At the Dinosaur Picnic
Dandy dinosaurs dancing
Dreamy dinosaurs drinking
Dexterous dinosaurs dinking
Dainty dinosaurs dazzling
Devilish dinosaurs diving
Dozy dinosaurs dallying
Delicate dinosaurs dawdling
Category Archives: Poem of the Day
“Book Spell” by Katherine Gallagher
Leave a commentBook spell or how books keep me happy during the holidays
My room is always lined with books
full of adventures, animals and strange characters.
Books, they’re my friends, hiding in nooks,
giving me surprises
Before I know it, I’m caught just fine,
in the mysteries of a book.
“A PRICKLY TICKLY AUSSIE SUMMER” by James Aitchison
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Prickly bindi-eyes sting my feet
when on the summer grass I walk.
In everyone’s backyard I’ll meet
Prickly bindi-eyes!
And even when tip-toed I stalk,
hoping their menace I can cheat,
I fail — and you can hear my squawk!
Bindi-eyes love the summer heat,
And I — I’d need eyes like a hawk
To avoid them in ev’ry street —
Prickly bindi-eyes!
“Blue Tongue Tales” by Pat Simmons
2 CommentsBlue Tongue Tales
In a warm suburban garden the blue tongue lizards meet
to talk about the goings on up and down the street.
Other creatures listen, green tree frogs and snails.
Possums peek between the leaves to hear the blue tongue tales.
What about young Billy Blue Tongue? They say he’s running wild.
He won’t go hunting with his Dad. He is a lazy child.
He sneaks up to the humans’ house at number forty-four
and eats the cat’s food from its dish – yes right outside their door.
‘My Tim hangs out at thirty-seven,’ Mrs. Tree Frog said,
‘they play loud music which he loves. He just won’t come to bed.
He hip hops up and down their path, the silly little joker.
The problem is he wants to be a rapper, not a croaker.’
By now a crowd has gathered to join in the conversation.
‘Without a doubt our children are the Urban Generation,’
sighs Mrs. Barbara Bandicoot whose wayward daughter, Lou
has dug a deep and messy hole at number twenty-two.
In a warm suburban garden the blue tongue lizards meet
to talk about the goings on up and down the street.
Other creatures listen, green tree frogs and snails.
Possums peek between the leaves to hear the blue tongue tales.
“The Sloth is Happy” by Marque Dobrow
Leave a commentThe Sloth is Happy
How happy is the sloth:
There is not a soul so idle.
To see him casually hang from branch
You’d think him suicidal.
How peaceful is the sloth,
His manner so content.
One tree remains his lifelong home;
For which he pays no rent.
How joyous is the sloth,
For he doesn’t have a job.
Within one tree he sleeps and eats;
The social life he snob.
The sloth remains my friend and pal,
A delightful, harmless mammal.
He has no need for a turtle’s shell,
Or the long legs of a camel.
Forever walking upside down
My sloth, you look exquisite.
If of your tree you ever tire,
I hope you’ll come and visit.
“Walnut Brittle” by Marque Dobrow
Leave a commentIf you go to the Milk Bar today,
You might find something in your way.
With chocolate topping in your eyes
You’re bound to get a big surprise.
Whipped cream dripping from your fingers,
Something in there lurks and lingers.
You’d better take your dad and mum,
Because you’re far too little
To handle the walnut brittle.
It’s going to get in through your ears.
It’s going to open up your fears.
When you’re hiding under the bed,
You’ll feel the pain inside your head.
The cavities will bring you down,
Because you’re far too little
To handle the walnut brittle.
Now quickly lock your bedroom door.
Your teeth will drop out on the floor.
You’ll feel the pain from all the honey;
You can’t afford it: got no money.
Take my advice and stay at home,
Because you’re far too little
To handle the walnut brittle.
“The Dance of the Breeze” by Louise Mc Carthy
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In a land far away midst the bluey-green sea,
Grew a most ancient plant – the tippety tree.
Its roots stirred the ocean; its top scraped the sky,
And it harboured a bird, reluctant to fly.
The tippety bird, whose home was the tree,
Had no need to fledge, no reason to flee –
Comfortable lodgings – cosy and stylish,
Plus each supper served with an excellent side-dish.
Whispering leaves translated the breeze
Into myths and legends from over the seas;
Gentle sweet lullabies, gruesome grim tales–
Enchanting at once, delight without fail.
Then strangely the leaves of the tree blew away,
With a gust, in a storm, on a cold winters day.
Just one adornment remained way up high –
The tippety bird – unwilling to fly.
To the uppermost twig the bird gripped with fear–
No whispering leaves; nothing to hear,
But creaking and grinding of branches all bare –
A ramshackle staircase way up in the air.
For three fearful weeks the bird hoped and wished –
Its voice it had lost, its happiness squished.
The tippety bird became faded and weak,
And icicles formed on the end of its beak.
And the clouds became dark and the waves were so tall,
Not the sun or the moon could break through them at all.
As the ocean was rising the feeling was grim,
For the tippety bird was not eager to swim.
Then the pitiless storm and its thunderous sound;
The war of the sea and the sky all around
Suddenly hushed…
And the feet, of the bird, by the sea foam were brushed.
Then the sun found a gap, from its paint-box it threw
A spectrum of colours, enough to imbue…
With inquisitive thought the bird dipped a toe,
Then zealously swam toward the colourful bow.
But the ocean erupted! The bird caught a wave!
It flapped and it fluttered, it flew, it was brave.
As the sea began sinking the tree rose up fast,
Sails were un-furling – its trunk was a mast.
On the bluey-green sea a sailing ship drifted,
A breeze swept the deck then suddenly lifted.
Ascending the mast, it circled around,
It huffed and it puffed till a new sound was found.
Flapping and rustling of white canvas sails,
Deciphered the gusts; the nautical gales.
The tippety bird, enthused by the song,
Suddenly felt on this ship it belonged.
Without hesitation, to the vessel it glided.
By stars and a quadrant the bird became guided.
Its course was consistent and it travelled the seas,
Adjusting cloth sails to the dance of the breeze.
“Mother of Invention” by Celia Berrell
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Neo-natal humankind
is ceaseless of enquiring mind.
With science and technology
the stopper’s out dynamically.
From fire to furnaced energy
from steam to electricity.
We modify genetically
and glean the stars effectively.
We can’t slow down
this gain in pace.
The fascination’s
well in place.
Much to learn,
with good intention,
drives this mother
of invention
This poem was inspired by the crayon drawing Origins of the Future by Sharon Davson.
The poem was published in the Canadian school Textbook Nelson English 10 in 2012
Australian Children’s Poetry 