A Great Poem (not mine) about teachers

BE DANGEROUS

My mother sat rocking in the shade of our apple tree
And reminisced about her youth,
Of her terrible days in the camps.
I sat motionless, in disbelief,
How could another people be so cruel?
they took her to the camps? She was but fourteen.

She rocked thoughtfully for awhile....
Well, my child, she bagan,
When they took over our land,
They came looking for the politicians and their families,
They came looking for the soldiers and their families,
They came looking for the policemen and their families,
They came looking for the teachers and their families.

My blood pumped hard echoing in disbelief,
The teachers......the teachers..........the teachers.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up, as stunned as I.
I asked my mother
Why the teachers? They are people of peace.

She rocked thoughtfully for awhile.....
Well my child, she began,
When they take over any land,
They come looking for the teachers because teachers are dangerous people.
Teachers cause children to think, to dream, to hope.
Teachers reveal history and new ideas.
Teachers bring a society to reading and writing.
Teachers cause children to question and teachers inspire action.
Teachers are dangerous people.

I asked my mother
What I should do? I am a teacher.
She rocked thoughtfully for awhile....
Well my child she began,
I know this is difficult to understand,
For in Canada, teachers do not understand their power,
For in Canada, teachers are always embattled,
Made to see themselves as less than important.
But, because this is Canada, you must continue to be a teacher.
You, the teacher, are freedom's greatest hope......be dangerous.

Sigmund A. Boloz 1998

The Lucious Stuff of Life

The Lucious Stuff of Life

Aspire for a passionate soul. Spur the moment on!
God will give you wings – fly home to the mountain.
His love soothes, - despair shatters. The Lord takes
Emptiness, and fills it with the glow of mercy.

The pretty package gone awry –
Lies, coming back – slam them into oblivion!
With love and self respect, the truth is tender.
Drink it in. Hope. Pride. Women reaching for
The stars. Hearts tingle. Blood boils.
Laugh with the lucious stuff of life.
Salvation.


**This was created from a bunch of many "word splashes" I made at the suggestion of a friend. The idea was to use a random half of the words in the word splash and as few others as possible. These word splash poems were the very beginning of my learning how to write poetry. (Added 2026: The very first step is to quiet your inner critic, which I still struggle with today).

23 King Street (a draft)

This is the only poem I've posted so far that I don't consider anywhere NEAR done...so feel free to post feedback! :-) - Amy

At 23 King Street

My father’s spaghetti sauce
wafted through the house --
I run to him,
to get some on a saltine.
The jungle picture on the pantry door,
The birds and flowers I filled with a rainbow of colors.

I remember putting the piano cover down,
my father called out, “It hasn’t been an hour yet!”
Daddy coming through the door with pizza on Friday nights!
I savored sausage, with a grape soda.
I remember my dad talking about what a “God damned
shame it was, what we did to the Indians.”

My bedroom with rainbows on two walls,
the others had brightly colored plaid.
My art drawer stuffed with stories and pictures,
along with crayons and craypas.

Wheeling around with a broken leg
with a brand new kitty, that mom
brought home for me, perched on my lap.
Mom & Dad danced like nuts around the kitchen
how it made our schnauzer Christy prance around
click her toenails and bark like mad.

In July and August, I escaped
to my parents air-conditioned room
dark, cool, a respite
with a loud comforting hum.
I locked myself in my room every afternoon
and night after night. Instead of doing my homework
listened to Shaun Cassidy and The Monkees.
Dreamed of being other place and other people.
Mom thought I must be depressed
she and Daddy sent me to a shrink.
He decided he wanted to see them.

That painting of a tiger on the living room wall,
his eyes would follow me around.
I remember nighttime television with my Dad,
“M*A*S*H” and “Barney Miller”.
I remember watching the Red Sox from the porch
and losing all my marbles in the backyard.

Since He Left

Since He Left

Shock made me tremble
From somewhere a voice whispered,
“You’ll see him again”
Over fifty years
stretched out as if eternity.

Since then, I’ve cried.
I cried the kind of cry
that chokes.
I’ve cried that deep, hopeless
cry because I couldn’t feel
his arms holding me.

I still cry that cry
When I can’t imagine
eternity. And my tears
are the waterfall that carries
my grief away
downstream.

God’s time has given me
A different cry
Now a soft sigh escapes
as his memory collects
drops of melancholy
in my eyes until
they pour over and warm my cheeks.

I smile, remembering
Daddy’s gentle soul
and pause to feel
his love I carry with me now.

Daddy’s gone to Heaven
In my mind, I see him
Sharing an ironic laugh
with God
at all our foolishness.

He’s watching me,
happy to see I’ve found a true love,
Proud, to see me living his lessons
Gratified I wasn’t ignoring him
all those frustrating years
when I knew everything.
Shocked to see me
actually listening to NPR.

Daddy is with God.
The rest of my journey back to him,
and Him,
Is not forever.

In the quiet moments
When the muddy water clears
I know.
I am healing,
slowly, I am healing.

Poetry Maven

Poetry Maven

I’m a Poetry Maven,
maker of Myth, weaver
of realities and fantasies.
In night journeys and day trips,
I float with my dreams.

Winter's Good-bye

Winter’s Good Bye
March, 2001


Winter sang her swan
song, white
and bright
Her voice showered down
diamonds twinkling
shimmering like crystal chimes.
Softly, gently she whispered,
“Goodbye”.

The Stitcher

A large part of this is exactly the same as the other stitching poem...but it is different.

Stitcher
(with thanks to Raelinda Woad)

“You are the stitcher”, my husband
says to me. I like that title, stitcher.
I stitch. I create,
from someone else’s inspiration.

Brightly colored strands delight
a simple up-down,
up-down makes
a neat and tidy x

spashing a dollop of life on canvas;
forrest green, blood red, sun yellow
lilac purple, orange, deep sea blue

Hours spent stitching
to craft a vivid scene
Bears flying in air-balloons,
a brown-haired girl
breathing pink cosmos.

A canvas capturing
bridal white and baby blue.
All day long
I paint other peoples’
Pictures while my own canvas
remains
blank.

Slowly, with care
I x, and x, to create
a memory full
of love while longing
to stitch
my own dreams.