I wish I could’ve whispered
To my young and clueless self
That this boy lives on a timer
This boy really needs help
It was already written down
By nature’s cruel hand
It was craved into the stars
He’ll try, but won’t withstand
One day I was in English class
I got a breaking message
I cried and screamed and cried aghast
And felt myself start retching
I clearly see, hung by the neck
Can clearly see his eye
Where before, a-light a-spec
Now gloss reflects the sky
The memories I try to keep
Are jumbled out of order
It’s been eight years, yet I still weep
From words he said, so morbid
It’s not our fault, it couldn’t be
We’re not psychics, not prophets
But I was part of that same guilt
Gave him no peace, no solace
Mr Number of
Mr Number of
was kicked out of
English class because
he’d too
salty
marine fish breath.
I live life for myself,
But I also live for those who did not get to.
For those who have gone through the same struggles but didn’t see the silver lining,
For those who couldn’t find the beauty in living, even in the hideous pain and hurt,
And for those who lost their lives from things out of their own control.
We had a debate in my English class once–I think about it from time to time,
The prompt: “Would the world be a better place without pain?”;
I was the only one who sided with “Yes”.
I thought that if pain could be erased the world would be happier,
A place where people would actually want to live.
I understand now that without pain, there would be no reason for joy,
That good moments wouldn’t feel as rewarding.
Pain and hurt are not so much just a part of human life–as they are part of the universe,
Central to life and being as a whole.
But so is joy, contentment, and pleasure,
You couldn’t have one without the other.
Watching you, I learned what it meant to really teach,
And I loved your class with all of my heart.
You showed me that all of my goals are within my reach.
In my everyday life, you still play a small part.
I think of you often, and of the things that you taught me.
It’s hard to believe that it’s been almost twenty years.
Whether in English class or the school plays, I could see
There were many students who held you in their hearts so dear.
Boneyard
Abandoned, Peaceful
Sprawling, Watching, Waiting
Still as the Night
Graveyard
July 31, 2019
**Side note: I was inspired to write a cinquain poem after my son brought one home that he had written in his English class back in 2017. I kept his poem because it was something he created for class and when I found it two years later, I thought it would be fun to try my hand at it.
Right now I'm sitting here in my dark room
late at night, with a school project to do.
My thoughts wandering of
looking for inspiration,
but I'm to tired
got no motivation.
I'm thinking of topics discussed in English class
but the state of my mind is still a mess.
Suddenly I get a spark of inspiration,
remembering that we talked about "State of the Union"
and the seperation of a nation,
the pain of the world redeemed by globalisation,
but in the end
considered as humiliation.
And there's still no thought I could wrap my mind around,
it's also getting late, time's running out
and now it's mid on a school night
another sleepness evening
but a student has to provide.
last Friday
My English class just ended and everyone’s packing up (18 students). The class is held outdoors under a tent due to COVID. My professor says, “Ms Vionet, may I speak with you for a moment?”
I froze, Oh, my God, I thought, is he about to tell me to quit - has he already identified some fundamental inadequacy in my work? The world seemed to go silent as I hefted my backpack and approached him.
“Ms Vionet,” he began.
“Anais,” I interjected.
“Anais,” he patiently started again, “We have a small professor’s choice (invitation only) writing group that meets every two weeks, 7 to 8 PM on Wednesdays - would you be interested in joining us?”
It was hard to hold back a pterodactyl screech of delight. “Yes sir, I’ll be there”
“Here”, he said, motioning to the tent classroom “weather permitting.” He had packed up, he turned and headed for some nearby stairs.
I did a twirl of joy.
.
.
.
ps, I write short stories too
Angels Above be with me
keep me far from harm's way.
Angels Above above be with me
throughout every moment of the day.
Guide me through my troubles
and help me do my best.
I think now it's time for me to take a rest.
For all my fears and problems
Shall melt away like snow.
Help me to acknowledge all the things I know.
Angels Above be with me
Thats all I really want.
Angels above be with me
Be with me in my mind and heart.
I wrote this poem for an English class assignment I had in the 7th grade. At the time I didn't think it was very good at all until my teacher asked to submit it to a poem contest. Unfortunately, I didn't win anything, I don't even think it was ever published even. But later in life when it surfaced again in memory, I realized it was actually a Holy Spirit inspired work of art! Or maybe rather I should say a Holy Spirit inspired prayer!!!
It’s a topographical nightmare.
The terrain rises and slopes over small mountain ranges I wish everyday were freckles.
The landforms, shifting and rising with every glance in the mirror, they’re rough from years of scrubbing and
cleansing and
picking and
medication more destructive than effective. The landscape is mottled, it’s patchwork--
Lakes of oil next to avalanches of dead skin that flake to the floor. I leave a trail behind me. It’s ugly.
And I knew that from a young age.
Every “have you ever thought about popping them?” whispered in English class every “what’s on your face?” from my fellow seven-year-olds every “let’s go back to the doctor” softly demanded by my mother every “try another medication she still looks bad” that my grandmother knew I could hear.
They made sure I understood how repulsive I was.
They didn’t want me to forget.
Don’t get a big head. Then we’d have to see even more of you.
Stop thinking that
Pretty
is what you’re designed to be.
mama why must I be alone;
all of the other girls got there boy and gone;
with me left here all alone;
is it because my looks haven't shown;
some call me homely;
the reason why I'm lonely;
The cuteness of my black sisters
Whom which loves each and everyone of their misters
Why must I be alone
Oh, Lord, mama is there a boy for me
I wear bifocal glasses
I hide in the back of my classes
Everyone talks to the beauty queen
Oh, I wish I was one of them
tell me why I must now cry
For a boy I want to say honey "I'll be yours, I'll be your guy
My, my, my why....
The cuteness of my black sisters
Whom which loves each and everyone of there misters
Why must I be alone
Oh, Lord, mama is there a boy for me
tell me why I must now cry
For a boy I want to say honey "I'll be yours, I'll be your guy
My, my, my why....
Mama is there a boy for me
10/11/70
written by James Edward Lee©1970
written @ North High School in 1970 in creative writing english class
"Miss Stokes, what do you think Pip was thinking?"
Uh-oh. I possibly should not have pretended to be my twin today.
I am taking her classes, pretending I am sick, rather than she.
This is 7th grade English, and I have not even heard the word
Great Expectations because my twin hates English as much as I
despise math.
In my English class we are tearing sentences apart and doing boring tree things out of them.
Um....
"I think I have to go to the bathroom!" I yell, clutching myself, running out of the classroom.
My classmates laugh.
Some have been laughing through math and science too.
They all know which twin I am.
It is only the teachers who cannot tell us apart.
I return to see a pop quiz face down on my sister's desk.
The first question is about Pip with enough space to write
sixteen paragraphs.
I begin cautiously.
"Pip is a wonderful dog," I write.....
In English class I saw her sitting there,
this gorgeous girl of mystery.
With eyes of green and silky golden hair;
the sparks between us blistery.
This lovely lady that I want to know;
I walk up to her and I say “Hello,”
and all the rest is history…
June 22, 2018
Contest: Seven Lines of Romantic Heaven
Sponsor: Silent One
A bit of nostalgia, in 1979, my senior year of High School, our English class published a small book of poetry. I was pleasantly surprised that my poem was one of the ones selected to be included. The book was called "Reflections" and included student drawings as well. Unknown to me, my older sister kept my copy of that book and returned it to me recently via my younger sister. The following is the poem I wrote to be printed in the book. I was 18. This is the only poem I've written that still exists prior to my posting on PS. It is posted exactly as it was printed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Over the hills
The flowers grow,
And deep into the senses blow,
The breezes of calm yet illustrious flows
Of streams of thoughts on the coming low
Of winter and the fallen snow.
Yet this air, so still and sweet,
With clouds which so sullenly reach
To every hidden earthly retreat,
Merely to bring forth and to greet
Thoughts of the soft and gentle feet
Of spring in my mind.
?/?/1979
HAPPINESS IS GOLD
It sounds like an amusement park.
It feels like the warmth of a summer sun.
It smells like fresh ground coffee.
It tastes like chocolate.
It looks like the stars on a clear night.
HATRED IS BLACK
It sounds like tortured screams.
It feels like an eternity in fire.
It smells like rotting flesh.
It tastes like bile.
It looks like the Holocaust.
Author's note: This was written during a Middle School English class where I was an instructional aide. Our teacher challenged me to do the class assignments also.
The poet’s world I’d read
about in English class
has faded, and alas!
It’s very nearly dead.
Its golden notes have fled
Like blooms from winter’s grass.
I’m in a modern time
where poets’ lines run free.
Although there’s imagery,
there’s little use for rhyme,
and what was once sublime
is now shunned poetry.
I long for grass turned cold
again to blossom gold.
May 22, 2017 For John Hamilton's
'Best rhyming poem May-July 2017' Poetry Contest
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