Writing
Writing represents to me
Reflections on paper,
Inspirations shared,
Tremendous satisfaction,
Intersecting thoughts,
Noting concepts with order,
Giving form to random ideas
Category Archives: Poem of the Day
“Writing” by Marques
Leave a commentI’m honing my craft, I’m writing new words,
Creating a poem the world hasn’t heard.
Astutely I’m thinking and taking my time
Concluding each stanza with eloquent rhyme.
I’m making a statement, declaring my voice,
Concocting a piece that will help me rejoice.
Proudly I write down these words with my pen
So that many may read them again and again.
I’m hopeful I’ll gain your attention today
As my thoughts are released in a whimsical way.
It won’t take me long to state my desire
My wrist is in motion, my dreams won’t expire.
In the morning I woke with fresh sounds in my ears
And needed to mould every noise I could hear.
Acutely aware of a wont to succeed,
Into the paper my ink had to bleed.
Each day is a chance to do something unique;
To rearrange letters and let your mind speak.
There’s nothing within here I need to defend,
With relief and contentment I welcome the end.
“I form letters” by Julie Cahill
Leave a commentI form letters- round and tall
Some that are chubby and others small.
A is a ladder
B is two bumps
C is wide open
D is one lump.
Twenty-six make the alphabet
A lot to remember, a lot to forget.
Letters I’m able to rearrange
into simple words while others are strange.
Different words of various lengths
form sentences which make good sense.
Paragraphs form chapters; are short
making my stories easy to sort.
Writing words; composing prose
Is much more challenging than counting my toes.
But writing poems and essays and names
is superbly fun, like playing games.
“Recycled Water” by Celia Berrell
1 Comment
We’re 10cc’s of water and
although the Earth’s our base
we recently went travelling
up there – in outer space.
An astronaut had drunk us
just before his rocket ride.
And so we were the stowaways
that hid in his insides.
Meeting different molecules
we made a lot of friends.
With some we only mingled
while with others we held hands.
While staying in the astronaut
we all kept nice and warm
and floated round inside him and
explored his body’s form.
Eventually he moved us out.
So off we raced in glee.
With other friends I think we were
all classified as pee.
We found ourselves inside a box
with membrane walls all new.
Its holes were just the perfect size
for water to get through.
We said goodbye to all our friends
as they were far too fat
to wriggle through those membrane walls
and join us for a chat.
Now squeaky clean we hung around
inside some holding pen.
Until we found ourselves inside
the astronaut again!
“The Farmyard” by Louise McCarthy
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Harriet Heaven-Sent of Eastern Australia,
Packed her bags with her paraphernalia.
She waved farewell as she boarded the bus,
While friends and relatives made quite a fuss.
She had made them proud. It was such a surprise,
The day that Harriet won the grand prize.
Harriet Heaven-Sent, a writer of stanza,
An artist, a wordsmith had won the bonanza!
Harriet Heaven-Sent had written a ode.
She’d won a year’s residency at “The Farmyard.”
The retreat that inspires the most beautiful writing,
A remote island paradise – so rare; so exciting…
And after a year of running the farm,
Where each dawn the rooster crowed with alarm,
And the sheep followed close and the goats liked to munch,
On Harriet’s washing, for dinner and lunch.
Where the donkey would bray when Harriet wrote,
He-haw! Hee-haw! Not a melodic note.
And as for the harmony, the horses and cows –
Succeeded in raising Harriet’s brows.
Well the list did go on, but there was no escape,
As a burly great bull was parked at the gate!
So Harriet Heaven-Sent stayed for the year.
After which time she changed her career.
Yes, Harriet Heaven-Sent – was returned to her home,
She was air-lifted out – the writer of poems.
And to the dismay of all whom she knew,
Became a farmer! – Yes this is true.
So each year a chopper drops in a bard
A writer of stanza, to work“The Farmyard.”
And no one knows why but each year’s the same,
The bard returns home with a whole different aim.
