Long Kindergarten Poems
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I don’t think I shall quite forget the name Camilla Martin.
She’s the teacher of me grandson at the local kindergarten.
No question she’s a lovely lady; dedicated through and through,
but the lesson that she learnt this day is one that I learnt too.
It just happened on the day I drove young ‘Gaz’ to kindergarten,
there’s a special birthday happening - it’s his teacher Mrs. Martin.
I wondered why young Gazza had this present all wrapped up,
so after telling me the reason, he whispered “It’s a cup.”
It was a special morning for all the Mums and Dads were there.
I was the only Grandpa but young Gazza didn’t seem to care.
There’s a birthday cake with candles, lollies, hats and lemonade,
and the kids all brought a present … and I’m glad I overstayed …
To see the look upon the faces of the kids who held their gift,
as Mrs. Martin stood up at the front to give these kids a lift,
by waiting to receive each offer as presented one by one,
and she really liked the cup handed to her by me grandson.
And the other little children were quite interesting as well,
as they stepped up to the podium with a similar tale to tell,
when Mrs. Martin made predications to what the wrapping held,
for she knew the parents business thinking that their gift has gelled.
She’s spot on with Jenny Damon whose family own a florist store.
Mrs. Martin beamed out “Flowers,” and Jenny smiled, “For sure.”
When the local milk bar’s Billy Cann stepped up beaming bright,
Mrs. Martin said “This must be chocolate,” and Billy nods “That’s right.”
Mrs. Martin waited patiently for ‘Ginger’ Roberts from the hotel,
who stepped forward with his gift that she thought that she could tell,
because it appeared somewhat a shoebox that did have an ominous sign;
it appeared a bottle’s leaking and she gathered it was wine.
Mrs. Martin put her finger in the liquid but the taste to her is strange,
and for a joke she said to ‘Ginge’, “Is this not Penfolds Grange?”
‘Ginge’ answered “No” so Mrs. Martin tried to guess again,
with one more taste upon her lips, she asked, “Is this champagne?”
‘Ginge’ shook his head when saying “No”, so Mrs. Martin gave a sigh,
“Well I give up,” she smiled at ‘Ginge’ “No, I’ll give it one more try.”
So on her lips goes one last taste to resolve this gift of grog
as Ginger interrupted - “Mrs. Martin … it’s a little puppy dog.”
She’s walking past the tombstones,
Just came from her mothers grave.
As she passes the last stone,
her hand graces the top,
A chill shoots down her spine.
The wind is blowing her hair in every direction,
While the leaves dance around her ankles.
Tears are rolling down her cheeks.
She’d just been talking to her mother for hours,
Longer then she ever had before.
She explained to her mother how her life had been tumbling downward,
Her boyfriend for 5 years had just broken up with her,
When she thought he was going to propose.
Her best friend since kindergarten had just embarrassed her,
in front of everyone.
Just to take her spot as Queen of the School.
She hears the train coming.
She’d been looking for an escape,
An escape of her sadness,
Of her embarrassment,
Of her LIFE.
And here is one, just being given to her.
Without even thinking,
She runs onto the tracks,
The engineer slams on the breaks,
Honking the horn all the while.
She grabs her phone out of her pocket,
Begins to text her father.
Just 5 simple words.
that will mean the word to him.
I’m sorry, I love you
She looks up at the stars shinning down on her,
then at the lights on the train.
She just keeps on staring,
Without even thinking,
Her mind goes blank.
The horn is honking,
While she just waits.
Her mind is beautifully empty,
While the train comes closer.
She stares down at the train from above,
While is halts to a stop, just 100 metres away.
Her lifeless body now mingled with the tracks,
Just lays there,
Motionless,
Breathless.
She begins to regret,
what she had just done,.
Her father wouldn’t be able to go on,
Her sister would be scared,
Her mother, if she were alive, would be ashamed.
To take a life, let alone your own,
Is a crime, that can never be undone.
There is no punishment great enough,
To serve justice.
She wishes more then anything to just turn back time,
To just erase what just occurred
To pretend it never happened.
But this is not like a simple fight with a friend,
Or a bad relationship,
This can not be erased.
Death is not that simple.
A bright light comes from above,
A sudden rush of relaxation shoots through her,
Calmness surrounds her.
And then she lets go.
Her soul floats away into the night sky,
And it’s over now.
By Sierra Cowan
Written the Summer of 2009
Earth's Tragic Events
Earth's tragic events
Seem to crawl upon us,
Anniversaries of deadly happings
Spread across our atlas.
Today marks an anniversary
Of the San Francisco earthquake,
It happened back in 1906
The earth did violently shake.
The Titanic was deemed "unsinkable"
By her brave Captain,
Hit an iceberg off the coast of Newfoundland
Her maiden voyage, came to an end.
The sister ship to the Titanic
Met her bitter end too,
Named "Gigantic," renamed "Britannic"
Struck a mine, sank, she was also subdued.
Then there was air disasters
The Hindenburg, should be mentioned,
Caught fire in mid air
The sky that fateful day, was blackened.
We have also been through
Two deadly World Wars,
Many people killed along the way
Something, the world couldn't ignore.
Earthquakes and hurricanes
Are to blame too,
Lives lost and still remembered
This world needs to be rescued.
Nuclear power plants
Blowing up and spreading deadly gases,
Twenty years ago today, it happened
People are still suffering in masses.
People following a person
Whom claimed he was Jesus' disciple,
Murdered innocent women and children
Thought he was the King of his castle.
A building blown up and defaced
By two insane people,
Small children in kindergarten perished
This world holds a hateful burden.
Kids taking guns to school
Thinking they're all that,
Killing fellow students and people who teach
Please, it's finally time to throw in the hat.
Planes crashing through buildings
By terrorists filled with hate,
A President fighting a battle for his father
Another war, it did create.
Bombs being placed on buses
Watch restaurants and skies ignite,
People's lives being short-lived
Relatives filled with fright.
Subways and trains being blown
All to kingdom come,
Lives being destroyed and ripped apart
This violence isn't welcome.
The ground shakes
Beneath the feet of miners,
Explosions and lives quickly taken away
Families filled with anger.
When will the hurting stop?
We all drop to our knees,
All we want in the world
Is human kindness and a lot of PEACE.
Copyright Cynthia Jones
Apr.18/2006
I know I probably left a lot of things out, but I wrote about the events that tore my heart in two.
A loaded pistol,
With youthful courage till yesteryear;
Now lies naked and dormant,
And Is found to be lifeless and dead.
Somewhere, buried in my Junkyard,
Playfully tested till now in all arms to shame;
As it shyly, blushes and whispers to admit,
Murmuring its helplessness into my ears.
Ooh! My Childhood friend,
It feels like an impotent;
To be so bullet-less today.
My Golden days have all ended,
Life has become so ignorant now;
As I've become so bullet-less today.
As the pendulum constantly oscillates,
Time has traded fast on twenty wheels;
Looking for some good fortune in distant lands.
And a store-room in my backyard,
Has always remained the same;
And is still kept unchanged.
But never was any eye caught,
Not even mine;
To drool upon the nozzle of that Gun;
Like the way I used to do,
Used to lovingly do before.
Strolling down my kindergarten alley,
When a Gun was gifted on a bright Christmas morning;
It used to amaze me in my childhood days,
As I so excitedly unwrapped and got it out;
From the mysterious and magical White socks,
Which was hung on my bed; Hung all night,
Waiting for a snowy white beard old man;
A laughing sage in an exception;
Who lived on the mystical hill-side view,
Of my Steel city.
Today, after so many years,
A long craved sight fell upon it;
And it instantly drove me back,
To flash my childhood nostalgic days.
When infant Army camps used to settle,
To battle in the air for all day long;
Under the densely old,
Never claimed tree by anybody - 'Our Mango Tree'.
Ooh! How then this pistol fakingly killed,
So many nappie buddies of mine.
Who played and just acted,
To be dead as my enemies.
Ooh..! How strangely it feels like,
A game of now.
When today the lil' me gazing at any topic,
Sitting in my backyard;
Stumbled and pondered to find,
An old vintage Shot-gun of mine.
So curiously digging the wearily torn school bag,
Hanging since ages on the dampened wall.
Ooh..! So clueless, I fumbled upon,
An old vintage Shotgun of mine.
Dumped and buried under thousand other,
Essential antique toys of mine;
Which notoriously has got rotten in rust.
In closed walls of adolescence,
Where white parchments seeps overall;
From moist doors of yesterday,
Ooh..! How strangely it still feels like today.
Across figurative and literal board...
mine hardscrabble existential debacle spelled losing game of trouble
Oft times, I experience wretchedness being alive
spurring wonderment whereby thoughts
of my demise doth drive
analogous to buzzfeeding bumbling bees
combing into their hive.
Giddiness prevailed
when coronavirus (COVID-19)
warranted quarantine to diminish
transmitting pandemic virus thru the air
lifestyle change no major imposition,
cuz yours truly already familiarized
with self isolation
courtesy his social anxiety despair
schizoid personality disorder the diagnosis
nsync with loathsome
body morphology toward self
viz mental health impasse a legitimate malady
impossible mission possibly
since in utero didst impair
minimally abetted courtesy
Buffalo wing and a prayer
wishful thinking only death can relieve
some recently approaching year.
Indifference toward self sums up story
viz mindset to whit
resignation to cash in chips
at a tender age, I did submit
evidenced courtesy abysmal grades
during stint as student
kindergarten and first grade the exception
earning appellation dummkopf or nitwit
showcased apathy to access ability and excel
overshadowed courtesy powerfully pointed outlook
within his bedroom at 324 Level Road
sequestered long haired pencil neck geeky hermit
four familiar walls constituted ambit.
Refuge sought vis a vis withdrawal
from world wide web
refusing sustenance (think anorexia nervosa),
thus these lovely bones withered away
thankfully mother (a licensed practical nurse)
of course intervened without delay
belated acknowledgement
regarding maternal love hip hip hooray
enrolling expertise of Doctor Ted Goldberg
at Collegeville Community counseling
to ameliorate psychological internal melee
running rampant and roughshod within me psyche
pushing self destruction down into stairway
entering portals of hell
analogous to Earthen bowels
deep within Zimbabwe.
Whether the above sentence incidental
to feeble attempt at reasonable rhyme
so please geography buffs pardon moi
add dull less cent delinquent puns
he did cashier plus
any unintended faux paus as aspiring poet
artfully crafts elaborated gimcrackery,
albeit impious kooky mishmashed
outlandish quirky s*it.
I'm not wearing underwear
I can’t afford to clean my clothes
I shower every day
and sensitive skin from soap and psoriasis makes me itch
But I have bills to pay
I know you understand
Raising my little half brother and half sister
I've only met once
who are an ocean away
But this isn’t my story, it's yours
and the memories that remain
I know we've talked about it
Your pain and mine
About dad an alcoholic, and the abuse
and how you’re still attracted to it
But I still remember soo many nights
And soo many strange days
You dragged by your hair
I'll never forget
You thrown through the door
is embedded in my head
You with black eyes
you fell out of bed
The screaming
The fights
I remember everything said
My name
My brother’s name
Psychological abuse for you
soo long ago mom
You left and I don’t blame you
Years of you being cheated on
And dad would introduce us to his girlfriends
Easter holidays treasure hunt
While your husband was out betraying everyone
I know you know
That he talks poorly about you
And acts like the better man
But mom I remember
and you need to understand
What you went through
And the nights when I heard the door slam close
because you were fighting
and he told you to leave
That was how I met god in a sense
and always prayed for you to come back
Then finally I prayed for you sanity safety and for you to leave
And I would cry
as quietly as I could
cry myself to sleep
and chances are
dad either fell asleep
or went out in his drunken stupor
to cheat on you again
The divorce is over
It’s been over for years
But yet its still messy and I bite my tongue and remember
The night you came into my room
And told me you had to leave
I remember taking beer to kindergarten
Hiding it from you and dad
To throw it away
And my teacher in grade three finally asked
No lie mom
I had the same teacher in kindergarten and grade three
I could write an entire poem
about all of the people who shaped my mind
But I need you to see
When I come visit and am called an incest family man by your boyfriend
for giving you a hug
You’ve fallen into the same trap
And it’s like my own mother I’m not allowed to love
Say bye-bye to these:
"Hold, please." (Hold what?)
Typewriter Repairman Ads
"Dial this number..." (What's 'dial?')
Down-time... Offline
Compliments (Complaint Departments have swallowed them up).
"Mail me your resume."
Shame, and its cousin, Guilt
Pay Phones and Phone Booths (Sorry, Superman)
Cash (esp. pennies)
"How do you do?" (How do I what?!)
"Chick," "Piece," "Stacked," "Hot Number"
The Debt Ceiling
Brown Suits
Brown Fedoras
White Bread
White Big-City Mayors (in the USA)
Math Facts
Grammar & Grammar Schools
Heroes
Good Samaritans
Public Drinking Fountains (except for dogs and cats)
All but Mega-Gigantic Hospitals
Modesty
Cash Bail
Drug Busts
'Land Lines'
Gasoline-fueled automobiles
Private Health Insurance
Private Doctors
Free Museums
Disturbing the Peace
Roth IRA's (at least, Roth IRA's whose distributions are tax-free)
Peacetime Economies
Gun Laws (The Wild West roars back)
Non-Mixed Use Zoning Laws
Fair Elections (Did we ever really have them?)
Ideals, Idealists, Idealism
The 'Renaissance Man'
Daily Newspapers, Print AND Digital
The 'Weather Channel'
META
Music Majors, Art Majors, Anthropology & Sociology Majors
Cooperation
Cashiers
Receptionists
Cleaning Services
'Straight People'
Teachers
'The Four Freedoms'
Courts (You'll get a ticket and either pay or go to jail...)
Courtroom Lawyers
'Law and Order' Politicians
Non-TV Ministers
Dentures
Non-union University Personnel
Non-gated upper middle class and upper class housing
Neighborhood Watch Groups
Public Schools
Childhood
Non-government Day Care
Nursery School and Kindergarten
Free Public Libraries (You'll pay for those Drag Shows, lol!)
Free-TV
Non-Tip Services
'The Great American Novel'
The Home of the Brave -- Oops! (I mean, of the 'Guardians!')
'Lesbos' and 'Homos' (Can you believe we used those terms?!)
Marital Sex (What for?)
Foreplay (Now it's just "Fore! Here I cum!")
~ Roger Dodger, Over & Out!
Anchors Aweigh...
destination unknown
for this Earthling
stardate: February 26th, 2022
At sea since time immemorial
I relish being alone
upon oceanic expanse
yours truly doth bemoan
me gal Sal (one among
numerous female confidantes),
no matter, she easily
mistaken as a crone
magical powers keep
her manning far aloft drone
as surveillance hovers above me
(to intercept encrypted
communication maintained
courtesy bluetooth earphone)
the two of us sol survivors
I feel like a foreigner since
global thermonuclear war
bombed webbed wide world
into pulverized power
vaguely similar landscape
to age of Fred Flintstone
and Barney Rubble
recurring memories redolent
of yesteryear, whereby I groan
though simple living
such as me and the missus
did Potschke coaxing homegrown
organic fruits and vegetables,
though, I attest we did
get violently angry with each other
and unwittingly cross interzone
where brickbats exchanged,
especially after she discovered
an illicit extramarital affair
between myself and Joan
since kindergarten her I known.
Weather beaten cap'n,
and watertight bewitched craft
time tested since maiden voyage
(circumnavigating the globe
back in the day of my youth),
I ranked tough as a pitbull,
when severely pitted
against raw elements
of swiftly tailored,
harried stylish nature
against leathery faced
reptilian skin, hard drinking
(actually as corked
poetic convenience - vermouth
arbitrary bottle of choice
if for no other reason,
than to rhyme
with the above line),
and tobacco spitting, while
colorfully swearing as an uncouth
Furies (of Agamemnon)
fighting (tooth
and nail) Pirate,
where rickets, scurvy,
and thrice unconscious,
currently ample proof
could not forsooth
bring me to Davy Jones's locker,
cuz I never wanna
get relegated to an underwater
whale schooled booth,
this raconteur can nonchalantly,
glibly, and blithely attest,
with braggadocio, despite
no warm welcome will
ever greet mine tinnitus
pained ears, I can plainly
imagine acrimonious retort
upon me behest
his far more'n lifetime
bobbing (like a sponge)
square pants float
buoyed atop crest longing e'en for
(carping, caviling, hen pecking,
or shrewish) wife.
I am happily teaching my second grade students two bully-proofing strategies earlier today.
These powerful anti-bullying techniques are "the thank you" and the "skip away" both invented by me.
First I explain that the mean bullying types are sad inside, so they want others to be mad and sad too. which is why they choose meanness to do and say.
I need to know who they are, so the children write down the names of any child they have seen being mean, for only the teacher and me to see.
We practice the "thank you" this way. I bring up a student who gets to call me names. All hands shoot up. Everyone wants to bully me, until they get up here.
Today I gave twenty-three examples, and I implored the teacher to come up and call me names after two children tried, but failed me.
The teacher, a personal, great friend of mine,said, "I can't do it! But Cameron can." Cameron ran up as if he was being chased by a bear.
BAM! Five mean and ugly things came out. I was amazed and thanked him profusely for each compliment, even did a two-step and a skip to my Lou.
So don't let them see you're mad. Don't let them see you sad. If your face is giving you away, use the "skip away." Jimmy yells out, "Can't we just run away?"
"If you use the skip away, they wonder why you are so happy. " I tell them as they laugh at my bad skipping. "Skipping indicates happiness too."
The children returned to their seats to write down the names of all children who have said or done something mean that they have seen with their own eyes or heard with their own ears since Easter Day.
I say, "Not since kindergarten or first grade. Not something you have heard someone else say that they said. Only write down names of children whom you SAW or HEARD do meanness. Okay?
I was asked thirty-two times if they were supposed to put their names on their paper, curious since there are only 29 students , and two were absent today.
I made a little tally sheet and gave it to the teacher, only. One teacher asked if she could share it with her class, I said "No, because I promised the children this would only be seen by you and me. I smile at my own clever petard.
That's when things turned.
The teacher got a bit snippy. And I quietly skipped away.
On Monday I tried to call you but no one was home.
On Tuesday I walked to your home and rang the doorbell.
There was no answer.
On Wednesday I baked you some cookies thinking it would cheer you up.
I ended up eating half a dozen or so.
On Thursday I walked back to your house and you were dead on the floor.
I was shocked. I lost my breath as I stood there over your cold body. How did this happen? I didn’t even see it coming. My heart was grieved and all I could do was sit there petting your dog. I began to pray and ask the Lord what happened to you, my dear friend. How did I not see this coming? I felt as though I had been the world’s worst best friend.
I looked back on my friendship with Kate. It spanned a period of seventy years. We were best friends in kindergarten and we even shared a few boyfriends along the way. We used to skip rocks in the creek and capture tadpoles with our bare hands. Where did the time go?
I knew she suffered from depression. She had many demons in her closet. She even had other people’s demons in her closet too. She had a heart as big as Texas and the jolliest laugh. She used to cook up the meanest spaghetti meals. The days have come and gone like a fast approaching winter. Now I sit on her front porch sipping hot cocoa. I reminisce of the days of gold-of the days of old.
I tried to walk in her shoes one day. It’s just an expression. I tried to shoulder her burdens and carry her messed up marriage and disobedient children on my back. It was too heavy to carry. Years of abuse, broken dreams, empty beer cans, overeating. Her pain was too intense to fathom. I tried to help her to see how much she needed Jesus and she would just sit there and grin.
One day she said to me, “How do you think I’ve made it this far?” I knew she was saying that Jesus was her best friend, so I spoke about her endurance at the funeral. I was the second person to read a eulogy. I knew one thing. The eulogy that I wrote blessed everyone in attendance. They loved her and wanted her to return. I spoke of the good days and reflected on the life of my kindergarten friend. I looked around the room and intently listened to each eulogy. I walked in her shoes once again.
gwendolen rix
9-16-15