he shouldered causes

he shouldered causes
the ones that were broken
or which someone had dropped

he would bolt through the door
burst onto the scene
never asking to be forgiven

he would pull nonprofits from their shallows
jump through red tape hoops
as if he were dancing

his feet constantly moving forward
then gathered together to leap
over whatever hurdles there were

toppling indifference only
he was a burst of joy
striking like a bolt of love

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 26 at The Sunday Whirl.

I'm raising funds for The Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that sponsors National Novel Writing Month in November. Please check out my Night of Writing Dangerously post, or see the sidebar note between the two NaNoWriMo web badges. (I'll be posting an update here later today.)

I'm an obsolete

I'm an obsolete
the antonym of athlete
because I don't like rambunctious people

I remember the days
of polite swallows
of teas and crumb-cakes,
when men wore fedoras,
as handsome on their heads outside
as on the hat-rack in our foyer

and you had to admire the way
they'd open the door of their automobile
and wait for a lady to seat herself
before gently closing the door
and driving us to the Palladium Ballroom

now I sit by the pond in my garden,
left fallow in my obsolescence,
so I ring the bell to summon the nurse
for my pills and some pleasant conversation

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 25 at The Sunday Whirl.

I'm raising funds for The Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that sponsors National Novel Writing Month in November. Please check out my Night of Writing Dangerously post, or see the sidebar note between the two NaNoWriMo web badges. I'm one-third of the way to my goal!

Falling

what does that mean?
falling short

is that a poke
at the vertically challenged?
that's not funny

or is it the punchline
to a politically incorrect joke
about a Native American name?
that's not funny either

falling a short distance
just might be a good thing
dust off your knees
and hop tall again

what I worry about is
falling behind

I've got emails to send
papers to grade
poems to post
a novel to write

and my butt is sagging

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the Rise and Fall prompt at Poetic Bloomings.

I'm raising funds for The Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that sponsors National Novel Writing Month in November. Please check out my Night of Writing Dangerously post, or see the sidebar note between the two NaNoWriMo web badges.

Thanks to Paula for her donation. You are a writing hero. I'm now one-third of the way to my goal. Thanks!

Ron Koertge

A little prose diversion today.

This past weekend I was checking out some of the 101 Best Websites put together by Writer's Digest every year. Since I'm planning on writing a children's book this year for NaNoWriMo, I thought I'd check out some of the sites related to writing for children.

And am I glad I did.

One of the sites was Cynsations, a blog by writer Cynthia Letich Smith. On her blog I found a guest post by Ron Koertge. All I knew about him before that was a poem that he wrote that I have read aloud to my students: "Do You Have Any Advice For Those of Us Just Starting Out?" (It's a great poem - you should read it.)

Well, I discovered that he writes books for young people. His blog post was about a sequel he had written to a previous book. What caught my attention was a book called Shakespeare Bats Cleanup. I quickly went online and found that they had a copy at my second-closest Barnes &Noble. In running errands on Sunday, we didn't make it over there, but I went Monday night and picked it up.

Here's the blurb on the back page:

At fourteen, Kevin Boland is a straight-talking MVP first baseman who can't tell a ballad from a salad. But when he is diagnosed with mono and is forced to spend months at home recuperating, Kevin secretly borrows his father's poetry book and starts writing, just to pass the time. Inside the book, Kevin discovers more than haiku and sonnets. He gains insight - sometimes humorous, sometimes painful - as he records his candid observations on junior-high romance, daydreams of baseball stardom, and sorrow over the recent death of his mother, and learns how words can open doors to the soul.

Makes you want to read it, doesn't it? I bought it. I can't wait to read it. As soon as I've finished it - which might not happen until I finish my first set of report cards for this school year - I'll post a review here. If I like it, I may read parts (or all) of it to my students as part of my Elementary School Poetry 180 Project.

/ / /

I'm raising funds for The Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that sponsors National Novel Writing Month in November. Please check out my Night of Writing Dangerously post.

Thanks to Brenda and Joss for their donations. You are writing heroes. I'm almost one-fourth of the way to my goal. Thanks!

It Had Been

his energy waned
he was fearful
he didn't mind being alone
except that he was lonely now
it hadn't always been this way

he had lived a life of adventure
his face had known many smiles
he had myriad loves
he could play music and jokes
it had been that way for a long time

he had wandered
and been lost
had looked for signs in headlines
and slept on concrete
it had been that way for too long

he regretted leaving the church
he remembered the circle of love there
he hoped the philosophy he'd cobbled together
would hold him in his final days

it had been his way
he just hoped it was the right  one

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 24 a la Leo at The Sunday Whirl and Wither Goest Thou Kevin Bacon? - Prompt #23 at Poetic Bloomings.

I'm raising funds for The Office of Letters and Light, the nonprofit organization that sponsors National Novel Writing Month in November. Please check out my Night of Writing Dangerously post.

And, in case you missed it, there is my interview with Sherry Blue Sky at Poets United.

Elementary School Poetry - Week Four

• Radio - Laurel Blossom
• Could Have Been Worse - Bill Dodds
• The Farewell - Edward Field
• Knoxville, Tennessee - Nikki Giovanni
• The Poet - Tom Wayman

"Radio" is another great poem from Poetry 180. It's accessible and fun. City kids get this one real quick.
I can't locate where I found "Could Have Been Worse" at the moment. It's a humorous poem from a poetry book for kids, probably one of those anthologies of poems that kids like. It's one of those "underwear" poems that makes kids groan. Lots of fun to read.
Addendum: I decided to do an internet search before I posted this, and sure enough, I located it. It's from Kids Pick the Funniest Poems - and I found it reposted online as well. Enjoy!
"The Farewell" is a great poem to read. It's also one that I might bring up later when we talk about trust and distrust.
"Knoxville, Tennessee" is a great poem by Nikki Giovanni. It's in our reading anthology; there's a small unit on poetry. But it comes with illustrations. I like students to read (or hear) poems on their own without illustrations. Pictures made by someone other than the poet guides student interpretations, and I want them to come up with their own interpretations.
"The Poet" is a fun one. Poets write poems about poetry and poets. This is a good example of that.

Waiting for the Director

the cinematographer was measuring the light
on the cafe set, with the stand-ins having a chat,
just as the characters soon would be

she would occasionally look over his shoulder,
a slight motion that annoyed the cinematographer,
so he gave her that look, which she did not see,
her gaze through the window, to outside,
where she hoped she would see her boyfriend
amongst the passers-by, who were strolling
past the book-shop, oblivious to the clutch
of cast and crew inside, waiting for the director

he wanted to move, to block her view,
but he knew the cinematographer would bark at him
if he did, so he sat still, smitten with her,
wishing someone would script his life, to have her
fall in love with him, while he could only imagine
an accident, a jostle, to get her to notice him,
but he feared he would botch it, the comic relief
instead of the romantic lead, so he sat
very still and waited for her to speak again

when the director and actors arrived on set,
the cinematographer moved behind the camera
to capture the scene, not seeing the drama
that was beginning to unfold right before him

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 23 a la Viv at The Sunday Whirl.

Shame Flows

he was a good boy (in his parents' eyes)
he was loved (for what he did)

so he did what he needed to
to keep their love

he was the dutiful son
he didn't speak unless spoken to
he didn't cry when he was hurt
his room was neat and tidy
his toys on the shelf pristine

he kept mum happy
he kept papa proud

but he didn't know how to keep himself
so he carried the loss

his heart beat
but it only beat him down
its message was
you are unworthy of love
for who you are

shame flowed with each beat
he didn't know what else there was
to fill his heart

it was where his heart was
he carried the loss

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the Better Inside Out prompt at We Write Poems.

It was written very much in response to this sentence from the original prompt idea: "But shame in itself is also a useless state of being, restoring nothing that might have been damaged, and is at root a self-centered point of view."

Threads

take the woolen thread
that natural by-product of sheep
that symbol of the herd
for those who don't yearn
for those who just accept
and sew

choose what you want to fashion
a tapestry or banner
for a corridor of power
a sash or socks
to adorn or warm
or writer's gloves
with the fingertips exposed
take the woolen thread and sew

see the omens - if you can
hear the whispers of the muses
listen to your own yearnings
take the raw emotions of your life
and shape them with verve
take the woolen thread and sew

look into the mirror and don't blink
don't be fooled by the opal surface
look deeply - thrust through the layers
take the woolen thread and sew

clothe us - warm us
comfort us - warn us
we need it
even if we don't know it
just strengthen us
take the woolen thread and sew

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 22 at The Sunday Whirl.

See Dick Run

See Dick run.
Run, Dick, run.

He's not running away
from Jane, but toward Jack.

Jack runs too, leaving Jill behind,
and Dick is happy chasing him.

Run, Dick, run.

Jack is fast, but not too fast.
He wants Dick to catch him.

Dick is starting to catch up.
The grin on his face is huge.

Run, Dick, run.

Dick tackles Jack,
and they tumble in the grass.

They fall, breathing hard,
laughing, limbs entwined.

See Dick walk.
Walk, Dick, walk.

Dick and Jack walk up the hill.
They find a spot beside the well.

They sit together, and hold hands
where no one can see.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the B 1 prompt at We Write Poems.

My first name is Richard, so I decided my alter ego would be called Dick. I have never been called Dick, as a nickname for my given name. I may have been called a dick, but I'm not sure about that. In fact, that's how I first thought this poem was going to go; I thought of a guy named Dick, who was, well... a dick. But I just couldn't go the obnoxious or sexist route.

Instead, I thought of the Dick and Jane readers. And, for some reason, the nursery rhyme pair of Jack and Jill popped into my head. I began toying with the idea of Dick and Jack being the pair. So, Dick became that person. It occurred to me that the source material I was drawing from supported the heterosexual majority point of view and orientation, and that I would offer an alternative. This poem is my trying to show a little respect to all my gay, lesbian, and bisexual brothers and sisters out there.

I also had in mind two boys I knew many years ago, when they were second graders. They were best friends and thought nothing of holding hands when they walked out to recess together. Even at that age, other students had been acculturated to think it was wrong for boys to hold hands like that. I recall telling a girl who had said something disparaging about them that I didn't see anything wrong with them holding hands. I have no idea what their sexual orientation was, is, or will be, but it doesn't matter. There are sensitive boys out there, and there's a lot right with them.

My Room

This place must be safe,
safe to fall but not fail.

This place should be happy,
pleasing to the senses,
igniting nerves inside bone.

This place defines us.
There are walls and a roof,
a floor to walk on.
We are not born here,
but we all pass through
as learners here.

This place accepts us.
All are cared for.
We can even begin
to accept ourselves here.

This place has a voice.
And it can hold your voice.
Speak. Laugh. Sing.
Question. Answer. Question.

This place is quiet.
I sit here and think,
reflect on the day
and all its doings.

This place is empty.
As I leave it,
I know.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to the Snapshot of Place prompt at We Write Poems.

I was intrigued by Neil's idea, and finally came up with this. I knew immediately what I wanted to do; it just took me a while to put pen to paper.

I knew I wanted to use chakras as my rule of measure. Don't ask me why. The idea just popped into my head. And I wanted to write about my classroom. And yet leave it open to interpretation. So, this poem is constructed with each stanza representing a different chakra, from base, sacral, solar plexus, heart, throat, third eye, to crown. I did a little internet research and used these ideas: self-preservation, self-gratification, self-definition, self-acceptance, self-expression, self-reflection, and self-knowledge. I hope the poem works without knowing what's in these process notes.

rondeau: scrapers

We don't wake with a jolt anymore.
We just scrape across the floor
and look for our dignity,
rummaging in our pockets to see
if we can find any more.

We used to be urgent and aroar.
Now we're just simple and sore.
We used to strive - to be.
We don't wake with a jolt anymore.

We know we should be bold or
work to build scrapers that soar,
but we pass what we see,
cut out all roaring humanity.
We're all aft; there's no one fore.
We don't wake with a jolt anymore.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 21 at The Sunday Whirl. I was inspired to write a rondeau by an article in the October issue of The Writer which I am currently reading on my nook.

Elementary School Poetry - Week Three

Here are the five poems for week three:

• Dream Variations - Langston Hughes
• The Bat - Theodore Roethke
• Did I Miss Anything? - Tom Wayman
• Blackberry Eating - Galway Kinnell
• Casey at the Bat - Ernest Thayer

I pulled the other two poems from books I have. There is a series of books of poetry for children, and I selected "Dream Variations" from the one on Langston Hughes. It is titled Poetry for Young People: Langston Hughes, edited by David Roessel and Arnold Rampersad. "Blackberry Eating" came from A Poem for Every Day! by Susan Moger.

Voices

Boy is sent to his room
without dinner or explanation
"You should know why"
(the voice of passive aggression)

Boy is hurt
but has no outlet
for that emotion
(the voice of anger is also wrong)

So he dampens the flame
says he feels nothing
because that's better than pain
(the voice of thought over emotion)

The boy is blue
the world a sadder place
though no one notices
(the voice of depression grows stronger)

He's a sensitive boy
He's so shy
You know how introverts are
(the voice of rationalization)

So no one sees his pain
he hides it even from himself
but it grows within him
(waiting for the voice of compassion)

/ / /

This poem was written to the 3 + (x) = Poem prompt at We Write Poems. Thanks to Amy Barlow Liberatore for the prompt idea and We Write Poems for using it.

Custodian

He maintains the truth around him,
each and every room in turn.
Every vessel of knowledge matters,
each as important as the one before,
the last, the first, and all between.

He doesn't breeze through his work.
He sweeps away the dust and pencil shavings,
but doesn't wipe away the residue of art,
that which was created so fervently,
if yet without much skill.
He has a trunk at home
filled with his own children's artwork,
and each piece he sees fills him anew.

He sometimes skins his knuckles,
making minor repairs to this and that,
but that doesn't matter. It's just a covering,
as his job doesn't cloak who he is.

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 19 at The Sunday Whirl. Thanks to Brenda, as always, for these wordles. And thanks again for choosing words from one of my poems. It's good to be missed, but it's even better to be back reading and writing again.

Obviously, being back in the classroom has influenced my subject matter.

Elementary School Poetry 180 - Week Two

Here are the five poems I read last week:

• The Arrow and the Song - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
• "Do You Have Any Advice For Those of Us Just Starting Out?" - Ron Koertge
• Numbers - Mary Cornish
• Ozymandias - Percy Bysshe Shelley
• At the Un-National Monument Along the Canadian Border - William Stafford

I still have a student who says, "That was short" when I finish reading a poem. All of these fit on a single page except for "Numbers". There was some discussion of the last stanza of that one, a bit of confusion about what to make of "three boys", "two Italians", and "one sock".

I think I'm going to drop "Ozymandias". While I like it, and it's fun to read aloud, I think it's too heady for ten-year-olds. They just don't know what to make of it.

Thirteen Ways

I
Less than a day's drive
from the Sierra Nevada
sits the city of San Francisco.

II
Water has three states,
a secular trinity
that provides life.

III
The autumn winds pull the fog
through the Golden Gate.

IV
Hydrogen and oxygen
are one.
Liquid and ice and vapor
are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
the beauty of thirst
or the beauty of slaking it.
Lifting the full glass
or emptying it.

VI
Icicles filled the picture
above December's grid,
those barbaric teeth
of old man winter,
or are they instead
translucent carrots
growing in the sky?

VII
Oh bachelors of the city
surrounded by golden-skinned birds,
do you watch them as they sip
so delicately their vitamin waters
after their runs along the bay?

VIII
I know the taste
of accented water-
the teas and coffees
and their rhythms
of afternoon and morning.

IX
As the fog burned off,
its disappearing edge
was natural magic.

X
At the sight of the marine layer,
giving everything a gray hue,
even the purples of pigeons
were a welcome flash of color.

XI
He walked across the bride,
stopping to look out at Alcatraz
-no glass cage for him-
and the fear
of too much freedom
and too much restraint
was the fog's shadow on him.

XII
The sixteen rivers are moving.
The bay must be alive.

XIII
In the morning, the family left the city
for afternoon snow-
it was going to snow
they said on the news-
to watch the evergreens turn white.

/ / /

This is a poem I originally wrote in April 2010 for Poetic Asides. I don't think I've posted it before. (I couldn't find it on this blog, even using a search.) I did revise a couple of the stanzas, but otherwise, it is as I originally wrote it.

I submit it in response to the Thirteen Ways of Looking prompt at We Write Poems. This is an idea I've used before. I learned it from Susan Sibbet, a poet who comes to my school from California Poets in the Schools. But I'm glad that Margo suggested it for all of us.

A Francisco San School Day

It was one of those days.
You know what I'm talking about.
There was the tremor in the morning
that left everyone unsettled.
No plaster cracked or fell from the walls,
but we all still shuddered inside
sporadically throughout the day.

Actually, it started before that
when I forgot the words to the pledge
of allegiance, as if I was that no man
who is an island, bound to none.
Another teacher gave me the glare
that said I was being seditious,
but it was my brain in rebellion
against me, not my heart.

And then walking up the stairs
to the classroom, it was as if the tread
of my shoe was gone, every step
was wrong, the wetness of the morning fog
now squeaking off loudly on the stairs,
my foot slipping so I almost fell,
and then giving a flat tire
to the little fourth-grade girl
struggling up the stairs in front of me.

After the tremor, they were timid.
Afraid to ask questions, to take smart risks,
as if the stigma of the label of special education
had been stamped on them all.
They weren't themselves, as if their nether selves
had crawled up and thrown their sacred selves down.

I didn't teach a single thing that day.
I swear everything I did only hindered
their progress rather than aiding it.
My lesson plans weren't on my clipboard.
I couldn't find the copies I'd made
the previous day. The teacher's edition
wasn't on the shelf of my podium.
My every effort only enmeshed my students
in a net of incompetence and ignorance.
By the end of the day, we were a tuft,
a dense clump, of humanity.

I dismissed them at two,
and sat alone in my classroom until three
dismissing myself.

/ / /

For this poem, I combined two prompts, Wordle 17 from The Sunday Whirl, and a prompt from Poetic Asides to write an "everything is against you" poem. Thanks to Brenda and Robert.

The Banker

it's easy to see desperation
in the eyes of a stranger

not so easy to turn your heart
to granite and slouch by,
but you've managed it

you spin your stories
how they've wasted their lives,
that they've cracked their minds
on drugs, cheapened their bodies

you concern yourself
with how dirty they are,
not ash on their skins
but the oily residue
of urban life

if only they were clean
you tell yourself

but the truth is
you are afraid
afraid that they will screw you
as you've screwed them

you fear the revolution
that they'll rise
and throw you to the ground
from the corporate parapets
you think protect you

but when the revolution of your soul comes
when all worldly concerns are cleansed
you will not find yourself
in the presence of light

/ / /

This poem was written in response to Wordle 18 at The Sunday Whirl.

My body is a school.

My body is a school.

The principal and teachers are meeting
in the faculty room of my brain.
They are discussing the best ways
to improve their students' faculties.

My eyes are a vision
of a brighter future,
but right now it's raining
and the visibility's not so good.

My ears have the capacity
of an auditorium,
for questions, music,
problems, poems,
and confidences kept safe.

My shirt is brightly colored,
a primary color with short sleeves.
There are no tricks up my sleeves,
just grease on my elbow,
and copier toner under my fingernails.

I have a full, satisfied feeling
in my cafeteria stomach.

There are students running
through my intestinal hallways.
It tickles, stirring up serotonin.

My hands are empty.
There are no more supplies
to carry upstairs
from the supply room.
But they are open,
full of compassion and giving.
They are ready to reach out
and help someone up.

One foot is stuck in the mud
of public apathy,
while the other is unstable
on the shifting sands
of governmental mismanagement.
My balance is good
and my legs are strong.
I've had lots of practice
traversing this land.
And somehow
I keep moving forward.

/ / /

This poem is in response to a prompt from Poetic Asides to write a school poem.