Category Archives: Poem of the Day

Attack of the Giant Dinosaur by John Williams

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Attack of the Giant Dinosaur  

 

I didn’t really mean,

To do what I have done,

I trod on a dinosaur’s tail

And now I’m on the run.

 

He’s about fourteen metres long

And he’s breathing down my neck,

My heart is purely throbbing

And my nerves are all a wreck.

 

He’s just about on top of me

His teeth about to crunch,

Oh where do you hide from a dinosaur

When you’re about to be his lunch.

 

“Stop playing with that lizard Tommy

And come on in for tea,”

“Ah you’d spoil any game mum

For a little boy like me.”

 

© John Williams

 

 

 

 

Sea Sparkle by Kate O’Neil

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Sea Sparkle

(Noctiluca scintillans, Thirroul Beach, August 2014)

 

After the rain a dull red tide

muddied the angry sea,

and the sky hung low and grey.

No swimming today.

 

I moped back up to the house to read

and hours had slipped away

when dad called out to me

that lights were on in the sea.

 

We walked out in the clear-rinsed dark

and down to watch the waves

breaking there in bright

displays of blue-green light.

 

It had to be magic. Water like fire

flaring into the dark!

Was it a sea-change?—

a thing so ghostly and strange.

 

We ran towards the breaking waves

and saw our footprints spark

as if we’d gone to play

along the Milky Way.

 

I cupped my hands and scooped up stars

then let them fall away

and lightning flashed and played

with every move I made.

 

I was in the universe,

with stars around my feet,

a giant hurling light

at random in the night.

 

Galaxies were swirling by

tumbling time and space

to sand-grains in my mind.

I’d left the world behind.

 

© Kate O’Neil

The Echidna by Margaret Pearce

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The Echidna

 

An echidna passed across a track

heading towards a special snack.

 

A naturalist muttered,‘What a turn!

About this creature, I’ve got to learn.’

 

He kneeled to take a closer look

the echidna swung with strong right hook.

 

And it was such a heavy clout

it nearly knocked the watcher out.

 

The echidna curled into a prickly ball

snarling, ‘I don’t like you at all.’

 

The naturalist cried and mused upon

what it was that he’d done wrong.

 

He only wanted to see first hand

the weirdest creature in the land.

 

The echidna uncurled and stalked away

grumbling at his ruined day.

 

And idiots too dumb to know

you always let echidnas go –

 

About their business digging holes

and eating ants from salad bowls.

 

Or snuffling around a great big mound

Where tasty termites are always found.

 

To spare echnida watchers’ pain,

the moral of this tale is plain.

 

Always remember it’s very rude

to keep echidnas from their food.

 

© Margaret Pearce

My Gran’s Place by Margaret Pearce

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My Gran’s Place

 

My Gran’s place is an unchanging one

And I always visit when horridly glum.

She doesn’t go in for changing trends

Of fashion, hairdo’s or marital friends.

 

Everything’s the same, as long as I’ve known

The clock in the hall, the old fashioned phone.

She opens her door with a welcoming smile

And says ‘Hello love, come in for a while.’

 

Mum’s moved to a flat, small but not cosy,

Door to door concrete, and neighbours nosy.

No bike riding, skateboarding or making a noise

Pets not allowed, and they hate little boys.

 

Sometimes I go to stay with Dad

but after a while I start to feel mad.

A fresh new start, my stepmother said

And threw everything out, even my bed.

 

The kitchen’s never messy with cooking,

Everything’s tidy and modern looking.

The back verandah is now a study,

With nowhere to leave anything muddy.

 

Gran’s furniture’s shabby, and I like it a lot,

A smoking wood stove, and soup in the pot.

The broken down stool in my favourite nook

The bookshelf that has my very first book.

 

An expensive video game sits at home,

But it doesn’t compensate for nights alone.

Dad takes me fishing and for drives galore

(He never acted like this before!)

 

My Gran’s world is warm and friendly,

Nothing there is ever trendy.

I love to visit when feeling blue,

And pretend that my world’s unchanging too.

 © Margaret Pearce

A version of this published one use only HOUSE OF SPROUTS 1988 (O.U.P) A version of this used in POSTIVE WORDS May 2008 issue, one use only

Portrait of a Puddle by Pat Simmons

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Portrait of a Puddle

 

I can tell you about the weather.

Am I growing or shrinking?

 

I can show you how a paper boat floats

and be a mirror for your smiling face.

 

I can be a drink for a thirsty bird,

or a short slurp for a cat on the prowl.

 

I can annoy new shoes,

but splashing gum boots love me.

 

I can be a short stay hostel

for tadpoles or mozzie larvae.

 

I can be temporary and tempting.

 

I have possibilities and potential.

I am a puddle.

 

© Pat Simmons

The Echidna by Margaret Pearce

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The Echidna

 

An echidna passed across a track

heading towards a special snack.

 

A naturalist muttered,‘What a turn!

About this creature, I’ve got to learn.’

 

He kneeled to take a closer look

the echidna swung with strong right hook.

 

And it was such a heavy clout

it nearly knocked the watcher out.

 

The echidna curled into a prickly ball

snarling, ‘I don’t like you at all.’

 

The naturalist cried and mused upon

what it was that he’d done wrong.

 

He only wanted to see first hand

the weirdest creature in the land.

 

The echidna uncurled and stalked away

grumbling at his ruined day.

 

And idiots too dumb to know

you always let echidnas go –

 

About their business digging holes

and eating ants from salad bowls.

 

Or snuffling around a great big mound

Where tasty termites are always found.

 

To spare echnida watchers’ pain,

the moral of this tale is plain.

 

Always remember it’s very rude

to keep echidnas from their food.

 

© Margaret Pearce

 

Walk! by Edel Wignell

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Walk!

 

Perhaps you’ve tried a jaunty stride,

A country romp, a city stomp.

Do your legs swing and your arms fling?

Do you ramble and roam all the way home?

Do you step pigeon-toed when crossing the road?

Is your waddle so humble, it’s almost a stumble?

 

Hilaire Belloc, known for humour and rhyme,

Had something to say (no rhyme this time):

‘The walk is a series of potential falls

Countered by placing one foot forward.’

Now you’ve heard (quick sketch, last word):

Stroll or race or fall flat on your face!

 

Walking helps your lungs and heart

And keeps your brain alert and smart,

Enough words, enough talk,

   Get out there! Walk, walk!

 

Edel Wignell

Eagle Song by Sophie Masson

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Eagle Song

 

Hill-lord sorcerer, wedge-tailed eagle,

Drawn on breath of wind.

Brown breadth plunging, arrow-lunging,

Earthing into prey.

Gold eye blazing, coldly fazing

Storm that’s coming on.

 

Sky-sail clipper, wedge-tailed eagle,

Drifting on the wind.

Rip waves forming, slow tide borne in

Flash of bronze and white.

Thunder rattling, lightning shattering,

Trees and livid sky.

Still there’s eagle, riding bravely,

Master of the storm.

 

© Sophie Masson

Death’s Kaleidoscope by Sarah Jaeger

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Death’s Kaleidoscope

 

The master of pain is prominent in Dachau,

Perfecting a frown on a gaunt and shrivelled face,

Playing unconscionable games with my beautiful mother,

Reminding me I’ll be next if I survive a few more years,

Debating death is like an alluring melody hammered inside my head.

 

Violins bring a magical essence of self achievement,

Comforting disheartened and shattered hearts,

But I was not permitted to bring anything with me,

Without my violin I feel incredibly lonely,

Unable to let out my suffering through music,

Hitler has taken away my purpose.

 

An undefined soldier waltzes over to my mother,

Raising his brutal fist above her emaciated back,

Characteristically, my brother and I intervene,

A cacophony of sounds sprint through my ears,

My mother’s unrelenting and mortifying screaming,

A haunting laugh from my mocking captor,

The resonating sound of a newly-fired gun.

 

Death entangles its lanky arms around my heart,

Draining my crimson liquid onto the frozen ground,

Leaving three distinct colours for all to contemplate,

Dazed red, for the shapes I see from tear filled eyes,

Blotched grey, for a monstrously mislead Germany,

Cumulus white, for the colour on my dying brother’s face,

The shifting pattern of colours lingers momentarily, then dies.

 

© Sarah Jaeger

Winner Dorothea Mackellar Poetry Competition – Upper Primary, 2014

They Danced in the Town by Bill Condon

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They Danced in the Town

 

Grandmother Mulligan never left the house,

not once in ninety-eight years.

She could hardly talk and she could not walk –

but, she still had a very fine time,

oh yes, she still had a very fine time.

 

For every night as she slept, her nose crept away,

and danced in the town with her ears, her ears.

Danced in the town with her ears.

 

Little old lady, Penelope Simms,

had aches in her toenails and all of her limbs.

Her back was hunched, her walk was slow –

there wasn’t much difference from Stop and Go –

but, she still had a very fine time,

oh yes, she still had a very fine time.

 

For every night as she slept, her toes crept away,

and danced in the town with her ears, her ears.

Danced in the town with her ears.

 

Dear old Doddie had a clapped out body,

she was wrapped in a plaster cast.

She could not itch, she could not twitch,

her life was fading fast –

but, she still had a very fine time,

oh yes, she still had a very fine time.

For every night as she slept, her nose crept away,

and danced in the town with her ears, her ears.

Danced in the town with her ears!

 

© Bill Condon