Just imagine if this was where
your school concert took place!
With lots of gold everywhere,
you’d be in a magic space.
Picture yourself up on the stage —
what would you dance or sing?
With mums and dads in every box,
the applause would really ring.
Photo of Teatro de Fenice (Venice Opera house) Italy, by Ginette Pestana
(written in the style of a Sestina)
It no longer exists, the thylacine,
though dog-like creature calls,
stripes flick through bush.
Tracking wallaby by scent,
tail extended behind,
the animal is rarely seen.
Overlooking lightly-wooded scene,
rounded ears pricked, is it a thylacine?
Struck by its kangaroo behind,
many rush to phones, make calls.
Yet few rangers are sent
to check sightings in the bush.
Walkers hike in lonely bush,
dangers not often seen.
But is smell of musk scent
a sign of the thylacine?
Researchers follow up calls,
hoping to sight a striped behind
If they come up behind
a strange wolf in the bush
giving coughing barks or yipping calls,
is it an illusion they’ve seen,
because extinct is the thylacine?
Still they cannot let go of the scent.
Tasmanian trappers noted musk scent
when they followed behind
extended heel tracks of a thylacine.
Where’s proof it exists in the bush?
Do hundreds mistake what they’ve seen?
When others laugh, few make calls.
ARFRA* records all calls,
hurries to chase up a scent,
wants hard proof of what’s been seen.
One day they hope to sneak up behind
the strange creature frequenting the bush
to identify without doubt the thylacine.
In time, with calls, a brown striped behind,
peculiar scent in the bush,
proof will be seen of the extinct thylacine.
Image from Digital Classroom.
Note: *Australian Rare Fauna Research Association, website
https://www.facebook.com/AUSRFRA/.
A sestina consists of six stanzas, of six lines each, and a
concluding tercet. The end word of each line of the first stanza is
repeated in succeeding stanzas and tercet in a strict order.
This is the medal for mums.
For conspicuous bravery
in the face of children.
For selfless service
to every nation.
For unnumbered lifetimes
of sacrifice.
But most of all,
for love.
For ever.
Photo from Pexels by Daria Obymaha
You bought us in Summer when we were sparkly new:
brilliant white, shiny bright with a stripe of navy blue.
You took us to netball; you took us to the pool.
We went on an excursion, a casual day at school.
We got a little grimy; we got a little worn,
a scratch on the left heel; one lace was partially torn.
We played in the garden. We trudged on a hike.
We toured around the neighbourhood, pedalling on your bike.
We got a little tawdry; our tread was worn down low,
a scuff here, a mark there; a hole in one toe.
We stomped in muddy puddles. We danced in the rain.
We got a little water-logged. We got a little stained.
As we sit on the backstep, we’re hardly sparkly new.
We’re a muddy sort of brown with a faded stripe of blue.
But if we could have our druthers, I’m sure we’d rather be
nothing more than what we are: your favourite pair of shoes.
It’s when the snow is all around,
and leaves slide silent to the ground.
It’s when the river turns to ice
and skating on it might be nice.
It’s when the soup is brimming warm
and outside stays the storm.
It’s when the birds cease their choir
and your feet are by the fire.
Photo in Bavaria, Germany, by Ginette Pestana
A bugle in the frosty dawn,
each note hanging in the air,
then falling into silence
like the guns did, over there.
A voice recites a poem,
the vast crowd standing hushed;
every head is bowed,
every soul is touched.
Soon the men will march,
their memories aflame,
their banners held aloft,
each battle has a name.
And we who watch will know
that what we have was born
in blood and sacrifice,
on that first grim Anzac morn.
Photo from Pexels by Pixabay
The trees are stark and bare in winter,
Mist curls around their feet.
The brooks are running fast and pooling deeply
Where the waters meet.
The sleepy twilight sends the day to flight,
And the bush slides into night.
Winter’s chill seeps down into the gorges,
And all is lost to sight.
Mountain ridges smudge the distance
In the cold grey light.
But soon enough the bush will wake to spring,
And the bellbirds’ chimes will ring.
Image from Pexels by Warren Griffiths
In the rich man’s grave, carved from the hill,
two men laid the body: dead and still.
Sabbath night and day followed Friday afternoon.
Jesus’ body (off the cross) – lay cold in the tomb
Mary came grieving in darkness on Sunday.
Then, pink dawn-light showed – the stone rolled away!
She told John and Peter and they ran ahead,
“They’ve taken him somewhere!” Mary said.
Peter walked in. John waited outside.
The body was gone but the cloths left behind…
The men went back home.
Mary came to the tomb.
She peered in and saw two angels were there.
“Where did you put him? Where, oh where?”
Behind her a man asked, “Why are you weeping?”
Perhaps he’s the gardener... “Who are you seeking?”
“Where have you put him?” she asked as she cried.
He said, “Mary!”
“Rabboni!” She smiled.
Bible reference: John 20:11-16
*Sabbath = Saturday *Rabboni = teacher
Image from Stockcake
A skip and a hop,
a jump and a run,
Easter Sunday
is mega fun!
The eggs are hidden
everywhere,
up in trees,
under the stair.
Some are green,
some are red,
some are even
under my bed.
I’ll have a feast when
my search is complete;
and save the rest
for my friends to eat.
Photo from Pexels by Boris Manev
Australian Children’s Poetry 