April is fast coming to a close, and as a final salute to National Poetry Month, I am posting a new poem and a review of a poetry collection. The poem was written in response to a prompt over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, which is fast becoming my favorite site to find other poets and a plethora of unique and thoughtful writing. The poetry collection I received for free over at Goodreads, in exchange for an honest review.

InstaPoetry: 100 words or less, taken from a photo outside my window. 




Perched in her own space, eyes closed
she basks in the morning light, warming her fur
as I write my poem, feeling the soft April breeze
rush in from the open window.
The street is quiet, no cars going past
no children playing, only an occasional chattering
of birds, a light rustling of leaves
sounds of motors whirring on distant roads.
She opens one eye, looks up at my camera
stretches her face to mine, meows, hops down
stalking towards the front door, tail upright
telling me to end my poem and let her out
into the glorious sunshine.

Copyright April 29 2016 Stacie Eirich

Thanks for visiting my blog — Have a wonderful weekend, and I’ll see you on the flip side. Stacie

I come from

I wrote today’s poem in response to a writing prompt called “Where do I come from?” over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads The prompt idea came from the video above – a beautiful trailer for the documentary film We Are Poets. The prompt is one of many you can find there — part of an ongoing write-a-poem-a-day series during April for National Poetry Month.

I come from 

I come from flat lands, rows of corn in endless open fields
dark brown, rich soil and maple trees,
clear blue skies, puffy white cotton clouds, red Cardinal birds
sticky, hot humid summers, nights spent chasing fireflies
bomb pops and drippy Dairy Queen cones
“Shake your love” and “I think were alone now” on my hot pink cassette radio
metal swing sets and square swimming pools
games of Mother May I, hopscotch and kickball
freezing cold winters with frozen icicles, five foot snow drifts blocking the drive
sliding down mountains of white, tasting cold flakes and building fat snowmen
I come from Childhood and Home.
I come from heavy backstage curtains, dusty mustard yellow
a stage, warping from asbestos in the roof above
acoustic guitars, black and white piano keys
sheets upon sheets of lined staff paper, hymnals and black folders
hours upon hours of rehearsal, warm bottles of throat tea
I come from the Stage and Music.
I come from paperbacks and hardbacks, textbooks, bibles
memoirs and fantasies and adventures
journal pages smudged with pencil, stained with ink
jumbled thoughts, feelings, metaphors, sonnets – poems
I come from Stories and Dreams.
I come from the campus quad, broad sidewalks amongst oak trees
large, weathered buildings with small windows, claustrophobic practice rooms
a stone castle filled with strings and brass
nights spent in library shelves, studying in partitioned desks
sentences, phrases, quotes, paragraphs parceled together into
drafts – personal narratives, persuasive essays, critical analysis
I come from Study and Knowledge.
I come from a mother who packed lunches, drove to dance class
cheered at every performance, sewed clothes and colored pictures
a father who played Springsteen and Mellencamp, strummed his guitar
helped me with math homework, mowed lawn, washed cars and always 
kissed me goodnight.
I come from Family and Love.