Poetry competition CLOSED 25th July 2022 11:52pm
WINNER
wallyroo92
wallyroo92
Page:
Children’s verse
Poetry Contest Description
Write a children’s poem
See here for some examples of children’s poetry: https://interestingliterature.com/2017/02/10-classic-childrens-poems-everyone-should-read/amp/
The Days Of My Kindergarten
The kids in my kindergarten used to say,
Good morning teacher and classmates
The day before yesterday was a cloudy day
We wished the clouds would go away
Yesterday was a cold and windy day
We quickly ran through the doorway
And today is a wet and rainy day
We have to stay indoors and pray
Maybe tomorrow will be a sunny day
So all of us can go outside and play
Good morning teacher and classmates
The day before yesterday was a cloudy day
We wished the clouds would go away
Yesterday was a cold and windy day
We quickly ran through the doorway
And today is a wet and rainy day
We have to stay indoors and pray
Maybe tomorrow will be a sunny day
So all of us can go outside and play
Written by PittinixDesigns
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Dont step upon the cracks
On that footpath where I walk
the pavement and the road ahead
some steps are long, some are short
I lay that map within my head
I have that crazy paving gait
the fissures black, dictate the way
malevolence, the undertow in wait
just one false step, halt that convey
No luck will ever me befall, no Holy Grail
no crock of gold on rainbows tail
just to survive and onward stroll
as Hades hands grasp at my soles
I will be attacked by trolls
writhing, screaming, none can hear
and dragged into big black potholes
no trace, as I just disappear
The devil needs new girls and boys
to dress in red and be his toys
and humour him when he gets bored
I do not lie you must take my word
the pavement and the road ahead
some steps are long, some are short
I lay that map within my head
I have that crazy paving gait
the fissures black, dictate the way
malevolence, the undertow in wait
just one false step, halt that convey
No luck will ever me befall, no Holy Grail
no crock of gold on rainbows tail
just to survive and onward stroll
as Hades hands grasp at my soles
I will be attacked by trolls
writhing, screaming, none can hear
and dragged into big black potholes
no trace, as I just disappear
The devil needs new girls and boys
to dress in red and be his toys
and humour him when he gets bored
I do not lie you must take my word
Written by slipalong
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The Isle of Snugglindon
- The Isle of Snugglindon -
On the Isle of Snugglindon, upon the forest floor,
The silly little wugglebugs, are scurrying around.
“Oh, if I only had a brain!” they’ll say once more,
When the silly little bugs, deem to make a sound.
But no one ever hears those wugglebugs at play…
And most ignore the dens they’ll build in summer.
For high above, the mak-mak birds fly, every day,
Saying: “We must mak-mak our nests!” so sure…
And when you hear these birds calling, so loudly,
You might forget those furry rarglesnarfs so close.
As they lumber through the woods, ever proudly,
Hunting for honey in the buzzy trees by the coasts.
“Oh, I am so fierce and furry!” they’ll say to all…
So the bees drop their honeycombs, and fly so far!
The rarglesnarf is delighted to see the prize to fall,
Whilst mother moon laughs, oft tickling every star.
And there: telling woodchuck jokes in the shade…
Of the bigawig tree, sits a wise ancient hermit crab.
He knows the names of every animal as God made,
And he recites them before bed, him slightly mad!
Often pirates like to come to search for a treasure,
But when they say “Arrrgh!” they’ll have to run…
Lest those rarglesnarfs catch them with a pleasure,
To tickle them into revealing: their barrels of rum.
Now the wookisnooks bring whisky and often yell:
“Uz me, uz you!” and sing old wookisnook songs.
The critters drink until they dream after night fell,
Until the ring ringing: of the early morning gongs.
Within the trees, where the gong-ringers still live,
Fur-balls with arms and legs both strong and long.
It is they: who make the whisky that they do give,
To the wookisnooks: in return for a game of pong.
And once every seven moons, to the cry of loons,
The creatures of Snugglindon Isle hold their party.
With stumbles and swoons, and hungry raccoons,
They drink ‘till they drop and eat feasts so hearty!
Where, oh where a navigator might ask himself…
Oh where or wherever is uncharted Snugglindon?
I’ve heard that there lives many an enchanted elf,
On that island, where strange critters dwell upon!
You’ll not find it on maps: nor by taking catnaps,
And certainly it can’t be found by swimming off.
You could swim for laps until all strength it saps,
Or, you could simply ask the average gargleboff!
But since they only live on the isle that you seek,
There is only one way to be certain you’ll arrive.
Why not ask: any child, on any day of the week?
They’ll happily tell you where the critters thrive!
On the Isle of Snugglindon, upon the forest floor,
The silly little wugglebugs, are scurrying around.
“Oh, if I only had a brain!” they’ll say once more,
When the silly little bugs, deem to make a sound.
But no one ever hears those wugglebugs at play…
And most ignore the dens they’ll build in summer.
For high above, the mak-mak birds fly, every day,
Saying: “We must mak-mak our nests!” so sure…
And when you hear these birds calling, so loudly,
You might forget those furry rarglesnarfs so close.
As they lumber through the woods, ever proudly,
Hunting for honey in the buzzy trees by the coasts.
“Oh, I am so fierce and furry!” they’ll say to all…
So the bees drop their honeycombs, and fly so far!
The rarglesnarf is delighted to see the prize to fall,
Whilst mother moon laughs, oft tickling every star.
And there: telling woodchuck jokes in the shade…
Of the bigawig tree, sits a wise ancient hermit crab.
He knows the names of every animal as God made,
And he recites them before bed, him slightly mad!
Often pirates like to come to search for a treasure,
But when they say “Arrrgh!” they’ll have to run…
Lest those rarglesnarfs catch them with a pleasure,
To tickle them into revealing: their barrels of rum.
Now the wookisnooks bring whisky and often yell:
“Uz me, uz you!” and sing old wookisnook songs.
The critters drink until they dream after night fell,
Until the ring ringing: of the early morning gongs.
Within the trees, where the gong-ringers still live,
Fur-balls with arms and legs both strong and long.
It is they: who make the whisky that they do give,
To the wookisnooks: in return for a game of pong.
And once every seven moons, to the cry of loons,
The creatures of Snugglindon Isle hold their party.
With stumbles and swoons, and hungry raccoons,
They drink ‘till they drop and eat feasts so hearty!
Where, oh where a navigator might ask himself…
Oh where or wherever is uncharted Snugglindon?
I’ve heard that there lives many an enchanted elf,
On that island, where strange critters dwell upon!
You’ll not find it on maps: nor by taking catnaps,
And certainly it can’t be found by swimming off.
You could swim for laps until all strength it saps,
Or, you could simply ask the average gargleboff!
But since they only live on the isle that you seek,
There is only one way to be certain you’ll arrive.
Why not ask: any child, on any day of the week?
They’ll happily tell you where the critters thrive!
Written by Kou_Indigo
(Karam L. Parveen-Ashton)
Go To Page
The Mystery of Brownie the Magical Poo
One day when father entered the bathroom,
On the toilet seat there sat a big poo,
And though no one claimed to have done it,
Father was upset and didn’t know what to do.
But mother on the other hand was furious,
That someone would be that absurd,
So she decided to question the children,
And find out who left that big turd.
First mother asked the baby and the baby said:
“I’m a baby, I can’t even reach the bowl,
Besides that poo is a long curvy thing,
That can’t have come out of my bung hole.”
The mother then asked her little daughter,
And she said “I couldn’t have left that dung,
That’s a very un-lady like thing for me to do,
It’s so big I would’ve coughed up a lung.”
Next the mother questioned her little boy,
“Did you take a poo and just leave it there?”
“No mom I swear, but I think it’s magical,
Let’s take a picture of it, post it and share.”
The mother then questioned her older daughter,
“Eww no, really? Mom! That’s really gross,
I don’t even like to think about bowel movements,
Let alone think about one of those!”
Mother than turned to her oldest son,
“I didn’t do it mom, I swear it wasn’t me,
But my little brother is right, it’s magical,
I think we should name it Brownie.”
Mom fought, argued, begged and pleaded,
But no one would cop to it or make a deal,
So she left it there for days making her angrier,
They all knew that shit was about to get real.
A week later just like it had started,
It disappeared and still no one had a clue,
How or where that stool came or went,
And that’s the mystery,
Of Brownie, the Magical poo.
The End.
Next week Comet, the Inexplicable Vomit.
On the toilet seat there sat a big poo,
And though no one claimed to have done it,
Father was upset and didn’t know what to do.
But mother on the other hand was furious,
That someone would be that absurd,
So she decided to question the children,
And find out who left that big turd.
First mother asked the baby and the baby said:
“I’m a baby, I can’t even reach the bowl,
Besides that poo is a long curvy thing,
That can’t have come out of my bung hole.”
The mother then asked her little daughter,
And she said “I couldn’t have left that dung,
That’s a very un-lady like thing for me to do,
It’s so big I would’ve coughed up a lung.”
Next the mother questioned her little boy,
“Did you take a poo and just leave it there?”
“No mom I swear, but I think it’s magical,
Let’s take a picture of it, post it and share.”
The mother then questioned her older daughter,
“Eww no, really? Mom! That’s really gross,
I don’t even like to think about bowel movements,
Let alone think about one of those!”
Mother than turned to her oldest son,
“I didn’t do it mom, I swear it wasn’t me,
But my little brother is right, it’s magical,
I think we should name it Brownie.”
Mom fought, argued, begged and pleaded,
But no one would cop to it or make a deal,
So she left it there for days making her angrier,
They all knew that shit was about to get real.
A week later just like it had started,
It disappeared and still no one had a clue,
How or where that stool came or went,
And that’s the mystery,
Of Brownie, the Magical poo.
The End.
Next week Comet, the Inexplicable Vomit.
Written by wallyroo92
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Excuses
I've always made my living
teaching flute and sax, and more
to hundreds of willing students
(aged from three to ninety-four).
I've heard many excuses
so I'm sharing some with you—
their reasons for not practising,
and all of these are true!
"We've got a brand-new puppy
and she can't be left alone.
She got into my bedroom
and chewed up my saxophone!"
I'd heard of chewed-up music,
but this was something new:
the mouthpiece was in tatters,
and several reeds were, too!
"I've tried to play my clarinet.
I've been trying hard all week,
but every time I blow it,
I can only make it squeak!"
Examining the lady's
clarinet just made me frown—
she'd put the thing together
with the mouthpiece UPSIDE DOWN!
My mind boggled at one young lad
whose mum wanted to speak
to her friend who lived in Sweden,
but he didn't play all WEEK!
When asked why that's a reason
why he really couldn't play:
"She had to listen carefully...
Sweden's so far away!"
"My dad won't let me practise!"
some have said with sad expressions.
I told them that's unlikely
when their dad has paid for lessons!
Despite their varied antics,
I consider my work done
if everyone makes progress
and, above all, has some fun.
teaching flute and sax, and more
to hundreds of willing students
(aged from three to ninety-four).
I've heard many excuses
so I'm sharing some with you—
their reasons for not practising,
and all of these are true!
"We've got a brand-new puppy
and she can't be left alone.
She got into my bedroom
and chewed up my saxophone!"
I'd heard of chewed-up music,
but this was something new:
the mouthpiece was in tatters,
and several reeds were, too!
"I've tried to play my clarinet.
I've been trying hard all week,
but every time I blow it,
I can only make it squeak!"
Examining the lady's
clarinet just made me frown—
she'd put the thing together
with the mouthpiece UPSIDE DOWN!
My mind boggled at one young lad
whose mum wanted to speak
to her friend who lived in Sweden,
but he didn't play all WEEK!
When asked why that's a reason
why he really couldn't play:
"She had to listen carefully...
Sweden's so far away!"
"My dad won't let me practise!"
some have said with sad expressions.
I told them that's unlikely
when their dad has paid for lessons!
Despite their varied antics,
I consider my work done
if everyone makes progress
and, above all, has some fun.
Written by Wafflenose
(Ellie)
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Painting with words
There are many ways
of making art with words.
Some poets order them formally—
counting out syllables,
conducting their rhythms precisely,
following the rules,
producing classical beauty.
Some delicately
sprinkle
a few
select sounds.
Less…
…is more.
Elegant beauty.
Some joyfully
fling bright colours
at the canvas:
splashes and sploshes
of onomatopoeia.
Contrasting sounds,
(satisfying by themselves)
increase the impact
of others.
Frazzle. Astonish. Eclectic.
BONANZA!
I prefer to mix my own colours,
incorporating explosive adjectives;
judiciously juxtaposing
carefully crafted
alliteration,
and assonance,
its magical companion.
There’s a time for rhyme,
and a time to dream
in exquisite metaphors.
Writing poetry
is like painting with words
in similes—
just like that.
of making art with words.
Some poets order them formally—
counting out syllables,
conducting their rhythms precisely,
following the rules,
producing classical beauty.
Some delicately
sprinkle
a few
select sounds.
Less…
…is more.
Elegant beauty.
Some joyfully
fling bright colours
at the canvas:
splashes and sploshes
of onomatopoeia.
Contrasting sounds,
(satisfying by themselves)
increase the impact
of others.
Frazzle. Astonish. Eclectic.
BONANZA!
I prefer to mix my own colours,
incorporating explosive adjectives;
judiciously juxtaposing
carefully crafted
alliteration,
and assonance,
its magical companion.
There’s a time for rhyme,
and a time to dream
in exquisite metaphors.
Writing poetry
is like painting with words
in similes—
just like that.
Written by Wafflenose
(Ellie)
Go To Page
The winner of this competition and any runners up were decided by public vote.
Thank you to the following members for voting:
admin, S-m-sawyer, Casted_Runes, paperstains, nutbuster, monovox128, Marks, tomgoonery, Honoria, Indie, Phantom2426, LaBrujaOscura_75, MadameLavender, lepperochan, Chaxesplare97, Grace
Thank you to the following members for voting:
admin, S-m-sawyer, Casted_Runes, paperstains, nutbuster, monovox128, Marks, tomgoonery, Honoria, Indie, Phantom2426, LaBrujaOscura_75, MadameLavender, lepperochan, Chaxesplare97, Grace
