Play With Me
Those are the same eyes that used to look at me
as though I was the greatest thing since mashed bananas in a jar
since peanut butter on crackers
since macaroni and cheese
since chocolate cake.
But now those eyes see straight through me.
And even though I straighten up
dust off the wear and tear
cover up the unsightly fear, anger, sadness.
I get the feeling that somehow I no longer measure up.
And there is no more left of me
No more singing in the middle of the living room.
No more dancing like a soul train fool.
No more talking about nothing.
No more.
Can I just have five minutes, please?
-MCPOET
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Reflecting on teaching...
Okay, so I'm sitting around and thinking about what else I might be able to do with this English degree. Editor (where to start), writer (can't pay the bills), Wal-Mart greeter (don't always feel like being cheery - but is that really a requirement?).
I guess I go through this every year. The moments when I'm less than in-love with my current student roster. Even last year, I had a class to inspire me to write poetry again. (Poem below)
I was able to share the poem with the class and even had them analyze it for poetic devices. I'm sure the foul language had nothing to do with their interest.
I Throw Down My Pen in 8th Period
What more is there to say?
You have heard it all.
“Miss, don’t nobody want to hear that s***.”
You say.
But, no.
Here I stand
With pen in hand
Pressure erupting
Muscles tense
Words escaping
Doesn’t make sense.
How can it be
That you don’t care when
Bass booming
Getting’ that gat
Wadin’ in weed
Crappin’ out crack
Dropping that dope
Backslapping b****es
“Naw, we in the trenches.”
The trenches?
What are you fighting for
When
Your king is now the jester
Your queen is now the joke
To poke
And forget
Your prince is now a regret
Your princess is just an object
I lift my pen from the overhead.
I guess, you told me.
No more left to be said.
It did feel good to get that off my chest, and I was able to teach another day. Perhaps it is time to pull out the notebook again. Prescription: more poetry.
I guess I go through this every year. The moments when I'm less than in-love with my current student roster. Even last year, I had a class to inspire me to write poetry again. (Poem below)
I was able to share the poem with the class and even had them analyze it for poetic devices. I'm sure the foul language had nothing to do with their interest.
I Throw Down My Pen in 8th Period
What more is there to say?
You have heard it all.
“Miss, don’t nobody want to hear that s***.”
You say.
But, no.
Here I stand
With pen in hand
Pressure erupting
Muscles tense
Words escaping
Doesn’t make sense.
How can it be
That you don’t care when
Bass booming
Getting’ that gat
Wadin’ in weed
Crappin’ out crack
Dropping that dope
Backslapping b****es
“Naw, we in the trenches.”
The trenches?
What are you fighting for
When
Your king is now the jester
Your queen is now the joke
To poke
And forget
Your prince is now a regret
Your princess is just an object
I lift my pen from the overhead.
I guess, you told me.
No more left to be said.
It did feel good to get that off my chest, and I was able to teach another day. Perhaps it is time to pull out the notebook again. Prescription: more poetry.
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