Memorial Day Thanks....

For Grandpa....

Silence broken.

A thunderclap.

Seven guns firing at once. 

Then twice. 

Then three times. 

A flag folded

Over a brass urn 

Surrounded by flowers. 

Taps sounds as tears fall.

A patriotic rectangle

Becomes an origami triangle

Through white-gloved precision.

Slow salutes.

Seven shells in a red bag.

"With thanks from a grateful nation."

A family says farewell.

November Blogging Challenge: Memories are Made of This...

Day 8

Write about a memorable moment in your classroom and how it reminded you about why you love what you do.

Most of us teachers who have taught for any length of time have plenty of stories, both good and bad, that have influenced how we feel about our chosen profession.  I am no different.  I can spin tale after tale about my students and how they either frustrate or fascinate me--sometimes at the same time.

One such memorable moment occurred in my creative writing class a couple of years ago.  We were in the poetry unit, and the kids were filling out an imagery chart while studying a slice of orange.  One of my students was having trouble with going beyond the literal.

He was getting frustrated because all could see was the "orange-y-ness" of the orange.  His chart had one entry for each of the senses: "orange."  For visual imagery, he wrote "orange."  For olfactory imagery, he wrote, "orange."  For taste imagery, he wrote, "orange."  See the pattern?  He was looking only at the obvious and not delving beyond. We started a discussion (well, I call such exchanges of information discussions... some might call it an argument) about the slice of orange on his plate.  He kept saying that the orange was just an orange, unable--or unwilling--to see it as anything more.

I asked him to try using the orange in a simile.  He didn't want to because he didn't think he was good at poetry. We argued...er..discussed...for a bit more when he seemed to have an epiphany; he had that moment of clarity that we teachers want for our students.  He said the orange was like a sun in a blue sky because it was a of orange on a blue paper plate.  I agreed with him.  He was surprised because he thought I'd be mad it was so simple.  I told him that simple is beautiful and thoughtful.  In fact, I told him I was going to use his simile in a poem, and he should do the same.  My poem became a blog post in July of 2012.  His...well, I'm sure that he has kept it because he loved it so much.  Maybe.

I saw him at homecoming this year.  He told me he was changing his major to education because he realized how much he enjoys sharing his knowledge.  He also told me that it was because of experiences like the one where he had an epiphany in my classroom that he was even thinking of being a teacher.  I was so honored.  It is moments like that which reminds me of why I became a teacher.  I wanted to share my knowledge as well as help my students become who they could be--I got to build a cathedral.  That moment was another reminder of why I love what I do.

Birthday Wishes....

Margaret Berg: birthday/celebrate

Yesterday I gave my annual birthday quiz to my students.  It's a fun little quiz that gives the kids a few extra credit points and is a quick formative test to see how closely they read the questions.  I mean, when the kids have problems answering "What is my sister Heather's name?" they obviously are not reading the question very carefully.

I even give a "guessing list" for the 15 questions.  And I still have students confused as to which animal is my favorite (mountain lion) and who my favorite singer is (Frank Sinatra) because they don't want to read through the list at the bottom of the page of the offline version or the drop down box in the online version.  

Why is it that we want to rush through everything?  That's what those who were frustrated were doing, after all.  The students who didn't know my sister's name (even though it was right there in the question) or the name of my favorite animal/singer/whatever other topic I asked about (even though the answers were right there on the page) were rushing through the quiz instead of taking their time.  Perhaps that is one of the reasons we celebrate birthdays: to slow down the year that seems to be just flying by.

It is always fun, though, too, to get all the birthday greetings from the students.  I heard "Happy Birthday a day early!" many times yesterday.  It brings back memories of bringing in cupcakes or treats with my sister to elementary school on our birthday.  I didn't bring treats to all my students, but I like to think that the extra credit points more than made up for the lack of frosted cupcakes (and were more nutritiously sound, too).

Yes, you read that right: our birthday.  I'm a twin.  My sister is a blessing in my life, and I wish her a happy birthday today.  I wrote a poem about her in another blog post (So I had to write a poem about twins...), but I wanted to share another poem I wrote about her on this, our birthday.

The Sister I Love                                                                  

Her laughter and tears                                                                           

Complete me as if they’re                                                                         

Happy Birthday Heather!  Love you!

Left over parts of myself

That I lent to her and never

Got back after we left, prematurely,

The shared room inside our mother.

I see her smile on my face and hear

Her voice in my throat—and

Me in her likewise. She shares

A bit of my soul, too, as we

Can know each other’s

Thoughts with just a glance. She is

A lifetime of shared amusements

And trials and worries and joys

All wrapped up in a package

Only two minutes older and yet

Infinitely wiser than I. My mirror,

My other self, if I were married and

Had a son and lived by crunching

Numbers instead of building cathedrals.

Ode to Autumn...

Leaves falling, turning from green to gold to flame

The flickering of jack-o-lanterns and campfires

Indian corn, pumpkins, and gourds

The golden moon, hanging low, close enough to touch

Blue skies that lead to starry nights

Seeing my breath floating outside my body

Felted, foggy mornings that melt into sunny days

Air cool enough to give goosebumps

Weather having fits--rain one moment, sun the next

Sweaters and flannel shirts, jeans and pj pants

Gloves and scarves, earmuffs and mittens

Fluffy blankets and fleece sweatshirts

Hot apple cider touched with spice steams in a mug

S’mores and toasted marshmallows—sticky and sweet

Candy corn, caramel apples, and popcorn balls

Thanksgiving dinner with family gathered ‘round

The captivating, yeasty smell of homemade bread

The musky aroma of burning leaves and dead wood

The crackle and crunch of crisp leaves underfoot

The rustle in the treetops as the breeze rushes wildly by

Thunderstorms booming and gray skies crying

The haunting call of geese on the wind

Days getting shorter, nights getting longer

Summer fading, winter coming.

Golden Sky...

Golden light infuses the air.

I breathe in the dust of Heaven

Swept aloft by the brush of Angel's

Wings as they worship at His Throne.

I inhale the essence of Zeus

Poured down from Olympus into Danae's

Lap as he showers her with his love.

I gasp as the chariot of Helios

Fills the air with fire since Phaethon's

Error nearly sets the earth aflame.

Sunsets are filled with mythos.

What teachers think....at the end of a school year...

I am fully aware that it is June. I am also fully aware that school's out for summer. Big grin. I wrote this poem in May in response to a prompt I gave my Creative Writing kids. If you can't tell, I was stressed. If you can, well, it's because it was so close to the end of the school year: that's stressful. Graduation has come and gone, and summer school is now into its second week. Time flies. I hope that it doesn't fly too quickly this summer because the feelings expressed in a teacher's life at the end of the school are also there at the beginning.

What TEACHERS think...in May

It can’t be Monday already,

It was just Friday!  Did I even HAVE

A weekend?

What?!  An early morning meeting?

I must not have put it on my

Calendar...wait, there it is... shoot.

Will I ever see the top of my desk again?

Every time I get it cleaned off, something else

Comes along and covers it up.

Finals are due..when?  Friday?

I haven’t even thought...okay, I’ll just

Dig through last year’s stuff to find one.

Oh these KIDS!  Why can’t they just

Get it through their heads that we teachers

Desire summer break as much as they do...

The countdown’s begun.  In just eleven...

ELEVEN!?!...days counting this one we’ll be

Done with school. How is that possible?

I have too much to get done,

But not enough time to do it... something’s gotta give

And I hope it isn’t me.

Memorial Day

I've talked before about how I often do the same assignment that I require my students to do in Creative Writing. One such assignment is the Last Line Fixed Verse Assignment. Similar to the "First Line" poem we do (and I've shared one such in a previous post), this poem gives the student a choice of lines, but this time it's the last line of a famous poem that the student must use as his or her last line. This spring was no different. The students all chose the lines that spoke to them, and then I chose one of those left over.

Line chosen: “I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.”  

It's a line from a John Milton sonnet. The poem is about his deceased wife, and, as I don't have a spouse (deceased or not), I decided to look at it another way.  I don't remember, now, what got me thinking about how a soldier must feel after waking up from a dream of home to a day on the battlefield.  Maybe I was thinking about my grandfather who served in WWII.  Maybe I had seen something on "Army Wives." Maybe I heard a news report about the Wounded Warrior Project--whatever it was, I decided to take that last line and make it into a poem a soldier might have written.

A Soldier’s Muse*

with thanks to John Milton for the last line

I slept, she came, and night dissolved to day--

Sweet muse of song and joy took o’er my dreams.

She sang her nightly ditties as if to say

“Just hear my song; I’ll quiet all the screams.”

The song was light and life and joy and peace

And made my darkness fade from night to noon.

The lyrics caused my bitterness to cease,

My heart and soul to rise up from their gloom.

The fight was done and peace caressed my soul

With every note and word that she did sing.

I missed her on the nights I had patrol;

And mourned her when bells of morn did ring.

And then, disturbed by bells and guns and light,

I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.

Tonight, on Memorial Day, I dedicate this poem to those soldiers who are still out there facing the dangers so that we can be free.  I dedicate this poem to the brave men and women who are no longer on the physical battlefield but who carry it within them in their bodies and minds.  I dedicate this poem to the day when all the soldiers who are currently waking up to war will one day wake up to peace. 

Poem in your pocket day!

        Today was National Poem in your Pocket day... and I gave my students an extra credit opportunity: pick a poem (I got half-page copies from poets.org/pocket) and read it to friends, family, and anyone else who would listen.
        I had poems in my pockets, too.  Boy, was I glad I wore jeans today!  Five pockets (including the little coin pocket) and each one with a poem.  One of John Donne's Holy Sonnets  filled my front right pocket. In my left-hand pocket rested a famous poem by Shakespeare.  My back right pocket kept one of my favorites by Emily Dickinson.  My tiny coin pocket held a funny one by Shel Silverstein.  Last, but not least, my back left pocket kept this classic Walt Whitman poem safe.
         Tomorrow isn't poem in your pocket day... but it still is part of National Poetry month (April), so why don't you find a poem that speaks to your sensibilities and carry it with you?

So I had to write a poem about twins...

Bellwork for today's Creative Writing was about twins... and, being a twin, felt the need to write a poem about it.  I don't have to answer the prompts I give my students, but even more than usual, this time I couldn't help myself.  I decided to go the "spatial" route instead of trying to make a rhyme about twinness.  Is that a word... if not, it should be.  So, here is my poem which I dedicate to my older (by two minutes) sister Heather.

     She will not know
 what loneliness is. She
Came
From
 The same exact place

    Just two minutes later

          And

           Thus

         S h e

 Must share. But what

     Else can she do?

Does she really want to

Forever be looking at a

Mirror

Image

When

She’s

W it h

T h e

O n e

Who  shares  her  face,

Her voice, and her DNA?

       Sisters.  Identical,

   Yet uniquely individual.

D o

They

Wear the same clothes?

     Get the same haircut?

           O r

Does

        Each

 Live the life she wants?

     Go her own way?

“To  thine own self  be true,”

Wrote the Bard, but he also

 Wrote

  A  lot

  About

  Twins,

  Maybe

 ‘Cause

 He had

 A pair

 Of ‘em

So maybe  she  can be true

To her ownself while at the

Same

Time

Being true to the

Strange fact that

Another

H A S

Been

Charged with the same duty:

Love your sister as yourself.

Therefore the second,

Not to merely copy the first,

Lives her own life so

That she can uphold

The real    honor of being

Part of a matched set of

Girls          who

Share more

Than  just the

Same    birthday;

They                share a life

Split--  not diminished.

Pour Me Out...

             Can it really be Easter this weekend? Already? Okay, it hasn't really sneaked up on me since I have a calendar and all.  However, despite the calendar, I admit to being thrown slightly off by the fact that I just put out the St. Patty's decorations and haven't had any time to really enjoy them, and now it's time to put away the green and shamrocks and get out the brightly colored eggs, etc...  (Of course, if I go by the length of time I "enjoyed" Christmas decorations--I still have my singing Sinatra ornament out--I have a disproportionate expectation about holiday decoration viewing time.)

              So, since I know that time flies faster than I want it to, I have to make a conscious effort to slow down to experience Holy Week.  The start of this special week, yesterday, was lovely because I was able to spend time with family (as this year Palm Sunday fell on my mother's birthday) all day after church.  But the day started at church with a small fellowship of believers (it was snowing, and the weather may have kept people from getting out).  

            The pastor taking up the collection referenced Jesus getting His feet cleansed by the woman (Mary) who gave of herself--her tears and hair to dry--and her resources--the Nard she poured out over his feet.  He encouraged us to do the same--to give our service and resources to the Lord.  His homily reminded me of this poem I wrote several years ago. This Holy Monday I remind myself that I must allow Christ to do some redecorating in my heart even while I must pour myself out as an act of reverential worship.

The Offering

Pour me out like Nard

Onto Your feet, Oh Lord!

Break my selfish heart

And pour me out for

You.

Shatter this clay jar, my God.

Let the slivers of porcelain

Prick my fingers

As I tremble before

You.

Kneeling humbly at Your feet,

Let me pour the thick, syrupy oil—

Through bloody fingers—

As an anointing and

Preparing service for

You.

Your alabaster skin will shatter.

Your essence, like Holy Oil,

Will pour from your Jar

Like pure Nard

As a Saving balm for

me.

"First Line Poetry" on a Wintery Day

           One assignment that I routinely give my Creative Writing students is "First Line Poetry."  In this assignment the students pick a first line from a long list of first lines from famous poems.  Usually, though, the students have not read enough poetry on their own to recognize more than a couple of them. (That's sad... and the subject for another posting when I am feeling the need to vent.)  At any rate, I always like to do the same assignment as the students, as I've mentioned before, because I want to 1) show the students it is possible, and 2) keep my own writing sharp.  I usually pick one of the lines that the students leave on the list.  Their loss. Big grin.

            Today's skies were grey and cloud-filled: a bit of winter lingering in the encroaching spring.  A fellow teacher and I were on our way into the building to do our daily "Tardy Sweep" duty when she commented with a sigh that it had been so pretty earlier (when the sun was shining).  While I can acknowledge the beauty of a sunny day--all yellow and blue warmth--I must admit the preference for a wintery grey day where the clouds are hazy and look like felted shadows and wool sweaters piled on the floor of the sky.  Thus, while I didn't write this poem today, it popped into my mind because of the "cloudy and grey days" and the way they make me smile and want to share.

“Half-full”

“Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright”—

I concur with Herbert: that is the life.

No pacing back and forth all the night;

Immune to the terrors of trials and strife.

Even cloudy and grey days make me smile

And shrug my shoulders at a weary world;

Living life to its fullest is just my style;

The King’s in this castle, the flag is unfurled.

Troubles and heartaches may come and go,

But I keep my head up and face to the wind.

Instead of keeping my spirits or thoughts low,

On my future all my best hopes are pinned.

A smile on my lips, a twinkle in my eyes—

I look toward a future of no sad goodbyes.

(with thanks to George Herbert for the first line)

Living in a house of glass

Life in houses made of glass would be quite interesting.

Drapery and curtain wholesalers’ businesses would boom

And car window tinting agencies would expand to do everything

From walls to floors and windows in every single room.

That is, of course, unless whole neighborhoods became nudist camps

And people, old and young, bared their all to all and sundry:

Then glass homes would show off everyone from baby to gramps,

And mom would never, ever, again have to do the laundry.

If we lived in glass houses, people would see into our lives

And be able to judge and gossip about what they saw there;

But then, we could do the same, and save all our best sighs

For when we saw the neighbors in their old underwear.

Throwing stones at other’s lives would become quite mundane,

For we’d all be exposed, and we’d have no room to complain.

Homecoming Dance

The homecoming dance for my high school occurred this past Friday night.  The dance was a "black light and neon" format, so kids were coming in white or neon colors so that they showed up brilliantly in the black light.   I had fun checking outfits for school-appropriateness and embarrassing students when I told them they couldn't pass me until they'd proven they knew how to dance by showing me their signature dance moves.  I was doing this job as a chaperone when one of my Creative Writing students "assigned" me some homework: "Write a poem about the dance by Monday, Miss Schneider," said Aaron T.

Challenge accepted.

Since the dance had been going on for a while, and I was just standing in the doorway as the "bouncer and self-proclaimed dance-move checker" anyway, I decided to write the poem then and there.  I grabbed a notebook from my purse and the pen from the lanyard around my neck and began to compose my poem.  The principal and several students came by to check on my progress, and one even gave me the idea for the title.  Before the end of the dance, my poem was finished.  Here it is...

"A Handful of Dances"
(thanks for the title to Seth R.)

Students glowing with neon fire
Stand in groups of three or five
While beats pound unmercifully dire
Upon my ears, and, lands alive!

The smell of nerves, of dance, of sweat--
Not unlike that of an old, wet dog--
Assaults my lungs with odor, and yet,
Fills the air with a pluming fog.

Lights blaze and strobe and blind the eyes
With pink and green and orange and blue;
The black lights give us quite a surprise
When they turn all things white a ghostly hue.

The students jump and spin and whirl
Or stand like stones against the wall.
The boys dare each other to ask the girl
Whom they've only seen out in the hall.

The songs progress from slow to fast
And back again from fast to slow;
The dancers beg the DJ to make it last,
For alas, too soon, it's time to go.

Slice of Orange...Slice of More?

The slice of orange shines in the middle of
My blue plate like a sun on a hot summer’s day.
The outer edge, the rind, surrounded, inundated
By tiny effervescent bubbles, a pot of water just
Coming to a boil, as if the aromatic essence of
The orange is bubbling up, out through the
Creamy-yellow rind and into the zest.

Flipped over, the rind of my end-piece
Of orange now looks like a harvest moon
On a cool, blue October night. Bumps and craters
Tickle my fingertips as I touch the face of
The man on this moon. Black speckles
The orange, like pepper on mashed
Sweet potatoes or nutmeg on pumpkin pie.

The light glistens on the juicy side as I flip
It back over. It is a stained-glass window
With white leading between the pie-shaped
Wedges—old fashioned glass, the wavy, bubbly,
Hand-blown kind of medieval splendor that lives in
Notre Dame and Canterbury; but this stained glass
Rests on my desktop, and I am the only worshiper.

Now my view changes, and it’s the cross
Section of a tree—except the rings on this
Tree are radii of a circle instead of concentric
Rings like a pool. Even in this small globe
We can see how life is moving ever outward,
Branching out from the Center Stem instead of
Rippling round and round with no end.

What if life is like this slice of orange? What
If it’s more than just an orange fruit that tastes,
Looks, and smells like... an orange? What if the
Slice of life--a sun, a moon, stained glass--can give us
A glimpse into who we are…more than the mere
Description that we give ourselves. What if we, too,
Surpass our own expectations and potential into... More?