Poeta Pages

Old Classroom by Vicki Heschke Memories of school its white chalk dust, tho' concentrate I must sitting upon my stool. Yet daydreams emerge, like butterflies on wing floating, the wind does sing fluttering, they surge. Now, I raise my hand, I hope to get picked to erase all the script before I get to band. White lines are like stanzas, to guide every letter, scrawled and unfettered beyond lines where they land. The flip-top desk, is musty, dark scratched with names, where-from they came? Their ghostly memory so stark. A cave, a mess, is scattered within mimeographs, the smell so blue, pencil-points, ne'er quite true, workbooks crumpled, awaiting the lesson. Pointer stick hung beside the board, could it be a magic wand? Of school past, a recollection grand! Distant memories, now have soared. By Peter Hilger