April 3, 2011

My Kind of Brain

My kind of brain is ok,
artsy, fanciful, thoughtful,
but it lacks a certain quality 
that our society requires:


*I can remember which flowers 
are going to bloom and about when.
*I can remember the silly antics
of our new puppy and our new granddaughter,
just ask me, I have tons of stories to tell. 
I have a degree in Child Development 
for heaven's sake!
*I can sing silly songs made up on the spot,
though there are a few lines of "da da ta da"s, 
they still fill the bill for some little girls.

*I know how to blend paint.
Show me a color, 
I'll mix it from basic paints.

*I can remember the needs and skills 
of 30 little students and I remember 
how each one learns best.

But I hate my kind of brain, too.
Because it lacks natural awareness 
that others seem to have.

Don't know.
I could guess and I know it's the afternoon, 
cuz we just had lunch.
Don't ask me for directions.
I face forward whether I turn around or not.
I only know there is 
a right turn or the other right turn,
cannot differentiate left and right 
unless you give me a minute or two to think.
I know I'm mad at Obama's broken promises.
No factual quotes or details, but I do get the gist.
I do understand the emotional impact.

The worst is at work.
I get the basics, but the facts are fuzzy.

Not knowing what time or day it is is tough,
cuz I need to be somewhere on time.
I need to remember where I'm supposed to be.
I need to remember which kids 
are where on what day.

When I began this school year 
I tried to take notes.
She said, 
you don't need to take notes,
just listen. 

Was I angry or worried or humiliated
knowing I needed to take notes
to understand the complex new schedule?
I do get the gist of my feelings, 
I remember the gut churning vividly!

I was lectured twice and written up.
There is a detailed letter
in my employee file
per our discussion.

This I know that I yes indeed, 
I needed to take notes 
in order to remember.

Now I will take notes.
She'll just have to wait 
while I find a paper and pencil.

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