Water Droplets by Celia Berrell

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Where liquid water meets the air
it has a surface tension.
An outer layer of molecules
that all have strong attraction.

Water droplets round in shape
like beads will often form,
hanging on a cobweb’s threads
like jewels in the dawn.

And on a pond small insects simply
walk along its top.
Their tiny feet don’t break that layer.
Along the top they hop.

A raindrop on a window-pane
will slide towards the ground
as water is a fluid that
can easily move round.

It leaves behind a trailing tail
as it goes trickling past
because that surface tension makes
it stick upon the glass.

I like to pick out two big drops
and guess their moving pace
to see which one will trickle first
and win the window race.

Poem from The Science Rhymes Book. Illustration by Amy Sheehan

Music To My Ear by Toni Newell

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I woke up to a sound
Beating in my head
An imaginary tune
Which trumpets led.

I did not recognise
What vibrated in my ear
But moved instinctively
In pleasure it was clear.

A mist came over me
Like I was in a dream
Music became louder
Or so it seemed.

Guitars took the stage
A melody subdued
In this euphoria
I felt totally attuned.

The beat continued on
I embraced the melody
It took me to a special place
One that I could only see.

Photo from Pexels by Tim Mossholder

desiree at the opera by Marcus Ten Low

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o boy, could that fat lady sing!
she sung a very special aria!

we didn’t know that she could wing
that complicated song, and look the star-ia!

but with her front teeth (and I sorely quote)
’twas rather she would whistle every note

so shrilly to the rafters of the hall,
it seemed her voice could magically enthrall,

o heavens above, it was not over
in this operatic swift manoeuvre

till the fat lady did whistle, or just sing!
but if it was a whistle, it was shrill,

and if a song, some sort of highland fling!
whatever it was, it was quite the thrill!

Mountain Morning by James Aitchison

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The morning mist lingers,

doesn’t want to go.

The air crackles,

overnight was zero.

I’ve stoked the fire,

boiled the tea,

a long cold day

awaits me.

What Am I? by James Aitchison

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Am I a cathedral —

or something finer?

Maybe a palace,

or an ocean liner?

Am I a museum,

studded with gold?

A famous art gallery

with pictures old?

The fact is, I’m nothing

much of a sensation.

I’m just the local

railway station!

(Teacher’s note: Kecskemet —pronounced KETCH-kem-ayt — is the eighth largest city in Hungary. It is located at the north of the Hungarian South Great Plain. In January, temperatures drop below zero; in July they average 22 degrees Celsius. The famous composer Zoltan Kodaly was born here. In the years under Communist rule, many public places such as railway stations were decorated to inspire awe and express the power of the State.)

Mother’s Days by P.J. Rodriguez

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Why do mothers have one date
on which we choose to celebrate
the love we feel for all they share;
for all their work; how much they care?

Throughout the year – on other days –
must we store our pride and praise?
Should we save our hugs and thanks
in special Honour Mother banks?

Are we meant to leave love locked
inside a vault, our feelings blocked,
until that Thanks Mum! payday nears,
rewarding Mother’s sweat and tears?

Mothers toil, protect, and nourish,
every day, to help us flourish.
Spoil your mum on Mother’s Day …
and All Year Round, in every way.

PJ Rodriguez

Archer by Toni Newell

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Archer is not an angel
But he is my pride and joy
He’s not always obedient
But loves to play with a toy.

It doesn’t matter what it is
As long as it is thrown
As he just loves to catch it
On his very own.

He can chase it endlessly
Even when he’s puffed
But he won’t give up easily
Until he’s totally stuffed.

Archer is not an angel
But he is an angel to me
He represents all that’s good
Innocence and humility.

Umbrella by Marcus Ten Low

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i have such a big umbrella,
but i’m such a little fella.

i look a treat with my galoshes,
a splish and splash and silly sploshes,

shielded from so many showers,
walking among rain-speckled flowers,

and now the wind blows through my hair,
blowing my brolly when i’m unaware

and turning it inside-out!
god of the skies, oh what a clout!

my poor brolly rolls end on end
that i’m sooooo wet…condemned!

o silly golly gosh, you brolly!
how you make me mad and yet…so jolly!…

Secret Steps by James Aitchison

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I wonder where they come from,

I wonder where they go,

I wonder who might use them,

as they hurry to and fro.

Is a ghost abroad at night?

Does it haunt this secret place?

I can hear its shuffling feet,

but I cannot see its face!

So ancient are these steps,

So stony cold and bare,

In the heart of old Vienna,

By a bleak and wintry square. 

The Brussel Sprout by Jeanie Axton

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I do not like Brussel sprouts

No no, not at all

One there sitting on my plate

Was it ready for a brawl?

My plan of thoughtful attack

Let it go straight down my snout

Swallow that green ball whole

Yes, Ive worked it out 

But Alas, this did not occur

putting me in quite a state

Coughing hard it flew right out

Landing on my sisters plate

My sister she was horrified

Mum was raving mad

I sat and widely grinned

Announcing “ Sorry, Mum my bad!” 

Not one has passed my lips since then

Those green and slimy sprouts

From that day until presently 

I’m happy to do without.