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Tag Archives: poem about school

Come See Me Before Class

School at five a.m.
Long halls where nothing echoes
Lockers closed as clam shells
Waiting for the ocean

The New Boy

So many bells, he says.
Every day here is broken into
the same question in every class
and many strict blocks of time.
Tired but polite,
the new boy from Pakistan
answers again.
Your country is so very clean
it feels almost like a movie set
where everyone must adhere
to the bells, the script,
the tight shooting schedule.
He gathers his books.
It doesn’t always look real
he says, as another bell rings.

Gorillas In The House

Amazing, that’s the truth. They were not expected, not what I went looking for. They were not the wild black dog I’d been catching glimpses of—dog that might be rabid, might be metaphor, might be just a shaggy black dog.

Instead, this white gorilla at the bottom of the squared, open stairwell. Quiet. Visible only because I leaned out so far over the stairs, metal railing pressed against my stomach, my hands gripping its cold circle, breaking my palms into sweat. Old air of baked dust rose up, mixed with the scent of metal touched by decades of hands.

I’ll remember this smell my whole life, I thought. And it will always take me here, to this single moment. The moment before I decide if I’m scared, the moment before the gorilla senses me. The moment before he raises his enormous head and looks up.

Packing Up The Year

It fits into a dozen boxes
Of budgets and lesson plans,
Meetings and mindless jargon.
Do not forget
To pack the sweetness, too:
memories of children and
Books, all the delicious
Conversations that won’t stay
Inside any box, so they
Ride on your shoulder or
Swing from the rear view
Mirror, waving goodbye.

Abandoned

Here in this school
of bullies, prom queens,
ordinary kids still dazed by life,
and tragedies, both true and
imagined by fourteen-year-old girls,
Abandoned is the saddest story.

Here in this school
where we struggle with
grades and prom night,
illiteracy, the big game,
pregnant teens and faculty evaluations
his head with his floppy clean hair
is filled with where to sleep tonight.

Here in this school
where bells tell us when to
switch from chemistry to symbolism in
Shakespeare, forty-one minutes
to pack it neatly into uninterested minds
behind his shy, scraggly smile
he is learning about existence in a vacuum.

Here in this school
homeless, but not aimless,
he studies hard the art of absence
practicing how to disappear.
He is barely visible by the time we
remember to teach him this:
Every Body gets a space in this world
and people to notice them in it.

Another Problem With Education

Is that teenagers and teachers
do not care
about the same things.
This week alone,
I’ve heard that Mali
sounds like  an island vacation spot,
somewhere near Tahiti.
And not one of them knows who Nelson Mandela
is, though someone hazarded a guess
that he might be a fashion designer.

However, they were prepared to discuss,
potentially forever, the guy on You Tube
who jumped out of a plane,
rushing through the sky
so fast he broke the sound barrier.
Here, at last, was someone they admired,
or at least a place they could recognize.

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

The Sketchbook

MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment

leaf and twig

where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry