Post-op Doc

he tells my son that
things looked good, he’ll be back in
action in no time

one word from the boy
“Sweet” confers on the doctor
the champion’s medal

he cocks his scrub cap
like a man who’s just stepped up
on the podium

my podium, my son -
I want to clutch the child and
hold him forever

Oh, the world rushes
in to laud new heros and
I strain for a view

thank you, my son, for
the time that I’ve known what it’s
like to be a god

Father-Daughter Dance

my screaming teenage
daughter tests my willingness
to keep on giving

no use telling me
that I should draw the line and
hold my ground with her

I’m no push-over
and still have my dignity
when it comes to that

betrayal and fear
conformity rejection
are her daily bread

I need to show her
how to refuse abuse by
standing up to hers

I need to show her
my unconditional love
so she can find hers

Ode to Sherwin-Williams Paint Logo

Oh, Sherwin-Williams
logo of globe dripping in paint
how I admire you

stalwart icon of
my father’s generation
holding on like him

a symbol of dreams
for an anonymous house
some kids and a car

if only the world
could have kept up with your plans
things would be fine now

to ‘cover the world’
with your great vision of the
American Dream

Oh, Sherwin-Williams
your icon is dripping with
dreams of my father

Inauguration Day on the Potomac

Before dawn

I think I hear someone on the frozen river

and stop to listen

but it’s only the straining ice that’s giving way

and shattering like giant panes of glass

as the river moves it on


so I keep moving,

relieved, as if I might have –

could have – saved some soul

who’d gotten stuck there

without a branch or a hand

or hope to cling to


but that behind me

I’m down the trail again to

Washington, D.C.

on toward Washington

to beat the crowds and witness

the Inauguration


heading south

toward where a glow on the horizon

shows through bare branches

and this time

in the first rays of dawn

I hear a low soulful humming

and sense up ahead

the shadowed forms of people

walking toward the light

And see their breath

Rising up like jeweled veils in the frosty air

walking and humming

with tools on their shoulders

and baskets at their sides

humming the world of their frozen river

strained and shattered

moving on

toward the break of day

toward the sun

toward Washington

and Inauguration

Silent Night

The newspaper shows
A photo of a herdsman
in Afghanistan

I can see his breath
As he crouches by a fire
And warms his fingers

While village elders
And American solders
Meet and talk nearby

I think of the cost
in lives, energy, money
to make this meeting

where global interests
of power, religion, war
and peace intersect

where so much desire
has descended upon one
man warming his hands

This Afghan herdsman
and I aren't so far apart
We want the same thing

The peace that comes with
A warm place by the fire on
A cold winter night

Education Yakuza

I know when I teach
There are things that must be taught
Which the state mandates

As a rule of thumb
About seventy percent
Belongs to the state

And thirty percent
Belongs to me and I don’t
Know who’s thumb it is

Maybe if I don’t
Give the state its percentage
And try to short them

They’ll cut off my thumb
Like Japanese Yakuza
And wrap it up nice

And send it to my
Students - a message not to
Trifle with the state

So if I see some
Wise guys in the school hallways
I’ll just play it cool

and make sure that they
notice a multiple choice
test on my clipboard

and not the writing
my students generated
yesterday about

standardization
as the worst enemy of
creativity

Thinking in the Air

The National Writing Project in Philly was worthwhile, but not for the reasons that I expected. The most valuable part of the gathering was not the workshops or the keynote speaker, but the conversations with people.

After having been caught up on all this generative, ‘writing to think’ stuff, I’ve been dogged by the reality that most of our writing is done for others. It’s a fact. We write to answer the questions of others, to respond to the needs of others, to give and to get information from others. Most of our writing is transactional; an exchange between people prompted by a form, a question, a need.

The conversations I had at the NWP were prompted as well. Someone may have asked, “What did you think of that workshop?”, and I might have answered, “It was OK.” Or I might have gone on and elaborated on the high points and low points. But either way, I was responding to an external prompt, exchanging ideas, and developing a thread of conversation in an exchange with someone else’s ideas.

I can carry on a pretty good conversation. I can take the bait and run with it, stretch it, knead, revise and edit what I’m saying, and what I’m going to say. I suppose it took practice for me to be able to do this. And being among others who model it well. Yet, some people can’t carry on a good conversation. Specifically, I’m thinking about many of my students.

In her book, Writing to the Prompt, Janet Angelillo speaks about the power of structured conversation as a means of thinking and strategizing to prepare for a writing to a prompt.
“During conversations, students hear others’ ideas and work through or try out their ideas. In many ways, talking leads to clarification of thinking and rehearsal for writing.” (Angelillo, 2005)

I bought in to those extended conversations with others in Philly. I want my students to buy-in to the questions and prompts that they inevitably confront in school and in the world. Conversations created with my students, with the intention of examining the structure, course, and evolution of the conversation itself, may help them to ‘think in the air’ before they think with their pens.

Angellillo, Janet. Writing to the Prompt. 2005. Hienemann, Portsmouth, NH.

I highly recommend it.