In The Forest; The Alphabet; Mother's Day

I have finally sorted out my Writing folder on my laptop - everything is organized and has its place. All files have been renamed to be consistent grammatically and stylistically. Sad? Well, it beat working! 


This post is going to share some old poems of mine. They're very simple, but they're aimed at children. I was about 14 when I wrote these (according to the 'Document Created' statistic!


This first poem was written with the image of a children's picture book in mind. Simple rhymes and a repetitive, simple rhythm:

In the forest, something stirred,

Was it an animal or was it a bird?

Was it a lizard or was it a snake?

Was it a hippo, strayed from the lake?

Was it a zebra, with stripes black and white?

Or was it a bird preparing for flight?

Was it a gorilla?

Or was it a zorilla?

Was it a monkey climbing the trees?

Or a hyena, scratching his fleas?

Was it a crocodile, sleeping in a bush?

Was it a cheetah, in a terrible rush?

Was it a leopard or a lioness?

What’s in the foliage? Can you guess?

The next poem is called 'The Alphabet'. Not quite sure why I chose the names I did. They just seemed to fit... Enjoy:

Moses challenged Noah to a challenge, rather easy,

But Noah couldn’t really help but feel rather queasy.

To recite the alphabet,

They both put a handsome bet.

Noah started with great ease,

To recite his ABC’s.

But when reached the letter u,

He thought, ‘What comes before w?”

He really struggled with that letter,

Yet Moses felt a whole lot better.

Moses, so happy, giggled in glee,

Whilst Noah remembered the letter was v!

A, B, C, D, E, F, G,

H, I, J, K, LMNOP,

Q, R, S, T,

U and V

W, X and Y and Z.

Moses stood there horrified,

Noah stood there glorified.

Noah had recited the alphabet,

Moses had just lost the bet.

This last poem is in honour of Mothering Sunday. I wrote it for my own Mum a few years ago, and now I'm sharing it on the 'Net! Cue over-emotion induced vomit!!

On your very special day,

I have some things I want to say.

First things first, I really love you.

Second: Thanks for all you do.

Thanks for always being there,

Thanks for always giving me care,

 Thanks for loving me and giving me life,

Thanks for helping me get through my strife.

I could go on and on and on,

But then the time would have gone.

So today on Mothering Sunday,

Just relax! It should be a Fun Day!

Hidden Treasure

Hello Followers! I lived in Kenya from when I was 13 to when I was 14, and so completed my IGCSEs [International General Certificate of Secondary Education] whilst out there. This is a piece from a practice question we were given in English Language - the stimulus being 'Hidden Treasure'. I got 20/25 for it.


Lord Jack Stevenson was an elderly man. He was rich and powerful with four children - 3 charmingly handsome boys and a beautifully clever girl - and a wonderfully big mansion. He had servants and gardeners, all providing heavily for him. He had everything he could have dreamt for. Well, not quite everything.
He was losing his memory. Slowly, but surely, poor Jack Stevenson, with two villas in Italy and a yacht in France, was forgetting his life.

Jack had lived a very comfortable life. Born into a rich family and a student of Eton, the finest boys' school in England, he had everything he wanted in ample supply. He had never been frightened. He was always able to buy off kidnappers and bullies, but now. Now, for the first time in his life, Lord Jack Stevenson, with a species of lily and a star named after him, was afraid.

It increased dramatically at the funeral of his third wife, Rebecca. He had sat solitarily on a bench and tried to remember his wedding to her. He couldn't. He remembered his tuxedo and the Rolls Royce they had started their honeymoon in, but he could not recall the service, the dress, the bride. The morning after the funeral, as he awoke in his goose-feathered-duvet and king-size four-poster bed, he looked at a photo of Rebecca and was astonished not to recognise her at first sight. Lord Jack Stevenson was forgetting.

Now, he sat on his luxurious white leather settee in his extravagant lounge, straining his memory. He had voluntarily paid for operations on his heart, his knees. In fact, most of his body could be linked to a handsomely-paid doctor. But his brain... his memory... that was something he could never get back. No operation could ever help him remember.

It had been four years since the funeral and gradually more and more of Lord Jack Stevenson's life had slipped from his mind. He was now remembering the same memory over and over again.

Peter Stevenson was the youngest son and child of Jack and Rebecca. He was used to seeing his much older siblings marry and have children, but after a few years it began to bother him. Four days after his eighteenth birthday he approached his parents. "Mum, Dad. This may come as a bit of a shock to you, but I want to get married." There was a stunned silence.
     "Wow. That's great, darling," Rebecca started, "but don't you think you're a bit young?"
     "Michael was only twenty when he got married to Sarah."
     "And he got divorced four months later," Jack finished. "You are only eighteen. You don't know what love is."
     "I'll learn from experience then. You had plenty of divorces until you met Mum."
     "I don't want you to make the same mistakes."
     "No! It's becase you don't want me to be happy!"
     "Darling, you know that we both want the best for you. We just want you to think before you rush in."
     "Give me a break!"
     "Don't talk to your mother like that!"
     "Look, if you don't want me to get married, that is your problem. But I can legally wed someone now without your permission."
     "You won't do this Peter. I forbid you to!"
     "You can't. You have no power over me anymore. I'll see you around."


Jack could remember calling his son's name over and over again. He could vaguely hear the door slam. And that was it. That was the last Jack had seen of his son. Fourteen years ago his son had vanished from his life. Fourteen years ago, his memory had begun to disappear.

Lord Jack Stevenson wept. He wept tears for his son. Tears for his wife. Tears for his memory. His long-lost memory. Was there any hope for him? Jack doubted it greatly.

He called his house-keeper, Marie, to make him a cup of coffee. De-caf, of course. He didn't want to be up all night! He grabbed a cushion and held it close to him, as though he were a child clutching a blanket. The doorbell rang. "Strauss?" Jack croaked for his doorman. No reply. Of course, it was his day off. Damn Saturdays.

Jack got up and slowly paced down the hallway. He opened the door and looked at his visitor. He fell to his knees and sobbed. Peter Stevenson bent down, picked up his father and embraced him. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry. Daphne left me. You were right. Please forgive me." He pulled Jack in close to him, and Jack remembered.

Rebecca had looked like an angel as she glided down the aisle. Her fair skin was as dainty as the flowers that decorated the church. She was a daisy, a rose, a lily. She was beautiful and pure.

Peter, unknowingly, had helped his father, Jack Stevenson, a man just like any other, to recover his memory - the only thing left in his life to treasure, save for his four wonderful children.