(Poet’s note: We have more legos than I care to count. Lego heads, lego legs, lego bodies, lego … stuff. This poem was inspired by the pain of stepping on one a few days ago. They may be small but they sure do hurt.)
I stub my toe on a Lego
and rue the day we ever brought them into this house –
these tiny creatures that come alive at night
while we sleep,
only to freeze in motion when my foot hits the floor.
I wish they’d at least have the courtesy of moving
to the corner.
(Poet’s note: Last week, our school (like most schools) held a ceremony for Veteran’s Day and I noticed how the number of veterans in attendance continues to shrink each year. I listened to one of my students play Taps on his trumpet with our music teacher, and heard another teacher explain to our entire school the meaning of Taps in ceremony. I thought of silence.)
(Poet’s note: This poem came from a conversation that I had with someone about how kids can use Magnetic Fridge Poetry for writing, as I was lamenting that my new Interactive Board led to the removal of my chalkboard, where I often would stick magnetic words for students to play with. Oh well. Then, I thought about what it would mean to “lose” a word from a set and what if that word were love?)
The missing word
from the fridge
is the Love Magnet
and I wondered where it had gone
so I went searching:
until I was so exhausted that I collapsed in bed
and discovered “love” right where I had left it:
Beneath your pillow – right beside me.
(Poet’s note: This poem was inspired by a conversation at a literacy conference, where we were talking about struggling readers and how they sometimes can’t see below the surface of the letters on the page).
She reads the words,
not the text.
She zeroes in on the sounds,
not the meaning.
I’d like to shrink her down
so that she can dance inside the sentence
and tightrope among the twists and turns of the font
that holds the story up
when it often appears to her to be on the verge
Here is my Voicethread for this week’s group of poems, as I am away from home.
(Poet’s note: I was writing this poem with a comic in mind and then realized that it would be best served on a comic medium (with fries on the side!). And, what the heck, I wanted it a movie, too!)
The poets would laugh at you
if they saw your words in a comic
because how could they take you seriously
when your words are shoved into speech bubbles
voiced from the mouths of funny characters?
Let ’em laugh, I say,
because poetry is no longer bound to the page –
it is alive with creativity
and, anyways, they’re dead and buried as mere echoes of the past
while I am alive and living here, in this moment.
(Poet’s Note: I have three boys. My mom passed away as the second one was nearing birth, so she knew our first, knew of the second but never of the third. I wonder what she would have thought about them and think about how she would have loved to be with them. A poem of memory, loss and celebration.)
How much life we have lived without my mother to see it;
she who died before the second one was born
and never even knew that a third one was destined
and only held onto the first one with such fierce love
that her echoes still reverberate around us.
(Poet’s Note: I wrote this the other day, when the switching of the clocks wreaked some havoc on me.)
I’ll just put this extra hour in my pocket
for some day when I really need it —
when I am on the run with time flying by
as the list of things-to-do grows longer
than the clock itself
I’ll fold up this the hour and tuck it inside my wallet
next to the expired credit cards and unintelligible phone numbers,
knowing that it is there for me like some golden drachma
to be slipped inside the Time Machine
You’d know what I’ll do with this hour?
I’ll kick back with it, relax and try not to think of next year’s Spring
when the world takes back its loan
and pushes me behind once again.
I could listen to your tea kettle for hours,
just to hear the way your day will begin
with hot liquids in a cup and thoughts moving through you
as you stand before the steamed up mirror,
brushing your hair in rhythm to my heartbeat.
Poet’s Note: I looked up as a flock of geese were flying by, loud in their honking. Then, silence. Then, a few minutes later, that one lone goose tries to catch up. It had me thinking ..
I wonder about that one lone goose
in search of the flock:
how did he spring loose
and why does he seem so lost?
I’m reminded of that student of mine who sings a solitary tune
as others mill about, moving on
and leaving him standing alone, oblivious,
until the last second
when it dawns on him that everyone else is gone.
I suppose that even daydreamers
have to fly.
Poet’s note: Today’s poem is inspired by construction going on at our house.
If you were to construct me,
would material would you use
that would allow me to bend and shift
with the turbulence?
Would you sign off on me
as the inspector
looking for cracks in the facade
or would you just turn the other way
and hope for the best?