Cosmic traveller

Cosmic traveller

Cosmic traveller

navigating space

hurtling through

the vacuum

little speck of ice

with a bright

lighted tail

streaming

out

no effect 

on any celestial body

a comet

of interest to some

but affecting no one

apparently bright

maybe a ball

of space-dust

at the center

Happy Little Poem

Happy Little Poem

Nelson,

that crisp little seaside town.

You can rely on it.

Large yellow sun on the weather-map

day after day.

Expansive views to be had,

if only the eyes are open.

This evening the stars

twinkle, off in space.

Alien life forms

comment to each other about the bright,

crisp view they have

of the little town at the 'V' of the bay,

at the top of the big island,

beside the fish shaped island,

at the lower end

of the Pacific Ocean, on the planet

known as Earth.

They note the abundance

of oxygen, water and food.

They focus in on people who can

relax and enjoy time creatively.

Comment, as they tend their rockeries,

on the clarity of the air

compared to other places,

humid, foggy places

cloud covered or haze infested...

I hope they aren't thinking of paying us a visit.

Class sizes go up in New Zealand

Class sizes go up in New Zealand

Class sizes up,

more children in each classroom...

one teacher fewer in each school...

"...when I was at school there were 43 of us

in the room and look... we all did well..."

Really? What about those who got the strap?

(and hate school still ...( and who instil in their children

(in ways covert and overt) that school was, is and will be 

a bad place.

I wonder what caused the level of frustration that caused the teachers of old to use the strap?

hmmmm.....

What about the children who were scared of the people

who were supposed to teach them things? 

 They had seen the "bad" children getting the strap and crying 

(yes, even the tough ones could not come out without red eyes and tears)

What about those who 

could not read 'said', 'and' or 'what'

 let alone 'Lesley saw the Viscount'

 by the time they were 11?

They couldn't get cheque accounts and licences. 

I wonder why those children were not able to succeed then??

(They may not even be reading this poem. Why would they?)

I remember the teachers then too. 

I learnt to read with the same teachers.

so I know it was not because of bad teachers.

What about the boys who cheated because they knew

their teacher could not monitor everyone all the time?

I wonder now why one teacher might not have been able to monitor the activities

of forty-three 11 year olds???

What about the people who knew that some were cheating

but also knew that there was no way of proving that

 because there were too many other children in the class.

And now, today, on the news, a great idea

lets have only the best teachers teaching

because studies tell us that it is the quality of the teacher

not the numbers of children in the class.

Sounds good.

What's the catch?

They will have 43 students each to teach.

oh.

Hang on, wouldn't it make sense to have both?

Excellent teachers and low class sizes?

Too expensive for now to have both?

ok then why not keep the status quo?

and what if we already have excellent teachers?

Getting rid of one teacher in each school "willy nilly" 

without a complete test of all teachers across all curriculum areas

 and across all extra-curricula areas and including

tests which measure conflict of interest

philosophy, pedagogy, number of hugs given per day on a pro-rata basis,

level of humour, joke telling skill level (poor in my own case (fingers crossed and hoping these words are not my own personal downfall as I can't remember even 1 funny joke (yes, you've guessed, I'm a teacher)))

poetic, artistic, physical skill level

balletic, gymnastic, and musical ability

ability to resolve conflict between both 6 year old girls and 11 year old boys

as well as conflict resolution for the adults in the lives of said students (both professional and personal)

number of times a teacher has called CYPFS or CYFS or whoever they are (you know...the authorities.... the ones with the authority but no common sense)

multiplied by the number of noses wiped and then multiplied by the number of bottoms wiped, band aids placed, shoes tied, lunches provided

balls kicked, ribbons tied, stickers given out, smiles, thumbs ups given

praise relayed to a parent, oh and the number of times those teachers have called a parent to say "I hugged your daughter today when they hid under the desk because of the lightning" (in case a hug is bad) multiplied by the number of times children were ferried from the office to the car when wind gusts over 100kph were being recorded multiplied by the number of children attended to, in the night, during class camps

multiplied by the number of times a black eye has been received by that teacher because a child could no longer cope with getting on a boat

and the number of times the teacher has stood in the centre of a southbound lane with a pen and paper in one hand and the wrist of an unruly child in the other as a 22 wheeler log truck swerves to avoid the two of you....

what, you don't think any of that should be in the test for excellence

oh, 

then how will you test it????

oh

Academic results.

but what if larger class numbers mean that academic results fall?

Ah, you would simply get rid of those useless teachers too,

oh

but then if that happens won't you end up with fewer teachers again?

and larger class sizes still?

and worse academic results?

then no more teachers????

so...

"businesses can educate children"

I see...

"It will be cheaper...

and more efficient"....

Hmmmm, Ten 9 year olds and 1 truck driver, all in a truck drivers cab, all learning as they bowl off down the highway... "hey, Johhny put my CB radio down, Jeanny, leave the gear lever, no Bertie we don't send faxes while in motion, well at least not to ACC anyway, something might go wrong... Sandie recite Pi to 50 decimal places, Roger, were we supposed to take that off ramp???.....

'Here we go round the mulberry bush, the mullberry bush, the mullberry bush...

little ray of sunshine

Little Ray of Sunshine

I hadn't minded the blond curls 

of 4

 because I didn't know 

that hair was important.

I used to hate 

when I was 15

and my grandmother

would say 

"you've got lovely curly hair"

It seemed everyone else had straight hair.

they could grow it long .

Not me, a gorse bush of wiry, wavy hair.

I grew it thinking a Sampson would emerge, 

it took on the look of a mushroom.

A teenager with a silly grin AND a mushroom mop!!

It took me 25 years or so to begin to like my hair.

Now I am happy to follow in the 

stylish footsteps of 'Beaker' from the Muppets

(A young Indian hairdresser in Tashigang,

 was happy to go with that)

or Christopher Lloyd as 'Doc Brown' in

"Back to the Future"

as grey takes over.

Ronan has the genes from both his mum and dad.

He fights the same hair battle I did,

so I tell him

I think he has the look

of a Celtic Warrior

he goes with that

and grins.

That boy is a little ray of sunshine.

a constant silky swish

A Constant Silky Swish   or      On My Beach

On my beach

the constant hum and crash

welcomes me.

Sand is rock, hard 

and should grate on my ear,

so much more than a sigh,

as grain rubs grain. 

Instead there is 

a constant silky swish

as some million rough wet grains 

make contact with the rest.

Sand, dry, sifts through my toes,

tactile and begging for some 

interaction and creativity;

a swirl with a stick,

a letter, or even my own name,

for the world to read before the next tide swoops,

or a child chases a ball

through my masterpiece.

I stand still and watch and wait.

Tide in or tide out,

on the make or on the run?

Subtle difference when you stand and watch.

One big wave in ten minutes. It's coming in

I decide.

Simultaneously the waves

surge one at a time, gathering in height,

for an onslaught,

but then they

transform and with a little magic,

become delicate translucent ballerinas.

The peak of each,

waiting, tantalisingly

for the very last moment when, 

with curl and crash

they implode

adeptly avoiding the gliding seagulls.

No wind today,

no spray.

Sometimes

it is what is not here

that is as important as what is.

Wind would whip this surf

and the resulting spray might sting

the face with a salty slap.

Instead two boys,

avoiding the tidal heave,

toss shoes that float about

amongst the froth and ripples at the waters edge.

Their laughter and the far off sky...

sigh...

A Close Shave

A Close Shave

Sometimes I wonder why we both went down that night.

He had been sick.

We saw him at about the same time,

only two and a bit, standing up in his cot.

He had been sick.

As if he was saying "something's not right".

He had been sick.

Unusual, staring,, gripping the rail,,, then... 

as we watched.... he began.... convulsing.

He had been sick.

Phoning the doctor. 

He had been sick.

Desperate late evening dash to hospital

that drive, those same streets, always on my mind.

Nurses take over, with drugs and tubes

but I know, 

40 minutes of non stop convulsing is not good.

By a whisker it stops.

It is not right... but it stops.

nothing is right

even when his 6 month old brother

props himself up in an incubator and cranes his neck to see the action

his parents, the nurses and doctor all laugh.

Too soon it begins again ,

tests almost as frightening as the illness

and a diagnosis

and the right

drug.

But it gets worse and then

in the Intensive Care Unit,

where families don't stay,

the four of us stay the night.

It is touch and go

I sleep.

I wake.

"You've lost your little boy" says the ICU nurse

...

...

another nurse is holding my other little boy outside so I can sleep, she meant.

Two little boys, irresistible to ICU nurses, used to working with grey old men.

close shave.

Close shave after close shave continue,

encephalitis, brain injury, epilepsy,

it all runs on.

By some miracle

13 years later,

tonight,

I introduce my son to a razor

another close shave. 

Always a dreamer

Always a dreamer

"Greggs" cordial drinks 

came in small squat glass bottles, 

just right for a little hand to hold.

Guess I was three or four.

We sat on little low wooden benches

beside the tennis courts

while mum played tennis

with other mums

beside the Memorial hall.

Two tall firs and a big oak

stood on the grass 

with the main road on the other side of a fence.

The library and a hall beyond the road.

Not much traffic then anyway.

Grey stone Memorial gates, as well

with wreaths and poppies on ANZAC day.

The local Plunket Rooms on another side of the courts

All providing a barrier to

the rest of the world.

I felt cocooned there.

It was open on the other side,

the old racecourse was used for cricket,

with a clear view to the western mountains 

the sun and sky covering us all.

I liked that view too,

different not cocooning at all 

a view to adventure in a far away place.

Always a dreamer.