I can vote to veto
hate and fear-mongering politicos,
a refusal to aid and abet upper-echelon manifestos.
You can vote to veto
whatever tickles your own toes,
a fair bet to ensure your own democratic say-so.
But please don’t vote to veto
empathy,
it’s absence begets and kowtows to a discordant symphony.
Thank goodness for daily prompts when you need them.
languid flame flickering
its haunted hollow
turning a pinprick pyre into respite
resisting the open wound onyx night
languid, turning
lantern
I read a tale about a young banshee,
who wailed of widespread, whispering despair.
But the man, he lambasted her decree
and shushed and hushed the howling as unfair.
From then on, the ban she breathed was brutal.
While the man, he nabbed fame and accolades,
and she nabbed death threats and disapproval.
She was banished, beleaguered, and betrayed.
Alone, the banshee refused the silence
and asked Can she? and if they could ban her.
Sister banshees all formed an alliance
and marched with “Ban He” written on banners.
And finally the power-crazed Macbeths
left banshees be and faced symbolic death.
I am only posting because I’ve committed to writing a post weekly. Be prepared to be less than underwhelmed.
(Disclaimer–These are not true to form haiku and run together to form one mildly incoherent poem.)
I’ve taught class all week
with an annoying fever
and ear infection.
Why teach while I’m sick?
Because if I don’t show the
kids are lunatics.
I try to save days
for scheduled doc visits
and personal leave.
I save my sick days
because I’m a mother and
my kid gets ill, too.
Teaching while febrile,
delirious, and loopy
makes students nervous.
I love an excuse
to force students to question
my stability . . .
(and ‘cause messing with
them while I’m sick makes me feel
a tad bit better.)
Poise
ensnares all the boys
polish and posture
cheekbones and allure
style and grace
smart with a pretty face
Sin
smirks his devil-may-care grin
whiskey and cokes
tattoos and smokes
lies and alibis
trouble in a handsome disguise
Poise collides with Sin’s eyes,
and poison sighs.
I’m tired of societal teacher shaming and teacher shaming within the teaching profession. Are you? These unrealistic expectations Need. To. Go.
you’re a bad teacher
if you can’t hold your bladder for six hours plus
you’re a bad teacher
if a student and his parents see you at a restaurant with a glass of wine in front of you
you’re a bad teacher
if every single lesson isn’t differentiated and appealing to every single type of learner
you’re a bad teacher
if it takes you a week to return 95 five paragraph essays with quality feedback
you’re a bad teacher
if you question state standards and
if you don’t question state standards
you’re a bad teacher
if you don’t teach to the test
and if you do teach to the test
you’re a bad teacher
if all of your students aren’t mastery by the end of the year
you’re a bad teacher
if you don’t grade at home
if you turn your email off after school hours
if you aren’t available to students and parents 24/7
if you aren’t losing sleep
you’re a bad teacher
if you take two days off in a row because you have contagious strep throat
if you take a day off to accompany your kindergartner on her pumpkin patch field trip
you’re a bad teacher
if you put your children, your spouse, yourself before the job
you’re a bad teacher
if you don’t spend your own money to fund
pencils, paper, and markers for your students who can’t afford them
donuts, pizza, or ice cream for the victors of a classroom competition
stickers, candy, and prizes for motivation
you’re a bad teacher
if you think you deserve a raise
because, how dare you, it’s a calling, it’s not about the money
if you think you deserve a raise, did you forget about your summers off
you’re a bad teacher
even though you have a bachelor’s degree in your area of expertise and a master’s to seal the deal
you’re just a teacher
you’re a bad teacher
if you take a day off to protest at the capital for educational reform
you should be in the classroom instead, teaching those kids
you’re a bad teacher
let me, my suit, my tie, my MBA make legislative decisions for you
you’re just a teacher
you’re a bad teacher
if you’re human
if you have a life outside your career
if you don’t ooze platitudes and exalt your profession to the masses
if you’re not a martyr
You’re a bad teacher.
You’re just a teacher.
You’re a bad teacher.
I’m a bad teacher .
On Monday, I will have a six year old. I just. Sigh. No words.
Except I wrote a poem, so I did “word” just a little for my Little Thing.
the floor is lava in 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1
glittery nail polish on fingers and toes
pink, poofy dresses that pass the twirl test when spun
fluffy kitties, fuzzy blankets, and fabulous bows
noodles and strawberries
cartwheels and splits
Friday night dance parties featuring Katy Perry
a whole box of tissue because of evening sneezing fits
proper nouns are too hard to capitalize
flour measured to perfection to bake cookies from scratch
unwrapping toys like LOL Surprise
funky socks that are mix and match
silky, soft nightgowns worn all day on the weekends
slime experiments made with Borax and Elmer’s Glue
play dates full of giggles with her best girlfriend
the antithesis of the color blue
Happy sixth birthday dear, precious Little Thing.
May your sweet, joyous, and innocent soul forever continue to laugh, dance, and sing.
(Here’s a picture of her birthday cake for her party, which is LOL Surprise doll themed. She decorated it herself with minimal guidance from her nana, who always comes to visit from Illinois for the occasion.)
Mrs. Ram: [After much reflection, Mrs. Ram realizes she’s called a student Alyssa instead of Allie the entire class period. Allie never once corrected Mrs. Ram. Mrs. Ram pulls Allie aside after class ends.]
Hey Allie,
Mrs. Ram apologizes profoundly
for messing up your first name so soundly.
Please realize my dear,
at the beginning of the year,
just how many names teachers have to memorize.
Allie, I see you rolling your eyes!
There’s one of me and 94 of you.
Isn’t it obvious why I’m becoming unglued?
Allie, again, stop rolling your eyes!
Give me a second to rectify!
In your class alone,
wait for your mind to be blown,
there’s a Brandon, Brady, and Brayden!
And three more that rhyme: Jayden, Caden, and Aiden!
To make matters worse, in second block I’ve got two Breannas,
but one says it “onna” and the other “anna”–How’s that for bananas?
Throughout the day there’s a Bree, Breelyn, and a Brea,
then come the Sophs: Sophocles, Sophie, and Sophia.
Enough with the eyes Allie! I’m almost done;
I just need one more minute hun.
You’ve also got to consider–I’m getting old.
I’ve taught an entire family of Goldes.
Six years ago, I had Ezra, now I have Ari who’s the last.
How can it be my fault if I confuse current students’ names with their siblings’ names from the past?
Not to mention the three sets of identical twins that I teach . . .
Getting their names right on the first try is as impossible as removing stains without bleach!
Allie, before you interrupt, I’ve got one last point to make.
What’s with the abundance of Kens this year, for goodness sake?
McKennas, Kenneths, Kendalls, Kendras, Kennys, Kennedies, and McKenzies?????
Quickly matching names to new faces addles my mind into a frenzy!
[Allie finally manages to get a word in edgewise–drops the mic.]
Mrs. Ram: [Embarrassment in her tone, but not completely surprised . . . ]
Dear lord! You’re not Allie or Alyssa but your name’s Hadley?
Hadley, my sincere apologies; tomorrow, fingers crossed, I won’t screw up your name as badly.
I’m back to school teacher tired,
as useless as a carton of milk gone sour and expired.
My back is on fire, I’m finding it hard to respire, and my entire essence perspires.
My throat feels like I’ve swallowed barbed wire.
I’m terrified of this nervous tick I’ve acquired.
My sanity has been swallowed by a quagmire.
I’m simultaneously full of mirth and ire.
Don’t get caught in the crossfire.
In college, why did I switch my major from becoming an esquire?
I’m so exhausted even my rhyme scheme is delirious and dire.
Might as well throw this shitty poem on the funeral pyre.
When can I retire to the Berkshires, listen to nothing but Reba McEntire, and build my own reading empire?
For now, I’ll just sleep all weekend and wake up Monday refreshed and re-inspired.
I miss gallivanting with the girls–
gal events where gals can vent and
gales of giggles and gushing gossip act as a galvanizing antidepressant.
Hey gals, it’s me!
Are you free?
Want to ride horses, galloping on trails this weekend?
Or glamp while guzzling gallons of wine in a tent, friends?
Or fly to Universal, spend galleons on butterbeer, and discuss J.K. Rowling’s literary merit?
We could meet on the seventh or the eleventh and gaze at the galaxy looking for a constellation that looks like a ferret.
But one gal has gallstones and needs emergency surgery,
while another claims frugality and makes me feel like I’m committing prodigal perjury.
My gal in New Orleans has children galore
(For a matter of fact, she just birthed one more.),
and another traveled to NYC to attend the MET Gala.
Unfortunately, the gal down the road is in India saving Bengal tigers and fishing for cavalla.
Don’t worry about it gals!
We’ll get together soon for a boost of pal morale!
If you need me, I’ll be having a conjugal relationship with my couch, researching the benefits of legalizing marijuana, and slathering my feet in antifungal cream,
and trying to convince myself I’m a fun gal who’s just living the dream.
