Category Archives: Poem of the Day

My Fingers by Dianne Bates

Leave a comment

My Fingers

 

My fingers

are going on an adventure

What fun

Exploring the world

Poking, prodding, whirling

Running

along a rough ridge

of timber freshly sawed –

watch those spikes!

Poking in a pudding

spongy soft with a skin

of smooth creamy custard,

raspy and rough

Holding hands with a friend

her fat, sticky fingers

kissing mine

Sliding a finger along

a prickly strip of string

then a scrap of paper

lying flat and dry

nothing but words

that send love

list groceries

start wars

 

Exploring the ridged

wet craters of inside my mouth,

Next the damp stubble

of a nostril

Disgusting, says Mum

wash those hands!

The drowning sensation

of tepid water

the satiny surface of soap

the fuzzy tickle

of suds, tiny rising balloons

that wink, and in the

blink of an eye

snap!

Vanish

just like that,

Fingers explore the furriness

of towel…

Dianne Bates

Dianne says: I brain-stormed the topic before realising that the best way of
describing textures was to have a finger or fingers feeling them, hence this
finger exploring some things in a child’s world.

 

 

Easter Unwrapped by Monty Edwards

Leave a comment

Easter Unwrapped!

 

Easter’s not about a bunny,

Nor the eggs in shops you’ll see

Wrapped in foil with shells of chocolate:

Mostly empty , you’ll agree.

Easter’s all about a Saviour:

One who died and rose again;

Paid a price to bring us freedom;

Lives for evermore to reign.

 

We can leave our guilt behind us.

Jesus bore it on his cross.

Start again, and grateful serve him,

Rescued from eternal loss.

Ours is wisdom to obey him:

He alone our rightful King;

This is lasting satisfaction

Chocolate eggs can never bring.

Monty Edwards

Monty said: Amid today’s crass commercialism, the poem attempts to remind readers of Easter’s original meaning and significance which remain important to millions the world over.

Not Hot Cross Buns Again!  by Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti

Leave a comment

Not Hot Cross Buns Again!

 

At Easter Mum bakes special buns —

they’re warm and soft and sweet.

But with those piped white crosses

come some things this kid won’t eat.

 

The shiny glaze Mum brushes on,

I think is kind of icky.

It makes the buns look like they’re wet

and leaves my fingers sticky.

 

The shriveled-up sultanas

look like flies cooked in the dough.

I pick them out for our dog, Rex

(Shhhh.  Mummy doesn’t know!)

 

Those buns would be much nicer, too,

without mixed peel and spice.

If you ask me, next Easter,

hot cross doughnuts would be nice!

 by Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti

 

 


The Subject Tonight is Towel, and other poems by Helen Hagemann

Leave a comment

The Subject Tonight is Towel

The subject tonight is towel

And from tomorrow night

And days after

Dad has no better topic

For us to discuss

Until we all

Hang up our towel

After showering.

 

Walls

Some people love walls.

They keep in yelping dogs,

But never cats or birds.

No one sees them talking at night

Yet walls do talk – to each other.

They compare positions, compositions.

Are they stone, cement or brick?

When they need our attention

They crumble for repair.

In winter a storm will blow them over.

Make gaps for geckos and hens.

Can you see the creatures scurrying

Passing two abreast?

Robert Frost loved walls, and said

They make good neighbours

Especially if they talked,

Had one’s garden trimmed,

Kept apple trees to one side

Pine cones to the other.

 

Do you love walls?

 

Leaves

There are

So many leaves

 

Each hangs on a branch

In thousands of different ways

Your eyes will see differences

 

Infinite shapes: ovoid, needle

Heart-shaped, linear or pencil

You can draw them green in spring

Paint the tree from where they came

Crinkle a gum leaf for its scent

 

So many leaves

Unfolding and falling

Into your world

 

Helen Hagemann

Helen says: I have three grand-children under seven years of age (both parents work) and therefore I notice things like towels left on the floor! Also I like subjects that might possibly appeal to children.

 

 

 

 

Am I a Poet? by Jenny Erlanger

Leave a comment

Am I a poet?

 

Today we had to write a poem

and so I took the time

to think of all the words I could

that sound as if they rhyme.

The teacher said, “Don’t worry

finding special words to fit,”

then read us out a funny poem

that didn’t rhyme a bit.

So then I worked at trying to rid

the rhyming from my head,

to concentrate on verse

that didn’t rhyme at all instead.

At first I didn’t have a hope,

the rhymes kept coming back

but I tried really hard

and wrote the poem

you’re reading now,

but somehow

it just doesn’t

sound right.

Jenny Erlanger

 Jenny says: Writing rhyming poetry has played such a big part of my life since childhood, that despite my own efforts to break out of the mold at times, I keep returning to it as a means of self-expression.

A Dotty Conversation by Melanie Hill

Leave a comment

A Dotty Conversation

 

I’m a dot.

No you’re not!

Yes I am.

Well, prove it.

I have curves.

You’ve got a nerve.

No I don’t.

Well, prove it.

See my shape.

Like a crepe?

That’s not round.

Yes it is.

Well, what are you?

I’m a spot.

No you’re not…

by Melanie Hill

Melanie says: The dots (or spots) reminded my of my children and how they are so similar but different. They also argue about everything and nothing, just like the dots (or spots).

M.Y.D.B. by Kate O’Neil

Leave a comment

M.Y.D.B.

 

I hate it when it happens

and I bet you hate it too.

You’re just walking on the footpath

and there’s dog-poo on your shoe.

 

And your friends say ’Phew!

I don’t want to sit with you

‘cause you just trod in dog-poo

and there’s dog-poo on your shoe.”

 

I know the dogs can’t help it.

Dogs just do what dogs just do.

But, owners, when you walk your dogs,

please collect the poo.

 

Kate said: “M.Y.D.B.” is to be ‘published’ as a laminated sign on the grassy footpath near a Bush-care site I work on. For obvious reasons.

My Secret Place by Monty Edwards

Leave a comment

My Secret Place

 

Where can I find a secret space:

A place that’s just for me,

Where I can go and no one know,

Or looking, fail to see?

 

There none will tell me what to do,

Nor doubt that what I say is true.

Captain I’ll be – without a crew,

There in my secret place!

 

Joys that I have, who then, will share?

Who’ll cheer me up, when life’s not fair?

Who, when I’m hurt, will quickly care,

There in my secret place?

 

Here’s my new plan for what to do:

Search for a secret space for two!

No secret place that’s just for one

Can have all I want to make it fun.

Monty Edwards

 Monty Said: Although time hidden away in private can be a welcome relief from people or situations, it has its drawbacks. I want readers young and old to recognise that we all need other people to truly enrich our lives and then take the initiative by being a friend to someone else.

 

 

Ho Kookaburra by Katherine Gallagher

Leave a comment

Ho Kookaburra

 

Ho Kookaburra

can’t sing a note –

 

all of his songs

get caught in his throat.

 

Ho Ho Ho Ho Ha Ha Ha,

it sounds easy but it’s not

 

as he scrapes and cackles, saws away,

it’s the only song he’s got.

 

It’s enough to make you laugh –

that’s the one thing he can do…

 

Try to copy him – Ho Ho Ho Ho

Ha Ha Ha Ha Ho Ho Ho Ho

 

Ha Ha Ha Ha Ho Ho Ho

 Katherine Gallagher

Katherine says: This is a fun poem when done in class as everyone joins in.

 

So Many Words by Pat Simmons

Leave a comment

So Many Words

 

In my head

Words are running around

Pushing and shoving

Trying to get out

Use me first

No, use me first.

 

That’s

Enough

I

Say

Please

Form

A

Nice

Orderly

Queue

Thank

You

Very

Much

 Pat Simmons