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SNAIL TRIAL

I love to look at snails,

‘cos they’re slimy little things.

I like to see their silver trails

on the grass’s wrinkly fringe.

 

I love the eyes that vanish,

when I poke them with a stick.

I love the way their spotted shells

crunch from just a little kick.

 

Mummy says that’s naughty

and I shouldn’t be so cruel,

but she poisons her whole vegie patch,

who does she think she fools?

 

My sister, she won’t touch them,

‘cos they make her skin go crawly

so I stuffed one down her neck

and now she feels quite poorly.

 

Still, I’d love to have a snail

as a very special pet

I’d take it to the letterbox

so it could eat the mail.

 

I’d set it in a gutter,

on a leaf made as a boat.

Mummy told me not to,

‘cos it will never float.

 

I wouldn’t let it try to eat

my nanna’s pretty blouses,

or let it make a silvery trail,

upon my grandpa’s trousers.

 

I said I’d wash it in the sink,

I know it likes the water,

but Mummy said she didn’t think

that I had better oughta.

 

I’d like to take it into bed

to watch it slowly slither

but Mummy told me if I do,

I might just wake up dead.

(and not from the snail!)

 

I’ve learnt it’s cruel to poke snails’ eyes,

it’s mean to crush their shells.

So, what I’ll do is watch them trail

through Mummy’s garden patch,

but write a sign to warn them

that they may have met their match.

Alix Phelan

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Rainbow’s End

A snail once heard the story

Which is very often told:

“If you reach a rainbow’s ending,

You will find a pot of gold!”

This idea was most appealing,

(Since the snail was very poor)

And it left him with a feeling

That he couldn’t quite ignore.

 

Every day when it was raining,

But the clouds began to clear,

He would scan the sky for rainbows

In the hope one would appear.

Then at last he thought he saw one

In the garden hothouse glass!

To the spot he slowly hurried

Streaking silver through the grass.

 

But oh, what disappointment,

When he reached that special place!

For of golden coins or treasure,

He discovered not a trace.

As he turned to leave, discouraged,

Something caught his tearful eye

And a potted gold chrysanthemum

Proved the story was no lie.

 

 Monty Edwards

 

 

  •  Poetryprompt20Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #20

Monty says: My thoughts went from the prompt’s golden flower, to a flower pot to hold it and so to the pot of gold. This gave me the rainbow, which with the snail in the picture, provided the story line.

 

 

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Can Snails?

by Bridh Hancock

 

Can snails die of too-long-life?,

Of too much travel and fun?

Have they a self-destruction gene?,

And might it be overcome?

 

Imagine an Every-Snail’s You-Beaut-Land,

With lots of food all fresh and green,

Where every snail would soon grow sharp,

And fleet of foot, and mean;

Where shells would be both smart and hard,

Affording real protection,

Where any bait a snail might take

Would prove a sweet confection.

 

How long or soon before a snail,

Though small its crustacean brain,

Would seek to escape its silver trail,

Nor there return again?

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5

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Snail-fare

by Katherine Gallagher

 

Hello, hello

I’m your friendly garden-

gastropod.

 

Not Matisse’s snail —

he’s a fast one, flying through space

on a rainbowed thread — a clever clever

slippery flippery

purple snail on a purple trail,

heading into green and orange and yellow…

You can’t miss him.

 

I’m the quiet type,

going places

at my own pace

under my hard hat

 

always on the lookout

for any big boot

coming my way

as I leave my silver

trail without fail

on green green places.

 

* Matisse’s snail hangs in the Tate Gallery, London.

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5

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by Walter de Jong

Dear planter of my paradise,

I wanted to you to know

how much that I appreciate

the great greens that you grow

When whispering spring awoke me

From my winter’s hibernation

I beheld a feast prepared for me

beyond imagination

For twenty years we’ve shared this place

And pickings have been poor

But now we’ve got this vegie patch

It’s looking up for sure

There’s one thing I should mention though

I’m sure it’s not your fault

You might not understand

That I’m allergic to that salt.

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WHO’S HOME?

by Monty Edwards

 

You will find him in your garden

Yet he’ll always be at home,

Which is strange, because he travels,

Though he never far will roam,

For his movement is quite sluggish

And he often stops to eat.

If you’re growing nice green lettuce,

He considers that a treat!

 

With his eyes on stalks like flowers,

He can find his favourite food.

Never interrupt him eating,

Or he’ll think you’re very rude!

Do not fear that he’ll attack you

As he cannot throw a punch;

He will just be feeling cranky

That you’ve spoiled his lovely lunch!

 

Since his home he carries with him,

He will never mind the rain

And if anything should scare him,

He just goes inside again!

You will look in vain for footprints

But you’ll see his silver trail.

Do you think you know his name now . . . ?

Yes, you’ve got it! . . . Mr Snail!

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5
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It’s a Long Way to the Top When You are Born a Snail!

by Stephen Whiteside

 

It’s hard to rock and roll a lot

When you are born a snail.

My goo connects me to this spot.

I know it looks a bit like snot,

But lose it, and I fail.

I’d like to twist and jump and leap.

Alas, it’s not my thing.

All I ever do is creep.

I’ll handle inclines very steep,

But don’t ask me to sing!

I cannot hold a microphone,

Or handle a guitar.

Speakers, amps, I do not own.

I’m happy munching on my own.

I’ll never be a star.

But if it ever gets too loud,

You yearn for breaking free

From all that rock and rolling crowd,

Remember me, for I’m not proud.

Yes, come and talk to me.

© Stephen Whiteside 05.12.2015

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5

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