If you’re a teacher
you’re probably assessing
current student growth
since the beginning
of this COVID-tainted year
hoping, despairing
—don’t forget caring
should also include yourself.
Numbers can’t measure
your value and worth.
You’re one of the mightiest
forces on this Earth.
A timely caption in my daily planner
Winter afternoon
chill seeping into the bones
breaths of bracing air
scented with woodsmoke
and memory of times past
stirring deep longing
Plump little robin
we stand around you, aghast
at your misfortune
stuck there in the grille
of the SUV after
two hours’ interstate
yet you are alive
calling in your bird language
blinking and trembling
head twisting, trying
valiantly but in vain
to set yourself free
I think you’re impaled
except there’s not any blood
plus, your voice is strong,
full of warning, as
I lean in to examine
the situation:
both feet balled up tight
against your belly, somehow
straddling metal bars
wedged body, aslant
—can it really be intact?
—little eyes, so bright
that we three humans
standing before you in awe
vow to do our best
I grab a towel
(my childhood pet parakeet
often flew the coop
and had to be caught.
I learned to cover him first;
that small beak is sharp)
and we cover you,
but your loud cries of distress
tell us pulling hurts
—oh, you’re a fighter,
courageous little robin
biting at the cloth!
My sister-in-law
covers your face; my husband
hands me an ink pen
(ever-present in
his shirt pocket, a good thing,
as you never know
when you might need it,
in this case, to save a life)
so I wield the pen
through the metal grille,
through your feathers, bit by bit
freeing a pinned wing
until you’re sliding
into my cloth-shielded hands
like a newborn child
like a miracle
released at last, in the grass,
suddenly running
yes, flapping both wings
before taking a nose dive
into the clover
unable to fly
at least for now, surely bruised
needing time to heal
—the backyard becomes
bird rehabilitation,
bird sanctuary
where I can watch you
hopping along, pulling worms
these warm winter days
unseasonable
but I’m glad on your behalf,
keeping my distance
hoping predators
do the same, until you’re healed
and take to the skies
lucky bird, forgive
my bad Shakespearean pun:
you’re Robin the Plucked
for salvation comes
in the most peculiar ways,
begging the question
of mortality,
the taking and the giving
in daily living
these two days I’ve watched
your grounded red breast gleaming
by the old arbor
—today, no sighting,
inexplicable sadness
despite the wonder
of your survival
and the part I got to play.
Little Robin, plucked
to live life anew,
here’s to taking flight on your
wings and my prayers.
Robin the Plucked right after his rescue from the grille of my sister-in-law’s SUV. She’d driven down I-95 a few days after Christmas to visit us. Robin had some feathers askew from his ordeal but his wings weren’t dragging; my husband and I put him in our fenced backyard in hopes that nature would take its course, that he’d soon be fit enough to fly again (and that he’d want to). There are no words to adequately describe him enmeshed in that grille, very much alive and calling out, or for the sight of him immediately trying to run once we got him loose and laid him on the grass. I was amazed and elated to see him eating in the backyard with other birds that came and went the next day. I didn’t go near him again, as when I attempted it, he ran. I refused to distress him any more (heaven knows being trapped on the front of a car going 70 mph is enough for a lifetime). I joke that he’s my last good deed of 2021; I kept an eye on him all yesterday. On this first day of 2022, he is gone.
I keep watching, however.
One final observation, regarding the symbolism of robins: They’re tied to a number of legends and mostly positive connotations like spring and good luck (begging another question: Who’s the actually the bringer of luck here, Robin the Plucked or me?). But the perspective of Mother Teresa moves me most at present, as quoted in No Greater Love (Benenate & Durepos) on the legend of the robin and Christ’s crown of thorns: “Each of us should try and be that bird – the little robin. When we see someone in pain, we must ask ourselves: ‘What can I do to give them comfort?’”
Happy New Year and new life to you, Robin, wherever you are.
And to you all.
For Micah
Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning. —James 1:17 (KJV)
The LORD your God in your midst, The Mighty One, will save; He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing. —Zephaniah 3:17 (NKJV)
He carries you close
to his heart, walking you through
every brand-new day
Young theologian
experiencing, with tears,
depths of fatherlove
Fierce. Sacrificial.
Sustaining. Protective. Sweet.
Miraculous. Yes
He would give himself
to keep you safe from all harm
his love is that great
I understand this
I carried him just like this
when he was newborn
Precious tiny girl
gift from the Father above
gloriously loved
There’s always a light
in the longest, darkest night
for God is at work.
How I love you both – Franna
Today, a “sick-out”:
cafeteria workers
protest for more pay
District wrote parents:
“Staff shortages mean no meals”
-but not at my school
Today I thank you,
beautiful food providers,
for still being there
greeting the long lines
of children coming to eat,
for your loving words
Today I thank you,
bus drivers, who kept rolling
despite a protest
that kept many kids
from getting to school, again
-except for my school
Today I thank you,
my superhero colleagues,
for coming to work
for you are the glue
keeping pieces together
for kids, for us all
again reminding
collaborative spirits
always win the day
*******
and thanks always to
Two Writing Teachers for space
and place to express
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
Summer storm passes
leaving debris in its wake.
I open the door
to investigate
and discover a creature
there on the threshold…
Dragonfly resting
weary, heavy-laden wings
—what ARE those patches?
Curiosity
drives me to investigate.
I learn that your name
comes from your luggage:
Carolina Saddlebags.
What do you carry?
Ancient traditions
abundant superstitions
folklore taking flight.
Symbol of wisdom
messenger between the worlds
born underwater
to rise new, transformed.
Your stories go on and on,
tired traveler.
My phone’s search engine
resolves one more mystery
from a day ago:
That red dragonfly
—the first one I’ve ever seen—
may have been your mate.
So otherworldly,
that darting scarlet body.
I caught just glimpses
for it never stilled.
Now I learn red dragonflies
are believed sacred.
A slight fluttering
of your strange saddlebag wings
seems to validate.
To me, you are rare.
Pleased to make your acquaintance
here on this portal
this dividing line
between shelter and tempest,
living and dying.
Take your repose, then.
I ponder birth and rebirth
as I close the door
where I discover
my husband’s baptismal robe
hanging up to dry.
*******
My pastor husband doesn’t like to dry his robe in the dryer. After a recent baptism, he happened to hang it here on the door where the sidelight flooded it.
I’ve seen many dragonflies in my life, but this is the first Carolina Saddlebag. I hope to get a photo of the male, which has a brilliant red body and a violet head. That might be a feat; I read that they don’t land often. The female on my threshold soon regained her strength and flew away.
The sightings on each side of the portal filled me with awe—the word that chose me this year. More reminders to stay open to it every single day, not to miss it.
As a lover of symbolism…well, there’s enough here to last me pretty much forever…
The post is written in haiku, as dragonflies have spawned infinite haiku and inspiration in Japan where they are considered harbingers of life, prosperity, courage, happiness, strength. They have also represented the emperor and immortality. In Native American tradition, the dragonfly is a symbol of resurrection.
Special thanks to the Slice of Life community at Two Writing Teachers for also spawning courage, inspiration, and strength through the writing and sharing of stories. To teach young writers how to write, we must write, and by writing we discover infinitely more about the world and ourselves.
Inspired by a course I’m taking on poetry. Although I am learning a lot and have been given a trove of resources, I’ve found my output to be lackluster. The word “why” floats in my brain like a hard nugget beneath layers of questions. I ask myself: Is this my best work? (no) Has my inspirational well run dry? (feels like it) Is the attempt of something of this caliber at the end of a school year—this year in particular—a bad choice? (possibly) Do I love anything I have written? (maybe a line here and there but much of it feels stilted, stunted, superficial; my verse is not “alive,” Miss Dickinson, I don’t even have to ask). It’s a conundrum, really, how I can write poems every day for a month straight and then dive with great eagerness into a course on the craft only to find my Muse has departed. I am adrift in the ocean in a makeshift raft. Am I having a writerly crisis? (not exactly…but I AM re-evaluating my efforts). Is this my own fault? (perhaps I am not pouring myself into it as I should) If I were to “name my feelings,” what words come immediately to mind? (is “paralyzed” a feeling? How about “shy,” not as in being timid in front of others—heavens no!—but as in going to the doctor’s office and being handed a cup for obtaining a urine sample and discovering you have a “shy” bladder. Which leads me back to the thing at the center of it all: why).
I only know one antidote for writing malaise.
Writing.
Since the problem is poetry, poetry I shall write. On my own terms, for my own self.
Here’s a small beginning, anyway…
A poem is a pearl
with organic origins
that will not be rushed
hard grain entering
the shell of my skull, somehow
scratching my soft brain
provoking action
jets of milk-stimulation
solidifying
layer on layer
it materializes
from my own nacre
I can’t estimate
its costliness, completeness
beyond my own brain
…to be continued, I think…
...and, it just so happens that as I hit “publish,” WordPress tells me this is my 500th post.
Cracked pearl. Filter Forge. CC BY
Lead photo: Pearl. amboo who? CC BY-SA
with thanks to my fellow Spiritual Journey writers who gather on the first Thursday of each month, and to Carol Varsalona for hosting today. Carol chose the theme “Blossoming of Joy.”
The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
Song of Solomon 2:12
One of my favorite things about spring in North Carolina is the birdsong. Each morning when I rise, it’s to a chorus of cheery songs in myriad bird voices, a tiny angelic choir singing praise for the day from the pines surrounding my home. I listen, and am strengthened.
Another favorite thing is wisteria. It usually blooms for a short while in April. The pendulous blossoms hanging from trees fill my soul with nostalgia, for bygone times walking with my grandmother along the old dirt road of her country home, listening to stories of people who lived, loved, and died long ago. Wisteria threads through the landscape like pale purple banners of celebration for spring. It’s both old and new every year, full of secrets and mystery…and this year, for some reason, it is continuing to bloom into May.
I am not questioning.
I am just savoring.
Mysterious how
wisteria lingers on
disregarding May
This week I have been working with some kindergarteners on letter sounds and names. One little boy had his head down on his desk, buried in his arms, when I arrived. We started a game of naming objects that begin with “y” and he informed me that “yacht” is a boat and “people have parties on them.”
I sat blinking while he played with the toy yacht. He smiled at me: “I am feeling happier now.”
On leaving school, I saw a dandelion growing as close as it could to an old tree:
Y is for yellow
the self-confident color
of dandelion
Thanks to Carol’s prompt today, I am thinking of many facets of “blossoming of joy.” An image returns to mind from last week. At my church there are three women expecting babies in May, June, and July. We threw a shower for them on Sunday; it was one of those perfect spring afternoons, when the sun shines bright and a soft breeze blows like a comforting and encouraging caress from on high.
Sunday afternoon
three young women sat outside
their fellowship hall
greeting well-wishers
arriving in the driveway
bearing baby gifts
a drive-through shower
a celebration of love
a church family
multiplying grace
blessing by blessing outpoured
on expectant moms
blossoming with joy
and the new life they carry
despite pandemics
My own son and his wife are expecting a baby in the fall.
There’s simply just so much to celebrate.
Abundant blossoming of joy.
National Poetry Month has ended, and I miss it. While I may not be posting every day for a while, I continue to write.
The last prompt on Ethical ELA’s #VerseLove was on fear. Articulating it, facing it…perhaps conquering it.
This got me thinking how facing a thing for what it really is = the first step in conquering. There’s a lot of extreme anxiety in the world today. A lot of hatred. Sometimes we just don’t see things for what they are…including our own thoughts.
And so this poem was born.
Courage, peace, and wellness to you, Friends. Whatever it is…you can overcome.
My Fear Haiku
I once read a book
where people’s eyes turned inward.
They died from seeing
what’s inside their minds.
I trembled to take a look
at what lurks in mine.
Now I remember
what Granddaddy once told me
regarding black snakes:
don’t ever kill them.
See, black snakes eat rats and mice;
they’re good. We need them.
I think fear’s like that
snaking along, with purpose
something quite useful
so I never try
to kill it. Let it consume
the uglier parts
of my thoughts, and go its way
leaving me with a clean peace
and a better mind
so that all I fear,
in the end, is forgetting
memories of love.
Path of peace. The view after turning off the highway to visit my grandparents. The house is my grandmother’s homeplace, where she and her eight siblings were born in the early 1900s. Just ahead, around the bend on the left, stood my grandparents’ home where my dad and his sisters grew up in the 1940s-50s, and where I spent many childhood summers.
My safest haven on Earth. Snakes and all.
Love, life lessons, legacy, and memories live on.
lit bits and pieces 