Moonbeams by Celia Berrell

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Moonbeams

 

The Sun is a star

that is burning bright.

Like a furnace

that gives off heat and light.

 

Like a beacon

emitting sunshine rays.

Like a torch in the sky

changing nights to days.

 

The Moon is a sphere

made of silent rock.

That orbits the Earth

like a cold round block.

 

No furnace or beacon.

No torch to run.

Those moonbeams have come

from the headlight Sun.

 

The Moon doesn’t shine!

It reflects instead.

Like cat’s-eyes at night

on the road ahead.

 

Like the glint of the Sun

on a tranquil lake.

Like your sparkling eyes

when a smile you make.

Celia Berrell

Moonlight by Jeanie Axton

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Moonlight

 

The light of the moon

On a clear clear night

Brings out the Fish

But not to bite

 

Leaping out of the water

Higher each time

Teasing the fishermen

Is not a fish crime?

 

Meeting in the river

Holding fish school

Teaching the young ones

How not to be fooled

 

Big ones and small ones

Middle-sized fish

None of these beauties

Will end up on a dish

 

By the light of the moon

On a bright clear night

Not one fish caught

Not one little bite

 

Jeanie Axton

Astronaut Muddle by Lynette Oxley

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Astronaut Muddle

 

An astronaut spooned special pudding last night,

For Hamish, Ramona, Christina and Dwight.

The pudding had stardust and peppermint chips,

With jellybeans, chocolate and icicle tips.

 

The taste was delightful, the kids wanted more.

They licked all the bowls clean and ran to the store.

The astronaut followed, but fell in a puddle.

His head hit a rock and he said in a muddle –

 

“We need dusty stars, minty icicle beans,

A packet of chips with some pepper and greens.”

The kids crowded round him and said, “You’re confused,

What you need’s a doctor, your head is quite bruised!”

 

Lynette Oxley

 

Woops! by Pat Simmons

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Woops!

There once was a poor ballerina

Whose blue tutu was often much cleaner

But she munched on a biscuit

A blunder to risk it

A Tim-Tam, a small misdemeanour.

 

Pat Simmons

Blue Ballerina by Ann Budden

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Blue Ballerina

 

I was a happy ballerina

But now I’m feeling blue.

If you had made this blunder,

You’d be unhappy too.

 

I was feeling rather peckish,

So what did I do?

I ate a crunchy biscuit.

Now the crumbs are in my shoe!

 

Ann Budden

A Certain Platypus by Lynelle Kendall

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A Certain Platypus

 

There was a certain platypus

He lived in five mile creek,

Who (prompted by the latest trend)

Went vegan for a week.

 

He tried butternut pumpkin cubes

And purple eggplant too.

He prodded peas with spoon and fork

And sipped hot mushroom stew.

 

He crunched on juicy celery,

Gave artichokes a try,

Sautéed leafy silver beet,

And munched on broccoli.

 

No doubt the fare was healthy,

But it mostly went to waste,

For those nutritious vegetables

Just didn’t suit his taste.

 

So he returned to worms and such

To bugs and shrimp so fine,

And left the vegetables to us;

Omnivorous mankind.

 

Lynelle Kendall

The Exhibit by Monty Edwards

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The Exhibit

 

The box looked rather ancient:

It was made of weathered wood.

They’d placed it on a varnished shelf

Where now it mutely stood.

Its latch was rather rusty,

Suggesting use at sea,

I guessed it was a sailor’s box:

That’s how it seemed to me.

 

I saw on it some markings

And wondered what they meant,

A letter “C” and “26”

But what was their intent?

Was “C” perhaps for “Captain”,

But why the numbers too?

I came to the conclusion

More likely “C” was “Crew”.

 

Each crewman had a number,

And each his box to store

Whatever most he valued,

Till he was back on shore.

I felt this was the answer.

What else then could it be,

But storage for a sailor?

That’s how it seemed to me.

 

The box was quite discoloured

As if it once was wet:

A relic from a wreck perhaps,

That divers dived to get.

Now salvaged from the sea bed,

Displayed for all to see,

It still held many secrets.

This fascinated me!

 

Whoever once had used it,

Must surely now have died.

I looked at it intently:

What had it held inside?

Beneath it was a notice.

Perhaps this held a clue?

I stopped so I could read it,

As I’d seen others do.

 

Just then I heard my teacher

Quite firmly call my name.

It seemed my class was moving on

So I must do the same.

Our bus outside was waiting.

I clearly couldn’t stay,

But I am now determined

I’ll go back there one day!

Monty Edwards

Monty says: “I wrote this in sympathy with children who often find it frustrating when they are prevented by adult time constraints from satisfying their curiosity about the things that interest them. Despite this, some children will go on to demonstrate that they have the confidence and resourcefulness to continue their search for answers independently.

Playground by Penny Szentkuti

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 Playground

It’s a zip line from the sky,

A flying fox of joy,

A slippery dip of shiny warmth

For every girl and boy.

 

Swing out to touch the sunbeams,

Spin ’round to chase the light.

Run and duck and climb and jump

To catch the sun’s delight.

 

Penny Szentkuti

Penny said: I am heavily influenced by the weather. Sunshiny days are the best medicine. As soon as I thought about my audience – children – this poem just flowed joyfully out.

 

Garth and his Bath by James Aitchison

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Garth and his Bath

 

This is a tale of a boy named Garth

Who was far too lazy to have a bath.

 

One night when he did, he suddenly spied

A black ring running around every side.

 

When he asked his mum, “What’s that thing?”

She took a look and said, “A black bath ring!”

 

“It’s the dirt from when you walked in the mud,

“And that blob of gunk is when you fell ker-THUD!

 

“And see all that mess stuck around the ends?

“That came from playing with your friends.”

 

She got a soft cloth and her special spray,

And in no time at all scrubbed the bath ring away.

 

“That was hard work,” Garth told his mother,

“I have an idea to save all that bother.”

 

And he said with the widest smile she’d seen,

“Why don’t I stay dirty so the bath stays clean?”

 

 

James Aitchison

Nightfall by J.R. McRae

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Nightfall

 

The sun has set in hibiscus

Whose lips still faintly burn,

And now the moon and star drops

Drip down onto the fern.

 

The wind’s begun to whisper

Like a lover in the dark,

And trees caress each other

With hands of leaf and bark.

 

Love drawn birds are singing

Somewhere under sky,

And soft wings brush together

As they glimmer by.

J.R. McRae

J.R. McRae is a published and awarded poet and fiction writer, who also writes award winning books for children and education as J.R. Poulter. Word Wings is her collaborative.