The final project for my Fall 2013 "Power of Poetry" class was to write a poem informed by a chosen sense of the "everyday". I thought the following was particularly successful (though of course tweakable)—breathtaking:

[No Title: by J.E.]

I travelled standing still on the front steps of my mother’s home.

She was a child, circling around her eleven brothers and sisters, 

her mother, Sadie, called her children inside to eat dinner.  The scrambled

footsteps of uncles and aunts scooted around me, some even

passed through.

It was 1968 I was standing on my mother’s doorstep.

I stared at the muddy dirt road, leading up to the only church within miles.

White and beautiful. I saw Sadie slowly walking up the steps, perhaps

to the pearly gates, singing “Im goin’ up yonder to be with my love.”

Up she went, she never came back down. I see Sadie’s husband behind,

with his scowl, not knowing why he’s going up.

I saw Frances, the aunt full of wisdom, she was the eldest, skipping along the road with her boyfriend. Oh Uncle David how I’ll miss you. I think they saw me, while they were sneaking out at dark. Frances touched every step on her way out, I counted to make sure.

I remained still in my spot on the third step. It was 1960.

 I saw the graveyard, full of life sitting right next to the church. Great uncles and aunts were digging, I thought they were trying to find something. I was hot, Sadie brought me something to drink. She was much younger. I saw her carrying clothes she had pressed, to the neighborhood full of whites, miles away. I waited until she came back, she changed and went to work in the tobacco fields, across from the steps. The third step could see it all, I couldn’t move if I tried.

 Lula, called her children in for dinner, Sadie’s little feet rushed up the stairs, that was the last I saw of Sadie.

It was 1920.

I saw a Sunday morning. The most expensive clothing anyone could find was pressed to their skin. I had on an all black suit, and a black tie. I had on the most expensive thing there. Some people looked at me and whispered, they thought I was at a funeral. They stared at me as they walked down the dirt road, some had shoes, a lot did not. My shoes were polished nailed to the steps of my mother’s house. I could hear the singing from the church from the third step. I heard the preacher’s shout, and I heard the people’s pain. All of this I heard from the third step. How much more I could have heard if only I was one step closer.

I saw the church doors open. The congregation steadily marched to the steps and entered the door. I tried to open it for them, I almost fell, they helped me stand, so that I wouldn’t have to leave the third step. Lula ran to the kitchen, along with other women from the church. I didn’t recognize them, they seemed to know me. They cooked and baked for the whole congregation, while they sat on the dirt road. Some of the kids ran in and out of the cotton and tobacco fields, they were straight across from my third step. They play where they work. They were just kids. So am I, standing on the third step.

Lula is much younger now. It is 1895.

Frederick Douglas died. It rained today, I stood there soaking wet, someone came out of the house with more water on her face than mine. She had to start her 10 hour shift in the field today, at least today she had time to sleep. W.E.B. Dubois came to speak, there was a crowd of people on the steps that looked like me. But he was looking at me. I know because no one else was on the third step. He went to Harvard. Some of the people in the crowd got through middle school. I went to college. No one else was on the third step of my mother’s house.

I saw Harriet Tubman and Truth’s footsteps following behind. I could still trace out their footprints on the road from where I stand, in fact I’m looking at them now. I see this from the third step. I see more of the people that look like me in the field, but I can’t join. How could I? I’m on the third step of my mother’s house.

It is 1840.

I travelled standing still on the front steps of my mother’s home.

I took my last step onto the porch, and slowly turned,

wondering how I was able to take my first two.

I passed by the kitchen, and went to my room.

It was a long day on the steps of my mother’s house.