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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

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How to get rid of peas

 

Slip a couple up your sleeve,

that way you can’t go wrong

but first take care the sleeves you wear

are pretty tight and long.

Then accidentally bump your plate –

that should get rid of more.

Your Mum would never make you eat

the peas that hit the floor.

Another thing that’s hard to do

but really worth the wait

is slip some peas when no one sees

onto your sister’s plate.

And then (don’t say I told you)

if you’re desperate I suppose

you could shove some up your nostrils

and then quickly blow your nose.

By now you should have lost the lot.

If not, may I suggest

you think of other ways yourself

to deal with all the rest.

Jenny Erlanger

 

First published in “Giggles and Niggles” (Haddington Press, 2007)

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #45

poetry-prompt-45

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FOOD inside an orange egg.

So, you want to pull my leg?

Not an egg and not a fruit.

Is it food? The point is moot.

 

Letters help to form a face.

Judging by their size and place,

Eyes comprising two big “O”‘s.

Nothing there to serve as nose,

But all’s not lost, no, have no fear,

For “F” and “D” each serve as ear!

Stephen Whiteside
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #45

poetry-prompt-45

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Rose is red and Violet’s all blue

 

Rose loved painting,

Violet loved it too.

Rose painted with red,

Violet with blue.

 

They crept out of bed,

To paint in the night.

But Mum came in,

‘Aaaagh!’ And got such a fright.

 

‘Sorry Mummy,’ said Rose, all red.

‘Sorry Mummy,’ said Violet, all blue.

‘It’s okay, my little monsters,

‘I know what to do.’

 

Mum drew a big bath,

And plopped them both in.

Whooshed them round,

And into a spin.

 

The monsters spun round,

Splished and splashed.

Water whirled round,

And both colours clashed.

 

Now Violet wasn’t blue,

And Rose was not red.

‘Yippeeee!’ they cried,

‘We’re purple instead!’

 

Now Mum feeling faint,

Took out some more paint.

‘Perhaps some white,

Will fix them all right.’

 

The water whooshed round,

And down the sink.

‘Aaaagh!’ wailed mum,

‘My monsters are pink.’

 

Nanna came in,

with a towel so green.

She scrubbed while she dried,

Until they were clean.

 

Not purple or pink,

Or blue or red.

But finally all green,

And ready for bed.

Ken Williams
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #41

Prompt5