Haiku
fall trees
a red-tailed hawk circles
screams ascending
dusk sky
walking stick insects
stroll up and down the screen
foggy bottom
the gobble and strut
of wild turkeys
Free Verse
Moselle
Means
Miz Means is mean, everybody
said.
I was a freshman, excited but nervous
about teachers and classrooms.
I wound up in the wrong room once,
and everybody laughed because I thought
it was algebra class. Finally, the last class.
Study hall. It should’ve been a snap,
but it was in the library where Miz Means
stalked about scowling, shushing talkers,
tapping shoulders of daydreamers
and nappers, confiscating notes.
For weeks, I sat and did my homework.
No talking, no daydreaming, no notes.
One day, I’d worked the equations, read
the assignments, studied for the biology quiz.
I looked around at the shelves of books.
I wanted a book so bad. I eased out
of my chair and crept to the shelves.
I had no idea how to find a book I’d
like to read. The books in front of me
were histories of Greece, China, Great Britain.
All at once, Miz Means was standing beside me.
My hands shook, my knees trembled.
Let me show you some books you might enjoy.
She led me across the room to shelves
of books in bright jackets. She spent fifteen
minutes talking to me about books, showing
me authors and titles, ignoring talkers,
nappers, and homework copiers. I chose
a book about a young girl who wanted
to be a nurse, but faced many barriers.
As she checked it out for me, she smiled.
I’ll be glad to help you anytime, she said.
The next time I heard someone say,
Miz Means is mean, I shook my head.
You just don’t know her, I thought.
Reenactment
At Shiloh where peach
petals once
drifted into the reddened pond,
old men and young lads in ill-fitted
uniforms clamor down the swale
on snorting horses, muskets and sabers
rattling, drums tattling, fifes tootling.
I am captured in a time warp
neither past, present, nor future.
