6th Grade Poetry Unit, AGAIN!

It is Spring and I am back in the middle school after taking a year in the little grades. And while a handful of students in each class will moan when the poetry unit comes around, I get out my handy-dandy pencil and notebook and I write write write.

Limerick

There once was a mom who was cross

Took kids’ behavior as a loss

She sighed and she pouted

She cried and she shouted

Which only made her feel more cross.

Simile Poem

My pencil is like a tongue

because it says what my brain thinks

and cuts through to the quick with

quips that can make you feel like

you took a licking.

It is vulnerable to the teeth

and it can wear itself out with

the need to repeat a message

over and over to make its point

(dull point)

clear.

So Much Depends, Inspired by WIlliam Carlos Williams

So much depends upon

someone saying, 

“Hard is okay.” 

and being there 

in the hard

as they are

in the easy.

So much depends upon

leaving a warm bed

only to

grab a cup of coffee

and climb back in

to the still warm bed

in one’s own space.

So much depends upon

the assumptions

being untrue

and reality

being everything good

because that reminds me

that my gut

is a gift.

Metaphor poem based on an age

23 was freedom

walking 

at all hours

being 

where I had to be

and 

where I wanted

New York City 

was

writing, learning, feeling,

and

desiring, knowing, living

and 

earning a masters degree

City living is

dreaming 

of my youth

no longer a likely option

because 

dreams aren’t for now

Cookie

The 

sun 

is 

the

belly 

of 

a 

cat

soft 

and 

warm

and 

as 

I 

put 

my

face 

nuzzled 

deep

in 

the 

fur

I 

tip 

my 

chin 

up

taking 

every 

ray

I 

can 

hold 

upon 

my 

cheeks.

Inspired by Clint Smith’s Something You Should Know

Something you should know

is when I was a child,

ready for happy and laughing and hugs,

I was teased for how I looked.

I was teased because I was overweight.

And even though I grew up

and I grew thinner,

I never stopped being fat in my mind.

To this day 

I can love fiercely,

make others happy,

laugh for an hour straight

and feel successful in my life.

But.

The first quiet moment of introspection,

I will call myself the names from my childhood.

I will find fault in my appearance and

discomfort in my skin and

wonder why anything else matters

when e v e r y t h i n g else matters

so 

much 

more.

But.

Imprinted in my animal brain

is the importance,

my importance,

that only exists in my physical appearance

because that was the noise 

that was carved into my thoughts.

And I may never be cured.

Because words matter.

And you should know

to choose your words.

Wisely.

Kindly.

Or maybe not at all.

Haiku

The buds will soon bloom

And with it comes a promise

That what blooms will die

Water in the woods

Dries after days of sunshine

No more Buddy baths

There is a sweet spot

That lies between warmth and bugs

I take my long walks

Daffodils are here

Announcing the loss of Da

His most loved flower

The cats dash outside

To hunt chipmunks, mice, and birds

Leaving me dead gifts

I open windows

My dog barks incessantly

I close them again

Passenger

I miss being the passenger in a car some days. 

I have always loved watching scenery pass by. 

I never mind a bus trip or train trip anywhere, 

enjoying it more than a flight. 

I just let my mind go as I take in the world 

that I am passing through.

The other day I swerved noticeably on the road 

trying to finish looking at a house that had 

added on or taken down a tree

or some shrubs. 

I wasn’t finished looking

and I had to be finished looking.

I was the driver, 

in charge of direction and safety and momentum.

I had to look forward.

Sometimes that is tiring. 

Sometimes I want to close my eyes 

or write something down

or finish thinking through a scene I passed. 

Sometimes I don’t want to be in the car. 

Sometimes I don’t want to move.

Usually, though, I am happy to drive. 

It is the best one-on-one time with my children. 

Looking into their minds with what they share. 

Looking into their hearts with what they don’t share. 

Into their nows and their futures and their pasts. 

Helping them by driving them,

literally and figuratively,

with the love to hear and the time to listen.

And when I am alone in the car

I can think

and sing

and wonder

and have a private phone call.

Sometimes, though, I wish that I was in the passenger seat.

My head grows heavy from so much life.

I would like to turn and say,

“I am glad you are driving” 

or

“Thank you for driving”

or

I'd place my hand upon the driver that would say both

and maybe more.

Also,

I have never been so happy to be the driver in my life.

The Star Was Placed

The star made it to the top. 

It flopped over, 

lacking perfection, 

lacking precision. 

Just right.

I had begun to address the elephant in the room 

when my son took the star from my hands, 

as if waiting to hear the starting bell,

and began his haphazard placement. 

And when he was stopped by the others, 

reminding him to trim a bough 

and to place it more centered, 

(all good ideas)

all of that happened, too. 

It just remained off kilter 

and eventually tipped itself way back, 

exhausted.

Now a new year begins

with easy,

with awkward,

with tricky,

and with health.

We are here for it all.

We are here.

The Star

 The star is not at the top of the tree, yet, this year. 

And though there are other significant differences this Christmas, it kind of comes down to the fact that the star is not in its usual place.

At first it was because nothing was on the tree except the lights I strung while the kids were away with their dad. 

(This is something that happens now.) 

Then the tree was decorated without one of the children because she was at school. 

(Because this is something new this year, too.) 

The star remained on the floor next to the tree after we finished decorating. Soon, when my daughter returned, the star moved to a shelf which, I guess, is a little closer to its typical place.

Once upon a time, when I was in my 20s, I was walking through Union Square's artists' craft fair on a cold and dark December night. 

NYC at Christmas time. 

There I saw a star that I found to be so beautiful. I paid the steep $20 dollars and brought it home. Such a stark contrast from the antique, porcelin angel I grew up with in my home. 

I came back to our small apartment and placed it on top of the Kate sized tree my fiancé had surprised me with one afternoon. 

In the future, my husband would place the star on top, tall enough to reach it whether it was short for apartment living or tall and well chosen (and personally cut) for our home. 

Then, one day, he lifted a toddler to place the star on the top bough. 

Eventually, he lifted three children to place the star on top, taking it back off between each child so everyone could have their chance (and photo) to place the tree topper.

He can't lift the children anymore at 18, 16, and 14.

We also don't all share this house like we once did.

There is now someone who lives here who was never a part of the star to begin with.

The star is not on top of the tree.

I am curious what will happen by Christmas day. 

Will it be placed? 

Will I just do it myself one day? 

What reaction will that bring? 

Relief? 

Disbelief? 

Indifference?

Questions are a very central part of this year for us

And there is a tree. 

A very beautiful tree.

And the star is not at the top of that tree, yet, this year. 

I am running late...

"Depressions Awareness Month" has come and gone. Which is ironic as we head into the colder and darker months of the year. Some begin their slip into depression at this time. 

That was me, with seasonal depression. 

Then, I realized that though the name for it gave those around me some understanding and timelines, that it wasn't really true. I just continued being the animal I am- going to bed earlier as it was dark earlier. 

My depression just was. 

Just is. 

And it comes and goes. 

And it is okay. 

Because though it comes, 

it goes.

(the hardest part to remember when in it)

And I wrote about it because

it became

really big.

Failing

There are mornings when

Upon waking in my thoughts

I realize I’m failing

I’m a failure

That I am failing at

What I know I shouldn’t

That I am letting everyone

And myself

Down.

On those mornings when

I am a failure

I can’t stand to see or 

Be seen.

I need to be alone and fail

I need to stare off and fail

I need to not be needed

Or I will fail

More.

I can’t be witnessed

Or my failure will be real

And I will shatter

And never be together

again.

Hard Day

I just need to lie down 

I’m going to feel better 

I’m going to do better 

Just now I have to lie down 

I just need to not think

I can’t regard it all

I can’t accept it all 

Right now I need to not think

I just need you to understand 

I’m going to make sense soon

I am making sense to myself 

If you could just try to understand. 

I Know

I know that the sun comes out

no matter how grey the days

I know that children are happy when

love comes first

I know that being reactive 

doesn’t work and I need to figure out the fix

I know that someone unkind lives in my brain

and takes up too much room

when what I need is that room to be open

I know I get very overwhelmed and

that if I wait

I will not feel overwhelmed

I know that having a to do list that is just mine

feels lonely and feels doable

I know that the to do list doesn’t have to be just mine

all the time

I know that I feel too much sometimes

and that I mainly feel the right amount most of the time

which is the right amount for me

and can seems like too much to others

I know that I have work to do

I know that I have a job to do

I know that kindness matters and 

even t-shirts say so now

I know that words need to be in your chest,

and not just on your chest,

for them to have meaning

Quietly Writing

 The pandemic. Amiright???

For the last year and a half, people were going through what they were going through. Lives were changed. Loved ones were missed. For many, it happened quietly, as it was behind closed doors.

I am no different of course.

And all along I was quietly writing. 

I thought I might share again.

I mean, I have been getting out and hugging my mom and kissing her sweet lil cheek. Walking in hallways teeming with children. In Target, no mask. 

Why not?

This is what started my journey into the pandemic. The moment I knew that I may need to become a mother of four.

Missnested

I don’t know

at all

how to write 

what I want to say

about you

about what should be

about what is unfamiliar

and what, maybe,

no one else 

understands 

feels

gets.

What I know is

I found you and 

there was a quiet dawning.

I could see and 

I could feel

that there you were

in the wrong nest

falling and flapping.

And so, at first,

I caught you as you fell.

Then, when that wasn’t enough,

I brought you to my tree. 

Finally, because I knew,

I put you in my nest 

and hoped

every day,

and worried

every day,

and loved

every day, 

my sweet blue bird. 

And this is what I wrote the night my eldest daughter and I waited for the little bird to land after a day fraught with emotion.

Waiting

We paced the driveway

Waiting for him to arrive

Phone calls explaining delays

Messages left running hot

Making my insides cold

Just wanting him here

He arrived in a nondescript car

Driven by an apologetic man

And assisted by a forgettable someone

He arrived with ripped garbage bags

And a torn old hamper

And exhaustion

And shame

And sadness

And illness

And loss

And confusion

Without a word

Down the stairs

Everything dropped around his feet

Down on the bed

Every feeling dropped upon him

He fell asleep for a very, very long time.

And then he woke.