School Poems, Too*: Children's Books by Douglas Evans!
Return to School Poems *For school use with permission
Pledge to the Flag
I pledge allegiance to the flag,
Above the blackboard every day.
So why must I repeat myself?
Don’t teachers believe what I say?AnonymousI enjoy reading funny poems, From Ogden Nash to Roald Dahl, But of the poets that I read, Anonymous is best of all. Each time I read a funny poem, With Anonymous below it, I wonder why she’s still unknown. Who is this wonderful poet?
When Chuck Threw UpWe watched Chuck bend and his shoulders hunch, Before we saw what he had for lunch. Lucky Chucky could go home that day, But in our classroom we had to stay.In the Library ReadingIn the library there is a nook, Where Larry takes his favorite book, And spends the morning hours like a crook, Because that’s where teachers never look,When Larry’s in the library reading. Fantasy is what Larry reads most. To far off lands his mind might coast. But too often he becomes engrossed, And forgets the things he is supposed, To when Larry’s in the library reading. Larry could care less what his grades are, He forgets to add a “Books Read” star, He thinks SSR is quite bizarre, And book reports are boring by far. He’d rather be in the library reading. At the hour for reading groups to meet, The teacher saw Larry’s empty seat. “Where’s, Lawrence?” she said, not sounding sweet. And again the class had to repeat, “Larry’s in the library reading.” Down the hall the teacher’s voice did chime, As if Larry committed a crime. “Get back to class! It is reading time!” “Sorry,” he said. “I forget when I’m, In the library reading.” “Lawrence,” said teacher “It’s a concern, When you leave the class and don’t return.
A good GPA you cannot earn, If you miss lessons and do not learn, When you’re in the library reading.” Larry merely shrugged and shook his head. He had not heard one word she said. He took out an unread book instead, And looked forward to recess ahead, When he would be in the library reading.
Two FingersGrandpa says they mean victory.
“It’s the peace sign,” my mother said.
But at school they’re called Bunny Ears,
When we hold them behind a head.
Teachers raise them to say ‘quiet’.
Scouts raise them when their oath’s begun.
But we just raise those Bunny Ears,
When we want to have silly fun.
Crabby Mood
Don’t make noises. Don’t be rude. Teacher’s in a crabby mood. Don’t be silly. Don’t intrude. Teacher’s in a crabby mood. Don’t complain. Don’t get stewed. Teacher’s in a crabby mood. Don’t be lazy. Do not feud. Teacher’s in a crabby mood.
Han's New ClothesHans marched onto the playground,
For the Halloween parade.
Goblins and ghouls were lined up,
Kindergarten to fifth grade.
Music played and the line moved.
In his costume Hans felt proud,
But as he circled the field,
A hush fell over the crowd.
The parents gasped; the parents gawked.
All video cams turned off.
Some boys pointed; some girls laughed.
They could hear their teachers cough.
“Guess who I am?” Hans announced.
“Now who do you suppose?
I’m from a story my class read.
Do you like my fine new clothes?”
“The Emperor!” the kids cried.
“That’s the best costume ever!”
“From the Hans Anderson tale!”
“How creative! How clever!”
The parents in the crowd scowled.
Angry shouts blared everywhere.
“Someone put clothes on that kid!
That boy’s stark, buck-naked bare!”
TurkeysAll the classrooms filled with turkeys,
The week before Thanksgiving Day.
Kindergartners traced around hands.
First-graders used papier-mâché.
Grade Two stuck feathers in pine cones.
Grade Three cut out a paper plate.
Grade Four pinned gumdrops on apples.
Grade Five stuffed bags to decorate.
We loved the turkeys at our school,
So imagine how we’ll feel,
Tomorrow on Thanksgiving Day,
When we’re served turkey at our meal.Classroom StewAdd broken crayons, white chalk dust,
Pencil shavings, and scissors rust.
A pinch of paste, a dab of glue,
That’s what goes into Classroom Stew.
Pour in black paint, six drops of ink.
Squeeze the sponge from the classroom sink.
Mix eraser crumbs, and hand soap goo,
That’s what goes into Classroom Stew.
Sprinkle fish food, eight lumps of clay,
Silver glitter, papier-mâché.
Rubber cement, gum off your shoe,
That’s what goes into Classroom Stew.
Stir it well; dump it in a cup,
Toast your teacher, and bottoms up.
Hold your belly before you spew.
Then flood the floor with Classroom Stew.Bad HandwritingTeacher says my handwriting is hard to read.
I could write neater, but I’d never tell her.
Since teacher cannot read any words I wrote,
She cannot tell I’m an even worse speller.How Substitutes Get JobsThey each have teacher voodoo dolls,
And into them pins they stick.
So when they want to work at schools,
They can make our teachers sick.
Jerome's LunchMost kids in class bring a lunch from home.
All except one boy who’s named Jerome.
Most kids charge to lunch as if in a race.
“Why rush?” says Jerome. “I’ve reserved my place.”
A maitre d’ greets Jerome in the gym.
He bows and hands a long menu to him.
“Good day, sir,” the man says, clicking his heels.
“Your chef’s prepared you a choice of fine meals.”
Jerome sits at the end of our table.
We try to ignore him, but who is able?
China plates are set, one just for his roll,
Two spoons, four forks, three knives, and finger bowl.
A tuxedoed man steps forward to say,
“My name is Pierre, sir; I’m your waiter today.”
We take out sandwiches, and start to munch,
While listening to Jerome order his lunch.
“For my first course a dozen oysters, please.
Some caviar, and a wedge of brie cheese.
“I’ll try the salmon fillet, cedar grilled,
And the jumbo shrimp salad, slightly chilled.
“Pour me a glass of your best French grape juice,
And for dessert bring me chocolate mousse.”
Jerome’s first course comes on a silver tray,
He kisses fingertips like a gourmet.
With a cloth napkin tucked under his chin,
He rubs palm on palm and gives us a grin.
“I’m so famished,” he says. “Bon appetite.”
And raising his pinkie begins to eat.
But we eat our lunches without remorse,
As Pierre brings Jerome course after course.
“Poor kid,” we think, with a growling belly.
“Nothing beats peanut butter and jelly.”
Cold Hands
“My hands are sooooo cold. My hands are sooooo cold.” The kindergartner cried. Teacher said, “Find your pockets, And stick your hands inside.” “I juuuuuuuuuust can’t. I juuuuuuuuuust can’t,” We heard the boy declare. “There’s no room in my pockets. My mittens are in there.”
Irene, Tetherball Queen
Like a nimble ballerina, She’ll rise up on her toes, To swat the orb into orbit; Around the pole it goes. A crowd surrounds the white circle, Watching the yellow sphere. The ball and string it’s tethered to, Like magic disappear. She’s the best kid at tetherball, The playground’s ever seen. No one in school can put her out, Irene, Tetherball Queen. She’s neither strong or very long; Sweet timing is her skill. She picks her hits and knows the tricks, To help her make a kill. Way high and fast, the ball blows past. She never lets it stop. When the rope winds, the T-pole finds, A turban at its top. Won’t make a lick of difference, When she becomes a teen, For now may she enjoy her rein, Irene, Tetherball Queen.
Teacher Gasoline
The coffee teachers constantly drink, Is what keeps teachers running, I think.
Winslow, the Wild Wheelchair Driver
Winslow whirred off in his wheelchair
When lowered from the bus.
He careened up the front door ramp,
And down the hall toward us.
We clapped and cheered as he came near.
Teachers yelled and scattered.
His chair rammed the janitor’s cart,
And ten light bulbs shattered.
He peeled off in his seat of steel.
Through the office he flew.
When he knocked the copy machine,
A thousand papers strew.
He popped a wheelie, twirling twice,
And rolled down twenty stairs.
He took a corner on two wheels,
And bowled down twenty chairs.
His wheelchair was a silver streak,
Speeding across the gym.
He struck the stage and ricocheted,
With teachers chasing him.
Winslow zoomed into his room.
Toward his desk he tore.
He yanked the brake so tires would make,
Skid marks across the floor.
Running is not allowed in school.
Now one more rule we need.
The next day signs hung in the hall:
10 MPH Maximum Speed.
Etc.
Here’s three handy letters,
E...T...C and a dot.
Stick them in your story.
They’ll think you know a lot, etc.
My JournalThis afternoon I wrote in my journal.
We had to write about what we did today.
I wrote about writing in my journal,
And here’s what I had to say:
This afternoon I wrote in my journal.
We had to write about what we did today.
I wrote about writing in my journal,
And here’s what I had to say:
This afternoon I wrote in my journal…
Who will lurk inside any desk it can find messed.
It lolls among paper wads, marbles, stinky socks,
Banana peels, comic books, baseball cards, and rocks.
It nibbles pencils, gnaw pens, and white glue it slurps,
It chews chalk, chomps crayon, and ends with big burps.
It can erase answers, or pop the top an inch,
While you’re getting paper, I’ll give your nose a pinch.
Warning! During math be especially aware!
For the rude pest might reach out to snap underwear.
So you’ve been warned kiddies of the Messy Desk Pest.
Let this be a lesson: NEVER LEAVE YOUR DESK MESSED!
Our School SecretarySeven band-aids, a bloody nose, Forgotten lunches, bright hellos, Twisted ankles, Ritalin pills, Five calls home, two orange juice spills. A lost jacket, a stain to soak. An ice packet, zipper that broke Ripped pair of pants, some muddy shoes. Dog in the hall, a purple bruise. Cupcakes to class, lozenge for throat. Two peeved parents, a tardy note. Janitor found, a stomach ache. Papers copied, announcements to make. Our secretary has lots to do. We think she helps our principal, too.Class PicturesIn preschool I wore pigtails.
Did I ever look that young?
And Joe stood in the front row,
Sticking out his tongue.
In first grade I stood in back.
Overnight my height had sprung,
And Joe stood in the front row,
Sticking out his tongue.
In fifth grade I wore blue jeans.
Past my shoulders my hair hung,
And Joe stood in the front row,
Sticking out his tongue.
In eighth grade I had pimples.
The braces on my teeth stung,
And Joe stood in the front row,
Sticking out his tongue.
In tenth grade I wore makeup.
My shirt and skirt tightly clung,
And Joe stood in the front row,
Sticking out his tongue.
In my graduation picture,
I faced the future unsung,
But Joe still stood in the front row,
Sticking out his tongue.
