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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

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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

 

 

 

 

 

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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

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #16

(first published in The Unidentified Flying Omelette, ed. Andrew Fusek Peters, Hodder & Stoughton)

 

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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

 

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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
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #22

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

 

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

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #22

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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
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #20

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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Retractable Teeth

 

Imagine, my friend…if you please, if you will…

That teeth were attached to your gums with great skill

By elastic – retractable, spit-proof and strong –

So that when they were wobbly, they’d not wobble long…

That the mean, ancient aunt who with glee and guffaw

Recommends that you tie your poor tooth to the door

With some cotton, then slams that old door with a bang!

Would faint dead away as your tooth, with a twang,

Zoomed back to your mouth in its boomerang way

Ready to chomp, munch and gobble all day.

 

Imagine, my friend… if you will, if you please…

That your teeth could extend down as far as your knees.

You could sit at the table with very straight back

Crunching secret supplies that were down in your lap.

And your mum, for whom manners at table are utmost,

Has cooked, let’s imagine, a nice, healthy nut-roast,

With no earthly clue that her child, yes, that’s you…

Is secretly eating the worst kind of goo.

The sugar, the colour, the taste, oh so yummy!

Is chomped in your lap, then transferred to your tummy.

 

 

Imagine, my friend… if you please, one last time…

That your teeth – so retractable, yes, so sublime –

Were immune, nay impervious, to plaque and to grot

And were teeth, everlasting, that just couldn’t rot,

So that if you ate junk, and let’s face it, you would,

Your teeth would stay healthy; your breath would stay good.

And your dentist, with beam fit to light up her clinic

Would trumpet your praise: ‘The example to mimic!’

Wouldn’t you grin at your photo beneath

Her new dentistry ad for Retractable Teeth?

 

Kesta Fleming