A Crackerjack Party

Near Trickle Falls where gums grow tall

And lacy tree ferns grow

A cheerful chap, Wally Wombat

Met Crackerjack the crow.

‘Come in. Come in’ he beckoned his friend

‘Please won’t you stay for  tea’

Crackerjack just  tipped his cap

And accepted graciously.

There they sat, they had a chat

And sipped their billy brew

And as the sun was going down

The evening shadows grew,

The crow he sighed I’m not yet tired

Let’s throw a fancy ball

With silverware and fancy fare

And fancy dress and all

‘A splendid thought, I think we ought”

Said Wally in a flash

‘My costume’s grand, best in the land

I’m sure to make a splash’

They chose a place, they cleared some space

The animals soon arrived

In costumes they’d had ready made

Or simply had contrived

The bilby was a bumble bee

The possum was Tarzan

A numbat was  a birthday cake

Wrapped in marzipan

The blue tongue skink was draped in pink

Red kangaroo in blue

Exactly what the dingo was

No one really knew

Crackerjack, with coat and hat

Was dressed as  the Mad Hatter

The wombat offered fairy bread

Served on a silver platter

Wally stood out, walking about

In the costume that he wore

With a toothy grin and tiny limbs

A T-rex dinosaur

The big bush band took to the stand

And rocked out loud and strong

The bowerbirds knew ever word

And they just sang along

It was an awesome do, the animals knew

And some were heard to say

Without a doubt the best night out

Since the Bush Week Jamboree

They sang and danced and laughed and pranced

Until the night was through

And in the morn they all went home

Through mist and morning dew

‘Well that was fun, now that it’s done’

Wally whispered to his friend

Let’s invite them back, dear Crackerjack

And we’ll do it all again’

© Allan Cropper

January 2015

The Great Sock Hunter

Some cats like catnip,

some like toys with bells,

but I like socks

and their funny smells.

I catch socks from the laundry,

or from under the bed,

from the neighbour’s sock drawer,

or from the line instead.

I stalk, then pounce –

the shocked sock has a fright

and doesn’t put up

much of a fight.

I carry my prize

back to my lair,

behind the curtain,

there’s a mountain back there.

Then I hear my mistress,
“Have you seen my socks, John?

That’s the fifth pair this week.

Where have they all gone?”

“I don’t know dear.

Socks can’t just disappear.

We’ll have a good look,

they must be ‘round here.”

But I’ve outsmarted them all,

I think you’ll agree,

for I am the Great Sock Hunter.

No sock is safe from me!

© Vanessa Proctor

Mighty Marron

In the fresh cool water

of the swimming hole

lived a mighty marron

‘bout ten years old

He’d seen it all

this wily thing

round netted traps

bacon dangled on string

“Come on little yabby”

he’d hear them call

“Come taste this bait-

it’s nice and raw!”

But this smart crayfish

knew better than that

he’d sniff a trick

in two seconds flat

He’d lay down low

on flat dark rocks

waiting sleepily

tick-tock, tick-tock

He’d heard the tales

of cooking pots

of melted butter

and eschalots

Of bisque, étouffée

a sauce from roux

of crawfish boils

all this he knew

So careful he’d be

when things came close

to tempt him out

for lobster roast

‘til one cloudy day

at that swimming hole

when someone sat down

and dangled their toe

It looked so strange

that rounded thing

so pink and plump

no sign of a string

So up he crept

that tricksy marron

with one great claw

he pinched right down on

“Yeow!” it cried

“Something’s bitten my toe!

“There’s a creature in there!

Quick catch it!” So…

That crafty marron

he let go fast

of that plump round toe

that clever cast

Another trap!

this one was new

but there was just no way

he’d be yabby stew!

© Kristina Hoy

Tree-School

I spend all of the school day

Just waiting for the bell

But still there’s no time for me –

I’ve got homework as well!

I’d rather be out climbing

Or riding on my bike

I’d like to tell the teacher

To go and take a hike:

She could use the exercise

Without a shadow of a doubt,

Sitting at a desk all day

Has made her kind of stout.

If she moved about a bit

She’d have a healthy heart,

Fresh air and some exercise

Would make her very smart.-

I’m sure she’d come to realize

How good outdoors can be

Perhaps then we’d have lessons

Sitting in a tree.

© Debra Tidball

Gecko

I see you

frozen

on my bedroom wall,

doing your best

to pretend

you’re not there at all.

It’s okay;

you can stay.

Sally Murphy

Dog Walk/Talk

When I took Minnie for a walk,

All she wanted to do was talk.

Yap, yap, yap,

And chat, chat, chat.

Did you hear about this?

Did you hear about that?

Did you hear about Chris?

Don’t you think Paul’s fat?

And this is this,

And that is that.

Poor old Chris,

And Paul doesn’t like Pat.

And isn’t Mrs Bellows wearing a silly hat?

And what was that rat-a-tat-tat?

Minnie, Minnie, please stop right now,

You could talk the ears of a stone deaf cow.

Come on, Minnie, its silence I crave,

Your chat-chat-chat will put me in my grave.

So I ask you on my bended knees,

“Please, please, please, please, please, please.

Walk, just walk; walk, walk, walk,

And stop that talk talk-talk-talk-talk!”

Walk you say? Swell hey-hey-hey!

Walking’s fine but it’s not my way.

I like to talk, that’s what mouths are for,

I wonder what’s the cricket score?

I wonder if the Moon’s made of cheese?

Listen to that cat snort and sneeze.

Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk.

Talk and talk and talk; squawk, squawk.

Sigh.

© David Rish

A Young Magpie on the Breaking Drought

What is this silver falling from the sky,

that beads slim branches, streaks the garden wall;

that drums my dusty feathers as I fly;

that, never seen before, holds me in thrall?

I see slick foliage shine as if with dew

when touched by this world-washing, magic thing

that brings the snails and worms exploring, too;

that bids me tip my head right back and sing!

© Carolyn Eldridge-Alfonzetti

(First published by The School Magazine – Touchdown, No 2 – March 2008

Acknowledgement requested if published elsewhere)

A mouse in the house

“There’s a mouse in our house,” said old Farmer Fife.

“Well, a cat will fix that,” said his good lady wife.

But the cat clawed and spat at the dog – how fur flew.

Fife yelled “Out!” What a shout, that house trembled, it’s true.

Next a trap it went snap but Mouse, she ran free.

Then a man in a van tried his luck for a fee.

Mouse hid ‘neath a lid till the danger was past.

Hunger gnawed – soon Fife snored – time Mouse broke her long fast.

Out she crept while they slept and feasted her fill

“It’s a pest not our guest!” Fife vowed, “Catch her I will.”

They tried brooms and loud booms, every potion and powder.

But Mouse she stayed, on she played, and her gnawing grew louder.

‘Twas not food but a brood in her round little tum.

They were born in the morn and the one had become

Nine, no less, and oh yes, Wife and Fife were distraught.

Those lodgers, smart dodgers just wouldn’t be caught.

In a trice those fine mice multiplied to three score

until Fife and his wife could not take any more.

Yes, they fled, out they sped, left their house to the mice

who skittered and tittered and sighed, “This is nice.”

© Teena Raffa-Mulligan

A dragonfly

rests motionless on my finger

as I gently unravel

the spider’s silk

that is caught

around its wings and thorax.

It seems weightless,

with its dark, slender body,

and six fragile legs on my skin.

I unwrap each strand

until the dragonfly is free,

yet it doesn’t move.

We become a stillness

that dissolves into the morning

until    suddenly    it shimmers away

on brilliant wings

transparent into the blue.

© Vanessa Proctor

‘Dragonfly’ was published in ‘Quadrant’ Vol 57. No 1-2 2013 and has been accepted for publication by ‘The School Magazine’.

Rescue

He’s funny looking.

He isn’t a puppy.

I say to Mum

He has sad eyes.

Dad says

Maybe we can make those sad eyes happy.

I say to Dad

He’s skinny.

Mum says

Maybe we can make him fatter.

Does he do tricks?

Maybe you could teach him some.

But I don’t know him

And he doesn’t know me.

So many dogs.

So much noise.

We walk up and down

Looking at the dogs.

So many dogs

But we come back to him.

He looks at me.

I look at him.

He doesn’t bark.

He just looks.

Hopefully.

They open his cage.

He just looks

Then he licks my hand.

This is the one I say.

This is the one he says.

Pat Simmons © 2015