Ode to the First Marking Period
Early last September, another school was begun.
The schedules were handed out and the starting bell was rung
To the great marathon of mighty minds and muscles,
Fighting their way through the academic halls of hussle-bussle.
New classes, new teachers, and new students to meet,
Old friends and old enemies with whom to compete,
Clubs and meetings and groups to attend,
Opinions and issues to attack and defend.
The days pass slowly and then they go fast,
And everyone is hopping from class to class;
“There is a test next Friday” and “a quiz on Monday,”
And finally, “The marking period ends today.”
Some students sigh a little and others shake with fear,
And others care only what the average is at the end of the year.
The grades are given and the honor roll is done,
And the sigh is short-lived, because the second period has begun.
With Nothing To Do
With nothing to do
And nowhere to go to,
Sitting in this study hall
Is enough to make one bawl.
Dull, why yes it is!
Deathly, of course it is!
But then why do I sit there
Without a hope, without a prayer?
Because there is nothing to do
And there is nowhere to go to!
I will waste away another hour
And hope to get out before my life goes sour.
Deathly Domain of Doom
(or Study Hall Snickers)
As I sat in my cubicle desk, in deathly detention,
Quietly creating my diabolical doomsday invention.
A snicker rose in the back of the study hall foyer
And grew to a giggle, to a laugh, and then to an uproar.
Petrified by this insolence, our guardian turned quite pale,
Then flushed in the stony face, produce one hell of a gale!
“This is a study hall, not a gossip gala room!”
And with that came a hush of a “no-library-pass” doom.
The hush was still with fright, but soon was exhaled,
And a murmur grew to another roar and the teacher again was paled.
“You asked for it and I warned you twice!
No library passes for anyone!” and that was not very nice.
One student looked at another who was looking at another still,
And everyone was looking for the culprit who was busy making out his will.
“Oh, we'll rehabilitate the villain alright,” I heard them say.
And with that, in sweet innocence, I decided to slip away.
(12/02/1969)
Dedicated to Bosworth's Spittoon Theory of Self-Expression
Ignorance is the cause of trouble;
And I spit at ignorance;
It spits back at me.
I spit and spit and spit!
Back it spits and spits and spits!
Spit, spit, spit!
And the result?
Merely a wet floor.
While Waiting for the Bell to Ring
While waiting for the bell to ring,
Sitting here, ready to swing
Out the door and down the hall,
A flight for freedom from this study hall.
It is not that I have nothing to do,
Nor that my day is nearly through.
It is not for hatred of the teacher, nor fear;
It is just that I want to get out of here.
A minute to go and the tension is mounting.
I'll make a beeline to the water fountain.
Out the door, then back again;
Chemistry lecture is about to begin.
Within the Bounds of Our Desks
We sit within the bounds of our desks,
Hypnotized by the teacher's hex,
Consciously listening, unconsciously not,
Dreaming of visions that best be forgot.
Even through the professor's trance,
Students' dreams and visions dance
Under the surface of the mind,
Until in the plane, a hole they find.
Then up it jets and into a thought it grows,
Then down the head and out the mouth it goes.
The teacher turns and gives a scowl,
And once more the student is under his control.
Life in the Doldrums
The Teacher stands before the class in a suit that is not quite creaseless,
Spouting out gusts of wisdom, in succession that seems almost ceaseless.
And the Student sits and stifles one, or two, ho-hums,
For he is living in the breathless world of the doldrums.
But the Teacher keeps on blowing, with plenty of wind for all,
For some this is too much and for others it is too small.
Some in front get the full force which makes their puny sails cower,
And some in the back must motor their minds with their own power.
Oh, you poor Student! Nobody cares about your woes and troubles,
Nor that with each uttered word your total befuddlement doubles.
But when you feel talked into the ground and seeming so low and blue,
Remember the Teacher once lived in the doldrums, just like you.
The Borrowed Pen
Stranded, penless, hopeless in the raging rapids of writing,
I asked my neighbor for a pen, so I could keep on fighting.
He said, “I'll lend you one of my best, but it must come to no harm.”
He would charge a nickel per mark which caused me some alarm.
But I was desperate and really needed a pen badly,
So after I signed the contract, he lent me the pen gladly.
And then I looked at this costly borrowed pen, wondering if I dare touch it,
For if I dropped it on the floor, it could ruin my whole monthly budget.
All day long I carried that pen, packed in my pocket with the greatest care,
And I refused to use it for anything, because frankly I did not dare.
Unscathed and unused, I returned the pen to the lender at the end of the day,
He said, “You're welcome,” stuck the pen between his teeth, and just walked away.
Ode to the Last Marking Period
Way back in September, eight long months from June,
We had a short school day that ended by noon.
And on that long-past distant day, we each were dealt a card,
Thirty-six weeks of scheduled courses, both easy and hard.
And as we approach week thirty-six, the ritual draws to a close,
And one hundred and eighty some diplomas are tied with little blue bows.
Farewell, high school, mumble the seniors with four-year memories full,
With good times and bad, with escape out of and into that old school.
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