There he sits, in second grade
With his Mama not letting go
She hovers with intense intent
Trying to show, she knows how to grow
He finally gets out on his own
And makes choices she'd never make
Running rage like a chess game
In everything manipulation takes
She's old like worn wood
He's fragile, yet stands like a loyal son
She's sorry for not doing better
His movement makes her aware of everything she's done
No clear choice has ever been made
Agency has never been fully in tact
The infection claimed the connection
Dead skin keeps them attached to lack
For generations the cycle has run
Patterns etched on cave walls for proof
We lived, we died, nothing to tell
Just a record of connection gone aloof
Written by Trudy Schrader on 06-26-2026
Sometimes a simple question
needs a simple answer,
other times, a lecture.
I adhere to the principle of truthfulness, irrespective of the consequences. He asked if I had any affection for him, which reminded me of a mathematical question posed by my second-grade teacher. Maintaining a composed manner, I replied in the negative. His response exhibited a noticeable change in demeanor. I firmly believe that honesty holds significant value, regardless of potential outcomes. The inquiry, "Do you love me?" has been addressed to me on numerous occasions, more than I am inclined to mention; I interpret it as a politically charged statement. (Increase in social security benefits)
Sometimes a simple question
Needs a simple answer
Other times, a lecture.
And as for me, I hate having long, drawn-out lectures
Today I am celebrating my 69th Sunday, 2026
It is well with my soul.
Shirley is a confident seven-year-old
with sky blue eyes and fantastic natural curly ginger hair
her curls walk ahead of her
they are outstandingly pretty
today she is dressed in casual kaki pants
with matching sneakers and a huge leopard polka dotted bow
a matching purse is slung over her shoulder
she has no idea how adorable she is
a walking picture that others appreciate
her second-grade classmates surround her
they like everything about her
especially her confidence
Shirley fearlessly stands up for everybody
Beyond black breakers
beneath dancing stars
on white ocean's crest
I ride the turbulence....
a universal melting pot of emotion
where foreign feelings defuse
in this the final breeding ground
we are all alike for that one moment....
then wash away....or float forever...
thrown to the tide
with the slipshot hesitancy
of a young boy skipping rocks
across the water for the first time....
on the shore....I am alone again
images of my second grade
shovel and pail lay at my feet
(still dusty from castle construction)
I am half blanketed
in the shadow of my fortress
the comfort of its strength
soothes me with bedtime morals
that will always hold out
against the blows
of the big bad wolf
She should be ashamed, he should be ashamed, they should be ashamed
Nasari grew up hearing these daily chastises from her mother
She knew that she also should be ashamed
And yet she did not know the why of it yet
Shame was a theme in her life, at an early age
She was ashamed in kindergarten, second grade, sixth grade
Her cheeks were flushed, for everything was her fault
If someone else dropped the Playdough, she took responsibility
Not only was she in charge of herself
She was in charge of the rest of the world
What they did was her shame
She took it all on
With guilty feelings
For her mother had drummed this into her psyche
At an early age
As a kid in Southern California
I loved rainy days.
However much it rained,
I wanted it to rain more.
Mom had us buckle up our rain boots to go to school -
And put on our hooded yellow raincoats.
Mrs. Stillman, our second grade teacher, made popcorn on rainy days.
On the way home,
Gutters became rivers.
Leaves became boats.
Small lakes formed in the backyard.
Sometimes, rarely, we enjoyed thunder and lightning.
How fun it was to get soaked,
And then to come in, shower, and put on dry clothes,
And watch the rain through the window.
On the day after, the sidewalks were littered with worms,
But there was no smog, and, suddenly, the San Gabriel mountains appeared.
Rain was a rare treat
For a kid in Southern California.
Mitzy who retired the same day as me said
“One of my parents gave me two hundred dollars.”
“Great!” I replied
“Another gave me a hundred.”
This makes sense. She is a really terrific second grade teacher.
“And then, of course, we got the two hundred dollars from the PTA.”
I am sure she would not have mentioned this
if
she
had
known
that
we
was
only
she.
I rushed into my friend’s office once not realizing she had a guest.
She said “This is Dr. Pat McClintock.”
Dr. Pat McClintock said “You are a Stone Twin from Chariton Iowa.”
This shocked me.
I was forty-four at the time, living in Missouri.
No one here knew about me being a twin.
Well, maybe one or two, but not a stranger.
I nodded, wondering who this woman was.
“I was your second grade teacher, Miss Meyers.”
Suddenly I remembered her well.
She had drawn a horse for Becky Jones.
When I said I wanted one she said she would make me one.
But the next time we came to school, she was gone.
Right after Christmas break.
She never came back and I never got that drawing.
I remembered her all right….
THE DOLLAR STORE BUNNY
I chit chat with a saint at church
telling her how my grandson spent
Kindergarten online. This will follow
his class all the way through
to high school graduation.
His second grade teacher was happy -
the class advancing,
by leaps and bounds,
godspeed ahead. I tell her
how the Kindergarten teacher
adopted my grandson’s bunny as a pet.
She smiles, sparkling eyes and all, and
tells me about how her grandson threw
his bunny in the air, then it landed on
a light and burned up. Now, I surmise
that the saint’s bunny, like the Velveteen,
is a stuffed rabbit. I tell her my grandson’s
is real and we have a big laugh. She admits
that the flying bunny was purchased
at the Dollar Store - the poor, dearly departed.
5/21/2023
How many people in your family?
She is in second grade; she said “one hundred.”
“One hundred people live in your house?”
I think she thought this was funny.
Two, she said.
You and….
Me and my mom and my sister.
That is three, I told her.
She did not argue long.
What does your Mom do? I asked.
She goes on the phone.
What does she do with it?
She texts her cousins and her boss and her mom.
But she doesn’t text her dad.
Why not?
He died in a car wreck.
My grandkids talk of leprechauns
As if they are alive
And finding one is something
For which both of them do strive.
They know that unicorns aren’t real,
So telling them the truth
Seems easy, but they still believe
A fairy takes their tooth.
Of course, because St.Patrick’s Day
Is right around the bend,
I think I’ll just keep quiet
And let both of them pretend
Since I’m convinced they know deep down
(They’re fourth and second grade)
That their belief in leprechauns
Will soon begin to fade.
When she was in the second grade
the clouds were ivory castles in the sky
& bugs were for collecting instead of stomping
& fireflies were lighthouses for bees,
her wizened maths and grammar teacher, who forgot
that sticks are swords, sharp as imagination
& the feeling of hitting river rocks with a baseball bat
& couches were battleships on hardwood oceans,
told her that you couldn’t stand on clouds
& that you can’t eat ants even if they taste like lemons
& that ‘being a house cat’ wasn’t a real career choice
Sometimes I feel we’d be a little better off
if we just sent kids outside instead of school.
Who knows? If we did I could be writing this
from my royal room in a castle in the sky
or collecting bruises from blades of elm and oak
drifting in nostalgic currents from lighthouse to
lighthouse as I reach for another handful of ants
The tiny old school, which was my first guide,
has become a museum of a distant age.
The playground--swings, bars, and slide,
still stand in mute dismemberment stage.
A fence around, a ticket to buy,
purchasing memories packed away.
Days so distant, unseen if you try;
Sharpened pencil scent, recalled today.
Inside, Grade One, up the stairs, Grade Two.
How can it now all appear so small?
So proud to pass to second-grade view
learning how to write, we felt so tall!
The tables are there: six of us at each,
and now I don't remember one name.
They gave our class the best to teach:
so tiny, like one of us, we felt the same.
Some memories better left behind,
with sadness they bring of years long past;
and daydreams we always hoped to find
around the corner where dreams can last.
September 13, 2022
for Back to School contest
by Francine Roberts
Honorable Mention
Sam Adams
Was born prematurely
Spent his first moments
In an incubator
Born with bad hearing
Bad vision
Bad teeth
And a speech impediment
And a learning disability
But he learned to cope
As he was a genius
Reading college level
In the second grade
When he was in high school
To overcome his fear
Of public speaking
He joined the debate team
His specialty was impromptu speaking
He found that he excelled
At making speeches on the fly
Overcoming his fears
Of public speaking along the way.
That is how Sam Adams
Learned to speak in public
Becoming a good speaker
In the end.
Based on a true story
...Wait, what’s that you saw on the news?
They’re taking kids down to drag shows?
Teaching them sex in second grade,
when such things their minds cannot know?
Trafficking them to billionaires,
who’s appetites are quite depraved,
while claiming they’re the moral ones,
that all future paths they will blaze?
Those are the monsters we have now,
the cretins that hide in plain sight…
I think I’d prefer vampires,
that would be an easier fight.
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