To love is to make

yourself vulnerable.

If you are brave enough

 to love,


you get hurt,

but no one walks

through life



*it’s not much of a poem, but at least it is a sign that I’m thinking, even in the midst of a hurried schedule. My brain aches to write but mountains of paper work hinder me. Oh well, those mountains of paper work are required for my job and I did choose my job. I suppose it, too, is a form of art in its own way. At the very least, it is deifinitely a science.

When you write


you find that your mind

is always wandering away

from the ordinary world

in which you walk

and it’s the ordinary walk

that pays your bills

when you’ve spent

most of your life

preparing for a career.

Still, I pass the drives

and forget what road

I was supposed to turn down.

Still, I forget to post the million

notes on my fridge to remind me

of things that torment most and

although I’m thankful for a job

in a time when many have none,

I pine for time to write my mind,

finding there is little left

for community boards, blogs

and other luxuries afforded

to those who have freer time.

So I meander in a daze, trying

to function in the structured world

of elementary education where

teachers are esteemed for the order

of their binders, their files, their bus notes.

Even if I must wear a label, scatterbrain,

I wouldn’t trade my imagination

for anyone’s organization.