I see the old men march,
who survived the times of war,
beneath their proud-held banners
from so many different corps.
I see bright companionship
shining in their eyes;
they’re marching to remember
those who fell and could not rise.
We salute them once again
and pray that never more
young men will have to go
a-marching into war.
Photo by Pixabay
What about recycling?
That’s something you can do
to save the planet every day
and save some money, too.
You could take up gardening
and grow veggies in the yard,
or start a steamy compost heap,
it isn’t very hard.
Maybe you could buy less stuff,
not use so much plastic,
and more refillable containers
would be just fantastic.
However you go about it,
whatever you might do,
please just do something,
because it’s up to me and you.
Photo by Vlada Karpovich
They’re called PFAS and alas,
they’ll harm the world forever.
You can’t stop their damage,
not today, no — never!
They waterproof your clothes,
you wipe them on your chin,
they stop mum’s frypan sticking,
and the box your pizza’s in.
These chemicals are deadly
and never go away,
so why on earth do we use them
every single day?
Photo from Pexels by Akil Mazumder
Teacher’s note: PFAS (pronounced P-Fass) are known as Forever Chemicals — a large family of 10,000 chemicals that have been proved to persistently contaminate the earth. They are used in fire-fighting foam, food packaging, foundation cream, cosmetics, non-stick cookware, smartphones and waterproofing clothing. They contaminate drinking water, wildlife, and agriculture.
There’s a Gruble in my garden
wearing rainbow coloured clothes.
He lives beneath the gimble patch
where no one ever goes.
If you’re curious I’ll show you,
but you’ve got to promise me,
you’ll never tell a single soul.
That’s how it’s got to be.
We’ll tiptoe from our bedrooms
and steal along the hall,
then down the stairs, across the yard
up to the garden wall.
We’ve got to be as quiet as mice
‘cause on the other side,
if the Gruble hears a noise,
beneath the gimble patch he’ll hide.
He won’t be there this morning,
nor in the afternoon.
But set your clock for midnight
and provided there’s a moon
He’ll be digging out the mungle weeds
and chopping through the ling,
to clear the ground of carbles
for the annual rickshing.
It’s a really wondrous sight to see
this rickshing celebration.
Grubles come from every corner
of the Gruble nation.
Their tables all are laden
with every fine delight;
baked bullwort, creamy piggler
and barbequed quambite.
The party lasts for eldons,
till the mungle weed grows back.
Then they finish with a lively dance
they call the rakanbak.
But as the moon gets lower.
Just before the sun turns red.
The Grubles leave the way they came
and go back home to bed.
And the Gruble in my garden
with the rainbow coloured clothes?
Well – he’s back beneath the gimble patch
where no one ever goes.
Nature’s jewel shines not only upon the finger ring but within each glance,
where we see everything that sways the senses,
calms the breath and feeds the inner soul from birth to death
with riches far beyond the tools of man – displayed within the beauty of a delicate plan.
Imagine a whale’s journey or the migration of wild herds,
for the majesty of life cannot be explained in simple words.
Just compare Earth’s night sky with moon and sprinkled stars,
to the mountains and rivers, oceans deep and tree-lined bays with bars.
And see that a common hand has touched each one
with fresh palette, to follow once each season has almost gone.
It seems there is a cyclic spell, yet with random chance of change
to make sea and lake become cloud and rain – sand and fire to mountain range.
Lands of greens and browns with sky and sea of different blues
perceived by using light and dark, combining waves of special hues.
And for each breath we take from the very time we’re born,
we feel the trees return a breath refreshed, starting every early morn.
Rainy days, summer afternoons, winter nights and stormy seas,
misty rain breathing on faces like a cool light-hearted tease.
Resonance feeding between the physical and imagined thoughts
which we keenly perceive and cherish and keep safe within our forts.
All this splendour is a wonder from some far, far distant throne,
which we accept lightly far too often with blind familiarity, as if we’re all alone.
There is strength in idle thoughts like a daydream coming true,
making sense of an unknowing, providing firm belief on cue.
Visualising both origin and destiny as like the random path of man
exposing seeds of calculation as part of this grand majestic plan.
So, rejoice each child who falters, yet gets up each time they fall,
for they will spend a lifetime learning secrets, to why there is majesty at all.
A valley in Wales
so green and clear,
no sign of the coal
mined near here.
A land of song,
where mining coal
destroyed its valleys
but not its soul.
Teacher’s note: Wales was once famous for its polluting coal mines. Today we celebrate great Welsh singers such as Dame Shirley Bassey, Charlotte Church, Katherine Jenkins, Bonnie Tyler (Gaynor Sullivan), Sir Tom Jones and Sir Bryn Terfel, actor Richard Burton and poet Dylan Thomas. The word “Eisteddfod” — a musical competition— is taken from the Welsh language which is still spoken.
It sounds like a cracker
each time a bug-zapper
electrocutes one of those insects.
To protect our meat pies
from pic-nicking flies,
that zapper is nowhere near perfect.
It’s a haphazard thug
killing mostly good bugs
important for plant pollination
plus millions of beetles
who never harm people.
It’s rather a sad situation.
Their UV light glow
won’t attract mosquitoes.
It’s CO2 breath mozzies seek.
So this gadget’s NO-GO
and, for those in the know,
it’s best to use bug spray with DEET.
Shoes always come in pairs,
but pears don’t come in shoes.
And I know that my nose knows
how to make ah-choooooos.
Whales don’t come from Wales,
is it rite or is it right?
And who can tell the difference
between quiet or quite?
Angle grinders not ankle grinders,
it’s so easy to make a slip—
because English is really funny
and tries to make you trip.
I dreamed one day I’d journey
over the sea to Skye,
and I did, on a modern ferry,
to where the crags reach high.
Like Bonnie Prince Charlie himself,
I had the hills to climb,
where songs and daring legends
were born in the mists of time.
It’s Earth Day on April 22nd so let’s celebrate by writing about this amazing planet we call home. There are also several bush poet festivals in April so if you fancy yourself a Banjo Patterson send your bush poems in!
Please send all poems to ozchildrenspoetry@gmail.com
Australian Children’s Poetry 