Prose Poetry Teacher Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Teacher

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Details | Prose Poetry |

My Best Friend

I had nowhere to turn, had nowhere to go, this is just something ,I think you need to know! I don't know what made me trust you, I still remember the day, when I told what I had been through! I thought, I should jump off, or go hide in a hole, but then I followed whatever you told!
As each day grew longer, my trust became stronger! Each time I wanted to cry, you stayed there right by my side!
Then I moved to the twelfth grade, I was really afraid, that my trust would slowly fade, But I was very wrong, the bond is still strong!
Even Though you don't have time, you at least ask me if I am fine! You are just seen for a while,with your contagious smile! And then you walk away and you are out of sight, I smile and then things are alright!
I am so glad,that you were there when I was sad! You are the one on whom I can always depend, And this is what makes you...MY BEST FRIEND

Copyright © sakshi sitoot | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Your My Dear Friend

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Perry Campanella | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


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

Copyright © Mario DE PAZ | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Zen Math

Listen up but learn deep,
said the non-existent Zen Math teacher.
I'm only saying this once
and it will be on your test
now nearly finished.

1. All nomials are part of the universal network of polynomials,
just as all memes are part of an integral memory system
or there would be neither nomial
nor meme.

2. All nomials are also binomials
for the same reason we call half a moon
a Full Moon
and refer to a quartile of moon
as a Half Moon.

3. Which is also why digital information 
is always binary,
and why double-binds are also double negative oxymorons 
of equivalent co-arising notnot coincidence.

4. And why,
on a Zero Zen-centered Earth,
all polynomials are equivalent to double-negative polynomials,
dualdark shadow yin square roots
trending Yang notnot empty virginity,
remembering (0)-soul bilateral regenerativity
of co-arising Time.

Those are my questions.
Now, could we become a more resonantly comprehensive answer?

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

My Best Teacher

I had some very good primary school teachers who were awesome 
But in all my schooling, one of my college instructors stood out to be super awesome

In our first day of class we all sat on a beautiful mat that she had acquired from one of her travels to a middle eastern country
Then we drank tea in tiny little cups
This is a welcoming gesture that she had learnt from her travels
This special gesture always reminds me of the book Three Cups of Tea
We were about twelve students, about five minorities 
It was called World Studies

That little gesture brought all of us closer

On our last day of class we had an international potluck where we each brought food from our different cultures and ethnic backgrounds
Am sure God was smilling on that day as he watched us try each other's foods and learn about each other through it

I remember a story she told us of how she wore a niqab to her church and stood by the door as a greeter
She talked of how most people avoided her direction, some not even looking at her

She was this petite white woman
She had travelled to twenty something countries worldwide doing missionary work
She had walked on soils where women were regarded inferior and unworthy 
She had put her hands during her missions, in places where white people were loathed

But even with some of the dire situations she found herself into, she still had that caring and loving heart

I remember the projects we did for refugees 
Another of her many passions
She provided healthcare, education and assisted with basic needs acquisitions for them

I learnt that we can all sit down, have a cup of tea, put down our differences and accept each, 
to make this world a peaceful place

Copyright © njeri hunjeri | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |

Mellors math teacher

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 |

The Teacher and The Student

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

Copyright © hiram lewis | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Nothing But Chalk

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

Copyright © A Rambling Righting Riley - Shauna Riley | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Spot Takes Teacher for a Walk


	You're so handsome, the best-looking one 
	in town. More importantly, I've never known 
	anyone so loyal! You truly are man's--I mean 
	MY--best friend. Now, now!  No neck nuzzling. 
	I have things to do. You're hungry? Okay, just 
	a healthy, crunchy snack for now. I'll grade a 
        few essays while you chow down.

        Ohhh, OK, I'll share the porch swing with you.
	A walk? Now? Well, all right. I want you to be
	happy. We'll just take a brief--Whoa! Not so
	blooming fast! I want to lead. Let's stay on the 
	sidewalk. May I lead--please? I'm supposed to 
	be walking YOU. Neighbors are pointing and 
	laughing-- except for Miss Daisy.	No, not her 
	prize-winning flower bed! Last week, her paper; 
	this week, her flowers. Haven't we tested her 
	Christianity enough? Aw, come on. If she wants 
	fertilizer . . .  Here she comes with a big stick!

	YOU'RE ready to go back now?
	Great! But first drag me to the clinic.
	Oh, my rotator cuff!

January 18, 2016

Copyright © Janice Canerdy | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

My Other Teacher

My Other Teacher
By Curtis Johnson
Nature ever thrives to reach.
She never fails to teach. 
Sometimes the lessons flow
                                                                                                                to the shores of the beach.

She sings, she prays, and often screens, 
                                                                                                               ever so loudly from the deep.
.                                                                                                               She will shake, shock, and rock 
                                                                                                                the very foundation of my feet.
                                                                                                                She often wrecks havoc and makes us weep.
.                                                                                                               But without her,  who bares the rod of shepherds,                                             we would go astray like sheep

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |



Our family was raised,
Knowing and loving God.
The many things about Him,
We never thought it odd.

God referred to Wisdom,
In Proverbs as "She".
Blessed is the one who finds it,
A promise to you and me.

Now Solomon was selected,
As Wisdom's special man.
His biblical understanding,
Measureless as the sand.

Common sense we re told,
Leads one to be wise.
Perhaps in an uncommon degree,
Does wisdom come in a different size?

God grants men wisdom,
It is yours for free.
One must work for this treasure,
Pick the fruit from the tree.

All the knowledge of ages past,
If printed in a book.
Are condensed in The Bible,
Why not take a look.

An active life,
Sows wisdom's seed.
Be ready for the harvest,
It is valuable indeed.

I have a special message,
Describing wisdom just for you.
First, know what is false,
Then know what is true.


Copyright © Raymond Morgan | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Moon Shiniest Bright

The full moon shiniest bright inside its double ringed circle as I hoped to see the blood moon meteorologist talked about all week. 
Sad to say I missed the moment so many gazed with their telescopes and cameras. 

I pulled back the white sheer curtain to see the full moon shining its soft shine into my dark room. 
A brown curtain is all that keeps prying eyes from peeping in the sliding glass door at midnight. 

The wooded area so close behind my house hides much. 
No animals roaming, vertical or upright, can see me sitting, watching TV or on my iPad late into the wee hours of the morning. 

October 8 2014 sees another blood moon, but I missed it all. 
Maybe the next one will grace my eyes with its beauty. 

Copyright © Barbara Washington | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

It's So Free

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © Perry Campanella | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Contradictions in Terms

Trying to purchase the trust of a Taoist judge
or the wisdom of a sagacious teacher
is like trying to buy love from a healthy nutritionist,
s/he may be for rent to the highest bidder
at a sliding-fee designed to remain mutually unaffordable,
but most holistically
(and often huffily)
not for sale.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016