Straw-coloured spines,
black tips laid back,
rotund creature waddles around garden.
It pokes its head into a plastic box,
rolls onto a large termite-tunnelled log,
climbs over it.
Heading towards a giant shell under a tap,
it stops to snuffle up ants.
Its long tubular snout searches the shell’s base.
At snout’s tip a tiny mouth appears, and
a long sticky tongue licks up cooling drops.
Every spring I lose my house —
it likes to disappear —
behind the flowers and bushes
that grow so fast round here.
No more bare old branches,
no more empty beds;
there’s greenery and colour
that everywhere turns heads.
Spring wakes up my garden,
puts magic in the air,
along with different scents
a-drifting here and there.
Springtime at an old miner’s cottage, Creswick, Victoria. Photo by Ginette Pestana
I love your little little feet
and your little little toes,
your little little shoes
that match with little clothes.
I love your little little legs
with little dumpling knees
which wibble wibble wobble
like little sticks of cheese.
I love the little little button
in the middle of your tummy,
I love your little little giggles
and little thoughts; so funny!
I love your little little teeth;
precious yoghurt pearls
and your little little furry brows
beneath your bouncy curls.
I love the little little sparkle
in your dolly dolly eyes.
I wonder, how your little mouth
lets out such gigantic cries?
Photo from Pexels by Pixabay
There on the table
Infront of me
Sat a brown box
What could it be?
It hadn’t been wrapped
There was no bow
It looked very plain
At least I thought so.
Who put it there
I began to wonder
Should it be opened
What was the answer
I stood for a while
Contemplating the thought
Decided against it
My imagination caught.
I left the room
Returning again
My curiosity peaked
But it was all in vain.
The table was empty
It was no longer there
It seemed to have vanished
Into thin air.
I searched the room
It couldn’t be found
And in my head
Thoughts spun around.
Did I imagine
What I had seen
Was there a brown box
Or was it a dream?
I wonder who lived here,
I wonder where they went?
Did they make a living,
or were their hopes all spent?
Did they dream of copper,
digging riches from the ground?
They haven’t been forgotten
for there’s history all around.
Perhaps at night their ghosts
still venture out to roam,
stepping lightly through the gloom
to once again come home.
The old Williams cottage, Blinman, South Australia. Photo by Ginette Pestana
Shelves lined with books
different sizes and colours
each individually categorized
an order allowing one to find
what they are searching for.
But the magic is
what lies within the covers
pages neatly typed
creating a story.
Books that share or expose
an autobiography
others containing facts
documented, written for all
who wish to read them.
Novels filled with imagination
taking a reader to another world
where they can be lost and escape
the one they live in.
Romance which gives one hope
or despair
fiction taking us to the edge
and murder mysteries
which keep us guessing.
Picture books that satisfy those
who don’t want many words
and children’s books
that delve into imagination
of characters who don’t exist
outside the pages.
So many books to choose from
with individual appeal
all works of art in their own way
with Authors’ proud
presenting a cacophony of ideas
mounted on multiple shelves
in this distinguished building
which houses a library.
Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay
Tiddle and toddle and piggy pink toes,
buckles and buttons and bouncy big bows,
hopping on one foot and marching with two;
flip flops and booties or Dad’s giant shoe?
Slip on some slippers and slide into socks,
stomp in green gumboots and clomp in blue Crocs,
sandals and sneakers and snakes of shoelace,
feetsies and footsies all over the place.
Trying on shoes whether shiny or frayed,
on again, off again, join the parade!
Photo from Pexels by Max Schwoelk
Hello, Daphne, by the fence,
aren’t your flowers full of scents!
You’ve been asleep all winter long,
now you’re blooming sweet and strong.
You spice the breeze and fill the air,
your flowers white, your fragrance rare.
The moment all your blooms appear,
you tell me that spring is here.
Photo credit Ginette Pestana
Why is it called a bearded iris?
There’s not a whisker in sight.
Unless, of course, it had a shave
sometime in the night.
I think it looks just great
without a bristling beard,
and it if had a moustache
that would look very weird!
Bearded iris. Photo by Ginette Pestana
Australian Children’s Poetry 