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

  Photo by Peter Hilger Two being from one seed, a dicot indeed Like evil and angel who hover each shoulder With love-hate, agony and smolder Deliverance to come, by root freed Hidden regression - thou reveal The devil refused, no more to steal Unearth Unearth!  To preserve of self Climb out of this hole Cast into the light; to save of soul So may the sun come out, to vibrantly lead In colors of red yellow.  And pure of white To find my fruit, my spirit delight Merger of sage yellow Passion of red Bring forth an orange glow, joy instead! Victory cometh suit, Change your root to a fruit!!!! By Vicki Heschke