For Breanna Kay Smitley
Be kind.
Be positive.
Be proud
of the name you carry—
Breanna Kay Smitley.
Do no harm.
Wherever I go,
I will see the echo
of your choices—
the good,
and the harm.
And I will be proud.
Or
I will cry
for you.
clr 2011
Search here for yourself or others
Andrew Mc
There’s a flicker of doubt
in his otherwise kind and patient eyes.
In class, he shrinks back—
a shrug, a blush, a quiet I don’t know.
Even when he’s right,
he says he just guessed—
as if being correct
were too loud a thing to own.
But when no one’s grading,
he turns in a long-read poem
about Old Miss Nelly
knocking over a lantern in the shed,
her sly wink lighting up the page—
Fire. Fire! Fire!
Where does that impish voice
live the rest of the day?
In the end, I see the shrug and blushing,
not as answers,
but as gentle echoes of himself.
—clr, 2011
When asked to write some poetry of his own he wrote:
Late last night when I was home in bed, Old Miss Nelly to the lantern to the shed and she winked her eye, knocked the lantern over, and said it’s going to be a hot night tonight. Fire. Fire! Fire!
Ms. Omura
OH my gosh
her last name starts with
Oh really?
are we all jealous?
Oh YEAH.
Oh, Omura!
Gregory
Whatever it is that makes us human,
Gregory has his share—and more.
Pain, joy, love, and rage
spill through him
in doses no child should carry.
So he wraps himself in quiet,
a skin made of don’t-look-too-close,
stitched tight with survival.
But there will come a day
when some grief loosens its grip,
and he might begin again,
not by forgetting,
but by breathing anyway.
Because perfection was never promised,
and happiness doesn’t wait
for a clean slate.
We are all,
in our own ways,
fighting to begin again.
Clr 2012
Sarah
Sneaks through the door, tail tucked like a guilty dog,
a rabbit trembling with the shame of being late.
Her apologies, whispered,
never quite rang true.
A beauty queen, perfectly polished —
hair, nails, makeup, clothes —
her armor, always first.
Sarah looks beyond us,
toward a place we cannot enter,
and silently, she slips
from our reach and consciousness.
CLR 2012
Austin G.
Anxiously turning the pencil over and over,
Until the ideas make sense, he persists gallantly.
Sitting with one ear fixed on the chatty beauty behind him, the
The other ear loyally tuned in to the teacher.
Internalizing the horse-like
Nickname he’s been gifted by those he holds in highest esteem.
clr 2012
Genuine Nathan
He flashes a genuine smile
to anyone who looks.
He carries a genuine talent—
one he’ll hone for years.
And with genuine respect,
he’ll treat the hearts
that fall his way.
There’s a genuine love
for learning
gleaming in his eyes.
—Clr 2012
The Only Amber in Town
WOW! is the perfect word
for this powerful, energetic
ball of fire.
Her mane is only part of her glory;
her voice displays her soul
in heart-wrenching perfection.
Her flashing eyes and radiant smile
stand in sharp contrast,
framed by her rich, dark tones.
Those around her pause,
caught off guard
by the force of her presence.
She does not claim this power as her own.
Her strong beliefs tell her she
is but an instrument of God,
and I might argue
she is a favorite of His.
— CLR, 2011
Ms. V.
Bree is a familiar smile,
hopping from chair to chair
before finally settling—
comfortable at last.
She slinks in ten minutes late,
blames it on the traffic,
and sips her Starbucks
unapologetically.
Bree Vee has set her sights on good,
and will be blessed accordingly.
She lives her faith
in the modern-day quagmire
of doubt and temptation
that surrounds her.
— CLR, 2011
An Acrostic Poem for Halee
Holding the world within her hands
And doing no harm, ever.
Leaves me to believe that our Halee Dew
Ere some horrendous mishap occurs, will
Everyone of us protect.
Doubtful that she sees it now, but her
Excellence will mark each person she knows and the
World is better for having her as a guest.
Clr ‘11
Sukrani
There is a complication
in the simplicity Sukrani exudes.
Assume he is anything other than
wonderfully human—
and you will be wrong.
Although he presents
a saintly frontage,
he is as likely to stumble
as any of us.
Whether he has knowingly
created a pious façade,
or whether this reverence
is silently creating him—
that is the question
that creates the complication.
Clr ‘11
More punnin with words (I love you, Shakespeare!)
Savannah is not Sierra,
nor is she a Tierra.
She’s not a mountain,
nor an ocean, lake, or marsh.
So many places could claim her birth:
Georgia or Africa, in the tall grass.
Puyallup had no savannah
until April 6, 1994.
And soon from the coop she’ll fly,
with Rogers left behind to lie.
clr 2012
Zak
Silent Zak, silent Zak,
opens his mouth, gives us a whack.
Silent Zak, silent Zak,
hides a gift he won’t unpack.
Until he’s pushed, you’ll never know—
silent Zak, your mind will blow!
Then back to silent, he will go.
clr 2012
Andrew Glenister
Our Andrew stood so tall and proud,
Yet saw himself lost in the crowd.
He clung to Isaac, tough and fast,
Like teammates built to last and last.
Isaac, kind, took it in stride,
Enjoyed the bond they could not hide.
But then one day they had to part,
And Andrew faced a brand new start.
Reluctant, yes, but strong and brave,
He learned to stand, no longer cave.
And step by step, he came to see,
His height was real — ten feet, plus three!
clr 2011
Jessica Schock
Jessica is proof that one can change —
for better, worse, or somewhere in range.
The bell used to find her running and wild,
now she's seated, talking — almost mild.
She decides each morning just who she'll be:
a quiet whiz or a storm at sea.
You can’t tell her off — she won’t be led.
It’s not just the fire curled on her head.
She might eat your heart out, just for sport,
or walk away with a sly retort.
But maybe the mirror I’m looking in
shows more of me than I meant to begin.
clr 2012
Ms. Clary
N atalie has hidden herself behind Starbucks
A nd a smile. Although I
T ried, I failed to connect—yet I know it’s okay.
A nother senior may need my help or my nagging, but not this one.
L ike a lone wolf, she calculates her needs
I n moments when I offer, she takes only what she chooses.
E ven from a distance, I can tell—she’ll find her way.
clr 2012
Erica Marie Zamudio
Beautiful Carmelita, with brilliance tucked behind modesty,
never needing to prove what she so clearly possesses.
Her silence holds a fierce focus—
and a future wide with possibility.
She endured the silly songs I sang,
gracious as ever,
never once rolling her eyes.
Because Erica knows her power
doesn’t just glow in her calm presence
or her composed youth—
It lives in her mind,
quiet and quick,
moving like a ninja
through the noise.
clr2012
Kristen Speaks
Kristen speaks fluent St. Bernard —
and whispers to other creatures, too.
She lives in a world tuned to frequencies
most of us miss,
with talents as rare
as they are true.
Her future?
Sharply drawn.
Gloriously hers.
A map inked in passion and quiet knowing.
She loves best
to speak with her hands —
language shaped in movement,
truth without sound.
Each morning,
she forgives the teacher
who mangles her name,
and smiles to herself,
already walking toward
the life she’s meant to claim.
— clr, 2012
Stephanie is always quite Schuur of herself — with good reason.
The world is hers, and she knows where she is at all times,
And she basks in the glory of youth.
Her love waits in the desert,
for her to quench his thirst
and heal his broken parts.
If it were only a heart she had to fix,
she’d do it in no time at all.
But livers and spleens and stuff in between
might be just past her grasp.
But Stephanie loves, and Stephanie lives,
and she’ll not have a regret in her life.
Whatever may come, what the future may hold,
she’ll handle as naught but some strife.
She’ll take a deep breath, and she’ll carry on,
’Cause that’s what she’s learned she can do.
— clr, 2012
Marie, Marie, Little Star
(to the tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star")
Marie, Marie, little star,
How I wonder where you are.
With your curls both dark and bright,
You were missed through our Night.
Marie, Marie, sweet and shy,
Did you drift across the sky?
Never dim that glowing spark—
Even hidden, stars leave marks.
Marie, Marie, little star,
How I wonder where you are.
clr 2012
Megan stretches her arms,
as though waking up from a nightmare,
into this room, in which she hasn’t decided
if she is truly awake yet.
Megan is
a mytery to some
a newborn to this world, entering reluctantly,
and some days
harboring
resentment for the womb that
spat her out with malice
into this cold, unreliable world.
And other days, around her
is a beautiful shield that
keeps
all worldly ugliness away from
her timeless wisdome
and beauty, as
The Buddha in her becomes
aware of itself.
clr 2011
I had a student named Christopher,
and Isaac was his name.
I had a dog whose name was Poo,
and Hunter is his name.
I have a son named Andrew, too,
and Kevin is his name.
Sometimes I get beyond confused —
but what I know for sure?
Isaac never liked to learn
but Christopher?
He did, for sure.
clr 2012
Taylor hides her power
like Jenna used to do.
Her mind
has clearly been exercised
in the ways of language and literature,
and the benefit of education
shows through her.
Still, she sees
that all the fuss
over her “proper” 12th-grade education
is a sad commentary
on the state of
public schooling.
clr 2011
Jonny lives somewhere
between here and there,
between hunger and satiety,
between conformity and rebellion.
He will lead his life
somewhere between yes and no,
and shuffle off this mortal coil
somewhere between knowledge and ignorance,
between acceptance and defiance.
No matter how we try to wrap
this gift we call his life,
he knows one thing for sure—
he was born to breathe
freely.
clr2012
I promised I wouldn’t play with your name,
but Shakespeare might have—so why not I?
Because, Dang, words are fun to play with,
isn’t that right?
A familiar land lives in the back of your mind,
where no one can see but me—
and it’s a long way
away.
Dang, this is some bad poetry.
clr, 2012
D’ indicates a French background—
as in J’déteste.
E arly mornings? Not her thing.
J ust like to consciously,
E arnestly
A void getting to first period on time.
Ms. Ray
N ever writes well under duress,
A lthough she did procrastinate,
so will take full responsibility
for this lackluster poetry,
living on the brink of prose
clr 2012
Lehani shapes her words
carefully—between bites—
dancing between
Tagalog and tweets,
learning the news
from her native land,
while following the rules
of her new one—
which holds
the hope
of her future.
clr2010
Karah loves to feel
as though her life is a rainbow—
and we are all walking
happily down its ribbon
of highway,
with smiles
forever
and
a
day.
And we will all
play along with her.
clr, 2012
If Jake were a mammal, what would he be?
He’d be a human—the one that we see.
If Jake were a fish in the deep ocean blue,
an electric eel—through and through.
For Jake likes to shock,
and Jake likes to squirm,
to wrap 'round an idea
in order to learn.
If Jake were a reptile, I’ve no doubt
he’d protest at once—
“I’m moving out!”
Jake wants an A—he made that clear.
But being a froggie
won’t get him near.
So—
out of the cold-blooded,
into the warm,
where Jake can lead
in the eye of the storm.
No hiding in rocks,
no basking in sun—
Jake loves the water,
and
Jake loves
the Son.
clr, 2011
Ms. Lemons can do
whatever she sets out to do.
And one day,
I’ll say her name perfectly.
Her smile—and her wit—
make it clear:
her wisdom surpasses most.
But she would never boast.
She could arm wrestle an octopus—
effortlessly—
and if needed,
she could talk someone down
from the edge
of a very tall building.
For this—
for her,
and her beautiful soul—
we are grateful.
clr, 2011
Mayra speaks as though
she has been told that silence is her job.
The air barely moves with her breath.
And I wonder—
does she laugh out loud when she’s at home?
I wish I could hear it if she does.
A shout from the deepest recesses
of her heart—
I wish I could be there for that sound.
A stern word to defend herself—
I hope she has that, too.
We know she pushes herself, always.
But I wonder—will she push back
when pushed?
Shout, Mayra!
SING LOUDLY, Mayra!
ROAR—and record yourself!
And reach
every goal
you set.
clr, 2011
My Poster Child
Six-year-old Sam,
still holding the wide-eyed wonder
of a child who trusts the world,
looks out from the passenger side of the go-cart,
having handed her safety to Austin —
a boy who was rarely there,
and when he was,
he was hardly present at all.
Her trusting brown eyes,
filled with innocent hope,
have already known too much sorrow —
pushing the limits of what she can bear,
clinging to a fragile faith
in people who often let her down.
And I realize —
she is the little girl who looked back at me
from the poster in my teenage bedroom,
her silent eyes imploring me
to see her, to recognize her pain.
clr2012
Paige
With gangly coltlegs, Paige is born.
At first, she lies struggling
in the afterbirth of a difficult life,
then, as she sees the light in the sky
come and go — but always, always come back —
she gathers her strength, ears eagerly pointing toward Auntie.
Wobbly, falling, standing up again,
this determined foal will soon gallop
right out of my classroom
and down the aisle
in a graduation gown and cap.
clr2012
Romanel
A bubble pops, fulfilling its destiny.
Aptly named Romanel — or Ro —
he seems to know he is his own helmsman
and slave gallery at once.
His only solace: a challenge bigger than most,
his ride through life more riddled
with danger and alluring poison than most.
Soon to be alone, the system’s tired child,
nervous and worn, yet kind and mild.
His focus — slowly blowing bubbles
and resignedly watching them pop —
keeps him strong and determined
to fill his life with bubbles
that don’t hurt him when they burst.
clr2012
I Love Alliteration
Landon doesn’t live in London,
but if he did, it would be charming to say:
I have a letter from London, from Landon today.
Or Landon wrote a letter from London,
or better yet —
Landon is living in London,
and when he tires of it,
Landon will be leaving London.
Landon doesn’t live in London —
but if he did,
his dad would live in London, too.
clr2012