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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

poetry-prompt-45

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.

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Santa’s New Clothes

 

Santa had a problem—his special suit no longer fit.

It was snug around the tummy. When he sat, his trousers split.

One bight and early morning, Mrs Santa said:

“Dear, I must tell you something that I read.

I love you roly-poly, I love you as you are,

but if you took a health test you wouldn’t get a star.

It’s really most important to have a healthy heart

and if you want a long life, it’s not too late to start.”

Santa called in at the health club—the trainer checked him out.

She said: “We’ll plan a program that’ll work without a doubt.”

She booked him in for workouts three times every week,

then talked about his diet and told him what to eat.

He ate lots of fruit and vegies, chose grilled instead of fried

for every single main meal, with salads on the side.

He said no to morning tea cakes and had carrot sticks instead.

Whenever offered sweet treats, he firmly shook his head.

Santa also started walking quite early in the day

and soon those extra kilos began to melt away.

He said: “I feel fantastic, this year will be a breeze.

I’ll deliver all those presents without the slightest wheeze.

I won’t get stuck in chimneys or struggle up steep stairs

or stop to have a rest whenever I see chairs.”

Then on Christmas Eve, a problem as Santa dressed to leave.

His suit no longer fit him except for length of sleeve.

His top was loose and baggy where tight it was before,

and when he pulled his trousers up, they slid down to the floor.

He looked at Mrs Santa. “Whatever will we do?

Perhaps some safety pins? Could you sew a seam or two?

We need a quick solution for I really ought to go.

The children are all waiting and I can’t be late, you know.”

Mrs Santa nodded and tried to hide a smile.

“Thank goodness it’s late shopping. This will only take a while.”

So that’s why this year Santa won’t be wearing his red suit.

He’s got a brand new outfit. Mrs Santa thinks it’s cute.

It’s a bright red fleecy tracksuit for warmth in North Pole cold,

and a pair of sporty sneakers replacing boots of old.

For his head a woolly beanie instead of pom pom cap.

So if one Christmas evening you should glimpse a bearded chap

who looks a lot like Santa except he’s fit and trim,

don’t think that you’re mistaken, for yes, you’re right, it’s him!

Teena Raffa-Mulligan

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We Wish You a Merry Birthday

 

My name is Noelle and I’m sorry to say

that I was born on Christmas Day,

after the presents but before the singing

(nonsense about sleigh bells ringing).

My father claimed he’d had a hunch

that I’d be born right after lunch

and so it was: Mum gave a shout!

Pudding went in, I popped out.

I wish, I wish, I really do

she’d held on for a week or two.

Each year I share my special day

with that festering, festive holiday.

Instead of balloons I get baubles.

My head aches as my family warbles

Christmas carols all day long—

I never get a birthday song

and though each year I get a cake

it’s always fruit, for goodness sake.

I always thought it couldn’t be worse

than a birthday with a tinsel curse

till my sister made my birthday cool—

she was born an April fool.

Jessica Nelson

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #49
    poetry-prompt-48Jessica said: I was guilty of having a baby on Christmas Day last year, and I’ve been filled in on the potential downsides of a birthday overshadowed by Christmas. I hope she always finds her birthday special, and I’ll be sure to sing her Happy Birthday every year.

 

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Buccaneer Secrets

 

When Spanish ships were making trips

To trade and gather treasure,

Crews learned to fear the buccaneer,

Whose boldness knew no measure.

 

I should be clear, a buccaneer

Was tough and rough and ruthless

He’d climb aboard and use his sword

Or make his victims toothless.

 

Then, grabbing loot, he’d quickly scoot

Before someone could catch him.

He’d sail away to find more prey;

For daring, few could match him!

 

But now, today, I need to say

(Though sworn to keep it quiet):

He won’t attack if there’s a lack

Of fibre in his diet!

 

For I have heard, (it sounds absurd),

He craves a balanced meal,

Including beans and other greens

Before he’ll sail to steal.

 

Don’t think me wrong. I’ve heard the song

When buccaneers assemble.

They drop their ‘g’s, which does not please,

But these words make me tremble:

 

“Now bring your bunch of broccoli, boys

And throw it in the basin.

We’ll eat it raw and call for more

Then ships we’ll go a-chasin’!”

 

Monty Edwards
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #29

Poetry Prompt #29

Monty says: I began by researching  buccaneers to introduce the poem, then made a first draft of their song about broccoli, which led to the thoughts about fibre and a balanced diet. The concluding verses had to be revised to accommodate the basin and justify the final rhyme.

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A Jar of Pickles

 

I had a jar of pickles,

but they were very fickle.

I had to go in for a quick kill,

but couldn’t get them out

without a fierce rout.

Firmly wedged inside the jar

they wouldn’t budge a bar

until I tried a tickle

then out they poured in a trickle

that fickle jar of pickles.

Vanessa Proctor
  •  Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #32

poetry prompt #32

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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

poetry-prompt-45

 

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Sharing the Secret

Psst. Listen to this, Sis!

I’m going to whisper in your ear,

Because I don’t want Dad to hear.

This secret’s just come straight from Mum:

She’s got a baby in her tum!

No one must know, but you and me

And Mum, of course, but just we three.

I said to Mum I wouldn’t tell,

So you must promise me as well,

Then when Dad hears the baby’s cries,

He’s going to get a huge surprise!

 

Monty Edwards
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #48

prompt-48

Monty says: Children find secrets so exciting, they do find it hard not to share them.

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Silly Shifts

 

All traffic jams jump questions.

No one can lose a dog in a hurry.

Therefore every day has a shape.

 

All fires have a starting-point.

There is only one sky.

Therefore clouds like to move a lot.

 

All squares have four corners.

Fish rarely swim in circles.

Therefore the ocean may look flat.

 

© Katherine Gallagher
  • Submitted in response to Prompt #46

poetry-prompt-46

 

Katherine said: Silly Shifts is a  response to randomness – good old fun.

Bluster . . .

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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

poetry-prompt-45

 

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Lunchboxing

The kids said..

 

We don’t want sandwiches

We don’t want cheesy rolls

We’ve had enough of wraps and crackers

We’ve had enough of scrolls

 

Well,  then Mum said..

 

Would you like some liverwurst?

Maybe deep fried brains?

Perhaps some spinach that I boiled,

Would make a lovely change?

 

The kids said..

 

A sandwich is fine mum..

Thanks

 

Sioban Timmer
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #45

poetry-prompt-45