After the Rain
Drops of rain fall on my face
wild white flowers, just like lace.
Underneath the dripping tree
lizards lurk, their eyes on me.
In the puddles, black leaves float
the gum-nut people have lost their boat.
As I wander in the bush
everything is green and lush.
Mixed Bag
He appeared on the doorstep one day
Both big and small in size
A dog of mixed bag breeds
We decided to call him Heinz
For Dad, he’d work all day
Running with the sheep
He asked for little in return
A pat, kind word, a sleep
To Mum, he was a protector
Of danger, he had no fear
Any threat around, he’d bark it down
No stranger would dare come near
The baby, she had him intrigued
Crawling around the house
Nose to the ground, he followed her round
Like a cat on the trail of a mouse
After school, he’d wait at the gate
We’d play till the sun’s last light
Exhausted but happy, inside for tea
He’d sleep by my bed at night
To each, he was something different
Loyal, right up to the end
That bitzer, mongrel, mixed up mutt
Worker, protector… best friend.
Monday – Lying in Bed
Monday’s here already
I just can’t get out of bed
The sun’s already shining
The dog’s waiting to be fed
I know I should get going
But I stretch and roll instead
As I think of the goal I scored
And what my teammates said
The aches and pains I feel
From the big bruise on my head
Are definitely worth it all –
I’ve got pre-season street cred!
In the garden
orange nasturtiums arrived
and went wild
taking on the whole bed
of Flanders poppies.
They clashed terribly.
The nasturtiums
made swift advances
crawling stealthily
through the proud
rows of nodding red
blooms heavy with
memories of far fields
and so many dead.
The poppies knew
what was coming.
All’s fair in love and war,
shouted the nasturtiums,
tumbling them
into disarray before
trampling them
into the bed
in bloody conquest.
Nasturtium – a symbol of power and of conquest and victory in battle
The Anzac Many
Many remember and
many are too young to remember.
Many left their country
to fight in another country.
Many never did return.
Many young men trudged on foreign lands
against winds that howled, rain that soaked and
winters that bit.
Many fought wild-eyed and weary,
against a mirror of young frightened faces.
Many heard the unforgettable.
Bang, bang, bang. Boom, boom, boom.
Flash, flash, flash. Rat-a-tat…
To this day,
many pray
that many
will never leave again.
Remember It
“We will remember them,” we say,
on each and every Anzac Day.
The brave, the scared, the young, the old;
the ones who’ve had their stories told.
Momentum gathers every year;
some bow to pray, some shed a tear.
The people in our vast free land,
know freedom’s price was blood on sand
when boys all landed on a beach,
to die with cover out of reach.
So April twenty-five is when,
we honour those who fought back then.
Some wear the medals on their chest,
of family members laid to rest
in fields where markers stand in rows,
receiving tears as sadness flows
from pilgrims who respect the waste
of young men all shipped off in haste.
Then other people read the tales
of bombs made up from tins and nails.
The bookshops give us all a chance
to understand the circumstance
of hell on earth that was the trench,
awash with maggots, mud and stench.
Our flag is waved by children who
don’t really know what war can do
to wives and mothers left alone,
to live with fear of what’s unknown.
But waving flags shows they are proud,
to stand in a revering crowd.
Australians all: we mustn’t dare
stop showing that we deeply care
about the soldiers, all of whom
were brave in war’s destructive doom.
Gallipoli and all its pain:
Remember it. Again. Again.
The Price of War.
I remember well,
Though I’d rather not.
I lived to tell,
But it’s hard to speak.
The price was paid;
There is no refund.
And though I try to not;
I remember well.
Lost Generation by J.R.Poulter, image by Dandi Palmer
Australian Children’s Poetry 