Poem of the Day



by Joanne Pummer


Who shot Sooty?

”I did,” cried Ellie. ”With a little gun

I shot Sooty.”


Who found  the gun?

”I did,” said Ellie. ”In my Mummy’s purse

I found the gun.”


Who squeezed trigger?

”I did,” sobbed Ellie.

”I squeezed the trigger.”


Why did you squeeze it?

”I wanted to play.

That’s why I squeezed it.”


Who heard the shot?

”I did,” said Mum.

”I ran and I ran when I heard the shot.”


Who bought the gun?

”I did,” said Dad.

”I bought the gun.”


Why did you buy it?

”To keep us all safe.

That’s why I bought it.”


Who saw the blood?

”I did,” said James.

”I saw Sooty’s blood.”


Who kissed his forehead?

“I did,” said James.

”I kissed his soft black fur.”


We hugged and we cried when they carried off Sooty.


”Wait,” said the gun.

”I shot Sooty. With my little bullets

I shot Sooty.”


Did you scream, did you shout when the shot rang out?

Did you cry, did you call when you saw Sooty fall?


”No,” said the gun.

”I’m not like you.

I only do what I was made to do.”


Author comment: I wrote Who Shot Sooty?’ on the spur of the moment when I saw in a news item that the National Rifle Association in the US have written a children’s book.




Poem of the Day



by Anne Bell

Past houses,trees and grazing sheep,

I race and rock and sway

and I say to the track of strong, firm steel

that likes the sound of a hurrying wheel,

I’ll soon be back,

be back,

be back.

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #13.


Author comment:  Goodness gracious me…this was first published in The School Magaz Circa Yonks AD when that journal was edited by Lilith Norman and still in black and white mode.

Poetry Prompt #13



A single word this week to spark your creativity. What images does it conjure? Follow those thoughts and see what you come up with.

Send your poem as a Word document attachment to traffa-m(at)bigpond.net.au and add a line or two about your writing process or why you opted for your chosen poetic style.

Happy writing!


Poem of the Day

1 Comment

Good News Story

By Lynelle Kendall

The Easter story starts at Christmas,

When a baby named Jesus was born.

A special child, sent to save all people.

He brought hope like a bright new dawn.

As a man he told people God wanted their friendship,

But the wrong things they did had to go.

God is good, he is sad when we steal, when we lie,

When we’re mean to the people we know.

The first Easter, good Friday, Jesus died on a cross,

Took away all those wrong things we do,

And to prove he’s God’s son, and that those things are gone,

He came back to life! Yes it’s true!

Trust him with your heart and you can be God’s friend!

That’s what Easter is really about.

Hot cross buns will remind us; Jesus made a way,

It’s a good news story, no doubt!

Poetry Prompt 11Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #12.

Author’s Note: At Easter, Christians celebrate that Jesus died on the cross and came back to life. This good news is for all people everywhere. If you want to
find out more, ask the Chaplain at your school.

Poem of the Day


My Fingers

by Dianne Bates


My fingers

are going on an adventure

What fun

Exploring the world

Poking, prodding, whirling


along a rough ridge

of timber freshly sawed –

watch those spikes!

Poking in a pudding

spongy soft with a skin

of smooth creamy custard,

raspy and rough

Holding hands with a friend

her fat, sticky fingers

kissing mine

Sliding a finger along

a prickly strip of string

then a scrap of paper

lying flat and dry

nothing but words

that send love

list groceries

start wars


Exploring the ridged

wet craters of inside my mouth,

Next the damp stubble

of a nostril

Disgusting, says Mum

wash those hands!

The drowning sensation

of tepid water

the satiny surface of soap

the fuzzy tickle

of suds, tiny rising balloons

that wink, and in the

blink of an eye



just like that,

Fingers explore the furriness

of towel…


  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #4


Dianne says: I brain-stormed the topic before realising that the best way of
describing textures was to have a finger or fingers feeling them, hence this
finger exploring some things in a child’s world.



Poem of the Day


Easter Unwrapped!

by Monty Edwards


Easter’s not about a bunny ,

Nor the eggs in shops you’ll see

Wrapped in foil with shells of chocolate:

Mostly empty , you’ll agree.

Easter’s all about a Saviour:

One who died and rose again;

Paid a price to bring us freedom;

Lives for evermore to reign.


We can leave our guilt behind us.

Jesus bore it on his cross.

Start again, and grateful serve him,

Rescued from eternal loss.

Ours is wisdom to obey him:

He alone our rightful King;

This is lasting satisfaction

Chocolate eggs can never bring.

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #12

Poetry Prompt 11

Author comment: Amid today’s crass commercialism, the poem attempts to remind readers of Easter’s original meaning and significance which remain important to millions the world over.

Poem of the Day


Not Hot Cross Buns Again!

by Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti


At Easter Mum bakes special buns —

they’re warm and soft and sweet.

But with those piped white crosses

come some things this kid won’t eat.


The shiny glaze Mum brushes on,

I think is kind of icky.

It makes the buns look like they’re wet

and leaves my fingers sticky.


The shriveled-up sultanas

look like flies cooked in the dough.

I pick them out for our dog, Rex

(Shhhh.  Mummy doesn’t know!)


Those buns would be much nicer, too,

without mixed peel and spice.

If you ask me, next Easter,

hot cross doughnuts would be nice!


  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #12

Poetry Prompt 11



Poetry Prompt #12

1 Comment

Poetry Prompt 11


With Easter on the horizon, I thought it timely to use this special occasion as the poetry prompt for the week. Thanks to everyone who has already submitted poems inspired by these weekly creative challenges. I’m so impressed by what you are producing. Please keep your poems coming in. I love reading them. If you’ve missed a prompt, you can catch up any time. Send your poems to traffa-m@bigpond.net.au as a Word document attachment and add a personal note about why or how you chose to write this particular poem.

Happy writing!


Poem of the Day



Poetry Prompt #4 inspired Helen Hagemann to submit this selection of poems. Helen says: I have three grand-children under seven years of age (both parents work) and therefore I notice things like towels left on the floor! Also I like subjects that might possibly appeal to children.

The Subject Tonight is Towel

The subject tonight is towel

And from tomorrow night

And days after

Dad has no better topic

For us to discuss

Until we all

Hang up our towel

After showering.




Some people love walls.

They keep in yelping dogs,

But never cats or birds.

No one sees them talking at night

Yet walls do talk – to each other.

They compare positions, compositions.

Are they stone, cement or brick?

When they need our attention

They crumble for repair.

In winter a storm will blow them over.

Make gaps for geckos and hens.

Can you see the creatures scurrying

Passing two abreast?

Robert Frost loved walls, and said

They make good neighbours

Especially if they talked,

Had one’s garden trimmed,

Kept apple trees to one side

Pine cones to the other.


Do you love walls?





There are

So many leaves


Each hangs on a branch

In thousands of different ways

Your eyes will see differences


Infinite shapes: ovoid, needle

Heart-shaped, linear or pencil

You can draw them green in spring

Paint the tree from where they came

Crinkle a gum leaf for its scent


So many leaves

Unfolding and falling

Into your world







Poem of the Day


Am I a poet?

by Jenny Erlanger


Today we had to write a poem

and so I took the time

to think of all the words I could

that sound as if they rhyme.

The teacher said, “Don’t worry

finding special words to fit,”

then read us out a funny poem

that didn’t rhyme a bit.

So then I worked at trying to rid

the rhyming from my head,

to concentrate on verse

that didn’t rhyme at all instead.

At first I didn’t have a hope,

the rhymes kept coming back

but I tried really hard

and wrote the poem

you’re reading now,

but somehow

it just doesn’t

sound right.

  •  Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #5



Jenny says: Writing rhyming poetry has played such a big part of my life since childhood, that despite my own efforts to break out of the mold at times, I keep returning to it as a means of self-expression.