Now that’s what I call a house,
with lots of space for everyone.
Lots of stairs to run up and down,
and a room on the roof just for fun.
I could play my music really loud —
Mum and Dad wouldn’t hear it at all.
My siblings would be out of my way,
at the other end of a long, long hall.
But when it’s time for dinner,
there’s a problem I can see:
by the time I went down all that way
there’d be nothing left for me!
English stately home. Photo by Ginette Pestana
Eight hours, eight hours of sleep is best
to keep us healthy. Give us rest.
Eight hours brings opportunities
to strengthen our immunities.
To fight off winter’s colds and ‘flu.
Protecting us from cancer too.
For young and old; both short and lanky
lack of sleep can make us cranky.
Take away that eight-hour chunk
and brains act like they’re getting drunk!
Eight hours, eight hours of sleep a day
helps keep us well, live long and play.
Image from Pixabay
Summer has arrived and it’s hot, hot, hot!
Grab your togs and towel, I know a great spot.
To the beach we’ll go for a swim in the sea.
Playing in the waves will cool us down, you’ll see.
Let’s take the blue esky to have a picnic lunch.
I’ll pack some wraps and fruit to have a tasty munch.
We’ll lay down the checkered rug under shady trees
And eat our plums and cherries in the ocean breeze.
Then it will be time to find the ice-cream shop.
I’ll have macadamia – topped with the lot!
As our scorching summer day comes to a close
A thunder storm might cool us down and give the town a hose.
Image from Pexels
With watercolours or oil,
the choice is up to you.
The canvas is totally blank,
just like a day that’s new.
Perhaps you’ll draw with pencil,
or sketch with pen and ink,
why not give charcoal a go —
then sit back and see what you think.
With every single brushstroke,
with every line you draw,
you’ll create an image
that’s unmistakably yours.
Famous painter Hans Heysen’s studio at Hahndorf, South Australia. Photo by Ginette Pestana
Some call him
Father Christmas,
Some call him
Saint Nick.
Others say he’s
Santa Claus –
We just want him to come
QUICK!
Photo from Pexels by Daniel Reche
LOTS to celebrate in December! Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Christmas, St. Nicholas Day, Bodhi Day, Las Posadas and of course the summer/winter solstice. Wherever you and whatever you celebrate let us know by sending in your poems to ozchildrenspoetry@gmail.com.
Please note the website will not be checked regularly over the Christmas/New Year period but will start up again around January 10th.
And this will be my final post before handing over the reigns to the very capable hands of Linda Davidson and Celia Berrell. Both have been staunch supporters of ACP and have contributed some wonderful poetry to the site.
Thank you to everyone who has posted, liked or subscribed over the past two years! Keep your wonderful poems coming in 2026 and beyond. Have a safe and happy holiday season.
Photo from Pexels by Susanne Jutzeler, suju-foto
Oh what a lovely swamp —
I can hear things going ker-plomp!
And even though it’s blue on top,
underneath it’s slop-slop-slop.
Birds swoop low, fish dive deep,
crocodiles open their eyes for a peek.
The trees haven’t seen their roots for years
and nothing is really what it appears.
It’s all very murky and muddy in there,
and who knows what will come up for air?
Undara, North Queensland. Photo by Ginette Pestana
If I were a koala,
how happy I would be.
I’d have one branch for dinner,
and another one for tea.
There’d be no washing up,
and nothing else to do:
so I’d curl up nice and high,
and sleep an hour or two.
Photo from Pexels by Flip Side
Tiny Dreamtime children, imprisoned in the earth,
pierce the little tree roots to sip sap beneath the dirt.
For seven years, cicada grubs, as they scratch and dig,
keep getting so much bigger, keep popping off their skin.
One final time, they’re out – up a fence, up a trunk, up a shed.
I collect the shells they’ve left, when their lead-light wings have spread
“Buzz buzz buzz,” they brush past my nose.
All-day the raucous chorus is a non-stop drone.
Above my ringing ears on twigs and sticks and leaves
a thousand bodies cling and rain their yellow wee on me.
Every year they deafen us. The noise is really bad –
crying for their mothers, screaming for their dads.
But, this year there are – none.
I’m surprised that I feel sad.
Where have the mad things gone?
Yellow Mondays, Green Grocers,
Black Princes, Cherry Noses
Much as they annoy me,
I hope that they’ll be back.
Without the story’s children,
so noisy, rude, and fun,
the hush of their absence
says that summer hasn’t come.
*Cicada Dreaming was told to Roland Robinson in 1965 by Julia Charles of the Yoocum Yoocum clans from the area around Wollumbin in the headwaters of the Tweed River, Northern NSW, Australia, and is used with permission.
Photo from Pexels by Ali Soheill
It was hiding in the bush,
where only eagles soar;
it was hiding in the bush,
but I could hear its distant roar.
At first I saw a stream,
it looked nothing much at all,
then farther on I walked
and found the waterfall:
plunging over lava
the massive torrent fell,
tumbling to a chasm,
it held me in its spell.
And that was when I wondered
where else could I go,
and discover more surprises
than I could ever know!
Big Millstream Falls, Australia’s widest single drop waterfall, 5 km from Ravenshoe, North Queensland. Photo by Ginette Pestana
Australian Children’s Poetry 