Four Room 8 kids each sent a poem to the New Zealand Post Schools Writing Competition. We have all our fingers crossed for these kids, hoping that the poems will be published:
PLASTIC
The fake plinky plastic was let loose
While drifting away
In the crowded jar
Of moving jam.
The translucent material
Burns a lot of her weight off
When she glides
In the sacred sky.
The rubbish man
Has a gob full of trouble
While trying to fetch
The teasing pest.
It runs like a fly.
A chicken taste
Springs off the plastic
Like a bird rebounding
Off a window.
The deafening chuckle sounds like the light house’s fog horn.
Its dreadful.
Unfortunately
The plastic spreads
AROUND the WORLD
Swimming down sewers,
Floating down drains.
It gets filthy
Through that process.
You should be glad
This object is not you.
I predict that she's getting old
Because she’s forming wrinkles.
I'm hoping
She’s not sick
A bit pale
Looking at her skin on the outside.
Its hard to believe
That this translucent fabric
Is born under the sea
In a bed of oil.
By Ruby
Rose
Fine delicate layers PLASTIC
The fake plinky plastic was let loose
While drifting away
In the crowded jar
Of moving jam.
The translucent material
Burns a lot of her weight off
When she glides
In the sacred sky.
The rubbish man
Has a gob full of trouble
While trying to fetch
The teasing pest.
It runs like a fly.
A chicken taste
Springs off the plastic
Like a bird rebounding
Off a window.
The deafening chuckle sounds like the light house’s fog horn.
Its dreadful.
Unfortunately
The plastic spreads
AROUND the WORLD
Swimming down sewers,
Floating down drains.
It gets filthy
Through that process.
You should be glad
This object is not you.
I predict that she's getting old
Because she’s forming wrinkles.
I'm hoping
She’s not sick
A bit pale
Looking at her skin on the outside.
Its hard to believe
That this translucent fabric
Is born under the sea
In a bed of oil.
By Ruby
Rose
Of rose petal Wrap around the sprinkling nozzle
Crimpled layers whisper
Unbelievable secrets
From a fine beautiful face
Rose blossoms happily
Proud to show off
Her gorgeous deep red skin tone
She dances to the rhythm
Of the wind, swaying gently
Dreaming of a miracle
Beware of her sour bitter taste
And the sharp pointy spikes
That emerge from a thin green body
Rose uses her thorns
To prick the hands
That try to pick
The life out of her
By Keana
CRICKET BALL
The apple-like ball,
Creates an illusion of movement,
As it speeds towards me,
Like a steam train.
A pattern of string,
Encases the ball,
Around the middle,
Like a python squeezing its prey
It tastes bitter and dull,
Like a droning voice,
And it smells like a wealthy man’s shoe.
It’s smooth like a precious stone,
That has been on the riverbed,
For thousands of years.
By Jack
Pencil Sharpener
Scratch scratch!
Each turn causes the wood
to RIP right off!
But the battle isn’t over
But the battle isn’t over
The pencil needs to avoid
the HUGE blade
the HUGE blade
of the sharpener.
The human
The human
spins the sharpener again
but now the pencil is getting very weak.
Rip!
One more spin…
The battle is over
The sharpener wins!!
By Jake
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