A Book

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A Book!

Book book, book book! exclaimed the hen.

Really!  I replied.

Book book, book book, she clucked again.

Book book, book book, she sighed.

A book, a book – I understand.

A book, a book – but what?

Book book, book book, book book, book book

Book book, book book, Book bok…

A book, a book – I’ll have a look.

I’ll see what I can find.

A book, a book – a classic  book,

This book, you will not mind.

So we sat under the claret ash with a book; the hen and me.

And I read till it was almost dark.

Then we went inside for tea.


By Louise McCarthy


A bit of fun! I love chooks. They are very entertaining to watch and listen to.




The Wizard Comb: A Poem from a Polish Poet

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The Wizard Comb

Hidden under the books, surrounded by pens.

White-but he has a soul of gold in a sense

He wants to fly away from the table.

Maybe then the world would be…

more wonderful.

My once favourite subject of play… with a doll;

Now broken and abandoned under the wall.

He was replaced by a NEW,

much bigger and colourful too.

I tell him of sorrows and fears.

He consoles me, wiping away all my tears,

and brings all the children sweet dreams…

Anna Banasiak

Anna is a poet and literary critic. Her poems have been published in New York, London, Surrey, Australia, Canada, India, Africa, Japan, Israel. She lives in Lodz, Poland.

The way to be


The way to be


Choose a comfy place to lie

beside your favourite tree.

Cast your eyes up to the sky

and cut your thinking free.

Watch the clouds that quietly drift

across a sheet of blue.

Savour this tremendous gift

from Nature straight to you.


Pay no heed to thought balloons,

release them one by one.

Fill your head instead with tunes

awakened by the sun –

chortles, whistles, trills and tweets,

a magpie’s sweet refrain,

Nature’s songs, melodic treats

to soothe a busy brain.


Feel the brush of breeze on skin

of gentle sun on face.

Shut your eyes and bask within

this moment’s soft embrace.

Relish feeling truly blessed,

relax beside your tree.

Give your mind a chance to rest.

It’s time to simply be.


Jenny Erlanger


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I saw a frog in the bathroom last night

It seemed to be staring right at me in fright

big toilet roll eyes on a porcelain face

just stared up at me with a look of disgrace

did not say a word, but he sat there and frowned

as though disapproving, did not make a sound.

I pressed on his nose as he stared with distrust,

and water gushed out as the toilet bowl flushed.

I wonder if I’ll ever see him again?

I wonder if next time he might bring a friend?

© Allan Cropper

The Jungle’s Chooky Robin Hood 

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The Jungle’s Chooky Robin Hood


You have to love those scrub-fowl chooks

seen scratching in the forest’s nooks.

Like Robin and his Merry Men

they roam the jungle, cock and hen.

They’re dressed in dowdy blue and brown

while orange legs are bright low down.

And if you spot one, notice that

it wears a quiff-like Sherwood hat!


They build big nests of forest leaves;

communal giant compost heaps

to bury eggs and keep them warm

and hide them from the jungle’s harm.

And in the process, make a mess

of scattered leaves, continuous

that cover paths and walking trails

initiating human wails.


But most of all I love their calls

that echo through the wooded halls.

To some, it sounds like strangled kids

that shriek for help before they’re missed.

But night and day, their yodelling

is interspersed with chuckling

that signifies they’re happy chooks

despite their rather funny looks.



While I was living in the Daintree Rainforest, I loved hearing the calls of the Orange-footed scrub fowl, chortling and chuckling, squawking and shouting.  Keeping the quaint paths to the guest cabins safe and tidy was a constant job for resort staff as these native chooks make a terrible mess, flicking leaves everywhere.  But they always seem so happy!


by Celia Berrell


Swerving Irving

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Swerving Irving


Irving McDrane can fly a plane;

He flies it up and down again.

He flies by night, he flies by day,

Upside down or up the right way.


He loops the loop and barrel rolls,

Through the air he twists and scrolls,

Across the sky with great panache …

Look out, Irving — you’re going to crash!






Irving McDrane can’t fly a plane;

Now he goes everywhere by train.





                                      James Aitchison


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When people say: “Spring’s late this year!”

They must be wrong – that’s seems quite clear.

It always starts on one firm date,

So cannot possibly be late!

At school I’m sure that we rehearsed

That Spring begins September 1st.

If every year that does not change,

To say: “Spring’s late”, seems very strange.


But if you’re north of the equator,

Spring for you is six months later.

That would mean you are not here,

But in the other hemisphere.

September there’s not Spring at all:

It starts their Autumn or their Fall,

When trees’ green leaves may turn to brown

And from above come floating down.


Should someone say that Spring is late,

I do not start some great debate

And tell them what I learnt at school

And treat them like a silly fool,

Since change, for seasons, can be slow.

It’s warmth they want: their plants to grow,

Their flowers to bud and birds to sing.

Till that time comes, it won’t seem Spring.


Monty Edwards