The March Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOLSC) is on and this is my second year of participation! Thanks so much to  Two  Writing Teachers for hosting.  
First thing Monday  morning, my students filed into the room, happy and chattering, putting book bags in cubbies, signing in for lunch, making plans for recess.  Within a few minutes, J. bounced up to me sporting a wide gap-toothed grin, both hands tucked behind her back.
“Mrs. Hogan, guess which hand has something in it!”
My first response, I’m sorry to say, was a sigh. An inward sigh, but a sigh nonetheless. It had been a crazy weekend and I already felt behind. J. has a hard time settling into work and is eager to indulge in any available distraction. Another student was already making loud, rude noises and refusing to follow his Ed. Tech’s directions.”No. No. No.” he parrotted over and over again. My arm throbbed from yesterday’s unexpected tetanus shot (the crazy weekend–a slice for some other day) and another student hovered at my elbow, wanting my attention.

For some reason, I stopped the redirections that immediately leapt to my lips (“J. you need to get started on your morning work.”), took a deep breath, and joined in her game, temporarily ignoring the pressing needs around me.
“Hmmmm…” I hesitated, tapping my finger on my chin. “This one,” I said suddenly and decisively, pointing to her left arm.
She pulled her hand from behind her back, spreading empty fingers.
“No,” she said, her smile spreading even wider, “but you have one more chance!”
I smiled, too,  my mood lightening instantly.
“Hmmmm…”I deliberated again, fully involved in the game at this point. “How about… this one?” I pointed to her other arm.
“Yes!” She beamed, pulling her hand from behind her back. In it she held a Russell Stover Valentine candy bar– Strawberries and Cream.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s for you!” she said.  “It was at Shaw’s and it was a leftover!”

Sweet leftovers from a first grader to sweeten the start of the week. It was a good Monday.

Today is the last day in Laura Shovan’s FOPP. I wasn’t able to participate as much as I’d planned, but it was a powerful experience.  I am so thankful for her generosity in hosting this project. The picture below sparked thoughts of carnivals and fairs, with their accompanying rides and food, which somehow transformed into a poem about the ride through the challenge itself.

Laura’s Carnival
The carnival arrives
on a wintery breeze
A sensory extravaganza
with an open invitation,
but…
“You can’t win
if you don’t play!”
So, dive on in
Ride on waves of words,
rhythm and rhyme,
alliteration and syncopation.
Visit the funhouse
where words twist and twine
into intriguing shapes
and mirrors reflect new images
into eternity.
Try your skill on the games.
Select words like a sharpshooter
Picking off targets.
With all your strength and wit,
set your pen onto paper
with a resounding crash.
“Ring the bell!
Ring the bell!”
Overindulge on tasty terms
and luscious prose.
Wipe the grease from your chin.
Take a spin on the carousel,
up and down,
hang on and enjoy the ride.

But all good things
must come to an end.
It’s time
to pack up the party
shut down the fun
No days left
in this carnival’s run.
Phrases litter the ground
and crumpled papers
rustle in the wind
“Step right up!
Everyone’s a winner!”

When I looked at this latest photo from Laura Shovan’s FOPP, I couldn’t look away from that jaunty sun. Having recently returned to Maine from a vacation in Puerto Rico, I’m missing the caress of tropical sun on my skin.

Arriving in Puerto Rico
We tipped our faces to the sun
heads like bobbing buds
on slender neck stalks.
Warmth seeped into our bones,
flushing our cheeks
petal-pink.

Each morning
we moved into daylight
instinctively leaning
toward the sun.
Phototropic
in the tropics.

I’ve been partially participating in Laura Shovan‘s Found Object Poetry Project this month. This photo (Day 28) had me longing for spring and budding flowers.

I recognized the distinctive bud as most likely belonging to the Allium family but did a quick search to make sure I wasn’t totally off-base. I then discovered the botanical term “umbel”. An umbel is a group or cluster of flowers with a number of short flower stalks coming from one common central point, rather like the ribs of an umbrella. It’s typical of the Allium family. Given a bit more time, this bud would burst out into a beautiful umbel, potentially looking something like this:

Blooming Allium always remind me of fireworks. They’re such jubilant blossoms and have a bit of over-the-top Seuss-like whimsy to them.  The photo of the bud planted the idea of them “lollipopping” into the sky, I discovered the word, umbel, (happily beginning with a u) and this acrostic poem grew from there.

Allium
A burgeoning bud
Lollipops into the sky
Launches into an
Illuminated
Umbel
Making merry in the garden

Note to self: Pick up some Allium bulbs this May for an explosion of color in the garden.   Spring can’t come soon enough!

If you’d like to read some more poetry, head on over to Elizabeth Steinglass‘s blog– She’s hosting today’s Poetry Friday Round up!

This month I’ve been participating (occasionally!) in Laura Shovan’s Found Object Poem Project. Although I haven’t participated in a while, I’m jumping back into the mix with this photo, for Day 25:

A Constellation of Keys
Common key cards
have no romance,
slipping into a pocket
without a wrinkle,
unnoticeable,
silent and disposable.

Carved metal keys
have character
and reassuring heft.
They clink happily
in a pocket,
socializing with spare change,
or if you please,
they sit in hand,
guaranteeing imminent access
or denying the same.

Patiently waiting on hooks,
a constellation of keys
has purpose,
power and potential,
silently offering up
an array of possibilities.

Pelican sunrise

Morning comes softly to Puerto Rico. An early array of colors blushes the sky, edging clouds with indigo shadows. The sky brightens slowly but steadily until the sun eases over the horizon in a final burst of radiance. In the in-between time the pelicans arrive. One by one or in groups of two or three. They wing their way across the dawn, entrancing me as surely as the sunrise.

Their silhouettes and dense beaks call to mind pterodactyls and prehistoric times. They whirl and circle over the shallow surging surf, powerful and fluid in flight. Intently they eye the depths and then turn, dive and plunge, hitting the water with an audible THUD! and a splash, like a fish-seeking
missile.  When they’re successful, they emerge from turquoise water to tilt their head back, their distinctive throat pouch apparent as they swallow their catch…gulp, gulp. Soon they’re off again wheeling and diving or gliding in smoothly to rest on a piling, rousting smaller birds. They spread their wings wide and perch, facing the early morning sun.

Action at the pilings

Preening, they  ruffle through their feathers with their long beaks. Sometimes they twist their sinuous necks and rub their heads up and down their backs, over and over again. Some float in the water, rising and falling  with the crests of the waves, seemingly unperturbed by the motion around them.

Each morning last week I sat on a bench, in a hammock or at the open-air restaurant watching the pelicans, fascinated by their ceaseless activity, enthralled and relishing the sweet start to the day. This week, back at home in Maine, morning comes softly as well. It has its own dramatic beauty, framed by pines and oaks rather than palm trees, and it is just as sweet. But I do miss those pelicans.

On a side note, no post about pelicans could be complete without including this wonderful, whimsical pelican limerick–a clever delight no matter who authored it. It often ran through my mind as I enjoyed watching the pelican escapades each morning.

The Pelican:
by Ogden Nash or by Dixon Lanier Merritt

A wonderful bird is the pelican,
His bill can hold more than his beli-can.
He can take in his beak
Food enough for the week;
But I’m damned if I see how the heli-can.

Note: I did a bit of research and learned that pelicans aren’t only fun to watch, they’re quite fascinating to read about. They rub their heads on their backs to pick up an oily secretion from their glands. The rubbing head then distributes this over their feathers to keep them waterproof.  Apparently they also have air sacs under their skin and in their bones to keep them especially buoyant.  These air sacs also help cushion their bodies when they hit the water in those high speed fish-seeking dives. Another fun fact–the American white pelican can hold up to 3 gallons of water in its bill.  Wow! Finally, I learned that there’s a reason pelicans look prehistoric–they’ve  been around for 30 to 40 million years!  Clearly they’re doing something right!

Recipe for  relaxation, Puerto Rican Style

Ingredients:
sunshine
water
birds
time

First, preheat your day to approximately 83 degrees Fahrenheit.

Next, prepare your soundtrack. Take a large scoop of waves crashing on the shore. Hear the swoosh and hiss as they roll in and pull away. Add in an occasional rustle of palm in the stiff breeze and a dash of some exotic bird call. If you’d like, you can add a spattering of quiet Spanish in the background.

Now, for the visuals. Carefully look around. Watch the breakers rolling in to shore. Overhead pelicans are circling, periodically diving into the water with a dramatic splash. One or two  of them stop to perch on old pilings. They shake their feathers and preen, highlighted by the rising sun, which glints off the turquoise waters. One gecko darts across the pathway while another meanders under a multi-colored hammock strung between palm trees.

Finally, breathe in the warm salty air. Feel the breeze caress your bare arms. Let the moment sink deep into your bones. Enjoy.

Note–My husband and I are in Puerto Rico for a week-long vacation–our first without children in 22 years.   This was a quickly written slice and I can’t figure out how to get my photos into it.  Ah well–instead of battling technology, I chose to relax and explore. I’ll check back and comment on other posts a bit later.

Feeling time-pressured, I’ve gone with my first haiku effort for this photo response.

Autumn maracas
invite you to merengue
Shake a leg, baby!

After Friday’s unexpected snow day, I started paying closer attention to the weather. I get one day off and then I want another–even when I don’t really want it! (Kind of like eating one piece of chocolate and then another and another until you have a pile of wrappers in front of you, feel faintly queasy and have no idea what just happened. Not that that’s ever happened to me!) And lo and behold! Rumors of an impending storm surfaced and rippled through the school.  My students, my colleagues and I spent much of yesterday speculating about the storm track and likely outcomes.

“We’re going to have a snow day tomorrow,” a student announced as he walked in the door.
“Yeah.  It’s gonna snow a lot!” another offered in support and small voices chimed in with their thoughts and their parents’ predictions. “My mom says…”
“Oh, I think we’ll be here,” I said, trying to steer the day into more productive directions (and to subdue the inner child in me that leapt about, fist pumping at the idea of another day in PJs.)
“Nope. We won’t have school,” the first student maintained with sublime confidence.

Conversation in the Teacher’s Room at lunchtime wasn’t much different. The air buzzed with intense speculation.
“Do you think we’ll have school?”
“What does SnowDayCalculator say?”
“Why isn’t it snowing yet? Wasn’t it supposed to start late morning?”
“Maybe it’s delayed. It might linger later into the morning then. That would be good.”
“What happens if there’s a delay? I heard we still have to be here on time anyway?”

We compared forecasts, theorized about likelihoods, and some of us maintained, with straight faces, that we didn’t really want a snow day with all that needed to happen this week. (I am convinced, though, that I was not the only one with an irrepressible, wildly-hopeful, grinning, PJ-clad inner child dancing about in anticipation.) Eventually we decided a 2-hour delay might be a possibility and would probably be the best outcome.
As lunch ended a colleague whipped out her smart phone and reported. “SnowDayCalculator says it’s a 78% chance for a snow day tomorrow.” Not great odds, but not too bad either. We all smiled and headed off to lunch duty.

Last night I watched the chances go down, down, down. By late evening chances of a snow day had diminished to 56%. Not at all likely.

Before heading to bed, I donned my pajamas inside out (in a last ditch effort to entice a snow day from the weather gods) and then took a look at Laura Shovan’s latest photo prompt. (For more information about her wonderful Found Object Poetry Project click on the link.) My short response was colored by the buzz of the day, the fun of snow day speculation, and the declining likelihood of a day off or a delay.

Winter Sorrow
Looking at the treadmarks
crisscrossing
a mere tracery of snow
I sigh,
resigned,
No snow day.

Epilogue: Moments ago the phone just rang. At this time in the morning it meant only one thing–snow day or delay! And…wait for it….it’s a 2 hour delay!  Perfect!

For today’s photograph in Linda Shovan’s FOPP, I opted to write a prose response, rather than a poem. Something about this massive smooth boulder spoke to me of clouds and legend.  I may rework it in days to come and update it here. This deadline business is for the birds and work is intruding on my writing time!

The Origin of the White Boulder

Long ago, not at the beginning, but soon thereafter, when the earth was young and the green of the land blazed against a brilliant blue sky, the clouds lived at peace with the sky and the land. Though the world was new, they understood that they were irrevocably joined and that each one enhanced the other.  And for many, many years, all was peaceful and the clouds and skies drifted over the land and the people were happy.

Then one day a small cloud formed. It drifted through the sky, forming, reforming, shape-shifting as small clouds do. It rode the air currents and came and went as the sky the land and the elder clouds bid it.

But as time passed, this small cloud grew and as he grew, he began to change. Instead of drifting with the other clouds above the land, dancing over lakes and mountaintops, he sought to make mischief. Day after day he drew close to the land to form great, dense banks of fog. He laughed as he hid the fleecy white sheep from the farmers and the ports from weary sailors seeking safe harbor.

And at last Land grew tired of his pranks and spoke to him coldly, saying, “Go back to your place, Young Cloud. Leave the people be.”

In his pride the cloud thought, “Who is Land to order me about? For I am far more powerful than she.  I can cover the tops of the mountains, hide the sea, and block the very rays of the sun.”

And in his anger he covered the land, blocking her from the sky and from the sun’s light. Day after day he refused to leave and each day he spread further and higher. Land grew ever more angry and rumbled her warnings and laughter no longer drifted on the breeze from the homes of the people.

Weeks passed and the plants began to sag and rot in the earth and the people wept. Still Young Cloud would not leave and in his pride and arrogance, he ignored the final warnings of Sky, Land, and Clouds. At last, the Clouds gathered, dark with fury, and thundered their displeasure at him. The earth trembled below him and the sky lit with flashes of lightning.

And in that instant, banished, Young Cloud tumbled from the sky to the earth, transformed from lightest vapor to heaviest boulder. And there he remains, forever immobile, earthbound.  And once again Cloud, Land and Sky lived in harmony and the people were happy.