I am a day late using this word prompt! My bad! Please forgive me daily word prompt aficionados! Also, it’s a bit of a mess. Like me.
a dungeon of
Birds Killed and Mocked and Thorns
Letters Scarlett O’Hara-ed in the Wind
Gatsby’s Expectations unGrateful
Naked Juliets and suicidal Romeos
Mice, Lennie, and George Orwell
451 flames flickering like 5 Slaughterhouses ignited
Purple Arms will never Color Farewell in a Dark Tower
because they’re collecting dust in the dungeon
Have you seen My?
She’s been lost for a while,
and I’m in denial
because I’ll never get to tell her bye.
Once she’s gone, she’s gone forever,
and I’m not just yet ready for never
again to have my My.
Oh my my!
Oh how I cried
and died
a little inside
when I realized My was a thing of the past
because Mommy is gone and Mom is here at long last.
And My is no longer the end but the beginning, my mom instead of Mommy.
And oh my my!
Oh how I cry
and die a little inside
because I have to learn to be her mom instead of her mommy.
stand at the door
make conversation
Happy morning, students!
check their uniforms
Take off that necklace, please!
No labels on socks; that’s a citation.
the bell rings
go inside
lock the door behind you
take attendance
“Can I charge my ChromeBook?”
You mean, may I charge my ChromeBook? Yes, you may.
“Can I take my doctor’s excuse to the office?
Ummmm, number one–you should have done that before the bell rang. Number two–did you not just hear me say it’s “may” not “can”? Sign out. And somebody go lock the door.
submit attendance
read announcements
knock knock
go answer the door and lock it behind you
continue reading announcements
knock knock
stop what you’re doing and answer the door and lock it behind you
go over the objective
overhead intercom interrupts–“Can you send So-and-so to the office?”
So-and-so, stop what you’re doing, sign out, and go to the office. And somebody please go lock the door behind her.
model your thinking
knock knock
Somebody, stop what you’re doing and go answer the door. And don’t forget to lock it.
students work on group work
take a student’s ChromeBook because he’s playing games
admonish another for for using hers as a mirror
“Hey, my ChromeBook’s frozen!“
And? That’s a statement. If you want help, please ask a question.
“Can I go to the library to get my ChromeBook fixed?”
Did you try to trouble shoot? Did you turn it off and back on?
continue to monitor the students
“It still won’t work.”
Take it down to the library. Sign out.
stop what you’re doing and lock the door
they’re finally working
sit down at your desk
check your email
check exit tickets
check your coffee breath
pop a mint
field questions from your desk
decide that’s useless
they’re restless
help them
make them laugh
get them back on task
knock knock
This is ridiculous. said under your breath
stop what you’re doing and answer the door
“You look mad. Can I tell you a joke?”
ignore the remark
forget what you’re doing and what day it is and your middle name
take a deep breath to recenter yourself
hold a discussion
overhead intercom interrupts–“Lock down! Lock down! This is a lock down! Active shooter! Active shooter!”
Students, get in the corner. Be quiet.
check the blinds to make sure they’re drawn and swipe your phone and your laptop from your desk and turn off the lights and open the cabinet door to block the view from the classroom door and huddle on the floor next to your students and send an everyone’s-accounted-for email
shush the children
Moment of Clarity.
The. Door. Isn’t. Locked.
Crawl on the floor.
Reach up.
Cold lock in your sweaty fingers.
Twist it as as someone pounds on the door.
Students whimper.
Look up. See a cop.
His glare, a condescending reprimand.
Because even though you stopped what you were doing, you forgot to lock the door.
The overhead intercom interrupts–“All clear. All clear. It was only a drill.”
but you know that the only thing that’s clear is the drill of your beating heart and your lesson is ruined and you’re close to tears because the only thing that’s important anymore is having your door locked
On top of a poo-on-a-stick week, we won the flu lottery! And by we, I mean Little Thing. Poor sweet Little Thing is puny. I hate it. Here’s a synopsis (in haiku fashion nonetheless) of today’s events.
The thermometer
beeps at one hundred and two.
No wonder she’s chilled.
Climbing into bed
with me, she proclaims, “I’m fine!”
“Yeah right, tiny one.”
A petite furnace
ignites her forehead and limbs,
aflame with fever.
Tissues and TV
flushed cheeks and pillow snuggles
beneath her blanket.
Her granny arrives
to take care of her and bring
her to the doctor.
A text says: it’s flu.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Poor sick Little Thing.
To Tamiflu or
not to Tamiflu–that
is the question now.
Considering she
gags on liquid Tylenol
we will pass. No thanks.
Time to stock up on
Sprite, pain reliever tablets,
and so much Lysol.
Off topic: I did have a bright spot today. A student gifted me a temporary tattoo of a llama blowing a bubble. He might have pilfered it from his little sister’s Valentine’s Day gift box, but whatevs. It’s adorable, and it’s lifted my spirits every time I’ve looked at it today.
Because a version of this has happened to me twice in the past two weeks.
a stranger approaches
maturity’s quietude
candor blurs his angles
lankiness perpendicular to his broad shoulders
smooth aplomb, vintage messenger, scoffed loafers
Miss, do you remember me?
his smile unleashes
youth’s echo
vulnerability shrouded in tomfoolery
pudginess crowned with a pimply forehead
asymmetrical slouch, dragon sketches, untied Chucks
Yes, sweet boy. How could I forget?
a student departs
You don’t want to go
to the library.
It’s full
of lies, Barry.
All silence, syntax, and story–
You know the truth, Barry, lies
in the noise, gibberish, and vainglory–
of society’s gobbledygook and pocketbook.
You can’t find truth
in a book
because books spread nothing
but lies, Barry.
To tell the truth, Barry, nobody goes
to the library nor reads books anymore.
Who needs to when they’ve turned all the good ones
into shows
on all the streaming services galore?
Here’s the truth, Barry.
The library is scary.
Full
of syntactic stories warning
of silence
Full
of parables to teach children how to overcome violence
Here’s the truth, Barry.
The library is scary
because it calls out vainglorious gibberish as noisome–
you’re no longer able to hide
behind fear and hate–anti-intellectual poison.
Here’s the lie, Barry:
the truth is buried at the library.
But go ahead and continue to lie, Barry,
while I unbury my truth, Barry, at the library.
I tell a version of this to my students the first time I hand out school-owned novels to them to read for class. Because. Middle. Schoolers. Destroy. All. Of. The. Things.
Books are babies.
If you wouldn’t do it to a baby, then you shouldn’t do it to a book.
Would you
throw a baby to another person?
bend a baby backwards?
leave a baby in the classroom or on the bus by itself for the night?
step on a baby?
smack your friend with a baby?
shove a baby spine side up in the bottom of a backpack and then put books on top of him?
balance a baby on your head?
drop a baby?
Books are babies.
If you wouldn’t do it to a baby, then you shouldn’t do it to a book.
You should
read to your baby.
talk to your friends about your baby.
laugh at your baby when it says something funny.
cry when your baby breaks your heart.
cheer your baby on.
learn from your baby.
love your baby.
Because books are babies.
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.
