Best Student Poems | Poetry
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The Best Student Poems
Math, physics, English, and so on—
alas, are tiresome!
All the professors here go on
with a prime axiom.
A stuffy, college campus where
knowledge and books abound,
freshmen and co-eds are clueless
and confused all around.
Mid-terms and finals I do dread
as each semester ends;
the pressure's on me to study
as the semester wends.
School's oppressive this semester,
I'll see my old provost
and leave 'ere I rot and fester
to take up a new post.
William & Mary's M.B.A.'s
are just worthless BS;
degrees from the home of “The Tribe”
are crap that obsolesce.
I'll do rhymes as “The Swarthy Bard”
as poems are my forté—
not tomes or stuffy scholastics:
ballads are my métier!
Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2014
I stand at the front of the exam hall, which is in total silence.
Grey desks stretch out in neat rows -
they remind me of gravestones in the local cemetery,
with white faced students their unwilling occupants.
The only sounds that can be heard are the pages being turned over
and the scrawling of pens on the paper.
Exam invigilators creep around the room like mice,
their hawk like eyes ensure no one is cheating.
Suddenly a booming fart breaks the silence -
it sounds like a machine gun that has been fired in short staccato blasts.
We can clearly see the perpetrator as his face is as red as a raspberry!
Muffled giggles are stifled and silence is once again restored.
A true story!
Sponsored by Shadow Hamilton
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2017
Over fifty years have passed,
Tho’ it seems like just the other day;
My father gave me golf clubs,
“It’s a game you need to learn to play.”
He said, “It’s very difficult, but so is life.
There’s more to learn than grip and swing and rules,
Like honesty and dealing with adversity;
Then, pointing to his head, “… and how to use ALL your tools.
Play the Course… and Mother Nature…
Focus on just one shot at a time;
Try to learn from each of your mistakes;
Then, do your best to leave them behind.
These clubs will teach you more
Than our ‘man to man’ talks.
This you'll learn for yourself,
So you can “walk the walk.”
“Practice makes better, but not perfect.
And always remember what they say:
‘”Golf is not a game that we can win.
It’s just a game we play.’”
His lessons served me very well,
Took them to heart and play the game.
And life is much like a round of golf.
Despite the bad shots, I’m always glad I came.
Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014
Actions Speak Louder Than Words
Actions versus words
Actions speak louder
Louder is figurative
Louder is expressive
Figurative language is effective
Figurative does not truly speak
Effective is deeply important
Effective is walking the talk
Important lessons must be demonstrated
Important lessons show you don’t tell you
Demonstrated lessons are shown like an exhibit
Demonstrated lessons than may be emulated
Exhibits can be observed
Exhibits are seen not heard
Observed actions are watched
Observed actions trump words
Watched love is full of verbs
Watched love shows it is an action word
Verbs are action words
Verbs help one’s mind create mental pictures
Words alone are soon forgotten
Words are remembered when taught with an action
Mental pictures formed in one’s brain
Mental pictures are recalled simpler than jargon
Brain stores memories
Brain loses words
Memories are potent tools
Memories recall meaning
Tools seen in use is vital
Tools talked about remain idle
Vital is performance
Vital is activity
Performance is an execution
Performance is a rendition
Execution creates stimuli
Execution shows not tells
Stimuli create neuron connections
Stimuli causes better recall
Connections boost like a catalyst
Connections fuel memory
Catalyst spark visuals
Catalyst evoke images
Visual aids are useful to teachers
Visual images are appealingly vivid
Teachers must display good character
Teachers may not just define it
Character is taught by example
Character in not lexically learned
Example set is learned in action ~
Example cannot be set with words
For Silent One’s Cliché Contest
Copyright © jill spagnola | Year Posted 2016
I could care less about the four
corners of insults,
That intelligence invites;
It is always the first straw of
grass that’s grows,
which reveals the popular outcast;
As a youth, I found my image cut down
into this manufactured silhouette.
Drenched in social rain, my peers
had never found me more alienated,
Then when I spoke fluently of diverse
They did everything in their power to provide
a verbal umbrella,
However, the texture remains weak and
This stormy parade that remains’ dripping is
indeed an afterthought,
For within this cranial mansion resides
For the more abstract and surreal
elements of life;
It is that secluded gland which reveals
the renaissance of men, who wear
Now wearing the shoes of a young
A taste of charisma resides in my
However this slight addiction to external
Comes in second to my first drug of
Membership into this fraternity may take a lifetime;
So don’t be surprised when resistance
knocks at your door,
Intimidated by the lion that dwells within
Indeed intellect is the misunderstood
That blossoms sweeter when accepted.
Copyright © Jiril Clemons | Year Posted 2013
Walking forward but still in the same place.
Moving quickly but still stuck in a small space.
Success seems so close but something I never taste.
Time continues but all efforts go to waste.
Reaching for goals in this strenuous race.
Going on hopelessly in this never ending chase.
Moving faster trying desperately to pick up the pace.
The monotony of struggle slapping me in the face.
Thinking of my future but all I see is a lost case.
Copyright © Emily Pascale | Year Posted 2013
She writes her songs and her poems,
not one person know 'em.
She listens to the sound of her music,
she's stuck to it like a tick.
If someone took the time to listen,
her true colors would glisten.
She's put on a mask,
and hid everything when someone asked.
She was the type of girl who would always laugh,
making you wish it would last.
She was the type of girl who would smile the day away,
too bad it is no longer that way.
She is now the girl who is depressed,
I bet you're impressed.
Since no one could tell
that she was going through hell.
Everyone thought she was happy,
when really, she felt crappy.
Everyone thought she was having the time of her life,
who would have guess her best friend was a knife?
She spent her days alone,
she seemed to do everything on her own.
Never once wanted help.
Thought she could do everything herself.
Then the day came,
when she lost the game.
She fell apart,
and everyone saw her broken heart.
They saw the way she overreacted.
Oh, if only you saw the way she acted.
She bruised herself, scratched herself, and made herself bleed,
no one knew what it was that she needed.
They saw her tears,
and that was what she feared.
They found out she wasn't okay,
oh, she hated that day.
Everyone found out about her secret,
and she wish they'd just forget,
but she knew they couldn't,
and that they wouldn't.
She left that town and started over,
no one knew she went undercover.
She said she got better,
when really... something else occurred.
She secretly hurt herself,
and walked away from help.
Everyone thought she recovered,
when really, she was undercover.
She secretly wanted to get worse,
no one knew of course.
No one cared to ask,
if she was wearing her mask.
Now it's too late,
she locked the gate.
everyone had forgotten she needed help.
Goodbye cold world,
this was a story of a girl
who once loved everyone
then feared who it was who won.
Copyright © Ana Jusino | Year Posted 2013
Our Education's Who We Are
By Franklin Price
Our education's who we are
And in what we do believe
How we deal with our emotions
How we give and we receive
Education shows the way
From the first breath to the last
Look to learning from the future
While remembering the past
When you're meeting someone new
Choose carefully your words
Education may not be the same
May think your thoughts are for the birds
When in doubt just listen
Words work when moving either way
There are many lessons to be learned
When we hear what others have to say
None of us knows everything
Please consider this next thought
Sometimes we are the teacher
At other times we are the taught
The trick is in determining
Which we are and when
To use our mouths or use our ears
When to stop or to begin
When we no longer listen
Think ours is the only voice
It's time to be a hermit
So others may rejoice
Copyright © Franklin Price | Year Posted 2016
Scared by the sound of his own voice
Following the girl home from school
In his mind this is normal
He grabs her jacket
Pulling her backwards unto the ground
Placing a cloth around her nose and mouth
Gagging her until she sleeps for a while
He drags her through the woods
Branches hitting her every which way he turns
Dragging her along until he reaches the cabin
Picking her up over his shoulders opening the door to the cellar
Locking the door behind him he walks down the stairs slowly
He places her on a chair and ties her wrist to the handles
Tying her feet to the legs of the chair
Tightening the rope around her neck to the back of the chair
He undresses her waiting for her to wake up
Several hours pass
She wakes up
Sweating and screaming
Crying and yelling at him
He places duct tape around her mouth
Placing a knife against her stomach
She groans and yelps
He takes the knife away and looks at her
Grabbing her face and telling her shes beautiful
He turns around and stands with his back towards her
As he starts to say
But its the beautiful people that need fixing
He takes the tape off her face and holds her chin tightly
He carves a smile on her face
Cutting her mouth from ear to ear
Smile dear it makes you adorable
He grins and sits the knife down
Laughing as she bleeds
She tries to move her mouth
It just drops open
He looks at her smiling
Now that makes you truly beautiful
He leaves her there for a while
Placing a needle with a string attached to it
Sticking it into the skin around her mouth that is hanging open
He stitches her back together
Cant make up his mind
He slaps her and leaves her there for another few days
She sits with her eyes peeled wide open
A tear falling as she tries wiggling her hand free from the rope
As she frees her hand she runs her fingers over her stitches
Only to find out her whole mouth has been stitched together
She cant speak
She can only mumble
She frees the rest of her limbs
Trying to stand up and walk but she's to weak and falls
He runs down the stairs
Yelling at her to get up
She doesn't move
He kicks her in the stomach
She doesn't budge
He picks her up and uses her as a puppet
For his own needs
He then buries her beside his other victims
Only to find out shes still alive
Her hand slips through the dirty old mud
Copyright © Orlin Collier | Year Posted 2013
She just wanted her thoughts to be spoken.
For her words to mean something,
For her words to be affecting.
But she feels worthless.
Her dream was to become an actress,
to inspire others ti achieve their dreams,
but she had fallen in the streams.
She lost all of her hope,
having no way to cope.
She wakes up every morning,
ready to start acting.
She puts on her mask,
hoping for someone to ask,
hoping for someone to realize
how long this has been going on, and apologize.
Yet no one seems to care,
she feels like she shouldn't be there.
Since no one seems to notice her,
that is what she has inferred.
But then someone spoke up,
noticed how she was lost like a pup.
So they decided to help,
she first yelped.
For she never knew how to accept,
she only knew she wept.
Later, she saw light,
and shone bright.
She finally saw that she was someone,
not a no one,
but she meant something.
She was finally acknowledging
Her true beauty,
she found her true duty,
to help others,
and make things better.
Copyright © Ana Jusino | Year Posted 2013
Wonder, wander, list and lust
to learn anew until you bust.
Read, search, question and look
for paths you thought you never took.
A world awaits, new kingdoms come.
New skies, new roads, puzzles done.
Machines man made, a technocrat
to realize some oft-quoted stat.
Never too old, and not too late
to learn and learn for learning's sake.
So open heart and open mind
Seek on. Seek out. It's learning time.
Copyright © David Brooks | Year Posted 2016
In a dark corner of the library,
the young philosopher deeply thinks,
adding to the tapestry
of ancient minds that thought but failed to solve
the puzzles of reality.
But as his careful mind reflects,
in silence with the smell of books,
his soul is startled by the sound
of cooing doves beyond the dusty walls,
and he must stop to listen.
Copyright © Nick Ruff | Year Posted 2016
Neither Tray or I take any guff from adults, especially adults in authority; it’s a result of having had the belt when you are young, thus learning you cannot trust your care-givers or anyone else.
In case there is any doubt in your mind here, every enraged child I have ever seen, every out-of-control –I-hate-the-world child I have ever spoken to had parents who were uneducated and insensitive and in complete ignorance of how the belt on a child will break their hearts. Especially if the parent waits to use the belt when she is already mad, and mean, and the wailing sobbing child feels the out-of-control parent is relishing using a big bad, welt-giving belt on them oftentimes Christian parents, which is why I HATE Christians so damned much.
Lost my thought again.
Back on track now.
Tray finally said, “You’d have to dance.”
If anyone ever saw me dance you’d still be laughing, but I danced, and danced and danced some more. I danced around Tray and Mr. Hell and the Detention supervisor and the Superintendent and the incredulous DARE Officer. Boy, did I dance.
I did the chicken dance, the Macarena dance, the good-grief-is -this- even-a-dance-dance.
Then out of breath, I asked, “What else, Tray? What else can I do to get you to come with me?” The reason a great counselor will ask a child such as belt-child-Tray, permission for every little thing, is that Tray, a belt-child, had so much power taken away at a young innocent age. He is a heartbroken victim of parents who gloatingly used a belt, flyswatter, shoe, hairbrush, switch from a tree, or whatever to show the child how angry they were about something.
A little warning here, now, parents, if you do not want to raise a psychopath or a manic depressive or a child with schizophrenia, please do not beat your children. A parent who shows a small child their angry-I-am-going-to-really-hurt-you side has lost all respect and awe and love whether they know it or not at the time.
Worse, their little child, an innocent child who has now had the full wrath of an angry adult unleashed on them in a I-will-kill-you-sort of way, a child like Tray and I, who have had the belt and immediately felt a broken heart, the I- have-had-the-belt-and-hate-everyone-now-children are going to need to get some power back somewhere down the line. They can do it in positive or very negative ways, and thank their parents, please, will you?
In the rare case you are slow, and do not fully understand what I am saying yet, at the age of two or three years-old, belt children are completely powerless when their ignorant, uneducated, I-will-show-you-how-mad-I-am-parents with mean faces, are giving them the belt, sometimes putting welts up and down their arms and legs too.
This added bonus reiterates to the now powerless heartbroken child that their parents, their heroes, the ones they loved and adored, are now monsters, who might be hiding under the bed or in the closet, and might come out at night and kill them next time. The unexpected side lesson is, there is no one to turn to, you are helpless, and we can kill you at will. Oh, by the way, pray to Jesus. Jesus will help you with everything BUT your parents.
Belt children are hyper-vigilant. They are always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to happen to make Mom mad, so she will have an excuse. They make great detectives, but not yet because they are children. The real lesson, the one you want to teach your child when she is young is: please understand you are no longer safe. Jesus cannot save you here. Your mother is mean and mad and powerful, and you had better do whatever you can to not make her mad.
Lesson learned, Mom. Lesson learned.
But let me just say, now that I’m an adult and I can see what you could not. Beating your child or children, is not the best parenting practices. Being a spiritualist I have to ask, “These men of old, these men who wrote the Bible to keep their women in place with fear, these men who wanted their women to hope for a good life later on, but not now as it might be an inconvenience to them, Why did they take the six books about reincarnation out of the Bible but leave in “Spare the rod, spoil the child? What the hell, you MEN of old? What the hell?
A big smile crossed Tray’s face because he and I have spent many hours together, and we both knew that he was now going to demand I do something we both knew I was not capable of doing. ”Now you have to whistle,” he said.
I stuck out my tongue at him, making him laugh, put my hands on my hips and said in my best 8-year-old-girl imitation, “YOU KNOW I can’t whistle!”
He laughed then, and could not stop. Loud guffaws of laughter, and I put out my hand, and he walked over, took it and we walked across that cubicle and I put my little “Go away and don’t come back” sign out, and we began to talk. We talked about the belt and how angry we are, oops ….I mean how angry and hurt and heartbroken he is when his dad acts like that. And it made me sad, and I told him it’s not best practices for a parent to do this, and I told him I had never used a belt on my children, and when he grew up, he would not have to use it on his children. I told him it’s okay to end the cycle of child abuse in his family, and he was amazed and said, “I would never hurt my children,” and we made a pact, and we hugged.
The end of a very good day for us. A very good day.
Copyright © Caren Krutsinger | Year Posted 2018
In a perfect world there would be no fear
Not in schools, in neighborhoods, churches or anywhere
In a perfect world there would be no hate
No matter your race, your religion, or who you date
In a perfect world there would be no lonely ones
Hiding in bathrooms, being bullied, or wanting to run
In a perfect world people would not be divided
Because of differences, beliefs, or people close-minded
In a perfect world there would be no fight
It would be crystal clear what is wrong and what is right
In a perfect world the weak could move mountains
Strength and hope would come to those who need it in fountains
In a perfect world leaders would lead
With dignity, respect, and purpose they would accede
In a perfect world there would be no need for change
No unhappiness, no hunger, no violence, no pain
In an imperfect world we will be brave
We will stand up, fight, be heroes and save
In an imperfect world there will be love
When they go low we will strike from above
In an imperfect world hard times will turn around
In bathrooms and in schools hurting people will be found
In an imperfect world people will be united
From struggles, from hardships, from passion, camaraderie will be ignited
In an imperfect world we will fight
Fight, fight, fight for what we believe is right
In an imperfect world the weak will find strength
In little things that will make it worth it to keep going the length
In an imperfect world anybody can lead
Standing up, speaking, walking out for what they believe
In an imperfect world we will keep fighting for change
To make our world more perfect each and every step of the way
Copyright © Emilie Chau | Year Posted 2018
Math is great
At some point I could get.
How could I get rid
When it is definitely a need?
I prefer writing an editorial
Than solving a perfect trinomial.
Math is a trial,
Oh! This is crucial.
Math has magic,
But sometimes it's tragic.
Striving for Mathematics,
Optimistic in finding tactics.
When it reach high quantity,
It challenges brain's quality.
Favor with Property of Equality,
Struggling with Conditional Inequality.
Math is a distress,
But it is a need for success.
Sometimes it makes me cry,
But it doesn’t stop me to try.
Struggles are enough,
I now ought to laugh.
Need to be even,
Thinking of my favorite number seven.
Math is use everyday
Though I deny to say.
It makes my brain an aleph-null,
Yet it doesn't makes me dull.
Solving with optimistic
The problems in arithmetic.
Math I learned to love
With the help from above.
Copyright © Rhiza Periwperiw | Year Posted 2016
Teacher, shall I write a sonnet? Must I?
When I’m not so sure of my poetry…
Shall I write a poem of fourteen lines?
In iambic pentameter –by me?
What shall I write about? What can I say?
In this sonnet which I must jot down now?
My sonnet should be about what today?
To write a great sonnet I’m not sure how…
Teacher, can I write this sonnet later
For I’m not sure of what to write about?
The teacher then takes my simple paper
And “you already did.” my teacher shouts.
‘Detention’ my teacher says, ‘for lying,’
‘But thank you,’ she adds, ‘for at least trying.’
© Mariam Mababaya.
Copyright © Mariam M. | Year Posted 2013
still tiered eyes open,
She walks down stairs, packs up, and gets on the bus,
She stares out the window wishing to spend the day there and not at a desk.
7 FULL HOURS of of unempathetic teachers,
they give her 6 more hours of school work to do at home.
No one cares!
The homework starts on the bus and she's lucky to have it done by 10PM.
Finely, she gets to go to bed,
But all she does is stare at the sealing with the overhanging stress of the work she didn't finish combined with the work her unrelenting teachers will give her tomorrow.
It happens each day,
It's beyond her control,
she tells teachers and friends but they spit in her face telling her they don't care.
It won't change.
Luckily, she has her head on strait,
and while she trudges through the mud she stays strong,
knowing that everything is going to work out.
So she tells herself just wait.
Copyright © Emma H | Year Posted 2014
A teacher in my life,
to whom I have never told a lie.
She is the messenger of god,
and is the role model for all.
She teaches me the lesson of discipline, correctness and forgiveness,
so that my life is full of happiness.
A teacher who is wise,
She cares for me and wears no disguise.
She reminds me of the moral values and responsibilities,
So that I am not addicted to some bad quality,
She sometimes gets angry on me,
but I don't feel bad of it,
because She is the book of knowledge for me.
She is diligent and smart,Having a loving heart,
She is a storehouse of knowledge,
And has a unlimited mileage,
She can work 24 hours of the day,
Without giving a braek to the way,
She is none other than my teacher-my role model.
Copyright © sakshi sitoot | Year Posted 2015
You never listen
Yes I know it's true
I see you try and deny it
How's that working for you?
I will say one thing
You will hear another
I will try to fix it
The misunderstanding you see
I just got in trouble
(Sigh) I told you so
They never listen to me
They say they do
And I know they try
But all I want to do is scream
"JUST LISTEN TO ME SOMEONE PLEASE"
All I asked is that you think
What is real?
Do I ever ask this?
Will I ever again?
All I really did
All I want
Is to be free
Free to listen
And free to be me
You'll never see
Just how much your
Not listening has killed me
I have tried
Really I did
I know that I'm not eighty
I know that I'm not nice
But the only thing I asked
For was five minutes (at the most) of your life.
I'm sorry that you failed
I'm sorry that I tried but
Mostly I'm just sorry that
I'm not sorry,
Copyright © Rayne Thomas | Year Posted 2013
Fake Words – Zamreen Zarook
God have given us mouth,
Not to speak to north and south,
Tongue is given under an oath,
So it’s our duty to protect them both.
Girls chat fake with boys,
Having a notion that the boys are toys,
They often make varied noise,
Thinking to keep a trap on handsome guys.
Boys are also human being,
So it’s not possible being clean,
Things varies in the way they are seen,
So positive thinking will make you keen.
Boys’ minds are pure,
As it is pure bio,
So don’t try to pour vino,
Which will take decades to get cure.
Copyright © Zamreen Zarook | Year Posted 2013
I can see you up ahead of me
I am following
in your footsteps
no matter how fast I walk
I cannot catch up
your footsteps are bigger than mine
but they were warm
and safe to step in
you turn around
and smile encouragingly
then return to your journey
thank you for your footsteps
when I can no longer see you
they will always be here
pointing me in the right direction
Dora Roimata Langsbury
27 June 2009
Written for my father, Kuao Langsbury, for his 75th birthday gift.
Copyright © Dora Roimata Langsbury | Year Posted 2013
They try to give math a happier spin
"How many times can this number go in?"
As if you are part of some numerical clique
Because you can find a square root extra quick.
It's always "add up," time's up," "divide up,"
That keeps me looking down, counting down, feeling . . . yup.
I can't find the angle for a celebration
When numbers and math are in the equation!!!
Copyright © Cindi Rockwell | Year Posted 2016
White board…names written hori-
To go pee…right when class starts –
THAT’S just wrong…
Of students who have bladder
Problems – WOW!
Not using lunchtime to do
No one knows
When to do their duties – SER-
Copyright © J.W. Earnings | Year Posted 2013
Submitted to the "Gone Fishin" contest
Trollin’ the islands at Texoma,
It was April, 1964.
New rod and reel in hand,
I’d NEVER been fishing before.
A Garcia 2510T casting rod.
The reel, a Mitchell 301,
Plus hand-selected worms and lures…
I was ready to have some fun.
My teacher, a master fisherman,
Had fished all over the earth...
From trout in Austrian mountain streams
To sea bass just west of Perth.
He showed me all the basics,
Including how to tie a lure.
“No snaps. They’re no good.
Tie’em on…just to be sure.”
He made me practice casting.
“Take aim with your rod’s tip
Take her back - ten, eleven, twelve, one;
Smoothly return to ten… with just a little flip.”
While I practiced the casting motion,
He said, “Large Mouths will be jumpin’ bugs.
Water’s bubblin’ with Sand Bass spawnin’.
You’ll know the difference if one gives you a tug.”
As we drifted around the islands,
He said, “I think you’re ready.”
So, I picked a lure, a pretty Heddon;
And tied her on. My hands were steady.
Yellow with black dots and a weed guard.
A streamer tail and double treble hooks.
Who knew if she would do the job,
But I liked the way she looked.
As I tied her on, I looked around
For a likely place for my first cast.
Magazine pictures always showed weeds
In the background of a striking Bass.
So, I picked a reed bed in the shallows;
Threw my first cast, watched her fly.
What happened next was the stuff of dreams.
We couldn’t believe our eyes.
About eighteen inches before she lit,
A monstrous Large Mouth erupted from the water.
My teacher screamed, “Holy Mary, Mother of God!
Kiss O’Reilly’s Ugly Daughter!”
When the Bass broke water, it scared me.
My whole body jerked and shook.
So sudden, so silent, it seemed like slow motion.
Until I heard him screaming, “Set the hook! Set the hook!”
When the big Bass scared me,
I must have set the hook.
The tussle was on, long and hard.
This fish didn’t want to be cooked.
My lack of skills prevailed, however,
As I finally reeled him in;
I grabbed him by the lower lip,
Like I’d seen Don Wallace do, time and time again.
“Oh, my God”, he murmured as he weighed the Bass;
“Jeez. Over thirteen pounds....Thirteen pounds, two.”
He took out his Polaroid and laughed,
“I’ll take a picture of this fish... holdin' you.”
He snapped the picture of me holding the Bass;
On the back wrote the date, the length and weight.
As he turned to put the camera away……
Get ready. This is the part that’s great.
I’d watched Don Wallace ‘catch and release’.
He always did that on his show.
“This fish put up a good fight.” he’d say;
“Now it’s time to let him go.”
Yes, as my teacher put away the camera,
I held the big Bass by the lower lip and tail
And ‘swished’ him in the water,
Making sure his gills would not fail.
My teacher turned and saw what I was doing
Just as I let the big Bass go.
This, too, was like slow motion
As I heard him screaming, “NOOOOOOO!”
“Why would you do that, Lad?
Do ya know nothin’ at all?
A fish like that... on your very first cast?
Well...Lad, that fish goes on the wall.”
“Well…he’ll be here next year.” I said with a smile,
“And even bigger, I’ll bet.”
He said, ”You’ll make a fisherman, Lad.
It’s not for the fish that we fish…
but for the great stories we get.”
I still have that lure…and the rod and reel.
Still in their bags and boxes, just like new.
I thought about selling them on eBay,
But 50 years later, they have sentimental value.
You see…I’ve been invited to go fishin’ several times
By golfin’ buddies and other friends;
But for some reason…I really don’t know why…
I’ve never gone fishin’ again.
They say, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
And I believe that is a fact.
I hope you enjoyed this bit of truth and,
In the meantime…..”Ya’ll come back!”
Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014
To be called ..
~ Grandma is a Honor ~
I have been blessed with 4 Grandchildren
~ one lays in Heaven " Kaleb " He is God's Angel ~
~ His twin brother he will always watch over , and be in his soul~
For he loved his Brother so much in the womb ,
he chose Heaven which gave life to his twin
~ I feel his spirit when I see the other Grandson ~
Time passed another gift to see
we are " Mickes" and Loved
Our Dad held the title in Baseball
~ that's how we roll ~
those children are Grandmas hero's
The Irish they love big and Family is everything
The brothers will protect the beautiful sister
~ as many lads will be calling ~
Every time my Grandson hits a home run
There will be a Angel watching proudly in the stand
It will be as if the Angel lifted him when he runs
~no one runs faster then my Grandson~
either baseball or Art ~ you shall find your gift given
These children have been blessed~
~ a beauty to hard to describe
If you think not ~~ Take a look at the Mom
That girl can stop Traffic
after raising three and still~
"Inspired by the gift and loss of Grandchildren "
May our precious " Kaleb " softly rest where Angels only Dwell
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013