How 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?
Category Archives: Australian children’s poetry
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.
Polish Spring by James Aitchison
Leave a commentIn a Polish village,
opening to the sun,
I found all these flowers
when spring had well begun.
What a splash of colour,
I was lucky to be there,
where ancient wooden houses
huddled round the square.
A Chat With An Orangutan: an experimental poem by James Aitchison
Leave a comment“Hello, kid,” the orangutan said.
“You look very familiar.”
“That’s because,” the young boy said,
“We’re both very similar.”
“But I don’t live in a house, boy,”
The wise orangutan said.
“It doesn’t matter,” the young boy said,
“Where you lay your head…
“The fact is, you and I are friends
“From way back deep in time.”
“If that is so,” the orangutan said,
“Put your hand in mine.”
Teacher’s note: In Bahasa (Indonesian and Malay languages), orang means “man” or “person”, while utan means “jungle”. Thus, the orangutan is a man of the forest. Many experts now believe that the orangutan — not the chimpanzee — is closest to humans in traits and characteristics.
The Mutt Hutt by Jeanie Axton
Leave a commentA custom cut from nose to butt
is what the “Mutt Hutt” does
Snipping, styling the latest trends
and shaving through the fuzz
In through the in door
disarrayed and dirty as can be
Out through the out door
transformed to a beauty queen
Australian Children’s Poetry 