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Teacher Prose Poetry Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Teacher

These Teacher Prose Poetry poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Teacher. These are the best examples of Teacher Prose Poetry poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

Details | Prose Poetry |

Your My Dear Friend

We have been together
treasured joy now for many years
we trust each other with our
emotions, with affection, tears,

Any day when you are sick or hurting
I feel your pain - significant other,
when eighter-one needs attention
we help one another...

These mutual friendly feelings
for assistance, approval, support
form our tight bonds,
usually never broken

Sharing visions, time together
we respect each other,
regardless of shortcomings
I know you, "I love you anyway"


Details | Prose Poetry |

The Teacher and The Student

I teach a martial art. I’m not tough. I don’t teach fighting. I don’t teach self-defense. I lie. I do teach self- defense. I teach proper behavior. I teach courtesy. I say, if attacked, take balance. What does that mean? It means a different thing at every turn. It means being soft or being hard, but do not pour gasoline on the fire. Be in love with your attacker. I only have a few students. One is really strong and has fought a lot. One is really young and playful. Who knows what he makes of my classes. His father is my third student. He is an obvious black belt yet he wears the apparel of the student with grace.


Details | Prose Poetry |

Constructivism

Teaching traditional 
Is based on transmission
But is receiver tuned?
Cannot transmit culture.
Culture needs discovery.
A teacher must accept
To hear the students’ words
And work with their conceptions
Constructing  day by day.
No discipline succeeds
With rules imposed as truth.
Discussion is a need
To improve a conscious thought.
Become constructivists!


Details | Prose Poetry |

Nothing But Chalk

She sits there in the back of the class, doodling on her paperwork. Getting lost in 
the scribbles, tuning out the teacher, forgetting all the madness around her, her life 
fading in the paper. Slap! The sound of the ruler splintering across the desk. PAY 
ATTENTION! Head jerking upward, she sits up in her little desk. Pencil dropping from 
her hand, rolling off onto the floor. She looks straight ahead, back straight as a 
board, eyes glued ahead as the teacher drones on. Drilling things into their heads, 
eyes sharp like an eagle. Looking for every chance to catch someone falling asleep, 
to catch someone passing notes, to catch someone whispering. The little girl quietly 
picks up her pencil and her mind drifts to dreaming of playing dress up, drifts to the 
path the lead makes on the paper. The curves of a woman, not a little girl. Dreaming 
of growing up into a woman. Confident, pretty, smart, strong....someone people will 
notice....a woman with a voice. Slap! The ruler across her hand. She jerks it back, 
clasping it to her chest. Instant sting, instant redness and she feels the tears start 
to pool in her eyes, her lip quivering to hold back the yelp. Pay attention! You’re not 
listening! I asked you a question young lady. Should I repeat it? She’s so scared 
that she can’t even speak so she just meekly nods her head. Hard as steel, cold as 
ice, the teacher repeats the question. She hangs her head and answers but her 
voice is barely above a squeeking whisper. Speak up! says the teacher. The class 
can’t hear you, I can’t hear you she says. The little girl raises her head and repeats 
her answer. WRONG! Slap! The ruler across her other hand. See if you had been 
paying attention instead of DOODLING, then you wouldn’t have gotten the ruler. 
You’ll make sure next time you will listen now won't you. The little girl doesn’t 
answer, doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t want the ruler again. So she carefully and 
quietly lays her pencil on her little wooden desk that bares the markings of many 
ruler slappings. And on her little wooden desk, she rests her hands that bare the 
scars of many ruler slappings. She stares straight ahead at the chalkboard, 
unwavering, searing a hole in the chalkboard. She tries to find the dream of dress 
up, tries to find the girl dressing up as the woman she wants to be. But all she sees 
on the chalkboard…no matter how hard or how long she stares...all she sees on the 
chalkboard.....is nothing but chalk.


Details | Prose Poetry |

It's So Free

Truly it's Free Free Free 
   searchin' high so low 
    is where it was for me 
I've called everyone I know 

Where can it be, can I find it everywhere 
   “what is it we all have in common” 
so should I look where, tell me dear 
   Well - why it is - also ordinary 

   Family, friends, Preachers 
    they also have it to give…
 you can receive it from teachers 
want some, you may need it too live 

    Try your Doctor, or Lawyer 
  when you’re blue, down an out 
  try a Tutor, IT Tech, or Employer 
soon, remember, when your in doubt 

   Just ask - someone will care 
everybody has it to give you see 
no need to shed a tear, find it here 
“Advice it's cheep, also it's so Free”


Details | Prose Poetry |

and even as your 'teacher' watches 'you'

and even as your 'teacher' watches 'you'
and your each 'dropp' that falls on me, your my rain.
and i am tired and i am thirsty and it's only just a start.
and we are as we now are, it is love and it is art.
and i know that it is bitter, some times sour even tart.
and as my fever climbs, you even help it sway to sleep.
and as it drips there slowly, yes so slowly down, a golden treat.
and as you do your very best, i can't but try my best to catch.
and each yellow sun so high and bright, it hurts my eyes.
and still it rains, you turn and smile at me, as it rains a little more. 
and each dropp that drips, i see dripp on me and i ask please.
and comes more rain, as it pours on top me.
and as your hunches lift and squalls, they over power me.
and you keep me warm, you hunker down, you dry my lips.
and rain warm falls and as it cools it runs the length of all i see.
and down the small of your majestic and curved back.
and through that small and rustic, royal scenic crack. 
and above me as each moon, i breach i'm always looking at.
and each dropp of rain seems bitter and it's sour it is tart.
and as your teacher watches, she can only try to hold you back.
and i am tired and i am thirsty and it rains, even now it pours.

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