Author Archives: australianchildrenspoetry

Poem of the Day

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GATEWAY

 

This portal

speaks to me of Narnia:

the last book, the last battle.

 

Long before Dr Who,

C.S. Lewis knew, we knew

of the stable bigger on the inside;

 

though that door was rough and wooden,

a portal can disguise itself

as a gate in a lichened stone wall.

 

But enter at your peril.

The Irish faery folk haunt castles

and barrows, and mortal souls

 

can wander their land for a day; returning

to find it is seven years or seventy.

And Narnia was a faery place.

 

Look, admire, beware; walk through –

only if you desire to be bewitched,

craving the adventure of your life.

 

Jaz Stutley

 

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #21

Poem of the Day

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Sunday Dinner

My Nan grew up in wartime

And thought nothing goes to waste

And sometimes Sunday dinner

Wasn’t really to my taste

 

I loved to go to her house

And most of the meals were great

But at times I really struggled

To eat the food upon my plate

 

Her Shepherd’s Pie was awesome

And I loved cold meats and cheese

She made Special Fried Potatoes

That always made me say “More please”

 

But every now and then

The dish that truly gave me shivers

I couldn’t even stand the smell

Of Nan’s boiled chicken livers

 

I pushed them all around the plate

And covered them with sauce

Tried to mix them with potatoes

But it didn’t help of course

 

In the end I had to say

There really was one choice

And though I knew it would be hard

I mustered up my voice

 

“Nan – I don’t like boiled chicken livers”

 

There was a moment’s silence

And my eyes were opened wide

Nan looked at me and gently smiled

“Just push them to the side”

 

After that no chicken livers

Were served at Sunday dinner

And we had all the other lovely things

My tastebuds were the winner

Sioban Timmer
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #20

Poem of the Day

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Out the Gate

 

May-Belle, Marlene, Miss Moo and Flo

were dairy cows of Farmer Joe.

They all agreed that he was great,

‘cos Joe forgot to shut the gate.

 

They knew that cows should really stay

inside the field just eating hay.

But down the lane they liked to stroll,

the rubbish tip their only goal.

 

The things that people threw away

were great for cows on ‘dress-up’ day.

Marlene found dance shoes for her hooves

and danced some really groovy moves.

 

May-Belle decided she’d wear lace

which she placed round her ears and face.

Miss Moo dressed as a movie star

in fake-fur cape all la-de-da.

 

And Flo? She thought it might be fun

to wear an orange cardboard sun.

But then she had some rotten luck,

it slithered past her ears and stuck.

 

She gave the sun a mighty nudge,

but it stayed put; it would not budge.

Then all too soon the time had come

to leave the tip and all the fun.

 

They strolled back home in fancy dress

while cars all got into a mess.

Alarmed at such a scary sight,

they all drove off the road in fright.

 

Then as the cows all neared the shed

they watched old Joe just scratch his head.

He checked his watch and stamped the ground,

annoyed his cows were not around.

 

Then finally he saw the girls,

Marlene out front and dancing twirls.

“This lark must stop,” said Joe quite gruff.

“There’s no more room for all this stuff.

 

Cows don’t dress up or dance or play.

The paddock’s where you need to stay.”

The girls all winked and gave a grin.

If gates aren’t shut, cows don’t stay in.

Caroline Tuohey
  • Previously published in The Looking Glass magazine in Ireland.  It’s also on the CKT Website under Caroline’s writing portfolio.
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #21

Caroline said: It’s not directly related to a lovely, historical castle but open gates do encourage wandering and that’s what my poem is about.

Poems of the Day

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Poetry Prompt #19 attracted a swag of wonderful Acrostic poems. I hope you enjoy this selection as much as I did.

River

River, river, I don’t know

River, river, where you flow

Your course varies north to south

Where’s your source?  Where’s your mouth?

You’re a winding watery snake!

(Now read it again, starting from the bottom)

James Aitchison

 

The River Goes to Sleep

Ripples leave their

Imprints on a soft and sandy rise,

Vines are dipping fingers while the

Evening winks her eyes;

Resting crimson ribbons round the river’s dusty sides.

Alys Jackson

 

RIVER

 

Running to school one cold wet day

Into dreams of escape and running away

Visiting islands full of sea and sun

Enjoying swimming and lots of fun

Returned to reality dark and grey.

 

Required homework not done yet

Idiot me never a teacher’s pet

Very hard to get past this disaster

Explaining why I can’t work faster

Rewriting forever the homework set.

Margaret Pearce

 

Acrostic River

Resting river, a rill rocks our raft

Icy depths of ink immersing ivy

Vacillation, veering with veritable vigour,

Exploration of each elemental eddy is exciting

Run raft run, rejoicing round the rapids

Virginia Lowe

 

 

 

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Phineas McGonagall

Phineas McGonagall was very strange indeed,

For the manner of his feeding and for where he kept his feed.

Upon his head, he wore a wig of lamington and cheese.

His beard was full of ‘little boys’ that dangled to his knees.

Among his friends I must say there were many most disgusted:

And so would you be if you knew just where he kept his custard.

To critics Phiny simply smiled and said, ‘Now look here sonny!’

Stamped a dusty boot from which erupted blue gum honey.

‘With a narnie in me pocket and some damper in me daks,

I’m never short of tucker as I tred life’s sandy tracks.

From Alice Springs to Zanthus I have never ‘ad the munchies.

-Thanks mostly to me grundies where I keep a stash of crunchies!-

And I betcha when I cark it and am carried out feet first,

The tinnies in me pocket slake the undertaker’s thirst!’

Alys Jackson

 

  • Alys is a regular contributor to The School Magazine and has just won the 2017 Award for Poetry at the Henry Lawson Festival of Arts. 

Poem of the Day

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Moon

 

Moon, I know

you’re rather fickle –

not long ago

you were thin as a sickle

 

but look at you now –

It’s night’s high noon

and you’re fat and full

as a blown balloon.

 

Moon, your face

is made of light

and you hang like hope

against the night,

 

waxing, waning,

sometimes gone,

always changing,

moving on.

 

©   Kate O’Neil
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #16

What’s for dinner, Mum? by Glenys Eskdale

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BEWARE! This is a HORRIBLE poem!!
Read at your OWN RISK!!!

 

What’s for dinner, Mum?

 

First up

slurp up

sliced slug soup

seasoned with slaters.

 

Then

bite into

baked blowfly burgers

basted with blood.

 

Or

gobble down

goat gut goulash

garnished with grubs.

 

Next

munch up

minced mouse mousse

mingled with maggots.

 

Or

dive into

dragonfly dumplings

drizzled in drool.

 

And last of all

swill down

seaweed slime smoothies

smothered in snot.

 

Still hungry?

 

Poem of the Day

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Croc-o-diner

The crocodile has every right

to fall in love or have a fight.

He likes his home.  He wants to stay

and have a feed and sleep and play.

 

But better not get in his way

or YOU won’t see another day!

 

So when you travel our great land

respect this resident so grand

and DON’T go swimming where he hides

among the rivers, banks and tides.

 

It’s not HIS fault that tourists may

taste just like croccy’s take-away!

Celia Berrell
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #20

 

 

 

 

Celia said: My husband is considering working in a remote coastal location in Far North Queensland where it is possible to find crocodiles lurking under the buildings.  To all the people who work up there, PLEASE be careful and keep yourselves off their dinner menu!

Poetry Pointers

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  1. Try to write every day. Don’t wait for inspiration to strike.

 

  1. Play to your strengths. If you prefer to write in rhyme, do so. If not, don’t. It doesn’t matter whether a poem rhymes or not.

 

  1. Having said that, it is also important to push yourself out of your comfort zone from time to time.

 

  1. Don’t write to a formula. If your writing interests you, it will probably interest other people. If it bores you, it will probably bore others.

 

  1. Don’t take rejection personally. Remember, it is only your poem that is being rejected, not you.

 

  1. Talent is overrated. Persistence is much more important.

 

  1. Know the markets. Write with the markets in mind.

 

  1. Having said that, don’t write with the markets in mind all the time. It is important to have fun with your poetry, and take risks. Try not to get too serious about it all.

 

  1. If you’re stuck for an idea, choose something small and insignificant to start with, and build from there.

 

  1. Celebrate your mistakes. They are evidence of your productivity. Remember, the most mistakes are made by the most successful people.

 

Thanks to Stephen Whiteside for these excellent tips on writing poetry. Stephen’s collection of rhyming verse for children, ‘The Billy That Died With Its Boots On’ and Other Australian Verse, was published by Walker Books in 2014. In 2015, the book won a “Golden Gumleaf” award for “Book of the Year” at the Australian Bush Laureate Awards during the Tamworth Country Music Festival. Visit his website for more details.

http://www.stephenwhiteside.com.au

Poem of the Day

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The Feely Bag

 

What’s inside the feely bag?

Please tell us what you feel.

 

A slimy, slippery frog perhaps,

That makes you squirm and reel.

 

A ragged, worn-out kitchen sponge,

That’s squelchy, smelly, wet.

 

Or Cody’s wriggly garden worms,

The biggest he could get.

 

Do bristles scrape your fingertips,

When lifting something up?

 

Is it a nailbrush, Stickle Brick,

Some Velcro in a cup?

 

It may be soft with rubber wings,

And live inside a cave.

 

A tingly touch might make you scared

To guess you must be brave.

 

Lynette Oxley

 

  • In response to Poetry Prompt #18

 

Lynette said: I wrote about preschool children who are willing to put their hands in a Feely Bag and guess what the contents might be. This activity promotes language development.