Starting Over

 (Yes, there are a few parallels to the Easter season we just passed through, but I will let you draw those for yourself. Revision also connects, but you're smart enough to figure that out on your own, too.)

A few days ago, I started a new writer’s notebook. Nothing fancy, just a marble-covered college ruled composition book. And then I looked back at the beginning of the green-covered notebook I had finished the previous week and noticed a few similarities between the two entries (more than the not-too-tidy scribbling).

As scribbled in a brand new notebook April 3, 2025…

First tracks! As a freshman at Ricks College, one of my roommates, Casey Sullivan, pointed out the simple joy that comes from making first tracks in the snow, an untouched carton of ice cream, or even a tub of butter. Since then, I have relished making first tracks wherever I can. My own kids will occasionally shout out “First tracks!” when opening a new jar of peanut butter or a fresh package of toilet paper, and I can’t help but think of making a good first impression as one of the simple pleasures in life.

You can only do it once, or so the saying goes, so why not enjoy the times you can do it? Take advantage of new situations. I suppose if we want to make more good first impressions, we have to put ourselves in more situations that are new, unfamiliar, or something that contains some type of newness to it. Something like a new class roster every semester, new clients or customers, or for me (and countless others), fresh school supplies like unsullied notebooks, packages of pre-sharpened pencils, or unbroken seals on paper reams or journals or those markers that smell like plastic fruits that everyone fought over back in fourth grade.

There’s just so much life in starting over. No wonder spring is such a popular time of year. Nature renews herself. And the rest of us just try to catch up by making our own tracks, even if they are not first.

As scribbled in a brand new notebook February 23, 2021…

Ah! A fresh notebook! Well, not any more. The moment I sullied its innocence with the first stroke of ink, the limitless possibilities suddenly had a limit. My words, my thoughts brought to life via pen, established boundaries and brought definition to the previously blank slate—tabula rasa no more.

No, this slate now has a purpose, a space to gather my thoughts, my scribbles, and attempt to permit my mind to wander and wonder before solidifying for time and all eternity.

Ha! Of course I could rip out this page and start over, but the impressions left on the subsequent pages will remain. The cover can never be unbent. The remnant of the ripped pages would reveal that something had gone wrong.

Still, there is room to right those wrongs, explore the inner recesses of my mind to reveal to the world the patterns (or randomness) of my brain. Writing IS that powerful. Writing is thinking. It helps create permanence where none previously existed.

It’s hard to take back words once they have been spoken, but it’s even harder once they have been written. Mean tweets, anyone? Confusing text messages? Even honest mistakes result in crucifixion sometimes. (See also “Sweet” by John Triska.)

You may not find it all that interesting, but I seem to derive joy from starting over. Side note: I also have two different poems in drafting stages that talk about starting over, repentance, and snow. They are not nearly ready to be shared, but perhaps sometime they’ll make an appearance in public. I suppose that me, composing this post, and trying again to work on my writing is another form of starting over. However, it’s a little late for me to make a first impression on y’all. You know what kind of a wreck I am. Still, I can ask your forgiveness and patience as I try to start over and do and be a little better.

  

2025 Poem in Your Pocket Day!

Skip down to the poem if you already know the rules of the game. If not, and you want to know more about Poem in Your Pocket Day works, here are the instructions:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or one that tickles you fancy today...or one that actually fits in your pocket. Finding in on your phone is okay, but it's always more human if you have transcribed it yourself and fold it up and put it in your pocket.

2. Carry your chosen poem around all day, and share it with people. Don't forget to share with me!

3. Soak in the awesomeness that is poetry!

4. Check my Instagram (@joeaveragewriter) or Facebook for the video of this year's poem!

If you want even more fun, check out the poem in your pocket label on the right-hand side of this blog. Who knows? You might find something else of worth.

"The Monet Conundrum" by Billy Collins

Is every one of these poems

different from the others

he asked himself,

as the rain quieted down,

or are they all the same poem,

haystack after haystack

at different times of day,

different shadows and shades of hay?

I'd love to see which poems you carried around today. Please share with me.

P.S. I shared this poem with one of my education classes and none of the students knew who Monet was!

December Revelation

 

I was not able to take a picture because I was driving, but allow me a moment to try and paint one:

 As Sariah and I headed out in this morning, a puffy blanket of rainbow sherbet stretched across the sky to the east. Directly above the sky was clear and light gray—just another Tuesday waiting for the sun to emerge from behind the orange and raspberry comforter. To the west, a darker smattering of gray clouds stretched across a bluish backdrop, a promise of cold to come.

We headed east, directly toward the only light part of the sky. I grumbled internally at the prospect of sun glare, a real problem depending on what time we get out of the house each morning. Before we had left the house 200 yards behind, the light suddenly dimmed, leaving the entire sky ambivalent shades of gray. A couple of rogue snowflakes skirted across the windshield before blowing away to join their co-conspirators, who were already taunting other motorists.I resigned myself to a cold, blustery Midwestern December day, when I Suddenly spotted a vertical rainbow column to the north. I rubbed my eyes at the stoplight to see if my eyes were being ornery, but, no, there was an actual stripe of many colors extending from the ground up into the sky, almost clear and pale blue now, with the clouds blowing eastward.

The randomization of the Apple Play brought up the haunting opening chords of the “Top Gun Anthem” as the light turned green and we headed east again. We drove without conversation, both of us tired and not quite ready to face the day. With uncanny timing, as we crested the highest hill on our daily commute, the guitar riff screeched its climax, the clouds opened, and the sun blazed its crepuscular rays through gaps of the remaining cottony wisps, color-soaking everything in a brilliant, burning orange. God definitely know show to make an entrance! ...or at least He knows how to remind me of His goodness. And even though by the time the song ended, the sun had disappeared again and the swirling snow had picked up, ushering us along the cold pavement, my gray attitude toward the day and the weather, and the drudgery of going to work had dissipated. He touched my life for a moment, letting me know He was still there.

 

Another Call to Keep Writing Thanks to Nikki Giovanni

I love listening to Nikki Giovanni tell her story about her poem "A Bench (for Toni Morrison)." Today, as I read this poem to inspire my students to scribble a few words, it kicked my butt back into gear to write. After each of my failures to sustain a consistent writing habit, I inevitably receive a call to repentance. "A Bench" was mine today. (Poem all the way at the end of the post.)

Each time I pick up my pen from where and when I last dropped it, I tend to scratch out a few paragraphs (like these), often teeming with self-deprecating chastisement, and then I set a goal or two (usually one), and then I start anew in my quest to be a more consistent writer. As you now witness, my pitiful public penance is now penned (vomit-inducing alliteration very much intended this evening), and I get to move forward. However, this time I am not making any grand promises I know I will not be able to keep. I know that my professorial and ecclesiastical responsibilities reduce my personal time, but I do want to write more frequently. I now teach the Teaching Writing for Secondary English Teachers course at my university, and I know that I need to lead by example. I know that only writing produces text.

So here is my conundrum: I can squeeze in small chunks of time, but I need to be smart about where I direct my writing efforts. I have a few thoughts, but would genuinely appreciate some feedback from my teeny audience. (That's y'all.) Where should I direct my efforts?

Option A: random personal narratives and thoughts (as previously expressed on this blog and other random locations).

Option B: focus on more important life-defining moments in my personal history.

Option C: finish up the scraps of poetry I have been drafting over the past several years (or at least some of them).

Option D: look to write something professionally (teacher-practitioner style).

Option E: just write curriculum.

Option F: none of the above.

Let me know what you think, and I'll take Ms. Giovanni's advice. (Poem posted below.)

“A Bench” (for Toni Morrison)

benches aren’t just pieces of furniture

sure

we find them at rest stops where birds have stopped over

and truck drivers have pulled aside

to smoke a cigarette

(no matter how bad they are for you)

and yes

in fabulous museums we find

benches decorated sometimes

with gold or bronze

and the faces of the famous

sometimes we even find benches

among the poor

which are simply logs put across the other

or sometimes just bricks

piled and put deeply enough into the earth

to stabilize those who need comfort

 

but benches are actually

a metaphor

they are friends we call on sad days

they are two old ladies who bring

Duck Eggs when your Grandmother passes

 

they are a friend’s mother

who makes a quilt when she hears

you have lung cancer

and mostly they are the voice

on the other end of the phone

who says “Write”

when you are so sad at losing your mother

“Write” when you don’t know where to go

“Write” when the only person who can read you

is on a Cross

“Write”

because it is your job

“Write”

 

---Nikki Giovanni

 

 

2024's Edition of Poem in Your Pocket!

 Yes, I know it's been an entire year since I've published on this blog. Thanks for reminding me. To quote my friend Forrest, "That's all I got to say about that."

Now for the poem:

This year I decided to go with U.S. Poet Laureate Ada Limon's poem "The Quiet Machine." 

“The Quiet Machine”

I’m learning so many different ways to be quiet. There’s how I stand

in the lawn, that’s one way. There’s also how I stand in the field

across from the street, that’s another way because I’m farther from

people and therefore more likely to be alone. There’s how I don’t

answer the phone, and how I sometimes like to lie down on the

floor in the kitchen and pretend I’m not home when people knock.

There’s daytime silent when I stare, and a nighttime silent when I

do things. There’s shower silent and bath silent and California silent

and Kentucky silent and car silent and then there’s the silence that

comes back, a million times bigger than me, sneaks into my bones

and wails and wails and wails until I can’t be quiet anymore. That’s

how this machine works.

If you haven't noticed before, I kind of like silence. If you do, too, or are at least curious, check this link to a post from almost a decade ago regarding my thoughts on silence. 

If you want to know more about Poem in Your Pocket Day works, here are the instructions:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or one that tickles you fancy today...or one that actually fits in your pocket. Finding in on your phone is okay, but it's always more human if you have transcribed it yourself and fold it up and put it in your pocket.

2. Carry your chosen poem around all day, and share it with people. Don't forget to share with me!

3. Soak in the awesomeness that is poetry!

4. Check my Instagram (@joeaveragewriter) or Facebook for the video of this year's poem!

If you want even more fun, check out the poem in your pocket label on the right-hand side of this blog. Who knows? You might find something else of worth.

Celebrating Poem in Your Pocket 2023!

This has been a year of stress--apparently so much that my blood pressure has gone up. Never had that before. Oh, well. One things that I always try to do when things get a little crazy is to take the advice of one of my favorite Transcendentalists, Henry David Thoreau: "Simplify! Simplify! Simplify! (See also Walden.)

Under that vein, I was delighted to read Billy Collins's new collection of short poems Table Music. And that is where I discovered my #PocketPoem for this year:

"The Student"

She made asterisks

next to passages she liked,

little stars that kept shining

after she closed the book.

If you want to celebrate the small things in life, please do. Share here. Share with real people. Share everywhere. (It gets really interesting when you share with strangers in public places.) Here's how to play:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or one that tickles you fancy today...or one that actually fits in your pocket. Finding in on your phone is okay, but it's always more human if you have transcribed it yourself and fold it up and put it in your pocket.

2. Carry your chosen poem around all day, and share it with people. Don't forget to share with me!

3. Soak in the awesomeness that is poetry!

4. Check my Instagram (@joeaveragewriter), Twitter (@joeavgwriter), or Facebook for the video of this year's poem!

If you want even more fun, check out the poem in your pocket label on the right-hand side of this blog. Who knows? You might find something else of worth.

Clear Instructions?

One of the first university classes I took after my two-year mission to Spain was a course about the American novel. A great way to kick things off for an English major, right? Kind of.

About halfway through the class, the professor decided he wanted us to “be more creative” with our assignments. Apparently, he felt our first handful of literary analyses were devoid of life. And so I attempted to rise to the challenge.

I don’t remember which novel we should have read for this particular section of the course—maybe Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury­—but it was something I did not enjoy. Whatever it was, the discussion turned to point of view and its significance in unfolding the plot. I suppose the written assignment connected to this novel was something academic regarding the differences that would occur if the narration changed to a different point of view.

Instead of writing academic, I placed more value on the “be creative” mandate from earlier. I took a piece of short fiction (a minute story I wrote in high school called “Duncan”), and I rewrote it twice from different points of view. It was originally written in first person. The second rewrite was also a first-person telling but from a different character’s perspective. The third was a third-person omniscient description of the scene. I felt it was quite clever. 

How mistaken I was!

Evidently, I misinterpreted what he wanted. Big time. I got a zero. So I asked to meet with my professor. When he asked me about the assignment, I actually showed him some ambiguous wording in his written task. In our discussion, I also claimed that writing from different points of view gave me a better appreciation for telling the exact story I wanted to tell. It also helped me refine the story. He actually acquiesced and gave me my points for the assignment.

At the start of the next class period, however, he proceeded to make sure that any written instructions were thoroughly explained (and limited). A week later we received a revised syllabus, too. No one else was able to argue their way around his instructions.

P.S. I also tried to pull something else like this when we analyzed stream-of-conscious writing with Virginia Woolf’s Top the Lighthouse. It didn’t go over well. Now I use this experience when I teach the importance of clear instructions in my assessment class for pre-service teachers.

P.P.S. If you don't want students (at any level), colleagues, or friends swarming around, pestering,  asking for clarification, make sure that you give precise instructions.

 

I Hate Strawberries!

Yesterday my wife and I went to retrieve a few groceries to round out our dinner plans. A prominent store display proclaimed earlier it was National Strawberry Day. Naturally, we purchased two pounds of juicy red goodness, along with miniature angel food cakes and (Zero Sugar, Keto Friendly) Reddi Wip. Yes, Mister Spellcheck, that is how you spell it (but that’s a gripe for another day). 

As the kids devoured their shortcakes after dinner, one of them asked if strawberries were my favorite fruit. I paused for maybe half a second and replied, “No.” I know, I know, most people love strawberries. Honestly, though, strawberries are okay, and I will eat them when offered, but they are nowhere close to being my fruit of choice, and I believe they are probably only my 6^th favorite berry (after raspberries, cherries, blackberries, boysenberries, and huckleberries. Whichever of my offspring asked the question apparently lost interest in me and went away, but I started pondering my history with strawberries.

Now, I have always liked strawberry-flavored things like Skittles, Jolly Ranchers, Twizzlers, Slurpees, etc., so I had to dig deep to remember why I didn’t like eating strawberries. It took a while, so after hurting my brain and consuming more than my fair share of the berries, I uncovered an incident from my childhood that apparently took many years to overcome.

I believe I was about five years old—I remember that we lived in Sherwood, Arkansas, and that I had gone with my dad in his beat up blue pick-up truck. We had gone to visit a family for some reason. I seem to recall that Dad did some kind of manual labor, while I remained in the truck. I think I was scared of a dog—my mind recollects an ornery Doberman—and this was shortly after a dog gnawed on my ankles in a friend’s back yard, but I digress.

I remember that the window was rolled down, the sun was setting, and I was browsing through my 1980 Empire Strikes Back collectible cards from Burger King. Someone called to me and asked if I was hungry. Of course I was. The wife of the family brought me a beige Tupperware bowl with some strawberries fresh from their garden and left me to enjoy them. Soon my fingers were stained red, and my belly sloshed.

I’m not sure how it actually happened, but somehow one of those teeny strawberry seeds got stuck under my left thumbnail. No one else noticed, but it caused some real pain. I started to cry. (Those of you who know my high threshold for pain, think about that.) Being five, I decided I needed to be a man and take care of the injury myself. I set down the berry bowl on the bench seat, moved over to the open window, leaned the forearm connected to my injured hand across the window sill and I began to operate.

Like a perfectly rational kindergartner, I first pounded my fist on the side of the truck to try and knock the seed out, but the infernal thing stayed put. I then attempted to dig it out with the nails on my other hand, but no matter which fingernail I tried, I couldn’t extract the seed. I needed to be smarter about this surgery. In desperation I looked around the truck cab for some tool. Paper? No. Key? No. And then it hit me. Ever so delicately, with the corner of my 1980 Snowswept Chewbacca Burger King card, I tried to work out the seed from under the nail. Like my other attempts, though, I only succeeded in creating more suffering.

Frustrated, I threw the card. To my astonishment, it fluttered for a few seconds before sliding down the window well into the abyss of the passenger door. I scrabbled for it in vain, but even my small hands were too big to retrieve Chewy. He was gone forever. That was the last straw. I began to wail. 

Everyone came running to see what happened. Embarrassed about my carelessness with the card (I knew we couldn’t afford to go back to Burger King to get another), I told my dad through my sobs about the seed. He examined my thumb for a minute or three and found nothing. When he announced that nothing was lodged under my nail, I realized that it actually didn’t hurt any more. My pain at that point was only for the loss of my card! Irrationally, though, I declared to everyone there and to my mother back at home, that from that point in my life, I hated strawberries.

Obviously, I am over it; however, for perhaps over a decade, I never purposely consumed another strawberry. Strawberry-flavored candies or beverages? Absolutely. Actual strawberries, heck no. And on a related topic, I also have banana issues, but I’ll share those another time.

I think my point here, if there is one, is that sometimes, especially as children, we have experiences that in the moment are traumatic. And even though the connections might not be rational, they are still real. So…whenever you are dealing with human beings, specially of the smaller variety, remember to be patient. You never know if someone’s pain and hatred is caused by a strawberry or a missing Wookie.

 

What Happened After I Left Sixth Grade and Mrs. Saiki

 

A little over a year ago I met part of a family new to our church congregation. After some small talk, we made a connection having both lived in Japan. After I mentioned that my dad had been stationed at Yokota Air Force Base, her jaw dropped, and said, “I have to ask if you had a certain teacher…Mrs. Saiki?”

                At the mention of my 6^th grade social studies and reading teacher, Sylvia Saiki, my eyes involuntarily brimmed with happiness. If you have read any of my previous posts about her, you will know how much this woman influenced me. She piqued my curiosity to discover the unknown (especially regarding Egyptology and geography and different peoples and cultures). She sharpened and honed and my love for learning, my curiosity for the mysterious, and my passion for reading. Her requirement to only read Newbery and Caldecott winners stretched me to read genres I normally wouldn’t have as an eleven-year-old nonfiction nut. Looking back on that year, outside of her classes, where I felt like a minor rock star, I only recall a few things. I lost a computer programming contest because I didn’t save my work, and there was a power glitch ten minutes before the end of the timed programming portion. I lost a nomination to represent Mr. Iwanski’s class in the trivia bowl to a popular kid who was about as sharp as the leading edge of a bowling ball. In the gifted and talented class, my paper mâché puppet collapsed on itself and dried funny, so I had to improvise a new character (B.U.M.—Beat Up Man), which truthfully looked hideous. There are other stories that didn’t really do much for my young self-esteem, but those tales are for another day. 

                My newfound acquaintance soon put in contact with my former teacher, and on a nice fall morning, I had a pleasant half-hour phone conversation with Mrs. Saiki. To me, her voice was the same—loving yet firm. While conversing, I felt that same assurance that I had so many years ago sitting in her class—she knew me and accepted me for who I was; she treated me with respect and believed in me. It felt that after so many years, she still knew me, and in that moment I wished that I could be the half teacher she was.

At the end of our talk, Mrs. Saiki asked me for a favor—one that I have started many times but have failed to deliver. She wanted a brief history of what I did from the time I left 6^th grade until the present. Much has happened in 35 years, and the task seemed daunting; however, here it finally is. The summary of my life from 6^th grade until now.

                I started 7^th grade at Yokota High School (7-12) and hated almost every minute of it. I had most of my classes with upper classmen, and my few friends all had different lunch periods than I did. I became even more of a loner.

Halfway through the year, I moved across the globe when my dad was reassigned to RAF Mildenhall, England. I viewed this move as a fresh start and soon made the most of it. I made friends—a few at first, mostly through church, but then I became emboldened by some of the acquaintances I had made in band and NJHS. At Lakenheath High School, I decided to run for student government and run on the track. So I did. I became involved. I played the trumpet. I ran long distances. I played baseball. I started writing! I started to improve my self image.

After my sophomore year, my family returned to the US, to Scott AFB, east of the St. Louis metro area. I attended Belleville east Township High School my junior year, but refused to become just a number in the 2500 or so students there. When we moved into base housing the next year, I moved schools again, spending my senior year at Mascoutah Community High School. And to be honest, back in 1994, I had no idea where I wanted to go to school, so I followed the recommendations of a couple of close friends from church to attend Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho.

I declared my major at the junior college to be English, and kept up my pursuits of the humanities: writing, reading, art, music, theatre. I rushed through my Associate’s degree in under two years, and felt pretty accomplished, but I knew there were miles to go before I slept.

My religious convictions, as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints influenced my desire to now serve a two-year proselyting mission. I submitted my papers, and was assignment to serve in southern Spain. Over those two years, I learned to love the people and to love the Lord. I learned more about who I was and how I fit into God’s plan for me. Oh, yes, I also acquired a propensity for good food and how to cook it for myself. In short, I learned how to live.

When I returned home in January of 1998 (My parents moved to Utah while I was away.), I knew I had to become more serious about an occupation. So I examined myself and determined what I did well…or at least what I felt I did well. I decided to become an English teacher. I enrolled at nearby Brigham Young University. Shortly thereafter I reconnected with a beautiful young woman I had met at the beginning of my missionary service, Amy Walker; and for brevity’s sake, we were married that July. She was an English teaching major as well, and so we worked together to finally graduate in 2000. Our last semester while I completed my student teaching and Amy completed her year-long teaching internship, we lived on half a teacher’s salary and whatever I scraped together working at a restaurant on the weekends. We were poor but happy.

In February of 2001 Sariah was born with many complications. Zac was born at the end of 2002. Then Ally in 2005, Brooklyn in 2007, and Sam in 2010. All the while I taught English (and a few other things) at Spanish Fork Junior High. After two years of teaching middle school, Amy stayed home to raise the kiddos (and continues to do an amazing job).

While all the teaching happened, I kept busy with professional development, church assignments, and community involvement (to be read “city league coaching”). I earned my M.Ed. in Secondary Education with an emphasis in reading. I picked up a second (almost) full-time job teaching an independent study high school course. After earning my PhD. In Curriculum and Instruction (emphasis in educational leadership), I adjuncted composition courses for Utah Valley University.

Over my 18+ years as a public educator, I worked with 13 student teachers and mentored several other newer educators. While doing this, I realized that even though I loved influencing my students on a daily basis, I might be able to make a bigger difference in the world of education if I shifted careers and became a teacher educator at the university level.

I have now been doing that at Bellevue University since 2018. The kids are older: Sariah is working; Zac is now a missionary; Ally is about to graduate; Brooklyn and Sam won’t stop growing. Amy is now student teaching for her M.A.T. in Elementary Ed in a class of 6^th graders. Life is still good and it keeps getting better.

Some of you know part of this history; some of you played integral part in it. If you read this, you'll know that I love stories, especially personal ones. Among my goals this year, is a pledge to get back to writing snippets of my history--at least one each month. For better or for worse, my stories are going to be shared. If you have any suggestions about holes I need to fill in or adventures that should see the light of day, please leave a comment, and I'll think about it.

Poem in Your Pocket 2022: "Nebraska"

As fires raged around our community in the fall of 2018, and people found out we were heading to Nebraska, the most common question I received was "Why Nebraska?" Isn't it just corn and tornadoes? Although stereotypes might (sometimes) be based in truth, although we have yet to experience a full-blown tornado since arriving--just a couple of warnings, this place is starting to grow on me. I spent my last two years of high school in the Midwest, and I like it. True, I miss the mountains, and I miss the beach, too. There's just something about the skies here, though.

Lately I've been trying to explore some of the literary history and poetic experience here in the state of
Nebraska. What I am finding is encouraging. So as I have searched for a poem for today, I wanted to find something that represents part of my experience with the cornhusker state. Side note: I still have not converted to Big Red.

A recent favorite, as witnessed by last year's post, is Ted Kooser. However, I decided to find something newer, a poet I had not read before. In Nebraska Presence: An Anthology of Poetry, edited by Greg Kosmicki and Mark K. Stillwell, I unearthed many gems, but I ultimately decided to go with "Nebraska" by Kelly Madigan Erlandson.

“Nebraska”

This is a place for things that take time. Long histories
that need to be unrolled and laid out across oak library tables,
with a hard-backed book set on each corner to keep them pressed open.
Here, we understand that shadows fold their wings and settle down
in midday, tucked underfoot like a coyote den the unschooled never
notice. We can see a fire in the next county, the smoke a thundercloud
of blackbirds twirling for fall, grouping and regrouping themselves
as though to remember something already lost, washed out
and splayed in the wet clay of the creek bed. You can drive
an entire afternoon here and not see a person, but all the way
the meadowlarks will be opening the doors of their throats,
letting out music like milkweed seeds delivered downwind.
You might start counting those birds after awhile, picture them
as mile markers on the telephone wires, wondering if you’ve seen
the same one over and over again. We have more stars here, so many
that strangers think there is something wrong with our sky, that it’s
fake or that Sioux women have beaded our night with constellations
not seen in Minneapolis or Memphis, fresh ones that we can give
names to as we lie on the hood of the car. We can call one Mountain
Lion Reclaims Ancestral Home, after the cougar who roamed up
a wooded thicket into Omaha this fall, ranging until the zoo director
shot him with a tranquilizer dart. Here we can keep naming star puzzles
until the threat of sunrise blues the black space above us.
This is a place for things that take time, the long stitching together
of soft spots in the heart, the wind across the Missouri River Valley
scooping loess into hills unlike any others on this continent,
seeds stored in the cellar of the prairie for a hundred years
patient for fire, unable to crack themselves open without it.
This is a place where disappointments deep as aquifer
can spill themselves out, fill up and empty again, as many times
as the wound requires. This is a place where a person can heal,
or choose not to heal. We have both kinds.
                                                                                  --Kelly Madigan Erlandson

If you want to play along, Here are the rules:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or one that tickles you fancy today...or one that actually fits in your pocket. Finding in on your phone is okay, but it's always more human if you have transcribed it yourself and fold it up and put it in your pocket.

2. Carry your chosen poem around all day, ready to be shared. Don't forget to share with me!

3. Share the poem with people (friends, neighbors, complete strangers) throughout the day.

4. Soak in the awesomeness that is poetry!

5. Check my Instagram (@joeaveragewriter), Twitter (@joeavgwriter), or Facebook for the video of this year's poem!

If you want even more fun, check out my chosen poems from years past!

Little Poems to Celebrate!

 I have been thinking how I wanted to celebrate National Poetry Month this year, and I told myself, "Self, we are not going to simply wallow into Poem in Your Pocket Day (April 29) and do nothing more." So I looked around through some old notes and I found these four little creations that I scribbled with my daughter on New Year's Eve 2019. Brooklyn wanted to write and draw with me before midnight, and this was the result. And somehow, they never found the light of day until now. We called our creations Cardboard and Crayon 'Ku. I joked about opening an Etsy shop. Maybe I still should. (Not really.)

Okay, no Etsy shop.

Whatever your poetic tolerance or potential (not directly correlative), take some time and celebrate a good poem today (not necessarily these). I'll be back later with something else.

Climbing Back up the Rabbit Hole

My dad often jokes that he was so poor growing up that he couldn't even pay attention. (Rimshot, if you please.)

As an educator with over 22 years of experience, I've seen quite a few students not paying attention--to a lesson, to each other, to life, to themselves.

I am also guilty myself of not paying attention. My list of side quests is quite extensive. For example, instead of writing a syllabus for a new class, I am am writing a blog post. I have also become quite adept at Retro Bowl lately. We all go down the rabbit hole every once in a while, right?

Taken from https://imgflip.com/memetemplate/242759032/Distracted-Student

This morning I gave my composition class a work day--they have a research essay draft due next week, and between answering their questions and helping them refine their research questions, I read. And as I am wont to do while I read, I share short passages that cause me to ponder.

From All Learning is Social and Emotional: Helping Students Develop Essential Skills for the Classroom and Beyond by Nancy Frey, Doug Fisher, and Dominique Smith (2019), I dug out this nugget:

"In truth, any person's sustained attention is punctuated with intermittent loss of focus. Things seem to pop into our minds out of nowhere, and then we're off task or off-topic. The skill of maintaining attention, then, is not about extending one's attention span but rather about choosing to return to a task after attention has been lost. It includes noticing when attention has faded and having strategies to bring it back to full strength. These strategies can be as simple as writing a note about the thing that popped into your head and then returning to the task at hand, or taking a breath and refocusing" (p. 72).

A nervous smattering of chuckles came from a couple groups who were "working together." One girl piped up to the others: "Teach just outted y'all!" They cackled for another minute, but then we began an earnest discussion about study habits and what they needed to stay focused.

Now this may not be revelatory to many, but I think it makes a lot of sense. Someone else can explain the science, but the use of strategic metacognition works wonders for me (when I want it to). However, I believe that most students need to have these types of skills taught to them explicitly. That may come in the form of a study skills class, or simply being aware of themselves and their tendencies to become distracted.

If I can train my students simple strategies to get themselves back on task, the possibilities are endless!

So I am asking you few readers, what are some strategies that you use to get yourself back on track, especially when the task at hand is an onerous one? What makes up your ladder to climb back up the rabbit hole?

Regaining a Bit of My Groove through Painting and Poetry (Inspired by Sunsets)

 Part I:

As you may or may not have noticed, I have not done too much writing lately...at least much that I have shared. And I think that my lack of production, coupled with lack of time dedicated to writing or other creative endeavors, has shaken a little of my confidence...or at least my creative confidence.

Part II:

Over the past two or three weeks I noticed an influx of sunset pictures on social media, too. And then I started noticing them again as I have had to run kids back and forth to rehearsals, to jobs, to the dentist, or to find a COIVD test. And I kept seeing them--all distinct from the previous day. Then the sunrises came, too, as I drove to campus each morning. For several consecutive days I drove blinded by beauty. My mind drifted through all sorts of metaphors regarding life, death, resurrection, the afterlife (and breakfast). It's a wonder I did not crash.

Part III:

Last Tuesday I was in charge of an activity for the 14-15 year old young men and women at church. Since Brooklyn falls into that age group, I asked her. She wanted to paint. Great idea. So I forced myself to create. I admit it was a struggle to come up with an idea at first, especially since I kept running back and forth with supplies for the teenagers (and they blasted the soundtrack to Disney's Encanto louder than should ever be played. Sidenote: (I am sick of Bruno!)

Part IV:

Right before I left the house, I saw an amazing sunset over the rooftops of my neighborhood. That became the inspiration for my amateur painting. After it was finished, I felt that it needed a poem, so I worked on that for the past few days. Now the desire to write and create and play is coming back!

Part V:

"Glory to Come"

Preparing

for His night shift,

the Master daubs the remnants

of today’s palette

over the blue-gray canvas,

sloshing purple and pink;

and with the waning light,

He rinses His brushes

through the clouds,

momentarily

spilling orange gold

around the edges.

 

The slipping sun winks

before sinking to black—

one last promise

of another masterpiece

to come.

Part VI:

As always, critiques and criticisms are welcome.

 

National Day on Writing Self Pep Talk (I Need This More Than You but Bear with Me)

Here are some thoughts I had while writing with my composition students the other day. As today is the National Day on Writing, I thought I would share them on the off chance that it helps someone else, too.

Ten more minutes to write. What would I do with more? A lot.

I’m starting to believe that my reluctance to throw myself into another writing project (and Writing Project) stems from a deep yet faulty belief that I don’t have enough time to do a good job, and like so many of my students continue in the false philosophy that it’s better to not even try than to try and fail. I often voice aloud that I am not afraid to fail (at writing…because that is what revision is for), but I think I really am.

 I claim that my most toxic enemy is time, or the apparent lack thereof. I don’t have enough. At least I don’t have the time I want/need to start and finish projects as I used to. Sure, time adds up, yes, but my inner self struggles to produce writing when I perceive that I don’t have wide-open slots on my schedule. Lately my available “free” time minutes have been relegated to numbers I can count on my fingers and toes.

And I’ll admit that it is true that ten or twenty minutes here and there could make a difference if I made use of said minutes. However, those small chunks don’t permit my mindset to allow flow to happen. (Thank you very much, Mr. Csikszentmihalyi.) It takes me that long to warm up. To be honest, when I have to quilt the piece scraps of time together, the patchwork writing isn’t as pleasurable for me. What’s the fun in turning it off before the engine is heated?

Here’s my thought—probably not new to any who might still be reading—but hang with me. What if I use those small snatches of seconds and the odd handful of minutes I do actually have to become more organized or methodical or strategic about what I write and what I do as a writer. It might seem to be more work—starting and stopping like a new driver on a clutch—but I might actually produce something. As a wise mentor once (or twice or a thousand times) told me, only writing produces text. Using my time this way might allow me to navigate the shallow waters my creative vessel has been treading lately. Yes, I am mixing my metaphors. Judge harshly! It doesn’t matter right now. What does is that I am writing.

It has been too long. I’ve lost my groove, and there is no one to blame and chuck out a window except me. I gotta get back on the bike, as I once told a crowd of English teachers at UCTE. Seriously! In the past three years, I have only presented at a conference once. Pathetic. 

I need to get over the ugly despair that falls when I can’t find a perfect description or if my alliteration is over the top; the writing on the wall (which is not mine, by the way) clearly dictates that I have to get back to work. I just have to write. I might need a stricter taskmaster, though.

 

Christmas in July

“Christmas Crazy”

 

One Christmas, I got snagged

in the current of holiday shoppers,

pulled under and swallowed

by a swarm

scavenging the remains of

trendy trinkets, rooting through

bargain bins,

pecking and picking

over remnants of deals already closed out;

endless rolls of wrapping screamed

louder than the toddler trailing

behind her mother’s cart overflowing with

Christmas crazy—

 

It careened around a corner,

out of control,

rickety back-left wheel spinning absently,

and crashed,

triggering an avalanche of

expletives and baubles,

the gift-wrapped gaudiness

spilling across the not-too-recently

waxed tile—

 

The tin-speaker droned overhead;

the din of holiday havoc

paralyzed my senses:

individual samples of non-cheer now

in Aisle Two served in tiny white baking cups

for your convenience.

 

So I left—my cart

and my soul

empty—

for a more stable scene.

 

Deserting the hive behind

the automatic sliding glass doors,

I drove to an empty lot,

windows down,

gazed at the few simple lights

warming the blueblackness of the winter sky,

and exhaled private

exultations and alleluias—

a prayer to peace.

photo credit: Calwaen Liew on Unsplash

 So...I started scribbling the ideas for this poem about a year and a half ago, but a couple of weeks ago I felt the need to pull it out and either finish it or be finished with it. I'd love your feedback, but want to  remind you that I haven't poemed for a while.

Also, here is my traditional claim that I am going to start posting more content in the future. Believe it or don't, I'm still going to do it. Anyone want to hold me accountable?

Poem in Your Pocket Day 2021

It's here! The day that I almost religiously pay homage to my blog. Maybe my pilgrimage should occur a little more frequently, but despite my negligence and my writing sins, can I share a poem with you? #pocketpoem

I encountered this back in January, and I instantly knew that it was the one this year. Ted Kooser has recently become one of my favorites. Since Nebraska claims him, there are more Kooser poetry collections in the local library than any other poet. I'm just glad I remembered where I put it before it went in my pocket.

“Pocket Poem”
 
If this comes creased and creased again and soiled
as if I’d opened it a thousand times
to see if what I’d written here was right,
it’s all because I looked for you too long
to put it in your pocket. Midnight says
the little gifts of loneliness come wrapped
by nervous fingers. What I wanted this
to say was that I want to be so close
that when you find it, it is warm from me.
 
                                                                --Ted Kooser

If you want to play along, Here are the rules:

1. Find a copy of your favorite poem...or one that tickles you fancy today...or one that actually fits in your pocket. Finding in on your phone is okay, but it's always more human if you have transcribed it yourself and fold it up and put it in your pocket.

2. Carry your chosen poem around all day, ready to be shared. Don't forget to share with me!

3. Share the poem with people (friends, neighbors, complete strangers) throughout the day.

4. Soak in the awesomeness that is poetry!

5. Check my Instagram (@joeaveragewriter), Twitter (@joeavgwriter), or Facebook for the video of this year's poem!

If you want even more fun, check out my chosen poems from years past!

"Flirting with Death"

Being the Grim Reaper, I have next to no friends, and I certainly don’t go on many dates. So, after all these millenia, I signed up for online dating. It was a risky plan; I didn’t even have a decent picture of myself. But miraculously, I found a match and I found myself speeding down the road, late for my first date with Alina Tyson.

According to her profile, she had just finished college and was teaching kindergarten at a local elementary school. Her profile also told me that she had a passion for cooking, which was something I also thoroughly enjoyed. After all, I have had more than a few years of practice. Alina apparently enjoyed being outdoors in the summer, which was something I didn’t agree with. It just got too hot in the summer, especially in my cloak. Oh well. The only real problem was that she was mortal, but I’d cross that bridge later.

I coasted into the parking lot of Aurea Lux, the only Greek restaurant in town. It was decent, as far as American-Greek food goes. There was no time to fix my hair or bowtie in the rearview mirror. I was already late enough. That last reaping had taken longer than expected. Stupid defibrillator.

When I entered the lobby I got a strange look from a couple exiting the restaurant, and realized that I was still wearing my cloak. I quickly slipped it off and hung it on the coat rack, hoping no one else had noticed. I smoothed out my blazer as best I could and looked around for my date.

I recognized Alina as soon as I saw her, and my breath caught in my throat. She looked exactly like her picture: Long, honey blonde hair framing a slightly oval shaped face, and eyes that sparkled like moonlight on a scythe. She was absolutely stunning.

Alina spotted me and smiled, waving. I returned her gestures and walked over to our table. There were already two waters on the table, a courtesy I appreciated about this restaurant.

“Sorry I’m late,” I apologized, “I had a… meeting that took a little longer than usual.”

“That’s okay. I wasn’t waiting long anyways.”

Suddenly my mind was blank. I had no idea what to say. What could I say? We hadn’t even ordered, and the awkward silence had already come. Alina twisted her hair around her finger. I looked down at my lap, hoping by some miracle I would be able to find the right words--any words.

“So, Mortimer,” Alina broke the silence. “It is Mortimer, right?”

              I looked back up at her. “Yes, but my friends call me Morty.” At least, they would if I had any.

“Morty. Got it.” I took a drink of water as she continued. “Your profile didn’t mention a profession. What do you do for a living?”

I nearly choked. “I… um, collect… things.”

It was a vague answer, but Alina seemed genuinely intrigued. “What sort of things?”

“Uh, old things,” I brushed a hand through my hair, hoping to appear calm. “Though sometimes I dabble in modern stuff.”

Before Alina could ask any other questions, I cleared my throat and picked up the menu sitting in front of me.

“Shall we order?”

She nodded, picking up her menu as well.

When Alina had made her decision, I signaled to a waiter.

“What can I get for you two tonight?”

Alina responded first. “I’ll have the stuffed grape leaves, please.”

The waiter scribbled something on a pad, then turned to me. “And for you, sir?”

“I will have the dolmadakia as well.”

The waiter made another note before taking our menus and scurrying back to the kitchen.

“How did you know what it was called?” Alina inquired.

“What what was called?”

“The dolmadakia. Their real name wasn’t on the menu.”

I smiled. “I’ve had them before, in Greece.”

Alina looked impressed. “Do you travel often, then?”

“My career takes me all over the world,” I responded. “What about you? I saw on your profile that you like to spend time outside.”

She smiled. “I do. It’s always been a dream of mine to travel the world.”

Suddenly there was nothing else to say, and we lapsed into another silence. I fiddled with my red bowtie, still not exactly sure how dates worked. But I was pretty sure that two awkward silences was bad.

“I… um, think that you look very beautiful, Alina.”

She blushed, and returned the compliment without hesitation.

I didn’t have a mirror, but I knew that my face was as red as my hair. I looked down, a shy smile on my lips.

At that moment, the waiter returned, saving us from a third silence.

“Your dolmadakia, sir and ma’am. Enjoy your meal.”

We both thanked him, and he left. I waited for Alina to begin eating before digging in as well.

After a few bites I made a comment about how I enjoyed cooking Greek food. Alina agreed, and we launched into a conversation about cooking. I was surprised at how easily the conversation flowed, especially compared to our previous attempts.

When Alina laughed, it filled me with an unfamiliar sense of happiness. I hadn’t felt this way in a long time, and I realized that I had missed feeling it. The more I thought about it as we talked, the more I understood something.

I really liked Alina. And I wanted to always be the one to make her laugh.

So I made up my mind right there to ask her out again.

When there was a break in the conversation, I was ready to seize the moment. I realized that if I was going to ask Alina on a second date, now was the time. I took a deep breath. “Alina?”

“Yes?”

I straightened my bowtie. “I’ve had a really great time tonight, and I think that you are an amazing woman. Would you like to go on another date?”

“Yes,” She smiled. “I would like that very much. When were you thinking?”

“Well,” I pulled out my phone to check my schedule, grinning. “I think I’m free next Friday. Maybe we could--”

I stopped mid-sentence, staring at my phone.

“Morty? Is something wrong?”

Something was very wrong. A notification had appeared on my screen, reading, Reap Appointment in 20 minutes! Olivia Tyson: 1094 North Pine Rd.

“Um, Alina?”

“Yes, Morty?”

“Your mother wouldn’t happen to be named Olivia, would she?”

“Yes, that’s her name. Why do you ask?” Alina seemed extremely confused.

I swallowed, ignoring her question. “And does she live at 1094 North Pine Road?”

“Morty, how do you know this?”

I stood up so fast that I bumped the table, spilling both glasses of water. “I have to go.”

“Morty,” Alina stood as well. “what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry.” I apologized.

I turned and made a beeline for the coat rack. I grabbed my cloak and slipped into it, not caring if my blazer got wrinkled or creased. I walked up to the door and was about to leave, but instead looked back.

Alina was still standing at our table, watching me with a sad, confused expression. I swallowed the lump of emotion in my throat as I raised my hood, eyes still on Alina. Suddenly her face paled, and realization flashed in her eyes as she saw me for who I was. Her mouth hung open. I tore away my gaze, shoved open the door, and stepped into the night.

 

This story was written by guest blogger, my daughter, Ally. It was a work for her creative writing class. It reminded me of a story I wrote as a high school junior. Ally is currently a sophomore. I'm sure she would like some constructive criticism. (Maybe.)