He Is My Teacher Poem by MBJ Pancras

It was a class

like a busy street

packed with shouts.

Little citizens laden with thoughts;

but some dressed with prankish robes criss-cross

inside the furnace of back-breaking learning.



I pushed myself into the furnace,

And I knew I would be tried hot;

Yet it had been destined in my career.

I hid myself behind the factual text

Which had no answer to my knowledge.



I posed a question unto the little citizens

Who ne'er thought of back-breaking business.

I shouted unto them of a mental sum,

For I had no way known to subdue their shouts,

And it was the question I'd posed:

'How much is if six in mind and five in hand? '

The prankish citizens poured water o'er my question,

And I knew I'd been in the furnace.

I cracked the puzzle across the pandemonium 'gain;

Yet there was no way out for the answer.



With the childish anger I picked up a boy

Who smiled at me bluntly;

Yet his smile pronounced ameaning.

I flung the puzzle across his face:

'How much is if six in mind and five in hand? '

He smiled at me.

It wasa slap on my cheek.

My tongue slipped in my questioning:

'What is in your head, my boy, little? '

Though little, he found it was a 'slip-up',

So he flung across correction with his answer:

'It's brain! '

I took pain to correct my question,

But his question unto me was challenging

hidden in, a mind-boggling answer:

'Where's my mind seated in? '

I had no answer for his.

I heard the boy say:

'He's my teacher! '