A single thought
Sends a man up a mountain
Or across vast oceans
Into unknown lands.
A single thought
Helps to unlock science
An apple falls
And he understands.
A single thought
Is the birth of kindness
Or the start of a story
Or an idea grand.
A single thought
(like the one you’re thinking)
Is how many great things
In this world began.
My fingers
are going on an adventure
What fun
Exploring the world
Poking, prodding, whirling
Running
along a rough ridge
of timber freshly sawed –
watch those spikes!
Poking in a pudding
spongy soft with a skin
of smooth creamy custard,
raspy and rough
Holding hands with a friend
her fat, sticky fingers
kissing mine
Sliding a finger along
a prickly strip of string
then a scrap of paper
lying flat and dry
nothing but words
that send love
list groceries
start wars
Exploring the ridged
wet craters of inside my mouth,
Next the damp stubble
of a nostril
Disgusting, says Mum
wash those hands!
The drowning sensation
of tepid water
the satiny surface of soap
the fuzzy tickle
of suds, tiny rising balloons
that wink, and in the
blink of an eye
snap!
Vanish
just like that,
Fingers explore the furriness
of towel…
Dianne says: I brain-stormed the topic before realising that the best way of
describing textures was to have a finger or fingers feeling them, hence this
finger exploring some things in a child’s world.
Today we had to write a poem
and so I took the time
to think of all the words I could
that sound as if they rhyme.
The teacher said, “Don’t worry
finding special words to fit,”
then read us out a funny poem
that didn’t rhyme a bit.
So then I worked at trying to rid
the rhyming from my head,
to concentrate on verse
that didn’t rhyme at all instead.
At first I didn’t have a hope,
the rhymes kept coming back
but I tried really hard
and wrote the poem
you’re reading now,
but somehow
it just doesn’t
sound right.
Jenny says: Writing rhyming poetry has played such a big part of my life since childhood, that despite my own efforts to break out of the mold at times, I keep returning to it as a means of self-expression.
blueberry bluetongue
green grass green
sunshine sunshine
polish me
glow me
sinuous slithering
not-snake-just-me
blueberry bluetongue
secrecy
Sally says: Written because I almost never write free verse. I was trying to rhyme and scan throughout.
There was once a well-mannered manatee,
who rarely indulged in profanity.
But when confronted with queues,
she blew every fuse
and swore with manic insanity.
by Dianne Bates
I’m sick of waiting for the bathroom
with Sister Susie taking her time
Preening herself while I’m busting to go —
that has to be a crime.
If Francis Drake had to wait in a bathroom queue
instead of setting sail on the sea,
he might not be known at all today
simply because of a pee.
Pelicans
by Bridh Hancock
I have often seen these fine big birds,
Above the waves or in the sky,
Lords of the shores and the upper air.
They certainly know their worth, they do,
These fishers who seek a beak-full of fish.
They don’t say much, as I can tell,
But fisher-folk know them very well
As exceedingly skilful and persistent.
Oh yes, they know their worth, alright,
These seekers of stealth with a fondness for fish.
Peakhurst
A wilderness of T-trees
In our paddock playground
One free day in the midst of childhood
A day filled with everything
We are wild things,
Charging, ducking, hiding,
Flies swamping our sweaty faces
A dove, startled, flies up and
Petals fall like a sprinkle of rain
As we play
A game of cowboys and Indians
With imaginary guns
Bang! Bang! You’re dead!
Falling to the ground face-up
Wisps of clouds slide above
As if breathing in and out.
Dianne says: The letter T reminded me of tea-tree bushes that as children my brother, sister and I played among. We didn’t get much time to play as we were forever working on the farm (pigs, goats and poultry).
Tea for two can be so very nice
when conversation flows with warmth and ease
steep the stories slowly in the pot
and pour them, hot and sweetened to your taste
When conversation flows with warmth and ease
time trickles by in gentle lapping waves
so you can pour and taste the sweet bouquet
of friendship worn silk-smooth by passing years
Time trickles, by and by, in gentle waves
friends come and go, the world’s still not that small
their passing worn silk-smooth by absent years
shared stories mothballed up for rainy days
When friends come to see me, time gets whirled
right back to the last time we shared a pot
Moths can’t eat our stories after all –
tea for two can be so very nice
Nadine says: This is in response to the ‘T’ prompt on Australian Children’s Poetry. I am at my mum’s place, catching up and drinking tea, so the phrase ‘tea for two’ popped into my head. I’m writing a poem a day as part of the Month of Poetry in January, so thought I ‘d have a go at a new form of poem. A couple of google searches later, I found the pantoum – which has repeated lines, that can be tweaked for subtle shifts in meaning. I’ve also played with words that sound alike but mean different things. Here’s what I ended up with.
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.
Australian Children’s Poetry 