The fires came through the other day,
blazing fierce, no warning given.
A careless spark, a flash of red,
and then it grew, by strong winds driven.
It jumped the road, it charred the land,
firefighters fought it, no houses lost.
But this was home to wildlife too;
in terms of them, who’ll count the cost?
After the Dean fire near Creswick, Victoria. Image courtesy of Gina Pestana
Did you call me a grasshopper?
No way; I’m a cricket.
I’m one of two hundred eggs
my mum laid in the soil.
Do you reckon I look
like a mini-adult?
Sure I do because I shed my skin
as I grow and get a new one.
Notice I don’t fly much at all?
Why? Because I can’t––
my wings are too small.
See, I jump, jerk my way around.
Notice the tooth-like bits on my wings?
Only males have them. Listen, I can
rub them together. Hear a chirping sound?
It attracts the cricket chicks.
Ever heard me chirping at night?
That’s because I’m a nocturnal guy
and coldblooded so I liven up in the warm.
I’m warm now––hear me chirp.
Look out, here comes a lizard!
Hide me––I don’t want to be its snack.
Or a frog’s, a big spider’s or a tortoise’s.
Me, I love yummy fungi, plants, insects.
See my fancy compound eyes?
They let me look in many directions at once.
Check out my antennae, my feelers––
they pick up movement, help me catch prey.
Japanese and Chinese people reckon
I bring good luck. So make sure you’re nice to me.
Image from Pexels by Johnny Mckane
The heat, the heat, the horrible heat
Crack an egg out on the street
Don’t like egg with gravel on it?
Fry the next one on the car bonnet!
Image from Pexels by Fabio Partenheimer
How long have you stood there,
by whose hand were you made?
Your slabs were rough hewn,
but carefully laid
into place, long ago,
still standing but weathered,
where a drover’s horse
was maybe once tethered.
Tell me, did bushrangers
ever ride by you?
Did farmers’ children
once sit astride you?
What stories you’d whisper
of history and such,
of old pioneers
whose memories we touch.
Photo courtesy of Gina Pestana
I climb on a chair
To brush my hair
Cause the mirror is too high up.
My teeth feel grimy.
I’ll make them shiny
With toothpaste I keep in a cup.
Next is my face.
What a disgrace!
Warm water will do the trick.
“There’s cheese on my chin,”
I say with a grin.
Then wipe it off real quick.
I’m excited today.
I’m ready to play.
And now I look pretty cool.
I jump on the floor,
And head to the door.
“Muumm, I’m ready for school!”
Image from Vecteezy
Where did you come from?
How far did you float?
Too twisted and torn
to come from a boat.
What tide washed you here
and flung you ashore?
If you could but speak,
I’d love to know more.
Looking out to the Tasman Sea from New Zealand. Photo by Ginette Pestana
My nose and eyes were trickling
And my throat was really tickling.
I was coming down with something, I could tell.
And I had this premonition
my particular condition
would be something that was very hard to spell.
I was sure I had an “itis”,
and most probably bronchitis
but the doctor’s looked me over, and I’m told
I don’t have pharyngitis
and I don’t have laryngitis.
What I’ve got is just a simple, common cold.
The new morning
quietly greets the day,
the soft dawning
rippling the bay,
teasing the cloud,
lighting the sky,
boats in a crowd,
and on the shore,
I wonder what the
day will be,
what adventures are
in store for me.
Near Picton, New Zealand. Photo by Ginette Pestana
Australia has been called the lucky country,
Most people have clothes and rarely go hungry.
We are free to vote and have our say,
But is it best to get our own way?
Our multicultural nation is full of colourful people.
We should respect one another and treat them as equal.
With a variety of religion, upbringing and race,
Let’s love one another and show plenty of grace.
Our differences make for vibrant discussion.
There’s so much we can learn from hearing each other.
Try praying for peace as you make some new friends,
And hope for a future where love never ends.
Let’s all come together in twenty, twenty-five,
To listen and learn, then together we’ll thrive.
Image from Vecteezy
There’s a problem, he says, with the doodad.
He’s been trying for hours to install it.
The thingummyjig,
he says is too big
to plug into the whatchamacallit.
Yes, my grandpa has bought a computer
and I know that he’ll find it terrific
but he’s rung me tonight
to say something’s not right.
I just wish he could be more specific.
Australian Children’s Poetry 
