We remember the fallen,
Those left behind.
We honour their service,
And why they died.
They paid with their lives,
So we could have more.
They fought and they died
In the War to End Wars.
Lest we forget.
In response to November prompt Remembrance Day.
We have covered him with real flowers
and taken him from country to country.
It’s always the same journey –
people standing in the streets
silently saluting
as we carry him by.
And our hands tremble
under his weight,
our eyes are shocked
by the riddle of tongues
presenting the same paradox
in every country –
the whole human voice as background
shrilled to fever
about keeping the guns at bay.
In response to November prompt Remembrance Day
For five years across the fields
Brutal shells crashed down.
Destruction claimed a savage cost
In every ruined town.
Lethal waves of metal rained,
Stole eight million men.
And when the guns fell silent
They said, “No war again!”
But the hearts of men are dark,
War runs through their veins.
It seems that peace is fragile
Compared with wartime’s aims.
In response to November prompt Remembrance Day
Teacher’s note: When the First World War ended on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day, 1918, everyone called it “the war to end all wars”. Using this poem, students can discuss why wars break out and how we can avoid them in future.
How can those poppies
with flimsy-thin petals
blaze in bright red?
The answer’s now settled.
With three layers of cells
for light to shine through,
the mid-layer is colourless,
leaving just two.
Their red-pigment cells
are packed in a muddle,
shaped like the pieces in
jig-saw puzzles.
With red hues so dense
and gaps in odd ways,
those bobbing field poppies
can dazzle our gaze.
In response to November prompt Remembrance Day
Inspired by https://www.zmescience.com/science/poppy-color-petal-structure-2463625341/
‘How poppy petals create striking colors despite being thinner than your skin’
They’d hoped he’d be back for Christmas –
the lights shining down on him, the tree
somehow shielding off the horror. A break.
The family hadn’t seen him as a soldier,
in his uniform, among harvested paddocks,
the dried stubble that pricked your legs.
Arriving home, he said Merry Christmas,
hugged people and slapped them on the back.
Wandered about the place, eyes crinkled
with strain, lines dug
into his forehead. So young, he seemed
to be either laughing or very sad
as though, in between,
there was nothing.
In response to November prompt Remembrance Day.
Dedicated to Gwen and her Golden Retriever Louie.
The sun is setting
a coloured sky awaits,
“Lets get moving
We cant be late”
We walk and we talk
as we pick up the pace,
towards the sunset
at our sacred place.
To the end of the pier
we arrive at our spot,
out comes the phone
for our nightly shot.
On the way home
I look back and grin
“Thanks for the walk,
Lets do this again”.
Aboard an old steam loco,
many years ago,
the driver and the fireman
worked by the firebox glow.
They stood upon the footplate,
wood layered over steel,
where the engine driver could
control the loco’s wheels.
The fireman shovelled coal —
he had no time to dream —
heating water in the boiler
to keep up lots of steam.
I did not see the cat play dead.
I did not see her on my head—
I did not see her hide inside
My newest hairdo wild and wide.
I did not hear her caterwaul,
Nor see the scratches on the wall,
I did not see her eat the mouse,
Or hide the body ‘neath the house.
I did not give her balls of yarns
Stored up in Grandma’s giant barns,
Nor see her with her claws destroy
Gran’s crochet, with a look so coy,
Nor leap off Grandma’s rocking-chair,
I did not see her anywhere—
I did not see her tip the vase
Of flowers, or upset the jars,
Or scowl to spy the neighbor’s cat,
Or hide under the tall top hat—
All that I saw was clearly that:
The cat sat on the mat.
I wonder who lived here;
I wonder why they went?
What fate struck these pioneers
and left their spirit spent?
They built their dreams to last,
stone by golden stone,
but now these dismal relics
lie ragged and alone.
Teacher’s note: One of many abandoned dwellings in Burra, South Australia.
The monster approaching with giant black eyes
looks hostile and ever so chilling.
Its freaky companion, of frightening size,
is certainly out for a killing.
And standing nearby is another weird creep.
This one’s pretty skinny and hairy.
It must be a zombie, it seems half asleep.
I’ve never seen something so scary.
And here comes a creature with blood-coated jaws
whose stare is quite clearly satanic.
It’s carving the air with its menacing claws
and looks most decidedly manic.
A lot more have gathered and formed into groups,
they’re constantly shrieking or grunting.
Assembled together in nightmarish troops,
They’re focused on scaring and hunting.
The treats have been awesome, the feast’s been a blast,
as always, a night to remember.
Of course, the excitement is not going to last.
Tomorrow’s the start of November.
In response to Celebrations prompt
Australian Children’s Poetry 