Death’s Kaleidoscope

The master of pain is prominent in Dachau,

Perfecting a frown on a gaunt and shrivelled face,

Playing unconscionable games with my beautiful mother,

Reminding me I’ll be next if I survive a few more years,

Debating death is like an alluring melody hammered inside my head.

Violins bring a magical essence of self achievement,

Comforting disheartened and shattered hearts,

But I was not permitted to bring anything with me,

Without my violin I feel incredibly lonely,

Unable to let out my suffering through music,

Hitler has taken away my purpose.

An undefined soldier waltzes over to my mother,

Raising his brutal fist above her emaciated back,

Characteristically, my brother and I intervene,

A cacophony of sounds sprint through my ears,

My mother’s unrelenting and mortifying screaming,

A haunting laugh from my mocking captor,

The resonating sound of a newly-fired gun.

Death entangles its lanky arms around my heart,

Draining my crimson liquid onto the frozen ground,

Leaving three distinct colours for all to contemplate,

Dazed red, for the shapes I see from tear filled eyes,

Blotched grey, for a monstrously mislead Germany,

Cumulus white, for the colour on my dying brother’s face,

The shifting pattern of colours lingers momentarily, then dies.

© Sarah Jaeger

Winner Dorothea Mackellar Poetry Competition – Upper Primary, 2014

They Danced in the Town

Grandmother Mulligan never left the house,

not once in ninety-eight years.

She could hardly talk and she could not walk –

but, she still had a very fine time,

oh yes, she still had a very fine time.

For every night as she slept, her nose crept away,

and danced in the town with her ears, her ears.

Danced in the town with her ears.

Little old lady, Penelope Simms,

had aches in her toenails and all of her limbs.

Her back was hunched, her walk was slow –

there wasn’t much difference from Stop and Go –

but, she still had a very fine time,

oh yes, she still had a very fine time.

For every night as she slept, her toes crept away,

and danced in the town with her ears, her ears.

Danced in the town with her ears.

Dear old Doddie had a clapped out body,

she was wrapped in a plaster cast.

She could not itch, she could not twitch,

her life was fading fast –

but, she still had a very fine time,

oh yes, she still had a very fine time.

For every night as she slept, her nose crept away,

and danced in the town with her ears, her ears.

Danced in the town with her ears!

© Bill Condon

Fear

I’ve never dreaded witches

Who look such dreadful frights,

Flying over ditches

On dark and windy nights.

I never shake if fingers

Touch my face at night,

If of course it lingers

I then turn on the light.

I just ignore the bogies

Lurking in the dark,

Packs of fat old fogies

Looking for a lark.

If I ever saw a lion

I’d punch him on the nose.

I’ve nerves of steel and iron

As everybody knows.

I don’t believe in being scared

I’ve never seen a ghost,

For creepy tales I’ve never cared,

And that’s my favourite boast.

I’ve proved that I’m the bravest

Of super heroes still,

So why does that stupid dentist

Still scare me with his drill?

oooOooo

© Margaret Pearce

Email: mpearceau@gmail.com

The Echidna

An echidna passed across a track

heading towards a special snack.

A naturalist muttered,‘What a turn!

About this creature, I’ve got to learn.’

He kneeled to take a closer look

the echidna swung with strong right hook.

And it was such a heavy clout

it nearly knocked the watcher out.

The echidna curled into a prickly ball

snarling, ‘I don’t like you at all.’

The naturalist cried and mused upon

what it was that he’d done wrong.

He only wanted to see first hand

the weirdest creature in the land.

The echidna uncurled and stalked away

grumbling at his ruined day.

And idiots too dumb to know

you always let echidnas go –

About their business digging holes

and eating ants from salad bowls.

Or snuffling around a great big mound

Where tasty termites are always found.

To spare echnida watchers’ pain,

the moral of this tale is plain.

Always remember it’s very rude

to keep echidnas from their food.

© M. Pearce

email: mpearceau@gmail.com

Little Brother

Don’t yell or shout

Don’t be stupid

And fall about

The noise – the pain

Like stabbing knives,

or hail, or rain,

Push and shove

You never care

A monster,

To pull my hair.

I can’t stand you

I’m smothered

You are my painful,

nasty,

little brother.

© Nardia Kelly

nardiakelly@gmail.com

A Bird Unique

Hoo hoo hoo, and he haw hay
laughed the Kooka on his way.

After him the Magpies chased
winging past in reckless haste.

What was it that the Kooka heard
to cause the Magpies get so stirred?

An ornithologist rushed to meet
a Magpie walking on two sore feet.

‘I’m scared to fly,’ the Magpie wailed
‘They laughed at me because I failed.’

He then limped on, a bird unique,
an unhappy agoraphobic freak.

oooOooo

© Margaret Pearce,
mpearceau@gmail.com

Creepy crawly spider

Creepy crawly spider
Hiding in my bed.
Creepy crawly spider
Crawling up my leg.

OOOH! YUCK!
Midnight and no light.
With any luck,
It won’t take a bite.

Creepy crawly spider
You’d best be on your way.
I’m about to cry,
If you don’t go away.

I am feeling itchy.
It’s not the time to sneeze.
Stay still and don’t flinch,
When it’s crawling on my knees.

Creepy crawly spider
I don’t like you.
Time to say goodbye.
SHOO! SHOO!

It’s growing bigger by the moment.
A massive, humungous thing.
I am lying here frozen,
Waiting for its sting.

Creepy crawly spider
I think I’m going to die.
I must take it in my stride,
As I say my last goodbye.

Then from across the room,
A flying wooden broom.
My sister saves the day
And makes the spider pay.

SPLOCH! SPLAT!
Squishy and flat.
It happened so fast
And I’m free at last.

What joy. Hooray.
My sister may be three.
She’s the hero of the day.
Wouldn’t you agree?

© Bonnie Lewis

NOTE: Poems are always being sought for this site. Please email them to dibates@outlook.com You can also include a biographical note with your contact details, if you wish.

Bird Watch

I find it disconcerting

alarming and alerting

the unashamed asserting of their glee

It is true they sound impressive

if not manic and aggressive

then undoubtedly excessive definitely

Their reaction is confusing

as I’m not at all amusing

it’s my ego they are bruising carelessly

Don’t they know it’s impolite

taking unabashed delight

cracking up at all in sight hysterically

With their cacophonic chorus

piercing skin that’s thin and porous

you would think that they abhor us certainly

But apparently this bird

whose refrain is so absurd

was created to confer a word of warning

To the spirits who reply

to the Kookaburra’s cry

lighting up the inky sky at dawn each morning

© Jackie Hosking

A Crocodile Called Burt

(For Karen)

He’s a funky crocodile,

a chunky crocodile,

a crocodile called Burt.

He’s a fearsome beast,

three metres at least,

he looks sleepy but he is alert.

Just don’t be misled

that he’s tired in bed,

by the sound of his rumbling snores.

If you get too near

you may well disappear

between his chewmungous jaws.

He’s a moving rock,

he’s a common croc,

no pedigree and no frills.

But next door you’ll see

reptile royalty,

two crocs called Kate and Wills!

 There really are two crocodiles named after the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, and they both live with Burt at Crocosaurus Cove, a crocodile sanctuary in Darwin, Australia.) From The Monster Sale (Frances Lincoln, 2013)

ABOUT OUR GUEST POET

Brian Moses lives in the small Sussex village of Burwash with his wife Anne, and a loopy labrador called Honey. He first worked as a teacher but has now been a professional children’s poet for 26 years. To date he has over 200 books published including volumes of his own poetry such as A Cat Called Elvis and Behind the Staffroom Door  (both Macmillan), anthologies such as The Secret Lives of Teachers  and Aliens Stole My Underpants (both Macmillan) and picture books such as Beetle in the Bathroom  and Trouble at the Dinosaur Cafe (both Puffin). Over one million copies of Brian’s poetry books have now been sold by Macmillan. Brian’s blog address is  brian-moses.blogspot.com

Brian’s latest book is School Report

                            The purple pawed parrot of Northern Peru

The purple pawed parrot of Northern Peru

Has got purple paws that aren’t orange or blue.

It isn’t a tiger, a toad or a turtle

But simply a parrot whose paws are all purple.

It lives in the Northern Peruvian jungle

In a Tumbletum tree in a nest made of Fungle.

It isn’t a reindeer, a rabbit or rat,

Just a purple pawed parrot – as simple as that.

It hasn’t a tail; there’s a bend in its beak.

Its eyesight is poor and it squawks with a squeak.

Now, it isn’t a bat or a bear or a boar.

It is only a parrot of purpley paw.

When it’s born it will leap from its nest made from Fungle

In its Tumbletum tree in the North Peru jungle,

But remember – it isn’t a fly, flea or fish.

It is only a parrot pawed purplyish.

There’s a pretty good chance that this parrot pawed purple

Will soar high above, but a chance it will hurtle

Straight down to the ground and be swallowed up whole

By a crafty carnivorous cat down below,

For this cat won’t fly, won’t eat flea, won’t eat fish

And, for him, bat, bear, boar won’t appeal as a dish,

Nor reindeers, rats, rabbits, toads tigers or turtles.

He’ll only eat parrots whose paws are all purple.

© Mike Lucas