Follow the Green Pen

Haiku

2011-10-05T13:52:00.000-04:00

Fallow time now--seeds
of words below the soil wait
for nature's next cue.

Period 11

2011-09-07T21:30:00.001-04:00

Her head on the desk,
energy drink by her side--
irony's portrait.

Evening Song

2011-08-29T00:17:00.001-04:00

The storm has passed, and
now, above quiet, damp streets,
trees dance, intact limbs waving,
as the air animates them--
a fresh, rising wind, strong
but kind, a messenger from
somewhere else, speaking
through branches and leaves
like breath through a reed.

Race Report: Capital Region Road Race, August 20, 2011

2011-08-22T23:58:00.010-04:00

Disclaimer and spoiler: This report will NOT end with me recounting my epic victory salute as I crossed the line ahead of everyone else in my field. Any suspense that you sense in the coming paragraphs will lead to a denouement of a different sort. I'm a dilettante on a bike, a competent racer with decent fitness and varying motivation, still looking to learn by pinning on a number and joining the pack.

I belong to the Capital Bicycle Racing Club, and this is our race. Well, Paul McDonnell, planner extraordinaire, puts it together, and many club members help out with the details: marking the course, sweeping the turns, marshaling, driving pace, and so on. It's a tough course: a twenty-mile loop with two short but steep climbs, with 1300 feet of elevation gain per loop, maxing out at 16 percent.

It's customary for cyclists to self-deprecate about most things, like how much they've been riding (not much), why they are here (it's just training for me) to how well they may do (fair to average). I adopted this posture with a friend, who sarcastically replied, “You're all winners!” She and I know that's not true. There's no running onto the field after the last point for a group hug or pile-on involving all the players. This is a linear sport: a clear beginning and end point, and a time for each rider. For some reason, other endurance sports—running and triathlon—seem to focus more on the act of completing the race. But remember that numbers don't tell the whole story. Racing makes me a better rider... maybe even a better person. Like many things, it tests limits—in our case, strength, endurance and pain tolerance. Even the most competitive rides with friends, up and down the Rensselaer plateau, don't take me to the limits like races do. There's always something surprising, something new.

I've been racing for about five years, and riding anywhere from two to three thousand miles per year—not counting mountain-bike and cyclocross rides. These numbers are not unusual, or even particularly impressive to the crowd gathered in the high-school parking lot last Saturday morning. I'm still a category five rider. Still, technically, a beginner. For this race, I decided to register for the combined cat four/cat five field, a group of more experienced riders. I allowed for the possibility of getting shelled out the back pretty quickly, or just maybe hanging onto the wheels in front of me for a bit. Like a friend says, a racer has to think, “Yeah, I can beat him,” even if it's not likely. The trick is to come back for more even when you've been proven wrong.

The parking lot was full of lean and hungry racers, and enough carbon fiber to build a squadron of stealth fighters. My bike looked a bit welfare among the exotic names, deep-dish rims and high-end components on many machines. No worries, though. Run what you brought.

The field assembled, 75 strong—bigger than the fifty in the cat five. We had a neutral roll-out of three miles, and I once again started too far back. On the plus side, it is a beautiful sight to see dozens of bikes filling the road ahead. I watched a rider from our club seamlessly, almost politely, thread his way up. We ambled along, with a sound like crickets as our chains stopped and our gear cassettes clicked. We were packed in tightly and ready to race, but everyone kept it under control.

The pace car pulled away and the speed increased. I found a good spot in the peloton, near a couple of other CBRC riders. We gingerly negotiated the sharp turns that I'd swept the night before, with that mix of anticipation and dread that always comes. I felt the familiar incline of Tracy Road, the first climb of the lap. The pack shook loose, as riders sat, stood, weaved and gasped at different rates. I pushed to a point just short of wanting to throw up, then notched it back a tiny bit. I kept my head in check, too—it's easy to mentally crack, then physically deflate when riders open gaps on a climb, but I've done this enough to know that I need to ride within myself at these times, do it at my pace, come what may.

A brief reprieve on a downhill, and the chase to close gaps was on. I tucked in behind another rider for a bit, then pulled around to pull. I got in front of him, but he must have sped up, as I felt a very subtle shift in my bike when my rear wheel rubbed his front wheel. I truly thought I was clear. This is a common cause of crashes, but he kept it upright. I hollered a quick apology, and—even more surprising than him not crashing—he said no, it's cool. Whew.

We scrubbed off about 30 mph, then took the hairpin past EMTs and marshals to the wall of Whitbeck Road, the steepest, nastiest quarter mile in Albany County, and we went through our contorted motions again to the top.

Regrouping on the back side of the course, our group increased in size and speed. I actually spun out my 50 x 11 gear as a big rider, unsatisfied with our 20-something pace, went to the front and pulled us at around 33 mph. I wasn't the only one happy about that, I'm sure. Go ahead, buddy. It'll be see ya later when the road tilts up again.

The second lap whittled our group down to seven. None of us knew where we were overall—riders ahead and behind, hopefully more of the latter. I kept a cool head up the climbs again, and we regrouped, all a bit more ragged. Good riders, all—this 4/5 field definitely felt less twitchy than others have.

As we got down to the last few clicks, I decided to sit in until things started happening. Sure enough, the last few little rises caused a few of us to drop off. I just maintained my pace, with a bit of a kick at the end, coming in third out of our group of seven.

The results? 48th out of 75. See results for everyone here. I covered 43 miles in two hours, nine minutes and forty-six seconds. But, like I said, the numbers don't tell the whole story. This was the most raciest race I've been in, as I stayed with others the whole way, rather than getting caught between groups in that weird never-land—a solitary rider, number rattling in the breeze along a quiet road. I hung with experienced, strong riders who knew how to work together. I pushed myself mentally and physically, and I'll bring more to the line next time.

Later, I helped clean up in the feed zone, while two women patiently waited for their significant others to finish. It looked to me like the beverage of choice along that particular stretch of country road was Miller Lite. Funny, I don't remember seeing anyone handing them up during the race...

There were large orange DOT signs along the course: “Bike Race. Be prepared to stop,” intended, of course, for motorists. But it applies to us, too. Our field was strong, and pretty cohesive. No one was slacking. I'm sure, though, that all of us know people who have stopped—stopped racing, stopped riding—for a variety of reasons, from injury, illness, simple burnout, frustration, or countless others. It could be any of us tomorrow. But here, on this day, we're part of it. We're in it. The moment, when it's possible that you might beat that rider, you might close that gap, you might be the strongest in the bunch, or maybe just set a personal record. Finishing upright and intact is always good, too.

No Hands

2011-07-31T23:26:00.000-04:00

Nearly home, I take my hands
from the bar and the bike tracks straight.
My long shadow fills the road as
I sit up and look around, and
the earth is alive with the wind's breath.
The bike wants to stay upright, a friend says--
comforting personification that makes us a team,
this willful soul-giving to a machine.
My hands fall to my sides, as slight shifts
in my weight—automatic, really--
keep the course now. Balance and motion:
what more do I truly need?

Rise

2011-07-30T02:18:00.002-04:00

Free me from my tired refrains:
Not good enough, will never be
as I sing it again, love in vain,
looking for years, unable to see.

Balance what I feel and what I know,
like the cycling moon, light and dark.
It takes effort to keep doors closed--
is that better than a shot off its mark?

Anything lived is never really gone.
Find words to forgive, but not forget.
Lines in my heart run on and on,
and tomorrow and I have not met.

Words, imprecise, always taste of surprise.
With the winding road, may I also rise.

Teach

2011-07-29T12:09:00.000-04:00

Spend a day with us in a crowded, hot room:
Read the roster, have a plan, pick up the book.
Tell me then that the 2:35 bell comes too soon.
They're all here: leaders, dreamers and crooks.

Society's motley progeny arrives at our door.
Country's falling behind, we've heard for years.
Give all, but be prepared when asked for more.
Still, success outweighs failure, to be clear.

I cringe, look away, when I hear kids these days--
we were all there, wandering in some hazy past,
finding our way through an adolescent maze.
Remember time's river, flowing deep and fast.

Do not ever let a shaky grasp limit reach.
Know that those who can, will always teach.

One-Way Eyes

2011-07-28T23:54:00.002-04:00

Prone to rage and shame,
I'm a weapon with no aim.
Pushing away whoever's close,
test those I need the most.

It's harder to write than revise,
looking out from one-way eyes.

Pictures have scripts that fit:
that's me, the kid who can't hit.
Quiet and gifted, sent away;
lived it then, feel it here today.

Look back too long, this moment dies,
looking out from one-way eyes.

I'm in the cave, can't stop--
keep the drill to the rock.
Remember a touch, laugh, smile,
so much softer back a while.

How present am I, feeling old highs?
Looking out from one-way eyes.

Believer

2011-07-27T16:37:00.001-04:00

Looking at my T-shirt
with its quick slashes of ink
human-like outstretched arms
forming a Chinese character
standing for peace I believe
you asked
small gold cross hanging
around your tanned neck
Are you a believer
And I said yes
which is always a good answer
I believe
and still do
even as our minds
drew different conclusions
or so I believe

Morning Mirror

2011-07-26T13:33:00.000-04:00

Reaching out, bristly
and stiff, shades of brown and gray
greet me after dreams
retreat like nocturnal beasts.
In the mirror, a day's growth.

Water Over Rock

2011-07-25T23:22:00.002-04:00

Look away from the relentless clock.
Change is not always something seen.
Give me the patience of water over rock.

Tense already, as I wake with a shock--
Am I running too rich or too lean?
Look away from the cruel, mocking clock.

How to carve myself out of this stifling block?
Michelangelo's angel was there, unseen.
Give me the patience of water over rock.

What will summon inspiration's knock?
I climb a green hill to see where I've been,
and turn away from the indifferent clock.

In a small boat freed from the dock,
I think of waves, and lulls in between.
Give me the patience of water over rock.

Soon, words become keys to the locks:
my habits, faults, allegiance to routine,
tied to the unfeeling, cold clock.
Give me the patience of water shaping rock.

Where You Going?

2011-07-24T23:52:00.003-04:00

Twilight, and I pilot my bike
down an empty city street.
Pastel pink and blue softens
silent gray concrete.
A flashing sign: “Detour,”
arrow pointing left—I stop,
things happen.

My mind wanders (those wheels never stop)
and I'm a farmer in my head, end of
the day, wondering about my crops,
if it's a good year, and how long I will
continue to till and sow these familiar,
lonesome fields of bachelorhood.

Wheelchair man, doing quick spins
mid-street, as if dancing to music,
rolls up, stops. Vietnam vet, he says.

His hands, black from the chair's wheels; his
pot belly, creeping out from his shirt; his
gray stubble; rattly coffee cup containing three
Canadian dollars and not much more, he tells me.
Do you work for the police?

More questions: Where do you live, how far
have you gone? Me, to him: Where you going?
Got no home, he says. Going to Troy. The street breathes,
I keep my wondering quiet for now, let
the canyon-echo traffic fill the space.

A cab appears, he hails it.
Cabbie, heavy subcontinent accent, loads his
suitcase, the chair. Where you going? More mumbles,
the cup rattles, and I wonder what I have
in my back pocket.

Another moment hangs, a dangling
cigarette in his lip, unlit, as I wait
for something to happen.

Take care, bud, I say twice.
You, too.

The cabbie drops the lever into drive,
and pulls away. Where you going?

Good question.

Going Somewhere?

2011-07-23T13:24:00.001-04:00

Rank, file and legion
in the large, mirrored room,
lines of runners, belts spinning
furiously beneath them,
humming insect drone--
they run hard and fast,
gaining no ground,
eyes ahead, fixed on screens
filled with beautiful people
that the runners can't
quite reach.

Conditioned

2011-07-22T23:19:00.001-04:00

I sit, shades drawn, windows shut
against the piercing heat of a
July day that feels closer to the sun,
pale fingers on cool black keys,
phone chirping with heat alerts
and news of cooling stations--
maybe I'll doze off in my conditioned
air, and dream of a paleolithic me,
sun-burnished and bare-footed,
maybe a spear in my hand,
making quick time over
hot dusty ground, picking berries or
tracking a beast—will I wake in
shame, in my cool artificial twilight,
that narrow island of comfort,
remembering that brave, burnished
hard man, under a slightly younger sun
that's just as hot, just as fierce?

Waiting

2011-07-21T23:23:00.000-04:00

I am a boat in irons
waiting for a kind wind
to sail me on, sure and steady,
ready to begin again.

A flute lies still
waiting for an unseen hand
and the promise of breath
to play a song like no other can.

An ember glows, pulsing
brightly on this darkest night--
warm me, raise my own flame,
call on me to dance again.

Alpine Race

2011-07-20T23:35:00.001-04:00

Light and shadow, as trees filter
sunlight onto a humble Italian road.
Capricious turns, no clear lines of sight
and the race is with those around them.
Shoulders rock in rhythmic shrugs,
a twitch, a tic, unnatural anywhere else
and the strong riders emerge from
the proletariat pack, like seeds sprung
from shells now discarded, shooting forth,
sprouting instantly as the road climbs.
The top is just the beginning of the
downhill exam, all physics and geometry:
compound curves, acute angles of
bent riders and sinuous road, with
extra credit for steeled nerves.
Then, a rush to the line, in a single rider's
tunnel vision of barricades and booming voices
as, for the first time in hours, he unfolds, sits up--
eyes behind mirrors, the arms aloft say it all
and, by now, the wheels know where to go.

Broken Mirrors

2011-07-19T23:52:00.001-04:00

Broken mirrors are
what I have: fierce edges where
reflection ends, so
difficult to hold, but true—
as true as anything is.

"Ex" Marks the Spot

2011-07-18T23:36:00.000-04:00

Not a cross to bear--
more like “ex” marks the spot
of unexpected treasure,
found without a map.

Thank you, sun-freckled summer girl,
for saying, early on,
boxers, not briefs,
even if the time wasn't long.

Thank you, with your curling energy,
for saying maybe it is
right after I said
everything feels alright.

Thank you, eyes like mine,
for a kiss and its encore,
coming back more beautifully,
a comet swinging closer.

Thank you, so warm and dark,
for praising my backside
in front of the salesgirl as she
handed me a pair of jeans.

Thank you, fellow teacher,
for being my stand-up partner
even when we weren't
until the laughs ran out.

Thank you, the only blonde,
for rousing me from winter blues
with a sudden spring--
or was it a pounce?

Lines intersecting, then continuing,
leaving a mark on my axis,
even if I ask, rhetorically now,
ex and why?

Old Paint

2011-07-17T23:47:00.002-04:00

The blue paint chipped
and I took the scraper to
it—now the question is
where to stop. Layers
of colors underneath,
then down to the bone
of the original plaster
over lath—the paint peels
off in flat flakes, elegant curls,
tiny chips, a confetti pile on
the floor, someone else's work
being undone as I continue--
a small patch, a couple inches,
expanding, with a will of
its own, not straight, but in
arcing curves over the
panels on the door, shapes
humorous and terrifying--
I pause, step back, aware
of another scraper, picking
away at mind-layers, years and colors,
working in the dark, by feel
at best—where to stop?
I pick up a piece of sandpaper,
feather the paint as best I can,
step back slowly, to the point
where things look good--
good enough—if I don't
look too long.

School's Summer

2011-07-16T15:58:00.003-04:00

An empty classroom, a floor like a sheet
of ice, reflects summer light from outside,
slight scent of wax lingering. A light wind in
the hall, and the school breathes easy.

The room reaches, wide and empty--
walls and board clean and bare.
Everything's been moved out:
furniture to the hallways, students

scattered like seeds, sprouting into
summer months, under high sun.
Here, real work has been done--
those who came before, turning

twenty-five, twenty-six or more,
somewhere, carrying something
from here—no one enters or exits
a room without taking something

and leaving something else.
Endings and beginnings, stories
crafted in four quarters, two semesters.
Now, no bells, but the slow pulse

of summer's time, measured in
light and darkness, heat and relief--
leading to a chance, in a while,
to pick up the pen, to start again.

Wild World

2011-07-15T23:45:00.001-04:00

Forget how many times
you've heard it, forget
the re-makes, karaoke takes
but remember when I say
that tonight, I heard
Cat—Yousef--sing it,
I felt the longing,
the love and loss
inviting me in, through
every string on that
Telecaster, with every
thump of the kick drum,
every dip and rise in
his forlorn gray voice--
my heart vibrating
sympathetic notes,
overtones of my own--
the song a mirror, for
him, me, us—we go
back, look at ourselves
in its reflected light,
the same and not the
same, we see, before
we turn away, as the
last chord fades.

Calling

2011-07-14T23:42:00.001-04:00

Walking in with that
comforting sameness,
two black triangles with
hints of white, the nuns come
through the double doors,
out of the sunset into the
cold hallway light,
shifting side to side
in heavy black shoes,
gold rimmed glasses,
little wisps of gray peeking
out from their habits--
they amble past quietly,
until, suddenly, a
lilting Latin rhythm,
all blinding sunshine
and undulating bodies,
clear even in ring-tone
miniature, escapes from
beneath the dark folds,
sultry and sweet.

Ten Years In

2011-07-13T21:44:00.001-04:00

Live in a house long enough
and you'll paint things more than
once. I know ceilings, cabinets,
walls well now, ten years in.

I see where your hands have been:
that baseboard, painted just up to
where something used to be--
your desk? Then, dingy old paint

from there to the corner. So
many places you missed, or just
didn't see. Then again, my attention
to detail--never seeing the whole.

Perfectionists never really finish
anything. Maybe that's why I paint
and paint again, no matter if
it's colors or words.

Later, I scrape dirt and grease
from kitchen cabinets, layered on
out of sight up top—how many
curries, stir-fries, burgers left

their marks here, even as they
filled us, sustained us? I labor,
scrub, clean well--but I don't get
it all. Something always remains.

House and heart—today,
telling similar stories.

Evening

2011-07-12T22:47:00.001-04:00

Summer settling in
at evening and the
humidity loosens
its grip as a woman
runs through a leafy park
sneaker cinder rhythm
and the setting sun lights
up her hair and makes
a halo of it flashing
on and off as she
moves under the trees.

Race Report: Pawling Mountain Road Race, Sunday, July 10, 2011

2011-07-11T23:08:00.014-04:00

I tried my best to get to bed early, but it didn't happen. My nocturnal habits have returned since the school year ended. Fitful sleep, early alarm. So be it. Sun in the sky at 5 a.m. helped. Loaded up and headed out, two hour drive to a race that would probably take an hour. Oh well--runners travel farther for a 5K.

It was a pretty drive down through Columbia County, taking the Taconic past familiar roads where I've built whatever fitness I have. Hanging with the regulars on Tuesdays this year is definitely encouraging.

I got to Pawling without enough time to ride the course at anything resembling a reasonable pace. There wasn't even enough time to drive it. I did drive in over the last couple miles of the course, which were pretty hairy—a short climb and a twisty descent on rough pavement, with ever-larger mammals jumping out in front of me. I told myself it wasn't an omen.

I signed in and saw a couple other riders from CBRC, made some small talk: Are you ready? Ready as I'll be. Really—what rider says, “Oh yeah, I've been riding lots, and feeling super strong”? I got in a decent 20-minute warm-up, which I figured was enough for an hour-long race. Lots of down-state/NYC/Connecticut club kits, and more women than our boys' club rides usually attract.

Usually, my nerves are at their worst the night before a race. The morning of, not so bad. For some reason, though, I was really nervous rolling up to the start. Not sure why--maybe too much coffee. It thankfully went away once we started riding, as I settled in about 20 riders back in our group of around 50. We had a “neutral start”—no racing right from the line—and I wasn't sure where it ended, as the pace picked up only a bit. Everybody was pretty well-behaved and predictable.

I dropped my chain around mile four, off the OUTSIDE of the big ring. The cranks started spinning uselessly and my bike made a sound like an old man reaching into an ample pocket of change. So much for thinking I had my derailleurs dialed perfectly. I back-pedaled for about 20 seconds before the chain popped back on, with guys yelling at me to drop back the whole time—to where? I was on the outside, right at the double yellow. To stop would mean getting dropped before even really starting. There's no team car with a spare bike in amateur racing. But, hey, it worked out, even though I lost about ten places.

The easy pace continued, but I think we all knew the race would get a lot harder around mile seven, at the beginning of a two-mile climb. That's just what happened, as riders rose out of their saddles, heart rates spiked, breathing became labored. The climb quickly split the field right in front of me—which, for some reason, happens often. Then, the question: bridge to the group ahead or not? That move might work, or it might lead to me blowing up, and being caught in that lonely space between groups. Since I didn't know the course, I climbed at my own pace. Two miles, around six percent grade, seated, at about 85 percent of my capacity.

There was a guy in a Monadnock jersey who was doing these strong attacks, rising and sprinting. I resisted the bait and did my own thing, which worked out because he'd always drift back. Over the top, I slowly passed him, and he grabbed my wheel. We worked together on the descent, and the flat bit that followed, eventually catching four other riders. It's a sweet feeling, cranking along, then letting off the gas for a few seconds as that last little gap closes, into that quiet cone of shelter. We got a ragged pace line going, with lots of shouting but not much understanding. Maybe I should cat up, I thought briefly, but that might involve riding alone more often, watching even more riders shrink away ahead of me. Maybe next year.

Bike racing is more fun for me when I'm in a group. It was at this point that the race got interesting. Good riders can study others quickly: pick out the strong, steady ones; avoid the wobbly, slower ones. I rode well, taking short pulls, but somehow ending up back out front quickly.

Our alliance of six strengthened as we covered a few more miles. Hopes soared as we discussed how many—or how few—riders were in front of us. Hard left, past the marshals' orange flags, and we spotted more riders on the next climb: bait for our hungry gruppetto. We passed them, yelled “grab a wheel,” but none did. There's such a huge range of ability and fitness at this admittedly lower level of competition that riders do get very spread out on the road.

Soon we were on the last climb, the one I'd reconnoitered from the car. I was out front, and I set an easy pace—go ahead and pass if you want, then you pull. Whatever our overall standings in the race, it was fun to use strategy for once. In the past, if I was out front, I'd feel a need to push the pace. I guess I'm learning.

Watching my computer, I knew the end was coming, so I tucked in behind the biggest rider in the group, to whom I'd later properly introduce myself. He looked around every once and a while, inviting me to pull up, but I declined. The six riders reshuffled places for a bit, little tests and bursts. The speed picked up as we neared the countdown: signs placed at 200, 100 and 50 meters.

I've never truly sprinted for the line in a race before, but it seemed inevitable. We were all in the bar drops, and I felt good, right behind the big guy. A couple others came around, and I jumped, sat in for a moment, then came around. Out of our six, I passed four just before the line. So it wasn't for first place—it was still a rush, the best moment of the race.

We coasted down the road afterward, made quick introductions and gave animated re-caps, all in that sweet post-race euphoria.

I grabbed lunch with some other CBRC riders—and Terry, my lead-out man, who, it turns out, is a really cool dude. "Jeez, Terry," I said, "if I'd have know you were such a nice guy... "

The cold, hard facts: I placed 17th out of 44 finishers in my field, riding 20 miles in 58 minutes and nine seconds. Sure, I want to do better in the next race. But, as I hope I've shown, there's much more to it than that.

For another description of the sprint, click here.

For a run-down of my rather average race results, click here.

Haiku

2011-07-11T00:58:00.002-04:00

The past? A still pond,
reflecting. The present is
a rising river.

The Sprint

2011-07-10T23:27:00.001-04:00

Tucked in behind a big wall of a rider
where the only wind I hear
is the steam-train staccato
of my own breaths
roughly in time with the
pistons of my legs
six riders hustle and jostle
filling the cracked
country tarmac
blurring colors and voices
and a row of signs
counting down the meters
miles behind us spent
playing cards
dealing out and holding back
now the sweet spot
sheltered for as long
as possible until a
break right—no, left--
into the wind
hunched at the bar
saddle swinging like
a pendulum counting
out the final seconds
narrow-eyed animal focus
on the line ahead
throw the bike over the line
then everything goes slack--
and we are human again,
grinning like kids, a slap
on the back--
Good race, man.

Not Trying

2011-07-09T21:58:00.002-04:00

The cat again by my side on the desk
legs tucked underneath
slow breaths
a quiet Saturday night outside
occasional sizzle of cars
fans and air conditioners
voices underneath my window
people come and go from
parked cars up to the bars
my computer hums and
the lights are on downstairs like
there is someone in the living room
but there isn't and I have been monkish
nothing particularly social today
or yesterday for that matter
wait for love to come to you
it will happen when you're not trying
friends have said to me--
well
I'm not trying and doing really well
at it on this Saturday night
even clean-shaven and showered
in front of my computer and the
clicking of the keys that surely
would be silenced if whoever
she is—you know, the next one--
were here.

The Classroom

2011-07-08T23:55:00.000-04:00

Is it my classroom, or theirs?
It's mine, of course, as they see me
whether I wish it or not,
as the man, the one causing
friction against their free-wheeling
self-possession and assurance
that they have this all figured out--
me, this guy, khakis and tie,
some gray at the temples,
who has designs on their freedoms,
via the theater of grades and discipline,
to keep them docile, when all I want
is for them to see these woods,
feel them, the way our protagonist does,
be there, crunching twigs underfoot,
but they are too much here, this
fluorescent prison, with a phone vibrating
in a pocket—a message from
anywhere but here. I try to show them
the seasons of a man—it won't always be
like this—but they will only see it all
in some red-shifted future,
when everything recedes. Now, feet on desks,
studied indifference, and a hardness in
some like a dare. The bell rings,
the sound of a round declared a draw.
Try again tomorrow.

Thursday Ride

2011-07-07T23:56:00.001-04:00

Summer, and it's light 'til late--
Why write a poem when you can ride a bike
in a shape-shifting group, stretching out
and bunching up with gear clicks
and conversation and always a
whoosh by the ears
past athletic fields with pinging bats
as the pavement follows the land
up into the sunset to that ridge
you can see from all around
and you know you're getting up there
when you see spindly metal towers
sprouting antennae and shouting
god-knows-what to whomever
then down a chattery road
like the devil's stubble under
the wheels then onto a
smooth false flat down
a chain of six riders inside the wind
as we unzip the evening air,
animal alertness and vision wide.

Dove and State, 6:30

2011-07-06T23:29:00.000-04:00

A woman in the rain
not really running
but taking large
prancing steps
knees elbows wrists
all bent
a small purse
in one hand
not the way one
would run
from a fire or
to a lover
frankly she's no
match for a steady
but gentle rain--
still she's a
bright spot
on the gray corner
of Dove and State.

Royalty

2011-07-05T23:52:00.003-04:00

In the corner of the living room,
the cat sits on his worn scratcher,
a rectangle of cardboard with stringy tassels.
He surveys his terrain: a dusty floor, his bowl and plate.
His tail wraps around, parallel to his generous body,
a slight dip in his spine--
He sits, front paws extended regally,
chin held high, fur radiant in a shaft of light--
sated, stomach full of kibble.
He sits, still, eyes now closed,
whiskers at ease,
oblivious, maybe dreaming--
a pharaoh on his barge, Egyptian royalty,
Bastet's prince, gliding slowly
down the broad, quiet Nile.

Postures

2011-07-04T23:48:00.001-04:00

The sun, low and lean,
cuts across the country road.

In my mirror,
a young rooster poses, slouched
in the center of his impeccably
clean silver car,
barks words I'll never hear
or miss into his phone,
arm bent, hand cocked.

Out my window,
a dull yellow bus in the weeds
has dispersed sun-brown men
now bent at the waist,
bodies speaking of labor,
stories in their frames,
hands in the ground,
in the damp earth.

Hudson Avenue, 10 p.m.

2011-07-03T22:35:00.000-04:00

Sepia streetlight, gold patina
on green leaves. A vine of ink emerges
from a short sleeve. Pre-fourth fireworks
like distant thunder or gunfire,
sharp reports bouncing off
the cool, hard plaza. A bouquet of pink
in the sky, for a moment.
A sing-song voice, words indistinct
behind closed windows. More jagged,
weedy leaves in my impatiens
the longer I look. One piece
of neon at the corner--
Lark Street calling.
The sameness of tires
on pavement. And there
I am, on the stoop, under
the light. A sailboat in irons,
waiting for the wind's push,
this way or that.

Hands

2011-07-02T17:58:00.001-04:00

Shaking or holding,
our hands touching won't ever
be just hands touching.

Spotted

2011-07-01T17:56:00.001-04:00

The spotted fawn came
out of the woods, into the road
and toward me, astride my bike.
She—for the hoof clicks on pavement
sounded like heels—strode, paused,
looked, twitched for a lingering moment,
then, as a car approached,
sprung off into the green
with a grace and ease
any cyclist would admire.

Race Report: Trooper Brinkerhoff Memorial Race, Week 1

2011-03-19T22:05:00.002-04:00

Spin classes, cross-country skiing, idyllic solo rides where I feel fabulous and mythic as I climb a rolling hill don't really indicate anything. Pinning on a number over several layers of clothing and heading out into a fierce Greene County wind for the year's first race is a much better measurement.

The usual jitters passed as they usually do--all gone by the time I rolled up to the start line. It's actually getting to feel familiar, five years into racing. Today's is a short course at 18 miles, and it's nearly completely flat.

Lap one: A much faster pace than last year, which actually made it safer as we spread out. I spotted fellow CBRC guy Tim, and followed his wheel through the pack. Some gaps opened up, and I covered them, no problem, staying in the top ten to fifteen riders. We all managed to dodge the potholes that were helpfully outlined in bright orange spray paint.

The pace picked up the second lap, stretching the group out even more. Hard efforts and brief respites--that old wisdom that says "no matter how good or bad you feel, it won't last" that's true in racing and life. On the back side of the course, after a short rise, a gap opened in front of me. The wind filled it, of course. Tim, my guiding wheel, made the break. Then the mental game: go hard now, catch the group with almost nothing left, or ride at a sustainable pace. My body trumped my mind on that one.

I eased up and worked with several riders who came along. It felt good to have some company out there in the wind. Any cyclist I've asked would rather climb a harrowing hill than face wind like this--at least you can see what you're up against.

We worked our way through the last lap, out in a bubble between other groups, taking our pulls. The smooth rider on the Cervelo, the wobbly one on the Specialized, and the others doing their thing.

And that's how we finished, mid-field, on a desolate industrial road marked with cones, one USAC official checking off our numbers as we passed.

I'm used to coming in somewhere in the middle. I got 19th out of 49, though I'd hoped for top 10. We'll do it again next Saturday.

In the Pharmacy

2011-02-09T21:10:00.003-05:00

Waiting for a prescription
I see shelves holding
condoms
lubes
pregnancy tests
diabetes checks
in that order--

What is life
besides
making some things happen
and
preventing others?

Guitar Lesson

2011-01-19T21:12:00.002-05:00

My teacher's hand shook
from the wrist--his strong fingers
made the bent string sing.

Two haiku

2011-01-13T08:54:00.001-05:00

Low hum of warm air,
writers at their work. The door
creaks, and faces turn.

January sky--
another minute of light
today. I'll take it.

Money for schools

2011-01-06T22:10:00.006-05:00

I was talking to my good pal at school today. We have very free-wheeling conversations that can take unexpected and absurd turns. This was one of them.

She said, "You know how transit buses have those big advertisements on the sides?" I said, "Yeah, sure." Then she said, "What about school buses?" Brilliant! Can't you just see some great advertisements on those expansive yellow flanks? Where to start? Budweiser? Marlboro? Okay, maybe not, but we had a good laugh.

Maybe this is the perfect segue of a public institution with good old capitalism. It avoids all those pesky charter-school problems, like uncertified teachers, funneling money away from already-strapped schools, and coming up with clever names like "Brighter and Shinier Children Charter School."

We were really on a roll by then.

"Why stop there?" I asked. "Why not expand it right into the schools? Advertisements on floor tiles, like they have in the supermarket!"

"Yeah! 'Verizon now offering unlimited texting'! she added.

"Why call it the gym?" I offered. "How about the Nike Center?"

The ideas kept coming. The Guidance Department, brought to you by one of those friendly for-profit colleges, or even underwritten by the military. Morning announcements, brought to you by some big pharma company. Kids, please stand for the pledge... and ask your doctor about treating your cell-phone addiction!

Gallows humor, to be sure. Things aren't looking good right now for many schools like ours. We are under scrutiny, as step-salaried employees with--gasp--retirement plans. This, on top of the usual teacher-bashing about short days and summers off. There are problems in public education, but remember that there are problems in society as a whole as well. Many of these end up on schools' doorsteps. The teachers in my school are hard-working and dedicated, which can take us pretty far. But that doesn't mean we're unassailable, clearly. Remember, ours is a profession where budgets are voted on by the general public, and where we answer to a board composed of people who are nearly always from other fields.

Another colleague of mine said recently that all one needs to run a school are teachers and students. True, but not practical. A public school is a small fleet, composed of many ships: faculty, administration, unions, students, parents. These are hulking vessels, and they don't change course easily or quickly--even when they need to.

These things run through my mind often. I'm thankful to be surrounded by articulate and funny people, like my colleague in the mail room today. And, hey, who says there's no creativity in the public schools these days?

More Creative Writing Homework

2010-12-30T22:10:00.003-05:00

Thanks to the students of Creative Writing, semester one for these topics.

The root of the word “journal,” jour, means day. Write every day—or at least as often as you can—and you will be able to lower your anxiety and expectations about your writing. It will open your mind, free your thoughts. Remember, don’t edit as you go. Just write, and follow your writing, wherever it goes.

1. Write about the critic in your head. What does he or she say?
2. Explain the feeling of being inspired.
3. Incorporate the description of the sound of wind in your writing.
4. Describe a feeling by using a color.
5. What color is your soul?
6. When did you realize you’d grown up?
7. If you could have any superpower, what would it be, and why?
8. What is your favorite holiday, and why?
9. What is your worst fear?
10. Describe the sky, from night to morning.
11. A place you hate.
12. How do you feel about the mail?
13. Write about the changing of leaves.
14. Write about things in the clouds.
15. Write exactly what you are thinking.
16. Describe your best friend without giving his/her name.
17. Write about a hospital.
18. Write about one of your summer days.
19. What are you passionate about?
20. What gets you through the day?
21. Describe your day at school.
22. Write about your favorite season.
23. What is your dream day?
24. Describe a scene just by its sounds.
25. Write about your ideal family twenty years from now.
26. If you could pick one season to die, which one would it be?
27. Often, rain makes people depressed, and sunshine makes people happy. Why do you think this is, and what are some other things that create strong emotions for you?
28. Write about a place that has special meaning for you.
29. What is your favorite thing to do, and why?
30. Are we doomed to become our parents?
31. Write about a world without color.
32. Write from the perspective of an inanimate object.
33. How would you live your life if you knew the date of your death?
34. Write about the safest place you know.
35. What would you do if you won the lottery, but you couldn’t spend the money on yourself?
36. You’re an outcast, because you were born with feet where your hands should be, and hands where your feet should be. Write about your life.
37. You’re 37 years old. You almost made a pro soccer team, but you got injured and lost everything. You’ve turned to self-destructive actions. Write about everything.
38. Who is the one person you could spend your life with on an island? What would it be like?
39. What planet would you travel to, and why?
40. Write about your favorite song—how it makes you feel, lines you like, associations you have with it, etc.
41. Write about your favorite memory.
42. Write about a painful memory.
43. Write about a bittersweet memory.
44. Pick a place or region—real or fictional—and describe everything in and around it. Use imagery.
45. Are you afraid of death or not? Why or why not?
46. What makes you who you are?
47. What (NOT “who”) is your greatest teacher? It may be something abstract or concrete.
48. What word are you? Pick only one, and explain.
49. If you could live forever, would you? What would you do? How would life be different?
50. If you could read minds, would you? If so, which minds?
51. If you could go back in time, what would you do?
52. If you could be anyone else, who would you be?
53. If your life was a song, how would it go? What instruments would be involved?
54. Describe, in objects from nature, what is going through your mind.
55. If you could watch the world from the moon, what would you see?
56. If you could be a shadow of any person in the world, who would it be?
57. Describe your life by the seasons of the year. Does your lifestyle vary from season to season?
58. Write about the evolution of your taste in music. Has it changed since you were young?
59. Write about a snow day at your house.
60. Write about the last day of school. What emotions are present? Are there pranks or jokes?

December River

2010-12-05T21:45:00.001-05:00

A river told me
today: Don't be the idle
ice clinging to the
banks; be the quick, dark, quiet
water flowing beyond it.

Long Division

2010-11-24T23:13:00.000-05:00

We touch, we embrace, the hour late.
A simple equation: your hands plus mine.
Long division, remainder great.

Bewildered by the energy we create,
our arms around what, we can’t define.
We touch, we embrace, the hour late.

Missing pieces seek out mates.
Will we be more than parallel lines?
Long division, remainder great.

Too worn and weary to calculate.
Want to get past what is and isn’t mine.
We touch, we embrace, the hour late.

But ours is not a mathematical fate.
Our halting pace can still feel divine.
Long division, remainder great.

Your head in my lap, that welcome weight.
Hold me as my eyes start to shine.
We touch, we embrace, the hour late.
Long division, remainder great.

Two Autumn Portraits

2010-11-07T21:16:00.001-05:00

I.

I want to ride off
into the welcoming hills,
flashing colors, leaves
like quiet fireworks
against a cement sky—-
get lost in the shadows
disappear for a time
into anonymous oblivion
answer to no one
feel my power—-
summer still in my legs
as I spin silver prayer wheels
to a hymn of wind, road
and sky.

II.

The hope of one green branch,
bent so many times,
still full of life—-
water flows and rises,
will and fire within cells.
Not brittle, leafless and dead,
a scratchy appendage,
but still supple, growing,
reaching who knows where,
leaves turned sunward--
heliotropic—-reaching
by feel, not sound or sight.

Yearbook limerick

2010-10-31T15:39:00.001-04:00

To say you know all that’s to know
leaves no room to reach or grow—
Continue to learn,
let curiosity burn,
and light where you next wish to go.

October haiku

2010-10-28T21:12:00.000-04:00

Quiet, fog-shrouded
morning--I hear each leaf as
it strikes the damp ground.

Belated Birthday Sonnet

2010-09-20T21:12:00.000-04:00

Another trip around the storied sun
that’s all a birthday is, no more—
still, I wish that I had been the one,
there, to celebrate at ten times four.
To count it up, on fingers and on toes.
Paint yours bright—Blushing Bride,
even if that’s not how the story goes.
Yes, our stoic star on another curving ride--
the quiet heart won’t measure time the same.
So much stays, this rushing river in my soul--
Look up, or in, see life past loss and gain,
not knowing what to hold, what to let go—
Take from me now this broken mirror,
hold it just right—what becomes clearer?

Metaphors for California

2010-09-14T22:15:00.001-04:00

You’re a valiant pine
growing from a cleft in a rock.
You are an old piano by the beach,
sending your notes flying, singing
with the gulls and pigeons
over hippie kids, bums, tourists
and hustlers in Venice’s scented air.
You are the busker’s upturned hat
and his old-soul voice,
and a skateboard’s hard wheels
drumming the dirty concrete.
You are the crowded and boiling road,
a freeway that is anything but free.
You are the salt on my lips and
the dry air that robs my sweat.
You are a shape-shifting constellation
of jets, circling LAX, low over
the shore at El Segundo, turbine rumble
and wave thunder meeting at
a continent’s wispy edge.
You are a waxing moon over
alpenglow, cacti and Joshua trees,
arms stretching in praise, longing,
mourning, silent in the arid heat—
sprawling, tentacled cities and
their elephant hill desert inverses.

High Desert Study

2010-09-13T21:42:00.000-04:00

Long lines of sight,
sharp relief of light,
time measured by the
slant of the sun—
my eyes adjust to
this unfamiliar scale—
mountains leap clearly
through hot air, as
this background makes
my foreground small.

Tonight's ride, haiku and tanka

2010-09-07T21:32:00.001-04:00

I.

A line of cyclists
in early fall’s sharp light—bees
seeking late honey.

II.

A line of cyclists
in early fall’s fading light—
they hum along while
the sun slowly sinks, shadows
stretch—bees seeking late honey.

Enough

2010-08-31T00:35:00.003-04:00

High Sierra valley,
thin, cool air carrying
bird sounds, hints of juniper.
I look down into
sun and shadow,
down this glacial scar,
earth’s wound, an old cut
healed, changing slowly—
brave pines, scrubby and low,
growing up through splits
in rock, reaching up for
sunlight, rooting
down for water—
getting by on not much at all.
Not much, but enough.

At Bruce's Beach

2010-08-20T01:05:00.000-04:00

I.

Enough time in the strong surf
stirring sand and smooth stones
to polish off some of my
rough spots—
the push and pull of the water,
tireless, constant, much stronger
than me, than all of us here,
clinging to the edge of a continent.
Then, time to look far out,
over rippling water,
quiet in the distance,
and let its calm fill me.

II.

The ocean pushing back—
I don’t want you, then
reaching at my feet,
pulling me back in.

III.

I see vapor in the air,
the foam in the waves,
alive with moon energy,
and the slower, deeper
swells beyond the shore--
one element, many forms,
and I think--
I’m in you, you’re in me,
flowing, rising, moving with you,
with me.

Flight

2010-08-20T01:04:00.000-04:00

West, five hours out,
against the wind, but
above the thunderheads—
Now it’s begun,
chasing a lingering sun.
Clouds below,
in my head, too—
thick with time tricks and
a fitful traveler’s sleep.

Leaving Home

2010-08-20T01:01:00.001-04:00

There is dust on the floor,
grapes and cheese that won’t last
in the fridge,
a pile of mail on the table—
each piece asking for something, surely—
morning sun coming through
windows that need cleaning,
three cats, sated, indifferent,
unfinished laundry.
Hands full, door closing behind me—
not later, past the sunset into tomorrow,
but now, I miss my home the most,
in this moment after I’ve left.

Guitar God

2010-08-06T17:20:00.002-04:00

In the afternoon light
he strode along the grassy ridge
above idling buses poised to
take us home.
Long hair, white clothes
and a miniature guitar that
only made him look bigger
like a god--
an amplifier strapped to his belt
shot sound out to us mortals
a siren song
a rallying cry
and girls I'd often dreamed of
let out a collective gasp
raining down along with his notes
on the seeds of a plan
I'd just sown.

Soul Work

2010-08-04T23:21:00.002-04:00

I

In the old neighborhood,
my home town, I'm driving
and thinking of houses
I painted years ago.
Paint surely peeled and scraped
or at least hidden--
how many layers over the years?
How many brushes and hands?
Your work will be undone.

Not the soul, no--
it doesn't go that way.
Layer over layer, clarifying
like lenses sharpening vision.

Down, through heart-depths,
something opens up,
letting through the light.

If I peer back through them
when the light is just so,
what will leap into focus?

Painting houses, renewal--
a ritual practice, an ablution
or communion, a re-creation
but not the act,
which is pure looking,
when the time is right.

II.

Like a delicate
songbird, soul vision in my
nervous, steady hand.

Welcoming a Guest

2010-08-03T22:52:00.002-04:00

Let me welcome this guest,
dressed in the grays of grief.
Let me open the door, smile,
share a drink:
tea or something harder
and wait for the words,
the conversation to unfold
in the diffuse light
through the windows on
this hazy summer day.
Let me show that hospitality
that my mother taught me.
Let him in--
at least I'm not alone.
Anyone can be a teacher.
Let me look into his old face
and search, wait for the light
to slip from his eyes
as it surely must.
Maybe he can explain
my unsettled stomach,
the tangled sheets in which
I find myself,
why my eyes well up
at certain sounds--
tell me where the taste in
my food has gone,
what is grabbing at me
as I try to rise.
Come in, weary traveler.
Come in.

Quatrains for Lark Street

2010-07-31T15:00:00.003-04:00

I pay for a cup of rooibos
but get a seat on the street,
and see what comes into
my circle of light.

About three measures
of one-drop reggae,
as a car pauses briefly
in the street.

High heel clicks, measured time,
a working man’s loping gait,
a couple’s angry steps
in a broken rhythm.

Brave weeds, up through
a sidewalk’s crack, spiky
and barbed, like
a tribal tattoo.

Lights, motion all around—
yet someone gazes into
a tiny, pale screen like it’s
some kind of oracle.

Two women at a high table,
outside a bar. Voices
lost in traffic sounds--
gestures speak louder.

A clink of a cup—someone
sits close, and my muse
decides to quiet,
for a moment.

Two at another table—
her hand on his calf, and
I feel suddenly
too present.

Drumbeat motorcycle,
cicada whir of a bike chain,
tires slow to a whisper,
a handful of words.

Traffic, laughter, footsteps,
wind in the trees, occasionally
all pause--the silence
in great music.

All Is Well

2010-07-30T23:36:00.000-04:00

The rumored humidity
has not arrived, and
now the wind
billows the curtains.
Filtered sunlight,
cats dozing.

Downstairs, hammering,
progress being made.
A clock ticking, a slow,
quiet fan—

At this moment, at least,
all is well.

A Step Behind

2010-07-29T23:48:00.002-04:00

Put it on paper, on a screen—
no matter, do you best to
see yourself looking back at you.
Hold it close—it comes close:
fact and fiction, shades of truth.
A loping mirror, a lens
slow to focus,
reflecting and sharpening
within a narrow aperture.
All writing is revision, a seeing again,
always a step behind the moment.

Poconos in August

2010-07-28T22:49:00.000-04:00

The summer air
is alive, sounds of
wind and insects,
a nocturnal chorus
keeping some rhythm
that I cannot count.
The road crackles
under my tires as I drive
slowly to the ski center—
to put off meeting the parents
at their lakeside cabin.
I park, engine running,
the Grateful Dead on tape
spilling out the open windows
with their chrome edges,
my cotton poncho for
the August mountain chill.
I lie back on the warm, long
hood of the Mustang,
a car older than me—
The engine’s gentle hum,
its welcome heat, the music,
stars overhead like they’ve
been waiting for me.

Not the Poem

2010-07-28T00:02:00.000-04:00

How you saw me,
even in the dark,
your bed or mine,
your scent, your touch,
your voice so near—
that was the real poem,
not these words—
dirt on paper,
dark marks on
a bright screen.

Massage

2010-07-26T13:49:00.000-04:00

I don’t know what’s
sore, tight, knotted
until it’s touched.
I carry this tension:
neck and shoulders
middle of my back
sacrum
unaware, distracted by
cicadas, a playful breeze,
my monkey mind.

A start, a tensing,
a pulling back,
a breath, as deep
tissue resists,
then yields, releases.

Come, invisible hands.
If only my heart and soul
could be loosened like this.

Reflected Light

2010-07-25T23:34:00.000-04:00

The moon, low and full
over the cool white of the plaza,
casts my shadow in the yard,
catches the flashing on
a neighbor’s house,
draws my eye to a
tree’s silhouette, and
summer stars above
in a sky more blue than black.
Light and shadow, so much
seen with reflected light.
A low hum, machines and crickets.
My breaths are deep, in
the crisp night—
air so clear and inviting
that I could run,
slip through it effortlessly.

Sleights of heart, and other things I don't want to write about

2010-07-24T19:03:00.000-04:00

The way I felt when I…
How it feels when I…
The touch that told me…
What I see when…
The moment that…
The particular quality of light
on the morning of…
The way the water…
The missing words that…
The script from which
I have, apparently, exited.

Water

2010-07-23T15:09:00.001-04:00

I will see light again.
I am water, moving as always.
I flow on—for me, there is no end.

A silver sliver, through cracks I wend,
down the slick rock, another dark day.
I will feel light again.

The earth pulls me, and I descend
deep, narrow passageways,
yet I flow on—for me there is no end.

Water can rend—
rip, tear, rot, hasten decay—
yet I will welcome light again.

Might water also mend?
Polish, smooth and amaze?
I flow on—for me, there is no end.

I turn to vapor and ascend.
I transform, yet something always stays.
I will touch light again.
I flow on—for me there is no end.

The Tourmalet

2010-07-23T00:02:00.004-04:00

Seen through a rainy lens:
Two riders emerging from
the cloud clinging to the
Tourmalet—four K to go.
Quick nods to read faces
showing nothing.
The rest of the peloton
long fallen away,
deeper in the clouds.
Three K left—
A man holds a Basque flag
like a matador’s cape—
ignored by the riders, who are
both bull and torero.
Rain blurs the camera:
an impressionist’s vision
as these men climb,
and dig into themselves.
One K—the red flag
overhead like a muleta.
Two wraiths, shadows in fog,
skeletons dancing to macabre music
only they hear, reach for the line—
the man in white, the novillero,
takes it by half a wheel.
A fist in the air, pats on the back,
the riders suddenly slack.
The man in yellow concedes,
smiles, grabs the winner’s face
like a grandmother, winks
like a conspirator—they embrace,
ready to fight another day.

Ride to the River

2010-07-21T23:23:00.002-04:00

I.

After a day of cutting,
crouching and painting,
the power in my legs
surprises me.
The bike leaps forward
and I need:
more gears
more teeth.
The chain clatters,
snaking through its cage.
Muscles, not motors.
I am an escapee, a fugitive,
on a ride to
the river and back.
Cracked pavement,
whistling wind,
the bike sure beneath me
as my weight shifts
in a turn. Chasing
my lengthening shadow.

II.

The river today:
blue, black, gray.
A string of forgotten
balloons dances in a
casual breeze.
Lines in the water,
wood smoke in the air—
props for conversation
as fishermen settle into chairs.
Catch, throw back,
repeat.
Notes of conversation
drop through lulls in
highway wind,
an easygoing rhythm.
Working men’s days,
ending at the water.

Browsing

2010-07-20T23:56:00.000-04:00

Friday night, and
I don’t want to go home
I browse poetry at the
mall bookstore
Frank O’Hara—
inscrutable, as
a woman’s sandaled foot
hovers into my sight
below the open book.

Calling Dad

2010-07-19T23:54:00.003-04:00

Dad, can you hear me now?
What did you grasp when waters got rough?
Can you tell me, somehow?

The house needs fixing--show me how.
Bare hands, or heavy gloves?
Dad, can you hear me now?

Give me calm words, unfurrow my brow.
When should I trade a hawk for a dove?
Can you tell me, somehow?

How much should anyone allow?
Gentle nudges or anxious shoves?
Dad, can you hear me now?

When did you know to make your vows?
Why did I never ask about love?
Can you tell me, somehow?

To whom--or what--should I bow?
When is love truly enough?
Dad, can you hear me now?
Can you tell me, somehow?

After the Storm

2010-07-18T23:19:00.001-04:00

Clear sky, but last night’s storm
shows in the river--swollen,
muddy, dark-quick water.
Thunderstorms, rain and wind have passed
bringing crisp air, a gentle breeze.
The hum of tires on the road,
approaching, fading, blending
with the chatter of water over rocks—
a welcome conversation.
The road to the south, the railroad to the north
both follow the river’s curves.
Sometimes a straight route
is not the easiest, or wisest.

River at Twilight

2010-07-17T23:31:00.002-04:00

The water widens
and quiets, content
to whisper against rocks,
murmur along with
the highway din.
Moving peaks and valleys
on its surface, light and shadow,
a thousand mirrors for the sky.
A silent gull overhead, painted
pale orange by slanting sun.
How many stories are here?
A party boat bisects the water,
like fabric being cut, then
perfectly mended—
the river closes, and
resumes its quiet.
Clouds like distant mountains,
one purple loosestrife
along the green shore.
Water, always seeking,
always speaking—
Listen.

Haiku

2010-07-17T00:04:00.001-04:00

A silent crow stirs,
alights from a branch--how soft
his velvet wings sound.

Anything Else

2010-07-16T23:57:00.000-04:00

At the Bargain Outlet
I browse tile mosaics
wood planks waiting for a room
find what I really need:
two bags—
cement
mortar mix
140 pounds total
for like eight bucks
load the cart
lift with my legs
push it toward the register girl
pretty, too much make up
I see the smooth white
rocking chair
on sale, last one
I imagine sitting in it
in a weed-free garden
mortar and cement hardened
floor nailed in place
I give it a push—
it rocks
next month, I think.
The girl raises painted eyes
anything else?
no, that’s it.

Memo to Lance

2010-07-15T23:49:00.002-04:00

You’ve beaten:
wiry climbers
big gear grinders
drug tests
even the French press.

You’ve dropped all
avoided countless falls
led loyal teams
from mountains to
the Champs Élysées
while playing cards close
to your chest.

Me? Sure, I’m impressed.
Did you know?
I’m an invisible rider
who sees all.
I’m on the road with you,
but I come closer still—
I’m in your bones when you rise
I’m the extra weight on a hill.

I’m time, and I keep
a steady, withering pace.
I overcome all, with patience and grace.
Seconds pass, but you can’t
catch me—
don’t close that gap
the elastic will snap.

Please don’t be angry—
you’ve held me off longer than most.
Seven times you’ve made that
champagne toast.

Today, I know you see—
so take your 2K victory lap,
say au revoir and be free
I will always win, but
no fanfare, no podium girls,
no maillot jaune for me.
Others will come and go
but I’m the eternal cyclist—
I ride on, it has to be so.

The Breakaway

2010-07-14T23:54:00.003-04:00

Dust from ancient cobbles,
thin Alpine air.
Fields of cattle and campers.
A narrow road, clinging to
a mountainside.
These angry peaks, a
silent threat that is met,
answered and raised
by the men in the peloton:
a study in cadence, game faces—
showing pain, or
nothing at all.
Soundtrack: heart and lungs,
played against a
sawblade landscape.

A rider, a hero, still hungry,
sets a brave pace--
but as the road tilts up,
a wiry shadow bursts loose,
into brilliant sunshine,
eyes hidden, a blur of blue,
a simian ballet-man
rockets into the light,
chiseled, lean and angry,
never looking back.

The best of times, the worst of times—
the clock will tell the tale,
have the last word—
deficits measured in seconds,
minutes, and years.

The human sea closes,
quiets, recedes,
leaving the haughty peaks
silent again.
Immortal names, scrawled
on the road, will fade into
history when nothing else remains.

Limerick

2010-07-13T23:25:00.002-04:00

It’s July, my sabbatical--
I’m not pondering things grammatical.
Many days, I sleep late.
Cogitate? I procrastinate!
And I wonder if a poem a day is fanatical.

Working Man

2010-07-12T21:53:00.001-04:00

Washing off plaster dust
from my hands and forearms
in the bathroom of the
Indian restaurant,
I look up to see my reflection:
two days’ growth,
cap and T-shirt covered
with a palette of primer,
caulk and paint.
How different than last month,
in the guise of a teacher—
crisp in ironed clothes,
doing the ritual, handing out
the final exam.
Ha, this working man thinks.
Nothing’s final. Not an exam,
not work around the house,
certainly. A respite from stacks
of papers, students corralled into
attendance books and columns
of grades. Measurable progress,
now, as I wash the morning’s work
from my hands, and think of
smooth walls, new paint,
mitered molding,
pipes I can trust behind
crisp sheets of drywall.

In the Guitar Store

2010-07-11T23:28:00.000-04:00

Weary from last night’s
gig, I wander in—
walls of iconic shapes:
a Strat’s angles
an SG’s pointed horns
a Les Paul’s tiger stripes
an arch-top’s womanly curves.
The scent of lacquer and wood,
and the riffs:
Wasted Years,
Shine,
Blackbird
and anything pentatonic,
ragged but real.
Boys with small hands,
fumbling, stretching.
What will they come to know
of the late nights,
audiences alternately
adoring and indifferent?
For now, it’s me, and their
patient parents,
spectators in an
unplanned ensemble.

The Gig

2010-07-10T23:38:00.003-04:00

On satellite radio
the Stones play
you can’t always get
what you want—
Keith’s guitar and the
French horn sound like
a blessing
an epitaph
a fortune
a card reading that’s
always accurate.
A bartender with
silver hair
hey buddy
puts a smooth
gin and tonic in my hand,
a glacier in a glass,
sweet pine rising,
water clinging like sweat.
A clock and calendar says
it’s 10:22, July 9, 1989—
Close enough, it’s showtime.
Four stick clicks through
thick air, and we’re off,
waves of sound, chasing
night into early morning.

House Talk

2010-07-09T18:31:00.001-04:00

Things flow in and out
of this house
through tight, dark places
rarely seen
sharp bends and
serpentine paths
the work of many hands
over the years
layers of labor
secrets behind walls
and under floors
always something more
things visitors don’t notice
water draining in a strange way
a creak in the floor
someone shutting a door
after many tries
and I’ll note it, to myself
consider the usual options
repair it
replace it
let it be.

The Last Hill

2010-07-08T00:00:00.002-04:00

Forty four miles under the wheels
untold elevation
dirt and flecks of sand
the sun’s sharp slant
still burning, evening fire
answered by the flames
in my legs, two matchsticks
against the flinty bite
of grade and wind
the land spinning off to my sides
as the string is stretched—
two riders ahead
offer a minuscule pull
the frame, a pendulum
counting slow time
as the bicycle rocks
a crude lever on two
silver hoops
clicks and squeaks play
over deep breaths
maniac music
as will drives me on
up, almost to the blazing sky
the music slows, stops—
and a new movement, quick tempo
whoosh into shadow and
the promise of gravity
a ride paid in advance

Haiku

2010-07-07T23:58:00.000-04:00

I hope I'm more than
drops of rain in this river--
this river of you.

Reception Dancers

2010-07-06T23:14:00.000-04:00

Their picture hangs, still—a sphere in my mind,
bathed in white light, one moment, one night.
Her dress a blue blur, his shoes brightly shined.
These two, I felt, had it all just right.
They made it look easy, like fine dancers do:
arms smoothly extended, fingers gently held.
He, slim and proud in Navy dress blues;
she, smiling shyly down as love surely swelled.
I see, then—still—a moment so pure,
a delicate bubble in uncertain air.
Maybe it’s only of moments we’re sure—
and of those, how many are shared?
White light refracts and bends—
might a perfect moment hold and mend?

Independence Day haiku

2010-07-05T20:56:00.002-04:00

Drawn by loud and bright
things, they fill the city on
Independence Day.

Circling cars stop, and
people get out at the first
boom and flash above.

Bright colors distract—
eyes closed, nothing but the deep,
fearful explosions.

Fireworks’ booms, they
echo sounds of war, far from
tonight’s street party.

A city stops, as
people fill the street: colors
bloom in the night sky.

Independence Day:
freedom of assembly, right
here, now, on my block.

7-3-10: The Rock and the River

2010-07-04T19:45:00.001-04:00

I am the rock, and the river
of time moves over me.
I am still, and things pass—
the view only appears the same
through the rippled mirror above.

Time moves, one way, taking parts
of me while smoothing my roughness.

I am the water, moving over the rock.
As I move over what seems eternal,
I observe and remember:
turns, noisy and shallow, and the quiet depths
all feel familiar.

Everything moves, and even my reflection
isn’t truly me.

Stillness is an illusion. Do you ever see
a river at rest? An ocean?

7-2-10: Things a writer in a hurry almost missed

2010-07-03T05:14:00.001-04:00

Evening sky like an x-ray in blue
Onion domes and four golden crosses
My receipt says Joshua
served my coffee
Pennies in my wallet
A moth on the wrong side
of the glass
Music of machines keeping
things hot and cold
David Gray reduced to
wallpaper over
the clink of change
in a hard plastic drawer
Radio towers crowning a hill,
transmitting
something
to somewhere

Quiet House

2010-07-02T00:06:00.005-04:00

A time, a place to live—
summer rhythms and I rise when I do
work for a time
rest and eat
voices in the street
the UPS truck, mailman,
cars chuckling in reverse
paint on my clothes and stubble on my face.
Old houses--
things settle, become quiet
mostly level and plumb, nothing square
molding undulates along bricks
grown comfortable with each other.
The ritual of painting--
smooth strokes over new wood and old,
uniform white spanning the years.

I imagine showing the apartment to someone
seeing the new paint
the terracotta floor
the water-smooth ceiling--
this person who knows nothing of last month’s
bows and bends and sags overhead
or the old floor, rippling underfoot,
a shape just fine in nature but not in
a living room.
This person will not know of
the dusty mortar behind the walls
the cracked tiles that were replaced
the crumbling brick, now patched
the shelves where windows were.
Maybe he or she will notice that curve in the
molding and raise an eyebrow
or balk at reaching for the checkbook.
“150 years, things happen,” I’ll say.
“This house is settled, it’s not going anywhere.”
A time, a place to live
a security deposit
one month’s rent
a year lease
a fraction of time
the blink of an eye for this quiet house.

Stuff my students say

2010-05-10T13:18:00.002-04:00

Me: The next play we will read is Fiddler on the Roof.

Student: Why is he on the roof?

**************

Student: Extended metaphors? This writing isn't realistic. No guys think in extended metaphors!

Me: Well, I do.

Student: Well, then you're a keeper.

Race Report: Johnny Cake Lane #2

2010-03-28T12:11:00.008-04:00

I woke up early on Saturday, and, AGAIN, my clock radio was playing Foghat's "Slow Ride." Maybe I should call PYX 106 and request "We Are the Champions" or something. I had a big breakfast and prepared four layers of clothes for what was surely going to be a couple of chilly hours in the saddle. The fickle March weather had taken a turn again. I had some of the usual pre-race jitters, and reminded myself that they tend to go away once we're actually rolling.

I got to Coxsackie and did some warming up, and spotted some of my Tuesday-night buds. We were all in the same place mentally, taking a what-the-heck attitude toward an early-season race of three six-mile loops on winter-ravaged country roads. I rolled up to the start on the late side, and consequently got a place near the back. The "C" group was a motley mix of riders and bikes: men, women spanning about 40 years of age, and a few kids bravely straddling bikes with grown-up wheels.

We got the usual lecture from the race official, and were reminded again of the center-line rule, due to some unfortunate mishaps last week resulting from a few racers' bad decisions. We were soon off and rolling. The first lap felt like a parade, as we filled the entire lane. I assured the triathlete (and newbie road racer) by my side that the pace would pick up.

The bullhorn from the follow car barked occasionally, sounding like the adults on "Peanuts." No matter--I knew it was repeated reminders about the center line. I settled in, absorbing the mid-pack ebbs and flows in speed. The pack expanded on the slight downhills and contracted on the gentle rises. I was on the wheel of a big guy, who was wearing some kind of floppy pants, his number haphazardly pinned to the center of his back. I'm not a bike snob, but I knew this guy was a bit green. Not that I'm a war-hardened rouler or anything, but enough time in packs gives anyone a sensibility, even if--like me--one does not get much faster. We hit that little rise by the tar-paper shack, and the pack folded in on itself, riders standing and throwing their bikes back. Mr. Sweatpants started to swerve, and I got around him.

Okay, cool, I thought. Lap one, done, and I'm in the pack. The speed was reasonable, and I was hanging. Threading my way through to the front? Not happening.

Lap two, the carnage started. The speed had picked up, and the pack felt twitchy. We went up the tiny hill again, more sloppily, and riders bumped and went down right in front of me, cursing as they fell. I escaped, somehow, and managed to join the riders who had pulled slightly ahead. It's a ruthless triage, but in the absence of any real hills, crashes split the pack.

Bell lap, and the pace picked up even more, but I wasn't feeling the pain the way I have in the past. A little burn after the s-turn and the rise after the Murderkill Bridge, but that's it. I and others would gain a few places, then lose them. I found one of my Tuesday-night homies, looking strong after a long pull at the front as we barreled toward the 1K mark.

Sprinting is one of the nerviest things in bike racing. I've seen enough on Versus to know that it's not for the faint of heart. I felt pretty content to be in the pack, and decided to take it easy and stay alert. Good call, as it turns out: the rider in the lead wasn't familiar with the course's last turn, and he turned prematurely, taking out the two riders behind him. I saw the whole thing from about 50 meters back, one racer hitting the pavement on his right hip. The little splash of cheers and applause from spectators was cut short by that awful sound of bikes and bodies going down. The pack reacted quickly and skillfully, and the rest of us remained upright. We sprinted the last 400 meters, and I'll bet all of us felt relieved that we'd made it to the totally nondescript finish line on the windswept industrial road. I overtook two or three riders in the last stretch, making for a finish in the top 15 or 20--not bad for a cold day in March. Upright and intact.

Your creative writing homework

2010-03-18T20:45:00.006-04:00

Journal Topics

Remember, when we write in journals, we are focusing on expression first. Don’t worry about form or mechanics—simply get your ideas out there. Tell your internal editor to chill out. Try to write without stopping for at least fifteen minutes.
By the way, my stats tell me this is the most-visited post on my blog. Let me know, via comment or email, how these topics work out for you. Also let me know of other creative-writing topics you've found useful. Thanks!

1. What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?
2. Write about one perfect day/hour/moment.
3. Desert-island lists (books, CDs, mementos, etc.)
4. Describe the song in your head using shapes, colors and textures.
5. What are you most like: a poem, a novel, a song, or a play?
6. Write an advertisement for yourself.
7. Write status updates for someone famous/infamous.
8. Are you a sketch, painting, photograph or sculpture?
9. Where were you ten years ago? What were you doing? Who were you with? What was most important?
10. Describe five people in exactly five words each.
11. Write a third-person voice-over of your day.
12. Write song lyrics for a really boring, ordinary thing (feeding the cat, taking out the trash, riding the bus). Good practice for situational irony.
13. Write a really bad essay question or word problem.
14. Best/worst meal, vacation, weekend, holiday, birthday.
15. Write about an intended punishment that was nothing of the sort.
16. Write about the light at a certain time of day.
17. Describe your day by its different light sources.
18. Pick a picture from the bag. Tell the stories of the people you see.
19. When did the world get bigger for you? Smaller?
20. What do you miss the most?
21. How did you learn the meaning of any one of the following: family, sibling, parent, grandparent, step-, half-, foster-, adoption. (You may do this one several times, with different choices.)
22. Freewrite: You are to write your thoughts as they come. Simply transcribe. Do not stop or censor. You may choose this option more than once.
23. Write a poem in the style and rhythm of a school PA announcement.
24. Write a dictionary definition for someone.
25. Imitate another writer or written piece. Parodies optional.
26. Personification: Write from the perspective of an inanimate object. Possibilities: your locker, a ceiling tile, a pen, a paintbrush, a knife, a gun, a pill.
27. Unopened box.
28. Rhyming: make lists/columns, then write something that rhymes. Meaning is secondary.
29. List poem: things to celebrate; things to apologize for; things I wish I said; things I’d take back.
30. Ode poem: praise someone or something, and address him/her/it directly.
31. Write down a dream as completely as possible. No commentary, just reporting.
32. Movie last lines: Pick a famous last line and use it in a new piece of writing.
33. Picture response: Imagery, details, beyond borders, dialogue, characterization for people in the picture, who is the photographer?
34. Direct address: Write as if you are speaking directly to an object or person. Option: use personification.
35. Metaphor practice. List/pick one/expand
36. Ambiguity: make sense out of nonsense; make nonsense out of sense.
37. P.O.V./personification. Write about a storm from the perspective of: a lightning bolt, a tree, a raindrop, a leaf, a cloud, a lightning rod, etc.
38. Music response.
39. Write about a room you haven’t been in for three years.
40. Images: sound of ice; rust; a breeze; two or three ____; a crinkled note.
41. Images: first star; bare branch; sound of the wind; taste of salt; feel of old denim.
42. Sound first. Make a list of words that sound good. Combine them somehow. Meaning is secondary.
43. Ways to waste an hour.
44. Get lost.
45. Observation: go to a public place; observe and transcribe.
46. Documents that provide characterization: excuse note, police report, resume, incident report, referral, letter of recommendation, etc.
47. Write an excuse note. A parent to a school, Adam and Eve to God, etc.
48. List of names/characterization.
49. Pick five words and write about them.
50. Write something using only what you see in front of you.
51. Pick a word that makes you smile or frown, and write why that happens.
52. Write about your weekend.
53. Write about an event in which you remember feeling very awkward.
54. If you could change one thing about yourself or your life, what would it be?
55. One’s flights of fantasy.
56. The first time you hated someone.
57. Write about what you admire.
58. Favorite memory.
59. Character study about one person in the class without saying the name. (Note from Mr. W: Be honest, but not mean.)
60. What does the saying “blood runs thicker than water” mean to you?
61. Would you rather be deaf or blind?
62. What do you think happens when you die?
63. Write about something you heard someone talking about in the hallway.
64. Write about something you see in your surroundings.
65. Write a story with an ironic ending.
66. Write about a time when something turned out unexpectedly.
67. If you had a superpower, what would it be? How would you use it?
68. If you were an evil genius, how would you take over the world?
69. Something that bothers you.
70. What season reminds you of love, and why?
71. Pots-and-pans robots.
72. Your biggest fear, and why.
73. Write a fictional story about animals with human characteristics.
74. Write from the perspective of food and you are being eaten.
75. Write a scene in which everyone’s body language is different.

Spring Villanelle

2010-03-15T17:11:00.000-04:00

Melting ice and damp earth--
muddy water rushes to the valley below.
A turning, a rousing, a birth.

A crow’s eye, sharp and alert--
geese who know where to go.
Melting ice and damp earth.

Everything in a restless search:
frozen water freed to flow.
A turning, a rousing, a birth.

Still, light teases and flirts.
Shadows hide what I want to know
under melting ice and damp earth.

My wheels leave tracks in soft dirt.
It’s questions that make me wander so—
seeking a turning, a rousing, a birth.

Why worry? What’s that worth?
Don’t ask the river to slow.
Melting ice and damp earth.
A turning, a rousing, a birth.

Red Radio

2010-03-01T21:24:00.003-05:00

I was a teenager
stuck in a
shadowy room--
wait on it:

the radio, my electronic island--
a silver trombone
skipping stones
continuous chuckles
from a golden trumpet

seeing moondust,
grandfathers’ hats
and cocktail dresses—
wait on it:

johnny cash,
jump my curb,
and johnny b. goode—
see you when I feel you,
back when
milk was so rich
and delicious.

Sources:
Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott
“Back When All Was Continuous Chuckles,” Colette Inez
“Late Night at the Pawn Shop,” Martin Espada
“Ode to American English,” Barbara Hamby
200 Sundays, Billy Crystal
Juliet, Naked, Nick Hornby
Partly Cloudy, Gary Soto

Existential Diner

2010-01-29T16:26:00.003-05:00

I once had a meal at a diner
where a botched order became a reminder:
For what you ask, you may not get--
In meals and in life. Still,
treat that server a little kinder.

Late December

2010-01-24T21:46:00.003-05:00

Solstice passed,
a turning toward the light,
yes, surely, despite the heavy,
frozen air this morning--
exhaust gases ghost dance as
traffic on Route 9 slows for the bus.

I look east, at the slight sliver of
warm light edging the clouds
over the Taconics and Berkshires.
The low hills are a sleeping woman,
on her side, soft curves
under rumpled blankets.
That supine form, her landscape of curves
rising from the plain of her warm bed.
“Spoonful” plays, and Jack sings
Some of them cries about it…
some of them dies about it…
and Eric’s woman tone answers,
the electric shaman channeling his siren
through wood and steel, maybe the oldest
moan of all.

Somewhere, she sleeps,
hills low on the horizon,
telescoped to me through the low morning
light leaping, magnified, like last night’s
three-quarter moon—
waxing or waning, can’t be sure.

Apple trees, closer, just off the road, in neat rows,
evenly spaced by a careful eye.
Fruit, leaves gone, their bare trunks
and branches in tortuous, serpentine shapes
in the cold, dry air—waiting out the winter
and the sun’s low arc.

And what of shifting seasons?
Utterly fruitless or simply fallow?
I can still taste the summer, that
Honeycrisp in my gloved hand.
Is that enough?

The Sprint

2010-01-22T13:05:00.000-05:00

the last 1000 meters
a right turn, a rider in front of me
I’m on his wheel like eight inches behind
blurry eyes and I
hold that wheel and hold that draft
fences along the road and a crowd
people yelling and cowbells ringing
and three hours of sweat in my eyes
tunnel vision--hold that wheel
just a bit more time one more gear
okay straightaway
he’s tired--I can get around him
swing out to the left and stand on the pedals
grip the bars not too tight
legs on fire burning lactic acid
the crowd sounds underwater
whoosh
ow and more flames
the finish looks a long way off
and can I hold him off
he must be tired and he’s
gaining on my right side
dang it and half a wheel
whole wheel ahead
overhead timer more cowbells
and yelling there’s the line
and he’s half a bike length ahead
I push one last time and throw forward the bars
not enough
62 miles is long
but the finish is measured in inches
coast up the road on momentum and
stop next to him and gasp
“good sprint.”

Not the Bomb

2010-01-11T21:46:00.005-05:00

Ten years ago, kids would have said, “It’s the bomb!” That’s fallen out of the vernacular, and it’s not quite accurate. Stay tuned, though.

A little background information first: Friday was field-trip day for the majority of the tenth grade, leaving me with two blocks and very few students—mostly those who forgot to hand in their permission slips. Not much teaching would happen, but it would be a chance to catch up with whatever work the stragglers were missing, and it would give me a chance to make a dent in my stack of papers.

That’s not exactly what happened.

I was out of the room, chatting with a colleague. My co-teacher, a special ed teacher with years of experience and copious grace, was in our room with our three students: a quiet kid seated at the front, and two class-clown types in the back.

I walked back in, and saw Mrs. G sitting in the back with the two cut-ups. Her body language—legs crossed, hands folded—put me at ease instantly, thus helping me not freak out when I said, “That’s a grenade.”

Told you it wasn’t the bomb, or even a bomb. Still, pretty close. And close counts with hand grenades.

Jester number one, a kid prone to wearing his hoodie backwards with the hood up, a kid whose parents receive regular email missives from me, had brought in a grenade, which now rested, upright, on the desk to Mrs. G’s right. A quick glance and I could tell it was just a shell, but still. A grenade. In the classroom. Just sayin.’

“Mr. W!” she began, in that animated voice teachers use when they are talking to other teachers but want students to hear. (It’s an old trick, but it still works fairly often.) “We’re just trying to figure out what to do with Stan’s grenade!” (NOTE: His name isn’t Stan. There’s nobody in my school named Stan.)

“Oh. Yes. That.” For some reason, I saw the absurdity in this situation right away. “Stan, why did you bring that in today?” I asked the urchin.

His face lit up into a big, goofy grin. “Show and tell?” he said sheepishly.

“Okay…” I said. “Where did you get it?”

“My grandfather was in the army. He gave it to me.”

“And you thought it would be a good idea to bring it in to school?”

“Uh…”

“Well, I think I should take it from you. I doubt you’ll need it before the end of the day.”

“Um.”

I picked it up. Despite its neutered state, it was still an impressively dangerous-feeling hunk of metal.

“Wow,” said Mrs. G. “That would send a lot of hunks of metal flying if it blew up!”

“That’s the idea,” I offered, at which point the other kid—an occasional hot-head whose bluster had melted into conviviality this morning—cracked up. “Hahaha, Mr. W! ‘That’s the idea’!”

“You know, Mr. A [our vice principal] is right next door,” I said, at which point Stan lost his smile.

Mrs. G exited with the grenade. She returned empty-handed. Mr. A soon appeared in the doorway, and motioned for Stan. The kid departed, and came back a few minutes later with a handful of pink referral papers. Turns out he had a few priors. To his credit, he still had his sheepishness about him. He’s not the type of kid I’d worry about. He probably just wanted some attention. We all had a good laugh, spurred on mostly by Mr. Convivial, who was probably relieved to not be the one in trouble this time.

The stars must have aligned that day. Would you believe there is more? Footnotes, really, after the grenade. But they have their own charm.

A teacher found an empty gin bottle in the boys’ bathroom. This, of course, led to all sorts of comments about said teacher’s imbibing. Someone suggested sending a message home asking parents to check their liquor cabinets, thus finding the guilty party. I told everyone that some kid had knocked on the faculty room door, looking for tonic and lime, but that I hadn’t put one and one together fast enough.

Last one. The tide of humanity outside my classroom door slowed, then did that weird forward-backward thing. My teacher senses tingled. Fight. Yup. Two girls, lots of yelling, everyone else spectating. Adults arrived before fisticuffs even started. Off each one marched, in separate directions, clutching their cell-phone talismans, trailing profanity and hangers-on.

I can say many things about my job. Most days, I can honestly say that it’s never dull. The preceding words are a work of fiction, somewhat. Names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty. Oh, and this all happened long ago and far away. Maybe.

Haiku

2010-01-07T16:56:00.001-05:00

Morning, and I sip
from my cup, wishing you'd taste
the tea on my tongue.

Wishing on stars as
they burn to dust--how much fuel
does a hope require?

Winter hearts freeze in
January's heavy air,
catching at my throat.

Exam time: students
lean and write, as I sit and
ponder my own tests.

I shake my pen--out
of ink and out of time, with
much more left to say.

Burnt Hills, Round Lake

2009-12-20T21:51:00.003-05:00

A flash of light, a sudden quake
none sensed the signs—
burnt hills, round lake

A piece of the sky fell at daybreak
spelling the dinosaurs’ decline
a flash of light, a sudden quake

Day turned to night at a fearsome rate
beasts, rocks and mud entwined
under burnt hills, by a round lake

Now, all is calm at this namesake
watchful trees along the faint crater’s side
no flash of light or sudden quake

Somewhere in my bones, a Jurassic ache
Northbound lights shine
driving home to Burnt Hills or Round Lake

Pearls on a string, traffic stretches from Exit 8
Silver on green, I suddenly see the sign
a flash of light, a tiny quake
as I exit at Burnt Hills-Round Lake.