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Post by carousal on Sept 20, 2009 18:08:20 GMT -5
Playtime
Playtime, that twice a day interlude Escape from the formal classroom Sounds of the girls skipping games Drifting though the open window The same old rhymes, handed down Sang by mothers and grandmothers ~ I’ll tell ma when I get home The boys won’t leave the girls alone They pull our hair and break our bones I’ll tell ma when I get home ~ Miss Crawford smiled Children, her children The yearly conveyor belt Which renewed the flock Long before teenage uncertainty Sullied their innocence ~ She crossed to the window Scooting Tommy on his fifth lap An eight year old torpedo Trailing an errant shoelace Never to study at Ruskin college But destined for happiness on a red tractor ~ Not long now, a month or two Before the march of progress Trampled the village school Neglect in the ruptured tarmac in the flaking paintwork and rusting window latches ~ The town school new, grotesque A sterile box of plastic and glass Without a heart, struggling for a purpose Miss Crawford retired to her homely cottage From where she could see the old school And hear the ghosts of the children at play ~ I’ll tell ma when I get home The boys won’t leave the girls alone They pull our hair and break our bones I’ll tell ma when I get home
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Post by Artemis on Sept 21, 2009 11:08:31 GMT -5
Aaah those old school rhymes, lost to a new age of computers and power rangers ...sigh. I remember them well Cari. Lovely tale of the age where innocence reigned longer, skipping ropes, matchbox cars and cats cradle were in fashion. Loved the way this went back in time and recalled wholesome and childish play, along with proper buildings lost to shoe boxes and plastic. Wonderful write as always, Kerry xxx
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astroannie
Apprentice Member
Baseball Poetess
Posts: 107
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Post by astroannie on Sept 24, 2009 13:08:29 GMT -5
Miss Mary Mac Mac Mac all dressed in black black black......very nice.
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Post by Harklight on Sept 29, 2009 23:20:16 GMT -5
What's this - twice a day playtime? School sounds better there but, more than that, your poem paints delightful pictures of a lost era (almost). In remote areas, we still have one-teacher schools where every child is known, along with their family and lives outside of classrooms. Once they reach teens, they're victims of invisibility, the concrete and plastic school system. I can picture this faded paint, weatherboard building and each of its characters: your write is wonderful. Thank you. H x
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