Ode to a Grader

This poem was published in the Delta Epsilon Sigma Journal, a national honor society for Catholic colleges and universities.

NaPoWriMo #30--"My Magic Turtle"

My Magic Turtle

I used to ride to far-distant lands
on the back on my magical turtle.
I only ever saw his back and top
of his head—the rest buried
underground, surrounded by grass.
His smooth, grey back was large
enough for two small children
to play on. He was a place to rest.
His back hot enough to burn small legs
in summer. In winter, cold enough
to sap the warmth, even through snowpants.
I didn’t care. He was my friend and
boon companion, a calming presence
even when I shared his back with others.
But always I traveled alone,
and when we went, I had to hold still—
a turtle’s back a precarious perch.
We traveled to China and to Spain.
Dazzling princesses, regal queens, and
very kindly kings would be happy to
entertain me when I arrived with my friend.
And on very special occasions, he’d take
me to visit the Others. They didn’t live far,
but he’s the only one who knew the way.

While we flew—he was a flying turtle, of course—

I’d sing to him. But sometimes
He’d tell me stories of the places we were
headed, and I’d repeat them aloud.
No other child could fly with us—
My turtle wouldn’t speak when they
were around. Not all can keep secrets, he knew.
But dollies were allowed to share with us.
That’s when they could speak and
Join the fun.

Decades later, I visited with my infant son,

but my turtle didn’t speak to him. When I
listened very, very carefully, I still heard
his tales. I would sit on my friend’s back
with my boy and whisper his tales into
small ears. We could no longer ride—
even a magic turtle can’t fly with a
mother and child. But my friend and I
still shared our bond, because love
and memories never die.

*****
I did it! Thanks for sharing the ride this month. xo

NaPoWriMo #29 "Penny Candy, 1967"

Penny Candy, 1967

Rows of pastel buttons on their strips of thin paper;
Red Hot Atomic Fireballs;
Wax lips and candy cigarettes;
Nips bottles full of colored sugar water;
Mary Janes, Bazooka, Tootsie Roll minis;
Smartees, root beer barrels, raspberry chews;
Starburst mints, crystal mints, sour balls.
A nickel all that's needed for happiness.
A dime? Twice the joy--an afternoon's pure bliss.

NaPoWriMo #28 "The Lioness's Pride"

The Lioness’s Pride

I have my students writing a final
on the infantalization of college students.
It’s a trend I rail against—I teach adults.

But I look at them and what do I see?

My beautiful children. All of them—mine.
My responsibility if only for fifteen weeks.

I am old enough to be their mother—

Older than some of their grandmothers even.
And I am charged to teach them, and not just writing.

I have not figured out a way to teach otherwise.

These are young ones, in my charge, needing help.
This alone triggers the response—the force maternal.

Maternal, but not tender. More feline than human. The lioness.

I can and will cuff them, sometimes with claws, but no one else can.
I am preparing them for a world of predators. Softness will not do.

And at the end of the term—like a cat’s—my job is over.

They wander off, some never seen again. Faded in memory.
But some stay nearer—forever part of my pride. Forever mine.


****
This is for all of the students I've taught. I think they know that I am their teacher for as long as they need me to be. For some that's a term (for some even less!), and for some that's over a decade. They are my pride on more than one level, but I actually can't get this to work. I wrote it with the injustices of America in mind. It's not there yet, but it's also finals week.

NaPoWriMo #27 "Jamesean Dilemma, Pt. 2"

Jamesean Dilemma, Pt. 2

Two years ago, I made the leap.
I went from writing poems on paper
to crafting on machine.  At first
I was afraid that by not using a pen,
something would get lost. But I think
we're fine. There's been no discernible
difference between penned or keyed poems.

But today, I sat down with only paper--
no access to machine--and stared.
The big expanse of white. The blue
lines, empty, eagerly awaiting the application
of ink, left me flummoxed. Floundering.
Could I still do it? Could I use one hand
alone, painfully handwriting, transforming
ideas in my head into squiggles on the page?

The jury's still out.


***
The original "Jamesean Dilemma" can be found here

NaPoWriMo #26--"Pen Envy"

Pen Envy

     To O.S., the Freudian

My friend Omar is a poet--

it says so on his business card.

But truly, he has published volumes

and works hard at his craft.

Yesterday he wrote twelve poems--

maybe more--while I eked out

a mere one. I could say to myself,

"It's quality, not quantity," and soothe

my ego, that won't work. Honestly,

he has both. Although he's much 

younger, he's plied his trade far longer.

I am a dabbler--writing a poem

as an academic exercise, a piece

of discipline, a creative outlet. But

never a pressing need. I understand

that my true talents lie elsewhere.

But that doesn't stop my occasional bouts

of pen envy--the only kind of envy I know.

NaPoWriMo #25 "But Wait--"

But Wait--

The eerie howling I hear
is nothing but the wind.
Or so I tell myself.
The voices from the
heating vent
are nothing but a radio
in a neighbor’s apartment.
That’s the comfort I give myself.
The bumps in the night
are nothing but the creakings
of an old house settling.
I’m sure that’s all it is.
The cat’s low hissing must
mean a mouse is visiting.
What else could it be?
But wait—

****
I will come back to this because today has beaten me to a pulp. At least I'm tenacious!

NaPoWriMo #24--"Writer's Block"

Writer’s Block

When students struggle with writing papers

they often tell me it’s because of “writer’s block.”

“Nonsense,” I boom.  “There is no such thing,

especially in this kind of paper. Not a lot of

creativity involved!” And there’s not.

Actually, after years working as a reporter.

I learned that in non-fiction, writer’s block

is a luxury none can afford.  With strict deadlines,

Bob’s yer uncle, the writing gets done.

All the impetus in the world to churn out prose.

But tonight, as I said, “I have to write today’s

poem,” I heard myself mumble,

“But I have writer’s block!” I laughed,

opened a WORD file, and lo, a poem was born.

Have a strict deadline, and Mary’s yer auntie,

the poem gets done. It might be weak, it might

be silly, but it’s there, a start. As I tell students:

there’s something to this discipline thing, so WRITE.

NaPoWriMo #21--"Earth Day 2015"

Earth Day 2015

This is the day we celebrate Earth

and remember that  we are called

to stewardship.  Our footprints grown

so large. But a good steward is chary—

caring. Growth and conservation,

carefully balanced.  Here in this

booming desert, no large celebration.

This land of oil’s riches, but sand,

as well, the conduit needed for

the power of the sun. One is

running out, the other abundant.

May we be good stewards—

Protecting our charge for the

grandchildren’s children. 

********

There is so much I wanted to write about today, but after grade 25 term papers, I just can't!  Happy Earth Day

NaPoWriMo #21 -- "Upon A Yawn"

Upon a Yawn

I thought it was a simple exchange of gases:

my brain both needed to bring in oxygen

and dump the carbon dioxide. Shallow

breathing brought on by tiredness has

all my balances askew. But then I learned

that it might just be that my brain is

overheated and needs to cool. I think I

like that idea better. It certainly feels as if

my brains are boiling at times. But if that is so,

drinking hot tea (even though mint and

green) probably isn’t helping the situation.

The cause isn’t all that important. As long as

I don’t gape at students. They gawp at me,

and I take umbrage. I really do. At least cover

your mouth! “Am I boring you?” I sweetly ask.

One had the temerity to say, “Yeah, sorta.”

My haughty “I heartily beg your pardon” clued him

in to his faux-pas. Well, the second one. No one does

haughty like me in a snit. Perhaps, though, my

body is telling me “take a rest.” I think that’s it.

Good thought, but work beckons, so once more

into the breach; the quivering nostrils the only

clue to the quietly stifled sign of a teacher’s lot.

NaPoWriMo #20--"Grading"

Grading

 

Words upon words upon words,

piled one after the other in a

dizzying array. Sometimes with

meaning, but many times

meaningless, empty, filler.

Meant to boost a word count

not understanding.

“No joy in the writer, no joy in the reader,”

the old axiom. Not only no joy,

no care, no understanding, no

desire for anything but an “A”

without the effort it demands.

Palpable frustration the grader’s lot;

Much to be said on this, but no time—

the list of papers seemingly endless.

 

***

It's the end of term, and sometimes the frustration spills out. It's not really this bad! I actually have a number of very talented and hardworking students. But at this time of the year, it's the bad apples that stand out--human nature, right?

 

 

NaPoWriMo #19--Food Haiku

Magical flavor.

With neither butter nor scotch.

Childhood memory.

      ***

Pierce the skin, juice bursts,

smelling of earth and sunshine.

Taste now lost to time.

      ***

 

Scratchy thorns protect

blackberries from tiny hands.

But Pop saves the day.

******************

Exhausting day at work, so three memories: butterscotch, tomatoes stolen from the garden, picking blackberries with my grandfather. Pathetic, but determined not to miss a day.

NaPoWriMo #16--"To Cheren"

To Cheren 

Just sitting here, contemplating

how much I’ve overeaten (overhungry

and ate too fast), bemoaning that full-

to-bursting feeling, when a sweet memory

comes out of nowhere: “Too Much Food Night!”

And suddenly, there she is, full-blown.

She asked me if I ever had those nights—

order everything off the menu for delivery,

go to bed with a movie and “too much food!”

She was a woman of muchness—much love,

much joy, much humor. We met over food—

a stranger through a newsletter asked me

to send her mélasse from Switzerland.

She’d send me money, she promised.

This before PayPal and QuickPays.

A young one, sweet, begging for

a jar of golden childhood memory.

I took a chance, sent the jar,

a friendship was born.

Parcels exchanged—fruit pastilles from London,

clogs from Sweden to her.  A matryoshka doll

and Indian tea, brass and shawl to me. Much email,

her in the US, me in Europe. A penfriend forged

over love of food and travel.

One sweet visit, a dinner etched in memory.

Planning more—a nice long visit, but then—

An illness.

Phone calls.

Love.

Gone too soon.

But still here, still in our memories:

Ever beautiful, ever smiling, and ever,

for ever, lest this be too solemn, the wiseass.