Chalk Up Poems - Poems about Chalk Up

The Chalk Beneath My Fingernails

-The Chalk Beneath My Fingernails-

I walk a path where roads dissolve,
Where rivers rise and hopes revolve,
Through jungle mist and dusty lanes,
With every step, I carry names—
Of children born with hollow bowls,
But eyes that shine like tempered coals.

The schoolhouse leans against the sky,
Its roof a patchwork, spirits high.
The walls may crack, the floor may creak,
But voices

Chalk

Chalk
 White powder rock.
 Just 45 minutes on the clock.
 Teacher is the tool.
 The chalk is the writer.
 Many lesions, many words.
 White dust across the black board.
 Erase to smudge.
 Chalk re-writes discipline.
 Learn as much as you can.
 Let poetry begin.
 Refining thoughts.
 Lost time writing in cursive.
 White limestone,
 To a

Chalk Dust and Unspoken Words

The blackboards loom, a silent witness to that day—
I glimpsed her, and my chest tightened.
Only god noticed how I held my breath.

Chalk-scented classrooms, her pen tapping desk,
My eyes fixed on textbooks, pretending indifference.
Unknowingly, how aware I was of her every move.

Lunch breaks, I'd watch her from across the room,
Her laughter carried on the breeze, a

Chalk People

Children cherish a summer rain
it turns them into unchained frogs 
hopping around the gushing drains
splashing about mud puddle bliss
catching those silver manna drops
with pinkish frog tongue flicks.

The chalk people, in meltdown mode
bark out from plastic abodes
warning of killer lightning flashes
thunderous bolts and lion slashes.

The chalk people strip the hoppers 
of their short lived, muddy happiness.
Scolding

Chalk Dust and Stardust

Amidst the chaos of chalk and dreams deferred,
We ask ourselves, where can we find the spark
In this labyrinth of rote and rigid words?
The burden we bear, a future stark

We've trudged through dusty classrooms, yearning
For wisdom beyond the printed page
We've learned that silence isn't always learning
And the norms of what education should be
Aren't always nurturing or

:blinded as the chalk dust blew:

  oblivion is nothing new ~ i’ve been there once and will go back too

  i awoke crying as sensations grew ~ til death rubbed out all i knew

  god only knows who’s really who ~ i’m bamboozled a sign could do

  blackboard equations esoteric and true ~ chalk dust for

DUAL VOICES: INK AND CHALK

I am a tempest of words, aching to burst forth.
(Years of structured lessons simmer beneath my skin.)

The most important thing is that I'm drowning in metaphors. 
Being a poet shapes reality, and twists what you are and what you're destined to become.
(When I hear myself, my meter-perfect cadence in casual speech, I think, Good Lord,

Chalk On Concrete

Two wonders,
born into our lives twelve and
ten years ago.
A girl and a boy,
my grandchildren,
in the little house in Haw Creek,
I held them less than a year old
as they slept on my chest,
as I walked them up and down
the creaking wooden floor hallway.

Soft lullabies, baby board books,
spontaneous laughter so endearing.
Their drawings in chalk on concrete,
playing in

Chalk Outline

Imagine if you would,
a comedic TV show.
Funny most evenings
and has a nice flow.

The guy who works
for Police homicide
the one who dose
the chalk outline.
A psychic friend of mine,
who's always on time,
He's a real psychic
He actually tells people
when not to show up for work,
or when they should 
or shouldn't drive.
He's trying to save lives.

Working alone and
telling people

The Unlikely Friendship of Chalk and Cheese

Chalk was bold, pale skinned, and big boned.
A soft souled, porous, sedentary teen.
Bulky, he made a big initial impression,
but seemed to lack in true substance.
And thus, was a temporary friend,
often relied on to help others with work,
but then discarded without a second thought.
Good thing Chalk brushed off comments with ease.

Cheese was very much an acquired

Shudder, Tremble, Then, Now

A shudder, a tremble,
hearing a screech.
Was it that chalk again -
on that board or this wall?

We tend to hear things
at the strangest of times:
midnight, noon, three-seventeen.
But seven minutes to ten?

Hmm. That's an odd time.
It may come again tomorrow.
But what is weird is that
it will come yesterday.

Yet I knew nothing of that till today.
We have the

Filled With Chalk

She squats and points,
her little face is all aglow.
Her smile is wide
She’s grinning ear to ear, you know.
She’s very pleased
at the discovery she’s made.
The little frog
is sitting frozen in the shade.
He knows that she
is his protector and his queen,
but he’s not sure
now that I’m also on the scene.

When did you know, I ask of her,
that

Chalk Board

Your voice is 
Like nails on chalk board.
It makes me want to 
Cut my ears out so 
I no longer can hear. 
Anything you say 
Any more.
Your eyes pierce my soul.
Looking at me 
 Hating who I am.
Hating who I be become.
Judging everyone 
Around you 
Who isn't like you 
Who don't believe in
What you believe

The Path To Walk

One that won’t my sandals sag
Nor my garments shrinks:
My journeys unduly drag
Nor on me impress that I ‘d soon sink!
A path that shouldn’t me repaint
As though an Art Work now faint …
And commonsense warns me, also you;
One that is like a gospel true
Not a highway but still gets through

All these, please mark with chalk
About the

Chalk Board Thugs

Don't fear the blue man group
they're far less dangerous
than we are to ourselves..
but 
do beware of carnivorous teachers
those harmless looking
wire rimmed 
blackboard preachers 
wielding pieces of chalk
on the tips of 38 caliber tongues..
turning classrooms into cancer cells 
teaching the innocent
that its all about 
color of skin and not character 
after all-
 
despite the truly oppressed
coming

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