He hovered over me and gave the final kiss
signifying sleep as imperative for
tomorrow's itinerary.
My body signified forced understanding.
Kissing my forehead with such tenderness,
He turned to the wall
to greet Slumber's deficit.
I was left to my side of the bed,
reliving the night's blurry perfection
Until Sleep persuaded me to join her.
I wanted him to grab me from her drowsy rhetoric
and caress me until Morning welcomed both of us
into its warmth.
Instead, a grey knobby blanket surrounded my exposed flesh
the best it could.
Rest an unwelcome stranger.
Nothing to soothe me
until his hot steaming arms
again engulfed me into his essence,
whispering,
"Hey, babydoll".
Letting Sleep capture us.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Rain
I open my window
Even though the air conditioner is on
Just to feel the rain
Pelt against the window’s skin.
They say that rain drops
Falls
From angel eyes—
At least I think someone said that.
Someone must have said that
When the first book was written.
When life was recorded by
Men and women, virgins to the world
Knowing only what they felt stirring inside of them.
They embraced the rain,
Not knowing its reason.
Father Adam thanked God for the water,
Though it left him cold and forgotten.
I dance under the sky of clouds,
Letting its heavenly tears penetrate my skin,
Pierce my every pore
Until I understand
That life will remain incomprehensible.
Even though the air conditioner is on
Just to feel the rain
Pelt against the window’s skin.
They say that rain drops
Falls
From angel eyes—
At least I think someone said that.
Someone must have said that
When the first book was written.
When life was recorded by
Men and women, virgins to the world
Knowing only what they felt stirring inside of them.
They embraced the rain,
Not knowing its reason.
Father Adam thanked God for the water,
Though it left him cold and forgotten.
I dance under the sky of clouds,
Letting its heavenly tears penetrate my skin,
Pierce my every pore
Until I understand
That life will remain incomprehensible.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Sprung
Until the pink dogwood bloomed outside my window
I did not see spring.
Only the white blanket of a brother
smothering her flowing skirt.
From frail, timid branches
Emerged her budding divinity,
often afraid to speak her mind.
Peaking from behind the frigid mess of yesterday's midnight.
I don't believe her plea of longevity.
She has lied to me in the past
and I am beyond feeling
or forgiveness.
I see her now. I try not to smirk
when frosted rain pelts her petals
to the expectant ground.
She and I knew this was the future.
I was right. Cold. Bitter. and I am right.
I did not see spring.
Only the white blanket of a brother
smothering her flowing skirt.
From frail, timid branches
Emerged her budding divinity,
often afraid to speak her mind.
Peaking from behind the frigid mess of yesterday's midnight.
I don't believe her plea of longevity.
She has lied to me in the past
and I am beyond feeling
or forgiveness.
I see her now. I try not to smirk
when frosted rain pelts her petals
to the expectant ground.
She and I knew this was the future.
I was right. Cold. Bitter. and I am right.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
I am sorry, Mr Wilder.
My Junior English students are reading Our Town, by Thorton Wilder. For those of you unfamiliar with the play, it shines the spotlight on a small town in New Hampshire. No scenery, props, or intriguing plot line. This translates to bored students, constantly informing me that they hate it. This made me think of past writers and how they feel about their classic pieces of literature being put into the hands of immature, and, quite frankly, retarded teenagers. (Also, there is a scene in the play when one of the deceased characters goes back to earth to revisit a memory, but her experience was less than ideal. I thought that allusion fit nicely into this poem)
They sit around a pearly table-- poets and authors,
passing two cards to the left.
The playwrights too tormented and cheap to play this round.
Instead, they glance down at their earth
while Faulkner steals what is left of Dickinson's red chips.
One such playwright peers into the world's classroom
where his play is explored,
because a dead writer can do that.
seeping through the walls and into the desk
next to the girl becoming a woman.
He sees his work and glory--mass copied and laminated.
One such treasure strewn on the carpet,
bent to a page far before the climax.
He looms over her shoulder to see why she loves his art;
what he spent years perfecting.
She has etched "This book sucks" at the top of the second act.
She is an author now.
Ink bleeding through his pages of published progress.
He can do nothing except grieve and curse the swine
chewing his masterpiece only to spit it out.
The ghost of its genius, using his celestial hands,
trying,
failing
to haphazardly pluck every copy from every desk,
preserving their unappreciated authenticity.
The earth is not what he remembered.
They sit around a pearly table-- poets and authors,
passing two cards to the left.
The playwrights too tormented and cheap to play this round.
Instead, they glance down at their earth
while Faulkner steals what is left of Dickinson's red chips.
One such playwright peers into the world's classroom
where his play is explored,
because a dead writer can do that.
seeping through the walls and into the desk
next to the girl becoming a woman.
He sees his work and glory--mass copied and laminated.
One such treasure strewn on the carpet,
bent to a page far before the climax.
He looms over her shoulder to see why she loves his art;
what he spent years perfecting.
She has etched "This book sucks" at the top of the second act.
She is an author now.
Ink bleeding through his pages of published progress.
He can do nothing except grieve and curse the swine
chewing his masterpiece only to spit it out.
The ghost of its genius, using his celestial hands,
trying,
failing
to haphazardly pluck every copy from every desk,
preserving their unappreciated authenticity.
The earth is not what he remembered.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Why Diane should attend therapy, Reason 2:
Job satisfaction
I love my job. I hate my job. I love working with teenagers. I want to strangle every teenager I see, whether or not he is my student. Does everyone go through bipolarity in his job? I have no idea, come Monday morning what type of week I am going to have. The slightest chaos or mutiny (can you have slight mutiny?) used to send me into a spiral of self-doubt.
Am I a good teacher? Am I a good person?
Some days I am waiting eagerly for the final bell to ring, only to lock my door and scream into my jacket; then others I have a huge smile on my face, signifying that I just had real influence on my students. My job is a roller-coaster. Only until recently did I realize that Diane as a teacher and Diane as an individual were (and have to be) different. Or I will go insane.
Job satisfaction
I love my job. I hate my job. I love working with teenagers. I want to strangle every teenager I see, whether or not he is my student. Does everyone go through bipolarity in his job? I have no idea, come Monday morning what type of week I am going to have. The slightest chaos or mutiny (can you have slight mutiny?) used to send me into a spiral of self-doubt.
Am I a good teacher? Am I a good person?
Some days I am waiting eagerly for the final bell to ring, only to lock my door and scream into my jacket; then others I have a huge smile on my face, signifying that I just had real influence on my students. My job is a roller-coaster. Only until recently did I realize that Diane as a teacher and Diane as an individual were (and have to be) different. Or I will go insane.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Why Diane should attend therapy, Reason 1:
Humor
Humor is something that is so important to me. I usually joke around with my friends, saying things like, "Funny is all I have!" They usually respond with laughter, assuring me that I am, in fact, one of the funniest people they know.
Phew.
I grew up in a family that prided itself in quick and witty banter. If you wanted to fit in my family, you had to be funny and fast. You needed to say the right thing at the right time for the right amount of time. Even the funniest quip could be slaughtered if it went on for too long. I spent the greater amount of my childhood years in a humor trial-and-error phase, trying out jokes and punchlines at the dinner table. Some where accepted with a polite laugh, some were shut down immediately.
From early on, I knew that my dad was extremely funny. He became the standard; if he laughed at something, I should laugh too. Consequently, if I said something "funny" and he didn't laugh, it was a failure, even if other people enjoyed it.
For better or worse, humor has been a journey for me my entire life. Just recently, my dad responded to an email that I wrote, saying, "You are really funny. I laughed out loud in my office. I hope I had a little something to do with the humor you have developed".
Understatement.
So, my friend recently wrote on his blog about one of his friends. She is 18, he is 19. He wrote, "She is the funniest person I know. No need to worry; she is impossible to compete with". This was like a stab in the back. I know he didn't mean to insult me, I am not that self-absorbed. But it was painful to me to see that one of my closest friends didn't write that about me; instead, giving the title to an 18 year old who makes funny noises and does crazy dances. Funny?! I would like to think that my funny is a bit more refined and styled. Oh, I sound like a pathetic ass.
Humor
Humor is something that is so important to me. I usually joke around with my friends, saying things like, "Funny is all I have!" They usually respond with laughter, assuring me that I am, in fact, one of the funniest people they know.
Phew.
I grew up in a family that prided itself in quick and witty banter. If you wanted to fit in my family, you had to be funny and fast. You needed to say the right thing at the right time for the right amount of time. Even the funniest quip could be slaughtered if it went on for too long. I spent the greater amount of my childhood years in a humor trial-and-error phase, trying out jokes and punchlines at the dinner table. Some where accepted with a polite laugh, some were shut down immediately.
From early on, I knew that my dad was extremely funny. He became the standard; if he laughed at something, I should laugh too. Consequently, if I said something "funny" and he didn't laugh, it was a failure, even if other people enjoyed it.
For better or worse, humor has been a journey for me my entire life. Just recently, my dad responded to an email that I wrote, saying, "You are really funny. I laughed out loud in my office. I hope I had a little something to do with the humor you have developed".
Understatement.
So, my friend recently wrote on his blog about one of his friends. She is 18, he is 19. He wrote, "She is the funniest person I know. No need to worry; she is impossible to compete with". This was like a stab in the back. I know he didn't mean to insult me, I am not that self-absorbed. But it was painful to me to see that one of my closest friends didn't write that about me; instead, giving the title to an 18 year old who makes funny noises and does crazy dances. Funny?! I would like to think that my funny is a bit more refined and styled. Oh, I sound like a pathetic ass.
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