Teacher Time

2010-01-22T11:36:00.000-08:00

I never knew there was a book by this title, until I tried to find an image to go with my poem (below).

moments…

surprises sliced off the top

of skimmed milk; i

measure them discretely, swiftly,

knowing each will evaporate with time’s touch.

SHHhh, do not tell anyone what you have! they are stolen!

rare! not supposed to be there,

and you are the thief! shhh, take care! Time will get you too

and charge you, try you. You will never be free.

Quick! Think. You know what to do,

You are in charge of hiding them away,

deep in gramma’s shoebox,

do you know where it is? Can you still find it

in the knotty pine room with quiet quilts?

Open the door-you are the only brave criminal,

hide them, hide you,

and when it’s all done

look in the mirror,

see life smiling back while time creeps away.

you did it!

shhhh…………

Longing

2009-11-25T08:42:00.000-08:00

In honor of my father, who died 28 years ago on November 20, 2009

We embrace life's

memories
as if they are today~

invisible and weightless~

yesterday's songs taking us places beyond
ourselves, above
the heaviness of the world.
Their notes lift us toward that space
shared by aching hearts, all seeking
hands of a father, mother, lover, or child...
longing for the touch,
skin upon skin,
or the breath
of the missing
on one's cheek;
they wait there, in this place,
alone and together,
beating as one.

2009-05-07T02:47:00.000-07:00

One looks at the flaw and rejects it, ignores
its otherwise firm and blushing skin;
pushed aside for one with no outer
faults, nor guaranteed inner beauty.

The branches
speckle with imperfection as
over and over again they are
left, destined for the the press.

It is the way we pick
apples, so obsessed with beauty fit
well to our hand, driven toward the next
which may possibly exceed the last. Happily, we
cart our bags back to the trunk,
each selecting the chosen one to eat
on the way home. We compare, compliment and
complain as we gouge away--too grainy,
tart, juicy, crisp,

soft-silently wondering,
which one was best
and who had it. Then at home,
following tradition, we gather ‘round
the cider jug and taste
the faultless blend,
the anonymous
blood of neglected
fruit, quietly claiming
victory.

Laura King, 5/7/09

2009-05-03T08:45:00.000-07:00

Music of a Deaf Cat…

Laura king/2009

Her quicksilver concerts demand
sudden attention,
white paws scaling ivory-ebony keys,
fill our resting air with dissonance,
she totally unaware. Startled awake I
scan the room, resent this pre-dawn
game of hide-and-seek
with a composing cat, who shatters sleep.
Her predeliction towards Beethoven
imitations boldy counters night, yet
she hears none of it; only knows that, like
every other night,
I will find her, spy her single fang
Shining in a sliver of moon.
My scolding words the encore,
Her purr the applause.

2009-05-03T08:38:00.001-07:00

Me jazzin,’ me cat!
Me playz all night, me playz all dayz
Me crrrrraaaaaaaaaaa-
Zee cat!
Tail twitch wid’ a beat,
Same beat in my feet’n dey
Hipz and they hopz
‘til I’m on da top of da piiiiiiiiiiii
ana, and so,
da piana man go, he say, “Get down, blame cat!
Me playz za keys and you in my way, you
Crrrrraaaaaaaaaa--
Zee cat!”

Spring Snow

2009-03-22T17:45:00.000-07:00

Spring Snow, like an unwanted guest,
showing up uninvited,
assuming hospitality, just being itself, while
cars curse and swerve.
Spring Snow, like a bill past due
directed at you,
that you assumed was paid in full,
yet wanting more and MORE.
You slow through the snow squalls and
worrisome white outs, behind the wobbly line of cars,
to the parking lot, yes, a bit late,
to the jumble of kids, waiting for you,
to "why are you late?" and trunk and doors opening
for the only ones totally unaware of the trouble,
completely oblivious to the air's annoyance,
the only ones that really matter on a day like today:
Weekend teenage skiiers,
in love and in step
with the sky's final burst
of spring white.

Getting a New Brain...

2009-03-09T11:17:00.000-07:00

She told me she was getting a new brain,
streamlined, hotwired,
without the 20 cm lump, but at that moment, I
couldn't get mine to work, to send a message
to my mouth to form meaningful words
and ouput them toward her.
She told me it, the lump, had been growing for the last ten years,
secretly culturing in a frontal lobe hideout,
until it had its coming out party on the MRI screen, earning
immediate star billing.
"It's coming out next week, or 'so-they-say,' Tuesday,
unless they change the day again; they've done that, oh,
a few times now, 'cause it's benign-no worry, no hurry,"
I felt my lips begin to move, but
"hey, it's okay, I'm fine, just a headache here and there,"
I nodded instead,
imagining some foreign body inside, growing,
finding space within my space,
wondering what are the odds, benign? malignant?
knowing that the difference between her and me
was the God that let her hope and the one
that left me questioning,
why?
I nodded and smiled at her, now walking away with a cheerful "bye"
and I tried to accept it all at face value:
A benign tumor would soon be taken out of her brain.
The end. I tried in the silence
to still my thoughts
me, left alone,
mouth
closed.

Digital Native, I'm not...

2009-02-25T11:08:00.000-08:00

well, you probably can imagine I've been having some computer problems after you read this...thank heavens for digitally enhanced children!

Contemplating my problem of tech,

My computer's now a pain in the neck

The microphone's broke

Soon my project will choke

And my patience resembles a wreck!

Oh, if I had been born post- the eighties,

My brain cells would be more like Bill Gaties',

My fingers would fly and tech problems would die,

but instead I crave vacations in Haiti.

Go native, they say...and it's fun,

I use laptop and cell when they run,

But my brain speed is still "slow"

when the programs don't go,

these problems are more for my son!

2009-02-24T14:54:00.000-08:00

Sarah came in and found me typing her words into the computer. She had misplaced her hat and suspected it was still in the cubby in my room. Sarah had been part of my literacy group for little over two weeks, and in a group, she is quiet, unless she didn't want to do something. Then, she'd get mad, calling everything stupid and dumb. But right now, she's not quiet or mad...
"Hey, are you typin' what I said in my book? Hey, are those my words, hey, can I see, can I hear me sayin' 'em?"
I catch up to her by saying, "Why, hello, Hailey? What brought you back down here? Isn't it time to go home? Oh, your hat. Yes, yes, I'm typing up your story. Would you like to hear you reading?"
"Well, can I? I don't know how that dumb micaphone works anyhow."
I explain how it's not the microphone that stores her recording from earlier-that it's stored on the computer. Then, I proceed to play the slideshow I was making, complete with her words, pictures, and voice...
"That's me! That's really me!" she says,
with this smile that tells me
she likes it more than other things she has to do in this
'dumb school.' She calls everything about school dumb or stupid,
but maybe not the 'micaphone,' maybe it's not so dumb,
as she just sits there and listens and asks me to play it again and again,
her sweet simple story,
her sweet little voice,
her.

2009-02-23T19:10:00.000-08:00

I await the finality of yesterday
when I forget the promise of today,
like when the most anticipated birthday gift
is opened and exposed to reality's light.
Its end comes when the bristles touch my teeth,
with the look into the mirror's eyes
echoing back
the day's end.
Yesterday I had imagined everything would go as planned,
complete with a neat beginning and end,
and its own predictable yet dramatic plot;
but today's present lacked the vivid details and texture
imagined, offered little surprise or suspense, was more like
junkmail, waiting there,
addressed to me, but of little interest.
The withering promise of today
closes the curtain on yesterday
while it wraps another present of
hopeful tomorrows,
searching for its story.

Hmmmm....long blog entries??

2008-09-25T03:10:00.000-07:00

So, I find myself writing long blog entries lately...and I wonder, do people read long blog entries? If I write for me, they might get longer than people are willing to digest...if I focus more on the audience, blog entries may not be as in touch with my experience. I'm just curious, do bloggers out there think about this issue? What do you think?

Making time for Salt and Aliens...

2008-09-24T16:11:00.000-07:00

Does anyone really know what time it is,
Does anyone really care...that I'm still here

in the classroom.

Don't ask me why because

I couldn't really tell you, without reciting the laundry list litany

of teacher tasks

unintelligable to the general public. For example,

"fill salt boxes."

Not salt shakers or sandboxes, but salt boxes

where pointer fingers map out

a letter's path to the sound of a smooth and steady teacher voice...

like the driver education teacher's, only ten years earlier:

"that's it, go to the left and turn, like a c, but then you travel up and go straight, now give it a tall back, a little taller, taller...

and there! you've just made a d! Now, shake your salt and get ready

for the next letter."

"Fill the salt boxes" is on the list because of this morning

when Andrew knocked them over
unintentionally. He was getting the pointer down

because he was "teacher of the day." Proudly he took the pointer

out of its pocket, not realizing how long it was,

not realizing the sweep of his arm with the pointer

would reach the work table,

not realizing how quickly the salt

would pour out of 15 salt boxes

onto the floor. "Fill the salt boxes" means explaining to the custodian

why there is salt in the cracks in the floor

and running to the grocery to get more

so that I have it for tomorrow. I could skip the salt boxes

but then there's Sarah

who LOVES the salt boxes the most

and who needs "s" practice

desperately.

Next on the list--"make Alien soup." This for Tyler,

who loves to talk about anything alien, loves to be an alien,

and who mixed up all the magnetic letters

and said,

"It's Alien Soup!" as he made nonsense words

on the cookie tray. "Look! B-L-A-S-H...Blash! I put lots of

blash in my alien soup!" Tyler, with his pie-round eyes,

kept making words, unaware

that the bell had rung, and an idea popped into my head

and on to my "to do list:"

I need to make a game

just for Tyler, Alien Soup, a set of letters and a bowl

all his own so he can be

the Alien Soup chef

and serve us all "prill gwesp soup" for breakfast.

I look at the clock with its bent minute hand,

looking as tired as I feel,

scolding me with the evidence: 5:o0pm with my list

only partially done.

And then I see Tyler at the door.

"Hi, Mrs. King. I'm not an alien right now, because

my dad picked me up at the after school program

and he said he wanted to pick up

the real Tyler just this once, so I said okay.

Can I show him Alien Soup?"

And he does, and his dad sits down in a postage stamp-sized chair

and helps his son make alien soup.

I sit down on the other side of the room, pretending

to be doing something important,

while I listen to "luf," "geb," and "twok,"

and smile.

Does anyone really know what time it is?

Does anyone really care?

I do.

It's time

for Tyler to show his dad

that it's okay to be an alien once in awhile,

and it's time for me to realize that

my list makes perfect sense

to me

and my kids.

So, pass the salt, please,

I gotta fill a salt box, and the soup may just need a touch.

But even so...

It's the best soup on the menu.

Spelling Bee

2008-09-22T17:37:00.000-07:00

So far, I've written about working with younger students in our school. Today I started working with a group of spirited, intelligent sixth graders who will compete for a spot on the school's spelling bee team. I experienced a moment of contrast as I worked with children in a different developmental phase.

Spelling Practice…

They pour in
Spilling onto tables and chairs
with limbs and tongues
Wriggling, dangling
like misplaced participles craving
their home, and I
am there as witness
to this act.

There is professed comfort
as if they fit well in their skins,
yet I can see places where
they gap or hang—I hear
their nervous giggles
as one knee shifts
and touches another.
We are gathered here to practice spelling words
for the upper grade spelling bee, to sort through
the word lists, finding those syllables
they still don’t know in an air
thick with knowing—to publicly analyze
how letters go together, systematically,
while privately wondering
if anything goes together at all.
They are walking, talking verbs,
actively seeking meaning to everything
with little comprehension of themselves,
and for twenty minutes, I, the
Spelling Bee coach, tell them
the rules of the game:

Repeat the word,
ask for a definition, a sentence, the language of origin,
look for clues in its verbal appearance,
look for anything at all that will help you
confront it, perhaps you’ve met a similar word before,
consider its base word, prefix or suffix,
let yourself be alone in your head with the word,
with yourself, with your own voice massaging its parts,
like shoulders and thighs, then surprise yourself
with what is there in your brain already, vibrating,
like jello on a train.

You are both young and not young,
Old and not old,
On a quest for knowledge that, on the surface
is comprised of hard-to-spell words, but beneath
is made of a room full of intimate strangers, wondering
who they are in the mix,
where are they going, and with whom,
looking for
definition, clues,
anything to help them make their way,
drowning in the unknown, then
coming again up to the surface, and asking, “Mrs. King,
how do you spell

“adolescence?”

Let Me Do it!

2008-09-19T10:38:00.000-07:00

It's called 'turtle talk,' slowing down the mouth

so sounds can be heard and identified...

and I teach kids how to do it with my friend,

"Super Turtle." Super turtle comes out slowly, and shares his heroic

sound-it-out skills...c-a-t, f-r-o-g, and --

"Let me do it!" Tyler interrupted.

The boy with a mouthful of missing teeth

proceeds to take the turtle off my hand, putting it on his own.

"H-i ! I a-m Th-u-p-er Th-ur-t-le!" and then Tyler

goes through all the picture cards, stacked so neatly for the orderly

adults, and finds the one he wants...

"Th-r-u-ck, Thruck! I can drive fast, cuz I'm Super Turtle!"

Then he takes the turtle off and gives it back to me, and he's gone...

moving on to block towers and duplo dinosaurs, leaving us to admire

a jumble of pictures--and Super Turtle,

who let Tyler do it! Who let Tyler teach US,

all by himself.

Stories they don't always tell, but live...

2008-09-16T14:50:00.000-07:00

Today I learned about the home life of two students. Their struggles in school point to the hard-to-hide troubles at home. Yet, they are not free to tell their stories...they are bound by the love they feel for their parents, no matter how painful that love might be....

Somebody wanted... but... so....

It sounds so simple when we say it

in our smooth teacher voices,

and it really is! Some amazing teacherperson crafted

this 'barebones story frame,'

giving birth to

"The dinosaur wanted a friend but nobody liked him. So he met a

dragon and they became friends. The End!"

And so we teach children...to write their own tales

in little books with bright yellow construction paper covers,

kids' tongues concentrating, sticking out, poised between teeth,

as they try so hard to remember the difference

between 'b' and 'd.'

Toothless smiles gleam

on the 'About the Author' pages

they dictate to you...another fairy tale...for some...

But for others...their stories remain

locked behind their eyes,

eyes wise beyond their years, lives already eroded by tears

that replace bathtime.

They cannot tell their truths because

they are too real,

too scary,

and all their fault, all their fault...they think,

over and over,

"all my fault, all my fault, all my fault, all my fault!"

before they even understand what fault means.

Somebody wanted to get high, but they didn't have any money because it all goes to the kid, so they sold their daughter's medication to get more money so they could get high,

high,

higher than the sky,

But why?

why mommy why

can't I get breakfast at school, mommy?

I'm hungry mommy and today's french toast day, mommy,

can't I get french toast mommy, like the others? NO! Not today! Go away!

Then in her classroom, when the teacher asks her

if she wants breakfast, she says a quiet

"no thank you, not today,"

and goes away

to hang up her backpack with last week's papers

mangled and forgotten in the bottom,

and the teacher goes on to the next name, while the girl thinks her story

inside herself...

...somebody wanted some breakfast, but her mommy said no,

so she wouldn't get any breakfast. The end.

That's the story

behind locked eyes, a barebones story

that leaves her alone, and hungry and wondering why

her stories are never about

dragons and dinosaurs

becoming friends.

The end.

Sunday Night...

2008-09-14T16:31:00.000-07:00

It's Sunday night, and always the same...

feeling, combined with the shame

that I feel it, but I can't deny

it's there, and I don't know why

'cause I love what I do, and I always have

but there's never enough of that weekend salve--

and on Sunday night, I look at the time

galloping fast, like this hip-hop rhyme

toward Monday morning's alarm clock roar

and me, I'll be panting out the door

to lunchrooms and playgrounds and bells that ring,

feel the Sunday night 'thud,' even though it's the thing

that I love to do, always have always will

for 20 years past, 20 more...but still,

wish the weekend would stay into the new week's beginning--

it's like I just want an extra inning,

but I'll be okay, once I hear a kid's giggle

or see a kindergartner doing that in-the-seat wiggle,

Find my way through the week, then Friday at four,

I'll savor a well-deserved weekend once more.

Thinking...

2008-09-12T19:03:00.000-07:00

interesting...this blogging thing...
ideas in the fingers come out and take wing
on the virtual page, the info age when
reality and fantasy merge
into a digital-land...
so different from the world of wobbly teeth
and dangling shoestrings,
where trevor forgot his backpack on the bus
and worries his dad'll yell,
where show and tell is the gameshow of choice...
where the teacher down the hall
is dragging her overstuffed chair out the classroom door
at 5pm on a Friday, needing to say only one word--
"lice..."
as bloggers with their mice
compose prose, there are teachers
downing no-doze with coffee chasers,
trying to keep up with it all...praying
the proverbial "they" pass a law called
'no teacher left behind,' hoping to find
a little bit more of themself
to give,
wanting, above all,
to avoid classroom lice
(for once)
this year.

Austism Amazes...

2008-09-12T18:30:00.000-07:00

Today I was visited by the boy with brown eyes,
wise, deepsoul eyes that gaze inward while looking out,
inward into a world where
things are in rows, and everything is in order,
a place where the air is completely still and
breathing is silent.
He enters my classroom with a flitting stare,
looking for something, searching the air
for yesterday--
but it's today and nothing's the same
nothing's at all the same today,
what with the fire drill--LOUD! too LOUD!
searching eyes desperate, agitated, until--
he sees the dog puppet there on the shelf,
the one that sang a song,
yesterday--
"put it on, put it on, put it on!"
And I do, and he feeds him pieces of a plastic pizza
and I have the dog pretend to chomp the pizza,
and he feeds him all the pieces, one after the other,
and everything is NOW and important
to this brown eyed face.
Yesterday and Today are
connected now,
NOW is real,
NOW is part of his world,
thanks to a dog puppet and
a toy plastic pizza,
and
those
soulful
brown
eyes.

Beginnings...

2008-09-10T14:46:00.000-07:00

A new year

We smile and extend our good intentions,
we, the seemingly gentle giants of the cinder block halls,
leading lines of tiny people
with our sideways glances
that hush escaping giggles.
They are our charges this year,
to shape and mold into what we think they should be,
something we think we can imagine...
we, the all knowing beings with our tomes of knowledge,
we, with big, grown up teeth,
we, the bearers of standards and grade books;
yet there behind us,
they grow instantly, breathing
unfamiliar air--
craving foods we've never tasted.
We lead the unknown, desperately hoping
our tools will cultivate
a civilized crop...
Yet our senses are paralyzed by
a future we rarely
glimpse.