He lies on the beach
blue shorts, red tee.
Runners on his feet
Not asleep
though he looks it
He won’t be walking
any more
Only three years old
he doesn’t know he’s gone viral
Too late for him
but not to help the world
find some kindness.
WALK
My kite’s caught in a tree.
I don’t think that I’ll be getting it down.
If I climbed up and my foot slipped
I could hurt myself when I hit the ground.
It cost a pretty penny. It was worth it all I guess
because the time when it was flying is the time I call ‘best’
My kite’s caught in the tree.
You can watch it now as it flaps in the wind.
So it’s more or less like a flag these days
of a country where I once was king.
It cost a pretty penny. It was worth it all I guess
because the time when it was flying is the time I call ‘best’
I can see it in my mind as it was lifted to the sky.
I could feel it pull away as it started on its rise.
My kite’s caught in a tree
but one day I think that I might get it back.
And it might be faded and it may be torn
but I’m pretty sure I’ll be right with that.
It cost a pretty penny. It was worth it all I guess
because the time when it was flying is the time I call ‘best’
I’m a biker. I’m a hiker
and I love acrylic lycra.
I’m specific that acrylic
is the lycra that I like
for especially when biking
it is greatly to my liking
to be free to frisk and frolic
when I reach somewhere idyllic
and I get down from my bike.
And lycra that’s acrylic,
when the heat is diabolic,
just wicks away the wet
so there’s never trickling sweat
to upset the mood euphoric
when I reach a place bucolic
on a long laborious hike.
… or a day-trip on my bike.
That’s why acrylic lycra’s what I like.
Found a kite
by Marc Low
If you should ever find a kite
And fly it in the air,
You’ll find it flying beautifully,
Flitting, soaring there;
The people staring will be awed
And think that it’s your kite;
Poets and lovers will all laugh
And smile at your kite’s sight.
And when it rains the kite will fall
And flounder to the ground,
And with a sigh you’ll leave at last
With that kite that you found.
I was sad.
I shed a single tear.
It lay before me but for a moment.
A warming sun and a drying wind beckoned it skyward
to join a million other teardrops in a cloud.
A million teardrops fell to earth,
and like a million teardrop broom
they swept away the fear and gloom,
and I was happy.
Drum Dreams
by Sharon Hammad
Don’t tell me I should tinkle on the piano’s ivory keys
And I don’t want to learn to make the tartan bagpipes wheeze.
I do not crave to pluck the harp with fingertips and thumbs,
But how I hope and dream that one day I can play the drums!
If only I could find the words to sway my mum and dad
From their idea that getting drums is bound to turn out bad.
They tell me they would cost too much. We wouldn’t have the space
Unless we relocated to a chockablock-less place.
My parents think I’d wake them up when they would rather snooze.
They’re confident the neighbours would completely blow their fuse.
No matter what I say to them, they will not change their tune:
It looks like I’m not getting drums at any moment soon.
The neighbours wouldn’t have to know; they wouldn’t hear a peep
And if we looked up Gumtree I bet we could get some cheap.
Concerning space, of course my room might end up in a squeeze
But I can sleep out in the hall. Oh, let me have them please.
Perhaps I need to close my eyes and strongly concentrate
So one day mum and dad decide to re-evaluate.
I try and try this strategy although it doesn’t work
For when I open up my eyes, my parents only smirk.
They ask me if I’m feeling sick ─ my face is rather pink─
And as I slowly turn away, I think I see them wink.
The night before my birthday I release a mournful sigh.
It might be better if I kiss the drums idea goodbye.
My birthday dawns and light seeps through the curtains in my room
While over in the corner something strange lurks in the gloom.
And as I stare, and stare some more, the ghostly shape becomes…
My own electric-foldaway-with-headphones set of drums!
Hey you!
You’re looking at me like
you’ve got something to say –
Well OK then
I’m up for a chat,
a chitter, a chatter,
a yabber, a yak,
a tittle-tattle
jibber-jabber,
a yammering yap.
I’m open to suggestion
on topics for discussion
Let’s communicate, confabulate,
wag the chin and chew the fat.
Let’s prattle and babble,
let’s talk, talk, talk!
But first you’ve got to learn
how to screech, how to squawk –
so stretch out your neck,
now open your beak …
wait … what’s that?
You don’t have a beak?
Beg pardon, my mistake
for presuming you could speak!
The Darling of the Darling Downs
by Allan Cropper
Lady Flo, the wife of Joh
The darling of the Darling Downs
Her recipe for pumpkin scones
Was shared across Australian towns
The farmers in the pumpkin patch
And those who baked and kneaded dough
Were all prepared to cook a batch
And give the pumpkin scones a go
Australia loved the pumpkin scone
and Flo became a household name.
It wasn’t due to husband Joh,
That Lady Flo had found her fame.
In meeting halls and country fairs
The pumpkin scones still do the rounds
So take a bow, dear Lady Flo
The darling of the Darling Downs.
There’s beetroot on the ceiling,
down the walls and on the floor.
The dressing’s leaving patterns
that I’ve never seen before.
The nuts and pomegranate
fly like bullets through the air.
I’m stepping over mushrooms
and there’s lettuce in my hair.
My mother’s looking angry,
I’m in trouble, I can tell.
She said to toss the salad
and I’ve tossed it pretty well.
In my Australian school
in the days of Empire,
we dipped our nibbed pens
in ink that was royal blue,
and, by decree,
in ink of
no other colour.
Not the blue of the sea
which girt us
nor of the arching sky
in our land of the free.
Australians were loyal
and True Blue
was royal.
Britannia ruled the waves
and Britannia ruled
the ink.
Margins however,
were to be ruled
(exactly one inch,
giving no quarter)
in erasable pencil.
Australian Children’s Poetry 