I love writing poems and rhyming stories, and you can read some of them in two very special collections.
My poems are about my favourite teacher (and my least favourite one) and how I feel about Sports Day.
Take a look!
In Primary Four
we sat on the floor
and listened to stories with Mrs Blake.
We learned about bats
and Egyptian cats,
and how to make lemon and poppy seed cake.
She made us feel smart
and quite brilliant at art,
and never would laugh if we made a mistake.
The whole year went by
in the blink of an eye,
and she wished us all well in the summer break.
In Primary Five
we all must strive
to sit arrow-straight to please Miss Sharp.
She doesn't like noise,
(or girls, or boys)
and her mouth turns down like a scowling carp.
We do lots of sums
so whenever she comes,
our pencils must always be razor-sharp.
She tells us each day
what she wants us to say,
like Jack-and-the-Beanstalk's golden harp.
We hate Miss Sharp.
We loved Mrs Blake.
It's amazing the difference a year can make.
Just four more days
so long to wait
till egg-and-spoon
and ball-and-plate,
till starting guns
and lightning starts
and pumping legs
and pounding hearts,
the thrilling chase
of every race,
the cooling breeze
upon my face,
the final push
so well rehearsed,
the burning drive
to come in first!
And there it is,
the finish line,
I'm almost through,
the prize is mine!
To top it all
the races done,
it's time for ice cream,
games and fun.
Another year
of work and play
ends with a bang -
I love Sports Day!
Four days to go!
I count with dread,
each night
as I get into bed.
I've got to go,
there's no way out,
find something else
to think about
before a nightmare
starts to hatch,
with flying balls
I cannot catch,
and tripping shoes
with tangled laces,
pointing fingers,
laughing faces,
hoops and beanbags
zooming past,
always, always
coming last.
No amount
of sporting fun
will make this day
a better one.
If only I
could sneak away
and read a book -
I hate Sports Day!
Each story is exactly 366 words long, so it's easy and quick to read at bedtime or when you have a quiet moment.
My two stories are both rhyming ones, so they're best if you read them out loud.
There once was a mouse
with a very fine house.
It was shiny and black
with a door at the back
and a little front gate
with a big number 8.
Well, a few years went by
and the wee mouse did sigh,
"Life's becoming a squeeze -
barely room for the fleas!"
Said the mouse, "This won't do -
I can't live in a shoe!
I must find a new place
with a little more space."
Off he set with his sack
that he'd packed on his back.
Far and wide he did roam
as he searched for a home.
Well, the first thing he found
was a hole in the ground,
so he wriggled right down
and got looking around.
It was lovely and roomy
but also quite gloomy -
then, to his surprise,
he saw four gleaming eyes...
Said the mouse, "Oh, dear, dear -
there are two snakes in here!"
So he clambered back out
with a squeak and a shout.
At that moment he heard
the "peep-peep" of a bird,
from the top of a tree
so he climbed up to see.
Said the mouse, "Me oh my -
this is ever so high!"
But he liked what he found
in that nest off the ground.
It was comfy and dry,
a twig house in the sky.
"This is just what it takes
to be safe from those snakes."
But the bird flapped her wings,
shedding feathers and things,
and she squawked, "My tree house
is no place for a mouse!"
So the mouse looked instead
in an old garden shed.
Said the mouse, "Stars above -
here's a house I could love!"
In a corner there lay
something furry and grey...
It was sleepy and fat,
a great huge purring cat!
Said the mouse, "Goodness me -
this is no place to be!"
and he scampered so fast
that he whizzed straight on past
the grey cat as it purred...
the big tree with the bird...
and the hole that he'd found
with two snakes underground...
Then he spotted a gate
with a big number 8...
Said the mouse, "Glory be -
This is perfect for me!"
So he shut the back door
and went wandering no more.
Buster the fly was feeling glum,
and heaving a sigh, he asked his mum,
"Why, oh why was I born a fly?
I want to be noticed when I zoom by -
a glorious, beautiful,
quite indescribable,
fanciful, danciful bug!"
His mum replied, "Well, pardon me -
a fly is a wonderful thing to be!
You're faster than lightning and clever to boot,
and eat all your vegetables and your fruit -
my handsome and capable,
so unmistakable,
truly unbeatable son."
"But Mum," he said with a tear in his eye,
"I would much rather be a butterfly.
Imagine me batting my fabulous wings,
all stripy and silky with speckles and things -
a ravishing, colourful,
totally wonderful
butterfly out of this world!"
"Or maybe a ladybird," Buster said,
"I've always been fond of the colour red.
Most children love the way they're spotted,
and unlike flies, they're never swatted,
those tiny, shiny,
very protectable,
highly collectable bugs."
Then Buster had another thought -
"A bee is a beautiful bug, is it not?
All yellow and black, with their stripes looking good!
That's just what I'd be, if only I could -
The whizziest, busiest,
fuzziest, buzziest
bumblebee ever there was."
"I might be a dragonfly, down by the pond,
a slender blue stick like a wood fairy's wand.
They hover so wonderfully still in the air,
on transparent wings, and dart here and there,
those delicate, elegant,
truly magnificent
creatures of beauty and grace."
A grasshopper bounded up out of the grass,
and Buster exclaimed as he watched him pass,
"Now there is a handsome bug, did you see?
He is far more impressive than little old me -
all emerald green,
and ever so keen,
the greatest high-jumper there is!"
"A cricket is something I'd love to have been -
he's so often heard but is seldom seen.
He is chocolate brown, quite small and thin,
with musical legs like a violin,
an almost invisible,
magical, musical
singer of evening songs."
Poor Buster sighed, "Alas, it seems
I'll only be beautiful in my dreams."
His mum replied, "But don't you see,
you're the loveliest bug in the world to me -
a dipping and diving,
bobbing and weaving,
aerodynamic,
simply fantastic fly!"
