Day 29

Hike Coo
April 29, 2009

step slow and steady
across the uneven trail;
the chasm is steep

let the birdsong guide
you skyward, from earth and rock
to tree limb and sun

do not follow the
path too narrowly; you
might miss the journey

Heart. Wink.

birthday gifts
april 28, 2009

i will take the smell
of raindamp concrete
on an april afternoon
and tuck it in your pocket
to carry you through
the driest days of summer.

i will bottle the
essence of lightning,
and dab it daintily
behind each of your ears;
your perfume will draw
honeybees and butterflies.

and when i string
a necklace the color
of young leaves against
thunderclouds, i will
kiss the nape of your neck
as i seal the clasp.

Day 27

fretful
april 27, 2009

my guitar stands
in her black case,
mummified

tonight

my fingers fret
the low tones of
obligation

Day 26

5:36 am
April 26, 2009

This moment,
this dreamwashed
moment,
is precious;
it will never
come this way
again, and it is
already slipping past.

Day 27, by Wrigley

A week later: different weather, similar theme.

The Rain and Plants
April 27, 2009

When the rain falls down,
the plants "juicy" up the water
and are very excited.
An occasional car passes by
and sprays up mists of water
for the plants to suck up.
Oh, yes. Oh, yes.
Everything is at peace in the world
when the rain falls down.

Day 21, By Wrigley

Sorry this is out of order. Don't know how I missed it.

When the Leaves Rustle
April 21, 2009

Oh, oh!
When the leaves rustle
in the warm evening breeze
everything seems at peace.
The birds tweet to announce
the evening and the setting of the sun.
On the warm summer evening
with the bugs crawling
and the birds tweeting
to announce the evening
and the setting of the sun,
oh, oh!
It's all at peace
when the leaves rustle
in the warm evening breeze.

Day 25

I don't know if this poem has the opposite theme of yesterday's or the same. Huh.

To Teach
April 25, 2009

To teach
is to live
in constant
amazement
at the
wisdom
and infinity
of youth.

Day 24, by Wrigley

I Wonder What it Would be Like
April 24, 2009

I wonder what it would be like
to be a story,
Just sitting there in the air,
waiting to be told.
I just wonder,
wonder,
what it would be like
to be a story.

Day 24 - Back in the Groove!

So They Closed the School Today
April 24, 2009

They closed the school today,
so instead of attending PE
the kids rode their bikes
to the top of the hill
or skateboarded across
a parking lot; they played
basketball in the park
instead of the gym.

They closed the school today,
so instead of practicing math
the kids counted their coins
and ran for the border.
Instead of sitting through English
they read menus at fast food joints
and magazines about 4x4’s.
They read Twilight. Again.

They closed the school today,
so instead of learning social skills
the kids squabbled with their siblings,
and had dinner with their parents.
They spent an hour by themselves,
feeling the earth spin on its axis,
watching clouds scroll across the sky,
and wondering where they will find
the time to learn to be.

Day 23

After 52 consecutive April days (hey, I'm an English teacher), I failed to write a poem today.

It was a nice day anyways.

Just Playin' Around With Sounds

Merry Ex-Mess
April 22, 2009

Vexed. Hexed.
Perplexed.

I failed the test
when the subtext
sunk my text.
Without context,
you can’t expect
to guess
the extent
of this mess.
You must accept,
without pretext,
I’m doing my best.

I suspect
it will all reset
with a little rest.
Yes,
I guess,
a little rest
will ease my stress.

Day 21

ready
april 21, 2009

with nimble fingers
and wide eyes,
gently unwrap
each new moment,
cherish it an
open palm,
and let time
whisk it away,
leaving your
fingers eager and
your eyes wide,
ready.

Day 20

Callus
April 20, 2009

a little bump
on the middle finger
of my left hand

hard and dry

from the
daily press
of poetry,
paper grades,
and shopping lists.

and all four
fingertips
of my right hand,

thick and flat

from the
daily press
of metal strings
of an off-key
guitar.

what relief, then,
that the chambers
of my heart
remain tender,
vulnerable,
and true,

from the
daily press
of you.

Day 17

Writer’s Block Blues
April 17, 2009

A block ain’t nothin’ but the word you cannot find.
No, a block ain’t nothin’ but the word you cannot find.
You can search with hounds and flashlights, but that word done left your mind.

A block ain’t nothin’ but cinder holdin’ up a wheel.
You know a block ain’t nothin’ but cinder holdin’ up a wheel.
You put four blocks together, baby, I got a heart you cannot steal.

A block ain’t nothin’ but six letters and six squares.
That ol’ alphabet block ain’t nothin’ but six letters and six squares.
And if you won’t spell my name with those letters, baby, who cares?

A block ain’t nothin’ but a spot in a city,
No, a block ain’t nothing but a spot in this lonely ol’ city,
And if we can’t find that spot together, baby, what a pity.

A block ain’t nothin’ but the word you cannot find,
Like I told you, a block ain’t nothin’ but the words I cannot find,
And since you done left me, baby, all my words been left behind.

Yeah, since you done left me, baby, all my words have been left behind.

Day 19

Between Meant and Meaning
April 19, 2009

The poem I meant to write
had perfect rhyme and perfect meter,
her form as solid as
ancient architecture,
a monument crafted
to withstand the shifting
sands of taste and temperament.

The poem I meant to write
drew her music from the stars:
lovelier than a Grecian urn,
finer than a leaf of grass,
more dependable than a red wheelbarrow.

The poem I meant to write
would have wrighted heroic ships
in heroic couplets,
righted unrequited love in ironic couples,
and read from right to left
just to be experimental.

Such big dreams
for such a little poem,
such lofty ambitions
for a scrap of verse;
so much uncharted
territory between
meant and meaning.

Day 18

before saturday starts
april 18, 2009

in sixty minutes,
the world will
wake up;
the sun will climb,
the fog, burn off;
birds will begin
their songs.

in sixty minutes,
saturday will start;
people will walk
their dogs, or climb
aboard their bikes,
or stand in line
for breakfast.

and in sixty minutes,
this empty street
will fill with cars,
pedestrians,
the chatter of
neighbors and the
jangle of music
in backyards.

in sixty minutes,
the second hand
will sweep away
this silence,
so i’ll listen
to the morning
while I can.

Day 16

Getting to Work
April 16, 2009

The clock in the kitchen
is two minutes ahead of the
one on the wall
and five minutes behind
the digital on my dashboard.

The porch thermometer
reads four degrees cooler
than the bank on 39th
and three degrees warmer
than the pawnshop on 82nd.

The gas gauge hasn’t worked
in years, so I try to keep
my karma running smoothly:
one eye on the low fuel light
and both fingers crossed.

It’s seventeen miles from my
driveway to the school
parking lot; the shortcut:
two miles shorter, ten minutes longer,
a thousand leaves lovelier.

I always arrive on time,
whatever time I happen to arrive.
My secret, you see, is not
to be accurate, it’s to know
precisely how inaccurate I am.

Day 15

This Work We Do
April 15, 2009

This work we do is Holy:
etching words into air,
sketching the outlines
of moments in amber,
wrapping our days
in the ribbon of verse.

What greater Gift
can we give?

By Wrigley, Day 20

Wish Wish Wish
April 20, 2009

I wish that wish
that everyone found
the wish to fly
or sink into the ground.
I wish that wish
that everyone found
to have a pet to do a thing
I wish that wish
that everyone is sharing.

Try Reading It Out Loud

After Ella Fitzgerald
April 14, 2009

ba ba-b-ba ba-b-ba-ba-bah!
ba ba-b-ba ba-b-ba-ba-bah!
ba ba-b-ba ba-b-ba-ba-bah!
bah bah bah bah ba-b-ba bah!

bah bah bah bah ba-b-ba bah!
bah bah bah bah ba-b-ba bah!
ba-b-ba-ba ba-b-ba-ba ba-b-bah-bah!
ba-b-ba-ba ba-b-ba-ba ba-b-bah-boom!

Boom boo-d-boom boo-d-boom boom boom!
Boom boo-d-boom boo-d-boom boom boom!
Boom-dee-boom boom-dee-boom boo-dee boom boom boom!
Boom-dee-boom boom-dee-boom boo-dee boom boom boom!

Ska bop bop ba-dah, ska dee bop bop bop
Ska boop-doo-boo-doo, skoo dee boop boop boop

Ska bop bop ba-dah, ska dee bop bop bop
Ska boop-doo-boo-doo, skoo dee boop boop boop

Skoo-be-doo, skoo-be-doo, skoo skoo be doo
Skoo-be-doo, skoo-be-doo, skoo skoo be doo
Skoo skoo skoo, skoo skoo be-doo
Skoo skoo skoo, skoo skoo be-doo
Skoo-be-doo, skoo-be-doo, skoo skoo be doo
Skoo-be-doo, skoo-be-doo, skoo-be-doo-be boom!
Boom-dee-boom boom-dee-boom boom boom dee boom!
Boom-dee-boom boom-dee-boom boom boom dee boom!

Boom boom boom, boom boom d-bah!
Boom boom boom, boom boom d-bah!
bah bah bah bah bah b-ba bah!
bah bah bah bah bah b-ba bah!

ba b-ba, ba-b-ba, ba ba b-dah!

My Turn

In response to this guy and this guy, I thought I'd give it a shot. It was hard and I'm not satisfied, but there are a few nice lines.

I Will Sing America, Too
April 13, 2009

Let me sing Her major chords:
the outstretched fingers of eager skyscrapers,
the lithe arms of Her forests.
I will sing the whir and buzz of industry
and the solitude of Her literature.
She is architects and gardeners,
inventors and creators,
technicians and dreamers.
My ears ring with the slow blues and
the jangle of jazz,
the raunchy rock and roll,
and the fierceness of rap –
American gifts to the soundscape of history.

Her song is endless and sweet,
endlessly sweet,
and I smell sugar as I sing,
as I sing America, too.

And let me sing in minor keys:
the slouching of Her youth
(and elders, too),
the bridges that sometimes fall
(and towers, too).
I will sing a song of sawblades
and mudslides,
a cacophony of concrete
and landfills,
where “superfund” sounds
like super-fun
and money can buy
happiness.
For a limited time.

Her song is endless and sad,
endlessly sad,
and I burn sugar as I sing,
as I sing America, too.

Let us sing this dissonant song,
let us sing it together.
Revel in Her complex harmonies,
Her syncopated rhythm,
Her distant, shifting beat.

Let us sing this endless song,
endlessly strong,
and sing sugar as we do,
as we sing America, too.

I Advise You Against Reading This ..

One Dozen Eggs
April 12, 2009

The resident eggspert
in egg-detection
felt eggstremely
perplexed.

Everywhere she
eggsplored,
she came up
empty.

The desk?
The beds?
The bookshelves
and treasure chests?
Rejection,
dejection,
and, without eggception,
a lack of detection.

Eggstraordinary, really.

Even though the weather
was eggstra terrible, she ventured
into the garden.
No eggs under veggies:
fledgling lettuce and peppers
left everything eggsposed,
eggcept eggs.
Even the deck was bereft.

When she was ready
to surrender,
head west,
and end up
an eggceptionally
depressed
eggspatriate,
eggziled forever
in the desolate desert,
she had an eggcellent idea:

Check the schedule.
Egg-detection was on
the next day’s agenda!

By Wrigely, Day 11

I Wonder, I Wonder, I Wonder
April 11, 2009

I wonder what it's like
to be a bird,
sailing high in the sky,
not speaking a word.

I wonder what it's like
to be a dog,
barking at airplanes
and gnawing on a log.

I wonder what it's like
to be a tree,
with branches so high
they reach the sky,
and leaves so
green, green, green.

By Wrigley, Day 7

My Life
April 7, 2009

My life is like
a picture book -
storied on paper,
happy and content,
magical and mysterious,
cute and lovely,
full of cats and kittens
and dogs and puppies.
That
is what
my life
is like.

By Wrigley, Day 5

My Neighbor
April 5, 2009

My neighbor is a canine
He is fluffy and big
As tall as a four year-old
Even wearing a wig

Day 10

let me be your instrument
April 10, 2009

lay your fingers
on my wrist
and thrum my tendons
like silver coiled
strings

lay your lips
to my ear
and fill me with fog:
leave me lost in
my own veins

let your heartbeat
be my drumbeat:
march me to the
precipice and
teach me to
sing.

That is not a typo ...

the story before
april 9, 2009

don’t know if i’ve told you this story before,
probably have:

it’s the one that begins in the jungle
with the succulent flowers,
the carnivorous flowers –
the ones that find you succulent –
it’s the story that begins in the
fragile spaces between the lion’s teeth.

you remember, right?

it’s the story told in greens so vivid
they’ll eat you alive from the inside out
and reds so sweet they sing four-part
harmony, the story told in tangerine
and lemon and fruits unnamable.
In the end, all the colors have pooled
into muddy puddles, and nothing
but black and white drips
from the jaws of the lion.

you know?

it’s the one where i was the hero and
you were the damsel in distress,
or maybe i was the hero in distress
and you the damsel who rescued me from
the crippling heights of my delusions.
you cradled my head in your arms,
lullabied me with A-weeema-weh
and the lion slept that night indeed.

i don’t know if i’ve told you this before,
probably have:

it’s the story about the fear
that is not my own, the courage
I held on loan, the love
we might have known. it is the
story before the story before
the story i’ve told you before,
unkempt and untamed, feline
and feral. it is the story that begins
in the jaws of the lion and
ends in the middle of a

Day 8

Christie didn't bring her camera to Wrig's most recent horseback riding lesson, so I had to do this:

mare and foal
april 8, 2009

cocoa and cinnamon,
up to the fetlocks
in mud.

side by side, she nestles
around him, a cove
curled against a storm.

she nips at his forelocks
and he shies, annoyed.
tail flicks once, twice.

heavy headed, stiff necked,
he scuffs his withers
against the paddock,

eying the horizon.

No more apples for Wrig

Wrig lost one tooth yesterday and one today. We were wondering if the tooth fairy will come by on consecutive nights.

Day 7

Opening Day
April 7, 2009

In the grand (slam) scheme of life,
a solid line drive to center
is no more significant
than a single blade of grass
or a breathless puff of chalk –

a clean base hit is neither
medicine nor economics,
politics nor jurisprudence,
penance nor forgiveness –

but when the sun reflects
off my glass just so,
when the afternoon is as
endless as a clear blue sky
and obligations just as distant,

there is nothing more significant
than a single blade of grass.

Day 6

being of sound mind and body
april 6, 2009

when i feel the grains of sand
in my marrow bones,

i will

woo you with arithmetic
with the mystery of endless sums
and the supple arc of geometry

i will

fill my lungs with the sharps and flats
of your chromatic scale and exhale
love songs the color of maple trees

i will

snap arthritic hands
off grandfather clocks,
and make a sundial of my spirit

i will

defy those grains of sand
and these fickle marrow bones.

Day 5

impatient
april 5, 2009

he calls this

the season of
about to happen

buds to burst
babies to birth
blessings to become

tensed and tired,
sleepless, eyes
eager and wide,

he aches with the
exertion of trying to

make things happen

Day 4

the good soldier
april 4, 2009

with the benediction of the sun
he resumes the war against nature:
border skirmishes beneath the buddleia,
invasive weeds exterminated with
extreme prejudice, preemptive
strikes in the raised beds
with limited collateral damage.

as the evening cools and the sun
averts its sympathetic gaze,
order has been restored,
victory declared, and an
uneasy peace briefly reigns,
though he can’t help but hear
laughter in the cawing of the crows.

I guess I should have added "post poem"

The Teacher’s To Do List
April 3, 2009

1) Write a to do list –
begin with the big stuff,
leave the little ‘til later.
poetry takes precedence over
prose, lovers before friends,
leisure before labor.
be sure to cross off
“write a to do list.”

2) Clean desk –
with one swift swipe,
wipe the whole pile
into the dustbin.
serious work awaits,
and a flat surface is essential.

3) Grade papers –
be parsimonious
with praise. don’t waste
precious time on
what’s written well.
we’re here
to build better writers,
so be constructive, be
constructive. be constructive!
but never use red ink,
which wounds the eyes
and sears the soul.

4) Remember to eat lunch –
put down the pen,
set aside the essays:
your colleagues await
you and your wit.
a good joke is far more
nourishing than the leftovers
in your lunchbox.

5) Don’t nap –
lunch sits heavily
in your belly,
the busy day hangs
heavy on your brow,
but do not submit,
do not surrender.
hold the book steadily,
hold your head high,
and when your eyelids
finally sag, dream of
a job well done.

6) Hit the copier –
with both hands.
shatter the glass,
crack the plastic,
scatter the toner like birdseed.
leave a trail of
blackpowder footsteps
so everyone knows
you were there.

7) Go home early –
leave the papers
and the lesson plans
behind; there is work
to be done at home
as well: a garden
to be tended, a family
to be hugged, a meal cooked.
and another to do list
to be written tomorrow.

Day 2

springsong
april 2, 2009

raindrops dance
on the tip of my tongue

scraps of music cling
to the heel of my shoe

flecks of grey sing
in your eyes’ blue skies

and the Conductor hides
in the whistling breeze

Here We Go Again

An Old Record Drives Me to Work
April 1, 2009

It’s been a decade,
maybe more,
since this tombstone shadow
stepped across my path,
but I still know
every lick,
every groove,
every riff and jive
as surely as I know
this long, gray
drive to work.

These pinched blue notes
tickle my fingertips,
itchy against the
steering wheel,
and coil themselves
deep in the bayous
of abandoned synapses –

Suddenly I am sixteen again,
lovesick, forlorn,
and dreaming of
an open road.