Mrs. Clark as Muse

Like a mother bird she swoops, in the curling clouds of a twilight sky,

to fill me with warm knowledge.

She spreads the beams of the muse like a summer gale,

always there, whispering encouragement and inspiration into our ears,

like a personal Calliope.

She found poets in us all, watered us, and made us bloom,

gave us the broom with which to sweep the cobwebs from treasures,

a draught of guidance, the necessary measure of hope.

She is steel walls, soft beanbag chairs, her words are kaleidoscopes,

a prophet tuned in to our powers, the paths of our lives,

even before we are certain we are breathing.

She is the mother of my creativity,

cradling it into the bloom of passion-colored sunrises,

pushing voices out of blackened points,

a catalyst of clever creation,

letting our hands work themselves into change.

With her bright smile and warm laughter she shows us the joy and art in writing,

and a day with her is a day as bright as morning sun.

As one craves chocolate doughnuts, so CW majors crave Mrs. C's impeccable style of life,

for she offers Rocky movies and criticisms

that go through your brain like needles and shoot out your nose onto the page,

and nothing makes someone want to continue writing more than being asked

"did you know you killed three clowns?"

She knows that poetry writes itself like fluffy cream cheese.

We wish Mrs. Clark was the President of the United States of America,

because if it weren't for creative writing,

we don't think we'd be able to spell "phalanges".

Cream pies and revenge spell "C-L-A-R-K",

ostensibly drinking 52 oz. of coffee everyday,

she has never stopped being the eccentric and intelligent woman

who has helped to make us the writers we are, the lovers of words,

thank you to "Our sherbet colored sunset,"

the supernova originator of an exploding sky of originalities.

We have discovered that people are lesser forms of light, but that words can collapse stars.

Her hands are etched with ink, and we stretch our fingers, tracing lines of poetry.

In the face of so much fire, she was a flood of faith

and so we write as though we never had a savior or never had a god,

rhyming words as if she filled them with magic.

We believe everything she says about keeping strong in this world.

And if we haven't found ourselves over the years, we've learned where to look,

because she's inspired more writing than we ever thought could fit inside us.

She has become the mother of our poetry,

the great grammar mother who holds our pens when we cry,

protected and nurtured by her sheltering wings of guidance.

She holds the balance of all directions with maternal love and the wisdom of experience,

feeding the strength of energy to the future.

She changes every student who ever talks to her

with the wisdom and care that comes out every time she speaks.

We don't know how she does it but she does it somehow, and she does it wonderfully.

They used to call guiding lights like her phantoms,

but somewhere between the salt-cloaked waves and here,

that word changed to something softer.

Her worldliness is undeniable.

So many of us have grown up

with her guiding us artistically through this time in our lives.

Thanks for all the memories you've given us.

We'll never forget Stalin and the cream pies

and we swear we'll practice projection just for you.

There are no words adequate to thank a teacher

who believes in poetry, the mountains and second chances.

Through your guidance and insight you have led us to explore the world

with a ready pen and open heart.