Anzac Day Poem

Anzac Day Sydney 2021

Years ago, in Gallipoli,

Young men fought for you and me.

Digging their trenches, and living it rough,

It’s the least to say that conditions were tough.

But on they fought, body’s weary,

Life didn’t seem very cheery.

But when the war was over at last,

Something happened, quite a contrast.

On Flanders field which was dotted with graves,

Flowers grew, pure shock they gave.

Scarlett poppies the land yields,

Inspiring the poem, ‘In Flanders Field.’

Original Photography #5

Through the Trees

Photo #5


Shiny, crackling foil sits, protecting luscious hunks of chocolate.

Bunnies peer from tables, while little sweet and sticky eggs peek out from nooks and crannies.

They wait and wait, until the moment comes when a chubby hand reaches out and plucks them from their hiding spot.

Noise erupts as children (and adults😊) shout with glee at their discovery.

Glistening wrappers are removed, their inside treat being popped into ready mouths.

Oozing, melted chocolate spreads over delighted tounges, making them tingle with the rich and diverse flavours.

When the chocolate is all dissolved, the consumers are left with the joyful aftertaste, beckoning them to indulge just a little more……

Hello everyone and HAPPY EASTER!!!


Tell me I’m not the only one that feels a bit giddy inside when Easter rolls around (especially when my fridge is stocked with chocolate:). It’s such a lovely event that always flares up my inner child, and flares up my ability to gorge on chocolate without ever seeming full😉. Well, I do seem to get full when my chocolate supply is running low. Surely we’ve all been there before; spread out across the couch, one leg dangling off it while your arm lazes about with melted chocolate on your fingers. I’ve had a wonderful Easter, and I hope you have one too. If you like, write your funniest Easter moment in the comments below. I would love to hear from you!



Hey everyone!

Normally, I don’t base posts on myself, but I would really appreciate your advice on something. As you know, I’m a blogger, and writing is my way of expressing emotions that can say locked up like gems in a safe. But lately, I’ve been struggling to produce any posts that really satisfied me or any that continue to spark my creativity. It seems that everything I jot down is fake. It doesn’t come from the heart, it’s coming from the mind. My emotions feel bottled up, like when you shake sparkling water quite aggressively and then refuse to open the lid! The bubbles keep trying, fizzing and hissing, determined to escape; just like how my emotions are trying to burst out of their bottle. Have you ever gone through this before? Do you have any tips or tricks that might help me? If so, please write them down in the comments below. I would love to hear from you!

Thanks for all your support,


Original Photography #4


Photo #4



Time slips by like sand through my fingers;

I desperately try to stop the grains leaving, my scrabbling fingers reaching out, until I know it’s too late.

Moments come and go, leaving me with only seconds to figure out my next steps.

I tread gently, careful not to wake the minutes that already leave briskly.

So much time, yet so little.

The grains dance, darting in and out in and out, oblivious to the fact that every turn they take whips a minute, a second, out of my grasp.

The dance continues, twisting, turning, shifting, yearning, until all I have left is one grain.

A grain.

A grain of time.

A second to think.

How to… Write a Tanka Poem!

Tanks Poem Examples

A tanka poem is a kind of Japanese poetry that follows a simple syllable method. 🗒Tanka poems are similar to haiku poems, but they are a bit different. For example, tanka poems have 5 lines, while haiku’s only have three. In this post, I will be explaining how to write a tanka poem, and hopefully, (if you don’t already know), a new kind of poetry will be introduced to you!😊


Unlike other kinds of poetry, such as limericks, tanka poems do not need to rhyme. 🙂They follow a series of lines and syllables. Tanka poems have 5 lines, and on each line is a specific number of syllables you should have. The syllable pattern is this: 5 7 5 7 7. The first line has 5 syllables, the second line has 7, the third has 5, the fourth has 7, and the fifth has 7.


Trial and error is needed in tanka poems (so I’ve found😀). When you finish writing a line, make sure to go back over it and check if you have the right amount of syllables. You may find that you’ll have to tweak it a bit, but in my opinion, that’s all part of the fun!


Now your ready to start writing tanka poems! Just in case your still a little stuck, here are some examples of ones I wrote.😆

Teetering on edge,

Spellbound by the melody,

Can’t think strait or see,

Wondering what way is up,

Before I slip and let go.

Flowers dotting fields,

Summer breeze enticing me,

It’s warm and gentle,

Bee’s buzz by, their busy and free,

My eyes close so I can dream.

Original Photography #3

Hibiscus Photo #3


Ugly Beautiful Cute




My reflection ripples, teasing me.

I bite my already bitten lip, as my chin quivers.

My eyes dart.

I take in what’s on the surface of my mirror.

My frizzy, untamed hair.

My squinting eyes placed smack bang on my way-too-round face.

My fatty thighs standing next to each other like two, enourmous pork sausages.

My pasty completion.

And my tummy that resembles a beach ball which has been blown up far more than needed.

My chubby hand reaches out to touch the woeful image before me.

I recoil, becoming angry at myself.


Why was it me that looked like this?

Could it be?

Surely not.

Maybe this was some fantasy dream, where I would wake up, drenched in sweat, and then remember I’m beautiful.

I would stroke my silky hair, admire my slender figure, and grin, knowing I looked a million dollars.

But no.

I realise that I’ll just wake up, remember how I look, pat my unruly head of hair, hate my self, and cry, knowing I looked five cents; not a million dollars.

It was true.

I’m, I’m,


The word that held sadness in the way that I held hatred towards myself.

I looked back at my self.




I throw myself onto my bed that growns under my shocking weight.

Instinctively, I reach into my pocket for my phone, and start flipping through social media.

All I see is people.

Pretty people.

Beautiful people.

My eyes ache, taking it all in, when, stop.

My finger hovers over a picture.

I press down hard.

A model.

The picture is of a model.

Not a model whose legs and arms could be mistook for tanned sticks, no.

A beautiful, round model.

A model who isn’t as thin as most other people I see, crowding the media.

She has frizzy hair, similar to mine, but somehow, I don’t find it ugly.

I see a figure that’s more natural, full of curves and twists, like me.

I see her confidence, her pride, and a bit of her pride sticks to me.

I slam my phone down hard onto my blanket.

Fearlessly, I march over to my mirror and stare at myself.



I’m not ugly.

I see curves, I see frizz, I see me.

I see me and ‘me’ looks good.

Ok. No more Miss.Self-pity.

“Toughen up, buttercup.” I growl at myself.

This is a new regime.

I see my reflection.

I smile.


On and on I do this, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Weeks have gone by.

It’s time.

I look at my reflection, and instead of smiling, I take in every detail.

Frizzy hair.


Many curves.




I’m beautiful.

I’m strong.

I’m resilient.

I’m me.

Hi everyone!

I wrote this, just to show you, that if you feel like this at times, you feel exasperated with the way you look, your not alone. And never, ever forget…..

There’s no such thing as ugly.❤️





The wind wiped wildly, back and forth, left to right.

Big, fat, oozing rain drops plopped down, bathing the moist grass.

Flowers drooped under the heavy weight of the rain.

The sky was painted an artistic milky grey, the gaps in the colour filled up with a melancholy blue.

On a tiny hill made of damp, muddy grass, sat a person.

A young girl to be exact.

Her brown eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Her blonde, macaroni coloured hair was tucked under the hood of her raincoat which was the colour of a fern tree.

She hugged her legs to her chest while she waited.

While she waited and watched.

Then it happened.

Sitting in front of the girl was a plain, brown box, shielded from the rain by a rainbow printed umbrella.

In the little brown box was a furry critter.

A furry critter that was a rabbit.

Slowly, second by second, more bundles of fluff appeared!

From 1 to 2, from 3 to 4, all the way up to one adult rabbit, and six babies.

Macaroni hair girl gasped sharply, shocked that anything could be so innocent and fragile.

Six new, grey rabbits hopping about merrily.

It was only now that the bunnies noticed the girl that watched them peacefully.

Cautiously, one by one, the balls of fuzz crept onto the girls lap, nuzzling down in the fabric of her pants.

She sighed.

Six balls of heavenly fluff, all hers.

Original Photography #2

Photo #2


My hearts alight.

Not literally.

At least I don’t think it is.

I can’t tell anymore.

I don’t feel pain.

Not really.

Or maybe, maybe I just won’t believe that I can feel pain.

Maybe I’m just kidding myself that I’m human, maybe I’m an ant.

A simple ant.

But maybe I am human.

Maybe I’m not kidding myself.

The flames flare, higher and higher.

Is this pain?

Maybe it is?

Maybe it isn’t?

I’m not sure.

Fire is hot.

It’s hot and prickly, and fills you with an odd sensation.

Not a nice one.

Maybe it is nice?

I can’t tell anymore.

I fall.

My legs won’t support me.

They crumble beneath me as if made of dirt.

The flames are too big.

I’m too little.

Or maybe it’s the other way round?

Too late.

The flames are dominent.

I’m gone.

Am I?


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