Green
Our fast green car
Green world
Stomach churning
Head spinning
Spinning
The world turning
Upside down
Downside up
Around and around
Wheels rolling
Streets passing
Blurred buildings
Blurred faces
Blur blur blur
Ur…
Dad, stop!
I’m going to throw …
Too late.
By Teena Raffa-Mulligan
Santa had a problem for his suit no longer fit.
It was snug around the tummy. When he sat, his trousers split.
One bight and early morning, Mrs Santa said:
“My dear, I must tell you something that I read.
I love you roly-poly, I love you as you are,
but if you took a health test you wouldn’t get a star.
It’s really most important to have a healthy heart
and if you want a long life, it’s not too late to start.”
Santa called in at the health club—the trainer checked him out.
She said: “We’ll plan a program that will work without a doubt.”
She booked him in for workouts three times every week,
then talked about his diet and told him what to eat.
He ate lots of fruit and vegies, chose grilled instead of fried
for every single main meal, with salads on the side.
He said no to morning tea cakes and had carrot sticks instead.
Whenever offered sweet treats, he firmly shook his head.
Santa also started walking quite early in the day
and soon those extra kilos began to melt away.
He said: “I feel fantastic, this year will be a breeze.
I’ll deliver all those presents without the slightest wheeze.
I won’t get stuck in chimneys or struggle up steep stairs
or stop to have a rest whenever I see chairs.”
Then on Christmas Eve, a problem as Santa dressed to leave.
His suit no longer fit him except for length of sleeve.
His top was loose and baggy where tight it was before,
and when he pulled his trousers up, they slid down to the floor.
He looked at Mrs Santa. “Whatever will we do?
Perhaps some safety pins? Could you sew a seam or two?
We need a quick solution for I really ought to go.
The children are all waiting and I can’t be late, you know.”
Mrs Santa nodded and tried to hide a smile.
“Thank goodness it’s late shopping. This will only take a while.”
So that’s why this year Santa won’t be wearing his red suit.
He’s got a brand new outfit. Mrs Santa thinks it’s cute.
It’s a bright red fleecy tracksuit for warmth in North Pole cold,
and a pair of sporty sneakers replacing boots of old.
For his head a woolly beanie instead of pom pom cap.
So if one Christmas evening you should glimpse a bearded chap
who looks a lot like Santa except he’s fit and trim,
don’t think that you’re mistaken, for yes, you’re right, it’s him!
Like it or not
I am glued to this spot,
left in the lurch
on a perilous perch
exposed to all weathers,
bird-bombs and feathers,
no shelter at night,
a face like a fright,
with a monstrous chin
and a phony grin
that’s just an excuse,
a ridiculous ruse
for making a drain
to spew out the rain
away from the wall
of this cold stone hall.
Day in and day out
I do nothing but spout
the run-off and grime
and the muck and the slime
from up on this roof –
I feel such a goof.
In fact, I’m offended
at being wrong-ended
with backward digestion –
so here’s a suggestion:
if means could be found
to turn me around
I could hide my face
from the human race
and I wouldn’t need words –
I’d behave like the birds
and the message I’d send
would be through my rear end.
You might like the Crunchie, an excellent pick,
this miniature, choc-coated honeycomb brick
or what about something the colour of cream?
If that’s sounding tempting, then try out the Dream.
There’s Dairy Milk, Picnic and Mint Bubbly too,
all of them sitting here waiting for you.
If fruit mixed with coconut’s what you like best
the Cherry Ripe option is what I’d suggest.
There’s smooth Caramello and crumbling Flake.
It’s not such an easy decision to make.
This might be the last time we’re offered such treats.
You’d better choose wisely from all of these sweets.
But just let me warn you, we don’t want a fight.
So stay right away from that Turkish Delight!
On the highway to Appin
skies bled on summer nights.
The road hummed to town,
trucks sped coal to the coast,
and south of main street
silent on a bridge,
Fisher’s Ghost.
Weekdays we rose at five
blowing balls of warmth into winter air,
and milking the cows
I sang at the bails,
‘Rose Marie, I love you.’
Summer was blowies in the cream,
butter that melted,
eggs from gasping hens.
Mrs Tietzel brought the mail,
Campbell the bread,
the days moved sideways.
Saturday was cricket
or Menangle trots,
swimming at the Woolwash
and the Queen Street shops.
Bill was cockatoo for SP bookies in pubs
and kids lined up at the picture house,
game girls rubbing cheeks with bristling boys.
Paspalum brushed the sky
and we forgot ourselves.
In the showground cemetery
beneath the shadow of Ruse
who sowed the first grain
we made rubbings on tombs;
JOHN MACARTHUR, ELIZABETH, R.I.P.
In Mawson Park
the band played Matilda,
someone scribbled his mind on toilet walls,
and, beyond trains that steamed to Sydney,
I dreamed a freedom of cities and age.
© Dianne Bates
The scribbly gum is a eucalyptus tree with a very smooth, pale trunk. The distinctive brownish ‘scribbles’ are made by the larvae of the tiny scribbly moth.
Tall custodians of scribbled mysteries,
What can you tell us, silent trees?
What tunnelling scribes find sanctuary
within this covert library?
Mere larvae, small but diligent,
whose little lives are wholly spent
to leave these ciphers in your care
’til later times reveal them there.
What is the urgent need that drives
this tracery of transient lives?
What are the messages layered here
in darkness? Why, year after year
do you allow these prophets in?
Is there an itch beneath your skin?
Are you, tall gums, merely content
to give their need your nourishment?
Or do your lives and theirs conspire
to keep these riddles from our eye
’til when these poets take their leave,
you wear their heartsongs on your sleeve?
Can snails die of too-long-life?,
Of too much travel and fun?
Have they a self-destruction gene?,
And might it be overcome?
Imagine an Every-Snail’s You-Beaut-Land,
With lots of food all fresh and green,
Where every snail would soon grow sharp,
And fleet of foot, and mean;
Where shells would be both smart and hard,
Affording real protection,
Where any bait a snail might take
Would prove a sweet confection.
How long or soon before a snail,
Though small its crustacean brain,
Would seek to escape its silver trail,
Nor there return again?
HOME
Hello, hello
I’m your friendly garden-
gastropod.
Not Matisse’s snail —
he’s a fast one, flying through space
on a rainbowed thread — a clever clever
slippery flippery
purple snail on a purple trail,
heading into green and orange and yellow…
You can’t miss him.
I’m the quiet type,
going places
at my own pace
under my hard hat
always on the lookout
for any big boot
coming my way
as I leave my silver
trail without fail
on green green places.
* Matisse’s snail hangs in the Tate Gallery, London.
HOME
Dear planter of my paradise,
I wanted to you to know
how much that I appreciate
the great greens that you grow
When whispering spring awoke me
From my winter’s hibernation
I beheld a feast prepared for me
beyond imagination
For twenty years we’ve shared this place
And pickings have been poor
But now we’ve got this vegie patch
It’s looking up for sure
There’s one thing I should mention though
I’m sure it’s not your fault
You might not understand
That I’m allergic to that salt.
HOME
You will find him in your garden
Yet he’ll always be at home,
Which is strange, because he travels,
Though he never far will roam,
For his movement is quite sluggish
And he often stops to eat.
If you’re growing nice green lettuce,
He considers that a treat!
With his eyes on stalks like flowers,
He can find his favourite food.
Never interrupt him eating,
Or he’ll think you’re very rude!
Do not fear that he’ll attack you
As he cannot throw a punch;
He will just be feeling cranky
That you’ve spoiled his lovely lunch!
Since his home he carries with him,
He will never mind the rain
And if anything should scare him,
He just goes inside again!
You will look in vain for footprints
But you’ll see his silver trail.
Do you think you know his name now . . . ?
Yes, you’ve got it! . . . Mr Snail!
Australian Children’s Poetry 