… but I am pushing pause on tracking it. Tracking my reading was a really fruitful accountability measure, one that made me proud of my progress and one that made me deliberate in the voices I centered.
At some point, though, I wondered if I was reading authors, seeking out books so that I could boast about it — in conversation, in class, on this blog. I tracked my reading for about seven full years.
I am going to push pause on it. I might be back.
After hours teaching
to the room & the zoom
simultaneously,
a break. Mask off.
Not enough to log off.
It's past time to get out,
leave the room, the building,
touch grass, and then
look up. Remember clouds?
I had underlooked them
for years, apparently.
The covid spring
(G-d forgive me) revived
that wonder passing by
each day all day. Clouds, man.
There's something there.
Striations, combed hot air.
Pillowed bright eruptions --
grays blues whites hybriding
before your eyes,
often dramatically,
always surprisingly.
And every now and then
when you need it
(and sometimes when we don't)
they swell, sag, and open,
pouring down on all life-
giving water.
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 love letter to a place.
My father-in-law said,
"Find the cheapest house in
the nicest neighborhood.
Then move in."
That was decades ago
& three lovely children,
interest & escrow,
save, pay, & then
emergencies, hail storms,
sprinkler systems, mouse traps,
suburban plagues in forms
that make you laugh
in their perverse surprise.
But it isn't all bad.
Fresh paint brightens the eyes.
My wife was glad
to circumcise the house
(her words, not mine). A wall
opened to allow
more light. We all
took pride in the barn doors.
I had worried (money,
change). But thank the good Lord
Michelle could see
a way to beautify
our home. But then again,
she knows loving this guy
means that again
& again, she must wait out
my ... my ... What to call it?
My contentment with now,
my calm habit
of saying "This is fine."
[Insert flaming dog meme]
Father-in-law of mine,
through her, I see
the advice you lived but
didn't say: Find the house.
And trust my girl about
its kids, its use.
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 / inspired by home. Form inspired by this one.
We in the Lone Star State say what we mean.
"I love that for you"--a Texan kiss-off,
best deployed at a friend, someone that I
know translates this "No thanks" into firm love.
Love of our trust, our freedoms -- the things that
brought us together in the first place. You
say it to their face, unlike "Bless her heart",
one of the greatest smiling idioms
Texas women gave all the lesser states.
(Spilled tea in private -- bet your ass it's iced.)
And to those thinking, "But we say that too"?
That's sweet. Bless your heart. We love that for you.
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 that translates. I found the photo here.
Summer suburban sounds -- sprinklers & cicadas.
I'm out for a short walk, all the dog will allow,
when an earthbound flutter (mosquito? grasshopper?)
catches my sunglassed eyes. A tessellated wing
cartwheels along the curb, as if minding some law
of these safe empty streets. The dog panting away,
I linger, studying. (English teacher habit:
Epiphany hunting.) What predator did this?
And what of the halfwing, his flight narrowed anew?
A species synchronized seventeen-year cycle
shrunk down to this orbit, this human neighborhood.
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 inspired by an image of nature, beginning with alliteration.
I've never fit the model of a man
some want to see in some of us -- macho,
emotional only in love, anger.
I was raised by a man with good reason
to feel deeply (luckily, he is still
raising me), who modeled (models) for me
the complexities of calm, kind manhood.
I'm not saying he was unique in this;
I'm saying he was (is) a full-hearted
half of a marriage that sustains me still.
(She will have, deserves, her own poetry.)
Maybe something is found in translation:
Mexicans don't say "I'm sorry." We say
"Lo siento". Literally, "I feel it."
Feel deeply, mean it, y vaya con Dios.
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 about forgiveness or saying sorry. Inspired by Octavio Solis “Mexican Apology”.
Sitting in the morning sun, I heard him,
brisk paws clicking from the bedroom to me.
It’s a relief — this energy. He’s old
and has had a rough go of it lately.
Squinting into the living room, he walks
to the back door. Thankfully, he hasn’t
bothered Michelle, who’s up with him at night
a lot these days when he’s panting or can’t
get comfortable for whatever reason.
So I unlock the door to take him out.
He sniffs about, finds a spot, and leans in
to water the grass, staring ahead. Now
he turns to look at me, midstream, no pause
to his business. As if to say, “I’m here.
You’re here” or “Thank you” or “Give me a treat”
or “Where’s mom?” or something else entirely.
We walk in the haze of this cool Easter
morning, away from the puddle he made
and into our house — a dog, his master.
Quiet hours before they all awake.
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 that uses lines that are the opposite of your favorite poetry. In this case, I began with the opposite of the opening line from this poem.
First, where is this where? I've come to beware
a short cut unsticking me from a rut
my mind could traverse. And then what is worse:
Who makes up this we? I guess I can see
it meets me halfway, which is just to say
that I'm meeting it, a bad new habit.
Where I'll start, then, is with paper and pen.
(Let’s not pretend I won’t see you again.)
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 an interaction.
Motherless, myopic boy
grown now into this calm face,
self-made world famous,
named before his friends
(John, Paul, George, Ringo),
the wittiest of the four,
the most colorful,
the one who chose love
bravely, publicly
(freely, sloppily).
The kind of poster
college freshmen buy
in student union buildings.
Okay, the kind that this one
bought long long ago, seeing
a day in the life
of a man -- not a "young man" --
no, just that: A man
chiaroscuro’d before
the psychedelic
tour he’d lead us on.
He’d never grow old.
Written in community VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: Write an ekphrastic poem.
Our very careful campus
leaves little to chance:
Manicured lawns, trees in rows,
leaf-blowers every Tuesday,
matching furniture,
shared rubrics, comments aligned,
style guides for PPT decks,
branded everything.
And Mother Nature abides.
Within that one sconce,
twigs halo (but don't block) light.
Robins performing
the original
land acknowledgement.
Welcome to the world,
red-breasted babies.
Written in community VerseLove, a group of mostly educators writing a poem every day of April (National Poetry Month). The prompt for today: Find the poem that’s hiding in plain sight.
middleagedmiddlechild. 