Three Kids Talking

They were saying things like,

too much information,

to interfere would set me apart,

there would be pushback,

everyone of us knows it exists,

what difference would it make,

could it possibly be interpreted,

wait that last one had to be a teacher,

students don’t think about

all those matters that matter,

wait

don’t be such a dolt old man, old woman,

administrator

city surveyor,

let’s wait a second, and take a break,

let’s

just

listen.

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name and faces

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I walked into my classroom today,

and the kids were being themselves,

I was thinking about their welfare,

wondering how many wondered themselves.

When I into their faces,

I’d seen them already,

splashed across the television screen

hanging in the living room of everyone’s home.

 

I wonder if it’s possible

to tell each other the same

that Billy & Frieda and Jennifer, well

all could be the victims of this,

insane response to

letting go,

allowing the human condition

a reason to justify

letting go.

 

We are told to be cognizant,

responsible for the well-being

of all of those involved,

being the students, the elders,

the parents, the faculty,

the community members,

school board and administration,

we’re always wondering who’s in charge.

 

Proven again last night,

on Valentines Day,

a new massacre for the ages,

a new realization that everyone

is vulnerable.

I looked at the pictures of the victims,

tomorrow when I walk into school,

I will watch them all walk the halls

tenfold in their similarity, their

human capacity, as living as is the dead,

we’re all faces in a crowd.

 

I wonder about the similarity

if we could recognize we’ll know each

other in another life,

if then

could we protect each other,

with basic compassion

and knowledge beyond

sensationalization.

 

the faces in the crowd,

are the same that make us proud.

I Looked In Their Hearts Today

I didn’t tell them as much,

you never can,

well you might,

I might occasionally want to shout,

I want them to know

I love them,

we love them,

there’s a lot of love when each one of them

walks inside my classroom.

 

I wanted to reach them today,

they couldn’t really feel the fear,

their days spent removed, fortunate,

isolated from the fury

that suddenly deadened their peers,

people they’ll never meet

one day they could have

if life had allowed

worlds to continue

beyond a gunshot, a bullet, the pain.

 

I wonder what goes through the mind of a student,

when miles away, sometimes blocks,

when it occurs

again,

and again and again and again,

and then there’s no tomorrow,

I wander through the streets hoping to find

a reason to say

you are completely safe,

but I can’t always say that,

I couldn’t say it today,

and I wanted to

say it to each one of them,

each one walking through my

classroom door.

I want you to know you are safe.

 

I can’t always say it though,

at least not today,

they’d think I was lying,

they read the news,

they know they’re not completely

safe.

They know,

much more than I will ever know.

When A Child Believes

A child is born into a quiet world

Given a slap, a gasp begins their day,

We listen with intent, a cry today

Oh to hold child in hand, love we twirled.

 

We didn’t know about an adventure,

One designed wholly in passage in rites,

Sweet is innocence drawn beyond night lights

Swift shadow seekers in nomenclature

 

A child now moves beyond original sin

Learns adaptation within peer response

Oh to know the true angst of an ensconce

Perpetuate loss, forgiveness within.

 

We might all believe sweet coo of a dove

Designs a child’s world to live inside love.

 

 

The Circle of Deceit

I can’t listen anymore,

I’m a citizen of this country,

I believe in my freedom,

the welfare of my neighbor

the peace of mind of a stranger.

I want to understand the peril

that one family has overcome

in order to help another find peace,

find hope,

find their own sense of freedom.

 

But the circle of deceit

two parties battling one another,

a constant rubrics cube of

smoke and mirrors,

Pollyanna and Slaughterhouse Five,

they’re all the same,

all told before,

all recognized to be contributors,

to our own incessant

Catch – 22

of hit and miss, ugliness.

 

I suppose I will turn to fiction

once again,

the result of years of twisted reality,

I’d rather just …

Imagine.

Responsive Journey

A quiet path,

many minds have passed,

yet inside remains

alone like a ricocheting energy,

a certainty in privacy,

that which no one might alone

experience beyond

a silent beholden traveler.

 

Many nights, autumn mornings,

spring into action while the world around

might discover new purpose,

a reasoning that while easily

defined,

still remains on the outside,

wondering just how soon

there might be some quiet

revelation

toward opening doors.

 

yet there in the midst of a quiet existence

remains the wonder,

which while inside is felt.

What happens when

shared notions

become some emotive prayer

for understanding the logic

of living out our dreams

based upon

some ventured task to grasp

insecurity.

There In The Deep Wood

There in the deep wood I would watch,

the lights on the house in the distance burn,

the figures inside I knew like my own,

in the damp soil, I would wait in the wood.

wondering if they would ever venture out,

would they wonder where I might next shout.

There in the deep wood I would watch.

 

There in the deep wood I would watch,

the cars travel by all strangers in the hour,

their lives meant for homes beyond my eye,

I would ask about their wonders and wanders

though I would never hear, just keep an eye

on their lives in the brief moments, passers by.

There in the deep wood I would watch.

 

There in the deep wood I would watch,

the stars illuminate a night sky in fall,

I might wonder about the earth in universe

watching all the patterns of the Milky Way,

there were so many, so brilliant their lives

though some I had known, others would fade.

There in the deep wood I would watch.