"educator" poems
What is the difference,
Asked the educator,
*Between being skillful,
Such as a **********
And being educated,
Such as a teacher?*
Well, replied a prostitue,
*One educates skillfully,
The other skillfully educates.*
Which is which?
The educator responded.
Depends, said the **********
On the pay and benefits.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
The perfectionist loves to hear his voice,
He is the respected critic inside,
He is the learned one,
The educated and the educator.
A beautiful constructor,
The finishing touch
To the artist's hand.
The voice is always a partner,
He will always be there to help
The artist, comfort is taken in his ability.
The artist needn't forget,
There are many voices on the side,
Awaiting for their time to speak,
Each one has its time,
All varying in their patience and duration.
The artist sees what he hasn't before:
The voice of support; the voice of love; the voice of decision; and the voice of passion.
There is always time to contemplate his flaws
And he wants to reassure himself:
Perfection is not a demand, but a quest,
One of beauty and one of joy.
Perfection is the beauty in imperfection.
The pursuit of achievement is one to relish, it is not to be rushed or
Ceased, it is a running walk, a walking run, a sitting stand, a moving still.
It is every step he has made.
The artist looks behind and sees
His effort, he is proud to have experienced
His triumphs and his trauma
The voice of comfort will be there all the way,
She is a gentle quieter spirit that deserves as much an ear.
When all voices have calmed and subsided,
Her tenderness remains.
I remind the artist of his friends,
I remind him that the critical voice is the voice of nature,
The physical laws unchanged.
He is the driving force to stasis and movement in the age worry and indecision.
"Do not be overwhelmed" I say to the artist,
You are one of many.
You are with friends.
The voice of change encourages the artist to evolve and to smile,
The voice of happiness allows peaceful living and awareness.
The tiger belongs to nature,
not to be feared, but to be respected
and understood.
Do not despair, do not relinquish hope,
Hope is the shining beacon in a world of anguish.
Hope is the angel shining her torch ever so bright.
Hope is the window that allows pain and suffering to see the light of day ,
Hope allows oneness.
The artist moves his brush: an effortless stroke,
A flicker of joy,
A tear in his eye.
He once was old,
Now is young.
He learns to enjoy
The work he has done,
He can now enjoy the work he does,
He is enjoying the work he is doing.
He enjoys his life.
The state of mind, it is a fickle hatchling.
Able to be pursued and persuaded,
also able to be liberated.
The artist is free,
His thoughts can pass,
His fear will subside,
His body can move,
His heart will follow
And the mind will allow.
Spirit be set free,
Bird do fly,
Artist do paint,
You,
You are.
Peace within oneself is peace with others.
The artist is brave, he is a soul that stands tall in the face of adversity,
He is a sleepless enigma in his room at night,
He is the passionate one,
The artist and his love affair with the critic outshines his charisma,
The love for the sophisticated darkness,
His love for the melodrama,
His quest for knowledge,
Perhaps the only knowledge is
Ignorance.
Blissful unawareness.
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 11:20 AM UTC
there are but 2 reasons to be an educator;
one is to teach them about your successes,
to tell them how much you have conquered through perseverance and hardwork
about how you climbed the tallest of mountains and explored the deepest of waters
the other is to teach them about your failures,
about how you were beat down and how you lost everything
about how you were pushed into the dirt
that sometimes gritting your teeth and putting your all amounts to nothing
but you stand tall, in a room full of unlimited potential
helping along thirty unique personalities in the span of a year
how they can learn from your victories and the times you were forced to concede
so that one day, they may strive to be greater men
Jan 1, 2019
Jan 1, 2019 at 9:24 AM UTC
---
what is it makes a person
great in this sad world?
where there's such mediocrety
it is a precious pearl
is it that they have money?
that they have accrued
a trillion dollar bank account?
does this make a person good?
perhaps they have a famous face
or well regarded name
maybe they play basketball
and have a winning team
is it artistic talent?
was Vincent van Gogh lauded?
in his painful lifetime
was this man applauded?
perhaps they are as Edison
and have a brilliant mind
but Edison used Tessla
to him he was unkind
this is what I think
makes a man or woman great
that they give life their ALL
that they do not faint
if you sweep the street
and make it clean and bright
If you are an educator
and bring poor children light
if you are a poet
on a humble poetry site
it is forgiving others
not having to be right!
if you are a boxer
and don't give up the fight
this is what is greatness
it's not playing a part
it is *truly living
with your entire HEART.*
soulsurvivor
(C) 8/31/2015
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
balking, then walking into the suburban night,
I have escaped the TV, the PC, the clutter of memories
and the last two hanging, breasty incandescent bulbs in the galaxy,
soon to have their filaments burn out amid the indifference
of florescent pigtails and their infinite, incessant hum
I have escaped into this night
marching on, marching on
the sullied, sacred sidewalk squares
past the dentist’s house, past the woman whose husband was murdered
by his best friend over a case of beer, and had her eternal fifteen minutes on Dr. Phil
past the retired educator, past the woman who…hell I don’t know what she does--she drives a gold Avalon
and never retrieves her Sunday paper before noon
marching on, marching on
I count cadence, move as if I am headed
to another battle, and I am, but I won’t see my enemy tonight
he is yet on the black horizon, waiting for me, and you
marching on
when I pass the widow’s house a second time, a third (?) time
I smell her cigarettes and see the orange glow in her garage, like
a lonely firefly moving to and fro, in the universe she creates for it
before flicking it to her oil stained concrete graveyard, stomping it out
never to let it fly again, though by my next circle she will have birthed a new one
and given it a foul fickle journey of its own
marching on
a truck passes me on my final lap
its fumes mixing with the cool moonlight
I hold my breath, wanting neither lunar light
nor carbon monoxide for my evening repast
when I breathe again,
the scent of tacos soothes my olfactory,
I do not know its greasy origin in this dark place
nor do I care, but I inhale again more deeply
daring the odor to tease me again
and help me forget what
I escaped to find
marching on
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
No one's perfect, a truth that's always told
But goal and motivation is his stepping stone
Short term and lifelong sets made him so mold
Now he's infront of the crowd, sharing his story alone
Giving inspiration to maidens and lad
Showing the angle of sociology that life is fair
Life is unfair to him, life is unfair to her so don't be too sad
You're not the only one who has a problem to bare
He also pointed out inequality and discrimination
How it blocks the bridge for other races
How it removes peace and harmony to His creation
And gives them lesson on how to live with other faces
Demonstrating how to nurture the plants
Striking to everyone the beauty of every tree
Realizing that nature is best and independent
It could survive without us humans who's killing it continuously
Encouraging them to go out of the world
Stepping out of the front door of their comfort zone
Letting them know the lenses and view of words
Giving them the experiences that the society can provide like what's in Dale's cone
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 5:26 PM UTC
*In his breakthrough work of channeled literature, I Am the Word, author and medium Paul Selig recorded an extraordinary program for personal and planetary evolution as humankind awakens to its own divine nature. I Am the Word is an energetic transmission that works directly on its readers to bring them into alignment with the frequency of the Word, which Paul's guides call the energy of "God in Action."
Paul was born in New York City and received his Master's Degree from Yale. He had a spiritual experience in 1987 that left him clairvoyant. As a way to gain a context for what he was beginning to experience, he studied a form of energy healing, working at Marianne Williamson's Manhattan Center for Living and in private practice. In the process, he began to "hear" for his clients, and much of Paul's work now is as a clairaudient, clairvoyant, channel, and empath.
Paul has led channeled energy groups for many years. In 2009 he was invited to channel at the Esalen Institute's Superpowers symposium, where he was filmed for the upcoming documentary film Authors of the Impossible. He is the subject of the feature-length documentary film Paul & the Word which will be released late summer, 2011. His workshops in 2011 include Edgar Cayce's A.R.E. in New York City, the Jungian Center in Vermont and the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, Calfornia. Also a noted playwright and educator, Paul serves on the faculty of NYU and directs the MFA in Creative Writing Program at Goddard College. He lives in New York City, where he maintains a private practice as an intuitive and conducts weekly, channeled energy groups.*
Personal and planetary evolution- Live channeling with Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAgh2pXDDls&feature;=youtu.be
Waking Universe With Guest Paul Selig
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7BI0Lgb9Kk&feature;=youtu.be
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
Sunset blooms twilight glooms.. Toward the moon and back I'll be back soon.. Darling I know you look at me, From an empty shadows dream. But I have found where light is born. I saw where songs come from. I have to leave. I have all these emotions to weave. I never really really believed. Nor did I want to really see. But you became my educator. And turned me into a revelator. I feel beautiful inside. And these new feelings of belief cannot be denied.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
Let music be your master of melody.
Let music be your key.
Let music be your teacher of tuning.
Let music be you and me.
Let music be your sensei of soothing.
Let music let you see.
Let music be your guru of groove.
Let music make you dream.
Let music be your guide to move.
Let music let you be.
Let music be your educator of expression.
Let music keep your steam.
Let music be your destroyer of depression.
Let music create your scene.
Let music be your professor of passion.
Let music pay your fee.
Let music be your tutor of truth.
Let music plant a seed.
Let music be all of these.
Let music set you free.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 9:09 AM UTC
On the hook on the back of a door
A pair of faded jeans hang motionless
Soon they will move again
But for now
We are left to wonder
Are they to cover the legs of a farmer
soon to be covered in the dust of the barn?
Are they to protect the legs of a construction worker
destined to wear the scent of concrete and wood?
Will they dance and stand on stage with the musician
drenched in sweat and smelling of cigarettes and stale beer?
Will they go to sea with the lobsterman
and be wet with the sea and smell of the algae that covers the lobster trap?
No
They will soon be sitting in small chairs
and smell of crayon and pencil and several kinds of lined paper
and applesauce and desk cleaner
for I am an educator
and these pants are mine.
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 6:44 AM UTC
Custom made perfect kids
Were never in God’s plan
Just in case you thought
Why me?
Why my kid?
It was us being unrealistic
Forgot the rules of the world
Forgot how every butterfly is different
Forgot how no two things are same in nature
And still there is acceptance for all
While all kids are Gods paintings,
Kids with special needs are his modern art
While all kids are Gods poems
Kids with special needs are his free verses
While all kids are Gods songs
Kids with special needs are born when he raps
Oh yes God raps and tap dances too
But you have to have an open mind for that
So next time you think why me
And go in denial for long
You blame the god for this and that
And think he has been wrong
First thank him for a child born
For that is a gift in itself
Thank him for the uniqueness
For that is God’s way of showing
He still has faith in us
More time you will take in accepting
Precious time you will waste
And while God may forgive you
For Your ignorance and delay
Time my dear will not
If there is any doubt
About you kids behavior
That you are having today
Get some help
As soon as you can
Meet a special educator
And chart out an action plan
It is Ok to feel sad sometimes
But don’t get stuck up for too long
And look at you kids when in doubt
It has not being easy for them
So pull up yourselves and be ready
You have to make your kid independent and strong
Your kid accepts you for what you are
They love you in spite your shortcomings or faults
Show them the way
You will be surprised
How much in this process you will also learn
Embrace your child with all your heart
Support them, be part of their life
Understand what they say and when they don’t
And see the wonders of love.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 8:34 PM UTC
Imagine the first rumor. The first grunt of gossip
The first finger-point of prejudice. It was probably
like noticing the sunset for the first-time. How it
stretched out across the entire scope of your vision,
peeled back into a city that wasn’t the one you were in,
like an orange peel, one skin at a time. Eventually,
the world rounded, the ice melted, homo-sapiens
grew taller. Our voices deepened, bodies thickened.
We learned to survive the cold, the floods,
the irrational wars, and crescent-mooned nights
underneath tinned roofs. Then came the enlightenment,
the evolution of speech. The first cousin of Germanic
languages; the second cousin of Romantic languages.
And then the first rumor. The first appraisal of good
or bad actions of people hardly known. I imagine
my ancestors, 1.9 million years ago, grunting
with raised brow in her partner’s direction. Pointing
at two men crouching behind a large, fallen boulder.
Pointing at a man who belongs to her neighbor,
crawling out of a cave that doesn’t belong to him.
They are probably turning over in their bone-filled
graves as I think of what to say next, laughing at how
far we haven’t come from the ghouls of gossip,
discussing how out of all the occupations in this world:
bricklayer, lawyer, educator, their descendant chose
this noble profession, this calling up of events.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 7:00 AM UTC
*why do people always pain themselves to write as if they could ever be understood, when so few read them, and even a fewer number care to understand? and why do so many ably bodied ******* themselves with writing? why have they lost the taste for fresh air and instead chose a wheelchair that writing is?*
in legal terms - are you implying a play on synonyms or
just simply stating: d'uh, i don't know what
that means? ah, a limitation on the vocabulary,
an atypical symptom of lawyers - when socrates attacked
eloquence per se, he also defeated himself
by ensuring law abided by the law of highest eloquence,
and the rabble got diddly-squat, his attack on rhetoricians
lost the prowess of attracting debased educators
with himself the most debased educator:
and instead attracted lawyers... thus the law of the eloquent,
rather than the rubric of the least eloquent...
lost an eye for an eye, lost a mouth with it too...
i rather be fed eloquence and education
and coarseness to equally educate
than be fed a justice fed by eloquence alone,
because if this is to be the equilibrating case,
then serving justice will just be a case of speaking
in a satin tongue of readied rhetoric
as justice so called,
and when speaking in a coarse tongue
no justice will be made applicable...
i rather be educated by someone in a coarse tongue
than be brought to justice by someone in an eloquent tongue,
i rather not be educated by someone in an eloquent tongue /
i rather be brought to justice by someone in a coarse tongue
(the mob),
at least the coarse tongue is well equipped to
address the many who require educating,
unlike the eloquent tongue equipped to
address itself and itself alone, rather than addressing
the jury who blindly pass judgement, because
the lawyer's tongue is not in the mouth of the defendant
but in the lawyer's mirror of social strata of respectability
appearing so guiding, kindly tying a bow-tie of applause.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
Puce fresnel washed its light on his over sized African patterned dashiki,
while paisley notes poured from his reeded dreams.
Like the Hamelin piper I was mesmerized by hypnotic tones,
every sweet and spicy slur, every bend of every breath,
I followed him down history’s path and heard the world come boldly through.
“You got to keep the magic”, was his advice .
“Don’t give away too much of the theme.”
Through fake fog he swirled his love,
his passion, his calling.
“Summertime”, played on an oboe
is like hot liquid southern summer ***
It crawls up your spine and explodes in your brain,
and you understand the songs meaning without one word sung.
Hundreds of years of vassalage reenacted in every blue colored measure.
This man did not think of himself as a descendant of slavery though.
He was, like all of his brothers of color,
a descendant of great Princes and Kings,
stealthy Hunters and fearless Warriors,
grand Land Owners and Wise Men,
Great Leaders of Peace and Brotherhood,
and he lived out his life as they did,
changing the world one note at a time.
He played the music of all people,
“World Music” it later came to be known.
Listen….he is in the rhythm still.
Wherever there is an ethnicity holding on to their heritage in song.
Wherever there is an indigenous rhythm, a harmony, a feeling……
Yusef is there, and he will be there forever.
*Yesef Lateef
Born October 9, 1920 in Chattanooga, TN
Died December 23, 2013 Shutesburry, MA
Musician, author, spokesman, educator
Instruments: tenor saxophone, flute, oboe, bassoon, bamboo flute, shehnai, shofar, arghul, koto
Recalling a magical night at Stratton Mt.,Vermont, in the winter of 1975 when I opened for Yusef Lateef.*
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 6:21 PM UTC
In the months after your departure,
-heart wrenching for some, an exhale
of air after holding it in for too long
for me- I’ve been trying to crack you
open, like a mystery box, to discover the
unknown nature of your charms, compelling.
Were you appealing because you listened
to us? You listened to our low voices in a
society where we were belittled and silenced
into cooperation.
Coerced into leaving our sense of self behind
and following the norm, what is acceptable.
I saw right through you.
You planned this elaborate scheme and I
almost fell for it, I almost fell for your greedy
hands, promising approval, understanding,
a confidant like no other.
Making us think we were too mature for our age,
when we were just silly, innocent girls
craving recognition, just like any other,
wanting to be seen.
You fooled us into believing that you truly saw
us, but I noticed the way you looked at them,
They weren’t being seen in the way they
wanted to.
They were being looked at like just another
piece of meat.
You unclothed them with your filthy eyes.
Don’t you have any shame?
You even had the audacity to appear shocked,
even angry, when us, the ones that realized the wicked,
twisted game you were playing with them, gave you
the cold shoulder. We weren’t the stupid girls you
thought we were.
And all this time, I have blamed myself for not realizing
sooner, and when seeing what was really going on,
not speaking up.
And yes, I regret that, but I won’t give you the pleasure
of blaming anyone other than yourself,
of blaming myself.
After all, I wasn’t the one that looked and
touched them in inappropriate ways,
I wasn’t the one that whispered in their ears
drunk out of his mind,
And I wasn’t the one that earned their trust,
just to groom them.
In that story, I wasn’t the predator,
that titled belonged -and still does-
to you.
Jun 24, 2020
Jun 24, 2020 at 7:37 PM UTC
Music maker, trombone player
Master-to-be of all instruments
For my passion
an educator in the making
Those notes that live within
Their stave homes on the aged paper
Are composed of the very things
that run through these well-played veins
They are the building blocks of my being
That brought me to world-class stages
Music maker, trombone player
I am a future Great
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 3:26 PM UTC
I'm a real woman.
I'm a mother to a beautiful little girl
I'm not a 21 yr old who will put on a mini skirt
and for u I'll twirl.
I'm a teacher.
I'm an educator.
Not like ur next girl
Cuz trust me
You will end up hatin her.
I'm a cook, a giver and a provider
Not like ur Next ex
who will be in the clubs dancin to Flo Rida.
I like to eat , hence my curves.
Cuz I'm real.
Not like her
stick figure and eats once a day
yet still looks like a wet seal.
Cuz I'm a real woman
I'll get old..and believe me, it will be gracefully.
I'll be sure to choose wisely next time
maybe less hastily.
Yes, I'm a real woman
I will get old over the next 10 yrs.
But the man who I'm with
will be thanking god for me in his prayers.
Im low maintence and not materialistic
I know how to love unconditionally
I'm realistic!
Because that's what real woman do.
Think of that in the future
When ur young girls trying on her new shoes.
Id rather cook you dinner and wait at home for you.
I'll light a candle with D Ruck playing in the background too.
Yes, your laundry will be done
and lunch packed for the next day.
Think of that
while youre in the back of my mind
Where you'll stay
Yes, for I'm a real woman
One who will get old
May get fat
May get wrinkles
Maybe even some gray hair.
But He who loves me
Will love me unconditionally
Body & soul
For who I am, My looks?
He will not care.
You love with your heart
not with your eyes...
When you are old enough-
You too may be wise!
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 11:55 AM UTC
People wonder, how can Christ, be all things to everyone?
Without the proper perspective, Truth can be missed.
So carefully consider some ideas presented here,
before these spiritual concepts are mistakenly dismissed.
To the BUILDER, Christ is the Sure Foundation.
To the ARCHITECT, He is the Chief Corner Stone.
To the GEOLOGIST, He is the Rock of Ages.
To the SCULPTOR, He is the Living Stone.
To the STUDENT, Christ is the Incarnate Truth.
To the PHILOSOPHER, He is the Wisdom of God.
To the BANKER, He is the Hidden Treasure.
To the PREACHER, He is the Word of God.
To the DOCTOR, Christ is the Great Physician.
To the SERVANT, He is the Good Master.
To the THEOLOGIAN, He is the Author of our Faith.
To the EDUCATOR, He is the Great Teacher.
To the JEWELER, Christ is the Pearl of Great Price.
To the ARTIST, He is the One Altogether Lovely.
To the HORTICULTURIST, He is the True Vine.
To the FLORIST, He is the Lily of the Valley.
To the STATESMAN, Christ is the Desire of all Nations.
To the CARPENTER, He is the Eternal Door.
To the PHILANTHROPIST, He is the Unspeakable Gift.
To the LAWYER, He is the Lawgiver, Advocate and Counselor.
To the BIOLOGIST, Christ is the Life.
To the ENGINEER, He is the New and Living Way.
To the TOILER, He is the Giver of Rest.
To the SINNER, He is the Lamb Who takes all sin away.
Our Christ is a multi-faceted personality,
Who has something for everyone who comes to Him.
Therefore, we should continue to rejoice in Who He is,
by offering heart-felt praise through songs and hymns.
Author notes
Loosely based on:
Col 1:15-18; 2 Tim 2:19; Eph 2:20; Isa 26:4; 1 Pet 2:4-12;
Matt 28:20; Cor 1:24; John 1:1; Heb 12:2; Jer 17:14; Matt 19:16-17;
John 1:3; Matt 16:13-17; John 3:1-2; Matt 13:45; John 15:1;
SoS 2:1; Hag 2:7; John 10:7; Cor 9:15; James 4:12; 1 John 2:1-2;
Isa 9:6-7; John 14:6; Heb 3:1-4:13; John 1:29
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.
This poem is not meant to serve as an all encompassing list of professions; for example, here are a few more viewpoints not mentioned:
To the BAKER, He is the Living Bread.
To the JUDGE, He is the Righteous Judge of all Men.
To the NEWSPAPER, He is the Good Tidings of Great Joy.
To the OCULIST, He is the Light of the Eyes.
To the SOLDIER, He is the fortress.
To the CHRISTIAN, He is the Son of the Living God, the Savior, the Redeemer and the Lord.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 8:39 AM UTC
This is about a friend who inspires me. a single mum, though not through choice; working as an escort, though not through any real choice . . I could have written about her daily grind, stubborn persistence, commitment . . though, when i babysat for her, i grew to know a different side of her, so . .through her daughters eyes, I'd like you to meet my amazing friend
Constance
Her blocks are the building of my life....
Her palate ? . . A rainbow of crayons,
Glitter for stars upon sparkling smiles.
Pride set . . Within my sunrise eyes.
Her strength . . my faith . . In a Mothers arms
This worker bee queen pollenates my mind
With fine aspirations . . We Blossom . . I bloom
This bagel baking children's entertainer . .
My Educator . . Guardian of the School gates . .
My Guiding and providing angel
Wears Big Girl Pants . . with sassy pride
In the absence of an insufficient man . .
Never complains
Who, when I ask why . . Asks why not ?
Chides my moods and minds me kind . .
Listens . . and listens . and listens and listens . .
Tells cinema for bedtime stories ,
Giggles when I wobble ,
Tickles outrageously,
Ties her smile . With a lipstick bow
She Breathes gentle truths . .
Dries my tears discreetly . .
Proves and improves her worth
Everyday . . She's A . . . Sunny side up
Spaghetti hoop spell and
My Candy-floss Mind spins
Glistens . . with Magic
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:07 PM UTC
Twenty-three and coming from my teens
I’ve developed along already categorized genes,
By those who think they know me,
When I’m only twenty-three with a molding mentality
I was once vicariously raised through parentally guided means
Socially slit by those that promised me prosperity if I was studious,
Taught the importance of individuality,
Yet forced to be obedient
Then indoctrinated with an educator’s prescription,
An addiction they picked up in a higher institution
I’m finding it hard to follow your lead, when you found nourishment in my youthful innocence,
Socially stitched through generationally fostered fixes
Notions that you could promise me providence,
I’ve been cradled in a crib riddled with termites
Time shows little sympathy for those who have yet to comprehend the promise of a six foot end,
Yet you trained me to believe you didn’t domesticate me
Despite being conceived in a place I was not well received,
You taught the importance of obedience
Yet I’m finding it hard to accept your ancestral credence,
When this place has been passed along bloodlines,
When my generationally guided grandparents' felt the final close of their eyes,
And left me a world pieced together by both atrocities and glimpses of humanity
I’m finding it hard to speak in a world with such narcissistic sympathies of the traditionally raised
Yet I’m socially sutured by the fact that I still breathe,
While being born in a place that once found stability through a slave trade,
A middle passage that led to a devious democracy
I’m so grateful we can mend what barbarians once began,
I’ve had time to age, enough to take the reins,
Though before we build our shrines of this age,
You can still pray for something beyond the grave,
Yet never forget how we've been stranded, left here to continue, or to fray,
To humanize a species that earth derived,
Or to let the braids of life untwine and give way,
During our generations' stay.
Apr 24, 2012
Apr 24, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
A LAND OF HONEYED-PRAISES,
FULL OF ARROGANT AND PRIDE,
MALIGNANT ONE's,
WITH AN UNCURED~ CANCERS.
A WORDS AND PHRASES
FOR THOSE WHO LOST IT'S SENSE
IN PUBLIC ~SERVICE.
IT'S NOT YOU?
REALLY?
HA!
PHILOSOPHY DOCTOR?
MASTER OF EDUCATION?
MASTER OF PUBLIC SERVICE?
YOUR PORTRAIT HANG ON THE WALLS!
NOT ONE!
NOT TWO!
NOT THREE!
REALLY?
BUT HOW MANY ARE YOU?
MORE PEOPLE, YOUR CONSTITUENT
HAD ALL A DECADES OF
BROKEN~ DREAMS,
THAT SHATTERED INTO PIECES
THEIRS TEARS? IS NOT ENOUGH ...
TO FILL UP YOUR CUPS,
AND EVEN CAN'T ADD UP
YOUR HUNGRY PORSCHE WALLET!
EDUCATIONS MAKES SENSE
RIGHT! CAN'T ARGUE WITH YOU THEN...,
BUT IT ALSO MAKES YOUR FACE~CENTS.
A NECKLACE OF YOU PRIDE,
MY DEAR, DEPED
DAVAO DE ORO EDUCATORS. (Division Office)
OH~SILENT AND ARROGANT
WHY? YOU PERMIT THE BROKEN~CULTURES
EVEN THE TOXIC, GO FAR BEYOND MY LINES.
SORRY, I FORGOT AM NOT A LICENCE, POET.
DID I NEED TO GET ONE?
OR TO PAY YOUR HUNGRY PORSCHE WALLET!
O' COMO'N
SORRY DEAR MAAM, AND SIR's
I LOST MY APPETITE FOR GRAMMARS,
SA , BISYA PA "TULA NI OR DELI"
TO, MY DEAR READER
"NATIVE LANGUAGE"
DEPED~DAVAO DE ORO (Division Office)
O~ DEAR INSTITUTION
THANKS FOR EDUCATING US
FOR ME TO LEARNED
ENGLISH FOR A WHILE
AH, NOW YOU AWAKEN ME,
OH, MY SENSE OF CAPTIVITY.
THIS, UNJUST INSTITUTIONS
CAUSED VEXATIONS
TO YOUR DEAR GRADUATES,
AND THOSE SPIRITED~ONES.
DEPED ~ DAVAO DE ORO (Division Office)
ARE YOU AN INSTITUTION OF
UNJUST & UNWISE
GIVING BREED OF CENTS~EDUCATORS?
AH, SORRY, IT HARD TO GIVE THE WORDS
SENSE, OF YOUR INSTITUTION.
DEPED~ DAVAO DE ORO
YOU LOST YOUR WAYS
YOUR MASTER DEGREE's & PHD's
EVEN BLOWN ~UP WIDE.
SIDE -BY-SIDE!
OH~STUPID THINGS
AND THE ARROGANT's
WRITTEN IN THE HISTORY!
YOU CAN FIND THEIR NAME's
IN THE HALLWAY OF GALLERY
AH, COMO'N
THIS IS NOT A POET
OR A SONG EITHER.
WHAT's, IS THIS?!
SORRY, MATE....
THIS IS PART OF ME,
WHO HAVE LOST AND WANDERED.
REALLY?
ABOUT WHAT?
FOR THE DEPED~ DAVAO DE ORO (Division Office)
WHERE? & WHAT COUNTRY MATE?
IN THE PHILIPPINES, MATE.
WHAT NOW, MATE?
JUST NOTHING.
JUST, A HELL OF ONE PROVINCE MATE.
GOOD TO KNOWS,
FOR THEIR ******* MATE.
YOU KNOW, MATE?
WHAT?
SEC. LEONOR BRIONES
IS ONE OF OUR COUNTRY BEST EDUCATOR.
THE WISE~LADY MATE?
YOU RIGHT, MATE!
HOPE, SHE VETTED.
Sep 25, 2021
Sep 25, 2021 at 9:05 AM UTC
I know what it feels like
To be isolated
stranded on an island
in a sea of meaningful conversation
so remote you need binoculars
to find people holding hands
thats not us today
not you second mom
not me failing educator
but us
jovial and talkative
skipping down mainstreet
stopping in pocket parks
to plan our towns future
i want to take you somewhere
that place that we used to go
well not together
that breakfast place
's been around for a half century
well
its not there any more
its a bar now
look ill buy you a shiner
and you just sit there
look pretty
and write on this dollar
and thats what she wrote
"b [star] [heart]"
with the shapes there instead
just over washingtons face
and i made for it a frame
just in the corners
and the new bartender
stapled it right in plain view
above the ***** section
down at the end
where the old men talk about
the ways that it hasnt
or never will
work out for them
you embody their silent shrine now
you are reigning over the space
where they come to be lonely
but talkative though
the place where they come
to find people with whom to hold hands
to skip down main street
to stop in pocket parks
and talk about the way
things need to be changed
and how [we] can change them
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 2:16 PM UTC
Driving down the blithe boulevard with my heart in the drivers seat and the world at my jaunty forefeet; aquatic nature abutting the equator serving as an anomalous educator and metaphysical communicator
Submerged in a state of angelic maturity; dopamine manumitted upon the sensible observance of internal assurance while living in the fullness of magnetizing, sunlit nourishment.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Concrete minds set solid
re-enforced with comfort zones
everything in its place
and an answer for everything
all gleaned off the educator
the TV channels of choice
here comes your daily dose
lets all be quiet, be brainwashed
tiny minds washed
and hung out to dry.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 3:34 AM UTC