As spring hangs on the tips of every branch, verdant green stalks shooting through mud, tight buds on the brink of bursting open, And the skies aswirl with storms of a passing season, There is a dense and unrelenting darkness Like the deep sleep of winter — Crowding, pressing, pushing Us to stillness,…
Tag: Poetry
Just a Blog Away: Fishermen and Poets
There is so much creativity and wonder out there in the blogging world and I need to grab more of it in 2018. That’s one of my goals for the new year. I don’t make resolutions because resolutions are notoriously bad at holding up over time. Goals, though, are doable. Specific. They can be tracked…
November Days of Gratitude: The Camera in My Pocket
My Visual Evolution Images used to rattle around in my brain. I’d take great pains to collect them like seashells or pebbles from the beach, clenched fingers holding tight, spilling some here or there, trying to remember and savor all I’d seen. Back then, a bulky camera would weigh down my shoulders; few images would…
November Days of Gratitude: Friendship
November 7th: At the risk of being too gushy — or wordy — today I am grateful for friendship and for the role of social media, particularly Facebook. I know FB has its many faults and those anger me along with the rest of you, but hear me out. While FB hasn’t done much for…
November Days of Gratitude: Pieces of Your Heart
They walk around the world In their torn jeans, wearing flip flops, ponytails and home-done manicures. Not children any longer, their days and dreams grow, take them farther from home. Still, though, a rapid-fire response, fierce protection of any slight, day or night — can trigger out from my spirit, like darts being thrown in…
When the Moon Blocks Out the Sun: through the eyes of 7th graders
Looking at my blog over the last month, you can tell EXACTLY when school started. My daily posts have come to a stop. My middle school life has taken over, and there isn’t much room for anything else. In the language of high tech, I don’t have enough bandwidth. Suddenly my lazy mornings are squeezed…
It takes two to tango: the wisdom of 21 years together
When the magic fades and the gray hair grows in When the lines at the corners of My smiling eyes Set in . . . When the shadows fall with a setting sun And specks of light and joy peek through, I will forever be grateful For the day I married you. It’s my…
“Give me your worries, Child” Letting Go — and Grace
Give me your worries, Child Drop them, one by one, into my cupped hands. Name them, call them out for all the worry they’ve thrashed about in your tiny heart. Give me your worries, Child; Each one will rest in my care, Relax your heart from the wear and tear. I will hold each…
Musings at Night
Night Be still says the brain But the heart can’t stop Spinning its secrets Blue knots of worry Each one tethered to bollards That won’t budge for rest Untangling knot twists One by one, each loosening A tight grip — to sleep.
Tender Negotiations: Thoughts on Aging and Grace, a Swimsuit-Season Reflection (Write Every Day, 26)
Swimsuit season is upon us and, thankfully, my old suits still fit. That doesn’t mean they look the same on my body as they did even last year, but they fit. That’s one less mean mall mirror I have to confront. (What is it with those mirrors? I swear they buy them on sale from…
What happens when you catch a firefly? You catch a poem as well. (Write Every Day, 24)
I remember those dog-days of my childhood summers back east, when we languished in front of the TV all day long, trying to escape the heat and the humidity. A spark of energy would finally ignite when the sun sank low and the neighborhood kids and I would crash out onto the street, eager to…
Poetry: Using Models to Spark Creativity in Middle School (Write Every Day, 19)
I love using poetry in the classroom. We read it, think about it, talk about it, write it. When kids first hear the word “poetry” they usually groan (which truly breaks my heart), but when they’re given the opportunity to immerse themselves in the lyrics of their favorite songs, a tiny shift happens. Suddenly, poetry…
Barbara Ganias Comstock 