Elffin requested a poem about a cat on a rocket ship to Pluto.

The cat food here is terrible

The dog is even worse

And if I stay here, someone

Will be leaving in a hearse



I need to be away from here

As far as I can get

So I wonder: is there anyone

Who’s been to Pluto yet?



I’ve got some friends at NASA

And they’re lending me this craft

They say the plan is genius

Because it sounds so daft!



It has to be top secret

But if someone does find out

“They sent a cat to Pluto”?

Their own sanity they’d doubt!



So I’m travelling to Pluto

I expect I’ll be there soon

I’ve already left the atmosphere

I’m almost at the moon!



It can’t be that much further

And have you ever met

A cat who couldn’t reach a place

That they had aimed to get?

Harry asked for a poem about the differences between computers and nature. I really wanted to write it in JavaScript or something but this proved impossible, not least because I know even less than I thought I did about coding!

“The difference between a computer and nature:”
The answer seems easy enough, in a way.
If they tried to describe them, one after the other,
I’m pretty sure plenty of people would say:

“Nature is outside, computers are inside
Computers are grey, whereas nature is green
If nature is chaos, computers are order.
Nature has life and computers have screens.”

But sometimes computers are based upon nature
On swarms, DNA, evolution. In fact
Computers can help understand, and predict
All the ways something natural is likely to act.

Computers are things that can do calculations
The plastic and metal are only what holds
Electrical signals that carry instructions
That humans put in there by inputting codes.

So brains, in one sense of the word, are computers.
And humans are creatures who learned to use tools
And. one of those tools is a brain made of metal
That knows how to think (within one set of rules).


And we’re not the only example of nature
Which uses inventions to help us succeed.
Some monkeys and birds, and some octopus species
Can make things and use them to get what they need.

So my question is, when does it stop being nature?
I don’t think it does. And that’s why to my shame,
When you ask for a poem that tells you the difference
Between these two things, well, I can’t. They’re the same.

Stanley challenged me to write a poem about a theme park. Stanley likes theme parks considerably more than I do so this took some effort. This is how I imagine Stanley feels about it though.

We’re going out tomorrow
And I really cannot wait
I’ll be getting up at six o clock  –
I don’t want to be late
We will have a bit of breakfast
We will get into the car
And we’ll drive until we get there:
Hope it isn’t very far.

We will go out of the carpark,
And then mum and dad will pay,
Then we’ll go right through the turnstile
And then we’re going to play!
Because there’s rollercoasters, Ferris wheels,
And swings and waterslides
We are going to the theme park!
We will go on all the rides!

There’s a café where there’s coffee
But I’m going to have a shake
And there’s candyfloss and hotdogs
(Mummy says it’s a mistake
To have lots to eat at theme parks –
I’ll regret it later on
But the food there is delicious
So I’m pretty sure she’s wrong.)

There’s a place they call the farmyard
But it’s really like a zoo
They’ve got parrots and flamingos
And some baby meerkats too
But there’s things like goats and chickens
And you get to give them food
And you sometimes see them pooing
Which I think is very rude.

There’s people dressed as animals
There’s people doing tricks
Like making hankies disappear
And juggling with sticks.
There’s people who pick litter up
And guides who point the way
They must all be very happy
At the theme park every day!

There’s a giant rollercoaster,
You can hear the people scream!
Maybe this time I’ll be tall enough…
Oh well, a kid can dream!
But I’m going on the bumper cars
And on the giant swings
And we’ll go again another time
To do the other things.

We’re going out tomorrow
And I really have to say
I am getting quite impatient:
How can it still be today?
I wish that it was bedtime
But the hours just seem to creep
Anyway, I’m so excited
That I’ll never get to sleep!

Alex wanted a poem about a thundercloud shaped like a tiger that comes alive and eats cities.

Cumulus clouds are the little white fluffy ones

Cumulonimbus is tall, and brings storms

Cirrus, high up, is like tiny white feathers

It’s easy to learn all the different forms



Fog is a cloud that is touching the ground

And then contrails are clouds that an aeroplane leaves

Some clouds might look just like cities or dragons

But these are just ways that our eyes can deceive.



But cumulotigris is something quite different

This is a cloud that is also a cat

And if weather conditions bring one to your city

There’s not very much you can do about that.



Cumulotigris, enormous and stripy

Spits great bolts of lightning and blocks out the sun

There are not many photographs of it in textbooks

When meteorologists see one, they run



A hurricane might cause a great deal of damage

But cumulotigris, more dangerous by far

Can swallow up cities in one single bite

If it’s on the horizon, then get in the car.



Sometimes nature is frightening, that’s understandable:

Don’t let anxiety lead to despair:

There is one thing that’s nice about cumulotigris

It is, thank the heavens, incredibly rare.

Joe has asked for a poem about a vampire who is attacked by a banshee who is trying to guard an ancient Egyptian tomb. Your wish is my command, Joe.

(Note: The banshee’s name is Grainne, which actually sounds like “Grun-ya”, so it does SORT of rhyme with thunder even if it might not seem like it)

It is cold in Transylvania
The weather’s getting rainier
The food’s always the same here
I really need a change

From my coffin and my castle:
All the cobwebs are a hassle
You can’t get the serfs and vassals
Anymore. It’s very strange

All the villagers despise me
And their manner is quite icy
Even Igor isn’t nice, he
Likes to mutter “Bat’th have fleath”

What would help? A nice vacation
In a different location
Maybe visit my relation
In the desert, Rameses!

There are not really a lot of us
That sleep in a sarcophagus
The other monsters scoff at us
For living in the past

So I went to see my cousin,
I admit that I was buzzin”
It had been at least a dozen
Decades since I saw him last.

When I reached his desert hideaway
A voice cried “Get out right away!
You nasty, bat-faced biter, stay
Back there, you can’t come in!”

And I saw somebody sitting
On the pyramid and spitting
Angry words at, me emitting
Such an awful, screeching din

Why’s a banshee here in Giza?
What have I done to displease her?
Though I should fly up and seize her
By the neck, instead I say

“I’ve just come here on a visit
And that’s not illegal, is it?
What have I done to elicit
Such a welcome? Go away!”

“I’ve been given my instructions
There must be no interruptions
So don’t come here causing ructions
For your entry here is barred

Rameses does not deserve this
Being bothered makes him nervous!
So I offered him my service
I’m his Irish bodyguard!”

At that point, the earth was shaken
I said “If I’m not mistaken
That’s the sound of him awakening
And honestly, I’m glad.”

As the mummy rose from under,
In a voice like desert thunder
He intoned “For Bast’s sake, Grainne,
Let him in! That’s cousin Vlad!

When I told you “No cold callers”
I meant tourists and explorers
Not our fellow eldritch horrors
But I should have been more clear.

It’s a miscommunication
There’ll be no recriminations!
Vlad, I thank you for your patience
And it’s great to see you here!”

And we laughed all night together
Even Grainne seemed much better
Once I’d promised her I’d get her
Lots of Transylvanian wine

And we’ve planned to go exploring
Staying in one place is boring
So we’ll visit lots of foreign
Parts, and then go back to mine.

Alex was very specific: He asked for a poem about…. A woman bought a glass house and has been living in it for a few years. One day it started filling with water and it looked like it was pouring down from above. Eventually her house was filled to the top with water and she found out that she could breath under it. After months of living like this, she looked up and saw a GIANT HEAD WATCHING OVER HER. She realised that she was a pet fish for giants and that her house was the fish bowl! – Alex

I can’t remember when I first moved in…
I know I wanted air and light and space
And this seemed perfect! Where do I begin?
Clean lines, modern design, it just seemed ace!

But it was… sort of damp. As time went by
I noticed all the water coming in
I would forget, then look up at the sky
And see a giant face, an awful grin

And water pouring down. Is it a sin
To want a house where you are not observed?
Those bright glass walls, designed to let light in
Soon had me feeling naked and unnerved

But I tried to forget, at least ignore it:
A place like this? Away from all the din
Of modern life? A price must be paid for it!
Enormous eyes, constantly staring in:

If I ignore them, well, then it’s win-win!
This little house is just ideal for me.
Forget the awful giants peering in –
I’ve always had a shocking memory!

This… prose poem I guess?… is heavily influenced by Meryn Cadell’s The Sweater. https://youtu.be/JFfy0dMKIi8

It was requested by Amy who wanted a poem about drinking a cream soda that looks like a beer.

Girls, I hope you will understand
How this moment feels.

You have just gone into an American diner themed cafe and ordered a cream soda.

By yourself.

Now you’ve had cream soda before, having read about it in books about American teenagers who you really really want to be

But it came in a big plastic bottle from when you begged your mum to buy some in Tesco and she said well if nobody else likes it you’ll be finishing it because I’m not wasting money on something you’re gonna have one glass of and let it go flat.

It tasted of candy floss and American dreams.

Nobody else liked it.

But you’ve walked past this cafe before and it looks like somewhere that an American girl would meet an American boy for ice-cream and then go to a movie and hold hands and talk about going steady and whether she’d wear his class ring.

And yes, it is next to a Gregg’s but you won’t let that ruin your Judy Blume Beverly Cleary retro teenage fantasy even though you’re not technically a teenager yet and everyone else at school says those books are old and sad.

You don’t have enough money for an ice-cream or a burger or anything
But you saw cream soda on the menu
And it’s more expensive than the big two litre bottle was but you’ve just about got enough to pay and you pretend it’s in quarters and dimes when you hand it over to the woman in the cherries and lipstick 1950s dress you want to own so much you almost cry.

You sit on a stool.
At the counter.
The woman in the amazing dress brings you a bottle and a glass and pops the lid off with a bottle opener and…
The cream soda isn’t cream coloured like you were expecting
It’s a rich golden colour with bubbles like tiny points of light

And the glass bottle it came in is tall and slick with condensation from the old fashioned American style refrigerator which you will not refer to as a fridge.
And the glass is heavy with angles and glinting light
And you carefully pour your expensive brown cream soda into the heavy glass
And all your dreams of sock-hops and drive-ins and going steady suddenly melt away.

This cream soda
Looks like
Beer.

Suddenly you’re not an All American teenage girl hoping to meet your dreamboat boyfriend for a chaste date
You’re a bad kid, a rebel who wears leather jackets and ruby lipstick and a permanent scowl.
You’re sitting alone drinking beer and later you’re probably going to go shoplifting and all the teachers who always call you such a helpful, polite young lady will sigh and shake their heads and say whatever happened to her?
You look out of the window.

Narrow your eyes.
You’re trying for sultry rebellion but the reflection tells you that you just look constipated and confused.
You sip your beer
Your cream soda
It tastes of warm caramel popcorn and hugs from a slightly older boy who sure would like to lend you his letterman jacket
And now that whole fantasy comes flooding back and you kick your legs on the tall stool and laugh and the waitress laughs and says did you know you can spin around on that and you do and you laugh so hard cream soda comes out of your nose and the waitress has to get you a napkin.

And you know that really, you’re not a cool American teenager
And the cream soda which isn’t beer will never make you look like a cool teenage rebel
But in 3 months you’re going to be some kind of teenager anyway and you suddenly realise that you get to decide what kind and you haven’t asked for anything for your birthday yet.
You ask the waitress
Where she got her dress.

This was based on Ben’s request for a poem about how diversity in Pokémon relates to diversity in people.

(I owe a debt of gratitude to Robin and Finn for educating me about Pokémon.)

Here’s what I know about Pokémon.
That there’s a lot.
And they fight. A lot.

It’s not like a bloodthirsty battle
It’s more like a match.
They don’t bite, or scratch

At least, not enough to do damage.
They’re not out to kill
It’s a game of skill.

They have skills. Every Pokémon’s different
That’s kind of their thing
When they’re in the ring.

Here’s what I know about people
There’s really a lot
And they fight. A lot.

Sometimes they compete, and then sometimes
They maim, and they kill
It makes me feel ill

They have skills. Every person is different
But some people say
That is not their way

They don’t like people who are not like them
But how can that be?
It seems odd to me.

If you have a lot of the same
Well then you’re incomplete
And you can’t compete.

Diversity isn’t a flaw,
Any trainer would know:
It’s just how you grow.

Today’s prompt is “A mole who doesn’t like digging or the dark”.

Marjorie Mole
Doesn’t live in a hole:
She is happier out in the sun.

If there’s dirt on her nails
Well, her courage just faiils
So she doesn’t think digging is fun.

Her little heart races
In dark, enclosed spaces
She needs to be in the fresh air

And the other moles say
She should not act that way
But Marjorie just doesn’t care.

They all think it’s absurd
That she’s friends with the birds:
“It’s indecent! It’s crazy! It’s wrong!

You should stay underground
In our tunnels and mounds!
You’re a mole, and that’s where you belong!

Stay with us and eat worms!
What? We haven’t got germs!
Do you think we’re beneath you, or what?

Running round in the light –
Do you think that is right?
‘Cause we’re telling you now: it is not!”

Marjorie Mole
Has an ache in her soul
For her family don’t understand,

And she thinks it’s a shame
That they don’t feel the same
About being on top of the land.

But she’s sure, in the end
Though they can’t comprehend
That there’s nothing she’s likely to change;

It would feel pretty bad
To be normal and sad,
So she’d rather be happy and strange.

Finn wanted a poem about octopuses starting a punk band. Knowing that Finn is a born performer, I included some stage directions.

We’re the octopodes
We’re the punks of the seas
We don’t play by the rules
And we sometimes climb trees

Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi!
Oc! To! Po! Des!

On vocals, there’s ‘Poda
You cannot control her
She’ll escape any tank
That you think’s gonna hold her

(Disturbing tentacle dancing)

Lead guitar is terrific
He’s Giant Pacific
Or G-Pac for short,
If we’re being specific

(Insane tentacle guitar solo)

Meet Blue-Ring, on drums
With their looks set to stun
You can look, but don’t touch
Mess with them, and you’re done.

(Unhinged tentacle drumming)

And there’s Dumbo, on bass
Such a cute little face!
He can play crazy chords
And his rhythm is ace

Oi! Oi! Oi! Oi!
Oc! To! Po! Des!

If you think we’re all talk
Then you’re in for a shock
So come join us right now
For some octopunk rock!