Today, the prompt over at NaPoWriMo was:
Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on things you remember. Try to focus on specific details, and don’t worry about whether the memories are of important events, or are connected to each other. You could start by adopting Brainard’s uniform habit of starting every line with “I remember,” and then you could either cut out all the instances of “I remember,” or leave them all in, or leave just a few in. At any rate, hopefully you’ll wind up with a poem that is heavy on concrete detail, and which uses that detail as its connective tissue.
Once I began with my stream of memories, I really could have went on and on. It's an idea I will return to later on. But for now here is my poem:
Drinking From the Deep Well of my Memory
I remember paper-lantern moons, or was that fireflies on a summer night shroud in fog?
I remember the smell of potpourri in my grandmothers floral bedroom.
I remember the June Bugs and Jar Flies of my seventh summer.
I remember the intricately-painted miniature furniture of my first dollhouse.
I remember the distinct spice of my uncles country gravy.
I remember sultry summer mornings ripe of dew and purple wildflower in full bloom.
I remember my first paper doll book, the many lives my stock-card lady lived.
I remember the impersonal embarrassment of a high school locker room.
I remember the sweet excitement at the touch of some new lover.
I remember grade school baseball fields and playgrounds.
I remember my mothers deep-fried veggies and cool cucumber.
I remember front-porch wind chimes and sweet tea.
I remember things I'd rather forget sometimes, like mental illness and the scent of funeral flowers.
I remember indifferent gestures from the wanna-be upper-class.
I remember the boring suffering of high school World Civics.
I remember who I was when I was a kid and I wish I cold be her again.
I remember the giddy-smooth feel of a new library book.
I remember playing guns and robbers with the neighborhood boys.
I remember the pregnant possibility of my first college course.
I remember the soft baby hands of my newborn daughter.
I remember oatmeal cookies and middle school home economics.
I remember pop-music cassettes and endless summers.
I remember homemade soup stirred with the love of my father's hands.
I remember my first taste of coffee, sweetened by wafers.
I remember the fresh-cedar smell of a winter wood-stove.
I remember the Halloween that my father dressed me as a pumpkin goblin.
I remember the freedom of dancing in the rain as a kid.
I remember scrapbook stickers and glue on my fingers.
I remember the bright lights of distant dreams that sometimes still feel within reach.