Poem of the Day

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We Wish You a Merry Birthday

 

My name is Noelle and I’m sorry to say

that I was born on Christmas Day,

after the presents but before the singing

(nonsense about sleigh bells ringing).

My father claimed he’d had a hunch

that I’d be born right after lunch

and so it was: Mum gave a shout!

Pudding went in, I popped out.

I wish, I wish, I really do

she’d held on for a week or two.

Each year I share my special day

with that festering, festive holiday.

Instead of balloons I get baubles.

My head aches as my family warbles

Christmas carols all day long—

I never get a birthday song

and though each year I get a cake

it’s always fruit, for goodness sake.

I always thought it couldn’t be worse

than a birthday with a tinsel curse

till my sister made my birthday cool—

she was born an April fool.

Jessica Nelson

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #49
    poetry-prompt-48Jessica said: I was guilty of having a baby on Christmas Day last year, and I’ve been filled in on the potential downsides of a birthday overshadowed by Christmas. I hope she always finds her birthday special, and I’ll be sure to sing her Happy Birthday every year.

 

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The Christmas Garden

 

Right across from my house is a garden sublime,

where it looks like it’s Christmas there all of the time.

There are several old pine trees all bushy and green,

with the largest brown pine cones that you’ve ever seen.

There’s a seat on the lawn that just looks like a sleigh,

simply waiting for reindeer to pull it away.

There are statues of angels turned up to the sky,

sculptured wings all out ready to fly, oh so high.

And then peeking round flowers quite pleased with themselves

are some colourful gnomes that could pass for the elves.

Now this garden belongs to a fellow called Dawes,

who looks very much like, the real Santa Claus.

He is jolly and round, with a beard snowy white

and he works in his workshop late into the night.

Each December he puts on a Christmas display,

that brings people to visit from far and away.

On the pine trees are baubles and lights that all shine.

There is tinsel, and snowflakes and gold stars divine.

Harnessed up to the sleigh stands a proud reindeer team,

with big Rudolph out front – his red nose all a-gleam.

All the angels now stand singing carols and hymns,

while the elves wear red hats each with festive white trims.

Now lean over close and I’ll whisper to you

a secret that’s known but to only a few.

A tale so amazing you may not believe

that magic takes place there on each Christmas Eve.

When darkness has fallen and shadows are deep,

the elves and the reindeer awake from their sleep.

All the angels fly over the sleigh sprinkling gold

and transform the old seat to a sight to behold.

A sack is now filled to the brim with bright toys,

for kind little girls and good little boys.

Mister Dawes dressed in red, then strides out to his sleigh,

quickly takes up the reins and flies quietly away.

It is just as the sun starts to rise Christmas morn,

that the reindeer fly quietly back onto the lawn.

In the instant they land things are back how they were,

All except for old Dawes, who is still dressed in fur.

As he’s done every year for a very long while,

He now looks to my window and gives me a smile.

I then nod and I wave as I sit there relieved,

again pleased that in magic, I’ve always believed.

Caroline Tuohey
  • Submitted in response to poetry prompt #49

poetry-prompt-48

Caroline said: This poem was inspired by the garden of my mum’s friend Sue – she loves Christmas and each year, when I was a child, we’d visit her in the lead up to Christmas Day.  Her house and garden were always full of beautiful decorations and it seemed a totally magical place – as close to the real Santa’s house and garden as you could get.

 

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Last night

Last night I saw something that

I’d never seen before.

This something that I’d never seen

was right outside my door.

 

It made me gasp aloud with shock

the moment that I saw it.

The something was so big and red

I couldn’t dare ignore it.

 

I quickly jumped out of my bed,

tip-toed across the floor.

I had to know about this thing

I hadn’t seen before.

 

As soon as I crept close to it

my heart began to race.

I saw the thing was not a thing

because it had a face!

 

My body shook from head to toe,

my mind was full of fear.

There was someone that I’d never seen

and he was very near.

 

I stared in shock at his red coat,

his boots of blackest black.

I saw the pompom on his hat,

the bulging big red sack.

 

And then I had to laugh out loud.

You know why, I’m sure.

That someone was not scary at all.

It was Santa that I saw.

Kristin Martin
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #49

poetry-prompt-48

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The Visit

Cautiously, creeping down the stairs,

carefully avoiding the creaks,

we stop

and take each other’s hand.

At the bottom we tiptoe,

trembling,

towards the door.

Almost afraid to breathe

we slowly, gently, push it open.

Beneath the twinkling lights

sit the gifts.

‘He’s been,’ we whisper

‘He’s been.’

Pat Simmons

(Published 2014 by Celapene Press, Short and Twisted and Thynks Publications Bards at Blidworth and Beyond Anthology)

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #49

poetry-prompt-48

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Buccaneer Secrets

 

When Spanish ships were making trips

To trade and gather treasure,

Crews learned to fear the buccaneer,

Whose boldness knew no measure.

 

I should be clear, a buccaneer

Was tough and rough and ruthless

He’d climb aboard and use his sword

Or make his victims toothless.

 

Then, grabbing loot, he’d quickly scoot

Before someone could catch him.

He’d sail away to find more prey;

For daring, few could match him!

 

But now, today, I need to say

(Though sworn to keep it quiet):

He won’t attack if there’s a lack

Of fibre in his diet!

 

For I have heard, (it sounds absurd),

He craves a balanced meal,

Including beans and other greens

Before he’ll sail to steal.

 

Don’t think me wrong. I’ve heard the song

When buccaneers assemble.

They drop their ‘g’s, which does not please,

But these words make me tremble:

 

“Now bring your bunch of broccoli, boys

And throw it in the basin.

We’ll eat it raw and call for more

Then ships we’ll go a-chasin’!”

 

Monty Edwards
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #29

Poetry Prompt #29

Monty says: I began by researching  buccaneers to introduce the poem, then made a first draft of their song about broccoli, which led to the thoughts about fibre and a balanced diet. The concluding verses had to be revised to accommodate the basin and justify the final rhyme.

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A Jar of Pickles

 

I had a jar of pickles,

but they were very fickle.

I had to go in for a quick kill,

but couldn’t get them out

without a fierce rout.

Firmly wedged inside the jar

they wouldn’t budge a bar

until I tried a tickle

then out they poured in a trickle

that fickle jar of pickles.

Vanessa Proctor
  •  Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #32

poetry prompt #32

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Dogs

 

Some dogs are scary.
You have to be wary.

Some dogs are fat.
They could squash you flat.

Some dogs are tiny
and yappy and whiny.

Some dogs are old
and can’t do what they’re told.

Some dogs are jumpy.
They make me feel grumpy.

Some dogs are fast.
I just watch them run past.

Some dogs are busy
and rush round till they’re dizzy.

But my dog is great.
She’s my very best mate.

Kristin Martin

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The bigger picture

 

The wavelet had frolicked for hours that day

with no cause at all to be wary

when met by a vision just metres away

so dire and so terribly scary.

 

A larger wave surging from somewhere behind

could sense little wave’s consternation.

It said, “You look anxious and if you don’t mind

let’s pause for a brief conversation”

 

“But look at that beach and you’ll see what’s in store,”

said little wave, helplessly crying.

“Those waves up ahead have all crashed on the shore.

I tell you, we waves are all dying!”

 

The little wave quivered in utter despair.

“I’m frightened to death,” it persisted .

“I know I’ll expire on that sand over there

with nothing to show I existed.”

 

“Relax”, said the larger wave, “go with the flow,

there’s no need for all this commotion.

You’re not a forgettable ripple, you know…

you’re part of a beautiful ocean.

 

Jenny Erlanger

Jenny said: This poem is based on a tale told by  Morrie Schwartz in the book, “Tuesdays with Morrie” by Mitch Albom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Haughty cuisine

 

Our special today is the ostrich mornay

on a bed of wild Spanish weeds,

drizzled with slivers of slow-roasted livers

and garnished with shaved parsley seeds.

 

Served on the side is an elephant hide

in a parcel of puffed pastry wings,

sprinkled with dew from the mists of Peru

and finished with seared apron strings.

 

What’s that you say? You don’t like mornay?

And you’ll pass on the shaved parsley seeds?

Can it be true that you’re not keen on dew?

And you’ve never thought fondly weeds?

 

Do we have WHAT? No, I’m sure we do not

Have a single sausage or chip.

But I suppose we could grill a beef tube from Brazil

served with French strings and ocean-salt dip.

 

Jill McDougall
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #45

poetry-prompt-45

 

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Sharing the Secret

Psst. Listen to this, Sis!

I’m going to whisper in your ear,

Because I don’t want Dad to hear.

This secret’s just come straight from Mum:

She’s got a baby in her tum!

No one must know, but you and me

And Mum, of course, but just we three.

I said to Mum I wouldn’t tell,

So you must promise me as well,

Then when Dad hears the baby’s cries,

He’s going to get a huge surprise!

 

Monty Edwards
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #48

prompt-48

Monty says: Children find secrets so exciting, they do find it hard not to share them.