Giver Of Knowledge Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

Down the corridors of my green-spun youth,
behind the locked doors of its rusted truth,
dwells the time now gone and its sacred past,
a once lively stage and a nodding cast.

Among this dais, at the moon's bright hour,
the memories blossom like a flower.
It's a joy and delight to share this stage -
the acts of grandeur that decline with age.

The curtain rises on the dust of time -
new life to the lips of a faded mime;
and a rainbow of light beams softly falls
in circles of color against the walls.

He steps to the center and takes a bow.
In low-whispered words, he speaks to me now -
a history teacher of great renown
and a king of knowledge without a crown.

Thurmond Davis was a teacher of wars,
of Romans and Greeks and Conquistadors,
the Age of Chivalry and noble Knights,
and revolutions, peace, and Canaanites.

With his chalk-stained hands and a boyish grin,
he taught on the values and faults of men.
He taught with zeal and a passionate flair
as he gently rocked in his rocking chair.

The memories unwind by slow degrees
like Faust in hands of Mephistopheles.
Each lesson was a window come undone,
hung on the hinge of exuberant fun.

I smile - a memory - the funniest!
One day in the class while taking a test,
the room was quiet as he went to sit.
There was a crash, boom, bang! He declared 'SHIT! '

His rocking chair broke, and we laughed out loud -
the test forgotten in a joyous cloud;
and I laugh to think of him, even now.
He stepped to the center and took a bow.

The curtain lowers on the dust of time -
silence to the lips of a living mime.
With appreciative heart, I sing his praise -
the giver of knowledge to crown my days.