School Poems*:  Children's Books by Douglas Evans!         Go to School Poems, Too!  (2nd page)   
                  *For school use with permission

 

The School Day Begins     


     It's Monday morning at 7:01.
     You’re still half asleep; your homework’s half done.
     Your shower is cold; your oatmeal’s dry.
     Your mother forgets to kiss you good-bye.
     You’re walking to school; it’s thirty degrees.
     Your fingers won’t work; your toes and ears freeze.
     Your zipper is stuck; your left sneaker squeaks.
     Your backpack strap snaps; your soup thermos leaks.
     You slip on school steps; you trip in the hall.
     The toilet floods in the bathroom stall.
     The gym door is locked; library’s the same.
     The principal greets you by the wrong name.
     Your classroom is hot; the coat rack is packed.
     Your bean sprout is dead; your clay pot is cracked.
     Your pencils are dull; the sharpener jams.
     Your fingers get crunched when your desktop slams.
     Your math partner’s gone; your neighbor is rude.
     Your teacher’s again in a crabby mood.
     The morning bell rings; it is 8:01.
     Come cozy up to the whiteboard,
     Another school day’s begun.    
Gone High Tech
                               You may have noticed, teacher,
                                I am not in school today.
                                But the tape deck on my desk,
                                Will record each word you say.
                                Switch on my laptop's Webcam,
                                When you have something to show,
                                And if you pass out homework,
                                Find my fax number below.
                                I’ve a pager and cell phone,
                                So I won’t be hard to reach.
                                Since I don’t need to be in class,
                                I’ll do lessons at the beach.
                                                                                  Cuts
I gave cuts to Larry, and he  gave cuts to Jim.
Jim gave cuts to Cory; Mac cut in before him.
Mac gave cuts to Alex, and he gave cuts to Lee.
Dan took cuts before Tom, and he gave cuts to me.
And when we left for recess, out the classroom door,
Every boy in our line, stood where he was before.

 


The Homework Load

 

Not long ago the homework load,
Did Helen little harm.
She walked to school with one notebook,
Tucked in her little arm.
Homework increased until the girl,
Had no choice but to pack,
Binders and texts into a sack,
She strapped onto her back.
When her spine curved, and her back crooked,
Her shoulders apt to sag.
So Helen took to pulling books,
In a wheeled luggage bag.
As Helen grew, homework did too,
And fourth grade marked the start,
Of pushing homework to and fro,
In a large shopping cart.
Soon tractors towed her homework load.
Still Helen found no luck.
Now forklifts hauled her homework home,
And next a pick-up truck.
But still the work load grew and grew,
And the truck overran.
Sixth grade saw Helen driving home,
In a U-Haul moving van.
Helen’s homework load reached its height,
When school closed in the fall.
For teachers assigned so much work,
Kids couldn't move at all.
A Bee Seas*
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Writers' Workshop

Our Writers' Workshop follows math.
We write and work nonstop.
But Writers' Workshop does not mean,
We ever get to shop.

 

Oprah, Our Opera Diva Bus Driver

She dreams of singing on the stage,
But for now she’s driving our bus.
And each day on the way to school,
She sings her arias for us.
“La-la-la-la-laaaaa!”she warms up,
Folding open the school bus door.
“Me-me-meeeee!” she sings harmony,
With the bass of the engine roar.
Riding along, she’ll belt a song,
Jaw wobbling as she grips the wheel.
Hitting the brakes, she hits high notes.
A prima donna duet squeal.
Once she wore a helmet with horns,
And warbled “Ho-jo-to-ho!”
She clutched the gear shift like a spear,
And the kids cheered, "Bravo! Bravo!"
When she sang Madame Butterfly,
She gave us an exciting ride,
Especially when at the end,
She gripped her kimono and died.
She dreams of singing on the stage,
Now librettos lie beside her.
Riding to class is classy because,
Oprah is our diva driver. 
 
Upside-Down Playground 
They built the playground upside-down.
The jungle gym looks like a crown.
The tetherball still goes around,
But now it rolls along the ground.
The slide spirals into the air.
The climbing pole takes you nowhere.
The monkey bars are like train tracks.
To use them we must bend our backs.
The swings won’t swing; the rings are dead.
We get drinks standing on our head.
The ball wall did an odd flip-flop.
The play fort floor is on the top.
Basketball dunk shots are a breeze.
We start our bar twirls from our knees.
Our parents built it Saturday.
Now topsy-turvy recess play.

 


           Teachers' Pet
                 For lunch we ate the hot dogs,
                 That chased the copy cats,
                 That caught the computer mouse,I spit grit.
                 That worried the spelling bee,
                 That stung the early birds,
                 That gobbled the book worms,
                 That they stuffed into the hot dogs,
                 That we ate for lunch.
                 Ick!

 

Sand Sandwich
I bit it.
I spit grit.

 

Dad’s Going To Make It
Dad phoned from the East Coast,
While waiting for a flight.
He said that he'd make it,                                                                                           
To my school play tonight.
Dad phoned from an airplane,
Somewhere in the air.
Then he gave his promise,
Tonight he would be there.
Dad phoned from the airport.
His plane had landed late.
The time was six-thirty.
The play began at eight.
Dad phoned from a taxi,
Stuck in a traffic jam.
He told me I was the most important person in the world to him.
I said I know I am.
Dad phoned from our kitchen.
He told me not to worry.
Ten minutes till show time.
I said he better hurry.
When the curtain went up,
On stage I searched the place,
As I spoke my first line,
I saw Dad’s smiling face.


X 


Behold the excellent X,
It expects no excuses.
Dictionaries give it one page.
But it has many uses.
In math it means multiply.
It fills squares in Tic-Tac-Toe.
Romans counted it as ten.
It’s a kiss when with an O.
On bottles it says don’t  drink.
Coaches draw it for a play.
And when written before mas,
It becomes a holiday.
On treasure maps it marks spots.                                              
With Brand X you can not tell.
Sign on the line beside it.
It’s jumbo before an L.
It names a generation,Or sports that daredevils do,
It’s the last name of Malcolm,
And a ray that sees straight through.
So if math problems stump you,
Don’t sit at your desk and pout.
Use this exciting letter,
And X the whole thing out.

 

U  
No matter how much thinking I do,
I can’t find a word that ends with U.
U begins hundreds of words we use,
And it always must come after Q’s.
Side by side they make a W.
I know that letter ends quite a few.
But who knows a word that ends  in U.
Do you?

 


Shrinking Teacher
I saw my last year’s teacher.
Had she shrunk an inch or two?
It took me time to figure,
She was no shorter;
I grew.

 

Boy With His Head Down

Miles had his head down on his desk.
He was the meanest brute.
His head’s down on his desk so much,
It began taking root.
Slender shoots grew down from his ear,
And sank in the desk top.
Tiny buds sprouted from his hair,
Forming a flower crop.
We like Miles a lot better now,
But he can’t come to play.
His head was on his desk so much,
We water him each day.



The Noise Expert

                We each have special talents.
                 That is what our teachers tell.
                 Matthew is a whiz in math.
                 Sabrina does spelling well.
                 Drew’s the best at Double Dutch.
                 Sam spits farthest of the boys.
                 But Tammy’s skill tops them all.
                 She’s a pro at making noise.
                 She slaps her cheeks, clicks her teeth.
                 Her belches are seconds long.
                 And with hands in her armpits,
                 She trumpets a catchy song.
                 She whistles through her fingers,
                 Or into a blade of grass.
                 She can blow on her forearm,
                 Imitating passing gas.
                 Her knuckles crack like gunshots.
                 Her two palms squeal with a squeeze.
                 Fingers snap like castanets,
                 She plays drum rolls on her knees
                 My report cards show straight A’s,
                 I play soccer like a star.
                 What’s that to Tammy’s talent?
                 Someday that girl will go far.

Set to music by composer Matt Van Brink and performered as part of Kiss the Star Goodnight at the Concordia Conservatory--listen

Apple Island
W
    h
         e
        r
     e
do teachers come from?
Who has the slightest notion?
Teachers lived on Apple Island,
In the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
All the kind teachers set sail for America,
And that is where they built the first schools.
But the crabby teachers remained on the island,
And from his Office Palace, Prince Apple still rules.
You might spy teachers hiking on the Great Hall Way.
Some might be in the bushes picking off thumbtacks.
Many will be on the Grand Playground hard at play,
Or down in the mines, drilling colorful crayon wax.
Some wade in Purple Lake to fill buckets with ink,
And some will be picking paper leaves off trees.
Others are filling milk cartons that you’ll drink,
At either white or chocolate half-pint dairies.
Now you know the truth about teachers,
They are different from you or me.
They come from a distant land,
In the middle of the sea.
Apple Island.

Children's Books by Douglas Evans!

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