Poems reflecting on this year’s better novels and a few others:
O’Heidkamp! My Heidkamp! (Idea Stolen from Reece Boatman—with his consent)
O’Heidkamp! My Heidkamp! Our class has sailed through,
The great books we read, the essays we grew!
The exam has passed, the credit may be won.
And now we stand, no more work to be done!
O’Heidkamp! My Heidkamp! rise from your chair,
The classroom stands, with hearts full of care!
The words eco the walls, the thoughts on the board,
Your wisdom, your guidance, we can’t all afford!
The bell rings, the journey's complete,
The lessons you gave were never discreet—
Your passion for literature, your depth of thought,
Shaped every mind that you so energetically sought.
O’Heidkamp! My Heidkamp!
Your guidance will always be remembered!
Through King Lear, Pride and Prejudice—
And the forever memorable, tenth of December.
Through Beloved, the Learn’d Astronomer,
And many other stories I choose not to remember!
But now the classroom is silent, too still,
We remember the words you imparted at will.
Your legacy here will always remain.
In every book, in every line, your name.
O’Heidkamp! My Heidkamp! So strong, so wise,
The final bell tolls, but in us, your spirit lies.
Though we move forward, we carry your light,
O’Heidkamp! My Heidkamp! We’ll keep up the fight!
Your voice, steady and firm, always sharp,
Led us through pages, through every arc.
A King Learing
I watch him now, a decrepit King,
His crown, once bright, a weight eclipsed.
The throne he built now crumbles fast,
A mind once sharp, now lost at last.
His love betrayed, his heart in grief,
No daughters left to grant relief.
He stumbles through turmoil, blind,
A king whose pride has left him behind.
And yet, I feel his madness too,
The twisted path, the mind askew.
What would I do, should I fall far—
To lose my way beneath the stars?
His pain, calls—too late to see,
The cost of pride, the price of greed.
In his madness, truth is clear:
A king will learn, but only,
Whilst the end is near.
A Reading of a Stranger
I walk through a world of passive delight,
Stumbling into a park where dandelions bloom,
And paths of tulips and roses unfold,
Despite no sense of wonder stirring within their petals.
A flower is plucked, then wilts in my hand—
No emotion stirs, no shift in the fan;
Without a wonder, life fades,
Forever in torment.
A stranger sits in a cell, speaking to a reverend,
Their posture betrays sorrow, yet the man in chains is calm,
As if resigned to his fate, as if he’s placed
A bet with no chance of loss— a sure wager,
His destiny was sealed.
I know this man is sentenced to death,
His future is certain, drawing near.
The reverend strains to speak, to reason,
To offer some comfort, but the man’s stillness remains,
Fixed, as if frozen in time.
I watch in quiet wonder,
A thought stirring within me:
How can a man face his end with such nonchalance?
How can a soul be destroyed and yet stand tall?
What is the purpose of living a life devoid of feeling?
Without belief, without motion, without change?
How many roads must a man walk
Before he’s called a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she rests upon the sand?
And how many times must cannonballs fly
Before they’re finally banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind.
A man stands at the edge of his tale,
Having walked a road all his own—
Not one of the doves or battles fought,
Yet he finds his peace.
While readers, lost in their drama and despair,
Cannot help but feel drained,
Burdened by their own petty troubles—
They will be undone by hollow surrender.
For a man soared without wings,
And lived forever, even after dying.