How do you know which paths to trust? Which are solid, which are dust? Do you know, beneath your feet which steps are nets or roots or snares? There comes a point you do not care. Your heart's alive Your soul will dare. The trail you tread is lush and wild uncharted, dark, and undefiled.… Continue reading On Mountain Biking & Other Frightening Endeavors
On linen and straw lay a birth and a death. God hedged by flesh shepherds, magi. ∞ It pleases us to imagine God just born, vulnerable delivery's slick dross clings the ache of mortality. ∞ It's comfortable: God on bovine-scented straw held in woman's arms and a lowly one at that. ∞ It's Christmas:… Continue reading Christmas. Finished.
I'll never forget the first time I read "The Journey of the Magi" by T.S. Elliot. Think: Passion of the Christ, sub magi. This poem is deep and dark and human, revealing the grit that's glossed over by art and centuries. All I knew of the magi is they were funny-looking little men-dolls we set… Continue reading Considering Death This Christmas? Read T.S. Eliot’s “Journey of the Magi”
I nearly jump out of my seat when students come up with bold, fresh images that sound like something out of open mic night. A year ago I decided to teach them simile. "A cat is like a kitten," someone offered. Now I have them churning out similes like: disappointment tastes like rocks. Fourteen tweens gather… Continue reading 5000 Words Poetry Lesson, 10-13 Year-Olds
Raveled See the kite assembled, tied, stretched taut on a bone frame, its colors a brazen flutter in a blue-white sky. See the kite coveted, owned, loved. New-toy perishable love. Kites are frustrating. Without wind, without a hand on the string they fall. See that. Or this: a dropped kite sliced by leafless branches,… Continue reading R is for Raveled
Quacks. I wish this were about ducks, but alas-- here is my post about funny farms, i.e., nut houses, psych wards, mental institutions, behavioral medicine centers (they sound nice). Funny farm is my mom's favorite designation. She has introduced me thus: "This is my daughter who put me in the funny farm." You could say… Continue reading Q is for Quacks
The first words ever to move me were penned by William Earnest Henley just after his leg was amputated. "Invictus" was put on a screen in my 8th grade English classroom for a rhyme scheme lesson. I furiously copied every word, oblivious. Henley's words challenged my view of myself as a leaf in the wind. It… Continue reading I is for Invictus