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Poem of the Day

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Santa’s New Clothes

By Teena Raffa-Mulligan

 

Santa had a problem for his suit no longer fit.

It was snug around the tummy. When he sat, his trousers split.

One bight and early morning, Mrs Santa said:

“My dear, I must tell you something that I read.

I love you roly-poly, I love you as you are,

but if you took a health test you wouldn’t get a star.

It’s really most important to have a healthy heart

and if you want a long life, it’s not too late to start.”

Santa called in at the health club—the trainer checked him out.

She said: “We’ll plan a program that will work without a doubt.”

She booked him in for workouts three times every week,

then talked about his diet and told him what to eat.

He ate lots of fruit and vegies, chose grilled instead of fried

for every single main meal, with salads on the side.

He said no to morning tea cakes and had carrot sticks instead.

Whenever offered sweet treats, he firmly shook his head.

Santa also started walking quite early in the day

and soon those extra kilos began to melt away.

He said: “I feel fantastic, this year will be a breeze.

I’ll deliver all those presents without the slightest wheeze.

I won’t get stuck in chimneys or struggle up steep stairs

or stop to have a rest whenever I see chairs.”

Then on Christmas Eve, a problem as Santa dressed to leave.

His suit no longer fit him except for length of sleeve.

His top was loose and baggy where tight it was before,

and when he pulled his trousers up, they slid down to the floor.

He looked at Mrs Santa. “Whatever will we do?

Perhaps some safety pins? Could you sew a seam or two?

We need a quick solution for I really ought to go.

The children are all waiting and I can’t be late, you know.”

Mrs Santa nodded and tried to hide a smile.

“Thank goodness it’s late shopping. This will only take a while.”

So that’s why this year Santa won’t be wearing his red suit.

He’s got a brand new outfit. Mrs Santa thinks it’s cute.

It’s a bright red fleecy tracksuit for warmth in North Pole cold,

and a pair of sporty sneakers replacing boots of old.

For his head a woolly beanie instead of pom pom cap.

So if one Christmas evening you should glimpse a bearded chap

who looks a lot like Santa except he’s fit and trim,

don’t think that you’re mistaken, for yes, you’re right, it’s him!

Poem of the Day

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Away

by Jill McDougall

 

I’d like to be (if you’ll agree)

Away today, Ms Hall,

Please carry on as if I’ve gone,

Like I’m not here at all.

 

And while you’re teaching nouns and verbs,

And all those tricky spelling words,

I’ll play computer games ‘til bell,

And eat a bag of crisps as well.

 

Then during Silent Reading, Miss,

I’ll decorate your hair,

With little silver metal clips,

And glued bits everywhere.

 

A touch of orange texta,

And a safety pin or two,

Will soon improve your love life, Miss,

Coz punk’s the look for you!

 

So Miss …

I’ll be  away today,

I’m sure you’ll say

that that’s okay,

Just carry on

please teacher dear,

You’ll hardly notice

I’m not here.

 

Poem of the Day

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A Goat Afloat

by Pat Simmons

 

I wear a silver collar, I’m a rather special goat.

Hooves firmly planted on the ground, but once I was afloat.

 

‘A goat afloat?’ I hear you say. It’s true. Ask Captain Cook.

Twice I’ve sailed around the world.

I’d like to write a book

Called

Memoirs of my life at sea

Jottings by a goat

The good the bad the ugly facts

Of life upon a boat

 

Well, all right, ships

Let’s get it right

Named

Dolphin and Endeavour

And with respect, I must say this,

I really hope I never set hoof again on either one.

Three years was long enough.

Giving milk for all that time quite frankly dears was tough.

 

Smelly sheep and smelly hens, smelly cattle too

Smelly cats and smelly dogs

And very smelly crew.

Snow and storms and slippery decks, fresh grass in short supply.

No other goats to chatter with to help the time pass by.

But now I’m home and quite well known

(My story’s in the press)

Enjoying my retirement, free from stormy seas and stress.

 

I wear a silver collar, I’m a rather special goat.

Hooves firmly planted on the ground, but once I was afloat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Clearing cobwebs

by Jenny Erlanger

 

Mum said I shouldn’t worry

that I didn’t need the doc,

that I’d clear away the cobwebs

with a walk around the block

 

So I went and fetched my sneakers

and I did what I was told.

I grabbed my woollen beanie

and I stepped out in the cold.

 

The walk was quite refreshing.

quite a joy, I’d have to say

but it didn’t help at all

to make the cobwebs go away.

 

It might have been less trouble

if I’d gone into my room

and poked into the corners

of my ceiling with a broom.

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Zoe’s Zoo

By Pat Simmons

 

Small jars, tall jars, boxes too,

Zoe needs them for her zoo.

 

In the garden, in the sun

is where she finds Exhibit One.

A caterpillar munching leaves,

Zoe stoops, rolls up her sleeves

and carefully with finger tips

(just in case this critter nips)

places it inside a jar.

Pops on the lid.

He won’t get far.

 

Crouching in a damp dark spot,

armed with just a yogurt pot

she spots a tell-tale silver trail.

Exhibit Two, a friendly snail.

 

With trusty trowel she fills a jar

then doesn’t have to dig too far

before she spots a sudden squirm.

Exhibit Three, a wriggling worm.

 

Exhibit Four sits in a box,

wearing gloves and scarf and socks.

His cage says, ‘Dangerous Beware.

Please Don’t Feed This Teddy Bear.’

 

A tiny cubby made from sticks

houses numbers Five and Six.

A beetle and a millipede

curled up like a shiny bead.

 

Exhibit Seven’s tied to a tree.

He’s rather dangerous you see.

A dinosaur might stomp around

and squish those caged upon the ground.

 

She needs to find Exhibit Eight

who’s sitting calmly on the gate.

Zoe has to pull and tug

to capture this majestic slug.

 

Now who will be the final two

to join the gang at Zoe’s Zoo?

She has to build a great big pen

to house Exhibits Nine and Ten.

 

Her work is done.

She gives a shout.

‘Mum and Daddy, please come out.’

 

‘Gotcha!’

 

Poem of the Day

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THE CARETAKERS

by Anne Bell

I went to the house,looking for a man to build a fence

knowing nothing of him,except that people said

he built good fences.

His garden warmed July’s cold hills,

but there was nobody there,

save a peacock,a scarecrow and a fine, grey mare.

I found nobody to build my fence,

but I think I’d like a man

who left his home to the care

of a peacock,a scarecrow and a fine, grey mare.

 

First published in The School Magazine.

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Pirate plight

by Jenny Erlanger

 

Though pirates get by

with a patch on one eye

their lives out at sea can be grim.

No wonder they’re mean,

all the pirates I’ve seen

have clearly been missing a limb.

I now understand

all those hooks for a hand,

the clumping around on a peg.

To fit out their ships

for those plundering trips

must cost them an arm and a leg!

 

 

 

 

Poetry pointers

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To rhyme or not to rhyme?

Where do you get ideas? How do you write a poem? Do poems have to rhyme? What makes it a poem if it doesn’t rhyme? Who publishes poetry? How do I become a children’s poet? What is your top tip for writers who want to write poetry for children?

These are among the myriad questions asked by writers who want to write poetry. How would you answer them? If you have a poetry pointer to share, email me at traffa-m(at)bigpond.net.au

 

Poem of the Day

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The Lighthouse

By Neridah McMullan

 

She stands tall,

Faithful,

Stoic and true.

White-washed,

And unwavering.

Carved basalt steps,

A salt encrusted,

Red door,

With a rusty lock.

Up curved, spiral stairs,

A French Fresnal,

Lens flashes,

Guiding ships,

Away from rocks,

And rips.

Bitter maelstrom,

Blustering galeforce.

To the Lighthouse!

The Lighthouse –

If only you knew,

You saved me

And my crew.

Poem of the Day

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Bird bomb

by Jenny Erlanger

 

From morning to evening its scream can be heard,

a warning to all from this dive-bombing bird.

My brother’s too frightened to venture outdoors.

He’s already suffered a scratch from its claws

and Dad has to run from the house to the shed

his arms waving stupidly over his head.

It happens the moment we step out of place,

that flurry of feathers, that beak in the face.

So, hurry up babies and fly from your nest.

Your mother’s becoming a serial pest.