Poems from Home

My Old Kitchen

Running out the door, watching

The old spice witch burn

In yellow and orange flames

Cracking and popping noises

Coming from the window, firemen

running through the door, trying

To think positive but couldn't

My sister crying on my shoulder,

My mother telling us it's going to be alright

Walking through the door

Smelling the smoke as it flew

Out the door, stepping on the glass

and the ashes that fell from the

blackened, burned cabinets.

Looking at the burned picture on the wall

and glancing out the backdoor

to see the old burned stove.

Walking back outside in the cold

winter winds, jumping in the car

thinking what's going to happen next?

-Andrea

http://www.spi.com.sg/spi_files/haw_par/pic2/DSCF0151.jpg

Country Memories

Hot summer days playing outside,

The rusty old trampoline

In the middle of our big yard,

Coming in the house

From a long day of exercise

My mom and her homemade iced tea

Just for me and my brothers

My worn down dad

Walking in from cutting fallen wood.

The squeaky floors we walked on

The springy beads where we slept

The dirty walls that we touched

and the Tide smelling clothes we wore.

The woods that we explored

To the firepit we played in

The fist tank rocks in the driveway

and the dried up creek at the property line.

Walking up late

running fast trying to catch the burnt

rubber smelling bus.

Our playful excited dogs,

Jumping on us when we got home.

Our smelly brother in law

and his big rusty truck

Stuffed with bent and dirty scrap metal.

The quiet neighbors

That were kind and helpful,

The rude overweight slumlord

Who was nosey about what we did

The deep mud tracks my brother made in the yard,

With his rusty old truck.

I miss the camping

and the smell of burning wood.

I miss my old house,

I miss the country memories.

-Kyle

http://www.wvdjs.state.wv.us/Portals/0/Splash/CountryRoadRandolphCo.jpg

Sports Poems

Game Day

Warm sunny Saturday afternoons

Digging my cletes into the fresh green grass

Bodies bolting back and forth across the field

The popping of the helmets colliding together

The shouting of joy coming from my coach

The screeching of the referee's whistle

The grip of a football in my hand

Bright beaming sunlight hitting my face

The sound of the crowd's victory cheer

The feeling of accomplishment

The feeling that I gave it my all on game day

-Lanier

http://www.nutrition-for-athletes.com/images/offensiveline-football.jpg

My Last Game

The cracking of the pads

On one another.

The yells and screams of the crowd,

A dirty football flying through the air.

The taste of an old mouthpiece.

The rough ball hitting my hand

And a muddy shoulder smashing into my ribs.

The feeling of a sweaty wristband on my arm

And the voices going through my head.

The game is over the cold feeling of Gatorade

Rushing through my body

Refills me with energy.

My family is waiting for me on the sideline.

The sweat dripping from my hair

Onto my face.

This is my last game.

-Derek

The Sound of A Bang

The sound of a bang

As he hit the ground

I hear somebody say That's how you play D

As I get up my teammates pat me on the back

Good job #51

As I line up

For the next play

I look at him and I see the fear

In his eyes

From getting popped

On the last play

I could tell he didn't

Want the ball again

And that just made me feel stronger.

As I creep up to [the] line

I hear [their] coach saying

Block #51

But

The couldn't block me

Because I'm magic.

When I'm playing football

It['s] not enough to get a tackle

I want to hear the sound of a

Bang!

-Bryant

It's Your Time to Shine

The smell of hairspray

In the air.

Using spray gold glitter

To stand out and shine

The taste of Vaseline on my teeth

Making me want to smile even more.

Always in front

Arms get weak as I base a climb

Popping the moves on point

With the girls

Under the bright lights.

Our routine is finished

Did we do good enough to win?

All on stage about 30 teams

sweaty and weak.

Then I hear first place goes to...

"Fairdale Bulldogs!"

Getting shiny gold medals

To call our own.

Cheerleading is something

That runs in my blood!

-Taylor

http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3258/3268822299_2c9df385ac.jpg

Proposed Changes in NCLB Announced

Check out this article in which Obama, along side Arne Duncan, US Secretary of Education, announces a proposal for sweeping changes in the federal No Child Left Behind program.

Poems for Fathers

Dad

Wish I could stay with him.

Now the fear is here.

Miss his old dirty boots

Coming home at night.

The warm

Kiss on my cheek

When I'm asleep.

Love the cozy hugs

When scared of losing him.

Love to say goodbye when

I know he's coming back.

The old dirty boots sitting in

Front of the door with wet mud

On the carpet.

The family picture with my dad's

Gotee and the light brown hair.

There are some that have

Dads who love and hold them

And there are some who don't,

It feels like there is no one

In this world that you can

Love so much.

Trying to look back in my

Mind to see what's good

About my dad and it's like

My mind doesn't want

Me to feel the pain.

My heart is beating

Boom

Boom

Boom

Then it stops when he is walking

Out on you to leave you in tears.

The days goes by and you don't

Want to move.

-Megan

Now I'm Done.

Out of school,

Rapidly walking to the dead fish smelling baby sitters.

I stare out the cracked window her son broke

That summer.

You came and got me with Gambler,

he licked my face, and I kissed his big black nose

I put on my ragged old shoes, and

You tied them tight.

Thinking about all those memories

I want to forget

Then you were gone, when

Mommy said she was done,

You were never in my life, I wished

I was never even born.

As I was growing up

I got used to you not being there.

Knowing you'd never come.

Since I grew up,

Mom told me everything,

The drugs, the alcohol addiction,

How many people you owed money to.

Crying my eyes out the minute I found out.

Shoving my face in that old pillowcase you got me.

My sister only a teenager,

Standing there with her friend

Having random strangers ride up,

Ask where you were.

Because if they found you

They said you're dead

The silence of the phone

Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Sunday night,

You stop calling so I stopped trying,

Now just like mom I'm done.

-Savannah

My Daddy's Old Caprice

'96 Caprice Classic

Indigo leather, golden brown wood,

Next to the silver handle

That looks like it has never been touched

That car was everything

my dad was

One of a kind and classic

Like his style and good looking

Smooth and slick like his voice

Every Sunday morning

We would pile into the Caprice

Go to church

I would always sit up front

In the middle where the handle rose

Because it would always be six of us

Three in the back: Jessie, Jasmin, and Mickey

And three up front: MIchael, Makaila, and Mama

On our way to church

Listening to Kirk Franklin

that's the Reason Why I sing

He would always change the radio

By moving his hand over the dashboard like a magician

And 'til this day I still don't know

What he did to change that station

Everyone grew up

And the memories went up to flames

That day my daddy traded in that '96 classic Caprice

For that big, black, dull Chevy

That looks like a monster on wheels.

For once in my life I felt uncompleted

Remembering his two favorite colognes mixed together

Armani and Curve, smelling like him

Missed his leather seats

Sticking and burning my legs in the hot summer time

Rubbing sound of the leather

How when the sun shine the paint job would sparkle

Like his eyes in the moon light

Now everytime I look in the mirror

I see my daddy and his Caprice.

-Makaila

Bright Night

Stacks of boxes.

Boxes that smell like gun powder.

Boxes that will soon explode

Night comes

And its July excitement

My dad's friends, him and the party

Everyone laughing as loud as

Thunder

In a dark pitch black storm

My dad starts with

Mortar shells

Lighting them with his rusty old Zippo

With a two inch flame

Sparking up the wick

Five seconds later

It sores through the sky

Then it explodes into a blue and white

Color of laughter

And it booms

Into a exciting

Ear bursting noise

It leaves my dad screaming,

"Awesome!"

And lighting fireworks till

He runs out of

Exploding Joy.

-Sean

Runaway

When I was a little girl,

You bounced me on your knee.

When I had a bad day

It was you who I was running to,

You told me it would be okay.

I believed you.

I remember I was seven years old,

The time you left.

All your clothes in the closet were gone,

I couldn't catch my breath.

I fell to my knees cried "Daddy, don't go!"

I loved you all my life.

You're my hero, don't you know?

If I were a better kid, would you come back?

Please come home.

When I was in middle school,

We tried to talk on the phone,

You said you were proud of me,

I shed my tears,

I just wanted you near,

But you were never there to wipe away my tears.

-Destiny

Poems for Mothers

As the poetry unit comes to a close, I'm going to try to publish my students work regularly. Although the poems are by no means perfect, I'm unspeakably proud of my students.

Here are some poems written by my students for their mothers. The students are of varying "abilities," and I'm including them unedited.

Mom

Silky sun-orange hair,

Smelled like peaches:

Dances with the wind,

Changes color in the water.

The stress of it all

The cigarettes lit

Extreme stress took over

Drugs began to scent the air

Horrible shouts

Cursing and mistakes;

The smack of the palm cuffing my cheek,

Continuous stinging brick-red mark,

Giving pain for hours

The chaos of the whole incident gives my mind earthquakes

The gravel pummeling the desk,

Hearing the words Custody to Dwayne Smith paralyzed me.

My heart began to ache,

My mind began to crumple,

I was collapsing, falling apart.

My mind created a seal to lock the memories away.

-Isaac

I Remember

I remember when you would come over,

With your long brown hair,

Dark brown eyes and heavy makeup

I would run and yell "Lisa"

Instead of mom,

The times we would go outside I would run around

As we played hide and seek

Me as a child

You throwing me in the air

When ever I close mye eyes

I see us playing and laughing

I remember what you would smell like: peaches and cream

I remember the words you would always say

"Ill try to stop"

With a smile on your face

I remember the times we laugh about nothing.

Then the day came when you walked out the door

Without a good bye

No one knew where you went or why you went.

The next month I trudged in the church

With tears jetting down my face

I remember the casket black and silver

With white doves on it.

I remember the words I said

"Why did she do it?"

No one answered.

I remember my tenth birthday

When I cried because you wasn't there

My fifth grade graduation

All the other good things that happened

and you weren't there for.

The times I wish you were still here.

My prom

And me graduating from college

And your not here anymore.

-Shaylyn

Mom

Mom, from changing my diapers

Until taking me to get underwear.

Looking at you with your light brown eyes

With the sun glistening off of them,

And curly black hair

Mom, from helping me take my first step until

I could walk on my own.

Mom, from teaching me how to go to the

Restroom until I could go by myself.

Mom, from helping me ride my tricycle

Until I can ride my own bike.

Thank you Mom, for teaching me how

To stand on my own to feet.

-Isaiah

Atwell Brings Me Home Again

This weekend I re-read Atwell's The Reading Zone and was surprised to see how my previous post shows how my methods have begun to slide in the opposite direction from Atwell's best-practice reading workshop. If you would have asked me which education author most inspired my teaching I would have said Atwell, and yet you wouldn't have known it by my post.

I wrote about how I had this great idea to have my students write down vocabulary words as they read their choice reading books - an unnecessary and even harmful disruption to what Atwell calls "the reading zone" - the uninterrupted flow of reading during which students experience a "hightened form of pleasure" and become life-long, habitual readers.

But what about rigor? Methods? Accountability? Data? All these nagging concerns that pull at me have also pulled at Atwell, and she goes into great detail about the teacher's role in the reading workshop, assessment, comprehension, and how less truly is more when it comes to reading strategies.

While for years I have subscribed to the belief that the best way to teach kids to read is to get them practicing, I still think there needs to be a balance between teaching schema and comprehension strategies, and allowing kids to enter the zone uninterrupted. Atwell's chapter on comprehension cites literacy theorist Louise Rosenblat and distinguishes between two modes of reading: the "efferent" and the "aesthetic." Efferent, from the Latin "effere" (to carry away), refers to gathering facts, information, procedures, ideas and so on. (Read: informational, persuasive, procedural reading.) Aesthetic obviously refers to reading we do for pleasure, beauty, self exploration, expression and all those higher artistic pursuits. (Read: poetry, fiction, memoir.)

I am at ease with this thought: get my students reading in the aesthetic mode frequently - get them lost in as many books as possible, facilitate rich, deep and higher-order discussions among them about these texts, and get them to love literature; then, teach them strategies for comprehending drier, less accessible texts with all the research-based methodology I can muster, using everything from double entry journals to vocabulary study to KWL charts to read-alouds.

If I teach these two modes simultaneously my class (starting tomorrow) will look like this: first 20 minutes of uninterrupted, untested choice reading, during which time I will circulate and confer with students about their reading (fabulous questions for readers on p. 92.) Then the remaining 30 minutes will be for read-alouds, group work, paired-reading or explicit literacy skill instruction in whatever genre we're currently studying.

Vocabulary Building through Choice Reading

Every morning, from 7:40 to 8:00, we begin our day with individual choice book reading. The students are allowed to read any book that strikes their fancy - or any magazine or newspaper for that matter. I bring in the Friday-Sunday Times from home each Monday, and at least one student spends the week studying the sports page.

To me, the most important thing is that the kids are reading continuously. So, if I see a student look up and get that far-away gaze (the pre-cursor to an early morning nod-off), I simply say, "So-and-So, if you don't like that book, please go find another one." The students are allowed at any time to check out a book from my classroom library, and they can also use this time to take a trip down to the school library to check out a book.

Here's what some of them are reading:







During this individual reading time, I want my students to enjoy themselves, but I also want to practice reading skills and build vocabulary. My students are required to find one new word a day, or four new words a week, look them up in the dictionary and record the word and definition in their reading notebooks. On Friday, I walk around the room, checking their nightly reading logs and vocabulary words. I confer with them to make sure they understand the words, and if there are any words that I think could improve their writing, I have them write the word and definition on index cards. (This is considered a kind of honor, btw.)

The students then take the vocabulary words up to the "Word Wall," which is organized in four categories: "Sizzling Verbs," "Spicy Adjectives," "Precise Nouns," and "Well-placed Adverbs." The students have to determine from the definition and context what part of speech their word comes from. If they cannot figure it out, we work through it as a class. After all the words have been placed, the whole class records the new words, and any student who uses the words gets praise.

The overall effect is kids who love to read and talk about their books, which only leads to more reading, and more word-conscious reading.