This accidentally published a few weeks ago. Sorry if it is a repeat for some of you who have my blog on a reader.  I wrote and finalized a poem for this post that is at the bottom.

A few weeks ago, I was finishing Fahrenheit 451 with my honors class and we were discussing this scripture, which is quoted in the book:

Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8

1 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
4 A time to weep, and a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
5 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
6 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
7 A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
8 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

My students were literally leaning forward in their desks.  This scripture really influenced and affected them.  Only one had heard the scripture before (but once I played the song by The Byrds “Turn! Turn! Turn!” they recognized it).  They all wanted a copy of it to keep for themselves.

As I’ve thought about this since, I realized that they have never been taught the principal of “This too shall pass.”  They live their lives in the now, in the moment, without any thought to the future and often the past.  So when things are bad, they are really bad.  They have a hard time thinking that this will change soon.

As a child when I was upset my mother would always say to me, “Go to sleep.  You’ll feel better in the morning.”  Now, I do love sleep, but what I think my mother was trying to teach me was distance.  To allow myself to calm down, get some distance, and with distance you gain perspective.  Perspective is all about seeing something in the grand scale of things – seeing everything around it in relation to your object.

This was also a lesson for myself.  To gain perspective and distance.  I need to remember that when I’m teaching the students that I teach.  Too often I feel hopeless at the end of the day.  Too often I wonder what I’m doing there.  Too often I don’t see the forest because I’m staring at one stubborn, rude, little leaf.

There is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.

Maybe, just maybe, that also applies to my current state of singleness – although, to be honest, some days it just doesn’t feel like it will ever be my time and season and I certainly don’t see the purpose of it.  As I have been thinking about this all, I wrote a poem about it.

There is a Season and a Time
Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter

A season to mourn, a season to rejoice.
A time to laugh, a time to cry.

My time to work, cook, clean, grade, drive, teach and dream.

A time to sleep
just a little bit longer.
A time to relax
and read just for fun.
A time to study light,
looking into the heavens wondering.

There is a plan,
or so I’ve been told.
There is a direction,
but I don’t know where to head.
There is a purpose,
but I don’t have one.

Is it the fall of my life?
Things beginning to age.
Did I just skip over summer?
Where was my June?
Weddings and Bells.
Children playing, running, red-faced by the sun?

Or is it still Spring?
Am I still stuck in
April showers, waiting for
the first tulip
buried in darkness
to reach for the sky.

Some days it feels like winter,
cold and dark.
Waiting for the sun rays
to greet me,
taking me to the New Years
A new cycle
A new beginning.

There is a season
Which one am I in?
Summer, Winter, Fall, Spring
There is a time
Night and day, light and dark
Dusk and dawn of life.
There is a purpose.
I’m trying to find mine.
It wasn’t where I thought it would be.

Like an online dating site
You log-on when convenient
and expect me to respond.

You play with my heart,
clicking, chatting, and uploading
more of yourself into my profile.

Or maybe I’m absorbing you
like a virus affecting and infecting my
internal hard drive.

Until you finally break the password
into my heart.
Then move onto your next hack job.

While I try to repair and reload who I thought I was.
Slowly deleting your cookies and encryption keys
from within me.

===========

Note: This poem is completely made up and from my imagination. I mean, lets be honest: I haven’t dated anyone in so many years I don’t even remember what it is like. Note ended.

Last night I didn’t sleep.  No really.  I never fell asleep.  Finally around 4:30 I got up and started writing.  As I was writing, I noticed the sun coming up and my room getting lighter and lighter.  I thought I would go and watch the sun rise, while I wrote outside.  I wrote a whole series of haiku’s, which I will post on my haiku blog this week.  Here is the haiku that I am going to post for today.

Sunrise

Slowly the sun
grasps the mountain cliffs and peaks
over the valley.

(I like the double use of the word peaks – but I’m a word geek.)

Then I decided to take some photos.

This is the view at 5:30 am

Here is the view at 6:00 am

I like 5:30 am much, much better.  But I don’t plan on see that very often in my lifetime.

This summer, I have great plans to write.  I want to really start working on a book of poetry that I have in mind that I’m thinking I will self-publish.  Anyways . . . . I wrote a poem for my Grandpa Morris.  He died of cancer when I was 20 years old.  This is the only digital picture that I have of him and it isn’t a good one.  I scanned it in.

My Grandfather

died in hospice
doped up on morphine
to counteract the pain of
stomach-liver-lymphoid-intestinal-brain
cancer.
He was numb to the world around him
drooling on his pillow.

My father patiently
fed him ice from a cup,
waiting.
For that last breath
to leak out of his lungs.
For that last beat
to pump that last bit of blood.

Until eventually,
with the window open,
his spirit sat upon the wings of a dove
to the wide open
cloudless skies.

So, I’m counting my calories and watching what I’m eating, so naturally, I’m craving chocolate.  Lots and lots of chocolate.  I wrote this poem about chocolate in church yesterday (you’ll notice the religious references.)

____
Chocolate

Pure joy fills my nose
Scenting sweet with a touch of better
Whether dark, white, or milk,
Melted or molded
Mouth watering.
Confectionary heaven
I sing praises
Shout acclimations
Give gratitude
for a small coca bean.
Manna from heaven.
For me.
____

I hope you enjoyed that, now go have a piece of chocolate for me.

My students are working on haiku’s.  So, I had them tell me a subject to write on and I wrote a haiku for them.  Here they are in all their glory and silliness.

Sickness

Each day I hack and
Cough and snuffle the mucus
In my nose and throat

Cowboys

Chaps and hats, tight jeans
Riding broncos and bucking
Bulls. They are real men.

Sunset

She bows gracefully
At the end of the evening,
Welcoming the night.

Summit

Crowded halls. Strutting
Students mark territory
Like male dogs in heat.

Photography

Click of the shutter
Shift of the lens – focusing.
Artistic beauty.

Shoes

Patent leather with
Four inch heels raising me up
To over six feet.

The Ring

It has a wide band
With a single solitaire
One caret diamond.

Bills

They come every day
Except on Sundays and I
Let them pile on up.

Madness

Padded walls inside
My head, blocking the daylight
Of my clear thinking.

Happiness Is

Being my own boss.
Walking my own street. Going
Down my own pathways.

I was teaching my students a creative writing exercise where you try to visualize a person – what they look like, smell like, what they are wearing, and any memories.  I wrote about my mother’s father.  He is 96 years old.

Grandfather Nye

You are the silent statue
Who stares out the front window
Into the fields of alfalfa.

Your hearing has long left on the
Howling, bitter wind that sweeps through
The open spaces of Southern Idaho.

I remember the times I crawled
Into your bed and cuddled into your
Soap-smelling flannel shirts.

Waking with the dawn, you rose,
Like the sun – slow and steady
To hard work and a quite, content life

Full of bread and milk at meals
Dairy cows, raising calves, state fairs
Watching Lawrence Welk on Saturday nights.

And so, I sit with you at the window
Holding your wrinkled, sun-spotted hand
And gaze out in peace at the wide world of the past.

I love this photo!  Mid – Shave.

Me and Grandpa sitting on the couch with my cousin’s son, his great-grandson.  The window I speak of in the poem in to the left.  It is a huge window that spans the entire wall.

Do you remember this post a while back letters from students.  If not, read it, because it will help you to understand this poem I wrote.  I also wrote this poem with my students, when I was teaching them how to do a 5 minute free write and then turn it into a poem.  (Once again, the formatting is weird)

Letters to Prison

I don’t want to write you.
I don’t know what to say.

You’re a loser.
I’m so disappointed in you.

I can’t write that.

What he wants to hear is:

I believe in you.

Which I don’t.

Everything will be fine.

Which it won’t.

You will never be okay.

How can I write that?
I can’t, so I won’t.

Sometimes we want to hear the lies.
Sometimes we don’t want the truth.

So, I’ll write:

Dear Jesse,

I don’t know what to say.

~Lesli

But, that is still a lie.

My hair and I have had a long and tempestuous relationship.  I recently cut my hair and I remembered a poem that I wrote to my hair while I was in college.

To My Hair

I work with you every day. No results.

Clinging to my head.

I’ve tried to curl you,

Dye you,

Rat you,

Even cut you short.

You refuse to cooperate.

Blow dryers, gel, mousse, and hair spray cannot help.

I refuse to end up like the old ladies at the

Harmon’s Customer Service desk,

Blue tinted hair, ratted five inches high

Over a gleaming scalp.

I warn you, I am looking at wigs.

Mount Timpanogos is the second largest mountain the Wasatach Mountain Range.  Every day in college I looked up at it.  Every day for the last four years I have driven by it.  I have hiked it 2 times and hiked to the Mount Timpanogos Caves 2 times in my life.  Needless to say, it is a fixture in my life.

This is a view of Mount Timpanogos near where I live now.  It looks like a sleeping woman.  Do you see it?  Her head would be to the left of the picture, followed by her breasts, and to the right, her feet.

When I was a child, I was told a legend about Mount Timpanogos.  The legend is different based on who is telling you the story.  There once was a young Indian maiden who fell in love with a man from another tribe.  When their families wouldn’t let them marry, she climbed to the top of Mount Timpanogos and jumped off.  Which is why the mount looks like a woman sleeping.  I also heard that Mount Timpanogos looks like a woman sleeping because she is the guardian over all the valley.  I seriously doubt that either of these legends are actually Native American legends, but were made up by others.

As I was going through some old poetry I have written, I came across this poem I wrote about Mount Timpanogos about three years ago.  It is a little (maybe more than a little) sensual.  I was actually surprised when I re-read it.

Mount Timpanogos

Her peaks curve gently,
Purposefully, like a
Woman’s body.
Each curve adds depth and
Beauty with a sweet
Innocence and
Simplicity.

The sun kisses her hips and
Dances across her breasts.
Winds cools her,
Blowing her hair
Sounding a soft rustling.
Rain washes across her
Back and down her legs
And gives us drink.

I climb to her peaks and
Look at the valley through
Her eyes.

Her people drink the
Sweat from her back.
They fly their kites
In the breath of her soft song.
They glow in the warmth
Of her reflective light.

They dance an innocent dance
Across the rolls of the earth.
They walk with a purpose
In their step,
Sheltered by her watchful gaze.