I came in through a dusty little statue and somehow... left wanting to apologize to every bug I’ve ever stepped around badly..! A chore opening into grandmother, Artemis, lost babies, girls in forests, and plastic by the roadside made the whole thing quietly bossy in the best way.
I love your interpretation of Artemis here—shifting her from a symbol of protection to one of fierce independence and self-sufficiency. The line about wanting to guide teenage girls away from their screens and into the "forests of old" is incredibly powerful. We need more of that untamed, protective spirit in the world right now.
Thank you so much for your comments. I've also been working on a poem about Artemis. Something that is challenging traditional poetry formats and mashing it up with essay writing. We shall see 😂
just wanted to say how much these pieces hit me tonight.
Poems 1 and 2 landed strong, but that third one from grandmother… that thing walks in on soft feet and then just stares you down. It’s got that old‑world clarity ... the kind of voice that didn’t waste a syllable because life didn’t give her many to spare.
And that fourth poem ... that one feels like a pulse under the floorboards. A woman asking the world if she’s still alive inside, even while her body keeps moving through the days. That’s a question only someone who’s lived through real loss can write without flinching.
Your grandmother’s voice… she wrote like someone who carried both the ache and the antidote. A woman who knew storms.... but also knew how to stand still in a field and listen for the birdcall that proves the world isn’t done yet.
You’re doing something beautiful here ... letting her speak again, letting her breathe in a century that finally knows how to listen.
Keep bringing her forward. Some voices don’t fade ... they just wait for the right ears.
Steve, your comments give me hope that I am doing a forgotten poet justice. I used to want to not share portions of her poems if I couldn't decipher all the words. But there are so many excerpts that stand alone (all the ones I used in the article) that I decided to just use them that way. If I had one wish, really one that I could be granted, of all the things I'd ask I'd wish to travel back in time as a old lady so I could speak to her endlessly about her life. Grandmother to grandmother. Author to author. Among other lines I will treasure is: "A woman who knew storms.... but also knew how to stand still in a field and listen for the birdcall that proves the world isn’t done yet."
Each time you write to me, you help me see my grandmother with the depth of another reader ... you give me a fresh pair of eyes with which to admire a woman I never knew. Sending endless gratitude for the time you spend with my grandmother and me.
your words this morning felt like someone opening a long‑shut window in an old house. That breeze carried your grandmother again ... not as a relic, but as a woman still mid‑sentence, still shaping the air.
You’re doing far more than “justice” to a forgotten poet. You’re giving her what time tried to take: a reader who listens with her whole chest. A granddaughter who refuses to let the ink fade just because the world wasn’t paying attention when it should have been.
Those fragments you share ... the ones you can decipher and the ones you can’t ... they stand like weathered fence posts on an old property line. Each one marks where she once walked. Each one proves she was here.
And that wish of yours, to go back as an old woman and sit with her, author to author… I felt that. I think she’d recognize you instantly. Not by face, but by the way you lean toward her voice instead of away from it.
As for that line you held onto ... “A woman who knew storms… but also knew how to stand still in a field and listen for the birdcall that proves the world isn’t done yet.”
That’s not just her. That’s you too. You’re carrying her storms and her stillness forward at the same time.
Thank you for letting me walk a few steps with the two of you. It’s an honor to read her through your eyes, and to read you through hers.
Even at a distance, I keep my ear to the quiet ... the truth always whispers before it speaks.
You brought tears to my eyes with this one, so I had to take a break and walk about for a while.
"A granddaughter who refuses to let the ink fade just because the world wasn’t paying attention when it should have been. Those fragments you share ... the ones you can decipher and the ones you can’t ... they stand like weathered fence posts on an old property line. Each one marks where she once walked. "
Thank you isn't sufficient. So I will tell you this: when we have these long-distance conversations, I screen cap everything as illustration and also copy your replies into a Word document to preserve along with the poems and my reflections.
Just wanted you to know that you are part of the treasure chest I will be leaving for future eyes.
“You are part of the treasure chest I will be leaving for future eyes,”
... that’s the kind of line that hits like a soft hammer.
Your words got me leaking a little around the edges… that bayou tide rising because the moon got too close.
I’ve been writing to your grandmother like she’s still standing in the doorway of that old farmhouse, wind in her hair, waiting for someone to notice she was a storm‑walker. And you ... you see that. You see me seeing her. That’s rare.
I’m the one who’s grateful.
Some people leave heirlooms of silver ... you’re building one out of ink, memory, and devotion.
Quietly bossy... Yep sounds like me. It's not where I thought that post would go, but that's where I wound up :-) so I published!
I just love these!!!! 😊😊😊😊😊💜💜💜💜💜💜👏👏👏👏👏
I came in through a dusty little statue and somehow... left wanting to apologize to every bug I’ve ever stepped around badly..! A chore opening into grandmother, Artemis, lost babies, girls in forests, and plastic by the roadside made the whole thing quietly bossy in the best way.
I love your interpretation of Artemis here—shifting her from a symbol of protection to one of fierce independence and self-sufficiency. The line about wanting to guide teenage girls away from their screens and into the "forests of old" is incredibly powerful. We need more of that untamed, protective spirit in the world right now.
Thank you so much for your comments. I've also been working on a poem about Artemis. Something that is challenging traditional poetry formats and mashing it up with essay writing. We shall see 😂
I look forward to it! Keep up the great work!
Dear WFD ,
just wanted to say how much these pieces hit me tonight.
Poems 1 and 2 landed strong, but that third one from grandmother… that thing walks in on soft feet and then just stares you down. It’s got that old‑world clarity ... the kind of voice that didn’t waste a syllable because life didn’t give her many to spare.
And that fourth poem ... that one feels like a pulse under the floorboards. A woman asking the world if she’s still alive inside, even while her body keeps moving through the days. That’s a question only someone who’s lived through real loss can write without flinching.
Your grandmother’s voice… she wrote like someone who carried both the ache and the antidote. A woman who knew storms.... but also knew how to stand still in a field and listen for the birdcall that proves the world isn’t done yet.
You’re doing something beautiful here ... letting her speak again, letting her breathe in a century that finally knows how to listen.
Keep bringing her forward. Some voices don’t fade ... they just wait for the right ears.
Steve
Steve, your comments give me hope that I am doing a forgotten poet justice. I used to want to not share portions of her poems if I couldn't decipher all the words. But there are so many excerpts that stand alone (all the ones I used in the article) that I decided to just use them that way. If I had one wish, really one that I could be granted, of all the things I'd ask I'd wish to travel back in time as a old lady so I could speak to her endlessly about her life. Grandmother to grandmother. Author to author. Among other lines I will treasure is: "A woman who knew storms.... but also knew how to stand still in a field and listen for the birdcall that proves the world isn’t done yet."
Each time you write to me, you help me see my grandmother with the depth of another reader ... you give me a fresh pair of eyes with which to admire a woman I never knew. Sending endless gratitude for the time you spend with my grandmother and me.
WFD,
your words this morning felt like someone opening a long‑shut window in an old house. That breeze carried your grandmother again ... not as a relic, but as a woman still mid‑sentence, still shaping the air.
You’re doing far more than “justice” to a forgotten poet. You’re giving her what time tried to take: a reader who listens with her whole chest. A granddaughter who refuses to let the ink fade just because the world wasn’t paying attention when it should have been.
Those fragments you share ... the ones you can decipher and the ones you can’t ... they stand like weathered fence posts on an old property line. Each one marks where she once walked. Each one proves she was here.
And that wish of yours, to go back as an old woman and sit with her, author to author… I felt that. I think she’d recognize you instantly. Not by face, but by the way you lean toward her voice instead of away from it.
As for that line you held onto ... “A woman who knew storms… but also knew how to stand still in a field and listen for the birdcall that proves the world isn’t done yet.”
That’s not just her. That’s you too. You’re carrying her storms and her stillness forward at the same time.
Thank you for letting me walk a few steps with the two of you. It’s an honor to read her through your eyes, and to read you through hers.
Even at a distance, I keep my ear to the quiet ... the truth always whispers before it speaks.
Steve
You brought tears to my eyes with this one, so I had to take a break and walk about for a while.
"A granddaughter who refuses to let the ink fade just because the world wasn’t paying attention when it should have been. Those fragments you share ... the ones you can decipher and the ones you can’t ... they stand like weathered fence posts on an old property line. Each one marks where she once walked. "
Thank you isn't sufficient. So I will tell you this: when we have these long-distance conversations, I screen cap everything as illustration and also copy your replies into a Word document to preserve along with the poems and my reflections.
Just wanted you to know that you are part of the treasure chest I will be leaving for future eyes.
Lilian
Dear Lilian,
The way you said,
“You are part of the treasure chest I will be leaving for future eyes,”
... that’s the kind of line that hits like a soft hammer.
Your words got me leaking a little around the edges… that bayou tide rising because the moon got too close.
I’ve been writing to your grandmother like she’s still standing in the doorway of that old farmhouse, wind in her hair, waiting for someone to notice she was a storm‑walker. And you ... you see that. You see me seeing her. That’s rare.
I’m the one who’s grateful.
Some people leave heirlooms of silver ... you’re building one out of ink, memory, and devotion.
Hugs from Florida to Texas :-)