My Goat

My goat.
My goat.
My frisky little goat.
It ate and ate but never touched an oat.
My little friend was a happy one as it frolicked around the yard.
It used to play with me until it got a feed.
But one day.
The day had come.
For my happy little friend.
It ate some rhododendron.
And that was the end of him.

Poem

I am all I hear.
I hear the creaking of the door as it opens.
I hear cars polluting our beautiful air.
I hear the computers sucking our electricity away.



I am all I see.
I see the suns hot rays glistening in the morning dew.
I see Kelly barking mindlessly at Mishka.
I see dad’s car waiting motionlessly to be cleaned.


I remember the tastes and smells of.
Luscious pork being cooked in the oven.
The yucky puckey taste of salt water.
The awful smell of cigarette smoke.


I am all I know.
I know the wind pummelling my face as I ride the motorbike.
I know the feeling of my guts going squishy when I go to rugby.
I am who I am.