middleagedmiddlechild.

The mind is a volunteer.
Each idea, a vessel
to be shaped & fired,
and only with care, to be filled.
The mind is a collaborator.
Each paragraph, the record
of a compulsion, a fevered
other self in motion.
The mind is a gardener.
Each reason rooted & rowdy,
crude in its beginnings,
harvested in its time.
The mind is a commoner.
The thought is a king.

Written in community with VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: Write a poem including quotations from a source, here, Montaigne's On the Education of Children.  

I mourn the loss of children
persuaded to leave behind
play. These ex-children find
themselves curating CVs.

The life of the mind includes
stretched limbs, taxed lungs, and laughter --
and skinned knees, and loss, after
games they were told were pointless.

Smart kids smart, right? We all do. 
And at some age, we remove
recess & add time to prove
they listened to what was said

room to room, seated hours
of focused planned course content.
To be a prepared student
is to daily reconcile

oneself to a health hazard: 
“Sitting is the new smoking”.
Learning kills – I’m not joking.
It doesn’t kill what it should.

I hope students gain closed minds:
Closed to lazy ideas, 
to bad faith logorrhea.
I hope we take them outside.

Years ago, I did. One kid
said, “I … I don’t remember
how to play.” But an ember
was fanned by his closest friends

goofing on the monkey bars.
He joined them. Nobody fell.
Not once did I think to tell
them to be careful. They were

in some kind of awakened
flow. And then the block ended,
they dusted off, grinning, said
see ya thanks for a great class. 

He’s a photographer now.
Out in the world, wide open
eyes, no thought of that day when
he swung bar to bar. The sun

kaleidoscoped on us all. 

Written in community with VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: Write a poem about play.  

I have found another form of prayer. I 
have not (G-d forgive me) been looking, but
found it nonetheless. Not a podcast or
another book, resources these days in-
forming re/detoxed masculinity.
Often you'll see men, earbuds in heads bowed
prayerfully alert. I too was once one
of these men, seeking productivity,
forming a plan to wealth, less belly fat,
another goal, another stone in the
foundation of the monument to me. 
Heaven, Matthew says, is where treasures lay. 
I'm trying to believe. I really am. 


Written in community with VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: Write a Golden Hinge poem, "a form in which a borrowed line can be read horizontally as the first line of the poem as well as vertically down the left spine, as the first words of each line". Here, it's a line from this scene in First Reformed.

I don't trust myself
to eyeball things
in the kitchen.

Here & here alone,
I follow directions
by the gram
by the teaspoon
by the digital settings
of slate grey appliances
testing a fuse box 
across the house 
in my son's walk-in closet.

Elders on both sides
trusted the measure
of the body -- 
a pinch, a handful.
The volcanic molcajete,
the cast iron,
the sputtering flame -- 
atavistic tools
for our daily bread.

They tasted
they saw
the goodness.

Sometimes their DNA
reveals itself
walking my little
postage stamp of a world.
My hand grazing
an eruption of TX sage,
lingering on a spike
of suburban rosemary.

The body re-members
the spice of life.

Written in community with VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: Write a free-verse poem inspired by spice.

Every August, a new batch of freshmen
arrives. All elbows & knees, brand new shoes,
cotton candy perfume. Roller backpacks
a thing of the past. Over the summer
they've had two-a-days, some assigned reading,
and painstakingly curated glow ups. 
On this hopeful walk, though, printed schedules
won't prevent missteps. That's where I come in. 
"Good morning" "What's your name?" "Have a great day!"

Written in community with VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: Write a poem of beginnings.

Tried meditation once -- I can't remember why,
but with something like faith, I gave it a try. Once.
Assumed the position -- mental antennae up.

Worries rushed in the void, chimeras I knew well. 
I asked the guy for help. (The center had a staff.)
A trying meditation this was. Members nearby

enjoyed their private Zen, untroubled by me. "New guy,"
they might have been thinking. Except they weren't. With
something like faith I lacked, they ignored my dry run.

"Waterfall river lake," he told me, then walked off. 
Now I had a mantra. So when life gets dry, loud, 
I’m soon in position, mental antennae up.  

Written in community with VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: Write a cascade poem.

Direct deposit, 
autopayment, autosave --
our frenzied stasis

*

Tuition, fees, food,
hand-me-downs, cracked walls, used cars -- 
Glad I'm not alone

* 


Teenage paper route
and tearing movie tickets --
Young me earned with joy 

*

Our expenses rise
to meet our income life long --
resist, breathe, and live

_{Written in community with VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: Write haiku about money.}

That rarest of things — a sunny Texas afternoon without mosquitos. The vegetable garden gently, almost imperceptibly, swelling, taking up every inch of the rough-hewn low wooden walls, like a child sitting up in her pajamas, stretching, greeting the day on her own terms, at her leisure. Sage & crepe myrtle pierce the wide curtain of this emerald world, pin pricks incarnadine, a visual Morse code signaling the opposite of SOS: We are saved, we live still, we’ll be fine. Pollen-frosted cars, minnows darting along the creek bed. Countless nameless spores float and twirl, coast and rest underfoot, tangling, nestling in the thick grass. And the sky. The sky today a near parody of brightness & calm, for a moment, free of birds, of clouds, and as far as you can see, even free of residual gaseous trails of people eager or required to be somewhere else. Heaven cannot be gated on a day like today.

An awakening
foretold of strength and purpose -- 
Be brave where you are

_{Written in community with VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: Write a haibun (I happened to write one yesterday). This one inspired by the Sanctus.}

He parked in reverse. She trusted him. He thanked her. She smiled at them. He waited for her to cross. She held the door for them. He complimented him. She texted her. He shared a thing with him. She walked past them. He remembered her. She helped him. He thought ahead for her. She answered her. He asked him. She did a thing she'd long wanted to do. He did his best. She slept in. He put on an orange vest. She thought the exact same thing. He reserved the room. She brushed something off his shoulder. He held the door for her. She said thank you. He asked if he had lost weight. She showed up when she said she would. He entered on crutches. She decided to go back. He dressed up for the day. She knew he'd say that. He had a weird idea. She felt better after all. He put everything where it belonged. She noticed. He unlocked the door.  She drove herself home. He showed her a thing on his phone. She had everything ready. They ate.  

Boringly good days
are the norm on our campus--
home away from home 





Written in community with VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: Write a list of loves.

I love stories of return,
& of difficult return:
twists & turns, temptations,
newly discovered strengths,

and the difficult lesson 
upon the longed-for door step
that home is too small
for the you that's here.

Love's lens sharpened by pity
of those that remained, waited,
and maybe even
longed for this new you.

What new selves must we be now?
You, unpacking your worn bags
in this house now turned
stage, your return show

in a role you've long outgrown.
Me & mom at the threshold 
of your room she cleaned,
watching you text friends

also returned for the break,
planning froyo, coffee, or
just a hang somewhere,
your favorite supper

warming, waiting on the stove.
Did you miss us? You hungry?
Was it all worth it?
Welcome home, my love.

Written in community with VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today was inspired by this poem.