Poem of the Day



Butcher Bob from Iron Knob was known throughout the land

for cooking food that tasted good, with produce fresh at hand

Now, Bob he strove to get his stove to turn out something new

He’d not prepare the common fare the common townsfolk knew


From out the back was heard a quack, a gobble and some clucking

a chop or three, then glory be, a mess of feather plucking

It seemed absurd, he stuffed each bird into its larger cousin

and finally, he sang with glee as he shoved it in the oven.


With carving knife, he and his wife had settled down to tuck in

to Sunday treat, this three-way meat, he invented roast turducken

‘Next week, my dear, my next idea…the roast I will be making…

roast beef, pig too, and kangaroo…my kanga-beefy-bacon.’

© Allan Cropper

Poem of the Day

1 Comment



What has my tummy got inside?

I often sit and wonder.

(Sometimes it makes the strangest noise,

like very angry thunder.)


Now, what did I eat for breakfast?

Not that much, as I recall.

Fried eggs, baked beans, and marmalade,

with hot porridge first of all.


And what about last night’s dinner?

That yummy seafood pasta —

With chocolate mousse to follow,

Now that might spell disaster!


And there’s something I’ve forgotten:

All those TV snacks last night —

Iced VoVos, Twisties, Jaffas —

Helped quell my appetite.


All the food that I’ve been eating

Has nowhere else to hide —

It’s all down in my tummy,

And I’d hate to see inside!


 James Aitchison
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #30

Poem of the Day

1 Comment

The Night The Kids Cooked Dinner


The children in the rural town Lower Upper Dresher,

had joined the craze of cooking shows where cooks cooked under pressure.

They all sat glued three nights a week to television screens

and if they missed an episode, were prone to nasty scenes.


They’d taken up the challenge to improve their daily diet,

but grocery shopping with their mums was heading for a riot.

Their parents all seemed quite content to stick to same old styles;

they very rarely wandered down the continental aisles.


The kids had all decided that the cooking shows were right –

that food should be exciting and artistically ‘a sight’.

And things became hysterical the night Sam’s mum cooked pasta,

with sauce that came in bottles, as Sam’s mum said ‘it was faster’.


But Sam no longer wished to eat spaghetti bolognaise.

Instead he wanted new spring lamb infused with minted glaze.

He told his mum potatoes were no longer smooth and mashed;

they should be served unpeeled with lumps – potatoes now are smashed.


And Michael and Robina were appalled with KFC

that their Dad brought home as takeaway for Friday’s casual tea.

“It wouldn’t be,” they said perturbed, “too hard to buy a chop;

they sell them marinated down in Finley’s butcher shop.”


While down at Harrigan’s Hotel the chef was going blotto,

when Master Joe suggested cooking salmon roe risotto.

Chef Willy wasn’t too impressed – Joe questioning his grub.

“My chicken parmigiana is a staple in this pub.”


But Joe was fairly adamant and asked his mum to change

the chicken to a salmon (and it needs to be free-range).

His mum explained the menu was decided by Chef Willy

and to stop this fancy cooking rot – “the whole thing’s getting silly.”


So Joe and all the other kids decided they would score

their parents’ meals all out of ten – most getting three or four.

They figured that some comments would assist their folks to see,

no longer were they tolerating mediocrity.


The parents were appalled of course, when meals were given zeros,

while all those darn contestants on the show were hailed as heroes.

The children sensed their parents were all close to nearly breaking –

that they understood they needed to improve what that were making;


until a parent phoned around and called a secret meeting,

to try and sort the bedlam over what their kids were eating.

And Mary-Jane convinced them that she had a sure-fire winner.

“We’ll all give in,” she said quite calm, “just let the kids cook dinner.”


The parents at the table sat in silence for a while,

then one by one were nodding and a few began to smile.

They started to imagine they’d have time to read a book,

instead of being busy in the role of family cook.


And so that night the parents gave their kids the welcome news:

“You’re all the chefs tomorrow night – it’s up to you to choose.”

The kids all gave a mighty shout – “We’ll show you how it’s done,”

then raced towards their kitchens, looking forward to lots of fun.


The next day was a Saturday – they measured, mixed and stirred

at stove tops and the benches where much muttering was heard.

By six o’clock they’d finished and their meals had all been plated,

but each and every one of them was tired and not elated.


In Sam’s house, both the Willis’ were wondering what to do

with little Sammy’s cheeses that were mouldy, old and blue.

Insisting Sam should try it first, they waited while he ate

a cracker smeared with rancid cheese, some pate and a date.


But Sam’s young taste buds didn’t like his gourmet nibbly platter.

“I think,” he said, “I’d rather have a saveloy in batter.”

Sam’s parents kindly got their kid a sausage fried in oil,

both knowing that his craze for fancy food was off the boil.


While down the road, Robina had some doubts about her pudd –

it wasn’t looking like a trifle usually would.

She hadn’t missed a step at all – she’d done as they’d instructed.

But some desserts just don’t taste right when they are deconstructed.


Robina knew her trifle would be judged ‘not good enough,’

when served on several silly plates, in little piles of stuff.

Her Mum and Dad suggested that she plop it in a bowl –

that a tasty, messy, mixed-up pudd was trifle’s only goal.


And down at Harrigan’s Hotel young Joe was in a pickle,

as his salmon-roe risotto dish was proving rather fickle.

To stir a pan of fishy rice for nearly forty minutes,

was really rather boring and was giving Joe the irrits.


Eventually Chef Willy – who could stand the smell no more,

suggested Joe should help him make a dish he’d like for sure.

And that night all the customers said Joe’s meal was a charmer,

as Joe served up his special dish – Chef Willy’s parmigiana.


And Mary-Jane was lauded as the parent of the year –

their children viewed those cooking shows with something close to fear.

The kids were now content with being decent, simple cooks,

as cooking fancy food is not as easy as it looks.

Caroline Tuohey
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #20

Poem of the Day

1 Comment

Sunday Dinner

My Nan grew up in wartime

And thought nothing goes to waste

And sometimes Sunday dinner

Wasn’t really to my taste


I loved to go to her house

And most of the meals were great

But at times I really struggled

To eat the food upon my plate


Her Shepherd’s Pie was awesome

And I loved cold meats and cheese

She made Special Fried Potatoes

That always made me say “More please”


But every now and then

The dish that truly gave me shivers

I couldn’t even stand the smell

Of Nan’s boiled chicken livers


I pushed them all around the plate

And covered them with sauce

Tried to mix them with potatoes

But it didn’t help of course


In the end I had to say

There really was one choice

And though I knew it would be hard

I mustered up my voice


“Nan – I don’t like boiled chicken livers”


There was a moment’s silence

And my eyes were opened wide

Nan looked at me and gently smiled

“Just push them to the side”


After that no chicken livers

Were served at Sunday dinner

And we had all the other lovely things

My tastebuds were the winner

Sioban Timmer
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #20

Poem of the Day

1 Comment


Phineas McGonagall

Phineas McGonagall was very strange indeed,

For the manner of his feeding and for where he kept his feed.

Upon his head, he wore a wig of lamington and cheese.

His beard was full of ‘little boys’ that dangled to his knees.

Among his friends I must say there were many most disgusted:

And so would you be if you knew just where he kept his custard.

To critics Phiny simply smiled and said, ‘Now look here sonny!’

Stamped a dusty boot from which erupted blue gum honey.

‘With a narnie in me pocket and some damper in me daks,

I’m never short of tucker as I tred life’s sandy tracks.

From Alice Springs to Zanthus I have never ‘ad the munchies.

-Thanks mostly to me grundies where I keep a stash of crunchies!-

And I betcha when I cark it and am carried out feet first,

The tinnies in me pocket slake the undertaker’s thirst!’

Alys Jackson


  • Alys is a regular contributor to The School Magazine and has just won the 2017 Award for Poetry at the Henry Lawson Festival of Arts. 

Poem of the Day


Mish and Mash


I love to cook a mish and mash

A pineapple avocado smash

Cranberry and potato soup

A pea and parsnip ice-cream scoop

A pepper zucchini chocolate slice

Special strawberry chilli rice

Pizza topped with jelly beans

Devil’s food cake served with greens.

I love to cook a mish and mash

Dinner’s done now – got to dash.

Jessica Nelson

Jessica said: Mish and Mash is my response to 2016 poetry prompt #45 (Food). This poem was inspired by the ‘cooking’ my siblings and I used to do as children, where any ingredients we could find were thrown together in the mixing bowl, with varied results.




Poem of the Day


Beating Eric’s Eating


Young Eric was a little boy who really loved to eat.

In any eating contest he’d be very hard to beat.

His slender older sister wouldn’t ever be his match,

Nor did his bigger brother think that Eric he could catch.

And even Eric’s father, who was more than average size,

When watching Eric eating could not hide his great surprise,

For Eric’s plate was piled up high with food of every kind:

To see it quickly disappear just blew his father’s mind!


His mother’s face looked anxious as she eyed what Eric ate.

She thought: “If Eric keeps this up, he’ll put on too much weight.

I’ll feed him lots of Brussels sprouts and serve him tripe and brains.

That surely ought to put an end to any weight he gains!”

But Eric didn’t seem to mind; he just kept eating faster;

He hardly tasted what he ate. The plan was a disaster.

His father said: “This can’t go on. It’s got beyond a joke.

If Eric keeps his eating up, our family will go broke!”


They pondered for a moment, thinking what next they could do.

His older sister said that they should put him in a zoo!

“He’d only eat the animals”, replied his older brother.

“Enough of that! That’s most unkind!” responded Eric’s mother.

“We have to think of something that will make him want to stop,

Or else I’ll spend hours every day just going to the shop.”

His desperate Dad was thinking fast: “I think I know a way.

We’ll start to ration all the food we’re going to eat each day.”


“First, everyone will get a serve, all generous, but the same.

When anybody asks for more, then that will start the game.

You’ll have to buy the extra food you want put on your plate

And if you can’t produce the cash, food won’t eventuate.

Your pocket money or your purse could gain you new supplies,

But as your money disappears, you soon will realise

There’ll be no money left to buy the things you want far more

And only empty pockets will go with you to the store.”


His Dad knew well that Eric loved to spend his cash on sweets,

But money spent on extra food meant none for special treats!

It was a most unhappy lad who came to meals each day.

Instead of filling him with food, they filled him with dismay.

His appetite began to wane. He left scraps on the plate.

Before, with something left to eat, he wouldn’t hesitate.

The ration plan soon brought an end to Eric’s problem habit

And that is how his family stopped him eating like a rabbit.


Monty Edwards

Submitted in response to 2016 Poetry Prompt #48


Monty says: I decided on the theme of overeating and brainstormed words related to eating, along with words rhyming with these that had potential as part of a story poem about a boy who ate too much. After introducing the family in verse 1 and posing the problem in verse 2, finding a convincing way to resolve the problem slowed my progress considerably.

Poem of the Day

1 Comment

Haughty cuisine


Our special today is the ostrich mornay

on a bed of wild Spanish weeds,

drizzled with slivers of slow-roasted livers

and garnished with shaved parsley seeds.


Served on the side is an elephant hide

in a parcel of puffed pastry wings,

sprinkled with dew from the mists of Peru

and finished with seared apron strings.


What’s that you say? You don’t like mornay?

And you’ll pass on the shaved parsley seeds?

Can it be true that you’re not keen on dew?

And you’ve never thought fondly weeds?


Do we have WHAT? No, I’m sure we do not

Have a single sausage or chip.

But I suppose we could grill a beef tube from Brazil

served with French strings and ocean-salt dip.


Jill McDougall
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #45



Poem of the Day


Here come the Martians

Here come the Martians, green as peas

as my spacecraft lands in thick brown seas.

They swamp my ship like some disease

so I zap myself to the broccoli trees.


As I grab my fork-shaped Ultra-Stun,

the Martians squeak (in Martian) “Run!”

They hide beneath a buttered bun

but I take them prisoner one by one.


I’m having super-cosmic fun

when Humanoid Robot XP One

drones: Earth to Mars – this is your mum

do NOT play with your dinner son!

Jill McDougall

Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #45



Poem of the Day

Leave a comment

Snack time

I hope Mum’s packed a donut

in my play lunch for today,

I feel like something sugary and sweet.

A piece of carrot cake

would go down well, I have to say,

or chocolate cake, an even better treat!

Or even cubes of tasty cheese

with slices of kabana.

Let’s see what yummy snack my Mum has made…

One crummy little biscuit

and an overripe banana?

Would anybody like to do a trade?

Jenny Erlanger
  •  Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #45



Jenny said: Reading the latest “food” prompt poem, “Lunchboxing” reminded me of a poem I wrote several years ago along the same theme. I thought I’d share it with others who remember being disappointed with the offerings put in their lunch box.