All That Is Left
Why did the tree die?
Did it reach a grand old age?
Or did sharp axe cuts
Make its sap
Bleed down the bark
Onto the dry earth?
Years later it still stands
Defiant
Its gnarled branches
Clawing at heaven.
An hour before breakfast
I thought of omelette piping hot
oozing sun-yellow cheese
With butter-dripping toast
And sweet cumquat marmalade —
Instead, I ate tasteless cereal
Drenched with sourish milk.
An hour before lunch
I thought of a hamburger
Succulent meat patty
And softy spongy bun
with the works —
Sweet beetroot and ripe tomato
Caramelised onion rings and crispy lettuce
Tangy sauce and juices
trickling down my fingers.
Instead I ate crackers and
A tart green apple.
An hour before dinner
I thought of succulent hot chops
Drenched with mint jelly
And French fries
golden-brown and salty.
What I ate was
Tinned spaghetti
On dry toast.
Nothing I tasted all day
Was as delicious
As my thoughts.
Dianne Bates
Yesterday
I was a golden dragon
The kiss of grasses brushed my ankles
And then I rose into the sky
Where I cavorted at first
Then drifted
brushing the clouds,
a wondrous lilting shape that those below
beheld with awe.
Gold and crimson I lapped the world
like a god commanding
everything
and everyone
all things revolved around me
I owned the day
Shattered it with my beauty
And my gigantic roar.
Today
yesterday was a dream
and now I am but a mere child
my mother standing over me
with her many demands
I must obey.
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.
A grain of sand on its own,
A tiny world
in the palm of your hand.
But still, nothing much…
Add millions of other grains,
Shape them with sea-water
And you’ve got a sand-castle.
Next add trillions and trillions of grains Getting there…
And zillions and zillions more —
Now you’re talking!
Dianne says: I brainstormed for a long time listing all the close encounters a child
might have — animals, insects, aliens and so on. Finished up on a beach
with a child looking at starfish. It was only when I thought of sand,
zillions of grains in close encounter with one another, that I thought of
what happens as a result. Hence this beach poem!
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.
These three short poems were submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #5.
An arthritic arachnid with eight knobbly knees
Sought medical help for her painful disease.
Her doctor prescribed her with cream to rub in
But the problem was how and just where to begin!
By Nadine Cranenburgh
My old dog Spot
is hard to spot
when hiding in my bed
He’s found a spot
all soft and hot
curled underneath my head
{Nadine says: The aim was to include a word that has multiple meanings.}
Little Jack Horner
Sat in the corner,
Eating his Christmas pie
He ate it all, every crumb.
‘What’s for seconds?’
he asked his mum.
Some have shaky edges
Twisting and flapping like netted fish
And the tongue is tied.
Sometimes the mouth opens and closes
like a trap.
But the best words —
The easiest words —
are bridges:
‘Be my friend,’
‘Come and play.’
Dianne says: To get to this poem, I brain-stormed a variety of shapes (geometric shapes, the shape of thoughts and so on) until I arrived at words. In the end I didn’t even use the word ‘shape’; it simply acted as a starting point.
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).
On the highway to Appin
skies bled on summer nights.
The road hummed to town,
trucks sped coal to the coast,
and south of main street
silent on a bridge,
Fisher’s Ghost.
Weekdays we rose at five
blowing balls of warmth into winter air,
and milking the cows
I sang at the bails,
‘Rose Marie, I love you.’
Summer was blowies in the cream,
butter that melted,
eggs from gasping hens.
Mrs Tietzel brought the mail,
Campbell the bread,
the days moved sideways.
Saturday was cricket
or Menangle trots,
swimming at the Woolwash
and the Queen Street shops.
Bill was cockatoo for SP bookies in pubs
and kids lined up at the picture house,
game girls rubbing cheeks with bristling boys.
Paspalum brushed the sky
and we forgot ourselves.
In the showground cemetery
beneath the shadow of Ruse
who sowed the first grain
we made rubbings on tombs;
JOHN MACARTHUR, ELIZABETH, R.I.P.
In Mawson Park
the band played Matilda,
someone scribbled his mind on toilet walls,
and, beyond trains that steamed to Sydney,
I dreamed a freedom of cities and age.
© Dianne Bates
Australian Children’s Poetry 