Morning…

Yellow flower-dandelion-clovers-weeds, speargrass
That rooster crowing by the shed
Small tree-purple flowers
Cars on the highway

Yellow stars on green grass space
Tiny moth flying below the tops of grass-unseen & secret
Lines of trees-leafless, still asleep
Birds chirp and sing, unseen
Dandelions gone to seed
Vulture, distant, glides horizon wind
Pink flowers beyond the ditch, beyond reach
Stands of bluebonnet
Chilly breeze, gray skies, colors fading in the haze
Mockingbird silently flies between two trees

Afternoon…

Wasp buzzing under canopy,
Killdeer flying over ditch
Smoke from behind the trees, campfires in the air
Purple blossom tree

Ant mound pressed against cracked concrete
Ants stream from invisible holes
Airplane cuts gray sky

Buildings through the trees
Donkey brays, rooster crows
Tiny blue flowers in the grass-invisible from six feet up

Crisp on the grass, old leaves-autumn leftovers-punctuate the ground
Burnt leaf smoke carries on the wind
Drills call cadence while a tiny spider climbs a blade of grass

Chipped bark on live oak
Soft moss on the lower trunk, bird’s nest in the branches
Light green, spring leaves sway
Grass, tired and old, hasn’t started growing yet

In the distance a pile of rocks explode with purple flowers, yellow centers
Alone in the field, a daisy, lost in prairie sea

Soaring overhead,
scissor-tails returning
a long journey ends

I love the scissor-tailed flycatcher. So beautiful and elegant with tails forked wide or streaming long and thin behind like signs towed by toy airplanes. What would the sign say? Bugs beware, spring is here.

They’re the state bird of Oklahoma, and can be found on the Oklahoma statehood quarter, released earlier this year.

Fortunately, they can also be found all over central Texas this time of year, soaring over open fields, twisting and diving to come up with a delicious dragonfly. Watching their forked tailed displays is cause to stop the car and stare.

They migrate up from southern Mexico and central America, and then fan out across Texas and Oklahoma. Those journeys are especially amazing to me. What have those little black eyes seen? Seeing the first members of a returning migration is a sight to make one’s day. For a moment, at least, we can know that some things still work, still happen as they should. With their return, Nature’s clock chimes April.

They showed up on April 1st this year.

The return of the
scissor-tailed flycatcher
April has begun

I found this great little writing exercise on Danigirl’s blog. It seems to originate as a professional development project based on George Ella Lyon’s work. I thought it made for a cool post, but the next day one of my fellow teachers suddenly started talking about the heretofore unknown (to me) poet Lyon at an in-service meeting. Well, thought I, that’s some synchronicity for me.

Anyway, It seemed like a cool project to do with my kids, and being the good teacher that I am (and also the kind of person who enjoys these kinds of writing exercises) I figured I should test drive it first…

Where I’m From, an exercise in identity…

I am from maps, from National Geographic and surplus bombing charts of Vietnam used as tarps below our tents.

I am from green soccer fields, orange slices sucked through teeth at halftime and 2..4..6..8…who do we appreciate.

I am from the lonely buoy bell clanging in the bay on open-window summer nights. I am from old forests with forgotten headstones hidden in the undergrowth.

I am from the Smithsonian, concrete bunkers overgrown by jungle, that old monastery on the hill. From birdless gray Octobers and the golden light of northern summer, a fox curled up on the lawn.

I am from the scrub oak, juniper and palms, summer tomato plants and morning glory growing thick on a wire fence. I am from bluebonnets and prickly pear embedded in my palm.

I am from tacos and tamales on Christmas Eve. From Trivial Pursuit and gentleness, from Brushes, Griffins, Tomlinsons and Trouts. From the parrot we birdsat, who never learned to talk, but in our house, learned to laugh.

I am from meals with talk instead of TV, from books and magazines and a telescope pointed at Saturn’s rings.

From books are our friends and may the force be with you.

I am from the King James Bible, New England churches surrounded by three hundred year old graves. From Doubting Thomas and endless questions.

I’m from the cold Narragansett, “King” Arthur’s Illinois basketball court, both sides of the Revolution, and the Valley of the Sun, from home-baked cookies kept in the freezer, tortillas in the ‘fridge.

From Grace who said nothing of her past, from Dorothy who told everything, from Jim whose cursing made me laugh (my parents cringed) and Cecil whose tales I never got to hear.

I am from cluttered closet time capsules, vinyl photo albums, instamatic shots and slide shows of the sea, from treasure boxes and neat ordered files of school projects, drawings, homemade cards.

I am from the Colonial coast, the edge of jungle, the ring of fire, the ruins of Rome, the settled Comanche hills I now call home.

* * *

As a side project, I followed the links from Danigirl back along the trail of meme to see where it began, all the while enjoying the various takes along the way. It goes: Daysgoby to Spanglish to Lolabola to a staff development website.

Here’s the page that explains how to put it together. Give it a whirl.

Look up—endlessness and open sky
Naked leafless lungs break blue infinity
Ghosts of birds sing springtime memories
Imagine them in the trees, though all around is endings—
Dying leaves, new spiders’ eggs and spider’s dead decay…
Remember that hummingbird released from a spider’s web?
Up from my hand, he raced straight to South America
Look up—wait for one last gust of wind

The sky, today, burns October clear, blue as flame beyond words
The wind, today, blows through cottonwood leaves, whispers of words
The birds, today, abandon my feeder, save a grackle, lost from his flock
I am lost for words today
Today, I am that grackle, those leaves, this sky, these words, lost in a flock of
  Cottonwood leaves

Sometimes I flip through my paper journal to see what I wrote in the past. Here’s the entry for 9.20.02…

So now, lounging in the cool outdoors,
September eve, and the trees do shake,
Clouds mix with vapor trails,
Marring the frank permanence of the autumn sky.

That permanence is an illusion.

When heat returns,
The sky shifts like a liar,
Remembering its whiter, plainer side.

There are these times,
And then some days…

There are the leaves on the neighbor’s tree
That haven’t fallen yet
They’re golden crisp and burned
Standing out form the mistletoe
All around

Some mornings the sky is just the opposite
And the leaves stand out
But never seem to fall

I’ll watch them every morning
While the dogs investigate the yard
I know those leaves will never fall
Until I stop watching

All of this, this time, this day
It’s falling all around…

There is all of this and then these people too

-This is from a road trip in ‘95.

Walking low streets, I breathe mountains
Frosty morning air steals into my lungs like perfect smoke
Later desert warmth will rule the day, and storms…
Skies blaze with fiery clouds
Balloons navigate the misty currents
My feet walk conquistador paths and missionary trails
Turned streets that lead past adobe homes and pueblo bungalows
To breakfast in a warm and welcoming diner:
Bagel and cream cheese with fresh green chiles

©1995

This one came one summer day a few years ago while swimming laps at the neighborhood pool. Community pools are so ordinary and yet there’s a certain magic as well. Perhaps it’s just the way chlorine smells and warm water feels when it becomes part of memory.

Chlorine Summer Days

Chlorine bubbles
Teenage lifeguards
Lap lanes
Sun
He can’t hold his breath that long
She swims, swims, swims
Swim
She can’t hold her breath for him
Holding hands
Holding breath
Chlorine water bubbles
Break like glass
Smiling faces break the mirror
Sun
Swim
Summer
Ten more laps
Five
One
Holding breath
Holding sun
They hold each other
Swimming
Only Labor Day
(so far away)
dispels the dream
Of swimming, sun and
Water love
Chlorine swim
Sun five
Breath one
He will hold his breath for her,
Offering it like sunshine gold
From wrinkled hand
Swimming, she accepts
Breathes the breath
Of summer sun

© 2000, James Brush

I’ve been trying to teach haiku. It’s a fun activity for when time is short at the end of the year. I especially like it because it’s simple, yet it forces kids to really choose their words carefully, something they are not often wont to do.

One student, having trouble with the form asked if I could go over it again and write one on the board for him…

First, five syllables
The second line has seven
Third line follows first

and then, this…

Haikus are poems
Usually do not rhyme
Just keep it simple

For some reason they found these amusing.