A FROG IN THE BATHROOM
I saw a frog in the bathroom last night
It seemed to be staring right at me in fright
big toilet roll eyes on a porcelain face
just stared up at me with a look of disgrace
did not say a word, but he sat there and frowned
as though disapproving, did not make a sound.
I pressed on his nose as he stared with distrust,
and water gushed out as the toilet bowl flushed.
I wonder if I’ll ever see him again?
I wonder if next time he might bring a friend?
© Allan Cropper
You have to love those scrub-fowl chooks
seen scratching in the forest’s nooks.
Like Robin and his Merry Men
they roam the jungle, cock and hen.
They’re dressed in dowdy blue and brown
while orange legs are bright low down.
And if you spot one, notice that
it wears a quiff-like Sherwood hat!
They build big nests of forest leaves;
communal giant compost heaps
to bury eggs and keep them warm
and hide them from the jungle’s harm.
And in the process, make a mess
of scattered leaves, continuous
that cover paths and walking trails
initiating human wails.
But most of all I love their calls
that echo through the wooded halls.
To some, it sounds like strangled kids
that shriek for help before they’re missed.
But night and day, their yodelling
is interspersed with chuckling
that signifies they’re happy chooks
despite their rather funny looks.
Irving McDrane can fly a plane;
He flies it up and down again.
He flies by night, he flies by day,
Upside down or up the right way.
He loops the loop and barrel rolls,
Through the air he twists and scrolls,
Across the sky with great panache …
Look out, Irving — you’re going to crash!
SPLAT!
Irving McDrane can’t fly a plane;
Now he goes everywhere by train.
When people say: “Spring’s late this year!”
They must be wrong – that’s seems quite clear.
It always starts on one firm date,
So cannot possibly be late!
At school I’m sure that we rehearsed
That Spring begins September 1st.
If every year that does not change,
To say: “Spring’s late”, seems very strange.
But if you’re north of the equator,
Spring for you is six months later.
That would mean you are not here,
But in the other hemisphere.
September there’s not Spring at all:
It starts their Autumn or their Fall,
When trees’ green leaves may turn to brown
And from above come floating down.
Should someone say that Spring is late,
I do not start some great debate
And tell them what I learnt at school
And treat them like a silly fool,
Since change, for seasons, can be slow.
It’s warmth they want: their plants to grow,
Their flowers to bud and birds to sing.
Till that time comes, it won’t seem Spring.
A leisurely bike ride along the bush track,
Nothing too strenuous – 2ks then back.
Nothing competitive; dawdling along,
Enjoying the scenery and humming a song.
A leisurely bike ride – me on my own,
No need to hurry, 2ks then home.
4ks in total, pedalling with ease,
One cloud of pollen watch out I may sneeze.
The bell birds say “tink” as I ride through their patch.
Then past an echidna having a scratch.
Butterflies easily keep up the pace.
Dragonflies hover; their wings look like lace.
The ride is delightful – it’s time to turn back,
But just wait a minute – what’s that on the track?
A kangaroo lazily hopping ahead.
Is it a grey or is it a red? I’ll just go and see…
Faster and faster I quadruple my cadence
Just scraping through a gap in a farm fence.
The kangaroo is bounding in front at great speed,
But I am the one who will soon take the lead.
I crank up the gears and decrease my resistance.
By crouching down low, in less time more distance.
With speed and endurance I’ve almost succeeded,
In passing a grey kangaroo unpreceded.
The tail wind is strong; I am zooming along,
But all of a sudden something goes wrong.
The kangaroo disappears off the bush track,
Into the scrub and doesn’t hop back.
I skid to a halt – my heart is arrhythmic.
I cannot believe it – oh what a mean trick!
And as the dust settles, I stand all alone,
Except for a sign that says – “20ks home.”
It all began with a casual pick
by the man sitting opposite me
on the train home last night
at first hardly noticeable
it grew to be a performance
involving both nostrils
which was quite a sight
Some efforts were hard fought
and were flicked triumphantly
to a growing mound on the floor
while others more sizeable
were rolled into balls and
thrown high up into the air
before being lovingly placed
in a brown bread sandwich
All this wasn’t appreciated
by the other passengers
who were mostly aghast
but then their noses
began to twitch as well
and some surreptitiously
had a bit of a pick
and soon the whole carriage
was furiously picking away
And then the man’s head
started to shrink right
before there very eyes
and it soon began to
resemble a withered prune
so they all stopped picking
and felt a little bit silly
and went back to fiddling
with their new digital devices
or gazing out the train window
Glen Ewing
The hasty Hibiscus has burst into flower.
A glamorous beauty that seems a bit rude.
Its bloom only lasts about twenty four hours
before it will wilt to a shrivelling prude.
Its pistil’s so long, like it’s poked out its tongue
to grab the attention of passers-by.
The tip has a group of five stigmas it’s hung
to catch any pollen before it will die.
Along the pink sides of its long pistil style
the anthers hold pollen that’s yellow and bright.
Like sparks flying off from a Catherine-wheel
or sparkler lit on a dusky night.
With silky-soft petals in reds, white or gold
they need to attract pollinators for hire.
Impatient, imposing. They’re terribly bold.
Like flowery dragons all breathing fire.
Bring on the sunshine,
Bring on the day.
We’re energetic
And we like to play!
Bring on the sunshine,
Play with The Deans.
The slippery dip’s scorching.
Next time we’ll wear jeans.
Bring on the sunshine,
Climb up a tree.
Swing from the branches,
Jump down with Bree.
Bring on the sunshine,
Race to the shops.
Buy fizzy drink
And pink paddle pops.
Bring on the sunshine,
Drive down the road.
We’re in our cossies
In holiday mode.
Bring on the sunshine,
Mum lets us out.
We’ve pulled up at Kurt’s.
He’s an excellent scout.
Bring on the sunshine,
Sunbake with Kurt.
Slop on the sunscreen,
Or bodies will hurt.
Bring on the sunshine,
Dive in the pool.
Float on a raft and
Swim to keep cool.
Bring on the sunshine,
Mother returns –
She steers with two fingers,
The steering wheel burns.
Bring back the sunshine,
It’s fading away,
Time to go home now.
Remember this day!
By Lynette Oxley
Australian Children’s Poetry 