Cardboard Window - Ellie Reynard

We live behind a cardboard window
And though I know we’re there
I cannot see for being dazzled
By the trifles of Rapunzel’s hair
I am deaf to huff huff puffing
Blind to games of red black hearts
Scribbling over in my then favourite colour, blue
As this book it falls apart

Once a maid (sort of)
I look again
The window is furling back
Brown wolf chomping down on your axe
As I skin him with my scarlet cape
Spin his fur into a fine dress
Screwing rubies into his nape
And though we prick our fingers once
Just once
The welling of the blood it holds me

I will not make a bargain over any mans name
And if anyone ever presumes to mount MY ivory tower
It’ll be grimm. Real Grimm.

I am red and white and black
And I’m taping down the cardboard flap
Keeping faith in childhood rhymes
My hiding hero
Laughing at my reasons, taking his damn time

Message - Kelly Chapple

I am trapped in an ocean of despair,
Why can’t I find my way?
I feel so transparent,
Yet I still can’t see clearly.
These secrets trapped inside of me
Long to be delivered
But I am lost, floating endlessly nowhere
So I cannot fulfil my duty
I guess I’ll just wait here
For a helping hand or a gentle breeze of encouragement.
Maybe the tides will turn
And my luck will change.
Then my hero, The Sea
Can take me where I need to be.

My Brother Thinks He Is Superman - Sam Miller

My brother thinks he is Superman,
Swinging from tree to tree,
Killing all the Taliban,
And he has only just turned three.

My brother thinks he is Superman,
Dressing up all day,
Playing with his best mate Stan
Who has a super ray.

My brother thinks he is Superman;
He is really just a pest.
The other day he rescued Gran
While she was having a rest.

My brother thinks he is Superman
In his yellow, red and blue:
He has a really clever plan,
But still needs a potty to poo.

Application For A Muse - Peter Estdale

Young, budding poet: seeks muse.
Duties include
Dealing with requests
For information by e-mails:
The very thing to break
The pylon-punctured landscape.

It’s not necessary
To be dynamic or flexible,
Nor hair like the dark summer
(Though they are a plus)
Any age is pref’rable,
As are enthusiasm
Willingness
And initiative.

Oh and no thieves:
The last holder left
With a bit of me
Sewn in the lining
of her jacket pocket,
Never to be returned.

Dreams - Amy Budd (Y9, Park House)

When my head hits the pillow,
I’m asleep in a jiffy,
To recharge my body and rest my brain,
The day’s encounters run reel to reel.
The comments in English,
The homework in Maths,
A scramble of words,
A jumble of mess.

As the curtains billow in the cool autumn breeze,
My mirrors of life are an endless tease,
Will I be famous?
Will I be rich?
Will I win awards on the hockey pitch?

Will I encounter the man of my dreams?
Or will it be a gargoyle in a pair of jeans?

A dream is a wish that you cannot ask for,
It’s a hope that dances in your head,
A song to the moon and a moment to swoon.

Tomorrow you wake do you remember the dream?
The man in Armani or the nerd in pastrami.

To remember with hope that they may come true,
So you wait for bed to continue the story,
Hoping for pride and glory,

My head hits the pillow I’m asleep in a jiffy.

The Dreamer - Emma Naylor (Y8, Park House)

The dreamer who sits on the sunset bay,
Waiting there quietly for the last light of day.
For what comes next he does not know,
But in his mind it will show.

Unknown creature tales upon,
Future present things that have gone.
A winding road nobody can tell,
The greatest heaven the deepest hell.

He might dream of a royal musketeer,
Or dream of a tramp who sheds a tear.
The love of his life he might see,
A song bird phoenix a little buzzy bee.

But today he dreams of his death so low,
In a coffin underground he’ll go.
That will be his life through,
Not knowing that this dream comes true.