuckle by the acre.

Cold Pepsi in glass bottles with peanuts.

I am from:

Outside fish fries and patio barbecues.

Hidden waterfalls, boat rides and water skis.

Bike trails and mountain hikes on footpaths.

I am from:

Sunday dinners at Grandma’s,

Table spilling over with delicious.

Homemade peach ice cream

to tickle your palate.

I am from:

Small community, big family, faithful worshippers.

White country churches with graceful steeples.

A porch full of flowers in summer.

A swing filled with giggling kids.

I Am From the South

I Am From…

Cincy O’Brien

I am from wild, wonderful West Virginia.

I am from a small town that borders the Little Coal River in Boone

County. Days of nostalgia, playing tag and whiffle ball until 

darkness fell over the top of the mountain. The aroma of home 

cooked supper wafted in the air as I came through the front door, 

sweaty, and in need of a hot bath.

I am from the simple life of church on Sundays and Wednesdays,

and revivals in the spring and fall, whether we needed it or not. Our
rhythm of life encouraged cookouts with neighbors, and lazy summers

of doing nothing at all. Pinto beans and cornbread were staples in our

diet, as well as homemade biscuits slathered with real butter and honey.

I am from Saturdays of chores and visits to the bookmobile. Slipping 

into the cool mobile library, the aroma of anticipation washed 

over my ten year old self, holy ground for a book lover.

I am from Goff’s and Bailey’s and sweet memories of Sunday dinners

after church. Arriving at Ma Bailey’s house after the curvy drive on

mountain roads, my taste buds were rewarded with fried chicken and 

mashed potatoes, of which there is no equal. Her gentle spirit and soft 

voice echo in the corridors of memory. Flowerbeds of colorful wildflowers 

decorated her modest yard. Butterflies and bumblebees feasted on yellow,

pink, and purple blooms, a foreshadowing of my future yard.

I am from hillbillies and coal miners, alcoholics, and everything in

between. My people are hard workers, murderers, saints, gamblers,

preachers, and entrepreneurs. We survived floods, coal mining 

strikes, black lung, attempts of suicide, the deaths of children and 

parents, and discovered that the sun eventually slips into the eastern sky.

I am from a lonely world of trauma and death; A place of bondage 

and fear. Escape came in the safety of a counselor’s office.

I am from holy healing and abundant miracles.

I am from a place of longing for what could never be, and a place I 

could never return.

I am from rugged mountains, rippling streams and rivers, and turbid 

mornings.

I am from West by God Virginia, the Hatfield and McCoy’s, and

Take Me Home Country Roads.

I am from wild, wonderful West Virginia.

WHERE I’M FROM

(a poem of remembrance, reckoning, and redemption)

by Connor Patrick Lewis

I am from Southern charm and Yankee brilliance, from a cheerleader who never could quite launch and a charming sailor whose dreams were out of reach.

From “DOH-wugs” and “DAAWwgs”, “you guys” and “y’all”, a buckeye crossed with a Georgia peach.

From debutante meets midshipman, in a storybook romance

In a college town where both were found, their fates entwined with that first dance

From a grandparent on either side who drew their comfort from a bottle

From two lines of men who when they felt hemmed in sought the solace of a throttle

I am from Christmas Eve present assembly and wrapping marathons, and mystery gifts you could only find 

By going on a scavenger hunt, and solving the clues that rhymed.

From a Green Machine, Kick ‘n’ go scooters, and banana-seated bikes by Schwinn.

From travel soccer, t-ball, and pee-wee football (even though I was small & thin),

I am from the red shag carpet where I created new worlds with Legos, matchbox cars, & the Six-Million-Dollar man

From Star Wars figures who lost their light sabers but could just use jiu-jitsu to foil the Dark side’s plan

I am from Narnia, Encyclopedia Brown, the Hardy Boys, & hours spent reading alone

From talent shows and a dance contest, doing disco moves that I learned mainly at other families’ homes.

I am from Cub Scouts and Indian Guides, which is what we called it then

From Pinewood derby cars shaped by other dad’s hands, cuz mine was gone again

I am from promises of trips to the pool–delayed as they both tried to have the last word, while Suz and I sat waiting in the car

From Shirley temples and bowls of cheddar goldfish sitting at the Bur-Mill club bar

From reel-to-reel tapes and 45s with the cool tunes of the day

From slow-dancing and doubles tennis—cuz they once knew how to play

I am from golf lessons from a scratch player who couldn’t teach for shit

From “Dammit Christopher!” and “God…. Bless America” after another wayward hit

I am from a navy officer who turned out not to be much of a gentleman, and a southern belle who didn’t always ring quite true

From verbal volleys and wordless wails, “dark morning” departures fleeing fatherhood fails

From secondhand smoke and firsthand smoke & mirrors– a disappearing dick with a dissociative bent.

From “when in doubt, don’t” (though as it turned out, he did more than a few who I doubt were really “friends”)

I am from too many empty glasses, busted panes, broken vows & shattered dreams

From visiting hours at Charter Mandala, trying to level his extremes

From get the neighbors, call the cops

“Get your father on the phone”

I am from “we have to leave” but “maybe not quite yet—I’m so scared to be alone”

I am from ”don’t you dare” and “you’re just like him” 

From hearing  “You’ve changed…” as a badge of shame (when I think that might have been an okay thing)

From “Bless her heart” and “we just gon’ pray”, to “I don’t know which way to turn,” and “AAaaaayyyyyyy”

I am from my uncle’s nonsense talk like “hence dence,” Epsom salt, and Brother Ben, 

And discovering with surprise how to feast my eyes on the cable channels in his den

From one grandfather’s exhortations to live as a friend to man,  

And the other’s quest to climb the ladder of success, but a drunken wife who foiled that plan.

I am from Grandma’s fried chicken and mac cheese on Monday nights, since most others we ate “on the go”

From cheese toast & bottled cokes, and sweet tea (except when they would try to fool me with sweet & low)

From pies of pecan or apple, cuz you can’t have too many desserts at Thanksgiving or Christmas

From broccoli casserole and Jiffy cornbread and all the covered dishes

I am from Mom’s homemade spaghetti sauce, and quiche Lorraine, and vichyssoise in fancy blue glass bowls that seemed sent straight from heaven

From pop tarts and French bread pizzas, and frying frozen burgers to slather  in Heinz 57

I am from suppers on newspaper in the living room under the glow of the cathode ray

From Different Stokes & Silver Spoons, and Fridays with Gopher and Isaac and the Love Boat Crew, then Mr. Rourke and his man Tattoo.

From Days of Our Lives (they never aged!), & Sold Gold with all the dancers & singers

From SNL (starting way too young and up way too late) with all the bits, routines, and zingers

From “Kill my landlord!” and Buckwheat, “Choppin’ broccoli” and the cat that could drive a car

To writing Lifestyles of the Pure & Righteous, and “Christmas Wherever You Are”

I am from Ducky and from Ferris, from every John Cusack character (but especially the guy with the boombox in the yard

From buddy-cop films and a secret society reading poems in the dark

I am from episcopalian formality & Methodist fervor, from Styrofoam wafers to Wednesday night suppers, and exploring my gifts with words 

From blooming late and “he procrastinates” and longing to be heard

From 11:00 service and youth choir tours and “when can I bring my own bandanna to the MYF hayride?” 

I am from Mom’s knowing looks in the balcony pews when the sermon hit us both just right

From tubing Deep Creek, rafting the Nantahala, and hiking the great smokies trails

From singing for God and pining for girls, centerstage stardom and late night fails 

I am from stolen glances & glancing blows, while tee-totaling out of fear

From tearful confessions and vows to change, and trying not to leer

I am from the clay of southwest Georgia, and the piedmont foothills too

From the heart of Bulldog country though my heart bleeds Carolina blue

I am from “family” with the knowledge that it’s a blessing and a curse

From finding that those who love you most may still have scarred you the worst

I am from a father’s love forgotten, and a Father’s love begotten

For I’ve been both left and hemmed in

From a mother who knew not what she did 

When she pulled me too far in

I am from a long line of strangers, each a prophet in the waiting

With a faith formed deep in the soul of me, from all those worlds creating

From a hope made sure by a word secure

From the only One whose heart can claim to be pure

I am from fire-forged faith—something given not earned

From an ancient source unending

From the way up yonder with a heart prone to wander

And a heart that was made for mending

WHERE I’M FROM

(a poem of remembrance, reckoning, and redemption)

by Connor Patrick Lewis

I am from Southern charm and Yankee brilliance, from a cheerleader who never could quite launch and a charming sailor whose dreams were out of reach.

From “DOH-wugs” and “DAAWwgs”, “you guys” and “y’all”, a buckeye crossed with a Georgia peach.

From debutante meets midshipman, in a storybook romance

In a college town where both were found, their fates entwined with that first dance

From a grandparent on either side who drew their comfort from a bottle

From two lines of men who when they felt hemmed in sought the solace of a throttle

I am from Christmas Eve present assembly and wrapping marathons, and mystery gifts you could only find 

By going on a scavenger hunt, and solving the clues that rhymed.

From a Green Machine, Kick ‘n’ go scooters, and banana-seated bikes by Schwinn.

From travel soccer, t-ball, and pee-wee football (even though I was small & thin),

I am from the red shag carpet where I created new worlds with Legos, matchbox cars, & the Six-Million-Dollar man

From Star Wars figures who lost their light sabers but could just use jiu-jitsu to foil the Dark side’s plan

I am from Narnia, Encyclopedia Brown, the Hardy Boys, & hours spent reading alone

From talent shows and a dance contest, doing disco moves that I learned mainly at other families’ homes.

I am from Cub Scouts and Indian Guides, which is what we called it then

From Pinewood derby cars shaped by other dad’s hands, cuz mine was gone again

I am from promises of trips to the pool–delayed as they both tried to have the last word, while Suz and I sat waiting in the car

From Shirley temples and bowls of cheddar goldfish sitting at the Bur-Mill club bar

From reel-to-reel tapes and 45s with the cool tunes of the day

From slow-dancing and doubles tennis—cuz they once knew how to play

I am from golf lessons from a scratch player who couldn’t teach for shit

From “Dammit Christopher!” and “God…. Bless America” after another wayward hit

I am from a navy officer who turned out not to be much of a gentleman, and a southern belle who didn’t always ring quite true

From verbal volleys and wordless wails, “dark morning” departures fleeing fatherhood fails

From secondhand smoke and firsthand smoke & mirrors– a disappearing dick with a dissociative bent.

From “when in doubt, don’t” (though as it turned out, he did more than a few who I doubt were really “friends”)

I am from too many empty glasses, busted panes, broken vows & shattered dreams

From visiting hours at Charter Mandala, trying to level his extremes

From get the neighbors, call the cops

“Get your father on the phone”

I am from “we have to leave” but “maybe not quite yet—I’m so scared to be alone”

I am from ”don’t you dare” and “you’re just like him” 

From hearing  “You’ve changed…” as a badge of shame (when I think that might have been an okay thing)

From “Bless her heart” and “we just gon’ pray”, to “I don’t know which way to turn,” and “AAaaaayyyyyyy”

I am from my uncle’s nonsense talk like “hence dence,” Epsom salt, and Brother Ben, 

And discovering with surprise how to feast my eyes on the cable channels in his den

From one grandfather’s exhortations to live as a friend to man,  

And the other’s quest to climb the ladder of success, but a drunken wife who foiled that plan.

I am from Grandma’s fried chicken and mac cheese on Monday nights, since most others we ate “on the go”

From cheese toast & bottled cokes, and sweet tea (except when they would try to fool me with sweet & low)

From pies of pecan or apple, cuz you can’t have too many desserts at Thanksgiving or Christmas

From broccoli casserole and Jiffy cornbread and all the covered dishes

I am from Mom’s homemade spaghetti sauce, and quiche Lorraine, and vichyssoise in fancy blue glass bowls that seemed sent straight from heaven

From pop tarts and French bread pizzas, and frying frozen burgers to slather  in Heinz 57

I am from suppers on newspaper in the living room under the glow of the cathode ray

From Different Stokes & Silver Spoons, and Fridays with Gopher and Isaac and the Love Boat Crew, then Mr. Rourke and his man Tattoo.

From Days of Our Lives (they never aged!), & Sold Gold with all the dancers & singers

From SNL (starting way too young and up way too late) with all the bits, routines, and zingers

From “Kill my landlord!” and Buckwheat, “Choppin’ broccoli” and the cat that could drive a car

To writing Lifestyles of the Pure & Righteous, and “Christmas Wherever You Are”

I am from Ducky and from Ferris, from every John Cusack character (but especially the guy with the boombox in the yard

From buddy-cop films and a secret society reading poems in the dark

I am from episcopalian formality & Methodist fervor, from Styrofoam wafers to Wednesday night suppers, and exploring my gifts with words 

From blooming late and “he procrastinates” and longing to be heard

From 11:00 service and youth choir tours and “when can I bring my own bandanna to the MYF hayride?” 

I am from Mom’s knowing looks in the balcony pews when the sermon hit us both just right

From tubing Deep Creek, rafting the Nantahala, and hiking the great smokies trails

From singing for God and pining for girls, centerstage stardom and late night fails 

I am from stolen glances & glancing blows, while tee-totaling out of fear

From tearful confessions and vows to change, and trying not to leer

I am from the clay of southwest Georgia, and the piedmont foothills too

From the heart of Bulldog country though my heart bleeds Carolina blue

I am from “family” with the knowledge that it’s a blessing and a curse

From finding that those who love you most may still have scarred you the worst

I am from a father’s love forgotten, and a Father’s love begotten

For I’ve been both left and hemmed in

From a mother who knew not what she did 

When she pulled me too far in

I am from a long line of strangers, each a prophet in the waiting

With a faith formed deep in the soul of me, from all those worlds creating

From a hope made sure by a word secure

From the only One whose heart can claim to be pure

I am from fire-forged faith—something given not earned

From an ancient source unending

From the way up yonder with a heart prone to wander

And a heart that was made for mending

I Am From

   By Angela Mason Lowe

Pegasus Poets and Foothills Writers Guild

I am from South Carolina’s breath-taking 

            waterfalls and rippling streams

From Oconee’s cloud covered mountains,

            cool and crisp.

I am from a family of bohemians,

             wanderers who paint life in colors

From shades of blue, green, yellow and red.

I am from musical instruments,

            a four-string fiddle and ukulele

From piano keys and guitars

            played by ear.

I am from the rhythm of the drums 

             words of a song

From the healing balm of music.

I’m from the strong and the brave, 

            secure in faith.

From patriots and rebels, 

            immigrants and natives.

I am from the stories behind  

            pictures hung on the wall

From the soldiers of the red, white and blue.

I am from the richness of the dirt 

            plowed by the farmer

From a seed planted, watered, 

            weeded and nurtured.

I am from two hands used for work 

            and gentle caresses

From cotton mill workers and entrepreneurs.

I am from the lessons in life

            taught through hardships and trials.

From sprinkled with laughter,

            smile through the tears.

I am from the lines of a lyrical poem,

            a shy actor on a stage

From rhyme and reason.

Digging

Angela Rigby Doble

I plunge my fork into the black soil,

and lift, and turn, and beat it to fragments,

pulling out horsetail roots. Back-breaking toil.

The sulky earth, disturbed, reveals and then conceals

partying worms of various pink and erotic shades,

making our cultivation possible in secret. 

The fork may spear one, but they are made

to join and divide in strange ways; it will become other worms.

I bend, thrust in the fork, lift, turn and bash the earth,

I, the King’s youngest and most beautiful daughter,

disguised as a peasant-woman, labouring against my birth,

the ancient rules to be broken only by magic.

The ground I am thrashing into shape doesn’t care

who owns it, would yield its fertility

just as gladly to buttercups and knotweed as to the bare

purity of straight lines, parsnips, criss-crossed onions or leeks.

Here in the spell-bound garden invisible birds sing

in the high hedges of thorn, the first bees are seduced 

out into the sunshine. Deep and hard goes the fork, but nothing

else is clear, whether I really am 

that magical daughter who breaks the spell

and wins the kingdom and begins a new reign of peace.

It may even be that another has come, how can I tell,

charming even now the old king and queen to their knees?

Where I’m From

Crystal Rowe

I’m from Georgia red clay;

kudzu creeping over the barren land.

Where towering magnolias 

overwhelm the air with their perfume.

I am from catfish in the backyard pond.

(But please don’t make me touch 

the worms 

that squiggle and squish in my fingers

and smell like dry mud.)

I am from fried okra and peach pie;

potluck jello salads at church picnics.

Left unattended,

warmed by the summer sun.

From Grandma’s homemade cookies 

fresh out of the oven,

dripping with chocolate chips.

I may wear Oxner genes,

(from my dad), 

but I am essentially a Beverage

(like my mom)—

sometimes hot;

sometimes icy cold.

I am a branch of Verla. And Francis too. 

Midwest farmers;

New England coopers;

Tossed together like dry tumbleweeds 

in the wind.

I am from He walks with me 

in the dew-filled garden;

hummed melodies while performing chores.

I’m from Laurel. And Jay. Paula, Amy, April too.

We-can-do-it-on-our-own women; 

Never-rely-on-anyone-but-each-other women.

Women made strong from the consuming 

fires of life.

Where I’m from inspires;

it reminds, and shapes, and forms.

But it does not define.

Tapestry

Sharmen Oswald

I am from piano music floating carelessly through the air,

From singing hymns and tunes to the depths of our being.

I am from the Beatitudes inspiring an attitude of gratitude,

From “America the Beautiful” sung loudly and proudly 

For father and husband,

From “Amazing Grace” sung humbly and reverently for 

Preachers and teachers.

I am from drafty roll-out windows and checkerboard kitchen tile.

From starch water in a coke bottle with a sprinkler top 

And starch-pressed white shirts for Daddy to wear to the bank.

I am from Mama rap, rap, rapping on the typewriter

Lessons for tomorrow’s English class – 

Poetry constructed and destructed, short stories analyzed

And Shakespeare translated.

I am from first job as a soda jerk and “Yes sir” and “Yes ma’am”

And “Please deposit your film here.”

From milkshakes made from scratch,

From pouring small packages of lance peanuts into small coke bottles.

I am from pecan trees that reach their long arms into the sky to

Cradle the sun so that they can yield their bounty in the fall.

From McAlister and Price, Junkins and Garrison, Adams and Jones;

From Mama Mac, Grandmama, Granddaddy 

And a grandfather I never met.

I am from Anderson, Greenville and Leesville, towns imprinted on my soul, 

From summer trips to Murrells Inlet which supplied

Seashells, sharks’ teeth and sunburns.

From classrooms and libraries, stories and poetry; 

From words that cut to the bone and

Words that apply healing salve to the wound.

I am from Civil Rights Marches that unsettled my young mind,

From President John F. Kennedy, Bobby Kennedy 

And Dr. Martin Luther King assassinated, annailated 

That left me wondering who is next. 

I am from Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilts, soft covers for hard times;

From handmade dresses stitched with love and care.

I am from hand-me-downs and photo albums

Chronicling a childhood shared with three siblings.

I am from honesty, hard-work, Do-unto-others-as-you-would-have-done-to-you,

Love-your-neighbor-as-yourself, 

Turn-the-other-cheek.

I am from scraps and threads passed down by generations

Through time and woven together

Into a tapestry called me. 

By Sharmen Oswald  

“Member of Pegasus Poets and Foothills Writers Guild”.

Where I’m From 

By Charles Kinnaird

I am from an old wrought iron floor lamp that I used to stand on 

             and pretend I was a koala bear sitting in a eucalyptus tree;

From white bread and peanut butter.

I am from the little light green asbestos-siding house on top of the hill just up the road              from the fish pond where train comes through.

I am from the grassy field and woodland stream,

And the water oak whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.

I’m from Church every Sunday and hand cranked ice cream in the summer. 

From picking wild plums that grow along dirt roads

And harvesting vegetables from the family garden plot. 

I’m from the small town Baptist preacher and the high school English teacher,

From Sunday afternoon naps and sitting around the kitchen table,

And from trips to the library. 

I’m from “haste makes waste” and “keep your elbows off the table” 

And “Climb, Climb up Sunshine Mountain” that we sang in Sunday school.

I’m from hanging stockings on Christmas Eve. 

I’m from St. Mary’s Hospital and Scots-Irish immigrants of years past who farmed, preached, taught school, did the early shift down at the saw mill, stocked shelves over at             the general store, and worked for Western Union. 

I’m from cotton mill country and field peas with corn bread.

From the Depression-era mechanic who answered a higher call 

and went off to college, not knowing if he would be able to afford the next year’s tuition             – but by George, he did it!

From the elephant bell in the corner of the room that was a wedding gift 

And the old wicker-backed wooden rocker where the grandma I never knew 

Let down her hair in the evening, so they say.

I am from a long line of folks who knew how to keep a good name.

Some were tough as nails

Some were quiet, some were ornery,

Some a bit odd,

But they were all good folks, so they say.

Here is a group of poems from Laura Seguin

Secondary Teacher at A.N.Myer Secondary School

6338 O’Neil St. Niagara Falls, ON, L2J 1M7

Fantastic group!!

I Am From

Reece Dunn

I am from gymnastics leotards

From midnight glow perfume and starbucks pink drinks

I am from the candles my mom always lights, warm, cozy and always smells like the season

I am from sunflowers,

that symbolize my purity, joyfulness and courage 

I’m from pond hockey on Christmas Eve and insane competitiveness

From Susan and Adam

I’m from the camping trips and shifts at the family restaurant 

From the I love you’s and the how was practice

I’m from the Catholic church, baptised at the age of two

I’m from the Netherlands

Homemade mac n cheese, and chocolate chip cookies

From the crazy drives with Lucas 

The mermaid games with Scarlett

The pictures of my family in the waterfall up north, 

Living freely, like the water. 

I am from this moment.

I am From

Quinn Diceienzo

Where I am from (Life)

I am from piano

From Yamaha and Sauter

I am from the suburbs, sturdy, calm, and bright as can be

I am from daisy’s, the white petals flowing in the wind.

I’m from cooking and baking, from Renata and Ricky

I’m from fighters and servers, 

from not taking anything from anyone and always holding your ground

I’m from no holy one, and none representing nor repressing me

I’m from Canada, an Irishman no less

From escaping the soviets in world war 2, to the ruffian Italian, fleeing from a ruthless dictator.

I am from my grandma’s house, which holds countless mementos,

Some holding years of info, slowly piecing our bloodline together.

Secondary I Am From

I am from the suburbs

From birds chirping to squirrels scurrying along the streets I call home

From music and the excellence of classics,

From Frank Sinatra and his son, two of the most influential singers of the 20th century

I am from daisy’s and mums, their pedals floating elegantly in the wind

From moms loving embrace, to grandma cepelinai baking, the smell enchanting the whole apartment

I am from busy cars, the horns-a-honking with impatient drivers inside

From uncles few but smart saying “when the whole world turns their back on you, you turn your back on the world!” 

and, of course, coming to the fact that the quote was from the Lion kind and not from your uncle’s wisdom.

I am from this world we call our reality

 and never caring what anyone says and keeping your head up.

I Am From

Ava Wortel

I  am from bookshelves filled with brilliant literature, from Mr. Clean and lysol wipes. I am from the secret room in the basement (creepy, mysterious, and dark.) I am from begonias, red, white, and pink flowers planted in the front garden. I’m from annual Halloween parties and bad eyesight. From Laura and Kathy. I’m from seasonal photoshoots and reading. From “Make wise choices” and “Eat your vegetables!” I’m from Christmas mornings and Easter dinners. I’m from Ontario and Dutch ancestry, pasta and banana bread. From the time my mom ran her first marathon, from the collection of video games my dad has obtained. On the walls of the stairway are decades worth of photos, each on their own spot on the wall holding wonderful memories.

I Am From

Anonymous

 am from a football

From aero bars and McDonald’s toys

I am from the side of the street with the big fence 

With a peaceful, mature, big backyard

I am from lavender

That smells great and looks stunning

I’m from movies at Christmas and independent family members

From my grandpa and my grandma

I’m from the sounds of swearing and loud noise

From always staying true to myself and being me 

I’m from occasionally going to church and eating the little cookies

I’m from Niagara and Algeria 

I’m from my grandpas polenta and my dads roast beef

From the war my grandpa was in

The days of my dads long hair

The upper attic of my grandparents house

And how much it means to my family

I Am From

Kathryne Dockstader

I am from made up games only the neighborhood kids understand,

From Freezies and front yard sprinklers,

I am from the dark scary streets of my neighborhood,

Scared to walk alone at night, but still feeling safe,

Loud video games and creaking stairs,

I am from neat flower beds, dogs in the frontyard, freshly cut lawns,

A nice place to be during the day, friendly and beautiful,

I’m from Nana’s stuffing and explaining to Nana and Papa why Kookum and Luxote don’t celebrate Thanksgiving or holidays,

From annoying cousins and bragging grandparents,

I’m from racism and hate, being looked at differently or called “Indian,”

I’m from pow wows, Indians tacos, and fry bread,

Mac and cheese, and hot dogs on Sundays,

From yelling and fighting but hugging and forgiving,

The longhouse and messy car rides back home eating corn mush,

Culture and community, my smudge bowl and medicines to keep a good mind and a happy heart. 

I Am From

 – Divya Singh

 am from lines of shiny, glamorous saris

From dosa and idli

I am from rows of marigold flowers, engulfing the house with its addictive smell

I’m from Diwali and surprises

From my mumma’s laughs and my papa’s informative stories

I’m from eating all the ripe mangoes in one day and to fight for what you have and stand your ground

From “Knowledge is your best friend,” and “Bolo sache darbar ki jai!”

I’m from the pujas of every day with the mantras and sweets

I’m from Missisauga’s busy traffic and India’s vaulted alleys, samosas filled with aloo, and spicy butter chicken with naan

From the arguing between my brother and his funny faces

The scolding of my mom when I take the paneer off the table, the mantle full of family photos and baby pictures, hung with my medals for academics and 1st place badges for track-and-field

I’m from these memories, tuning into gold as I live

I Am From

Mckailah Wright

I am from New books, 

From Neilson Chocolate milk Cartons, and Barbie dolls 

I am from the droplets of Niagara Falls, 

loud, crazy 

Beeping cars, fresh water smell, bright lights, sweet candy and rough pavement. 

I am from Pink and Purple Clematis plants, growing along side my house

I am from long road trips and being curious 

From Chirstine and Gloria,

I am from the late night snacks and laughing too loud. 

From “Chocolate milk solves everything” and “Life isn’t a race” 

I’m from no religion, unknown 

I am from Canada Origins, crumbly cakes, potato leek soup.

From the worst cooking grandmather and late nights with my mother. 

Stuffed into a scrapbook, 

showing where I came from. 

I am From

Maia Walker

I am from my favourite pair of fuzzy socks

From my flowery perfume and eos lip balms

I am from the busyness and chaos because of sports all the time

Basketball games, and soccer practices

And the adrenaline I feel while in a team huddle before a big game

I am from sunflowers

That express and reveal my happy, passionate, and bubbly personality

I’m from the tropical Florida breeze I feel rushing through my hair in the summer and the long car rides home listening to music

I’m from my Moms constant support and my Dads encouragement 

From the motivation my sisters give me and the tough-love push from my parents

From the “How was practice?” and the “How did the test go?” 

I’m from my catholic church, where I was baptized 

I’m from Italian heritage with tons of pasta

Pizza, and lasagna

From the late night movies with my family and 

The blaring late night karaoke parties with my sisters

I am from running through the ice cold rain with my best friend at night, freezing and shivering but having no care

I am from the pictures and memories of friends and family that I hold within me that show me what love is.    

–