I threw a pair of socks away today,
an old Fathers' Day present,
with a design of a comical animal
and "You're the best Dad".
But they were old, the socks,
certainly over ten years,
and though I hadn't worn them much,
the years take their toll on the fabric.
Only an old pair of socks
with a big hole in the heel,
but another link to the daughter
who died ten years ago,
and the love she gave.

This small green bear,
your name embroidered on its chest,
was never yours. It would have been
our Christmas gift to you,
had you lived a month longer.
The ones you would give
you had already bought,
wrapped, labelled -
thoughtful, organised
to the end,
to the bitter end.
We unwrapped them on the day,
smiled at your kindness,
wept at our loss.

Early Christmas gifts
that you had not organised,
that nobody could have anticipated,
went to strangers: your pancreas,
a life free from daily injections;
your kidneys, two lives free from dialysis;
your liver, divided, to a young girl
and an older lady, who would
quite simply have a life
they had almost given up hoping for.
Your heart, damaged by extended life-support,
not suitable for transplantation,
yielded its valves
to repair the damaged hearts of others.
Even bone and skin were harvested
for people you never knew.
That Christmas you gave hope
to so many people,
and to us the consolation
that they live on because of you,
and that you live on in them.

A hundred people, having known our girl,
who knew her love, and loved her in return,
came to her funeral, and there were others,
too distant, too fragile,
or too old to understand,
who would have come as well.
You were not with us, families and friends,
to see her coffin go stately to the fire;
you were not there to see us spread her ashes
on hillside and seashore, say a last goodbye.
But you, who never knew of her in life,
you also wept when you heard of her sudden death
from haemorrhage in the brain,
aged thirty-six and pregnant,
as if the facts,
the words alone, were tragic. You were touched
by the death of one whom you had never known.
You shared our loss.

These were written by 8-year-old kids in a class I used to teach. They are simply syllable-counted  - 1 2 3 4 5 4 3 2 1 - and don't have the extra requirements of so-called "diamante" poems.  You will notice that the line breaks are all in natural places, and don't split phrases.

- - THE RACE - -
          Here
        we are
      on the line
    ready to run.
Starter lifts his gun
    high in the air -
    On your marks…
        Get set…
         Bang!

RUNNING A BATH
           Put
        the plug
      in the hole;
    turn on the tap.
Cold water in first,
   hot water next.
      It's ready.
     Now jump
            in.

~ ~ (on front of envelope)

La lettre que voici, ô bon facteur,
Portez-la jusqu'à la ville de NICE,
Aux ALPES-MARITIMES (06).
Donnez-la, s'il vous plaît, au Receveur

Des Postes, au bureau de NOTRE DAME.
(Son nom? C'est MONSIEUR LUCIEN COQUELLE.
Faut-il vraiment que je vous le rappelle?)
Cette lettre est pour lui et pour sa femme.

I won't lead English postmen such a dance;
Just speed this letter on its way to FRANCE.
Sender's address you'll find on the reverse.

~ ~ (and on the back)*

At Number 7 in St Swithun's Road,
Kennington, Oxford, there is the abode
Of me, Paul Hansford, writer of this verse.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -
For non-speakers of French, the first bit goes approximately -
"Dear Postman, Please take this letter to the town of Nice, in the département of Alpes-Maritimes, and give it to the postmaster at the Notre-Dame office. (His name? It's Lucien Coquelle. Do I really need to remind you?) This letter is for him and his wife."

These two poems came from an exercise we were given in my Poetry Workshop group.  We were given five words (I don't remember how they were selected) and had to work all five into each of two stanzas.  The words were plain / shadow / mountain / light / glass.

1/
The lengthening shadow of the mountain
stretches across the plain.
The last sunlight reflects on the lake like glass.

I drain my glass.
The shadow of death looms over me like a mountain.
My future is plain. I move towards the light.

2/
Peering through my magic glass,
lights and shadows play again,
tuppence coloured, penny plain.
Explorers cross the mountain pass.

Over valley, over mountain,
sunlight now breaks out again.
What was shadowed now is plain,
like drops of glass the tinkling fountain.