From The Archives: The Bird Pooplympics

Bird Pooping

If you’re like me and sometimes you have quite unlucky days,
You may have been bombarded by a bird.
It may have been quite sticky, and dribbled down your front:
It’s often an extraordinary turd.

It may have been bad luck, and you may be simply cursed,
It may have had no reason and no rhyme.
But I think that your doo-dooing was part of an event.
I think that it was Bird Pooplympics time.

The Annual Bird Pooplympics are quite a fun affair.
They start with Bird Poo races (always fun).
The next event’s my favourite—the Synchronised Release
Where poops land in a pattern, one-by-one.

Of course there’s Bird Poop Hurdles—where birds must duck and weave,
Leaving little turds along the way.
However, it’s the Archery where all the birds take aim
At you and me, to decimate our day.

So when the next white dribble falls upon your lap,
Don’t shake your head, complain, or start to cry!
Yell at the offender. Shake your angry fists.
Shout “Do Pooplympics elsewhere!!” at the sky.


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From The Archives: The Bath

There once was a small toddler, just two or three years old,
And though he loved to sing and dance and laugh,
His very fav’rite pastime, his hobby number one
Was dropping random things into the bath.

He’d splash in tubs of butter. He’d splosh in tubes of paint.
He’d dunk his toys, his books and several rocks.
And when, at last, his mum or dad came ambling up the stairs,
They’d see the bath three-quarters full of socks.

“Oh Christopher,” they’d mumble, grabbing cans of peas and beans,
“Why do you love to make such dreadful mess?”
But all young Chris would do was point and open up his mouth.
“I made,” was all he’d say, no more, no less.

But then one day, he hit that age when words weren’t such a chore.
His mum took in his mess, her eyes adroop.
“Oh Christopher, why are you such a nuisance,” mum just moaned.
“But Mum!” said Chris, eyes sparkling. “I made soup!”

Bath Greyscale.jpg


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From The Archives: The Worst Bag Ever

I had a nasty habit—so teacher always said—
Of losing notes and books and hats and snacks.
She’d pass us out permission forms when it was half past three,
And tell us, “Put them straight into your packs.”

But by the time my Mum and Dad were asking ‘bout my day,
My notes and books were nearly always gone,
The next day, I’d ask sheepishly to have the note again,
My teacher would just stare at me in scorn.

“Why Billy Jones, you’ll lose your very head, one day,” she’d say.
I simply nodded, staring at my shoes.
I felt so bad. I tried so hard, but things just disappeared!
The missing things brought on a case of blues.

Then one day, Thomas Mitchell handed me an envelope.
“An invite to my party!” he said, glad.
I placed it, oh so carefully, inside my backpack then,
‘Cos if I lost it, that would make me sad.

Lo and behold, just thirty minutes later, at my house,
I could not find the invite. Not at all!
I rummaged, looked and fossicked, leaning deep into my bag,
And soon I felt myself begin to fall.

The world went dark. It all went quiet. I landed with a Plonk!
I opened up my eyes. And all around,
Were notes and books and crackers, old bananas and a shoe,
In piles and piles and piles upon the ground.

the-worst-bag-ever.jpg

“My goodness!” I exclaimed. “Where am I? What are all these things?”
“Oh Billy,” said a voice, “I’m glad you’re here.
You see, your backpack’s magic, so that’s why your notes and snacks
And toys and old bananas disappear.”

“What do I do?” I asked the voice. “I hate when all my stuff
Goes missing. And my parents hate it too!”
“That’s easy,” said the voice. “Your backpack’s magic—that is clear.
So all you need’s another one. Brand new.”

So shortly after, I got all my pocket money out.
I bought a brand new bag for school and sports.
My magic backpack never held another note or book.
From now on? It was just for bad reports.

Original Illustration © Robbie Yates 2017

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Friday Flash Fiction: Morons

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“Excuse me—”

I reeled around. “For the last time,” I said, “I don’t work here! Just because I’m wearing a tie… when will you people realize?!”

“I—um—”

I shook my head. “I’ve just hadit with you morons! No, I don’t know where the masking tape is. Or the staplers. Or the ink. I swear, if one more dimwit asks me about acrylic paint…”

“No, sir, I’m sorry—it’s just—you dropped your wallet.”

(75 Words)

Image from Pixabay © Ashish_Choudhary 2014

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Bath Time (A Nonet Poem)

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no, don’t make me get in the bath, mom!
I’ll get soap in my eyes again!
I’ll have two baths tomorrow—
wait—okay; there’s bubbles
yellow rubber ducks
bobbing freely
oops. plug pulled.
shallow
dry

(A Nonet Poem is a poem that begins with 9 syllables in the first line, 8 in the second… and finishing with one syllable in the ninth and final line).

Image from Pixabay © skdickerson 2016

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Finish This Poem – “Dinner Dishes”

It was with heavy heart and grimace wide
That I—the piles of dinner dishes—spied.
With caked-on crumbs and bits of dried-on sauce;
The sticky bits remaining from first course.

I looked upon the bubbles rising high
And, reaching for the gloves, let out a sigh.
I ‘spose the dinner dishes must be done…

(Can you finish this poem? 😂😂😂)

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Image from Pixabay © Melissa-Anna 2017

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From The Archives: Earphones

earphones.jpg

Have you ever sat out in the sun or walked along a road,
Seen adult after adult walking by,
And wondered why these people all had earphones in their ears,
What music were they list’ning to, and why?

Left and right they walk like drones along the city streets,
They’re all plugged in on buses and on planes.
You see them fixing cords at crossings, loosening their knots,
You see them all plugged in, in seats, on trains.

It turns out it’s not music that they’re listening to at all.
It turns out it’s not jazz, or rock, or rave.
You see, these plugged-in adults that are blending in quite well
Are robots that need training to behave.

If you take out their earphones, they’ll forget to go to work.
Forget to tie their shoes. Forget their pants.
If you take out their earphones, they’ll try to munch on dirt,
They’ll water all their friends and talk to plants!

So if you don’t want robot people licking your front door
You don’t want your great-grandma rudely hugged,
You don’t want robot people racing carts through every mall,
Don’t ever let those earphones be unplugged!

Image © Robbie Yates 2017

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