I used to hate dresses,
The feeling of air blowing onto my legs and the need for sandals.
I hated the way my light blonde leg hair would shine so brightly in the sun.
High schoolers were so scary,
Taller than me, bigger than me, more mature.
Now I am that high schooler and I still feel that way about them.
I’ve always been the smallest girl on the field, in the classroom, on stage.
It gnaws at me because it is unchangeable.
Unchangeable in ways I would do anything for.
Gone are the days of running around on the playground,
Now are the days of straightened hair and perfect outfits.
Girlhood hits like a train, ending the non-gender conforming ways of childhood imagination.
Pre-conceived notions and unachievable expectations.
I used to be afraid to perform.
But that’s what girlhood is.
A charming quiet place
A pond full of swimming ducks
A long benches beside acacia trees
Up ahead this tree is long pave road
That connect to a big Bermuda park ahead
Leading to a university where I once schooled
This scenery is known to schoolers who walk everyday
To have education that they have dream and acquired today
I like this place for relax
Read books, and compose poetry
This long bench we use to play chess
This is the place where we talk about life
This once my dating place to a girl I courted
A place I ponder what the future may bring for me.
Good-gesture greenthumb gatherers gleaned grain,
gargantuan granary,
grower's great goodwill greeting,
gazillion grade-schoolers, grownups,
gingham-garbed grandmother's,
grievous growling guts gone,
gain gastronomical goodies gardens,
grapes, granola, gourds, gosh!
generosity galore, golly, gobsmacked!
golden godsend
Commencement exercises delight
never bore pre-schoolers in their flight
toward stage, full of bliss
for rewards* they can't miss
and promised graduation festive might.
A blessed graduation to class 2022.
*Ruth 2:12 The LORD recompense thy work, and a full reward be given thee of the LORD...
June 3, 2022
4th place, "A funny Limerick - Any Theme" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Tania Kitchin; judged on 6/19/2022.
The dance recital showcased
Hip-hop, jazz and yes, ballet.
The costumes and the music
Put much talent on display.
From pre-schoolers up to college,
All their hard work guaranteed
That they’d entertain us beautifully
And they sure did, indeed.
We were focused on our grandchild
And she nailed her every move,
Smiling ear to ear as we were
Watching her get in the groove.
For my first time in the theater
Since we first felt Covid’s bite,
I was thrilled with this production,
Such an absolute delight.
Nobody has a common name; we are named Apple and Broom.
Because movie stars did it, and they are glamorous and rich.
Apple is okay with it, Broom is dour though, full of gloom.
Why not Curtain or Couch? He often wonders or Matt or Mitch.
You think you have a problem? That is noting Waylin Eatstockings said.
He could not change his last name, and horrible teasing made his face red.
What about me? Asked a girl named Panty Waist McNeal.
Your name is a Godsend, a blessing, truly no real big deal.
Broom met Mop, who concurred with what the others expressed.
I am resigned to my fate, she said. I guess it’s time I confessed.
My sister is Sparkle, and my Brother is Puppy Dog Glows.
So Mop is not that bad in my family. My brother is Big Sugar Toes.
What ever happened to Dick and Jane? The old schoolers asked.
They looked through the phone book, deciding it was a big task.
There were Bed Pans and Axe Handles, and other weird crazy names.
I guess the times are wild now, whereas we grew up in mild Thames.
Most of my previous experience was with middle schoolers.
Seventh and eighth graders; I was terrified of younger students.
I had not been around them for years; what would they be like?
They would not have the keen sense of humor of a thirteen-year-old.
I was fearful of taking the job, it was for third, fourth and fifth graders.
I trembled as I faced twenty-two seven and eight-year-olds.
They had their hands folded in a praying position on their desk.
Their teacher had them say “Good morning Miss Kay.”
I nearly burst out laughing; this was totally not what I had expected.
They were my friends without knowing me.
They instantly began helping me know the rules.
They were adorable and brought me boundless joy.
Ted was a proper torturer
he'd gag me after tea
he'd ram a flannel down my gob
then dangle me on his knee
A virgin when I married
my mums and dad were Mormons
home-schoolers don't do sex Ed. much
though they did go on about hormones
I thought Ted's ways were normal
it was all new ground to me
my terrified eyes would turn him on
so I didn't have the heart to flee
I got used to the violent jerking
I got used to a gob full of flannel
but I wished I'd prayed and made a fuss
when he hid me behind his panel.
S O F
pews of velcro Sunday flats
little girls in plaits and jean dresses
arms folded
heads bowed
fluttering eyes from under lashes
peeking towards blackgrayblue Brothers
in their suits upon the stand
Father, Son, and Spirit
prose in archaic english dictating
lives
loves
loss
Priesthood power
ladies in cushioned folding chairs
swollen ankles crossed
the sacred womb
preserved bodies for creation
shoulder to knee painted into
the coat of many colors
squalling babes in arms
too diminutive for motherhood
pre-pubescent hips
pre-prepared for human polyps
homemaking lessons for middle schoolers
babysitting a gateway drug
for force-fed doctrines
and unhappy marriages
a girl’s purpose
and duty
Babies are droolers
Teachers are schoolers
Pitchers are foolers
Lawyers are duelers
Fishermen are spoolers
Faceters are jewelers
Needlers are crewelers
Kids are stoolers
Men are toolers
Women are rulers
Early to rise
late to lay,
business minded people
who barely slay;
best of friends with traffic
who make their day.
Clicking show glasses of Ghana bons
with schoolers ready to buy;
Athletic traffic sellers who could
catch up a bus at 120
A metropolis
coloured with yellow molue and danfo buses
whose drivers are as audacious as the day;
chain smokers with throaty voices
impatient with co-commuters
when they cry "Mile2 Mile2!"
Energetic touts with special anthem
"owo mi da?"
Grubby fighters in yellow
ready to engage any fellow.
Happy market women in their sizes
buying and selling in faded wrappers
in loud cries of "langbe jinó o"
and hilarious children replying "I get belle o!"
Impatient road users in their dusty trekker shoes,
almost bumping into one-way bikers
who would often holler "oloriburuku oshi!"
Loud jaiye jaiye gbedu
with dragging notes
from roadside DJs
who are live for the party
and on Saturdays for the couples
A city with anaconda queues at banks
with sweaty odours from co-standers.
Konfam Okokomaiko pikin
#CeeJay
#BusyPenPoetry
Darkness
That’s all my closed eyes could see while my lips were being captured by an awkward preteen boy.
My bruised lips from nervous biting matched perfectly with his smooth ones. This moment.
Of vulnerability and shyness was his and his only to see.
How new it felt, but not long lasting.
After all, we were just young middle schoolers wanting to get a taste of something sacred and refreshing.
Like fine wine, made only for the best and yearned by the curious ones.
Transportation, Mi sey transportation
School transportation, Mi sey transportation.
Transportation of schoolers, We can’t ignore
Parish Council and T.A. open the door
Dem open de door to safe highways
Drivers, come mek mi show you de way.
PLAN NUMBER ONE, yu must put in place
Watch yu speed limit, Or pólice in yu face.
But oonu inna hurry,
An oonu inna haste
Jus a grab plenty dollas
Inna dis ya rat race
Yu no realize sey dat tings no so nice
Protect de schoolers dem,
dem a fi wi special prize.
Transportation, Mi sey transportation
School transportation, Mi sey transportation.
PLAN NUMBER TWO
a telling you is true
Play wid de schoolers and yu corner really blue
Treat de pickeny dem wid plenty respect
Diginity, Courtesy and yu know de rest
All when inna yu face dem push up dem breast.
Responsibility is PLAN NUMBA THREE
Dress to impress an talk mek we see
Yu a one good driver wid nuff control
Drap de pickney dem right a school door
Transportation, Mi sey transportation
School transportation, Mi sey transportation.
Transportation, Mi sey transportation
School transportation, Mi sey transportation.
Hey, how are you
We don’t talk much
Well I talk, but you?
Not much
I’ve known you for
A while
Since sixth grade
When my bus was late
And I came in
One seat left
We passed papers back
I turned around
And there you were
I froze inside
Flash forward to the fire drill
Where the high schoolers
Screamed weird things
At us
We didn’t talk for a while
After that
But I admired you
From afar
Your bravery
Intelligence
Sports skills
Which I’ll always lack
And kindness
You always were very kind
Last year, we did talk
A lot, in fact
After school almost
Every day
Then we didn’t
This year we only have
A few classes together
And I think that’s how
It’ll stay but
It’s fine
I’ll just notice how
You walk into first hour
Just a little late
Because of clean-up crew
And how you sit in the back
In seventh hour
The teacher made you move
And how you talk to your friends
And don’t notice me
Because you’ll always be you
And I’ll always be me.
This is written by a 12 year old student, I am the teacher
Soar Spirit
The crowd of middle schoolers
Screaming, yelling, chanting
like warriors
Preparing for battle
The signs are passed through the masses
Encouraging phrases held high over their heads
like soldiers marching off to battle
With imperial banners waving through the air
The points are tallied up at the end
Then suddenly...
A flood of yellow clad students stand up screaming
Smiles of rejoice pasted on their faces
Like golden warriors celebrating their victory
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