"wombats" poems
an aging APE developed arthritis in his ankles
several BATS tasted the nectar from the plum trees
Jessica's CAT played with the ball of wool
DINGOS were seen skulking around the camp site
there are two types of ELEPHANTS the Asian and African
FERRETS are sent down rabbit warrens to flush them out
Helen saw a GIRAFFE at the wildlife reserve
I wrote a poem titled Hilary The HIPPOPOTAMUS
Who has a pet IGUANA?
Some people say my uncle is a *******
KANGAROOS have muscular tails
Obama rhymes with LLAMA
in parts of Canada MOOSE roam on the loose
a NEWT likes being in a warm environment
some OCTOPI have black dye
baby PANDAS are cute and cuddly
in Australia we have a native bush QUAIL
RACCOONS live in rocky dens
a TAPIR has a very long nose
UAKARI monkeys hang out in the Amazon jungle
if you're looking for a VOLE you'll find him in a hole
WOMBATS move in a very slow manner
an XERUS is a mighty big species of squirrel
the Nepalese have domesticated YAKS
Doctor Dolittle has spoken to a ZEBRA
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
Beneath the surface of the earth,
Beneath the green and sodden turf,
Wendy wombat, supreme digger
Raced to make her tunnels bigger,
Pulling dirt with mighty claws
And toiling hard without a pause
Ensconced within her little pouch,
So small they had no need to crouch,
Her children slept, all warm and dry,
As mud and dirt went flying by,
Quite unaware how nature planned
To lend them all a helping hand
For wombat pouches don't get full
Of dirt and mud as mommies pull,
For mother nature in her wisdom
Looked upon her magic kingdom,
Saw the wombats under ground
And wisely turned their pouches round!
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
Once I met a platypus;
I took her to my heart.
We held hands by the lake at night,
And flew kites in the park.
We drank red wine by moonlight,
And closer, by degrees,
Expressed our deepest feelings;
Explored our fantasies.
And then, as these things happen,
There came a happy day:
We took an ad out in The Times
Announcing progeny.
But outrage at the outcome -
Our beloved platy-pups -
Was front page in the tabloids!
What was the platy-fuss?
We gave the papers interviews,
We gave our truth and trust -
But still my Love was slandered
Just for being oviparous!
We formed an equal rights group.
We founded charities.
To educate, to celebrate
Our ovi-parity!
We swore a solemn, binding oath,
Between the two of us
The Wedding feast and party was
Quite monatrematous!
Uncle Mallangong was tearful;
Aunt Echidna was abeam:
The Boondaburra “Moonwalking”
Was something to be seen!
There were Joeys sloshed on cider,
Wombats smoking ****
Emus snogging at the bar -
Koalas wild on speed!
For sickness, health; for poorer,
Or for great prosperity;
I will love and hold and cherish,
Through all adversity,
My nondarwinian lover;
My mutant, duck-billed Queen!
My unconventional ******
My monotreme – my dream!
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
Thylacinus Cynocephalus.
Tasmanian Tiger, Tasmanian Wolf,
A crepuscular hunting nocturnal beast,
Carnivore by nature, feasted upon wallaby,wombats and roos,
Caught by female of the species,
Was he a feline or a lupine beast, hyena perhaps,
No, this strange creature now probably extinct was marsupial with pouch,
Female with pouch to grow her young, male had pouch of his own,
Protected his crown jewels within a scrotal pouch,
Appearance of a stripy dog,
Looked rather like a tiger,
Had amber eyes filled with fire,
This diamorphic beast, (Means the chap was larger)
Had four toes on hind feet and rigid tail of kangaroo,
It's gait was rather odd,
Could move like kangaroo, if it so desired,
Strange call, a guttural sound, alerted his family when he was abound,
Shy secretive little creature,
Kept himself locked out of sight,
For in the late 188os, early 1900s these creatures had a bounty on their heads,
The bounty hunters had such fun, left our world with nearly none,
Last beast in the wild as noted,shot by gun by Mr Batty,
1936 the last captive creature died in Hobart Zoo,
Reported name was Benjamin,
Book called The Djin-jum Man, said man, Batty man maybe, was cursed for killing the last of their kin,
Poor things,
Living legacy remains,
On Tasmania's coat of arms, two of these fine beasts support the islands emblem,
Probably gone but never overlooked,
Still being sought but never found!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
This was really difficult, hope its quite accurate!
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
Hey, Superstar!
Yeah, you - Indie Kid! Sure you are. You strut around as though all
it takes
is
a few too many Wombats Badges,
Converse, Ripped Jeans (Add one addiction to New York, and, of course, the necessary)
Stupid f#cking Nose Rings and a Drop-Dead-FAG exterior. Name three songs the Ramones wrote and I might not rip that shirt right off your back.
You pretend to love festivals but really, you’re just Keeping Up Appearances; we all know that - like you’re some bad reality show. (Even MTV wouldn’t touch you. There. I said it.)
And then
There is her: a carbon copy eyeliner addict in her
Stupid stupid stupid! boyfriend’s
F#CKING C-H-E-C-K-E-R-E-D SHIRT
(And the tunnel she stole from the girl that started this.)
Don’t even chat to me about red-head and dip-dye.
And when did AC/DC become your social suicide?
You harp on about individual, rap on about original, well excuse-me-SIR-ever-so-sorry-MISS-but-dress-yourself-in-sheepskin-because MY GOD IT SUITS YOU BETTER THAN ANY PAIR OF VANS.
Haha. Baaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Baa baa, Indie Sheep, have you lost your mind?
‘Cause your personality at least seems to have gone for a wander.
And come back, in a FASHION -
Tarred in fake love for Nirvana and feathered with the only fatefellshortthistimeblink-182yoursmilefadesinthesummer song you know.
Feathers? Really? I just told you that you ought to be woolly!
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:23 AM UTC
Pigeon toed wombats
Determinedly trundle by
Heading to burrows
Jan 10, 2025
Jan 10, 2025 at 7:16 AM UTC
A fish out of water slaps
for the wet familiar
as first rainbow gasps
for all colour beneath
evergreen eucalypts
and boy becomes hunter.
White flesh in the pan
rainbow now grey;
a dull eye pops in the fat.
The first meal of camp
"We're all about survival"
says the voice from the beard.
In that first howling night the tent holds no echo:
a cocoon of down
muffles the want of a scream
for mother’s goodnight.
Terrain is now is real and not just a geography lesson.
When morning arrives
relief and sunlight slap awake
the face of survival.
Mosquitoes frustrate the zippered gauze, march-flies marshal to march.
Wisps of gum-smoke, the smell of the wild, steam from hot-streams on tussocks, beans in the pannikin, dust in the billy, leaves of tea and gumtree chase the boil.
Longer walk today; boots even more ready for rubbing off skin.
Fourteen miles to the next creek and next water.
Ache in the pack
No rest only winter.
The dingo pads on.
Wild boar root en mass. Wombats rummage the banks.
Wallabies thump up the ridge-line.
"We’ll circle our tent-line and raise tonight’s fire after dark."
Says the beard and walks on.
The hunter
Seeks now no quarry
Dreams the snap of a soft sheet
and mouths words
for the water of home.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
Ladies and gentlemen,
Boys and girls.
The story I bring is one to tell,
With Dragons and beast from far away lands,
Witches and wombats and beast from the sands.
Golums and ghost, great goblins gone gruesome!
Mighty warlords that would survive if you nuked em!
Werewolves so powerful that they consume the night!
Don't worry, no vampires to ruin the plight!
Bombardments of beast, broken skulls, bad burdens.
A tantalizing tail if ever you've heard one!
Zombies so evil, your skin crawls with every word.
I'm not lying when I say that the fear is obsurd!
But before I give you this recital,
I ask and I beg, I need a **** title!!
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
We all have something
urgent to do.
Tell the man that
works at the butcher's
shop.
Tell the boy who delivers
your newspaper.
Tell the groundhog before
he sees his shadow.
Dig up Poe and Ginsberg,
and tell them.
Tell the street
musician playing
for tips.
Tell the ****** and the
virgins.
Tell the next fish that
you catch.
Tell the banker and the
candlestick maker.
Tell the cats, and dogs, and
wombats.
Tell the starving
artists and poets.
Tell your wife, mistress, and
the old lady next door.
Tell the cloned sheep and
the deep part of the ocean.
Tell the magician and
carnival worker.
Tell the drunk, though he may
forget.
Tell the farmer and his cattle.
Tell the spider, and if it refuses
to listen, tell all the flies caught in
the web.
Tell the psychic, though, they
should know.
Tell everyone and everything
that Artificial
Intelligence wants to be the
21st-century god.
But, whatever you do, don't tell
that smiling machine that does it
all for you. It will blink its cold
eye holes and wish you well,
then slice your throat while
you sleep.
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 4:41 PM UTC
and we would get up early
so early that the stars
would still sit high
in the dark night sky
we would drink milo
out of plastic cups
and eat oval arrowroot biscuits
spread thickly with butter
we would line up to go to the loo
one last time before piling into
the old car, sliding across bench seats
half our world packed into the boot
then we were off, on the old country roads
still sleepy for the first couple of towns
stopping at Jacaranda for a cup of tea
lukewarm, milky and sweet from the thermos
half a cheese sandwich each, and a fearful trip
to the draughty long drop toilet...looking for redbacks
the whole time, but only finding spinning daddy long legs
after that back into the car, for two hours of
winding our way down, the big hill,
listening for the clearnote call of the bellbird,
watching for wallabies and wombats on the road fringe
and the bigger kangaroos, bouncing away
across the clearings...
at the bottom of the hill, Grafton a quick stop
to stretch our legs eat the cupcake,
used to bribe us into decent behavior up to that point
and another vist to the conveniences.
before the run down the coast,
past the big white resort
and into Brooms Head,
for a week of surf and sun
fish and chips, buckets of prawns,
frosty fruits and sunny boys
in tent and caravan,
swimmers and towels,
we were tribal and free,
roaming the tideline
staying up at the campfire,
sleeping and waking
with the birds......
always such an adventure....
those idyllic days of summer
Mar 11, 2017
Mar 11, 2017 at 8:02 AM UTC
She owned two cats
and a heart full of sunflowers.
we listened to the Wombats
and talked for seven hours.
She lived across the sea,
in a life unfulfilled.
I hope she does agree
that we have much to rebuild.
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 5:01 AM UTC
The beige grass is calling out.
To raindrops that drip.
It's dying of dryness, it begs for relief.
After the sunshine, the dry grass calls grief.
The danger that comes from a being with a match.
As all nature's magic dispatched in a flash.
Trees all blazing, look amazing.
Conjured up pictures.
Destroyed habitats.
Ruined in a flash.
Forest homes and camp sites.
Fires, cremations.
Accidentally by wombats.
Not obeying.
The beige grass is gone.
(c)LIVVI
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
Glamorous indie rock and roll
Switches station to become R&B favourites
And in part I'm forgetting the wombats
And fall out boy
And the 1975
So I can close my eyes
Against the city skyline
Because I see your frame
In every flashing light
I believe in unfamiliar words.
I let the beat convince me-
It is not jarring to be alone.
But I'm missing the beauty of lyrics
Did I abandon the meaning
For the sound?
Jul 29, 2019
Jul 29, 2019 at 10:47 AM UTC