Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
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Rated: ASR · Poetry · Contest · #634950
Written for the Return of the Son of Slam Finals; The prompt was: teachers
Tips of fingers tapping tapping
tapping at unyielding wheel;
mom’s exasperation: where is he?
Static engine, waiting watch,
a sigh that sounds like winter…
Dad, inside, cursing to the mirror
at his crooked tie, crooked shave, crooked
spirit. A vein pumps full.
We’re late for church:
My father taught me to be

A humble, cautious captain
traces ovals in the air;
asserting everything is cyclic.
Raptured classroom, cradled book,
a love that looks like light…
We, thirsty, lapping at the wisdom
of his gifted wink, gifted way, gifted
spirit. An eye widens.
I’m suddenly sighted:
Dr. Meanor taught me to be

The crashing ocean of her eyes
forced to fight unwanted foe;
voices voices endless voices.
Fervent prayer, concerto call,
a fear that tastes like ice…
I, abandoned, clawing at the question
of her tired brain, tired blood, tired
spirit. A soul ascends.
Buddha’s applause:
Gina Rose taught me to be

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