My dream was delectable, best one yet
My name was called loudly; I did not fret
Until the class laughed
It was Mr. Giraffe
Worst math teacher in history I bet.
Thank you, Mr. Rogers (yes, his real name!)
for rescuing me from teenage purgatory.
Perplexed teenager, lacking social lumen
pulled C's in English, D's in History -
my dreadful retrograde trajectory
projected no collegiate acumen,
in prom discussions, practically subhuman!
Then, your poetical geometry
and sleek Cartesian choreography
became my sailing ship, and I, its crewman.
Derivatives soon danced in arcs non-static.
Pythagorean proofs helped me progress,
vectors resolved problems that once would vex.
Your agile algebra of joy quadratic:
my new hypotenuse of happiness
helped me to find myself... I solved for x.
Written 13 March 2020
Math
Is a problem
That is here to stay
It will never go away
Like a vermin's ugly kin, it grows
Multiplies and divides into more nasty vermin
Never seeming to disappear
As log as civilization is here
Math
As the days grow
Math will cause many tears to shed
Not only this...
Math will waste lead
Math is like a bad lover
That can never be fed
Never satisfied nor pleased
No amount of diamond rings sold, classes or tutors paid
Nothing can please this terrible monster
The Agony of Math
I knew I was good at opening doors,
To blossom their thoughts and ignite.
Everyone had their own little glittering globe,
My job was to make them shine bright.
The interview went great in the London office,
When I talked the talk that I walk.
The panel embraced my every word,
A maths teacher that knew how to chalk.
The next job interview was over the phone,
The principal needed me to teach Japan.
“Japanese? Hell yeah”, then I’d change it to French,
A year of languages? Yep, I was the man.
And then the call to the next principal,
An Aussie, renovating his foyer.
Six years of a one year trial maths job,
To the kids I was the mathematic destroyer.
And now a call from the state’s executive,
Starting next term with our indigenous youth.
“Teach and inspire, excite and succeed”,
I’m to teach the mathematical truth.
I’m a teacher of teens, I teach every day,
To be reasonable, rational and logical.
So when they’re grown up and out and about,
They’ll wisely “out think” any obstacle.
She was known as "Miss Knuckle Rapper"—
My old-maid math teacher in sixth grade.
She was well-groomed, but hardly dapper
And unrelentingly strict, stern, and staid.
"You WILL master fractions," she pronounced,
Smacking her desk with a ruler of wood.
The desk wasn't all on which she pounced,
She'd rap our knuckles if she felt she should.
"Lay your hands on your desks, nice and flat,"
She ordered pupils who had somehow erred.
The ruler struck their knuckles with a splat.
It was the discipline she faithfully preferred.
But there was more to the Rapper, I know it.
Leading her students to learn was her passion.
The ruler was a prop to grandstand her grit.
She cared for us all, but only in her fashion.
At making math practical she was a star,
Noting that knowing numbers was a "must."
"I'm sorry to say it but you won't go far,
Unless you learn math from one you trust."
By school year's end I had come to know
My teacher was driven by admirable actions.
She ruled to prep us for what life would bestow,
Including the mastering of fractions.
this poem is dedicated to my Mr mellors i hope he reads this
The Cop, The Math Teacher, The Guide
you've been there for me
when i was confused
and could not see
the forest or the path
you were there
when school was hell
and life was black as midnight
you were there
when i screwed up
and found myself trapped
by my own mistakes
even though i disappointed you at times
and made you want to tear your hair out
you were there
you've always been there
and cannot thank you enough
Thank You Mr. Mellors