An Easter egg hunt,

Children searching for eggs

Rummaging in the garden,

Out in the fresh air,

Screams of excitement,

Together with laughter

Infectious, encouraging

Children happy and gay.

Good Morning,

This fortnight we are looking at Acrostic Poetry. This is a form of poetry often taught in schools.

Below is a description and a simple example.

As we head towards Easter perhaps you could write about Easter themes?

Send your poems into

poemoftheday.jaxton@gmail.com

Regards

Jeanie

“The creative adult is the child who survived.” — Ursula Leguin

(Best known for her tales of Science Fiction and Fantasy)

A silver trail was left behind

It shimmered in the sun

No sign of its maker,

Only a clue.

I curiously followed the trail,

Before me was an agapanthus,

Bearing beautiful umbels of blue

And succulent long green leaves.

I parted them in search of

The mysterious creator.

Deep within the plant I found,

Asleep and securely attached,

A snail,

The architect of the silver trail.

Once upon a time in a used car yard,

There was a Mazda named Henry,

His duco was bright red,

Which bore several scars 

Incurred by previous owners.

Henry was sad because

He’d been there for several months,

And had lost many friends over time.

Two silver Nissans were parked on either side,

One was called Fred and the other Mary,

Henry had made their acquaintance,

He seemed to get on with them well,

His only fear, that they too would leave.

Henry desperately wanted to find a new home

With a family who’d love and care for him.

Every morning he would wake up

With the hope he would be the chosen one,

Every night he’d fall asleep disappointed.

This particular morning, Henry spotted

A nice young couple approaching the yard,

He honked his horn in order to get their attention,

“You know you’re not allowed to do that,” said Fred

But Mary said, “It’s alright Fred, they’ll see us too,

Who would you choose if it was you? 

A red car with scratches or a car almost new?”

Henry’s eyes lowered; he knew it was true.

The couple ventured over and looked at Mary,

Then bypassed Henry to inspect Fred,

But much to Mary and Fred’s extreme dread,

They paused at Henry whose duco was red.

They stroked his panels and tapped his bonnet,

This little Mazda was within their budget.

Half an hour later they appeared again,

With a smile on their face and keys in a hand,

Henry was so happy he could hardly contain,

The excitement he felt to be owned once again.

I carried a tree

through the Underground. 

It was hard. At first,

people scarcely noticed me

and the oak I was lugging​

along the platforms –

heavier than a suitcase

and difficult to balance.

We threaded through corridors, 

changing lines: up and down stairs,

escalators, and for a moment

I imagined everyone on the planet

taking turns 

to carry a tree as daily rite.

A few people asked

Why a tree?

I said it was for my own

edification – 

a tree always

has something to teach.

Sharp gusts

whirred through the corridors

rustling the branches

as I hurried on

past the sweepers

picking up rubbish, scraps of paper.

Be sure to take the tree

with you, they said.

Don’t worry, I’m taking it

to my garden,

the start of a forest.

When people stared,

Relax, I said, 

it‘s a tree, not a gun.

​©Katherine Gallagher

The Year of the Tree was chosen by Carol Rumens for the ‘Poem of the Week’ Guardian blog in November, 2012

Published in Carnival Edge: New & Selected Poems (Arc Publications, 2010)

How can I write

a poem that won’t rhyme?

Aren’t poems meant

To rhyme all the time?

If words don’t rhyme,

is it still a poem?

On second thoughts —

My job’d be easy!