Monday, May 28, 2012
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Spring Break
When a teacher's thoughts wander...
a glorious thing
this Break in Spring
when the flowers bloom
and the new birds sing
when the children sneeze
and whine their pleas,
“Less homework! Fewer tests!
More eeeease!”
a wonderful thing
this Break in Spring
when dreams of lying
on beaches are king
when lo! it is strange
to adjust to time change
an hour lost but eve’ning gained
a delightful thing
this Break in Spring
when the second-hand drags
and the minute-hand stings
the air a little sweeter
the desk a little neater
air-conditioner instead of a heater
a magnificent thing
this Break in Spring
when a phoenix season
hatches fledgling
refreshed and renewed
with energy imbued
and flaunting a new attitude
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
The Lost Verse from "The Cremation of Sam McGee" by Robert Service
in response to the 6th graders' homework tonight...
I was at first relieved that my eyes, not deceived,
saw Sam McGee well and alive;
But my anger did surge and I fought off the urge
to punch him with closed fingers five.
“You scoundrel, you lout!” I yelled with a shout
over the din of the raging flame.
“You’re warm here within, with that dopey grin,
while I toil…this isn’t a game!”
He looked awfully nervous, “You’ve done me a Service,”
he said as his breath it did bloom.
“No need to be glum, Cap, my old chum.
C’mon in! There’s plenty of room.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Prison and Pane
The light through the window splashes the office wall.
Photons crash against and melt into painted cinder block
revealing imperfections - bathing, softening, dreaming.
A siren’s song. A bright reminder of what lies without.
But, the vertical blinds cast shade
thick, cold bars against the warmth.
Segmenting the sea of sunshine,
the wall forced to realize its purpose.
A fantasy shattered by shards of shadow
A stark reminder of what lies within.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
This Will Hurt Tomorrow
Written at 3am. I have to leave for work in three hours.
Nothing good happens after 2am
except the fevered metaphor of insomniacs
longing for an empty ocean
of darkness behind heavy lids, just out of reach.
Sleeplessness attacks.
Mesmerized by the motion
of the clock measuring
loss by the second.
Treasuring memories of dreams
from nights prior.
To that retired state aspire,
they beckoned.
It’s not the first time this whale has beached,
this bloated consciousness, washed up on the sand
gasping for air,
painfully aware,
that it can’t push its way back into the water
because it doesn’t have hands.
Sleep, she eludes you,
no matter the hours you have sought her,
and Dawn dances just over purple-black horizon
lifting night’s skirt like some strip club tease.
A vicious circle that cannot be undone,
killing me by degrees.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Not Finished Fighting
The warrior sat. Curled. Fragile.
Wrapped in blankets and headdress.
Gaunt from the long siege. Cold in recovery.
The warrior stood. Straight. Thin.
Draped in small victories and defiance.
Weary from battle. Ravaged in body.
The warrior moved to the fire. Slowly. Smiling.
Swathed in warmth and peace.
Vigor from vulnerability. Sword in hand.
She shook off the chill of the morning
and the emotional chasm of the chemo,
To her afflicted bosom, clutched the moment
and lived in it. For herself. For her boys.
Because you cannot leave behind
that which you refuse to let go.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Extended Meta-Two
Two poems from 5-10 minute extended metaphor exercises in the 8th grade Cre8iveWriting elective:
I Don't Do Dishes
I Don't Do Dishes
I have been used by you time and again
Moistened by your tears, rolled up and then
Wiped across your life and smeared
With your selfishness. To others, I appeared
Sullied and wrung out, yet of my devotion you’d brag.
Fold me gently. Smooth my corners.
But, I feel like a limp dishrag.
Life On Track
I am a train barreling down the track
Without reverse, no going back.
Occasionally slowing to feed its tanks,
Then regaining speed to rejoin the ranks
Of similar engines unable to turn,
No matter the fuel - just burn, baby, burn.
Fated to rocket down pre-determined path,
Unaltered by ecstacy, depression, or wrath.
Passengers hopping my cars as I pass
Some riding coach, others first-class,
Some left at the station, some attended with care,
All of them part of the ticketed fare.
Straight down the track to some final reward -
Enjoy the scenery. All aboard!
All of them part of the ticketed fare.
Straight down the track to some final reward -
Enjoy the scenery. All aboard!
© Jeff Wilson, 2012
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