Teacher (for Edward Francisco)

Poem Info
247 words
4.5
2.8k
0
Poem does not have any tags
Share this Poem

Font Size

Default Font Size

Font Spacing

Default Font Spacing

Font Face

Default Font Face

Reading Theme

Default Theme (White)
You need to Log In or Sign Up to have your customization saved in your Literotica profile.
PUBLIC BETA

Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.

You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.

Click here

Basics elude me now,
     as I sit in a field full of vacant
     desks, waiting
     for poetry to bloom.
You used to stand there,
     your hands on the podium,
     crackling
     with electricity.
A red-hot weather vane,
     I was struck by the lightning
     of your words,
     of your speaking voice,
     softly Southern and ever-like
     Sunshine.
Bloom again, it will, I think,
     that pink poetry, deep in where
     my voice
     speaks my words
     in ways you have taught me.

Bloomed this past Thanksgiving Thursday,
     a ritual I hate for many reasons.
I stirred mashed potatoes into
     pasty soup,
     Grandmother fussing,
“You’re mother worked so hard to make that
for you. Don’t be so disrespectful.”

     I LAUGHED.

You stood there, grinning,
     reminding me Southerners love
     their dysfunction, and they keep
     their secrets hidden
     well.
I know she doesn’t care about
     tater-coated fingers but that her
     dead husband liked
     sweet young things,
          not her.
I stare through the window glass,
     choking down Death with some
     gravy and corn, and I smile
     at the me I see there.

Faceless, I found you, asked you
     for identity, searching for
     something
     your face showed me and
     Could you help me?
Paper and pencils and rhythms
     and meter, you gave me the tools
     to turn language into
     Dancer,
     molding identity,
Buried away,          until now,
     where I sit
     waiting
     alone
     in absence of
     teacher and
     mourning the losses,
     hating the empty chairs, hating the
     silent air, breaking my heart
     over
     until,
     once again,
     your voice I hear.

Please rate this poem
The author would appreciate your feedback.
  • COMMENTS
Anonymous
Our Comments Policy is available in the Lit FAQ
Post as:
Anonymous
3 Comments
Mia MooreMia Moorealmost 20 years ago
the concept

is a good one, I like the way you speak to the reader, but in the first part, you say...

a field full of vacant desks...

**field full** sounds sort of redundent( sic)

I agree with the reader who suggested that you trim it a little bit, it is a touching poem and I enjoyed it very much, if you should rewrite I would love to read it :)

tarablackwood22tarablackwood22almost 20 years ago
Many,......

.....many nice images and some wonderful phrasing. I think the poem is powerful and has much to say -- a bit in need of some trimming and reworking, but everyone should notice, as many did with J.B.'s last offerings, that this new poet has very much to offer.

TathagataTathagataalmost 20 years ago
a wonderful

tribute.

I love the peek inside the "southeners" mind also

a very nice poem all around

thank you

Share this Poem