Stars in Jars (2 page)

Harry the hamster, in his ball,

rolled round the bedroom,

rolled round the hall.

He rolled to the bathroom,

he rolled to the stairs

where a huge teddy bear

took him clean unawares.

He rolled slap-bang into

the honey hall wall,

but that didn't stop him

for he was so small

and a whole world awaited

Harry in his ball.

On Monday he rolled down the garden,

on Tuesday he rolled down the road,

on Thursday he rolled down a bike path

till he was stopped in his tracks

by a toad.

On Friday he rolled to New Brighton,

on Saturday to warm Singapore,

on Sunday he yawned, climbed back

in his cage, and all day

simply rolled in his straw.

I am a tortoise from Turkey,

I lived in the hills of Kalkan,

my name over there was Mustafa,

my owners here call me Ken.

I would squaffle in the leaves on the slopes,

taking days from A to B,

the sun beat down on my back,

my nostrils were full of the sea.

Here in Catford it's different,

I live in a circular pen,

I walk the ten-metre circumference

and then walk round it again.

Instead of the calling to prayers

I hear the South Circular cars,

the sky is filled with neon,

there are hardly any stars.

I miss the smell of pine,

bougainvillaea dripping purple and red,

but here I get lots of attention,

I admit it has gone to my head.

Being carried from the fair

in a see-through plastic bag,

being plopped into a bowl

with another golden lad.

Swimming round a pot pagoda

and a quivering piece of weed,

watching my owner watch the telly –

he thinks he's the referee!

Watching my owner watching me

each and every hour,

waking up to cloudy water –

it tasted very sour.

Waking up without my mate

because he jumped out of the bowl,

wondering where on earth he's gone,

and where's his goldfish soul?

Seeing him on the carpet,

frozen stiff and still.

Thinking that won't happen to me –

I'm going to live until

I'm 43!

My name is Tish,

I'm from the North.

You just wait and see!

A goldfish remembers memories for 3 months. Tish, from North Yorkshire, was the Guinness Book of Records' longest-living goldfish
.

When I was a tiny baby,

even before I was born,

I swam in my mummy's tummy,

I swam from dusk till dawn.

I swam with purple armbands,

I swam with yellow ducks,

I swam with a clockwork turtle

and orange dumper trucks.

Now I swim in a swimming pool,

I splish and splosh and splash,

I kick my legs and spread my arms –

I never need a wash!

When I climb in the bath tub,

I have a wooden boat with sails,

the water gets real choppy –

what with crocodiles and whales.

But my favourite place for swimming

is the frothy fizzy sea.

I like to chase the gentle waves,

and then the waves chase me!

I want to waddle without a nappy,

neatly miss my potty.

I want smears of Marmite round my mouth.

I want you to blow raspberries on my belly,

suck my fingers, throw me in the air.

I want a currant biscuit in each hand,

another crunched in the carpet,

crispy crumbs between my toes.

I want to sit in the bath with a tipper,

I want to pull the leaves off lilies,

I want to lie on your back

with my head in the dip of your neck.

I want to scream so loud when I can't catch

the butterfly that your ears hurt.

My brother jumps on me,

pushes me,

pulls me,

hits me,

shouts at me,

rolls me over.

He kisses me,

cuddles me,

reads me stories,

makes me laugh – ha ha ha.

Makes me cry.

Then buys me a bracelet from his school trip to Wales.

My cousin is a robot,

she has metal in her knee,

she gets rusty in the morning

before her cup of tea.

She grows a wealth of flowers

in earth that's rich and deep,

and when her flowers flourish

my cousin takes a leap

across the wide Long Mynd,

which rises by Church Stretton.

She leans against the wind,

until her elbows flatten.

I don't want an icicle for an auntie,

she might snap.

I don't want a tomato for an older brother,

he might go red in the face.

I don't want a candle for a gran,

she might melt.

I don't want a coffee bean for a cousin,

he might get swallowed from a cup.

I don't want a blister for a sister,

she might get sore.

I don't want an avocado for an uncle,

he might go squishy.

I don't want a carpet for a granddad,

he might be threadbare.

I don't want a plum for a mum,

she might get made into chutney.

I don't want a diamond for a dad

because he'd be the hardest man in the world.

My grandma picks the blackberries,

the plums and apples too,

she feeds the ducks

and feeds the hens,

she sees the morning dew

before she goes to say the prayers

for me, and you, and you.

She writes on her computer,

she reads great big thick books,

she makes the jam and chutney

and helps out other cooks.

At weekend she plans the menu,

picks parsley, chives and thyme,

my grandma is a fun nun,

and apart from God's, she's mine.

If you fuss and fiddle,

I'll bake you in a pie.

If you fume and flap,

You'll soon be wondering why

I baked you in a pie.

Throw a fit of fury,

A flurry or a fret,

I'll cover you in pastry,

Squirt a jet of gravy,

So when you froth and foam,

In a fiery frenzied moan,

You'll still be wondering why,

I baked you in a pie!

Fidget pie – originally a pie made in Shropshire; it used to be called a ‘fitched' pie because that meant it had five sides or five corners
.