Long English class Poems
Long English class Poems. Below are the most popular long English class by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long English class poems by poem length and keyword.
Doing crazy things
doesn't make an individual insane,
it adds spice to life;
I did lots of harmless, foolish things
to bring my classmates out of depression
and make them laugh heartily.
Eric was the weirdest kid
in our English class,
he was depressed a lot
and kept to himself,
and with his morbid looks,
one couldn't help feeling sorry for him;
I had a plan to snap him out of it.
That gloomy Monday morning
our teacher, Mrs. Armstrong,
was reading from Shakespeare's play,
" Hamlet " making us feel his madness,
how he planned to commit murder...
goose bumps appeared on everybody's skin!
Eric started to shake as if he were coming for him.
I looked at him at him and said,
" What's the matter? Eric, you don't like the play? "
" No," he answered in a sarcastic way...
" Blood makes me faint! "
" Look, Hamlet is thinking of murder,
and hasn't killed anyone yet, but wait...it gets scarier
when he freaks out and does it! "
Eric stared at me and trembling murmured,
" What do you mean by that? "
" Buddy, since you are afraid of blood,
you shouldn't be in this class,
and if you feel like vomiting , go to the rest room! "
As a lighting flashing, Eric with encroached hands on his belly,
ran out of the class room without saying anything.
" Where are you going Eric ? " Mrs Armstrong asked.
But Eric kept going, giving her a sickly look.
" I will expel you from my English class! "
She exclaimed with a maddening gaze.
" Excuse him, Mrs Armstrong...he's not feeling well,
he drank half gallon of spoiled milk and he needs to vomit! "
I screamed back with soaring anger.
Everyone started to laugh and induced vomiting.
"Not here! Not here! Everybody leave!" she yelled
with exaggerated commotion by dropping her book
on her coffee cup...Ah! It splashed by turning her white face black!
" Run, everybody, run...she's another crazy Hamlet! "
And jumping up for joy, I was happy to have made everyone laugh!
Susan and I met in the fall of ’67,
two girls in English class
who recognized each other
before we even spoke~
the way some people do
when they share a tilt toward
uniqueness,
toward books that smell like rain,
toward movies that linger,
toward clothes that felt like
small rebellions.
Friendship was instant,
effortless,
as though we had been
walking toward each other
for years.
Then life,
with its wide and wandering hands,
pulled us apart.
Graduation scattered us
into different futures~
hers across an ocean,
mine across a state.
She raised a family in Germany;
I raised stories in Texas.
Decades passed
without our names touching.
But fate~
or whatever quiet force
keeps track of lost connections~
found us again
through the strange glow
of Facebook.
A click,
a message,
a memory rekindled,
and suddenly the years
were not a wall
but a bridge.
Now we write the old-fashioned way,
ink on paper,
postmarks traveling
from Germany to Texas
like small migrating birds.
Her handwriting arrives
with its familiar tilt,
and I feel sixteen again~
the girl in English class
who knew instantly
that Susan was someone
near and dear,
someone who would matter
even if time tried
to convince us otherwise.
Distance is only geography.
Friendship, once found,
remains luminous~
a long arc of time
that bends us gently
back to each other.
March into her reformative room of wisdom
Where knowledge catapults to the threshold of your mind
Where Shakespeare and short stories in spoken English
Gives vibrant vocabulary over volumes of time
Her colorful classroom accommodates all levels
While your mental capacity is moved with motivation
It is a Catalyst for claiming certificates and medals
Like a sponge absorbing insightful information
Your books and brain will form beneficial bonds
From poetry to past participles, painted with your pen
Your termly evaluations and exam marks correspond
As your teacher tunes your talent over and over again
She does more than teach, she instills values and morals...
Empathy, compassion, tolerance and respect
From conflict resolution to resolving quarrels
She is ready to role model emotional intellect
On the sports field she is a callous coach
In the classroom she makes education exciting
She ensures you're filled with ambition as you approach
Your English class which is innovative and inviting
From dramatic irony to discursive essays
She'll teach diary entries and dramas in detention
Leave a memorable mark while teaching poetry and plays
As well as creative writing and comprehensions
While loving to learn, you will learn to love both
The language and the lessons where seeds are sewn
Her English exercises is an engine for growth
In her house of wisdom where knowledge is owned
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
"Final Edition" Posted 12 Sep 2021
With deep gratitude to all of who visited and commented over these 12 months of Monoku Mondays, I am hereby retiring this series. Keep laughing and bringing a smile to one another, we all need a lighthearted break from the serious side of life once in a while... especially on Mondays! ~ John
Just Say'n
a clear conscience: usually the result of a bad memory
Speaking of Memory…
i've got great memory if i could only remember to use it
Well If You Put It That Way
the grass is greener on the other side at least you don't have to mow it
Balance Is as Balance Does
a teen's idea of a balanced diet a burger in each hand
Speaking of Teens…
there's nothing wrong with teens that a little reasoning won't aggravate
How Sad
her birthday is april 1st unfortunately, no one believes her
Politics In a Nutshell
never forget the golden rule whoever has the gold makes the rules
Why I Did Poorly in English Class
I was always fated to mispell werds it was just my density
"Bits and Pieces VII" Posted 5 Sep 2021
I Wish I'd Said That
there is only one thing worse than being wealthy not being wealthy
Isn't It Ironic?
i express my non-conformity with mass-produced bumper stickers
I Know, Right?
all those who are opposed to speeding violations raise your right foot
Clueless Clem - International Dating Dunce
"like watching tennis, Cheri?" "oui!" "just a wee bit? okay, baseball then"
Little Red Writing 'Hood
i live in a red house on a writer's block but no one is writing
Quote of the Week
i went to a fight last Saturday night and a hockey game broke out ~
[humor attribution - #5 by Edmo Snord, #6 by Rodney Dangerfield, all others found online, sources unknown]
We drank cheap beer in a rusted-out shed.
Buzzing before our 8:00 AM English class.
Trying to be cool- to fit in with the "Ins."
Instead, we're becoming the wobbling outcasts.
Spinning further out from the golden Ins.
Ah, the golden center.
Filled with jocks, cheerleaders.
A chorus line of silver thighs and golden pom poms.
Smirking at my pimpled insecurities?
But your long bomb popularity didn't stop that tree.
From slamming into your popularity.
It didn't move aside as you passed by.
Like I used to move aside as you passed by me.
You were popular in that narrow hallway of slow death called adolescence.
Now your football helmet is yellow and cracked.
Destined for a garage sale. Bottom shelf existence.
At the very center of long forgotten.
You with the pom poms and patented dimples.
Nowhere near that cocky cute kitten anymore.
Turned plump, pregnant, abandoned, aborted.
What happened to that sweet cotton tail and golden lips?
That used to pip "you'll never be with me".
Finally, after forty-plus years.
You're lying with me...figuratively.
Spread eagle atop pom pom mountain.
An outcast on the periphery of everything.
I was hopelessly smitten in English class,
By this girl with a boyfriend, a challenging impasse.
She had long shiny locks, the color of auburn,
And the curves of a Ferrari, in a hairpin turn.
To win her away from that boyfriend's lair,
Took getting noticed, to have even a prayer.
A skateboard handstand, provided exposure,
Upside down I zoomed by, as she search four-leaf clovers.
When her best girlfriend, provided the news,
My gorgeous sweet red head, now sung the blues.
That she and that fellow, a thing in the past,
One phone call and BAM, we're dating at last!
Now on to her best features, the theme of this prose,
And the reason I'd eventually ultimately propose.
Then move her from one place to another eight times,
As the wife of a Sailor, a career Navy wife.
Her full lips frame a gorgeous, welcoming smile,
Forty years now, I’ve certainly come to admire.
Conveying kindness, but warning all men,
She’s spoken for, and quite happily taken.
Her most attractive feature has always been clear,
Her warmth and genuinely pleasant demeanor.
She’s a funny gal, and awfully smart,
Four decades of marriage, to my high school sweetheart!
When I was 16 years old, I walked into the English class on the first day of school of a new year. I’d been waiting through the long hours of Economics, of Chemistry, of Physics to get to English class, the subject I loved most.
My teacher stood in front of us and explained that we’ll be studying the theme "Coming of Age" – the transition from childhood to adulthood. We were going to read many different novels that tell this story in diverse ways, and as we read, we’ll discover the universal themes across diverse accounts of this rite of passage.”
Then he told us about the books we were going to read – Lord of the Flies, Black Boy, A Separate Peace… I noticed something odd: none were written by women and none were about a girl coming of age. I knew it wasn’t right for a classroom of girls and boys to only read stories about boys.
But what was most remarkable about that day was this: I felt a strange surge of energy. It wasn’t anger – it was more like momentum, vitality, passion. It came with a feeling of “I’m going to do something about this.”
At the time, I was a little lost – in teenage rebellion, in hating my body, in being bored with high school. Suddenly, I wasn’t bored, or lost or hating. I was excited about something. I was working toward something.
Years later I turned out to be a biology teacher even without attending any teaching school or training.
And used the opportunity to enlighten lots of female students on maturity (the transition from childhood to adolescense and to adulthood) and several female related issues that wasn't in any textbook nor in the curriculum.
Today I might not be a very rich man but I am a fulfilled man. I am fulfilled because I know deep down that I have made an impact in the lives of several females out there.
So whatever is that drive, that burning passion inside of you, that push to make a positive difference, to contribute to humanity, I just want to tell you "don't give up on it. It's only a matter of time"
Together if we all put in our little effort, we can make a huge difference.
So whatever field u find yourself, be it entertainment, music, acting, poem writing, YouTuber, blogger, teacher, student or parents, let's all join hands to make the world a better place. All it takes is for you to use your field to make positive impacts.
#POETICLORD#
(c) JANUARY 2019.
I met someone exciting the other day. We’re in an English class together, twenty of us, the class is really about chaos. Attraction can spring from nothing (talk about chaos). We had split into discussion groups and we were next to each other.
The abruptness of it surprised me - I felt the realization, a tingle that ran through me like a wave. I actually twitched, shivered really.
I’m still getting used to people, after the great pandemic separation. I know there were people who carried on as if it weren’t real. My parents, both doctors, took it very seriously. I was “sheltered in place,” like Rapunzel, with shorter hair. For over a year - it seemed longer.
So I haven’t felt this way in a while - this crushy feeling. Near him, my whole body is a receptor, very aware of everything about him - the smell of him alone saturates my senses. Everything about him seems vibrant, revelatory.
He opens doors sometimes, he brought me coffee - twice. He’s started covering the seat next to him and clears it when I arrive so I can sit next to him. He asks questions about my life. He’s polite but persistent, like a newspaper reporter. He’s from Nebraska, a farm boy (19, a man?), he has a dreamy accent and he’s funny.
I wish I could be around him more. Even thinking about it makes my heart race as though I were confessing a secret. But the fact is, it’s impossible. It’s too soon, we just got here. The wish itself is a burden.
Why do I have to be ruthlessly practical all the time. It sucks.
.
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ps, I write short stories too
I see thee yet, mine eyes on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Thus to mine eyes, o'er th'one half world 'pon the sacred curtained sleep,
Seek thou sure and firm, set stepp'd earth nigh summon thee to Heaven, for 'twas echoed knell,
Thy very soul hath prate of thy whereabouts, hear it not, 'tis seeming rest,
Was't the bludgeoned torrent that hath 'straught and tarnish the flesh in faith?
Is't the the awakened howl that hath thus cried? Thou shan't look on't again, thou'st darest do nought.
Thou'st which poor malice hath hail th'merry well half hounded soul,
'Tis the keys locked 'pon thy versities, for 'twas once the pungent ghoul,
Cribb'd, confin'd, is't the glowered blood that hath b'come blanched by thy wall,
Hath slept'n stitch, thy valiance hath drunk'n thy blood 'gainst the wear,
Thou wouldst cut deep, for 'tis o'th'world th'hellhound e'er so sharp'n sleepless squalor,
Here hath thee lay, 'tis'n tow for th'clamoured "love-long livelong night" to close,
Thou see so speak, so th'lamentings heard i'th'air, hath clench the hand e'er so badged'n blood,
'Tis the trill of th'obscure bird, Ho! Do pall th'horror, the wine of life is drawn, sun dreamt'n covered in gall,
'Twas a bath bathed within thy tears, so slept'n the affliction, hath bellowed deathless fears,
Thou hushed had it now seen, so scarf upon the eye'n tender brow, hath drench'd th'sun crowned crow,
So lay th'drought o'thy blood,
'Til thy conjured mirth of blade, shalt milk th'bile of human mind,
See to none o'th'blessings,
For whoe'er so high shall fall, so fall, e'er once more.
So, adieu! Adieu! 'Til hither shall callst thy night'n th'gallows,
'Tis a hush, none spoke nor howl,
"Thus thou shall sleep no more."
Thy hath seen, so spoke,
"Thus thou shall sleep no more."