Best Teaching Poems
I wish I met you in a past life
So I knew how to act right now
But soon this will be my past life
I’ll be smart from this experience
for the next one
If I ever jump out of this hell hole
I hope I won’t be the devil, trying
to hurt all
A broken record will still look and
sound bad even with a nice song
The faith once put in you is now
all for God
Maybe he will heal something you
broke
Maybe he will send an angel my
way and she will be the last
One who will make forgiving and
forgetting about you not a must
Because she will be beautiful both
in her deeds and frame to make
you think of what was
They say it’s therapeutic to write
But they never tell you nothing
good comes out from being good
to the wrong one right
Thought being good would make
every wrong right
Maybe it’s part of God’s plan so
why fight
But it still hurts so bad and I won’t
lie
And although it hurts me so, I
won’t give up
Because you made me believe in
angels
I actually appreciate the fact that I
feel this way right now
I know that I’m alive..
So at least when I face my next life
I know that in this one I lived.
How strong you must be to be you
I look back and acknowledge all
that you were in those moments
I look back and I think: wow, I
admire you
Sometimes I wander how you feel
And how you must have felt back
then
I can sit and pour out my heart
through my pen
But what you and I had I know will
never be again
So in the end, I guess I must move
forth..
Guided not only by prayer, but
also by the memories and lessons
I’ve accrued
My vision clear I choose my path,
Love and trust in God, I am forever
strong,
And open to the new beginning
that is meant to shine for me..
Thanks for teaching me how to
love.
"I saw some road kill on my way over," she said.
She had a horse laugh. "Just a dumb raccoon," she added.
I leapt over the sink and slapped her, hard.
Leaving my entire hand print on her cheek in pink.
Her prissy stuck-up lady face looked stunned.
She stood up, and ran off without any more incessant yapping.
My husband walked out of his man-cave just in time to
see her running flat out past the picture window, clutching her purse.
"Playing with the new neighbor?" He guessed.
I glared at him.
"The woman pushed her way in with a 'yoo hoo', She was not invited."
"She doesn't share your love for animals?" he guessed.
Oscar Opossum pushes open the cupboard doors under the sink, wanders out and chomps noisily from the dog bowl.
Sophie, our most spoiled cocker spaniel growls.
Reggie Raccoon runs over and slaps Sophie.
"Look what you are teaching them!"
My husband says to me, horrified.
"Reggie is a raccoon," I inform him. "She TAUGHT slapping to me!"
I doubt this nosy neighbor will be back,
Which is a perk because I truly and deeply
Like my woodland creatures much more than pushy humans.
Great
Teaching
Requires a
Desire burning
Not a mere paycheck
To be earning--
Not Spurning
You or
Me!
Our
Teacher
Engages Minds
And Hearts As One
Bringing together
All Class Members
Challenging
You and
Me!
She tried to get my attention a number of times
But It was not possible because
I was a country or two away
Wearing brown leather swashbuckler pants
White billowy blouses, and multi-buckled boots,
Fighting pirates with Sabers.
I was mighty and terrifying.
Hearing my war cry turned their blood to ice
Which is why I did not have to stab them
All I had to do was wave my sword around
And scream and they would jump ship
And get eaten by sharks or swim to land
Pride oozed out of me as I heard my battle cry.
Student me replaced pirate queen me hard and fast
When I heard my peers laughing
Apparently the teacher was not amused by a battle cry
In the middle of her boring math lesson
A Pirate Queen serving detention?
Unfortunately it happens
Her Father was the Creator
Of the heavens and the earth
He gave her all of creation
Then, in time, He gave her
His word
The Bible was His precious
Book – of grace, faith and hope
Sprinkled in Love beyond measure
Love that could even be heard
In the scriptures He breathed
Light onto everything
His gift was more than blessing
It was wise beyond description
It was inspiration and enlightenment
A gift of purity and affection
Bringing life that was a living word
Written by inspired authors
Who knew she would soon need
This gift that surpassed her
Wildest dreams
Her Father gave her a book
And it was a book of wisdom and truth
Grace bound it up in love
And prayer brought it to birth
All her heart’s hopes and desires
Her belief was like a warm fire
Sending tingles of love through her soul
And capturing her spirit in an embrace
From the psalms and praises
Flowing through the ink in His gift
The Word of God is alive
Breathing out passion for Him
The greatest giver there will ever be
The God of heaven, the Father
Of all creation
God, the Father
Gave her a book, the Bible
And it’s contents – scriptures and verses
Are more potent and powerful
Than anything she could have imagined
With love, He blessed her greatly!
The little hand, the big hand,
The numbers all o'clock;
The way the seconds move
With every tick and every tock.
Explaining the positions
Showing 30 on its face,
A knowledge that no digit-flashing
Timepiece can replace.
I guess it's as old-fashioned
As when teaching kids to spell,
But there's value in those lessons,
Least as far as I can tell.
We should teach the chimpanzees to read
the names of certain things. Objects like tools
for instance
then label the tools: hammer, saw, axe,
screwdriver etcetera, then screws and nails.
Teach them just enough words to know
a pickaxe from a pencil…just a few practical words
for practical applications, not too many,
otherwise they might turn into poets,
and god-knows we don’t need anymore of that.
The chimps could build dog kennels for dogs,
shelves for their tools. Park benches for
other more elderly chimps.
They will, of course have no use for words
like romance, religion and politics.
If they wanted to fight among themselves
(as chimps often do),
they could simply go back to grunting,
screaming and throwing sticks at each other,
as we used to.
I might have made a miscalculation,
maybe tools for low-tech apes
eventually leads to holocausts and Hiroshima.
Perhaps after all,
we will just teach them how to write poetry
for those who prefer their muse
to scream and grunt a bit.
Then maybe we can start on the dogs and cats;
force them to play the piano for a living.
As we did the month preceding
This the next department meeting
Time and time without a reason
To be present or to listen
For there’s nothing on the floor
Beneath us different than before
It was the last time that we met
As everybody knows and yet
Again we sit around the table
Top our seats but still unable
To understand why we should read
Another memo from the Dean
Of students who have never met ‘em
Or her or maybe better, them
For whom the Chair is working under
Standing in the room, we wonder
How’d it ever get to this
Friday morning’s foolishness
Of faculty who should know better
Than to debate what doesn’t matter
That they’ll only misconstrue
The points they’re missing when they do
Interrupt each other speaking
Words better spent in classrooms teaching
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It wasn't grand,
this bell upon Ivy’s desk –
just hammered tin
nothing distinct,
a traveler's relic,
perhaps,
or bought for pennies
at the county fair.
No polished gleam,
no silvered tongue,
just simple weight
in weathered wood
it clung.
But when her hand,
thin-veined and strong
from chalk-dust,
ink,
and garden-loam,
reached out –
a stillness fell
across the room
like held-in breath.
Then came the tap:
a single, clear,
unhurried ping
that seemed too small
to hold such things.
Yet out it flew!
A silver thread
unspooling fast
across the dew-wet
pasture grass,
over the stile
where Billy paused
his milking-pail,
through orchard rows
where apples hung
like sleepy moons.
It skimmed the creek
where minnows flashed,
startled the crow
on the fencepost,
sailed past
farms
where hay
was baled…
It flew!
That tiny sound,
that humble ring,
had wings.
It called the freckled boy
still wiping sleep
from sun-shot eyes,
the girl whose braids
were barley-gold,
the quiet one.
It gathered them,
like scattered seeds
on shifting wind,
to this one room
schoolhouse
where maps unfurled
and numbers bloomed
and stories hummed
beneath the rafters,
warm and low.
The bell sat still.
Its work was done.
Just hammered tin
beneath the sun
that slanted through
the dusty pane.
But in its silence,
echoed plain:
the scrape of chairs,
the turning page,
the hopeful rustle
of a bygone age
being called –
not ordered,
summoned –
by a sound
that knew
its own small
but mighty
weight.
Allow yourself to be taught,
And with that knowledge plant a seed.
Let it grow so you may harvest a dream.
And another and another like fruit from a tree.
And let yourself catch a wind,
And sail should there be water to float,
And with that knowledge navigate the stars.
To reach the dream sails full of hope.
And never be still should disappointment come,
A windless sky for a while might be,
When all seems lost and nothing is.
Knowledge makes waves in a calm sea.
I never knew you, says the Lord:
a verse that seems so untoward.
For did they not the demons pry,
and in His name, too, prophesy?
They did not shrink, forsake, or shirk
from doing many mighty works.
There’s power there for all to see,
and yet He says, Away from me!
But surely these in fact fulfill
“The one who does my Father’s will”?
To do is more than mere ascent;
Believe in the One whom He sent.
For you all do the things you do,
neglecting what He did for you.
Works-based, lawless, vast miles apart
from changed, repentant, grateful hearts.
from Matthew 7:21-23
MATH: BUTTERFLIES AND MAGIC “SEVEN”
“We multiply,” said the Rabbit to the butterfly -
Addition makes too few of you - your life’s through
In as many weeks as there are letters in “SQUEAKS”
If for every one of you, we Rabbits birth 22
How few of you would equal our 154?
Seven it is! Butterfly’s quite the math whiz!
Is this the same math as the game about the week?
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7: Or take four from eleven
Seven days to a week – seven weeks to our lives
Then heaven becomes more beautiful with butterflies ...
(c)Deo. NOTE: I wrote this poem for my grade-school daughters in the 1990s, to help them have fun with Math (using manipulatives, especially with rabbits and butterfly toys). They did learn to love & protect butterflies, whose life-span is merely weeks, or a few months. Such beauty that passeth by quickly and so curiously! Shalom, shalom.
You’ll wanna forget, but I’ll sell your kisses for a bag and a rig.
My glory rides on a brick and a gram
You’ll never get more then half my mind.
I’ll eat ya to put you to sleep
Cause my dick won’t step up half the time.
Your eyes shut to tapping my vein
Dancing through shards of moonlight, emptying your purse.
I can score while your searching your plastic case for your pretty face.
Sweet poems and construction paper cards were pregame.
Now I finger through your parents drawers, quarter rolls are good enough.
Do you still crave me babe?
How’s third place, my two best buds a needle away?
Even when my eyes aren’t dotted up it isn’t fair.
Just a routine, credit card debt and jail don’t scare.
With me we’re always in the midst of thunder
Recoveries pink clouds in front but out of grasp.
Absence of luck permits you to hang on to my spirit embezzling tears.
I’ll be smiling at the freedom, Ignoring your texted stabs.
Long sleeves and 50 hour work weeks fooled your parents, but
The mirrors sunken and pale my features lost to warmth artificial from my heart.
Everything is gonna be cool as long as no one sees my arms.
Penniless, I’ll dissolve all my cravings under my tongue… for a week.
Steaks marinated in Pabst followed by talks of your creation.
We can lay in bed alll day watching Hulu and melting time.
For once I’ll be all your’s no more rocks disrupting my brain.
As soon as pay day hits I’ll sprint out the front door.
I wrote this as a tribute for one of my former teacher, Mrs. Barbara Shaw.
With Her keen abilities to teach and reach the hearts of children of all
ages, coupled with a caring nature and calm spirit, inspired hundreds, if not
more, to cope with life while possessing a zest for knowledge and with the ability to comprehend their dreams. No, I did not become President of the US of A, So that Proves she taught me well.
This little poem is really not worthy of the amount
of love and caring that She has freely shared with others through the years, to young and old alike, (and I can hardly wait to see the corrections She will make to this piece)
But I wanted to say something, So Here's To You Mrs. Shaw and Thank You for introducing me to the works of Robert Frost. "Best Wishes" and many more in the years to come. Sincerly with Love Jerry T Curtis Mar 5th 2015
Teaching By Reaching
by JT Curtis
When I was very young
school to me, was like a prison
a place for discipline
metered out with pure precision
I made it through the first few three years
with minor cuts and bruises
Everyday a new found tear
and learned, there's no excuses
But like all things, this would change
as I prayed for my release
Then days of woeful negligence
and brutal pains would cease
I was delivered, to a classroom
where learning, was, a delight
It brought joy, to me each day
and solace through the nights
The one and single figure
That save my future, on that day
Was my fourth and fifth grade teacher
In her loving caring way
I can't tell you the joy I felt the day She
informed me that she also was promoted the
5th grade.
Teaching by Immersion
(A poem for my dad…)
When I was young
On the tiny island of Tonga
My dad taught me to swim
“Swim”
He said as he threw me
From the back of the boat
As the water closed
Over my head
I felt
Free
I wasn’t afraid
I knew I could hold my breath
until someone above panicked
and
my dad would crash
into the water and lift me into the sun
I don’t remember ever
Being taught how to swim
I simply remember waiting
Calmly
In the blue green blur
For my dad
And
The sun…