September, when the true new year began,
(new term, fresh start, old tricks, familiar tracks)
kept leaves to later fall as firebrands,
shed sunshine warm upon our blazered backs.
When rules were overbearing, we would cheat
outrageously. When autumn drifts rose red
we learned to clown, skedaddle, kick our feet
and rock our baby-boomers’ feather bed.
So now it hurts to watch our children bet
their future on a tense curriculum:
a joyless slog success will not offset.
Not theirs, the plum we pulled with sticky thumb.
May their Septembers call them yet to hymn
rude hope. September: where the years begin.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Joe Crocker
would be pleased to hear