Wednesday, 29 April 2015
The Puffin: a poem for the National Bird competition
It's often late in April
when the puffins all arrive,
and soon they've started breeding
so the colony can thrive.
The thing about the puffin
is its most amazing beak.
If he wasn't quite so handsome
then you'd say he was a freak.
Trying to describe that beak;
it's like a wonky cone.
It's really hard to miss him;
he's a picture with your phone.
The most surprising thing
about the mum and daddy puffin
is how they use those great big beaks
and all the fish they stuff in.
All the puffin babies
are called pufflings, don't you know?
Without those bright red beaks
it's hard to find them in the snow.
But somehow mum and dad
come home and find them on their ledge.
They were getting bored, so they
decided to go fledge.
The pufflings fly out on the sea
but soon become confused
The lights from town mislead them
and their mums are not amused.
The pufflings crash into the streets
to mum and dad's dismay,
but lots of human children come
and help them on their way.
The children hunt the pufflings
where they're hiding in the dark
They carry great big flash lights
and they catch them in the park.
When morning comes they carry
all the pufflings to the sea.
They're kept in cardboard boxes
which seems slightly odd to me.
Before you throw the pufflings off
you have to hold them right
You grip them by their bodies
So the wings are free for flight.
Written by Nick and Tom for the National Bird choosing project
Saturday, 18 April 2015
The red kite
Ooh! Is it night time already
I think I'll go and get my teddy
Wait! It looks like day again
Or maybe it was just a plane
Flying by
Across the sky
Oh dear! Perhaps it was a kite
Which turned my daytime into night
I hope that he will disappear
But how to cope if he comes near?
I think I'd better dig a hole
And dig it quicker than a mole
He will not see me form the sky
He might as well move on and sigh.
But oh-what's this? What have I found?
I found it close under the ground
Oh dear-it seems to be a rock
My quick escape it's sure to block.
And so he raised his head again,
Which roved he had but little brain.
Oh dear, oh dear; what's this I see?
Oh help! A kite! Now I must flee.
Long reddish feathers swooping by
Suddenly filled up the sky
Two golden talons are grabbing me
A yellow beak is eating me.
Tom had a wonderful idea of a worm's eye view for this poem about the red kite.
It lives mostly off worms. I think he has carried off the idea very well.
What do you think, dear reader?
I think I'll go and get my teddy
Wait! It looks like day again
Or maybe it was just a plane
Flying by
Across the sky
Oh dear! Perhaps it was a kite
Which turned my daytime into night
I hope that he will disappear
But how to cope if he comes near?
I think I'd better dig a hole
And dig it quicker than a mole
He will not see me form the sky
He might as well move on and sigh.
But oh-what's this? What have I found?
I found it close under the ground
Oh dear-it seems to be a rock
My quick escape it's sure to block.
And so he raised his head again,
Which roved he had but little brain.
Oh dear, oh dear; what's this I see?
Oh help! A kite! Now I must flee.
Long reddish feathers swooping by
Suddenly filled up the sky
Two golden talons are grabbing me
A yellow beak is eating me.
Tom had a wonderful idea of a worm's eye view for this poem about the red kite.
It lives mostly off worms. I think he has carried off the idea very well.
What do you think, dear reader?
Monday, 6 April 2015
The Kestrel
http://www.rspb.org.uk/discoverandenjoynature/discoverandlearn/birdguide/name/k/kestrel/
I very much enjoy taking children and adults on mindful walks through English nature. The things we find and photograph become subjects for nature poetry.
Out on a poem-picture walk, Tom and I saw and photographed a Kestrel, hovering by the river bank and then flying over some scrub-land. Kestrels have become fairly rare around Oxfordshire, where they used to be very common. There are signs of a comeback, I think.
I am not sure what a normal child of nine would make of Hopkins' Wind Hover, but Tom found it helpful in constructing our poem about this small but fascinating raptor.
Kestrel, Kestrel
Why do you fly so low in the sky?
If I was a bird
I'd call it absurd
Not to go flying impossibly high.
Well, Hello Tom, my friend
I am not round the bend
It's just I like flying quite low
And then you'll agree that it's easy to see
All of those creatures below.
How on earth do you manage to hover so much
When it's blowing a gale in the sky?
It's the way I evolved;
It's a problem that's solved;
And I really don't have to know why.
Sometimes you look like the angel of death
Oh, why do you steal from these creatures, their breath?
They make such very tasty meals.
I love to take a thing that squeals
And I don't care if it appeals.
I very much enjoy taking children and adults on mindful walks through English nature. The things we find and photograph become subjects for nature poetry.
Out on a poem-picture walk, Tom and I saw and photographed a Kestrel, hovering by the river bank and then flying over some scrub-land. Kestrels have become fairly rare around Oxfordshire, where they used to be very common. There are signs of a comeback, I think.
I am not sure what a normal child of nine would make of Hopkins' Wind Hover, but Tom found it helpful in constructing our poem about this small but fascinating raptor.
Kestrel, Kestrel
Why do you fly so low in the sky?
If I was a bird
I'd call it absurd
Not to go flying impossibly high.
Well, Hello Tom, my friend
I am not round the bend
It's just I like flying quite low
And then you'll agree that it's easy to see
All of those creatures below.
How on earth do you manage to hover so much
When it's blowing a gale in the sky?
It's the way I evolved;
It's a problem that's solved;
And I really don't have to know why.
Sometimes you look like the angel of death
Oh, why do you steal from these creatures, their breath?
They make such very tasty meals.
I love to take a thing that squeals
And I don't care if it appeals.
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