My nose was feeling ugly,
but I knew just the ticket.
I put it in a beauty contest . . .
the judges didn’t pick it.
Bill Condon
If N is for Nose by Lynelle Kendall
Leave a commentIf N is for nose,
And T is for toes,
Then why is it K,
For someone who knows?
Knights have armour,
And knots get tied,
But not if the K,
Decides to hide.
And knives and forks,
Set the spoon on edge,
If the silent K’s,
Left upon a ledge.
I knock with my knuckle,
And kneel on one knee,
With a knack for knitting,
So effortlessly,
But for all my knowledge,
I have to say,
I’d have no knickers,
Without silent K.
By Lynelle Kendall
What the nose knows by Kate O’Neil
Leave a commentI don’t suppose
there is a nose
more famous than
Pinocchio’s.
His snozzle shows
by how it grows,
he’s telling lies.
This tale arose
to caution those
whose porkies pose
a future full
of direst woes.
So why the nose
and not the toes?
The story tells
us how it goes:
Each whopper shows
upon the nose
for all to see;
the whole world knows.
When Nobody is Watching by Celia Berrell
Leave a commentWhen Nobody is Watching
There’s lots of things that you can do
when nobody is watching you.
Play with your food then wipe your hands
all down your front and on your pants.
Or pick your nose, or sniff with glee.
There’s no-one there to see you – see?
Scratch your penknife on the chair
and carve your own initials there.
Pull a thread-long from your clothes
then tie it round your tongue and nose.
Doodle where you shouldn’t scrawl
or stick your gum against the wall.
Bite your nails or suck your thumb …
but look-out for a Peeping Tom!
My Country
Leave a commentToday is a tribute to Dorothea Mackellar.
“On the 24th November, 2017, the Society of Women Writers of NSW, along with donors to the memorial, will gather in Waverley Cemetery at 6pm to ‘unveil’ the substantial marble plaque. This honours the poet, Dorothea Mackellar (1885-1968) with the 8 lines of her most famous stanza from her poem My Country, there for all to see in perpetuity. Her gravesite is close by the ’jewel sea’ of the Pacific Ocean she so lovingly describes”
My Country – Poem by Dorothea Mackellar
The love of field and coppice
Of green and shaded lanes,
Of ordered woods and gardens
Is running in your veins.
Strong love of grey-blue distance,
Brown streams and soft, dim skies
I know, but cannot share it,
My love is otherwise.
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror
The wide brown land for me!
The stark white ring-barked forests,
All tragic to the moon,
The sapphire-misted mountains,
The hot gold hush of noon,
Green tangle of the brushes
Where lithe lianas coil,
And orchids deck the tree-tops,
And ferns the warm dark soil.
Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky,
When, sick at heart, around us
We see the cattle die
But then the grey clouds gather,
And we can bless again
The drumming of an army,
The steady soaking rain.
Core of my heart, my country!
Land of the rainbow gold,
For flood and fire and famine
She pays us back threefold.
Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days,
The filmy veil of greenness
That thickens as we gaze …
An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand
though Earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly
From Fish to Dish by Monty Edwards
Leave a commentWhen you eat a seafood dish,
In it there may be some fish,
These fish must have left their schools,
Since they failed to learn school rules:
Rule One
“If you see a baited hook
Do not take a second look.
Even if the bait looks yummy,
It will never reach your tummy.
You will, on the other hand,
Reach a tummy on the land.”
Rule Two
“Do not swim into a net:
That’s as far as you will get,
You’ll be hauled up to the air
And you’ll wish you were not there.
Frozen first, then fried or grilled,
Soon a stomach you’ll have filled.”
Monty Edwards
Bush Tucker by Jenny Erlanger
Leave a commentI prise it from its woody nest,
examine it up close.
I never, ever would have guessed
a grub could look so gross!
It’s such an ugly, pudgy grub,
a truly horrid sight –
repulsive rolls of squishy flub
decked out in ghostly white.
The kookaburra up above
is getting itchy feet.
I know for sure she’d dearly love
to snaffle up this treat.
I’ll only have to turn around,
head back along the track,
and she’ll be swooping to the ground
to snatch her scrumptious snack.
The grub is wriggling back to bed
to tuck itself away.
The kookaburra cocks her head,
eyes fixed upon her prey.
No grub has ever hit my tum –
the notion makes me sick,
but Kookaburra’s thinking yum …
marshmallow on a stick!
Jenny Erlange
A PUPPY IN THE PADDOCK by Dave Derekson
Leave a commentThere’s a puppy in the paddock,
running all around,
sniffing all the flowers
and digging holes in the ground.
She’s making friends with little lambs,
and baby cows as well.
She chases all the birds she sees,
but she’s only being friendly; I can tell.
She likes to watch the butterflies,
flutter, flutter by,
and when she saw the great big horses,
she ran over just to say a friendly “Hi”.
She’s got a very waggly tail,
and a lovely little face.
She’s such a happy little puppy.
I’ll think we’ll call her ‘Grace’.
Cat-a-static by Celia Berrell
Leave a comment(Nikola Tesla 1856 – 1943)
Nikola loved his childhood cat
the sleek, majestic black-Macak.
A cat whose fur would click and spark
when days were chilly, dry and dark
as stroking black-Macak’s fur coat
could cause a tiny lightning bolt.
Nikola Tesla loved his cat
the sparkling, zappy black-Macak.
That static electricity
inspired young Tesla, cleverly
inventing things quite technical.
Especially electrical.
From neon lights and radios
to radar and remote controls.
Transistors, robots, X-ray zones
and AC power to our homes.
Tesla had a genius knack
that started through his cat Macak!
Australian Children’s Poetry 