My first week's poem: A Portrait Poem
The Pencil
His teenage giant stature somehow
fills the cubicle classroom where he sits.
Enthroned he silently commands his followers—
his classmates--with a simple smirk or a mouthed, foul word.
His eyes speak—I’m the King.
The King of influence. The King of cruelty.
His heart speaks of metal and jagged glass,
of pleas discarded; of Pharoah’s refusal.
The history teacher shouts of hope and change—
of equality, of Malcom X and Susan B
But his fingers say—you can’t teach me.
To believe or accept or sing praise
as his lined jaw faces the side window
and his pencil lays still on his desk.
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2 comments:
I give you an "A". Does that count. Tell you professor. I'm sure "mom's" opinion is high on his list.
I forgot a question mark... the professor wouldn't give me an "A".
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