12 Days of Dogness by Jeanie Axton

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12 days of Dogness

 

On the first day of Christmas

My doggie brought to me

Last year’s Christmas stocking

In the bottom was a pea

 

On the second day of Christmas

My doggie brought to me

A chewed up Christmas decoration

For our brand new tree

 

On the third day of Christmas

My doggie brought to me

A dug up bone from last year

And dumped it by my knee

 

On the fourth day of Christmas

My doggie brought to me

An old Santa hat

Found under the old settee

 

On the fifth day of Christmas

My doggie brought to me

A bit of Christmas cake

To go with my cup of tea

 

On the sixth day of Christmas

My doggie brought to me

A striped candy cane

Stolen from the tree

 

On the seventh day of Christmas

My doggie brought to me

A string of Christmas lights

He thought needed to be freed

 

On the eighth day of Christmas

My doggy brought to me

A potato from the vegie patch

One less for Christmas tea

 

On the ninth day of Christmas

My doggy brought to me

A freshly baked mince pie

And eyes that pleaded “feed me”

 

On the tenth day of Christmas

My doggy brought to me

An old nativity book

Pages ripped out for me to see

 

On the eleventh day of Christmas

My doggy brought to me

Santa’s special cookies

Left out for Santa’s feed

 

On the twelfth day of Christmas

My doggie brought to me

A heart of Christmas cheer

Which was really all I need

Jeanie Axton

 

 

Fly to the Moon by Patti Bourne

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Fly to the Moon

 

Fly to the moon and share with me

Your dreams and angel dust

We’ll touch the stars and fill the air

With sparkles light and such.

 

Fly to the moon, look down and see

Blue oceans surge and swell

The fish will dance in moonglow,

Salty secrets yet to tell.

 

Fly to the moon and watch the earth

From way up high above

Turning ever turning

All magnificence and love.

Patti Bourne

We Wish You a Merry Birthday by Jessica Nelson

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We Wish You a Merry Birthday

 

My name is Noelle and I’m sorry to say

that I was born on Christmas Day,

after the presents but before the singing

(nonsense about sleigh bells ringing).

My father claimed he’d had a hunch

that I’d be born right after lunch

and so it was: Mum gave a shout!

Pudding went in, I popped out.

I wish, I wish, I really do

she’d held on for a week or two.

Each year I share my special day

with that festering, festive holiday.

Instead of balloons I get baubles.

My head aches as my family warbles

Christmas carols all day long—

I never get a birthday song

and though each year I get a cake

it’s always fruit, for goodness sake.

I always thought it couldn’t be worse

than a birthday with a tinsel curse

till my sister made my birthday cool—

she was born an April fool.

Jessica Nelson

     

    The Christmas Garden by Caroline Tuohey

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    The Christmas Garden

     

    Right across from my house is a garden sublime,

    where it looks like it’s Christmas there all of the time.

    There are several old pine trees all bushy and green,

    with the largest brown pine cones that you’ve ever seen.

    There’s a seat on the lawn that just looks like a sleigh,

    simply waiting for reindeer to pull it away.

    There are statues of angels turned up to the sky,

    sculptured wings all out ready to fly, oh so high.

    And then peeking round flowers quite pleased with themselves

    are some colourful gnomes that could pass for the elves.

    Now this garden belongs to a fellow called Dawes,

    who looks very much like, the real Santa Claus.

    He is jolly and round, with a beard snowy white

    and he works in his workshop late into the night.

    Each December he puts on a Christmas display,

    that brings people to visit from far and away.

    On the pine trees are baubles and lights that all shine.

    There is tinsel, and snowflakes and gold stars divine.

    Harnessed up to the sleigh stands a proud reindeer team,

    with big Rudolph out front – his red nose all a-gleam.

    All the angels now stand singing carols and hymns,

    while the elves wear red hats each with festive white trims.

    Now lean over close and I’ll whisper to you

    a secret that’s known but to only a few.

    A tale so amazing you may not believe

    that magic takes place there on each Christmas Eve.

    When darkness has fallen and shadows are deep,

    the elves and the reindeer awake from their sleep.

    All the angels fly over the sleigh sprinkling gold

    and transform the old seat to a sight to behold.

    A sack is now filled to the brim with bright toys,

    for kind little girls and good little boys.

    Mister Dawes dressed in red, then strides out to his sleigh,

    quickly takes up the reins and flies quietly away.

    It is just as the sun starts to rise Christmas morn,

    that the reindeer fly quietly back onto the lawn.

    In the instant they land things are back how they were,

    All except for old Dawes, who is still dressed in fur.

    As he’s done every year for a very long while,

    He now looks to my window and gives me a smile.

    I then nod and I wave as I sit there relieved,

    again pleased that in magic, I’ve always believed.

    Caroline Tuohey

    Caroline said: This poem was inspired by the garden of my mum’s friend Sue – she loves Christmas and each year, when I was a child, we’d visit her in the lead up to Christmas Day.  Her house and garden were always full of beautiful decorations and it seemed a totally magical place – as close to the real Santa’s house and garden as you could get.

     

    Last Night by Kristin Martin

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    Last night

    Last night I saw something that

    I’d never seen before.

    This something that I’d never seen

    was right outside my door.

     

    It made me gasp aloud with shock

    the moment that I saw it.

    The something was so big and red

    I couldn’t dare ignore it.

     

    I quickly jumped out of my bed,

    tip-toed across the floor.

    I had to know about this thing

    I hadn’t seen before.

     

    As soon as I crept close to it

    my heart began to race.

    I saw the thing was not a thing

    because it had a face!

     

    My body shook from head to toe,

    my mind was full of fear.

    There was someone that I’d never seen

    and he was very near.

     

    I stared in shock at his red coat,

    his boots of blackest black.

    I saw the pompom on his hat,

    the bulging big red sack.

     

    And then I had to laugh out loud.

    You know why, I’m sure.

    That someone was not scary at all.

    It was Santa that I saw.

    Kristin Martin

    The Visit by Pat Simmons

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    The Visit

    Cautiously, creeping down the stairs,

    carefully avoiding the creaks,

    we stop

    and take each other’s hand.

    At the bottom we tiptoe,

    trembling,

    towards the door.

    Almost afraid to breathe

    we slowly, gently, push it open.

    Beneath the twinkling lights

    sit the gifts.

    ‘He’s been,’ we whisper

    ‘He’s been.’

    Pat Simmons

    Published 2014 by Celapene Press, Short and Twisted and Thynks Publications Bards at Blidworth and Beyond Anthology

    The Bigger Picture by Jenny Erlanger

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    The bigger picture

     

    The wavelet had frolicked for hours that day

    with no cause at all to be wary

    when met by a vision just metres away

    so dire and so terribly scary.

     

    A larger wave surging from somewhere behind

    could sense little wave’s consternation.

    It said, “You look anxious and if you don’t mind

    let’s pause for a brief conversation”

     

    “But look at that beach and you’ll see what’s in store,”

    said little wave, helplessly crying.

    “Those waves up ahead have all crashed on the shore.

    I tell you, we waves are all dying!”

     

    The little wave quivered in utter despair.

    “I’m frightened to death,” it persisted .

    “I know I’ll expire on that sand over there

    with nothing to show I existed.”

     

    “Relax”, said the larger wave, “go with the flow,

    there’s no need for all this commotion.

    You’re not a forgettable ripple, you know…

    you’re part of a beautiful ocean.

     

    Jenny Erlanger

    Jenny said: This poem is based on a tale told by  Morrie Schwartz in the book, “Tuesdays with Morrie” by Mitch Albom.

    Sharing the Secret by Monty Edwards

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    Sharing the Secret

    Psst. Listen to this, Sis!

    I’m going to whisper in your ear,

    Because I don’t want Dad to hear.

    This secret’s just come straight from Mum:

    She’s got a baby in her tum!

    No one must know, but you and me

    And Mum, of course, but just we three.

    I said to Mum I wouldn’t tell,

    So you must promise me as well,

    Then when Dad hears the baby’s cries,

    He’s going to get a huge surprise!

     

    Monty Edwards

    Monty says: Children find secrets so exciting, they do find it hard not to share them.

    A Bunyip Tale by Margaret Pearce

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    A Bunyip Tale

     

    A schoolboy trudged along one day

    late for school but on his way.

     

    Dreamily became aware

    of the much polluted air.

     

    Rotting slime and yukky sludge

    tadpole eggs and oozing mud.

     

    The smell came from a bunyip near

    stalking very quietly in the rear.

     

    ‘For ages now,’ the bunyip boomed,

    ‘beneath the mud I’ve been entombed.’

     

    ‘Freed at last by recent rains

    I’m suffering dreadful hunger pains.’

     

    ‘Although against the usual rule,

    I’m very fond of boys from school.’

     

    Its jaws opened in a wide green grin,

    Drooling at what could be welcomed in.

     

    ‘Please dine with me,’ it begged at last,

    ‘And help me break this dreamtime fast.’

     

    This offer was declined with haste

    the schoolboy lacked the time to waste.

     

    Suggested instead some gumtips tender

    followed by trees and a broken fender.

     

    The bunyip took obedient heed

    and peacefully settled down to feed.

     

    It ate its way through twenty trees

    forty cans and eighty bees.

     

    But because it wouldn’t masticate

    indigestion was its fate.

     

    It moaned and groaned in dreadful pain

    and swore never to eat as much again.

     

    It writhed and rolled and turned bright green

    the sorriest bunyip ever seen.

     

    With legitimate excuse for being late,

    the schoolboy reached the schoolyard gate.

     

    Arrived in class with pleased relief

    but faced his teacher’s disbelief.

     

    ‘The bunyip legend needs no mention

    fifty lines and another detention.’

     

    But ever after as a definite rule

    that schoolboy was in time for school.

     

    And always it was his guilty fear

    that something stalking in the rear

     

    Very vengeful and wide awake

    suffering dreadful stomach ache

     

    Still hunted for the tender treat

    of a tardy schoolboy ripe to eat.

     

    Margaret Pearce

     

    • A version of this poem was published  HOUSE OF SPROUTS Vol 1. Issue 3, July 87 and in Prints Rhyming Anthology 2015