Poetry

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The old seemingly lifeless blackboard
No one thinks he does really feel
Made of tarnished slate and black in color
Finds no one to value his true appeal

A daily slave to the teachers fingers
he knows more than he’ll ever show
Is really such a lonely fellow
though many eyes he has come to know

Never does he ever complain or speak
And yet cries tears that we cannot see
For so much knowledge does he keep
as he alone really does hold the key

Only to be forgotten as yesterdays lessons
that could have set young minds so free
But never by most was he rightly used
because each day they do fail to see

But still the open minds of a few acknowledge
the richness he shares that is theirs to keep
If they consume their daily meal from him
storing his knowledge in their minds so deep

So that one day in the future while looking back
remembering time well spent where degrees they earned
They’ll treasure his chest of succulent knowledge
thanking the teachers blackboard for what they learned.

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