Hour Thirteen: Humourous Poem Describing Your Profession
open shop
wait for client
ping!
a message
they’re running late
smile
smile
they’ll be billed anyway
healers are a precious commodity
Student or Teacher
People used to tell me
to my face
that I am a saint.
In truth,
I am a teacher.
A teacher who learned early on
to hide lavendar throughout the classroom
to counteract farts and puberty sweat smells.
Yes, a teacher who learned early on
to stay on the good side of the custodian
to counteract bodily functions and feats of inexplicable behavior.
In one day, yes, just one day,
I single handedly traced the owner of a pair of boots
that one of my students had in his backpack.
He had his own boots in his locker.
His shoes, worn through and soaking wet with snow on his feet.
The owner of the boots did not go to the same school.
Imploring and empowering a bus driver with a midday run,
The boots found their rightful owner before lunch recess.
The student is working in a study carrel asks for help
As we work through the problem, I notice purple goop on his head
“Tell me about this.” I ask as I gently touch the goo.
A large patch of his hair adheres to my fingers.
He quickly tells me in one breath that he accidentally and in no way on purpose cut his hair.
He doesn’t want me to be mad, so he glued his hair back on his head.
Dumbfounded, all I can think is where was I? How did I miss this?
Oh, no.
Barely started, we are by no means done.
The student is slow to dress for a snowy recess.
He is not in good humor, having been reminded to wear his boots outside.
The battle for independence is sometimes slow
and in this case, too slow for the other children.
To prevent overheating, I left the student in the classroom and led the other students out.
When I returned, the students cheeks were packed full with something.
“What do you have in your mouth?” I ask sternly.
The student takes pains to cover his mouth before answering “Nothing.”
I look down and notice the now empty cookie tin on the floor.
“No cookies for snack.” I say in dismay.
A whole package of cookies,
In mere minutes.
He heads out to play.
There’s no sense in punishing both of us.
I’m no saint.
Hour 13 – Twenty Roadrunners
Twenty Roadrunners
(Based on the poem “Twenty Froggies” by George Cooper)
Twenty roadrunners went to school
Where the desert heat is cruel
Twenty feather coats so trim
Twenty tails so straight and prim
“We are responsible,” said they.
“Respectful and safe in every way;
This is what we know is true
At our school of Pleasant View.”
All the teachers, kind but firm
Gave the chicks a lot to learn
Taught them how to read and write
And found their students very bright
Taught them math and science too
Were proud of how the small chicks grew
Saw them leave for bigger things
Roadrunners now could spread their wings
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The prompt made me think of the poem Twenty Froggies. I decided to borrow that format, but write it about my school Pleasant View with our mascot the Roadrunners.
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Here’s a link to the original poem: https://www.mamalisa.com/?t=es&p=3358
Little Poetry Projects, Uneven Debts
Our crooked mail was bleeding surreptitiously
through its envelope.
Upon opening – gingerly – the crusted folds
(obviously, the delivery had reinvigorated
the wound), we sighed with relief
even as the paper therein snarled
its intent to drain us of
our combined incomes with bold-formatted and triple-underlined
claims that sounded like they were generated by
a program, not written by a cogent and reasonable
human being.
Foregone conclusions in mail extortion
being one of the signifiers in the
fall of the Roman Empire, we knew,
in a dead second it was either us or it.
Wordlessly, Ron and I danced the mail
to the sink, cornering it with the
mercy it had shown us and we drowned it
to a pulp, then finished it off
with the garbage disposal.
Just to be precariously indulgent,
I bleach bombed the drain and plugged it
with the stopper. Nothing must return
to infect our other correspondence.
We count our guest appearances
in civil dinners, and consider ourselves
pen pals with battle scars.
We are victors.
We demolish the undead.
Gentlewoman, Hour Thirteen
Gentlewoman
In former ages I would have been discreetly labeled a gentlewoman,
that creature of the growing middle class that could not be defined,
dabbling in domestic arts and essentially unoccupied
but for the supervision of the education of my children in the delicate arts
of how to be essentially unoccupied gentlemen and gentlewomen.
In reality, I am gardener, maid, cook, housekeeper, arborist,
chauffeur, medic, recycler, repurposer, thrifter, hauler, economist,
budgeter, secretary, clerk, cleric, chronicler, photographer, author,
biographer, daycare specialist, and all around domestic engineer,
an essentially unoccupied housewife.
Hour 4 Slowly Catching Up
Gotta really focus for awhile now!
Hour 4
We are states always and some days I wish farther
Most friendships end either explosively or slow
And yet I was able to fade quickly
And it’s not really you
Nor is it really me
But it’s us
And for us I was changing in a way that you weren’t
And I realized that with my changes I was tired
Tired of the same conversations
Tired of being ignored
Tired of being first and last on your list of friends
Tired of you not getting it
I haven’t hated you
But I don’t love you anymore
And that might be the kindest thing I can do for you now
On this alter to say I do
My body walks up to yours, your sweet shiny smile welcoming me to our forever
The priest coughs into the mic, we stop staring at each other to look at him.
Oh lover, we are here and I cannot believe it.
Before we stand here to swear to God and man, expressing our undying love, there were days our love withered from the drought of affection
We were unable to love, our souls were unreceptive and I cried on those days, never imagining they would pass.
Oh lover, did you know we will get here?
Those days our emotions were the only things we saw. Days we let our pride go first before our heart desires.
Today we stand before each other- and this priest who is asking the congregation if anyone opposes our union.
Oh, lover, my heart flutters sweetly
We dance and jump the broom to honour your tradition
Only days ago, I’d danced around my father’s compound, walking in the midst of the guests
I’d sat on your lap and we drank wine from a cup, honouring mine.
Oh lover, I am glad to walk this path with you
On this alter I say I do, I walk back to our past, I am glad at our future, and my heart is full of joy.
Hour 13 image prompt
Stripes
Make my eyes
Hurt so much
Stripes
Change the lanes
From roads
To crosswalks
And I
Wear striped pants
That hurt my eyes
As I cross
Striped streets
With my eyes closed
Hour Twelve: Closeted Clutterer
Open, close, open
white panels blending in a white-walled chamber–
Close, open, close
hidden disarray, a mind, a mess, a material amassment–
open, open, open
white poly-blend shirt, patterned harem pants–
close, close, close
move along, all clear, nothing to see here.
What is love if it aint me (Hour 10)
Love is doing good deeds when no one is watching.
It is the absence of your self within your actions.
Love is that which all require, but none is willing to acquire.
Love is that which all aspire for, yet, dont inspire.
Love, the thing that everyone wants and nobody wants to give.
Love, is that which seems to be of no importance to the culprits of disordinance.
Love is that which is counterfeited and sold as fools gold in the form of flesh and bone. Moist kisses of cognac and Menthol scented regrets.
What IS love? A drug? A natural herb that one can tea and boil and spoil.
Is it soil that saw you young as you stepped upon its ground, is it mother who has left, was she Love? Is love dead?
Is it only in our hearts, in our minds, in our dreams?
If not us, then what is love
Then what is love,
If it ain’t me.