Here are some of the poems written by children taking part in a special writing workshop.
The children used lots of colour, position and pictures to give their poems more impact, which unfortunately I can't accurately reproduce here.
I think the poems are rather good. I hope you enjoy them too.
It is plain
It has no life- like aplanet left to orbit
covered in scars and scratches
and helpless desperate to be used, to be helpful
on the mantel piece, there, where no-one cares
it knows it’s old, it knows it’s a waste
yet it hopes to live
wants to be loved
needs to laugh
The Eternal Slumber…
The archaic medallion
Lay snugly inside its scarlet bed.
Imprinted on the roof of the bunk:
A message which read, “Coronation Medal”.
Inside the crimson crib,
The ancient war-time survivor; encased,
Imprisoned in an ivory blanket,
The quilt crispy and crinkled.
A soldier stands to attention,
Ready to attack.
Standing in the battlefield,
Bullets cascading down.
A shell sinks deep,
Deep into his flesh.
In an eternal slumber…
Whisps of smoke
Desperate to d a n c e
Prevented from being ----- FREE
no longer an element eternity
The amber prison conceals
ebony that appeal
interest is no longer how it feels
Still beautiful and sneaky
Still secretive and eerie
Still the pride of the monarchy
I could almost hear it,
It seemed to vibrate down my spine
I stroked rhythmically at its pointed teeth moulded neatly into the nodulous stone
A musty smell loomed about me
Making my nostrils flare
Visions of a malicious creature,
Gnawing ravenously, thundered in my head
What might have gone through
Those razor sharp weapons?
It is worn, yet firmly encrypted
with fascinating dated gnarls
Shade lurks in every fold
of its admired articulate divisions
It is thick, yet delicately smooth
The artisan essence
of the varnished utensil
From the sight of
its curved browned deep head
vivid memories and visions flood
haunting my soul
Abrasive and dense,
Is what they are,
Its loudness is near,
From thousands of years,
A tiger’s mouth decays,
Roaming freely round the fields,
Roaming freely in the flowers,
Roars of memories travel afar.
Slopping about in the jug, the thickness
closing in. Clanging again and again,
the butter forming. Beneath
the handle, a printed
bowl with thinly
bottom has set into butter. Ragged glass surrounds the
perimeter whilst a smooth, Perspex canister contains the sloppy milk into compact butter. When the butter has
formed and milk has vanished, all is calm, all is well.
The Medal by Imogen
Dad and Daughter.
King and Princess.