Blackboards Poems | Examples

Half past Summer, Two Months till Fall

Half past summer, two months till fall,
boredom, bullies; teacher neglect.
sandcastles, encase, be my pall!
Half past summer, two months till fall.
when school bells toll, tenderfoots bawl—
sun's embrace, we'd warmly collect.
Half past summer, two months till fall,
blackboards, bullies; teacher regret.

THE WORLD IS A SMALL VILLAGE

The world is a small rural village.
Each nation is a household
Sometimes one runs out of salt
but never worries for a neighbour will offer
expecting nothing in return.

Communal hands
Clear each other's farms.
When pests strike one, the rest respond
because no rain ever falls on just one roof.

Children are raised by the village
whether born of wealth or want.
Every father is a father to many
every mother is a mother to all.
Lessons are not chalked on blackboards
but told around fires, where wisdom glows with every flame.

The world is a small village
my grandfather once said
where kindness is currency
and no one eats alone.

TO BEING ON BOARD

TO BEING ON BOARD     *

I can remember when
It was blackboards,
Which have been replaced
By their whiteboards;
Loaded with selective
Brainwashing videos:
Primarily coded to entertain
Rather than educate;
Particularly, if you’ve not chosen
Teaching as a labor of love:-

When asked how could I, at 83,
Teach without a whiteboard,
I simply replied that I was
A live retired living blackboard:
Programmed by God’s divine wisdom
And guidance to continue to engage
In a labor of love—teaching and sharing
Inspirational and dedicated problem-solving
Skills to the chosen future liberators:-

Nostalgia

I stand before it,
Something that was my present in past,
And is yesterday today,
Something that has become a memory at last.

A shade of yellow settled in my eyes,
Which would now reminisce everything in sight,
Bidding my last goodbyes,
Everything slowly flushed by a sepia light.

Those tarnished blue coloured walls,
That have been hit by our class’ cricket balls,
Those trees of green,
Which luminate the autumn sheen.

This role playing ground,
Changing its character as occasions are found,
Once a ground to our sports fest,
Another to when our parade isn’t at rest.

Those now-never-to-be-seen teachers,
Whose faces I miss,
These dusky classes,
Which now strike a lighting bliss.

Memories hidden in those benches and blackboards,
Each one has a story it hoards.
The forgotten tales of when I thought ‘their’ and ‘there’ were same,
Would be recalled if the wood had a mouth and a name.

Past is the moon,
Memories, the water,
Nostalgia, the tide,
Nothing to be felt but a warm collide.

The Serling Zones

There are many zones
the popular Twilight Zone
crossing the school zone
with all the basics
like writhing and reeling and
arrhythmias are fatal

for Western students
cluelessness, secrecy, and
incapacity
ignored globe grows dust
and the school's walls have blackboards
dartboards for target practice

the teachers alarmed
walled Glocks that toll assassins
the lambs are noisy
indoors and outdoors
the hung apple's score tallies
The Tree of Knowledge still grows

principal announced
school will close for funerals
the town folks will meet
and begs an answer
school razed for homeschooling
new breeds promise no more graves

twenty-twenty-five
parents, their kid's commencements
gymnasium armed
library screams sh!
nobody crossing zone signs
fronts empty cemetery

Mashup Blend Words

Georgetown Highschool Fire Drill Today
On top--Georgetown's outdoor blackboards
Setup classmate's first-time meetup sort out
Schoolboys head out--henceforth buddy up one-on-one  
Outside schoolyards baseball's first base
Schoolgirls show up--nearby football goalpost

Back To School

Early September rain 
A dampened sidewalk, 
Wet leaves lead me back
To blackboards and chalk

The wood of the desks
Cupboards along the wall,
Fresh, clean and simple 
Newly awakens it all

The lessons learned
Countless memories made,
A moment forgotten ...
I'm back in fourth grade 

The sharpened pencils
The crayon's shaving,
Add up to the many
Aromas worth saving

Pink erasers, notebooks
A new binder that year,
The scent of paper when
An open book is near

The paints, the markers
Linger on in my mind,
And those stickers ...
The scratch 'n sniff kind

Spaghetti ... or lasagna 
Drifts down the hall,
From the lunchroom
Caused excitement for all

The chocolate milk ...
I would always pick it,
Came in paper cartons
And bought with a ticket 

Quiet, sun - filled skies
Meant recess for us,
Remembered radio songs
Going home on the bus

New shoes laced up
Ready for mornings cool,
And all of it brings me
Right back to school.

Psychics?

You know you have a small apartment
When Kellogg's Coco Pops echo
Maybe our world is another planet's hell
Sure wouldn't surprise me to know

Why do psychics have to ask you your name
Going to live forever... so far so good
I adore you more than beans and rice
If I could love you more I would

They say, hard work pays off in the future
I say, laziness pays off now
Some sage advice, never ever stand close
To the back end of a cow

All those who believe in psycho kinesis
Will you please raise my hand
People usually wind up in a prone position
While involved in a one night stand

What happens if you get scared to death twice
What do sheep count to help them sleep
Ever wonder why all blackboards are green
Do birds shake wings when they greet

The Table

The lesson was don’t speak with a mouthful,
And not at all when grown folk speak.
My pitiful plate burns on my lap,
So too does my sister’s on hers.
The dinner table sits too small to invite children
So we fade to silence and grow deaf to conversation

In teacherless rooms, with vulgar blackboards
We, of broken shirts and dirty shoes,
paper planes that take flight with spitballs
and enough noise to drown church bells,
Ink-stained hands too mutual to laugh at,
We grow communities around a kid’s desk.

In corner offices and parliaments
that stink of Hugo Boss and bare smug,
The people I gave my sacred election
reek with exclusion.
at the table, they decree our lives
While we fade with brooms in the back.

Tomorrow, we will sit at the table.
we will dance atop it with bare feet
‘til the world turns sweet
with our benevolence
we will build the table anew
we shall carve it glory!

To Whom It May Concern

In an attempt to document my worth to your esteemed organization, I hereby submit my unredacted resume.

I was educated using blocks, books, chalk, blackboards and the slide rule.  “Testing” was used to “evaluate” progress and assist in future choices.

I graduated Magna cum softly from a “free” education facility with a double major in life and its unlimited learning experiences.  I am presently enrolled in its post graduate “Masters” program.

I am currently up to date on all of the recent “vaccinations”, upgrades and mask wearing theory.

I do, however, suffer from a long-standing problem with a “work ethic” issue and find it difficult not to show up and produce as I believe it is important to my remaining gainfully employed.
When asked by another employee a question such as: “I wonder what he/she thinks?” I usually reply: “I’m more concerned about why you're so concerned about what he/she thinks.”

I would bring to your “work” place an open mind (not to be confused with an empty head).

If you are interested in offering me employment please contact me by snail mail as my computer mysteriously disappeared last night.

John G.Lawless
©3/20/2023

These Lengths of Our Days

These long days strung upon such a short string,
dreams all, dreams collected as a thread of life.

These nights that arrive like blackboards -
and all smudged with chalk.

Do you wake and feel as if all that has gone before
was not even once and is no more?

A can of condensed soup, a Warhol image
we took down from a self-shelf and opened,
the ingredients were more than we thought
but much less than we imagined.

Did we write the script we now recall
or do we ghost read?

These short days strung upon such a long string,
each one a story told to ourselves;
a bead on a rosary of belief

that now unravels
to clatter upon a floor
that is disappearing under our feet.

Seeking Meaning

on fibers coarse
	with little clay
nibs are stained
	with indigo ink

lines of cursive
	carefully formed
seeking meaning
	to come forth

chrome plated steel
	and laminate wood
plastics cast
	a cage formed

aligned in rows
	of boys and girls
trying to find
	what to know

classroom did form
	a prison dark
locked out the sound
	of the Muses song

warm air to flow
	through wildflowers bright
bees there to hum
	and birds take flight

castles to float
	on scented breeze
grasses to tickle
	bare running feet

through glass so hard
	that kept at bay
what could be seen
	but a world away

beyond the confines
	of what was taught
forms that did constrict
	the youthful mind

beauty unseen
	did fill the thoughts
where wonder did dance
	of what might be

blackboards of chalk
	filled with empty words
to teach of things
	that were not sought

with quills of ink
	in cursive words
seeking the meaning
	of the unknown

Gun Shy

If guns don’t kill people 
Why are so many people dead
Another moms child 
shot in the head
Blackboards white chalk
splattered in Red
A teacher killed
For something she said
Victim after victim
Demons need to be fed
On violence they’ve been bred

We shouldn’t need
Metal detectors at School
A place of innocence has become cruel
What happened to the Golden Rule
Have we all taken on 
the role of a fool
A gun isn’t just a harmless tool
It’s a weapon of mass destruction 
and the most potent hate fuel.

I am scared by the NRA narrative 
The power and control amendment imperative
Off to Washington lobbyist slobs
More and more gun factory jobs
Guns don’t lead to the collaborative 
Weapons should not be the normative.
We have got in the habit of not looking up above
No gun has ever led to acts of love.

So until politicians become brave
Our society is a slave
Problems grow over time
We shouldn’t be so naive 
Profiteers shouldn’t determine what we believe 
In the end there are to many lives to grieve.

Leaving School Days

The best time when you enjoy
Most of being alive,
Is somewhat gonna be over
With the end of your school life. 

From playschool to primary
From primary to high school
It's a place where you get
And leave behind your childhood. 

A mysterious fun in attending 
Those days, we never know
Until it strikes our head as memories
When everything will go. 

No more blackboards to stare at
No more desks to lie on
No more rules to break and 
No more arguments to do what you want. 

Although many things have got over 
But school is not the end.
Maybe you'll have a different fun
In a new college with new friends. 

                                                                    29 October 2014

Pointedly Poignant

Pointedly poignant points portend pointillism.
Pontiffs pontificate pointless pointers ponderously.
Pompous poems populate Pompei pottery potently.
Porous *********** portrays Portuguese porta potties.
Poppies pop Popeye’s popular popcorn.
Populist populism pots ponies properly.

Blithering blather blots bloody bleeping blips.
Bloomberg blogs bleach bleating bloated blinks.
Bluebloods bloom black blackberry bloopers.
Bluetooth blizzards blame blurry blackboards.
Blithe blighted bladders blatantly block blades.
Blazing blasts bleed blooming blenders. 

Fumbling fumes funerals fast.
Feuding fluid furniture flutters flaps.
Fighting flatulent flamingos flounder.
Floating flotillas flee flying flops.
Families foment future futile forms.
Freaky frozen French fries frighten frogs.

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