Ice, š§
Cats, š
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All my poemsAbout Me
I am a student in PLP at seycove, and I like writing poems about nature, specifically snow. To learn more about me, watch my about me video
About Me
My thoughts on this project
I thought that this project was actually quite interesting, and the amount of poems I had to write I believe helped improve my writing.
I thought that this project was actually quite interesting, and the amount of poems I had to write I believe helped improve my writing.
Sound Poem
bum bum bum bum
I feel the beat of the drum
thump thump thump thump
I hear the sound of the bumps
Ratatatatatat
The rain smacks my umbrella with a pat
tap tap tap tap tap tap tap
Someone knocks on my door with a rap Sound is all around whether we notice of not The drop of a pin or the clang of a pot
bum bum bum bum
I feel the beat of the drum
thump thump thump thump
I hear the sound of the bumps
Ratatatatatat
The rain smacks my umbrella with a pat
tap tap tap tap tap tap tap
Someone knocks on my door with a rap Sound is all around whether we notice of not The drop of a pin or the clang of a pot
Paragraph from Meth Mountain
He was tough. Tough as nails. Tough as old leather. Tough as a poorly cooked steak. Tough as that one piece of crackling that feels like itās going to break your tooth. Thatās how tough he was. He knew it. Everyone knew it. Even that sumbitch, Buford Morehouse knew it. Travis Haymaker was not just a manās man. He was a manās manās man.
The tales echoed down from the Sugarbush Mountains, along the Cottonmouth River, all the way down into Poverty Valley. If his red pickup cleared the tree line and headed down into the holler, it was best to stay indoors. Because when Travis Haymaker was in town, trouble followed. And mayhem usually followed trouble. And then subsequently, death was definitely close behind. Travis Haymaker, trouble, mayhem, and death were like an ordinary lunch. Travis Haymaker was the spinach salad. Trouble was the vichyssoise. Mayhem was the duck confit with ramps. And death was the poached pears in raspberry sauce. Four courses of the apocalypse.
He was tough. Tough as nails. Tough as old leather. Tough as a poorly cooked steak. Tough as that one piece of crackling that feels like itās going to break your tooth. Thatās how tough he was. He knew it. Everyone knew it. Even that sumbitch, Buford Morehouse knew it. Travis Haymaker was not just a manās man. He was a manās manās man.
The tales echoed down from the Sugarbush Mountains, along the Cottonmouth River, all the way down into Poverty Valley. If his red pickup cleared the tree line and headed down into the holler, it was best to stay indoors. Because when Travis Haymaker was in town, trouble followed. And mayhem usually followed trouble. And then subsequently, death was definitely close behind. Travis Haymaker, trouble, mayhem, and death were like an ordinary lunch. Travis Haymaker was the spinach salad. Trouble was the vichyssoise. Mayhem was the duck confit with ramps. And death was the poached pears in raspberry sauce. Four courses of the apocalypse.
Found Poem: Made from a paragraph from Meth Mountain
Tales echo across the mountains, rivers, and valleys
Tales of a man who trouble and death always followed
A man tougher than nails, tougher than old leather
A man that raw steak he would have swallowed
His punches and haymakers so strong theyāre in his name
Everyone would hide indoors when he came
His red pickup so loud it roared
Tales echo across the mountains, rivers, and valleys
Tales of a man who trouble and death always followed
A man tougher than nails, tougher than old leather
A man that raw steak he would have swallowed
His punches and haymakers so strong theyāre in his name
Everyone would hide indoors when he came
His red pickup so loud it roared