It's haiku time again in creative writing class

Coffee is bitter

fuel that brings a sweetness,

lifting my spirits.

Empty hanging file

folders, holding only the

hope of less clutter.

Thoughts race like subways,

beneath the surface, unseen,

clacking and rumbling.

White earbuds are in,

and the student enjoys his

classroom solitude.

Pen held in mid-air,

like an antenna waiting 

for any signal.

Low hum of the air

exchanger--a respite from

endless teacher talk.

A teacher’s day ends

with smears of marker on her 

arms, and tired eyes.

Stacks of papers, and

hours of work--at least it

appears organized.

Sadness is a gray

day, nothing more. Wait

for weather to change.

Anger, the devil

you know, can transform with some

simple kindnesses. 

A Letter to My Students

I don’t say it enough, but I care about you. Each of you. That’s why I’m here. It’s too much work to do it for the money, so there must be something else, and that’s it: I care about you. I want everyone to do well, feel safe, feel valued, be happy, find success.

This room is our space. It’s a safe space. It’s generally calm. Whether the door is literally open or shut, you are welcome here, whether it’s during your scheduled class time or not. I want you to use this space to your advantage. Leave your worries and troubles at the door, and do your best to be fully present. More and more often, that means not being distracted by your phone. (You knew this part was coming.) If you are in the middle of a crisis, it’s unlikely that you will be able to solve it and be present in the class at the same time. If it’s not fatal or contagious, it can wait.

Here’s what happens when you continue to deal with a crisis after you enter our classroom: You appear distracted, anxious, upset. I wonder what’s up. I ask you to put aside your phone--and your emotions, for a time. Giving or getting further information in the midst of this is rarely good. It doesn’t end well. I’ve seen emotions pass across your faces like four seasons in a second. That may surprise you. I observe more than grammar. This is make-or-break time: you will compose yourself, or things will escalate. It won’t end well. Students shut down or leave the room without permission. To do what? Solve the problem? Ask yourself: how many times has that actually happened?

Think about your teachers. What are they dealing with, what are they carrying? Here’s a partial list: concern for aging parents, their own children, their spouses or partners, their own aging bodies and minds, bills, finances, whether or not they are getting sick, their colleagues, that stuff that absolutely needs to get done before the day ends. Somehow we manage. I won’t call it wisdom. It’s simply practice at regulating our own emotions. We taught after 9/11, after any number of national school shootings, after the presidential election, and any number of other polarizing, controversial or upsetting events. It’s guaranteed that some of us are going through a dark night of the soul during block 1 while you are doing a warm-up. Our experience has shown us what we can and cannot control. Adulthood is constant negotiation between those two things. The sooner anyone realizes that, the better equipped he or she is.

Okay, so what? Well, this is the hidden curriculum. The stuff you learn that’s not listed in any syllabus or course overview. It’s in the novels and plays we read, once you decode them and read between the lines. Protagonists face conflicts. It’s how they face them that reveals character. You are writing your story right now. Every moment contains a choice. How will you face them? What later events in your own life are you foreshadowing right now?

Ask yourself: This thing that has me so upset--will it be important in an hour? A day? A year? Ten years? Or will it pass quickly like a spring shower? Think about the verb to weather.

It gets better. Sometimes it gets worse, then it gets better again. Remember that we are together on a mission to make sure that you get what you need, intellectually and otherwise. I care, and I will continue to care as long as I remember you.

Haiku

What we don’t see: on

the back of a cell phone, a

sky of brilliant stars.
(after Basho)

An idle day, on

the couch with cats, hum of the

refrigerator.

A week’s clothes tumble

in the dryer, and we read,

silent, together.

Hunger pain like

a pull inward, so familiar

it feels like family.

They say we are made

of stardust, but today I

simply feel burned out.

Cuts and scars are there

to see--what healing happens

where eyes can’t see?

Sleep scans the crackly

radio dial of dreams,

voices in static.

Undone homework--what

is that sound? It’s the teacher’s

head hitting the board.

Her life was a bad

first draft, ripe for revision’s

heavy, cutting pen.

the morning starts with

a cold razor to the skin--

this is called normal?

The man sits in his

tower of gold and mirrors--

windows warp what’s real.

On the hill, bare trees

stand like shocks of thinning hair--

a man’s late winter.

Los Vatos

Domingo drives, arm out

The window, tan olive skin

Against purple metal flake,

Riding low, blue exhaust notes

As the small block

Purrs and roars with

Stoplight rhythms.

Junior and Cesar jump in,

Screw-top bottle rattles

Belt buckles and key rings,

And someone turns

The music up,

Inky bass rumbles,

Bright horns, percussion

Sass back, and the

Sun sets west of Chico,

And they roll, these

Sons of poverty, heirs

To stubborn dirt, the car

A royal robe letting everyone

Know they have arrived.

Test Anxiety

Fill out your answer sheet

With a number-two pencil.

Make neat black circles.

Do not leave anything blank.

Make no stray marks.

Your exam will be machine scanned.

Raw scores will be recorded.

Fill out your pencil sheet

With answer number two

Circle neat black makes

Do not blank anything. Leave.

Make no marks strays.

Your scan machine will be examined

Recorded scores will be raw

Pencil sheet fill out

#2 answer

Black makes circles neat

Leave. Do not blank.

Stray marks no make

Examine your scan machine

Answer raw records

Answer, out

Black, blank

#2 stray

Scan scan scan

Raw circle

Do not blank

Leave

Leave

Leave

Haiku

Jesus died for your 

sins, and the dinosaurs died

for your gasoline.

Less light falls today,

an early bed, a chance to

turn in, turn inward.

Seats for seven, but

six are empty—the car’s solace

for the sole driver.

Men in suits talk tough,

thousands of miles from the

soldier on fire.

War is not fought from

a chair; countries are not led

from the battlefield.

Don’t imitate me—

It’s like an echo, always

coming in second. 

The annoying fly—

I’d let you live if you stayed

slightly out of reach.

In the museum, 

a girl sits, trying for the

most charming selfie. 

They put on ears, tails—

It’s nothing new, this human 

worship of felines.

The cat kneads the soft

blanket, remembers happy

times with his mama.

November haiku

I just stepped outside 
under the nearly-full moon. 
It smells like winter.

Practice, Rehearse, Repeat

The snow is falling, visible in the cone of light from the streetlight. I am passing underneath, in a long coat, hat and scarf, carrying my clarinet in its rectangular case. I am walking from, not to, a music rehearsal. I am warm, thanks to my clothing, but in my soul also. I have just experienced a shared musical experience, a closeness in which I felt at ease, involving many individuals making an increasingly unified sound as we follow the score and the conductor.

We are all in grade school, and the instruments have not been in our hands for long. We are simultaneously working on breath control, counting, and reading the language of music on the printed page. Our conductor has tremendous patience, but he too was here once.

I am alone and content as I walk up my street, maybe humming a bit of one of our pieces. I’ve left behind the room with the brilliant wooden floors and the warm heat, knowing I’ll be back, as the ritual of individual practice and group rehearsal continues.

I’ve carried this scene in my head for years. I don’t know if it happened exactly like this, but it is real—as real as anything. It makes more sense to me now, and it is a window into my personality. I’m an introvert who enjoys social situations. Just as important, however, is the down time, the alone time—socializing takes my energy, and the recharge is essential.

Music is solitary and social. It is communication on another level, going beyond spoken language. It’s solace, comfort, challenge, frustration, reward, affirmation—and may it always be so. Music teaches me many things: how to count and be aware of rhythm, in everything from my steps to my heart; dynamics—when to be loud, when to be quiet; when to play, and when to rest.  Music forges friendships that sustain.

The frequent scene now is a furnished basement. There are four adults, and the occasional grade-school spectator. There is no conductor, just our small ensemble, all around the same age, playing music broadly described as “rock.” I place my hands now on the bird’s-eye maple neck of an electric guitar. The music is in my mind, not on a page, so I may close my eyes. The boy under the streetlight is there, too.

Interviewing the Critic in My Head

Who are you?

I am your inner critic, that voice in your head. I often say things like “you're no good,” “you don't deserve to do well,” “it's not going to work out.”

How long have you been at it?

How long have you been alive? Forty-six years, although the first few years were rather slow. Things got busier when you started school, and interacted with other kids. That's really when you first started feeling different. That definitely opened the door for me, and gave me the opportunity to get going. Things like being an only child, being adopted, I can easily work with that stuff. It was easy to convince you that there were things wrong with you. You've given me lots of great material over the years. It's easy work, but also challenging at times. I like to keep old themes fresh.

What makes you happy?

Seeing you frown, hearing you sigh, knowing you'll give up. I feed off you.

You're telling me you're a parasite?

Oh no, no, not that. We are more, ah, symbiotic. There's no real separation.

Do you ever get bored?

Sure. How many times can I hear you say “I suck”? I thought you were good with words. Throw some synonyms up in here, bro. Then there are those times when you're really happy, like while riding your bike or playing music, or actually enjoying some intimacy. All these other committee members show up in your head. They are like annoying cheerleaders, and I can't compete with them.

What is your favorite time to work?

Oh, there's lots. When you're driving, when you're trying to fall asleep, when you first wake up. You start your day with me, not with your coffee.

What do you do when you're not criticizing me?

Research. I go back over your thoughts. I keep them very highly organized. I'm a bit anal-retentive, actually. If you're feeling good, I'll take the time to dig up some old stuff, things you may have forgotten, like when that sketchy guy yelled at you in the ShopRite parking lot. Remember that? You brushed aside his question. He called you an ignorant, arrogant m**********r?

I had forgotten about it until just now, thanks. Do you hate me?

No. We always hurt the ones we love. Without you, there is no me. I suppose a mental-health professional would call that co-dependent. Hey, we all have to eat.

What do you want from me?

Nothing but your time and attention.

What keeps you going?

Knowing that we've made it this far. It's fun to try to stay one step ahead of you. I like the challenge. I can't wait until your next date.

Are you an optimist or a pessimist?

Optimist, definitely. Things are getting better all the time—except for you.

Nice try. I call shenanigans. I'm not taking that bait in the middle of an interview. Do you ever get lonely?

Oh, sure. But I like being alone. You're an introvert, and that carried over to me. There's a difference between lonely and alone.

What's the most personal thing you're willing to admit?

Sometimes I feel bad for you. I really do. But you're that shiny red button that says DO NOT PUSH. You make it easy. I can't have just one potato chip... it's like that.

Do you define yourself by what you do?

Didn't I answer that in the first question? Here's another thing you suck at.

If you couldn't do what you do, what else might you do well?

Well, I'm a disembodied entity, so I can't enjoy arts and crafts. I dunno, I guess I could do a lateral move to another part of your mind. A job is a job. Are the cheerleaders hiring?

Any plans to retire?

Nope. I'd be bored out of my—uh, your—mind.

Vows

I have agreed to the terms

I have been to the mountaintop

I have called you by name

I have done the deed

I have embraced

You have all of me

You have been waiting here

You have compassed this mountain

You have my hopes

You have eliminated the impossible

We have a savior

We have begun

We have come into this house

We have discovered moons

We have everything we need

I will survive

You will know

We will not be shaken

Lost and Found

I'm lost in the glow of glittery things, yet no diamond.

     First known when lost!

I have held many things in my hands, and I have lost them all.

     What's left to lose?

Moments, their perfume lost, can't be found again.

     No, nothing's ever lost!

I have lost my back and forward. What do I do when lost?

     Stand still. The trees and bushes beside you are not lost.

(Space lost its vast dimensions and

drew comfortably around them.)

I finally lost my fear.

     Wherever you are is called here.

(She found and lit a last candle.)

     I found one of your poems today. I keep them all in an envelope.

I've seen you but I'm only now finding you.

(He found himself thinking of the green park a year ago.)

I found I could say things with colors and shapes that I couldn't say any other way.

     I found you like a trinket in an old trunk.

(He found the answer down on his knees, found the great treasure standing all open.)

Free me from worry, that familiar pain, that trail lost and found.

(A clear head will find itself.)

     Wherever we are is called here. 

Here, Now

He's in a wheelchair, bundled,

shoes with generous tread that

will go unused, and his voice

is slurred, as if coming from

a shell, the edges rounded off,

the sea's soft sibilance, and

I hear it resonate through

the chair's metal frame, as

he sweet-talks the willowy

rec therapist. Next, I feel

his weight, lean into the

handles to push him through

the parking lot, where he sees

the building's exterior for the

first time, and together,

we feel the spring breeze,

life again, blossoming trees.

Then we sit on a bench, eye level,

the familiar cadence of conversation

with his blue eyes bright, recalling

years of stories, each one opening

like a bud, new again--

and today is a seed opening,

another beginning, one that

will come to me, spirit willing,

a perennial memory, some spring

--or winter—far from now,

as sure as the warm air

and sun here, now.

Re-creation

The room in which

I teach exists, surely,

but I'm miles from it,

even further in my mind,

as my bicycle's overlapping

circles of wheels, cranks

and gears turn smoothly

in the July sun. Later,

I'll enjoy the sounds of

wood and wire as I

play guitar out back.

As I ride, I think of how

every pedal stroke, every

strum or pluck marks some

incremental reset and

recovery from the

endurance activity

that is teaching, and I

add one little hyphen

and find that recreation

is re-creation.

Enough to Move Worlds

gravity and attraction are

enough to move worlds

silently through the void

purely physics atoms

doing what they do

because we have

to call it something

energy and matter

each is also the other

there are things beyond our

knowing as it should be

even light only reaches so far

the tiny slivers we see are

fragments of something

bigger like how a kiss in the dark

sends up sparks like fireworks

behind closed eyes and

warmth floods in dust of

stars taken shape summoned

up from primordial ooze

eons of living things saying

YES and the light behind

your eyes is the same energy

occult and charged deep in

the coils of the heart becoming

and willing itself out

Here, Not Here

Part of me is orbiting far out,

waves and vibrations playing

some cosmic chord--

another part is locked in tight, buried deep

and dark, some rare element in my heart

or elsewhere, something I know

by heart, by feel only, something

I'm guarding very carefully.

Two aspects of the same thing,

shaped by pressure and space.

Untitled Tanka

I crave a northbound

road to unhaunted landscapes,

worries left behind,

to where a soft wind rises

over and quiets my mind.

Relics

The highway sign flashes

caution caution caution

and pavement is ripped,

coming up in chunks,

vehicles funneled tightly,

as I return to my childhood

home, and signs in my mind

flash as well. I reminisce in

the fading daylight on the

porch where Dad sat in

his last days, as summer

now wanes slightly. Next

day, Mom and I cart off

a truckload to auction, high chairs

and other relics of someone

I was and somehow still am,

an emptying house, another type of

season ending, the parting out

of things, outward effects of

life lived well, but not always

easily. We leave our lot behind,

knowing we carry other things

burnished with the wind and

water of age, carry them in us,

shining more brightly than

any polished antique.

Prisoner and Jailer

While you are the prisoner

in your cramped, damp cell,

you are also the warden, the jailer,

the one with the keys hanging close,

their sweet music reaching in

past your own locks, the sound of

what if, of freedom, of YES. 

Home

 

The house in which I now

find myself offers up cues

to childhood, to years past

coming back as if wired

directly into my senses:

the walls of heat in the attic

and the smell of cardboard

and dust, the earthy cool of

the basement, the burbling

lawnmowers and the cut

grass coloring my shoes

and tickling my nose with

its slight peppery sweetness.

The bills come, as they

surely did then, monthly,

and I can't look at a wall

or window for too long before

deciding it needs attention.

Still, friends are a walk or

a bike ride away, no plan needed.

Still, I open a heavy door and

a basketball bounces in the

street, and the ice cream truck's

song shifts down a step as it

passes, a bittersweet modulation

as things stay the same and

we move through them like

the high, harmless clouds

in the July sky.

Free Me

Free me from worry, that familiar pain,

a well-traveled trail, lost and found.

Show me what my heart can contain.

Get me out of the canyon before the rain.

Show me the way to the high ground,

free me from worry, that reaching pain.

Lead me away from losses and gains--

not all victories will bring renown.

Show me what my heart can contain.

Let my breath be a simple refrain

as I climb higher, with a brief look down.

Free me from worry, that following pain.

Not everything demands to be explained--

mountains move without a sound.

Show me what my heart may contain.

Safe now, walking the high, calm plain,

a brilliant moon hangs low and round.

You transform my worry, that capricious pain,

and show me what my heart always contains.