http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast.html The eighth graders in Mrs. Morris’s English class are presenting podcasts of some of their selected poems. We hope you enjoy the images, music and poetry they chose to share. iWeb 1.1.2 http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast_files/CIMG0446.png http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast.html 60 The eighth graders in Mrs. Morris’s English class are presenting podcasts of some of their selected poems. We hope you enjoy the images, music and poetry they chose to share. The eighth graders in Mrs. Morris’s English class are presenting podcasts of some of their selected poems. We hope you enjoy the images, music and poetry they chose to share. http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/C948C26F-821D-42CF-B6DE-687BF110E8A0.html http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/C948C26F-821D-42CF-B6DE-687BF110E8A0.html Tue, 13 May 2008 12:02:50 -0400 <a href="http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/C948C26F-821D-42CF-B6DE-687BF110E8A0_files/hortonjrevised.m4a"><img src="http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/Images/0,108,864,864Image_O40kXEQR.jpg" style="float:left; padding-right:10px; padding-bottom:10px; width:150px; height:150px;"/></a> Abuelo At now ninety nine years old, my great-grandfather is as young as he’ll ever be. Once an athlete, he refuses to slow down for anything. Once a marine, he takes on everything in life headstr Jessica Horton 00:01:13 Abuelo At now ninety nine years old, my great-grandfather is as young as he’ll ever be. Once an athlete, he refuses to slow down for anything. Once a marine, he takes on everything in life headstr Abuelo At now ninety nine years old, my great-grandfather is as young as he’ll ever be. Once an athlete, he refuses to slow down for anything. Once a marine, he takes on everything in life headstrong. Everyday is a new challenge for him, and every challenge is a new beginning. His day starts out the same. He wakes up, gets dressed, makes his coffee the way he likes and goes to the balcony outside his apartment window, sits down on his favorite chair, to stare into the distance. His old and tired eyes look vacant and distant; yet serene and peaceful. I don’t know what he’s staring at. I probably will never know what he is staring at. “Wrinkles are a sign of wisdom” is something that he believes in. and all of his wrinkles are a sign of ninety-nine years of wisdom. Even though he may be stubborn, especially when we suggest moving in with one of us he only says, “I am not a baby, I can take care of myself.” When he is to pass on into the next life, I will miss our family gatherings with him. I will miss his humor towards everything. But most of all, I will miss him looking outside from his favorite chair on his balcony. And I will still wonder what he was looking at. http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/0A0E0AF2-7728-4B7F-92B8-DF89E3D9F555.html http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/0A0E0AF2-7728-4B7F-92B8-DF89E3D9F555.html Mon, 12 May 2008 21:56:16 -0400 <a href="http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/0A0E0AF2-7728-4B7F-92B8-DF89E3D9F555_files/anamure%20podcast%20final.m4a"><img src="http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/Images/71.5,0,241,24152c69682_cbd3fb59_a4f13eac.jpg" style="float:left; padding-right:10px; padding-bottom:10px; width:150px; height:150px;"/></a>All the snow has finished falling but the sky is still the color of dense swirling smoke gray. The snow came in flurries dusting the trees with powdered sugar greeting the ground with a warm smile, da Emre Anamur 00:01:20 All the snow has finished falling but the sky is still the color of dense swirling smoke gray. The snow came in flurries dusting the trees with powdered sugar greeting the ground with a warm smile, da All the snow has finished falling but the sky is still the color of dense swirling smoke gray. The snow came in flurries dusting the trees with powdered sugar greeting the ground with a warm smile, dazzlingly white. But the brush still stands, painting the meadows a sweet golden honey in winter and spring and summer and fall, standing tall. The boughs creak and shake off the alabaster flakes which do an elaborate dance, a ritual. The silent oaks and the gusts of snow and the dried up brush all stand on sacred ground and the wind whistles through the swaying branches, especially loud today. Today, the meadow once again welcomes visitors, people returning to the land where their ancestors walked, so many years ago. They come from where the lakes have never seen ice where one never worries about snow. But now they are back to their sacred place, fighting off the sharp zephyrs bravely as they pay debts of respect that are long overdue. There are men and women bundled up in coats and jackets And one with a feathered headdress. Soundlessly gathered. Once again, the snow starts falling. http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/CDFA5FBF-0A0F-476B-AA7D-DCBAA7914D1F.html http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/CDFA5FBF-0A0F-476B-AA7D-DCBAA7914D1F.html Mon, 12 May 2008 21:50:02 -0400 <a href="http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/CDFA5FBF-0A0F-476B-AA7D-DCBAA7914D1F_files/Halljpodcast.m4a"><img src="http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/Images/77,0,307,307ff8cdf8f_4a10a7bf_764e57af.jpg" style="float:left; padding-right:10px; padding-bottom:10px; width:150px; height:150px;"/></a>Through the thick clouds, a soft powder lies on the tip of its peak. Sleeping above everyone, never to awaken. Nobody can see it but it’s right above them. It never moves or acts. To have stood upon t josh hall 00:01:04 Through the thick clouds, a soft powder lies on the tip of its peak. Sleeping above everyone, never to awaken. Nobody can see it but it’s right above them. It never moves or acts. To have stood upon t Through the thick clouds, a soft powder lies on the tip of its peak. Sleeping above everyone, never to awaken. Nobody can see it but it’s right above them. It never moves or acts. To have stood upon the surface is envied by most. Snow flurries down as the lone climber braces forward. All of the forces of nature working against him while he struggles onward. He violently swings his ice pick into the rock and snow to pull himself up further. Every ounce of his energy is put to moving forward. At long last he gazes down from the top. http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/15F8A9CF-5883-4E66-88E4-D842E4051568.html http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/15F8A9CF-5883-4E66-88E4-D842E4051568.html Mon, 12 May 2008 21:40:47 -0400 <a href="http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/15F8A9CF-5883-4E66-88E4-D842E4051568_files/Ippolitom%20Podcast.m4a"><img src="http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/Images/0,36,180,180Image_MYMjz3Yg.jpg" style="float:left; padding-right:10px; padding-bottom:10px; width:150px; height:150px;"/></a>My Grandpa, bent over the table, shuffles. His gnarled hands make the bent cards jump and fly. Whizzing around, they reorder themselves, and the new game begins. It’s Texas Hold ‘em, and his poker fac Mike Ippolito 00:01:30 My Grandpa, bent over the table, shuffles. His gnarled hands make the bent cards jump and fly. Whizzing around, they reorder themselves, and the new game begins. It’s Texas Hold ‘em, and his poker fac My Grandpa, bent over the table, shuffles. His gnarled hands make the bent cards jump and fly. Whizzing around, they reorder themselves, and the new game begins. It’s Texas Hold ‘em, and his poker face is unreadable. My eyes scan his weathered face, looking for the chink in his armor, but it’s like trying to read a brick wall. I bid first. As the coins tumble out of my hands like copper waterfall, I hope the large pool they form will intimidate, or even scare him. My grandpa reads my face like an open book and calls my bluff. I gulp to myself. I begin to get sucked in, like a ship being drawn in to a whirlpool. The pennies and dimes seen to walk on their own out of my bag into the pot. I am no longer in control, and I can feel the panic begin to well up in me, choking me. My grandpa is in control, ruling over the game with a firm hand, manipulating everything. The final hand arrives, and there he sits across from me, bent over the table, an ancient statue, as steady as a rock in a churning sea. As we flip over our cards there are no surprises, the game was decided a long time ago. http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/96267441-BF41-4402-8496-F38BCF201465.html http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/96267441-BF41-4402-8496-F38BCF201465.html Mon, 12 May 2008 21:35:29 -0400 <a href="http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/96267441-BF41-4402-8496-F38BCF201465_files/Mazzarelli%20Podcast.m4a"><img src="http://web.mac.com/pikefour/iWeb/Site%202/8th%20Grade%20Poetry%20Podcast/Images/0,49.5,301,301Image_4ZJiEjNB.jpg" style="float:left; padding-right:10px; padding-bottom:10px; width:150px; height:150px;"/></a>Stormy sky hovers Over weather-beaten cottages Their vacant clamshell walkways Premonition of squall to come Seals clamor for shelter On secluded rocky cove Blotches of gray on sandy white Sky is gr no Nina Mazzarelli 00:00:59 Stormy sky hovers Over weather-beaten cottages Their vacant clamshell walkways Premonition of squall to come Seals clamor for shelter On secluded rocky cove Blotches of gray on sandy white Sky is gr Stormy sky hovers Over weather-beaten cottages Their vacant clamshell walkways Premonition of squall to come Seals clamor for shelter On secluded rocky cove Blotches of gray on sandy white Sky is growing darker More ferocious As violent waves battle with Deserted shoreline Seagulls are heralds Waiting For storm to pass and leave it’s Victims Stranded on Unforgiving Beach Saline air is calm In the moment of silence before The first drop of Rain The storm has begun