I woke to the shrieks
of blackbirds roving.
Again.
Every day
for the last 20-something,
they’ve picked at anything
trying to wriggle a little life
out of this cold planet —
their raucous beaks slicing
as if the world is on fire,
when in reality,
there’s no way.
It’s blueblack cold and cracked here,
with frosty hearts on full display.
I wanted to say hearts unfrosted, but that would have been wrong.
The White House Valentine, with its chronic anger and bulbous, floating heads, proves that sentiment wrong.
Oh, also sentiment is wrong.
Inefficient. Fraudulent.
Surely a liberal initiative and thus dismantled completely by dodgy, draconian beaks as too woke.
I woke to the shrieks
of blackbirds.
We three wore comfortable shoes
and smiles on our cheeks
while chasing windswept leaves,
chocolate croissants,
and all the sights we could see:
the coyly smiling diva beneath her pyramid,
the Grande Dame in her scaffolding,
the famed tower on the Seine,
the tree lined boulevards,
marble-mouthed accents,
cigarette smoke and accordion chords,
the hushed blend of crepe trousers,
bicycle spokes, and Shakespeare and Company crowds.
The harsh scrape of blisters
and bistro chairs
clustered like the grapes
pressed and poured into glass balloons
poised near berried lips
as perfumed hands snapped selfies
beneath silk flowered awnings,
ribbon-braided balconies,
and stone so creamy you ached for a spoon.
All elegant and expected
and somehow, so not –
like the massive teddy bear
tucked in the crotch of a tree
and the painted elf carousel
at the street corner in Montmarte,
and all the memories that spilled
like sepia-toned love notes
from my daughters
when I spotted a stuffed bear
in the corner of my son’s closet
this Valentine’s week.
It’s February, and a finch couple
flits from branch to branch
between waxy camellia leaves,
plucking at blossoms, at twigs.
It’s early yet to feather a nest,
so maybe they’re searching for
aphids, simply sustaining
themselves in this long winter.
I, too, need sustaining
in this long, bleak winter
and turn to poetry to search
for truth, diversion, comfort,
calm, as entire branches of
our great nation are stripped
of softness. Too riddled,
we’re told, with corruption.
And while pruning keeps things
healthy, this is far from healthy —
all decency peeled and hacked
to feed and feather already
substantial nests.
And I am at a loss which way to lean
with my poems in this storm. To settle
in and steel myself against the cold
currents left after caring and kindness,
inclusion and liberty and justice for all
are gone. To write of soft feathered things
staying the course, perching in the soul,
and singing loudly for all to hear?
Or to steel myself with implements of war?
To load my poems with brimstone and
fire, flashes of anger, to sound the alarm,
to blast the eye and ear of friends,
neighbors, countrymen.
And whichever way I go… will anyone
listen? Will anyone care? As they
don’t seem to care anymore anyway.
Children who are in my classroom to learn. Children who are in my classroom because their parents love them dearly. Children whose parents want the best for them.
I learn so much about who they are, where they come from, how they’re raised, what their dreams are, who they love. They write their stories. And boy, do some of them have stories to tell.
Stories of fear. Of poverty. Of attempted kidnappings. Of actual kidnappings. Of violence. Of arduous journeys. Of near starvation. Of cold nights. Meager possessions. Endless red tape. Parents left behind. Siblings left behind. Sadness and struggles. Heartache and love. Family and sacrifice. Hardwork and gratitude, perseverance and pride.
In my classroom we share voices and dreams and experiences and connections and empathy and understanding.
From these children’s stories I’ve learned so much about what bravery and love really look like.
We share our most precious parts of us and we become family. And I will continue to do my best to keep my classroom a safe place.
But as I read these articles and see the footage about ICE showing up at schools, my blood boils and runs cold all at the same time. Because while I’ve done my best to keep my classroom a safe place to learn and grow, we already know schools can be far from safe. Gun violence is a real threat.
And now, so is government-sanctioned trauma.
Teachers go into this job because we love children. All children. And when they hurt, we hurt.
Dear God, please be with these children and their aching, breaking hearts. And please, dear God, keep these children safe.
Earl Grey Morning
Even the name of it soothes.
the violet soft of it,
purled, curling stir of it,
rising through cold
like a promise.
From dark there is dawn --
first fog, then a song.
And even the sense of it soothes.
The cupped balmy breath of it,
pressed against palm of it,
steeping the dark
like an oath.
From warmth will come glow –
soft first and soft-slow.
Easy, the taste of it soothes.
The deep woodsy heft of it,
rich malted zest of it,
breaking the black
like a vow.
From dark will come light,
cool bergamot bright.
So, for now, just feel
for the sunrise,
the wayfinding blessings
are always unwinding and
binding themselves
like a pact.
Find fragrance in the dark.
Seize promise.
Feel the spark.
What’s the best course of action? Inaction.
Feet in fuzzy socks, a throw across my lap,
a no across my lips. Hunkering down
in the softness of my hearth and home
with piano on the playlist and a good book
in my hand. While the crazy plays out, I’m
sipping on jazz and juice.
her rosy-nosed crispness, her cold velvet touch,
her lace on the windshield, her flakes on my cuffs,
her jolly-hued sweaters with seasonal quips,
her Santas and snowmen and icicle drips,
her snuggly soft slippers and warm cozy throws,
her cinnamon coffees; her ribbons and bows,
her gingerbread cookies, her oh holy nights,
her crusty-white windshields, her frosty-toothed bites,
her poinsettia flowers, amaryllis shoots
her cranberries, citrus, and other tart fruits,
But mostly I love her for gifting me you
that icy midwinter from out of the blue,
the city-born guy to the small-town dark horse —
Hallmark Christmas worthy — my happiest verse.
The house, cozy at dawn, and me in my bathrobe and soft Santa socks, Christmas lights glowing, playlist carols going… sipping my coffee and sorting my thoughts,
How lucky am I, I think — no, I know. How blessed to be snuggled beneath a warm velvet throw in the crook of a sectional with my laptop and nowhere to go while watching the sky shift to silver at dawn.
How simple, how sumptuous — an extravagance, bar none –that not everyone has. To have a sanguine soul in a world that exsanguinates souls. My gratitude is great. My cup overflows.
My sons are nestled all snug in their beds and my girls grown and glowing in orbits they threaded and hung on their own, weaving constellations that tell their tales, cast shimmering trails of goodness and grace.
While the boys, on the cusp of their own greatness, silver their way toward their own dawns, stars blooming bright on their baby cheeks and burgeoning lives, and the sky’s (no the universe) is their limit too, destinies unspooling just like their sisters’,, but entirely their own.
I celebrate all their stories, all their tangled strands of light unwound from my body, ever unwinding and widening, bright and brighter still, stringing their gifts like drops of Jupiter, like sun-wrangled, star-spangled miracle-bringers of goodwill and good trouble in this dark world.
There is no greater joy, no greater comfort for a mother’s heart than to see the babies she brought into this world out there in it, slaying and making spirits bright — hers most especially.
They collect at the crossroads at dusk –or is it
dawn? – all the colors of their skin and clothes
(mocha and mist, morning and midnight), mingling
with all the colors of the day drizzling away – or is
it swizzling awake? — the sun behind them, bedding
down — or blinking open — orange like a cat’s eye,
like a red samurai in a providence sky, and these three
sisters stand before this sibylline sun, or under this
mantic moon, while tears stream like moire ribbons
from its surface, like tear-off to-do lists, like hotlines to
call if you have seen me, have met me, have known me,
They’re gathering numbers. They’ve
got yours already, and mine, clutched and bunched in their
skirts, their taffeta pleated pockets, silk threads to weave
windfalls or is it pitfalls? lunar – no solar – eclipses, feasts,
make that famines, all endlessly unleashed at the pull of
an umbilical, umbrellical handle in the sky,. The hands of fate — they make it rain.
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