Watching ants
By Myra King
Giants are we that see
those little mites
of black and legs
following their tales
of trails
carrying to nest
their loads at least
the weight of three
but a mere grain
to you and me
Author Archives: australianchildrenspoetry
Poem of the Day
Leave a commentA Spider’s Dilemma
by Pat Simmons
An arthritic arachnid with eight knobbly knees
Sought medical help for her painful disease.
Her doctor prescribed her with cream to rub in
But the problem was how and just where to begin!
Poem of the Day
Leave a commentKALE
by Kaye Baillie
Kale is not a thing of beauty
matt deep green leaves
as dark as night
their underside a network
of wrinkled veins.
Washed
ready for the pot
but there is a surprise!
Glistening glass-like watery jewels
shine and shiver
trapped in membrane pockets
soon to be darkened leaves
again.
Poem of the Day
Leave a commentThe call of the wind
by Teena Raffa-Mulligan
The wind whispered softly through grass and through gum.
She heard it call clearly, invitingly, “Come!”
Felt fingers of freshness caressing her face,
ruffling her fur with such gentle embrace.
The earth had a freshness that comes after rain
and she heard the wind calling, again and again:
“Come and run with me, seek freedom, take flight!”
Its call roused a longing to know such delight.
It whispered so softly, in murmur so low.
It beckoned her, “Come,” and she wanted to go.
To forage in green grass new-kissed by the rain,
to taste of its sweetness and know once again
how it feels to run freely with life unrestrained,
to run with the wind, by a fence uncontained.
She pricked up her ears, her body was tense.
Her heart filled with longing, she leaped at the fence.
The sweet taste of freedom was brief – incomplete –
for she soon heard the sound of hurrying feet.
Familiar voice calling, she paused in her flight,
heard gentle voice saying, “I know it’s not right.
But sorry, old girl, I can’t let you run free.
If you’re on the loose the ranger might see
And take you away. Then you’d no more know
even brief tastes of freedom – a walk every day.
It’s not much to offer, but home you must stay.”
Poem of the Day
Leave a commentThe Conchers *
by Allan Cropper
I asked my mum, “How will I know
If I do something wrong?”
She told me that my conchers would
Help me to get along.
“Just listen to your conchers and
you’ll know what you should do.”
I don’t know who my conchers are.
Some people I once knew?
“Where will I find my conchers, Mum?
Are they under my bed?
Are conchers real or make believe?
Are they inside my head?”
And then one day I heard a voice
That stopped me on the spot.
“If I were you I’d think again.
Perhaps you just should not”.
I looked around, no one was there
to say a single word.
I knew then that my conchers were
the voices that I heard.
“Listen to your heart” is the
advice that I now give.
I think that deep within the heart
is where the conchers live.
* Conscience
Poem of the Day
Leave a commentSorry Notes
by Helen Hagemann
In the morning when I walked outside
it was like stepping back into a previous
spring, one year ago, and counting on ten
fingers the number of mice our male cat
had dropped at the back door. So I wasn’t
surprised this year to see another mouse,
already in rigor mortis, forepaws together
as if in prayer; exhaustion showing on its
face, as if flung from a far universe
and the intensity of a cat’s playful tease.
So now, with notebook and pen, I’m writing
sorry notes to all the dead mice whose souls
must have lifted up that day from their small
graveyard of parsley, basil or mint. And a
final “sorry” to the latest offering, its tiny
grey coat pasted on terracotta; held there for
the author’s pen to record, either from pity or
sympathy, one word the mouse would never hear.
Poem of the Day
Leave a commentMILKSHAKE MAN
By John Williams
I am an extraordinary dairy man,
I really give that milk a shake,
I whir it on my mixer,
I think you should partake.
I have such scrumptious flavours,
I’ll put a dob of ice-cream in,
Your taste buds will go ballistic,
Just after you begin.
There you go, drink it up,
Well, what do you think of that?
I think it tastes so very nice,
But, will it make me fat?
Poem of the Day
Leave a commentIn or Out?
By Nadine Cranenburgh
(Can be sung to the tune of ‘Do Your Ears Hang Low?’)
Is your belly button in, like a dimple in your skin?
Can you pull it down to frown? Can you pull it up to grin?
When you stretch your tummy tight, does it disappear from sight?
Is your belly button in?
Is your belly button out? Can you wiggle it about?
When you roll your tummy down, is it like a puppy’s snout?
If you poke it right in, then, does it pop straight out again?
Is your belly button out or in?
Poem of the Day
Leave a commentQuestions about Wasps
by Helen Hagemann
Each morning, a wasp starts out as a lone traveller
heading into the garden, its hind legs dangling and
trailing in the wind. These moments are an eloquent
gesture of nature, the wasp on a journey into nectar,
jazzing up noisy wings, talkative as the bumble bee
already in the Fuchsia. There are many questions you
might want to ask, yet the only one you do know is
that wasps sting, especially late summer if you have
a fly swat or rolled newspaper in your hand.
Yet you’re curious about this eager garden traveller, like
a fly-in miner, flying out. Is he copying the tiger with
all those stripes on his back? Is he the bee’s rival, as he
hovers in mimicry? Is it to camouflage pincers in wax flowers
or to fool the bumble bee into thinking he is one of him?
And why does this busy wasp follow from petal to stamen
and stamen again, and not the other way around? What about
his paper-mache home, is that in the roof? Is he building
a colony of one hundred wasps, damaging the beams?
You guess that wasps are designed to make you think. So,
wondering about that loud buzzing noise as he backs out of
a bud, is he imitating the operatic bee who comes out singing?
Poem of the Day
Leave a commentEVENING IN BERKELEY
by Anne Bell
Late sunlight tight-ropes across roof-tops
and maple trees finger a no-colour sky,
searching for not-yet stars;
on the side-walks
ginkos let fall their memories of summer
for the wind to riffle through,
and the scent of pancakes and coffee and chilli con carne
comes hurrying down the street.
Somewhere, out of sight,
a saxophone stands on tip-toe for a note –
and the thought of tomorrow sings in my heart.
A version of this poem was first published in “The Voice” (NSW Speech and Drama Assoc.)
Australian Children’s Poetry 