Coasting Casey: A Tale of Busting Boredom in School by Shannon Anderson“My teachers say I’m coasting, that I just do ‘well enough.’ But why do I want to waste my time on super boring stuff?” Casey is bright, but doesn’t apply himself at school. Instead, he coasts—doing just well enough to get by, and ignoring homework and projects that don’t interest him. What does interest Casey is art. He loves to draw, make music, and create. Sometimes this enthusiasm interferes with learning and gets him into trouble. With help from his school principal, Casey learns to apply his passions to his schoolwork. Told in humorous rhyme, this lively story will speak to bored students and to any kid who can—and wants to—do better. The book concludes with tips and information to help parents, teachers, counselors, and other adults foster dialogue with any kid wrestling with underachievement.
Your account is not active. We have sent an email to the address you provided with an activation link. Check your inbox, and click on the link to activate your account. Or write its screenplay. Image credits: Jb5Jane. Dyslexia is a disorder, characterized by trouble with reading despite normal intelligence. Many of the commenters have also mistakenly called the poem a palindrome.
For two weeks in third grade, I preached the gospel of the wild boar. My teacher, the sprightly Mrs. DeWilde, assigned my class an open-ended research project: Create a five-minute presentation about any exotic animal. I devoted my free time before bedtime to capturing the wonders of the Sus scrofa in a minute sermon. I filled a poster as big as my 9-year-old self with photographs, facts, and charts, complete with a fold-out diagram of the snout. I attacked each new project that year — a sketch of the water cycle, a history of the Powhatan — with the same evangelism.
Bored. Rate this poem. votes. From the book When the Teacher Isn't Looking . As I'm sitting in the the Chairman of the Bored. Topics: School Poems.
sois belle et tais toi
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All those times I was bored out of my mind. Holding the log while he sawed it. Holding the string while he measured, boards, distances between things, or pounded stakes into the ground for rows and rows of lettuces and beets, which I then bored weeded. Or sat in the back of the car, or sat still in boats, sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel he drove, steered, paddled. It wasn't even boredom, it was looking, looking hard and up close at the small details. The worn gunwales, the intricate twill of the seat cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying bristles on the back of his neck.