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‘My upside down inside out girl’

You’re my upside down inside out girl.
Left is right and right is left.
‘It’s toast on cheese and toast on
stop it falling with a peg!
It’s inside when you mean outside
and outside when you mean inside.
So you are out when you you’re in
and in when you’re out!
It’s no wonder I start to doubt.
Go down when you mean up
and up when you mean down.
Such information makes me frown;
especially when we arrive in the wrong
‘Is it left or right?’
‘I don’t know!’
Well it makes life interesting,
wondering which way to go.
‘I know being dyslexic
means you can’t be specific
but I think one of these days,
we’ll end up in the Pacific!’
by Simon Icke
More of Simon’s poetry can be found at

Fire place Native American Christmas music



Thanksgiving has been over
for at least a week or two,
but we’re all still eating turkey,
turkey salad, turkey stew,turkey puffs and turkey pudding,
turkey patties, turkey pies,
turkey bisque and turkey burgers,
turkey fritters, turkey fries.

For lunch, our mother made us
turkey slices on a stick,
there’ll be turkey tarts for supper,
all this turkey makes me sick.

For tomorrow she’s preparing
turkey dumplings stuffed with peas,
oh I never thought I’d say this —
“Mother! No more turkey… PLEASE!”

Electronic christmas

I asked for new gadgets for Christmas.
My list was a hundred lines long.
I figured I might as well try it.
Why not? I mean, what could go wrong?

My parents bought all that I wanted:
An iPod, a big-screen TV,
a camera, a laptop computer,
a Playstation, Xbox, and Wii.

I got a new Kindle, a smart phone,
an RF remote-controlled car,
a robot, a video camera,
a brand new electric guitar.

But those things were just the beginning.
This Christmas, I had such a haul,
it took me all morning, and then some,
to finish unwrapping it all.

A hundred new gadgets to play with.
I couldn’t be bothered to wait.
The moment I plugged them all in, though,
it blew every fuse in the state.

If you’re spending Christmas in darkness,
and can’t play your video game,
I’m sorry for all of the trouble;
it’s probably me who’s to blame.

I know now I shouldn’t be greedy,
so, next year, I think you’ll be fine.
Instead of a hundred new gadgets,
I’m asking for just ninety nine.

–Kenn Nesbitt

Animals worldwide at christmas time -Promote Yourself

Amazing winter animals around the world unite,
Although extremely clever they know not it’s Christmas night.
Each day the same magical chores, each morning cool and crisp,
Secretly they disappear into their own little world in a wisp.

Strolling through the forest collecting chestnuts in the glade,
I peer and spy a reindeer and squirrel inquisitively gaze,
Robins scurrying in the holly bush and weasels in the brook,
Our faithful wide eyed earthly friends, so sadly misunderstood.

Rainforests, blue oceans, snowy hills and sandy bays,
God’s great gift for all on Earth, not just the human race.
Indian tigers in their jungles, African elephants on their plains,
South American anacondas, all share the air God made.

The flicker of Christmas candles creates a homely scene,
Twinkling lights and warm log fires for some is just a dream.
Indelible Christmas memories, my heart’s feeling so divine,
But our love is the everlasting love of animals for all time.


Hope and Happiness


We walked along the sandy beach

Tbe sunset bright just out of reach

Ideas and dreams filled our heads

Our feet walking in rythem

To the words we said

Love came easy when the wind took hold

Whispering secrets never to be told

Our laughter danced through our hair

While we walked for miles without a care

When eventually we closed our eyes

We slept in pockets of surprise

As the new day dawned

The sunset crept upon us

And we made a truce

To live in hope and happiness

And agreed to settle for nothing less

Gillian Sims

Australian Pioneers – Promote Yourself





In a time gone by there was a romance for adventure
The pleasures of a city left far behind, of houses
On busy streets, a mansion on a hill
Friends that adventurers cherished

A fever that attracted, many
From the cities, the roar of voices and traffic
Memories of joys and faces, were gone in a flash
Now in their place a coach wheel creek along a rugged track
As they make their way across a wilderness of everlasting plains

Pioneers they were that built mud slab huts
Sometimes camping by an embankment
Settling on new selections
On the frontier of a new nation

As they worked their new selections
In weariness and pain, pioneers now bronzed
From the red hot sun
Secrets of pioneers now held in grave sites of many

In a time gone by, there was a romance for adventure
The pleasures of a city left far behind, of houses
On busy streets, a mansion on a hill
Friends that adventurers cherished

Travel this land and you will see many dreams that never came true
Camp under the stars, look for a star that will show you the way
But there is a silence about the country, like a gentle touch of God
That will show you a track once traveled by pioneers
For he will understand your desire for adventure

Those that traveled before you will show you the way
Pioneers now hear the beating of your heart as you travel their road
They have shown you the way with their sacrifice
You now have faced the wilderness of those whom ventured far

And now with a hearts desire to accept the challenge
Of Pioneers that made this nation what it is today

 Barbara McAvaney

My name is Barbara McAvaney I write poetry and some short stories. This poem is about the hisotry of Australian pioneers making there way across the country to settle in unknown lands away from mansion and the busy street of the cities. Selections is what they called land that was zoned for farming and given to early pioneers

“Free” – Promote Yourself





Why must I worry
For things that don’t last?
And search for glory
In things that fade fast

Nothing I brought here
Nothing I bring out
Why do I then fear?
For life can’t be bought

So what I’ve no gear?
And my house is small
Why fuss what to wear?
I don’t love the mall

Why try to impress
The world in such vain?
To live more with less
Contentment is gain

I want to be free
Happy to then give
My time to bless Thee
As long as I live

By Melinda

The Death of the Old Year – Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1842) YOUR FAVOURITE POEM


Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.
    Old year you must not die;
    You came to us so readily,
    You lived with us so steadily,
    Old year you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend and a true truelove
And the New-year will take ’em away.
    Old year you must not go;
    So long you have been with us,
    Such joy as you have seen with us,
    Old year, you shall not go.

He froth’d his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho’ his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho’ his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.
    Old year, you shall not die;
    We did so laugh and cry with you,
    I’ve half a mind to die with you,
    Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o’er.
To see him die across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he’ll be dead before.
    Every one for his own.
    The night is starry and cold, my friend,
    And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,
    Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro:
The cricket chirps: the light burns low:
’Tis nearly twelve o’clock.
    Shake hands, before you die.
    Old year, we’ll dearly rue for you:
    What is it we can do for you?
    Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone,
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,
    And waiteth at the door.
    There’s a new foot on the floor, my friend,
    And a new face at the door, my friend,
    A new face at the door.


Pains of the Young: One in Five


Pains of the Young: One in Five
One in five, one in five,
Has considered suicide.
Twenty percent, how many’s that?
A thousand? Ten? More?! Drat…
One in twelve inflicts self harms;
How many scars on many arms?
How many bruise? How many bleed?
One in ten abusing weed,
One in six abusing drink,
It makes you stop, stop and think,
What makes the young hurt so much?
Why do they hate themselves as such?
Life? Love? The world’s dark horses?
Expectations so-ci-ety enforces?
Expectations, yes. Expectations, no!
Expectations of parent, peer and foe,
Ex-pec-tation of ourselves,
Deep in to our souls it delves.
Expectations, wants, needs, desires,
Set alight our inward fires.

Mental illness? One in two,
Which one is it? Me or you?
Lucky you! It is me,
Bi-polar since I was one, three,
Bi-polar, going up and down,
In school I tried to be class clown,
Getting laughs to stop the tears,
I took pills to quell my fears,
I took pills and went to sleep,
Spiraled into sleep so deep,
I thank God that I climbed out,
I now love life, without a doubt.

It all comes back to one in five,
How many of them still alive?
And of those, how many live?
There’s a speech that Wilde would give,
On how they merely just exist,
Scared of life- you get the gist.
What can we do turn the tide,
We cannot turn and run, and hide,
The time is now to take a stand,
And reach out a helping hand,
To pull them out of their dark places,
Their scars will fade and become traces,
Traces of troubling, troubling times,
Reminders repressing future crimes,
Crimes against themselves, their lives,
One in five, one in five.

Related articles
One in Five Young People In Ireland is Experiencing a Mental Disorder:
Kind Regards,
Paul Roche
Poet, Novelist and Children’s Story Writer
Dublin, Ireland

Digging – Your Favourite Poem








Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

  Seamus Heaney.
– from Death of a Naturalist (1966)



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