Just after the crack of dawn, As the sun spills its golden light, a suitcase stands by the door, announcing the journey to come.
I watch, heart swelling— each beat echoing years of laughter, bicycle rides, scraped knees, soccer games, the weight of dreams woven into the fabric of this moment.
I see my son, now a man, gazing forward into the horizon, eyes bright with the promise of the unknown.
I remember the first steps, the tentative dance of growing up, and how each fall became a lesson wrapped in a parental embrace.
With every reflection, pride unfurls like a flag raised high against the sky— an unspoken bond, strong and steady.
“Go,” I say, though the word is heavy, a bittersweet weight upon the tongue. “Explore, chase your dreams, find your own rhythm in this world.”
In that command, there’s a surrender, a release of the tether that has held us so close. Yet even if the distance stretches, that link will never really fray, only strengthen with each mile.
I fight the urge to pull you back, to gather all the memories, to pause the moment just once more; but I know this is the course of life— the letting go, the becoming, a cycle as old as time itself.
In California’s warm embrace, Where golden sunshine paints winter space, A fond five-year-old with eyes so bright, Takes in wonders of a special night.
Her tiny hands, fluttering with glee, Hang glazed ornaments on the tree, While laughter bubbles out through the air, Love and joy sparkle everywhere.
With tinsel glinting, a star on top, She twirls around and can’t help but hop To the smell of cookies, sweet and warm, With cocoa steaming, a cozy charm.
Not a snowflake falls, but hearts are light. Family gathers, a loving sight. They share old stories filled with good cheer. Thus, in the Bay, they bring themselves near.
Outside, darkness begins to hold sway; Inside, season’s magic leads the way. With every hug, every song, She hopes the wait will not be too long.
As night descends, lights full agleam, She closes her eyes, begins to dream Of reindeer flying in starlit skies And what surprise may come at sunrise.
With her hopes high and thoughts so deep, That there’s no snow, who cares a peep? While it’s not a “traditional” sight, The season’s spirit still shines just right.
In Ms. Delgado’s kindergarten class, the desks were neat and properly arranged, filled with eager faces and tiny hands pulling out their pens and pencils. Among these students was Nina, a cheerful kid with curly brown hair and a big, wide smile. She was known for her vibrant drawings and, more importantly, her prized pen.
Nina’s pen was special. It was a gift from her grandfather, who had told her that it was magical. Every time Nina used it, her drawings, which received kudos from the teacher and classmates alike, seemed to come to life with extra brilliance. She was proud of it, and it had quickly become her favorite color in her pencil case.
A couple of weeks into the school year, Ms. Delgado announced a classroom project. “Class, tomorrow we’re going to make posters for the school art fair. But first, we may have to share some of our supplies with classmates who don’t have enough.”
Nina’s heart sank. She knew what this meant. The supplies they needed were things she took for granted, like pen, pencils, and erasers. She glanced at her pen, which lay in her pencil case like a precious gem. She didn’t want to share her cherished pen.
As Ms. Delgado continued explaining the project, Nina noticed a boy named Jimmie sitting quietly in the back of the classroom. Jimmie’s clothes were often a bit worn, and his shoes looked too small for his feet. She saw he only brought some regular lead pencils and a few old markers to school. He often had to borrow color pens and pencils. Nina felt a pang of sympathy for him.
That night, grandfather called on the phone and asked. “How was your day, dear?”
“It was okay,” Nina replied, “but Ms. Delgado said we have to let other kids use our pens and pencils for our school project.”
Grandfather’s voice was warm and encouraging. “That sounds like a wonderful thing to do. You know, sharing can be very rewarding. It shows kindness and generosity.”
Nina thought about grandfather’s words as she lay in bed. The next morning, she carried her school things to school with an uneasy feeling.
As the school day progressed, Nina observed that Jimmie’s drawings were mostly in black lines and shades of gray with a color or two in some sections. He would occasionally wander over to looked at the other kids’ drawings such her own. She could see how much he wanted his drawings to be as full of colors as those of his classmates. She tried to focus on her drawing, but her pens, particularly her favorite one, felt heavier and heavier in her hand. It was as if that pen knew she was struggling with a decision.
During lunchtime, Nina sat with her friends, nibbling on her sandwich and thinking about finishing the project. She watched Jimmie as he sat alone, eating his lunch in silence. Then suddenly a thought flashed. Nina made her decision. She walked up to Jimmie, extending her pen out with her small hand. “Jimmie,” she said straight way, “I want you to have this.”
Jimmie’s eyes widened in surprise. “But… that’s your favorite pencil.”
Nina nodded, feeling a mix of sadness and relief. “I know. But I think I think you should use it. It will make your drawings special like mine.”
Jimmie’s face lit up with a grateful smile. “Wow!. Thank you, Nina. That is so nice. I’ll take good care of it.”
Nina watched as Jimmie took the pencil, his fingers firmly yet respectfully grasping the barrel. As he turned to show the other kids, Nina felt a warmth in her heart that she hadn’t expected. It was as if the magic of the pen had transferred not just onto Jimmie’s drawings, but into her own heart as well.
Later that day, Nina noticed Jimmie’s drawings were more colorful and imaginative than ever before. She realized that her pen’s magic didn’t just come from its color but from the joy of giving and sharing.
As Nina walked home, she thought about grandfather’s words and felt a deep sense of happiness. She had given away her favorite pencil, but she had received something even more valuable in return: the joy of making someone else’s day a little brighter.
When night goes knock, knock at our house door, It’s time to take my toys from the floor. Although sometimes I make a deep frown, I soon agree to wind myself down. Next I get ready to eat my food To make sure I am in a good mood. Up the stairs, there are my teeth to brush; Then comes a warm bath with little rush. This is followed by comfy bedclothes That in winter may cover my toes. Up really close to Mom I huddle, So I get a very good cuddle. As she reads with me now under sheet, Her voice becomes soft and very sweet. She whispers and bellows as the wind, And buzz, buzz, buzzes like bees that spin. One time growling, she’s a big, big bear, She then purrs like a cat with no care. Dragons yodel and a castle floats, With dancing grandpas and smarty goats. Soon my eyes begin to grow bleary, And my head gets heavy and weary. Drifting off gently in my Mom’s arms, I dream of rainbows and pretty charms.
From the grandstand they shout, As they see Tiana burst out— A hardcourt, manic pinball Bouncing between the gym walls. Weaving through traffic While dodging the contact, Dribbling and whirling, Then passing and dashing, That ricocheting dervish Sets for the final sweet swish.
Andry has worked for 10 years as a bus driver. He was 22 when he started this endeavor. Every morning he wakes up at 5:00. How long has Andry been alive?
Andry has a one-hour lunch break at noon. He works until 4:00 p.m. in Saskatoon. He starts work 2 hours after he awakes each day, How many hours will he work today?
This morning, Andry had 7 adult male passengers, 13 adult female passengers and the rest were teenagers. There were altogether 30 passengers, And 6 of them were female teenagers. What fraction of the passengers were teenagers? Are there more female teenagers or male teenagers?
2. 7:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. is 9 hours. But 9 hours less 1-hour lunch break is 8 hours. So, Andry’s workday is 8 hours.
3. 30 – 7 – 13 = 10. 10/30 or 1/3 of the passengers were teenagers. 6 out of 10 teens were female; there were only 4 male teenagers. So, there were more female teenagers than male teenagers on the bus.
Some days I recall you, my pupils, Whose habits gave the Principal chills. Enlisted was I to rouse you and teach, A goal considered difficult to reach.
You’d display confusion, faces of dispassion, With the spelling words you could not fashion. You’d shout, explode, cry, and frown, And shun my words with eyes turned down. And, you’d approach our lessons in grammar As if trying to repair china with a hammer.
So how does one open a 4th grader’s mind, While including all the matter assigned — To coax and motivate with probes and pokes, To make a difference in these small folks?
Allow meek Dedek to create a math lesson To instruct our class at his own discretion. Urge shy Alicia and Sue to challenge at HORSE The boys on the court of the school concourse. And let rowdy Dan and Sacha write the content Of the year-end school play for classmates to present.
So, you, my class, taught me something sweet: That real learning is not a one-way street. Worlds of wonder and progress can be shared When capabilities and incentives are paired.
Born with the specter of mushroom clouds, As the world raced toward Armageddon. We were children of the Atomic dawn, When siren wails filled all with alarm.
The playground echoed a hidden dread, Innocence and evil grimly interbred. We played hopscotch on the brink of fate, Counting squares like numbered days.
The blowing winds tasted of the uncertain, As if each breath held an ominous toxin. Laughter was suppressed by distant tests, Man-made sunrises in desert Southwest.
Bedtime tales struggled to allay fears— Duck-and-cover drills and radiation suits. As somber refrains foretold destruction, Sunday prayers begged divine intervention.
I grew up in this Twilight Zone of paradox, Picnics on lakes, building of bomb shelters, An upbringing straddling hope and horror, Synchronized to ticks of a Geiger counter.
Yet I managed to cope with this outlook, Trading baseball cards and comic books, Imagination soaring on cosmic plumes, Dreaming of a world beyond the gloom.
But now though with Cold War unfrozen, A restiveness still lingers—a silent fallout. Thus, at times when I regard the horizon, I half-expect a bright flash to burst out.
My day first seemed dreary, now I feel reborn Watching my daughter about to perform. Her feat’s a treat sweeter than candy corn; You’d thrill with her ease in the breeze.
Well, most children are cute and thought darling, And their parents I presume are pleased. But no one could not enthrall one quarter as well As young Tiana* upon the schoolyard trapeze.
She flies through the air with the greatest of ease, My daring young Tiana* on the schoolyard trapeze. Her actions are graceful, all eyes she does please; And her joy just sweeps you away.
Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, A tale of a reckless trip That started from a SoCal port Aboard a tiny ship.
The mate was a novice sailing mom, The skipper green but sure. Three passengers set sail that day For a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour.
The voyage started nice enough, But their boat soon got caught. If not for the wave of a sibling’s bright coat, The Good Luck would be lost, the Good Luck would be lost.
The ship got stuck off the shore of a Santa Barbara beach With The Mrs. The Skipper too, Their daughter, my sister’s friend, Yours truly and Our hero with a windbreaker, Barely in sightful reach.
Now this is the tale of us stuck at sea; We were there for a long, long while. Though we tried to make best of it, None of us could smile.
The first mate and the Skipper, too, Would do their very best To make we others comfortable, In that knotted kelp forest.
No phone, no flares, no motor’s roar, No way to reach safety, Like Gilligan’s venture, As scary as it can be.
So, heed this tale of risk, my friend, To dodge a fateful scare. Before yourself set off to sea, Make sure that you prepare.
He rose like an owl from its nest from behind his Physics lab desk. Out for a night’s session stargazing, Jerry and I had just been returning. With 10-inch telescope in tow, I mustered a very astonished hello. “What are you doing, Mr. Connelly, down here in science laboratory?” “Making sure our new IBM 1130 will stay safe under lock and key.” “IBM 1130? What do you mean?” “It’s a type of computing machine. And once it’s set up and running, it’ll be for science class programing.” Back then I thought this some joke, But it turned out to be a masterstroke; For it helped launched me on the path To a stable and fulfilling aftermath.
I have to admit that it was a gift that rescued us from Chicago’s day after day, night after night pitiless summer heat and humidity, the endless series of restless sleep, and dozens of sweat-soaked shirts.
My parents were very proud that they could afford that box, noisy and rattling as it was, placed in the dining room window the stream of cool, dry, restful comfort, it even relieved mold and allergies.
But I had just sat in science class on our costs of making energy; so as I left home the next day I saw the box that gave us pleasure when multiplied millions of times would sure lead to a future of hurt.
In ’64, marvels filled a New York site, A famous world’s fair dazzling day and night At Flushing Meadows, technological might Envisioned our Tomorrow, a thrilling sight. The Unisphere’s imposing globe welcomed all Sign of universality standing tall. Pavilions showcased nations near and far, Tapestry of cultures, a global bazaar. The Pietà in marble, a sacred grace, Offered the busy fair a reverent space. Belgian waffles were servedcrisp and divine, A tasteful bite of Europe despite the line. Next was Futurama, a far-sighted scene, Representation of cities, clean and green. The monorail gave a sleek and modern ride, An ultra-modern design, a source of pride. The Ford Mustang, a sleek and muscular car, Symbolized freedom and prosperity’s star. Men with jet packs took off in vertical flight, Propelled by their exhaust blasting to great height. IBM computers, a wizardly feat, Promised productivity gains ever so neat. The RCA color TV, bright and clear, Served as window to a wide world drawing near. Along with the Picturephone, it then foretold A communication age soon to unfold. But are these great wonders too good to be true, Or true signs of human progress breaking through?
On a dust-filled ground where cowpokes abide, A pageant unfolds for a thrilling ride. As patrons wait for a sight yet unseen Within the stands, their interest grows keen.
With bated breath, attendees gather near, Stirring up excitement, raising a cheer. The arena transcends, emotions run high, Anticipation boils, reaching the sky.
The majestic dance between man and beast, Struggle for dominance, tension increased, It’s a show of will and courage to share, Where the fearless on mighty bulls do dare.
The gate bursts open, the beast is unleashed, Raw power, fury, bulk, muscular feast. Its hooves pound the earth with thunderous sound, As a brave soul holds on, no fear to be found.
In a medley of chaos, strength, and grace, Man and brute lock in dangerous embrace. Surfing a tempest, adrenaline floods, Rider contra bull, the battle bluebloods.
They twist and turn, defy gravity’s pull, Their spirits aflame, their resolve so full. Within eight seconds, the contest complete, Overcoming odds, a feat so very sweet.
Battered and bruised, yet he never faltered, Chasing the thrill, he leaves our hearts altered. In this rhumba of brawn, his skill displayed, He who lasts longest, wins top accolade.
Epilogue
Now unhappily all did not end there, Which is something I believe you should hear. The angry bull sought to apply some heat On the fallen not yet back on his feet.
A rodeo clown jumped to intervene A brave act ending up breaking his spleen. He sadly absorbed all the toro’s force And was sent to the hospital, of course.
Though for a budding fan of eleven, The rodeo tricks seemed close to heaven; That he’d seen a man there nearly fall dead Made him seek saner diversions instead.
Portrayed through actions dark forces conceal, A striking tale unfolds, its truth so real. Probing humanity with candor unbound, It was for young Me a viewing profound. The pic’s canvas portrays a foreign land, Where culture clashes are quick to command, With people estranged, in turbulent seas, It reveals a saga that aims for peace. Amidst bustling streets of a foul regime, A diplomat arrives in this strange scheme, Presence peculiar to native view, Holding our country’s biases as true. Though the title bestowed shouts out deceit, Beneath its veil, hints of empathy beat. In “The Ugly American” we see A puerile desire to change destiny. Conflict he addresses with reckless care, Neglecting effects and burdens they bear. Acting with impatience and disdain, He naively puts all on the same plain. Only the truths he learns at the flick’s end Brutally make him at last awaken: His work there only serves to complicate, Any chance for redemption may be too late. In this intense tale, a mirror we find Questions about our country’s state of mind. I was aware of the cold war contest But saw no side caring for the poorest. If leaders had watched it and understood, This work could have does us all good.
We passed him along Clark Street, The family out for an evening treat. He sat huddled against a wall Bracing against the chill of fall. In a ragged suit, with one lame foot, He was covered in grime and soot. When I paused to look, eyes fixed, My stomach began to twitch. “Hey, what’s wrong with that man? The sign says, ‘I need a hand.’” “Now, don’t you get too near. It’s nothing to worry about, dear.” “But, it’s damp and cold today. We can’t just walk away!” “Okay, Kenny here take a dime. But, quick, we’ve got little time.” As I rushed back, coin in hand, A smile broke out on the man. Not enough, and only a start, This enkindled a very young heart.
Daily my father rose early And put on his clothes in the dark. He’d make his way to the kitchen As I slept sound in my room. Waking to the sound of the brew, I was greeted by the rousing aroma. A series of crinkles would follow As he thumbed through the Sun-Times. Entering, pattering across the floor, I would approach with quiet respect. His smile mirrored the half doughnut, Artfully placed on his plate.
One of my earliest recollections of childhood was that of a dream, and I remember it quite vividly. I was four going on five. At the time my mother worked half time in the morning and my father full time from four until midnight. I would take a nap from around one to three.
According to my mother, I always wanted to say goodbye to my father before he left for work. I would wake up crying if I realized I had missed the opportunity. In addition, there is something about our practicing Catholic family which impressed a very young me.
I remember one day worrying again that I would miss seeing my father off to work. I told my mother expressly, “Mom, wake me up BEFORE Daddy goes to work.” “Of course, of course, Kenny, I will,” my mother assured me. “Now go to sleep.” I sensed I was drifting off…
A frantic knock on our door startled me up.
Groggy from my slumber, I heard a voice yelling, “Can’t find it!” My mother echoed anxiously, “Can’t find it!?!” “Yes,” a man replied. It was a neighbor.
My mother took me by the hand and led me outside. It seemed very gray and gloomy. The clouds hung down as curtains. There were lots of people there outside with us. They were all looking up.
Floating high in the clouds was Mother Mary. She was just like the image I had seen on my Busia’s prayer card, only very much alive. She boomed, “I have lost a butterfly.” “A butterfly, oh my,” the crowd responded. “Go find it,” she commanded. “Otherwise, there would be no sun.”
The people around looked startled and frightened. “What will we do?” they asked. Then they started looking down the street, behind their houses, looking all around. It was quite frenzied.
After a while, I heard someone call out, “Gene! Gene!” They were pointing at my Daddy. He had suddenly popped out from behind a bush wearing a big grin.
Out from his hand rose a butterfly. I watched it ascend. We all looked up; and Mary, too, was smiling.
The sun came out… and I woke from my nap. My father was still home.
“Spokoj (be calm), Kennush, so you can have the best dreams,” Busia would often tell me as she tucked me in for naps while my parents were off working.
Dreams have always been important to me. They have served as regurgitations, amplifications, and sources of insight. My dreams have occasionally been predictive. But mostly, they have been imaginative grist and launching points for ruminations about personal experiences and reactions to events and the world at large, a sort of expressive impressionism.
“I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.” Vincent Van Gogh
