2009-03-23

Hear Us Teach; A Poem By Scott C. Waring


Hear Us Teach; A Poem By Scott C. Waring


To be a teacher, a sculptor of a child’s destiny, was always my goal.
I wanted to enlighten their minds and release them back into the wild.
I wanted to stop wars, and end world hunger with my teachings.

 I believed I could make a difference in someone’s journey though life.
A belief I still hold today.
I never chose this job for the money, but for the sparkle in the eye that tells me the child gained enlightenment.

 Parents complain often of what children should and shouldn’t learn.
They censor our books, our pledges, our souls.
There might as well be a sign on the door that says “Notice: No God, No hugs, no service.”

 Students yearn for knowledge of the world around them.
They thirst for it.
They hunger for it.
They even sometimes fear it.
Most often they get board with it.

 So we as teacher jump up on chairs and make funny faces.
We use unusual voices.
We use elements of surprise.
This we hope will keep their attention.
This we trust will captivate their imaginations.

 Teachers are more than parents, because the parents don’t want to be themselves.
Quietly we teach children ethics, morals and proper behavior, without the parents consent.
We listen and assist the students in a way that they don’t get at home.

 Those who don’t want to learn in class are those we worry about the most.
They are the ignored, the single parented, the broken horse that could have used gentling, but now lacks spirit.
When you show them a kindness, they are the ones who appreciate it the most.

 For in their world, it’s dark and cold.
They feel ignored, in the way and a Burdon to others.
It’s a dreadful place to be, a youngster without a childhood, without a parent, without a hug.
These are the students who stay in at recess to talk alone with the teacher.

 Parents say teachers must treat all children equally, but I have yet to meet such a person. Perhaps the one who could stroll upon the surface of water. Yes - a teacher.
Parents preach that which they themselves can not possibly do.
They choose to have children.
They choose to ignore them.
They blame the teachers for their child’s shortcomings.
These we call parents.

 Through years of teaching, colors gradually fade in the grass and flowers and in the sky above.
Through the obstacles and the hardships, teaching for us begins to loose its appeal.
We as teachers begin to realize we are trying to move a mountain with a spoon, one scoop at a time.

 We teach.
We remember how we felt in the beginning, our hair now gone gray and we teach.

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Cell Phones: A Poem by Scott C. Waring


Cell Phones: A Poem By Scott C. Waring

 The phone, what a marvelous invention.
It rings and rings and rings, was that the intention?

 It rings me through the day.
It rings me through the night.
It rings to tell me about things far out of my sight.

 It rings to tell me of births.
It rings to tell me of deaths.
It never stops, never sleeps, never gives it a rest.

 It rings to inform me of bills.
It rings to survey my life.
But never once has it rung without bringing me a bit of strife.

 It rings me during breakfast and twice during lunch.
It rings me during dinner, not twice but just once.

 I hear it in the office, at work and in the car.
It’s relentless and ruthless, and wont let me escape far.

 So here I warn you all, of this dreadful haunting.
Take your cell phone batteries out now, and let’s leave them wanting.

 Throw it to the ground and jump up and down.
Pounding it into the cement, letting its death be its last sound.

 But ghostly rings will occur, they will be heard here and there.
For this invention you smashed seems to travel through the air.

 It stalks our families, our neighbors, our friends.
It controls them all.
It will by no means end.

 We need that ring so much, that without it were empty inside.
So we beg for its forgiveness and wait impatiently for it to decide.

 That little ring, that ding-a-ding-ding.
Why do I have this feeling, I’ll be buried with this thing?

 Even after death, I will call from beyond the grave.
I will put god on speed dial and I will ask him what gave?

 But I bet he’ll have call waiting, to avoid all my calls.
Because why would he want to confront, his eternal downfalls.

 But don’t you worry about me.
Don’t you fret a single bit.
I’ll get through to him one day.
Then I’ll really give him some shit!

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Hospital Curtain; A Poem by Scott C. Waring


Hospital Curtain; A Poem by Scott C. Waring

 Sirens, Medical Personnel, echoing of a child’s scream down long arid halls.
Parents pacing upon the bland tiles to avoid the bright orange chairs.
A freshly waxed floor glistens under the florescent lights.
“Baba, I’m scared.”
“Oh snuggle bug, be brave.”
“Oh,” he sadly coos.
A nurse probes his ears and mouth and then gently takes his hand to measure his pulse.
“Baba I’m not going to cry,” with water eyes.
“I know you won’t.”
“Oh,” he sadly coos.
A gurney comes to a rest with a middle age man, drooling and mumbling incoherently.
“Baba, why is he laying down?”
“He’s not feeling well.”
“Oh,” he sadly coos.

 Outside the hallway, a man holds his newborn in one arm and angrily wave’s chest x-rays at the doctor.
“Baba, why is the man yelling?”
“He is scared for his child.”
“Oh,” he sadly coos.

 The nurse tells us to come into a small room so that she can put in an IV needle.
“Baba please don’t let them hurt me!”
I lean over his chest to help hold him down, to keep him from hurting himself.
“You’re my brave boy.”
“No,” he sadly coos.
A nurse robotically leads us and two other sets of parents with kids to the elevator and up to the eleventh floor.
“Baba where are we going?”
“We have to stay here for a few days. Till you feel better.”
“Oh,” he sadly coos.
Sharing a room, sharing children, sharing pain but please not that girl’s grandmother.
“Baba it’s loud in here.”
“Shush, the girl’s tummy hurts.”
“Oh,” he sadly coos.

 The little girl lay in her bed all alone, no family to consol her, staring at the boy in the next bed as his mother and father play with him.
“Baba where’s the girls mother?”
“She has no mother,” he said, knowing the cruelty of breast cancer.
“Oh,” he sadly coos.

 The sky outside the window darkened and everyone began to ready for sleep.
“Baba lay down,” he said pointing to a thin fake leather bench along the wall.
“I’m not tire yet,” I murmur over the girls crying beyond the curtain.
“Oh,” he sadly coos.

 Pacing the room before the window reveals a rare sunrise and a few hours peace before cries from next bed awaken all.
“Baba good morning!” he yells with a smile that challenges the sunrise.
“Hush, that girls finally sleeping.”
“Oh,” he sadly coos.

 A pack of nurses led by two doctors enter the room and surround the boy’s bed.
“Baba hold me.”
“They are just here to check on you.”
“Oh,” he sadly coos.

 A nurse takes out the boys IV needle and smiles kindly to him handing him a sticker.
“Baba it’s all gone,” he said happily showing his wrist.
“They said we can go home in a few hours.”
“Oh,” he sadly coos.

 The boy and his parents pack up their belongings and begin walking towards the door.
“Baba wait,” he ran and handed the little girl his toy horse.
“You made her very happy,” he said kissing his sons forehead.
“Oh,” he sadly coos.
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