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The Best 9Th Grade Poems

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

Relatives Re-inact A Romantic Reconciliation

Oh, yes, Darling! Please meet me up the street, in fifteen minutes, right past the old tan house with that porch, bamboo.
We need to talk about things, you and me, without your mean relatives, and that includes your cousin Ted Stew.
I’d gladly trade this car for a completely untarnished marriage certificate, cleaned out of the day-old flu.
But, fiance’, dearest, you have yet to show me your love nest, your side honey, or your super-secret tattoo,
So now that you realize I might cost you money, you love me forever, and think you can let go and forget the Queen of Vooody-Voo- Doo?
Sure, Sweet Darling. Being pre reasonable, I would certainly like to review our marriageable status, and begin trusting you anew.
Of course, we had better hurry, so we get this trust thing sorted, and my family decides to re-include you,
I do not think any love-you-forever ceremony, fancy hall, or wedding vows I will seriously pursue.
If you decide to take the challenge, there on the steps wearing their juiciest smiles, are my mother, Grandma Kell and cousin Lou.
Sure, they do all have guns, permits, frying pans, and razors. Confidentially, they’re in a hum dinger of a stew about you too.
What more can I do, Sugar Bear? I’ve led you right to them, right up these pretty blue and white steps, and frankly, honey, it’s the best thing I could ever do.
So saying, I guess all my relatives are ready to talk and slap and pinch and punch, and fight and scrap, and kick, because they’re sort of mad you made me so blue.
Bye, Sweetie. I’m off for the weekend with my new honey, Rick, a gentle, kind, God-fearing man, who doesn’t want to stick around to see what they’re going to do.

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

My Everything, My Nothing

She whispered to me in my time of doubt
Held my frail figure when I was weak 
Pieced me together when I shattered

My everything was within her soul
I woke up and fell asleep to her
Never a time without my thoughts devoted to her

We were never apart
Us against the world
Fueled with hope

 But I turn around to find

She was only a ghost
A hollow, empty, nothingness
Who didn’t exist and never had

Still, I wept for her

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

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.

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

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

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

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?

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

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.

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

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)

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

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

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

A Dog's Life


Puppy

Lovable, Friendly

Frolicking. Jumping. Chewing.

Ball. Cat!  Bed. Window.

Sleeping, Pattering, Growling

Loyal, Loving

Dog

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

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.

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

Shut up It is a SECRET

This was accidentally written as a common to my buddy, Line.
Yes, THAT Line.
The famous Line.
The one who wins all the contests, and 
we all love Line, anyway, I do.
And it's her birthday month!

Come on, Muse.
STICK to the subject.
You know it's bad for us
if they know what we know
we don't want them to KNOW!

Picture this:
2008.
May 31st, weekend.
I know because it was MY
birthday weekend.
I talked my pal, Sheila Kay
into spending the weekend
in Des Moines, Iowa, 
going hither and yon to
every estate sale, antique
mall, garage sale, and tent
show set up by people selling
whatevers. Heck yes!
If there is anyone who will 
run all over the world to purchase
a what-the-hell-is-this or a whatever
it is me.


My pal Sheila Kay would die
if I told  you, so tell away I will do. 
Sheila Kay, my BOSS at school,
a PRINCIPAL, of the kids, but not me.
Actually, she was one of
the best principals I have ever 
seen because when a child
did something they could run to
me and hide in my clothes.

Or they could be hunted down
by Sheila Kay, and be lambasted, 
whereby their colors and paints
and glitters were slapped out
of their hands, and they lost
their happy ha-ha faces too as
they did not get to play in
the office all day as a happy
reward for BAD behavior toward
their teacher, their class, or
their God, which is what the
last principal, Limbity Crimpity encouraged
them to do. Which confused all of us.
I  needed a SHUT UP and DO THE
RIGHT THING principal for the kids,
because I don't have any of those
qualities, right, Sheila K?
 So we worked WELL together
and became BESTies.


And it worked well with a
We're-going-to-do-things-MY-way
principal at our school, because
believe it or not,
some of the children needed
a little discipline. Not my favorites,
the ones hiding out in the lockers
with me, or hiding in
my clothes,  but some
of the others.

Damn you, Muse.
I hate you sometimes!
Can we please stay on track here?
The best part of working with
Sheila K, is that she totally
knew me, and knew if I
stayed up all night I should
either not come to school or 
be sent home.  

So here are Sheila K and I,
loud and proud, snatching Hawaiian
shirts out of wrinkly spotted old people's hands,
in West Des Moines, Iowa.
Which is WAY more uppity than
Drake University Des Moines
Iowa or Beaverdale Des Moines
Iowa.


Come on, Muse. I have stopped
being nice now. To make the story
APPROPRIATELY SHORT, we were 
kicked out of prissy West Des
Moines, Iowa.   We sneaked 
back in though. 

Three years later, we made a 
different garage sale circuit,
another town, another state,
and a woman came running out
and grabbed Sheila Kay up in
a bold, smothering little
I-really-like-you bear hug.

Then the woman, a stranger,
said, "I remember you TWO."  
We did not remember her at
first, then we realized she was
one of 17 women I had latched onto during
a garage sale moment, one of the
many  who had said, "I wish I could spend
the whole day with you!" I remember urging
her to close up and come, until I saw
Sheila Kay''s Let's-Not-Do-That face.

This remembering lady had moved houses, 
and states, and yet here we were, the big bad 3 of us,
once again. So, of course, I suggested a slumber party!

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

Teacher

Hero

Caring, Respectful

Empathetic, Kind, Loving

Purposefully Helpful

Teacher

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

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?

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

Ode To A Gym Teacher

Ode To A Gym Teacher

Amid brassiere and derrière
She strives to put her clothes on.
Her panties there, stockings here 
The rest of it, she throws on.

At the mirror, shining bright
She struggles with her powder.
She holds her place with main and might
As others try to crowd her.

How can she dress so nimbly 
In but five minutes of an hour?
The question’s answered simply:
She did not take a shower.


Barbara Dickenson
August 1966

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

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.

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

A color is not my name

Look at my skin,
And categorize me.
Put me in a column,
The society is sickening.

Not a day would pass without me getting called out.
What do I need to do to live in piece?
My skin doesn’t define me,
When can I speak?

Freedom of speech?
Huh, what a silly thing.
Every time I speak,
You act like I’m a little kid.

The color of my skin,
Is hard to find on screens.
Perhaps white is preferable,
Or I’m just overreacting 

I have a name you know,
Why call me by a color?
I’m not a walking object,
And yes I am bothered.

I never received apologies,
After anyone said anything offensive to me.
I am a human too,
Put yourself in my shoes.

When can we end this?
How many more poems to come?
How many more riots to count down?
How many march to volunteer?
A crazy old man said “the end is near”

No, stop calling me selfish!
I’m trying to defend myself, can’t you accept this?
If this is what the society has become,
No wonder there are suicides around

Gunshots and wounds,
Can never teach the fools.
If a color is what it takes to get hate,
The humans we are now is a disgrace.

The generation would come,
Would be a hopeless one I’m sure.
If the society is like this,
The seed of success is ruined.

My dearest ancestors who died in their grave,
They are thought being brown was a mistake.
It is still the same until this day.
I guess society has never changed.

A color is not my name.
A color should be praised.
A child should be taught,
Being themselves is not a fault

A color doesn’t define anyone,
A color doesn’t speak for anyone,
Actions are what separate us,
A color plays an innocent part

A color is not my name

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

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.

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

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.

Details | 9Th Grade Poem |

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

Details | 9Th Grade 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

Details | 9Th Grade 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!

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An Announcement

Shut up It is a SECRET

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Miss Jill may find a way

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A color is not my name

My Jiggling boobs

August 29, 1986

A Civil Soldiers Tale

Being in a prison

Don't worry