teacher stuff i learned @ school by scot young

Posted in Scot Young with tags on August 8, 2014 by Scot

all children are a gift from god
all children can learn given a chance
even the so called bad parents
want the best for their child & some teachers think they are god
because they walked across a stage
but college degrees have nothing to do with
supreme beings

all children in kindergarten
have a natural curiosity to learn
& little by little we make
them color inside the lines
paint the sky blue,
the grass green
when maybe on their block
it isn’t
eventually we mold them
i learned that the k12 system can suck
that innocent curiosity
the willingness to please
right out of their bones
right out of their soul
until not much is left but
walk on this line to the

i learned along the way
that caring is absolutely
the most essential
the most important characteristic
a teacher can possess
and that trait will be remembered
long after the facts
long after the formulas
have been forgotten

that teachers concerned
with how much they make
will never know the child
who cuts to relieve the pain
will never understand the who
what when where or why
of the abused
and if they abandon the lecture
and listen
they just might
make a difference
they just might
be the difference

pete seeger sings to the moonlight by John Dorsey

Posted in John Dorsey with tags on August 8, 2014 by Scot

he says, love is protest, why carry
a torch for death?

why count the scars
we keep in silence

attaching their limbs to broken words
in place of a melody?

each death is a different song
waiting for the skin
to be reborn

waiting for the night
to rename itself
with our blood


Posted in A.D. Winans with tags on August 8, 2014 by Scot

lift your spirit as high
as the mercy airplanes
dropping food and water
to the 40,000 Iraqui
men women and children
seeking reguge from yet
another religioius sect
bent on genocide
in the name of their
invisible God

put your heart where
your words are
all this killing in the name of God
be it Christian, Muslim
or somewhere in between

Buddha’s crossed legs won’t stop it
the Pope can’t stop it
the Koran can’t stop it

the evil inside man’s heart
began with the caveman
and waits the resurrection
hidden in a secret silo
with its missiles pointed
at God

Elegy for a Summer Evening, 1972 by Ben Rasnic

Posted in Ben Rasnic with tags on August 8, 2014 by Scot

It was his custom to soak in the summer evening air
reclining on the front porch sipping Old Crow & Coca-cola.
Being the only son still living at home…
and feeling sorry for him as I always did,
I felt obligated to pull up a chair and join him,
privately slipping a thin sliver
of windowpane acid beneath my tongue .

Though strangers, the two of us bonded
through the slow passage of time
with the steady flow of rot gut whiskey
steadily eclipsing a steel perception
like a black cloud
and the windowpane opening and closing
in my mind like the wink of a blind horse
just in time to notice his features meld
into the iconic image that graced the label
of his prized amber glass vessel
now shattered
across the concrete porch floor
like a carnival mirror.

I lovingly gathered up the pieces
and placed them on the mantel
above the fireplace.

Two Poems by Aurelia Lorca

Posted in Aurelia Lorca with tags on July 20, 2014 by Scot


Not So Still Life


If only we pastelled as harmonious
As the etching on our abode.
These cramped quarters:
You call this a bowl?
An oversized latte cup, maybe.

Peach and her lopsided breast
loll on my head like a tumor,
yet she snits
that my fractious stem is poking
nether regions only her husband
should have access to.
Nether regions, indeed. (Where’s raspberry when I need him?)
We’re FRUIT dammit!
Rembrandt, paint this:


Naked in un-decorous lighting
under fluorescent hum,
I expose my crooked breast
and bruised marker
where my skin cuts yellow.

O me. Poor me. Poor Peach.

Paint me with summer orchards,
the balm of buzzing bees,
gingham checked linen,
Let me burlesque for you
from baskets ripe with color
where I fan-dance
one swell
at a time,
creating the illusion
of juicy perfection.



Pet A Kitty


When my friend,
the greatest poet I know,
came to San Francisco
she tried to find work-
But San Francisco being
San Francisco, and poets
being poets, it was not easy.

We decided instead that we
would prostitute my cat, Figaro,
who at eighteen years old,
deaf, and eager for affection,
had recently won a cutest pet

It was simple- We’d
advertise to the lonely
on CraigsList, and attach
a little money pouch to his collar.
We would pimp him out,
but never leave him alone
with any customers.

“I’m putting your furry butt
to work!” my friend said to Figaro,
who didn’t hear, but just purred
and purred and purred.

Unfortunately, like any good poet,
Figaro was too much of a slut
to collect money,
and my friend,
the greatest poet I know,
left San Francisco
for a city more affordable.


Bio:  Aurelia Lorca can be found in the spaces between the cante jondo and the blues talking with ghosts.  

Two Poems by Milt Montague

Posted in Milt Montague with tags on July 20, 2014 by Scot


I charge you to
go out into our world
as it now exists
replete with its
manifold injustices

we allowed to accumulate
by ignoring discrimination
which bred injustice
that has festered into
a cancer on our society

there are millions
of our citizens
poorly fed
poorly clothed
poorly educated

without health care
predestined to poverty
and hopelessness
for themselves and their
future generations

while a minuscule minority
manipulate our system
enacting special laws
to reap the benefits
of our once great society

you are our last chance
to restore this country
to the status quo ante
while there is yet time


 Numbers 28 7-10


The Lord spake unto Moses
Regarding proper sacrifices
To be made unto Him
Both at sunrise and sunset
With great specificity

One unblemished lamb
Ritually slaughtered
Three quarts of flour
Two quarts of oil
As the meat offering

Set afire on the alter
As a burnt offering to The Lord
One liter of strong wine
Poured on the altar
As a drink offering to The Lord

This Holy ritual
Was a mandated daily routine
Save for Sabbaths and Holy days
When more elaborate offerings were
Described in consummate detail

It seems that we are all made
In the image of our creator
Who likes a stiff drink
With his meals
As we do



bio: milt montague was born in the 1920’s in new york city, survived the depression, school, and world war 2.   fell in love, married, raised three wonderful daughters, retired and went back to school.  after twenty years at hunter college in new york city, he fell in love with poetry.








Two Poems by Bradley Mason Hamlin

Posted in Bradley Mason Hamlin with tags on July 20, 2014 by Scot

Barbarian Summer


in Sacramento
Johnny’s singing about
the “Streets of Laredo”
and unashamedly
we drink
locally brewed beer
and wine
trying not to
blast the AC
but keeping it cool
at night
when the specters
of the wee hours
come to haunt
at 4 a.m.
and I consider
the moon
as I wait for the sun
a cup of coffee
and a
Conan the Barbarian
comic book
right now
in the dark
I reach for my lover
and as I pull her curves
sorcery fades against
real magic
and all the ghosts
may howl
let them moan
like they crave sex
or scream
in unjustified horror
it’s summer
the beer is good
the blonde is good
and outside
the palm trees
whisper my oasis
they are my friends
in this valley
and Hell can wait
with my hands upon
her breasts
I am the most powerful
man alive.



Summertime Wine







leave me.





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