Long ago, when I lived on the island,
weeks at a time with no one,
only the wind and tide moving.
Long enough on my own,
so the empty spaces in solitude were filled with wild
and quiet was not alone.
Then, the stars drew closer,
and in the pause…
Look out upon the garden,
a wither of tangled vines
unharvested fruits hang cracked and past their time
mist, softer than a lover’s goodbye kiss,
whispers promises and memories.
The windblown leaf
a tiny prayer of thanks
an ode to letting go.
In the dawn, still fog shrouded,
a peaceful moment lulls,
calling to mind
memories of gatherings and grace.
Time and tide,
channeled where once they meandered,
sing the algorithm for this age,
our age of bitter ironies
and dreams come true.
Singing into being a time of reaping,
no joyful thanksgiving this season.
Looking out on all we’ve wrought,
only the sinking, leaden knowledge;
that the savaged garden beyond was ours.
Oh, the terrible unfolding as the flowers of our folly bloom
I dreamed the old man last night
Driving cross country
road turned north,
and as in dreams, no one noticed,
the shoulder crumbled
like a leaf we fell
where the road went on without us.
In the logic of dreams,
I remembered the old cellar holes on the island…
It came without warning,
that’s what they’ll say,
wish I’d a known,
never saw it coming,
never knew it’d be like this.
Oh, I’d laugh, if it wasn’t a crying thing,
Here at the scene,
walls tore down and roof ripped away,
every last belonging scattered,
dreams in tattered heaps,
waiting to be hauled away.
I am the head of school at the American School of Madrid. I am an educator, not a scientist. This is not a data driven report, this is one school’s story, our school’s story. As much as we need data to guide decision making, we also need stories to give…
Coats and faces tight against the wind,
only line in the winter empty plaza,
on the kiosk windows, yellowed and edges curled
all the winning numbers sold
el Gordo, Navidad, el Nino, La Loteria
I ‘magin you know it well as me, the rush,
calling shotgun long-sida luck,
always a clamor, claiming…
Summer heat is all we talk about for a while but it is gone so quickly. School starts, the first rains fall, leaves turn. Suddenly the warm is something we lean into instead of pulling away from. The heat of summer lives on the bright colors of jams and sauces…