Sometimes I feel like my inkwell is dry. I have been struggling lately to write the poems that usually flow like Pouring water.
School Desk
Hundreds of years old, this desk of mine,
Once in a schoolroom, how divine!
Probably a one-room schoolhouse with students of all ages,
I’m sure its history would be pages and pages,
One teacher, one classroom,
No lunchroom or washroom,
Just an outhouse out back with no running water,
In the summertime, it could not have been hotter,
Back when the boys were absent to work on the farm,
Back when the teacher was referred to as a “school marm”,
Back when the school room had a pot-bellied stove,
Back when the children walked to school, never drove,
The mischievous boy dipped a girl’s ponytail in glue,
A big bell rang out loudly to signal recess was through,
Simpler times, yet much harder times too,
Reading and writing were a privilege for few,
Now the inkwell is dry, and the memories have faded,
But those were special times, I am persuaded.
Tammy Harvey
Written: 6/23/2020
😘😘😘😘😘
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