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
We all know kookaburras
love to sit in old gumtrees,
But how ‘bout welcome swallows
twirling on the breeze?
The palm cockatoo
loves to drum his homemade sticks,
While his cousin, with the sulphur crest,
loves to do his tricks.
The colourful rainbow lorikeet
loves to play and chatter,
But the serious powerful owl
likes to focus on things that matter.
Curious black and white magpies
like to warble right on dawn,
Whilst the crow caws away
His sound is most forlorn.
Beautiful little fairy wrens
are hopping all day long,
While the pied butcherbird
sings his melodic song.
The scatter-brained bush turkey
likes to scratch around,
While spotted green catbirds
make an awful wailing sound.
What a wonderful, noisy, crazy,
Colourful and cheery bunch,
Who tweet and chirp and caw
and laugh and drum and screech and munch.
Image by David Clode from Pixabay
On the dreamy river,
drifting with the tide,
past old shutter’d houses
where history lives inside.
Breezes tease the palms,
stir a lazy frond or two,
and in the milky sky
the heat is shining through.
The Portuguese and Dutch,
the British all were here;
five hundred years of stories
like magic can appear.
An old kampong by the Melaka River, Malaysia. Photo by Ginette Pestana
Plants have no brains
but scientists find
that trees seem to think
and weeds change their mind!
Mimosa we know as a
sensitive weed.
It folds up its leaves
when a threat is perceived.
Repeatedly dropped
on a soft mat of foam
Mimosa stops folding
as foam does no harm.
Days and weeks later
no folding leaves shows
when dropped on soft foam
Mimosa still knows!
Image by Leopictures from Pixabay
Most unusual is Pippa
A ‘mix and match’ of features
One may think perhaps
Belong to other creatures
Her home’s a flowing stream
With banks on either side
In which she has a burrow
A safe, dry place to hide
Her face is like a duck
Yet no quack is heard
Fur instead of feathers?
She is not a bird!
But Pippa lays eggs
And feeds young with milk
A swift and streamlined swimmer
With style smooth as silk
Shy and rarely seen by day
She waits until twilight
Diving into cold and dark
To feed throughout the night
How does she find some food?
Receptors in her bill
Help her catch shrimp and worms
She can have her fill!
Pippa has become a Mum
She’s raised a little one
Playing in the burrow
His time has just begun
Growing strong, it won’t be long
Till Puggles takes his turn
Joining in with nature
A role he needs to learn
Quiet and reclusive
Pippa makes no fuss
But she’s so important
To each and all of us
Protect and save our waters
Rivers, ponds and streams
We must see, she’ll always be
Not just in our dreams!
Puggles is four months old
Almost fully grown
‘Tis time for him to venture out
And make it on his own
Pippa’s care has served him well
But now her job is done
He’s ready to explore their stream
With setting of the sun
Photo by Aaron De Wit on Unsplash
Australian Children’s Poetry 