We proudly present poems from some of the young visitors to our website.

When I look at the sky, 

I remember a bird in the air

It came on my finger,

but now it isn't there,

after, I looked in the sky 

it was exacltly where it was

I looked at the clouds

and my bird was flying around in the air

and it was always there. 

Written by Madeeha Saher  age 8


Broken Home (based on Bob Dylan’s ballad, “Blowin’ in the Wind”)

How many times can I take

all these insults

from someone who’s related to me?

How many times can I listen

to all these curse words

from someone who’s supposed to be a lady?

How many times can she beat me

with the cable wire?

How many times can someone

hit, smack, or punch me

and expect me to listen to her?

How many times can we continue to argue

                                          when we are supposed to be Mother and Son?

by Anonymous, 13 years old,

J.H.S. 337, School for Inquiry and Social Justice, the Bronx


The Icicle

Like a v
Big as key
has a spike
glows in the night
Its a carrot
But doesnt squeak like a parrot
It is made of water
But doesnt do magic like
it is a vally
but doesnt sing like kelly
It wont hope
but it will pop
its like eiffel tower
but it doesnt have any power
It will beam
but it wont be keen
It is pointy
but there are ninety
it is icy
but it will be spiky
its an icicle
but doesnt ride a bicycle
it has light
But it wont be polite

by Sami Khan

Great Fire of London
The Fire of London burns and flickers.
With broken hearts the people fled
Bringing all their goods with them
On carts, bringing any tuppence at all.

Flee to the river! Flee!

- Lily Webber, age 8




You wake up in a calm, silent atmosphere.
Then, like a spilled glass of fire, lava
Pours down the side of volcano Vesuvius.
People scream and suffocate in
The burning, black smoke.
Death and doom close in.
Years later the victims come back as a
Plaster cast, like a ghost.


The morning, fresh with warm sun.
Only to vanish, like a trick in thick dark and
Doomifying smoke.
Evilness comes as flashing, flaming fire.
Screaming turns to silence.
Dead bodies are white in plaster.

by James Climie, aged 8

The Fight for the signed Harry Potter book!

“Its mine” She said.

“No its not!” He replied.

“We all think it’s yours!” they shouted and cried.

“Give it back!” I demanded.

“It’s mine fair and square.

It cost a lot of money,

and it’s terribly rare”

They pushed and they shoved

‘till their arms all dropped off.

They all think it’s theirs

but really it’s not!

It’s not everyday when I walk past the shops,

that J.K. Rowling’s in the bookshop!


By Hannah Cline: Age 10






They watch over us.

The angels say hi.

The stars twinkle in the sky,

A hundred feet high.

When we are snuggled up tight,

For the night.

by Rhian Hill, aged 7



Kenning Poem








                 am I

I'm a cat

by Jamie Jo Devine, aged 8

Writing poems is Wordy's favourite hobby



 Terms & Conditions