We are flexible and contented
We dance in the halls and laugh in the staff room
We inspire and challenge, stretch and strive.
We welcome opportunity to grow and improve
with new members to our team.
But.
leadership must embrace our joy. We have a culture of YES.
We ask “how can we…?” Not “Can we?”
Today, we’re afraid.
.
But
we wonder how can we
make this change create even greater opportunities for our kids.
I see your fear
that your words are inadequate,
that what you offer is not
good not
enough not
good enough.
But your words are.
Have faith that when you climb to the heights
when you are brave enough to free your words
that I am holding the ladder steady
so you won’t fall.
.
.
(A teacher poem)
No sneaking
No whispers
No clandestine act
Engine patters
Garage door rumbles
Back door slams
Yet a happy greeting yields hours of anxieties.
Something is not working here.
And so your words come slowly,
squeezed like frozen toothpaste;
they do not echo;
they fall with a dull clunk.
.
And so your words come slowly
like a sail boat becalmed;
they hover over her,
dark storm on the horizon.
.
And so your words come slowly;
she watches them
approaching from the distance
like a prairie dust storm.
.
Your
.
words
.
c o m e
.
s l o w l y.
You sit
silently
staring at your lap.
Your face
reflects sorrows
you will not describe.
Silence
is your
only safe
place.
Under your skin
you’re kindling dreams.
Letting just enough
hope gleam through the ash.
Your head says,
“You can’t.
It won’t be,”
But the kindling dreams
wonder,
“Why
not
me?”
A sales lady
rhapodized over my
red and purple shoes.
“I wish I had the guts
to wear something like that,”
she said, sighing.
“I always admire
great shoes on other people.”
.
I told someone of this,
and she said,
“I know what she means.
I used to envy people
who had the courage to wear
red lipstick.”
I smiled,
gazing at her scarlet lips.
“Do you feel super-powered
in that lipstick?”
Her eyes just twinkled in response.
.
We hold ourselves back,
from what will
make our spirits soar,
reveal our natures,
demonstrate our individuality,
because of what?
Fear of censure by dullards?
or
Fear of our own unleashed potential?
.
Embrace the tokens
of your power:
wear shoes that make your feet
dance in the street,
and lipstick that makes your smile
a billboard for your joy.
Be you
in all your
power.
.
(Thanks Julia, for loaning me the lipstick image). 😉
This is purely selfish, I know.
Since October 2011, I’ve been obsessed with author Diana Gabaldon and her Outlander series (though I read anything by her I can find: the Lord John series, blog posts, articles, tweets, Facebook postings). Like millions of rabid fans around the world, I am waiting desperately for the next installment in in the adventures of Claire and Jamie Fraser, et al. Written in My Own Heart’s Blood (aka MOBY) isn’t due until SEPTEMBER 2013!
>>Insert anguished groan here<<
Recently, Diana went to Scotland to celebrate the wedding of her daughter. I found myself praying passionately that there would be no plane, train, bus, ferry, or auto accidents. What if Diana was to expire in some sort of dramatic, Fraser worthy way? She puts her characters through enough, fate might just mock her with an ironic twist, and she could be caught in such a scenario up close and personally! Worse, some ignominious event could fell her, some blip of biology could shut down that brilliant brain and still that witty pen.
😦 NOOOOOOOOO! The very idea makes my heart pound in dread.
Yesterday, in my audio book of Gabaldon’s Drums of Autumn, Jamie fought off a bear with a dirk, bare hands, and sheer determination. (Claire contributed to his defence by whacking at the combatants with a dead fish). After this attack, Claire shakily observes,
Anytime. It could happen anytime, and just this fast. I wasn’t sure which seemed most unreal; the bear’s attack, or this, the soft summer night, alive with promise.
I rested mv head on my knees, letting the sickness, the residue of shock, drain away. It didn’t matter, I told myself Not only anytime, but anywhere. Disease, car wreck, random bullet. There was no true refuge for anyone, but like most people, I managed not to think of that most of the time.
I am not a worry-wart. I have a generally relaxed, laissez-faire attitude about most things. I believe in doing what you can, and then letting go. I wait without anxious fear for results of jobs, test results, admissions, reviews, and queries. Impatient curiosity may cause frustration, but not anxiety. My kids and husband are on their own, provided only with my good wishes and sensible advice. I never panic over their prospective demises, despite their penchants for death defying recreational activities that would indicate I really should. Yet, Diana Gabaldon’s books can keep me up all night, fretting about how things are going to turn out for a character who’s stuck in another impossible situation. Her fictional world stresses me out far more than the real world does.
I love her for it.
So I worry about Herself .* This is slightly absurd, and definitely selfish. I know it, and yet I can’t help it.
Please be immortal, Diana. Or at least, get yourself into a time loop next time you’re in Scotland. I recommend looking for wild flowers at the base of standing stones around Beltane.
—
*I also worry, not infrequently, about Davina Porter, narrator of the Outlander audio books, for much the same reasons. She HAS to keep narrating this series! She can’t die or retire!
Imagine my head, cupped in my hands, shaking in embarrassment. This is quite pathetic, but very real. Am I alone in this absurdity? Tell me someone else shares author anxiety?
July/2013 Especially now that MOBY won’t be released until March 2014 now!
It’s not truth,
but danger.
Not what is real,
but what’s perceived.
The excluding
exclamations
of laughter
contrasted by
bored eye brows
and sighs.
An amused knife
slicing through
her security.
© Shawn L. Bird
————————————————–
Being a free verse, there is no strict rhyme or rhythm pattern in this one, but you’ll see lots of examples here of consonance, assonance, and alliteration. Notice in particular the pattern of growling of the /r/s, the explosive /ex/s and the sighing /s/s which reflect the narrative persona’s emotional experience.
There is a circle pattern with the 6 sections (not quite stanzas, not being separated) being strongly consonant /r/, then assonant /e/, then alliterative /ex/, and then reversing: alliterative /b/, assonant /i/, and finally consonant /r/ again. How does this pattern reflect the persona’s emotional state?
You are welcome to use this poem in your class room, crediting the author. I’d also be pleased to see a comment indicating where and when you did. Thanks.
Shawn L. Bird 