Some call it an interruption
I see it as a great opportunity
Some call it a dumb question
I see that it masks a brilliant inquiry
Some call it a discipline problem
I see a butterfly emerging from its cocoon
Some call my classroom boring
I see and say it's so boring it's ridiculous
I have better things to do with my time, and with their time
Than to force these young mind into artificial environments of dull
Here's to mandatory nature walks, tent-pitching, berry-picking
Latrine digging, campfires, marshmallow roasts and ghost stories
And not to neglect timepiece, transistor radio, long-nose rifle
electrical circuit, and motor assembly and disassembly--and woodworking*
Now we're talking Education
Now we're talking Creation, Imagination
*So much I left out, including: Cooking, Painting, Fashion Design, Architecture,
Basic Engineering,... Let us do what we can; the kids'll do the rest! ~ gw
All classic, modem's counterpart,
the focus of forgiveness heart
were in the trial of homeless mart
the scattered soul, the refuged cart!
Entrepreneur, the village smart
all ideal, but for love's depart,
the greatest thought, no gain's consort,
who gather on in foolish sport!
With somber no-destruction thrust
my spirit's wander, now adjust,
and so my concentrations must
seems isolative in its' fuss!
Now heretofore consents encrust
a miracle of Faith to trust
will fill the coffers 'til they bust
the giving anthem "grace" not rough!
Restore this treasure, "on the cuff"
Togetherness of "Soul" . . . rebuff!
Note: Thousands of "homeless" persons, victims of the "era!" Let the BIBLE
teach us the older, welfare principles our Yeshua ordained! Peace and Love!
These are neither ritual cuts
under the left eye
of a married man,
nor those forehead to chin,
proving Prussian manhood.
I speak here of geometries
describing present then gone,
marking disassembly
within the flesh
drawn upon.
My father’s traced excavation,
down from the throat,
under seventh rib
to spine;
cracked open,
the dark parts scooped out,
replaced by I don’t know what.
My mother’s marks
recorded her history of
loss and pain,
loss and pain,
dissertations in white script,
writ on the body
that breathed me to life.
My own trace flaws
gone sensitive to touch
in the corpus of knowing myself.
Jack Jordan
Assembly.
Disassembly.
Reassembly.
When the bell tolls
it tolls for me.
Alone I walk in crowded
concrete corridors;
feet, doom-laden,
slapping thermoplastic
floors.
Years we will do this.
Years we will be taught.
Years we all will walk in
concrete corridors.
Walking unto the light,
freedom's light;
walking unto the world of
women and men.
Armed with bestowed knowledge
that two and two makes four,
the Battle of Hastings was fought in 1066,
energy can neither be created nor destroyed...
wandering lonely as clouds...
Freedom fighters,
guerrilla's armed with this
potency
and so much more.
The echo of the concrete,
of slapdash feet on thermoplastic,
may well reverberate,
reaffirming their message of
doom.
Yet that is further away than
the eye can see.
Now is sweet honeydew Summer,
the best years of a life
yet to come.
Assembly.
Disassembly.
Reassembly.
Man,
are we up the
Swanee.
And though we know it
now is not
the time
to
care...
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