Nature’s Colourful Preferences

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Nature’s Colourful Preferences


“Blue and green should not be seen

Without a colour in between;

And as for the clash of green and red,

Enough, I am sure, has now been said”;

But who will give this wisdom to Nature?

Or bravely try to correct the Creator?


Life on earth is so much richer

For its clash of colours; this a feature of

Identity, movement, and time passing; of

Family, food, and enemies pausing.


Blue & green and green & red

Are seen in life and everywhere,

From the depth of the oceans

To out among the stars.

What profusion and confusion of colours !


But this procedure is not wise

When we classify people by their shape and size,

And by the colour of their unclad skin:

That shows an intellect dismal and thin.


Let blue and green be seen in the sunlight;

And red and green go dancing as one.  Right !


Bridh Hancock


Rain dear/A Christmas Poem

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Merry Christmas Everyone

Rain dear

In Australia, when it’s Christmas hot,

A farmer’s keen for a little drop

of rain from heaven, upon his roof,

of Santa’s gifts, he looks for proof

Then drumming starts above; he hears

his wife call out “It’s rain dear!”

Walter de Jong

A Christmas Poem

Christmas time, oh Christmas, Time of sentiment so nice.

Christmas time, ah, Family time, With poems by Helen Steiner Rice.

Christmas comes but once a year On the 25th of December,

And makes the rest of the year, With its sorrows and joys,

That much sweeter to remember.

Bridh Hancock

The Little Fish

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The Little Fish


I wish I was a little fish,

a little fishy me,

I’d swim and swim and swim and swim,

(I like swimming),

Swimming swimminglingly.


I’d flip my fins, do tail-spins

With an in-built mini-motor,

Act the lair and really scare

Away hook, line and floater.


If I were a little fish,

a little fishy I,

I’d make a little fishy wish

And wish that I could fly.


I’d fly and fly and fly and fly,

Flying up and down,

And in between, to see the scene,

Fly out, about and around.


I’d loop a kooky loop and fly

Through dark and drizzly weather,

Any where that’s full of air;

A fish without a feather.


I’d run on ultra-octane gas

With three thick wheels for legs.

This little town in yoke will drown

When I bomb it with my eggs.


Sky, sky, everywhere

Except where clouds go sailing.

Dry sky, anywhere

It is not rain or hailing.


I’d join the guys who fly the skies;

Naturally quite heroic.

I wouldn’t mind the wind behind,

But hope I don’t get air-sick!


I’d join a wacky Wild West Show

Touring South East Asia,

Teaching “curry and rice is velly nice,

But McDonalds will amazia.”


In black and white with banjo blue

I’d busk in Larry Park,

And Fred Astaire would stop and stare

When I whistled up a snark.


And who could keep me off the green

When I see a snooker table?

Shooting crap or `tender-trap’,

I’m cooler than Clark Gable.


I’d flap and fluff my way to fame,

A modern Petomaniac,

And do all manner of magic things

In white-tie & tails and top-hat.


And anyone who didn’t laugh,

I’d poop right in his soup dish.

I have my pride!  It’s not for nought I’d

Be a little fish.


Bridh Hancock

Poem of the Day

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Dacelo novaeguineae


Ho, koo-koo-kaa-kaa,


Laughing in your trees;

No jumbuck jollier,

Gladly I’d follow yu’,

Life was meant to please.


Can you whistle?

Oh but this’ll

Do, for laughter’s sweet

And you could,

If you but stood

Your terribly ticklish feet.


Tiring is this

Wing-flap business,

But you need to fly;

For ticklish feet

Sure has you beat,

But what a way to die!


Bridh Hancock

Poem of the Day

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The sea gulls are in from the beaches,

Wheeling above the roof tops —

(Kiirr, kiirr, skreeik!

Such lovely voices they have) — or

On the grass in the park,

Like a flock of well-behaved cockies;

A brightly white grazing bird mass.


The gulls are in from the beaches.

Soon we’ll have some proper inclement weather;

Skies of storm-cloud, wind and rain howling, and

Perhaps if we are good,


Enjoyable, memorable, coming with thunder,

Blustering unchallenged to skies east in elsewhere.


Soon it will be back to ordinary,

Water retreating to safety ‘neath lush green grass,

Or spread all wet and puddly on asphalt.

(What a way to go!)

Weather must be really bad to be really good.

I hate cold wet miserable gray glum old days to gloom, and

I hate mud, but

Squiddily, iddily, uddily, squd

Sometimes there are no times like those spent in mud,

But you need a steam-cleaning to be human again,

And a steam-cleaning’s fun;

So bring on the rain!

Bridh Hancock

Poem of the Day

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As long as I live will I ever remember

Those bright eyes shining under the table,

Of a black and tan kelpie, who was silently saying:

“Will you be my friend? Can I be yours, too?


“Can we be friends?—yes! the best of. And if you

Love me, fun me, feed, and de-flea me,

I’ll guard and care for you, and ever be there,

For you’ll be my friend—yes!—and I’ll be yours, too.”


She was my ‘best of…’, and I loved her and kept her

Til, old, deaf and blind, she lay down and died.

Then gone were the walkies, my petting this pal,

But memories, good memories, will ever remain.


Memories, dear memories, so near and so dear,

Of a woofity pal who just wanted a friend.

Thanks, Mum, for Tammy, with her bright eyes so shining,

Who sat ’neath the table waiting for me.

Bridh Hancock
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #27


Poem of the Day

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by Bridh Hancock


I have often seen these fine big birds,

Above the waves or in the sky,

Lords of the shores and the upper air.

They certainly know their worth, they do,

These fishers who seek a beak-full of fish.


They don’t say much, as I can tell,

But fisher-folk know them very well

As exceedingly skilful and persistent.

Oh yes, they know their worth, alright,

These seekers of stealth with a fondness for fish.

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #7




Poem of the Day

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Can Snails?

by Bridh Hancock


Can snails die of too-long-life?,

Of too much travel and fun?

Have they a self-destruction gene?,

And might it be overcome?


Imagine an Every-Snail’s You-Beaut-Land,

With lots of food all fresh and green,

Where every snail would soon grow sharp,

And fleet of foot, and mean;

Where shells would be both smart and hard,

Affording real protection,

Where any bait a snail might take

Would prove a sweet confection.


How long or soon before a snail,

Though small its crustacean brain,

Would seek to escape its silver trail,

Nor there return again?

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5