On Friday,
I found out that I have only gained
four pounds since the last time
I went to the weight loss center,
which was last year.
I have celebrated for four days.
I am all smiles and renewed energy,
going out for long walks
and doing yoga
at 5 a.m.,
eating healthy foods, taking my vitamins
again.
I wonder what this says
about my self-esteem
and my perspective on what really matters.
It's a measurement. Just four pounds,
apparently, is what happiness weighs.

I've mentioned the new puppy before
so it won't come as a surprise
that I'm reading a book about how dogs think.
I want to know how the flea collar feels
around his thickening neck, next to the skull
and crossbones collar, and why he tucks
his tail under when he sleeps,
and if when he is, for a few hours, in the crate,
which seems cozy enough, he devises
a plan to pay me back for this captivity.
I want to understand his relentless
drive to be where I am, to trod down the hall
and back again with his heavy paws
("That is going to be a big dog," everyone says)
even into the bathroom, which I typically
prefer to be private.

He won't go out in the rain unless
I'm standing out there too, both of us soaked
to the bone. He won't sleep without one eye
on me if I move from the space beside him.
Why would this animal
devote himself to me so utterly, I who
really can't be trusted not to throw shoes
or swat a nose when his love bites bite
too hard.  I who throw a fit about the ***
just inside the door, I who deny him access
to the cat.  I who write poems
about his private life and study him like a ******,
while he goes on sleeping.

I come again to the task of grading their final papers.
My eye looks for errors and is surprised to find
the occasional really nice observation, the jewel
in what is otherwise such a disappointing read.
This is how I know I have lost touch with what it means
to be a teacher.  Instead, I have become a judge,
with my critical thoughts, my evaluation of each case,
each miserable attempt to satisfy the terms
of the assignment.

In fact, a student's observation about the drowning
of Ophelia as it compares to the speaker
in Adrienne Rich's "Diving into the Wreck"
is exactly the kind of thinking I advised,
but I find it weak.  Of course I do,
here with my metaphorical red pen,
now a mouse and pointer, highlighting
all of the absurd grammar and punctuation
mistakes, the lack of support for points.
"Where's the evidence for this claim?" I write.

Where's the evidence, at the end of the semester,
here in my room, figuring out what grade
is appropriate, that I did everything I could
to make the literature come alive for students
who are floundering like Ophelia in the water,
their heavy mental garments weighing them down,
trapping them until they know they are drowning
and I stand by the water describing how messy
their hair is.

Have you ever noticed the coloured dust on a butterfly's wings
Or are you too busy running after money and things
Have you heard the crunch of fall leaves under your boot
Or are you too rich to be going anywhere on foot
If you have lived on earth for any time at all
and yet have no time to observe the magic of the world
Wake up, wake up, and fall in love again
the beauty of our planet is a finite thing

Have you ever felt the spark in a lover's touch
or is your time too precious for love and such
Have you ever felt pampered in nature's lap
or do you have every luxury pouring out of a tap
Is your idea of comfort a day in the spa
Or have you ever seen the magic in a little girl's laugh
Do you feel sheltered under a concrete roof
or have you ever fallen asleep in that magical tree shade?

Wake up, wake up dear friend, and see the world anew
Look at yourself again in the fresh morning dew
Open your mind to the wonders of our world
and let's make our Earth a paradise once again.

write a poem everyday
make it a daily habit
note whatever you've to say
the bitter or the sweet.

stare at the screen before you
or the page if it's so
there's always something new
awaiting your ink's flow.

some you've to dig not much
a few need delving deep
some may feel like feather touch
a few would make you weep.

sometimes the hand would just not move
at other would run like horse
sometimes the words would sing and groove
cry out like waves' roars.

while you write you may bleed
or kiss the blue like bird
jotting down is all you need
the inner voice that's heard.