Long Ninth grade Poems
Long Ninth grade Poems. Below are the most popular long Ninth grade by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ninth grade poems by poem length and keyword.
First grade, pelted with eggs
Second grade, broke both legs
Third grade, fell down the stairs
Fourth grade, clawed by a bear
Fifth grade, ran into a tree
Sixth grade, twisted a knee
Seventh grade, concussed my head
Eighth grade, fell out of bed
Ninth grade, had meningitis
Tenth grade, appendicitis
Eleventh grade, torn hamstring
Twelfth grade, acute bee sting...
So, to allay any fears from admission committees
I wrote the following college application ditty:
You may consider me somewhat injury-prone
But I have yet to break my first wishbone
And I give you my whole-hearted assurance
That I will use my parents' health insurance
This is a part 2 poem. A continuation from a poem called
The Day The Running Stopped. A Bio.
The tennis racket crashed down upon him
A boy just two years old
His Grandfather came in and saved him
Before life became dark and cold.
The monster came again in third grade
Beaten for a failing grade at school
To young to even know what failing was
But now labeled as failure and a fool.
Another failure came in ninth grade
Though he tested with high IQ
But he had a belittled and tragic life at home
There was no motivation to pursue.
At sixteen depression captured his inner soul
He grabbed the shotgun to make it go away
But the monster burst in before the trigger clicked
And then there was more hell to pay.
He took drugs to escape the cold reality
To calm the nightmares that visited every night
And no matter how far in his mind he ran away
He could never find the light.
He ran back into his grandfather's arms
To the man who saved him as a child
He helped him cry his pain away
His loving touch so gentle and mild.
He found God one night when he had given up
For God never once gave up on him
He finally found purpose at 27 yrs old
When gods light made him alive again.
For you, the first to teach me poetry,
I wrote a little poem at age nine.
I don't remember writing any more
till I had you for English in ninth grade.
One day when we were talking at your desk,
I saw a single laminated sheet.
I took a closer look and realized
the childish cursive on the page was mine.
You'd saved "My Winter Poem" all those years
and brought it as my gift. I almost cried.
I smile now as I vividly recall
this scene from over fifty years ago.
As teacher and librarian, you earned
the praise of all. We recognized your love
of students, language, books, and our small school.
We knew how much you wanted us to learn.
If I had never told you how I felt,
beyond that day when I was just a teen,
I'd be without excuse, but I did claim
the opportunities to give you praise.
In our last conversation at a school
reunion just a few short years ago,
I told you how I often think of you
when choosing just-right words for poetry.
I recently shared memories of you
with others who held you in high regard.
We wiped our tears and said our last good-byes
to one who taught much more than books and rules.
She was such a tomboy, her mother decided to make her more girly.
She dressed her in frilly pink and stuck bows in her hair.
She wanted to put fake nails on her, but Daddy nixed that.
She is fine, he told her. Let her be the way she is.
The more Daddy took her side, the closer she came to daddy.
When she came out in the ninth grade, she did not tell her mother.
She and her mother were distant, aloof and often estranged.
Mother was busy teaching her four-year-old boy to shoot guns.
He had no interest in them at all; he was a kind sensitive soul.
Hunting and killing were never going to be something he would do.
The mother spent her life wondering why her children never visited.
They were at her ex-husband’s house every weekend though.
The scent of your soul
A caramelised breeze of fruit odours
reverberating softly through my memory
Throwing me right back in ninth grade
where we sat side by side
Your right arm reaching slightly for my back.
Thoughts of you dwell in my mind
and your name resonates gently with my spirit
carrying me back to the shade
of purple orchids in evergreen woods.
Our first kiss perched upon last autumn's twig
still lingers in early morn's bone-china cup
wafting its pungent aroma of dark roast coffee-beans
and so the smell of rubber tyres against the wind.
Such revoked moments of unknown danger
Of fearless dreams , and defiant fun.
Other moments of beauty and snow angels
Of freedom and moonlights ,sunrise and life.
I can still recall those weeks ,months ,years
till footprints marked separate paths
and our shared candles became the past.
Ah those lazy siestas, those days...those nights...
Sweet as frosty vanilla and chocolate chips of an ice -cream parlour
Melting as spongy marshmallows and honey syrup
Fresh as the linen of your shirt which haunts me
like an alluring glance of almond - shaped eyes.
This afternoon, like other afternoons, I walk to the library
that knows the musky sweat of your palm upon my own.
That fragrance 's gone now . All that is left is a fading perfume
of forgotten petals, between old books and dusty shelves.
Nobody here, except my silence and a rotten sliced apple ,
Vacuum- packed ,lacking both cinnamon and spice.
Back home, the mildewed strings of a guitar await my fingertips
to play once more ,upon the worn out chords of my heart
What willI play , What will I sing , a song that isn't ours ?
Fermented wine I pour into an empty glass
Yearning to taste the grape for what it was
before all it was turned bitter, acidic and sour.
Alone , I wonder where you might be
So far or not so distant ,listening to the mood in my voice
on once upon a record player, Wishing on a star ?
The scent of your soul
a caramalized breeze of fruit odours
reverbrating softly through my memory
Throwing me right back in ninth grade
where we sat side by side
Your right arm reaching slightly for my back
Your name resonates gently with my spirit
as thoughts of you dwell in my mind
Carrying me back to the shade
of purple grape orchids in evergreen woods
Our first kiss perched upon last autumn's twig
still lingers in early morn's bone-china cup
wafting its pungent aroma of dark roast coffee beans
and so the smell of rubber tyres against the wind
Such revoked moments of unknown danger and defiant fun
Other moments of beauty and snow angels
Of freedom and moonlights,sunrise and life
I can still recall the days,months,and years
till our footprints marked seperate paths
Ah,those days,those last hours,How can I forget?
Sweet as frosty vanilla and chocolate chips of an ice-cream parlour
Melting as spongy marshmallows and honey syrup
Fresh as the colour of every new dream which haunts me
llike an alluring glance of almond-shaped eyes
This afternoon,like other afternoons I walk to the library
which knows the musky sweat of your palm upon my own
That fragrance 's gone now,all that is left is the fading perfume
of forgotten petals between old books and dust
No one here except my silence ,and a rotten sliced apple
vacuum packed,lacking its cinnamon and even its spice.
Back home the mildewed strings of a guitar
await my fingertips to play once more
upon the worn out chords of my vacant heart
What will I play,what will I sing,a song which isn't ours?
Fermented wine I poured into a glass
Yearning to taste its purple grape for what it was
before all it was turned out bitter,acidic and sour
I wondered about where you might be,distant or not as far
Listening to my voice on once upon a record player
Or Wishing on a star ?
A repost (written : 10/15/2014
they can't slip one past me
intellectuals, smarty-pantses
I know what my eyes can see
it's ninth grade geometry
good thing pilots and sailors know
the top of the earth is flat
I'm not sure about the bottom
where the roots hang through
on top, there's a hemisphere
that's where you see the sun and moon
why don't they bump?
only God knows
9th grade geometry works on a flat surface
Horace Greeley said it
go west like Magellan
circumnavigate the world
you end up in the same place
you avoid the edge
where monsters be
you've gone in a wide circle
I live in the center of the world
and cut a smaller circle
only thing I haven't figured out
what keeps the ocean water
from draining off the edge?
Her spell remains over me 44 years later
Once a bumblebee has kissed the nectar of Snapdragon
The creature is fever of succulence
She says, “You kiss so softly I think it’s a thing with guys with braces
My name is Bob.”
That’s quite a coincidence
After our third day at Civitan camp in Albion
High school awaits us all this fall
Someone wants to get their claws in us first
Suggests a new decade can be a better album spinning on its turntable
Then one from the 70s
I’m not so sure after all the Eagles and Fleetwood Mac
We sit together on a sidewalk
Still warm from the day’s sun
A bouquet of flowers cool overhead
Her lamp post hand rests on my blue jeans
She says she’s a witch and comes from Minnesota
“Bob from Minnesota.” I say
“That’s right. Bob from Minnesota. I came just for you.”
Moves her hand to my cheek traces her fingers to my lips
Abdomen to ovule
I remember her like this
And I suppose that is a magical spell as much as any
Long straight blond hair parted down the middle
Curtains half pulled back from the stage lights of her blue eyes
Thin lips a shoreline
A girl from Minnesota with a Michigan boy’s same name
Who says I kiss softly due to my braces
When I know it’s because I’ve never kissed a soft neck mystery
Until now
First taste of living free from home
She smokes a cigarette I can’t believe it
I ask for one she says “No I don’t think so.”
We talked much through that evening
About what? I have no memory
But she says when I dream of her she’s thinking of me
I sometimes still dream of her a lifetime later
Wish she’d come back
Wish I could rediscover how to kiss softly
Away from home again
A witch’s neck from Minnesota
I also remember
My dad said he was shocked at camp pick up
When he watched his young boy right in front of him
Kissed goodbye for so long and so softly on the lips
By an unafraid girl.
Encouraged by a teacher I adored,
I wrote a little poem at age nine.
I don't remember writing any more
till that same lady taught me in ninth grade.
One day when we were talking at her desk,
I saw a single laminated sheet.
I took a closer look and realized
the childish cursive on the page was mine.
She'd saved "My Winter Poem" all those years
and brought it as my gift. I almost cried.
When, as a poet, I feel uninspired,
I think of one who cared so long ago.
********************
Almost five decades later, I clicked "Send,"
and my first full-length manuscript took flight!
I prayed and waited for a "Yea" or "Nay"--
“Not right for us” or “We will publish this”!
Regardless of the outcome, I'd be glad
I’d mustered courage for this first attempt.
My memory of conquering the fear
of clicking “Send” is vivid to this day.
********************
My book came out about four years ago.
Commercially, it isn’t a success,
but I have no regrets. My bucket list
now lacks “Submit a full-length manuscript”!
Date: November 25, 2020
Poetry Contest Title: What Have You Kicked Off Your Bucket List placed 1st
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
She often spoke of her past and the mistake she had made
The shadow that it cast in allowing herself to so be swayed
She had lamented it so often as even the tears still flowed
In telling those young women, it was reality that showed
That was the easy part, standing up there telling her story
In just speaking from her heart for the sake of God's Glory
But when she was alone they were the toughest times of all
Even in His Light Shone she couldn't forgive her own fall
There again in front of a crowd the tears welling in her eyes
Her voice echoing so loud in now so clearly seeing those lies
Seeing all those young faces and all that might have been
For in Gods Grace perhaps another might avoid such a sin
So there again she'd stand this time it was the ninth grade
Working with God's Hand helping the one who had strayed
As they stood to leave out with a new thought on their mind
But at least where was once doubt the truth they can now find