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Don’t forget to send your poetry in for Father’s Day.Please send them to:poetreecreations@yahoo.com

father holding up son

FATHERS DAY 16TH JUNE

SEND YOUR POETRY IN BEFORE THE 15TH JUNE

TEN THINGS TO DO THIS EASTER WEEKEND

 

1 Paint eggs. Armed with a colouring set, box of eggs, and newspaper spread over the kitchen table, you can keep kids quiet for hours. House of Fraser stocks an egg slicer (£5) with a handy “spike” to help at the hollowing-out stage.

2 Learn about chocolate. The eggheads at London’s Natural History Museum are giving a fun, free talk on everyone’s favourite Easter treat tomorrow. Cromwell Road, London SW7, 020 7942 5792, 

3 Go to a Punch and Judy show. The 30-minute shows run from today to Easter Monday at the Pleasure Gardens at Blenheim Palace (Woodstock, Oxfordshire. 

4 Throw a doll’s tea party. Serve tiny food – mini eggs will be popular – in a doll’s tea service, sandwiches cut into shapes with cookie cutters, and you’ll keep a roomful of little girls happy.

5 Build an indoor den. Blankets draped over furniture will do for younger children. Older ones might prefer to convert the cupboard under the stairs.

6 Introduce them to karaoke. Give kids a microphone and tell them to rehearse their favourite songs for a Eurovision-style performance. Retreat out of earshot. For those with a games console, invest in SingStar, which comes with two microphones and various tracks (£49.99 from music stores nationwide).

7 Play party games. There’s no reason why musical statues, musical chairs and blind man’s bluff should only be trotted out at children’s parties.

8 Do experiments. Kitchen-table science is educational as well as entertaining. Baking soda, vinegar and food colouring are the key ingredients to create a foaming lava from a worktop volcano. 

9 Put on an Easter play. Assign roles, invite your oldest to oversee action sequences, and leave room for the others to improvise.

10 Get cooking. Children love spending quality time in the kitchen. Teach them – or learn yourself – how to make hot cross buns. 

Please don’t smoke

I want one so bad I begin to itch

But the more I have the more I get a stitch,

When I have one I feel satisfied

But the more I have the more I might die,

The one after tea is definitely the best

But the more I have,the more pains in my chest,

I used to run,I used to be fit

I need to cut down or definitely quit,

From freshness to blackness I can’t understand

My body was good,but now it is bad

All of them kill,no matter the brand,

You can kick it,yes you can,

Put it out before you choke

Trust me mate, please don’t smoke

By Christopher Wolvett

IS THIS THE WORLDS LARGEST SNOWMAN?

snow7

The Snowman

anonymous

Once there was a snowman
Stood outside the door
Thought he’d like to come inside
And run around the floor;

Thought he’d like to warm himself
By the firelight red;
Thought he’d like to climb up
On that big white bed.
So he called the North Wind,
“Help me now I pray.
I’m completely frozen,
Standing here all day.”
So the North Wind came along
And blew him in the door,
And now there’s nothing left of him
But a puddle on the floor!

My Snowman has a Noble Head

Jack Prelutsky

My snowman has a noble head,
he’s broader than he’s tall,
his ears are tin, his eyes are coal,
he has no neck at all.

Beneath his ragged hat he wears
a wig of tangled wool,
his barrel chest is buttoned up,
his belly’s rather full.

My snowman has a handsome face
complete with carrot nose,
his arms are long, his legs are short,
he hasn’t any toes.

He wields a broom, he puffs a pipe,
his smile is wide and bright,
“He looks like me!” my father says,
you know . . . he may be right!

Snowman

Helen H. Moore

Snowflakes falling
Thick and fast,
Build a snowman
Make him last . . .

Snowflakes falling,
Swirling, slow,
My snowman melted –
Where’d he go?

Peter, the Snowman

Winifred C. Marshall

It would not seem like winter,
Without a snowman tall;
I’ve worked on one all morning,
With Ted and little Paul.
This is a jolly snowman,
With such a friendly smile,
We’ll ask you out to meet him,
In just a little while.

His hat belongs to Daddy,
His button eyes are blue,
His bright red scarf and mittens
Were knit by Cousin Sue.
We’re going to call him Peter,
We’d like to have him stay,
But sometime when we’re all at school,
He’s sure to slip away.

Snow Sentry

Kate Monroe

See the snowman
all in white –
stnading still
and silent-like
as soft snow
settles light
on this cool
long frosty night.

Crystal flakes spin
round and fall,
covering him
beyond recall.

Still he’ll stand
sentry tall,
keeping night-watch
over all.

Snow Woman

Nancy Dingman Watson

Snow woman, snow woman,
What do you know?
You sit so still
And silent in the snow.

Snow woman, snow woman,
Do you like your hat?
You sit so quiet
And comfortable and fat.

Snow woman, snow woman,
Do you like your clothes?
Your apron and your mittens
And your big carrot nose?

Snow woman, snow woman,
Sitting in the night
Does the dark scare you
Or the cold moonlight?

Snow woman, snow woman,
Here comes the sun
Are you afraid of melting
And being all done?

My Snowman Friend

I call him Mr. Frosty-Face!
He brings us so much fun,
With black coal eyes, and a carrot nose,
With a smile for everyone!

If we play Ring-a-Roses,
Then all our friends join in!
But, when the game is “Statues”,
He always knows he’ll win!

When I talk, I know he’ll listen
To every word I say.
I can shout, or knock his hat off,
And he’ll never run away!

But, when the weather’s warmer,
Then Frosty-Face must go –
Until the next time that he comes
With winter’s ice and snow.

Santa claus is coming to town

We are sorry!

We are sorry if we haven’t been updating our website on a daily basis.

This is because behind the scenes we have all been working very hard to publish our first anthology.

This will feature all of the poems written by your

favourite poets from Poetree Creations.

The anthology will be available to purchase online soon.

Information will be made available at:www.poetreecreations.org

FRIDAY THE 13TH


Oooh! Aaaah!
Stay home
Little frightened ones!
Today is Friday the 13th!
You know what that means!
Ooooh!
Bad luck
Because you feel guilty
For all the things
You’ve done to hurt people
For which you’ve
Yet to be caught.

By Adele Swift

Father’s Day Traditions

Father’s Day is an important day world wide. It is a fine opportunity to honor the Dad’s or Father’s of the world.

In Australia, Father’s Day is celebrated on the First Sunday in September.

Father’s Day in Canada, is celebrated on the third Sunday in June.

In the U.K. Father’s Day is celebrated on the third Sunday in June.

In the United States it is celebrated on the third Sunday in June.

Many Catholics call St. Joseph’s Day, on March 19th, Father’s Day because Joseph was the father of Jesus.

Another tradition of Father’s Day is that of the Flowers, Red roses are worn on Father’s Day to signify that one’s father is living. White roses mean one’s father has died.



201 YRS OLD PRIDE AND PREJUDICE JANE AUSTEN -1813

HAPPY ST.GEORGE’S DAY FROM POETREECREATIONS

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Saint Patrick’s day


 

A little leprechaun sat pondering

Saint Patrick’s Day was fast approaching

For he wanted to learn to sing

But his voice needed coaching

So he went to see his friend Mick

Who’s voice was so sweet and true

I want to sing like an angel

Would you tell me what to do?

Let me hear you sing said Mick

His voice brought Mick to tears

The sound of his voice was so terrible

Mick stood with his hands over his ears

Mick was not put off by his voice

Placing the leprechaun inside a fairy ring

Did a jig of magical mystery

To enable the leprechaun to sing

Then the leprechaun was happy

Thanking Mick, he went on his way

For now, he had a beautiful voice

For him to sing on Saint Patrick’s Day

Malcolm G Bradshaw

HAVE YOU GOT THE RIGHT TIME?

Tick-tock the wife collects clocks

They cover the walls

There is even one in the hall,

And in the living room

Some are small and some are tall,

She even bought one off an old bloke

Who lives down the road,

But one or two of them are broke

Now she’s bought a Cuckoo clock

But that’s the only one

That does not go tick tock,

Some clocks chime like a little rhyme

But not one will tell me the right time

DID YOU FORGET TO PUT YOUR CLOCK BACK

TODAY?

By

Thomas Sims

BURNS NIGHT

The Story of Burns Night


On or around January 25, his believed birthday, the life and work of Scottish poet Rabbie Burns is celebrated with a ritual of food, drink and poetry.
The Burns’ Supper was started by friends of Burns, a few years after his death in 1796, as a tribute to his memory, but it has also become a celebration of Scottishness, and, increasingly in Northern Ireland, America, and Canada of Scottish ancestry. It is important to note that Burns was also a Freemason and many of these celebrations are open to the public locally at Masonic Lodges.
Wherever you are, and however Scottish you are, you can join in with our recipes for the supper and a selection of the great man’s poems and songs.
Northern Ireland has its own tradition of poets in the Burns’ style, the weaver poets of Antrim and Down.
Who Was “Rabbie” Burns?
Born on 25th January 1759, in the parish of Alloway, Ayrshire, Burns was the eldest of seven children to William Burness and Agnes Brown (or Broun). Well educated in a variety of subjects, from Scottish history and folklore to literature, Burns was forced to assist his father in working on the family farm, and took over at 25 when his father died in 1784.

By 28, Burns was beginning to be well known in his literary career; In 1786 he published “Poems: Chiefly in Scottish Dialect”, which was expanded in 1787 and again in 1793 (Ibid.). Beginning in 1786, Burns would spend much time in Edinburgh among the elite and intellectuals of Scottish society, although Burns felt that they were only patronizing him because his soul of literary genius lied within the body of a country bumpkin. He returned to Ayrshire and unsuccessfully tried farming; in 1791 he became an exciseman, or customs agent, and joined the local yeomanry unit, the Dumfriesshire Volunteers. However, the physical and mental toll of his hard life, plus growing financial burdens, weakened him, and in 1796, Burns died of rheumatic heart disease, caused by his lack of a healthy diet in his younger years.

However, physical and financial matters were not the only things that troubled Robert; The Kirk of Scotland (The Presbyterian Church) and it’s opposition to his lifestyle was another. In particular, Burns’s sexual escapades caused much hostility between him and the church. Burns fathered a number of illegitimate children, including one by his future wife, Jean Armour, the daughter of a Master Mason. Burns wanted to marry Jean; her father refused and Burns and Jean appeared for penance in church to “receive public reproof for the sin of fornication” Burns would continue his rampant sexual activities right up until several years before his death. He never stopped his literary war against Scottish Calvinism, and lampooned it in a number of poems, including “Holy Willie’s Prayer”, “The Holy Fair”, and others.

Besides his rather libertine actions with women, Burns was also a political radical, and a rather strange mix at that. From reading Scottish history, Burns became an ardent nationalist, writing many romantic ballads about Scottish attempts to secure their independence from the English, from Robert the Bruce to Bonny Prince Charlie. This can be seen in poems like “Scots wha Hae”, “Charlie is My Darling”, “The White Cockade”, and many others.

Burns combined his Jacobite sympathies of the past with Jacobin politics of the present. He vocally supported the French and American Revolutions, which aroused suspicion of his loyalties, especially when in the service of His Majesty’s government as an exciseman, although Burns did recant his French tendencies when Britain and France went to war in 1792 . And while Burns may have been inspired by the French Revolution, his involvement in Freemasonry certainly played a large part in his opinions in favour of both secular and religious equity
He was only 37 when he died of heart disease but in that last year of his life he had written some of his most-respected works, such as The Lea Rig, Tam O’Shanter and O, My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose.

 

Twelve March Poems

 MARCH MAD

 
 
“March Snow”
 
There is something hopeful about March,
something benevolent about the light,
 
and yet wherever I look snow
has fallen or is about to fall, and the cold
 
is so unexpected, so harsh,
that even the spider lily blooming
 
on the windowsill seems no more
than another promise, soon to be broken.
 
It is like a lover who speaks
the passionate language of fidelity, but
 
when you look for him, there he is
in the arms of winter.
 
— Linda Pastan
 
* * *
 
“March morning unlike others”
 
Blue haze. Bees hanging in the air at the hive-mouth.
Crawling in prone stupor of sun
On the hive-lip. Snowdrops. Two buzzards,
Still-wings, each
Magnetized to the other,
Float orbits.
Cattle standing warm. Lit, happy stillness.
A raven, under the hill,
Coughing among bare oaks.
Aircraft, elated, splitting blue.
Leisure to stand. The knee-deep mud at the trough
Stiffening. Lambs freed to be foolish.
 
The earth invalid, dropsied, bruised, wheeled
Out into the sun,
After the frightful operation.
She lies back, wounds undressed to the sun,
To be healed,
Sheltered from the sneapy chill creeping North wind,
Leans back, eyes closed, exhausted, smiling
Into the sun. Perhaps dozing a little.
While we sit, and smile, and wait, and know
She is not going to die.
 
— Ted Hughes
 
* * *
 
“Sunny Day in March”
 
Even the weathercock turns with the sun on such a day.
It must be spring. Outside the cellar wall the cat
has found himself shelter. He’s asleep, no doubt,
but his fur is well puffed up and his paws
well tucked under. A fly has been tempted out
from a crack in the warm plank wall — starts
buzzing. Soon stiffens. It’s too cold.
 
— Olav H. Hauge
translated from the Norwegian by Robin Fulton
 
* * *
 
“A Death in March”
 
Even so the Spring goes forward.
The rind of the trees weepy with sap. No spigot to carry it off.
From here to the other side, ice is motley. The river’s current
expression: a stutter of ice cakes on the shore. Fret of spume.
Some days, though, we waken to snow,
fugacious erasure of mud and broken branches.
We feel the setback. Want the spectacular squalor
of Spring: its colourless smear. There’s no word for that.
For snow falling, fugue slow, through fog. Earth and air
unable to settle what it’s to be. Now is after. Or, ahead?
Interrugnum: Its beauty is brutal. A raw wind through bereft.
 
— Anne Compton
 
* * *
 
“Spring Equinox Full Moon”
 
I breathe to you
love in the south of the many
months of spring
hibiscus in dark hair water
at the source
shadows glistening to hips
thighs slender sunset shining shores
 
fingers rolled fragrant leaves
presence of deep woods
earth veiled in green drift
that hides running
of small airs
untraceable fine sounds
passing as on a face
feet first drops of rain on a mountain
hands greeting flowers
holden stolen flowers
 
closed eyes of every creature
sepia and amber days
back
of tall tree
arms’ glide
voice of rain forests
birds in tree heights
throat of palm
 
wrist of palm
palm of palm
morsel breasts
melon navel waist of high waterfall
surf laughter face hearing music
body of flight
secret
beach
 
away from you on a corner of the earth
I want to think for six hours of your hair
which is the invention of singing
daughter of islands
born in the flood of the fish harvest
I see long mornings
lying on your hair
I remember looking for you
 
— W. S. Merwin
 
* * *
 
“March 2003”
 
In March exact shadows on snow,
blue in the spectrum overtakes lavender;
the pillows of vapor at a slow bedroom gallop.
 
Up, up, the whistle pierces; the burn
of one and one, couples the rising
yearn, twin twine, dare,
and thickening flash in shoals.
 
Even deep-rooted conifers,
their green wax fangs open,
hustling in the languorous swells.
 
— Ruth Stone
 
* * *
 
“Unknown Things”
 
were set before me on earth .
But once I touched them I’d known them
right back from the blinding sight I caught
of the glacier by whose foot red and golden
birds foraged in the shadow of tall mammoths
and the noise I heard from the bells and the smell
of church porches, earth in March, so many springs . . .
Every day tools they were. A hammer, a saw and
the things which people during the time they have on earth
learn the names of, and cut into each other with.
 
— Henrik Nordbrandt
translated from the Danish by Robin Fulton
 
* * *
 
“March 21”
 
The vernal equinox is to blame
for the celestial uproar, Anne
Carson said, and nothing surprises
me more than the streaks of white
sunlight this morning with Dexter
Gordon’s version of “Tangerine”
in my mind the day is a rhyme
the pencil broke, no need to shout,
I want a girl to write sonnets about
in college & love is the food
that nourishes what it consumes
in springlike days in furnished rooms
I’m hungry, please come and touch me
and I’ll whisper your name the only
thing missing in this picture is you
 
— David Lehman
 
* * *
 
“March”
 
A bear under the snow
Turns over to yawn.
It’s been a long, hard rest.
 
 
Once, as she lay asleep, her cubs fell
Out of her hair,
And she did not know them.
 
It isk hard to breathe
In a tight grave:
 
So she roars,
And the roof breaks.
Dark rivers and leaves
Pour down.
 
When the wind opens its doors
In its own good time,
The cubs follow that relaxed and beautiful woman
Outside to the unfamiliar cities
Of moss.
 
— James Wright
 
* * *
 
“If I Could Paint Essences”
(Hay on Wye)
 
Another day in March. Late
rawness and wetness. I hear my mind say,
if only I could paint essences.
 
Such as the mudness of mud
on this rainsoaked dyke where coltsfoot
displays its yellow misleading daisy.
 
Sch as the westness of west here
in England’s last thatched, rivered
county. Red ploughland. Green pasture.
 
Black cattle. Quick water. Overpainted
by lightshafts from layered gold
and purple cumulus. A cloudness of clouds
 
which are not likie anything but clouds.
 
But just as I arrive at true sightness of seeing,
unexpectedly I want to play on those bell-toned
cellos of delicate not-quite-flowering larches
 
tht offer, on the opposite hill, their unfurled
amber instruments — floating, insubstantial, a rising
horizon of music embodied in light.
 
And in such imagining I lose sight of sight.
Just as I’ll lose the tune of what
hurls in my head, as I turn back, turn
 
home to you, conversation, the inescapable ache
of trying to catch, say, the catness of cat
as he crouches, stalking his shadow,
 
on the other side of the window.
 
— Anne Stevenson
 
* * *
 
“Three Things That Make Me Outrageously
Happy in March”
 
Begin with the evergreen Clematis montana. Shy
about opening, blooms pulse into view
a few at a time against the night sky. Some
morning, a creamy tsunami
sweeps over the chain-link fence in a spring
seizure of yearning. Drenches the passerby in
dizzying scent and charges winter’s
dark air without warning.
 
Next, the black umbrella
ribs of Styrax japonica open to rain. Their
delicate green incipient leaves
reverse the gradual losses of autumn. remember
this overture to the Japanese Snowbell
symphony in May when it’s time to clean up
the carpet of dried flowers and pods, time to
cart uprooted seedlings away.
 
When navel oranges
kissed by lazy California sun, glow like
moons in every supermarket, I go
crazy, buy all I can carry. At home, they
tumble from the sack to kiss my eager lips, and as
that nectar of the gods floods my veins, I live
in lovers’ paradise every juicy moment
of Seattle rains.
 
— Madeline DeFrees
 
* * *
 
“March”
 
A Caribbean airflow
shampoos the brook.
The deepsea deepwarm look of
sky wakes green below
amid the rinds of snow.
 
Though all seems melt and rush,
earth-loaf, sky-wine,
swept to bright new horizons
with hill-runnel, and gash,
all soaked in sunwash,
 
far north, the ice
unclenches, booms
the chunks and floes, and river brims
vanish under cold fleece:
the floods are loose!
 
The sullen torn
old skies through tattery trees
clack, freezing
stiffens loam; the worn
earth’s spillways then relearn
how soaring bliss
and sudden-rigoring frost
release
without all lost.
 
— Margaret Avison

Pancake day treat

When the children have finished play

They suddenly remember its Pancake day

Inside they run to see all the treats

That will surround their Pancake feast,

Jams fruit and cream a Pancake dream

The children lick their lips

Whilst mum masters the mixture and whips,

All the magic ingredients together

To produce batter as light as a feather

patiently the children wait,

Whilst mother designs and creates

This scrumptious feast

That will knock them off their feet

Once the Pancakes have reached their plates

She relishes in their happy faces

Their eyes light up with such joy

Like Christmas all over when opening their toys.

By Gillian Sims

Pancake day

The children all look forward

To the tradition of Pancake Day

Whilst mother cooked the pancakes

The children went outside to play

 

The smell of the pancakes cooking

Creating an hypnotic aroma in the air

Children just like a magnet

Drawn inside, just to stop and stare

 

They stood watching their Mother

Tossing the pancake with glee

Children shouting.” Please don’t drop it”

 Landing safely back in pan for all to see

 

Out came the oranges and lemons

Making them delicious to eat

Children tucking into the pancakes

Everyone enjoyed that pancake treat.

 

Malcolm G Bradshaw

HAPPY ST DAVID’S DAY

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AIRING OUT LOVE’S ATTIC

 the park
 
 
We started when autumn leaves stuck to the ground,
And rambled; bantered all around.
When morning dew smeared the vehicle’s glass;
Onlookers admired our repartee ’til trip passed.
 
Off to a park on a sky clear day,
You made your intentions known along the way;
My heart emerged to blast the bitter wind
And so I knew our union would begin.
 
Every day collected as a new secret shared;
If the unhidden had scarred, we didn’t care;
For laughter, thoughts and dreams we discovered,
Without seeing realities not yet uncovered.
 
Important moments, holidays, suddenly arose,
Though I wasn’t invited to share in any of those;
I excused the overlook as the newness of love,
Until the frosty cold forced me to peer beneath my gloves.
 
What I found were the same working hands,
That tried to remold; then you stopped and took a stand;
Stuck you have been in years of hardened ways,
Rebuffing my present efforts to settle and stay.
 
For your life has never truly belonged to me;
You made that clear from day three;
That love has eluded you, its constancy, too,
Still your heart wants to begin with me anew.
 
So out with long-standing, tired ways,
We strive to forgive, to mend broken days;
Packed baggage we open and hope to toss;
Happy memories saved, unhappy lost.
 
For pain hasn’t resurfaced with the fallen rain;
No, I’ve been there before and probably will again;
Decades I’ve traveled: body tired, not spirit;
Naysayers may dither but I won’t hear it!
Wendy Shreve
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