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Middle School Poems part 2

Full Contact Scrabble
 
Today six “Crew” classes
And their tired teachers,
Gave the office a cell phone number
And fled out the back door
With a bag of wooden scrabble letters
And, in full view of other jealous classes,
Gathered in the center of the soccer field
And began assembling
Words they celebrated in health class.
There was a brief meeting
Of the assigned teachers who,
Because of their recently acquired predisposition towards rebellion,
Agreed that the crossing
Of “sex” and “bollox”
For a double 10 score
Was both appropriate and timely
And, as the boys rolled in the grass
Punching each other,
The teachers counted the seconds to 1:58
When, by the grace of God,
The bell would ring and Crew class would be over.
 
 
Stage Crew
 
Is an odd group,
Noisy and gossipy.
A place where the fallen
Can be resurrected.
Jason is a great example.
Weeks ago he was
Accused by more than 3 girls
Of inappropriate brushing.
Now, however, after a few days of sanding
And an interesting haircut,
He seems to be a hot ticket.
 
Skunk Cabbage Day
 
Today they wrote odes to skunk cabbage
Reading the article first:
Marginally edible, thermogenetic, calcium oxalate.
Later in the swamp
They ate some
“Be the cabbage,” they were told.
And, after settling down, serious work began
22 dedicated poets from the purple language arts class.
“Can we write in the hall?”
“Can we make a rap song?”
“Can I make a hat with my leaf?”
Finally, at the bell
And all the stinky leaves were gathered up
And brought the French class.
Perhaps a new perfume,
Eau d’oriferous
 
Tired
 
So I am just plain tired
Tired like a paint rag
Tired like a dust bunny
Tired like dried pastrami
On the bottom of the cold cut drawer
 
I want puff proof eyes
That I can see closely with
I want to read all about the ingredients
In the quesadilla grande without
Borrowing glasses
 
What about my toes?
They tingle all the time
And while we are making a list
Of body parts complaints
Where is my hair?
 
This is a little to whiny
I think, for still being at school.
I’m here to listen
And I’ll leave my tingly
Toes to their own devices
 
 
 
The Modified Double Open Ended Horseshoe
Desk Configuration
 
 
Feng Shui certified
And 7th grade tested,
Our innovative design offers
Easy student accessibility,
“Butt head boy” isolation island options,
And unobstructed views
Of the stage and whiteboard.
The unit also boasts a generous
Dance / exercise central area and
A taped floor
For quick reconfiguration.
 
After installation,
Our students were smarter.
Their writing was interesting.
They didn’t want to the bathroom
And Riley stopped rolling on the floor.
 
Mrs. Kouletsis said, “Hey,
This is really different!”
And it was!
 
 
 
 
 
 
Baking Bread
 
The bread lady stands in the spotlight
With two sixth grade helpers.
Calleigh is taking the official movie
“I’m waiting,” the lady says evenly
In her California teacher’s voice.
 
 
Fluffing the flower makes it bigger
Gluten makes it sticky
Yeast and sugar makes CO2
 
The 7th graders are restless
Minds wandering… braided hair, 1 Direction,
The new kid
And important questions
About who would be his girlfriend
 
This is good stuff.
But the teachers are slumping
1:30 counting down to first bus.
“Kneed the dough
Roll in sugar and cinnamon
Tie the special knot for a butter top pretzel.”
I’m almost smelling it in the oven
Actually, this is a whole lot more interesting
Than normal Tuesdays.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Shegufa
 
This morning a woman from Afghanistan
Who lived through the Taliban
Came to talk to the seventh grade.
She told the girls they would all be married by now
That they couldn’t go to school anymore
That they couldn’t go outside without a man
That they had to wear a burqa.
 
She said she had six and her family
That they had to sell the house to eat
That her father and mother both lost their jobs
Because they spoke English
That a bus blew up in front of her
Blood everywhere
She said there were stories
She couldn’t tell to seventh graders.
They listened.
 
Why We Go to Camp Kieve in the Seventh Grade
 
 
We purposely wait
Until the first week of November
Raining (snowing?) and cold
To bundle 140, 13-year-olds
Into buses
With pink sleeping bags
That won’t stay tied
And clothes that are warm enough
And go three hours north into Maine.
And there we eat
Grilled cheese sandwiches
And macaroni and cheese
And talk about making good decisions
(Like why November?)
And making friends
(Like who else hates it here?)
For a week
And for fun
We get to dangle, shivering, from ropes
50 feet above
The frozen ground.
 
Croutons
 
It was a big surprise
To the seventh graders at the literary magazine
That croutons could be made from stale bread
So I told them the secret recipe
And that if they remembered it
They would be superheroes:
Olive oil, oregano, garlic
And for zip
A little hot sauce.
 
If I gave them a crouton quiz
I would not provide a study guide
They would struggle and then complain
Phone calls, letters from home,
Comments on the soccer field.
 
Are croutons part of the curriculum?
Will there be a makeup test?
Can I make a poster instead?
 
10 years from now
Over onion soup
Or chowder
Their noses will scrunch up
“Something is missing,”
They will say.
And they will call information to find me
And from my wheelchair I will giggle
And not remember anything at all about croutons.  
Toby the Horse
 
Toby is a spoiled black horse
He lives in a stall mucked out by Megan
Who combs them and writes about him
All the time.
He has decided not to saddle up today at all
“I’ll just have a carrot,”
He says hopefully.
Megan has been down this road before.
She knows the old
“Blow my stomach up
So you can’t get the girth on,” trick well.
They squabble like an old married couple
She whines, he shuffles.
The other horses become annoyed
“Why does he get Megan?
Why?”
 
Coco, Caitlin’s Hamster
 
 
9:46
Saturday morning
Wheel work
A crisp sunflower seed
A few drops from the water bottle
Nap
 
Time passes
Suddenly Coco disappears.
Urgent family conference
Chewed paper trail
Coco has flown the coop!
Apprehended under the radiator
He nipps us repeatedly and ferociously
And suddenly
We realize we have
A good hamster, gone tragically bad.
 
Such a lovely family
Could happen to anyone
We did our best,
All the food groups
Fresh lettuce.
 
Severe consequences follow
Maximum-security
No visitations
Long hours of thinking
Wondering
We stare at the stony dark eyes
Hoping, perhaps without hope
For repentance.
 
 
The Expedition
 
We are studying Afghanistan
in the seventh grade
intensely.
Alexander, the Ghorids, the Russians.
everybody, 2500 BCE to now.
Michael is crying
Catherine is crying
Juan’s hasn’t been seen all day.
30 trifolds, glossy prints, construction paper,
Afghan flags sticking out
Of topographic maps,
Paint on the floor.
Invitations for Monday morning at 8:30
Have been sent.
The press is coming,
The superintendent is coming,
Boys have been told to wear
Their Bar Mitzvah suits.
The smart girls are stressing out
Allison is living and breathing Genghis Kahn
Tarushi she has informed us
She’s got nothing because
The Persians were never there.
Megan wants to work “horses”
Into her speech on Afghan independence.
Aren’t there horses in everything?
 
 
Caroline’s Blood Blister
 
Sits on her index finger
Like a volcano,
Gym locker issue.
The nurse, who doesn’t have to live with it,
Says not to pop it.
So Caroline is typing with it
Like a club foot
Stumbling along
Sticking between H and J.
“Maybe there is an animal in there,” she says,
“a little alien.”
When she holds it upside down
It looks like a stalactite
She’s going to play basketball with it tonight.
 
Fishing for Laundry
 
Today during eighth period
We push the desks into quads, boats,
Three students per boat,
No feet or hands in the water
One - 10 foot string
Two - paperclips
A - rock
Scissors
25 items from the lost and found on the floor.
 
Adam falls in the water flapping around.
“Adam, don’t be a Butthead,” I suggest.
“Get back in the boat.
Play the game.”
He throws his line with the scissors attached
At Ayesha, who was wearing her headscarf.
I’m not sure she is buying the fish game.
Suddenly she screams that banshee scream of hers
And her crew pulls their sabers
And, launching grappling hooks
Haul in Adams now doomed Brigantine
“No prisoners! Get the fish!” she shouts,
Slamming Adam in the ribs.
And suddenly she has them all,
The entire contents of the wood Hill lost and found
In her possession.
 
I Am the Witch Teacher
 
I steam
In my cauldron
Ho hum essays
Messy notebooks
And poems that rhyme with “day” and “way”
 
I chant
In halls and by lockers.
Incantations, cajolations and whinery.
 
Beware the English teacher
Beware the magic tie that clashes
The furry ears and wrinkled skin
Beware the ambiguous antecedent
The dangling modifier
Beware the hand with the green pen
Other works by Chip Gregory Teacher...



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