I can feel it In my bones Sense it Slowly Approaching Though still Far away Tensions Being to rise Along with The growing Bank of darkness What to do? Not a matter Of if but when It will arrive Do I make Preparations For something Over which I have no control Or do I sit still Breathing Watching Praying Welcoming With open arms Lessons sure To be left behind Once the storm passes
No memories Of my own With which To compare Only descriptions Heard in Favorite songs Until now… Driving thru Stockbridge Lennox, Lee Witnessing The greens Shining Dreamlike In the Berkshires Quaint towns Connected by Winding roads Surrounded by Rolling hills Under blue skies And moonlight- Each one holding Its own history Of joy and pain Both personal And collective- Places once alive Only in songs Now alive anew As music and Snapshots are Forever forged In my mind
A raindrop Landed on My windshield With a bounce Becoming one Small bubble In its own space Until another And another And another Came along To invade- Soon the glass Was covered in Raindrop bubbles- The tempo Of the car The tempo Of the rain Increased- Gravity said Rain falls down From the sky But the droplets Seemed to be Traveling The wrong Direction Rows and rows Of raindrops Flowing up My windshield- Optical illusion? Possibly Vivid imagination? Could be Or perhaps simply Nature’s music Ever-changing With the rhythm Of this life
Although I am their music teacher, many of my students are aware I write poetry. Last year, fourth graders had a unit on poetry. I shared some of my poems with their teachers to use however they liked. The connections that occurred were precious.
Students began to ask about my book that was being published. Wanting to know if they would be able to buy it at the book fair. 😉 I assured them there would be copies in the library to check out. They were so excited! I would give each of them a copy if I could.
One day after school, a fourth-grade girl handed me a stack of small notepaper. She had been writing poems and wanted to share! Another day in music, one of her classmates, a boy, shyly handed me a folded piece of paper. “Here are some poems I wrote.” He quickly walked away.
Over the following weeks, I had several conversations with these two young poets. They eagerly shared their writing, and I happily celebrated them.
One of the students traveled to Mexico before the school year ended. I hope she will return next year. The other is transferring to a new school. Brief but powerful connections for me, and I hope for them.
I asked permission to share one of the poems. This young man is confidently referring to himself as a poet now. No more hiding. It is a beautiful thing.
green is for happiness which means that trees have happiness within the leaves another green that gives good vibes is grass that swerves with the breeze
I don’t know about you, but I was impressed! I am going to miss this young man next year. I hope he keeps writing.
Freedom- A word So often Spoken From a singular Perspective- Me, myself, and I Surely that view Is much too Simplistic Lacking in Both depth And breadth- If being honest I must admit Freedom Remains Incomplete Until it applies To everyone Everywhere- Celebrating Independence Day Acknowledging Many lessons Yet to be learned…
I cried at the sight Of you frail Unaware of My presence- Chose to remember Different images On that day- Tall and lanky Uncanny ability To sit comfortably On your haunches Elbows perched On knees Backside inches From the ground- My college senior Piano recital Me in my black dress You in your blue Cotton shirt and pants Both beaming- Five years later Christmastime My newborn son Sleeping in your arms- After you were gone I saw your reflection As my son sat On his haunches Elbows perched On knees Backside inches From the ground- Pictures of you Held dear, Grandpa
The morning Is dark blue The kind of blue That almost Looks black But once The sun rises Turns to cerulean- As the day Progresses The sky shifts Until night washes Over the work Of the day Bringing rest To the Earth- And rest to you Handsome you Strong you Wearing your Favorite blue shirt Faded with time As the dirt And sweat From a lifetime Of hard work Was washed away
I wrote the first poem specifically about my Grandpa Crow. He was a sweet man. Hardworking and loved to fish. The second could describe many different people from my growing up years. Maybe you can relate. 😊❤️
The clock ticks One second At a time The sun shines One beam At a time And yet, with love One second Quickly becomes One thousand One sunbeam A multitude Flooding Darkness From the heart As two sit Together In this space Of time and light Giving no thought To the ticking clock Or the sun’s rays Only the desire To remain seated And experience The transformation From the measured To the unmeasurable
I stood At the foot Of a grave Shaded by Lovely birch On a rolling Green slope Overseen by A church Painted white Filled with History on Both sides Of glass panes- I stood At the foot Of a grave Cradling remains Of those gone From this earth Centuries ago Memories Carved In marble Beloved Daughter, wife, mother Honored Son, husband, father I stood At the grave Of a poet My heart touched By remembrances Of persons I have never met
Enjoying Art and Nature Exploring Lessons Offered By history- Our own Others- Reminiscing Our combined Years of living In only seven Of these Precious Allotments Of time Each holding The same Number Of hours Each passing Too quickly