Found a kite
by Marc Low
If you should ever find a kite
And fly it in the air,
You’ll find it flying beautifully,
Flitting, soaring there;
The people staring will be awed
And think that it’s your kite;
Poets and lovers will all laugh
And smile at your kite’s sight.
And when it rains the kite will fall
And flounder to the ground,
And with a sigh you’ll leave at last
With that kite that you found.
I was sad.
I shed a single tear.
It lay before me but for a moment.
A warming sun and a drying wind beckoned it skyward
to join a million other teardrops in a cloud.
A million teardrops fell to earth,
and like a million teardrop broom
they swept away the fear and gloom,
and I was happy.
Drum Dreams
by Sharon Hammad
Don’t tell me I should tinkle on the piano’s ivory keys
And I don’t want to learn to make the tartan bagpipes wheeze.
I do not crave to pluck the harp with fingertips and thumbs,
But how I hope and dream that one day I can play the drums!
If only I could find the words to sway my mum and dad
From their idea that getting drums is bound to turn out bad.
They tell me they would cost too much. We wouldn’t have the space
Unless we relocated to a chockablock-less place.
My parents think I’d wake them up when they would rather snooze.
They’re confident the neighbours would completely blow their fuse.
No matter what I say to them, they will not change their tune:
It looks like I’m not getting drums at any moment soon.
The neighbours wouldn’t have to know; they wouldn’t hear a peep
And if we looked up Gumtree I bet we could get some cheap.
Concerning space, of course my room might end up in a squeeze
But I can sleep out in the hall. Oh, let me have them please.
Perhaps I need to close my eyes and strongly concentrate
So one day mum and dad decide to re-evaluate.
I try and try this strategy although it doesn’t work
For when I open up my eyes, my parents only smirk.
They ask me if I’m feeling sick ─ my face is rather pink─
And as I slowly turn away, I think I see them wink.
The night before my birthday I release a mournful sigh.
It might be better if I kiss the drums idea goodbye.
My birthday dawns and light seeps through the curtains in my room
While over in the corner something strange lurks in the gloom.
And as I stare, and stare some more, the ghostly shape becomes…
My own electric-foldaway-with-headphones set of drums!
Hey you!
You’re looking at me like
you’ve got something to say –
Well OK then
I’m up for a chat,
a chitter, a chatter,
a yabber, a yak,
a tittle-tattle
jibber-jabber,
a yammering yap.
I’m open to suggestion
on topics for discussion
Let’s communicate, confabulate,
wag the chin and chew the fat.
Let’s prattle and babble,
let’s talk, talk, talk!
But first you’ve got to learn
how to screech, how to squawk –
so stretch out your neck,
now open your beak …
wait … what’s that?
You don’t have a beak?
Beg pardon, my mistake
for presuming you could speak!
The Darling of the Darling Downs
by Allan Cropper
Lady Flo, the wife of Joh
The darling of the Darling Downs
Her recipe for pumpkin scones
Was shared across Australian towns
The farmers in the pumpkin patch
And those who baked and kneaded dough
Were all prepared to cook a batch
And give the pumpkin scones a go
Australia loved the pumpkin scone
and Flo became a household name.
It wasn’t due to husband Joh,
That Lady Flo had found her fame.
In meeting halls and country fairs
The pumpkin scones still do the rounds
So take a bow, dear Lady Flo
The darling of the Darling Downs.
There’s beetroot on the ceiling,
down the walls and on the floor.
The dressing’s leaving patterns
that I’ve never seen before.
The nuts and pomegranate
fly like bullets through the air.
I’m stepping over mushrooms
and there’s lettuce in my hair.
My mother’s looking angry,
I’m in trouble, I can tell.
She said to toss the salad
and I’ve tossed it pretty well.
In my Australian school
in the days of Empire,
we dipped our nibbed pens
in ink that was royal blue,
and, by decree,
in ink of
no other colour.
Not the blue of the sea
which girt us
nor of the arching sky
in our land of the free.
Australians were loyal
and True Blue
was royal.
Britannia ruled the waves
and Britannia ruled
the ink.
Margins however,
were to be ruled
(exactly one inch,
giving no quarter)
in erasable pencil.
Small jars, tall jars, boxes too,
Zoe needs them for her zoo.
In the garden, in the sun
is where she finds Exhibit One.
A caterpillar munching leaves,
Zoe stoops, rolls up her sleeves
and carefully with finger tips
(just in case this critter nips)
places it inside a jar.
Pops on the lid.
He won’t get far.
Crouching in a damp dark spot,
armed with just a yogurt pot
she spots a tell-tale silver trail.
Exhibit Two, a friendly snail.
With trusty trowel she fills a jar
then doesn’t have to dig too far
before she spots a sudden squirm.
Exhibit Three, a wriggling worm.
Exhibit Four sits in a box,
wearing gloves and scarf and socks.
His cage says, ‘Dangerous Beware.
Please Don’t Feed This Teddy Bear.’
A tiny cubby made from sticks
houses numbers Five and Six.
A beetle and a millipede
curled up like a shiny bead.
Exhibit Seven’s tied to a tree.
He’s rather dangerous you see.
A dinosaur might stomp around
and squish those caged upon the ground.
She needs to find Exhibit Eight
who’s sitting calmly on the gate.
Zoe has to pull and tug
to capture this majestic slug.
Now who will be the final two
to join the gang at Zoe’s Zoo?
She has to build a great big pen
to house Exhibits Nine and Ten.
Her work is done.
She gives a shout.
‘Mum and Daddy, please come out.’
‘Gotcha!’
THE CARETAKERS
by Anne Bell
I went to the house,looking for a man to build a fence
knowing nothing of him,except that people said
he built good fences.
His garden warmed July’s cold hills,
but there was nobody there,
save a peacock,a scarecrow and a fine, grey mare.
I found nobody to build my fence,
but I think I’d like a man
who left his home to the care
of a peacock,a scarecrow and a fine, grey mare.
First published in The School Magazine.
I’ll tell you where I’ve been
I don’t think you’ll believe it
It started with a leaf
And me running to retrieve it
It fluttered through the rain
And over lots of puddles
So when I caught it up
I was soaked and in a muddle
It settled down at last
Upon a rotten jetty
I reached for it with hands
That were colder than a Yeti’s
That leaf was almost mine
I stretched out with a sigh
But then it blew away
To a dingy tied nearby
A sudden gale-force gust
Sent us sailing through the ocean
I clung on like a limpet
Feeling seasick from the motion
The wind dropped, I was lost
With no clue of north or south
Right then the leaf bobbed gently
Through a great whale’s gaping mouth
Surprisingly I followed
What else was there to do?
But leaves give whales an itchy throat
So skywards we both flew
I splashed into the sea
And heard a rotor spinning
A helicopter scooped
Another ride beginning!
I madly treaded water
Determined not to drown
We flew above a fire
And the helo tipped us down
I landed fairly softly
Upon a smoky shore
Close by the burned-out jetty
Where the dingy was before
A seagull grabbed the leaf
Flapped through the ashes squawking
My leaf was gone for good
So back home I started walking
That’s why I’m late for tea
It’s true, just like I said
What’s this, a leafy salad?
I might just go to bed.
Australian Children’s Poetry 