Showing posts with label teaching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label teaching. 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.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

A Teacher of Art


Today, he was sitting on the bench,
Sketch pad and pencil in hand.
The wind ruffled the paper
While clouds dimmed the world.

I have seen him about the town.
Sketching, drawing, painting
In bright summer dancing in color
And dismal winter of charcoal gray.

I sat next to him and glanced at his work.
His hands were sturdy, the fingers gentle.
“Wouldn’t it be easier in a studio?” I asked.
He adjusted his pad, hand flickered on.

Paints have to spill,” he said.
“Brushes have to hit, tickle, and wave;
Pencils cut, trace, kiss, and break;
And easels get knocked down.”

“Color must be grabbed, smelled,
Rubbed between fingers and tasted.
Form dances, skulks and caresses.
Light and shade play hide and seek.”

 He closed his pad and pocketed pencils.
“Yes, it would be easier in a studio.”
With crinkled eyes, he threw me a wink.
“But, then how fun would that be?”


This poem is a part of the Wordz collection.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

In The Box


In the box is
                  a few books, some files,
                                    a pen and some pencils;
                  There’s a coffee cup,
                                    one of many throughout the years;
                  some odds and ends,
                                    a half empty aspirin bottle
                  and a bag of M & Ms of an unknown year,
                                                      A copy of a test from long ago
                                    and a few photos.

But also in the box
                   is a legacy of teaching.

Yes, inside is a trail of headaches,
                  sighs, budget cuts, drop outs,
                                    sick days and missing staff.

But , deep inside are
                  the  faces of many students and teachers,
                                    smiling, enriched, going forward
                  because you gave a damn about them.
There’s
                  the high fives of the kids who finally got it;
                                    the hugs from the kids that needed a hero;
the thanks of fellow teachers  who needed a
shoulder, mentor and coach;
                  and the nodding smile of a principal
                                    knowing your legacy for the school.

The box is quite full,
                  overflowing with your triumph of being
                                    all a teacher can be.