You were always happy, always on the move
with a great zest for life and a heart full of love.
We loved you too and checked to see if you’d get mad
if we mimicked your habits, but you laughed instead.
When we were in school together, you often horsed around;
I ribbed you about eye trouble, eyes too close to the ground.
You lived life with gusto, knowing your time was short;
playing hard, working harder, often with a jolly retort.
Honest to a fault, you saw the positive side of things;
kept things in order, solid rock with no mood swings.
Cut off jeans, gray tee shirt, tinted glasses, baseball hat;
great big grin, teasing quip, a big hello, a friendly chat.
You were the best teacher any student ever had;
I could call on you to help as though you were my dad.
You drove my school bus on many a winter morn;
dressed in brown coveralls, bottom legs frayed and worn.
You were there in summer, helping coach baseball games;
at football with your camera or turning cartwheels in the gym.
You taught us how to care, how to study, how to play;
how to work on the computer and make the most of every day.
So determined to learn, spending hours at a throw;
self-teaching all the things a teacher needed to know.
You are the poem of my life, who you were tells the tale;
your poem will last forever, healing memories never pale.
You wrote the words of this poem, pages of my life tell the story;
you will read them back to me, when we meet again in glory.
That’s not my elephant, the second graders said to their teacher.
Elephants are too big; they’re not our kind of creature.
We like fierce alligators with thick-green armored scales;
long pointed teeth, strong jaws, and spiked whipping tails.
We like chimpanzees that live high in forest trees
that swing from branches and hang by their hairy knees.
What good is a flop-eared elephant who recites
the whole “Constitution” and “Bill of Rights”?
The teacher looked puzzled; somewhat perplexed,
she wasn’t quite sure of what to say next.
Elephants never forget the teacher returned;
their huge brain stores everything they’ve learned.
Ella the elephant just stood there in a striking pose.
Well, can you suck spaghetti up with your nose?
Copyright © 2011 By Caryl S. Muzzey
Tell me, why does God make puddles, in our driveway, when it rains?
Then mom says "play but, don't get dirty, cuz I won't get out the stains"
God made me, to love that feeling, of jumping in them with both feet
I'll send that water flying, maybe as high as mom and daddy's seat
Then mom yells "girl you know better, look at the mess you've made
Our clothes and shoes, filthy, wet and dirty, like a monkey in the arcade
This child constantly tries my patience, dear God why is she such a pest?
Astonished by Gods answer “when teaching lessons, I use my very best”
"That's not my elephant!" You could hear her say,
As quickly she ran, caught on film, heading this way.
The 2nd graders all laughed as they watched the movie,
Many of them thought it was really "Groovee."
For this was a film shot of their teacher Ms. Ella,
Whose performance in it was anything but stellar.
She was running for her life as the big bull feigned his charge,
The one she was supposed to ride wasn't nearly that large.
But it made for a good chuckle when she showed her class
The home movie of her trip to India's Kyber Pass.
Soon it was lunchtime...the cafeteria line was fun
As they laughed about how fast their teacher could run.
Spaghetti was on the bill of fare
Passing it up...one wouldn't dare.
Because they would need all their energy tonight
They had a test coming on the Bill of Rights.
Ms. Ella was a good teacher and her kids liked her a lot
But her tests were difficult as if she had some plot.
She would send them home with work to do,
But they learned from her film, not everything is work too.
Come be with me and be my student,
And we will start an improvement
To crime and corruption, killing and bullying
And all other demonic doings
There will we be on the top
And see our nation fills the gap
By you as future leader, to whom I care
Failing us, please never dare
There will I teach you to be an avenger
And to be this nation’s super defender
A man of powers, and faith
Destined to save this generation’s fate
A man that will not to be fooled
With a mind as your number one tool
Heir of earth when we are old
With a future as bright as gold
A pen and paper as your weapons
Without giving any harm and destructions
And if these are will be used
This place will be better not only good
Correct the past and my generation’s fault
Do not let it to continue its growth
For you to suffer is not to be
Save this earth for thee and me
The world shall celebrate whether to dance or sing,
For there are changes that you can bring
If these changes will improve a lot
Then come be with me and be my student
Such a grammar fiend, is this thing called punctuation.
A huge plethora of mind numbing aggravation.
Commas, periods and parenthesis too;
colons and semicolons; what's a writer to do?
In spelling, I used to make only straight A's.
Now I blow up spell check most every day.
I could avoid punctuation; write only Haiku,
but I'm no quitter; to myself I must be true.
My teacher always told me, "If you can't spell a word,
look it up in the dictionary." Silliest thing I ever heard.
All the words are there in column after column,
but, how to look them up, if you can't even spellum?!
LEST YOU YOURSELF BE JUDGED
If my game is to be judged, let it be in the way
I hesitatingly judge other people’s play.
Perhaps the ultimate judgement of my game
Will be merely a replica of my own past – the same.
When I judge a child or even an adult
I allow for all the pressures difficult
And every opportunity and gift
Which were thrust upon him swift.
And then I try to assess how well he did.
A teacher likes an always-does-his-best kid.
What about the smart kid who doesn’t have to try?
No teacher I know will judge this kid very high.
In card-playing terms, it’s understood:
Did he play his hand the best way he could?
All bridge players know from contending
That a hand is a winner or a loser depending
Not on king, queen, ace or other boss card,
But on who plays it with skill - and how hard.
After all, the cards come to us at random
And we must take them and use them with wisdom.
No such thing as fate or luck or chance.
Chance always favours the prepared stance.
That seems only fair to me: and if to me, then
Hopefully also to the Ultimate Judge of men.
If I am wrong, and the final summation
Of my life is measured with a different gradation,
Then I feel that there probably was no Creation:
And there is no Ultimate Judge. It is all imagination.
A young boy who’d been told often enough of the virtues of honesty,
Resolved to tread the same path even in difficulty.
He decided he’d never tell lie nor steal things,
Love all those around him, be they paupers or kings.
He knew the path he’d chosen was going to be tough,
And the journey he had initiated was going to be rough.
But his resolve was firm and his mind was set,
He wanted to find the truth in the advice that he’d never forget.
Saying so, he walked forth, never to turn back again,
To bear all that befell, sunshine or rain.
But how was he to know of the hardships to come,
For advices are not to be followed, only to be given by some.
The very next day at school, the teacher asked him a question he didn’t know,
He refused to cheat, even when proffered to so.
So he was beaten by his teacher for his ignorance,
But he bore his first reward of honesty with forbearance.
And later in the day when his teacher asked him if he had taught well,
He replied honestly, that he thought it was worse than hell.
The teacher was infuriated by his remark hence,
And he was beaten again for his insolence.
He uttered not a cry nor did he complain,
The path of righteousness was difficult to him it was plain.
When back at home his mother asked him how he’d fared at school that day,
His honest reply infuriated her straightaway.
So he was beaten once again,
The poor boy, his honesty did not go in vain.
And then, while playing his team decided to cheat,
But he was honest enough to point it out to the kids across the street.
Furious now his teammates told him to quit the field,
From their wrath, his honesty did not shield.
But the poor fellow bore it with courage and goodwill,
It was a small price for honesty, he decided still.
And when in the evening, he had guests at his place,
He honestly told them they’re a great nuisance on their face.
This remark annoyed his father no end,
And the poor fellow was grounded for the weekend.
All his agonies made him realise with tact,
That advices look good only in books is a fact.
With a lover’s look, she gave a smile
No innocence upon this child
She knew for sure of her effect
As the teacher then had become…nervous
No need to be alone within the class
For rumors then would spread so fast
The teacher then would be out of luck
Because the pupil wanted to…cause trouble
Inspired by The Police song, Don’t Stand.