Author Archives: australianchildrenspoetry

Sunflowers for Grandpa by Alyssa Wong

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Long ago
even before I was born,
the flowers withered and drifted away-
the petals of my grandfather.

I was two,
at such a naïve age, 
I walked into the cemetery
for the first time
my Dad bought a bouquet of sunflowers
as I grasped it in hand,
not knowing the difference between
life and death,
as he pushed the pram.

The sun, crawling through
the gaps of the sheltered trees
to kiss the tombstone
on its polished pebble grey surface.
simple, extravagant, slanted,
there were many of them.

“Hey Daddy…what are these?”
I ask through unfiltered innocence.
he looked at the grave stones 
then back at me.
With a bittersweet smile.
“They’re for when the petals dissolve”

Being a naïve kid,
I wasn’t the brightest.
I didn’t know what he meant 
but I went to put the sunflowers in the jar.
such simple mindedness.

Now, I no longer have to stand on my tippy toes 
to seem tall
and I now understand why the petals dissolve
but even over time, 
I still can’t however, obtain the real knowledge
of what my grandfather was like.

Was he funny?
Was he kind?
Of course, I can ask my dad what he was like 
but it’s not the same as interacting with him myself.
The bridge of life and death separates us.

The cemetery is a garden of the departed,
where the sunflowers stand as silent sentinels,
each petal that falls is a memory,
each sunflower, a testament to a life lived.
it is a library of souls,
where the sunflowers are the books,
and the petals are the pages,

The sunflowers still stand, silently speaking,
Though time has blurred
The petals may dissolve, yet memories stay,
In the sunflowers’ golden glow, my grandfather’s memories are here to stay.

Hey grandpa, the sunflowers are about to bloom again.

Image by Nikolett Emmert from Pexels

Bounce Bounce by Jenny Erlanger

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I leap up high and bend in two
till toes and fingers meet,
then follow with a somersault
and land back on my feet.
I bounce back to a dizzy height,
my hands attached to hips,
then arch my spine as I prepare
to do my backward flips.
Both Mum and Dad are sorry now,
the sorriest they’ve been
for never having got around
to buying a trampoline.
There’s clearly been some wear and tear
from all those tricks I’ve aced.
The mattress on my bed is wrecked
and needs to be replaced.

Image from Pexels by RDNE Stock

Miranda by Edwina Smith

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It is a pretty spot one may well admire
This land holds a history of harsh drought and fire

The farm has gentle hills others very steep
A home for generations an ideal place for sheep

Miranda had a job her project took a year
She grew a fleece of wool and now it’s time to shear

Perhaps a little precious not fond of being shorn
But it must be done before her lamb is born

Many years were spent in perfection of her line
Today she is known as Merino Superfine

Time to get a start according to the clock
Waiting in the holding pen with the others of her flock

And so the day begins nothing more is said
The combs come alive within the shearing shed

A highly skilled team and trusted roustabout
They’ll have the lot done before the day is out

It’s Miranda’s turn! She’s plucked from the fold
Taken swift but kind safe in expert hold

The shearer knows his trade and shorn across the land
Miranda needn’t fret there’s not a better hand

The shears begin to buzz belly, back legs and ‘round
Taking extra care where her teats are found

Topknot trimmed away chest and neck are clear
With skill of a surgeon around her eye and ear

Now the pace quickens moves becoming bolder
Shears glide to take the fleece away from Miranda’s shoulder

Then longer blows shearer’s got the knack
The fleece is giving way handpiece sweeps her back

Next the other side strength completes the job
Miranda’s out the shoot and rejoins her mob

Miranda returns to graze and grow next year’s clip
Today’s fleece will make its way to foreign lands by ship

As early Springtime comes marked by longer days
She’ll have another job to do a newborn lamb to raise

Image from Pixabay

Where’s My Nose? by James Aitchison

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My nose is buried in a book,

as I read from cover to cover,

and with every line I read,

new things I discover.

Each word makes a picture,

each picture fires my brain —

it’s such a great adventure,

how can I explain?

One day I will write a book

and everyone will read it —

an author I am going to be,

and you’d best believe it!

Image from Pexels by Min An

Brilliantly Dotty! by Celia Berrell

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Quantum just means very small.
A quantity so tiny,
electrons in its atoms will
behave constrained and tidy.

Quantum Dots are very small.
They’re nano-sized or less.
When energized by radiant light,
they vividly fluoresce.

Many modern TV screens
now use such Quantum Dots,
creating glowing hues for scenes
from brightly coloured spots.

Carbon Dots fluoresce in red.
If silkworms on those dots are fed,
they’ll glow in daylight – not in red …
their skin and silk glow PINK instead!

First published in Double Helix #70 magazine by CSIRO Publishing.

Image from Pixabay

Sticky Rice Balls by Zoe Yuan

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I sit by myself.

Two sweet rice balls bob around in my bowl
White and round like pearls.
I look around, our kitchen has never felt huger,
Bookshelves tower over me.

Picking up my spoon, I eat my rice ball.
The earthy sweetness of
Black sesame coats my tongue, as it oozes out of the rice ball
Like an open wound.
I put my hand on my heart.

I imagine two seats empty at the family table,
Where every family member gathers to eat
Their New Year’s rice balls.
Together, at the round table, where the rice balls will
Symbolise family unity and strength.

I hear my grandmother toasting to another year,
To everyone’s health and fortune,
And then offering more sweet rice balls to the children.
I see my baby cousin’s face attempting to eat red bean paste with a spoon,
But missing his mouth completely.

I feel a warm bubbly sensation,
Despite the icy snowstorm outside the window.
I hear laughter worth more than diamonds,
I see memories kissed with the purest gold.

Mum says we shouldn’t go back on
Chinese New Year, because the weather is cold.
But as I finish my last rice ball, I see no relatives,
I hear no toasts.

Even though I see the harsh Australian sun
Beating down on our garden.

I feel colder than in any winter.

My grandma always saved me the black sesame.

Photo from Pexels by zhang kaiyv

The Wilds by James Aitchison

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Out in the wilds

the daylight is dying;

the darklight is coming,

and the wind is a-sighing.

Shadows will deepen,

grow darker and soon,

with the quiet starlight,

will come the moon.

The pastures will sleep

and not waken till morn,

when at last the sun rises

and a new day is born.

North Island, New Zealand. Photo by Ginette Pestana

Jacaranda Season by Zoe Yuan

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I was five
When my grandmother took me on a walk
During jacaranda season.
Soft lavender snow drifted across the path,
Like a purple carpet.

We sat under a tree,
Its branches formed a violet shelter,
The musky, honey-like fragrance of the blossoms enveloped
My grandma’s laughter, as I showed her
How to make a kebab of jacarandas on a stick.

Then she patted my head,
But her ebony black eyes serious, tender
Around the edges, when she looked at me.
“Be a good daughter.”

I just nodded, hoping I’d understand
Someday,
When I’m taller.
I went back to add more flowers
On my stick.

Each spring,
The jacarandas return,
I look to them.
My grandma’s words land on my shoulder,
Like the purple petals.

Each Facetime call ends the same way,
Never goodbye,
Just
“Be a good daughter.”

Each year I thought I knew what it meant.
Be obedient, be quiet, be good.

And each year, I swatted it away,
Like an annoying, persistent fly.
Because I thought it meant giving myself up,
Giving my voice up,
To be someone else.

Last spring,
My mum told me she needed surgery.
She asked when we should return to China,
Summer holidays in December,
Or April break.

The April break was warmer and shorter,
I didn’t want to give up summer.
I didn’t want to stay inside,
Watching snowstorms rage outside the window.
When I asked her,
“How long will you take to recover?”
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.” She smiled.
But I saw the dark rings under her eyes,

Her pale skin.
How even the shine in her hair looked dull.

My answer pressed on the tip of my tongue,
But I swallowed it.
“Let’s go back in December. It’s been a long time
Since I built a snowman.” I decided.

But I chose December,
Because I knew she needed time to recover,
Because I knew her health was important,
More important than my summer.

The next morning,
I nearly walked into a spider’s web,
Morning dew hung from her trap,
Like jewels, glistening in the sun.
But that’s when I realised the small, violet bud,
Peeking shyly from under a leaf.

“Be a good daughter.” I hear my grandmother say.
Maybe it’s finally time to understand
That it’s about choosing love,
Even through sacrifice.

Not giving up your voice,
But learning how to use it.
Not giving up who you are,
But learning to consider others.

The jacarandas are blooming again.

Photo from Pexels by Alexander F Ungerer

My Word! by James Aitchison

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Word is a word
that rhymes with word.

But what about cord,
and ford and sword?

They don’t rhyme with word,
as you’ve no doubt heard.

How come English is so erratic,
so hard to learn and problematic?

My word, I wish I knew!

Photo from Pexels by Pixabay

Beetrice by Edwina Smith

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Beetrice is all abuzz
A busy buzzing bee
Busy as a bee can be
Her home inside a tree

Shall we look and see
What she really does?
The busy bee she needs to be
Aside from all the buzz

Deep within the hive
She works her busy legs
Taking care of ‘Queenie’
While she lays more eggs

Lots of little larvae
Needing to be fed
Making sure each one has
A share of sweet bee bread

Working waxy wonders
Rooms with walls of six
Holding strong for so long
There’s no need for sticks

A fussy, clever cleaner
She keeps a spotless home
Life’s such a buzz within
Her world of honeycomb

But beware of Beetrice
Best to let her be
Show respect for her place
A home inside that tree

Should it be disturbed
The hive a bee defends
She’s got quite a sting
And so have all her friends

Lots to do in Summer
Young ones can’t get hot
Busy Beetrice fans her wings
Or else they’ll lose the lot

United with her sisters
Workers make a breeze
Cooling down bees to be
Together done with ease

Foraging for nectar
Changing it to honey
On the wing from dawn to dusk
While the days are sunny

Visiting the flowers
Beetrice never stops
She helps feed our nation
By pollinating crops

What a wonderous worker
A busy buzzing bee
Without busy Beetrice
Where would we be?

Could she understand
What bees do for us?
She’s probably too busy now
Too busy for a fuss

Busy buzzing Beetrice
Thank you for the honey
To have on buttered toast
Golden, sweet and runny!

And for tasty fruit
You work away for hours
There’s apples, pears and cherries
From pollinated flowers

We are so grateful
For treats such as these
May there always be
Busy buzzing bees!

Photo from Pexels by Pixabay