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Poems Page If you would like to contribute to this page then please click here Beyond the Rainbow's End Boy's The School Photograph Humanity Eleven
KATHERINE NELSON DAVIS
Boys are very naughty And they’re immature I don’t think I like them Not even them next door. They all like playing footy Which we think is so thick We sit there laughing at them And taking the mick. I think that is the end now That is all we have to say Until we do another rhyme Again, another day. By Natalie hardy and Samantha turner
The School Photograph
What a picture!
A silent Rebekah! A grimacing Grace. (Michael’s dangling a furry thing in front of her face).
James and Marcus are exchanging blows Steven’s got a finger stuck right up his nose.
Daft Laura has adopted a very strange pose And Katie is wearing the weirdest of clothes.
Sarah looks to be snarling. She’s baring her teeth. (Some of the things Jonathan gets up to you just wouldn’t believe).
There’s a fierce-looking Jodi Rhian, with a sneer. Lewis is a-leaping. Zoe and Chloe, a blur.
Emily and Natalie are mid-word, open-mouthed. Karen and Sharon are attempting to pout.
Hannah and Ben are, of course, kissing. There’s no sign of Richard. He appears to be missing.
Barbara, as usual, has her nose in the air. Jasmin’s behind her, reaching out for her ears.
And there’s Simon and Joshua, Adam and Lee, Alicia, Melissa and finally me Pulling rude faces, Having a laugh, All captured forever on the school photograph.
Written by Bernard Young Adapted by Emily
I saw the news today: A black youth is in a coma, Beaten whilst out at play, By a drunk white youth. We are enraged, Racism makes us sick, Because he is as human as we are.
I was sixteen when I saw it: A mixed race group attacking A white youth because they saw him slip a pill, Through his own will, Into his mouth. Punching and kicking Left him moments from death And no one would help. Walk by, watch and let him die.
I heard the voices around town, ‘F****** Junky, deserved all he got’ ‘If it was me with him…I don’t know what…’ White, yellow, black, brown All in agreement Because he is less human.
Two comatose youths lie in hospital beds, One is a tragedy, it is tragic that the other is alive! And that is okay with you, Stick to what you think is true!
If he dies, Racism will be to blame And that is societies problem. If he dies, Drugs are at blame And that is his problem Because he is less human!
Paul Coxon
Where are you? You were there when I sat, I remember seeing you, You got me here Now, where you are is not clear. I cannot feel you anymore: Not close as once before But you were there after one Supporting me as ever An arrangement to start never But yet now you are gone And we are no longer one But you were there after two Something to lean on But we are no longer one Three and four, it gets a bit hazy Did you simply get lazy? Bored of your role as support? Did you just slip away? Leaving me to pay, Why would you do that? Where would you go? I am lost without you, And that is true. Where are you, show yourself And all will be done. Please, I need you, But you say silent. So here I shall sit, Until you return Or, by gods-will, I learn To walk again.
Paul Coxon
It came with my pea sea It plainly marques four my revue Miss steaks eye cannot sea.
Eye strike a quay and right a word And weight four it two say Weather eye am wrong oar write It shows me strait away
As soon as a mist ache is made It nose bee fore two late And eye can put the error rite Its rarely, rarely grate.
I’ve run this poem threw it I’m sure your pleased to no It’s letter perfect in its weigh My chequer tolled me sew.
Source unknown. Pits are his heritage. His father’s own black world of towering headstocks and pyramids of stinking dirt. Man born to his working life without the sunlight and feel of rain. No panorama; his view is all his lamp can see. No soft breeze or cutting wind, But flow monotonous of sweet air fouled by coal and dust, warm oil, dank water. His senses, keen; he hears and sees by instinct. Not only for himself. Unique environment binds him close to comrades, A bond impossible for other men to know. He works on knees made coarse by years of kneeling to his work. But even on his knees his character and pride suppress indignity. He sees the ponies doomed to life unnatural and shows his pity; At least he knows green fields and light of day. He knows stale smell of sweat and chafing grime But also pleasure in becoming clean again. He feels no stigma; he knows he is of special breed.
Written by an ex-miner.
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