We are very fortunate to have a local professional writer, Deborah Slicer, visit our school weekly for seven months of the school year, engaging students to write creatively. She comes to us from the Missoula Writing Collaborative as a part of their Writers in the Schools project. The year culminates with a student reading and published anthology of student work. Soon I will post student work here for all to see, so keep checking back!
Into the Mud
Sun slants low
chill seeps
into black water.
No more days of bugs
and basking.
Last breath, last
sight
of light and down I
go
into the mud.
Every year, here
I sink and settle,
shuttered like a shed.
Inside, my eyes close,
my heart slows
to its winter rhythm.
Goodbye, goodbye.
Remember
the warmth.
Remember
the quickness. Remember
me.
Remember.
by Daniel
Why…
I love jumping on my trampoline in fall
the ice cream itself
was as green as a
ponderosa pine
having fun?
playing with my hamster is a lot
of fun
I take a deep breath and jump
it feels like a bird taking
off but then landing
having fun?
why does everything
have to move on?
when I exhale I feel
like a mouse running from a cat
when I take a breath in
I feel like an elephant
running over 1 million
plants
My third eye can see
everything you think you can
he tickles my arm
like a spider tingling my spine
having fun?
a man serving a child
why can’t life be a free ride?
by Nate
Fear and Happiness
I want to leave
the nest and fly
away
Fear and happiness
Fear for my uncle
at war,
in and out-in and out
with every breath
Fear and happiness
Is there magic in this world?
Why do people do
horrible things?
Can time and
space stop in
their tracks?
Fear and happiness
by Hannah
Why?
My third eye
sees white snow,
stretching over
plains and fields.
Why?
My stomach is like
a rope,
tying itself
in knots when
I’m nervous.
Why?
My blood courses
through my body,
like electricity
across a
pond.
Why?
My soul
is so full of
questions
I could ask
forever.
But yet again,
one last time I
ask,
Why?
by Tanner
Shadows
What is a shadow?
Is it a guardian
angel watching
and protecting
your every
move?
Or is it
a demon raging
with anger, waiting for the
perfect moment to
strike or is it
a tortured spirit
being forced
to go in
the sun
and
copy your
every move? What
is a shadow?
by K.J.
What is a Blizzard?
What is a blizzard?
Is
it
a
white owl’s feathers?
Is
it
a
herd of polar bears running?
Is
it
the
clouds walking on land?
Is
it
the
mountains rolling along?
Is
it
the
white paper flying with poems?
Is
it
the
white tape sticking on windows?
Of is it just me?
by Peter
Anger
What is anger?
Is it a
burrito that
doesn’t agree with
the stomach? Or is
it the darkness in the
woods ready to
swallow you up? Or
maybe it’s a dark
colored butterfly
with its wings whispering
harsh words?
What is
anger?
Is it the monsters
in our little
brother’s
and
sister’s closets?
Does it feel like
a
razor and smell
like a swamp?
Is it the rain-cloud
over your head
on a gloomy day?
Is anger as blinding
as the sun?
Or maybe
just another cold finger
on a December
day?
Can anger be our
friend?
Or does it
have to
be the enemy?
Do we all feel
anger?
Should we
be
quiet so
we don’t wake
it as it’s
sleeping in
our souls?
What is anger?
by Hannah
The Cages and Shackles of My Teeth
Why are there
cages for
my teeth? Why
can gum and I
not speak. Why?
Gummy bears and worms
laugh at me, why?
Why does the eagle
sigh?
Why do I feel
like a prisoner? Why,
why does life send candy after me?
Why is a polar
bear white? Why are
there cages for
my teeth? Why do I
burn the midnight oil
brushing my teeth?
Why are there
rough jewels in
my mouth? Why,
why does the
eagle sigh? Why, why, why?
Will these shackles ever be removed?
Why are these rough jewels
in my mouth?
Why is a polar
bear white? Why?
Why can gum and
I not speak?
Why do I burn
the midnight oil
brushing my teeth?
Why
do
I
have
cages for my
teeth?
Will
these
shackles ever be
removed?
by Natasha
Drip, Drop, Drip, Drop
What is an icicle?
Is it a tear drop
from Mother Nature?
Will it freeze the
anger in the world?
Drip, drop, drip, drop.
Is it the happiness of
a cloud?
Is it the sadness of
the sun?
Drip, drop, drip, drop.
Why do they hang so
pointy on the edges
of buildings?
Why are they clear
like the heart of a stream?
Drip, drop, drip, drop.
Why are the drips
so perfect and round
like a ball splashing
to the ground?
When you touch
them, why are they cold
like the bitterness of a
thunderstorm?
Drip, drop, drip, drop.
Why do they form so
perfectly, like an apple
ready to be picked?
Are they beautiful like
water lilies on a
crystal clear pond?
Drip, drop, drip, drop.
Why are you able
to read them
like the cover of a
book?
Why can you see through
them like they are never
even there?
Drip, drop, drip, drop.
Why is it when you
walk by an icicle
that you stop and glare
at them for a great
period of time?
Drip, drop, drip, drop.
Why are icicles sometimes
clear, sometimes white,
sometimes purple, sometimes
blue? You never know?
Drip, drop, drip, drop.
Do icicles speak, is
that why you stare
at them when you
walk by them?
Drip, drop, drip, drop drip,
drip, drip, drip,
drop.
by Elizabeth
A Poem for the Left Hand
This hand beholds
ancient treasure like a
pirate’s gold in a shimmering
blue light.
My hand dislikes the feeling
of a broken bone, like the crackling
sound of popcorn kernels popping in
the microwave’s heating sun.
My hand likes the feeling of its
fingers running through my hair
as white as a cloth on a table.
My hand is as magical
as a musician’s magic box
with a red frosted cupcake inside.
This is my friend, my sister,
my gift, my god, my only
hand. This is my left hand, my only hand.
My hand is
to keep
FOREVER.
This is my left hand.
by Neki
My Hands
My hands help me hammer a nail
for a new house.
My hand helps me with writing an essay.
My hand helps me with playing football
and basketball.
My hand helps me
play my saxophone.
This is the hand that sleeps
in the black fur coat of my dog Coco.
These hands know me better than any hand in the world.
My hands hate it when it they get smashed between the door.
My hands like it when they are washing dishes in the warm
sink. My hands
like throwing bubbles at each other.
by Dante
Poem for the Left Hand
My hand puts food in my mouth.
and especially candy. My hand thinks
that she’s swimming with the dolphins in the ocean.
My hand feels warm, like being in a bear’s fur.
My hand likes to play the trombone!
My hand likes to peel frosting off a cupcake.
My hand doesn’t like to get paper cuts!
My hand feels as important as Martin Luther King!
My hand likes the feel of dogs.
by Della
My Hand
My hands are as helpful as cars that drive you places.
What my hands do makes my life easier
by doing the commands that my mom gives me.
My hand thinks of what he should deserve by doing his work.
My hand also wonders why people boss me around.
The last thing my hands wonder is why haven’t they ever met my feet.
My hands feel like they are slaves working in the cotton fields
picking cotton. My hands
like taking a bath in the warm water and the dirt coming off like water flowing down a waterfall, and they like hearing
the swoosh of it hit the ground.
by Peter
Dear President Obama
I have a dream that the war will end in peace.
I hope that the little boys and girls in the war will have homes
in the USA as peaceful as two birds flying in the night sky.
There needs to be freedom in other countries.
They need to be as free as two dragons flying
in the night sky
with their fire lighting the way.
by James
Where Does Poetry Come From
Poetry comes from the blood
flowing in my veins.
Poetry comes from the flex of my biceps
and triceps and forearms.
Poetry comes from the juice in my brain
and from the red, white, and blue.
Poetry comes from the lead in my
pencil. Poetry comes from the poetry
factory (heart). The heart pumps and it
sends lines of poetry to
different parts of
my body.
by Robert
Dear President Obama
I have a dream that prices will change.
I have a dream that everybody will recycle paper.
I have a dream that everybody will get along.
I have a dream that the planet was cleaner.
I have a dream that school was as fun as recess.
I have a dream that wars will stop because
it’s hurtful to kids!
by Ana
Poetry Hides
Poetry comes from clouds of green.
Poetry is BIG words.
Poetry comes from people’s lives. Does it come from kids’ lives?
Poetry comes from dragons.
What is poetry?
Poetry comes from the dead.
by Luke
Poetry Hides
It hides in my hand.
When we are racing cars, it’s in my hand.
When we are bowling, it’s in my hand.
When we play football, it’s caught in my hands.
When we play basketball, poetry is in my hands.
by Riley
Where Does Poetry Come From?
Poems come from my bones and my lungs
and my feet. My lungs have poetry
inside of them. Why
do we have blood? Is it white or black or red?
Do poems have blood too?
My poetry comes from my fingers.
by Zack
Dear President Obama
I have a dream that war will stop.
Peace for all.
I have a dream that people, families, countries
around the world will love each other.
I have a dream that the world’s air will be clean
and that people will have clean water to drink.
Love, peace, the world.
by Hannah
I Have a Dream
I have a dream that
Earth will know the definition of peace and stop war.
Peace will come between the U.S. and the world.
I have a dream that forever, peace will
keep blooming and will
never freeze in the winter frost.
I have a dream that around the world children
will have a place
to sleep and a roof overhead.
I have a dream that you, President Obama,
will lead a strong and responsible country
and your family will grow like a seed to a
mashed potato dinner.
I have a dream
people will see that just because
my mom is from the Ukraine she is not different.
I have
a dream
that forever
and ever
you and the U.S.
can find a way
to fix our economy
and that our lives will make room for each other.
by Katya
Where Poems Hide
My poems hide at the tips of my fingers.
The tips of my fingers have many faces, saying
“I know what to write, I know what to write!”
Every finger is saying that. My fingers smell
like the rest of my body—good, bad, terrible, awesome.
My fingers see how I clean my room or how I do homework,
and how I write poetry.
My poems hide in the middle of my stomach where my veins
and blood pass through.
My poems hide at the ends of my toes.
Poems smell my fingers and sweaty feet.
My poems hide where my heart is.
The poem that is where my heart is would be called
“My Cat.”
It contains everything in my heart.
by Brittani
My Poetry Comes from My Dog Venn
When he nibbles my feet I get poems.
He makes me think of happy poems.
My poems come from my lizard.
Her prickly body gives me the
exciting poems. My poems
come from my
cats. They give
me a
soft, soothing poem, like waves in the
ocean. My poems come from
my fish. They give me poems
about the ocean.
My poems come from my frogs. They
give me jumpy and extra poems.
My poetry comes from my
orchids. They give me sad
poems.
My animals and plants give my poems.
My poetry comes from my fish, Bert and Ernie.
They give me my deep feelings about things. My poetry
comes from my preying mantis. It gives me my funny poetry.
My animals and plants give me my poems. They give me
my feelings and happiness and
my
POEMS.
by Marisa
Reflective Creations 
Thanks Mrs. Slicer!
Great poems. I really felt some of your emotions coming through your writing. Brittani, I love the line,”My poems hide in the middle of my stomach where my veins and blood pass through.” That is exactly how I feel about my poetry!
Mr. C
Really good poetry everyone.
Wow, what amazing poetry you all have written! Your imagery is strong and I love that I can close my eyes and picture what you are describing. Peter, I love your line What is A Blizzard that says ” Clouds walking on land?” It is such a neat image!
Keep up the great work everyone and I look forward to reading all of your finished Cinquain Montana poems.
Miss Baber
Cool poetry people! I like the line “Why does the eagle sigh, why why why?”