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The Best 9Th Grade Poems

 
Details | 9Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

le stress dans l'education

I cannot stress enough how much this stress is stressing me out 
Stresssssssssssss
Extra stress on the last S
Because it just became unbearable
Bearing depression and anxiety in his arms, shirt tucked and hair combed to the T
Mr. Education System waltzed into my life and
Introducing himself as Mr. E
See what i thought was teeth in his smile
Was actually deciet and for a while
I was fooled.
So when he introduced me to his older brother S
And his younger sister A
I was excited because they seemed cool
And this was the beginning of my big mistake

I'm in form 1 now and everywhere I look I see a new face
New work, new teachers and everything at a new pace
So I pace myself
But I'm here to confess
The entire year I was frozen in work like a bust
But I managed to adjust
And somehow past my first end of year test

I'm in form 2 now and I just found a new clique
Cuz the entire class just divided and apparently you have to be cautious where you speak
So I stressed over finding me a group
A group where I belong because I'm in form 2 now 
And a social life determines whether you weak or strong

Oh finally I'm in form 3 and introduced to Ms. NCSE
I never felt stress like this before
I don't even know what breakfast is anymore
I just wake up and drink tea cuz
This school thing changed my appetite to an appetighter
Destroying my body allnighter after allnighter after allnighter

In form 4 I learnt in order to get success you must first get depressed.
And so I made school my drug and I made sure I got hooked.
See I'm constantly crushed under everyone's high expectations for me when the only thing higher is my stack of books.
Studying 30 hours a day but aren't there only supposed to be 24?
I can't take this school thing anymore
I go to class and cry at the door
I'm sore. 
Mentally and financially because every term is a new list
But ofc I'm buying it because I turn those pages into chains and shackles and secured them around my ankles and wrists
I'm not even going address form 5 because I was dead inside for most of it.

I survived it all just to gain Mr. E's approval
I got all my passes and now suppsed to be finalizing my removal 
But I pause
And i sign up for form 6
Because I'm hooked to this lifestyle that's way too broken to fix
I'm standing and looking at my life from now to way back when I used to dance in drapes
Mentally readying myself for my new inamorata Ms. CAPE


Copyright © Leo CollinsII | Year Posted 2018

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America

Although she feeds me bread of bitterness, 
And sinks into my throat her tiger's tooth, 
Stealing my breath of life, I will confess 
I love this cultured hell that tests my youth! 
Her vigor flows like tides into my blood, 
Giving me strength erect against her hate. 
Her bigness sweeps my being like a flood. 
Yet as a rebel fronts a king in state, 
I stand within her walls with not a shred 
Of terror, malice, not a word of jeer. 
Darkly I gaze into the days ahead, 
And see her might and granite wonders there, 
Beneath the touch of Time's unerring hand, 
Like priceless treasures sinking in the sand.


Copyright © Lucia Vellen | Year Posted 2018




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A Yearbook Pickup Line

He wrote inside my 9th grade yearbook: "I'd like to get with you inside a kayak." Today I would respond: "Your kisses were so heavenly, but you abandoned me. So it's a 'no' to me and you together in a small canoe!" Dedicated to my first kiss, Glenn, a real son-of-a-preacher man.


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015

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My Sweet Susan

(9th grade love affair with a blind cream boy and a sweet voice finger stroke magic girl in the 60's, 
unfettered with a keen process of kissing vertical in the Clark hall, hoping to go   un-but ever noticed, but a feather in every boys, my boy, cap of having a good girl well within their, and no one elses' grasp, yes it would get around thank God for me, skinny Dave, yes so skinny I couldn't even capitaize my name on that issue of skin-y, yet you with your sweet temperment, your love scorpio voice, big brown eyes, and love countenance,  we said a, a my only a convenient horizontal floor limelight sentimemnt atop each other and and blended tried to blend our love waves together. So different/indifferent, yet so  uniparental in pain in a decade biscuit of all-over-the-place-with-almost irreverent social emos, that we didn't know if we were cominggoingbeentheredonethat in a non sequitar imbalance of two people caught in a love timeframe of youth without any uni-versal guidane, but a platitiude of oneness with each other when it, a non coital countenance illrequired reared its awful head. The then Teen sexuality unleashed in a fervor of top/up tear/drop down frivolity and wet/dry/measured sexual ignorrumorousindifference, yet timely disuaded and semen (hopefully)but cheered inefficient. No little illegit Collins' running around this planet due to a/my failure to launch. The count down was always go/so, but Liftoff was always in question with a me internal/ever non-answer, "Scrub the Emission man" due to unfavorable environmental conditions, should anything unfortunate give a naked arise to an unpleasant superficial. I applaud your female rambo askance/push/shove/kick my ass presence for the allotment of my bodily poorly tuned teen socio-demented sperm prowess. 
Since I had no male role model of any kin kind, oh wait, a brother who inflated a girl at 14, a father who died at 5, and an emovacant mom, WTFDYDWTB? 
Do the grammar man, all you millenial miniscules. 
Then, Enter the Rabbit! (Yea, like Enter the Dragon") Bless u and all those that conjured, cared, contributed and craped to the survival of that black and white thing, esp, Linda. We shared a special animal like convenience/contrivance, life bond, heterosensual configuration that belies a subjective definition. Here, now, remembered,enlivened, believed, mysterious, yet potentialized. Cool, baby, love u. We are reborn in a remittance of calculated time spooled, counter found, erased framed, bullet targeted, dot heavenated and encircled in an dumbfounded cunumdrum. Pass the potatoes please?


Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2016

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Where The Vision Visits

Kentucky's late summer sunshine
sunk deep into their skin
as the boy rode on the back
of his Grandfather's coppered horse,
the tobacco harvest would begin soon,
aromas of sweet leaf darkness
were wafting in the field heat,
to the big barn they bounced
buoyant for the business of bushels
crafted by a lineage of fearless farmers
who knew the revolutions and roses of the land,
a stop at the pond for water and shade
would be wise, should be fine and fair,
Edgar lept off being swated in the face
by the horse's sweeping tail,
at the water's edge he could see secrets
loud in silence and wild in truth,
a shadow took form
at the horse's eyes
it reared violently, 
with a screaming panic it pounced
through the pond it charged across
with Grandfather desperately holding the reins
the breathing terror pumping
through the horse's body
was felt along it's spine by the old rider,
after madly striking the fence
it turned back to the shaken pond
with a furious stride upon the earth,
plunging in heavily
it's forelegs buckled badly
throwing Grandpa straight over into the broken water,
on his back, shocked to death under blue sky
the horse he raised from pony
hammered him with no mercy
into water pure,
standing there, deaf to death,
paralysed by slow motion murder,
the eyes and teeth of the horse
with it's mane electrified
and hooves lancing
is all he could see
while life stopped in the sun,
and then there was calm,
his Grandfather's hands 
slowly closed into that terrible water,
it would not be long before the boy
would see the spirit of Grandpa Tom
in the tobacco sheds, examining machinery,
scrutinizing the sheafs, singing the seed songs,
his spirit sight was not triggered by sudden tragedy, 
throughout childhood he conversed with the "playfolk"
the children of eternal outdoor youth
but as he grew they did not
and age seemed to seperate
the sense of their consanguinity,
it was time to live amongst the fellow flesh
to say goodbye to good ghosts,
the schoolhouse was a strain
on his simple soul,
his mind meandered into mazes
of biblical antiquity
daydreaming of divine deluge,
of wilderness wanderings
and sermons that serve the heart,
the Bible was the only book
that brooked the heartbeat to heaven,
by the time Edgar was thirteen
he had read the Scriptures twelve times,
possessed by the pedigree of passion
he pledged to read them for every year of his life,
the meaning of ministry pulsing in his purpose,
immersed in the verse of Monoah
by the clear water creek of contemplative quietude
the wings of a resplendent woman
swept Edgar's honest arid hair
as his fingers pressed the pages of prophecy
which lay upon his lap,
she simply glittered like glory
in the existence of true happiness
she was an angel of auspicious alms
come to ask the aim of his spirit
to which he replied shyly
to help the sick and searching
find healing and headway through Christ,
the angel woman declared with perfect joy
that his wish would be realized
as she went away with spellbinding evanescence,
that night his Father would berate him
for failing grammar lessons,
over and over
Edgar would sink into the questions
and his Father the "Squire"
would strike his apparent stupidity, 
the angel woman's voice
spoke within the boy's head
like violet against gray
suggesting that if he'd sleep a minute
with the lesson book under his head
the knowledge therein would be known,
when his Father woke him
Edgar knew the contents
as a clock knows the numbers,
the "Squire" was stunned
and a psychic gift had begun,
Edgar Cayce discovered a terrific talent,
an autohypnotic ability
that allowed him to read the body of the Universe
and everything in it,
he became a seer of stars,
in trance, his subconscious mind
could communicate with any other, anywhere,
the primary objective of his virtue
was to provide medical "Readings"
to those in earnest need of treatment, 
the medical expertise which he effortlessly espoused
surpassed the skill of the best professionals
in every conceivable field of medicine, 
physiology, diagnostics, pharmacology, psychology, 
physical therapy and so on,
eventually friends and clients
would implore him to explore
the metaphysics of Man,
to investigate ancient history
and the rivets of religion,
reincarnation would rise in import,
Mr. Cayce would report
karma is colorfully constant
that Earth is a special soul port,
to return to flesh is to return to rectifying flame,
he remained a Christian not just in name,
he found justice in Jesus and grace in goodwill,
after dying at 67 in 1945
this unrefined farmboy of a 9th grade education
left a legacy of 14,000 plus "Readings"
that have given healing and hope
to millions of human beings -

J.A.B.

This poem is dedicated to the life of "The Sleeping Prophet"
Edgar Cayce and his faithful wife Gertrude Evans Cayce.
I strongly recommend the biography,  "There Is A River, The Story Of Edgar Cayce"
Justin A. Bordner


Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2017

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The Bombay Grocery


Shyam*, finds cat food at special rate near the door. Goes to check out to manager of the grocery store Doubting manager asks him to bring cat if he has one Shyam returns with his small cat to buy food anon. Next day Shyam comes with a bag in his hand And asks the manager to put his hand in the bag down to the end Manager puts his hand and shouts “Pooh, Doodie pure” Shyam says, “yes, sir, I want the toilet paper sure”
+++++++ March 23, 2014 Dr. Ram Mehta Form: Rhyme Sixth Place Win Contest: Collaboration by Jared Pickett Collaboration of Ram Mehta and Shyam Mehta The poem is partly a fictional write. First Stanza is a real event but the second stanza is fictional. But I wanted to test my grandson's rhyming talent. So wrote the first stanza and asked him to write second stanza with fun and humor, of course with my suggestion that suppose he goes to buy toilet paper and the owner needs a proof. * Shyam is an Indian name. He is a 9th Grade student in Charlotte, NC.


Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2014

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Question Is Freedom Speech

My words glide observantly over head
Like fierce hungry birds of prey
They pierce like daggers deep inside
The ears of those way up high

My words are harsh and filled with pain
They watch and ponder with all their shame
Yet they don’t seem to have the might
The force or the strength to fight.
 
They are meant to free us all who speak
Yet I who uses them don’t feel free
What makes my battle any different
That my words can’t seem to bring me freedom.

What good are the all powerful words
If they can’t heal me or my world.

(Written in 9th grade)


Copyright © Patricia Moran | Year Posted 2014

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An Announcement

"Girls have cooties,"
announced Howard Banks,
in the 4th grade.

"I don't," I replied,
so he kissed me on the cheek.

If only all minds were changed so easily.

Soccer team, one lonely locker room
Door labeled "BOYS".
Where am I, where are we?

Dear Sexism
We have strong legs
and even stronger minds
Remember that
Y chromosome is nothing
without an X

"Girls can't play," 
announced Coach Raymond,
in the 9th grade.

"I can," I replied,
pushed aside the "men"
and scored the goal.


Copyright © Avery Hall | Year Posted 2006

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Children Are Why We Need Higher Taxes

Steven is a retired teacher disturbed by the problems he sees in education. Schools weren’t perfect when he was teaching but they were better than they are today. He has ideas for improvements. 

Some of his ideas are new and some have been around awhile. It’s hard to disagree with them. The problem is, they will cost money and that money will have to come from higher taxes. He thinks if we can spend billions on defense, we can afford to spend millions on education. Children’s minds are more important, he says, than missiles and bombs.

The reform of public education begins with getting more parents involved in it. Studies in the Amana colonies in Iowa show high performing students result in part from the support of parents. Involved parents are needed more than ever. Twitter and Facebook, appealing as they are to students, won't teach them the important things about life they need to know. 

In Steven's community, there’s a noticeable lack of parental involvement. Parents will flood a cheerleader tryout but won't attend a back-to-school event after their children are beyond third grade. Teachers try everything to get them to attend and nothing works. It’s always the same, relatively small group of parents who come.

I was surprised to hear him say students must learn their multiplication tables and long division by fourth grade. I assumed most students managed to do that. Apparently not. Many teachers say students won’t do the homework necessary to learn these basic skills.

He also says a pleasure reading time is needed in elementary schools. This would help build reading skills and make reading an avocation. Students need to read something besides what's on their cell phones.

The first three grades, he says, should be dedicated to reading, writing and arithmetic. Again, I had assumed that was the case. Not so. Too many children today become adults without being able to read and do basic math. Being able to write a coherent email can be a challenge for some. Shortcuts used on Twitter aren’t a big help.

Calculators should be banned until the end of the fourth grade, he says. I didn’t know children were using them in grammar school. Eons ago I never saw one in grammar school or high school. You had to do the math in your mind. 

Students must also be taught to spell. Too many of them can’t do that now. Reading a lot and seeing words frequently would help them learn to spell, my friend says.  

I remember spelling bees when I was in grammar school. Boys would stand on one side of the room and girls on the other. By and large the girls were the better spellers. But for me and two other boys, there was competition to be the last boy standing. And sometimes one of us would win. We learned to spell and had a lot of fun.

It’s wrong, my friend says, to allow software on grammar school computers that corrects grammar and spelling. Grammar checks and spell checks do the work for them and students lose an opportunity to learn. 

Civics and American History also need to be emphasized. He remembers having a student in the 9th grade ask him who had the Nazis fought in the Civil War. 

He also recommends that teachers be given supplies to give out to students who need them. Poor students don’t have the money to buy supplies and teachers have to provide them. Too many have to do so out or their own pocket.

Executives in private industry go to lunch and charge it to their employers. Teachers don’t do that. So why not give them access to the supplies their students need. 

My friend knows higher taxes will be needed to do this but says more children will graduate and be prepared to find a good job or further their education. And they in turn will become taxpayers. 

Another of his recommendations would also involve higher taxes. Students should be allowed to eat breakfast at school if they arrive hungry. At some schools this is currently the case. It's important, he says, because too many students don’t eat breakfast at home. 

Poverty is often the reason but sometimes it’s two parents leaving early for work. They assume their children will eat a good breakfast. Not always the case.

It would also help to stop criticizing teachers, Steven says, most of whom do their best to instruct students. Students who come from difficult home environments aren’t easy to teach. 

Some teachers are the most caring adults in the lives of children. They need public support and the money required to get the job done. 

Everything Steven suggests is based on common sense. The problem is, most of his suggestions require that you and I pay higher taxes not only to educate children but to feed those who come to school hungry. 

Since we have to pay taxes for public education, why not pay a little more to do the job right. 

You and I won’t go broke and we won’t go hungry and we’ll still be able to buy a car when we need one. 

Parents of poor students can’t do that. 

When someone must live paycheck to paycheck, it's difficult when the paycheck isn’t big enough. And that is still too often the case in the United States of America. 



Donal Mahoney


Copyright © Donal Mahoney | Year Posted 2017

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Miss Jill may find a way

Miss Jill may find a way.

As I thought about your kindness
And the kids you teach at school.
I pondered how any help can come
From the ink of this old fool.

Is there any value in his work?
Reading some rhymes could be fun.
The one about the little bear cubs
Out for a daily, adventurous run.

Some might be too sad.
Miss Hattie moving on.
Or The Last Christmas Goose
May not be the perfect one.

But maybe the real lesson here
Is not so plain for all to see.
Hidden now from ‘plainer’ view.
The real lessons just may be.

For the student with no interest
There’s the image of this old man.
Wanting in his waning years
To share stories the best he can.

But with no formal schoolin’
He’s left to merely wallow.
For he is left to do his best
With no clear path to follow

Had he known long years ago
That his ageing head would fill.
With rhyming words to share
He’d have swallowed a”poets” pill.

Practiced all the little tricks
Those teachers teach in schools.
Spelling, punctuation and grammar
All have their ‘poetic’ rules.

When “oldbuck” was young
Those 70 long years before.
He couldn’t imagine what
He’d need those hard rules for.

But like trigonometry skills.
It would takes some 50 years
Before he’d need that stuff
Long stored between his ears.

He’s trying for a better job
They assumed that he could do
But to just make sure of that
There were”trig” problems, not a few.

There he was in a tight spot.
It was important he do his best.
He called upon old stuff he’d learned
Cramming for a 9th grade test.

So maybe that’s the hidden value
The real worth of all you’ll find.
It’s not the stories that he’s told
It’s how they spark young minds.

So if you find some value here.
If you can use them as examples
Of broken rules or faulty use.
You will find so many samples. :o(

If I’ve sparked your interest
I wish you luck as you look now.
To see if any of what’s been “writ”
Could now be used somehow.
* * * * * * * * *
Written by oldbuck May 1st 2017
as he thought about Miss Jill and
the clever little students that await
her voice each day.
How could those silly rhymes
be used with them in any way?


Copyright © Old buck | Year Posted 2017

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August 29, 1986

(This poem is true)

Twenty years ago today was the last day I went to school.
I was fed up with taking the students and teachers bull.
I dropped out in the 9th grade but years later I graduated high school at the age 
of twenty-three.
I hope other kids don't drop out like me.


Copyright © randy johnson | Year Posted 2006

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For Her

For the girl that calls me her gump I write you this poem
Because you are my Gump 

The church was where I met you 
Way back in the day 
Not knowing what we’d soon be going through, 
So I have a lot to say, 

 From then on we became friends, 
not knowing first communion would end, 

I remember how much we use to laugh, 
We would have endless conversations, 
You was something I couldn’t pass, 
Cuz I had the patience, 

One year had past since I last seen you 
Not knowing I’d see you again 
7th grade was here 
Not knowin we’d become closer friends 

8th grade came so we became even closer 
We both knew what we wanted 
Cuz we wanted eachother, 

I remember that night 
When I asked you out 
Your answer to my question 
Was something I didn’t doubt 

It wasn’t that long 
Till it came to an end 
So in this poem 
I dare not say what happened, 

As we moved on to highschool 
We hadn’t spoken since our little incident 
9th grade you wanted a second chance 
I said no 

You said not care what happened 
But still I said no. 

Time had passed 
We finally made peace 
It was about time 
Cuz all the tension was released 

10th grade you left 
You were no longer here 
Even though we kept in touch 
Not seeing you again 
Was something I feared 

Senior year you came back 
From parties to pissing Karen off 
And homecoming and prom 
We been through it all 

You of all people warned me about “her” 
I should’ve never had her as my lover 

Look now were in college 
weve been through so much 
don’t worry, theres always gonna be oppurtunities 
for me and you 
because my feelings have always been deep for you 
in other words this whole poem means 
I…<3……you


Copyright © leonardo garcia | Year Posted 2010

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My Jiggling boobs

since maintaining a diet 
of exercise heeding "yo dude" 
(you look like a lady)
the inner fitness maven against 
the temptation of high caloric junk food 

and nightly snack king 
on a flexible fitness routine, 
this LIX aged body electric feels good
these myopic eyes and 

well-calibrated hands measure less dense hood- 
winking bosom, that if I feigned being 
a "bared naked lady" - 
as per this chest lewd

city in reference to "man boobs" 
that seemed to materialize overnight 
now appear to decrease as well 
that unwanted "love handle, 

this chap more inclined 
tubby in a greater mood 
to parade around 
this noncrowded house shirtless 
AND definitely NOT in public, 
BUT no weigh Jose 
would this generic guy go completely nude
cuz being self-consciousness of my physique 
might prompt outsiders 

to consider me a prude
and even during closed bedroom door 
sexual exploits deter me tibia rude
fellow (with average go daddy long legs) 
and my dangling dipstick smallish 
(concluding biology screwed)
a chap worthy tube he more endowed,

though gratitude proffered
to same divine cosmic consciousness
but as the year's pile up appreciation 
of functional faculties alter matts' at tee 'tude
accepting physical characteristics 
more or less static 
hoe ping belive mass elf ya wood.










Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2018

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A Civil Soldiers Tale

"Lie still now, soldier", the Union General said,
As he knelt down beside the boy’s bloody, wounded head.
The dying young lad, no more than fifteen, if a day,
Wore the blight of cannon, and being in its way.

The General swallowed hard, to fight back the pressing tears, 
Before he gazed upon his soldier, now less limbs and gear.
"Is it b-bad?" the soldier asked, in a voice filled with fear. 
"Not at all,” the General lied, knowing the boy had not a prayer.

"You’ll soon be headin’ home," he continued in a whisper.
"Back to your mammy and your pappy, and your favorite dog, Kipper."
The soldier forced a smile and then closed his swollen eyes,
"Why Sir, I think I see them! Looks like ma baked me two pies."

The General shuddered knowing, the lad's folks died years ago,
And the dog named Kipper-- killed in an avalanche of snow.
He only knew these things, since he had taken the boy in,
As this dying soldier's father had been the General’s next of kin.

"This bloodshed has to stop" the General groaned and shook his head,
"Did our boys grow up together just to shoot each other dead?"
"Must be something I can do!" he shouted, rising to his feet,
To be silenced by a bullet as it grazed across his cheek.

The soldier took a breath, his head fell back- eyes open wide.
The General took his sword and laid it by the boy’s side.
"Go now, son," he said, "back to those you love,"
"And give them my regards; in fact give your pa a shove."

Sudden, in the distance, he heard another soldier’s cry,
"The South just surrendered as stated by a Union spy!”
The General stood up slowly and brushed off his dusty knees,
Wiped away a single tear, returning to his company.


Copyright 2006/Shirley Petrandis


Copyright © Shirley Petrandis | Year Posted 2018

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Think Spring

Now, unlike my usually trenchant literary librettos, i regale the unknown (tum me) reader for savoir faire articulation, elocution, and indomitable tour de force proffered by spectrum of bounteous expropriated hegemony rightful to Mother Nature. 
--------------------------------------------------------
A Place Revisited Within The Mind
(an illusory escape during dead of winter).
 
The shafts of a golden veil, spring sun at noon
break through the heavily coated
overgrowth of leafy foliage
and cause shadows spar upon forest floor.

In a field of wild
a mosaic of crystalline color
from prismatic play of sunshine
upon the silently talking heads
of the swaying stalks.

the scintillating and sparkling rays
in unison with the weft
(and warp across an invisible loom)
weaves a delicious tasting warm breeze,

(which sways the boughs of treetops to and fro,
akin to an unseen baby being cradled)
brings a ladled spate of cool freshness
from the map-cap world (webbed wide)
of a manmade existence.

The grandeur of the fallow spring meadow
a pageant of exquisite dignity
by the graceful movements
from the un-choreographed fall and rise
of the unplowed acres

eyes orbit, ear re: Canal,
and twitching nostrils of sensate beings
to the mellifluous sounds
and sweet smelling aromas
that gently teasingly assault the senses
beguiling the sight,

and lulling ears into a transcendent state.
A buoyant airy tonal plume
rises into the surrounding heights
touches the breadth of cerulean sky
and scythe lent lee gently tumbles back down
like a merry widow waltzing flowery water fall.

In quiet circumspection 
the antics sans plethora of buzzfeed ding
busily buzzing foraging insects,
which contentedly hum and alight nearby

flitting to and fro
oblivious to plaudits encore
harmoniously thriving 
within the living laboratory

of Mother Nature,
sans, Insects or Insecta are by far
count as the largest group of
hexapod invertebrates
within the arthropod phylum,

where simultaneously
underneath the earthen surface
the ground tis abustle with
glorious heart throb

of one micro universe
comprising architects, builders and weavers
engage in all manner
of natural devices for a livelihood.

This brilliant splendor tantamount
to top notch operatic performance,
a sensational visual and audiological feast
hypnotizing one humble human (me)
into an inebriated state of bliss.


Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2018

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Nature

Flowers bloom and grow,
Tall grasses sway on the fields.
The sun starts to melt off the snow.
Look at the colors it reveals!
Bright pink flowers are seen,
And purple and yellow and green.
Nature, so calming and pretty,
Humble, yet grand as a city!


Copyright © Kayla Mcgale | Year Posted 2018

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Social-Pity

Social Pity
Upon the land of which we hate others
of a mirror of ourselves
we destroy ourselves
humanity is a mirror of this truth
take a look
beyond the facades
can you see
thats where the truth lies
beneath the surface
people fear
the change they cant handle
so dwell among the surface they will
as others dwell deeper
those are the hope for human kind
my hope for them have not died
but day by day it grows a slimmer chance
the distruction of mankind
will be their own ignorance
and fear
may their minds rest
and be of peace
till the choice is of time
where the scale may tip
of opposing favors
for that is the truth of humanity pitifulness may shine
till then
go of peace


Copyright © Raiven Everett | Year Posted 2018

Details | 9Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

My Self-Communing Silence


Relate to me with not one word of sorrow,
As from some timeless lay,
Regale me with a numinous poetic theme
That shall take me faraway!
O’ forespeak to me no form of darkness,
That may lie beyond my sight,
Nor utter thus to me of life’s nearing end
To time’s everlasting flight!

Address me not with one fallacious word,
Nor vocals of dispute,
Reply to me only with the purist of truth
That no one can refute!
O’ thus retell to me from the ethereal verse,
As God I then may hear,
For I wish only the sacred prose of Heaven
To fall upon my ear!

Speak to me no despairing words of sorrow,
Nor one single utterance of pain!
I beseech ye!
Sound gently now, upon this burdened soul,
As the drops of summer rain!
O’ or leave me to my self-communing silence,
Lest all madness be unfurled,
For it is difficult to hear the muse of harmony
Through the discordance of this world!


Copyright © Robert Liam McCallum | Year Posted 2018

Details | 9Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Nature

Nature" is what we see— 
The Hill—the Afternoon— 
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee— 
Nay—Nature is Heaven— 
Nature is what we hear— 
The Bobolink—the Sea— 
Thunder—the Cricket— 
Nay—Nature is Harmony— 
Nature is what we know— 
Yet have no art to say— 
So impotent Our W


Copyright © Brayden Flyn | Year Posted 2018

Details | 9Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Don't worry

dont worry
d/don't worry
o/only be happy
n/no worries
t/tonight

w/we are both 
o/on same shoes just
r/relate with me and I will
r/relate with you now 
y/you see everything is alright!


Copyright © richard nnoli | Year Posted 2018

Details | 9Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

her heart beat

her heartbeat me over and up my dreams are resting on her heartbeat her heart beats me look up see it pulled my lines out of alignment ? ... .. .


Copyright © wool man | Year Posted 2018

Details | 9Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Being in a prison

There you are
On the other side of the window
You look sad and scared
Wondering where your son is about to go

You tell me you miss me
And that you want me home
Then you smile
And tell me how much my little brother has grown

We catch up on lost times
As fast as we can
Because we both know
We'll probably never see each other again

You start crying
And I can see
That deep inside you're dying
You're blaming yourself
For not being the best mom
And I tell you
It was my choice to do wrong

It hurts me to see you blaming yourself
Because I know that deep inside
You wish you could help
Because you already have one son gone
And you're about to lose another one

The only thing you want right now
Are your two oldest children
Back with their little brother
And home with their loving mother

It's about time for you to go
We sit in silence
Wishing that we were on the same side of the window
That we could hug for one last time
Before I get sent away for my crime

You put your hand to the glass
And I start crying
I've hurt so many people and this is the last
Because it's not worth watching my whole life go
Behind the window


Copyright © Amelia Josephie | Year Posted 2018

Details | 9Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

crazy cat lady

crazy cat lady chasing mothballs thinking maybe scented are her calls keeps her thoughts locked in an closet emotionally she applauds it crazy cat lady got lost in an mothballs flame branded were her paws as she clawed at my name ? ... .. . conest write propmpted by: "crazy cat lady" ... words ...


Copyright © wool man | Year Posted 2018

Details | 9Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Independent Girl

She marches along by herself in this world, 
Her drum beats a different tune,
She says and does the things that she wants, 
Under the light of the moon,

And she ignores the petty rules of the crowd, 
She avoids a life on the phone,
She chooses, instead, to do her own thing, 
Her actions are fully her own,

She’s the one red pencil in a case full of blue, 
She’s the girl whose never been bought,
She’s that one single girl, in a crowd full of copy, 
Who lives with her unaided thought.

And with these thoughts she owns every day, 
The one thing that people can see,
Is, she’s emotionally true to the “Who” that she is, 
She’s honest and open and free.


Copyright © Lewis Raynes | Year Posted 2018

Details | 9Th Grade Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Total Time I Spent In Dental Chair Post Adolescence To Present Age second appointment

some agents provocateur didst maim
self-acceptance, and (found thyself 
as a boyish twenty something
weathering onset of gum recession, 
maxillofacial surgery, impressions, 
xrays galore, scaling) 

necessitated (score years later) urgent intervention 
i.e. treatment plan under auspices 
re storied name
University of Pennsylvania 
Dental School to mitigate malady 

entailed every last tooth plucked with ease 
since no other recourse could tame
accompanying jaw bone loss, 
which destabilized rootless choppers,
and despite the state of the mind turning to pulp 
(this haint no “fiction, nor FAKE)

thus I acknowledge sincere gratitude thru poetic aire
for the entire fleet of dental students, 
and staff that didst care,
who assuaged distress, exceeding the best expertise flair

which eventually warranted being fitted for dentures here
bringing an exemplary end result 
encompassing yours truly writing in his lair
after about a dozen years encompassing 

so many wing (bitten) angels far and near
across webbed wide world to help repair
chronic distress minimized now, cuz there
prevailed the most blessed delight 
when Medicare picked up the tab
now smile more willingly with artificial dental wear.







Copyright © matthew harris | Year Posted 2018