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, Boom The sand crunches under my feet like cereal in my mouth… Crunch, Crunch, Crunch The salty water is carried with the wind…Howl, Howl, Howl The gulls soar higher than the clouds...Swoosh, Swoosh, Swoosh The child crashes to the ground like a rock slide... Boom, Boom, Boom The man walks on shells that feel like needles...Crunch, Crunch, Crunch The dog is angered by the birds... Howl, Howl, Howl The kite flutters like a butterfly... Swoosh, Swoosh, Swoosh The afternoon thunder blasts its cannon... Boom, Boom, Boom Rainforest By 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 call unless 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 eyes measure, distinguish and are gone The 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 sparkle In the early morning sun Brightly bejeweled.

First few flakes of snow Dust 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 with leaves, 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 memories We 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 habits While the pencil drew in new ones The glue stick glued on a whole new face As the scissors cut away my background and past The ball point pen then made the changes permanent While the coloured pencils shaded in my body The calculator changed my way of thinking As the sharpener grazed over my rough edges Finally, the ruler I had to measure up to your standards Now me and you We walk, talk and think the same Two moving as one I don't even know who I've become What I was before You'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 beneath Weary 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 Way Upon 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 while And look up through the tree! The Sky is like a kind big smile Bent sweetly over me.

The Sunshine flickers through the lace Of leaves above my head, And kisses me upon the face Like Mother, before bed.

The Wind comes stealing o'er the grass To whisper pretty things; And though I cannot see him pass, I feel his careful wings.

So many gentle Friends are near Look 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 elephone Who tried to use the telephone- (Dear me! I am not certain quite That even now I've got it right.) Howe'er it was, he got his trunk Entangled 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-years By 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 something in its circuits of relative radiance. Include

the wingèd M, voluptuous Venus, hotheaded Mars, that lucky devil J and cranky Saturn, of course, plus

U and N and the wanderer P, in short the whole solar family, complete with its Milky Way, and count up all the other

systems with dots and spots and in that endless emptiness what you’ve got is a commotion of you-know-what. It’s a beautiful

universe, you said, just take a good look through the desert’s dark glasses for instance or on your back

in seas of grass, take a good look at the deluge of that Rorschach—we’re standing out there somewhere, together.

Always Something More Beautiful BY 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. JABBERWOCKY Lewis 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. Dennis Hist! ...... 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 overcoats And - Hist! ...... Hist!

(Mo ...... poke!) Who was that that spoke? This is not a fitting spot To make a silly joke.

Dear ...... me! A mopoke in a tree! It jarred me so, I didn't know Whatever it could be. But come along; creep along; Soon we shall be missed. They'll get a scare and wonder where We - Hush! ...... Hist!

Ssh! ...... Soft! I've told you oft and oft We should not stray so far away Without 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 gate Is - Hist! ...... Hush!

(Kok!...... Korrock!) Oh! I've had a shock! I hope and trust it's only just A 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 lark Just to roam so far from home On - Hist! ...... Hark!

Look! ...... See! Shining through the tree, The window-light is glowing bright To welcome you and me.

Shout! ...... Shout! There's someone round about, And through the door I see some more And 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 Paper I 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 talk I compose I write I 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 Grange By Gregory Harrison

Strange, Strange, Is the little old man Who lives in the Grange

Old, Old, And they say that he keeps A box full of gold.

Bowed, Bowed, Is his thin little back That once was so proud.

Soft, Soft, Are his steps as he climbs The 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 garden Listening for bells; That he watches for strangers, Hates every soul, And peers with his dark eye Through 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 Poetry By Benjamin Zephaniah

Dis poetry is like a riddim dat drops De tongue fires a riddim dat shoots like shots Dis poetry is designed fe rantin Dance hall style, big mouth chanting, Dis poetry nar put yu to sleep Preaching 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 dreadlocks It lingers around me head Dis poetry goes wid me as I pedal me bike I’ve tried Shakespeare, respect due dere But did is de stuff I like.

Dis poetry is not afraid of going ina book Still dis poetry need ears fe hear an eyes fe hav a look Dis poetry is Verbal Riddim, no big words involved An if I hav a problem de riddim gets it solved, I’ve tried to be more romantic, it does nu good for me So I tek a Reggae Riddim an build me poetry, I could try be more personal But you’ve heard it all before, Pages of written words not needed Brain has many words in store, Yu could call dis poetry Dub Ranting De 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 imagination Dis poetry is fe de good of de Nation, Chant, In de morning I chant In de night I chant In de darkness An under de spotlight, I pass thru University I pass thru Sociology An den I got a dread degree In Dreadfull Ghettology. Dis poetry stays wid me when I run or walk An when I am talking to meself in poetry I talk, Dis poetry is wid me, Below me an above, Dis poetry’s from inside me It goes to yu WID LUV.

ACCORDING TO MY MOOD BY BENJAMIN ZEPHANIAH

According to my mood I 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 Socks By Pablo Neruda,

Maru Mori brought me a pair of socks which she knitted herself with her sheepherder’s hands, two socks as soft as rabbits.

I slipped my feet into them as though into two cases knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin.

Violent socks, my feet were two fish made of wool, two long sharks sea-blue, shot through by one golden thread, two immense blackbirds, two cannons: my feet were honored in this way by these heavenly socks.

They were so handsome for the first time my feet seemed to me unacceptable like two decrepit firemen, firemen unworthy of that woven fire, of those glowing socks.

Nevertheless I resisted the sharp temptation to save them somewhere as schoolboys keep fireflies, as learned men collect sacred texts,

I resisted the mad impulse to put them into a golden cage and each day give them birdseed and pieces of pink melon. Like explorers in the jungle who hand over the very rare green deer to the spit and eat it with remorse, I stretched out my feet and pulled on the magnificent socks and then my shoes.

The moral of my ode is this: beauty is twice beauty and what is good is doubly good when it is a matter of two socks made of wool in winter.

The pickety fence David McCord

The pickety fence The pickety fence Give is a lick it's The pickety fence Give it a lick it's A clickety fence Give it a lick it's A lickety fence Give it a lick Give it a lick Give it a lick With a rickety stick Pickety pickety Pickety Pick

Joy at the Sound By Roger McGough We Real Cool- BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS A 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

‘Crickets’ by Valerie Worth

Crickets Talk In the tall Grass All Late summer Long. When Summer Is gone, The dry Grass Whispers alone