Secret Steps by James Aitchison

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I wonder where they come from,

I wonder where they go,

I wonder who might use them,

as they hurry to and fro.

Is a ghost abroad at night?

Does it haunt this secret place?

I can hear its shuffling feet,

but I cannot see its face!

So ancient are these steps,

So stony cold and bare,

In the heart of old Vienna,

By a bleak and wintry square. 

The Brussel Sprout by Jeanie Axton

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I do not like Brussel sprouts

No no, not at all

One there sitting on my plate

Was it ready for a brawl?

My plan of thoughtful attack

Let it go straight down my snout

Swallow that green ball whole

Yes, Ive worked it out 

But Alas, this did not occur

putting me in quite a state

Coughing hard it flew right out

Landing on my sisters plate

My sister she was horrified

Mum was raving mad

I sat and widely grinned

Announcing “ Sorry, Mum my bad!” 

Not one has passed my lips since then

Those green and slimy sprouts

From that day until presently 

I’m happy to do without.

Kata Tjuta (‘many heads’) by James Aitchison

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These giant domes of rock

rise from the desert plain;

a rusting of iron oxide

gives them a reddish stain.

Six hundred million years ago 

they were thrust up to the sky.

With many heads a-dreaming,

their legends will not die.

Teacher’s note: Kata Tjuta, which means “many heads” in the local Aboriginal language, is located 25 km from Uluru. Like Uluru, it is considered sacred to the Aboriginal people of Australia, and the mythology of the site is not disclosed to outsiders.  The highest peak (at left) was named Mount Olga by explorer Ernest Giles in 1872.

I See The Old Men March (on Anzac Day) by James Aitchison

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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 Can You Do? by Graham Seal

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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

Forever Chemicals by James Aitchison

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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 by Warren Cox

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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.   

The Majesty of Life by Stefan Nicholson

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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.

In The Land Of Song by James Aitchison

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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. 

Zap, Crackle – Stop! by Celia Berrell

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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.

Image compiled by Celia Berrell & Pixabay