I had a jar of pickles,
but they were very fickle.
I had to go in for a quick kill,
but couldn’t get them out
without a fierce rout.
Firmly wedged inside the jar
they wouldn’t budge a bar
until I tried a tickle
then out they poured in a trickle
that fickle jar of pickles.
Some dogs are scary.
You have to be wary.
Some dogs are fat.
They could squash you flat.
Some dogs are tiny
and yappy and whiny.
Some dogs are old
and can’t do what they’re told.
Some dogs are jumpy.
They make me feel grumpy.
Some dogs are fast.
I just watch them run past.
Some dogs are busy
and rush round till they’re dizzy.
But my dog is great.
She’s my very best mate.
The wavelet had frolicked for hours that day
with no cause at all to be wary
when met by a vision just metres away
so dire and so terribly scary.
A larger wave surging from somewhere behind
could sense little wave’s consternation.
It said, “You look anxious and if you don’t mind
let’s pause for a brief conversation”
“But look at that beach and you’ll see what’s in store,”
said little wave, helplessly crying.
“Those waves up ahead have all crashed on the shore.
I tell you, we waves are all dying!”
The little wave quivered in utter despair.
“I’m frightened to death,” it persisted .
“I know I’ll expire on that sand over there
with nothing to show I existed.”
“Relax”, said the larger wave, “go with the flow,
there’s no need for all this commotion.
You’re not a forgettable ripple, you know…
you’re part of a beautiful ocean.
Jenny said: This poem is based on a tale told by Morrie Schwartz in the book, “Tuesdays with Morrie” by Mitch Albom.
Our special today is the ostrich mornay
on a bed of wild Spanish weeds,
drizzled with slivers of slow-roasted livers
and garnished with shaved parsley seeds.
Served on the side is an elephant hide
in a parcel of puffed pastry wings,
sprinkled with dew from the mists of Peru
and finished with seared apron strings.
What’s that you say? You don’t like mornay?
And you’ll pass on the shaved parsley seeds?
Can it be true that you’re not keen on dew?
And you’ve never thought fondly weeds?
Do we have WHAT? No, I’m sure we do not
Have a single sausage or chip.
But I suppose we could grill a beef tube from Brazil
served with French strings and ocean-salt dip.
Psst. Listen to this, Sis!
I’m going to whisper in your ear,
Because I don’t want Dad to hear.
This secret’s just come straight from Mum:
She’s got a baby in her tum!
No one must know, but you and me
And Mum, of course, but just we three.
I said to Mum I wouldn’t tell,
So you must promise me as well,
Then when Dad hears the baby’s cries,
He’s going to get a huge surprise!
Monty says: Children find secrets so exciting, they do find it hard not to share them.
A schoolboy trudged along one day
late for school but on his way.
Dreamily became aware
of the much polluted air.
Rotting slime and yukky sludge
tadpole eggs and oozing mud.
The smell came from a bunyip near
stalking very quietly in the rear.
‘For ages now,’ the bunyip boomed,
‘beneath the mud I’ve been entombed.’
‘Freed at last by recent rains
I’m suffering dreadful hunger pains.’
‘Although against the usual rule,
I’m very fond of boys from school.’
Its jaws opened in a wide green grin,
Drooling at what could be welcomed in.
‘Please dine with me,’ it begged at last,
‘And help me break this dreamtime fast.’
This offer was declined with haste
the schoolboy lacked the time to waste.
Suggested instead some gumtips tender
followed by trees and a broken fender.
The bunyip took obedient heed
and peacefully settled down to feed.
It ate its way through twenty trees
forty cans and eighty bees.
But because it wouldn’t masticate
indigestion was its fate.
It moaned and groaned in dreadful pain
and swore never to eat as much again.
It writhed and rolled and turned bright green
the sorriest bunyip ever seen.
With legitimate excuse for being late,
the schoolboy reached the schoolyard gate.
Arrived in class with pleased relief
but faced his teacher’s disbelief.
‘The bunyip legend needs no mention
fifty lines and another detention.’
But ever after as a definite rule
that schoolboy was in time for school.
And always it was his guilty fear
that something stalking in the rear
Very vengeful and wide awake
suffering dreadful stomach ache
Still hunted for the tender treat
of a tardy schoolboy ripe to eat.
All traffic jams jump questions.
No one can lose a dog in a hurry.
Therefore every day has a shape.
All fires have a starting-point.
There is only one sky.
Therefore clouds like to move a lot.
All squares have four corners.
Fish rarely swim in circles.
Therefore the ocean may look flat.
Katherine said: Silly Shifts is a response to randomness – good old fun.
Bluster . . .
The sun is warm, the fish are biting
Snapper, squid and shoals of whiting
Ice-cream jingles sound inviting –
Summer’s on its way.
The breeze is up, the current’s running
Tourists bare their legs for sunning
Seagulls stealing chips are cunning –
Summer’s on its way.
The sky is bright, the waves are rolling
Zinc-nosed lifeguards are patrolling
Cricket-crazy kids are bowling –
Summer’s here – let’s play!
Sometimes in the sunshine,
Sometimes in the shade;
Hiking through a forest,
Marching on parade;
Sometimes seeking shelter,
When the sun is hot;
Sometimes craving sunshine,
When the weather’s not.
Sometimes we are wanting
Warmth upon our skin;
Other times we’re wearing
What can keep warmth in.
When the weather changes,
We start changing too.
So it seems the weather
Tells us what to do!
Monty says: Thinking about sunshine, I began reflecting on how our varied experience of it constantly affects us. Using brief couplets seemed to underline the changeable nature of the weather and our response to it.
Australian Children’s Poetry 