Best Eighth Grade Poems
SHE WANTED TO BE A NUN
After graduating from eighth grade,
She wanted to be part of the novitiate,
of the Holy Sisters of Nazareth.
Dad put his foot down loud and hard.
How she went from that, to nurse,to
teacher ,to comedian and bellydancer?
Are eternal questions to which she just
cannot find any answers!
Who knows what her zany future may
bring?
A palace, a Mercedes? Better yet.
perchance a loving, handsome king?
She has no unicorns of fairies dancing
in her house.
They are all on vacation now~so the
poet's only companion is a cheese-loving,
visiting field mouse!
November 15, 2019
"You showed me the courage and strength
to achieve all things- I hope you are proud."
by Poet
A simple man was he, one child of ten,
who lived and worked the farm with family.
But stardust fell on him- time and again
he hid away to read his books to see
what life could offer him and he'd give back,
if he would leave the farm to chase his star
with talents that would keep his dreams on track.
And so he left to raise his future’s bar.
Concerned for family and what he’d done-
one son of three now gone, and only two
remained to work the land beneath the sun;
but still, he followed stardust trails anew.
No school beyond eighth grade, he still pursued
production of the tube-based radio,
in nineteen-thirty, when its parts were crude
yet intricate- and he became a pro.
The stardust led him to a higher plane
whereby in time he owned a factory;
employed so many workers who would gain
good living in a time of poverty.
Oh, Dad, you hushed the stars- you did not fail.
With inner strength, you followed their bright glow,
to choose this path, that led you to prevail
and help so many people live and grow.
This gift of courage you have offered me
to follow and make use of dreams to share;
to let our stardust paths lead on to free
the will to seek the best on our life’s stair.
February 22, 2015
~2nd Place~
Contest: A Meaningful Poem
Sponsor: Constance La France
Judged: 03/27/2021
~2nd Place~
Premiere Contest: 2019 Marathon Mile #23
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Judged: 03/13/2019
~1st Place~
Contest: Favorite Rhyming Poem Ever
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 02/28/2018
~1st Place~
Contest: Tell Us About Your Dad
Sponsor: Judy Konos
Judged:01/05/2016
My soul has been cut by a spiritual blade.
Out of control and I only finished the eighth grade.
I've walked the dark path and so many mistakes made.
I heard the devil's wicked laugh but I wasn't afraid.
I trusted no one, due to physical and sexual abuse.
I've held a 38 caliber hand gun but couldn't put it to use!
Women in my life, I just wouldn't allow in my personal area.
Even when I obtained a wife, it was border line hysteria!
I often wonder about the abuse I suffered as a child.
Did that contribute to sex, drugs, and running wild?
The fast life can cut like a knife, but I continued the climb.
But it all would lead to fingers being pointed at me for a crime.
I was afraid to go to trial although the crime I didn't commit.
Past crimes as a juvenile would make me look like the culprit!
I just couldn't put my fate in the hands of twelve strangers;
And so I'm an inmate, but I refuse to succumb to the anger.
I couldn't go to the funeral when my momma passed away.
Such pain like I've never known beneath my breastbone and my soul went astray!
I buried my grief and walked around just a shell of a man.
Relief was found, as I fought my way out of hell and that dark waste land!
I took my pen and begin to express the pain.
Just to releave the stress that was slowly driving me insane.
I always knew the poetry was buried inside me.
But who would have thought this poet only has a G.E.D.
Yes I'm a poet, and oh how I feel so emotionally free!
And you need to know it, that my whole ordeal is in my poetry.
If you could see inside who I am, you'll discover my pedigree!
My love is bonafide and no need for a diagram in my poetry!!!
*Wrote for Amy Green's contest (Tell Me About You)
First grade, pelted with eggs
Second grade, broke both legs
Third grade, fell down the stairs
Fourth grade, clawed by a bear
Fifth grade, ran into a tree
Sixth grade, twisted a knee
Seventh grade, concussed my head
Eighth grade, fell out of bed
Ninth grade, had meningitis
Tenth grade, appendicitis
Eleventh grade, torn hamstring
Twelfth grade, acute bee sting...
So, to allay any fears from admission committees
I wrote the following college application ditty:
You may consider me somewhat injury-prone
But I have yet to break my first wishbone
And I give you my whole-hearted assurance
That I will use my parents' health insurance
Balanced and perfect!
Always standing up for me.
Teaching me manners. Oh, how I fussed!!
Having French braids every summer.
My shorts and tops had to match.
Teaching me to be proud to be and say, I was American
Reading poetry to me, when I was so verynyoung.
And teaching me words to songs.
You took me to top restaurants, not left at home.
You made sure I was in the best schools.
All the time we spent at the ballet dressmaker!
My eighth grade graduation at the Edgewater Beach Hotel.
Huge windows that faced Lake Michigan,so very tall.
Thank you for a suburban,,beautiful home.
You were a Mom, I was so proud of.
Loving to all, friendly, full of laughter!
At every event, you, most stunning woman in the crowd.
What a gift to me and to my daughter!
A source of pride and love, like no other!
We all love and miss you, Mom
~~~Your birthday, May 12th~~~
4/27/2021
The birthday party, a surprise,
Had lots of things to tantalize –
A lovely house, delicious food,
A friendly host to set the mood…
Some dialogue with friends and kin,
The birthday gal’s elated grin
When, from the car, she looked about
As all of us let out a shout.
My favorite part, though, was to see,
Transcribed to view on a TV,
Home movies of the honored guest,
The past revived at our behest.
Most partygoers knew her then
And lived those mem’ries once again
But we don’t go back quite as far
So watching really raised the bar:
An eighth grade trip, a P.J. bash,
A backyard pool, with hose and splash,
The senior prom (and she the queen!),
A high school graduation scene.
To see my friend so very young
Gave background to the praises sung
And piled so high upon her plate
By all who came to celebrate.
As pals and family reminisced,
I saw a bit of what I’d missed
But I was thrilled to recognize
My younger friend, a sweet surprise.
I Wonder if He Wore a Fedora
He passed a few months ago.
I looked through a few pics
of him when he was young.
He grew up in the depression,
so there weren’t many.
Black and whites, no dates.
None of him smiling,
just a vacant stare,
familiar at that time,
Hand me downs clothes
of a cotton farmer,
Hardscrabble life for this
child of the 30’s.
He didn’t talk much
about that life.
Well, a few times:
how he got two pairs
of shoes a year,
oranges for Christmas.
Patched pants so short,
the kids made fun of him.
Never made it past the eighth grade.
By the time he was eighteen,
his hands looked fifty.
Twelve to fifteen hrs.
a day picking cotton will
make a young man old.
I picked up another picture.
Some other man from the 30’s,
sitting on a bench in front
of the Memphis Zoo.
Wearing a Fedora.
Sophisticated looking.
I wonder if my dad wore a Fedora.
I asked a lot of questions
when I was young.
But that wasn’t one of them.
I can’t ask him now,
but I know what he’d say.
“Those were for the rich, son,
The Boss-man.”
“Not common folk like us,
who knew their place.
You can’t be more
than you are.”
But he was wrong.
Although he was raised
poor common folk,
he worked all his life.
Loved one woman.
Raised his children right
and loved his God.
He died a rich man.
He would have looked
damn good in a Fedora.
11/5/16
I met a man the other day
I think he thought he knew me
He heard me speaking with a friend
He said "Hey, are you from Kentucky?"
Well, I'm from West Virginia
He obviously doesn't know me
He grinned and then persisted
"Do you know Jethro," he inquired
"Or maybe you know Jesco?"
I wondered who he thought I was
but could not recall these people
so I just shrugged my shoulders
He obviously doesn't know me
He giggled then and called out a name
Someone he called Hillbilly
God, then names this fellow knows
I have to wonder about their parents
I smiled quietly and shook my head
He obviously doesn't know me
He seemed disappointed and on he went
"You dropped out of school in eighth grade?"
I wish. Grad School almost killed me
Even though I was a Mensa member
This guy sure knows some winners
He obviously doesn't know me
He asked if I was a moonshine farmer
I said' "no, electrical engineering"
He then accused me of never wearing shoes
So I wiggled my La Sportivas
Boy this guy sure is off the mark
He obviously doesn't know me
He surely wasn't satisfied
and started speaking strangely
It sounded vaguely Norwegian
"Venn, er du litt treg?" I asked him
He just stared at me blankly
He obviously doesn't know me
Finally, he went on his way
I told my friend, "I think he thought he knew me"
He angrily replied, "I think that he was teasing"
I laughed from deep inside, smiled then winked
"Who was that idiot, anyway?
He obviously doesn't know me"
A song came on the jukebox and we listened with intent
He sang "Only The Lonely" with a voice that was heaven sent
I was only in eighth grade, a few years from being a man
There was "Blue Angel" and "I'm Hurtin' " and I became a die hard fan
We'd go downtown to the Coffee Cup to hang out and have some fun
Play some music and have a soda, "Running Scared" was number one
"Crying" is still a favorite, played "Candy Man" and "Dream Baby" so loud
I was mesmerized the first time I heard Roy Orbison sing "The Crowd"
There was "Evergreen", Working For The Man" and "Leah" in the year of 62
"In Dreams" , "Falling" , "Distant Drums" and I still love "Blue Bayou"
Roy rocked the house with "Mean Woman Blues"
"What'd I Say" made us put on our dancing shoes
"Indian Summer", "Indian Wedding", "She Wears My Ring"
"Oh Pretty Woman", "It's Over", "Goodnight" Roy would sing
When Roy sang "Lana" it would tear you apart
Don't forget "Breakin' Up is Breakin' My Heart"
When Roy sang, you didn't know which song to choose
He'd make you rock, make you cry, make you feel the blues
When Roy sang, he'd put a smile on your face
When Roy sang, the world seemed a better place.
Tribute to the greatest, bar none, singer song writer of all time.
Beggars of California
With their tattoos and their piercings, I don’t give money to beggars in California. Up on the Haight with his honey, not really in need, this beggar of California.
At least in New York you get some song and dance, perhaps the tickle of a tenor sax ?and they’re out in the rain, not just when it’s sunny, like those beggars in California.
Near my apartment in Pacific Heights, know them by name. It’s funny; frown when they see me: two brothers, one on either side of the street, these yuppie beggars of California.
I offered to pay the pawn on Runny Nose’s instruments out of hock, but his sign was a true ploy. Another’s sign: “Sailor needs a ship”; it’s war time!? Beggar of California!
I offered one a berth and a meal of tunny. I still see him, but he begs no more.
I think he’s on the dole with a cot. His words were foggy, this beggar of California.
I begged Jackie Paper, since the eighth grade: run for California, head west young man.Education was free. Was I cunning or just another beggar in California?
The gym was dim.
Red and white balloons
glittered in the dusk
while flashing lights writhed
on the dark floor
like enchanted water-snakes
gliding through scented fog.
This was a celebration dance!
Eighth grade done at last,
they stepped, hesitant, into the roiling
teen-age sea,their synchronous, bobbing heads
attuned to the be-bop rhythms of the city (not their city),
and the lusty calls of the hood (not their hood).
Smooth gym walls echoed the dj's mechanical angst
endless, relentless beats, the racing heart of the machine,
artificial sighs, nano-seconds long and gigabytes wide.
The boys, spinning on heads and leaping from hands and
flailing legs, showed an athleticism
never seen in PE,
while the girls huddled in their own dark corner
and planned their move;
their fashion walk,
legs strutting ahead
of swaying hips,
heels clicking the hard, dark floor,
as they stalked right up to the foul line
where boys were spinning and leaping
through throbbing lights
to the tribal, primal beat.
So the girls turned,
hips flung in defiance,
and sashayed back to the wall,
staring hard at the gaping boys
over their swaying shoulders.
(28 May 2009)
I hear once more the lyrics of this song I'm listening to-
a gentle blast from my very youthful past,
and I am back in middle school,
an attractive skinny girl
despite the horn rimmed glasses
which have gotten me the nickname of “Four eyes”
and the large beehive hairdo
I have to rat with my comb painstakingly each morning.
I am in the music room of my eighth grade
practicing with Swing Choir,
the group that I’ve auditioned for
and am thrilled to be a part of.
A cute boy stands tall among all the others
in the back row of the male section.
We are all singing -
“This Guy’s in Love.
This guy’s in love with You.”
My heart is pounding with the melody
as I watch my current crush so longingly,
imagining he sings the words to me alone.
Could my life yet to be lived
ever compare to my happiest vivid daydreams?
“When you smile, I can tell we know each other very well.”
I think he sees me watching him. I look away.
This scene will be replayed again and again
in other classrooms
where I’ll be watching other boys
that I'll be crushing on
and hoping they are watching me as well.
But now, just for now -
I sing the words with my group -
“Don’t let my heart keep breaking. . .”
My soul fills with teenage angst.
Oh to be young again
with such sweet aching
not yet knowing I’ll soon be getting walked home from school
by that cute tall boy
named Chico.
Written Feb. 7, 2016 for the Solitary Moments Poetry Contest of Mystic Rose
The song is "This Guy's in Love" written by Burt Bacharach
and performed byHerb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass. (please hear it in the link above)
It was kind of nice having money all the
Time.
Looking back when I was seventeen,
I looked forward to going to work.
It is unlike what I feel about work now.
I did a lot of reading as a child.
I read all kinds of books.
I would consider Oak Lawn a safe
Community then.
I can’t remember any times when I got beat up.
I did a lot of running home and telling.
I avoided a lot of suffering by talking to
My parents about the bullies.
It wasn’t until junior high that I had to
Take care of a fight that went way wrong.
I was scared to death of a seventh grader.
I fought him, and found out he wanted to
Wrestle.
I wasn’t that good of a
Wrestler then.
I got better
In high school.
It was kind of chaotic, and the wrestling matches
Were more “fighting” than wrestling.
I hung in school and made a name for myself
At Oak Lawn Community High School.
My sister gave me a collection of albums
My junior year.
I was introduced to all kinds of music by
Those.
My first good introduction to music came
My sophomore year.
A friend introduced me to “The Police” with
“Zenyatta Mondatta” and “Ghost in
The Machine”.
He told me what he did at his party
In eighth grade.
They sat around and played Gin.
They drank soda.
They went bowling.
I got off to a late start with music,
And I finally caught up with my tape-
Radio I got for Christmas my junior year.
I could have had a big party,
But I decided to wait.
I didn’t really have one except
The one’s I had in grammar school.
My friend thought he was going to
Get married to this one girl at O.L.C.H.S.
It fizzled out like my relationship did.
That girl liked someone else though.
I should have given up calling her,
It was no fun talking to her.
She didn’t talk to me at all in school.
I’m not sure she even knew who I was
In lunch.
I didn’t have anymore classes with her.
Her boyfriend went out for basketball
Like I should have done. I was pretty good. Maybe just
Doing my chess and studying was the best thing for me to do.
I remember in kindergarten,
I and a few friends were put on the yellow light,
the light of shame, for playing tic-tac-toe on the Spanish room tables.
oh shame, shame, shame...
In first grade, I miss that teacher, Zoellner fell asleep in calss,
we yelled and screamed to wake him up, he started snoring.
If I remember correctly, second grade was when I got locked in the
janitor's closet, and banged on the door for help.
In third grade, we smile to remember, Samantha
got up on the table, and took her shirt off,
waving it like a banner around her head.
Fourth grade, a turning point in my life,
we used play money to buy stuff our moms donated-I spent $325
on something my own mom donated-how embarassing.
Fifth grade was the year we all argued over the name of the class lizard,
Humphrey, Simba, or Geiko? We duked it out,
and Humphrey was known forever more.
Sixth grade was the year I fell in love,
my first real taste of it, and I was scarred forever after...
Seventh grade was the year of the scud,
and the little guys were everywhere,
on notebooks, bookcovers, and even in permanent marker on my shoulder.
And eighth grade, my final year at that school,
might end well, I know will learn from it,
I did learn one thing throughout all these years.
I will miss it.
The gym was dim.
Red and white balloons
glittered in the dusk
while flashing lights writhed
on the dark floor
like enchanted water-snakes
gliding through scented fog.
This was a celebration dance!
Eighth grade done at last,
they stepped, hesitant, into the roiling
teen-age sea,their synchronous, bobbing heads
attuned to the be-bop rhythms of the city (not their city),
and the lusty calls of the hood (not their hood).
Smooth gym walls echoed the dj's mechanical angst
endless, relentless beats, the racing heart of the machine,
artificial sighs, nano-seconds long and gigabytes wide.
The boys, spinning on heads and leaping from hands and
flailing legs, showed an athleticism
never seen in PE,
while the girls huddled in their own dark corner
and planned their move;
their fashion walk,
legs strutting ahead
of swaying hips,
heels clicking the hard, dark floor,
as they stalked right up to the foul line
where boys were spinning and leaping
through throbbing lights
to the tribal, primal beat.
So the girls turned,
hips flung in defiance,
and sashayed back to the wall,
staring hard at the gaping boys
over their swaying shoulders.