If I were a plant…

If I were a plant, I would be a Joshua tree.
I would hold out my arms and point to the Promised Land.

In the ecosystem of my soul,
the climate might be dry,
but my roots grow deep
and I drink up the living water.

My buds and seeds help animals survive.
People pick my long, fibrous, strong leaves
and weave them into baskets

Yucca brevofolia, that’s me!

Joshua Trees in My Yard

Bio Poem

My name is Denise.
I am adventurous, trusting, hopeful, and positive.
I am the daughter of Richard and Ginny.
I am the sister of Rick, Lynne, Chris, Judi, Lori, and Keith.
I really like ethnic food, innovative thinking, and getting out of the box.
I feel refreshed when I get out of bed in the morning.
I feel content after taking a brisk walk.
I feel encouraged because I have a good shepherd.
I need peace if my house doesn’t sell.
I need someone to give me hope when I’m discouraged.
I need forgiveness when I mess up and hurt someone.
I give hospitality because it’s rewarding and I love to cook.
I give support if anyone needs it.
I give hope when others are discouraged.
I fear my daughters will be sad because I’m moving.
I fear many more babies and children will die if we strike.
I fear I’ll fall asleep at the wrong times after I change time zones.
I would like to see Christ the Redeemer statue when I go to Brazil.
I would like to see peace in the world because God told us to love everyone, even our enemies.
I would like to see LOVE before the day is through.

Slavery

Did you know?
She was loved.
Back home,
She was loved,
Even though
She was hungry.

Coming to America,
On the cruise ship
With the rich people
Manman promised her
That life would be
Favorable.
She was one of the
Fortunate ones
To go to this land
Where everyone
Goes to school
And
Everyone
Learns to read.

Now, she doesn’t yet know what a school is,
For she doesn’t go to one
In this land
Where everyone
Goes to school.

She doesn’t read
In this land
Where everyone
Learns to read.

She does dishes,
She smiles and pretends,
She folds the clothes,
She gets slapped,
She wakes the children,
She fixes the breakfast,
She vacuums, irons, washes, dusts.
She gets locked in her cubby.

Did my manman know? she wonders
Did she really know?

Image from subscription clipart service for Iowa schools.

What’s in the Hand of A. Lincoln?

Kate, thanks for the mini writing assignment and virtual field trip. I enjoyed visiting the Met. I have hands on my mind lately, so I stopped at this picture of a cast of Abraham Lincoln’s hand.

What’s in the hand of A. Lincoln?
a bucket handle carrying family food,
an ax splitting rails to make fences,
a ring–should he or shouldn’t he? Love is eternal,
a disarray of papers in a stovepipe hat,
the cold hands of Willie and Eddie, too soon gone,
a farewell speech from Springfield before his inaugural journey,
a pen promising freedom for the slaves in the south,
a needle and thread to stitch together a torn up nation.

“Abraham Lincoln” photo by Cliff, shared with CC BY 2.0 license on Flickr.

The Dancer

Dancer

The Dancer

Crimson red bands of satin

draping the stretched taut muscles—

delicate, yet strong.

Head back, left arm touching heaven

while keeping her pliant hold on earth.

Dancer flying free,

leaping in line with the velvety burgundy suede below.

She lands so softly, like a sleek and slender cat,

hushing the whisper of the ribbons.

A brief moment of silence,

then the gasps and the glory—

the reward from the crowd fills the hall.

She smiles and bows,

Content for a while longer

to remain earthbound.

By Mrs. Krebs

Spring Fever

The weather has been sunny for a few days now, yet we also broke a record this week–93 consecutive days below 40 degrees.  Tomorrow is supposed to finally be above 40, lucky for us. It has been a long winter.

Here is a springtime poem. It’s in Chinese, with the English translation. Jiawen wrote it in Chinese for me. She said it’s one of those poems that young children in China learn. I think it’s beautiful — in Chinese and English.

Chinese Poem

I awaken light-hearted this morning of spring,

Everywhere round me the singing of birds—

But now I remember the night, the storm,

And I wonder how many blossoms were broken.

~Meng Haoran