Showing posts with label memory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memory. Show all posts

Friday, May 5, 2017

One of Those Days

In early, he preps the day’s lessons.
A copier jam backlogs tasks at hand.
In the hall, toner on fingers, he listens.
The student’s bad day needs an ear.

Voluntary review before the bell.
She encourages the few that attend.
In her morning bustle, she forgot
her bagel on the counter at home

He sits heavily in his chair.
Quizzes graded, some too low.
Lunch at his desk, he searches
for aspirin and a new approach.

Confused faces stare at her.
Connections to a unit failed.
Restless kid disrupts the class.
After referral, she thinks what if.

He shrugs on his coat, shuffles home.
Orthodontist bill sits next to cold dinner.
Quietly, he nibbles as he reads
State standards changes policies again.

A cat rubs her ankles in dim light.
The essays graded sit to the side.
She sips at her tea, pondering tv.
No, she promised bake sale cookies.

On his nightstand, a marine pin and
A ceramic bowl from past students.
On her laptop screen an email flickers.
A thank you from a student brings a tear.

Yeah it's been one of those days.
Among the struggles, a brief shiny why.
He will go onward, bright and early.
She will, gladly, proudly, do it again.

Saturday, January 31, 2015

Miss You

I walk tall, undefeated,
Yet the wind tries to push me down,
To hunch low, retreat into my coat of thoughts.
Grit stings my eye, blurring the world.
I fall…
    ...no one catches me
        ...miss you.

I fall hard, awkwardly,
And the pavement bites my palms,
Burns my knee, the armor of faith groans.
Heart pounds hard, frustrated and mad.
I cry…
    ...no words of comfort
        ...miss you

I rise slow, carefully,
From a tree, a red cardinal chirps, “Hey.”
Warming sun, touches my salty cheek.
Although not here, you are with me..
I sigh…
    ...your message received
        ...miss you.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Silver Shield on Blue


One week into the job
The rookie pulls a boy from a car wreck.
He clings tightly onto the blue uniform
But he doesn’t cry.
He is safe in the arms of the officer.
The new blue smiles ignoring pain and says a prayer,
            Michael and Jude, I am the protector,
            The one who faces impossible tasks.
            “I’m going to be a cop too,” said the boy.
            Yeah, this is what I do.

Some years and many miles on the road
Icing a twisted knee from a failed pursuit.
The officer pulls off the uniform that reeks
From the rousted whino.
A call comes from a former classmate with news.
One from their number has fallen in the line of duty.
            Michael and Jude, How can I protect
            And face the tasks ahead without purpose?
            Checking on your toddling child a siren echoes in the distance.
            Yeah, stroking the little head, I can continue to do.

Partners have come and gone, cars have changed.
Knee surgery and temporary desk duty have added a few pounds,
Slowing the step and tightening the blue collar.
Ol’ Cap is hospitalized from stress on the heart.
Whiskey bites the throat
Its all been the same, nothing ever changes
            Michael and Jude, I need some protection
            and help with the job I do.
            On the table , drawn in crayon, is a boxy car and officer in blue.
            Yeah, that’s the trick, I can go on a few.

Its an odd bit a fate that has brought the circle round
Yesterday, a trouble teen said ‘thanks’ and gave a hug.
Today, at the academy, an unusual invite did bring.
A new officer gets inducted and acknowledged today.
The boy from the car.
He shakes your hand with strength the way you did back when.
You pass on a gift of Don Quixote with the inscription that read,
            “Michael and Jude, To Serve and Protect
            Is an impossible job to do.
            Yet, Quixote did manage to joust a windmill.”
            Yeah, you salute, silver shield on blue.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Helmet to the Stone



Late October, on a cool Friday night,
the battle done for the season.
A young man in gridiron gear
stopped at a rock at the base of a flag
placed in memory of a dedicated coach
and put his helmet to the stone.

The polymer plastic gritted against
the great rock, and its chiseled words.
He held it there, his head down in
a private moment of silence.
Not far away, fans marched by seeing
him with his helmet to the stone.

The player, sweat soaked and muddy,
bloodied knuckles, hair plastered to his head,
stoically poised, a picture of youth,
of hard work and of love for the game,
reflected heart, pride and sadness
with his helmet to the stone.

Letters cut with steel deep into the rock
say a name and date of a man
who passed on a legacy of character
to all the players who took the field with him.
Late October, a player, a boy at heart, 
proudly, reverently, put his helmet to the stone.

(a verse for Duane)
Years later, early July, some hot days.
The battle fought, another hero gone.
He played for the love. He played hard
As an Oriole, Chippewa, Crusader, and Patriot.
His heart held community and family close.
“Five more minutes,” helmet to the stone.