‘Dear Rabbit,’ said Alice trying hard not to smile, ‘You think you’re so cunning, full of wit and of wile.
 
When making a move you think is a winner your feet lightly tap, your lips become thinner.
 
You think you distract me by reaching for cream whilst sneakily swapping a pawn for a queen.’
 
‘How dare you!’ cried Rabbit, looking quite shocked. ‘I always play straight. And you’ve just been blocked.’
 
With a chuckle, a snort and a cheeky, wry grin he poured himself tea with a dash of pink gin.
 
While Rabbit was gabbling and looking away, Alice had made her own swift, sassy play.
 
‘I believe I have won.’ She leaned back on her chair. ‘I hope that will teach you to always play fair.’
 
‘What’s happening here?’ Came an ear-piercing scream. ‘Oh no,’ they both chorused. ‘Here comes the Queen!’
 
A sweep of her staff sent all pieces flying. ‘I wasn’t invited? How rude! No denying
 
that you have to pay. Now hear my decree,  it’s orff with your heads and checkmate to me!’

This entry made it to the Lighthouse Arts Exhibition to accompany the beautiful artwork by Linda Lunnon.

This was written in response to the image prompt below and posted on the
​Australian Children's Poetry website. 

Ladies and gentlemen please take your seats, for soon you will hear music mellow and sweet.
 
A band of three brothers whose sound is well known, on vocals, guitar and smooth saxophone.
 
They’ve played their soul music all over the sands, and gained a huge mob of adoring jazz fans.
 
Many have gathered to hear Michael croon, including hyenas and blues mad baboons.
 
The same for young Larkin whose skill on guitar, has hogs and hares smitten from towns near and far.
 
And then there is Charlie. His alto sax tunes cause gemsboks and cheetahs to sway and to swoon.
 
Hush now and listen on this moonlit night, to sounds I am sure will thrill and delight,
 
as three jazzy brothers get ready to play, until the dawn comes to herald the day!

This is a new poem written about an encounter between myself and a fox on a cold snowy night in Lausanne. It was magical seeing this beautiful animal watching me by the light of a city street lamp. 

I am a small boy that much is true They say I’m mischievous. Do you think so too?
A mischievous boy - am I really or not? What does the word mean? I hear it A LOT!
This very big word that some people say. It’s one that I hear almost every day,
whenever I go to climb up a tree to try and search for that fat bumblebee,
or go to the garden to find a green frog who’s ribbeting, robbeting under a log.
‘He’s up to something’, says my sister. Then Mum says ‘Now just remember mister,
DO NOT put that bumblebee onto a spoon and shoot with your slingshot the bee to the moon,
for though you may think he knows how to fly  he’s not really built to fly up so high.’
‘DO NOT bring the frog from outside to in to stare at me out of the biscuit tin,
for though you may think he likes TimTams the best, he really likes flies and insects and pests.’
And while both my mother and sister stare, I shake my head, ‘No never – I swear!’
I don't understand how they would think I’d do such strange things. I stand and blink,
with eyes all wide and innocent, then, I find in my pocket my ballpoint pen,
and decide then and there that I should write, what a good boy I am. That I'd NEVER invite
a frog to come into my mum's biscuit tin to eat all the Timtams – who’d do such a thing!
I NEVER would try to shoot to the moon that fat bumblebee with a slingshot and spoon!
I look from my note as I finish and see my mother and sister smiling at me.
“He's got that mischievous look in his eye”, they say as they wink at each other and sigh.
Later that night as I go to my sleep, I keep one eye open and see mother peep
her head round my door and blow me a kiss. ‘Sleep well and sweet dreams and always know this -
you are much loved and bring us such joy, and really you are a good little boy’.
I am a small boy - that much you knew. I’m a little mischievous. Yes that is true!
But one thing I know I will never feel blue, because I'm much loved and I hope you are too! ​

One partridge in a pear tree is a lonesome sight to see,
and though the bird can fly away he sits and stares at me.
He watches as I sing about the twelve fine days to come
but as the song continues, the sadder he becomes.
 
He twists his head from side to side, blinking small black eyes.
Then he chirps, ‘Don’t sing that song. Please don’t make me cry!’
He ruffles bright red feathers from his head down to his toes,
pruning each one carefully, tweeting as he goes.
 
Once he’s done he stands up straight and sighs a mournful sigh.
His beak begins to quiver and a tear forms in his eye.
He starts to tell a tale that’s full of misery and woe,
of sorrow and of heartbreak, as he paces to and fro.
 
‘You’ve no idea how hard it is to see the doves and hens
all kissing and canoodling. It seems to never end!
Then there are the calling birds, the geese and all the swans!
They prance and swim and lay their eggs and proudly sing that song.
 
And do not get me started on the lords and maids and ladies
The pipers and the drummers wake up all the sleeping babies!’
I listen as he tells me of his wish for just one thing -
to find another partridge who will make his sad heart sing.
​
I ask him to come closer, wipe away his tear and say,
‘No need to be alone for look who flew in yesterday!’
He turns his head to where I point, his eyes full of surprise.
His little heart now bursts with hope and to her side he flies.
 
He hops a little closer, pecks her gently with his beak.
She fluffs her wings and then she lays her head upon his cheek.
Together with their heads entwined, the future’s bright and fair.
No longer lonely but instead a perfect partridge pair!

In response to the Australian Children's Poetry picture prompt #4