Louis, the Giraffe

Louis looked down from the tree,

Which he had climbed in fear,

Looking at a little mouse,

Who appeared to be too near.

He hugged the tree with all his might,

Too frightened to climb down,

The mouse just calmly stayed there,

Not moving, making no sound.

The mouse looked up at the giraffe,

Who was clinging to this tree,

And asked, “What are you afraid of?

You’re four million times bigger than me.”

Louis moved a little higher,

Wishing the mouse would leave,

So that he could climb back down,

And his self-esteem retrieve.

The mouse got bored and scurried off,

Leaving the giraffe alone,

Louise quickly climbed down the tree,

And galloped all the way home.

Give Blessings

Bless the firemen and volunteers,

Who fight for us when we’re in trouble,

Who risk their lives unselfishly,

Encountering flames and often rubble.

The work is hard, very physical,

The stress and adrenalin unseen,

The task at hand very demanding,

And it’s all in, nothing in-between.

They are the unsung heroes,

Who give hope to everyone,

We should honour and appreciate,

Everything they do and have done.

Fire, Fire.

It’s getting hot,

The sun is out,

Wind is blowing,

There’s smoke about.

Temperature’s high,

Warnings given,

Firemen out,

By fires are driven.

Communities gathered,

In support of all,

Souls are united,

To cushion a fall.

Let us pray,

That all is well,

And we can return,

No tragic story to tell.

Remembrance Day,

Ever in our hearts,

Minute of silence observed,

Every year at the eleventh hour, day and month,

Marking respect and gratitude,

Being reverent to those

Returned soldiers,

And those who lost their lives.

Never forgetting their sacrifice,

Commemorating their achievements,

Embracing a universal loss.

Defending home and country,

And human rights and more,

Yet always striving for peace, not war.

Grandpa Joe had been to war,

Many years ago,

And he shared many stories,

With his grandson Billy Joe.

He told him of the friends he’d made,

Whilst serving in the war,

Of how they’d fought and survived,

And loved life even more.

He spoke of bombs and weapons,

Of trenches and terrain,

Of aeroplanes that flew so low,

That the noise drove him insane.

Of many nights that knew no sleep,

Of many days which saw no relief,

He spoke of devastation,

And of God and his belief.

He spoke of the heat, during the day,

And of the bitter cold at night,

Of always feeling hungry,

And to this no end in sight.

Of fighting shrubs and narrow paths,

Of mosquitoes high and low,

Of crawling on his belly,

To strike another blow.

He remembered the weight of his rifle,

As he carried it close to his chest,

Of shots that were constantly ringing,

As they pushed forward, getting no rest.

He spoke of the wounded and dying,

Of the sadness and loss that he felt,

Of the fear and adrenalin pumping,

And of the air and how it had smelt.

Billy Joe listened intently,

To what he had to say,

And thought his grandpa was the best,

In each and every way.

Toni Newell

Creating  Poetry

Some wear their heart on their sleeve,

Whilst others invest in words,

Sometimes in the form of poetry,

Allowing themselves to be heard.

Taking the opportunity,

To sift through muddled thoughts,

Seeking a type of clarity,

Words on a page that are caught.

Then harnessing the words,

Forming some sort of order,

Making sense of them all,

Before gluing them together.

And, when it is finished,

Words cast in cement,

Sentiment and message delivered,

Produce a passage that’s relevant.

Writing

Writing represents to me

Reflections on paper,

Inspirations shared,

Tremendous satisfaction,

Intersecting thoughts,

Noting concepts with order,

Giving form to random ideas

Our Council gives us three bins,

Each has a special calling,

The red top is for general waste,

And the yellow for recycling.

And then we have the green bin,

That recycles plants and trees,

Egg shells and food scraps,

Organic waste and leaves.

The green bin is my favourite,

Because it’s nature’s gold,

Mulched and used as compost,

Its benefits unfold.

In the fortnight that it’s waiting,

For collection to take place,

In warmer months the process starts,

At a faster pace.

Lift the lid and feel and smell,

The heat as it meets the air,

And you will know that your green waste,

Won’t be going to waste elsewhere.

Snails emerging to greet the spring,

Now enjoy its offering,

And gardens bright and succulent,

Invite them all to come,

Leaving holes in many leaves,

Sun comes up and they are gone.