Poem of the Week 47

Song of the Worms

Margaret Atwood


We have been underground too long,

we have done our work,

we are many and one,

we remember when we were human.


We have lived among roots and stones,

we have sung but no one has listened,

we come into the open air

at night only to love


which disgusts the soles of boots,

their leather strict religion.

We know what a boot looks like

when seen from underneath,

we know the philosophy of boots,

their metaphysic of kicks and ladders.

We are afraid of boots

but contemptuous of the foot that needs them.


Soon we will invade like weeds,

everywhere but slowly:

the captive plants will rebel

with us, fences will topple,

brick walls ripple and fall,


there will be no more boots.

Meanwhile we eat dirt

and sleep; we are waiting

under your feet.

When we say Attack

you will hear nothing

at first.


Poem of theWeek 46

The Rainbow

Christina Rossetti


Boats sail on the rivers,

And ships sail on the seas;

But clouds that sail across the sky

Are prettier than these.

There are bridges on the rivers,

As pretty as you please;

But the bow that bridges heaven,

And overtops the trees,

And builds a road from earth to sky,

Is prettier far than these.

Poem of the Week 45

The Word Party

Richard Edwards


Loving words clutch crimson roses,

Rude words sniff and pick their noses,

Sly words come dressed up as foxes,

Short words stand on cardboard boxes,

Common words tell jokes and gabble,

Complicated words play Scrabble,

Swear words stamp around and shout,

Hard words stare each other out,

Foreign words look lost and shrug,

Careless words trip on the rug,

Long words slouch with stooping shoulders,

Code words carry secret folders,

Silly words flick rubber bands,

Hyphenated words hold hands,

Strong words show off, bending metal,

Sweet words call each other ‘petal’,

Small words yawn and suck their thumbs,

Till at last the morning comes.

Kind words give out farewell posies.

Snap! The dictionary closes.

Poem of the Week 44

First Day of the Summer Holiday

Paul Cookson


Time to put the pens to bed

Time to put the books away

Time to hide the uniform

We’re on Summer Holiday!


Time to switch my alarm clock off

Time to sleep and overlay

Time to lock the homework up

We’re on Summer Holiday!


Time to zip my schoolbag up

And in the cupboard let it stay

With my boring shoes for school

We’re on Summer Holiday!


Time for trainers, time for jeans

Time for riding on my bike

Time for football all day long

Time for doing what I like.


Time for camping out in tents

Time for having lots of fun

Time for swimming, time for grinning

Eating ice creams in the sun.


Time for playing hide and seek

Time for climbing high up over trees

Time to rope swing over ditches

Time for scratched and dirty knees.


Time for going out with mates

Time for playing any game

Time for watching videos

All day long if it should rain.


Time for tennis, time for cricket

Time for friends to come and call

Time for doing everything

Or doing nothing much at all.


Time for laughter, time for jokes

Time for fun and time for play

Time to fool so goodbye school!

We’re on summer holiday!

Poem of the Week 43

Bed in Summer

Robert Louis Stevenson


In winter I get up at night

And dress by yellow candle-light.

In summer, quite the other way,

I have to go to bed by day.


I have to go to bed and see

The birds still hopping on the tree,

Or hear the grown-up people’s feet

Still going past me in the street.


And does it not seem hard to you,

When all the sky is clear and blue,

And I should like so much to play,

To have to go to bed by day?

Poem of the Week 41

More Than Enough

Marge Piercy

The first lily of June opens its red mouth.

All over the sand road where we walk

multiflora rose climbs trees cascading

white or pink blossoms, simple, intense

the scene drifting like colored mist.


The arrowhead is spreading its creamy

clumps of flower and the blackberries

are blooming in the thickets. Season of

joy for the bee. The green will never

again be so green, so purely and lushly


new, grass lifting its wheaty seedheads

into the wind. Rich fresh wine

of June, we stagger into you smeared

with pollen, overcome as the turtle

laying her eggs in roadside sand.