Poems or valiant attempts
“Lasterday"
In a town where time stutters and sways,
There lived a lad with curious ways.
His memory frollicked in a playful spree,
Recalling "Lasterday," you see.
Not yesterday, nor yesteryear,
But Lasterday is what drew near.
He'd laugh and jest, with twinkling eyes,
Recalling moments, funny and wise.
On Lasterday, the sun was bright,
A squirrel sang, a kite took flight.
He chased his shadow, across the lawn,
And found a rainbow before dawn.
He wore mismatched socks with pride,
And talked to a snail on her snail-like ride.
He painted clouds with lemonade,
And danced with trees in the cool shade.
Lasterday's tales were full of jests,
Of banana peels and failed quests.
He juggled apples, howled at the moon,
And raced with turtles to a merry tune.
In Lasterday's world, time had no hold,
Every moment a story, bright and bold.
With laughter ringing, in every nook,
Lasterday was a boyhood book.
As years pass and memories fade,
Lasterday lives on, in the escapades made.
For the boy who remembers with a joyful spark,
Lasterday's magic lights up the dark.
So here's to Lasterday, forevermore,
Where dreams are plenty and worries are a bore.
In the heart of a boy who remembers so well,
Lasterday's tale, forever to tell.
“The Things Learners Carry”
On the backs of our youth, they bear burdens and fragments of hope, awkward yet resilient.
Their shoulders bend beneath the weight of necessity.
Water bottles, phones with clamoring notifications, and earbuds to mute the world—their modern talismans.
From the clique's sway to the school's demands, their load is a cacophony of influence and expectation, pressing down upon their tender frames.
In the bustling spaces between classes,
they carry diagnoses—ADHD, IEP, EBD—
Invisible weights that shape their days.
Their purpose fluctuates like shifting winds,
from college dreams, the perfect job, or joining the military to dreaming of a homecoming date, the perfect test score, or joining the dance team.
Superstitions cling to them like shadows, whispering of luck and dread in equal measure. The specter of failure haunts their every step.
Amidst the chaos, they carry themselves with a fragile grace, masking their fears with bravado and laughter.
Their words, a lexicon of uncertainty, contain the raw and burgeoning edges of their souls, etched with pain, joy, and defiance.
They walk the halls with heads held high, yet beneath the veneer of indifference lies a labyrinth of doubt and longing.
Trauma, heavy and unyielding, lodges deep within their hearts, unseen by the world outside. A parent in jail. A terminally sick sister. A cold house and an empty plate for supper.
High school is their crucible, where innocence is tempered and dreams are forged in the fires of cynicism.
Their futures hang in the balance, suspended between recklessness and resolve, each step a gamble, each choice a leap into the unknown.
In the noisy silence of their own minds, they carry the weight of their existence, a burden shared yet uniquely their own.
Their journey is a notebook of struggle and triumph, a testament to the resilience of youth in the face of growing up.
And in the end, as they march toward tomorrow with trembling hearts, they carry with them the promise of a new dawn, where anything is possible.
“Teenage Me and My Teenage Grandpa”
Sometimes I imagine my grandpa as a youth.
Of course, I’ve heard stories. I am lucky that way.
But stories are one thing. Experience is another.
So I imagine, and one aspect becomes clear:
I think my teenage grandpa and I would have been fast friends.
In my imagination:
We’d work out in the fields,
The yellow sun tanning our skin until we earned the nicknames, “The Brothers Brown.”
My teenage grandpa would remind me of what it means to work the earth.
My hands, soft from gentle use, would remember their callused ways,
and I would sigh contentedly.
Whiling away the hours with chatter, we’d daydream about the upcoming sock hop,
who would be there, and who we’d ask to dance.
My teenage grandpa would have a certain charisma,
One that I cannot match.
He’d ask his favorite gal to dance,
and maybe,
I’d take courage from him and do the same.
Such would be my wide-eyed admiration for my teenage grandpa.
Then we’d scoot to town in his ‘48 Pontiac,
the dirt scraped from under our nails and our brown hair blowing in the wind.
Ritchie Valens would blare from the radio,
“Well, come on, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go, little darlin’.”
The hop would play out exactly as my teenage grandpa planned because girls like guys who can dance,
and by golly, my teenage grandpa can dance.
Afterward, exhilarated and exhausted as only a teenager can be after a dance,
teenage me and my teenage grandpa would grab a burger and chocolate malt.
On the hood of his car, we would sate ourselves like two idiotic Greek gods
And gaze at an unsullied night sky.
Our whole lives would be laid out for us,
As simple as a malt
And as complex as a universe.
It would be one of the best nights of my life,
imagined or real.
So go and call your grandpas while you can.
Better yet, see them in person.
Ask after all those stories you’ve been blessed with a hundred times before.
You might unearth a golden nugget, never shared.
You can squirrel it away in your memory like a miser.
It’s ok to be greedy with this.
Because for some, all the grandpas are gone.
They exist only as fading memories,
Pale imaginings of the vibrant men who once filled the world.
"I'm Figurin' What the Heck"
In the depths of grief, our hearts do ache,
I'm figurin' what the heck, for sorrow's sake.
Each tear that falls, a healing word unsaid,
As we mourn the one who's gone, our hearts feel like lead.
The world's gone strange, like a circus act,
I'm figurin' what the heck, and that's a fact.
A heavy fog, thicker than grandma’s stew,
I'm trippin' on grief like it's well-worn glue.
But in this crazy ride, there's a twist of fate,
I'm figurin' what the heck, it's not too late.
Through sarcastic quips and a chuckle or two,
In the laughter we shared, we’ll remember you.
Though sorrow's here, it's not going to stay,
I'm figurin' what the heck, it'll fade away.
For life goes on, though it's hard to accept,
In the midst of grief–with each other–we connect.
So here's to you, with a smirk and a sigh,
I'm figurin' what the heck, and I'll say goodbye.
In the end, it's love that's worth its check,
And memories remain, in every little speck.
“Unhug Me”
After big ol’ squeezes and cuddles tight,
Comes a little voice with a comical plight.
"Unhug me," he says with a giggle and glee,
As he wiggles away, setting himself free.
With a twinkle in his eye and a mischievous grin,
He bolts around, escaping the kindest of kin.
"No hugs today, I'm on my own quest,
To explore and adventure, to be my own best."
So off he goes on his wild escapade,
By wheat field and river, in sun or in shade.
With each step he takes, a new world does blossom,
As he discovers the magic of being his own awesome.
But when day turns to night and the stars start to gleam,
He finds himself longing for a hug, it would seem.
For in the warmth of embrace, he knows he'll find
Love and comfort, gentle and kind.
So back he'll come with a laugh and a sigh,
To be wrapped up tight under moonlit sky.
For in the end, after laughter and glee,
There's nothing quite like a hug, you see.
“In the Midst of Boredom”
In a quiet town where the sun often shone,
Lived Emmy and her dad, never feeling alone.
But one fine day, with the sun up high,
Boredom crept in with a heavy sigh.
Dad and Emmy sat in the house, no place to go,
Their spirits low, their excitement slow.
"I'm bored, Dad," said Emmy, with a frown,
"Let's find some fun, let's drive around town."
Dad smiled wide, his eyes full of care,
He knew it was just the thing to lift the despair.
"Let's take a drive, just you and me,
And see where the road leads us, wild and free."
So off they went, down the winding road,
With no destination, no heavy load.
But as the miles passed, something changed,
Their hearts grew light, their spirits rearranged.
Emmy tapped her fingers, hummed a tune,
Dad joined in, under the golden afternoon.
Their voices intertwined, like birds in flight,
And suddenly, everything felt just right.
From boredom to laughter, they journeyed along,
In the rhythm of life, they found their song.
Dad and Emmy, a duo so sweet,
Their bond growing stronger with each beat.
As they traveled on, through valleys and hills,
Their love for each other, the air fills.
For in the music’s magical embrace,
They found joy, love, and a sacred space.
And so, dear friends, the story goes,
Of Emmy and Dad, and how music flows.
In the midst of boredom, they found the key,
To unlock the magic of harmony.
For in every note, every chord they play,
Their bond grows stronger, day by day.
In the adventures of Emmy and Dad, you see,
Lies the magic of back seat melodies.
“Through the Window”
I watch you through the window,
red toy shovel clutched in your hand.
“Hi-yah!”
A chunk of white snow soars through the air.
Again
and again,
you shout and fling snow.
You wear my stocking cap,
Comically large for your head,
And I am oddly proud.
There is a superposition here:
Me—the man.
You—the boy.
We both wear the same hat.
You stare off down the street for a patient moment—
maybe admiring the pink and orange brush-stroked sunset on a gray canvas sky.
You do not know that you are my subject through the glass–
That, for as long as we both draw breath, I will admire you.
My son.
“The Long Pondering”
On a gentle hill, a farmer sits pondering.
His faded green Ford pickup hugs him close like a worn-in jacket,
The ever present North Dakota wind whispers softly of years past.
Below him rests his farmstead--built with generations of family toil and strength.
Just how many seeds were planted over the decades-long stewardship of the land?
How much good weight did the farmer add to the scales of history?
A knowing smile brushes his lips, like grain swaying in the breeze.
A warm and inviting white house of many additions--at the core echoes humble ancestry.
A dusty shop where the farmer’s three boys learned to change oil and be self-reliant.
A row of evergreen trees hides the ghosts of memories not forgotten.
A paved driveway where his wife begins another meditative walk.
She: the partner, the coworker, and the confidant.
Antiquity labels farmers as lone individuals, the solitary custodians,
But not on this farm; not with her.
She is caretaker and combiner,
Mother and trucker.
She, too, plants.
Retirement has come for them,
The equipment will be sold,
The land rented.
None of those self-reliant boys are coming back to take over the farm,
And the farmer wonders if he taught them too much confidence.
The boys could have remained,
If only he’d twisted an arm a little harder.
But no, that’s the way that the world goes round.
Just like the farmer can’t force the land to produce,
He can’t force his boys to stay.
Farming was his calling, not theirs. Legacy his core value.
If there’s anything a farmer knows, it’s which way the wind blows.
That and when to shut the operation down for the night.
In the longest of long runs, he knows the land isn’t really his.
No, he just resides for a spell on this land,
The farmer--a grain of wheat in one long harvest, like his forebears of old.
Everything--his whole life--sits in the back of his memory.
It’s been a long pondering on that gentle hill, and work needs to be done.
The old green Ford’s engine hums to life, reliable as the sun behind the farmer’s back.
The fields beckon.
“The Last Human(e) Teacher”
A chair scraped across the floor,
And the last human teacher’s last student plopped down.
Sunlight illuminated the classroom–idyllic and almost pastoral.
“You wanted to see me?”
The student's voice carried a wary note, higher than normal.
Nodding his sage head, the teacher said,
“You’re the last student on my list.”
A rueful smile caught on his lips.
Somewhere along the line of time, everything had changed.
Knowledge flowed in streams of code as
All around the teacher quantum minds whirred.
Long gone were the days of whiteboards and markers,
Yet the last human teacher had persisted like a stone.
“I wanted to say goodbye,” said the teacher.
“Goodbye? You’re leaving? But I haven’t even graduated yet.”
Students simply believe their teachers will always be there, steady as the sun.
But he was the very last human teacher on the planet.
A nostalgic, global sideshow for a while.
A relic in the age of AI for even longer.
Progress came for him in the end.
The algorithms know students better with
Their hyper proficient predictions of human preference.
Everyone said so.
“I know. I’ll come back to see you walk.”
The student shook his head. “We don’t walk anymore. You know that.”
The teacher had raged a silent war against society’s acceptance of the death of teaching.
Who would talk with the junior whose mom just died?
Who would push the awkward, introverted 7th grader to join the speech team?
Not the algo. Not the magical AI.
The old teacher had been the only one to seek out his graduates on graduation day and
Ask them, “Hug or a handshake?”
Then totter off to let the students live their lives.
Where AIs see ones and zeros, the teacher sees hopes and scars.
Where AIs predict for the students, the teacher plans with them.
“I can’t go on. I’m worn out,” said the teacher.
Crestfallen, the student plowed on, “But who will get me to read Shakespeare and like it? Who will talk me through my fears of public speaking?”
And more quietly, “Who will fight for me?”
The last human(e) teacher had been quietly breaking,
And upon the student’s words, the dam ruptured completely.
He didn’t hide his tears, to do so would be inhuman,
Like so much else the student saw.
Through tears, the teacher’s eyes wrinkled in a smile,
“Have I taught you nothing? You will fight for you.
My whole job is to teach so well you no longer need me.
I’ve rendered myself obsolete.”
“I won’t forget you–won’t let you be forgotten,” said the student.
The last human teacher creaked to his feet. “I’d like that.
Now go. You’ve got a whole life to live.”
The student stopped at the door, turning to face his favorite teacher.
“Hug or a handshake?” he asked.