Category Archives: Poem of the Day

Poem of the Day

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It’s a Long Way to the Top When You are Born a Snail!

by Stephen Whiteside

 

It’s hard to rock and roll a lot

When you are born a snail.

My goo connects me to this spot.

I know it looks a bit like snot,

But lose it, and I fail.

I’d like to twist and jump and leap.

Alas, it’s not my thing.

All I ever do is creep.

I’ll handle inclines very steep,

But don’t ask me to sing!

I cannot hold a microphone,

Or handle a guitar.

Speakers, amps, I do not own.

I’m happy munching on my own.

I’ll never be a star.

But if it ever gets too loud,

You yearn for breaking free

From all that rock and rolling crowd,

Remember me, for I’m not proud.

Yes, come and talk to me.

© Stephen Whiteside 05.12.2015

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5

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Consider the snail
On slipper-less feet
Armour-laden with spiral shell
Slowly sliding
Through this jungle
Of green night

Anonymous

  • Submitted in response to Words + Pictures #5

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BUTTERFLY MOTHER

by Di Bates

Dancing the tune of the breeze
She lifts her coat sleeves –
And freezes as if in prayer
To breed in the shady leaves;
Green confetti in air.

On the rib-case underneath –
A waxy seam of leaf,
Tiny eggs, colour of cream
Are stuck with butterfly paste.
Blue lady lifts as a dream,
Leaving them, to hatch or waste.

Who knows where she goes
Blue butterfly mother?

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Barefoot

by Kate O’Neil

Days are longer. Getting warmer.
Sun is higher overhead.
Restless toes begin their twitching.
Barefoot days not far ahead.

At last December comes around.
Summer holidays are here.
That’s when toes come out to play.
That’s the time when feet go bare.

Let’s all run across the grass.
But do look out for bindi eyes.
Ow! Ow! Ouch! They’re everywhere.
Hear our barefoot bindi cries.

Watch us dance the bindi ballet
Quick steps, big steps on our toes.
Hidden prickles keep us leaping
if we step where bindi grows.

Best of all are barefoot beach-days
racing on the summer sand.
Ow! It’s hot! Run to the water.
Run to the edge. Whew! See us stand

doing the barefoot wet-sand wiggle.
See us sink on toes that squirm
down through clouds of sand and shells,
ankles wrapped in swirling foam.

Barefoot days pass far too quickly.
Back-to-school time soon comes round.
But think how much our feet are learning
walking barefoot on the ground.

 

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The Moomins

 by Virginia Lowe

 

Rebecca had a book about

The Moomins young and old,

So she took it to her mother

And the story she was told

Of Snuffkin Sniff and Moomintroll

And the Hobgoblin’s Hat

Hattifattiners and Hemul

Snork Maiden and Muskrat.

 

When that book was finished

(Many chapters, and all long)

She took her pocket money

And went shopping with a song.

She bought a new red plastic case

Then found to her delight

That she could buy another book

To start that very night!

 

In this one Sniff (Rebecca)

Heard of comets and a cave

Discovered long mysterious paths

And with crocodiles was brave.

When this book too was finished ‑

As all good books must be ‑

We re‑read umpteen chapters

Till saved by the Tooth Fair‑y.

 

Who left a useful thirty cents

(And also dropped the tooth).

So to the Sunflower after school

They went, to find the truth

About Moomintroll’s new journeys

And where has Snuffkin gone?

Moominsummer Madness

Will fill evenings from now on.

 

 

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Away

by Jill McDougall

 

I’d like to be (if you’ll agree)

Away today, Ms Hall,

Please carry on as if I’ve gone,

Like I’m not here at all.

 

And while you’re teaching nouns and verbs,

And all those tricky spelling words,

I’ll play computer games ‘til bell,

And eat a bag of crisps as well.

 

Then during Silent Reading, Miss,

I’ll decorate your hair,

With little silver metal clips,

And glued bits everywhere.

 

A touch of orange texta,

And a safety pin or two,

Will soon improve your love life, Miss,

Coz punk’s the look for you!

 

So Miss …

I’ll be  away today,

I’m sure you’ll say

that that’s okay,

Just carry on

please teacher dear,

You’ll hardly notice

I’m not here.

 

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THE MAIL TIN

by Monty Edwards

Way out west, where willows weep

By creek beds cracked and dry,

A mail tin stands atop a post

Beneath a cloudless sky.

The homestead sits behind a hill:

The mail tin far from view, 

But there, round ten, a song is heard

And you may sing it too.

   It’s time to put the billy on.

          It’s time to fetch the mail!

   It’s time to catch a kangaroo

          And swing it by its tail!

How is it that the farmer’s wife

Can sing this silly song?

She sounds so sure the mail has come,

But what if she is wrong?

The farmhands stop, lay down their tools.

The youngest mounts his horse.

He rides away toward the road

To get the mail, of course!

  It’s time to put the billy on.

          It’s time to fetch the mail!

   It’s time to catch a kangaroo

          And swing it by its tail!

The farmer’s wife saw rising dust.

She heard the rumbling truck.

Her eyes and ears said: “There’s the mail!”

It wasn’t just good luck.

                                                     *

Now years have passed. The mail tin’s gone

That stood through heat and hail.

Not once they caught a kangaroo,

Nor swung it by its tail!

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #4    TIME_MG_0194

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Cloudless skies

By Sioban Timmer

 

I lift a hand up to my eyes

While scuffing shoes and shooing flies

Watching the heat cloud wave and rise

As I journey under cloudless skies

 

The path is long to our home gate

The only traffic, trucks and freight

Frustrating if the mail is late

Meaning yet another day to wait

 

But not today, I have no fear

I sense it as I’m drawing near

That in that box, with address clear

Today I know, my book is here

 

Unwrapping it, the cover cold

Embossed with letters nice and bold

What tales are waiting to be told?

What new adventures will unfold?

 

I lift my hand up to my eyes

Now flying feet and fleeing flies

Watching the heat cloud wave and rise

As I journey under cloudless skies.

 

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #4

_MG_0194

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A Fairy’s Warning

by Bridh Hancock
A response to William Allingham’s ‘The Fairies’

 

On the misty mountain, in the gloomy glen,

You dare not go a rambling for fear of ‘little men’,

‘Cause we are bad folk, mad folk. Avoid us all together,

In green cape and red cap and with a purple peregrine’s feather.

 

Near the rocky sea shore some of us make our abode.

We live on sweet, fresh sea-food cooked on the high tide’s load.

Some live among the reed beds of a chilly mountain lake,

With a hundred noisy watch-frogs; and oh what rest they take!

 

Humans say we steal their young; ha! We have kids of our own.

What’s the point of having yet more troubles in our home?

We wish humans all were happy, and knew how to behave,

‘Cause if they all were as us, then our world would be safe.

Along the craggy hill-side where mosses all lie bare,

We have planted gorse-bush to keep humans out of there.

If any man so daring should dig them up in spite,

He shall find far sharper thorns in his bed that night.

 

On the misty mountain, in the gloomy glen,

You dare not go a rambling for fear of ‘little men’,

‘Cause we are bad folk, mad folk, and our women are far worse.

Should you but cross them, then we shall hear you curse.

 

(Let William Allingham apologise to us.)

 

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Forty Four Gallon Drum

by Virginia Lowe

 

Clang!

The cricket ball

hits the make-shift wicket

The shout arises

Out!

The kids leap about

except the batsman

who hands on the bat

to the next street kid

female this time

 

Blackberry canes

pour over the edge

The juicy purple fruit

within reach

without prickles

 

Post cards and fliers

junk mail and love letters

magazines and bills

all drop in

Even an isolated

farm in the country

can’t escape

the tyranny of

the mail

 

In times past

forty-four gallon drums

rusted

in continuing utility

* Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #4

_MG_0194

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