A game at a campsite.
What do we need?
Five friends and three buckets
and rope for a lead.
Off we go now
galloping down to the bay,
for we are all horses.
Neigh! Neigh! Neigh!
To A Spider by Norah Colvin
Leave a commentNow look here, Spider, I’m grateful to you,
For eating flies and cockroaches too.
But in my shower when it’s time for my bath –
That, I’m afraid, incurs my wrath.
With this broom, I’ll chase you out.
Please don’t jump or you’ll make me shout.
Stay very still while I get the brush,
Then into the toilet for one big flush.
Oh, poor little spider, what have I done?
I’ve gone and killed you. That’s not fun.
You didn’t deserve it, not one bit.
You should have hidden where my broom couldn’t fit.
Another spider? Does this make two?
Are you a brother? Oh no . . . it’s you!
I thought you drowned, but you’re still alive!
What’s your secret? How’d you survive?
Now you’re back, I am relieved.
No longer must I be aggrieved.
But please take heed, my leggy friend.
Don’t come too close – it will be your end.
No More Trains by James Aitchison
Leave a commentSilent silo,
commerce fails,
no more trains,
rusting rails.
Rain and wind
sweep platforms clean,
railway ghosts
go unseen.
Teacher’s note: South Australia’s Burra railway station was a busy stop on the main line to Broken Hill and Perth.Passenger services ceased in December 1986, and the last grain trains operated in 1999. Volunteers have lovingly restored the station buildings.
The Bearded Iris by James Aitchison
Leave a commentHow can flowers grow a beard,
And do they need to shave?
It seems a very funny way
For flowers to behave.
Do they use a razor,
Or will some clippers do?
I think bearded irises
Are rather weird, don’t you?
The Story of Pots and Pans by Toni Newell
Leave a commentIn a wide and deep, deep drawer
That sits beneath the stove
Live all the different pots and pans
It is like a treasure trove.
The frying pan sits well below
Lets out a painful squeal
You’re all too heavy there on top
My handle I can’t feel.
The largest pot holds two inside
Which adds the extra weight
The pot itself feels under stress
And says I’m sorry mate.
Smaller pots sit side by side
Squashed together tight
And lids of different sizes
Straddle all the pots in sight.
Slowly the drawer opens
And suddenly there’s light
The pots and pans all shudder
As a hand gives them a fright.
They pushed and pulled around
As the frypan is extracted
And all the other pots and pans
By discomfort are impacted.
We wish they’d find a bigger drawer
So we could have some space
And not be squashed and scratched
The big pot whimpers with grace.
Soon the frying pan’s returned
To the bottom once again
With pots and lids on top of it
And that awful pain.
The Black Forest by James Aitchison
Leave a commentWhy do they call it black,
when I think it looks all white?
Every tree, draped with snow,
and more will fall tonight!
Such a magic kingdom,
of lakes and towering peaks,
of deep, dark woods and valleys,
and babbling falls and creeks.
And in any village,
wood carvers work all day.
Listen to their cuckoo clocks,
hand-made the German way.
Teacher’s note: The Black Forest (in German, Schwarzwald) is so-named because its fir forests are dark and mysterious. It covers 6,000 square kilometres, its highest peaks soaring to 1,400 metres. The Danube and Neckar Rivers have their source here. Traditional skills include woodworking, crafting musical instruments and of course cuckoo clocks!
What’s Behind The Wall by James Aitchison
Leave a commentA waterwheel that slowly turns,
A river there that swiftly churns,
A secret garden in the sunWhere lazy dreams are gently spun.
Where is this drowsy mill house found, Where insects buzz in sleepy sound?
In France! For there, midst ancient walls,
Legends live and history calls.
Melting Sun by James Aitchison
Leave a commentThe sun melts
into the far hills;
the lake catches fire
as the heat spills.
Night is coming now
this land to fill;
will tomorrow be
more perfect still?
The Desert Dogs of Tjuntjuntjara by Stewart Ennis
Leave a commentA Tjuntjuntjara desert dog
Is howling at the moon.
Just one at first, then more join in
This ancient howling growling tune.
[Don’t ask me why.
It’s the just their way.
They’ve done it every single day
Since dogs began!]
And very soon, and very soon,
The entire yip-yap yelping mob,
Yes, the whole red-dirt platoon
Of Tjuntjuntjara desert dogs
Is howling at the moon.
Stewart Ennis is from Bridge of Weir, Scotland. Since the 1980s he’s worked in Scottish theatre as writer, deviser, performer and occasional photographer. He was creative writing tutor in Scottish prisons and editor of Causeway/Cabhsair magazine of new Irish & Scottish writing. His plays, poems, stories and photographs have appeared on a number of stages, pages and platforms. A debut novel Blessed Assurance was published in 2020. Recent work includes writing the children’s film animation Yoyo & The Little Auk for Royal Scottish National Orchestra. He’s currently at Curtin University for the second year of an Aberdeen-Curtin Alliance scholarship PhD in creative writing. He recently some time in wonderful Tjuntjuntjara documenting the Spinifex artists at work and play.
Jumping Into Spring by Marque Dobrow
Leave a commentUpon arrival of September
There’s one thing I do remember:
Winter’s gone and spring is here
Bringing warmth back to the year.
Giving us more outdoor fun,
Extra time beneath the sun.
Walking barefoot on the grass,
Sipping fruit juice from a glass.
Football finals if you’re keen;
Horses racing on the green.
Pack your coats and gloves away,
Birds within your backyard play.
Birthing time for kangaroos,
Platypus and wombats too.
Blossoms grow with colours fair,
Pollen floating through the air.
Of spring I’m a great believer,
So why now must I have hay fever?
How can I smell a lovely rose
When suffering from an itchy nose?
I long to feel the evening breeze
Without an urge to cough and sneeze.
But let me cast those thoughts asunder;
Spring should be a time of wonder.
So sit beneath a shady tree,
Go watch the surfers at the sea.
I love the springtime sunset skies,
Albeit seen through teary eyes.
Australian Children’s Poetry 