The Writer's Oracle

Tag: poetry

  • Ode to a Preschool Teacher

    Ode to a Preschool Teacher

    Hannah Baker

    I’ve got 50 kids, more or less,

    From early morning ‘til almost sunset.

    I know their siblings, what makes them stress,

    Their names for every cherished pet.

    I track their poops—yes, every texture and shade—

    I know every friendship they have made,

    Their favorite color, their worst fear,

    Which blanket they hold so dear.

    We spend more time together than at home

    A second family until they’re grown.

    You try wrestling 20 kids into rain suits,

    And keeping straight their allergies

    Why did Zoe take off her boots?

    Who gave Joey cheese?

    With two subs on the list, better book them in advance

    The flu is going around? You have to take a chance

    Sick days off are few and far between

    The work of most teachers goes unseen

    Few are up to the challenge, fewer know the way

    To balance softness with firmness,

    To learn while you play

    First to arrive, last to leave

    We craft the perfect routine for years

    But see this trick up our sleeve

    Poof!— a wonderland appears

    Pajama days and cookie dough,

    Old calendars made new for show,

    Songs made up on the spot

    A voice speaks up for every thought

    I work magic through this space,

    Though few can see the hidden grace.

    Selflessness is the name of the game

    While wishing others would do the same.

    Teaching little humans to be their best,

    How to live and love and rest,

    How to care for our home on Earth—

    To lead by example shows everlasting worth

    When words are limiting, there’s nothing to say,

    I will show up, day after day

    Set aside my troubles to play hide and seek,

    Blow bubbles, make believe, laugh and peek.

    I urge us all to let our inner children know

    There’s space for everyone to play and grow 

    To see the world through fresh, wondering eyes

    When each new morning allows you to rise

    I teach little humans to be kind and true,

    But they are teaching me that, too.

    50 hearts, 100 hands

    Building castles in the sand

    We are growing up together here,

    Through every laugh and every tear

    This is my job, but it’s also my art

    Teaching humans how to start.

    From The Wild Unknown Tarot

  • Thank You

    Thank You

    Hannah Baker

    This poem is a list –

    I’ll keep it short and sweet –

    Of why I’m grateful for you,

    Starting with your feet,

    Thank you for teaching me

    My long toe is a beauty mark,

    And for turning on the lights

    Each morning in the dark.

    Thank you for bringing cookies

    And warm milk in bed.

    Thank you for the braiding practice

    In the mess atop your head.

    Thank you for renting movies

    And making pizza on Friday nights.

    Thank you for your candor

    When speaking of your fights

    Thank you for sharing 

    Your family and your house,

    Where I always kept myself

    As small and quiet as a mouse.

    Thank you for teaching me

    To put others’ needs before my own,

    And to always take the blame,

    Even now that I am grown.

    Thank you for the moments

    When love was true and real,

    And for the ones that broke me,

    For I learned how to heal.

    Thank you for the lessons

    In how a parent should not be,

    For love is never conditional,

    But safe, unbound, and free.

    Thank you for the exile,

    Though it tortures me today.

    I would not be my truest self

    Were I permitted to stay

    Thank you for showing me

    Some people never change.

    I’ll stop waiting for a miracle,

    Though your stagnancy seems strange

    Thank you for your silence,

    And the space so I may see

    That forgiveness is a gift

    For no one else but me.

    But, should you find the courage

    To face what’s long been true,

    I will lay aside my grievances

    And build a bridge to you.

    From the Guides of the Hidden Realms Oracle

  • The Way of Things

    The Way of Things

    Hannah Baker

    When I first moved to the city, I had no place to scream.

    The initial months dazzled me—the city buzzed with life and promised endless opportunities for adventure. But when the cold winds arrived, the four walls of our apartment closed in. I was suffocating and couldn’t scream if I wanted to. In the city, there is nowhere you can fall apart..

    If you’re lucky, you can cry alone in your apartment—if you live alone or have a few hours before your housemates return. If your walls are too thin, people will worry about you, but most of them won’t mention it. Perhaps you can scream in your car—unless you have to ride the crowded bus home. But walk down the street with tears streaming, your face contorted with grief, and people will do one of three things: stare, avoid eye contact, or ask, “Are you okay?”

    No, I’m not okay. But I know the answer you wanted to hear. Because if I tell you the truth—that I’m not okay, that I’m trapped and choking on every breath, that I feel myself falling apart along with everything around me, that the universe is spiraling out of control and no one seems to notice it but me—you won’t know what to say. And there is nothing to say. You won’t know what to do. And there is nothing to do. No, I’m not okay, but I don’t need anything but the space to fall apart in peace.

    In the forest, you can scream.

    The forest urges the release of every guttural, primal sound imprisoned inside you. No feeling is unwelcome. You can cry and scream and wail and sob like you did when you were a toddler. But the forest doesn’t demand you stop lest you face consequences for your emotions. It has a greater capacity to hold space than any human does. The forest doesn’t interrupt or stare. It doesn’t try to fix you or pretend you’re something you’re not. It simply wraps you in its quiet presence. 

    When you’ve cried every last tear and screamed your throat raw, there is nothing but stillness—true stillness. Except for a squirrel rustling in the leaves, or the gentle creak of branches swaying in the wind. The forest hums an ancient hymn—the eternal rhythm of life. 

    See how the brown leaves crumble into the earth? See how the trees bend to the wind? See how the seasons cycle with each rotation around the sun? See how death is essential to nourish the next generation of life?

    Here, it is easier to remember the innate Oneness of all beings.

    The energy you carry—the grief, the anger, the resentment—belongs to no one. It is infinite and ever-changing. It is meant to move through you, to be surrendered. The tighter you grip it, the more it hurts you. Only when you release can it begin to recycle and transform. This is the order of things.

    There is the same order in the city.

    We like to pretend that our skyscrapers and subway schedules separate us from nature. But nothing ever could. Our humanity—the rage, the sorrow, the desperation—doesn’t disappear just because we pave over the earth and line our lives with concrete walls. Slow your breath. Notice your heartbeat. Listen to the city singing its own rhythm: the honk of a horn, the laughter of children on a playground, the wind rushing between buildings. There is nothing to change, nowhere to go, and no one to be. Everything just is. This is the order of things.

    It is the order that rules the forest and the city, the stars and the soil, every inhale and every exhale. Grasping to expectations is futile. The only constant is change. So release the bitterness, forgive yourself and others, and trust all is as it has ever been and will ever be. 

    Knowing this in your head is easier than knowing it in your heart. Every act of letting go carries its own grief cycle. Releasing resentment does not absolve you of human emotion. Forgiveness does not excuse the atrocities committed. Trust does not negate all fear. But we can hold space for acceptance of these contradicting truths to exist at the same time, and leave room for new experiences to enter and change our minds.

    It can feel inescapable, this human condition. But escaping isn’t the goal. There is nowhere to go. There is nothing to do. The forest bends to the storm, and so must we. So, release the scream, the tears, the weight—and allow it to transform. Allow each moment to rise and fall, decompose and grow again.

    I still live in the city, and it holds my every scream.

    From the Guides of the Hidden Realms Oracle