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Poetry from Baden Powell and St Peter's School and St Mary's Catholic Primary School

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 

It stands





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


By Heidi


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…

                                                                                                                                                                                 By Emily


Whisps of smoke

Desperate to d a n c e

Prevented from being        ----- FREE


Standing            lonely





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

              Impending doom

          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?


Victorian jug

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

my brain

Its handle

haunting my soul


By Noah


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,

The blades,

The daggers,

The sharpness,

Roaming freely in the flowers,

Roars of memories travel afar.

                                                                                                                                                 By Natalie 


Slopping about in the jug, the thickness

 closing in. Clanging again and again,

the butter forming. Beneath

the handle, a printed

bowl with thinly

spread milk

at the

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.


By Lorna


The Medal by Imogen


Crimson Red,

Shining Medal,

               Dad and Daughter.

Scrunchy Tissue,

Jack’s Colours,

King and Princess.

Neat Imprints,

Silver badge,

Wealthy Royalty.

Poons Engraved,

Breaking Box,

Clear Marks.

Forever-Blushing Divan,

Coronation Symbol,

Gleaming Medallion.

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