Write a story about:
--A fair or carnival after dark
--A balloon
--A single shoe from a pair of shoes
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Oops, I've been lax and New Book selection!
Yes, I've been neglectful, if that's the word for it. Last week (Jan. 14) we had our book club meeting. There we discussed Saphire's novel Push and Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenager.
We will meet in February at our professional development time. Our next book is The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver.
Also, please choose 1 reader's choice book to read and report to the group. Make your own book talk with a book you choose yourself.
We will meet in February at our professional development time. Our next book is The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver.
Also, please choose 1 reader's choice book to read and report to the group. Make your own book talk with a book you choose yourself.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Above the Spillway by Tom Painting
Above the Spillway
fall planting
the way my father
set them straight
a skim of ice
above the spillway
quaking aspen
crickets
the pulse in a hollow
of her neck
the angle
of the fruit picker’s ladder
autumn light
monastery wall
the smell of wild grapes
fermenting
the gossip
her yard fills
with leaves
a dry leaf
scratches along the sidewalk
All Souls’ Day
autumn clarity
the things I remember
in part true
Above the Spillway is a haiku sequence composed of autumnal images that were lurking among the twelve journals, representing the twelve Institute for Writing and Thinking workshops I have taken dating to 1992.
The inspiration for Above the Spillway came from the Fictions: Memory and Imagination workshop and a prompt based on the first line of “A Father’s Story” by André Dubus.
My name is _____ and here is what I call my life...
English language haiku is defined as a moment keenly perceived in which nature is juxtaposed with human nature… usually written in three lines of 17 or fewer syllables. Haiku should feature a “kigo” or seasonal reference word or phrase.
In this “experiment” I am thinking that a series of haiku can be linked in such a way as to act as stanzas and create a loose narrative thread.
fall planting
the way my father
set them straight
a skim of ice
above the spillway
quaking aspen
crickets
the pulse in a hollow
of her neck
the angle
of the fruit picker’s ladder
autumn light
monastery wall
the smell of wild grapes
fermenting
the gossip
her yard fills
with leaves
a dry leaf
scratches along the sidewalk
All Souls’ Day
autumn clarity
the things I remember
in part true
Above the Spillway is a haiku sequence composed of autumnal images that were lurking among the twelve journals, representing the twelve Institute for Writing and Thinking workshops I have taken dating to 1992.
The inspiration for Above the Spillway came from the Fictions: Memory and Imagination workshop and a prompt based on the first line of “A Father’s Story” by André Dubus.
My name is _____ and here is what I call my life...
English language haiku is defined as a moment keenly perceived in which nature is juxtaposed with human nature… usually written in three lines of 17 or fewer syllables. Haiku should feature a “kigo” or seasonal reference word or phrase.
In this “experiment” I am thinking that a series of haiku can be linked in such a way as to act as stanzas and create a loose narrative thread.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Mt. Hope
by Brad Craddock
Oak leaves, blush and pale, crowd our passing feet.
We pause to shush each other with quiet eyes.
My breath the withering wisp
of dragon smoke,
curling,
bends,
twisting toward this empty sky,
signals nothing.
You say you remember the smell of hickory,
wood smoke and pine,
the musk of woolen mittens,
phantom senses.
I care not to disturb these ghosts.
For me there is the lingering
caress of ash,
exhaust and the grip of cold, the sting
of raspberry red, frostbitten cheeks.
I huddle like a field mouse in my long black coat,
longing to hibernate through this on-coming winter.
Drawn to my body heat, you rutting buck, move closer.
I will step away and try to feel this feeble sun’s warmth.
My arms wrap
within these lifeless memories to touch and clasp
at air, at nothing.
We stand together upon the hill
and survey the quiet graves below.
Headstones report in whispering tones eternal devotion, death parted:
Beloved father, beloved mother;
Lasting pairs engraved on stone.
I try
to imagine your face
thirty years from now
lost in grey remembering, here in our final moment.
will I later recall your face at this funeral—
the raspberry red of your cheeks and lips,
the cloying smell of frankincense?
How crowded that satin box, that cave of earth hollowed out,
enough space for two
but covered over in a compost of leaves.
What wreath of scent could you hang here?
The sun has finally set.
How cold my hand.
How still my voice.
by Brad Craddock
Oak leaves, blush and pale, crowd our passing feet.
We pause to shush each other with quiet eyes.
My breath the withering wisp
of dragon smoke,
curling,
bends,
twisting toward this empty sky,
signals nothing.
You say you remember the smell of hickory,
wood smoke and pine,
the musk of woolen mittens,
phantom senses.
I care not to disturb these ghosts.
For me there is the lingering
caress of ash,
exhaust and the grip of cold, the sting
of raspberry red, frostbitten cheeks.
I huddle like a field mouse in my long black coat,
longing to hibernate through this on-coming winter.
Drawn to my body heat, you rutting buck, move closer.
I will step away and try to feel this feeble sun’s warmth.
My arms wrap
within these lifeless memories to touch and clasp
at air, at nothing.
We stand together upon the hill
and survey the quiet graves below.
Headstones report in whispering tones eternal devotion, death parted:
Beloved father, beloved mother;
Lasting pairs engraved on stone.
I try
to imagine your face
thirty years from now
lost in grey remembering, here in our final moment.
will I later recall your face at this funeral—
the raspberry red of your cheeks and lips,
the cloying smell of frankincense?
How crowded that satin box, that cave of earth hollowed out,
enough space for two
but covered over in a compost of leaves.
What wreath of scent could you hang here?
The sun has finally set.
How cold my hand.
How still my voice.
A Word of Welcome!
Welcome teachers!
What's this blog for?
We're very busy, generally, and sometimes we don't get the encouragement we need to share our writing with other writers. As teachers, learning the techniques of writing help us understand what our students go through when they write their own work or try to complete our assignments.
As such, the goal of this blog is to provide a forum for us to work on our own writing and get feedback from other interested writer-teachers.
I will direct you to various places on the web where you can get some help coming up with ideas.
Also, as coordinator of this site, I will post your work on the site so that other members of this PD program can post comments. Please send me emails with your writing file attached. My email address is: bradley.craddock@rcsdk12.org.
Check in periodically to see new work or commentary from the other workshop members. Keep track of PD time (including the time it took you to write the piece you have submitted) so that you can add these hours to Avatar at the end of our academic year.
Above, I have submitted a poem. Feel free to comment on it. It is a sample of my work, so I don't have anything specific I want to know about the piece. Enjoy!
What's this blog for?
We're very busy, generally, and sometimes we don't get the encouragement we need to share our writing with other writers. As teachers, learning the techniques of writing help us understand what our students go through when they write their own work or try to complete our assignments.
As such, the goal of this blog is to provide a forum for us to work on our own writing and get feedback from other interested writer-teachers.
I will direct you to various places on the web where you can get some help coming up with ideas.
Also, as coordinator of this site, I will post your work on the site so that other members of this PD program can post comments. Please send me emails with your writing file attached. My email address is: bradley.craddock@rcsdk12.org.
Check in periodically to see new work or commentary from the other workshop members. Keep track of PD time (including the time it took you to write the piece you have submitted) so that you can add these hours to Avatar at the end of our academic year.
Above, I have submitted a poem. Feel free to comment on it. It is a sample of my work, so I don't have anything specific I want to know about the piece. Enjoy!
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