8th Grade Poetry

The Apple by Kate S. The hunter slowly trots on forward, Decked in orange head to toe, The wagging tail of a faithful partner brushing up beside him, His weary eyes, a fading gray, look on, humble and downward, As a deer approaches from the brush, And startles when it sees, that the man carries no gun, only an apple, in his worn right hand. And places down the precious thing, and slowly trots away.	The Earring by Kate S. A little drop of gold, Set upon her ear, Dangling in the Autumn light, A piece of Sun to wear, Etched with tiny woven patches, Snug upon the ear it latches, Curved in a classy crescent, Like half the moon sliced out. Its partner rests in place, Upon the wooden table, Studied by a passing crow, Landing on the old, worn stable.
Autobiography of a dime I am a dime, kept in a pants pocket, always jingling against others similar to me. It doesn’t hurt that much. A hand reaches in, but always grabs larger, thinner papery objects. One day, though, I am taken out and flipped into the air spinning. A cry of “I call heads!” is heard overhead. A missed catch leaves me against the sidewalk. No one has found me. - Michael F.	Grandmother’s house The woods of my backyard the street of our place in the Florida Keys The Keys Street: The street seems to know us, our little bare feet pressing into it’s warm, worn pavement, the snuffling of Grady, our grandmother’s dog. It should know us, because of our time spent on it’s dark avenue; every night of our stays in The Keys. Alex and I take a walk down to it’s smooth dead end, one that never really ends, it starts, starts into the Sea. I’ve never walked down the street in the light of the day, no, this is a place for skipping in the covering darkness of the indigo twilight and is meant to be glittered upon with the grace of the stars. It’s used to Alex and I, the pattering of our brown bare feet, brown because of the street, the street in the Keys. by Kate S.
Green red green brown Green trickles down when the clouds open up, stabbing through currents of wind, And it rides atop waves of blue-green and emerald, flowing in sparkling tints, green glints when Summer makes its grand entrance, when cat’s eyes glow, And river’s flow . . . All showing Green.	I Am an Earring I am an earring. I make an ear look pretty compliments come my way all the time. You may think I’m a little full of my self, but, you see, I have a partner; the other earring in the other ear so I’m not the only bragger. Since your ears are on your head, I get a good look at things, unless the person is short. I don’t really smell anything except for good smelling shampoo. Coconut is my favorite so far. I am an earring.