Poetry School Poems

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

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Details | Rhyme |
Ana
She writes her songs and her poems,
not one person know 'em.
She listens to the sound of her music,
she's stuck to it like a tick.

If someone took the time to listen,
her true colors would glisten.
She's put on a mask,
and hid everything when someone asked.

She was the type of girl who would always laugh,
making you wish it would last.
She was the type of girl who would smile the day away,
too bad it is no longer that way.

She is now the girl who is depressed,
I bet you're impressed.
Since no one could tell
that she was going through hell.

Everyone thought she was happy, 
when really, she felt crappy.
Everyone thought she was having the time of her life,
who would have guess her best friend was a knife?

She spent her days alone,
she seemed to do everything on her own.
Never once wanted help.
Thought she could do everything herself.

Then the day came,
when she lost the game.
She fell apart,
and everyone saw her broken heart.

They saw the way she overreacted.
Oh, if only you saw the way she acted.
She bruised herself, scratched herself, and made herself bleed,
no one knew what it was that she needed.

They saw her tears,
and that was what she feared.
They found out she wasn't okay,
oh, she hated that day.

Everyone found out about her secret,
and she wish they'd just forget,
but she knew they couldn't,
and that they wouldn't.

She left that town and started over,
no one knew she went undercover.
She said she got better,
when really... something else occurred. 

She secretly hurt herself,
and walked away from help.
Everyone thought she recovered,
when really, she was undercover.

She secretly wanted to get worse,
no one knew of course.
No one cared to ask,
if she was wearing her mask.

Now it's too late,
she locked the gate.
Killed herself,
everyone had forgotten she needed help.

Goodbye cold world,
this was a story of a girl
who once loved everyone
then feared who it was who won.

Copyright © Ana Jusino | Year Posted 2013




Details | Prose Poetry |
	Of course on this night we are supposed to be asleep so Santa 
could come, but we hadn't been home from Midnight Mass very long, and the 
invigorating cold was not conducive to sleep.  Even the hot chocolate did not do 
much to help sedate the excitement.
	We were hoping for sleds that year.  The snow was perfect for 
sledding especially like we did it.  We tied out sleds on behind the car or pick up 
and were pulled through the hills.  We got our sleds.  My dad and my uncle made 
them for us.
	No television and only in the late years were we allowed to use the 
radio.  Batteries were to expensive for frivolous use.  We spent many hours 
playing cards or games.
	I took time out and went to high school and college and got my 
teaching certificate.
	My aunt taught there only one year after the Federal Government 
turned the schools over to the local government.
	The last time I was back there the out buildings had been moved and 
Indian families were living in them.  The school was dirty and unkept.
	Now the school is gone.  The ancestors who once walked these 
dusty plains are gone.  The Indians who were there when I was a child are gone.
	They are Ghosts.  Ghosts whose faces can be seen in the clouds.  
Ghosts  who still chop wood on those sub zero nights.  And the drums we heard 
in the middle of the nights are still beating.  They beat as strongly as the heart 
beats in a healthy body.  The laughter of the children still echoes under the 
bridge.
	The life blood of a culture, of a nation grows thin.  The Battle of 
Wounded Knee was the last battle to be fought  between the white man and the 
Indian on the northern plains.  It's cries still echo across the land.
	My foot prints in the creek did not last any longer than those they left 
in the dust.  But in my memories, this mile and a half by three quarter mile haven 
still lives.  And will live forever as a piece of unrecorded history.

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |
I don't care anymore. You are the most wonderful thing I've ever seen in my life. 
Everytime you look at me I want to explode.  You're doing some sort of yoga move in front 
of me which you claim not to be yoga with your 15-year-old autistic client, rubbing your feet 
into his hand, bending over him between a giant cushy yellow soft-leathered cylinder, your 
hair dangling over him, now up in a pony-tail as you resituate your thighs, steadied and 
jeaned in that young and smart physique, a show of craving futures for my sitting nature, 
not more than two feet away.

I will love you from afar with light beams if I must.  We'll be left to devour each other with 
our eyes.  In hot-quick glances.

Copyright © Matt Caliri | Year Posted 2010




Details | Free verse |



I wrote my first poem a lifetime ago, 
when I was a schoolboy. 
There was little room for experiment, 
or thinking outside the box. 
Teacher dictated the terms and the 
poetry forms that were allowed. 

He even selected the subject matter. 
We all had to write a poem about a trip 
to the sea-side, either real or imagined. 
I elected to go for the latter, and I was 
determined to make it light-hearted, 
and hopefully amusing. 

My maiden poem no longer exists, 
but I remember that it was about 
going down to the beach barefoot, 
and being bitten on the big toe by a crab. 
I did a one-legged dance with the crab still 
clinging to my big toe. 

The teacher did find my poem amusing, 
and he selected it as one of the best, 
though not THE best - that distinction 
went to another boy, who tried to write 
like Wordsworth, but went totally 
over the top, in my humble opinion. 

Since then, I have learned that a poet 
can write about anything, and in any 
form or style. He (or she) can even invent 
his (or her) own form or style. 
So, when I returned to poetry writing, 
many years later, I resumed my journey... 

With an untrammelled mind! 

Copyright © Robert Haigh | Year Posted 2017

Details | Light Poetry |
Should it be the year three-thousand seventeen,
  I shall still write as an 'old' wizard,
  forgotten it seems for the charlatans,
  and modernists who have forgotten their roots,
  and fail to understand that good art is timeless;
  like the rappers who have forsaken Jimmy Hendrix ---
  and real black music like jazz and blues ---
  they have done so because they don't care about art,
  but the glitter of gold and plastic-fame;
  but fifty years hence,
  will someone put their face on the Statue of Liberty?

Copyright © Keith O.J. Hunt | Year Posted 2017

Details | Light Poetry |
music you choose it
it do this
take control
music is bold
this is no lie
here why don't even try
SOME MUSIC NEVER DIE

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2012

Details | Sonnet |
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

Details | Free verse |
You never listen
Yes I know it's true
I see you try and deny it
How's that working for you?

I will say one thing
You will hear another
I will try to fix it
The misunderstanding you see

I just got in trouble
(Sigh) I told you so
They never listen to me

They say they do 
And I know they try
But all I want to do is scream
"JUST LISTEN TO ME SOMEONE PLEASE"

All I asked is that you think
What is real?
Do I ever ask this?
Will I ever again?

All I really did
Was ask
For friend

All I want
Is to be free
Free to listen
And free to be me

Sadly though
You'll never see
Just how much your 
Not listening has killed me

I have tried
Really I did
I know that I'm not eighty
I know that I'm not nice
But the only thing I asked 
For was five minutes (at the most) of your life.

I'm sorry that you failed
I'm sorry that I tried but
Mostly I'm just sorry that
I'm not sorry,
Not anymore.

Copyright © Rayne Thomas | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
School black boards,
No dusters!

Copyright © Muhammad Safa Thajudeen | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Day one I am starting my new school
my emotions are in a spin
some of me wants to run ahead
to meet new people and friends

The rest of me wants to hide
to stay behind my mother's skirts
I cling to her hand staying close
and whine for her to take me home

She leads me on not seeming to care
down the strange corridors full of doors
finally reaching and entering through one
there is my new teacher who is smiling

waving goodbye to mother I settle to play
its not so scary after all, and the toys are great
I soon make many new friends to play with
not knowing as she walks home mum has a sob

For her a big wrench to leave me behind
even though she knows I will have fun
and start to learn many new things
at end of day one I will return home

contest: Day One   written 06/26/2013

Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
you see you can be
put this underneat
to walk sucessbeat
and feel free
EDUCATION
IS THE KEY

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Because I'm Ready To Grow Up

I have had enough 
Enough with the happy times

I'm ready to take on the stress
No more playground or bubbles baths please
Enough with the piles and piles of mess
I'm grown up now ready for change

I had it with being a baby bird
I don't want to be fed I don't want to cry
I want to get out of the nest, spread my wings 
I want to take flight in the sky so high

I had enough of the princess dresses 
Get rid of those Barbie dolls
Throw away all those plastic high heels
And bring on the teenage texting of Lols

Don't u get it I've had enough
I'm ready to grow up to break out of the shell
I'm prepared to take on life's earthquakes 
Waiting for the day when I'll have stories to tell

Princesses and fairies will never be real
There is nothing in the world that's free
You don't magically have a happy ending
All i can be in life is me

So I'm ready to grow up
To escape the magical world
For you have to earn whatever you want
Nothing comes in a pink sparkly twirl


So I've had enough
Rip my childhood apart
I'm happy to face the impending future
drown the happy memories in my heart

Copyright © Sapphire Williams | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
Like sick allergies, 
Boredom can be passed around
I call it: THE BOREDOM DISEASE

Like a horrid storm,
Boredom can catch you off guard
Hold on for DEAR LIFE!

Like the whooping cough,
Boredom can be serious
If I were you, I’d
Get a vaccination ! 

Copyright © JW Earnings | Year Posted 2013

Details | Verse |
Numerous number systems beyond the real:
complex numbers, octonions, omnions which can eat whole black holes.
It's axiomatic that your personal history, preferences, how you feel
account for nothing at all.

$30 buys a flock of chickens for a needy family (International Rescue
      Committee)
$29 gets a girl a school uniform (CARE), for $300 you can stock a fish
      pond (Heifer International)
$69 can start a female entrepreneur in the sewing business (Mercy
      Corps)
$5 will buy a bed net that protects a family from mosquitoes (Against
      Malaria)

20th century experiments demonstrated that electrical charge is
      quantized; that is, it comes in
multiples of individual small units called the elementary charge, e,
      approximately equal to 1.602
x 10-19 coulombs (except for particles called quarks which have charges
      that are multiples of
1/3e).

Why has the experimentalism of the avant-garde, which has failed in the
      novel, succeeded in
poetry? Because poetry is always experimental; while the novel, on the
      contrary, by its nature,
cannot be . . . which is to say that experimentalism is synonymous with
      poetry, and that applied
to the novel, it leads simply to the substitution of the novel with poetry.
      --Alberto Moravia

Man made the town, Fibonacci inflated zero to be the wheel
around which the universe turns and language is the soul
walking and talking quietly or going angrily to war.
"Counting is in its very essence magical, if any human practice is at all.
      For numbers are things no one has ever seen or heard or touched."
      As are words.

Joan Didion thought the scariest stanza in all of poetry
begins Row, row, row your boat gently
down the stream. The elements, the material penumbra,
irresolvable for the mortal, readily dissolve in words and numbers.





Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
Numbers hike off of the page 
to venture around the walls.
I'm not day dreaming
Im trying to find the answer on the wall
(like any teacher is going to beleive that)
I had the answer. I swear!

Who hired the devil to put letters in math?
And then add fraction bars.
and exponents 
and graphs
and functions
.......

who said numbers weren't enought to deal with?
Now it is x-4b over 30*836 all over 370y to the fith.
Im losing my mind,
hunched over letters I cant find

regretting this class,
I'd almost prefer mass.
rembering this class is required
can't wait for this class to retire.

My head is spinning,
dancing around the bonfire of answers,
that is right infront of me.

the point to give up approches.
Tears brimming the full glass eyes,
threatening to spill over.
The consepts are simple,
but when put infront of me,
An unknown language is all I see.



And to answer your question: Yes I am avoiding doing my math while writing this.

Copyright © Elissa Quigley | Year Posted 2017

Details | Rhyme |
Every moment I can't see your face;
These are the days and nights when I miss you.
I ask that you stay for always,
On sunny days and when it rains too.

If I speak to another pretty dame,
She's not the flame inside that grows.
In my heart you will remain;
This one thing I'd like you to know.



©2013 Honestly JT
For Skat -Love's "Under 10" Poetry Contest

Copyright © Honestly J.T. | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
"How's yours coming? Got any ideas? "
"I'm in the fifth stanza already, this is going to be neat!"
That's me and 4 other friends of the poetry club, 
Scribbling away in a corner where the tree's shadow
Builds a shelter from the sun, and for the Muses
Larking away in its green rustling branches. 

Really though, we should be in class....
But what's the point in hunting for an "x"
Which is written on the page, and has no meaning, 
Nor content? They call it a "variable"! 
Well, these words for sure are variable too, 
But to play with them and twist them to falter into 
New meanings (see what I did there?) is divine. 
No weird symbols from a Cyrillic alphabet today for us! 

We're scribbling our souls on pages, to see them live. 
We could get caught but no beating could ever beat the
Exhilaration of the ink dancing into new thoughts like Adam's first breath. 

(c) Nyonglema

Copyright © Nyonglema Pisoh | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |
rosie r red
a girls name,who was wacked in the head
a.violets r blue
she was a girl too
they liked each other and didnt know what to do
because somebody used their line in a poetry rhyme
it gets hit all the time
they just dont know what to do
if you like me then i like you

Copyright © chris bowen | Year Posted 2008

Details | Rhyme |
She has so much pain inside of her,
she doesn't know how to address it.
So she turns the pain into anger,
after she explodes, she becomes quiet.

She goes up to her room, upset.
Why does the world hate her so?
She thinks to herself, “That’s it!”
But in reality, it isn't though.

She lies on her bed,
Pulls out her book and reads.
As she turns the pages, she loses her head,
In her mind, she thinks “This is what I need.”

A place to escape the world,
Somewhere she can run.
For it seems everyone hates this girl,
And nothing she does is fun.

She plays her cello 
And loses herself in the music
She does this when she feels low
Then she plays the song of her pick

She listens to the beat she makes,
Trying to make it sound perfect,
But oh, she keeps making mistakes,
She thinks that she will never get it.

She leaves the cello alone
And watches her shows
She then grabs her phone
And tells her best friend the show as it goes.

She leaves the TV on, 
Then she enters her laptop.
She stays on till dawn,
She just can’t seem to stop.

She loves the idea of leaving the real world
And entering an imaginary one.
That’s the story of the girl,
Who is never done.

Copyright © Ana Jusino | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
http://youtu.be/p79ztWTnugE

You will not 
    seperate us.
For it is hate
    and love that made us.
It is the great and the small
    that reverberate within our bones.
It is every syn and antonym,
every opposite every known,
    the many, the alone.
         We are a poem.
You will never 
    isolate us
for it is truth
    and art that made us.
         We are a poem.

Copyright © Ilan Benjamin | Year Posted 2013

Details | Light Poetry |
With parties abounding
Why stay home alone
Your Mon and your Father
Can’t see that you’ve grown

No talent or accent
Are you really quite plain
No thunder or lightning
Just a 13 year rain

The pressure to join in
It’s really intense
Obtain the right symbols
On any pretense

No flash zoom or dazzle
You’ll not make the grade
Until you’re prepared 
For the great masquerade

Trade referent for symbol
And true wealth for cash
Make failures flamboyant
And cultivate dash

Just live for the moment
It’s all that you’ll get
Don’t think back or ponder
You’ll only regret

That what you must lay down
Exceeds what you’ll be
Just wood in a sawmill
Not a lush growing tree

Copyright © Douglas Dicketts | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
On an afternoon, rather dull and dreary
When things seemed quite tryingly weary
All of a sudden erupted a flurry
(Possibly the result of a flavoured curry?)
As a rather pungent aroma did diffuse
Speedily into the air, that it did abuse
With a violence so strong, so full of punch
That I pondered on the after-effects of lunch

From this terrible fury, did people take cover
That their lungs did slowly recover
From a biological weapon’s gaseous assault
That I wondered who could have been at fault
For this sudden burst of chemical warfare
That only the most brave could stoically bear
A weapon made of such volatile matter
That it could, such hardened forces, scatter. 

The culprit, as yet, has not been found
Moving with stealth, making no sound
Still, on the ready, to simply explode
With the most pungent weapon its armoury can hold.

Copyright © Alister Renaux | Year Posted 2009

Details | Light Poetry |
The student sits in third row last chair
His foolish words of attention are blurted everywhere
He understands not the value of listening
For he seeks laughs and howls for the teacher’s off>< pissing
Until finally the day of teacher student conflict
The teacher enquires of the student’s gimmicks 
Young man confronting the joker for all to hear
Your gall for the learned compliance suitable for classroom learning
Indicates your true ability of one of extremely asinine qualities
I must admit as all the students are listening here
You are the greatest highly intelligent gluteus Maximus I ever did hear

Copyright © Mark Goodson | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |
   	The location of the Spring Creek School was on a flat, nestled 
between the cliff on the north and the Little White River on the south.  The river 
flowed in from the northwest, circled to the south of the school about a quarter 
mile and wended it's way east departing to the northeast.  Though I never saw it 
in my day I imagine this was once a flood plain.  Yes, at one time this could 
easily have been the scene of flash floods.  The waters tumbling and sloshing 
their way across this insignificant piece of ground in a hurry to reach the exit.  
Time had slowed the waters and erosion had taken it's tole, leaving the west and 
south in twenty to thirty foot sharp sandy cliffs.  The ground sloped to the east 
leaving a two foot drop off.  A sandy graded road approached the large heavy duty 
bridge, crossed and continued on as a trail road.
	It's summer and the Little White River gently rolls from bend to bend.  
We are running back and forth across the bridge stopping now and then to lean 
over the rail and watch the Indian children splashing in the only deep spot.  It was 
first comers got the choice spot.  Big deal! Chest deep to a ten year old.
           We run off the bridge south.  The graded road crosses a big culvert 
allowing a small spring access to the river where it fans out at the point of entry.  
We run through the crystal liquid turning it into chocolate and leaving dents in the 
once smooth sand.  This is a child's paradise.  Sand so pure, soft and powdery 
warmed by the sun.  The deeper we dig the cooler the sand becomes as it is 
joined by the moisture below.
	Our mothers put limits on our water sports.  First: we had to wait an 
hour after the meal to get in the water.  Second: polio was a concern in our day 
and we didn't get to play as often as we thought we should.  Third: we were not 
allowed to swim unless our mothers were with us.  With the gardening, house 
keeping and canning, we were lucky if we got to swim two or three times a week.  
I guess that is why we spent most of our time on horseback.
	On the ridge north of the school stood a lookout tower.  In the long 
evenings we would be found always outside, either sitting on the steps, running 
up and down the fire escapes or in the front yard.  This was the only real green 
grass in the area.  It was fenced to keep cattle or horses from trampling it into the 
mirrored image of its surroundings.  This enclosure measured fifty by a hundred 
feet and was kept watered.  A large tree provided the only shade

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007

Details | Light Poetry |
Rote an esay
Cheked IT twise
Lot's a' mistakes
Graide not so nice...

I yused comas
Perfetley placed paws
"2 much incoheeseivenes"
I cant, brake up a, claws

Yused fulstops.
not tolong a .sentense
But teecher. was furryous
Marked down with a venjance

Did exclamashons!
Sumtimes .3 @ once!!!!
& YUSED CAPS 2 SHOUT!!
Butt "you ownly need one,!!"

Coalon,
Wen I need 2 maik: lists
Rote my: Faverit, tv shos
But: teecher were: p*ssed

Semicoalons;
Wen, I need 2 look: smart!!
nut shure wat. they do; But
the esay ritings really hard!!!

[93 werds]

Copyright © Michael Whatley | Year Posted 2016

Details | Quatrain |
O.K., let’s see where you are with your math, 
Which areas do we need to work through.
Algebra, space, number, or measurement, 
Which topic do you need to review?

Today, algebra, a fantastically obtuse idea,
Instead of numbers, use letters, counting the ABC’s.
By the end of this tutorial you’ll love these letters, 
Counting everything with ease.

Words like simplify, expand, and collect like terms,
Will become your new second diction.
Don’t use these letters like in tedious essays,
Nor like when expressing your poetic fiction.

Algebra strives to abbreviate everything, 
Every single concept’s to be generalized.
It establishes an effective working formula, 
Making it all neat, sleek, tidy, and stylized.

But don’t ask me who uses this at work, 
Laborers, builders or for financial investments.
Just make sure you use it next Monday morning, 
When you’re sitting your math exam assessments.

Copyright © Lewis Raynes | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |
               Murphy wished for a Prince who rode a White horse...
               So she went back to college and took a new course...
               She met a man who drove a green pinto...
               Although he had no idea where his life would go...
               His wants and needs he wanted for free...           
               As he had no intentions of working you see...
               So they moved in together...and she paid the bills...
               He played online games and took many pills...
               While she worked two jobs, and going to school...
               Her friends told her often she was a fool...
               This wasn’t a relationship...this was just bizarre...
               And to make matters worse, he drove her sports car...
               But she explained, he needs me and I don’t want to be alone...
               Besides I have created a most beautiful home...
               The years flew by and no changes were made..
               She graduated with honors, and now had a trade..
               At the firm of Morgan White Esquire at Law...
               This was just the beginning and the last straw...
               She finally came to her senses you see...
               Of her dreams and wishes that were meant to be...
               She now had her “ Morgan “ and her “Prince” you see... 
              A Morgan is a breed of horse...and the rest is history
                 
                

Copyright © kj force | Year Posted 2014

Details | I do not know? |
With a pen
 and paper,

I write,
 I scribble.
I read,
 and I repeat.

Again,
 again,
 and again.

Copyright © Julia Ho | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |
this poem is dedicated to my Mr mellors i hope he reads this

The Cop, The Math Teacher, The Guide you've been there for me when i was confused and could not see the forest or the path you were there when school was hell and life was black as midnight you were there when i screwed up and found myself trapped by my own mistakes even though i disappointed you at times and made you want to tear your hair out you were there you've always been there and cannot thank you enough Thank You Mr. Mellors

Copyright © Wolf Lief | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |
                     There were seven Indian Government schools.  All built alike.  The 
one I'm writing about is Spring Creek.  He Dog, Soldier Creek and White River, 
Grass Mountain, Two Kettle, and Black Pipe were the other schools.  The 
Headquarters for these schools was at Rosebud, South Dakota. 
	On some summer evenings we were able to talk our mothers into 
hiking to the lookout tower.  We followed the ankle deep sandy trail road to the 
cliff north of the school.,  A canyon lay at the foot of the tower but we climbed the 
bluff.  I don't know why we didn't explore the canyon unless it seemed dark and 
sinister.  The footing was better once we reached the summit.  The closer we got 
to the tower the taller it grew and standing at the foot of the steps looking up was 
easier than getting to the top and looking down.  My mother didn't usually make it 
to the top because she didn't like heights.  But she didn't mind being left behind 
this time.  We never could get into the building at the top because it was locked, 
but we could climb the steps to the very last one.  Even my little sister managed 
to elude mom and followed us to the top. 
	From the bluff we could look down on the garden.  My aunt grew a 
huge garden and canned the produce for the hot meals served the school 
children.  We kids didn't work in the garden very often, but we looked for the arrow 
heads and fossils.  Which, I suspect the adults probably considered the best 
place for us.
	At the end of the road, living in shack, was Old Lady Grease.  I have a 
vague recollection of seeing her.  Tiny, frail, wrinkled and gray headed is all I can 
remember.
	In spring and fall we were in school in Kansas.
	It's Christmas now.  Cold and usually snowy.  We were in a winter 
wonder land.
	I'm standing at the fire escape window.  The ghostly pale full moon is 
illuminating the naked arms of the trees as they shiver in the wind, swaying to 
and fro as if dancers in a ballet.  I listen to the winter sounds. The frigid air 
enhances their sharpness.  The ax's thud echoes up the canyon as one of the 
Indians across the river chops another supply of wood.  One of his peers beats 
on the drum.  It is one-thirty a. m.  but the thin walls of the tents do not keep the 
cold out.  Day or night this chore must be attended to for survival.

Copyright © Marycile Beer | Year Posted 2007