A Hippy Tune

A Funny Bunny Poem

Spring starts in Australia on 1 September, so here’s a poem for Spring when bunnies enjoy life the most.

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Funny Bunny
Loves li’l Mrs Bunny
Fat and tall is he
Slim and small is she
What a pair!
Fair is fair
Fairer she than he

Yet cuteness does not matter
Even though he’s fatter
Every day they frolic
In their paradise bucolic
Sniffing flowers
One by one
Nibbling clover
Tumbling over
Oh those sweet embraces
Over and over

Love’s all that and more
Let’s make love, not war!

<3 <3

Copyright ©2015 Irina Dimitric

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Posting from my smartphone!

This is my first time ever. I’m very excited.  I’m going to add a photo now.P1110920 signedDone! Yay! …It’s almost spring here. …Wishing you all a great week…Irina :)

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Lincoln and the Magna Carta

This gallery contains 14 photos.

Originally posted on Millie Thom:
On June 15, 1215 – or 19th according to some sources – at a place called Runneymede (near Windsor) on the River Thames, King John of England reluctantly signed a treaty with the powerful barons…

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Call for Submissions: My Perfect/ Less-Than-Perfect Vacation Poetry/Flash Fiction Series

Originally posted on Silver Birch Press:

journey Summer is here and people are hitting the road to enjoy some rest and relaxation — and maybe even some cultural enrichment. What’s your idea of a perfect vacation? If you’ve experienced one — tell us about it in a poem or flash fiction (200 words or fewer). Or if you’re still waiting for your dream sojourn, let us know what you envision — in a poem or flash fiction. If you’ve experienced a less-than-perfect vacation, we’d like to hear about that, too! 

PROMPT: In a poem or flash fiction (200 words or fewer), tell us about your perfect or less-than-perfect vacation. Please send a photo of yourself — at any age — to accompany the poem, and provide a caption for the photo (when, where). (If possible, send a vacation photo.)

WHAT: Submissions can be original or previously published poems or flash fiction. You retain all rights to your…

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Love Quote

Wishing you all a great week, filled with love, laughter and gratitude!

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This is Mufti. He is getting very old and has lost both his eyes, but I’m told he’s still a very happy boy. You can read more about him here – Inspector Mufti and here – The Magic Dandelion.

Copyright 2015 Irina Dimitric

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Growing Up IN The 1940s – Life on the Farm – World War II

This year we are celebrating the 70th Anniversary of the end of World War Two. It was such a long time ago. I’m trying to remember what it was like for me in those turbulent years of War, and what it was like for my father as a POW in Germany. It will be part of our Family History. From time to time I might post an extract on my blog. It’s a work in progress. So here is Part 2.

You can read Part 1 here, if you wish, and Part 2 here.

Part 3 – Bregana

The only travelling my mother and I undertook in those days of war was to the farm in Bregana. Once, when we were on the bus, she suddenly put her hand over my eyes, saying nothing. It was too late – I saw bodies hanging from the trees, like limp scarecrows. Fear silently crept into my young soul.

In spite of the war and my father being absent, I was happy in Bregana.  My mother let me stay on the farm during school holidays. Aunty Zora was her good friend and the same age as my mother, and her daughter Nada was the same age as I. Nada’s little brother was four years younger. Their father, Uncle Pepi, was also an innkeeper and hunter. The whole household, with maids, cooks and farmhands, accepted me as one of their own. I was made to feel at home by so much kindness that I would come to consider their place as my second home.

And what a charming home it was with so many farm animals! Horses, cows, pigs, chickens, geese, ducks, pigeons, a goat and, of course, cats and dogs. You could never be bored, there was so much going on, so much to explore. We even had a go at milking a cow, but it proved too difficult for our small fingers. Still, a cup of fresh milk was ours to enjoy right there, when the maid finished milking. Collecting freshly laid eggs and feeding the chickens was a much easier task.

Our daily round of the farmyard provided a special thrill when there was a new-born calf on its wobbly legs or a foal in the stable, and in the pigsty a sow with tiny, pinkish, squealing piglets lined up along her belly, suckling eagerly, their mother uttering a soft grunt of satisfaction from time to time. Behind the pigsty was a mulberry tree, next to a stinky cesspool, but the mulberries were too yummy to be bypassed because of the stench. There were three orchards surrounding the farm house and the inn, and a garden with a bee house and a raspberry hedge which was regularly plundered by us. The cherry tree and the pear tree didn’t fare any better because climbing a tree was a cinch.

A very special place for us was in no man’s land: a crystal clear stream, Bregana, flowing under the bridge which to this day connects Slovenia with Croatia. Our summer paradise. We could spend hours there wading in ankle-deep water, collecting pebbles of all colours, building dams and pools, sailing paper boats or boats made of half a walnut shell, and even spear-fishing with a table fork.

P1000810 810 mod 2 emailmod3This bridge connects Slovenia with Croatia

In winter we wanted snow. Plenty of snow. There was no end to fun in the snow, from snowball fights and building a snowman, and a bunker since it was wartime, to skiing and sledding. We usually returned home half frozen and wet, but a change of clothes and a hearty meal revived us and we were ready to settle down near the fire for a game of cards or a board game. Not only did we have good clothing and plenty of delicious food, but we were also showered with love by everyone. No wonder Bregana is the place my old soul wanders to when it needs refreshment.

But I also remember poverty and cruelty. I remember poor peasant children in rags and barefoot. I remember the smell of fresh blood when the door of the slaughter house opened wide, revealing the carcass of the crucified animal. I remember the squealing pig being dragged into the execution chamber. I remember the little kittens were always drowned, although we never saw it done.

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 On the farm with our mothers

The Germans occupied parts of the farm. Soldiers were milling around all the time. A few higher ranking officers, fortunately not the dreaded SS, lived in spare rooms in the family home and they would sometimes join us in the living room for a chat. Aunty Zora had a beautiful voice. She would sing Slovenian songs and German ones as well, and we would sing along. I remember well singing Lili Marlene. I didn’t know then that this song was popular with soldiers of both sides. Vera Lynn and Edith Piaf, both as popular as Marlene Dietrich, sang it in English. But I knew it only in German. It’s a love song.

“Written as a poem in 1915, during World War I, it was published under the title “Das Lied eines jungen Soldaten auf der Wacht” (German for “The Song of a Young Soldier on Watch”) in 1937 and was first recorded by Lale Andersen in 1939 under the title “Das Mädchen unter der Laterne” (“The Girl under the Lantern”).” Wikipedia

Here it is for your enjoyment. You can sing along, if you wish, and if you don’t know German, you can hum!

Or you can sing along with Vera Lynn, who sings like a nightingale. This song will warm your heart as it warmed the hearts of soldiers far away from home.


Towards the end of the war, both my mother and Aunty Zora were helping the partisans. The Germans didn’t know, of course. One officer, however, did know. But he obviously wasn’t a Nazi because he offered to escort them to the flour mill where they would leave a parcel with medications in a special spot for the partisans to pick up during the night. Without his protection they would not have been able to accomplish these dangerous tasks – German soldiers were everywhere. I wonder why he had put his own life on the line. Did he hate Hitler’s Third Reich right from the start? Was he sick of war? Was he in love with Aunty Zora? The lucky thing was that no one among the Germans had found out about his clandestine activities. Lucky for him and lucky for our brave mothers! After the war, the kind officer, Jul Wanemacher, naturally, was always a welcome guest in Bregana.


© Copyright 2015 Irina Dimitric


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Weekly Photo Challenge: Motion

~IMAG1397-002 crop signed




Snow White is my pretty name

The most pretty pussy ever

With pretty yellow eyes aflame

Snow White is my pretty name

Skilful moves my cunning game

My soft paws are very clever

Snow White is my pretty name

The most pretty pussy ever


~A triolet (/ˈtraɪ.əlɨt/ or US /ˌtriː.əˈleɪ/) is a stanza poem of eight lines. Its rhyme scheme is ABaAabAB and often all lines are in iambic tetrameter: the first, fourth and seventh lines are identical, as are the second and final lines, thereby making the initial and final couplets identical as well. (Wikipedia)


©Copyright 2015 Irina Dimitric


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Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Clouds

Lovely challenge, Cee. Watching the clouds pass by, even for a short time, refreshes my soul. I become a child again.  ~

Cotton in the sky
Clouds tell stories – one, two, three
April breeze whispers                             (Haiku)


Whoever is a cloud watcher might like to read my poem Cloud Gazing. This poem now appears in my book “Dreams On My Pillow”.

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~Polar Bear in the sky

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~Stormy weather

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~Pink sunset

© 2015 Irina Dimitric


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Anzac Centenary ~ 1915-2015

April 25,  2015


On 25th April, the day of the landings at Gallipoli, I want to remember the young volunteers from Australia and New Zealand who put their lives on the line to fight the brave fight a hundred years ago. My father, Bogdan Stojić, was a volunteer, too. He served as a medical orderly in the Serbian Army at the time.

The poem in this post is dedicated to the heroes of both World Wars as well as those in present wars, as, unfortunately, humans have not yet found a way to resolve conflicts without the use of arms. The poem was written for Susan Budig’s Mindful Poetry Contest 2012. It was first published by narratorAUSTRALIA (now narratorINTERNATIONAL) online and in print in narratorAUSTRALIA, Volume Two. It also appears in my book Dreams On My Pillow.

The Anzac March



My Muse, oh please help me write a poem

In thoughts I see the bloody battle fields

Anzac Marchers proud and very solemn

The battling soldier heartfelt prayer shields

He fights against the wicked, never yields

Returns per chance a hero, shell-shocked, maimed

Or killed, the stuff that always wartime wields

Blood and tears are shed, victor is proclaimed

See the medals, hear the bagpipe’s rhythm

Cheers to all who fought for sacred freedom


The decuain is a ten-line rhyming form in iambic pentameter created by Shelley A. Cephas.The rhyming pattern in this decuain is: ababbcbcaa.

Bogdan and Frank marching - ANZAC  DAY

My father always marched with Frank Hebbard, his POW camp mate in  WWII, under the 2/6 Australian General Hospital banner. He is the marcher smiling at us, wearing a blue jacket with his medals for bravery.

email 6- Bogdan with family on Anzac Day  1989.

My father, Dr Bogdan Stojić, who was Lieutanant-Colonel in reserve in the Yugoslav Army, with Mum and me after completing the Anzac March in Sydney in 1988, aged 95.


They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.

(From the “Ode of Remembrance”)




© Copyright 2015 Irina Dimitric

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The Air Raid By Irina Dimitric (Me, as a Child Poetry Series)


My poem written for Mindful Poetry Contest 2013

Originally posted on Silver Birch Press:

With my mother during WWII
By Irina Dimitric

When I was nine years old, the war was on.
The enemy drowning fast at last; the end
Was near, but first the Allies had to bomb
Our town to drive the fiend aground, and so
We hid below in shelters, praying loud
While bombs were shaking walls and breaking hearts
And windows; I was always first to grab
My bag with sugar when the siren howled,
Then ran as fast as arrow; sheltered well
Beneath, I thought; the drone of bombers near,
Then whizz through air, then once again, three times
Before the end — the siren shrilling flat.

AUTHOR’S NOTE ON THE PHOTOGRAPH: With my mother during WWII. This photo was sent to my father, a POW in Lamsdorf, Germany.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I chose this poem as this year we are celebrating the 70th anniversary of the end of…

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