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Feeling desperate when sincerity becomes cheesy.

Heightening my frustration and lowering their self-esteem.

Luckily, it is never too late to start anew.

The rising sun blots out despair,

Giving us another chance to win. To be true

Sirens of Christ’s love ... to clear the air.

In teaching, the teacher is a student always.

Discovering that learning is not about reading, ‘riting, and ‘rithmetic alone.

It’s about valuing a person, not parting ways.

Assuring him or her that the classroom is everyone’s home.

Our Fear

There is something perversely unjust about sending

children into the world. Away from the

loving gaze of our watchful eyes. Estranged

from our protective embrace. For we know,

that no one can love our babies as

unconditionally as we do. We

fear that even at school – the one place that

should be a second home – our kids will be

neglected. Abused, devalued, dismissed.

We expect our precious children to

learn the ABC’s and 123’s. To

use “arboreous” in a sentence and

quote extensively from The Bill of Rights.

We want this – all of this – even if we

know that our children speak too loudly.

Repeat themselves until acknowledged. Write

letters backwards while looking directly

at them. We want more for our children.

Though they pronounce the silent “k” in "knife"

or learn better by tapping or standing.

Unable to sit quietly with feet

on the floor and eyes facing straight-ahead.

We want ... No, we demand nothing less than

the very best from our children’s schools.

Second to parents and sometimes in place

of us, children seek the love and safety

believed to be the foundation of schools.

Willingly, children hug teachers. Laugh at

jokes they do not grasp. Ignore remarks that

weaken the spirit and rob the soul. Yes,

there is something perversely unjust about sending

children into the world. Compromising

their humanity and their dignity.

Freshmen Year

Richard – the College Student

descendant of an African tribe

whose name i cannot pronounce

and whose culture i am unfamiliar

black but not as the night

more akin to a tinge

of creamy caramel latte

american through and through

breathing life into every patriotic syllable

of francis scott key’s battle hymn

yet i am seen as something

so very foreign to me

labeled the degenerate, the robber, the nigger

standing on the outside of your judgment

scholastic prowess ignored

potential and worth underestimated

accordingly, you do not understand why

a grade of “b” is not good enough for me

whom you regard as the dark one

for your sake, one day you may see,

that the black man – even in diversity –

is merely a man and as worthy as any man

Soul Food

My mother wore patches of white flour

as badges of honor.

From her ruby cheeks

to her sweat-stained blouse,

the light dusting promised

a feast

of fried chicken, collard greens,

and pecan pie.

A simple dinner in our home

served with fanfare of the heart.

Lapping the juices

from my shiny fingers,

I saw love mirrored in Mama's eyes –

chestnut orbs that hid

the pain encased in her heart.

Always sitting the table for three.

Hoping that might be the night

dad returned

to us …

to her.

Before Dawn

Slumber dissipates as dawn approaches.

Quiet sails along the cool breeze

Pouring from the window ajar.

Dew dampens the room

You lie content and unaffected.

Tangled locks – dark and soft –

Repose upon the pillow.

I kiss your tiny forehead

And pray to the remaining stars above.

My inadequacies aside,

Let me be a decent mother

To my only son. My only priority.

The heart captures this moment.

Keeping worry at bay. My love,

Enjoy your dreams before daybreak

Wrangles your bliss and it is time

For us to brave the world.

The Annabel Lee Conspiracy

Who knew Poe's beautiful Annabel Lee?

Through and through, the ideal mortal lover.

Unfortunately, she died by the sea.

Body gone from this world, her soul hovered.

Distraught and wounded, part of Poe died, too.

He lived for the love of that girl -- so fair.

Shattered by her death, Poe knew what to do.

By god, he'd drag those angels by their hair!

But, did the winged seraphs kill Annabel

Or did she fall prey to Poe's psychosis?

Whether by pen or strife, it was Poe's hell

That took Annabel's life without notice.

Ah, Poor Mr. Poe. An ill-fated chap

With the grave stain of guilt upon his lap.

Football Sundays

Rise before the pelican to give God his due.

In the heart of the Crescent City beyond the bayou,

We peel off club rags and reach for church attire.

Praise the Lord and watch the Saints baptize foes in pigskin fire.

From heaven, “Who Dat!” alights the sky in a black and gold hue.

Pregnant with Pride

pregnant with pride

you shrink

from responsibility

of your reckless and callous

words

Latrine Epiphany

Regurgitation spews forth.

A wasted life

Expelled.

Clearing the path

For unfettered renewal.

The Plea

You say you’ll give me the world.

Really? The world? Can you do that?

Start smaller. May be a wide-brim hat

For a beach side walk to watch the water pool and swirl.

I want much but need very little: