My Mother’s Horse-shoe Ring
(after Grace Nichols)
Sometimes when I see it
on my index finger
I am reassured,
rub its ruby stone, her gift.
I need this small reminder
of her, its lucky charm
that catches me
like an itinerant fire
chipped from the sun.
©Katherine Gallagher
Published in Acres of Light Arc Publications, 2016)
Four Legs
Four legs and a tail
it could be a dog.
Four legs and a croak?
That’s a frog!
Four legs and a hump –
it must be a camel.
Four legs and fur?
It’s some kind of mammal.
But four legs and a mane –
long legs for trotting,
strong galloping legs,
and a tail for fly swatting?
That’s easy now,
I know it of course!
That four legged friend
is a horse.
Penny Szentkuti
Six Geese A Laying
Have you ever come across a goose who’s laid a nest of eggs?
I’ll tell you now you’d better hope you brought your running legs.
That goose will make a honking sound as loud as she can blast,
Then chase you far away from them; so furious and fast.
So it was hard to work out what my new true love was saying,
When he handed me a box containing six grey geese a laying.
It’s not a bit romantic, or thoughtful, sweet or fun,
To give someone a Christmas gift and then to scream out,
“Run!”
Notes
On the eighth day of Christmas (1st January), New Horizons (the space probe that took photos of dwarf planet Pluto back in July 2015) will be 6.6 billion kilometres from Earth, travelling at 14 kilometres per second, flying past a rock about 37 kilometres wide called 2014 MU69 (nick-named Ultima Thule) in the solar system’s Kuiper Belt. If it doesn’t bump into anything on the way, we will receive images from its cameras just over six hours after they are taken. This is an incredible technological adventure with cosmologically amazing consequences. What an exciting way to start the New Year!
http://www.planetary.org/blogs/jason-davis/2018/nh-ut-100days.html
Sun Burned
Sun and surf, holidays and laughter
unless the sunscreen is slapped on after
the sun bites in and blisters appear
our hat blow off and lobsters adhere
our tents lay flat and our drinks slide away
sand-witches zap our bread into hay
buckets grow holes and spades lose their handles
and wouldn’t you know it, we break our sandals
our towels turn all crunchy, the barbie explodes
the tide washes out and the shore erodes
the sand grows so hot that we scurry like mice
wishing we’d taken the experts’ advice
‘Global warming,’ they had warned us ahead
so we tread more carefully and change the thread
care for our planet; reap new choices we’ve made
wearing sunscreen and hats; we play in the shade
holidays arrive . . . we all survive
‘Cheers!’ A toast with cool lemonade
Julie Cahill
Art Class on Observatory Hill, Sydney
Here, the sea’s bowl ̶
the harbour with still, white boats
and coloured flags ̶ a Dufy carnival,
lines crisscrossing, the arch of the bridge
against roofs of scattered houses, shops.
It is afternoon, late summer ̶
how the promise of ships lies lazily
across the myriad bays
reaching as far as eye can see.
The landscape-class, easels set up
have it leisurely before them.
Their canvasses reflect this bluest of light
where the tutor’s words float like gulls
wheeling in and out among Moreton Bay figs.
CLOUDS
Have you ever lain on your back, watching skies above
When clouds are making quite a show, a ship, a tree, a dove?
A constant changing scene to keep you quite enthralled,
Simple easy pleasure that has no cost at all.
You sometimes see a fairy, an ogre or a frog,
You let imagination go and even see a hog.
When your mind comes back to earth and all around seems bland,
You can enjoy the memory of, a cloudy fairyland.
MOANDAYS ARE WEAKDAYS
Every Moanday I’m filled with dread,
I simply can’t get out of bed,
I pull the covers over my head,
And hope that Moanday will go away.
Every Moanday I’m filled with fear
The week lies ahead, bleak and drear,
I just can’t get myself into gear,
I hope that Moanday will go away.
Every Moanday I’m such a fool —
All my friends will be there at school!
We’ll play, have fun, and that’ll be cool —
And then I’m up, up, up and away!
James Aitchison
Watermelon Boy
One time I saw a kid on telly
Eating watermelon;
The pink bit and the skin.
I wondered how
He managed it,
How did he fit it in?
How did his teeth
Get through the green.
So thick and hard and tough?
Surely the yummy,
juicy guts inside it
Were enough?
But nope,
This kid kept eating.
Both the green bit and the pink.
Then he looked straight at the camera,
And he gave
A cheeky wink.
Australian Children’s Poetry 