Green Army Man

In a place where the sun
Doesn’t reach anymore
Sits a green plastic soldier
Who’s ready for war

With canteen and pistol
Molded onto to his side
He’s ever-alert
No desire to hide

With bazooka at ready
Waiting on bended knee
He peers through the scope
With nothing to see

His comrades were moved
Quite a long time ago
He was left and forgotten
Or at least he thinks so

‘Til commander returns
He’ll remain at his post
But it’s the not knowing
That gets him the most

The seasons they come
And the seasons they go
It’s hot or it’s cold
But he doesn’t know

On guard, ever waiting
He sits motion free
In the crook of a branch
On a withered oak tree

Poised and patiently waiting
For something to blast
He wonders how long
His war’s gonna last

Bunny the Dove – Part Two

I just assumed that after Bunnies two chicks had “flown the coop,” we’d have our porch back. I cleaned the bird poop off the brick column, and there was plenty. Washed off the porch, and said good-bye to porch-birds forever.


That was three nests, or broods, or litters, or whatever in the hell you want to call them ago and I still can’t get the dove shit off the porch. Bunny decided that our porch, with its nice big awning for shade and wind blocking was perfect location for her dove farm.

For three seasons she returned, laid her eggs and made a huge mess on our porch. One day she wouldn’t be there and the next day she would. I always assumed it was the same bird, because after that first season she didn’t spooked quite so easily.

Bunny and I had several strange adventures.

There was the time, to get more on her level, I slowly pulled a chair up close and tried to use my new digital camera and get a close up of Bunny. Every movement I made was laboriously slow. I didn’t think that the camera’s sound would be enough to frighten Bunny and I was right.

I took three shots and then quickly viewed them without moving anything but my index finger, which was hidden from Bunny's view by the camera. I decided they were too dark and needed flash. In a blink of an eye I learned that pictures without flash – okay, pictures with flash – not okay.

Stop your laughing.

Sure, with hindsight anyone could tell you that a sudden bright flash of light would scare an already wary bird. But I was in my own little Bunny photo world. There could have been a plane crash 10 feet away and I wouldn’t have noticed.

Not only did the flash scare loads of crap out of Bunny, it also blinded her. She takes off frantically trying to get away from this bizarre intruder who she can no longer see. I, on the other hand, am trying to not get hit by a scared shitless bird, not fall off a now teetering flimsy porch chair, and figure out how to save my new digital camera if and when I do fall.

The whole incident only lasted a few brief seconds, but it seemed like slow motion. As the chair started to twist and bend I jumped off hoping to smash my back against the wall about three feet away. I thought if I could hit the wall, pull my camera into my chest and slide down onto my butt, then my camera would be okay.

It worked like a charm. It also hurt like hell.

Somewhere in all the confusion Bunny got off the porch and I didn’t see her again the rest of the day.

We had many similar adventures involving my daughter, pets or lawn equipment. Over time I got used to Bunny being there. I began to enjoy having a dove for a pet.

After Bunny’s last batch of chicks she flew off she hasn’t returned. That was a couple of years ago. I still haven’t cleaned her nest off the perch. I don’t know when I will.

Part of me knows that between hunters, other animal predators and the short lifespan of mourning doves she’s probably not coming back.

But there is part of me that believes in the child who struggles with every new concept, it’s the same part that believes my daughter really does still believe in Santa Claus. It’s that same part of me that clings desperately to the dream that Bunny will come back someday.

Sometimes you’ve just got to believe.

Bunny the Dove - Part One

A mourning dove has made our back porch its home now for a few years. It’s a fairly large porch with three brick columns, each with a small ledge that is about eight inches by four inches. This ledge is where she decided to build her nest. We decided to call her Bunny after her first brood hatched on Easter morning.

When Bunny first perched on our porch, us opening the door would literally scare the crap out of her. She would flap around the porch, smashing her head into the ceiling and pooping until she finally hit so hard it would knock her low enough to clear the awning. I’d say we played a game of Porch-Bird Limbo once a day for a week to 10 days. The day came, however, that she just decided to not fly away. Maybe one day she realized that we had never really bothered her and that we meant her no harm. Maybe she just got tired of bashing her head and decided that nothing we might do could possibly be that painful or humiliating. Maybe she suffered a closed head injury and no longer had the ability to determine that something might be dangerous. I don’t know.

What I do know is that Bunny became part of the family. We never fed her, although we discussed it on more than one occasion. My contention was that feeding her might only make her stay once the eggs had hatched. A scenario I did not want.

See, she was fun to watch, get up close pictures of and watch through the window. I already had a dog, two cats, a fish and a tarantula. I didn’t need or want a bird too.

I hadn’t done anything more that hunt mourning dove until Bunny adopted us and our porch. Now, don’t get all upset about the whole hunting thing. Due to a lack of opportunity, I haven’t hunted in years. And I assure you, when I was hunting, more birds were killed by lightning than by shotgun blasts from me. All the same, about the only thing I knew about mourning doves is how they look and how they taste.

I just assumed that after Bunnies two chicks had “flown the coop,” we’d have our porch back. I cleaned the bird poop off the brick column, and there was plenty. Washed off the porch, and said good-bye to porch-birds forever.

But it was not to be.

Dayton

I gazed with intense curiosity as Dayton cheerfully did her job. She stood there smiling and jabbering continuously about nothing. She had a carefree, aged appearance. Weathered face with toothless smile, cracked rugged hands, and a scar next to tired eyes spoke volumes. There she was, checking my groceries, this person whose physical appearance told stories of years external and internal abuse. Too timid to ask, I stood yearning for a hint, a clue into this one’s seemingly dark life.

At first it was just a blur of color. Upon second glance, I noticed bright purple nail polish. It seemed so out of character for a person every bit my mother’s age. As she checked my last few items I looked deeply into the face of this person. Suddenly, the clues I desired were all too apparent, all too sad.

Through wrinkled skin and lived in eyes, I got a glimpse of a younger person. Purple nails, a girlish hair bobble, and youthful colloquialisms began painting a much different picture.

Standing there I witnessed a metamorphosis. Like a butterfly emerging from chrysalis, this woman, who was, at first old and happy, slowly transformed into a young girl forever trapped in an overused shell.

Then I saw her. You know the one. She or sometimes he sits in my class each day. Possibly a little unruly, but all too easily overlooked.

Standing there paying more than her weekly wages for my few trivial luxuries. I felt guilty. Not for having more. For sometimes not noticing, not paying attention.

I wondered, when Dayton was a child, did anyone take the time to care?

About Me

I'm not actually a third grader, although I am in the third grade. I teach third grade and consequently spend much of my time immersed in a childish culture. My class is a multiage class. It is filled with third and forth graders from every walk of life. I think being given the opportunity to see life through the eyes of an eight or nine-year-old child is an amazing gift.

What makes my being a teacher a bit ironic is that fact that I didn't enjoy school very much. It wasn't until the fifth grade when I had Mr. Turner at Shadow Oaks Elementary in Houston Texas that I began to enjoy being at school.

I remember that every kid in forth grade wanted Mr. Turner. Maybe it was the novelty of having a man. Maybe it was the fact that every fifth grader I knew thought he was great. I really don't know. But for whatever reason I wanted to be in Mr. Turner's class. Mr. Turner turned out to not only be a great teacher, but a great teacher for me. He was able to relate to me on a child's level and also teach things in a way that just made sense to me. I remember the time I called him Dad by mistake. He just tussled my hair, smiled and never said a thing about it.

When I decided to go into teaching I couldn't help but think I wanted to be a teacher like Mr. Turner.



I'm not sure what I'll post here. My thoughts. My daily happenings. My poetry.