And So It Begins...

"If you want to be a writer, write."--Neil Gaiman 

Well, I tried that and found that I ran out of stuff to write about.  I think Neil also said something to the effect of: if you don't have anything to write about, go live your life---get a job or something.


It has been five years since my last posted poem.  For any of you out there who actually followed my writing, you were probably not surprised that the poems stopped coming.  I pretty much wrote about my childhood, first love, sex, the death of my mother, and my family (not necessarily in that order).  I reached a point when I felt  that I was writing the same poem, same line, over and over again.  So, I stopped.

I didn't stop writing, just stopped writing poetry.  I still continued to write next to and in front of my students every day: memoirs, editorials, short stories, expository pieces, etc...

So, here I am---five years later---ready to begin again.  I've turned thirty, had three kids, and moved to suburbia.  Now is as good of a time as ever to begin again.

And so it begins...

Word Cloud

I know it has been quite a while since I last posted any poetry.  

Maybe this word cloud of all of the poems on this blog will inspire some more writing.

decision

The boiling water,
fresh from the whistle,
splashes onto
the black, glass
stove-top,
and I wonder
if I need to slow down,
possibly read a book,
or just stare
into the cool evening
waiting for dusk
to whisper into my ear.

lost ideas

I’ve had
more attempts of
poems
than poems.

I have sat,
pen in hand;
(actually,
open laptop,
white screen,
blinking cursor,
fingertips pressed lightly
on the keys,
almost feeling each letter)
to be more accurate.)

I almost hate
when an idea hits me,
square on the back
of my head,
like a hot slap,
after a sarcastic remark
to my father.
If I do not have
pen and paper,
computer and outlet,
the idea is lost.

So, I run
frantically
looking for
napkins,
tablecloths,
scraps of paper,
a pencil, pen, marker.
I would use a knife
and write in my own
blood,
if the idea was
that good.

Most of the time,
I wait,
looking over my shoulder,
for a periodic
slap,
that is a poem.

dance is grandeur

Where the nocturnal
man goes
in
and
out
of his
endless, moon-drenched beach;
where violet-blue hues
crease the majestic sky,
this is where I
stand
and
believe that
dance is grandeur.

poetry pains

Yesterday,
we pierced those laughs
with warm throbs of worry
looking for something,
anything
to say.

Your poetry growls:
a wild belly hungry for words,
yet when the window opens,
they float out
to the night sky
in translucent smoke.

delicious was the language

Delicious
was the language
floating above
the cafe
amidst sights and sounds and smells.

Silences were unwanted
here
as the
words kissed my face,
my mouth,
my tongue.

It is beautiful.

Inspired by ee cummings

I will carry you with me
as I move through life.
Whatever is done by me,
is your doing.
You have inspired me,
believed in me,
helped me
grow
in this profession:
my life.
I will carry you with me,
and I thank you.

startled

A leftover camera
spooks the dead silhouette.

Slowly, I turn away,
ignoring the moment,
and follow the brightness
out of the room.

A panicked murmur
echos behind me.

September

I was born
to be a teacher;
literally,
born in September,
my Autumn birth
(signifying to some---
beginning of cold
death
winter)
is my familiar
to learning:
fresh students
minds
pencils, paper, notebooks,
classroom.
September has always
cradled me:
even-tempered in spirit,
fair in tone
and complexion.

reading under water

My students must think
I'm reading such a sad poem;
As my eyes cloud,
the words blur,
and a warm drop
slides down
the side of my nose
collecting at my
nostril,
one last time,
before I wipe it away.

The truth is,
this is the very reason,
why I didn't
read
in school.
My body would relax
so much,
I could feel myself
enter the text.
The words blur,
and I would put down the book,
confusing it all for
boredom.

Fifteen years later,
I sit with my fourth-graders
reading together,
and it happens again.
I know this time,
whether prose or poetry,
satire or cynicism,
reading
controls my body,
keeps me afloat.

Gives me the calm
of sitting at the bottom
of a swimming pool,
letting one, two, three. . .
four, five, six. . .
seven, eight, nine
bubbles rise to the surface
as I sink slowly.
It is quiet
at the bottom,
and somehow,
safe.

lunar phases

It looked like Mars
as I began by drive home
this evening:
orange and violent,
gawking at me
with blood and petulance.

It changed as I
neared home:
full and ripe,
it smelled of harvest
and work that lies ahead.

As dark approached,
it changed still:
warming to a soft,
100-watt glow.
I looked up to locate some stars,
but its light washed the sky
clean.

Cold drew closer,
as the night crawled inside me.
This is no werewolf moon;
no curs,
no mongrels
will howl tonight.
It is bright and friendly,
lighting Zoe's chocolate fur,
as she smells the air
under a star-speckled sky.

in her face

The echoing kiss,
The lover's restless summer,
The awakened song,
The night-bird's hour,
are all whispered
in her
face.

in the darkness

Yesterday, I wished
through my subconscious
finding a dream
forgotten,
destined
in the darkness.

therapy

After a few years,
everything becomes
routine:
we enter the
marine-green room,
and take our self-assigned seats
on the well-worn,
soft, beige sofa.
I usually adjust the
beige pillows
because I like hiding
behind something
(in case things get too intense).

We each hold our cups of tea;
mine, traditional green or some sort of red;
her, peppermint, always peppermint.
We each hold our warm cups,
face forward,
and begin.

There is usually
a fair amount of "catching-up"
depending on how much time has passed.
For some reason,
we, unknowingly,
avoid
discussing "us."

We never come
with a plan in mind.
The only time we had
a plan
was the first time:
the reason why we began.
We never come
with a plan, yet
we never want
to begin, and
once we do
finally start,
we always find
something
to talk about.

Once we start
talking,
we don't stop;
we delve deeper and deeper
into the uncomfortable:
anger,
sadness,
confusion,
helplessness.

We sit,
facing forward,
facing these
uncomforts,
allowing them
to be present,
cognizant, and
slowly,
very slowly
begin shifting them into the realm of
"normal."
We hold onto these emotions,
push them through
our bodies,
and let them out,
to sit with us in the
marine-green room.

Our goal?
We have small goals,
"homework assignments"
designed to help us practice.
At times, our
BIG goal
becomes unclear, but
we still know it
exists.

People often ask,
Why do you go to therapy?
I tell them
every person
should be in therapy.
You don't need to be
broken.
It's like going to the
mind mechanic
for a routine oil change.
You go (every 3,000 miles)
to keep healthy and
running smoothly.
It always amazes me
how we can drive
3,000 miles
or more
in a week
or two.

a question on men

Yesterday, a woman
asked me a question
on men.
When that porcelain voice
seeped into me,
I became a prisoner.

Yes, I said.
What? she asked.
No.
Are you listening to me?

I love you, I said
as she walked away.

Yesterday, a woman
asked me a question
on men.
I think I answered
correctly.

a taste of lonliness

I remember
that voice.
I miss
how we
would smile
mornings
after sex.
Yesterday,
I sat at our window,
wet with rain and fog and winter,
and tasted salt
on my cheek.

The summer's green hand

The summer's green hand
did open me to
the many cloudless
pleasures.
She touches me,
warmth on my shoulder,
leading me,
as a child,
through her trees
quietly and patiently.
I want to touch feel one,
but there is no time;
I may only look.
I see blue, yellow, and brown
colors.

they were young to the world

They were young
to the world.
Only she would compose
her vivid dreams.
Soon, he was like
her silhouette:
black,
suffering,
surreal.
They were young
to the world,
but old to each other.

the somnambulists

The somnambulists
walk slowly,
precisely,
through the stucco promenade
made from figures
in their
minds.
Each brick,
is a fantasy
linking dreams
and gravity
like the soft, pink
umbilical cord.

Their processions,
in the darkest
space
of their minds,
will surely end
with coming of
each day.

September afternoon

I remembered that
September afternoon;
(already faraway)
how her eyes,
with strong velvet,
found desire
in the dusty photograph.

Hercules at night

Hercules weaves
the mountainside
like a fallen oak.
The moon seems distant,
surrounded by frozen stars,
as he drinks
the night.

The budding Persephone

The budding Persephone
drinks wine
surrounded by cypresses.
The crescent shadows
flowering from her
soft, olive hair,
cling at the earth.

I like the quiet

I like the quiet.
Watching the mute
grass
blow in the silent
breeze;
Seeing the soft, pink
lights
reflect off the stone wall;
Relaxing my body,
letting my day
go,
I like the quiet.

a scene

The ideal of beauty is simplicity and tranquility.--Goethe

Black
as a nightly shadow
in the middle of a
bright day,
the feline figure
sits
perched
on the uneven,
stone path.
Surrounded
by flowers
of all colors and
shapes,
she
(no doubt feminine)
stares into the
end.
A tree,
darkened trunk,
shadowed
by leaves aplenty,
stares back,
waiting,
waiting.

small verses

small verses

fill bits of emptiness.

furious petals

become natural drops

This will
emulate my stillness.

young

They were young
to the world.
Only she would compose
her vivid dreams.
Soon, he was like
her silhouette:
black,
suffering,
surreal.

Who questions
the blue, night voice,
brilliant
in my sky?
Listen, perhaps you
think I bring
secret poetry,
but I blush
and walk away.

when peaches
are ripe
and white
and full of light,
that is the moon
we are underneath
tonight.

moon

TALL,
proud moon:
rising about three inches
(from my perspective of
the ground).
Now I know
what Langston Hughes
saw that night in Harlem,
as he sat
listening to the world screaming.
This isn't a sliver of goodness,
but a giant,
ripe peach
floating in the night sky.

motivation

On every wall,
in every bathroom,
in every school,
there hangs numerous
inspirational,
reflective,
soothing,
pictures, quotes, poems.
I believe that their purpose
is to
inspire,
cause introspective thought, and
calm
teachers everywhere.
Instead,
they numb those
who are looking for escape,
and tease those
who need to escape.

Far away landscapes,
deep forests,
colorful sunsets,
only create a longing
desire
to leave your present life
in order to discover
other beauties.

Look within.

believe what one chooses:

you're ne'er too rich
in devotion,
amor,
soft breath,
desire,
and perhaps,

emotion.

you understand
a woman
when the question is:

how?

translucent

You were translucent,
yet once the
magic embraced
my universe,
this smoke
here
lingered.

You must listen,
perhaps
for an eternity.

And some accrue
lonely shadows
to make beauty
seem now.

But I pass through,
and I know
I can
belong.

patience

You'll strike beyond

anything

as                  long                  as
the planets
get crossed
in time.

laughter

My laugh always
surprises me:

Its rise in pitch,
slowly, but not
steady,
until it hits a
confused apex.

Its full voice,
which seems
funnier than
necessary.

I can hear it above
the coffee drinkers,
cigarette smokers,
flirtatious students.

I continue to
listen;
continue to
hear;
this,
my friend.

The hypnotic birds
are nearly in flight.

While they wait,
the windy night
rolls
quietly into
oblivion.

solemn aspirations

solemn aspirations
dwell:                                 statues
in                   thought.
The light is found
preserved
from centuries of

hate

patiently seeking
the meaning.

Moving cordially,
free of smoke,
I laugh of
what life is,
as I move across
the room.

To fainting thought,
I understand.

I have my dreams,
my heart,
the sunshine,
my life,
this dance,
and you.

beautiful

Sitting at the table,
surrounded by morning,
the OJ is
delicious.

Beyond the cloud,
patiently tingling,
silky stars look
for each other

perspective

You always have had
better perspective than me.
To be able
to take a step back,
maybe two,
maybe three,
and see ourselves
sitting on the couch
in our assumed
positions,
and know
we will be OK.

Perhaps my past,
growing up in a
melodramatic household,
where everything was
"NOW!" and "HERE!"
and every actions,
mistake, or movement
was the end of the
world.

Perhaps your childhood,
growing up in a
ironical family
with a cynical twist,
where you,
born second, but
raised the first,
learned to appreciate
the bumps,
and lived to see
another day.

You always have had
better perspective.
Will you teach me?

chocolate

If every companion
comforted like
chocolate,
I think my favorite
friendship
would be
dark.

I beseech you,
give this lover
no discontent.
My love,
torment me not,
but herein
sanctify
this poor peasant.

grapefruit

The downtown woman
inspects
delicious grapefruit
and asks,
Are you
ample enough?

The moon,
like the sun
and planets,
seem awake.

Tonight,
heaven is beyond
personal hopes.
We look,
patiently,
for the Northern moon,
seeing time
go out
like desire.

stereotypes

1. Americans hate Negros.


2. Americans do not care for their parents.


3. Americans have no savings; they spend everything they earn.


4. Americans are violent.


5. Americans think they are the best country in the world.


6. Americans have "sex scandals."


7. Americans are more open; not modest.


8. All Americans are beautiful.


9. Americans are independent and/or selfish.


10. Americans always think they are correct (i.e.: see #5).


11. Americans all believe in God and Jesus.


12. All Americans own guns (i.e.: see #4).


13. Americans are fat.


14. Americans don't hide any problems from others.


15. Americans don't follow/have traditions.


16. Americans have freedom.


17. Americans are always humorous, never serious.


18. Americans are wasteful.

1. Chinese people always study.


2. China is a poor, third world country.


3. Chinese people are dirty.


4. Chinese people have no manners.


5. Chinese people are overly-dependent.


6. Chinese people are too traditional.


7. Chinese people are not funny.

the words caress

Tears wiped
cannot be silenced.
A mother's love
is instant and
understanding and
polished.

The words caress.

Thursday afternoon or before a nap

my mind:
blank
empty

my pen:
dry
brittle

my life:
indifferent
insignificant

my poem:
finished

awaiting war

His needs;
our end.
Beyond desire,
fire happens.
Wait patiently
and the sun may
interfere.

She'd found the baby
missed by all.
Her surprise smile,
knowing
my life
would always be
a memory.

the room

The room is quiet
now.
I can close my eyes
if I want to
disappear.
I am invisible now.
People around me cannot see me.
I am an island
in a sea of solitude.
The silence brushes against my fingertips,
as waves brush against my beach.
I am alone with my thoughts.

We are in a room
talking together.
I am in control now, but
that can change.
If I get too scared,
I open my eyes
to the world
that was always there.

China
changes
patiently
beyond Heaven.

The Han,
like the sun,
keep hopes
tingling
and awake.

sometimes

Sometimes a word is spoken.
Sometimes I hug her just right.
Sometimes we exchange a single glance,
and my world has meaning.
She plucks the strings of my heart,
and lets the music escape
my soul.
Sometimes a smile is noticed.
Sometimes it is not.
But,
I am always here,
loving her secretly, and
unconditionally.
Sometimes a word is spoken,
and I say,
I love you my darling.

Shall I rebuild my dreams?

having gone
to tiny graves,
I see
myself

looking.

The approaching horizon
adorns the textured beach.

With silky fingers
I stroke the water,
funnelling desire
and the soft,
velvet
sky.

Life is beginning.
People are pure,
sweating holy water from their pores.
One cell
becomes two,
and soon
warm, crimson blood is flowing.
A heart is beating
its first
pulse today.
Eyes are seeing
a world
without pain,
darkness,
cold.
The tiny fingers of a baby
clamp your thumb
and you cry.
We are all born pure,
void of temptation,
lust,
greed,
hatred.
Today is the first day
when I open my eyes
and make it so.

On a particular
cloud,
each tingling
desire
floats
to heaven.

You'll interfere!
Touch no other
moon.
Look elsewhere.

Crazy Aunt Liz

No one
wanted this flower
to grow,
to stretch out
her petals
and bask in the sunlight.

Reluctantly,
the soundless,
dew-wet
cold
gives
impatient night-stars
such
soft
love.

Theoritical Dream

it's gonna be
another late night:
sore feet,
sore back.

can't sleep:
a theoretical
$58 in my pocket.
6:28 PM:
no one here;
why am I?

10:55 PM:
five minutes before closing;
no one is leaving.

11:55 PM:
still here,
waiting.

12:58 PM:
can't sleep,
Keane stuck in my brain,
with a theoretical
dream in my pocket.

employment limbo

alone
between a life
boring and sufficient,
and a life
that seems
almost too good
to be true.

I'm an unemployed
Kindergarten teacher,
is what I tell
anyone who asks.

Stuck between
$7.25 an hour,
$2.13 an hour plus tips,
$10.00 an hour, and
my dreams.

Waiting,
looking
to be in
the right place
any time.

regret

Looking out,
the pink sky
covers the snow-dusted dirt;
hills scattered, uneven.

I'm different.
A sunrise and sunset have passed,
and all has changed.
I'm no longer the special
oddity
she fell in love with.

The ugly maleness
(that I must take responsibility for)
seeped out for a brief moment
last night,
She no longer sees me
in the same
pink light
I saw these hills
yesterday.

I've ruined that
spark,
connection.
Sickness fills my body
like cold water fills a warm glass.
I'm condensing
in front of her
and she sees it:
ugly and cold.

I cannot change what happened;
only continue
to love her
unconditionally,
naturally,
easily,
(as I did before).

Dear all,

I cannot believe that it has been five months since I first started this poetry blog! It is amazing how fast time goes, no matter if you are documenting it through poetry or not.

When I first began this blog project, my goal was to transfer all of my journal poetry from the last few years onto a Internet medium. My most recent post, "On Death", marks the last poem from my personal journal. This is in no ways a sad occasion resulting in no more posts. On the contrary.

I have been suffering from a serious case of writer's block for the past few months. I decided to translate my journal poetry onto this weblog in an attempt to stir up some more poetry. I am a firm believer that poetry (actually, writing in general) is something that exists regardless if we capture it or not, and only betters through practice. I am excited to announce that with the publishing of my last journal poem, I have a renewed sense of everything, which I am desperately trying to write down.

So, look forward to some new poems via stan laurel. I apologize in advance for some of my poems, as they will probably be very "rough." Your feedback and constructive criticism is always welcome and helpful.

Sincerely,

adrian

synopsis

I write of wishes on stars,
words floating upwards,
of birds pooping on my head, French sayings, goosebumps and
needs.
I sing of love, smiles, touch, beauty, sunsets and serenity.
I sing of the softness of every summer night,
and the spirit of our love;
of breezes in the afternoon, night breezes,
love, lust, sex and passion.
How the stillness of the night
affects my sleep.

I cry out Rediscovery! from my
surreal dreams, insanity, fear.
Of proposals not yet asked and
mindful colors, words spoken,
smells of childhood, regret, and the rising sun.
I put forth these onto paper.

Of sadness:
mom, death, cancer, disease, hate.
I lay down these tears so that you may comfort me,
Embracing the sun,
I celebrate birthdays, anniversaries,
poems, wants, desires, tingling snowflakes.
I focus on withdrawn questions, quiet,
time, darkness, stars, Dad
and a lackthereof fatherhood.
I travel through deep forests,
winter, Kindergarten, sorrow, depression,
mystery, memories;
my mind meanders through life.

I write of questions, vows, grass, warmth;
I imagine ebony skin, dew and crescent moons.
I sing of jazz, dancin', my itching body.
I remember blackness, tears, Laurel,
vanity, graffiti, flowers.
Of my muse, white skin, soft, delicate hands,
I flame with desire, heartbreak and awkwardness.

Running toward the blackened horizon,
I think of nostalgia, butterflies, music.
I fear explosions, tempests, insomnia, China.
I feel hot, dry winds
appreciating my face.
I laugh of crazy Aunts, human nature.
I regret weeping over ashes.

Of all these things,
I experience in the dimly lit
still of morning.

in a bar (revised)

I stand
alone
among hundreds of
onlookers not looking
at me.

I drink
to drown the quiet,
but my ears are
numb
and
hot.

I wait
for her
to take my hand
and take me
home.

modern love

I hate modern love!
how expensive and
showy;
how everything must
sparkle and shine
and be written in the sky.
Love is no longer private,
for it must be shared
to be true.
Written in Hallmark cards
and placed beneath flowers;
sung in rhymed crap
that describe anything,
nothing,
to be true.

My love seems dead
as it lies inside,
too subtle for you.
I write it in poem
(not to be sung)
to document my life
that vanishes
in the sky
amongst the clouds, cards, flowers
without you.

Stop staring!
What are you looking at?
Am I really so different
from you!

You stare and smile and talk about me.
I can hear you, but
can't understand.
Is that it?
I don't understand!
I don't understand
your country,
your culture,
your language,
your customs.
I just don't understand!

I feel caged,
trapped
in a photograph
to be shown to who?
To you,
I must be dirty,
strange,
ugly,
different.
I am different!

I don't stare at you.
I smile
and say Ni hao!
You just stare
like I'm an animal;
a dirty,
different
animal.

The Hello's

Hello! Hello!
Please buy my crafts! They are antique!
Real Chinese antiques!
I have no money
and I need you to buy
something,
anything.
Please buy! Please buy!

Hello! Hello!
Please buy my calligraphy!
It's real! It's Chinese!
I have no family!
My child is sick,
he's mentally ill.
I need money!
I'll sell you one, two, three!
Please buy! Please buy!

Hello! Hello!
You stupid foreigner!
You outsider!
This is real Chinese antique!
You have no idea,
do you?
You'd buy anything
if I smile and call out:
Hello! Hello!
Let me rip you off
before you rip me off.

He is Shanghai,
with the space-like buildings,
the money,
the pace,
the abstract and concrete
streets.

He is business,
with the attitude,
the meetings,
the coldness.

He is everything fast
and
nothing emotional
(I miss my daddy).

in a bar

I stand
alone
among hundreds of onlookers
not looking
at me.

I drink
to drown the quiet,
but my ears are numb
and hot.

I wait
for her to take my hand,
and take me home

insecurity

Underneath my defenses,
behind my mask(s),
I sit
cold and hungry.
The warmth of my heart
does not permeate
the depths of
insecurity.

beautiful

Beneath the stained T-shirt,
filled with holes
and body's odor;
beneath the sunken eyes,
and dirty cheeks,
bits of food clinging to his mouth,
lies a boy
with worn soles,
and sore feet
and dirty hands;
but his brain,
his mind!
is waiting,
absorbing,
wanting to be reached
and taught something new,
something real,
something beautiful.

memories

I wonder if they remember...
as I zip up, button up coats,
tie shoelaces (double-knotted of course);
as I get on their level
because it is the only way for these small
beings to understand me;
as I distribute hugs evenly
for each student in class;
as I scold, discipline, manage,
but try to remain positive;
as I learn from them
(probably more than I can teach);
as I become their light,
and they become mine...

I wonder if they remember
the first day I arrived...
I wonder if they know
I was frightened,
striving for acceptance.
I wonder if they knew me
that way,
before I became someone to them,
and if they will remember me
in their lives.

headache

Ten minutes
before my lesson,
my head is pounding its dulled drums,
deafening my ears,
piercing that spot behind my eyeballs.
All I can do to soothe the sound
of my brain beating itself against my skull,
is read some poetry--good poems--
and write my pain
in ink that is running from my pen
too quickly.

to teach

To teach a calloused child,
one who does not desire learning
or knowledge or anything (it seems),
is like trying to sneak-up
behind a tree
and surprise its branches and leaves.

To teach a child,
any child,
you must sit in
the shade of this tree:
reading and writing,
drawing and coloring,
looking and asking,
until the tree
bends a branch towards you
and lets you climb and
understand and
believe in its leaves.

difficult

It's difficult to accept sometimes
that someone knows you better
than you know yourself,
trust yourself,
love yourself.

When I awaken,
there is no sound and
no darkness.
It is not early, for there is always someone else
already awake.
There is no darkness,
nor sadness,
for nothing has happened to make it so.
The moon still shines down on me,
but I talk to no one (not even myself).
It is an hour before I finally
speak,
or even utter a cough.
I sit in the quiet solitude
of the morning and
read some poetry.

Stealthily, I enter the lightened bedroom;
she can sense my sadness
without opening an eye.
I can't tell sometimes
if she speaks to me in her sleep,
or if her subconscious detects my pain.
I do not understand
how or what she knows
because I am me,
and it is difficult.

my pen

This pen has been so good to me:
soft grip warming my fingertips.
Its smooth ink painting my poems,
adding my numbers.
You have stayed with me, but
no longer,
for your ink has run dry,
and will paint no more.
You are just a shell,
and I must replace you;
this new pen is awkward!
My W's just don't look right,
and I feel forced.
Your body still feels warm,
but I know you are empty.

In the dimly lit still of the morning

In the dimly lit still of the morning
it is cool and wet.
Perhaps it is the fog or rain,
or just the dew-soaked grass
calling my name.
The morning has started for some,
but not for Nature,
for Her song birds have not begun their song.
The earth is beginning to yawn
and stretch out her arms to
embrace the morn.
I do not speak
in this inane
stillness.
I barely breathe
for I can begin to faintly hear Her song
calling to me, I still love you, Boy.
I still think of you often.

Soon, the morning will pass,
the breeze will slow,
just grazing the winter's twigs.
The dew will dry, and
noise will begin to fill the sky,
polluting the air; no beginning or ending.
Day will mature into night.
The air will begin to clean,
ridding itself of the dirt.
The cool breezes begin
as we all slumber.

In the dimly lit still of the morning
it is cool and wet.

cold, bitterest of colds

cold, bitterest of colds,
I stand outside the warmth of everyone
and wait.
Yawning, the cold ignites my gag reflex
and I cough wildly.
It looks as though I'm on fire
as the steam pours from my mouth.
I continue to wait.

cold, bitterest of colds,
January trees stand outside,
their branches shocked white
from the cold.
They look dead,
standing together
making this field (any field in January)
a cemetery,
a collection of the dead, white, branches.

We stand together,
the trees and I,
in this cold.
No longer alone,
I feel that we can face this element.
We can stand upon this frosted ground
and not let the cold overrun our bodies.
Together, we are immune from this disease,
and it will not spread
as long as we stick together.

Kindergarten cont'd

Kindergarten fills my body with hugs and love,
tears and pain, joy and laughter.
I feel it in the high-fives, and
the tantrums during library.
I hear it when Michelle questions and
Michael gasps, "Aha!" or "Oh!"
I see it in the use of colors,
in the infinite pictures and explanations.

Kindergarten lies in the heart of my students
within me.

Kindergarten

Kindergarten smells of dewy morning and
fresh crayons. In the quiet of the morning
I sit individual boxes on individual desks
and prepare for my day.
The lights are bright, but do not make me squint.
I can feel the learning that will take place
as it tingles in my fingers.

Today, my students will march in,
some smelling of lavender or Dove (freshly bathed)m
some smelling of the city,
people and fumes.
All will unload their packs
and begin the routine of our days together.
Phillip always awaits my approval, and
I will always give him what he needs.

Kindergarten tastes of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,
made extra sticky so they stick to the roof of my mouth.
Or sometimes ham and cheese sandwiches
(also made sticky).
Cheetos, Dorritos;
Fruit Roll-ups, pudding snacks, yogurt (now in a tube for children
on the go);
Milk boxes, juice boxes.

Today, there will be read alouds,
exciting or scary, but always with a purpose.
There will be calendar,
counting and naming shapes;
weather predictions, graphing, and roll-call.
There will be Writing Workshop,
picture walks, Guided Reading, and modeling.
There will be problems (both math and playground),
and science experiments and manipulatives and
music (always music!) and gym.
We will always be moving and learning and teaching
and resting and laughing and crying and fighting.

Others may peek in
or hear a loud noise, and think that
we have controlled chaos.
Some may scoff as they pass on their way
to the copy room.
Some will definitely be anxiously
noting the standards taught throughout our day.

Inside my Kindergarten
life is being lived,
discoveries being made, and
learning taking place.
In here,
we will always remain children
as we learn about our world
together.

cigar

My lungs are still hot,
burning within,
from last night when I smoked the dirty, little, brown
cigar.
Its wrinkled skin fascinated me
as I gnawed off the end (my jaw is still sore).
Last night, I was finally able to light it correctly,
so that it burns hot, deep within, and
my lungs are still hot.

Last night, while my hands were numb
from the cold,
my lungs stayed warm
as the hot ash and smoke permeated
our surroundings.
I am sure the rough bark and innumerable
leaves still reek of our celebration.
Now the celebration is over, but
I still stink.
What smelled hot and sweet,
now leaves a white film on the corners of my dry mouth.
My breath smells of grandfathers and construction
workers.
I tried to cleanse myself,
so as not to stink my bedsheets, but
my lungs are still hot.

It was cold, freezing cold last night,
but the sun is beginning to warm the day.
Today, the air will smell sweet
and last forever.

writing instead

I used to lie awake waiting (sweat in my eyes)
for the images to come.
I would sit in coffee shops (even though I cannot stand its bitterness);
At breakfast tables each day,
thinking between the crossword clues.
I used to search for wisdom, inspiration:
Sandburg, Hughes, Bishop, Pound, Williams, and Whitman!
(Oh, what leaves of grass I walk upon looking under each step!)
Bending the pages of these poems,
I try to absorb their passions, words
by showing what I have read.
I write about love
always love!
But, I have been defacing American poetry,
Spitting in the eyes of greatness and
expecting inspiration!
I have crushed leaves of grass instead
of placing my ear on their tips
and listening to their songs.
It is time to read, write, read, write!
Sitting in my chair,
writing instead of
waiting.

I lie awake at night
feeling the adventure before me.
I can't help but think
if this is where I am fated to be,
or if I am just following.
Is there anything with following love?
My heart has never been wrong
before.
I picture her walking towards
me,
hands outstretched,
ready to lead me
to China
and all its mysteries.

The pillar supports
Its building,
Withstanding the tempest
Outside.
It decorates and
Structures, but
Burdens itself.
It shows you how
Elaborate strength
Can be.
But in the end,
It stands alone.

music

The music playing above me is a white, satin bra.
I am wildly obsessed with fondling the notes.
It tickles my earlobes as I cock my head back and laugh aloud.
I can taste its sweet skin on the tip of my tongue.
My laughter echoes within my head.
The ocean, and its misty music, clouds my nostrils with its stench, making it difficult to breathe.
I am reminded of a long, wooden pier, peering off into the horizon.
I can see clearly now, the muddy notes floating in space above me.
Stevie Wonder stares at me telling his thoughts of downtown Harlem.
I'm blind, as I've always been.
Staring at seashells washed up on shore, I think back,
Schlepping my memories around with me.
That is why my mind is empty.

The talented musician of ecstasy continues to seduce me
until I am faint from sleeping too much.
I melt into this seat and stick to its soft leather.
Adrian had the power to listen to my words,
but I failed him.
I will stop listening soon, and go home to emptiness,
and drink dry water until I thirst for something wet.
I will eat when I am full, and starve my empty stomach until
ich habe eine groesse Hunger fuer Musik.
This soft chair tells me that the song is over for today,
But tomorrow echoes in my mind already.

eulogy

May 20, 2005

When my dad asked me to speak today, it was difficult to sit down and sum up how I feel about my Grandma in a short passage. What can I tell you about Marie that you don’t already know? What can I possibly say in this short time that will honor her in the way she deserves?

I suppose all I can do is tell you what my grandma means to me. When I think of my grandma I think of food. I think of strong calves, and her flipping around in my dad’s slippers that were five sizes too big for her. I think of her beautiful German accent on my answering machine. I think of her simplicity and her cleanliness. I think of her immaculate house with clean sheets. I think of the washcloths she made. I think of her inability to sit still. I think of her amazing vegetable garden. I think of waking up to seiza panna kuche. I think of her smell. I think of how hard she worked. I think of her kitchen, surrounding me with food—always. I think of her soft voice. I think of how much she loved. I think of her little feet. I think of Laurel. I think of her laugh: it was great, like a chuckle. I think of her drinking coffee with Aunt Frida. I think of how she would sneak sweets, even though she wasn’t supposed to, and the face she would make: like a little kid knowingly doing something wrong. I think of the amazing adversity she lived through. I think of how she would take out her teeth before bed. I think about how she was always concerned about her family. I think of how she never complained about anything, ever.

I love my grandma Marie so much, and she makes me proud to be a ________. I am proud of where my family comes from because she was such a model of goodness. I will always carry these things with me.


YEARS FROM NOW

Too far away to see your face
As you flip through these poems a while,
Somewhere from some far off place,
I hear you laughing—and I smile.

--Shel Silverstein

Upon hearing my grandmother had died

Meine Oma
ist
kaput.

Teary-eyed nostalgia

The kind that makes you look up at the sky
and want to travel down that broken path again.
The breeze of a Fall evening,
just before the sun hides itself away,
you feel it--cool on you face
while it warms your heart.

The smells of yesterday
begin to permeate memories.
Days, months, and years
are all remembered
through your nose.
Breathe deeply,
sink deeper into that blackness inside you.
Look for that time when we were all starting
anew
and children ran in circles
yelling at the sky.

forever

Our world blinks,
instantly changing
ere we can even breathe.
Our life is that warm feeling
when no worries
ail your mind.
Our body is temporary,
waiting to be filled again
and start afresh.

My darling, do not worry.
For our love is everlasting,
surpassing reality,
strengthening as we continue.
My heart may stop beating,
my eyes close permanently,
but my love will continue
forever.

from my mother

I have not spoken to you for some time now.
Why did you hurt my son the way that you did?
He adored you more than anything.
You used him,
tricked him.
You tricked my husband--he is stupid and blind.
You didn't fool me.
I knew of your tainted intentions.
I knew because mine are the same.

I am you.
I am selfish and did not want him
to love another
(he will, though, no matter how selfish I am).
It is no matter that you came along,
that you caught his eye.
I don't need a reason to hate you!
He loves me and no one else.
(Why must he love another?)
He is mine.
I carried him for nine months and
almost died delivering him.
I need his affection; just as you do.
Now you are gone;
a tainted memory,
a scar on my son's heart,
but so am I.

lotion

soft, delicate hands
strong, silent engagement ring
treated cuticles with
polished nails
(pink of course)
smooth, experienced,
aching hands
needing to be rubbed

Folding ribbons of lotion
into her hands,
the routine continues:
one finger
over another,
tilting her wrists,
rocking back and forth,
back and forth,
until lotion disappears.

The hum of a butterfly's wings
is the warm sand beneath my toes.

Her hair sways its leaves
in the night breeze.

"How do you work the night moisture
into your hands?"

She notices me watching,
waiting for her hands to be moist.
She looks up,
"My hands are dry," she says.

sneeze

A hurricane
brews deep down
inside my nose.
Spinning, churning,
the storm gains strength.
I feel it growing,
its powerful winds
waiting to attack.

Rains come crashing down
soaking my sinuses.
Howling winds blowing
in my head.
The time is approaching--
so take cover
PLEASE!

Soon,
soooooooooon,
soooooooooooooooooooon,
I
will


SNEEZE!

I wish I could fly

I wish I could fly.
I would fly through the streets
late at night
listening
to the soft, humming
world.

I would fly close to the ground
barely missing my nose,
closing my eyes,
feeling
the vibrating
world.

I would soar in the sky
diving into clouds,
letting my tongue
lick the soft, damp
air.

itch

Millions of ants
march their way up my arm.
Beginning at my fingers,
they drag their
feet
as they walk
to their own
beat.
They are in no rush,
so they take
their time.
Their destination is unknown,
but I feel them.
Millions of ants with
billions of feet.
Slowly,
I feel their travel.
I wish they would STOP!
or go home to their mounds of dirt
in deep crevices.
I scratch my arm
trying to stop them
from marching.
I scratch my arm
and still
I ITCH!

privacy

He knows
the camera
watches him;
he is awkward
and uncomfortable.
His movements become
rigid
doing a
monotonous task.
The camera
clicks.
The picture is taken,
and he relaxes
once again.