29th March

Hello, this is Daisy,
As I will not be here today, in the lesson, due to Drama rehearsals all day (panic!) I thought I'd leave a link to my blogger account -

http://daisiesoftheinternet.blogspot.co.uk/

I hope it proves helpful in trying to get our poetry/writing out there.

Toodles,
Daisy :)

When I dream

I feel so free

And I turn this feeling

Into poetry.

And when the darkness

Reaches my heart

I turn this madness

Into art.

And when my fear

Demolishes all feelings

I lift my chin

And a song I’ll sing.

And when my thoughts

Become all gory

I pick up my pen

And write a story.

-R

Lipstick and Stilettos

Mum and Dad were on a holiday, a "weekend away" that's what Uncle Oliver said. Uncle Oliver was downstairs, pacing in the hall way, in his grey jacket. Aunt Judy tells gim to wash it every week, but it still smells of old cigar smoke."Judy, Hannah!" he's claling upstairs, he sounds like he's smiling,
"Oh, that man," Aunt Judy mumbles as she's pasting red lipstick on in the mirror, "Coming darling!" she then calls.
I'm sat on the bed, in my white and red spoty dress. Uncle Oliver is taking us out, I'm excited but Aunt Judy's panicing, totering around the room in tights, stilettos and make-up,
"I just don't know what to wear!" she exclaims, she was wearing a black dress with lace sleves before, but apparantly it was wrong.
"You could wear your jeans," I said, she stared at me and laughed, I don't know why, "Can I downstairs?" I then ask, she tuts as she pulls a red silk skirt out of her wardrobe,
"Oh no!" she beams, "It can be us up here, girls together!" Aunt Judy only has boys, so I think that's why she's making a fuss of dressing up. I nod and sit silently as she tries on her fifth outfit of the evening. We still managed to make the reservation.

Books.

The spine is cracked and the pages torn,
Everything about this book is worn.
The print is faded to a grey,
Though the words, with me, they stay.
I turn a page then several more,
I read until my eyes are sore.
And when I finish, I smile and sigh,
Without a book, I want to cry.
And so, I walk on down a street,
Straight to a friend I long to meet.
I open the door and hear a "DING!"
I see full shelves, I want to sing.
Row upon rows of unread books,
Here, I get no weird looks.
I trace my finger along each spine,
"One day, you books, you will be mine."
I find a title, a blurb, a cover,
A whole new world that I'll discover.
I pick a few, a sturdy pile,
And to the counter I walk and smile.
I buy my books, a reasonable fare,
I breathe in the papery air.
And then, I leave back up the street,
The plastic bag has friends to meet.
In this outside world, I get strange looks,
No matter, for I have my books.

Swan.

I watch upon the river bank,
Sapphire waves a washing low,
The gentle reeds and willow trees
Through the waves they go.

Upon the waves swims a swan,
A silver, glowing light,
It's orange beak and orange feet
Rise in graceful flight.

This gentle swan is gliding,
Almost dancing in the air,
It's brightened eyes match brightened skies
With such a graceful air.

As I clumsily watch from the river bank,
Webbed feet plunged in dirt,
An ugly duckling, I keep on sulking,
And I can't help but feel hurt.

My charcoal feathers ruffle,
As my darkened eyes doth stare,
My ink black beak and ink black feet,
Turn away - I do not care.

This pretty Swan is showing off,
Though look the same. they do,
Come Summer bright, I will take flight,
And, Swan, I'll look like you.