Dancing the tune of the breeze
She lifts her coat sleeves –
And freezes as if in prayer
To breed in the shady leaves;
Green confetti in air.
On the rib-case underneath –
A waxy seam of leaf,
Tiny eggs, colour of cream
Are stuck with butterfly paste.
Blue lady lifts as a dream,
Leaving them, to hatch or waste.
Who knows where she goes
Blue butterfly mother?
Wake late
Nothing clean
Wear yesterday’s undies
Crushed uniform
Sister’s socks
She screams at me
Mum screams at me
We scream at one another
We’re running late
Jammed in bumper-to-bumper traffic
Kiss Mum goodbye, no way
Across the empty playground
Running, I drop
The paper Mache dinosaur
That took four hours
Last night
Of hard, hard work
My project
Now it’s crushed, like me
Late for assembly
Everyone stares
Teachers’ eyebrows are raised
And classes haven’t even begun.
(Published in Our Home is Girt by Sea)
They must be all around me —
the lost things,
My best pencil, my first doll,
a single sock,
the locket Mum gave me
for my seventh birthday,
the one I promised to never lose.
They lurk in dusky corners,
and grooves and places
I can’t begin to think of
Loving their freedom
Camouflaging their grins
Watching me as I search everywhere —
But where they are
Those clever, clever, lost things
Forever playing hide
While I play seek.
We have monsters in our house.
A man came today to spray them away.
I’m sure I heard the monsters laugh.
Right now they are feasting on walls and doors.
They’re gnawing and boring under the floors.
I am ten and in bed and they’re in my head.
Nibbling and wriggling,
ever closer to me.
We won’t ever leave while there’s still more to chew.
We’ll eat all the wood and then eat you!
Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #22.
Dianne says: When I was a child living in the country, our home was demolished around as we continued to live in it. This is because the house was full of white-ants. I used to lie in bed thinking that the ants would eat me during
the night if I went to sleep. I was probably about 12 at the time. This poem
reflects my anxiety back then
I’m always being given directions.
At home:
How to behave properly
How to speak politely to my stupid sisters
Clean my room, take out the rubbish
Feed the dog
Dry the dishes
Obey the rules!
At school:
How to improve my grades
How to set out my work neatly
How to get on with girls
Obey the rules!
There are also directions
On what not to do —
Not to wear my cap indoors
Not to use cuss words
Not to talk in class or call out
Not to break or even bend
The rules!
Often I feel like getting other directions:
The way to another home
Where there are
No jobs
No stupid sisters
No rules!
And I’d like directions to a school
Where there is
No homework
No bossy teachers
No girls
And guess what?
NO RULES!
Dancing the tune of the breeze
She lifts her coat sleeves –
And freezes as if in prayer
To breed in the shady leaves;
Green confetti in air.
On the rib-case underneath –
A waxy seam of leaf,
Tiny eggs, colour of cream
Are stuck with butterfly paste.
Blue lady lifts as a dream,
Leaving them, to hatch or waste.
Who knows where she goes
Blue butterfly mother?
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.
Australian Children’s Poetry 