Category Archives: Uncategorized

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Countdown to February Break

Somehow this year I’ve managed to misplace my sense of optimism. Once in a while I find it, but then it just slips through my fingers. Again and again. As I write this, I’m realizing that saying I’ve lost my optimism is actually a bit too passive. It’s more like it’s actively engaged in a never-ending game of Hide-and-Seek that I never chose to play. And I’m always “it”. Oh, no! Actually, I think it’s more like that horrible “Keep away” game and I’m the “Monkey in the Middle” and optimism is always sailing just out of reach, over my head. It’s tantalizingly in sight, but I can’t ever get my hands on it. I jump around in uncoordinated leaps trying to do so. Exhausting myself. Until I just give up.

I always hated that “game.”

At any rate, I will keep looking or reaching for the catch, but in the meantime, I’m just looking ahead to the next break.

Countdown to February Break

I can make it
four
days.
Right?
Just
four!
One
two
three
four…
Can I make it?

©Molly Hogan

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Nothing Weighty About Me

I’m participating in Laura Shovan‘s February Poetry Challenge this year. I always look forward to this month with its creative prompts and the sharing of poems (even when I fall behind on the daily quota.) This year the theme is “Time”. The prompts, as always, have been rich and varied, and the responses even more so. It’s an ongoing education.

My favorite experience is when the alchemy of prompt and poetry takes me in an unexpected direction. One day last week, I had a restless night and was up at 3 am. I checked out the prompt and Matthew Winner had shared a link to “Hazy Shade of Winter” by the Bangles.

After listening to it, I forgot to hit pause and the next song started playing: “Our Lips are Sealed” by the GoGos.

Somehow the combination of the two songs struck me and a poem happened.

Nothing Weighty About Me

Call me shallow if you must
but I prefer the next song 
the bouncy bubble-gum beat
of the GoGos
singing“Our Lips Are Sealed”
to this one
with its eerie overtones
driving beat and
threads of warning.

See what’s become of me?

Word on the street says
it’s a hot song anyway
Paul Simon’s work 
encircled with bangles
But a touch of sparkle
can’t conceal its dark roots
any more than a bottle of bleach
can turn back time.

See what’s become of me?

But pass the Clairol
and a helping of cotton candy, Baby.
I’m all for light and fluffy
a fan of the sweet stuff.
Why ponder browning leaves
gritty patches of snow 
and impending winter
when I can rise above it all
cruise through summer days
with my lithe and limber friends
on top of the world
forever young
singing in the wind.

See what’s become of me?

©Molly Hogan, draft

This week’s Poetry Friday post is hosted by Linda Baie at her blog, TeacherDance.

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PF: Math Poems

This month Catherine Flynn challenged us to write any sort of mathematical poem. It was a nice open prompt with lots of options, and Catherine included some links to inspire us. I decided pretty quickly that I wanted to write a Fib poem. I had the sense, whether accurate it or not, that it should be written about something natural. I tossed around a few ideas until, serendipitously, a blizzard arrived.

Blizzard

First
one
snowflake
feathered down
then two    threefour and
soon the sky was dizzy with snow

©Molly Hogan

After playing around with that, I started thinking about the number, zero. Back when I taught first grade, I used to write with my first graders in response to a mentor text called “Zero is…” I always loved their responses and how the text got us thinking about zero in different ways. It reminded me that there’s more to zero than meets the eye.

In Tennis, Zero Is Love

Zero 
is an absence,
a placeholder
meaning nothing is there.
An even number, 
it’s the fulcrum
on the number line
between positives
and negatives.
Zero, added,
changes
nothing.

Still, Zero is nuanced.
Holding its place,
it can move numbers
toward infinity
or with a single operation
fully erase them.
It’s open
to interpretation:
With zero,
context is everything.

When you walk beside me,
your hand in mine,
Zero is my loneliness.

©Molly Hogan, draft

If you’re interested in reading what the other Inklings have done with this challenge, check out their posts:

Linda Mitchell
Margaret Simon
Catherine Flynn
Heidi Mordhorst
MaryLee Hahn

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Elisabeth Norton at her blog, Unexpected Intersections.

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More Wordle Poems

So, I’m still addicted to Wordle and look forward to each daily puzzle. I’ve realized that an upside to writing poems with my word guesses is that there’s a consolation prize to doing poorly at Wordle (aka needing more guesses). For me, it’s easier to write poems with four or five words than with three words. So, even when I’m not doing as well, I have more poetic material to work with. I’ve revised my “rules” so that it’s okay to use different forms of a word as long as the base word is included. Really, I’m just focusing on fun and not on finesse. I enjoy following the words and seeing where they lead me.

Update: What I mentioned last week and failed to mention this week is that credit for the Wordle poetry idea goes completely to Buffy Silverman, not to me.

word guesses: fairy, tried, crimp, prick

Foiled

When child was born
rogue fairy tried
to weave foul magic
to crimp her life–
one single deadly
finger prick.
(Enchanted wheel
should do the trick!)
But evil wishes
don’t prevail
when others work
to change the tale.
Heart-cast magic
with best intent
can alter spells
from malcontent.

©Molly Hogan

word guesses: frame, mouth, mount

Cookie Heist

“I’ve been framed,” she cried
with her mouth open wide
smeared chocolate on her chin
crumbs trailing behind–
All mounting evidence
of a culinary crime.

©Molly Hogan

The Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted this week by Irene Latham at her blog, Live Your Poem. Make sure to stop by and contemplate all things patient.

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Winter Consolation

People ask me sometimes, “How do you stand the cold?” or “Aren’t the winters long?” They look at me askance, wondering how I manage Maine winters. Or why I do.

To be honest, the hardest part of winter isn’t the cold, it’s the dark. In December twilight comes quickly. Walking the students out to the buses, the sky is already low on the horizon. Days seem to end before they begin. Later, you start wondering if it’s time for bed, since it’s been dark for hours, but then you realize it’s only 6:30 pm. And that’s if you’re lucky.

On the other hand, winter in Maine offers unique and meaningful consolation prizes for those willing and able to bundle up and get outside. Or simply when looking out the window.

In winter the beach has an entirely different feel. It’s vast, open and beautiful. There are typically a few hardy folk wandering and one or two joyous dogs, but mostly it’s a place removed. Somewhere to get away and lose yourself in broad swaths of sand and sky.

Or if you’re so inclined, you can visit the marshes where familiar grasses and serpentine waters are transformed into an alien world.

Winter sunrise brushes warm colors over a chilled landscape. It skates along the ice and highlights the shadows of leaf-bare tree limbs. Throw in the distant thread of a calling owl and there’s clearly magic in the air.

Keep an eye out, for winter is also the time when majestic snowy owls swoop in to visit from northern climes. These owls, used to long stretches of light in their northern homes, are often out and about in daylight hours. Ruffled elegance on a rooftop.

Bitter cold offers more enchantment. When the temperatures hover around zero, it’s time to visit the shore in search of sea smoke. Frigid air moves over warmer ocean water, forming tendrils of fog. If the winds are calm, the fog gathers, drifts, and swirls. Mesmerizing.

Winter ice storms glaze the world in ice. Summer’s left-overs become winter’s wonders.

Closer to home, on those bitterly cold days, blow bubbles and watch frost unfurl, transforming liquid bubbles to enchanted orbs.

Or check your windows, where cold kisses window panes and frost blossoms again into intricate patterns.

When the frost clears, look out the windows. With trees free of their autumn leaves, there’s so much more you can see. Birds gather, deer wander by and squirrels entertain with their endless antics.

Keep your eyes open.

Winter brings rich consolation prizes.

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Wordle Poems

Are you playing Wordle, the game flavor of the month?

Over the last couple of weeks, as my Facebook page blossomed with shared grids documenting others’ Wordle game outcomes, I had to investigate. I mean, I’m always up for a good word game. So, I went to the site, tried it and was immediately hooked. I love the simple concept, but also the fact that there’s no way it can become a time suck. (With only one new game per day, you can’t go wrong!) Also, since everyone is trying to guess the same word, you can get a competition going with family and friends.

Then, the brilliant Buffy Silverman suggested using Wordle word guesses to create a poem. Count me in! She didn’t impose any other parameters (though she suggested that it should be “vaguely coherent”), but for some reason I decided I needed to use my words in the order I guessed them. I am now having way too much fun doing this and it’s brought a whole new level to my Wordle enjoyment. Here are a few of my efforts:

Word guesses: mouse, stare, spire, shire

Winter in the Night Garden or Whose garden is this anyway?

As I watch through the window
a wee mouse
scales hummocks of snow
stops to stare at me
with unblinking eyes
then turns to wend its way
through the tangled spires
of faded stalks and blossoms
foraging for seed
within its garden shire.

©Molly Hogan

Word guesses: windy, harpy, prosy, proxy

Beware

On these windy days
the air spirals
into harpy mode
keening, crying
clawing at my skin.
No prosy commentary
on the value
of rest and winter retreat,
this is a full-on assault.
Wind as Mother Nature’s proxy.

©Molly Hogan

Word guesses: pared, plums, pinch, point

After the Argument

With one eye on me
she pared down the mound of fruit 
ruthlessly discarding dented apples
rejecting dusky plums
giving the lone kiwi
a sharp-fingered pinch
tossing each
with a decisive thud
into the heaping compost bin

I got the point

©Molly Hogan

Here’s a recent round of guesses. Is there a poem lurking within them? Feel free to get inspired!

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Tabatha Yeatts at her blog, The Opposite of Indifference.

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Think Before You Speak

I’ve been in a bit of a funk lately, sort of slogging around through a toxic sludge of negativity, not super pleased with being in my own headspace. (Probably not thrilling those around me either, for that matter.) Overall, I’ve just felt primed to go dark. Here’s a small example: On the Teacher’s Room bulletin board, someone wrote, “What are you looking forward to in 2022?” Others had already responded, writing things like, “To thrive, not just survive” or “My son’s wedding” etc. My immediate knee-jerk response (internal thankfully, since the filter held this time and I didn’t say or write it) was “June 15th”. That just happens to be the last day of school. So, you get the picture.

Anyway, last week, I was walking down the hallway at school, stewing in my own negativity, when I happened to look up and see this bulletin board.

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I’ve seen it before, but this time, I stopped and read through it, line by line.

As I read, I thought about the things that have been coming out of my mouth lately: Complaints. Snarky comments. Pessimism. (Just to be clear, the audience to all of this is primarily adults–friends, family and colleagues (sorry, everyone!)– not students. But still.)

So I stood in front of the bulletin board and considered.

Think Before You Speak

is it True? Well, yes, what I say is generally true (though perhaps I’ve been catastrophizing a bit.)

is it Helpful? Um…maybe not so much

is it Inspiring? Oh. No question there. Definitely not.

is it Necessary? Probably not.

is it Kind? Well, it’s not un-kind …

Oh.

Hmmm….

I bumped into two colleagues a little while later and mentioned thinking about the sign.

“Oh, that’s a great bulletin board,” one of them said.

“Yeah,” I said, “I used to have it in my classroom. After reading and thinking about it today, I realized I find the poster and put it back up. I also realized that, in the meantime, I mostly just need to stop talking.”

They laughed.

But I wasn’t totally joking.

The next day, out of the blue, a text arrived with a photo from a distant friend (who courtesy of that distance honestly hasn’t been forced to listen to my negativity).

Clearly the universe is sending me a message.

I’ll look for the poster tomorrow.

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Beginnings and Endings

Last week, Ruth Ayres invited others to write along to the prompt “Beginnings.” There was a time when I would have kept what I’ve written in my notebook. Safe from other’s eyes. Private.

Times have changed.

With my father’s death fresh in my mind, I’ve noticed that every beginning is marked by an ending. Or is it that the endings herald beginnings? Or do beginnings presage endings?

All I know is that right now, my father’s absence colors each threshold. This new year marks the first time in my life that a year won’t have him in it. On my upcoming birthday, there won’t be a card. Or a call. Updates and daily news shrivel unspoken on my lips.

I’ve always hated crying, but I’ve gotten used to it now. I’ve stopped fighting the prickling onset of tears. The slight wobble in my chin. The quiver in my lips. I accept them as part of each day. Not something to lean into. Not something to lean away from. Just something that is.

Tears will flow. Sometimes they brim and overflow, sometimes they pool and tremble, then recede. Sadness reabsorbed. Perhaps they are a beginning of sorts. First steps on a journey?

Some beginnings are haunted by endings.

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PF: Between the Pages

This month Heidi posted our Inkling challenge. She invited us to “use the form” of the poem, The Lost Lagoon, by Emily Pauline Johnson (d. 1913) to build a “poem FOR CHILDREN about a treasured place that you return to again and again (geographical or metaphorical).”

There’s a lot to dig into in the mentor poem, and between my original draft and this final one, I seem to have drifted away from some of it (like the correct number of beats in my lines–oops!). Writing this poem has been a messy process and at this point it feels like it needs some time to simmer before I revisit it. I’ll put it on the back burner for a while, but here it is for now.

Between the Pages

I open the cover to look 
flip through the first pages inside
tantalized by the scents that arise
settle in, feel my worries subside.
Oh, the joy of a newfound book!

Halfway through I can’t stop to look
though someone’s been calling my name.
Printed words burst to life in my brain 
and I’m drawn like a moth to the flame
fully lost in the world of the book.

I turn the last page, then must look.
In the mirror my face seems the same
yet I feel fundamentally changed
my perceptions and world rearranged.
Lost and found in the world of a book.

©Molly Hogan, draft

If you’d like to read some other responses to this challenge, check out the links:
Catherine Flynn at Reading to the Core
Linda Mitchell at A Word Edgewise
Heidi Mordhorst at My Juicy Little Universe
Margaret Simon at Reflections on the Teche
Mary Lee Hahn at A(nother) Year of Reading

The Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted this week by Carol Varsalona at her blog Beyond Literacy Link.

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SOL: A New Superstition

Birding Without Borders: An Obsession, a Quest, and the Biggest Year in the World by [Noah K. Strycker, Kenn Kaufman]

This year for Christmas I was given a book called, “Birding without Borders: An Obsession, a Quest and the Biggest Year in the World.” Intrigued, I immediately flipped it open to read the first sentence. “On New Year’s Day, superstitious birdwatchers like to say, the very first bird you see is an omen for the future.”

Ooooooh.

As someone who tries to say “Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit” each month and wishes on stars and pie corners and loves birds, I loved this idea. However, I was slightly wary. The future has been unrolling some mighty unpleasant things these days. I’ve also never dared go to a fortune teller or palm reader. The idea of doing so sends shivers down my spine. I’m not sure exactly what I think will happen, but I’m pretty convinced I’ll walk in, they’ll look into the ball, or into my hand, and either scream, faint, or back away in terror. So, did I really want a sneak peek? Even through a bird intermediary?

New Year’s Day 2022 dawned.

I had an odd start to the day–first I woke at 1:30 am (at which time I whispered “Rabbit Rabbit Rabbit” and nudged my husband to tell him to do the same, since you can never have too much luck), then I fell back asleep only to wake up fully at 3 am. I got up, putzed around til about 5:30, fell asleep on the couch for another hour, then woke again. Later, I was settled in, writing, when I suddenly realized I hadn’t noticed the daylight steadily increasing outside. No doubt the birds were already in full swing at the feeders. I couldn’t really avoid seeing birds all day long, so I guess my decision was made. I was going to look.

What kind of bird would I see when I looked? What kind of year would I have?

Our typical feathered visitors are chickadees, goldfinch, tufted titmice, nuthatches, blue jays, cardinals and a variety of woodpeckers. Most of those seemed like they’d have a positive interpretation, so I felt like the odds must be in my favor.

Deliberately, I raised my eyes from my notebook. The first thing I noticed were three mourning doves perched in the birch tree. Not one. Not two. But three of them. (I guess that was in case I didn’t notice the first one. Or the second one.) So, we do have mourning doves around sometimes, but they definitely aren’t daily visitors. The symbolism felt obvious even without a google search and even though I knew this wasn’t a real omen, more of a fun game, I felt my spirits sink. 2021 had plenty of mourning in it and the thought of a year marked by more of it was discouraging, to say the least.

I half-heartedly googled “mourning dove symbolism” and found that a mourning dove is “a symbol of sorrow and mourning”. No surprise there. Then I read further: “The mourning dove is, above all other symbolism, a spiritual messenger of peace, love, and faith.” Peace. Love. Faith. A year marked with those would surely be a positive one, right?

Here’s hoping.