Thought I might stay
Home today.
Safe.
Secure.
Did you now?
Thought I might
Miss you,
too
Much.
Did you now?
Thought maybe
Cos’ you’re smart,
You could
Homeschool me?
Did you now?
The house needs
A vacuum.
Doggy doo to
Be picked up,
So much work.
Didn’t you know?
Thought I might,
But now…
I think
I miss my friends.
I’ll go get ready.
You go do that now.
The party was great.
I’ve got so much to tell
but I can’t do it now,
I’m not feeling too well.
I don’t want to chuck
but I know that I will.
Is it something I ate
that is making me ill?
The frankfurts and sauce
can’t have made me feel bad.
The ten that I ate
were the best that I’ve had.
And it wasn’t the chips
that I had as a snack
as we all raced around
on the dodgem car track.
It might have been what
I was drinking instead,
that bottle of stuff
that was fizzy and red
that I drank when my mouth
was all dried up inside
after screaming so much
on the Gravitron ride.
Or could it have been
what I had as a treat,
something I’ve wanted
forever to eat,
that mountain of fairy floss
stuck to a stick?
Quick, pass me the bucket,
I’m going to be sick.
First published in “Giggles and Niggles” (Haddington Press, 2007)
Not as lucky as a Las Vegas dollar
nor as silver,
but if you look inside panelled rooms
there may be several silverfish
touring endlessly in the house of a miser
or in one of those 19th century cottages
where the rain soaks North Somerset,
bookshelves covered in trench coats.
You know that silverfish chew into glue,
plaster, paint, photos, sugar, coffee,
hair, carpet, clothing, dandruff,
book bindings and paper (and that’s
a lot to get through in a week!)
Imagine one slippery silverfish
in a musty library of a French poet
travelling through paragraphs of Reverdy,
John Donne, Simone De Beauvoir or Sartre,
his hunger moving toward simile and speech,
words curling into little white ropes
and lifting from the page,
one letter at a time.
Giants are we that see
those little mites
of black and legs
following their tales
of trails
carrying to nest
their loads at least
the weight of three
but a mere grain
to you and me
Each morning, a wasp starts out as a lone traveller
heading into the garden, its hind legs dangling and
trailing in the wind. These moments are an eloquent
gesture of nature, the wasp on a journey into nectar,
jazzing up noisy wings, talkative as the bumble bee
already in the Fuchsia. There are many questions you
might want to ask, yet the only one you do know is
that wasps sting, especially late summer if you have
a fly swat or rolled newspaper in your hand.
Yet you’re curious about this eager garden traveller, like
a fly-in miner, flying out. Is he copying the tiger with
all those stripes on his back? Is he the bee’s rival, as he
hovers in mimicry? Is it to camouflage pincers in wax flowers
or to fool the bumble bee into thinking he is one of him?
And why does this busy wasp follow from petal to stamen
and stamen again, and not the other way around? What about
his paper-mache home, is that in the roof? Is he building
a colony of one hundred wasps, damaging the beams?
You guess that wasps are designed to make you think. So,
wondering about that loud buzzing noise as he backs out of
a bud, is he imitating the operatic bee who comes out singing?
Dad’s got a fever, he’s dripping with sweat.
Mum’s got a virus, the worst you can get.
Buster keeps coughing, we’re calling the vet.
And I’m stuck in the house for the day!
My brother’s come down with the nastiest flu,
my sister’s been chucking for hours in the loo.
the cat has been constantly vomiting too.
Could you please come around for a play?
We’re sitting on a picnic rug
beside our lemon tree.
We pass around the water jug
then start to eat our tea.
I’m staring at a Brussels sprout
with mounting discontent
When I suggested eating out
this wasn’t what I meant!
by Sophie Masson
Hippogriff, hippogriff, where do you go?
I go to the city to put on a show.
Hippogriff, hippogriff, what will you do?
I’ll be the ringmaster, and here is my crew:
A dragon in top hat,
A werewolf acrobat,
A strongman, Mr Troll,
An elf who vaults the pole;
A phoenix on trapeze,
A goblin who rides fleas,
A witch to play the clown:
The circus comes to town!
Ho Kookaburra
can’t sing a note –
all of his songs
get caught in his throat.
Ho Ho Ho Ho Ha Ha Ha,
it sounds easy but it’s not
as he scrapes and cackles, saws away,
it’s the only song he’s got.
It’s enough to make you laugh –
that’s the one thing he can do…
Try to copy him – Ho Ho Ho Ho
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ho Ho Ho Ho
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ho Ho Ho –
your sides will shake in two.
When I read Di Bates’ call for someone to look after this wonderful site showcasing Australian children’s poets and their work I must admit I hesitated before putting up my hand. I love writing and reading poetry for children so I knew the role would be more pleasure than work, and after the brilliant job Di has done of making the site a success, I wanted to see it continue.
But the responsibility of maintaining the high standard she’s set along the way felt a tad daunting. Fortunately enthusiasm won out and it’s my pleasure to say hello to you all. With your involvement I know we can continue to encourage children to enjoy poetry in all its forms and support each other in our writing activities. I look forward to receiving your contributions to the Poem of the Day page, along with any poetry information, articles and interviews you care to submit.
My email address is traffa-m@bigpond.net.au
Happy writing!
Teena
Australian Children’s Poetry 