"Mirror, mirror on the wall. They say you can not lie.
Reflecting us one and all, I say you do, here's why.
Everything I see in you, repeats of what I know.
But is it really all that true, like a magic show?
I wink my left, you your right, if I were over there.
Criss-cross and bounce from the light, shined on your silver glare.
Opposite is the key word, that makes you true or not.
Like yin and yang that have been stirred inside a boiling pot.
So I will give you part of truth, and part of lie as well.
As I continue brushing tooth, avoiding morning smell.
Now I go my way, and you yours, until we meet again.
When I come back to clean my pores, the zits seem never end.
And when I'm in need and I run, to you in hurried rut.
Help me look good, and don't make fun, or I'll break your silver butt."
Stephen bowed, smiled, and winked at the little red haired girl in the back of the class. She wasn't interested in his wink, but did find his poem amusing. It was poetry week, and all the kids had to write their own, and recite it in front of the whole class. By the stuttering and wet arm pits, you could really tell who was nervous. And Jarred, mostly dry, was up next. What Jarred lacked in public showmanship, he made up for in clever writing. Mrs. Stintenhutt (aka Mrs. Stinky Butt - the boys claimed that one day she farted for an hour after lunch time) would always tell Jarred about his potential for becoming a great writer. Mean while, due only to the fact that 90% of his involvement with the boys was seeing them in his office for discipline, Mr. Fricklemier (Pickle Buyer - like you didn't see that one coming) would tell Jarred about his potential criminal record if he didn't "Straighten up and flight right".
Jarred walked up to the front of the class and just stood there for a minute. "Go ahead Jarred." Mrs. Stintenhutt said. Jarred cleared his throat pointing at it and said "FROG". No laughter. 'Oh Great!' he thought. 'so this is where I die of humiliation'.
Jarred began...
"Far and away, looking back now,
it was the moon that jumped over the cow.
Rhymes of the nursery, by Mother Goose.
The rhyming was easy, the meanings obtuse.
Ring around the Rosy, about a death black.
And a Baa-ing black sheep, about income tax.
Humpty the egg? no! A cannon so grand.
And Tinker Taylor, the fortune of a man.
Yes far and away, look back now and then
But keep 'em going forward, teaching kids again"
Everyone of his class mates, including Stephen, just stared at him. Mrs. Stintenhutt had already planned to submit that poem to her the local college annual poetry contest. She couldn't wait to see their faces when they heard the unknown poet was twelve years old. She felt Jarred was years beyond his peers when he put his mind down on paper. The class...they just didn't get it.
Brrrrrriinnnnnng, the bell rang...books, pencils and kids were all moving rapidly. Giggles and whispers filled the room. Tap - Tap - Tap - Tap...WHAP went the yard stick on the desk. "SETTLE!" from the front of the room, was enunciated with sharp precision. "I dismiss this class. Not the Bell." the teacher proclaimed, for the 72nd time this year. Movement stopped, and all hands were clasped together and centered on each desk. "We will finish poetry week tomorrow, followed by a quiz on Friday." "awwwwww!" the class groaned. "Class dismissed."
Reflecting us one and all, I say you do, here's why.
Everything I see in you, repeats of what I know.
But is it really all that true, like a magic show?
I wink my left, you your right, if I were over there.
Criss-cross and bounce from the light, shined on your silver glare.
Opposite is the key word, that makes you true or not.
Like yin and yang that have been stirred inside a boiling pot.
So I will give you part of truth, and part of lie as well.
As I continue brushing tooth, avoiding morning smell.
Now I go my way, and you yours, until we meet again.
When I come back to clean my pores, the zits seem never end.
And when I'm in need and I run, to you in hurried rut.
Help me look good, and don't make fun, or I'll break your silver butt."
Stephen bowed, smiled, and winked at the little red haired girl in the back of the class. She wasn't interested in his wink, but did find his poem amusing. It was poetry week, and all the kids had to write their own, and recite it in front of the whole class. By the stuttering and wet arm pits, you could really tell who was nervous. And Jarred, mostly dry, was up next. What Jarred lacked in public showmanship, he made up for in clever writing. Mrs. Stintenhutt (aka Mrs. Stinky Butt - the boys claimed that one day she farted for an hour after lunch time) would always tell Jarred about his potential for becoming a great writer. Mean while, due only to the fact that 90% of his involvement with the boys was seeing them in his office for discipline, Mr. Fricklemier (Pickle Buyer - like you didn't see that one coming) would tell Jarred about his potential criminal record if he didn't "Straighten up and flight right".
Jarred walked up to the front of the class and just stood there for a minute. "Go ahead Jarred." Mrs. Stintenhutt said. Jarred cleared his throat pointing at it and said "FROG". No laughter. 'Oh Great!' he thought. 'so this is where I die of humiliation'.
Jarred began...
"Far and away, looking back now,
it was the moon that jumped over the cow.
Rhymes of the nursery, by Mother Goose.
The rhyming was easy, the meanings obtuse.
Ring around the Rosy, about a death black.
And a Baa-ing black sheep, about income tax.
Humpty the egg? no! A cannon so grand.
And Tinker Taylor, the fortune of a man.
Yes far and away, look back now and then
But keep 'em going forward, teaching kids again"
Everyone of his class mates, including Stephen, just stared at him. Mrs. Stintenhutt had already planned to submit that poem to her the local college annual poetry contest. She couldn't wait to see their faces when they heard the unknown poet was twelve years old. She felt Jarred was years beyond his peers when he put his mind down on paper. The class...they just didn't get it.
Brrrrrriinnnnnng, the bell rang...books, pencils and kids were all moving rapidly. Giggles and whispers filled the room. Tap - Tap - Tap - Tap...WHAP went the yard stick on the desk. "SETTLE!" from the front of the room, was enunciated with sharp precision. "I dismiss this class. Not the Bell." the teacher proclaimed, for the 72nd time this year. Movement stopped, and all hands were clasped together and centered on each desk. "We will finish poetry week tomorrow, followed by a quiz on Friday." "awwwwww!" the class groaned. "Class dismissed."
why did you name the title of this story "the never ending, ever so boring story"? my favorites out of all the postings so far are: The Pond, The day of the cat, & the club house. you should post again soon
ReplyDeletelater,
Batman
Most often, just one simple idea became an entire story for Henry and The boys. For Chapter 27, I guess it could have been called "Poetry Week", but I just wrote what popped into my head at the time. It does seem to work if you think how some kids think of school as boring and never ending. Thanks for asking Batman.
ReplyDeleteHenry, uh I mean Ray. Hard to remember who I am some times.