"schoolbag" poems
a grandchild
for her 9th birthday
very happy
to be away from her older
as well as her younger sister
for a while
spent a long weekend
with her grands
they picked her up
schoolbag and bathing suit
and guitar & everything else
she had already mentioned
that French Toast for breakfast
would be REALLY nice
and that’s what she got
together with chocolate milk
1 minute in the microwave,
according to her wish
patiently reading her book
while the oldies got their act together
in their slow morning routine
they all went birthday shopping
& out for lunch
she read her book again while the oldies
were snoring their nap
& then they all had great fun
swimming and horsing around in the public pool
watching some TV
& improving her ping-pong game
happy & tired
after dinner some goodnight reading
doughnuts and hot chocolate for breakfast
next morning
and then
with grandma’s help
printing out a card for Mom on Mother’s day
AND baking real brownies as a gift….
a happy & proud 9-year old
was delivered to her parents
& presented her mother with the card
& the brownies & the new dress
& the homework all done
somehow
the guitar practice had gotten lost
yet she was the envy of her siblings
for the day
* * *
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
The night grows cold.
I don't think I will ever tire
Of the nights growing cold.
The moon seems to almost
Fix itself at the center of
The universe—I guess,
The center of my universe:
Papers, upon papers,
Upon scattered papers and
Paperclips and paper dolls
And paper hearts,
And I,
Indian sit-kneeling at its
Paper center.
Hugging my schoolbag to sleep.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 12:38 PM UTC
I had a bone, so I threw it in the bush... I guess this ***** doesn't believe in things that are far fetched.
Out of your schoolbag, give me pen & ruler, cause this is where I will draw the line.
Nowadays I get curious... (Like a young boy who never got the answer to the Question, "Where do babies come from?")
Sometimes life and living are completely two different things: Like a young mother telling a biology student that he never had a Father...
I'm a Skinny guy with big fat imagination... Size doesn't matter, Does that make you feel any better?
Nah! We both know where babies come from. But we both don't know which direction babies are going to...
Nine-months later, the truth always comes out... I am Father to Poetry... But I'm not yet ready to be Father, so the EXIT sign is a must...
#Hello, Goodbye.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 7:22 AM UTC
I fell asleep
To the smell of antiseptic,
Sterilizer, biogesic,
And the cold touch of metal
Rods that only seem
To grow colder
With the touch of hospital
Left in the student's
Ward - a whistle
Permeates the silence
Of seniors
Painlessly sleeping away
Hours upon
Hours until graduation -
A coming of age -
An escapism from past papers
And teachers who have
Themselves given up
On them.
And the lights you
See are as bright
And as empty as those blinking
Feebly
In that of the school doctor's
Office, one not really
Blinking more of
Washed, and supported
Wobbling by daylight
Seeping in through peeling blinds,
Unable to see too much -
The headaches and stomachaches
Have rendered him numb
To the feeling.
And lunch comes
And out blows the whistle to
Signify the end
Of playtime for
The young ones, start
Of playtime for
The older ones,
Whistle blowing muffled
By the septic tank glass
Doors of this sacred outhouse,
Wards muffling the cries of children
As they flee the quadrangle,
Once mad, twice elated,
Still innocent, untired,
Not needing to fake sick
And rest their heads softly
Upon thin soft beds with
Towels wrapped haphazardly
Behind their backs,
Nostalgia, it was
Laughter, I swear it was louder
When we used to run,
When our eyes lit up like
The sun petering in through
The doctor's orifices,
When our bruises and bumps
Smelled like betadine,
Not sleep
And cups of sterile water downed
To mask the scent of
Fake cough syrup,
And cuts gotten from fiddled syringes,
Bruised ankles
Bent over undersized beds,
And not running over
Uneven pavement,
Ankles brushing tablecloth,
Schoolbag,
Basketball and frisbee,
And the screaming.
Oh, how I miss
The screaming.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
The teeth of hierarchy flash
a scowled curse in quick lightening.
This hard edge does not hunger for food.
His, is a stare into a desert battle-ground:
dry-rasping, gaunt and unforgiving,
A Goliath.
And me - envious of stones in the desert.
The 'Fuck you’ in the eye of his razor.
My punishment waits like a
missionary’s head in a bucket
(its smile still praising in a tribal trophy necklace).
His armoured lips sip hot-dipped darkness
deep from the volcano.
The boy in class with my blood in his schoolbag.
The teacher dripping words of impatience onto my flight plan.
Head down, writing escape from the demon
Furiously - until the last bell.
MChallis © 2015
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 7:01 AM UTC
with all my tensions i came to a quite place
waterfall nearby and single bench to sit
from where you can look entire surface
i don't knew what it had that made me fit
I picked up my schoolbag and went on my way,
seeing those beautiful things which no one can pay,
I saw those green grass which stood straight,
my watch showed the message I was late.
I went to my busy city,
everywhere , every time noisy,
at once from terrace I was able to see,
village life with all its glee.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:08 AM UTC
A school bag against a wall,
paint peeling at the edges, grass growing
upwards, clinging to life
between the cracks of the pavement.
A hand on the school bag
clenched around the handle,
fingers pressed together,
curled, and the nails press into the heel of the palm.
They leave dark little crescents.
A boy;
he curls tighter against the wall,
a shadow throws itself over the bruise on his chin.
The boy pulls his school bag towards him,
rests his bruise on it. His fingers grasp
at the worn weave of it.
Eyes close, wrinkle shut.
Obscure all other senses,
so hearing is the sharpest.
Not yet, not yet. No footsteps yet.
Breath shudders, suppressed
from flaring nostrils.
Barely escapes from his lungs,
that are squished against all his other organs,
in that winding space of a box
compressing all of his organs.
No footsteps, no footsteps yet.
Breathe, breathe.
Footsteps.
Laughter, slinking around the corner,
ahead of the approaching group.
It plunges into the taught space of his ears.
Echoes there.
Thumps against his skull.
Footsteps.
A school bag, pressed tight against a boy,
who wraps his person around it,
begs it to be a shield.
A hand, curling into a fist.
Footsteps.
A boy,
and three others.
Three grin,
one does not.
He can't see their teeth, his eyes are stuck tight.
"Look at this pathetic ****
A slap of sole on pavement.
A boy stepping forward,
body harsh.
A flinch.
A laugh.
******* hell, I can't even be bothered."
Footsteps.
A high, quiet sob.
Fingers on a schoolbag, loosen.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:39 PM UTC
Grim drops slowly through the window
His front door's broken, the lock is gone
On the way home from school he saw an omen
It told him tonight would be long.
Grim shouts his mother get your lazy **** over here
And Grim shouts his father get in here and bring me a beer.
Grim drops his schoolbag and walks to the kitchen
And plonks down a beer on the table for father to drink
With his TV show watching the Simpsons
As mother lies hazily under the influence
Grim leaks slowly up the staircase
Into his room with the chain on the door
He pours himself into bed, lies on his back
He looks at the clock and he's sure
Eleven eleven, it's one one one one
It's the omen his demons have told him about
Wish on a star they said, and if that doesn't work
Wait til the clock pulls you out of all doubt.
Grim waits for nightfall
He doesn't have dinner
He's been getting thinner
But no one has seen.
He seeps from the bedroom
Down stairs and through hallways
He knows he is going where he hasn't been.
Grim please don't do it his friends would all say
(If he had any friends but he doesn't)
You know teachers despair of him
Teenagers laugh at him
Old ladies scared of him
GO ****** GO
Grim sets his face to determined
He runs down the path to the cliff
He launches himself from the edge and he flies
For a wonderful moment
A heartrending moment
A glorious screamingly awesomest moment
And then...
Then all is Grim.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
they call me a nymphet
my narrow hips budding *******
my glowing skin rosebud lips
in the sun where i rest...
older women are fat and cold
with porous skin and dyed hair
they haven't their blades like gold
salient and bare
they haven't their thighs like ivory
of thin ivory are mine
i'm british and brattish
they're just fine
they call me a nymphet
with my schoolbag hanging
from my frail shoulder
decadent and delicate
please just for a while
not a nymphet
but a hurting child
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
My! The beach it looks so cool today
With the sun shining down, the tide in
The golden sands, the lovely blue sea
How I'd love to be down there now,
messing about among the rocks
Fishing for ***** looking in the rock
pools
Paddling through the water,
swimming out in the tide,
Having a picnic with my Mom; she'd
have the blanket laid out
For us all to sit upon
She'd have lovely scones with butter
and strawberry jam
And lovely hot sugary tea
And "Go on, go get an ice cream from
the ice cream man".
But No! I can't, I've got to go to school
today
With this heavy schoolbag strapped to
my back with all my books in it
Yea, I got to go to school today and
face the scary teacher
The way she shouts at us and
brandishes that ruler of hers
And she'll slap you if you don't have
the right answer
Scary! Scary! Teacher
She's not at all like my Mother, my
Mom she's so soft and kindly.....
And she worries a lot I can tell, Mom
you mustn't worry,
She looks so sad sometimes I could cry.
At school how time, it moves so slow
O! I wish, how I wish I didn't have to
go
As children we're all thrown together,
it gets so noisy and there's quarrels
And some of the bigger boys from the
older classes
Their nasty, they push you around
and want to fight with you.
Coming back to class from the
toilets sometimes, on my own
I stop there & look out the door at
the empty playground
The leaves blowing in the wind, the
sparrows busy about
And then I look at the school gates and
I think
" Beyond those school gates lies Home"
How I wish then I could just run home
I'd run and I'd run
Run past the gates of the houses with
their angry barking dogs
I'd run ! Run the whole way, I wouldn't
stop:
I want to be at home with my Mom
Up in my room with my books, my
comics and toy soldiers.
But No! they say the Guard(policeman)
he'd be doing his rounds now
And if he was to see you, he'd catch
you
And then there'd be trouble then, Big
Big! Trouble!!!
Mum would be brought down and Dad
would have to be told too
At least, that's what they tell me,
More trouble for Mum
So I can't - I must go to school then.
Yes! I've got to go to school today and
face again the scary teacher
At least I got my homework done, but
there's still so much
I don't understand...so many things...
so many things to learn,
Scary! Scary! Teacher! she never looks
happy
She laughs at us and calls us bad
names
Just sitting there we tighten up inside,
under her gaze
And we pray "please don't ask me,
please don't ask me
Please don't call out my name",
How we watch that clock up on the
wall
Praying for 3 o'clock to arrive.
Why is it I had to come to this place?
Why!!!
I don't want to be here, I want to be at
home with my Mom.
Yes! I'd love to be down there today on
the beach
But I got to go to school today.
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 7:45 AM UTC
Certain things are bound to an end:
Your favorite school bag that you got from the mall,
The flower necklace you made out of chamomile the other day,
And the freshness and gleam of your juvenile face.
These things will gradually leave you
The schoolbag will rot and crumble
The flowers will fade and disappear
And your skin will wrinkle up and change
...
Certain things are bound to an end,
And other things are not:
The memory of holding the bag to school will remain
The photo while wearing the necklace will be cherished
And the smiles radiating your skin will become immortal.
Life is not bound to physical measures
Life is a series of memories, photos, and smiles.
Cherish them and forget everything that exists in the realm of time.
Jun 8, 2019
Jun 8, 2019 at 9:10 AM UTC