Greedy Gretchen Von Fletchen
stretched up high,
and stole a freshly-baked apple pie.​

I wish I'd never started.
I'm certain there's no end.
This never-ending ball of yarn
will drive me round the bend.

Thought I'd knit a simple scarf
and that's where I went wrong.
This never-ending ball of yarn
goes on and on and on...

I sat down as a young girl
and now I'm Grandma's age.
This never-ending ball of yarn
has got me in a rage!

It's clear I will remain here
another 50-years.
This never-ending ball of yarn
is bringing me to tears.

I've got 'woolies' of the brain.
My hands are dry and chapped.
The needles keep on poking me.
My patience? Well, it's...SNAPPED!

I know when I am beaten.
This battle I won't win.
This never-ending ball of yarn
is going in the bin.

Poem ©2014 Meagan Munroe
Illustration © 2014 Loretta Schauer

Bruce the recluse did not like to go out,
fresh air made him dizzy, the sun made him shout.

But he longed to see places, far away lands,
green forests, great mountains and wild desert sands.

Wacky, tall buildings that reach to the sky,
fun fairs, old castles and shops selling pie.

Magical gardens, a babbling brook,
big open spaces, a quaint, cosy nook.

Shakespearean plays and Old Master art,
hot air balloons and donkey-drawn carts.

Too frightened to travel and leave his own home,
it seemed poor Bruce was not destined to roam.

Friends sent him postcards and letters galore.
He travelled the world from behind his closed door.

Paintings and journals soon joined the pile.
He criss-crossed the globe without moving a mile.

Year after year more treasures arrived,
from wayfaring chums who felt him deprived.

His collection grew at a frightful pace,
covering all surfaces, filling all space.

Soon Bruce couldn't even wriggle his toes,
have a bath, eat biscuits or change his clothes.

With not even one inch of space left inside,
the postman came with a new travel guide..... Uh Oh!

A sound like a colossal, creaking mouse,
revealed the strain on poor Bruce's house.

BANG!

Papers and letters were scattered around,
the explosion launched Bruce across the ground.

The force kept him going, he could not slow down.
Soon he had left his little hometown.

And he kept on going, further afield,
till Bruce found that travel really appealed.

With joy in his heart, he soared through the sky.
Bruce the explorer waved recluse goodbye!

Image © 2014 Amanda Hall

Poem © 2014 Meagan Munroe

In temperament frogs are delightful.
Their notion of swans though is spiteful.
Those birds stole away,
A famous ballet
Claiming frog legs in tights too frightful!

Poem ©2013 Meagan Munroe
Image ©2013 Paul Morton

Oh, hello there. How do you do?
I hope that you don't mind.
You see it's raining heavily
and I've left my mac behind.

So if you please, just stand right here
and be a helpful fella.
I'm happy staying warm and dry
beneath your big 'tum'-brella.

Poem ©2013 Meagan Munroe
Illustration © 2013 Amanda Lillywhite

General Gluteus Maximus
is a pain in the behind.
He’s uptight about where he sits,
but me?
I really don’t mind.

Wherever I go he follows,
that terrible bossy old rump.
If seating isn’t up to scratch
He complains and gets the hump.

General Gluteus Maximus
is a demanding derrière.
Comfy seats are important to him,
but me?
I really don’t care.

I’m tired of his choosy cheeks.
His snobbishness is a bore.
If he doesn’t start behaving soon
I’ll park him on the floor.

General Gluteus Maximus
is a great big uppity bum.
Every chair must be perfect,
but me?
I think that’s dumb.

We may come to an agreement.
An arrangement that is fair.
Let’s work out the details
in this antique rocking chair.

General Gluteus Maximus
I now understand your plight.
This is the best sitting down I have done.
My bottom fits just right!

Poem ©2013 Meagan Munroe
Illustration ©2013 Bridget Strevens-Marzo

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            

Charles Cornelius Trumpington Pout
should never have eaten that leftover sprout.
It puffed up his belly with gases most foul,
churning and gurgling deep in his bowel.

Banished to bed with a rumbling tum,
he was kept awake by his grumbling bum.
His bulging gut could not be restrained.
The vapours within would not be contained.

You won't be seeing him anytime soon,
his bottom blasted him straight to the moon.
So here ends the tale of young Master Pout
who should never have eaten that leftover sprout.

Poem ©2013  Meagan Munroe
Illustration ©2013 Mike Brownlow

Mirror, mirror in my hand
who’s the scariest in the land?
It’s me!
It’s me!
Peek in your closet
you’ll know it’s me!

Three eyes in my monstrous head
help me watch you in your bed.
There’s really nothing you can do
I’m going to put you in my stew!

Mirror, mirror in my hand
who’s the hungriest in the land?
It’s me!
It’s me!
When my tummy roars 
you’ll know it’s me!


Shaggy fur the colour of slime,
full of fleas and bogey grime.
I’ve not showered in 10 weeks,
I prefer it when I reek.

Mirror, mirror in my hand
who’s the stinkiest in the land?
It’s me!
It’s me!
Take a deep breath in (phew!)
you’ll know it’s me!

Wait! Why have you run away!
I was hoping we could play.
Now that you’re afraid of me,
I feel lonely as can be.

Mirror, mirror in my hand
who’s the saddest in the land?
It’s me!
It’s me!
See the tears falling
you’ll know it’s me!

Even monsters need hugs too,
so I’ll tell you what to do.
Hold your nose and wear thick gloves,
open your arms, share some love.

Mirror, mirror in my hand
who’s the cuddliest in the land?
It’s me!
It’s me!
Give me a hug 
you’ll know it’s me
and you’ll make me happy as can be!

Poem ©2013  Meagan Munroe
Image ©2013  Kate Pankhurst 

A fuzzy caterpillar
stopped to have a chat,
with an ancient wizard
in a big magic hat.

The wizard bent down
to better hear his mate,
but when he went to stand up
his legs would not go straight.

Stories say he's still there
squatting on the rocks,
wishing he had asked his friend
to stand upon a box.



Image ©2012 Sam Zuppardi 
Poem ©2012 Meagan Munroe