Lifted from a vat of boiling oil,
they’re tossed onto a paper base,
lightly sprinkled now with salt,
with vinegar as well,
my weekend special,
a take-home treat
delicious,
golden
chips.
Friday night special by Jenny Erlanger

Image by Pixabay
Specific poem formats
Lifted from a vat of boiling oil,
they’re tossed onto a paper base,
lightly sprinkled now with salt,
with vinegar as well,
my weekend special,
a take-home treat
delicious,
golden
chips.
Friday night special by Jenny Erlanger

Image by Pixabay
A beautiful tale
Hydrangeas and lush forests
Blue and green lakes lie.
Twin Lakes by Class 4L – Townsville Grammar School North Shore

Image from Pexels
Teacher’s note: After reading a folk story about the Twin Lakes in Azores, we composed this poem as a class.
The school yard is a pooches banquet
they rummage the playground for scraps
scuffs between feathers and fur
for a cold sausage roll
in wet paper wrap
a fritz sandwich
added cheese
means a
feast
After Lunch (Nonet) by Jeanie Axton

Image by Pexels
Autumn days draw in, moist and misty,
evening air, heavy with waiting.
Leaves, fragile as angel’s wings,
tremble, poised for release,
fluttering downward,
golden shimmers,
fiery red,
reaching
earth.

Image from Pixabay
Motionlessly, silently it tracks
the movements of a dragonfly
that hovers now in the reach
of a long, sticky tongue,
another victim
caught unawares
is conquered,
swallowed,
gone
Frog watch by Jenny Erlanger

Image by Pixabay
Galloping through the bush, brumbies run
Led by the strong silver stallion
Glistening coats after rain
Pounding hooves flicking mud
Seven in the herd
A sight to see
Manes flying
Wild and
Free
Brumbies by Linda Davidson

Image by Pexels
There once was a girl who ate chips
and anything else near her lips.
She soon grew so wide
from the junk food inside
that she caused a full solar eclipse!

Acrostic poems
Acrostics make me wary
’Cause they set too high a goal.
Restrictive rules are scary
Once they choose to take control.
So though I can supply one,
Thanks to books that feature these,
I’m not prepared to try one
’Cause I lack the expertise.
“Name the Game” by Monty Edwards is his 100th poem of the day since November 2015.
Congratulations and Thankyou for sharing your creativity with us.
My riddle is about a game, so see if you can guess its name.
Of course, I’ll give you many clues, but in the end, you’ll have to choose.
The game is played by day or night, but if at night you’ll need some light.
Play summer, winter, there’s no reason not to play in any season.
This game is played in many lands and players need to use their hands,
Although one hand would be enough, because this game’s not very rough.
It can’t be called a contact sport, and never needs a field or court.
So do not think you’ll use a ball, for that would not be right at all.
Out of doors or play inside – play wherever you decide.
Play in almost any place. This game doesn’t need much space.
Players always move in turn and there are other rules to learn.
There is no need to use your feet; that’s not the way that you compete.
This game does not have any aces, nor any Jacks with funny faces,
But players each have king and queen, while cards are nowhere to be seen!
Most find it best to share a table, but please make sure your table’s stable!
This rule must never be ignored, since you’ll place pieces on a board.
But boards are used in many a game: can you give my game a name?
Now since this riddle’s almost done, I’ll give a clue – another one:
The pieces number thirty two. Sixteen of them will be for you.
Another player has the rest and you two play to see who’s best!
Your pieces form a fighting force, though blood is never shed, of course
And though a kind of war you play, no-one is injured in the fray,
Since mostly you will think and plan, then make each move as best you can.
But win or lose or even draw, you’ll want to play this game some more.
It’s time for you to make your guess. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
This riddle’s answer must be . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
First, we hear on the horizon a low storm forming
– thunder rumble, roll and groan.
Lightning flashes inside fat storm clouds
– kssss, psssh, pppfffkkk, crack, sprack!
The wind starts whistling through the windows
– moaning oooooh oooooh OOOOOOH.
A wall of rain comes drumming, humming
– beating, tapping, pounding, lashing.
Tornado siren screams its warning
– wailing its deep screech of fear.
The twister yeets and hurls sharp objects
– hurtling, piercing, stabbing, wounding.
Missiles fire in all directions
– shooting, shelling, crashing, dashing.
Its funnel vacuums up the buildings
– whooshing, swooshing, sucking.
Playing with power lines like guitar strings
– twanging, plucking, snapping.
The noise is deafening
– thrashing, battering, skreeeeeeking.
Like fingernails on blackboards scratching
– like scraping sounds of forks on plates.
And just as suddenly, it vanishes
– debris is settling in the brush.
An eeriness descends, is it over?
– am I safe to go outside?
Huddled in the shelter listening
to the breathing and the pounding of our hearts.
The creak of the door as the shelter opens
– we witness silence, stillness, dread.