A Village on the
Amazon
The
little ones poked my ribs, begged for a pen,
Begged
for my attention. They lived in a
Lonely
little city of poverty in the middle of the
Amazon
River, which flows into a vast ocean.
Their
eyes begged while their hands poked.
The
pens were like gold to them. How
strange,
Pens
that I drop, pens my middle school students
Used
to leave in their desks so carelessly.
I
handed out as many pens as I could, yet
There
weren’t enough. I had to stop giving.
At
home, my heart loves those
Who
don’t love me back.
These
children need love much more.
It’s about possessions,
Yet
it’s also about necessity.
They
don’t have what they need.
But
now, more children in that little village have pens.
They’ll
have more words to write in their small schoolhouse.
One
wears my sister’s UNC visor,
Another
wears my brother-in-law’s sunglasses.
Everyday
items, to them, are treasures.
I
traded two dollars for a lovely hand-made doll.
I
think I got the better deal. Never again
Will I
avoid guilt when I complain about my life.
I have
my problems, and I get lonely at times.
But I
have family members and friends who care,
Enough
food to eat, and I get paid to do what I love.
The
heart that I drew in poetry class tonight has scars.
My
heart is big, yet it’s fragile. I wish
it was truly as
Tough
as it seems at first glance. Yet I’m
also glad it is
Soft. My sister and I both were told,
“Don’t
give everything away right away.
You
have to barter.” But the eyes of the children
Spoke
to me, told stories that words cannot.
I am
haunted by those unspoken words, and I will
Never
be the same because of them.
In the
early 60s, Dr. King talked about the
“Lonely
Island of Poverty” that the African-American
People
lived in, that he wanted them to overcome.
He had
a dream that one day, we would rise above it,
Rise
above the lines of poverty that divided us.
Islands
of poverty, villages of hungry eyes still
Exist
at home too, yet sometimes,
We’re
content to look the other way.
We
helped the people in Brazil, but maybe,
Those
of us with big fragile hearts can help at
Home.
I Am Poem
I am from Flint, Michigan,
the automobile town, grey and cold.
School was warmth,
neighborhood friends at home were pain.
Family was steady; home
smelled of books. The shelves
in our house were candy
stores to me. I learned, maybe
too much at times.
Even then, sometimes lonely and misunderstood.
Fantasy worlds, both in
movies and books. A Wrinkle in Time,
Neverending Story, The Last
Unicorn. I wanted to go to Narnia,
To enchanted forests, back
in time to Rome and Greece.
Lucky for me, I
could. Even then, I cried too much.
I learned to dry the tears,
“you’re too sensitive,” they’d say.
I cried, but then I got
tough, strong. I made good grades,
and I knew life would one
day be better, mostly better.
Atlanta, Georgia.
Braces. Jaw surgery. Sweltering heat.
Middle school track star,
high school drama and chorus nerd.
Mostly A student, had both
preppy friends and misfit friends.
Learned to adapt, to
connect. Like a pot of water that’s slow to
Heat, yet bubbly once you
get it warm. Summer writing camps
And life long
friends. Felt less misunderstood, more normal.
College at UGA: parties, started
drinking, started praying.
Best friends in the musty
old dorm called Rutherford.
Read many books and wrote
many essays and poems.
At 21, taught high school
students. Had to grow up fast.
Too fast, perhaps.
Started master’s classes at 22.
What do you want to do with
your life, they’d ask.
I want to write and
travel. That’s not the responsible
Choice, they’d say.
Had to grow up fast. Too fast.
Early to mid twenties:
South Atlanta: taught kids,
Drank to excess with young
friends, traveled, dated,
Loved. Love failed,
but friendship remained.
Graded paper after
paper. Grew tired, worked in
Texas in 2006, where I came
to my own once again.
Then moved back to the
north side, taught middle school.
Kids who would change me
forever, mostly for the better.
Early 30s: Needed a change,
moved to Athens,
Started a Ph.D. program,
friends and professors
Made me think, made me
question everything.
Felt disconnected from some
friends in Atlanta,
But tried to keep them in
my life,
At times almost to a fault.
Reading, thinking,
theorizing, feeling, wanting connection.
Thinking, Writing, being
truly challenged for the first time.
Good restaurants, great
friends, understanding bosses
For the first time,
professors who want what’s best for me.
One is like my dad, one is
like my mom. The others
My aunts or big
sisters. Push me, but still love me.
I’m allowed to be great but
not perfect.
I don’t have to be
perfect. I learn for the first time.
I’m still
exceptional. I will be my own me,
Not the shadow of my mom
and dad, already published.
Pressure is
dissipating. I’m my own me, my own writer,
My own creative thinker, my
own future professor.
Wanting to marry another
academic, another writer.
Not sure what that side of
my future holds.
Curious, but no longer
afraid. I can stand alone
And not be lonely because
people here care.
Cousins love me, their
house in Atlanta
Is home for me. Love
my parents,
But Texas is not
home. Atlanta and Athens
Are my two homes, and I
love both for different reasons.
Atlanta my past, Athens the
ticket to my future.
I invite my friends and
family to my home in Athens.
We drink wine, talk, play
silly but fun card games
Until late at night.
One Atlanta friend who I could have
Loved not longer
cares. But I have to move forward.
Dating new boys, trying to
find love, yet I already have
Love, just not the kind you
find in storybooks.
I love Freire, children’s
books, deep discussions with
People who actually seem to
know where I am from
Mentally and emotionally,
and I don’t have to be perfect.
I can just be
me.
100 percent Cultural Me Poem
6% Episcopalian
who questions and who feels closer to God on the beach, in Piedmont Park, or on
the beltline than in some church buildings
4% Feminist who
wants equal rights
7% Western
European American with fair skin and blue eyes
3% Eastern
European American, curly dark hair with red and blond highlights
10% Writer with
an artistic soul, notices everything, tries to find the beauty in it
5% outgoing
personality who loves communication studies and communication-based theories
5% Southern
roots, southern meals with the family, southern hospitality
5% Midwesterner
by birth, Midwesterner by attitude, Midwesterner by accent or lack thereof
10% Liberal who
wants equal rights for all, who cares about multicultural education and
literature, and who feels alone in the south
7% Academic
Educator, Teacher Who Writes, Teacher who believes that the best teachers of
writers write themselves, influenced by the Writing Project
3% “student
formally known as gifted” and Governor’s Honors Program “Commie”
5% Dancer with
strained ankles
5% Distance
walker and runner who loves to exercise outside
5%
ADHD/spatially based learning disability (with a learning difference)/”a little
awkward”
5% big sister to
Patty and cousin to Cindy, Kris, and Kat
5% UGA Graduate
Student who studies multicultural children’s literature, critical/new media,
critical pedagogy, and graphic novels
5% daughter to
John and Sarah
5% true friend
to all who invest in me, who will be honest with me, who believe in me, and who
will listen
A Train Migration Down South (Group Poem)
(To the tune of “Walk the Line” by Johnny
Cash)
A
flood of migrants coming in from the south
To
Chicago, from the south we all want out
For
better times, or so says word of mouth
There
ain’t no doubt, we’re gettin’ out.
There's a bunch of racist weirdos in the south
This time I won't come back when I go out
The job market's gone from flooded to a
drought
There ain't no doubt, we're gettin' out
As it turns out, they're also racist in the
north
Although it seems to be of a more subtle sort
We need to do a little more than just pout
There ain't no doubt, we're gettin' out
It's not going to be easy. That's true.
You might find yourself work when the day is
through.
But, you might get arrested before the morning
dew.
There ain't no doubt, we're gettin' out.
You've got to know that hope's on your side.
This move is so our dreams don't have to hide.
For work, I know we're moving on like the
tide.
There ain't no doubt, we're getting’out.
Lonely and Alone
When I
am lonely, I
Dwell
on the past,
Numb
my mind with television,
Eat
too many carbs. I
Feel
empty, like a cup unfilled,
Like a
child not hugged, like a cat unfed.
I
stare at Facebook and Twitter,
Using
words, not feeling heard.
More
connected, maybe, but not happy.
When I
am lonely, I regret.
I look
at photos, wonder what could have been,
Wonder
why it wasn’t.
When I
am lonely, tears sting,
And I
stir late at night in my bed,
Wondering
what my future holds.
When I
am alone, I create.
I put
words to paper, share my ideas.
I will
be read, heard one day, as I make words
into
music. When I am alone,
music
fills my soul, from itunes, and the
depths
of my mind.
Wine
might help me unwind, but it’s not
my addition.
When I
am alone, I read. I go to
New
worlds in my mind, wonder
what
world, what characters I might
once
day create.
When I
am lonely, I am anxious.
When I
am alone, I am a creator
Who
lets her muse sing.
The Dream Journal
I
bought you wanting inspiration, yearning for a place
To
write my ideas that I thought would be my future novel.
Once a
dreamer, now a realist, wondering if your “dream” quotes
Have
been lying to me this whole time.
“Leap
Fearlessly”: When I did last year, I fell on my face.
“Love
with abandon.” What if he doesn’t love
you back? Then what?
“Surrender
your fear.” Fear can be inhibiting. But fear can also keep you in check. For now, I am content to hide in my turtle
shell of shyness until I am once again ready to poke my head out and take more
risks.
“What
is calling you?” What if I don’t want to
answer? And what if it’s more than one
thing? What if it will leave me broke? Some calls should be screened.
“Hold
onto your hope.” Yes, I believe in
hope. But when do you let go, when
something isn’t meant to be? Hope can be
a dangerous thing. But sometimes, even
false hope is better than no hope at all.
“Teach
Kindness.” I believe in kindness. But what if the response to kindness is a
slap? There’s only so many times you can
turn the other cheek without it spewing blood, or wrecking my jaw that took
braces and thousands of dollars to fix so I would look “normal.” Eventually, I have to hit back, instead of
once again turning.
“Feel
the possibilities.” What if I’m afraid
that mine are becoming more limited?
Begin
today. “Every new beginning comes from
some other beginning’s end.” Maybe hope
and dreams should begin again too. The
woman on the face of the journal looks so kind.
There’s something in her eyes, something gentle, something I wish I
still had. I wonder if I will get it
back.
The Not Feeling Loved Story of Tiger the
White Cat
You
left me.
You
said you were just on vacation,
But in
my world, your three days feels like three months.
I was
alone, with nothing but a dirty bowl of water
And
too much food, which I ate too quickly, which is why
I
threw up on our carpet. You whine about
cleaning it up,
But
it’s your own damn fault for leaving me alone with too much food
And
not enough love.
You
hurt my feelings, so I threw up.
I am
the great Tiger, your cat white as a fluffy cloud.
I
should be your number one priority.
I am
sad you declawed me, but I guess it was for your own good.
If I
still had my claws, you would have experienced them
When
you got home from your so-called vacation.
You
came home smelling like a dirty dog, so I think you cheated on me,
At
least in your heart.
You’re
lucky I couldn’t figure out how to escape out of the window.
If I
could have figured it out, then I would have cheated on you.
Even
though I am neutered, I can still mark on another human
And
make her mine. So don’t get on your high
horse, lady.
I love
you, but it’s partly just because you feed me.
You’d
better give me treats and some extra rubs
This
week. Otherwise, I will run out that
front door,
As
soon as you are not looking. Or I’ll
jump off the back patio.
I do
have nine lives, after all. And your
fluffy TJ will be gone,
Or
maybe he’ll just come back a dirty white mess.
Either
way, you will suffer. I am the king of
the house,
And I
will once again reign.
My Daughter’s Wedding Day
I
guess I should have known,
Being
teens in the late 60s and all.
Change.
Rebellion. Moving forward.
Leaving
the cozy nest.
Yet
there’s irony in this story.
This
isn’t what I wanted for her,
Getting
married this young.
She
hasn’t finished college yet.
Only
20 years old. I was 26,
Practically
an old maid during the war days.
My
daughter was supposed to be something,
Far
before I was. She had that chance.
Now,
I’m afraid she’ll just be John’s wife.
But
she looks happy.
Maybe
I should focus on her smile,
Eyes
squinting because her smile is so big.
John
is wide-eyed, sometimes so quiet,
But with
a writer’s soul. Smile wide.
Her
dress is too short. She wanted to change
Out of
her fancy dress. That’s fine.
But
her dress shows too much leg.
Confetti
flies. They look like kids in a candy
store,
Trying
to decide what sweetness to enjoy first.
I
wonder if they know that marriage is more like
An
ocean than a lake, some days calm and serene,
Other
days rough, when the tide and the wind roll in.
They’re
so young. They’ve lived so little. I hope
The
rough tide doesn’t knock them over,
Crashing
salt and sand into their child-like wide eyes.
But
maybe it’ll be different. Maybe they’ll
Have a
rolling river and not a rough ocean
On a
stormy day, like Jack and I did.
How
funny, my daughter married a John,
Her
father was also John. I wish he was
here,
But I
believe he was watching. Maybe she
married young
As a
way of bringing her dad back, at least a younger,
Blonder
version of her dad. Same creativity,
same
Writer’s
soul, only quieter. Maybe his silence
Will
be a springboard for her words. She
Likes
to say them and to write them. Maybe
That’s
why they work. They both love words.
One
loves to speak and write them, the other,
To
write and to ponder them.
I hope
they have calm days lying in the sunny sand,
Long
before the crashing waves hit.
Forgive
Forgiving
is not forgetting. It’s simply moving
on.
It’s
knowing that while you drive on a mountain,
It’s
not always safe to turn around and go back.
You
have to keep driving, until you get to the top,
Or at
least to a roundabout, especially late at night
While
it’s raining. It’s been a rainy night
for a while,
Now
the sun is shining, the sky is clearing.
I can
see my journey better now. I had
A
destination in mind, so I drove too fast.
You
weren’t a very good navigator,
But
you haven’t driven down this road
Many
times either. I forgive you.
Next
time, I should bring a map
And
written directions, so even if I can’t see
Clearly,
I’ll have back up directions.
The
road to true love is sometimes the most
Winding,
most rocky road it is.
I wish
it had been simple. I look at Mom and
Dad’s
wedding photo from the early 70s and wonder,
It
happened sooner for them, why later for me?
Sometimes,
it doesn’t seen fair, but Mom has told
Me
since I was five that life isn’t always fair.
I’ve
had many great road trips in my life.
The
one to love has just been especially rough.
But
maybe, when I get to the destination,
I’ll
realize what the journey meant, how it helped me
Grow,
how I had to drive the winding road to learn
Who I
really am.
Questioning
the Ocean Blue (Group Poem)
In
1492, Columbus In
1492, Columbus
sailed
the ocean blue sailed
the ocean blue
...and
then we got screwed
He
discovered something new
No,
he didn’t.
and
expanded the world;
brought
us to new islands
and
cut off arms for gold
Opening
the doors for
American
democracy,
...by
closing the doors to a People’s future
we
celebrate his name
a
villainous fame,
he
made us who we are today he
made us who we are today
Hiding Behind
the Window (Group Poem)
Night
sky, dark like a cheating man’s heart,
paints
the backdrop of this dinner for desperation
Man’s
eyes, empty as a begger’s bucket
Longing
for his wife’s eyes to connect with his.
Black
eyes, cloud white faces swarming;
A
cluster of carolers,
yet
their tune is somber.
Butterfly,
wings spread wide,
like a
hungry child
who
cries for his mother,
hungry
as the black eyes of unfed children outside.
Painted
angel, calm as a half moon on a clear night
Hangs
on the wall, watching, wondering.
Goat,
chocolate eyes serene as a muddy lake
when
the wind refuses to blow,
Consoled
by oriental flowers and jazz music.
Candle,
flames sways, like a hot salsa dance
between
new lovers.
How to Marry Heart and Controversy
Give
them poetry that presses its ear against the heartbeat of humanity
Allow
students to crawl inside their own lives
Give
voices to those who usually don’t find their way
Equip
students to talk back to the world through the power of language
Connects
with emotions
Develops
empathy with others
Explores
the pain of others to open doors
Investigates
our own lives
Copes
with problems
Figures
things out
Connects
with others
Provides
comfort
But what if it offends
people?
You have
to learn how to tactfully disagree with others
I don’t want my child to be
exposed to such things.
Trust
your teachers to know their students.
Exposure to terrible things
ruins innocence.
It’s all
about the context in which you present it.
Numbing
the pain only makes it worse when you experience it
I’ve
never known a written story to hurt a child. Only life hurts people.
Pretty
Plus
Pretty
Plus Clothes Section
I was
a little kid,
But
even then, you know that “plus”
doesn’t
always mean positive.
I
hated that label, but I hated “brace face”
more.
Now,
my teeth are straight
and
I’m a “normal size,”
an
“average weight.”
Not
small, but not “plus” either.
I can
wear clothes in the “normal” section.
Yes,
it reassures me,
but
what does normal mean anyway,
beyond
a social construction
of a
size a woman should be?
Why
should I have to have “straight teeth”
and
wear clothes not on the “pretty plus”
rack
for you to tell me I’m pretty or sexy?
If I
were a man, would you comment on my size,
or on
my teeth?
Now
that I fit your definition
of
normal weight and straight teeth,
you
tell me I’m funny, smart, creative, energetic, kind.
I was
all of these things when I was “pretty plus”
and
“brace face,” but you didn’t take the time
to talk to me, to know me.
So I
vanished behind books, solitude, sadness.
The
written word became my solace,
and I
learned I can write,
I can
tell stories, I can express with words.
Now, I
study words and how to teach them,
I live
and breathe my passion, and soon, the
label
you will give me is Dr.
or Pretty
PLUS PhD.
Gabourey
Sidibe’s response to cruel Twitter remarks: “To people making mean comments about my GG pics, I mos def cried about it
on that private jet on my way to my dream job last night. #JK"
The Songs After the Storm
Rain
leaves Athens, and the birds sing.
Tweets
are high pitched and shrill,
Music
bottled in during the storm.
Humans
dread rainy days. Maybe birds do too.
Birds
sing louder when the rain and storms leave.
We
dread the rain, yet it nurtures us, gives us clear water
That
purifies us, body and soul. We can’t
live without
Water,
yet we fear it will chill us, slow us down.
But
maybe we need to slow down, drink hot
Coffee
and tea and listen to the rain patter on the
Roof
and windows. The most beautiful moments
In
life are after the rain, as the wet smell lingers, the
Last
drops patter from the tall trees, the sun re-rises,
Music
fills the air, fresh flower scents waft.
Squirrels
peak back from the bushes,
Sky
turns from grey to blue splashed with gold.
The
after rain smell reminds us that storms
Are
not forever, and life is about the balance of grey and light,
Sun
and water, songs and silence.
The
Poets at Heart
By Margaret Robbins
For JoBeth
Allen
There
are people who write poetry,
and
there are the poets at heart.
The
poets at heart don’t just write poetry;
they
live and breathe it,
and
poetry is a way of life,
not just
words on a page.
The
poets at heart, like the teachers at heart,
offer
everyone a smile
Are firm
when the need arises, but speak softly
as they
carry big sticks.
See a
rhythm in life, like iambic pentameter,
Knowing
that to everything,
There is
a season, and a time
for
every purpose under heaven.
Yet they
know when injustice exists,
And are
a presence and a force against it.
They are
the ones who come to protest marches
“Up with
education, down with segregation.”
The
poets at heart see the beauty in nature,
in small
objects, in photos, and
Their
description shows this beauty
The
poets at heart teach figurative language
Without
counting the similes and metaphors.
Poetry
is the soul in someone’s eyes,
The
heart in her voice.
Poetry
is not just the tree,
but the
breeze that sways its leaves,
The
roots that dig it into the ground, the years that have
Weathered
its bark,
the
rickety fence that keeps it safe.
Poetry
is not just the shy girl
with
tethered clothes
Who sits
in the back of the room,
trying
to avert attention,
But the
heart she draws and the images inside.
The
secrets she wants to tell,
but
isn’t ready to utter aloud.
Maybe
one day, her poem will whisper them.
Poetry
is people’s true stories,
deeper
than a first glance
Poetry
is heart and love.
Poetry
should be taught by the poets at heart,
And I
was lucky enough to have
a poet at heart as my teacher this year.
Thank
you, JoBeth. Poetry for Educators,
Spring 2014
Easter Weekend at the Texas Baby Boomer House
Glass of
white wine for happy hour,
Glass of
red for dinner,
Because
we like to double fist it
On
holiday weekends.
Mom
makes me King Salmon from Alaska
and egg
roles or crab cakes. She knows my
favorites.
Dad buys
fine wine
Because
he’s glad to have me home.
I look
at him, see a male image of me
34 years
older. It bodes well for my future.
Blue
eyes wizened with age, streaks of silver in
Brown
curls, but still a lot of me there.
With
mom, it’s the eyes and nose shape.
They’re
aging, but still young at heart.
They
laugh and smile at stories of my grad
School
friends. They remember, sometimes wish
They
were still there.
On
cloudy Texas afternoons when I can
Smell
the rain coming in,
I walk
to my water fall,
My place
of peace, the place where the
Water
falls into the stream, and I am reminded
That
there’s a natural rhythm to life, a purpose.
Not all
goes as planned sure, and disappointment
Makes
his nasty appearance, like the wrinkles
Under my
still young eyes that I cover with a small
Amount
of “concealer” make-up.
Disappointment
might win battles,
But He
won’t win the war. The waterfall
Gives me
peace, the strength to go on,
To keep
writing my own story while reading
Those of
my friends.
Home
from the walk, Mom makes
Me
coffee from central market,
The
place of fresh food.
I pour
my cream, hear the spoon clank
On the
coffee cup,
Sit
outside on the overcast
Porch to
write my poems, slap
The bugs
as they try to suck my blood.
I wonder
about the future, but no longer
Worry. Mom and Dad met in the summer of
1967,
their summer of love. They were just
kids;
Mom was still a teenager. I’m sure then
They never
knew they’d be in Texas
Twenty-something
years later. They thought they’d live
In North
Carolina forever, maybe, not Europe, then
Savannah,
then Michigan, then Georgia, then off
To Texas
they went.
They
went where the tide of live took them,
Open to
the pull of the water’s current.
They
knew there was a reason,
Even
though we didn’t walk into a church
Building
or a synagogue this holy weekend.
To me,
water is always holy.
It
reminds me that the real meaning of Easter
Is
rebirth.
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