If
I was a pin
I’d
pull myself together.
If
I was a bulldozer
I’d
make the grade.
If I was a roof
I’d
be on top of things.
If
I was a poem
I’d
be well-versed.
If
I was a dictionary
I’d
know the meaning of life.
But
I’m a house and
I’m
thick as a brick.
It’s Dad’s night to cook
And I can’t help a shiver.
What kind of yuckfest
Will he dare to deliver?
Last time, it was tripe
In an oniony sauce
With a side dish of sprouts
Boiled to green pulp of course.
Before that were brains
Fried in oil to a mush.
One taste and we gave them
A right royal flush.
Then kidneys and steak
In a pudding, you know.
He left out the steak:
It was kidneys and dough.
So now on the bench
Something slimy pink quivers
And into the bowl
Oozes blood in red rivers.
Dad says, ‘Don’t you fret.
There’s a feast in the making
Like you’ve never seen,
I mean truly breathtaking.’
He stirs and he sautés.
He toasts and he turns.
He dices and spices
And browns till it burns.
We stare at our plates
Dad says, ‘Please try a sliver.’
But whatever is it?
Erk, charred chicken liver!
‘That’s it’, says my mother,
‘Dad’s cooking will stop
Unless it’s a pizza
He buys from the shop.’
Dad seems kind of sad.
We’ve upset him, I think.
But then he turns round
And he gives me a wink.
It’s all been a fake
An ingenious plan…
One I must remember
When I am a man.
It settles on a daisy head
and spreads its wings apart.
This butterfly, it must be said
is quite a work of art.
Colours rich and patterns rife,
a mini Persian rug.
To think it started out in life
an ugly little bug.
Jenny Erlanger
On a whim
one Friday
I decided to paint
the house blue
and yellow stripes
the car black
with white spots
the furniture a
subtle pale pink
my reluctant wife
swirls of green
and the street trees
a striking dull gold
I’d just finished
painting the undercoat
on a patch of sky
when the police arrived
so I decided to paint
them as well
magenta and orange
it wasn’t what they
were keen on
but it was all that
was left in the shed
out the back
We’re off to visit the wizard,
the wizard so wise that he knows
just what to do next
if ever you’re hexed
and the best way to clean between toes.
This wizard does not use a blizzard –
no blizzard, no twister, no snows.
No silly pretext.
No need to be vexed.
Nothing that you might suppose.
This wizard is well worth a visit.
To get there, as everyone knows,
you don’t need a text
that might leave you perplexed.
You’re fine if you follow your nose.
Up, down
round and round;
north, south
homeward bound.
Left, right
make a turn;
front, back
tyres burn.
In, out
read the map;
east, west
wear a cap.
Under, over
climb all day;
keep up or we’ll
lose our way.
Follow the leader,
complete the task;
if we get lost
we can always ASK!
Julie Thorndyke
Julie says: Following directions is a key skill for children starting school. This little poem attempts to help kids understand key concepts and reassure that help is always at hand.
I don’t think my brain has been properly packed.
I’m missing some vital connection.
My other five senses may well be intact
but I’m missing a sense of direction.
I can’t name the cities that lie to the south,
I can’t tell the east from the west.
I start to get nervous and dry in the mouth
when I sit a geography test.
So if you are after directions from me
dismiss the idea from your head,
unless on your trip from town A to town B
you’re prepared for a stop-off at Z.
First published in “Giggles and Niggles” (Haddington Press, 2007)
I’m going to join in a rock band.
What good luck!
I can’t sing.
What bad luck!
I can play the guitar.
What good luck!
I don’t have a guitar.
What bad luck!
Dad’s going to buy me one.
What good luck!
But I have to mow the grass every week.
What bad luck!
We live on a boat.
What good luck!
I have to mow my grandma’s grass.
What bad luck!
She always gives me a present.
What good luck!
Home-made socks.
What bad luck!
I think they’re cool.
What good luck!
But they never fit me.
What bad luck!
They fit my best friend.
What good luck!
But she went to Queensland.
What bad luck!
For a holiday.
What good luck!
It rained the whole time.
What bad luck!
And broke the drought.
What good luck!
And washed away the cricket ground.
What bad luck!
People are raising money.
What good luck!
But I’m broke.
What bad luck!
So I’m going to join a rock band.
All That Is Left
Why did the tree die?
Did it reach a grand old age?
Or did sharp axe cuts
Make its sap
Bleed down the bark
Onto the dry earth?
Years later it still stands
Defiant
Its gnarled branches
Clawing at heaven.
by Elizabeth Cummings
The dawn striped red across the sky
When standing still we gazed upon the sea
Breathing in the silence drawing near
As patriotic flags flapped in the wind
We prayed and thought about this legacy.
Our minds dwelling on the many and the many more
Who gave their lives too soon in all those wars
And their aching families who mourn them yet
And the countries whose pride they to death held dear.
When bearing death, their legacy they gave.
The talking and the praying goes on
The hymns that some still know
And sing in quivering tone and tune
In time as the quiet comes and goes
About this legacy and so a unified conscience grows.
Now the wreaths are being laid down
Beside the twin flag poles
Names are called with due respect
And whilst we hear “the Last Post” played.
We reflect on how their loss to us our freedom gave
When will we know when we have learnt
Through all those lessons that war taught
And whilst we are stirred by native spirit
To all rise to praise the strong and dead
We sing our half-forgotten anthems with our coy pride
As the crowds now make their way
And file past the decorated stones
That mark the lives of those unknown
Whose legacy only our little lives do show
And whose coldness hold warm the hearts of all those left.
Should we not find some better thing
Some meaning for ourselves
Some way to comprehend this gift, this loss
To ask ourselves what bleeding heart, what weeping soul
Can immortalise this bloody legacy.
So take up your arms and leave your soul
To mourn on what was lost
For these memories of the dead will not bring back
Nor lay to rest the passion and the harm
That simmers in these hearts of the mournful young
They will learn in their own time
What it is that harms a man
But if there be but one sole prayer
That we should chant in eternal unison
Be it that this day shall be their legacy for peace.
Australian Children’s Poetry 