Category — poems by children

bloody starter motors

why won’t they start
they can’t even manage a weak old fart

not a sound to be heard
no fumes to be seen
it must be bust
or maybe just unclean

that brought me to the decision
the car, something I must clean
it shouldn’t have a coat of grime
its should sparkle and gleam

those bloody starter motors
just look at what they’ve had me done
a lot of time cleaning my car
a job that’s no fun

if I could reinvent the car
it would have no starter motors
instead we would be resourceful
and start it with a bucket of old floaters

but that may never happen
so we’re stuck with
bloody starter motors

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sparkling sapphire sea,
full of fish and dolphins,
glittering fins break the suface,

but then,

waves roll,
no longer calm and smooth,
but rough and choppy,
no fins break the surface now,

what was perfect is now ready to kill.

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My Lovely Mum,
Your food is scrum,
Your huncles are warm,
You do the housework as quick as a storm,
You buy me presents,
But don’t shoot pheasants.

From John.

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Phweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

The game kicks off
I’m playing in defence
they have the ball and
they come running at me
I hear their supporters shouting and
my coach shouting at me and
I safely make a tackle and
I smack it to the forwards and
they are on the break
they do a 1-2 and shoot and score
its Welton 1-Moorlands 0 !

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The man from the city huzzar,
Played a tune on his one string guitar,
He played rather funny,
And earned lots of money,
The man from the city huzzar.

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Howling, raging, battering,

The wind still blew on,

Fierce, gusty and strong,

The wind still blew on,

Calm, quiet and peaceful,

The wind had stopped blowing,

Raging and howling,

So all was quiet and sunny.

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I eat my peas with honey,

I’ve done it since I was one,

You may think it’s funny

But it’s actually really yummy,

I could eat it by the ton.

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The golden moment,

At the finish line.

One try to determine the game,

If not, your name to shame.

The man who could have won it,

For the first time.

But ran himself into touch,

At the finish line.

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This library:

The gentle chatter of children,

Then a whisper,

And a giggle,

A howl of wind,

As the big heavy door opens,

Then shuts with a clonk.

The brisk swish of the turning of a page,

There’s the peaceful tap tap tapping of a computer.

Everywhere in the library is so quiet,

Quiet until

The lound beep of the library system.

The peaceful library music is shattered.

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