Draw me!
I push my pen around the page,
it pushes back and sneers.
When I incur a paper cut –
I cry, the paper jeers.
A face appears upon the page –
a horrid, mocking troll.
Now my chair collapses
and I’m truly on a roll.
My pen falls down beside me.
I’m sure I hear it speak.
It mutters, ‘Feelin’ lucky, punk?’
I answer, ‘Feelin’ weak’.
Dead lines are sneaking up on me,
like zombies, clawed extended.
My brain is full of jellybeans –
the jar has been upended.
My Muse is out to get me
and I’m filled with angst and fear.
I send regards from Writer’s Hell,
be thankful you’re not here.
An hour before breakfast
I thought of omelette piping hot
oozing sun-yellow cheese
With butter-dripping toast
And sweet cumquat marmalade —
Instead, I ate tasteless cereal
Drenched with sourish milk.
An hour before lunch
I thought of a hamburger
Succulent meat patty
And softy spongy bun
with the works —
Sweet beetroot and ripe tomato
Caramelised onion rings and crispy lettuce
Tangy sauce and juices
trickling down my fingers.
Instead I ate crackers and
A tart green apple.
An hour before dinner
I thought of succulent hot chops
Drenched with mint jelly
And French fries
golden-brown and salty.
What I ate was
Tinned spaghetti
On dry toast.
Nothing I tasted all day
Was as delicious
As my thoughts.
Dianne Bates
The day after Yesterday
The play-date is the day before
tomorrow and, the one after that.
The party is two sleeps before the last
Family Day, and five after morning tea last week.
One week is shorter than seven days because it’s one!
I want the day to start in the morning not at sunrise.
But you said next week was after this day.
Wednesday is before Tuesday, not Friday!
I said it’s June, not March, because I want my birthday to be today.
The Day After Yesderday by Melanie Hill
Melanie says: This poem was inspired by trying to teach time and the sequence of days, weeks and months to my four year old. It’s so tricky!
This is where we used to walk
On the beach
I collect driftwood
All different shapes and sizes
Jimmy would fetch the small pieces
I smash them against the rock
I pick up some pumice stone
It’s light and scrunchy, like a macaroon
Jimmy was so heavy
Especially when he got wet
I scrunch the pumice stone
It crumbles to dust
I see a rat
It scuttles behind a rock, sinister and sneaky
Jimmy chased rats and barked at them
I touch and tickle the sand with my toes
There are millions of grains – too many to count
Jimmy liked to dig in the sand
I sort some shells
No-one’s living in them now
They’re empty and quiet
Like my place
Coloured glass glitters
Smoothed by the sea water
Mum calls it treasure
She says Jimmy was a treasure
Near the waves seaweed settles
Someone told me you can eat it
Jimmy used to chew it and spit it out
That made me laugh
I discover a dead seagull
Was it old when it died?
I bet Jimmy would roll on it
And come home smelly
A plastic bag floats in front of me
It shouldn’t be here
But I wish Jimmy was
I watch an old man and his dog
Looking out at the blueness
His dog barks at the seagulls
Just like Jimmy
I grin, remembering.
I think I spy sea monsters hiding in the waves
But I am alone.
Or am I?
I’m sure Jimmy’s watching me.
UQ
If you were a ewe
would you queue
too
(ewes
usually do)
if you knew
it was true
that waiting for you
at the end of the path
was a bath?
Or would you
shoot through?
7
If you dearly want to gain
A skill
Allow me to explain
The drill
You really have to train
Until
You can do it again
And again
At will.
Author comment: I thought I’d try to work with the keyword as a verb. I seemed to be on the way to some rare (for me) free verse, but the rhyming possibilities took over, resulting in perhaps my shortest ever poem.
It happens one fine morning when I squint into the light;
The image in the mirror is a terrifying sight.
The carrot-coloured hair is gone that caused me so much grief,
Replaced with purple pansies…I feel gobsmacked disbelief!
The freckles that I hated are exchanged for purple dots.
Without exaggerating, there are lots and lots and lots.
Instead of whites, my eyes have mauves, and bristling on my chin,
A prickly purple beard grows out of lilac-tinted skin.
The nails are painted purple on my fingers and my toes
And, when I poke my tongue out, it is tied with purple bows.
The doctor says, ‘It seems that a disease extremely rare
Has turned your body purple from your toes up to your hair:
Acute impurpleitis. There is nothing I can do.
It’s really not my specialty. The cure is up to you.’
I snip the purple pansies and I shave the purple beard.
I dab the dots with crayon ─ they look only slightly weird.
I loosen all the purple bows and cover up my skin,
Then crumple up my homework and consign it to the bin.
I’ve figured out the reason this predicament arose
From now on I intend to KEEP AWAY FROM PURPLE PROSE.
Yesterday
I was a golden dragon
The kiss of grasses brushed my ankles
And then I rose into the sky
Where I cavorted at first
Then drifted
brushing the clouds,
a wondrous lilting shape that those below
beheld with awe.
Gold and crimson I lapped the world
like a god commanding
everything
and everyone
all things revolved around me
I owned the day
Shattered it with my beauty
And my gigantic roar.
Today
yesterday was a dream
and now I am but a mere child
my mother standing over me
with her many demands
I must obey.
The ticket’s important.
Your favourite show
is almost sold out
but you’re dying to go.
You groan at the queue
but you can’t walk away;
there’s no other chance.
You must see it today.
Yes, you’re dying to go,
But not just to the show.
One coffee too many,
and the queue is so slow.
The choice is so cruel,
What will you do?
You have to choose now:
The queue or the loo?
It’s Nature that wins,
As Nature will do,
but you’ll know next time
that it’s ‘P’ before ‘Q’.
7Kate says: This is a poem inspired by the long-treasured advice of a favourite aunty.
Australian Children’s Poetry 