Visiting the Past

Moving from one house to another prompts a flurry of decluttering and reorganizing.  As I continue to organize my new home office, I am unpacking and revisiting archived writing projects from school, work, or otherwise, spanning decades of writing pursuit.

I found an example of my third grade poetry skills. I received an A+ for the assignment, marked in black felt-tip ink that has now soaked through the yellowed notebook paper. I remember vividly being accused of being the teacher’s pet in Miss Allen’s classroom, a drama that brought the teacher to tears one morning in front of the class.  Miss Allen was a wonderful educator, creating a fun atmosphere for all of her students so that learning seemed more like play and exploration.


Like a caring mother,
the twinkling stars
watch over their sleeping children.
Do stars ever sleep?


The lightningslices
the ebony night.


The seamstress
cuts the pattern,
threads the needle,
sews the fabric.
How soft new clothes feel!


float, flitter, fall
from the trees,
on the wind
to the forest floor.
A golden Autumn.


The unstudied student
hears the teacher,
turns over his test,
fumbles his answers,
stares at the clock.
How stupid not to study!



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