Tea Song

 Seasoned hands pluck leaves from gardens of green, black, and Oolong somewhere in China.*

Dainty white gloves lift porcelain from delicate saucers somewhere in the Northwest.*

Production of baking in sunlight*

Consumption of drinking on a cold night*

Withering and wilting invigoration bursts free

Growing and developing the passage of time and age rapidly accelerates ???

Bruised, beaten and torn to pieces the leaves are left alone.

Shattered and scattered the ceramic shards are adhered back together.

Revived by the sunlight, melding into their final form

The fragrance is pure; Fresh and Mellow.

Lost in imagination and daydreaming, youth is left intact

The aroma is carefree; Comforting and Zesty.

Grown in lush green clusters at the height of a hillside

Born of imaginary friends and dress-up clothes

Both are elapsed threads of time.

Both are reflections of the past and appreciations for the future.

One from 5,000 years ago

Another only 27 years young

Regarded as a necessity on a list of seven to begin the day

Considered as an indulgence to sooth and energize the senses ???

Respect and an apology steeped in water

Childhood and abandonment tasted in liquid

An anchor to memory, tradition, and belonging

Gathered around a teapot family ties are reestablished somewhere in China.

Gathered around a teapot floppy ears and button noses partake in make-believe somewhere in the Northwest.

Tea is Geography

Tea is Culture

Tea is Remedy

By Blakelee Kelley

Silk is Love, Silk is Life

Slow and time consuming

The worm waves a cocoon.

Many worm lives were lost that day.

White like the snow the thick soft cocoon transforms.

Threading the silk back and forth

A colorful pattern is created.

Decorative and glistening with magic

The silk shines in the sunlight, reflecting red, gold, and bronze.

The silk is as wonderful as an explosion of fireworks.

And as fashionable as Michael Jackson.

As you walk down the street the silk shimmers in the moonlight.

The silk worm is a majestic creature, but the silk it creates is even more beautiful.

Silk is Love, Silk is Life.

By Ms. Kelley & Mr. Katain’s

3^rd Period 6^th Grade Humanities Class

Spring 2016

• I wanted to share this poem with you all because I am so incredibly proud of what my students produced. We are working on a poetry unit with Ancient China. Where the students are writing poetry about whatever topic they want to as long as it connects to Ancient China. We wrote this poem as a class and almost every word came from my 6th graders! If you have any feedback for them I will gladly share it with them.

Puddle Dancing to Escape Obligation

“I’ve had as much of this as I can take. One more minute of this dense reading and my eyes will permanently glaze over and my soul will crawl out of my skin.” My brain screamed and threw a tantrum like an incited two year old. I could no longer abate the feelings of irritation pooling inside my head and seeping onto my desk like a thick unstoppable oil spill.

The irritation was severed by the trickle of raindrops condensing against my window and the physical lack of will power to trudge through yet another monotonous reading assignment about the detriments of the education system or the benefits of backward design, or whatever it was that I was presently torturing myself with.

My attention returned to the droplets that were weaving and smashing against the panes of glass. They collided as if hoping that their sheer numbers would permit them to break through.

I slumped out of my chair and riffled through my closet to retrieve my raincoat saturated in the color of Pepto-Bismol. My plaid and emerald rain boots stood at attention by the door, as if they were trying to make an escape. The raincoat felt icy and slick as it skimmed along the bare skin of my arms leaving a trail of raised bumps. The rain boots echoed a suction cup sound as I treaded along the tile floor.

On my way out the door I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I was reminded of an x-ray machine. The transparent quality of the raincoat revealed my pajamas underneath in all of their floral glory. In all honest I looked like a disheveled leprechaun that pulled an all-nighter at a party and was puked on by a rainbow. But there was not time to contemplate my wardrobe, not while there was rain dancing and puddle jumping and freedom waiting beyond the walls of my study session prison. 

Compulsion Makes My Heart Feel Light Headed

Checking. Always checking. My heart feels lightheaded, my brain buzzes with bizarre thoughts, and my stomach is flooded with a deep welling feeling of doom. The sensation comes in waves of irrational worry and looping thoughts colliding in the caverns of my mind.

It speaks. I must check. It builds, it beckons, it berates.

Check once

Check twice

Check three times

Keys, I see them, I feel them. Check

Wallet, I see it, I hold it. Check

Phone, I see it, I touch it. Check

Check once

Check twice

Check three times

All is calm. The waves have been quelled and the nagging pressure inside subsides.

And I am free; out the door and onto the street.

I can hear the ding and roll of the street car grinding against the rails. There is noisy chatter from two joggers passing by and the smell of yeast; a thick bready smell that dampens the air as it spirals from the brewery and stings my nose.

Down the block and past the brewery. Another door opens and I am in the coffee shop. The sweet gritty smell of roasted, ground, dripped coffee pulses throughout the place.

Sit, sip, relax, read. My brain is calm. The relentless repetitive inner thoughts are abated and satisfied…at least for the time being.

Glancing at the clock it is time to go, but my feet are stuck in place. Cemented and waiting until the urge to check has been compelled to silence.

Check once

Check twice

Check three times

Keys, their glint catches my eye, the cool metal traces my hand. Check

Wallet, the rosy leather exterior is in view, I weigh it in my hand. Check

Phone, the glossy apple comes into focus, I touch the cracks and edges. Check

Check once

Check twice

Check three times

Breath, exhale, breath, exhale. Everything is in order. You are in control. The surge of overwhelming panic is gone. And you are unrestricted from taking a step out the door.

By Blakelee Kelley

“Excuse me, Mrs. Holtcamp!”

Sticky paper hearts, obsolete tin-can robots, and color-by-numbers math worksheets are the vivid memories that pepper the inside of my eyelids from the year of second grade. A year that would be marked with the label, embarrassment.

 "Excuse me, Mrs. Holtcamp!” No response, as the addition lesson continues to smoothly play out like a conductor leading a symphony.

With my hand raised high in the air and a lurching feeling growing in my stomach I sputtered, “Mrs. Holtcamp?” “Class, what is 3+4? Use the color key to color in the correct section,” Mrs. Holtcamp commands.

Now the feeling is rising; a gurgling geyser in my stomach. My eyes flutter shut and when they open again the contents of my stomach are splayed across my desk; seeping, oozing, drizzling onto the carpet. My cheeks run crimson and molten. 44 eyes stare as the smell of regurgitated lunch compels fingers to clasp over noses. And all I can do is sit there like an icicle frozen in the mess, pretending that this is not happening. I feel the faint sensation of my body being pulled away from the desk, though I could not say whether it was of my own volition or by teacher force.

The next flash of recognition comes as I am directed to stand by the door and wait. Wait for what feels like a looming punishment. Wait for the texture of flecked vomit to dry on my shirt. Wait while Mrs. Holtcamp recaps the episode to my mom over the phone. Wait as the janitor pours a powdery substance over the goo turning it into crystalized bile. I wait for what feels like the longest time anyone has ever had to wait in the entire universe; at least the immediate universe of a second grader.

I am startled by the embrace of cold air as it sucks its way into the classroom and the awareness of my mom draping me in love, concern, and a mother’s promise that everything will be alright.

I am finally free of the suspended humiliation as I find myself in my own bed entangled in well-worn blankets and teddy bears. The tinkle of ginger ale fizzing in a glass and the hum of a lullaby conspire against my consciousness to rid me of this torturous day and summon me off to slumber.

 By Blakelee Kelley