Summer has officially arrived, school is out, and my tenure as the Dzanc Writer-in-Residence at Ann Arbor Open School has officially ended. Unless they ask me again next year, and my schedule allows it. Which just might happen.

One of my daughters has been counting the weeks until summer vacation; the other wishes school could just keep going. On one hand, more free time; on the other hand, less time seeing school friends.

As a parent, I'm proud of what they've both accomplished this past year, and I'm looking forward to spending time with them according to a more flexible schedule. But I recognize it won't always be convenient. And I'll hardly see them for the next two weeks, because I've got workshops to teach and they'll be staying with grandparents and then traveling with their mother.

As a teacher, the end of a school year is bittersweet as well. Again, I'm proud of the way my students have grown and the job I've done with them. And I know that next year's batch of kids, if I find myself teaching again, will be equally marvelous. But I will miss this bunch.

So as a final look back to the 2010-2011 school year, I present five more poems that didn't get included in the students' book of poems, "Why Is The Sky Purple?", which is available for a limited time for $9 if you contact me right away.

A few weeks ago, our class listed several strange facts on the blackboard, and looked at a few more from the internet, and then students wrote poems based on one strange fact of their choosing.

Leika H. wrote two poems that day: first this short one (based on the fact that a goldfish has a memory span of three seconds), and then a longer, more detailed one on another theme. While Leika grew into one of the class's most confident performers and wrote a variety of serious and funny poems, I chose to include this one because I love its unabashed sense of wonder.

every time I see the


dunes in sleeping bear


I feel like a goldfish


wow I say wow wow wow

This next poem was written the same day, based on the fact that a snail can sleep for three years, by David R. Again, I love the poem's sense of wonder, which takes a surprising turn in the last line.

The snail lies down on the grass and


sleeps. And sleeps. The spring sun


shines down on him and days go by.


Still, he sleeps. The grass around him


grows yellow as the heat of summer


beats down on it. Then he is covered


by red and orange leaves, a blanket.


The leaves go away and the grass


gets covered with a suffocating


whiteness. And still, he sleeps on. Inside


his own shell, inside the safety of what he


knows, everything is easy. Another


spring passes by, then summer, the


leaves fall, then the white covers him.





But he sleeps on.





This spring, his shell is growing small


for him, but slowly, summer goes by,


then fall, then winter.





The next spring the shell is pushing


in on him, the spiral now too small.


And finally,





He wakes up.





Blinking in the sun filtering through


his dark shell.





He feels powerful after his long


nap.





But in the world, he is less than the


tiniest dot.







In April of every year, I undertake a challenge (along with many other poets around the country) to write 30 poems in 30 days.

This year, I invited my students to participate as well, outside of our regular class meetings, and several did. I love what this says about their newfound level of interest in poetry and writing — and also about the students' ability to find things to say and ways of saying them without prompting by a seasoned instructor.

Here's a poem by Blade N. from his April set:





That Taxi





Maybe if she had just woken up a bit later. Or stayed in bed, trying to sleep for just a few more minutes. When she bent down to pick up the paper; maybe she could of just stood up, and read it. Or if she had just fidgeted with the door handle. Instead of getting ready, and starting the coffee, she could of just sat down, and ate breakfast. If the planets aligned.





I love how specific the details are in Blade's poem, and how large they grow at the end (to planets) even though the problem itself is left mysterious. It all starts with an "if" that is never completed. Usually "if" is followed by "then" — if a mosquito bites you, then you itch. Without a "then," the ifs leave us hanging. That's a pretty sophisticated literary technique, and I love the result.

This next poem is one that almost got included in the book, but the poet, Jaime M., simply had too many other poems we both liked more, so it got crowded out. I still don't think this is as great as Jaime's poems in the book, but I love the inter-sibling warmth it expresses, and the strangely lovely imagery toward the end, imagining her brother's stay at the park.





Coopers Town





Coopers Town,


they say it's


the place


where dreams come true.


They have the world's


best baseball fields. Seven kinds of dirt


are mixed together to make the fields,


the lines are repainted every 3 outs, and


the bases are spray painted then


changed every game. The games are


amazing but the cheese cake is better.


Coopers Town is the home of the


homerun. If my brother could stay


forever he would, he would live on


the main field his bed is the soft


grass his pillow first base. Coopers


town, they say that's where dreams


come true, it's where mine did, and


Noah's.







Finally, I want to share this poem by Joshua K. describing an intense and peculiar experience with colors. Joshua and I both loved this poem when it was written, back in the fall, but then it somehow got misplaced. Joshua finally found his original copy a couple of weeks ago, but by then the book had already gone to print.

So here is the poem, with its original trailing-off ending intact, like the fade-out on the final track of a record you never want to end.







In my front yard, where


the colors scream at


me, I stopped for a moment


and noticed the ground,


the grass was too blue,


the sky was too pink,


the flowers seemed sad,


blue and mean.


The color has slipped. I


need your help. I step


to the street to see


everything shine, right


in the color that they


mean to be. Is it just


in my head, or is the


color too pricked? It's just


in my yard that the colors


go dull, everywhere else


they seem so smooth.


But in my yard the colors


die and jerk, I need


your help, respond help


me to believe, I








Scott Beal is a stay-at-home dad and has served as Dzanc Writer-in-Residence at Ann Arbor Open School since 2007.