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Posts Tagged ‘school’



Booktakers
Are backpacks stuffed. And,
Backbreakers.

Build the mind
While toting all books –
Break the back.

No lockers?
Yes, lockers. But they
Would take time.

Why the weight?
So there’s no wait to
Socialize.

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photo by Sanja Gjenero at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mhASdBe/teen+backpack

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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The goal of a school is transferring,
With teachers and good books concurring,
The knowledge of ages
That’s writ on the pages
To students whose minds need the stirring.
—-

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photo by Sanja Gienero at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mu4Ihiw/overloaded

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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Recess!

Green plant school,
A kindergarten –
Tiny sprouts.

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Chameleon

Didn’t change
As quick as the flash –
I see you!

——————— 

 

A Part, Sometimes

As a whole
Life’s not a lemon,
Just a slice.

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Recess – photo by Adrian van Leen at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/n7UloCM/vegetable+sprouting+variety

Chameleon – photo by Agnes Scholiers at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/o8xCKte/Chameleon

Part – photo by Dez Pain at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/o21vTqo/Lemon+Slice

——————–

 

* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

——————–

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

 

 

 

 

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……………………….Escape from Big D

Two small town lads were we who spent the summer in Big D,
Where heat arose, as scorching sun beat down unmercifully.
And then was fired a dragons’ breath from acres of cement,
That left those city streets and walks like steam pours out a vent.

The heat baked loaves of loneliness away from family, friends
That we were forced to swallow; we were busy making ends
Meet – making money so that we could go to school.
In the bustle that was Dallas, each was just a molecule.

We had a certain circle, small, in which we felt secure –
To work, or play, or store – and nothing else was siren lure
Enough to take us from our comfort zone to loaded roads
That spread like spider webs, and carried many loathsome toads.

Oppressive heat made summer’s feet snail-slow to make its pass;
It schooled us with a tedium found in a boring class.
But finally its term was done; another’s time drew near.
Just one assignment still remained ere we were free and clear.

We had to work a final day, then to the master go –
The central office in downtown, and papers to them show.
Here was the middle of the mound that swarmed and teemed with ants
And spires of buildings pierced the sky as if each were a lance.

But worse is standing in a mound of ants that have been stirred
As ones who are the first to know are quick to pass the word.
And out an army rushes from each hole and porous rock
And fills the paths and lanes: rush hour traffic – five o’clock.

So through a maze of highways, exits, roads and one-way streets,
We had to map our way with care and also our retreat.
We plotted like the astronauts when headed for the moon,
And in the end, it was a single way that we had hewn.

And on that fateful day, we went to work with anxious face;
We knew that just a single flaw, and we’d spin into space,
And never would our ship return to family or home;
We’d live our lives among the stars and like lost nomads, roam.

The work went well; then we were done; we stuck close to our route,
And ev’ry turn went perfectly till downtown was about.
But it was nearing five o’clock and ants began to crawl,
As frantic ants are prone to swarm near Christmas at the mall.

We parked our car (I know not where); in company’s last spot?
Then up into the air we went to cut the Gordian knot.
The paperwork was finished somewhere on an upper floor;
We hastened then to exit from the open Dallas door.

Down, down we went with our emotions high up in a cloud
Until we saw the streets were full with nowhere going crowd.
Our one way street, our ticket home, was five blocked lanes abreast
And we were in the far right lane, behind a bus, at rest.

And worse – far worse! for small town lads, who knew but one
way home,
Our turn was left – and we were right, as far away as Rome.
A block away, but we were blocked; we knew no other way;
How dark is hopeless life when light hides even from the day!

But then, a miracle – the bus ahead picked up its fare.
And cutting left, it pushed the traffic back – our path was bare!
Like God, for Israel, did part the waters of the Sea,
The bus did thus for us; we followed close, freed from Big D.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

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High school students

Image via Wikipedia

Use Lockers!

Students’ books –
Good for their learning;
Bad for backs.
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Classroom Management Tool

A teacher
Just slightly cross-eyed –
Looks at me?

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Student Paradox

First bell – late;
Class ends; second bell –
Like rocket.

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Out…To…

Trouble when
One’s favorite class
Is the lunch.

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School Days

Many bells;
Even some dumbbells –
In weight room.

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

—————————–

© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.

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Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sunning;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry-vines are running.

Within, the master’s desk is seen,
Deep scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife’s carved initial.

The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door’s worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves’ icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.

For near her stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled;
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered; –
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand’s light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.

“I’m sorry that I spelt the word;
I hate to go above you,
Because,” – the brown eyes lower fell, –
“Because, you see, I love you!”

Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing,
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn, in life’s hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her, – because they love him.

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