There's No Room for Passengers

I've played with blackout poetry on this blog before. I don't know what I was thinking when I didn't explain the process nor did I credit the inspiration.  Alan J. Wright breaks it down on his blog livinglifetwice. If you haven't read his blog, do it now....come back to mine later but you must visit his. 

Anyway, here's the idea of blackout poetry, in Alan's words.

Here’s what happened.  First, I photocopied a selected page. Then I blocked out those words and phrases I found most appealing to my eye, my ear and my heart. This part of the process was somewhat surgical. Only those words that suited me made the final cut. Every word had to contribute. Every word was required to pull its weight. There is no room for passengers in a poem. It’s about the effect of powerful words in tight spaces. 

My poem was originally a piece in The New York Times Magazine.

No Room for Passengers

1947

the Friendship Train-

LA bound for Europe,

cross North America,

boxcars of Colorado wheat, Nebraska beans, Wisconsin milk.

reach New York 

amass 40 million dollars of food, clothing, fuel

from people across the country.

load onto ships.

head for Italy and France.

back onto trains festooned with American flags.

the beneficiaries – starving from post  WWII food shortage.

their free lunch.

a year later,

France returns the gesture.

a Thank You Train.

one boxcar per state

plus one for Washington, D.C., Hawaii

painted with provincial coats of arms

filled with bonnets, dolls, schoolchildren’s merci notes.

no takers on board a You’re Welcome Train.

Hidden Potential

We’ve all had kids like him in our class.

Unfocused, seemingly unmotivated, constantly

zoning out, dazed, and confused.

Calling in his mom for a conference didn’t help.

Nagging him was counterproductive. Gentle reminders were useless. 

But here we are, just turning the corner on the 100^th day of school

and all of a sudden, the light bulb pops on.

Watching him daydream

I find myself

On his back

Seeing him slump down deep in his seat

Sit up straight

I command

What’s up with Him

I ask

He just needs time

This train is moving at rocket-speed

How much time
                          I wonder

Time enough so

He feels secure

Time enough so

He learns to trust

Time enough so

He thinks he’s smart

With nothing to prove                                                  To the sky above

He emerges from the depths                                       Where he sparkles                                    

                                        Like the star

                                       That he is

It's All in the Delivery

As I toss and turn, usually around 3AM I reach for the iPhone sitting next to me. I will read snippets of this or that, catch up on Facebook, the Daily Skimm, see what’s on sale at Banana Republic, and hope that I will get sleepy enough to get back to my dreams.

 Often, I remain sleepless until the 5AM alarm.

Yet there is a bright side. Of course, there is a bright side.

So much of what I read in those early morning hours inspires me to write or to do. Just the other night lying awake, I reached for my phone. I looked at the New York Times Sunday Style section and read a piece written by a mother about her daughter. Like her, I send my daughters inspiring quotes, sometimes poetry, and other times articles to read. The author though, used her daughter’s shoes as the vehicle to deliver the message. She wore her shoes every day, so mom’s reasoning was that the message would at least be seen and hopefully read every day.

The delivery of the message is so important. It can’t be preachy or it won’t be heard. It shouldn’t be too subtle or it won’t be valued. Putting the notes in the shoes was just right.

Milestones

I always think about how we don’t celebrate as many milestones with our grown up children as we did when they were little.  In fact, every once in a while :) grown up kids are big pains in the butt ….big kids big problems!

But when our children reveal themselves as the adults we’d hoped and worked so hard for them to be, it is cause for celebration.

My younger daughter, now 24 gave me that reason.

Checking my email quickly before final dismissal of the day, I noticed an email from Riana with “thank you” as the subject. Scanning the mental files for what I’d done to make her grateful, my mind drew a blank.

As I read her email, tears filled my eyes and one of my students looked over at me quizzically. I explained I had just received the best gift from my daughter.

After the children left the classroom, I read and re-read her words. The power of the expression of her gratitude for our parenting struck me with an overwhelming feeling of melancholy. Wishing to share the email with my own mother gone almost ten years, filled me with regret. Regret that I never said “thank you” as eloquently as Riana - the daughter my mother wished upon me when I, as a teenager tested my parents beyond what was necessary; the daughter she wished upon me when I worried her or made her furious; Riana - the same daughter who stressed and distressed me so that sticking to the tough choices we made as parents was one of the most difficult things ever.

And, she is the very same daughter who inspired me to stay the course and be the best mom I could be.

Just as I did

as my mother’s daughter

but without the gratitude.

Inspired by Ms.Victor Reads, I am sitting here thinking....what have I done?
This is my third year participating in the March SOLSC. I've loved it in the past. Loved the feeling of being part of this community of writers. Loved reading the sheer brilliance of other slicers. Loved getting comments from those with so much writing experience.
So why the second thoughts? Why the feeling of trepidation and insecurity? Why dread instead of excitement?
I'll tell  you why.... my head is in so many other places. I didn't even realize when I awoke this morning that today is March 1st. Unawareness lasted only as long as it took to check my email. Then panic set in.
Getting back to my head....it is haunted by the nasty obsession of my Wednesday morning observation. An even darker, harder to reach corner I find it
ruminating is on the paperwork due tomorrow at 8:40. The very same paperwork I must miraculously morph into the required format from the scribble I scrawled on sticky notes all over my math teacher's guide. And if all this isn't consuming enough, my head hurts from dwelling in the mucky mire of conversations, rallies, YouTubes, and Facebook postings about the absurdity of Governor Cuomo's APPR plan (a whole 'nuther slice).

So there, I've done it. Day one of thirty-one completed.

Thank you to Stacey Shubitz and the rest of the generous souls who are part of Two Writing Teachers for this awe-inspiring opportunity.

The Birds and The Beetles

No, dear reader this is not a blog entry about iconic musical bands of the sixties. Nor is it about reproduction. This entry is about the quandary I’m currently facing. I use “facing” rather than “suffering” because in my heart; albeit really deep down in there, I know this is a test. A test of mental fortitude and problem solving skills and one of which failure will not be tolerated.

The fact is that Mother Nature is trying her best to call on me because she knows I’ve always been an ally to her birds and bees.

I warn my students not to squish anything that crawls. The kids in my classes always learn how spiders and other bugs can be our friends by doing away with more harmful insects. I love birds. The sound of their laughter starts my day and their songs soundtrack my outdoor life.

But here I am trying to end their lives. Well, not the totality of their species. I seek to destroy the Japanese Beetles who are devouring my ornamental plants and the NYC pigeons whom have decided to nest on the air conditioning unit outside my daughter’s bedroom window.

As for the beetles- these voraciously iridescent creatures have chewed my lush foliage down to their leafy veins.

And the pigeons, oh my goodness, well they peer through the slit in the curtain as they protectively coo over their freshly laid egg. Creepy!

There’s got to be a solution to these but I’ll be damned if I’ve been able to figure it out yet. But the thing I know for sure is that which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

And these critters better beware, because I am literally going to kick their collective asses.

Auto Ego

Twisting two-lane ribbon highway

Hardly the place to test this hot rod

That looked to have just escaped the junkyard

A 1946 Chevy ‘rat rod’

A four-mile stretch that snakes along

Cliffs and vistas that take your breath away

Keeping their distance from the low stone wall

A rebellious attitude

With loud manners

And an intentionally distressed appearance

“It handles well,” he said.