"schoolchildren" poems
people **** people
with nothing but fingers and hair
and their very heavy breath.
their breath like a crow beak
before crucifixes of straw. like a tightening banishment of a lung.
remember when we would blow it
onto our car window and create that
consistent mirth of fog to
begin in?
the bodies riddled with bullets that flank
the highway are no such thing.
the schoolchildren lying face down in the corner of the closet are no such thing.
they are just winter coats with schoolchildren to fill them
for the time being.
no amputation of what’s mine
will aid them into the grave.
no mass communication grief. so
why would you call it a mass grave when in truth it was just a pit i dug to fill with crowds of people who died under the pretense that they had previously done so,
that nothing was new under the sun.
and when people **** people like people
do with their instruments
as ways of extending themselves into the world and into the marrow of our body
obliterating organs of people with their stretching of the muscular rib, shoulder.
one eye closes firmly.
it’s nothing but a hand gun
as if to say a hand eats the gun
and makes it whole.
as if to say the reinforced metal door
exit plan for people who are being killed by other people clicked shut and locked
15,000 years ago and i can’t quit slamming what’s left of me into it.
your kid is very dead.
but then again so is mine.
suppose they killed each other.
suppose they both made the mistake of dragging their small, stupid bodies through the trajectory of another body in the first place. in the chip aisle of a gas station maybe. in theaters this christmas.
in the midst of a good song that began playing on the lobby radio
just a minute before,
oh yeah before,
things really got going.
i saw people killing people
on television the other day
with their
whole bodies,
devouring themselves like surgical gloves
slick with oiled consumption
and bleeding out
and i could do nothing.
some kids died just because
and they told me so and i was told nothing could ever help them because they were just people and they were dying.
“breaking news” ended up just being people again.
in those moments, i was eating breakfast.
our houses were very quiet and needed me in all of them, grandfather clock over CNN, clarifying what has already been
committed and committed again.
the cipher was others lost blood.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 12:24 AM UTC
I breathe in this silence that is not
Silenced,
Air alive with heartbeats and
Clocks ticking too slow,
Eyes meeting over
Sticky plastic tables,
Snapping away like an awkward blind date,
Fingertips drumming impatiently.
Wait.
Calm.
Be patient.
Tick...tock........tick...............tock
I can't, I won't, my son laying
One floor, 3 hallways, 12 rooms away,
But we are relegated to the hospital cafeteria as if my husband and I are naughty schoolchildren,
Interfering.
My red shirt crumples beneath
Nervous fingers,
The same shade as the blood given
To my son, not knowing it contained
Death.
Why can't I fight with my son,
My son,
Shining brightly and boldly as the sun,
Infected with a blood-borne killer we were never warned about.
Hemophilia is a tough diagnosis,
But my careful worrying wasn't enough to save him from a
Diagnosis of ostracism and certain death.
AIDS.
Oh God.
Breathe.
Can't breathe.
Time moves too fast, my son racing towards eternity
Alone.
White sheets and sterile beds rob
My son of all his sunshine,
Lips blue and pale like my husband's jacket,
Nothing but incessant beeping and bustling nurses who can't fix him,
Clock going tick, tock, tick, tock.
I see red.
Red dripping into and out of his arms through silver needles,
How do I know that this is safe,
No one knows if this is safe,
This is our only hope.
Tick..tock.....tick........tock.
White coat of the doctor moving too quickly towards us,
We run.
My heart thumping red and my stomach yellow bile and my eyes leaking blue.
Hospital room not room enough for all my emotions,
All of my tears,
All of my grief,
All his last breaths.
My son.
No longer my sunshine,
Just a pale winter afternoon,
No sun beneath cold sheets of snow.
My son.
Time moves too slow when everyone wears black,
Like molasses dripping from a jar into
Metallic air and earthy graves.
Like ash clouding out the sun.
My son.
No more my sun.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
Empty skies embrace
Sparse cloud formations
The blues fade and overlapped hues
Sparkles crested in fickle delight
Lazy outstretched yawns of natural light
Sun’s glare glazed under Moon’s appearance
Embossed against the translucence of blue space
Everything up there is calm today
No rush or race or interference
Gentle indifference drifts to the West.
Staying dry for us
The beautiful simplicity of being Sky.
Stop and look around.
Cyclists trickle on painted pathways
Student groups pontificate about life
and the lecture they should all be at,
Lunchtime sprawls and **********
never ending spurts of schoolchildren
delirious for sausage rolls and E numbers.
Everyone in a rush to be someone
Going somewhere with purpose,
and yet,
Be indifferent
to each other.
The bland complexity of being modern People.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
a virtual network is the perfect place
for an alien intelligence to infiltrate;
passing as any number of avatars &
spreading an anti-human philosophy
in the war between robots & aliens
w/ humanity no longer a factor, the
robots freely the pummel the aliens
w/ devastating laser precision; the
aliens retaliating w/ hot magnets to
heat the polymer machines to the
melting point; the aliens unaware of
the earth's default nuclear arsenal;
triggered to explode as a last resort;
mankind & machine joined as one &
as the aliens land their ground forces
a slight tremor becomes a supernova
& the entire alien fleet is blown out
of spacetime w/ such fiery havoc, the
never seen & long extinct mankind
becomes legendary for its viciousness
hav·oc/ˈhavək/noun
noun: havoc
1. widespread destruction. "the hurricane ripped through Florida,
causing havoc"
synonyms: devastation, destruction, damage,
desolation, ruination, ruin; disaster, catastrophe
"the hurricane caused havoc"
great confusion or disorder.
"schoolchildren wreaking havoc in the classroom"
synonyms: disorder, chaos, disruption,
mayhem, bedlam, pandemonium, turmoil,
tumult, uproar; commotion, furor, a three-ring circus; informal:
hullabaloo
"hyperactive children create havoc"
verb: archaic: havoc; 3rd person present: havocs;
past tense: havocked; past participle:
havocked; gerund or present participle:
havocking [ ]. ( )
1. lay waste to; devastate.
late Middle English: from Anglo-Norman
French havok, alteration of Old French
havot, of unknown origin; the word was
originally used in the phrase ‘cry havoc’;
(Old French crier havot ) ‘to give an army the order - havoc,’
the signal for plundering
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 8:04 PM UTC
today i saw a row of schoolchildren at an airport
observing the beehive from the outside
they have never touched the skyline
they have never been inside
they live on the outskirts of this city
their lives are a contrast to mine
i could see the wonder painted on their faces
they were dreaming
in their private minds
they had become more than school children
they were a part of the city
they had a seat on the plane
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
The Knitting Needles Museum
has a prudish name
that frightens the schoolchildren
and obscures the oppression
of desperate and ***** women
The torture museum
and the war museum also
lack the inspiration
from a muse
They are monuments
and should be called that
With the unbuilt museums
of destroyed art and
ancient cultures, they can
fill a street in any city
'Ecce homo', behold man
the noble beast, the master
of things and nothings -
virtual and vanished
worlds that are unlivable
Jan 4, 2023
Jan 4, 2023 at 4:04 AM UTC
Stack the bodies higher
Stack them for the empire
People want more cash
So they sell harmful weapons
They don't mind the ash
Made of victims of aggression
Like collateral children in Yemen
Who are needlessly sent to heaven
Or the schoolchildren in Florida
Who had to go face the coroner
These children only know what we teach them
So how come the only things that can reach them
Are our weapons
And deadly directions?
Because of lobbyists like the NRA
Using logic from the seventh grade
To create a coalition of those who believe what they're told
And those unwilling to change because they're too old
And adults who desperately want their toys
Even if it means the death of little boys
So the bodies continue to stack to the sky
For people who dream of killing black guys
Black in the sense that they don't know who they are
They just want to feel hard
Stuck in a childish fantasy of protecting their home
Or a petulant fear of the unknown
Their economic gain
Causes ballistic pain
Inside their bullet rain
Innocence circles the drain
But we must make decisions together
Even with the emotionally severed
In order to make our society better
Until then our children get deader
They use uncertainty to buy time
And convince the masses
That the real problem is crime
To create rhetoric molasses
Because they make a living
From us dying
They don't mind bullet giving
Until we're lying
Six feet under
The guns sound like thunder
Warning of an approaching lightning storm
Where the rain drops stab us to our core
Then mix with the blood on the floor
Until civilization is no more
I hear loud guns
Then I hear church bells
I walk in the sun
But the foul dirt smells
Of the corpses of countless kids
Representing high contract bids
And the tears of their mothers
That are swept under the covers
By those with no empathy
That cause only entropy
Then they expect to live near us
A gun will make them hear us
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
Two Maronite schoolchildren practice their English…
“Cedars! Cedars! Cedars!”
“See theirs, seethers, Caesars,
See her cedars Caesar?”
“See here, a sea-fare and see there?
And oh, I see Sir?”
“Do you see her? Yes I see Sir, -Caesar!”
“Cedars! Cedars! Cedars!”
And they are descendants of Solomon’s thirty-thousand, the great-grandchildren of Hiram’s workers.
“Sol Indiges!”
“Sol Invictus!”
“Sol-Ammon!”
“Now children, how do the three monkeys act?”
“Sol, the root of solar and it means the Sun, it means also to see or sight as it infers the light of seeing.”
“Am means fire but it is also the meditative word, Aum, therefore it cannot render evil through sound!”
“On is Egyptian and it connotes speech so it represents hearing.”
The instruction in language is not terse. Requiring broad-based understandings of how the West characterizes ideas. These two are particularly adept being taught from birth in both Maronitic and Latin and now English, in preparation for their exodus, as home has become a battleground where they must leave soon. Only in the West can they find peace and practice their faith so expressively. Only in the West can these two girls attend school if their lands are befallen…
“Now children, what does this mean?”
“See no evil!”
“Speak no Evil!”
“Hear no Evil!”
“And that children, is the Wisdom of Solomon!”
Breaking news! CNN reports that a car bomb has exploded in the ancient Lebanese town of Mejdeloon. Shocking footage now of a series of homes that have been reduced to rubble near a Maronite Church where rescuers are just now pulling out the bodies of two young school girls. Christopher Talias reports live from the Lebanon.
“Sol Indiges is the voice of god,"
Sol Invictus, in light, his mind;"
Sol-Ammon is the understanding and wisdom for all time!”
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 11:56 AM UTC
In her dreams, the docent
maneuvers schoolchildren
down museum corridors,
shepherding their bodies
into evacuated galleries
where nothing changes
except the patterns
of nails hammered
into plaster walls.
She speaks pedantic
falsehoods until one
by one the children
disengage and find
themselves a constellation
of nails upon which to hang.
A renaissance takes time, but
not as much as you might think.
Come midnight,
the museum is full
of masterpieces.
And though the works
of art make her weep,
the docent is inspired
to study each small frame
for a brushstroke
that might signify
the break of dawn.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 9:44 AM UTC
Daybreak
Is a daily baptism:
Small town bubble bursting
At the seams
To find young schoolchildren
Heaving their bags
And heading off to school,
Soft rooster crows
Slowly replaced by the
Smiling whistles
Of traffic guards
Who know each of us
By face.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 6:03 AM UTC
A man in a hotel
witnesses some smoke
on his television
shot from a news copter
flying quite high
above the town below,
above a school, where
the schoolchildren of
Ms. Appleby’s class
turn in their papers,
but clamor to see a
woman on the side
of the road, who kept
her eyes on the road,
but crashed anyway.
The woman was calling
her husband- you
couldn’t see this from
the helicopter- but John,
her husband, was on
vacation in Hawaii
and will have to return
to his children, who
last told him of their
combined A+ in a project
written about the dangers
of cell phone use on
the road, done for their
teacher, Ms. Appleby.
John of the hotel
hangs up his phone,
and sighs.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 5:01 PM UTC
Encounter
It was afterward, in the light from a streetlamp
you sobbed and said that you wished we hadn't.
Anyone else and I'd have taken my cue, left, and drank till sunrise.
For some reason I stayed (having no choice really)
pulled you close and asked why, expecting an answer I'd already
heard many, many times before.
You looked into me, and said 'You smell like pine needles.
The next one won't smell like you, and I won't be able to pretend
that he or she is you.'
That was not the answer I had a defense for.
"You smell like cinnamon, and I want to run. But I won't leave,
unless you want me to."
Winds
"Let me tell you about winds," said I, trailing an apricot leaf across your left breast. Giggling, you tried to bite my nose. "Shut up you, I love that book too, and I know Herodotus better than you ever will."
"Ah yes, you were his lover at one time if I recall."
"Indeed I was, long before you and your sandy hair came on the scene. Your hair IS sandy."
"It is so totally NOT sandy, it's light brown. And all the grey is your fault."
Sauntering to the bathroom, you gave me the finger as you bent down to turn on the hot water. I waited till I saw steam, long enough for you to let your guard down, and hit you in the *** dead center with an apricot.
"Good shot you piece of **** but that's no way to treat a lady."
"Whoever said you were a lady cheri?"
Laughing, you tried to shove soap in my mouth as I slid into the scalding water. The tub was a bit cramped for two people, but we didn't mind. We never minded when we were forced together, at least here was privacy. (Although there are few things sweeter than a stolen kiss in a train full of singing Rajput schoolchildren, a story for another time)
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 8:43 PM UTC
Needles and spoons and white powders,
Among other things I've never seen or touched or smelled -
Such things seem not meant for dabblers, or at least
Not for me.
Those things are meant for stars, who see stars,
Whose fame reaches the stars,
Whose face is broadcast through the stars and back again,
Echoing their brains and bodies and all that white powder.
They're not meant for schoolchildren,
Who climb up ladders and jump off cliffs,
Who grow tall only with scissor lifts securely under their feet,
Who stand at the top of water slides and sit at the top of roller coasters,
Who're only as close to the stars as the school roof will let them be.
Those things are not for them,
Not for me.
But there is something,
Something softer, lighter, easier, greener,
Something familiar to most.
Called a gateway for some, certainly for the famed,
A gateway to the stars even before the needles and spoons and white powders.
There are books about famed faces and the way they wrinkle over the years,
About their cultivations, their migrations, their explorations.
Books of things they've done, that I've done, that we've done,
Smoke billowing from our lips, our nostrils, from every pore,
And books about how, with the same ritual I've taken a part in,
They somehow manage to climb so high - mimicking their fame,
they soar up and up, to the stars and past,
Through religious experiences, baffling adventures, new and brilliant insight.
Not me.
I reach that roof or lift or water slide,
Stretch my hands as far as they can reach,
Point my toes for that extra barely inch,
And, after such heavy straining,
Fingertips atoms away from the clouds,
at least the clouds,
give me the clouds,
I collapse,
Breath short,
Heart racing,
In exhaustion.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
Keswick to Kendal by bus
Boarded at Keswick
few people aboard
lovely and peaceful
just watching
as the amazing scenery goes by
At Ambleside things change dramatically
an army of unruly schoolchildren
arrive onboard
The whole journey turns into a nightmare
I was glad when we reached sunny Kendal
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
glean from the grey light
of storm infested day
knowledge and rumour of
portent and potions which are
the ingredients of her heretic mind
and its tricksy path through the thorns
her face defends against such conversation
deflects the angrier intents and sends them off
like petulant schoolchildren to
stand in a meadow of butterfly's and balloons
their angry little faces red with envy
at the good kids who get ice cream
think bland thoughts children
live bland lives and you can have cookies and cake
all day long
quiet now here on the back porch
'cept Cecil who is mumbling his disgruntled
mind to the saints above
while he sips his bottle of red wine
the soft rain and winter birds
are the symphony to his lone act stage production
of another mans life
which is well lived and hardy
a life without such rain
a life without winter birds
winter birds
huddle next to eachother on tree-limb
waiting for a chance to join the swift sky
dance in its rivers of air
dream in its wondrous star laden halls
breath its wide open sea
winter birds want to fly away
just like me
just like me
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
12 AM silent tears, matty hair, wet cheeks, exhausted sockets
1 AM runny nose, hushed sobs, escaping eyelashes
2 AM car horns, brisk winds, rising goose flesh
3 AM screams, pain, quiet
4 AM unsteady breathing, ripping apart of pearl necklaces
5 AM cocking of a pistol's safety
6 AM whiskey breath, ***** tongue, an empty orange juice carton
7 AM chattering of neighbors and schoolchildren
8 AM shouts of husbands and wives briefly forgetting how to love each other
9 AM ringing of flower shop cashiers, whistling of tea kettles
10 AM guilt, ample remorse for the undead
11 AM business lunches, speedy dates, short ***** to pass the time
12 PM recollections of a first kiss in Central Park, replay of 12 hours ago
1 PM promises to meet for dinner someday, hair salon gossip
2 PM chiming of church bells, unanswered prayers to invisible gods who doubt your purity
3 PM catcalls, ignored pleas of attention
4 PM passing of verdicts, granting freedom
5 PM wasted apologies, divorce papers being signed
6 PM an old woman's sheets ruffling for a final time, descendance of the sun
7 PM lighting of street lamps, laughter over pizza, beers and a dining room table
8 PM locked doors, readings of bed-time stories
9 PM whispers of "I love you", murmurs of "I'm sorry", snores of a newborn
10 PM breaking bottles, crashing glass, foggy windows, smoky glances
11 PM blood stained clothes, yells of fear,
the sounds of a lonely girl running into a busy city street
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Did not work out well for Brits circa 1857.
Sepoys blown from guns. Lesson learned. Empire upheld.
In America, history does not apply. Only winning.
When 3.3 million get up and leave. Syrian Chaos.
Oh, that magic feeling: nowhere to go. Or elsewhere.
Have much. Use much. Enjoy much. Care little.
Other than genocide. No obvious solution. Or Malthus.
Cats cry in Gelid winter. Home where you don't find it.
Gigantic cakewalk with no chairs. Only losers.
Oh where, oh where, will these little lambs go.
Anywhere but your back yard. Concern, not Welcome.
Find great open spaces: Australia, Antarctica.
Out of sight out of mind. Heart grows forgetful.
Remember Law of Unintended Consequences:
*I and the Public know what all schoolchildren learn;
Those to whom Evil is done, do Evil in return.*
~mce
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 9:13 AM UTC
Dance with me,
under a raincloud,
as sunshine bursts,
like schoolchildren;
leaping through the double doors,
of a rustic brick building.
Flowerpots filled to the brim
with cigarette butts, and bad
decisions, ones made
after dancing on the boardwalk,
as the darkness shrinks away,
for the sun brightens and shakes.
Quivers—the world spinning and spinning.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 12:34 PM UTC
Holding hands, we’ve got a reason
To be together.
Taking a stand, for a moment in time
And forever.
We’re all here,
Because we care,
About something.
We each speak,
but together
One voice matters
Sickened by the news,
Hate against Blacks and Jews.
Schoolchildren aren’t safe,
Tiki torches in our face,
their light shows, we’re all one race.
No one wants your view,
But I do,
And the women scream,
“Me too!”
Arm in arm, defending our rights
For each other.
Sound the alarm, have we stopped caring
For one another?
Thoughts and prayers
Are all we hear,
We need more.
If we all,
speak together
Our voices matter.
We can’t feed our poor,
But the rich keep getting more.
Instead of bridges,
We get walls.
When did we go blind, to the suffering
Of the stranger,
who’s our neighbor?
I can’t just be for me, if I’m free,
So people, follow me.
Open your eyes, staring down power
For freedom.
Time to rise, pray with your feet.
We need you.
Speaking up,
Because silence,
Grows evil.
If we all,
March together
Our footsteps matter.
We spend more on defense,
But we never invest,
In those we most need to protect.
Land of opportunity?
Shutting doors?
What future is in store?
Now is our time.
Get in line.
Your voice,
Is mine!
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 5:17 AM UTC
anyone can tire of the belittling hippy pacifism hiding Stalin in its underwear like it was the höchste lösung without nappies; because the left believes we were born with drink-hardened-bladders!
we can't fathom the new intellectuals
and their soberness
like we can't fathom the fact
that some went into battle
with amphetamines and some with
alcohol; we simply can't accept
a sober enemy, the fear of death too dragging
in a reggae of a continuum
and bedrooms' pleasure racked
in lacking a womb -
found the index imitating a fly,
and a king with it too - who's to kneel?
thus they fought intoxicated, but argued sober?
why not reverse?
why let these schoolchildren, these hitlerjungen
fight intoxicated while the bulging argue sober?
the fighters intoxicated and the politicians sober?
sombre? did i hear it right?
the berserker fight intoxicated while
while the old men squabble sober?
send the old men to fight sober and the youth
to politicise intoxicated!
i take to war the intellectual concern for
your piano and your wallpaper and your pseudo
Marxist class struggle -
where war knocks via intellectuals, war will come
and intoxication will be the new intellectualism -
where intellectuals knock for ginger
they will reap Blitzkrieg...
where war comes intellectuals exploit first...
with intellectual agitation war comes easily,
******** animal readied...
you cleave from the vacuum you created
you will meet the tailor and the barber...
so must intelligence gone to waste...
your little post-communist intelligentsia...
with us not involved come party come the new
right and dei neu nord!
Apr 23, 2016
Apr 23, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC
Warm summer night, your hand in mine, dancing around the kitchen to Abba, the floor sticky with spilled ***** bubblegum blue, before I turned to whiskey straight stashed in my bedroom drawer.
Cool early morning, stepping out into a rainstorm, giggling like schoolchildren as we collapsed back into our beds, our bodies soaking wet, before I started using my umbrella during the lightest showers.
Hot sunny day, barefoot by the ocean, my head on your chest listening to the sound of your heart close to my ear, before I found comfort in only the sound of the sea in a shell.
Dark Halloween eve, dizzy with drunkenness, sat on your lap, your arms around my waist before
I vomited into the bathroom sink
and washed all my love for you
away
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
Is there a place where forgotten thoughts go to hide?
Is there a cove in the sea where memories gather?
Is there a cloud in the sky made up prayers said by schoolchildren?
The ones who meant it and the the ones who tried to mean something.
Is there a mountain made of promises and a valley of empty ones?
Is there a place where forgotten thoughts go to hide?
Take me there.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 12:37 AM UTC
sometimes,
my brain finds solace
on a sweet picnic table -
set up for a short tea,
on tatami mats,
in a garden with half a blanket
of pink-white blossoms
sleeping on the earth.
on such days,
my words settle into
seventeen sweet spots -
no fuss, no muss -
like schoolchildren after a field trip,
too tired and hopefully
too content
to rebel.
sometimes,
my words come to rest
as if my heart and my hands
are all weary travellers,
and i sent them to retrieve riches
that are way beyond
belonging to seventeen neat corners.
and so i apologize,
i call it laziness,
offer some food for thought,
and a warm place to rest
between the
three
simple
lines
of a haiku.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 3:51 PM UTC
Caught in the midnight streetlight glory
The deprived lay bare, shivering in the streets
Wrapped in blankets of steaming yellow snow
Out of sight is far enough to remain out of mind
Only the white right is entitled to authenticate their rage
Lay your broken child to rest, in their welcome grave
Paid for so generously, by the Imperial NRA
Who knew schoolchildren and congressmen
Bleed the same, to a disputed death
So afraid of the wicked, social state
It's okay if we make our prosperity pay
On the backs of blacks, we made our beds
But it's not up to us to pay them back
Those we sent to fight for us, lay awake in torment
Who could have known, that the greater curse was coming home
We don't have the time or the mind to treat you
If you had laid down your life for your country
At least we’d call you a hero on your tombstone
We have become oversaturated
In who’s name disgraced
To the point where we condone the genocide ‘abroad’, online and televised
Where the blind have truly led the broke, to the ledge
We'll always be okay, should the right price be paid
Mar 23, 2021
Mar 23, 2021 at 3:55 AM UTC
Today is also Valentine’s, and so
For the schoolchildren little candy hearts
As we remember from our happy youth
Teenagers like them still, and so they should
Now lessons follow: the four elements
Of Anglo-Saxon poetry, history
Chemistry, a turn in the auto shop:
Yeats’ happy “ceremonies of innocence”
And in the afternoon, Mass, and ashes,
And the cleaners tidy up candy wrappers
Instead of corpses
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 11:02 PM UTC