So today I was sorting out all my worldly possessions, at least I was supposed to be…
Then I found my little tub of air dry clay, and, well, now I have a little roughly-put-together cat.
After all, those are my favourite types of cats.
What do you think, should I paint him to make a realistic cat or leave as is?
Herein is a poem that I wrote as Augustus The Fish, go check it out! Keep in mind that it’s Augustus’s very first poem, so he probably needs a lot of encouragement! 😂
For any that don’t know, Augustus is my alter ego. I write as Augustus The Fish on the blog What a Fish Thinks for my job at the Age of Fishes Museum. Augustus is a cantankerous fish who is secretly lovely underneath it all, and who cares a lot about how humans treat fish. He would love your support!
I have never written a poem before. Cecily, unfortunately, has written thousands, and has been pestering me to let her post one. I refused. Instead I decided to write my own poem, which adheres to …
Source: Augustus Writes a Poem!
It’s been a month! So hello!
Here in Australia it’s getting on towards summer again, my favourite season! And I found this little description I wrote a year or so ago and thought it fitting to share. 😊
ALSO for anyone who read my story of the spread of Paterson’s Curse in Australia you will be either annoyed or happy to know that there is even more of it this year! It may be a pest but paddocks full of purple flowers are still beautiful 😆
Summer creeps up slowly. First the winter days seem more mellow, the wind blows less harshly, the sun blesses the land more often.
Then warmth drifts in for a day or two here and there, the trees and plants eagerly bud and bloom, hasty to catch summer. But it’s much too soon for them, the cold and the warmth proceed to play a game of catch-me-if-you-can, here now, caught again, chased back, peeking round that tree.
You can almost hear summer laughing as the merry pair run and chase each other. The paddocks start to turn bright yellow and deep green, rain falls overnight, flowers float out of the air, coming to rest in the welcoming soil, birds build nests, start families and carol unceasingly.
Then one day you turn around and the yellow paddocks have faded, the chase stops and warmth is the new crowned king. He has conquered the cold and now settles in for a long and peaceful summer.
The trees settle their roots in the warming soil, their happy leaves sheltering noisy cicadas and birds flying to and fro, busy feeding their babies. The air is rich in tiny insects. The warmth reaches clear to the bone. Every house has a sprinkler for the kids to play in.
This happy state continues until winter’s cold grows strong in its long exile and comes again to contest summer’s king.
But that, is another story.
In other news I’m currently reading Go Set a Watchman, the sort of sequel of To Kill a Mocking Bird that has sparked outrage in some parties and mixed feelings in others. Have you read it? What are your opinions of it?
My mum was struck by lightning but I was never scared of storms,
Although everybody seems to love the breeze that summer warms.
I always had a dream, that I would learn to fly,
With thunder above my shoulder and lightning in the sky.
I beg the storm to take me up into the gold and grey,
The wind sings to me so sweetly, till I start to turn away.
I shall walk home through the olive groves and weep, for I’m down here,
While above thunder and lightning dance, there’s not a chance that they can hear.
Fun fact: my mum really was struck by lightning! Indirectly of course, which is why she survived, with a pretty cool story!
Also, summer or winter? In this poem I seem to be leaning towards winter but in actuality I love summer best. Which are you?
Spasmodic drops of rain delight the kookaburras mood,
Their laughter wakes the earth sodden and subdued.
A raindrop for a question, another pounding ‘why?’,
Softly when it’s pestering, a small wind for a sigh.
From deep and murky stars, rain falls like confetti,
Like a long line of laughing questions running down to the sea.
I’ve caught spring fever from the bees around my head,
Leaving pollen footprints wherever they happen to tread.
Spring fever explains a lack of poeming well enough I think.