Long Pencils Poems
Long Pencils Poems. Below are the most popular long Pencils by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pencils poems by poem length and keyword.
My name is Walter Eddington,
live in Maine with my wife and son,
own a growing timber company
way up north with vast tracts of trees.
My son’s name is Bruce, and one day
at age fourteen he came home to say
that cutting trees was an ‘evil’ thing,
what in the hell are these schools teaching?
I tried to explain how it all works,
how we must balance needs of the earth,
how we rotate where we harvest,
and then replant seedlings in mass.
That we were really big tree farmers,
that was how me made a dollar,
made no sense to cut it all down,
no future profit in barren grounds.
Told him of our thirty years cycle
how when trees grew that land was wild,
that managing lots kept out condos,
thought he’d think different if he did know.
But it’s black and white at age fourteen,
nothing but an emotional scene,
he held to the nonsense he was taught,
but his obstinance gave me a though.
The next day, while he was at school,
I did something some would think cruel,
went to his room, a point to prove,
all wood and paper I them removed.
All his posters and his bed-frame,
pencils and books, boxed that contained,
his night stand and desk, and paper,
when Bruce came home he was lost for words.
I smiled and said,”It’s as you like,
nothing made from a tree inside,
in truth, son, you should be thanking me
for saving you from hypocrisy.”
Now maybe I was a bit extreme,
but it can be hard reaching a teen,
needless to say, after all that
he never again gave my job flack.
Consequences stirred his growing mind,
he would think things through next time,
reason would balance out the young fool,
if it doesn’t, then time to home-school.
Lockers slam, a metal roar,
Then quiet falls, books hit the floor.
No tests today, no homework sighs,
Just whispering leaves and butterfly skies.
Sunlight paints the desks with stripes,
As whispers bloom like dandelion pipes.
Chairs tilt back, imaginations take flight,
Through emerald jungles, bathed in sun's pure light.
Pencils scribble, tales unfurl,
Of talking beasts and dragons in a whirl.
Volcanoes erupt, castles rise so high,
On paper dreams take wing and touch the sky.
Chalkboard roars transform to waves,
Crashing loud in coral caves.
Pencils dive, dolphins in the blue,
Hunting words, a hidden clue.
Laughter echoes, vines of green,
Connecting hearts, a joyful scene.
No grades or stars, just stories spun,
Weaving magic, one by one.
This hour's jungle, wild and free,
Where minds explore, eternally.
A classroom bloom, vibrant and bright,
Where lessons blossom, bathed in sun's pure light.
So let the whispers turn to roars,
In this jungle where imagination soars.
For seventh grade's a wild, untamed land,
Where dreams take root and stories expand.
Everybody has a past.
Everyone makes their mistakes.
But they are not there to last.
Time heals wounds that judgement makes.
Human, we are all only...
So it is safe assuming that
We can leave our errors lonely
At the drop of our said hat.
Pencils have their rubbers and
White out corrects our pen.
Backspace with a keyboard hand...
Now overrides back then.
There is a saying - that best cold...
Revenge served in its dish.
But then I think, when I grow old
Will this still be my wish?
Dwelling on my yesterday
Will not see me get anywhere.
All I can do is make my way
Using today to get me there.
When it comes to what has been
On those otherwise cloudy days,
Any storms that I have seen
And lived through, my mind can erase.
Low battery mode.
Made of triangles bobbing around.
Like things in unusual water droplets.
The worst of knowing that everything is moving in a shuttering way.
Not a pretty “whoosh.”
Just a whoosh at the base of my jaw getting slobbered on.
I lost my keys.
I think I’m entombed.
Cascades.
Low battery mode.
Made of triangles flat, and unshaped.
Like things in boring water puddles making a mess etc.
Made of lost keys in my head.
Tragic.
Things made of kaleidoscopes made of scraps.
Made of my jaw, shutting down.
Low battery mode.
Pencils of all things.
I never found them.
So the camera panned over to someone else.
Unusual stuff.
Believe it or not, they will stick it to you first.
For them, it's light work 'cause they don't have to rehearse.
With so much favorable DNA and proximity,
There is always a classroom nearby for a quick study.
Close! Closer than you think and closer than most
A slow demise can commence at a holiday toast.
Pencils and pads are always handy for the collection of intel.
So be careful about what you reveal or what you tell.
It's sad. Yes, I know. It's very sad, but your challenges or stumbles make them so glad.
The face of schadenfreude, they welcome
A big smile adorns their face whenever there is bedlam.
Glad and happy to see you're not fulfilling your destiny.
This is why they're constantly playing with your energy.
So, words to the wise. Please beware of some kinfolk.
They may look and talk like you, but it is your failure they want to coax.
He is so angry he will not talk to anyone.
I happen to be teaching his class a lesson
They are in teams enjoying themselves
Except him; he is shutting down rapidly.
He taps the pencils against the desk
Over and over and over and over and over.
I ask him to come with me and he does.
I ask him what has happened.
Seeing tears, I go get three tissues.
He tells me he wanted to check out a book.
The librarian said he could not have that one.
He is totally sad.
I am sad too, because this has ruined his day.
He told his teacher he did not know how dumb he was
Until today.
I have no words, just feeling sad with him.
The Historical Museum*
Has a wonderful collection
Of the drawings done by Hirschfeld,**
Waiting there for your inspection.
As you view his work you’ll realize
He’s the Caricature King;
From his sketchpad and his pencils,
Magic images would spring.
He could capture a celebrity
With just a few quick strokes.
Most were honored to be subjects
Of his playful, artful pokes.
But the fun in all his sketches,
Once his daughter was alive,
Lies in looking for the Nina’s,
(Starting 1945).
For her name was always hidden
In the lines upon the page,
Giving viewers quite a challenge,
In which many would engage.
Sometimes there’d be many Nina’s
In which case he’d let you know
By a number written next to
His cool signature below.
If you visit the exhibit,
You can sit in Hirschfeld’s chair
And pretend you’re hiding Nina’s,
With his humor and his flair.
*New York Historical Society
**Al Hirschfeld
Social uselessness is a virtue of its own,
Those we cast aside, glance at and then away from quickly,
Lest they notice, and smell our guilt,
Are free to live immodestly,
There being no need for posturing
When one's invisible.
Trees that grow lumpen or misshapen
Are left to live long and go unfelled,
Never to be transformed into pencils and park benches.
They carry on, in love with the sun,
Spreading their arms to embrace the sky
Season upon season;
The children skip over their roots
And lovers loll beneath their boughs,
Their shade relieves the weary,
Their age comforts the old.
No carpenter's ambition
Will ever reach their wondrous hearts,
Then, perforce, transform them.
When they kick you, unwanted
Out of the hospital psych ward,
Your illness not important because you've done
Nothing to make the newspapers,
You can wander like a prophet, complete in yourself
Living your truths without needing an apologist.
So it is with those we look away from,
The odd shapes among us who don't fit our spaces.
There's more to be seen by looking between things
Than can be found by looking straight at them;
The unshaped space around us speaks with an incessant tongue
Interpretable only by the spirit.
So if you really want to slip the blindfold for a change
To see the ones hovering around the fringes,
Start by studying their shadows;
If they should deign to speak,
Listen with your eyes,
If you want to feel them,
Reach deep inside yourself and rub the sore spots
You spend the day denying.
Reflection sustains reality
Like dewdrops on a leaf.
Try to understand this like a lesson and you'll fail,
But accept it without judgement;
It will come to you.
No man finds more truth than he who looks for nothing;
This is writ upon the bark of twisted trees.
Read it, then know what wisdom is.
The most important day of my whole life,
Was the day I went to Uni, bold and stark,
‘Cos it said to my parents that my mind’s state,
Was with the academics and society’s quark.
They called me as a child insane and *****,
For wanting my brother’s toys, books and pencils;
They also actually called me mentally ill,
For not wanting girly clothes which did frill.
I had my nose in the encyclopaedias and dictionaries,
And they just couldn’t figure why or understand,
And wouldn’t leave me to browse and scan:
Wouldn’t in love care and just let me have my stand.
Society was for sinners, every day they pointed out,
But I felt that it was the fundamentalist Christians,
Who were cold, uncaring, and without clout;
Ready to explode in anger at any societal person.
But they knew who I was on that day going to Uni,
On the journey to Glasgow in the Grenada car,
And so when I was subjective, contemplative and still,
My dad rudely V’d me with his fingers in a spar.
I think they thought I'd say nothing and carry on,
But I waited a few seconds and then firmly replied,
“What was that for?” and he retorted “What?”
And that glint of something in me for them died.
I gave a few murmurs, but succeeded in letting it go,
Having quietly shed a tear about my childhood and early life,
But I promised myself to tell the Hall wardens about the gesture,
Who also made me swear to tell them of any future strife.
And then in my second year, when my dad became,
The conductor of Billy Graham’s choir,
When I made the wardens aware of my pain,
They took me to the cinema and loved me plain.
It makes it so much better, other people’s concern,
Just that bit of interest that you've never had to earn;
Talking about one’s problems puts colour in your cheeks,
And life will be to you that whatever one truly seeks.
At the end of the night,
you walked her up to the door in the light.
What you expected next would be a delight.
You did not get that goodnight kiss.
Your girl discovered there was something amiss.
While you waited for a hug and a squeeze,
she told you she could not find her keys.
Standing there alone was certainly a drag
as she searched frantically through her bag.
She pulled out:
Lipstick
Eyebrow pencil.
Nail clippers
Chewing gum.
Peppermint candy.
Emory boards
Hand lotion
Nail polish
Mouthwash
Aspirin
Cotton balls
Paper clips
Pens
Pencils
Notepads
Earrings
Pennies
Nickels
Dimes
Razor blades
Shoelaces
Mirrors
Sewing needles
Spools of thread
Combs
Brushes
Cell phones
But she could not find her keys!
This evening turned out to be a fright.
There was nothing to do except say good night!
Based on the hit song of yesteryear "She Can't Find Her Keys" by Paul Petersen