At The School Gate

By Paul Mc Cann

There is a weekday ritual to which I can relate .
The primary school at three o'clock ,
waiting at the gate .
The who's who and the what's new of our small community,
as children come out from school inhibitedly free .
They are looking for a face,
to be there it is great .
As all the Mums and Dads stand there ,
I join them at the gate .
I reach out with both my arms to greet my little son .
We walk to where the car is parked ,
before the buses come .
As it happens once again ,
school has finished for the day .
The children have learnt their lessons ,
teachers have earned their pay .
As time goes by my son will grow ,
and I shall leave the gate .
For he will make his own way home ,
to where I'll sit and wait .

My Old School Days

By Paul McCann

Kicking up a ball before the teachers come ,
leaping over fences in the morning sun .
School children must have fun at play .
"Good morning teacher sir"
We all did say .
"Good morning boys . "
Was the reply at the beginning of another school day .
It was early morning in 1966,
A teacher with cane in hand approached,
"Who's responsible for breaking the windows "?
"Don't know sir"
We giggled in the background .
Screams of excitement echoed around the playground .
It was innocence at play .
Jumping from the roof twelve feet off the ground .
The teacher went off his head ,
"Stop that at once and come over here"
The din of his voice was like a police sirens screeched .
His voice through a megaphone blasted out .
"Good morning boys "
His welcome brought back a response just as loud ,
"Good morning teacher."
Holding the megaphone he had us children
in the palm of his hand .
It was winter and snow had fallen on our school .
Scattered across the concrete where our bags ,
gathered on our red faces where cheeky smiles .
His objections were overruled .
Dismissed we made our way to mathematics lessons ,
that we would take on another way as we worked out
a part in,
the difference between x plus y all over the square root
of those prime numbers to the power of
whatever you've out smartened .
We all fit in somehow and together we stood in lines
everyday with our backs to the wind as we began to grow .
The school bell rang ,
the streets signs changed ,
traffic signals went up
before you knew it ,
times had changed and it was time for us to go

The Teachers Chair

By Paul McCann

The iron gate was shut to the headmasters hut .
But in the school grounds where kids were out of bounds ,
an old storage shed stood that was built of wood .
In this wooden shed owned the departments head .
lots of things were stored .
There was an old blackboard ,
a bookcase ,
a chair amongst other things there .
With years of progress the old shed was a mess ,
But a bucket and mop help me clean it up .
I sat on a chair and looked up in the air,
to tell you the truth cobwebs hung from the roof ,
like threads of times past that clung on hard and fast .
The dust that lay there kept gathering away .
I thought to myself as I dusted the shelf ,
how long has it been since this old shed was clean .
The chair seemed to squeak ,
as if it tried to speak .
This old teachers chair had a character there .
A story to tell had this chair there as well ,
of all that had been for a while on the scene .
Like the roll calls read .
The things teachers had said .
Reports that were wrote .
Many a parents note .
Givers and takers marking exam papers.
Fashions that had been .
The faraway daydream in free periods .
The sad .
The serious .
The good and bad times .
All the new product lines.
The story goes on .
Wars that had come and gone .
The coping with stress .
Abandoned to a mess inside an old shed ,
this old chair softly said .

By Paul McCann

Dormitory Noises

By Paul McCann

There's a chapel on the ground floor.
It holds about ten score.
In the classroom someone snores.
There's a bell ringing in the corridor.

Refectories full of china plates.
People running scared.
There's lonely sounds of lonely hearts just longing to be heard.

In boarding schools where discipline rules heartaches by the score,
there's comfort for our souls, in that chapel on the ground floor.

Secrets almost sound so deep.
Dormitories never sleep.
Upstairs on the second floor evening comes - turn out the light.
Someone snores.
Someone cries.
No one gets any sleep tonight.

Dormitory noises.
Voices - laughter, the creaking floor.
Another day arrives, the bell rings in the corridor.