Long Schoolhouse Poems
Long Schoolhouse Poems. Below are the most popular long Schoolhouse by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Schoolhouse poems by poem length and keyword.
She never knew she had them
that the basket had been placed
upon her past and future
by the color of her face
He gazed upon the sunrise
at the shadows walking thin
entering the schoolhouse
but they wouldn’t let him in
She had no shoes – no fancy dress
could not read the hymnals prayers
sat outside as music played
a welcome to soothsayers
He wore a ring of ever-dirt
from which he sought release
razor eyes forever searching
bringing hunger to the feast
Their talents were the seeds that fell
upon harsh and bitter ground
gifts that withered on the vine
a talents loss forever bound
contest - The Parable of the Talents
sponsor – Holly Hippocampus
©10/5/2018
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It wasn't grand,
this bell upon Ivy’s desk –
just hammered tin
nothing distinct,
a traveler's relic,
perhaps,
or bought for pennies
at the county fair.
No polished gleam,
no silvered tongue,
just simple weight
in weathered wood
it clung.
But when her hand,
thin-veined and strong
from chalk-dust,
ink,
and garden-loam,
reached out –
a stillness fell
across the room
like held-in breath.
Then came the tap:
a single, clear,
unhurried ping
that seemed too small
to hold such things.
Yet out it flew!
A silver thread
unspooling fast
across the dew-wet
pasture grass,
over the stile
where Billy paused
his milking-pail,
through orchard rows
where apples hung
like sleepy moons.
It skimmed the creek
where minnows flashed,
startled the crow
on the fencepost,
sailed past
farms
where hay
was baled…
It flew!
That tiny sound,
that humble ring,
had wings.
It called the freckled boy
still wiping sleep
from sun-shot eyes,
the girl whose braids
were barley-gold,
the quiet one.
It gathered them,
like scattered seeds
on shifting wind,
to this one room
schoolhouse
where maps unfurled
and numbers bloomed
and stories hummed
beneath the rafters,
warm and low.
The bell sat still.
Its work was done.
Just hammered tin
beneath the sun
that slanted through
the dusty pane.
But in its silence,
echoed plain:
the scrape of chairs,
the turning page,
the hopeful rustle
of a bygone age
being called –
not ordered,
summoned –
by a sound
that knew
its own small
but mighty
weight.
In our leisurely drive across the country one of our delights
was an old school house in Nebraska…where we were blessed to spend the night.
We were already in the middle of nowhere….when ‘turn here’ our GPS crowed…
and took us another 4 miles down a one lane gravel road.
The renovated school house was secluded…there was no one else around
and once we turned the car off…you couldn’t hear a sound.
Until, that is, our eyes and ears adjusted…and we both shared a smile
as the animals in the country said…welcome…come and stay a while.
So we sat out in the school yard…in the disappearing day
totally aware of the sights and sounds around us now on display.
Birds singing in the trees surrounding us…everywhere we glanced
joining in a wondrous harmony…while the dandelions all. danced.
A robin sitting on her nest…took time out to tweet…
Rabbits hopped over to listen…and grab a bite to eat
A rooster, a woodpecker and a frog…not to be outdone…
joined in with their distinctive sounds…adding to the fun
The lilacs were in bloom…their aroma our noses kissed….
in flew a hummingbird moth…whose bloom she couldn’t resist.
A cool breeze waltzed across the yard…and as the dandelion seedlings flew
we closed our eyes, made a wish and I wondered…what the Earth was wishing too.
Then gradually…as if in partnership with the setting the sun….
the sounds began to fade away…slowly…one by one.
As the animals of the day found their beds in the fading light
the serenade continued…as the crickets would sing us through the night.
And so we sat there in the darkness…it was not yet time to go…
we waited and weren’t disappointed as the stars put on a show.
Neither of us dreamed that night…we slept deeply and soundly instead…
realizing we had already experienced a dream..long before we went to bed.
In so many shades of black and white, I find you after all these years;
leaning against that old weathered clapboard schoolhouse,
high on the hill overlooking the Fundy Bay,
and again, I inhale the fragrance of those wild sea salt roses
and feel the ocean mist upon my face, as I look out at those
sunbeams dancing on the tops of those rolling waves.
There you are, in your hand-me-down dress,
with socks pooling around the tops of your shoes.
There, third row to the far left, sporting a home made bowl haircut,
and a smile of utter joy.
After all years, in so many shades of black and white,
I find that little lost girl, and I am a kid again.
In so many shades of black white, I find the true colors that are me.
~~~
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
Not safe in God’s House
In trouble at the Schoolhouse
In danger at the White House
Especially, in our own house
We’re hunted like the old time
Prosecuted
And persecuted
Like breathing was a crime.
Too much racial hatred
This is a new, new apartheid
They want our blood, our sweat
For nothing, for pennies
They want us on our knees
Begging like a cheap pet
Like we have no self-worth
But we rather see early death
In lieu of losing our dignity
Our pride and our humanity.
Another sick and senseless massacre
Another day of mourning
Another day of torture
Our People are tired of suffering
Our safety is in jeopardy
No place to hide our heart, our soul
We can simply pray for a better journey
For better opportunities and a happier role.
We shall overcome
We are not afraid to fight
Until the last beat of the heart
Until the last bell of the bout
We will get Home
When we hear the last words
Of the amazing grace
We belong in this place
And this place belongs to us
We want Peace
But Justice first
We’re angry, hungry and athirst
To see the day when this nonsense
Will stop, will cease
Eating away our sense
Of Happiness
And Fairness
Like a Parisian cheese.
We shall overcome
Not safe in God’s Home
This is another day of sadness
Another journey of unhappiness.
Hebert Logerie
Copyright@June 2015, Hebert Logerie ,All Rights Reserved
I think of you now and again
Out half a world away
On the other side of the globe
Here it’s midnight and for you midday
Somewhere on a Himalayan mountain
How can I possibly relate to your reality
Far from anything resembling a city
With no infrastructure of any kind
No cars no shopping centers
No electricity no electronics
None of the luxuries I take for granted
How can I relate to your reality
Your wealth is a goat some seeds and hope
A little schoolhouse relatively close
As your best prayer for a better future
The gap between the haves and the have-nots
Is nothing less than astronomically absurd
And there’s no trusting the middlemen
Greed keeps robbing those who have less than nothing
Seems there’s fewer godfearing people left on earth
Not many believing in justice and universal equity
I can’t relate to corruption
Concepts of karma swirl through my head
Death remains the greatest equalizer
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
My daddy—he once told me
don’t ever play with nuns
they’ll hit you with their rulers
it won’t be any fun
I snuck out of that prison
and now I’m on the run
Once freed from that schoolhouse
I sunbathed in the sun
I stayed out late, I went on dates
looking out for number-one
When I think of what I went through
of all the tired repressive lies
I keep running wise, in slick disguise
my purpose is renewed
Don’t ever let ‘em tell you
you can’t have any fun
If they preach that hackneyed drivel
grab some things and run
.
.
Songs for this:
Cold Heart (PNAU Remix) by Elton John & Dua Lipa
I'm Still Standing by Elton John
Webster: hackneyed = uninteresting, unfun, dull and unoriginal.
*stolen almost directly, in spirit anyway, from that freewheeling rebel, Johnny Cash
**My first 8 years of school were parochial
Be ye a temple to thyself,
be plain and simple right off the shelf,
or be a Mayan of long ago,
a calendar odds that stole the show,
Be here a while and gone the next,
if you have felt your life being hexed,
these venues of opportunity,
hexing snooze to possibility,
Be heedful of the portal,
since your existence was made immortal,
soul peradventures a righteous cause,
be it the moon or faraway Mars,
Be the creator, make with the muse,
these, doors and gates your point of views,
a tune o'er an opera house,
a suite harmony quiets the schoolhouse,
Be of the arts, if not Mozart, then ...
Van Gogh, Cezanne, Monet even,
said portal, 'tis a gift for the mind
entertained, enlightened, and refined,
Be out that great door, and simply explore,
unlike Poe's dear sweet Lenore,
that raven made Poe feel poor,
the portal's key, he'll be free forevermore,
Be Poe and Lenore, forevermore,
sans that raven, evens the score,
that portal answers your questions,
bear your confessions, free from transgressions,
Behold the truth, the truth of it all,
that gate, that door, so-called, portal,
there's more to life than just break-even,
that portal is … your way to heaven.
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Rugged
Kansas prairie
Her hands rough with dawn tasks
His fingers trace Braille on table
Austere
Schoolhouse
ink and sweat smell
of small hands learning Braille~
a language pressed on waiting skin.
Alive.
Fifteen
Scrappy children
Clarabel, Dulce, John~
syllables hauled up* from the well
sweat, tears
Drought years
Calluses, sweat,
Stiff-backed, and obstinate
Heavy with weight of wheat and words
Courage.
At dusk,
they counted heads
and sang hymns of harvest~
Only thirteen grew tall as wheat.
Strength, faith
*hauled up from the well refers to both a physical action of rescue as well a metaphorical expression of support or accountability.
Pumpkins are made
For pies
And pies are made
For jack-o-lanterns
To
Please little girls
Who ride swings high over the city on
Cold
Mornings when others
Have found the schoolhouse
Under the ghetto waiting to transform the little leftovers
Into Wallstreetbogeymen scaring the country into
Unwanted
Growth claiming ‘More Pumpkins Are Better.’
The swing's chains are cold in late October
The seat can be wet
She
In her own glory does
Not
Notice the silence. Dreaming of
Dancing at the Met exposing truth to the music of Mendelssohn.
We linger
On the damp cool October morn
She peruses the skyline looking for the
Spot she might run to
As the swing finds a higher plane.