In just a few days most school age children will be heading for a building they’ve tried to keep out of their thinking for some time. They call it school. Have you ever wondered why most kids hate to go back to school? It’s not hard to guess why parents have been waiting for that day, but what of the kids?
I remember one year on the first day of school at about nine-thirty standing at the front door of such a building. One of my teachers stood beside me looking with me out to the several dozen students who had already gathered on the playground for the first day of school. They were playing, laughing and enjoying the camaraderie with their friends, and it looked like they were enjoying themselves a great deal. (On the first day classes started at ten.) After several minutes enjoying the sight of all those smiling kids the teacher turned to me and said, “How long do you think it will be before they don’t laugh like this anymore when they arrive here?”
One could argue that for any youngster sitting in a small desk for five hours a day during the middle of the day for five days a week is not enjoyable. It wasn’t enjoyable for me, the principal, sitting at a big desk. I avoided doing so on most days. But I firmly believe it’s not the main reason why most school-age kids don’t like the approach of September. What might be the other reasons?
And for your enjoyment
I happened to look at a few poems in preparation to adding Gerry’s poems and bio to the blog and thought you might enjoy to read one of mine as well. The poem was written more than 15 years ago and was judged to be in the top 3% of over 3000 poems submitted to this poetry contest that year. Here it is.
A Broken Promise
There, on my table
In the center stood,
In crystal
On the polished wood,
A rose,
Exquisite in design.
Its head,
A crown,
More finely shaped
Then any by a mortal made.
Its strength,
A thorn, poised and secure,
A promise ring,
Of long life sure.
Its breath,
A healing for the soul,
A touch of love,
Sweet, beautiful and whole.
Each silken pedal
Perfectly the other wed,
But there on my table,
The rose was dead.
(WH Manke Sept. ’94)
Whmankeworldofwords's Blog 
Leave a comment