I had a crunch
When I was in standard nine
(now grade eleven)
I had a crunch
on my English teacher.
She was very young
maybe twenty-one,
(must have matriculated at seventeen)
and had a cute
or rather beautiful face,
was slender
with soft dark hair
hanging to her shoulders
and even softer
dark brown eyes.
She never raised her voice
(not even when I and Daan
would cause a small fight
to be sent out to the winter sun)
and in her class
we had a lot of fun.
She read the poem of the highwayman
and at times
I still hear her sweet voice
and the noise
of the hooves coming on.
That year we did
Shakespeare’s Othello
about the brave black general
and his white girlfriend,
was caught in the tragedy of
to Kill a Mockingbird,
read Jonathan Livingston Seagull
and played Neil Diamond in class
and live really was a blast
until she left at year end
to be married.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
The Young Woman From Paris In France
The one with brown eyes and brown hair her Hometown is Paris in France
She has such a sweet singing voice and to music she loves to dance
She is in her twenty fourth year and happy in her single life
For some very lucky young man she will make a beautiful wife.
Her accent is easy to love like the lilt to a beautiful song
Of her voice one never could tire I'd listen to her all day long
To this Town she's like a breath of fresh air not many French people live here
Except for the rare tourist who stop for a break from travel I meet one perhaps once a year.
She has such an old World charm and she has such a beautiful face
And she doesn't find it hard for to smile a woman of charm and grace
'Twould be nice if here she did settle but in our Town I know she won't stay
The young woman from Paris in France from home she is so far away.
She says she will go home next year in beautiful May of the Spring
In the green parks of Paris in France she will hear the birds whistle and sing
And on the verandah of her old home with family and friends out of the glare of the sunshine
She will sing along in the sing song as she enjoys a glass of good French made wine.
poem by Francis Duggan
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There's a Guy in my Class
There's a guy in my ninth grade class,
h's got blonde curly hair and really sweet abbs.
Hes got big green eyes that light up the sky,
and hes the one for me.
There's a guy in my tenth grade class,
hes never lets the bad pass,
and hes special to me.
There's a guy in my junior class,
he's got everything I need and hes always there for me....
Cause he's always there for me.
poem by Regan Galloway
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Spring
Sound the flute!
Now it’s mute.
Birds delight
Day and night;
Nightingale
In the dale,
Lark in sky,
Merrily,
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.
Little boy,
Full of joy;
Little girl,
Sweet and small;
Cock does crow,
So do you;
Merry voice,
Infant noise,
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year.
Little lamb,
Here I am;
Come and lick
My white neck;
Let me pull
Your soft wool;
Let me kiss
Your soft face;
Merrily, merrily, we welcome in the year.
poem by William Blake from Songs of Innocence (1789)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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High School sweethearts
started out as high school swwethearts
i sit in front of class
he sits in the back
i pass him his worksheet
he says come sit back here with me
i think to myself
he seems new here
so i sit back there to help
turn out he didnt need it
then i look in to his eyes
what a surprise
he seems so cute
the teacher tell us to hush
so i pass him a note
he reads do you like me yes no maybe
he writes back yes lol you crazy
then the bell rings for lunch
so he set to himself
i came and set with
he ask whats my name
i say bri
he says sweet
my name james
so we go back to class
doin our classwork
this is our sophomore year
we hook up
2 years go by
he went to
a different school
this is now our senior year
class of 2010
heart school sweethearts
never part
even when he change school
so what does that tell you
nothing is impossible
poem by Briangela Jones
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English Class
English Class
Is supposed to be fun.
But when teachers make you
Listen to them while they talk about
Nothing
You don't really pay attention.
You drift off instead,
Floating around in your head,
Thinking about things that don't make sense
And about sense that don't make things.
You doodle on a page,
Or stare at the walls,
Or read under your desk,
Or stare at the teacher
And wonder how she managed to qualify
To be a teacher when she doesn't even use
Grammar.
I think it's stupid
To waste an hour of my day
Sitting doing nothing.
It's pointless to sit here
When I could do something
More.
I could:
Volunteer,
Or be in Drama class,
Or could be making a movie,
Or helping my mom,
Or hanging out with my friends,
Or helping my brother and sister learn to ski,
Or doing SOMETHING, ANYTHING ELSE.
This class isn't doing
Anything.
I can feel my love for English
Dissapearing.
It's sad that one teacher
Can ruin an
Art form.
poem by Kelsey Tennant
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A January Fear
A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
My class is all here
Down to each little sneer
A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
Those cute little creatures
Have nothing to fear
A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
Still knowing that teacher's
not entirely all here
A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
Each little tear
Makes it perfectly clear
A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
A day off is coming
And hopefully near
a sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
It's harder and harder
Maintaining my leer
A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
Perhaps my behavior's
becoming quite queer
A sick day a sick day
I'll not make it all year
Perhaps in the morning
I'll call in and cheer
A SICK DAY A SICK DAY
I GOT A PAIN IN MY EAR
Alas...I can hear my principle sneer
With a resigning smirk easy to hear
NO SICK DAY NO SICK DAY
SORRY MY DEAR
NO SICK DAYS NO SICK DAYS
REMAINING THIS YEAR
poem by Robert John Meehan
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An angel was passing through the Sky
Hey! Anyone can answer me what's life.
All the hands in the class raised.
Teacher was glad to see those.
'So, you all know', teacher said.
Can anyone tell me what is dream.
All the hands in the class raised.
Teacher was glad to see those.
'So, you all know', teacher said.
Can anyone tell me what is fear.
All the hands in the class raised.
Teacher was glad to see those.
'So, you all know', teacher said.
Can anyone tell me what is mind.
All the hands in the class go down.
Time was passing, without a single sound.
Classroom was fulfilled by husky wind.
'Last bench corner '
'Last bench corner ', hey! you tell me.
The boy was looking far far away behind the window grills.
Stood up.
Placed his hand on his chest and closed his eyes.
An angel was passing through the Sky.
poem by Sougata Majumder
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Johnny Came Marching Home
A book written by Dalton Trumbo
was assigned as class reading
one summer session-
much of it read aloud
by the teacher.
A sweltering classroom
windows open
to summer sun
and sharp
crack of bat-
high school athletes
in full vigor,
running bases
and catching
pop flies!
Perhaps it was the teacher's
voice that involved us
as we identified with
the young soldier's
plight.
Whatever it was worked!
*I can't hear. My left arm!
I wonder what they've done with it!
He had no arms and no legs.
He was blind. It wasn't a dream.
Jesus, Joe there must be some other way! *
All the time the teacher read
we could hear the players
outside chattering away
as they ran and scored runs!
Dust motes in afternoon sunlight
seemed alive.
Then the bell rang
and we sat stunned
Our summer was almost over!
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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The true beauty!
The beautiful smile,
The beautiful figure,
The beautiful voice,
A smart guy,
A smiley person, .
A punk attitude.
The pinkish lip,
The reddish white skin,
The moon like face cut.
Black long hair.
Deep blue eyes,
Tough and rough treat,
Can any one of these
Be a standard unit,
To measure the beauty,
Of a man or woman?
Is there any thing to judge,
The true beauty of human?
I think we every one,
Every person in this world,
Blind, deaf, dumb,
Black, white, grayish,
Diseased, disabled,
Rich, poor, middle class,
Whatever he is,
As a human being,
He is the true beauty,
With what he has....
poem by Kafil Uddin Raihan.
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Two Teachers
TWO TEACHERS
When I was in
Viii th standard
slim, young, tall girl
was our class teacher
assigning a lengthy comprehension
to the students as exercise,
she would delve with passion, into
personal letters kept in the drawer.
may be her sweet-heart
from a distant centre;
hiding her sweating bodylines and visible distraction
she would pretend to be model disciplinarian
as an immature lot, we only watch
and forget much sooner, without
attributing any importance to the
blushful teacher's mission so hidden
her hero once turned up at class time
a rustic outfit, not a match for our teacher
teacher went absent, the news leaked a week later
that both got married & seen together in a theatre
after a month, a new teacher arrived
of sufficient age, black, stiff and short-tempered
with the biased bent of mind on the students of viii std.,
as if we colluded with or aided the affairs of the slim teacher
I got admitted into a high school, at the fall of the year
and re-visited my school, after a lapse of 15 years
our black teacher is now the ‘strict head- mistress'
having struck by a disastrous love,
had chosen to be a ‘vexed-spinster'.
Moral: as common in any school, the final result;
one is ‘successful' and another has ‘failed'
Louis Santhana
poem by Santhana Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hear My Voice
A woman with a child,
A writer with a pen,
As a light that shines in dark places;
So is my muse for you all in this world.
Hear my voice,
Look for me;
Like the mass suicide in Guyana.
Hear my voice,
Read my lines,
Like a personality caught with a prostitute;
Body pains for two when, the flower blooms.
In the year of release,
The fishermen will fish for them;
In the darkness of sin,
The hunters will hunt for them;
If today you will hear my voice.
To roar like a lion,
To think like a poet,
Like the woman who brought forth the man;
Learn a parable from the fig tree.
In the valleyof Berachah,
Gain knowledge after your experiences;
Cos', i have ideas behind the looked doors.
Talents so extaordinary to touch,
Today if you will hear my voice.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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When I was young, I were caught
When I was young, I were caught
by your dark brown hair, your deep dark eyes
and I were smitten by your smile and the dimple in your cheek,
I believed in your beauty and nobility,
I was like a brother, but more than in love
by your dark brown hair, your deep dark eyes
and you were the most beautiful of all women to me
with a beauty coming from somewhere deep.
I was like a brother, but more than in love
and whatever you did you were pure like a flower
and I knew that you were wonderful
with a beauty coming from somewhere deep
and sometimes I longed for you.
When I was young, I were caught
and I knew that you were wonderful
and I was smitten by your smile and the dimple in your cheek.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When I was young, I were caught [2]
When I was young, I were caught
by your dark brown hair, your deep dark eyes
and I were smitten by your smile and the dimple in your cheek,
I believed in your beauty and nobility,
I was like a brother, but more than in love
by your dark brown hair, your deep dark eyes
and you were the most beautiful of all women to me
with a beauty coming from somewhere deep.
I was like a brother, but more than in love
and whatever you did you were pure like a flower
and I knew that you were wonderful
with a beauty coming from somewhere deep
and sometimes I longed for you.
When I was young, I were caught
and I knew that you were wonderful
and I was smitten by your smile and the dimple in your cheek.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Do not read my poems…. [for YOU ]
Do not read my poems…
After I am dead
As a lament, a wail
An elegy, a requiem
Do not read my poems…
After I am gone
When no more I can
Hear your velvet voice.
Do not read my poems…
Alone without me
To comment along
And read with you
But, do read my poems
When I beside you lie
With my head resting
On your supporting arm
Listening to you read
In whisper, in kisses
In silence, in love
In sleep, in dream
Watching you feel
Every word I wrote
I’ll close my eyes - Love
Brush aside my hair
With your breathe
Which half veils my face
Sleepless fevered I wrote
Read me my poems
Now sing me a lullaby
Rock me to sleep
On your broad chest
Diving into your eyes
A thousand times
I am refreshed
By your smile
I’ll write on you a poem
Traced by my fingertips
To be etched in your heart
And burnt into your soul!
So, do not read my poems…
poem by Angelina Pandian
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poem To Be Heard
A poem to be held
a poem to be fed, with words stronger than the ancient
spirits.
Ti's a poem to be read by all.
A poem that beats the heat of temptation away.
It's power in every single word attracts the moonlight.
A poem, a light in the dark wilderness.
A poem that is just needed and leaves the audience
speechless.
A poem that comforts a sad soul.
Read to me a poem
when I'm cold.
Read it to me till I'm old.
When I'm heart broken, a poem, a love, I'd want.
A poem, a victory through lives endless battle.
A poem an epistle to mine heart, and every written word
in it is heard.
A poem, about royalty, about Kings and Queens
and how they live in luxury.
A poem, a song about sweet heavens.
Read me a poem and slow my heart beat down.
A poem with a tasty flavor, I'd want to hear.
Read me a poem that explains how Nelson Mandela
conquered his fears.
A poem that can describe how Martin Luther Kings
felt when he fought for freedom.
I long to hear it,
Therefor read me a poem,
to be heard.
poem by Marlene Rashidi
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A journey begins with first step! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Oh great warriors
Of yore
Sages of folk lore,
Could you tell me
Why do I feel vanquished
In the face of victory?
Had no aspiration to build
Great empires,
Or enlighten
The ignorant.
Just a small aspiration
To be free
And protest against
Pressure of
Conformity…
On being released,
from captivity,
Stood dazed in front of
Open cage,
Like a bird
Who has forgotten the
Instinct to fly
Looked skyward:
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
Soaring high…
Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach is a fable in novella form
about a seagull learning about life and flight.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Abandoned Luncheonette
They sat in an abandoned luncheonette
Sipping imaginary cola and drawing faces in the tabletop dust
His voice was rusty from years as a sergeant on this mans army
They were old and crusty
She was twenty when the diner was a baby
He was the dishwasher, busy in the back, his hands covered with
Gravy
Hair black and wavy
Brilliantine slick, a pot - cleaning dandy,
He was young and randy
Day to day, to day... today
Then they were old, their lives wasted away
Month to month, year to year
They all run together
Time measured by the peeling of paint on the luncheonette wall
They sat together in the empty diner
Filled with cracked china
Old news was blowing across the filthy floor
And the sign on the door read this way out, thats all it read
Thats all it said
song performed by by Hall & Oates
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Principal's Office
Now as I get to school I hear the late bell ringing,
runnning through the halls, I hear the glee club singing,
and as I get to the office I can hardly speak,
cause it's the third late pass that I got this week,
so to my first class I run and don't walk,
all I hear is my sneakers and the scratching of chalk,
and as I get to the room I hear the teacher say,
Mr. Young I'm very happy you could join us today,
I try to sit down so I can take some notes,
but I can't read what the kind next to me wrote,
and if that wasn't enough to make my morning complete,
as I try to get up, I find this gum on my seat,
so with the seat stuck to me, I raised my hand,
and said, exscuse me but can I go to the bathroom, maam?
the teacher got upset, and she screamed out no,
it's off the principal's office you go,
Verse 2:
12 o'clock comes with mass hysteria,
everybody rushes down to the cafeteria,
picked up my tray to have Thursday's lunch,
and as I tried the apple sauce, I heard it crunch,
I'm running up the stairs with my front tooth broken,
the nurse just laughed, and said you must be joking,
I looked up at her with a smile on my face,
no joke 'cause my front tooth is out of place,
so I walked to school with ice on my lip,
the nurse's late pass like a gun on my hip,
my books are real heavey, I'm walking, I'm dragging,
ain't no school lunch next week, I'm brown-bagging it,
forget class, I'm a shoot some ball,
with the late pass I got no trouble at all,
but then the nurse walks up and says what do you know,
it's office to the prinicipal's office you go
recess
Verse 3:
passing notes is my favorite pass time,
I can't wait to find a girl to pass mine to,
to express my feelings,
give me a week B, and the girl' be dealing,
now one young lady was looking at me,
I said hi my name is Marvin, known as Young MC,
but then the ball rang, and the teacher came in,
and that's when the game of passin notes would begin,
I wrote the first note, told her she was fine,
and I hoped that the two of us could spend some time,
she wrote me back and told me you're fine too,
I'd love to go on a date and spend some time with you,
so then I sat there reeling, and looking at the ceiling,
words can't express the way that I was feeling,
then I though to myself, the sure way to get her,
is to write another note, oh yes, a love letter,
when I finished the note, it was ready to pass,
the teacher took it, and read it right in front of the class,
she read it word-by-word and line-by-line,
and everybody who was laughing was a friend of mine,
even then my girl was laughing, and it was too late,
for me to write another note 'cause there would be no date,
the teacher looked at me, and I said I know,
it's off to the principal's office I go,
yo, you think this is bad, wait til I get my report card
song performed by by Young MC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Oh! Lisa With These Lovely Eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
So please tell my soul to sympathize,
We shall cry forever in overcast skies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes,
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Heartbroken heart spoken, not taken back
To change a mind so is lifes dream
Lisa with the dark brown eyed
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
That blends your butter scotch face insight
Smiles which brings sparkles to my mind
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Many pre thoughts of your strays hypnotize
French, African, English culture dies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
She dabbles her life in fiction trash
her soul with curious follies
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Loneliness, has come far a sad. sad day
Emptiness in your mind and heart pay
Lisa with the dark brown eyes
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
You walk the world in beauty forgotten
They speak about you something forbidden
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
Lisa with the dark, dark, brown eyes
Your body your mind so whole same so
Your gave birth and I wish I could understand, understand
Lisa with the dark dark raven eyes
Lisa with the dark dark brown eyes
Curiosity is so special time flies, my sighs
Persuaded a fool to be wise, so wise how wise
Lisa with the dark dark brown eyes.
poem by Klayne Mario Burton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mary’s Wedding
February 25th, 1851.
YOU are to be married, Mary;
This hour as I wakeful lie
In the dreamy dawn of the morning,
Your wedding hour draws nigh;
Miles off, you are rising, dressing,
Your bridemaidens gay among,
In the same old house we played in,--
You and I, when we were young.
Your bridemaids--they were our playmates:
Those known rooms, every wall,
Could speak of our childish frolics,
Loves, jealousies, great and small:
Do you mind how pansies changed we
And smiled at the word 'forget'?--
'T was a girl's romance: yet somehow
I have kept my pansy yet.
Do you mind our poems written
Together? our dreams of fame--
And of love--how we'd share all secrets
When that sweet mystery came?
It is no mystery now, Mary;
It was unveiled, year by year,
Till--this is your marriage morning;
And I rest quiet here.
I cannot call up your face, Mary,
The face of the bride to-day:
You have outgrown my knowledge,
The years have so slipped away.
I see but your girlish likeness,
Brown eyes and brown falling hair;--
God knows, I did love you dearly,
And was proud that you were fair.
Many speak my name, Mary,
While yours in home's silence lies:
The future I read in toil's guerdon,
You will read in your children's eyes:
The past--the same past with either--
Is to you a delightsome scene,
But I cannot trace it clearly
For the graves that rise between.
I am glad you are happy, Mary!
These tears, could you see them fall,
Would show, though you have forgotten,
I have remembered all.
And though my cup may be empty
While yours is all running o'er,
Heaven keep you its sweetness, Mary,
Brimming for evermore.
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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