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

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