Teenager, On the Way

Teenager, On the Way

to school, at the light.
The bass beat rocks the car
and hums the street.
Behind me, two girls
in an old Mercedes,
in front, unabashed
by the taped taillight,
and hanging half out
the open window
in delight,
a jaunty salute
over the hood of my car.
A crinkling of eyes
the buzz cut hair
the muscled wave
of a tee-shirted arm
before the light changes
and he is off,
a blast into the ether
of the curve out of sight,
as quick as that.

Catch the Big Yellow Poetry Bus

THE BUS STOPS HERE!

After all these weeks of running to catch the Poetry Bus, I'm finally at the wheel, and what do I bring?  It's the Big Yellow School Bus!

What else would I drive?

I'm what you might call a Schoolmarm. Counting this school year, which began for me this week, I've been in schools for fifty years as a student, teacher, school leader or district level administrator. It's as natural as breathing for me to plan a field trip!

So....sharpen your pencils, kiddies! Grab your papers and your lunch boxes, and come along! We'll start here in West Virginia, head north for Professor Semi-colon, then make our way across the country, picking up a Bug or two along the way. We'll make a brief detour to pick up some Canadian Kats before we reach the coast. After we fuel up on Enchantment, it's back to the Atlantic, by which time the TFE should have solved the Problem of the Day: How do we get a big yellow bus full of poets across the sea to London and Dumfries and Dublin and highways and byways between and beyond?

Well, that's the magic part of our art! I promise this bus will go as far as your words and imaginations can travel. Just meet the simple Poetry School Bus challenge for this week: write a poem about school or schooling. Leave your URL in my comment box, and I'll link it in the sidebar below my profile-->

The bus runs on Monday. Don't forget your permission slips, boys and girls!

* New Passenger : Judy Clem at http://www.judyclem.blogspot.com/
Welcome Aboard, Judy! 


Just for a warm up, here are a couple of mine:

SCHOOLMARM (that's me)

At three o'clock
When school is out,
She gathers up her things.
If she had an old hat,
She'd jam it on her head;
If she had an old horse,
She'd plod down country lanes,
Stopping here and there to pick tall stems
To take with her on her calls.
She'd sing along the way.
There would be dinner with the families,
A different one each day.
They'd watch their grammar,
Put out their better plates,
Offer her the choicest cuts of meat, good bread.
Later, they'd stand on the porches and wave
Until she was gone from sight
Before the washing up.
If she had a hat, a horse,
A country lane
At three o'clock --
If she had a hat and a horse
In her life.

This next one is dedicated to a wonderful poet friend with whom I survived the messed up college years. Her K is Name Lawson. Or something like that. She'll recognize herself here, and you can find her outstanding poetry here:

WHO WE WERE

I still recall your stance
before the class,
so compact,
thick black curls
around your head,
eyes big as china saucers.
You're telling tales
of cars and barracudas
and mixed up names.
At night we pick black circles
from our eyes and rub them
on the smooth white page,
drawing lines round truth and beauty,
knowing it for what it (is) (is not).
At eighteen, we think we know
who we are.
And youth.
We drink our wine
from plastic cups
and sleep with youth
between us,
tangled in our separate dreams,
riding who we (are) (are not)
to places where we'll someday
know our names.

In My School

In my school

the boys slick

back their hair

with grease that

streaks down necks

on sweaty August days,

flash f-e-a-r

on every knuckle,

dots from pins

and blue-black ink;

Teacher sprays

the room with

blue Evening in Paris

against the heat

and stink of boys.

In my school

the girls go in twos,

hold hands, skip

down the path,

except on winter days,

when we never

feel the need

to go at all.

Those days,

we peel off

crusty mittens,

extra socks, wet scarves

that hiss and steam

on radiators blasting heat.

Janie’s tights are red

and mine are black,

and we learn

the words that we

must never say,

the vocabulary

of crime and punishment

together.

In my school

we read in groups,

learn county seats,

sing patriotic songs,

chew pencils that

record our dreams

in speckled books

with sewn down pages,

tearfully recite

our tables, hoping for

another chance when

we forget our nines.

In my school

we line for sugar cubes,

pink saviors

Mr. Sabin sent too late

for poor Christine.

In spring,

the rest of us

skate red dog lines

on green tile floors,

wash dusty boards,

bang chalk clouds in the air,

chase tiny frogs

that jump from

scummy science jars.

At lunch, we munch

thick meat sandwiches,

crunchy pickles,

sticky cakes,

drink milk with

bendy straws;

at the end

of every month

we feast on

thick commodity bread,

big chunks of creamy cheese,

and soupy beans.

In my school

we are six grades

three rooms

three teachers --

self-contained,

and we never know,

we never know as kids

we’re not the world;

we never know that

there is any other way.

Thanks to bluesugarpoet for inspiring this poem with her "Your School vs. My School."