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always plotting something

always plotting somethingalways plotting something

Poems for Honoring

"Ode to a Moondog Legend" is a versified token of gratitude to Dave Winans, a dear friend, mentor, writer, musician, and poet who guided me through my young teaching years. I wrote this for his retirement celebration after he spent thirty-seven years in a middle school English classroom at Gulf Stream School. You might have to know Dave to appreciate all the nuances, but his cool and magnetic teaching style inspired everyone who walked through his classroom door, including me.  

ode to a moondog legend

Beach days feed 

this Watch Hill writer's soul.

With creative cool

he swaggers across sand,

plays life to his own acoustic bluesy tune.

His moondog verses mingle

Marley and Mulder,

Geisel and Guthrie,

Bambino and Boo Radley.

He infuses muses for

Outsiders and Losers,

Stargirls and Maniacs

through poetic mind trips and comic strips

in a magical composition.

Streams of consciousness evolve

into Nautilus-worthy pieces

inspired by jazz writing and

Bob Dylan's Basement Tapes.


His mockingbird will sing on

inside this little school's seawalls,

reminding us of Johnny Depp,

a green chalkboard,

handwritten thank you notes

(punctuated with inspiring quotes),

dignified bow ties,

a warm Red Sox jacket

and knit beanie worn 

when greeting students

on a cold Florida morn.


Balance boards and bike trips,

the sound of black-inked fingertips

hitting vintage typewriter keys—

click-clack, click-clack, clickitty,

click, click, clack, clack, ding!

That ring will echo in inspired minds

long after his last page has turned.


His Scratchings on the Wall:

We are always "digging" to understand ourselves

and our experiences ...


And now the green earth,

boundless before him,

creates a blank sheet of music

for him to dig,

to fiddle a new river,

deep and wide.

Maybe he'll kayak, paddle board,

or surf across it.

Maybe he'll swim in his search for

common-sense, a kinder faith,

and a little clear-eyed understanding

of all the craziness around us.


A teacher's life is constantly new beginnings,

perhaps one of its greatest rewards ...


~ MMB, 2018


Italicized lines in the last three stanzas are quoted from Moondog Verse: One Independent School Teacher's Manifesto and Manual for Teaching Creative Writing to Middle Schoolers (2004) and Scratchings on the Wall (2009) both by Dave Winans.

I wrote "A Poem for a Poet" for one of my most memorable students, Alex Morfogen. This kid wore his heart on his sleeve and was never afraid to share his voice. Alex earned the Anne G. Gibb Award for Excellence in English in 2022, and because he is such an exceptional poet (and actor and singer and all-around good human), writing his award blurb in verse was the most meaningful way to honor his exemplary contributions to my English classroom. 

A Poem for a Poet

This gardener of literature 

doesn't just read,

he unearths the story.

Digging beneath the surface of a printed page,

he sees how each literary seed is planted

to harvest true meaning.

He finds beauty and wisdom in The Word.


This passionate writer

shares verses from his humble heart,

allowing himself to be vulnerable.

Expressing emotions through empathy,

he designs stained-glass window poetry,

arranging colors into eloquent mosaics—

the moments that connect us all.


This vocal leader

offers opinions freely and respectfully,

reflecting deeply and maturely.

He inquires intelligently,

inspiring others to join in his chorus

or sing their own melody.

He believes one's unique truth 

can help harmonize a world where

every voice,            

             every story                              

                              matters.


This outstanding writer, thinker, and discussion leader has earned the Anne G. Gibb Award for Excellence in English. We look forward to hearing of much more success to come from our graduating poet, Alex Morfogen.


~ MMB, 2022

Poems for Teaching

Words have infinite depth, especially when written in verse, and I adored teaching poetry (not the boring, in-no-way-relatable kind, the powerful, passionate, yes-please-give-me-more kind). My favorite poets include Kwame Alexander, Elizabeth Acevedo, Jason Reynolds, rupi kaur, Clint Smith, Amanda Gorman, Nikki Grimes, Nikki Giovanni, Mary Oliver, Jacqueline Woodson, Sylvia Plath, and even Alanis Morissette, Zac Brown, Tupac Shakur, and Taylor Swift (lyrics are definitely poems!).


As much as famous poets' words inspired my students (and me), sharing my original poetry was the most powerful exchange. Each year, I would ask to glimpse my students' deepest feelings, to allow themselves to be vulnerable, and that takes serious guts! Sharing poetry is profoundly intimate, and the only way to earn mutual trust was to entrust my own words with them. I wrote "Volcano Soul" and "The Rope" without any intention of using them in the classroom, but once I opened up to my students, they opened up to me. 

volcano soul

I'm bubbling and gurgling,

could erupt any moment. 

My temperature’s rising,

ready to spew. 


Once lava spills out and

pours 

down 

my 

sides, 

oozing from my depths,

burning all my surroundings

(even those I love),

I can breathe again.


I hurt life in my path

until I retreat 

in dormancy, 

my mind hibernating 

behind the destruction 

I have caused: 


Relationships devastated, 

trust broken,

hearts crumbled— 

so much pain 

staining

what I cannot control. 


I am a volcano 

deep within my soul.


~ MMB, 2015

The Rope

Loving me is like dragging a rope

with a hundred-and-twenty-pound weight 

tied at the end.

You must pull hard,

hand over hand 

with strong legs and

a tight grip.


I'm knotted, 

heavy, 

hard to manage.

Coarse, 

twisted,

soiled with dirt

from years of being used. 

My rough fibers 

will scrape and 

break your skin.


You try to smooth me, 

unravel me, 

release me 

from this heavy burden.

But I coil.

I always resist. 


You keep pulling,

your hands grow calloused, 

your legs grow stronger 

until you drag me with ease.


But don't be fooled 

by your new-found strength

If you pull too hard, 

I may fray. 

I will break. 


~ MMB, 2014

Poems for Healing

When I was in first grade, I wrote "Blue," my first poem. My parents had recently divorced, and I used the color blue to represent my sadness, even though I had absolutely no idea what a metaphor was back then. The poem hung on the classroom wall, and when I showed it to my mother at drop off one day, she started crying. I didn't know why. I thought it was a good poem:

    

Blue is icicles. 

Blue is sadness. 

Blue is lonely. 

Blue is depression. 


When I found "Blue" in a box of old drawings and schoolwork, I realized the profound depth of my six-year-old mind. I guess one could say I've been working out my feelings through poetry for forty years. (Even though, I'll forever be twenty-nine.) Like "Blue," I wrote the next two poems to help myself heal.

A Long Drive

And he drives,

over dark black, newly paved,

four-lane highways fresh with tar,

between never-ending yellow dashes—

under recurring dim street lights,

passing evergreens, birch trees, and 

                                                                         fallen …

                                                                                    leaves.


He tailgates a gray minivan with Ohio plates.



And he drives,

inches from fourteen-wheeler freight trucks,

following wood-paneled station wagons,

while perfectly nuclear families 

(tightly strapped in seatbelts) ask,

Daddy, are we there yet?

Caught up in an uncanny midnight of

                                                                          stolen …

                                                                                     memories.


He nearly sideswipes an F-150.

(He can’t remember the color.)



And he drives,

stalling in city traffic,

rain drowning out the AM talk radio.

Chain-smoking in his 1982 cream Mercedes.

His eyes fight sleep. He’s hungry. He

                                                                         can’t …

                                                                                   breathe.


He’s sweating in a diesel machine of broken family.

                                                                                                                                 

Wishing he hadn’t left us behind.


~ MMB, 1997

Sunflowers in Daddy's Garden

On the corner of Irving and Humbolt,     

I grew in a vegetable patch                      

where you planted sunflower seeds                    

because they were, and still are, my favorite.    


I collected tiny, silky inchworms                         

shaded by tall, green stalks                    

supporting slender, yellow petals    

surrounding fuzzy, brown pupils,           

my sunny, florid friends.      

                                 

I helped you plant tomato seeds,                          

dirtying a smaller, smoother callused hand. 

I found my place there.                                          

There, there—in your organic canvas,   

a portrait tinged by your green thumb,              

a photosynthetic masterpiece of                       

lettuces, radishes, rosemary, Italian parsley, basil,

onions, carrots, cucumbers, chives, 

and sweet pea pods—

all cultivated in a botanic symphony.    

                 

A medley of peppers,                                                         

like Chinese Tai Dragons of red and green,               

which you made my boyfriends eat raw 

as a sort of hot but sweet Initiation,

perhaps for your own amusement—

perhaps for ours.                                                                 


(Little did they know 

the green ones are the hottest.) 


When I go home 

to the corner of Irving and Humbolt,               

I will still find you 

swaddled in tangling tomato vines

where we scattered seeds so many years ago.                                                                           

I’ll crawl back 

into our jungle of coiling, climbing tendrils

to meet under our six-foot sunflowers,                           

the ones you grow, for me, every summer.


~ MMB, 1999

Poems for Loving

I have written hundreds of poems since "Blue," but I lived through a dystopian time when computer crashes and unrecoverable documents were horribly real, so I don't have much to show for the early years of my craft. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy the following pieces I found from high school (during a healthy obsession with Sylvia Plath) and college (during an unhealthy obsession with a boy who thought he was Jim Morrison). 


"A Vain Leo" was in response to my mother saying something along the lines of, "Can't you write anything that's not so depressing?" I wanted to show her that, even though I had struggled with depression and a severe eating disorder (and undiagnosed ADHD at the time), I returned from inpatient treatment healthy (well, healthier) and ready to own who I was. "A Vain Leo" is about loving oneself. It was printed in my high school's literary magazine, and I'm pretty sure it won some type of poetry award, but I was too ridden with teen angst to remember the details.

A Vain Leo

In a state of painless bliss,

in a mind of ended sorrow,

in a phase of conquered pain

that's where I stand.


I stand proud.

Proud to be me.

Proud to be a woman, a Leo—

bold, demanding—

that's who stands before you.

I'm aspiring with accomplishments,

acquiring knowledge by the moment.

Speaking words showing beauty

in lines of forgotten tongue.


I am the woman who will tattoo your memory.

I am the woman who will take control.

I am brave enough to stand up, 

and I intend to play my part.


I will stand up.

I will show you happiness.

I will introduce you to love.

I will let you dance in my arms of hard memories

and turn regret into painless victory.

I will balance your world on my shoulders.

I will sweep you from your dusty floor.

I will suck the sorrow from your cold-blooded veins

leaving you begging me to replenish your sores.

I will take you on a journey that

beguiles your desperate heart.

I'll weave colors through you,

and you won't fall apart.


I see color in all my works 

but still admire black and white.

I cast curiosity on my followers 

without any need to distrust.

I grant passion to my lovers

and expect even more in return.

And I do not fear.

I have yet to show my fear.


I am a lioness.

I am a leader.

I am a bitch.

And I am proud of being one.

I am proud of being me.


~ MMB, 1996

These next two are the ones about the boy. "Masquerade" appeared in Boston College's literary magazine in 2001.

Masquerade

You and I—

the madman and concealed lady—

dancing seaside over cobblestones,

pigeons flying us to the bell tower,

the top of San Marco,

the highest point in this masquerade.


Through euphoric views,

Adriatic waves surround

pieces of unfit land

bound by bridges

frowning over canal streets—

a labyrinth of broken terrain

becoming one.


And we dance—

you in

a pointed pirate’s hat,

long cape,

dark suit,

black mask—

a dangerous disguise.


I in

Maltese lace,

decorative curls,

porcelain white face 

to contrast—

yet fit with you.


And we dance—

in darkness and in light,

over water and on land

under cover of this masque,

shadowing us

from revealing reality.


And we play our game— 

creating concealed beauty

in secret imagination.


And we never have to go home again.


~ MMB, 2000

Mediterranean Journey

When my ship comes in and you’re with me,

we will have made it.

And we’ll run among ancient ruins,

ponder those mysteries

we’ve waited a lifetime to know.

We will arrive at

the greatest part of our long journey,

celebrating a sea of understanding

in one mind.

We will hold closer than skin may penetrate,

returning to that circle of mystics

where we existed in one duality

before we ever arrived on shore,

before our births sent us away.

We will live and love and

recreate our self before our return,

and only then will our lines be tied.

Secure at the port.


~ MMB, 2000

Inspirations

“There is always light, if only we're brave enough to see it. If only we're brave enough to be it.”

~ Amanda Gorman, "The Hill We Climb"

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