Humungous Fungus

Humungous Fungus is among us

And it’s rather smelly.

It slowly creeps between your toes

Then right up to your belly.

It can be blue, but when it’s pink

It gives off such an awful stink.

Sometimes it floats down in the breeze

And leaves great blobs on both your knees.

When it sparkles like a fairy

Then you must be very wary.

If it waves its magic wand

You’ll smell like slime from next door’s pond.

Beware if Fungus goes to school.

It doesn’t care who looks a fool.

Your teacher might get quite a shock

If Fungus hides inside his sock.

If poor grandma, while she’s sitting

Concentrating on her knitting

Notices a sudden pull

It’s Fungus climbing up her wool.

Even mum must be quite careful

She might cop a blobby hair full

If she happens to be shopping

Right where Fungus slime is dropping.

Family pets should run and hide

‘Cos Fungus loves to slip and slide

Into kennels, baskets, cages

Sending critters into rages.

But Fungus loathes a water spray

So get yourself one right away.

And squirt that fiend with all your might

You’ll be a hero overnight.

Pat Simmons © 2014

High Achievers

We thought we could. ..

We said we would

go on the climb

to Mount Sublime

and we did it!

Yes! We did it!

We got to the top! We did it!

They said it was impossible.

They said we wouldn’t last.

They said it was a grown-ups’ walk

and grown-ups walk too fast.

They said you must be big and strong—

The path is very steep

and you have to cross some channels where

the water’s very deep.

They said the climb is difficult

and we’re not old enough

to know you just keep going when

the going’s really tough.

They said there could be leeches and

creepy crawly things

and real explorers don’t complain

of scratches, bites and stings.

They thought we wouldn’t make it but

they let us go along

and we showed them, yes we showed them they

were wrong! wrong! wrong!

© Kate O’Neil

The Bear

Awakened from his sleep

down from the Forest Wilderland

the bear appears

to smell the river.

Upstream he stands – with

water pulsing past his feet,

beneath,

birds, shrieking in spring skies.

Sharp-eyed,

he watches salmon as they leap –

rivulets of hunger in his mouth.

His clasping teeth,

with sharpened claws,

grab the salmon flapping

in their grief.

He bears his prizes to the slippery edge,

skinning flesh

and finally crushing bones.

Turning

towards a warming sun,

he sniffs the air,

remembering then,

his recent sleep

alone.

© Jill Carter-Hansen 2014

P O Box 1381                                                                                                               

 Darlinghurst   NSW 1300                                                                          

 E jill@visonaryimages.com.au

Space Riddle

My face
Is as wide as a mountain.

When I give orders,
I roar in thirty languages
and the stars blink.

I live on thin air
and sleep with my eyes open.

What am I?

Answer: Nobody knows.

© Katherine Gallagher,
E:mail@katherine-gallagher.com

Limerick

The glorious lady Godiva,
Of fame we would never deprive her,
A nude horseback dash
Might seem crude, even brash,
But my gran has done worse for a fiver.

© Doug Macleod

Bad Sport

In the hush of night
with the door shut tight,
the toilet bowl goes bowling.
The toilet seat grows big flat feet,
and takes itself a’strolling.

But the toilet roll is a sorry soul
which sometimes goes berserk,
when it can’t cavort in toilet sport,
because of paper work.

© Bill Condon

Bill Condon has published several collections of poems including That Smell is My Brother, Rock and Roll Elephants and Don’t Throw Rocks at Chicken Pox. Bill’s latest book is a junior novel, The Simple Things (Allen & Unwin, 2014)

Pigeon-Watch

The pigeon struts
along the ledge:
he never gets
too near the edge.

(Published in The King’s Pyjamas, Belitha, (ed. Pie Corbett) 2001)
Katherine Gallagher,
E: mail@katherine-gallagher.com

© Doug Macleod

Cocoon

My sleeping bag is warm and tight.
I’ve wormed my way down deep.
Could someone please turn out the light?
I’m ready now to sleep.

I could be quite a while in here.
Take care of all my things.
I don’t intend to reappear
until I’ve sprouted wings.

© Jenny Erlanger

This poem won first prize in Jackie Hosking’s Rhyming Poetry Spring competition in 2013. Jenny has had ten poems published in “The School Magazine” and another two feature in Hopscotch (Jelli -Beanz Publishing 2007). Jenny’s book of children’s poetry, Giggles and Niggles (Haddington Press 2007) is currently out of print, but anyone interested in purchasing a copy can contact Jenny by email jennyerlanger@optusnet.com.au

Windy Night

I can hear the wind howling                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   like an angry dog.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        I can hear the door creaking                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  like a calling frog.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Windows shake,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        dry branches rake                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                across the flapping shutters.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  The air is moving, swirling, crying,                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   whistling through the gutters.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 In my bed                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       I lift my head                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             and sing like the wind all around me:                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           “Hello, halloo, what a hullaballoo!”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         If you can rage                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         then I will, too—                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           I dance like the wind all around me.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              “Hello, halloo, what a hullaballoo!”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  I sing like the wind all around me.

© Julie Thorndyke