YOU CAN'T ORDER A POEM

Hello Poetry Friday Friends!

Teaching Authors’ topic this round is “favorite historical fiction or nonfiction related to American history.” 

Esther starts us out with Those Red, White, and Blue oldies but goodies!

Carmela Martino is Recommending a new novel for America 250

Zeena asks, Who Writes History?

Bobbi writes about how All History is a Story

Mary Ann addressed The Dark Side of Historical Fiction

I was hoping I could write about a book I’ve read this year for NCTE's Poetry Awards Committee. But it can’t be one of this year’s books, as we’re not allowed to post about books we’re currently judging until the awards have been announced at the conference in Philadelphia this November (which will be my 3rd and last year on this committee)

I tried writing two posts...one was about the powerful influence the book THE GREAT PEACE MARCH  by Franklin Folsom and Connie Fledderjohann had on me.

The other was about the huge influence this book had on America and on me, personally: SUGAR BLUES by William Dufty .

I tried, folks...I really did. But in the end, nothing came together. 

Why? Because I've raised all 12 of my hands and am over committed, doing too much for the upcoming election and other causes, because, to be honest, I want people to like me. (Please raise your hand if you can relate.)

Image by Παῦλος from Pixabay

Last night I listened to a gentle, calming mediation on the free Insight Timer app: https://insig.ht/7tL1nMyCC6b  called "You Don't Have To Be Strong" taught by Tairo Mundawarara.

At the end, he suggests thanking your furrowed brow, your tight shoulders, and your clenched jaw. 

When I did, I relaxed…and realized that if I just posted a poem, that would be enough.

YOU CAN’T ORDER A POEM!
by April Halprin Wayland
 
I’m standing above it,
pointing right at it,
determined to pry this
stubborn little poem loose
from its cardboard carton…
but it’s no use.
 
“OUT!” I shout
but it grips the sides,
squinching its eyes,
this sour, dour,
fierce little thing
disappears down the box.
 
I sigh.
Close my eyes.
Then I step in.
The little thing is shivering. 
I gingerly offer a memory—
a play dough morning when I was three.
 
The poem smells it warily
then slowly shuffles next to me.
 
I hold it,
rock it,
warm it.
We sit,
just sit.
 
Then,
in time,
I rise
and slowly lead
this trembling poem
 
out of the box.
poem (c) 2026 April Halprin Wayland. All rights reserved.

We all have too much to read, get too many emails, struggle under the weight of too many TO DOs...so thank you very much for reading this post!

Posted with love and hot air balloon-filled hopes,

April
If you're on Instagram, my handle is @aprilwayland

Written with help from our very licky dog, Sadie...

#personification #overcommitted #hope #writingpoetry #TeachingAuthors #Ilovehashtags