He Doesn’t Ask Who I Am

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

And I don’t tell him.
He can see that I’m wearing a name tag 
which suggests that I might be someone—might even 
hold some authority over the grown up who just yelled at him, 
Or maybe not.
I am sitting by myself, in the Commons 
composing an email. One of those, where I keep 
changing my mind on if it should be “reply” or “reply all.”
I look up when I hear the voices, one raised.
And that’s when I see him, and he see me.
The expression on his face asks, Do you see this guy?
in reference to the grown-up, the one with the raised voice.
I am confident that my facial expression replies—just to him—
I do see. He seems really frustrated. Next, my facial expression asks,
Did you play a role in that frustration? and follows up with a,
Don’t get me wrong. I still see your humanity, guilty or not.
I know that he understands 
everything I am saying without saying anything.
I know this because he wears a smirk that is humble, and playful, 
and friendly, and responsible, all at the same time 
(if it’s possible for a smirk to do all of those things), 
as he walks to the office with the grown-up, 
the one with the raised voice. 

Re-Member

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

Education as the practice of freedom

Requires us to change our lens

Unapologetic truth speaking 

Social knowledge

Challenge dominant narratives

Historical contention 

Did everyone come back with answers to the universe?

Put our business 

On front street

Instead of all the lies, it should be transparent.

Everybody needs to know.

That’s why they call it public education, Right?





(This is just a poem that came to me today as I listened and collected various phrases and statements I heard around me.)

Inside Me is A Bridge

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

Inside me is a bridge— 
a meeting of two minds, 
two places, 
two stories.

Behind me,
there are miles of 
Resilience—
forests of fear 
valleys of hardship,
hills of victory.

I do not know 
how far back it goes,
as I can only remember 
Parts
of the journey from this lifetime,
and I do not know 
all of the generations 
who walked the trail before me.

Inside me is a bridge—
a place where
Who I Have Become meets 
Who I Am Yet To Be—
a handshake, if you will,
a passing of the baton,
a nod of understanding between 
the places I have already grown, 
and the new victories that stretch ahead.

Inside me is a bridge.
It is not a place for me to stop long,
just a place for me to
reflect, to take 
a moment, to take
a breath,
before I move ahead 
into my next adventure. 

What’s the Difference Between Gray and Grey?

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

He stands at the pulpit to preach the word
Schooling us on Greek and Hebrew phrase
His self-esteem and status both undeterred
While he leads, and he pleads, and he prays.

He holds his head up high, to look upon his flock
Speaking of the Lord, with his truth and his ways
Scoping and scanning and taking stock
Of the folks in the pews, while he prays.

A perceptive shepherd he’s got his eyes on the sheep
Monitoring the singing the needs and the praise
Especially the young women, who are prone to weep
He notices. He nurtures. He preys.

In spirit he’s Peter; in the flesh Cosby, Bill.
His desires bigger than his Christian ways.
He lures her and offers her a drink, laced with pill.
He plans to take her and make sure she stays. He preys.

Grateful Collage

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

Going where the climate suits my clothes 
Might as well travel the elegant way 
Sometimes the songs that we hear are just songs of our own 
If you get confused just listen to the music play 

Crippled but free I was blind the whole time I was learning to see.
Heard a voice a callin’, Lord you was comin’ after me. 

Well, everybody’s dancing in a ring around the sun 
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung

Sun went down in honey
And the moon came up in wine 
Rising up to paradise, 
I know I’m gonna shine 

I may not have the world to give to you
But maybe I have a tune or two
‘Cause when things go wrong, wrong with you
It hurts me too
Shall we go, you and I, while we can? 
If mercy’s in business, I wish it for you 

But I’ll still sing you love songs
Written in the letters of your name 
Greet the morning air with song 
I will walk alone by the black muddy river
Sing me a song of my own 
Comic book colors on a violin river 
Listen to the river sing sweet songs
To rock my soul 

Once in a while, you get shown the light 
In the strangest of places if you look at it right 
Some folks look for answers
Others look for fights
I have spent my life seeking all that’s still unsung
Keep on dancing through to daylight

Nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile. 

(This is a collage poem—all lyrics from various songs by the Grateful Dead)

There’s No Place Like, “No!”

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

I used to ignore the 
red flags 
on the way to your castle,
down the yellow brick road.

Only to find that your 
promise ring
was made of graphite. 

You only offer 
bittersweet watermelon
and dandelions.

I’m half and half 
about your 
field of poppies, 
hearthstone, 
polished stone… 
no gems.

I’m on my way—
away—
searching for a new 
green light. 

Soon

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

Boom-sicle bop-sicle
Cherry red popsicle
Sparkling new bicycle
Swimming pool toys

Tops off convertibles
Cookouts and carnivals
Parades and festivals
Summertime Joys

Today’s #VerseLove prompt was to write a double dactyl poem. “This whimsical form of poetry is made of two quatrains.

Lines four and eight have one dactyl plus a stressed syllable
Line one is a pair of nonsense rhyming words
Line two introduces the subject of the poem (often a name)
Lines one through three and five through seven contain two dactylic metrical feet.” This is my attempt.

To-Day List

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

Drink a huge glass of iced water.
Stretch. 
No, really stretch.
Take your time.
Go outside.
Look up at the sky. 
Smell a flower or seven.
Sneeze.
Smile at a stranger. 
Hug a friend. 
Say, “I love you” more than once.
Inhale.
Exhale. 
Tell yourself that you are enough.
Watch the sunset.
Sleep well.

Reading at the Table

Posted on by The Read-e-ologist

I invited Literacy to the table. She was delightful as can B. We drank T.
She seemed shy at first, as if she was trying to decode each word—sounding out her thoughts. Once she started, she began speaking rapidly, as if I were timing her. “Listen,” I said. “This is not a race. It isn’t about accuracy, and your pronunciation is just fine. I invited you because I want to know U. I want to C U. I want to understand. ¿Comprende? This is all about communication.” Literacy took a big deep breath . . . and started to cry. “U C,” she said, “Sometimes people get all phocused on phonics—It’s like they’re hooked. Yes, foundation, foundation, phoundation, but it doesn’t stop there. We need to play with words, slay with words, sing and be sung. U know?” And I did. So we did. We sang. And we shared stories—hers, mines, ours. We laughed, then cried some more, then sang a song of hope. “C, this is Y,” she said, “This is Y I live. This makes me feel whole.” We drank more T, made lists, recited poems, made declarations, asked questions, wrote our dreams, and shared our resilience through story. Y’all, Literacy is a beauty, and she is invited to my table any time!

Photo by Anastasia Shuraeva on Pexels.com