Long Classroom Poems
Long Classroom Poems. Below are the most popular long Classroom by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Classroom poems by poem length and keyword.
You are the dusk that masquerades as first light.
In the stillness of descending twilight,
your spellbinder's expectorant
opens the passageways of the feeble,
weevles like a gloworm
in dark fertile soil.
Whispers of memories that never were,
in a soft lament,
in a lofty raimant.
I am lost in the shadows of yesterday's song,
longing for a love that once belonged.
In risky fantasy,
I play your suspect invitation,
as a night thief with an accordion,
iron lung.
Too powerfully drawn am I,
unable to resist your decisions-
Wringing me dry.
Shift of weightlessness density,
snap-twang, propensity-thick and numb.
If I had just one last guess,
I am the cotton and you are the laudanum.
Why am I the salivary gland and the gum.
The wavering field of rye that a beast
tramples on.
Invisible chains they bind my words,
like a palsy stricken tongue,
grasping my chords with ghastly cords,
poetic enslavement,
thoughtfully borne divided by
my pasts sum.
Rosehips- tea soaked gingerly-
your spell lingers on SOS morose telepathy
morse code, telegraphed, telegaphed
to see your confident smile mockingly know,
peering into the eyes before expected wind-up
and mesmerizing blow.
Your fluiro-essences spores inliquidity,
wetness of morganite,
juices leeched,
leaving me in my parasitic derangement,
unable and unwilling to fight-
familiar arrangement.
Your jaded facet to sparkle
as a trophy against the light.
That which you neon flash to be.
From, for, to, too spun,
I am a sugar crop to make into candy
that you drool upon the lips,
as I drink you in
electroponic abomination splice of caine
and Hawaiian Punched Drunkenness.
Hey Kool aid, break through my walls
and offer your solution.
Stain my lips.
A fermented wavelength I will become,
dialing your frequency,
of restless dream,
silence of my soul's dark night,
moonlight beamer ride of twists and turns.
Some people never learn,
me being that one,
you being my classroom distraction
passing notes of gossiped ink of juicy gossamer,
till you are commanded to "release
this dumb- one, who knows not of lessons,
of touching what burns".
I am a dreamer tell you interpretation
I am single looking for my broken ribs
I am lonely need a company
I am skinny feed some milk
I am a poet eat my writes
I am a student teach me studies
I am an introvert help my socials
I am a preacher see my congregation
I am a teacher show the classroom
I am a son I have a father
I am an amateur swimmer I need a swim pool
I am an author read my autobiography
I am Holy Spirit filled I speak in tongues
I am a Bible scholar ask memory verses
I am born again waiting for trumpet call
I am a Christian I believe in Jesus Christ
I am a prayer warrior give me your prayers
I am a Shepherd with forty eight sheep
I am God's messenger send me to God
I am a clay baked in the hands of the Potter
I am a heavenly spirit being am up with Jesus
I am a basket baller I need a Court
I am a leader see my followers
I am a barber give a clipper
I am a flutists play you a lovely melody
I AM: A LIST BIO CHALLENGE.
3RD PLACE
Andrea Dietrich
5/11/2020
challenge was to keep a serious face,
and of merriment not a hint or trace,
they all should stay still in silent poses,
but should any of them smile first, loses!
In a classroom of teenage boys and girls,
was so easy to make teeth smile like pearls,
serious face was unknown entity,
to them this challenge was not so easy!
Leader would monitor their every mirth,
one who survives the hour keeps money’s worth,
so at eight o clock on start of school day,
in silence they all stood, quiet they would stay,
at quarter past eight, teacher walked in,
so silent it was, you could hear a pin,
surprised, amazed teacher raised an eyebrow,
such class obedience he didn’t know,
he turned to the blackboard to start his class,
in the process he upset a drinking glass,
the splash of water on the classroom floor,
started giggles that soon grew to an uproar,
so the challenge was soon lost to loud laughter,
but silly bet was worth only a quarter!
‘Living it up for laughter’ poetry contest
Chantelle Anne Cooke
Written 29/08/2020
classroom students were teasing the little girl
her brother had murdered their father
at a barbeque in front of twenty witnesses
I asked the child to choose a friend
let her play in my office in the mornings
before school started
away from invasive questions
away from meanness
away from prying eyes
told her she did not have to talk about anything
she did not want to talk about
reassured her and cherished her
did not ask any questions
gave her a place to play as a nine-year-old should
with a friend she trusted
it was the best I could do
I am the school counselor
it is my job, and my mantra
to uplift others
Each day the yellow school bus made its trek around the
country roads dotted on each side with pine thickets, fenced in pastures, garden spots, peach orchards and then stopping at neat, well-kept country homes. The denouement of the young teen girl who lived in one of those homes waited until today to speak.
late summer, new
teacher who taught math....
violated girls
Humiliation for seven months, five days a week, forty-five minutes a day. No math taught by this teacher. In fact, he probably could not teach the curriculum assigned to that level of study. He put his hands on one girl in that classroom in an inappropriate place. Then he talked about his brother-in-law who lived in another state. The class went untaught except in several areas; that it was okay for a person in authority to violate a member of the opposite sex, its okay not to fulfill one's responsibility on a job, its okay to talk negative about other people even if they are family.
girl
destroyed
forever
She survived. It sneaks into the crevices of her memory from time to time rearing its nasty head saying tell let the whole world know about this man who has long been dead. No, she is better than that, she is stronger than that, she sometimes has problems and knows it was this man who put a permanent hold upon her mind, will, and emotion..
the grave
his name engraved....
she spits
Prologue:
A new kid joins an already troubled elementary school
He sits alone on the first day, and no one dares to sit next to him
For if they dared, their social status would be reduced to a pile of rubble.
For a while everyone just left this kid alone, and no one dared to figure out the root cause of his absentmindedness.
Not the teachers, Not even the parents
Over time whenever the kid tried to speak his truth he was denied by his classmates
Denied by his teachers
Denied by everyone
So like many others he gave up fighting an already corrupted system in which he was shoved in.
He did as he was told,
Until he couldn’t take it anymore
And ran away.
But he would come back, for those who have wronged him.
No, even bigger.
He would come for the system.
An Elegy about a School Shooting
If you can, imagine elementary school kids just walking in their school hallways
The birds were chirping,
The sun was shining
And all it took was a gunshot
A student falls to the ground and chaos ensues
People are screaming fleeing the building
One, two, more children fall to the floor
All it took was 20 minutes and so many lives were lost
The children that survived will never be the same
Trauma, PTSD, Depression
And the families of those who died will be forever in grief
Grief because of their loved one and the life they could’ve lived
But like everything, nothing is permanent in this world
So take a moment of silence and envision the state of a glorious elementary school
Before the chaos, before the fire
Now envision the same elementary school with blood on the windows, all over the floor, bullet holes in classroom doors, shattered glass.
But as I said, nothing is permanent, and so I come to terms with the anger inside of me, wanting to do something about our corrupt world.
But as hard as it is, chaos is needed for change, A flower doesn’t grow unless it’s watered.
Oh how badly I wish people would work to save lives
Instead of demolishing innocent ones
Demolishing futures
Demolishing any chance of contribution to our society
Demolishing any chance of hope
Demolishing loved ones.
This poem is a special homage to all Poets
Who never thought, behaved or misbehaved like puppets
Who never had a chance to write a poem
Who were killed by oppressors who couldn’t dream
Who could not express themselves freely
Who clandestinely fought for equality and liberty
Who never had a chance to sit in a classroom
Who worked hard with a mop or a broom
Who did everything to help the elders and the children
Who never had a chance to write or publish a book
Who had to sweep, clean, wash, wipe and cook
And could not read anything or sign their names
I’m dedicating this poem to you to remove all the blames
That society has unfairly bestowed on you, my friends
Many people are Poets, because they offer helping hands
To the world. Poets were born to save and to make society
Better. Poets were born to fight against inequality, bigotry
Racism, oppression, injustice, greed, cruelty and unfairness
Thank God. God created all the Poets to be humble and blessed
Allow me to thank, with all my heart, the unsung, unpublished, stolen
Trapped, falsely accused and executed Poets who were forgotten.
Copyright © July 2020, Hebert Logerie, all rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several volumes of poetry.
If you walk into classroom 314
You will see the perfect image of pristine
An iron statue, still and strong
A picture book motif of calm
But if you look just right into its eye
You’ll see just what it tries to hide.
Inside my brain a drumbeat pounds
And a screeching, whiny, anxious sound
Wood sprites bounce about my head
Two parts boredom, three parts dread.
Each anxious word I ever thought
Weaves an ever bigger growing knot.
My anxiety plays heavy metal
Nagging worries cling like nettles.
I think of all left to be done
I sit in stillness as if stunned.
There’s too much too much not enough
My brain is frozen and in a rush.
It’s the loudest noise you’ll ever hear
A heart left pounding in an ear
Screams and wails, they whine what ifs
Like grains of sand my sanity sifts
Outside the chaos and the noise
The statue sits with perfect poise.
They chained my ancestors so I would break free from the shackles of slavery.
They colonized my family tree so I would embrace freedom through dissidence.
They imprison my kin so I may wield my convictions as weapons of war.
They imposed the plagues of capitalism on the colonial trading posts that sharpened my clarity.
I will never be their favorite house *****.
They sanctified racial hatred as if there were multiple human races.
I was schooled in the colonial classroom, yet liberty and equality keep me from blindly singing the praises of fraternity.
I know that some dark skins were born with the genetic code of betrayal.
I am a Sub-Saharan animist, aware of my Africanness, on a planet hostile to my humanity.
Born of the cradle of the first human beings,
those bloodthirsty colonizers disguised themselves as missionaries to violate the dignity of my people for centuries.
They want me to drown my determination in the maze of the illicit.
They want me to be their scapegoat when they seek to conceal their incompetence.
I will never accept being the doormat on which they wipe their filthy feet.
I will never be the lectern for the Negrophobic and supremacist stereotypes they’ve kept alive since their so-called abolitions.
I am not only free: I am a rebel they will try to marginalize.
Their devilish schemes will have no effect,
for I am the product of the slums of an Africa persecuted since the Arab-Muslim slave raids.
I have never been a native subject, but I like to reread meticulously the Code Noir through Colbert’s own eyes, so as not to be one more blind man facing the savagery of the makers of the black bomb.
I stand in the skin of an undocumented immigrant who can never be assimilated after being “Frenchified” in the furnaces of colonial cruelty.
I will never trust the Republic of Slave-Trading Enlightenment.
These compulsive racists want to see me dehumanized in the slave plantations of their supremacist alienation,
just as they did to my forebears for centuries in Africa and the Caribbean.
Sitting in the recliner her family
brought so she wouldn't have to
sleep on a cot, she wonders.
How long will she be here?
How long will the storm last?
How long before the power goes out,
or the oxygen goes off, or the food
runs out while they wait it out.
Lying on the cot, the dirty cot,
wearing his four-day-old dirty
clothes, watching the others in
their dirty clothes on their dirty cots.
When will the wind stop howling?
When will the rain stop pounding?
When will the silence stop echoing
through the gym as no one talks,
only listens to the storm rage on.
Hiding in a classroom away from
the others, she ponders her puppies
and where they may be now.
Where were they taken?
Where are they getting food?
Where will they be when she
herself finally leaves the
shelter after the storm has passed.
Listening to the snoring of the
other shelter workers, she stares
into darkness wondering.
Why is she here?
Why is her family at home?
Why does she need to lie on
an air mattress with others,
all alone, to wait out the storm.
Rushing home after the storm
has passed to see the damage,
assess the world outside the shelter.
What to do with all the debris?
What to say if you've lost it all?
What to think when you get to
go home and the shelter worker
stays, to clean up the mess
left by you, and the storm.