Category Archives: Australian children’s poetry

“A Tribute to WWI Military Dogs” by Robyn Youl

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LEST WE FORGET.

11/11/19-18   >  11.11.2018

HIS MASTER’S VOICE.

A Tribute to WWI Military  Dogs

 

His Master’s Voice has gone

Dogs do not understand goodbye

He watches waits and grieves

Why do the women cry?

 

A War Dog has a focus

Love dictates the choice

The wailing shells surround him.

His world, His Master’s Voice

 

He did not care to understand

Why humans kill or play

Be it German, French or English

His Master’s Voice his day

 

Evading deadly Allied Bullets

On German Voice command

A precious load strapped to his back

He skims the mire of No Man’s Land

 

Blueruns with army orders now

There are no sheep or cattle

Blueonly hears His Anzac’s Voice

Above the roar of battle

 

A Red Cross Dog saves lives

Aiding those who still draw breath

The Stretcher Bearer’s Voice

Braves the screaming stench of death

 

Flanders fields are still blood red

Killing is still glorified

Men and dogs are still at war

Will we ever turn the tide?

Robyn Youl

 

 

Both sides trained Military Dogs.

World War I dogs were used to carry messages, first aid kits and transmission wiring. Some dogs were army mascots.

Small dogs were also useful in the trenches to kill the hordes of rats that swarmed  in the filth and squalor. Removing sick and dead men from the trenches was difficult. They were high, narrow and usually had stagnant water lying in them. Rats thrived.

The rule was Keep your Head DOWN!!! Sharp shooters on the other side of No Man’s Land were just waiting to put a bullet into any head that poked up.

No Man’s Land was the distance between enemy trenches. It was covered on barbed wire. After the troops had come out of the trenches to Charge the Enemy, No Man’s Land was the place of the dead, the injured and the dying.

The sound of shelling, machine gun and rifle fire began at daylight and did not finish until it was too dark to see.

At night the stretcher-bearers were busy taking the wounded to safety. Other soldiers were collecting Dog Tags or Identity Discs from the dead. These were used to change the records to Killed in Action and send a telegram and letter to the next of kin.

 

The Australian Armed Forces still train war dogs. If you love dogs you might like to find out more about them.

 

Horrie the War Dog  by Roland Perry is an interesting yarn about a dog who worked with the Austrailan Army in Egypt.

 

“Milking Time” by Julie Thorndyke

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Milking Time

 

On a ship again, this time
the rocking makes the red gunshot
crevices in my torso quake and sting
with every pitch and dive. Seabirds
hover, like the maggies on the farm—
is it milking time?

The salt-harsh taste of bully beef,
the tepid tea, the damper bread—
in my mind’s eye, I see the flush
of mother’s cheek, as she pours out broth
and settles the little ones to their tea.
Is it past milking time?

Dusk, and in the greying sky
I hear an echo of the galah’s cry.
The cows will be coming up the hill
to stand in the yard, calm and still
with udders full and eyes soft brown—
They know it’s milking time.

Behind closed lids, I long to see the rush
of creamy white fall to the pail. But all
that comes is crimson rain that falls
and pools and comes again. I never thought
that Daisy’s teat would hold a memory so sweet
and make me long for milking time.

Young Bill, my brother still in school,
has risen early, retired late. He fights
his battle in the muddy paddocks of home.
Double milking, morning and night,
until I am home to do my share.
It is long past milking time.

Julie Thorndyke

“Heroes” by Mary Serenc

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Heroes

 

Clap, yes clap loudly

For only they know the suffering

Memories etched in time-worn faces

Framed in the windows of the RSL bus.

 

Clap, clap hard

For the years unlived,

For those left behind.

 

Clap, don’t stop

For the ones still marching,

Medals hanging heavy on their hearts.

 

Clap for them

Clap for them all,

For only they know

The silent horror of war.

 

Mary Serenc

 

“Making Poppies with Pa” by Kristin Martin

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Making Poppies with Pa

 

I traced the outline:

5 perfect petals

on the shiny red metal sheet.

 

Pa used the tin snips

snip, snip, snip

to carefully cut around the shape.

 

Together we hammered the petals up

one at a time.

“It looks like a leaky cup!” I laughed.

 

Then I sprayed

one puff of black

into the flower’s centre.

 

Pa attached the wire stem

and handed it to me

like it was a long-stemmed rose.

 

But when I carried our poppy outside

and proudly placed it in the new-turned dirt

Pa began to cry.

 

He knelt down so I could hug him tight

then whispered through his tears,

“I hope you never know what war really means.”

Kristin Martin
kristin@kristinmartin.net

 

 

“MY RACEHORSE“ by Ron Marsh

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MY RACEHORSE

 

I’d like to own a pacing horse,

Or maybe just a pony.

I’d take it to the racing course,

To join the ceremonies.

 

He’d always be fed every dawn,

With oats and hay and corn,

A horse would never hungry be,

If it belonged to me.

 

I could not care, there’s no disgrace,

Should it never win a race,

I’d be so happy just to own,

A racehorse of my very own.

“Four Legs” by Penny Szentkuti

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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.

 

“MY UNCLE’S HORSE” by Ron Marsh

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MY UNCLE’S HORSE

 

My uncle had a Clydesdale,

He’d traded for a pup,

He took him down to Flemington,

To run the Melbourne Cup.

 

The crowd they were all laughing,

And even stewards too,

No one believed as uncle did,

Just what his nag could do.

 

The horses all were at the gate,

And champing at the bit,

And as the barrier went up,

The field, they had a fit.

 

They’d never seen a horse like that,

They frolicked on the ground,

No matter what the jockeys did,

No other horse was found

To run against the Clydesdale,

As he went round and round.

 

So uncle’s horse, he won the race,

And the shiny Melbourne Cup

To the North, was taken up.

The Clydesdale never raced again.

And almost always had for sup.

A manger full of oats and grain.

“Girl on a Bolting Horse” by Katherine Gallagher

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Girl on a Bolting Horse

 

The horse’s head forward, not surrendering,

the girl vertical in the stirrups

 

the black sky gathering steel.

Wind slicing the hair from her face,

 

the dark curve of herself going faster —

the blur of her brothers, standing transfixed;

 

she, holding her breath, bone-afraid

and flying . . .

 

©Katherine Gallagher

(from Circus-Apprentice, Arc Publications,  2006)

 

“Flying Gallop” by Celia Berrell

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Flying Gallop

 

Before Eadweard Muybridge

came along

most painters painted

their horses wrong.

 

When galloping, galloping

at great speed,

where would they paint the

legs of their steed?

 

We can hear when they gallop

and gallop at pace

there’s a break in the sound,

like their feet are in space.

 

So we know from this galloping

galloping sound,

there’s a time when all hooves

are NOT on the ground.

 

Like a carousel horse

with its legs all-stretched-out,

most artists made horse-legs

the wrong way about.

 

Then Muybridge’s movie

closed the affair.

Horse-legs are TUCKED

when all in the air.

 

Perched high on a horse,

we can’t really tell

as it’s hard to see where

a horse’s legs dwell.

 

And a galloping gallop’s like

flying as well.

So let’s soar on a horse

on a carousel!

 

Inspired by The Horse in Motion movie by EadweardMuybridge 1878
http://100photos.time.com/photos/eadweard-muybridge-horse-in-motion

“Fred, Ted and Ned” by Caroline Tuohey

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Fred, Ted and Ned.

 

I have a mate whose name is Fred.

“I’d like a verse,” is what he said.

 

So I sat down with sharpened lead,

and penned some lines that end in ‘ed’.

 

I wrote about a horse named Ned,

whose owner’s name was Mister Ted.

 

He built that horse a fancy shed;

He shod him, groomed him, kept him fed.

 

Ned had a rug of crimson red,

embroidered with a golden thread.

 

He wore that rug when Mister Ted,

last Sunday rode to church to wed

 

his girlfriend who had bravely led

an army – she had battle cred!

 

Then after vows they quickly sped,

along the road in wooden sled.

The sled was pulled, of course, by Ned.

The reins were held by Missus Ted,

 

while Mister Ted laid out a spread

of cakes and biscuits, jam and bread.

 

But now this verse must end dear Fred,

I’ve no more ‘eds’ left in my head!

 

Caroline Tuohey