Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “Yes It Will Rain (or Prayer for Our First Home)” by Patrick Rosal, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about turning a dry little yard into a garden.”

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Monday March 25th at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Yes It Will Rain (or Prayer for Our First Home) by Patrick Rosal

Here is our little yard  

too small            for a pool  
or chickens   let alone 

a game of tag or touch 
football       Then 

again   this stub-  
born patch  

of crabgrass  is just 
big enough      to get down  

flat on our backs 
with eyes wide open    and face 

the whole gray sky  just 
as a good drizzle 

begins                   I know  
we’ve had a monsoon  

of grieving to do  
which is why  

I promise    to lie 
beside you  

for as long as you like  
or need  

We’ll let our elbows 
kiss     under the downpour  

until we’re soaked  
like two huge nets  
                    left  

beside the sea  
whose heavy old

ropes strain  
stout with fish 

If we had to     we could  
feed a multitude  

with our sorrows  
If we had to  

we could name   a loss  
for every other  

drop of rain   All these  
foreign flowers 

you plant from pot  
to plot  

with muddy fingers  
—passion, jasmine, tuberose—  

we’ll sip 
the dew from them  

My darling                here
is the door I promised  

Here
is our broken bowl Here  

                        my hands  
In the home of our dreams  

the windows open  
in every  

weather—doused  
or dry—May we never  

be so parched 

Copyright © 2024 by Patrick Rosal. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 13, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets. 

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we took a close look at “Fruta Fina, Fruta Estraña (Lee Monument) (2022)” by Firelei Báez, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about tasting a strange fruit.”

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Friday March 22nd at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Fruta Fina, Fruta Estraña (Lee Monument) (2022) by Firelei Báez

Credit: © Firelei Báez 2022. Image courtesy the artist and James Cohan, New York. Photos: Jackie Furtado

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we took a close look a short animated story “The Lady From Maine” by Aaron Calafato (writer/performer) and Pete Whitehead (animator).

Our prompt was: “I must love what I do because..”

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Monday March 18th at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read an excerpt from “The Covenant of Water” by Abraham Verghese, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about untying a knot.”

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Friday March 15th at 12pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

The Covenant of Water by Abraham Verghese

The group spent more and more time in the jungle, getting increasingly disillusioned. “Do you know that a fungus called blister blight did more for the class struggle than all the Naxalites put together? It wiped out tea estates. The owners abandoned the land to the tribals. It was their land in the first place.” Lenin said the immensity of the jungle silenced him and his comrades; they hardly spoke to each other.

	“An old tribal in Wayanad taught me how to sling a stone with a slender leader over the lowest branch of the tallest tree. Then, by tying a rope to the leader, I could loop the branch and make a sling for my body. He showed me a special knot, a secret one, that allowed me to pull myself up little by little—the rope locks so you don’t slide down. That friction knot, so hard to learn, is passed down by the tribals from generation to generation. People think of inheritance as being land or money. The old man gave his inheritance to me.”

	The fugitive Lenin winched himself up to the stars. He lived for days in the canopy with mushrooms, tree beetles, rats, songbirds, parrots, and the occasional civet cat to keep him company. “Every tree had its own personality. Their sense of time is different. We think they’re mute, but it’s just that it takes them days to complete a word. You know, Mariamma, in the jungle I understood my failing, my human limitation. It is to be consumed by one fixed idea. Then another. And another. Like walking in a straight line. Wanting to be a priest. Than a Naxalite. But in nature, one fixed idea is unnatural. Or rather, the one idea, the only idea is life itself. Just being. Living.

Credit: Verghese, Abraham, The Covenant of Water, Grove Press, NY, copyright 2023, p. 653

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a short story “The Visitor” by Lydia Davis, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about an unspoken social contract.”

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Monday March 11th at 6pm EDT, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

The Visitor by Lydia Davis

Sometime in the early summer, a stranger will come and take up residence in our house.  Although we have not met him, we know he will be bald, incontinent, speechless, and nearly completely unable to help himself.  We don’t know exactly how long he will stay, relying entirely on us for food, clothing, and shelter.
Our situation reminds me that a leathery-skinned old Indian gentleman once spent several months with my sister in London.  At first he slept in a tent in her back yard. Then he moved into the house.  Here he made it his project to rearrange the many books in the house, which were in no particular order.  He decided upon categories—mystery, history, fiction—and surrounded himself with clouds of smoke from his cigarettes as he worked.  He explained his system in correct but halting English to anyone who came into the room.  Several years later he died suddenly and painfully in a London hospital.  For religious reasons, he had refused all treatment.

This Indian visitor of my sister’s also reminds me of another old man—the very old father of a friend of mine.  He had once been a professor of economics.  He was old and deaf even when my friend was a child.  Later he could not contain his urine, laughed wildly and soundlessly during his daughter’s wedding, and when asked to say a few words rose trembling and spoke about Communism.  This man is now in a nursing home.  My friend says he is smaller every year.

Like my friend’s father, our visitor will have to be bathed by us, and will not use the toilet.  We have appointed a small, sunny room for him next to ours, where we will be able to hear him if he needs help during the night.  Some day, he may repay us for all the trouble we will go to, but we don’t really expect it.  Although we have not yet met him, he is one of the few people in the world for whom we would willingly sacrifice almost anything.

Credit: Lydia Davis Collection of stories Can’t and Won’t (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2014). 

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we took a close look at “I thought the streets were paved with gold, 1991″ by Pacita Abad, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about an imaginary place of abundant riches.”

More details will be posted on this session, so check back again!

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Friday March 8th at 12pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

I thought the streets were paved with gold, 1991 by Pacita Abad

Credit: Pacita Abad

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read an excerpt from the memoir “Stay True” by Hua Hsu, posted below.

Our prompt was: “When the needle skipped…”

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Friday March 1st at 12pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

An excerpt from the memoir "Stay True" by Hua Hsu.

You make a world out of the things you buy. Everything you 
pick up is a potential gateway, a tiny, cosmetic change that 
might blossom into an entirely new you. A bold shirt around 
which you base a new personality, an angular coffee table that 
might reboot your whole environment, that one enormous 
novel that all the fashionable English majors carry around. You 
buy things to communicate affiliation to a small tribe, hopeful 
you’ll encounter the only other person in line buying the same 
obscure things as you. Maybe I, too, will become the kind of 
person who has books like Infinite Jest casually strewn on his 
cool, angular coffee table. Maybe I’ll become the kind of per-
son who seems as if he should have that book but choose not 
to. I spent hours at Amoeba Music, walking back and forth in 
the same few sections (“Rock,” “Indie”). There was an entire 
other wing devoted to jazz and something called world music; 
I looked forward to one day becoming the type of person who 
understood these genres and, by extension the world. One day, 
I bought a jungle 12-inch based purely on a description I’d read 
in a magazine. At first, I thought the record was defective, since 
it was nothing but jittery drums and a bass line that kept mak-
ing the needle skip, Where was the rest of the song? But then I 
realized it was supposed to sound this way, that this bass line was 
a portal to somewhere new, and I couldn’t wait to hear more. I 
started picking up rave flyers at coffee shops and record stores. 
It was electrifying to think about how much more music there 
was in the world left to hear.

Credit: Hua Hsu

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read “We Are All in the Dumps with Jack and Guy: Two Nursery Rhymes with Pictures” by Maurice Sendak, posted below.

Our prompt was: “ Write about a home without walls.”

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Monday February 26th at 6pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

“We Are All in the Dumps with Jack and Guy: Two Nursery Rhymes with Pictures” by Maurice Sendak

Credit: Maurice Sendak

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a poem “By the Boulder Cluster the Wind” by A. R. Ammons, posted below.

Our prompt was: “I am shaped by…”

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Friday February 23rd at 12pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

By the Boulder Cluster the Wind by A. R. Ammons

By the boulder cluster the wind
struck up a dust-ghost,
A brothering shade and shadow,
And oh I said
that I could live lively as you
and have
no more to die

and the ghost tore
into a shackling shrub
and failed like sleet,
returning
shape’s interference
to clearing


The dust rearranging
to a new breeze
I gave up
the intermediate
paradise
and said so
all things do misty arisings
mistily depart,
shingling down
the rills and ruffles
of nothing-in-between.

Ammons, A. R. “By the Boulder Cluster the Wind.” 
The Hudson Review, vol. 30, no. 3, 1977, pp. 371–371. 

Thank you to everyone who joined us for this session!

For this session we read a book chapter titled “I’m Losing My Patients ” by Hilton Koppe from One Curious Doctor, posted below.

Our prompt was: “Write about the gift of knowing we are mortal.”

Participants are warmly encouraged to share what you wrote below (“Leave a Reply”), to keep the conversation going here, bearing in mind that the blog of course is a public space where confidentiality is not assured.

Also, we would love to learn more about your experience of these sessions, so if you’re able, please take the time to fill out a follow-up survey of one to two quick questions!

Please join us for our next session Monday February 12th at 6pm EST, with more times listed on our Live Virtual Group Sessions.

I’m Losing My Patients by Hilton Koppe from One Curious Doctor

The blank death certificate sits in front of me.  No matter where a life starts, where it ventures, 
the Medical Certificate of Death is the concluding punctuation mark on a person’s medical 
narrative. 
     I approach the completion of the death certificate with reverence.  My final task in the care of 
a patient.  A moment to pause. Reflect. Say goodbye.  To honour their life within the rigid confines 
of a bureaucratic document.  
     This ritual is becoming increasingly frequent.
     My patients have been growing older with me.  Despite medicine’s advances and my best 
efforts, they are dying.  It is their time.  I’m losing my patients.
     Just last month, I lost three.  Lilly, my oldest patient, was an elegant matriarch.  Each of her 
frequent visits ended with her gently touching my arm and saying, “Bless you, Hilton”.  I had cared 
for her husband Don before his death.  Now it was Lilly’s turn.  Her heart was failing. “I hope that
one night I will go to sleep and wake up dead.  Just like Don did.”  Her wish came true a few days 
ago.  Who’s going to bless me now?
     Len had been a child throughout Germany’s bombing of London.  I had once ruined his 
Christmas by sending him to hospital to have a heart pacemaker inserted.  He would have died 
without it.  He wasn’t ready for that.  The pacemaker kept him going for another decade.  Not 
always easy years.  But “better than the alternative”, as he often said.  Len was a poet.  Each visit 
to me was accompanied by the gift of a poem, “From when the muse was upon me”.  The last 
time I saw him he told me he was feeling better than he had for years.  Another gift.  He woke up 
dead the following week. 
     Joe had been a postman during the times when delivering the mail included many a garden 
path conversation.  Even as his dementia progressed, Joe still enjoyed animated conversations.  I 
loved how his disconnection with the present transported us to a simpler time.  Until that gift too 
was snuffed out by dementia’s relentless march.
     I finish writing the death certificate.  I pause and offer gratitude for the blessings, the poems, 
the conversations and all the other gifts my patients have shared with me, and I walk out to greet 
my next patient.  The waiting room is full.  Many familiar faces look my way.
     I am troubled by a nagging thought, a persistent pestering question.  Who will be next? 


Credit: Hilton Koppe