Why does a child have to go to school?
Why do we have to spend so much time working?
This seems simply cruel.
Isn't it just irking?
Some people say school is important for learning
Couldn't a child learn on their own?
It would cause much less yearning,
After all, we can learn from our phones.
I can somewhat see a parents point in sending their child to school.
But why would you choose what we wear?
It just allows us to look like fools,
We may as well come to school bear.
As you can see school is not fair,
So please don’t force us to go if you care.
Mother’s Love (Sonnet)
Love begins at the time of conception
When a mother’s dear child grows in her womb.
Her life is changed to thoughts of protection.
Excitement and wonder of gender bloom.
This new little life will bring heightened joy.
A new baby is what dreams are made of.
It matters not if it’s a girl or boy,
Birth will bring happiness and so much love.
Teaching a sweet child as he or she grows
Is a most important tool used each day.
To teach how compassion and kindness flows,
As they emulate and do things our way.
A mother’s love, with every endeavor,
Is a gift to her children forever.
© 2014 Connie Marcum Wong
Happy Mother’s Day to every Mother and Step-Mother and Grand Mother and
G. Grand Mother. Happy Belated Mother's Day to those of you in countries
where you have already celebrated Mother's Day.
Teacher, shall I write a sonnet? Must I?
When I’m not so sure of my poetry…
Shall I write a poem of fourteen lines?
In iambic pentameter –by me?
What shall I write about? What can I say?
In this sonnet which I must jot down now?
My sonnet should be about what today?
To write a great sonnet I’m not sure how…
Teacher, can I write this sonnet later
For I’m not sure of what to write about?
The teacher then takes my simple paper
And “you already did.” my teacher shouts.
‘Detention’ my teacher says, ‘for lying,’
‘But thank you,’ she adds, ‘for at least trying.’
© Mariam Mababaya.
My favored friend and lovely professor,
is it so wrong to love and admire
you with so doubtful a fiery splendor
that heeds no morals,--just wanton desire?
Your supple form is my Achilles' heel;
your lips--what lips those are!--I dare to kiss!
Your cheeks which blush with life and tint reveal
a sound and healthy soul that gives me bliss.
Woe am I! my conundrum--unbridled lust
for you that vexes me when we are near:--
I must sweep under the ground and the dust
my feelings for you,--'tis urgently clear!
If, my friend, I were not your young student;--
would my warmth for you be so imprudent?
The result of my last year high school was out
And was sad, dejected as I got the second top
Losing the scholarship for further study scope
As my dad had no means for college no doubt.
As entered my house, saw my teacher with dad
Both of them chatting laughing in a happy mood
The teacher said, “Get prepared for college soon”
You got the scholarship though you second stand.
After my door opener left, dad told me the story
The teacher knew about the top ranker’s wish
For not going further for the college education.
As a result, the teacher approached the committee.
Proving the teacher is more important than teach
An enemy of simplism but master of simplification.
* The Italian sonnet with abba, abba, cdecde rhymescheme
Full based on a true event of 1954:
A tribute to my late teacher Shri Damodar Dave of N.D.H.High School, Dwarka,
Reposted on 912-13
First place win
Contest: Your old favourite poem by Judy Connos
Dr. Ram Mehta,
July 13, 2011
First Place win in:
Contest: "The Right Time" sponsored by Michael J. Falotico
Woe to mortal limits in death begun,
For dust you are and to dust you return:
Now all that's of this mad fleeting is done
But for sorrow and ash in dateless urn.
To do, and unto my lost cause to teach -
Did I not this nobility disgrace!
Yet still you sought to seek, to touch, to reach,
And to look upon the soul and its face.
I lament that age! That fear! That spoiling!
And by your leave there is my tribute owed:
Like the thresher to the chaff long toiling
You were as the driven wind that winnowed.
Real was my discontent - my fakery;
Yet you never failed or abandoned me.
Dedicated to a very special teacher and human being.
Rest in peace.
Ah, let come this stiffling breeze now to ye all!
Such sweet sap envelops my every pore,
Shall I await for the ever fresh rainfall?
For I fear the amber of daylight no more.
Dormant they recline on fields of white cotton,
while Hermes pulls his cart from the House of York,
and though worries of the day are forgotten,
they tackle me with ever increasing torque.
Dear Lord! The sun, as the Gods, knows no mercy,
it strikes common men on green parks all the same,
the same as the priests from Westminster Abbey,
wildly wields and waves it's scorching blade of Flames.
Ah, let come a fresh breeze to the grass of Hyde,
and may it blow through the city, far and wide.
She stands in front
A class wide eyed
She tells a cloth story
Her smile face wide
She stands in water
The beach behind
Her face to heaven
Her eyes so kind
She kneels on soil
Her mind disclosure
The solemn wish
Mister Livesay: dishonorable Jew,
least-liked teacher, man-child, oppressor, fool,
all epithets about you which are true,
none of which too unfair or too uncool.
How you tormented me in class each day!
The abuse I've suffered from you have scarred
me (I was young and then just finding my way).
Wanton, you enjoyed making my life hard
(though I was your brightest student). Instead
of walking the path of character and truth,
you betrayed your profession and mislead
yourself as rightful judge and rapist of youth.
Thus, O Teacher, like grass whose function has turned
(into weeds), you should be cut down and burned.