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Dear Students

Dear Students,
We, your teachers, are running
in busy virtual circles. Picture us
snapping our fingers inches from
your faces. Picture us–if you picture us at all–
waving to get your attention.

Some of you wave back. Some of you
crave connection. Some want to learn
what we still know how to teach.
For you, I post Daily Assignments from far away
Read this. Think about that.
Compare. Contrast.
Compose a song or a portrait.
Conduct an experiment within
this experiment we’re living through.
Cite your sources.

Those of you who won’t wave back
or who can’t wave back
I am setting you down, gently,
in the place you like best
whether that is a beach, a forest,
your grandmother’s backyard,
your friend’s kitchen table
or in front of a game on a screen.

Because above all I want,
I want you to be comforted
so play the game that comforts you
Then get dressed. Go outside.
Write a letter or a poem
and send it to someone.
Send it to me
I’m here.

March 27th

sleepy with the spring
quiet plants, quiet people
breathing in and out

from above, this world
looks gray–but our roots deepen
long before we bloom

Twenty Minutes Later

twenty minutes later
it’s daytime sky, washed blue
not deep violet
not indigo hush
not what was here, before

the sky is on the list now,
added to this daily tally
of ordinary things
we
once
were used to
but now
are going,
gone

When Winter Grows Bored, She Costumes the Trees

on the road, weather

drapes disguises over trees

tricks our hurried eyes

 

drive east with the storm

passing miles of white birches

look back on striped rows

 

and the costumes fade

into rows of dark brown trunks 

snow-spackled maples

 

February 24

dinner with you, old friend

astounding we still have so much 

to say to each other–

and so much still to learn–

 

tonight we wander through our shared childhood,

the neighborhood of memory we built.

We keep stopping each other here,

side by side on my couch

 

Really? we say

That’s how it seemed to you?

 

we lean closer, fascinated

comparing the different pasts we’ve constructed

as if putting together two jigsaw puzzles

from the same shapes

 

This Winter

There’s a list of things 

about this winter,

all that cracked open

this frozen shell 

 

Here, for example–

the cows on my morning commute.

sweet-faced and calm

no longer looking like dinner

 

Then there’s the news every day,

full of creatures less lucky than cows

When I can’t take in any more bad news

I listen to lectures on astrophysics.

A smart man talks with enthusiasm

about the nature of time and space

I drive through the comfort of

tiny particle physics

and let all the words I don’t understand

drift on a wave out the car window 

towards the cow barn.

Let ‘s see what they make of it

 

February bird

in the apple tree
one bird sings a two-note song
to the winter air

 

Mindfulness in Practice

buried beneath magazines and mail
book I meant to read
lost for days
poems about kindness
and attention

 

Transformation

I come back to the Berkshires
seeking transformation
While I wait for it to find me
(impatient, as always)
the mountains remembered they were there
dark gray against a lighter gray sky
Next pink unfurls through long cotton clouds
Look.
The sky is not going to shout the message.
Sky’s not much for words, believing in the power
of show, don’t tell
Sky pales to daylight,
ready to illuminate this world again today
and again, tomorrow
Transformation is ordinary
It happens every day
You do not need to go searching for it in the mountains
Just remember to look up on a regular basis

Wrapping Day

as I switch on lamps
in dark rooms
Sun streaks the eastern sky
with wide pink ribbons
the world and I
begin
wrapping in bright color
the gifts
we can give

A Hundred Falling Veils

there's a poem in every day

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice: Poems by Mary Kendall

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment