Author Archives: australianchildrenspoetry

Beach Bottle by Monty Edwards

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Beach Bottle

 

The bottle looked lost as it lay on the sand.

Perhaps it had fallen from somebody’s hand.

It seemed to be empty, but still had its lid

Whoever had dropped it must know that they did.

Or had it been lost from the deck of a boat,

With air trapped inside having helped it to float,

Until borne by the waves and washed up by the tide

It was left on the beach at the end of its ride?

 

Still, no one had claimed it. The bottle was mine!

It looked to have once held some cider or wine.

I bent down and grasped it, then held it up high

To check if inside it was thoroughly dry.

I found it not empty as first I had thought,

But rather, inside was a note of some sort!

I opened and read what was written within:

“Please take this old bottle and throw in the bin.”

 

Monty Edwards

 

Monty says: While working on this poem for the bottle prompt a second poem using a different approach to the same prompt was conceived.

Cuttle Wish by Celia Berrell

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Cuttle Wish

 

Cuttlefish arms are in the place

where most of us would have a face.

Front-on they look like elephants

with lots and lots of tiny trunks.

 

Their skin can change its colouring

to make their bodies blend right in.

Their eyes have slits like wavy lines

instead of pupils round like mine.

 

Safe in their see-through eggy shell

Cuttlefish babies see quite well.

Before they’re old enough to hatch

they’ve seen the food they wish to catch!

Celia Berrell

Celia said: At birth, human babies have blurry vision.  It takes a while to master how to focus on different things.  In contrast, a cuttlefish’s eyes are fully developed before they hatch from their see-through egg.  Just imagine being able to see all the food you want eat floating by … but you can’t get to it!  Is that like having a blurred appetite?

 

 

Lucky by Kristin Martin

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Lucky

 

My class is so lucky.

This term we’re learning about life cycles,

so my teacher brought in some tadpoles-

three big black commas

swimming around in a plastic aquarium

right beside our desks.

 

We named them

Freddo,

Kermit

and Spot.

 

Freddo was the first to grow

stumps

legs

more legs

then his tail shrunk

until his body was a fat full stop.

 

‘But what do we do with our frog?’

asked Mrs Chugg with a frown.

My hand shot up quicker than a speeding mosquito.

‘I’ve got a pond!’

So, she poked some holes in a butter tub

and sent Freddo home with me.

‘Lucky duck,’ said Ben.

 

I carried my precious passenger

down the street

around the back

then knelt beside our weedy pond

and gently tipped him in.

 

Freddo swam to a lily pad

half scrambled on and gazed around

at the water

reeds

insects

and grassy bank

before frog-kicking into the murky depths.

 

Compared to Kermit and Spot

with their four plastic walls,

I’d say he’s pretty lucky.

Kristin Martin

Art Class by June Perkins

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 For Vincent Van Gough’s  ‘The  Starry,  Starry Night’

 

Outlines crash into swirls

Miss Del Amico asks, what do you see?

Is that a sky of blue curls?

Outlines crash into swirls

Time to dive for some pearls

Will I find this painting’s key?

Outlines crash into swirls

Miss Del Amico asks, what do you see ?

 

 

Forgetting How to Ride a Bike by Virginia Lowe

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Forgetting how to ride a bike

 

My father loved the stars

In another life,

permitted education,

his facility with numbers

might have made him

a famous astronomer

instead of an accountant

See that bright one?

That’s Beetle-juice

I remember him telling

Yes, I’d say meekly

wishing to please

But I couldn’t of course

It was all just fuzzy blobs

 

See that milkbar on the corner?

No I said. Didn’t want to be sent

somewhere I couldn’t see

Stupid child! they thought

It never occurred to them

that I really couldn’t see.

 

So on my seventh birthday

a bicycle purple painted,

with Virginia

in gold down the crossbar

the most beautiful bike ever seen

I was terrified

to ride it, I couldn’t see

where I was going,

what was in front

I walked it to school

to Brownies after school

to have it admired,

to show it off

but I couldn’t actually ride it.

 

Six months later

my myopia finally spotted by a teacher

I learned to ride with my new glasses

I was never very good

never enthusiastic

never worthy of the bike’s beauty

The skill now long forgotten

Virginia Lowe

Virginia said: I was myopic (short sighted) from birth, but no one realised until a teacher called my parents when I was seven. I didn’t know of course – that’s just how the world was – it didn’t occur to me that it might look different to different people.  After I got glasses I was fine – but never really confident riding a bike, however beautiful the bike was. Now I’m old. When they removed the cataracts from my eyes, they fixed the myopia as well, so no more glasses! There are some things I miss though, especially the pattern of circles of light through a dense leaf canopy. But now I can see the birds instead. I’ll never go back to bike riding though.

I first wrote this poem in response to a prompt on another poetry site, Silver Birch Press. The prompt was ‘learning to ride a bike’. It will fit into my autobiography in verse (not yet published) A Myopic’s Vision.

Would I chance it, Stephen? by Kate O’Neil

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Would I chance it, Stephen?

 

Certainly not. You’re more likely to drown

if you swim under skies that are murky and brown.

And what’s that fence here for? Who cares if it’s green.

I’m more concerned with its ungainly lean

and its reason for being here. Something’s not right.

It belongs somewhere else (and would look better white) –

which prompts me to wonder just where it has been.

Did it come in a storm? What’s it all mean?

Blue bottles on beaches don’t appeal either,

glass ones or stinging ones. I insist neither

of these little dangers should ever be seen

on a beach where I swim; I’m a stickler for “clean”.

And one other thing: there’s no one else here;

I like to know that a life-guard is near.

That settles the matter. I wouldn’t go in.

I’d choose somewhere else for my holiday swim.

 

But if you’re inspired by your re-arranged mess

the outcome, I’d say, is anyone’s guess.

 

Kate O’Neil

Charlie’s Lunch by Jill McDougall

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Charlie’s Lunch

 

Oops!

I’ve got my brother’s lunchbox

With The Wiggles on the lid,

He must have picked up mine instead

(He’s just a little kid.)

So Charlie’s got my health bar

And my favourite yoghurt snack,

And I’ve got little kiddie lunch –

Too late to change it back.

I could go and see the teacher,

But she’ll say, “Don’t bother me,”

I guess I’m stuck with Charlie’s lunch,

I’ll be half starved by three.

 

Here we go….what is this stuff?

One tin of custard pears,

Two egg and lettuce sandwiches

Cut into tiny squares,

Three cherry drops with jelly tops,

Four skinny carrot sticks,

Five cubes of watermelon, no,

You’d better make that six.

And right down at the bottom is-

What’s this! A chocolate crunch!

WOW!

Where’s my place? I need some space,

I’m having Charlie’s lunch.

 Jill McDougall

The Battle by Margaret Pearce

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THE BATTLE

 

On a Monday wet and cool,

I decided on a day off school.

 

‘Get up at once,’ my mother said,

So I threw up all over the bed.

 

I groaned about feeling really horrid,

She only had to feel my forehead.

 

I knew I was sick with something contagious,

But her disbelief was really outrageous.

 

I clung to my bed, so she just got meaner,

And bashed me with the vacuum cleaner.

 

The blood that flowed from my bleeding nose,

She washed away with the garden hose.

 

She hit me with the old straw broom,

And kept chasing me from room to room.

 

At last she drove me out of the house,

And called me a dirty conniving louse.

 

I threatened to fling myself under the bus,

Determined to end this dreadful fuss.

 

When thrown on the bus with a parting curse,

I knew that life couldn’t get much worse.

 

Still dripping blood, an awful bother,

The driver threw me back to mother.

 

Didn’t she scowl as she made the decision,

That I could stay home and watch television.

 

Margaret Pearce

Message in a Bottle by Jeanie Axton

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Message in a bottle

Message in a bottle

Sent from a land far away

Message in a bottle

In the sand to stay

Message in a bottle

Special words inside

Message in a bottle

The sea no longer hides

Message in a bottle

Out there for all to see

Message in a bottle

Is this message sent to me?

Jeanie Axton

Ultrasonic Singers by Celia Berrell

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Ultrasonic Singers

 

Mice are nice

to keep as pets.

They’re quiet little things.

But when they’re happy

you can bet

your pet mice like to sing.

 

Their complex songs

both short and long

make each mouse quite unique.

So other mice

know in a trice

who made that special squeak.

 

Our ears can’t hear

their high-pitched trill.

Mice sing in ultra-sound.

But sneaky cats

will get a thrill

to hear that food’s around!

 

Celia Berrell
  • Celia writes poems about science topics, aimed at upper primary-age students.  The CSIRO’s Double Helix children’s science magazine has been publishing her science poems since 2010.