"Classroom 1A," 9/9/08

Thumbtacks pressed into a wall
stare out at me like multicolored eyes,
dig into the sheetrock like empty, grasping claws.
What news has been pierced
by the sharp frankness of a tack?
What construction-paper projects
with paste oozing from between the layers,
what sensationalist headlines
clipped for educational reasons?--
BAT-BOY DISCOVERED IN JERSEY or
PRINCIPAL FALSIFIES TEST SCORES.
Maybe notes and memos,
mysterious little ascetic scrawlings
passed without a sound.
Or maybe a life-preserving device
once hung importantly there,
such as a fire evacuation route
labeled in imperative red marker.
YOU ARE HERE! --->
Or, perhaps, a displaced artist
stumbled thankfully upon this canvas
and arranged the tacks to represent
the decadence of modern culture,
or an astronomer navigated them
into the constellation of Taurus
hoping a kindred spirit would notice fondly.

"The Watcher," 9/7/08

Sipping tea of peppermint,
I watch those who pass me by.
Tucked away into a corner,
not enough to catch their eye.

Students heavily burdened
make their way across the school;
Some are laughing, some are scared,
all are trying to seem cool.

I see those that stand and wait,
those that drop their breakfast trays,
those that are stood up by dates,
those that sit and hide their face.

What could any of them know
about the one who watches here?--
Stirring idly in her tea,
toying with a strand of hair?

But I know them all quite well,
those that pass beneath my stare,
and I give them little names,
and meet them every morning here.

Neither names, nor addresses,
do I know or wish to know,
nor jobs, nor acquaintances,
but know important things that show.

For people are a mix of all
the tiny little things they do:
Talking smiling, mumbling, crying,
Kissing, fidgeting, falling, sighing.

Oh, your morning lists to-do,
meeting friends and buying food!
My days never were so new
before I started watching you.

"Dirt," 4/28/08

Racing from the cover of maples and poplars, I bound up the porch steps and burst through the door. What's happened to you, my mother asks as I dart to the garage and back, hacksaw in hand. You're rusty, she says, her word for red dirt like war paint on my knees and elbows. I'm making a trail, I say, grabbing a cake to take to the work site. But she's already scrubbing an elbow with a dishcloth and I sigh, wondering what mysterious grudge everyone has against dirt. After all, it's the thing we're made of, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Adam and Eve weren't formed of soap, after all, and besides, it's my element--the sign of the bull, making a mess, tumbling across the zodiac. And flowers. How could we marvel at their tiny bursts of color if we couldn't stand the sight of dirt? Also, all the best fairy-tale things are of earth, the Elves and the rainbow-eyed unicorns. And the children, at work in their domains of sticks, mud, and vines, creating new worlds by the sweat of their brows every summer, the badge of their industry to be found on rusty knees, elbows, hands, and noses.

"Struggle #57," 3/16/08

shiny
souls
brittle
minds
brilliant
wills
thin
love

kindling
theory
ignited
body

vulnerable
life
snuffed

heart

scorned
fears
severed
faith

Girl searching for the right word, spring 2008

animal haiku, 2/29/08

CAT

I was sunning ere
your intrusion. And just who
do you think you are?

RACCOON

Dark bandit, filches
treasures, perplexed that no one
guards them. Oh, what fools!

FOX

Perfectly still in
pure, holy snow, squirrels taunt
him, cry, "Fanatic."

"Dragon," 2/29/08

Tales tell of him
feasting on leg of man
and flossing
with peasants' chaps.

At that he shudders.
He lifts his broad muzzle,
looking out toward the sun,
smiles at the warmth.

Turning toward the town,
he sees the men fighting again,
their libraries torched,
their brittle texts dying.

The dragon does weep.
Tonight, he falls asleep
reading of Sir Perceval,
and dreams of mutton.

"Mollymauk," 2/11/08

My father, age ten,
sneaks down to the pond
on a lazy Saturday
to find crawdads basking under rocks

Brave cowboy
inching along with
Audie Murphy and Hopalong
at his side

Peeks over the rise
and there, rising up like a god,
wingspan overshadowing the waters
--rare bird once thought to be extinct

Boy entranced by Nature, this
awesome mythic creature
neverbeforeglimpsed curiosity
Naturally, he takes a stick and pokes it

What happened then, Dad? I say
as our boat drifts, pontoons
scraping hollowly against
the brush where crappie lurk

Yes, what then? says Andrew,
watching watergliders skitter across the
green-black water. I shiver in the breeze,
impatient for the punchline.

Nothing, my father replies,
surprised at our naivete.
I'd killed it deader than 4:00.
We troll gently, gulls banking overhead.

untitled poem, 1/23/08

English majors believe in education
believe it will save the world
from itself
from Ignorant
from Poor
from Bipartisan
and tooth decay
and monsters under the bed
-----staring yellowly out like Goya nightmares

take it like a medicine
repulsing at first
then a needful thing

drug

to cure mediocrity

pay into it
like a life insurance program
against the day of death
of self

gather literature around you
recite Wilde like a chant
white magic
to fend off vain creatures
-----of business
----------science
---------------comm. and art

and lord, those teaching majors
who believe love
will save the world
not education

that education is a
cold, harsh antiseptic spray
with which to
stamp out
the pernicious molds of
-----compassion
----------kindness
---------------patience

that a teaching license
is a marvelous device
rather like a Trojan horse
a teacher is a doublecross agent
behind enemy lines

undermining the dark system
full of hooded, red-eyed
members of the Board
shedding their scaly Sith skins
as they cut chalk rations
and slash playground funds

untitled haiku, 12/7/07

I

Asked for directions
I feel used, never knowing
If he found his way

II

Hallways of startling
blue with flags--where can I spend
my Christmas bonus?

III

Ever seeking for
The Way. Eyes, look up. The path
ahead says, "Bookstore."

IV

Stopped between beeping
sensors, suspicion rises.
Please return to desk.