Poem of the Week 97

 

 

 

These Are the Hands

– The NHS at 60

Michael Rosen

 

These are the hands

That touch us first

Feel your head

Find the pulse

And make your bed.

 

These are the hands

That tap your back

Test the skin

Hold your arm

Wheel the bin

Change the bulb

Fix the drip

Pour the jug

Replace your hip.

 

These are the hands

That fill the bath

Mop the floor

Flick the switch

Soothe the sore

Burn the swabs

Give us a jab

Throw out sharps

Design the lab.

 

And these are the hands

That stop the leaks

Empty the pan

Wipe the pipes

Carry the can

Clamp the veins

Make the cast

Log the dose

And touch us last.

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Poem of the Week 64

The Book

Michael Rosen

 

 I opened a book

and a hand fell out.

I turned a page

and heard a shout:

‘I’m lost in a wood;

my mother’s no good.’

I couldn’t bear to look

so I closed the book.

 

But the girl called out:

‘Don’t leave me here;

I need you to help me.’

I was cold with fear

so the book stayed shut.

I put it back on the shelf;

put it out of my mind

but then –

it opened itself.

Right there in front of me

it opened up wide

and I heard a voice say,

‘Come inside.’

 

The hand that fell out

jumped back in the book,

the girl inside

gave me a long, cool look

and before I knew it

I was in that wood,

running and running

as fast as I could,

running and running

as fast as I could,

running and running

as fast as I could …

Poem of the Week 02

Where Broccoli Comes From

 Michael Rosen

 

Not many people know

that broccoli grows in the armpits

of very big green men

who live in the forest

and brave broccoli cutters

go deep into the forests

and they creep up on the

very big green men.

They wait for the

very big green men

to fall asleep

and the broccoli cutters

get out their

great big broccoli razors

and they shave the

armpits

of the very big green men.

And that’s where broccoli

comes from.

Not many people know that.

Just thought I’d let you know.