In 1820, English writer Charles Caleb Colton penned the now often quoted (and almost as often misspoken) line "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."  At times, though, I wonder where imitated behavior first appeared; who is imitating whom?
     The following haiku - actually, double haiku - was written in 2012 after my daughter noticed  and compared two seemingly separate behaviors.  The title for the piece was obvious, at least to me.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery

 

Sara notices

birds in a frenzied panic

as rain approaches.

 

They are, she muses,

as people buying bread and

milk before snowstorms.

 



     "Out of the mouths of babes..." as the saying goes.  The following poem was inspired by my 3 year old grandson who, when looking at the quarter moon hanging brightly, said something that could come only from the innocence of children.

Perspective

(for Luke)

 

The last of the light - long faded

- reflected a crescent sky,

when a small voice spoke

that the moon was broke,

and my soul - long lost years jaded

- glimpsed hope in my grandson's why.

 

6/16 - 6/18/2013

 



     Without a doubt, the best and most satisfying part of working in public education is the relationship you form with your students through helping, mentoring and guiding them.  Of course, this does lead to certain moments of sadness when they must be on their way, but the feeling of making a difference in someone's life is worth the bittersweet.
     I believe it was in the autumn of the 2007-2008 school year when I met a freshman student who was trying to find her way in life while dealing with her own specific baggage and demons, as do we all.  We spoke more times than I can count over the next three years: many happy and encouraging moments, some sorrow filled, and yes, a few in anger.  In the end, though, it was worth every minute, as are most journeys.  I promised her a poem as a graduation present, and I kept my word.  The following piece, written in 2010, is the gift I gave her.

The Butterfly Bush

 

Autumn, after having had its way,

passed.  What had been is now echoed was.

I'd prune the butterfly bush because

cold became the color of the day.

 

Knowing what the grasp of winter does

to living things (who, if asked, would say,

"All things equal, I'd prefer to stay..."),

I'd come prepared to excise what was

 

dead or dying; standing in the way

of healthy growth - essential because

I'd seen what clinging to darkness does.

This one would welcome a better day.

 

Enough!  The past is dead; what was, was.

The weary butterfly would not say

no one had encouraged her to stay.

This I could do, and did, just because.

 

 

     "Right from Winter into Summer.  We don't have much of a Spring anymore."  Know who says that?  Just about everyone living in central and northeastern Pennsylvania.  More often than not, it's hard to disagree.  Especially when June 1st feels like any day in July, as it does today.
     This verse is part of a collection of Summer poems from 2006.  Their simple titles came from the day each was written.

Tuesday, 7/11/06

 

Hanging low in the branches of a pine,

a sun the color of tiger lilies -

more a ball of fire than ornament -

foretelling heat, humidity and haze.

The man who walks his beagle each morning

feels he must let me know: "Hot one today,"

while the dog's only concern is something

found in the grass just off the roadway's edge.