Category Archives: Teacher

Why I Hated School

Why I hated School

By David Smith May 10, 2017

 

Why I hated school and that unbearable pain

To go there every day and face abrasiveness again

Why so much anxiety, and why I hate it so

Feeling so intimated in a classroom row

 

Afraid to even speak, confirmed how stupid that I am

Yet smart enough to realize eventually, I can

Putting things in order and phonics was a chore

Being so discouraged and stare upon the floor

Reading not a pleasure, and printing cramped my style

Making tiny circles, writing became worthwhile

 

Teachers had to teach and I had to learn

Just like Push and Pull, conflict my concern

Afraid of teachers from the start,

And nightmares that I had

Piercing voices that went through me

The emotion made me mad

 

Having a short attention span

and  fidgety in class

A very short-term memory

Frustration would always last

And simple things in order,

In left field I would find

Connections unrelated, as I pass the time

 

Learning was a chore,

Now a challenge, I see

Facing trials and difficulties

Makes a healthier me

To step out of my comfort zone

And have that added stress

To develop, and grow for complete happiness

 

No need to be beaten up

With failures and disappointments too

Developing coping skills,

Trials that I worked through

Why I hated school, hits the nail on the head

To use that burning passion, so others can be led

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Inspired by Metropolitan Fountain Pen

Inspired by Metropolitan Fountain Pen

By David Smith January 1, 2016

 

A Metropolitan Fountain pen I hold in my hand

Learning how to write, with a creative stand

To form the words with the alphabet, we see

Pass it on to children, with great, possibility

Back to basic writing to let the ink flow

From the glass bottle to the lined paper, the mechanics to get to know

Study each letter and how it is shaped

Yet, know the thought patterns, as it flows so great

A true art to write as words flow on the page

Developing a story, as phrases form on each stage

Words, to sentences, to paragraphs, no doubt

The art of writing, a skill throughout

To pass on to grandchildren, that is my dream

Developing skills, to teach it, I mean

Get back to basics with “A” “B” and “C”

Write it with flair, the possibility
What a joy! Thoughts as they flow

Loading a pen, basic mechanics to know

The ink, from the bottle, and out though the pen

Document your life, what a message to send

A fountain pen flowing with ink and thought

Imagination, to capture a lot

Playing with my Grandson

Game Playing with Grandchildren
By David Smith October 6, 2015

(he is five years old and teaches me)

So you want to play got’em as I poked his cheek so soft;
He got all excited, with the emotion that it brought;
His finger like a knife,
And into my stomach that it jabbed;
Playing got’em was not fun
The receiving end that grabbed;
In playing games with grandchildren, as they continually grow;
It’s me that has to change, Like I need to know
That’s how we learn, our lessons in life;
All on how to shuffle and deal with all the strife;
To appreciate the youth, guide them along the way;
All experience living and grandparents grow and play;
So to connect with grandchildren as they continually mature;
Relationships evolve, though love we all endure

The Truth about Honesty

The truth about honesty
By David Smith November 4, 2014

An old retired vet taught honesty to me;
A lie that he regretted in his youth, you see;
He was a young officer and fresh off the press;
Visited an aunt in England for a little bit of rest.

A cute young boarder was attracted to his eye;
And he told her tales and stories, and more than one little lie;
He loved her dearly and she loved him a lot;
He dropped her like a hot potato from the tangled web it brought;

He did not know for certain if she loved him for what he was;
Or for the tales and stories, that caused a little buzz;
His aunt could not understand how both got so hurt;
All because of dishonesty, he was the lying jerk;

Being dishonest with a woman, to be something you are not;
To be the fabrication, or the truth within, that we have got.
If he only told the truth he would know for sure;
If the love was genuine, so all could endure.

He lived to be over ninety, and his past is laid to rest
An old retired vet, his wisdom I love best.

My Mentor, My Teacher Only Four Years Old

My Mentor, My Teacher at Four Years Old
By David Smith September 6, 2014

Comics

Envy my grandson at four years old;
As he grasps hold of life, fearless and bold;
Rides a two wheeler and drives like the wind;
Rides down the step on a prayer and a whim
Can swim like a fish in deep water no doubt
Wearing a life jacket no fear is about
He’s got his youth and the ability to climb
At four years of age, fear far behind
Falls down and gets bumped, and brushes it off
Laughs at life, and gives it everything he’s got
I envy the boy, but to copy his way
Can I take my struggles, and turn it into play?
Unless we become as little children, I hear
To face the adventure and do without fear
To learn from my grandson, a teacher is he
A hunger for experience makes a happier me.