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To crawl, the impossible crawl
to swear, the most swearable curse
to bear all the ******* they throw us
and not, leave the place in a hearse

To nod, when you just want to punch
to eat, every snack that you see
to cry, when you misplace a pencil
or meltdown when you can’t find your keys

This is our quest!
To get to the end!
Without killing a colleague,
or upsetting our friends

To still teach fractious kids
without question or pause
to stride strong into period 5
without breaking some laws

And I know that the end is in sight
so I’ll bite my lip
late July will be peaceful and calm
with a big gin to sip

And the future will not be so bad
to our heart and skills we affirm
September we’ll all start again
but for now we consign to the past
the unteachable term
My word
nothing does love/hate
quite as poetically
as a teacher reaching holiday’s end

intrinsic guilt of ‘not having done’
bound up with seeing our colleagues
loved and hated
again

and those ******, beautiful, ugly
broken-bright
impossible-everyday kids

my words
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

         An Instruction in the Virtue of Patience for New Teachers

This truth in teaching children must be told:
A high school boy’s eyes are perpetually rolled
And it's okay; he'll someday be your doctor or lawyer.
Shush brain,
let the regular, looped refrains drop,
seek a safe, blank space,
a place for quietude
and maize based snacks:
for the love of Pete
relax
Friday night fleeing from the scrum
like the last thing on our minds
are other people’s kids:
the outrageous, hysterical bashing we take
hour by hour as
we
just
try
while each successive boss quickly forgets front lines
and asks for ‘evidence’
of piling into the meat grinder

Then something tiny reminds
why we’re even here:
a flood of tears perhaps as dogs have died
or that kid who says “I’m a microwave
bzzzzzzzzz”
and despite our glowering frowns
we smile so hard we cry
Gerard M May 20
I remember so many people and things over the years
Some of them are TEACHERS
Some of them taught history or science
But you teach ENGLISH
The thing is I wanted to say
Thank you for teaching all of us students
Even on and through the good and bad days
You kept on teaching even when the students weren’t being good
But before I forget to ever say this
Thank you for being one of the many amazing TEACHERS
That have inspired me to be a TEACHER myself
Also thanks for sharing music, poetry and your books with me
wrote this for my highschool english teacher
Green shoots,
little shocks of brilliance
from mouths so oft distracted
tis a wonder they’re not more malnourished

the courage to give an opinion
on long dead white kings of literature
who speak Christ knows what but it ain’t English
is, as they themselves may say, lit

my tired soul has read the lines so oft
I feel peppered for all this,
so finding out Romeo is now a simp,
has the hot blood stirring again
Commit all kinds of sins
Enjoy pleasures to the hilt
Being ruthless without guilt
Draw solace from others' pain
Exploit the poor for personal gains
Dilettante of art and literature
Make queens to serve your purpose
Bed breaking toil at night
Holy man during daytime
Enjoying clout of high and mighty
Social climber of the society
Not afraid of Almighty
For they taught you
He is forgiving and kind
Just bow before Him
And pray in a temple or church
He would condone all your sins
You could go scot free unpunished
Look at us perched again,
anxious dreams set in long gone buildings
where the kids won’t do a thing we ask
and for some reason we’re naked
(except for a mask)

And as my old man says,
the conveyor belt hasn’t so much as slowed
so our wish for a cautious toe to get set
will be whipped from starter to panicked plenary
before we hear the gun crack

Know this, comrades:
the holes in our practice we think show clear
are lost to the fizz and bubble of our charges.
When Monday comes they’ll listen (mostly)
as we carry on regardless.
Bobby Dodds Apr 5
Another day, another hour spent looking at cadavers,
Surprisingly fun, and suspiciously fresh bodies-
"Hey Mrs. Johnson, what do you think John did with his life?"
She gave me a look that didn't seem too pleased at my inquisition.
Or the fact that I named our body John.
Morbidly, I thought she looked at me like a zombie would look at our friend John like a cold cut subway sandwich,
Although I figured if I were a zombie,
I'd prefer my meat fresh, and not embalmed
with formaldehydes and ethanol.
"That thought seems inappropriate and not respectful of the medical sacrifice 'john' made " she said dripping with in my opinion too much sarcasm for me to NOT respond too.
"Well, John is dead, I don't think he's getting offended anytime soon," I retorted.
Her smile contorted like the prudish smile John offered me in support.
"I'm not worried about offending the corpse as much as I am the ghost, and this Lab will NOT be haunted under my watch"
(Her pride in her wit inflated much like Johns body inflated with decomposition and bowel gases.)
I apologized internally for the comment and action  I was about to make-
"This medical dictatorship has to collapse sooner or later-
and I still want an answer too my question"
And with that,
I took the nearest scalpel to his bloated stomach,
and watched in disgust and glee as everyone else ran for cover amongst the ****** of stomach contents and Johns final retribution in death.
I got an A+ in that class.
Probably one of my favorite classes I've ever taking, I don't think Mrs. Johnson was too pleased either that John's name resembled her own so closely. hahahah.
Med school, here I come.
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