Blog Archives
Dancers with Candles
Dancers with candles are lurking around
Places where mistletoe is to be found,
Hoping their empty lips soon will be kissed,
Fearing their footsteps will turn into mist.
Suddenly sleepy the dancers do swoon,
Not caring at all that it’s only noon.
Could this be deep magic doing its work,
Or am I dreaming like some lonely jerk?
Soon I’ll be nodding, my air will be gone,
And it will be time for me to pass on.
Please don’t forget me when I am no more;
Give heed to my wisdom, this I implore.
Of all I’ve told you, try to remember:
Dance with your candle every December!
More The Whirligig #295
More Writers’ Pantry #49 at Poets and Storytellers United
Mystic Signs
(NOTE: Nothing profound here. Just enjoy the sounds of the words as you read them aloud.)
Chocolate muffins linger on,
Tingling tongues until they’re gone.
Wasted apples clog the sink
Quicker than a rat can think.
Asked to whirl through vats of dye,
Pinwheels stop and wonder why.
“What’s in it for us?” they ask.
“What an idiotic task!”
Blueberry pie, tasty treat!
Reading tea leaves—oh how sweet!
Mystic signs of grit and grace—
Scrub your hands and wash your face!
More The Whirligig #262
More Writers’ Pantry #16 at Poets and Storytellers United
Text Me a Message
Text me a message before I am gone,
Before waving shadows cover my lawn.
Candles and peaches, not rats in a bowl—
Text me of these things to cheer up my soul.
Don’t text about fences shredded by fate,
Just stick to the truth, let’s have a clean slate.
The truth being this, and always will be:
I’m made for you, dear, and you’re made for me.
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
Teaching Forever
Sometimes I think I can teach forever.
Sometimes the dark circles under my eyes
tell me that it’s foolish to try to teach one more hour.
Last night the angels of sleep
abandoned me,
interrupted my erotic dream,
laughed at me in my distress!
Now it’s five o’clock Monday morning
and I’m propping up my head with one hand
while writing this lament with the other.
I’d like to forget my lesson plans
and start reading a good book
until I fall asleep again,
waking up around noon
to write fragments of poetry
or a letter to a friend.
Instead, I have to eat breakfast, shower
and change into something suitable for work.
Then I have to drag my weary body
into my classroom where sixteen sullen students
with learning disabilities
will watch me impassively as I try to teach them
about figurative language:
Simi—what? Meta—who? Personifi—why?
We don’t care.
Is their theft of my time worth it,
their theft that leaves me wasted?
Today, probably not.
But tomorrow or the day after
something might change.
And that is the hope that keeps me going,
the grace that spurs me on,
even when all the light is gone
and all I want to do
is crawl back under the covers.
