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DAYS OF A STUDENT by Gauthier, Line
Teacher and Student Tight Ties by sensele, john
Student Teacher Poem by Riabi Dziri, Besma
student drivers by parker, cs
This student teacher by Ochwo-Oburu, Solomon
College Student Privilege by Dinzes, Jerry
The Student by Reza, Muzahidul
Being A Student by Sherman, Ethan
Another Eager Student of Depression by Hlabisa, Sizwe
Where Would A Student Go by Project, The Brooklyn Six

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The Best Student Poems

Details | Student Poem |

Actions Speak Louder Than Words

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
3/28/2016

Details | Student Poem |

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.
Oops.
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.

Details | Student Poem |

Math: A Great Challenge

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.

Details | Student Poem |

Teacher, shall I write a sonnet

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.

Details | Student Poem |

The Student

Buzz, Buzz,
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.

Details | Student Poem |

Fake Words

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.

Details | Student Poem |

Listen to Me

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
Was ask
For friend

All I want
Is to be free
Free to listen
And free to be me

Sadly though
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,
Not anymore.

Details | Student Poem |

My Teacher-My Role Model


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.

Details | Student Poem |

My Father's Footsteps

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.

Details | Student Poem |

MATH BLUES

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!!!


2/6/2016

Details | Student Poem |

Bladder Problems in Class

Numbers on 
White board…names written hori-
zontally

Students ask
To go pee…right when class starts – 
THAT’S just wrong…

Bathroom line
Of students who have bladder
Problems – WOW!

People are
Not using lunchtime to do 
Their business 

No one knows
When to do their duties – SER-
IOUSLY?

Details | Student Poem |

Went Fishin'


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!”

Details | Student Poem |

My Micke boys

                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

Best Student Poems | Poetry

New Student Poems

The Best Student Poems

The Swarthy Bard

SILENCE IS BROKEN

A Golf lesson

Actions Speak Louder Than Words

IQ Test

future

Ana

Polly

Our Education's Who We Are

Madison

Learning Time

The Young Philosopher

Perfect World

Part 2 You Have to Whistle

Math: A Great Challenge

Teacher, shall I write a sonnet

The Student

Fake Words

Listen to Me

My Teacher-My Role Model

My Father's Footsteps

MATH BLUES

Bladder Problems in Class

Went Fishin'

My Micke boys