Scoot Scoot

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Scoot Scoot

 

Scoot Scoot

Said the scooter

Shining in the sun

Time for me

To have some fun

 

Zoom Zoom

Said the scooter

Rider and helmet ready

Today we go fast

But take it steady

 

Whoosh Whoosh

Said the scooter

Down the street

Feet on kickboard

Who can we beat?

 

Zip Zip

Said the scooter

What a fun day

Zooming along

Smiling all the way

 

Jump Jump

Said the scooter

Trying a trick

Up in the air

And down real quick

 

Ring Ring

Said the scooter

A loud ring of the bell

Turn and head back

All is well

 

Yawn Yawn

Said the scooter

I’ve had a big day

Time to go home

Slowly make my way

 

Shuffle Shuffle

Said the scooter

Trudging back to the shed

Time for scooters

To be in scooter bed

 

Snooze Snooze

Said the scooter

Snoring away

Dreaming of tomorrow

Another scooter day

 

by Jeanie Axton (my first poem ever in a published book)

 

The inspiration for Scoot Scoot was in restoring this old scooter I found in a second hand shop

This poem was included in “The Toy Chest” a novel Anthology from Prints Charming Books

Edited by Sally Odgers Published July 2017

 

 

 

Pigeon Grey

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Pigeon Grey

 

 

Way down passed our shed,

Where the realm of humans ends,

‘Mongst the mottled bottle brushes

Live a hundred feathered friends.

 

And ninety-nine of those

Cavort and romp and play,

And the only one left out

Is poor old Pigeon Grey.

 

The magpies are quite striking

And the honey-eaters fair,

The rosellas are spectacular;

It’s tricky not to stare.

 

They gather in the bird bath

Where they primp and preen all day,

But when Pigeon tries to join them

They squawk, “Ew! Get away!”

 

 

 

And Pigeon Grey sighs deeply

Then he sits off on his own,

He watches on with envy

Wishing he was not alone.

 

If only they would speak to him

Those other birds would find

That Pigeon Grey is funny.

He is clever. He is kind.

 

But they all look down their beaks

At his feathers drab and grey,

And then rather than converse with him

They just squawk “Get away!”

 

Then one day there is twittering,

The garden is in shock.

Pigeon Grey has made a friend;

The new bird on the block.

 

And the whispers are quite snippy,

“That new bird she must be dull.

Perhaps another pigeon

Or an imbecilic gull!”

 

But the honey-eater sees her

And she has to look once more.

This new bird is not dull at all.

This bird is not a bore.

 

Her feathers start as brightest blue,

Then yellow, red, and green.

If the garden was a monarchy

Then she would be its queen.

 

There’s a hustle then to meet her,

A bustle and a fuss.

“You don’t have to sit with Pigeon Grey,

Come here and sit with us!”

 

But the lorikeet shakes her head,

“I’d rather stay right here.

The world seems so much shinier

When Pigeon Grey is near.”

 

The other birds they bristle,

“It simply can’t be true.

He is drab and dreary,

He’s not half as bright as you.”

The lorikeet looks surprised,

“You don’t know him at all.

Pigeon Grey is marvellous,

He’s famed beyond your wall.

 

“Have you not heard his music,

As he wakes the morning sun?

If you’ve spent the afternoon with him

Has it not been loads of fun?

 

“Have you seen him cheer a baby bird

As it first takes to the skies?

Have you heard him tell a funny tale

With laughter in his eyes?

 

“Have you come to him with worries

And been sure he’d listen well?

Have you taken on the sage advice

That he will freely tell?”

 

“If you’ve ever asked him for his help

Did he make you wait?

I’m sure that you must know the truth.

Pigeon Grey is great!”

 

Pigeon Grey is humbled

But as he looks around,

His neighbours will not meet his eyes;

They all stare at the ground.

 

But then a tiny bird agrees,

“Yes, Pigeon Grey’s the best!

He taught me to be brave

When I was scared to leave the nest.”

 

And others pipe up too

With their tales that spring to mind.

Indeed, each bird does seem to know

That Pigeon Grey is kind.

 

Way down passed our shed,

Where the realm of humans ends,

‘Mongst the mottled bottle brushes

Live a hundred feathered friends.

 

And each one of those hundred

Cavort and romp and play,

But the one they all love best of all

Is dear old Pigeon Grey.

By Kylie Covark

Poem of the Day

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Interrogation time

 

How will you travel, on foot or by train?

What if it’s cold, if it threatens to rain?

When are we likely to see you again?

Do you know when you’re going to be back?

 

I think that the tram and the bus would be good.

I’ll pack an umbrella and coat with a hood.

I’d give you a date if I thought that I could

but it might be a year down the track.

 

Won’t you be lonely with nowhere to stay?

When are you leaving, what time of the day?

Why are you planning on moving away?

Is everything really that bad?

 

I’m taking my toys. I’ll have plenty to do.

I’m banking on leaving the house around two.

And now that you ask, I’m escaping from you!

Your questions are driving me mad!

Jenny Erlanger
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #18

 

 

 

 

 

Poem of the Day

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Montague Shoe

 

Have you heard the story of Montague Shoe?

He fitted a left foot — ’twas all he could do.

 

But the shoe that fitted the right foot was lost,

So into the trashcan poor Monty was tossed.

 

But there in the trash Montague found

A shoe for a right foot — ’twas perfectly sound.

 

They became a new pair, one black and one blue,

And that was the story of Montague Shoe.

 

James Aitchison

New Poem of the Day

5 Comments

 

The Secret

 

Can you keep a secret? Good!

Cos this one’s super hot –

In my desk, amongst the mess,

I found a …. you-know-what.

 

Now promise you won’t tell a soul

Not even Mary-Lou,

I turned it round and then I found

A note from you-know-who.

 

I laughed so hard my tonsils ached

I thought I’d nearly die,

It must have happened you-know-when

Because of … you-know-why.

 

Now don’t you go and blab all this

To Rosie and her lot,

If you do, I’m warning you,

They’ll give us you-know-what.

 

Jill McDougall
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #17

Poem of the Day

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The Tortoise

 

The tortoise has a solid shell

And this protects it very well.

If frightened and it wants to hide

It tucks its head and legs inside.

Although its movement’s rather slow

It still gets where it wants to go.

Despite its most ungainly gait

You’d never say it’s running late!

 

Monty Edwards
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #5

poetry-prompt-5

Poem of the Day

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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 . . .

Poem of the Day

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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

 

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.

Poem of the Day

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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

Poem of the Day

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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

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