I haven’t written in more days than I want to count, and that always makes me feel out of sorts. Schoolwork has slowly but surely taken over my life and my stress level has been skyrocketing. I’ve definitely struggled to maintain any sort of reasonable perspective–and pretty much failed. This is a long rambling purge of a poem, and I suppose it casts some shadows on my claim to sanity (and my professed love of teaching for that matter) but it felt so good to be writing again!

It’s been a crazy week and I haven’t written at all
and one day is tumbling into the next,
like cute fuzzy demented kittens,
kittens on catnip
with needle-sharp claws,
and I want to bellow,
“STOP! This is OUT OF CONTROL!”

Last night
my daughter shared a poem on Facebook,
a lovely poem,
about a woman contemplating the year past,
looking through her calendar,
gathering up the moments of joy
ceremoniously burning the rest
and I consider the past week or two
and realize that I want to
rip out those calendar days and
grind
each
day
into microscopic shards,
smash them to smithereens
under my thick-soled boots,
take them in my hands and
twist them, twist them, twist them
wringing them tighter and tighter
until they are dead, dead, DEAD!
…
but I know that’s not healthy
so I turn on some Christmas carols
in an attempt to infuse some light-hearted joy,
some holiday spirit, into my morning
Mariah Carey sings “All I Want for Christmas”
and I’m trying,
truly trying,
to get into the swing of it
but all I can remember
is that last year’s teacher left the science materials
filled with last year’s experiments
brewing, simmering,
mouldering deep in the closet
and I just found them
the night before I intended to prep the materials
to teach the unit
that I’ve barely had time to consider
because report cards took over my life
like a malevolent entity,
stretching some moments to eternity
and whisking away others in a blink
as I struggled to capture just the right phrase,
jacked on coffee and too little sleep,
trying to sneak in some planning for
this eternal week
and now when e-mails ding as they arrive
I jolt and my pulse skitters and hops
and I wonder,
What now?

WHAT!???!!!

And last night’s late email
was from my principal
with a compliment and thanks for the comments
I’d been slaving over
and I slipped into sleep and dreamed
it was the next morning and he said,
“You got what I was really saying about those comments,
didn’t you?
They were canned!
Canned!
CANNED!”
and his voice echoed louder and louder
through  my twisty-turny horrible night’s sleep

And this morning I chide myself,
reminding myself not to wish the days away
but to revel in the glory of a sunrise
or the tracery of crystallized frost on a fallen leaf
or shared laughter with a child,
but there are still two days to go
until the weekend
and my metaphors are colliding
as I hang by a thread
and, like Sisyphus, helplessly
keep pushing the rock up the hill
though sometimes it seems
like gravity triumphs
and the damn rock is careening down the mountain
and I want to turn tail and RUN
or just step out of the way
(I mean did Sisyphus ever think of that?
Did he?!)
but I’m eternally damned (or
invested or something)
and I keep pushing that boulder
up                Up                  UP
but at least now
my hips are swaying along
to jazzy holiday tunes
as Eartha Kitt belts out
“Santa Baby”
and I head out to face the day.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is at Check it Out. Click on the link to enjoy some poetry.

As I worked in the kitchen last weekend, a flash of bright movement caught my eye. There! In the apple tree! An apple was swinging back and forth. What!? A closer glance revealed the cause–a hungry jay perched and pecked. The force of each peck sent the dangling apple swinging wildly away. On it’s return, the jay pecked again. The moment caught me.

Autumn’s Pendulum

On a cider-sweet
autumn day,
one russet apple
gathers momentum
from the push and play
of gravity and jay,
a ruby flash
that swings and sways
pulsing in the heart
of the twisted tree,
marking time
while summer fades
and winter waits.

(c) Molly Hogan, 2016

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is at Carol’s Corner. Stop by to enjoy some poetry and give thanks for the wonder of words!

Laura Purdie Salas offers a 15 Words or Less Poem Challenge from a photo prompt each Thursday. Today’s challenge photo is below:

Photo credit: Laura P. Salas

I try to allow myself only 10-15 minutes to play around with this challenge as it’s intended as a sort of warm up, a rough draft exercise. I loved today’s picture, the stark and silent mood of it with that solitary silhouetted crow.  Crows are birds of mystery and magic, and symbols of death or change.  With these facts in mind, today’s effort evolved into a rather dark poem.

Sentinel

No raucous cry
pierces the sky
The crow keeps watch
Will we change
or die?

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

I wake in the darkness of early morning and  linger for a bit in bed, snuggling down into the warm nest of my tangled blankets. Finally, heaving a sigh, I roll over, grab my glasses and Fitbit (got to count EVERY step!) and step onto the chilly wooden floors.  Moving out into the hallway, I turn to head toward the kitchen and coffee and stop in my tracks. The outside light had been left on overnight and this morning it illuminates the garden, which, unexpectedly, is lightly dusted with snow. Every bush and shrub, every desiccated stalk is transformed, sugar-coated and glimmering. How had I forgotten that unearthly early morning glow of new-fallen snow?

I stand by the window as the coffee pot brews and hisses. Outside snow flakes shimmer in a dazzling show, falling softly, quietly. The light glimmers off the flakes, and ignites icy sparks in the fallen snow. I could linger by the window all morning and lose myself in the wonder of it. First snow. What a gift to waken to this sight of unforecasted snow, coating everything in brilliant white serenity.

In the midst of enjoying the snowfall, I remember the butterfly. This past Saturday was a beautiful, warm day, unnatural for November. Days like this make me slightly uneasy as I can never decide if they are a gift from summer or a dark omen of climate warming. I found the butterfly firmly attached to a burlap bag near a pile of gardening materials. At first I thought it was dead, but it gripped the burlap firmly and moved one small twig-like leg when I gently touched it. Though I urged it to depart in the unseasonal warmth, it stubbornly clung to that black bag. Now I wondered and worried. Was it still there?

Before leaving for school, I head back to the stack of burlap sacks. They are now covered in a generous coating of snow. I turn the bag upside down and the snow clumps off onto the ground below with a muffled thud. No butterfly in sight, only a crumpled leaf that sets off a brief false alarm. Perhaps, I hope, perhaps it did leave during the weekend’s unseasonal warmth.

As I set the bag back on the ground, I suddenly spy the butterfly, now firmly attached to the bag’s dry underside. Surely it must be dead. I gently nudge its tiny leg and it opens and shuts its wings. Slowly. Once. Twice. The snow continues to fall. I don’t know what to do. Should I move it somewhere? But where?  I run through a few alternatives in my head, none of them inspired. Will anything I do make a difference? Ultimately, I gently set the bag back down, butterfly firmly attached and back away, hoping the day will warm up and allow the butterfly some chance for flight. I know this is highly unlikely, but I’m uncertain about whether to interfere or how to do so.

The snow continues to fall through the day, I appreciate its beauty but I wonder. Should I have done more for that butterfly?

This poem packs a punch.

Let America Be America Again
by Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed–
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

…

(click on the title to read the rest of the poem)

Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted today by Brenda Davis Harsham at her lovely blog Friendly Fairy Tales.

Not long ago, I walked into our barn in search of a hammer. I looked around, appreciating my husband’s recent tidying-up efforts. Much had been cleared away and random items had emerged from hiding in the loft and from other previously jumbled nooks and crannies. I looked on shelves and peered into the stalls, one by one, hoping to spy the elusive tool. In the end stall, a number of items leaned against the rough hewn wall. Amongst them, clearly visible, was a single yellow ladder back chair. I was immediately distracted from my quest. Where had it come from? Where had it been?

I remember that chair, along with others like it, arranged around the butcher block table in our family kitchen – the kitchen that is at the heart of so many of my childhood memories. It was the 70’s and my mom, along with fashion, favored bright and cheerful yellows, greens and oranges. These chairs fit right in, neatly complementing the vivid plaid wallpaper. I remember sitting on those woven rush seats and eating our meals together. I remember sitting on them at the end of a school day, enjoying the still-warm-from-the-oven cookies that often welcomed us home. I remember sitting on them as a family.

There must have been at least seven of these chairs once, but now there’s only this one. This one solitary chair sitting in my barn gathering dust, a relic from another time. A time when my toughest choice was which friend to invite for a sleep-over or who was cuter: Shaun Cassidy or Parker Stevenson?  A time when my family was whole and my world was small and simple, safe and secure. A time before I learned how quickly things could fracture and change irretrievably.

Standing in the barn, I ran my finger across the dusty surface of the chair. The yellow paint shone a bit brighter in that spot; my finger was gritty with dirt. How long has it been since anyone sat in this chair? Where did the others go?

I went into the barn to find a missing hammer.  A short while later, I emerged without it, feeling a bit lost myself.

Walking through the woods this fall, I’ve discovered multitudes of mushrooms in all shapes and sizes. This particularly delicate one, the only one of its kind I’ve seen, caught my fancy and sent my thoughts swirling to the world of fairies.After the festivities end
and dawn’s light fringes the sky,
who tucks away
the fairy paraphernalia
so no discerning human eye
casts a canny glance
at petalled paths
and circled stones?

Flush with late night revelry,
trailing dew-laden feet and
drooping wings,
might the sleepy wee folk
overlook
a wayward blossom
or other tell-tale sign-
perhaps this fairy parasol,
a dainty moonshine shield,
now illuminated
in sunshine’s glow
above an oddly tidy
bed of moss?

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

Please take the time to check out Poetry Friday Roundup. This week it’s hosted by the amazing Jama Rattigan who dishes up delights at her feast of a blog, Jama’s Alphabet Soup.

On Tuesday night my daughter texted me. “So scared 4 the election ”

On Wednesday morning I woke to the news that Donald Trump had won.  After the initial shock, I mostly felt sad, tremendously sad. My daughter messaged me again:

We texted back and forth,  sharing our disbelief and sorrow, and shortly afterward I headed off to work…to the first child in the door who yelled, “We’re all going to be dead in four years!” as he entered. To another who came in fist pumping and bellowing, “Trump! Trump! Trump!” To a story shared by a coworker about a kindergartener who said, “Hillary Clinton won’t be President. That’s good because she wants to take babies out of their mommy’s bodies before they’re ready.” To a fourth grader who literally shook every time someone started talking about the election. I wanted to sit and bury my face in my hands.

And then my daughter texted me this:

My eyes filled with tears and my heart burst with pride. These two young women, deeply distraught by the election results, went out of their way to create something positive for those around them. They put aside their sorrow and worry and handed out donuts and coffee, encouraging people to write each other messages of support and encouragement.

This may seem like a small thing–coffee and donuts– but it is not. There is tremendous power in choosing to reach out and in turning fear and sorrow into a positive force.

The sign at their table read, “Love Will Win.” Dear God, I hope so. And in the meantime, there is certainly solace to be found in the words of Mary Oliver and Emily Dickinson.

More and more I’m drawn to the ocean. The open horizon soothes me and the potential for beach combing discoveries spices my visits. It’s a sweet retreat from the hurly-burly of teaching life and a wonderful place to indulge my love of photography. Until recently, I don’t think I’ve ever spent time on the beach in the fall.  I’ve tumbled into love with the long expanses of empty beach, moody skies, brisk breezes, sculpted sand and, above all, the serenity.  The juxtaposition of autumn light and sites against the quintessential summer setting has been a startling, yet deeply satisfying experience.

The Maine beaches I most love combine wind-whipped pines, rose-dotted dunes, tide-tunneled rocks, pockets of tidal pools and unexpected sandy crescents. These beaches are hidden behind headlands, adjacent to marshes and tucked into rocky coastline. They are places for exploration, contemplation and appreciation. Even when out of sight, the ocean is always there in the salty bite of the breeze and the occasional call of gulls. These recent weekend autumnal beach visits have been a balm, a boon, a blessing.

I stepped outside early on a recent morning, already wondering how I’d manage the unrelenting pace of the next few days, jam-packed with teaching and conferences. Walking out to the car, Orion’s belt clearly gleamed in the dark sky over my barn roof. Attention caught, I looked around and saw a network of stars sparkling in the heavens above me, brilliant pinpoints of light. I spied the Big Dipper, low on the horizon and searched the skies, trying to pick out other, more elusive constellations.

My mind skipped back to a recent event with a volunteer astronomer at our school. He had come one evening to set up a telescope and show us the moon, constellations and other stellar objects (planets and galaxies and globular clusters, oh my!). As darkness slowly crept in, he’d trained his telescope on the moon. He shared how, as a child, he’d loved studying the moon, but now it is the bane of his, and other astronomers’, existence; For when the moon shines, other celestial objects are harder to observe.

A beautiful fall moon on a different evening…

We had gathered in the soccer field and students and parents alike oohed and aahed as they took their turns and saw the moon’s detailed landscape filling the scope of the viewer. Some children ran off shortly afterward, drawn by the lure of the darkened playground, plenty of peers, and no imminent recess-ending whistle. Many remained, enthralled by the flow of facts and stories. Our volunteer pointed out varied lunar landscape features and spoke of mares, craters and canyons or rilles, one stretching approximately the distance from California to New York. Periodically he scanned the skies, looking for other emerging objects. After a bit he crowed, “There’s Venus!”  He eagerly readjusted his telescope to capture that planet in its sites. As the evening progressed and the stars emerged, he told stories of Greek Gods and Goddesses, linking Cassiopeia to Andromeda and Perseus, tracing star patterns across the sky with his brilliant green laser pointer.

This morning I looked at those stars brilliantly gleaming above and tried, in vain, to put them together into the patterns our volunteer had shown us. I imagined them like a road map of the heavens and envied his ability to navigate them with ease. The scope of space befuddles me, and I can’t quite wrap my head around light years and galaxies and solar systems. Clearly, I am not the first to feel immeasurably small in the face of such overwhelming vastness. Through the ages, man has valiantly tried to make sense of it all, to impose some sort of order or meaning over it, weaving patterns together into narrative constellations–Ah, the power of story, lighting a navigable path through the night skies.

I may not be able to place myself precisely in this universe, but I’m here. Looking upward one last time as I climbed into my car, humbled by the incomprehensible immensity of that dazzling display overhead, I set off into my own story, determined to write it as well as I can.