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LexiSully Jan 2018
Perched quietly in the shadows of the night,
Observing completely, using all her might,
Untouched the landscape sat; she breathed a sigh,
She leapt and began to fly

She soared through the trees, dark and murky,
Weaving in and out, the ride a little jerky,
Until she reached the clearing, blooming and sprouting,
Where she landed and began scouting

She spotted a baby, small and alone,
Hungry and confused, wanting to be shown,
Flying over to the area in which it sat,
She pulled some wisdom from her hat

Unmoving and silent, she sat as an example,
Showing her apprentice just a little sample,
Teaching patience and perseverance was first on the list,
She didn’t quit until it got the gist

Next thing she knew, her student was growing,
In no time, it was the one doing all the showing,
She took a step back, gazing proudly at her work,
While the child continued doing all the groundwork

Rays peaked out across the horizon in all hues,
Most of which consisted of reds and blues,
She looked at the child, beckoning it to fly on home,
Although she longed to stay and roam

As the sun rose, slow and bright,
She decided to turn and take off in flight,
Twisting and turning through trees and brush,
She flew on quickly, as if in a rush

She spotted it then, modest and small,
The place she longed to go most of all,
Adventures are fun and she liked to roam,
But there’s definitely no place quite like home.
And as the teacher said goodbye to her graduating class
filled with children she taught so much to,
she wondered where they would go,
and she wondered who they would be...

Would so-and-so make it through high school?
Would what's-her-name keep dancing?
Would that-one-boy ever stop talking and begin to listen to others?
Had she done enough to help them all?

It was no longer her responsibility;
she had set them free.

After a nostalgic sit, she walked home to a simple house,
in a simple town. Her husband waited
at the dinner table, silently admiring her curls,
as she sat down, ready to take in food and new information.

When she was at home, she was no longer the teacher,
but the student. Her children filled her soul
with things she never knew or imagined.
Her husband smiled and reminded her
that no one in this world is perfect,
but in his eyes, she was,
and that was all that need matter to her.
Bella Dec 2017
My boy told me the other day
That he didn’t have a mother
He only had a babysitter

I say my boy--
The boy at my daycare
The boy with seven siblings
Ripped from five of them
Gained another in the process
Losing mothers like pencils

The mother he has now is a teacher,
No summer job,
But four foster kids to her name
Her summers are free
Her pockets are full
But my boys

They’re still in daycare
Six to six
Or longer
They come with bagged eyes
one in pull ups at the age of five
My boys

Their sister's in the other room
Their mother sits at home
Alone
Doing nothing
Probably drinking
Or anything but mothering

Right now
She’s out of town
There’s a babysitter at home
She picks them up late and drops them off early
They're cranky
And tired
They're getting six hours of sleep
Plus one at naptime

My boys never sleep at nap time
None of them but Isaiah
Isaiah
He loves to talk about his home
Not where they sleep at night
But at home
In Africa
He’ll tell you if you ask
It’s beautiful to hear
The joy filling his face is fixating

But then you see his legs
How they wobble in at the knees
When you see how he sleeps
He rocks himself the whole time
Rocking even through his dreams
It’s all from the orphanage.
The workers couldn’t help him to sleep.
He just turned five.
He starts kindergarten soon,
And he just learned how to spell his name
Everyone else here can read all the names
His and theirs
My boys

I love them with everything I have
And they know that,
But I leave soon.
In a few weeks we all go to school
I’ve been doing this for years, but them,
They haven’t
It’s their first
And I’ll pray
But I hate that all I can do is pray
They deserve more than that.
They deserve attention and love
They deserve hope and security
I can only hope that the next teacher will give that to them
To my boys
To my wonderful boys...
Ben Kaw Dec 2017
Kathy Ann cut the hair of Mr. Diatribe,
recently deceased,
and glued his soft golden locks
to her pink phone case.
Fuzzy, calming, cathartic.

The scholars took this as evidence that she truly loved him
for all the favoritism
for all the joking
for all the flirting
for all the gentle touches
and for all the extra credit he offered her.

She raised her phone to the sky and declared
“This is my trauma on display,
for all the world to see.
It changed my life forever.
He will never part with me.”

Sophia asked her
“Wouldn’t you rather move on
and build a better society?
Imagine a school with free lunches,
no homework, no grades, bully-free.
Co-operation and learning only.”

“I’m still ****** up about it,” said Kathy Ann.
“It sounds good but I don’t believe.”

“That’s okay. I love you.”

“Some day, I will too. Thank you.”
December 8, 2017

High school girl feels a certain way about her English teacher. Fiction
lins Dec 2017
we may not always agree
but you have affected my life
every single day
I couldn't wait to go see you
I sat in the very front row
right in front of your desk
we talked for a whole hour
about lessons and life
for four straight years
you were a steady constant
all ten of us were
so contently discussing
not just about Spanish
not just about life
you are forever a part
of my growth
I miss your class
every single day
you made high school less awful
thank you for four amazing years
Senorita Hopper
gracias sra. hopper
chloe fleming Nov 2017
Please stop calling me nice.
I am not nice.
I will not be contained to a single word,
When my bones are built from metaphors
And my lips leak similes.
I am a fireball of emotion, splitting trees and men in two with my passion for my art.
I am a slurry of terror, creeping up on you at night that curls your toes right before you fall asleep.
I am not nice, I am anything but
I am alive with the summer heat that burns in my eyes and the sunlight that flows through my ribcage.
I am a warrior, a fighter, a solider in disguise.
I am the moon that hides it face in the day, only to showcase it's purity in the night.
I am the stiff wind that knocks the shallow air out of your lungs on a cold, January morning.
I am the tick, tick, tick of the buzzer right before its majestic song.
I am the obscene, the extraordinary, the menacing things in life.
I am not confined by a single word.
I
am
not
nice.
Skylar Keith Nov 2017
I cry while I remember the look you gave when I got it wrong
Again
Now you've ripped my comfort way from me
The one who didn't look down on me
The one who got me to understand

You're surprised at the effect?
No you are not
You knew
but
You didn't care

So be it
Guess I'll cry every time I don't understand
Everyday

Isolation
TheUnseenPoet Nov 2017
I'm a Rock and Rock teacher and I'm really dead cool,
I wear a leather jacket as I'm swaggering to school,
I like what I teach and I teach what I like,
A roar across the playground on my motorbike.
I let the kids call me by my first name,
My mum called me Gertrude (which is a bit of a shame),
I love Sid Vicious so I call myself Nance,
And put safety pins in my PVC pants.
I talk about Shakespeare or as I call him Bill,
I put wicked street art on my windowsill,
I follow no rules, I do what I choose,
I pierced my lip, I've got tattoos,
I'm fighting the system, I'm hip and I'm rad.
It's a midlife crisis and it's really quite sad.
Middy Oct 2017
Hello mother, hello father
I’m doing fine
No I ain’t I cried again today

Hello teacher, little preacher
Why are you screaming
Cos your shouts make me want to
Shout out loud myself

Hello sister, little mistress
It’s ok I’m fine
Just had another bad day
Which I can’t get out my mind

Hello brother, from another
I had a horrible day
Just leave me to be locked away
Far from my reality
Based off of a bad day I had yesterday
I had a meltdown and my English teacher was the only teacher who cared
there she goes again,
mad teacher.
she goes to a place
forbidden by the preacher.

a graveyard with no names
or any crosses.
she goes there with a
wreath of roses.

nobody visits, folks don’t care.
but let dead ones take the blame.
and the reasons they’re dead
just remember not a name.

“why would i even memorize it.
it’s not like he’s a relative of mine”
oh, now she’s adding something
to that ignorant guy’s sweet wine.

there was a funeral and then mad
teacher was tried.
they pushed some questions,
but they were not replied.

to hard to prove some truth, eh.
they were to used to faking.
oh, my mad teacher, that
freedom’s yours for taking.
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