Category Archives: Teachers

“A Single Tone”

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“A Single Tone”

A single tone, the elastic green or thin
Blue line of tomes and trilogies
Of joyous soliloquies
And what it means to breathe. A baby’s skin,
Yes! thin, the moment’s mine, and from where I sit,
So’s the next and then the next,
And for a time I am the action and the text
For more than actors; multitudes may fit,
Choirs of spirits throughout the years
In what they do, or may accomplish,
What their open windows, what they wish,
Expressed in what they will and will not and what it is they fear,
At once seize the souls of children in embryonic features
Of their worlds and what becomes of them: in fact I was their teacher.

“I Will Remember Them”

…in remembrance of all the wonderful teachers years ago,…and they were truly gifted and wonderful…

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Grand Island Senior High School
Grand Island, Nebraska

“I Will Remember Them

I will remember them forever, hearts
Departed long ago and those who still
Remain to say, “Ah, yes! I was and still
define myself within such visions, starts
And fits at thinking, matching first the noun
And then the verb to form a thought complete
With license to ground a thesis, yes; to see antipathy,
Transformed to sweet antithesis and then be drowned
In newborn thought―a synthesis at least―
And from such dim antecedents to the crown
And beauty of beginnings bearing down
On me and all its implications, blasts,
And rushing images in streams of light and thought,
The genesis of questions and of all the truths I sought.

gihs

“The Key Is Coded Red”

…just a little nostalgia… In my mind’s eye, occasionally, I travel back to the last school in which I taught for so many years…my old room, Room 461…and…used my key―coded red―to take a look…. The room belongs to someone else now, but the class…they are still who they were when I left them…and I’m exactly who I was when the time came to leave the lion’s den for the last time;  something about alergies and cats….

Door

“The Key Is Coded Red”

The key is coded red, the lock submits,
The door is opened with the slightest turn;
And while the keys are dangling, a lightning burn
On fingers where the knuckle hits
The doorjamb, there because the knob’s
Still too close to the frame and nicks’re
Inevitable once a week. Nothing’s changed. The flicker
Of morning lights―in winter, more like blobs
Of dawn―to make the classroom bright, and there they are!
The chairs atop the desks to aid the man
Who sweeps at night and empties all the cans:
Now I set me down to teach with last night’s marks,
And there and then, and once again I think it’s time I looked
For something more in this than merely facing lions armed with books.

“The Changeling’s Off”

“The Changeling’s Off”

The changeling’s off degrees from centre stage;
Regrets but he neglects quitting early, spurns all but firm resolve
To be what he must be and in evasion and denial dissolves
In endless traction in the newborn age
That leaves him far behind,…or so he dreams.
He is the less for it; it’s true, but greater in the breach,
He leaps or lunges toward such goals as were never his, the reach
Beyond what was intended only days ago. Hours, he deems
His monumental costs delayed as what amount to pearls strung, displayed–
Themselves but miniatures, schemes so grandiose that rival truest choice
In actions innocuously exposed as are his works that cannot find a voice–
The either side of which are more commanding than the plays,
Themselves, no more nor less demanding on the patronage of audience:
Such bubble baths of bathos spawn endless hopes, awash in incidental arrogance
and to within an inch of anger and doomed, perhaps, to decadence.
“The child’s fallen through the cracks,”
They say, and sure, he knows it! Neither factions
Nor an infinity of purple lines, nor silence as a sanction
bring his thinking past the moment of attack,
The root, the centre of delight and gravitas
And at that age? Amazing! Teachers raise
Their hands and he applauds the praise
Of cause to no effect. He will salute the animas
Of every passing spark without a thought
To ground the notion. Lightning strikes
Inevitably–obverse of confirmation– to light
A path to pains that cannot be contained nor bought
And wonders how it is that others neither flatten nor allay
His ignorance and, leaving, lay to waste his salad days,.
The catalysts detached, and safe from harm and apathy
Reduce integrities to nothing more than sport. Liabilities, he earns; enjoined
Or praised: he treasures troubled space but only when purloined,
And, bowing low, he surgically removes the parasites of hosts. Relief
From all that’s supine trumps perception of the hand that’s dealt with deft
Disclosure hidden in the modus. Others merely operate and analyse;
The oil they seek is crude; his sensibilities refine the blatant lies,
And all those wisdoms as from boils are drained. The bereft
No longer fool the wwise, nor falsely warn the fool!
His simple confidence entrapped, he walks away, displays no sympathy
For maudlin sentiment, and, drowned–as was Voltaire!–
in trivial pursuit, antithesis, and antipathy,
He confidently scorns all suckers born upon  A ferial day; the hours cooled
In cauldrons, the stench of raw indifference is masked in nosegay;
Satisfactions realized, the succubus smiles and simply steals away.