I can
Banana bend
Licorice twist
Jelly wibble wobble.
See me
Caterpillar creep
Snake slither
Deer dash and dart.
I am
Rock steady
Tree tall
River rush and flow.
Love this
Body mine
Body strong
This moving marvel.
First Published in Blast Off July 2005
Polly Packer picked a pile of pickled peppers
outweighing the paltry peck that Peter chose.
Poor Peter Piper’s paused his pepper picking
and all he picks at present is his nose.
Jenny said: The prompt word, “pickle” reminded me of the famous old tongue-twister involving Peter Piper and his pickled peppers. The challenge was to find enough new words starting with “p” to retain a tongue-twister character.
Peter Peckle…
Peter Piper picked a peckle…
If Peter pickled peppers picked…
I’m in a pickle that Peter Piper picked
and I can’t un-pickle this peckled pipple.
And why would Peter Piper pick a peck of pickled peppers
when pickled peppers are so repulsive?
Melanie said: My family were having some fun with tongue twisters just before this writing prompt came out. After the kids were feeling frustrated with all the mistakes they were making, they came to the conclusion that pickled peppers would be disgusting, and this justified not being able to recite Peter Piper.
What goes up
and never down?
When you’re born,
you count me in
race me on,
only occasionally forget me.
When you’re old,
I’m still growing.
What am I?
Answer:
Balanced on the end of a twig,
raging river below,
tree canopy above,
can’t climb back,
mustn’t fall down.
halfway between:
earth and sky,
falling and stuck,
alive and dead.
need nerves of steel,
a sharp brain,
monkey muscles.
this boy buccaneer
should have eaten
that basin of spinach,
broccoli and seaweed,
or he should never
have followed
his fog-brained idea
to climb this tree
in the first place.
My lunch for school’s a mystery box and here’s the reason why:
I cannot guess just what’s inside, however hard I try.
There’s something different every day: Mum treats it as a game.
The only thing I’m sure about: no day will be the same.
If Monday’s roll has Vegemite, then Tuesday’s might have jam.
A sandwich made for Wednesday’s lunch might well be beef or ham.
On Thursday then, a salad wrap could be the big surprise,
But one school lunch on Friday something shocking met my eyes:
My mystery box was oozing with a greenish-yellow trickle!
There must have been a mix-up with Dad’s favourite: cheese and pickle!
While Dad enjoyed my peanut paste spread on his bread with honey,
My sandwich had an awful taste. Don’t laugh. It wasn’t funny!
Monty says: I didn’t like pickle at all as a child and would have been horrified to find it in my school lunch.
I admire you,
I really do.
But do you think
my head was made
as a perch
for a cockatoo?
Published in The Caterpillar, Issue 11 Winter 2015
(after the poem, ‘A Boy’s Head’ by Miroslav Holub)
In it there is a dream
that was started
before she was born,
and there is a globe
with hemispheres
which shall be happy.
There is her own spacecraft,
a chosen dress
and pictures of her friends.
There are shining rings
and a maze of mirrors.
There is a diary
for surprise occasions.
There is a horse springing hooves
across the sky.
There is a sea
that tides and swells
and cannot be mapped.
There is untold hope
in that no equation exactly
fits a head.
From Poetry Street 3 (Sale & Orme, 1991)
Katherine said: Looking back at Poetry Prompts, I thought about #19 with its buzz of questions. And I alighted on questions about what goes on in a girl’s head. Actually, I wrote this in response to Miroslav Holub’s poem ‘A Boy’s Head’. The thing about poetry, it usually asks more questions than it answers, but that’s useful.
Help! I’m in a pickle.
The pickle’s in a jar;
The jar is in a hamper
On the back seat of a car.
We’re going to a picnic
I don’t know what to do:
When they eat the pickles up,
I’ll be eaten, too.
This is a disaster.
They think it’s just a lark
To hear birds sing and nibble things
Down at the local park.
I’m really in a pickle;
I must get a message through.
If I can’t send this call for help,
I’ll be chomped in two!
Jessica Said: I usually write poems in two stages. I’ll have an initial blaze of inspiration, during which most of the writing happens. Then I’ll let the writing stew over the following days (or weeks), making small changes until it feels right.
My mate Wally had a collie that he gave the name of Molly
And he thought it would be jolly to pull Molly on a trolley,
But poor Molly, when she tried it, was determined not to ride it,
So that once it hit a bump, she decided she would jump.
Now when Molly left the trolley she soon showed me Wally’s folly,
For without the weight of Molly even faster went the trolley
And while Wally tried to race it, he was failing to outpace it,
So it quickly knocked him over, but with luck he fell on clover.
Soon he had a lick from Molly who felt sorry for poor Wally,
But both Wally and his collie just ignored the upturned trolley,
Then with Wally’s heels near bleeding and the collie always leading,
They went back to where they started and much wiser I departed.
Monty says: The prompt had me thinking about the different breeds of dogs and their various temperaments. I then saw the possibilities for some humorous rhyme, featuring a gentle intelligent collie.
Australian Children’s Poetry 