Transitions, troughs and floodgates
Swell before the crops are in;
Appointments rough-hewn begin
From centuries’ wealth in soils. He hesitates.
Lamentations of the classic farmer’s touch
Bestowed on something that was expected
Neither to outlast the seed nor tip the balance but once elected
Audit landscapes from the past and serve the sudden rush as much
As circumstance permits a well to gush and choose another path.
He was a teacher; was, and no doubt
Will continue to apply the torch to oils of souls
Whose mission is to lance the boils of youthful wrath
And freely prime the wells of mass miscalculation of the myths,
The babbling and cursive powers of hubris and its shibboleths.
Posted in Age, Aging, Centuries, Crops, Farmer's touch, Floodgates, Hubris, Imagery, Lamentations, landscapes, Lyric Poetry, Miscalculation, Myth, Oils, Past, Poetry, Samsara, Seed, Shibboleths, Soils, Sonnet, Teacher, Terrorism, Transitions, Troughs, Wealth, Well, Wrath
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife, Youthful wrath
“Two of Them”
Two of them apprised will rise while only one survives;
The first, a germ like any other, in the second,
Excellence as loving makes it so. She reckons
Life in paragraphs and chapters, derives
Pleasure in the phrase, itself–in leisure lies
The notion of posterity, the fecund
Last and lonely station of a book—the legend
More important than the fact, the spies
Than what is spied upon. Where there are three
The Chinese say, some one of them must be a teacher.
Let both in compromise find refuge in the third
That one may truly love, the other form the words
Recording signs and sighs of mystery
And ritual and yet another sermon for the preacher.
“He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.”
Gabriel José de la Concordia Garcia Márquez [1927 — 2014 ]
Love in the Time of Cholera
Posted in Affirmation, Age, Aging, Antithesis, Change, Chaos, Creativity, Evolution, Love, Lyric Poetry, Numinosum, Poetry, Preacher, Pyrrhic Victory, Relationships, Selflessness, Sonnet, Stations, Synthesis, Teacher, Thesis, Writing
Tagged Age, Aging, Existence, Gabriel José de la Concordia Garcia Márquez, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Sonnet
…just a little nostalgia… In my mind’s eye, occasionally, I travel back to the last school in which I taught for so many years…my old room, Room 461…and…used my key―coded red―to take a look…. The room belongs to someone else now, but the class…they are still who they were when I left them…and I’m exactly who I was when the time came to leave the lion’s den for the last time; something about alergies and cats….
“The Key Is Coded Red”
The key is coded red, the lock submits,
The door is opened with the slightest turn;
And while the keys are dangling, a lightning burn
On fingers where the knuckle hits
The doorjamb, there because the knob’s
Still too close to the frame and nicks’re
Inevitable once a week. Nothing’s changed. The flicker
Of morning lights―in winter, more like blobs
Of dawn―to make the classroom bright, and there they are!
The chairs atop the desks to aid the man
Who sweeps at night and empties all the cans:
Now I set me down to teach with last night’s marks,
And there and then, and once again I think it’s time I looked
For something more in this than merely facing lions armed with books.
Posted in Age, Aging, Apostrophes, Classroom nostalgia, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Nostalgia, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tableaus, Teacher, Teachers, Teaching
Tagged Aging, Emotion, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets