Best English Class Poems
The poet’s world I’d read
about in English class
has faded, and alas!
It’s very nearly dead.
Its golden notes have fled
Like blooms from winter’s grass.
I’m in a modern time
where poets’ lines run free.
Although there’s imagery,
there’s little use for rhyme,
and what was once sublime
is now shunned poetry.
I long for grass turned cold
again to blossom gold.
May 22, 2017 For John Hamilton's
'Best rhyming poem May-July 2017' Poetry Contest
See "About Poem" for definition of this HexSonnetta form.
*
It happened in a moment, during my 7th grade English class *
As we studied classic literature; “Evangeline”, the poem
A substitute teacher, wearing shoes of polished coal *
His soft style, hair neatly combed, engrossed in reading poetry…
Pubescence slumped around me, nodding off, slowly being lulled...
Young minds. filled with clutter, gathering dust, from ancient stories
With glittering eyes, he read each verse * *
The soft, eager voice, that stroked each word…
He would wait, on occasion, to look around the room *
With wistful hope, I would suppose, to reach one heart, one soul
At the start of the class, I had been watching the clock
But, as I sat more enraptured, time just seemed to stop…
I turned the pages, one by one …and slowly fell in love
The beauty of old words, drifted through the stuffy air
Like the gathering of dust motes, glittered, hanging in suspension
Filtered in the angled light, of the afternoon’s warm detention
Sun filtered through window glass,…while voice of bliss droned on….
My heartbeat sped, with growing passion
I restrained my hands from reaching,… grabbing *
To catch each word, and keep them captive…
Dust motes, and words, were spinning around *
I was head over heels…for my substitute teacher…
I was head over heels for an old man named Longfellow….
Thirteen years old, I loved two older men….
Fell in love with the classics,....on a mid-day afternoon
While gathering dust, and the magic of words
……………………………………….
For the Contest: "Gathering Dust"
Sponsored by John Lawless
Miz Liberty welcomed Luigi to America's shores to begin a brand new life.
He arrived at Ellis Isle with piles of baggage, three kids and his addled wife.
He knew not a word of English but there's one thing he understood;
He must soon learn the baffling lingo so as not to be misunderstood!
Luigi enrolled in an English class and was bewildered from the start,
Trying to absorb the meaning of various words the teacher did impart!
There were so many words that sounded alike that he could not construe,
And how to fit them in a sentence or a conversation, he had not a clue!
"For example" he asked, "How and when do I use-a you, yew and ewe?
Please-a told me once-a more when it's-a proper to use-a do, dew and due!
When I visit da zoo, is da beast in da cage called a new, knew or gnu?
Can you tell-a me if da tree colors in fall are called hue, hew or Hugh?"
"How can I know if I use-a these-a words correctly, too, to and two,
Or if I get-a sick which of these-a words do I use-a, flew, flu or flue?
I'm-a having all kinds of troubles with these-a words, heir, hair and hare!
In da market I can't figure if I should ask da man for a pare, pair or pear!"
He strove to comprehend the perplexing language and all its doublespeak.
His kids could speak like natives but for him things were looking bleak!
But over time he learned to parse and spell and the jargon he did subdue!
Last I heard of Luigi he was a tenured English professor at Columbia Yew!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
In English class I saw her sitting there,
this gorgeous girl of mystery.
With eyes of green and silky golden hair;
the sparks between us blistery.
This lovely lady that I want to know;
I walk up to her and I say “Hello,”
and all the rest is history…
June 22, 2018
Contest: Seven Lines of Romantic Heaven
Sponsor: Silent One
It was the last period.
The breezy school day was almost done.
Mrs. Johnson and her English class relished
Getting a restroom break and a bit of sun.
They were gathered on the gazebo.
Antonio and Ned were poking fun.
Sometimes even a laugh
can start a great big one!
"Fight," Angelina screamed.
Who came running? Everyone!!
The fighters were swinging-going wild.
Go for help Mrs. Johnson called - run.
But before security could get there-
Thank God nobody had a gun,
There was a loud noise
Like someone
Was blowing up
a giant cushion.
Mrs. Johnson's face was swelling.
She was moving upwards in a strange fashion.
She looked like she weighed a ton-
Or perhaps better said she looked like
A humungous silver balloon
headed toward the sun.
She floated away and of course
as they always say
To this very day
No one has seen her since. Period.
I was hopelessly smitten in English class,
By this girl with a boyfriend, a challenging impasse.
She had long shiny locks, the color of auburn,
And the curves of a Ferrari, in a hairpin turn.
To win her away from that boyfriend's lair,
Took getting noticed, to have even a prayer.
A skateboard handstand, provided exposure,
Upside down I zoomed by, as she search four-leaf clovers.
When her best girlfriend, provided the news,
My gorgeous sweet red head, now sung the blues.
That she and that fellow, a thing in the past,
One phone call and BAM, we're dating at last!
Now on to her best features, the theme of this prose,
And the reason I'd eventually ultimately propose.
Then move her from one place to another eight times,
As the wife of a Sailor, a career Navy wife.
Her full lips frame a gorgeous, welcoming smile,
Forty years now, I’ve certainly come to admire.
Conveying kindness, but warning all men,
She’s spoken for, and quite happily taken.
Her most attractive feature has always been clear,
Her warmth and genuinely pleasant demeanor.
She’s a funny gal, and awfully smart,
Four decades of marriage, to my high school sweetheart!
THE PITCH
why
I ask
did she do that
i console myself
sun got in her eyes
trying to remember
is it mary lou
or carrie
never mind
whichever just gave me the finger
this english class
so big
yet so small
sitting back of
that long shiny black hair
all i said was
could i borrow a piece of paper
then she blew
tossed the wet rag
over her shoulder
that awful night
I asked her out
no reply
just a face
that belongs on rushmore
Dave Austin
Oh, you’re cool. Deck.
With your battered copy of Naked Lunch
tucked away in your thrift-store
-satchel, it’s definitely a satchel-
that holds your cigarettes,
the ones you bummed last Wednesday,
and the extra scarf you keep with you
at all times
just in case your neck gets cold,
which it seems to often,
even though its brother is always
wrapped loosely around your neck.
That iPod in your hand
with the huge headphones
-for better acoustics-
is playing that band you like,
the one with the synth player
who can also play both
the didgeridoo and keytar
at the same time,
but I don’t think that’s the reason
that they only have five fans
or that that’s why you like them.
It’s okay,
I won’t tell your friends that
you pay your rent with a trust fund.
-Isn’t that ironic?-
I’ll keep your secret
the way you keep quoting Kerouac,
who you only know of
because of high school English class.
And no,
I won’t tell them either
that you hate the taste of coffee,
and miss eating bacon,
and actually think that tattoo
of a Palahniuk quote
-“Your heart is my piñata”-
translated into Finnish
is not as clever as it was
the first time you tried cocaine.
But don’t worry.
I won’t call you a hipster.
That way you don’t have to
pretend to hate it.
We faced each other in a circle as
we sat on chairs inside her classroom; then
she had us close our eyes. Perhaps we used
some blindfolds. I’ve forgotten details, for
it happened in my high school years ago.
Our sense of sight was gone. She walked around
the circle, giving each of us a taste
of something we would savor in our mouths.
Then each of us would guess what it had been.
We must have sampled spicy, sour and sweet!
I can’t recall the foods we tasted or
how many times we guessed them right or wrong.
She also had us use just sense of smell,
and later, she played sounds for us, and we
made guesses as to what it was we’d heard.
This happened in the first week of the class.
It stands out sharpest in my memory,
but I recall we’d share our written work
inside a circle. This I loved so well
because we heard each other clearly then.
I can’t recall the name of her who taught
Creative Writing. She was young and sweet
and knew the trick of using every sense
to help us be in tune with what we felt.
And that’s why we used blindfolds that first day!
Those words like “imagery” I’d only read
about in English class would come alive
because this woman knew the secret of
good teaching was to let her students learn
from real experience, not just from books.
I don’t recall the many things we did,
but all the fruit I bore from what she taught
is with me still; the stories that I wrote
and little poems saved since eleventh grade.
I kept no work from any other class!
I never guessed those many years ago
would find me on a thing called Internet
or that I’d end up writing mostly poems
when little stories used to be my “thing!”
Real writing days came once my kids were raised.
But always I’ll recall that precious class,
The funnest and the most inspiring one.
Perhaps a bit of what I am today -
A teacher and a writer - I owe to
The miss who taught Creative Writing Class.
Brenda Chiri-Carroll's "Who Has Inspired You the Most In Your Life" Contest
(I have learned this teacher's name since I wrote his back in 2011. She is Ms. Deborah Rozeboom)
Hey Sexy
Yea I'm talking to you
Don't you look away
Boy if you only knew the things
I want to do
Hey Sexy
Ooo-wee you make me weak
That's why I studder and trip over my words when I speak
A flaw in you I seek
But nope there's not one I see
Hey Sexy
I dream of us making love
Under the night stars above
There's no greater thought
I just hope we don't get caught
Hey Sexy
I want to take your hand
And make you my gorgeous sexy man
I want to run away
And show you all the things
I can't find the words to say
Hey Sexy
I can't believe I'm telling you this
But it's a chance; a opportunity
I just can't miss
Hey Sexy
Live it up we aint going to live forever
In English class you said that last September
Do you remember?
Hey Sexy
It started out with just a little crush
Now I don't look at it as such
Now I take it so much more serious
One might say I'm just delirious
Hey Sexy
I've known you for such little time
But in my heart I've already labeled you as mine
Doing crazy things
doesn't make an individual insane,
it adds spice to life;
I did lots of harmless, foolish things
to bring my classmates out of depression
and make them laugh heartily.
Eric was the weirdest kid
in our English class,
he was depressed a lot
and kept to himself,
and with his morbid looks,
one couldn't help feeling sorry for him;
I had a plan to snap him out of it.
That gloomy Monday morning
our teacher, Mrs. Armstrong,
was reading from Shakespeare's play,
" Hamlet " making us feel his madness,
how he planned to commit murder...
goose bumps appeared on everybody's skin!
Eric started to shake as if he were coming for him.
I looked at him at him and said,
" What's the matter? Eric, you don't like the play? "
" No," he answered in a sarcastic way...
" Blood makes me faint! "
" Look, Hamlet is thinking of murder,
and hasn't killed anyone yet, but wait...it gets scarier
when he freaks out and does it! "
Eric stared at me and trembling murmured,
" What do you mean by that? "
" Buddy, since you are afraid of blood,
you shouldn't be in this class,
and if you feel like vomiting , go to the rest room! "
As a lighting flashing, Eric with encroached hands on his belly,
ran out of the class room without saying anything.
" Where are you going Eric ? " Mrs Armstrong asked.
But Eric kept going, giving her a sickly look.
" I will expel you from my English class! "
She exclaimed with a maddening gaze.
" Excuse him, Mrs Armstrong...he's not feeling well,
he drank half gallon of spoiled milk and he needs to vomit! "
I screamed back with soaring anger.
Everyone started to laugh and induced vomiting.
"Not here! Not here! Everybody leave!" she yelled
with exaggerated commotion by dropping her book
on her coffee cup...Ah! It splashed by turning her white face black!
" Run, everybody, run...she's another crazy Hamlet! "
And jumping up for joy, I was happy to have made everyone laugh!
I was 13
When a boy first told me I was ugly
I was 13
When I started lingering in the makeup section at Target
I was 13
When I began to dislike what the mirror showed
And I was 13
When I stopped eating
13 was the age of Jr. High
Name brand T-shirts
Disgustingly strong Axe cologne
And fitting in.
13 was when that one popular girl
Looked down on me
Because I raised my hand in
English class
And yeah maybe that was
Partially cause the blonde 25 year old,
Straight outta college
English teacher was
Cute, but
It was also cause
I liked being good at something.
Something I liked.
In English class
I didn’t have to worry about
Fitting in or
Rebelling against dress code or
Getting my first kiss or
Valentine's day.
But the day that girl insulted my
Converse I-
...Gave up.
I stayed in bed and cried
Feeling too sick to eat the
Double mint chip ice cream
My mother offered.
And the next day at dinner
I simply had too much math homework to eat.
And the next day it was spanish
And the next history
And the next and
The next and
The next
No one noticed
Until ten pounds of me were gone
I don’t blame them, my
Friends had their own problems, and
My parents worked long hours.
Ten doesnt seem like much
But I was a scrawny 13 year old
And that was a tenth of my body weight
Parents got me back on track and
It was like it never happened
Except whenever a doctor has me step
On a scale
I still get that going down in an elevator
lurch of fear
In my stomach.
I am 15
This morning my boyfriend told me I was beautiful
I am 15
Today my favorite shade of lipstick is Metallic Rose
I am 15
And have my disagreements with the mirror
I am 15
And still breathing
" How I love my English Class"
By: Dulce Santiago
To the people that make me smile in my English class.
Oh they joy they bring, to my tiny little heart.
Oh the excitement to be in my class makes me cry.
Their amazing voices full my life each day.
The eagerness, to see them completes me each day.
I really couldn’t think of a better class the my class.
I even created a song about them.
You should see my face, lights up as I enter the room.
They're an excellent class " Oh yes they are”.
They sure stay in task and always, respect Mrs. Lee.
So out standing and studious, and so friendly.
Oh! I wish my English Class could never end.
So I’d be stuck with this monstrous individuals I think not’.
I’d rather jump a cliff then bear hearing their conversations about pot.
I am a summer poet,
I cannot write during school,
And just however hard I try
I end up like a fool.
But when vacations start,
Ideas begin to bloom
And then I start to write
Until there is no more room.
I am a summer poet,
I really do not know why,
When I try to think at school,
Million other things come by -
As I start writing a poem,
I make a list to rhyme,
That reminds me of English class
Which is due in just some time
When I want to think of a title,
All that comes to my mind,
Are the names my teacher would call me,
Because my book I could not find.
Even if I am almost ready,
Meddling with my pen to think,
The pen just breaks out open,
Blotting the whole paper with ink.
I am a summer poet,
I cannot write during school,
And just however hard I try
I end up like a fool.
We drank cheap beer in a rusted-out shed.
Buzzing before our 8:00 AM English class.
Trying to be cool- to fit in with the "Ins."
Instead, we're becoming the wobbling outcasts.
Spinning further out from the golden Ins.
Ah, the golden center.
Filled with jocks, cheerleaders.
A chorus line of silver thighs and golden pom poms.
Smirking at my pimpled insecurities?
But your long bomb popularity didn't stop that tree.
From slamming into your popularity.
It didn't move aside as you passed by.
Like I used to move aside as you passed by me.
You were popular in that narrow hallway of slow death called adolescence.
Now your football helmet is yellow and cracked.
Destined for a garage sale. Bottom shelf existence.
At the very center of long forgotten.
You with the pom poms and patented dimples.
Nowhere near that cocky cute kitten anymore.
Turned plump, pregnant, abandoned, aborted.
What happened to that sweet cotton tail and golden lips?
That used to pip "you'll never be with me".
Finally, after forty-plus years.
You're lying with me...figuratively.
Spread eagle atop pom pom mountain.
An outcast on the periphery of everything.