Poem: January 9, 2026

Fun Hall Friday

On Fridays before first period,

as the students drag their bleary

teenage brains from locker

to cafeteria to classroom, perambulating

with their friends or shuffling

their zombie shuffle, shields up,

lost in their earbuds and phones, 

my fellow teachers and I fill our

hallway with absurdity. Every

Friday, a new version of absurdity, 

a weekly hope to help our students

find some joy within this school.

We roll out the stereo and the

party lights, or we fire up all

of the bubble machines- an ocean

of bubbles, a wall to pop through,

as they head to Algebra or Art II,

or we decorate the hall like a jungle

and play Jurassic Park, or a beach

to free us from the reality of winter, 

or a college football tailgate, 

a nineteen-eighties sleepover with

sleeping bags and popcorn and MTV, 

or a life-sized game of Clue–

each of us a character– Scarlet, 

Peacock, Mustard, Plum, and White,

and before Christmas we sing carols, 

and we haunt the hallway on Halloween, 

and we yell out Happy Friday, Bears,

as the students pass by and we

try to find a way to get them to crack

a smile, even as they roll their eyes.

Poem: January 8, 2026

Brontomancy

Every night as I slide

into the covers, I say,

Alexa, play thunderstorm,

and the magical cylinder

beside me pauses before

breathing out a rumble

that grows slowly, cold

wind and rain-splatter audio

low, growling and opening

the night bedroom toward

the percussion of storms,

as though I had found

myself beside a nearby

and darkened and wide-

open window, and I imagine

myself in another room

made of stone and weathered

wood where the wind

blowing near disturbs

the dancing heart of the

woodstove, and I accept

the soft assumption that

this could be my home

in some future, spectral

post-life. The slow rolling

thunder is the echo of

chaos beyond the horizon

where I can no longer go.

While, inside, I only know

my own long shadows,

a clock’s slowing tempo, 

the gold fireplace glow, 

my comforter, my pillow,

and only the ghosts I hold.

Poem: January 7, 2026

Neurospicy

Sometimes it’s nice

to be neurospicy,

to give into the Hyde

inside the Jekyll,

to release the prickly

beast that feels so tired

of the tight space

in which he’s been pacing,

tied to the short leash,

bottled and contained

by medications made

to enforce the rules

of the neurotypical brain. 

Poem: January 6, 2026

Some Classes

Some classes need you

to be angry with them.

They will insist on it

in a million little ways.

They will talk over you

until you are red in the face,

say I’m sorry, and then

they will do it again,

literally the second you are

tempted to forgive them.

They’ll look for the ways

to say you’re irrelevant, 

ignoring you directly and

dramatically to your face.

Playing games, watching film,

earbuds in, pulling faces

across the room as if to say,

Look at all the things that

can fill my day that are not you.

Why waste these days engaged

in the ways you want, you have

clearly planned for me to engage?

Why take any path you or

anyone wants me to take?

And honestly, maybe I wouldn’t 

care if there was just one

mechanism, a lever to pull that

would send the worst offenders away.

But we’re here to teach them, 

every one of them, every day.

Poem: January 5, 2026

New

The you who was you yesterday

no longer exists, truly, no matter

how successful or lost, disappointing

or wondrous. That you is gone,

swallowed like wine from a chalice

or poison from a cup. And the you

who just read that is gone, too,

leaving only the you who is you, fading

every moment, as people tend to do.

Poem: January 4, 2026

I think; therefore, I am

A pencil in my hand, 

pressed between my fingers

and thumb. I feel it there

as I scratch across the paper

and pause to listen to

the words that seem to come

from somewhere both me

and not me, and the pine desk

is solid, and my shoulder

solidly aches and has, I think,

for days. For Heaven’s sake,

I think, of course this is real,

but maybe I am mistaken.

Who knows what to make

of this red and worn sweatshirt,

the shadow the desk lamp creates,

my cold hands, the hum-um

of the washing machine and fan

in the room I assume is still there? 

Poem: January 3, 2026

Fantasy Dance

It’s been a while now

since we danced– 

hands on hips or shoulders

or holding other hands–

and I can’t help but think

how nice it would be

to find ourselves tentatively

reaching for each other,

experiencing a gradual

release in a dark room

under flying lights

and inside the thrumming

music that dances itself,

leaning into us as we 

lean into it and feel

the vibrations, our

Palpitations, and that catch

in our throats when we

fall into our lingering glance.