In the fourth grade
too many moons ago
a reassuring teacher
looked over my shoulder
and said not to worry about
some mistake on my paper.
She said that’s why
we have erasers.
Now a teacher assures
my grandson
in the same grade
not to worry
about his mistake.
She tells him that’s
why we have
a delete key.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
Other paths
Would not have led
Me here
Some more attractive then
Than they appear now
Except for the bumps and bruises
Hardship and sacrifice
I would be at another place
I did not follow
My tribe in the mines
The bleakness
Of that fate
The source
Of my father’s admonition
The coal seam
Claiming the youth
Of generations
Of my kin
But I wanted more
Than the darkness
The choke of dust
That would coat my lungs
The bend of poverty
As a broken man
I sought the light
Of learning
A course
Strange to my people
A solitary walk
For me
Away from the companionship
Of classmates
Enjoying their temporary prosperity
Of cars and boats and homes
Luxuries I would have to defer
If at all
But now as sick old men
They no longer scoff
But question
Their own life course
(For the Buguza Secondary School and its founder, Dr. Wanda Evans-Brewer.)
With pulled wings of a visionary
the eagle glides, touching lives
when the Tanzanian stars gathered their
blinks, revealing rich-flunged parts
of Buguza, when the nacarat sky
beyond the young school children
tweed for the early season’s rain
The eagle has taught them a lesson,
how to weave their future
into a formidable shape
to deep-burrow their ambitions
and build great structures for tomorrow
As delighted voices of a new Buguza
crackled like fresh foliage from the
sun
by a boisterous Ubuntu dance
while the blithful mothers ululate
clicking surrendering tongues ululating
My voice is one matter
but having the ability
to help my students find
voice is another
It is their idea
that will carry on from mine,
their thoughts will
bring needed relief
long after my drafts have
been thrown in the heap
It is a powerful notion
to help another build
thought, make change.
More at http://jddehartwriting.blogspot.com.
We must
learn to be citizens
of the world,
Listen to the narratives
and counter-narratives
of the people,
Pushing back and speaking
in the right places.
I saw a student die today
His eyes grew vacant
In a transfixed stare
Robbed of any interest
He did not tumble
From his seat
But slowly wormed his way
Ever lower in his place
He did not answer
To my query
Nor respond
To my mild rebuke
Others did not notice
They were so accustomed
To each death
For it to merit
Any significance
Yet I always will…for
He is the child
I killed