eh...

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Carpe diem!

Charge!

Seize and fight

for half a page, half a page, half a page onward!

I feel like a hype-man prepping a crowd

dazed and confused and sitting there proud

and smug-faced.

now, don’t get it twisted;

their smirks aren’t for their grades

or class participation

but rather for the tweet that just caused a sensation

of retweets and little hearts clicked pink.

And I pause…

Dumbfounded…

And I think

that I might just better fare

plying my skills as a teacher elsewhere

the students actually care

instead of dishing blank stares

but as I gaze round at the desks I see it:

They are just scared.

So they claim sanctuary behind their LED screens

somehow afraid of pursuing their dreams

that have shriveled now to a pile

of pixels and profiles,

reduced to the “likes” of a thousand fake smiles.

And all the while

I stand there in front of them raving

and waving my arms

and raising my voice in alarm

with no hope of saving

even one.

In puddles of lethargy they sit steeping

‘til they’re reeking

of banality and apathy,

and they gripe at me for empathy

because they think I’ll show some sympathy,

but can’t you see the necessity

of basic reading and writing without dependency

on me or that glowing screen?

Real life is not an emoji stream

flooding the scene

with heart-eyes and eggplants and smiling piles of poop.

I just want to SCREAM:

“WAKE UP!”

You’re missing it, losing it, choosing to ignore

the juiciest morsels of the marrow of life:

words.

Words!

WORDS!

Those tales told by idiots, full of fury and sound.

The ink on the page swirling round and round

signifying nothing but life.

I wonder have you ever just picked up a book

and thought to yourself maybe just one look

inside to see what all the fuss is about.

Have you attempted to smell the pages?

Inhale, breathe in, drink deep the fragrance

of ink on paper and the sugar sweet spice that trickles

and seeps into the heart and tickles

that deep secret part

of your soul?

It is the food of Olympus ambrosial.

Golden ichor bottled in an inkwell,

the incantation of a magic spell

woven of stuff both mortal and divine

that sparks to life the noble willing mind.

…sigh.

If only you would take the time

But in the cruelness of reality

“it’s all about the snap ending,”

quoth Captain Beatty via Bradbury.

INSTA-gram, SNAP-chat, a quick vine

Tik. Tok.

Goes the clock.

Now you’re out of Time.