As I look back, it all seems funny now
Recalling all those awkward teen age years
I pushed the limits farther than allowed
Supposedly when young, we had no fears
Infatuation caught me with the blues
My heart was swollen by love's gentle sting
It was a crush that only left a bruise
Left by the diamond in her wedding ring
The first day I laid eyes on her, I fell
The lightning bolt she was, that shook my world
And to this day I swear I'd know her smell
Could she have read my mind, she'd likely hurled
I hated school but never missed her class
She said she loved me 'cause I made her laugh
original poem by Daniel Turner
Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016
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.
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2014
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.
Copyright © Annika Johnson | Year Posted 2013
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.
Copyright © Mariam M. | Year Posted 2013
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 seizes me when we’re so near:
I must sweep under the ground and the dust
my urgent feelings for you,--'tis so clear!
If, my friend, I were not your man student--
would my warmth for you be so imprudent?
Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2014
Some ooglay dweeb-o-rama after school
went and caught me mashing with my boy toy
(a stella stud, I kid you not -mad cool!)
Geek said, “He’s half your age!” I said, “No DOY!”
Before that tard could gag me out the door,
I told him, “Hey, step off and bag your face.”
Then he spazzed out and said I was a whore.
For real?? I’d barely got to second base!
Suck! Geek finally booked it; then my stud
put on some jams and everything was SCWHEET!
We vegged out on the couch and shared a bud,
then later played New Wave, grooved to the beat.
My dude is wicked, and the zeek was right:
I’m sure not young, but OH, how young the night!
** I have composed a list of definitions for all the
80's slang words and phrases. Just click on "About this Poem"
Written by Andrea Dietrich
For craig cornish's "Talk That Way" Poetry Contest
(My decade of course is the 80's)
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012
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
Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2011
Some boys forget their mom's words,
they leave for school in a mad rush
with uncombed hair looking like nerds;
in the classroom they have a crush.
Liz, their teacher, wears tight jeans,
they can't concentrate on the test;
she's happy for attracting the teens,
their girlfriends notice their unrest.
They hate their beautiful teacher,
but her vulgarity makes them sneer:
her character isn't worthy of cheer.
When paper planes start a warfare,
Liz's hair seems a style so rare;
all the boys laugh: it is a snare.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2016
You stand in front of a garden so vast
You gave a smile that could shame the great sun
You went to the young roses, as you must
You water them with knowledge, like you can
The roses you see almost everyday
You truly do care for them so dearly
You tell them great stories to make their day
And you always do it wholeheartedly
One time you pick a few, we pricked your hand
It hurts so much, so we ask forgiveness
I wish it will not hurt this genuine bond
That will be destroyed by our thorned progess
I want to say a million thanks to whom
Made the beautiful roses greatly bloom
Copyright © Crissa Mae | Year Posted 2015
A Tribute to the Great Master's Composition -Sonnet 18
Shall I compare thee to the Moon's Sublimity?
Thou art more tender and more sensitive:
Serene breeze does twirl the treacly toes of November,
And winter's spell hath all too soft a note;
Sometime too cold the eye of the needle shines,
And often is his silver resplendence shown,
And every dare from dare begins,
By fluke or legerdemain nature's epiphanies undeliverable;
But thy nocturnal winter shall not give shade
Nor lose affection of that rare thou become'st;
Nor shall health drab thou asunder'st in his tread,
When in pensive wines to years thou grow'st;
So long as we can discern or we can redolence be
So long is preserved this is and this will make thee.
Avijeet Musafir Das
Copyright © Avijeet Das | Year Posted 2015
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.
Copyright © Tadej Blazic | Year Posted 2014
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.
Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2014
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
Copyright © Brianna Picard | Year Posted 2014
If ever I will reach my pension of all ages
And leave the town, where I a teacher was,
My heart will – if they pay my wages,
Be stamped a lot, like in a pass.
Even the youngest child that ever markings made,
Its inerasable mark on every edge;
Some marks a mortal never will translate.
Character, children, no more than a scratch.
So be it – But I really get upset,
If pedagogues do talk in ways that one too bad
Of what a teacher only children gives.
God willing – He will give to all the classes
A stamp that’s good or bad in all their passes:
For it is he who owns a thousand stamps and lives.
Translation (!) of Ida Gerhardt's Sonnetten van een leraar 32 into an English Sonnet by RienB (2014)
Copyright © Rien vanB | Year Posted 2015
I’ve seen a wasteful of these dry classrooms,
One study in particular mocks me,
The textbook that never retired till June,
Indeed, her mass theories taunted till three.
How dare she stretch limits to its fair exit,
Invest my time, for diction better learned.
She sighed, for works found less than expected,
And smiled on my effort with no concern.
So these thoughts that now visit do tribute,
To slight lessons she urged youth to keep.
At times, her quotes seek me, to contribute,
I keep these, and her presence, as I weep.
For there is no filter or sub in place,
That could erase her ink from this fond space.
R.I.P. Harriet Meek
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2016