a bit of haiku
My colleague’s great-aunt
had a phrase for anyone
with nose out of joint:
Oh, they’ll be all right
after the swellin’ goes down.
—you gotta hope so.
Mad
Fran Haley
This is a rainbow
an acrostic
The Artist’s Inner Dialogue
Today is a
Happy day
I feel it as I
Skip along the sidewalk
I feel like making
Something beautiful with
All kinds of colors
Red orange yellow green blue
And my favorites,
Indigo and violet…
Now I leave my happy beautifulness
By way of chalkdust
Or maybe fairydust
Where you can find it, too
Photo: Margaret Simon. “This Photo Wants to be a Poem,” Reflections on the Teche.
Thank you for the inspiration, Margaret.
Mystery creature
Pleasant evening drive
after a taxing workday
heading to supper
ahead, in the road,
a little creature trotting
like some kind of cat
I said, What IS that?
I can’t tell, said my husband
so sphinx-like, it was
long, low, and silver
big pointy ears, feline grace
canine whiskered face
—oh! we cried, a fox!—
as it vanished, phantom-like,
in the shrouding woods.
We’d have known it right away, had it been red. We see those occasionally. Gray foxes are actually native to the area, however; the red fox didn’t appear in this part of the country until the 1800s. I cannot recall having seen a gray fox before. It was small and lovely, with a grizzled silver coat so prized by hunters. These are the only foxes that can climb trees.
I wonder where our enigmatic gray fox was going on its jaunt along the woodland road just before dusk…and how many more of its kind are about, in the secret places…
Photo: Gray Fox. Keith Wescourt. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0
Nothing shakes the smiling heart
Nothing shakes the smiling heart.—Santosh Kalwar
a pantoum
Nothing shakes the smiling heart
not loss, not fear, not pain
the heart-smile shines ever bright
even in the rain
Not loss, not fear, not pain
despite tales of gloom and doom
even in the rain
the smiling heart does not consume
Despite tales of gloom and doom
it needs no teeth, for
the smiling heart does not consume
while beating its joyful tune
It needs no teeth, for
the heart-smile shines ever bright
while beating its joyful tune
—nothing shakes the smiling heart.
with thanks to Ruth at SOS-Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog for the Kalwar quote along with the invitation to consider a smile and write about it. Note that in addition to the usual definitions of ingesting, buying, using, etc., “consume” can also mean “perish.”
Picture book poem
On the last day of the February Open Write at Ethical ELA, Britt Decker invites participants to write a poem based on a picture book, taking inspiration from beautiful lines, illustrations, or theme.
My little acrostic is inspired by Inky’s Amazing Escape: How a Very Smart Octopus Found His Way Home, by Sy Montgomery (a true story).
*******
The Long-Reaching Tentacle of Adaptability
“Sometimes the keeper gave Inky toys. Inky liked to take apart LEGO blocks, and put them back together. He liked playing with Mr. Potato Head. One time, with his suckers, he pulled off Mr. Potato Head’s eyes and handed them to the starfish in his tank.”
Once upon a time, a
Child yearned
To understand why
Others seem such a
Puzzle
Until she learned
She didn’t have to solve them.
From Inky’s Amazing Escape: How a Very Smart Octopus Found His Way Home, written by Sy Montgomery, illustrated by Amy Schimler-Safford. Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers, New York, 2018.
I am in awe of octopuses. Inky’s story is etched on my heart. There’s something so poignant to me in his giving Mr. Potato Head’s eyes to the starfish.
Palindrome poem
with thanks to Susan Ahlbrand who honored today’s date (2-22-22) by inviting participants to write palindrome poems on Ethical ELA’s Open Write.
Yesterday was a day off for my district. My son brought my little four-month-old granddaughter over for a visit. I wanted to write about these sweet, sweet moments…
Moments with Micah
I would make time stand still
to savor you more
to marvel at the miracle
of your existence
(your dad says
he still can’t believe
you are real).
Every day
you are changing
growing in size
knowing in your eyes
so wonderfully made
rose-satin skin
tiny sweet hands
gripping
my heart.
My heart
gripping
tiny sweet hands
rose-satin skin
so wonderfully made
knowing in your eyes
growing in size—
you are changing
every day.
You are real.
He still can’t believe,
your dad says
of your existence.
To marvel at the miracle
to savor you more
I would make time stand still.
with thanks also to the weekly Slice of Life Story Challenge writing community; writers need places to call home.
Dear Writing poem
Shortly after NBA champion Kobe Bryant died, I watched his film, Dear Basketball, for the first time. I was profoundly moved by his passion for the game and by his gratitude for it. I composed a post afterward, Dear Writing. Today on Ethical ELA’s Open Write, Susan Ahlbrand invites us to write a letter to something we are passionate about, in poetic form.
Here is my first attempt at reworking my letter into an epistolary poem…
Dear Writing,
It is time to tell you
how much you mean to me
for it is more
than ever before.
Let me begin
at the beginning
when you first materialized.
I was, what, about six years old?
I wonder now whether I discovered you
or you discovered me
sitting there at the coffee table
in the living room,
wide-ruled paper in front of me,
a fat pencil in my hand.
All I know is that it began with story.
A pull
a beckoning
a desire
to get what was swirling inside me
onto pages.
By some great alchemy
my blocky letters
erratic spelling
rudimentary sentences
ceased to be merely themselves;
combined, they became something
distinctly Other.
And there you were.
Almost a living, breathing presence.
I didn’t know then
that you’d come to stay
that as I grew
you would grow with me.
That you would, in fact,
grow me,
always pulling me to more.
To think more
explore more
discover more
strive more
play more.
To be more.
Do you remember the diary
Grandma gave me for Christmas
when I was ten or eleven?
The front cover adorned
with an illustration of a little girl
trimmed in pink
complete with brass lock and tiny key.
Do you remember this entry:
I wrote a story and
I hope it will be published…
whatever happened to that diary—?
To that story?
They’re lost in time.
No matter.
I can see that page in my mind to this day
—is it you that keeps this memory alive?
People began to notice our relationship
early on, didn’t they.
Teachers said we were a good thing
and offered tips
on how we could be stronger.
Friends and family told me
to stick with you:
Please keep writing.
I owe them all
for how they shaped
you and me.
Where would I have been without you
in my teenage years?
In the early days
of my marriage?
Those were the poetry years
the journal years
when you let me glimpse
the beautiful inside the uncertain
when you compelled me
to pour out my heart.
You were bigger than
my anguish
my anger
my fear.
You channeled it all,
absorbed it all.
Ever how circuitous the path
how violent the storm
how steep the mountain
how dark the night
how deep the pain
you were there
leading me
to safety
to calm.
Even now, I reach for you
and you are there.
Like the ocean
you bring forth
unexpected treasures
and healing.
When my emotions
and energy are spent
washed clean away,
you reveal over and over
one thing
that always remains:
Hope.
For there’s always more
to the story
to the ones that I create
to the ones that I live.
I think that’s perhaps
the most important lesson
you’ve taught me:
This chapter of life is ending.
A new one is about to begin.
Embrace it.
This is but one
of your extraordinary powers.
Then there is
your amazing ability
to mine my memory…
With you I am any age I ever was.
I sit on my grandfather’s lap once more.
He walks with me, holds my hand.
I hear his voice.
I am in Grandma’s kitchen
while steam fogs the windows
I am in her arms
as she rocks me and sings:
Jesus loves me, this I know…
I see my father’s blue eyes
I hear my mother’s laughter
and the whir of her sewing machine
late into the night.
With you my children are still little
my husband is young
black-haired
healthy
whole
and out on the court
shooting hoops.
And every dog I ever loved
comes bounding back to me
in absolute joy
all my shortcomings
forgiven.
With you, I relive it all.
The parts I am proud of
and the parts I’m not
the moments I cherish
and the ones I survived.
With you, they all become
a celebration
of living,
of learning.
I learned long ago
that I can harness your power
to attack
but you showed me
that this doesn’t bring me peace.
You taught me, instead,
to defend.
Not as a warrior
with drawn sword
but as a careful guardian
of my own mind and heart.
Not by destroying
but by edifying.
You enable me to walk
in another’s shoes
and see through another’s eyes
to understand that fighting
doesn’t move the hearts of others
but story does.
There’s something
of the divine about you.
Marvel of marvels
how a spark
in the human brain
becomes a thought
and a thought
becomes substance
because of you.
Like something from nothing.
Ex nihilo.
It’s how God created,
speaking the world into existence.
With words.
Without limits.
Anything is possible.
Believe.
I believe there’s a sacredness
behind the human spirit’s desperate craving
to create
to express
to be heard…
which brings me back
to six years old
at the table
pencil in my hand.
You will outlive me.
You are my record.
You are what I leave behind.
Let it be the best of me.
Know that you’re an inextricable part
of who I am,
one of my life’s greatest gifts.
Meant to be given.
And so I give you away.
I am grateful beyond words.
I love you.
Fran
One of my many writing notebooks
Ghost-memory poem
with thanks to Glenda Funk for the Open Write prompt on Ethical ELA today: “I invite you to think about the ghosts who appear to you and the ways you learn from and celebrate the lives of those who have passed on, those who now visit us in our memories.”
In the Night
When I crawl into bed
to rest my weary bones at last
I have a sense of her
the way she tucked me in
heard my prayers
kissed my forehead
in successive repetition
soft as wing-flutters
I hear her voice
when the lights go out
and darkness first envelops:
Don’t worry, Honey
in a minute
your eyes will adjust
you’ll be able to see
and I see her
in the night
a drifting wraith
in her thin pale gown
bathed in silver moonlight
floating into Granddaddy’s room
where I sleep
on the little cot by his bed
listening to the rhythms of
his mighty snores
for she always rises
in the darkest part
to check my coverings
sometimes caressing my head
or patting my leg
before drifting back out
to her own room
where snoring
cannot reach
she is never far
even now
and for all the brightness
she brought to my days
she is near, so near,
in the night.
Pedagogy poem
with thanks to Glenda Funk on Ethical ELA’s Open Write today: “What do you owe to pedagogy? Today I’d like us to consider this question and compose a poem in which we explore an idea related to pedagogy, the methods by which we teach, the methods by which we learn. The poem does not necessarily have to be about school. Simply think about teaching and learning as a global phenomenon.”
This is the poem that came today, in reflecting on what I owe to pedagogy… of course, it’s a story-poem…
The Heart of Pedagogy
Little boy in the shop
at Christmastime
spends his money
on a gift for his mom
a matted illustration
of a bird holding a primer
encircled by a flowery heart
and these words:
A teacher
in wisdom and kindness
helps children learn to do
exactly what they thought
could not be done
-Honey, it’s beautiful!
I love it, says his mom,
even though
I am not a teacher
Little boy grins
in his snaggletoothed way:
Yes you are, Mama
She sees the bright belief
there in his face
she cannot bring herself
to diminish it
for maybe she would be a teacher
if only she had finished college
which she does, many years later.
The boy can’t attend
to see her walk across the stage
because he’s taking final exams
at the university
where he’s a history major
-What are you going to do
with that degree?
everyone asks him
-are you going to teach?
No
He’s emphatic:
I do not want to be
a teacher
No
which is, of course,
the path that immediately opens
leading him right back
to the very classroom
where he was a student
where he finds
his old AP history exams
stashed in the cabinet.
The summation of the matter:
we’ve both done
exactly what we thought
could not be done
haven’t we, Boy
for in the end
as in the beginning
teaching is about believing
then in finding
a way.
The Boy’s gift has remained on my bookcase for over two decades. He was in high school when I returned to college. The verse became the foundation of my teaching philosophy as I obtained my degree and additional certifications. It applies even now to the coaching work I do with teachers. As for the Boy: he was a beloved high school history teacher and soccer coach for several years before entering the seminary for divinity degrees and the pastorate. In awe, I watch him teaching his young daughters…and remember.
I want to be the kind of writer…
with thanks to SOS-Sharing Our Stories: Magic in a Blog for the inspiration
I want to be the kind of writer who seizes every moment, carpe momentum, for the meaning it contains, for the uniqueness it brings, for the virtue of its existence and my existence within it, for these are fleeting: my presence of mind and my presence here. I want to the the kind of writer who lets the tap of memory flow full force, who drinks long, deep drafts in thirsty gratitude for every image that lives in the sea of my brain, inside the little seahorse itself. Precious hippocampus, my writer-symbol. I want to be the kind of writer who feeds it, keeps it strong, leaves floodgates open for all that rides the currents of memory, all that rises to the surface, all that washes up like flotsam and jetsam from long ago, even if but random bits of objects or recalled treasure like moments with those I loved and who loved me, still very much alive and real in the iridescent foam bubbling at the edges. I want to be the kind of writer who doesn’t attempt to pin a fragile new idea to the page but who stops to acknowledge it when it appears, makes note of it, gives it room to breathe, to unfurl its wings, for the thing has something to reveal. Yes, I will write to it, write around it, capture it; but softly, without force. Ideas are living things. They are to be nurtured and examined, not hammered and dissected (even in the name of research). I want to be the kind of writer who honors the organic and spiritual nature of the craft and the transcendent power of story in the human heart. It is a matter of mattering. I want to be the kind of writer who spins crystals of my memory, thought, sensation, perception, emotion, and imagination into stories of substance that matter to readers, that maybe add layers of meaning to their moments, too…the way that writers have done, still do, for me. I hear the echo of their words daily as I go about the moments of my living; the writers, the writing, the words, ever-present, tickling the hippocampus, anchoring in my soul, forever bubbling, forming and reforming, spawning yet more ideas. I want to be the kind of writer always reaching for what’s beyond my grasp, always discovering, always inviting awe, always listening, always and infinitely grateful to have been alive.
Carpe momentum.
I am working on it.
The seahorse is a favorite writer-symbol for me, sharing the same name with the part of the brain regulating memory and emotion: hippocampus. Photo: E. Johnson
lit bits and pieces 