OUR POETRY

Taranaki Daily News, 13 September 1940, Page 10

OUR POETRY

DUCKS. (Sent by Jocelyn Sampson.) Oh. it's hard for a duck, Yes, it's very bad luck . When the ponds in the park all freeze; And it's not very nice To sit down on the ice In case they catch cold in their knees! And the others would chaff, And would certainly laugh, If they slipped on their bills. what is more; So they just stand and wait, Giving in to their fate, But they pray and they pray for a thaw! JUST SUPPOSE ! (Sent by Dolly Charlcton.) If I were the parrot, and Polly were me, I wonder how everything really would be? Would Poll teach me English with patience and care? Would i be so disgraceful as sometimes to swear? Would I greet everybody who came into view With "Poll wants a cracker," or "How do you do?" Oh, bless my green feathers, how funny 'twould be If I were the parrot, and Polly were me! FLY AWAY KITE. (Sent by Marie Duffy.) Fly away, kite, So gay and bright, Up and away— right into the blue, The wind is tugging and lifting you. This way and that way. You climb and sail, Twirling and curling Your twisty tail. Fly away kite, So gay and bright. Up and away— right into the blue, Oh how I wish that I were you. THE BEE (Sent by Beris Jonas.) Humble bee, Bumble bee, Why do you grumble so. Fussing and buzzing so loud As you come and go? Humble bee, Bumble bee, What are you working at, Zooming and booming so loud, Round about my hat? NATURE'S QUEENS. (Original. By Kathleen Martin.) Summer. She wears a crown of golden flowers, She brings the rain in silvery showers. The happy birds upon the wing Each have a joyous song to sing. Her dress is made of sunbeams bright, Upon her feet are slippers white. She smiles, and all the world is gay; But, suddenly, she slips away! Autumn. Her face is smiling, bright and gay, She ripens fruit upon her way, She paints, and leaves a rainbow world Of scarlet tones, dark brown and gold; And then her playful winds she calls To make each leaf dance as it falls; Then, finishing her work one day, She softly, swiftly slips away.

Winter. Her dress made of glistening snow, At her command each tree bends low, In her chariot she flies, She calls the clouds to hide the skies. To mark tKe trail of her flight She leaves a sparkling sheet of white. She carries on her work each day But lo! She too has gone her way. Spring. She is the sweetest, dearest queen, The most beautiful lady ever seen. The world again is bright and gay, The frisky lambs in sunshine play, The birds are singing- once again, She sends the plants the soft spring rain. Then stately Summer takes her place And away she flies in all her grace. THE POSTMAN. (Sent by Margaret Martin.) The Postman is a busy man, Collecting letters in his van To catch the evening mail. He takes them to the G.P.O. They're stamped and sorted as they go By road, or plane, or rail. Next day we hear his cheery knock; He always comes at eight o'clock, He's never known to fail.