Tag Archives: Australian poets

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Can Snails?

by Bridh Hancock

 

Can snails die of too-long-life?,

Of too much travel and fun?

Have they a self-destruction gene?,

And might it be overcome?

 

Imagine an Every-Snail’s You-Beaut-Land,

With lots of food all fresh and green,

Where every snail would soon grow sharp,

And fleet of foot, and mean;

Where shells would be both smart and hard,

Affording real protection,

Where any bait a snail might take

Would prove a sweet confection.

 

How long or soon before a snail,

Though small its crustacean brain,

Would seek to escape its silver trail,

Nor there return again?

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5

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Snail-fare

by Katherine Gallagher

 

Hello, hello

I’m your friendly garden-

gastropod.

 

Not Matisse’s snail —

he’s a fast one, flying through space

on a rainbowed thread — a clever clever

slippery flippery

purple snail on a purple trail,

heading into green and orange and yellow…

You can’t miss him.

 

I’m the quiet type,

going places

at my own pace

under my hard hat

 

always on the lookout

for any big boot

coming my way

as I leave my silver

trail without fail

on green green places.

 

* Matisse’s snail hangs in the Tate Gallery, London.

  • Submitted in response to Words+Pictures #5

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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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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