"tutors" poems - Hello Poetry

"tutors" poems

Tomato: Big, juicy, red INSANE! Sneaks up upon unsuspecting Unreliable MATH TUTORS! A terrible fight ensues! Tomato or tutor? Tutor or tomato? Tomato knows no math. Tutor has no seeds. A standoff. Tutor and tomato growl menacingly, Circling one another Like two pieces of meat On a microwave turntable. Suddenly, their rhythmic dance of Hate Is broken By the rhythmic sound of incoming Imminent Inescapable Doom. Tutor and tomato are trampled Like a TV dinner On the freeway.

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Feb 4, 2015

Feb 4, 2015 at 7:29 PM UTC

Tomato: Big, juicy, red INSANE! Sneaks up upon unsuspecting Unreliable MATH TUTORS! A terrible fight ensues! Tomato or tutor? Tutor or tomato? Tomato knows no math. Tutor has no seeds. A standoff. Tutor and tomato growl menacingly, Circling one another Like two pieces of meat On a microwave turntable. Suddenly, their rhythmic dance of Hate Is broken By the rhythmic sound of incoming Imminent Inescapable Doom. Tutor and tomato are trampled Like a TV dinner On the freeway.

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Mr Jonah was sent to Nineveh He head out but took a detour Now in the belly of the beast. Mr Jonah cannot change things overnight Says his town's men Who will Carry or move anything Without power? Obviously no one, so we need power They also said; That's not possible overnight. Our palm oil is dry No groundnut oil to fry Nobody is buying our powerful oil Yet we have to sell before we boil If we don't sell something We will not eat anything. Our children are misbehaving Is this the future we are saving? Will Mr Jonah build a place Full of tutors? Well,that's not possible overnight Cows everywhere Is there no one to check these cows? Mr check cow is busy Burning our farms and farmers Mr Jonah cannot stop Mr check cow Not overnight. 365 days make a year How many years make an overnight? The writer coughs; 6 years makes one night. Wait o, is 6years overnight?

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Mar 6, 2015

Mar 6, 2015 at 4:41 AM UTC

Six years a night

Mr Jonah was sent to Nineveh He head out but took a detour Now in the belly of the beast. Mr Jonah cannot change things overnight Says his town's men Who will Carry or move anything Without power? Obviously no one, so we need power They also said; That's not possible overnight. Our palm oil is dry No groundnut oil to fry Nobody is buying our powerful oil Yet we have to sell before we boil If we don't sell something We will not eat anything. Our children are misbehaving Is this the future we are saving? Will Mr Jonah build a place Full of tutors? Well,that's not possible overnight Cows everywhere Is there no one to check these cows? Mr check cow is busy Burning our farms and farmers Mr Jonah cannot stop Mr check cow Not overnight. 365 days make a year How many years make an overnight? The writer coughs; 6 years makes one night. Wait o, is 6years overnight?

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We the citizens, who live as refugees, We keep earning & see if our life is turning, To the price rise, we lose savings, Still we remain rock-bottom in standard of living. We belong to the middle class, Whose life always a breakable thin glass. Our life remains completely unsettle, Every second, life tests our mettle. Life chases us with pressure, failure and useless lecture, We are nurtured with a fear of future, Happiness remains just a leisure, Live with the unsecure & unsure present for a secure future. We keep us busy and function, We fear, when there arrives a function, Towards happiness, we run as a pilgrim, For the corporates, we become a mere victim. We run like an athlete for salary, food and target, For this globalized world, we are just a market, Like hungry dogs, we wait for increments, We keep running with bitter disappointments. We live in own house, only in our dreams, Our hearts cry with hopeless screams, Failures remain our tutors, Inability has turned us the irrecoverable debtors. Our appearance has a rich look, We have untold hidden burdens, That keep us shook, Keeps us forbidden and fear-ridden. Low class think us rich, High class always want us to be their ***** Politically neglected by the rulers, Economically exploited by the rich powers. We exhaust ourself for subsistence, We remain victorious and satisfied only in our existence, We lose our life to sustain in competence, We run our life with a mere persistence. More than the high class and low class, we suffer, Our lives never progressed as governments differ, All see low class with empathy and sympathy, To our difficulties, we are looked with apathy. On rich, we are not jealous, Towards our aim, we are zealous. Never think we are nothing, We truly have nothing to lose. We take risks to make history, Our path is nothing less than a mystery, You never allow us to come up, But we are not going to give up. Hello High class, Never pretend to live like us, to exploit us, Gone are the days, we remained fools, You will stand a day as the super intelligent fools. Before, we are hungry for food, Now, we are hungry to rule, Before, we feared to live, Now, we are ready to win the world. We are nothing! We are nothing We have nothing to lose! We won’t stop until having nothing could do nothing to us.

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Nov 9, 2018

Nov 9, 2018 at 7:35 AM UTC

We- The Middle Class

We the citizens, who live as refugees, We keep earning & see if our life is turning, To the price rise, we lose savings, Still we remain rock-bottom in standard of living. We belong to the middle class, Whose life always a breakable thin glass. Our life remains completely unsettle, Every second, life tests our mettle. Life chases us with pressure, failure and useless lecture, We are nurtured with a fear of future, Happiness remains just a leisure, Live with the unsecure & unsure present for a secure future. We keep us busy and function, We fear, when there arrives a function, Towards happiness, we run as a pilgrim, For the corporates, we become a mere victim. We run like an athlete for salary, food and target, For this globalized world, we are just a market, Like hungry dogs, we wait for increments, We keep running with bitter disappointments. We live in own house, only in our dreams, Our hearts cry with hopeless screams, Failures remain our tutors, Inability has turned us the irrecoverable debtors. Our appearance has a rich look, We have untold hidden burdens, That keep us shook, Keeps us forbidden and fear-ridden. Low class think us rich, High class always want us to be their ***** Politically neglected by the rulers, Economically exploited by the rich powers. We exhaust ourself for subsistence, We remain victorious and satisfied only in our existence, We lose our life to sustain in competence, We run our life with a mere persistence. More than the high class and low class, we suffer, Our lives never progressed as governments differ, All see low class with empathy and sympathy, To our difficulties, we are looked with apathy. On rich, we are not jealous, Towards our aim, we are zealous. Never think we are nothing, We truly have nothing to lose. We take risks to make history, Our path is nothing less than a mystery, You never allow us to come up, But we are not going to give up. Hello High class, Never pretend to live like us, to exploit us, Gone are the days, we remained fools, You will stand a day as the super intelligent fools. Before, we are hungry for food, Now, we are hungry to rule, Before, we feared to live, Now, we are ready to win the world. We are nothing! We are nothing We have nothing to lose! We won’t stop until having nothing could do nothing to us.

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Spanish Guitars A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101). This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig. Spanish Guitars two weeks pass. I have seen two guitars one of wood, one of sheet metal. both were alive, both were inanimate both birthed for display, useful for granting pleasure and heating up le jus d'creation products of a tradesman's craft, animated to pierce my brain and pleasure me with the realization that when you see what I see When you, you hear, What I see we all perforce speak but one language, an alphabet of music, art and love A young, oh so most beautiful Croat guitarist girl, Ana, coaxes an urgency from her love, the blonde wood, she takes Piazzola's notes, as if they were Picasso's thoughts and set them within so days later, the resonance plucks at my temples Picasso, like a little boy, collects collaged bits and pieces of life's stuff most ordinary, postage stamps, playing cards, wallpaper, pieces of cardboard, cutouts from Le Journal, and with fingers delicate sticks and glues discrete notes, individually nothing but pieces of this and that, bits and bobs superimposed on faux woodwork, presenting an instrument tooled to conjures up a milonga^, the sounds of angels dying, a fandango of trembling tones a sonnet of sounds, celebrating human touch upon animal, strings taut, feasts both, a banquet, a triomphe of sounds that tutors my senses to hear sheet metal guitars imprisoned in museum glass gush sounds of parallel lines and delicate contrasts, A duet of animate, inanimate Virtuosity All is clarified. One language. Many dialects. Both, Spanish guitars. ^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party

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Aug 21, 2013

Aug 21, 2013 at 1:14 AM UTC

Spanish Guitars

Spanish Guitars A few years ago, in 2011, I went to a concert of young classical guitarists. Just before or after, I don't recall, I saw an exhibition of Picasso's guitars at the Museum of Modern Art in NYC (http://www.moma.org/visit/calendar/exhibitions/1101). This poem ensued. This is one of the lost poems I mentioned, recently rediscovered on an archaeological dig. Spanish Guitars two weeks pass. I have seen two guitars one of wood, one of sheet metal. both were alive, both were inanimate both birthed for display, useful for granting pleasure and heating up le jus d'creation products of a tradesman's craft, animated to pierce my brain and pleasure me with the realization that when you see what I see When you, you hear, What I see we all perforce speak but one language, an alphabet of music, art and love A young, oh so most beautiful Croat guitarist girl, Ana, coaxes an urgency from her love, the blonde wood, she takes Piazzola's notes, as if they were Picasso's thoughts and set them within so days later, the resonance plucks at my temples Picasso, like a little boy, collects collaged bits and pieces of life's stuff most ordinary, postage stamps, playing cards, wallpaper, pieces of cardboard, cutouts from Le Journal, and with fingers delicate sticks and glues discrete notes, individually nothing but pieces of this and that, bits and bobs superimposed on faux woodwork, presenting an instrument tooled to conjures up a milonga^, the sounds of angels dying, a fandango of trembling tones a sonnet of sounds, celebrating human touch upon animal, strings taut, feasts both, a banquet, a triomphe of sounds that tutors my senses to hear sheet metal guitars imprisoned in museum glass gush sounds of parallel lines and delicate contrasts, A duet of animate, inanimate Virtuosity All is clarified. One language. Many dialects. Both, Spanish guitars. ^ a milonga has many meanings, but here, refers to a Argentine tango dance party

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**gingerly on the knife-point of a problem my inflated ego slowly was punctured i heard the hiss of its demystification in that constricted moment of revelation a moment that enthused about the demise of my avid hallucination now laid bare salvation, the voice of naked truths chanted is neither in the fig leaves nor in bashfulness and the humming monotone of desperation is a boost to candid inactivity and stillness it is in such big-bore moments that we of puerile yearnings recognize our childishness a voice told me to stop tempting fate forthwith for in truth i was a child with a dangerous toy and only pampered tutors could stay the course**

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Feb 6, 2016

Feb 6, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC

of fig leaves and bashfulness

**gingerly on the knife-point of a problem my inflated ego slowly was punctured i heard the hiss of its demystification in that constricted moment of revelation a moment that enthused about the demise of my avid hallucination now laid bare salvation, the voice of naked truths chanted is neither in the fig leaves nor in bashfulness and the humming monotone of desperation is a boost to candid inactivity and stillness it is in such big-bore moments that we of puerile yearnings recognize our childishness a voice told me to stop tempting fate forthwith for in truth i was a child with a dangerous toy and only pampered tutors could stay the course**

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I should have gone to school not fooled around. I should have settled down to algebra Nah.. I enjoyed my lazy days on river banks I enjoyed the walks through ranks of butterflies and fish that looked through fishy eyes at me where I could be the master of my destiny. Oh foolish child what wild ride did I take? I broke the hearts of tutors preferring roller skates and scooters to the formality of education. No dried out formulae or calculations could tempt this boy to attend a place where joy sat silently on the back row. What I didn't know I found out the hard way the way I knew too late now to do anything about it. I should have learnt to sit and learn not learnt to swim or burnt my bridges. Furrowed ridges on my brow Now I know why education should have been seen as number one. But life goes on another lesson learnt another bridge that wasn't burnt but crumbled under years of weight. I chalk upon the blackboard slate 'could have done better'

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May 10, 2013

May 10, 2013 at 2:02 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

I should have gone to school not fooled around. I should have settled down to algebra Nah.. I enjoyed my lazy days on river banks I enjoyed the walks through ranks of butterflies and fish that looked through fishy eyes at me where I could be the master of my destiny. Oh foolish child what wild ride did I take? I broke the hearts of tutors preferring roller skates and scooters to the formality of education. No dried out formulae or calculations could tempt this boy to attend a place where joy sat silently on the back row. What I didn't know I found out the hard way the way I knew too late now to do anything about it. I should have learnt to sit and learn not learnt to swim or burnt my bridges. Furrowed ridges on my brow Now I know why education should have been seen as number one. But life goes on another lesson learnt another bridge that wasn't burnt but crumbled under years of weight. I chalk upon the blackboard slate 'could have done better'

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I grew up knowing we are a broken race, A race that changes smiles to frowns on everyone's face, A race of pity, a race of self destruction, A race of slaves, a race of savages. I grew up knowing that we are the poison to the sea, Acid to the earth And pollution to the air. I grew up embarassed of my colour, Embarassed of my Nation, Embarassed of my Continent... I guess I didn't know better That one day I will discover of our Greatness. I discovered that our forefathers walked all four corners of the Earth. Let me rephrase that... Our forefathers were acknowledged in all corners of the Earth. I discovered we were once tutors of the world, We were once Astronomers of the stars, Travellers of Mother Earth, Doctors to the sick And Founders of great kingdoms like Cambodia, parts of Egypt, America etc... We were founders of some of the world's oldest civilisations, The olmec vivilization. African child, how far have you fallen? I get so much joy and pride when I look back, Back beyond the slave's era, Further before the missionaries, The beauty I see. I am overwhelmed by the greatness of our Africanism. Where did it all go wrong? We have such great history But it all sounds like a myth or a mystery Especially when I say that we once walked tall and high in the foreign lands of America, Not as slaves but as residents and rulers. Our history shouts of our greatness, It tells us that the first man to be saluted as Emperor of China Was the son of the soil, the son of Africa. Our history tells a story of our existence in India, Our great kingdoms in Cambodia and Scotland. Our history even goes back further to the ancient times of the Bible. It speaks of ****** a great man in the eyes of the Lord, The father of Cush, the founder of Cushite, a black nation. It saddens me to see us disrespect our elders like this For they hold our rich history. They hold the bridges we have forgotten, They hold the secrets of our Nation. They were there when mama Africa gave birth to us And we will weep when mama Africa swallows them up. We will not cry for they have gone But we will cry for the knowledge we have buried. If you don't believe me ask the sage Ntate Credo Mutwa. Wake up Africa. Wake up and Rise... Rise African Child!

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Nov 7, 2019

Nov 7, 2019 at 7:30 PM UTC

RISE AFRICAN CHILD

I grew up knowing we are a broken race, A race that changes smiles to frowns on everyone's face, A race of pity, a race of self destruction, A race of slaves, a race of savages. I grew up knowing that we are the poison to the sea, Acid to the earth And pollution to the air. I grew up embarassed of my colour, Embarassed of my Nation, Embarassed of my Continent... I guess I didn't know better That one day I will discover of our Greatness. I discovered that our forefathers walked all four corners of the Earth. Let me rephrase that... Our forefathers were acknowledged in all corners of the Earth. I discovered we were once tutors of the world, We were once Astronomers of the stars, Travellers of Mother Earth, Doctors to the sick And Founders of great kingdoms like Cambodia, parts of Egypt, America etc... We were founders of some of the world's oldest civilisations, The olmec vivilization. African child, how far have you fallen? I get so much joy and pride when I look back, Back beyond the slave's era, Further before the missionaries, The beauty I see. I am overwhelmed by the greatness of our Africanism. Where did it all go wrong? We have such great history But it all sounds like a myth or a mystery Especially when I say that we once walked tall and high in the foreign lands of America, Not as slaves but as residents and rulers. Our history shouts of our greatness, It tells us that the first man to be saluted as Emperor of China Was the son of the soil, the son of Africa. Our history tells a story of our existence in India, Our great kingdoms in Cambodia and Scotland. Our history even goes back further to the ancient times of the Bible. It speaks of ****** a great man in the eyes of the Lord, The father of Cush, the founder of Cushite, a black nation. It saddens me to see us disrespect our elders like this For they hold our rich history. They hold the bridges we have forgotten, They hold the secrets of our Nation. They were there when mama Africa gave birth to us And we will weep when mama Africa swallows them up. We will not cry for they have gone But we will cry for the knowledge we have buried. If you don't believe me ask the sage Ntate Credo Mutwa. Wake up Africa. Wake up and Rise... Rise African Child!

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Like the king of a rainy country, am I! Rich, but weak, young with an agèd eye - The grovelling of his old tutors he scorns, The company of dogs leaves him forlorn. Nothing can bring him joy, no hunt nor falconry, Nor the mortal jousts before his balcony, From his favourite jester no ***** tale Can redden the cheek of one so pale. His ornate chamber has become a tomb - And courtesans, scantily-clad, to whom, Though royal favours inspire their provocation; This skeletal youth finds no temptation. Flamel himself could forge no plan To extract the dark humours from this man. In the baths of blood from days of yore, He finds no properties to restore This dazed corpse in whose veins once red - Now flows the green waters of Lethe instead.

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Oct 10, 2017

Oct 10, 2017 at 9:26 AM UTC

evie-brill-paffard

Like the king of a rainy country, am I! Rich, but weak, young with an agèd eye - The grovelling of his old tutors he scorns, The company of dogs leaves him forlorn. Nothing can bring him joy, no hunt nor falconry, Nor the mortal jousts before his balcony, From his favourite jester no ***** tale Can redden the cheek of one so pale. His ornate chamber has become a tomb - And courtesans, scantily-clad, to whom, Though royal favours inspire their provocation; This skeletal youth finds no temptation. Flamel himself could forge no plan To extract the dark humours from this man. In the baths of blood from days of yore, He finds no properties to restore This dazed corpse in whose veins once red - Now flows the green waters of Lethe instead.

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By Elizabeth & Arcassin **by the gurgling stream he fell into a deep dream of a beautiful girl who had eyes so pretty of gleam how she did make his heart sang with delight as her image reflected in the stream's bright crystal light,** What's darkest may come to light, Fly from graduation or tutors, Hurricanes ruin cities, Mixed with high jackers, Free loaders, But in the dark, Run to the light, Trauma stricken, In the foreseeable future we need to fight, **the dreamer's perception of beauty is wiped out in the environs so broken and torn horribly about the shadowed lamp of fantasy which offers unto us the mired mirror of malcontent which is in this our abysmal society,** If you come to a conclusion, And have sense to maintain the illusion, You can make it a reality, Also to institutions, Beautiful stages of goals to be made, Grow a flower, Open a door, Influence the shade, **we are capable of making change our purpose is to bringing into existence the mind of the dreamer his purpose is to see that by all humans working together they can solve the ills and inequities which plague our earth,** Success runs through the heart of people that are determined, Trial and tribulations are sold separately, Achieve, Believe, And don't a servant, To people that don't wanna see you, Give and succeed, Your dreams.

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Feb 23, 2015

Feb 23, 2015 at 3:51 PM UTC

arcassin-burnham

"Dream" (Elizabeth Squires & Arcassin B)

By Elizabeth & Arcassin **by the gurgling stream he fell into a deep dream of a beautiful girl who had eyes so pretty of gleam how she did make his heart sang with delight as her image reflected in the stream's bright crystal light,** What's darkest may come to light, Fly from graduation or tutors, Hurricanes ruin cities, Mixed with high jackers, Free loaders, But in the dark, Run to the light, Trauma stricken, In the foreseeable future we need to fight, **the dreamer's perception of beauty is wiped out in the environs so broken and torn horribly about the shadowed lamp of fantasy which offers unto us the mired mirror of malcontent which is in this our abysmal society,** If you come to a conclusion, And have sense to maintain the illusion, You can make it a reality, Also to institutions, Beautiful stages of goals to be made, Grow a flower, Open a door, Influence the shade, **we are capable of making change our purpose is to bringing into existence the mind of the dreamer his purpose is to see that by all humans working together they can solve the ills and inequities which plague our earth,** Success runs through the heart of people that are determined, Trial and tribulations are sold separately, Achieve, Believe, And don't a servant, To people that don't wanna see you, Give and succeed, Your dreams.

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Why is that confusing? Is my poet dying? A lot of chaos, I'm surrounded Never believed I will lose hope I had tutors directing my path I derailed, and now I'm lost Searching for a shortcut To get to the highest mount The path I chose will show The reality of hard work The strain I should bear Through the forest path

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Sep 17, 2016

Sep 17, 2016 at 1:14 AM UTC

Why is that confusing? Is my poet dying? A lot of chaos, I'm surrounded Never believed I will lose hope I had tutors directing my path I derailed, and now I'm lost Searching for a shortcut To get to the highest mount The path I chose will show The reality of hard work The strain I should bear Through the forest path

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Its times like now, Alone in the shade All couth is feasting on my frowning and dismay As I sit by my lonesome crowded mid-West A heartbeat a smile a gentle caress, Intangibles of acceptance of ease of rest Longing for embrace I chase with the best My heart is throbbing sometimes in sometimes out You are fixed in site in distance in memory and distress The surging of mood can cause me much bout Knowing you are here though I’m thinking quite less In the presence of resonance I vibrate in tune My trunk is still leaning, she tutors my topiary In lusting and thrusting she’s willing my harpoon Limbs cast shadows over new found leaves of liberty Soft bodies do justice and let evil eyes swoon In the abyss of darkness she carries a light I’m but a moth dismissing the night For giving myself, for breathing another sight Foreshadows of chaos only make sacred my plight When I rise with haste and scurry away My maiden is waiting and waiting to replay The tune once heard before the nightingales’ call Before the mocking birds reminded me from which heights I did fall Proximity and temptation so conveniently placed Would not I have been more True, more Loyal about-face Let me wither in silence with the tapping of Ravens If only Poe told me true meaning of dear Eleanor Every breeze that blew by would not seem safe havens I would have you by my side to ground me Evermore

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Jun 1, 2015

Jun 1, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC

Beckoning the Raven

Its times like now, Alone in the shade All couth is feasting on my frowning and dismay As I sit by my lonesome crowded mid-West A heartbeat a smile a gentle caress, Intangibles of acceptance of ease of rest Longing for embrace I chase with the best My heart is throbbing sometimes in sometimes out You are fixed in site in distance in memory and distress The surging of mood can cause me much bout Knowing you are here though I’m thinking quite less In the presence of resonance I vibrate in tune My trunk is still leaning, she tutors my topiary In lusting and thrusting she’s willing my harpoon Limbs cast shadows over new found leaves of liberty Soft bodies do justice and let evil eyes swoon In the abyss of darkness she carries a light I’m but a moth dismissing the night For giving myself, for breathing another sight Foreshadows of chaos only make sacred my plight When I rise with haste and scurry away My maiden is waiting and waiting to replay The tune once heard before the nightingales’ call Before the mocking birds reminded me from which heights I did fall Proximity and temptation so conveniently placed Would not I have been more True, more Loyal about-face Let me wither in silence with the tapping of Ravens If only Poe told me true meaning of dear Eleanor Every breeze that blew by would not seem safe havens I would have you by my side to ground me Evermore

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On my first day as a tutor (a sad tale for tutors) Said the boy, sir, your face looks like a horse Shocked beyond words by the slapping commentary I said how it matters boy show your book of history! History, oh no, that’s a subject I abhor It hasn’t anything that needs a tutor The kings and queens and years of wars Got no charm for me all the unending curse! My hands itched hard to pull out his hair Just a kid I said and it won’t be fair I must put up with all the nonsense Mend him and get my reward for patience! Don’t talk like that boy bring your English book How far you’ve progressed let me have a look English, it’s so easy I can learn by myself It’s one subject I need no tutor’s help! It’s time I thought to use my last card of trump Bring boy your copy of subtractions and sums Surely you need there someone to guide you He kept quiet and my hopes soared anew! Maths, that’s truly something from you I need to learn If you offer to teach me there’s no way I can spurn But before we proceed his chuckles he could hardly hide Do crawl on all fours to be the horse I love to ride! A thousand bees stung me a million sparks flew I knew my time was up wasn’t anything more to do I wished to give his head the hardest hammer’s hit Just a kid I had to swallow made a hasty retreat!

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Dec 16, 2013

Dec 16, 2013 at 7:15 AM UTC

pradip-chattopadhyay

On my first day as a tutor (a sad tale for tutors) Said the boy, sir, your face looks like a horse Shocked beyond words by the slapping commentary I said how it matters boy show your book of history! History, oh no, that’s a subject I abhor It hasn’t anything that needs a tutor The kings and queens and years of wars Got no charm for me all the unending curse! My hands itched hard to pull out his hair Just a kid I said and it won’t be fair I must put up with all the nonsense Mend him and get my reward for patience! Don’t talk like that boy bring your English book How far you’ve progressed let me have a look English, it’s so easy I can learn by myself It’s one subject I need no tutor’s help! It’s time I thought to use my last card of trump Bring boy your copy of subtractions and sums Surely you need there someone to guide you He kept quiet and my hopes soared anew! Maths, that’s truly something from you I need to learn If you offer to teach me there’s no way I can spurn But before we proceed his chuckles he could hardly hide Do crawl on all fours to be the horse I love to ride! A thousand bees stung me a million sparks flew I knew my time was up wasn’t anything more to do I wished to give his head the hardest hammer’s hit Just a kid I had to swallow made a hasty retreat!

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A l o n e Nothing other than utter bliss As my eyelids begin to passionately kiss My count of sheep depletes as my imagination grows My mind starts to open as my eyes begin to close Slowly welcoming the air to it’s royal chambers in my lungs With a handful of dreams within grasp even without opposable thumbs I become N U M B Thoughts ricochet around in my head Until they land upon old wounds left untreated & now infected Visions of the past present a possible future Unparallel to those predicted by life's various tutors Contemplating Waiting Waiting Then I find myself- soaring high with complete balance Steering this craft with faith beside acting as my ballast Leaping from safety and falling towards uncertainty Diving into a sea full of clarity ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~v~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And so goes the plunge I submerge Pondering deep beyond previously set limits Never once resurfacing Drowning in yet to be deciphered waves Thus ending the reign of the once realist schemer Replaced by the newly appointed lucid dreamer

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Sep 10, 2015

Sep 10, 2015 at 9:18 AM UTC

isaac-jenaro-tanielu

A l o n e Nothing other than utter bliss As my eyelids begin to passionately kiss My count of sheep depletes as my imagination grows My mind starts to open as my eyes begin to close Slowly welcoming the air to it’s royal chambers in my lungs With a handful of dreams within grasp even without opposable thumbs I become N U M B Thoughts ricochet around in my head Until they land upon old wounds left untreated & now infected Visions of the past present a possible future Unparallel to those predicted by life's various tutors Contemplating Waiting Waiting Then I find myself- soaring high with complete balance Steering this craft with faith beside acting as my ballast Leaping from safety and falling towards uncertainty Diving into a sea full of clarity ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~v~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And so goes the plunge I submerge Pondering deep beyond previously set limits Never once resurfacing Drowning in yet to be deciphered waves Thus ending the reign of the once realist schemer Replaced by the newly appointed lucid dreamer

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Ah, young Sir, most elegant young scion of a noble family of our Great City - how well you play even these games as cards and board games with such composure, calm and dignity that we of the lower classes can never muster and with what generosity of spirit young Sir what dignity and skill even as you deign to play cards with us, such ordinary folks, such untutored people like us… but honest we are, young Sir, and so in your wisdom and learning you have seen and so you have chosen to come in our midst and to play with us… so you no doubt wish to know the world so that you may have such wisdom as when one day you move even deeper in court circles and in the halls of power as no doubt by the signs on your face and in your manner young Sir you are destined to do so… ah Sir, how well you consider your moves… …forgive me for talking, it is my admiration for you that makes me talk…I shall be quiet the while as you pause to make your next move… …ah, Sir – such gravity and poise you have... and such deep meditation you make before every card move… it is a dignity and insight, most noble young Sir you have no doubt acquired in the great schools, and from your most learned tutors no doubt such wisdom as you have acquired in all your studies as noble youth like you are privileged to… not like us poor street urchins and common people of the street in our ignorance, in our pettiness… but still, Sir – we are honest people, you will find and perhaps one day, young Sir, you shall speak for us in those halls of power in which you shall shine – perhaps then you will speak for us ordinary folks how though common and plain, yet most honest you found us… play on, young Sir, play on….consider your moves and hold your cards close to your ***** indeed… indeed…indeed…I shall be quiet…so you can deliberate and apprehend your every move… but honest ordinary friends of yours we are, young Sir… always we remain your honest friends of the taverns and streets…

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Aug 1, 2011

Aug 1, 2011 at 7:46 PM UTC

Ah, young Sir, most elegant young scion of a noble family of our Great City - how well you play even these games as cards and board games with such composure, calm and dignity that we of the lower classes can never muster and with what generosity of spirit young Sir what dignity and skill even as you deign to play cards with us, such ordinary folks, such untutored people like us… but honest we are, young Sir, and so in your wisdom and learning you have seen and so you have chosen to come in our midst and to play with us… so you no doubt wish to know the world so that you may have such wisdom as when one day you move even deeper in court circles and in the halls of power as no doubt by the signs on your face and in your manner young Sir you are destined to do so… ah Sir, how well you consider your moves… …forgive me for talking, it is my admiration for you that makes me talk…I shall be quiet the while as you pause to make your next move… …ah, Sir – such gravity and poise you have... and such deep meditation you make before every card move… it is a dignity and insight, most noble young Sir you have no doubt acquired in the great schools, and from your most learned tutors no doubt such wisdom as you have acquired in all your studies as noble youth like you are privileged to… not like us poor street urchins and common people of the street in our ignorance, in our pettiness… but still, Sir – we are honest people, you will find and perhaps one day, young Sir, you shall speak for us in those halls of power in which you shall shine – perhaps then you will speak for us ordinary folks how though common and plain, yet most honest you found us… play on, young Sir, play on….consider your moves and hold your cards close to your ***** indeed… indeed…indeed…I shall be quiet…so you can deliberate and apprehend your every move… but honest ordinary friends of yours we are, young Sir… always we remain your honest friends of the taverns and streets…

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sometimes a parent is willing to anything for their child, except let them be themselves. im not smart, im not mannerly, im not anything you want me to be. and thats okay with me, just not with you. no matter how many teachers, tutors, or medications you get me i am just me. and im sorry if thats not good enough for you. but ive realized i cant change, and thats ok. because even though i will never reach your standards, im happy. im content on living the life that God has planned for me. not the life that you are trying to force on me. so im sorry i will never be the perfect child you wanted, im sorry i **** up and make mistakes, im sorry im human and that im not what you wanted. i can see the look in your eyes. that "were not mad, just disappointed" look. and when i was younger, i hated that look. but now that look is nothing but a normal look. im sorry im not what you wanted, im sorry i **** up and make mistakes, im sorry im human and that im not what you want.

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May 29, 2013

May 29, 2013 at 7:52 PM UTC

sometimes a parent is willing to anything for their child, except let them be themselves. im not smart, im not mannerly, im not anything you want me to be. and thats okay with me, just not with you. no matter how many teachers, tutors, or medications you get me i am just me. and im sorry if thats not good enough for you. but ive realized i cant change, and thats ok. because even though i will never reach your standards, im happy. im content on living the life that God has planned for me. not the life that you are trying to force on me. so im sorry i will never be the perfect child you wanted, im sorry i **** up and make mistakes, im sorry im human and that im not what you wanted. i can see the look in your eyes. that "were not mad, just disappointed" look. and when i was younger, i hated that look. but now that look is nothing but a normal look. im sorry im not what you wanted, im sorry i **** up and make mistakes, im sorry im human and that im not what you want.

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If you stand in a small corner dose that make you feel tall? and what's the point in wearing that stupid pointed hat on your head? and why did my tutors in youth not know that? That was not good for me and was not what they should have done and you know I feel glad knowing when I farted in the lift at the school reunion it was so wrong on so many levels.

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Feb 24, 2016

Feb 24, 2016 at 4:13 PM UTC

What does it make?

If you stand in a small corner dose that make you feel tall? and what's the point in wearing that stupid pointed hat on your head? and why did my tutors in youth not know that? That was not good for me and was not what they should have done and you know I feel glad knowing when I farted in the lift at the school reunion it was so wrong on so many levels.

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The imposter forgets the first time their start lost from memory gone behind the veil of time that opening of the present lies truth abandoned may have yelled exclaimed injustice as an affront looking to the whole conscience for redress to the new harm look to the mentors of the lie tutors of deception’s trait providing guidance to ensure misstatement is the verity permission given to fabricate reliance on the dark arts with spin as the least of sins as deceit becomes the norm perhaps the babe had a chance that innocent was lost alas when the falsehoods did not stop fiction became the certitude now days have darkly blurred so many times the untruths were spun until the facts became misplaced in yesteryear of the bygone. © 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180812.

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Aug 12, 2018

Aug 12, 2018 at 5:52 PM UTC

The imposter forgets the first time their start lost from memory gone behind the veil of time that opening of the present lies truth abandoned may have yelled exclaimed injustice as an affront looking to the whole conscience for redress to the new harm look to the mentors of the lie tutors of deception’s trait providing guidance to ensure misstatement is the verity permission given to fabricate reliance on the dark arts with spin as the least of sins as deceit becomes the norm perhaps the babe had a chance that innocent was lost alas when the falsehoods did not stop fiction became the certitude now days have darkly blurred so many times the untruths were spun until the facts became misplaced in yesteryear of the bygone. © 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180812.

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America is great! So... just to get it straight? Your right to have and hold a gun.. For fun.. Trumps the rights of all daughters, and sons... to learn, to play, in a place, that’s safe? You are not defending freedom, the only thing that’s freed.. Is Your Greed. The cash rolls in, the shooting starts again, the NRA write... A. Big. Fat. Cheque. Whilst kids learn to “hit the deck!”? You want teachers trained as shooters, Not as tutors.

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Feb 22, 2018

Feb 22, 2018 at 12:13 PM UTC

Tutors not Shooters

America is great! So... just to get it straight? Your right to have and hold a gun.. For fun.. Trumps the rights of all daughters, and sons... to learn, to play, in a place, that’s safe? You are not defending freedom, the only thing that’s freed.. Is Your Greed. The cash rolls in, the shooting starts again, the NRA write... A. Big. Fat. Cheque. Whilst kids learn to “hit the deck!”? You want teachers trained as shooters, Not as tutors.

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nostalgia is a bitter town its playground once plagued with tiny giggling clowns now swings a somber gold and sings a soliloquy of untold stories pinned to a plywood crucifix the building which housed books that usurped the position of absent tutors are now antiquated password protected computers and the potholes mapped out on my bike tires are now paved over and the roads are called liars

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May 13, 2015

May 13, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC

nostalgia is a bitter town its playground once plagued with tiny giggling clowns now swings a somber gold and sings a soliloquy of untold stories pinned to a plywood crucifix the building which housed books that usurped the position of absent tutors are now antiquated password protected computers and the potholes mapped out on my bike tires are now paved over and the roads are called liars

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I know a God, almost too lovely to behold. He stirs in me in more ways than one, wonder. I gaze into his face and I can gauge his grace in the way his body moves with mine and by how he embraces me bone and soul. His gentle, generous whispers infuse within me as he strokes my spirit back to life. Then at my dawn in his arms I’m turned and immersed in gifted innocence as I’m sated by his thick milk and the sweet fruit of his vine. - - Together, we sway to slow angel-song and he tutors me in timeless arts, teaching me sweeping steps and arousing in me ancient senses. And so, hand in hand I’m released, liberated to know him and to run with him and to dance in step - for – an - eternity.

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Jul 12, 2016

Jul 12, 2016 at 3:41 PM UTC

I know a God, almost too lovely to behold. He stirs in me in more ways than one, wonder. I gaze into his face and I can gauge his grace in the way his body moves with mine and by how he embraces me bone and soul. His gentle, generous whispers infuse within me as he strokes my spirit back to life. Then at my dawn in his arms I’m turned and immersed in gifted innocence as I’m sated by his thick milk and the sweet fruit of his vine. - - Together, we sway to slow angel-song and he tutors me in timeless arts, teaching me sweeping steps and arousing in me ancient senses. And so, hand in hand I’m released, liberated to know him and to run with him and to dance in step - for – an - eternity.

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I missed those long nights, Where I clapped my hands to those high pitched melodies Those smart creatures Outwitted the best of tutors. Bees love nectar, Mosquitoes can't you learn? Drinking of red wine like vampires I wonder how African's blood make your taste buds feel. Mosquito mosquito You've Perturbed our nights. Noisy and infectious Your stings have made us sick. Why rescue mosquito to safety? Noah why let them into the ark? We would never have had to tackle witty mosquito.

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Apr 9, 2018

Apr 9, 2018 at 7:54 PM UTC

I missed those long nights, Where I clapped my hands to those high pitched melodies Those smart creatures Outwitted the best of tutors. Bees love nectar, Mosquitoes can't you learn? Drinking of red wine like vampires I wonder how African's blood make your taste buds feel. Mosquito mosquito You've Perturbed our nights. Noisy and infectious Your stings have made us sick. Why rescue mosquito to safety? Noah why let them into the ark? We would never have had to tackle witty mosquito.

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Dear Viennese Art School Tutors of the early 1900,s If a highly strung young chap turns up with a strange flick haircut, a dodgy looking tache and laden with canvass, Please dont tell him his paintings are **** and that, perhaps he ought to try and express himself via another medium. Could save us all a spot of bother in the long run. Cheers Signed: well....er,.."Everyone"...actually.

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Feb 8, 2021

Feb 8, 2021 at 4:23 AM UTC

alistair-william-bullen

Letters that should have been...

Dear Viennese Art School Tutors of the early 1900,s If a highly strung young chap turns up with a strange flick haircut, a dodgy looking tache and laden with canvass, Please dont tell him his paintings are **** and that, perhaps he ought to try and express himself via another medium. Could save us all a spot of bother in the long run. Cheers Signed: well....er,.."Everyone"...actually.

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You paid To be detained. Here. Now you are paying more for tutors to help you pass imprisonment with flying colors. I'm so sorry. Nobody told you that the sun is orange, And that you will reach for this star with shackles on your hands bleeding dollars to the ground.

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Sep 28, 2017

Sep 28, 2017 at 3:46 AM UTC

You paid To be detained. Here. Now you are paying more for tutors to help you pass imprisonment with flying colors. I'm so sorry. Nobody told you that the sun is orange, And that you will reach for this star with shackles on your hands bleeding dollars to the ground.

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