The Curriculum Knights

Sing ho for the Curriculum Knights!
Elevating fiction to the state of literature,
Lifting up those who would be dumbed down,
Sing ho! Sing ho! Sing ho!
Sing ho for the Curriculum knights!

Sing ho for the Age of Chivalry!
Opening the doors of education (and classrooms),
Helping their classmates over puddles of muddy prose,
Defending ladies and lords alike from the
Singularly offensive use of the pronoun “their,”
Sing ho! Sing ho! Sing ho!
Sing ho for the Curriculum knights!

Sing ho for the Age of Bravery!
Wherever the Dragons breathe the Fires of Ignorance,
Torching tomes, toppling ivory towers, and
Boiling the Fountains of Knowledge into waterish vapor,
The Curriculum Knights will battle.

Sing ho for the Curriculum Knights!
Spelunking within the deep dark caves of despair,
Hacking and slashing at the thick hides of dimwitted dragons,
One wielding the Axe of Questions and the other
One wielding her lance a lot.
Sing ho for the Age of Bravery!

And when the battle is done,
The Beastly Beasts vanquished and shunned,
The Curriculum Knights will pillage the dragon’s hoard gladly,
Gladly dispersing the priceless treasures: ruby rich words,
shimmering similes, and golden coined phrases.
Sing ho for the Age of Victory!

Sing ho! Sing ho! Sing ho!
Sing ho for the Curriculum knights!

April 2, 2008

I Pity da Fools!

So. Now there's NaPoWriMo. As if Nanowrimo wasn't bad enough, "they" are challenging me to write a poem a day. Never mind the fact that I've already challenged myself to do the same thing. For the month of April ONLY, I will publish a poem a day. Maybe.

April’s Fools
April 1, 2008

Sometimes they are the lovers,
murmuring vows over
crystal stemmed goblets,
brimming with wine as
white as whispers,
white as lilies,
white as lies.

Sometimes they are politicians,
counting votes and
counting on voters,
kissing babies and
babying constituents,
promising changes we don’t believe
and believing they will change us.

Sometimes they are the fans,
bundled in the bleachers
as snow falls,
rooting for victories
that win nothing,
cheering for the cheaters
who cheat the heroes.

And sometimes we are the poets,
penning pantoums or
dabbling in doggerel,
scribbling sonnets
or imagining elegies,
weaving words into walls
which shield us from our folly.

March in Review

Days in March: 31
Poems Written: 21 (my best month yet!)
Poems I like: 16.5
Poems Posted: 6 of mine, 1 of Wrig's

Year in Review:
Days: 91
Poems: 57
Good poems: 38.5

A Day Late

Bonus trivia: this is post#300 on Re: Wrigley!

Even though I wrote this poem before I left, it pretty much captures how I felt when I returned.

The Woodpecker’s Landing
March 24, 2008

Full speed, all flutter
and red feathers,
face first towards
the telephone pole
and inevitable
catastrophe:
a crash, a collision,
a congregation of
beak and bark
that benefits neither
bird nor beam.

But then.

Unavoidable disaster
avoided.
Certain doom
dodged.
The expected accident
unexpectedly averted.

The woodpecker
pauses in midair,
hovers like a
wistful whisper
between lovers,
and effortlessly
embraces his home.

Addendum For Those Not So Easily Moved

Spots has her very own boarding pass.

Sigh, oh sigh.

Things That Melt Your Heart

Grammers and Gramps took Wrig to Build-a-Bear today. She selected a cheetah (or maybe it's a leopard. If you know the difference, feel free to straighten me out). Without realizing it, Wrig managed to select a) the mot expensive "carcass" and b) the carcass that came with a $1 donation to the World Wildlife Fund.

That, however, is not what might melt your heart.

Wrig pretty much fell instantly madly in love with Spots. When we stopped at LensCrafters, Wrig plopped herself down on the floor and cradled Spots in her lap. I thought she was going to hike up her dress and nurse the beast. Spots gave Wrig a bear hug - actually, a leopard hug - for the rest of the afternoon.

That, however, is not what might melt your heart.

And then - warning: potential heart melting event ahead - as we got into the car after our trip, Wrig sat Spots into a seat and strapped her into a seatbelt. Yes, she secured her brand new stuffed animal with a seat belt. My, oh my.

Bonus heart melting event: While I am typing, Wrig is sitting on the kitchen counter, dressing Spots in her purple prom dress and ruby red shoes. She is narrating to herself, as she often does. The only two phrases that I've clearly understood are "Ugh, I think I've put this all on backwards!" and "... especially when she's a poor orphan." Oh, sigh.

Hold Your Breath

A post in praise of dangerous women:

Yesterday, after Wrig had exhausted me in the pool, she found a friend named Lena, from Chicago. Lena was a little bit older than Wrig, a little bit taller, and - though not much - a little bit better at swimming. Lena and Wrig grabbed a noodle each and began paddling about the pool. Lena was very excited to be over four! feet! tall! and able to stand on her tiptoes way! out! here! She kept luring Wrig further and further into the pool, into deeper and deeper water.

I relaxed on a lawn chair, holding my breath.

It takes an enormous amount of concentration to watch your daughter and her brand-new-novice-swimmer friend fend for themselves in four and five foot water. Every ounce of energy I had was spent cementing my kiester to the chair. Every other ounce of energy was spent suppressing the urge to shout "Wrigley, get back here!" or "Wrigley, be careful!"

You know what? Wrigley knows to be careful without me shouting at her. I watched her balance herself this way and that, trying new tricks and reacting to the flow of energy and water. Whenever she felt unsure, she paddled back to safer ground, readjusted herself, and tackled the deep end again.

My kid has good sense. It's terrifying - um, I mean fun - watching her use it.

We're Not in Kansas Anymore, Toto

I'm struggling with a difficulty I don't often encounter while blogging in Oregon: sun glare. I can pretty much take my laptop anywhere in the city of Portland and not have any problems reading my computer screen.

As it happens, I am sitting on my parents back deck, in the shade of a mesquite (I think), being serenaded by unfamiliar birds. There are quail here, and mourning doves, and three other calls that belong to much shier birds: one of them honks, one whistles, one sings opera. I hope they'll introduce themselves before Wrig and I head home.

It's been an eventful morning already. Wrig saw a bunny across the street and a quail righto ut the window. Right after breakfast, we made a beeline for the swimming pool. Wrig splashed and frolicked and made friends. Wrig very generously offered to share her rockets with a three or four year old boy. It always surprises me that it surprises my parents when Wrig is generous. Our society expects the worst from children, and why not? Have you seen tv? Poor behavior is all we model for them. It's a shame we're not sending Wrig to school to pick up some "social skills."

Oops. Accidental mini-rant. Sorry 'bout that.

I was able to swim today (a whopping 20 laps) for the first time in 10 months (thanks Kaiser PT!). I'm curious to see how my knee reacts. I hope it doesn't get cranky.

Despite the accidental rant, I'm feeling very mellow and content right now (if not a wee bit lonely). The temperature is in the low 80s, the breeze is tickling my leg hair, and I could very happily be an Arizonan.

For about five days.