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Best College Poems

Below are the all-time best College poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of college poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New College Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best College poems are below this new poems list.

My College Days by Wocky, Jabber
The College by Robertson, Michael
Hereward College - A New Hope by Monihan, Rhoda
College ooh lah lah by Konos, Judy
College boyfriend: High School Girlfriend by Chey, Jay
College Hustle by Sterken, Garrett
CIVIL RIGHTS COLLEGE by BLAKE, ANTHONY
The College Caravan by Wyler, Elizabeth
DREAM OF A COLLEGE KID by chizoba vincent, john
A College Professor Retires by Purdum, Fritz

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The Best College Poems

Details | College Poem | |

Redneck Santa

T'were the night after Christmas, 'n' the house was all dark.
Not much money for 'lectric in the ol' trailer park.
Ma waitin' tables at the club on the base,
jist me and my sisters alone in the place.

A big ol' blue norther, t'were a hard winter storm.
We's all snuggled up close, jist tryin' ta stay warm.
The trailer's as cold as a well digger's ass,
cause they come out that mornin' and turnt off the gas.

I shore kinda hated to git out of that bed,
but ol' Mother Nature made me git up, instead.
I'd gotta go out if I wanted a leak,
'cause the toilet had bin all plugged up fer a week.

Outside it 'peered warmer, which was a suprise.
As I peed on the tree, sumpin lit up the skies.
Them lights shined down on the yard, and I froze.
Shore prayed it warn't one of them weird UFO's.

As I stood thar turnin' round and around
there was white stuff fallin' and coatin' the ground.
I grabbed a big buncha it up in my mitts.
I thought it was snow, but turnt out it were grits.

I heared a big motor runnin' up overhead
and down come a monster truck painted all red.
It bounced on the front 'n' bounced on the back,
then the driver clumb down 'n' grabbed a tow sack.

He was white-haired 'n' husky, with red overalls,
long ZZ Top whiskers 'n' blood-shot eyeballs.
A red John Deere work cap was perched on his nut
and a WalMart white T-shirt half-covered his gut.

He look like he just come off'n the farm,
'cept fer them tattoos of elves on his arm.
As I stood around there jist like a complete dick,
he says, “Boy ain't you gonna say crap to St. Nick?”

“Yes siree Bob”, says I, “I got sumpin to say.
I'd shore like ta know where you was yesterday.
The toilet's stopped up and we's all out of heat,
ain't got no money and they's nuthin' to eat.”

“I was fixin' ta make it on time”, he then said.
He look kinda sheepish, and hung down his head.
“But I stopped at a bar when I finished my rounds.
And run inna St. Paddy at the Hare 'n' the Hounds."

"Ya know that he's the very best pal of St. Nick.
But there's none who can put 'em away like that Mick.
And the next thing ya know, we's over at Chances
Where that Tooth Fairy is doin' ten-dollar lap dances.”

“The Tooth Fairy a stripper? That done give me the chills!”
“Yessir”, says he, “Where ya think she gits all them bills?”
“Jist a minute”, I goes. “Where's the reindeer and sleigh?”
He turnt even redder, and then looked away.

“Well, we had a poker game goin', I thought I would win.
I was holdin' four aces and bet everthang in.”
There was a palpable silence, a terrible hush.
“Then that damn Easter Bunny laid down a straight flush.”

“Well, I cut cards with a redneck and won me that truck
But as for the reindeer, they was squat outta luck
They throwed a big barbeque, and cooked 'em up slow
But I must say them reindeer's good eatin', ya know?”

No Dasher, no Dancer, no Prancer and Vixen!
No Comet, no Cupid, no Donner and Blitzen!
For hung on that red-painted monster truck's nose
was eight pairs of antlers, lined up in two rows.

“Anyway, I brung vittles for you and the girls.”
And out of the sack he pulled seven skint squirrels.
“I jist bagged 'em thar in yer neighbor's back yard
Fry 'em up well, boy, with plenty of lard.”

I goes, “Them squirrels is rilly fine eatin' fer shore,
But ta git past tomorrow, we's gonna need more.”
says he,“Well, I's a bit short on cash fer today.”
And he give me six lottery numbers to play.

Then up drives my ma with bad blood in her eye
Draws out her six-shooter, jist primed to let fly.
Then lowers her arm down and commences to bawl
says, “I love you, you bastard, you tol' me you'd call!”

He says, “Boy, looks like it's not healthy to linger
Sticks his mitt out 'n' goes “Just pull on my finger.
The truck is fer you, son. I bid ya goodnight.”
And on a column of wind, he plumb riz out of sight.

I feels fevered and flushed as I stands there in awe
And I reckons this redneck St. Nick was my paw.
A voice far-off hollers, “Merry Christmas, now, y'all!
Then adds, “Don't fret none baby, jist wait fer my call!”

P.S. Them lottery numbers worked out good. We
bought a double-wide on our own lot 'n' a giant
TV and had still had lots of money left over fer
me to go to big rig truck driving school and Ma
to that there beauty college. And on top of that
a Nigerian guy is going to deposit over a million
dollars in my bank account. 

Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2013


Details | College Poem | |

Rape

October: I'm eighteen, shortcutting home
through an autumn-burnished churchyard -
copper-lustred leaves, moss-skinned stone -
a jaunty swing of skater skirt and arm,
college folder square-sturdy in my hand.
In the moment. In the last pale pulse of sun.

"Hey, can you tell me...?"
I halt. I turn...

Cold earth. Colder blade dimpling my skin.
My coral cameo earrings scatter,
daisy-dotting the green.
My back is spiked by needles of yews.
Sun skews, sky side-slides
until his face is my firmament.
I'm staring into the tumid blank-bloat of blue;
the ground hardening beneath me,
the death-spike trees stiffening.

Heavy Special Brew breaths,
grubby, moist fingers
like grubs crawling over my breasts,
and, weirdly, I'm smelling pepper -
horror-spice of pungent lust,
its acrid nose-thrust -
and woodsmoke is drifting from somewhere...
lung-flame, tongue-flames
of searing words - his words -
blazing like the umber tumbling leaves.

"Please...Please...I'll..."
Fear-forced bargaining, but I'm beyond care.
And I'm aware
of the church steeple rising,
its phallus penetrating sky.
The tilting church could topple
as tears crystal-crush in my eyes.
Fear-faint, already half gone
in a silent scream, my muted mouth
mouths soundless goodbyes
to Sarah, to Mum.

Time slows to a crawl.
I try to call. Nobody comes
but the man who has me ground-pinned.
Bleachy stink of semen
whitening my ripped skater skirt,
but some things don't fade
and there is no clean in this, just dirt,
wet leaf-mulch, shame.
Ineradicable hurt.

Sacred soil is soiled, sullied.
Stunned, I stumble
shoeless, knickerless,
into the trees and heave
into the mud, into the leaves
strings of spittle-sick,
my thoughts strung out,
reality spun out.

From stinking, pulped leaves I retrieve
crushed coral earrings,
ground-grimy knickers,
my white court shoes
that whitely scream the 80s,
the scattered tatters of essays -
white, like fallen feathers, sunk in the sludge,
muddied, the red-inked words bloodied.
I gather them together.
Gather myself.
I go

forward into my future, stained from pain
and tainted touch, the smears of fear, self-disgust.
And oozing slime-soft into my ears
the mire of incongruous apology: I'm sorry
don't tell anyone -
I won't.

I don't.




4/16/2016

Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2016


Details | College Poem | |

where barren branches touch newborn leaves

Scurrying on my way home, a little leaf catches my eye, and I am compelled yet again to slow down.

a whirlwind of thoughts
compete with swaying of trees~
lone leaf on my shoe

I am not sure exactly when my fascination for falling leaves started, there is just something so beautiful and artistic in which they drift to the ground....I recall one particular moment in my college literature class when my professor inquired into my choice of the word "wither" in my leaf metaphor for a dying old couple. 

My explanation involved telling him that for me, that particular word had a certain gracefulness to it, and that was how I saw that couple in their twilight years. But I deviate, for I merely intend to write about the interesting tree that I saw the other day. I do not know what species it is, but it bears its berry-like fruits on its branches and it has cordate leaves.

barren branches touch
newborn leaves on other side--
a paradox tree

A smile languidly forms together with my memory of seeing that same tree six days post double-faced state. It proudly donned a full crown of leaves in less than a week. With this image in mind, I can’t help but feel mystified, with the constancy and dichotomy of change….It seems like everything around me is continuously evolving, revolving. I can’t help but feel lost.

Almost in defiance to this line of thinking, I shake the leaf off my shoe, and trample on it. Instead of feeling satisfied, I feel guilt. I never did forget that Enid Blyton tale of how dried leaves were actually fairies. 

littered autumn road
I stomp on the frail fallen….
my feet crushing death

Rolling my eyes with my melodramatic thoughts, I continue my walk home. It’s crazy how leaves can make me go philoloopysical. I am tempted to actually stop in the middle of the road and simply sit there—be among the trees as the wind serenades them, with the leaves swaying gently, some choosing to pirouette, some doing the salsa dip.  

Being the practical person that I am, I just run my fingers along my wind-discoed hair. If it were possible, I would like to be a leaf. I find such nobility and grace to it. Imagine being able to capture light, transforming energy to create nourishment. Giving, breathing life. There is a delicate artistry with the changing of its colors—a complex, fascinating chemistry in each blade that I’m sure God is so proud of.

eyes gently follow
  dying trail of withered leaf;
wind sighs its mourning


I pick up one leaf to remind me...

11202015

Copyright © binibining P.iNk | Year Posted 2015


Details | College Poem | |

''Poet's Delight''

Math, physics, English, and so on--
     alas, are tiresome!
All the professors here go on 
     with a prime axiom. 

A stuffy, college campus where 
     knowledge and books abound,
freshmen and co-eds are clueless
     and confused all around.

Mid-terms and finals I do dread
     as each semester ends;
the pressure's on me to study
     as the semester wends.

School's oppressive this semester,
     I'll see my old provost
and leave 'ere I rot and fester
     and take up a new post.

William & Mary's M.B.A.'s
     are just worthless BS;
degrees from the home of “The Tribe”
     are crap that obsolesce.

I'll do rhymes as “Poet's Delight”
     as poems are my forté,--
not tomes or stuffy scholastics!
     Ballads are my métier.


1.) poembender; 2.) Philosophical motif; 3.) for "Impress me III ! (Old / New)" Contest


















Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2014


Details | College Poem | |

My Piano Knows

My piano sits alone a lot of days,
       Waiting for someone to come along who plays.
Usually that someone is my son or me,
       But lately since he's in college, it's been me, you see.

My piano knows when I am angry,
       and lets me take out all my anger on the keys.
My piano knows when I am sad,
       and lets me play it until I am glad.

My piano knows when I am in grief,
       because of the songs I play, it's really beyond belief.
And of course my piano knows when I am happy,
       I play songs of contentment and joy and lots are snappy.

I can be feeling blue and play a harmonious melody or two,
       And in no time at all I will feel like new.

But my piano is loved best at Christmas time
       Playing all the Christmas Carols and Christmas Chimes.
Songs of Jesus love for us and how He came to earth.
       Songs of Angels singing and about His lowly birth.

Songs about three wisemen, my piano plays them all,
       "White Christmas" "Blue Christmas" and songs played at the mall.
I love to play my piano for people to enjoy,
       Elderly, mid-age, young folk, and every girl and boy.

But listen carefully dear hearts, take heed in what I say,
       My piano knows that most of all, God gets the praise always!

Copyright © Marty Owens | Year Posted 2009


Details | College Poem | |

Signs and Times

You say: Wrong place—wrong time,
Maybe: Wrong place—not right time,
Not right place—but wrong time?
I say: This's right place—right time, 
In times and places,
What is the time?
Where is the place
For right not wrong?
Is this like signs
Tearing up the scenery;
What about my mind?
Don't what? I can read the sign!
Oh—Signs of the time?
What’s wrong is not right,
Lord, I will sing this song!
Fight for what’s right 
Correct what's wrong!
In all times and places
Oh, salvation!
Please, be alright,
And make it—
On time!

~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~

© Joseph, October 11, 2008
© All Rights Reserved

~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~

Joseph S. Spence, Sr., is the author of "The Awakened One Poetics" (2009), which is 
published in seven different languages. He invented the Epulaeryu poetry form, which 
focuses on succulent cuisines and drinks. He is published in various forums, including the 
World Haiku Association; Poetinis Druskininku, Milwaukee Area College, Phoenix Magazine; 
Möbius Poetry, and Taj Mahal Review to name a few. Joseph is a Goodwill Ambassador for 
the state of Arkansas, USA, a college faculty, and a military veteran.

~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~


Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr | Year Posted 2008


Details | College Poem | |

Sandra M Haight - Bio


My Waltz With Life


The grand year of my birth was nineteen thirty nine
Dear first born of my mother and father so fine
Three years later my brother named Bob came along
We were four in our home; life was sweet as a song.

Later on in grade school my two talents emerged
There my teachers took time to encourage my urge
I enjoyed my young years while I painted and penned
Lots of canvas and paper used up without end.

At nineteen, I then married the love of my life
I enjoyed my new path of becoming a wife
To my US Marine, very handsome and true
Were so blessed the next year with a baby son too.

By the age twenty-five, I was mother of three
A fine son, two sweet girls, a complete family
We worked hard, and we played and our life was so good
I wrote poems and I painted whenever I could.

Later painting with oils was the pastime for me
I then studied six years at an art gallery
Varied art shows, displays, and a job filled my time
Soon I sold many pieces, and life was sublime.

Yet the years went by fast and at age thirty-nine
I enrolled in a college to study part-time
Six years passed, and I earned my prized English degree—
A BA—and a Minor in Business for me.

Then my pictures with words soon replaced those with art
For I soon published poems of life and of heart
Yet along in these times of this great writing spree
I worked hard every day as our business VP.

For a full twenty years, we worked so eagerly
After hubby retired as the Chief of FD
Selling our fire equipment, all types, big and small
To FD’s, factories, district schools and the malls.

Our dear children all married with families too
Are involved happily in whatever they do
Happy grandma of five—twenty-five to fifteen—
And one granddaughter married two thousand thirteen.

We retired, sold our business ten short years ago
Still so busy with life, with its ebb and its flow
We are proud and so blessed, we thank God up above
For our days and our life of good times filled with love.


© Sandra M. Haight 2015 
   All Rights Reserved

Anapestic Tetrameter

~2nd Place~
Contest: Bio of a Poet
Sponsor: Tammy Reams
Judged: 04/18/2015


Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015


Details | College Poem | |

Tick Tock Tick Tock

"The clock is a useless tool, measuring mortality, narrowing vitality. Don't let it tick-tock away the waning moments and fine components of your final days." (last stanza of Heather Ober's "Clocks") A brand new day Tick tock tick tock You grow, you learn You take that walk To get your fine diploma Fond friends get left behind Blink one eye To keep a tear at bay Tick tock tick tock You get a job Or first you go to college Find a mate and settle down Tick tock tick tock Surprises come So soon your first child’s prom! Blink both your eyes Try not to cry Tick tock tick tock A grandchild’s birth And then a whole lot more Folks you used to know Have passed away Tick tock tick tock Blink back those tears Of joy and pride And also tears of pain Tick tock tick tock Changes happen For the good and for the bad You must adapt Or fade. . . . . . Tick tock tick tock Sit back in your recliner And simply close your weary eyes There will be no more tears To blink away For Tracie Edwards' Homage Poetry Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013


Details | College Poem | |

Stage Fright (for Frank's contest)

Jake took to the stage, limping with a leg brace
And more than a mere trace of fear on his face
The humorous speech competition was on
He’d made it to finals, prior contests he’d won

Jake’s lifelong bout with muscular dystrophy
Generated sadness and much empathy
He shook and stammered as he started his speech
Competitors thought his composure he’d breach

“Stage fright is shared by many,” the boy explained
And as he began, his eye contact seemed strained
We wanted to rush to his side, offer aid
Little did we know Jake’s point was being made

He’d soon have us laughing at the “crutches” WE use
To gain confidence when stage fright ensues
“I’m picturing you all naked,” he laughed, smiled
Soon his sharp wit had us rolling in the aisle

His strength and courage built fast as he spoke
Jake finished up with a memorable poke:

     “You thought I would fail; I read it in your eyes
     Seeing only my handicap, I realize.
     Those who can’t see beyond disabilities
     Are mired in self fear; YOU have MY sympathy.”

Out of four thousand entrants, Jake took first place
Impressing us all with his wisdom and grace
Oh, how we all cheered when his win was announced
Jake’s humor skills were by far the best pronounced

Today Jake coaches a college debate team
Having mastered the art of building esteem


*I was fortunate to see Jake give his amazing speech at the national collegiate speech and 
debate finals in Niagara Falls.  Like many others, I had feared he was truly 
experiencing “stage fright.”  But he used his humor to make us see that people often exceed 
beyond the abilities others think they have.  If he didn’t see himself as “disabled,” why 
should anyone else?  And what tremendous success he’s had in his career!  His message had 
a profound impact on a lot of other college students.  

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2010


Details | College Poem | |

MILDEWED EXPECTATIONS

The rose colour of your mouth stirs something primordial inside of me – I smile along with you. Plump little hands reach for my face. I hold still while you explore my heart with a feathery touch.
When you are asleep, I look over the papers of your college fund. We could make it if we would forsake frivolities. It will be no hardship for me to do so. I smile contentedly. The boxer puppy lying at my feet; quite content– its stomach pink and extended: he ate too greedily (as usual). You will grow up together and share our unconditional love. The cricket bat, signed by the national team, takes pride of place in its brackets on your bedroom wall – a pale dove blue (matching the colour of your eyes). A gift from your dad – sure that you would follow in his footsteps. A rainbow of possibilities prostrate at your feet.
I check every now and again whether you are breathing. Sleeping soundly, neither a frown upon your smooth face, nor a care in the world. Your long, black eyelashes quiver slightly, as though following a dream – a dream we all shared: a dream of boundless expectations …
************** Exhuming long forgotten memories; mingling with my fevered tears – echoing my breaking heart. They lead you away. Assaulting the arresting officer had sealed your fate.
Mildewed expectations best laid to rest together with the memories of you.
The sky has lost its colour, as I step outside the courtroom. Inspired by: Closer By Chris Aechtner “If frozen within caged snapshots of mildewed expectations” 3 July 2013 Sponsor Debbie Guzzi Contest Name Referential

Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2013


Details | College Poem | |

Private Party

College party red cups  all across the room.
we caught each others eye.
Inbetween  dances  if eyes were a camera they'd 
be caught in zoom.

I know you came here with another guy.
Sixfoot four football player.
Tried to say whats up but blockhead just told 
me hey jerk dont even try.

But when the doors locked the window will always 
work.
Time to make ya smile and make your roomate  
smirk.

We'll stay up allnight andi dont mean watching laurel  and hardy.
Just put a tie on the door handle.
Cause this a private party.

No people no chips and cheap beer.
Will play hide in seek in the dark.
Honey iI hate to say it's no aciddent i just
grabbed your rear.

Just as the real fun had just begun  sombody 
kicked in the door.
It was that linebacker and his band of unmerry knuckleheads 
All pissed off and standing six foot four.

Punches thrown  and more than feelings were hurt
as my  private party came to abrupt end.
Thrown from a window.
Impaled on a garden gnome
Does anyone have a hopital they can reccomend.

At the ER I met this hot  nurse.
Who had a mini pharmacy hidden 
in her purse.

I knew it wasnt good when she gave me a pill and said 
Oh no.
got put in the nut ward  spent the night 
talkin to my left toe.

Caught a ride  home with my best
friend Marty.
He said man what caused all this.
And I replyed  I was trying to have a private party

Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo | Year Posted 2009


Details | College Poem | |

Eternal Everlasting Joy

Sometimes, I think about my life
And the prices I have paid
All the places I have been
The choices I have made

Seems somewhere along the path
I stumbled upon a stone
At that moment I realized
I’d forgotten my way home

My home became a prison cell
My memory was forgotten
My soul was like an egg
An egg that had gone rotten

Sorry I had to go away
You didn’t deserve my shame
I moved very far away
No connection to my name

My life has always been a lie
One I kept hidden from you
When you thought I was in college
Serving time up in the zoo

On the day I was released
You thought I graduated
The moment you were most proud
Another lie to be hated

I have learned it’s never to late
I believe those words are true
Grandma I’m on a mission
I will graduate for you

I really want to earn the pride
You gave me so long ago
I think it will bring some peace
Releasing guilt up in my soul


I’ve learned in the game of life
We must earn our pride
Even if the people are gone
Resting on the other side

I’ve learned in the game of life
Even though they may be hard
Choices aren’t like rolling dice
They're not like flipping cards

Choices define who we are
I know these words are true
Every choice I know make
Are bringing me back home to you

Grandma, I know where heaven is
It’s right here inside my heart
Inside of mine your memory
Until death will never part

During the time I have left
I vow to always let it show
All the seeds you sowed in me
I shall nourish as they grow

In the end I’ll sit with you
Just like when I was a boy
We’ll sing and praise Jesus’ name
With eternal everlasting joy



Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2010


Details | College Poem | |

Lost, Found, and Now Just Missing

Going through some old things that just had to go, I came upon something that nearly got tossed. Memories came to me from long ago. . . . I thrilled that my treasure was no longer lost. Toys come and toys go. In the 60’s, one fad was to own an odd doll not seen much today. This doll had long hair and was scantily clad but wasn’t a Barbie with which I would play! Its body was squat and it had a pug nose. I probably loved it because it looked droll. Its hair could be orange, green, yellow or rose, but if you don’t know yet, that doll was a troll! How I wish I could dredge up some memory to know what was happening inside my head as a pre-teen with friends and what it might be that we did with those dolls and what fun things we said! The trolls that I owned must have been at least four - both sexes so they'd make a small family - their hair different hues, each a doll to adore. But one day they no longer mattered to me. . . I can’t say where all of my playthings got stashed. When I left for college, they vanished from view. But knowing my mom, they must have got trashed. She doesn’t hang on much to things like I do. Now four decades later, I looked at my prize, bare naked and smudged but its hair still jet black. It stared up at me with its cute amber eyes. I couldn’t believe how I got that thing back! It somehow had ended up in my new state. Good luck for that troll, I throw few things away! That doll would be learning soon of its new fate and meet other troll dolls with whom it would stay. Just like Peter Pan, I refuse to grow old, and new trolls I’d bought with long bright spiky hair when troll dolls again in the 90's were sold! But I had to recall where I’d stored them….. oh, where??
(I found the dolls and added the old one to the new collection, but my daughter's family moved in with me a few months ago. My daughter is a clean freak like MY mom is (apparently it skips a generation or something), and my daughter took my troll dolls and put them out of sight somewhere so currently they are floating around who knows where! For Paula Swanson's "Yard Sale" Contest

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011


Details | College Poem | |

Keep It Turnin' to the Right

Oklahoma cowboy, tough coal miner’s son
Born in Henryetta, south of Tulsa some
Raised by daddy’s momma, taught him wrong from right
Daddy taught him ropin’, taught him how to fight
 
Herding made no money, its stock was really down
Mamaw feeling poorly, dad mining at Old Town
December seventeenth, in the year of twenty-nine
Dad was shoring timber, 9th west entry of the mine
 
The gas ignited close to him, he never smelt its breath
It belched out fire and thunder, and everlasting death
Sixty-one they counted, who wouldn’t see the sun
Twenty-five weren't recognized, they buried them as one
 
On that fatal Tuesday, the boy became a man
Had to make a living, had to have a plan
Heard about the oil patch, got a chance to try it
Drill the earth for all she’s worth; keep it turnin' to the right

Some they called him weevil, some they called him worm
Some they wouldn't speak to him, figgered he was just short term
They told him "Open up that vee door; go to get the key
It's in the possum belly, in doghouse number three"

Took his turns at floor hand, at first a little green
Became the fastest broke out hand the driller ever seen
Morning tour, evening tour, working day and night
Drilled the earth for all she's worth, kept it turnin' to the right

The driller called him partner; the pusher called him son
The other roughnecks shook his hand, and took him in as one
Got up on the monkeyboard; learned to spin the chain
Pumped that mud and shed his blood, and worked right through the pain

On a bitter frosty evening tour, in a cold December snow
He saw derricks lit like Christmas trees in distance far below
He saw the fairyland of the refinery, shining through the night
He saw Mother Earth and the universe, all turning to the right

The oil patch was a hard life, moving all the time
But he saved a lot of money, didn't waste a dime
Morning tour, evening tour, working day and night
Drilled the earth for all she's worth, kept it turnin' to the right

Sent his kids to college, working through the years
One became a teacher, the others engineers
He hung up his hardhat; he shed his steel-toed shoes
Then one day he passed away; he'd finally paid his dues

Made it to the Pearly Gates; they handed him his wings
Handed 'em right back to them; said "I don't need these things.
I want to do some drilling. That's my heavenly plan."
They said "Go talk to the Devil then, cause he's the company man."

Old Scratch needed hellfire; he always come up short
Too many politicians and others of that sort
When he heard they had a driller, he jumped up with delight
He danced a jig, "You've got your rig. Keep it turnin' to the right."

Now he drills for hellfire; in the derrick he's got Jake
Buck and Sam on the platform; Sonny's on the brake
They all grin like demons; they're all where they belong
Doing what they love to do, they sing their roughneck song

"We all eat caliche and drink the devil's brew
Play dominos with Satan and skunk him at forty-two
Work all day on Sunday and honky-tonk all night
We're oilfield trash and we'll take cash to keep it turnin' to the right

We all love West Texas; it's like the Promised Land
Horny toads and rocky roads, and even dunes of sand
Dust storms every morning, northers every night
We get tans and freeze our cans to keep it turnin' to the right"

The lingo used around the rig you won't hear much in church
It'll curl your hair and make you stare and leave you in the lurch
So close your eyes and realize it's gonna get much worse
Drink your beers and plug your ears; here comes the final verse

"We p*ss longneck Lone Stars; we f*rt Frito pie
Give us ****, and we will spit some Red Man in your eye
Don't **** with us, or we will cuss and bring you to the fight
We're low class, but we kick *** to keep it turning to the right"

8/10/2012
Coal mining, oil drilling and Hell - Doesn't get much darker and deeper...

Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2012


Details | College Poem | |

Succulently Sweet Pumpkin Pie (Epulaeryu)

“The finest poetry
     is the most feigning.”
           —William Shakespeare


Smelling scent soothe my soul
Sits in sleek oven
Simmering Jack-O-Lantern
Smile so nicely
Saliva pours for
Sweet pumpkin
Pie!

~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~
© Joseph, November 2, 2008
© All Rights Reserved
~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~

Semi finalist contestant
292 out of 887 submissions
June 1, 2009 International Contest

~~~~~~~*******~~~~~~~

Joseph S. Spence, Sr., is the author of "The Awakened One Poetics" (2009), which is 
published in seven different languages. He invented the Epulaeryu poetry form, which 
focuses on succulent cuisines and drinks. He is published in various forums, including the 
World Haiku Association; Poetinis Druskininku, Milwaukee Area College, Phoenix Magazine; 
Möbius Poetry, and Taj Mahal Review to name a few. Joseph is a Goodwill Ambassador for 
the state of Arkansas, USA, a college faculty, and a military veteran.

~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~

Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr | Year Posted 2008


Details | College Poem | |

The Teacher

O Teacher! My Teacher!
I would dare to channel a master just for you.
I know not if I am up to this lofty task,
but it is to your expectation that I try to rise. 
You never asked for anymore than my best
and I love you for never demanding any less.

O Teacher! My Teacher!
If you had not opened a locked door,
the engulfing rays of enlightenment
may never have caressed my yearning face,
or held me tightly in her awakening embrace
releasing the song desperately trapped in my soul.

O Teacher! My Teacher!
You always said I had a great gift.
If that is true, I heap all praise on you.
You have the most wonderful offering of all
for within you rested the ability to recognize
the potential now flowing freely under my pen.

O Teacher! My Teacher!
I will forever hold you in the highest esteem.
I am not certain if mere words could ever express 
the appreciation I have long held for your guiding hand.
Undaunted by the impossible task now in front of me,
this student will once again try to impress his teacher. 




This piece was inspired and written for Professor Judy Davis who taught at the College of Central Florida until she retired. She was my English Literature and Composition teacher the first time I went to college. Many go into teaching, but the special few, like Judy, are called to the profession. She is now enjoying her retirement, but her old student here still communicates with her occasionally. 

Copyright © Kim Morrison | Year Posted 2013


Details | College Poem | |

Johnny Football

At Texas A & M, he played at quarterback. The young man led a prolific offensive attack. He gave up his last two years at college. Apparently, he needed money more than the knowledge. He was selected by an NFL team in the first round. This fall, at a football field in Cleveland he will be found. Johnny, put on that helmet and pads right away. Browns fans are hoping you will save the day.

Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2014


Details | College Poem | |

Paradise My Sweetest Love

My sweetest love hearest thou my advice
Let's leave for the garden of sweet paradise
We will live under a rainbow with cherries
Eat sweet mangoes and bright berries;
Build a cottage in its midst with a skylight
Bake gingerbread as the sunsets at twilight
Shower in the misting rain on our lawn
Sing sweet songs with the birds at dawn;
Make fireflies’ lanterns soothing our mood
The ravens will bring us nourishing food
The sparrows will build our resting nest
Oh my love—my darling, my earnest:
Together we will wish upon a shining star,
And from each other we shall never be far!


~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~
© Revised 5/31/10
© All Rights Reserved
~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~

5th Place Winner - Parody Poetry Contest. 
Sponsored by Dr. Ram Mehta, 6/10/2010

~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~

Joseph S. Spence, Sr., is the author of "The Awakened One Poetics" (2009), which is 
published in seven different languages. He invented the Epulaeryu poetry form, which 
focuses on succulent cuisines and drinks. He is published in various forums, including the 
World Haiku Association; Poetinis Druskininku, Milwaukee Area College, Phoenix Magazine; 
Möbius Poetry, and Taj Mahal Review to name a few. Joseph is a Goodwill Ambassador for 
the state of Arkansas, USA, a college faculty, and a military veteran.

~~~~~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~~~~~

Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr | Year Posted 2008


Details | College Poem | |

Internal Image

negativity peel away layers behold emptiness ~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~ © Joseph, May 15, 2009 © All Rights Reserved ~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~ Joseph S. Spence, Sr., is the author of "The Awakened One Poetics" (2009), which is published in seven different languages. He invented the Epulaeryu poetry form, which focuses on succulent cuisines and drinks. He is published in various forums, including the World Haiku Association; Poetinis Druskininku, Milwaukee Area College, Phoenix Magazine; Möbius Poetry, and Taj Mahal Review to name a few. Joseph is a Goodwill Ambassador for the state of Arkansas, USA, a college faculty, and a military veteran. ~~~~~~~***~~~~~~~

Copyright © Joseph Spence Sr | Year Posted 2009


Details | College Poem | |

Cupcake Craving

Our granddaughter loves cupcakes.
Someday, she wants to run a cupcake business.
Someday, she wants to be a beautician.
Someday, she wants to specialize in makeup.
Someday, she wants to be a singer.
Someday, she wants to be a songwriter.
Someday, she wants to go to college.

I’m voting for number one 
and number seven.
I love cupcakes.
If she goes to college, 
her cupcake business might succeed.

You go, girl!

Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014


Details | College Poem | |

I can

By : Dulce Santiago

“ I can ”
Where were you when I needed you
Where were you when they were ripping my skin and soul 
When I was trying to scape, my horrible childhood
When my only friend was the silence 
When I was trying to, cope in with the world
Why couldn’t you drag me, and tell me “everything will be okay”
Why couldn’t you give me the spark of joy to my heart that I much needed
I was like a lost child at Walmart , searching for her mom
Why couldn't you just give me what I wanted 
Why couldn’t I have a “ good job” or “ a pat in the back”
Why couldn’t you just tell me I could have everything if I worked hard for it
Instead of handing me out “ You cants “
and drowning me with negativity and no hope 
Well guess what 
“I can dad”
I can triumph without a man on my side and away from the Hispanic stereotype 
I can not have a child in my womb 
but what I can’t have is your negativity 
I can do things, my mom didn’t have the chance to do
I can finally speak for myself 
I can , have a job and do what I love to do 
I can go to college
but lastly I can make you proud like i’ve been trying to for the past 14 years.

Copyright © dulce santiago | Year Posted 2015


Details | College Poem | |

A Day on the Farm

"You really wanna know? Cause I'll tell ya if you really wanna know. You'll be thinkin' I'm crazy before I'm done, but I'll tell ya... ifn' you really wanna know." The day started like any other, up before dawn, breakfast and fuel for the combine. Outa' the window I saw the sun rise above the horizon, no clouds in the sky, waves of heat pulsing like slow heart beats above the drying wheat fields. Already the fields are half bare. The twenty two acres out past the barn were harvested last week before the weather started to change and the 40 acres at the bottom of Rocky Point was finished just yesterday, hell'uv-a-place to plant wheat, what with all them rocks that broke three disc blades and the boulders that we had to plant around, too late to dynamite 'em by the time the rain stopped last spring. The plow got stuck in the muck for a whole day before we got the seeds in. But we did it and reaped a good return on our efforts that first year, thank God. I remember that piece of land from when I was young. We used to have an old green barn out there where we kept the live stock. Paw said it wasn't much good for nothin' else, said you couldn't grow anything out there. I think he was just scared to. There'd always been rumors 'bout that place. Some folks said that Indians had buried their Chiefs under the big boulders, and prayed to their heathen gods up on the hill that looked over the valley, said that some day they was gonna come back and reclaim this land for themselves, at least that is, that sacred part below the hill. Every morning around 6 o'clock me and Johnny would run out to that barn to feed the chickens and slop the hogs. He was always faster 'n me so he got to choose whatever he wanted to do. He liked slopping the pigs even though they smelled to high heaven. He liked ride'n on there backs. I'd laugh my head off when they threw him in the mud and he'd have to hide from Paw so he wouldn't know. Paw would wack him good if he found out. I can hear him now, "Boy I'll burn your hide if'n you don't keep off of them pigs. Your gonna break their backs. Your gonna wind up kill'n one of 'em, one of these days." Johnny would always be quick to reply, "But paw we're just gonna eat 'em anyways." Hard to believe I always like them hams so good at Easter after smell'n 'em for so many years. "I know, I know, I'm git'n to it. Give me a minute. I wanna get it straight. It ain't easy to talk about and you weren't there." I saw the clouds rollin' in long before I got out to the good fields on the other side of the creek. This was where our best grain was grown. We bought this land the year that Paw passed. I remember the tears Maw cryed when we got it. It'd been a dream Paw had for a long time. He was gonna put a road through it to the main highway so's to cut our drive to town by five miles. I've always felt bad that he never got to see it. I went on watchin' them clouds wonderin' if we might just have us a late fall twister brew'n. They was nasty look'n and it's been nasty hot for this time of year. I pulled the choke on the old combine and it coughed to a stop. Didn't see any rain fall'n as I neared the creek from the Rocky Point side but it was get'n aweful dark, and the clouds were startin' to swirl and boil way up in the sky. As I watched I swear on my Paws grave that I saw a horse runnin' across the sky. It was like the ones you see when your layin' on your back in the grass on a hot summer day lookin' up at the sky and pickin' out shapes in the clouds,... but it wasn't. It was breathin' and glarin' at me with fiery demon eyes. Then out of the darkness I saw another shape. It was a face, all white with dark puffy round cheeks. It looked like the pictures of Santa Claus we used to take with the kids after the Thanks Givin' day parade downtown. He'd huff and he'd puff and his cheeks would billow out and all-a-sudden he'd let out this big bellow, "Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas," but when the face in the cloud bellowed no sound came out, just ice cold wind. It near 'bout froze me to my seat in that old combine. The windows glazed over with frost and my hand got stuck to the steerin' wheel for a second, pulled some skin off get'n em free. I turned on the headlights and wipers and as the Window cleared I could see ice twinkling like jewels on all of the wheat stalks. Down by the bridge I could see the weeds reflected in a thin layer of ice covering the water. Then all Hell broke loose. Thunder so loud I couldn't think clear, and lightnin' everywhere striking every rock and boulder. Mist rose up after each hit like ghost risen' out of the grave. I forgot about the cold cause the storm froze me solid. A bolt of lightnin' hit the top of the combine and the thunder shook the cab so bad I hit my head on the back of the seat. For a few minutes I was in a daze but as my head cleared I could see fires all over Rocky Point. I didn't have time to do anything but start the engine of the combine and move it over the bridge to the next field so it wouldn't burn up too. I watched as all the grain left at Rocky Point burned to cinders. Funny thing is all the other fields around that one were OK. Not one never burned. It was like someone drew a line around the place, strangest thing. The weather guy on TV tried to explain it. What'd he call it? Oh, a micro... something, blow, burst, something like that. He didn't explain what I saw, but that don't matter no more. It's over and done. Lost all that good grain, though. Had some scientist from the college down in Lawton come by and do some lookin'. They kept scratchin' their heads and mumblin', looked kinda befuddled to me. We talked and they said something about the soil ph was wrong and there seemed to be salt all through the dirt, maybe all the way down to the bedrock. Well, All I know is I'm guessin' nothin'll ever grow in that field again. Can't rightly say for sure though, never plan on findn' out.
11/20

Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2015


Details | College Poem | |

Poetic License


I got me some paper and got me a pen
decided to write poetry, right there and then,
wrote me a poem and sat back with pride,
this was a great one, the  first time I tried.

Showed my boss and he looked total awed,
he was sure speechless, he just gave me a nod.
“That’s sure some poem, good as they get,
but your going to need poetic license for it.”

What’s a poetic license, now what can that be,
I need a license to write poetry, pay a state fee? 
Down to the tax office, my poem and me went,
took my whole jar of coins I hadn’t spent.

I got me a ticket and sat waiting my turn,
sat by an old lady dressed green as a fern,
told her my purpose and read her my verse,
she turned red, walked away, hand in her purse.

My number called, to the window I walked,
in my most proud voice, to the teller I talked.
“I’m here for a license to continue my trade,
I need a poetic license for me to be made.”

I slid my poem through the window to him,
he took my poem, my few lines he did skim,
called for the officer on duty to come join us.
said “Go to college for this, now don’t make a fuss.”

Oh, college would have poetic license for sure,
this was all new to me, so it did never occur.
I gathered my poem and my jar of saved coin,
I walked to the door, the nice cop me did join.

Took the bus to the college asked for a real Dean,
I wanted this license to be fresh and real clean,
he entered the lobby gave me a strange stare,
I walked up and proudly told him why I was there.

Gave the Dean my poem to read right away,
when he was done he didn’t know what to say,
he thought for a moment and told me so demure. 
“Sir, you will not need a poetic license I am sure.”

“Your work is so special and stands alone,
the subject of license will rarely be shown,
you we will not require a poetic license to be,
and in your case we shall even wave the fee.”

I was so totally grateful, I stood in shock,
he looked so earnest, I couldn’t talk,
he shook my hand and asked me one favor,
“May I have a copy of your work to savor.”

This is the poem I wrote that special day,
it hangs on the college wall on display,
on gold guild paper, a special glass frame,
proudly underneath is written my name.
                          ~

tobacco I chaw, a small pinch in my jaw
enough to right fit, just like my ‘ol pa
when outside, I always spit in a can
I’m a very polite and considerate man

but at night in my sweet family  home place
there’s no where to get rid my oral disgrace
when I sneak to the bathroom to get rid of it 
I just tell everyone I need to go take a big.. spit

The Unknown Poet- no license required



Robert Gene Stoner Jr ©
4/2/15

Copyright © Robert Stoner Jr | Year Posted 2015


Details | College Poem | |

I Remember When

I suppose I'm revealin' my age as I compose this little ditty,
But as I compare costs today with yesteryear I exclaim, "What a pity!"
Gas cost 30 cents per gallon and hamburger was 19 cents a pound,
And a buck would atone my sins when collection plates were passed around!

I remember when a haircut cost two-bits at Harry's Barbershop,
And a hotdog cost 15 cents and ya paid a nickel fer a Nehi pop.
A dollar twenty-five bought a lunch of meatloaf and mashed pertaters,
That included a slab of cherry pie and a side of salad with termaters!

It cost a quarter to see 'Gone With The Wind' at the movin' pitcher show,
And fer a tub of popcorn and a coke ya needn't spend a ton of dough!
Double scoop ice cream cones cost a dime and a nickel fer a candy bar.
I remember that a loaf of bread cost 12 cents and a nickel bought a fine cigar!

Ya could buy a suit of clothes and a pair of shoes fer twenty bucks er so,
And a dime would buy ya a couple of donuts to dunk in yer cuppa joe.
A postage stamp cost 3 cents and fer a nickel ya could guzzle a glass of beer,
And a college education cost about 300 smackaroos per academic year!

Fer about 4 bucks ya could treat yer date to a show and banana split,
And later steal a smooch which would cost ya not one whit!
Nowadays fer such necessaries ya must work yer fingers to the bone,
And to keep apace with inflation, find a friendly banker to float a loan!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2015 All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2015


Details | College Poem | |

Tige

(Circa 1910) Grandpa had a bulldog whose name was Tige. They were close – as close as honey and bees. If Grandpa felt a cold comin’ on – Well Ol’ Tige was the one who would sneeze Grandpa was noted for his wealth and generosity. His love for me was demonstrated when he paid my college fees. The love he held for Tige was almost the same for me. And ol’ Tige was always with Grandpa wherever he might be. College life was different then, separation was the norm. And years at Alma Mater meant years far from the farm. Students have it difficult and allowances soon shrink So, short of money there, I soon began to think. Grandpa, bless his giving heart, quickly came to mind That bulldog owned his generous heart – if somehow I could find Some way to convince my grandpa to increase the money sent -- I came upon a devious plan – and this is how it went. I wrote and told my grandpa, “There’s things you ought to know. The things they’re doin’ here at school will set your heart aglow.” “They’re takin’ all these sorts of dogs – it came as quite a shock Grandpa, you won’t believe me, they’re teachin’ dogs to talk.” Now grandpa loved ol’ Tige so much it didn’t take him long To ask how much would it take to send ol’ Tige along? Well, when I gave a figure, Grandpa was satisfied If this crazy scheme was figured out, there’s no place I could hide. I kept feeding grandpa all sorts of good reports How Tige was a star pupil and mascot of all sports Two years passed and soon there came the time to take Tige home Grandpa was so excited -- Tige was never more to roam. Grandpa came runnin’ when I stepped down off the train. His eager eyes were searching for what he’d never see again. “Where’s ol’ Tige?” he asked, as we began to walk. “He’s not comin’.” I replied, “C’mon we need to talk.” This morning I was shaving in the bathroom by the sink And Tige was justa talkin’ when he looked at me and winked. “Ya know’ he said, “I’ll be so glad to be back home at last.” There are some things I’ve thought about that went on in the past.” “I was standin’ at the mirror with my razor in my hand Ol’ Tige was talkin’ ‘bout some things he couldn’t understand. I could not believe the lies he told – things he’d seen first hand Like the times he saw you wrestlin’ with that female hired hand.” His words just lit a fire with the pictures that he painted I almost couldn’t help myself – Grandpa, I nearly fainted. It seems that I lost it some and when I finally woke, I’d grabbed him by the backa his neck and cut his lyin’ throat. I know grandpa was shaken, I saw it in his eyes. A look of consternation he could not disguise He seemed to be relieved, as he looked at me and said, “Now, Son, I really need to know, are you sure ol’ Tige is dead?” Years have hidden the truth of this deception that I wrought. I’m the one who wove deceptive tales that everybody bought. But when the truth is told at last and no more lies are found You’ll gladly find an ending that surely will astound. Grandpa? -- He now lives with Jesus, and me? -- I’m headed there. Tige? – I know he’s still around though I shouldn’t tell you where. We made a pact some years ago when things went awfully bad. For years he’s been the best darn mascot my school ever had.

Copyright © John Posey | Year Posted 2012