"learners" poems
Education is the ladder.
Education is the key.
Education is the mother of success.
Education is the process of receiving or giving systematic instruction.
Enlightening experience of learners.
Learners stop making teachers lose the war of education because of being distracted by the social world.
Boys stop believing in drugs and alcohol because alcohol is an intoxicating drink that slow down and depressing the brain.
Girls stop believing in affairs and believe in education because your certificates will never leave you but boys can leave you and left you with gift of tears in your back.
Study hard because time wasted never regain.
When you are willing to learn you will stay humble and be the good coach to your friends.
Principal words
Time is money if you are wasting your own time you are wasting your own money.
Remember perseverance is the mother of success.
Education is the key .
Education is the ladder.
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
I walk with eyes in a blur my world in a daze I've been in the land off the tree burners the truest learners of the game they ain't about to chase the fam they stay the same we got our minds trained ride or die down to sacrifice on the streets blazing watch us fade away in the rain yea let me release my brain today ya who's to say reality isn't the trip and the trip isn't reality man we on a cloud so high my heart start to race as a tast gods gift gave me wings to fly away to a better place left no trace of past ******** I stay ligit trippy minded just live the life you know and never pass up the show stay true lol
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 9:00 PM UTC
I'm born
Airborne
Forlorn
In war torn
Discord
My ripcord
I pull for liberation
Alienation aviation
Away from a station
Of no relation
Where their elation
Lies in degeneration
The fright fair
Nightmare
In sight there
Is a right scare
But light flares
From an illuminated theater
I dive into art
To fill my meter
I consume
Darkened tomb
Screen in room
Is where I loom
Inspiration blooms
From a sense of doom
My separation reparation
That will lead to veneration
My artistic fervor
Drifted further
Drifter's murmurs
Lifted learners
But gifted murderers
Shifted girders
Of shame and honesty
To my grave of modesty
Where they prey upon me
This plagiarism
Layered schism
Cratered rhythm
Of great decisions
Now I make incisions
With repetition
And the definition
Of words stolen from me
They're all I can see
And I can't get free
Or just let it be
Consumption disruption
At this junction
I can't function
A plagiarist
****** mist
Grips my fist
Makes me wish
I don't exist
I must resist
Before I miss
My chance at bliss
They're ****** me
By aping me
Making me
Shaking trees
Of bumblebees
With rumble pleas
On humble knees
Drinking antifreeze
Nobody cares
What's fair
They bear
And share
Blank stares
Up stairs
Of artistic compromise
Integrity lost in lies
They're not that wise
I hypothesize
My baby
Caught rabies
From Hades
Now ladies
Flock to a thief
Giving me grief
Beyond belief
In my coral reef
Sword in sheath
I drown discreet
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 2:29 PM UTC
Planting excitement upon us,
My daughter asks how to thin the beets.
"When the plants are three inches tall,
Pick the weaker ones and pull them up,"
I say. "You'll take out two thirds of the young plants
So the rest can grow."
I see a troubled look upon her face,
And realize what I find in myself....
The teacher's quandary:
Picking whom to keep,
Whom to cull...
We put our love into them all.
Watching for first and tender shoots,
Celebrating as the fledgling leaves appear,
Not thinking of a time ahead,
Dreaded time to thin....
Teachers are reluctant to cull,
Building emotional connection,
Providing loving direction,
Promising success to all....
Then come the standardized tests,
The team selections,
The popularity contests,
The invitations to slumber parties,
The division of elites,
The rising of divas,
The rostering of first teams...
The separation of pariahs begins,
The promise we made to early learners ends,
Superiors, exultant, drown out the tears
Of those left standing by the fence,
Excluded from the chances to advance.
Standing in the seedling beds,
Spring breezes rustling tender leaves,
I turn to Kate....
"It's never easy....
But if we don't thin the beets,
The beets will not develop
Beneath the leaves."
These damnable analogies arise
Infrequently these days,
And I am standing in the dirt,
Black soil upon on my hands,
Wondering about survival of the weak,
The treatment of humans and young plants,
Pondering humane ways to honor every student
In which I am investing...
Wishing I could see the end of high stakes testing....
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC
Beyond this time and place
Reviewing epochs past
We will recall this phase
As just a stumbling step
Toward fuller consciousness
As we evaluate
The values taught
The goals we sought
The strange pursuits
We tried to mesh
When men bypassed
The quest for truth
For greeds
Of finite flesh
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:55 AM UTC
Let me tell you 'bout a story of a truck drivin' girl,
In a custom made monster truck she took for a whirl!
That little speed demon, gonna be a star!
With her learners permit, and an adult in the car!
She may be out for a lark, but she can't parallel park,
She's a truck drivin' girl!
One day she'll get her license, and she'll have it all,
She can pick up her friends, and take a drive to the mall!
That little red head, gonna rock my world!
She's a truck drivin girl!
She's a truck drivin girl!
She's a,
Tire spinnin'
Gear grindin'
Clutch burnin'
Back firin'
Paint tradin'
Red linin'
Over heatin'
Throttle stompin'
Truck drivin' girl!
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
The small girl walked into the small room in her small school full of big words.
She sat at a little desk piled high with books
and flipped through the pages but only for a moment,
for moments passed and brought newer interests.
A woman with unkempt hair and quaint glasses sat behind her podium
preaching words which none seated were grateful to receive,
while one in her desk flipped through the pages.
Day by day the class came and went,
and the unkempt lady spoke the languages of people passed,
but none cared to understand the lyrics,
and one flipped through the pages.
And so the hours passed and the learners left their books
but one slipped it into her pouch
to explore later.
It brought her much joy,
this silent journey,
and she continued along the uncharted path.
She climbed the trees, dug in the ground and absorbed all she could.
It was not a race, though she ran through it,
skidding to a stop when the end crept upon her.
She met many friends along her first journey,
though she could not shake their hands,
but they smiled, and shared with her their thoughts
as she flipped through the pages.
These pages were not like all others though.
Their words were colors,
painted carefully with a brush yielding the power of speech and music.
They read like a song and told stories
or explained thoughts
or breathed admiration.
Each new hue left passion dripping down the page
and emotion danced between every line.
The small girl drank every last drop until her cup was empty
and she sought to refill it.
On a new journey she found wells and streams and rivers from which she drank.
Each passion-filled page quenched her thirst
and she met more friends and heard their voices.
She followed Keats down an old walkway
and barely kept up with Poe.
Robert Frost drew her a map
and Emerson gently led her through his land.
The girl followed them,
and decided to mix colors of her very own.
Her thoughts took hue as she expressed herself,
lining stones to create her own new pathways
and swimming in pools she filled herself,
silently hoping others would drink from them.
But despite her many travels and journeys,
she would always return to that small room
where she would listen to the unkempt woman
with lots to say and no one to listen,
and sit at her desk, weighted with big words
and flip through the pages.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
Long life learners understand the world
Long life learners show respect,
For the sun set.
Existence of God,
Peace for everybody.
Long life learners understand the world,
One color, one soul.
Men’s a God desire,
Wolves and liars.
Long life learners for everyone,
The society great people can ban.
God inside men’s heart,
We belong to earth or Mart?
Warmest regards
Victor Marques
Dec 9, 2010
Dec 9, 2010 at 10:18 AM UTC
If the plural form of a mouse is mice
and many many louse is called lice
why isn't the plural of house is hice?
and a nose be nice?
a kiss , kice?
English is a funny language isn't it?
Yet we learn to master it
The non natives speak and write
in their different accents and styles
Struggling to be understood
rather than be judged...
Still English is fun to learn
and Writing poetry is a great exercise
for English language learners.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
Misty words billow in the cold
Pluming from their mouths
Quiet swearing and first smoke coughing
They walk close to hedgerows
Kicking the dew from the grass
As birds squabble over breakfast
And mushrooms are still socialising
They whistle the dogs to heel
All panting and wagging tails
Stirring the dawn damp air
For happy is the early dog
In these sumptuous fields
Now the business of dawn begins
Low sharp commands are uttered
Bringing the younger bounding learners
To a proper sense of purpose
And that high-toned cross breed
The sleek and swift lurcher
Is eternally proud and primed
This long-sprint racer
Takes inevitable chase
Without sentiment or concious cruelty
An ancient craft is practised here
With the dogs at dawn
By Phil Roberts
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
Tetragrams and anagrams
Pseudonyms and sleight-of-hands
Betwixt the lines lie crooked spines
Textured, gestured, shamed and shrined
Functions, Factions, fabled fiction
Starred and Crossed, they're scored and stitched in
Faeries, furies, funded theories
Quantum physics, quarks and queries
Embers bright, a red clad knight
Winged cats with cubic heights
Flux your lux, set down your labels
Time entwines both swine and angels
Mumbled murmurs, lazy learners
Beacons, bosons, carbon burners
Codecs keyed for hertz and bytes
Ancient tones 'n pheremonones
Reflect,
Refract,
Retract...
Ignite.
Our shadow selves toll ghostly bells
Building walls, erecting shelves
Saviours, slaves, enchanted knaves,
'Tis man, himself, 'creates these Hells...
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 5:53 AM UTC
The instructions for handling catastrophe
(earthquake criminal activity
explosion medical emergency)
posted, stately, the know
better -
we aren't able to act so calmly in real
crisis
and fear regret,
but not the mistakes that lead us there,
but, as if from the mind of a bad author
at 2 am
suddenly I am saved.
YOU can be a teacher!
YOU can study the Holy Roman Empire!
YOU can dine with engineers!
YOU can delve into ancient religion!
Histories and futures juxtaposed
opportunity mingled with memory
the place where
creators and learners
engineers and historians
the inventive and the studious
partner
to dance the dance of
unrepeated history
The amazing thing is that it isn't helpless
like a personal pint of ice cream
before dinner laden with far too many
chocolate chips -
it slips over the spoon that tries
futilely to sift
and mix -
of all creatures,
the dreamer
is the most random eater,
it fears making the wrong decisions
to live with regret... well
This is none of your business,
yet intimate, the way surprise is
open, vulnerable
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 4:49 PM UTC
Was present, "long termer",
around years.
Has beaten odds, helped learners,
beat their fears.
Last eve, strange experience,
gave all, fright.
Had a funny turn in his appearance,
wasn't quite right.
Maybe stroke, small attack,
while seated.
Yelled to nurses urgently to get back,
checks greeted.
Tests and "risk man" passed,
cleared home.
As left, he crushed my hand grasped,
Eyes black, honed.
Felt strong underlying crawl,
right away.
Of black, dark, evil sweeping pall,
I heard death bray
So this burning disquiet rests,
now am thrown.
As the clinic tomorrow, commences,
he there, unknown?
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
Misty words billow in the cold
Pluming from their mouths
Quiet swearing and first *** coughing
They walk close to hedgerows
Kicking the dew from the grass
As birds squabble over breakfast
And mushrooms are still socialising
They whistle the dogs to heel
All panting and wagging tails
Stirring the dawn damp air
For happy is the early dog
In these sumptuous fields
Now the business of dawn begins
Low sharp commands are uttered
Bringing the younger bounding learners
To a proper sense of purpose
And that high-toned cross breed
The sleek and swift lurcher
Is eternally proud and primed
This long-sprint racer
Takes inevitable chase
Without sentiment or concious cruelty
An ancient craft is practised here
With the dogs at dawn
By Phil Roberts
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
Eyes wide open,
mind tightly shut,
we play victims to the postman
slotting news and letters
where little light filters through,
only as he sees fit.
Grotesque, gross manufacturers
spewing out page after page after page
of page three scandals -
of rich brats waxing lyrical,
American hip-hop DUIs,
fat cats cat-fighting.
Media
breast-feeds her gullible men
and milks the misfortunes.
We are part of the orchestra -
synchronised puppets looking to our
Master
to tell us
how
to read the notes.
Outside
there are flimsy flyers
advertising freedom
that have morphed into paper-planes,
but are impenetrable of ignorant masses,
flitting around the heads of the blind -
like cartoon characters after
being beaten up by
fists.
It is injustice.
Peel the scales from your eyes
and open the flood-gates, let forth the criticism!
Ask why an American singer's ten minute jail sentence
is more important than an Afghan girl's sentencing to be gang-raped.
Ask who the ten percent of the South African population are that receive sixty percent of our gross national income and how to alter that socio-economic gap.
Ask what is to become of learners who pass with thirty percent and if that is even possible when books aren't being delivered to schools.
Ask where one can find manifestos instead of accusations from each political party.
Do not let them dictate
your truths as
CAPITALISED LETTERS
with no urgency.
Do not let them confine
your insight to the ink on a page.
We are worth more than glossy sensationalism.
We are worthy of urgent honesty, transparency and enlightenment -
herein lies true freedom.
The liberation of the mind.
The uncoiling fist of a freedom fighter revealing the truth held within.
Amandla awethu.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
Misty words billow in the cold
Pluming from their mouths
Quiet swearing and first *** coughing
They walk close to hedgerows
Kicking the dew from the grass
As birds squabble over breakfast
And mushrooms are still socialising
They whistle the dogs to heel
All panting and wagging tails
Stirring the dawn damp air
For happy is the early dog
In these sumptuous fields
Now the business of dawn begins
Low sharp commands are uttered
Bringing the younger bounding learners
To a proper sense of purpose
And that high-toned cross breed
The sleek and swift lurcher
Is eternally proud and primed
This long-sprint racer
Takes inevitable chase
Without sentiment or concious cruelty
An ancient craft is practised here
With the dogs at dawn
By Phil Roberts
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
We grew, wild and ragged
in leaf dappled sunbeams
our roots entwined in woodland dens
alive with whispers of secrets shared
and learners kisses.
Summer stretched cat-slow before us
as cool morning dew
lay it's bounty at shoeless feet
and bluebells bowed in reverence
to the dawning of the day.
Winding brooks sang of freedom
as all of nature harmonised
the melody lifting and lilting
to soothe the jealous moon.
How fortunate we were
to thrive at nature's breast
nestled warmly within her constant heart
wrapped safely in her many shades.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
“Yes,” is the sound I make
At this crossroads, barren,
And cold.
A clean-cut cringe, hoarse
Noise of boisterous old men
Sitting, playing.
Slapping hands, applause
Of slight defeat to one man,
Atop the tower of cards.
The power lines watch him
From above. Critters of the sky,
Perch with worms and bugs,
Even babies in their bellies.
Harboring the coming
Change.
My bare ****** catches
The attention of watchers,
Voyeurs, timid learners,
Who all like the examples
But seldom skid any stones
Themselves.
I’ve put down the kin,
I’ve put down the knife,
I’ve put down the selfish night
Owl, eyes teeming now,
With respect,
Dilated, humbly begetting,
Stealing with sight.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 2:54 PM UTC
*A trillion lights bid hasty reflection
The bowed following preordained paths to
cardboard suburbia , under jet fuel rain , gnashed
in misery , some oxycontin follower , worshippers of Herod , rock ***** payback in five dollar denominations
A trick , a spittle of ***** in a ladle drawing gold from a coat pocket
Like a child's first snow , the learners license , naked in city lake
Kings with chewed teeth , bottom feeders in search of a vein , convenient Christ for **** and Jane , peanut butter for crustless sandwiches and taxed brains
Anarchy dreams , Presidential schemes , Syrian children burnt beyond
recognition , American pregnant teens , what would Jesus do ?
He's left us to our own devices* ...
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 8:00 PM UTC
Misty words billow in the cold
Pluming from their mouths
Quiet swearing and first *** coughing
They walk close to hedgerows
Kicking the dew from the grass
As birds squabble over breakfast
And mushrooms are still socialising
They whistle the dogs to heel
All panting and wagging tails
Stirring the dawn damp air
For happy is the early dog
In these sumptuous fields
Now the business of dawn begins
Low sharp commands are uttered
Bringing the younger bounding learners
To a proper sense of purpose
And that high-toned cross breed
The sleek and swift lurcher
Is eternally proud and primed
This long-sprint racer
Takes inevitable chase
Without sentiment or concious cruelty
An ancient craft is practised here
With the dogs at dawn
By Phil Roberts
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 4:54 AM UTC
We are us
Who are we?
We are the waters that create the seas
No need for modernisation
Civilisation oversees
United on the same path
Individually rare roads
Through bushes and gravels
We are the history that begins
We are the heard of new ideas,
That showers from forebears
To conquer now nature declares
Born with flares
All of us,all of us all of us we are one
Stumbling in failures
Triumphs directly delivers
We soon to stand like creepers,
Brothers and sisters
Learners to teachers and doctors
We are us
Or morning from dawn
Bravery at spawn
Flexible tongues to questions
Scary responses for answers
Who knows who are we
We are us, we are us
We are the Youths
Written by Kabelo Mthembu
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC
Blooming down in the form of triangle.
Making learners wonder why beetroot is around there
Argument take place,clean there,broom there
but scary to touch.
Sgb were called in may day situation.
Questioning the guard.
What happened but no answers were responded.
Because building were secured and unsecured because of a broken window.
Some said is the period girls
Some said maybe is a cat who was chopped by broken window.
Lingering around like fig fruits,
Ready to fall.on madiba day it became the 67 minutes of watching that miracle blood.
All we had to say was only God knows what happened and only God knows how to deal with it
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
Misty words billow in the cold
Pluming from their mouths
Quiet swearing and first *** coughing
They walk close to hedgerows
Kicking the dew from the grass
As birds squabble over breakfast
And mushrooms are still socialising
They whistle the dogs to heel
All panting and wagging tails
Stirring the dawn damp air
For happy is the early dog
In these sumptuous fields
Now the business of dawn begins
Low sharp commands are uttered
Bringing the younger bounding learners
To a proper sense of purpose
And that high-toned cross breed
The sleek and swift lurcher
Is eternally proud and primed
This long-sprint racer
Takes inevitable chase
Without sentiment or concious cruelty
An ancient craft is practised here
With the dogs at dawn
By Phil Roberts
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC
Some people are what Ms. Kimberly in first grade called
quick learners. They just know how to know,
even when it comes to the blurry subjects,
like love.
I guess I’m not a quick learner,
because I’ve asked three friends
what a butterfly is,
but I still don’t feel them in my stomach, and my skin doesn’t tingle —
sometimes it itches, but not because your hand’s holding mine.
Because I make lists every night before I can sleep,
but there are no boxes to check off for
the symptoms of love,
and I only take quizzes that end with an answer.
Because I don’t cannonball into a public pool,
no matter how sweaty it is outside, I only dip my toes in
a little.
Because there was one thing I was taught
growing up:
never tell a lie, just like George Washington,
and even if I’m not a quick learner,
I’ve always been a good student.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 12:56 AM UTC
They call it a temple of knowledge and thought,
A place where young minds are carefully taught.
But what is the lesson? What is the rule?
That learning doesn’t happen at my school.
The classroom’s a stage, the script is rehearsed,
Yet passion is absent—just boredom dispersed.
The teacher recites, but they barely engage,
Tenure protects them, and they never must change.
I ask, Why do I need to memorize this?
They smirk and respond, Because it’s on the quiz.
Centuries of knowledge forced into my head,
But not a **** skill for the life I will tread.
They pile on homework, assignments unceasing,
Stealing my time; my patience decreasing.
It teaches me nothing but how to endure,
A childhood lost—stolen, for sure
They claim to be guides, but barely take part,
More focused on grading than igniting a spark.
If I miss one step, if I fail one test,
I’m labeled as lazy, as less than the best.
Straight A’s mean success, so I play their game,
But knowledge? Oh, no—that's not why I came.
I memorize, cram, then let it all go,
The second the test ends? ****
I don’t know.
They call us the future, yet chain us to past,
Force us through molds, though none of us last.
We learn to obey, to raise our hand high,
To follow directions— but to never ask why?
For school isn’t built for learners like me,
It’s made for compliance, for mindless decree.
I’m forced to sit here and play through my role
Because learning simply doesn’t happen at my school.
Jul 2, 2025
Jul 2, 2025 at 1:50 AM UTC