First memory

Michael Rosen, the author, gave the prompt for today’s 64 Million Artists’ The January Challenge. He said to write a poem about your earliest memory. I don’t think that this is my earliest, but definitely one of them. I was 3 years old when this happened.

Gran is brushing my hair,

Gently,

Gently,

Ow! A knot.

The sun is shining on us,

Hot,

Hot,

Sea breeze Hot.

Laura and I run off

To the playground

Climbing,

Climbing,

On the monkey bars.

Another girl joins us,

But she doesn’t speak our language.

That doesn’t matter.

We speak,

She speaks,

We play together.

Earlier, I saw a baboon

Sitting on a rock.

He looked sad

And wise

And I liked him

A lot.

https://64millionartists.com/

National Poetry Day

The tiniest sunflower

peeks its head out.

Its petals unfurl

to face the sun.

Yellow as butter.

Perfect like a picture.

The sun warms its face

and if flowers could have feelings,

then this one is happy.

Autumn in the garden 🍁

The wind whispering
Through chilly trees
Sounds like sand on shore
After a wave hits.
One dry yellow leaf
Swiftly falls from its
mother tree’s branch
And an apple clumps
Softly on the lawn.
A toad hides under
A fallen leaf,
Alert for danger.

The labrador jumps,
Trying to catch him:
But misses by miles, Settles instead for
Chomping a spider.
Her web-smeared black
Nose sniffing loudly,
Hoping for more snacks.
She smells wood fire
On the breeze. Shivering,
Heads back inside to
Her humans’ sofa.

6 October 2022 is National Poetry Day.

Why don’t you write a poem? It’s easy to do and doesn’t have to rhyme. Write about what you like, or how you are feeling. 🙂

For more info, go to:

https://nationalpoetryday.co.uk

The National Literacy Trust helps children and families to develop a love of reading and writing. They have great resources and a local site for people from Swindon, called Swindon Stories.

https://literacytrust.org.uk/communities/swindon/

March morning

The Sparrows call call call
Loudly to each other
From the rooftops, seven
On a Sunday morning.

The magpies soar soar soar
Their black and white feathers
Flashing in the spring sun
As they look for breakfast.

The blackbird sing sing sings
His beautiful song from
The apple tree’s bent branch
Whose buds are still tiny.

Fluffy clouds fly fly fly
Past high above my head,
In a rush, places to
Go, people to rain on.