“What a relief—”
What a relief— to see the early morning sun reflect off the patina and reach the far side of the Boundary Waters. to read the careful inscription written by a stranger, someone foreign they have never met before. to crawl on all fours, desperate for the taste of her, and take their first steps across the promised paved streets of gold. What a relief— to dwell forever in the new world of possibility and no longer take heed in the face of abject tyranny. to watch cowboys stand tall and proud on the big screen and feel protected without having any real reason to. to lay out in lines on the farthest borough's beaches, and watch children turn up sand with their beveled heels. What a relief— to step up to the iron gate and wonder over and over how will we ever reach the other side? to finally acknowledge the lie that has been sold over and over and realize it was never about the streets of gold. Rather, it was in the sun shining over the vast Grand Canyon, and the buck-toothed smile of a child jumping feet-first into a street puddle. What a relief— to watch as the once-broad castle crumbles and pundits stumble, and hope against all hope it will all turn out some brighter shade of okay. to learn the hard lesson that blessings are found in the least-expected things, like good food, fine walks, neighborly kindness, and butterfly wings. to remember what it really is to be from and go to somewhere, and see that no matter the place, a home can still be found there.
“When I Am Old”
When I am old, if I ever am, I hope I still blush in the face of a compliment. I hope I still relish the taste of hot sauce on sunny-side up eggs. I hope I still long to look up at a too-tall skyscraper in wonderment. I hope I still find the strength to stand every once in a while and stretch my legs. I hope lightning somehow strikes my humble life twice. I hope the mountains always appear to me as the mystical beings they are. I hope I will always have the privilege of eating wild rice. I hope I will always appreciate the sight of highway morning glories from the car. I hope my forever home is built strong on the side of a hill. I hope I will surround it with an arboretum's worth of native species. I hope I die surrounded by those who not only say they love me, but will. I hope I don't ever grow past the length and width of precisely what I need.
What is Paint Chip Poetry?
While browsing an art supply store recently, I came across a small game box filled with small paint chips and prompts—simple building blocks with which to create infinite poems and colorful sequences.
I’ve always adored poetry but never felt particularly adept at writing it. This year, I’d like to try and get better. With it being National Poetry Month, I thought it would be a fun writing challenge to use this game box as inspiration to write a brand new poem every day for the entire month of April.
The Rules
I must choose a prompt and four-to-eight paint chips at random. I get a single opportunity to re-draw a sample if I’m not feeling it, but that’s it. Just one. However, I can redraw if I get a repeat.
I must write a poem using the prompt and all of the paint chip words/phrases within the text of the poem. They must be bolded and italicized.
I must post the poem each day to Substack & include a photo of the paint chips in every post.
The repeating what a relief is nice.
What is your preferred hot sauce on your eggs?