fire-banning drought
sucking spring rains from wildlife
broken by night’s clouds
A Thousand Words
with just seven words
you’ve taken away thousands
our picture no more
You Are Unforgiven
i told him
FROM NOW ON
i’m writing in extended metaphors
then no one can get pissed
feel left out
never forgive my words
YOU ARE UNFORGIVEN
don’t quote your
classroom time
don’t try to be
the person you are not
the teacher
you are not
it would take
less than one day
less than one hour
to step into that classroom
and see the deepest connection
to students
that you will ever witness
it would take
ten minutes
sticks in hand
plethora of patience
resting on lips
less than the time it takes
for you to compose
the first draft
of your horrific email
I WILL NOT WRITE IN METAPHORS
because you need to hear
that the teachers you claim to support
are fleeing like migrating birds
and soon you will be
in the midst of mediocrity
go ahead
tweet your latest
run out teachers
who know better than you
how to form
the society
you claim to adhere to
Sailor’s Delight
i know the old phrase that brings down the sea
each dawn my mind sees the words cross the sky
it haunts the sailors but doesn’t haunt me
the beauty of dawn is what i live by
it shares, red sky at night, sailors’ delight
though surely the pink Pike’s Peak wasn’t viewed
on each red morning with pink clouds so bright
i can feel my whole soul being renewed
it warns, red sky at morning, sailors give warning
missing the mountain peaks’ glorious blue
pink skies at night bring nothing but mourning
to craved-strength muscles that ache to break through
i hear old phrases with opposite terms
as i cycle my way to a new day
what’s beauty to me, to you is just worms
so i’ll take my colors and sail my way
Crossroads
every morning
as i come to my crossroads
just after dawn
touches her fingers to sky,
i make my decision–
an uphill battle
breaking my muscles,
the wind of the highlands
an ever-greater challenge
than the meandering creek
i pedal for simple sights:
the middle-aged blonde
with two matching goldens,
(sometimes leashed, sometimes free)
the bright yellow spot
of a SmartCar, and me
always wondering just where
on the curvacious beauty of
a road i will pass it,
the ever-silent deer
who peer intently at my machine
as they stand cautiously
at the edge of civilization.
and today? a gift,
the top of the most tenuous climb,
the wind bending back leaves
and straightening out flags,
pushing against my will,
when what should cross the road
but a lone pronghorn,
its native spirit leaping
over barbed wire and into
the chaparral, leaving me to
finish my ride, open up
a starvation-induced chocolate
whose wrapper reads,
You are exactly where
you’re supposed to be
(i don’t throw it away,
its aluminum words
imprinted on the crossroads
that may lead me elsewhere tomorrow)
Letters of Idealism
i see the sky saving sprinkles
for after my ride home,
and tears are close
to making my face fill with moisture,
not because i’m afraid,
but because the mountains,
so far, so close?
they’re touched by the clouds
i can’t quite touch,
their gray-blue beauty
my reason for loving it here
i read two letters today.
one from Frederick Douglass
to his former master,
one from a substitute teacher
to my principal.
the first? a slur of
nineteenth-century idealism
intermingled with self education,
shared amongst
twenty-first century students
whose idealism reads
in between the lines of hatred
that bleed through generations
the second? a slew of
twenty-first century truths
about our shattered system
and the bright light
that shines through
in my second home, my school,
the place where i know
the idealism can break
the mold of those same clouds
that bring beauty,
that save me from rain
April (2012) Daughters
Riona
you speak to almost no one.
we see your shy face
hide behind your mama
as if a couple of years
were lost along your upbringing.
yet,
on stage,
your Peruvian chicken costume
in full polka-dot glory,
straw wings,
paper orange beak and all,
you are a star
as you dance front center,
the folk guitar song
giving new life
to my littlest angel.
Mythili
with focused face
looking so much
like a small adult
that i sometimes forget
you’re a child,
you create art.
a windmill in
perfect proportions
copied from a book,
the oil pastel coloring
as detailed as a
gallery painting
the Girl Scout
finger puppet
where you sit surrounded
by Daisies whose
mothers assist in every step,
you speak not a word
but work diligently
on cutting, gluing,
mastering your art.
this is your gift from God,
this is your gift to the world.
Isabella
you shine your light
wherever you go,
upon your persistent pleas
for a gecko,
a cowboy belt,
or dinner alone with mama.
you direct plays
in the backyard,
setting up obstacle courses
and circuses,
your siblings and friends
falling under your spotlight
to shine in your presence
baby sister mimics all you do,
and at first irritated,
you give in to flattery,
making a parade around the house
and reading all her favorite stories,
your brightness shining
on all you do, see, touch
Shopping
colors of rainbow
in a place i never go
priceless gifts abound
Monosyllabic
five syllables speak
volumes about everything
i wish i could say
Crazy Day
happy hour tailwind
a door opening surprise
what a crazy day
Step Write Up 