In a long red skirt, with a great big smile,
Our young senorita danced,
Doing all the moves in Flamenco style,
For third graders, quite advanced.
Though we watched on screen, it was pure delight
As they clapped and stomped and moved.
That six lessons (wow!) led to such a night,
To my mind (and others) proved
That when those in charge have the kind of smarts
And the funding to expose
Kids in school to various types of arts,
The results are too joyful for prose.
My cousin and I were dismayed
By the kids who were in her third grade
They had no answers to tell
Though they spoke very well
And knew how impressions were made!
They earned an A+ for endurance
For displaying remarkable effluence
They could babble all night
With no fact in sight
Nor any sign of congruence!
Oh, how wise we thought that we were
We could see their minds were a blur!
But now, mid-elections
And selfie confections
We see why they were so sure.
They were telling on each other.
He is annoying; always talking.
I just want peace and quiet!
He keeps tapping my desk.
She is irritating. I cannot stand her.
We do not get along. Why do we have to sit together?
She pinched me, so I smacked her hard.
My folks say to hit them twice as hard back even at school.
It was a silly argument. They both ended up in tears.
Drama in the third grade. The principal separated them.
We took down their stories. Totally similar; both honest.
This will eventually become true love I believe.
Third grade is going nuts with excitement.
Their exuberant joy is beyond normal, urged on by a video cartoon.
Star of the show is a sassy talking blue parrot.
Six to eight of the louder eight-year-olds are yelling now.
It is their lunch time. Guess who their supervisor is.
I forgot how young they are.
They bray like crazed donkeys over slap stick idiocy; it's new to them.
I join in now, laughing more loudly than they have ever heard.
Their joviality stops; they are staring.
We hardly knew we were children
When we trudged like soldiers
Through the new snow
As it draped the barren maple
Trees
Of the northeast
In a new winter coat,
We barely knew another world sang like
A mutable wind,
Beyond the phantom of
Small town madness
Where matriarchal rules
Danced like the sugarplum fairy
Right into the minds of its youth...
So,
Some of us hitchhiked out,
Long hair and guitars in hand,
Some flew to colleges out west,
And those that never left
Couldn’t believe there could be
One small bit of grace
In a new chorus of thought
Right smack in the middle of change,
So they stayed,
Just to be sure the four
Precise seasons
Still snapped into place,
And they too
Had children
Who didn’t know they were children
Year
After year.
parading in the outliers of my mind
unkind rumors told about me
because of my family
haunting my nights
when I used to cry myself to sleep
because I was them and they were me
my third-grade teacher gave me this advice
when they get to know you, they will know
you are not your family, or their past.
Be you and true.
Sad and blue is for others.
Live your real until they understand
So, I grew to be me
Moved away
had a fresh start
People who knew me for me
not me for what others had said or done
it is refreshing to get a new start.
I am rejuvenated
I am refreshed.
I am me!
Her dress was wild with a colorful flare.
Her high heels were perfect as was her hair.
She was my third grade teacher, Mrs. Tee.
She was truly as cute as she could ever be.
When we heard her heels going click, click, click,
We knew our day would be greater, and slick.
She taught us our multiplication table.
Phonics, spelling, whatever she was able.
Mrs. Tee sometimes pops on my dreams.
Teaching me new concepts, busy as she seems.
Witches and warlocks marching their truth
Pouring discarded spells on poor Sister Ruth
Laughing as they dance and run on her head.
Showing her what will happen when she is dead.
But I am a nun she yells, thinking it will stop their play.
Not realizing they are determined.to have fun today.
A ornery old ghost in the corner joins in on the fun.
Ebony bats in the belfry fly toward the sweet nun.
I am writing it down laughing loud like a loon.
When suddenly it gets quiet. The whole third grade room.
Mother Superior looking at my paper now.
I try to hide it but she is tough, this old sow.
I am in trouble big time. I am going to get a flogging.
I run home in the rain, and my paper is slogging.
Witches and warlocks and Sister Ruth. What was I thinking?
Why did I not smell her perfume? She is always stinking.
Chickens are funny
In so many ways
Barnyard clowns for sure
Pecking and clucking
Fighting over feed
Some are road kill
Suicidal
Kamikaze
Free range chickens
White feathers
Golden beaks
Staring eyes
Barnyard
Cackling
Magic
Chicks
Fire is raging.
Fire is gray pink angry.
Destroys happily.