Life - a poem by Huwaida Ahmad Fadzil 9S

Life

He wrote a comic and called it ‘dream’

With bright pictures and big letters

He showed his parents who hung it upon the door

He was happy, ecstatic even

Everyone smiled, everyone laughed

He was three then

He wrote a poem and called it ‘adventure’

With brown pictures and medium letters

He showed his teacher who gave him a sticker

‘Good job’ he was told

He cracked a small smile

He was seven then

He wrote a short story and called it ‘life’

With somber pictures and small letters

He showed his friends who laughed and pointed

They told him it was lame

He frowned and walked away

He was fifteen then

He wrote a book and called it ‘reality’

With no pictures and messy writing

He read it to himself and gave himself a

Sad smile

‘Well done’ he whispered to his reflection

He hung his work on upon the bathroom door

And fell into a deep everlasting sleep.

He had a good life.

Now he is gone.

Huwaida Hmad Fadzil 9S

Remember- a war poem sent in for the Never Such Innocence poetry competition 2018

Remember

Do you remember,

When the fragrance of fresh roasts,

boiling brussels; vile vegetables,

Would carry your nose

down steps, down stairs,

Skipping

No.

I remember the yells of Gas! Gas!

Ringing through the air,

A gaunt face facaded by a guise,

Sending shivers, spasms, shudders

Through starved, sleepless limbs

Terror twisting through my heart,

Death, all around.

Enveloping, embracing, enclosing

its ghastly grip around our necks,

its viridian vice,

That snatched us one by one,

Like wilted weeds.

Do you remember,

Rolling on glistening grass,

Dancing dogs and daisy chains,

Slick, sliced sandwiches and juice-boxes,

Frolicking as rain fell,

Smiling, splashing, springing

like coils in plaits pulled taut with pink ribbons

Grinning as specks of fairydust

sprinkled from the sky.

No.

I remember

Crammed, coated in crusted, dried dirt,

Beholding a beast,

That picked off men,

As though they were ants, spraying cherry juice.

From bursting, blood-curdling wounds,

And the blood.

Blood in your eyes.

Blood in your mouth.

Splattered across the sheets of smudged soil,

That streaked down your face.

I remember silently shaking

There were no beds to creak,

As I cried myself to sleep,

Coiled, cradling my head,

Not in comfort, as a baby does,

But in terror of the shrieking shells passing.

I remember pressure,

Overwhelmed with wails and white faces,

The false belief they pumped us with,

of glorious colours of white and red,

Was a cover for the faces

The lifeless white faces

Smeared, crossed out, with red blood.

Rayann Knight 9G