Poetry Month Day 27: Once Upon A Time

Of the ohsomany
soapboxes I yell from,
there’s one that lies
at the bottom
the one upon which
all others stand

It’s the one I first uncovered
in the dimly-lit museum
at the base of the Gateway Arch
as I listened
rapt
to the storyteller

and I couldn’t even tell you
who it was
and I couldn’t even tell you
what they told
just
that I wanted to be
up THERE
doing THAT

And it was this soapbox
that got me my first teaching job
after the interview was over
when the principal came back into the room
and said
you said you were a storyteller
tell us a story
and so i did

And it is this soapbox
I get to dust off every so often
when I visit a classroom
and share in the magic

And it’s no surprise to me
the way they listen
the way the rowdiest
the goofiest
the trickiest of all to reach
the squiggliest cans of worms
stop to listen
rapt
(I knew they would)

And it’s no surprise when
the struggling readerwriter
stands on that soapbox and
flies
shines
thrives
when it’s their turn
to speak what’s in their bones
(I knew they would)

Poetry Month Day 26: Bouquet, Interrupted

A single dandelion
is just a weed,
poking its spiky leaves
right where it has
no business being

and yet

a field of them
is a wonder to behold,
I thought as I gazed at the
carpet of yellow and green
on my way in from
today’s fire drill.

And then I saw her,
her kindergarten fingers
clutched clumsily
around the stems
she picked
and held while she was in line
and wanted to carry inside
I didn’t see her go in

but

I found these where she had stood.

Did she get bored?
Was she told to leave the outside, outside?
Did someone tease her?
Was she startled when someone said boo?
Was there a grown-up too preoccupied
To see and recognize her gifts?

Perhaps one of those things.
Perhaps any of those things.
We will never know what she intended,
only what she left behind:

glimpses of beauty
yellow, fragrant, withering
along the sidewalk

Sunday Sit-Down #14:

Each Sunday, I’m working my way through my experiences with race. I’ll share stories and memories from throughout my life. I know I’ll encounter moments of growth that I wish I could relive. I’ll also have to think back on choices that I wish I could remake. Come join me each week.

I remember in college
having room in my schedule
for a couple of extra classes
so I signed up for
multi-culti studies

which is where I first learned

about white apologizing
and also what-about-ism
masked as curiosity

and I remember
how hard I worked
to understand criticism of
dominant culture

and I remember I tried so hard
with my Nation of Islam paper
to understand how people could
hate my people
so very much
that I almost explained it away,
rationalized the caricatures
in the Final Call comic strips

but Professor McCarthy said
no
sometimes prejudice is what it is,
regardless of
whether it comes from the disempowered
and I thought

huh

well I guess that’s something new.

And I remember trying to make sure
my student teaching experience
brought questions of diversity past
FOODFOLKSFUN
so we had a debate about immigration
which was actually pretty eye-opening
(as a matter of fact,
so were the swastika doodles
one of my loveys drew in his notebook)

and I also realized
that for most of my kids
the question was not about color of skin
but the freeness of their lunch

(and something tells me
much of that is still the case,
and that if people really figured out
that the shaft is given
to people across the racial rainbow
some folks would
really be in trouble)

so sometimes what they needed was
to keep making their
New Year’s Dragons, their
Kente cloths, their
tissue paper flowers

as long as the love poured free
and so did the morning snacks.

Poetry Month Day 24: Repairing the World

There was a lot that I enjoyed about writing today’s poem. For one, it came as a surprising counterbalance to yesterday’s post. I also gathered inspiration from my time today with an incredible group of educators through the Just Schools Cohort. The work my colleagues do inspires me to do better, to be better.

That, and the fact that I’m a complete math geek at the heart of things. It’s nice when I can flex that muscle every so often.

Those who wish to perfect this world
who wish it to be
smooth and round and beautiful
forget that a perfect sphere is only
a thing
mathematically:

understand. A circle
is but a collection of points,
the round world a fractal consisting of
infinite corners, with
infinite spaces between them

(and no matter how close those points stand,
we can find infinite points between them,
and points between them,
which is why pi is such a big deal anyway)

so maybe the question is not
about making our world
perfect and round

but

whether we can
connect those corners
those tiny spaces
within and
between
our selves
and others,
bending into formation,
connecting
point to
point to
point

and

perhaps,
rather than a sphere,
the shape of a perfect world

is an arc

Poetry Month Day 23: Draft Form

The poem I wanted to write
was an apology to my students
because today I was crabby and impatient

and how at first I thought it was about
technology
(because technology)

and not about how
there is so much about me
that is broken

and not about the outrage
that day after day after day
people are shot first and fought for later

and certainly not about the hopelessness
of knowing there are things I CAN fix
and nobody wants what I’m selling

and I wondered
why was I so angry
I didn’t have a reason to be
because it’s just jamboard and google slides

The poem I wanted to write
was angry
and seething
and resentful
and rage-full

and unwilling to be tamed by words.

Poetry Month Day 21: On Opportunity

They say, sometimes,
that when God closes a door
He opens a window

(and yes I know gender is a construct)

but what I really want to say
is that sometimes
when God closes a door
what’s really meant

is for you to stay at home,
look around this place and say
hey
I kind of like this place
maybe I’ll spruce it up a bit

Poetry Month Day 20: On Storage

This poem is also an entry for the Slice of Life weekly writing challenge. Go give them a visit!

What do you do with all of your ideas,
they wondered
that you gather during the day?

She thought a moment,
pursed her lips
looked real hard to her left
(as if something were there)
then she shrugged her shoulders and said,

Depends.

The idea might be thin and wispy
so I’d carry it like a scrap of paper,
tucking it wherever it might fit best

Or it might be rough and scrabbly,
so I might work it with my hands,
roll it around my brain
until it’s smooth and shiny

For the one that might be handy
I’d plunk it into my pocket
and carry it around
with the keys
and the loose change
and the day’s worries
until I needed it

Some others still
just need to live in my mind,
traveling in and out of rooms
whispering when they want to
and shouting when they must.

Poetry Month Day 19: Litter-ati

Her head is littered
with poetic debris –
random shrapnel of thoughts
the daily barrage of metaphor
that obscures her vision:

the cairn of rocks from her nature walk
how trees grow through fences
(and how they’re like some teachers)
the many places where she stores her ideas
how grief attracts more attention than joy
the waiting-for of lilacs
the student who opens her eyes to hyenas, misunderstood
the giving-away of writing time
(and the pale ritual she’s resigned to)

She can’t not see things as a poet,
without lines and images swirling,
accumulating in staggering piles
so all she can do is
sweep up after herself
or open the door
and let them blow away

Poetry Month Day 18: Poem

Today is a Sunday. Which is traditionally my Sunday Sit-Down day. But it is also April 18. So today, Sunday Sit-down will have to take a proverbial back seat.

Six years ago today, I was with my husband, enjoying a beautiful spring day while working the hostas in the garden. I received a phone call that my brother was in the emergency room in St. Louis, five hours away. Things didn’t look good. I lightening-quick packed a bag and jumped into the car, only to find out he was gone by the time I hit the highway.

After a seemed-like-forever road trip, and after a few heartbreaking hours at my sister-in-law’s house, and a weary, disconsolate landing at my parent’s place, I was alone, silent with my thoughts. Six years ago, on that couch in a darkened living room, I felt myself in the midst of everyone’s else’s grief and sorrow and this poem is what came to me. I’m sharing it again now.

So I heard this story the other day
About a guy
Who saw a lama for his pain.

And the lama
Had trained his heart
To grow big as the sea
So it could shoulder the
Burdens of the suffering
And replace them
With love.

The lama
Asked for the guy’s hands
And took them
Into his
And he asked for the guy’s grief
And took it
Into his heart
And the guy felt better.

I want to do that.

Not to be the guy.

The lama.

Let my heart swell
Limitless
Let love flood.

Place your hands into mine.
I will ask for your pain
And my heart will open wide
Wider
Wider
And swallow your pain
In love.