Is our true love was going anywhere?
After traditional local fun fair
Nothing does compare, with the teasing scare
Where we share, our mature teen age affair
Passing written notes, from pens we borrow
Wonder about future, unknown horror
Sunny blue skies? After we say goodbye?
Studying college courses are new try
Meeting new friends, saying, he’s a nice guy
Semester we wander getting credit
Attend class confessing "should have read it"
Or the other excuse, “I don’t get it”
Compass directs one to the campus bar
Healing wounds from the bloody mark grade scar
Is our true love was going anywhere?
After traditional local fun fair
Nothing does compare, with the teasing scare
Where we share, our mature teen age affair
Passing written notes, from pens we borrow
Wonder about future, unknown horror
Sunny blue skies? After we say goodbye?
Studying college courses are new try
Meeting new friends, saying, he’s a nice guy
Semester we wander getting credit
Attend class confessing "should have read it"
Or the other excuse, “I don’t get it”
Compass directs one to the campus bar
Healing wounds from the bloody mark grade scar
And making out with a long neck lone star
A class on Zoom, as you’d assume,
Attracts its share of crazies,
But in your room, no need to fume;
Just rearrange your daisies
Or fill a grid your camera hid,
Completing Sunday’s puzzle,
If the teacher did not place a lid
On some who need a muzzle.
With mic sound shut, if every nut
Must jabber with a story,
You tune out, but, your tsk and tut
Won’t dampen someone’s glory.
The time will pass and soon your class
Will come to its conclusion
And then, en masse, you leave; the brass
Believing the illusion.
Before the city grew teeth of storeys,
Every road was once a footpath of dark earth,
Every skyline a village dream feigning height.
The whirlwind arrives like an ancestral drum,
Beating zinc roofs into memory,
While the soil drinks without question.
Maize rises like angry dust,
Crops sleep beneath the earth like buried wealth,
The old iroko keeps census of generations.
We call ourselves urban, as if asphalt
Could bleach the village from our blood,
As if language could divorce us from reality.
Every man carries an ancestral footpath,
Every woman a forgotten rib in the bones,
Every last name is a door to somewhere rural.
The city is only a village that learnt to disguise itself,
And civilisation, perhaps, is merely distance,
From the stream that first taught us to swim.
When the rain smells of the earth,
Listen keenly—the village speaks through you;
Everyone is a village man, even in hired suits.
From Vandeikya to Eko sluthers the same rhythm,
Only the midriff of imagination pats on them.
August end
Welcoming Autumn cool breeze
Distributing new academic spiritual syllabus
Sun illuminates' life’s pondering campus
Deceased leaves spotlight beauty
Depart the world
Will return again
Alive and well
A Mother nature rebirth
Steeped in tradition
Tonight an escort holds a lantern
Ready to guide me
Through the early fall dark
Star less night
Wanting another day
“Do not be afraid
Future arrives soon
And you will have your historical spirit”
This I remember
Getting ready to haunt
Those who need answers
More than gold
Introducing closure
Honest strong treasure
Discovered through
Exploring resting peace
This I am told
After ghost orientation 101
She lifts the one-piece blue gym suit toward the camera,
that relic of our girlhood trials~
the stretchy, scratchy, sweat-soaked uniform
we wriggled into like reluctant acrobats.
It hangs from her hand like a captured beast,
its elastic edges still whispering
of locker rooms, loud whistles,
and the long-ago tyranny of mandatory jumping jacks.
Her grin is bright, almost defiant.
“I survived the blue gym suit,” she says,
as if announcing a medal earned through
endurance, embarrassment, and sheer adolescent grit.
And truly~
for every teenage girl who fought that fabric,
who peeled it off after class like a second skin,
who learned early that some battles
are won simply by outlasting them~
it is a lifetime achievement award.
A small, silly triumph.
A shared secret.
A reminder that even the strangest struggles
become stories we hold up proudly
once we’ve lived long enough to laugh.
Apricot pies have been hard to find,
for a while now,
And those one can find are seldom
worth getting to know.
McDonald's no longer have apricot pies,
Despite my many sighs.
Buying apricots and making my own,
But with prices that only make me groan,
As I ask a mate for a loan.
It took me many years,
And lots of tears,
As pie after pie,
Failed to catch my eye,
But I finally found an apricot pie,
That was worth the buy,
Came in a cardboard box of four,
I gave them the maximum score.
As they came in their own tin foil tray,
Which saved the cleaning of an oven tray,
And that's all I have to say,
Except as to the makers of an apricot pie,
that caught my eye,
I will only lie,
To protect my supply.
The Blue Collar Poet
I am but a poet of simple, rigid mind,
With formal education, where hindsight isn't blind.
Sometimes I look at TRUE poets of education in the lits,
And wonder if it's true or if I'll ever fit.
For I look at other works of art and see that I'm quite plain;
I don't have the background to achieve the glory, fame.
But I am quite popular among my workers on the crew,
For my simple message just shines right on through.
I can speak in riddles, backward, or in rhymes,
But my simply worded message creates the best of times.
They are my blue-collar audience of hardworking men,
Soaking up the poetry as an honest clan.
I hope I've brought a little hope or introverted thought,
Something they can take with them that wasn't even bought.
Sometimes, when it hits with them, it's like water to and fro,
Wetting down the soil and planting seeds to grow.
Sometimes there's a snicker, sometimes there's a laugh,
But when they go quietly, I know they feel my path.
Yes, it's true I wish to master my art,
But the day my crew don't know me by my heart or my pen,
That's the day I wrap it up and truly say amen.
There’s a guy with the funniest chair,
and an unfortunate lacking of hair.
He always plants his ass
in the back of the class,
and his name is Dave Crandall. So, there.
They say Dave was a major in math,
but his life took an alternate path.
He suffered boredom, severe,
in an IT career,
and, on retiring, felt need for a bath.
Being no longer youthful or limber,
he moved to Leisure World one September,
where, as an old fart,
he found writing and art.
At least, that’s what he can remember.
If he was lost on a deserted isle,
art and writing would not make him smile.
He’d need folk music for that
and a wide-brimmed straw hat
to shield his head in this lone domicile.
WHAT
fair and narrow,
dungeon cave,
The picture of thy mind.
art thou, brave;
were but fools,
Not one of them a knave.
Bright thy line, sire!
So ran the way,
And ended in a mire.
Spare me
let me live:
I ask no kindness at thy hand,
For thou hast none to give.
(Blackout of 422. Epigrams against the Earl of Galloway by Robert Burns)
What did you do?
Acting cool
Making VIP alpha list
Curling a fist?
Scan word floor
You may find four
Sounding good
As writings should
So, summon 'a,i,o,u'
Hush, 'I am not through'
Using this writing tool
Pointing out fools
Swimming in soup pool
Starting buzz
With its warming fuzz
Hail king
Only thing
That will sing
Following 'A', in command
Major B, who has a plan
To find a way out of this jam
My young child, I bid you good night
Now go to your room and light
Your fantasy story sight
Taking you far
Lapping any shooting star
Mission Rising
Mission Clasp
Rising Pressure
Rising Opening
Pressure Upwards
Pressure Tough
Climbing Purpose
Climbing Stony
Purpose Rooted
Purpose Deep
Rooted Spirit
Rooted Keep
Spirit Shifting
Shifting Forward
Shifting Yard
Forward Motion
Forward Smooth
Motion Melodious
Motion Mind
Humming Determination
Humming Guts
Courage Rising
Courage lit
Mission Courageous
Reading Rooms
I walk my Mission loud
Inside Reading Rooms.
I can do it by Paulin Zihindula Muchiza.
If i know the thing i'm doing, i can do it.
If I trust my self i can do it.
i'm not, Afraid of any thing that I'm doing, because I know God is with me.
Any thing that I'm doing in my life
I put God first because I love him.
Every body can do any thing they want and we can help one another to
Ashive our dreams.
There is a quiet art to being a ghost
before you have even learned to die.
To move through a room like a sudden breeze,
stirring the curtains but leaving no trace,
unheard against the loud fabric of the day.
The world looks right through the stillness,
their eyes catching only the brightest lights,
never the soft shadows that hold them up.
It is a heavy thing to be a background melody,
playing softly while the crowd ignores the song.
Yet, there is a secret freedom in the erasure.
To watch the world without being watched,
safely tucked away behind a glass wall,
carrying a universe of unspoken thoughts
that no one ever thinks to ask for.
The basilisk, that feathery serpent, shalt zeal and mealy diners shall burn the fat livestock until englutted but this arrowhead does not deter unless one such valiant god strums that homage to be paid in ringlets, like golden peaks that drip flaming golden wax, the climb is taxing but preeclampsia is not unmatched.
Class Categories
Read wonderful class poetry on the following sub-topics:
child, children, funny, high school, hilarious, kids, middle school, rhyme, school
and more.
Definition | What is Class in Poetry?
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.
Related Poetry Forms
fly, chic, dashing, fine, sharp, classy, fashionable, foxy, grade, homeroom, school,