Tonight two tankas, stacked on top of each other
"We used to have rain…"
summer afternoons,
free front row seats for lightning
matinees, pounding
thirty-minute deluges,
then glorious gutter splashing.
now, summer downpours
replaced by life in high desert
endless days where skies do not yield
months of high fire alerts
where have all the showers gone?
(c) Carol Wilcox, 2022
My district, like many others in our state, doesn't fund librarians, nor does it require schools to have one. My school does not have a librarian, and hasn't for years, but we have always had a paraprofessional to help shelve books. This year, we don't even have that. Teachers are checking books in and out for their kids, but they don't shelve books, or straighten shelves, or set up displays, or anything like that. I can't stand that our library, which actually has lots and lots of great books, as a result of a lot of grants, isn't being taken care of, so about once a month, I go in and try to straighten it. It's not a solution and it's not sustainable, and the whole time I am there, I'm resenting it, but I keep going, because I can't stand that our library is so unloved.
Tonight's poems are limericks--- three of them.
What a school thinks about its library is a measure of what it feels about education. —Harold Howe
A school once made a decision
To eliminate the library position
Great books it did have
but the library went bad
Clearly a complete lack of vision.
There once was a school with bad scores
Whose stakeholders always wanted more
What they didn’t know
And what made tests scores low
Phonics rich often leads to book poor.
A school its library did close,
Every time a slight need did arose
Meetings and tests mattered more
Then letting kids through the doors
And that's how their reading hearts froze.
“Kindness”
Playground duty.
Her question, among sea
of flying hormones and bouncing balls,
“How’s your grief?”
I look at her. My grief?
No one has asked for months.
People expect me to move on.
They do not want to hear that every night
I seek frantic handholds at the edge
of a deep and endless chasm.
Student needs attention and we move apart.
But all day I dwell in the fragrance
of her sweet and unexpected question.
(C) Carol Wilcox, 2022
“Transformation”
In August, it seemed
unlikely, impossible.
They squirmed and squawked, giggled
gawked, whispered, talked, guffawed,
No hope of retreating into books.
April. Still squirm, squawk,
wiggle, gawk, but also settle.
Sink into seats, open books,
activate hearts and minds,
and read. Daily miracle.
© Carol Wilcox, 2022
I am 63 years old. I think I am supposed to retire soon. But I really, really, really love teaching. I love my sixth graders. They are such goofballs. Today, I went out to pick up my kids after recess, and when I came back, my scissors were padlocked, with a ransom note. The kids laughed all afternoon about that. I confiscated two origami swords, at least until after school, when a full-on sword fight ensued on the playground. And yet, in the same two hours, I explained a caste system, in Spanish, and then during planning time, helped one of my girls call her dad to tell him she really wanted to talk to someone about how sad she is feeling. All in the two-hour period after lunch. Phew!!
I am trying to use form to help me write shorter. This is a nonet, 9 lines, first line-nine syllables, second line- eight, etc. It's hard. This one took me four hours!!!!
I want to teach sixth grade forever
crazy kids pretend they are grown
I recognize imposters.
Silly jokes and belly laughs,
fidgeting fingers,
wide-eyed wonder
teary days
reveal
truth
(c) Carol Wilcox, 2022
Trying to find a little wonder every day. Here was today's. Just a story poem. Nothing structured or fancy or profound.
"Friends"
Rooney,
featured guest
in the preK pet unit,
enjoys this gig
especially when he discovers
a quarter-sized splot of yogurt
conveniently located on the rug
exactly where he is supposed to lay.
Teacher’s carefully orchestrated circle
immediately collapses
and Sweet Roo finds himself
engulfed
in a sea of four-year-olds.
Ever the benevolent gent,
he accepts treats
from twelve tentative hands,
rests his front paw
gently on Fi’s foot
and does not protest
when Mateo lays his head
atop of Rooney’s
for an eternity.
His smile is broadest, though,
when Christobel,
an avowed dog hater
who insisted two weeks ago
that I close the door
before she walked by my office
coos as she dispenses treats
from a plastic spoon.
"Even though"
Even though every decision you make is questioned
And the technology doesn't work at all
And you find out you missed an important meeting
Then rush home from work to spend $200 on a plumbing issue
And discover that you somehow forgot to pay the utilities bill
And have to file for an extension on your taxes
And your leftovers explode in the microwave
The dog curls up tightly against your hip.
It’s comforting to know someone still likes you.
(C) Carol Wilcox, 2022
