Author Archives: australianchildrenspoetry

Old Friends by Pauline Cleary

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You bought us in Summer when we were sparkly new:
brilliant white, shiny bright with a stripe of navy blue.

You took us to netball; you took us to the pool.
We went on an excursion, a casual day at school.

We got a little grimy; we got a little worn,
a scratch on the left heel; one lace was partially torn.

We played in the garden. We trudged on a hike.
We toured around the neighbourhood, pedalling on your bike.

We got a little tawdry; our tread was worn down low,
a scuff here, a mark there; a hole in one toe.

We stomped in muddy puddles. We danced in the rain.
We got a little water-logged. We got a little stained.

As we sit on the backstep, we’re hardly sparkly new.
We’re a muddy sort of brown with a faded stripe of blue.

But if we could have our druthers, I’m sure we’d rather be
nothing more than what we are: your favourite pair of shoes.

Image by Jerzy from Pixabay

How Cold Is Cold? by James Aitchison

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It’s when the snow is all around,

and leaves slide silent to the ground.

It’s when the river turns to ice

and skating on it might be nice.

It’s when the soup is brimming warm

and outside stays the storm.

It’s when the birds cease their choir

and your feet are by the fire.  

Photo in Bavaria, Germany, by Ginette Pestana

The Dawn Service by James Aitchison

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A bugle in the frosty dawn,
each note hanging in the air,
then falling into silence
like the guns did, over there.

A voice recites a poem,
the vast crowd standing hushed;
every head is bowed,
every soul is touched.

Soon the men will march,
their memories aflame,
their banners held aloft,
each battle has a name.

And we who watch will know
that what we have was born
in blood and sacrifice,
on that first grim Anzac morn.

Photo from Pexels by Pixabay

Winter In The Bush by James Aitchison

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The trees are stark and bare in winter,
Mist curls around their feet.
The brooks are running fast and pooling deeply
Where the waters meet.
The sleepy twilight sends the day to flight,
And the bush slides into night.

Winter’s chill seeps down into the gorges,
And all is lost to sight.
Mountain ridges smudge the distance
In the cold grey light.
But soon enough the bush will wake to spring,
And the bellbirds’ chimes will ring.

Image from Pexels by Warren Griffiths

In The Garden by Jeanette Swan

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In the rich man’s grave, carved from the hill,
two men laid the body: dead and still.

Sabbath night and day followed Friday afternoon.
Jesus’ body (off the cross) – lay cold in the tomb

Mary came grieving in darkness on Sunday.
Then, pink dawn-light showed – the stone rolled away!

She told John and Peter and they ran ahead,
“They’ve taken him somewhere!” Mary said.

Peter walked in. John waited outside.
The body was gone but the cloths left behind…

The men went back home.
Mary came to the tomb.
She peered in and saw two angels were there.
“Where did you put him? Where, oh where?”

Behind her a man asked, “Why are you weeping?”
Perhaps he’s the gardener... “Who are you seeking?”

“Where have you put him?” she asked as she cried.
He said, “Mary!”
“Rabboni!” She smiled.

Bible reference: John 20:11-16 
*Sabbath = Saturday *Rabboni = teacher

Image from Stockcake

Let’s Have m-EGG-a Fun! by James Aitchison

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A skip and a hop,
a jump and a run,
Easter Sunday
is mega fun!

The eggs are hidden
everywhere,
up in trees,
under the stair.

Some are green,
some are red,
some are even
under my bed.

I’ll have a feast when
my search is complete;
and save the rest
for my friends to eat.

Photo from Pexels by Boris Manev

Recycling Rabbits by Celia Berrell

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Not The Right Egg by Jeanie Axton

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Henry was on an egg hunt
he headed quickly outside
bright and early Easter morning
excited for what he would find

He spotted a big brown egg
his left hand performing the scoop
But Alas! as it bounced in the bucket
Not an egg! but his pet dogs poop

Now his dog is in the laundry
she is safely locked-away 
Henry then cleaned his bucket
and got on with Easter Day

Image from Stockcake

The Greatest Song by Graham Seal

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The song that I will sing for you
will be the greatest ever sung,
greater than the loudest bell 
that ever has been rung.

I will sing my song by day and night,
in sunshine or in rain,
and when my song is over
I will begin again.

And so my song will grow and ring
forever bright and new,
bringing joy to everyone,
but most of all
to you.

Image from Stockcake

Sneakers Galore by Toni Newell

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I hear what sounds like footsteps
From beneath the stairs
Where all my many sneakers live
In colour coded pairs.
I hear a lot of movement
And voices raised up high
There seems to be contention
Amongst sneakers standing by.
Each want to have an outing
And are fighting for position
But fail to understand 
That the choice is my decision.
It’s all about my wardrobe
And what I choose to wear
Determining my selection
Although seemingly unfair.
The noise is getting louder
I will have to take some action
Read to them the riot act
To end this senseless faction.
So down the stairs I go
Open the cupboard door
To find all the sneakers
Lying quietly on the floor.
A smile returns to my lips
As I survey sneakers galore
Admiring the many colours
And for them what lay in store.

Image from Stockcake