Thursday, April 27, 2017

NaPoWriMo #37 Those electronics can get in the way....

Tiny wire squares
Stretched over frames
Or encased in a plastic holder
To strain out what is unwanted
To leave the lumps or whole fruit behind
What makes it through is smooth
Or clear pure juice
That can jell the golden notes of summer
Spread on toast there’s nothing like it
Savored on winter’s bleak bones
Electronic screens preserve the dross
The left behind thoughts of millions
Unsifted hunks of soul
Stuck clogging pipes of productiveness
Rendering the flow impossible
A backed up sewer of sludge
Caked under dirty dishes
Slowly draining the life out of you

Wednesday, April 26, 2017

NaPoWriMo #36 Testing gives me time to compose...

Can you tell it is a week of testing at our school? Yep, most teachers will recognize this one.

Five Minutes and Holding
Electric currents concentrated
For this is the hold
Of being a non-participant
An outlier of norm
A thoroughbred at the gate
Ready to run hard
The leader of those bred
In a constructed race
Not for the horses
But for the owners
And their profit
More than that lone gambler
Who recognizes petite potential
Despite the sour statistics
That points the opposite direction
Circumstances are the great equalizer
That places favor in one’s corner
The chomping at the bit
To break through
And gallop gaining glory
Taking a lap in the winner’s circle
Not everyone will be there
Some go back to the barn
To race another day
But when waiting for that shot
They are all running ahead
On a clear day
No injuries
A jockey who can really ride on top
They stamp eager to go
And the bell rings
They’re off!
Instant loud bangs of lockers
Distant yells in the hallway
Raucous laugher erupting
As students bolt
Out of the gate
To their next class

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

NaPoWriMo #35 Reflections from a teacher's desk

Middle School Rainbow Box
I’d like to live
In the rainbow striped box
On your desk
You’d pick up the box
With the jaunty gross grain hot pink ribbon
To swing along by your side
The box I imagine filled with
Candy treats or surprise sparkle pencils
Sunshine treats to the diligent that seek perfection
Or it could hold scarlet pink slips
Handed out the those belligerent brave ones
That bucks the system and spends afternoons
With the in-house vice squad
Where purple dreams go “poof”
And parents rail violet to
Teachers via electronic emissions
Defending their darlings against
the one time punishment
that doesn’t even go on any record
Or the box may be empty
to those that look for something there
and see nothing, but a morose mug starring
back at them out of the misty mirror
It is what the blue boys and girls imagine
as they sob in stark white tiled bathrooms
with steal accents and the hard surfaces
echo back to them a single existence
Until they imagine the walls to reflect red
and close, crumbling in on them
as they wipe down their arms
They huddle down in a ball
on the floor, clutching to their chests journals,
full of deep moss green secrets
growing from their bellies which growl
carving out space for the orange creamsicle love they long for
There is always room for this tasty treat
they imagine how good it will taste, or it did
once when they thought they were close to it
They imagine the super saturated taste to burst
through and explode into all the colors of the rainbow
Like this box that shows the spectrum
Of this beginning point in puberty and propensity,
Living between skipping, running, and sliding off,
This highway from birth to adult-like existence
Which is supposed to be our “pot of gold”
Or magic box, which only appears
when our sunshine is mixed with rain
do we see all those beautiful colors

Monday, April 24, 2017

NaPoWriMo #35 How do they grow up?

Mother’s Day
You place your face against mine
The pressure is reassuring
While nearly alarming
Your cheek still so smooth
Almost as the day
you came out formed
you cried for me only then
I am eavesdropping on your
bedtime prattle with your father
Thinking how you used to wriggle
and fight when I’d place you
away from my secure side
into his strong arms
He gave you your first bath
as I could not lift you
I had not recovered
From our shared journey
You looked at him
With eyes so wide and blue
Unsure of his touch
You looked at me
To say, “is it okay?”
I said, “of course”
Which I did a lot
I kept talking
For you to hear
The anchor of my voice
Now you discuss
State and main
All of the things
That call you to speak
With the man you
Once cringed away from
You say little to me
I lean towards
The cheek you silently offer
As your mocking eyes
Tell me I am still
Part of your connection
But the silent movie mode
Will have to be sufficient
For mother and son
I will spy on
father’s magic moments
Until you grant me
audience again with scepter sway
Granting me one more glorious day

Sunday, April 23, 2017

NaWriPoMo #34 A little mushy, but somewhat good....

A quick poem for my Honey on Shakespeare's birthday!

Window to my heart
Is your tearing through
The kitchen and its contents
To make a lamb stew
Or you find a lime or two
Bring out flavor in what we chew
What is our meal divine
This house we’ve made entwined
Together you and I
As steam rises to the sky
A fragrant dish prepared with love
Recipe from our God above

Saturday, April 22, 2017

NaWriPoMo #32 & #33 More like exercises, but it'll do for tonight

The first poem is a warm up kind of exercise I do when nothing occurs to me. Tonight it was more poem-like, so I decided it counts. The second is a bit didactic, but okay, so it counts too. Not my best work, but you gotta put out some that aren't great to get to the good stuff too. I can feel I'm not in the right space tonight, but that happens too. 

Sounds My Mind Makes During Pancakes
Pat, pat, pat,
Tap, tap, tip,
Rip, pat, sip,
Lap, fat, cat,
Pal, gal, cow,
Moo, shoe, poo,
Crew, stew, woo,
Goo, sue, clue,
Glue, too, tutu,
Pink, think, drink,
Sthink, clink, clunk

Teacher’s Peach
Teaching is like selecting
The perfect peach
You see it, the beauty as it forms,
It hangs there just out of reach,
And you think how good it will taste
You can smell how the sun
Has ripened it
And how sweet it must taste
But you know it isn’t the time
Yet to pick it
It must stay until it is ripe
You watch and wait
You hope it rains enough
And it is hot enough
Just the right conditions
And the day comes
You get your ladder
To reach up for that
Perfect ripe peach
You almost want to keep
It hanging on the tree
It will taste so good
But after that
You can’t think about that
You pick it and carefully
Go back down the ladder
You show it to everyone
And then you sink your teeth
Into that amazing peach
It is better then you thought
As the juices run
Down your arms and face
But you don’t care
You want to savor
Every bite and so its messy,
It is the best thing ever!
Then it is gone
The curious, wrinkled pit
You hold is all that is left
You look at it
In wonder that a peach
Such a perfect fruit
Came from something so
Ugly, unrefined, and rough,
Yet you know the power of what
Is inside that pit
So you plant it
Knowing that many years
From now that same peach
Or one maybe even better
Will hang on the tree
Made from that central
Thing you just planted
And you walk away
From the orchard
Happy that you found
The perfect pit to plant today
Tomorrow you hope
There is another one

Friday, April 21, 2017

NaWriPoMo #29, #30, & #31 The Three Bears of Poems

Giant Sun Set
A barely there glow
Rising from the toes
Rolling uphill to knees
Half folded in upward arcs
Which pull the thighs taut
To balance a torso
A trembling see saw
Tilting into the wind
Supporting redwood trunk
With firm branches
Waving and welcoming
Young families of hawks
Nesting in the shoulders
Just under the hair-line
Hidden to hunt from
Her neck turns
To hear the song of morning
And a slight shiver
In an unexpected breeze
She turns towards the horizon
Stretching to the fading stars
Saluting the moon
As she reaches to pick up
The now robust sun
At her feet
She places the sun on its track
And takes a step
To guard its primordial path
Shaking the ground
She steps again
Softer as not to wake
Those who do not see her
At sunset’s edge she sinks down
In slumber to kick the moon
Into place where she left it

A rock hole
Carved into flesh
Boring into bones
Burning a buried
Bottomless pit
With stinking pitch walls
That cannot be climbed
Crumble the moment touched
Soiling the assailent
Surrounding the individual
Until they are unable to move
Immobile in their desire
They doze and dream
Not to sleep
They slip and fall
Into a tunnel
That narrows
As they slide
Into all-consuming want
Worried where words
Fill nothing and promises
Gut protruding bellies
Thoughts balloon
Bursting egos
Rain down in pieces
On dry wells
Acidic oceans
And fallow lands

Sweet Boy’s Words
Your words are like no other
I tilt my head and listen
For the pattern that soothes me
That grooms my insides
To sigh a dance of delight
As soon as I hear
How you say
What you say
Your way

Thursday, April 20, 2017

NaWriPoMo #28 Because of a $2.99 garden rock...

A three dollar rock
I take out of the paper bag
And stare at it
I want it to say something
It has a word etched
On its face
That has challenged me
To a duel out of these doldrums
This space of “noplace”
That threatens to swallow
What I hold dear
Inside and out
About myself
That is my voice
That is my choice
To create
Now I set a date
To pour out the contents
Of my pockets
Searching for meaning
In the treasures
I carry around with me
Seeing they are common
Pieces of everyday stuff
Like fluff that could blow away
If I’m not careful
And I cram it all back in again
After examination
This little rock
A grey greeny-blue reminder
That time marches ever forward
Running away from childhood
Bartering chips to trips on ships
And golden goblets dipped in wine
I haven’t time to give away
The heyday of my youth or otherwise
I hear the rock roll
And rise within
The writhing begins to burn
Away time, the toll for me has rung
And rings, and rallies
That, which is within
The well plums
Where a single bloom
Explodes KABOOM!
With one word
Like the tablets tossed
Down the mountain
The word is aspire

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

NaWriPoMo #27 More Family History Research

Can you tell I'm still helping my son finish his family history project? I did find that great picture of my Daddy tonight. This is how I always picture him. In his clinic, the front part of our house when I was growing up, talking to his patients.

Peering Down Historic Halls
Hopin’, wishin’
Washin’, copin’,
Hauling in the coal,
Rolling in the dough,
Having none at all,
The car constantly stalls,
Where are these places?
Who are these people?
A steeple here,
A grave yet again,
Sifting through,
Backyard, front yards, graveyards,
Wondering what is ours?
Frustration sets in,
Themes of cars, wars, and coal,
Versus professors, ministers, and some on the dole,
A shoe cobbler, banker, a doctor, and pharmacist,
Pop up too in our midst,
Yet we all look
A lot alike
Peering down that long
Hall of history
For my little tyke
I wade through
Try to sew or glue
It all back together
So that he can
Know it better
And tell the next generation
Or two

Dr. M.C. Walton