Great question about cartography here from Tobias. If anyone knows the literal correct answer, please let us know in the comments. However, this is my take on it.

Perhaps they draw the maps

When it is low tide…

But then someone could come

Along and say

“I’ll build my houses here

Right by the water”

And soon,

All that he built

Would wash

Away.

And so perhaps

They draw the maps

At high tide… 

But then someone

Might look at them,

Decide:

“I’ll put my anchor down

And leave my boat here”

And then be stranded

By the falling tide.

The places and the people

That exist here,

Between 

The this 

and that

The land 

And sea.

Can never quite be fully

Mapped or captured:

The inexplicable

Are truly free.

Day 3’s poem answers a question about dragons from Indy.

Dragons are as nice 

As mean

As frantic

As serene

As we can be.

Don’t let 

Their fiery breath

Their scaly skin

Their golden hoard

Their toothy grin

Deceive you.

Each dragon is an individual

The best that we can be

A dragon can be too.

The worst that we can be…

Well those ones are the dragons in the lairs

The ones

We always knew.

So if we want our dragons to be nice

We have to be nice too.

Continuing my series of poems answering questions asked by children.

I’m happy to take questions that people who are currently adults asked as children, although corroboration from a parent is appreciated.

In this case, the question was relayed to me by Shonaleigh, but was actually asked well over a decade ago by her son, Izz. I am glad to lay this long-standing mystery to rest.

All bears go barefoot in the woods.

If you had bear feet, you would too:

With fur, and soles as tough as boots,

And big sharp claws, who needs a shoe?

Your feet are soft; you have no claws

So socks and shoes you’d better wear

Do not go barefoot out of doors

(Unless, of course, you are a bear.)

So, here we go again.
This year, poems for kids, based on questions asked by kids.

I’m hoping to develop my writing-for-children voice, so not so much smut and politics this year. Possibly. Possibly more, who knows?

If your kid asks you a funny or profound or mundane or just plain daft question, please do let me know in comments and I will try and make a poem out of it.
Today’s poem is for Finn, who asked “Is fruit the poop of trees?”

You know about poop 

– That it’s not good to eat

(Unless you’re a bug 

Who likes that sort of treat)

You know about fruit 

And you know it tastes yummy

You wouldn’t put poop

From a tree in your tummy!

So fruit isn’t tree poop.

It’s… can you guess, maybe?

Well, fruit is the way

That a tree has a baby!

But trees don’t have babies

Like Mommy had you

They need help from the bees

And the animals, too:

The tree makes some flowers

That smell very sweet

And bees buzz around

To find something to eat

•  

And from flower to flower

A thousand bees swarm

And the pollen gets mixed

And a new tree is born

But it’s only a seed

And it’s stuck to the twig!

So the tree wraps it up

And it starts to get big.

Some trees make apples 

And some trees make peaches 

But what is important

Is who the fruit reaches.

Maybe a horse 

finds an apple to munch

Or a robin has 24 

cherries for lunch

•  

Or a kid just like you 

eats a plum or a pear

But each fruit has a seed

With a new tree in there

If the seed is too big

We can throw it away 

But some animals eat them

And that is ok

And the seed or the stone

Or the pit or the nut

Goes right through the body

And out of the butt!

We poop in the toilet

Where no trees are found

But an animal’s poop

Tends to land on the ground

And it’s soft and it’s warm

(When a poop first comes out)

Just right for a seed

To get ready to sprout!

So is fruit poop from trees?

Well, the answer is no;

But an animal’s poop

Can help baby trees grow!

A landlocked, river-ribboned, mermaid girl.
Our tiny pirate princess, Sheffield pearl.

You’ve joined a sparkle-hearted family

I cannot wait to know who you will be.

The dragging of the dead name

Through any muck that stuck in life

To the dead man’s dancing shoes

Is part of the ritual now.

Trayvon Martin smoked weed

Mike Brown jay walked

Tamir Rice looked older than he was.

Than he’d ever be.

And now, Mzee
The police said he was violent

Had a knife.

They brought up the ASBO he’d tried to move on from 

But  I believe the story his mum told

Of a gentle giant

A big brother-bear

And  my question remains;

Why couldn’t Mzee be a naughty boy sometimes?

Up to no good,

Pushing boundaries 

Like any teenage boy would ?

Trying his best in a tough life

Why couldn’t he make some mistakes?

Why do we do this again and again?

Why does a young black boy have to be an angel

Just to justify our pain?

And what could any “naughty boy” 

Any rebel teen

Any mixed up kid

possibly do

To deserve death 

At the hands of the law?

And why do we keep on pretending
The system is sane?

For a certain Labour leadership candidate with ties to Pfizer.

I’m a normal man

With a normal life

And my normal kids

And my normal wife
I get paid a lot

By a pharma giant 

And the monthly cheques

Keep me quite compliant.
I’ve a normal house

On a normal street 

And normal shoes 

On my normal feet
I’m not gay and female

I’m not too old

I’m a normal man

Doing as I’m told
In a normal car

At a normal speed 

With my normal pride

And my normal greed 
I’m a normal man

And I spell distress

For the welfare state

And the NHS
I’m a normal man

With a normal wife.

You can say goodbye

To your normal life.

It’s not enough to admire her:

The way she stands there, 

Grace under fire,

Her skirt moving  

in the breeze

The air displaced as 

Armed guards charge her,

The calmness in her face.

It’s not enough to share it

This image of resistance 

Over and over

Though you swear it’s

Solidarity, the fact you care.

To click link, hit like

And feel that you’ve already done what’s right

Is not to share in her fight

But in her foes’ disgrace.

It’s not enough to write

This poem.

Make this conversation 

About us and our whiteness

again,

Again,

Again.

The least that we can do

Is stand with her.

The least that we can do

Is say her name.

I went on hiatus because I was really depressed about everything in the news. However it doesn’t seem to be getting better and I want to get finished.
Theresa May

But I hope she won’t.

Theresa Will

Though we all cry “Don’t!”

Theresa Is

Though it must be noted

Theresa Won

But nobody voted

From our past mistakes 

We have never learnt

Now our foot is shot

And our bridges burnt 

Will we lose our fight?

Well I just can’t say.

Will they take our rights?

Well, Theresa May

This is for Rachel Bower.

–

Sometimes you meet someone

So utterly nice

You kind of want to believe 

That it’s a trick

That nobody could be

So utterly nice

And yet there they are

Defying this cruel world 

By being

So utterly nice.

And when they are attacked

For being

So utterly nice

You find that you were always afraid

Of being

So utterly nice

In case someone objected

To you being

So utterly nice

And simultaneously

You want to be just

As utterly nice

And also

You want to fight.