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Words and Music - Faces: 2nd Year Work
The Face
The face is looking at me,
Kept in a jar by the door.
Many a person has seen it,
But I can’t take it anymore.
A two-faced, sly expression
To fill my heart with dread.
If you look closely when it turns around,
It has eyes in the back of its head.
Anything you tell the face
It is bound not to hear.
Whatever goes in one side
Comes out the other ear.
The face begins to speak,
I can hear its voice:
‘You are uncool and unpopular,
But I’ll let you face this choice…’
‘Keep your old ways,
But face it, they are boring.
This is the face of the future,
With this you will be soaring.’
‘Face the facts, ties are out,
And T –shirts definitely in.
On the face of it, really,
So is crime and sin.’
‘Evil, as you know,
Is not just a pretty face.
Face the music, get rich quick.
Know your true place.’
I decide to face the facts,
Not to follow its ways,
But to stay with the face of good
And save evil for other days.
By Daniel Phillips
My Grandfather’s Face
Mt Grandfather’s face is always changing,
Always moving about.
I sometimes think it’s never the same
It’s great, without a doubt.
He rarely moves about at all,
Just stands there in the hall.
This way I know he’s always there
Just leaning against the wall.
He likes to cry out every hour
Quite loudly, so I hear,
It sounds like a dozen bells
All giving a great big cheer.
Every time I see his face
I know its time for tea;
Time for breakfast, time for sleep,
Its all very dear to me.
My grandfather’s face is always changing,
Moving all over the place:
Sometimes I think it’s never the same
Have you seen such a face?
By Michael Copley-May
Grandad
Beneath your sweet, wrinkly eyelids
lie secrets never told and wisdom never
shared. Yours now Granddad.
Your slightly parted lips have many
more stories to tell and smiles to
give. Yours now Granddad.
Your ever creased brow hides thoughts
never said and feelings that
can’t be described. Yours now Granddad.
Take with you your wisdom, feelings,
stories and secrets. Keep them safe,
Granddad. They’re yours forever now.
Rest in Peace
By Ursula Harris
Secrets
When I gazed into those eyes, I didn’t see a plain green or brown. I saw the waves. The dark, mysterious waves. I saw the manes of white horses. I experienced the spray of the sea. I heard the crashes and bangs. I could feel those eyes suffocating me.
When I touched that skin, I didn’t touch anything ordinary. I touched the mask of a secret. I felt that foreign skin veiled in a rich velvet.
When I stroked that hair, I didn’t feel the hair of a human. I felt the currents running through my fingers. I felt the sands of the seas.
When I saw that face, I knew I had uncovered a secret. I knew where I belonged.
By Connie Ramsey
The Girl from the Shadows
I saw a face.
One half in shadow,
The other half illuminated in the orange street lamps.
A ghost.
Long matted hair hung limply
round a bony face.
A jutting jaw showed off thin lips
Scowling.
But in her eyes
I could see loneliness,
I could see sadness.
There was a gap.
Something missing.
Happiness.
This shadow stared,
Sending shivers down my spine.
But I knew,
Just as well as she knew
That this shadow demon
This ghost of the dark alley
Was just a girl
Just a human.
For appearances are not everything.
But to this child,
They were.
By Miranda Ross
Journey through Time
I stare into the mirror and a stranger stares at me.
An old man peers, through bloodshot eyes.
He looks surprised, so many lines, so many creases.
When did they all appear?
Some are fine like a spider’s web, spun delicately around the eye.
The deeper lines look like furrows, lying across the brow.
Two deeper trenches descend from the corners of a crinkled mount.
Every line appears to tell a story.
The cheeks are hollow, yet the bones stand proud and prominent.
The chin juts out, covered with silver bristles.
Short, prickly grey hairs spring from above the eyes.
And smaller, sharper tufts protrude from tiny ears.
How can this old feeble man possible be me?
When I stare harder a slight mist appears before my eyes.
Ah, this is better, once again my eyes are green and shining.
This is me, a young boy, sparkling with excitement.
As I laugh to myself fine lines appear by my eyes.
I gaze a little longer, what do I see?
My skin appears to glow
Smooth and soft, wrinkle free.
This is as far as I may travel
My journey is at its end.
By Harrison Probert
The North Face of Everest
The North Face of Everest
Looms in the misty distance.
The closer you advance
The clearer he is.
You can feel his presence
bearing down on you.
Look deep into the back of his mind;
through all the winding tunnels,
all the pits of confused thoughts,
until you come out.
Out of the confusion of passages
And out into his swirling world of mist –
The mist that is locked up inside him.
On this mist ride his thoughts –
Some happy, some sad,
But all of them riding
Like ships on a wave
Around and around his brain.
Now go closer.
Imagine what that massive face has seen.
All the anguish and pain
Of seeing people die around him.
Imagine what he must have heard.
All the shouts and screams
And all the joy and happiness.
His face is scarred
from all the things
that have left their mark on him
Imagine the things that must have happened
for him to form
his worn, tired but defiant expression
that he wears today.
By Sam Wilson
Faces
Plumes of mist swirl about the Grey Mountain.
The Mountain of Wisdom,
Some people call it.
I call it the Mountain of Death.
It is said,
That the Grey Mountain heals those who walk round it.
It is also said,
That is kills all who endeavour to climb it.
Kills them,
And never surrenders their frozen bodies.
It seems to me as though the mountain shivers and gleams,
But maybe that’s just the tears in my eyes.
They say that the Grey Mountain has expressions.
The most common one is wisdom.
The eyes are the two caves,
Llindwellan and Chraygogdnya.
They are death holes.
If you fall down one, there’s no getting out.
The nose is the jutting piece of rock,
Known as Barrie’s Cragg, or the Suicide Peak.
And the mouth is a huge crevasse.
Called Ice Hole,
And,
Depending on when there are landslides,
And rockfalls,
It is stretched in a different way.
It may have been my imagination,
After all that had happened on the Grey Mountain,
But,
It seemed,
As the train rattled away,
That the mouth leerer slightly,
Like a murderer,
Gloating over a victim.
By Megan Corder
