Poetry Pod

child-writingWe 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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

5 responses to “Poetry Pod

  1. Lizzie

    Thanks Mrs. Slicer!

  2. 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

  3. Hannah

    Really good poetry everyone.

  4. Miss Baber

    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

  5. Natasha

    Cool poetry people! I like the line “Why does the eagle sigh, why why why?”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s