A Crocodile Called Burt

(For Karen)

He’s a funky crocodile,

a chunky crocodile,

a crocodile called Burt.

He’s a fearsome beast,

three metres at least,

he looks sleepy but he is alert.

Just don’t be misled

that he’s tired in bed,

by the sound of his rumbling snores.

If you get too near

you may well disappear

between his chewmungous jaws.

He’s a moving rock,

he’s a common croc,

no pedigree and no frills.

But next door you’ll see

reptile royalty,

two crocs called Kate and Wills!

 There really are two crocodiles named after the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, and they both live with Burt at Crocosaurus Cove, a crocodile sanctuary in Darwin, Australia.) From The Monster Sale (Frances Lincoln, 2013)

ABOUT OUR GUEST POET

Brian Moses lives in the small Sussex village of Burwash with his wife Anne, and a loopy labrador called Honey. He first worked as a teacher but has now been a professional children’s poet for 26 years. To date he has over 200 books published including volumes of his own poetry such as A Cat Called Elvis and Behind the Staffroom Door  (both Macmillan), anthologies such as The Secret Lives of Teachers  and Aliens Stole My Underpants (both Macmillan) and picture books such as Beetle in the Bathroom  and Trouble at the Dinosaur Cafe (both Puffin). Over one million copies of Brian’s poetry books have now been sold by Macmillan. Brian’s blog address is  brian-moses.blogspot.com

Brian’s latest book is School Report

                            The purple pawed parrot of Northern Peru

The purple pawed parrot of Northern Peru

Has got purple paws that aren’t orange or blue.

It isn’t a tiger, a toad or a turtle

But simply a parrot whose paws are all purple.

It lives in the Northern Peruvian jungle

In a Tumbletum tree in a nest made of Fungle.

It isn’t a reindeer, a rabbit or rat,

Just a purple pawed parrot – as simple as that.

It hasn’t a tail; there’s a bend in its beak.

Its eyesight is poor and it squawks with a squeak.

Now, it isn’t a bat or a bear or a boar.

It is only a parrot of purpley paw.

When it’s born it will leap from its nest made from Fungle

In its Tumbletum tree in the North Peru jungle,

But remember – it isn’t a fly, flea or fish.

It is only a parrot pawed purplyish.

There’s a pretty good chance that this parrot pawed purple

Will soar high above, but a chance it will hurtle

Straight down to the ground and be swallowed up whole

By a crafty carnivorous cat down below,

For this cat won’t fly, won’t eat flea, won’t eat fish

And, for him, bat, bear, boar won’t appeal as a dish,

Nor reindeers, rats, rabbits, toads tigers or turtles.

He’ll only eat parrots whose paws are all purple.

© Mike Lucas

I Luv My Speling

Last nite I sat doun kwietly

To get my homework dun.

I had to get my wirds rite

So I studdyd evry wun.

I thort Sir wood be hapy

and pat me on the hed.

But wen he cheked my ansirs,

his fase tirned brite brite red.

“Good heavens Smith,” he yelled at me.

“How could you be so dumb?

I’m going to write a note for you

to take home to your mum.”

I tuk the leter home with me

and wacht mum as she red.

She rote a leter bak to sir

and this is wot it sed.

Dear teecher thank you verry much

for karing bowt my sun.

I’ll help him lern his wurds tonite;

evry singal wun.

syned,

his muthar

© Warren Cox

Scarecrow

My scarecrow worked a wonder

in our brand new garden patch

but I made a fatal blunder

and must start again from scratch.

I’d made sure he was scary

‘cause his mission night and day

was to make the birdlife wary

and keep all the pests away.

His hair was wild and woolly

and his eyes were cold and hard.

He looked a fearsome bully

as he stood there in our yard.

His face was truly ghastly

With its horrid, evil smirk.

He looked so mean and nasty

as he carried out his work.

I’ve reassured my mother

that next time I’ll get it right.

I have to build another

’cause the plants all died of fright!

© Jenny Erlanger

Sweet Sorrow

I have a sweet and sorry tale,

I promise you it’s true.

It happened a few years ago –

Now would I lie to you?

It started with a parcel,

A present from a friend

Who posted Easter munchies,

A kindly thing to send.

She sent rich English toffee,

And luscious marzipan

All dipped in thick dark chocolate,

Packed tightly in a can.

And on the very top we found

All dressed in festive red

The sweetest chocolate duckling

Who bore a note which said:

“I left my country as an egg

But somehow on the way

I got so bored I had to hatch.

Can I come out to play?”

We ate the lovely marzipan,

We chewed the English toffee;

We shared the goodies with our friends,

A treat to serve with coffee.

I couldn’t bear to crack the duck

Though Granddad said we should;

I used to stand and gaze at him,

He looked so sweet and good.

And so he lived inside the fridge

For weeks, for months or years;

The very thought of breaking him

Would bring me close to tears.

But then one day it happened,

His balance being poor

He strayed too close to the shelf’s edge

And shattered on the floor.

Alas! No more our luckless duck!

Well, what else could we do?

With only chocolate fragments left

We ate him, wouldn’t you?

© Elaine Harris

As Like as Two Peas

I wanted a brother,

But was warned by my mother

That we might get the other.

But no! It was twins!

Then Pa comes to stay,

His grandsons he sees.

‘Why bless me!’ he cries,

‘As like as two peas.’

Identical boys,

Double the noise,

Duplicate toys.

A pigeon pair!

Two mouths that dribble,

Two heads that nod,

As like as two peas –

Two peas in a pod.

Hair that is fair,

Gums that are bare,

Four eyes that stare.

Help! Mirror image!

To tell them apart,

Mum says it’s a breeze,

All but their ears

Are as like as two peas.

By Edel Wignell

© The Australian Society of Authors

Code-Breaker

I strolled down to the park last week

To watch a game of cricket.

They speak a different language there –

Please, what’s a sticky wicket?

I stood with rapt attention

But soon became downhearted.

How is something over when

It hasn’t even started?

I thought most bowls held soup or fruit

And bats could squeak and fly,

That bowlers were a type of hat

And maidens rather shy.

The people sitting on the grass

All loved to clap and shout.

They yelled out things like “Four!” “No, six!”

And “Is he still in or out?”

They had a tea-break halfway through,

The sandwiches were good.

I concentrated really hard

But still misunderstood.

The next time I go for a walk

And see a cricket match,

I might learn how to spin a bowl

Or not to drop a catch.

My girlfriend doesn’t seem convinced.

“You’re all confused”, she said.

“Why fuss with all those words and rules –

Try something else instead.

I’ll walk beside you to the park;

Don’t buy that cricket glove.

We’ll sit and watch the tennis where

At least they speak of love.”

© Elaine Harris

Once … upon a long ago

we sat inside the quiet

and watched the sun-kissed waters drift

beneath the morning light.

A place without a number;

a world with no address;

tucked away behind the trees

where Golden Whistlers nest.

Where thoughts so soft and gentle

filled my mind with peace.

And locked me in a moment

that I hoped would never cease.

But nothing lasts for always

and time will have its way.

The world and I have aged since then

and dimmed my yesterday.

Yet still one memory strong and clear

rests safe where it was filed.

A snapshot of the love that is

a mother and her child.

Warren Cox

Silly Shifts

All traffic jams jump questions.

No one can lose a dog in a hurry.

Therefore every day has a shape.

******

All fires have a starting point.

There is only one sky.

Therefore clouds surrender at will.

*******

All squares have four corners.

Fish rarely swim in circles.

Therefore the ocean may look flat.

********

© Katherine Gallagher

During the recent national SCBWI Conference in Sydney, I heard a quote which stuck in my mind. I am paraphrasing, but it went something like this: “So many writers seem to think children want to read about Nature, but most of all, children want to read about children”.

A pang of guilt instantly swept through me, because I know am one of the writers guilty of that crime — if that is indeed what it is.

Of course I know that children want to read about children, and of course I do often write for children about children. But some of the time – much of the time – perhaps even too much of the time – I write for children about Nature.

So why do I do it?

The first and most obvious reason is that as a child I was introduced to the natural world – the beach, the sea, the forest, the mountains – and the birds and beasts that therein dwell, and loved it. So it is natural enough that I should wish to pass this love and appreciation on to the next generation.

Yet there is an even stronger urge to write about Nature for children, and it is this. So much of what I took for granted as a child is no longer available to children today and, on current trends, the situation will be even worse for the next generation. The reasons for this are complex, and I do not fully understand them all. Indeed, I doubt if anybody does.

The threats to wildlife seem to mount exponentially, and outstrip our ability to deal with them effectively. There was a time, for example, when it was considered sufficient to simply protect an area from development in order to protect the wildlife living there. Now, this is no longer enough. I heard recently of a national park in the Northern Territory (I think it was Kakadu) where wildlife numbers are falling in spite of what would appear to be adequate protective measures being in place.

Off the coast of British Columbia, orcas (killer whales) are no longer physically assaulted in any way (in the past they have been shot at by fishermen, and captured for public display), yet their numbers are falling. Furthermore, it is the young adults that are predominantly dying. It seems quite possible that humans are simply outcompeting orcas for salmon, causing them to suffer from malnutrition.

Across the face of the planet, human numbers continue to grow, and spread into new areas to live. Despite our best intentions, it would appear we are unable to protect animals from ourselves.

Dystopian visions of a world without animals and birds, perhaps with sophisticated robotic replacements, abound. Perhaps this is indeed the future that our children’s children’s children face.

Personally, I hate to think of a world without birdsong, without the blow of a whale, kangaroo footprints on the beach, or a wombat patiently making its way across a snowfield.

Anything that I can do to promote in the children of today a curiosity in and a love of the natural world I will do. I certainly don’t want to preach, but I do want to educate, and perhaps even inspire.

There may come a time when all that is left of the world’s fauna and flora is photographs and recordings, and references in poems, songs and stories. Until that time comes, though, I will continue to search for ways to pass on to the children of today my own sense of wonder and awe at the natural world. Of course, I will also continue to write about children for children.

© Stephen Whiteside   08.08.2014