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Winter by Olivia Kooker
If winter was a person she would be a girl with frosty hair. Winter would wear snow pants snow boots, gloves, a hat and scarf.
Winter would smell like hot chocolate and peanut butter and Hershey Kiss cookies baking in the oven.
Winter would spend the day eating cookies and drinking hot cocoa by a lake.Winter would spend the night by sitting in the snow waiting for morning so children
could come out to play.
Beach Beach Beach
The sun rises higher and higher, like a blossoming flower, as the children play... Beach, Beach, Beach
The crashing waves sound like an invasion…Boom, Boom, BoomThe sand crunches under my feet like cereal in my mouth… Crunch, Crunch, Crunch
The salty water is carried with the wind…Howl, Howl, HowlThe gulls soar higher than the clouds...Swoosh, Swoosh, Swoosh
The child crashes to the ground like a rock slide... Boom, Boom, BoomThe man walks on shells that feel like needles...Crunch, Crunch, Crunch
The dog is angered by the birds... Howl, Howl, HowlThe kite flutters like a butterfly... Swoosh, Swoosh, Swoosh
The afternoon thunder blasts its cannon... Boom, Boom, Boom
RainforestBy Judith Wright
The forest drips and glows with green.The tree-frog croaks his far-off song.His voice is stillness, moss and rain
drunk from the forest ages long.
We cannot understand that callunless we move into his dream,where all is one and one is all
And frog and python are the same.
We with our quick dividing eyesmeasure, distinguish and are goneThe forest burns, the tree frog dies,
yet one is all and all are one
Winter comes
Red and gold leaves fall,Crunchy as cornflakes beneath
Feet on a crisp morn.
Frosty webs sparkleIn the early morning sun
Brightly bejeweled.
First few flakes of snowDust gardens like icing on
A chocolate cake.
Spring Comes
When the cold, harsh winter has given its last breath,When the sky above shows life instead of death,When the claws, reaching to the frozen sky becomes decorated withleaves,When the animals-long in hiding- scurry from trees,We know winter has ended.
When the frost on grass is replaced with sweet dew,When the fields become dotted with flowers, reminding me of you,When the lonely silence becomes filled with melodies, When you feel warm air, erasing bad memoriesWe know winter has ended.
When the hard, bare ground becomes painted with green, When the frost-bitten air becomes fresh and clean,When the coats and boots are all stored away,When the playgrounds become occupied again with child's play,We know winter has ended.
When you hear the pleasant sound of children's laughter,When the air is filled with joy- long sought after,When the world is filled with sunlight, brighter and longer,When the song of Mother Nature becomes stronger and stranger,Spring has begun.
The Pencil Case
The eraser erased my bad habitsWhile the pencil drew in new ones
The glue stick glued on a whole new faceAs the scissors cut away my background and past
The ball point pen then made the changes permanentWhile the coloured pencils shaded in my body
The calculator changed my way of thinkingAs the sharpener grazed over my rough edges
Finally, the rulerI had to measure up to your standards
Now me and youWe walk, talk and think the same
Two moving as oneI don't even know who I've become
What I was beforeYou've changed me more than you'll ever know
Storm At Sea
CRASHING waves... SMASHING seas... Bringing sailors to their knees.
As they struggle to save their lives Hoping and praying, help arrives.
The stormy seas as dark as coal, Preventing the sailors from reaching their goal.
Battered and bruised, but still they fight... Staring ahead, into the dead of night.
Rocking and rolling as they try to stand... Hoping against hope, that they soon reach land.
Bleary eyed from lack of sleep. Down in their cabins, huddled like sheep.
As they're rocking and rolling down beneathWeary sailors above, resist with gritted teeth.
Hours later, as the storm starts to dissipate, It leaves a calm tranquil sea in it wake.
The veteran sailors know the battle is over, and they have won... As contemplate, other storms yet to come...
Natures WayUpon a nice mid-spring day,
Let's take a look at Nature's way,Breathe the scent of sweet fresh air,
Feel the breeze within your hair.The grass will poke between your toes,
Smell the flowers with your nose,Clouds form shapes within the skies,And light will glisten from your eyes.
Hear the buzzing of the bees,Climb the tallest willow trees,
Look across the meadow way,And you shall see a young deer play.
Pick the daisies as they grow,Watch a gentle cold stream flow,Know the sounds of water splash,
Catch its glimmer in a flash.When altogether all seems sound,
Lay yourself upon the ground,Take a moment to inhale,
And listen to Nature tell her tale...
Friends
How good to lie a little whileAnd look up through the tree!
The Sky is like a kind big smileBent sweetly over me.
The Sunshine flickers through the laceOf leaves above my head,
And kisses me upon the faceLike Mother, before bed.
The Wind comes stealing o'er the grassTo whisper pretty things;
And though I cannot see him pass,I feel his careful wings.
So many gentle Friends are nearLook careful you will see,
A child should never feel a fear,Wherever he may be.
Eletelephony~Laura Richards
Once there was an elephant,Who tried to use the telephant-
No! No! I mean an elephoneWho tried to use the telephone-(Dear me! I am not certain quiteThat even now I've got it right.)
Howe'er it was, he got his trunkEntangled in the telephunk;
The more he tried to get it free,The louder buzzed the telephee-(I fear I'd better drop the song
Of elephop and telephong!)
Light-yearsBy Hester Knibbe
It’s a beautiful world, you said,with these trees, marshes, deserts,
grasses, rivers and seas
and so on. And the moon is really somethingin its circuits
of relative radiance. Include
the wingèd M, voluptuousVenus, hotheaded Mars, that lucky devil
J and cranky Saturn, of course, plus
U and N and the wanderer P, in shortthe whole solar family, complete with its
Milky Way, and count up all the other
systems with dots and spots and inthat endless emptiness what you’ve got
is a commotion of you-know-what. It’s a beautiful
universe, you said, just take a good lookthrough the desert’s dark glasses
for instance or on your back
in seas of grass, take a good lookat the deluge of that Rorschach—we’re standing out there
somewhere, together.
Always Something More BeautifulBY STEPHEN DUNN
This time I came to the starting place
with my best running shoes, and pure speed
held back for the finish, came with only love
of the clock and the underfooting
and the other runners. Each of us would
be testing excellence and endurance
in the other, though in the past I’d often
veer off to follow some feral distraction
down a side path, allowing myself
to pursue something odd or beautiful,
becoming acquainted with a few of the ways
not to blame myself for failing to succeed.
I had come to believe what’s beautiful
had more to do with daring
to take yourself seriously, to stay
the course, whatever the course might be.
The person in front seemed ready to fade,
his long, graceful stride shortening
as I came up along his side. I was sure now
I’d at least exceed my best time.
But the man with the famous final kick
already had begun his move. Beautiful, I heard
a spectator say, as if something inevitable
about to come from nowhere was again on its way.
JABBERWOCKYLewis Carroll
(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back.
"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' He chortled in his joy.
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe
What else could this be about apart from a seagull? (metaphor)
Hist
By C.J. DennisHist! . . . . . . Hark!
The night is very dark,And we've to go a mile or so
Across the Possum Park.
Step . . . . . . light,Keeping to the right;
If we delay, and lose our way,We'll be out half the night.
The clouds are low and gloomy. Oh!It's just begun to mist!
We haven't any overcoatsAnd - Hist! . . . . . . Hist!
(Mo . . . . . . poke!)Who was that that spoke?
This is not a fitting spotTo make a silly joke.
Dear . . . . . . me!A mopoke in a tree!
It jarred me so, I didn't knowWhatever it could be.
But come along; creep along;Soon we shall be missed.
They'll get a scare and wonder whereWe - Hush! . . . . . . Hist!
Ssh! . . . . . . Soft!I've told you oft and oft
We should not stray so far awayWithout a moon aloft.
Oo! . . . . . . Scat!Goodness! What was that?
Upon my word, it's quite absurd,It's only just a cat.
But come along; haste along;Soon we'll have to rush,
Or we'll be late and find the gateIs - Hist! . . . . . . Hush!
(Kok!. . . . . . Korrock!)Oh! I've had a shock!
I hope and trust it's only justA frog behind a rock.
Shoo! . . . . . . Shoo!We've had enough of you;Scaring folk just for a joke
Is not the thing to do.But come along, slip along -
Isn't it a larkJust to roam so far from home
On - Hist! . . . . . . Hark!
Look! . . . . . . See!Shining through the tree,
The window-light is glowing brightTo welcome you and me.
Shout! . . . . . . Shout!There's someone round about,
And through the door I see some moreAnd supper all laid out.
Now, run! Run! Run!Oh, we've had such splendid fun -
Through the park in the dark,As brave as anyone.
Laughed, we did, and chaffed, we did,And whistled all the way,
And we're home again! Home again!Hip . . . . . . Hooray!
Dreaming on PaperI don't talk
my lips part, and air pushes out,but the sound must not fit,
because my thoughts are so big,
so I don't try to talk,my thoughts must be too good for
words, for the air, for my lips,
but they are just right for paper,my thoughts flow on paper,
they are just big enough
so I don't talkI compose
I writeI dream
The sky is low
Emily Dickinson
THE sky is low, the clouds are mean,
A travelling flake of snow
Across a barn or through a rut
Debates if it will go.
A narrow wind complains all day
How some one treated him;
Nature, like us, is sometimes caught
Without her diadem.
George Square
by Jackie Kay
My seventy seven year old father
Put his reading glasses on
To help my mother do the buttons
On the back of her dress.
'What a pair the two of us are!'
my mother said, 'Me with my sore wrist,
you with your bad eyes, your soft thumbs!
And off they went, my two parents
To march against the war in Iraq,
Him with his plastic hips, her with her arthritis
To congregate at George Square where the banners
Waved at each other like old friends, flapping,
Where'd they'd met for so many marches over their years
For peace on earth, for pity's sake, for peace, for peace.
The Death of Ned Kelly
By John Manifold
Ned Kelly fought the rich men in country and in town,Ned Kelly fought the troopers until they ran him down;He thought that he had fooled them, for he was hard to find,But he rode into Glenrowan with the troopers close behind.
"Come out of that, Ned Kelly," the head zarucker calls,"Come out and leave your shelter, or we'll shoot it full of holes.""If you'd take me," says Kelly, "that's not the speech to use;I've lived to spite your order, I'll die the way I choose!"
"Come out of that, Ned Kelly, you done a lawless thing;You robbed and fought the squatters, Ned Kelly, you must swing.""If those who rob," says Kelly, "are all condemned to die,You had better hang the squatters, for they've stolen more than I."
"You'd best come out, Ned Kelly, you done the government wrong,For you held up the coaches that bring the gold along.""Go tell your boss," says Kelly, "who lets the rich go free,That your bloody rich man's government will never govern me."
They burned the roof above him, they fired the wails about,And head to foot in armour, Ned Kelly stumbled out;Although his guns were empty he made them turn and flee,But one came in behind him and shot him in the; knee.
And so they took Ned Kelly and hanged him in the jail,For he fought singlehanded although in iron mail.And no man singlehanded can hope to break the bars;It's a thousand like Ned Kelly who will hoist the flag of stars.
Joy at the Sound by Roger McGough
Alone in the GrangeBy Gregory Harrison
Strange,Strange,
Is the little old manWho lives in the Grange
Old,Old,
And they say that he keepsA box full of gold.
Bowed,Bowed,
Is his thin little backThat once was so proud.
Soft,Soft,
Are his steps as he climbsThe stairs to the loft.
Black,Black,
Is the old shuttered house,Does he sleep on a sack?
They say he does magic,That he can cast spells,
That he prowls round the gardenListening for bells;
That he watches for strangers,Hates every soul,
And peers with his dark eyeThrough the keyhole.
I wonder, I wonder,As I lie in my bed,
Whether he sleeps with his hat on his head?Is he really a magician
With altar of stone,Or a lonely old gentleman
Left on his own?
Dis PoetryBy Benjamin Zephaniah
Dis poetry is like a riddim dat dropsDe tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots
Dis poetry is designed fe rantinDance hall style, big mouth chanting,
Dis poetry nar put yu to sleepPreaching follow me
Like yu is blind sheep,Dis poetry is not Party Political
Not designed fe dose who are critical.Dis poetry is wid me when I gu to me bed
It gets into me dreadlocksIt lingers around me head
Dis poetry goes wid me as I pedal me bikeI’ve tried Shakespeare, respect due dere
But did is de stuff I like.
Dis poetry is not afraid of going ina bookStill dis poetry need ears fe hear an eyes fe hav a look
Dis poetry is Verbal Riddim, no big words involvedAn if I hav a problem de riddim gets it solved,
I’ve tried to be more romantic, it does nu good for meSo I tek a Reggae Riddim an build me poetry,
I could try be more personalBut you’ve heard it all before,
Pages of written words not neededBrain has many words in store,
Yu could call dis poetry Dub RantingDe tongue plays a beat
De body starts skanking,Dis poetry is quick an childish
Dis poetry is fe de wise an foolish,Anybody can do it fe free,Dis poetry is fe yu an me,
Don’t stretch yu imaginationDis poetry is fe de good of de Nation,
Chant,In de morning
I chantIn de night
I chantIn de darkness
An under de spotlight,I pass thru UniversityI pass thru Sociology
An den I got a dread degreeIn Dreadfull Ghettology.
Dis poetry stays wid me when I run or walkAn when I am talking to meself in poetry I talk,
Dis poetry is wid me,Below me an above,
Dis poetry’s from inside meIt goes to yu
WID LUV.
ACCORDING TO MY MOOD BY BENJAMIN ZEPHANIAH
According to my moodI have poetic license,
i WriTe thE way i waNt.
i drop my full stops where i like………..MY CAPITAL LetteRs go where i liKE,
i order from MY PEN,i verse the way i like
(i do my spelling write)According to My Mood.i Have poetic license,
i put my commers where i like,,((())).(((my brackets are write((
I REPEAT WHen i likE.i can’t go rong.i look and i. c.
It’s rite.i Repeat when i liKE. I have
poetic license!don’t question me????
Ode to My SocksBy Pablo Neruda,Maru Mori brought me
a pairof socks
which she knitted herselfwith her sheepherder’s hands,
two socks as softas rabbits.
I slipped my feetinto them
as though intotwo
casesknitted
with threads oftwilight
and goatskin.
Violent socks,my feet weretwo fish made
of wool,two long sharkssea-blue, shot
throughby one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,two cannons:
my feetwere honored
in this wayby
theseheavenly
socks.
They wereso handsome
for the first timemy feet seemed to me
unacceptablelike two decrepitfiremen, firemen
unworthyof that woven
fire,of those glowing
socks.
NeverthelessI resisted
the sharp temptationto save them somewhere
as schoolboyskeep
fireflies,as learned men
collectsacred texts,
I resistedthe mad impulse
to put theminto a golden
cageand each day give them
birdseedand pieces of pink melon.
Like explorersin the jungle who hand
over the very raregreen deerto the spitand eat it
with remorse,I stretched out
my feetand pulled on
the magnificentsocks
and then my shoes.
The moralof my ode is this:beauty is twice
beautyand what is good is doubly
goodwhen it is a matter of two socks
made of woolin winter.
The pickety fenceDavid McCord
The pickety fenceThe pickety fenceGive is a lick it's
The pickety fenceGive it a lick it'sA clickety fenceGive it a lick it'sA lickety fenceGive it a lickGive it a lickGive it a lick
With a rickety stickPicketypicketyPickety
Pick
Joy at the SoundBy Roger McGough
‘Crickets’ by Valerie Worth
CricketsTalkIn the tallGrassAllLate summerLong.WhenSummerIs gone,The dryGrassWhispers alone
[in Just-]BY E. E. CUMMINGS
in Just- spring when the world is mud- luscious the little lame balloonman
We Real Cool- BY GWENDOLYN BROOKSA poem written about the first people who played Jazz…and were seen as very unconventional & naughty The Pool Players.
Seven at the Golden Shovel.
We real cool. We Left school. We
Lurk late. We Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We Die soon
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come running from marbles and piracies and it's spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer old balloonman whistles far and wee and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it's spring and
the
goat-footed
balloonMan whistles far and
wee