Mixed media by Scout, age 5
Suppose you’re a special sort of Scarecrow with a
Carved pumpkin head and a purple hat
Adorned with pink roses, holding out your arms to
Receive birds instead of repelling. Your reward for
Embracing these winged messengers might be
Canticles of cheer sung in your ear,
Refrains of comfort and even celebration as
October dies, again, reminding you, again, it’s only for a
While.
ABCs for Micah, on the day after your birth
Autumn-child: So lovely
being born amid crackled-leaf,
cider-steeped, cinnamon-spiked
days of
ever-bright,
flaming color, crisp and
glittering under first-frost grace.
Hallowed moments
infused with
joy while I dream of
kissing your fuzzy head, your
little newborn face.
My precious Micah,
never doubt your Franna’s fierce love,
opal-bright, like autumn fire,
perpetual, eternal,
quietly flickering,
radiant and
sacred,
throughout all our tomorrows together.
Upon your coming, beloved Baby Girl,
veritable heart of my heart, I wait in the wings
with hugs (ooooooo) and kisses
(xxxxxxx) all for you from
your Franna, so blessed with new-life
zest.
On the last Monday of October I drive to work in pre-dawn darkness as deep as midnight. Rounding bends on deserted backroads past unlit houses, gaping stubbled fields, hulking shapes of farm equipment, shadowed barns, patches of woods, when off in the distance, through silhouetted tree trunks—fire.
A bonfire. Tall flames, bright orange against the blackness, undulating skyward. Startling. So Halloween-esque. Hauntingly beautiful in its way except….I can’t tell what’s burning. Probably trash. The fire seems large for that, and before sunrise? I am too far away to see anything but the fire itself. I cannot see smoke or smell it. No screaming sirens. No alarms. Only silence, stillness…should I investigate to be sure? The road twists and turns, demanding my attention, and as I reach a tricky intersection where a few sets of headlights from opposite directions approach and pass, I realize: I’ve lost sight of the fire now. I am not sure of its location. Somewhere close by it’s burning, consuming, destroying, I hope nothing precious, nothing of value… and so I cross the intersection, praying it is controlled until extinguished.
On I drive in the darkness, shivering.
I think of anger.
*******
Fire, anger. The contrast of being controlled, purifying, and righteous, or uncontrolled to the point of destroying, intentionally or not, what is precious, valued, and loved. Thinking of that fire throughout the day yesterday—there were no reports of damage—reminded me of a poem I wrote last week:
Why I Pray
In the absence of peace,
I pray.
When my mind cannot fathom
or even form questions,
I pray.
When I am weary
of injustice, of sifting truth and lies,
when my inner well has run dry,
I pray.
I pray for power beyond my own.
To overcome the red-hot dagger of fury,
that I should not wield it,
thereby scarring others
and myself.
To knit words of healing instead,
one by one,
like snowflakes falling
to form a blanket of blessing,
a holy hush.
Freeing myself by forgiving
myself
as well as others,
feeling the weight drop away.
That quickening sense of awe,
for even if I cannot call
fire from Heaven (thankfully),
I can move mountains of ice
in my own heart.
Because, as long as I live,
I will battle need, loss, and fear,
trusting that love conquers all
—its beating wings in my heart,
forever my reason
to pray
again.
*******
with thanks to Andy Schoenborn for the “Embrace your why” prompt and the mentor poem written by a student, shared on Ethical ELA’s Open Write last week.
and to Two Writing Teachers for the weekly Slice of Life Story Writing Challenge, always encouraging “a world of reflective writers”—so needed.
Photo: Burning fire at night. wuestenigel. CC BY 2.0
The Children’s Eyes (When They Are Writing)
The children’s eyes
are windows to the skies
sun-bright,
moon and star-studded night,
reflected wonderlight.
The children’s eyes
are toy-wagon wheels
absorbing, bearing, hauling
so much more than playthings.
The children’s eyes
are gates in a small walled garden
which widen when they realize
the stunning flora growing within
—cultivate it, Children.
For in my own walled garden
of memory
lush greenery still grows
not concealing
but revealing
what I now know
to be healing.
All I’ve lived and seen
eventually spills forth
in story or verse
above and through and over
the old stone wall
for even in the moonless,
star-obscured,
darkest night,
there is always
a ribbon
of light.
This, Children,
is why I write.
Speaking of things I’ve seen…artwork on a concrete wall in Asheville, NC.
The garden struck me as metaphor for writing, growing there in the brain.
*******
with thanks to Andy Schoenborn for the “eyes” and life experience poetry prompt on Ethical ELA this morning, to Two Writing Teachers for sustaining a community where teachers of writing flourish, and to the National Council of Teachers of English for designating October 20th as National Day on Writing.
and in honor of all the children who inspire me, every time I’ve come to your classrooms to teach writing.
(a pantoum)
Little seabird with only one foot
Standing perfectly balanced at the shore
You’re so calm, so still
Despite wind-ruffled feathers
Standing perfectly balanced at the shore
You’re a picture of grace
Despite wind-ruffled feathers
For you aren’t alone
You’re a picture of grace
Safeguarded, transcending
For you aren’t alone
Flanked by faithful friends keeping watch
Safeguarded, transcending
You’re so calm, so still
Flanked by faithful friends keeping watch
Little seabird, with only one foot.
As best I can determine, this is a laughing gull, already wearing winter plumage. I thought it was merely standing on one leg before realizing the other foot was gone. I have since learned that such sightings are common: many gulls lose feet and legs when they become entangled in fishing nets while hunting for food. What you cannot see in this close-up are two fellow gulls standing nearby, looking in different directions like bodyguards. I was struck by the poignant poise of this little shorebird and the proximity of the others. Gulls are symbols of adaptability, resourcefulness, community, survival, and strength. Maybe even uncommon grace.
*******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the Tuesday Slice of Life Story Challenge
a Spiritual Journey offering
in memory of my father
and in honor of Micah, my granddaughter
who will be born later this month
*******
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again…
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.–Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese”
October is here
and with it, memory:
it is the month
of my father’s birth.
I am here
because he was here
once upon a time.
October is here
and with it, wild geese
coming home.
My father loved them
like he loved planes
in the wild blue yonder
of his service years
when he was young.
At his funeral procession
a flock of wild geese
stood by in solemn ranks.
He chose to be buried here
so Air Force jets
would fly over his grave
every day.
October is here
with its fiery oranges, reds, golds
and heartrending blue.
Blazing colors that are here
for just a little while,
coming and going
before the long sleep
and eventual rewakening.
October is here
with its bright story
of permanence
cloaked in
the temporary darkness
of impermanence.
October is here
with its beckoning to
see, smell, taste, feel, know
life in all of its spice
and fullness,
never bound by a calendar,
a schedule, a checklist…
October is here
with its own organic order,
a natural reminder
of all our comings and goings
and of the taking of one’s place
in the family of things.
October is here.
You will soon be here,
firstborn child
of my firstborn child.
I, too, am
the firstborn child
of a firstborn child.
My father named me
for his mother.
Your father named you
for God
by whose infinite grace
I am here
to see your coming.
A downy-soft blanket and a whole lot of love are here awaiting you, little precious one.
Your name is one of ancient faith and praise: “Who is like God?”
*******
with much gratitude to Ramona Behnke, who inspired our monthly Spiritual Journey Thursday group to write around the word “here” with this quote from Emily P. Freeman’s podcast, Episode 188: You Are Here (And It Matters):
“What if you being all the way here actually mattered, with your cold feet and your stomachache and the light shining through the window. You with your stack of books, by the bedside table and hopeful feeling inside your heart. You with your deep grief, over a loss you thought you’d be over by now, standing in the kitchen while you microwave your coffee. For now, this is true. So what is true of you? And do you really believe God is with you no matter what? That you are not alone, that you don’t have to be you all by yourself? Here’s to being where you already are. Fully present with all that is true. And then here’s to doing your next right thing in love.”
*******
a poem which began as I was driving to work through the darkness and fog that appeared on the first day of October…
October awakens
in the night.
She rises in silence,
stirring white veils of fog
within the world’s
darkened bedchamber.
She knows
I am awake, too,
watching,
and that I am aware
it was not as dark
yesterday morning
at this same time
when September
was still here.
October gathers
her black satin robes
shimmering silver
in the moonlight.
She whispers of magic
and I shiver
just before the sun bursts forth
like a famous artist
with palette in tow-
“There is no blue without yellow
and without orange,
and if you put in the blue,
then you must put in the yellow
and orange too,
mustn’t you?”
and suddenly everything is
yellow and orange and blinding blue
with flecks of scarlet and brown
against the still-green canvas.
For all her dark mystery
and the death-shroud she carries,
October doesn’t speak
of endings.
She points instead
-see that golden thread glittering
there in her sleeve?-
to celebrations just ahead.
Ah, October.
I see you
disguising your smile
as you creak open
nature’s ancient alchemical doors,
reverently ushering in
the leaf-bejeweled holiness
that I shall henceforth call
the ‘fallidays’.
“Female ghost”. WhiteAnGeL ❤.CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
How would you personify early October?
It is difficult to find a photo of a veiled figure comparable to the dark morning bands of fog.
“Figure In The Fog”. paulmcdee. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
The quote, “There is no blue without yellow and without orange…” comes from Van Gogh, written in a letter to his brother. I have used it several times in poems. Seems especially fitting here for the colors of October, illuminated by the artist-sun.
“Symphony of autumn colors”. PeterThoeny. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0
******
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the weekly Slice of Life Story Writing Challenge
(even when my small-moment story morphs into poetry)
That email you sent.
Almost didn’t open it.
Seemed like random spam.
Thank God I did, though:
I hope you remember me…
the little girl who
halfway wrote a book
‘bout five or six years ago…
-How could I forget?
Never finished it
but now I’m writing this one…
-You are still writing!
You can’t know the gift
it was, assisting your craft
as it developed
the pure joy I took
from the spark in your child-eyes
born of storylove
-that’s YOUR gift, you know.
Your storytelling power.
It’s grown stronger, still.
And your plans, to be
a therapist. A healer.
An author. Oh, child
you have no idea
what your words have done today.
I read them again
and again, amazed
by your remembering me.
I compose my thoughts
to respond to you,
most of all to say that you’re
unforgettable.
*******
I wasn’t this child’s regular teacher but the school’s literacy coach, supporting writing workshop across grade levels at the time. Her fourth-grade teacher asked if I could make time to work with her as she had fallen in love with the craft and wanted to write historical fiction. We carved out the time; we made it happen. I blogged about it in 2017: Tripping the write fantastic. That teacher invited the student back a couple of years later to share her writing with a new crop of fourth graders. I blogged about that, too: Still tripping the write fantastic.
In the recent surprise email that sparked the poem I posted today, the student also wrote: “Every now and then I’ll read what you wrote about me on Lit Bits and Pieces, and it always makes me smile and feel inspired.”
That, Dear Student, makes ME smile and feel inspired. ❤ Can’t wait to see where your writing takes you!
Thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the weekly Slice of Life Story Challenge…for teachers must write to teach writers.
Thanks also to Allison Berryhill who hosted an Open Write on Ethical ELA with prompting “a poem to a student.”
Photo: “Steal Like An Artist – ‘Write the book you want to read’.” Austin Kleon. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
Late September
across the street
the first few spots
of yellow dot the lush green
abundance of trees
despite the searing blueness of sky
and bathwater-saturated
Carolina air
lingering summer
yet in it I feel a tinge
the tiniest tinge
an almost imperceptible
coolness
deep in the wooded shadows
from a sun-patched limb, no doubt,
a lone cicada takes up his rattle
crescendo, decrescendo
they were late arriving this year
but still here
driving to work
along the winding backroads
a darting from the left
two gray squirrels,
scampering in tandem
right in front of me
on the double yellow lines
I stop for them
they stop for me
after a moment
of squirrel contemplation
one continues on across
but the other, the other
turns back
with something in its mouth
not an acorn, something hanging
pale-colored
I’ve never seen the likes
but instinctively know:
that’s a baby squirrel
and on I drive, thinking
of the old squirrel twins book
my grandmother read to me
so long ago
and of how I shall read it
to my own granddaughter
arriving in a few short weeks
the morning September sun shimmers
rose-gold in my rearview mirror
like promises steeped in time
I no longer dream of dying
like I did when I was nine
now, in my first tinge of autumn
I dream of new babies born
every night
*******
with thanks to Sarah Donovan at Ethical ELA for the inspiration to write poetry
around moments of knowing “I am alive.”
breakfast for all if they want it
during COVID,
so they enter the cafeteria,
pick up a bag with a biscuit or
cereal or french toast sticks
(without syrup;
the cafeteria ran out of it yesterday)
or breakfast pizza, whatever
that given day provides,
and wait for a neon-vested
safety patrol in fifth grade
to send them,
one by one,
to my colleague or to me
so we can seat them
protocols say they can’t sit facing
one another at the diagonal,
spaced-out tables
so seats fill up fast,
and a lengthening line
of masked, bag-clutching children
must stand until somebody in the
crowd finishes eating, meaning that
my colleague or I must dash over
with spray cleaner and a paper towel
(that won’t absorb)
while calling for safety patrol:
“I can take one here!”
the children seem so dazed, sometimes,
like they don’t recognize this planet or
maybe even humanity anymore
but once at the seats,
they open the bags
to eat
forgot the jelly
go back and get it
I need a spoon
it’s in your bag, look again
and invariably, the one thing
most often prompting a
little raised hand:
I can’t open my milk
I see. Have you tried?
shaking of small head
well, you must try
some little fingers are more adept
than others…some little faces light
up upon realizing: they actually can
open the milk carton, without help
some must be told, no, not
on that side, see the side with
the arrow, it says open here,
push it back, all the way back,
see these words, push here,
no, not smush, more like pinch,
like this, see?
one by one, the cartons open
like windows in the mind, for one
does have the ability to do things
not attempted before, and the secret
is really in the trying, not relying
learned helplessness
is what I am thinking about
as I scrub my hands five times
before I can go finish preparing
four training sessions
for teachers tomorrow,
on professional learning teams
and problem-solving
in the time of COVID
even though I’m already tired
and the day’s only just begun
yes, we can
we must try
*******
special thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the weekly Slice of Life Story Challenge
lit bits and pieces 