Three more ANZAC Day poems by children

Thanks again for all the ANZAC poems. I am reading my way through them, all the moods and different rhythms.

I like the way the questions pound through Monica’s poem like the pound of war. I like the focus and great detail in Ben’s poem and I like the detail, the rhythm and the repetition in Matthew’s. Great job!

Questions

Tears traipse down
my face of mud
I bite my lip, it
tastes of defeat

He said, don’t stop,
Carry on, get there,
Stop them

But why?
Why the war?

Nobody asked for this,
Nobody needed this,
Did they?

Guns echo,
each shot
answers my question

by Monica K, Year 8, Russley School

 

Dugouts

Ode to the dugouts, which saved lives.

The safe haven under the horrors above.

The underground escape from constant shelling.

The muddy homes of soldiers.

The protection from gas attacks.

A quiet place to think of home.

A place to write letters, and receive parcels.

Without dugouts, what would they have done?

Ben H Year 7 St Peters School

 

ANZAC poem An unlikely hero. From the perspective of a lark.

As the cockerel crows to mark the dawn.

The fire starts it’s in-human roar.

Amidst it all I start to fly, amongst the now death ridden sky.

Down below, they start to crow, but not like I, they start to cry.

For in their holes that man has dug, lay the dead, the wounded, the other ones, for whom                 will never see the sun.

Down below, they start to crow, but not like I, they start to cry.

I look under my wings, I see them screaming, in pain. Two forces of man, but both in vain.

Down below they start to crow, but not like I, they start to cry.

I cannot bear, it anymore, their human tear. I take to dive, to the ground below for to the war, I must go.

Two fighters left, gun in hand, each a truly worthy man.

For one will shoot and the other die, But not if I can, if I can fly.

The metal strikes me, right in the heart, to the ground I fall, a measly lark.

The two men stand, no ammo left, a duel, I wish, could just be left.

Down below, they start to crow, but, like I, they start to cry.

Up above, they start to crow, and just like I, they can fly, in the clouds, absent from war, for they are safe, now and forever.
Lest we forget.

Matthew A, I am a year 7, I am 11 years old and my school name is St Peters Cambridge.

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