Catching Up on #EthicalELA Open-Write September & a Thought About Driving Home in the Dark Where Deer Jump Across Streets

My poem is not about a deer, although I've written about them before. Rather, I have a poem about my school nick-name, Mr. Moonbeam, and how I was enshrined with the title by a little guy in the first week of his schooling. Somewhere, Bonnie Cecil has the children's book I wrote and she had illustrated - would love to see that in print somehow. 

Nope. I came home another way because I wanted to get groceries.

Sadly, a little doe was struck in the back legs crossing Black Rock Turnpike, and the lady who hit her was on the side of the road. Traffic was backed up for miles, and I can see the face of the deer, still alive, struggling as to what she should do. Her back legs weren't working. I couldn't help but see Glamis and Karal in her eyes. She was just being a deer. Humans and their vehicles...their roads...their speed...and their need to be everywhere at once. Can't help but look in the eyes of lamed deer and see God, always trying to teach us something - humans suck. Period. Easy lesson to learn.

Anyway, on a happier note, I loved being Mr. Moonbeam and thoroughly enjoyed writing a poetic rendition of the story where I got the name. That's my poem for this humpday.

Mr. Moonbeam

On a rug made of 

threaded A, B, C’s

& the 1, 2, 3’s of reading buddies,

we sat in anticipation of a book - 

these little stars entering the tradition

of bureaucracies before the tests,

squirming like kittens and puppy dogs

in a pen just waiting to be picked up,

taught how to hold a pencil

and color a world of possibilities.

He looked up at me,

this gigantic

man squatting upon 

a kindergarten chair

wondering exactly who 

I was supposed to be. 

“We know who we are,” he said

behind folded arms and puckered lips,

“But who are you?”

I didn’t know. I had 17- and 18-year olds

kicking and screaming from 3 floors up,

wanting to gossip, sleep, and hate

everything they knew as school.

We were mentors, I suppose.

Traditions. Goliaths

with sweaty armpits

and lip liner

trying to be 

older than we were.

“I don’t know who we are” 

I responded, tucking that book

under an arm and trying to be coy

in a playful adulting voice.

“I’m guess I’m a teacher.”

He knew otherwise.

He seemed to know

of frogs, dragonflies,

turtles, fish, rabbits & ducks.

He knew the power of words,

letters, story-telling and hope…

the insecurity and the guessing…

the pretending and the performance.

“No you’re not,” he attested,

becoming a mayor of 5-year olds,

and political empire to 

soon-to-be graduates. 

“They are the Moonbeams. 

And you…

you are Mr. Moonbeam.”

Sometimes it’s funny

how the light trickles

from nightly stars

and sheds light on ponds 

and lily-pads. 

The cattails really

are spectacular.

“Well, I guess I am,” 

I admitted, returning to the book.

That was a phase

where I felt full, 

like a crescendo

blaring the obvious.

“Yes, that is who I am.

Mr. Moonbeam.”