YorkMix Poems For Children Competition 2021: Here are the winning poems, read by the winning poets

This year’s YorkMix’s Poems For Children Competition has resulted in a tie for first prize.

It was too close for our judge, Carole Bromley, to call an outright winner, so Elizabeth Sanders and Sarah Ziman will split the first and second prizes between them.

Sarah, from Watford, was placed third in our competition last year, and this year managed to get three other poems shortlisted. 

For Elizabeth, a retired teacher from Nottingham, this was her first entry into any poetry competition. She told YorkMix: “I joined a writing group and we split into those who wanted to write prose and novels, and those who preferred to try poetry.

“My tutor kept encouraging me to try some competitions, and this was the result. I am delighted.”

A total of 642 poems were submitted by 208 poets.

Because Covid restrictions mean we can’t hold an awards event in York, we asked our shortlisted poets to video themselves reading their poems. The videos are below, alongside their entries.

But first, here is the judge’s report from Carole Bromley

The judge’s verdict

Carole Bromley on this year’s entries

What a pleasure it was judging this competition.

My head is filled with randy rats and boys glued to their mobiles and a school waiting for its humans to come back and a knight who’s not cut out for the job and a scatty science teacher who nearly blows the school up, not to mention a frog prince who advertises in the personals for a girl who won’t be put off by slime and warts.

I’ll talk about the winners in a moment but first I wanted to mention how moved I was by Moira Garland’s My Sister Claire, by the child in Mary Green’s Shoes who is left out, how I admired the inventiveness of Kate Williams’ A Meal For Your Maths Teacher, the twist in the tail of Sarah Ziman’s superb Eating Out and Ann Cuthbert’s beautifully written and hilarious Dracula’s Café. I also loved Jonathan Humble’s The Pie Tester which is enough to put you off pies for life and the very funny, quirky Ferret Shopping by Kate O’Neil. Snowman In Spring by Robert Schechter I chose for its originality in seeing the snowman as a child’s confidant and friend as well as for its superb handling of form.

There were marvellous poems in my commended list too and, believe me, it could have been twice as long: Mary Green’s lovely, quiet Snow And Ice which captures the winter atmosphere so beautifully with its wonderful images, Sarah Ziman’s Consequences, so well handled and mouth-watering, and her Worldwide Wet so clever and informative and funny. The Jellagrump by Joanne Key appealed for its glorious nonsense words, its flight of the imagination and its fab ending. Something In The Air by Steve Williams is that rare thing, a really good poem which would appeal to teenagers, and Grumpy by June Crebbin one of the best of the many fairy-tale poems. Sarah Dodd’s When The Light Goes Off handles children’s fear of the dark beautifully while her Boborygmus taught me a new word about farting and is so well written and witty. Three Little Piggies (Claire Schlinkert) and Mr Wolf’s Letter of Resignation (Fiona Calvert) both play successfully with the familiar tale, and good poems based on fairy-tales are harder to write than you might think. Envy by Louise Wilford I chose for its imagery and Louise’s other poem, Dolphins is delightfully playful and one of only a handful of entries which attempted a concrete poem. When Stefan Got Stuck In His High Chair, another poem by Claire Schlinkert, is off the wall and hilarious and I loved it. Fussy Eater, another poem by Fiona Calvert, sends up children’s illogical hang-ups about food and their universal love of all things sweet. Hashtag Horror! by Melanie Branton I loved for its wonderfully inventive take on teenage obsession with posting everything on Instagram. How Daniel Saved the World from Mutant Ants by Maeve Henry captures children’s fascination with small creatures in a wonderfully inventive way, while A Boy Called No-one, also by Melanie Branton, is a funny and moving poem about friendship. Finally, Lorraine Mariner’s The Diamond Tree is such an affectionate and moving and altogether beautiful piece that I just had to include it.

And that brings me to the winners (though I have to say all of the above are winners in my book and, if we put them all in an anthology it would sell like hot cakes!).

First the International Prize. I was so torn here between two very different poems, one from Australia and the other from the US, that we decided to split the prize. We had entries from all over Europe, from New Zealand, Australia and from many parts of the US which gives some indication of how our small competition started by an enterprising local news website in York, has grown in reputation and reach. I was delighted by the standard of the international entries, found it so interesting to get a glimpse of what a children’s poem might look like in a faraway place. The Australian entries, for example, had a flavour of the places they came from and were often about bower birds or huge spiders or just a relaxed way of life which made me long to jump on a plane! The American entries were often formally perfect with impressive rhythm and rhyme and those are rarer skills than you might think. So many otherwise good poems fell at the first hurdle because they didn’t quite get those things right. You don’t have to use rhyme at all, indeed a number of our winning poets chose not to, but if you do it helps to really work on it till it’s perfect.

The first international poem I chose was A Letter from the Principal by Australian poet Pat Simmons (in this country schoolchildren would be more used to the word headteacher) which cleverly fools the reader into thinking it’s complaining about a pupil who is careless and disorganised and disaster-prone, only to reveal at the end that it’s about ‘the best teacher in the school’. The poem is witty and also tells us a lot about authority and also what makes a really good teacher. Its appeal is universal. The second poem, Personals by Helen Zax, one of the last to arrive in my inbox, is a clever and effective way to write a narrative poem as the readers already know the story and will enjoy the choice of the ‘small ad’ form which is so beautifully done. An original and fab poem which shows what can be achieved in a very few lines.  Thank you to all our international entrants for trusting me with your poems. There were so many really good ones which have stayed with me.

We decided to award a York Prize for the best poem from a YO postcode, so this goes to Steve Williams for his laugh-aloud poem, Who Can’t Do That? I loved the tone of this poem, the contemporary details which children would love, familiar figures from TV, royalty and sport and this appealing voice which is sure he could do just as well. There’s just something about those colloquialisms which convinced me. Terrific poem.

Fourth Prize goes to Rachel Piercey’s beautifully written and very evocative poem, The First Bell Rings which succeeds in subtly capturing the atmosphere in a school at the start of the day. The various characters are so economically drawn and the poem’s form is so well handled. I notice (though obviously I didn’t know at the time who had written them or even that they were by the same poet) that I had in my longlist, which we have not published, a number of other poems by this poet and I am sure I will read them all together in a collection some time soon.

Third Prize went to Sandra Horn for The Would-be Knight. I loved this tale of a clueless knight who got everything wrong and the poet uses the language of armour to good effect. Children would learn new words from this one while rolling with laughter at the hapless Monty’s attempts to do something he’s not cut out for. I was pleased the abandoned armour got recycled at the end!

After that it got really tricky. I had two fantastic poems in my hand, both very different, and I had to choose between them. In the end, after sleepless nights spent changing my mind, I decided to ask if we could split the first prize between two wonderful poets. The first of these was Sarah Ziman, who was placed third last year. Almost all of Sarah’s excellent entries went into my shortlist and stayed there. I am certain Sarah will have a first collection very soon and I can’t wait to read it! The poem I chose was Simon Sebastian Samuel Stone, a rollicking, bang up-to-date cautionary tale about a lad who is addicted to his mobile phone despite his parents’ valiant attempts to distract him. It is very funny; older children (or increasingly younger children) would really relate to this one and it shows an admirable mastery of rhyming couplets. It even has a brilliant twist at the end. Fabulous poem. I loved it.

And my other choice for joint First Prize was a new spin on the Cinderella story, Cinderella’s Coachmen by Elizabeth Sanders. I loved the contrast between the bits of story in traditional rhyming couplets and the voice of the rat/coachman who, like his partner in crime, Ronnie, is ‘just a regular rat’ and very taken aback to find himself promoted from rodent onlooker to main part in human form expected to know how to drive and, being a rat, taking advantage of the situation to help himself to the food and also to  pull a ‘racy redhead’ only to be rudely interrupted by the clock striking twelve when he falls naked at her feet and is too ashamed to go home. I loved the characterisation and humour in this poem and I know children would really love it too.

In fact children would love all of these and also so many of the poems which made it onto my shortlist. Judging the competition was an honour and very exciting for me as it showed me again that poetry for children is alive and kicking in all its lively variety. Children need these poems. Any editors out there looking for poems for anthologies please get in touch and we will be delighted to put you in touch with the poets. Publishers looking for the next big thing in individual collections ditto. All that remains is for me to thank from the bottom of my heart all our entrants and to wish them every success in the future.

The winners

Joint winner: Elizabeth Sanders, Nottingham

Prize: £175

Cinderella’s Coachmen

Ronnie and me are just regular rats,
laze around during the day,
hit the town at night.

Once we nosed out a kitchen,
went in, lovely warm fire.
girl stood looking sad.
fairy appeared, said

“You shall go to the Ball with a star in your hair
and a golden coach will take you there”

There was a flash and a bang.

Before you could say rattus rattus
I was standing on my hind legs,
wearing human clothes.
I looked at Ronnie- he was too.
I looked down at my shoes, so far away,
I put out my paw to steady myself,
saw a cake on the table, reached for it.
Ronnie pulled me away.

Then I saw the golden coach.
fairy said

“Coachmen climb up do not fall.
Take Cinderella to the Ball.”

I looked at Ronnie ‘Can you drive?’
He said ‘I’ll have a go.’
We climbed up but the horses knew
what to do and where to go.
We just hung on to the reins.

At the palace fairy appeared again.

“Cinderella remember well
everything I did foretell.
When midnight strikes you must flee,
as all of this will cease to be.”

Cinderella went inside, fairy vanished.

Ronnie and me hung around a bit,
then heard the clock strike eight.
Ronnie said ‘We’ve got some time
let’s find the kitchen .’

We went inside, oh the food!
piled high everywhere.
Cakes were absolutely ace.

We ate all we could and more,
afterwards we saw the girls.
Ronnie went after a racy redhead,
I found a mousey little girl in green.
We went outside and chatted, were getting on really well.
I hardly noticed the clock striking.

There was another flash
and I was lying naked at her feet.
She screamed ‘Rats, rats’.
Ronnie and me ran and ran and ran.
We didn’t go home.
How could we?
Who would believe us?

We’re country rats now.
We still like cake.

Joint winner: Sarah Ziman, Watford

Prize: £175

Simon Sebastian Samuel Stone

Simon Sebastian Samuel Stone
was ADDICTED to his phone.
Climbing up a mountain path,
splashing in a bubble bath,
playing football or just strolling,
running for the bus — still scrolling!
To his hand it stuck like glue
(though once he dropped it down the loo)
Simon’s eyes were on his screen
every time that he was seen.
In fact, there’s very few could say
if Simon’s eyes were blue or grey.
Or brown perhaps, beneath his cap ­—
who knows? There’s probably an app.
This vacant figure he presented
drove his parents quite demented.
SIMON! LUNCH! his mum would roar
he’d slowly shuffle through the door
and chew a sandwich dropping crumbs
while swiftly texting with his thumbs:

BRB fam gotta eat
U still up 4 Minecraft? Sweet.

Then when he’d played six hours or more
he’d watch YouTubers do parkour,
or fall off skateboards trying tricks,
then choose a filter for some pics,
perhaps check TikTok’s latest trend—
and on it went for days on end.
Poor mum and dad — they barely saw him
(being screen-less they were boring).
Still, they had parental power
and so it was they went to Gower,
to stay at ‘Cliff Top Caravans’
(which scuppered Simon’s summer plans
of being quite the idle loafer,
phone in hand and on the sofa).
They’d brought him somewhere by deception –
and with TERRIBLE reception!
And further more – CALAMITY –
this quaint resort of sand and sea,
had NO WIFI whatsoever,
so a week would last — FOREVER.
No way to check the football scores
and constantly forced out of doors!
This thought filled Simon up with fright
and to his horror, he was right.
Look at nature! Mum implored
How on earth can you be bored?
There’s a seal! A shell! A flower!
There’s no fresh air like that in Gower!
Body boarding – that looks fun!
It doesn’t matter there’s no sun!
Build a castle! Fish with Dad!
Simon felt he might go mad.
The time dragged on, it was day five
Our Si was only half alive—
he trudged along with Ma and Pa,
when suddenly — was that a bar?!
His screen lit up, and so did he
his message tone beeped wildly.
But…Gone again? Alas! Alack!
He stretched his arm, took two steps back —
AHA! The signal! On that ledge—
right by the sign:

                        ‘STAY BACK FROM EDGE’

He whooped, he cheered, he shouted ‘YES!’
Then all at once— Well, you can guess.
The tide was out. He didn’t drown.
It really was a LONG way down.
His phone fared better though —in fact
its screen was only slightly cracked,
and soon put right by ‘FONES 4 ALL’ —
you’d never guess it had a fall.
His parents popped it on a shelf
(a substitute for Si himself)
and texted it occasionally,
things like:

Simon! Time for tea!

They didn’t get an answer, true,
but clearly that was nothing new.
Yet soon old tech becomes a bore
and relegated to a drawer.
These days Alexa’s in his place,
who answers them with charm and grace.
Perhaps they really shouldn’t oughta,
but they love her like a daughter—
rarely missing Simon Stone,
who was addicted to his phone.

Third prize: Sandra Horn, Southampton

Prize: £50

The would-be Knight

Montague Chumleigh Farquar
Wanted to be a knight
He bought a suit of armour
But he couldn’t get it right.

The first mistake poor Monty made
Was to wear it in the rain
It needed a tin-opener
To get it off again.

He went and bought another suit
In the knightly shopping mall
And when he put the breastplate on
He couldn’t breathe at all.

He had some slits put in it
To stretch it out a bit
It looked a bit eccentric
And still it didn’t fit.

He’d got in a right muddle
with all the bits and pieces
and where his chausses should have been
he’d put a pair of cuisses.

When he’d got his armour right,
He tried to mount a steed
It took one look at the chubby chap
And galloped off at speed.

He tried to kiss a maiden fair
He thought he would surprise her
‘Get off!’ she said, ‘You nearly had
my eye out with that visor!’

He couldn’t find a dragon’s lair –
He hadn’t really tried.
He didn’t want to slay the beast
Or end up being fried.

Montague Chumleigh Farquar sighed,
‘I’m not cut out for knighting –
Can’t kiss a maid or ride a horse
And I don’t even like fighting.’

He took his mangled armour off
And sold it for scrap metal.
It ended up as doorknobs,
Saucepans, skewers and a kettle.

Fourth prize: Rachel Piercey, Richmond upon Thames

Prize: £25

The first bell rings

The first bell rings,
trembly and firm:
in from the playground,
a rollicking herd.

The first bell rings:
Meg, Mo and Paul
dawdle on the asphalt,
dribbling the ball.

The first bell rings
and in 4C
Ms Nowak is gulping
a gallon of tea.

The first bell rings
which throws off-beat
a quartet of dancers
with quickfire feet.

The first bell rings
but Jo doesn’t hear:
she’s lost in a book,
so she’s nowhere near.

The first bell rings
and fractures the fun
of the Maths Club game,
only two-thirds done.

The first bell rings
yet even higher
sing Sal and Sabita,
rehearsing for choir.

The first bell rings;
2B’s in a frenzy:
are they or aren’t they
required at assembly?

The first bell rings
and poor Mr Ford
has used the wrong pen
and graffitied the board.

The first bell rings
and the walls relax
as the day brings the hum
of their humans back.

Joint winner, International Prize: Pat Simmons, Scarborough, NSW, Australia

Prize: £25

A Letter from the Principal

Dear Mr. Smith and Mrs. Smith,
I’m writing you this letter
because your son’s behaviour
isn’t getting any better.

His writing is untidy and
his spelling is a worry.
He’s often late and consequently,
always in a hurry.

His recent science project
nearly caused a school disaster.
The explosion covered thirty boys
in clouds of ceiling plaster.

He’s been with us for twenty years,
or is it twenty two?
Dear Mr. Smith and Mrs. Smith,
just what are we to do?

He’s untidy and he’s silly
and he always acts the fool,
but still the students say he’s
the best teacher in our school.

Joint winner, International Prize: Helen Zax, Washington DC, USA

Prize: £25

Personals, ROYAL GAZETTE

WANTED: By a dashing prince
a maiden who’s not wont to wince
at warty skin and bulging eyes
and slimy lips and breath of flies.
One quick kiss will break the spell.
Inquire at palace by the well.

The YORK PRIZE
Steve Williams, Appleton Roebuck, York
and prize £25
and VIDEO
Poem: 07 Who Can’t Do That

The York Prize: Steve Williams, Appleton Roebuck, York

Prize: £25

Who Can’t Do That?

Cristiano Ronaldo?
Who can’t do that?
Ok, I may not be as quick
Or quite as clever with a flick.
And I’m not sure I’d start every game,
But I know exactly where I could get my haircut just the same.

David Attenborough?
Don’t make me laugh!
Who can’t do that?
Ok, he’s done his homework
On stick insects and slow worms,
And you know he’s not pretending
When he’s chatting with a penguin
And those gorillas in the Amazon
Were happy with the cameras on – 
But I’d be just as entertaining
With a couple of days’ training.
I could chew the fat
With a big cat -I mean,
Who can’t do that?

Lewis Hamilton?
F1 superstar?
Don’t think so.
Can’t see him being able to pull through
A ten-mile-snow-pile jam on the M62
With a coach of high school kids in front of me
And only a Christmas CD for company!
He’s his only passenger from the start until the end,
Whereas, mum says I drive everyone round the bend.

The Queen?
All day in a limousine.
With a fancy hat.
I mean,
Who can’t do that?

Highly commended

Sarah Ziman, Watford

Eating Out

I’d like the burger please.
No, not the macaroni cheese.
Yes, I’m sure it’s very nice.
Yes, I do like it at home.
I just don’t fancy it today.
I’d like the burger.

Fish fingers are good too, I agree.
I know that’s what they mean.
I’m not put off by them calling them goujons.
Honestly.
I know that I wouldn’t have to eat the tartare sauce.
It’s just that I’d like the burger.

I don’t think I eat too much red meat.
You were suggesting sausage and mash a minute ago.
That’s red meat, isn’t it?
I don’t ALWAYS get the same thing.
I might have had the burger last time, but that was months ago.
It’s not my fault that we’re here again the day I JUST HAPPEN to fancy a burger.

Yes, I saw that they do a jacket potato.
With baked beans.
Or tuna.
And a side salad.
Very good, I’m sure.
Well then, you HAVE the wild boar ragù with tagliatelle.
I’m not stopping you.
But I’m your father, and I’d like the burger.

Mary Green, Brighton

Shoes

There are thirty-three pairs of shoes
In my class.
Thirty-two,
When someone throws my trainers in the bin.
They are all shapes and sizes.
I often watch them
When I’m standing alone in the playground,
Or the rainy-day room.
Some bounce by,
Won’t stop or stay,
They are always running away.
Some play high jinks on the crossbars.
Some do the quickstep,
When bother boots kick.
Others don’t shift,
But sit,
Flat as pancakes.
Some have travelled far, over seas and oceans.
Some have adventures in all weathers.
No cares.
And some are squeaky clean expensive,
Get invited to parties.
I know them all,
Each pair.
But the ones I love best
are Edi’s, 
Tucked under the chair,
Friendly, kind, calm,
And there.

Kate O’Neil, Wombarra, NSW, Australia

FERRET SHOPPING

I went shopping for a ferret
and I took along a list
of all the things a ferret needs –
wanting nothing to be missed.

Ferrets can be very fussy
and they bite if they’re annoyed
so to keep a ferret happy,
mistakes are something to avoid.

I bought a nifty litter-box,
chose a range of tasty meats,
the warmest winter blanket and
several packs of ferret treats.

When I thought I had the lot
I packed the shopping in a box,
took it to the ferret’s house.
Uh oh! … Forgot the socks…

Kate Williams, Peterston-super-Ely, Cardiff

A Meal For Your Maths Teacher

If your teacher’s the sort of creature
to set a nasty sum,
distract her with a meal of maths 
to fill her mathsy tum.

Percentage pies with fraction fries,
divided by one third,
with peas in threes and chives in fives
and a cube of lemon curd.

Let your mixture boil away
until you hear it hum,
then keep your teacher munching
so she can’t set you a sum.

For drinks, Seven-Up or Fifteen-Down,
or a mug of multiplication,
or a pot of tea times 0.3 –
to the nearest calculation.

That’ll keep your teacher quiet
and give you all some rest – 
and do the same with letters
if she starts a spelling test.

Ann Cuthbert, Darlington

Dracula’s Café

We’re going to Dracula’s café for tea.
We’re opening the door with a creak.
There’s a blast of cold air as we enter his lair
then the waitress swoops down with a shriek.
(Eeek!)

She hands us a menu that’s spotted with sauce –
but then again it might be blood.
She intones the specials that they’ve got today –
‘The batburgers are very good.’

We look at the menu and try to decide
what to eat – there’s some very weird stuff.
Fried legs, brains on toast, human fingers. Ooh, gross!
There’s snot noodles and Urrgh! Slugga Puffs!

On the table, big spiders are scuttling around.
‘There’s your starters,’ she says with a smile
that reveals her long teeth, while a blast of foul breath
hits our faces – it’s meaty and vile.

‘Now what’s it to be? Ratioli is nice
but then again so’s chicken spew.
Or what about mice cream with real monkey’s blood?’…
‘I’m not hungry now – what about you?’

I say to my friend. We both feel a bit sick
and we’re worried we might end up dead.
We throw down the menu and run out the door.
‘Let’s go for a pizza instead!’

Moira Garland, Cookridge, Leeds

My Sister Claire

My sister races down the track.
Shout at her she won’t come back.

My sister will win your sister any day.
Your sister’d better get out of her way!

My sister’s hug is really, really strong.
Don’t let her do it for too long!

My sister likes going on a bus
going down town without any of us.

My sister’s feet never land in a puddle
Unlike me her brain’s not a muddle!

My sister went to a different school.
She thinks other people are sometimes cruel.

My sister’s buttons are electronic.
She buzzes around as if supersonic.

My sister said to us Give me a cheer!
on the day she became an engineer.

My sister has had lots of practice
at using fancy apparatus.

Let me introduce you to my sister Claire
That’s her over there,
in her very own wheelchair.

Jonathan Humble, Kendal

The Pie Tester

I am the man who tests the pies
they set before the King.
With fingers, nose, ears, tongue and eyes,
I check for everything.

In order for the pie to pass,
examined it must be;
I use a magnifying glass
to see what I can see …

I take the pie and shake it hard,
in case I hear “tick tock.”
I would not want to disregard
a time bomb with a clock.

And then the golden pastry crust
I sniff and give a lick;
the glaze, you see, I do not trust
to be free of arsenic.

I shove my fingers in the top
and squeeze the meat inside
to make sure all foul plans I stop;
preventing regicide.

A pastry check I have to make,
done with a hefty mallet,
to see it’s had a proper bake
fit for a royal palate.

And having fully passed the test,
the pie sits on a plate
inlaid with golden royal crest,
as for the King we wait …

Yet every time, the funny thing,
is when it’s safe to bite,
His Noble Majesty the King
has lost his appetite.

Robert Schechter, Dix Hills, New York, USA

Snowman In Spring

The first small buds are bursting forth.
The birds that fled are flying north.
But for our frosty friends, the snowmen,
there cannot be a sadder omen.

A brain whose lobes are made of snow,
you might object, can’t think or know.
And hearts of ice have never felt
the pain of being forced to melt.

It’s true. A snowman has no brains,
no blood that’s coursing through its veins,
no heart that beats, no eyes that see,
no inner thoughts like you and me.

And yet, though I admit all that,
all winter long we two would chat.
I whispered in his carrot ear
what no one else on earth could hear,

and with the charcoal of his eyes
he’d look at me and sympathize.
Just snow. But snow I’d talk and cry to,
like a friend it hurts to say good-bye to.

Commended

Sarah Ziman, Watford

Consequences

Cheesecake, trifle, treacle tart,
Baked Alaska – that’s to start –
Apple pie, rice pud, banoffee,
Crème brûlée and sticky toffee,
Rhubarb crumble, Spotted Dick,
Chocolate brownie? Bring it quick!
Eton mess, jam roly-poly,
GIANT knickerbocker glory,
Profiteroles, banana split;
Just some pavlova, then I’ll quit —

Ugh, but how my stomach hurts;
I guess they call that…JUST DESSERTS!

Worldwide Wet!

It’s raining cats and dogs¹ today
It’s hammering down² like nails³
It’s becoming a real frog-strangler⁴
It’s raining pilot whales.⁵

Tractors are falling out of the sky⁶
It’s throwing cobblers’ knives⁷
Old ladies with sticks⁸ are bucketing down⁹
And mice are losing their lives.¹⁰

It’s raining lady trolls¹¹ now
It’s pouring like a cow pees¹²
It’s started chucking down husbands¹³
It’s almost raining seas.¹⁴

It’s raining snakes and lizards¹⁵
It’s raining strings of rope¹⁶
It’s even raining dog poo,¹⁷ so –
Don’t forget the soap!

1. English speaking countries, Costa Rica (although Costa Rica has ‘dogs and cats’)
2. UK
3. Sweden, Canada (French speaking areas)
4. United States (or a toad-strangler)
5. Faroe Islands
6. Slovakia, Czech Republic
7. Ireland (Gaelic)
8. Wales (Welsh), there is a similar phase in Afrikaans (old ladies with clubs)
9. Almost everywhere has a ‘raining buckets’ phrase!
10. Serbia (raining to kill the mice)
11. Denmark
12. France
13. Colombia
14. Spain
15. Brazil (Portuguese)
16. Turkey
17. China (Cantonese)

Sarah Dodd, Lancaster

When the Light Goes Off

When the light goes off,
the bear comes out
and talks to the crocodile under the bed:
“You take the legs and I’ll have the head.”
The bear has a hairy, snuffly snout.
I call my Mum with a big, loud SHOUT!

The light comes on.
“There’s nothing there,” she says.

When the light goes off,
the bear comes out
and talks to the bat hanging down from the light:
“I think she’ll give in without a fight.”
The bat has a musty, mouldy smell.
I call my Mum with a big, loud YELL!

The light comes on.
“There’s nothing there,” she says.

When the light goes off,
the bear comes out
and talks to the snake curled up on the shelf:
“I think she’s a little too bony myself.”
The snake slides down towards my pillow.
I call my Mum with a big, loud BELLOW!

The light comes on.
“There’s nothing there,” she says.

When the light goes off,
the bear comes out
and talks to the gorilla behind the door:
“I think she’s asleep, but I’m not sure.”
The gorilla hasn’t eaten a think all week.
I call my Mum with a desperate squeak…

The light comes on.
“There’s nothing there,” she says.

She picks up the bear, the bat and the snake;
she grabs the gorilla and gives him a shake.
She tosses the crocodile with all the rest
and shuts them into the big toy chest.
The light goes off.

Not a sound –
Not a single animal to be found.
All the creatures had to go.
There’s nothing in the room, I know.

As my head nods down to a sleepy rest,
I hear a whisper from the big toy chest:

“HOW ABOUT A NIBBLE ON HER LITTLE TOE?”

Boborygmus

Boborygmus is a noisy monster living in my belly,

He makes horrendous noises when I’m trying to watch the telly.

Brussels sprouts make him shout, broccoli makes him bubble.

Greens, beans and aubergines cause all kinds of trouble.

Cauliflower gives him power and cabbage makes him burble,

Turnips, chips and spicy dips all cause a ghastly gurgle.

At school time, in assembly when we fold our hands in prayer,

He gives a massive rumble and the other kids all stare.

He grumbles after breakfast and he mumbles after lunch,

In fact, he’s just a noisy hog who wakes up when I munch.

How can I keep this monster still? He goes all squirly when I’m ill,

And when I think I can’t go on…

            …he bursts from my bottom and then he’s gone!

(Boborygmus is the scientific name for all those noises in your gut)

Louise Wilford, Elsecar, Barnsley

Envy

I am bile yellow and smell
of old soap and vinegar.

Wide as a wish, yet
thin as a spike.

I’m in your mirror, watching;
in your pocket, waiting.

I eat sour cherries,
drink bitter lemon.

I sound like a knife-blade
scoring a blackboard,

taste like sawdust,
feel like sandpaper.

I’m mistletoe.
A carrion-crow.

I’m needle points.

A fat,
fizzing
fuse.

Claire Schlinkert, Merton, London

When Stefan got stuck in his high chair

When Stefan got stuck in his high chair,
we couldn’t disguise our surprise,
for, though hardly thin when Mum slotted him in,
we never dreamed this would arise!
And he wailed and he wheezed as we wrestled and squeezed,
yes, he made a great hullabaloo,
till we’d all had enough and at last, out of puff,
we supposed he was stuck there with glue!

When Stefan got stuck in his high chair,
we wondered which foods were to blame?
Perhaps all that porridge? Although, to our knowledge,
it could have been eggs, just the same.
That third slice of bacon was surely mistaken.
One muffin too many, no doubt …
But, any which way, what was easy to say
was we’d no chance of getting him out.

When Stefan got stuck in his high chair,
there wasn’t a lot we could do.
Consoling attempts seemed to cause more offence
and so, sadly, our options were few.
Thus it was that, downcast, we concluded at last
that the only way out we could see
was to stay there and play, with him wedged in, all day
and to hope he’d get thinner by tea!

Three Little Piggies

When Mama Pig’s three sons have grown,
they know they must set out alone
to build a home. Then Mama cries,
“My Piggies, let’s not say good-byes.
For don’t forget that, by the hair
upon my chinny chin, we’ll share
sweet, tasty, home-baked treats for tea
on Friday afternoon at three.
So take good care and don’t be late.”
With that, her sons go through the gate
and down the lane and out of sight.
Their Mama hopes they’ll be all right.

Well, Piggy One is keen to start,
though, truthfully, he’s not that smart.
The first, of all his epic fails?
He hasn’t read his fairy tales.
But still, by chance, the local store
has sold its stock of sticks and straw.
What’s more, its bricks are all half-price …
but Piggy wants a tent – it’s nice
and quick to pitch. Thus, in a while,
a wolf walks by and, with a smile,
he licks his lips, unzips the door
and Piggy One is soon no more.
There’s nothing left to show his fate,
except one chin hair on a plate.

Young Piggy Two has grander schemes:
he wants the mansion of his dreams.
He sees some programme on TV
and hollers, “That’s the home for me!
Oh, get me shiny marble floors
and walls of glass and bi-fold doors.”
The problem is, glass walls can crack,
so when Wolf’s axe attacks them (whack!),
they shatter. (Smash!) Then, with a crunch,
the wolf wolfs Piggy Two for lunch,
discarding neatly in the bin
two slender hairs from Piggy’s chin.

Now, Piggy Three’s too smug by far,
for he’s been to a seminar
and now he’s quite the building whizz.
(It’s easy when you’ve brains like his.)
He won’t use tents, glass, straw or sticks.
No! Obviously, he’ll use bricks.
He’s thought things through, but one small flaw:
poor Piggy Three’s not shut the door.
Too bad the wolf just wanders in
and three hairs left from Piggy’s chin
will tell you all you need to know.
Oh, what a sorry tale of woe!

It’s Friday afternoon at three,
and Mama Pig lays out a tea
of dreamy, creamy cakes and pies.
When four o’ clock arrives, she sighs
and marches down the path apace.
Go Mama Pig! She’s on the case.

She finds one chin hair in a tent,
then tracks the wolf’s repulsive scent
to broken glassy walls. Within,
she sees two chin hairs in the bin.
She swears revenge, then flies full tilt
towards a home more shrewdly built,
and, making sure she can’t be spied,
she tiptoes up to peer inside.
Alas, alack! The wolf’s right there!
He’s napping, bloated, in the chair,
and, in his belly, Mama gapes
at three distinctive piggy shapes.

Well, never mind her grief and dread,
this Mama Pig can keep her head.
She’ll give the wolf a nice surprise.
She dresses in a fine disguise
of furry ears and wolf-like suit.
(You’ve never seen a wolf so cute.)
Then, quickly, Mama paints her trotters,
dons her killer heels, and totters
into view from where Wolf lies.
“Oh what a handsome wolf!” she cries.

The wolf awakes and, with delight,
he sits up gawping at the sight.
Who is this lady wolf so fair,
so glamorous beyond compare?
The dizzy wolf is in a spin
as Mama coyly edges in.
Then, huskily, she murmurs, “What
delightful, twinkling eyes you’ve got!”
The wolf, enraptured, full of bliss,
now blathers, “All the better, Miss,
to gaze at you.” Wolf starts to drool
(while Mama Pig thinks, “What a fool!”).

She sidles up and whispers, “What
fine, dashing, gnashing jaws you’ve got!”
The wolf gasps, “All the better, Miss,
to relish a romantic kiss!”
(But Mama, in the nick of time,
evades the wolf so all the slime
and slobber from his foul embrace
just narrowly avoids her face.)

Then Mama Pig continues, “What
exquisite, silky fur you’ve got.”
But just as she is leaning in,
the wolf spies hairs upon her chin.
Believing she might get found out,
wise Mama doesn’t mess about.
She swiftly grabs her killer heels
and soon her timely deed reveals
three hot, cross piggies, rather squashed.
In time, however, freshly washed,
they all perk up tremendously,
remembering it’s time for tea.

(P.S.
Apparently, one doesn’t need
intelligence or sense. Indeed,
a lack of each is overcome
by having an amazing mum.)

Fiona Calvert, Acomb, York

Mr Wolf’s Letter of Resignation

Dear Mrs Mason,

I hereby resign as a building inspector
and from this point on I won’t be a detector
of faults in new buildings that might end in rubble,
because of my recent three-pig centered trouble.

Three houses popped up on my patch just last week,
so I headed on down to inspect and to speak
to the pigs that had built them, to check they were sound
and that nothing would cause them to fall to the ground.

But when I arrived at the very first build
I knew the creator to be quite unskilled.
A house made of straw! What a terrible plan!
When I huffed in despair it fell flat as a flan.

The pig ran away off to house number
two –
a stick-house that wouldn’t survive one atchoo!
The pigs were unwilling to open the door
and my puff of dismay blew it down to the floor.

The third house was brick and was much better made,
but the pigs had joined forces and formed a blockade.
They would not respond to my shouts or my knocks
(except by the sliding and latching of locks).

The pigs shouted out about hairs on their chins
which confused me but, still, I resolved to get in.
The windows were closed, so I climbed to the roof.
I thought that my plan was entirely fool-proof…

I entered the chimney and slowly climbed down
but I slipped and I tumbled, then practically drowned!
They’d set me a trap, those devilish hogs!
They were boiling up water on flaming hot logs.

I made my escape, back the way that I came,
and decided right there that I won’t play this game.
From now on I will not inspect the foundations
or floors, walls and windows of pig habitations!

To make matters worse the pigs slandered my name,
trying to make out that I was to blame!
As if I had harboured a roguish intent
when I entered the chimney and made my descent!

And so, I am writing now, backside a-throb,
to tell you I simply will not do this job!

(If you need me I’m moving away to the wood,
to a house I’m acquiring from Grandmother Hood.)

Yours sincerely,

Mr Wolf

Fussy Eater

I will not eat your shepherd’s pie
with all the bits mixed in.
If you put it on my plate,
I’ll put it in the bin!

I might consider chips for tea,
but only if they’re thin.
If you give me chunky chips,
I’ll put them in the bin!

You could put pasta on my plate –
an idea that might win.
But if you cover it in sauce,
I’ll put it in the bin!

I’d eat some toast and hot baked beans,
that come out of a tin.
But if the beans go on the toast,
I’ll put them in the bin!

Chocolate cake for pudding though,
is sure to make me grin.
If you give me chocolate cake…

Yeah, I’ll eat that.

Melanie Branton, Weston-super-Mare

Hashtag Horror!

I Instagram my pizza.
I Instagram my chips.
I Instagram each piece of food
I stick between my lips.

I Instagram each carrot.
I Instagram each pea.
I Instagram my breakfast
and I Instagram my tea.

Unless I post a picture
of the contents of my plate
on Instagram and Twitter,
it’s as if I never ate!

Oh! What a lovely photograph!
My dinner looks so yummy!
It’s made me want to Instagram
the inside of my tummy!

If I don’t upload a picture
I’m afraid I’ll be ignored,
so I swallow down my iPhone
(but first I press ‘record’).

I Instagram my stomach.
My iPhone has its uses!
I Instagram things churning
in my own digestive juices.

I Instagram my pizza.
Just watch it swirl and fizz!
(Though now it’s been so liquidised
you can’t tell what it is.)

I think I’ve lost my iPhone.
It’s moving! That’s a fact!
And now it’s going to Instagram
my whole digestive tract!

I left it on vibrate
and now it’s quaking like a jelly
in a mystery location
in the middle of my belly.
It will cost more to replace it
than I really want to spend.
I’ll have to hope my iPhone
will come out the other end!

A Boy Called No One

There is a boy called No One
I often see at school.
I’m very kind to No One,
so No One thinks I’m cool.

When I have a toy or game,
I’m careful, don’t you know,
to always make a point of letting
No One have a go.

I share my sweets with No One
(No One thinks that’s nice)
and when I have a chocolate cake,
No One gets a slice.

No One means a lot to me –
I’ll make that very clear.
I give a gift to No One
on their birthday every year.

No One thinks I’m generous,
on that you can depend.
You will not be surprised to learn
that No One is my friend.

Steve Williams, Appleton Roebuck, York

Something in the Air

Things are not quite right:
We’ve all become aware
That the changing rooms have altered
And there’s something in the air.

We still make too much noise
When we fall out about the game.
We’re still deadly with a towel
And our attitude’s the same.

We can’t stop hiding socks
In the race against the bell;
But the atmosphere’s different;
There’s a grown-up kind of smell.

This distinct and new aroma
Isn’t what I’d call a stench
But it emanates from spray cans
That sit on every bench.

Africa, Excite,
Recover and Deep Black
Seem to be the causes of
This manly scent attack.

Cool Metal, Dark Temptation,
Apollo, Fever, Peace:
Anti-perspirant from the gods,
For skinny or obese.

So now I’m in the Lynx crowd
So I smell less like a vagrant.
My arm-pits are like roses –
And the scrum’s a bit more fragrant.

Joanne Key, Crewe

The Jellagrump

No one believed me
when I said I saw it
waddling all ickyflobble –
a Jellagrump
plodding the streets,
all oozleslick and wobble.

Its body was an Easter egg.
It had two fruity bootlace legs.

No one believed me
when I said I saw
its sherbet eyes
fizzing in the dark,
or that I followed
a trail of caramel slime
all the way to the park.

Its bottom was made of wibbly jelly.
It had a bowl of custard for a belly.

No one believed me
when I said I saw
its frosted doughnut skin,
or that its lips were made
of strawberry jam,
and whiskers made of liquorice
stuck ticklish to its chin.

Its hair was made of chocolate strands.
It had eight melting ice cream hands.

I saw, I saw the Jellagrump.
It had a head like a sugar lump.
You would have seen it too
if it hadn’t gone back to the moon.

What’s behind my back?
Oh, nothing…
just a spoon.

Mary Green, Brighton

Snow and Ice

Snow slips down at night,
unseen,
tiptoes across grass verges,
curls round bicycles.

It slouches against lampposts,
loiters at bus stops, up lanes,
by railway sidings,
and saunters along an icicled alleyway to the park.

There, it sprawls along a disgruntled bench,
feet up,
to admire its new, shiny-white shoes.

Ice calls time.
Stops water. Cracks mirrors.
Sculpts the fountain in the square
to craft a wedding cake draped with tinsel hair.

It shimmies up high-rise blocks,
scrawls riddles on windowpanes,
bedazzles drainpipes,
and turns hawthorn berries into sweets.

Later, it will stride in its crystal dress to the park,
wrap its cape around a disgruntled bench,
and say hello to snow.

June Crebbin, Birstall, Leicester

Grumpy

Here we go again –
wash your hands,
eat with a fork,
sit up nicely,
don’t snatch …

When she first came,
this girl with the raven hair
and the snow-white skin,
I felt as though I was in a dream world.

She cleaned the house,
washed our clothes,
dug the garden,
cooked our meals
and sang
as though she was glad to be alive.

But then, the rules began,
everyday requirements:
make your beds,
fold your clothes,
brush your teeth,
comb your hair,
wash behind your ears …

The others, my brothers,
made me sick.

Bashful followed her around
with a soppy smile,
Doc loved telling her his opinions
on art, books, the State of Affairs,
Sneezy was grateful for a constant supply
of clean handkerchiefs,
Dopey entertained her, making jokes
and singing Silly Songs,
Sleepy just kept nodding off
and Happy …

Happy was so CHEERFUL!
“Heigh ho!” he’d say. “Let’s get to work!”

But the day we came home
and Snow-White
was lying on the floor, lifeless,
I was really cross.
I could have got used to her.

Then, guess what, this Prince arrived,
dressed in purple and gold,
riding a white horse (of course).

Who did he think he was,
prancing in and taking over?

Okay, he did bring her back to life,
But he took her away,
to a palace or castle
I shouldn’t wonder,
to live happily ever after.

Well, that’s not right, is it?

Maeve Henry, Osford

How Daniel Saved the World from Mutant Ants

Emptying your trouser pockets for the wash,
I pull out
six linked paperclips,
an elastic band
frisky as an eel on a trampoline,
the cemented remnant of a chuppa chup,
and tons of tiny stones,
small sharp flints, glinting with purpose.

They’re for the ants. We’re showing them how to make sparks like cavemen did.
First fire, then language, Mum. We are making them evolve!

The Better Bug Club has been meeting
in the playground every break, coaxing ants
to seize the day, and the ants are learning fast.
They reach the Stone Age on Monday afternoon.
At Tuesday break they are smelting.
By Tuesday lunchtime, they are waging war
on towers the height of daisy stalks.
On Wednesday, they have written sonnets,
and by Thursday end of school,
they have split the atom, and made a bomb.

You come home thoughtful. I am thoughtful too.

On Friday, you go to school and I spend the day
glued to the local radio station, listening for news
of a small explosion in the grounds of a primary school,
not many killed.

At three o’clock, I jump in the car and drive.

Everything looks normal outside the gate.
I spot you in the crowd, lunge forward and hold you close.
You made peace with the ants.
What a close call!

Mum, we stamped on them,
and went to play football.

Lorraine Mariner, Greenwich, London

The Diamond Tree

I found my mum in the garden, crying,
and if I didn’t say I felt scared I’d be lying.
She’d been digging a new vegetable plot,
wanted me to help but I said I’d got
homework for Monday (instead
I’d been stretched out on my bed
reading a book of fairytales).
“Please don’t tell dad,” she wailed,
showed me her engagement ring.
The diamond was missing.
“It’s here in the earth,” she hicced,
so, I got down on my knees, started to sift
through the dirt looking for a spark,
but in my hands the earth was dark.
Buying a new diamond was out the question.
Lately, for my parents’, money caused tension.
Everything seemed to need replacing;
the boiler, the car, the cracked crazy paving.
I felt hopeless but fizzing in my head
were the magical tales I’d just read.
“It will be ok mum, you’ll see,
in this spot will grow a diamond tree
and we’ll pick the stones and be rich!”
Did she believe me? She gave me a kiss,
laughed and called me her diamond,
said I was priceless.

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