Tag Archives: Australian poets

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It’s a Long Way to the Top When You are Born a Snail!

by Stephen Whiteside

 

It’s hard to rock and roll a lot

When you are born a snail.

My goo connects me to this spot.

I know it looks a bit like snot,

But lose it, and I fail.

I’d like to twist and jump and leap.

Alas, it’s not my thing.

All I ever do is creep.

I’ll handle inclines very steep,

But don’t ask me to sing!

I cannot hold a microphone,

Or handle a guitar.

Speakers, amps, I do not own.

I’m happy munching on my own.

I’ll never be a star.

But if it ever gets too loud,

You yearn for breaking free

From all that rock and rolling crowd,

Remember me, for I’m not proud.

Yes, come and talk to me.

© Stephen Whiteside 05.12.2015

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5

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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.

 

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Forty Four Gallon Drum

by Virginia Lowe

 

Clang!

The cricket ball

hits the make-shift wicket

The shout arises

Out!

The kids leap about

except the batsman

who hands on the bat

to the next street kid

female this time

 

Blackberry canes

pour over the edge

The juicy purple fruit

within reach

without prickles

 

Post cards and fliers

junk mail and love letters

magazines and bills

all drop in

Even an isolated

farm in the country

can’t escape

the tyranny of

the mail

 

In times past

forty-four gallon drums

rusted

in continuing utility

* Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #4

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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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Come and see the dinosaurs

by Bill Condon

 

Come and see the dinosaurs

dancing in the street,

with bows upon their shiny claws

and glitter on their feet.

 

A little liposuction,

lippy here and there,

with plaited tails and painted toes

and roses in their hair.

 

Dripping with perfumery

and skipping to and fro,

a dozen dainty dinosaurs

putting on a show.

 

They’ve visited the beauty shop –

a rare and lovely treat –

and now they’re happy dinosaurs,

dancing in the street!

 

 

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Imagining the Life of an Earwig

by Helen Hagemann

 

Leave a door open long enough

and an earwig will enter. The kitchen

is the most popular to travel in.

Among insects a decision is made

(those of different species)

not to touch or pass by in the hallway.

An ant and earwig might come together

and part, safe in the knowledge

that when one leaves another arrives.

It’s the past meeting the future

simultaneously.

Whichever direction an earwig goes,

it will be one fast step

from the swish of a dog’s tail,

or the pounce of a cat’s paw.

Outdoors, earwigs forage in drains, leaf litter.

They love the chemistry of winter air,

the heavy crash of rain, a blue sky when it stops.

Sometimes you find an earwig sleeping between

the sheets of the morning newspaper,

although a quick flap or roll

over discarded scraps

can be fatal.

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Bubbles

by Vanessa Proctor

 

We blow them in streams

across the yard,

some small and marble-sized,

others as big as baseballs.

Every bubble iridescent,

a perfect world of its own,

mirroring grass, sky,

occasionally our faces.

Bubbles glinting with sunlight

swirl skyward or

float to the ground.

Each one

a little miracle

before it pops.

 

 

 

 

 

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Counting down

by Nadine Cranenburgh

 

Five minutes left –

not much longer to wait

When the bell goes

I’ll zoom right through the gate

 

Left at the rose bush,

scream down Breakneck Hill,

bump through the creek bed

right up to Pa’s mill

 

Spokes spitting gravel

I’ll skid to a halt

my bike left to rest

like a sweat-lathered colt

 

Scrubbed up and changed

then I’m right for a snack –

left-over shepherd’s pie,

sigh and lean back

 

“Wake up right now!”

teacher’s voice breaks my spell.

Four minutes left…

I can’t wait for the bell

 

 

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Behind the door

by Jenny Erlanger

 

I know it sounds a bit absurd

but you should hear what I have heard

about the things that have occurred

inside that stony tomb.

 

There’s talk of heaps of human bones,

of eerie grunts and squeals and moans,

of blood that oozes from the stones

and ghosts that haunt each room.

 

They say the spiders down the halls

are all the size of bowling balls

and prone to jumping off the walls

and landing in your hair

 

Of course, I don’t know this for sure.

It’s time for someone to explore

what really lies beyond that door.

Please enter… if you dare.

 

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #2 poetry challenge

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Photo: Neil Mulligan

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Back Soon!

By Louise Molloy

He stands before the dragon
And sidles closer still,
No fiery breath nor fury greets him,
But eyes half-shut
And scales dull grey,

The dragon lets its tongue loll
And splutters loudly, ENTER!
He climbs each quiver
Of its quivering tongue
And peers into its dark, dark mouth,

WHAT BEASTIES LURK THAT KILL MY FLAME?
He peers down its dark, dark throat,
“I’ll need my weapons to cure your ill.”
NO VEGETABLES!
“No worries, I’ll be back soon.”

 

  • Inspired by Words+Pictures #2 poetry challenge. Louise said she took poetic licence and ‘The castle with its steps, dark door and hooded window turned into a sick dragon for me’.

    Photo: Neil Mulligan

    Photo: Neil Mulligan

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