Lines from the Mind

Sweat trickles, sticky shirt Hot air sears nostrils, Shimmering fried yellow hills in distance, Cicadas, a thousand chirps pressing in, Relief, cool ice-water laughs down my throat. Form I followed here: Line 1: Touch - Feel Line 2: Smell Line 3: See Line 4: Hear Line 5: Taste Success Criteria: Have followed the form but shown an ability to vary with intention as needed. Place in the poem strong thoughts about the topic Creating not just a random set of lines but using craft. I have correctly punctuated with complex sentences with comma/s. I have improved vocabulary by utilising a thesaurus. I can use and credit Creative Commons images. Images Credit: 5 Senses from Wikipedia , Summer adapted from Pixabay

This is a collaborative writing piece produced by all boys in 8G. Is child slavery good for our world? Child slavery is where a company or individual gets a child to work or labour, many hours a day, for very little money or none at all.   Some people say child slavery is good because it helps a country or company produce cheap goods so they can capture market and make more profit. Others say child slavery should be outlawed because of the mental and physical harm it causes. In my opinion, child slavery should be illegal. Child slavery kills! Child labourers die every minute around our world from accidents, physical abuse or suicide. According to the ILO (International Labour Organisation) each year 22,000 children die in hazardous conditions. 1 This is evil! It’s hard for child labourers to live a happy life. 115 million children live in punishing conditions. It is difficult for a child in this situation to have a good education because families don’t have enough money and ...

Scattered red, grey nylon tents, cheerful on grass patch clearing, surrounded by shadowy native bush, thin five millimetre pegs gingerly gripping stony soil. BBQ burger eaten, Sleeping bag ready, Pillow ready, Snooze ready, And the grey sky begins its torment. Bare foot through puddles to outdoor sink Teeth now toothpaste fresh ready, Paddle back to tent, mud flecks appearing on toes. Carefully creep into tent, trying to avoid dragging rain water inside, but drops gather holding hands on doorway floor entrance, laughing at my attempt. Cocooned in sleeping bag, only pummelling rain can be heard, the "haven't had rain like this in ten years" deluge. I smile, snuggle deeper mind embracing the storm, I will survive wind ripping at tent, rain, ground water searching seeking to drip inside. Sleep envelops my thoughts, the storm backgrounds to dreams of mountain biking through brown water puddles! WALT:  To communicate an experience, w...

Image Credits: WikiMedia, ClipArtCottage Light Emitted and absorbed light obvious and mysterious, These glimpses create more questions. Surface afterglows, in evening air Sunset, now gloomy place colours removed. City lights glow sky masking three thousand hesitant pinpricks, Cosmic energy flung clusters and scatters Universe wide. Particles float on turbulent atmosphere, Light is bent, Stars twinkle. W Grieve 2014 This poem came from a search at first on light, then sunrises and finally stars. WALT: To write a poem that communicates creatively my thoughts. Success Criteria: The words we pick fit together The ideas work together line by line To use punctuation to enhance the meaning and help the reader. I have added my own thoughts to put in my voice. To credit the sources that I used.

Image Credits: Wikimedia. A poem is not a chair, but it can make you comfortable. A poem is not a fridge, but it can leave you cold. A poem is not microwave, but it can heat the soul. A poem is not a carpet, but it covers life's flaws. A poem is not a curled cat, but it can make you feel warmth. A poem is not a LED screen, but it entertains. A poem is not a door, but it can open alternative thoughts. A poem is not a pathway, but it can take you to new places. A poem is not a gate, but it can break holes in barriers. A poem is not a pavement, but it can crack you up. A poem is not a flower, but it blooms ideas. A poem is not fresh-air, but it expands mind-lungs. A poem is not a walk, but exercises aspirations. A poem is not a scurrying ant, but embraces curiosity. A poem is not the dappled sun, but it powers creativity. A poem is not the universe, but it always expands the reader. A poem is not a bus-stop, but is an alternative beginning. WALT: To write a poem...

You think it's funny to poke out your tongue and show me your tooth paste smothered tongue, You look closely at pale skin and pop your zit, Some of you - usually the ones with longer hair, Spend forever Colouring in your lips, making black lines on eyebrows and brushing perming, brushing. I hear you practice the lie you will tell Mum, trying to see if, by looking at me, you can keep a straight face, As I reflect on humans I realise sometimes your face mirrors your heart hesitant smile, creasing frown, lip pout, other times your face lies, covering the feelings. But I always tell the truth, showing you for what you are.

Today I learned to elaborate and add detail. I was given this sentence: I got out of bed this morning, had breakfast and then drove to school. 2 minutes later.... Adding details I turned over and blearily looked at my wife as she slipped out of bed on her side. I really didn't want to go anywhere, let alone to school after a weekend away in Rotorua.

Image Credit: pixabay.com It starts with a whisper a rustle of leaves breathed on by wind, Scudding clouds arrive gusts slam branches protest, bending pain to grey black clouds. Tree fingers are broken falling pain to sodden grass. Rain knives slash from overloaded buckets driving deep into my clothes. I stand waiting for a bus, Cold, excited loving the whipped movements, the power, the storm. WALT: Learning how to write free form poetry to capture in words an experience. Criteria: One idea per line Strong vocabulary Cut small words Use commas to set the rhythm of the poem Credit pictures

My beard stubble is grey your chin is young smooth but we all look the same to an alien. I'm taller You're shorter but we're both small in front of basketball player towers, and never ending space. I like touch rugby, thinking about God, my gorgeous wife and children, opening my eyes to new things and a thousand other likes, Your thousand passions are as different as sand grains, but we both have tastes. I hate graffiti the civil war in that country Not being able to connect with others, Your hates are as different to mine as snow flake patterns. If everyone was the same our colour would be grey and if nobody understood differences our colour would be black Can we be rainbows?

Dapples flicker leaf sheets wind blown branches dance shadows on the grass Torch reflecting light on words book hidden under the sheet with me reading late night parents asleep Darkness stolen centimetre by centimetre Sunrise. Hot sun through Sunday afternoon window Head nodding eyes drooping warm sleep.

In a vast universe room We are picked up By a giant hand Carefully placed on the glass slide. Lights blaze on And our opacity lowers Until self is revealed, Shadows inside out.

Mystery Not for the first time I sense something more It tugs at the corner of mist wrapped mind or maybe deeper than that somehow tugging at a corner of my mind that is connected to the universe. A mystery that is dark,  yet burns bright causes fear yet seems wrapped  in the deepest love imagined A journey that leaves me naked but wraps me in a wonderful light it opens, calls

Growing darkness Merges with the shadows of rustling, whispering trees Time of slow starlight reflection evolves into creation You stand cold wind edging your thoughts Looking at the stretched expanse shimmering star lights The world... universes... Made

Wind rustled thoughts In grass heads fringe Life at a distance. Fat wood pigeon swish cuts the air From five finger to dark hill hugging manuka Wind pulls low threaded sounds Through overhead pathway power wires, Intimate and expansive I'm a traveller in the moment Guest of a slice of time. Hopes and dreams circle My connections to this land Tuned to bell bird stories Sung from ridge to bush, and voices of children carefree in play exploration Somewhere beyond the trees. A land with a thousand voices Present and past.

Picture remixed from Pixabay.com. Can you see my eys? Excuse my squashed writing For I am writing this poem From inside a couch, Just yesterday, I fell asleep in the sun Streaming hot through the window And I slipped through the cushion gap To join the lost coins, gathered dust and dried food crumbs. I hear the outside world muffled by leather and foam I'm interior, you're exterior I hope you can read this note I slipped out. For I'm squish writing this poem From inside a couch. Success Criteria We read, "It's Dark in Here" a poem by Shel Silverstein to inspire us in our "point of view" poetry.... The boys followed this model closely and then with larger variations as they produced two pieces to reflect how writers have a point of view. The montages were produced with creative commons images using layering, masking and montage techniques with Pages on their macBooks. To write in a poetry style that has been given. To tre...