Poem of the Day


A ball, a dog and us


You look as if you’re giggling

and your tail is madly wriggling

Yes, I know that all you want to do is run.


But, Poppet, we’re not racing

and we’re tired of all the chasing.

I’m warning you, this isn’t any fun!


I thought that you adored me

and is this how you reward me?

If I were you, I’d hang my head in shame.


You’re going to cop it, Poppet

if you don’t let go and drop it.

Just stop it!

You are ruining our game!


Jenny Erlanger
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #41


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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There is a special place in our hearts and souls

That can only be filled by someone

who instinctively understands us,

Loves us unconditionally,

Is never demanding of our love and attention

But is always grateful for it.


That’s why pets are family.

Sioban Timmer
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #27


Sioban says: This piece was written for a friend after their dog died. Pets especially dogs are so the ultimate carers, they bring so much to our lives and expect so little in return. Cats on the other hand…..

Poem of the Day



by Pat Simmons


This is where we used to walk

On the beach

I collect driftwood

All different shapes and sizes

Jimmy would fetch the small pieces

I smash them against the rock

I pick up some pumice stone

It’s light and scrunchy, like a macaroon

Jimmy was so heavy

Especially when he got wet

I scrunch the pumice stone

It crumbles to dust

I see a rat

It scuttles behind a rock, sinister and sneaky

Jimmy chased rats and barked at them

I touch and tickle the sand with my toes

There are millions of grains – too many to count

Jimmy liked to dig in the sand

I sort some shells

No-one’s living in them now

They’re empty and quiet

Like my place

Coloured glass glitters

Smoothed by the sea water

Mum calls it treasure

She says Jimmy was a treasure

Near the waves seaweed settles

Someone told me you can eat it

Jimmy used to chew it and spit it out

That made me laugh

I discover a dead seagull

Was it old when it died?

I bet Jimmy would roll on it

And come home smelly

A plastic bag floats in front of me

It shouldn’t be here

But I wish Jimmy was

I watch an old man and his dog

Looking out at the blueness

His dog barks at the seagulls

Just like Jimmy

I grin, remembering.

I think I spy sea monsters hiding in the waves

But I am alone.

Or am I?

I’m sure Jimmy’s watching me.


  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #4


Poem of the Day

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by David Rish


When I took Minnie for a walk,

All she wanted to do was talk.

The new butcher’s meat is very tasty,

Especially when wrapped in pastry.

Did you hear that Chris bought a blue hat?

Don’t you think that Paul’s got fat?

Yap, yap, yap, and chat, chat, chat.

This is this, and that is that.

And what was that rat-a-tat-tat?


Please, Minnie, end your constant chatter,

I’m turning as mad as the Mad Hatter.


I’m terribly sorry you feel that way,

Because I have so much I want to say.

I like to talk, that’s what mouths are for,

I wonder, what’s the cricket score?

I wonder if the Moon is made of cheese.

Listen to that cat snort and sneeze.

Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk.

Talk and talk and talk; squawk, squawk.



  • Submitted in response to Poetry prompt #10


David says: My poem was ‘inspired’ by my nephew’s whippet, Minnie-the-Fish. She tends to look at humans as if we’re all complete idiots.


Poem of the Day



Kate O’Neil


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.


  • Author comment: “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.

Poem of the Day


My dog Jazzy

by Gabrielle Bryden


Best friends can be short or tall
bright or quiet

booky or sporty
anything at all,
mine just happens to be
a goofy, woolly, poodly, woodly
labradoodley type beastie
with a coat of gold,
soft as marshmallows.
Pinkest tongue, cool wet nose
that reminds me when
a hug is due,
boofy head that rests on my legs
like I’m the best pillow
following me

from room to room,
my loyal shadow, liquid eyes
of chocolate brown,
forever sad
even when eating,
but a shaggy, waggy tail
reveals a heart filled with happy
jazzy, fizzy stuff
that bubbles all around me,
tickling me with





Poem of the Day



by Allan Cropper

A frog

a frog on a log

a frog on a log with a bag full of sticks

a frog on a log with a bag full of tricks

a frog

a magical frog

a mystical frog

a wave

a wave of a stick

a wave of a stick from his bag full of tricks

a wave of a wand from his bag full of sticks

a fog

a magical fog

a mystical fog

a mist

a mist on a pond

a mystical fog on a frog on a log

a frog on a log was no longer a frog

a frog on a log had turned into a dog

a dog

a magical dog

a mystical dog

a dog

a dog not a frog

a dog, not a frog, on a log in a fog

a dog not a frog with a bag full of sticks

a dog not a frog with a bag full of tricks

a wave

a wave of a stick

a wave of a stick from his bag full of tricks

a wave of a wand from his bag full of sticks

a smog

a magical smog

a mystical smog

a twist

a twist of a tail

a magical smog and the pond was a bog

a dog not a frog was no longer a dog

a dog not a frog had turned into a hog

a hog

a magical hog

a mystical hog

a hog

a hog not a dog

a hog not a frog

a hog in a bog

a hog not a dog or a frog on a log

a hog in a bog not a dog or a frog

a magical hog with a bag full of sticks

a magical hog with a bag full of tricks

Poem of the Day


The call of the wind

by Teena Raffa-Mulligan


The wind whispered softly through grass and through gum.

She heard it call clearly, invitingly, “Come!”

Felt fingers of freshness caressing her face,

ruffling her fur with such gentle embrace.

The earth had a freshness that comes after rain

and she heard the wind calling, again and again:

“Come and run with me, seek freedom, take flight!”

Its call roused a longing to know such delight.


It whispered so softly, in murmur so low.

It beckoned her, “Come,” and she wanted to go.

To forage in green grass new-kissed by the rain,

to taste of its sweetness and know once again

how it feels to run freely with life unrestrained,

to run with the wind, by a fence uncontained.

She pricked up her ears, her body was tense.

Her heart filled with longing, she leaped at the fence.


The sweet taste of freedom was brief – incomplete –

for she soon heard the sound of hurrying feet.

Familiar voice calling, she paused in her flight,

heard gentle voice saying, “I know it’s not right.

But sorry, old girl, I can’t let you run free.

If you’re on the loose the ranger might see

And take you away. Then you’d no more know

even brief tastes of freedom – a walk every day.

It’s not much to offer, but home you must stay.”