Monday, January 24, 2011
Poetry Students click here for your syllabus, if you are in my English 1B class you must scroll down to the bottom of the page to find your syllabus, after the list of poetic terms and the picture of the sailboats on the bay.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
January in California
January’s daffodils are absurd.
The trees already bud with fall’s dead leaves
still clinging. The giant sycamore dwarfs
all the sweet gums in the neighborhood,
and these, our neighbors, never rake their yard,
a rebellion of sorts, brownie piles heave,
ruffle. Grasses choke asters under eaves,
oranges are suffocated by blue mold.
He and I pull, chop off, prune and collect:
Dandelions, crabgrass, henbit, hawkweed.
We will the dogwood to bloom and expect
The lemon to offer its first fruit. Hands bleed--
blisters from the butterfly bush unchecked
by frostless winter, and spring at full speed.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Mother and Son at Creek with Small Dog
Red-haired boy in pith helmet: “Shard of pottery forgotten by time. Draw me mom, draw a drawing of me.” Mother perched at edge of creek looks up from her reading.
“Lookit this rock mom,” Walking through creek, stamps his feet on a sandbar, now wading over rocks into the sparkle and splash.
“Lookit mom, something man made, whaddya suppose it is?” Ducks under a fallen tree, roots exposed like spokes.
“Lookit this rock,” Throws it. Heavy splash, ripples percolate. Skips stone, 2 skips.
“See, isn’t this such a good idea mom? Lookit this skipping stone, it’s practically perfect in every way.” Skips 3 times, then bends to creek, comes up.
“Lookit this rock mom.”
Mother looks up says:
“It’s leopard skinned.”
“Way to be a poet. Hey! Got my first decent skip. Dog truffle hunts under Mother’s chair, nose sandy, snorts, digs. Splash, clack of two rocks, boy examining intently.
“It’s really light too . . . lookit this one.” Creek eddies to the left, ferns sprout from the embankment.
“Oh my god, lookit this mom, it’s quartz, it’s pink, are you writing this down? It’s pink. You’re such a writer.” Pause, boy ankle deep, contemplating rocks. Looks up.
“I’m glad a lot of people don’t come to this creek, there’d be less treasures.”