O student, my student, your class is almost through,
the desks have weathered every kid, your grade was earned for you.
The end is near, so have no fear, the students all exulting,while roll your eyes when teacher talks, the maestra grim and daring.
But O be quiet, quiet, quiet!!
O listen a little longer
where in the class, your teacher stays
tired, but much stronger.
And what rough kid, his hour come round at last,
slouches toward his new homeroom to be bored?
cm 1997
A Poem-by Roy Soto
A poem to me must
be like a person who feels
everything is magical.
It must be as colorul as
a penguin.
It must be funny and really as looney as a cartoon.
Poems are really not as hard as you think they
are.
My poem would be smooth, like a wave.