with her
my words are stunted, stuck
my smile hollow, forced
my heart racing, anxious
she can see through me
and calls me on my lack of words
when later the message arrives.
i cannot see through her
nor understand her motivation
nor can bear the thought
of who she sees through those eyes.
is it me
or an altered version of myself,
twisted, inadequate,
the one i try to hide,
the one you seem to never see?
my morning begins
delving into darkness.
just far enough to reach
every constellation,
city lights sparkling,
a gold-threaded quilt
thrown upon the plains,
shadowy hills holding
spotlighted pavement
my day ends
bathed in light.
wind whipping my tires home,
sun splashing its mockery
of rainless spring clouds,
glistening snow-capped peaks
gathering sparkling skyscrapers
in a picture frame of beauty,
sunlit pavement.
for you
the darkness dissipates,
melts into the sparkling spirit
of a new day.
Dear Phil:
I saw that book you gave me.
Remember?
The best-first-year
beat-up, bedraggled
copy you’d
“given to all your proteges”?
You forgot something.
I wasn’t your protege.
I didn’t need to hear
how Kari won
best-first-year-teacher
the year before
or
how I “might not get
rehired”
if I couldn’t control
period six.
I needed for you
to not be my mother
to not be my father
to not be
the beat-up
bedraggled
copy of criticism
that had followed me
all of my life.
Do you remember?
It was my first year
and one of your last.
At least you can walk away
knowing you
were there for me.
Love,
The Best First Year
what have i missed
with the words that won’t end,
what smile or giggle
did my daughters try to send?
how can i allow
your endless conversation
to suck up my night
with this awkward situation?
if he would do his work
and you would let it go
then perhaps we wouldn’t have to
fill our worry-carts with woe.
but no one here seems to care
that waiting is not enough
that sloth and slacking are rewarded
–hard work a dire rebuff.
what have i missed
with the words that never end
that haunt my insomnia
with a world i cannot mend?
Dr. Mr. Orwell,
You were right.
Big Brother hovers,
an omnipotent cloud
sneaking into every crevasse
of the glaciers
he’s placed in front of
our harrowed steps
up the mountain
none of us knew we’d climb.
Without a word
escaping our lips,
he knows our thoughts
and places his restrictions,
garishly flashing sound-bitten ads
on the pages
we once were able
to read in silence.
Just like Winston,
we seek shelter
among proletariats
who suck at our teets
with wanton thirst
for all that he will not allow
us to provide for them.
Big Brother has ensured
no shelter,
for it would detract
from the icy hike
he has put in place of
the rolling surreal hills
of the life
he won’t allow us to imagine.
I ask now,
as you toss in your tormented grave,
how so closely you could examine
the future,
how so bitterly you could speak
of the unwanted brutality of truth,
how so easily you could predict
the world we would rather depart
than be a part of.
If Earth really is a Slinky
as a geologist might say
then we’re as small as a pinkie
on Earth’s hand of plates that sway.
Zooming in first are primary P waves
try to beat 225 miles per hour!
earthquakes move in with S waves
secondarily destructing a rocky shower.
If you like the ocean you’ll love to meet Rayleigh
who’ll churn and roll you like the tide coming in
Love’s side to side shaking takes the hands of Rayleigh
collapsing buildings and causing the world to spin.
When an earthquake occurs, who is at fault?
plates move together when pressure mounts
just imagine a shaker full of salt
breaking Earth’s crust as the mantle surmounts
Superman saved the San Andreas Fault
a strike-slip fault along the west coast
where boundaries slide in angry assault
he pushed up the crust without a boast!
In normal and reverse faults, you’re vertical
normal plates diverge and tension gets weak
reverse plates collide with a crack horizontal
forcing compression that leaves Earth bleak.
Under the sea reverse faults thrust up
tsunamis from earthquakes worse than on land
the plates dive under–you might say subduct
going back into the palm of Earth’s hand.
You may think Earth is as hard as a rock
but geologists tell you it’s more like elastic
rebound theory stresses a fault that’s locked
friction and energy cause a quake that’s fantastic.
If Earth really is a Slinky
as a geologist might say
human beings are quite dinky
in the cycle of plates that sway.
it’s Valentine’s Day
and decked out in red,
heart earrings in place,
ready for my Brownie tea party,
i tuck cookies into mailboxes
and begin my day.
the words on the screen
jump out at me,
ripping all the love
from this ever-loving day
straight from my heart
as i embrace the truth
of what they will miss.
my chili lunch,
my box of chocolate strawberries,
my desire
are left uneaten
as i move through the motions,
counting the minutes
until i am safe to let
everything out in
words
tears
screams
that no one will hear.
but i can’t.
it is not about me
or my mistake
or anyone’s miscommunication.
it is about what is best for them,
and before you even close the door,
i know you will listen.
we sit at the circular table,
each sharing our version
of the empty spaces
that lie before us.
and before the moment
can slip between our fingers,
you help me find the words
i didn’t know i had,
filling our empty spaces,
reminding me why i love it here,
how you listen,
how you lead,
solve problems,
dry the tears
that now creep back into
the corners of my eyes
as i write these words.
because there are no words
to truly describe
the love that is here
in this room, this school,
this place where the students come first,
where you stand tall
and step aside
in the same graceful moment.
her words flow over my shoulders
in waves of icy discomfort.
i watch your accepting faces
swallow the saltiness of
the ocean that year after year
never lets loose its high tide.
but you are swimmers
and her words won’t drown you.
you will build rafts
and zip up your wet suits,
ready for the relentlessness
of the moon-over-shoulder tide.
i wish i learned to swim like you.
when i spit back her wave of words
to him (hours later), my breath escapes me,
stolen by the tide. my arms reach
for your rafts, your suits, your warmth
that the icy waters swallow as i drown.
You deserve a poem
for your partial proficiency.
You deserve all the words
that you take from our mouths,
that you tell us to tear down
from our walls,
that you banish from our rooms
in the form of literature
(the very thing you dare assess)
for the lock-and-key,
starve-and-dehydrate,
Nazification of a test
you put on a pedestal,
a test they all detest,
for which they could care less.
You deserve a poem
for your unsatisfactory mark
upon the teachers you denigrate,
the teachers you should emulate.
Perhaps I will learn Morse Code,
buy the appropriate paraphernalia,
and send my message over the airwaves.
Would you listen to me then?
You may work behind the scenes
to gather nectar,
flying about on
twisted bits of spring wind,
buzzing back into the hive
to lay down your sweets,
to relish in the taste
of foreign lands that
you’ve brought back,
to build up a honeycomb
so dripping with stickiness
that you forget your train of flutters.
But allow me to remind you:
I am the queen.
This is MY hive.
And you had better learn your place
before you get trapped
in a honey-drunk euphoria,
my stinger the only bite
you’ll remember when you wake.
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