Old Poem, Age 8

I wish I could be like the leaves
And simply blow away,
For then I wouldn’t have to go
To school again today.

The teacher always yells at me,
And says I do things wrong —
I think I’ve got a complex, or
I will have, before long.

I wish it was still summer, so
We could go to the pool;
Instead we go to gym class,
Then our local lunchroom gruel.

The leaves go where they want, while I’m
In math, for heaven’s sake —
But I at least know how to count
The days

Til Christmas


Double Major

She said she had a headache
From all that she’d to do;
She lingered there, reviewing
Until 5:42

She had a double-major
In psych and poli-sci —
If asked now for her reasons,
She couldn’t tell you why

Except she knows it’s crazy,
And ought to be unlawful,
At least, she thinks it is:
Just now, her memory

Is awful

Art Class

Show the world what you’ve been feeling,
There are walls, but there’s no ceiling,
Hopes and fears with which your dealing,
Turn them into something more —

There is nothing small about you,
Show those who ignore or doubt you
All that is within, without you
Though you may be rich, or poor —

You are more than shows by seeing,
So by doing, show your being,
No more running, hiding, fleeing,
You’re no ornamental bird:

You’ve a voice that must

Be heard



Teach the truth as you see it

Be careful of your facts

But also
Give your real opinions
Carefully identifying them as such

Share your real passions

Be your real self

Pass the spark on
As it was passed to you

Go now
And make a better world possible

Oh, and one other thing —

Get out of the Teachers’ way

The Broken Chair

Broken Chair

Years ago a troubled boy
Sat upon this chair
At the time, he didn’t know
Just why he was there

And the very walls, it seemed
Made a kind of jail
Sent to this imposing place
Seemingly, to fail

It intimidates no more
In this later year
Broken now the old chair sits
Bent by dint of fear