Poetry Competition 2018 - Primary

Poetry Competition 2018 - Secondary

Primary Winner

Such a wonderful guy! By Daniel Williams

So my story begins with my first word
And it happened to be dicky bird.
I live at home with my Mum and Dad
And that makes me very very glad
I love to play xbox every day
But my doggy Penny gets in my way
I love her so
But do you know?
She really doesn't like the snow!
On a Tuesday I go to cubs
It's one of my favourite clubs
It's well worth paying the subs
Let's finish this tale by
Saying goodbye
And now you know I'm such a wonderful guy!

Primary Highly Commended

The Beach By Emma Lindley

The beach is a calm place,
That so many like.
The beach is a happy place,
Which lights up your eyes.
The beach has lots of shells,
The beach has lots of sand,
The beach has lots of sea
And the beach has lots of land.

The beach makes me feel safe,
The beach makes me feel free,
So come to the beach and play with me.

The beach is a happy place,
Where everyone is excited,
And you've got the summer air,
So spend a day there,
And that will be totally fair.

The beach makes me feel safe,
The beach makes me feel free,
So come to the beach and play with me.

Secondary Winner

My Brother By Max Falcus

A lonely five-year-old.
Not alone though:
Aunts, uncles, cousins
Are all around - but no children!
A tadpole in a pond of frogs.

My wish comes true!
A five-year-old's hand laid on an expanding tummy,
A tiny foot kicks.

Time whizzes by.
A crib, a mewing sound,
Soft toys, baby food, nappies.
His hand clasps my finger:
A monkey tail around a branch.

I've been promoted - I'm a big brother.
The tottering steps as of a drunken man.
No more mewing, but babbling baby talk.
Tantrum Devil screams.
Now he's the five-year-old.

An annoying,
Tale telling,
Computer hogging,
Sweet stealing

But I wouldn't want to be lonely again,
I wouldn't change back.
Perhaps one day we'll be friends.

Secondary Highly Commended

Trains, my life long story By Robin Howley

There's two there's four there's six there's eight,
thomas the tank engine decided my fate,
first day of school,
pretty scary,
sitting down drawing trains,
then I draw jeremy the sodor plane,
a few years later down the line,
a member of the library,
the train books are mine,
later on in the year,
my mum is in my ear,
what would you like for christmas robin?
a train set a train set I boomed,
christmas day I roared down the stairs like the mighty mallard,
I shredded the wrapping paper like a combine,
in big bold letters TOMY,
hurray I cried,
the lack of thomas had died,
another few years down the line,
I saw a train scrap yard,
a chill rolled down my spine,
how could anyone destroy such a thing,
mountains of trams with bells that don't ding,
back to the present,
nothing new,
just my train story that I told you.
into the future,
bright and new,
look out LNER,

Secondary Highly Commended

My Heart Aches By Marina Paunova

I was only eleven
When my sister went to heaven
My world turned upside down
Now I have a permanent frown

We should have grown up together
And experienced all those things
Now she is my angel
And she flutters her wings

All I wanted was to
Live life with my sister
And now that she's gone
Oh how I miss her

Throughout these past few years
I've tried to stay strong
But when I think about it
The whole thing is just wrong

I will never forget her
That one thing is for sure
Because she was beautiful
And her heart was pure

A thousand times I needed her
A thousand times I cried
If my love could've saved her
She would've never died

As time goes by
The memories fade
Leaving me here
For my tears to cascade

If my tears could make a stream
And our memories make a lane
I would travel up to heaven
And bring her down again

I will cherish our memories
Forever and ever
In our hearts
We are always together

She wasn't only my sister
She was my best friend
And my love for her
Will never end

Adult 1st Place

How to make a foil horse By Alison Riley

Start with a rectangular sheet.
A sheet from a small roll will make a small horse.
A larger sheet will make a larger horse.
Tear or cut.

There is a moss-green tablecloth
- rough as a cat's tongue,
lemon-scented geraniums,
pink damask curtains, cream nets,
hands of gin rummy played for counters.

Side sections fold together, create the body.
Corner sections become legs.
Gently fold parts in on themselves, longways.
Create roughly tubular sections.

On Saturdays, black and grey horses race across the screen,
wrestlers tumble in World of Sport. Men with biros
in top pockets mark numbers on coupons.
Partick Thistle one, Dunfermline Athletic none.

Fold two middle wings towards each other.
Pegasus or a unicorn would be fun.
Top and bottom will be head, neck and tail.

Ladies in tin crinolines and men in tall hats
promenade on Quality Street; silver horses,
green dogs and fingertip goblets of gold follow in their wake.
Dandelion and Burdock is brought up from the cellar steps,
chrysanths and broad beans from the allotment.

Choose which end is to be the head. Avoid tearing too far
or risk losing a leg. It is possible to patch up problems.

The black cast iron kettle keeps itself warm on the grate,
sugar and Co-op loose-leaf tea huddle on the shelf over the stairs.
Slabs of sticky ginger cake wrap themselves in greaseproof
to be taken home and last the week.

Compress gently. Detail is not important in an acceptable shape.
Press and bend. This is the finished article.
It looks better at certain angles.
If the neck is too long, call it a giraffe.

Adult 2nd Place

Doggebrikke By Di Slaney

They caught me when I lurched across the brickyard in the sun, blinking lightdazzled after all that chewchain barntime, my name a muttered lipcurse, my jaws a drooling fooltrap, my claws the devil's slashspite, or so they claimed. The stink of blackfear hovered like thunderburst above their heads, reeking pissshit malice, hands pulling and dragging and poking so the print I left in the settingbrick dug deep and slant. The child saved it for memory, my paw behind the door in this halfbuilt farmwall the last I saw before redblack, redblack, red, red. Black.

Adult 3rd Place

Morning run whilst visiting his son in Midtown, Atlanta By John Wedgewood Clarke

Dawn peeled back the night as the man began
his run, slipping between Sixth and Seventh;
the sidewalks of Myrtle, Argonne, Arnold
Street North. Resisting the exotic taunts
and teases from bushes and trees, knowing that
back home in England he did not know birds
by their song, save the yellow-hammer, lark
and stone-hearted crow.

Piedmont Park then, like the French, a pied,
though it's Pied to rhyme with creed. I believe;
passed through fingers, the analgesic bead,
compress against the ache of miles apart,
dull by repetition, the earnest prayer,
grant our kids roots to grow and wings to fly,
then shrink the globe through intermittent Skype
or a trans-Atlantic, nine-hour flight.

Tenth; rising, falling like undulations
of love: rippling shallows and thudding deeps.
Keep the rhythm and breathe. Commandeer time.
He and the boy once stormed the castle heights,
a first 10K, the one his son declared,
honoured by sweat, as the best day. Ever.

A little bit of bread and no cheese?
He hadn't heard a yellow-hammer in years.
Cultivate or raze hedgerows as we choose,
the world moves on and some things we lose.

Adult Highly commended

Last Words By Sandra Burnett

I'm taking a
bath. Leave out
Bourbon and
my Chanel.
Forget the
Sleeping tablets.
I'm expecting a call
from, you know who.
He worries. People talk.
He scolded me for my
performance on his
birthday and I told
him he was a silly
boy. Remember
to leave my red
shoes and mink
cape handy. He
may send his
limousine for
me. Go now
and put up
your feet.

Eunice Murray was Marilyn Munroe's last housekeeper.

Adult Highly commended

Single Span By Gail Mosley

Where Larkin scanned the sky and Lincolnshire
And Humber's breadth, I stand.
Barton to Hessle, Hessle to Barton
tower to tower, bank to bank,
above the dizzying wink and blink of wavelets,
the suck of silt.

Motor vehicles pay me.
I take no tolls for walkers, nor for cyclists,
runners, joggers, scooters, roller-skaters,
or the muzzled hounds of The Greyhound Trust
in a meet of paws and feet
out for their Sunday stroll.
I cradle them all, seaward side, in the teeth
of the wind and the blinding winter sun.

Lean on my railing, elbow height, where slung
cable loops low. Half-way point.
Small green Samaritan signs might nudge
some to jump. You shudder.
Suspension sways a breath away.
Settle then to stay the span.