#stereotyping
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Those Who Stereotype “These Professors”
Exodus 20:16
These professors
Dr. Moriarty was a PFC on certain Pacific islands
Who could bayonet an enemy
Clear a jammed machine gun under fire
See his pals blown to pieces next to him
And work out subtle textual analyses
These professors
Dr. Chambers was a retired colonel of Marines
A natty little man in blazer and bowtie
Who could bayonet an enemy
See his pals blown to pieces next to him
Deconstruct the minutiae of energy distribution
And toss a foul-mouthed football player out on his sorry ***
These professors
Dr. Dale was a butcher until his thirties
When he entered college for the first time
He knew your hamburger from the outside in
The economics of building a business
He probably could have bench-pressed a Ford Fiesta
And when he spoke of Wordsworth, Keats, and Coleridge
You could feel the air of The Lake Country
These professors
“These professors” were complete men
Strong in war and word and wisdom and work
Unlike envious Unferths who learn life only second-hand
From Fox News and John Wayne movies
And closed loops of echoing InterGossip sites
Jul 14, 2024
Jul 14, 2024 at 10:32 AM UTC
Please don’t view me as white
Or working class
Maybe middle class
Or straight or gay
(I happen to be straight)
Or Leaver or Remainer
Believer or Non-Believer
Aristocrat or Commoner
Patrician or Pleb
Or Anything else.
Don’t put me in a box
Or file
Or stereotype.
I’d rather be Unclassified
Or seen simply as
A Human Being.
Paul Butters
© PB 18\1\2020.
Jan 18, 2020
Jan 18, 2020 at 6:12 AM UTC
Even if statistics
would find ballistics
Beneath the bed
Of all colored head
A lovely red
would show no mercy
Beyond the thread
Of seamless heresy.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 7:28 AM UTC
feminist
Cut your hair Samson,
beautiful locks.
Wear shirts and chinos,
no matter the costs.
Stereotype my essence,
and call me a man.
Say what you want to,
but not what you can’t.
Pretend I despise you,
when I respect what you say.
I’ll pretend I respect you,
when it doesn’t make sense.
I see you as equal
whilst you condemn me as evil,
or you overlook others,
that I hold close as brothers.
The funny things is,
you’re just as bad,
lad.
Trying to blame other people,
for the substance you lack.
You’re the worst contradiction,
of my opposite form.
Without the ***** of women,
and the allure of the man,
we couldn’t exist,
we go hand in hand.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 2:30 PM UTC
Flowerbeds. Treasure.
These heaps of soil on the ground can mean life, have value.
They hold secrets, treasures, can be the calling for an adventurous man or the vocation of the neighborly woman with the green thumb.
But when you read the title, you thought of graves, didn't you?
That's how twisted and sadistic, how pessimistic and dull our world has become. We don't see the possibilities of beauty that bloom in secret behind the thick fog our words create. We don't have the capacity to understand how something like a grave- which, in our culture means death and insurmountable amounts of weeping- could mean anything but sorrow.
But just take the time to look closer.
On top of graves, flowers bloom for their inhabitants, guarding the treasure that lays just under the thin crust of soil below. They represent the life that was lived laughing, loving, and learning over the years. The blossoms show the value seen in this particular person by others, who smile when they remember the friend who still lives on in their thoughts.
Now, I'm not telling you to laugh and be joyful at a funeral. But consider the amount of hope brought by those stalks swaying in the breeze, the happiness recollected by the thin delicacy of the petals...
Look at those mounds of dirt. And rejoice.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
Saddened and alone
I'm supposed to be having fun
But the truth is,
I'll be glad when it's over and done
Yeah, call me a stereotypical teenager
I just wanna text my friends and stare at a screen
But you wouldn't know how I feel- no-one does
Or how, without my connections, my heart tears and bleeds
Is it so bad to want your friends, to talk to them?
Surely this means that they mean something
I think it means we have people we would endure the world for:
Survive, or die trying, true friendship couldn't mean much more
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 1:30 AM UTC
If you want to be a poet,
just pretend to be depressed.
Drink alcohol, cut yourself, &
pop pills.
Listen to angry music &
wear black every day.
If you dare to smile we will
cut you from the canon!
To be a poet is to be a disciple,
a saddened & sickened disciple.
If you aren't angsty & angry
you cannot be a poet.
Poetry is about sadness
& hate & anger.
Poetry is a way for teenagers
to hate their parents
& get away with it.
Alas, I cannot be a poet;
I believe in Heaven, you see,
or something like it
& enjoy life
immensely.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC