The Competition by Karen Hendriks

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The Competition

One day when you least expect to succeed.

Be brave enough to have a go.

With rocks weighing down your chest,

and bile in your throat.

They think you can’t do it.

They wait to laugh,

because they think you’ll fail.

Take a deep breath and dig in deep.

Don’t let the mind speak stop you.

 

Your skin is pale and clammy,

your eyes blink in the blinding light,

you’re feeling overwhelmed

by the thunderous clapping and pressure to perform.

Your nauseous tummy rolls,

you suck in some air.

You’re feeling quite unwell.

As the camera pans in close,

you know you’ve got this.

 

For after twenty meat pies

You’ve won.

Karen Hendriks

Splodge by Margaret Pearce

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SPLODGE

Splodge was a kitten who was all alone,

Without a family and without a home.

 

Everyone said as they kicked him away

‘No one ever wants a skinny little stray.’

 

Splodge was sad because they were right,

A skinny little stray is not a welcome sight.

 

To find a nice home as a cute little cat

It was important to eat and get very fat.

 

He hunted birds with a gleam in his eye,

But alas poor Splodge never learned to fly.

 

He searched the garbage for something to munch,

But the alley cats had eaten everything for lunch.

 

The fishes in the pond looked yummy to eat,

But Splodge only caught four very wet feet.

 

He shook and shivered in a dreadful storm

And dreamed of being well fed and warm.

 

The rain kept dripping on his poor wet head,

And deep was the puddle of his very cold bed.

 

He climbed into a nest big enough for a cat,

Welcomed by two ravens as tasty drowned rat.

 

Splodge escaped by dropping to the ground,

Cats eat birds, not the other way around.

 

He sneaked into a kennel, just until he dried,

Along came a dog and bit him till he cried.

 

Searching for a home, Splodge begged at every door,

Up and over back fences until his paws were sore.

 

But everyone said as they kicked him away

‘No one ever wants a skinny little stray.’

 

One special day, a gentle voice said,

‘Be welcome, Puss. Come and get fed.’

 

Splodge was very scared and turned to run,

‘Do stay,’ begged the voice. ‘Cats are such fun.’

 

When he was offered a large bowl of meat,

Splodge remembered how he loved to eat.

 

He was so hungry that he gobbled and gobbled,

He ate and ate until his tummy wobbled.

 

He groomed his whiskers and washed his face,

And kept on eating at a much slower pace.

 

Splodge now has a home to call his own,

And someone to love so he’s no longer alone.

 

Contented at last and now very fat,

Splodge is the cat that sits on the mat.

Margaret Pearce

Iggy by Pat Simmons

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Iggy

An impressive, aggressive iguana

while eating his breakfast banana

slipped on the skin

went into a spin

and ended up flying to Ghana.

Pat Simmons

 

 

 

 

 

Tanka by Katherine Gallagher

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Tanka

 

Last night, the full moon

hung like a papery lamp

over my quiet road.

I savoured the chilly sky –

the moon tagging my shadow.

Katherine Gallagher

    First published in The Unidentified Flying Omelette, ed. Andrew Fusek Peters, Hodder & Stoughton

     

    Fear by Vanda Lockyer

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    Fear

    Night skies flash

    Windows groan

    Parents clash

    Dinosaurs roam

     

    Shadows hover

    Bear held tight

    Under the covers

    A fearful night

    Vanda Lockyer

     

    Too Late for Chocolate? by Celia Berrell

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    Too Late for Chocolate?

     

    It’s best to say YES to sensible food.

    Eat all our veggies

    with meat well chewed.

     

    It’s best to say YES to exercise.

    It helps keep us fit

    and also wise.

     

    It’s best to say YES to a good night’s sleep.

    With eight to ten hours

    of dreaming deep.

     

    BUT

    It’s hard to say NO to late TV shows

    with popcorn or ice-cream

    or marshmallows.

     

    SO …

    You wouldn’t say YES, if handed a plate

    of yummy baked cakes

    or some sweet chocolate …

    would you?

    Celia Berrell

    Celia said: When we’re tired, we are more likely to give in to temptations.  Well that’s my excuse.  What’s yours?

    Self-controlled people have better lives – but for the rest, lack of willpower is more like physical fatigue than moral failure, says Roy F. Baumeister, professor of social psychology at Florida State University.

     

    Y-E-S! by JR Poulter

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    A Plea for Green by Jaz Stutley

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    A Plea for Green

     

    Green are the hills for children:

    a sunlit place of grasses,

    dandelions and daisies;

     

    as green as an apple, a fig,

    an unripe fruit; the green

    of memory and melody,

     

    the scrubby bushy slopes

    for exploration; tall trees

    to climb, parks to run through.

     

    Screens are not green

    or sunlit; the blue wild

    winds do not blow there –

     

    a static buzz bends

    the mind in dark rooms.

    This is my plea for green.

     

    Jaz Stutley

    Dinner Time Rhyme by Monty Edwards

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    Dinner Time Rhyme

     

    Did you hear how little Miss Muffet

    Sat down to eat some food on a tuffet?

    Her curds and whey were soft and wet

    (These curds and whey are what you get

    When using milk for making cheese,

    So do not look for them on trees).

     

    If you went out tonight to eat

    Instead you’d likely have a seat

    And choose a favourite food or two

    And wait till it was served to you,

    Or from the buffet eat your fill,

    But not so much it made you ill.

     

    Now should Miss Muffet too turn up

    With curds and whey in bowl or cup

    And say: “This buffet’s not for me,

    Try this, it’s better, you’ll agree.”

    Here’s what I suggest you say:

    “Let’s go and get some takeaway.”

    Monty Edwards

    Monty says: “A buffet dinner celebration with family a few months back came to mind with the prompt. This got me thinking about how confusing a child might find the pronunciation of “buffet”, having been exposed at some point to little Miss Muffet, let alone what she ate, so I decided to explore both in this simple poem.”

     

    An Irish Archway by James Aitchison

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