argument over a ninth-grade child
never again did they speak
a misunderstanding
to get a high school diploma you must be able to read at a twelfth grade level
this was in 1952
In 1972 we were told “an eleventh grade level is good enough”.
Today reading at a ninth grade level means that you graduate.
I heard that at a seminar this morning.
I may look like a chear-leader - but I really am a cheetah
and after they pass those tests out - I’m going to beat ya.
I heard a student say, in the cafeteria near where I sat
“They really don’t expect us to read all of that.”
and I chuckled to see the many headshakes of agreement.
Don’t these people know that this is really an arena?
I was accepted to Yale before I finished ninth grade and now
I’m surrounded by these “A” types who think they have it made
- until I eviscerate them with curve-crushing grades.
Learning is a passion, an exhilaration and release.
The last place on earth, that you ever want to be
is sitting in a classroom, competing against me.
“How’d the test go?” He asks.
“Oh,” I shrug and say, “I think I did ok.”
Let me translate that for you, “I made a feekin’ A.”
*We just got our grades, and yeah, I made the Dean's list.
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.
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
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.
Can We Meet
Dear Ashutosh
As long as I remember
You just painted my days of yore
Love floated through my eyes
Anxious to reach your heart's shores
You sat at edge of third row
Oh!how my heart skipped beats
I blushed and those goosebumps
Now I contemplate love was raw and sweet
It was our ninth grade
You were topper of your previous school
So am I of my class
A look in your eyes ,and my heart defied
Your melodious voice bowled me over
We bumped at the end of corridor tumbling down
In fits of laughter your dimples caught my sight
Can we meet in the park at end of town
I ponder we can be more than just friends
Wishing you fancy singing just as me
Why not talk on topics other than books
I will be waiting for you beneath eucalyptus tree
09/02/2019
Undeniably and Knowingly Bill Nye.
Have you ever been overcome by a book before
While wondering what next for us is in store
Darwin did say be strong avoiding infection
While recognizing each use of natural selection.
What I will do is frequently and on always rely
Is Bill the Science Guy who we can never deny
Who we determined without a doubt is reliable
What he always said was completely undeniable.
Each day may be determined to end up nigh
But never or ever will Bill the science guy.
Jim Horn
"Undeniable" by Bill is completely,
utterly incredible, so simple and easily
redable (readable). I would say
it was written on a ninth grade
level of thinking.
Her name was Lisa and she was a blonde-haired girl, but her friends called her Starry because she was so into astronomy! She built her own telescope at 12, a humble 6 inch reflector. But she did spend hours grinding the mirror to perfection!
She scoffed at classmates who couldn't even remember the names of all nine planets. Mars, Jupiter and Saturn were her distant friends.
hours in the cold
watching red Mars until dew
fogged the telescope
She checked book after book on astronomy out from the high school library. Unfortunately, by the ninth grade she grew less interested in the stars and more interested in boys.
Eventually, she just took college astronomy electives and finished college with honors, but with dreams forgotten. Yet, I always remember her and her stars...
lifetime
as an English teacher
doodling stars on essays
Published - Cattails - Winter 2016
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
Her name was Lisa and she was a blonde-haired girl, but her friends called her Starry because she was so into astronomy! She built her own telescope
at 12, an humble 6 inch reflector. But she did spend hours grinding the mirror to perfection!
She scoffed at classmates who couldn't even remember the names of all nine planets. Mars, Jupiter and Saturn were her distant friends.
hours in the cold
watching red mars until dew
fogged the telescope
Her fourth grade teacher, knowing of her interest in astronomy took her to the high school library which had more astronomy books. She checked book after book out. Unfortunately, by the ninth grade she grew less interested in the stars and more interested in boys.
Eventually, she took college astronomy electives and finished college with honors, but with dreams forgotten. Yet, I always remember her and her stars. . .
lifetime
as an English teacher
doodling stars on essays
Published Cattails - Winter 2016
Bury Me Standing
(Finally found the poems I wrote when was 14.)
Britt Bailey was Kentucky born,
Left that state with wrath and scorn
Then he took to politics it's told
With a gun was brash and bold.
Britt and his rival had feuded so
For their guns they both did go
Britt shot man died and ran away
Rode to Texas and there did stay.
John Austin gave to Britt some land
Thinking that Britt was a gentleman
Family came and they settled down
He built the biggest ranch around.
For Judge, Britt had decided to run
Austin's learned by him what was done
And away they tried to take his land
Britt formed a group to take a stand.
Britt bravely made vow and this did say,
"On day when I die I will never lay;"
John shot Britt who had grasped a tree
Slowly died standing there would he.
So buried standing he still must be
Green light in shadow you can see
And often ground rumbles for a spell
Britt's been target practicing in hell.
James Thomas Horn, Retired Veteran
I was 14 in the ninth grade when I
wrote this a year before my dad died.
I sigh as the rich man cries...
"I have too much stuff!"
but yet he still buys
I cry as I hear the poor man say...
"I am hungry"
but yet buys cigarettes every day
I moan when a teen does say...
"I can't get a job"
but yet he stopped school in the ninth grade
I grind my teeth when I hear a farmer say...
"I need money"
but yet he is to lazy to harvest his grain
I feel no pity for ones like these, for they bring it upon themselves to live in misery.
The Reality of Unwise Choices
By Elton Camp
Her parents warned her Roscoe not to wed
“He’s lazy and won’t work,” they wisely said
Roscoe dropped out of school after ninth grade
Then, for years, it was only pool that he played
“I love Roscoe and he is much fun to be around.
It won’t be long before a good job he has found.”
To all his many faults she seemed to be quite blind
Or if she saw them, thought that she wouldn’t mind
The newlyweds moved in with his parents at first
Of all the choices, that soon proved to be the worst
It wasn’t long before they lived in a tiny old shack
Over on the wrong side of the town’s railroad track
Roscoe soon forgot all the promises to his bride
Even his marriage vows carelessly threw aside
He began to use drugs and much liquor drink
Of her parents advice the woman began to think
“How foolish I was I now very clearly can see.
But I never dreamed this would happen to me.
To stay with Roscoe there’s only one reason why.
If says if I leave, I should then prepare to die.”
We hardly remember the truth
Victims of the Great Forgetting
We hardly recognize that history is popular culture
A screenplay of the past written by the victor
Just look at Thomas Jefferson
Author of the Declaration of Independence
With his quill scribing the words, "All men are created equal."
We hardly think of him slinking back to his slave plantation
Grabbing one of his African slave mistresses
and having his way with her
His love puppet
Of which he had a harem
My ninth grade teacher (whom had tenure)
whispered from the side of his face
The only thing Columbus discovered
Was those people he called Indians
Which we now call Native Americans
were savages in the sack
And the only thing he brought back
from the New World was syphilis
We hardly look at the big picture
which is that we are destroying ourselves
We cannot continue to keep living
the way we are living
And not expect civilization to collapse
We are so short sighted
We hardly see history repeating itself
We are Rome
And quite sadly Nixon is our Nero
Hardly a hero
It won't be long before
The clock strikes zero
By: Joseph DeMarco
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