I am getting ready to go away for a few days, and my hand might have accidentally slipped into the biscuit tin due to the stress of packing. Before you know it - a poem popped up too!

The biscuits in the tin, 
Were making quite a din.
Betting who'd be sacked.
Betting who'd be packed.
The Holiday Tub
Was an Exclusive Club.
Bourbons in for sure!
Shortbread gave a roar. 
Hobnobs, not a doubt. 
What with all that clout. 
And as for Custard Cream,
S'all part of the dream.
What about Ginger Nuts?
They don't get many Tuts.
What about Jaffa Cakes?
Nah, they're nowt but Fakes!
And as for Jammie Dodgers,
They're practically the Lodgers. 
Excuse me, said Wagon Wheel. 
I think it's time for a Deal. 
The lid came up.
And up they shut.
As tiny hands came down.
And began to scoot around.

K M Pearce
Nurturing the Roots

Here's a poem I wrote to myself when I was revelling in being a recluse. [I still am, actually]

It isn't too much to say, 
How do you do today?
Or to give a little wink,
To a kid in garish pink.
Or to give a tiny smile,
At a really out there style.
Or to give a small nod.
To a geezer on his tod.
Or to give a mini hug,
To an angry-gentle thug.
Or to give a bijou blink,
To a skater at the rink. 
Or to give a titchy like,
To a poem with a bike [in the picture].

K M Pearce, Nurturing the Roots

So here's a tiny little poem about how most of us probably felt about having to share treats when we were little. 

You can have half-each.
OH.
Inside I would quietly die. 
Half was never enough. 
For a growing girl like me. 


K M Pearce, Nurturing the Roots

I wrote this poem after having watched [admittedly the entirety of] a particularly terrifying crime series, when I had a sudden longing for a binge session of Murder She Wrote and Columbo to feel safe again. As my Scottish Grandmother would have said, 'I do draw the line!'

I liked the crooks and grannies,
From the 70's on the telly,
loveable ruffians most of them,
with brave old ladies,
telling them what's what.
Now it's not the same.
To quote those in the ageing game.
The criminals are cold, stabbing bastards.
Who go too far.
And the grannies.
Well.
They rub their eyes in despair.
Half the time.
Bring back the ruffians.
With loveable hearts.
Will Someone Please?
So we can at least Pretend.
That life really can be good again?

K M Pearce, Nurturing the Roots

A sweet little pudding poem to round off the day nicely. Enjoy!

I pick up a pear.
Salacious curvaceous!
I smile.
And poach some wine.
I pick up a peach. 
Juicy fruity!
I smile.
And pour out some cream.
I pick up an apple.
Crunchy munchy!
I smile.
And mix up some crumble.
I pick up a plum.
Yummy scrummy!
I smile. 
And whisk up some custard.
I pick up a strawberry.
Divine sublime!
I smile.
And make up some tart.
I pick up an orange.
Besty zesty!
I smile.
And grate some chocolate.
I pick up a lemon.
Squeezy teasy!
I smile.
And whip up some meringue.
I pick up my tum.
Jeepers Creepers!
Don't get Diabeaters!

K M Pearce, Nurturing the Roots