Author Archives: australianchildrenspoetry

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Forty all

 

This is the tale of a horrid blister,

caused directly by my sister.

 

I borrowed her shoes for a tennis twosome,

and soon my heel became very gruesome.

 

First it rubbed pink, and then bright red,

and as I played, it bled and bled.

 

There were pools of blood all over the place

Some of it splashed as far as my face.

 

I used plenty of bandaids, criss and cross,

and kept on playing, splish and splosh.

 

I slid and slithered around that court,

never was a game so wetly fought.

 

But in all that blood, I lost the ball,

so the game was ended, forty all.

 

My blistered heel was a dreadful pain,

but sister said it was a bloody good game.

 

Margaret Pearce

 

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MEET THE HOPPERS

We live up on the hillside,

And our burrows dot the grass,

Where we play and romp and sleep,

And just watch the clouds float past.

 

Although it gets chaotic,

We can still have heaps of fun,
‘cause my family’s really large,
And I love them, every one.

There’s …

Auntie Flo whose strawberry RED,
And Uncle Bob who’s ocean  BLUE,
They’ve two little PURPLE bunnies,
My cousins one and two.

Auntie June is butter YELLOW,
Fire engine RED is Uncle Clive,
Their three little ones are ORANGE,
Cousins three, four and five.

Old Uncle Jock is deep sky BLUE,
Lemon YELLOW is Aunt Devine,
Lime GREEN are my other cousins,
Six, seven, eight and nine.

Dear Uncle George is WHITE as snow,
And BLACK as night is Auntie May,
Cousins ten to fourteen turned out,
Five different shades of GREY.

Then cousin Joy is tree-frog GREEN,
Her partner Pete is ruby RED,
They have six BROWN bouncing bunnies,
All tucked up tight in bed.

My Mum and Dad are both pure WHITE,
And I could never really see,
How I turned out like I did,
With COLOURED spots all over me.

I guess I have a bit of all,
My large family mixed in me,
But I’m happy, it’s who I am,
How I turned out to be.

love SPRINKLES

Sandra Hopf
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #3

poetry-prompt-3

Sandra said: I love writing in a quirky, fun style, but with still a lesson hidden in there. Most of my work tends to be rhyme as I simply can’t help myself!

 

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Flame Trees

 

Come November

the flame trees

begin to wear their fire.

Over there a winking ember

peeps cautiously

from a green crown,

hinting at Christmas

and stirring nervous thoughts

of fire in green places,

 

while nearby, an extrovert,

naked through winter,

makes a spectacle of herself

in the full flare

of a brand new red dress.

 

How do I look?

she asks seductively,

 

and even the old Jacarandas

in their cool quenching blue

offer nothing but

compliments.

©  Kate O’Neil
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #3

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Moonwatch

We’re studying the moon –

drawing it, remembering all the moons

we’ve ever seen.

 

Just now, through the window,

there’s a daylight-moon looking fragile,

egg-shell soft, pale white.

 

I’ve no plans to go up there

whizzing through the  blue,

landing on the pearly moon.

 

But I can’t stop thinking

about a blood-orange full moon

I saw inching up

 

into the summery sky.

It moved so slowly,

became a golden balloon

 

that never hurried.

I wanted to follow it,

catch it. But I never did.

 

© Katherine Gallagher

 

(Published in Read Me, (Macmillan, 2009, ed. Gaby Morgan)

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #3

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Billy Bonder and the Beautiful Belly Button Bubbles

 

Billy Bonder often pondered

While sitting naval gazing

Just what it was about belly buttons

He found totally amazing

 

The button turned nothing on or off

It seemed to have no use

Perhaps he thought its purpose was

To stop his bum from coming loose

 

So finally he thought it time

To try and make a start

And find some useful purpose

For this lazy body part

 

It was all that Billy thought about

‘til it gave him tummy trouble

And then one day by accident

His belly button blew a bubble

 

The pity was for all concerned

That it seemed that at the start

The only way to blow a belly bubble

Was to counter balance with a fart

 

But Billy took the time to practice

Even Mum was tickled pink

When he blew beautiful belly bubbles

Without the noise or awful stink

 

With his special new found skill

Billy Bonder shot to fame

The beautiful belly button bubbles

Meant everybody knew his name

 

While it was an innovation

And quite startling and new

Billy realised he would be old news

In just a week (or maybe two)

 

And he was right, it wasn’t long

Before someone had him beat

Jenny Jones from Jonbley Junction

Could knit jumpers with her feet

 

So while the button did him proud

And brought Billy fleeting fame

His belly button could now retire

And start collecting lint again

Sioban Timmer
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #2

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Summer

 

Is as hot as buttery toast.

Cooling dips to wash the sticky ickiness away,

Reclining in movies to munch on choc tops,

Chit chatting to friends to stay connected,

Soaking up joyous Summer freedom.

 

Summer fairs to laugh and whizz and bang on rides,

It’s okay to just be,

Baking hot sun is no fun,

An ancient tree to gaze underneath.

 

Summer breeze kisses my face,

Sea spray to tickles my salty toes,

Oh how I love the sea.

 Karen Hendriks

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The Bin Brigade

 

They’re trundled to the roadside in the fading evening light

to form a guard of honour down the street.

In silence they stand waiting through the hours of the night

for Friday morning’s weekly garbage fleet.

 

Identical in stature, proud and rigid in their pose

they solemnly and dutifully wait.

A vast, impressive regiment of straight and perfect rows,

they stand as one, prepared to meet their fate.

 

Together they are ready for the wretchedness in store,

the gross humiliation they all share.

They can’t escape the horror of that ugly metal claw

that sends them flying up into the air.

 

They’re mercilessly tilted till their mouths are opened wide,

then shaken to unstick whatever’s stuck.

Their stomachs start to rumble, then from somewhere deep inside

they vomit all their contents in the truck.

 

Jenny Erlanger

 

{Awarded third prize in the “Adults writing for children” category of the C J Dennis Poetry Competition in 2016.}

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A Pony Named Bubbles

 

A pony named Bubbles

when I was young

would give us rides

he was so much fun

 

he was round and red

with gloss and fat

but his Bubbles name

didn’t come from that

 

nothing to do with

shape or weight

but  it did come about

from what he ate

 

once you were safely

upon his back

he’d set off unbidden

to his favourite snack

 

hidden behind where

gardeners don’t go

between the stables

where thistles grow

 

off you’d trot

when he’d had his fill

across the paddock

and over the hill

 

the thistles would gurgle

inside his tummy

and then the noises

which were really quite funny

 

it was long ago

but I’ve never forgotten

those bubbles from Bubbles

straight out of his bottom

 

 Myra King
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #2

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Bubbles

Big, bubbles floating in the air.

Soapy, sudsy, spheres,

I can see my reflection in you.

Magical colours reflect,

Fragile and soft,

I make a precious wish.

To be free just like you,

To see the world in rainbow colours,

If I just look close enough,

I will see all the wonder and beauty,

That is all around.

Karen Hendriks
  •  Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #2

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FEAR

I’ve never dreaded witches

Who look such dreadful frights,

Flying over ditches

On dark and windy nights.

 

I never shake if fingers

Touch my face at night,

If of course it lingers

I then turn on the light.

 

I just ignore the bogies

Lurking in the dark,

Packs of fat old fogies

Looking for a lark.

 

If I ever saw a lion

I’d punch him on the nose.

I’ve nerves of steel and iron

As everybody knows.

 

I don’t believe in being scared

I’ve never seen a ghost,

For creepy tales I’ve never cared,

And that’s my favourite boast.

 

I’ve proved that I’m the bravest

Of super heroes still,

So why does that stupid dentist

Still scare me with his drill?

© Margaret Pearce

A version of this published HOUSE OF SPROUTS 1987

A version of this published in LOVE & FEAR  A Poetry Anthology 2003 by Artary Project Space (Community Arts Project Victoria)