‘Anticipation’ by Alix Phelan

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Know you’re inside.


the floorboards creak,

and the chair ping.


you’re treading quietly


you’ll open door – to me,

‘specially to me,

if I don’t

make fuss.

Won’t make fuss. Won’t.

Nnnnyeup. Come on, come on

Waiting. Can’t you tell?

Open door. Open.

Won’t rush in,

Want you out. Out!

Don’t I?

Heard word

The word – w-a-l-k, Walk!

Can’t trick me.

Know we’re going,


Yeeeing. Not soon enough!

Steps louder

You’re at door, at it.

Open. Open now!

Before wag tail off,

before get dizzy, turning, turning.

Oh, gruff, wruff, nnnyeupp!

Oh, yes, yes, door opening.


And… we’re off. To park

To bark and run,

And have some fun.



Autumn Leaves

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Autumn Leaves
Ruby red and scarlet
leaves fly, scatter, crunch
Cold air whirls, lifts –
orange flurries skip and flutter.
Rapt by the dance
swayed by its flow,
I embrace this autumn show
knowing that soon
winter will come.
Alix Phelan © July, 2016

A drafted poem

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A drafted poem


Once I was a little kid

just like you.

I had to write a poem

but didn’t know what to do


I sat at a desk

with a well full of ink

I dipped a pen in

and wrote what I think

was my best


But my best needed work

so I sat down to think;

scratched out some words

with my pen and ink


Another word didn’t sound

all that good

so I crossed it right out

and put one that would


I did this a few times

then read words aloud

and played with the rhythms

and played with the sound


I’d written a poem

that made sense when read

that rhymed pretty well

and it came from my head


I’m a grown-up now,

and I’ve written lots,

but some words I write

don’t quite fit the box


Still I rewrite the verse

or the phrase or whole poem

It’s what writers do

before they get known.


There’s nothing wrong

with not getting it right,

just as long as you make sure

to sit down and write.

Alix Phelan, January, 2017.

Poem of the Day

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I love to look at snails,

‘cos they’re slimy little things.

I like to see their silver trails

on the grass’s wrinkly fringe.


I love the eyes that vanish,

when I poke them with a stick.

I love the way their spotted shells

crunch from just a little kick.


Mummy says that’s naughty

and I shouldn’t be so cruel,

but she poisons her whole vegie patch,

who does she think she fools?


My sister, she won’t touch them,

‘cos they make her skin go crawly

so I stuffed one down her neck

and now she feels quite poorly.


Still, I’d love to have a snail

as a very special pet

I’d take it to the letterbox

so it could eat the mail.


I’d set it in a gutter,

on a leaf made as a boat.

Mummy told me not to,

‘cos it will never float.


I wouldn’t let it try to eat

my nanna’s pretty blouses,

or let it make a silvery trail,

upon my grandpa’s trousers.


I said I’d wash it in the sink,

I know it likes the water,

but Mummy said she didn’t think

that I had better oughta.


I’d like to take it into bed

to watch it slowly slither

but Mummy told me if I do,

I might just wake up dead.

(and not from the snail!)


I’ve learnt it’s cruel to poke snails’ eyes,

it’s mean to crush their shells.

So, what I’ll do is watch them trail

through Mummy’s garden patch,

but write a sign to warn them

that they may have met their match.

Alix Phelan

Poem of the Day


Balancing broccoli in a basin 

Bought by a beneficent buccaneer

bunches of broccoli

bound through the air

into a basin of boiling water.


They balanced the content of Vitamin B

in the body of the buccaneer’s

burgeoning daughter.

Alix Phelan ©, 2016
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #29
Poetry Prompt #29Alix said: I thought this was a bit of a challenge. At first look, the four “b” words had nothing in common.  I decided to look up what vitamins are associated with broccoli, and discovered that Vitamin B was one. Very convenient.
Apart from being convenient with regard to the poem, as far as I understand, Vitamin B helps nerve cells and DNA to grow, and so, it was quite appropriate to use with “burgeoning daughter”.


Poem of the Day



My teacher says I have to


Books!  I hate them.

They’re boring. They are

not as exciting as thinking about

what you’d do if you were caught

in a storm, on a boat

In the middle of the bay,

with your dad injured,

and you’ve had to sail by yourself

and your mum’s worried sick

about where you both might be

when the police launch arrives

and has to winch you across

cas the water’s so rough

that you vomit all over the

rescuer, who tells you not to


No, books are not as exciting as

seeing your mum waiting on the shore


when she finds you’re both ok.


Actually, you know what?

I reckon I could write a book about that.

I’d read it, wouldn’t you?

 Alix Phelan

Poem of the Day


My  Border Collie’s Folly


We have a Border Collie,

he’s a lovely little chap,

his fur is black and fluffy

and he loves to get a pat,

but he never sees the folly

of annoying the neighbour’s cat.


He wags his tail with pleasure

when he sees her on the fence,

then leaps beyond all measure,

making Pussy go quite tense,

but he never sees his folly

he hasn’t got much sense!


Puss’s  fur extends like arrows,

she hisses and she spits,

but Collie’s eyes just narrow

he imagines her in bits,

but never sees the folly,

of getting her off the fence!


The fence is now vibrating

Pussy hangs on like grim death,

Collie’s loudly barking,

I wish he’d take a rest,


but suddenly there’s silence

Pussy’s leapt away,

so Collie’s little folly

must wait for another day.


Alix Phelan