Out in the wilds
the daylight is dying;
the darklight is coming,
and the wind is a-sighing.
Shadows will deepen,
grow darker and soon,
with the quiet starlight,
will come the moon.
The pastures will sleep
and not waken till morn,
when at last the sun rises
and a new day is born.
North Island, New Zealand. Photo by Ginette Pestana
I was five
When my grandmother took me on a walk
During jacaranda season.
Soft lavender snow drifted across the path,
Like a purple carpet.
We sat under a tree,
Its branches formed a violet shelter,
The musky, honey-like fragrance of the blossoms enveloped
My grandma’s laughter, as I showed her
How to make a kebab of jacarandas on a stick.
Then she patted my head,
But her ebony black eyes serious, tender
Around the edges, when she looked at me.
“Be a good daughter.”
I just nodded, hoping I’d understand
Someday,
When I’m taller.
I went back to add more flowers
On my stick.
Each spring,
The jacarandas return,
I look to them.
My grandma’s words land on my shoulder,
Like the purple petals.
Each Facetime call ends the same way,
Never goodbye,
Just
“Be a good daughter.”
Each year I thought I knew what it meant.
Be obedient, be quiet, be good.
And each year, I swatted it away,
Like an annoying, persistent fly.
Because I thought it meant giving myself up,
Giving my voice up,
To be someone else.
Last spring,
My mum told me she needed surgery.
She asked when we should return to China,
Summer holidays in December,
Or April break.
The April break was warmer and shorter,
I didn’t want to give up summer.
I didn’t want to stay inside,
Watching snowstorms rage outside the window.
When I asked her,
“How long will you take to recover?”
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.” She smiled.
But I saw the dark rings under her eyes,
Her pale skin.
How even the shine in her hair looked dull.
My answer pressed on the tip of my tongue,
But I swallowed it.
“Let’s go back in December. It’s been a long time
Since I built a snowman.” I decided.
But I chose December,
Because I knew she needed time to recover,
Because I knew her health was important,
More important than my summer.
The next morning,
I nearly walked into a spider’s web,
Morning dew hung from her trap,
Like jewels, glistening in the sun.
But that’s when I realised the small, violet bud,
Peeking shyly from under a leaf.
“Be a good daughter.” I hear my grandmother say.
Maybe it’s finally time to understand
That it’s about choosing love,
Even through sacrifice.
Not giving up your voice,
But learning how to use it.
Not giving up who you are,
But learning to consider others.
The jacarandas are blooming again.
Photo from Pexels by Alexander F Ungerer
Word is a word
that rhymes with word.
But what about cord,
and ford and sword?
They don’t rhyme with word,
as you’ve no doubt heard.
How come English is so erratic,
so hard to learn and problematic?
My word, I wish I knew!
Photo from Pexels by Pixabay
It’s always exciting when we have new young voices send in their poetry. This month, keep a look out for 13 year old Zoe Yuan’s poetry. Her two poems feature Chinese culture, family and traditions. They are beautifully written straight from the heart and she will be a young poet to watch out for in the future.
And it’s time for new prompts too! Email your August poems to ozchildrenspoetry@gmail.com and don’t forget, if you attach an image to accompany the poem please include the URL so we can link back to the owner and give proper attribution.
Here are some of the celebrations in August: International Day of World’s Indigenous Peoples, International Youth Day, Obon Festival, Indian Independence Day, National Science Week and of course CBCA Book Week!
Beetrice is all abuzz
A busy buzzing bee
Busy as a bee can be
Her home inside a tree
Shall we look and see
What she really does?
The busy bee she needs to be
Aside from all the buzz
Deep within the hive
She works her busy legs
Taking care of ‘Queenie’
While she lays more eggs
Lots of little larvae
Needing to be fed
Making sure each one has
A share of sweet bee bread
Working waxy wonders
Rooms with walls of six
Holding strong for so long
There’s no need for sticks
A fussy, clever cleaner
She keeps a spotless home
Life’s such a buzz within
Her world of honeycomb
But beware of Beetrice
Best to let her be
Show respect for her place
A home inside that tree
Should it be disturbed
The hive a bee defends
She’s got quite a sting
And so have all her friends
Lots to do in Summer
Young ones can’t get hot
Busy Beetrice fans her wings
Or else they’ll lose the lot
United with her sisters
Workers make a breeze
Cooling down bees to be
Together done with ease
Foraging for nectar
Changing it to honey
On the wing from dawn to dusk
While the days are sunny
Visiting the flowers
Beetrice never stops
She helps feed our nation
By pollinating crops
What a wonderous worker
A busy buzzing bee
Without busy Beetrice
Where would we be?
Could she understand
What bees do for us?
She’s probably too busy now
Too busy for a fuss
Busy buzzing Beetrice
Thank you for the honey
To have on buttered toast
Golden, sweet and runny!
And for tasty fruit
You work away for hours
There’s apples, pears and cherries
From pollinated flowers
We are so grateful
For treats such as these
May there always be
Busy buzzing bees!
Photo from Pexels by Pixabay
Mary had a little lamb,
it grew into a sheep.
It got so big and woolly,
she gave it to Bo Peep.
Little Bo Peep was
minding the sheep,
eating her curds and whey,
when a massive great spider
sat down beside her
and would not go away.
She sent off a text
to her pals Jack and Jill;
with three blind mice,
they ran up the hill.
All the king’s horses ran away with the spoon
and the sheep jumped over the moon.
Photo by James Aitchison
When did we start
having so much stuff?
To go without
would be cold and tough.
Two-and-a-half
million years ago
a few stone tools
was all we could show.
Three hundred thousand
years before now
we’d arrows and spears
and fire knowhow.
By seventy thousand
an Ice Age had stressed
those poor chilly humans
and made them get dressed!
Image from Pixabay
See those trees
up to their knees
in the lake.
Branches bare,
no leaves to spare,
no boat’s wake
disturbs the sunken forest,
beneath a blazing sun,
so far from everyone,
the waters are at rest.
Lake Pamamaroo, Menindee. Photo by Ginette Pestana
Teacher’s note: Nine mainly shallow lakes make up the Menindee Lakes on the Darling River in New South Wales. Menindee was the first town established on the Darling, on the lands of the Barkindji people. The nearest major city is Broken Hill.
These mussels come from the sea,
they’re not in a leg or an arm.
They’re very fresh and tasty,
and their shells are part of their charm.
Dig into the the bowl for a feast,
and eat a dozen or two;
the only muscles you’ll need
are the ones that help you chew.
Australian Children’s Poetry 