Yearly Archives: 2015

Poem of the Day

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by Walter de Jong

Dear planter of my paradise,

I wanted to you to know

how much that I appreciate

the great greens that you grow

When whispering spring awoke me

From my winter’s hibernation

I beheld a feast prepared for me

beyond imagination

For twenty years we’ve shared this place

And pickings have been poor

But now we’ve got this vegie patch

It’s looking up for sure

There’s one thing I should mention though

I’m sure it’s not your fault

You might not understand

That I’m allergic to that salt.

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5

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WHO’S HOME?

by Monty Edwards

 

You will find him in your garden

Yet he’ll always be at home,

Which is strange, because he travels,

Though he never far will roam,

For his movement is quite sluggish

And he often stops to eat.

If you’re growing nice green lettuce,

He considers that a treat!

 

With his eyes on stalks like flowers,

He can find his favourite food.

Never interrupt him eating,

Or he’ll think you’re very rude!

Do not fear that he’ll attack you

As he cannot throw a punch;

He will just be feeling cranky

That you’ve spoiled his lovely lunch!

 

Since his home he carries with him,

He will never mind the rain

And if anything should scare him,

He just goes inside again!

You will look in vain for footprints

But you’ll see his silver trail.

Do you think you know his name now . . . ?

Yes, you’ve got it! . . . Mr Snail!

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5
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It’s a Long Way to the Top When You are Born a Snail!

by Stephen Whiteside

 

It’s hard to rock and roll a lot

When you are born a snail.

My goo connects me to this spot.

I know it looks a bit like snot,

But lose it, and I fail.

I’d like to twist and jump and leap.

Alas, it’s not my thing.

All I ever do is creep.

I’ll handle inclines very steep,

But don’t ask me to sing!

I cannot hold a microphone,

Or handle a guitar.

Speakers, amps, I do not own.

I’m happy munching on my own.

I’ll never be a star.

But if it ever gets too loud,

You yearn for breaking free

From all that rock and rolling crowd,

Remember me, for I’m not proud.

Yes, come and talk to me.

© Stephen Whiteside 05.12.2015

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5

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Poem of the Day

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Consider the snail
On slipper-less feet
Armour-laden with spiral shell
Slowly sliding
Through this jungle
Of green night

Anonymous

  • Submitted in response to Words + Pictures #5

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Poem of the Day

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BUTTERFLY MOTHER

by Di Bates

Dancing the tune of the breeze
She lifts her coat sleeves –
And freezes as if in prayer
To breed in the shady leaves;
Green confetti in air.

On the rib-case underneath –
A waxy seam of leaf,
Tiny eggs, colour of cream
Are stuck with butterfly paste.
Blue lady lifts as a dream,
Leaving them, to hatch or waste.

Who knows where she goes
Blue butterfly mother?

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Barefoot

by Kate O’Neil

Days are longer. Getting warmer.
Sun is higher overhead.
Restless toes begin their twitching.
Barefoot days not far ahead.

At last December comes around.
Summer holidays are here.
That’s when toes come out to play.
That’s the time when feet go bare.

Let’s all run across the grass.
But do look out for bindi eyes.
Ow! Ow! Ouch! They’re everywhere.
Hear our barefoot bindi cries.

Watch us dance the bindi ballet
Quick steps, big steps on our toes.
Hidden prickles keep us leaping
if we step where bindi grows.

Best of all are barefoot beach-days
racing on the summer sand.
Ow! It’s hot! Run to the water.
Run to the edge. Whew! See us stand

doing the barefoot wet-sand wiggle.
See us sink on toes that squirm
down through clouds of sand and shells,
ankles wrapped in swirling foam.

Barefoot days pass far too quickly.
Back-to-school time soon comes round.
But think how much our feet are learning
walking barefoot on the ground.

 

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The Moomins

 by Virginia Lowe

 

Rebecca had a book about

The Moomins young and old,

So she took it to her mother

And the story she was told

Of Snuffkin Sniff and Moomintroll

And the Hobgoblin’s Hat

Hattifattiners and Hemul

Snork Maiden and Muskrat.

 

When that book was finished

(Many chapters, and all long)

She took her pocket money

And went shopping with a song.

She bought a new red plastic case

Then found to her delight

That she could buy another book

To start that very night!

 

In this one Sniff (Rebecca)

Heard of comets and a cave

Discovered long mysterious paths

And with crocodiles was brave.

When this book too was finished ‑

As all good books must be ‑

We re‑read umpteen chapters

Till saved by the Tooth Fair‑y.

 

Who left a useful thirty cents

(And also dropped the tooth).

So to the Sunflower after school

They went, to find the truth

About Moomintroll’s new journeys

And where has Snuffkin gone?

Moominsummer Madness

Will fill evenings from now on.

 

 

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Away

by Jill McDougall

 

I’d like to be (if you’ll agree)

Away today, Ms Hall,

Please carry on as if I’ve gone,

Like I’m not here at all.

 

And while you’re teaching nouns and verbs,

And all those tricky spelling words,

I’ll play computer games ‘til bell,

And eat a bag of crisps as well.

 

Then during Silent Reading, Miss,

I’ll decorate your hair,

With little silver metal clips,

And glued bits everywhere.

 

A touch of orange texta,

And a safety pin or two,

Will soon improve your love life, Miss,

Coz punk’s the look for you!

 

So Miss …

I’ll be  away today,

I’m sure you’ll say

that that’s okay,

Just carry on

please teacher dear,

You’ll hardly notice

I’m not here.

 

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THE MAIL TIN

by Monty Edwards

Way out west, where willows weep

By creek beds cracked and dry,

A mail tin stands atop a post

Beneath a cloudless sky.

The homestead sits behind a hill:

The mail tin far from view, 

But there, round ten, a song is heard

And you may sing it too.

   It’s time to put the billy on.

          It’s time to fetch the mail!

   It’s time to catch a kangaroo

          And swing it by its tail!

How is it that the farmer’s wife

Can sing this silly song?

She sounds so sure the mail has come,

But what if she is wrong?

The farmhands stop, lay down their tools.

The youngest mounts his horse.

He rides away toward the road

To get the mail, of course!

  It’s time to put the billy on.

          It’s time to fetch the mail!

   It’s time to catch a kangaroo

          And swing it by its tail!

The farmer’s wife saw rising dust.

She heard the rumbling truck.

Her eyes and ears said: “There’s the mail!”

It wasn’t just good luck.

                                                     *

Now years have passed. The mail tin’s gone

That stood through heat and hail.

Not once they caught a kangaroo,

Nor swung it by its tail!

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #4    TIME_MG_0194

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Cloudless skies

By Sioban Timmer

 

I lift a hand up to my eyes

While scuffing shoes and shooing flies

Watching the heat cloud wave and rise

As I journey under cloudless skies

 

The path is long to our home gate

The only traffic, trucks and freight

Frustrating if the mail is late

Meaning yet another day to wait

 

But not today, I have no fear

I sense it as I’m drawing near

That in that box, with address clear

Today I know, my book is here

 

Unwrapping it, the cover cold

Embossed with letters nice and bold

What tales are waiting to be told?

What new adventures will unfold?

 

I lift my hand up to my eyes

Now flying feet and fleeing flies

Watching the heat cloud wave and rise

As I journey under cloudless skies.

 

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #4

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