the kid argument
that plagues my mornings and nights
chips away my soul
poetry
Bites and Pieces
somewhere between the data crunch
that swallows all planning time,
the tech issues that chew up a third of every class,
the common planning that gnaws into bitching about work,
emailing counsellors about kids who’ve bitten off more than they can chew,
grading grammar that nibbles away time with my own kids…
there’s a teacher waiting,
the entrée of this piecemeal,
ready to share the most delectable taste
of what this world asks and offers.
Silver Lining Lunch Date
clouds can’t cover blue
with a reflection like this
waiting to bathe joy
Introverted Beauty
a lonely park walk
can rejuvenate the soul
(my soul needs flowers)
Freedom Has Its Price
the raw emotion
that floods my writing fingers
has been gone this year
(i await new juice
to pump up my active voice
like a sober drunk)
Call to Prayer
it isn’t church,
but a Sunday morning sunshine ride–
a line of bikes glistening in waning summer heat,
with shout-outs as loud as a preacher who
calls his parishioners to God:
Bike up!
Bike back!
Slowing!
Gravel on the path!
Car up!
Clear!
the words trickle down the line,
heated breaths repeating them
so loud that even prairie dogs
stand at attention to hear.
and we wrap ourselves
in blue-sky calorie burning
led by a fast-paced 78-year-old man,
just as forgiving for our
missed turns and flat tires
as the best of His missionaries.
Coveting
a small joy; not mine
brings tears while i cook dinner
(yearning for what’s lost)
Cost Ineffective
just pass the judgment
easier than silent games
that plague this marriage
Bricklaying
yesterday we learned about sod
and homesteaders’ dreams being trampled by wind and hail and no water
and how they were tricked into
settling on free land.
nothing is free.
how they built brick by sod brick–
tiny houses not much taller than themselves,
and posed in front with shovels on the roof,
no time to take them down for the picture–
for what if it rained, or a snake crept in?
yesterday i thought i was a teacher,
and they were learning from me,
my immigrant students building up their vocabulary
brick by decoded brick.
nothing is ever what it seems.
today they entered and i asked them to write:
describe challenges when you moved to a new place.
and with the new words fresh on her tongue, she told me:
just like the homesteaders,
my family had to move to a new camp
and my father had to build a sod house,
no taller than that one in the picture.
and so my student taught today’s lesson:
one hundred fifty years later,
we are still making bricks
instead of trying to break them.
Burned
too-real nightmares
woke me well before alarm
singed by cigarettes
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