From the archives...Where I am From

Sometimes there is nothing new to say. Or too many new things to say. Or the sound of basketballs bouncing in my head. Or a whole lot of coming and going and working and playing. Whatever the reason for this Hoover Dam-sized writer's block, all I have to offer today is a post from the archives. Have you written your own Where I am From poem? If not, there's a link down below.

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Iam from peddle-pushers and freckle-face strawberry,
from Folger’s Instant and Kodak Instamatics.



I am from iris on the walkway, pyracantha for the birds to feast on,
from towering pines for hide  n’ seek,
from chalk and hopscotch and roller skates and four square. 


I am from hardwood floors calling, “Mom’s home!”,
from the sizzling cast iron with pancakes in animal shapes,
from the gas stove going “poof” if you took too long.


I am from the smell of fresh-mown grass and burying yourself in the piles,
from wave chases and sandy PBJs at Natural Bridges,
from olive trees wreaking havoc on the back patio and squirrels chirping
while cats stalk back and forth in front of the picture window. 
From  daffodils in the sandbox every spring.


I am from rare letters, perfect penmanship,
loud snoring and rollicking laughter,
From TWC and Joe and women I did not know,
paths traced from Ireland and Huguenots,
from simple folk and rich relations.


I am from only-the-good-news, weak lungs and prejudice. 
From inner-family squabbles and fierce family loyalty.


I am from “that’s just the way that it’s done” and “say ‘g’ as in Gault”,
from sitting up straight at the table and “run along and play.”


I am from “It Only Takes a Spark”
and I believe in One God the Father Almighty,
from kneelers and stained glass windows. 
I am from the down-the-road youth group where my heart was filled.
From campfire songs and Easter-week service projects.


I am from Fort Collins and Montreal,
Iowa City and Rye, New York. 
From turkey dinners and tuna casserole,
from steak and Yorkshire pudding. 
From holidays with Mom and weekends with Dad.
I am from two different worlds.


From risk-taking men and women who went along,
from Wall Street and the Malibu hills,
from golf course vacations.


I am from Charlotte’s Web and Puff having kittens
while men landed on the moon. 
From quiet walks in the rain and fudge during Wizard of Oz.
I am from Gramps guarding the Christmas tree.


I am from the box of memories deep in Mom’s closet,
from the empty baby book and the stories told by someone else.
I am from best forgotten and moving forward. 


I am from surviving and forgiveness,
from simple pleasures,
from making the best of it.


I am from stubborn determination and new life, from the miracle of joy and stability.

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This is based on the poem Where I'm From by George Ella Lyons.  You can read the entire poem here.


If you would like to write your own, click here for the template.