Archive for March, 2009
Can someone please help me annalyse this poem?
March 31st, 2009 | 
Author: A dreaming week
Not tonight, I’m dreaming
in the heart of the honeyed dark
in a boat of a bed in the attic room
in a house at the edge of the park
where the wind in the big old trees
creaks like an ark.
Tags: 
Is my mum right in putting me up for adoption?
Well,
This morning everything was fine and me and my mum were chatting as usual.
The at about two o'clock my mum felt really tired so she went and had a nap till about four,
After that she woke up, went down stairs and started shouting at me,
she called me a selfish bitch and and million other really horrible things:( just for about 7 plates of dishes that I hadnt got round to doing.
( and that's only because my sisters only five, so I always have to keep one eye on her and I have this really important coursework to finnish too) and its not like I didnt do any housework in fact I vacuumed the whole of downstairs, tided my room and the living room too.
so anyway then she started getting even more aggressive with me and carried on shouting and shouting so I just said to her that I dont think i've really done anything wrong and that arguing with her just wasn't worth my time… and then she rang my dad infront of me to ask him if he could come and take me ( and he said no because he's living with at his girlfriends house) so now shes decided that its best I go to foster care.
How do you feel about this poem?
I hope not too long! I wish sometimes I could do the sunset justice.
Great Blue
The great blue swells
onto towering dunes.
The sun puts on a show at sunset:
Muddy gray thunderclouds
bleed to a brilliant burnt orange,
and eerie green tipped mare’s tails
fade to pastel yellow.
Leaving footprint trails the sea devours,
picking shells and wood,
and dreams the size of tides,
we spot the first star of twilight
and make a wish.
You drop pretense
And kiss me on the cheek.
Home calls from the hill above
as the last trace of sun
sets over the cascading waves.
The waning light plays tricks;
an old piece of driftwood
looks like a snake,
a shell like a giant’s tear.
