POEMS

Poem For First Graders

First Grade Recess-Bell
Poem by bobby beddoe

Riiiiiinng! Oh, good, there goes the recess-bell.
Now we can go outside for a spell;
Play on the monkey bar,
Slide, see-saw, and/or
Just run around to and fro, holler and yell.

Bobby Beddoe; Copyright 2010

 

First Grade – First Class
Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

‘I’m only five, you know
and, just like you
have started school.
Mum says I like it.
As all kids do.
I find myself,
in real life,
much more mature
than you’d expect.
Dad says a girl
is always way ahead
of any boy.
And that, my friend
is what you are,
and one (I ought to
whisper now)
so cute, it’s weird
that our paths
have never crossed
in younger days.
And I was wondering
if we could
walk home together
after school?
They say a girl,
one like myself
should have protection
from the villains,
the cradlesnatchers,
I saw that on TV.
Well, shucks
there goes the bell.
Another day
of sitting still
and chewing
yellow pencils.
What is your name then,
also, listen
I see you have
a runny nose.
If you would like
to use my hanky….
I only need it when I cry.’

 

First Day At School – Poem by Roger McGough

A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)
Why are they all so big, other children?
So noisy? So much at home they
Must have been born in uniform
Lived all their lives in playgrounds
Spent the years inventing games
That don’t let me in. Games
That are rough, that swallow you up.

And the railings.
All around, the railings.
Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?
Things that carry off and eat children?
Things you don’t take sweets from?
Perhaps they’re to stop us getting out
Running away from the lessins. Lessin.
What does a lessin look like?
Sounds small and slimy.
They keep them in the glassrooms.
Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.

I wish I could remember my name
Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies. When there’s puddles.
Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere
Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.

 

School Is Not So Cool – Poem by Chantel Braatz

School, School, School,
A school is not so cool
We’re here 5 days a week
8 hours a day.
School, School, School,
A school is not so cool.
People laugh when we fall
we just have to make a call.
School, School, School
A school is not so cool.
We have to work hard to get good grades
I’m not going to do it no more
I do it everyday.
We cant go on the grass
We cant bother another class
We cant save spots at lunch
We have to go as a bunch.
We have 3 minutes in the hall
I’m always late what a ball.
We have to pay attention
if not we get detention.
School, School, School,
A school is not so cool.
They have to many rules
they play us as fools
if we get A’s
the parents jump Hip Hip Hooray.
If we get F’s
we tell them we need to take a rest.
We always have homework
we never have classwork
they have to many rules
they need to take it cool.
School, School, School,
A school is so not cool!

 

In School-Days – Poem by John Greenleaf Whittier

Still sits the school-house by the road,
A ragged beggar sleeping;
Around it still the sumachs grow,
And blackberry-vines are creeping.

Within, the master’s desk is seen,
Deep-scarred by raps official;
The warping floor, the battered seats,
The jack-knife’s carved initial;

The charcoal frescoes on its wall;
Its door’s worn sill, betraying
The feet that, creeping slow to school,
Went storming out to playing!

Long years ago a winter sun
Shone over it at setting;
Lit up its western window-panes,
And low eaves’ icy fretting.

It touched the tangled golden curls,
And brown eyes full of grieving,
Of one who still her steps delayed
When all the school were leaving.

For near it stood the little boy
Her childish favor singled;
His cap pulled low upon a face
Where pride and shame were mingled.

Pushing with restless feet the snow
To right and left, he lingered;—
As restlessly her tiny hands
The blue-checked apron fingered.

He saw her lift her eyes; he felt
The soft hand’s light caressing,
And heard the tremble of her voice,
As if a fault confessing.

“I’m sorry that I spelt the word:
I hate to go above you,
Because,”—the brown eyes lower fell,—
“Because, you see, I love you!”

Still memory to a gray-haired man
That sweet child-face is showing.
Dear girl! the grasses on her grave
Have forty years been growing!

He lives to learn, in life’s hard school,
How few who pass above him
Lament their triumph and his loss,
Like her, because they love him.

 

Source: Poemhunter

https://www.poemhunter.com/

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