30 August 2009

Sunday Morning

I am sinking into my soft spotted chair on Sunday.
I wonder if Harpo the canary hears
the birdsong bursting from the fir out front.
I hear shrill whistles banter back and forth.
Harpo’s head tilts this way and that. He sings.
I see Hopper and Piggy lying side-by-side,
tail to snout siestas.
I want warm banana bread with butter,
and strong coffee rich with cream.
I am Scandinavian.

I pretend to be a Finnish princess.
I feel beautiful and strong.
I touch the ribbon
that ties off my long thick braid and
I worry that my father, the king,
will not permit his daughter to chop wood.
I cry under the weight of his words.
I am as capable as any boy is,
and I have more strength than many.

I understand that stories are born
in moments and events remembered, yet
I will always say
some stories write themselves.
At night I dream of
thousands of soldiers
controlling us all.
I try to wrap my mind
around a world beyond my living room,
safe here in the United States.
I hope life always brings banana bread,
and strong coffee rich with cream.
I am one of many humans living stories on the Earth,
in my spotted chair on Sunday, the canary on its perch.

*Authors Note* The "I am" poem I posted prior to this, was written following specific parameters. For this piece, the first two words of each line had to be those first two words, but there were no other specifications. After I wrote it I moved the line breaks to suit myself...so some of the first two words are "embedded."

I am poem

I am Brenda
I wonder what tomorrow holds
I hear students’ futures ringing through the halls
I see them living full and rich
I want their lives to shine so fine
I am dedicated and hopeful

I pretend to brush off rudeness, but
I feel squashed---a bug underfoot
I touch my childhood self, and remember
I worry that I’ll never measure up
I cry when students cry
I am compassionate and vulnerable

I understand the importance of action
I say “Practice kindness.”
I dream a world of words.
I try my darndest to get students to care about books.
I hope for Moodle Magic and more days like today.
I am Warren.

(This was written as an example for students.)

18 August 2009

Port of Call

From the Lockport Caves
in western New York
through Cleveland and Lodi
on down to Pandora,
Grandma Jill’s Land Yacht sails
through deciduous glens.
Leafy vines swaddle
the driftwood flesh
of skeletal trees-
sentries amidst willows that weep,
and ancient alders.
A Dixie Chicks CD follows
80s soul, and DJ diva—Delilah
as we float on an ocean of sound
down US Interstate 71 South.

Dusk falls.
The Land Yacht sails smooth
onto Route 30 west,
The Lincoln Highway.
We turn down the AC,
and scan radio stations
searching for something
to sink into.
W-Y-N-T radio
out of Upper Sandusky, Ohio.
The WhY NoT oldies hit parade
plays songs we remember
from 30 years hence
testifying to the trek of time

Come on baby
(Don’t fear the reaper)
Baby take my hand
(Don’t fear the reaper)
We’ll be able to fly
(Don’t fear the reaper)

Baby I’m your man

We belt out the La, la, la, la la
of Blue Oyster Cult’s classic hit
and dissolve into laughter,
because we are the oldies.

Narrowing the gap
between reaper and self,
we soar down a smooth black stream
from Lockport to Pandora
where Grandma Jill’s driveway
shines like a beacon unto us all.

The Land Yacht’s port of call.