Poetry For Kids

Hello and welcome to a page of poetry written for younger readers. If you are a child, parent, teacher, or simply someone who enjoys children's poetry, I would really like to know what you think of these poems - any feedback would be very welcome. If you have any comments please get in touch via the contact page - use the 'contact' button on the main menu - and I will respond to all messages left.



ONE AND ONLY

I rarely ever mention it —
that I’m an only child.
It’s something now I don’t admit
’cause other kids get riled.

They sneer and say ‘I bet you’re spoiled!’
without the slightest proof.
I’d argue but my version’s foiled
for no one wants the truth.

Do they really think it’s fun
when one fledgling in the nest
is the focus of both Dad and Mum
with not a moment’s rest ?

There’s no chance to hide among the crowd
of siblings to distract
parents whose demands are loud
and frequent. It’s a fact

too much attention is a curse
it comes at a huge cost —
a ton of pressure, and what’s worse
few chances to get lost.

If only there were more than me
I’ve often said to Mother
we’re only half a family —
I need at least one brother!

AT THE COURT OF THE GOBLIN KING

Extract taken from: A History of the ancient Goblin Tribes in the time of
Thurstane the Beneficent and his descendants, as chronicled by Perinth
Griswold, Master Rhymer and Keeper of the King’s Library.

‘I need someone special to love me
so steal me a beautiful maid —
an exquisite, ethereal creature
as pure as an angel’s portrayed’

So his minions sent out a party
to scour the lands in their quest
to discover and kidnap forever
a virgin so awesomely blessed

They were gone from his court for a season
so Winter had softened to Spring
while he paced up and down quite distracted
there was no one could comfort the king

At last came the news of a capture
and the goblins made ready to greet
those raiders returning triumphant
with the maid deemed incredibly sweet

The castle was cleaned floor to ceiling
and bright welcome banners flew high
while the king in his wedding suit waited
with a fierce yearning look in his eye

They arrived with a fanfare of trumpets
and loud shouts from the crowd on the wall
with the king sat alone in his throne room
while a sumptuous feast filled the hall

They carried the cage that contained her
and placed it with care at his feet
for destiny rode on such moments
when two contrasting natures would meet

He peered through the bars at his captive
judged her face undeniably pure
and found it beyond expectations
thus he shivered, his reasons unsure

Gazes locked so unflinchingly steady
that he felt her look into his soul
so she knew every horror well-hidden
and how evil will take its grim toll

Then regaining his royal composure
he demanded she tell him her name
she replied he could call her whatever he wished
for she’d answer him always the same

Perplexed by her perfect composure
he called for the key to unlock
the chains that so cruelly restrained her
his concession then met with a shock

She stretched to full height in a second
unfurling magnificient wings
and smiled at his startled expression —
the awe such enlightenment brings

He was smitten — converted by goodness
he felt like a spirit reborn
and the lines in his face carved by meanness
were smoothed to a skin slightly worn

She stayed for a year in his kingdom
overseeing the changes he made
he absorbed every word of her wisdom
as the warm spread of light banished shade

None could doubt he’d been touched by an angel
what he’d wished for had strangely come true
though not quite in the way he’d forseen it —
how all was transformed and made new

They sent a young girl from the village
a human who willingly came
for she’d heard some report from an angel
that the king lacked an heir to his name

and he longed for a wife freely given
not a conquest or slave, but a mate
a pairing of souls matched in Heaven
drawn close by the kindness of Fate

The maiden was all he had dreamed of
she saw he’d grown tender and wise
and all of his kingdom was peaceful
as it basked beneath untroubled skies

Their wedding took place in midsummer
on a flower-decked evening in June
every soul in the realm celebrated
in the all-seeing light of the moon

Among special guests that attended
the king spied a sweet welcome face —
his angel had come with her blessing
of happiness, goodness and grace

Then year followed year of contentment
spread like a balm through the land
two princes and triplet princesses
brought joy — more than ever was planned

In the dust-laden annals of legend
strange stories once heard are retold
all those tales of magicians and dragons
who guard long-lost treasures of gold

There are witches and fairies and monsters
heroes — brave knights by the score
leprechauns, mermaids and werewolves
perpetrators of mystical lore

The pages are haunted by fable
for who knows what lies hidden from view? —
and those who are certain it’s fiction
might miss the faint bell that rings true ...

Written here is the story of Thurstane
a goblin for all of his sins
who loved, and was loved by an angel
thus his road to redemption begins

For Love conquers all in the classics
both in life and in legends of old
the true meaning is what really matters
gleaming rare as a grain of pure gold

NASTIE BEASTIE GUIDE

Murks shrink down small — they’re
shy as moles. They like
the dark and lurk in
holes, are seldom heard
much less often seen

It’s said they mostly
tend to be blind and
dumb, and easily
recognised by their
ghastly shade of green

Whereas the Frite is
hulky-black and prone
to glare — then attack
suddenly because
he’s horribly mean

While Ghules can be just
any size — they’re grey
and have the oddest
eyes you ever saw
truly quite obscene

Worse Nastie Beasties
there are few who scare
as much as these three
do — so best beware
they all lack hygiene

THE LEGEND OF THE TREE, THE CROW, AND THE
MOON

Once, a seed from a strange tree
grew crookedly and fast
it spooked the birds who came
so they mostly fluttered past

except for one old crow
who settled in a crook
pecking at the bark
and baleful was his look

The twisted tree stayed bare
no buds for Spring to break
the crow unmated sat
in hunched and lonely state

until a blue moon shone
and silvered each blind twig
the crow held up a wing
his feathered heart grown big

He opened up his beak
and sang for all he’s worth
the notes rose crystal clear
then drifted back to earth

and where they fell there sprang
moonflowers ghostly pale
while that old crow was changed
to the first nightingale

The tree, too, was transformed
and trailed its branches long
a graceful willow now
that wept to hear his song

SPIDER SANDWICHES

A Recipe from Witch Flybynight’s Compendium
of Tasty Picnic Treats & Games

Use mouldy brown bread
with sprinkled green flies
add toasted spiders
with shiny black eyes
as crunchy surprise!

Toss in fried moth wings
according to taste
six sundried earth worms
ground fine with no waste
spread thick cobweb paste

Some prefer wasp stings
to pepper things up
but just a smidgin —
a half acorn cup
is quite hot enough

Or drizzled earwig
a beetle designed
with a sharp flavour
plus pincers behind
the nippiest kind

Best served at picnics
on old tree stumps laid
with spindly toadstools
and deadly nightshade
in some gloomy glade

SNOWBERRY SECRETS

Snowberries dangle
in dwindling light
the shortest day blends
with oncoming night
as midwife moon sends

her beams through the hedge
where berries bulge pale
gleam spectrally white
the birthing begins
when the moment’s right

A shiver runs through
they split — from each one
a snow-elf unfurls
hatched out from its egg
stick-limbed boys and girls

who scramble away
their chatter like rain
that patters on leaves
dissolving the same
into Winter’s trees

The snowberries hang
their now-empty skins
a peeping moon sees
woods springing alive
with magick’s wild things

SEEDS OF THOUGHT

I planted me a pretzel tree
and contrary to doubt
it grew a purple coconut
and one blue brussel sprout

It flowered once in late July
beneath a yellow moon
the seedpod swelled and floated free
a brightly pink balloon

It flew so high and far away
but somewhere I suppose
it landed safely — over there
a pretzel forest grows

along with onion bushes tall
red liquorice beans among
the toffee plants and minty fern
that springs up smelling strong

I’ve ordered me an allsorts tree
half rhubarb hazel-green
its spotted leaves part apricot
or dayglo tangerine

I dream an orchard all my own
and hope one day to see
rare parsnip-ivy clamber round
my prickly pretzel tree

THE BUG COLLECTOR

From an early age
Jack captured small things
that crawled in or flew
with a whirr of wings
round his attic room

Kept in rows of jars
his collection grew
these strange creepy pets
like an insect zoo
hid well out of sight

or Mother would say
such creatures must go
she couldn’t abide
bugs of any kind
so no one could know

He fed them at night
made friends while she slept
gave names to each one
he’d chat — they just ate
behaved like bugs do

The more that Jack learned
the wild life appealed
and from reports heard
he’s sharing a home
in grasshopper’s field

THE DRAGON IMAGINES HE’S REAL

There are many who have doubted
I existed long ago
they shake their heads and argue
for there’s little left to show
no fossil that belongs to me
as large compelling proof
I trod the world and legends do
in fact record the truth

I’m famous as a monster
fit to frighten any child
pure fantasy’s my country
drawn mysterious and wild
while reality forbids me
to trespass — show my face
I’m not actually allowed here —
I’m supposed to know my place

But there’s times when I get restless
and then take the risk to roam
and should someone chance to spot me
strayed away from hearth and home
it’s rather awkward to deny it
but it comes as no surprise
even though they recognise me
they simply can’t believe their eyes!

Oh, there’s stacks of books about me
and artists often paint
pictures that are really
quite flattering and quaint
I’m so pleased they take the trouble
to get all the details right
you would think they’d seen a photo
not a fancy in full flight ...

There’s the very odd occasion
that some soul the worse for drink
staggers through my lonely wood
and sees ... well, who’d you think?
all fired up with boozy courage
he’ll give me a cheery wave
like he’s used to seeing dragons
and it’s normal to behave

with such nonchalance when passing
near the lair of a huge beast
where the air is hot with ashes
yet drunks seldom show the least
concern that I might eat them
they tend to hum along or sing
and I imagine come the morning
that they don’t recall a thing!

It’s frustrating for a monster
to be so easily ignored
when I’d like to feel there’s someone
who just might be overawed
enough to shout and run away —
to make a bit of fuss
I’m old and rare and what is more
I am the last of us!

But while I’d welcome some attention
I’ve no burning wish to be
some historical attraction
featured on the BBC
and subject to invasion
like the nation’s treasured pet
with a tour guide as my keeper
and an over-friendly vet —

No! My lifestyle’s strictly private
as the legends clearly state
and the glare of cheap publicity
is something dragons hate!
While a nod in veneration
just a quietly-held esteem
would touch and heal my wounded pride
and satisfy my dream ...

So, dear reader — I appeal to you
please muse upon the thought
there’s stranger creatures walk this world
than sober men have caught
and those who doubt should pause awhile —
cut fairytales some slack
and admit the possibility
that I’m a living fact

SQUIGGLETS IN THE TRAYTIPS

Thay loop a boot as hie as burds
swim brinch-tie-brinch all fevver-lite
end pluffly-taled its longth uncurd
thay seam a hippy ployful site

The traytips bond wid eddy bries
so squigglets hab to hinge reel tite
yooze all for lambs end clunch there nees
two stip frum fulling frum sich hite

Thay clum lick hurry muntinears
no rupes to kitch ’em shud thay muss
the brinch thay loop four — no-no feers
thees bundlefuls of furrinuss

Wee huld hour broth two see there loop
and prey thay niver comb two greef
thees lottle squigglets blundly skoop
yacht sumhow hinged two twog end leef

Lung mayday rumble threw wold wuds
end ploy amung thee okes groan hie
ot worms our huts end liturns muds
two wutch thay skimble — almist flie

OF WHATNOTS AND THIN GUMMIES

Whatnots are potshots thought fuzzy and funny
Thin Gummies scream pink head to toe
Doodahs prove hopeless when counting up money
and Whosits seem raring to go

Some might well consider their Doodahs quite zippy
but Whatnots fly faster by far
Thin Gummies, though lazy, pretend to be nippy
while Whosits sneak rides in the car

The Youno is changeable — just like the weather
and seldom means all that is said
when Whosits and Doodahs line tightly together
then clear conversation’s near-dead

When Sumfin Oruvver takes over the scene
then Doodahs can’t get in a word
Thin Gummies all choke till their gills turn bright green
and the Whatnots pretend they’ve not heard

Lastly, the Um-Err who fills awkward gaps
when the figure of speech can’t be found
Thin Gummies are terribly timid old chaps
so most likely won’t utter a sound

The tongue waits in silence when searching the mind
for that Whatnot that’s lost its true name
but the choice is all Doodahs — the best one can find
and an Um-Err don’t fit quite the same

IN TUMS OF TRABBLE

Go tell the wise squibbits
confur with sum rabbles
they understand sorewits
they know a boot trabbles

Their treedom is fullov
displasta and dinger
weld buddies all singov
how grass still grows springer

Loaf’s sarnie half rainboots
but cluds burst unkeeping
forlong there are sunshoots
and budbits shy-peeping

Then squibbits clam hippy
wirst trabbles blown other
the rabbles bunce skippy
grub munchfuls of cluvver

YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT

There was once an old aunt
who swallowed a plant —
an enormous aspidistra
when they asked her how
she was feeling now
she could only groan and whisper

Though it wasn’t bad —
not the worst she’d had
when it comes to vegetation
she was pretty sure
that it wouldn’t cure
either gout or constipation

And in future she
would act carefully
to avoid aphids and frostbite
and keep by choice
bug-free while moist
as she bent towards the sunlight

FROST REPORT

I have drawn the curtains
and shut out the night
but I still can feel
how the frost gleams bright

How it seals the rooves
and locks fast the ground
how it clamps sheer cold
till no warmth is found

How it presses thin
on each blade of grass
till they glitter sharp
like they’re made of glass

How it suffocates
steals each puffing breath
with a clinging chill
and a quick clean death

Tucked tight in featherbed
covers to my chin
Jack Frost just outside
spreading winter whitening

A YOUNG GROWER’S GUIDE

Take some seeds
from a packet
plant them in a
plastic pot
water them
just a little
a splash or two
but not a lot

Then be patient
watch them daily
as they slowly
start to grow
first a shoot
that breaks the surface
then a leaf
unfurling so

green and neat
a baby seedling
then maybe
a dozen more
all the same
shape and colour
gradually
begin to show

Every day
a little taller
a centimeter
at a time
ever upwards
drawn to sunlight
steadily
the seedlings climb

getting bigger
growing stronger
till it’s crowded
in the pot
then it’s best to
separate them
give them room
to spread and not

have to push
and shove each other
maybe squash
a smaller one
who in a clump
might wilt or smother
because they cannot
feel the sun

Once they’ve grown
quite tall and hardy
it’s time for them
to live outside
a sheltered corner
of the garden
with the bees
and butterflies

Guard them well
from slugs and snails
and any beast
that will devour
young and fresh
and tasty leaves
before they have
the chance to flower

Time and effort
is rewarded
once they’re finally
full grown
and you’ll feel
that sense of wonder
when the buds
burst into bloom

There is magic
in seed packets
if you know
the growing spell —
a pot of earth
a splash of water
plus a little love
as well

LET IT SNOW!

They lingered by the window
both keen to see the first
tiny flake some tumbling down
to kiss the patient earth

They waited there quite certain
the forecast would be right
the sky held promise of a spell
to turn the world to white

Drab clouds hung low and heavy
no breath of wind was heard
all Nature hushed and ready
each tree, wild beast and bird

The children’s chatter muted
their noses pressed to glass
and urging-on the weather
as empty minutes passed

The day dragged slow ’til evening
drew in and lights went on
blinds shutting out the darkness
all chance of snow seemed gone

When supper time was over
the Christmas story read
they said goodnight to parents
then up the stairs to bed

They lay awake and whispered
wondering if he’d know
that it was Christmas Eve despite
the lack of promised snow

But they hooked two festive stockings
on their bedposts, fingers crossed
that even though the night was dark
his sleigh would not get lost

and Father Christmas would arrive
the minute they’re asleep
so off to dreamland made their way
without one further peep

***

Out in the garden all was still
each leaf grew crisp with rime
then like confetti floating down
a few flakes at a time

the snow appeared and settled light
laid carpets sparkling new
across the lawn, along the lane
the fields and woods all through

So when they woke the room was full
of that reflected glow
which only comes with Winter’s gift —
a dazzling fall of snow

Flinging wide their frosted window
overjoyed by such a sight
they chorused ‘Happy Christmas!’
to a flawless world of white

THE ORPHAN’S PRAYER

Dear Jesus, if it’s possible
please grant one wish I pray
for a mother kind and caring
as a gift on Christmas day

And maybe a foster father
if that’s not asking for too much
and I swear I’ll be a good son
love and honour them and such ...

Oh, I know there’s other children
more deserving in your sight
and perhaps I haven’t done enough
to think I have the right

to even ask when, truth to say
the people here aren’t bad
but I so-wish for a family
and the lack makes me feel sad

There’s lots of children just like me
through no fault of their own
are orphaned by the hand of Fate
and end up in a home

that cares for us the best it can
and I should not complain
I’m fed and clothed and given toys
yet it’s simply not the same

as having somewhere you belong —
a feeling you fit in
with brothers, sisters, cousins all
warm-hearted, welcoming ...

You knew a mother’s love, dear Lord
your childhood guided through
by one good father here on earth
and one in Heaven, too

So, I’m kneeling close beside your crib
hands pressed in simple prayer
dear Jesus — are you listening?
Might you have one wish to spare?

THE WONKIES

Once there was a wonky man
who had a wonky wife
and a scruffy wonky dog
and they lived a wonky life

He had a wonky shop
selling wonky wooden toys
for wonky little girls
and wonky little boys

Their wonky cottage close
beside a wonky stream
he smoked his wonky pipe
and dreamed a wonky dream

The wonky dream came true
and he won a wonky prize
in the wonky lottery
it was super-wonky size

So the lucky wonky man
plus his dog and wonky wife
sold their wonky cottage home
and they changed their wonky life

Three whole wonky years went by
and in their wonky course
the wonky couple got
a wonky-type divorce

The old wonky man goes on
making wonky rhubarb wine
his ex-wonky-wife now gone
but their wonky dog’s just fine

That’s the very wonky end
of this wonky little verse
and the wonky moral is
wonky luck can make life worse

TICKETY-TICKETY-TOCK

Tickety-tickety-tock
there’s a ghost in the grandfather clock
count one - two - three
when you wind the key
hear his hands go knock - knock – knock

WEE WILLIE WINKIE (The Other One)

Wee Willie Winkie
didn’t like his name
embarrassed by the sound of it
he hung his head in shame

and cried “No, no — that isn’t me
it’s surely someone other
I never run about the town
it’s most probably my brother

you’re thinking of — a foolish chap
who in his nightgown goes
up and down the street and raps
on everyone’s windows

I’m not the boy you think you saw
but excuse me while I climb
those wooden hills to Bedfordshire
it’s way past noddytime!”

THE WHO’S WHO ALPHABET

A is for Annie who’s awfully sweet
B is for Billy who has two left feet
C is for Catherine whose father is rich
D is for Dennis whose grandma’s a witch
E is for Edward who’s frightfully posh
F is for Frank who in fact needs a wash
G is for Gina who’s clever and kind
H is for Harry who won’t change his mind
I is for Isabel who likes to sew
J is for Jake who’s a pleasure to know
K is for Kitty who’s keen to climb trees
L is for Lily who’s frightened of bees
M is for Marmaduke who’s always fun
N is for Nancy who worships the sun
O is for Owen who’s mad about bikes
P is for Pattie who everyone likes
Q is for Quentin who’s brilliant at Art
R is for Rachel who’s modest but smart
S is for Sasha who tends to be shy
T is for Toby who often asks why
U is for Unity who’s a good sport
V is for Vance who’s too quick to get caught
W is for Wendy who daydreams a lot
X is for Xanda whose photo she’s got
Y is for Yasmin who can be quite vain
Z is for Zena whose real name is Jane

THE COW AND THE CANARY

The brown cow in the cowshed
gave a melancholy moo
all her sisters gone to market
left her no one to talk to

So she stared out of the doorway
and the sadness in her throat
bubbled up — a song of protest —
one repeated solemn note

In the kitchen of the farmhouse
a canary in a cage
heard the cow and twittered sweetly
a short sympathetic phrase

The cow was charmed completely
and she trotted out to find
who’d answered her — who owned that voice
so wonderfully kind

In the yard she found a bullfrog
who thought it a poor joke
when she inquired if he could sing
he gave a sulky croak

Closeby a little mallard duck
gave a dismissive quack
when asked the same he looked quite cross
and turned his ruffled back

A piglet snouting through his trough
when questioned by the cow
let out a high-pitched squeal of mirth
then ran to tell the sow

A sheepdog lazing in the sun
squinted with one dull eye
‘I cannot sing’ he told the cow
and gave a wistful sigh

The farmyard cat ignored the cow
annoyed she had been asked
too busy washing paws and face
intent upon her task

The chickens scattered — ran away
clucked madly to and fro
their noise enough to demonstrate
all she had need to know

Grey donkey brayed — hee-haw hee-haw
the old goat bleated slow
in a far field a pony neighed
the cock gave a loud crow

Cow tried her most melodious moo
in hope she still might hear
the sweet reply just like before
sheer music to her ear

Then from the farmhouse window came
the same song’s perfect trill
so clear and pure Cow ventured close —
leaned in across the sill

They sang together — a duet
where cheerful yellow blends
with deep brown tones — a quirky set
of vocalizing friends

THE LATE COLONEL

The late colonel Wilberforce Edward Carruthers
had seventeen children, four wives and six brothers
he’d countless odd cousins, plus kin by the score
a large number far-flung, so were unmet before
his untimely demise — a freak accident one
hard-bit Autumn morning whilst cleaning his gun

Quite alone in the tack room (close-by was his horse)
he checked out his shooter most carefully of course
unaware it was loaded so got a surprise
when the lead caught him cleanly and Death closed his eyes
his horse — a big hunter — stomped loud in his stall
but nobody heard back at Tinderwood Hall

On the day of the funeral the whole Carruthers clan
they gathered there almost complete to a man
plus friends and old colleagues from his regiment
(with sackfuls of telegrams regretfully sent)
moved in their great army like ants swarming black —
eighty cars in a convoy down the drive’s muddy track

to a huge mausoleum where the family bones
had for ten generations been ritually thrown
and mouldered unmourned among cobwebs and bats
playing host to grave beetles and visiting rats
and now the late colonel ahead of his time
attends the last party he just couldn’t decline

Hence his seventeen children, six brothers, four wives
fight over the silverware — spoons, forks and knives
their bones of contention all par for the course
over who gets the Bentley and who claims the horse
a few folk hang around but they soon see the joke —
it was all a facade — the poor colonel was broke

He is much better off in his chill marble tomb
than old Tinderwood Hall with its world-weary gloom
away from his kids and his four nagging wives
with their maintenance claims and their blood-sucking lives
if there’s one end untied that his ghost might regret
it’s the friend left behind — for his horse survives yet

SPIDER SENSE
(The Real Story of Miss Muffet)

One day Lucy met a spider
who was big as a small dog
she said ‘Good morning’ quite politely
‘Are you comfy on that log?’

‘Maybe I could sit beside you
if you moved along a bit’
The spider shifted sideways so
the pair of them would fit

‘Oh, isn’t it a lovely day
to rest awhile and chat?’
The spider chewed this over
but he didn’t answer that

Instead he pulled a thread of silk
from somewhere underneath
then concentrated looping it
around a nearby leaf

Lucy watched him as he worked
methodical and slow
she prattled on ... the spider wished
that she’d get bored and go

He wasn’t feeing sociable
no taste for conversation
his only interest was in flies
and insect preservation

But Lucy couldn’t take a hint
she hardly paused for breath
the spider prayed for calm but soon
he’d little patience left

In one quick move he wound her round
without much of a fight
she hung there speechless — so surprised
he’d gagged her good and tight

He left her where she would be found
dangling in the quiet
dead lucky he’d decided on
a strictly child-free diet

TEN LITTLE CHRISTMAS TREES

Ten little Christmas trees
beside a FOR SALE sign
Suzy bought the tallest one
so then there were nine

Nine little Christmas trees
standing proud and straight
Nigel picked the middle one
which left an even eight

Eight little Christmas trees
stretching towards Heaven
Clara chose the first in line
and then there were seven

Seven little Christmas trees
who rubbed their chilly sticks
when Bobby carried one away
then they were down to six

Six little Christmas trees
all glad to be alive
and happy when the next was sold
to Jane — so there were five

Five little Christmas trees
where once there’d been five more
another went to Jane’s friend Jack
the trees now numbered four

Four little Christmas trees
as eager as can be
Lucy fetched one for her Gran
reducing them to three

Three Little Christmas trees
quite suddenly seemed few
till Timothy snapped up one third
and there remained just two

Two little Christmas trees
each wondering which one
would be the last — all on their own
until there might be none

Late Christmas Eve a lady stopped
and took the matching pair
she purchased both so neither was
left sad and lonely there

And that’s how those ten little trees
found homes so warm and bright
with parcels piled around their feet
one magic Christmas night

THE ADVENTURES OF HARRY

A hamster named Harry one midsummer night
escaped from his cage by the moon’s helpful light
he sniffed and he chewed at odd things on the floor
then led by his nose slipped away out the door

He bounced down the stairs like a soft furry ball
and rolled to a halt in the shadow-filled hall
where old Ginger the mongrel was curled in a heap
one beady eye open the other asleep

Now Harry and Ginger were both shocked to be
caught quite unprepared for such strange company
the dog growled a warning, the hamster just sped
away like a rocket — one thought in his head

to find his way back to his warm little nest
this was too much adventure — he needed a rest!
While old Ginger, aware what a guard dog should be
considered his options, then trailed wearily

to where Harry sat by the first polished stair
unable to grip on the wood waxed and bare
and he gave a small squeek like a last hopeless prayer
as old Ginger arrived and observed his despair

There was no one about and so no one to see
that wordless exchange — their agreed strategy
old Ginger let Harry climb on to his back
then carried him up and returned him intact

Of couse no one saw — there was no one about
but according to Ginger there’s really no doubt
every detail is true — Harry broke out of jail
and the rest is the best kind of Shaggy Dog tale

THE ANT AND THE AARDVARK

An ant and an aardvark
bumped noses one day
said the ant to the aardvark
‘please move out my way’

the aardvark, offended
warned ‘I was here first
and I’m bigger than you
so come on — do your worst!’

Ant was annoyed now
bit Aardvark’s big toe
who surprisingly agilely
hopped to and fro

With real tears in his eyes
and a catch in his voice
said ‘I’m terribly sorry
you’ve left me no choice ...’

Then he stomped on the ant
squashed the small creature flat
sighing went on his way
thinking that would be that

But it wasn’t. Ant’s family
came in their hordes
hellbent on revenge
with its empty rewards

The aardvark was sleeping
he woke with a start
someone was knocking
thump-thump went his heart

He opened his door
the ant army poured through
the whole floor was alive
but he knew what to do

With one practised flick
of his long sticky tongue
he gathered them up
every furious one

Then he remembered
his vow not to eat
anything crawling
that might be termed ‘meat’

Too late for those ants
sucked down in his tum
too late for regrets
over what he’d just done

So he phoned the AA*            *Anteaters Anonymous
and admitted his crime
they said ‘all right
it’s a fifty quid fine

‘for lapsed vegetarians —
pay up today
and lay off the ants
it’s the healthier way’

A cold shiver crept
along his bowed neck
as Aardvark sent off
a bankrupting cheque

Now he keeps his nose clean
won’t upset any nests
or small insect homes
for his new interests

are in conservation
and learning about
rare species of ant
so they won’t be wiped out

PIGEON POST

Winging homewards — just the one
tired pigeon who the guns near-missed
his thinned tail feathers tattered now
by bullets this bird bravely risked

The battlefield left miles behind —
the smoke and screams of brutal men
he seeks the landmarks that he knows
will point the way due west again

He’s flagging, hungry, blown off course
and yet his instincts still work true
he presses on as if he knows
the information must get through

So on and on across the sea
while salt winds batter — flip and toss
until a well-known coastline shows
then down and down to find his loft

Home safe at last, familiar hands
from round his leg remove the ring
his duty done, he’s fed at last
before sleep folds its welcome wing

PLANNING AHEAD

I know my numbers —
yes, I do
I know that one plus one
make two
and two and two always
make four
and I can count to ten
or more

After that
it gets quite tough
but every day I learn
more stuff
and I’ll be clever —
just you wait
until I’m seven
or maybe eight ...

I will surprise you all
                                because
I plan to be a genius!

PUPPY DOG

Puppy dog, puppy dog
there’s blood on your tongue
you followed your master —
the man with the gun

Puppy dog, puppy dog
why go with him
when the heart of a killer’s
so callous and grim?

Puppy dog, puppy dog
come stay with me —
here’s a bed by the fire
and a bone for your tea

Puppy dog, puppy dog
you’re blameless it’s true
so don’t go with the hunter —
that’s no life for you

SISTER MARY

While sister Mary grew quite hairy
Dad gradually went bald
the winter sun burns twice as bright
when morning’s crisp and cold

Opposites attract they say
so why do people fight?
does it suggest their day’s been bad
when someone says ‘Goodnight’?

Too many things don’t make much sense
and seem to contradict
life’s often one big puzzle and
some pieces won’t quite fit

Sometimes we simply have to find
a way to understand
then compromise — adapt and learn
and fix what things we can

So Mary shaved her arms and legs
we’re really glad she did
and after much persuasion Dad
gave in and bought a wig

THE COOKIE THIEF

He climbed in through the window
he gave her quite a fright
she stood in the dark doorway
his figure bathed in light

and she saw how thin and hungry
how pale and drawn his face
as he crept about her kitchen
as though he knew the place

She didn’t break the silence
she never said a word
to challenge or rebuke him
but listened and she heard

him sigh with satisfaction
when he found the cookie tin
prised off the lid so quietly
and found what was within

Fresh-baked that very morning
the smell of chocolate rose
to stimulate the taste buds
and lure the lover’s nose

He took one from the barrel
his rapture growing dim
he stopped as though reminded
it made a thief of him

His hesitation lengthened
she coughed and gave a smile
her nodded invitation
allowed him stay awhile

She must have lost the moment
when the dawn so sudden comes
he was gone and on the table
just a scattering of crumbs

Her heart felt strangely humble
glad to feed a starving stray
so she started preparations
for another baking day

MULTIPLICATION

One little rabbit found
some dandelions to chew
he asked a lady friend to lunch
so then there were two

Two little rabbits munched
quite happily till tea
a cousin came to share the bunch
their party now was three

Three contented rabbits flopped
too full to eat much more
a passing baby bunny stopped
which made it up to four

Four playful rabbits saw
another one arrive
who sniffed about and ran and hopped
so then we counted five

Five nibbling rabbits chopped
the long grass into bits
when from a hole a nose appeared —
bunny number six

Six (or half a dozen) buns
romped the summer through
and when they’d finished having fun
they totalled thirty-two

Thirty-two by late July
their furry number grew
for they know how to multiply
so that’s what rabbits do!

MUMMY’S LITTLE ANGEL

Sally’s mummy’s always sick
Sally’s mummy’s ill
Sally’s mummy’s pale and thin
she’s on a lot of pills

Sally takes good care of her
she does most of the chores
while Sally’s mummy stays in bed
and hardly goes outdoors

Sally does the shopping and
she cooks and cleans the house
she looks so tired and rarely smiles
she’s twitchy as a mouse

when anybody mentions it
she swears that things are fine
she’s so sensible and grown-up
they forget she’s only nine

Sally has no time for games
she doesn’t get to play
or hang around with other kids
she’s busy night and day

For Sally’s mummy’s poorly
and though Sally does her best
it’s hard to cope all by herself
she needs a proper rest

Her mummy calls her ‘angel’
but even angels need a break
it’s time somebody lent a hand
for simple kindness sake

Meanwhile Sally carries on
pretends she hasn’t heard
the whispers ‘...not our business but
shouldn’t someone have a word?’

MUTUAL BENEFITS

‘I was born beneath a hedge —
I’m wild and free’ the kitten said
‘I have no master — no real home
go where I please — I simply roam
from place to place. I beg and steal
or hunt to get myself a meal’

The old man nodded. ‘Fair enough —
you seem content (his voice was gruff)
It’s late — you’d best be on your way
Nice chatting to you ... so, Good day’
With that he made as if to go
the lonesome kitten miaowed low

The old man turned and gave a smile
‘But if you’ve a mind to stay awhile
you’d have a bed, your own blue dish
a drop of milk, a bite of fish
and in return you’d give to me
the pleasure of your company’

The kitten paused ... considering
what the old man was offering
purred loud and rubbed against his hand
‘I’d still be free, you understand
to come and go — I need to roam ...’
then followed his new master home

OLD KING COLE — The Real Story

Old King Cole
wasn’t really so merry
sometimes he smiled
but that wasn’t very
often because
the truth of it was
he’d spent much of his life
with an unhappy wife

Old Queen Cole
was a sorrowful soul
quite melancholy
and not inclined to be jolly
though the fiddlers three
played as cheerful as can be
it only made her cry
and no one dared ask why

It seemed the time was ripe
to call for King Cole’s pipe
the baccy was cut rough
but the Queen gave it a puff
then miraculously laughed
like her moody fit was past
and since then there’s never been
a better tempered King and Queen

LADY MIRANDA ZULEIKA MALONY

Lady Miranda Zuleika Malony
rode seventeen rounds
on her son’s polo pony
the crowd were astounded
and let out a roar
when on the eighteenth
she was thrown to the floor

For the pony had bucked
when a rabbit ran by
and Lady Malony
her head in the sky
and enjoying the dizzying
wave of applause
lay stunned in the dust
unaware of the cause

Now the rabbit
as rabbits are likely to do
disappeared down a hole
just the pony knew who
had frightened it so
that it reared and threw off
its rider whose landing
was so far from soft

Poor Lady Malony
was bruised head to foot
there wasn’t an inch
she could comfortably put
back in the saddle
yet remount she did
all the pain and discomfort
determinedly hid

How the audience cheered
as she trotted away
and she went on to win
the best round of the day

LITTLE MAN

I saw a very little man
down by the shallow brook
when he saw me watching
how his tiny body shook

No taller than a toadstool
just three short inches high
he turned pale as the blossom
but he looked me in the eye

‘No need to be frightened’
I told him speaking plain
‘I would never, ever hurt you
so please do come again’

He vanished in a moment
disappeared from view
and if he had a name, well
I sadly never knew

I searched for him each morning
all that lazy summer long
maybe he didn’t trust me
I couldn’t prove him wrong

And now it’s many years ago
I saw that man so small
I kept our secret faithfully
I told no one at all

LOYAL AND TRUE

I love my mum
I love my dad
I love the rabbit
we once had

I loved him right
up to the day
he got sick
and passed away

We all were sad
our Buns was gone
I miss him loads
but life goes on

For pets, like people
age — get ill
and when they die
we love them still

They’re in our thoughts
our whole life through
love is constant
loyal and true

MARY HAD A LITTLE LAMB

Mary had a little lamb
which was a big surprise
it had a long blonde curly coat
and beautiful blue eyes

When Mary called her Minty
she baa’d until near-hoarse
alarmed when anybody said
‘Could someone pass the sauce?’

But Minty grew into a sheep
of admirable proportions
and Mary’s dad insisted that
she must be sent for auction

Though Mary cried, her dad replied
with humour rather rough
think on — she could have other lambs
there’s plenty time enough

Poor Minty overheard their plot
and hatched a cunning plan
she shaved her head, wore glasses
dressed in trousers like a man

Assuming she’d been kidnapped
Mary posted a reward —
HAS ANYBODY SEEN THIS SHEEP?
and interest fairly soared

For most sheep tend to look alike
and the photo wasn’t sharp
but out of focus — poorly shot
and taken in the dark

The phone was red-hot for a month
a goosechase nothing more
while Minty strutted round the field
as manlike as before ...

A year went by and Mary had
another lamb pop through
and without a second thought
she named it Minty too

For Mary was like many girls
who believed in having fun
so when things got broken, old or lost
she’d simply get a brand new one

MOON RABBIT

There’s an old grey rabbit
who lives in the moon
and he counts the stars
as he hums a tune
he works all night
and he sleeps all day
when he’s hungry he nibbles
the edges away

For the moon isn’t cheese
as some legends say
but all shades of yellow
it’s made of fresh hay
that old rabbit chews
as he tots up the score
of heavenly bodies
each night adding more

There right from the start —
the first minute of time
the stairs to the moon
a really tough climb
he hopped and he jumped
then settled in place
ever since when
he’s lived up in space

Growing older and greyer
his shadow spread thin
his ears and his whiskers
his nose and his chin
a pale silhouette
against the moon’s glow
whether happy or sad
the cold stars only know

GRANDMOTHER MURRAY

Old grandmother Murray
ate a plateful of curry
every day for the whole of her life
chopping mice in a hurry
although lumpy and furry
they went well with the tasty brown rice

HUMPTY DUMPTY — An Explanation

Humpty Dumpty
the well-known egg
wore different socks
upon each leg

The left one pink
the right one green
the oddest pair
you’ve ever seen

and when he tried
to change them round
he found he couldn’t
reach the ground

for Humpty Dumpty
wasn’t tall
that’s why he fell
off that high wall

His socks in ruins
stained with yolk
a lesson to
short egg-shaped folk

He just lay there
his shell all cracked
past all repair
unlucky chap

COLIN AND THE TEMPLE OF DOOM

Colin rode into the desert
on his grandma’s rocking chair
with a matchbox in his pocket
that contained a lock of hair

He rocked slow across the sand dunes
strumming on his old guitar
till he reached a ruined temple
nothing living near or far

That old rocking chair was ancient
it had woodworm and dry rot
Colin hadn’t oiled the runners
and the sun burned blinding-hot

Creaking round the fallen temple
he discovered a lost god
partly buried in one corner
upside down — which seemed quite odd

Colin dug him out — so finding
yet another curious thing
a faint hard-to-read inscription
carved upon the stone god’s ring —

I give to him who finds me
my temple and my throne
with just one small proviso —
please don’t leave me here alone!

Well, Colin thought about the offer
but the temple’s run down state
situated close to nowhere
didn’t really sound that great

He shook his head while feeling sorry
for the god so long alone
and said he’d tie the bulky statue
to his chair and drag it home

The extra weight proved way too heavy
the idea doomed from the start
disintegrating into splinters
the wooden rocker split apart

Both were now stuck in the desert —
Colin and the nameless god
in the silence that then followed
every second seemed to plod

“Well, I think I’ll call you Eric”
he addressed the solemn mask
“and it looks like we are scuppered
so I’ll do just as you ask ...”

Then picking up his old guitar
he settled down to play
and legend says that Colin’s ghost
can still be heard today

When the desert wind blows westwards
and the sun is slanting thin
there’s a voice that bellows softly —
it’s god Eric joining in

COUSIN RITA

Our third cousin Rita
bought a brand new egg beater
to whip up a perfect meringue
raising storms in her kitchen
more egg whites she’d pitch in
till the beater blew up with a bang

Life went on much sweeter
without cousin Rita
who often would nag and harangue
her fourth husband Peter
who never once beat her
but buried her without a pang

CROOKED

There was a crooked man
who drove a crooked car
down a very crooked lane
and he hadn’t got too far

when the crooked brakes they failed
so he hit a crooked wall
then found his crooked seatbelt
was no crooked good at all

For he banged his crooked head
and bashed his crooked nose
which bloodied his best shirt
and splashed his crooked clothes

His old crooked doctor gave
some good advice and told him straight
the grave dangers of a crooked car
a few crooked words too late

DOROTHY BIDDLE

Dorothy Biddle
was plump in the middle
yet awfully thin either side
the question was rather
like some kind of riddle —
How and why had she grown
strangely wide?

She played a mean fiddle
did Dorothy Biddle
tucked deep in the crook of her neck
but her Hey Diddle Diddle
fell quite flat in the middle
with her g-string worn down
to a wreck

In her diary she’d scribble
while having a nibble
for Dorothy ate like a horse
she would wobble and wibble
now and then start to dribble
gone crazy for fresh
apple sauce

Poor Dorothy Biddle
with her big balloon middle
arms and legs thinner than sticks
she gave up the fiddle
ignored life’s old riddle
and learned to do
conjuring tricks

When Dorothy Biddle
disappeared in the middle
some people were hard to convince
the show wasn’t fiddle —
some magical dribble
for no one’s clapped eyes
on her since

EENY MEENY & MINY MO

Old Eeny Meeny couldn’t think
which way he ought to go
so he consulted several friends
should any chance to know

But none of them proved able to
give one word of advice
some were so slow to answer him
he had to ask them twice

He sought opinions left and right
in hope he’d find a clue
to which direction he should take
or what was wise to do

Just then he met a helpful chap
whose name was Miny Mo
who said there was a simple trick
he happily would show

Whatever choices must be made
this method worked a treat —
employ a tried and trusted rhyme
that’s quick and clean and neat

Choosing then becomes a game —
decisions left to chance
mean nobody can be to blame
it’s down to happenstance

So Eeny Meeny sang a rhyme
along with Miny Mo
and by the end they’d sorted out
the way he now would go

Tradition saved that very verse
so Eeny Meeny will
survive as part of childhood’s play
and be remembered still

*

Traditional Rhyme:

Eeny Meeny Miny Mo
Catch a nigger by his toe
If he hollers, let him go
Eeny Meeny Miny Mo

NB In the cause of Political Correctness, terms like rascal or
devil might be substituted for the original ‘nigger’, although
any such change would naturally destroy both the historical
authenticity and impact of the piece.

A TALE OF UNICORNS

It were more’n eighty year ago
when I were just a child
I crept out one November night
the weather passing mild

I knew the way I’d wont to go
it weren’t too far or near
just mebe half a mile or so
in woods grown close to here

I’d heard these tales the old’uns told
about some magic pool
where unicorns come down to drink
seen by our village fool

While some folks swore Tom made it up
there’s others took his word
for Nature knew him as a friend
to every beast and bird

so nothing furred or feathered feared
that gentle harmless soul
the local badgers, fox and deer
who used that watering hole

sensed old Tom were no real threat —
not quite like other men
he had this air of kindness, see
that calmed the nerves on them

So, off I went along the path
that led down to that pool
and it were dark and eery, like
a thin breeze gusted cool

Then I sat quiet — right near the edge
prepared to bide me time
for nothing stirred until far off
I heard the church clock chime

It chimed thirteen — I swear it did!
‘n’ I near-wet me drawers
when out the bushes old Tom came
a-crawling on all fours

He grinned he did — a soppy smile —
his finger to his lips
I got the message, startled when
me arm he tightly grips

and points towards the bushes where
a pale and noble head
emerges, sniffing at the air
‘Don’t move!’ Tom quietly said

Like statues then — too scared to breathe
we watched those creatures drink —
a stallion, mare and tiny foal
as perfect as you’d think

The moon above cast silver beams
reflecting off their coats
and inbetween the crowding trees
flew magic-dusted motes ...

I cannot tell how long it was
before the vision died —
faded like the shadows moved —
crept in from either side

Strange, I’d never felt such weight
of mystery before
but I were there with Tom that night
and I know what I saw

yet when they asks me now and then
about the magic pool
I shrug and grin like poor old Tom
I tend to play the fool

I tell ’em it were years ago
and memory plays tricks
the only other witness there
had barely half his wits

THE SECRET HAUNT OF UNICORNS
Some fella wrote the tale
and went to find that magic pool
I helped make sure he’d fail

That ancient path’s long overgrown
I pointed down some other
by acting vague — a mite confused
my ramblings all a cover

Well, Tom’s been gone nigh fifty year
and my turn’s coming soon
It’s in me mind to take that walk
when there’s a clear full moon

I dream the way my heart is set —
one wish before I’m through
to see those beasts again and know
the wonder still holds true

BETHANY BORAGE

Young Bethany Borage
ate nothing but porridge
for breakfast and dinner and tea
though it tasted quite horridge
she was lacking the corridge
to try something different, you see

BIG FOOT

Rachel was born with the wrong kind of feet
the sort one would normally find in a zoo
so bizarre that folk gasped and stopped dead in the street
like they dare not believe such a sight could be true

For Rachel had claws where there should have been toes
all scaled like a lizard’s, her ankles stick-thin
and why this had happened not one expert knows
even though they took samples of blood, hair and skin

Baby Rachel learned fast — she could walk at three months
barefooted she had perfect balance and grip
which confounded the vicar, who crossed himself once
while he muttered a prayer that pure habit let slip

To call her a freak, although true, seemed unkind
she’d a cherub-sweet face, dimples gracing each cheek
as pretty a kid as the cutest you’d find
that’s until you got down to those terrible feet

And how to buy footwear? — the problem was huge
there was nothing to fit could be found in the shops
not in style, size or fashion as wearable shoes
so her mother got busy and knitted long socks

Now she made them as girly as function allowed
she trimmed them with pom poms in pink, green and blue
and of the result she was modestly proud
for they did the strange job she’d designed them to do

They covered those feet from the curious eyes
of people who stared without any regard
for the feelings of others — each cry of surprise
that stung like a whiplash — cut hurtful and hard

But Rachel was playing so often alone
and knowing for sure she was quite unobserved
pulled off those bright socks with a soft relieved groan
for the wool was quite itchy and got on her nerves

Then she stretched out her claws and it felt really good
for although very young she instinctively knew
it was wrong to pretend or disguise what we should
just accept as a fact — to our natures be true

As Rachel grew up she insisted her feet
wouldn’t stop her pursuing her choice of careers
her spirit undaunted. Fate whimsically sweet
the man that she married had elephant ears

CAT CHAT

“Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat
where have you been?”

“I’ve been to far places
like you’d never dream”

“Oh, Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat
please tell me, do
all about the adventures
that happened to you”

“Well, I’ve been to the jungle
and hunted a mouse
who was fierce as a tiger
and lived in a house

made of crocodile teeth
and odd bits of bamboo
he was six times the size
of the last mouse I knew

and quick as a whippet
as sly as a fox
and imagine a rodent
who knew how to box!

He was fearless it seemed
(or completely insane)
but I was so impressed
I released him again”

“Oh, Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat
what a kind deed
when no doubt you were hungry
and eager to feed!”

The Pussy Cat shrugged
then gave a small cough
to suggest he was modest
and loathe to show off

“Well, he asked so politely
and mentioned he had
a wife, eighteen babies
and a disabled dad

he had sworn to look after
so what could I do ?
though I wasn’t quite sure
the whole story was true”

The Pussy Cat winked
as he washed his front paws
used his little pink tongue
while he counted his claws

Then flicking his tail
said “I’m off to the moon
there’s a man I must see
but we’ll chat again soon”

FINDERS KEEPERS

One day caught short beneath the pier
Tess squatted for relief
she was alone — no soul in sight
or that was her belief

So there she was quite comfortable
when movement caught her eye
as this old sailor ambled up
and sat himself closeby

Ignoring her now-beetroot face
he tipped his jaunty hat
and said “Good day your Majesty”
(she had to smile at that)

“I see I’ve caught you on the throne
so I’ll avert my gaze
my ship is in the harbour set
for sail in just two days...”

Tess carefully arranged her skirts
vacating the damp stone
he had so very cheekily
referred to as her throne

She looked away a minute in
which time the man was gone
then spied amongst the pebbles there
a small bright object shone

She pulled it from its hiding place
and wondered was there more
so dug around the spot until
her hands were red and raw

At last she had a gleaming pile
of Spanish gold doubloons
imagining how many tides
and pirate-ghost full moons

had come and gone in all the years
since such rare coins were hid
and that old sailor — who was he?
why say the things he did?

She took the treasure home with her
and had its worth assessed
then later traced her family tree
aware she might have guessed

the bloodline on her mother’s side
revealed a likely lead
her great-great-great-great-grandfather
was a right rogue indeed

As kinship myths and legends go
she read between the lines
broad hints at real skulduggery
wrongdoings of all kinds

Should it be true she feared those coins
were tainted by the blood
of innocents — would ownership
bring down bad luck or good?

While nagging doubt told her to put
them back where they belong
if “Finders Keepers” is the game
then who’s to say it’s wrong?

DIRT, GRIT, DUST AND OLD FLUFF

Dirt is a dull mix of something
with Grit he is lifelong close friends
and they roll and make mud in wet weather
wherever the path dips or bends

Dust is quite different entirely
and incredibly hard to pin down
he’s a bit like a ghost — disappearing
whenever a cloth is around

Old Fluff’s a lighthearted companion
most often caught hiding indoors
in corners or jumble-filled cupboards
or chased across slippery floors

Dirt is thrown out of most households
not welcome at all — in disgrace
while Grit like stray sand from the seaside
sneaks in via shoes and suitcase

Mother battles away with her duster
and sucks up Old Fluff by machine
wipes up the bad dog’s dirty footprints
but Dirt creeps back in to unclean

The Terrible Four keep on coming
they are made of invincible stuff
all appear much too quietly determined
known as Dirt, Grit, Dust and Old Fluff

LITTLE GARDEN WEED

She was pretty as a picture —
that little garden weed
the butterflies all loved her
and lingered long to feed
they sipped her perfumed nectar
while telling her sweet lies
their promises as endless
as blue and cloudless skies

When Summer turned to Autumn
the pretty weed felt cold
her petals lost their shimmer
her leaves grew pale and old
friendly butterflies departed
the bees kept to their hive
creatures did what instinct said
to simply stay alive

Pretty weed shed every petal
but wasn’t sad at that
for she’d become a seed pod
swollen round and fat
and when she burst her many babies
found a place to hide
all the while big bully Winter
showed his meaner side

The garden slept through Christmas
and into the New Year
it took a breath or two of Spring
for new shoots to appear
a busy budding nursery
of pretty weeds to come
a perfect picture — each fresh face
exactly like their mum

BANDYSNOOT

The Bandysnoot
is partly cute
(some other bits
are scary)
it mainly feeds
on garden weeds
its legs are bent
and hairy

It often crawls
in holes in walls
and snoozes for
an hour
it hates to get
its whiskers wet
so shelters there
from showers

It has moon eyes
of different size
one ear is pricked
one’s floppy
its nose is thin
it wears a grin
and looks quite soft
and soppy

But do beware
and take good care
the Bandysnoot’s
a biter
and when he’s riled
can go quite wild
he’s fearless as
a fighter

So don’t upset
this long-nosed pet
much better to
be wise
than risk the grief
of needle teeth
despite his tea-
cup size!

WE’RE NOT ALONE

There are some folk who will insist
they like to live alone
not caring much for company
contented on their own

or so they think — they do not count
the bats up in the roof
nor spiders spinning round the light
so quiet and aloof

They overlook the tiny bugs
that share their featherbed
they’re blind to opportunist mice
who chance they might be fed

on scatterings of tiny crumbs
across the kitchen floor
unless a sugar-seeking bunch
of ants get there before

There are some folk who talk to plants
convinced it helps them grow
perhaps it does — only the plant
can ever really know

And flowers bring a host of “friends”
who pollinate or chew
insects fly and wriggle in
as they’re designed to do

Some creatures come and others go
all silent and unknown
for no one ever truly lives
entirely on their own

THE LITTLE GREEN FIR

It was dark in the forest
the moon fast asleep
behind pillow clouds
piled up thickly and deep

All the shadows got lost
it was too black to see
one shape from another
the top of each tree

So intense was the darkness
a little fir cried
to a much bigger pine
growing tall at its side

“It’s so dismal and cold —
so horribly dreary —
no starlight or moon
to make it more cheery...”

The big pine tree mumbled
(he’d been nodding off)
“Well, this is December!”
Then came a polite cough

and a sweet voice from somewhere
above them cut in
“I think I can help
for I have just the thing”

And an angel flew down
silver wings all aglow
and he sprinkled fine dust
that reflected like snow

So the little tree gleamed —
every needle shone bright
and the heart of the forest
was warmed by the sight

A gift from an angel
transformed magically
thus the little green fir
was the first Christmas tree

PLAYING THE CAMEL

Miss Grant wrote the play
and she said we should vote for
whoever we thought
would be best in each part
so Katie was Mary
and Kenny got Joseph
but both caught the measels
before we could start

Miss Grant said the show
must go on so she offered
Priscilla and James
(who had been our next choice)
the chance to perform
but at first rehearsal
Priscilla just froze
and James lost his voice

Miss Grant had us run
through a scene every break-time
and my sister’s best doll
in a shoebox was laid
for the kings to adore
and give their strange presents —
some bath salts and biscuits
Ben’s mother had made

Miss Grant said she was
quite impressed with my camel
but wouldn’t I like
a more challenging role?
I thought she meant Joseph
or maybe a shepherd
or even an angel
with wings painted gold

Miss Grant had me cast
as the boring innkeeper
with just two dull lines
that I couldn’t get right
so she gave it to Sam
I went back to the camel
and it all worked out perfectly
well on the night

Miss Grant got three cheers
from us kids and our parents
most everyone said
it was wonderfully done
and in spite of the stage fright
the tears and the tantrums
it was worth the hard work
and the camel was fun

BUGS AND BOYS

They put me in an empty jar
and left me in the sun
they shook and rolled me round and round
they laughed to watch me run

And run I did — I ran and ran
till all my legs were sore
then they rolled the jar again
to make me run some more

I wish that little boys were kind
at least not quite so mean
we bugs cannot defend ourselves
no one can hear us scream

At last they’ve all got bored with me
lid’s off — jar’s on its side
though bruised and dizzy I will slow-
ly crawl away and hide

And then I’ll tell my six-legged kin
how cruel humans are —
poor butterfly stuck on a pin
trapped bees dead in a jar

THE ALBACHOC

The albachoc’s a rare seabird
whose nature’s brown and sweet
her nest is built of sugar cane
she weaves it with her feet

She catches silver-papered fish
that shoal far out to sea
and brings them back to feed her chicks
who dine quite splendidly

on milk and plain — some morsels filled
with orange cream or mint
vanilla, lime or hazelnut
or just the merest hint

of strawberry — their favourite choice
and over which they’d fight
driven wild to push and shove
to peck and claw and bite

When this occurred their motherbird
warned them that flavours vary
and they must share and share alike
such rich confectionery

Then to settle further argument
she employed a penguin waiter
to sort out all the strawberry fish
and save them up for later

Thus her chicks learned patience
and settled peaceful in their box
growing milk and plain by nature —
a sweet clutch of albachocs

THE QUORN

The quorn is an ungainly beast
classed neither fish not fowl
wild flesh too tough for toothsome feast
face wrinkled in a scowl

Those folk who walk abroad at night
and bump into the quorn
are shocked by such a scary sight —
the oddest critter born

It isn’t big, it isn’t small
but somewhere inbetween
not really short but not too tall
he looks a trifle mean

But looks can be misunderstood
the quorn is not aggressive
he’s awfully fond of apple pud
and singing makes him passive

So, if at night you like to stroll
take pudding in your pocket
the quorn will gobble it up whole
then streak off like a rocket

The quorn can waddle very quick
though normally he ambles
because his coat is straggly-thick
and full of mud and brambles

Alternatively, sing to him
a lullaby sung sweetly
he’ll lay down with a soppy grin
and lose himself completely

He’ll be your pet from that day on
although it takes a while
his scowl will fade until it’s gone
instead he’ll wear a smile

THE WISH-BIRD

A wish-bird built its silver nest
high in a hopeful tree
and there it laid three sky-blue eggs
then brooded peacefully

The sickle moon smiled on the scene
the breeze sighed low its song
the wish-bird slept among the stars
and dreamed the whole night long

Kept safe beneath the wish-bird’s wings
those sky-blue eggs stayed warm
protected from the weather’s whim
come rain or sudden storm

When dawn came pale and grey with mist
the woods seemed loathe to wake
the air so still that nothing stirred
no wind to sway or shake

the topmost bough that held the nest
where wish-bird slumbered on
quite unconcerned that while she slept
her brood had fledged and gone ...

Such birds are rare and magical
they randomly appear
each feathery thought cracked from its shell
a passing good idea

Imagination — free and wild
and scattered bright as seeds
bring down the wish-bird from her perch
to find the thoughts she needs

then gather up more shiny twigs
to make another nest
high up in the still-hopeful tree
where wishes come to rest

EXPLORERS

Going up to the high woods —
we’re off there to play
deep in those far high woods
we’ll be gone all the day

For in summer the high woods
grow secretive and wild
we camp in such hollows
designed for a child

and their playmate companions
who wriggle and crawl
through gaps where a grown-up
could not fit at all

It’s quiet in the high woods —
we’re almost alone
except for the wild things
it’s jungle unknown

Our brave band of explorers
(no maps and no guide)
creep on through the bushes
to see what’s inside ...

and never such wonder
was there to behold
all the colours of Nature —
the green and the gold

The last of the bluebells
clumped close in the shade
their bloom almost over
the ghost-flowers fade

There are red spotted toadstools
we know not to touch
sly nettles to sting us
though it doesn’t hurt much

Dread poisonous ivy
small insects that bite
we all startle in fear
when a blackbird takes flight

Then we laugh and pretend that
a tiger has dropped
from a branch overhead
yet the shock hasn’t stopped

us — we fight off the creature
then go on our way
just another adventure
for telling some day

We’ve brought some provisions
we need to survive —
cheese rolls, cake and fruit juice
will keep us alive

Until teatime — when hunger
begins its tired wail
then we’ll turn from the high woods
and take the home trail

DANGEROUS THINKING

Miss Thinks-Too-Much
she thought too much
and one thought she thought
too many — got caught
so there was no more room
for anything
of the things that she’d
been taught

If she’d only had a clue
and thought it properly through
so refrained from such
intense introspection
her brain still might be
almost blissfully free
of that last thought’s insane
infection

But Miss Thinks-Too-Much
being less-than-shrewd
and deaf to such
good advice
rashly pursued
this none-too-bright inclination
thus her brain was fried —
she went quite odd and died
having indulged too much
in wild imagination

HELPLINE

Oh, teach me Jesus
this I pray
to make the most
of each new day

To listen to
my mum and dad
and think good thoughts
ignore the bad

To be forgiving
patient, kind
to keep an open
heart and mind

And not be selfish
cruel or mean
to keep my bedroom
neat and clean

To do what’s right
and always try
to tell the truth
and never lie

I’ll be the best
that I can be
please bless my friends
and family

Forever grateful
I should be
for all that has
been given me

Should I forget
remind me to
find a quiet place
and talk to you

Until the next time
that we chat
could nextdoor’s dog
not chase our cat?

Amen. I think
that’s everything
so thanks JC
for listening

THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS GHOST

A Play in Three Acts

All was quiet — the house at midnight
creaked and sighed, its timbers old
and the dying fire gave comfort
kept away December’s cold

Paper chains festooned the hallway
where a Christmas tree stood tall
presents piled beneath its branches
bringing joy to one and all

A sleeping dog curled in his basket
close beside the kitchen door
hardly stirred from dreams of rabbits
too old to catch them any more

Then the clock began its whirring
a quarter past the chimes declared
a shadow moved across the landing
a footstep echoed on the stair

And someone came — a small grey figure
dressed in clothes as from some book
just a child quite other-worldly
with that quaint old-fashioned look

There he stooped beneath the pine tree
and he checked each parcel’s tag
for his name but finding nothing
his sweet face became more sad

Then with a wail the small boy vanished
for ghost he was, there was no doubt
unhappy soul who sought one present
forever doomed to go without

***

A year went by...
                                Investigation
of church records matched one name
to a young boy who’d died of fever
at six years old and christened James

the much-beloved and only issue
of Lady Anne and Sir John Dean
twin marble tombstones in the graveyard
plus a smaller slab between

For on Christmas Eve Nineteen-O-One
their dear James had passed away
his weakened heart gave out before
the break of Christmas day

***

Now once again, the house at midnight
creaked and sighed with age and cold
the tree stood tall in the chill hallway
its tinsel winking red and gold

The dog snored, his tail wagged feeble
dreaming deep of puppy days
while the antique clock wound ready
clicked and chimed the hours away

Twelve-fifteen, and the moonlight slanted
silvering the bottom-most stair
and in its beam a small boy shivered
out of time — transported there

Then, once again, he searched the presents
stopped and gave a joyful cry
hugging one bright parcel closely
undid the ribbon, wiped his eye

A wooden train with scarlet engine
and seven coaches painted green
love from his dear Mama and Papa
the finest toy he’d ever seen

He stood transformed — his face a picture
wreathed in smiles of pure delight
before he faded — lost to shadow
slow-dissolved into the night

Nothing more. The tale ends happy
his little soul was thus released
found its way at last to heaven
hence the haunting has long-since ceased

ON LONGWINTER HILL

The house has just one window
and a crooked wooden door
a rough-patched weathered mossy roof
a polished redstone floor

None can say who lives there
and few would even guess
who might sit down at the table
at such a small address

Old Tom peeped through the window
when no one was about
quite sure somebody lives there
of that there’s little doubt

For there were flowers on the table
a clock upon the wall
a teapot but no people
not any sign at all

And often of an evening
the odd passer-by will sight
thin smoke rise from the chimney
and the flicker of firelight

On one occasion voices
conversation strange and low
but nobody saw the speakers
and so idle rumours grow

Though it’s certain someone lives there
there seems no reason for alarm
folk should really mind their business
when others do no harm

It’s just a small house looking lonely
halfway up Longwinter Hill
no one’s seen whoever lives there
and it’s likely no one will

A STRAY CAT’S PRAYER

Dear Father of all fishes
could you heed a feline’s call?
O please spare a tiny minnow
I’ve not fed today at all

I’ve been sitting by this river
simply longing for a bite
but I haven’t seen a ripple —
not one bubble rose in sight

So, dear God, if it’s no trouble
and it’s not too big a task
any fishy kind of snack would do
but p’raps I shouldn’t ask

for I’m only a poor feral cat
and not one of your flock
I hang around your nice warm church
those times when it’s not locked

and chase away those pesky mice
so, if it please you, Lord
maybe a little fishy treat
could be my just reward?

Go check with your Saint Francis
he’s supposed to be my friend
please grant my wish for one small fish
(and I’ll be grateful all my lives)
Thank you, Lord
                                Amen

JACINTHA’S BIRTHDAY

Jacintha’s having a party
she says no boys allowed
just Millie — who’s her new best friend
and all her snooty crowd

She talks about it all the time
how grand it’s going to be
it’s really getting on my nerves
how mean she is to me

I used to be one of her gang
we used to get along
and I’m not sure just what I did
but somehow things went wrong

I’d much rather she ignored me
I just hate the way she glares
and all the nasty things she says
are lies — but no one cares

Her party’s at the weekend
she’s invited half the class
and most of them will go because
they’re too curious to pass

the chance to see Jacintha’s home
she boasts how rich they are
how much her mother spends on clothes
her father’s new sports car ...

It’s money, money all the time
it’s holidays and treats
she always has an audience
she always shares her sweets

I think Jacintha’s kind of sad
I think she tries too hard
but none of them will tell her so
I’m sending her a card

and maybe we’ll be friends again
perhaps she’ll even see
true friendship’s the most precious gift
and best of all — it’s free!

LUCKY NUMBER

Belinda didn’t like me being
friends with anybody else
neither did she like me spending
time just playing by myself

She thought that we should be together
that’s what friends (she said) are for
two’s enough and three’s too many ...
I hardly listened anymore

She’d been my best friend since forever
we’d always lived in the same street
our mums were friends — as close as sisters
tied as tightly — hands and feet

Belinda’s been my constant shadow
at my shoulder all the time
she couldn’t seem to understand
I sometimes needed space that’s mine

There was a new girl after Christmas
kind of shy but seemed quite nice
but Belinda said she didn’t like her
and things got heated once or twice

The new girl’s name was Sarah Pickles
I found her locker — left a note
apologizing for Belinda
she’s not that bad I loyally wrote

But after thinking for a moment
I realized it wasn’t true
Belinda really could be nasty
so what on earth was I to do?

We had a talk and it was painful
I told Belinda she’d been mean
she argued loudly — ran out crying
true diva-like she made a scene

Later she came round to my house
sorry now and looking sad
her eyes so red I felt quite guilty
there was no way I could stay mad

We could stay friends on one condition
she must agree — I made it clear
she couldn’t say who I could talk to
she had no right to interfere

A week went by and then another
things were working out quite well
we both went round to tea at Sarah’s
and so far as I could tell

it really did surprise Belinda
we had the most terrific fun
playing games and sharing secrets
the doubt and awkwardness undone

Belinda’s now a nicer person
and Sarah’s just the coolest friend
while three’s become our lucky number
the perfect answer in the end

SLEEPING CAR

We’re going off on holiday
to some place miles away
so very far we won’t get there
in just a single day

The ticket’s bought, the cases packed
we leave tonight at eight
our dad has booked a sleeping car
and I can hardly wait

I’ve never seen a sleeping car
I guess all cars get tired
but I am puzzled all the same
has no one else enquired?

For if the car is fast asleep
what good is that to us?
we need something that’s wide awake
so better go by bus!

There’s posters in the station say
the train should take the strain
it will get you there much faster but
it’s doing-in my brain

I’ve got my roads and rails mixed up
won’t someone please explain
why Dad has booked a sleeping car
WE’RE S’POSED TO GO BY TRAIN!

LEARNING TO SWIM

Miss said there’ll be swimming on Monday
there’s a note for our parents to sign
we each have to have written permission
though I’d rather not have to ask mine

It’s something my dad rarely mentions —
that boat trip was so long ago
I was there — but too young to remember
it’s a sensitive subject, I know

We don’t holiday down at the seaside
we don’t soak up the rays by the pool
tell the truth, I don’t care much for water
and it’s not been an issue at school

until now ... I don’t want to upset them —
I’ve heard how my mother still cries
when she dreams about my older sister
and I’ve seen all the hurt in Dad’s eyes

Perhaps I won’t bother them with it —
maybe I’ll invent some excuse —
just forget the whole thing since the letter
is small and quite easy to lose

*****

But mother, she went through my backpack
simply looking for laundry to do
she pulled out my crumpled-up gym kit
and with it the letter came too

I bit my lip hard as she read it
half-expecting she’d burst into tears
but instead she just showed it to Father
and quite calmly, despite all my fears

So yesterday we all went shopping
they bought me a swimsuit and towel
a hat and some armbands for safety
as a treat,we had lunch at the Mall

I admit that at first I was puzzled
for I thought they would hate the idea
but Dad signed his name on the paper
and explained so their feelings were clear

We talked for the first time in ages
about what had happened to Kim
Mother said she might still have been with us
if only she’d known how to swim

Now the tension is gone I’m excited
and determined I won’t be afraid
but will take like a duck to the water
then in time all our sadness might fade

Though I could plump for tennis or hockey
or choose badminton just on a whim
they won’t save my life in a crisis —
everybody should learn how to swim

TALKING THROUGH HER HAT

There was a girl who always wore
a birdcage on her head
When people stopped and asked her why
she thought awhile and said

“I used to wear a flowerpot
’til Winter came along
I changed it for a tea tray but
the chemistry was wrong

I tried a clock, then for a week
my sister’s teddy bear
but nothing felt quite comfortable
and most messed up my hair

Now this wire birdcage seems to me
the best fit I could find
and what is more, I’m glad to say
the budgie doesn’t mind

He likes to travel — see the world
and sometimes have a chat
besides — how many girls can say
they’ve got a talking hat?”

Her explanation seemed as sound
as any heard today
so most folk nodded — smiled a bit
and went their merry way

A MOVING TAIL

Oblivious, the mouse ran out
from under Grandad’s chair
he didn’t know old Marmaduke
was snoozing peaceful there
but when he saw he squeaked in fright
which woke the sleepy cat
who shook his head — a bit unsure
what he was looking at

Disguised in cobwebs, bits of fluff
and crumbs stuck to his fur
(collected during travels made
beneath low furniture)
the mouse looked odd as any beast
the cat had ever seen
he smelt strange, too — like something off
and far from squeaky-clean

Cat bent and sniffed the grubby mouse
confused — turned up his nose
and wandered off. The mouse, relieved
immediately unfroze
and scampered back beneath the chair
where Grandad used to tuck
titbits ’til the day he died
and mouse ran out of luck

The danger past, the mouse took stock
unsure that he should stay
while Marmaduke patrolled the house
and so mouse moved away
He found a place without a cat —
a cottage near the sea
and lodges with some lonely man
who keeps him company

LEGENDARY

My sister rescued a mermaid —
it was less than a foot high
and caught up in old fishing line
my sister heard its cry

She carefully untangled
the mermaid’s silver tail
then wrapped it in her towel because
it looked so tired and pale

She sneaked it in our cottage
her finger to her lips
and let me watch her feeding
the poor thing fish and chips

Then afterwards lime jelly
and some strawberry ice cream
which really perked the mermaid up —
her scales began to gleam

She gurgled a strange language
and swam round and round the bath
blowing bubbles — somersaulting —
and we couldn’t help but laugh

But we knew we couldn’t keep her
for she needed to swim free
so we snuck down to the shoreline
plopped her back into the sea

She waved and blew two kisses
before she swam away
and every year when we return
for two weeks holiday

we think about our mermaid
though we’ve never seen her since
nor told our friends about her
quite sure we can’t convince

them that my sister found and rescued
a small mermaid — It’s enough
to make you stop and question
other ‘legendary’ stuff ...

FITTING IN

Once upon a time there were three brothers —
Slim and Dim and Grim
each one different from all others —
a bit strange in mind and limb.

Slim was very tall and bony
Dim was short and fat
Grim was inbetween and only
rarely glad of that.

Their parents had a job to keep them
such varied shapes were they —
three odd-sized beds in which to sleep them
grown more awkward night or day.

Slim was almost eight feet high
Dim stood dwarfish-squat
while Grim inched slowly by and by —
seeming loathe to eat a lot.

They ran away — Slim, Dim and Grim —
drawn by bright lights and fame.
A touring circus took them in
gave them each a starry name.

Now known as Buck and Chuck and Huck
they joined the troupe as clowns
squirted water from a truck
paraded through small towns.

No longer freaks but circus folk
they fitted in at last
and from that day they seldom spoke
a word about their past.

A new beginning for the bros
named Buck and Chuck and Huck —
performing like three seasoned pros
astounded by their luck.

The audience laps up their act
and clearly they belong
in showbiz — happy with the fact
clowns can’t put a foot wrong.

ALICE GIVES THE CROCODILE ADVICE

“Oh, do not weep, dear crocodile
for love doomed not to last
and dry your tears, wipe down your scales
don’t grieve for times now past.

You may not be the prettiest
nor be described as ‘cute’
your eyes are not the dreamiest
your skin’s an armoured suit.

And all those teeth are frightening —
you lunge and snap your jaws
so nobody would ever guess
your sorrow and its cause.

You might do well to meditate
and change how you behave —
your nature’s much too fearsome, dear
to get the love you crave.

So dry your eyes, sad crocodile
while truth often offends
accept those creatures most adored
don’t eat their veggie friends!”

SIZE-WISE

The elephant thought he was too big
built way too large by half
so he tried to hide his portly sides
with a pink and purple scarf.

He wore a matching knitted hat
and boots with dainty bows
that so disguised his massive thighs
he was rather pleased with those.

Then, strolling by the sea one day
he met a beached blue whale
who said “Oh dear, it’s all too clear
your scheme’s to no avail.

“In fact, it draws attention to
your true rotundity.
But cast your eyes on my great size
you’re small compared with me!”

The elephant considered this
the hat (perhaps) he’d keep
and, though they’d laugh, the boots and scarf
he’d give back to the sheep.

And ever since, he’s grown content
to live in his own skin.
For there’s no rule for large or small
variety’s the thing.

OUR SETTEE HAS TEETH

Our settee has teeth —
I know it does
because I’ve felt their sharp row behind
the lolling cushions
creased and crumbed
ingesting all there is to find.

A wealth of things
slide down the back
the settee swallows — bite by bite
coins and earrings
buttons ... crisps ...
a strange, unfussy appetite.

It’s old and sagging —
losing shape
those wrinkled covers half unzipped
the frame groans low
complains a lot
upholstery sinks and gapes loose-lipped.

And what’s been lost
down that dark crack —
a brooch, a cufflink or gold pen
might never in
the settee’s life
ever see the light of day again.

For anyone
who’s ever tried
retrieving stuff — so slides their hand
to grope about
completely blind
in that deep belly understands

the beast’s reluctant
to let go
years’ worth of treasure trapped beneath
it’s keen to keep it
and that’s why
our settee’s grown a set of teeth

to nip at fingers
meddling
in spaces best left well alone —
dimensions odd
and hardly-known —
the sofa’s hidden twilight zone.

JUST ONE THING

I’m hardly scared of anything —
there’s not much makes me shiver
I’ll sit through horror films without
a tremble — not one quiver.

I don’t believe a bogey man
lives underneath my bed
and crawly things don’t bother me
like spiders in the shed.

I’m not afraid of strange old men
who hang around the park
and I’ll walk down the lane alone
unspooked by wind or dark.

And water doesn’t worry me
I’m quite okay with heights
just one thing scares my socks off —
I just can’t stand stormy nights!

At the first low growl of thunder
I shake like I’m a jelly
there’s nothing I have read or seen
in films or on the tele

that terrifies me half as much
as that angry bang and crashing
like all the ancient gods are drunk
and their dinner plates are smashing.

Then the lightning crackles fierce
like an electric cable
and I crawl underneath the nearest
sturdy chair or table.

I hide my eyes and block my ears
until the storm’s moved on
and all those frightening noises have
been blown away — all gone.

Then I creep out and calmly swear
that I’ll be brave next time
(Oh cross my heart and hope to die
the weather might stay fine!)

WONDERING

I’m wondering, I’m wondering
what makes the sunset red?
And why in some far distant lands
poor children die unfed?

What is it that’s so different
for them and not for me?
I’ve always got enough to eat
for breakfast, dinner, tea.

I’m wondering, I’m wondering
don’t their mums shop and cook
meat pies along with vegetables
like in a recipe book?

Why don’t their fathers dig and sow
like my dad does? — It’s great!
The things he grows so green and fresh
all end up on my plate.

I’m wondering, I’m wondering —
is it because of war
that things have changed in foreign lands?
They were better off before

long years of fighting that destroyed
their homes to dust and mud.
Perhaps that’s why the sunset’s red —
it’s stained with all that blood.

FINDING A RHYME

Are there any poems in the house?
Are they hiding somewhere safe and warm?
Are some ancient verses out of breath
waiting for a new rhyme to be born?

I found a couplet lying in a kitchen drawer
plus a limerick tucked under Grandad’s hat
a lullaby asleep upon a shelf
and a sonnet snuggled up beside the cat.

There’s someone leaving teasing trails of words
on scraps of paper — scribbled in green ink
like clues to where some masterpiece might be
lurking close —but where, I cannot think.

There’s got to be some poems in the house.
They’re often hard to catch — as quick as mice
they disappear unless you grab their tails —
recite at once, or maybe say them twice.

Just to be sure, commit to memory
those verses that are easy on the ear.
Please thank the author (if it’s not ANON)
and tell your friends you found this poem here.

THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING A BOOKWORM

There is much pleasure to be found
in having piles of books around
each one a country where, as guest
you’re welcomed in to take a rest.

You can escape to some far land
imagined, and go hand in hand
with characters you’re thrilled to share
adventures with while you are there.

Though all good stories surely end
and you’ll be sad to leave each friend
you’ve made, it’s up to you just when
you choose to read that book again.

They’re always there upon the shelf
a marvellous way to cheer yourself
for on any dim or dismal day
a book will take you miles away.

And when you’re sick and stuck in bed
(you have to stay there, Mother said)
a book will help to pass the time
until you’re better — feeling fine.

For there is comfort to be found
in having favourite things around.
With books you never feel alone
so value every one you own.

A CHILD’S FIRST EXPERIENCE OF GARDENING

I had a little garden plot
I used to weed and dig.
I’d sow a mix of tiny seeds
in hope they would grow big.

I planted carrots, runner beans
and marigolds as well.
The lupins popped up on their own
as far as I could tell.

For some things didn’t want to grow
while others romped away
so which were planted, which pushed in
was really hard to say.

My garden grew a little wild
although I tried my best
blackfly got my runner beans
and slugs became a pest.

Blue tits ruined my sweet peas
they pecked off all the flowers.
I almost cried remembering
my patient, wasted hours.

It seemed that I could never win
I watched my efforts fail
I’d lose the fight to who-knows-what? —
some hungry bird or snail.

The caterpillars had their way —
there were more holes than leaf
earwigs, too, and worms like wire
all used their hungry teeth.

So I gave up on real plants and
chose plastic ones instead
for nothing nibbled at their leaves
or left them almost dead.

But plastic flowers lose their charm
they always look the same
in sun or snow or any time
of year you care to name.

And it wasn’t long before the weeds
snuck back and claimed it all —
bold buttercups and dandelions
grew quickly rather tall.

In just a few fine summer weeks
they overwhelmed with ease
the sad and fading plastic ones —
fake roses and sweet peas.

Nature stole my garden plot
which really worked out fine
for clearly she knew ways to keep
those pesky bugs in line!

TO ALL WEARERS OF STRIPED PYJAMAS — A WARNING

A wolf in striped pyjamas
came creeping through the night
(and a wolf in striped pyjamas
is a most unusual sight).

He wandered through the sleeping streets
he mooched around the town
and trotting after came a boar
in a frilly pink nightgown.

They were not friends, nor were they foes
and why they were disguised
was really quite a mystery
as neither seemed surprised

when turning on a corner
the wolf called to the boar
“I know your face, I am convinced
we’ve met somewhere before.”

The boar gave him a funny smile
and showed his tusks and teeth.
The wolf drew back a pace or two
unsure what lay beneath

those flowery yards of winceyette
that hid Boar’s birthday suit
although, on balance, the wolf thought
he did look kind of cute!

“It would,” the boar said, finally
“be best of we forget
that you’ve seen me and I’ve seen you
or that we’ve ever met.

Just think of all the gossip
if our families found out
for not one of them would understand
what dressing-up’s about!”

The wolf in his pyjamas
nodded sadly and agreed
the embarrassment would make his life
so very hard indeed.

“Of course you’re right,” he murmured
(how yellow his eyes shone!)
“but I wonder, as a favour —
could I try your nightgown on?”

“Oh, if you must!” Boar struggled
(he’d no fingers and no toes)
with his four big clumsy trotters
to undo the ribbon bows.

But at last the boar stood naked
very hairy, looking shy
while he shivered, now quite anxious
and let out a worried sigh.

The wolf grabbed up the dainty gown
and raced off very quick
pleased as punch that he’d pulled off
a rather shabby trick.

Shocked, the boar stood all forlorn
alone in his distress
and wishing he’d not trusted Wolf
with his cherished pink nightdress.

He never saw the wolf again
although he found a sheep
who wore a feather hat and begged
he would, her secret, keep.

He searched the wood, he tried the zoo
he asked both lions and llamas
but Wolf had vanished in thin air
complete with striped pyjamas.

Meanwhile, if you should meet that boar
it’s likely he’ll be cross
and completely unconsolable
concerning his sad loss.

Though he sometimes sports a negligée
in flimsy pastel green
(his second-best night time attire
from Porkers magazine)

he’ll never rest until he gets
his favourite nightgown back
so ’til that day he stalks the streets
in hope, at last, he’ll track

that wily, mean and selfish wolf
to France or the Bahamas
sneak up, and then deprive him of
those ghastly striped pyjamas!

So do beware, on holiday
of walking in the wood
in a pair of striped pyjamas
or the outcome won’t be good

if that angry boar should spot you
(and his eyesight’s rather dim)
he might easily mistake you
for the wolf that cheated him.

And that boar, when he is furious
will put up a fierce fight
and he’ll push and shove and wrestle
with all his grunty might

to get those striped pyjamas
avenge himself at last
for all the grief wolf put him through
since that black night long-past.

No, never wear pyjamas
outside when it’s grown late
especially the stripey sort
don’t trust to luck or fate.

Keep all nightwear in a drawer
if possible, with locks
for shorts and t-shirts are at risk
as well as fluffy socks.

The wolf is always on the prowl
he takes what he can get
and when his PJs start to thin
he steals another set.

Avoid the wolf, stay clear of Boar
however polite they chat
and if, perchance, you meet a sheep
do hang on to your hat!

THE EASTER BIRD

The Easter Bird sings in the tree
outside my window, joyfully
he trills and warbles sweet and true
notes that drift into the blue.

He tells a story, old and rare
of April gardens winter-bare
their trees and bushes without leaf
no sign of new green shoots beneath

the barren soil so dry and grey
where windblown seeds’ late promise lay.
The days were dull, the nights were chill
and nothing changed — dark Earth stood still...

But then a miracle occurred —
a visitor — a migrant bird
broke the spell with his bright song
and soon there gathered a whole throng

of feathered heralds in each tree
who charged the air ecstatically
and drew soft rain down from a cloud.
It seemed all Nature sighed aloud

as buds unfurled and Mother Earth
made fertile now, gave flowers birth.
Spring’s colours bloomed, spread gentle cheer
and banished Winter from the year.

From that year on the Easter Bird
in woods and city parks is heard.
His magic song’s so pure and keen
that Spring explodes in shades of green.

THE YOUNG MOUNTAIN STREAM

Through a crack in the rock
like a burst of bright laughter
the stream it comes tumbling
in bubbles and spray
from the depths of the mountain
it flings up its silver
and eager to travel
it speeds on its way

Down steep granite slopes
to the green of the foothills
it carves a smooth channel
while gurgling along
and the voice of the water
is gently relaxing
so full of life’s promise
those ripples of song.

Through meadows and forests
where trees lean right over
to drop the odd leaf
in the fast-flowing flood
and grass springing lush
in the spray of its passing
grows juicy for cattle
who chew its sweet cud.

Away across fields
winds its sparkling ribbon
past village and farm
and a dreamer who leans
on a small wooden bridge
gazing into the water
to spot basking fish
in the sun’s slanting beams.

Onwards and onwards
to meet with the river
the little stream anxious
impatient to know
where its destiny lay
seeming keen on adventure
all passengers carried
along with the flow.

The river much broader
and colder and older
absorbs the small stream
in its murky brown length
and chivvies it swiftly
through hills, over borders
its sing-song much deeper
to match its great strength.

At last a great city
the river’s grown busy
with boats and the poison
of rubbish thrown in
it now sings a dirge
full of sorrow and pity
reflecting tall buildings
so hopelessly grim.

All ends with the sea
the long waves of the Channel
washing the coastline
its rhythms sublime
both the stream and the river
drown quietly together
submerged in its currents
for this and all time.

The sea rolls its tunes
like a huge barrel organ
they change with the tides
and the opal moon’s dream
and sometimes you’ll hear
in the pebbles’ soft chorus
the soft laughing notes
of the young mountain stream.

THE RARE BOOKWORM

The bookworm’s an elusive chap
he’s quiet and rather shy
he creeps around in libraries
where there’s a good supply

of books to please all types of worm
whatever suits their whim
with new arrivals on the shelf
to borrow, browse or skim.

The real bookworm is kind of rare
and most will not admit
it’s because they spend their time indoors
they’re pale and quite unfit.

For it goes with being bookish
that they have no taste for sports
so they hide away on rainy days
(they’ve ‘lost’ their football shorts).

But if you know a ‘proper’ bookworm
when the homework’s looking tough
then he’s the one to talk to
because he knows a lot of stuff.

He’s a whizz at General Knowledge
(though he’s never scored a goal)
and when it comes to passing his exams
he beats the others whole.

Though he might seem kind of geeky
he’s a really useful friend
but if he’s reading don’t disturb him
‘til he’s got right to ‘The End’.

THE OLD NURSERY

They painted the walls
sunny daffodil yellow
a light cheerful room
to welcome a fellow.

He carved a warm cradle
from sweet-smelling pine.
She knitted blue blankets
the wool soft and fine.

There were toys — many toys
some were old and some new
arranged along shelves
in an orderly queue

where they waited so patient
for him to arrive
the child who would play there
be happy and thrive.

But the castle grew cobwebbed
and greyed under dust
the tin soldiers in rows
all fell victim to rust.

The walls slowly faded
bleached pale by the sun
the cradle stayed empty
no rejoicing was done.

And the door of the nursery
stayed locked — undisturbed
the room kept its silence
not one cry was heard.

The couple, once hopeful
resigned to grow old
and childless they died
then the sad house was sold

to a family — growing
two children and more
on the way, so knew well
what a nursery was for.

The room that had waited
so many long years
was at last blessed with babies
and laughter and tears.

Repainted and papered
in pastel designs
from picture-book stories
and old nursery rhymes.

The walls matched the curtains
the bedding and rug.
It all looked so cosy
inviting and snug.

So the house became happy
for there at its heart
the magic of childhood
spelled out a fresh start.

THE ONE IN THE MIDDLE

I’m the quiet one in the middle
my brother is older than me
and my sister is five years younger
her birthday is soon — she’ll be three.

My brother is almost eleven
he’s clever and taller than me
I’m the quiet one in the middle
and I’m growing less noticeably.

Little sister gets all the attention
when visitors call at our home
while I’m just the one in the middle
caught in the invisible zone.

My brother is close to my sister
he sits with her perched on his knee
oh, why was I born in the middle?
it’s the absolute worst place to be!

I’m neither the eldest or youngest
and therefore I’m easily missed —
the quiet one stuck in the middle
not sure if I even exist.

YOU’LL FEEL BETTER BY THE MORNING

When you’d just fallen down the stairs
and banged and bruised your head
it really hurt and throbbed a lot
your face all hot and red
you’d cried a bit and made a fuss
they’d packed you off to bed
with “You’ll feel better by the morning”
that was what they always said.

And when you’d had a fight and shoved
the geeky kid next door
then he’d shoved back and that was how
your new school shirt got tore
you’d panicked when he’d threatened that
his dad would fetch the law
so you’d gone to bed and hoped things would
get better. Like before.

But morning came and you’d felt bad
and really cheated, too
the charm of sleep had worn right off
not much else you could do
than take your share of blame despite
they’d think the worst of you.
By then you’d learnt some things they say
quite often just aren’t true.

THE WORST BOY IN THE SCHOOL

There’s always one kid in the classroom
who has this extraordinary flair
for getting in all kinds of trouble
and driving Miss close to despair.

In our class that one kid was Stuart
a boy who stood out on his own
as the source of such frequent disruption
he was horribly accident-prone.

He didn’t set out to be naughty
it seemed trouble just tagged along
for wherever he went, it went with him
so somehow things always went wrong.

It was how fragile objects got broken
and anything liquid got spilt
pens leaked over text books and clothing
while flowers (and teachers) would wilt.

Our lessons could never be boring
for all the time Stuart was there
we waited for something to happen
like when he got glue on his hair.

But the best day that we all remember
(and the one that brought Stuart most fame)
began almost like any other
although afterwards things weren’t the same.

We were learning about the Egyptians
when Stuart, whose mind was elsewhere
decided to try sitting backwards
and got his arm stuck in his chair.

Now our teacher, Miss Jones, couldn’t shift it
she gave up and sent for the Head
who twisted and tugged at poor Stuart
then phoned for the firemen instead.

They came in a shiny red engine
and parked in our playground. We gazed
as they sized up the whole situation
while Stuart looked on faintly dazed.

Not one could work out how he’d done it
his arm was so thoroughly caught
they manoeuvred it this way and that way
’til Stuart got quite overwrought.

In the end it seemed they had no option
but to saw through the back of the chair
and Stuart looked quite apprehensive
even though they took obvious care.

At last he was free and we wondered
if his parents might pay for the chair
but returning to school after Easter
we found Stuart was no longer there.

His mum and his dad and his grandpa
thought Stuart could do with a move
and that maybe he’d settle down better
at a school on the outskirts of Hove.

The kids in our class talked it over
and considered it rather unfair
to put all the blame on poor Stuart
when it might be the fault of the chair.

It just wasn’t the same without Stuart
(although Miss might have sighed with relief)
every lesson seemed dull and much longer
we all missed him a bit — underneath.

OUR BIT OF WASTELAND

Just a ragged scrap of land all gone to weeds —
a bumpy home to thistles thick with seeds
and grasshoppers who jumped along with us
the wrecks of prams and bikes left out to rust.

It was the corner of our street, this bit of waste
where we would play and our small gang was based.
We had a fort — imagined — on a rise
walled in with nettles grown to giant size

the grass around it flattened to a plain
where the Indians attacked our wagon train.
Or sometimes we stalked lions and tigers through
the jungle grasses, crawling two by two.

What were we — six or seven ? when they came
those suits that called us over, made it plain
that we must leave — not play there any more
and after that it wasn’t long before

the work began. They cleared along one edge
grubbed up the rubble, bulldozed down the hedge
they slashed and tore and tugged ’til all was gone
not one green leaf survived — the men had won.

They built a block of ugly red-brick flats
no gardens though — not room enough for that
and we had a green with swings two streets away
which adults said was the best place for play.

If they’d have listened, we’d have told them this —
these small rough wastelands are the wilds we miss.
Bright sterile playgrounds can’t compete the same.
They’re boring by comparison — too tame.

Kids need to let imagination run ...
for invention’s the essential part of fun
and in Nature there is no such thing as waste
but purpose found for every inch of space.

HOUSE RABBIT

You sit so small and grey and neat
upon the rug and wash your feet
and seem content with a quiet life
that has few wants, no fears or strife.

I sit and write, you lie and doze
at times I wonder just what goes
by way of dreams through your small brain
but do all bunnies dream the same?

The moment that your eyes are closed
you start to twitch your ears and toes.
Do you imaging grass and sky —
a meadow with a stream close by?

And can you feel the warmth of sun
that makes you want to jump and run?
For if you do, how can that be
when you’ve lived all your life with me?

You are a pet within our home
and life outside you’ve never known
yet I suspect you dream the same
as all your brothers, wild or tame.

OUTGROWING SANTA

I don’t believe in Santa Claus
I’m way too old and wise
that tall,unlikely tale belongs
to those who fantasize

some fat old man in a red suit
aboard a loaded sleigh
drawn by flying reindeer brings
the gifts for Christmas Day.

No, I gave up being fanciful
at least by eight or nine
and got my presents just the same
so that still worked out fine.

Except it wasn’t quite the same
but I couldn’t pinpoint what
felt different about Christmas
and it bothered me a lot

for the magic part was over —
I’d lost the “let’s pretend”
and so the spell was broken
as the dream came to an end.

I’m old now, and much wiser
and it’s make-believe, I know
but round about December
should there be a fall of snow

and it happens to be Christmas Eve
I might, on impulse, stare
out into the bright starlit sky
to see who’s flying there...

Oh, I don’t believe in Santa Claus
I’ve said so all along
except there’s a small part of me
who so hopes I’m proved wrong!

THE RESCUE

I rescued a brown beetle-bug today
from a rain puddle where the creature lay
quite forlorn and still and nearly dead
and as I fished him out he kicked one leg

as though to thank me for my kindly act.
I watched him as he slowly struggled back
to life again. I put him on a leaf
most likely shocked and dizzy with relief

he wobbled slightly as he tried to crawl
along a stem, then found the nearby wall
hugged warm brick until completely dry
then opened up his crumpled wings to fly.

A happy end to a near-fatal dip
(maybe he’d only meant to take a sip
but fallen in) to help him on his way
made me feel glad — my good deed for the day.

UNCLE ERIC

I remember Uncle Eric —
I don’t believe what people say —
I’ve never understood the reason
why they had him locked away.

He was kind of shy and quiet
but he was okay with me.
Someone said he wasn’t ‘normal’.
They must remember differently.

At first I asked a lot of questions
that no one answered properly.
They changed the subject, looked embarrassed
or told some feeble fib to me.

He wasn’t in another country.
He hadn’t gone on holiday.
He would, I’m sure, have sent a postcard.
I don’t believe a word they say.

I’ve heard them whisper things about him
when they think I’m in my room.
They call him ‘touched’ or ‘simple-minded’ —
words that label — seal his doom.

But Uncle Eric wasn’t ‘crazy’
he was simply shy and sad
that no one else would take the trouble
to understand he wasn’t mad!

GROWN-UP TALK

I’m not supposed to listen —
I know eavesdropping’s wrong
but there’s something awful happening.
I’ve felt it all along.

I can’t not hear their voices —
they’re loud. They almost shout.
It sounds just like an argument
but I can’t quite make it out.

So I creep along the hallway
and sit on the top stair
trying hard to hear what’s said —
stay still and silent there.

They don’t know I’m earwigging
or they wouldn’t yell and curse —
use words I’ve never heard them say
like on TV. But worse.

I think I hear Mum crying.
I shiver and feel sad.
While dad goes ranting on and on ...
His temper’s really bad.

I know that by the morning
things will have calmed right down
and they’ll behave like normal —
false smiles to hide the frown.

They don’t fool me. I listen
to all their grown-up ‘talk’
not caring much who is to blame
or which of them’s at fault.

All I know is something’s wrong —
it’s plain as plain could be.
So I’ve no choice but eavesdrop
because no one talks to me!

HAPPY EVER AFTER

I’ve only got one mother
but two dads, and what is more
I’ve a sister and a brother
that I didn’t have before.

It can take some time explaining
when my friends come round to tea
so I make it clear by naming
our extended family.

I tell them how it started
with my real dad and and my mum
then, sadly, how they parted.
(The divorce wasn’t much fun.)

Then Mother met dad number two.
At first I wasn’t sure
if I liked him, but I knew
I had to act mature.

And he turned out to be okay —
a caring sort of guy.
As weeks went by, I have to say
we bonded — him and I.

I call him ‘Dad’. No fights or fuss
when his two children come
to spend their holdays with us.
We really do get on.

And my old dad has a new wife —
he’s happy and content.
We’ve each got a different life.
It’s strange the way things went ...

It was hard in the beginning
but it’s brilliant we’re all friends
for now everyone is winning
which is how our story ends.

BEST FRIENDS

My best friend’s not my best friend any more
’cos we fell out and I don’t know the reason for
the way she scowls, determined to ignore
my notes. She throws them on the classroom floor.

I’ve tried to say how sorry that I am
and apologized the best way that I can
but she just turns her head and chats to Sam
and neither care how miserable I am.

I’m not a jealous person. No — I’m not.
She says I’m too possessive — which is rot!
But she’s the only best friend that I’ve got.
I think it’s down to Sam — his nasty plot.

My best friend’s been my best friend for two years.
We’ve had our share of fights and shed some tears
but we’ve stayed friends. Then horrid Sam appears
to break us up. He always interferes ...

He isn’t nice but it could take a while
for my best friend to see he’s really vile
and know that I’m her best friend by a mile.
So I’ll be patient — bide my time and smile.

THE UNFRIENDLIES

I talked to spiders all the time
when I was just a kid
but when I tried to pick them up
they scuttled off and hid.

I chased after bright butterflies
across the fields in fun.
It seemed they didn’t want to play —
I failed to bond with one.

I kept a beetle in a box
Three earwigs in a jar.
One by one they all escaped —
lived out their lives afar.

The caterpillars and odd grubs
weren’t happy being pets.
There wasn’t time before they died
to take them to the vets.

For various assorted bugs
the story was the same.
They wouldn’t listen when I tried
to carefully explain —

I didn’t want to hurt a hair
in any insect’s head ...
Sometimes I’d hardly said the words
when one of them fell dead.

But in the end I understood
the message death would send:
Not one wanted to live with me
or even be my friend.

HOW (AND WHERE) I’VE BEEN

I’ve    not been good
         not been bad.
         not been happy
         not been sad.

I’ve    not been thoughtful
         not been mean.
         not been grubby
         not been clean.

I’ve    not been noisy
         not been quiet.
         not been causing
         fuss or riot.

I’ve    not been clever
         not been dim
         not been doing
         anything.

But    night is done
         and dreams won’t keep.
         I can’t deny —
         I’ve been asleep.

OPENING SCENE FROM A HORROR MOVIE

The sky has turned deep purple-black.
A tree stands white as bone.
The air hangs still — the wind’s grown slack.
It’s like the twilight zone.

On a branch an old nest sits
abandoned by the crow.
One heavy cloud sinks low and spits
a sleety gob of snow.

A long way off, a mountain bare
a castle at its foot
that looks like no one’s living there —
its ruins black as soot.

Stretched wide between, the boggy moor
lies empty, bleak and grey.
All those who dwelt there years before
long-dead or gone away.

Wet, lazy flakes of snow drift down.
The landscape seems asleep
for nothing moves or makes a sound.
The long, cold shadows creep ...

Then, in the dusk, thin broken strings
of small dark creatures fly —
Bats! — with leathery soft wings
come slowly flapping by.

The audience are all agog.
They bite their lips and wait.
A deathwatch beetle in a log
ticks loud the hero’s fate.

The vampire rises from his tomb —
the chills have just begun.
His eyes gleam redly through the gloom ...

(From behind the sofa)
                                Aren’t horror movies fun !

THE FACTS OF LIFE

I’ve flicked through Dad’s old magazines
I’ve read Mum’s novels, too.
I know which DVDs they watch
and some of what they do.

I know ‘The Facts’ but don’t let on —
they think I’m ‘innocent’.
I’d never dare to tell them both
how long ago that went!

I won’t upset their quaint ideas —
those fond out-dated dreams
although it’s kind of boring now —
more trying than it seems

to keep on pussyfooting round
and playing ‘let’s pretend’.
I can’t believe they haven’t guessed
I’d find out in the end.

I know where babies come from
(not gooseberry bush or stork).
It’s up to me to tell them —so
high time we had that talk.

HAIR TODAY, GONE ...

My Great-Gran never had a bad hair day
for Great-Gran (bless her bunions) was bald.
She’d two wigs — one was frizzed like an Afro.
I’m not sure what the pink one was called.

She had always been hot on appearance.
Quite eccentric but stylishly dressed
so the day that her two wigs got stolen
left her frantic, distraught and depressed.

She refused to go out — wouldn’t see us.
Nobody could get past her door
so I snuck down the path and I listened
as she grizzled and ranted and swore.

I could understand why she was fretting
for those wigs were uncommonly rare
but I think she mistook admiration
when most people stopped dead just to stare.

But it would have been horrid to say so
so we all went along with her pride.
(Although it was mentioned in private
in public we all took her side).

Mother called an emergency meeting
where we all were encouraged to dig
deep into our purses and pockets
to buy poor Great-Gran a new wig.

Well, it took a great deal of persuading
to get her to leave her small flat
disguised behind Mother’s dark glasses
and wearing Dad’s gardening hat.

The wig-maker greeted her warmly
and measured her head without fuss
said the shape of her skull was quite perfect
and I’m sure I saw Great-Granma blush.

It was certain they took to each other
the new wig Great-Gran chose was bright red.
It was backcombed — a regular beehive
that she wore on the day they were wed.

Great-Gran lived to be over a hundred.
She was buried with all of her hair.
There were fifty-four wigs in her coffin —
one-a-week plus two more labelled ‘spare’.

CRASHERBASH

A monster called old Crasherbash
lives in the flat below —
a specialist in making noise
he fills the silence so

that every sound comes through the walls
and rumbles floor to floor.
He cannot bear the peace and quiet —
he must slam every door.

He’s not a bit considerate
but bangs about all day
and never thinks that what he does
disturbs in any way.

He goes on thundering about —
his boots are made of lead —
thumping round from room to room
enough to wake the dead.

He plays his music way too loud
it makes the building shake
and neighbours come and neighbours go —
it’s more than some can take.

This ‘monster’ we call Crasherbash
is one sad human being
and such an antisocial type
that no one’s disagreeing

it’s time to sort the problem out
restore the status quo
we’ve put up with him far too long —
old Crasherbash must go!

NOW YOU SEE ME...

There’s a wizard at work in our classroom
(though not Harry Potter, for sure).
There’s a strange-smelling smoke hanging thickly
and an odd kind of smudge on the floor.

For it seems that our teacher has vanished
with a bang and a burst of blue flames
and everyone’s sitting here baffled
but no one will name any names.

Now most of us like Mister Wilson
he isn’t a bad sort of chap
and okay for a chemistry teacher
so it seems an unlucky mishap.

We’ve been waiting for almost five minutes
hoping he might reappear
for someone is bound to ask questions
the moment they see he’s not here.

If this is a spell by some wizard
we’re hoping it soon comes unstuck
for it’s hard to believe Mister Wilson
might have carelessly blown himself up.

Then suddenly, from out the cupboard
with a swirl of his star-spangled cloak
steps the magically-trained Mister Wilson
really chuffed with his practical joke!

PLAYING TRUANT

Young Bobby heard a small voice say
‘Psst! — Don’t go to school today.
Skip off. You’d really rather play.
Listen — there’s an easy way...’

Then Mister No-one whispered ‘Quick! —
Just tell your mum you’re feeling sick’.
Though Bobby’s conscience gave a kick
he made his mind up in the nick

of time. He acted straight away —
‘Oh, Mum — I’m not too well today.
At home in bed I’d better stay...’
She shook her head to his dismay

and answered “No, you’re looking fit —
I don’t believe a word of it!
You’ve games today — here, take your kit.
You can’t fool me — not one small bit!’

So Bobby hung his head and took
his games kit and his homework book
dejectedly, and thus forsook
his plan, and throwing a black look

he shut the door with a ‘Goodbye, —
no matter then, that I could die
of something horrid!’ Pause — a sigh
but silence followed. No reply.

‘I guess I’m done for’ Bobby said
‘I’d so much rather be in bed
resting my poor aching head.
I’m stuck with awful Games instead!’

And quite forgetting that he’d lied
he rolled about the ground and cried
his eyes tight shut, his mouth so wide
that onlookers could see inside.

A passing teacher peered and said
‘I must admit his throat looks red.
If it’s infection, it might spread.
I think we’ll send him home to bed.’

Back to his house they hustled quick
and told his mum ‘This boy is sick —
his tonsils are as red as brick!’
She checked to see it was no trick.

So, tucked into his bed at last
the threat of Games now safely past
smug Bobby seemed to rally fast.
His mum, a tad suspicious, asked

‘What would you like for lunch, dear boy? —
Some soup? Or maybe you’d enjoy
some chicken noodles spiced with soy?
You must eat, son, so don’t be coy.

His tummy groaned, his head felt light
he ached for more than just a bite —
he had a horse’s appetite
but knew she’d smell a rat all right

if he should mention fish and chips
sausage rolls or cheesy dips.
He salivated, licked his lips —
imagined chocolate walnut whips...

‘If I could have a piece of toast’
he mumbled sadly with the most
wistful sigh ‘I’m feeling gross...’
and pulled his Star Wars duvet close.

His mother thought he must be ill
to lay so miserably still —
perhaps some potion or a pill
might help. A case of cure or kill...

‘Best ring the doctor’ she declared
which caught her Bobby unprepared
and feeling desperate — good and scared
he pleaded, hoping to be spared —

‘I’m really feeling not that bad’
he wheedled, careful, for she had
become more anxious and less mad —
resigned to nurse her ailing lad.

While off she went to toast some bread
her son crept quietly out of bed
and from his stash of chocolate fed
’til it was gone. He groaned instead

from feeling full — like he might burst
and nauseous (he feared the worst)
plus suffering from raging thirst
he judged himself as truly cursed.

Some might agree it served him right
quite pitiful — he looked a sight
his bed no longer laundered bright
pyjamas splattered, cheeks chalk-white...

The doctor took one look at him
his wise expression twisted grim
and said ‘I’ll go out on a limb —
his legs are weak, his eyes are dim —

I think this child needs more fresh air
to run about — play sport and share
outdoor pursuits. One must take care
to exercise — no time to spare.’

His mother nodded ‘Understood —
I will insist for Bobby’s good
he goes to football like he should
and eats less cake and treacle pud.

And doesn’t mope about his room
from mid-October round ’til June
like some fat grub in a cocoon
reluctant to emerge too soon!’

The doctor chuckled at her joke
and gave the boy a playful poke.
(He was, at heart, a kindly bloke
though loathe to suffer lazy folk).

His tone was firm. ‘I now suggest
in my opinion that it’s best
to stir yourself — get up, get dressed.
I sense you’ve been a mite depressed.’

There seemed no choice but to obey
the doctor, who went on his way.
Then Bobby, dragging feet of clay
endured the rest of the school day

including that so-dreaded Games —
his confidence shot down in flames
by sporty types with spiteful aims —
who ridiculed and took great pains

to insult Bobby — make him feel
useless — hopeless — all their zeal
directed so that the ordeal
revealed him as an imbecile...

They made him run — which made him puff
well past the point he’d had enough
but he was made of sterner stuff
and kept on going — braved the rough

and ready treatment meted out —
ignored the horrid things they’d shout.
He proved although he might be stout
he’d stamina, without a doubt.

He kicked and scored. The gathered crowd
signalled their approval loud —
they cheered and whooped, they clapped and wowed.
His mother cried ‘I am so proud!’

Because of him they won the game
and things were never quite the same.
He even braved the cold and rain
and never bunked off school again.

As for the voice he’d heard that day —
Mister No-one went away.
A nicer person came to stay
and far less trouble, Mum would say.

A SWEET LITTLE LOVE STORY

Marshmallow Molly was squishy and jolly
and Liquorice Linda so stretchy and thin
Aniseed Annie, plus Peppermint Polly
played pick ‘n’ mix games in an old treacle tin.

While Bubblegum Barry and Gobstopper Gary
were stuck in the pocket of six-year-old Sam
with Sherbert Dab Sidney, a Humbug named Harry
and half an old doughnut all covered in jam.

Now Linda and Molly, and Annie and Polly,
were lonely for sweethearts — had Valentine blues —
so, although it seemed folly, they traded their lolly
and went on a date with four fruit salad Chews.

The Chews were all brothers — they had umpteen others
exactly the same in their wrappers so neat —
all respectable types (as approved of by mothers) —
their shoes would have shone, had they had any feet.

Soon Molly was yawning (she found the boys boring)
so Linda and Annie, plus Polly and she
claimed back a full refund first thing in the morning
clearly due under terms of their shared guarantee.

The Chews were sent packing, untouched in their wrapping
their juicy-fruit flavours too sickly and bland
for the girls all agreed that excitement was lacking
and queued to see ‘Crunchy’ — a Seaside Rock Band.

Now Bill Lemon Barley and Caramel Charlie
gave fans a true taste of nostalgic romance
and small raisins went nuts in the Hot Fudge finalé
when Nigel the Nougat asked Bon Bon to dance.

Then Red Jellybean Jake grabbed Prue Pontefract Cake
and whipped up a storm ’til their additives glued
while a milk chocolate flake tried to rock, roll ‘n’ shake
but just crumbled completely — succumbed to the mood.

Anxious Annie and Molly, thin Linda and Polly
were wistfully hoping cool Charlie and Bill
might fancy a smooch with a sweet-natured dolly
but no one approached them all evening until

shy Bubblegum Barry, plump Gobstopper Gary
plus Sherbet Dab Sidney and Harry (in stripes)
(escaped from Sam’s pocket) now eager to marry
those favourite flavours most everyone likes.

So Annie and Gary, and Linda and Barry
(Aniseed, Gobstopper, Liquorice and Gum)
plus Molly and Sidney, and Polly and Harry
(Marshmallow and Sherbet, Mint peppered with Hum)

simply melted in bliss with each saccharine kiss —
a mix of affections, confections and taste
and no one missed out — every one got their wish
not a toffee-nosed truffle unloved in the place.

And each of the Chews — brothers right to the end
(and a trifle dejected, it has to be said)
soon were paired with a cute jellybaby girlfriend —
all four for a penny and keen to be wed.

On the day the sweet lovers expectantly clustered
with hundreds and thousands of colourful guests
(sprinkled profusely — the most they could muster)
were photographed proud in their cellophane vests.

Molly tossed her bouquet with a ‘Hip-hip-Hooray!’
It was caught by a pink and white coconut ice
and it’s said Rik Cough Candy proposed right away
in the heat of the moment — no need to ask twice.

At posh Honeymoon Hall it was sticky love-all
with a smitten cream egg and a wild walnut whip
while a large brandy ball hesitated to fall
or join in the scrum of the fun Lucky Dip

or the Jamboree Bag that our six-year-old Sam
bought from the shop at the end of his street...
Thus many years later, when grown to a man
he spun this love story — nonsensically sweet.

THE OWL WHO LOST HIS WOO

Wally was a young brown owl
who’d just learned how to fly.
His spent his days from dawn to dusk
asleep — and here is why:

An owl is specially designed
his eyes see in the dark
he’s different from garden birds
and those seen in the park.

He likes the woods and open fields —
a country bird and far
more at home in lonely spots
than many species are.

Owls love to glide at twilight time
across the windswept moors
where humans seldom venture — it’s
so hugely out-of-doors.

As Wally circled round he’d sing
the only tune he knew —
the one he practised every night
his soft ‘To-whit to-woo’.

And sometimes he would catch a mouse
for supper or a vole
he didn’t chew or mess about
but swallowed it down whole.

One night he saw a shadow hop
and much to his surprise
he spied a bullfrog on a log
bright moonshine in his eyes

and dazzled blind when Wally swooped
to grab it in mid-flight
the bullfrog never stood a chance
but croaked his dismal plight.

Frog wriggled fiercely then got stuck —
a lump in Wally’s throat —
the owl just wheezed — a funny noise —
one long and painful note.

He managed ‘To-whit...whit...whit...whit
but found he’d lost the ‘Woo’.
He coughed and coughed but couldn’t think
what else there was to do.

The lump remained — it bulged beneath
the feathers in his neck
and then it gave a fearful croak
to very great effect.

Alarmed, poor Wally almost choked
screeched loud and opened wide —
the bullfrog gave a frantic leap
and shot out from inside

with a neat parcel of small bones —
feathers, skulls and teeth —
the pellet landed on the grass
with bullfrog underneath.

Then Wally, feeling so relieved
let the fat creature go —
it waddled off into a stream
and quickly sank below.

And ever since, when Wally hunts
he takes especial care.
He leaves all bullfrogs well alone
and sets his sights elsewhere.

Each time he hears the faintest croak
‘To-whit to-woo’ he cries —
as warning to his brother owls
who mightn’t be so wise.

THE HOUSE WHERE LILY LIVED

In the grand house where Lily lived
the walls were high, the windows big
the roof was steep, the chimneys tall
and it was called Grey Ravens Hall.

Now Lily was an only child
her nature rather strange and wild —
when other kids came round to play
they soon got spooked and ran away.

So Lily spent most days alone
and through the house and garden roamed
with one small friend for company —
a bird who no one else could see.

She called this ghostly raven Thor
(after the god). His strident “Caw!”
accompanied her as she walked
around the lake. To him she talked —

unburdened all her secret fears
and dreams she’d kept so many years
to herself — no mother’s face
or kindly nurse about the place.

Just a great uncle, humped and frail
who tottered round, looked deathly pale
two faithful servants — fat and thin —
poor mad-eyed Meg and stick-man Jim.

No wonder Lily wasn’t quite
what other people judged as ‘right’
at ten years old — the gossips said
the girl was clearly ‘off her head!’

They’d shunned her at the village school
though she was neither dunce nor cruel
but claimed her influence malign
creeped-out the kids and undermined

their concentration, so the Board
decided (Lily’s pleas ignored)
it best the girl should be home taught
and rushed to send in their report.

A tutor, then, in time arrived
and biked along the gravel drive
up to the door and rang the bell
which clanged like doom’s forbidding knell.

The door was opened just a crack
by mad-eyed Meg, whose manners lacked
all welcome as she squinted out
and asked “What ’ave yer come about?”

The tutor, spinsterish and mild
replied “I’ve come about the child.
I’m here to teach your daughter — Lily”
and shivered — sensed the air grow chilly.

“Ain’t got no daughter” Meg replied
“Mebes you better step inside...”
The tutor blenched, she wouldn’t say
just why she pedalled fast away

so frantic was the urge to leave
despite she couldn’t quite believe
the rumours idle gossips shared
that left her shaken, trembling — scared.

Thus Lil was left to teach herself —
she took books down from every shelf
in the old library — each one
read start to finish. When she’d done

she wrote the title on a list.
She read for hours —never missed
a day of learning all she could —
her grasp of general knowledge good.

She specialised in subjects rare
(no warning voice advised “Beware!”)
and so she studied things obscure —
topics with a strange allure

in dusty tomes on weird religions
unsolved mysteries and legends
vampires, witchcraft, necromancy —
anything that took her fancy...

As ancient magick seeped inside her
her understanding grew still wider
and Thor perched close, familiar bird —
hung on to every pagan word

she spelled aloud. Then voices came
and whispered clear her Wiccan name —
“Lilith! — Little sister — come!”
She followed, fearful what she’d done...

Down in the cellar dark and damp
she lit a solitary lamp
that cast odd shadows on the wall
the silence stretched — no sound at all

except for Thor who flapped and flew
thrice times around as if he knew
some ritual drawn in time and space
connecting them to this grim place.

From out the walls twelve figures came —
cloaked and hooded — all the same
and chanting low a morbid dirge
while Lily fought a growing urge

to run — escape the hold they had.
Their presence made the air smell bad
like graves had opened — spilled their bones
along with dying cries and moans.

They drew her in — red eyes a-gleam
their circle numbering thirteen
and strong again with fresh young blood
to channel power like a flood

so they could conjure by the score
foul demons — as they’d done before.
Now Lily, suddenly aware
of dreadful danger, said a prayer

and broke the circle, heard them shriek
a curse — the coven’s power weak.
She spoke a bible verse as well
that sent them squealing back to Hell.

She shook herself, said “Come on, Thor!”
and marched towards the cellar door
but of the bird there was no sign —
just three singed feathers in a line.

From that day on our Lily changed —
the library she re-arranged
requesting that great uncle buy
more recent works — a good supply

of novels of the modern sort —
her fierce imagination caught
up in those tales of love and strife —
an altogether different life

where romance gripped and held its sway
brave heroes always saved the day
adventure thrilled, while danger lurked —
an alternate kind of magic worked...

Thus Lily was converted to
romantic fiction and she drew
such inspiration sweet and clear
to write and publish her idea.

She wrote an epic trilogy —
a work of total fantasy
and colourful — each story thread
an echo from the books she’d read

and woven tight into a theme
for readers who would share her dream
of high romance and worlds unknown
whose customs are unlike our own.

The venture was a huge success —
the flood of royalties such largess
it was enough to renovate
Grey Ravens Hall — the whole estate.

And so the crumbling house was saved —
the roof re-tiled, the paths re-paved
the rooms re-wired, new pipes plumbed through
to ensuite baths and showers, too.

The house shucked off its sense of gloom
with every freshly-painted room
replacement windows let the sun
shine in — the brooding shadows gone.

And Lil’s great uncle seemed transformed
as though vague realisation dawned
he grew quite cheery — lost his hump
and put on weight— was almost plump.

As for mad-eyed Meg and Jim
they evened out their ‘thick ’n’ thin’
and mellowed well in middle-age
devotees of the printed page...

And Lily’s reputation spread
with each new book her fans were fed —
great feasts of fancy so divine
enchanting all who came to dine.

She wrote a chapter every day
for years until, turned old and grey
and emptied of ideas, she sighed
put down her pen and quietly died.

*****

Grey Ravens Hall still stands alone.
It’s now a posh retirement home
and in its polished oak-beamed hall
a small brass plaque hangs on the wall —

In fond memory of Lily Green
who lived here from 1915
’til 8th November ’95
’Though she is gone,
her words survive.

And in the library revamped
with quite expensive reading lamps
the geriatric inmates doze
enveloped deep in Lily’s prose —

for there the groaning shelves are packed
floor to ceiling — stack on stack
with every title that brought fame
to Lily’s much-loved-author’s name.

And in the twilight’s slanting grey
sat at her desk — yet miles away
a shadow writes the world is all
some figment lost — beyond recall.

LENNY THE LOSER

Poor Lenny was a loser —
he couldn’t keep a thing.
He lost his conker even though
he kept it on a string.

At school he lost his coat and hat
and lost his brand new shoes —
things not glued or sewn on tight
he would, for certain, lose.

He grew up losing more and more —
he looked but couldn’t find
stuff he’d had just days before —
it seemed he’d lost his mind.

He lost his sense of humour. All
the money that he’d got.
He lost his job and with the stress
he kind of lost the plot.

He lost the few friends that he had
(he couldn’t quite think where).
He missed them vaguely... then he lost
his marbles and his hair.

With very little left to lose
he went and lost his health.
Unlucky to the very last
poor Lenny lost himself.

VIOLET THE VAMPIRE

Violet May Delilah Heath
was born with two sharp canine teeth.
Her mother, cautious and well-bred
insisted she was bottle-fed
so hired a trusty babyminder
and put the whole event behind her.

Violet became a mousy child —
quite introspective, manner mild
who rarely spoke but played all day
in such an unobtrusive way
no one noticed she was there
or how she fixed her glassy stare

on hapless insects caught and hung
in spiders’ webs discreetly strung
across the nursery window pane —
she’d pick the victims out again
and nibble on them half the night.
She had a gruesome appetite

for anything that crawled or flew
and there was nothing Nurse could do
except to tell her “No, no, no!”
and wag her skinny finger so
that Violet understood she should
give up such nasty ways for good.

Now Violet’s hardly-seen Papa
(a diplomat in India)
came visiting quite keen to see
his one and only progeny.
But found her an abnormal sort —
she wrecked the pretty doll he’d brought.

He’d been so sure she’d be delighted
but Violet merely tried to bite it —
disembowelled — pulled out its stuffing
while poor Papa, struck dumb, did nothing.
Offering up a silent prayer
to any god who might be there.

Papa, on all his travels, had
seen things miraculous and bad —
dark mysteries beyond belief
(what lurks behind or underneath
imagination’s potent spell)
some crazy stuff too weird to tell!

He watched his daughter, Violet
and feared the very worst. And yet
so hoped she wouldn’t cause much grief
despite her big and pointy teeth.
He puzzled how he came to sire
a creature such as this vampire.

He must at once inform his wife
and warn her for her very life
might be in danger from their child
(though usually her mood was mild).
he knew vamp nature — understood
her adolescent need for blood!

His wife, a beauty but few brains
refused to listen which explains
why she so gaily went ahead
with all her social plans instead
of heeding her wise husband’s warning
the consequences never dawning...

Her calendar was overflowing —
all the places she was going —
parties, dinners, get-togethers
playing croquet in all weathers —
that dizzy whirl of dates so caught her
she hardly thought about her daughter.

It happened in the weeks to come
that Violet eavesdropped on her mum
and heard that she was entertaining —
some great bash with rich and reigning
monarchs, plus their retinues
of hangers-on invited, too.

Violet licked her lips and smiled —
it sounded perfect to the child —
her home the ideal spot because it
meant she could climb out the closet —
announce with a malicious chortle
who she was — a true immortal!

In readiness for the affair
she flossed her teeth and curled her hair
and chose a long red party frock
one inky-black, one skin-white sock
and practised her dramatic lines
at least maybe a hundred times.

The night came round and every guest
in his best finery was dressed.
The several kings wore heavy crowns
and showed-off rather — marched around
while princes — maybe six or seven —
made believe they were in heaven

bowing low and waltzing madly
with their ladies. Violet, sadly
had no one to dance with, only
her old nurse. So, cross and lonely
’midst the blinding glare of glitter
she brooded, feeling dull and bitter.

Sudden stage fright held her breathless
(despite her status being deathless)
she couldn’t utter one small word —
her mind was blank — it was absurd
perplexing and ridiculous
that her great plan be thwarted thus...

It was just then — pure happenstance
some gallant chap asked her to dance
his manner courtly in extreme
(and afterwards she did feel mean!)
she grabbed the opportunity
and nodded, proper as can be.

Next moment, her Mama whirled by
like some demented butterfly
in her emerald-spangled dress
and giddy with the ball’s success —
her picture snapped for magazines
shown hobnobbing with kings and queens...

Violet gave Mama a grin
then dug her pointy fangs right in
her partner’s neck — he gave a yell
and fainted, which was just as well
for Violet dropped him with a sigh
or else she might have drunk him dry.

His life blood smeared upon her lips
she carefully licked up the drips
and looked around still thirsty for
another neckful. By the door
with stake in hand, her father stood
white-faced with all his faith in wood.

The vampire in her snarled to see
how people turn capriciously
against their kin. The human half
of her inclined to scoff and laugh
how folk could kill, then justify
when she’d no choice but feed or die.

The ballroom waited, hushed and still
no muscle moved one inch until
Violet May Delilah Heath
retracted both sharp pointy teeth
and made a statement there and then
she’d never bother them again.

So she left home that very night
booked on some Transylvanian flight.
She never texted them or wrote
except for one short leaving note
that gave her reasons in a list
why vampires cannot co-exist

with humankind — men will not share
so supernaturals need beware
and find themselves a safer home —
some monster-friendly twilight zone
where Violet went for bad or worse
and when she’s homesick, sucks on Nurse.

A GIFT FROM RUDOLPH

Jasmine imagined she saw a deer
hiding behind the sofa.
She could see the shadow of its antlers
cast against the wall.
It crouched there very still. In fact
it made no sound at all.

Now Jasmine was a curious child
and clever as a cat.
The reason that the deer was there
quite clear — he’d grabbed a nap
and while he dozed the herd moved on.
He’d woken up to find them gone.

And Jasmine knew that deer are shy
by nature — timid to a fault
and not inclined to make a fuss
but freeze and blend if ever caught.
They merge into the wallpaper
where possible. And wait it out ...

So Jasmine tiptoed soft as soft
around the furniture
so as not to startle or alarm.
Pretty sure the beast was listening —
cautiously aware of her —
bowstring-taut although the air hung calm.

All in a rush a shadow leapt
and dashed towards the door.
Our Jasmine dived for cover just in case
those flying hoofs might catch her
as he made his bold escape
leaving chocolate reindeer droppings
                                on the floor...

SERENA THE FAIR

Long ago in a kingdom now vanished from earth -
disappeared in the grey mists of time -
a treasure was hid of such fabulous worth
in a mountain that few dared to climb.

Deep in a cave, so the legend was told
lay these jewels so exquisite and rare —
wonderfully fashioned and set in pure gold
for a queen named Serena the fair.

The tales of her beauty were whispered in awe
by those privileged to glimpse the royal face.
Her one portrait hung high on the main castle wall
and shone down like a star from its space.

News of her traveled, and suitors flocked fast
bearing gifts to impress and delight
drawn in by the magic such stories had cast
they journeyed by day and by night.

They gathered together within the great hall
grown impatient for her to appear
gifts piled on the table and heaped by the wall
balanced carelessly, tier upon tier.

At last fair Serena descended the stair
and greeted her guests with a smile
amazed to see how many presents were there
and afraid it would take quite a while

to meet everybody and thank one and all
for the crowd was five hundred no less
(though she wondered a moment but couldn’t recall
when she’d last given out her address).

Courtly manners prevailed and she graciously sailed
through their midst like a yacht in a race
tactful and slim — beauty’s charms never failed
men grew weak at the sight of her face...

Then each man in turn duly asked for her hand
and she, of blue blood, turned him down
but kindly and hoping that he’d understand
only love was a match for her crown.

So every lord, duke or earl (dizzy hearts gone awhirl)
disappointed and gently dismissed
still agreed she was truly a wonderful girl
and thus welcome to keep all their gifts.

Perhaps they were fools to bestow heaps of jewels
but it seems she was happy they did
for the treasure was packed on the backs of strong mules
hauled high up some mountain and hid.

Though she wore one or two — twin sapphires dark blue
as the colour of midnight’s clear skies
and a necklace — gem-strung like a web in the dew
with diamonds as sharp as her eyes.

A whole year came and went — not one invite was sent
yet an army of visitors came —
princes, some knights, plus a sheik with his tent
and basically more of the same.

Serena was flattered ( for what else really mattered?)
she permitted each one to pay court
then tenderly spurned them — leaving them shattered
while she hoarded the riches they’d brought.

The rumours of treasure grew harder to measure
for such tales stretched incredibly tall —
claimed the queen's lonely joy was the sheer gloating pleasure
of assessing the worth of it all.

At last beauty faded — Serena grew jaded
and bitter — her temper was short
then news reached her ears that her gemstore was raided
what’s more, the foul thief had been caught.

She had him dragged in — poor and guilty as sin
middle-aged — just a bit past his prime
with appealing dark eyes and a strong hero’s chin
and no sign of remorse for his crime.

He was handsome and lean — it was hard to stay mean
so she smiled at his insolent stare
for some kind of magic had arrowed between
and bewitched her — Serena the fair.

She felt suddenly mellow — she fancied this fellow
though undoubtedly common — no class
with his old-fashioned cloak lined with luminous yellow
she imagined the moment would pass...

But their eyes became locked and she trembled, quite shocked
by some power that made her heart jump
his expression intense as her world slowly rocked
and she came back to earth with a bump.

It was Fate, she decided, and much later confided
to her maid (and her only true friend)
although ’Love at first sight’ was a myth she’d derided
it had sure proven true in the end.

So Serena turned sweet — being swept off her feet
by a stranger unworthy but bold
when he plighted his troth — their pact made complete
with a ring from her cache that he’d stole.

Was he wizard or pirate — or simply a fraud ?
To be honest she didn’t much care.
She dressed him in silks and proclaimed him a lord
and considered they made a fine pair.

They were married one night in the mystical light
of the stars — witnessed by a full moon
and her gown glittered fierce its stiff-petalled white
like a frost fallen hard on a bloom.

Soon he’d melted her will — calmed her spirit until
she was putty in his sculptor's hands
art shielded true purpose and practised sly skill
as he plundered her wealth and her lands.

He discreetly connived while their passion survived
his emotions weren’t totally false —
she got under his skin though he schemed and contrived
sheer affection deflected his course.

When the time came to leave he just couldn't believe
that somehow she’d made him her slave
and conscience undid his cruel plan to deceive
he put back all he'd thieved from her cave.

And there it remains — heaps of jewel-studded chains
in the dark of a cold mountain vault
and no one has found it for all of their pains
though for years the famed treasure was sought.

Serena lived long with her husband, Lord John
both were happy and well growing old
for together they found, so the story goes on
their love had no need of that gold.

SEA VOICES

I wish I could dive to the floor of the ocean
sink down through the depths of the green salty sea
and glide with the manta rays, feed with the fishes —
the song of the mermaid is calling to me.

I long to swim out to a far distant island
and laze in lagoons that are tranquil and clear
and listen to shells — hear their echoing stories —
faint watery sounds tumbling soft in my ear.

I dream I could ride on the back of a dolphin
cross the Sargasso with millions of eels
follow the humpbacks, their sad voices haunting
the mew of the seabird, the barking of seals.

The tide plays a rhythm that lures and entices
and bids me wade out through the talkative foam —
it lulls and beguiles me, it beckons and draws me
urging me back to my old seabed home.

I stand on the shore like a soul barely tethered
to anything solid, the wind cries my name —
I deep breathe the air, knowing water would drown me
eyes fixed on the path, walk the same way I came.

THE AFTERLIFE

I am a ghost —
it’s not the most
exciting job I’ve done —
this jumping out and shouting ‘Boo!’
is really not much fun.

It makes me sad
and I feel bad
when people run away
and it gets kind of lonely so
I rather wish they’d stay

and maybe chat
of this and that —
the weather or the news —
in life I was a cheerful chap
but now I’ve got the blues.

And in the dark
this haunting lark
can be an awful bore —
I often sit and dream about
the job I did before.

I must admit
the truth of it —
I murdered one or two —
well, seventeen the papers said —
give or take a few

at random shot —
perhaps I got
the fate that I deserve
but now I have nobody and
it’s getting on my nerves.

So I was hung —
still highly strung
and feeling quite perplexed —
I thought I’d paid for what I’d done —
the punishment came next.

THE NEW BOY

The new boy’s called Joe Mistry —
he says he’s from Hong Kong
and his dad’s a maharaja
but I might have got that wrong.

Our ‘show and tell’ was fun today —
Joe brought some photographs
of his uncle in Alaska
rounding up some wild giraffes

and another of his brother
who’s a rock star in the States
standing next to Jimi Hendrix
‘cos Joe reckons they were mates.

But I didn’t quite believe it
though I didn’t say a word
for the other kids seemed dead impressed
and swallowed all they heard.

For Joe is really funny
although he brags a lot
about his family and all
the wacky jobs they’ve got.

Like his cousin works for N.A.S.A.
and has travelled to the moon
he designed their latest weapon —
it’s a giant space harpoon

for hunting Martian monsters
Joe’s cousin has seen loads —
but everything is so hush-hush
his post cards are in code.

Joe’s mum was a magician —
a real one, not a fraud —
but when a dangerous trick went wrong
she disappeared abroad.

Now Joe can talk for hours
about this kind of stuff
and I wouldn’t hurt his feelings
but I think it’s all a bluff

and probably he’s lonely
’cos it’s scary being new
that’s why he tells those stories
and makes believe they’re true.

BEING BRAVE

I never cry, I never cry
or weep or wail or moan —
I never let them see I’m hurt
or hear me sob and groan.

I feel the pain — of course I do! —
each punch and scratch and kick —
inside it feels like I’m on fire —
all hot and weak and sick.

I don’t complain or run to Mum
I never, ever tell
for grassing would just make things worse —
they’ve threatened me as well.

I try to dodge them all I can
when face to face behave
like I am not afraid at all —
make out I’m really brave

but I wish they’d find somebody else
and pick on them instead
I can’t imagine what I’ve done
or what some kid has said...

Maybe they just don’t like me
perhaps it’s ’cos I’m black
I know they talk about me
and make jokes behind my back...

Sometimes it makes me angry
but I don’t let it show
I let them think I’m stupid
for they won’t ever know

how words can hurt like punches —
a different kind of pain
that doesn’t fade like bruises
or heal like new again.

Being brave is how I cope —
I never cry or tell —
and no one knows what’s going on
I hide the scars so well.

HANDS UP

My dad has got enormous hands —
they’re rough and scarred from chopping
logs — ’cos he’s a lumberjack
and spends his workday lopping
trees out in the forest
with an axe that weighs a ton
and once he had an accident —
he’s now got half a thumb.

My mum’s a nurse — her hands are clean
and soft from all that patting
pillows on her patients’ beds —
her touch is smooth as satin
as she wipes their brows and rubs their aches
with firm but gentle strokes —
she has these sort of healing hands
that help all kinds of folks.

My sister Mel has minute hands —
her fingers curl and hold
tight round mine — she’s pink and new
and only ten days old.
She clings to Mum — her grip so fierce
although her hands are tiny
and wrinkled slightly at the wrist
her baby nails all shiny.

Dad says my hands are like a boy’s —
my grubby nails all bitten —
stained with ink and sometimes grass
all scratched with bits of grit in...
I wash them at least once a week
with proper soap and water
but scrubbed they seem like they belong
to someone else’s daughter.

You can learn a lot from hands
and you don’t need a palmist
to tell a builder from a nun
a docker from a psalmist.
They kind of give the game away
(my frilly frock’s a decoy)
my hands are all the clues you need —
at heart I’m just a tomboy!

WHAT DID YOU DO IN THE WAR, DADDY?

‘What did you do in the war, Daddy? —
What did you do in the war?’
‘Oh, I was sent to foreign lands
where I’d never been before.’

‘So,what did you do there, Daddy —
so very far from home?
Were you with all your friends, Daddy —
or were you on your own?’

‘Oh, I had some friends, my darling girl
but I had foes as well —
and which was which now years have passed
I find it hard to tell.’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Daddy —
for surely you must know
even after all this time
what marked out friend from foe.’

Her father sighed and solemn-eyed
he took his daughter’s hand
wondering what wise words to use
to help her understand...

‘It seemed so simple,’ he began
‘they drilled us from the start
to think the enemy were men
with evil in their hearts

but then, up close, and face to face
I found it wasn’t true
and they were young — mere boys like us —
not monsters through and through.

The one who helped me — saved my life —
wasn’t on our side
and but for him — my enemy —
I surely would have died.

My comrades — in the thick of fray —
outnumbered — fell or fled —
and left me wounded — probably
assuming I was dead.

A young man lay a yard away
unconscious first, then moaned
at seeing me — his enemy —
he winced with pain and groaned.

So, there we were — both injured, ’though
his wounds were less than mine.
He offered me a cigarette —
we lay and smoked a time

and found that gestures were enough —
we had no need of words —
I knew — like me — he thought our plight
ironic and absurd.

So when his friends came back for him
they rescued me as well
despite my uniform that told
I was some fiend from Hell.

You see, when men get close to death
they pick out truth from lies
and what a man wears on his back
is often mere disguise.

We recognised, despite the war
that most men want the same —
a peaceful life not forced to play
some madman’s pointless game.

They hid me, fed me, patched me up
found me a place to stay
where strangers showed humanity
thus proved where goodness lay

in ordinary working folk
caught up in something vast
and terrible — for no one seems
to learn much from the past.

We go to war and no one wins —
not in reality
and all are poorer in the end
for such insanity.

So that’s what I did in the war —
I fought and nearly died
and it was just one humane act
ensured that I survived.

Compassion was the lesson learnt —
ingrained — I’m grateful still
that I was shown so graphically
how wrong it is to kill

or hate a stranger on the strength
of uniform or race —
our minds misled by ignorance
grey-suited, double-faced.

No, I didn’t win a medal for
some brave heroic deed
although I served my country in
its darkest hour of need.

What happened gave me the idea
once battle was all done
I’d tell my story to the world
and pass some wisdom on...

But no one wants to listen to
the voice that sings for peace —
they find it dull — too quiet once
the screams and gunfire cease.

They want to hear of victory —
of sacrifice and glory —
the stuff of legends sends a thrill
that makes the better story.

But Truth is patient — bides its time
unchanged, it will endure
and waits for those who seek it out
forever strong and sure.

The man who saved me sent me news —
he has a daughter, too.
No doubt he’s told her the same tale
that I’m now telling you...

When conversations turn to war
consider well, my dear
had I been cut from heroes’ cloth
it’s doubtful you’d be here

and I’d be in some foreign field —
a cross with just my name
for no one would remember me
since life goes on the same...’

His daughter’s eyes filled up with tears
she said emphatically
‘Oh, Daddy you will always be
a real hero to me! —

What daughter could not help admire
your honesty and care —
your loyalty to the ones you love —
your rules for playing fair?

And your answer to my question tells
me all I need to know —
far more than I might learn from books
TV or radio.’

Her father, smiling, let his thoughts
drift back and lay a wreath
on graves of all who died in war
when wanting only peace.

AINSLEY PHILPOT GRUDGE

The fate of Ainsley Philpot Grudge
was due to too much toffee fudge —
his weakness for the chewy sweet
piled on the pounds from head to feet
though never thin and far from tall
he grew from boy-shape into ball

and rolled along — he couldn’t walk
was short of breath, could hardly talk
all his clothes became too small —
the buttons wouldn’t reach at all
yet still he gorged and filled his tum
and didn’t listen to his mum.

At last he grew to such a size
his granma, being old and wise
and judging it was ‘kill or cure’
resorted to a spell — obscure
but tried and tested — cast it right
to take away his appetite.

The next day Ainsley Philpot Grudge
declared he hated toffee fudge
and couldn’t even bear the smell
of chocolate — felt sick as well
and said ‘no thank you’ to his dinner
while visibly, the boy got thinner.

His granma watched and all too soon
the boy deflated like a balloon —
his skin was rubbery to press
as he got less... and less... and less
until at last he was no more
than a small heap upon the floor.

His mum, despairing, wept and wailed
that Granma’s spell had clearly failed
but Gran, unfazed, suggested smartly
they’d hire him out for birthday parties...
a new idea — a boy-shaped parcel
inflating like a bouncy castle!

So Ainsley Philpot Grudge’s fate
was advertised at bargain rate —
at birthday teas his person (bloated)
filled with gas and silver coated
a warning printed on his side
that could be generally applied —

This article in not a toy —
please do not puncture or employ
foreign objects sharp or pointed
fold carefully where parts are jointed.
Do not immerse in bath or sea —
mis-use will void the guarantee.

Thus he was hired for grand events
along with tables, chairs and tents —
such gatherings as summer fêtes
where one kid (pushing past his mates)
stared hard, then whispered with a nudge
“I’m sure that’s Ainsley Philpot Grudge!”

Eyes popping wide and mouths agape
they pondered Ainsley’s massive shape
amazed to find how he’s become
the wobbly object of such fun
when only a few weeks before
they’d ridiculed him and ignored

each time he’d asked to join their games
they’d shut him out and called him names...
Ironic that a boy once spurned
had changed — so tables thus were turned
with Ainsley now a novelty
ranked high in popularity

while all his classmates formed long queues
paid fifty pence (removed their shoes)
for just ten minutes bouncing free
in Ainsley’s breathless company.
And business boomed and made him rich
but pressure grew to such a pitch

his silver coating flaked and wore
his bunting sagged, his fabric tore
though Mum and Gran took turns to patch
his skin emitted puffs of gas
that burped and bubbled round and round
like some volcano underground.

Poor Ainsley suffered — plagued until
the stress and worry made him ill.
He gave the neighbourhood a fright
when something ripped one restless night —
some stitch or button overloaded
burst and thus the boy exploded!

Bits flew here and bits flew there —
the smell of rubber choked the air
and Ainsley — what remained of him —
seemed hardly worth recycling
but Gran (determined, though bereft)
collected grimly what was left

as evidence — and made a claim
on the insurance — laid the blame
on global warming — too much sun
had perished Ainsley and undone
his future prospects, so Gran fought
for compensation in the court.

The magistrates sat quite confused
and didn’t seem one bit amused
to hear Gran quote some point of law
they’d never come across before
applied to a strange lumpy parcel —
part grandson and part bouncy castle.

Gran argued hard — her speech was long —
convinced her case was proven strong
for in her mind there was no doubt
so when the action was thrown out
she faced their shaking heads and frowns
and cursed their wigs and crow-black gowns.

Now Ainsley was past care or pains
but what to do with his remains?
Both Mum and Gran thought it might be
okay to scatter him at sea
and toss the boy they held so dear
from off the end of some quiet pier.

They picked a morning bright and calm
the pier was old and quaint with charm
and so the two, with Ainsley wrapped
more neatly now in sombre black
wandered casual as can be
towards the glittering blue sea.

About halfway Gran licked her lips
and said “I fancy fish and chips —
I won’t be long — you two stay here.”
With that she turned and disappeared
so Ainsley’s mum sat down to wait
and brooded on her boy’s sad fate.

And while she dozed a stranger came —
he took the parcel — breathed his name —
undid the magick Gran had cast
and freed young Ainsley’s soul at last!
The rest he shook over the rail
and lo! — a bouncing baby whale

who waved his tail fin playfully
as though to say “Hello — it’s me!”
then spouted, rolling through the tide
familiar writing on his side —
some warning about bath or sea
that might affect the guarantee...

Later, when his Gran returned
she nodded wisely as she learned
where Ainsley’d gone... “Oh, let’s not fret —
far better to forgive — forget
(she paused to give his mum a nudge)
and harbour not the smallest Grudge!”

FALLING OUT

We’ve fallen out — my friend and me
although we rarely disagree
but she said things about my brother
so we’re not speaking to each other.

There’s times, it’s true, my family
have the odd tiff, and frequently
the atmosphere has quite a chill —
long awkward silences until

someone gives in and says “Okay —
I’m sorry!” Almost straight away
they make it up — forgive, forget
and things go back to normal. Yet

I’m not sure that the last bit’s true —
forgetting’s often hard to do
for words can hurt — cut deep and sting
although I’ve tried like anything

to reason my misgivings out
there still remains that nagging doubt
for sorry’s easy — hand on heart —
but meaning it’s the tricky part...

I’d say “Let’s drop it” — just ignore —
go back to how we were before —
she’s my best friend but he’s my brother
and we stick up for one another.

So, I’ll simply bide my time and see
if she’ll apologise to me
and then I’ll carefully explain
it’s only me can call him names!

PET POEM

A poem’s a creature born thin as a page —
invisible — almost — when viewed from the side
and quietly he sits — the black bars of his cage
keep him from straying — lines carefully tied

in a bow that suggests he’s a dear little pet —
tamed and obedient — trained to be neat —
has a child-friendly nature — affectionate — yet
he has sharp rows of teeth and there’s claws on his feet.

So do learn to be gentle and treat him with care —
heed well the advice that good verse-keepers write —
some poems seem playful but best be aware
there are rhymes that turn nasty and may even bite!

BABY-MINDING BLUES

Oh take our Billy away, Mother!
I’ve had more than enough of him —
he’s been a pest all day, Mother
my patience has worn thin

so I’m feeling really stressed, Mother
and I’m fighting hard to keep
calm — I did my best, Mother
but he just wouldn’t go to sleep!

He ate a bar of soap, Mother
then sicked up on the cat
how am I supposed to cope, Mother
with something gross as that?

And I’d only turned my back, Mother
for no more than a minute
when I heard the toilet crack, Mother
as he hurled his toys right in it!

I tried to fish them out, Mother —
three cars and poor Bugs Bunny
and he left me in no doubt, Mother —
he found the whole thing funny

as the water overflowed, Mother
and now the carpet’s soaking
I called him a little toad, Mother
but he grinned — like I was joking!

And you know your best black dress, Mother —
hung behind your bedroom door?
Well, it’s in a proper mess, Mother
’cos he dragged it round the floor

then screwed it in a ball, Mother
and he found your lipstick, too —
wrote rude words on the wall, Mother
that I didn’t think he knew!

I’m reduced to a nervous wreck, Mother
and though it might sound harsh to say —
I’m afraid I’ll wring his neck, Mother
if you don’t take him away!

ALL WEATHERS

Rain is fun — I like the puddles —
sploshing through in welly boots
paddling by the drains and gutters
where the gurgling water shoots.

Sunny days are good for playing
at the seaside — on the beach —
running through the sand and jumping
back where tingling waves can’t reach.

Windy days are fine for flying
kites that zoom across the sky
and when the string tugs at my fingers
it’s like I’m soaring way up high.

Frosty days are great for sliding
where the ice spreads like a sheet —
glittering across the pavement
and slippery beneath my feet.

But best are days that wake to silence —
all around a breathless glow
and everything transformed and frozen
by a magic fall of snow.

ODD ONE OUT

Benjamen Jones has sticky-out bones
Timothy Williams has warts
Peter has pimples, Dan’s got girly dimples
and Gordon’s too big for his shorts.

Frederick Sweet has different size feet
Philip is thin as a rake
Justin is weedy, Tristram’s just greedy
but no one’s as nerdy as Jake.

Jeremy Flint has an odd sort of squint
Nathan McBride’s quite insane
and Joshua Green is a sight to be seen
but snivelling Jake is a pain.

Jake Wilson-Grant lives with his great aunt
and she looks so grumpy and grim
that we let him hang and be one of the gang
just because we’re all sorry for him.

THE LAND OF SLEEP

I don’t want to wake up
I don’t want to get up
and I don’t want to go out
this morning...

I like it in the warm and dark
I want to go on dreaming
don’t put the light on — close the door
and go back down the stairs
leave me safe in my cocoon
with no worries and no cares.

The land of sleep is where I’ll stay —
where I’ve made lots of friends
so why should I have to leave
because the night-time ends?

I don’t want to wake up —
I don’t much like today —
it’s always raining in this world
I think I’ll drift away
back to the shores where fairies live
and we can play.

SHADOW PEOPLE

When the owl is hooting softly
and I’m on the edge of sleep
from the corners of my bedroom
silent shadow people creep.

From beneath my closing eyelids
I have glimpsed them crowding round —
a grey mist of hands and faces
hovering — they make no sound

and I’ve felt their eyes upon me
fingers plucking empty air
while I concentrate on breathing
and pretend I’m unaware

they are waiting for that moment
when not asleep, yet not awake
my own shadow isn’t tethered
and it’s then they’ll try to take

another soul to join them
in whatever realm they roam
so I whisper to the moonlight
the old words to send them home.

Then like a tide receding
the grey people melt away
and on morning’s far horizon
a cock crows in the day.

HANDS OFF

I hate my little brother —
he’s Dad and Mummy’s pet —
he always gets the things he wants,
he’s awful spoilt, and yet

when a boy called Nasty Nigel
took my brother’s favourite car,
I made that bully give it back —
’cos that’s the way things are.

He may be dead annoying —
a pest, and sometimes dim,
but he’s still my little brother
and no one picks on him!

A SPRITE AT MIDNIGHT

You’ve come to bring me torment — I can tell
like a tickle I can’t reach around to scratch
your wing a constant niggle in my ear
your voice a whining whisper I can’t hush.

It is your sport to worry — pinch and pain
tease every nerve awake again — denying sleep
you tantalize and goad — I can’t conceive
what snip of satisfaction you can get

while you prod and poke — deliberately upset
a helpless victim — you pesky little toad!

I’ve glimpsed you sideways flitting by
a shadow near my part-closed eye —
Are you classed imp or elf — what folklore name
fits your darting — small — annoying self?

If I could find you — track you to a corner —
I would thwack you like a fly!
Squash you like a bug — you spiteful faery thing!
You are the nastiest little beast I’ve ever — almost — seen!

GRABJACK WOOD — A WARNING

If you go down to Grabjack Wood
near dusk and all alone
you’re doomed to lose your way for good
and never get back home.

There’s strange things lurk between the trees —
there’s faerie rings and mounds
sly whispers taunt — die on the breeze —
and packs of ghostly hounds

close-follow hard upon the heel
of anyone who strays
so eager for a tender meal
they’ll track you down for days.

If they don’t catch you first some witch
might fancy you instead —
enchant you by some fetid ditch
and feed you mouldy bread.

She’ll fatten you and spell you blind
like it’s some scary game —
tease out your soul and squeeze your mind
until you’re quite insane.

The ancient wood is overgrown
its twisted heart is black —
choked up with fearsome rumours sown
that say the dragon’s back...

Such myths and old wive’s tales run wild —
who knows which ones are true?
Old Grabjack hunts the wandering child —
make sure it isn’t you!

THE NOVICE

In through my window one evening at twilight
a large moth came bumbling as though drunk or near-blind
and with it a perfume came wafting so sweetly
it brought warm garden memories into my mind.

The moth fluttered dizzily — landed quite clumsily
its wings like large petals deep purple and blue
and wearing a brown furry coat buttoned tightly
while on each long black leg was a dainty red shoe.

Then I saw its dear face as it sat looking up at me
its earnest expression so clear in its eyes —
the face of a faerie — exquisite in detail
peered out from its stumbling insect disguise.

I dared hardly move — concerned I would frighten her
as she sat there resting — regaining her breath
so we gazed at each other for maybe a minute
and what she was thinking I can’t even guess.

Then she flapped and took off again — whirring — erratic
her flight navigation a worry to see
how she bumped against everything — panicking — nervous
landing awkward once more she glanced over at me.

“Take your time — there’s no hurry” I whispered “Don’t worry
you’ll soon get the hang of it — just concentrate.”
Then I watched as she practised — growing more confident.
Outside the night gathered — the time getting late.

From bookcase to picture rail — lampshade to mirror
she glided — her wings like a soft paper dart
and I heard her laughing — her red shoes tap dancing
and something quite magical entered my heart.

Then out through the window she sped like a meteor
the dust from her wings drifting silvery rain
and I wished her goodbye in a dream slow-dissolving
resigned to the thought I’d not see her again.

Yet there have been some times in the still of the evening
the thud of soft bodies and wings beat the glass
and I look to the window and see tiny faces —
she and her friends peering in as they pass.

So while others see moths I quite often see faeries
flying at dusk in their insect disguise —
most mortals can’t see them — don’t even imagine —
unless they are fey or unusually wise.

TO A SHY FAIRY

Some nights I sense you — catch a glimpse
of a soft fluttering
from where you linger — shy of light —
the tremble of a wing
in shadow — silent as a moth
you flit about the room
weightless — like a swirl of dust
to settle safe in gloom.

You need not fear me — I’ve no plan
to harm you or your kind
and you are welcome here to share
what comfort you can find
beneath my roof — while I sit still
and wonder why you come
exploring — yet there is no sign
of mischief — damage done.

I sense — small creature — you’re benign
in spirit — simply coy
and I’m intrigued to see your face —
are you a girl or boy?
Imagination pictures you
as sprite or maybe elf —
I have no doubt you’re something fey
and wish you’d show yourself

just for a moment — just we two —
our worlds allowed to touch
and if you hear me let me say
the chance would mean so much
to witness — once — with my own eyes
what I believe is true —
so please come out from where you hide
and let me look at you.

TINY GHOST

The house we live in once belonged
— was home — to someone else —
some other child slept in my room,
their books upon my shelf.

They sat on this old window seat,
gazed out at the same sky
and daydreamed just as I do now
and watched the clouds drift by.

Maybe they wondered, thought about
the future and the past —
how all things change, the world moves on
and nothing’s meant to last...

There’d come a time in years ahead
a stranger in their place
would think about them, make believe
they’d found a tell-tale trace —

some tiny ghost — an echo left —
a whisper and a sigh —
a shadow where there should be none —
a shiver passing by.

THE TALE OF ELIZA AND CLAUDE

Eliza-Jayne Myfanwy Letts
was fond of creepy crawly pets
although forbidden by her mother
and warned she shouldn’t by her brother
she kept a multi-legged collection
and tended them with true affection.

In pickle jars of graded size
she housed in rows her moths and flies
beetles, spiders and odd things
that hopped and wriggled, flapped their wings —
her natural fascination grew
for all that buzzed and hummed and flew.

Her favourite bug above all else
took pride of place upon her shelf —
a ‘hairy worm’ she just adored —
a caterpillar known as Claude
who munched through leaves and fattened quick —
his bristles shiny, long and thick.

Eliza watched with glowing pride
as Claude climbed up the jar’s smooth side
and wandered round its glassy rim
and listened as she spoke to him
then on her finger took a crawl
as though he didn’t mind at all.

But some weren’t happy in her zoo —
some barely thrived and quite a few
(however hard Eliza tried)
curled up their toes and quietly died
and nothing she could do or say
made much difference. Every day

she’d find to her intense despair
a casualty — legs in the air
and stiff to every poke and prod —
no sign of life — they’d gone to God
without a word — no fond farewell —
no cause — as far as she could tell.

It was a puzzle why they died —
Eliza worried, frowned and sighed
and made especial fuss of Claude
afraid he might get sick or bored
with life alone in his round jar —
feel stressed at where his family are...

She felt quite quite anxious as she checked
how many leaves were holey — wrecked
and chewed right down to their tough veins
while Claude — curled round their stalk remains —
seemed well content and fit enough
packed full of healthy veggie stuff.

But then it came about one day
that on the bottom poor Claude lay
and twitching gently while Eliza
tearful, wishing she was wiser
watched the skin peel from his back
revealing something brownish-black.

It gleamed — peculiar and shiny —
bullet-shaped — its pulse a tiny
heartbeat flickered ’neath the skin
where Claude was hidden — trapped within
and past all remedy or cure —
Eliza feared him dead for sure.

What fever caused his sense to float
and shrug off his long hairy coat
she could not fathom — even guess
why Claude would leave her so — unless
he had a need of a disguise...
so she’d be patient — dry her eyes.

The days passed by — with Winter gone
still Claude slept on — and on — and on.
Eliza fretted while fresh slugs
garden snails, assorted bugs
all shared the tense, nail-biting wait
and prayed Claude’s trance-like spell would break.

Spring sunlight found Claude’s dusty jar —
a nerve was triggered from afar —
the brittle skin cracked like an egg
as Claude pushed through one slender leg
and pulled his crinkled body free
of everything he used to be.

You should have heard Eliza shout —
she danced for joy — she skipped about —
amazed to see such awesome things
as Claude’s unfolding peacock wings —
the chubby brown-furred grub was gone —
his colours now like stained glass shone.

She ran to tell her mother — found
her brother, too, who at the sound
of the commotion dropped his book
and jumped right up to take a look
demanding what had made her so
excited (like he didn’t know!)

Transformed, Claude pumped his wings and stared
right through the glass — got all prepared
for his first flight into the blue.
Eliza knew she must unscrew
the lid and let her pet fly free
and found his insect dynasty.

They stood aside — Eliza’s mother
and her know-it-all big brother —
watched how carefully she set
Claude — her best and favourite pet
fluttering free — up through the sky —
no looking back — not one goodbye.

Afterwards she felt quite sad —
missing Claude — on balance glad
she’d let him go — had done what’s right
it being an uplifting sight
to witness his return to wild —
in fact it so impressed the child

she promised (as she wiped her eyes)
she’d take her spiders, bugs and flies
back to the field where they belonged
despite the fact she was so fond
of Earl the earwig and his wife —
they so deserved a better life!

Eliza grew up wise and good
and studied like a smart girl should
until she’d earned a top degree —
a first in entomology
for all the knowledge she had learned
began with Claude — a ‘hairy worm.’

WHEN TWO BUGS HAVE A HUG

When two bugs have a hug
it’s a complicated affair —
all those legs and long thin bits
waving around in the air.

It’s something of a tangle —
an intricate muddle
when two insects in love
have a kiss and a cuddle.

Twelve arms/legs — whatever —
four antennae plus mouth parts
locked in confusion
while fast-beating bug-hearts

are caught up in the moment —
they wrestle insanely —
their courtship impetuous
rough and ungainly.

Which one lets go first
and breaks off the embrace
when they’re so tightly glued
is a problem they face ...

Sometimes one will take off
while the other still clings —
a clear demonstration
that true love has wings.

POPULARITY STAKES

Nobody loves poor Mary-Jane —
her hair is lank — her face is plain —
just nobody loves Mary-Jane.

She had a party — nobody came
and no one really was to blame
when nobody cares for Mary-Jane.

She went to the beach — it poured with rain —
bad luck follows Mary-Jane —
but nobody’s sorry all the same.

Nobody notices Lindy-Lou —
she doesn’t ask why — hasn’t a clue —
what nobody does, or doesn’t, do.

Nobody knows what Lindy-Lou
says about them — if it’s true
she won’t tell me — or even you.

Nobody misses Lindy-Lou —
she’s shy — like nobody through and through —
Nobody questions — wonders — who?

Nobody cares for Sally-Ann —
not one single friend or fan —
most avoid her — if they can.

Nobody sides with Sally-Ann
when debating should they ban
bossy brothers — to a man.

Nobody votes for Sally-Ann
in any poll that ever ran —
no secret ‘kiss’ for Sally-Ann.

Everybody* likes Billie-Jo —
she’s cute and really nice to know —
her friendships don’t swing to and fro —

she’s loyal and kind — sweet Billie-Jo —
her prettiness not all for show —
she’s good all through — from head to toe.

*All except for Mary-Jane
and Lindy-Lou finds her a pain
while it drives Sally-Ann insane

for deep inside they each know
they’ve got a million miles to go —
Nobody’s as perfect as Billie-Jo.

TELL ME

Mother, why do you hold your head —
what news has made you cry?
What did that policeman have to say —
tell me — did someone die?

I know a little about death —
I found a mouse today
frozen on the garden path
and touched it where it lay

eyes shut and tiny paws clenched tight
its tail a question mark
curling as it left this world
went off into the dark...

So tell me, Mother — I’ll be brave
what’s happened? — Is it bad?
Although he left us years ago
I’m half-afraid it’s Dad...

It isn’t fair to shut me out
it’s written on your face
something hurts inside of you —
your grief chokes up the place.

So tell me, tell me, tell me please —
the truth and nothing less —
why do you weep — what is the cause
of such intense distress?

HOW BIG?

How big is big?
How small is small?
And who’s to judge?
We think it’s all
just up to us —
how we compare
to harvest mice
or polar bears.

Yet to a beetle
mice are giants
and bears have no
idea of science —
the only measurement
they know
is footprints marking
miles of snow.

The whale is huge —
gargantuan —
when fully grown
dwarfs a man
who seems a monster
to the gnat
and other bugs
we squirt stuff at.

And elephants
are quite a size
and heavy, too —
it’s no surprise
they’re dangerous
but have no claws
unlike the died-out
dinosaurs...

who would have made
us all look small —
however wide
or long, or tall —
we’ve learnt from fossils
that occur
what size of big
the biggest were.

No zoo for them
but a museum
where people go
and pay to see ’em —
stand and stare
get quite reflective
and put this size thing
in perspective.

COMEUPPANCE

I wasn’t nice to Henry —
I tied him to a tree
because he played with Tom and Ben
and everyone but me.

He said I was a bully
and when I set him free
he threatened to tell teacher
but that didn’t worry me.

I boasted — said I didn’t care —
I wasn’t scared one bit —
I laughed and pushed him in the mud
I tore his football kit.

He didn’t tell our teacher
but by the school’s main gate
I saw our sisters talking —
I guess that sealed my fate.

Now Henry’s big sis Sarah
is not a girl to cross —
she’s got a reputation —
she’s kind of like the boss.

And she explained in detail
as she rolled me in the dirt
that this was called ‘comeuppance’
then she ripped my new school shirt.

I sort of got her meaning
she made her point so well
I promised I’d apologise
and that I wouldn’t tell.

These days I’m nice to Henry
and quite like Sam and Ben
and sometimes I join in their game
I think we’re nearly friends.

DOING NOTHING

When they ask me what I’m doing
and I just answer “nothing”
they don’t believe me — get annoyed —
start frowning, sighing, tutting

like I must be doing something
and they’re absolutely sure
whatever I’ve been doing’s bad —
I should be punished for

not owning up, admitting what
I’m hiding with that word —
“nothing” is ridiculous —
“nothing” is absurd!

For nobody does nothing
quite so frequently as me —
nothing before breakfast,
nothing after tea.

I haven’t got a hobby,
I never watch TV,
instead, I sit and wonder —
why do they pick on me?

Perhaps, next time they ask me,
I’ll tell them something new
because they’ll never understand
that nothing’s what I do!


BAT CHAT

I’m a barbastelle bat
I flutter and flap
and spend most of my time in the dark
I hunt the night skies
catch midges and flies
and I sleep in a tree in the park.

’Though I’m only a bat
it’s unfortunate that
some people are scared I might bite ’em
I look creepy and black
and in films I attack
so everyone screams and gets frightened.

But I’m just a shy bat —
a real quiet sort of chap —
imagine a mouse with big wings on
and my appetite’s small
I don’t drink blood at all
and I’m not made of rubber with strings on.

I am simply a bat
and I promise you that
I’ve no horribly gruesome intentions
so unless you’re a moth
it is quite safe to scoff
for the vampire is mostly invention.

I’m a rare kind of bat
so don’t hassle or trap —
all you humans should try to protect me
if you see me flit by
please don’t shriek, yell or cry
for it’s sure to freak out and upset me.

I’m a sensitive bat
and I’m hoping this chat
will help get these fears off my chest
a quick word in your ear
might make it all clear
us bats are endangered unless

you understand that
horror movies aren’t fact
and people are way too suspicious
I get quite perplexed
when they cover their necks
a fresh insect is much more delicious!

PLAYING PIRATES

We’ve been playing Spanish pirates —
we’re rough and tough and mean
I’m one-eyed Jack the Fearless
my old parrot’s blue and green
he’s been perching on my shoulder
so my t-shirt’s far from clean.

For hours we have sailed due east
with Mad Thomas at the wheel
on the look out for adventure
and some bags of gold to steal
(and some food — for hungry pirates
need to snatch a tasty meal.)

Our boat’s really a cardboard box
we got from Mad Tom’s Mum
we made a wicked paper flag
with skull and crossbones on
and pretended that our lemonade
was really pirate rum.

Tom suddenly cried “Ship Ahoy!” —
his sister had come home
and didn’t know it’s dangerous
to sail strange seas alone —
we stole her sweets and tied her up
then rolled her in the foam!

But Tom’s Mum came and rescued her
and said “That’s quite enough! —
Even pirates have their rules,
so don’t play quite so rough!”
We had to hand back all the sweets
(except the ones we’d sucked.)

So now we’re starving and fed up —
we’ve sailed the ocean wide
and found no treasure — not one jewel
nor ounce of gold we’ve spied
maybe the time has come when we
should give up and decide...

                tomorrow we’ll play something else!

SEA DREAMS

I wish I was a mermaid
with a super swishy tail —
then I’d swim the seven oceans
with the singing humpback whale.

I would make a starfish garden
build a little coral house
keep a pair of clever catfish
and a deep sea diving mouse.

I’d plant cockle shells and mussels
rows of limpets by the score
have a nesting box for oysters
strings of pearls around my door.

I’d have lots of friendly neighbours
who I’d chat to every day
I’d be kind to lonely lobsters
but keep nosy sharks at bay.

I’d hold parties for the turtles
teach the spider crabs to knit
help the octopus make doilies
with a seaweed crochet kit.

We’d have fern arranging sessions
and the squids could use their ink
for seahorse drawing classes —
it’s amazing when I think

of that world under the water —
all those possibilities —
Oh I wish I was a mermaid
so I could explore the sea!

LABELS

Gary’s got new trainers,
Tommy’s got some, too —
they’re really cool, with silver stripes
on bright metallic blue.

I’d kind of like a new pair —
my ones are old and not
half so neat as Charlie’s,
whose Nike shoes are hot.

And even Sam has Reeboks,
although they’re second hand
and not as flash as Barney’s —
his dad’s quite rich and grand

and drives a posh Mercedes,
and smokes a big cigar,
so Barney gets the very best
and thinks he is a star.

Poor Benny wears black plimsolls —
at home the money’s tight —
says labels aren’t important.
I think maybe he’s right.

LEOPARD CAKE

If leopards ever sampled cake
they would never find the crumbs
that dropped — lost among
their camouflaging spots...

and they would likely itch
more than a little bit —
these morsels caught
between their furry folds

might tickle and infuriate
so for their uncertain temper’s sake
hungry leopards in the wild
avoid eating cake.

SING A SONG

Sing a song of starlight
a pocketful of dreams
the sky is full of angels
how bright the magic seems
the roofs with snow all glisten
the moon’s so clear and high
like a shiny silver button
or a pale and spooky eye.

Hum a tune to shadows
when night is cold and dark
and fog hangs by the river
fills the playground in the park
where ghouls and ghosties listen
hog the dampness as they lurk
music interrupts their haunting
and most other creepy work.

So whistle when you’re nervous
but carol when you’re glad
especially at Christmas
or the birthday you’ve just had
and when it comes to bedtime
go sing yourself to sleep
like the birds lulled in the treetops
or the fish who bubble deep.

SHELL

We visit Grandma — she looks sad
and doesn’t smile or speak
she doesn’t know us — me or Dad —
although we come each week.

There’s times when she will sit and sigh
eyes fixed upon the floor
not moving when we say goodbye
and walk back through the door.

She’s in some daydream — years away
(that’s sort of what they said)
she’s been confused since the sad day
poor Grandpa Joe dropped dead.

I miss them both — while life goes on
I find it hard to tell
which is worse — dear Grandpa gone
or Grandma just a shell.

GOOD COMPANIONS

Said the bunny to the kitten —
“I’m a bunny — how d’you do?”
The kitten, playful, answered “I’m
a bunny rabbit, too!”

The bunny looked her up and down
he thought her face was sweet
but kindly pointed out she lacked
a bunny rabbit’s feet.

Perplexed, the pretty kitten sat
and washed her dainty paws
while bunny groomed his fluffy coat
and licked between his claws.

At last the bunny spoke again
“I’m guessing you’re a kitten —
my theory’s quite a simple one
                if you’ve an ear to listen...

You don’t eat dandelions or hay
but dine on meat or fish
and there’s another giveaway —
see — ‘Pussy’ on your dish!”

Kitten blinked her big blue eyes
and agreed he must be right
for ’though they both looked small and cute
they weren’t that much alike.

So, while Kitten pounced and chased about
Bunny sniffed and pondered —
chewing on a carrot top
long and hard he wondered...

There was no reason he could see —
all differences apart —
they shouldn’t mix — at least be pals —
this seemed a hopeful start.

“Hey, Kitty!” Bunny hopped across
and nuzzled at her ear.
She stopped her playing while he told
the jist of his idea...

Inseparable, the two became
and bucking Nature’s trends
bonded and from that day on
were loyal and lifelong friends.

MY ROOM — A WARNING

No one comes in my room —
it’s private — so keep out —
and don’t think you can just sneak in
when nobody’s about!

Mum does a bit of cleaning
but doesn’t touch my stuff,
she hoovers round and dusts a bit,
collects odd socks and fluff,

but never opens cupboards
or pokes or prods or pries —
she knows what I have hidden’s
not fit for grown-up eyes...

Now I don’t want to scare you,
but things can get grotesque,
so curb your curiosity —
it’s really for the best,

and heed the sign pinned on my door —
I wrote it very clear:
NO ENTRY — WIZARD TRAINING ZONE:
DARK FORCES LURK IN HERE.

A SECRET PLACE

I’ve just come back from being gone
and when they ask me where
I scratch my head and vaguely point
to some place over there.

And when they question what it’s called —
this land so far away —
I rack my brain and shrug because
I really cannot say.

There are no sign posts where I go
there are few stars to guide me
I wander down the nearest path
and trust the map inside me.

And every minute that I spend
can seem more like an hour
for magic grows in every tree
and shines from every flower.

It is forever summer there
beneath those cloudless skies
and nothing nasty happens there
and no one ever dies.

No grown-ups come to spoil my fun
no big kids bully me
it’s never bedtime, there’s no school —
I’m absolutely free!

So I won’t say just where it is —
not the exact location —
but keep the secret safely locked
in my imagination.

GREEN MAN

There is a Green Man in the wood
his hair is full of leaves
his fingers are long skinny twigs
he hides inside the trees

but I have seen him once or twice —
glimpsed his berry eyes
peering at me through the bark
and guess that his disguise

is just so he can guard the oaks,
the elms and silver birches,
watch out for those who cut and burn
Mother Nature’s churches

and he protects the sapling beech,
the hazel and the holly —
I’ve seen his face in picture books
and he looks kind of jolly

for he’s the spirit of the wood —
he’s very old and wise
and he knows every bird and bush
he has a thousand eyes

and he will feel the branch go crack
and sense the tree’s in pain
he’ll curse such vandals with one stare
and send them all insane.

So when you’re playing in the wood
be careful what you do
don’t ever think you are alone —
the Green Man’s watching you!

SEA STORIES

The sea’s cold lips
curl white with pain
they suck on rocks
draw back again
its quick wet tongue
flicks sand and spray
just listen close —
you’ll hear it say...

                I crunch the bones
                of sailors drowned
                I chew on stones
                and lick them round
                I spit them out
                or swallow whole
                to feed dark hungers
                soothe my soul.

The sea’s thin voice
whines all night long —
it’s part lament
part victory song —
it tells old secrets
whispers, cries
howls its madness
sobs and sighs...

                I sink your ships
                rip up their sails
                I whip up storms
                blow salt-breath gales
                I wield great power
                and my rule
                is often fickle
                sometimes cruel...

The sea’s high tides
reach up the wall
erode the cliff —
waves bite and gnaw
and inch by inch
it eats away
each stubborn edge
grown soft as clay...

                I hiss my stories
                taunt the moon
                my rising flood
                will cover soon
                the fields and cities
                ’til men wish
                they could go back
                to being fish.

FRIENDLESS

I haven’t got a lot of friends —
in fact I haven’t any
except for bats who share my cave
though lately there’s not many

and they don’t really count because
I’ve noticed them avoid me
and even when I say hello
they flap past and ignore me.

There’s spiders but they’re really quiet —
I’ve never heard them speak.
They hang around all dangly-legged
but utter not one squeak.

Last week a rat came visiting
but once he’d sniffed the air
decided that he wouldn’t stop
inside a dragon’s lair

even though there’s loads of room —
I’d welcome company —
I’m guesing he just didn’t like
the awful smell of me.

It’s not as if I never wash
or polish my red scales
and I am most particular
at cleaning teeth and nails

and yet no matter what I do
my cave smells strange and sickly —
in fact there is a dreadful pong
so passers-by leave quickly.

They glimpse a pile of mouldy bones
and even though I smile
they can’t see I’m a friendly chap
and always run a mile!

THE CAT, THE WIZARD AND THE WICKED PIRATE

Black Jake he was a pirate proud —
the scourge of seven seas
his ship was called the Gyspy Queen
and all her crew got fleas.

They made Jake itch, they made him scratch
and bang his wooden leg
he swore the vessel had been cursed
by a cat called Pretty Peg.

Now Peg was once a wizard’s cat
who got the urge to roam
she stowed away one moonlit night
and made Jake’s ship her home.

The first mate, Bill, discovered her
and said “What ’ave we ’ere? —
A lucky cat!” He let her lap
the last drops of his beer.

But when Jake heard he wasn’t pleased
and went red in the face
and shouted sure he didn’t need
“no moggie ’round the place!”

For pirates should be fierce and strong
and cats made Black Jake sneeze —
they made him gasp and wipe his eyes
his voice became a wheeze.

He didn’t trust those wide green eyes
he hated such soft fur
he shook and coughed and thought of ways
he could be rid of her.

For Jake was hard and cruel and mean
his heart was black with spite
he planned to toss her overboard
one dark and stormy night.

But Bill, the first mate, fed her fish
and played with Pretty Peg
he made a bed for her inside
an empty powder keg.

And all the time Bill was about
he thwarted Jake’s cruel plan
until a sudden accident
killed off the kind old man.

He had a pirate’s funeral —
they buried him at sea
and fired the cannon overhead
while Jake smiled secretly...

That night he took the powder keg
with Peg inside asleep
and hurled it hard with all his might
far out into the deep.

With no remorse, not one regret
the wicked deed was done
and battered by the stormy seas
the Gypsy Queen sailed on.

The powder keg bobbed like a cork
it floated through the waves
at last it washed upon a beach
so Pretty Peg was saved!

The journey home was very long —
a year passed, maybe more
it was a thin, bedraggled Peg
who found the wizard’s door.

And when he heard the tale she told
(he knew cat language well)
he threatened he would send Black Jake
and all his crew to Hell!

But then he thought a plague of boils
or a really vile disease
might be a better punishment —
’til Peg suggested fleas!

The wizard searched through all his spells —
the nastiest he had —
until he found the very one
to make Jake hopping mad!

He conjured up an insect curse
and sent it wrapped in fog
addressed to Black Jake and his crew —
the murderous sea-dog!

Like drops of rain the fleas fell down
and hopped around the ship
they found the pirates — one by one
the crew began to twitch

but most of them were drawn to Jake
where he was tucked in bed
hundreds jumped into his bunk
and on his blood they fed.

The more he scratched, the more he itched
he couldn’t sleep or rest
they burrowed underneath his wig
they gathered in his vest.

His breeches were a breeding ground
fleas hatched out in his hat
and miserably he rubbed his bites
while blaming Peg the cat.

At last it got too much for him —
he threw the porthole wide
and swearing loudly at the sky
he took a desperate dive.

And as he sank the crew on deck
gawped and then they cheered
as all the pesky fleas hopped off
and like magic, disappeared.

Down on the seabed cold and dark
Jake’s rotting bones prove that
however proud a pirate is
he can’t out-smart a cat!

ALWAYS READ THE INSTRUCTIONS

A cautionary tale is one
that warns — ’though it may sound like fun
to launch a rocket by the shed
there’s every chance you’ll end up dead’.

*

Example: There was once a boy
whose aunt bought him the latest toy —
a rocket kit like on TV —
she’d wrapped the present carefully
but forgotten as she tied
to put the ‘how to’ notes inside.

Now Colin was the careless sort —
he ripped the paper off she’d bought
and scattered rocket on the floor
(just guessing what each bit was for)
and started building, glued it tight
quite sure he’d worked it out all right.

But when he’d finished there remained
a final piece, so Colin blamed
the manufacturer and grinned
and tossed the odd bit in the bin
without a second thought or doubt
it might be wise to check it out.

He planned to launch the rocket soon —
precisely on the next full moon
when he would wait ’til after school
to fill the tanks with rocket fuel
in preparation for the flight
and start the countdown late at night.

The great day came and Colin ran
as fast as any plump boy can
home from school, skipped most of tea
and waited dead impatiently.
His aunt with friends was playing bridge
and left a note pinned on the fridge

with clear instructions biroed blue —
what Colin could and couldn’t do
while she was out — But oh guess what?
Her nephew just ignored the lot!
And when he should have been in bed
was sneaking round the yard instead!

He found a can of paraffin
and topped it up with Auntie’s gin
and filled the rocket’s tanks right up
adding slowly, cup by cup,
old paint remover and for luck
some liquid fertilizer muck.

The moon rose up. The count began...
4 3 2 1 — a muffled bang
a blinding spark, a rush, a roar
the bolt flew off the coal shed door
ignition on, all systems go
the rocket wobbled to and fro

and then the sections, one by one
exploded like a firing gun.
Someone screamed and in the din
Colin realized it was him
as up he flew, caught by the blast
and saw the whole world flashing past.

It must have been an awesome view
but where he landed no one knew.
He left behind two well-scorched socks
and a battered empty rocket box.
Much later when his aunt got home
and saw the signs, she telephoned

all those she knew with telescopes
her rapidly decreasingly hopes
of finding Colin safe and well
were due to the odd burning smell
that lingered near the ruined shed —
her nephew was most likely dead.

The skies were searched to no avail
for no one saw his vapour trail —
a tiny UFO, Colin raced —
half boy, half rocket, into space.
Since then, his aunt’s felt really bad
knowing, carelessly, she had

left out the leaflet that showed how
the rocket should be made, and now
she’d found a piece to her dismay
that Colin must have thrown away!
A safety switch that, wired in tight,
should guarantee a smoother flight.

No going back — what’s done is done
she lectures all the kids who come
to see where Colin vanished from
on dangerous toys. She is quite glum —
insists instructions must be read
or else they, too, will end up dead!

LOW CALORIE BLUES

Mum’s put us on a diet
she says we’re overweight —
we can’t have sweets or chocolate
doughnuts, crisps or cake.

We’re not allowed spaghetti
burgers or baked beans
and pizza’s off the menu
and so are chips, it seems.

Real butter is a no-no —
it’s low-fat from now on
and no fry-ups for breakfast
Dad’s will to live’s near-gone.

A working man like him, he says
needs plates of proper grub
the moment Mum has turned her back
he sneaks off down the pub.

So it’s muesli or bran flakes
orange juice or nought —
and given such a boring choice
we’d rather go without.

School dinners smell delicious
now my lunchbox really sucks —
the crackers taste like cardboard —
wouldn’t feed it to the ducks!

And I’m sick to death of salad
steamed vegetables and fish
I hate the sight of lentils
Oh I wish, I wish, I wish...

there was some way of going back
to three square meals a day
I dream of battered cod and chips
TV meals on a tray

ice cream and jelly, apple pie
jam roly poly pudding
and all the things that Mum forbids
and fails to see the good in.

We sat up really late one night —
me and my brother, Dan
we’re both as desperate as can be
so we thought up a plan...

This Mother’s Day we bought our Mum
an artificial plant
not fondant creams like last year —
it’s her fault that we can’t.

She looked quite disappointed
when she undid the box
and found a potted pansy
and not her favourite chocs.

We noticed then at dinner
she left her brussel sprouts
and hardly touched the carrot soup —
we’re sure she’s having doubts.

The low-cal blues have got her —
she’s slowly giving in
we caught her gazing sadly
at the empty biscuit tin.

Not long now ’til it’s over
and we can shout hooray!
when Dad rings up to order us
a chinese take-away!

HOW TO CHOOSE A PET

Come in the pet shop, look around
see what the critters do —
stand and watch them through the bars
while some of them watch you.

Remember the small furry ones
are often keen to bite —
their teeth are sharp, their brains are small
they’re really not too bright

and mostly they just eat and sleep
run round in wheels and chew
keep everyone awake all night —
and then they’ll all blame you.

Reptiles are quite interesting
but lizards cost a packet
parrots squawk and parakeets
kick up an awful racket.

Puppies need a daily walk —
that’s no good if you’re lazy
a chipmunk loose around the house
would drive your mother crazy

and a spider’s bound to spook her
so is any kind of snake —
it’s best not to upset her with
the final choice you make.

You’re pretty safe with goldfish —
you’d hardly know they’re there
but they’re not much fun to talk to —
they just mouth at you and stare.

I could suggest the perfect pet —
it’s rare and rather shy —
invisible to all except
its keeper’s watchful eye.

It never bites, it’s cheap to feed
not troublesome to own —
it’s everything that you could want
and free to a good home.

JEFFREY-JOHN AND THE JOKE THAT BACKFIRED

Jeffrey-John Nathaniel Stokes
was fond of playing unkind jokes.
In fact he was a tiresome boy
who schemed and plotted to annoy
his family, and at weekends
he’d target visitors and friends.

His mother told him “Jeffrey-John
you’re just upsetting everyone —
poor Aunt Joanna’s still in bed
a dampened towel wrapped round her head.
Her screams were heard throughout the house
now take away that rubber mouse

and go and throw it in the bin.
It’s horrid! — Oh, and wipe that grin
off your smug, uncaring face —
I’m furious! You’re in disgrace!
So Jeffrey-John said “Please, Mama
I’m quite aware how cross you are —

I promise I’ll apologize
to Auntie Jo.” He blinked his eyes
and squeezed a tear with all his might —
he looked so solemn and contrite —
an act that fooled her. Thus deceived
her heart relented and believed.

Then JJ through the garden strolled
and picked a posy — red and gold —
of flowers for his ailing aunt.
He chose the finest from each plant
and tied them with a ribbon bow
done thoughtfully as if to show

how sorry he was for the trick
that scared her so and made her sick.
She’d never guess there lurked beneath
one lush and rather splendid leaf
and camouflaged amongst the green —
the biggest bug he’d ever seen.

She was asleep when he went in —
the sheets pulled tight up to her chin.
“Oh, Auntie, dear,” he whispered, then
“Wake up, old thing!” he said again.
She slowly opened one pale eye
and gave a deep and painful sigh

“What do you want?” Her voice was harsh
but Jeffrey-John just let that pass —
“I’ve brought you these!” He laid them down
beside her Chinese dressing gown
and ’though she’d judged him mean and vile
she gave the boy a toothy smile.

“Oh, aren’t they glorious!” she cried —
grabbed them up and then untied
the clever bow. The bug fell out —
she shrieked at once — a feeble shout
wavering and rather hoarse —
“You wicked boy! You’ve no remorse!”

The bug amidst such great alarm
now scuttled sharply up her arm
and sprang into her nest of hair
to disappear completely there.
Aunt Joanna clutched her head
rolled her eyes — and fell back dead!

JJ’s mother heard the fuss
and hurried in — she was nonplussed
to find such a bizarre tableau —
her aunt deceased and Jeffrey so
distraught — insanely babbling
the bug’s to blame — it wasn’t him!

How he changed from that day on —
the urge to play cruel pranks was gone —
he spent his time up in his room
a different child — a listless gloom
hung above him like a cloud
his posture poor, his shoulders bowed

from suffering a frightful curse —
recurring nightmares — but far worse —
nocturnal visits. Aunt Jo’s ghost
popped in to plague him, and to boast
that there was nothing he could do
to counter her heart-stopping “Boo!”

His family sent him away
to hospital — a good long stay —
some measure of the hopes they had
he might be cured and not go mad —
an institution grey and grim
where Aunt Jo’s ghost could lodge with him.

Thus sharing one depressing cell
they got to know each other well.
So spook and boy agreed at last
their differences were in the past —
for each had learned, when scaring folk —
enough’s enough — a joke’s a joke!

TWINKLE TWINKLE

Twinkle twinkle little star
our teacher told us what you are
and now your magic has all gone
what are we s’posed to wish upon?

Up above the world so high
a lump of rock that’s cold and dry —
all burnt out — a long-dead spark
that twinkles on across the dark.


CHASING DRAGONS

First off, Jack caught a glimpse of tail —
curled underneath a chair
but when he got down on his knees
to look — it wasn’t there.

Then across the room he saw
two nervous coal-black eyes
glinting as they peered at him
Jack thought it might be wise

to try and coax it in a box —
avoid small snapping teeth —
piled toys and clothes upon his bed
and slowly crawled beneath

and there it sat — all hunched up small
cleaning its red scales —
a baby dragon like they sell
as souvenirs from Wales.

It blinked at Jack and snorted twice
puffed a tiny flame
made a kind of warning growl
and disappeared again.

Then up beside the ceiling light
it fluttered round and round
wings flapping like a dizzy moth
it spiralled back to ground

and lay in an exhausted heap
mewing like a kitten
so Jack was brave and picked it up
and prayed not to be bitten.

At that moment, right outside
there was a dreadful roaring
as overhead a dragon pack
came swooping, gliding, soaring

and searching for an infant son
who’d recently gone missing —
the air grew dark and overcast
and full of anxious hissing.

Jack opened up the window and
as soon as one flew near,
he shouted ‘Hey! He isn’t lost —
your baby’s over here!’

The mother dragon paused mid-flight
and turned her massive head
stared at Jack with tearful eyes
sniffed a bit and said

‘You really are so very kind
and all of us are grateful —
the thought we’d never find our son
was absolutely hateful!”

‘Well, here he is!’ Jack held him up
the mother dragon took him
licked him with her long green tongue
then none-too-gently shook him

and scolded him in angry tones
tucked him in her pocket
then giving Jack a toothy grin
she shot off like a rocket.

And so the story ended well
but Jack has one regret —
no one believes he almost had
a dragon for a pet.


MARTIN THE MARTIAN

Mum says my brother is a little monster
and I’ve often thought that in a certain light
he looks a bit peculiar and scary
so it seems there is a chance she could be right.

He’s not like other babies — pink and noisy
he barely cries at all — just sleeps and stares
his eyes like inky saucers, seldom blinking
while he chews the heads off countless teddy bears.

Mum says he’s only teething, so it’s natural
but I have seen the gleam deep in his eyes
he’s practising for when he gets much bigger
and is busting out his baby-gro disguise.

In a few weeks, I doubt he’ll fit his buggy —
already he has one foot on the floor
has spooked the dog and frightened off our moggie
the local cats don’t come round any more.

And yesterday I watched him have his breakfast
and noticed two bumps poking through his hair —
I’m guessing that they’re horns — a subtle warning
he’s different and we should all beware.

I used to ask my mum where babies came from
but brother Martin’s given me a clue —
he’s from another planet — just mail order
and you can have a little monster, too!


BILLIE'S PETS

School 'Bring Your Pets' day recently gave cause for much concern
Some kids took hamsters, mice and snakes, our Billie just took germs
Which soon escaped, for no one saw the way they crept and crawled
On crayons and on pencils, along widowsills and walls...

At break, nobody had a clue how sneakily they slid
In lunchboxes and lingered there beneath each plastic lid
Spread round from grubby hand to hand, those bad bugs ran amok
Until a teacher, white as chalk, cried 'Quick - fetch Mrs. Mop!'

The Supercleaner flew in with her trusty bleach spray cocked
Zapped all around the classroom and had soon wiped out the lot
Then reminded all quite firmly, in hope no one forgets
Bacteria are nasty things and never make good pets!


FINISHING SCHOOL

Oh, you must be the new girl —
I’d welcome you but, hey!
I’m betting you won’t stick around —
the smart ones get away.

The teachers are all vampires
and Matron’s a right ghoul
so none of them are human
and lessons here are cruel.

The janitor’s a zombie —
he’s got this graveyard smell
doesn’t speak but stares a lot
he’s kind of slow as well.

It’s strictly orphans only —
we don’t have Open Day
there is no board of governors
no ‘friends’ or PTA.

The dormitories are dungeons —
they lock us in at night
the staff room’s like a blood bank
if rumour has it right.

But you look strong and healthy
with roses in your cheeks
if you can outrun Matron
you may survive for weeks.

Life here is kind of draining
if you know what I mean
the timetable’s unusual
and most of us aren’t keen

to learn about dissection
and ritual sacrifice —
for cutting up your classmates
just doesn’s seem quite nice!

And cookery is gruesome —
take stake and kidney pud —
the donor’s dead unhappy
and the stake’s a stick of wood!

Well, I guess you get the picture —
the school’s under a curse
for the site was once a plague pit
so the ghosts had got here first

and they sit around like squatters
with their crazy hollow eyes
so we put up with their wailing
and repeated dying sighs.

It all takes some getting used to —
just be sure to keep your head
and avoid all close encounters
with the resident undead.

You’re looking rather nervous
and maybe you suspect
what ‘finishing’ is all about —
we get it in the neck!

The evening sun is going down —
there goes the dinner bell —
who’s on the menu, Heaven knows —
so best you run like Hell!


SHADOW FOLK

Can I ask a question, Miss? —
I need to get this right —
Where do shadows go to when
you switch off the light?

Do they hide in cupboards
or do they skulk instead —
slip as quick as anything
beneath the chest or bed?

Maybe they freeze and stay where
they were when there was light —
perhaps they can’t move on their own
and have to wait all night

‘til someone wakes, gets out of bed
and turns the light back on —
for it would seem peculiar
to find they’d up and gone.

Or, do they rush back suddenly —
too quick for us to spot
they’ve been off doing other things —
some other life they’ve got.

I sometimes think I hear them run
(or maybe it’s a mouse)
for something makes the floorboards creak
when darkness fills the house.

And sometimes, when the moonlight
shines through the curtain’s chink
I catch a grey shape moving —
dissolving in a blink.

Yes, I know I could be dreaming
but my question’s really this —
have you seen the shadow folk ? —
So, what’s the answer, Miss?


CUCKOO

I’m not a bit like Mummy
or Daddy (can’t they guess?)
but growing up quite different —
I’m a cuckoo in their nest.

And I’m nothing like my brothers —
I’m such a greedy brat
I gobble all their dinner
so they starve while I get fat.

It’s just my basic nature —
I feel hungry all the time
and so I push and shove them out —
claim every scrap as mine.

I know that I’m adopted —
beneath my downy vest
I’m not a proper robin
but a cuckoo in their nest.

IN THE DARK

Mum! There’s something near my bed —
I’m sure I heard it breathing.
Mum! I think I felt it move —
I know I wasn’t dreaming.

Mum! There is a funny smell —
like something old and rotten.
Mum! You said you’d tuck me in —
I guess you’ve just forgotten.

Mum! I think I saw its tail —
I’m getting really frightened.
Mum! Could you just come and see
and put the landing light on?

Mum! My throat is really sore —
I need some water please.
Mum! My rash is coming back
and I’ve got itchy knees.

Mum! The window’s rattling now —
the curtain’s started twitching.
Mum! There’s burglars breaking in —
that’s why I’m only whispering.

Mum! I’ve pulled the covers up
and made myself real tiny.
Mum! I’m hardly breathing now
I’m so afraid they’ll find me.

Mum, is that you? I’m shivering —
so tired I can’t stop yawning.
Oh Mum! Your hands are freezing cold.
How long is it ’til morning?

PICNIC GUIDE

If you go down to the woods today
you’d better not go alone
but take your mother, your older brother
remember your mobile phone

for Jeremy Cole went on his own
and met a bear who ate him whole
and all his clothes except the sole
of one of his new school shoes.

So, if you go down to the woods today
take all of your friends along —
when that bear comes out, scream loud and shout
that eating people is wrong!

Most bears who picnic in the wood
take honey sandwiches, sticky but good
and know all boys are full of bones — too chewy!

Beware the bear who ate Jeremy —
he’s hungry still and wants his tea —
the boy was small so there’s lots more room
in his great big hairy tum.

If you must go down to the woods today
take somebody else along —
maybe your sister — he couldn’t miss her—
a bear’s sense of smell is strong!

He’ll think she’s good enough to eat —
for girls are tender and taste sweet
he’ll never guess he’s in for a big surprise!


MOON FACES

Is there a man in the moon? —
I’ve looked and tried to find
a face — an eye, a nose or chin
of any human kind.

The moon’s so far away
it’s hard to recognize
any person peering through
miles and miles of skies

his pumpkin head death-pale
and full of yellow light
floating up in space above
a blank face in the night

riding on the wind
skimming tree and roof
curious to see the world
but silent and aloof...

On clear nights I have searched
the shadows on his skin
while he just stares on back at me
coldly wondering.

HERE LIES...

Here lies the body of Mildred Butts
who died from fatal paper cuts.
She never spoke, relied on notes —
the more replied, the more she wrote.

At last, to all her friends she sent
news from everywhere she went.
She’d heaps of envelopes to lick
with glue so foul it made her sick

but worse, the edges cut her tongue
and blood and ink began to run
and smudged her lines so no one read
her final words — and now she’s dead.

HOMELESS

There’s an old man in the park, Mum
he watches while we play
he’s still there after dark, Mum
he’s never far away.

He’s lonely, I can tell, Mum
and it really bothers me
I don’t think he is well, Mum
he’s thin as thin can be.

They say he is a tramp, Mum
with nowhere else to go
and the days are cold and damp, Mum
so somebody should know.

He’ll catch his death out there, Mum
and Christmas will be soon
he’s nothing warm to wear, Mum
could he stay in our spare room?

I guess the answer’s no, Mum
I’d hoped you wouldn’t mind
the weather forecast’s snow, Mum
so couldn’t you be kind —

and let him have the shed, Mum?
Or I’m afraid he’ll freeze
I’d help him make a bed, Mum
so think about it — please!

Is that too much to ask, Mum?
So what is it you fear?
Why can’t I take a flask, Mum?
Why shouldn’t I get near?

Well, I don’t understand, Mum
the world is so unfair
he’s just a homeless man, Mum
and somebody should care.

RECIPE FOR INSECT STEW

Earwig eyebrows
spiders’ ears
greenfly elbows
woodlouse tears

fresh stings from bees
stag beetle legs
grasshopper knees
and glow worm eggs

chopped millipede
dried ladybugs
some peppered fleas
the slime of slugs

mosquitos make
a crunchy broth
just add a shake
of midge and moth

pickled weevils
give it ‘zing’ —
a really evil
flavouring

let it fester
stir the pot
serve with ants’nest
on the top.


CREATIVITY

In Art Class:

I don’t want to draw a bowl of fruit
a flower or a fairy —
I want to paint an alien
all green and hugely hairy
with seven eyes — four pink, three black
six arms like metal flippers
a dozen legs in leather socks
his toes in Martian slippers.

In English Class:

I don’t want to write a poem, Miss
I’d rather write a story
about a vampire in the woods
all monsterful and gory —
how he could turn into a bat
with an awesome set of choppers
until a slayer came along
and staked him good and proper.

In Geography Class:

I don’t want to learn about Brazil
Australia or France
what crops are grown in India
or how the Turkish dance
I want to draw another map
of somewhere else instead —
a really wild exciting place
I pictured in my head.

In Drama Class:

I don’t want to stand here and pretend
that I’m some kind of tree
I told my teacher that I can’t —
she shook her head at me
and later, in my school report
revealed her irritation —
“Sam is capable but slow
and lacks imagination.”


BARNEY AND MISTER SCRATCHIT

My brother Barney bought a mouse
and named it Mister Scratchit,
the mouse escaped — got clean away
and nobody could catch it.

The rodent rampaged through the house,
it nibbled, gnawed and worried
holes in almost everything —
it shredded, chewed and scurried

from room to room and left a trail
of damage and destruction
until our dad decided he’d
invest in pest reduction.

Not Rentakill but Dialadope —
the bait was cheddar, nobbled
so mouse would snack then fall asleep
once the first chunk was gobbled.

But Mister Scratchit sniffed the cheese,
suspicious and unsure,
then flicked his tail and darted off
to go and live next door.

Now Barney has another pet —
a goldfish known as Bubble —
who’s not quite so much fun as mouse
but has been far less trouble.


ZACHARIAH

My name is Zak —
a witch’s cat —
I’m lean and mean and shifty
I’m fond of mice
they’re small but nice
I wish they weren’t so nifty.

I’ve sampled toad
squashed on the road
I’ve nibbled newts and lizards
and once a bat —
I hated that —
it stuck right in my gizzard.

My witch believes
all felines need
a truly balanced diet —
she boils up slugs
assorted bugs
and thinks I ought to try it.

But would you
eat insect stew ?
I never touch her cooking
I tip the lot
back in the pot
the instant she’s not looking.

That’s why I’m thin —
all bones and skin —
my purr a hollow rumble
I hunt all night
but mice take fright —
they hear my stomach grumble.

I sometimes wish
for bowls of fish —
I dream of ratatouille
with juicy rat
all plump and black
their tails all long and chewy!

Frustrating how
my loud miaow
when I jump up beside her
provokes a grin —
she’ll find a tin
and toss me a fresh spider!

I really fear
I’ll disappear —
completely fade away
unless she gets
some tasty pets
and puts them in my way!

I’d love a mole —
I’d eat him whole —
a hamster or canary —
just anything
with goodness in —
all tender, warm and hairy.

She calls me Zak
a nickname that
is easier for yelling
the witch can’t cook
or read a book —
she’s terrible at spelling.

I’m Zachariah —
brain on fire
from hunger, and I’m growling
’cos I just heard
a little bird...
excuse me, I’m off prowling!


BIG BOYS

I don’t want to play with the big boys any more —
I’m bashed about — my hands and knees are sore
my t-shirt’s torn and if that’s not enough
they don’t play fair — they’re really mean and rough.

They pick on me just because I’m young
and call me names — it’s really not much fun
because they kick and shove me when they find
I’ve got the ball — they’re stupid and unkind.

Okay, I’m short and skinny but so what?
I’m quicker than the other kids they’ve got —
and given half a chance I’d show them all
the way to tackle, pass and aim that ball.

But they won’t listen — typical of boys
who won’t let other people share their toys
they know it all — they think they own the world
and what could I know? — I am just a girl!


WITCH-SILVER

A stray cat came to my front door
miaowing — so I let her in
she left wet footprints on my floor
then sat and washed from tail to chin.

Her eyes were green, her tongue was pink
her coat was thick and soft like silk —
the same all over — black as ink
I poured her a small dish of milk.

She chose a cushion for her bed
and went to sleep beside the fire
I talked to her and stroked her head
and told her all my heart’s desire.

Next morning, early, as dawn broke
someone knocked upon my door —
a figure bent beneath a cloak
a voice I’d dreamed the night before

who called the cat by some strange name
and puss ran out to greet the crone
then they both turned, their look the same
next moment I was on my own...

I’d pondered on it all that week
but told no one, when a grey bird
with something hanging from its beak
flew through my window and I heard

the witch’s voice purr in my ear
“these seven silver coins can buy
those secret things your heart holds dear...”
her breath a ragged, haunting sigh.

I hid the pouch of silver coins
safe out of sight, without delay —
stashed them where the cross beam joins
the bird croaked thrice and flapped away.


Dark magic seeped — bewitched my house
my mind grew weak with dread that soon
the witch would come — play cat and mouse —
but most I feared the next full moon.

When it was due I locked the door
shut fast the windows streaming rain
I sprinkled herbs across the floor
the wind died down, blew hard again...

I heard a mew, I heard a laugh
the coins fell from their hiding place —
a sudden bang, an icy draft
and at the window pressed a face.

The hag stared in, the coins had rolled
around my feet — I grabbed them up
in panic — for my blood ran cold —
and hurled them out as midnight struck.

There was a screech — a howl of pain
a blinding flash of purple light
the witch rose with her clothes aflame
I trembled and felt sick with fright.

She hurtled, burning through the air
her broomstick like a comet’s trail
growing fainter as I stared
an echo lingered of her wail.

And where the coins had struck the soil
seven silver serpents sprang —
glittering, each scaly coil
sharp as steel, each curving fang.

They reared and hissed and spat their hate
then out of nowhere courage came
so I attacked them, didn’t wait
but ended that nightmarish game

with neon swords of light that flashed
and thunder roaring overhead
the serpents lunged, the storm-blades slashed
until all seven snakes lay dead.

As I watched, their skins grew dull —
withered as the flesh decayed
then their bones, and last each skull
crumbled, melted clean away...

The spell was broken, furthermore
since that strange night I never let
an unknown cat inside my door
in case it is some witch’s pet.

It was a trick — I should have known
that kindness is its own reward
nor taken silver from that crone
for freely-given bed and board.


NO ADDITIVES

My mum’s a witch, I’m sure she is —
I know it from her cooking —
she adds bizarre ingredients
when no one else is looking.

Every mealtime’s a surprise —
we’re not sure what we’re eating —
I bet her steak and kidney pies
have more than normal meat in.

I thought I saw a bat wing once —
a small grey web of gristle —
it really put me off my tea
I also found a bristle —

a springy hair all thick and long
floating in my porridge
and it was black and we’re all blonde
so what that proves is horrid.

One day Mum said ‘just for a change
we’ll have a finger buffet’ —
that sounded way too weird and strange
I sneaked off to the café.

But on the menu, plain as plain
it said Toad-in-the-Hole
and I thought here we go again
and ordered a cheese roll.

Mum wants to try Hungarian
(that goulash stuff is lumpy)
so I’ve gone vegetarian
and even Dad’s turned grumpy.

She thinks it’s just a passing fad —
my fruit and salad diet —
but its the best defence I have
and other kids should try it

if they suspect their mum’s like mine —
too fond of kitchen magic —
try take-aways — phone Pizza line —
or dinner could turn tragic!


PET SHOP

How much is that spider in the window —
the one with the web full of flies?
How much is that spider in the window?
I do like its eight beady eyes.

I don’t want a gerbil or a hamster
or a budgie all feathered and green.
I don’t want a cute fluffy bunny
but a spider all hairy and mean.

So how much is that spider in the window?
It must be the biggest I’ve seen.
I just want that spider in the window
to scare people at Halloween.


PARTY TRICK

On Barney Summer’s birthday
he invited all his mates
but Barney hasn’t many friends —
just me and Robbie Bates
and Robbie’s sister Sarah
who took her cousin Joan
plus the boy who lives next door
who didn’t come alone
but brought along his favourite pet —
a lizard called Amanda
which magically had learned to talk
though few could understand her.

So Barney, Robbie Bates and me,
Joan, Sarah and Amanda
sat and had some birthday cake
on Barney’s back verandah
while James, the boy who lives next door
drew smoke rings with the candles
then we all passed the lizard round
and stroked her scaly handles.

Amanda blinked and gazed at us
she flicked her purple tongue
and concentrated all the while
on cleaning up the crumbs
then in a croaky voice she said
‘shall we play in the garden?’
I was dumbstruck, Robbie gasped
and Sarah answered ‘Pardon?’

Barney almost choked himself
and Joan went white as chalk
James looked smug and quietly said
‘I told you lizards talk!’
For no one saw his lips move
so the clever trick we missed —
he’s either a real wizard
or a great ventriloquist.


CHOCOLATES

Our great-granddad has a sweet tooth —
he has to have his chocs —
he hides them in the greenhouse
and scoffs them by the box.

Mum says he shouldn’t have them —
he’ll put on too much weight —
but great-granddad doesn’t listen
and says it’s far too late

to worry about diets
at his age — so why stop?
He taps his nose and whispers
and sends me down the shop.

We have this understanding
and it works perfectly —
I never spill the beans on him —
he never tells on me.

I sit and share his chocolates
most afternoons at four
he potters round his greenhouse
remembering the war

I’m the only one he talks to
I think he likes me best
for I’m allowed the orange creams —
great-granddad eats the rest.


GONE MISSING

Charlie’s not at school today
it feels strange and I miss him
although he’s not my boyfriend now
since I saw Alice kiss him.

For something happened yesterday
while playing in the park
and Charlie stayed out way too late —
’til it was nearly dark

and all the other kids had gone —
they left him on the swings
and we all know the park at night
is full of creepy things.

At first his mum and dad got cross
and then they called the police
who searched the park and found one shoe
and Charlie’s bright red fleece.

And now it’s in the newspapers
and on the tele live —
Charlie Miller’s not been seen
since yesterday at five.

No one knows for sure, of course
but some of us are guessing
what could have happened to our friend
’cos Charlie never listened

to warnings that he shouldn’t trust
or even speak to strangers —
they could be aliens or worse
and that’s the biggest danger.

I think a spaceship picked him up
for it seems really weird
one minute he was there and then
he went and disappeared.

We all hope soon they’ll bring him home —
back to his family
then he can tell us where he’s been
and solve the mystery.


MY POEM

I have a poem in me
and it’s trying to break out —
sometimes I feel it wriggle —
it moves and rolls about.

It pokes me and provokes me,
it mutters and it sighs,
it scratches with impatient feet
and makes appealing cries.

But when I picked my pencil up
quite ready to begin —
offered it a clean white page,
gave it an opening —

it got all shy and wouldn’t come,
it scuttled back inside —
I couldn’t pull the poem out
however hard I tried!

So I didn’t do my homework —
too bad, my teacher said,
that she couldn’t read my poem
when it’s still inside my head!