Older boys telling younger boys “bad” jokes is part of the traditions in schools, much as the guardians of Elite Schools might deny it…here’s something that happened in the 1960s, and perhaps before too, and perhaps always….


“Who’s the best person to marry
when you’re grown up?”
asks the Senior boy
(with his double entendre)
in the shed behind the canteen


three juniors shrug their shoulders
and then one ventures: “Marry a traffic cop?”
“No,” answers the Senior
“Never marry a traffic cop
cos at the crucial moment she’ll say: ‘HALT!’”
Some boys laugh, one or two innocents scratch their heads

“I’ll marry a doctor,” says another
“Yeah?” says the Senior
“At the crucial moment
she’ll be saying: ‘OK -
you can put on your clothes now!’”

Now the juniors laugh;
they are getting wiser
but still an innocent says:
“I’ll marry a bus conductor”
“Oh no, no,” says the boy Senior
“She’ll be insisting: ‘Ticket, please! Ticket, please!’”

“I’ll marry Susan at the canteen
where she makes the best
sandwiches for all those who hunger,”
says the boy, obviously from a very charitable home
“No, no,” says the Senior. “She’ll be roaring:
‘Who’s next? Who’s next? Who’s next?’
And you’ll have all the men
within three miles
queuing up at your doorway!”


The juniors have gotten too smart now
Nobody offers any other possibilities
But innocents die hard
and there’s one last little boy:
“I’ll marry my teacher!”
“Well, isn’t she the best,” says Senior
“for at the crucial moment,
she’ll be saying:
‘Do it again! Do it again!’”

Now, the boys enjoyed it all; the girls never heard it, except when they married these initiates…and all the eminent people in the professions have been none the wiser…

With special thanks to George Ella Lyon*

I am from crumbling brick
(red, dusty, smelling of musk).
I am from aluminum siding
and triple-deckers,
tall, strong, unmovable.

Hailing from the city on about seventy hills.
From Grandfathers and photo albums,
cigar ash salad and pinecone wars.
From "use your imagination" and "go play in the street".

I am from a whirlwind of faith,
belief from non-believers.

From schoolyards, playgrounds, and crawlspaces
come these faces, and these memories
are worth more to me, than anything.

Life is a about striving,

Life is about diving,

In,

Life is about setting goals,

Without the penalty

Kick,

But did you ever,

Lend a hand to a stranger,

Not thinking about the interest

Rate,

Do you have friends you can call,

At 2 am, without telling

what the reason

Is?

So you have a career in medicine,

Respected by peers, Admired by juniors,

But to get there, were your sacrifices worth

it,

Did you find a loved one?

Yes you did,

But did you find a soul

mate,

You drive a big car,

Live in a big house,

But do you have a heart to match

it?

Dress up, put on the make up,

Wear only designer,

But can you stare in your own

eyes,

Wake up everyday,

What a perfect life,

Ask yourself what did you really

Achieve

Twas a southern Christmas and from the front porch to the outhouse, everyone was stirring, even a field mouse. Socks were hung over the fire place with care, hoping they would soon be dry there. Grand maw was in the kitchen holding juniors nose, so he would take some caster oil I suppose. Mom was running around with curlers in her hair, if old Saint Nick saw her he would get quiet a scare. Dad and his brother in law were out of the house, hunting for a trophy buck to brag about. While grand paw was out in the barn, turning the yearly corn harvest into moon shine. A little home made spirit to give all some good cheer. So when you think Christmas is strange at your house, just remember how we celebrate Christmas down south.

There is a man at the coffee shop I frequent
He sits in the same corner in the same sweater
And hasn't missed a day since I've moved there
I've never seen him order a coffee, but he always has one
Never seen him eat, but he isn't small
And all this man ever does is take notes
He's got a pocket size notebook
A twenty five cent pen and a mustache
And the only time his hand stops writing
Is to take a drink of coffee
He's not normal
I could tell it the first time I saw him
He writes like chipmunks eat
Keeps it close to his face
I hope one day I'm flipping through case studies
And find his
It'd be about interactions
Or communal relationships
Or some fancy way of saying strangers don't talk
They only judge from afar
It'll have won whatever literary prize they give for that kind of thing
Changed the way people thought about each other
Books will be written about the book he wrote
And his little notebooks and twenty five cent pens
Will sell at auctions for thousands
But that's wishful thinking
He's different
I knew that the first time I saw him
I've gone through a lot of scenarios
Character development for a novel
A series of short stories derived from first impressions
Of everyone who comes in
A poet without a laptop
Maybe even a hit list
But he's unusual
I knew that the first time I saw him
This isn't something normal people do
He isn't making believe
He's making friends
I imagine he hasn't had too many in his lifetime
He's probably not been very good at it
So now he's just making them for himself
Taking notes on their likes, dislikes, interests, hobbies, occupations
Eavesdropping the CIA would be jealous of
All so that after closing time
He can go home to his studio above a repair shop
He pays for with social security
And have conversations with them
I can picture his closet full of clothes
Male, female, juniors, adults, maternity
He talks to an empty space on the other side of the room
“Hey, how's your day?”
He takes off his clothes puts on a dress
Walks over to the dead space turns around and says
“Good, hey you look sad is everything alright?”
Takes off the dress, puts his clothes back on
Walks back across the room
“Yeah, it's just that Gary works in engineering, I had him pegged for a dentist”
Changes again
“It's okay, people aren't always what they seem,
Besides I like engineers better than dentists”
“I know” he says back to her
“That's why I think he'd be perfect for you”
“Oh no, no more blind dates”
“Yes I'm serious I think he's the one for you”
“I do so bad at these things”
“Well I'll just have to ask him for you, are you available tomorrow night”
“I guess”
He changes into a third set of clothes,
Then a forth,
A fifthAnd before the sun comes up
There's been a marriage
A hockey game
A lecture on physics
And little Tim had a cello recital
He's dangerous
I knew it the first time I saw him
One day Nikki won't answer his phone calls
Sam won't have a new lecture prepared
And he'll come back to the coffee shop
And make them,
Teach them a lesson,
Exact revenge,
Or maybe he'll just throw away their outfit
Either way ****** is just a mind set
He could win an Oscar for his portrayal of any regular in here
But they've all disappointed him a time or two too many
He's not that different
I've learned that over time
He's got more friends than I do
But none more alive

She arrives in high stilletto’s
And a miniskirt so taught
That the boys are all distracted
And our job becomes a rort,
And the office girls get ******
And production spirals down
So then our new Middle Manager
Rolls up her sleeves and goes to town....

She sticks her oar in frequently
And stands with jutted hip,
She’s territorial dynamite
And serves us gloating lip.
She often curries favour
With Department Heads and such
And makes a fuss at our expense
Which irritates so much!

She has a way to circumvent
The types she will not face,
In using her authority
To snidely put them in their place.
Her manner is too sharp
And too dismissive for my taste
And the condescending smile
Has me grinding teeth to paste.

And the way she stands and taps her toe
And glares beneath her brows
Has the office juniors panicking
And avoiding, as allows.
There’s an issue over paper
And the telephone account
And the petty cash, though balanced,
Is a questionable amount.

Historically our working week
Has employed a give and take
With an easy flexibility
That allows us all a break,
But the new Middle Manager
Has reversed the mode of work
So that everyone competes
And the roster’s gone beserk!

Her manner’s often strident
With a whiplash to her voice
And the snarl of her vindictiveness
Leaves us all with little choice
But to bend our backs to labour,
Work our fingers to the bone
And suffer her till knock off
Then, thank God, we’re fleeing home!

There’s a memo in the “In box”
Rumour has it, from on high,
That due to overdue restructuring,
That some redundancies are nigh.
And though there’s great reluctance
And some measure of regret...
It seems our new Middle Manager
Has got her notice...Sorry Pet!


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
15 January 2011

The power of the “Bonnie Prince”
had broke and fled away.
William, Duke of Cumberland,
at Culloden field held sway.
His juniors came and asked the Duke
about the  wounded men.

A playing card he then held up
on which two words were written”
“NO Quarter” said the playing card
thus was the order given.
They wasted not one bullet for
a wounded, dying man.
By sword, by knife, by bayonet
The English played their hand.

Charles Edward Stuart fled the field
when, clearly, all was lost.
(He never had a kingdom
but at least he had a horse.)
He fled up to the Hebrides
where , despite a huge reward,
No Scottish Laird betrayed the man
who was their Sovereign Lord.

The butcher of Culloden
made the Scottish Highlands pay:
Women *****, crops destroyed,
the livestock borne away.
He never caught his cousin Charles
though he came close at Skye:
The bonnie prince, dressed as a maid,
sailed by him on the sly.

The Jacobites were finished men
and nevermore would rise.
Their cause died on Culloden field
back there in Forty Five’





For over two centuries Scotland has been held against her will as part of the United Kingdom, but she soon may regain her freedom and self Government.

A boy named Jake and a girl named Lexi had never met before.
They had a class together last year, but neither one knew it at the time.
They both walked into their Sophomore Drama class for the first time, scared and apprehensive.
Lexi there five minutes before the final bell and Jake, seconds before the final bell.

Jake entered the class and quickly took the only seat on the floor not occupied by an unfamiliar face.
They all introduced themselves, all 27 of them, mostly Sophomores with a few Freshman, Juniors, and a single Senior.It was then, when Lexi said "Hi, my name is Lexis Marilyn Manchester and I go by Lexi," that he first noticed her.
She was cute, shoulder length blonde hair, a floral shirt and jeans, although Jake didn't notice those things at the time. Only her dazzling pale blue eyes, and angelic voice.

The guy sitting next to her didn't say his name at first, even though it was his turn. She tapped his leg and motioned toward the center of the circle the class had made in the Drama Room. Room I7.
He said "How.. uh, my name is Jacob Turner. I don't have a middle name, but I go by Jake."
He was cute. He had short, yet unruly brown hair, a white shirt with the letters "LDTA" on them and nice fitting black jeans. The only thing she noticed about him however were his mysterious pale blue eyes, and for some reason, lack of middle name.

Jake didn't even care that the class had laughed at his lack of middle name. The only thing of importance to him was that when he looked over, the cute girl named Lexis Marilyn Manchester, who went by Lexi, was looking at him. He quickly looked away as did she.

The class went on and neither Jake nor Lexi, made an attempt to talk to the other although they did steal careful looks often. The bell finally rung. It was a seventh period class, so school was over.

On his way home Jake thought of nothing but Lexi, and driving.
He stopped at a sign, only blocks from home. The traffic rushed by. The car behind him did not see his car. They pushed him into the oncoming traffic just as a big SUV hybrid drove by. The driver slammed the breaks but still did not manage to avoid hitting the drivers side door of the small, blue, beat up, Toyota.

The doctors say he was killed on impact.

That's what the school told the small group of friends who were asked to attend a quick meeting regarding the accident. Lexi went.

She thought about him everyday for the yest of the school year.
Even some over summer.
He never faded.
She wouldn't let him for some reason.

He was killed on impact but he never faded.

NJROTC is the one thing that made me feel confident in who I was, now it is gone. There will be no ROTC next year, most people don’t care, but the people who worked their butts off are hurting. We work all year round, constantly training and bettering ourselves. The funny thing about all of this is the fact that we all new it was coming, we just didn’t know how soon. People don’t care and I don’t expect them to but I hope people realize that having that program changed the school for the better and the cadets in it.
We weren’t perfect we had our days where we just wanted to give up. We have had rocks thrown at us, yet we stood firm. We have been made fun of and still are but that never once took an ounce of pride from our hearts. I will not be here I graduate in May, so people wonder why I am so upset. I am upset because I have personally worked with every cadet who wanted to be something, I have been there when we won first place titles, I have been there for the most hilarious fails, I have been there for the biggest wins in the smallest ways. Regardless of when or where I have been there! I have seen them at there best and worst, I have given pep talks at meets that have changed the outcome within the blink of an eye. You can’t understand what it is like to be in a program like this if you aren’t in it.
In the eyes of the Juniors everything they have worked for for three years have just been ripped from their hands, they don’t know how to handle something like this, neither do I. ROTC made these kids who they are, it has shaped me into the strong, confident and intelligent woman I am. How do I look them straight into the eyes and tell them it is gonna be okay when I myself don’t even believe that? I will walk out of high school with only one regret, that I didn’t prepare them properly for this hit. I have lead and prepared them for everything but this, could it be true? Is this it? It is………..

They sing their dearest songs—
He, she, all of them—yea,
Treble and tenor and bass,
And one to play;
With the candles mooning each face….
Ah, no; the years O!
How the sick leaves reel down in throngs!

They clear the creeping moss—
Elders and juniors—aye,
Making the pathways neat
And the garden gay;
And they build a shady seat….
Ah, no; the years, the years;
See, the white storm-birds wing across!

They are blithely breakfasting all—
Men and maidens—yea,
Under the summer tree,
With a glimpse of the bay,
While pet fowl come to the knee….
Ah, no; the years O!
And the rotten rose is ript from the wall.

They change to a high new house,
He, she, all of them—aye,
Clocks and carpets and chairs
On the lawn all day,
And brightest things that are theirs…
Ah, no; the years, the years;
Down their carved names the rain-drop ploughs.

15 years old:
invite a group of friends over
to sit in my empty living room
with brand new wood floors -
we’re renovating

proof: I’m not poor

16 years old:
hang out of my sister’s
bedroom window,
swing into wet mulch,
steal away to twone’s
to get hammered and
touch my first ****

proof: I’m not afraid

18 years old:
lament over the fact
that I’m the last senior
alive without a cell phone

you got the flip, *****,
happy birthday

proof: I’m one of you

21 years old:
rip six foot bongs,
squirt jaeger bombs
into mouths from a gallon jug,
***** black sushi sacrifice

proof: I can hang

22 years old:
get caught with drugs
in 90 degree Arizona desert,
make friends with drug dog,
tell the truth while you take a ****,
sit in a cell and make plans
to call brother for bail

proof: the truth won’t always set me free

11 years old:
go into a department store
with my auntie,
heavy footsteps follow,
head to the juniors department,
heavy footsteps follow,
turn round, see an old man,
think, ‘he must be shopping for
his granddaughter’

proof: innocence is blind

have to ***, head to the bathroom,
heavy footsteps follow
with ragged breathing,
watch as Velcro sneakers stand
just beyond the door my stall,
curl into a ball and
wait, wait, wait,
as my brain takes on silent screaming

proof: I am nothing but prey

hear the next stall door
creak open,
watch feet walk in and legs
begin to bend,
explode out of stall
into store,
find auntie and begin
hyperventilation and
true demonstration of fear

proof: I am a woman now

No star asks the heaven about its shimmering on an aphostic curtain
No raindrop ever puts its case before the clouds

No flower swiftly shuts its door too see the bees
No branch goes up when fruits are pregnant

Obedience is nature by birth
My father's soul bid us goodbye cheerfully

The Almighty wants this from all human biengs
Parents from their sons and daughters

Teachers from their different pupils
And we from each other in society

This laces us in sync and a new relation is built
That accommodates humbleness and honour

Children must develop this habit and this be inveterate
Like their luscious breakfast at each reddish rise

And plant this in their schools and homes
Where juniors will smell this and crave to do more

the clock is ticking
and i am very afraid
afraid to live
in a world where i probably won't see my old age
in a world where nuclear war, global warming, and people killing innocent children is all the rage
for about a week
until the news has a new obsession to seek
the clock is ticking
and my heart should at the least drop in fear
when i hear that another massacre had occurred
with 17 victims. hashtag MSD strong
just give it a month, the news will move along
the clock is ticking
and at six years old we should not be reciting our abc's
as we hide where a bad man cannot see.
I thought that everybody was welcome at school
why can't the man with the toy gun can't come in too?
the clock is ticking
and what the hell is wrong with your generation?
instead of address the problem you train us to solve it by hiding under tables

if my friend can take one look at his campus and infer
in the event of an armed intruder,
the juniors would be the first to go
and uh oh there's no escape from the basement classrooms
because to them, the media is only fake news.
the clock is ticking
and i should be worrying about what i'm going to wear tomorrow
or if that boy i pass by in the halls will notice me
I should be staying up all night studying for chem
Instead of sobbing under my sheets at 1 AM
worrying if this day is going to be my last.
or if a gunman were to come he'll just walk past,
maybe forget why he's here or maybe he'll just disappear into thin air.
the clock is ticking
and i will not be silent.
because valentines are for chocolates and candy hearts
not the feeling of your soul get ripped apart
you knew this boy,
he might not have been your friend and to be honest you suspected
that he could be your end
the clock is ticking
and i will not be silent
because at concerts all you need to hear are beating drums
not the beating of your racing heart
as bullets reign from up in the sky, you sang of God only moments ago so why
is He punishing us like this?
The clock is ticking
And I will not be silent
because clubs are partying hard and spending the next morning in the bathroom
not cowering with 22 others in a bathroom stall
waiting for the gunfire to come to an end and you only came to have a nice night with your girlfriend
and you can't tell if this is her blood or yours
the clock is ticking
and the glass walls are shattering.
but my bullets are words
and i will not go down in silence.

I’ve only been at my fellowship gig a week, but It’s official, I’m a candy-striper. Sort of, I wear a blue vest, not the old, red-striped dress, but it’s the same job. I shadow my surgeon (Rebecca) most of the time, like when she does her rounds but otherwise, I study or try to be helpful by delivering specimens to the lab, messengering things from Rebecca to other doctors or assisting the nursing staff with very minor, mundane things.

My training, so far, has consisted more of what-nots than anything else. “You are not a doctor, you don’t comment, don’t advise, don’t touch anything, don’t perform CPR and if a medical emergency occurs, get out of the way - put your back against the wall.” I made up the “back against the wall” part but that’s the soul of it. I’m just an observant pair of eyes and ears or a Yale lampshade.

When Rebecca (my surgeon) does rounds, she usually has five or six interns in tow (medical school graduates who are first-year residents). The interns review patient charts and get quizzed about symptoms, their meanings and possible treatments. It’s very interesting to watch the process up close - these people are wicked-smart (that’s a Boston saying).

Growing up, my parents were both doctors. I found myself standing, listlessly, a million times, waiting in hospital corridors or by nurses' stations for one or both of them to break free so we could leave. I was exposed to 17 years of medical jargon, as they discussed treatments with other doctors or passed on their final instructions for the night. I’d roll my eyes impatiently, but I guess I absorbed more than I realized. I can pretty much follow the consults as they do the rounds.

I met two new people last week, who I think I’ll see a lot of - Jammie and Quinn. They’re both rising-juniors and fellows, from other schools, working with other surgeons. Jammie’s a handsome, gay, black man from Georgetown University (my brother Brice’s Alma mater). He’s loud, fun and smart, very smart.

Quinn, on the other hand, seems like a short, officious little ****. When we were introduced, he cast his eyes over me slowly and deliberately like a frat-boy or an experienced stock ******* and from the way he talks, you’d think he owned the place. He’s from some second rate, local college, called Harvard.

Funny story, Jammie and I had just met and we were looking-up some fellowship information, on his laptop, I was looking over his shoulder and as he flipped around - his computer files and folders were SO organized - there wasn’t a stray file anywhere - not one. As we were huddled closely together I said, conversationally, because where I come from it means nothing and I guess I have no filters, “Are you gay?” He cringed, shocked, and laughingly said “SHHH!” He wasn’t “out” at work. I swore his secret safe and we became fast friends.

Jammie, besides being a molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major (pre-med track), is an observational comedian and as he’s thinking out loud - at a hundred miles an hour - I wish I could record him, so I could play him back later, slowly and deliciously to take it all in. We had lunch together in the cafeteria Friday and when our time was up, I discovered I hadn’t eaten anything. I’d been too busy listening to him open-mouthed or laughing.

I also realized I’m spoiled and not used to working indoors all day. We come in at 8 and we're released at 4:30. It’s almost a shock to see the sky isn’t fluorescent-lit and the breeze isn’t tainted with antiseptic smells. That was fellowship week 1.

Does anyone belong in this age?
The 21st Century hi-tech stage,
Teaching old dogs new tricks,
All technology's deep magic,
Hey, juniors, cut us some slack,
How did we pass high school's flack?
We had no internet to hack,
Not one calculator in our backpacks!
We had to use our brains for Maths.....
Now it's the 21st Century age,
We're all hi-tech citizens on this stage..........

It isn't really a pep rally
Unless the winner
Of blindfolded musical chairs
Ends up at the bottom
Of a thirty five person dogpile

It isn't a pep rally
Unless the balloons stay
On the gym ceiling
For the next nine months

It isn't a pep rally
Unless the juniors and seniors
get in a karaoke and cheer fight

It isn't a pep rally
Unless you have the craziest stories
To talk to your friends about on monday

Reading some homework
The day seems like artwork
Has the sky ever been so blue

Three guys toss a frisbee
perilously near me
shirtless boys silhouetted in turquoise

We’ve got our shades on
We pretend not to watch em’
But we know they’re putting on a show.

We’ve got fold up recliners
and we set a timer
to move to the shade in a minute or two

But the sun seems distracted
cooler and less radioactive
dozens of students are out on the quad

The trees aren’t just standing
the breeze has them dancing
to ‘Blood in the Cut’, a song by ‘K.Flay’

On this cool, near-fall holiday
We’ll while our day away
each of us claiming a chance to relax

Now that we’re juniors, we know the facts
We get that there’s still a lot of reading to do
but we know, we can have a little fun too.
What else would you expect us to do?

We’re shape-shifting, my roommates and I. Transitioning mentally from freshmen and sophomores (nobodies) into juniors (somebodies). We’ve been around, we’re not the new kids anymore. We’re being seen and appreciated. It’s a mindbang.

There was a coolike girl, Kathleen, who was a senior when I was a freshman. I had a mad, mad envy-crush on her. She was everything I wanted to be when I was scared and unsure about things. Kathleen was perfect., an example of success that, like a fulcrum, lifted our confidence.

When she was around, I’d watch her, discreetly. She had this unconscious habit of touching her chin, with her index finger, when she was thinking. I swear, I found myself copying her, until Leong saw me do it once and said “Kathleen!” I was embarrassed. You can’t get away with anything around here.

Kathleen graduated last year. I saw her once, in her graduation gown, from afar. I got emotional. Part of me wanted to rush over, give her a huge, congratulatory hug and tell her what a role model she’d been for me - even though we’d never even talked, but I was afraid she’d think I was a stalker.

A home away from home,
Is how I merily define a school.
Running in silent corridors,
Not wanting to go in morning assemblies,
Finishing lunch while teacher's teaching,
Passing chits when they caught us gossiping.
Our tiffin boxes were empty before recess,
Fun was snatching other's lunch then.
Years later don't know will these be remembered or not,
But those 'samosas of canteen' will really be missed a lot.
When teachers said " go out if you don't want to study"
We looked at each other to ask if they are ready.
We will really miss kabaddi and volley ball matches,
Between seniors and juniors.
Those lovely days of early ages,
And the open books with curly pages.
I will really miss each and every class,
Whether nursery or twelfth.
We will really miss,
The boring exercise of Saturdays,
And the 'Arora patties' on roadways.
We were sent to gain knowledge,
But we had all sorts of fun and games.
To teachers sending us out of class was a punishment,
But for us it was full source of entertainment.
Those lazy mornings and the lame reasons for not going to school,
Those fading school uniforms and opened shoe laces,
Those half opened eyes and closing school gates.
Few months later all won't be there.
Just a cherished memory,
Is going to become.

When we were 12
I got my first pair of shorter shorts
When I went over to your house
I wasn't allowed to wear them
Unless it was to sleep

You were always jealous.
I was rail thin.
You were chubby,
But had less ***** than me.

I had no responsibities
You had school soccer
Volleyball summer jobs
And raising your three
Other siblings.

Soon you quit eating
And thinned out until
Your ribs peeked out
We sat on the bus
I showed you my scars on my arms
And you whispered
"I put a knife to my stomach
But was too scared to push in"

Then we were juniors
You gave blow jobs to
Your ****** boyfriend
While I slept.

Your blonde hair and blue eyes
Looked so innocent it hurt.

You lost your virginity.
Fell out of love.
You talked about going to
Arizona for College.
That I should go with you.
By now I was failing half my classes
And going to parties on the weekends.

You met other boys
Slept with one who broke your heart
And ran back to your
First love.
He willingly took you.

Then we were seniors.
You complained about him.
About how small his **** was.
How he treated you.
How selfish he was.
How he's a super senior that'll
Be twenty one next year.
He's a baker at Carr's.
I think you secretly hate him.

You say no more to Arizona.
You say yes to
University of Anchorage Alaska.
Its an hour drive away.
You say you're spending
Your college years living
With your grandma instead of
Living on campus.

Your parents dig themselves
Into you and live through
You. Your perfection.

You are a settler.
And I feel you'll be that way
Your entire life.

A dusty box full of paperbacks,
a cheap auction haul, an archive
of someone's memories,
old enthusiasms, enchanting
stories, exciting action yarns.

Time was too short to read them again,
more recent ones waiting attention,
unread juniors ambitious for
promotion, leaning out of bending shelves.

These dog-eared browning pages, acid etched
in someone's memory, ready to serve
again, resisting pulping or
landfilling illiterate soil.

You were looking at me funny.
Not in the "I haven't seen you in three years, let me take you in," way.
You looked quizzical, puzzled.
You told me that there was something different about me.

I stood a little taller,
I tossed my hair back.
My juniors have mimicked the move so many times that they've got it down.
It's just that it's always getting  in my eyes,
And I want to be able to see the world.

You told me that there was something different about me,
And I wondered what you saw.
I wondered what my tell was.
I'm self-centred.
Most humans are, 90% of us.
Most of my thoughts are about me.
But in that moment, I wanted to see through your eyes.

At my school, there is a lot of people. I am a Freshmen, and our graduating class alone, is more than 400 students. That is the largest amount of Freshmen in this school, EVER. Now just imagine, there is still Sophmores, Juniors, and Seniors. When you are walking between classes, and there is some random girls or boys, just STANDING in the hallway talking, or hugging, or whatever the heck they decide to do, you get angry. Especially if this is happening every single day. On more than one occasion, I have been hit with a bag, tripped, pushed, stepped on, yelled at, and I have gotten evil eyes, the weird thing is, I don't even know who they were.  I have yelled at some people to move, because they were standing in the door, talking to each other. There was like 4-5 people. Imagine a normal door, with 4-5 people just gathered there. There was no other door, and there was no hope of them moving, without being told to.

People can be complete idiots. I remember one kid in my science class asking if we were made out of dirt, he obviously wasn't paying attention, because we had just gone over the fact that we are made of atoms.

Remember those kids that just get on your nerves? The ones that "pay attention", but really don't, and you know they don't, because right as soon as the teacher is done explaining something they ask, "wait, where did you get that...?" Of course you probably do, there is at least one in every class. Well I have one, actually more than one, but this particular one, is annoying and can be very rude. Mrs. Not-So-Know-It-All, decides one day, in science class, to shove me, talk to me like she is the queen of this school, and she even stole my pencil, TWICE. I mean, I know it's just a pencil, but she didn't need to steal it, she could have asked to either borrow it, or asked for one. Especially, because I had given some to the teacher, that very same day... ***, Mrs. Not-So-Know-It-All?!?

so we nipped into town yesterday.


again, on proper business no slacking.


though i have to say that i did linger

with a friend, discussed the jewelled mirror,

the state of play with gifts and those bibelows,

. we talk of them again that day. meanwhile

life continues badly for some here, while others idly

shop. we discover cotton gloves, another time.


scrabble for the juniors, who  make up their own

words, have a larger vocabulary than seven.


pink hanbag, not fit for any purpose than

delight and design.


we discussed correcting the till

error, decided it may just confuse, then

carried on our separate ways.


again.  this is dolgellau.


sbm.