Introduction

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INTRO

Throughout twenty-nine years of teaching, I’ve learned that students don’t always arrive when the bell rings, and learning doesn’t always follow the lesson plan. These poems came from the spaces in between — between connection and confusion, insight and frustration, silence and spark.

Some are polished. Some are awkward. Just like the students who inspired them.

They are not meant to be profound, but they are personal. A few were written quickly. A few sat with me for weeks. All of them carry a piece of the moment, the student, or the lesson that made me stop and put pen to paper.

This is a collection of small truths from a classroom. I hope you find yourself in them — or someone you once were.

C.Ray

More punnin with words (I love you, Shakespeare!)

Savannah is not Sierra,

nor is she a Tierra.

She’s not a mountain,

nor an ocean, lake, or marsh.

So many places could claim her birth:

Georgia or Africa, in the tall grass.

Puyallup had no savannah

until April 6, 1994.

And soon from the coop she’ll fly,

with Rogers left behind to lie.

clr 2012

Zak

Silent Zak, silent Zak,

opens his mouth, gives us a whack.

Silent Zak, silent Zak,

hides a gift he won’t unpack.

Until he’s pushed, you’ll never know—

silent Zak, your mind will blow!

Then back to silent, he will go.

clr 2012

Andrew Glenister

Our Andrew stood so tall and proud,

Yet saw himself lost in the crowd.

He clung to Isaac, tough and fast,

Like teammates built to last and last.

Isaac, kind, took it in stride,

Enjoyed the bond they could not hide.

But then one day they had to part,

And Andrew faced a brand new start.

Reluctant, yes, but strong and brave,

He learned to stand, no longer cave.

And step by step, he came to see,

His height was real — ten feet, plus three!

clr 2011

Jessica Schock

Jessica is proof that one can change —

for better, worse, or somewhere in range.

The bell used to find her running and wild,

now she's seated, talking — almost mild.

She decides each morning just who she'll be:

a quiet whiz or a storm at sea.

You can’t tell her off — she won’t be led.

It’s not just the fire curled on her head.

She might eat your heart out, just for sport,

or walk away with a sly retort.

But maybe the mirror I’m looking in

shows more of me than I meant to begin.

clr 2012

Ms. Clary

N atalie has hidden herself behind Starbucks

A nd a smile. Although I

T ried, I failed to connect—yet I know it’s okay.

A nother senior may need my help or my nagging, but not this one.

L ike a lone wolf, she calculates her needs

I n moments when I offer, she takes only what she chooses.

E ven from a distance, I can tell—she’ll find her way.

clr 2012

Erica Marie Zamudio

Beautiful Carmelita, with brilliance tucked behind modesty,

never needing to prove what she so clearly possesses.

Her silence holds a fierce focus—

and a future wide with possibility.

She endured the silly songs I sang,

gracious as ever,

never once rolling her eyes.

Because Erica knows her power

doesn’t just glow in her calm presence

or her composed youth—

It lives in her mind,

quiet and quick,

moving like a ninja

through the noise.

clr2012

Ms. Scott

Kristen Speaks

Kristen speaks fluent St. Bernard —

and whispers to other creatures, too.

She lives in a world tuned to frequencies

most of us miss,

with talents as rare

as they are true.

Her future?

Sharply drawn.

Gloriously hers.

A map inked in passion and quiet knowing.

She loves best

to speak with her hands —

language shaped in movement,

truth without sound.

Each morning,

she forgives the teacher

who mangles her name,

and smiles to herself,

already walking toward

the life she’s meant to claim.

— clr, 2012

Stephanie Schuur

Stephanie is always quite Schuur of herself — with good reason.

The world is hers, and she knows where she is at all times,

And she basks in the glory of youth.

Her love waits in the desert,

for her to quench his thirst

and heal his broken parts.

If it were only a heart she had to fix,

she’d do it in no time at all.

But livers and spleens and stuff in between

might be just past her grasp.

But Stephanie loves, and Stephanie lives,

and she’ll not have a regret in her life.

Whatever may come, what the future may hold,

she’ll handle as naught but some strife.

She’ll take a deep breath, and she’ll carry on,

’Cause that’s what she’s learned she can do.

— clr, 2012

Marie, Marie, Little Star (to the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star")

Marie, Marie, Little Star

(to the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star")

Marie, Marie, little star,

How I wonder where you are.

With your curls both dark and bright,

You were missed through our Night.

Marie, Marie, sweet and shy,

Did you drift across the sky?

Never dim that glowing spark—

Even hidden, stars leave marks.

Marie, Marie, little star,

How I wonder where you are.

clr 2012

Waking, Slowly

Megan stretches her arms,

as though waking up from a nightmare,

into this room, in which she hasn’t decided

if she is truly awake yet.

Megan is

a mytery to some

a newborn to this world, entering reluctantly,

and some days

harboring

resentment for the womb that

spat her out with malice

into this cold, unreliable world.

And other days, around her

is a beautiful shield that

keeps

all worldly ugliness away from

her timeless wisdome

and beauty, as

The Buddha in her becomes

aware of itself.

clr 2011

Christopher Isaac Confused me

I had a student named Christopher,

and Isaac was his name.

I had a dog whose name was Poo,

and Hunter is his name.

I have a son named Andrew, too,

and Kevin is his name.

Sometimes I get beyond confused —

but what I know for sure?

Isaac never liked to learn

but Christopher?

He did, for sure.

clr 2012

Taylor

Taylor hides her power

like Jenna used to do.

Her mind

has clearly been exercised

in the ways of language and literature,

and the benefit of education

shows through her.

Still, she sees

that all the fuss

over her “proper” 12th-grade education

is a sad commentary

on the state of

public schooling.

clr 2011

Jonathan Trent Drew

Jonny lives somewhere
between here and there,
between hunger and satiety,
between conformity and rebellion.

He will lead his life
somewhere between yes and no,
and shuffle off this mortal coil
somewhere between knowledge and ignorance,
between acceptance and defiance.

No matter how we try to wrap
this gift we call his life,
he knows one thing for sure—
he was born to breathe
freely.

clr2012

Dang

I promised I wouldn’t play with your name,

but Shakespeare might have—so why not I?

Because, Dang, words are fun to play with,

isn’t that right?

A familiar land lives in the back of your mind,

where no one can see but me—

and it’s a long way

away.

Dang, this is some bad poetry.

clr, 2012

De'Jeana

D’ indicates a French background—

as in J’déteste.

E arly mornings? Not her thing.

J ust like to consciously,

E arnestly

A void getting to first period on time.

Ms. Ray

N ever writes well under duress,

A lthough she did procrastinate,

so will take full responsibility

for this lackluster poetry,

living on the brink of prose

clr 2012

Lehani’s Language

Lehani shapes her words
carefully—between bites—
dancing between
Tagalog and tweets,

learning the news
from her native land,
while following the rules
of her new one—

which holds
the hope
of her future.

clr2010

Karah

Karah loves to feel
as though her life is a rainbow—

and we are all walking
happily down its ribbon
of highway,

with smiles
forever

and

a

day.

And we will all
play along with her.

clr, 2012

Jake L.

If Jake were a mammal, what would he be?

He’d be a human—the one that we see.

If Jake were a fish in the deep ocean blue,

an electric eel—through and through.

For Jake likes to shock,

and Jake likes to squirm,

to wrap 'round an idea

in order to learn.

If Jake were a reptile, I’ve no doubt

he’d protest at once—

“I’m moving out!”

Jake wants an A—he made that clear.

But being a froggie

won’t get him near.

So—

out of the cold-blooded,

into the warm,

where Jake can lead

in the eye of the storm.

No hiding in rocks,

no basking in sun—

Jake loves the water,

and

Jake loves

the Son.

clr, 2011

The Miracle that is Michaela

Ms. Lemons can do
whatever she sets out to do.

And one day,
I’ll say her name perfectly.

Her smile—and her wit—
make it clear:
her wisdom surpasses most.

But she would never boast.

She could arm wrestle an octopus—
effortlessly—
and if needed,
she could talk someone down
from the edge
of a very tall building.

For this—
for her,
and her beautiful soul—
we are grateful.

clr, 2011

Sing Loudly, Mayra!

Mayra speaks as though

she has been told that silence is her job.

The air barely moves with her breath.

And I wonder—

does she laugh out loud when she’s at home?

I wish I could hear it if she does.

A shout from the deepest recesses

of her heart—

I wish I could be there for that sound.

A stern word to defend herself—

I hope she has that, too.

We know she pushes herself, always.

But I wonder—will she push back

when pushed?

Shout, Mayra!

SING LOUDLY, Mayra!

ROAR—and record yourself!

And reach

every goal

you set.

clr, 2011

Sam

My Poster Child

Six-year-old Sam,

still holding the wide-eyed wonder

of a child who trusts the world,

looks out from the passenger side of the go-cart,

having handed her safety to Austin —

a boy who was rarely there,

and when he was,

he was hardly present at all.

Her trusting brown eyes,

filled with innocent hope,

have already known too much sorrow —

pushing the limits of what she can bear,

clinging to a fragile faith

in people who often let her down.

And I realize —

she is the little girl who looked back at me

from the poster in my teenage bedroom,

her silent eyes imploring me

to see her, to recognize her pain.

clr2012

Paige

Paige

With gangly coltlegs, Paige is born.
At first, she lies struggling
in the afterbirth of a difficult life,
then, as she sees the light in the sky
come and go — but always, always come back —
she gathers her strength, ears eagerly pointing toward Auntie.

Wobbly, falling, standing up again,
this determined foal will soon gallop
right out of my classroom
and down the aisle
in a graduation gown and cap.

clr2012

Romanel

Romanel

A bubble pops, fulfilling its destiny.

Aptly named Romanel — or Ro —

he seems to know he is his own helmsman

and slave gallery at once.

His only solace: a challenge bigger than most,

his ride through life more riddled

with danger and alluring poison than most.

Soon to be alone, the system’s tired child,

nervous and worn, yet kind and mild.

His focus — slowly blowing bubbles

and resignedly watching them pop —

keeps him strong and determined

to fill his life with bubbles

that don’t hurt him when they burst.

clr2012

I love Alliteration

I Love Alliteration

Landon doesn’t live in London,
but if he did, it would be charming to say:

I have a letter from London, from Landon today.
Or Landon wrote a letter from London,
or better yet —
Landon is living in London,
and when he tires of it,
Landon will be leaving London.

Landon doesn’t live in London —
but if he did,
his dad would live in London, too.

clr2012

Scott

Scott Rinkle

Scott has a wrinkle across his brow

that somehow makes us all calm down now.

Wiener dogs, puffy pups, and three billy goats gruff —

they're not the only things that make him tough.

His false front says, “I HATE ENGLISH,” — but wait —

inside, he whispers, “I contemplate...”

Nature. (And, psst... English is just human nature, anyway.)

Eatonville calls him, and he’s strong.

He just might choose to go along

with those who learn by living large —

off the grid, beyond the yard.

Brick-and-mortar may not be his style,

but he's learned to raise his voice, no guile —

to speak his mind, no apologies,

just Thoreau, or Whitman... and his favorite trees.

Mr. Rinkle knows twice as much as half of us in here.

Mini ponies pull him. He pole-bends, too.

And oh — the boy loves tractors. That much is true. clr 2012