Time
drips so
slowly for
students waiting,
planning, day dreaming,
bursting at the seams to
flow out the front school door like
the churning, bubbling water of
a rushing stream whose dam has broken,
leaving behind scattered bits of debris.



*This etheree poem was inspired by the brilliant Ms. Chiu Booka Writes

Afternoon showers
keep pups indoors,
stretched out
on a blue-patterned rug.

A lazy feeling
coats the late afternoon hours
as the wet afternoon
shifts to evening.

Bounty for the grass,
gardens,
trees,
the rain
brings a welcome stillness
at the day’s end.

Today I had the chance
to be a student again.

The afternoon’s
professional development
spotlighted
a topic of interest,
and the instructor
plotted an engaging lesson.

I walked in confident,
but walked out uncertain.

My table group
missed a direction,
fell behind,
and never truly caught up.
The 45 minute session
dictated a rapid pace.

Did we spend too long
on the first discussion question?
Probably.
The conversation was interesting
and not nearly long enough.

The idea sort was terrific
but we left a critical piece
in the envelope
so struggled to make sense.

We, strong students all,
live in a world
that packs too much
into too little
time.

My most valuable lesson today:
slow it down,
check often,
and offer grace.

On any given school day,
my students arrive with
the first rays of sun.

Bleary-eyed and sleep starved
but open to the day,
these teens shuffle
to lockers.

The day may start with math,
science,
world geography,
notes on a piano
or words in an essay.
Regardless of the class,
promise still shimmers
at the edges.

By the last class,
brains arrived stuffed
egos a bit bruised
but
my students
still arrive
with kind smiles
and willing hearts.
They amaze me.

Running late,
I hurry out the door,
two small dogs in tow.

Winter
has not loosened its grip,
so I bundle up against the dark & cold.

Almost immediately,
a low grumble
escapes Georgia’s mouth
as she spies something ahead
I cannot yet see.
When her brother joins in,
a flash of pale tan fur
emerges from a house’s shadow —
a deer,
munching on grass and flowers.

But,
my noisy duo scares not one,
not two…
but six deer
out of the neighbor’s yard.

The small herd
stops momentarily –
just ahead of us –
to look our way.

My troop watches
as each deer passes
below the bright spot
of the corner street lamp.

Suddenly,
the world seems bigger,
less ordinary.
The day ahead
holds a new kind
of promise.

I rise
with the best of intentions.
Laundry to do,
windows to wash,
shelves to arrange,
pictures to sort.

But,
after an early morning walk
with the dogs
I settle down
with coffee and,
a novel,
or paper,
or movie.

The laundry isn’t going anywhere.

Poetry writing begins soon
for my students.
I hope they learn —
poetry is in the air
around them.

Poetry lives in the flowers
and trees that surround them.
Poetry is found on the breath —
in and out
in and out.

Poetry will flow
from their pens,
pencils,
voices
and hearts.

Frankly,
poetry is accessible to all…
if we just stop long enough
to look up.

When I was young,
I created worlds
from acorn tops,
bits of moss,
flower petals and
pine boughs
gathered on walks
in the woods
with my grandmother.

I imagined mice
and wee nuthatches
visiting beneath towering tulips.

Just this morning,
I picked up
a plump pine cone,
the color of Sierra Redwoods,
to add to a montage
growing on the fireplace mantle.
A piece of driftwood and
two small grape hyacinths
add color, texture to the arrangement,
just waiting for the mice friends
of my youth.

While visiting my grandmother
at age seven,
my father and I wandered
onto the large Santa Monica Pier
in the late afternoon.

A small store
half way down the pier
offered cases full
of tiny handblown glass animals.

Rays of sunlight glinted,
turning the room
into a kaleidoscope unlike anything
my young eyes had ever seen.
I begged for one or two treasures.

Back home,
I carefully packed
the unicorn, elephant and tiny giraffe
in cotton,
then tissue paper
before loading them gently
into my small backpack.

The hardtop playground
at my elementary school
was a sea of inky black asphalt,
dark and unforgiving.

As an adult,
I can look back knowing
Tommy D. had no ill intent
when he grabbed for
the gentle giraffe.
But,
the result was the same…
shards of glistening glass
studded the blacktop
like diamonds in the rough.

Across the street
a new set
of brightly painted swings
beckons.

For the young,
swings are a chance
to soar high above
the everyday.

For teens,
swings are a spot
to meet at dusk,
dragging feet in the dirt
while talking about
anything, everything.
Twisting the chains
in slow circles,
before unwinding
to start again.

For adults,
swings are nostalgia.
It is as an adult
we realize
swings are
so much more than swings.