Poem ©2013 George Kirk
Illustrations ©2013 John Shelly

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

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            

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

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

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.

Poem ©2013 Katherine Lynas
Illustration ©2013 John Shelly

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

I am an inventor of buzzy wuz things:
Flog choppers, space swooshers and all things with wings.

There's something inside me that just loves to see,
Flip floating, swing swooping ships swirling round me.

I make wiberty jubbits and flittery flubes.
Lots of puffity tubbits and jittery shloos.

Sometimes buggity wugits with prickly stings
or a spinnery spugit that plops, pops and pings.

And I take them all outside at least once a day
And let them buzz round in the sky for a play.

Then when winders wind down and puffers loose steam,
I tuck them up so they can recharge and dream.

Poem ©2013  Mo O'Hara
Illustration ©2013 Mike Brownlow