#Prompt 27 “Water”

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This week can you write about water?

Here is a picture prompt to get you started.

Please send in poems this week to




And todays inspiration is a poem by Toni Newell


The Love of Writing


Writing stimulates me,

In so many different ways,

It’s exciting and challenging,

I look forward to Mondays.

Another ‘prompt’ to think about,

Get creative juices flowing,

And then put pen to paper,

Write something that has meaning.

And hope that what I’ve written,

Will give somebody pleasure,

For I have shared part of myself,

Hope I stand up to the measure.


“Brain Fight” by Kesta Fleming


Brain Fight

I need to write a poem but I don’t know what to write.

I want to write a poem but my brain’s put up a fight.

I wonder if I trick it – if I lure it somewhere good –

It’ll let me write my poem. Boy, I really wish it would!

If I make a cosy spot for it with lots to keep it busy,

I can grab my pen and paper, and then write until I’m dizzy. But…

My brain is much too clever. It sees right through my plan.

It says ‘A poem’s good, it’s true, but let’s go visit Gran!’

And I say ‘Good idea!’ And I’m heading out the door

When I realise that old brain of mine has tricked me like before.

So I go inside and sit back down and try to start again.But

This brain of mine, this bane of mine, jacks up with all the strain.

It says ‘Not now, not here!’ It says ‘Not there, not then!’

It says ‘But you’ve got other jobs more pressing. Let’s do them!’

But I say, ‘Come on Brain Box. The other things can wait.

They’re little things, they’re easy things… A poem’s something great.’

Again my brain’s protesting: ‘A poem takes too long!

It’s tricky with that rhyme and stuff. I’ll get the rhythm wrong!’

And now we’re on to something: my brain is filled with fear.

So I coax it very gently and I tell it that I’m here.

I tell it that together we can get this poem done,

That even though it seems quite hard it might, in fact, be fun.

But still it kicks and screams a bit, and finds one more excuse.

So I chase it, and I pounce on it! Who let this brain run loose?!

And then at last I realise that this brain is mine to tame.

It’s mine to take control of. I can stop its silly game. So…

I shock it into action. Yes! I take it by surprise.

And here, before its noticed, is my poem!

That’s my prize.

“Writing” by Marque Dobrow

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I’m honing my craft, I’m writing new words,

Creating a poem the world hasn’t heard.

Astutely I’m thinking and taking my time

Concluding each stanza with eloquent rhyme.


I’m making a statement, declaring my voice,

Concocting a piece that will help me rejoice.

Proudly I write down these words with my pen

So that many may read them again and again.


I’m hopeful I’ll gain your attention today

As my thoughts are released in a whimsical way.

It won’t take me long to state my desire

My wrist is in motion, my dreams won’t expire.


In the morning I woke with fresh sounds in my ears

And needed to mould every noise I could hear.

Acutely aware of a wont to succeed,

Into the paper my ink had to bleed.


Each day is a chance to do something unique;

To rearrange letters and let your mind speak.

There’s nothing within here I need to defend,

With relief and contentment I welcome the end.

“I form letters” by Julie Cahill

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I form letters- round and tall
Some that are chubby and others small.
A is a ladder
B is two bumps
C is wide open
D is one lump.
Twenty-six make the alphabet
A lot to remember, a lot to forget.
Letters I’m able to rearrange
into simple words while others are strange.
Different words of various lengths
form sentences which make good sense.
Paragraphs form chapters; are short
making my stories easy to sort.
Writing words; composing prose
Is much more challenging than counting my toes.
But writing poems and essays and names
is superbly fun, like playing games.

“Recycled Water” by Celia Berrell

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We’re 10cc’s of water and

although the Earth’s our base

we recently went travelling

up there – in outer space.


An astronaut had drunk us

just before his rocket ride.

And so we were the stowaways

that hid in his insides.


Meeting different molecules

we made a lot of friends.

With some we only mingled

while with others we held hands.


While staying in the astronaut

we all kept nice and warm

and floated round inside him and

explored his body’s form.


Eventually he moved us out.

So off we raced in glee.

With other friends I think we were

all classified as pee.


We found ourselves inside a box

with membrane walls all new.

Its holes were just the perfect size

for water to get through.


We said goodbye to all our friends

as they were far too fat

to wriggle through those membrane walls

and join us for a chat.


Now squeaky clean we hung around

inside some holding pen.

Until we found ourselves inside

the astronaut again!


“The Farmyard” by Louise McCarthy

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Harriet Heaven-Sent of Eastern Australia,

Packed her bags with her paraphernalia.

She waved farewell as she boarded the bus,

While friends and relatives made quite a fuss.


She had made them proud. It was such a surprise,

The day that Harriet won the grand prize.

Harriet Heaven-Sent, a writer of stanza,

An artist, a wordsmith had won the bonanza!


Harriet Heaven-Sent had written a ode.

She’d won a year’s residency at “The Farmyard.”

The retreat that inspires the most beautiful writing,

A remote island paradise – so rare; so exciting…


And after a year of running the farm,

Where each dawn the rooster crowed with alarm,

And the sheep followed close and the goats liked to munch,

On Harriet’s washing, for dinner and lunch.


Where the donkey would bray when Harriet wrote,

He-haw! Hee-haw! Not a melodic note.

And as for the harmony, the horses and cows –

Succeeded in raising Harriet’s brows.


Well the list did go on, but there was no escape,

As a burly great bull was parked at the gate!

So Harriet Heaven-Sent stayed for the year.

After which time she changed her career.


Yes, Harriet Heaven-Sent – was returned to her home,

She was air-lifted out – the writer of poems.

And to the dismay of all whom she knew,

Became a farmer! – Yes this is true.


So each year a chopper drops in a bard

A writer of stanza, to work“The Farmyard.”

And no one knows why but each year’s the same,

The bard returns home with a whole different aim.