Saturday, December 31, 2016

#haikuforhealing, #31!

may next year begin 
as the last ended- books, friends
laughter, adventure


BACKSTORY: This is four of the six members of my bookclub. We have been together for about twenty years, and truthfully, at this point, we do a lot more laughing and drinking wine than we do talking about books (although all of us do read a lot). This morning, we took a class on New Year's tapas at Sur La Table. I'm not much of a cook, ok, actually I'm not a cook at all, but it was a really fun way to end the year, trying something new with dear friends. 

Friday, December 30, 2016


"pure joy"

such a lucky find
half a cheeseburger, age unknown
dog heaven, for sure


BACKSTORY:  There's a verse in the Bible, in the book of James that says, "Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance." (James 1:2-3). When I try to live that verse, I always think about dogs. Dogs, in my opinion, are a perfect example of pure joy. It takes so little to make them happy.

Take this morning, for instance. Star had an appointment at the vet at 9:00. It's not very far away, only a little over a mile, so I decided that we would walk. Along the way, there's one pretty busy street, with a large median, where homeless people often stand with their signs. Star and I were crossing that median when she suddenly stopped, and almost yanked my arm out of the socket. She had found a cheeseburger. Half eaten, age unknown, but who cared. It was hers now. She hoovered it down before I could get it out of her mouth. All joy!!! The circumstances were unimportant. Count it all joy!!!


As anyone who reads this blog knows, I'm a first round CYBILS poetry judge. Since mid-October, I've been reading poetry and novels in verse. We are wrapping up our duties- we have actually  chosen the books that will be sent on to the second round and now we are just waiting for those choices to be announced. We had 40 books this year, and almost half were novels in verse. I read every single one (so why does Good Reads say I only read three books this year- note to self: must keep more careful records)!

FALLING INTO THE DRAGON'S MOUTH is one that I'm definitely looking forward to sharing with kids. Jason Thompson is a sixth grader, who has moved to Japan with his parents, who are teachers, and his younger sister, Cora. When the book opens, Jason's class is getting a new seating arrangement.
We draw numbers 
picking slips of folded paper
from Oshima Sensei's box
matching them to a map of desks
to find our han--
      the group we'll
      sit with
      clean with
      study with
      for the next
      two months

I hope for at least
one friend
and by friend
I don't mean
what I used to mean by friend
before I moved to Japan
before I started here
at this school once called
Dragon's Mount

by friend I just mean
anyone who doesn't
punch me
for using the wrong word
kick me
for having an accent
or call me
Stinking Foreigner

Jason's hopes are dashed when he is seated at Han Six with Shunta, Go, Yuka, Naho, and Mika, who are six of the biggest bullies in the sixth grade. The five harass Jason constantly- both at school and when they see him around town after school and on weekends. Jason finds some comfort in aikido.

at the dojo
you bow to enter
and on the mats,
you kneel, you meditate
you hold your one-point center
even when Yamada-sensei
pushes your forehead to test you…

and what matters most
through every move and fall
is you keep firm
you stay in control
you hold your center

He befriends Takemura-San, an elderly gentleman who suffers from Parkinson's disease. He babysits Cora and takes her on adventures around the city. Nevertheless, the bullying continues, and by the end of the book, escalates from cruel to dangerous.

DRAGON'S MOUTH would provide a terrific platform for talking about bullying, or about how we treat people who are different.

Holly wrote a series of 30 companion poems, about the city of K, where Holly lives, and where DRAGON'S MOUTH is set. You can read those poems HERE. It would be fun to read these either before DRAGON'S MOUTH, or one at a time, along with the story. 

Donna, at Mainely Write, is hosting the POETRY FRIDAY PARTY today.

Thursday, December 29, 2016


cinema or print
nothing like a story
to heal a hurting heart


OR maybe

cinema or print
nothing like a story
escape for hurting heart


Wednesday, December 28, 2016


London Book Festival, 2012

lost in a great book
characters my companions
no need to send map


Tuesday, December 27, 2016


fear masked as anger
siamese twin emotions
conjoined at the heart




I love 'em.

What could be better than coming home after a long day knowing that there is something homemade in the refrigerator?

And all you have to do is throw it in a pan for a few minutes, or put it on a plate in the microwave.

Five or ten minutes and you have a hot homemade dinner.

Take today for instance. I had driven my weekly 130 mile round trip to see my mom. Traffic was heavy, especially on the way home, when rush hour in Denver was compounded by the fact that a Chili's restaurant had caught fire, just a few miles west of the interstate I was on. The usual 75 minute drive took almost two hours.

But it was ok, because I knew dinner was waiting. Leftover turkey, a little stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, some cranberries. If I wanted to be healthy, I could make a green salad. Or not. Either way, dinner was waiting.

Other nights, there might be leftover meatloaf. Or spaghetti. Or mac and cheese. So what if it was the same thing we had eaten the night before or even for two nights in a row? Dinner is waiting.

Much better than coming home and trying to figure out something to cook, then messing around in the kitchen for an hour cooking and cleaning up, knowing the dog is waiting to be walked, and I still have 25 persuasive essays to read.

Much healthier and cheaper than fast food.

Much classier than a peanut butter sandwich.

There's only problem at my house.

My sons don't like leftovers.

"We had turkey last night," they moan.

"We've eaten lasagna three times this week," they protest.

"Do you think this spaghetti will give us food poisoning?" my younger son has the nerve to ask.

I choose not to respond to them.

Instead, I slap my third turkey dinner this week onto a plate and shove it into the microwave.

Let them eat cereal, if they want.

I choose to enjoy my leftovers!

Monday, December 26, 2016


lonely pushes in
just after dark has entered
unwelcome house guest



Nick Hall is an eighth grader. A really smart eighth grader who loves soccer and hates school. Unfortunately, he has a father who is a linguistics professor afflicted with chronic verbomania* (he loves words so much that he has written a dictionary, Weird and Wonderful Words, which he is forcing Nick to read, one letter at a time). Of course, Nick's father is much more interested in developing his son's cognitive abilities than in supporting Nick's passion for soccer. 

Most of Nick's problems are typical middle school problems-- a budding interest in a girl, the school bullies, Don and Dean Eggleston, twins who steal Nick's bike, preparing for an upcoming soccer tournament.  At least most of his problems are typical until his parents inform him they are separating and his mother is leaving the state to return to her first love, training horses. And of course the book has a couple of caring adults- one of whom happens to be a former Grammy-winning rapper turned school librarian, Mr. MacDonald. 

What's not typical about this book are Kwame Alexander's poems. Alexander uses a zillion different poetic forms- including free verse, acrostics, found poems, and lots of others. Alexander also uses tons of  interesting and unusual vocabulary- codswalloped, limerence, cacchinate.

This book has been a huge hit at school. I read this in October, then put it out in the fifth grade classroom where I was substituting. I haven't seen it since- I had to check it out of the library because I wanted to reread it to write my review. 

*a love of words

GARVEY'S CHOICE, by Nikki Grimes, is another book that features a main character who doesn't live up to his father's expectations. Garvey's father dreams of having a football playing athlete of a son, but Garvey is a slightly overweight, space-loving guy whose older sister often steps in to protect her brother from her father's sports mania.

Garvey feels less than adequate, until a friend tells him to "Choose the name you answer to. No one can do that but you." Garvey finds his "name" in the school choir, and ultimately earns his father's respect. 

Another terrific novel in verse, done all in tanka, syllable pattern of 5-7-5-7-7. 

Sunday, December 25, 2016


"On plunging from Super Bowl Champs to No Playoffs/Other Life Events

harder to have had
and lost, or harder to dream
but never have at all?

BACKSTORY: As much as I don't like the idea of all the head banging, I am still a huge Bronco fan. This year has been a little disappointing, including tonight, when even our star defense couldn't get the job done.  At the same time, I can't help but think of how many years we have had playoff teams. You just can't win every year.  We'll be back, I'm pretty sure next year. And there are lots and lots of cities that have teams that NEVER make the playoffs. 

On a completely different level, several good friends have lost spouses/family members recently. And I've thought a lot about them and about my own situation of never being married. I wonder which is harder- living forever by yourself, or living with someone else, and then having them gone. I'm not sure. 


Whoops, I put this on Twitter, but forgot to publish it here last night.

From Wikimedia
on this silent night, 
rejoice, emmanuel has come 
joy to the world

Friday, December 23, 2016


BACK STORY: This morning, Margaret Simon, at Reflections on the Teche lifted a line from Jane Yolen, "I know you by what you hold, and wrote this, a kind of a love poem for her husband of 34 years:

Peanut, the dog’s ball–
I know you by what you hold–
Lightbulb, fruit, my heart.
–Margaret Simon

For some reason, this poem made me think of my oldest son. When we became a family, one of the first things he wanted to know was whether he could play on football team. I'm not a huge fan of people banging their heads against other people's heads, but he love, love, loved football, and for many years, football was how he defined himself. And he was really good at it. I rarely saw him without a football in his hands

School was never that easy for him, and he hated it. His dream, though, was to play in the NFL and so he knew he had to go to college. He started at a junior college, and promptly tore his ACL. He never played again.

Without football, he is lost. For the past three years, he has just kind of bounced from meaningless job to meaningless job. Today he quit another one. Evenings, he fills the emptiness with various forms of substance abuse.  And I don't know how to reach him or support him, or help him get back on track.

"I Knew You By What You Held"
Footballs. Forever.
But now nothing. Your empty
hands make my heart ache.
(c) Carol Wilcox


I am a first round CYBILS poetry judge. We have read almost forty books, about half of which are novels in verse. We'll make our selections in the next week, then send five to seven books on to the second round judges.

Yesterday, I read TO STAY ALIVE: Mary Ann Graves and the Tragic Journey of the Donner Party, by Skila Brown.  TO STAY ALIVE tells the story of the Donner Party, a group of 87 people that left Illinois, headed for California, in Spring, 1846. The story is told from the point of view of Mary Ann Graves, a 19-year-old woman, who is with her family (mother, father, older sister, brother-in-law, seven younger brothers and sisters, and a hired hand.

The trip starts out with great promise.

"New Dress"

It's finished.
     The travel dress
thick and crisp and green,
     white buttons in a line,
a bright stiff collar, perched high.
     It's a dress for an adventure,
a dress ready for
     whatever it will face.
Strongly stitched, unspoiled, new,
     well made,
It is meant to endure.

The trip is not easy, however, and becomes deadly when the family elects to take a shortcut.

"That Night"
We'll take a shortcut, pass south
under Salt Lake," Father says
that night around the fire. "Plenty of time
to cross the Sierra Nevada before
the end of fall."
Mother asks, "Who else is going?"
Father swats at a fly, replies, "No one
from here. They'll all be going north.
But there's a group ahead. If we leave tomorrow,
we should be able to catch up."
Mother doesn't answer, but I do.
     "It's a good plan," I say. "The sooner, the better."
Mother gives me a strange look, but Father only smiles.
"Had enough of this adventure, have you?"
     "This isn't an adventure," I say.
     "It's a journey of monotony and dust and sore feet."
Father laughs and laughs.
      I say, "I'm ready for California.
      To be at the foot of those mountains.
      That's when the adventure,
      truly will begin."

Father doesn't say anything.
His smile lingers
even though his laugh
has died.

The shortcut proves much more difficult than the party had planned. Food and water run short. People begin to argue among themselves. The weather turns cold, and then it begins to snow.

"The Wind"
The wind will not stop
breathing down hard upon us,
trying to turn us aside,
push us back down the mountain
with its cutting breath.
It breathes right through
my dress-- once too stiff,
thick for summer's heat now--
too thin, not enough.

It roars and moans,
picks up snow from the ground,
spits it in my face,
trying to get our attention,
but we tuck down our chins,
squeeze tight our eyes,
vow it will not be heard.

Ultimately, the party is forced to take shelter in some makeshift cabins, and then send forth a few members on snowshoes, made out of oxen's yoke, to look for help. Ultimately, less than half of the Donner party actually makes it to California. Back matter includes a map, a list of party members, and an epilogue.

A riveting read about the choices humans make when faced with survival.

If you want to know more about the Donner party, you could start by reading the Wikipedia entry.

Buffy Silverman is hosting the Poetry Friday Roundup this week.

Thursday, December 22, 2016


"false impressionism"

watercolor sky
suggests mild temperature
toes know otherwise

Wednesday, December 21, 2016


teacher, watch tiny
seed you planted and watered
grow to full glory

teacher, watch tiny
seed you planted and watered
grow to  full glory   fruition


cup your palms gently
you hold sacred baby dreams dream bubbles
do not pop them

I'm always struck, as I watch different kids, by how their unique talents emerge in different settings. Last night, I talked to V, one of the smartest, most amazing kids I have ever known. His first language is Spanish. His dad is a construction worker. His mom is a child care provider. He has two younger brothers and sisters. He is attending one of the toughest high schools in our district. And getting straight A's. He told me that School of Mines has already contacted him, even though he's only a sophomore. They want to give him a scholarship. He thinks this relatively small school, close to home, might be a good fit. 

And I watched A, who has struggled mightily with behavior challenges since a beloved grandmother died a year ago, as he performed in the music program. He was a star, singing and marching, and playing the recorder. E, who stood right next to him, is a third grader reading at a first grade level. I was helping organize the third graders, and right before they went on stage, D, who is one of the brightest kids in third grade, turned and said to me, "I'm really glad I get to stand next to E because he's a great singer." E beamed.

This morning I typed a fairy tale (shhh, don't tell!) that S plans to wrap and give to her family for a Christmas gift. S, who has also not quite figured out the reading thing yet, is a terrific artist and spent most of the day illustrating her book, then we stood outside in the wind after school so she could read it to me. Her pictures were absolutely beautiful, and I told her she needed to save the book, so that when she is a famous illustrator, she can put her second grade work on her website. 

And I was struck by all the tiny baby dreams we hold in our hands every single day. Such a privilege, this work we do! 


"when the high schoolers come to visit" holiday program tentatively, they trickle in welcome home, dear friends!

Last night was our holiday program. I love any program that involves kids and singing (should I admit that after 30 years, I still tear up pretty much every program??) and last night was no exception. Besides the singing, and the cute clothes, and the proud parents and grandparents, I love the high school kids.

Yep! Tons of our kids, graduated a year or two or three ago, that come back to see younger brothers and sisters. Most of them kind of trickle in, a little shy, a little unsure, but pretty much all glad to be "home."

And we are so, so, so glad to have them! We celebrate their successes, dust off their dreams, and then hug them, and send them on their way out into the big wide world again.

So grateful for the privilege of working in a place that kids call home!

So grateful for the privilege of teaching!

Monday, December 19, 2016


No one ever told me that parenting almost adults is way, way, way harder 
and scarier and lonelier than parenting little guys. 

"On Waiting for My Almost Grown Sons to Come Home at Night"
A decade ago
I tucked them in, slipped downstairs,
Now I wait and pray.


"On Waiting for My Almost Grown Sons to Come Home at Night"

when they were young
stories and kisses were enough
i long for those days.

Sunday, December 18, 2016


calendar insists
three more days, exhausted teachers
ponder eternity

Revised on Monday night:
calendar commands
three more days, an eternity
to tired teachers

Saturday, December 17, 2016


From the Denver Post, December 17, 2016, -3 degrees when I was shoveling

"Shoveling Six Inches of Snow on A Frigid Saturday Morning"

I have cleared a path
Brought cleanness and clarity
to a messy world

(c) Carol Wilcox, 2016

Friday, December 16, 2016


Dan Rather has alays been, for me, a voice of reason, and even more so in this time of complete and utter craziness. This morning, he posted this poem on Facebook.

Such truth in such a time of darkness. 

To sin by silence when we should protest
makes cowards out of men. The human race
Has climbed on protest. Had no voice been raised
Against injustice, ignorance and lust,
The inquisition yet would serve the law.
And guillotines decide our least disputes.
The few who dare must speak and speak again,
To right the wrongs of many.
                        —Ella Wheeler Wilcox

And it seems somehow right that Tabatha, at The Opposite of Indifference, is hosting Poetry Friday today. 


Oops, put this on twitter last night, forgot to put it here. 

Dear poetry fairy
my page is so empty, please 
sprinkle poem dust here. 

Wednesday, December 14, 2016


"middle school lunch duty"

when they cannot last
any longer, their darkest
secrets spill over

I offer crumpled
tissue from my coat pocket
we are friends for life

(c) Carol Wilcox

Tuesday, December 13, 2016


"on meeting a panhandler at the bus stop at dawn"

tattered glove, palm up
coffee should be a human right
i dig deep for change


Haiku for healing

Yesterday, I posted on Twitter, but forgot to post this here.

Heidi Mordhorst wrote this:
note to self:
hurrying towards everything
I hurt someone

I lifted her idea and wrote this.
hurrying through life
thoughtless actions unkind words
leave behind soul scars

Sunday, December 11, 2016


Couldn't get rid of enough words to get a haiku, so a tanka will have to do.


She lays at my hip,
snoring blissfully, dreaming
of counter snatching
leash yanking, trash tipping days--
checkered history, now past.

(C) Carol Wilcox, 2016

Or wait, maybe I can…

she snores- leash yanking,
trash tipping, counter snatching,
checkered history.

(C) Carol Wilcox, 2016

Back Story: I have had my dog, Star, since she was a puppy. When she was young, she was a typical lab, very friendly and good natured, but also high energy, and constantly into mischief. We went through three different obedience schools and Star still pulls on the leash, and makes 90 degree turns if there is the possibility of a snack. In her younger days, she was notorious for stealing food off the counter (even if the owner had just turned around to get something out of the refrigerator) and tipping over the trash.

Now she is 11, and she has aged noticeably in the past six months. Her muzzle was gray, now the gray and white frame her eys. She's much more mellow. She no longer follows me up and down the stairs, or even from room to room on the same floor. She still loves long walks, but is stiff the next day. And she's much more selective about begging for snacks, or snatching food off the counter. I wonder how long it will be before we have to say goodbye.

Saturday, December 10, 2016


precarious tip
dubious sparkling lights
imperfection reigns

BACKSTORY: My boys went through a lot before I adopted them at ages 7 and 9. They have a lot of bad memories around holidays and the scars run deep. Because of that, our holidays are generally pretty low key. Last year, we didn't even put up the Christmas tree. This year, I decided I was going to put it up no matter what. It didn't go very smoothly. No one wanted to help. I had a hard time hauling the tree from the garage into the house by myself. I couldn't get the top on right. The lights wouldn't work. I couldn't find the hooks for the ornaments. By the end, I was pretty much convinced that somehow the tree is a metaphor for our less than perfect family.

Friday, December 9, 2016


a simple woman
flannel pajamas warm socks
perfect Friday night


Saturday morning redo

such simple pleasure
flannel pajamas warm socks
perfect Friday night



People who have read my blog know I always like a few facts with my poetry. That's probably why I loved JAZZ DAY: THE MAKING OF A FAMOUS PHOTOGRAPH by Roxanne Orgill. JAZZ DAY tells the story, through poetry, of a famous photograph, that was taken in 1958.

An introduction explains the background behind the photograph. Esquire magazine was planning an issue devoted to jazz music. Graphic designer, Art Kane, who was  NOT a photographer and had to borrow a camera to take the picture, decided to gather as many jazz musicians as he could and take a photograph. Kane found a brownstone on a street in Harlem, the magazine put out a call through the musician's union, and history was made. The actual photograph is included in a fold out page in the back of the book.

The story is told through about twenty poems. Some poems capture the big picture.

"The Golden Age of Jazz"
The cover's cerulean
For the special supplement
Esquire, January 1959
Inside, the big picture:
Fifty-seven musicians
All living, all gathered
in black and white
A long August morning
Stretched into the afternoon
Fifty-seven musicians
Standing on a stoop
Spilling on the sidewalk
Still talking
Can you hear the music
Window street brownstone
No sky
Although the sky
Was in fact cerulean
that day

Others are told from the point of view of the musicians that attended the event.

Theolonius Monk
The man from the record company hired a taxi
To pick up Theolonius Sphere Monk
Who had a regular gig with a quartet
At the Five Spot in Cooper Square
Turned them away
Night after night
Monk was always late
For work at the Five Spot
Straight to the piano
To play a melody
His quartet could not follow
Did a dance during Johnny Griffin's solo
Or went for a stroll through the club
Six nights a week Mondays off
Ten in the morning was unspeakably early
For Thelonious Sphere Monk
Who was always
Taxi waited outside his building
On West Sixty-Third
Meter running
An hour and more
While Monk tried on jackets
To complete the perfect outfit
Emerging at last in pale-yellow linen
Skinny tie, dark slacks, porkpie hat
And the inevitable bamboo frame sunglasses
The ones he always wore to play

Several of the poems are told from the point of view of Alfred, a little boy on the street that day.

"Esquire, 60 Cents" 
Alfred, a boy
A dozen nickels saved
A month of matinees
And there I am
In the bottom row
In my suspenders
Next to Nelson and the Count
Holding onto his hat
Leroy in short pants
And the other boys
A whole lot of men
And three women
In their Sunday best
Me, Alfred
With a patch on my knees
But jeez
I'm in a magazine
Back matter includes an author's note, biographies and color photos of about 15 of the more famous musicians, and a page that lists other artistic endeavors- books, movies, etc., that have occurred as a result of the famous photograph.

JAZZ DAY marks illustrator Francisco Vallejo's first foray into picture books. I hope there will be many more because his illustrations (I think they are watercolor) are gorgeous.

Add this book to your reading list for African American history month!

Jone, our fearless CYBILS Poetry Leader has the Poetry Friday Roundup today.

Thursday, December 8, 2016


a gentle dousing
of deep like-minded wisdom
softens soul's hard dirt

Backstory: I totally love my job.  It's such a privilege, every single day, to work with children and teachers, and to know that I am doing something that really, really matters.  At the same time, I can't think of a time in my 30 some-odd years as a teacher, when the job has been harder. Public perceptions, testing and testing and testing, accountability, never ending trackers and data analysis. 

Tonight my district brought in Principal Baruti Kafeli to talk about equity in education. I signed up to go about a week ago, but then waffled all day today. It's super cold, right around zero, and the roads are icy. I was seriously considering just heading for home, but then, at the last minute, I decided to go. I'm so glad I did! His words really fed my parched soul.

Very thankful to have had this experience!

Wednesday, December 7, 2016


"States of Matter"

steaming liquid melts 
solid icicle fingers
blood remembers veins 

(C) Carol Wilcox, 2016

Back Story: Brrr!!! It's cold in Denver today!!!! 

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Haiku for Healing

heavy eyes signal
sleep chariot approaches
time to climb aboard

Monday, December 5, 2016

#haikuforhealing #6

autumns screen door bangs
one final time insistent
winter rushes in 

Sunday, December 4, 2016

4- #haikuforhealing

Golden Retrievers are my absolute favorite dog, but I have never owned a purebred dog.
This puppy is from the Warrior Canine Connection. The WCC breeds labs and goldens, which are then trained by veterans and used as service dogs for veterans.

Two haiku for tonight.

cold wet nose presses
against my hand reminding 
me all will be well


your golden advice
a long walk always makes
everything better

BACK STORY: For about the past twenty years, I have had a dog or two. First here was Ramsey- a golden retriever mix, then Maggie- a yellow lab, Star - a black lab mix, Jack Black- a rottweiler mix, Boo- my mom's maltese. No matter what kind of day I have had, or how crazy life gets, there is always at least one constant. The dog needs to be walked. And somehow, after a walk, life usually seems much more manageable. 

Saturday, December 3, 2016

#3 #haikuforhealing

surprised by red
cardinals parading through
blue gray winter drifts

(C) Carol Wilcox

Backstory: I've been trying, pretty unsuccessfully so far, to participate in Mary Lee's #haikuforhealing. This morning, (when I was supposed to be getting ready to teach a class at 12:30), I  started poking around with the hashtag #haikuforhealing and discovered that lots of people are participating on Twitter. Some are participating by lifting a line from other poets. I wondered if I could do that.

 At Margaret Simon's Reflections on the Teche, I found my line. Margaret wrote about a plant on her back porch:
surprised by red
a glow of Christmas paper
wrapped in a flower
–Margaret Simon

 Red is my absolute  favorite color. And I loved the line, "surprised by red." I wondered if there was a time when I had been "surprised by red." And I remembered living in New Hampshire. The winters were so long and cold and snowy. And they lasted forever! I live in Colorado. We have, or used to have, cold, snowy winters, but they are really different. A week of frigid temperatures is often followed by an interlude of days in the fifties. And gray days are followed by brilliant blue skies. New Hampshire winters were endless snow and cold. By February, I was longing for color. One day, I was doing dishes, looking out the window. Four or five cardinals had landed in a tree in my front yard and were feasting on seed that a neighbor had put out. I was definitely surprised, or maybe even astonished by all that red! And there was today's #haikuforhealing! Thank you Margaret!

astonished by red
cardinals parading through
blue gray winter drifts

(C) Carol Wilcox

Friday, December 2, 2016

#2 #hugejoy


Princess drags rhinestoned
slippers from purple backpack
adjusts tiara
and prepares to pirouette
at most improved reader ball

(C) Carol Wilcox, 2016

Backstory: I thought I was going to write under the hashtag #smallkindness, but today I have to write about huge joy. This afternoon was our end-of-trimester awards assembly. One of my intervention students was selected as "Most Improved Third Grade Reader." Usually, the kids don't find out what awards they have won until the assembly, but somehow, she discovered earlier this week that she was going to win this award. She was absolutely beside-herself thrilled (so was her reading teacher!). This morning, when I walked in the door to work with her group, she immediately dragged me out into the hall. "I have something to show you," she said, opening her locker and pulling out her purple backpack. Somewhere, maybe from her ninth grade sister's middle school graduation, she had gotten a pair of sparkly, rhinestoned silver high-heeled sandals.  "I'm ready for the assembly," she told me. "I'm getting dressed up." And sure enough, when it was time for the assembly, she teetered across the stage in her too-big sparkly sandals. Such huge joy!

Thursday, December 1, 2016


My friend Mary Lee over at Year of Reading is writing #haikuforhealing throughout the month of December. I told her I would try to write with her… I don't know if I have 31 haiku in me, so instead, in a world that seems far less than kind, I'm trying to collect the small kindnesses that come my way.

And I didn't pull off a haiku today, so a tanka will have to do.

Frigid predawn gray
Collarless bulldog dodges
rush hour madness
dog angel coaxes frightened
creature to truck's safe haven. 

- Carol Wilcox

Traffic in Denver is crazy, even really early in the morning and late at night. At 6:00 this morning I was headed down a busy city street to work when all of a sudden the delivery truck in front of me came to a full stop. Peering around the truck, I saw a white bulldog, trapped in the middle of the street, frantically dodging the traffic that rushed past him in either way. As I was trying to figure out where I could pull over, the driver in front of me climbed out of his truck, and somehow managed to corral the dog and hoist what looked like at least a 50 pound body into the cab of the truck.

The first small kindness…