Pelting: washing
the windows
rinsing roofs
rolling mud and stone
downriver
pushing earth
into sea
pulling grass
tree bush creeper
moss
out of dirt
pushing trees over
running
walking
tiptoeing
balancing in the air
stamping its feet
escaping from thunder
rushing headlong
dripping down
lightning’s white path
Pick a piece of purple paper
And a purple pencil too,
Do not wait until you’re prodded,
For you have a job to do.
Draw yourself a purple pumpkin:
Purple platypus as well,
Then you’ll have a purple picture,
That you’ll never ever sell!
Monty says: I took the prompt as an invitation to alliterate.
I can tell you about the weather.
Am I growing or shrinking?
I can show you how a paper boat floats,
and be a mirror for your smiling face.
I can be a drink for a thirsty bird,
or a short slurp for a cat on the prowl.
I can annoy new shoes,
but splashing gum boots love me.
I can be a short stay hostel
for tadpoles or mozzie larvae.
I can be temporary and tempting.
I have possibilities and potential.
I am a puddle.
Way up north where the orchids grow, where the coconut palms sway to and fro,
There’s a croc! Beside a rock! And he’s looking for something to eat!
Way up north where the rainforests grow, where the stars at night are all aglow,
There’s a crocodile with a smarmy smile and he’s hunting for a tasty treat!
Way up north where the sea winds blow and the pace of life is lovely and slow,
There’s a scaly beast looking for a feast, not that you’d ever know.
For he lurks in the creek and he takes a peek, but he never makes a sound.
He’ll quietly seek (he’s such a sneak) whatever meal can be found.
And all you can see if you look carefully are his watchful yellow eyes.
He’s disguised you see as a gnarled old tree as under the water he lies.
Down for drink, not stopping to think, here comes his hapless prey,
Right on the brink as its feet start to sink and it can’t keep this monster at bay.
As the prey takes the plunge, there’s an almighty lunge and the croc has his lunch for the day
And he smirks for he knows that as meal-seeking goes, there’s nothing like takeaway!
Kate’s the quickest in our class
At working fractions out,
Wayne’s a whiz at Mental Maths,
He doesn’t mess about.
Tran’s a turbo-jet on skates,
But Polly owns the pool,
She swims the 100 metres
Like a fish on rocket fuel.
Sam’s a super sprinter,
Always first across the line,
Jess is quick to say, “Well done,”
And give the thumbs-up sign.
Chen’s a champ at cleaning up,
He empties every bin!
Emmy’s quickest with a joke,
And William’s quick to grin.
Me? I’m the lazy, laid-back type,
I like to take things slow,
But when Ms Mark says, “Class dismissed,”
Well, you should see me go!
Spider walks with shivery legs
to the edge of his dew-laden home, then waits –
perched on the bottom thread.
His white web of winter droplets
absorbs the morning sun.
Crouch
spring up
balance back on thread
hold tight.
Dew drops fall and spider
enjoys his morning shower.
Clean.
I’ve turned into jelly.
I don’t have the strength.
My stomach is stuck in my throat.
Why did I say I could swim a whole length?
I don’t even know how to float.
My goggles are loose,
should have tightened the strap.
What if they happen to leak?
And what if my bathers just suddenly snap?
I’ll be laughed at the rest of the week.
What if I don’t make the end of the race?
What if I give up all hope?
I’ll never be able to lift up my face
if I have to hold onto the rope.
My stomach is churning,
I’m still feeling bad,
I’m freezing… and there goes the gun!
I’m kicking,
I’m splashing,
I’m swimming like mad.
Will I make it?
I have!
And I’ve won!
First published in “Giggles and Niggles” (Haddington Press, 2007)
Jenny said: I was always a very nervous competitor in school swimming sports and dreaded the sound of the starting pistol.
When my grandad passed away
We found beneath the floor
A beat up, sturdy wooden box
We’d never seen before
The reason that we found it
Was a floor board out of place
It was sticking out and I tripped up
And landed on my face
I could tell it was important
And I removed it with great care
Grandad loved us all so much
What would he hide down there?
Mum looked surprised as I was
As she opened up the lid
Slowly then, her tears rolled down
As she found out what he hid
Her face had turned from flush to pale
As though she’d seen a ghost
So many yellowed envelopes
He never meant to post.
Mum said that Grandad never wrote
While serving in the war
And all these papers sitting here
She’d never seen before
We sat and read together
Sharing tears and love as well
My grandad never wrote of war
As it was nothing short of hell
He couldn’t say the words out loud
But these letters had ensured
That maybe one day later
We would know what he’d endured
We placed them back into the box
And closed the lid up tight
I felt my grandad was at peace
When I fell asleep that night
For though he never posted them
Those letters got him through
For the final one said ‘War is done!
I’m coming home to you’
Sioban said: I just recently received copies of my Grandad’s war medals and have a special box to place them in, I think that put the idea to the front of my mind.
An echidna passed across a track
heading towards a special snack.
A naturalist muttered, ‘What a turn!
about this creature, I’ve got to learn.’
He kneeled to take a closer look
the echidna swung with strong right hook.
And it was such a heavy clout
it nearly knocked the watcher out.
The echidna curled into a prickly ball
snarling, ‘I don’t like you at all.’
The naturalist cried and mused upon
what it was that he’d done wrong.
He only wanted to see first hand
the weirdest creature in the land.
The echidna uncurled and stalked away
grumbling at his ruined day.
And idiots too dumb to know
you always let echidnas go –
About their business digging holes
and eating ants from salad bowls.
Or snuffling around a great big mound
Where tasty termites are always found.
To spare echnida watchers’ pain,
the moral of this tale is plain.
Always remember it’s very rude
to keep echidnas from their food.
Silvery streaks of morning-time rain
puddling into the mud
reminds me of blueberry pancakes
and circular see-through parachutes.
Raindrops aren’t teardrops.
There’s no pointy tip.
Those free-falling globules
are blueberry round.
But if they meet-up
as they fall through the sky
a middle-sized raindrop
as-flat-as-a-pancake
might suddenly start to appear.
Bigger and larger and bulkier still
fast-falling raindrops
past pancake proportions
with stretch in the centre
and drag through the air.
For less than a second
becoming a dome
these small glassy parachutes
wobble then burst
to break into
blueberry droplets again.
Celia said: I was delighted to learn that raindrops make all these weird shapes as they fall to the ground. This year I hope to receive Your Poems about the wonders of water for the Science Rhymes website.
http://www.sciencemag.org/news/2009/07/how-raindrop-exploding-parachute
Australian Children’s Poetry 