Cosy
It’s the middle of the night.
Mum got up first.
We’re whispering.
She’s making hot chocolate.
The heater’s on.
It’s cosy.
The TV’s quietly humming the anthem of a faraway place.
We snuggle into blankets on the couch.
The spoon clinks as mum stirs.
The players are in position.
The whistle goes.
All eyes on the ball.
The mug warms my hand.
Cosy.
Penny Szentkuti
The Bubble Rap
(an accidental invention)
Back in the fifties
there’s Alfred and Marc.
Two keen engineers
with plenty of spark.
Making a wallpaper
easy to clean
by coating it in
polyethylene.
Their plans were a flop
as blisters went pop.
With troublesome bubbles
the wallpaper’s dropped.
They couldn’t get rid
of that air-filled gap.
Instead they’d invented
the bubble wrap!
If you’re way off track
or you need some slack.
If you think you’ll crack
or you’ve lost the knack
If you’re in a flap
and your mind might snap
then pack up your troubles
in bubble wrap.
Moisture resistant
elastic and strong
it won’t scratch your things.
Abrasion is wrong.
Cushion possessions
on pockets of air.
It makes a good bed
if there’s more than one layer.
Pop it and snap it
or bend it and wrap it.
Bubbles in plastic’s
the best way to pack it.
Living spaghetti
Wriggle wriggle, squirm squirm,
Here comes a nice long worm.
Like spaghetti come to life,
What a busy earthworm!
Watch it slide and slither,
Oops, it’s in a dither.
Pick it up now if you dare,
Dangle it in the air.
Wriggle wriggle, squirm squirm,
Thank you, thank you, earthworm!
You let our soil grow good things,
Such a helpful earthworm!
James Aitchison
Ants in my pants
There’s a bee in my bonnet,
I know I’ll be stung
but I can’t yell for help
’cause the cat’s got my tongue.
I’ve got rocks in my head,
my heart’s on my sleeve,
the frog in my throat
is refusing to leave
and I’m not really sure
what is going to become
of the butterflies fluttering
round in my tum.
To think that I nearly
forgot to include
that my leg is being pulled
and my ear is being chewed!
My patience with you
is just ready to crack.
I lent you a hand
and it hasn’t come back!
So sorry for making
a big song and dance
but there’s more on my mind
Jenny Erlanger
WORM-FARM BLUES
It’s a no-good life livin’ in this worm-farm—
It’s no life a worm would choose.
We’re writhin’ around, tangled and mangled
Topsied and turvied and confused.
There’s too darn many in this worm-farm
We’ve all got the worm-farm blues.
We loop to and fro
with nowhere to go
singin’ the worm-farm blues:
Chorus:
We’ve a dream in our head
Of a vegetable bed.
We know it’s not far away.
With room to roam
And plenty of loam.
But we’ll never see that day.
Oh Blues! It’s blues all the way!
There’s nowhere to go in this chock-a-block worm-farm—
No place where we can snooze.
We twist and we twine, huddled and muddled,
contorted and thwarted and abused.
And all of us here in this worm-farm
are sufferin’ the worm-farm blues.
We’re just ravellin’
Can’t do travellin’
We just sing the worm-farm blues.
Is there anybody there listenin’ to this worm-farm?
Anyone to hear our views?
We tumble in a jumble, pulsing and convulsing.
We’re rumpled and crumpled and bruised.
We‘re goin’ on strike in this worm-farm:
There’ll be no more worm-farm poos!
We hate this scramblin’
We wanna be ramblin’
away from the worm-farm blues.
© Kate O’Neil
soccer pitch
the border collie running
in circles
Tristan Barclay (Winner of an international children’s haiku competition 2018)
Teacher Notes:
Please have a look at this wonderful resource:
Click to access learning-to-write-haiku-a-teachers-guide-k-raine.pdf
The animals have hairy fur.
The birds have got their feathers.
These keep their bodies warm enough
throughout the chilly weather.
The fibres in those fluffy coats
criss-cross to form some air-holes
that can’t escape or waft away
because of all the hair-folds.
Their skin gives off some body-warmth.
Just like a radiator.
Their fluffy coats help keep that heat
as thermal insulators.
The warm air’s trapped inside the fur
to shield them from the outside.
The way that blankets on a bed
are cosy on the inside.
But if that fluffy coat gets wet
those air-holes fill with water.
Their body’s warmth escapes as that
wet coat’s a heat conductor.
The soggy fur clings to their skin.
No longer insulated.
And water makes their body cold
as it’s evaporated.
Any fluffy animal will
shake that water well away.
So if your puppy’s had a swim …
Watch-out for all that water spray!
A tranquil pond that’s glassy smooth
has surface tensioned skin un-grooved.
No creases spoil its surface layer
when peace and stillness fill the air.
Then one disturbance, pebble’s plop
an insect’s hop or stray raindrop,
creates a pattern we’ve just traced
to forces found in outer space.
Rippled wrinkles, round ornate
make circled waves that radiate
while rising, falling with the force
of gravity, which holds their course.
Space-time’s fabric will behave
in similar ways through gravity waves.
This rippled force from far beyond
makes patterns like our little pond.
Oh goose you fly so very high,
I wish that I could too.
Up up, up up, into the sky,
There’s nothing I can do.
I stand here wishing I’d grow wings,
I never hope for other things.
I dream at night that I’ve gained height,
And the earth is almost out of sight.
But here I am, stuck on the ground,
Never to be seen or found,
Up there with you oh goose,
For I am just a humble moose.
Oh moose as I look down below,
I notice you especially.
You graze the grass, you sip the lake,
You wander so majestically.
Your antlers have such symmetry,
They make a stunning crown.
Your fur hide, is a royal robe,
Magnificent though brown.
And since you simply cannot fly;
You’re never going to fledge,
I’ve bought a gift – an airline ticket,
With a dozen golden eggs.
So dream your dreams,
You never know just what you will achieve.
Many things are possible,
So long as you believe.
Louise McCarthy
There was shelter –
An upturned water tank
With an entrance hole —
My secret space
In the brittle summer bush
Where I’d hide,
Dark and bruised and splintered.
In those childhood days
I was an outlaw of sorts,
Travelling alone,
Not fitting anywhere,
Listening to cicadas throbbing
With song,
Beyond words,
Wanting nothing
But the arc of my mother’s arms
Dianne Bates
Australian Children’s Poetry 