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Von Trapp's Son by George Kirk

28/5/2013

1 Comment

 
The day the famous professor Von Trapp’s son
Invented his very first flying contraption,

His brainy old dad cried out with delight,
“My darling small boy is the master of flight.”

And down in the town there began a real ruction,
When Von Trapp and son went into production.


Picture
Picture
From near, far and further came flocking the gentry,
With bulging great pockets and money a plenty,

To purchase a genuine flying Von Trapp
Lovingly made by the clever young chap.


Some flew with feathers, some flew with wings,
Some flew with close fitting cog wheels and springs.

Some had great funnels, some filled with hot air,
While others had sails and a nautical flair.

He made them with pedals and spinning propellers,
He made them with foghorns and stripy umbrellas.


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Picture
The Lords and the Ladies flew up with great style,
But little Von Trapp remained grounded mean while.

A fact that was noticed by one Lord De Ploop
As he finished his fifty fifth loop of the loop.

De Ploop sent a message by semaphore coding,
And told all the others about his foreboding.




The fine folk all landed, they felt rather worried
That maybe production had been rather hurried.

And their top of the range shiny Von Trapp machines
Were actually junk going weak at the seams.

Picture
Picture
They said “Herr Von Trapp it has reached our attention
Your son may have built us a faulty invention.

Unless he can give us a good reason why
We expect him to board one and go for a fly.”

Von Trapp wasn’t worried, he said to his son,
“Make haste, buckle in, show them all how it’s done.”


Youngest Von Trapp turned an unhealthy green,
As he boarded the handiest flying machine.

His lip it did wobble, he cried out in fright,
“I can’t fly up there; I am scared of the height.”

As soon as Von Trapp saw the youngster's tears flow,
He told all the grand folk just where they could go.


Picture
The snobs and the snoots were greatly offended,
So trade with Von Trapp was instantly ended.

Von Trapp didn’t care, in fact he just smiled,
As he reached up his arms to rescue his child,

And said to the boy, while holding his hand,
“Don’t worry dear son, I quite understand.”

So after a very long father-son talk,
They gave up on flight and decided to…

Picture
...WALK!
Poem ©2013 George Kirk
Illustrations ©2013 John Shelly
1 Comment

The Flying Quiff by Alex Craggs

25/5/2013

3 Comments

 
My name is Harry Rupert Hugh Montgomery the Fifth,
I am the fighter pilot that they call the Flying Quiff.
I’m known for downing every single airman that I face,
It’s earned me fame and fortune as the King’s best flying ace.
Picture


Read More
3 Comments

NEARING NINETY by Rebecca Colby

22/5/2013

8 Comments

 
Picture

My Granny's nearing ninety, 
I don’t know what to do.
She’s started wearing leather
And has got her first tattoo.

My Granny’s nearing ninety.
It’s time we had a talk. 
But Granny isn’t listening,  
She’s deaf from heavy rock.

My Granny’s nearing ninety,
She really should take care.
I shout, “Slow down!” as she roars past
On her Biker Chick wheelchair. 

Poem ©2013  Rebecca Colby
Illustration ©2013 John Shelley

8 Comments

The Most Dangerous Job In The World by Meagan Munroe

20/5/2013

3 Comments

 
My friends and family don't envy me,
they think I'm foolish and bold. 
I have the most dangerous job in the world,
well that's what I've been told.
Picture
Over the mountain and through the woods,
way down where the river rolls,
I pilot my flying chicken tank
delivering eggs to Trolls.

Pecky beak that clicks and clacks,
eggcelerator turned to the max.
Metal drumsticks thump and grind,
while eggs plop out it's 'fowl' behind.

                                              
Missing my daily delivery
is a risk I dare not take.
Those fearsome beasts are best occupied
when they don't have bellyache.

It was once believed Trolls only ate kids
but that's not completely true.
If I give them fresh eggs all day long
they won't bother me or you.

I stick steadfastly to my route
in sunshine, rain and cold.
I have the most dangerous job in the world,
well that's what I've been told.

When I hear the roar of angry tums
or the clink of empty bowls,
I pilot my flying chicken tank
delivering eggs to Trolls.

If regular meals of eggs are missed
the outcome will be dire.
It won't take much for Trolls to see red
and their patience to expire.

Can you imagine what would happen
if stomachs were left empty?
There'd be roaming clans of cranky Trolls
on the hunt for you and me!

Gnarling gnashers and cut throat claws
are terrible to behold.
I have the most dangerous job in the world,
well that's what I've been told.

Swooping and dodging big angry mouths
and eyes that burn like coals,
I pilot my flying chicken tank
delivering eggs to Trolls.

Pecky beak that clicks and clacks,
eggcelerator turned to the max.
Metal drumsticks thump and grind,
while eggs plop out it's 'fowl' behind.


Eggs are an amazing invention,
it's no wonder Trolls are keen.
Mixed with big dollops of mayonnaise,
poached, coddled or Florentine.

Whether hard or soft-boiled with soldiers,
scrambled, baked or fried,
I must keep giving eggs to Trolls
that's a fact you can't deny.

I'll carry on through thick and thin,
till I'm wizened, grey and old.
I have the most dangerous job in the world,
well that's what I've been told.

There's nothing else I'd rather do,
this is my ultimate goal,
to pilot my flying chicken tank
delivering eggs to Trolls.


Poem ©2013 Meagan Munroe 
Illustration ©2013 John Shelley            
3 Comments

One Step Beyond by Mo O'Hara

16/5/2013

2 Comments

 

One step beyond, past normalness, past ordinary niceties,
past  commonplace, past with a trace of good practical pricities,
There is a land where magical, befuddled, wind- up wonders
Move to and fro, their locomotion shudders, sparks and blunders.
 
There, horses gallop on a track with pistons pumping power
And fishes swim straight through the sky aboard a steam shot shower.
Lizard motors slither down the road with black smoke billowing.
Dragonflies dive bomb so loud, your ears need much more pillowing.

Zeppelins, planes, balloons and trains all have an animality
About them, so that Noah would have noticed a duality.
This place is like no other, it’s unique upon our planet
But you can only happen on it once and never plan it.
 
So I’m sad to say, I’ve been today, and now I’ll not be back
To the junkedly, quite clunkedly, magnificent outback
This safari of amazing mechanized mysterious creatures
Will be etched upon my mind and in my dreams will be a feature.

As I leave to travel home upon the ferry service offered
I am spellbound by the sights, the smells, the squawks that I am proffered.
Though some others sure would look upon this journey with derision
I am thrilled  to say I rode home on a shiny steam punk pigeon.

Poem: ©2013 Mo O'Hara
Illustration: ©2013 John Shelley

Picture
2 Comments

Nonsense, Sang the Skywoosh, by Em Lynas

13/5/2013

1 Comment

 
My skywoosh wings fladoopertwist
through the shimmerating mist
of unsound silence, muted sighs
Picture

Read More
1 Comment

Kaplunk, The Steamhorse Punk, by Lesley Moss

10/5/2013

9 Comments

 
Picture
Clinkety clankety clunk
Kaplunk is made of junk!

This old tin horse is tapping its feet,
it dances along the concrete street,
its iron eye is losing its sight.

Its bolts and screws are working loose,
it's finally running out of juice,
but it dances all day and it dances all night ...

Tippety tippety tap
Kaplunk is built from scrap!

This old tin horse is trotting along,
it's neighing a plinkety plunkety song,
but its rusty riveted joints complain.

It lost its rider long ago, 
a broken-down clown from a travelling show -
still it's galloping, galloping, in the rain ...

Clippety clippety clop
Kaplunk will never stop!

This old tin horse is powered by dreams,
and springs and cogs and welded-on seams.
Kaplunk is a horse automaton.

At night this horse goes cantering by,
it doesn't know where and it doesn't know why,
as its clockwork heart beats on and on ...

Clinkety clankety clunk,
Kaplunk is made of junk,
tippety tippety tap,
Kaplunk is built from scrap,
clippety clippety clop,
Kaplunk will never stop,
Tippety tap.
Scrippety scrap.
Clinkety clunk.
Jinkety junk.

Clop on, Kaplunk -
the steamhorse punk!


Poem: ©Lesley Moss 
Illustration: ©John Shelley


9 Comments

The Shy Inventor by Laura Louise Stewart

7/5/2013

1 Comment

 
Picture
The Queen’s Chief Inventor’s my role, 
And it’s tough,
She asks me to do some impossible stuff.

One day she requests a bike with
Twelve foot sails,
The next, an appliance for doughnut cocktails!

If she wants to fly an airship
time-machine,
I’m the engineer of her zaniest schemes.

The last Chief Inventor said she
Was quite mad
He gave up and left to tend sheep with his dad!

Now folk ask me how I accept
Her demands,
They’ll never know why I’m putty in her hands.

My secret is simple, you may
Guess it’s this;
I’d give up my chemistry set for one kiss!

But ah, I’m no prince, a brave knight
Or rich man,
I have just my brains and my tools, and her plans

So….

If she tells me she wants to fly
Without wings,
I construct an airship from canvas and string!

She wants to go diving but will
Not wear scuba,
I build her a submarine shaped like a tuna!

She longs to be taller, and have
Longer strides,
I make robot legs that can step three miles wide!

Her wish is a pet that’s as rare 
As T-Rex?
I’ll breed her a hen that lays Cadbury’s Crème Eggs!

But now, oh help me, I’m unstuck
Stumped at last
She’s given me a truly knee-trembling task.

She wants me (gee!) to (gulp) declare
How I feel?
That’s like telling me to make cars with square wheels!

Oh no, how do I say it's
L. O.  V. E?
Please can you invent something to speak for me?

Poem © 2013 Laura Louise Stewart 
Illustrations © 2013 John Shelley


1 Comment

The Last Giraffe by Katherine Lynas

4/5/2013

3 Comments

 
The last giraffe at Pembrook Zoo,
Had a case of stomach flu.
When she lay down her tired head,
Keeper Bill was filled with dread.
Bill tried to fix her, called the vet,
Then she died, his favourite pet.
Tears rolled down the keeper's cheek,
As he let out a mournful shriek.
He was summoned one week later,
To see the big boss, Harold Slater.
'Thing is, old chap, a Keeper needs,
An animal to clean and feed.
With no beast it does not pay,
To keep you hanging round all day.'
'Hang on Harold, don't be rash,
Don't throw me out, like smelly trash.'
'Ok Bill, then you must find,
A giraffe, of any sort or kind.'
Getting busy, straight down to work,
He didn't stop, he didn't shirk.
He called up collegues in the know,
And felt his tension start to grow.
'Sorry chum, but they've all gone,
Unless you maybe chance upon,
One hidden in the land of Blong'.
'The land of Blong, I'll go straight there,
I'll find a beastie, this I swear'.
For months Bill searched through distant lands,
Jungles, plains, exotic sands.
Finally Bill could walk no more,
And slowly sank down to the floor.
He banged his head upon the ground.
'There's none left', our poor Bill frowned.
Wearily he turned for home,
With nowhere left to walk and roam.
There must be something I can do,
To keep my job back at the zoo.
Bill scratched his head, began to think.
Got out paper, pen and ink, 
He scribbled madly through the night.
Till suddenly he saw the light.
Vanishing into his shed,
He worked until his fingers bled.
Next morning came a wondrous sight.
Giraffes of metal shining bright!
Now if you visit Pembrook Zoo,
The giraffes are gleaming, made anew.
No cold or flu can harm these creatures,
Now they have metallic features.
Picture
Poem ©2013 Katherine Lynas
Illustration ©2013 John Shelly
3 Comments

Hengineer by Kathryn Evans

1/5/2013

2 Comments

 
Picture
It seemed such a brilliant idea,
A wing clanking beaky delight,
From a crack pot and crazed hengineer,
Came The Hen-Plane-Chicken Of Flight.

It creaked and it groaned and it heaved,
As it lumbered up into the sky,
And I’m quite sure that no one believed
It would actually stay there and fly.

It was all going really quite well,
Until something appeared by its leg
And out of its bottom there fell,
An enormous and shiny great egg.

It hurtled to earth like a bomb!
On the ground they all scattered and ran,
‘Til the hengineer quickly dashed home
For a giant expandable pan.

She held up the great plate of steel,
And averted a yolk splatted fate,
For instead of an eggy ordeal,
They had breakfast for seventy eight.

Poem ©2013 Kathryn Evans
Illustration ©2013 John Shelley



2 Comments

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