class

lesson planning

They laughed today
So laughed
Posters plastered against the walls of that building
on my college campus.

“Let’s eat…” but when you take away the comma it’s not so civil.
Let’s eat, Sarah.
Let’s eat Sarah.

Let’s hit, John.
Let’s hit John.

They laughed.

& me, smiling,
glasses wearing,
writing poetry on yellow sticky notes in the minutes left in the work day.

Fingers stained blue from rewriting their names.

Poetry. I wonder how that lesson will go when I teach them, when we
write our own rhymes in 30 minutes of class time.

There are a lot of things that will be fun to teach them, I think.

Alliteration , tenses, writing letters, our own book titles, finding the syllables in our names. Categories and I look up games and I wonder, have I found the job of my dreams?

Thankful, I am so thankful.

There are a lot of things that will be fun to teach them, I think.

But on Monday, where should I start?

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color – poem

we are fascinated with sunsets.

today i was helping him study poems, for a test, for a class, that is tomorrow…
and we read one (i forgot who it is by) called expostulations and response,
or something like that.
& in the poem the friend told the writer – get up! and stop dreaming. pick up your books and leave this rock and solitude
and the writer says listen…
be up, up, and listen to these birds
because i will learn more from just sitting here than i ever will from a wise man or the words of us

it’s snowy here
here where i live
when i walk home at night it’s often falling but
even when it’s not,
it glitters.
falling,
around me,
glitter. glitter in snow, glitter is snow
and i am amazed
(then) wonder!
why am i amazed that this snow looks so similar to something we have in life,
used in our craft projects, spilled on our nails,
when all the time, the snow was there first? it’s always been glittering
our crafts are the imitators of the real thing
that falls from the sky

so sunsets
color! colors.
left in the sky
to drift away as we wait for night
we are fascinated by color that comes every night of our lives
that we don’t always get to see
but that we could never replicate

(the poem: i looked it up. it is called expostulation and reply, by william wordsworth)